The Zelda Ethos
Or, On Playing Zelda Well
There is a couplet of related questions which has been echoing in my mind for several years now. This pair of questions can be taken very generally, outside of the relatively narrow context of The Legend of Zelda, but I have mostly considered these queries in reference to the cherished series that lies at the heart of our little endeavor. These questions are:
Put more long-windedly, how can we say that we’ve really played a Zelda title in a meaningful sense? When can we hang our hat on our achievement of really having got something out of our playthrough? As with all activities in life, there is a spectrum of performance and mastery, so what does this mean in a particular context having to do with The Legend of Zelda? And, what criteria frame and undergird this spectrum?
Relatedly, how does our frame of mind fit into this picture? What mindset does a Zelda game depend upon, inculcate, and encourage? What does the series incentivize and reward, both materially and spiritually? Is part of the franchise’s success determined by the lasting mental and habitual changes that take place after we’ve set down the controller? After all is said and done: what does it desire of us, and how does it change us?
There is a great deal here to unpack, so let’s get to work.
- What does it mean to play a Zelda game successfully — to play it well?
- What is the mindset required — and nurtured — by the The Legend of Zelda?
Put more long-windedly, how can we say that we’ve really played a Zelda title in a meaningful sense? When can we hang our hat on our achievement of really having got something out of our playthrough? As with all activities in life, there is a spectrum of performance and mastery, so what does this mean in a particular context having to do with The Legend of Zelda? And, what criteria frame and undergird this spectrum?
Relatedly, how does our frame of mind fit into this picture? What mindset does a Zelda game depend upon, inculcate, and encourage? What does the series incentivize and reward, both materially and spiritually? Is part of the franchise’s success determined by the lasting mental and habitual changes that take place after we’ve set down the controller? After all is said and done: what does it desire of us, and how does it change us?
There is a great deal here to unpack, so let’s get to work.
My definition of success — of playing a game well — is quite simple: it means that, whatever the game offers, we engage with, and take away, as much as is possible. Whatever your reason is for playing the game — a focus on gameplay, mechanics, graphics, lore, plot, character development, or theme — you have to grasp its heart and experience it fully. If your emphasis is on gameplay, then a full experience of a Zelda title would entail a rich mastery of mechanics, in-game skills and movement, proficiency with items and weapons, and a knowledge of the world’s inbuilt physics. If one’s focus is upon plot, one would have an intricately-constructed view of the game’s happenings, with distant events connected, theories carefully integrated, and a deep knowledge of the cyclical themes, characters, and events of the entire series extrapolated. These are deep dives into specifics, with a devoted attention to detail — a practice that has made one a master, the development of an eye that has given one rare insight. And, of course, a focus on only one aspect of the game will inevitably be less rich than a multifaceted approach; paying attention to character development while ignoring the recurring thematic elements of the series will unavoidably yield a more incomplete and paltry playthrough than one that makes room for the game’s many aspects. So, success is determined by the depth and breadth of our experience. To play a game once — quickly, shallowly, mindlessly — is to play a game superficially: the equivalent of skimming a book and calling it “finished”. It is an injustice to the work. Granted, we don’t have the lifespan to engage with all art or media profoundly, but some works truly deserve our full time and attention. Siddhartha is one of them. Ocarina of Time is another.
What are the primary realms of analysis and practice that inform a good playthrough? To my mind, there are five, though there are doubtlessly others. Any additional elements will simply enrich one’s playthrough, yielding further satisfaction and meaning. The five realms, in non-ranked order, are these:
Gameplay and Mechanics: this category covers everything from controller layout and user dexterity to reaction time and in-game speed, spacing, and item control. A proficiency with all aspects of movement, aiming, timing, etc. If an action is possible, you can do — and explain — it.
World Knowledge: consisting of our mental map of the game, spatial awareness, sense of direction, knowledge of regional culture, climate, wildlife, dangers, and opportunities. You could draft the topography of a region and describe every aspect of its being in full detail. You know where things are, how to get there, and all the sights along the way.
Historical Knowledge: covering the past goings-on of each people, culture, region, and individual, as well as the connections that exist between them; entailing a deep knowledge of the (tentative) timeline and its manifestation in each era of Hyrule. How did Darunia’s dance in Ocarina of Time affect Lord Jabu Jabu’s digestion? You know this, and much more besides.
