Video Game “Immersion”: in which we Contemplate a return to Enjoyment

I am in the midst of reading a recent article in the inaugural issue of the Journal of Games Criticism by Brendan Keogh entitled “Across World and Bodies: Criticism in the Age of Video Games.” This article has made quite stir, apparently, making the rounds (assuming one pays attention to the right circles—Dan Golding, Daniel Joseph, Ian Bogost, Zoya Street, Felan Parker; I imagine there are others too, but hat tip to Dan Golding for this particular list).

One of the things Keogh says in his introduction reminded me of another recent read completely unrelated to game studies. (Although, as a good votary of the liberal arts, I should never say “completely unrelated,” as we shall see.) In an earlier post, I reflected, as I am wont to do, on C. S. Lewis’s essay “Meditation in a Tool Shed,” which was, in turn, much influence by philosopher Samuel Alexander‘s Space, Time, and Deity.

This excerpt is what got me thinking:

The first of these sections observes how the concept of ‘immersion’ obscures critical analysis of video games [sic et cetera] as cultural forms that actually exist, as it leads to the same separation of form and content that Susan Sontag (1964) so completely dismantled half a century ago. The videogame critic, I argue, must avoid immersion to understand how videogame play functions across worlds. . . In my conclusion, I argue why a shift towards close, critical analyses of specific videogames is inevitable and, indeed, is already emerging as a younger generation of theorists with a more everyday relationship to videogames begins presenting and publishing research. These scholars have grown up in a time where playing a videogame is as mundane as watching a film or listening to pop music; they do not require all-encompassing formal methods to understand what videogames are, but critical toolkits to deploy and alter as they build a stronger understanding of videogames as a cultural form.

—Brendan Keogh entitled “Across World and Bodies: Criticism in the Age of Video Games,” Journal of Games Criticism, v. 1, no. 1, 2014

(emphasis added)

Compare that to Lewis:

I was standing today in the dark toolshed. The sun was shining outside and through the crack at the top of the door there came a sunbeam. From where I stood that beam of light, with the specks of dust floating in it, was the most striking thing in the place. Everything else was almost pitch-black. I was seeing the beam, not seeing things by it.

Then I moved, so that the beam fell on my eyes. Instantly the whole previous picture vanished. I saw no toolshed, and (above all) no beam. Instead I saw, framed in the irregular cranny at the top of the door, green leaves moving on the branches of a tree outside and beyond that, ninety-odd million miles away, the sun. Looking along the beam, and looking at the beam are very different experiences.

— C. S. Lewis, ”Meditation in a Toolshed,” from Essay Collection, p. 607

(emphasis added)

Looking along the beam versus looking at the beam. Samuel Alexander referred to theses as Enjoyment and Contemplation, respectively. In some ways, Keogh’s words reminded me of Lewis and Alexander. It seems to me the very nature of formal criticism must be Contemplative, i.e., looking at the beam, studying object of interest from without in order to gain an appreciation for its composition (structure, artistry, fill-in-the-blank). Conversely, Enjoyment, i.e., looking along the beam, would correspond to Keogh’s use of the term immersion, a slippery word commonly used in the gaming community. This strikes me as the same idea, albeit in significant different language. Lewis, as literature professor, took a much more literary tack. Thus, can one say…?

Alexander / Lewis / Keogh
Contemplation = at beam = criticism
Enjoyment = along beam = immersion

I got the impression from Lewis that he did not advocate one of these perspectives at the expense of the other, but preferred to let them inform one another. I suspect that may be at the root of what Keogh says as well when he mentions young scholars who have grown up with video games as a norm. Despite the fuzziness of what age-range constitutes a young scholar, I suspect that those who think of video games as a normal part of their childhood (of which I would consider myself a member), and continue to participate in that culture have an easy enough time looking along the light beam and have, perhaps more recently begun to look at that beam they have long enjoyed. Perhaps they will indeed find it easier to shift between those two experiential paradigms, allowing for a balanced understanding of reciprocal perception. That is not to say, of course, that “older” scholars cannot find such a balance, but I suspect they will have to be willing to lay aside the clinical sterility of Contemplation in order to let themselves Enjoy games, which will, in turn, deepen their critical engagement.

