Rory’s Story Cubes
As an aficionado of both dice and semiotics, I was very excited to find Rory’s Story Cubes in my FLGS (Friendly Local Game Store) a few weeks ago. This set consists of nine six-sided dice featuring 54 different icons; every side of every die is unique.
Rory’s Story Cubes is presented as a storytelling game, and offers a few short ways of using them as such, all of which revolve around rolling the dice, creating a sequence of images, and constructing a story based on that sequence.
When used as a game to tell stories, they are a perfect example of how the syntagmatic dimension functions. In semiotics, this dimension refers to how the relationships between signs affects their meaning. In language this manifests as syntax. Here, the sequence of images as displayed on the cubes is syntagmatic in that the meaning of a given cube in shaping the story is necessarily formed by the adjacent cubes. Placing the bee before the keyhole would be very different than before the open hand. In the first example, the bee would likely be interpreted as passing through the keyhole, where the second example implies that the bee was swatted.
Another example of how the syntagmatic dimension shapes meaning is the Kuleshov Effect, a phenomenon related to montage. Named after Russian filmmaker Lev Kuleshov, the Kuleshov Effect describes how an audience brings their own emotions and backgrounds into play when interpreting a sequence of images. Similarly, the meaning of the cubes is also shaped by the players. It makes just as much sense to interpret the bee-hand combination as meaning that the bee landed on the hand, or stung the hand, and so on.
On a different note, Rory’s Story Cubes are also an interesting example of several concepts introduced by Espen Aarseth in Cybertext:
“It is useful to distinguish between strings as they appear to readers and strings as they exist in the text, since these may not always be the same. For want of better terms, I call the former scriptons and the latter textons. […] In addition to textons and scriptons, a text consists of what I call a traversal function - the mechanism by which scriptons are revealed or generated from textons and presented to the user of the text” (1997, 62).
In Rory’s Story Cubes, the “textons” include all 54 images, while the “scriptons” are whichever images are currently, for lack of a better term, “active” - that is, being made use of by the user. The traversal function is built into their physical nature as dice: the act of rolling them generates the scriptons.
Of course, Aarseth developed these concepts as a means of analyzing textual artifacts, whose primary function is “to relay verbal information” (ibid.). He further notes that scriptons “are what an ‘ideal reader’ reads by strictly following the linear structure of the textual output” (ibid.). The scriptons in Rory’s Story Cubes, however, are not meant to be “read” in the manner Aarseth describes, but rather are used as tools and prompts for constructing a narrative. This is a key distinction between the Cubes and purely textual machines, and alternative terms to “textons” and “scriptons” are called for, to account for artifacts such as these.
While Rory’s Story Cubes are certainly effective illustrations of all of these principles, what I personally find compelling about them is not the meanings that can come out of rolling them, but rather that the near-infinite sum of meanings they might release and enable has been so elegantly constrained by their form. It is the many potential meanings highly compressed in the textons that charm, not the meanings brought out by the scriptons.
Ludic Orders of Signification
As I have alluded to previously, one of the interesting facets of how objects operate as fiction-signs (that is, signs in the context of the game’s fiction) is how malleable and arbitrary they are. For example, the ever-popular board game Agricola recently saw a new quasi-expansion, Agricola: The Goodies. Among other things, this expansion includes replacement wooden bits that are meant to be more iconic than the plain discs and cubes included with the base game.
The picture below shows the new “clay” bits on the left, the original bits on the right, and an American quarter for scale.
The new clay bits are odd in that they are a different color from the original bits. Note that the discs are more of a deep red, while the newer blocks are more of a light brown. To see why this is significant, consider the following image of the Pottery.
This card can be “built” by a player by paying the resources indicated in the upper-right corner. The upper, brown icon indicates clay, while the lower black icon represents stone; the Pottery costs two clay and two stone. These icons are triple-coded for usability purposes. First, the color matches the colors of the bits. Second, their round nature matches the shape of the bits in the base game. Third, the small shapes match the shapes of the new bits. To see how this works, compare the icon on the card with the picture of the bits above.
The importance of this example is that it demonstrates how easily we assign meaning to game bits, and how easily we can adjust and change that meaning. But these bits illustrate another concept I would like to introduce.
As an expansion of my rules-sign and fiction-sign model, we can consider game bits in terms of Barthes’ orders of signification, with some revision. This model I refer to as the ludic orders of signification, and is as follows:
0. Fiction
1. Rules
2. Connotation
The zeroth order is the fiction order. I have labeled this order 0 for two reasons. First, it may or may not be present. The shapes in Tetris do not signify on this level. However, it something does signify on this level it is the first level we notice. We can see that Mario is a person before we have any understanding of how he works.
