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We missed Mizuguchi. Dammit. Of all the speakers to miss, Tetsuya Mizuguchi -- the man I perhaps most respect in today's design community! I was crestfallen. I was also without my ID badge, or my business cards. Or a working card reader. A half-dozen other things just weren't working either. It was a lousy day, in lousy weather. As I referenced the schedule, the former seemed unlikely to improve. The only other lecture I was anticipating was that of Toru Iwatani, the creator of Pac-Man. As I wound my way back to the conference hall where Aonuma had preached his sermon the afternoon before, I wondered just how much he had to say. When was the last game Iwatani really made? How much of his success was based on luck? Was I about to listen to an old out-of-touch grump? When could I go home?
The radios were on the seats, this time. Most of the radios remained in place. On the screen to the right, An isometric illustration of Pac-Man greeted newcomers. A scruffy middle-aged man fumbled behind the podium. Brandon and I chose seats close and to the right of center. When most of the seats were filled, the man behind the podium turned on his microphone; it was Iwatani. He introduced himself, and his topic, in an English which might have carried him through the lecture, were he able to keep it up.
He wasn't. To fill in the language gap, Iwatani was given a tag-team of feuding translators. Every few minutes, one woman would trade off for the other. It was a little bizarre to listen to, as it was clear that neither translation was as accurate or well-phrased as it could have been. One of the women tried at least three times, and ultimately failed, to pronounce "Galaxian". Neither seemed to notice Iwatani's well-organized slides, which almost narrated his lecture on their own. According to Brandon, who chose to listen to the Japanese channel on his radio, there was a point when one of the translators shouted at the other to "shut up".
Brandon's Note: Indeed, the translation was beyond sub-par. I switched back and forth between both channels - one of the translators was so difficult to understand that I preferred the japanese. They had a small debate on the air over how to say 'galaxian'. He was a great, clear speaker in japanese. This did not come across in the translation, most of the time.
Iwatani apologized in advance, in the event that he bored us; he knew we were here to hear about Pac-Man. First, however, he felt a need to build up the context whence the game originated. To do this, Iwatani made a rapid journey through the history of videogames, from the pre-Space War oscilloscope tennis project to the early '80s; he touched on all of the major design hilights, from Breakout to Space Invaders. Iwatani confided that he had always loved pinball; that the main reason he joined Namco was to produce pinball games. Iwatani then described how crestfallen he was when he realized that Namco did not produce pinball machines. To get around this, Iwatani's first game design was a dual-leveled variation on Breakout, organized to play like a rough version of pinball.
Iwatani made two more unsuccesful games, before he noticed the nature of videogames, and the audience they attracted. Iwatani observed that nearly all videogame players in the early '80s were socially-inept males. Where were the women, he wondered -- and why were videogames considered so culturally unacceptable? He decided that it might be because so many games -- and here is where his Galaxian example comes in -- revolve around shooting. While the games might be enjoyable, there is this constant theme of destruction; of killing. What, Iwatani wondered, would a game for women involve? What drives women on?
His answer: fashion, and eating.
As a result, he built a game where the goal is to eat all of the cookies ("dots", to us Westerners) in sight. If any other food happens to pop on screen -- such as a piece of fruit -- all the better. Eat that, too. All the time, the player is chased, and hemmed in, by a trio of colorful monsters (and one confused free-roamer), each with its own unique strategy.
Further: "The monsters do not die," Iwatani stressed for the first of many times. You may eat them (once you have consumed a "power cookie"), yet when you do so their spirits just run away home to their nest, to be reborn.
The last key element lies in the walls of the maze. Iwatani was conscious of the solid lines of so many other games; he was unfond of how hard and uncompromising they seemed. To de-emphasize their presence, and to make the player feel less trapped, the walls in Pac-Man are left open; they are more empty space than guideline.
When Iwatani showed the game to his boss, his boss ordered that Iwatani change all of the monsters to red. His boss insisted that the game was too confusing; that the player would be unable to understand what is or is not an opponent, as things were. Iwatani was frustrated, as this change would foil one of the main objectives of the game: to be colorful, for the benefit of a female audience. Besides, it was clearly an inane order. As an experiment, Iwatani passed out a questionaire to every Namco employee he could find; he asked them which they preferred: all-red monsters, or monsters in a variety of colors. The response was unanimous in favor of his original plan. His boss stared at the data for a while, then reluctantly withdrew the order.
