ETHICS
Armchair philosophers often use the words ethics and morality interchangeably. Indeed, the overlapping concerns of each word render their meanings ambiguous. Nevertheless, the two words are not coterminous. Often, morality—from the Latin moralis or mores—refers to particular values and practices in one’s personal, social, and cultural life. In contrast, ethics—from the Greek ethos—often refers to the systems, methods, and schools of thought by which persons come to determine what is moral and what is not. In other words, morality tends to address the concrete while ethics tends to explore the abstract. Morality frequently presents and recommends a code of conduct. Ethics presents philosophers with a process for the critical and theoretical assessment of moral claims. For the purposes of this discussion, morality will refer to the “what” of values (prescriptive content) while ethics will refer to “how” persons critically assess those values (descriptive process).
Philosophers utilize a wide range of sharply contrasting systems for ethical analysis, as seen in any introductory textbook such as Lawhead’s The Philosophical Journey (2013). For example, divine command theories situate ethical reflection within a religious context. To divine command theorists (such as William of Ockham), right and wrong are a matter of obeying or disobeying the laws of God. However, ethical relativism opposes divine command theory. The ethical relativist (such as Ruth Benedict) maintains that individuals or societies can determine what is right and wrong in their own eyes. Ethical egoism and utilitarianism also stand in contrast to each other. The ethical egoist (such as Ayn Rand) approaches morality in terms of self-interest, while the utilitarian (such as John Stuart Mill) grounds morality within the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Deontological ethics and virtue ethics present two opposing systems as well. The deontological ethicist (such as Immanuel Kant) argues that morality derives from universal principles that lead all reasonable people to an absolute, moral duty. In contrast, virtue ethics contend that morality is rooted in character, not reason. The virtue theorist (such as Aristotle) believes that moral practices flow from moral character. Feminist ethicists (such as Carol Gilligan) add that morality must also encompass human caring. Video game theorists understand the importance of ethical systems for interpreting the meaning of the gameplay experience (for example McCormick, 2002; Reynolds, 2002).
These ethical systems—and others—also inform video game theory and design (see for example, Schrier & Gibson, 2011). Many theorists and designers recognize that ethical theories can enrich critical reflection upon video game design, content, and players. First, this discussion will consider the effects of video games upon those who play them. Second, this discussion will explore the theory and design of video games for ethical reflection.
Toles (1985) wrote one of the earliest critiques of video game effects upon players. In her assessment of one hundred arcade video games, Toles variously refers to them as “addicting,” “mindless,” and “violent” (p. 209). She argues that they reinforce a worldview of social conservatism (p. 214) and xenophobia (p. 222). Toles contends that approximately 90 percent of the games studied also propagate male dominance and female helplessness or irrelevance (p. 214). She also suggests that the games teach subservience to violent and impersonal orders (pp. 214, 217). Interestingly, Toles notes that arcade video games teach not only technological reliance (p. 214) but also the fear of technologically-reliant enemies (pp. 214–217). Toles concludes that arcade video games socialize players into a dangerous, military state of mind: “Video games can be good clean fun. But in a world that lives on the brink of nuclear annihilation from missiles launched from computer-dependent silos, they may be more deadly than we know” (p. 222).
Kinder (1991) and Provenzo (1991) assess the effects of Nintendo Entertainment System video games upon children—particularly males. Kinder contends that video game play encourages “an early accommodation to consumerist values and masculine dominance” (p. 119). She expresses concern that video games tend to feed the fantasies of boys more than girls (p. 103). However, she theorizes that video games can help male children to navigate gendered developmental issues (pp. 101–104). Kinder also maintains that video games can assist all children in their cognitive development (pp. 111–119). Provenzo’s assessment is far less charitable. Throughout his argument, Provenzo argues that video games tend to reduce morality to a good-versus-evil binary that propagates xenophobia, racism, and sexism. In his conclusion, Provenzo briefly addresses the non-neutrality of computer technology as a socializing force: “In the case of Nintendo, the child has almost no possibility to reshape the game and escape its instrumentalist logic. There is literally one path down which the player can proceed” (p. 137). Here, Provenzo suggests that the computational structures and interfaces of video games tend to overwhelm those who play them—a position later developed by Friedman (1999), Manovich (2001), and Galloway (2006).
