# Motivation LLMS index: [llms.txt](/dvw/en/llms.txt) --- A critical aesthetic is a system of ascribing meaning to individual examples of an art form. When formalized, it amounts to a theory for that art. The “aesthetic” here isn’t in the general sense: It’s not a branch of philosophy concerned with matters such as “beauty” and “taste.” Rather, it’s to do with the rules and principles that underlie an art (in this case, virtual world creation). A virtual world may look beautiful and have a great visual aesthetic, yet suck as a world. The art director controls the look, but the designer controls the world. Designers who want a particular look hire art directors whose work exhibits that look. The look is part of the overall aesthetic. Introducing the notion of criticism allows for rationalization of the communicative aspects of this aesthetic. A legitimate question to ask is whether virtual worlds need such a theory. The number of professional practitioners of virtual world design is low, and they don’t have trouble interpreting each other’s work. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the field has developed more before attempting to nail it down? It probably would, yes. I have three reasons for going ahead and trying to do it anyway: - The virtual world community has a sense of inferiority in comparison to more established art forms. My Sunday newspaper is happy to spend two full pages discussing the merits of avant-garde glassware lamp stands, but what non-geek takes virtual worlds seriously? A critical aesthetic would demonstrate that there is more to virtual worlds than killing virtual monsters and learning written French. - I want to get straight in my own mind how I judge a virtual world. - If I don’t write all this down, someone else is only going to do it anyway. The first of these mirrors the main reason that film theory was developed in the 1970s, but the other two are purely selfish. Fortunately, the first reason is good enough that I can indulge the other two. The pro-art position is actually worse than I’ve made out in that there is some debate within the virtual world development community over whether treating virtual world design as art is counter-productive. In 2001, as major virtual world designers (particularly Raph Koster) made increasing pronouncements that took for granted the artistic nature of what they did, players began to express concern. Jessica Mulligan, the most long-standing and forthright proponent of players’ rights, voiced these opinions in her well-read Skotos column, Biting the Hand [^7]. Her remarks caused a firestorm. Jess’s argument was that players were becoming incidental to virtual world design. They signed up to play a game [^8], but they were being misled; the grandiose ideas of designers were making players unwilling participants in experimental performance art. By treating players as mere objects to be controlled through the brilliance of their creativity, designers were showing staggering arrogance and contempt. This elitist attitude could ultimately be sourced in designers’ belief that they were creating art. It would be better if they were disabused of this belief. Jess did accept that art was involved in the design of virtual worlds, because it’s fundamentally a creative exercise. What she objected to was the view that players were a part of the work. Players want to be entertained; if, while playing, some art form were to entertain them, fine, no problem. When they’re considered a component of the art form, or to be paying in order to experience the art form, that’s not so good. Designers shouldn’t try to impose their vision on players at the expense of what players actually want. Skotos published two responses to this article. The first, by Travis Casey [^9], defended the pro-art point of view by considering whom virtual world designers ought to try to entertain. He concluded that of all the possibilities, the only one that guaranteed anyone at all would find the world entertaining was if designers designed to entertain themselves. Travis sees this as essentially an artistic stand: If you don’t like what’s being produced, you’re not one of the people for whom it was being produced. I’m ambivalent about this; most design teams do design for themselves, but a top-notch designer doesn’t get any enduring pleasure from playing a virtual world, just from creating it. The second response was by Raph Koster, in Jess’s own column at her invitation [^10]. Raph agreed that it was the first duty of a virtual world to be fun [^11], but argued that art subsumes entertainment. Art can do many things, of which “entertain” is but one. Just because you do art, doesn’t mean you can’t do entertainment. Raph further argued that art brings an emphasis on craft, perfectionism, and ethics—things that the virtual world design community desperately needs. At a time when virtual worlds are struggling for legitimacy, attacking articulations of artistic purpose is not helpful. Raph didn’t directly address Jess’s point that the objectifying of players leads to bad art, but from the passion of his argument it’s fairly clear that he doesn’t feel he himself is guilty of it. I personally don’t believe it is necessarily always a bad thing: Different problems can need different paradigms, and sometimes you do need sociology rather than psychology. It becomes inexcusable when it’s used inappropriately. Players are players first, components of an elaborate, orchestrated simulation only occasionally; however, “occasionally” is not “never.” Designers that are the caliber of Raph Koster shouldn’t have to defend what they do. Players should be thinking, “this is a Raph Koster game—I really want to play it!”; they shouldn’t be looking to prick what appears to be (but isn’t) a bubble of pomposity. Their concerns arise because although they have been immersed in virtual worlds, they have not been involved in the design process; the more they were to know about virtual world design, the more they would be able to appreciate the special qualities that individual designers bring to their creations. A critical aesthetic would help qualify what they should look for, if not dictate what they think when they see it. There is a danger in having a critical aesthetic for an art in that it can take the edge off it, making it self-conscious. As a corollary, the more an art form is deconstructed, the less it means as a whole. As I noted in Chapter 2, “How to Make Virtual Worlds,” designers can’t play virtual worlds for fun (at least in the same sense that players do) because they can see too much of the machinery. They may be impressed by the way the virtual world is put together, by the nice touches and subtle nuances they perceive, but they aren’t going to get excited by mounting an expedition to rescue a villager from a bunch of hobgobbledygooks. They don’t get caught up in their world’s fiction. This is not a situation that it would be wise to imbue in players; it’s good if they can appreciate aspects of a design when they reflect on them, but bad if they’re into the aesthetic so deeply that they can’t appreciate the whole point of playing—that is, to have fun. So if self-consciousness, leading to pretentiousness and humorlessness, is the disadvantage of having a critical aesthetic, what are the disadvantages of not having one? Well, designers will make the same mistakes that other designers have made before; they’ll do things without knowing why, advance in directions that are doomed to disappoint—all the failings that I have been ranting on about throughout this book [^12]. Designers like to think of themselves as creative people, who instinctively know what’s right and don’t need any “rules.” Without rules, though, how can you be a rule-breaker? Virtual worlds need a critical aesthetic. Indeed, they may need more than one: I’m considering them as an art form in their entirety, but, as I pointed out, there is plenty of scope for creativity in their component parts. A player who designs their own area to fit into the greater design may work to some more specific aesthetic peculiar to that task. What is right for designers doesn’t have to be right for everyone else. It does, however, have to be right for designers. This book is about the design of virtual worlds, and therefore the critical aesthetic I shall attempt to develop is for virtual worlds as a whole. [^7]: Jessica Mulligan, Just Give Me a Game, Please. Skotos, Biting The Hand, August 2001. http://www.skotos. net/articles/BTH_07.html. [^8]: This debate was in the context of gamelike virtual worlds. [^9]: Travis S. Casey, What’s Entertainment? Skotos, Building Stories, Telling Games, August 2001. http://www.skotos.net/articles/BSTG_15.html. [^10]: Raph Koster, The Case for Art. Skotos, Biting The Hand, September 2001. http://www.skotos.net/articles/BTH_09.shtml. I ought to point out here that Raph has a Master’s degree in Fine Arts and Jess’s background includes a stint as a professional actor, so they both know what they’re talking about. [^11]: Remember, he was talking in the context of gamelike virtual worlds. The first duty of other virtual worlds—educational or conferencing systems, for example—is usually different. [^12]: I’m not the only person to rail against it, either. Howard Collins calls it “The Grandfather Clause of Stupidity” in his excellent manifesto for holistic game design, Mu’s Unbelievably Long and Disjointed Ramblings about RPG Design. 2001. http://mu.ranter.net/theory/printversion.html.