Chapter Three

The Regulation of Interest

Most theories of emotion accept that interest is a “basic emotion, that is, one that cannot be reduced to one or more other emotions” (Tan, 1997, p. 85). Unlike attention, which is principally a cognitive state without an action tendency (Ortony, Clare & Collins, 1988), interest has an action tendency “to see what happens next, and to formulate active expectations” (Tan, 1997, p. 203). It makes us employ our cognitive faculties “for the elaboration of a stimulus, under the influence of the promises which are inherent in the present situation with respect to expected situations” (p. 86) (see also Frijda, 1986; Izard, 1984; Lazarus, 1969; Schore, 1994; Tomkins, 1962).

This action tendency calls on resources “from a limited capacity” (Tan, 1997, p. 86) , such that interest in one thing requires a lowering of perceptual, cognitive or motor attention to other things. In regards to film, the “inclination to devote one's full attention to the stimulus, [comes] at the cost of all other matters, including the completion of motor programs” (p. 90). That is, the viewer's increasing interest produces increasing motionlessness, to the extent that boredom may be measured according to the degree of a viewer's fidgeting, with the exception that when “behavioral activity brings the desired object [of attention] closer, interest, or at any rate anticipatory eagerness, may be accompanied by excitement and excessive movement” (p. 89). T his retardation of sensorimotor action reinforces the observational attitude of film, in that the viewer does not vacate his or her seat to enact action tendencies towards the screen, but remains in a virtual mode, merely hoping or wishing for certain outcomes.

For Tan (1997), interest is the fundamental emotion produced while watching the traditional feature film, and its real-time regulation is determined by the prospect of return (p. 101). That is, interest at a particular point in time depends upon a player's “investment” of time and effort in a sequence, relative to the “anticipated return” (AR) on that interest in the future, and, the “actual net return” (NR) on that investment. This return may be cognitive, such as appreciating the artifice of a film, or affective, such as experiencing the triumph of a protagonist (p. 96). Interest is also self-enhancing, at least up until its concern has been elaborated or resolved. As Tan argues:

the action tendency inherent in interest raises the investment [because we have spent more time and energy reflecting upon the concern,] and this increase, in turn, has a positive effect on interest by increasing the contrast between NR already gained and the maximum future return that can be expected. (p. 111)

As a consequence, a viewer may reach a point of no return in regards to the act of watching. Furthermore, by raising the significance of a concern, and promoting inferences and valanced expectations about its outcome, interest provides a basis for other emotions (p. 203). For example, interest may reinforce one's fear or hope for a certain outcome, and this hope and fear may reinforce one's sense that the concern is worthy of our interest.

While some situations in narratives may cue the same expectations directed towards everyday events, most questions operate at the level of generic vraisemblance by drawing upon hermeneutic codes of setting, character, iconography and plot from known genres (see Neale, 1980, 1990, 2000). In Barthes' (1975a) terms, hermeneutic codes guide players' anticipation about the expected sequence and outcome of events. While some of these codes may operate in relation to a single event's outcome, they may define an entire sequence, or, in narratological terms, a “macrosequence.” At the highest level of organization, the narratological term “macrostructure” can be used to refer to a sequence of events that develops (usually linearly) towards some anticipated (but uncertain) resolution (Cohen & Shires, 1991, p. 60). In Bordwell's (1986) terms, we would say that these generic codes are template schemata activated by a narrative, which guide the individual's construction of an anticipatory fabula , but are constantly tested against the unfolding syuzhet , leading to periodic reconstruction of the fabula through the subversion of expectations.

Given that h ermeneutic codes govern how questions and enigmas are posed, delayed and disclosed (Barthes, 1975a, pp. 17, 85) it is useful to distinguish the three hermeneutic strategies of suspense, surprise and mystery/curiosity (see Brewer and Lichtenstein, 1981; Chatman, 1978; Culler, 1975; Jose & Brewer, 1984; Sternberg, 1978; Tan, 1997; Vorderer, 1996; Zillman, Hay & Bryant, 1975). Each of these general hermeneutic strategies may be produced through the manipulation of any specific hermeneutic code by altering the represented order of events in the diegesis (see Figure 3.1). Suspense is a consequence of the deferral of an outcome suggested by a prior initiating event and which is of concern to a character a viewer sympathises with. Surprise is characterised by the sudden representation of an unexpected outcome, though its intelligibility is usually retrospectively linked (if only by inference) to an initiating event. Mystery, or curiosity, is characterised by the representation of an outcome without any, or an adequate, initiating event, giving rise to ongoing hypothesises about causes. The cognitive component of all three strategies may be seen as different forms of what Grodal (1997) calls “tensities” in that they are characterised by attentiveness towards a distal, telic event, or, in other words, a tense expectation about future events.

To identify some of the hermeneutic codes in FFX 's narrative macrosequences and macrostructures the following analysis uses Barthes' (1975a) approach, breaking down the game into key events or event sequences. It focuses on the title and opening sequences of FFX , as detailed in Appendices One, Two and Three to indicate the range of its hermeneutic codes.

Hermeneutic Codes in FFX 's Narrative Macrosequences

After a player of FFX chooses “New Game” from the opening menu, the title sequence appears and begins with a slow zoom towards a sword and other weapons against the background of a wasteland of ruins (1.1.2) (see Figure 3.2a). This may be coded with reference to the use of swords in the fantasy genre, as in the opening sequence of Diablo (1996), thereby defining the genre of the game. Such coding would likely reinforce expectations, also drawn from adventure and role-playing games in general, of a journey through a series of settings, fighting miscellaneous monsters, developing each character's powers, and collecting items, culminating in a final battle (Fine, 1983; Herz, 1977; Mackey, 2000; Schick, 1991). T he sword may also activate a more specific code of the sword, or weapon, as a symbol of power, and of triumph by might of arms. In this context it could connote the spoils of conquest, the weapons surrendered to a conqueror, or the courage of a hero who ensures that “goodness” will be victorious. Indeed, the “sword” might connote not just “right” of force, but the force of good. This might be coded with reference to the Arthurian legend of the sword in the stone, to be drawn and wielded, realising one's power and birthright. This might create an expectation that a character will reveal some innate right to lead or rule, or some innate virtue that distinguishes him/her as heroic, which previously has been hidden.

Figure 3.2. (a) The odd assortment of weapons in the opening sequence at Zanarkand. (b) The subdued companions camp by a fire.

