Walk or die: The notion of movement as a narrative tool

Please note some of these games will have spoilers on this text.

Big spoilers :
ICO (Team ICO, 2001)
Shadow of Memories (Konami, 2002)
Journey (thatgamecompany, 2012)
Brothers (Starbreeze Studios, 2013)
Inside (Playdead, 2016)
Hellblade : Senua’s Sacrifice (Ninja Theory, 2017)
God of War (Santa Monica Studio, 2018)
Outward (Nine Dots Studio Inc., 2019)

Minor spoilers :
Uncharted – la saga (Naughty Dog)
The Last of Us – saga (Naughty Dog)
Yakuza / Like a Dragon – saga (RGG Studio)
Pong (Allan Alcorn, 1972)
Tomb Raider (Core Design, 1996)
PoKéMon (Game Freak, 1996)
Resident Evil IV (Capcom, 2005)
The Elder Scrolls IV : Oblivion (Bethesda Softworks, 2006)
Alone in the Dark (Eden Games and Mighty Rocket Studio, 2008)*
Deadly Premonition (Hidetaka Suehiro, 2010)
Minecraft (Notch and Mojang Studios, 2011)
Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar, 2013)
The Witcher III : Wild Hunt (CD Projekt RED, 2016)
The Last Guardian (Team ICO, 2016)
The Legend of Zelda : Breath of the Wild (Nintendo Entertainment P&D, 2017)
Death Stranding (Kojima Productions, 2019)
Assassin’s Creed : Valhalla (Ubisoft, 2020)
Lake (Gamious, 2021)
The Good Life (White Owls, 2021)
It Takes Two (Hazelight Studios, 2021)
Baldur’s Gate III (Larian Studios, 2023)
Neva (Nomada Studio, 2024)

The left thumb glides nonchalantly over the joystick. A fraction of a second later, the character on the screen springs to life. This gesture, so minimalist, so innocent, has been performed by gamers thousands, tens of thousands of times, mostly without a second thought. Whether it’s scrolling up and down the monolithic bars of Pong (Allan Alcorn, 1972), reaching a ledge a little too high for an acrobatic Lara Croft (Tomb Raider, Core Design, 1996), or crossing a maelstrom of red missiles in a shoot’em up, the notion of movement is very often the main mechanic of a video game. In fact, it also governs how players respond to a scathing line in a visual novel, by moving the cursor over the corresponding sentence.

Interaction through movement is the essence of video games, and all the other interfaces and dilemmas that can arise from it are grafted onto it. In the vast majority of contemporary production, movement is perceived as nothing more than a tool, an obligation essential to the smooth running of the action. Moving any master assassin in Ubisoft’s flagship saga has followed the same rules for decades, with no attempt to renew them. Leaping, skirting a ledge, hiding in a pile of hay – these are all moves that have been repeated tirelessly from one opus to the next (though this in no way detracts from their intrinsic usefulness and effectiveness, let’s be clear). In reality, players no longer even think about moving around in a game. And yet, the medium is still a long way from having explored all the possibilities offered by such a capability. Some productions have therefore set out to put the very concept of this elementary interaction back at the heart of the gaming experience, to the delight of an audience in search of constant renewal.

One small step after another

歩荷. A typically Japanese term pronounced “bokka” and difficult to translate. The first kanji, 歩, can designate a step forward, a stride. The second, 荷, represents a piece of luggage. A rough translation of this funny word might be “the march of parcels”. The 歩荷 are atypical professionals, whose task is to traverse inhospitable lands, often on foot, often deep in hard-to-reach areas, to deliver various items to customers living reclusively far from civilization. The “bokka” are porters who, equipped with wooden ladders on their backs, can carry over one hundred and fifty kilos of goods. It’s hard not to see in this profession an obvious parallel with the game that will open this text, Kojima Productions’ Death Stranding, released in 2019.

Indeed, it’s one of the first games to come to mind when citing a videogame experience that places walking at the center of its gameplay loop. Behind the eccentricities inseparable from the genial Japanese creator, beyond the narrative escapades that only he seems able to unravel, Hideo Kojima has perfected a movement system like no other. The movements of Sam Porter Bridges, the default protagonist of this nightmarish journey, are governed by a set of interconnected systems, the purpose of which is to give a palpable consistency to the simple function of walking. While most of Death Stranding’s missions boil down to transporting various goods from point A to point B, the preparation phase required to successfully complete this operation is undoubtedly just as exciting as the journey itself. First of all, the game’s development teams, using the DECIMA engine kindly shared by Guerrilla Games Studios, have done a masterful job on two key points associated with the character: his animations and his physics.

