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]