Plot, Theme, and Character Development: found in one’s knowledge of each character’s individual journey through time, related to the larger story; beyond this, how each character, event, or change relates to past people and happenings; which dominant themes and motifs shape the unfolding of the story, the fate of the characters, and the face of the world; in-game phenomena can be reliably tied to real-world culture, events, and individuals. You know how Midna’s personal journey in Twilight Princess echoes the hardships of Tatl in Majora’s Mask, and can talk about Navi’s departure at the end of Ocarina of Time through the context of the Japanese concept of ichi-go ichi-e.
Educational Outcomes: an understanding of what the game seeks to inculcate in those who play it — what it teaches, incentivizes, encourages, and demands from players; also, what it discourages and punishes; what the game finds important enough to explore, and why, and for whom; what is the target audience, and what can be learned from the game? Not only could you write a lengthy paper on how Link’s Awakening teaches both impermanence and several interrelated aspects of moral philosophy, you could teach a course about such things to others — guiding learning, creating lessons, and drawing meaningful connections between your students and the game. You could lead others to discover what the game can teach. You are both guide and gateway to betterment in others. This is one of the highest achievements of a successful playthrough.
These five realms, and others, embrace and support my vision of playing Zelda well. As with all art, the more deeply you engage, the richer your experience. To play a game well requires many things of a player. And it is to that question, our second (what is the mindset required — and nurtured — by the The Legend of Zelda?), that this essay now turns.
What are the primary realms of analysis and practice that inform a good playthrough? To my mind, there are five, though there are doubtlessly others. Any additional elements will simply enrich one’s playthrough, yielding further satisfaction and meaning. The five realms, in non-ranked order, are these:
- Gameplay and Mechanics
- World Knowledge
- Historical Reference
- Plot, Theme, and Character Development
- Educational Outcomes
Gameplay and Mechanics: this category covers everything from controller layout and user dexterity to reaction time and in-game speed, spacing, and item control. A proficiency with all aspects of movement, aiming, timing, etc. If an action is possible, you can do — and explain — it.
World Knowledge: consisting of our mental map of the game, spatial awareness, sense of direction, knowledge of regional culture, climate, wildlife, dangers, and opportunities. You could draft the topography of a region and describe every aspect of its being in full detail. You know where things are, how to get there, and all the sights along the way.
Historical Knowledge: covering the past goings-on of each people, culture, region, and individual, as well as the connections that exist between them; entailing a deep knowledge of the (tentative) timeline and its manifestation in each era of Hyrule. How did Darunia’s dance in Ocarina of Time affect Lord Jabu Jabu’s digestion? You know this, and much more besides.
Plot, Theme, and Character Development: found in one’s knowledge of each character’s individual journey through time, related to the larger story; beyond this, how each character, event, or change relates to past people and happenings; which dominant themes and motifs shape the unfolding of the story, the fate of the characters, and the face of the world; in-game phenomena can be reliably tied to real-world culture, events, and individuals. You know how Midna’s personal journey in Twilight Princess echoes the hardships of Tatl in Majora’s Mask, and can talk about Navi’s departure at the end of Ocarina of Time through the context of the Japanese concept of ichi-go ichi-e.
Educational Outcomes: an understanding of what the game seeks to inculcate in those who play it — what it teaches, incentivizes, encourages, and demands from players; also, what it discourages and punishes; what the game finds important enough to explore, and why, and for whom; what is the target audience, and what can be learned from the game? Not only could you write a lengthy paper on how Link’s Awakening teaches both impermanence and several interrelated aspects of moral philosophy, you could teach a course about such things to others — guiding learning, creating lessons, and drawing meaningful connections between your students and the game. You could lead others to discover what the game can teach. You are both guide and gateway to betterment in others. This is one of the highest achievements of a successful playthrough.
These five realms, and others, embrace and support my vision of playing Zelda well. As with all art, the more deeply you engage, the richer your experience. To play a game well requires many things of a player. And it is to that question, our second (what is the mindset required — and nurtured — by the The Legend of Zelda?), that this essay now turns.
We have established the rough foundations of what determines a successful playthrough of Zelda, or, more broadly, any video game that you can call to mind. But Zelda is a particular beast, and requires certain habits of mind above and beyond those expected by other games. This crucible — in which the demands and skills of the player are met by the demands and expectations of the game — is where the Zelda ethos is forged. This ethos is applicable to many areas of life, but it holds an especial importance in the playing of Zelda games successfully. What, then, are the sine qua nons of this ethos?