The first order is the rules order. This order is always present, and refers to what bits signify within the game rules, or code. This essentially maps to signification in the rules-level, as I have discussed previously.
The second order is connotation, and this is essentially the same as Barthes’ second order. Game bits have a wide range of connotations to different people. A Chess piece may connote intelligence, patience, planning, difficulty, frustration, pretentiousness, and so on. It is likely possible to distinguish between fiction-connotation and rules-connotation, but this is not a topic I will be exploring here.
In the case of the two versions of clay, we see that in terms of the zeroth order, fiction-sign, they both signify clay but one is more iconic than the other.
In the first order, rules-signs, they signify the same thing: there is no functional difference between the brown blocks or red discs, and it is entirely reasonable to play with a mix of both (as I myself do).
In the second order, connotation, the two bits probably connote different things. For me (as an obvious fan of the game) the flat disc connotes efficiency: it was easiest and cheapest for the manufacturer to make all of the resources the same size and shape. The flat discs are also ideal for stacking, which makes them easy to handle during gameplay. The brown blocks connote dedication (I enjoy the game enough to have purchased this expansion), if not excess. I also am disappointed by the coloring choice, and so I am less happy with the new clay bits than the other new bits.
As a researcher, this is a large part of the reason I find board games so fascinating. We inscribe meaning into the pieces in a profound way, yet we are willing to change and alter that meaning without hesitation. As another example, the fact that the board game industry exists as it does is fascinating in itself. For almost any game we could simply copy the rules and create a set to play with from scratch, but this is rarely done and such custom bits are not afforded the same reverence as mass-produced pieces. We might say game bits have an aura directly opposed to the Benjaminian aura - mass production is valued over custom, one-of-a-kind pieces.
There Is No Magic Circle (in Video Games)
Video games have no magic circle, but board games do.
The difference between these two media is, essentially, one of reaction and proaction. If I may be allowed to indulge in a McLuhan-esque theory for a moment, video games are a reactive medium. As a player, I am continually reacting to the game state as-defined by the computer. The computer communicates the current state to me (the means by which it does so varies considerably from game to game). I then process this information, make a decision, and the feedback loop continues. This is of course the same regardless of the nature or genre of the game: in this sense Farmville, Grand Theft Auto and Quake are all the same thing. In multiplayer games the situation is only slightly different: a varying number of people are affecting the state, but the state is still processed, maintained and communicated by the computer.
Board games, however, are a proactive medium. In these games the state is essentially a mental construct shared amongst the players. Each will have (approximately) the same idea of what the state currently is, and when the state is altered each must update his or her own construct accordingly. The actual bits, cards and so on can be thought of as reminders that communicate the state, used so that we do not have to keep everything in memory. These games are fundamentally proactive: as a player, it is up to me to process and update the game state, in addition to choosing how I will alter it when my chance comes. Without the player’s shared understanding of the rules and the state the game breaks down. As such, everyone must actively maintain the information in the system that both defines the state and the rules.
With this in mind, I want to address Huizinga’s famed “magic circle.” Recent scholarship agrees (seemingly unilaterally) that the magic circle is porous at best. While Huizinga implies that a game is somehow set apart from reality, in practice this is never the case. Anyone who has ever intentionally lost a game, bragged (or annoyed by bragging) about winning, or bet on an outcome knows this firsthand. In short, our real lives permeate the games we play, and they cannot be cleanly separated.
As such, it seems that as a theory the magic circle as-described is incomplete, or even incorrect. However, I propose that we should view the magic circle as the information feedback loop maintained by the players of a board game. The magic circle implies that something special and distinct from ordinary reality is occurring during a game. When we play a board game this is exactly what happens: the objects we play with are imbued with a special significance. Paper money is “worth” something, flat discs can “jump” over each other, placing a token in a certain place earns “points.” The meaning and information we attach to these objects belongs to the other half of the information feedback loop, a loop drawn between the players-as-players and players-as-processors. This loop is the magic circle, a circle that transforms random cubes of wood into bits of information that we are then somehow able to act upon in a meaningful way. When the game is over the paper money still has value, but it is of a different type.
I have six victory points!
With video games the feedback loop is fundamentally different. We do not need to attach any special meaning to Mario, the computer provides it for us. We see and interact with the objects in a video game without any special manipulation of our own cognitive processes. There is no magic circle here, only reaction to a state that is just partially under our control.
