Videogames Storytelling and the Problem with Plot Twists

This has been brewing for awhile, but I'm still not quite sure how to say anything on the topic coherently. Let me start by saying I don't require the games I play to be narrative driven. I've sunk more time than I care to think about into Borderlands since it came out last October, and the biggest drive in that game is to gain levels and pick up loot. It's good clean fun built around the random positive reenforcement that we love so much. When games do try and compel progression through narrative, though, I like that narrative to be able to stand on its own merits, preferably with writing that doesn't make me cringe. Unfortunately, this seems to be too tall an order for many game creators. This is largely because videogame writers don't seem to know terribly well how to handle what I will generically call "twists" for now -- i.e. those plot elements that shift the immediate focus of the action or the meaning of those actions that have already occurred.

Prime example: towards the end of April, I picked up Assassin's Creed 2 -- nearly universally lauded as one of the best games of 2009 -- on the cheap and started playing through it. The first half of the game is quite enjoyable. I didn't even mind the "ancestral memory" conceit used to link the games in the series. The story (technically the story-within-the-story, but the main plot for all intents and purposes) is a simple but relatively compelling one of revenge against those who have unjustly wronged your family. It felt good saving the city of Florence from these corrupt men. Moving on from there, things start to get a little bit less enjoyable plot-wise as you move on to unravel the larger conspiracy that said men were pawns in, but the city of Venice is even more fun to explore than Florence, so it works out alright for the most part. All the while, there are opportunities to unlock secrets about the larger story surrounding the game -- the historical and modern activities of the Assassins (proper noun) and the Templars in which Ezio, the effective protagonist, is not a part.

This background information is generally pretty ridiculous. It involves elaborate plots and partnerships, not to mention ancient aliens (and alien-human hybrids!). One of the major failings is an attempt to assign roles in this conflict, particularly among the Templar, to far too many historical figures. If a historical figure has ever been vilified in any medium, whether it's Hitler or Edison, they were secretly a Templar. Anybody whom the game creators thought was a Pretty Cool Dude, be it Dante or Tesla or Machiavelli, was secretly a friend of the Assassins. It's unnecessary, distracting, and ridiculous; but it's also entirely optional and thus tolerable...until the last hour or so of the game.

Suddenly, in a major "twist", the alien relics show up within the main plot of the game. And then you have to kill the (evil, Templar-colluding) Pope, who bears another of these relics. And then you find a message recorded and left by the super-powerful-but-now-extinct aliens (whom ancient man thought to be gods) about how the sun is going to blow up someday, so screw your petty conflicts. It's ridiculous, it comes out of nowhere, and it leaves you saying, just like it does the sub-protagonist, "What the ****!?". I have no use for twists of this sort in any sort of story. If it doesn't make sense within the context of what we've been told or shown. If there have been no details to suggest that something is happening other than what we've been led to believe. If the mechanism that instigates the revelation requires supernatural origins. If the entire point is to cause surprise or speculation rather than concern or curiosity...leave it be.

Unfortunately, this is mighty common in videogames, including those that have story as a primary component and not just a generic motivator. I've been slowly working my way through Tales of Vesperia the last several months; and I can't help dropping it for awhile every few weeks because of the absurdity of its plot. The character interactions are mostly pretty great, and the first large story arc -- setting out to retrieve a stolen artifact necessary for the survival of your hometown -- is, again, straightforward and effective, even if I ran into plenty of problems with annoyingly "creative" words made up for the game (as always, xkcd proves right). After that first arc concluded, though, I realized that they were intentionally keeping everything about the workings of the setting as nebulously defined as possible so that they could make up as much crap as they wanted to to prolong the story. Pretty much every single major shift in the plot for the last 20-30 hours has begun/ended with the "genius mage" character going "oh snap! these magical crystal thingamabobs we've all relied on for basic survival for centuries are reacting in some weird way that nobody has ever documented before or thought to be a remote possibility! But now that I've observed it once I understand it completely and can say conclusively that we need to go do X next!" Either that, or some ancient, wizened creature says "puny mortals. you cannot comprehend what's really happening...unless you go do Z, in which case, yeah, you can comprehend it just fine. So...yeah, go do Z." It's ridiculous and makes it legitimately hard to play the game at times.

Even games from the same series or writer can use plot twists exceedingly well in one entry an quite poorly in the next. I complain about its popularity a lot, but Final Fantasy VII is a great game that has a handful of twists, all of which work. None of them seem too far-fetched (even if at least one is borderline traumatic in its surprise), and all work to make the eventual revelation about Cloud's real past and his relationship with Sephiroth make sense. Final Fantasy IX, on the other hand, doesn't handle its twists nearly so well. Whether it's Zidane's origin or the final boss, once you get past the second disk, the big twists all come out of thin air. Hell, as much as I love it, Mass Effect 2 even slips a little bit with the final encounter. I'm willing to overlook that as it makes a certain (if small) amount of sense based on what we know at that point, not to mention the fact that nobody makes any real claim to understanding beyond conjecture what was happening.

