There is evidently a strong social component to masocore. Achieving in these games doesn’t necessarily grant bragging rights, but there is certainly some prestige in besting the unstinting, unblunted efforts of a game designer to kill you as much as possible. I Wanna Be the Guy made for ideal voyeurism too, as people would post videos of themselves groaning, sighing, shouting, and screaming as the game threw exploding fruit and spikes at them from all directions. There was a surreal epilogue to I Wanna Be the Guy four years after its release, in 2012: One of the most profane YouTube players, Ari “Floe” Weintraub, played through the sequel, I Wanna Be the Guy: Gaiden, at the game tournament EVO while O’Reilly intermittently tormented him in real time (doing things like rotating the screen or sending random crap flying at the Kid), while the audience raved and two commentators mocked Floe’s slow and frustrated progress. It’s not so far from the ritualized public humiliation of The Gong Show, Japanese gameshow Takeshi’s Castle, and Roman gladiator fights.
Nonetheless, after the surprise of I Wanna Be the Guy’s dirty tricks wore off, people persisted with the game just to master it (as in the case of our Japanese player above). The most salient characteristic of these masocore games—the characteristic by which they make people masochistic—is not their trickery but their sheer imposing impossibility, and the Sisyphean struggle to master them. A trick, once seen through, is no longer a trick. But difficulty is eternal. And conquering difficulty is eternal as well.
So it was with Edmund McMillen and Tommy Refenes’ Super Meat Boy, the tale of an animate hunk of meat’s attempt to save his true love, Bandage Girl, from the clutches of the evil Dr. Fetus (and later Bandage Girl’s attempts to save Meat Boy). An indie platformer released in 2010, Super Meat Boy played very few tricks, but instead offered a very large array of extremely challenging platform levels. Possibly the hardest was a bonus three-level tribute to I Wanna Be the Guy, featuring this hellish screen:
Yeah, all those jumps have to be executed with perfect timing with no pauses until you pass point 6. This isn’t even the hardest level, thanks to subsequent level packs and fan-made levels (in the Super Meat World extension) that ratcheted up the difficulty even further; e.g., RockLeeSmile’s absurd “Let It Rain,” which the designer makes no claim to have completed.
Super Meat Boy was a huge hit, garnering critical acclaim and selling more than a million copies in the 15 months after its release, and showed that two independent game designers could make something a lot more compelling than most of what comes out of the huge studios. McMillen’s follow-up game, the sacrilegious The Binding of Isaac, was equally challenging and popular, and McMillen remains one of the most intriguing creators around in both form and content.
More recently, there has been Derek Yu’s Spelunky, which procedurally generates randomized caves for your Indiana Jones-like character to explore and loot. No two games are identical except in their extreme difficulty and preponderance of instadeath (and permadeath).
Making it through 20 or so levels that constitute the game will take on the order of an hour if you survive (which you won’t), but Spelunky king Bananasaurus Rex practiced and rerolled the game enough until he finished the game in five minutes (though that record has since been beaten). Not content to stop there, he then did a “Solo Eggplant Run,” an elaborate, arcane, and gratuitously hard challenge that was not even supposed to be possible—Rex even had to exploit a bug in the game to pull it off. There’s no space to get into it here, but this Polygon article explains just how surreal an obsession besting these games can become.
Masocore doesn’t only apply to reflex-based arcade games. There are strategy and role-playing games that manage to be just as unhelpful and unforgiving, as with the indie cult favorite Dwarf Fortress—the personal obsession of designer Tarn Adams, who expects that the game won’t be fully completed for another few decades. If you can get past the somewhat cryptic ASCII text graphics, you will be confronted with a world of ridiculously overmodeled complexity, where dwarfs run amok in your fortress fighting, boozing, sleeping, throwing tantrums, creating wall paintings, and occasionally working—each creature modeled down to individual body parts. The obstacles to keeping your fortress up and running and the total absence of any winning conditions whatsoever led to the slogan “Losing is fun” and this reappropriation of an old learning curve graph:
Never fear, however, because with enough practice, you too can have a beautiful, smooth-running fortress like this one, helpfully annotated in pink by a player:
Two years ago in these very pages, Michael Thomsen complained of the sheer pointlessness of the original Dark Souls: “Dark Souls takes so long to play because it refuses to tell you its basic ground rules, then kills you over and over again for failing to understand them.”
The question remains: why engage in such ultimately pointless tasks? Well, why read the sports pages or go bowling or watch True Detective? There is probably something in the dopaminergic brain system that seeks out brief moments of triumph against meaningful adversity. (See Johan Huizinga’s Homo Ludens for more on agonistic play.) The social approbation made possible by YouTube and sites like Twitch.tv encourages people to engage in a very difficult but carefully regimented environment in which your successes and failures are wholly under your control, and most importantly, where success is indisputably possible. Yes, the task is Sisyphean, but you know it is possible to roll the boulder up that hill: Just look on YouTube and see the few and the proud displaying their boulders at the peak. The games may play tricks, but they are fair, and they can be mastered—so unlike life. Gaming allows us to improve on Samuel Beckett: “You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on. Oh my God, I finally won!”
ROBOT ODYSSEY CHALLENGE WINNER: In a tribute to a different and more educational sort of masocore, I am happy to announce that David Hunter has completed the Robot Odyssey challenge and escaped from Robotropolis! He writes: “I'm glad to have finally experienced this masterpiece. Oh ... and my wife will be happy to see me again.” Sincere congratulations to Hunter on his achievement.