All this from the introduction to an article I have not yet finished. Maybe I should have thought that through before posting this; it may be far off from what the author’s intended destination. Still, there it is.

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There’s Always a Lighthouse: in which we reflect on the study of video game music

This past weekend, I attended (and presented a paper at) the inaugural North American Conference on Video Game Music in Youngstown, Ohio. It gave me an outlet for writing about some of the music in BioShock: Infinite, which, as my three long-time readers know, has been on my mind since I played the game nearly a year ago. At last, I have been energized to get off my duff and write (and maybe collaborate?) with others who are interested in this topic. Some of my initial thoughts about the game can be found in the posts “Levine Shall Sit the Throne and Drown in Reflection the Musings of Man” (on story) and “Would You Kindly?” (on religion, faith, and theology).

I was quite pleased by three aspects of the conference:

1) to learn of the depth of other scholars’ (and emerging scholars’) interest and work in video game music. I feel rather new to an already new subfield of study, so I have a lot of resources and reading available to me now.

2) at the collegiality and warmth among the small gathering. This is often more common, in my experience, at smaller academic conferences—rarely at the larger ones—but I found this particular group to be even more so than other smaller conferences. I don’t know if that’s due to the generally younger average age, perhaps implying that the dog-eat-dog mentality that some of academia’s “old guard” instill in their students hasn’t yet tainted their experience. Perhaps it was the relative youth of ludomusicology as a sub-discipline  that gave a sense of banding together for protection against the derision of that same “old guard” who deride it as an illegitimate area of study. (Of course, a quick history lesson in our own discipline would reveal that jazz, film music, and popular music on the whole have all come—or are coming—to be acceptable focus areas of musical study.)

Screen Shot 2014-01-21 at 11.20.26 AM3) at the staggering amount of press coverage. This never, never happens when academic conferences take place. A list of the media outlets can be found here, including a disappointingly lackluster article in Wired, complete with errata that could have easily been fixed with a Google search (Read: diegesis). This article was, I thought, more well written—perhaps it helps that the author was actually present at the conference.

It is exciting to be present at the beginning of something that promises to yield great intellectual dividends as time goes on. Well, near the beginning anyway; I’m not as experienced at writing about these topics as some who were present, but I hope to learn from their example as this burgeoning interest develops.

So, as soon as I can, I will be recording my presentation and posting it to my website (and, perhaps, here) in the interest of open scholarship. Stay tuned.

Same but Sundered: on Mercury, meaning, and metaphor

I’m still reading Planet Narnia, and enjoying every page. Ward begins his chapter on Mercury with these words from C. S. Lewis‘s poem “The Planets”:

Meeting selves, same but sundered.

—Lewis, “The Planets,” lines 17–18

It should come as no surprise that quicksilver (Mercury) is the metal associated with the Roman deity. Mercury is curious in that it can be drawn apart and then rejoined without a trace of that former division. We see this symbolism in the Mercury-associated myth of Castor and Pollux, identical twins who are “same but sundered.”

But what Michael Ward points out that has captured me is the association of Mercury with masterful use of language. Lewis himself noted that Martianus Capella (a name familiar to scholars of the history of music theory) depicts Mercury as the groom of Philologia in De Nuptiis. Philologia, in its original sense broadly meant “love of learning.” But we can’t help but associate it with the more specific derivative, philology, the study of language through the lens of history.

One of the things Lewis does with allusions to Mercury is use him as a metaphor for metaphor—and I doubt you can get much more “meta” than metaphor-izing metaphor. Ward draws on Lewis’s words from The Personal Heresy. Here Lewis is examining a passage from Keat’s poem “Hyperion“:

Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars…

John Keats, “Hyperion”

Lewis remarks:

We have all seen the trees with branches stretched up in intense stillness towards the stars. We have imagined or been told of people compelled by magical charms to stand as still as trees. Lay the two side by side and add the word ‘earnest’—which is exactly the point where the sensible image [trees, branches] and the idea of insensible ‘magic’ merge beyond hope of distinction—and the whole, like meeting drops of quicksilver, becomes a single perception.

