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从职业摔跤比赛中学到的对电子游戏有帮助的内容

发布时间:2016-06-29 16:05:48 Tags:,,,,

作者:David Pittman

现在的我正致力于创造一款在Nebraska追击吸血鬼的角色扮演射击游戏《Slayer Shock》。这是一款像电视剧一般的主题结构游戏:每个任务都可以称为一个”章节“,而一组章节便构成一“季“,每一季内容会在玩家和团队战胜最后的恶棍时终结。故事的核心元素(游戏邦注:如英雄,恶棍和情节点)都是随机选择或者程序生成的,并最终能够创造出一些意想不到的故事内容。

尽管互动故事游戏系统能够创造吸引人的玩家故事,但是纵观历史它们却难以创造出带有魅力的角色和情节。我清楚如果《Slayer Shock》要将故事元素当成特殊卖点的话,只有有趣的游戏机制还不够。我还需要创造一个独立系统去创造让人印象深刻的角色和一致且吸引人的故事线。关于这点存在一些先例,如《矮人要塞》创造了许多神话故事,《中土世界:暗影魔多》创造了让人印象深刻的竞争,但它们并不能满足所有类型游戏中的所有目的。

《Slayer Shock》的程序和策略结构意味着故事没有终点。当玩家战胜了一个恶棍后他们将遭遇下一个恶棍,并且根据自己的意愿同盟会选择加入或离开,游戏也将处理所有的这些情况并想办法将其联系在一起。为了确保故事生成程序能够满足所有的这些需求,我需要掌握如何去编写永久发展的故事。

为了进一步研究,我首先着眼于基于脚本的电视剧内容(如《吸血鬼猎人巴菲》,这部电视剧很大地影响了《Slayer Shock》的基调和主题),但是我却发现很难从该格式中学到什么。因为大多数电视节目的故事都是基于某种特别方式包含于章节单位中,并伴随着在间隙中创造的系列情节。尽管“一周里的怪物”节目或情节系列剧的结构对于其它故事生成内容具有影响力,但是我却发现它们对于我的目的是毫无帮助的。我发现自己对章节内容并不感兴趣,反而对章节间的变化更有兴趣。

我的下一个研究是针对于肥皂剧。基于它们的开发时间安排(通常是每周创造长达5个小时的章节),基于情节的人物设定以及扣人心弦的情节转换,我敢保证这里有许多关于日间电视剧的结构,模式和转义的研究内容。而或许这里存在研究对象,但是粗略的电视转义研究并不是我想要的。我并没有任何冒犯的意思,只是我不喜欢通过观看几个小时的肥皂剧去了解它们的内在设计。

在这期间我观看了Max Landis的电影《Wrestling Isn’t Wrestling》,所以我的研究方式最终变成了职业摔跤。有时候我们会认为“男性肥皂剧”,即职业摔跤能够呈现出许多与日间电视剧一样的性质:每周会诞生大量的内容;具有频繁且看似随意的转折内容;以及简单但却夸张的角色。就像在肥皂剧中,我发现了许多关于特定情节的信息,但却未能找到更多故事开发模式。如果我想要真正理解职业摔跤的故事设计,我可能需要自己去研究这一方面的内容。

wrestling(from china.org)

wrestling(from china.org)

注:在本文中当我提到“职业摔跤”时,我指代的是WWE(游戏邦注:美国职业摔跤)的“体育娱乐”主流模式。关于职业摔跤存在许多不同形式,而我发现WWE的角色和角度是最符合我们的目的。

作为一个80后,我对于职业摔跤的了解并不深入,主要是通过浏览电子游戏杂志而对其略知一二。在90年代末,即WWE的“Attitude Era”,摔跤变得无人不知,即使没看过职业摔跤的我也认识所有的摔角巨星。说实话我并不能理解当时所掀起来的那股潮流,为什么窑区观看一场结果已经明了的比赛呢?直到去年我开始深入了解职业摔角时我才意识到其他人所清楚的一个事实:这并不是关于比赛本身,而是侧重于表现和故事线。对的,这就像戏剧一般。

我在《Slayer Shock》中所遇到的第一个故事挑战便是如何创造独特且让人印象深刻的生成角色。我担心每个恶棍都能和其他恶棍互换;或许多亏于随机外观,角色从视觉上看来都是独特的,但是他们的功能和情感却并无差别。在这方面我便发现摔角能够带给我帮助。摔角推广也面对着类似的挑战,即需要在不同角色中创造许多不同的摔跤选手。那么摔跤是如何区分不同的赤膊选手呢?他们提供给了角色一些噱头。

这些“噱头”包含所有将摔跤选手(也就是真人)转变成角色的元素:行为,口号,服装等等。

而对于我们来说我们并不能为每个生成角色创造独特的噱头,因为这是不可能的事。相反地,我们可以创造许多能够区分不同恶棍的常见的噱头元素。如此我便能让角色基于真正的游戏玩法而深深留在玩家心中。即使是在摔跤比赛中,最佳噱头也需要花费时间去创造并吸引玩家的注意,许多摔跤选手一开始也都是伴随着一些较普通的噱头。

我所学到的第二个经验教训便是重复性。当摔跤比赛找到一个可行的角度或噱头时,他们便会想办法榨干它。有时候这其实非常乏味:角色将在同一个角度上持续迭代着,即将出现的参与者或最近的比赛也将被丢进同样的循环中,且不带任何有意义的结果,除了提醒用户摔跤选手的噱头外解说员也没什么事可做了。而出现这种重复性的原因有许多。这能让全新或回头客能够更轻松地理解故事线。这能让摔跤选手的噱头深深根植于观众的心里。而最重要的还是,摔跤其实就是戏剧。每个参与者都在为选择了自己喜欢的摔跤选手的观众进行现场表演。从这个角度来看,批评摔跤比赛的重复性就显得毫无意义了,这就好像在批评乐队在每场演唱会都会演奏自己最受欢迎的歌曲一样。

从摔跤比赛的重复性中我所学到的是如何在游戏中最大化有限的故事带宽。基于程序生成关卡,在《Slayer Shcock》的核心游戏玩法中其实没有太多的故事传达空间。情节开发是发生于游戏玩法开发的间隙中,即介于不同任务之间,就好像摔跤比赛中的不同比赛之间。而基于如此有限的故事内容传达空间,我们便可以通过重复去强化游戏角色,并基于此去更好地发展这些角色。

此外,在游戏中表述行为元素也变得越来越重要,但在这个例子中是例外,因为这并不是开发者面向玩家的表演。相反地,这是开发者和玩家共同面向YouTube或Twich上的观众的表演。再一次地,重复性能够帮助观众更轻松地融入游戏体验中并提供给他们特殊的吸引力。

我之前的项目是《NEON STRUCT》,即一款受到现代强大的监视国家行为所启发的一款游戏。因为担心自己不能作出正确的解释,所以我尝试着努力分析每一行的对话内容,并确保脚本始终保持一致且游戏能够匹配所有信息。

我从摔跤比赛中学习到的第三点是适应性。摔角选手可能会因为受伤或其它个人因素而不能进行比赛,但不管怎样节目都要进行下去。某些情况下他们可能会播出一些有关前综合格斗选手等厉害人物的节目,但不管怎样还是要回到两两选手间的对抗中。说实话,摔角比赛并未去处理像监视国家这种严格的政治问题,但我相信如果他们去尝试的话观众也一定会买单的。

从摔跤比赛偶尔让人惊讶的无内聚力的表现中我发现,这么做有时候其实并不重要。作为一个具有创造性的美术师,我可以作出一个较大的转变而我的用户如果关心我在做什么的话便会一直尾随着我。不管是玩家还是观众都是为了获得娱乐,所以比起让他们感到无聊你更应该提供给他们惊喜。如果他们试图在建筑或场景逻辑上找漏洞,那么我至少清楚他们对内容是感兴趣的,而非不屑一顾。

说到较大的转变,我最后想要分享的有关摔跤比赛的内容便是我认为摔角产业与电子游戏产业相似的多个方面。

就像电子游戏那样,摔跤比赛是一个不断向电影和其它媒体扩展的大众市场娱乐。

就像电子游戏那样,摔跤比赛是介于一些主要推广(如WWE)和大量你可能从未听说的独立推广之

就像电子游戏那样,摔跤比赛拥有许多对独立领域毫不关心的休闲粉丝。

就像游戏开发者那样,摔跤选手因为各种原因会经常在大型比赛和独立领域间来回转换。

就像游戏开发者那样,摔跤选手对自己所做的事充满激情。

就像游戏开发者那样,摔跤选手会因为太喜欢这份工作而愿意接受较低的薪资和高强度的时间安排。

就像游戏开发者那样,独立的摔跤选手通常都很难依靠这份工作去谋生。

就像游戏开发者那样,摔跤选手可能在年纪轻轻的时候就江郎才尽而需要在产业之外寻找相似的工作。

就像游戏开发者那样,摔跤选手也是那些能够长期做朋友的人。

当然了,他们与小说,音乐,电影,漫画或其它基于创造性的领域也有可能相同。我并不是在暗示所有的这些领域都是一样的,我也并不认为所有的这些特性都是好的。虽然独立游戏开发的持久性对于我们很多人来说都是虚无缥缈的,但是我想强调的是我们的媒体并不是独一无二的,它也不会平白消失。也许某一天机遇会以我们并未看过的方式到来,而当我们眼前的门被关上时我们也可以去寻找其它敞开的窗户。