The representation and frequency of explicit violent and sexual content gradually accelerate throughout the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Exidy’s Death Race (1976) sends players on a demolition-derby mission to run over elusive monochromatic pedestrians. The gameplay of Custer’s Revenge (Mystique, 1982) and Leisure Suit Larry in the Land of the Lounge Lizards (Sierra On-Line, 1987) focus on pixelated rape and seduction, in turn. The fighting game Double Dragon (Taito, 1987) incorporates street violence, male-on-female violence, and S&M imagery. Night Trap (Digital Pictures, 1992) utilizes full-motion video and live actors in a slumber party stalker/slasher game. Mortal Kombat (Midway Games, 1992) revels in gratuitous violence through its notorious fatality blows. Id Software’s Wolfenstein 3D (1992) and DOOM (1993) move gratuitous violence into the first-person perspective. Many blamed DOOM—at least in part—for the Columbine High School massacre in 1999. Grand Theft Auto (DMA Design Limited, 1997) launches perhaps the most scandalous video game franchise in terms of violence and sex, including the solicitation and murder of prostitutes. Games such as these often raise public protest (Kent, 2001, pp. 461–480; Arsenault, 2008; Donovan, 2010, pp. 225–235; Gross, 2011).
Under public and federal pressure, the non-profit, self-regulatory Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) was established in 1994. The ESRB monitors and labels the “frequency, intensity, and severity” of video game content (ESRB, 2013). Of the ESRB’s 30 content descriptors, about one-third addresses violence while approximately another third addresses sexuality and vulgarity. Of the 1,218 ratings assigned in 2012, 45 percent of video games were rated E (Everyone), 22 percent were rated E10+ (Everyone 10 years or older), 24 percent were rated T (Teen), and 9 percent were rated M (Mature, 17 years or older). The ESRB claims to assess not only “the most extreme content of the final product” but also “the final product as a whole—demonstrating the game’s context (such as setting, storyline and objective) and relative frequency of extreme content.” However, the ESRB also acknowledges that raters do not play the games in order to assign ratings. Careful gameplay requires a prohibitively heavy investment of time in order to exhaust the “different permutations” of in-game player choices. Instead, ESRB ratings are assigned based upon materials submitted by their publishers: questionnaires, video files “of all pertinent content,” and occasional scripts. Thus, the truncation of the ESRB’s review process undermines its capacity to assess the context and nuance of apparently offensive content, at least in part.
In contrast, Jenkins (2000) and Sicart (2009) argue that disputable video game content can exert a moral influence upon players. Jenkins disagrees with those who assert that video game players are largely passive media consumers. He also condemns the kind of “moral panic” that leads to widespread pessimism and fear of video games—a well-documented phenomenon in the United States and Asia (for example, Toles, 1985, p. 210). Instead, he calls for moderation in a debate that often swings to extremes. From Jenkins’s perspective, violent video games do not cause players to commit violent acts. Instead, he maintains that players can and do engage in ethical reflection upon the games that they play. More particularly, Jenkins argues that video games functions as a constructive platform for empowerment, self-expression, working through feelings, and meaning making. Similarly, Sicart contends that players filter gameplay through their own moral perspectives. This filtering process depends upon ethical reflection, thus aiding players in the development of critical reasoning skills (2009, pp. 225–226). To Sicart, video game players are “moral creators of values and experiences” and the “ethical co-creators of the ludic experience of computer games” (p. 226). Sicart and Jenkins share the humanist conviction that video gameplay can—and often does—contribute to the ethical development of players.
Jenkins (2005) also insists that not all video game violence is created equal. On one hand, he concedes that early video games relied upon “fairly simpleminded and formulaic representations of violence,” functioning as “little more than shooting galleries where players were encouraged to blast everything that moves” (p. 26). On the other hand, Jenkins argues that the more mature medium of today increasingly designs games as “ethical testing grounds,” introducing a “moral framework or some notion of consequence into play” (pp. 26–27). To Jenkins, critics and players alike should celebrate video games that elicit meaningful, ethical reflection—whether the content is violent or not. Jenkins’s optimism reflects a conviction that engaged players can “develop the skills and vocabulary needed to think more deeply about the violence they encounter in the culture around them” (p. 30).