Sam doesn’t move like the aforementioned Lara Croft, reacting by the second to the slightest impulse sent by the player’s fingers; no, Sam’s body exists within its environment and submits to the physical rules that govern the latter. Sam takes the time needed to take a first step forward, to turn around – suddenly or otherwise – to climb a wall, to start a stride and flee from potential opponents. The delivery man, for such is his role, does not behave like a video game character, but as a physical entity subject to gravity, his muscles and his equipment. To go with this substantial work on the character’s physics and weight, Kojima Productions’ artists opted for realistic modeling of Sam’s movements. The character doesn’t automatically branch off by magic when he has to change direction in a frantic race. Nor does he dodge uneven ground when sprinting at the top of his lungs, nor does he magically conjure up the equipment he’s carrying. Every movement is precise, meticulous and, above all, coherent. This coordination between animation and physics lends a density to Sam that, through these simple devices, gives him the sensation of existing, of being integrated into the apocalyptic scenery he tirelessly traverses.

Of course, these techniques are not enough to make walking the game’s main asset. Both rely on a gameplay element that constantly demands players’ attention: balance management. Death Stranding’s playground is anything but snoringly regular. Drop after drop, chasm after chasm, chasm after chasm, and vertical walls prevent walkers from reaching elevated plateaus. And then, of course, there’s the rocky, slippery terrain, raging torrents and snow-covered hills. As is the case in almost all open worlds, these scenery elements not only serve an atmospheric function, but also serve the gameplay, as Sam must optimize his movements while constantly managing his balance. The use of the stick alone is not enough to progress in this chaotic world; the character’s balance must be controlled by applying the right amount of pressure on the joystick triggers, in order to straighten the character out under the weight of the various items of equipment he wears, which are distributed throughout his suit and not stored in a virtual inventory, as is the case in many games.

So, in addition to planning a mission’s route, which involves observing the terrain and its topography with the help of a holographic map that can be accessed at any time, preparing for a trip requires careful thought about the choice of utility items and weapons to take along. Every item, from a huge grenade launcher to a tiny blood bag, must be chosen with care. The same goes for the tiny but charming cosmetic accessories you can attach to your backpack. Managing these resources becomes a real game within the game, with the experience forcing players to make informed choices, mostly thanks to optional audio briefings that can be listened to at the start of a mission. As a result, in Death Stranding, walking in turn affects a set of micro-decisions to be made before and during the main gameplay loop, putting the notion of walking back at the center of the experience as intended by Kojima and his team. Where decades of insipid Fedex quests have exhausted, wearied and left indifferent thousands of players, Death Stranding aims to restore meaning to a fundamental activity, whose significance has tended to fade behind the monotony of repetitive action, and the poverty of the rewards obtained at the end of these activities (see the bitter failures in terms of game design of basic Fedex quests).

To prepare for the trip

Of course, Death Stranding is far from being the only game to take special care in mastering this walking activity within a game. Most exploration games, for example, have planned at length how to implement this essential activity in their code, so as not to demotivate potential players. It is possible to extract two terribly effective concepts that make moving around fun and far from soporific. The first of these concepts has already been discussed a few lines above, when mention was made of travel preparation.

In a game like The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (Bethesda Softworks, 2006), escaping from a walled city to explore the surrounding forests is no real danger. At any time, you can open the game’s map and choose a point of interest you’ve already visited – including the town you’ve just left – to go there with a single click, without consuming any special resources or incurring any malus. Similarly, approaching strategic locations such as hamlets, farms, forts, mines and abandoned towers unlocks new teleportation points on the same map. Here, walking is merely a tool for accessing the next quest, with no particular stakes separating the starting point from the destination. No special preparation is required in this case.

