As I mentioned in my last post, there’s a lot to say about religion in Bioshock Infinite, and it can’t be surprising that people would have an interest in talking about it. But what’s perhaps more surprising is that not only are people discussing the religious elements in the game, but one gamer in fact demanded a refund because of the game’s “forced baptism.”

Kotaku’s Patricia Hernandez writes that Breen Malmburg felt spiritually unable to play the vast majority of the game because in order to enter Columbia – one of the very first things in the game – the player-qua-Booker must accept baptism. I have a two-fold reaction to this. First, surprise that someone would object that strongly to being digitally baptized as an avatar, and that Valve would then actually give him the refund. Second, I completely understood it.

This is where I make a personal admission that my discomfort has nothing to do with belief in a religion or doctrine. In fact, just the opposite. It bothered me enormously that Infinite wanted me to agree to a religious doctrine in the first place, even if in a digital fiction while playing a character who resembles me in almost no way (male, from 1912, with a gambling addiction…). I didn’t want to even superficially assume an oath to a god or religion I wanted nothing to do with.

And I do think that discomfort is deliberate. I think the developers want the player to consider why they believe what they believe, from where they have drawn those systems of belief, and what they would or would not be willing to do in the name of that belief. For instance, are you willing to accept digital baptism (twice, for what it’s worth) even if it goes against your real-world belief system? Would you be willing to undergo real baptism if it would allow you to do something you want to do? Would you be willing to undergo real baptism to save your own life?

At what point – the game asks – are we willing to compromise our beliefs in order to gain something else (money, career, health, life, love)?

While Malmburg felt unable to continue the game, pastor Ashley Dunsenbery felt the opposite. Dunsenbery believes that there is nothing offensive about questioning belief – and nothing offensive about suggesting that in order for people to deepen their faith, they need to be willing to examine it.

In Infinite, there is more to religion than just baptism. The whole foundational underpinning of the game is rooted in the Christian chthonic myth: the Father, the Child, the virginal Mother; death and redemption; the cleansing of the spirit through baptism; accepting rebirth into a new faith; being willing to sacrifice the self for the greater good of all people.

And the myth has great meaning to millions of people around the world, whether on a spiritual or a literary level. And it provides a rich, oft-mined depth to the game’s otherwise largely simple plot (with one very large and notable exception… the exception that involves theoretical physics). The real complexity of Infinite‘s myth is that it is combined with science: it unifies the two sides of our society that we typically place in diametric opposition.

Because there is no reason that beauty, art, and belief have to exist in contrast to or conflict with mathematics, technology, and scientific research. Just as there is no reason that videogames can’t present both art and combat gameplay, both fun and complex ideological commentary. Now that isn’t to say that Infinite doesn’t have its ideological problems (or its gameplay problems, which it most certainly does). But its decision to present both spirituality – and the spiritual components in the game were both aurally and visually gorgeous – and science together (both positive and negative, for both) was one of the best decisions in the game.

So here’s my Learned Fangirl rather lengthy, spoiler-filled critique of Bioshock Infinite, dealing with the things I loved, the things I didn’t love, and the things that rubbed me the wrong way.

Ultimately, I see a lot of good things and fantastic potential in Infinite, and if you haven’t played it yet, you really should (before you go over and see whether you agree with me in the review, as it has spoilers aplenty). There are some truly amazing things about Infinite, especially the music (I want to own that soundtrack!) and the art (gorgeous!). There are also some things that stand out as highly problematic – not bad, necessarily, but things that should make us stop and think about the ways in which we represent race, gender, and oppression.

One thing I didn’t talk about was religion – not because I don’t think it’s important (it is), but because that’s another whole post that would take up vast amounts of text. Maybe next week.

So recently I’ve been spending a lot of time “relaying” games, and even the husband, who does not understand my penchant for rewatching movies, rereading books, and (especially) replaying games, has been replaying Bioshock Infinite, so a post on the theme of replaying seems appropriate.

I’ve been replaying Mass Effect (the whole trilogy), in part to catch myself up on some DLC from ME3 that I haven’t gotten to play yet, and in part because I love the series. But here’s the thing. Games like ME are designed to be “replayable” because the player can customize the gender, appearance, and class of their avatar. The player can also play as a Paragon, Renegade, or mix of both styles, and make any number of gameplay choices that alter the narrative of the game. In essence, the player can replay the same game and find new conversations, new gameplay content, and so on, even with the same master narrative.

But here’s the thing – having played the ME series three times (this is my fourth go-through), only once have I opted to create a character who was different from my first run-through in any substantial way, and then only for a playthrough of ME3 (not ME1 or ME2). I have swapped out classes (Soldier, Adept, Sentinel), but not the gender, rough appearance, or Paragon-ness of my Shepard. I keep replaying essentially the same narrative over and over, because it’s the narrative that I like.