That really touches on the key thing. If a twist happens after it has been telegraphed, whether it's through subtle hints that take on greater meaning after the event or more obvious foreshadowing, that's good use of a twist. If a twist happens and there is no prior evidence to explain what happened or to make us think that such an event might happen, but the next portion of the plot is (at least in part) dedicated to illuminating the twist -- to seeing the characters come to understand why their world has suddenly changed and what that means, then that's a good use of the twist. However, if a twist occurs out of nowhere and somebody, instead, immediately comprehends the significance and cause of the event based entirely on knowledge which the audience didn't even know might exist, that's poor use of a twist.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't something that just happens in videogames. I'm still upset with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for this sort of sloppy story telling. It just seems to be more readily accepted in videogames, and it shouldn't be. People have been using games to tell legitimate stories for 20 years or more now. We shouldn't allow the overly-frilly drivel that passes for plot in most of our games today. I'm not demanding narratives that are going to blow my mind. I'm not even demanding narratives that are universally complex and multi-faceted. I'm asking for one simple thing: If you're not willing to take the time to make sure everything makes sense, keep it simple. Moreover, realize that if the characters are ever spending less time in a state of shock or confusion than the audience, you're probably doing something wrong.

Porco Rosso is Beyond Pleasant

Like most self-respecting human beings, I have an abiding love for the bulk of Miyazaki's films. So, when Ponyo came out stateside last summer and Rotten Tomatoes was running a countdown of his ten highest rated films, I was shocked to see that one of the top movies was one I'd never heard of: Porco Rosso. A month or so later, when I was signing up for Netflix, I immediately added it to my queue. Unfortunately, as much as I took advantage of my instant queue, I was pretty slow to go through the actual disks they sent me. Last night, though, I finally got around to watching Porco Rosso, and while it isn't going to top Spirited Away (or even Totoro) on my list of my favorite Miyazaki movies, it was still absolutely delightful.

There isn't a whole lot of plot to Porco Rosso. Pretty much all of what you need to know is right there in the basic summary on the back of the disk. An ace Italian seaplane pilot fights sky pirates in the Adriatic (and resists Fascism in the mainland). Oh, and said pilot has suffered a curse that has turned him into an anthropomorphic pig. Like so much of Miyazaki's work, though, this isn't a movie that isn't about an elaborate sequence of unfolding events, so I can't find fault on this point.

Similarly, most of the characters aren't terribly deep. With the exception of Marco (the true name of the pilot feared by his enemies as Porco Rosso), most of the characters are pretty much open books. They wear their intentions and their characters on their sleaves. But since this also isn't a movie remotely concerned with exploring the nature of its characters' motivations, this isn't a drawback.

If the movie isn't about its plot or its characters, then, what's it's purpose? It's about spending some time in the company of some likable characters and observing their beautiful world. It's about seeing how these people interact with this world, remaining hopeful and carving out a niche for themselves despite the hardships and sadness that exist there. Really, it's a lot like Totoro if that movie were made for a slightly older demographic, one that prefers dogfights and star-crossed love to woodland exploration. Because of the increased complexity of the subject matter, it doesn't manage this style quite as well as Totoro (a movie I would describe as delightful); but it manages to be a perfectly enjoyable experience throughout.

*Mild spoilers from here until the final paragraph*

Other than Marco's affliction, the movie is strongly based in reality. It's 1929, the post-WW1 European Depression is in full swing, and the fascists are starting to take power in Italy. Times are hard, and everybody is doing what they can to survive and showing what courtesy they can afford to everybody else. At the beginning of the film, after Marco stops one band of pirates and recovers their hostages, he allows them to keep a portion of their stolen money so that they can affort to eat and repair their planes. He knows that this means running into them again (which, in a darker universe, could be seen as a motivation by itself), but he's not going to tell anybody that they can't fly. It's this sort of fundamental decency, contrasted with his gruff attitude and appearance, that defines Marco as a character. The world is a hard place, and he doesn't want to add any more sadness to it than he has to. He refuses to take a shot when it might result in another's death. He feels guilt when old women and young girls need to be brought in to do repairs on his plane, fundamentally a tool of destruction. Having seen his friends being robbed of their happiness by death in the War, he refuses to seek his own. It's a complex character, and it's portrayed as simply and subtly as one can imagine.

