Eurogamer has gotten the attention of a select few in the blogosphere for its review of indie darling and IGF Seamus Mcnally winner Crayon Physics Deluxe. It correctly identifies a quirk with the game's difficulty curve:
CPD presents something of a problem. It can be a fantastically fun and challenging game, but often only if you choose to ignore the obvious route to the finish. One level on the penultimate island clearly wants you to create a weight and pulley system around a floating cloud, but it's impossible not to notice you can literally draw one straight line and complete the level. Years of gaming conditioning tell you to do just that, and expecting players to take the scenic route to a star is a problem in the level design. Success is ludicrously rewarding if you steel yourself to do something a particular way, but you'll know you could always have used the old box, rope and weight trick in a fraction of the time.
The reviewer is correct. Years of gaming conditioning do force you towards taking the shortcut because the game doesn't tell you you can't. We have become so coddled by expansive achievement-ridden games that practically include a "to enjoy follow these directions" manual built in to a tee that the concept of having seemingly unauthorized fun with a game seems blasphemous. They didn't reward me for avoiding the obvious solution, so how can I have fun with the game? Would this reviewer have given the game a higher score if there was an explicit achievement for clearing a puzzle using only rhombi, or illustrations of Hobbes? The implication that Crayon Physics would be more fun if the creative solutions were somehow authorized or rewarded by the designer is laughable.
Games have always had achievements, they haven't always been explicit or didn't always carry a gold star. For me, the most poignant example that comes to mind takes me back to my level sequence in the timeless Mega Man 2. Just about every boss sequence published in strategy guides when the game came out advises fighting Quickman last, or at the very least after Flashman. The reason for this is simple, there's a vertical corridor of rooms filled with one-hit-kill beams that, if you take even one wrong step, will split you into little flashing balls. The obvious solution is to obtain Flashman's time stopper and nullify the beams for most of the area. A long time ago, I decided it would be fun to learn how to do Quickman first, figuring out exactly how to proceed through the level. I didn't get gamerpoints for it, nor did I get an gold star. I decided to try it because I'd never done it before, and even though taking the scenic route would deliberately make the game harder, I thought it would be fun. I don't begin to assume my experience is unique, as I'm sure just about everyone has a story just like this, and that's the point.
This effect extends to countless games. The Konami code was practically imprinted in my entire generation's brain. Technically it was a secret, but to most of us, it was common knowledge and the expected way to play. Many players have never known a game of Contra or Life Force that didn't start them off with thirty lives. My little brother loved Contra more than just about any other game, and he learned that thing inside and out. By the time he was finished, he didn't need the Konami code. In fact, he could finish the game four times over on the measly allotment of lives the game handed him on its default setting. That code was always there, but there was nothing forcing him to use it. It was more fun for him without it.
In the endlessly fascinating Persona 4, the road becomes a lot easier if you command each of your party members during each battle, as you can meticulously select the right option for each single action in battle. Alternatively, you can let the AI command each character and only worry about your own. I found myself letting the AI take over even when it did not give me the best chance to win as it furthered the illusion that I was fighting alongside real characters. It was far more engrossing to pretend that these characters were independent beings. It improved my experience, even if I lost a few battles I shouldn't have lost. In fact, in a game where social relationships are arguably the most important element, I was able to craft an intriguing trust-based meta-game where I would plan my actions around what I thought my party members would do each turn. I took the scenic route because it was more fun that way.
This parallel doesn't hold up completely, as the reviewer is correct, this is almost definitely a flaw caused by such a freeform design, and is almost definitely not in there intentionally. In comparison, there's also no doubt that the deadly corridor in Mega Man 2 was designed expressly so that expert players could complete it the hard way, and those who chose not to learn would be offered a simpler way out. In Crayon Physics, it would be so arduous and unwieldy to completely negate any "obvious" solution that there's little doubt in my mind that this issue was simply accepted by the designer as a cost for a truly freeform design where you can complete the entire game with (lu)dodecagons, just because you feel like it.
Is it possible for the player to suck his own fun out of Crayon Physics? Of course it is. However, to ask Crayon Physics to lock its levels down to negate any possibility of this also negates its strengths. Games are unique and special because the player has the freedom and control to appreciate them any way he or she wants to. It doesn't matter why the shortcut exists, whether it was put in there on purpose, by accident, or by necessity. All really that matters is that the scenic route exists too, and that should I feel like it, I can take it. I'll be the one to decide whether or not it's fun. Not the designer, not the publisher, not my gamerscore, just me. And maybe T.S. Eliot.