However, the weapons include what seem to be a beach ball and a teddy bear. Presuming that the player recognises these as weapons they may be seen as indexical of the personalities of their owners, as marking the qualities of the heroes, creating curiosity about what heroes can be identified with beach balls or teddy bears in a heroic fantasy. This curiosity is partly answered as the camera pans to the group camped by the fire in the ruined city (1.1.2) (see Figure 3.2b). Most players may code this in terms of any fantasy adventure in which there is a “group” of adventurers on a quest, or in terms of the “party” in any role-playing game or video role-playing game, such as Wizardry (1981), The Bard's Tale (1982), Baldur's Gate (1997), or earlier Final Fantasy titles.

Of course, p layers who have read the manual will know that these characters are on an “epic” “quest to destroy Sin.” An epic, in its strictest sense, is a long narrative “on a great and serious subject, told in an elevated style, and centred on a heroic or quasi-divine figure on whose actions depends the fate of a tribe, a nation, or the human race” (Abrams, 1988, p. 51). FFX is certainly a lengthy narrative covering the range of human drama, with a predominantly serious tone, centred on magically-gifted characters who commune with “divine” spirits (Aeons), and seek to save not only their own races (the Al Bhed, the Ronso, the Guado) but the life of all those in Spira. However, whereas the classical epics did not differentiate myth from history nor fact from fiction (Scholes & Kellog, 1966, p. 58), FFX is a fictional narrative written for a secular audience and appropriates mythical content without much of its original symbolic meaning (see Hume, 1984). Without debating the theoretical appropriateness of the term “epic,” its use in the game manual may produce the expectation of thematic coherence across an otherwise picaresque game that incorporates countless, repetitive, randomised battles.

The player may see the fatigued and depressed nature of the party as reinforcing the “great and serious” danger posed by Sin. Yet the player may also recognise that, inasmuch as most epics and heroic fantasies are linear, the game seems to begin in media res . If this is the case then there may be curiosity about where in the sequence this respite is, as well as what struggles preceded it and what the characters may have lost to make them so subdued. Indeed, if one remembers that many modern heroic-fantasies, of which J. R. R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings (1954/1984) is archetypal, are characterised by the difficulties of keeping a party together, then the odd congregation of characters not only reinforces curiosity about who they are and what brought them together, but may also cue uncertainty about the stability of their bonds. This holds open the possibility that one of the party is gone, or dead, and in this respect the weapons may be cross-coded, with reference to the ruins in the background, as marking the grave of a fallen comrade.

Figure 3.3. (a) Tidus touches Yuna's shoulder. (b) Tidus walks off by himself to look at ruined Zanarkand (“Listen to my story”).

Tidus' touching of Yuna's shoulder, and the gaze she turns to him (1.1.3) (see Figure 3.3a), activates an hermeneutic code of romance, specifically the question of their (possible) romantic relationship and at what stage in their romance this scene occurs (prior to, or after, its fulfilment) (see Modleski, 1984; Radway, 1984). More than this, Tidus' black gloves, his wandering away from the party, and Yuna's restrained (or tired) expression, may be coded as a sign of some romantic barrier, and/or unrequited love. The drawn out close-up of Tidus' isolation (1.1.4) reinforces a sense of some unrevealed emotion and the possibilities of romantic separation, which may resonate with the potential separation of group members or the loss of the group entirely (see Figure 3.3b). There might also be curiosity about the existence of an intervening force that prevents Tidus and Yuna's union. A formulaic assumption might be that there is some social pressure—family, class or religion—with the implication that Tidus and Yuna belong to different social spheres.

As Tidus walks away the motes of light behind him connote atmospheric effects, cosmic events, and/or some supernatural-religious event, such as a leakage or eruption of magical/divine forces. This might be perceived in relation to the ruins, but it may also be read as metonymic of some disaster that needs to be averted. In this respect it might be evaluated in terms of some higher duty or responsibility. Tidus' subsequent voice-over: “Listen to my story. This may be our last chance” (1.1.4) likely confirms some sense of his responsibility for the fate of others, of some higher duty to prevent some disaster, and of their sacrifices in this respect. The voluntary suppression of romance might be seen as part of this duty. This may link to earlier curiosity through an expectation that FFX is a retelling of the events that brought the companions, and Tidus and Yuna, together, but what also keeps them apart.

The title “Final Fantasy X,” which is then superimposed over the scene, is unlikely to be registered by most players as anything other than a marker of one in a series of Final Fantasy titles. However, it may activate or reinforce hermeneutic codes drawn from earlier titles: the possibility of personal tragedy (Aeris' death in FFVII ), of love confirmed (Cloud and Tifa), of unrequited love (Cloud and Aeris), and of some event of cosmic importance (the meteor threatening to destroy the world) on an epic scale (companions forced to traverse all the continents of the planet). The word “fantasy,” of course, may connote wishful dreaming and escapism, or the more purposive role-playing of a character in a world where one has the opportunity to experience the extremes of life (love, hate, moral indecision, defeat, victory) and one's actions matter (we change the fate of things) (see Hume, 1984). More specifically, we might identify a link between Tidus' mention of a “last chance” and “Final.” The “X” is significant in that, prior to the release of other titles in the series, it could have been read as marking the last single-player Final Fantasy title. For some experienced players, then, the title therefore could have polarised suspense and curiosity through anxiety about the possible end of a much-loved series and excitement about the beginning of FFX : the pinnacle and climactic finale of a tradition. The poignancy of this moment for the player could have resonated with the situation of the characters as on the verge of losing something.

Figure 3.4. (a) Tidus talks to his fans before the blitzball game at Zanarkand (“Teach us how to blitz!”). (b) Tidus walks along the Causeway and looks up at the image of his father.

Through the sequence in Zanarkand, up to the Submerged Ruins (see Appendix Two), we can observe the development of these and other hermeneutic codes. Tidus' companions are absent, with the implication that this is the true beginning of the narrative, perhaps eliciting curiosity as to when and how Tidus' company will be formed. More importantly, Tidus' sporting prowess and celebrity status (1.1.2-1.4.5) prefigures his role as hero (see Figure 3.4a). This may be linked to his suggested importance or destiny, given that Tidus has already spoken as the voice of a collective in the introductory sequence (1.1.5: “this may be our last chance”) and because Auron is waiting for him (1.5.2). Anticipation about the blitzball game's outcome (1.3.4) parallels Tidus' adolescent anxieties about the rite of passage from childhood to adulthood/manhood, living in the shadow of his father, holding open the possibility of failure in both the game and as an adult/man, with the necessity for a confrontation with (and taking over of) his father's authority (see Figure 3.4b).