While Marco may be the protagonist, this wouldn't be a Miyazaki movie without a strong female protagonist, and, really, Porco Rosso has two: Fio and Gina. Gina shows up first, but Fio gets much more screen. Really, though, the two are cut from the same cloth, as can be seen by the almost identical interactions they have with the supporting cast. Neither is willing to accept that her womanhood is legitimate cause to keep her from doing what she loves. Both respond powerfully to Marco's strong convictions and masked gentleness, knowing that those same convictions will drive him to keep his distance. Neither character is allowed a great deal of depth, but this simplicity comes across as an earnestness. Both have such energy and faith in the fundamental goodness of people that it's not hard to see why every pilot in the Adriatic is in love with them.

The supporting cast of sky pirates, including the American pilot-for-hire and would-be antagonist Curtiss, are primarily there for humor, whether it's a result of a willingness to go to ridiculous ends to be free of Marco's meddling or a complete disconnect with reality. The real enemy isn't any of these desperate men, but the situation that drove them to such desperation; so when we see dozens of pirates bursting out of Marco's tent in an attempt to take him by force, it brings a smile to your face instead of a sense of dread.

Of course, being a Studio Ghibli film scored by Joe Hisaishi, everything is accentuated by gorgeous visuals and a wonderful soundtrack. I could watch Marco flying across the Italian countryside or the islands of the Adriatic while listening to "To the Adriatic Sea" for hours and feel nothing but contentment.

Ultimately, while Porco Rosso isn't going to challenge Spirited Away, Totoro, or Princess Mononoke to become one of my favorite three Miyazaki films, I really need to see Kiki's Delivery Service and Nausicaa again before I can have any confidence that it hasn't cracked my top 5. In any case, I immediately added it to my Amazon Wishlist and will probably watch it again (dubbed) with my family before sending it back.

Thinking Critically About Firefly: Serenity (Episode 1)

Serenity is a great pilot episode for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it's just a damn entertaining episode. More important, though, it shows us that Whedon and friends knew exactly who these characters were from day one. For better or worse, that means that there's a lot to recognize in the episode in terms of setting up of characters, style, and conflicts. As such, this is going to be a long post, possibly longer than the double that the episode length already demands. So, let's get going and start at the very beginning.

The opening sequence, the ending of the Battle of Serenity Valley, is a bit of a red herring -- its scale and its style are unlike anything else the series has to offer. I'd call this a blessing, ultimately, as the scene shows that the effects budget can in no way support this kind of high action, large scale, future combat; but it serves its primary purpose well in showing a Mal who is ultimately not the same Captain Reynolds we know and love and letting us see clearly what is responsible for the change that takes place.

The Mal we see here is an optimist. He believes that the just nature of his cause will see him through to victory if he, and his men, can remain dedicated to it. I know many people who have missed this, but he also shows himself to be a man of faith, not only in his rhetoric about angles and "The Hot Place", but also in a very important shot of him kissing the cross around his neck. The Battle of Serenity Valley is responsible for Mal's loss of faith, but not just in God, who failed him in time of need, despite all of his efforts to follow what he saw as the right path. The battle is also responsible for Mal's loss of faith in human institutions, even if he manages to maintain belief in human individuals. His superiors in the Independents abandoned him, too, even though everything seemed to be going so right. The result is a Mal who only trusts himself and his crew. The scene also establishes many of the most beloved elements of the Mal who is, though: chiefly the ability to command the loyalty of those around him.

I remember watching this episode for the first time, I was intrigued after that first scene; but the scene that follows -- the deep space salvage on the destroyed cargo ship -- was what made me fairly certain I'd love this series. There were two reasons: first, the introduction of Wosh and the universally adored dinosaurs. Second, the Crybaby. Wosh lived up to expectations, but the Crybaby has always remained a marker of what could have been. The absolute cleverness of it as a cheap, low tech, but effective tool gave me high hopes for other ways that these Desperate Men would find their way out of tricky situations. For better or worse, though, it was, at least in part, one of a kind. Certainly, we got plenty of other glimpses of how the collective creativity of the crew helped them get out of tough scrapes, but none of them excited me as much as the Crybaby did on that first viewing.

One final side-note about this scene: I really don't like the Jayne, "Let's moon 'em" shot (or line). I get that it's supposed to be his brief character establishing moment, much like Wosh's dinosaurs or Kaylee's getting stuck in the engine room; but it doesn't work for me. It may be the way in which it's inserted into the rest of the footage, but I've never been a fan.