In the elder days of this website, I explored this topic in a nutshell in my earlier article An Appreciation of Zelda, but only covered several of the aspects of mind that are important in playing a Zelda title. I hope to go more in depth here. All these aspects of mind — which each interrelate and combine to form the Zelda frame of mind — are indispensable to playing Zelda successfully. Again, without these particular mental habits and intellectual qualities, any playthrough will be inevitably hollow. These habits of mind are what make a deep venture into the five realms listed above possible: they form the substructure that allows us to build our ever-growing conceptual knowledge. Just like reading a book well requires us to follow certain rules and act out certain patterns of behavior (as Mortimer Adler lays out in his magisterial How To Read a Book, for instance), so too do we need to follow similar norms in order to access the deeper meanings available to us through video games. These mental routines lead us to a deep knowledge of gameplay, or story, or theme; without them, it may be possible to arrive at the same depth of knowledge, but it seems unlikely and haphazard — perhaps impossible.
It may prove wise to first start with the anti-Zelda mindset: the mindset that is antithetical to everything that the franchise is about. The antithetical frame of mind is the mind that, when stumped, reaches for the nearest guidebook, walkthrough, commentary, forum, thread, or cheat. It is the mind that refuses to be still, to think, and to explore. It is the mind that relies on interpreting the game through another’s eyes — a mind that is unwilling to formulate its own thoughts, opinions, and questions. Zelda is fundamentally an individualistic game, and to rely on others (except in the most extreme situations) is contradictory to the game’s nature. In general, I find that walkthroughs are like the Sparknotes of video games; they not only do your work for you, but also your thinking and understanding. And, like all competitive cognitive artifacts [1][2], we should be exceedingly skeptical of outsourcing our analysis and appreciation, for if we give up the opportunity to improve our minds, they will never improve. Plus, it stands to reason that to have someone else “play” the game with us as a mere conduit for their actions greatly diminishes satisfaction. [3] So, I hope we’ve established just what makes for a lazy playthrough of a Zelda title — in short, it is a dependence upon other minds.
Now let’s turn to the proper frame of mind. In my playthroughs of Zelda games, since first playing Ocarina of Time in 1998, I’ve noticed a pattern of demands that the game has placed on me: habits, thought processes, and intuitions that, at first, I had to learn, but which later came to me as a second nature. They became my habits of mind — essential to my formative years and personal development. These aspects, loosely organized and compiled, are:
Each of these things is critical to a successful playthrough of any game, arguably, but they seem especially salient to Zelda in particular: it is, after all, a unique and pioneering series in many ways. Let’s break these four mental dispositions down further, with some examples.
In the elder days of this website, I explored this topic in a nutshell in my earlier article An Appreciation of Zelda, but only covered several of the aspects of mind that are important in playing a Zelda title. I hope to go more in depth here. All these aspects of mind — which each interrelate and combine to form the Zelda frame of mind — are indispensable to playing Zelda successfully. Again, without these particular mental habits and intellectual qualities, any playthrough will be inevitably hollow. These habits of mind are what make a deep venture into the five realms listed above possible: they form the substructure that allows us to build our ever-growing conceptual knowledge. Just like reading a book well requires us to follow certain rules and act out certain patterns of behavior (as Mortimer Adler lays out in his magisterial How To Read a Book, for instance), so too do we need to follow similar norms in order to access the deeper meanings available to us through video games. These mental routines lead us to a deep knowledge of gameplay, or story, or theme; without them, it may be possible to arrive at the same depth of knowledge, but it seems unlikely and haphazard — perhaps impossible.
It may prove wise to first start with the anti-Zelda mindset: the mindset that is antithetical to everything that the franchise is about. The antithetical frame of mind is the mind that, when stumped, reaches for the nearest guidebook, walkthrough, commentary, forum, thread, or cheat. It is the mind that refuses to be still, to think, and to explore. It is the mind that relies on interpreting the game through another’s eyes — a mind that is unwilling to formulate its own thoughts, opinions, and questions. Zelda is fundamentally an individualistic game, and to rely on others (except in the most extreme situations) is contradictory to the game’s nature. In general, I find that walkthroughs are like the Sparknotes of video games; they not only do your work for you, but also your thinking and understanding. And, like all competitive cognitive artifacts [1][2], we should be exceedingly skeptical of outsourcing our analysis and appreciation, for if we give up the opportunity to improve our minds, they will never improve. Plus, it stands to reason that to have someone else “play” the game with us as a mere conduit for their actions greatly diminishes satisfaction. [3] So, I hope we’ve established just what makes for a lazy playthrough of a Zelda title — in short, it is a dependence upon other minds.
