I wasn't planning on writing another MegaTen-related post for a while, but I had this idea, oddly, while ruminating on Die Hard - which wasn't a connection that I'd planned to make. So here we are.
Game design is about manipulating spaces. This is as true for Tetris and Super Mario Bros. as much as it is narrative-heavy, expansive games of recent generations. It's actually something of a movement in gaming now (we've discussed this before [In a post on "Gaming Tourism" - Ed.]) that one of gaming's primary purposes should be conveying a space in which the player can exist, rather than (say) delivering a narrative. Regardless of how a developer views the spaces that they are manipulating, however, there are a number of significances that one can attach to an inhabited space.
When we say "level design," we are referring to these significances. Now, when it comes to superficial design, especially in a narrative game, we can get caught up in the aesthetics - the set dressing - and that is certainly an important tool. But space itself is a fundamental element that is more important to design, both as it applies to gameplay and to narrative - two elements which should inherently be linked by design.
Some of these aspects can feel quite obvious when examining a genre in which movement through space is an active element. "Platformers" like the Mario titles deal specifically with the joy of moving through space, and the way in which movement is restricted, opened, or made challenging is the beating heart of the genre. Certainly much study has been made of the original Super Mario Bros. and how it utilized flow through space. But what about JRPGs? The argument could be made that space is an afterthought in the genre - that level design largely serves to provide either A) large spaces in which to grind against monsters or B) elaborate but uncomplicated mazes designed to prolong gameplay until the next narrative beat, such as a cutscene.
If anything, though, manipulation of space is more important in this genre, because the use of space is one of the primary tools available to convey narrative during straight "gameplay" sequences, like dungeons, in between those beats. While we've talked before [In a post about cartography and abstraction - Ed.] about how the abstraction of the JRPG genre often equates space with time, there are other uses as well. Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne uses space in engaging ways throughout its gameplay to convey different ideas in its level design that support its narrative and the headspace which it wants the player to inhabit.
***
Let's split up our look at space in Nocturne into two categories, based on "gameplay" and "narrative" - regarding their primary focus - and see if they don't meet in the middle.
Space as Flow & Obstruction: An RPG in particular has to keep the character moving, because stalling out to grind repetitively or to chase minutiae is the easiest way to interrupt a player's flow and pull them out of the game. That said, obstructing steady flow is one of the ways in which game design can provide challenges.
Nocturne deals with this dichotomy in a number of ways. For one thing, most of its dungeons are actually fairly short - and when they are long, they're broken into discreet segments. This compartmentalization (see: The Amala Temple, The Assembly of Nihilo, Yoyogi Park, and even the Kalpas of The Labyrinth of Amala) provides discreet challenges to overcome. Collecting a single Kila, traveling a quarter of the park, exploring just one wing of the First Kalpa) keeps the flow in individual sections while allowing that flow to be interrupted at logical places.
These smaller sections often make up for their size in a larger encounter rate; however, that is something that can be deliberately affected by spells, and if left alone allows for a steady level progression without having to grind too heavily - except in cases where a overly powerful boss battle is approaching, in which case the change in flow fits the mood to be conveyed (for more on mood, see below).
What's interesting in the design of Nocturne dungeons is that even when they are mazes, they have a tendency to funnel you forward. Even in dead ends, there's often (not always, just often) something there - a single chest, or a spirit to talk to. You hardly ever feel that you were propelled in that direction unfairly. But the design is propulsive in its shapes. Typically, if there's going to be a stalling area (say, the spiral in the third subway tunnel), there is a terminal directly before it, so that you can save your game and either beg off for the moment, or restore there if you become caught up in a tangle and then killed.
There's a notable exception to this design theory, I think: The Kabukicho prison, with its dual worlds to travel between and haphazard floor order, is an absolute mess of flow. However... it's a prison. That you feel trapped, lost, and confused in that dungeon is absolutely sensible.
Space as Progression: This can be such a simple thing: when you're climbing a tower, generally the floors get smaller, and that makes your ascension faster, and the accomplishment feels greater.
