The Dragon's Roar

Of things best in the abstract, one of my favorites is the roar of a dragon.

Through the years many interpretations of dragons have come and gone, and as our technology becomes better we produce increasingly "realistic" versions of the beast. Its various attributes which we abstract from the animal world in our imaginations gain material representation in art, and we can then apprehend the whole construction as though it were a reality.

With the visual comes the aural. We know what similar life forms sound like in real life, so when we design a dragon bodily we can have a good idea how it might sound based on size and animal makeup.

But as a creature born of the imagination, there is no "correct" portrayal of either aspect. Though the physical essence has definite parameters, the audible potential is much broader. Mankind has never heard a dragon, so the sound of one is generally based on individual mental association. And while biological sciences can provide much insight into how something sounds and why, such accidents of a mythological entity are ultimately unknown. To define its vocal abilities by its physical structure is a rather limiting course of action.

When the scenario doesn't demand a completely organic level of realism, I find that the best dragon sounds are those with a touch of paranormal extravagance. A sound that wouldn't quite be heard in reality gives life to the mythos of the dragon, preserving the fantastical quality of the unfamiliar without seeming altogether alien. This tends to be lost by the most "realistic" dragons' overblown komodo bellows; we feel so familiar with them that they are no longer as impressive by their very being.

The following are what I consider the top three dragon roars from video games. Let's begin on the realistic side sound-wise. Cut to about 0:45 and 3:30 for the best examples.

Openness to esthetic variety also gives way to originality regarding a dragon's place in its world; for example, how a dragon could translate as a character. Wind Waker's Lord Valoo is, to say the least, a very abstract dragon all around. His long neck and puffed jowls may look ridiculous at first, but the deep, hornlike howl he emits give his physique credibility and vice versa (except for the dinky wings, but that's another matter). The strength of his voice denotes his guardian status, and the beholder can't help but feel respectful of his magnificence.

A very different character is Ridley, the cold-blooded Space Pirate from Metroid.

This is not the kind of guy you want to meet in the dark (which is exactly how you do in the game). His otherworldly screech suits both his appearance and his vicious personality. Unfortunately, none of his incarnations after Super Metroid are up to snuff: in the Prime games he is more on the "realistic" side (the biggest problem being his generic keeping with the bulk of the game's creature sounds), and in the GBA titles he is pitifully cheesy.

My other favorite doesn't quite belong to a dragon. It is the cry of the skeleton coaster in New Super Mario Bros. Wii.

I like this one because of the wildness it contains, even apart from the scenario it belongs to. I can't quite picture what would be making this call in the wild, but I have a strong feel for the kind of place or situation in which it might be heard. Here the mythos is interpreted only enough to provide a baseline for further subjectivity, and even this is powerful.

I'm glad dragons don't exist. For starters I'm glad I never have to worry about running into one. But I also appreciate a fact obvious enough to be overlooked: that the dragon's imaginary essence is an opportunity for innumerable fantasies, and its unfixed qualities lead to creativity and an awe of the unreal. Among these flexible attributes, the sound of its roar is definitely one of the greatest.

Post Revision & Anime

Post fix 1: I have finished editing (probably not for the last time) my recent piece about sophistication according to base complexity and definition. I apologize for what was originally a confusing log of the evolution of my thought process and encourage you to read the revision.

Post fix 2: I was scrolling through the list of my posts, feeling nostalgic for the time I would casually blog whatever I was thinking about from a recent experience, when I found this. I immediately realized it needs some followup, for I have seen two animes. Here's the update.

S.C. was one day watching something on YouTube which he told me was the first episode of a space-western anime. After hearing how a friend had told him about it and another one in a conversation most simply put as "stuff like Firefly," and having had a glimpse of the exposition, I decided to use my spare time to check it out.

My curiosity could not have prepared me for the experience. Trigun was fascinating enough to make me set aside my repulsion from the general style and put up with the outrageous moments of anime as I knew it; and as I watched each episode, these feelings dissolved into an appreciation for the art and an acceptance of the silliness as a quality of the characters I grew to love. This may not have happened if the show wasn't tame compared to my previous exposures to anime (the stereotypical ridiculousness was never in the form of bad drama/action), and it was certainly aided by the simple philosophical intrigue offered by the wandering protagonist.

