The Language of Games

“Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.”

— Genesis 11:9

Language is a very dodgy code, even among those who purportedly understand the same one. Each word is paired with a corresponding meaning...often more than one nuanced meaning, depending on context. Humans “fluent” in a particular language don’t always have the same or a very precise sense of meaning for some words; dialects further confuse our understanding of the language code. I love hearing British slang terms, variations on the English language that only prove the adage “Two peoples separated by a common language.” We constantly use words that don’t mean what we think they mean. We garble our communications using words that impart imprecise concepts and attitude, whether on the phone, in texts and e-mails, even in person. The speaker and recipient frequently have different concepts of how words carry meaning and tone, especially in rushed, spontaneous conversations we fire off in our impatient, relentlessly rapid-paced society. Specialized fields often create and use their own jargon within the common language, further complicating communication, especially with outsiders. This frequently leads to a great deal of misunderstanding and emotional friction. I can only speak for those “fluent” in English, but the way we talk about the myriad diversions under the heading of “games” leads us to struggle as we constantly adapt to new perspectives and developments in the vast, ever-expanding universe of adventure gaming.

Lately I’ve noticed various gamers commenting online about the difficulty of talking about games and the ways we classify them. Such discussions become more frustrating and heated when crossing the unseen boundaries between disciplines using games of various forms: game aficionados; academics and educators; wargame professionals; internet influencers; game designers and publishers; informed generalists of a variety of game-related subjects (all representing a sampling of my own limited understanding of such seemingly innumerable gaming “tribes” in which some people maintain multiple memberships). Finding consensus isn’t always possible, even within any of those spheres.

Look at those in the serious wargaming sphere for an example. As an informed generalist observing the serious game field from the outside I’ve noticed many experts — in papers, articles, presentations, and books — discuss briefly or in depth the question of what constitutes a wargame and what terms we use when we discuss the subject. The words “war” and “game” come with many connotations, few of which reflect positively on the activity. Do we call it a wargame? Serious game? Rigid or free Kriegsspiel? Conflict simulation? Chart maneuvers? How do we characterize its specific execution: matrix game, miniature wargame, board game, tabletop exercise? (And I’m not even touching the editorial issues of whether we print it as “war game,” “wargame,” or “war-game.”) Many authors offer a concise overview of the conundrum in relation to wargaming in general and their own work in particular, often with a brief summary of their own definitions used in the presentation in question. And many times the consensus remains to learn and adapt to new terms within disciplines, and sometimes across them.

I have in the past opined on the lamentable reality that, to many uninitiated observers, “roleplaying games” remains primarily synonymous with “Dungeons & Dragons” despite the amazing diversity of theme and form that evolved in the past 50 years. Roleplaying games remain infamous for incorporating “What Is A Roleplaying Game?” sections in the early parts of rulebooks. Many include the suggestion to skip this portion if readers know about roleplaying games. While I appreciate assuming most readers do not have a familiarity with your subject — a practice hammered into me in countless high-school writing assignments — these explanatory sections don’t always seem necessary. Or do they? In their more than half-century of existence, roleplaying games have evolved greatly and expanded exponentially in the internet age as personal publishing and online distribution channels allowed everyone to produce their own “roleplaying game” across numerous genres and forms. This opened the Pandora’s Box of what constitutes a roleplaying game in the 21st century. Basic/Expert Dungeons & Dragons, Traveller, Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game, and other 20th-century fare offer very different, arguably “traditional” takes on roleplaying games than more recent fare like Fate-driven games introducing more player agency through stunts and aspects, Powered by the Apocalypse games with moves, “playbook” classes, and collaborationist settings, and current “indie” games which sometimes seem more like cooperative storytelling exercises. James Bond 007: Role-Playing In Her Majesty's Secret Service and A Cool and Lonely Courage may be espionage-themed “roleplaying games,” but the experiences they inspire at the table seem very different.

(Adding to the confusion across the board is the difference between “analog” or “tabletop” games and “electronic” or “computer” games; intensified by the general public’s perception of 21st century games as ubiquitous electronic games and not the niche, sometimes inaccessible seeming tabletop games.)

Some folks try standardizing the language we use to categorize games no matter what gaming spheres we inhabit. I applaud their work, even if they’re not so broad as to cover all of the adventure gaming hobby. They offer a language framework — and often a model of thinking — that works best for their particular field and their specific objective at the time. For instance, Dr. Jeremiah McCall offers a good example in his article “The Historical Problem Space Framework for Game Analysis and Design,” where an admittedly developing glossary of terms helps readers navigate and understand his ideas on developing engaging, meaningful games within a historical context.

As an advocate and admirer of such end-matter as bibliographies in articles and books, I also seek out glossaries to define and clarify terms used in the text. I don’t often see them in shorter articles and papers, but I find such a reference a necessary and helpful guide to following the author’s ideas and putting them in context. Sometimes they might seem redundant, much like those infamous “What Is A Roleplaying Game?” pieces. But a quick list of key terms and definitions up front can prepare readers for the coming ideas by giving them a sense of how the author uses language to view game issues. I wish we could find a common linguistic framework so the many people working across the gaming landscape can share a language and understanding. It may seem like a solution looking for a problem. Does the broad gaming community suffer from a lack of a common language to even just categorize game types? Surely this is just a manifestation of my own obsession to find/impose some sense of order on a world otherwise governed by the Lord of Chaos. I admit I often succumb into the very human urge to simplify things. The world remains so infinitely complex, with few issues without a host of complicated contributing factors. We like simplicity: this or that, hot or cold, black or white, good or bad. In many cases it seems a harmless way of categorizing things so we don’t have to think too much about them...which sometimes leads to problems when complexity really requires some understanding and consideration.

Yet for those involved in various forms of gaming — even simple dabbling by informed generalists — communicating clearly with people in different spheres takes time and understanding before we get to the heady work of discussing and advancing new ideas. But standardizing our language across the tribal fiefdoms the broad gaming community has established over the years, and continues to establish, remains a seemingly unattainable goal. Common lexicons can help us talk about games in certain carefully defined contexts, but games and the communities formed around them constantly shift and evolve. Humans and languages being what they are in an extremely imperfect world, few efforts at universally codifying the gaming taxonomy would even approach effectiveness. Often we are too tribally contentious to accept someone else’s definitions for categorizing games suits our particular and extremely specialized niche of the adventure gaming hobby. Combine that with gamers’ seemingly stereotypical urge to modify rules or simply re-write or re-design them to our own tastes. I’ve seen some folks struggle in online interactions, hoping to foster a higher-order discussion of some adventure gaming issue but spending time and effort explaining their particular definitions of concepts to suit the specific context.

I suppose the best I can offer to this complex and very human problem remains to encourage those writing about games — of all subjects, not just how to categorize them — to provide clear definitions, in text and in a glossary, to help readers understand how individuals relate to game terms. To have patience with those of us who might prove slow to adapt to new lexicons, or even resistant to doing so. I think, in the end, in the absence of a generally accepted taxonomy for adventure games, we simply have to settle for remaining receptive, patient, and open-minded when communicating with each other. Being aware of our own perspectives and those of others in different gaming spheres. Being willing to concisely explain our linguistic shorthand so we make sure everyone’s on the same page as we move forward to discuss deeper topics...and willing to adapt to the definitions others use to speak from their particular perspectives.

“Here’s an example: chapeau means hat. Œuf means egg. It’s like those French have a different word for everything.”

— Steve Martin