More recently, Anderson and Warburton (2012; see also Anderson, Gentile, & Buckley, 2007) offer a social-science assessment of video game effects. First, they note the helpful effects of video game play in the arenas of pain management, coordination and spatial cognition, pro-social behavior, education, and exercise (pp. 57–59). However, the bulk of their assessment focuses on the harmful effects of video game play—particularly violent video game play. Anderson and Warburton note that approximately 10 percent of video game players in the US, Europe, Singapore, and China do so at pathological levels. They suggest a causal link between video game and attention deficits, poorer school performance, and various forms of increased aggression (pp. 59–61). Anderson and Warburton attribute these effects to particular features of violent video game play, such as the imitation of violent acts, identification with violent characters, repetition of violent behaviors, interactivity, a lack of negative in-game consequences, associative learning, and the acquisition of aggressive “scripts” (pp. 69–74). Nevertheless, Anderson and Warburton concede that media violence—including video game violence—does not deserve blame as a singular or most important source of violent behavior (p. 62).
Ethical Video Game Design in Ultima IV: Quest of the Avatar
Current developments in video game design for ethical reflection stand upon the shoulders of Richard Garriott’s Ultima IV: Quest of the Avatar (Origin Systems, 1985). Its design is clear and straightforward, rendering it useful for analysis. Numerous writers assert that Ultima IV is the first “to use gameplay as a means to build a story and a message with philosophical and ethical implications” (Mäyrä, 2008, p. 82; see also Herz, 1997; Wolf, 2001; King & Borland, 2003; Barton, 2008; Brown, 2008). For example, Ultima IV generates the avatar character in the player’s own moral image, after the player responds to a series of seven ethical dilemmas. Garriott deploys this strategy in order to facilitate an intimate identification between the player and the avatar (Herz, 1997, p. 157). In contrast to other video games of the day, Ultima IV incorporates—but subverts—the conventional “hack and slash” mechanic by relocating gameplay with a deeper, more personal quest to embody eight virtues within the kingdom of Britannia. Ultima IV monitors player progress in the eight virtues via an “internal karma counter” that invisibly tracks the avatar’s moral progression and regression (Spector, 1992, pp. 369–370). Hayse describes this system as a transactional “moral economy” (2009, pp. 140–142; see also 2010, pp. 35–38). Ultima IV allows for 20 transactions within its moral economy, most of which hinge upon the avatar’s relationships to others: three toward the natural world, nine toward the citizenry, and six toward one’s enemies (Hayse, 2009, p. 137). Through this moral economy, Garriott clearly intends that Ultima IV’s design should elicit ethical reflection from the player upon matters of moral importance (Addams, 1990, pp. 40–42; Spector, 1992, p. 370; Bauman & Garriott, 1999; Bub, 2002).
Myers (2003) argues that video game design for ethical reflection is difficult, if not impossible. He contends that backstories, narratives, and moral frameworks are superfluous to video game play. To Myers, these elements “neither motivate nor confine” the meaning-making activity of the player. He insists that they are “irrelevant to action game play, misleading of role-playing game play, and destructive to strategy game play.” In Myers deconstruction of the Ultima series, he argues that players care more about winning games than reflecting upon their moral meaning. In other words, Myers contends that the ludic (or game) nature of the video game medium undermines any potential ethical insights gained through gameplay (see also, Mäyrä, 2008, pp. 85–86). In one sense, Myers is correct. Backstories may not meaningfully inform video game play for those oriented toward achievement or the other ends of Bartle’s taxonomy (1996). However, it is wrong to assume that backstories, narratives, and moral frameworks can not meaningfully inform any video gameplay experiences at all. Indeed, Mäyrä notes that for some players, their experience with Ultima IV was “transformative in their personal gaming histories” (2008, p. 86). For example, DeMaria and Wilson (2004) report the testimony of one player who experienced Ultima VI: The False Prophet as a meaningful tale of cultural and racial reconciliation:
In Ultimas V and VI, Garriott created a fearsome race of creatures called the Gargoyles. Throughout these games, you fought and killed them when you could, feeling good that you were ridding the land of a terrible enemy. But, by the end of Ultima VI, you discovered that the Gargoyles were really very civilized, and that you had been systematically, if unknowingly, destroying their world. To me, this is one of the most brilliant moments in computer game history, where I was given the opportunity to come face-to-face with my own ability to create prejudice, and how ignorance can create false impressions.
