作者：Ernest Adams

日语总会使用后缀去修饰前面的单词，包括“-do”和“jutsu”。不管前面的单词是什么，“-do”表示的是“一种…方法”，而“jutsu”则意指“…的技能（或方式，技巧）”

如“jujutsu（柔术）”和“judo（柔道）”。它们指的是一种特殊武术（游戏邦注：通过擒拿，按压以及投掷等动作进行赤手搏斗）的两种不同表现形式。柔术更为古老和野蛮，目的在于制对手于死地。而柔道则是源自柔术的一种体育运动。

如果是以普通的武术名称来说，“judo”的“-do”就是指这种武术背后所蕴含的理念——即引导柔道者正确运用对抗技巧的一组价值观。而日语的“do”其实就是汉语的“道”，指的是“方法”或“途径”，且比起单纯的实际规则组合，其还涉及道德原则。

我认为这一差异也体现在游戏设计中。我们都知道，游戏设计也有许多“柔术”，如挑战、发展、选择、平衡、定速、创新、惊喜、冒险/奖励、社交互动、故事叙述及创新玩法，所有这些都是我们制作游戏时会运用的技巧。但是是何种价值引导着我们使用这些“柔术”？游戏设计中的“道”又是什么？

tao from designersnotebook.com

毫无疑问，新手们的答案是：“给予玩家趣味性”。我已解释过为什么说趣味性这个概念过于局限，我们无法基于此制作出杰出的游戏内容，所以我不会费心于这个问题。但是如果能稍微拓展趣味性（fun）观点，你将从中获得乐趣（enjoyment）。

而且我也发现就连乐趣也具有局限性。将此深入拓展之后，我们就进入娱乐（entertainment）层面。多数情况下我们都希望能够娱乐玩家，不论是纯粹提供趣味性还是其它更复杂的游戏体验。

电子游戏设计和武术存在差异性。武术的目标是获得胜利，其对胜利的定义非常明确——对手死亡或投降，或者裁判员根据规则判定一方失败。不同的柔术要求你战胜不同的敌人，但是不管敌人属于何种类型，你的获胜的方式都是明确的。

而在娱乐行业中情况却并非如此，因为不同的人喜欢不同的娱乐方式；他们喜欢不同的活动，他们喜欢面对不同的挑战，他们也喜欢体验不同的情感。

游戏设计中的“道”不能“娱乐玩家”，因为这里并不存在如何娱乐大众的具体规则。所以我们必须从其它角度来看待这一问题。

多数艺术形式（如绘画，舞蹈，音乐，电影，戏剧，文学等）都是纯粹地进行表达。也就是艺术家进行表达，观众进行观察。观众也会对此进行思考、评论、诠释、喝彩或抵制，但是不管他们做出何种反应，他们都无法改变原本的艺术形式。

电子游戏就不同了，它们具有交互性。需要玩家与设计师共同创造游戏体验。这里设计师发挥主要作用，因为他们得构建游戏世界，创建玩家的操作内容，定义玩家所要完成的目标。

不过单纯依靠设计师远远不够，游戏的创造也需要玩家的力量。缺少玩家的电子游戏就像是一具没有灵魂的躯壳，仅是充斥各种机器代码而已。所以为了让游戏真正具有意义，就必须让玩家参与其中。

事实上，只有当玩家开始玩游戏时，游戏才算真正存在。按照惯例，我们将软件称为“游戏”，但是事实上，软件并不等于游戏。游戏是指玩耍行为，只有当玩家打开游戏软件进入魔幻圈时，游戏才算真正形成。

创造性作品可以是艺术作品，也可以是轻松的娱乐内容，或者介于二者之间。这是个没有明确界限的统一体，但不同作品则会有不同的偏向。如果一款游戏包含更多艺术特点而非娱乐内容，那么在游戏创造过程中设计师的作用便大于玩家。

艺术品的创作取决于艺术家，那些更像是艺术作品的游戏所表达的是设计师的想法而不是玩家的期望操作内容。优秀艺术品是指具有创造性和深刻意义的内容，我相信终有一天我们会看到称得上是优秀艺术品的游戏作品。