Tidus' movement from celebrity to hero (1.5.5) may be seen in relation to the water door/mirror at the blitzball stadium (1.5.1), prefiguring a movement from reality to fantasy, in general terms (entry into the world of the imagination), generic terms (exploration of a surreal fantasy world), and psychological terms (an exploration of Tidus' latent desires and fears) (see Figure 3.5a). The suspension of time when the ghost-boy appears (1.5.3), as well as the surreal night-sky-floating sequence (1.6), and the whiteout when Tidus is teleported, similarly suggests the relevance of fantasy and dream-states (“I think I had a dream”). Yet despite this emphasis on fantasy the narrative movement from urban-futurist Zanarkand to pastoral-nostalgic Besaid (and the later disclosure of Yevon's ban on Machina) activates hermeneutic codes drawn from science fiction: anxieties about the hubris of excessive faith in science and a loss of contact with nature (see Kuhn, 1990; Sobchack, 1987). Given that the monster is named Sin (1.5.4: “We called it ‘Sin'”) the attack may be analogous to the attack of Godzilla: a consequence of man's arrogant tampering with the natural order through technology (see Figure 3.5b).

Figure 3.5. (a) Tidus enters the blitzball stadium through the water door/mirror (“Make way, make way!”) (b) Futuristic Zanarkand, with Sin approaching in the background.

As Tidus appears in the Submerged Ruins, several new hermeneutic questions emerge: Why has he teleported? Can he get home? What happened to Jecht? How can Sin be defeated? Where are his quest companions? Certainly, the earlier presence of Yuna in the title sequence suggests a search for her, but, more than this, Tidus' absent parents, his isolation as a celebrity (1.3), and his abandonment through teleportation (1.2.1), prefigure the potential importance of an intimate loving relationship with Yuna. Yet the portents, devastation, and isolation (1.1.3; 1.4.4; 1.5) may cue not just epic devastation, but tragic loss and emptiness (see Aristotle, trans. 1965; Kaufmann, 1969; Leech, 1969; Lucas, 1966). Given both Tidus' emotional disturbance and the supernatural connotations this may suggest some cosmic disturbance in the order of the world. That is, Tidus' adolescent anxiety may be linked to metaphysical or existential concerns about how to make sense of one's place in a world whose order has been disturbed.

It is likely that players progressively or periodically organise the narrative around the macrostructure that seems to have the highest (or simplest) structural significance, cultivating a tonic interest whose action tendency is to continue watching the shared journey of characters and the defeat of Sin. Nonetheless, even these early sequences activate hermeneutic codes drawn from heroic fantasy, adventure/role-playing (video) games, the epic, romance, science fiction, and tragedy, regulating interest through curiosity, surprise and suspense about their course. Furthermore, the player is likely to welcome the mixing of these hermeneutic codes. As Tan (1997) notes:

Surprise is a fixed component of the pragmatic contact between viewer and filmmaker. The viewer acquiesces in the fact that many developments cannot be guessed at in advance, although a really good film will entice the audience into trying to do just that. Each ingenious twist turns the viewer into a good loser, who does not mind admitting that he or she appreciates the ultimate result. (pp. 210-11)

FFX 's narrative increasingly complicates, reverses, and connects its hermeneutic codes, progressively diminishing any assurance of the game's generic purity. This is likely to cultivate a growing realisation that FFX is not a formulaic heroic fantasy or romance, but a unique tragic epic which players cannot accurately predict and resolve in their imagination. That is, the particularity of the narrative not only personalises the act of investment in viewing the game, it functions as an index of concretion that raises the game's reality status and fosters a desire to watch this narrative to its resolution.

Reinforcement in FFX 's Game Macrosequences

It has been argued above that interest in narrative sequences depends upon an action tendency to keep watching and hypothesising about the (anticipated but uncertain) resolution of hermeneutic codes. By contrast, game sequences have an enactive component that requires physical engagement. We can redress Tan's silence on the matter of physical actions as a source of interest by emphasising his passing reference to Csikszentmihalyi's (1975, 1988, 1992) notion of “flow.” For Csikszentmihalyi, flow is not merely cerebral, but occurs in physical activities, such as sports (indeed, he discusses flow in activities prior to flow in mental activities). We may take “flow” as the ideal or optimal form of interest, where a balance of challenge and skill staves off anxiety and boredom and leads to total involvement in an activity. Furthermore, we may see the acquisition and performance of procedural schemata as not merely a basis for flow, but a potential source of interest.

Compared with the cognitive interest in narrative events, physical activity facilitates distal impressions that maximise reality-status and constitute a greater investment of physiological expenditure, or labour. This requires a greater net return, or rewards, if interest (and flow) is to be maintained. It is here that Tan's model of “net return” and Csikszentmihalyi's model of “flow” overlap with operant conditioning, in which motivation is intrinsically determined by the magnitude, delay and number of rewards (Skinner, 1971, 1974) . Of course, the model of operant conditioning marginalizes both the cognitive activity of individuals and the ability of individuals to self-regulate their emotional states. Nonetheless, Loftus and Loftus (1983) have convincingly argued that schedules of reinforcement are important to player motivation, and in this context a consideration of positive reinforcements, or rewards, provides a way of analysing the regulation of interest.

In FFX , the Field Screen, the Battle Screen, the various Menus, the Sphere Grid, and the Trials of the Fayth make up the basic game system, though there are three main control modes (Table 3.1). Each of these has its own ergodic codes that determine both possible actions for the player and related expectations about future game-events and rewards. In a combat sequence, for example, the player is constantly prompted to anticipate: “Will I hit it?” and “How much damage did I do?” with each turn. At the level of the macrosequence, there may be expectations such as: “Will I win?” or “Will I lose.” In this respect, each game interface may function as a relatively autonomous game macrosequence governed by an operation of mixed hermeneutic-ergodic codes, ultimately subsumed to the total game macrostructure of FFX . At this level of organization players might evaluate victory in battle as a failure if they have taken so much damage that they have diminished the chance of surviving subsequent battles.