From here we get our first brief glimpse of one of the two major types of scenes that take up most of the series: on-ship interaction between the crew. And the bits of dialog here are pitch perfect for setting up much of what's to come in this regard. We see Mal keeping the crew somewhat in the dark -- ostensibly to keep them from worrying. We see Kaylee being incurably cheerful. We see Wosh struggling with the fact that Zoe will always be as loyal to Mal as she is to him. The scene that follows, on Persephone, gives us an equally brief glimpse at the other sort of major sequence: on-the-job interactions. The conversation with Badger shows us the calm, controlled nature of Mal's interaction with those not of his crew; and it shows the good-luck bad-luck balance that defines so much of the lives of the crew of the Serenity. It also serves to establish the character of Book and to show the living conditions of the huddled masses, even on a "civilized" planet like Persephone.

Final notes on the Persephone scene: In his readiness to deal with Patience, we see the extent to which Mal is willing to risk himself to preserve the lifestyle of himself and his crew. We get some great Mal and Zoe banter back on the ship. Finally, we have our first of many instances of incredibly poorly pronounced Chinese. Look forward to those.

As we greet the new passengers, we get a nice, slightly misleading introduction to Simon, our first shots of Mal and Inara fighting and of Kaylee fawning over Simon, and a blunt portrayal of Mal's discomfort with religion (contrasted with his insistence on respect and decency). Again, lots of setting up of group dynamics happening, and all of it done well. The old relationships feel believably old and the new ones seem like they're developing naturally. All tied in we get a nice little bit of universe establishment around the dinner table so we know what the deal is with all of these colonies. Following dinner, we get a Book-Inara scene that could have been incredibly painful as we establish their mutual fascination with Mal (one borderline romantic, one purely personal). If I were just to read the script here, it would seem incredibly forced -- the epitome of telling instead of showing -- but Mal has been so firmly established as fitting their descriptions of him, and Morena Baccarin and Ron Glass have a very nice chemistry together as the two outsiders on the ship, that the scene works rather nicely and sets the stage well for the many future conversations between the two.

Leading into the end of the first half of this double episode, we finally get to the start of the series' major source of tension: Simon and River's flight from the Alliance (which adds urgency to Mal and company's own desire to stay out of the spotlight). The reveal is built into a great scene in which we see Book's willingness to punch out the law-man who shoots Kaylee (the first sign that he's been more than a Shepard at some point in his life), Zoe's willingness to pull a gun to keep Jayne in line (the first sign that he's been trouble before and will be again), the depths to which Simon is willing to sink to stay away from the feds (though we don't yet know why), and the crew's intense protectiveness of Kaylee (who represents all of their innocence to some degree or another). Finally, we get to that great would-be-end of the first episode, Mal's mighty, confused, "huh".

This is all followed in the beginning of the second half by a lot of mildly unfortunate telling about River. In her current state, and in the current confines, there's no good way for them to establish River's brilliance and athleticism, so Simon needs to tell us all about it along with how she was taken and, presumably, experimented on and the lengths he went to to save her. It's handled gently, as a loving brother speaking tenderly of the little sister he's sacrificed everything to protect. Because of this, it works better than it might have; though I'm not convinced that his speech needed to be so long. After all of this and the crew debate as to the proper course of action, we get a nice Jayne scene as he interrogates Lawrence Dobson, the Alliance law-man, and is made an offer we can't tell if he'll refuse. This is quickly followed by our first brief encounter with Reavers -- the cannibalistic bogeymen who will pop up from time to time throughout the rest of the show's run.

As we find out that Kaylee is okay, coupled with a hilarious if evil prank on Simon by Mal, the episode kicks into gear for its remainder as the deal with Patience is finalized and the job on Whitefall begins. We see Mal doing his best to be reasonable and fair, looking to avoid trouble and get paid and still going through with the job even when he knows that there's an ambush in store. Cleverness again comes into play as Mal, Zoe, and Jayne prepare for the job, not only disarming trap but turning it around (and making it look like Jayne may have taken law-man Dobson up on his offer). Speaking of Dobson, he's broken free, beating Book more than necessary in the process and abducting River. Trouble aplenty brewing now!

As the deal with Patience goes south as predicted, Mal, Zoe, and Jayne all show their skills. They kill Patience's men while leaving her alive and claiming their payment (and leaving the supplies, as originally agreed). Simon manages to briefly get the upper hand on Dobson as he desperately struggles to continue protecting his sister, and the Reavers show back up as the crew prepares to flee the planet. Mal, Zoe, and Jayne arrive back at the ship, distracting Simon and letting Dobson reclaim his prize. Now deadly serious, Mal shows his willingness to do what's necessary and defuses the Dobson situation with a single bullet as he boards. Wosh, an injured Kaylee, and Book, who once again shows he's more than he seems, work in coordination to pull off an elaborate maneuver, a Crazy Ivan, and escape the Reaver's clutches. Sweet victory!