You are introduced to a cornball but highly skilled marksman with an unknown past, hunted and feared by all for something that apparently warrants a sixty billion dollar (double dollar, technically) reward for his capture. The first episode sets the stage for a season of exploits that tease and slowly reveal who this man is, as well as where and when the show is set. Vash the Stampede is known to show up at a random town and obliterate the entire place; but in this trail of destruction people forget the absurd fact that nobody ever dies. Following him around, you quickly see that he is not the monster everyone thinks he is. He foils the wicked, escapes the impossible, and helps everybody to a childlike extreme without his name passing as more than a rumor.

But what starts off simple and lighthearted becomes deep and mysterious as Vash's past hunts him down better than any bounty hunter. Through most of the season, revelations are given in the form of things to question, and everything is woven together by the end with extremely well-written flashbacks of things you had and hadn't seen before. The philosophical (and even theological!) spikes in an enormous sci-fi tale told from the crux backwards as Vash moves forwards. I was amazed.

And I eagerly turned to Cowboy Bebop, the counterpart among fans, which is more like Firefly than Trigun. I no longer had to take anime quirks in stride because this show steered clear of them. The art outdid itself, and the content was all over the place and awesome all the way.

Spike Spiegel and company are bounty hunters ("cowboys") trying to snag a living in outer space, shooting to bring in the wanted but usually ending up involved in much more than they intended. Typically they set things straight and honest where they would not have considered it their business and come up shorthanded where they insist it matters; they're like a small gang of Han Solos.

The show at large follows the various misadventures of this bunch; but while there is little of a unifying plot, the world is pleasantly knitted together. The writers achieve a delicate presentation that gives pieces of a whole without overtly assembling them. One scenario will provide information that another references for different reasons, and both treat it like common knowledge. The characters know the whole so you can take it for granted, and this works wonderfully.

Such coherence makes way for the complex crossing of paths between the characters as each makes a personal journey reconciling their past with their future. The true beauty of Cowboy Bebop is this collective dynamic, this band of friends traveling different roads through an evolving fellowship with each other. It masterfully portrays the joint individuality and universality of human life while exploring countless topics and situations.

(The show's one failing is how explicit the content can be at times. On top of the language and rather bloody shootouts, it very bluntly portrays a decadent culture that could be implied without showing some guy's collection of erotica plastered on the wall, bursting in on a pair of gays when trying to track down their crime boss, etc. This kind of thing varies from the odd camera angle to what is essentially a brief topless shot for plot purposes. View with discretion; if you can see Firefly, you can watch this.)

So, as always, the stereotypical conceals unique excellence. I am not specifically an anime fan, but two of the best TV shows I have seen are anime. Somebody told me these came from the golden age of anime and most programs these days are garbage; considering the decline I have witnessed in American kids' shows and cartoons, I believe it.

My God's Right Here

Happy Easter! I'd like to celebrate with a Christian inversion of the challenge, "Where is your God now?"


We really need more of this stuff.

Good Friday, Earth!

Today is both Earth Day and Good Friday. You'd think restraunts would take advantage of this and advertize, "Go green and meat-free with salads for 50¢!"

Tell me if they are. I'll be surprised.

Have a holy Good Friday, everyone.

Don't Explain, Just Repeat (Hoot!)

I often find writing to be most limited in that I cannot be certain a reader will understand my present discourse before I go further. When conversing, I can tell firsthand if someone follows my point, and I can approach it in another fashion as necessary. With writing I can only try my best and follow guidelines, but at certain points I simply need feedback. If I never wanted to rewrite anything, the best I could do would be to vainly pepper my ideas with the phrase, "With me so far?"

It would be superfluous to write the same thing multiple times with different phrasing. If I knew what was understandable, I would only need to write that. Asking the reader if they were with me could provoke little other than rereading the part they didn't get. Last night I was revising a particularly loaded post (I'll let you know when it's done) when this fact gave me an idea.

I want to make some sort of HTML tool that you could stick in your posts just to tease this. The owl from Zelda, Kaepora Gaebora, would sit rotating his head and asking you if he should repeat himself. If you click "Yes" the page would scroll to the last spot where you placed some kind of starter point; you could have multiple owls in one post. Thus would the character famous for identical reiterations of info get his share of loving humor in reference instead of merely annoyed memories.
Unless you scrolled through a post too fast and accidentally passed him, which would automatically hit "Yes." No, I'm kidding.