(p. 122)
Ultima IV’s moral economy establishes the conditions within which players can reflect upon their own values as well as the value system of the game. At least for some players, one’s own identity impinges upon the ethical tensions of Ultima IV. This is what Gee describes as a “projective identity”—a projection of one’s self upon the avatar, and a sense of the avatar as “a project in the making” (2007, pp. 48–63). If Gee is correct, then the Ultima IV player asks not only, “What should the Avatar do?” but also “What do I really believe?” Social-science research appears to support Gee’s point (for example, Griffin, 2007).
Ultima IV also deploys the strategies of dilemma and paradox in order to elicit ethical reflection. As the game progresses, the avatar comes to know that moral perfection demands not only valor and justice but also compassion and sacrifice. This confronts the player with a dilemma that juxtaposes the imperatives to kill one’s enemies, to earn experience points, and to gain gold pieces against the imperative to show mercy. The player begins to wonder: How can I achieve perfection both valor and compassion at the same time? It seems that when I show mercy, my valor diminishes. When I slay my enemies, my compassion diminishes. And what is justice? Is it just to execute a lawless offender, or is it just to show mercy? On what ethical basis am I to determine what is moral? The player already anticipates tensions such as these because of the series of seven ethical dilemmas that the player has already addressed during the game’s introductory sequence. The feedback mechanisms of Ultima IV offer but a measure of ethical guidance—infrequent and oblique. The moral consequences of the avatar’s behavior are often difficult to discern. The karma counter remains forever hidden from view as the player wrestles with the process of ethical reflection.
Thus, Ultima IV’s design for ethical reflection hinges upon its opacity—a quality often missing from more recent games that seek to incorporate an ethical dimension. Most video games conceal important information from players as the game begins, such as playing fields, artifacts, and quests. In addition to these, Ultima IV also conceals the moral economy from the player. The screen display prominently features the character’s name, gender, class, and friends. Health points, experience points, magic points, and food units, and inventory items appear as well. However, the screen display says nothing about virtue—the heart and soul of gameplay. In fact, Ultima IV never provides direct statistical feedback concerning the avatar’s progress in the eight virtues. Narrative feedback from the residents of Britannia is infrequent and indirect at best. Thus, the player can only gradually discover the path to virtue through trial, error, and discernment. Hayse describes this experience as a process of “unfolding revelation” from the designer to the player (2009, pp. 146–156; see also 2010, pp. 38–41). Ethical reflection arises within the tension between Ultima IV’s moral economy and its unfolding revelation—a tension that seems to hold diverse elements of both virtue ethics (the player’s moral center) and divine command theory (Garriott’s moral economy) in a precarious balance. Bogost describes this tension between the known and the unknown as a “possibility space” (2006, p. 85) within which players engage in “self-reflection, debate, dispute, and a host of other contentious activities” (p. 122). Garriott’s great innovation is not only the invention of a moral economy, but also its integration with the process of unfolding revelation. Of course, video game opacity can sometimes foster frustration within a player, even though the skillful deployment of opacity can elicit critical reflection. It is worth noting that Garriott decreases the opacity of his moral economy in Ultima V: Warriors of Destiny (Origin Systems, 1988). In that game, the player can hit “Ctrl-K” at any time in order to read a visual display of the karma counter. This decreased opacity reduces the need for critical reflection. Nevertheless, Garriott still deploys opacity through the unfolding revelation of Ultima V’s narrative. In any case, the skillful deployment of opacity can elicit critical reflection. The quest for wisdom and insight is a hallmark of the good life (MacIntyre, 2007, p. 219) as well as a good game—a quality that elevates Ultima IV: Quest of the Avatar to a time-honored place in the video game canon.