You've noticed this, right? Here's a less obvious one. In Nocturne, the city of Asakusa - the Manikin enclave - is a spiral of above- and below-ground areas that interlock, going deeper into the earth until you reach Mifunashiro at the center. You arrive here as a turning point in the game, and it feels that way partially due to the way space is used in this town's design. It feels sprawling in a way that no other location has felt to date - not Shibuya, not Ginza, not the underpass. You know that it's a (generally) peaceful area, but it feels important and notable. And indeed, due to its shop layout you'll probably use the area as your informal HQ for most of the game going forward. But the space that the town takes up, and the way it utilizes interior and exterior spaces both, makes it feel overtly notable.
Nocturne also uses straight lines strategically to increase the feeling of progression at certain points. Long corridors, stretches of highway, and the entire Ginza Underpass sequence are straight paths that are propulsive and provide a direct feedback to the player that they are definitely moving forward in the game.
When it comes to "narrative," use of space can be a little less obvious.
Space as Mood: When SMT: Nocturne begins - and keep in mind what a difficult game this can be - the outside is the most dangerous place you can be. After escaping the Shinjuku Hospital, you find yourself on the world map in the strange, transformed Tokyo, but the encounters on that map are far more dangerous than the ones in any interiors you can get to. There are angels and agile flying creatures with strong magic. The wide open areas feel like a killzone, and your desperate run across the sandswept former Tokyo drives home the bleakness of the post-Conception world.
From that point onward, though, you'll notice that virtually all of the game takes place in interiors. You'll pop outside for a bit to travel to a new place (and aside from a single Fiend battle, the outside is never as dangerous after that first time), but the Amala link between terminals means that most of your journey will be via teleportation. Much of your existence in the Vortex World, then, becomes a seemingly-endless string of temples, tunnels, and destroyed commercial property that contribute to the emotionally-draining atmosphere. Until Yoyogi Park.
Long-teased as the stronghold of the fairies (since that first desperate rush across the sands, in fact!), finally arriving in the Park on the trail of Sakahagi and Chiaki feels like stepping into an alien place all over again. Where is the ceiling in this dungeon? The construction, and the Pixie teleport pranks, make Yoyogi Park a confusing maze, but the fact that the space feels so open is disorienting in a fascinating way. This is only appropriate, because your arrival in the Park also marks your reunion with Miss Takao and her possessor Aradia, whose behavior can only be viewed as unsettling to your character. The dizzying nature of the dungeon fits the mood that the character should be in at this stage.
And about that ceiling - Far, far above, you are able to make out the other side of the world. The egg-shaped Vortex World does not offer many instances where you can see to the other side, but it looms over you here in the distance - at the stage right before each of the Reason holders summon their gods - and reminds you that time is running out. This park's level design and its use of space specifically evokes the turning point in the narrative towards the final act, and conveys a mood that supports that turning point.
Space as Context: Two examples here.
First, the Case of the Tunnels. There are a total of three subway tunnels to explore in Nocturne, and despite the aesthetics of each tunnel being identical, each carries a different feel to it in its design.
The first tunnel is your introduction to the level type. Darkness is the predominant danger in the tunnels, and depending on how you've played the game to this point, the inability to see or use much of the map can make the trip quite arduous (and it's one of your first encounters with poison floors, as well - hope you hit the First Kalpa Shady Broker for that Pisaca!). The tunnel is unpleasant, and a bit longer and harder than any dungeons to date.
The second tunnel, on the other hand, is a breeze if you're not pursuing the side quest. There is nothing about the second tunnel that is any different than the first, aside from length and a few pitfalls. This second time, you're hot on Sakahagi's trail, and the sameness of the tunnel design fits the way that you can disregard it - my first time through, I made it to the end without even bumping into any of the four Oni thieves that make up the side quest, and I was actively looking for them! While that side quest itself can be difficult, the level design itself reinforces what you know about "tunnel" levels.
The third tunnel, however, is markedly different than the previous two. Starting off with the final Fiend battle would be enough to make this sequence upsetting, but put that aside for the moment and focus on the level design itself. Each tunnel begins with a subway station in the same shape, but this third tunnel's station has two entrances. One leads to a small treasure cache, but what's notable is that it's different. Your expectation has been deliberately upset, based on the context of the previous two tunnels. Within the tunnel proper, this upset becomes magnified with the addition of a new design element, steep slopes that mark a one-way path down to floor below. Suddenly, it's much harder to backtrack - you are pushed further and further onward - there are even one-way doors, which have never figured into a tunnel sequence before. This sequence takes place directly before the Diet Building, the final dungeon before the Labyrinth/Tower endgame, and the site of one last major confrontation with Hikawa before everyone begins climbing to fulfill their Reason. The breaking of the pattern in level design and the forced progression match the story, based on the context provided by previous dungeons.