Now let’s turn to the proper frame of mind. In my playthroughs of Zelda games, since first playing Ocarina of Time in 1998, I’ve noticed a pattern of demands that the game has placed on me: habits, thought processes, and intuitions that, at first, I had to learn, but which later came to me as a second nature. They became my habits of mind — essential to my formative years and personal development. These aspects, loosely organized and compiled, are:
- An ability to wonder and wander without any aim beyond curiosity — not driven by rewards, achievements, or “completionism” — an explorative mindset.
- Patience, a heuristic bent, and a fine attention to detail.
- Creativity, flexibility, and whimsy.
- Independence (insomuch as we mirror Link, who is most of the time self-reliant).
Each of these things is critical to a successful playthrough of any game, arguably, but they seem especially salient to Zelda in particular: it is, after all, a unique and pioneering series in many ways. Let’s break these four mental dispositions down further, with some examples.
1. An explorative mindset: In essence, this is a child’s mind — a beginner’s mind. [4] To me, this may be the most important frame through which to look at a Zelda game. This is the mind that peers into corners, checks under rocks, and watches the wind. It seeks to understand where things begin, where they end, and the boundaries between them. It is interested in space, texture, and light — the mind that chases Farosh not for scales or claws but for the sheer delight of the pursuit. This is an absolute hallmark of the series, from the open-ended and unguided journey through The Legend of Zelda to the bounded-yet-beautiful world of Majora’s Mask. In essence, it is the mind that wonders.
2. An attitude of patience, heuristics, and attention to detail: When I first played Ocarina of Time (over twenty years ago!), I found myself stumbling upon weird circles of stone. I had no idea what these circles were for, who made them, or when, but I thought that such circles were probably made for a reason, and so I tried to engage with them. Rearranging the rocks didn’t work, fire didn’t work, pouring water, bugs, or fairies out of bottles onto them didn’t work, but sometimes bombs did. And, occasionally, so did music. It took my child self no small amount of time to figure out these simple circles of stone, but I was driven to discover what secrets they held. And this illustrates part of the frame of mind necessary for playing a Zelda game well. When one encounters a problem — whether a difficult boss fight or an easy push-the-block puzzle — it often requires a heuristic bent. One tries and fails, attempts again and falters, until, ultimately, the puzzle is solved. Because of the nature of trial-and-error problem solving, this entails a certain degree of patience and attention to detail. We have to allow ourselves to fail so that we may eventually arrive at our destination. This is patience. The opposite is frustration, which blinds our eyes to detail — and some of the more difficult puzzles in Zelda necessitate prolonged waiting and watching. Someone who hurries through gameplay, merely glancing over details and speeding through the landscape, will invariably miss much of what the game holds.
3. Creativity, flexibility, and whimsy: This may seem an odd category, but let me explain. Creativity is necessary because, oftentimes, the solution to a problem isn’t obvious: some things seem like they should be solved one way, but they end up taking things in a different direction. The second web in the bottom of the Great Deku Tree appears to require jumping through it to pass, but it actually requires fire; in Jabu Jabu’s Belly, we are trained to use Princess Ruto to hold down switches, and so the last switch seems puzzling, because Ruto is gone — but this switch actually requires a mere box, which is a far simpler solution in practice; in Dodongo’s Cavern, we find we cannot blow up a wall, as we lack bombs, but there are Dodongos nearby that explode upon death. All these examples demonstrate that creativity is a must — as well as the aforementioned heuristic penchant. Flexibility goes hand in hand with creativity, as sometimes even our most creative, innovative approaches to tackling a problem need tweaking. Anyone who has completed all 120 shrines in Breath of the Wild knows that they need to hit the stasis-held orb just two degrees to the left in order for it to fall into place. And, at times, we have to abandon our dearly-created methods and ideas. Sometimes, we utterly fail. And this is fine, so long as we are willing to pick up the pieces and try again. Flexibility allows us to tweak our plans, improve incrementally, and eventually prevail. And, finally, whimsy. Whimsy is certainly the oddest aspect of mind that is needed: it’s not an obvious mental habit to bring to bear on Zelda. Yet, there are times when the solution to a puzzle makes absolutely no sense at all. We forget that, on the other side of this game, quirky developers are occasionally just messing around and having fun. The answers to certain puzzles may be completed unrelated, unthematic, or just plain weird. And we need to be able to simply have fun with puzzles — flying around by cucco or using octo balloons to lift things just for the fun of it. And, this fun can sometimes yield concrete results. Sometimes, whimsy has a beneficial and tangible outcome.