而如果是一款趋于娱乐性的游戏，设计师便会更加注重游戏的销售，并通过不断优化游戏内容吸引更多玩家的注意——有时候是基于市场营销部门的要求，有时只是设计师个人的想法。这时候创造性和游戏深度也就不再那么重要了。

作为具有创造性的人士，我们必须明确自己的侧重点——是基于我们自己的审美观点开拓新领域，还是努力迎合更多观众的喜好。就表现艺术来看，特别是个人创造的内容，这个问题更加突出。举个例子来说，Thomas Kinkade（游戏邦注：被称为“光之绘者”）是基于大众视角而作画。他未曾挑战任何人；未创造任何新理念；也未开拓任何新的美术领域。他的绘画只是纯粹出于娱乐：具有装饰性但不涉及任何深刻内容。

与此相反，许多当代艺术家创造出让人费解且不愿意尝试的作品。他们并不想迎合观众的需要；他们的作品完全是基于自己的表达，并不具有任何吸引力。

电子游戏必须正视这一问题，因为我们必须吸引玩家的注意。我们不能够制作一款完全“唯我论”的电子游戏。也就是设计师不能完全基于自己的表达去创造游戏，他必须从玩家的角度进行思考，否则游戏也就失去意义。因此，游戏设计的“道”不能只用一个简单的句子或者一个单一的理念进行概述。

“道”必须同时涵盖玩家和设计师的“阴阳”。没有玩家的游戏算不上游戏；没有设计师的游戏也算不上游戏。

每个玩家也是游戏中的设计师，因为通过游戏体验把握游戏设计。而每个设计师也是游戏玩家，因为他们在设计过程中逐步把握玩家将如何体验游戏。尽管玩家和设计师不需要同时扮演两个角色，但是都必须基于对方的角度进行思考。

游戏设计的“道”要求设计师必须掌握两大“戒律”：了解你自己且了解你的玩家。

要了解自己，我们必须通过游戏设计把握自己所要的表达与探索的东西。我们是想要设置一个需要解决的益智问题？是想要传达给玩家一定的信息？是想要创造一个供大家学习的系统或是一个值得探索的游戏场景？还是想要通过虚拟战斗与玩家进行正面挑战？我们应该如何实践这些过程？我们的优势、弱势、目标、偏好及才能是什么？我们是否真正精通于游戏设计中的所有“柔术”？

学生们总是会问他们在游戏开发过程应该注重哪些内容，是美术、编程、设计，还是……？但是我却不能直接回答这些问题，因为我并不清楚他们想要做什么及他们擅长什么。只有他们自己才能告诉自己答案，并且在做出最终决定之前，他们必须先学会了解自己。

而另外一大“戒律”——了解玩家似乎有较大的难度，因为此时的我们并不清楚哪些人会玩我们的游戏。但就像在玩家心中的设计师是虚拟形象一样（游戏邦注：毕竟在现实中设计就是一个合作的过程），设计师心中的玩家也是虚拟形象。在游戏设计中我偏好采取以玩家为中心的设计方式，即设计师必须设想一个具有代表性的玩家，并努力感受玩家的想法和情感。

iwbtg from aylives.com

你可以随意定义这个代表性玩家的特性。例如你可以设定他是一名技术高超的硬核游戏玩家，并基于他的特性创造这类型玩家喜欢的游戏。但是这么做也将会带来一些负面的商业后果；即一款只有5%玩家能够顺利通过的复杂游戏很难在市场中获得成功。但是无论如何，任何决定都是取决于你自己。

而我的建议是，一旦定义了具有代表意义的玩家后，你就必须好好观察这个玩家。深入了解他；把握他的期望。且当你了解目标玩家后，你就必须通过思考“我的玩家会如何回应这个内容？”这个问题测试自己的游戏设计。

