Psychonauts is another example of Tim Schafer’s regressive attitude toward video games, and of a broader reluctance to engage with mechanics as meaning.

The story concerns a psychic who infiltrates a covert camp that trains psychic children to refine their abilities. The narrative is diffuse and lacks incitement or overarching ambition until the end of the game, where a conspiracy is finally unearthed. Most levels take place inside the minds of various characters, consisting of exaggerated, twisted subconscious forms reminiscent of German Expressionism. The art style is, frankly, hideous, seemingly derived from the state of televised cartoons of the time: blobby, unbalanced character designs with uncanny anatomy. Animator John Kricfalusi described this tendency as an example of “itchiness and lumpiness,” where unprincipled and boundless shapes serve as a substitute for genuine charm.

The regressiveness of the game stems from its blasé platforming mechanics, which never meaningfully meld with the outwardly strange locales and scenarios it presents. A prime example is a world set on a giant board game played by a caricature of Napoleon: the player simply runs between designated spaces and watches cutscenes, intermittently interrupted by monotonous encounters in which one shoos away mindless enemies. The design philosophy appears to assume that loading a game with amusing cutscenes and quirky quips absolves the gameplay of any obligation to be engaging.

Compare this with a similarly humorous title like Conker’s Bad Fur Day, which initially presents platforming mechanics as contrived and ill-fitting to its own mise-en-scène, then promptly and hilariously discards them in favor of context-sensitive interactions. To defeat a boss composed of living fecal matter, Conker wields an exaggeratedly massive roll of toilet paper—the sheer weight of it causing third-person aiming to become delayed and intentionally unwieldy. The aesthetic reinforces the mechanic, and the mechanic becomes the message.


back to reviews...