The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games 9781350152311, 9781350152342, 9781350152328

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
List of figures
Acknowledgements
Introduction
1 The Semiotics of Architecture
2 The Semiotics of Digital Games Spaces
3 Assassin’s Creed II
4 Final Fantasy XV
5 NaissanceE
Conclusions
Further Research
Notes
Bibliography
Ludography
Works of Art
Index

Citation preview

The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

Bloomsbury Advances in Semiotics Series Editor: Paul Bouissac Bloomsbury Advances in Semiotics publishes original works applying semiotic approaches to linguistics and non-verbal productions, social institutions and discourses, embodied cognition and communication, and the new virtual realities of the digital age. It covers topics such as socio-semiotics, evolutionary semiotics, game theory, cultural and literary studies, human-computer interactions and the challenging new dimensions of human networking afforded by social websites. Titles published in the series: Semiotics of the Christian Imagination, Domenico Pietropaolo Computational Semiotics, Jean-Guy Meunier Cognitive Semiotics, Per Aage Brandt The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus, Elina Pyy The Social Semiotics of Tattoos, Chris William Martin The Semiotics of X, Jamin Pelkey The Semiotics of Light and Shadows, Piotr Sadowski Music as Multimodal Discourse, Lyndon C. S. Way and Simon McKerrell Peirce’s Twenty-Eight Classes of Signs and the Philosophy of Representation, Tony Jappy The Semiotics of Emoji, Marcel Danesi Semiotics and Pragmatics of Stage Improvisation, Domenico Pietropaolo Critical Semiotics, Gary Genosko The Burden of Traumascapes, Maida Kosatica

The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games Gabriele Aroni

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Gabriele Aroni, 2022 Gabriele Aroni has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xi constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover images: NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN HB: 978-1-3501-5231-1 ePDF: 978-1-3501-5232-8 eBook: 978-1-3501-5233-5 Series: Bloomsbury Advances in Semiotics Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

To my wife Clara, without whom I would not even have started.

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­Contents ­ ist of figures L ­Acknowledgements Introduction 1­ ­2 ­3 ­4 ­5

The Semiotics of Architecture The Semiotics of Digital Games Spaces Assassin’s Creed II Final Fantasy XV NaissanceE

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Conclusions

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Further Research Notes Bibliography ­Ludography ­Works of Art Index

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­Figures 1

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The monumental staircase in Palazzo Barberini, Rome, designed by Francesco Borromini in 1633 (left), and an emergency staircase in a high-rise condo (right) (photos by the author). An image from the first arcade version of Space Invaders © Taito 1978. The Upper Castle of Rattay in Kingdom Come: Deliverance © Warhorse Studios 2018. The pictorial reproduction of the Chain Map (Petrini and Petrini [1472] 1887) in Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, Italy © Comune di Firenze. Henry Holiday, Dante and Beatrice (1883) © Walker Art Gallery, National Museums Liverpool, UK. From Idone Cassone and Mattia Thibault (2016), ‘The HGR Framework: a Semiotic Approach to the Representation of History in Digital Games’. Gamevironments, Special Issue ‘Gamevironments of the Past’ (05), 168. A panorama of Florence in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above), and a panorama of Florence in real life from the Belvedere Fort (below, photo by the author). The Ponte Vecchio in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and in real life as seen from the Uffizi Gallery (below) (photo by the author). Ezio climbing a building using the quoins as handholds in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009. The inner courtyard of the Auditore Palace in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (left), and one of the courtyards of Palazzo Gondi in Florence, designed by Giuliano da Sangallo in 1490 (right, photo by the author).

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The incomplete façade of Santa Maria del Fiore in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and the contemporary nineteenthcentury façade (below) (photo by the author). 12 The Old Market in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and the contemporary Piazza della Repubblica (below, photo by the author), with its nineteenth-century design. 13 The main square of Monteriggioni in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and Piazza Roma in the actual Monteriggioni (below) (photo by the author). 14 The initial scene of Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016. 15 The Hammerhead service station in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016. 16 The sea resort of Galdin Quay in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016. 17 Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Allegory of the Good Government in the City (1338–9) (detail), Museo Civico, Siena, Italy © Comune di Siena. 18 Fort Vaullerey in the Cleigne region in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016. 19 Altissia in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016 (above), and canal Rio de San Vio in Venice (below) (photo by the author). 20 Canaletto, Capriccio with Palladian Buildings (1756–9), courtesy of the Ministry of Culture – Complesso Monumentale della Pilotta-Galleria Nazionale, Parma, Italy (above), and the monumental entrance to Altissia in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016 (below). 21 The ruins of Altissia in Final Fantasy XV: Episode Ignis © Square Enix 2017. 22 The Citadel in the Episode Ardyn DLC © Square Enix 2019 (above), and in the main Final Fantasy XV game © Square Enix 2016 (below). 23 A street in Insomnia during the events of the main Final Fantasy XV game (above) © Square Enix 2016 and in Final Fantasy XV: Episode Ardyn (below) © Square Enix 2019. 24 The city of Gralea in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016. 25 A corridor in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

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Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Scale, arcate e capriate, etching, mm 410 × 545 (1761) © Roma, Istituto centrale per la grafica, courtesy of the Ministry of Culture. Étienne-Louis Boullée, Cénotaphe de Newton (1784). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, département estampes et photographie. Thomas Cole (American, born England, 1801–48), The Architect’s Dream, 1840, oil on canvas, 53 × 84 1/16 in., Toledo Museum of Art (Toledo, Ohio). purchased with funds from the Florence Scott Libbey Bequest in memory of her father, Maurice A. Scott, 1949.162. A room the size of planet Jupiter in a spread from Nihei’s Blame! Master edition volume 6, pp. 78–9 © Tsutomu Nihei/ Kodansha Ltd. One of the initial environments in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014. The first open vista in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014. A plate from Blame! Master edition volume 2, p. 118 © Tsutomu Nihei/ Kodansha Ltd (left) and a screenshot from NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014 (right). The door leading to the ‘Deeper into madness’ level in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014 (above) and Michelangelo’s Vestibule of the Laurentian Library. Photo by Heinrich von Geymuller (1904, Plate 5). Public Domain. The plain room that repeats itself after the beginning of NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014. The ‘ceiling’ of the megastructure and the first ‘natural’ landscape of NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

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­Acknowledgements This book stems from research conducted during my doctoral studies in the ComCult programme at Toronto Metropolitan and York Universities in Toronto, and which was supported by the SSHRC Joseph-Armand Bombardier CGS Doctoral Scholarship and the Edward S. Rogers Sr Graduate School Fellowship. I wish to thank Professors Bruno Lessard, Jennifer Jenson, Jamin Pelkey, Marcel Danesi and Daniele Bertolini for their insightful comments, as well as Professors Emeriti Paul Bouissac, general editor of this series, and David Lidov. I would also like to thank my students at Xi’an Jiaotong-Liverpool, Ryerson and OCAD Universities for stimulating discussions on game studies, architecture, semiotics and art. Special thanks to my editor at Bloomsbury Laura Gallon for her patient work in seeing this book come to light. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. However, if any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publishers will be pleased, if notified of any omissions, to make the necessary arrangement at the first opportunity. Some of the third-party copyrighted material displayed in the pages of this book is done so on the basis of ‘fair dealing for the purposes of criticism and review’ or ‘fair use for the purposes of teaching, criticism, scholarship or research’ only in accordance with international copyright laws, and is not intended to infringe upon the ownership of the original owners.

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Introduction

Today over three billion people play digital games worldwide (Newzoo 2021, 19). These players go far beyond simple puzzle or platform games, for now they inhabit proper virtual worlds. We have come a long way from the simple sprites of Super Mario Bros. (Nintendo Creative Department 1985) and the technologically simplistic landscapes of the 1980s and early 1990s – which does not mean their design is at all less brilliant and worthy of investigation – as players now experience their adventures in complex three-dimensional spaces that can be explored very much like our physical world. The configuration of virtual space is one of the most impressive innovations in the forty-year history of digital games, as well as one of the most important and expensive elements in the creation of the medium. Artists and designers usually account for almost half the development cost of a digital game (Ars Technica 2017; Leafy Games 2013; Reimer 2006) – more than writers and musicians, and second only to programmers – which demonstrates that the creation of the visual, architectural space, is one of the most prominent aspects of digital games. The notion of space has gathered the attention of numerous scholars within the field of game studies since its inception. Already in 1997, Janet Murray in her influential book Hamlet on the Holodeck considers ‘spatial’ one of the ‘four principal properties’ of digital environments, alongside ‘procedural’, ‘participatory’ and ‘encyclopaedic’ ([1997] 2016, 72). She states that ‘[the new digital environments are characterized by their power to represent navigable space’ ([1997] 2016, 79) and underlines that the break from ‘linear’ media spaces, such as the ones in books and films, consists in the fact that we can explore digital spaces. The same year Celia Pearce entertains the concept of digital games as ‘spatial media’ in her Interactive Book, affirming that ‘designing a virtual space is exactly like designing a real space, except you don’t need

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The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

bathrooms. In both cases, the goal is to create an experience’ (1997, 28). In the early 2000s, Mark J.P. Wolf carefully analyses the topic, observing that ‘the video game’s added elements of navigation and interaction lend an importance to diegetic space which is unlike that of other media’ (2001, 51), while Espen Aarseth underscores that spatiality constitutes ‘[t]he defining element in computer games’ (2001, 154). Henry Jenkins, expanding on Pearce’s idea of games as spatial media designed to create experiences, considers them ‘narrative architecture’ (2004). He thereafter observes that ‘game design documents have historically been more interested in issues of level design than plotting or character motivation’ (2004, 121). An architectural enquiry on the matter is not just welcome, but necessary. Billions of players spend billions of hours in these spaces, which are conceived to entertain, move or even scare. Unlike architects, designers in games are not limited by the laws of physics, regulations or budgetary constraints, although technical limitations, gameplay constraints and costs are all factors to be taken into account, making the parallel with real architecture even more compelling. This book investigates the architecture in digital games in terms of its aesthetic aspect and its symbolic role as they relate to gameplay. It demonstrates that digital games are contiguous to other media and arts, in particular architecture. In fact, architecture constitutes a central signifier in digital games, achieving a radical impact on how they are perceived and played. Perhaps the best definition of architecture in digital games is that it is a digital capriccio (pl. capricci) that locates itself within a long-standing tradition of ‘virtual’ architecture created to amuse and enthral rather than to be actually built. Capricci constitute ‘works of imagination and fantasy, whether in regards to a landscape in ruins and invented or transposed monuments (F. Guardi, M. Ricci, etc.) or of a grotesque or picturesque setting (Callot, G.B. Tiepolo), or even a fantastic one (Goya’s Caprices, engravings published in 1799)’ (Kleinman 2016, 57). The term capricci was initially associated with musical improvisations in the seventeenth century, but became to mean paintings that represented invented landscapes, especially to differentiate them from the more realistic vedute, painted to represent real locations as faithfully as possible. The genre reached its apogee in the eighteenth century, with the works of Giovanni Paolo Panini, Marco Ricci, Tiepolo and Canaletto. This differentiation fits digital games particularly well – as we will see in Chapters 3 and 4 especially – since architecture in games

Introduction

3

is always a fictive composition of forms, and even when it represents existing locations, it is never perfectly accurate. More than the reconstruction of a place, virtual architecture is the product of the artists and designers who create and mould it to fit and work within the digital game. From this perspective, this book will strive to explain how the design of virtual architecture influences gameplay and storytelling. In doing so, it will look into real architecture and its meaning as regards digital architecture, thus considering the source of inspiration for digital games architecture. What makes many games so engrossing, aside from their more obvious ludological features, is the visual aspect that causes the experience of visiting virtual spaces to be engaging and aesthetically rewarding. Jenkins affirms that: The early Nintendo games have simple narrative hooks – rescue Princess Toadstool – but what gamers found astonishing when they first played them were their complex and imaginative graphic realms, which were so much more sophisticated than the simple grids that Pong or Pac-Man had offered us a decade earlier. (2004, 122)

As to why the player would perform such actions – i.e. actually play the game – the reasons are as varied as the genres of digital games: from competitive digital games, akin to sports such as hockey, where the purpose is to obtain a higher score and/or beat the opponent, to mostly narrative and aesthetic experiences where the only aim is to move around and explore the environment. A taxonomy of players has been made in several studies, from Roger Caillois’ seminal book Les jeux et les hommes (1958) to Gustavo Fortes Tondello et al.’s player traits model (2018). Caillois defined four categories of games: Agon, or competition, a form of play that tests players’ skills against an adversary; Alea, or chance, based instead on luck; Mimesis, the equivalent of makebelieve and role-playing; and finally, Ilinx, or vertigo, where strong physical or emotional experiences are the focus of the game, such as rollercoasters or horror games. Of course, these categories can be combined, as is often the case in digital games, a medium that Caillois could obviously not consider in his time. Interestingly enough, recent neurobiological studies reached similar conclusions. For instance, Fortes Tondello et  al.’s research suggests three main motivations for people playing games: (1) action orientation, those who

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The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

seek struggle against opponents and risk taking, similar to Caillois’ Agon; (2) aesthetic orientation, those who want to explore and enjoy the game world and socialize with other players, similar to Mimesis; and (3) goal orientation, players who enjoy completing activities, solving puzzles, and frightening experiences, much like Ilinx. Thus, players’ interest in games is not limited to the victory conditions, but ranges from the enjoyment of storytelling to social interaction. Grant Tavinor, in The Art of Videogames (2009), goes so far as to conflate the artistic status of digital games with their visual properties, stating that ‘they do have perceptual and formal structures that are the object of an aesthetic and interpretive engagement in much the same way as other artworks’ (2009, 174) and ‘employ much of the same aesthetic vocabulary’ (2009, 180). The same applies to the players, who, in Tavinor’s opinion, share aesthetic interests comparable to traditional art appreciators (2009, 180). This approach, echoed by Chris Bateman in Empirical Game Aesthetics (2014), and Brian Upton in The Aesthetic of Play (2015), is known as Prop Theory, which purports that digital games are not an isolated, unique medium, for they are contiguous with non-digital games as well as other arts and imaginative activities. In this regard, Jenkins claims that ‘there is a tremendous amount that game designers and critics could learn through making meaningful comparisons with other storytelling media’ (2004, 119). The basic thesis is that any representative art is made of ‘props’ that prompt us to specific imagery, i.e. in a painting, we look at coloured oils on canvas and we see a landscape. In the case of games, the props have a dual function: one representational, and the other functional to the gameplay. Since digital games, as the name implies, are primarily games, the ludic aspect of the medium is of fundamental importance. Even by relying on re-presentational techniques, such as the simulation of a building or a landscape, these representations must, in almost all cases, serve the primary purpose of gameplay, much like a scenography must defer to the singing in an opera. The interactivity situates digital games in a special location, as the user has a unique way of physically interacting with the artefact, compared for example to a film or a painting, and both the narration and the visual aspect of the digital game will change according to the player’s actions and to a greater or lesser extent depending on the game. Espen Aarseth, one of the founders of the discipline of game studies, asserts that games ‘contain content that is different from the elements we recognize from older media’ because they ‘can

Introduction

5

typically be acted upon in ways that fictional content is not acted upon’ (2007, 36). For this very reason, digital architecture is a very powerful artefact, since it creates a virtual setting that can be experienced and interacted with as much as if it were a real physical environment. This book is the first extended study of digital architecture in game studies and architectural theory sourced in English and Italian-language scholarship. Previous comprehensive works on architecture and digital games have focused on level design, i.e. how to actually design digital game levels and what architectural techniques can be employed by level designers in their creations (Totten 2014); or on the broader topic of play and games as an architectural discourse, where digital games are not the focus, and the discussion bears on digital games as play spaces, rather than the architecture represented in them (Walz 2010). Also, Borries et al.’s work on computer games, architecture and urbanism (Borries, Walz and Boottger 2007) is an anthology of various contributions to the topic of architecture and computer games, and not a systematic analysis of digital games architecture, its main focus being on the interaction between real and virtual architecture, how games influence the former, and how they can be used as planning tools. How the architecture present within digital games looks and functions is a subject that still requires specific consideration, especially as a topic independent from other broader ones such as space and narration. This book is also the first scholarly work to analyse the semiotics of architecture in digital games. There is rather limited literature on the semiotics of digital games, with several notable examples coming from the Italian game studies community, from Massimo Maietti’s Semiotica dei videogiochi (2004), Dario Compagno’s Dezmond (2013) and Enzo D’Armenio’s Mondi paralleli (2014) to David Myers’ The Nature of Computer Games (2003), and Brian Upton’s Situational Game Design (2018). However, most of these studies try to define what digital games are from a semiotic perspective (Maietti 2004; Myers 2003), or how the interaction between games and players works (D’Armenio 2014). Other scholars focus on the narrative aspect of the game (Compagno 2013; Trabattoni 2014), whereas Upton uses semiotics as a tool for game design (2018). Since this book aims instead to investigate how the architecture portrayed in digital games works as a system of signs that communicates with players, it resorts to Umberto Eco’s semiotic theory of architecture ([1968]

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2016) to explain how real architecture communicates, combined with Brian Upton’s concepts of ‘anticipatory play’ and ‘ludic sign’ (2015, 2018) to elucidate how this communication is effected in digital games. For the purpose of this study, the focus will be on first- and third-person 3D digital games, while excluding digital games in which the objective is the creation of architecture and urban planning, such as city-building games or ‘God games’. Investigating how architecture influences gameplay and the narrative as they are experienced by the player, rather than how they can be created and/or manipulated by the player stands foremost. For instance, games such as SimCity (Maxis 1989), where players are tasked with the design and management of a city, from outlining the paths of streets to setting the destination of use of city blocks; or Minecraft (Mojang 2011), where players can freely build any kind of structure out of square blocks of different materials in a so-called sandbox world where imagination can run wild, are outside the scope of this book. The book will not attempt to define the concepts of interactivity (Kirkpatrick 2011; Landay 2014; Papale 2013) or narrative (Arsenault 2014; Eskelinen 2001; Frasca 2003; Juul 2001), but rather explore how interaction and narration take place within and through architectural elements. Moreover, this study does not engage in the discussion of abstract concepts such as ‘space’ (Lefebvre [1974] 1991) or ‘cyberspace’ (Qvortrup 2002), but concentrates on the actual qualities of architectural space as it is perceived visually and through gameplay. As mentioned, the question of space in digital games has been investigated by several scholars; however, it often deals with how the physical space is represented as a frame of reference in digital games, focusing on how digital games warp our concepts of space and time for the sake of gameplay, and what techniques are employed to create a readable, functional space on a bidimensional screen (Adams 2003; Murray [1997] 2016; Wolf 2001). Other studies similarly bear on how players understand the virtual game space, how the space of the game is ‘translated’ from the virtual game world to the symbols players see on screen and how they interact with them (Pearce 2008; Tobin 2012). In all cases, the term ‘space’ is intended rather broadly, in both a physical and symbolic sense. This approach does not come as a surprise, if we observe that Johan Huizinga, in his fundamental book Homo Ludens, already considered ‘the limitation as to space’ ([1938] 1980, 10) as one of the most characterizing elements of play. Huizinga coined the term ‘magic