FFX 's Combat Screen offers, first, the aesthetic, audiovisual reinforcement of animated attacks: the kinetic dynamism of the leap and strike, the grunts or cries of effort, the visceral impact (see Figure 3.6a). However, FFX 's combat may be distinguished in this regard from most first person shooters (FPSs) in which kinetic reinforcement is bound up in the time-pressured real-time interaction . As noted in Chapter One, secondary appraisal, or cognitive elaboration, is a precondition for true emotion. In action-based games, such as shoot ‘em ups or first person shooters, cognitive elaboration may be deferred or blocked by the lack of time available before the next stimulus appears such that primary appraisal and affective arousal may predominate over emotion. FFX , by contrast uses as Conditional Turn-Based (CTB) combat system in which actions are mediated by a menu, those actions are strategic rather than kinetic, and time only passes when players choose an option.

Figure 3.6. (a) The turn-based combat screen during option selection. The menu is in the bottom left hand corner; character statistics are in the bottom right hand corner; the battle queue is in the upper right hand corner. (b) The kinaesthetic representation of the consequences of a selected attack.

Nonetheless, if the procedural schemata required to navigate the combat menu is habituated—such that there is no discernible pause between one's turn, selecting an action, and the animated outcome—there may be an impression of immediate feedback. This is most likely to occur with swift physical attacks using the default menu option, in which case there is no need to navigate the menu at all: one merely keeps pressing “X” and Tidus keeps attacking. Furthermore, the use of Overdrive attacks provides brief durations of high affect, during which players must press a sequence of buttons within a time limit, with immediate repercussions. These attacks also amplify the normal rewards of success in combat by inflicting more damage, providing greater spectacles of damage, and sometimes including an onscreen congratulation (for example: “Great!”).

A second, and greater, degree of reinforcement is the damage inflicted on opponents, represented numerically in the style of arcade games (see Figure 3.6b). As Loftus and Loftus (1983) note, the magnitude of the reward affects the intensity of the reinforcement, but in video games the perceived magnitude of the reward is also important. Game designers often choose a magnitude on the basis of a psychological difference between different events. For example, at the beginning of FFX the damage that Tidus inflicts enters into three digits rather than the customary two in some other Final Fantasy titles (including FFX-2 ). This provides an immediate impression of prowess, even if monsters' statistics are similarly high and therefore victory is no easier. However, at a certain point the psychological value of magnitude is diminished: 10,000 or 20,000 points may both be sufficiently large to impress upon a player the sense of “huge numbers of points” (p. 24). Consequently, the points (and other rewards) awarded to players are usually kept within a range of magnitude with a progression of balanced increments. When damage hits a higher range than anticipated—as when a new weapon or spell increases damage—this provides the new relative basis for magnitude. This is an ongoing case with Overdrive Mode and when we attack using Yuna's Aeons. The intermittent nature of these high magnitude attacks preserves their value, since they remain relatively high even later in the game, when the magnitude of Tidus' normal attacks extends to over 3,000 and Auron's extends to over 6,000. However, this effect diminishes when damage reaches 9,999, which marks the absolute magnitude for characters (until they acquire the No Limit Ability).

A third reinforcement is the success which follows from the formulation of a strategy to defeat certain monster types or particular boss monsters (Friedman, 1995; Myers, 1990a). While randomisation determines the appearance, number and type of wandering monsters, and the chance of hitting an opponent and the amount of damage inflicted, the acquisition of strategy involves a clear facility for demystification, in that we can repeatedly confront the same monsters with increasing confidence. The option to “Flee” may constitute a winning strategy, in that one may learn to avoid unnecessary or undesirable conflict, so as to maintain one's strength for later fights. A fourth reinforcement is the actual defeat of opponents, which is dramatised, and reinforced, by the victory dance. This defeat is reinforced by a fifth reinforcement: the accumulation of Gil, items, and Ability Spheres, and the periodic indication that characters have increased one or more levels (see Reid, 1999; Wallace, 1999). Lastly, sixth, since narrative-related encounters—Evrae, Seymour, Zu, Defender X, Sin, and so on—cannot be retreated from, and are live-or-die affairs, they offer the additional reward of a discrete advancement through the game, usually through the provision of cut-scenes. A strategy, then, functions as a kind of puzzle, or key, which allows players to unlock the rest of the game.

Figure 3.7. (a) Close up of the Grid Sphere. (b) The Field screen.

The menus in FFX include: the Main Menu, the Sphere Grid, and the menus for checking, organising or customising Characters, Items, Abilities, Overdrives, Aeons, and character Formation (see Figure 3.7a). These all offer reinforcements associated with inventories and character development common to most role-playing games (see Fine, 1983; Herz, 1997; King & Borland, 2003; Mackey, 2000). First, browsing through new items and abilities poses the hypothetical scenario of a character augmented in a particular way and the anticipation of overcoming opponents in the Battle Screen. Second, there is the reward of seeing a numerical increase of stats and the acquisition of new Abilities, and of progressing through the Grid Sphere: a glowing sparkle of lights and metallic clink that are indexical of not merely an economic exchange, but some quasi-mystical imbuement of power. Third, there is the gradual demystification of the blanks on the list of possible Abilities on each Character screen and the Grid Sphere, with an ideal state of mastery represented by all nodes being activated, or each character activating all the nodes. Fourth, there is the pleasure of readiness that comes through the customising and organising of characters, or the party. Indeed, players may spend an inordinate amount of time trying out minor adjustments to maximise their effectiveness. However, the pleasure of developing characters' abilities and organising their inventories to maximise their effectiveness occurs through feedback between menus and the Battle Screen, since the effect of increasing a character's capabilities is only revealed through a player's improved ability to defeat opponents.

A great deal of the game is also spent in the Field Screen (see Figure 3.7b). The first reinforcement of navigation is the immediate feedback (or agency) consequent upon using the analogue control to move Tidus, accompanied by the forced scrolling of the landscape. This is at its most notable whenever one pauses to simply run Tidus back and forth by rotating the left analogue stick. The second reinforcement of navigation is an ongoing sensory and cognitive curiosity (Malone, 1980) about successive landscapes, with occasional surprise at their panoramic scale, graphical detail, and fantastic invention (Herz, 1997). This navigation is, in itself, a leisurely process, but it may lead to a third reinforcement: the demystification of Spira (Friedman, 1995). One can traverse the entire game world and render its data structure entirely visible. This pleasure is most notable when we gain retrospective access to places that were initially inaccessible, such as the chest beneath the waterfall in Besaid, which can only be accessed after the characters have acquired the Airship. However, unless one has the official guidebook or has downloaded a walkthrough, the task of finding hidden locations on the map by pointing and clicking holds open the possibility that one has missed something, an experience which is analogous to Aarseth's (1997) description of “aporia.”

