# Dimensions

LLMS index: [llms.txt](/dvw/en/llms.txt)

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External symbolism in virtual worlds can be explicit. You can create a virtual world where everyone is a dolphin trying to save the ocean from the evil oil companies that pollute the water [^19]. This is not the kind of symbolism that I mean here, however. Rather, I’m concerned with the implicit kind, which are manifestations of the different views that designers hold regarding what is important about virtual worlds.

Debate—both verbally and through the action of design—takes place along several dimensions at once. Formally, these are

known as dialectics—opposing viewpoints, the eventual resolution of which leads (hopefully) to the development of new viewpoints and, consequently, new dialectics. Movements may spring up that oppose the consensus or propose new ways of looking at things; sometimes, these extend across several art forms (as did impressionism, for example).

So what are the dialectics for virtual worlds? Let’s look at our antecedents. In film theory, the main historical dialectics [^20] are/were

- Life versus drama. Should film be used to record life or to create fiction?

- Realism versus expressionism. Can more be said by showing the real or the artificial?

- Genre versus auteur. How is the demand for predefined, stylized story forms reconciled with the artistic feelings of film makers?

- Reality versus fantasy. What is the role and power of authenticity?

- Entertainment versus communication. Is it the purpose of film to entertain the audience or to change it?

- Innovation versus derivation. Should audiences be given what we think they want or what they think they want?

Computer games don’t have a formal theory, but two obvious themes that probably qualify as dialectics are

- Hard core versus mass market. Are games for games-players or for everybody?

- Graphics versus gameplay. How much substance should be sacrificed to form?

Scanning through these lists, some dialectics seem more appropriate to virtual worlds than others. Taking them in turn:

- Life versus drama. This is either a non-issue or an all-embracing meta-issue that highlights what makes virtual worlds different from all other art forms. From the point of view of the player, virtual worlds are clearly not real—they’re virtual!—therefore it’s a non-argument. Designers, while in the main also subscribe to this view, bear a responsibility for the consequences of their designs that players don’t. This means they must accept that virtual worlds and their players are part of reality, and that the fiction is part of the fact: What happens in the virtual can affect the real. It’s ridiculous to suggest that virtual worlds should record reality, yet in some sense reality can record the consequences of virtual worlds. That said, although this may be an important point, it’s not a dialectic. Designers are able to apply both paradigms as the context dictates.

- Realism versus expressionism. This is perhaps a dialectic-to-be. Currently, designers regard realism as a tool for immersion, and any attempt to express emotion through artificial devices would break this immersion. It may be that as virtual worlds develop, the bond between realism and immersion can be made more supple, in which case an expressionistic approach could be attempted. We shall have to wait and see.

- Genre versus auteur. This is an emerging dialectic. Most designers are happy to work within a predefined genre, or even a particular licensed franchise. What makes them less happy is when bumbling, opinionated, know-nothing manager types demand changes without appreciating the effects it would have on gameplay, let alone the implications

for the work as a whole [^21]. As designers gain reputations for their work, their power will increase. At that point, this dialectic will become an issue. When they’re strong enough to form their own development companies, it will cease to be one. You will have noted that this chapter comes down firmly on the side of auteur; whatever virtual world development companies may wish, ultimately the designers are going to win this argument.

- Reality versus fantasy. The main question here is that of authenticity. It concerns the degree to which the situations and issues depicted in the art form reflect those of reality. It doesn’t mean the same thing as life versus drama; it doesn’t present a record of reality, but it does say things about reality. For example, a virtual world in which players take on the role of members of a contemporary oppressed people struggling under a dictatorship might have powerful resonance with whatever real-life situation it is based on, giving players a deeper insight into the plight of the individuals who have to suffer that fate from day to day. Although there is a place for such virtual worlds, they are clearly unlikely to have any great artistic effect on the majority; they’re just too bleak to keep players in them for extended periods. Thus, any dialectic that does arise from looking at virtual worlds as social or political commentary is probably going to be of only minor importance.