Redemption Creamer

Easter is a pretty universal Christian celebration, but what Christ did for us is not universally agreed upon. As a Catholic, I believe He made us new by washing away our sins with his blood. Protestants (at least some) disagree. I do not know how many different ideas may exist in the various Protestant communities; but the comparison I've heard goes something like, "Protestants think we are dung heaps, and Christ's sacrifice did not change us to glittering snow, but rather covered the dung with it so you can't see what's underneath."

Dung heaps, eh? It's a pretty evocative image. It also works well when you say explicitly what Catholics believe. But why not bring the analogy up to modern times? For I thought of one that gains humor and firsthand experience while still getting the point across perfectly:

"Protestants think that we are coffee, and Christ gives us sugar and cream; but no matter how much sugar and cream you put into coffee, it never stops tasting like coffee. Eventually you're just willing to ignore the coffee taste because of the sugar and cream taste."

Granted, most people won't back this comparison because they actually like coffee. And the monks probably wouldn't have appreciated their craft being used as such a symbol. I doubt they ever applied theology to roasting beans.

Darn monks.

The Fruits of Simplicity and the Importance of the Undefined

There is a famous computer simulation called "Conway's Game of Life," in which dots in a grid appear and disappear according to a certain set of criteria. The dots create more, go away, or maintain their existence based on how many others surround them. Such a simple system is capable of creating incredibly complex visuals. The interesting thing is these visuals tend to become less entertaining the more complex the base system, especially the grid, is. The patterns in a hex-based system, as opposed to the standard square one, are of a more or less predictable nature next to the latter. Many cool designs can appear, but the variation on the general result has enough limit to make a user defining the rules and initial positions lose interest. The basic four-sided system is much more fun to tinker with, as I can personally attest having spent unknown hours playing with a colorful version from an old "After Dark" screen saver program.

This simulation is the best example I can find to demonstrate a fact of nature: simplicity produces complexity.

If the atom were not such a simple structure, it could not as effectively form the many myriads of physical matter we observe day-to-day. If mathematics did not begin with the smallest unit, it could not calculate everything it needs to. The reason for this phenomenon should be obvious. A function is naturally limited by the size, as it were, of its parts: given a finite space in which to build a structure, Legos will allow more variation than Duplos. Also, the more complicated the parts, the more specifically they must work together and hence the easier it is for them not to (consider exclusive Lego pieces tailored to their specific sets; they are hard to use in an original work). In effect, there is an inverse relationship between the complexity of interacting parts and that of their results.

Unfortunately, a creator often destroys true simplicity when he tries to design it. If a unit is too individual it will broaden the entire construction to maintain its individuality. If it is too specialized it will need more specific parts with which to interact. In both cases the unit adds to the total complexity of the parts in an effort to be simple in itself. This makes the results of the parts' interplay with each other more limited. A unit that is only simple in itself has a false simplicity.

Being a nerd, I shall illustrate with a comparison of Super Mario 64 (the original, mind you) and Super Mario Galaxy. For gameplay purposes, consider Mario as a single unit. Powerups are external units that become part of his unit to alter him; and in-stage devices are separate units that direct his actions, respond to them, or perform some degree of action in conjunction with him.

In SM64 Mario has a wide range of moves with which he can conquer the entire game, save for some circumstances that require him to attain one of three powerups. These give him additional attributes, such as flying or sinking in water, without changing his native ability. By contrast, SMG's Mario has only a few moves which are quite limited in themselves; what really perform most actions are in-stage devices that he must trigger, and likewise his mobility is largely directed by other units. There are lots of powerups, almost all of which change his very essence by making him geared toward one thing.

In himself, Mario is apparently a simpler unit in SMG (but what good is it to abstract him from his world?). If both Marios could accomplish all the same things in a game like SM64, the Mario with more moves would seem superfluous. Yet that is part of SM64's beauty: Mario can meet a goal with a variety of methods, and this places power into the hands of the player---a defining quality of good video games. But what's important is that SM64-Mario's more numerous moves do not complicate the structure of the game. As long as the many moves do not exist for their own unique ends, they are not complicating the unit's mode of interaction, just adding to the versatility within that mode.