The Trials of the Fayth offer a distinctive system of reinforcement. Each Trial requires the player to guide Tidus through a simple maze, touching glyphs, picking up spheres, and placing each sphere in the appropriate slots in the walls and (moveable) altars (see Figure 3.8). Given that they function as puzzles, the reinforcement might be seen as completing each step, and apprehending the puzzle as a totality. However, there is a gap between a player's abstract reasoning (thinking of a logical possibility or solution) and the process of implementation ( the time required to test it by moving the player into position and performing the required activity). That is, one might presume that, being puzzles, the Trials are abstract (cognitive) problems, but in practice they are more reminiscent of platform games and early adventure games in which one picks up every item and tries it out. Here trial and error wins out over strategy, and there is not necessarily a real sense of mastering the puzzle's logic since players may be unable to repeat it. Consequently, reinforcement in the Trials is more likely to extend to: first, moments of insight into possible solutions; second, the gratification when a possible solution is tested and found to work; and, third, the physical relief at having performed the required (cognitive and sensorimotor) labour, and being able to continue with the game.

Figure 3.8. (a) Tidus touches a glyph in the Besaid Trial of the Fayth (“A strange glyph glows”). (b) One of the altars in the Besaid Trial of the Fayth.

There are also four mini-games in FFX : Blitzball, Butterfly catching, Lightning Dodging, and Chocobo Racing. While these are part of FFX as a total game, it suffices to say that these games generally offer more immediate kinaesthetic feedback (Darley, 2000). More than this, t he player may decide to set aside the main narrative and game macrosequences of FFX and play these games in and of themselves. This may regulate interest in FFX by helping to keep a player in phatic contact with the game, and, by constituting ongoing investment in the game, raising the stakes for pursuing the rest of the game. Conversely, they may be played as a challenge that must be overcome. For example, one must win the fourth Chocobo Race (Catcher Chocobo) with zero time to acquire the Sun Sigil necessary for Tidus to acquire his Celestial Weapon: Caladbolg. Acquiring this may be part of an aesthetic of demystification, or mastery, of the game's secrets, or as part of a strategy to maximise one's ability to defeat opponents like Sin.

Emotion Episode

Hermeneutic codes in narrative sequences and schedules of reinforcement in game sequences are, then, distinctive modes of interest in terms of the degree of investment and reinforcement: mental and virtual versus physical and actual. These two modes parallel the distinction between observation and enaction, and so are affected by the experience of blocked enaction, as addressed in Chapter Two. The implication is that, in a game like FFX , shifts between these different modes may affect the regulation of interest. This can be addressed in terms of the integrity of the “emotion episodes” which define the course of interest.

Frijda, Mesquia, Sonnemans, and van Goozen (1991) define an “emotion episode” as “a continuous emotion sequence resulting from the more or less continuous impact of one given event or a series of events” (p. 201). Tan (1997) identifies a close correspondence between emotion episodes and the scenes in the traditional feature film, following Frijda's (1986, pp. 204-214) understanding of the course of emotional episodes in film (Tan, 1997, pp. 59-61). From a “situation of balance,” our appraisal of some “Complication” in the situational context constitutes a “Disturbance of the Balance”: the onset of the emotion. This produces an action tendency which, in Tan's account, remains virtual: a wishing or hoping that a certain outcome will be realised. T here may then be a rising and falling of emotional valence through a “Complication phase” in which the film suggests various possible positive and negative outcomes. However, the “Disturbance” is undone through the virtual realisation of the action tendency through the representation of a particular (usually positive) outcome leading to the “Restoration of Balance.” This type of account is in accord with Aristotle's (trans. 1965) model of catharsis organised around a beginning, middle and end; with Freytag's (1863/1968) dramatic triangle of deisis, peripeteia, and denouement; with Propp's (1968) model of a hero's quest to redress some lack; with Todorov's (1981) model of equilibrium and disequilibrium; and with other models of narrative disturbance and restoration (Bordwell, 1986; Greimas, 1966, 1987; Heath, 1981; Neale, 1980).

For Tan (1997) there is a close relationship between scenes and emotion episodes within the traditional feature film (p. 62), in that scenes are usually coherent situational meaning structures that elicit and sustain an emotion episode. In feature films, each scene may be said to have its relative autonomy, though there may be divergent narrative threads, each of which pursues a particular hermeneutic code, such that scenes develop in relation to one another. Tan describes the process whereby viewers shift their attention across scenes in terms of “foreground” and “background” interest. Tan defines foreground interest as the anticipated return and net return of a current scene, defined by the past and future that constitute the scope of this scene. He defines background interest as the anticipated return and net return experienced in regards to sequences outside the temporal scope of the present sequence (p. 106). Foreground interest cued by a present scene is relative to the background interest produced (or anticipated) in scenes prior to and after the present scene. However, limits on attention and cognition, as well as the urgency parameter of the situational context (Frijda, 1986, p. 206), ensure that “the foreground return always weighs more heavily than the background return” (p. 106), to the extent that most viewers do not immediately connect foreground to background events, except when specifically cued (Grodal, 1998, pp. 68-70; Tan, 1997, p. 105).

Tan (1997) uses Frijda's (1986) distinction between “phasic emotions,” which are “relatively brief responses to a particular event” (Tan, 1997, p. 199), and “tonic emotions,” which are “based on prospects and retrospects [and] have a longer life span” (p. 199). For Tan, interest is a permanent, episodic emotion while watching the traditional feature film, in that players experience a phasic interest relative to particular sequences, but this reinforces the tonic interest to keep watching by contributing to the net investment. The willingness to shift attention, such that phasic interest continues to reinforce tonic interest, is influenced by the presumption of anticipated coherence, that is, the expected convergence of divergent narrative sequences. For example, a divergent action and a romance line sometimes converge through a male hero being united with his romantic interest through some final heroic act, such that the respective emotion-episodes find a common resolution (Tan, 1997, p. 58).