在我自己的教学中我总是告诉学生们，比起了解自己，你们应该更深刻地了解玩家，因为我发现很多学生在面对这个过程时总会出现两种错误理念：首先，他们认为游戏设计是一个侧重于表达的过程，所以他们自己的主观想法应起主导作用；其次，他们总把自己当成是游戏的理想目标玩家。当然，如果设计师只想要设计一款供自己玩的游戏，那么这样做就没什么关系，但是事实上多数设计师都希望别人也能够试验自己的作品，所以他们就必须谨慎思考如何迎合其他玩家的喜好。

如果设计师想要制作一款不只是让自己玩的游戏，他们就必须好好了解玩家的需求。当你瞄准一些与自己不同类型的玩家制作游戏时，你就必须抛弃自己的本能意识，更深入地了解其他玩家。

了解自己并了解玩家，这两者的结合才是游戏设计的“道”之所在。这两方面就是就像“阴阳”要素，它们是扎根于普遍现象（也就是游戏）的两大对立面，在创造过程中相互影响，相互作用。

游戏邦注：原文发表于2008年10月9日，文章所涉及的事件和数据均以当时为准。（本文为游戏邦/gamerboom.com编译，拒绝任何不保留版权的转载，如需转载请联系：游戏邦）

The Tao of Game Design

By Ernest Adams

October 9, 2008

The Japanese language uses suffixes to modify the word that precedes them. Two of these suffixes are -do and -jutsu. The -do ending means “the way of…” whatever it is modifying, while the -jutsu ending means “the skills (or methods, or techniques) of…”

Consider the words jujutsu and judo. They refer to two different approaches to a particular martial art, a form of unarmed hand-to-hand combat that concentrates on grappling, pinning, and throwing. Jujutsu is the older and more brutal form, intended for lethal combat. Judo is a sport that derived from jujutsu.

When appended to the name of a martial art such as judo, the -do ending refers to a philosophy behind the art — a set of values that are intended to guide the combatant in the proper use of the jutsu, or techniques, of battle. The Japanese word do is cognate with the Chinese word tao, which also means “way” or “path”, and also connotes a mental or moral discipline rather than a purely practical collection of rules.

It seems to me as if this distinction could apply equally well to game design. Game design has many jutsu,and these are well-known. Challenge, growth, choices, balance, pacing, novelty, surprise, risk/reward, social interaction, storytelling, creative play — all these are techniques we use for creating entertainment. But what values guide our use of these jutsu? What is the tao of game design?

The first answer that the novice will give, undoubtedly, is “give the player fun.” I’ve already explained why fun is too limited a concept on which to base a medium as powerful as ours, so I won’t bother to do so again. Broaden the idea of fun a little and you get enjoyment.

But I find even enjoyment is too restrictive. Broaden it further, and we come to entertainment. For the most part, we want to give the player entertainment — whether it’s pure fun or some more complex kind of experience.

Video game design is not analogous to martial arts, however. In martial arts the goal is always victory, and victory is precisely defined — the death or submission of the enemy, or his defeat according to a system of rules adjudicated by referees. Different jutsu will lead to victory over different kinds of enemies, but victory is defined the same way no matter who the enemy is.

That’s not true for entertainment, because different people like to be entertained in different ways. They enjoy doing different things, they like to face different challenges, and they like to experience different emotions.

The tao of game design cannot be “give the player entertainment,” because there are no rules about how to entertain everyone. Let’s look at it another way.

Most art forms (painting, dance, music, film, theater, literature and so on) are purely expressive. The artist expresses; the audience observes. The audience may also contemplate, criticize, interpret, applaud, or reject the art, but the one thing they cannot do is change it.

Video games aren’t like that. They’re interactive. The player and the designer collaborate to create the experience that the player will have. The designer has most of the power, of course: she constructs the world, establishes the actions available to the player, and defines the goals towards which he will strive.

And yet in spite of the designer’s pre-eminent role, the game is nothing without the player. A video game that nobody plays is an empty thing, a mere collection of machine code. To be meaningful, the game must be played.

In fact, the game doesn’t really exist until it is played. By convention we refer to the software as “the game,” but in truth, the software is not the game. The game is the act of playing. It comes into existence when the player starts up the software and crosses into the magic circle.