- Entertainment versus communication. This is an ongoing dialectic in virtual worlds [^22], as the exchanges between Jessica Mulligan and Raph Koster demonstrate. The crux of the matter is that what the players want syntactically (a virtual world that looks good, plays well, and is fun) is not what they want semantically (a virtual world that helps them define who they are). In fact, it’s probably a lot worse than this in that many players will reject outright the suggestion that they could be playing for any reason other than to have fun [^23]. Players and designers alike agree that it is axiomatic that virtual worlds should be entertaining. However, although designers might understand that there is no communication without entertainment, many players and publishers don’t accept that there is no entertainment without communication.

- Innovation versus derivation. The most spectacularly successful virtual worlds have been those significantly different from their predecessors. The same applies to the most spectacularly unsuccessful ones. Those who lack the time, money, or creativity to innovate prefer derivation, but players who prefer the comfort of the old to the uncertainty of the new also drive it. Codebases and middleware solutions can help deliver a virtual world that wouldn’t have existed otherwise, but if it means designers are forced to work within a moribund paradigm, then ultimately it’s a bad thing. This is one debate that is never, ever, going to be resolved.

- Hard core versus mass market. In the early days of online services, 10% of users provided 90% of revenues [^24]. Computer

games manufacturers noticed the same thing: A small number of dedicated, hard-core players bought far more games than did casual gamers. When games-only online services went for the hard core, they almost always failed; when computer games publishers went for the mass market, they almost always failed. Where does this leave virtual worlds? Should they target a well-served existing hard core of players, or spread their net further to tap the possibly ambivalent mass market? As with entertainment versus communication, this is an ongoing dialectic with an end that is not in doubt: Virtual worlds must become more mass-market, because luring players away from other virtual worlds is simply too hard [^25]. However, in so doing they will develop their own hard core of players, which cannot then be ignored.

- Graphics versus gameplay. How much of the available investment in a virtual world should be spent on making it look good as opposed to making it play well? In the computer games industry, graphics rule: Unless a product looks bang up to date, reviewers won’t review it and players won’t buy it. The same applies to virtual worlds that compete in the same marketplace, but with a sting: Regular computer games are fire-and-forget, in that once you (as a developer) have sold them you don’t care how great the long-term gameplay is—you already have the customer’s money. Virtual worlds, however, make their profits from subscriptions, which depend on good long-term gameplay for their success. So, do you go for graphics or gameplay? Or

do you spend double and go for both? The text/ graphics split of virtual worlds makes this apposite, but it’s not really a dialectic as such. Players want both looks and gameplay; the only question is whether the look is on the computer screen or in the player’s mind. Textual worlds may have the stronger intellectual claim on a construction versus reconstruction basis, but graphical ones have the players. So for this dialectic, graphical worlds win; end of argument.

Besides these dimensions of debate, virtual worlds have some of their own. The ones that attract the most tension are

- Direction versus non-direction. Should the designers and/or live team guide player activity explicitly?

- Responsibility versus liability. What do players agree to when they sign up to play a virtual world?

- Story versus history. To what extent are players part of the work or part of the production?

- Individual versus community. Is this a world for individuals or for groups of individuals?

Again, taking these one at a time:

- Direction versus non-direction. There is always some directedness in virtual worlds—even the most open-ended of them—because designers cannot create them neutrally even if they want to. Reality is neutral; anything else is mere interpretation. The degree of direction is in question, however. Players often find their choice of character type restricted, or their goals, or even their narrative. How much should designers hold players’ hands and how much should players be left to roam free [^26]?

- Responsibility versus liability. This is this issue of players’ perceived rights to do stuff, opposed by their rights not to have stuff done to them. It’s the dialectic that underlies PvP and PD. What risks to their characters and to themselves do players accept when they join a virtual world, and what happens when those risks bite? Are such risks necessary? Or are the consequences of not having them ultimately worse?

- Story versus history. Although this is sometimes linked with direction versus non-direction, the two are different. The question is whether virtual worlds are works of art that are handed over to players to do with as they will, or whether the players are themselves part of the work. Does the designer ever let go? Or is the virtual world designed so that whatever players do conforms to some greater vision?