Some of the scenes in video games like FFX may be similar to those in films in terms of their duration and pacing. T he opening sequence, after the title sequence, may be broken into the relatively discrete scenes summarised in Appendix Two. Each of these has its own coherence: (1.1) introduction to Tidus; (1.2) watching Tidus-as-celebrity; (1.3) bearing witness to Tidus' inner struggle; (1.4) watching Tidus' skilful performance of the kick which lifts him above the stadium and puts him in the privileged perspective of seeing Sin's attack; (1.5) watching the spectacle of Zanarkand's destruction; (1.6) watching Tidus deal with inexplicable events he cannot control. These scenes may be subsumed to a macro-scene: being introduced to Tidus-the-hero and perceiving his heroic qualities as he copes with Sin's arrival. This may constitute an emotion-episode, and is followed by the relative quiet and safety of the Submerged Ruins, and a new scene organised the question: How will Tidus deal with his disorientating isolation?

However, FFX does not simply have scenes, it also has clearly defined settings, sub-settings, and Save Spheres which may regulate the course of players' interest. First of all, FFX is clearly broken into settings such as Zanarkand, Submerged Ruins, Salvage Ship, and Besaid (see Appendix One). Players' movement through these may function like the progression through the chapters in a novel, or the acts in a drama or film, with each setting up a new interest episode. Yet since these settings are extremely large, they are unlikely to be traversed in a single session of play. Sub-settings, by contrast, are more easily compartmentalised as discrete scenes. For example, players may explore Besaid Village , or Besaid Temple , in one session, but not leave the broader setting of Besaid. Furthermore, sessions are highly delineated by the placement of Save Spheres, which determine the minimal unit of traversal before players can put aside the game without having to re-play a section. Many of these Save points occur after major narrative developments and conflicts, such as after the battle at Mi'ihen crossroads, after fighting Seymour , after traversing Gagazet Mountains , and after acquiring the Airship. These Save points may be more “natural” markers of (ideal) interest episodes, or session, but players may use a Save point as a base of operations for short game sessions. For example, a player may kill monsters for an hour, periodically returning to the same point to save any “progress.” In this respect they are free to define a scene in an arbitrary fashion by choosing to pause or quit at any time, with the option to un-pause a game or return to an old save.

Of course, m apping emotion-episodes onto scenes presumes a Model Player and a Model Text/Game, when different players may seek and experience different gratifications, may find different things of interest, and may interpret the situation differently, emphasising different hermeneutic codes ( “How will Tidus get home?” instead of: “ How will Tidus survive?”). So while it is possible to identify discrete narrative and game structures in FFX that might functions as scenes, the activity of the player determines whether or not they are experienced as interest episodes.

 

The (Dys)Regulation of Interest Across Narrative and Game Macrosequences

It is not merely that the scenes that regulate emotion episodes are variable; shifts between narrative and game macrosequences may disrupt these episodes. Chapter two argued that there may be a disjunction as players shift from observational to enactive sequences, and that a narrative or game sequences may elicit an enactive attitude in a context of limited enactive possibilities. We might restate this by saying that the hypothetical, and desired, possibilities set up by the game may not be provided for in either subsequent narrative sequences or in the options of ergodic sequences, and this blocking may create an increased attention to non-diegetic factors (such as the game's design) and thereby disrupt interest.

While Chapter Two linked enactive blocking to space, it is productive to see the dysregulation of interest in terms of temporal contraction or dilation. For Juul (1999) the main problem with “interactive narratives” is that the past of narrated sequences conflicts with the present of player's interaction, and vice versa, creating a radical temporal disjunction when there are shifts between “narrative” and “game sequences.” However, Juul conflates the structure of time in the narrative/game with the player's experience of time, and over-states the importance of tense as a distinction between “narratives” and “games.” It is more likely that the regulation of interest is affected less by the tense of events than their duration or pace.

In distinguishing the pace of different macrosequences it is useful to turn to Barthes' (1975a) proairetic code, which “provides the basis of events and sequences, proliferating linearly and irreversibly” (Cohen and Shires, 1988, p. 119). At this level of coding, the player simply names actions and their effects (Barthes, 1975a, p. 18), marking signifiers of action and grouping them in a sequence according to the signifieds of their effect (p. 120); for example: “journey,” “conversation,” or “fight.” Since all narratives produce more events than are necessary, the hermeneutic code is applied to the proairetic code to distinguish nuclei from catalyzers. While nuclei are key events that initiate, increase, or conclude a sequence of transformations, catalyzers prolong or retard they nuclei they accompany, and may: create suspense by prolonging an event; direct emphasis, providing grounds for curiosity or surprise; keep phatic contact with the reader; produce an effect of verisimilitude; and/or deepen characterisation (Barthes, 1975a).

Compared with print and film narratives the proairetic code in game macrosequences is hyperactive in its production of catalyzers. As Darley (2000) and Herz (1997) argue, the plot of many video games is the story of player actions, and in FFX these actions are constituted by navigation and combat. These may be broken up into smaller, discrete units: Tidus moves forward; Tidus moves forward a second time; Tidus turns to the left; Tidus turns to the right; Tidus moves forward and to the left; Tidus attacks with his sword; Yuna attacks with her staff; Wakka throws his blitzball; the Bomb dives down to bounce Tidus; Tidus attacks with his sword, and so on. There are, of course, analogous step-by-step or blow-by-blow descriptions of travel or combat in film and print fiction, for example, the fighting sequences in Mortal Kombat (1995) and the Pod Racing scene in Star Wars: The Phantom Menace (2000). However, minimal event-units mapped to player keystrokes and mouse clicks may proliferate ad nauseam (and, potentially, ad infinitum ) leading to the extended enchaining of minimal event-units. Upon the completion of a sequence, these events may be retrospectively described as a single event of the generality found in the opening narration (Tidus walks across the room), but by virtue of the process of interacting at key points, video games continuously produce discrete event units below this level of generality (Tidus walks forward; Tidus walks forward; Tidus walks forward).

In this respect, FFX may produce extended sequences of events that continually violate the “threshold of functional relevance, that which divides the narratable below the non-narratable, sequences below which are taken-for-granted” (Heath, cited in Culler, 1975, p. 143). Since this proairetic hyper-activity may produce catalyzers which violate the pace of a dominant hermeneutic structure, they may be seen as potentially diminishing or extinguishing (Frijda, 1986, p. 314) an interest-episode.

Of course, the proliferation of detail below the threshold of functional relevance is relative to the degree of consciousness attributed to each constitutive “event” of the ergodic relationship, and this depends upon the degree of sensorimotor mastery which the player has over the controls of the interface. A player who has internalised the controls of the interface such that its use is a matter of procedural schemata—that is, s/he can perform an ergodic action as a matter of sensorimotor memory with minimal cognitive reflection—may be able to maintain their perception of “event” generality in a manner analogous to the present-tense verbal description. For example, by reducing a sequence to the description: “Tidus is moving across the room,” one minimises any sense of proairetic hyper-activity.

