Précis	of	Games:	Agency	as	Art C.	Thi	Nguyen This	précis	was	originally	written	for	a	Pea	Soup	online	book	forum.	Games:	Agency	as Art	is	available	from	Oxford	University	Press. Games	are	a	distinctive	form	of	art	-	and	very	different	from	many	traditional	arts. Games	work	in	the	medium	of	agency.	Game	designers	don't	just	tell	stories	or	create environments.	They	tell	us	what	our	abilities	will	be	in	the	game.	They	set	our	motivations,	by	setting	the	scoring	system	and	specifying	the	win-conditions.	Game	designers sculpt temporary	agencies for	us to	occupy.	And	when	we	play	games,	we adopt these	designed	agencies, submerging	ourselves in them,	and taking	on their specified	ends	for	a	while. Games	constitute	a	library	of	agencies	-	and	by	exploring	them,	we	can	learn	new ways	to	inhabit	our	own	agency.	When	we	play	games,	we	engage	in	a	special	form	of agential	fluidity.	We	can	absorb	ourselves	temporarily	in	alternate,	constructed	agencies.	Games	make	use	of	that	capacity	to	record	different	practical	mindsets.	Games turn	out	to	be	our	technology	for	communicating	forms	of	agency. The	book's	analysis	begins	with	Bernard	Suits'	proposal	that	to	play	a	game	is	to	voluntarily	take	on	unnecessary	obstacles.	For	Suits,	the	essence	of	game-playing	lies	in a	curious	relationship	between	means	and	ends.	The	end	we	pursue	in	a	game	isn't usually	valuable in itself.	Passing	the	ball through	the	basket	has little	value	on its own;	otherwise	we	would	just	take	a	ladder	to	an	empty	court	and	have	at	it.	A	gamegoal	is	valuable	when	it	is	achieved	within	certain	specified	constraints.	Baskets	are valuable	when	we	make	them	while	obeying	the	dribbling	constraint	and	facing	opponents. Suits'	analysis	suggests	that	there	are	different	motivational	approaches	available	to game	players: Achievement	play:	Trying	to	win	for	the	value	of	winning	(or	the	value	of	what	follows	from	winning,	like	money) 2 Striving	play:	Trying	to	win	for	the	value	of	the	struggle	(or	what	follows	from	the struggle,	like	fitness) Achievement	play	is	motivationally	straightforward.	An	achievement	player	tries	to win	because	winning	is	valuable	to	them.	But	a	striving	player	doesn't	value	winning in	any	sort	of	enduring	way.	They	get	themselves	to	care	temporarily	about	winning in	order	to	be	absorbed	in	the	struggle.	Striving	play,	then,	involves	a	curious	motivational	inversion.	In	ordinary	practical	life,	we	choose	the	means	for	the	sake	of	the end. In	striving	play,	we	choose the	end for the	sake	of the	means that it forces is through. Some	doubt	that	striving	play	exists.	But	consider	what	we	might	call	"stupid	games". A	stupid	game	is	one	where: 1.	The	fun	part	is	failing 2.	But	you	have	to	try	to	succeed	in	order	to	have	fun. Stupid	games	include	Twister,	Telephone,	and	many	drinking	games.	In	Twister,	the funny	part is	when	you	fall.	But it isn't funny	if	you	fell	on	purpose.	Falling is	only funny	as	a	genuine	failure,	and	it's	a	genuine	failure	only	if	you	were	really	trying	to succeed. Stupid games	demonstrate the	possibility of striving	play.	What	we really	want is comic	failure,	but	in	order	to	get	it,	we	must	submerge	ourselves	in	the	struggle	to succeed.	But	it	isn't	success	what	we	really	care	about.	Striving	play	shows	that	our local	goals	and	our	larger	purposes	can	diverge	sharply.	Once	we	have	cottoned	on, we can see that the	motivational structure of striving play is commonplace. In so much	game-play,	our	larger	purpose	is	to	have	fun,	but	having	fun	requires	a	temporary	dedication	to	the	win. Games	are	often	misunderstood	by	scholars.	It	is	easy	to	look	at	these	artificial	game goals	-	crossing	the	finish	line,	accumulating	green	tokens	-	and	see	no	value	in them.	It	is	tempting,	then,	to	declare	the	game	worthless.	But	to	see	the	value	of	striving	play,	we	should	look,	not	forward,	to	the	goal	of	the	game	and	what	follows	from it,	but	backwards,	to	the	activity	of	pursuit.	The	goals	of	games	are	often	valuable	in virtue	of	the	activity	that	they	shape	and	inspire.	(And	games	are	not	the	only	striving activity.	Art	appreciation	is	best	understood	as	a	striving	activity	-	one	where	we 3 pursue	correct	judgments	about	art	for	the	sake	of	the	delightful	struggle	to	understand.) Game-playing	demonstrates	our capacity for	agential fluidity.	When	we	haul	out	a new	board	game,	we	read	the	rules	to	find	out	what	we	are	supposed	to	care	about: competing	or	cooperating;	accumulating	money	or	gaining	experience	points;	collecting	resources	or	killing	other	players.	