In Resident Evil 4 (Capcom, 2005), on the other hand, progression is far more intense. Not only because of the nature of the game, an action-oriented survival horror, but also because of the resources you can carry. In this game, the inventory is represented by a briefcase containing the various items of equipment that Leon, the main character, can take with him. The journey, lulled by mystery, thus becomes a test from which the player must emerge victorious, thanks to the items judiciously chosen in preparation for the journey. In this example, the notion of walking is limited by the restrictions placed on the player: he cannot take as many tools or as many weapons as he wishes, and will have to make choices. Sometimes, the interface adapts to emphasize this essential game design choice, as Alone in the Dark (Eden Games and Mighty Rocket Studio) did brilliantly in 2008, representing the inventory through the subjective view of the protagonist lowering his head to look at his long open coat, and choose the items stored in the various pockets.

The second concept capable of making travel fun hides in the jolts of the environment to be traversed. Walking in a straight line for three minutes won’t have the same flavor at all as if the terrain to be traversed is full of surprises and upheavals. These level design features can take various forms, with different effects, but all with the same purpose: to keep the player’s attention. To achieve this, the developers use the most banal climbing or jumping sequences, solving childish puzzles (operating levers, placing ladders, pushing elements, etc.), or even triggering scripted events to break the monotony of progression (such as a collapsing ledge). Sometimes, more original elements, such as the climatic disturbances present in The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (Nintendo Entertainment P&D, 2017), overturn the very way in which the journey is approached.

Ainsi, s’il se met à pleuvoir, le héros Link ne peut plus escalader les parois des structures naturelles ou artificielles qui l’entourent, ce qui force les joueurs à dénicher un nouveau passage, voire utiliser les éléments disponibles pour progresser (comme poser un tronc d’arbre penché, contre le mur à escalader, afin de pouvoir marcher dessus et rejoindre le sommet de ce dernier). De la même manière, lorsqu’un orage surgit, il convient de retirer toute pièce métallique de son équipement, de sorte à ne pas risquer d’être frappé par la foudre. Dans un jeu qui utilise principalement l’épée en tant qu’arme tutélaire, le bouleversement est tel que les joueurs doivent, une nouvelle fois, s’adapter (le tout sans oublier que les armes ont une durée de vie avant de se briser suite à une utilisation trop répétée). Bref, ces diverses astuces entretiennent un intérêt certain dans la notion de déplacement. Pourtant, les aléas de l’environnement seuls ne constituent pas l’unique moyen de rétention de l’attention des joueurs : la composition du monde elle-même peut aussi servir ce but.

Preparing for the journey can make it exciting, as it becomes dependent on the preparations and choices made beforehand. Such is the proposition of the incredible Outward (Nine Dots Studio Inc., 2019), a rather unique role-playing game in the landscape of modern RPGs, given that the core of its experience is based on travel and exploration. Reaching a city on the other side of the region won’t be a matter of a turn of the hand or a click on a teleport icon. In Outward, the player (or players, as the adventure can be experienced by two) has a backpack with a physical existence, as well as a few slots for hanging weapons or lanterns, for example. However, while the backpack is handy for carrying a sleeping bag, it becomes a serious disadvantage when it comes to taking on a few highwaymen. Players can then put down the rucksack, prepare their warrior gear, and set off to assault their opponents in the hope of emerging victorious from these jousts. And pray that the bag of riches and foodstuffs hasn’t been stolen if the group has wandered too far. In Outward, travel is at the heart of a management mechanic that brings consistency and importance not only to route planning (places to cross, time taken to travel) but also to equipment management.

To elevate the world

In an interview published around the time of the release of The Witcher III: Wild Hunt (CD Projekt RED, 2016), the level designers detailed their approach to weaving an open world – a first for the studio, which was coming off an episode consisting of large, connected zones. The elementary rule applied to the methodical construction of this open world was as follows: the player was obliged to find a point of interest at regular intervals of distance, or time. Here, a ruined shack housing a few resources to be plundered. There, the entrance to a cave leading to a chest containing a manufacturing schematic. Further on, a side quest indicated by the interface. Or again, an elevated point at the top of a ridge of earth, revealing a panorama studded with flowering trees and a city planted with proud towers in the distance. This galaxy of ancillary elements made it easy to get around on foot or horseback. In such an experience, travel is punctuated by the pleasure of discovery and the many surprises along the way.