However, the pacing of events in FFX is rarely dependant on the speed of player's response or mastery. For example, players cannot speed up the time it takes Tidus to walk across the Field Screen. Generally, the perception of whether or not events disrupt interest depends upon the intended level of generality at which a player is already decoding the events in the game. If player is become bound up in the storyline to the extent that they wish events to be realised at a consistent pace and concretion, the interruptions of battle may be a devastating intrusion, since crossing what seems a mere hundred feet of landscape may lead to half a dozen encounters. The Trials of the Fayth may be seen as especially intrusive, since they prevent both story and character development, to the extent that the term “Trial” may feel warranted. So while film viewing may allow for a simple transfer between foreground and background interest as scenes end and resume, the enactive, spatial, and temporal disjunctions that may result from forced shifts between game and narrative macrosequences may block or complicate such transfer.

Nonetheless, there are several reasons why the experience of these shifts may be attenuated, at least to the extent that they do not reduce one's tonic interest in the game. Just like feature films which utilise divergent narrative threads, hermeneutic clusters in video game narratives may be staggered with game sequences. The most notable hermeneutic clusters in FFX pertain to Tidus' and Yuna's romance, the search for Jecht, the understanding of what Sin is, and the revelations about (Yu) Yevon (see Appendix Three). T he onset, deferral, confirmation, reworking, and reversal of these key hermeneutic clusters persists throughout the 90-hour (odd) narrative, both game and narrative. The staggering of these clusters may be seen in terms of Friedman's (1995) argument that when tasks overlap, such that tasks begin before other tasks end, there is no moment of closure, and players find it difficult to extricate themselves from play. As noted above, in FFX , the reinforcements of game macrosequences are governed by a schedule of both narrative progression (navigating areas, defeating boss monsters) and character development (acquiring items, spells, Overdrive modes, Spheres, by advancing through the Grid Sphere) which provide an ongoing intrinsic reinforcement across game macrosequences. If, for Friedman, the staggering of different game activities prevents closure and prolongs play, then the staggering of both narrative and game reinforcements may amplify this effect.

Indeed, narrative and game sequences may function as mutual, partial reinforcement for each other. With partial reinforcement, it should be remembered, people persist in behaviour in the absence of immediate positive reinforcement (Skinner, 1971, 1974). Since the effort expended without immediate reward is added to the net investment, the stakes are raised for a future pay-off, and there is an accompanying rationalisation of the prior investment and of the likelihood of the next pay-off (see Reith, 1999; see also Chapter Eight). The corollary of this is that a player who experiences no interest in the present may retain motivation through the ongoing anticipation of the possibility of a reward in the future which will reconstitute interest, or, more accurately, will provide the reward of interest. That is, even if the player has invested far more than the net return, and interest presently has a negative value, a player may persist with the game—or keep returning to it—in the hope that ongoing investment will (eventually) be rewarded.

In video games like FFX , partial reinforcement may be a consequence of the fact that there is a promise for action tendencies to become more than virtual: players can enact a formerly hypothetical action tendency, or narrative sections may cue or prepare players for this action tendency. In practice, of course, the actual action tendency is often a gross enactment of the hypothetical action tendency: a desire for a particular hypothetical resolution is reduced to basic actions linked to a (usually) simple type of arousal (fight/flight). In the middle of a narrative sequence, players may desire to see Tidus win a game of blitzball and be celebrated through Spira, but must console themselves with manipulating his inventory, seeing him winning a battle, or finding some new item. It is possible, then, that narrative and game macrosequences provide partial reinforcement for each other.

While narrative rewards may be insufficient to compensate for the high investment of time and effort engaging with game macrosequences, narrative rewards such as the desire to see unfolding character relations may function as catalyzers that prolong players' expectations of such rewards. For example, a player's desire to see Seymour confronted may find vicarious gratification in the hostile victory over a monster in battle, or a player's desire for the power associated with character development and victory over opponents may find vicarious gratification in Tidus' acceptance as one of Yuna's Guardians, an acquisition of social rank. Furthermore, even during game sequences, certain kinds of typically “narrative” types of fantasising persist: “I wish he/I would just find that item”; “I wish those two would just get together!”; “Don't fight that!”; “I hope it misses!”; “Tidus should be stronger!” This may give way to hypothetical strategising (“If I do this, maybe . . . ”; “If Tidus had that Celestial Weapon . . .”), but this strategising may hold open new expectations about both game and narrative events.

In this respect, there may be a confluence of actual and hypothetical action tendencies: a virtual action tendency which cannot be literally realised by the limited affordances of the interface may be perceived as a denied or aborted fantasy, or it may be experienced as a concrete compensation for the hypothetical form. By extension, players may take the concrete affordance as a temporary gratification that maintains their (phatic) contact with the hypothetical wish, with the promise that, even if they cannot immediately act upon it, continuing to play holds open its possible realisation.

However, narrative and game macrosequences are not only staggered, they are aesthetically integrated through cross coding. Perhaps most trivially, t he sensorimotor action of the player may function almost continually to reinforce symbolic oppositions. For example, the continued clicking on a keyboard while a player attacks a monster will reinforce a narrative opposition of good/evil, and amplify its emotional significance because each act constitutes a micro-investment in the privileged term of that opposition. More importantly, the prolonging of the proairetic code through player actions may magnify suspense. For example, a player may deliberately hold off from moving into a dangerous area, thereby providing catalyzers (Tidus waits, Tidus waits, Tidus waits) that defer an expected and feared event. This is especially notable when players are about to confront Seymour for the first time, or when players are about to confront Sin, or Braska's Final Aeon. The danger posed by all these opponents—especially if one has already tried to kill them and have reloaded a save game—may lead players to keep wandering around, developing characters through fighting, or to continually manipulate and/or customise items.