Finally, a nice bit of falling action as Inara and Book get more chance to talk about the unique facets of life on Serenity and Mal convinces Simon that the best way to keep his sister safe is to stay on as medic and the first episode of Firefly is over. It's a damn shame that Fox didn't air this episode first, even as a two-parter, as it's the best introduction to the series I can possibly imagine. I feel like I may have delved too deeply into synopsis here, but there was a lot of setup to do, both for me and the episode. Future reviews ought to be shorter and focus more on specifics (along with a brief plot overview). Unfortunately, the next two episodes aren't quite up to snuff. I don't particularly dislike The Train Job or Bushwhacked, but I'd probably put them both in my bottom five episodes. We'll power through those, though, and get to the delightful second disk, which gives us Shindig, Jaynestown, and Our Mrs. Reynolds, over the course of the next week or two. Thanks for reading.

Summer Project: Thinking Critically About Firefly

A few months ago, I started reading Alan Sepinwall's TV blog (formerly at Blogger, now at Hitfix). It's some great critical writing with a focus not on any sort of feigned objective evaluation, but on involved discussion of shows that he genuinely cares about with honest attempts at determining what's working and what isn't. I don't always agree with him (season 3 of 30 Rock being a major point of dissent), but that's not the point of criticism. Each summer, when the amount (and quality) of new TV lapses for a few months, he revisits older series he didn't have a chance to discuss when they were on the air. I once failed to study for a biology test reading his episode-by-episode coverage of Freaks and Geeks while regretting that I would never be able to write about this brilliant series without stealing, at least in part, Alan's thoughts. As such, I had mixed feelings about what I was hoping he would write about this summer. On the one hand, I am definitely interested in seeing what Alan thinks of great shows that I like. On the other, there are series I would like to discuss here myself and know that my thoughts are my own.

Well, my worst fears came to pass, and Firefly is one of the shows Alan is covering this summer. I've been meaning to write about Firefly ever since I first started this blog, but since virtually everybody I know is already familiar with it, I didn't want to take the same basic overview approach I have with other media. So, I'm going to try and beat him to the punch. Alan's Firefly reviews won't begin until June 8, at which point he'll be doing an episode each week. So, a couple of times a week, starting this weekend, I will be writing in detail about an individual episode of this series I love so much. I admit that objectivity will be somewhat difficult, but I think we can all agree that, as great as Firefly is, it isn't perfect (Safe comes to mind immediately as a less-than-stellar episode). Just for fun, once the main series is over, I'll try and toss in the Better Days and Those Left Behind comics and Serenity to round things out.

Anyway, since I know none of you really care, this post is basically my contract with myself. Hopefully the results are interesting and I learn a little something in the process.

On Hipsterism

I have a complicated relationship with Hipsters. On the one hand, I tend to get along with individual hipsters just fine. I like indie music. I like film as an art-form. I like delving in the minutia of topics that most people don't particularly care about. The thing is, I like doing these things because I actually like them. On the other hand, I can't abide hipsterism as a cultural philosophy. To explain why, I'll briefly define hipsterism as broadly as possible -- as any attempt to nail down what, specifically, hipsterism is just leads to inconsistency.

Hipsterism is a broad classification, but I think that most people will agree that, at its core, it involves a rejection of main-stream culture, and that means that, whatever the masses like, the hipster is required to consider inferior in someway (whether it's passe or unrefined or overproduced or whatever else). Being defined by that which they reject means the hipsters that I know focus more on what they don't like about the world around them than the things that they do like. Even more troubling, this means that the values of hipsterism are not determined by its practitioners, but by those outside of it.

The Hipster's attempt to remedy this failing is even more frustrating. The significance of "irony" in hipster circles is disturbing. Basically, if something is "bad" by hipster standards, one is able to like it as something other than what it was intended to be -- kind of like lots of people watch bad movies as comedies. This basically gives the hipster full license to like anything, and for reasons that make him superior to those around him or her in their mind.

It's a cynical, lifestyle that discourages its practitioners from actively and authentically engaging the world around them so much as dismissively observing it; and ultimately, that makes spending much time with hipsters a depressing experience. I mean, I can't claim that I don't have my cynical moments or that I don't rag on the crap that flows into the market in the name of mass-appeal. I've done plenty of both right here in this blog. But I like to think that I evaluate these things based on their own values and that I'm willing to accept that the public is perfectly capable of recognizing quality. I over-think my own behavior and motives enough as it is. I don't need to devote my life to worrying about who else likes the things I like.