- Individual versus community. What’s good for the individual is not necessarily good for the community, and vice versa. For example, selling characters on eBay may be good for the two people involved, but it can hurt the virtual world as a whole. Similarly, players who band together can rip through content quicker than can the same number of individuals playing independently. At the moment, this is a fairly dormant argument, but its issues have not yet been resolved and it could reawaken any time (especially if real-life court cases make enough noise).

So, having looked at all of these various dimensions along which opinion is (or may become) divided, which are the most important? Any answer can only be subjective, but my own opinion is that these are currently the top five:

- Genre versus auteur

- Entertainment versus communication

- Direction versus non-direction

- Responsibility versus liability

- Hard core versus mass market

This book advances an opinion on every one of these; you might want to bear that in mind when reading the rest of this chapter, because it is in the context of these dialectics that the discussion takes place.

I should also point out that even if people do agree on a position, their interpretation of it can differ radically. Asheron’s Call 2, for example, aims for the mainstream (good), but does so by imposing a cosseted blandness on everything. People don’t like it when their arrows run out during combat? Here, have an infinite supply! Is running to the shop to sell your loot too onerous? You can convert it to cash in your backpack! Turbine may believe that dumbing down is the way to make its world more appealing to a mass market, but it’s not apparent why it should be. Why do people play virtual worlds? No, really, why? What’s the fundamental reason? Clue: It’s not “to have fun,” and even if it were, removing any challenge by wrapping characters in virtual cotton wool wouldn’t deliver it.

Virtual world designers can have contrasting views on what virtual worlds are about, and contrasting views on how best to address those issues. They express their opinions in designs; the differences in philosophy lead to differences in design. By reading the differences in design, the differences in philosophy can be divined. If, when you look at a virtual world, you can associate a feature to a particular dialectic, you have the crucial insight you need to have a critical aesthetic. If not, you need to think about it until you do.

I could at this point produce a list of things to look out for (symbols) and link them to particular viewpoints (dialectics), thereby creating a system for interpreting what virtual world designers are saying with their worlds. Tempting though this is, I shall nevertheless refrain. This is a book for the designers of virtual worlds, not for their players. If designers were to create

virtual worlds deliberately to convey a particular message, it would make sense to explain the symbols through which this communication takes place. However, designers don’t do this. The message arises from their internal artistic conflicts along the various dialectic dimensions, and is merely revealed through their designs. Designers don’t think what to say and then figure a way to say it; they say it, and leave it to others to figure out what it means.

This isn’t to say that such an analysis isn’t worth undertaking; it would be a powerful aid to people looking at virtual worlds seriously for the first time and struggling to understand the competing philosophies. It’s just that this book is not the place to embark on such an exercise.


[^19]: Of course, those same oil companies provide electricity companies with the fuel they need to generate the power used to run the computers that implement the virtual world itself, but politics doesn’t have to be consistent.
[^20]: These are taken from James Monaco, How to Read a Film: Movies, Media, Multimedia (3rd edition). New York, Oxford University Press, 2000.
[^21]: Hopefully, those manager types reading this book hoping to gain an insight into virtual world design will, by now, have realized that the best thing to do is leave the design to the designer. If the designer steps outside the agreed remit, fair enough, jump on them. If their work looks iffy and they are unable satisfactorily to articulate why, again, haul them over the coals. If you have an idea that might help, tell them, it can’t hurt. If you order them to make a change, though, that’s a mistake. They’re the designer, not you.
[^22]: This is true even when the virtual world is not intended to be used primarily for entertainment.
[^23]: I’ve presented in this book my arguments to the contrary, but people are entitled to believe whatever they like.
[^24]: Or 20% of users provided 80% of revenues. The true figure is probably somewhere in between.
[^25]: Bruce Woodcock’s analysis of virtual world subscription base growth shows that DAoC may have got up to 75% of its players from UO and EQ. but Nick Yee’s Daedalus Project suggests that these are loyalty-free, floating players who will switch to a newer virtual world from whatever one they are currently playing. In other words, you may be able to get them, but will you be able to keep them? http://pw1.netcom.com/~sirbruce/Subscriptions.html, http://www.nickyee.com/daedalus/archives/000195.php.
[^26]: This can be related to other factors, too. For example, hard-core players may want their hand held less than do mass-market players.