Pleasing and Practical, Volume One: "Work is play for mortal stakes"

A new series begins on what art can be and how we find that in videogames

Never enjoy the surface, always digging beneath
You know what you are, when you see
All the hells and all the bliss revealed
As a single god

Wilderun, “Passenger”

Welcome to “Pleasing and Practical.” These are essays on the combination of utile and dulce in modern videogames, why it matters in the first place, and how that combination creates some of the best masterpieces of artistic expression we have access to. I’m going to look at the games we play as a form of art—both the games themselves and the ways we play them.

The epigraph above is from a song about pain’s inseparable existence with our lives, how it sustains us and saps us at once. I find it an apt lesson as I discuss the two facets of interacting with games: the fun of the playing and/or the story, and the pain of getting wrecked by phenomenal art. Another line from the song is spoken from pain itself: “Praise will rise from the ruins and mist.” I’m going to examine a bunch of games and a bunch of ideas within gaming as though I should be grateful to the thing that broke my soul.

To begin, let me give you a couple Latin terms and a short tangent on a medieval poet, then back to games. I’ll throw out some examples of games and some ways to think about them. I’ll end this post with a question about art and the indie adventure game Kentucky Route Zero.

TLDR: Good art should have some serious thematic exploration and some enjoyment, and those two ideas can mean different things for different people. Most of us probably already think along these lines, but I hope this post/essay can provide some useful terms and frameworks.

The first Sly Cooper game is incredibly fun. It also has some serious themes to explore.

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Horace’s critiques of artistic creation

Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci, lectorem delectando pariterque monendo.

[Those who have mixed pleasures with what is practical, teaching and entertaining the reader at the same time, win every vote.]

Horace, Ars Poetica, lines 343-4. Full Latin text here. And here is a full alternative English translation.

About 2,000 years ago, Horace wrote that the best poets are those who can fully and most effectively mix serious and useful instruction [utile] with pleasant and fun entertainment [dulce].¹ Scholars still refer back to this dichotomy in art in our critiques and academic writing, especially when the art we’re looking at uses similar language to describe itself.

I used this distinction in my dissertation when I talked about the medieval Scottish poet Robert Henryson. He wrote a serious of translations of Aesop’s Fables and trickster tales, starring Reynard the Fox, around the year 1470. In it, he praises the poet (himself) who is best able to weave together “play” and “ernist” [earnest]. Chaucer (c. 1340-1400) uses a similar “game” and “ernest” distinction for his poetry.²

The way I’m translating utile—practical—is not quite the same as Chaucer and Henryson thought it, with the art having an “earnest” tone, but that’s because of what the medieval world largely saw art as: a teaching tool. To be earnest was to instruct, and so to be practical. Henryson wrote very explicit moral lessons at the end of each tale so that the reader couldn’t come away with the wrong idea. He thought that’s what good art should do and be.

Scholars still tend to talk about texts this way, even if implicitly. We tend to think of novels as having certain arguments or lessons (a theme is an argument the novel is making about the world). Poems have morals or major take-aways. Usually, we consider the poetry with obvious or explicit lessons to be preachy or cringe; we prefer the subtle approach.

And we absolutely learn from the games we play. Tons of research has gone into gaming as a teaching tool, and game studies scholars have been writing more and more about the implicit lessons we get from playing.³ That is, I’m not sure it’s possible to remove the instruction or seriousness—the utile—from gaming. Games are still useful, still practical for teaching, even when they’re fun. Even when they weren’t made to teach an explicit lesson.

The earnestness must be fun, and the fun must be earnest

I cannot think of a better example of a videogame that perfectly merges the pleasing—the fun, the entertaining, even the relaxation—with the practical—the serious, the earnest, the important—than God of War (2018).

I know. What a surprise.

That games takes itself seriously, and it takes its play seriously. But it’s also deeply, unflinchingly a game, and it takes its seriousness as far as its enjoyment.

Scott enjoys freeing all the Valkyries, too.

Some scenes are more silly, and others more serious. Some moments are more game-y, and others more strictly narrative. But they come together in such a way not to diminish each other (reasonable people can disagree on this, but for me it works).

In fact, both the gameplay and the narrative are both fun and serious. (I’ll write a post later on about why I don’t think that gameplay and narrative are wholly different.)