HIMYM: The Problem with Douchey Ted

For my money, in the first couple of seasons of How I Met Your Mother, Theodore Evelyn Mosby was one of my the most likable leading men TV sitcoms had seen in ages. He was relatebly flawed in that he sometimes had trouble seeing beyond his immediate concerns and was overly focused on unrealistic ideals of romance; but the earnestness of his search for the love of his life, his willingness to recognize his occasional short-sightedness, and his devotion to his friends made up for it. The way Josh Radnor has owned the role, making Ted's committedness to his relationship with every potential Mother we've met appear idealistic and hopeful instead of desperate and crazed, really just adds to the charm. Even if you think Ted's got to settle down and worry less, you can't help but admire his zeal, at least a bit.

Over the course of the show's run, we've had a number of flashbacks to college-Ted, Marshall, and Lilly. One of the regular unspoken jokes was that college-Ted was a total poseur douche. He wears decorative "spectacles" and hemp. He drinks (cheap) wine instead of beer. He makes a lot of really overblown, suspiciously high-brow references. It always seemed to me that a large part of the reasoning behind this was to show how Ted has grown and changed. Some of the habits have stayed with him, like his love of poetry (we've been hearing about Pablo Neruda for ages), but he's learned to like them for what they are and not because of how liking them makes him look. College Ted would not have publicly acknowledged that his favorite movie is Star Wars and he would not have wanted to live in a house with swords on the wall. This knowledge of who he is is part of how we know Ted is ready to move on to bigger things in life.

Suddenly, though, in season 3, we hit a patch of episodes where Ted was neither in or actively looking for a relationship; and in order to add something to the character, perhaps, the writers decided that maybe Ted hadn't grown up so much. Douchey Ted was still sitting in there, waiting for boredom to let him out. From the incessant hair fussing to his obsession accurate pronunciations, we got glimpses of a Ted who was once again concerned with what the world thought of him to a disconcerting degree, a Ted who desperately wanted to be part of a higher station.

The major problem with Douchey Ted is that he's not the sort of guy The Mother, as we know her, would fall for. Ted is looking for a woman who plays bass guitar and whose favorite book is Love in the Time of Cholera. A woman who will laugh at his corny jokes and who will get along with his unpretentious group of best friends. And, based on the foreshadowing that's occurred, we know that all of these things are true of her. A woman like that isn't going to find a Ted who is obsessed with the image of class attractive.

Fortunately, Douchey Ted has mostly been a background character, one who mostly comes out of the wood work in supporting roles. Unfortunately, Ted has been playing a supporting role most of this season. Last night, though, Douchey Ted got his first foreground gig in an amusing but ultimately unrewarding episode. After sneaking into a high society party, Ted decides to stay rather than continue the night as planned with his friends, watching Robots vs. Wrestlers. Ted enjoys the party because it's a chance to hob-nob with the editor of the NYT Crossword and talk with people who appreciate opera and poetry. The problem is that, early in the episode, we see Ted trying to interject these things into conversation purely because he feels the group needs more class, not because they're things he, or they, legitimately care about.

Towards the end of the episode, while Ted is reciting Dante in Italian*, he has an internal monologue in which he realizes just what a douche he's being. He's looking for a way out when he is gleefully interrupted by a text in which Barney sends him a picture of his doppelganger, Mexican Wrestler Ted, at which point he runs off to meet the gang at the bar. I hoped that this was the writer's way of killing off Douchey Ted, and maybe it still is, but he still started quoting Emerson (or was it Whitman? all transcendentals look alike to me) as his apology. Maybe this was meant as a joke or one last affront. We can only hope.

I would also like to note that it's kind of weird that the writers chose to play Barney, Marshall, and *especially* Lilly as a bunch of classless slobs. Lilly is an aspiring artist with an expressed interest in theater and culinary arts. When she turned away the caterers at the party and agreed with Marshall's request for something more along the lines of "mini-cheeseburgers", I couldn't help but shake my head at how out of character it was. Oh well. In any case, let's just hope that season 6 can give Ted something to do to make him likable again, like finally meeting The Mother. Season 5 as a whole has mostly been a disappointment and the writers really need some direction.



*Ironically douchy note because I can: I'm not entirely convinced that he was actually reciting The Divine Comedy, as his cadence did not seem to match the terza rima scheme for which Dante is famous. :P

Some more Class Writings

Wrote this paper for my Metaphysics class. Got an A on it and feel like it's accessible enough that other people may want to see me totally own an uppity philosopher. Warning: this way madness lies.