Un autre intérêt du déplacement à pied, plus classique cependant, consiste dans l’amoncellement de ressources à collecter, comme des plantes, qui deviendront ultérieurement indispensables à la création de potions ou autres. Il n’est ainsi pas rare de fouiller les environs tout en progressant vers l’objectif actuel d’une mission tout en ramassant scrupuleusement les plantes (Horizon : Zero Dawn, Guerrilla Games, 2017), les blocs de différents types (Minecraft, Notch et Mojang Studios, 2011) ou même des créatures sauvages (PoKéMon, Game Freak, 1996).

The last and best-known example of how to energize the notion of movement is found mainly in infiltration games. In these experiences, certain sequences force players to progress in the most devious way possible. Sometimes this is not an obligation, but the possibilities are there nonetheless. Walking then becomes a game within a game, with players having to deal with the level design and layout of the area they are passing through in order to progress towards their objective. Perfectly positioned, perfectly sized bushes and other walls are not a rarity in these games, and playing with the environment as designed by the developers turns the character’s progress into a kind of topographical puzzle that must be overcome to continue the adventure.

In all these cases, walking is no longer a simple tool for getting around, but becomes a vector for interaction and an integral part of the gameplay loop.

To tell the world

There is, however, a second function to walking, which goes beyond that of service to gameplay: aiding narrative. Sometimes, the purpose of moving an avatar from point A to point B is not to make the player interact with the world, but the opposite: to make the world interact with the player. Or, in other words, to focus on developing either the story, a character, an atmosphere, or even setting up a one-off scene. Narrative tunnels are now relatively common in contemporary video game production. Indeed, it’s not uncommon to travel along marked, mostly linear paths, all subject to a progression time determined by the game.

Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice (Ninja Theory, 2017) opens with a solitary crossing in a boat, progressing delicately through the decrepitude of a wild, melancholy landscape, with the player guided only by the few, at this point incomprehensible, dialogues, an amalgam of voices laying out the stakes and themes of the game, including that of madness. It’s impossible to pick up the pace. Impossible to veer off course. The only thing that matters here is setting up the story and atmosphere: movement becomes a cog in the narrative. By depriving players of complex maneuvers, such as QTEs, and forcing them to simply progress, the developers imbue their audience with the aura of their game. What’s more, by placing this type of sequence at the start of the adventure, players have all the time they need to learn and assimilate their avatar’s controls and specificities: its animations, reaction time, physics, etc.

Staying with the bark theme mentioned above, there’s a pivotal scene in 2018’s God of War (Santa Monica Studios) in which Kratos, the saga’s main character, floats up a river harassed by tormented echoes of his past. This scene will only have a major impact on those who played the original trilogy, but no matter, its role is the same as that of most sequences of the same ilk: to refocus the stakes, support the tension of the moment, create anticipation and allow us to look back on past events. Although only third-person action-adventure games have been mentioned here, it should be pointed out that the same observation and the same issues of playful displacement can be found in two-dimensional works. The progress of the anonymous character in Inside (Playdead, 2016), for example, is peppered with haunting passages in which the sole aim is to move forward, soaking up the twilight atmosphere of this world. And in this case, the very last playable scene of the game is all about moving forward without concession, until you escape the confines of the physical and mental prison that forms the basis of the adventure. Yet there’s a seemingly innocent detail hidden in this grotesque finale: for one of the few times (the only time) the game lets the player choose whether to murder or let live a secondary character.

These narrative sequences associated with walking are not limited to a location in the game’s introductions, and can appear at pivotal moments throughout the adventure. Most of the time, players have no control over how these sequences unfold: they simply have to move forward, with no control whatsoever over the events unfolding around them. The primary aim of these sequences is to heighten the impact of these upheavals, and then to reveal the powerlessness to which the audience is subjected in the face of the destinies woven by the scriptwriters.

