My experience with games is largely defined by immersion and empathy; how well I can get sucked into the world, and how well I can understand the mind of the character I control. Sandbox or “Open World” games tend to answer the second question by making the character a blank canvas. You do not have to worry about why you’re forced to sneak rather than bash the heads of grunts you know you could take. You don’t have to worry about why the linear story makes sure that you keep your obnoxious companions alive when any sane person would leave them behind the moment they trip or get bogged down by a monster. Every decision you make in a sandbox is you.
But, I made a startling discovery this summer: I am not 100% in control of my actions in a sandbox. I’m not talking about how I only have certain dialogue options or how my maliciousness is limited only to what the game can animate and what the AI is programmed to follow through with. I’m talking about the game programming the player. Despite being diametrically opposed to nonlinearity, I found a sandbox game that dictated how I would have my avatar interact with the world, right down to not blowing off the main quest.
The game in question is Fallout 3. In the introduction to Fallout 3, you play key scenes in your character’s childhood, including your birth, a short stint as a toddler, a birthday party, and even a day at school before finally being let loose into the open world. More importantly (I think), you’re raised by the calm, soothing, intelligent voice of your father (played by Liam Neeson), a very good father figure encouraging you to do good, pay attention, work hard, think, and all those other wonderful things that fall under the umbrella of common sense that seems to be so thoroughly missing these days. When I escaped Vault 101, I found that I couldn’t murder one measly civilian or go on one paltry little killing spree without feeling bad and reloading. The influence of a father figure actually instilled a moral compass in how I played my character.
Contrast this to other sandboxes. For the sake of this post, I’ll use ones I’ve played and remember: The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Grand Theft Auto III, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, and Fable.
In both the Elder Scrolls entries, you begin the game as a prisoner. You are, apparently, left to imagine whatever you want your crime to be, since you are never told. Both games free you from your shackles primarily because you figure prominently in the Emperor’s prophetic dreams (freeing potentially dangerous criminals because of your dreams being rather right up there with making a horse a Senator in my book), and both games, I found myself playing amoral at best and evil at worst. I would kill innocent bystanders to steal pocket change, get the “evil” guilds taken care of right away, line my secret lairs with gold stolen from the castles of everyone important, and never get around to saving the world I’m helpful and quick when conversing with NPCs…who can easily kill me. With everyone else, I bribe them until they tell me what I want. Obviously, much of this comes from the mechanics that are in place; it’s quicker and easier to bribe people for information than to play TES’ confusing minigames to get the same result, but I’m beginning to think, based on my shocking spark of morality in Fallout, that one element of my amorality in the Elder Scrolls series comes from that experience of being falsely imprisoned. The people I’m cheating are the same people who had no problem with the guards leaving me to rot in prison forever, for nothing.
Grand Theft Auto III starts out similarly, with a skin-of-your teeth escape from prison. Once again, you have no backstory, no immediate explanation of why you were in prison, but you’re treated like one of America’s Most Wanted, and when you escape, it’s to the tough streets of Liberty City, where, to paraphrase Dr. Raymond Stantz, the people would just as soon step on your face as look at you. Everyone’s locked up in their own little world, and you’ve just been given back control of your destiny after a long incarceration for no crime the game will cop to. So of course, why should you care if you casually run over a civilian or two? There’s hundreds more identical to them, and all they’re ever doing is wandering around.
KOTOR is a slight variation, in that you aren’t a prisoner, per se, but **SPOILERS**
rather a victim of some shocking, and probably unethical re-education. You were Darth Revan, the scourge of the Republic, and now you’re expected to work for them to defeat the Sith invaders. KOTOR is an interesting contrast to the others because you’re made well-aware of your crimes, but also well-aware of how you came to be this new, brainwashed person. When the twist comes you can choose a couple reactions. You can become irate at being manipulated thusly and work towards reclaiming your former mantle, or you can recognize that the brainwashing was for the greater good and fight to preserve the Republic. You’re given a fair amount of time to explore the universe, talk to the people, and make your own decisions prior to the big twist. Despite being Darth Revan, in the end, by not giving you any preconceptions, it’s your own decision about how Darth Revan’s story ends. Even though there are only the two endings, by not immediately prodding you down one path or the other, KOTOR creates a greater degree of freedom than any of the other examples.
Fable is a nice counterpoint. It seems to have included some attempts at directing you, but, as in many things, faltered in its execution. The first Fable starts with you as a small child in a peaceful village, but Bandits swiftly come through, killing your family and leaving you an orphan. You’re picked up for Hero Training, and ten years later, let loose upon the world. Given the game’s focus on you choosing good or evil, I would imagine you’re expected, when leaving that Academy, to be either seething with rage ready to finally avenge your family, or to bring justice to the world so that no one ever has to suffer what you suffered. However, all I ended up wanting was to randomly kick some ass, get some neat toys, and disregard the main quest, but Fable had a near-criminal lack of features beyond the plot, so that wasn’t an option. If they were trying to get you to pick one of the two aforementioned paths, then there’s quite an obvious failure in both: To convince you to right the world’s wrongs to spare others from suffering the same tragedy as you, it would be important to make you attached to your family. For all the empathy they inspired, they might as well have been nameless, faceless NPCs. If they wanted you to desire revenge, the bandits shouldn’t have just been faceless henchmen. There should have been a memorable leader to them, someone with personality, someone with a mystique built up about him or her, so that you can never forget that these are the bastards who took your parents from you. For example, any of Batman’s Rogues Gallery. If Two-Face or the Joker killed your parents, when you heard about Two-Face or the Joker, you would never need to be reminded that he killed your parents because their brand of villainy would be burned into your brain. The quest dialogue would not need to remind you that the bandits you were being sent to kill were the same ones who killed your family. They should merely need to be identified by name to fill you with that rage.
I’m not really sure how to close this. Ending arguments have never really been my strong suit. I guess, what I’ve been getting at, is that you aren’t totally free in a Sandbox game; you’ve got some programming in how the designers first flung you into the world, and thus, when designing an experience in which the player can theoretically do whatever he or she wants, it’s important to know how to influence what they want to do, and to not botch it, because botching it ruins your puppet strings, and is probably also a symptom of blowing one of those big emotional moments you’ll probably want to pull off excellently.