Other games with impactful narratives and satisfying gameplay of any type can fit into this archetypal form: The Last of Us and Horizon Zero Dawn certainly fit into this for me. As do several phenomenal indie games with serious tones and fun mixed in. Telltale games are welcome additions. Others are ones that I think are fun, but through their interactivity/exploration, not necessarily through what we usually call “engaging gameplay,” or through the play itself. Outer Wilds and Night in the Woods are a couple of these. Undertale and Gris deserve a shout-out as well. So do dozens of others, but I must move on.

Piloting that spaceship has deterred so many players who were otherwise willing to let this game tear at their relationship with creation.

A problem here arises with the dulce half. “Fun” in gaming is so subjective, so unique. Hell, whether I’m having fun is usually more about my mood than it is about the game (with some exceptions when I just can’t get into it). We’re going to disagree about what is “fun” about playing. I don’t think dying 20 times per boss fight in Dark Souls is particularly fun, but I definitely get how finally overcoming it feels incredible; I’ll consider it a successful attempt at dulce for its audience.

On the other hand, the only gameplay in Night in the Woods is walking, jumping, and dialogue; but I think it’s fun because of what those actions let me reveal in the game. Spiritfarer is fun only if you enjoy resource management and exploration, but like NITW it is undeniably impactful.

So I’m not going to make absolute claims about a certain game being fun, or a certain other game being boring. Take my opinions for what they are, and always let me know what games you would categorize here. Do any come to mind for you that perfectly mix the pleasing with the practical? Which ones scratch that itch?

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When a game has one but not the other

Again, we might disagree on some specific examples here, but I’m going to try to keep in mind popular reception.

I don’t think Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 is trying to teach any lessons or affect its audience with something that we might call “an artistic experience.” That doesn’t mean it’s not teaching anything, and that doesn’t mean that it isn’t still a form of art (it does and it is), but on a spectrum between Entertainment on one side and Art on the other, it’s certainly more toward Entertainment.

The gameplay is quite fun, and the vast majority of its fanbase doesn’t need it to be anything else. Smooth and engaging FPS gameplay through an interesting-enough campaign narrative and a few multiplayer maps/modes is the goal. It’s dulce.

I bet no more than 5% of gamers would say that Kentucky Route Zero is fun. That doesn’t mean it’s not enjoyable, and that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have any fun moments during the play (it is and it does), but on a spectrum between Entertainment on one side and Art on the other, it’s certainly more toward Art.

“All they want is debt! They feed on it! They put it in the whiskey!”

It’s a narrative adventure game with very few puzzles, a surrealist and confusing world, and constant reading with very little voice acting. One of the interludes—“The Entertainment,” between Acts II and III—is consistently reviewed negatively and racks up tons of complaints on the subreddit and on Steam reviews alike (negative Steam reviews almost universally claim that KR0 is “not a game”). The gameplay is never really “play” in the way we usually think about it. The game, released in five acts over seven years, can’t be anything but an interactive experience, but I’m not sure that means it’s fun to play. It’s utile.

Of course, I’ve done a bad academia just now. I’m being reductive, and thinking that these games exist along a spectrum that separates Entertainment and Art as two distinct poles, as opposites, is actually a huge mistake in the first place. Thinking like that is what makes academics into elitists and snobs.

So let me be clear: like what you like. I play tons of games that I’ll never teach in a classroom or write about in my scholarship. But that’s because of personal taste, of accessibility issues (i.e., I’m not requiring students to play through a game that requires gaming skill), and of my preference to discuss games with really hard-hitting themes. It’s not because some games are “worse” than others. Regardless of the medium, I can think of plenty of examples of “low-brow” stuff that pulled on me or affected the way I look at the world.

I’ve cried twice my whole life because of a book, and they were both because of this one. This isn’t “literary fiction,” but it’s art.

I love music that does weird stuff, incorporates several genres, experiments, and shows off technical skill—but I also love a chorus and a heavy breakdown or solo. In other words, I’m a prog metal guy, but I’m not seeking out avant-garde stuff all the time. I have friends who do, and I admire them. Sometimes I’ve gotta reel in my overthinking and jam to “Which Side Are You On?” to remind myself I’m just a Kentuckian descended from coal miners. I love Kentucky Route Zero because it is a masterpiece—but I’m also currently playing Sly Cooper and the Thievius Raccoonus and Crypt Custodian, which aren’t, at least not in the same way (stay tuned for more thoughts on these).

I’m a human of contradictory taste. You probably are, too, though our examples differ.

So let’s get rid of that spectrum between Entertainment and Art, and let’s replace it with several different metrics. How does the game feel? How and what does it teach? Does it seriously engage with its themes, or does it present them haphazardly or keep them at the surface? There are many more questions like these that all get at the same issue here.