On a similar note, Iwatani's programmer, Mr. Funaki, refused to code anything outside of the main game. There was no need for story segments between levels; they had nothing to do with gameplay, so clearly they added nothing. Iwatani recognized, however, the importance of character in this game. The more empathy the player felt, the better. These were not just game pieces; each had its own personality, bourne of its in-game behavior, its appearance, and the nature of interaction amongst the game elements. Iwatani did convince the programmer of the importance of these sequences (some of the first cutscenes in videogaming), yet it took some effort to do so.
In Iwatani's overview of the history of console hardware, he progressed step-by-step from the Magnavox Odyssey to the NES (which Iwatani pronounced as a single syllable) -- and then, oddly, he skipped right to the Playstation. Iwatani paused for a moment, to gauge the audience's reaction, then commented: "I guess that's quite a leap, isn't it." He observed that as game hardware has become more complex, so have graphics and so has gameplay. To Iwatani, this seems a temptation to be wary of. One of the reasons that Nolan Bushnell's first arcade game, prior to Pong, was a flop, was that it had so many buttons and functions that no normal person could figure out how to play it. That temptation is always present, in game design: to add in new features. The problem is, the more features you add, the more in danger you put the game in of losing focus as a design.
"You must consider fun first. Humans don't like difficult things," Iwatani stressed. You must observe your audience. What do they find fun or interesting? Keep in mind their base of technical knowledge. For the game to have variety, and to facilitate strategy (thereby giving the player a real sense of control over her fate), there must be more than one gameplay element -- such as the state that Pac-Man enters when he eats a super cookie. And yet, each element must have a clear purpose; the goal must remain evident. Along the same lines, when the player does not succeed, the reason must be apparent. When the player fails, and does not understand why, she begins to lose interest in the game.
Iwatani then began to illustrate his idea of the hiearchy of design states:
Observation > Analysis > Consideration > Hypothesis > Creation > Action > Evaluation
Every original design starts with an observation. Then you spend time analyzing what you have seen. "For example," Iwatani said, "why does everyone carry around cell phones these days?" After you weigh the issue for a while, you form a hypothesis. This hypothesis is the basis of your design; whatever you create, it should always be the result of some hypothesis based on your own observations.
Until this point, your idea should be your own. Once you pass from hypothesis to creation, however, you will do well to bring in the input of others, to help you in fleshing out your idea. If others do not understand your vision, then you must do what you must to make them understand. After your project is complete, it needs to be evaluated. What did it do right? What could have been done better? Did your idea get through to the players in the way you intended?
After fiddling with a VCR for a moment, Iwatani asked the audience to observe carefully, and to tell him what we saw. He was about to show us something that had recently put him in awe, and he was curious if we could spot what had so impressed him. He pressed play. A scene of the inside of an office cubicle appeared on the screen. "Whoops," Iwatani exclaimed after a moment. "That isn't so interesting. Wait a moment." He fast-forwarded, until an escalator was framed in the center of the display. Businessmen and women would approach the escalator from either side, and either ride or walk up and down. The metal and glass of the machine shone in the flourescent and dim natural light of a spacious lobby. I noticed that the glass-and-rubber ridge of the bannister did not disresemble the walls of Pac-Man's maze.
A few people gravitated to the microphone in the center of the room. One person suggested that the escalator just enhanced a natural activity, with no perceptible downside. You could use it however you liked. If you wanted to stand still, you could do that. If you wanted to move more quickly by walking, you were allowed to do so. Someone else put forth that the escalator was instantly comprehensible. You see it, you understand it. There is no room for confusion. Iwatani liked this observation. A last speaker noticed that an escalator was a complete system; it has a starting point and and ending point. You get on with a specific goal in sight.
What struck Iwatani, though, is that an escalator is a perfect system. If it breaks, it is still usable; it just becomes a normal set of stairs. How many devices can you say this about? If an elevator breaks, you cannot use it. You might even become trapped, or it might fall. Although Iwatani did not make the stretch, I have often had similar reservations about videogames themselves. There are no failsafes. Videogames take an awfully large technological foundation to be appreciated -- or even to exist. What happens when there is no power to run a videogame? What happens when the hardware breaks down? All you have is a lump of silicon, and nothing to show for it. With other media -- even one so advanced as film -- there is still something tangible left over. You can peer at a painting or a statue. You can sing a song, or whittle out an instrument or two to play a more complex composition. You can rig up a simple device to play a record. You can shine a light behind a roll of film. When civilization collapses, these all will remain. Yet what of videogames? They barely exist. They are as intangible as life itself. When the jolt is gone, they are mere inanimate matter and the world is a colder place for all who remain. I am unsure whether this is positive or negative; all other art we have created has had a certain immortality to it. Videogames are brought into the world with a set, unknown doom. The less fundamental the art, the more fragile. The more human. Is this desirable?
