Left 4 Dead 2, Theories of Fun: Stories
A common reaction I found, when some of my peers realized that I was attempting to analyze the narrative qualities of Left 4 Dead 2, was always of surprise and bewilderment: “Left 4 Dead 2 had a story?” And at first glance, I too, scratched my head trying to recall what the story was. Searching for a traditional story arc, an overarching narrative seemed elusive and faint at best. But where this centralized form of plot seemed to be lacking, a flourishing narrative web connecting various aspects of the game seemed to take shape. Yes, the game had a somewhat significant path by which the characters would traverse the Southern United States, but the real stories to be told of Left 4 Dead 2 stemmed from its integration of various story threads: of character interaction; of player’s own emergent experiences; of the little pieces of recorded history of the world; into the intertwining gameplay without getting in the way of the game’s systems.
In Game design as narrative architecture, Jenkins highlights Kevin Lynch’s The Image of the City when he breaks down emergent narrative, a specifically potent method by which game designers can provide players with a space that “enhances every human activity that occurs there, and encourages the deposit of a memory trace” (Lynch). Stimulated by the environment, the play that occurs creates dramatic and memorable experiences. When playing through the Dark Carnival campaign, one such experience occurred over the course of the last level in the campaign:
We had already wiped once and were coming around for a second try at the final stage of the campaign. Eager to start the rock concert event to signal the rescue helicopter, three of us rushed ahead, unaware that Coach was still standing idly at the start. It was only until after we started the fireworks show and undead began to pour from the woodwork that we realized that Coach, now incapacitated and swarmed by countless undead, was lost to us.
Down a man, we grouped up at the center stage, nudging into various corners and peeking shots into the stands whenever a special infected poked its head. And then a roar. A boulder flew into our midst, knocking us apart and flinging me from the stage. Lumbering onto the set, a tank took a frenzied swing at Rochelle and Ellis, lurching forth with its oversized body. With the fresh opportunity of separation, I waded alone into the horde of undead, shooting a path toward one of the elevated towers in the stands overlooking the stadium. The fight below had now pushed off the stage to the area just under the seating. From the vantage point above, the tank and the surrounding area were quickly consumed by the flames of freshly thrown molotovs. But then a rhythmic rumble reverbed through the concert hall. With a sigh of relief, I watched as the helicopter rushed across my view, coming to a halt at the opposite side of the stadium. And yet, in my moment of distracted ease, I had not realized that Ellis and Rochelle were running toward the helicopter unopposed. Another roar, and the now flaming tank clambered onto the platform, swatting me away with his fist in the process. I flew, bones crunching as I crushed into the ground below, instantly incapacitated by both the force of the blow and the several story fall. The undead swarming my helpless body, I watched in horror as the helicopter pulled away; Ellis and Rochelle escaping to safety as I attempted to stave off the horde with pathetic shots of my pistol. And then that flaming monster, roaring and grunting with exertion, filled my view. A sickening crunch, and I was no more.
Jenkins, Henry. “Game design as narrative architecture.” First person: New media as story, performance, and game. Ed. Noah Wardrip-Fruin & Pat Harrigan. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003.
118–130. <http://www.electronicbookreview.com/thread/firstperson/lazzi-fair>.
Lynch, Kevin (1960). The Image of the City. Cambridge: The MIT Press.
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