Introduction

7

circle’ referring to ‘temporary worlds within the ordinary world, dedicated to the performance of an act apart’ ([1938] 1980, 10). Again, what is analysed is how space is crucial to play, rather than how the physical, architectural space is arranged in order to allow play. Aarseth, for his part, talks about the ‘spatial formation’ (2001, 167) referring to the battle formations in the real-time strategy game Myth (Bungie 1997) while writing about digital game spaces, and Pearce identifies several ‘spatial literacy practices’ that emerge during gameplay, including ‘[d]escribing space’ and ‘[u]sing knowledge of space appropriately to create unique forms of gameplay’ (2008, 6). Many studies refer to the notions of space and cyberspace as the social, interconnected space that is created in digital games and on the internet, thus considering ‘space’ in a figurative sense of social interrelations (Mortensen 2006; Simon 2006; Wood 2012). These interpretations of space are indeed useful to understand how virtual space functions at a basic level, but they seldom take into account virtual architecture, as in the virtual structures represented in the virtual space. What is considered ‘space’ is the spatial framework within which digital game architecture is developed, as much as we can consider our real ‘space’ the three-dimensional world where we live, governed by the laws of physics. To borrow Henri Lefebvre’s words, we are concerned here with ‘the space occupied by sensory phenomena’ ([1974] 1991, 12). Aarseth tried to apply Lefebvre’s theory of space to digital games, affirming that games fit in both Lefebvre’s categories of ‘representation of space’ and ‘representational spaces’ (Lefebvre [1974] 1991, 33), and as such, digital games are both ‘a formal system of relations’ and ‘symbolic imagery with a primarily aesthetic purpose’ (Aarseth 2001, 163). Aarseth also stated that ‘spatial representation in computer games’ is ‘a reductive operation leading to a representation of space that is not in itself spatial, but symbolic and rule-based’, thus focusing on how the ‘automatic rules’ shape the ‘spatial representation’ in digital games, rather than on the kind of architectural constructs this ‘spatial representation’ is populated with (2001, 163). In order to discuss the architecture of digital games, it is thus necessary to first acknowledge an a priori existence of the virtual space, which for this exploratory study will be limited to 3D games, as they more closely resemble our real world. Assuming that this 3D virtual space can be interpreted very similarly to our 3D real space, what will be analysed is the architecture contained in it, as in the buildings, environments and

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The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

streetscapes that populate said virtual space. For the purpose of this book, the virtual space – or the cyberspace – is the Cartesian three-dimensional space of the game world, represented through perspective projection on the screen. The technical aspect of digital games will of course be taken into consideration, especially when it directly impacts how the architectural space is represented. However, this book will not place a particular emphasis on it. 3D spaces of varying sizes and detail levels have now been a common occurrence in digital games for more than two decades, and all the recent hardware advancements only refined technologies that were already available since the turn of the millennium. Despite the noticeable and impressive advancements in hardware capabilities, there has not been a radical revolution such as the passage from 2D to 3D games, or the advent of accelerated graphic cards, in almost twenty years. Statements such as the one by Andrew MacTavish, who affirmed that digital games’ narrative is ‘about special effects and our astonishment over new developments in special effects technology’ (2002, 43), were already downplayed by Michael Nitsche several years later (2008, 72), a sign that the technological impact was becoming more limited. This does not mean that the graphical aspect is downplayed in this study. On the contrary, the visual component of digital games is the crux of this work, but what will be analysed is rather how these technologies are employed in the creation of architectural environments, rather than what these technologies are and how they function.

Semiotics of architecture: Denotative and connotative functions Assuming that digital architecture shares many aspects with real architecture, it is worth exploring how architectural theory and semiotics can support the investigation of real architecture and how they can then be applied to the study of digital architecture. At first glance, architecture might be regarded as an asignifying and non-representative art, as its aim is not to reproduce something that already exists but to create something new. In addition, as discussed by Umberto Eco, architectural objects apparently do not communicate but rather function (1997, 174), as they primarily fulfil a structural or mechanical role.

Introduction

9

It is unequivocal that a roof serves to cover and a column to hold that roof and prevent it from falling. This idea of a lack of communicative function in architecture has been strengthened by modernist architectural works – especially apartment buildings, factories, hospitals, etc. – that are said not to have any semantic and/or symbolic functions. As Hans Ibelings points out: ‘Whereas postmodernist and deconstructivist architecture almost always contains a message, today architecture is increasingly conceived as an empty medium’ (1998, 88). Spectators of architectural works are thus not used to looking for meanings other than the formal qualities of the work (Munro 1987; Wallis 1973). However, as explained by Rudolf Wittkower (1988), it has been proven that in various periods and cultures, constructions, above all temples and palaces, used to be conceived as ‘signs’ or ‘symbols’, and were thus signifying or symbolic in nature and bearers of meanings, understandable not only by the people, such as architects and scholars, who possessed the necessary knowledge to interpret and ‘read’ them, but also by the general public who came in contact with these buildings. This holds true today, as Samir Younés notes: ‘In building the civic and the private realms and in providing them with their suitable expressions, architectural making, has a purpose other than itself’ (2016, 74, emphasis in the original). The Roman architect Marcus Pollio Vitruvius, in his De architectura, the oldest surviving architectural treaty of the Western world, wrote more than two thousand years ago: ‘Both in general and especially in architecture are these two things found; that which signifies and that which is signified’ (1931, vol. I, bk. I, I, 3). While not mentioning semiotics specifically, it is evident that in Vitruvius’ mind architecture carries meaning, thus adding: ‘That which is signified is the thing proposed about which we speak; that which signifies is the demonstration unfolded in systems of precepts’ (1931, vol. I, bk. I, I, 3). In short, architecture for Vitruvius stems from a ‘system of precepts’, an existing code that can be understood and must be mastered by the architect. For Pierre Pellegrino and Emmanuelle Jeanneret, it is ‘space’ that ‘is semiotic as much as pragmatic’ (2009, 271), even before the creation of architecture itself. However, it is the building that ‘[a]s a monument of architecture … is a semiotic object of connotation’. It is in the physical realization of architecture that ‘the shape taken by the signifier enters into measured relation with that taken by the signified’ (2009, 284). Similarly to Vitruvius, there are thus two

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The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

aspects: the signifier and the signified, that are related whenever architecture is created. Semiotics is thus the most appropriate frame within which to study the symbolic and ludological aspects of virtual architecture, in particular the theories developed by Eco with respect to the denotation and connotation of architecture ([1968] 2016). Eco based his analysis on the works of semiotician Charles S. Peirce, particularly his concept of iconic sign (1994). In this regard, we can consider digital architecture, at least in part, as an iconic sign, a sign that resembles its original counterpart: i.e. a house in a game will look like a house in the real world in order to convey the meaning of ‘house’: representativeness and use of forms of real built architecture, while detached from its building type and decoupled of real world physics, are transferred for visual and narrative matters to digital game worlds in order to signify real values as iconic code, build up atmosphere and inform the player about optional actions and possible motion patterns – game mechanics. (Bonner 2014, 10 emphasis added)

Eco affirms that architecture has a double semiotic function: one is primary and denotative, and the other is secondary and connotative. The first is based on the very form of the architecture, and visually communicates the purpose of the object by virtue of its shape. The second connotes the meaning of that specific architectural object, its raison d’être, and can be incidental or absent in real architecture (Eco 1997, 177–9). In digital games, as we will see, the secondary connotative function is ever present, as every virtual architectural object has been wilfully created and placed, either for gameplay or narrative purposes.

Architecture and digital games: Narratological and ludological functions Within the interdisciplinary field of game studies, certain approaches to digital games have been dominant. Historically, digital games have mainly been dealt with from a narratological (Murray [1997] 2016; Wardrip-Fruin and Harrigan 2004; Wolf 2001) and ludological (Aarseth 1997; Juul 2011; Perron and Wolf 2009) perspective, and with regard to their definition (Newman 2004; Tavinor

Introduction

11

2009). Additionally, many scholars analyse digital games through a cultural and gender studies lens, in particular issues pertaining to race (Hutchinson 2017; Leonard 2006; Malkowski and Russworm 2017; Srauy 2019), gender and sexuality (Hodson and Livingstone 2017; Jenson and de Castell 2018; Pozo 2018). Digital games have been compared to almost all kinds of media, from cinema (Papazian and Sommers 2013) to dance performances (Kirkpatrick 2011) but never to architecture. There is very limited research on the similarities between the fields of architectural practice and theory, and digital games (Borries, Walz and Boottger 2007; Nitsche 2008), and it is usually relegated to the context of level design (Totten 2014). Yet, there are some rare discordant voices, such as Danilo di Mascio, who states that ‘in modern video games, the role of architecture is becoming more and more prominent’ (2021, 126), Mike Gust, who declares that ‘[o]n the most basic level playing a videogame is like experiencing architecture’ (2009), Anthony Zonaga and Marcus Carter, who affirm that ‘the architecture of buildings and cities in games is integral to their experience’ (2019, 72). Indeed, architecture is doubly important in digital games: level design is a form of architecture itself, preoccupied with the ludic, functional aspect of the game, and the visual ‘coat’ that is applied to it fleshes out the game and makes it interesting and immersive. Architectural analysis is thus relatively new to the medium, despite the fact that advanced 3D digital games have been developed for more than a decade. In fact, as Marco Carbone points out ‘in digital games the visual component is not the only dimension of the ludic and aesthetic experience, but is undoubtedly the most evident and pervasive’1 (2005, 2). Architects work in digital games development, and on some occasions external professionals and architectural firms have been involved in the development and design of digital games (Saga 2015; Van Buren 2015) such as Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) and The Witness (Blow 2016). The topic of game and level design within the field of architecture has appeared in many industry discussions, articles and conference papers (Astbury 2014; Artemel 2013; Lister 2013; Licht 2003; Saga 2016; Smith 2010). However, the relationship between game level design and architecture is commonly perceived as limited to environmental art styles or references to famous buildings (Lange 2015). It is undeniable that this approach can lead to many notable examples such as the Assassin’s Creed franchise, where historical cities such as the late fifteenth-century Florence

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The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

of Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) and the revolutionary Paris of Assassin’s Creed Unity (Ubisoft 2014a) are masterfully reconstructed. Yet, limiting the analysis to how real architecture is reconstructed in digital games would indeed be restrictive. As Christopher Totten puts it, ‘[r]ather than simply turning to architecture as a reference for surface level visual elements, we can study how architects construct space and occupant movement’ (2014, xxii). The context for players who inhabit a space is created through architectural layout techniques, and thus how the players experience space derives from these environments. This is true for many architectural works, where buildings exist to elicit ideas or emotions from the occupants, rather than mere shelter, and ‘[t]he same can be said of great game levels’ (2014, xxv). One way in which game designers and architects are inherently different is in the functions of their spaces: ‘[w]hile architects typically design for pure function or for the embodiment of positive emotions, game designers are free to utilize negative emotions such as anger, aggression, or fear. Architects have developed a set of rules not only for what to do in design, but also what not to do’ (2014, xxv). Accordingly, an approach that considers architectural design as a capriccio, such as in the paintings of Massimo Scolari, is more apt to investigate the field of digital games architecture, as his paintings ‘are not the projects of what he wants the world to look like’ (Krier 2016, 192). Most digital games display extremely detailed three-dimensional sceneries that can usually be explored in a first- or third-person perspective – i.e. as if players were looking through the character’s eyes or from a virtual camera hovering some distance over the character – and the point of view is manipulated in real time, giving the same flexibility that we would have when visiting an actual place. Additionally, recently released virtual reality headsets, such as the Oculus Quest and HTC Vive, enable us to have perception of depth as well as give us the advantage of not just seeing the limited portion of the screen but a much wider field of view around the player. Aside from technological considerations, this freedom on the part of the player entails an obligation for the artists and modellers creating such scenery to deal with architectural problems and use a language common to architects, for example, perspective, flow of the space, perceived size. In digital games architecture, as much as in real architecture, many aspects of the space are linked to their usage. For instance, a building in horror game Resident Evil (Capcom 1996) consists of several

Introduction

13

rooms interconnected in various manners by means of closed or locked doors, while a building in the strategic Total War: Three Kingdoms (Creative Assembly 2019) is part of a particular technological tree of production. Objects appear in digital games, therefore, as signs of a particular function (Barthes 1988). The articulation of those objects-signs, of a certain state of things in which we find ourselves, is what gives meaning, that is, it is what signals to us how we should perform a particular task. As such, the semiotics of architecture of digital game spaces is essential to understand how the game itself exists and is played. As Joaquìn Siabra-Fraile explains with respect to the game Ico (Team Ico 2001): ‘[a] story, such as the one told in Ico, is unfeasible without the space of doors, chains, cornices and stairways that constitute the castle; in the same way that the castle is only interesting insofar as it allows the story to unfold’ (2009, 70). There is hardly any traditional narration in Ico, as in text and words, and all the story and background of the game is expressed through its architecture, which makes it one of the games usually cited when discussing the possibility of telling stories exclusively through gameplay, together with the other Fumito Ueda masterpiece Shadow of the Colossus (Team Ico 2005). The last case study of this book, NaissanceE (Limasse Five 2014), in Chapter 5, presents a similar scenario. The importance of interactivity and the central focus on gameplay entail that most digital game spaces are constructed around the principle that the space be used in an effective manner in order to produce satisfying gameplay. The fact that the role of virtual architecture is subservient to the satisfaction of a need brings the design of virtual structures closer to real architectural design than mere representations of a fictional design. We can draw a parallel with the concept of utilitas that Vitruvius, in his De architectura (1931, vol. I, bk. I, III), recommends for any building to be designed: the idea that architecture should be appropriate for its use, its location and its owner. A concept that can be easily transferred to virtual architecture, as the design has to be equally appropriate to support the type of gameplay and the intended audience. For example, an action game that involves gunfight such as Overwatch (Blizzard Entertainment 2016) must have an architecture that allows for taking cover, space to move around in, and an appropriate setting, which will be radically different from an adventure game such as Life Is Strange (Dontnod Entertainment 2015), where the needs of gameplay are different since there is no need for quick action and gunfights. More than only providing a useful setting for the action, the space

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should also aid in the characterization of the environment and the narrative aspect of the game, especially evident in digital games where the usual narrative component – dialogues, cutscenes, etc. – is almost absent, such as in Ico (Team Ico 2001) and NaissanceE (Limasse Five 2014), or where world-building is an essential part of games, especially in role-playing games (RPGs) such as The Witcher (CD Projekt RED 2007–15) and Mass Effect (BioWare 2007–21).

­Semiotics of Virtual Architecture: Anticipatory Play David Myers writes that ‘computer games are most essentially semiotic machines that generate and transform meaning through the coded manipulation of signs and symbols’ (2010, 5). In this book, Eco’s semiotic theory of architecture will be combined with the concept of ‘anticipatory play’ devised by Upton to analyse how virtual architecture allows, enhances and communicates the possibilities of gameplay. Anticipatory play refers to the idea that in digital and non-digital games, the anticipation, planning and expectation of events and actions before they unfold are as important as the interaction itself. Upton, who was lead designer for the first Rainbow Six (Red Storm Entertainment 1998), a tactical first-person shooter that gave birth to the genre now regarded as a classic, asserts that much of anticipatory play is indeed expressed through level and architectural design (2015, 76–8). The architecture of a game level can, and should, in fact accommodate and allow anticipatory play through the use of architectural forms and elements. Indeed, doors, the placement of corridors and turns, and the height and size of a space are all elements that tell players how to play, what to expect and how to plan for their next move. As we will see, anticipatory play is thus expressed through the secondary connotative function of virtual architecture that communicates the additional information needed to enhance gameplay.

Structure of the Book The book is so divided that the first two chapters will explain the theories that shall be applied to the case studies. The first chapter outlines how semiotics is a valid system for the investigation of architecture, which theories and

Introduction

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ideas shaped it, and concentrates on one of the most relevant to the study of virtual architecture: Umberto Eco’s theory of denotation and connotation of architecture (1997). The second chapter explores the study of digital games through semiotic lenses, focusing on Brian Upton’s theory of anticipatory play and the ludic sign (2015) in view of linking the two semiotic theories of Eco and Upton to set up the methodological framework of the book. This research conducts three case studies of digital games that encompass different approaches to architectural representations: (1) Reconstructive, (2) Fantastic and (3) Visionary. Chapter  3 deals with ‘reconstructive virtual architecture’, that aims to recreate existing locales with the purpose of giving players the impression of being in specific, present or past historical and geographical locations. The case study for this category is Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) and its historical reconstruction of Renaissance Florence. Chapter 4 analyses ‘fantastic virtual architecture’, which strives to create environments that do not look realistic, yet are plausible and still grounded in real world architecture, such as science fiction or fantasy games. Japanese role-playing game (JRPG) Final Fantasy XV (Square Enix 2016) is the case study in this category, for it displays peculiar aesthetic characteristics due to its Japanese origin, as well as within the genres of JRPGs, opting for a unique ‘realistic’ approach to its fantasy world. Chapter  5 examines ‘visionary virtual architecture’, including games whose architecture is designed to be perceived as ‘alien’ and ‘impossible’, yet still not completely abstract and incomprehensible. The chosen case study, indie game NaissanceE (Limasse Five 2014) displays an architectural design that is based on existing architectural forms, but so warped and transformed that we are compelled to recognize them as distant from the normal architectural rules based on the laws of physics. The conclusion summarizes the findings of the analysis carried out in the case studies and expresses the importance of studying virtual architecture as actual architecture. It outlines how the theoretical framework expounded in this book is indeed a valid methodology to analyse architecture in digital games. Finally, it discusses the possible limits of the theory developed in the book, and suggests further research to be carried out in the field of virtual architecture.