There are some occasions in which the addition or alteration of ergodic capabilities is a consequence of developments in the narrative. For example, when fighting Seymour , Tidus and Wakka have a Talk option; Tidus also has this option when fighting Braska's Final Aeon. When fighting Evrae on the deck of the Airship, Tidus and Rikku both have the option of telling Cid to move the Airship closer to or away from Evrae. This leads a greater impression of coherence between narrative and game macrosequences, at least in terms of the conservation of motivation, goals, and virtual/actual affordances. More importantly, there are some occasions when a significant narrative symbolic code is decided within a game macrosequence, as when players must fight and defeat major opponents like Seymour , Yunalesca, Sin, Braska's Final Aeon, and Yu Yevon. In fact, f ighting Seymour the first time is likely to be one of most anxious moments of both the game and narrative because players have only witnessed the god-like representation of Seymour in the narrative and are suddenly confronted with how that narrative coding will translate into game terms. Players are likely to anticipate an extended emotion-episode marked by the anxiety of failing and having to repeat it. Each subsequent failure may feel like a failure in the flow of narrative, but it may also renew the sense that Seymour is a serious antagonist, not to be trivially dismissed. Seymour 's eventual defeat in battle leads to a significant symbolic transformation in the narrative macrosequence: Tidus is superior to the opponent, and Tidus' morality triumphs over the amorality or immorality of the opponent, legitimating his heroism. The subsequent cut-scene functions as denouement for a narrative conflict that has already been resolved.

The integration of narrative and game macrosequences is not, however, merely a matter of the game's aesthetic cross-coding, since players may experience such shifts as part of the total aesthetic of the game. In addressing this issue it is useful to consider Erving Goffman's (1961, 1969, 1974) analysis of “frames.” Frames are structures that govern events and participants' experience of events, and are useful in any consideration of the boundaries of, and within, the play space. Fine (1983) applied Goffman's model to role-playing games (RPGs) and identified three levels of frames, which Mackey (2000) has expanded to five: first, the social frame inhabited by the person; second, the game frame inhabited by the player; third, the narrative frame inhabited by the raconteur, that is, when a player re-tells what has happened to his/her character; fourth, the constantive frame inhabited by the addresser, usually the Games Master; and, fifth, the performative frame inhabited by the character. Fine (1983) and Mackey (2000) argue that shifts between these frames is part of the “engrossment” of play and may deepen the play experience.

It might seem reasonable to identify a parallel to this in Tan's (1997) description of immersion in a fictional world as a consequence of a sequence of involuntary perceptual illusions and several voluntary illusions: illusions of apparent motion, the diegetic effect, the illusion of the controlled witness, and the illusion of observational attitude (pp. 236). However, it is not useful to see movement through frames as a linear progression into deeper immersion, since it cannot be stated that any narrative or game frame inherently offers a “deeper” level of immersion than any other. If we take narrative and game macrosequences as frames, it is not the case that narrative macrosequences are diegetic and game macrosequences are non-diegetic. Given that FFX is a role-playing adventure game both types of macrosequence are part of its diegesis. As will be argued in Chapter Eight, there is a greater likelihood of non-diegetic effects (and A-emotions) being experienced in the former because of the frustrating nature of play. The issue here is that the regulation of interest owes more to selection from aesthetic alternatives and the naturalisation of these variations as part of a total aesthetic experience.

This is especially evident in RPGs. Role-players distinguish between frames in a similar way, not as marks of relative engrossment, but as varied aesthetics: hence simulationist, gamist and dramatist playing “styles,” or player “stances” as actor, audience, author, immersive, or in-character (see Mack, online). That these frames, styles or stances, are a matter of player aesthetics is evident in distinctions between player types, such as the historian, military enthusiast, specialist, gamer, assassin, and competitor (Dunnigan, 1980). Indeed, the RPG form is exemplary of the way frame switching can be a part of immersion, rather than a disruption of interest. To any external player, the RPG is an absurd mix of activities that seem to have no natural relationship with one another: cartography, drawing, narration, drama/role-playing, gaming, arguments about the rules, and socialising. As Meyers (1986) notes:

one may object that the language of the game is ephemeral, derivative at best, and, most suspicious of all, lacking the traditional literary modes such as dialogue and description. An observer might find the language disjointed, unplanned and unrevised, and frequently interrupted by comments on, questions on, or even arguments over the rules, with each interruption hampering the creation of the fiction. (p. 2485).

However, for any experienced player, the act of playing is a matter of routine and shifts between its component activities are unlikely to attract much attention. The shift between game and narrative macrosequences in FFX may similarly be seen in terms of expected and semi-voluntary “frame-switching.” This allows players to, in Eco's (1981) terms, “narcotise” a prior frame, and players may become increasingly adept at this kind of shifting. As Mackey's (2000) argues, “frame switching is considered legitimate as long as it does not overly affect the continuation of the game” (p. 197). If narrative and game macrostructures are seen as frames then the shifts between them may be accommodated as part of the aesthetic experience associated with the genre. That is, players may simply accept the frequent, seemingly disruptive shifts between narrative and game sequences as part of the game.

However, players also voluntarily shift between frames. This may be a matter of aesthetic attitude in that a player bored with interminable wandering or a protracted battle may enter into an aesthetic of visual engrossment by paying more attention to the spectacle of the game's landscapes, architecture, characters, and fashion. But FFX also allows some freedom to choose frames in the more substantial sense of choosing to return to particular game macrosequences. Players may choose to wander in circles until they enter the frame of combat through a random encounter. In some areas there are consoles which offer a Tutorial with the option to practice fighting the monsters unique to the area without any damage to the characters beyond the frame. In the Calm Lands players are also likely to find the Monster Arena, which lets them enter into a combat frame with any of the available monsters. Conversely, Tidus has a Flee Ability, which allows players to escape the combat frames forced upon them by random encounters, such that they can pursue navigation and the story. Players also eventually acquire a No Encounters Ability, which prevents random encounters, meaning that game-functional semes become narcotised while navigating the game world. Lastly, FFX incorporates the mini-games of Blitzball, Chocobo Racing, Thunder Dodging, and Butterfly Chasing as different frames. All of these allow the player to voluntarily shift frames and renew their interest.

Conclusion

This chapter has argued that narrative macrosequences in FFX are periodically interrupted by macrosequences of movement and combat, and that the qualitative distinction between narrative and game sequences may lead to the disruption of phasic interest episodes. However, the dysregulation of interest may be attenuated in several ways. First, the staggering of narrative and game hermeneutic structures, and partial reinforcement between narrative and game macrosequences, may preserve tonic interest in the game. Second, the cross coding of narrative and game macrosequences may preserve interest during shifts between them. Third, frame-shifting means that player's may accept shifts between narrative and game macrosequences as part of the game's aesthetic, and in FFX players can voluntarily renew their interest by switching to a different game macrostructure.