I want to conclude by noting that this is not an attempt at a value judgment that privileges one medium over another, despite whatever connotations “proactive” and “reactive” might have in today’s business-jargon-infused world. Rather, I believe that board games and video games have some fundamental differences, and this short piece represents a first stab at delineating them.
Resource Chits from Le Havre
One of my favorite board games is Uwe Rosenberg’s Le Havre, an economic game wherein the players are workers in a harbor (the titular French city).
[note: I have a lot to say about these but not necessarily in any systematic fashion. But hey, what do you expect from a blog?]
In the game players must manage sixteen different types of resources, which can be used to construct buildings or ships, to feed workers, or used as energy. The resources are printed on cardboard chits and are double-sided: half of the resources are upgraded versions of the other half.
The picture above is of half the resources. In the top row are the basic resources, while the upgraded versions are in the bottom. While there are different rules regarding upgrading each resource type, the process of treating these resources has been abstracted into a simple flip: by turning a “fish” chit over, it becomes “smoked fish.” By turning wood over it becomes charcoal.
As you have probably noticed by now, these chits manage to pack an enormous amount of information into a fairly small space; .75” square inches. In addition to the name of the resource, the border indicates whether the resource is basic or upgraded (a general distinction that does become significant in the game, as sometimes players may collect X basic goods or Y upgraded goods, for example).
The chits also use a combination of color and icons to aid in identification. For the most part the symbols are iconic, but a few are debatable. Hides, leather, coke and clay are all fairly general and probably not identifiable as such without the printed name.
The “#F.” located in the bottom right represents the value of the resource if sold, in Francs.
Additional icons indicate whether the resource can be expended as food or energy. Fish, smoked fish, bread and meat all have food value, as indicated by the small pot located directly beneath the primary icon. Wood, charcoal, coal and coke can be used as energy, as indicated by the light bulb symbol in the bottom-left. The light bulb here is an interesting choice, as it is highly culturally situated. Here it is signifying harnessed electricity, which in turn signifies energy in general. As a sign the light bulb also has a lot of positive connotations: invention, science, technology, progress, civilization.
This also raises an interesting question about our concept of “energy” in general. Electricity is (usually; hopefully) intangible, as is the modern idea of “energy.” How would a pre-industrial society represent energy? Would they even have an idea of energy as an abstract concept?
Finally, unlike most board game bits I have encountered, these chits fit Gonzalo Frasca’s model of the Peircean sign. Specifically, my interpretation of flipping the chits as an abstraction of upgrading / processing is the interpretamen; my mental model of how they work in isolation. Granted these are much more simple than the simulations Frasca was discussing, but the principle is the same.
The Book of Chess
I tend to be more interested in Chess sets themselves than actually playing, which is fortunate for this blog. I recently acquired a rather fascinating Chess set known as The Book of Chess, pictured below.
What I find so fascinating about this set is the enormous amount of information packed into the individual pieces, and the numerous codes in which they operate.
To begin with, each piece clearly represents a standard Chess piece. But they do so through two codes: the English language, and the code governing how Chess pieces are traditionally shaped. The first is fairly obvious, but the second only becomes apparent when we consider the visual design of the pieces. Note that the top of each incorporates the standard top from a traditional Chess set:
- The pawn’s sphere has become a circle.
- The K in “rook” has been flattened to resemble a castle tower.
- The T in “knight” has been adjusted to look like the horse that typically represents the knight.
- The P in “bishop” resembles the bishop’s pointed hat.
- The dots after the N in “queen” mimic the queen’s traditional crown.
- The G in “king” is shaped like a cross, which is traditionally on the king’s crown.
Of course, this is in addition to the standard sizes of the pieces relative to each other.
Digging deeper, these pieces represent more than a Chess set. As I noted above, they also operate with the English language code: we can tell which piece is which through the word they form as well as the visual design. But to push further, they also represent sequences of sounds, which we recognize as representing a word, which in turn represents a variety of things. The visual design then specifies which meaning of the word “king” or “pawn” is represented: if these were just words we would probably not recognize them as coming from a Chess set, unless they were grouped together.
As signs, these Chess pieces are thus fairly complex. Their constituent parts signify a variety of things, but taken together they craft a fairly clear signified. As instances of visual design they are not only aesthetically appealing but quite brilliant as well.
As fiction-signs these pieces are more symbolic than a standard Chess set, as words themselves are primarily symbolic signs, though the visual design causes them to operate in the iconic mode as well. As rules-signs they are no different from a standard set.