The same is true of my third replay of Dragon Age II, which I’m replaying for work, rather than play, this third time… which means that I’m forcing myself to play a different kind of Hawke. And she’s not my Hawke, but, rather, an experimental Hawke I’m enduring for the sake of the book chapter I’m writing. My Hawke is a different class, a different gender, and has a different ethos. I am enjoying the possibility of exploring some of the different gameplay and narrative elements introduced by this new Hawke, but it just isn’t the same.

I have a friend – Todd – who often refers to his playthroughs (especially of Bioware games) as One True Canon, and I have to say that is one of the most accurate descriptors of my feelings about my “original” characters. They are the way the game is “supposed to be,” even though I’m fully aware that other people don’t make the same choices I do.

I have also played through other games more than once – Bioshock, for instance, I have played eight times (some by choice, some because I teach it) – that don’t have the replayability factor of a customizable avatar or multiple narrative threads. Certainly, I’m not bothered by the repetition of a good story, even though I do lose the “surprise” elements of the game, but I have to confess that the ability to “tweak” even the same narrative by making slightly different choices does make a game more fun to replay.

Because, here’s the thing. My Shepard makes mistakes that I discover much, much later. I do something in the wrong order, or don’t have a specific companion, or whatever, and I want to replay those missions the way I think “Shepard” (the one I’ve created and imagined) would want them to play out. I want to reconstruct her as a specific person, and sometimes that means wanting to go back and alter things, major or minor, to reflect that person. As a player, I want to create a “master narrative” for this character that I’ve imagined using the tools that Bioware has provided for me.

I can’t do that in Bioshock or Arkham Asylum, even if I can take on the challenge of new achievements (which does add “newness” to a replay). And I think that actually says more about me as a player than it does about the games. I love narrative, character development, the ideological questions that are intrinsic to complex narrative structures. I like rediscovering (and, even better, discovering something new the second time through) the arguments and allusions contained in these narratives, even small things, like the commercial in the elevator in ME1 for an Elcor Hamlet. I like the mental challenge of considering what a production of Hamlet would be like spoken by aliens with no tonal inflection, relying instead on a pronouncement of emotion before every sentence.

I care far less about achievements. About getting 100 kills with a specific weapon or finding all the little boxes in a level (although I do try to do them when I’m playing, an achievement or two will never motivate me to replay a game I didn’t already want to replay). The allure of playing the same level as a Renegade isn’t enough – I have to want to replay the story. But I know that there are gamers out there who are far more interested in replayable mechanics than story elements – they want the challenge of new weapons, a harder difficulty, a different style of play (non-lethal vs. lethal, as in Dishonored).

So why write about replaying games? Because I think it’s important to note that games, like good novels and good movies, have the capacity (when they’re well-made) to be just as important to us as those other forms of art… and they are art. And it’s important for us to recognize that games, like films or books, are complex and carefully crafted – that the backgrounds, the posters, the placement of loot drops, etc., are important, not only to our “play experience,” but to the possibilities of meaning contained within the games.

We’re still developing a full understanding of what that really means – we still have games that give us health for eating food off the floor or out of trashcans, for instance, things that “break” the narrative fourth wall because they aren’t realistic. But we’re starting as players and as developers to understand that the devil, as it were, is in the details, because that’s where we find the difference between a game with something nuanced to say about race and inclusivity, and a game whose Chinese gunsmith is actually yellow in the Crayola sense (yes, I’m looking at you, Infinite). We’re getting there, but we shouldn’t throw up our hands and say that things are “good enough.” Films and novels still aren’t “good enough” and we’ve been working on the latter for about 500 years or so. The development of games as a genre isn’t an achievement that we can say “Hey, games are now art! 50 points!” and be done with it. We need to keep going, keep innovating, and keep striving to create the kinds of games that people want to replay because they feel like they just couldn’t absorb it all the first time (mechanically or narratively or both), and not just to get those few extra achievement points.

So apparently, this week is Mass Effect Week over at Kotaku. If there is a game series with which I could be considered “obsessed,” it’s Mass Effect, so I feel as though I have some sort of obligation to post about it. However, this week has been spent playing Bioshock Infinite, so my thoughts are going to come across as a muddled mess of both.

This morning, Gamasutra posted a piece about Infinite as a metacriticism of game narrative (spoiler alert, for those of you who haven’t played through Infinite yet). The premise of the piece is that Infinite’s thematic messing around with time is designed as a critique or commentary on the increasing complexity of game narratives… which I can understand, but honestly don’t really buy, if only because Infinite doesn’t participate in the kind of narrative complexity that we find in Bioware games.