A final exercise in which the walking sequences regularly shine is the environmental narrative they offer. At the end of the short corridor that Link must cross when he awakens in Breath of the Wild, the camera frees itself from the tethers that have hitherto made it follow the character at a walking pace, and rises to reveal the immensity of the playground, which is just waiting to be crossed. On foot, of course, or even on horseback. When the viewpoint settles comfortably behind the Hylian’s back, and players can once again control him with the analog stick, no framing, no dialogue, no effects break the promise of adventure that dots the screen. There, the cobblestones of a ruined building wait to be trodden for the first time in years, here, smoke indicates the presence of a recently lit fire, and over there, far above the clouds, a flying creature cleaves the skies with grace and strength. Here, walking becomes the center of the experience, the one that allows all the others to exist (a concept to which can be added all the aforementioned remarks concerning the conception of the environment and the elements that can be found within it).

Break the loneliness

Alongside these moments of existential solitude, which allow players’ minds to wander as the developers wish, a new narrative technique has been gaining ground over the last few years, aimed at ensuring that the avatar is not left alone to face the obstacles of the environment. One of the best-known and most effective examples is to be found in Naughty Dog’s most modern productions. In the Uncharted saga, there are numerous levels in which the hero Nathan Drake shares the exploration with a fellow human being, from his mentor Sully to his wife Elena. These companions serve several purposes. First and foremost, they keep players interested, as progress is punctuated by dialogues of varying degrees of importance, which capture the audience’s senses, leaving them to progress without too much thought until the next test lies at the end of the road.

Secondly, these same dialogues deepen the relationships between the protagonists concerned. Their relationship evolves hour by hour, as players get to know these polygonal models a little better. While in most games duos are imposed, it’s interesting to note that this isn’t always the case, and that different group compositions can give rise to different, adapted exchanges (as is the case in the colossal Baldur’s Gate III, Larian Studios, 2023). However, this arrangement is quite rare, as most games using this technique feature duos. The Last of Us (Naughty Dog again, 2013), for example, builds its entire narrative around a single duo, even breaking its own rules on numerous occasions from different perspectives. This concept will be pushed even further in its sequel, a few years later.

It’s also worth noting that the presence of a companion character serves as a driving force, or rather an impetus, used to encourage players to continue the adventure despite the dangers and trials. In addition to the various difficulty modes available in the games, the presence of a secondary character capable of aiding progression is not to be overlooked. In God of War, for example, Atreus serves both as a warrior support during the various jousts, even unlocking combat techniques as the game progresses, and as a help in solving the various riddles scattered along the way. In the first version of the game, it’s not uncommon for Atreus to reveal the solution to various environmental puzzles in a matter of seconds. The secondary character thus becomes an aid, but as with every game design choice, it’s important to delimit the stakes correctly so as not to risk damaging the overall experience.

In contrast to these invasive dialogues, how can we not think of Journey (thatgamecompany, 2012) in which, while the entire experience can be completed in solitary mode, relies on a concept of encounter that is as unexpected and ephemeral as it is enchanting. In this game, the player can be paired up with a second player and progress with them through the various scenes of the journey, towards a mountain on the horizon, but without ever being able to exchange even a single word. A few sung notes can be shared, but communication is impossible, and the journey only ends in separation. Beyond the game’s incredible artistic and narrative mastery, it offers an experience like no other. Journey takes full advantage of this, imposing an intense sequence during which the avatars are separated. And as the minutes tick by, and everyone wonders if they’ll ever see their nameless companion again, the reunion occurs a few moments later, creating a feeling of incredible, galvanizing happiness, even though the game doesn’t actually accomplish anything incredible in terms of gameplay, nor does it renew anything in terms of mechanics. Great art, still far from being outdated in 2024.

Sometimes, it’s the way of walking itself that is turned upside down by rules designed specifically for the work. In ICO (Team ICO, 2001), creator Fumito Ueda decided to integrate a sense rarely used in the medium: touch. Progress through the immense maze represented by the game’s setting is punctuated by the obligatory help the main character must give to a mysterious young girl he is protecting. Beyond simply fending off enemies in the most basic of ways, with a stick (a theme reminiscent of the “rope and stick” concept developed in Death Stranding), Ico must help his companion progress by giving her a hand. Even if the player is playing solo, his or her progress is dictated by this duo, with the second character, over whom the player has no direct impact, taking on vital importance. Contrary to the simple accompaniment provided by secondary characters in Naughty Dog games, Yorda, as the young woman is called, becomes a gameplay mechanism that responds to the player’s actions and, in addition to gaining narrative depth, develops tangibility in terms of gameplay. The operation will be repeated in The Last Guardian (Team ICO, 2016), by the same creator, this time associating a young human with a gigantic animal creature.