—Lewis, The Personal Heresy, pp. 20–21, emphasis mine

What Ward points out I find to be so satisfying—that even as Lewis alludes to Mercury via quicksilver, the very form of the sentence reflects (a serendipitously apt word when considering quicksilver) the content of the sentence—”Meeting selves, same but sundered.”

Ward remarks on Lewis’s remark (see how deep the rabbit hole goes?)

This is a deliberately fugal [another word familiar to music theoreticians] sentence, in which the idea of two things becoming one is formally conveyed three times:

1. ‘side…side…add’

2. ‘sensible…insensible…merge’

3. phrastically [sic] in the culmination of (1) and (2) in ‘the whole…like meeting drops…becomes’

Thus, the form and the content of the expression are of the same nature, but of sundered manifestation.

In music, this Mercurial influence might take the form of text painting, in which the words being sung are mirrored in some way by the musical structures that ensconce those words. Or perhaps what Richard Cohn calls “introverted motives” (i.e., musical motives that operate on both a microscopic “surface” level as well as macroscopic “subsurface” level of the music) in his essay “‘This Music Crept by Me upon the Waters’: Introverted Motives in Beethoven’s ‘Tempest’ Sonata” (Engaging Music: Essays in Music Analysis, ed. Deborah Stein, 2005, pp. 226–235). Introverted motives are indeed same but sundered, for they help to unite the piece but operate on different depths of the musical architecture.* It may also be significant that Cohn’s essay analyzes the “Tempest” Sonata, named after Shakespear’s eponymous play. Shakespeare was no stranger to planetary allusions in his works.

This is where metaphor comes in, because Lewis reveled in Spenser and Milton and Dante, writers whose rhetorical mastery of symbols and multiple meanings Lewis seems to have thought unmatched. Lewis saw a threat in reductionists’ attempts to remove what they saw as the superfluous language of metaphor by replacing all those allusions with a single word that could denote the same idea. To borrow, as Ward does, from Owen Barfield, even in trying “to cut away and expose all metaphorical usage,” one does not “escape the curse of Babel.” (The Rediscovery of Meaning and Other Essays, Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1997, p. 64). Ward sums it so well, I will end with a quote from him rather than make the attempt myself:

Metaphor rests on the ‘psycho-physical parallelism…’ that characterises the universe, and therefore to deny or to restrict metaphor (the ‘carrying over’ of meaning
from physical units to metaphysical entities) is a mental move similar to a denial of the relationship between material creation and immaterial Creator. To say ‘There is no such thing as Man, there are only men’ [A line uttered by an antagonist in Lewis’s That Hideous Strength] is to resist the imagination’s power of seeing beyond sensory data; it is to stultify that faculty which operates also in the realm of faith.

_____

*Fractals and the Mandelbrot set also come to mind as structures that could be thought of as Mercurial.

Contemplating My Enjoyment of Contemplation: in which C. S. Lewis blows my mind!

But there is one act, of which every man should be master, the art of reflection. If you are not a thinking man, to what purpose are you a man at all?

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Author’s Preface to Aids to Reflection

I’ve begun reading Michael Ward’s Planet Narnia, and so far I love it. This book seeks to explain the seemingly confused amalgam of elements (both intra- and trans-book) in the “Narniad” (a term I learned from Ward) through the lens of medieval/Renaissance cosmology. The very premise makes sense to me, given C. S. Lewis’s area of expertise.

I don’t usually blog about everything I’m reading, but reading this book gave me an
epiphanic moment today. You see, my mind is like a flock of vultures (not a particularly pleasant simile . . . also, do vultures come in flocks? Onward!); it ravenously circles ideas for a long time, waiting for them to group together for safety—then it consumes them all together. If you are still reading, then I can only assume that that crude metaphor worked better than I thought it would, or else you have nothing better to read. If the former: YAY! Read on! If the latter: Have I told you about this book I’m reading called Planet Narnia?