4. Independence: Just as Link travels Hyrule alone, so must we. As I said above at length, we have to apply ourselves — and only ourselves — to whatever task the video game presents. It really does come down to a willingness to engage wholeheartedly with whatever is being experienced: all the aforementioned characteristics of mind, from patience to whimsy, are necessary in this engagement. And they all come from ourselves. Zelda can make us stronger thinkers, better problem solvers, and more flexible individuals, if only we will let it.
2. An attitude of patience, heuristics, and attention to detail: When I first played Ocarina of Time (over twenty years ago!), I found myself stumbling upon weird circles of stone. I had no idea what these circles were for, who made them, or when, but I thought that such circles were probably made for a reason, and so I tried to engage with them. Rearranging the rocks didn’t work, fire didn’t work, pouring water, bugs, or fairies out of bottles onto them didn’t work, but sometimes bombs did. And, occasionally, so did music. It took my child self no small amount of time to figure out these simple circles of stone, but I was driven to discover what secrets they held. And this illustrates part of the frame of mind necessary for playing a Zelda game well. When one encounters a problem — whether a difficult boss fight or an easy push-the-block puzzle — it often requires a heuristic bent. One tries and fails, attempts again and falters, until, ultimately, the puzzle is solved. Because of the nature of trial-and-error problem solving, this entails a certain degree of patience and attention to detail. We have to allow ourselves to fail so that we may eventually arrive at our destination. This is patience. The opposite is frustration, which blinds our eyes to detail — and some of the more difficult puzzles in Zelda necessitate prolonged waiting and watching. Someone who hurries through gameplay, merely glancing over details and speeding through the landscape, will invariably miss much of what the game holds.
3. Creativity, flexibility, and whimsy: This may seem an odd category, but let me explain. Creativity is necessary because, oftentimes, the solution to a problem isn’t obvious: some things seem like they should be solved one way, but they end up taking things in a different direction. The second web in the bottom of the Great Deku Tree appears to require jumping through it to pass, but it actually requires fire; in Jabu Jabu’s Belly, we are trained to use Princess Ruto to hold down switches, and so the last switch seems puzzling, because Ruto is gone — but this switch actually requires a mere box, which is a far simpler solution in practice; in Dodongo’s Cavern, we find we cannot blow up a wall, as we lack bombs, but there are Dodongos nearby that explode upon death. All these examples demonstrate that creativity is a must — as well as the aforementioned heuristic penchant. Flexibility goes hand in hand with creativity, as sometimes even our most creative, innovative approaches to tackling a problem need tweaking. Anyone who has completed all 120 shrines in Breath of the Wild knows that they need to hit the stasis-held orb just two degrees to the left in order for it to fall into place. And, at times, we have to abandon our dearly-created methods and ideas. Sometimes, we utterly fail. And this is fine, so long as we are willing to pick up the pieces and try again. Flexibility allows us to tweak our plans, improve incrementally, and eventually prevail. And, finally, whimsy. Whimsy is certainly the oddest aspect of mind that is needed: it’s not an obvious mental habit to bring to bear on Zelda. Yet, there are times when the solution to a puzzle makes absolutely no sense at all. We forget that, on the other side of this game, quirky developers are occasionally just messing around and having fun. The answers to certain puzzles may be completed unrelated, unthematic, or just plain weird. And we need to be able to simply have fun with puzzles — flying around by cucco or using octo balloons to lift things just for the fun of it. And, this fun can sometimes yield concrete results. Sometimes, whimsy has a beneficial and tangible outcome.