Creative works can be art or they can be light entertainment, or something in between. It’s a continuum with no clear boundary, but some works are closer to one than the other. If a game is more art than light entertainment, then it is more about the designer than it is about the player.

Art requires an artist, and those few games that have consciously striven to be works of art have been about what the designer wants to say, not what the player wants to do. Great art says new and profound things, and someday a video game will deserve to be called great art.

If a game is more light entertainment than art, then it is usually made for sale and optimized to be enjoyable by as many people as possible — sometimes at the behest of the marketing department, and in spite of the designer’s personal desires. Innovation and depth take a back seat to mass appeal.

As creative people, we all have to decide where we want to lie along that continuum — between breaking new ground with our aesthetic vision and seeking to please as many people as we can. With the presentational arts, especially those created by a single individual, the issue is reasonably clear. Thomas Kinkade (“Painter of LightTM”), for example, paints for the mass audience. He challenges no one; he says nothing; he breaks no new aesthetic ground. His works are quintessential light entertainment: decorative, but not deep.

At the opposite end of the continuum, many contemporary artists create works that few people understand and nobody would want in their living room. They make no effort to cater to an audience. Their works are strikingly expressive, but not at all attractive.

Video games complicate this issue because we must involve the player. It’s not possible to make a completely solipsistic video game. A designer can’t make a game that is purely personal expression; she must give the player something to do, or it’s not a game at all. As a result, the tao of game design can’t be described in a single sentence or a unitary idea.

The tao must partake of the eternal yin-yang of the player and the designer. Without the player, there is no game. Without the designer, there is no game.

Each player contains with himself a game designer, because in playing he seeks to understand the game’s design. Each designer contains within herself a player, because in designing she seeks to understand how the player will play it. Neither is certain of the other, but both must strive.

The tao of game design, then, requires two precepts: know thyself, and know thy player.

To know ourselves, we must understand what we seek to express or explore through game design. Do we want to set a puzzle to be solved? Do we want to send a message to be heard? Do we want to create a system to be studied, or a landscape to be explored? Or do we want to challenge a player to face us in virtual combat? And what can we bring to this process? What are our strengths, our weaknesses, our desires and preferences, our talents? Have we mastered all the jutsu of game design?

Students frequently ask me what aspect of game development they should go into — art, programming, design, and so on. I can’t answer these questions for them, because I don’t know what they like to do and what they’re good at doing. Only they can decide, and to make that decision, they must first know themselves.

My other precept, know thy player, may seem impossible given that we don’t know who will play our games. But just as the designer inside the player’s head is a hypothetical person (after all, in reality design is usually a collaborative process), so the player in the designer’s head is a hypothetical person. My preferred approach to game design, the player-centric approach, calls for the designer to envision a representative player and to accept a duty to empathize with that player.

You may define the characteristics of your representative player any way you like. You can decide, for example, that your representative player is the hardest of the hardcore, and build a game that only such a person would enjoy. This may have commercial consequences, of course; a game so difficult that only 5% of players can get through it is unlikely to be a success in the marketplace. But the decision is yours.

All I ask is that, once you have defined your representative player, you think about him. Understand him. Know his desires. Then, when you know your player, you should test every game design decision by asking the question: “How will my player react to this?

In my teaching I have tended to emphasize know thy player more than know thyself, because I feel too many students come to the process with two false preconceptions: First, that game design is a primarily expressive process in which their own desires should dominate; and second, that they are themselves the ideal player for their game. This is fair enough if they themselves are the only people who will ever play their game, but most designers want other people to play their game as well, and that means thinking about what will entertain them.

Know thy player is doubly important when the game is one that the designer would not choose to play herself — a game for small children, say. When you make games for someone very unlike yourself, you can’t rely on your own instincts. You have to study your audience.

Know thyself, know thy player. These together are the tao of game design. Like yin-yang, they are opposing, mutually rooted in a common phenomenon (the game), and each influences the other in the dance of creation.(source:designersnotebook)