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The Semiotics of Architecture

Signifying and Asignifying Art In the early twentieth century, as abstract, non-objective art emerged with the works of painters such as Kandinsky, Malevich and Mondrian, visual arts were usually divided into signifying and asignifying, as in arts that represented something material or not. Sculpture and painting were commonly considered ‘imitative’ or ‘representative’ arts, whereas music and architecture ‘nonimitative’ or ‘nonrepresentative’ arts. In this optic, visual arts set out to recreate, or at least represent, what already exists and is tangible, such as visible objects in the case of sculpture and painting, whereas architecture deals with ex-novo creations, as no building exists in nature and its purpose is thus not to ‘represent’ something. As explained by Mieczyslaw Wallis, there is not an a priori architectural form that is set in stone in a building, for an architectural creation represents only itself and does not convey an ulterior meaning (1975, 89). Since then, developments in abstract, non-objective painting and sculpture, as well as investigations in different geographical and historical areas of architecture, revealed that this position is untenable (Wallis 1975, 90). Indeed, in the case of architecture, it is easy to see how, from Babylonian ziggurats, to Egyptian and Hindu temples, and then Romanesque churches, several buildings were conceived not only to serve their utilitarian purpose but also to present themselves as pleasurable and artful spaces, and moreover as signs of objects other than themselves. For instance, religious buildings, usually acted as signifiers of the universe or heaven (Wallis 1973, 91). The notion that architecture is not only a representation, but an expression, a mise-en-scène in stone of what nature does, is ancient and established. Architecture was thus expressing a pre-existing natural order through the

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construction and arrangement of buildings. The parallel was usually drawn with music, the other art that is not directly representational, and the theory that music and architecture share a similar set of harmonic, proportional relationships has been consistently present since antiquity (Alberti 1485, bk. IX ch. 5; Vitruvius 1931 V, III, 4). Similar analogies were made in the late nineteenth century between music and painting, even before the rise of nonobjective, abstract painting. Works of the period even bore titles modelled upon musical works, such as Monet’s Harmonie rose and Harmonie verte, Signac’s Adagio, Larghetto and Scherzo and Whistler’s Harmony in Green and Rose and Symphony in Grey and Green (Wallis 1960, 64). In late seventeenth-century France, scientist and architect Claude Perrault, the designer of the famous Louvre colonnade, believed that architecture could not be an exact science, but rather an act of pure fantasy. He noted that its rules could not be determined with precision as they did not exist in nature. Drawing from his medical enquiries, Perrault stated that music and architecture cannot share a common set of harmonic values, since eyes and ears process inputs in different ways. Auditory inputs are more directly processed, as most of the ‘deciphering’ is done directly by the ears, whereas visual inputs are mostly processed by the brain, which performs much of the data interpretation. This theory is indeed technically true; however, recent studies seem to indicate that there might be neural correlations between auditory and visual sensations that make us react similarly to analogous visual and aural patterns (Yoichi 2009). Perrault underscored how musicians all agree about the correctness of a played note, whereas we can find many distinct interpretations of ‘correct’ architectural proportions ([1683] 1993, 48–9). In light of this, he affirms that music is an art based on natural harmonic proportions, proportions that are impossible to find in architecture, which is thus an art necessarily based on fantasy and invention. In his opinion, one cannot find, in architecture, a common basic system that can be assimilated to language, and instead of basing architectural design on imitation of nature, or even on ‘reason’, it should be grounded on habits or customs ([1683] 1993, 52). This interpretation was obviously not shared by everyone. For example, a century later, Étienne-Louis Boullée would object that not having yet found the primary source of architectural beauty does not mean that it does not exist, since he considered that many architects, Perrault included, applied it correctly

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([1790] 2005, 21–2). Boullée believed that there is an underlying proportional system that governs what we find appropriate for architecture, and that architects’ mission was to put into work this natural system itself. This system is, however, different from musical harmony. For this reason, architects such as Perrault, who refused to use musical proportions in architecture, managed to produce remarkable buildings nevertheless. Architecture’s independence from other systems, and its ability to nonetheless respond to an underlying, organized system is underscored by Munro: We should not expect architecture, if it is such a system, to resemble language, a different system, in all respects. We should perhaps try to see architecture as making its own ‘statement’, in its own terms, a statement that we may only with difficulty translate into another semiological system, such as cookery, or clothing, or even language. (1987, 122)

Architecture as Language The similarities between language and architecture have been noted on numerous occasions. Even without delving into specific semiotic studies, or the semiotics of architecture, there is a conspicuous body of architecture theory that treats, or at least compares, architecture to language, from the Renaissance, to the general enquiries of Giovanni Klaus Koenig on architecture and communication (1974), the analyses of classical architecture (Onians 1988; Morolli 2013; Summerson 1980), modern (Jencks 1973; Zevi 1978) and post-modern architecture (Jencks 1991), to the relationship between written language and architectural design (Forty 2000; Markus and Cameron 2002), and the phenomenology of architecture (Norberg-Schulz 2000). Leon Battista Alberti, in his 1450 treatise De re aedificatoria, wrote one of the most renowned definitions of beauty, linking it generally to harmony of parts: In order to be as brief as possible, I shall define Beauty to be a harmony of all the parts, in whatsoever subject it appears, fitted together with such proportion and connection, that nothing could be added, diminished or altered, but for the worse.1 ([1550] 1726, 2:6)

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In this definition, Alberti employed the Latin word concinnitas – here translated as ‘harmony’ – to define the harmonic arrangement of parts. The term concinnitas was frequently used by Roman lawyer and philosopher Cicero – the likely source for Alberti ([1485] 1989, 235 see note 5) – to qualify a literary style (Cicero 1776). The first Italian translation of Alberti’s De re aedificatoria by Cosimo Bartoli (published in 1550) translates the Latin concinnitas with the Italian discorso, which was generally intended as discourse or discussion, the act of intellectual reasoning, yet it can also point to a written document (‘Discorso’ 1612). This intermingling of terminology related to language and architecture, even if not entirely deliberate, and without the assumption of equating the two, shows that there was a general inclination to find similarities between the two systems. These contentions found some opposition, for several reasons. Tomás Maldonado, in an article on Casabella, claimed that qualifying architecture as a language is merely figurative, and that architecture is not a language in its purest sense, as it lacks the kind of ‘articulated semiosis’ that characterizes natural and artificial languages (1977, 10). Moreover, he argued that the many definitions of ‘sign’ and ‘signal’ were lifted from the study of language that semioticians such as Peirce, Welby or Saussure were pursuing, and applied indiscriminately to architecture. Eco had already stated that in semiotic research, not all communicative phenomena can be explained with linguistic categories, and that, on the contrary, a semiotic approach to visual communication, including architecture, can demonstrate semiotics’ independence from linguistics ([1968] 2016, sec. B.1.I.1). Moreover, with regard to what can be considered a sign, Eco wagers that all visible phenomena that can be interpreted as indexes can be considered conventional signs, but only as long as there is a semiotic process of understanding and decoding of a sign. Maldonado aptly points out how not every signal is also a sign, such as electromagnetic or nervous impulses (1977, 10). Eco gives the example of sunlight: a bright light that makes one close one’s eyes is just a natural impulse, as there is no exchange of meaning, and, as Maldonado claims, it is just a signal rather than a sign. However, if the light is pink and from the east, the receiver of the signal, possessing the correct code, can ‘read’ the light as a sign saying that the sun is about to rise (Eco [1968] 2016, sec. B.1.I.3), thus adding non-intentional signs to the domain of semiotics, while excluding neurophysiological and genetic phenomena (1976, 21). Eco, in fact, accepts Morris’ 1938 definition of a sign, derived from Peirce’s, according to which:

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something is a sign only because it is interpreted as a sign of something by some interpreter… . Semiotics, then, is not concerned with the study of a particular kind of object, but with ordinary objects insofar (and only insofar) as they participate in semiosis. (1976, 16)

Hence, there can only be semiosis when there is a transmission of significance, in a way that depends on the codes utilized by the sender and the receiver. Eco claims that architecture can be semiotically understood as denotating a function. For example, a flight of stairs or a ramp denotates the possibility of ascending or descending by virtue of its own shape and how we understand the environment around us. Based on other external codes, be they linguistic, cultural or other, people can read the denotation of more complex architectural constructs (Figure 1). For instance, let us look at the case of an elevator: in order to know that the button opens the door, or that the number on the control pad corresponds to a particular floor, one needs to possess additional codes so as to decipher the links between the function of elevators and these signs (Eco 1997, 177). Munro objects that this understanding is not based on conventions, but

­ igure 1  The monumental staircase in Palazzo Barberini, Rome, designed by Francesco F Borromini in 1633 (left), and an emergency staircase in a high-rise condo (right) (photos by the author).

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rather on the intrinsic properties of the object, and how forms physically work, noting that we indeed recognize a stair regardless of codes and we are able to use it appropriately (1987, 120). British philosopher Roger Scruton makes a similar remark, arguing that ‘the relation of a building to a function is not causal but teleological: the function of a building is neither its cause nor its effect but its aim’ (2013, 153). In Eco’s argumentation, other than denoting its function, an architectural sign can also connote ‘a certain ideology of the function’. For example, a seat communicates the possibility of sitting on it, but a throne has a semiotic connotation that goes beyond the mere function of a seat (1997, 178–9). He considers that this ‘symbolic’ aspect of certain architectural constructs has a function in and of itself, so that he speaks of primary functions that are denotative and secondary functions that are connotative. The terms ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’, however, are not to be read in order of importance, but rather based on the fact that connotative functions ‘rest on the denotation of the primary function’ (1997, 179), to which Scruton rebuts that ‘[t]o denote a function is not the same as to possess a function – to denote a function is to articulate it as a “message”, to make it publicly accessible and publicly intelligible. Denotation, in other words, is a form of symbolic relation’ (2013, 152). At the same time, Scruton recognizes that architecture seems to display some sort of syntax, an organization that might resemble that of language, as ‘serious architecture has a tendency to govern itself by rules’ (2013, 148), and Munro affirms that the orderly aspect of architecture, in comparison to other arts ‘makes it such an inviting field to the semiologist in the first place’ (1987, 121). Discourse, signs, codes, functions, denotative and connotative, syntax, organization, rules, order: these terms invariably apply to language and architecture, revealing their potential semiotic ‘reading’.

Order in architecture and architectural orders One type of architecture where it is easier to see similarities with language, and thus analyse it through this lens, is classical architecture, especially with regard to the classical orders, which in fact is often taken as an example

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when such a comparison is made (Munro 1987, 122; Scruton 2013, 148). Classical architecture, from Greek temples to Baroque palaces to Neoclassical government buildings, but also Gothic cathedrals and, albeit ante litteram, Egyptian and even Chinese buildings, relied on a shared system for thousands of years. Every time we can discern a column, a capital, an entablature and a systematic arrangement of these components, it is an application of these construction systems. The classical theory of the architectural orders developed during the Renaissance, is a systematic, ‘grammatical’ (Scruton 2013, 148) approach to architecture, modelled on ancient Greco-Roman architecture. The architectural order is a plastic tri-dimensional composition, organized morphologically and proportionally controlled as well as structurally efficient (since it is based on the ancient constructive principle of post and lintel: a structural cell made of two vertical supports and one horizontal supported structure), which is moreover symbolically ‘eloquent’ regarding mythical-religious creeds, theoretical-scientific theories and poetic and literary metaphors; it is an aggregate of elementary components elaborated during several generations of classic Greek-Roman monuments, Renaissance classical buildings and beyond, always rigorously codified ‘in parallel’ in the architectural treatises.2 (Morolli 2013, 14)

These systems were codified in architectural treatises, such as Vitruvius’ De architectura (first century BCE), Leon Battista Alberti’s De re aedificatoria (1450) and Vignola’s Regola delli cinque ordini (1562), but ‘[b]efore they were commended as Classical and before they were defined with legal precision as orders, the columns, capitals, and mouldings which we know as Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian and Composite were a material means of expression for communities, groups and individuals’ (Onians 1988, 3). As Eco states, architecture denotes a function, and thus the structural and symbolic aspects are interrelated, as ‘the posts, pillars, and columns which have assured people in many cultures of their buildings’ structural stability have been just as critical in resolving other uncertainties and anxieties’ (Onians 1988, 3). Thus the classical order can be interpreted as a language system. Gabriele Morolli draws a link between the origin of phonetic alphabets in Phoenicia and the Peloponnese, and the origin of a ‘code’ in

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the art of building. Similarly to sounds that were fixed in ‘conventional symbols’ shared by numerous people, the symbolic mechanisms that ensure that buildings can stand and fulfil their functions were codified in the various components of the architectural orders. The orders are symbolically characterized by their components, from the capitals, representing a cup for libation in Tuscan and Doric capitals, to sacred cushions in the Ionic, and a funerary basket surrounded by acanthus leaves in the Corinthian, and finally a large vase surrounded by leaves and covered by a cup in the Composite. These five orders, Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian and Composite, were codified in a sort of ascending series, then anthropomorphized during the Renaissance: (1) the simple and rustic Tuscan, associated with manual labour; (2) the sturdy Doric linked to warriors and military men; (3) the elegant and balanced Ionic associated to a matron or intellectual; (4) the slender Corinthian, to a young maiden; and, finally, (5) the rich Composite, to a sovereign and royalty (Morolli 2013, 26). The comparison with language, in fact, was already made in Classical Greek and Roman times, and even more so during the Renaissance, when the mouldings, the most basic signs, would represent the vowels; and the elements, the consonants. These two would form the basis of the architectural language, and, when combined, would shape the ‘words’, that is, the portions that qualify where these aggregates of signs belong and their corresponding function. Combinations of portions would then give birth to capitals, shafts, and cornices called members and, finally, to the complete phrases of the main parts, that is, columns, entablatures and pedestals that, when combined, create the syntactically intelligible ‘phrase’ of the order. With this system, the various components can be arranged in more complex constructs that will result in buildings, and then squares, blocks and whole cities (2013, 22–3). The communicative potential of architecture was in fact a big part of its initial codification in architectural theory: what theorists proposed to patrons was that the power of buildings to affect those who saw and used them could be brought under their control and used directly for their benefit. They did this by first identifying the values with which the patrons wanted to associate themselves publicly and then demonstrating that architecture could be made to embody or express them. (Onians 1988, 6)

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I­n 1420s Florence, when the wind of the Renaissance was starting to blow, architect Filippo Brunelleschi, who thereafter built the famous dome of the Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, was tasked with the redesign of the ancient (fourth century CE) church of San Lorenzo. In his new design, as he had done shortly before in the Ospedale degli Innocenti (1419), he rejected the Gothic style that was used at the time and in which he had been trained, in favour of more Classical forms. Many authors started to praise his works as a revival of the antique, more specifically Roman architecture, especially his biographer Antonio Manetti (1976 [1490]) and art historian Giorgio Vasari (1997 [1568]). However, much of Brunelleschi’s inspiration also came from the local, and more recent, Tuscan Romanesque tradition. This pattern parallels the contemporary literary quarrel between Latin and volgare, where proponents of the ‘new’ Tuscan language would consider too much attachment to the old Latin detrimental, arguing that it would stifle Florentine creativity. John Onians brings proof of Brunelleschi’s belonging to the latter group (1988, 131), and we can indeed find traces of this in his architectural language, full of elements belonging to both the classical and Florentine medieval traditions. Peirce makes similar remarks regarding the development of logic and architecture: There is a synchronism between the different periods of medieval architecture, and the different periods of logic. The great dispute between the Nominalists and Realists took place while men were building the roundarched churches, and the elaboration finally attained corresponds to the intricate character of the opinions of the later disputants in that controversy. From that style of architecture we pass to the early pointed architecture with only plate-tracery. The simplicity of it is perfectly paralleled by the simplicity of the early logics of the thirteenth century. (1994, sec. CP 4.27)

Visual iconic signs were also commonly used in the ornamentation of architecture. Going back to the new church of San Lorenzo, the capitals and other elements that Brunelleschi employs show a heavy influence from the latemedieval capitals that can be found in Florence. The secondary connotative function of architecture can be clearly seen in San Lorenzo’s Corinthian order. The usual acanthus leaves are replaced by oak leaves, a hint to late-medieval

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Florentine capitals, but also a symbol of strength – the word vis in Latin means both oak and strength – two symbols of Saint Lawrence, who was martyred by being burnt alive on a gridiron, and to whom the church is dedicated; and of the temporal power of the rising Medici family who commissioned the church. The same meaning is reinforced in another part of the capitals, the volutes, which resemble ram horns, another symbol of strength (Morolli 1993, 84), which is also juxtaposed to the delicate Corinthian order. Similar episodes, using the same ‘language’ to express a regional or cultural identity, repeated themselves throughout history. In classical Greece, architectural orders were also used to identify a regional belonging, especially during and following the Persian and Peloponnesian wars. After the battle of Salamis of 480 BCE, the Athenians erected a stoa in Delphi in the Ionic style, whereas until then they had always resorted to the local Doric style, including in the preceding treasury built around thirty years prior. This came as a gesture of friendship and welcome to the Ionian Greeks in commemoration of the victory of their combined fleet against the Persians (Onians 1988, 15). Again, the importance of connotation in architecture can be seen in early Imperial Rome, when Vitruvius wrote his treatise and dedicated it to the first Roman emperor Augustus. Vitruvius codified a Tuscan order of columns, to add to the already existing three Greek orders. He devised the Tuscan order from the tuscanicae dispositiones, the ancient Etruscan, and thus Italic, way of designing temples, to demonstrate that in addition to the Greeks, whose culture was still very much influential in many fields, including architecture, the Romans as well had an individual architectural style. This ‘romanization’ was part of a larger plan of Augustus to counter the hegemony the Greek culture still had, even after being annexed, over the nascent Roman Empire. It also included literary genres such as poetry – Virgil, Horace and Ovid – that offered a Roman counter to the already well-established Greek tradition (Morolli 2013, 39–40). Similar episodes can also be seen in France, where the search for a French order started in the sixteenth century (Kruft 1994, 156). Ribart de Chamoust designed an Ordre François in 1776, claiming that as in nature we can find tree trunks in groups of three, so we can design an order composed of three columns with a common trilateral base, and also drawing parallels with the three graces and the three Gallic goddesses (1783, 8). As a symbol of the French nation, this order was to be reserved for buildings of particular

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importance and magnificence (1783, 49). Unlike the Tuscan order, which eventually entered into the ‘official’ series of orders, the Ordre François did not find a similar fortune, this instance nevertheless illustrates the importance that such architectural symbols had for millennia.