I suppose there is a tradeoff to everything of value. If videogames offer a closer artistic model to the way we experience life, then it only seems fit that they would themselves approach mortality. Perhaps there is something to learn from this parallel.
For his next riddle, Iwatani displayed an illustration of an ant, with a wide stream in its path and a twig, graced with a single large leaf, near at hand. Iwatani asked us to observe, and to consider how the ant might bring itself to the other side of the stream. One person suggested that the ant ride the leaf across. Iwatani asked what would happen if the leaf got caught in the stream, and the ant got swept away. No, this did not seem an ideal solution. A man suggested that the ant use the stick as a catapult, and leap across the stream. Thanks to the translaters, he was informed that this was like pole-vaulting. Iwatani pretended to be amazed at the idea. "You mean like an Olympic athlete?" "You must remember," Iwatani said, "this is only an ant."
At once, I knew what Iwatani wanted. Before I had a chance to stand, however, Iwatani completed his thought; he mentioned that a friend of his had once suggested that to wait for winter; then the ant could cross with no problem. That might work, yes -- yet what if the ant died before then? Iwatani then changed the slide. The new picture depicted an arrow leading into a hole in the ground, on the close side of the stream; on the other, the ant emerged along with a pile of dirt. I could feel the audience collectively hit itself on the head. The twig had been a red herring, all along. The lesson was clear: don't be distracted by added details; pay attention to the nature of who and what you are dealing with. Always look for the truth of the situation, first. Don't try to be clever and complicated.
To summarize his lecture, Iwatani put forth a list of the three things which make success:
- Courage
- A Vocation for Creation
- Energy
Conduct your job with bravery, and stand behind your ideals. When your boss tells you to do something which you know is wrong, you must stand up to him. He knows it is scary, yet you are the only one who can make your ideas clear. When your programmer refuses to understand your vision, you must find a way to convince him of your ideas' worth.
You cannot treat design as a mere job: it must be a vocation, to you. Have a sense of mission, as a creator. You must think of videogames as a vehicle to make people happy, and of yourself as the agent of this. Your goal should be to solve the problems you see; to tap into desires and needs, and thereby to enhance people's lives in a fundamental way -- not merely to put out material.
And, above all, you need the energy to put these things forward. You must remain positive, and keep trying, no matter what gets in your way. If you can do all of this, Iwatani guarantees that you will always succeed in whatever you do.
You have to believe in success; Iwatani reminds the audience that he had three failures before Pac-Man. There is no shame in failure. Failure is a good thing, as it shows us our mistakes and allows us to learn. If you have seven or eight failures, then maybe you should choose a different job. Two or three failures is fine, though.
With this thought, Iwatani opened the floor to questions. "If you could add one gameplay mechanic to Pac-Man," one person asked, "what would it be?" Iwatani replied that he has often been asked this. It seems a natural enough question: With a design like Pac-Man, sometimes you think that there is not enough. Pac-Man, however, needs no other elements; and none can be taken from it. (Brandon notes that this might explain why Namco has had such trouble with devising sequels to the game.) It is important that you stick to your original vision, when you design your game. Do not try to mask over problems by adding elements. Always go back to your hypothesis, and remember what you are trying to show.
"To what do you attribute your longevity at Namco?" another person asked. Iwatani did not take long to think. "I had no other place to go." I found myself, despite myself, explode in laughter. At least I was not alone. Iwatani went on to explain that Namco has a good development environment, and that he is allowed to develop freely there. Things have changed a lot since the old days, however. Back then, there were no deadlines; you would just release a game when it was finished. Now we have investors and budgets and time constraints. "You might have enjoyed the old days better," Iwatani mused.
Has Iwatani a new project; a new idea? Right now, Iwatani is in the think-tank "incubation" area; he keeps himself busy looking for the Next Big Thing. Iwatani mentioned that lately he has been paying attention to the paintings of Marc Kostabi; he thinks it would be interesting to devise a game which expressed itself in a similar way, visually.
As a last thought, Iwatani advised for anyone involved with videogames to take in experiences from everywhere; not just other videogames. Look at paintings; watch movies; observe the world; enjoy life. The more curious you are, the more you observe, the more you have to think about, the more of value you will have to say.
As I gathered my belongings and retreated from the lecture, I got the impression that Toru Iwatani and Tetsuya Mizuguchi would have much to talk about.
Eric-Jon Rössel Waugh
ain't afraid of no ghosts.
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