And	to	get	the	most	out	of	the	game,	we	must bring	ourselves	to	care	as	the	rules	direct. Striving	play	shows	that	we	can	take	on	disposable	ends.	We	can	take	on	temporary ends	for	instrumental	reasons	–	but	also	make	them	appear	under	the	guise	of	finality. We	must be able to submerge ourselves in this alternate agency, to put our larger agency	out	of	mind.	Imagine	a	striving	player	who	could	only	pursue	game	goals	in	a transparently	instrumental	fashion.	They	could	never	be	wholehearted	in	their	play. Since	they	pursued	the	win	transparently	for	the	sake	of	the	struggle,	it	would	be	entirely	reasonable	for	them	to	throw	the	game	whenever	they	were	about	to	win,	in order	to	prolong	the	struggle.	But	this	makes	it	impossible	to	have	the	total	instrumental absorption that so	many	players	desire.	The	phenomenology	of game	play shows	that	we	have	the	ability	to	submerge	ourselves	in	alternate	agencies.	We	can put	our	larger	interest	in	a	pleasurable	struggle	out	of	mind	for	a	while,	and	devote ourselves	to	the	goal	of	winning. So:	game	designers	sculpt	a	form	of	agency	and	embed	it	in	a	game.	And	players	submerge	themselves	in	that	sculpted	agency.	Games,	then,	turn	out	to	be	our	technology for	recording	and	communicating	forms	of	agency.	They	comprise	our	library	of	agencies.	And,	just	as	libraries	of	conventional	texts	let	us	explore	others'	ideas,	narratives, and	emotional	perspectives,	games	let	us	explore	different	modes	of	agency.	Chess focuses us on analytic, rigorous, calculational thinking;	Diplomacy focuses us on a Machiavellian	style	of	deceit;	Tetris focuses	us	on	geometrical	rotational	manipulations.	By	playing	a	variety	of	games,	we	learn	new	modes	of	practicality.	Games	can help	us	become	more	free	by	teaching	us	new	ways	to	inhabit	our	own	agency. It	might	seem	paradoxical	that	such	rigidly	specified	forms	of	agency	could	help	us	to become	more	free	-	especially	when	those	agencies	have	been	designed	by	another. Game-playing	might	start	to	look	suspiciously	like	subservience.	But	those	rigid	specifications	are	actually	the	means	of	transmitting	a	sculpted	agency.	This	is	how	we communicate	agencies.	We temporarily inhabit those	rigid forms in	order to learn what	there	is	to	be	learned.	And	games	are	not	alone	here.	Think	of	how	yoga	works. Yoga	forces	us	out	of	our	physical	habits	by	clearly	specifying	novel	postures.	Left	to 4 our	own	devices,	we	tend	to	fall	into	habit.	The	strict	directions	involved	with	yoga are	a	technique	for	surmounting	these	habits	-to	help	us	find	our	way	into	an	unfamiliar	postures.	Games	do	the	same,	but	for	practical	mindsets.	Games	are	yoga	for our	agency. Games	can	also	sculpt	social	relationships.	By	specifying	agencies	for	individual	players,	multiplayer	games	can	specify	practical relationships	between	players, and	so create	new	patterns	of	socialization.	Scholars	often	treat	games	as	a	special	kind	of fiction,	or	a	new	type	of	cinema.	But	games	are	more	distinctive	than	that.	Games	are manipulations	of	rules	and	constraints	and	affordances.	Their	closest	relatives	are	not fictions,	but	legal	structures	and	urban	planning.	Games	are	art-governments. So	what	is	the	artistic	value	of	games?	Games	are	particularly	good	at	fostering	the aesthetics	of	action,	at	bringing	out	the	beauty	and	grace	in	our	actions,	choices,	and movements. (And comic clumsiness, too.) Non-game life offers us the occasional glimpse	of	beauty	in	our	own	action.	We	react	to	a	falling	box	with	a	thrillingly	graceful	dodge;	we	figure	out	the	answer	to	the	philosophy	problem	that's	plaguing	us	with a glorious, epiphanic twist of the	mind.	These are	moments of practical harmony, where	our	actions	and	abilities	find	some	lovely	fit	with	the	practical	demands	of	the world.	But	such	harmonies	are	rare	in	the	wild.	The	world	is	often	too	much	for	us, and	our	actions	often	clumsy	or	futile.	Or	the	world	forces	us	into	to	repeat	easy	actions	to	the	point	of	grinding	boredom.	But	games	give	us	ready	access	to	the	aesthetics	of	action.	The	game	designer	can	concentrate	these	practical	harmonies,	because they	control	over	both	ends	of	the	equation:	both	in-game	agent	and	game-world.	In games,	our	agency	and	our	world	can	be	engineered	to	fit. It's	easy	to	misunderstand	games	if	we	try	to	assimilate	them	to	more	familiar	arts. Most	well-theorized	arts	are	object	arts.	The	artist	creates	an	artifact,	and	we	admire the	aesthetic	qualities	of	that	artifact.	