Eloquent Architecture The process of linking language and architecture has not been limited to classical works, for it was extended to modern ones as well. In the introduction to his pivotal text The Modern Language of Architecture, Bruno Zevi states that: in the course of centuries only one architectural language has been codified, that of classicism. None other has been processed and put into the systematic form required of an acknowledged language. All were considered exceptions to the rule, the classical rule, and not alternatives to it, with a life of their own. Even modern architecture, which emerged in reaction against neoclassicism, runs the risk of reverting to stale Beaux-Arts archetypes unless it is structured into a language. (1978, 3)

Scruton argues that there is a ‘recognizable grammar’ in modern architecture and that whenever architects want to imbue their buildings with significance, they have to either rely on or flout compositional rules (2013, 149). Drawing on Eco’s theory of denotation of functions and connotation of meaning in architecture, Pierre Pellegrino and Emmanuelle P. Jeanneret observe that: For modern architects, the machine presented ‘the only figure in keeping with the needs of the industrial society’ (Colquhoun 1981, 36), that is to say a model that reduces connotations to a mere metaphorical reproduction of a bi-univocal functioning thought in which the connotation of the first level of conception is to make believe that what determines needs […] is the only possible one having regard to a good relationship to the object coded for serial production. Modern architects thus reduced secondariness to a zero degree, they functionalized the connotation. Against this reduction, to give again meaning to their project, the postmodern architects implicitly reverse the diagram. (Pellegrino and Jeanneret 2009, 282)

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There is thus a semiotic component in both modern and post-modern architecture, even though it is expressed in different ways. An aspect that is often criticized in semiotic analyses of architecture is that of reducing them to a matter of styles, to wit, the codification of the classical language of architectural orders, or Gothic, or Modernist architecture. However, it can be argued that style itself is the semiotic expression of a culture through architectural forms, for, as we have seen before, semiotics is indeed the study of culture through signs. The very fact that we can tell one architectural style from another is a demonstration of this. Pointed spires identify a building as Gothic, while a curved roof may be read as a sign of Asian architecture. Even architectural styles whose systemic ‘language’ is difficult to interpret can still be distinguished from others built in different styles, as they will be composed of elements that will be read by the observer as pertaining to a certain style, location or time. The smooth curves of the Baku Opera House by Zaha Hadid are easy to differentiate, even without possessing a specific architectural code, from the nervous lines of the Royal Ontario Museum extension by Daniel Libeskind. All this is possible because we interpret the iconic signs of shapes, materials and volumes and give them meaning. Even without knowing the architects in question, we can discern the differences between the two buildings, not only in their shapes and materials, but also because they clearly connote different meanings. Architect Peter Eisenman, in a famous debate with Christopher Alexander held at the Graduate School of Design of Harvard University in 1982, on order and harmony in architecture, said: ‘I do not believe that the way to go, as you suggest, is to put up structures to make people feel comfortable, to preclude that anxiety’ (Eisenman and Alexander 1983, 68), discussing what architecture should communicate and how it should make people feel. Eco, in particular, brings forth architecture as a form of mass communication, whereby we can easily draw parallels between the points he makes and architecture in digital games: 1. ‘[a]rchitectural discourse generally aims at mass appeal’. As the majority of digital games aim to appeal to as wide a market as possible, their architectural design has to appeal to a wide audience as well. 2. ‘Architectural discourse is psychologically persuasive’ as ‘one is prompted to follow the “instructions” implicit in the architectural message’. This is even

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more evident in digital game architecture, as the level design must tell the player where to go and what to do. 3. ‘Architectural discourse is experienced inattentively’ unlike, for example, works of art, where we observe them with attention. In real life, you can just stroll in a building or study it attentively; the same principle applies to digital games: generally, architecture is, if not a backdrop, at least an element that the player does not focus on too much, as, for instance, an enemy on screen, or looking for traps. 4. ‘architecture fluctuates between being rather coercive, implying that you will live in such and such a way with it, and rather indifferent, letting you use it as you see fit’. As mentioned above in 2 and 3, this also applies to digital games: even within the same game, architecture can fluctuate between being a backdrop, and thus indifferent, for example during the movement between two points of interest in an open-world role-playing game (RPG), to a more coercive role, such as inside a dungeon or in a corridor in a first-person shooter (FPS). (Eco 1997, 187) This communicative aspect of architecture has of course been put to use numerous times, not only as concerns classical or religious buildings, but also in recent and contemporary history. Let us take for example banks, usually headquartered in the most noticeable buildings of every city. We can easily notice the difference in the architecture of the opulent neoclassical buildings of the nineteenth century in Toronto, such as the Bank of Montreal building designed by Frank Darling and Samuel George Curry in 1886, from that of the massive and solid Canadian Bank of Commerce tower erected in 1931 by York & Sawyer and Darling & Pearson, and the light and bright First Canadian Place, designed by B+H Architects in 1975, all within a few hundred meters from each other. These architectural changes are of course due to multiple reasons, which naturally include different space requirements and construction methods. However, there are programmatic changes to the aspect of these buildings, which in the end fulfil the same function, that are to be ascribed more to their communicative aspect and thus connotation: from the display of wealth of the neoclassical style in the Bank of Montreal (1886), where the abundance of decoration and ornament purposely reminded the clients that the bank was in good financial standing; to the more pragmatic solidity of the

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Canadian Bank of Commerce of the post-1929 Wall Street Crash, displaying an institution to be trusted and relied on; to the openness and clarity of the glass surfaces of the past – and current – century in the First Canadian Place, indicating a transparent and honest institution. This communicative aspect of corporate buildings has been used in many games, for example in cyberpunk RPG Deus Ex (Ion Storm, 2000) and its sequels, to flesh out the game world: The architecture of corporations today are [sic] ostentatious and deliberately non-threatening, the antithesis of brutalism’s stark honesty. In the world of Deus Ex this is reversed, the gold and glitter of Trump Tower has been abandoned, with corporations now ironically co-opting concrete in order to build their new-age monoliths. Their power is no longer hidden or obscured, but impenetrably front and center. (Wilson 2018)

Even the most asignifying buildings, such as the typical condo tower, communicate something to the viewer, despite the fact that, for the most part, they are not designed with any meaning in mind. They might not give the viewer any information on, for example, their location, or even their precise purpose, but the sight of a cluster of high glass and steel towers automatically communicates the message of a ‘modern and developed metropolis’. At the same time, vernacular architecture might transmit an easy-to-understand message related to its geographical location, given that we possess the necessary code to understand it: a rocky landscape with white plastered low buildings topped by blue domed roofs can easily be associated with Greek islands, while the very same landscape without any buildings would be much harder to identify for the casual onlooker. Hence the race for ‘iconic’ towers in modern cities, in order to differentiate themselves from the sea of samelooking urban conglomerates. In sum, architecture might not be deliberately signifying in origin, i.e. created as a sign, yet it can nevertheless be interpreted as a message. One could contend that architecture that is not designed with a message in mind by its creator is asignifying and thereby does not warrant a semiotic analysis. It would be akin to the example of the sunlight by Eco discussed before: the light itself that makes one close one’s eyes is hardly a sign, however a pink light in the east can be read as ‘dawn’ and thus can be interpreted as a sign. Architecture can

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be no different: a house might not say much except for ‘house’ but a house of a certain material, a certain colour or a certain shape, can communicate other information. The main discussion as regards real-world, built architecture can be summarized in two main questions: 1. If architecture possesses a code akin to language, can this code be investigated and understood as a common base for any architectural object? 2. Can architecture, in any circumstance that does not involve the direct will of communication on the part of the designer, be considered as a ‘carrier of meaning’, since it mainly satisfies a function? The second interrogation brings us to the main differences between real and virtual architecture that will be analysed in the following chapters. Virtual architecture is, by its very nature, always created for a reason that is directly related to players. All the architectural signs present in a digital game are iconic signs that make the game legible to players. For this reason, many architectural signs that might not be meaningful per se, or have not been decided as such by the designer, are systematically planned in digital architecture. Munro, for one, states that aesthetic enquiry is more appropriate to architecture, than a semiotic enquiry (1987, 124). However, if we look at virtual architecture, semiotics makes more sense, since everything is significantly more planned to produce meaning (D’Armenio 2014, 91). Even natural or accidental occurrences, that while meaningful are often unwanted or unplanned in the real world, such as deterioration or destruction, are a design choice in digital games. Moreover, even architectural signs that became conventional only a posteriori, such as skyscrapers, are also a design choice. We identify the cluster of towers as a city because we already possess the necessary code, and we have the idea of what a modern metropolis looks like, of which the glass and steel towers are a component. It is not that the towers themselves are an expression of the metropolis. The same skyscraper, isolated in a forest or in a desert, would hardly convey the same message. The fact that we identify that specific architectural construct with the idea of a city is a by-product of the fact that, for the most part, an agglomerate of high towers coincides with a major city. In digital games, the whole process of urbanization, city development and building permits is evidently absent. Accordingly, the semiotic process is

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more direct, and designers use signs we are already familiar with to convey a desired message, thus a cluster of towers will be placed to signify the ‘city’ as a willing communicative act, rather than a simple accidental sign. Hence, for the purpose of this study, Umberto Eco’s theory of denotation and connotation is more apt than in real-world architecture. The main issues that arose regarding this theory, which refers to the idea that architectural objects function in reason of their inherent shapes, thus for physical reasons rather than communicative ones, are basically non-existent in digital games. Obviously, as will be analysed in subsequent chapters, there are technical constraints in digital games as well. However, the necessity of a specific architectural design as it exists in the real world is not the same. For this reason, we can safely assume that every architectural object present in a digital game has been designed and placed in order to communicate with the player, in terms of both its ludological and narrative functions within the game.

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The Semiotics of Digital Games Spaces

Digital games and signs Digital games can easily be viewed as a system of signs (Nitsche 2008, 3) or, in the words of David Myers, as ‘semiotic machines’ (2010, 5). When we play a game, the main activity is interpreting and acting upon a series of signs displayed on a monitor. This is more evident in ‘primitive’ games, such as old shooters like Space Invaders (Taito 1978), or puzzle games such as Tetris (Pajitnov 1984), where the images displayed on screen are more akin to symbols that need to be interpreted by the player in order to play (Figure 2). The simple geometric forms in Space Invaders represent ships and aliens, and while resembling in shape what they are intended to depict, they require a certain interpretation from the player to really understand what is what. As digital game development progressed, its representation of space became more realistic (Konzack 2006; Pearce 1997), and the symbols on screen are now more akin to proper iconic signs, i.e. a ‘sign in which the signifier has a direct (nonarbitrary), simulative connection to its signified or referent’ (Danesi 2004, 338). Wallis explains iconic signs most aptly in his work on visual arts and signs: ‘All likeness in the broadest sense – sculptural, pictorial, graphic, photographic, or cinematographic – are iconic signs’ (1975, 4). It is not hard to add digital games to the list. Similarly, Caillois brings forth the mimicry category in games, whereby the act of playing in itself imitates reallife activities ([1958] 2001, 19). A house in the game thus resembles a real house, with proper colour, texture, shapes and more or less details. Thus it is not necessary to interpret the symbols on screen to understand their meaning, as they are very close to their real counterpart. At the same time, the presence of symbols did not disappear, as there are still interfaces in games that use

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Figure 2  An image from the first arcade version of Space Invaders © Taito 1978.

a variety of symbology to communicate with players, from health bars to ammunition counters, to maps and direction indicators. However, these signs are for the most part present to help players understand the environment and the aim of the game. They constitute an additional layer of information over the preponderant iconic signs that form the main bulk of the visual aspect of games. This assumption is true for most games, but there are of course exceptions. For example, a grand strategy game such as Europa Universalis IV (Paradox Development Studio 2013) is played and interacted with on a map, and all the gameplay takes place through symbols and texts, rather than iconic

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signs. However, for the most part, players are navigating a space: through the eyes of human characters in a first-person-shooter (FPS) such as Call of Duty: WWII (Sledgehammer Games 2017); from a virtual camera hovering behind the character’s shoulders in a third-person role-playing game (RPG) such as The Witcher 3 (CD Projekt RED 2015); or from a top-down view of a strategic game such as StarCraft (Blizzard 1998). The main focus is the iconic representation of the game environment, be it from different perspectives, styles and modalities. Even exclusively two-dimensional games follow, for the most part, the same pattern. They do not necessarily allow players to freely explore the environment nor strive to be visually realistic, but they nevertheless represent objects and forms in a way that is understandable and recognizable, such as the action-platformer Guacamelee! (DrinkBox Studios 2013), which allows players to explore a fantastical Mexican-inspired world, and puzzle game Gorogoa (J. Roberts 2013) in which players manipulate architectural elements such as 2D images of windows and stairs in order to solve the game’s puzzles. Arguably, many digital games are composed of iconic signs that represent real objects, inasmuch as a painting or a photograph can represent them. Undeniably, in many games much effort and artistry are used to make the objects as visually realistic as possible. For instance, the village of Rattay in Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Warhorse Studios 2018) is designed to be an iconic sign of how that very village appeared in early fifteenth-century Bohemia (Figure 3). This approach goes together with the focus of the game: an RPG that aims to be

Figure  3 The Upper Castle of Rattay in Kingdom Come: Deliverance © Warhorse Studios 2018.

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as historically accurate as possible will offer a visual component that will reflect that goal. However, considering the visual aspect of digital games exclusively as a series of iconic signs would be limiting. Naturally, the interactive aspect is paramount in digital games, and as such, all the visual cues – the signs – are there not just to represent their real-life counterparts, but also to be interacted with and aid as well as guide the player in the game. Every architectural object in a game can thus be seen semiotically on multiple levels: first, it is an iconic sign of a real architectural object, i.e. the 3D model of a house is there to represent a house. Secondly, it is a denotative sign of the game’s function; for example, the aforementioned house indicates that it is a building we can interact with, or if closed, an insurmountable obstacle. Finally, it can bear a secondary connotative function that develops the narrative of the game and guides players’ actions, so a house located in the middle of the desert has a different potential connotation than a house located in a city, and a house in ruins can convey a different meaning than an intact one. If players encounter an isolated house when exploring the game environment in an RPG like The Witcher 3 (CD Projekt RED 2015), it would be interpreted as a possible interest point, where to find a new quest, loot or interact with a new character. Conversely, encountering the same isolated house in an FPS would make players wary: enemies can be barricaded inside, and the fact that it is isolated likely means a lack of defensive cover. In sum, the same architectural object ‘house’ can convey different meanings, based on a series of parameters, such as its location, or the genre of the game. Similarly to the semiotic investigation of real architecture, we should decide beforehand where to begin the enquiry. Every architectural structure is, first and foremost, a physical construct, before being a medium bearer of any meaning. When we see a wall, or a window, what we perceive is a series of materials sculpted and assembled in a certain way. Obviously, this recursive perception analysis can keep receding: what we see is not a wall, but rather a series of bricks held together by mortar; the bricks we perceive visually are actually light bouncing back on our retinas, and finally the light is just the electrical stimuli going from our optic nerves to our brain. For the scope of this analysis, we will thus examine the architectural elements as they are already part of the semiosphere, that is, as something that we interpret as an architectural object. This constitutes the difference between a signal and a

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sign, as outlined by Eco, where the former is ‘a stimulus that does not mean anything but causes or elicits something’ (1976, 48), for example a bright light that makes one squint one’s eyes. There is a signal and there is a reaction, but there is no real exchange of meaning in the process. However, when the signal expresses information on an expression plane that converges with a content plane, thus towards a recipient that is able to decode the information beyond a physical stimulus, we have a sign (1976, 48). Going back to architecture, since it is by itself a ‘made object’, it can almost always be considered a sign. A flight of stairs, even in its simplest form, will always be interpreted as a sign that we can ascend or descend: An iconic sign in a work of art is never a complete and accurate reproduction of a real object, but always a certain transformation of it: selection, simplification, translation. The degree of this transformation and, by the same token, the degree of resemblance of an iconic sign to its representatum, is moreover very different in various works of art. For the chief aim of iconic signs in works of art is not to provide information about their representata, but to evoke in the receiver definite emotions by means of appropriate images and notions and judgments connected with them, and these emotions may be evoked both by an approximation to the reality and by a deliberate transformation of it in a work of art. (Wallis 1975, 12)

Wallis then compares the vedute of Guardi and Bellotto, explaining that the former are considered more outstanding works, while not depicting the represented object as faithfully as those from Bellotto. They thus have different informative and artistic values. Digital games such as Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009), for example, represent a real, existing location; we can thus assume that the virtual location is an iconic sign of the real one. However, as we will see, the representation is not perfectly accurate, and the reasons are not to be searched exclusively in the technical limitation of the medium, but rather in its nature as a game. As much as a painting from Guardi allows for some artistic liberties in order to create a masterful veduta, the cities of Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) integrate artistic liberties in order to have an entertaining game, and also to convey to the players perspectives that would not be appropriate in a historically correct reconstruction.

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­Semiotics of space in games In the opinion of Enzo D’Armenio, movement and space are the unique and characterizing elements of digital games (2014, 12). In fact, he proposes to replace the term ‘interactivity’ with ‘environmental’ or ‘spatial manipulation’. This concept arises from the fact that interaction in digital games always stems from two operations: (1) a manipulation, which consists in having a prosthesis do something, and (2) the performance, which happens in space (2014, 43). Michael Nitsche makes a similar remark, stating that you can interact with virtual space in two ways: moving through it and manipulating elements in it (2008, 33). D’Armenio affirms that semiotics tends to treat movement as indirect: a sequence of visual cues, whereas, in digital games the semiotic analysis should start from the movement and only then segment it into visual cues (2014, 92). The semiotic aspect of digital games is thus linked firstly to the signs displayed and secondly to how these signs are presented in a sequence and how players move through them. He points out that basing digital game analysis on movement has three main advantages: (1) the other components of the game are influenced by movement, but are no less important; (2) it allows varying levels of abstraction in the analysis of the game; and (3) acknowledging that interaction is formally part of the discourse, based on movement, solves the old opposition between narratology and ludology: the kinetic component can be part of the semiotic narrative of the game as much as any other component, while at the same time differentiating digital games from other media. D’Armenio calls ‘spatial design’ (design spaziale) the creation of a ‘route’ (percorso) that allows for specific visuals. Through spatial design, it is possible to establish a narration, tell a story and create ‘rhythmic sequences thanks to the arrangement of specific aesthetic impressions’1 (2014, 92), as well as particular gameplay situations. He thus considers movement as antecedent to every other discursive component, and labels this phenomenon ‘discovery effect’ (effetto di scoperta), i.e. when the plot is advanced through the exploration of spaces and movement and the clues appear apparently by chance as something the player discovers (2014, 211). This is similar to the ‘environmental storytelling’ that Henry Jenkins describes, whereby ‘[t]he organization of the plot becomes a matter of designing the geography of imaginary worlds, so that obstacles thwart and affordances facilitate the protagonist’s forward movement towards resolution’ (2004, 124).