[N.B. I know I planned to write about music in Bioshock Infinite, and I still expect that to happen. I submitted a paper proposal on this very subject to the North American Conference on Video Game Music, so we’ll see if it is accepted. The problem is not in finding something to say about it, but in how to narrow down what could be said. Still waiting for the vultures to strike on this one, but you can read my thoughts on the game’s use of theology and story and on the original Bioshock.]

Pressing forward. In Planet Narnia, Ward points out a Lewis’s affinity for what he called the “Kappa element.” The kappa comes from the character that begins the Greek word kruptos, meaning “hidden,” from which we get the word “cryptic.” It would not suffice to summarize Ward’s treatment of the idea as it pertains to the hidden unity underlying the Narniad. As interesting as it is, I was particularly captivated by a mere digression Ward makes—Lewis’s drawn dichotomy between Enjoyment and Contemplation. You can guess that capitalizing these terms, they are not merely used in the colloquial, humdrum meanings, but are rather nuanced.

The antithesis Lewis embraced was drawn from philosopher Samuel Alexander‘s Space, Time, and Deity. In his “Meditation in a Toolshed,” from Essay CollectionLiterature, Philosophy and Short Stories, with which I am not familiar, Lewis describes the difference between Contemplation and Enjoyment, as with so many abstract ideas, with an analogy:

I was standing today in the dark toolshed. The sun was shining outside and through the crack at the top of the door there came a sunbeam. From where I stood that beam of light, with the specks of dust floating in it, was the most striking thing in the place. Everything else was almost pitch-black. I was seeing the beam, not seeing things by it.

Then I moved, so that the beam fell on my eyes. Instantly the whole previous picture vanished. I saw no toolshed, and (above all) no beam. Instead I saw, framed in the irregular cranny at the top of the door, green leaves moving on the branches of a tree outside and beyond that, ninety-odd million miles away, the sun. Looking along the beam, and looking at the beam are very different experiences.

— C. S. Lewis, “Meditation in a Toolshed,” from Essay Collection, p. 607

C. S. Lewis

Lewis experienced the beam two ways. The first was what Alexander would have called Contemplation—the more abstract, objective, external kind of experience. One might substitute “clinical” or “uninvested” or, perhaps, “meta.” Then Lewis experienced what Alexander termed Enjoyment by “looking along the beam.” This was a more participatory, subjective, internal experience. When he observed the beam from without, he could not perceive the experience from within and vice-versa.

As I often do, I’m applying this revelation to the experience of music. I have, on more than one occasion, encountered musicians (usually performers, some of whom were my doctoral-level colleagues in graduate school) who refuse to see the value of music theory because they perceived it to wipe away the magic of their experience of the music. I’ve never really understood this until today, perhaps. Could it be that they had only ever “looked along the beam”? It’s true that, as a student, I had to shift into an analytical mode to successfully navigate my theory classes. But my undergrad professors modeled an almost effortless shifting back and forth between an Enjoyable and a Contemplative perspective, as easily as Lewis stepped into the path of that beam of light, such I was utterly surprised that other musicians might not share that understanding. I take no credit for that understanding. Were it not for reachers who understood it and silently enacted that understanding before me, I expect my perspective would be quite different.

On the other hand, I’ve observed musicians (usually academics) who can only observe and dissect and postulate about the sunbeam. These musicians Contemplate the music, but do not enter into it in any personal way. There is no passion, no vibrancy, no first cause to justify the Contemplation. Or perhaps there is, but they do not Enjoy their teaching; they merely Contemplate it. Even though there are multiple reasons we could point out that contribute, it is no wonder so many performance-focused musicians have an aversion to music theory. They’ve not been shown that the best musicians can and must both Contemplate and Enjoy music. As Lewis’s anecdote implies, one cannot experience both perspectives simultaneously, but one can move back and forth between them. (This mutual exclusivity reminds me of Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, which states that one can know the location of an electron or it’s momentum, but not both at the same time.)