But	games	are	a	process	art.	In	the	process	arts, the	stable	artifact	is	not	the	primary	focus	of	aesthetic	appreciation.	Instead,	the	artifact	calls	forth	actions	from	its	audience,	and	the	audience	is	meant	to	appreciate	the aesthetic	qualities	of	their	own	actions.	If	we	focus	on	appreciating	the	game	itself,	as if	it	were	a	painting	or	novel,	then	we	will	miss	the	most	important	part.	The	beauty of	games	isn't	in	the	stable	artifact	of	the	game	itself;	it	is	in	the	beautiful	actions	the game	instigates	in	its	players. Perhaps	the	most	potent	and	seductive	pleasure	of	games	lies	in	their	value	clarity.	In normal	life,	our	values	are	usually	complex	and	conflicting.	Their	nature	can	be	subtle, their	application	obscure.	But	in	games,	for	once	in	our	lives,	we	know	exactly	what 5 we	are	doing	and	exactly	how	well	we	have	done	it.	After	all,	there	are	points.	What's more,	all	the	other	agents	in	the	game	are	typically	acting	for	exactly	the	same	reasons -	so	the	values	of	the	in-game	social	world	are	perfectly	comprehensible	and	coherent.	Games	offer	us	an	existential	balm,	a	relief	from	the	value-confusion	of	our	ordinary	lives. A	serious	danger	of	games,	then,	is	that	they	might	encourage	players	to	export	an expectation	for	such	clarity	into	the	rest	of	their	lives	-	to	expect	obvious	values	and crisply	quantified	successes.	Such	people	would	then	be	attracted	to	systems,	professions,	and	institutions	that	offered	the	appearance	of	systematic	and	clear	value	systems – like, say, finance, or quantified learning outcomes. And they	might permit themselves	to	be	dangerously	wholehearted	in	their	pursuit	of	those	crisped-up	values.	After	all,	in	games,	we	are	permitted	to	treat	everything	as	an	instrument	in	our all-consuming pursuit of success. Don't	worry about games creating serial killers; worry	about	them	creating	Wall	Street	bankers. Understanding	the	value	of	games	also	helps	us	to	see	more	clearly	the	dangers	of gamification.	In	gamification,	we	add	game-like	elements, like	scoring	and	levelling up,	into	ordinary	activity	in	order	to	make	things	less	boring	and	more	fun.	But	what works	so	well	in	games	proper	may	wreak	havoc	on	ordinary	life.	Games	offer	heightened	experiences	of	meaningfulness	and	success	precisely	because	they	employ	artificially	narrowed	goals.	In	striving	games,	this	isn't	especially	worrisome,	because	we are	only	narrowing	our	temporary,	disposable	ends.	But	when	we	gamify	real-world activities like	work,	education,	and	communication,	we tempt	oursleves to	narrow our	enduring	ends. I	call	this	larger	phenomenon	value	capture.	Value	capture	occurs	when: 1.	Our	natural	values	are	rich	and	subtle. 2.	We	are	placed	into	a	social	or	institutional	setting	which	presents	to	us	simplified	–	often	quantified	-	versions	of	those	values. 3.	The	simplified	versions	take	over	in	our	motivation. Examples	include:	wearing	a	FitBit	to	improve	your	health,	and	coming	to	just	care about	maximizing	your	step-counts.	Going	to	school for the	sake	of	education,	and starting	to	care	mostly	about	your	GPA.	Going	to	philosophy	graduate	school	for	the love	of	wisdom,	and	coming	out	fixated	on	your	citation	rates	and	the	status	of	your 6 publications on some ranked list.	Or, perhaps	most dangerously of all: going	onto Twitter	for	the	sake	of	communication	and	connection	–	and	then	becoming	obsessed with	your	Retweets	and	Follower	counts. The	account	of	games	helps	to	explain	the	motivational	stickiness	of	numbers.	Our natural	values	are	rich,	but	they	are	often	hard	to	express.	The	sharp,	explicit	format of	retweet	numbers,	citation	rates	and	ranked	lists	have	a	competitive	advantage	in our	justifications.	If	we	adopt	these	simplified	values,	we	will	be	granted	a	delicious hedonic	reward.	Our	efforts	will	gain	the	clarity	and	the	thrill	of	a	game.	All	we	have to	do	is	peg	our	values	to	a	simple	metric.	But	that	metric	has	been	made	by	someone else	-	according	to	their	interests,	and	not	ours. One	scant	hope:	the	aesthetic	stance	towards	game-playing	might	offer	a	bit	of	protection	against	value	capture.	When	we	play	a	game,	we	absorb	ourselves	in	the	instrumental	pursuit	of	clear,	explicit	ends.	But	when	we	evaluate	our	experiences	aesthetically,	we	step	back	and	reflect	on	the	whole	activity in	subtler,	more	sensitive terms.	That	encourages	us	to	practice	fluidity	in	our	agency	-	a	certain	light-footedness	with	our	cares.	It	encourages	us	to	play	around,	a	little	bit,	with	our	values	and selves.