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The semiotic discourse of digital games is thus a sequence of signs that create their meaning via the player’s movement through space, an aspect already brought forward by Murray ([1997] 2016) and Aarseth (2001). Often, in fact, in the initial sequence of many first-person games, the player is firstly instructed on how to look and move around, evidence that the interaction with space is the basis of many games. Before learning that we need to shoot enemies in an FPS, or how to cast spells in a fantasy RPG, it is necessary to learn to make sense of the environment, move through it and interpret it. This makes games’ semiotic discourse similar to that of architecture, which develops through a sequence of spaces explored by users, revealing how these spaces are signs that indicate different activities and directions. However, just as architecture can be communicative without the viewer necessarily stepping inside the building and exploring the space, digital games are composed of non-interactive or motionless parts which can be equally enjoyed by players and significant for the whole game.

Anticipatory Play In order to shed light on how games that consist of substantial parts without direct interaction or movement, such as turn-based games like chess, are enjoyed, Brian Upton puts forward the concept of ‘anticipatory play’. The concept applies to real-time games as well, and refers to the notion that in digital and non-digital games, the anticipation, the expectations of the events and the actions before they unfold are as important as the interaction itself: Anticipatory play gives us a model for talking about the non-interactive beats of a game such as Rainbow Six – those moments when the player stops, looks, and thinks about what he is doing. Instead of defining a play experience entirely by what the player is allowed to do, anticipatory play allows us to focus instead on what opportunities any play experience provides for elaborated analysis, contemplation, and reflection. (2015, 76)

Upton applies the concept to any kind of play activity, such as quick-time events, which are based entirely on anticipatory play, and the grinding activities

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of some games, that, despite being tedious in themselves, base their appeal on the anticipation of the reward. However, as intimated by Upton, a large part of anticipatory play is expressed through level design and the architecture of the game: For example, if you are playing a shooter, a blank corridor is less exciting than a corridor with an open door on one side, even if there are no enemies beyond the door. The anticipatory chain triggered by the open door (‘Is there an ambush ahead? I have to move carefully. I can’t see anything. Can I peek around the corner?’) is an interesting experience even though the play is taking place entirely inside your head. (2015, 78)

The concept of ‘anticipatory play’ is thus an excellent instrument to analyse the architecture of digital games, as the design of virtual architecture does indeed accommodate anticipatory play as one of its main functions, and not exclusively gameplay. Even the ‘narrative’ aspect of architectural design can be considered as anticipatory play, as it can communicate not only some background information on the story or settings, but also foretell the unfolding of upcoming events. For example, the famous openings of both The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (Bethesda Game Studios 2006) and Fallout 3 (Bethesda Game Studios 2008) start in an enclosed space: an underground prison in the former, and a nuclear bunker in the latter. After the claustrophobic initial session, the vast game world opens in front of the player’s eyes, clearly anticipating the numerous possibilities of exploratory gameplay: a large city, in the case of Oblivion, or a settlement in the distance for Fallout 3. These architectural cues also give indications of where to go next and what to expect, as they are both signs of human presence and thus of possibilities to find characters and quests to progress in the game.

­The ludic sign If we consider architecture in digital games as affording anticipatory play, we can understand it as a system of signs that communicates to the player, and thus look at it through a semiotic lens. As Upton aptly writes: ‘It is important to accommodate semiotics within our play-based critical framework because

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so much of play involves the exchange of symbols between players’ (2015, 157). For his part, Aarseth states that the representation of space in computer games is ‘symbolic and rule-based’ (2001, 163) rather than uniquely spatial. Admittedly, many of these signs are embedded in other forms of communication within the game, such as the interface, dialogues and texts. However, it is evident that the architectural design does play a role in the communicative as well as aesthetic aspects of the game. For Upton, the aesthetic experience of digital games is thus a semiotic process, but it differs from the traditional semiotic analysis of texts, for it does not have a direct correspondence between two or more signs, as in the semiotic theories of, say, Saussure and Peirce, but rather a ‘convoluted and indirect’ path established by the designer that leads to the intended meaning, where the navigation of this indirect and convoluted path is the enjoyment in itself, as much as we enjoy reading a book or listening to a symphony not just in order to arrive to its conclusion or meaning, but rather to enjoy the journey itself (Upton 2015, 170). This model of semiosis is what Upton calls the ludic sign, where ‘there is no fixed relationship between signifiers and signified’ (2015, 167). The meaning of architectural identity can be understood as a ludic sign, where ‘it’s merely a tool for conceptualizing a transient causal linkage between pattern and constraint during a communicative event’ (2015, 167). As Upton explains ‘[i]f words sometimes appear to mean specific things, it’s only because we often find ourselves in situations in which the reciprocal understanding of speaker and listener produces the desired evoked constraints’ (2015, 167). The same can be said for architecture, virtual or real, whereby we interpret its signs based on common references: a rectangular object of a different material in a wall will likely be interpreted by any human being as a door, and four walls holding a roof will indicate the possibility of shelter. The commonality of human biology and our lived environment, governed by the same laws of physics, induce us to interpret similar constructs in similar ways. The concepts of anticipatory play and ludic sign can finally be linked to Eco’s theory of denotation and connotation in architecture. Architecture can denote a primary function: the architectural object possesses a function that by virtue of its own spatial characteristics is expressed to the viewer. Architecture can also connote a symbolic secondary function that rests on the primary denotative function, but that still serves a purpose. In digital games, every

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architectural object can be seen semiotically: it has been placed in a specific location and designed in a specific manner by the developers for reasons of either game design or narration. We thus first have a denotative function, like the one in real architecture, where the object fulfils a ludic function, such as forcing players towards a specific path, or blocking another, or allowing specific kinds of gameplay, such as stealth or action. Some architectural objects may share the same function between real and digital architecture: a house will probably not be used to be inhabited in a game, but a wall that is used to prevent the access to an area, can very well satisfy the same function in a game. Gaining access to walled cities is a rather common staple of fantasy RPGs, such as the city of Vizima in The Witcher (CD Projekt RED 2007) and the Sázava Monastery in Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Warhorse Studios 2018). The terms invisible walls or invisible barriers can also often be read, referring to when players cannot access certain locations of the game, or cannot proceed further, despite the lack of visible barriers indicating that impossibility. The terms carry negative implications, highlighting how the lack of visual, communicative feedback that determines players’ movement is generally frowned upon. There are of course many and varied architectural signs that can function in different ways depending on the game: the aforementioned walls are insurmountable obstacles in The Witcher and Kingdom Come, whereas they are climbable surfaces in games such as Assassin’s Creed. In terms of primary function, they thus differ from their real-life counterpart, as they are used as a path, rather than a barrier. The secondary connotative function is the one that usually affords anticipatory play, and allows for the narrative aspect of the game’s architecture. As much as the secondary connotative function of real architecture rests on the first denotative one, virtual architecture’s secondary function of anticipatory play rests on its first ludic function. It might be true that for some players replacing Lara Croft, the famous athletic heroine protagonist of the Tomb Raider series (Core Design et al. 1996–2018), with anything else, even a grey box, would have no effect on the overall enjoyment of the game (Aarseth 2004). It is indeed true that the physical movements players have to make, the difficulties they have to overcome, as well as the game mechanics do not change with substituting characters and environments; a box or a car would behave the same way in a racing game if given the same characteristics. However, it can

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be argued that the enjoyment of games does change based on their narrative and visual representation. Moreover, research – and arguably the success of Lara Croft – indicates that the reasons why players are interested in games are not limited to the enjoyment of the mechanical gameplay. In fact, as already mentioned in the introduction, several studies point to various modes of enjoyment of games, starting with the taxonomy of players by Caillois (1958) to the neurobiologically based categories of Chris Bateman (2014; 2015) and Fortes Tondello et al. (2018), where players can look from socialization to immersion in games, rather than limit themselves to overcoming difficult tasks and achieving victory. This is an important point of our argument, as it demonstrates that there is an interest in the ulterior communicative aspects of digital games, and not solely in the barebone ludic components. Players can be invested in the environment, and interested in how it is shaped and structured, rather than understanding it solely as a background that is functional to the execution of gameplay. As previously mentioned, Grant Tavinor affirms that digital games ‘employ much of the same aesthetic vocabulary’ (2009, 180) as other artworks, and the same applies to players, who share similar aesthetic interests. The secondary connotative function of virtual architecture is thus relevant, for players look for the communicative aspect of game environments as part of their enjoyment of digital games. D’Armenio analyses the characters of Ryu and Blanka from Super Street Fighter IV (Capcom 2010), explaining that by solely looking at their movements and appearance, one can infer much of their stories and play styles, and how very different it would be to have anonymous characters in a fighting game (2014, 66–70). In a more architectural example, a gigantic closed gate in the FPS Doom (id Software 2016) will communicate a different function from a normal sized door: a much bigger enemy is probably behind; a stronger and more secure door was probably built to hold in a dangerous foe. Another example would be air vents, a rather mundane technical prop that is usually given little architectural consideration, but that can take various meanings based on the game. Large enough air vents can be hidden passages in Deus Ex (Ion Storm 2000) or Metal Gear Solid (Konami Computer Entertainment Japan 1998–2015), but they can also be dangerous outlets for the alien in Alien: Isolation (Creative Assembly 2014). Players will thus look at the vents differently based on the game, plan alternative strategies, and, generally, the same object will lead to different

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anticipatory play based on the context: opportunity in the cases of Deux Ex and Metal Gear Solid, and caution in the case of Alien: Isolation. All these ‘secondary’ connotative signs produce anticipatory play and enable players to be immersed and enjoy the game.

Semiotics of architecture and digital games The semiotics of architecture and the semiotics of digital games can thus coincide in several aspects. It has already been established that, based on Upton’s theory of the ‘ludic sign’, the experience of digital game spaces is akin to that of architecture, as they are both an exchange of signs with users. It has also been noted that real architecture, based on Eco’s theory, has a functional, denotative first function, i.e. the physical function of the architectural object in virtue of its shape and materiality. This first function is paralleled in digital games, and, although it might differ from its real counterpart, it does have a functional raison d’être linked to gameplay. The functional aspect of architecture, be it real or digital, thus equally exists and is a product of the same requirement: to answer a need. The secondary connotative function of architecture, the one that denotes the meaning and communicative aspect of the architectural object is equally – even more so – present in digital games architecture. The connotative function, which can be absent or incidental in real architecture, is rarely so in digital games, as every architectural object has been created and placed solely and specifically for the game. This is the function that creates ‘anticipatory play’ and that guides and enhances players’ experiences, as we will demonstrate with the case studies in the following chapters.

­Case Studies The case studies were selected so that the exposed theory can serve as a paradigm that is applicable to the vast majority of digital games. It goes without saying that there are always exceptions, and in the varied panorama of digital games, it is often easier to find hybrids than clear-cut cases, yet the underlying

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subdivision applies to many genres and styles. While this selection does not aim to create clear-cut subdivisions that need to respond to precise requirements in order to be categorized, it does indeed allow for an exploration of how their virtual architecture was developed, what it was inspired from and what it aims to convey. As the analysis is on architecture, the selection should be genreagnostic, that is, independent from the type of game. The three categories are: (1) Reconstructive, (2) Fantastic and (3) Visionary virtual architecture. Reconstructive virtual architecture aims to recreate, with varying degrees of accuracy, existing locales, be they from the present or the past. The reconstruction aims to immerse players in a simulated environment that is close to reality, or that at least gives the player the impression to be in a certain historical and geographical existing location. Games pertaining to this category are the likes of Shenmue (Sega AM2 1999), set in a specific reallife location and time, the Yokosuka of winter 1986, or The Town of Light (LKA 2016), set in the Volterra Psychiatric Hospital, and Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Warhorse Studios 2018) set in early fifteenth-century Bohemia. Digital games set in fictionalized environments, that are clearly inspired from and simulate existing places pertain to this category as well, as they display landmarks and architectural features that clearly reproduce and communicate the design of existing places, as well as the settings of the games themselves. This is especially relevant since most reconstructions, no matter how accurate, are the fruit of interpretation and often do not reflect reality to its fullest. This is the case in games such as Watch Dogs (Ubisoft 2014b), set in a fictionalized contemporary Chicago or the famous Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar North 2013) set in Los Santos, a city heavily based on Los Angeles. The game chosen in this book to represent reconstructive virtual architecture is Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) set in Renaissance Italy. The Assassin’s Creed series made of its reconstruction of historical environments its trademark and as such was almost the obvious choice. Moreover, since the historical setting is tightly entwined with the game, it is not only an interesting case study of the representation of historical architecture, but also of virtual architecture per se. Fantastic virtual architecture is the category that arguably comprises most digital games. Their architecture is designed to appear, if not realistic at least plausible, and to somewhat bear resemblance to real-world architecture. It includes fantasy games, such as most role-playing games which take

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inspiration from Western medieval architecture like the Dragon Age series (BioWare 2009–14); and science-fiction games such as the Mass Effect series (BioWare 2007–21), which rely on our present architecture to imagine its future development. To this category pertain dystopian and post-apocalyptic digital games as well, for while they are often set in existing locations – such as the post-atomic Washington of Fallout 3 (Bethesda Game Studios 2008), or the cyberpunk Prague of Deux Ex Mankind Divided (Eidos Montreal 2016) – the differences are usually substantial enough for them to differ from an appropriate reconstruction. Moreover, the intention is to make it evident to players that they are in a place that seems different from its current, real counterpart. Final Fantasy XV (Square Enix 2016) is the game that will be analysed in this section. As its name implies, it is set in a fantastic world, but presents several characteristics that set it apart from most similar games. Firstly, Final Fantasy XV is a Japanese role-playing game, and as such it displays peculiar aesthetic characteristics that distinguish it from its Western counterparts. Moreover, Final Fantasy XV further differentiates itself from the other games in its own series by its artistic direction and the depiction of a fantasy world, opting for a unique ‘realistic’ approach that is reflected mainly in its architectural design. Finally, visionary virtual architecture comprises games that represent an architecture that, while not completely abstract – as in a puzzle such as Tetris (Pajitnov 1984) – is meant to be perceived as completely ‘alien’ and ‘impossible’, without much or any resemblance to existing architecture. Games pertaining to this category are puzzle games such as Kairo (Locked Door Puzzle 2013) as well as first-person exploration games such as Antichamber (Bruce 2013), 0°N 0°W (Colorfiction 2018) and Manifold Garden (William Chyr Studio 2019). While still displaying an architectural design grounded on existing forms, in order to be recognized as such, the architecture is however bent and transformed so that players read them as distant from normal architectural conventions as well as the laws of physics. This style, so far removed from reality, finds most of its exponents in smaller independent games, to which our case study, NaissanceE (Limasse Five 2014), pertains. Unlike the two other case studies, NaissanceE is a game developed with a whole different scope and set of expectations, offering a distinctive experience, earning it the status of a cult game among virtual architecture enthusiasts, thus warranting its choice as a case study.

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Assassin’s Creed II

Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed Series As far as historical three-dimensional reconstructions go, picking an Assassin’s Creed game was an obvious choice. Despite the numerous fantasy games that are inspired by real architecture, digital games that are accurate or pseudoaccurate historical reconstructions are rather few. In the panorama of strategy games, historical reconstructions are a more common occurrence, for example in the famous real-time strategy Total War series (Creative Assembly 2000–22), set in various historical periods, from ancient Rome to Three-Kingdoms China, or the grand-strategy games developed by Paradox Studios such as Crusader Kings (Paradox Development Studio 2004–12) set in the medieval period, and Europa Universalis (Paradox Development Studio 2000–13) set right afterwards until the nineteenth century. It goes without saying that in these types of games, architecture plays a minor role, not so much because it is not considered – cities, buildings and fortifications constitute an important feature – but rather because of how players experience it: either as an abstract representation on a map, or usually seen from far away, with limited interaction. Games whose perspective allows for a closer relationship with the environment, such as role-playing games (RPG), first-person shooters (FPS) and action games, have surprisingly shunned historical settings, if we exclude the evergreen Second World War, a standard background of many FPS. Even RPG, where the faux medieval setting is so common, rarely attempt to recreate actual locations and events, such as the recent Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Warhorse Studios 2018), which in fact made the realism of the reconstruction one of its main gameplay and selling points.

