Ego death in interactive virtual theatre

Whether agonising over social situations or fretting about the future, we all take life exceptionally seriously. Can virtual reality help us realise that all the world’s a stage?

E.
E.
Aug 27, 2017 · 6 min read
Balthus, “Still Life With Figure” (1942)

The player awakes in an immaculately decorated suburban house that is otherwise completely deserted. The paper blinds have been tweaked shut, and the light filtering through them is strained and grey. As the player explores the rooms, he may or may not notice that there are no doors leading outside the building. The silence, meticulous tidiness, and lack of obvious exits creates a claustrophobic atmosphere, but the player — confined in such an impenetrable house — might also feel a strange sense of comfort. He may or may not notice that the snatches of birdsong outside grow louder as he nears the bathroom, as one of its walls is missing a brick. If the player puts his eye to this hole, he will be able to look out into a beautiful green garden on the other side. The missing brick is lying on the floor, and can be slotted into the wall to hide the view of the trees and silence the birds. Alternatively, the hole can be left as it was found. There is nothing else to be discovered. There is no way to enter the garden.


Video games are created through the combination of animated graphics, recorded sounds, simulated physics, and artificial intelligence. Yet these tools also have the potential to produce programs that do not resemble video games very much at all, but are simple, first-person instalments not structured around the completion of a series of challenges but solely intended to be enjoyed for their artistic merit. Although it is tempting to describe this kind of program as an “art game”, the leading definition of the term states that an art game still must include “a defined way to win or experience success”, as well as providing “a passage through a series of levels”. For that reason, these simple programs might be better described as instalments of interactive virtual theatre, as they present no unlockable achievements, no defined tasks for the player to complete, and no way of finishing the game apart from deciding to close it. The defining criteria:

  • Pointlessness: The program must be based solely on exploration of the setting and interaction with the objects it contains. There must be no way to win.
  • Ambiguity: The player should not be shoehorned into a fictional role, and must be able to believe they are themselves. The narrative of the situation — why the player is where he is — should be flimsily outlined at best.
  • Immersiveness: The player must navigate the stage from a first-person perspective. The world can be of any size, but should be rich in detail and interactivity. Physics-bending and surreal situations are encouraged, although the graphics themselves must remain realistic (i.e. a chair may hover in the middle of the dining room, but it may not be a cartoon chair).

I am interested in the potential of this kind of program as a tool for spiritual and psychological development, as I believe that one of the core truths of life is that the universe is akin to a theatre production orchestrated by a director who plays every part. I feel there is a lot of comfort to be found in the recognition that virtual worlds — “practice” worlds, “games”, or “plays” — are not very different from the world we live in, and that in transferring the positive attitudes we adopt when playing games (curiosity, adventurousness, wonder, and — vitally — a complete lack of self-consciousness) to our everyday lives would do wonders for our well-being.

When we forget that life is a light show — a thrilling judder of something where there could have been nothing — and begin to take it seriously (which is not to say “sincerely” but “sombrely” ) by stewing on past regrets, loathing our flaws, worrying about what we will have achieved by the time we are dead, and driving ourselves quite frantic over the terrifying possibilities of the future, we develop all sorts of horrible neuroses. It is almost as if our bodies are trying to tell us that we’re making them sick by confronting the universe this way. But we tend not to pay any attention to these signals.

Magritte, “The Human Condition” (1935)

Interestingly, when we go to the theatre, we want the performance to trigger a variety of emotions in us, to present challenging and interesting ideas, and to give us rich glimpses into complex, often unusual situations. Notwithstanding, we resent our difficult circumstances and hold aloft vague ambitions of one day achieving a life which is a positive picnic: an entirely unrealistic alternative universe in which more buoyant and elegant versions of ourselves succeed at everything we try our hands at, enjoy perpetual sunshine, never fall down the stairs, and cultivate relationships that are quibble-free and constantly rewarding. We are terrified and distraught when we are faced with pain, confusion, and unfavourable situations. But would we really enjoy living a life free of all difficulty? If we return to the theatre for comparison, it would not be an entertaining or illuminating experience to see a play in which the protagonist’s journey didn’t face a single hitch. Even the narratives in television programmes aimed at more or less newborn children present problems to be solved and challenges to be overcome. The difference between the theatre and the real world is of course is that our lives can take up to a hundred years to be done with — as opposed to being presented to us in a digestible package lasting three hours or so — as well as that we can’t distance ourselves from the action. When we are insulted or injured, we suffer real pain, not the second-hand discomfort or anxiety of the theatre-goer. It’s me! It’s me who’s hurting! And by jove it’s horrible and I wish it would stop! However, isn’t this balanced out by the fact that we experience joy a hundred times more intensely than a theatre-goer? When love is directed at us, we feel we are made of gold, and we thrum within its warmth. Intoxicants spin us around; good fortune thrills us. We really feel the sun interfere with our skin.

It might seem strange that I am advocating the benefits of a “pointless” video game since I am of the opinion that entertainment must have twists and turns to be enjoyable and useful. However, I don’t believe interactive theatre to have entertainment value as such — rather that it has the potential as a useful tool to examine our own attitudes to the virtual and unreal. Simply put, we relax in simulated reality because we have no “self”. The emphasis is not on personhood but experience and exploration. It is interesting for this reason that simulations of reality have been used to treat social phobia — we do not feel anxious in a video game because for once we are not focusing on how we are perceived by other people. It is tremendously freeing to realise that this sense of relief in virtual reality comes from the fact we are not ourselves but avatars of ourselves, and that this is quite true in real life as well. It doesn’t matter if you are perceived badly, because you are everyone: both the perceiver and the perceived. Therefore, when we play a game without a “self” — and instead use our neurotic “real selves” to look through a second pair of eyes at a virtual world — we are finally peaceful. Our empathy levels skyrocket. We flourish creatively. Our vibrating desires to look smart, sit up straight, impress our mothers, and fake our personalities fade.

Why not walk through a train station without hurrying and marvel at the chattering people?

)
Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade