By steve breslin

现实世界：突发性，强大的模拟

突发行为是规则的结果。拿象棋规则来说吧：象棋规则并未明确指出主动性理念或说明相反颜色的棋子是可拖动的。但这些内容以及游戏中的许多其它特征都是由规则所决定的。我们会在许多复杂的物理系统（例如物理引擎中的流体机制）中看到突发行为—-或者更确切的是，我们会在任何复杂游戏世界的重要事件发生时看到它。

《毁灭战士》中的爆炸桶的各种特征便是一个典型的例子。支配着它们行为的规则非常简单；程序决定着它们是如何与连锁反应维系在一起。

当滚桶开始在连锁效应下爆炸，虚拟世界突然趋于活跃，现实。这是个让人惊讶的时刻，但是玩家却很少会投入足够的能量去面对这一系统。《毁灭战士》是基于非常线性且简单的基调，为此它不会鼓励玩家去体验游戏场景。

从特定视角来看，《毁灭战士》可以被当成一个沙盒：我们删除了“出口”，玩家四处徘徊并杀死坏人，做任何自己想做的事。从同样的角度来看，这是基于现在的我们使用这一术语的普遍性—-“沙盒”游戏的制作是一种递减式操作：减去任务，主要活动，叙述，或任何约束玩家前进的内容，你便拥有了一个“沙盒”。

这便是我们在说到“沙盒模式”（与“战役模式”相反）时所谓的沙盒，这与软件开发者对于该术语的使用非常相似。

一般来说，如果一个人删除了游戏对象去创造不受控制的内容，或缺少叙述，他便是在递减意义上创造了一个沙盒—-但这却不具有生产意义。真正的沙盒设计意味着添加能够创造出有趣的突发行为的游戏行为，但这同样也意味着添加一些可供自由游戏的奖励。突发性是好的，但是免费导向型框架也是必要的。

元游戏和多人游戏舞台

尽管元游戏和多人游戏是两种完全不同的情况，但是它们也具有共同点，并经常同时发生，所以我们会认为它们具有密切的联系。

元游戏一般意味着不同的游戏玩法，即玩家不再按照游戏的设计进行游戏，而是围绕着游戏做一些有趣的事。这包含探索各种小毛病，测试游戏的极限，创造并追求个人目标等等游戏设计师并未预先设定好的内容。例如“我想要知道自己能够创造多少资源收割机”或者“我能够驾驶卡车开多远，之后会发生什么？”或者“我是否能够在不获得蜘蛛球的前提下完成游戏？”等等。

这就回到了有关冒险游戏的开放式讨论，即设计倾向于锁与钥匙的谜题形式。这类游戏中的一个含蓄挑战，也是需要玩家精通的内容是找出捷径。

当游戏是基于这种态度时，冒险的隐喻便会消失，玩家将有意识地考虑潜在的系统，如何优化既定的系统规则，甚至是如何打破系统规则等等。尽管这会对不同的关卡发挥作用，但是打破序列具有很强的沙盒性，基于锁与钥匙的冒险游戏设计会鼓励这一机制，就像《超级银河战士》（1994年）和《置换魔球》（2007年）。

这里的关键在于游戏也许会支持沙盒类玩法或元游戏，不管它是否基于这样的设计目的。比起根据明确的设计，从游戏上看沙盒是更加广泛的类型：各种游戏都可以基于沙盒风格—-这只是取决于玩家的独创性。

甚至连象棋也可以被当成是沙盒游戏，如果你是基于正确方式去看待它。它甚至不需要作为一种竞赛：相反的，你和对手可以合作探索游戏的潜能，去找出游戏中会出现怎样有趣的结构—-不带有竞争性，而是带着批判，分析且想象的眼观。（有人也会认为，如果你基于正确的方式去看待想起，元游戏便会在一般竞争游戏的发展过程中频繁出现。）

的确，如果玩家的一大目标是探索游戏规则的涵义，那么任何足够复杂的游戏都可以被当成是沙盒游戏。“游戏世界”的隐喻将变得牵强，但我们能够将规则所打开的可能性空间比作游戏世界，玩家可以在这里自由地探索。

关键在于它不会让两个对手去玩象棋；相反地，一个玩家将基于创造性方式去游戏—-例如解决8个皇后问题，或创造一个讲究的游戏终点。传统的单人纸牌游戏并不是真正的沙盒游戏；但是单人象棋游戏却是。有趣的是，在对手进入场景前存在一个自由发挥的空间。

这与多人游戏的情况类似：不需要将游戏设计为只是支持丰富的沙盒游戏玩法；它不需要精心制作的叙述框架，不需要值得信赖的角色等等。相反地，它只需要一个适度的舞台去创造所有必须的战略利益去支持丰富的多人游戏体验。甚至是最简单的MUD也能做到这点。当提到多人游戏时，我们可以删除一些内容，就像对手提供许多必要的框架一样。

这并不是在反对复杂的多人游戏世界。世界复杂性经常导致更加微妙的策略，这是件好事。但说真的，所有多人游戏舞台真正需要的是一套规则。

同样地，如果玩家是基于讽刺，分析或更加深入的方式接近游戏，那么体验将是基于最简单的乐趣—-如在荒地上一起骑马，看着随机生成的景色等等。

但是另一方面，如果我们删除多人游戏，或者删除玩家感兴趣的元关卡，那么即使是最现实的游戏世界也会快速失去乐趣。现实模拟是一个主要的多人游戏舞台，是创建游戏空间的强大基础，探索一段时间真的能够带给玩家乐趣。但是它必须认识到显示模拟和游戏玩法/展示在开发过程中是完全不同的阶段，如果多人游戏不能提供原则挑战和目的，那么设计师就必须提供一些指导框架。

用户生成内容

毫无疑问，游戏设计本身就是根本的沙盒游戏：作为设计师的你除了要决定游戏的目标，还要创造并汇聚图像和其它展示元素，平衡游戏，创造一款可供游戏的完整世界。

在这一意义上，modding与游戏设计非常相似。主要不同在于modder并不会编写游戏引擎，它们也不会设计更大的框架。它们的角色将被限制在高水平设计上，尽管这在不同游戏中也是不同的。

10年前，人们可能会说“游戏的未来是modding”。但是在过去10年间，modding本身逐渐成为了玩游戏的一个组成部分，玩游戏与modding之间的界线变得越来越模糊了。从20世纪90年代末最简单的“场景编辑器”到《无冬之夜》的modding工具，再到Crytek的沙盒，游戏制作越来越关注于鼓励玩家设计，今天的游戏也经常呈现一定的设计形式作为游戏玩法的核心成分。

经过几年，modder已经在使用Maya而不是Creature Creator。《孢子》的创造性在于现在每个玩家都能接触mod。当然，并不只有《孢子》在这么做。《小小大星球》在这一领域走得更远。这里的关键在于游戏创造是为了努力达到玩家生成内容的目标，并通过设计工具让新手能够创建模型并进行设计。

下面我们将把《孢子》当成一个特殊的案例研究。这里的凸点在于，尽管《孢子》拂去了modding与游戏间的差别，但是多年来其它人也在基于较为分散且生疏但却较彻底的方式尝试着做着同样的事。

《第二人生》是游戏基于modding设计目的的另一个典例。它创造了服装设计师，建筑工人或建筑师/工程师以及3D模型师之间的真实类比。玩家有时候还会为自己的3D模型支付现金，这就像在现实生活中木匠为了制作橱柜需要支付一定的代价。

不管人们是基于自己的完美设想还是讽刺性看法玩游戏，多人游戏和modding的结合是保证《第二人生》稳定地位的关键。另一方面，一个关键元素便是不存在值得游戏的利益。这是一个纯粹的沙盒，所以它会缺少利益，即缺少我们所谓的“框架”：缺少方向。

现代的案例研究

评估沙盒设计现代化标准的最佳方法便是考虑设计的现代表达。关于这一设计策略的一般理论将帮助引导未来的开发努力，但是实践分析将探索这些理念是如何在如今的游戏工作室中发挥作用。

在实践中明确什么是对的以及什么是错的将给未来的开发带去巨大的帮助，并有效传播沙盒设计理论。

以下是第一个例子：

《刺客信条》

这款游戏的主要绊脚石之一便是游戏世界的动态属性，以及引出场景的方式。场景本身只会拓展出一个较小的领域，并立刻被随机的“沙盒世界”元素所环绕。这是相对较早的设计的决策呈现，即决定了特定任务的扩展环境将由较小的设计所控制。

当然，我们不能怀疑设计团队的努力。这些问题真的非常困难并要求付出巨大的精力。当你在创新时，这始终都是一场艰难的谈判。但这仍然能说是一种设计，尽管它将“沙盒”设计带到新的维度上，但它同样也避免了传统运动鞋游戏微妙的关卡设计。就像我们所建议的，沙盒既带有希望也带有问题。在这种情况下，主要问题便是缺少更高水平的开发。

甚至主要的用户问题都是关于抱怨游戏玩法。

“当你反复经历同样陈旧的目标时，你便会抓狂并想要结束游戏。”问题在于游戏玩法并不完善且较为贫乏。让人受挫的是设计和任务目标将变得更加复杂。

来自Wired的博客Game|Life的Chris Kohler也发现游戏缺少设计深度。

这并不是一次完美的审查：Kohler并未意识到《刺客信条》在奖励玩家机智且耐心游戏的良好表现。但是另一方面，游戏的微妙之处也不会得到许多其他玩家的欣赏。

游戏可能会花更多时间去解释/训练正确的游戏方法—-即尽早提供更加微妙的训练任务。随后游戏便能够基于活动而通过更加微妙的任务去加强并传达这一信息。

甚至还包括添加一个受《Hitman》启发的“Silent Assassin”去奖励微妙的游戏表现（在关键任务时刻）—-这将对传达优秀的游戏表现并奖励机智的执行提供很大的帮助。

但是这些设计要素并不能解决主要问题。这里存在的主要困境在于单调反复的任务提供，并伴随着浮浅的游戏世界深度。沙盒游戏总是会要求玩家在每个明确好的主要任务间去执行一些随机生成的任务，但是随机任务的变化和范围却远远不够。也就是缺少足够的变化能够镇压它们的重复性。

如果每个城市有20个精心设计的角色，每个玩家都能够讨论并接收任务，并相互竞争，那么游戏世界将变成更加丰富，且更接近沙盒世界。让玩家能够与不同的交战派系共事将为游戏添加沉浸感。

不可避免的，游戏始终都需要更加复杂且多变的场景。随机场景不错，但是反复使用默认场景便意味着重复性太强。最理想的情况是，每个场景都是定制的。玩家允许循环，但是他们并不喜欢过度重复，反而更欣赏定制的场景。

这里并不存在简单的解决方法；这是我们在好几个月，甚至好几年内一直在思考的问题。但是一般解决方法却非常简单：我们可以将更大一部分的开发投资付诸于高级别的设计上（游戏邦注：如任务设计和编写内容）。

《孢子》

统一的隐喻可能成就游戏也有可能摧毁游戏，主要取决于游戏是否努力做到比起个部分的总和还优秀。有些人会在主要叙述出现时停止怀疑，并感受到一些乐趣，但是有些人却会注意到缝隙。

仍然有些人会将其当成“带有一个价格的五款游戏，”然后严厉地判断这五款游戏：许多人已经注意到它们是以前其它沙盒游戏的“简化”版，不管是《帝国时代》还是《Masters of Orion》。

尽管《孢子》的确探索着许多不同沙盒游戏类型，它任然是对于更大类型的纵览，即从人工生命到帝国建造—-未整合单独阶段也是事实，每个位于自己领域中的阶段都是简单且可落实行动的。

如果游戏可行，而因为更强大的美学表现，游戏所承担的较大风险便在于把成败留给了玩家的美感判断。不管游戏是否一致（即不管一个人是否接受从一个细胞发展到一个星球跳跃者的理念），这都是一种主观看法。这也揭露了沙盒设计中一个常见的挑战：玩家置身于打开故事。

也许这里的主要乐趣在于生物创造者（并伴随着建筑和交通工具创造者）。这些游戏环节将与用户分享现在游戏开发一个主要元素（3D模型）。在这里，设计与Wright在之前对于沙盒设计的一大描述相一致：游戏设计本身很有趣，如果能够进行适当包装，它便可以被重新诠释为游戏玩法本身。但是让我们考虑另一个有趣的引用：

你勇敢的努力证实了你值得前进到下一个关卡中。你居住的宇宙是无数世界中的一个，虽然看不见但却是与其它世界相互连接着。你的创造性努力并未被忽视。的确，它们融入了其它看不见的世界中，就像你的世界也因为这些世界而更加丰富。

因此说到银河中的上帝，这是基于完成最后的目标而言。（当然从真正意义上来看这并不是终点：在此之后沙盒会继续存在，所以你可以继续扩展你的帝国）。

从作家的角度来看，这些有关神性的单词都很高级。游戏文本发挥着作家所谓的“重新解释”作用，或者说是”基于一种聪明的方式去改变话题。“

Steve先提议游戏的另一个界别：“你现有的级别的下一个级别。”到目前为止游戏已经有5个“现有级别”：细胞，动物，部落，文明和太空。基于游戏逻辑，如果你赢得第五个小游戏（即太空游戏），你便能够进行第六个小游戏。之后便会出现多元宇宙理念：这便是第六个级别！

之后，这一多元宇宙将被重新解释为《孢子》的多人游戏功能，即你已经做过的事：“你的创造性努力融入了其它世界，就像你的世界也因为这些世界而变得更加丰富。”这是一个浪漫的回合，在某种意义上第六个级别便是多人游戏的现实。但同时这也是一种逃避，即游戏提供给玩家新任务去执行。

沙盒仍然持续着，但现在它是不再期待着新内容或额外游戏乐趣而重复着。在大多数情况下，游戏玩法会朝着成就一个新的游戏功能而前进，但在此这只是游戏本身的乐趣，再一次地这也可以归结为玩家置身于单纯地打开游戏。

《侠盗猎车手IV》

自从《侠盗猎车手III》发行以来，这系列游戏的主要吸引力便在于富有深度的细节，一部分是源自图像，但主要还是关于游戏世界的坚固性与可变性。全面执行角色并不断变换任务。

游戏世界被许多同时发生的事件和可选择的任务进一步具体化了，所以总会存在基于玩家选择或决定的感觉。，尽管游戏中的主要活动是线性且决定好的。简而言之，较大的投入成就了更高水平的设计，游戏也因此取得了成功。

这里有许多情境是不能基于逻辑做出回应的，但是玩家却会因为执行的细节化而轻松地原谅它们。玩家非常欣赏设计师投入巨大的努力去造就一个强大的游戏世界，深度与广度更是弥补了定期的失误与人为的痕迹。

主要结构与标准RPG相似：主要活动任务加上选择任务。这是沙盒游戏玩法很常见也很出色的格式：一个核心活动（本身也许是多线程的），加上许多支线任务。沙盒本身非常强大，尽管在一段时间后创造自己的乐趣可能会变得无趣。但重要的是，内容编写是彻底的，所以除了基于沙盒游戏，玩家还有很多选择可以做。

从本质上看沙盒游戏是非道德的，就意义而言真正的行动通常是受到假设的支配：“如果我控制这个人会怎样？”—-这并不是一种蓄意的想法；相反地，这很好玩。但是这也生成了一个问题：游戏该如何做出回应？《侠盗猎车手》的解决方法便是模拟现实反应并且不去真正执行它，基于逻辑去突显PC是叙述创造性所能够实现的特征。

但是直到《侠盗猎车手IV》，PC的特性仍然带有叙述问题；就像别人所写到的，英雄是一个两极化的暴徒，对于玩家来说这可能与自己的个性并不相符。这样的角色并不有趣：从编写的角度来看这可能是一种轻松的特性描述，但却很难让我们与角色维系在一起。

然而在《侠盗猎车手IV》中，PC的构造非常谨慎，伤痕累累的战士变成了讽刺且愤怒的无政府主义者，这便证实了英雄拥有一系列特殊行动范围会更有趣。这也表示了认真创造的叙述内容将能更有效地匹配游戏玩法。

NPC回应的问题是简单的AI问题。在缺少强大AI的情况下，所有回应都将变成手写的，也就意味着不管设计多彻底都会出现一些边缘情况。就像之前所说的，某些部分（也许是现实的或者符合逻辑的）仍然具有问题或者适得其反，我们最好能够忽视这些部分—-即使这么做会创造一个缝隙。

在任何情况下，NPC反应总是会遵循某些部分，而实际上，它们却不能有效地匹配玩家行为。如果玩家的行为并未落入预先定义好的类别，它们便不会做出直接反应。这是不可避免的情况。

这是一个问题，但从个例来看，我们可以通过巧妙的编写和设计去处理这一问题。举个例子来说吧，在《侠盗猎车手IV》的开始，“第一次的驾车”注定是充满混乱的：玩家仍然在学习如何控制。此外，玩家需要逐渐了解可信赖的世界的独特性，NPC看起来很真实，但却拥有在现实世界中很难出现的强大宽容行为。我们需要一个NPC去引导玩家，即作为介绍教程的一部分，但是如果玩家撞车的话NPC将如何做出回应？

在这个例子中文字内容提供了解决方法：NPC非常兴奋，所以他并未真正注意到（或者他并不关心）撞车。NPC在此是为了传达基于教程的指令，并不带任何结果地将玩家引进游戏世界中—-所有的这一切都是隐藏在NPC的兴奋幻想中。

这种个例问题解决是非常强大的设计。《侠盗猎车手》的隐式建议便是游戏谨慎且基于战略性的设计的表现，即设计师清楚这些问题，并尽力避免更多问题的出现。

此外，就角色而言，以强力对待剩下的问题可能是最好的方法：如果在这一场景中存在10个边缘案例，那么脚本便需要对所有的10个案例做出回应。彻底解决总体AI问题太过遥远，不值得我们去思考。甚至连先锋派艺术家也证实了瓶颈是关于案例处理与编写。总之，关于明显的智力行为的瓶颈在于每个案例编写内容。

结论

与隐喻暗示的理念完全相反的是,沙盒设计要求更多更高级的设计,而不是更少.说实话,沙盒的最大风险便在于可能趋于无聊.

沙盒是游戏的主要部分,有时候游戏很难“精通”：相反地你可能只是在游戏中徘徊着，直到一切变得无聊。这种情况下的游戏并不存在精心刻画的叙述，所以没有高潮；同时也不存在奖励机制会游戏玩法构造（游戏邦注：如技能培训和难度渐变等等）。总之，这在传统游戏设计原则中是非常薄弱的。额外的自由能够在某种程度上弥补这一不足，但是我们仍需要通过游戏设计本身去解决并克服问题。

太空帝国建造游戏《X3》便是一个典型的例子。这里存在主要的活动，但却是次于沙盒游戏玩法。（不幸的是游戏缺少精心的设计或编写，但我们暂且不管这点。）这是一款出色的沙盒游戏，包含了复杂系统的处理，同时也带有有趣的突发行为，并且是基于系统规模。

最后，管理帝国变成了一份全职工作，而目标和奖励则是你将拥有一个属于自己的宇宙。从单一视角来看，逐步垄断并精通一个动态系统很有趣，但是从另外一个角度来看，一个人可能会受到存在主义或自我讽刺的想法的激发，并向着“为什么我在这么做？”

在伴随着沙盒游戏的叙述中存在的一个主要问题便是叙述的节奏。我们是否允许玩家随着故事的发展自由发挥？如果不允许，我们该如何未来实现周期性的自由游戏而中断故事发展？之后，我们该如何避免冗长的自由游戏拉紧故事节奏的情况？

与往常一样，特殊的解决方法将取决于不同情况，游戏的独特功能以及格式。但让我们再看看另一个例子，即另一款太空游戏《Freelancer》（2003年），它便非常完美地处理了这种情况。其游戏玩法被分解成独立的章节，并自然地跟着时间的发展而呈现出自由游戏的时刻；文本内容也很自然地分解了这种行动。

作家回答节奏问题的一种方法便是：非玩家角色总是对玩家角色非常不耐烦。不管玩家花多长时间，回应都是符合逻辑的。更重要的是，当高潮出现时，节奏将变得更加重要。任务之间并不存在“自由发挥”的插曲。这保留了叙述的完整性，但却排除了游戏的沙盒“自由游戏”特性。这表明了故事和沙盒在有时候是相互矛盾的原则。

我们需要特别提到自由发挥，因为在故事完成后，游戏很快便会趋于无聊。这里只剩下一些随机生成的任务，但是在游戏最后，玩家可能已经经历过所有的这些任务了。这里可能或不可能存在值得探索的新场所（取决于玩家在主要任务过程中的自由广度），但却没有真正新的内容。

随着游戏的重复性越来越明显，玩家对游戏的乐趣便会逐渐淡却。但是另一方面，这里也总是存在着mod（如果你更倾向于技术性内容，这里便始终都有modding，你会因此觉得更有趣）。当然了，这里也还有多人游戏元素。

要知道未来的道路是光明的。沙盒将继续长久地存在下去。

（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 History and Theory of Sandbox Gameplay

by steve breslin

A Realistic World: Emergence, Robust Simulation

An emergent behavior is a consequence of the rules. Take the rules of, say, chess: the rules of chess do not explicitly refer to the concept of initiative or that opposite colored bishops tend to be drawish. But these and many other characteristics of the game are determined by the rules. We see emergent behavior in many complex physical systems (fluid mechanics in physics, for instance) — or more to the point, we see it in the material happenings of any complex game world.

The various characteristics of explosive barrels in Doom is one canonical example. The rules which govern their behavior are very simple; nowhere does the program say anything about how they can be lined up for a chain reaction.

Once barrels started exploding in chain reaction, the virtual world had suddenly become robust, palpable, realistic. This was an amazing moment, but very little of the player’s energy was invested in playing with the system — yet. Doom struck a highly linear and simple tone, for it did nothing to encourage the player to experiment with the scenario.

From a certain point of view, Doom could be considered a sandbox: we remove the “EXIT” and the player wanders around killing baddies, doing as he likes. From the same point of view — and this bears especially on how we commonly use the term nowadays — the production of a “sandbox” game is a subtractive operation: subtract the missions, the main campaign, the narrative or whatever formatively binds the game’s progression, and you have a “sandbox.” The player can fool around without doing anything “on task” or so.

This is the sandbox we mean when we speak of “Sandbox Mode” (as opposed to “Campaign Mode”), and it is closely similar to how the term is used in software development.

In general terms, if one removed the objectives of a game to produce unguided play, or lack of narrative, one would makes a sandbox in some subtractive sense — but not in a productive sense. True sandbox design means adding game behaviors which, in combination, produce interesting emergent behavior, but it also means adding some reward for free play. Emergence is good, but a free-play oriented framework is also necessary.

Metaplay and the Multiplayer Arena

While meta-play and multiplayer are certainly two entirely different phenomena, they have some things in common and they often happen simultaneously, so we might consider them loosely together.

Meta-play normally means a different approach to playing, where the player is no longer playing the game as it was designed, but messing around with it and doing amusing things. This includes exploring glitches, testing the game’s limits, creating and pursuing personal objectives, and other things which were not necessarily intended by the game’s designers. “Hmm, I wonder how many resource harvesters I could build…” or “How far can I drive off the track, and what happens then?” or “Can I finish the game without getting the spider ball?” — this kind of play.

This relates back to our opening discussion of adventure games, whose design tends to be in the form of lock-and-key puzzles. One implicit challenge in such games, and one way by which mastery can be measured, is in figuring out the shortest route.

When the game is played in this attitude, the metaphor of adventure falls away, and the player instead thinks consciously of the underlying system, how to optimize given the rules of the system — and even how to break the rules of the system. Though it operates on a different level, sequence-breaking is very sandboxy and very meta, and lock-and-key style adventure design encourages it, from Super Metroid (1994) to Switchball (2007).

The key here is that the game might support sandbox-style playfulness or meta-play, whether or not it was designed to do so. Sandbox is a much wider genre in terms of play than it is in terms of explicit design: a wide variety of games can be played in a sandbox style — it just depends on the ingenuity and creativity of the player.

Even chess can be considered a sandbox game, if you look at it in the right way. It need not even be played as a competition: instead, you and your opponent could cooperatively explore the potentialities of the game, to see how certain interesting structures can emerge — to “meta-play” the game, not competitively, but critically, analytically, imaginatively. (One could well argue that if you look at chess in the right way, meta-play happens quite frequently over the course of a normal competitive game.)

Indeed, any sufficiently complex game can be considered a sandbox if one of the aims of the players is to explore the implications of the game’s rules. The metaphor of “game world” becomes strained, but it is possible to liken the space of potentiality opened by the rules to a game world, which the players can freely explore.

The point is that it does not take two opponents to play chess; instead, one can play in a creative way — solving the eight queens problem, for instance, or producing an elegant endgame. The traditional card game solitaire is not really a sandbox game; but a solitary game of chess can be. The interesting point here is that there is a space of free-play potential even before the opponent enters the scene.

The case is similar with multiplayer: the game need not be specially designed to support rich sandbox gameplay; it needs no carefully-crafted narrative framework, no believable characters, and so on. By contrast, it takes only a modest arena to produce all the necessary strategic interest to support a rich multiplayer experience. Even the simplest of MUDs can do it. When it comes to multiplayer, we can strip things down quite a bit, as the opponent provides much of the necessary framework.

This is no argument against complex multiplayer worlds. World complexity often leads to more nuanced strategy, which is a good thing. But speaking minimally, all a multiplayer arena really needs is a set of rules.

Likewise, if the player approaches the game in either an ironic, analytical, or deeply-invested way, then the experience can rest on the simplest of pleasures — such as riding horses around together in a wilderness, and looking at a randomly-generated landscape.

But on the other hand, if we subtract multi-player, or we subtract that meta- level of player interest, even the most realistic game-world can lose its interest very quickly. A realistic simulation can be a great multiplayer arena, and a great foundation for building a game-space, and it may indeed be fun to explore for a little while. But it must be recognized that realistic simulation on the one hand and gameplay/presentation on the other are very different phases in development, and if the principle challenge and purpose is not being supplied by multiplayer, then some directing framework must be supplied by the designer.

User Generated Content

Game design itself is, undoubtedly, the ultimate sandbox game: you the designer get to determine the game’s objectives, and not only that, but also create and assemble the artwork and other presentation elements, balance the game as you see fit — create a whole world to play in.

Modding is quite similar to game design in that sense. The main difference is that modders do not write game engines and they do not design the larger framework. Their role tends to be limited to top-level design, though of course this varies from game to game.

Ten years ago, one would be wise to remark that “the future of gaming is modding.” But over the course of the past decade, modding itself has become increasingly part of playing the game, and the line between playing and modding is now and forever blurred. From the simplest “scenario editors” of the late 1990s through Neverwinter Nights modding tools, to Crytek’s Sandbox, game production has increasingly focused upon in enabling and encouraging player design, and today’s games often present certain forms of design as a core ingredient of the gameplay.

For years, modders have been using Maya rather than Creature Creator. Spore’s obvious innovation is that now every player gets to mod. Spore is not alone in this, of course. Indeed, LittleBigPlanet is arguably even more progressive in this area. The key is the creation of a game that works towards the objective of player-generated content, and designing tools to enable novice modeling and design.

We will be discussing Spore as a special case study, below. The salient point here is that while Spore makes an art of erasing the difference between modding and playing, the same thing has been done for years in a less integrated and novice-friendly manner, but far more completely.

Second Life is still another canonical example of a game that is designed to be modded. It produces an amazingly real analogy between (on the one hand) the clothing designer, construction worker, or architect/engineer, and (on the other hand) the 3D modeler. Players are sometimes even paid for their 3D models in real money, just as real-life carpenters are paid for their cabinetry work.

Whether people play perfected visions of themselves or ironical caricatures, the combination of multiplayer and modding assures a permanent place for Second Life. On the other hand, one key element is that there is no game-worthy interest. It is a pure sandbox, and so it suffers a lack of interest, from a lack of what we have been calling ‘framework’: a lack of direction.

Contemporary Case Studies

One of the best ways to evaluate the state-of-the-art of Sandbox design is to consider modern expressions of the design. General theories about this design strategy may help guide future development efforts, but practical analysis will explore how these ideas are playing out in today’s game studio.

And seeing what’s going right and what’s problematic in practical terms can be a big help for guiding future development, and expanding the theory of sandbox design.

For our first example, we’ll take:

Assassin’s Creed

One of the main stumbling blocks for this title is the dynamic nature of the game world, and the manner in which scenarios are spawned. The scenarios themselves carve out only a very small area, and are immediately surrounded by random “sandbox-world” elements. This was a relatively early programming and presentation decision, which determined that there would be little design control over the extended environment of a given mission.

Not to doubt the efforts of the design team, of course. These kinds of questions are extremely difficult and require an enormous amount of work. When you’re innovating, it’s an uphill negotiation all the way. But it can still be said that the design, while it brings “sandbox” design into a new dimension, also prohibits the kind of finely-tuned level design of conventional sneaker games. As we have already suggested, sandbox carries both promise and problem. In this case, the main problem is a lack of upper-level development.

Even the principal fan-made FAQ for the game complains about its gameplay.

“Once you experience the same old objectives over and over, then you go crazy and just want to get to the end.” The problem is that the gameplay is underdeveloped or barebones. The thwarted hope is that the design and mission objectives would become more sophisticated.

Chris Kohler of Wired’s Game|Life blog also found the game lacking in terms of design-depth.

It’s not a perfect review: Kohler does not recognize how well Assassin’s Creed rewards clever and patient play. But on the other hand, the game’s subtlety will be unappreciated by many other players as well.

The game should probably have spent more time explaining/training the correct way to play, through more nuanced training missions early on. And then the game could have reinforced and telegraphed this message by more finely-tuned missions throughout the campaign.

Even something simple like adding a Hitman-inspired “Silent Assassin” reward for particularly delicate play (at critical mission junctures) — this would have gone a long way towards communicating the concept of excellent play, and rewarding clever execution.

Thse design considerations would not fix the main problem, however. The principle dilemma is the flat, repetitive mission offering, combined with the shallow game-world depth. It is commonplace for a sandbox game to require the player to perform a few stock random-generated missions between each customized major campaign, but the variation and range of random missions are insufficient. There is not nearly enough range and variation to suppress their repetitive nature.

The world would be far richer and more like a sandbox world if there were twenty well-worked-out characters per city, who the player could visit to talk and receive missions — and play off each other. Allowing the player to work with different warring factions would greatly add to the sense of immersion.

Inevitably, scenarios of greater sophistication and wider variation are needed throughout. Random scenarios are good, but over-use of default scenarios means repetition. Ideally, each scenario is customized. Players allow recycling, but they don’t like excess repetition and greatly appreciate custom scenarios.

There is no simple solution; it’s the kind of problem that has to get worked out over many months if not years. But the general solution is extremely simple: a much larger fraction of development investment must be spent on upper-level design (mission design and writing).

Spore

The unifying metaphor makes or breaks the game, for it is a game which works very hard to be viewed as greater than the sum of its parts. Some people will suspend disbelief, and feel a little joy as the overarching narrative emerges; and other people will see the seams.

Still others will look at it as “five games for the price of one,” and then judge those five games harshly: many have observed they are “-lite” versions of other previous sandbox games, from Age of Empires to Masters of Orion.

And while it remains true that Spore explores many different genres of sandbox play — it is almost a survey of the larger genre, from cellular A-life to empire building — it is also true that the separate phases are not integrated, and each in its own area is simplistic and under-implemented.

If the game works, it is because of the larger aesthetic presentation, and the great risk the game takes is that it leaves its success or failure to the aesthetic sense of the player. Whether the game does indeed hang together — whether a person buys into the idea of developing from a cell into a planet-jumper — this is mostly subjective. And this lays bare a common challenge in sandbox design: player commitment to open story.

The main interest, perhaps, is the creature creator (along with the building and vehicle creator). These segments of the game share with the audience a critical aspect of modern game development (3D modeling). In this, the design is highly consistent with one of Wright’s major statements on the origin of his particular brand of sandbox design: that game design is so fun in itself that, if properly packaged, it can well be reinterpreted as gameplay itself. But let us consider another quite intriguing quotation:

Your heroic efforts have proven you deserving, worthy of advancement to the next level of your existence. The universe you inhabit is but one of many countless worlds, unseen but yet connected. Your creative efforts have not gone unnoticed. Indeed they have spilled into these other, unseen worlds, just as your world has been enriched by them.

Thus speaks the god of the galaxy, upon completion of the final objective. (Though of course this is not the end in the strong sense: the sandbox subsists after this, so you can continue to expand your empire indefinitely.)

These words of the divinity (playfully named “Steve”) are quite clever, from a writer’s perspective. The game text is doing what a writer might call “reinterpretation,” or more simply, “changing the subject in a clever way.”

Steve begins by proposing yet another level for the game: “the next level of your existence.” So far there have been five “levels of existence”: cell, animal, tribal, civil, and space. By the logic of the game, if you win the fifth mini-game — the space game — then you should get mini-game number six. The concept of a multiverse is then invoked: this would be level six!

Then, this multiverse is reinterpreted as the multiplayer function of Spore, which you’ve already been doing: “your creative efforts [...] have spilled into other worlds, just as your world has been enriched by them.” It’s a brilliant poetic turn, in the sense that the sixth level is the reality of multiplayer. It’s also a cop-out, in the sense that the game is done providing new stuff to do.

The sandbox persists, but it is now repetitive with no hope of new content or additional gameplay interest. In most cases, gameplay is geared towards meeting an objective in order to enable a new feature of the game, but here it is just the joy of play itself, and again it comes down to player commitment to the purely open game.

Grand Theft Auto IV

Since GTAIII, what has made this series work so well is the depth of detail, partly in graphics but primarily in the robustness and variability of the game world. Characters are fully implemented, and missions vary widely.

The game world is further fleshed out by numerous concurrent and optional missions, so there is always a sense of player choice or determination, even though the main campaign is mostly linear and determined. In short, a lot of production has gone into top-level design, and it pays off big time.

There are a large number of situations which do not respond logically, but the player happily forgives this because the implementation is already so detailed. Players greatly appreciate the amount of work that goes into making a robust game world, and the depth and breadth more than makes up for the periodic lapses, the seams and traces of artificiality.

The major structure is equivalent to standard RPG: main-line campaign missions plus optional missions. This is an extremely common and an excellent format for sandbox gameplay: one central campaign (itself perhaps multi-threaded), plus a large number of side-missions. The sandbox all by itself is strong, although making your own fun can get boring after a little while. But crucially, the writing is thoroughgoing, so in addition to base sandbox play, there’s always a choice between things to do.

Sandbox play is essentially amoral/non-moral, in the sense that real action is often governed by the hypothetical: “What happens if I run this guy over?” — this is not a malicious thought; on the contrary, it is quite playful. But this generates a problem: how should the game respond? The GTA solution is to mock realistic response without actually enforcing it, and characterize the PC as logically as narrative ingenuity is capable of.

Still, until GTAIV, the PC personality was something of a narrative problem; as others have written, the hero was a bi-polar thug for whom nothing was truly out of character. Such a character is not terribly interesting: this is facile characterization from the perspective of the writing, and it’s not particularly compelling in the sense that we can’t relate to the character.

With GTAIV, however, the PC is framed very carefully, and the scarred warrior turned ironical and embittered anarchist justifies much better the peculiar range of action of a GTA hero. This goes to show how well a carefully worked out narrative can match the gameplay.

The problem of NPC response is the simple problem of AI. In the absence of strong AI, all the responses have to be hand-written, which means there are going to be some edge cases no matter how thoroughgoing the design. As suggested above, certain lines — though they may be realistic or logical — are nevertheless problematic and counter-productive, and best to ignore even if this does create a seam.

In any case, NPCs reactions always follow certain lines, and practically speaking, they cannot be extremely finely tuned to player behavior. They will fail to respond or respond incorrectly if the player’s behavior does not fall into predefined categories. That is, quite simply, unavoidable.

It’s a problem, but on a case-by-case basis it can be finessed by clever writing and design. For example, at the beginning of GTA IV, the “first drive” is bound to be messy, of course: the player is still learning the controls. In addition, the player needs to be eased into the peculiarities of believable world minus consequences, and NPCs who seem real, but who are strangely tolerant of behavior that would be taken as extreme in the real world. We need an NPC to guide the player, as part of the intro-tutorial, but how is the NPC going to respond if the player crashes the car?

In this case the writing supplies the solution: the NPC is extremely intoxicated, so he doesn’t really notice (or doesn’t really care) that the vehicle is getting trashed. The NPC is there to say lightly-disguised tutorial-oriented instruction, and to introduce the player to a world without consequences — all under cover of the intoxication conceit.

This kind of case-by-case problem solving is the stuff of strong design. GTA’s implicit recommendation is that the game be designed very carefully and strategically, with such problems well in mind, so as to avoid as many problems as possible.

Beyond that, where characters are concerned, it is probably best to treat the remaining problems by brute force: if there are ten edge cases in this scenario, script responses for all ten. Solving the general AI problem sufficiently is so far off that it’s not even worth thinking about. Even the efforts of avant-garde artists (such as http://www.interactivestory.net/) all demonstrate that the bottleneck is case-handling and writing. In short, the bottleneck for apparently-intelligent behavior is writing for each case.

Conclusion

In direct opposition to the notion implied by the metaphor, sandbox design requires more top-level design, not less. To be frank: the great risk of the sandbox is that it can be boring.

Where the sandbox is the main part of the game, sometimes the game is impossible to “master”: instead you can just juke around with it until it grows tiresome. In this case, there’s no artfully-crafted narrative, so no climax; there’s no reward scheme or gameplay-building (such as technique-training and gradation of difficulty). All told, it is weak on conventional game-design fundamentals. The added freedom makes up for this to an extent, but the problems must still be addressed and overcome by the gameplay design itself.

The space-empire-building game X3 is a solid example of this. There is a main campaign, but it is secondary to the sandbox play. (It wasn’t carefully designed or written, which is unfortunate, but let’s leave that aside.) The game shines as a sandbox involving the handling of complex systems, and the emergent behaviors are interesting, on a systemic scale.

In the end, however, managing the empire becomes something like a full-time job, the goal and reward being that you have a stranglehold on a single-player universe. From one perspective, it’s fun to gradually corner and master a dynamic system, but from another perspective it’s — well, let’s just say that one might be inspired to existential or self-ironical thoughts: “why am I doing this?”

Where there is a narrative alongside the sandbox play, one of the main problems is the pacing of the narrative. Do we allow free play simultaneous with the progression of the story? If not, how and with what justification do we interrupt the story in order to allow periods of free play? And then, how do we avoid the scenario where a lengthy round of free-play strains the pacing of the story?

As always, the particular solution will depend on the situation, on the game’s unique features and format. But to take an example, another space game, Freelancer (2003), handles this exceptionally well. Gameplay is divided into discrete chapters, and as naturally as time passes between events there are periods of free play; the writing very carefully makes natural these breaks in the action.

One way the writer answered the problem of pacing: the non-player characters are always impatient with the player character. So no matter how long the player took, the response is logical. More critically, when the climax comes up, and pacing becomes particularly important, there are no “freelancing” episodes between the missions. This preserves narrative integrity, but the sandbox “free play” quality of the game is bracketed during this sensitive section. It goes to show that story and sandbox are sometimes very much competing principles.

Freelancer is especially worth mentioning because after the story finishes, the game becomes boring very quickly. There are only a few randomly-generated missions, and by the end of the game, the player has probably already played all of them. There may or may not be new places to explore (depending on how extensively the player freelanced during the main campaign), but there’s nothing truly new.

The point here is that there’s something cathartic about seeing the credits roll. Gradually losing interest as the game becomes more and more obviously repetitive — this is an ending with a wimper. But on the other hand, there’s always mods (and if you’re technically inclined, there’s always modding, which can be even more fun). And of course, there’s always multiplayer.

The future is bright. The sandbox lives on in perpetuity. And life is good.(source:gamasutra)