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In contrast, Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed series has, since its very inception, been based on historical reconstructions. The frame story of the games, which is common to all of them, bears on the struggle, since ancient times, between two secret societies – the Templars and the titular Assassins – for the possession of powerful artefacts called the Fruits of Eden, which are capable of controlling the flow of history. In present times, the company Abstergo, a front for the Templars, develops a technology called Animus that enables people to revive the memories of their ancestors. This machine allows them to determine where the Fruits of Eden are by recalling the memories of those who interacted with these artefacts and thus to discover their location. This framework allows for the developers to freely set the various episodes of the series in different historical epochs without changing or disturbing the main plot. Players thus alternate between usually short parts set in the present, and the core of the game where they impersonate the ancestor of the protagonist, set in the past. In the first three games, the present-time protagonist is Desmond Miles, whose ancestors include Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad from the twelfth century, protagonist of the first Assassin’s Creed (Ubisoft 2007); Ezio Auditore, protagonist of Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) set in fifteenth-century Italy; and Ratonhnhaké꞉ton of Assassin’s Creed III (Ubisoft 2012), set at the time of the American Revolution. The Assassin’s Creeds are third-person action adventure games, where players can freely explore the environment by running, climbing, swimming, interacting with other characters and obviously, fighting. Since the player is an Assassin, the main missions usually involve the assassination of a target, whereas the many secondary missions vary from rooftop running competitions to more platform-oriented tomb raiding. The games have been set in the most disparate locations, from Renaissance Italy (Assassin’s Creed II) to Revolutionary Paris (Assassin’s Creed Unity, Ubisoft 2014a), to Ptolemaic Egypt (Assassin’s Creed Origins, Ubisoft 2017), each time maintaining the same frame story of the ongoing conflict between Assassins and Templars, changing the ancestors whose memories are revived through the Animus and advancing the frame story in the present with new characters and developments. At the time of its release in 2007, the first Assassin’s Creed received a relatively tepid critical response, with reviews criticizing the repetitiveness of the gameplay. However, its graphics, architectural reconstructions and the size and liveliness of its cities, were praised by reviewers and players alike

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(Bramwell 2007; Goldstein 2007). Indeed, it presented the most impressive reconstruction of a city in any digital game to date, with dozens of characters on screen and a high level of detail despite its extension, especially compared to earlier games that also featured large environments and a high number of characters on screen such as the open world RPG The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (Bethesda Game Studios 2006) or the action game Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (Rockstar North 2004). Ubisoft, in order to create the large environments and crowds for Assassin’s Creed, specifically developed an in-house game engine that powers the game, called Anvil, that in its various upgrades – the Scimitar Engine until 2009, and now redubbed AnvilNext 2.0 for the current generation of hardware – has moved all the Assassin’s Creeds, as well as other Ubisoft games, until today. The real success for the Assassin’s Creed series arrived with the second entry, released two years after the first one, that perfected the framework established in the first episode, but offered a more varied gameplay and scenarios (Clayman 2010; Fucito and Giannotta 2010; VanOrd 2010). Assassin’s Creed II was such a success, also thanks to the charisma of its protagonist, Ezio Auditore – who after ten years is still considered the most beloved character in the series (Kelly 2018) – that it spurred two sequels set in the same time period and with the same character: Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood (Ubisoft 2010) and Assassin’s Creed Revelations (Ubisoft 2011), that completed the tale of Ezio Auditore through Italy and the Ottoman Empire. At the time of writing, the series of Assassin’s Creed has become one of the most successful in the history of digital games, with more than 140 million copies sold across more than a dozen games (Ubisoft 2019) and spurring a series of related media, from books to comics and films. In Assassin’s Creed II players can freely explore the cities and climb every building, and they can also ride a horse in the countryside that connects the various cities in the game. Set in Renaissance Italy, in the period between 1476 and 1499, the game allows players to explore the cities of Florence, San Gimignano, Monteriggioni, Venice, Forlì and the countryside of Tuscany. The protagonist of the game is Ezio Auditore da Firenze, a Florentine whose family is wrongfully accused and put to death. This will set Ezio on a course of revenge that will span several cities in Italy and will see the player participate in historical events such as the Pazzi conspiracy and the siege of Forlì – albeit this one placed eleven years prior to the real fact – as well as meet historical

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characters such as Lorenzo de’ Medici and Leonardo da Vinci. In fact, historical characters and events are present in the game and intertwined with the story, such as the aforementioned Leonardo da Vinci, whose function in the game is akin to Ian Fleming’s character Q from the James Bond series, providing high-tech gadgets to players, or Francesco de’ Pazzi, one of the main conspirators and antagonists in the game, and historically a real rival of Ezio’s family allies, the Medici, and protagonist of the events that led to the bloody Pazzi conspiracy. The main templar antagonist, Rodrigo Borgia, is another real historical character, who became Pope under the name Alexander VI and who really waged war and eventually imprisoned Caterina Sforza, another important character in the game. Obviously, the game mixes historical events with fiction. The Auditore family itself never existed and as we will see, the historical reconstruction of the architecture is not accurate, since it needs to serve its purpose in the game. However, since in the story players are reliving the memories of an ancestor, large deviations from historical events are not permitted, an escamotage that helps to maintain a linear narrative without having players feel too constrained. It is possible to roam freely, but it is impossible, for example, to kill Lorenzo de’ Medici, or save Savonarola from the stake, since these events never took place. In case players stray too far from the existing memory, the Animus desynchronizes, the equivalent of the old game over. This happens in the eventuality that the character dies prematurely, or if he starts killing civilians indiscriminately since that is a possibility that does not correspond to the memory.

A room with a view Florence has been rendered in maps and vedute for a long time, and Assassin’s Creed joins a longstanding tradition. The oldest surviving representation of the city is the Civitas Florentie at the feet of the fresco of the Madonna della Misericordia (1352) in the Loggia del Bigallo by the school of Bernardo Daddi, where we can see a walled city filled with towers and a few recognizable monuments, mainly the Baptistery, the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore with its half-demolished façade and incomplete bell tower, San Pier Maggiore’s bell tower, destroyed in 1784, and the wooden roof structure of the then

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in construction Basilica of Santa Croce. Despite its lack of accuracy, the fresco can give us an idea of the architectural features of the city in the midfourteenth century (Mori and Boffito 1926, 7). Most importantly, the view gives us an idea of how the urban space was conceived in the High Middle Ages – as a homogeneous entity rather than separate architectural structures. In the chapter house, now known as the Spanish Chapel, in the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, Andrea di Bonaiuto painted a cycle of frescoes between 1365 and 1368 celebrating the Dominican order, to which the church belongs. In the Via Veritatis (1365) he places the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore as a centrepiece of the complex allegorical iconography that shows the triumph of the Dominican order against heresy. The detailed rendition of the cathedral is surprisingly complete with a hemispherical dome which, at the time of Bonaiuto, was still an unsolved architectural problem. Indeed, the dome will not be built until almost a century later by Brunelleschi, and in a different shape, making it technically a vault rather than a dome. The symbolic aspect of the city was of the utmost importance, as the ideals of order and regularity that prevailed in Florence since the end of the thirteenth century were confirmed in the descriptions of the city we can read in the writings of the time. The Nuova Cronica of Giovanni Villani, a Florentine banker who penned it in 1324, describes Florence in terms of order and hierarchy, as a wall encircled city with two main roads that cross it and meet in the centre. This centre is identified with the Palazzo dell’Arte della Lana, the guildhall of the wool guild, at the time the major corporation of the city. Similar descriptions can be found later on as well. Leonardo Bruni, in his Laudatio Florentinae Urbis, published in 1403–4, describes Florence and its countryside as composed of four concentric circles, with the city at the centre (Fanelli 2002, 53–4). Unlike Villani who was a businessman, Bruni, as a statesman, places the Palazzo della Signoria – today known as Palazzo Vecchio – seat of the government, at the heart of the city (Friedman 1974, 232). The change in culture in fifteenth-century Florence – the time period when Assassin’s Creed II takes place – is also noticeable in how the city was represented at the time: from the cityscape perspectives in the paintings of artists such as Masaccio, Botticelli and Perugino to the depiction of partial views of Florence as a background in works such as Ghirlandaio’s frescoes, The Resurrection of the Boy (1483b) and The Confirmation of the Rule (1483a),

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both found in the Sassetti Chapel in the church of Santa Trinita in Florence. These two frescoes represent precise locations in Florence: Piazza Santa Trinita and Piazza della Signoria. The Resurrection of the Boy depicts an event which actually took place in Piazza Santa Trinita, where a boy fell from a window of Palazzo Spini and was supposedly resurrected by Saint Francis, to whom the cycle of frescoes is dedicated. The Confirmation of the Rule illustrates instead an event that took place in Rome, the meeting between Saint Francis and Pope Honorius III in 1216, yet is set in Florence, with the main seat of Florentine political power, the Palazzo della Signoria, visible on the left, a sign of the city’s prominent status. The locations’ representation is accurate both in terms of perspective and dimensions, and in terms of the verisimilitude of the buildings represented, for there are little departures from reality, as they are a reconstruction based on a sound topographical study. This change in artistic culture culminates in the so-called Veduta della Catena (Chain Map, Figure 4) – named after the chain that surrounds the print – drawn by Francesco Rosselli circa 1472 or 1510 (Friedman 2001), of which the original etching is lost, save for a small fragment, and its earliest print is preserved in the Kupferstichkabinett of Berlin. The Chain Map will be the main inspiration for many vedute starting already at the end of the fifteenth century, and is considered the first accurate representation of a whole city, designed according to the principles of perspective and topography (Fanelli 2002, 77). The city is

Figure  4  The pictorial reproduction of the Chain Map (Petrini and Petrini [1472] 1887) in Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, Italy © Comune di Firenze.

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seen from the outside with a bird’s eye view, raised compared to the painter’s real point of view in order to show all the buildings as well as part of the surrounding countryside, with Brunelleschi’s dome on top of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore dominating the centre of the veduta. The arrangement of the city as displayed in the etching shows the merging of the scientific depiction of the city as well as the construction of the ideological programme showcasing the relationship of the city with the countryside, and the central position of the dome within the city itself (Fanelli 2002, 82–5), as expressed in the contemporary writings of Leon Battista Alberti ([1485] 1989, 290). Another accurate depiction of Florence and its countryside can be seen in the large fresco painted by Giorgio Vasari (1556), the famous art historian, on one of the walls in the Clemente VII Room in Palazzo della Signoria, which depicts the siege of Florence that took place in 1529–30, where we can see the whole city and the army camp on the hills surrounding it. Vasari himself writes that there was no place from where he could have had such a view, and thus ‘to make it so that my drawing was more accurate and would include everything that was in that land, I made it this way, to help with art where nature was failing me’1 (Vasari 1588, sec. II, 4), indicating again that the fresco was the result of an alteration of reality. Hence, despite the research he did to create an accurate depiction, Vasari considered it opportune to distort reality for the sake of representation. The first geometrically accurate representation of Florence is the Bonsignori Map of the end of the sixteenth century, created by the monk Stefano Bonsignori (Mori and Boffito 1926, xxii), which represents, with the correct proportions and measurements, all the roads and buildings of the city, where the only modification is done on the façades that are instead represented in a forced perspective, but still precisely depicted. This veduta is the endpoint of the path that started with the Chain Map which strove to represent the city in a scientifically hierarchical way that reflected the cultural and political changes of the time, from the city as a unitary mass of buildings in the fresco of the Bigallo of 1352 depicting the Comune of Florence, to the new city state capital of Tuscany under the autocratic regime of Cosimo I in the sixteenth century (Fanelli 2002, 121–8). Representations of Florence would continue to be created according to the aesthetic taste of the period. Bernardo Bellotto, nephew of the famous painter Canaletto, will paint a triad of vedute of Florence representing famous views

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of the city: the Piazza della Signoria (1740b) and the Arno River (1740a), in both  the Museum of Fine Arts in Budapest, and the Ponte Vecchio (1740c), now at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Romantic painter Thomas Patch painted  A Panoramic View of Florence from Bellosguardo (1775), and Pre-Raphaelite Henry Holiday his Dante and Beatrice (1883), depicting the encounter of Florentine poet Dante and his muse Beatrice in front of Ponte Santa Trinita, when he is saddened that she does not greet him because of some rumours, as described by the poet himself in his Vita nova (Alighieri [1295] 1932, 11). Holiday performed in-depth research in order to depict that corner of Florence as accurately as possible as to how it looked in the thirteenth century, down to the scaffolding on Ponte Vecchio that was being rebuilt in those years after a flood had damaged it (Figure 5). More recent portrayals of Florence can be found in films, from the award-winning A Room with a View (Ivory 1985) set in early twentiethcentury Florence and based on E.M. Forster’s eponymous novel, to Tea with Mussolini (Zeffirelli 1999) set before and during the Second World War, to the recent Inferno (Howard 2016), a thriller based on Dan Brown’s novel set

Figure 5  Henry Holiday, Dante and Beatrice (1883) © Walker Art Gallery, National Museums Liverpool, UK.

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in contemporary Florence. Much of the contemporary imagery of Florence, however, has been shaped by the mass tourism that has been part of the city in the past decades, and especially the postcard view from Piazzale Michelangelo, a panoramic square on a hill south of the city centre designed in 1869 by architect Giuseppe Poggi, as is easy to demonstrate with a quick query on any search engine. This location is not present in Assassin’s Creed II, but the view is important to consider in the analysis, as it is the one that Ubisoft artists had to take as a reference, amongst others, in order to provide an easily recognizable city of Florence to players, given its popularity, and it is thus relevant for the scope of this study.

History in Games Since this chapter deals with historical reconstructions, it will apply both Eco and Upton’s theories outlined in the previous two chapters, as well as the History-Game Relations Framework developed by Vincenzo Idone Cassone and Mattia Thibault (2016) as regards the representation and meaning of history in digital games. The History-Game Relations framework applies the historical discourse theory of Jorge Lozano (1987), according to whom ‘history as a discipline is an activity that involves (1) selecting elements; (2) ordering and drawing connections between those elements; and (3) putting them into perspective through a reconstruction or narration’ (Cassone and Thibault 2016, 159). Following this theory, Cassone and Thibault outline three procedures to implement history into digital play: 1. Setting. The selection of historical elements present in the game: if only as a setting; if a visual detailed reconstruction, on which scale and level. For example, a large scale for games such as the grand strategy game Civilization VI (Firaxis Games 2016), or a small scale to the level of clothes and characters for an action game such as Assassin’s Creed II. It also includes the visual aspect of the reconstruction. 2. Modelling. How the historical factors are represented and influence the game and gameplay. In a FPS such as Call of Duty: WWII (Sledgehammer Games 2017), history influences the gameplay in a limited manner, since the gameplay would be the same regardless of the historical setting,

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whereas in Europa Universalis IV (Paradox Development Studio 2013) there are plenty of historically grounded variables, as it is a strategy game that aims to simulate the politics of the late Middle Ages to the early modern period. 3. Representing. How the historical setting/events are represented in the game, whether via text or graphics, which includes the narrative aspect. If the game is from a first-person perspective or not, or from the perspective of a single character or multiple characters. Cassone and Thibault then apply the semiotic theory of Boris Uspenskij (1988) who considered that ‘the processes of collective representation of history can be approached as a semiotic translation’ (2016, 162) through three forms of translation: 1. Perspectival. The act of ‘translating’ the past to present language. The selection of the time period and its depiction will vary based on the interpretation of the designers. The same goes for the visual adaptation, the topic on which this chapter concentrates. 2. Digital. The actual translation from the original source, such as a real building, or an ancient drawing or text, to the digital format of the game. This is where technical and hardware limitations come into play to determine how history is represented, i.e. the absence of the Baptistery of Florence in Assassin’s Creed II due to hardware memory constraints. 3. Ludic. How historical accuracy and plausibility are bent – or not – in order to work with the gameplay and to translate into an enjoyable game. For example, if the historical elements are integrated in the game mechanics. The intersection of the three procedures of implementation of history in games with the three forms of translation makes for the History-Game Relations (HGR) schema (Figure  6). This schema can be represented in a matrix and read either horizontally, to see how the processes of history implementation are translated, or vertically, to see how the translations are applied to the various processes (2016, 168–70). This chapter will examine the architecture of Assassin’s Creed II in order to assess how it influences the gameplay through its primary denotative

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Figure 6  From Idone Cassone and Mattia Thibault (2016), ‘The HGR Framework: a Semiotic Approach to the Representation of History in Digital Games’. Gamevironments, Special Issue ‘Gamevironments of the Past’ (05), 168.

function, and how it contributes to the narration and anticipatory play through its secondary connotative function. Additionally, it will analyse the game environments through the three horizontal translations of the Setting procedure of the HGR framework: Perspectival, Digital and Ludic, in order to explore how the historical reconstruction was bent to provide a functional game while at the same time retaining credibility.

The Setting: Florence in Assassin’s Creed II As mentioned, Assassin’s Creed II is set in Renaissance Italy, spanning twentythree years (1476–99). Players can explore several locations: Florence, Monteriggioni, San Gimignano, Forlì, Venice and the countryside of Tuscany. The game starts in the present, and the first interactive sequences have players impersonate the descendant of Ezio, Desmond. Florence is the first historical location players visit after Desmond is plugged into the Animus to revive the memories of his ancestor Ezio (Figure  7). From the first scene, we can

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­ igure 7  A panorama of Florence in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above), and a F panorama of Florence in real life from the Belvedere Fort (below, photo by the author).

understand the important role that architecture plays in the game. The camera pans on the city as it is digitally reconstructed within the Animus, showing its main monuments. We can easily identify the Palazzo della Signoria as well as the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, followed by the text ‘Repubblica Fiorentina, 1476’. The two most visible monuments will have their denotative function in the game become apparent later on, when players will directly interact with them, but their secondary function, from the beginning, is to situate the action of the game in the city of Florence. The two buildings happen to also be the two tallest structures in the city, and respectively the seats of secular and religious power. Moreover, these buildings served the function of signs of the power and wealth of the city. It is notable that the reinterpretation of city space operated by Brunelleschi and the architectural theories of Alberti, who programmatically put the dome and the temple at the centre of the new humanistic city in the Quattrocento,

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fostered a new way of looking at the city and the relationship between its components, as well as the city and its surroundings. The bell towers of Florence, including the one of the Palazzo della Signoria, all visually orbit around the imposing dome. In Assassin’s Creed II, the dome’s centrality is all the more present, as much of the travelling is done running and jumping on rooftops rather than at street level, and the dome serves as a guiding sign with its primary denotative function of providing players with a visual beacon to orientate themselves, as well as its obvious secondary connotative function of symbol of the city of Florence and the Renaissance itself. And yet, interestingly enough, in real life the dome is directly visible only from a handful of streets, and one can fully grasp its relationship with the city monuments and the surrounding hills only when observing it from high storeys or outside the city (Fanelli 2002, 72–3). The first interactive scene takes place on one of the most famous monuments of Florence, the Ponte Vecchio (Figure 8). Already in this first location we can see how the buildings of Assassin’s Creed II Florence are neither strictly historical nor present a thoroughly imagined representation of any time period or place. Rather, they exist in a curious landscape situated somewhere between the two, emphasizing the epistemological impact of particular visual modes when communicating historical times, events and places. (Westin and Hedlund 2016, 4)

The bridge itself is the stage of an arena (Nitsche 2008, 183) fight, where the architecture’s primary function is to constrain players’ movements and limit how far they can go. Moreover, as we will see, the virtual reconstruction of the bridge itself is hybrid as it is characterized by both historical accuracy and the need to provide an easy recognizable landmark. As we know, Ponte Vecchio is a particularly exceptional bridge, as described by merchant and statesman Goro Dati in the fifteenth century: ‘amongst the others [bridges] there is one, on which there are beautiful shops on each side, made of cut stone, so that it does not look like a bridge, save for the middle, where there is a square, which allows to look at the river from side to side’ 2 ([1409] 1735, 108). In Assassin’s Creed II, the Ponte Vecchio is correctly represented, as in the past it was lined with butchers, amongst other shops (Gurrieri, Bracci and Pedreschi 1998, 180–1),

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so that the blood and residues could flow directly into the river underneath. Indeed, this was considered an unsavoury practice, thus they were converted to jeweller’s shops in 1593 (Mori and Boffito 1926, xxiv), and such they remained until today. However, on top of the east side of the bridge, we can see an elevated passageway that connects the Palazzo della Signoria to Palazzo Pitti. This passageway, called the Vasari Corridor, is a structure that would not be built until a century later, but that is now part of the unmistakable outline of the bridge. Additionally, the portrayal of the Vasari Corridor is not a perfect reproduction of how it looks today, but rather an adaptation. Its secondary function is to display that the bridge looked different half a millennium ago, yet not too different, in order to convey the typical imagery of the contemporary Ponte Vecchio. This hybrid approach, as we will see, is the one Ubisoft followed for the majority of the monuments in Assassin’s Creed II.