As a side note, Lewis’s description actually reminds me a lot of John Granger’s discussion of J. K. Rowling‘s numerous instances of objects that are “bigger on the inside.” Lewis himself runs this theme through the Narniad, such as the wardrobe’s “containing” Narnia and the ramshackle stable in The Last Battle “containing” Aslan’s Country. Enjoying the sunbeam revealed trees and ninety-odd million miles to the sun, all “contained” within that beam.

Enjoyment is a mysterious, mystical, and wonder-filled experience. And I was Enjoying my experience of (what I must now call) Contemplation. Just basking in my experience of is. But Lewis’s words force me to Contemplate Contemplation, to step outside my perspective and reflect upon the perspective itself. It’s really meta, I know.

Grammatica, Dialectica, Rhetorica: in which the three roads meet in music theory pedagogy

[The following are some thoughts I’ve been mulling over ever since my earlier post on the liberal arts.

UPDATE: The revised version of this essay has now been published in Engaging Students: Essays in Music Pedagogy. You can read it here.]

A great deal of the national conversation on education has centered on the avant-garde and the use of technology in the classroom. While many of these ideas have merit, I find myself increasingly intrigued by the notion of combining new ideas with old ones—very old ones. I am referring to the trivium, that relic of medieval university curriculum to which we don’t give much traction any more, even in liberal arts institutions. And on the face of it, why would we? Grammar, logic, rhetoric: these are great for giving a speech, but most of us don’t do that. Music belongs to the quadrivium, after all. But every field of study has its grammar, logic, and rhetoric, if we think of these words in more general terms.

Grammatica

  • grammar |ˈgramər| noun
  • the whole system and structure of a language or of languages in general, usually taken as consisting of syntax and morphology
  • ORIGIN late Middle English: from Old French gramaire, via Latin from Greek grammatikē (tekhnē) ‘(art) of letters,’ from gramma, grammat- ‘letter of the alphabet, thing written.’ *

What do students normally think of as music theory? Probably what we in the discipline would only consider the “nuts and bolts.” Constructs like scales, intervals, and time signatures are these nuts and bolts, a kind of musical grammar. But so often my students have thought music theory is the identification of such things, that in labeling the Roman numerals or identifying the tone row they are “doing theory.” For a long time as an undergraduate, I thought that analysis was being able to account for every note in the score and classify it. I fear most students make that mistake, believing that information alone will get them through the gauntlet of the undergraduate music theory curriculum. And perhaps I am to blame for failing to dissuade them of that delusion. If the assignments I hand out and the exams I proctor are entirely focused on getting students to identify, define, and label musical data, then I can hardly blame them for thinking that’s all there is. Medieval scholars knew, as do we, that one may understand what a nail and hammer are, but knowing neither builds the house, nor makes it a particularly solid house. This brings us to dialectic.

 

Dialectica

  • dialectic |ˌdīəˈlektik| noun
  • the art of investigating or discussing the truth of opinions.
  • ORIGIN late Middle English: from Old French dialectique or Latin dialectica, from Greek dialektikē (tekhnē) ‘(art) of debate,’ from dialegesthai ‘converse with.’ *

Once we know what the materials are and what they do, how are they put together to form something we recognize as a house? What underlying logic makes sense of an assemblage of wood and nails? The second member of the trivium, dialectic (logic), helps us arrange information (the nuts and bolts) into meaningful patterns, so dialectic here does not mean merely syllogizing to win an argument. It is particularly relevant to music theory, which as a study is predicated on the belief that there is an internal logic to the way music unfolds. When a new way of unfolding (in the colloquial sense, not the Schenkerian) is invented, music theorists work to unlock that logic. The cadential second inversion triad is so called because it logically flows to the dominant just before a cadence. Some students get this; they are the ones who can transfer a concept learned in one example and apply it to a new one.

It is music’s logic that underlies all of Peter Schickele’s musical humor. Imagine listening to P.D.Q. Bach’s Short-Tempered Clavier as a student versed only in the music’s grammar. Although we could identify the blues scale used in the D major prelude, we would miss the joke of such a phenomenon occurring in a piece supposedly written in the early eighteenth century. A student might pick up on the fact that something sounded amiss, but may not know why.

