When we began designing and prototyping Heavenâs Vault, one of our primary goals was to make an adventure game-like; something which took the best parts of adventure games - the dialogue, the settings, the plots, the sense of progression - but discarded the bits that fought against those good bits - in particular, the farming of every possible action in every possible location, the backtracking, the rule that nothing changes until you push things forward.
This isnât an easy goal! The normal adventure game template is an easter-egg hunt: the designer hides gold coins, and the player turns over every stone until theyâe found them all again, and when they have, the game is done.
We wanted a game where players would find some, but not others. A game where looking under every stone simply wasnât allowed. Weâve done this before, in Sorcery! and 80 Days and the usual trick is to give every scene some kind of external pressure - a collapsing ceiling or a soon-to-be-returning gentleman - which gives you enough time to do something, but not everything.
But in moving to a graphical environment, these things become much more complex to do - and a lot more obvious. When every building you explore has to have a collapsing animation, they start to become repetitive. (Ahem Uncharted ahem).
So we came up with the idea of an internal pressure, and one idea that stuck was that El could be diabetic. The balancing of glucose-levels and insulin would force Elâs energy and exertion to be to be conserved and considered. If there were two mountains to climb, perhaps the player could only pick one.
Itâs also something weâd never seen in a game before - the closest analogy we could think of was Jaydenâs drug addiction in Heavy Rain, which was initially presented as a player-driven system, but quickly disappeared. So why not? Diabetes is common. Itâs not scary. Itâs extremely systematic, especially if you have the right gadgets for measuring your blood sugar.
From a narrative point of view, we liked it too - itâs much more interesting if our archaeologist isnât a Croftian ass-kicking ninja-trained marksman (who can survive the rigours of archaeology with four broken limbs), but rather someone who is actively ill-suited to physical hardship, long hours and limited supplies (but who, nevertheless, is driven to her task).
So why isnât El diabetic?
Because games are not great at telling stories through systems.
Wait! Isnât that thing everyone says games are great at?
Games are good at demonstrating systems, and teaching them. Sure; if weâd made El diabetic, we could definitely have taught players how to manage their glucose levels. Depending on the balance of accuracy and abstraction, we might have given players real-life skills.
But systems that are learned become invisible, or tiresome. You either master them or they get boring. But stories arenât built on routine and grind. They thrive on surprise and delight. And unlike in a film or a novel, where a characterâs insulin injections can be assumed by viewer until the moment they become important, games have a hard time not to acting out every footstep the player takes.
So if El had been diabetic, the narrative effect would likely have been a minor annoyance, or a game-stopping irritation, with nothing in between.
Which is not to say itâs not possible to have a diabetic protagonist. There are definitely ways to solve the problem. You could push it all into the story; have El medicate herself and simply assert to the player that their choices are limited. Or you could craft a really well-balanced UI system that makes tracking and balancing insulin and glucose totally smooth.
But for our game - which has so much lifting to do to explain what and where and who and why - it felt like more than we could tackle.
The echo of the idea still lives on. There is a âstaminaâ concept of sorts, and a simple cost applied to some actions which are âtiringâ.You still canât farm all the actions in the game. El canât run up and down mountains indefinitely.Â
The result is functional, provides simple, obvious narrative impact, and it doesnât do an existing condition wrong.