本文为游戏邦/gamerboom.com编译,拒绝任何不保留版权的转发,如需转载请联系:游戏邦

Everything I Need to Know About Writing Video Games I Learned From Pro Wrestling

by David Pittman

I’m currently working on Slayer Shock, a role-playing shooter about hunting vampires in Nebraska. This game is thematically structured like a television series: each mission is called an “episode”, a group of episodes is a “season”, and each season ends when the player and their team stands victorious over the latest villain. (To be clear, that’s just flavor; this is not an episodic game in the usual sense.) The core elements of the narrative—heroes, villains, and plot points—are randomly chosen or procedurally generated to create unexpected stories.

While interactive game systems can generate thrilling player stories, they’re historically less successful at creating characters and plots with the charm and feel of authored stories. I knew from inception that if the narrative aspect of Slayer Shock were to be a unique selling point, interesting game mechanics were not enough. I would need to develop a separate system for generating memorable characters and coherent, engaging storylines. This isn’t without precedent—Dwarf Fortress builds massive mythologies, and Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor creates memorable rivals—but it is not clearly solved for all purposes in all kinds of games.

In particular, the procedural and strategic structure of Slayer Shock means there is effectively no end to the narrative. Victory over one villain progresses to a confrontation with the next, allies join or depart according to their personal desires, and the game has to manage those events and try make it all coherent. To invent a narrative generator that could accommodate these demands, I would first have to understand how to write an infinite number of perpetual stories.

For research, I first looked to scripted television series (like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which informs much of the tone and theme of Slayer Shock), but I found it difficult to extrapolate any general lessons from that format. Most television keeps its stories contained to the episodic unit, with big picture season or series plots developed in the margins, in ad hoc ways. While the reliable structure of “monster of the week” shows or procedural dramas could be instructive for other kinds of story generators, I found that they weren’t helpful for my purpose. I realized I wasn’t actually interested in the content of an episode, I was interested in what changed between episodes.

My next brief research stop was at soap operas. With their relentless development schedule (typically producing 5 hour-length episodes each week), melodramatic characterization, and penchant for twists and cliffhangers, I was sure there would be a wealth of available research on the structures and patterns and tropes of daytime serials. And perhaps such research is out there, but a cursory TV Tropes search didn’t return what I wanted. And, no offense intended to fans, but I wasn’t excited about the prospect of watching hours of soaps to internalize their design.

Around this time, I watched Max Landis’s “Wrestling Isn’t Wrestling” film, and so my research path finally led to professional wrestling. Sometimes dismissed as “male soap opera” (a statement with so many layers of problems that I’m not even going to attempt to unpack it now), professional wrestling does in fact exhibit many of the same properties as daytime serials: a staggering amount of content produced every week; frequent, seemingly arbitrary twists; and exaggerated, simply-drawn characters. And as with soap operas, I could find a lot of information about specific plots, but relatively little about the general patterns of story development. If I wanted to understand the narrative design of pro wrestling, I was going to have to study it myself.

Note: For the purpose of this article, when I say “professional wrestling”, I’m talking about WWE’s mainstream version of “sports entertainment”. There are lots of forms of professional wrestling, but the exaggerated characters and angles of WWE are what I found useful to deconstruct for this purpose.

As a child of the ‘80s, I grew up with a vague awareness of pro wrestling, mostly by way of occasional appearances in video game magazines. Wrestling became unavoidable during WWE’s “Attitude Era” in the late ‘90s, and I could identify all the big stars despite never watching a single minute of it. I didn’t understand the appeal at the time—it’s fake, why watch a match where the outcome is predetermined?—and it wasn’t until I finally dug into it last year that I realized what everyone else already knew: it isn’t about the matches per se, it’s about the performances and the storylines. It’s theater.

The first narrative challenge I faced in Slayer Shock was how to make generated characters unique and memorable. My fear was that each villain would be interchangeable with any other villain; perhaps visually unique thanks to a randomized appearance, but functionally and emotionally identical to the rest. Here, I found wrestling especially instructive. Wrestling promotions face a similar challenge to develop a constantly shifting roster of dozens of wrestlers into distinct characters that can get “over” with the crowd. How does wrestling distinguish one bulked-up shirtless man from the next? They give them gimmicks.