Dire Ambiguities in Rea's “In Defense of Mereological Universalism”

Many arguments have been made promoting the idea that the ontology of the universe is much smaller than we might be practically inclined to assume. Whether it is Peter Unger arguing for Mereological Nihilism or Peter van Inwagen making the case that organisms are the only composite entities, these brilliant men have encouraged us to remove every day items such as tables, televisions, and tricycles from our ontology. Few of these arguments have been convincing to me, so it was with interest that I approached Professor Michael Rea's article “In Defense of Mereological Universalism”. Rea takes a vastly different approach, arguing that the number of things that exists in the world is much greater than our instincts would have us believe. Specifically, Rea argues for Mereological Universalism, which, by his definition, is the notion that, “for any set S of disjoint objects, there is an object that the members of S compose” (p. 348). In short, not only does Rea support the existence of tables, televisions, and tricycles, he believes that, if you were to pick one of each at random from all of the tables, television, and tricycles that exist, they would also composite their own distinct object. More generally, Rea is saying that any collection of distinct objects will form another object. As much as this proposition is counterintuitive, I feel that Rea makes a reasonable case for it. Unfortunately, I also feel that Rea's arguments, at least in this article, suffer from a certain vagueness that could easily lead to severe inconsistencies and make it difficult to endorse outright. I will examine some of these problems and suggest alternative approaches that I feel strengthen Rea's argument.

The first problem that I encountered when dealing with this article has nothing to do with the specific arguments that Rea uses so much as the definition of Mereological Universalism as he provides. The fundamental question that I can't help asking is, “How many objects is Rea claiming exist?” My first instinct was that the answer was, “infinitely many.” This would be an absurdity, as there is a mere finite amount of matter in existence. Examination proves this to be a false instinct, though. It is important to note that the objects in S are disjoint – that is, if we were to break them down into their own components, there will be no smaller object that belongs to more than one of the objects in S. Thus, there is no object that is composed of both my body and my kidney, as all of the components of my kidney are also components of my body. This reduces the necessity of the question, but it doesn't eliminate it, and understanding the ways in which the objects in S combine helps us to recognize that certain other complaints are invalid.

Assume, for a moment, that the universe contains only four non-composite objects: a, b, c, and d. Clearly, under Mereological Universalism, the universe also contains the composite objects {a, b}, {c,d}, and {a, b, c, d} among others. Now, what I want to know is this: does the universe also contain the object {{a, b}, {c, d}}, or is that object identical to {a, b, c, d}? That is, are objects distinguished by their most basic components, or by their most complex ones? It is not remotely clear from the definition of Mereological Universalism as Rea states it; but brief examination will show that endorsing the latter is simply absurd. Consider, momentarily, the following ASCII stick figure:

\O/
 |
/ \

For simplicity's sake, let's call him Adam. We can see that Adam is composed of a head (h), left arm, (al), right arm (ar), torso (t), left leg (ll), and right leg (lr). Let us assume that in the ASCII art universe, the lines which compose these parts are, themselves, simple. It seems obvious that Adam is composed of {h, al, ar, t, ll, lr}. If we use the first interpretation of our definition of Mereological Universalism, the one that declares that composite objects are defined by their most basic components, then this is the only way in which we can identify Adam. If we take into account the second possible understanding, though, we can also pull out a distinct object composed of {h, {al, ar, t, ll, lr}}. The object {h, {al, ar}, t, {ll, lr}} exists under this interpretation, as well. It strikes me, however, that both of these supposedly distinct objects are exactly Adam, just as the first object we identified was. Truly, there are easily a dozen different ways in which we can pick out an object sharing Adam's composition if we allow ourselves to pick out composites of composite parts; and we would be identifying each of these as a fundamentally unique object in our ontology. This is clearly absurd. So, as a charity, we must assume that Rea, despite a glaring lack of clarity, intends for us to interpret his definition in the first way. As such, we must remember that all objects are composed only of simples and recognize that any talk from here out about an object being a composite of composites is merely an effort to simplify discussion.

With that digression out of the way, we can begin examining Rea's actual arguments for Mereological Universalism. First of all, we need to recognize that the strongest reason for rejecting Mereological Universalism is unsound. van Inwagen and others would have us believe that, if Mereological Universalism is true, for a set of objects to compose something larger, all that is necessary is their existence, and that the particular object that they comprise depends only on the objects comprising it. Rea takes a slightly different view, suggesting that what is most important isn't the specific objects in question, but the way in which these simple objects are arranged (p. 349). This makes sense when we remember that all objects are composed only of simples, which come in only the smallest handful of varieties. If the nature of an object were determined only by the elements composing it, our world would be much less diverse and fascinating than it is. It also makes sense to take arrangement into account when we consider our reasoning for wanting to accept the existence of composite objects.