Figure 8  The Ponte Vecchio in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and in real life as seen from the Uffizi Gallery (below) (photo by the author).

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After the introductory scene on the Ponte Vecchio, Ezio is challenged to a race by his brother Federico, which will introduce players to the primary function of architecture in the game. The main game mechanics, aside from the already introduced combat, are the free-roaming exploration and the possibility of climbing buildings which allows access to high vantage points to discover the city. Through this brief race with Federico, players are introduced to both, via architectural signs such as ledges, quoins and window frames, whose denotative function is to offer viable means to ascend vertically. The race ends atop a bell tower, whose primary function is to allow players to discover the game map. By climbing high vantage points, side activities and main objectives are displayed on the map players can access, and they can thus know their objectives and where to go next. After that, control is relinquished by the players, the camera pans out and the small figures of Ezio and Federico are seen standing atop a bell tower with the massive outline of the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore and Brunelleschi’s dome in the background. As reminded in the words of Leon Battista Alberti, who dedicated his De Pictura to his contemporary Filippo Brunelleschi in 1434 – the architect who designed the dome of the Cathedral  – the dome is ‘a structure so big, standing high in the sky, so large that it covers with its shadow all the Tuscan people’3 (Alberti [1435] 1980). The title of Assassin’s Creed II then appears, ‘officially’ declaring the beginning of the game, and showing once more how architecture and the environment are the protagonists, almost more so than the characters. The following section will analyse the architecture of Assassin’s Creed II based on the Setting of the HGR framework, exploring how the semiotics theories of Eco and Upton intersect with the perspectival, digital and ludic translations.

Perspectival Translation Douglas N. Dow considers Assassin’s Creed II’s Florence a simulacrum rather than a simulation, where anachronisms are used to make the city more recognizable and similar to what it is today, at the risk of confusing the player (2013, 220), and Westin and Hedlund affirm that by analysing the Rome of Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood (Ubisoft 2010), we can understand the

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‘contemporary public’s collective idea of late fifteenth century’ (Westin and Hedlund 2016, 7). Today’s historical centre of Florence has retained the main layout that it had in the fifteenth century. The shape of the city has remained substantially unchanged since the erection of the walls designed by Arnolfo di Cambio in the thirteenth century, demolished in the nineteenth century to make room for boulevards, which still mark the boundary of what is considered the city centre, and where the action of Assassin’s Creed II takes place. The layout of the city is correctly portrayed in-game, as are the relative positions of the important monuments, so much so that it is possible to orientate oneself in the real city if one is familiar with the game. However, the city is not an exact replica of the current Florence, nor a correct reconstruction of its fifteenthcentury version. The network of streets is radically different and obviously not every single building is reproduced, yet Ubisoft artists selected a series of architectural signs typical of Florentine architecture in order to recreate the urban landscape and make it recognizable, while at the same time bending to the needs of gameplay – analysed in the ludic translation – and of technical limitations – that we will see in the digital translation. Most buildings in Florence commonly present a sleek plastered façade with only minimal ornamentation, usually reserved for quoins at the edges, cornices and pediments, window-heads and stone bandings between floors. This layout has a double function in the game. The secondary connotative function is the already mentioned one of creating the appropriate scenery for fifteenthcentury Florence. The primary denotative function is instead to provide visual clues to players on where they can climb the buildings and which path to take, affording anticipatory play. The sleek plastered surface does not offer a climbable surface, whereas the mouldings are used as handholds and allow to move vertically on the surface of the buildings. This allows players to know where they can start an ascent, or where to jump next in order to progress. It is notable that these elements are seamlessly integrated into the game world, without resorting to artificial on-screen cues, such as superimposed symbols, colours or other indicators. Other signs that work in a similar manner are the overhanging eaves of roofs, which offer an easy-to-identify handhold for players, while exhibiting one of the most visible characteristics of Florentine buildings. In Florence, the eaves of roofs tend to project quite substantially outside the façades, which is easily explained by the necessity to protect

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the façades from the elements, as well as to offer cover from the rain on the sidewalks. Altane are another architectural topos that has been included in the game with both a denotative and connotative function (Figure 9). An altana is a loggia, a covered roof-terrace used to provide a dry and aerated space on top of a building, and they are commonly seen, albeit with variations, in most of central Italy and Rome. In Assassin’s Creed II their secondary connotative function is to indicate to players the geographical location they are in, and the primary denotative function is of allowing for hiding places for the players as well as for items to be found. Moreover, many buildings display façades covered in sgraffito, a technique that uses contrasting plaster colours whereby decorations are scratched – hence the name – from the second layer of plaster. The palace of Ezio’s love interest Cristina Vespucci – a probable allusion to Simonetta Vespucci, a legendary Florentine beauty who died the same year the game starts, and who might have been the model for Botticelli’s Venus – is covered in sgraffito as well. The textures used to represent the sgraffito in the game come from the Palazzo di Bianca Cappello, a Florentine palace designed by Bernardo Buontalenti in the late sixteenth century. Other textures come instead from the interior courtyard of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi – at the time solely known under the name of Palazzo Medici, until the Riccardi family acquired it in 1659 – a building which is visible in the game, and that indeed already displayed sgraffito decoration in the fifteenth century, painted by Maso di Bartolomeo a few decades before the

Figure 9  Ezio climbing a building using the quoins as handholds in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009. Note the altana on top of the building, as well as the sgraffito decoration on the façade.

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time of the game. This choice on the part of Ubisoft artists of the selection of visual signs to represent Renaissance Florence is noteworthy for it is based on the most notable architectural features of the city at the time as well as today, such as the Palazzo di Bianca Cappello façade. Proceeding in the game, we are welcomed by Ezio’s father, Giovanni Auditore, at the doorstep of the Palazzo Auditore, another architectural sign used with the connotative function of recreating the genius loci of Florence. Palazzi are an architectural typology of buildings that shaped the city of Florence in the fifteenth century and afterwards (Figure  10). The new oligarchic merchant class that was taking power in Florence at the time expressed its prestige and newly acquired social role with unprecedented large residences (Fanelli 2002, 86). Giovanni Rucellai, a wealthy Florentine banker who hired architect Leon Battista Alberti for his vast programme of private and public buildings projects, including the façade of the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella and his own eponymous residential palace, writes in 1473 that his buildings ‘give the greatest satisfaction and the greatest joy, as they are about the glory of God and the honour of the city and the memory of me’ ([1473] 1960, 1:121). The Rucellai were a banking family, allies of the Medici, the same as the Auditore family in the game, and it is thus appropriate

Figure 10  The inner courtyard of the Auditore Palace in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (left), and one of the courtyards of Palazzo Gondi in Florence, designed by Giuliano da Sangallo in 1490 (right, photo by the author).

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that the Auditore Palace reflects the typology of the palazzo established by architects such as Michelozzo, Giuliano da Sangallo and the aforementioned Alberti. The Auditore Palace shows the usual square floorplan, with an open internal courtyard covered in white plaster with the typical grey sandstone ornamentation. This very palace does not exist in reality, but it has all the architectural signs to connote its role as the typical Florentine fifteenthcentury palazzo. Benedetto Dei notes that between 1450 and 1470 thirty palaces were built in Florence (Fanelli 2002, 86), and Alberti mentions how the cities that he knew as made of wood when he was a child were now made of marble ([1485] 1989, 384). Evident signs of Florentine activity are portrayed in Assassin’s Creed II via numerous buildings under construction, scaffoldings and construction material scattered in the city. For instance, the Santa Trinita bridge, which, however, was not under construction at the time of the game and especially did not have the forms that Bartolomeo Ammannati will give it after a flood destroyed it a century later. An anachronism that could be paralleled to that of the façade of the Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, which will be discussed below. These construction elements have a denotative function similar to the mouldings on the façades of buildings, as they allow players to climb and reach otherwise inaccessible points, thus functioning as gameplay elements. Their secondary connotative function is to display a changing, affluent city, as was Florence in the second half of the fifteenth century. After meeting with Giovanni Auditore, players are free to roam the city, and come into contact with the other Florentine monuments. The most notable is the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, which shows an unfinished façade, as it did in 1476 (Figure 11). However, in what Annette and Jonathan Barnes call a ‘nonobvious anachronism’ (1989, 258), the under-construction façade in Assassin’s Creed II reflects the design of the current façade, built only at the end of the nineteenth century. The interesting fact is that the nineteenth-century façade was conceived in neo-Gothic style in order to ‘simulate’ fourteenthcentury architecture and blend in with the rest of the Gothic cathedral designed by Arnolfo di Cambio. A similar anachronism is repeated in the game with one of the other great churches of Florence, Santa Croce, that sports its nineteenth-century façade, which was also designed in fourteenth-century Gothic style, whereas at the time of the game Santa Croce had a bare brick

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Figure  11 The incomplete façade of Santa Maria del Fiore in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and the contemporary nineteenth-century façade (below) (photo by the author). Note how the cathedral has been scaled down in the game.

façade. Unsurprisingly, the façade of the church of San Lorenzo is left unbuilt as it stands today, and as it was in 1476, displaying its bare bricks. The large-scale transformations of the city, especially the construction of the Uffizi in the sixteenth century and the risanamento, the destruction of the Old Market and the transformation of the old city centre in the nineteenth century, are not represented in Assassin’s Creed II. While the choice not to represent a structure as iconic as the Uffizi might come somewhat as a surprise, given the divergences from historical accuracy we have seen up to now, it is to be

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noted that the changes this structure brought to Florence are mostly at ground level, and as such less noticeable as they do not drastically modify the Florence skyline. Its removal does not impede the recognizability of the city, and at the same time it preserves its historicity. The choice to stick to historical accuracy as concerns the Old Market, instead of the modern Piazza della Repubblica (Figure  12) and its surroundings, is instead rather logical. The nineteenthcentury redesign of the city centre, in fact, aimed at modernizing the appearance

Figure 12  The Old Market in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 (above) and the contemporary Piazza della Repubblica (below, photo by the author), with its nineteenthcentury design. We can notice the ancient Roman Colonna dell’abbondanza that is still standing in its original location.

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of Florence to bring it in line with contemporary European capitals such as Vienna and Paris, when it shortly became the capital of the Kingdom of Italy from 1865 to 1871 (Fanelli 2002, 212). The fin de siècle aspect of the new blocks between the Duomo and Piazza della Signoria would have been detrimental to the appearance of the old Renaissance city that Ubisoft wanted to convey, despite their being one of the most visited parts of the city today. This use of architectural signs displays how ‘once authenticity or historical accuracy cease to be overriding concerns, it is possible to see how Assassin’s Creed II presents a view of Florence that emphasizes “its meaning, not its physical being”’ (Dow 2013, 227) and by reading the semiotics of Assassin’s Creed II architecture we can understand how it was created with the aim, not of producing a historically accurate reproduction, but rather a network of interpretive possibilities that would be as comprehensible as possible to the public at large.

­Digital Translation Amongst the most glaring omissions – which include the church of San Miniato al Monte that dominates the city from a hill south of the centre, and the Belvedere Fort, a massive fortified structure not far to the west – the Baptistery of San Giovanni, one of the most ancient and noticeable structures in the city, stands out. The octagonal marble Baptistery was built right in front of the Cathedral, and houses the famous Gates of Paradise, the monumental bronze gilded door adorned with Lorenzo Ghiberti’s reliefs. The Baptistery’s absence, however, is not due to a particular interpretation of the city on Ubisoft’s part, or for gameplay reasons, but to technical limitations, pertaining thus to the digital translation. Corey May, lead writer of Assassin’s Creed II, affirmed in an interview that the Baptistery was not placed in the game because of the lack of memory to store the unique textures that it would have required (Bailey 2012). In the present analysis, it is fundamental to take into account technical factors as well, for a choice that might seem to fit within a programmatic idea of reinterpretation of history, or a gameplay adjustment, might be dictated by hardware or software constraints. The selection and appearance of buildings effected in the game are thus the results of these constraints as well. For

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instance, the already mentioned sgraffito textures repeated on multiple façades was a choice effected in order to reduce the number of unique textures and thus save system memory. The fact that unique buildings require unique assets is probably the reason why important and visually very noticeable, even in the skyline, buildings such as Palazzo Strozzi and Orsanmichele are absent as well. The selection was likely effected in order to preserve the skyline of the city as intact and as recognizable as possible, since it is often explored from rooftops. We can in fact notice how much graphical attention was given to shingles, each modelled individually, since they are such an important component of the general look of Italian cities, as well as one of the surfaces we most often see in the game. Historically inaccurate buildings such as the massive Cappella dei Principi are present, despite its only being built in the seventeenth century, but the fact that it has the largest dome in the city after the cathedral, makes it a fundamental part of the panorama. Moreover, said building uses the same assets as the church of San Lorenzo, since it is an extension of it, requiring thus less resources than a completely original building such as the Baptistery. The lack of accessible interiors is another decision dictated by hardware limitations, as demonstrated by the fact that this will change with subsequent games in the series, such as Assassin’s Creed Unity (Ubisoft 2014a).

Ludic Translation The spatial gameplay of Assassin’s Creed II is based on horizontal and vertical movement and relates to the architectural design of the surrounding city walking along the streets we are citizens, bound by the laws of the city. We have to be very careful to respect the flow of the city’s inhabitants: we cannot go wherever we want, nor how we want (we need to colour within the lines). The horizontal understanding of AC2 is to quickly identify the position of all nearby characters, connecting them with precise rules. The horizontal exploration mandates to carefully plan every step and encounter. Conversely, when we climb on the roofs, we become nomads: we can move however we want, with great freedom in choosing the path we prefer. Gravity is a gentle law in AC2, it regulates jumps and falls without making itself felt too much. Of course, even jumping between roofs and balconies requires to

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identify very rapidly the handholds to aim for, the dead ends and the hiding spots. The vertical understanding of AC is being able to trace the lines of the right distance with Ezio’s body. AC2 is conceived in such a way that we have much more freedom in the vertical space than in the horizontal one: when we escape on the rooftops the important thing is to run, hardly think and especially think fast.4 (Compagno 2013, para. 12.28 emphases in the original)

From Compagno’s description of the spatial gameplay, we can easily see how the affordance of anticipatory play is paramount in the game. Looking for the next handhold, and figuring out the optimal path is an essential part of the game as much as executing said actions. The affordance of anticipatory play is executed through the architectural design of the game. The ability to jump between rooftops and the climbing component required the game to be adapted to these mechanics and brought on the most important factor that has not yet been mentioned: scale. The city itself, and every building in it, is noticeably scaled down. As majestic as it would appear, taking half an hour to climb Giotto’s bell tower would hardly be entertaining, without even counting the fact that ledges and mouldings would be too far away from each other to offer viable holds. Mohamed Gambouz, art director at Ubisoft, affirms, regarding the recreation of the Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, that ‘[a]nother major challenge was finding the right scale, because it was important that the building was memorable and didn’t lose that sense of gravity that it has in real life’ (Miller 2015, 63). Real horizontal distances would also be detrimental to gameplay, as it would take three or four minutes just to run from one end of Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral to the other, and about half an hour to cross the whole city. These distances would also make it impossible to jump between many buildings, especially across the streets. Despite the buildings in Florence being built close to each other, the leaps would have to be even more unnaturally long than they already are. Architecture is embedded in the gameplay on multiple levels. When Ezio’s father Giovanni is imprisoned, he is taken to the Albergaccio, a maximumsecurity prison cell that still exists on the tower of Palazzo della Signoria and that was used to hold high-profile political prisoners. Ezio thus has to reach the top of the tower to rescue his father. In this instance, the denotative function of the tower and its prison are similar to their real counterparts, that is, to offer a high, hard to reach position. Its secondary connotative function is making the

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player interact with one of the main monuments of Florence and the symbol of its political power. The long and hard climb to reach Giovanni also has another symbolic meaning, as it is atop this tower that Ezio will see his father for the last time before the execution. After his family is executed, Ezio is de facto exiled from Florence, a fate suffered by other famous Florentines throughout history, notably the poet Dante in 1302 – who, like Ezio, also sought temporary refuge in Forlì – but was never allowed to return. Later in the game, Ezio returns to Florence, not unlike the Medici family members Cosimo and Piero, who were exiled in the fifteenth century, and even Leon Battista Alberti’s family, whose exile was lifted in 1428. Other landmarks become part of the gameplay as well, such as when Ezio is tasked with killing Uberto Uberti, one of the conspirators that put his family to death. The assassination takes place within the cloister of the Basilica of Santa Croce, a closed space whose denotative function was to provide a quiet and safe space for the monks residing in the monastery, and that in the game is used to provide a hard to access space, that triggers players to find a way in by exploiting the climbing mechanics of the game.