Layered Codes: Settlers of Catan Viking Pieces
Board game bits are clearly interchangeable, as evidenced by the countless variants of Monopoly and Chess that can be found in any game or toy store. A related phenomenon more common in Euro games are replacement bits: these are pieces meant to replace the original pieces that shipped with a game, as opposed to an entire re-skin like Simpson’s Monopoly. An example are these Settlers of Catan Viking-theme pieces. (These are currently not available in the US, and were brought to me by a good friend from the Netherlands).
In the picture above the red pieces in front are from the original set that came with the game, while the green pieces in back are from the Viking set.
The pieces in the basic set, from left to right, represent a city, a settlement, and a boat. As fiction-signs they are a mix of symbolic and iconic: they vaguely resemble their signifieds, perhaps the boat most of all. The same is true when they are considered as rules-signs: the boat can move, but in a very limited fashion and usually does not. A city is capable of harvesting more resources than a settlement, which makes sense if you assume a city has more people and hence more available workers. On the other hand, the fact that the city and settlement generate resources at random intervals pushes the rules-signs towards symbolic modality.
The green pieces in the back are the Viking pieces meant to replace the original pieces. According to the Catan website, the replacement city is modeled on a Nordic stave church, the replacement settlement is a traditional Viking house (identifiable by the gable cross roof), and the boat is based on a Norse merchant ship known as a knarr. As such, the Viking pieces are iconic fiction-signs, but the rules-signs are a mix of symbolic and iconic. The knarr and house are generally iconic, for the same reasons above. The church operates more symbolically, as churches are not typically centers for production.
However, the Viking pieces are also signs for the original Settlers of Catan pieces: the Stave church represents the city, the house the settlement, and the knarr the boat. This is possible because the pieces operate in a very specific code that governs how this representation occurs.
I want to emphasize that this is not just replacement or re-skinning, in the vein of Simpson’s Monopoly, but is in fact representation. This is because the rules of Settlers make no mention of Stave churches or other alternate components. The player must know that this is how the Viking pieces function.
(This raises an important point about the arbitrary and authoritarian nature of codes: I only think of the Viking pieces as replacements/representations because the Catan website says they are.)
The Viking pieces operate in more codes than the other game objects I have discussed so far. They operate in the code that allows us to see them as representations of various parts of Viking culture. They also operate in the ludic code that governs how they function in-game, but we only have access to this code once we understand the rules code of Settlers in conjunction with the code that translates the Viking pieces into the pieces that come with the base game.
As a counter-point to the prior example of the rook, Go stones are interesting because they illustrate the semiotic concept of codes. A code is essentially a framework needed to make sense of a sign; you are able to read and understand this sentence because you know the relevant code - English.
Unlike the rook, Go stones only operate as rules-signs: there is simply no fictional element here. While we could interpret the rook on its own as representing a tower, a Go stone does not represent anything.
However, if we know the relevant code - the rules of Go - the stone is a sign, as it signifies the rules of how it works, or the game of Go in general. As someone who knows the code, I cannot look at a Go stone and think of it as anything but.
Of course, these stones can also carry an enormous cultural meaning as well, you just have to know the codes.
Rules-Signs and Fiction-Signs
To get at what and how game bits represent, it is useful to separate how they operate in the game’s fiction from how they operate in the game’s rules (a distinction inspired by Jesper Juul’s model of games as half-real). A good example is a standard rook from any given Chess set.
If we consider the rook as a fiction-sign, the signifier is the rook itself and the signified is a castle, or a tower. This sign primarily operates in the iconic mode - it resembles a tower. But if we consider the rook as a rules-sign its primary modality switches to the symbolic. The signifier is still the rook itself, but the signified is the set of rules governing how the rook operates in-game. Because there is no connection between the form of the rook and how it works - towers are not typically more mobile than a horse - the rules-sign is symbolic.
In-Game vs Isolated
Most of the posts on this blog will be treating the game bits in an extra-game context; for example, sitting on a shelf as opposed to in the middle of the game.
The reason for this is that a piece in-game contains a wealth of state-related information on top of the representational information that I am interested in here. The Ace of Spades by itself means something quite different than during a game of Bridge.
Hidden in this distinction is one of my basic assumptions: that all game bits can be treated as signs in certain contexts and under certain codes. Context and code have a significant impact on what the bit represents, and thus add numerous complications. A bit in-game is functioning within a larger context than a bit on its own.
While all of these factors are significant and interesting, for the purposes of brevity I will not be dealing much with in-game bits.
Kick-Off
I will be using this blog to post pictures of and thoughts on interesting board game bits from a semiotic perspective.
Please note that I am more of a “weekend semiotician,” so if any actual semioticians happen across this I would love your feedback.