The term “gimmick” encompasses everything that transforms a wrestler (i.e., the real person) into their character: behaviors, catchphrases, costumes, and more. It’s the supernatural horror of the Undertaker, it’s Stone Cold Steve Austin’s middle finger salute, it’s The New Day spilling out of an oversized cereal box in anime armor and unicorn horns.

The takeaway isn’t to craft a unique gimmick for every generated character, because that would be impossible. Instead, what I learned was to develop a library of common gimmick elements that mainly serve to distinguish one villain from the next. From that seed, I can let the characters grow in the player’s mind based on the actual events of gameplay. Even in wrestling, the best gimmicks take time to develop and get “over” with the audience; many wrestlers begin with either minimal characterization or with common, tropey gimmicks.

The second lesson I learned was repetition. When wrestling finds an angle or a gimmick or a feud that works, they milk it dry. Sometimes this is tedious or boring: characters reiterate their ongoing angles in promo after promo, the participants of upcoming or recent title matches are repeatedly thrown into the ring again with no meaningful outcome, and the commentators do little more than remind the audience of the wrestlers’ gimmicks. But the reasons for this repetition are manifold and valid. It makes it easy for new or returning viewers to catch up on the storylines. It ingrains the gimmicks in the audience’s minds. But most importantly, wrestling is theater. Everyone involved is performing live for a crowd who showed up that night to see their favorite wrestlers. And from this perspective, it makes no more sense to criticize wrestling for its repetition than it would to criticize a band for playing their most popular song at every concert.

My takeaway from wrestling’s repetition is about how to maximize the limited narrative bandwidth in this particular game. With its procedurally generated levels, there is little room for narrative delivery during core gameplay in Slayer Shock. Plot development happens at the margins of gameplay, in between missions, just as it mostly happens in between matches in wrestling. With such limited opportunity for narrative content, it is critical to reinforce characters through repetition, and there is little time left over to substantially develop them beyond that.

Furthermore, the performative aspect is increasingly significant in games, except in this case, it’s not the developer performing to the player. Instead, it’s the developer and the player collaboratively performing to viewers on YouTube or Twitch. Here again, repetition can help ease viewers into the experience and provide unique memetic hooks for each audience.

My previous project was NEON STRUCT, a game loosely inspired by the excessive reach of the modern surveillance state. Worried that I wouldn’t do the subject justice, I labored over every line of dialogue, struggling to make the script cohesive and coherent, trying to force the game to fit the message.

With that in mind, the third guidance I find in wrestling is adaptability. Wrestlers get taken out of action unexpectedly due to injuries or personal reasons, but the show must go on. On any given night, they may feature anyone from supernatural beings to ex-MMA fighters to literally Donald Trump; but they always have to bring it back to two people grappling in a ring. To be fair, wrestling avoids tackling highly-charged political subjects like the surveillance state, but I actually believe the audience would buy it if they tried.

What I take away from wrestling’s occasionally astounding incohesion is that it doesn’t really matter. As a creative artist, I can take a hard turn and my audience will follow along if they’re on board with what I’m doing. The player and the viewer come to be entertained, and it’s always better to surprise them than to bore them. If they poke holes in the construction or logic of a scene later, at least I’ll know it comes from a place of passion instead of disdain.

And speaking of taking a hard turn, the final point I’d like to share about wrestling is the many ways I’ve seen that the wrestling industry mirrors the video games industry, and what we might take away from that.

Like video games, wrestling is mass market entertainment that has grown by expanding into films and other media.

Like video games, wrestling is largely delineated between a few major promotions (like WWE) and a vast host of independent promotions that you’ve probably never heard of.

Like video games, wrestling has a majority of casual fans who are generally unaware or uninterested in what is happening in the independent scene.

Like game developers, wrestlers often bounce between the majors and the indies, for a variety of reasons.

Like game developers, wrestlers are intensely passionate about what they do.

Like game developers, wrestlers often accept low salaries and strenuous schedules for that passion.

Like game developers, wrestlers on the independent circuit are usually not making a living wage from their work.

Like game developers, wrestlers can burn out young, and struggle to find similar meaning outside their industry.

Like game developers, wrestlers are real people who make long-lasting friendships in their work.

Of course, the same could be said of novels, music, film, comic books, or virtually any other creative pursuit. I don’t mean to imply that all these fields are the same, and I certainly don’t believe that all these properties are good things. What I do find reassuring about it—in a year when the sustainability of independent game development looks uncertain for so many of us—is that our medium isn’t unique, and it isn’t going away. Opportunities may come in different forms than we’re used to, and we may have to look for the open windows when the doors close. But if an industry built around sweaty men in briefs slamming each other into the ground can remain a staple of entertainment across the US, I think we’re going to be just fine.(source:gamasutra)

 


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