Ethical Video Game Design after Ultima IV: Quest of the Avatar
A host of other video games stands alongside Ultima IV as notable examples that frame play within a moral economy. The work of Peter Molyneux first comes to mind. In his Populous and Black & White series, Molyneux explores ethical consequentialism through god games that simulate divine action and human response. Molyneux’s work in ethical consequentialism continues through his Fable series. Fantasy and science-fiction role-playing games such as The Elder Scrolls: Arena (Bethesda Softworks, 1994), Fallout (Interplay, 1997), Baldur’s Gate (BioWare, 1998), Deus Ex (Ion Storm, 2000), Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic (BioWare, 2003), Bioshock (2K Games, 2007), Mass Effect (BioWare, 2007), and Dragon Age: Origins (BioWare, 2009) have each launched franchises that feature overt moral economies. Typically, these franchises seek to elicit ethical reflection through explicit structures such as alignment matrices, reputation systems, decision trees, and branching narratives. However, critics argue that many of these games—though not all—tend to present players with simplistic choices that are easy to manipulate toward a ludic end (Sicart, 2009; Stevenson, 2011; Schrieber, Cash, & Hughes, 2011). Melenson (2011) places the blame for this at the feet of the “moral axis.” He argues that the moral axis creates a false dichotomy of good and evil, treating morality as a zero-sum game in which good points accrued can eliminate evil points accrued. Melenson also criticizes the tendency of any moral axis to reflect its designer’s moral bias, as well as its inadequacy for the assessment of player intentions. Melenson wants to relocate the ethical and moral dimensions of video gameplay within storytelling and the artificial consciences of individual non-player characters—something he observes within Dragon Age: Origins.
Other critics note that the ethical depth of a video game increases through the deployment of chronological opacity. In Zagal’s (2011) discussion of Chrono Trigger (Square, 1999), he explains that when the protagonist faces trial, witnesses appear who noticed him at an earlier festival in the game. Zagal writes: “As the trial unfolds, the player is often shocked to realize that the things he did earlier reflect his moral character” (p. 22). Schrieber, Cash, and Hughes similarly argue that the horror game The Suffering (Surreal Software, 2004) provides “permanence to the player’s decisions” (2011, pp. 77–78) through time delay. Throughout gameplay, the player can turn into a monster in order to win combat. However, frequent use of this ability increases the chance that the player kills his wife in a blind rage—an event that remains hidden until the end of the game. In Sicart’s analysis of Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater (Konami Computer Entertainment Japan, 2004), he notes that the game encourages stealth. If a player chooses violence instead, the game progresses more slowly. Sicart explains that eventually, the protagonist must “walk up the river, against the stream of all those he has (or we players have) needlessly killed” (2009, p. 107). Sicart argues that this sequence “is one of the most accomplished translations of the ethical possibilities of games into actual game design” (p. 108; see also Zagal, 2011, pp. 22–23). Stevenson observes that in both Shadow of the Colossus (Team Ico, 2005) and The Witcher (CD Projekt RED Sp. z o. o., 2007), player actions later turn out to cause unforeseen moral ripple effects. Shadow of the Colossus accomplishes this through “dramatic irony” and “sudden narrative serve or reveal” without “sermonizing or being openly reproachful toward the player” (2011, p. 39). In The Witcher, the consequences of player actions play out hours later, thus restricting the utility of saving and reloading in order to engineer the most favorable outcomes. This effectively confronts the player with moral repercussions that elicit ethical reflection.
Conclusion
Bogost argues that relatively few video games present moral complexities sufficient to elicit critical, ethical reflection (2007, pp. 286–287)—an insight shared by others (Fitzpatrick, Walsh, & Nitsche, 2005). Thus, ethical video game design continues to press boundaries at the edge of game development. Violent and sexual content alone are not morally culpable. Through careful design, even the suspect elements within video game play can foster ethical reflection and mediate moral meaning. In order to attain this worthy end, video games must leverage the power of the moral economy, ethical dilemmas that surpass merely contrasting choices, the uneasiness of paradox, and a careful balance between consequence, feedback, and opacity.
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