4. Independence: Just as Link travels Hyrule alone, so must we. As I said above at length, we have to apply ourselves — and only ourselves — to whatever task the video game presents. It really does come down to a willingness to engage wholeheartedly with whatever is being experienced: all the aforementioned characteristics of mind, from patience to whimsy, are necessary in this engagement. And they all come from ourselves. Zelda can make us stronger thinkers, better problem solvers, and more flexible individuals, if only we will let it.
These four mental habits allow us to dive into gameplay, theme, and character to the required degree. They enable us to engage deeply with a work of art, to take from it as much as it has to give. They are absolutely essential to any successful playthrough. To revisit our original questions:
When we weave these questions together — playing Zelda well through the proper mindset — we are led down increasingly rich paths. The more habits of mind that we bring to the myriad aspects of the video game, the deeper and more profound our experience. And this rings true with all art: whatever work of art we’re engaged with, the more we give to it, the more we get out of it. Art is an investment — not of wealth, but of attention and effort. Needless to say, we moderns lack much of the appreciatory mindset of older generations. Doubtless this comes from many sources, but the main one is simply that we are inundated with ceaseless streams of media from every available channel. No sooner do we finish one show then we move on to another; finish one book, start another the same day; look at one painting in a gallery, move on to the next. And with all this media in our mind, where is the moment of reflection — of appreciation? In the fifteen seconds it takes to move on to the next episode, show, or book? Does it happen while you’re engaged with the next media? In your dreams? In mentioning the latest episode of a podcast to a friend? It probably does not occur at all. Reflection and appreciation require time, and time is a scarce commodity in modern society; we all spend a lot of time doing what we want to do, and we have plenty of time for it, but this time is rarely well spent, and almost none of it is rooted in personal quietude and reflection. We’re simply not giving ourselves the chance to engage with art at any level beyond the superficial. This might be a cynical vision, but it is well-founded experientially. There is a battle for attention being fought, and the Zelda ethos is not necessarily on the ascendant side.
Can the Zelda ethos manifest itself outside of the game? Does an in-game attention to detail transfer to real-world skills, and does our independent mindset while playing make us more effective individuals while living? Ultimately, I don’t think we can draw any bright lines here, though it seems likely that there is at least some transfer of skills — though probably it is highly domain- and situation-specific. This is one of those age-old which-precedes-which paradoxes: is an individual’s attention to detail highlighted during a Zelda game, or is it a skill that can actually be developed during a playthrough? I have no idea. But this does not weaken the argument. We still need to attempt to be our best selves during our playthroughs, engaging with as much élan as is possible. This passion and focus can eventually lead to mastery — and a game that is truly well played.
- What does it mean to play a Zelda game successfully — to play it well?
- What is the mindset required — and nurtured — by the The Legend of Zelda?
When we weave these questions together — playing Zelda well through the proper mindset — we are led down increasingly rich paths. The more habits of mind that we bring to the myriad aspects of the video game, the deeper and more profound our experience. And this rings true with all art: whatever work of art we’re engaged with, the more we give to it, the more we get out of it. Art is an investment — not of wealth, but of attention and effort. Needless to say, we moderns lack much of the appreciatory mindset of older generations. Doubtless this comes from many sources, but the main one is simply that we are inundated with ceaseless streams of media from every available channel. No sooner do we finish one show then we move on to another; finish one book, start another the same day; look at one painting in a gallery, move on to the next. And with all this media in our mind, where is the moment of reflection — of appreciation? In the fifteen seconds it takes to move on to the next episode, show, or book? Does it happen while you’re engaged with the next media? In your dreams? In mentioning the latest episode of a podcast to a friend? It probably does not occur at all. Reflection and appreciation require time, and time is a scarce commodity in modern society; we all spend a lot of time doing what we want to do, and we have plenty of time for it, but this time is rarely well spent, and almost none of it is rooted in personal quietude and reflection. We’re simply not giving ourselves the chance to engage with art at any level beyond the superficial. This might be a cynical vision, but it is well-founded experientially. There is a battle for attention being fought, and the Zelda ethos is not necessarily on the ascendant side.