Thus, the companions of a journey can become, with some effort, gameplay elements. In 2013’s Brothers (Starbreeze Studios), the player controls two brothers, each manipulated by one of the controller’s two joysticks. The game features a series of sequences combining narration and a variety of challenges, culminating in the amputation of one of the two characters from the equation in the final act. It’s fascinating to note the habits formed by the previous hours of play, just as it’s pertinent to note the impression of a phantom limb that emerges from the experience. In this case, the journey lays down a set of rules from the outset, with the sole aim of reducing them to nothing later on, and thus maximizing the emotional impact of this amputation.

And let’s not forget It Takes Two (Hazelight Studio, 2021), which turns the game’s journey into a shared experience for two, allowing the development of themes in line with the gameplay structure and the various tools and other sequences featured throughout the game. In this adventure, two players accompany, support and help each other, as they progress through levels dotted with events essential to progress, but also with subsidiary activities whose sole aim is to get back to the essence of the medium: the game, while strengthening the bonds between two individuals.

These days, games in which players are no longer alone are not as rare as they used to be, and it’s certain that many upcoming experiences will continually push the boundaries of such experiences, as the magnificent Neva (Nomada Studio, 2024 – note: article written before the game was released) seems to promise.

Take ownership of the landscapes

Finally, the simple act of walking can sometimes be nothing more than a game design choice in keeping with the underlying philosophy of the game in question. Very few players can traverse the huge world of Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla (Ubisoft, 2020) without a map, but many more can traverse the Kamurochō district (the Yakuza saga, RGG Studio). Thanks to its relatively small size (but overflowing with varied points of interest), and the presence of easily identifiable décor elements (unique stores, neon signs, streets with atypical architecture, giant screens, etc.), the hours spent wandering through these seedy alleys complete the mental map in the minds of players, who may more than once find themselves reaching a precise location as if they were on their way to the local bakery. Here, walking in these restricted areas encourages immersion, a task that is far more difficult to achieve in a megalopolis with countless arteries such as those in Los Santos (Grand Theft Auto V, Rockstar, 2013).

The impact of the appropriation of this Kamurochō district is all the more effective when we find it from one opus to the next and see its various evolutions, such as the opening of a district police station or the disappearance of a key location. Strolling past buildings that were once of capital importance, but are now no more than decorative elements, evokes a nostalgia that is difficult to emulate in other works.

Witnessing the evolution of these playgrounds remains a highly effective narrative tool, as demonstrated by the time travel involved in the unique Shadow of Memories (Konami, 2002). In this adaptation of the myth of the Faustian pact, Eike Kush investigates his own murder by visiting different eras, in which the slightest action can have an impact on subsequent ones. Eike moves around this tiny playground only on foot, and ends up knowing every alley, every house, inside and out. This assimilation of the environment can be found in games built on inclusion within a community, such as the delivery game Lake (Gamious, 2021) or The Good Life (White Owls, 2021). In some cases, this relationship with the playground is supported by the use of a vehicle, as in the aforementioned Lake, or the Lynchian Deadly Premonition (Hidetaka Suehiro, 2010). Whether by walking, which consists in following a path while observing the scenery, or by using a car, which consists in following a road while observing the scenery, the finality remains the same. Moving around allows the player to assimilate the world in which he or she is immersed.

Without even thinking about it, movement is at the heart of the gameplay loop. To help players escape the monotony of these necessary phases, used to link two scenes or narrate a given element, developers must constantly unearth new ideas and game design tricks with the aim of making these sequences playful. While not all sequences have to upset the stakes or delve into deep-rooted themes, or even revolutionize the game’s status quo, they do have to be engaging and, above all, tell a story. They can tell the story of the fall of an empire by covering the walls with faded frescoes, just as they can emphasize the difficulty of a protagonist’s ordeal when a bridge collapses but you have to keep going, or forge the bonds between an avatar and his adventure companion, but each of these passages must fulfill a role hidden from everyone’s view. Hidden, but essential. Let’s conclude with a phrase distilled by our dear proofreader, working in the shadows of this site, touching on the meaning of these playful experiences capable of taking us to unsuspected shores: Walk and dream.