Now I don’t think that all games should have the kind of branching, complexly interwoven decision tree narratives that Bioware games have. Sometimes as a player you just want a story to be told to you, rather than to participate in the telling of the story yourself. Sometimes you want a game that just puts you inside a character and lets you experience a story as that character. But – and this is especially true for Bioware fans – sometimes you want to have a lot more control over the narrative. Sure, I can see how the (SPOILER) tears in Infinite seem to symbolically represent the decision tree kinds of choices that appear in Mass Effect, but, ultimately, they aren’t. Booker doesn’t have the choice to enter the tear or not (unless the player chooses to stop playing the game). In fact, Booker has very few choices at all that can be made or influenced by the player.

And, honestly, some of that lack of control was bothersome to me, probably because I’ve been spoiled by Shepard, Hawke, and the Warden. I want to be able to be my own character, design my character’s personality, and have control over whether or not I choose – as Booker does not – to accept baptism, to enter a tear, or to comfort Elizabeth. That said, I don’t think Infinite should have been a Bioware game with a complex set of conversation trees and branching ludonarrative choices. That wasn’t what Infinite set out to do. It wasn’t designed to give the player agency – it was designed to take it away (although to a lesser extent than the original Bioshock).

And that’s really what I’m getting at here: Bioware games like Mass Effect are about player agency (at least until the ending of ME3, which I think is why so many people were upset by it), Bioshock games like the original and Infinite are about taking away that agency. And that’s fine. We need both kinds of narrative in a maturing industry so that we can 1) make the choice as players about what we prefer, and 2) because the industry is developing into a complex and rich artform, and art has different genres and styles. As a player, I like agency, but I can also appreciate that sometimes a story needs to take away that agency to be told.

I’m starting this post now, before I’ve finished Bioshock Infinite, because I just want to address the stark difference between it and Assassin’s Creed III. I posted on both when they were still trailers, looking at the seeming thematic similarities between them, particularly in terms of anti-American Exceptionalism over at TLF. I haven’t finished either, yet, but I feel like it’s nevertheless a good time to talk about them in comparison. Mostly because I’m not sure I’m ever going to finish both of them.

I started AC3 several months back, and was really excited. As someone who lived in Boston, worked on the Freedom Trail, and spent far too many years of my life dedicated to Bostonian colonial history and the British, who are always “coming.” I tolerated the game’s opening, not really understanding or caring why I was controlling a character in a hoodie, because it promised a future in colonial Boston. And – eventually – I did get there.

And at first it seemed to fulfill all its promise. As someone who has frequently navigated downtown Boston both by car (don’t do it) and by foot, I was pleased to discover that I could do so in the digital colonial version, as well. I went and found King’s Chapel and climbed it (where I used to work). I climbed the Beacon on Beacon Hill, ran down to the harbor, visited Faneuil Hall, and leapt across rooftops until the really annoying Redcoats started yelling at me. Why do they care if I want to break my own neck, anyway?

Confession? I never even made it far enough to switch characters to the actual main character of AC3, Connor. I got bored. I, who spent seven consecutive summers as a Tory in colonial garb, got bored shooting, strangling, neck-snapping, and drowning Redcoats. Bored. I feel bad that I haven’t finished the game, or even managed to get any further to the main story. But I’m just bored and annoyed, its ethos of anti-Exceptionalism notwithstanding.

Bioshock Infinite, on the other hand, sends me into fits of giggles on a fairly regular basis, and not because it has sunshine (it does) and birdies (it has those, too) and cotton candy (yup). Because I can strangle an enemy with a skyhook, shoot flocks of crows out of my hands, and go flying through the sky on rails. It’s FUN.

Now this isn’t to say that BI has foregone thematic importance for fun – on the contrary. While I do think that the game is rather, uh, heavy handed (think “elephant sitting on a Hummer while waiving a spiked club about with its trunk”) with its commentary on white supremacy and Exeptionalism (they aren’t actually the same thing, although in this game you might think so), it most definitely retains the firm insistence on the power of the Vox Populi (in the literal and metaphoric sense).

And here’s where I get to my point. I will finish BI. I will finish it probably at the sacrifice of both food and sleep (to minor degrees) because it’s both pretty (as is AC3, in a different way) and fun. I will appreciate its message of inclusivity and interconnectedness (and whatever else I haven’t encountered yet). But – and here’s the part that makes my not-so-inner academic a little sad – I won’t appreciate it as a powerful work of subtlety and nuance. Because BI isn’t.

AC3 has a lot of potential in that department, it really does. I can imagine a narrative line leading from where I left off in that game to something complex and rich. BI isn’t complex or rich in narrative terms. It’s about as subtle as the shotgun that makes it so much fun. And I’m struggling with the fact that I wish the two games had been combined (at least so far). I want the subtlety, the verisimilitude to reality that I feel like AC3 has and BI lacks.

But as a gamer, I’m not going to struggle through boredom to get there, and that’s why, ultimately, BI is a better game. It may still be immature in its narrative and symbolic complexity, but I’m having so much fun that I can forgive it for waving a glittering symbolism stick in my face while jumping up and down on a trampoline of metaphors.