Can the Zelda ethos manifest itself outside of the game? Does an in-game attention to detail transfer to real-world skills, and does our independent mindset while playing make us more effective individuals while living? Ultimately, I don’t think we can draw any bright lines here, though it seems likely that there is at least some transfer of skills — though probably it is highly domain- and situation-specific. This is one of those age-old which-precedes-which paradoxes: is an individual’s attention to detail highlighted during a Zelda game, or is it a skill that can actually be developed during a playthrough? I have no idea. But this does not weaken the argument. We still need to attempt to be our best selves during our playthroughs, engaging with as much élan as is possible. This passion and focus can eventually lead to mastery — and a game that is truly well played.
Notes and Works Cited:
[1] Norman, Donald A. (1991), "Cognitive artifacts", John M. Carroll (ed.), Designing Interaction, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
[2] I particularly like this article as a brief delineation and analysis of the concept: Danaher, John. “Competitive Cognitive Artifacts and the Demise of Humanity: A Philosophical Analysis.” Philosophical Disquisitions, 18 Sept. 2016, philosophicaldisquisitions.blogspot.com/2016/09/competitive-cognitive-artifacts-and.html.
[3] The research concerning player satisfaction and walkthroughs is yet nascent (there aren’t any papers specifically on the topic), though some papers are tangential in that they address cheating in video games. However, most papers appear to focus on player v. player cheating instead of the individual cheating themselves. This paper is a good introduction to how cheating is viewed and defined among gamers:
Consalvo, Mia. Digital Games Research Conference: Changing Views — Worlds in Play, June 16 - 20, 2005. “Gaining Advantage: How Videogame Players Define and Negotiate Cheating.”
This paper is also interesting, addressing the relationship between difficulty, competence, and achievement and the player’s reported level of satisfaction:
Klimmt C., Blake C., Hefner D., Vorderer P., Roth C. (2009) Player Performance, Satisfaction, and Video Game Enjoyment. In: Natkin S., Dupire J. (eds) Entertainment Computing – ICEC 2009. ICEC 2009. Lecture Notes in Computer Science, vol 5709. Springer, Berlin, Heidelberg
[4] From Japanese hoshin (初心), meaning “beginner’s mind.” Shunryu Suzuki, a Zen priest, often used this phrase to describe an attitude of complete openness to new experiences — almost an eagerness to experience the unknown. It also enjoins the shrugging off of preconceptions and assumptions, no matter the level of study: the master should inculcate this mind just as the beginner would. Through beginner’s mind, everything is fresh and wondrous, and our experience is open to change and the presence of reality as it is.
Suzuki Shunryū, and Trudy Dixon. Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. Shambhala, 2006.
[1] Norman, Donald A. (1991), "Cognitive artifacts", John M. Carroll (ed.), Designing Interaction, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
[2] I particularly like this article as a brief delineation and analysis of the concept: Danaher, John. “Competitive Cognitive Artifacts and the Demise of Humanity: A Philosophical Analysis.” Philosophical Disquisitions, 18 Sept. 2016, philosophicaldisquisitions.blogspot.com/2016/09/competitive-cognitive-artifacts-and.html.
[3] The research concerning player satisfaction and walkthroughs is yet nascent (there aren’t any papers specifically on the topic), though some papers are tangential in that they address cheating in video games. However, most papers appear to focus on player v. player cheating instead of the individual cheating themselves. This paper is a good introduction to how cheating is viewed and defined among gamers:
Consalvo, Mia. Digital Games Research Conference: Changing Views — Worlds in Play, June 16 - 20, 2005. “Gaining Advantage: How Videogame Players Define and Negotiate Cheating.”
This paper is also interesting, addressing the relationship between difficulty, competence, and achievement and the player’s reported level of satisfaction:
Klimmt C., Blake C., Hefner D., Vorderer P., Roth C. (2009) Player Performance, Satisfaction, and Video Game Enjoyment. In: Natkin S., Dupire J. (eds) Entertainment Computing – ICEC 2009. ICEC 2009. Lecture Notes in Computer Science, vol 5709. Springer, Berlin, Heidelberg
[4] From Japanese hoshin (初心), meaning “beginner’s mind.” Shunryu Suzuki, a Zen priest, often used this phrase to describe an attitude of complete openness to new experiences — almost an eagerness to experience the unknown. It also enjoins the shrugging off of preconceptions and assumptions, no matter the level of study: the master should inculcate this mind just as the beginner would. Through beginner’s mind, everything is fresh and wondrous, and our experience is open to change and the presence of reality as it is.
Suzuki Shunryū, and Trudy Dixon. Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. Shambhala, 2006.