Kentucky Route Zero introduces, executes, and is its themes (I joke in class that it’s all themes, no lore; all emotion, no logic). And when we approach it with that view, it’s an incredibly fun experience. Black Ops 6 introduces, executes, and is its fun. When we approach it with that view, we can begin to see its implicit lessons (again, regardless of developer intent).

I have no final answers, but I think this combination of utile and dulce is a framework worth considering. I’ve titled this series so.

Work is play for mortal stakes

The line, “work is play for mortal stakes,” comes originally from Robert Frost’s “Two Tramps in Mud Time:”

Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.

I’m taking also from its reference in Kentucky Route Zero, Act II, as Conway talks to Brandon, the janitor of Saint Thomas Church (Doubting Thomas and Aquinas come to mind). The church is empty; the congregation hasn’t met here for…well, it seems like forever. But Brandon keeps putting on tapes of old sermons. He performs these recordings for no one simply because it’s his job to do so, and he finds dignity in that work. As Conway says, “We’ve all got a job to do.”

This scene begs the question for me: What is the point of a performance, of an art piece, for no one to engage with? What worth still remains? (Jacob Geller has a video about this question.)

The title of the homily is, “Work is play for mortal stakes.” The protestant work ethic does indeed prioritize the importance of serious work over the foolishness of play, but this line brings the two together. It emphasizes the importance (Mortal stakes, salvation) by uniting the ideas (work is a form of play, a type of fun). The serious does not happen without the silly; salvation comes through work (a distinctly non-protestant idea) and play together.

I’m not saying I agree with that statement, but it demonstrates what KR0 is trying to argue for: real fun can in fact be found in serious work. The pleasing can be found in the practical, for one cannot exist without the other.

Serious art, that is, needs to be enjoyable and enjoyed. It can affect us, wreck us, make us cry, make rethink who we are, open our eyes to the suffering of others, let us know ourselves. Art can do a lot of things that are absolutely important for being a human, and not all of them are fun. But at the end of the day, for that art to affect us the best, we need to take it on its own terms (don’t try to siphon it into Entertainment or Art), and we need to enjoy it.

Art that I don’t enjoy isn’t going to inspire a lot of critical thinking unless some other force gives me the motivation to keep experiencing and thinking about it. It is art’s responsibility and mine to enjoy an experience through the pain it might cause and through the less fun sections. Because that’s how we get to feel.⁴ Like the epigraph says, I tend to dig beneath rather than sit at the surface; I’m best done in by media when it gives me the hell and the bliss together.

Of course, I don’t really know what art is. I think we all need to figure that out for ourselves. But this gives me a good starting point, and I hope it helps you think about that distinction between things we discard as entertainment (sports, sitcoms, reality shows, hip hop, fantasy) and things we consider art (opera, renaissance paintings, Shakespeare, The Wire, literary fiction).

Fear not: some are still more worthy of serious consideration and analysis than others. Some content really is just entertainment with little technical or thematic thought, and some “high art” is immensely fulfilling and enriching. On the other hand, some entertainment is based as hell, and some “high art” is just…sad, and says nothing I haven’t gotten somewhere else.

We shouldn’t be quick to consider them opposites, and we should open ourselves up to the art that wants us to enjoy the experience. Look for the things that bring utile and dulce together—and find out what those mean for you.

Thanks for sticking it out through this longer post! The next will have much more dulce.

That’s all for now. Be at peace.

1. I’m using the neuter singular forms of these adjectives. Utile is “a practical thing,” and dulce is “a pleasing thing.” The words carry many other connotations.

2. Check out Chad D. Schrock, “The Sacramental Language of Robert Henryson’s Fox,” The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 116, no. 3 (2017): 330-50. He has a really convincing argument for Henryson’s use of that same dichotomy. Here’s a JSTOR link. You should be able to read it online for free there (but it’s about a bunch of poems that you probably haven’t read).

3. My favorite of these is Karen Schrier’s 2021 book We the Gamers: How Games Teach Ethics and Civics (Oxford University Press).

4. The enjoyment can (and probably should) be an enjoyment of the art for itself, or a desire to know more about the thing we witness. I don’t mean that art should be flashy, have explosions and violence, or assume ignorance/indifference on the part of the audience. We can fully enjoy things that aren’t necessarily “fun,” as long as we buy in and as long as the art gives us something to put ourselves into. Tons of room for nuance here. We have to find the balance and the type of enjoyment that works for us.