The second example is also Hikawa-related, and is actually a sort of earlier parallel to the third tunnel example. The first time you get to confront Hikawa in the Vortex World, you do so in the lowest floor - the core room - of the Assembly of Nihilo. It's a very "final battle" setting in its appearance, but of course after explaining a few things Hikawa takes off and leaves you to a minion. As you travel to the Tower of Kagutsuchi for the first time, however, your only method of getting to that part of the city is through the rear entrance of the Assembly. You find yourself once again in the core room, now vacant and dead, and your return to this familiar space is haunting, and a reminder of everything that is at stake in the plot. A familiar space is repurposed in a new context.
To add further significance to this sequence, beyond the core room is a single corridor that leads towards the Tower. This corridor is very, very long (and eerily enemy-free) and first evokes a similar corridor path that you took fifteen floors above, the first time you came to the Assembly. But it just keeps going and going. Some of this is practical - you're covering a lot of ground "outside," so it has to feel like you're traveling a long distance - this is space-as-time again - but the length of the corridor is also very mood-setting, partially because of the context established in the previous room.
Space as Metaphor: Well, you know, MegaTen games, in dealing specifically with level design as metaphor, you have to tackle the elephant in the room first of all, which is the towers. So many towers. I'm not even sure I can get an accurate count on how many towers they've used over the years. Look, though: you think they don't know? Consider the last two years. Catherine portrayed the tower-climbers as dopey sheep (it was affectionate), and then Devil Survivor 2 was all about destroying towers. They're aware of their own iconography.
Towers are about "ascending" and at the top of a MegaTen tower, there's always some form of "enlightenment." Obviously this is most explicit in Digital Devil Saga (Avatar Tuner) but if we take "enlightenment" more loosely, it's always where at least understanding is conveyed - plot revelations, etc. The level design of these towers always convey a degree of importance, and often finality - even those towers which are not actually final.
A more specific Nocturne example, however, is the infamous Labyrinth of Amala. The five Kalpas, unlocked one at a time as the game progresses, are increasingly convoluted, just as they are increasingly dangerous - and aesthetically, increasingly disturbing, as they shift from a traditional dungeon appearance to organic, living corridors that are slightly nauseating to look at.
Those aesthetics actually mask the full symbolism of the Kalpa design, however. Each Kalpa is progressively nonsensical and confusing in its layout, each in a different way, until the final path at the bottom of the Fifth Kalpa, when the path becomes singular. This level design has multiple parallels - not only Lucifer's lies, leading to the final truth of his plan, but also the internal struggle that the Hito-Shura faces by exploring the Kalpas at all - a conflicted and confusing path until his final resolve to join Lucifer's side.
Moreover, "Calpa" is a word meaning one life in a string of reincarnations. If you are following Lucifer's path in Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne, then the Hito-Shura is throwing in with Lucifer's claim that the reincarnations of the world (a pattern stretching back to the very first game in the series, and the basis for the series title) are a pattern that must be broken from. The confusing mazes of the Kalpas represent the tangle of time, the multiverse of the series, prompted by these resurrections; and if the Hito-Shura resolves to take the final steps to begin war with the Great Will, to end these resurrections, the path becomes singular in response.
***
You'll note that many of the examples seemed to cross over from one idea of space to another. This is exactly as it should be; games must rely on synthesis to function as complete units. That each idea in Nocturne links with others - and that because of this, the narrative and the gameplay intertwine - is why it's such a rich, satisfying game and one of the greatest of its genre.
Consider, when looking at the level design of other "JRPG" games, how often the design supports the other aspects of the game as well as happens here.
I have been looking forever for this article. Had thought it didn't actually exist and I just dreamed it up. What happened to the previous blog?
ReplyDeleteGiven that the previous blog was connected to a comic that no longer runs, I think we can all figure this out on our own.
Delete