I really wanted to like WildStar. I also really wanted WildStar to be a good MMO, but you can’t always get what you want. The promise of a fun, cartoony sci-fi game drew me in, and while Carbine Studios delivered on two out of three of those promises, I was still let down in the end. That’s the trouble with following a major game from its early stages of development—the finished product will never exactly align with your expectations. Even so, I never imagined WildStar would turn out as badly as it did.
But before I start picking at the game’s current scabrous state, let’s jump back to 2013 when my hopes were still high. I enjoy role-playing in MMORPGs in spite of years of finding myself amongst characters with dark pasts and eyes that changed color with mood, so I was excited when Carbine’s staff actually seemed to give a shit about WildStar’s nascent role-playing community.
The game’s lore, bits and pieces of which were dropped like breadcrumbs by the devs, made me confident that WildStar would be fun. I told myself that even if the game itself was mediocre, I could make my own fun with other role-players. Here’s the point where I pause for audience laughter.
As I write this, the state of WildStar’s role-playing community is about what you’d expect for a half-dead game, with a few diehards desperately holding together what little remains. A good portion of the staff members I knew are gone now, and the rest are just as desperately trying to keep the game itself afloat.
What elevates a game from moderately entertaining to irresistibly addictive? The kind of game where you tell yourself you’ll put your controller down, but four hours later … Anyway. It’s partly the story structure. Graphics that aren’t too hard on the eyes is also a plus. But in my experience, the soundtrack is what hooks me, engaging me in the story in ways I couldn’t escape if I tried.
As in other forms of media like movies and television, video games are similarly shaped and, essentially, all but narrated by the music that accompanies it. I’d be willing to bet the much-lauded Skyhold cutscene in Dragon Age: Inquisition wouldn’t have had quite the same impact without the swell of strings and crashing drums to carry the theme itself. Music is an absolutely imperative component to the gaming experience, and without it, a game will almost certainly fall flat.
From the vast expanse of soundtracks across all genres, I’ve rounded up my top favorite atmospheric songs that exemplify the different variances in storytelling techniques. Let’s start with the more seasoned contenders and analyze what, exactly, these forms of music add to the narrative and overall gaming experience. If you can put the controller down once one of these songs starts up, there’s no hope for you. Unless you ordered a pizza, in which case, carry on.
What is it that sets video games apart as a medium from, say, film or literature? The answer lies right in your hands: the controller. Video games require direct interaction between game and player in a way that no other medium does.
When analyzing literature, theorists and critics often talk about the “contract” that is made between author and reader when a reader picks up a book. It’s a promise implicit in every work of fiction: read this and you will be entertained. What form this entertainment takes depends on what kind of book; it might be informative, thrilling, hilarious, inspiring, terrifying, or any number of experiences. But it must be entertaining or the reader will simply put it down and move on.
The same principle holds true for film and, of course, for video games. But with video games, the need for player interaction adds an extra dimension to the promise made by the medium. The promise is not simply “this game will provide you with entertainment,” but also “you, the player, will help shape this story.” This ‘shaping’ of story can be as basic as determining whether the hero succeeds or fails, or as complicated as choosing what pixel to place where in an infinite digital space.
This demand for interaction complicates the creator’s already challenging process of telling an interesting story. The player must be allowed to weigh in on the story at some level, or they’ll feel betrayed by the medium, the creator/player promise having been broken. So game creators must construct stories that are not simply told to the player, but also adapt and change based on how the player chooses to interact with the game.
The types of stories that game creators construct to deal with this problem fall broadly into three categories: linear, multipath, and RPG/open-world. Obviously, there are many games that straddle the line between two of these categories, or plant themselves in one category but borrow elements from another. Because of this, it’s perhaps easiest to think of these categories as benchmarks on a sliding scale, rather than strict divisions.
I never wanted to be “one of the girls.” My mother was a top finance executive when I was growing up, a working mom who had made her way up the ladder with her brains and talent. As a kid I worshipped her and became enamored with pant suits, corporate board rooms, and the idea that women could do anything that men could do, and they could probably do it better. She worked tirelessly to help me grow and excel and claim the opportunities she never had growing up in the ‘60s while instilling a sense of purpose and capability I still carry to this day. So when I imagined my future self, when I played house or make-believe, that is how I saw myself. In fact, whenever I did play house when I was very young, I ended up getting in fights with my “husband” because I refused to stay home and clean (usually I made him do that).
However, even though I had this positive influence, I still had eyes and clearly noticed that while girls were able to do a lot more things 30 years later, everything was still separate but “equal,” and I hated it. For example, why girls could only play “soft” ball, not “hard” ball, or that girl’s lacrosse, ice hockey, and other sports changed the level of aggression depending on which sex was playing.
This confusion was only made worse by early ‘90s advertising. In a world of Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids, My Little Pony and so on, I floated, lost, unable to find anything in common with these frivolous hyper-feminine toys and role models. Where was corporate Barbie? Where was scientist Barbie? Lacking strong female figures to identify with when it came to TV and toys, I decided that I just wouldn’t play with girl things because they were dumb. In fact, I would ignore girls altogether, because they were dumb too. I was just going to be one of the boys instead. So when other girls played tea party, I played man hunt with the boys in the neighborhood. When other girls wanted pink LA Light-ups, I was horrified and clearly wanted the blue and an Islanders jersey to match. In fact, my Halloween costumes were probably the best indication of how I felt about myself at the time: Raphael the Ninja Turtle, The Green Ranger, a Wizard, a Ninja, and a Knight all made an appearance as soon as I had any say in the matter.
Consequently, my mother was also a huge science-fiction/fantasy fan and I grew up listening to bedtime stories from the pages of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and one of the only books I remember as a kid with a strong female protagonist: The Blue Sword and The Hero and the Crown. It was here that I found my true calling and saving grace. Finally, here were pages filled with strong female warriors. Heroes that were able to save countries and win crowns. Girls who, through extra dedication, could learn to fight just as well as any man. From the age of 6 years old, I knew it was my destiny to become this Knight and to do great things in the world. I just wasn’t sure how to do that in the real world I saw around me.