I, as a teacher, have a responsibility to draw students’ attention to the underlying dialectic. For this reason, I frequently differentiate between the way a particular musical phenomenon might appear “in the wild” as opposed to “in the zoo.” I want my students to understand that under the controlled laboratory conditions of the classroom, we tend to see clear, obvious examples. I want to balance that out by giving them “field experience,” where they may have to sort out a number of factors that muddy the waters. At this stage, they should know how to wield a hammer and how to put a house together (i.e., put up the walls before the roof).

 

Rhetorica

  • rhetoric |ˈretərik| noun
  • the art of effective or persuasive speaking or writing, esp. the use of figures of speech and other compositional techniques.
  • ORIGIN Middle English: from Old French rethorique, via Latin from Greek rhētorikē (tekhnē) ‘(art) of rhetoric,’ from rhētōr ‘rhetor.’ *

Is the house well designed? Can we look at its structure and appreciate the architect’s gift for form and function, light and darkness, line and space? Can we design and build our own house? Rhetoric is the skillful employment of grammar and dialectic. In music theory it equips students to evaluate and draw out some significance to their analysis. Ultimately, it isn’t the labels that make me a musician; nor is it understanding the logic of musical mechanics. The rhetoric of music involves not only its technical correctness but also its artfulness.

Compare a student’s attempt at writing a fugue to one of Bach’s, and one can immediately see that even if the technical specifications are correct, the student’s composition will lack the rhetorical elegance of Bach’s. This is why composition projects can fill such a vital role in a student’s music theory education. Such projects push students beyond simply identifying musical events and toward creating technically, musically satisfying solutions. We start with part-writing exercises, which tend to lean more toward dialectic than rhetoric. But then students can try harmonizing a preexisting melody, then writing their own melodies and harmonizing them. Over the span of multiple classes, students are led into rhetorical thinking.

Writing analytical prose can accomplish similar rhetorical goals, provided we encourage students to avoid the onerous “play-by-play.” We do students a disservice if we wait until their final year or two before asking them to write analytical prose of any substantial length. Early attempts need not be long; even in the first year of study, a paragraph or two may be a good place to start.

The Place Where Three Roads Meet

  • trivium |ˈtrivēəm| noun
  • an introductory curriculum at a medieval university involving the study of grammar, logic, and rhetoric.
  • ORIGIN early 19th cent.: from Latin, literally ‘place where three roads meet,’ from tri- ‘three’ + via ‘road.’ *

I have already implied that these three echelons of pedagogy are somewhat artificial because they can exist simultaneously. Indeed, I think the ideal curriculum would entail each class progressing from grammar to dialectic to rhetoric. On a larger scale the school term would begin with heavy emphasis on grammar, gradually lean more on dialectic as the term continued, and finally end with greater practice in rhetoric—rather like a compound form. The music major curriculum should be an overall progression from grammar to dialectic to rhetoric. I think this is the assumed direction of many music departments, but I am unaware of many that intentionally communicate this to students.

One may note the rough similarity between this schema and that of Bloom’s Taxonomy. Bloom essentially subdivides each part of the trivium into two subcategories (grammar = knowledge and comprehension; dialectic = application and analysis; rhetoric = synthesis and creation). But the goal is the same—progression from fundamental knowledge to understanding how it is assembled and eventually to value judgements and creation of new ideas—from engagement with music that is shallow to deep. I don’t want my students to splash in the kiddie pool and think it’s the ocean.

The philosophy of the trivium blends well with that of the inverted classroom. The lecture, often freighted with music’s grammar, leaves little time for in-depth analysis or evaluation. The traditional lecture, like textbook reading, is essentially an info dump that, when moved outside of class, frees the class period for higher levels of cognition and musicality. For my part, I want students to graduate beyond the sterility of pedagogical examples to the organic, sometimes gritty, mysteries of real music as soon and as much as possible. What better way than to disseminate the basic information in pre-recorded lectures and model for them how music theory can enhance their listening experiences, performance decisions, compositions, and appreciation for those of others.

*New Oxford American Dictionary 3rd edition © 2010 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

This work is copyright 2013 Enoch Jacobus and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.