In SMG, however, Mario's "many moves" are each designed for one-dimensional circumstances and are furthermore removed from Mario himself as they take the forms of powerups and devices. Mario has many things to do only in the form of many individual roads he can take, which ultimately do their own things as he goes through them. Here we see the complex sum of parts producing limited results: everything in SMG, not just Mario, boasts a false simplicity leading to stifled gameplay. SM64 instead provides lots to do by laying all the simple nuances before you, constructing entire worlds from their combinations and leaving you to interact with them as you please. Ultimately, fewer units with wider interplay are better than more units with specific interaction.

All this brings me to my second topic, which is responsible for the falseness of self-simplicity among other things. Not too distant from the "Principle of Simplicity" is the balance of definition, or the degree of fixity in a construction.

As a rule, something should have a sufficient level of establishment to achieve its goal and no more, lest it become restrictive. In the examples above, Mario's powerups, the world design, and the tasks required of the player---that is, the actions he must perform to achieve certain results---are firmly set in SMG. To say they are predetermined would be a misnomer, for everything in a video game, to the extent that it presents and allows a finite amount of material, is so. The real problem is the forced nature of the situation. Mario can accomplish X by Y and Y only. It is merely left to the player to actually perform the action (and overcome any challenge in doing so). This is precisely how Nintendo's aim for increased interaction backfires: they provide so many keys and keyholes that the player has no freedom.

Aiming for the other end of the spectrum is the motion control craze. Consider the hands-free Xbox peripheral, the Kinect sensor. Direct, full-bodied interaction with games is a noble endeavor, but the goal of transcending the barrier between games and reality is flawed. Short of using Inception's dream construction, games will never achieve the limitlessness of real life, just as computers will never be capable of independent thought. The ultimate struggle Kinect will face is a faulty attempt to make interaction unfixed, to remove definition. The premise that you are freed from the constraints of buttons is overridden by the reality that you can still only do a set amount of things a game will understand, though the medium would suggest otherwise. No motion control will completely eliminate defined functions, which is why standard controllers aren't going anywhere. And the sooner developers and consumers recognize this, the less danger there will be of jolting the player out of an experience that was supposed to be immersive.

Between these two extremes is the balance, where definition is welcomed as essential but not allowed to become totalitarian. And the importance of this balance is esthetic as well as practical.

To go beyond the realm of video games, the merits of incomplete definition are perhaps best exemplified in visual art. I don't know if Monet or anyone else said as much, but the best realism is not devoid of impressionism. Reality is heterogeneous: the "natural" look of any object, particularly those occurring in nature themselves and especially in forms of life, comes from a sort of imperfection. The grain in wood is not uniform, and the dancing of fire is unpredictable. One slice of bread is not the same as the next. So it follows that a good painter can replicate a scene with a brush to the point of photo-realism for someone standing at the right distance. The brush's chaos meets the chaos of reality.

This chaos becomes infinitely more significant when compared with graphic art. It is hard to simulate fire and water for a reason. If you'll excuse my quick return to video games, observe this painting.No remake of Donkey Kong Country would ever look so spectacular, for the brush lends an organic feel that computers, somewhere along the line, are practically incapable of reproducing.

Within graphic art there comes a peculiar application of this "Principle of Undefinition." The resolution of an image is not unlike the example I gave early on of Legos and Duplos. The more pixels, the smaller (and simpler) the units, the more complex the result can be. When representing, say, a rocky terrain with graphics, greater resolution (if utilized correctly) will result in a more realistic image. As a rule; but if you compare the earth of planet Zebes in Super Metroid and in Metroid: Zero Mission, the former will appear more organic despite possessing half the resolution. In comes the Principle of Undefinition to override the Principle of Simplicity. In Super Metroid less of the terrain is clearly established due to the limitations of its pixelation; but those stray pixels and colors that suggest a heterogeneous soil are more effective when the mind interprets the visual and fills in the gaps. A sense of vagueness is pleasing because the imagination sees vagueness in its own clarity.

All these observations suggest to me that our present determination to continuously expand and refine our crafts and technologies is in the end rather self-defeating. We should push forward, indeed; but to do so for its own sake falls to the fallacy that more is better. Nature has it that there is a balance in everything, and at some point we must be willing to retreat in order to achieve the proper equilibrium. Until then, I watch as the world mistakes mass for depth, and wonder how far it will go.
[Image by Orioto from DeviantArt.com]