Effectively, there must be something unique about composites above and beyond the things that compose them. It is this uniqueness by which we identify and count them. Consider a table and a bookcase made out of the same type and quantity of wood. It is the particular arrangement of the wood that causes us to count one as a table and the other as a bookcase. In general, we say that objects whose parts are arranged in such away that they perform a certain function belong to a certain functional kind; and it is by membership in these functional kinds that we identify composites and include them in our ontology. However, these functional kinds cannot be limited to only those arrangements whose functions we have identified and found use for. If we were to limit kinds in this way, then the existence of composite objects would be entirely dependent on the existence of sapient individuals capable of discerning or assigning such functions. That is to say, under such a limitation, existence would be an almost wholly relative matter, which is no small consequence. How, then, are we to determine what arrangements are kind constituting? In not so few words, Rea suggests that all arrangements could hold some function that we have yet to discern, and therefore that all arrangements ought to be held as kind constituting (p. 354).

This is another statement that suffers from a crippling ambiguity. There are two distinct ways in which the phrase “Every way of arranging objects is kind constituting” (p. 353) can be read.

1. Every way of arranging objects constitutes some kind or another.


2. Every way of arranging objects constitutes some unique kind.

Rea does not, within the body of “In Defense of Mereological Universalism” clarify which of these phrasings he meant; but if correspondences we were read in class are to be believed, Rea endorses the second reading. This seems, to me, to be ridiculous for two reasons, one practical and one, again, mathematical.

Let's look at the practical objection first. It seems to me that we would like to say that the keyboard on which I am typing this and the functionally and aesthetically identical keyboard sitting at the computer next to me embody the same kind. Even if that keyboard may have developed stiffer springs than this on or if mine has a slightly displaced light for its Num Lock indicator. If every arrangement of matter uniquely constitutes its own kind, though, these to keyboards are not the same kind by Rea's definition. In fact, due to the simple motion of particles if nothing else, it would strike me that even if these keyboards did not have these minor, but apparent dissimilarities, the probability of them (or any other two seemingly identical objects) ever having the exact same arrangement of parts at a given time is effectively zero. How, then, can we say that things as obviously dissimilar in arrangement but identical in function as my roommates' cars embody the same kind? In the same correspondence in which Rea put forth his endorsement of the second reading, he seemingly argued, that the arrangements he is talking about are not simply physical arrangements; he is talking about functional arrangements. As surely as there's more than one way to skin a cat, there are multiple ways of arranging things spatially that can bring about the same function. I doubt anybody would disagree with this. But changing the use of the word “arrangement” in this way is counterintuitive and wholly unnecessary; as the second statement, under functional arrangements, is identical to the first statement under spatial arrangements. So, Rea needs to either clarify from the beginning that the arrangements he is talking about are non-spatial or he needs to clarify that any arrangement of objects is kind constituting for some kind K. As the argument stands, it is runs dangerously near absurdity once more.

I say this because, under the natural assumption of spatial arrangements, we once again encounter problems of cardinality if we espouse the second reading of what it means for an all arrangements to be kind-constituting. The problem here is that space cannot be divided up into discrete, infinitesimal points. Space is, by its nature, continuous. As such, even if the universe is finite in volume, there exist an (uncountably) infinite number of places at which an object can be. This being the case, even a universe containing only 2 ontologically simple objects would require us to define an infinite number of kinds under the assumption that arrangements are spatial. I see no reason why we should accept this in a universe with a multitude of objects much less a universe with only 2. Certainly, the number of possible functional arrangements far outweighs the number of objects, but the infinite number mandated by Rea's assertion and a spatial understanding of arrangements seems wholly unnecessary.

With this clarification taken care of, I have few remaining qualms with Rea's argument for Mereological Universalism. Chiefly, I wonder how non-physical objects work into his ontology – things like numbers and music. While we do discuss composite numbers in mathematics, they are not composite in the way used here; and I while I am willing to hesitantly accept that the toes on my left foot jointly compose an object along with Big Ben, I remain unconvinced that they can do so with a diminished G7 chord. These are things that many philosophers studying ontology have insisted do exist. Numbers, particularly, are often held to exist essentially. What does Rea do with them? Does he deny their existence? Is there some tacit substance dualism going on here, wherein the material and immaterial can only composite larger objects with like members? Where Rea to expound on this topic, we would certainly all benefit, but any further conjecture would be useless without further input from Rea.

Ultimately, my concerns about the immaterial are not grave enough for me to discount Rea over them. Truly, I believe that the rest of Rea's argument works rather beautifully. His introduction of dominant kinds serves well enough to remove the problem of co-location, and with the two severe ambiguities I mentioned cleaned up, I can find little to debate in his deductive argument for Mereological Universalism. I would like to believe that the argument that all arrangements can be kind constituting is something of a slippery slope, but I can see no other way to avoid an entirely anthropocentric understanding or listing of kinds, so I will accept it. As such, while I am not likely to champion Mereological Universalism over conventional wisdom to my friends or family; I will admit that Rea has convinced me that it is a more viable choice than the incredibly limited universes generated by Unger's or van Inwagen's arguments.