Monteriggioni The other cities represented in Assassin’s Creed II follow a similar path and are reconstructed on the same principles. It is, however, worth mentioning the town of Monteriggioni, Ezio’s headquarters in the game. Monteriggioni is a small walled hamlet in the Tuscan countryside, that, unlike the other cities in Assassin’s Creed II, underwent an enlargement process in the game (Figure 13). The village is dominated by Villa Auditore on top, which does not exist at all in real life, the town itself being larger in the game than in reality, as well as populated by more buildings. This expansion is effected in order to give Monteriggioni a bigger role as headquarters of the Assassins faction, compared to the one it actually played in the fifteenth century. At the same time, its status of lesser important city compared to Florence or Venice is made evident, not just by its extension, but by its architecture as well. When Ezio arrives in Monteriggioni, the city is not in such a good state as Florence. The architectural signs we witnessed in Florence to signify a city in development,

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­ igure  13  The main square of Monteriggioni in Assassin’s Creed II © Ubisoft 2009 F (above) and Piazza Roma in the actual Monteriggioni (below) (photo by the author).

such as buildings and bridges under construction covered in scaffolding, are nowhere to be seen. On the contrary, the aspect of the buildings is in general one of disrepair, the shops are closed, and Villa Auditore shows a similar appearance. This connotation of Monteriggioni architecture is there to tell players about the status of the city, but it also works as a denotation for the game. In fact, one of the side mini-games will be to ameliorate the city. There is even an actual architect in Villa Auditore to talk to for the bettering of the hamlet, complete with a scale model of the city. Reopening shops will give players access to upgrades and items, and bettering the villa and the town will guarantee constant income that can be spent on making Ezio more powerful. The restoration of the city is also visible in its look, with new plastered walls, bustling open shops and also a much better bearing of Villa Auditore. Another interesting aspect of Monteriggioni worth mentioning is the fact that, unlike the rest of the locations in the game, it is explorable in the present

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day as it was in the fifteenth century. When players exit from the Animus and return to the physical body of Desmond in the present, they can move around using him as an avatar instead of Ezio. As with Florence and Venice, the city did not change drastically in the past half millennium, and in the case of Monteriggioni even less so. Ubisoft’s artists thus didn’t rely much on architectural signs to make it clear to players that they are in a different time period, but rather added details such as cars, electric lights and signage that make the time shift clear. The importance given to Monteriggioni is surprisingly reflected in real life too. Unlike Florence that already is a famous touristic destination, it saw a surge in tourism and sudden international attention (Carvalho, Bertozzi, and Correa 2019). Rossana Giannettoni, assessor to tourism of Monteriggioni, affirmed that Assassin’s Creed II has given the castle great visibility and the possibility to be known in many places that it would have been hard for us to reach with our promotional activity. To give you an idea, The Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum of Art of New York detached seat focused on the middle ages, requested a miniature model of our castle, known through the video game.5 (Balestrieri 2018)

In 2016, a survey indicated that more than 10 per cent of the interviewed visitors had discovered Monteriggioni thanks to Assassin’s Creed II (Dresseno and Barresi 2017). At the same time, the fact that the cities of Assassin’s Creed II resemble their contemporary counterparts was undoubtedly part of the success of the game’s promotional endeavours, as the real location functioned as a physical advertisement of sorts for the game. Indeed, the tourism board of Ireland teamed up with Ubisoft (Blake 2021) to promote Irish locations using footage from the latest game of the series Assassin’s Creed Valhalla (Ubisoft Montreal 2020).

­Conclusions The architectural signs in Assassin’s Creed II are designed to communicate the game’s information to players, as well as the historical period it is set in, in interweaving ways. The selection of a defined historical period and a real location led Ubisoft artists to juggle between historical accuracy, fiction

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and providing a functional and entertaining game. Architectural design plays a major role in this, since the interaction with the scenery is the main game mechanic, and through a semiotic analysis we have seen how the architecture in the game affords gameplay possibilities and is used to create the setting of Assassin’s Creed II. The HGR framework is a useful addition to the theories of Eco and Upton. Not only does it help to explain the various choices that were made in the historical reconstruction of the game, but it also helps determine what was dictated by artistic choice, technical constraints or gameplay approaches. To sum up, we observe four interrelated layers of architectural semiotic influence. Firstly, the real architecture of Florence, Venice, Monteriggioni, San Gimignano and Forlì inspires the game’s settings. Secondly, Assassin’s Creed II’s virtual architecture serves denotative, connotative and ludic functions in the game. Thirdly, the recreated architecture also serves promotional purposes for the actual cities, going as far as to impact tourism. Fourthly, the possibility for players to visit the city in real life can act as an advertisement in two ways: (1) for those who have heard of the game and have not played it yet, it can raise their interest; (2) and for those who have already played it, visiting these physical cities can trigger their desire to play the game again, purchase additional content and accompanying merchandise, such as action figures, and finally, acquire other instalments of the series. Virtual and physical architecture thus interact semiotically.

­4

Final Fantasy XV

The Final Fantasy Series and Japanese Role-playing Games Choosing a game titled Final Fantasy XV (Square Enix 2016) as the case study for fantastic architecture might seem a natural choice, but there is more to Final Fantasy’s architectural design than the title might imply. First of all, Final Fantasy XV pertains to the genre of Japanese role-playing games, or JRPG for short. The necessity to add the ‘J’ stems from the fact that Japanese RPGs have several characteristics, many of which were established with the Final Fantasy series, that differentiate them from their Western counterparts. For the most part, when the term fantasy is used in Western RPGs, and media in general, it is connected to games that are inspired, if not directly based, on Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson’s tabletop RPG Dungeons & Dragons (1974), which in turn borrowed heavily from The Lord of the Rings (Tolkien 1954) for its settings and look, and established many canons that are still followed today, so much so that the adjective Tolkienesque (Stevenson 2010) is often used to describe them. Naturally, since the former is an American product, and the latter a British one, the general aesthetics reflect Anglo-Saxon styles. Digital games also followed the same path, not only because they took inspiration from the aforementioned Dungeons & Dragons in both mechanics and aesthetics, but also because the majority of the most important and influential role-playing digital games were mainly developed in North America, from the Ultima series (Origin Systems 1981–99) to the more recent Dragon Age (BioWare 2009–14). Instead, JRPGs differ in terms of both gameplay mechanics and aesthetics, such as the long-standing series of Final Fantasy (Square, Square Enix 1987–2019).

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The characteristics of Western RPGs are rather varied, and defining them precisely is quite difficult, especially since in recent years, due to their popularity, the term has been increasingly used by digital games publishers to advertise their games, and developers added RPG characteristics to genres that usually did not display them, such as the presence of an inventory, or a ‘skill tree’ that characters can develop. However, due to their roots in the Dungeons & Dragons tabletop RPG, characteristics such as the customization of the player character, non-linear world exploration or the ability to choose different narrative paths are often present in the genre, if not put together, at least in some combination. The widely popular Western series The Witcher (CD Projekt RED 2007–15), for example, presents a fixed player character with limited customization, but an explorable open world and the possibility to alter the plot. JRPGs, on the contrary – and again, with the obvious exceptions – traditionally feature little character customization and little open-world exploration, contrasted by a generally more elaborate storyline and character development (Holleman 2018, 1). Aesthetically, JRPGs have a strong Japanese appeal, which often draws from the tropes and design of Japanese manga and anime (Huber 2014). The Japanese Dragon Quest series (Square Enix and Enix 1986–2019), in fact, has famous mangaka Akira Toryiama, author of the worldwide success Dragon Ball, as the main designer for the series since the first chapter was published in 1986. Despite Dragon Quest being relatively Western-oriented in its depiction of a fantasy world, with dragons, castles and armour-clad knights, the graphic style is unmistakably Japanese. Dragon Quest was already an established brand when the first Final Fantasy came out in 1987, and was the title that, thanks to its success, de facto established the standards of JRPGs. Since then, Dragon Quest has been considered the ‘traditional’ JRPG, including Dragon Quest XI (Square Enix 2017a), the last instalment of the series, which sports the usual – albeit updated – turn-based combat which drew comments from the critics regarding its at times excessively safe approach to the JRPG genre (Parkin 2018; Schilling 2018). However, it is mostly the Final Fantasy franchise that exported the JRPG genre to the West, whereas Dragon Quest has maintained a constant and great success in the domestic Japanese market. Final Fantasy, unlike Dragon Quest, is a series that ever since its inception has dared to experiment, and brought rather radical changes between one chapter and the other, also as a result of the direct confrontation with Dragon Quest

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itself on the market (Kohler 2016, 88). Artist Yoshitaka Amano, who worked for the famous studio Tatsunoko Production on many of their 1970s iconic anime such as Tekkaman, Casshan and Hutch the Honeybee, joined the Square design team in the second instalment of the Final Fantasy series which debuted in 1988. Amano’s style, with his particular art nouveau flavour that made him famous through his illustrations of Hideyuki Kikuchi’s Vampire Hunter D series of novels and anime, became one of the staples of character design and general aesthetic tone of the whole series. Final Fantasy VI (SquareSoft 1994) was the first episode to break away from the typical Western medieval fantasy setting and went for a steampunk aesthetic, a mix of sword and sorcery with robots and railroads, that have accompanied the games ever since, save for Final Fantasy IX (SquareSoft 2000) which was an intended return to the style of the first five instalments (Minaba, Itou and Uematsu 2000). Given their long history, the Final Fantasy games evolved in inspiration and settings, and also displayed radical technological changes. From the 2D pixel graphics of the first NES titles to the high-resolution three-dimensional world of the latest episode, the series has been through all the major technological revolutions that have occurred in the world of digital games in the past three decades. According to Square Enix, the Final Fantasy series has sold more than 135  million copies (2019). Indeed, Final Fantasy has been one of the most popular series on every system it was designed for, mainly Nintendo and Sony consoles. The games have often been a showcase of technological prowess, as much as games in themselves. To the question as to why the Final Fantasy series has become so popular, the then Square USA president, and one of the creators of the series, Hironobu Sakaguchi, answered: ‘The game itself is fun to play, but its strongest characteristic is the visual entertainment the game provides’ (2000). Square Enix has always been at the forefront of advanced realistic graphics (Monnet 2004), from the pre-rendered cutscenes of Final Fantasy VII (SquareSoft 1997) and VIII (SquareSoft 1999) to the Spirits Within (Sakaguchi 2001) movie. The technical prowess of the games has always held true, even in the last Final Fantasy XV (Square Enix 2016), that had a collaboration with graphic cards maker Nvidia for the PC version in order to showcase the latest effects produced by their hardware, and was praised for its graphical aspect (Beck 2016; Brown 2016; Ingenito 2016; Leack 2016). Especially in the case of Final Fantasy XV, the technological advancements play a part in how the

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gameplay and the story are structured, for they are not limited to eye-candy. The ambition to make a real open-world Final Fantasy already existed during the development of Final Fantasy X (SquareSoft 2001) in 1999 for the Sony PlayStation 2 console. Map director Takayoshi Nakazato was hoping that the new consoles would allow for a world that players could explore seamlessly, without the need of an external map, or other abstractions such as the battle screen, which displays characters and enemies on a separate scene when a battle commences; an old solution to the problem of displaying highly detailed characters on the screen at the same time as the rest of the environment, a technical limitation at first, which in time has become a characteristic of many JRPGs. The innovation of a true ‘open world’ will see the light of day only more than half a decade later (Fahs and Sliva 2009) with Final Fantasy XII (Square Enix 2006). Even after switching to real-time 3D environments with Final Fantasy X and more open-world environments with  – excluding the massively multiplayer online episode Final Fantasy XI (Square Enix 2002) – Final Fantasy XII and Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII (Square Enix 2013), the structure of the exploration never really changed, and it was composed of separate, relatively limited, sections accessible through a world map or specific points. A freedom of movement similar to Final Fantasy XV was only achieved with Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII, where the character is able to climb, jump, and use stealth in the environment, which, however, does not reach the size nor the expanse of Final Fantasy XV, a game that has been widely praised for its explorative component and open world design (Beck 2016; Brown 2016; D. Roberts 2016; Kollar 2016; Leack 2016).

Road Trip ‘Every story is a travel story’ writes Michel De Certeau ([1980] 2013, 115), and Final Fantasy XV is no different, as it begins on a road (Figure 14). Travel is one of the main themes of the game and is exemplified by the road trip that sees the members of the group bond and grow as characters. The story of Final Fantasy XV narrates the adventures of Prince Noctis and his group of friends as they venture through the world of Eos, engulfed in a war between the Kingdom of Lucis, of which the protagonist is the heir, and the Empire of Niflheim. It is

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Figure 14  The initial scene of Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016.

indeed fitting that a road in an open landscape and a car – the clear symbolic indexes of the voyage archetype for contemporary imaginations – serve as the opening for the game. These signs are a simple and effective way to give players the idea of what the game will entail: the road denotes the same function that a road has in the real world, but in the game it also connotes the idea of freedom, especially as linked to the surrounding landscape. The look of the sporadic cars that cross our group’s path already gives a glimpse of the 1960s American Midwest inspired setting, a very uncommon scenery for a JRPG. This peculiar setting is confirmed upon the player’s arrival to the Hammerhead service station (Figure 15) and it not only sets the particular style of the region of Leide, but also permeates all the environments of Final Fantasy XV. As noted in this review: Everything is presented in a way that is more grounded in reality, mixed with some future tech and magic. The style and visual appeal of the world is refreshing, it’s just a shame they don’t explore it more. (Jordan 2016)

The settings meshing realism and fantasy was a deliberate choice by the designers. The decision for this particular style was not uniquely dictated by artistic reasons, but technical ones as well. The risk of the uncanny valley effect – i.e. people’s negative reaction to close-to-life reproductions of humans, a term coined by Masahiro Mori (1970) – is all the more present with realistic environments and characters. The typical anime or caricatural styles that

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Figure 15  The Hammerhead service station in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016.

characterized to various degrees the previous Final Fantasy games allowed players to look at the game, especially its characters, with a certain detachment, as they were not supposed to look real, but as the photorealism increases, even small details can be very off-putting, entering the so-called uncanny valley. Hence, a technology up to the task of reducing the uncanny valley as much as possible was needed: ‘the technology was up to the challenge, as home computers and gaming consoles have reached the stage where photorealistic rendering of images is possible’ (Brands, Brands and Terpstra 2017, VII). To stay true to its lineage and its name, Final Fantasy XV is not completely realistic in its environments, characters and architecture, but rather mixes various styles: fantasy elements play out against a backdrop of solid realism, tied to events and environments that are easily paralleled with our own geographical and cultural horizons. The physical setting is the entirely fictional land of Eos, but our minds register variations on known natural and cultural motifs, such as the tropical setting of the Havana-inspired city of Lestallum, or the echoes of the 1960s Midwestern roadside architecture in the Hammerhead service station, the game’s first notable location. Insomnia, the capital city of the Kingdom of Lucis, is protected by a magical shield – but it’s also a recognizably modern metropolis, full of skyscrapers, artificial illumination at all hours, and hectic traffic. (Brands, Brands and Terpstra 2017, VII)

Obviously, this artistic vision for the game is also expressed, if not mostly, through the connotative function of architecture. Mario Gerosa shares this idea

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when he writes about architecture in digital games, noting the commonalities between contemporary and futuristic architecture, and the physical world: The buildings are often original and do not pedantically copy the covers of science fiction novels. They usually try to remain between fantasy and reality, and this is exactly their strength.1 (2006, 113)

The Final Fantasy series is not new in mixing the real with the fantastic, if not in architecture, at least as concerns fashion design. Already in 2012, characters from Final Fantasy XIII-2 (Square Enix 2011) modelled for the SpringSummer men collection of Prada in the magazine Arena Homme+ (Goldfarb 2012). In 2016, Lightning, the protagonist of Final Fantasy XIII (Square Enix 2009), was the main model for the worldwide advertisement campaign of the Louis Vuitton Spring-Summer collection, and fashion designer Nicolas Ghesquière affirmed that the collection is not just worn by a virtual entity, but is inspired by digital games as well (Louis Vuitton 2016). The clothes of the main cast in Final Fantasy XV are also based on reality, designed by Hiromu Takahara, creative director of the fashion brand Roen, and the wedding dress of character Lunafreya Nox Fleuret is a Vivienne Westwood design, albeit not created specifically for the game. Moreover, the said dress is also visible in the window of a Vivienne Westwood boutique in the city of Altissia within Final Fantasy XV, thereby mixing fashion advertising and gameplay. As mentioned earlier, the first sign that exemplifies this approach of combining realistic and fantastic elements is the 1960s-inspired service station, not because of its peculiar design, but rather as it is usually an architecture we do not see in JRPGs and RPG in general, especially when the plot involves cities protected by magic walls and sword-wielding protagonists. Moreover, this contrasting effect can be obtained almost exclusively through architectural elements. A deserted landscape may be unfamiliar to many, but its existence is not out of the ordinary, and its presence in a game is not in itself out of place, regardless of the genre and settings of the game. A completely alien landscape, made of giant mushrooms such as in the Ascadian Isles of Morrowind (Bethesda Game Studios 2002), is amusing in itself, but hardly out of place in a fantasy RPG. However, it is the architecture placed in this very landscape that creates the interesting dichotomy of Final Fantasy XV. The denotative function

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remains mostly unaltered, but its connotative function related to the context gives it meaning. This type of clash brings to mind Elmgreen and Dragset’s sculpture Prada Marfa (2005), a small Prada brand boutique reminiscent of mall strip stores placed in the middle of the Texan desert, which derives its meaning from being an out of place piece of architecture. It is on this duality of architectural and environmental language that the designers played to create the world of Final Fantasy: ‘a visual language that connects individual titles to a much wider body of work, a language that also includes neo-classical settings and architecture, anime-inspired character art, and heavily romanticized weaponry’ (Brands, Brands and Terpstra 2017, VIII). It is through these architectural signs that the game’s environment is communicated to players, and they also serve the purpose of shaping the gameplay. Going back to the initial scene, we are presented with a road in a deserted landscape, and the four protagonists pushing the car. This mise en scène, as mentioned, effectively sums up the theme of the road trip and group bonding of the characters, but it also serves to present how the game will be played. Players will not be able to use the car, called Regalia, right away, as it needs to be repaired, and the large expanse in the opening is not just a backdrop, but rather describes what the main innovation of Final Fantasy XV is compared to its predecessors: its open world. The anticipatory play is expressed here through the long winding roads and the occasional building that litters the landscape. The fact that the car is initially unavailable helps in giving players an idea of the dimensions of the game, since reaching the locations required in the initial stages already calls for quite a bit of trekking. Players are free to explore the whole extent of the game world on foot, or riding a chocobo, a giant chicken-like bird typical of Final Fantasy, but driving the car involves playing with what Nitsche calls ‘Track and rails’ (2008, 172), which compel players to move only along one axis. Naturally, driving a car allows for much faster travel throughout the environment, but it can only follow the existing roads, to the point that players can relinquish the driving to a non-playing character and just enjoy the ride. The roads are thus an important sign in the game, as it is on their path that conversations between characters take place. They thus possess a primary denotative function as visible paths to explore the environment, and are also designed to allow for anticipatory play by showcasing the world itself. Regarding roads, as far back as in the fifteenth century, Alberti wrote that:

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A military countryside road finds an important ornament in the countryside itself in which it runs, if it is well maintained and farmed, with frequent villas and inns, abundant in produce and beauty; and if the sea, then mountains, then a lake, then a river or a spring, then a cliff or a plain without vegetation, then woods or a valley appear.2 ([1485] 1989, 364)

The natural landscape in Final Fantasy follows this logic, and is designed as an ornament for the players’ voyages. The roads themselves are visible ornaments to the landscape, not only in the flatlands of the initial region of Leide, but also in the region of Cleigne, where long-spanning viaducts and bridges dot the landscape, and scenic parking spots are placed along the road, allowing the player to stop and take photographs of the landscape.

Towns and Cities Final Fantasy towns are usually divided into two major types: small settlements to stop and resupply or gather the occasional quest, and larger towns where more of the story takes place, and important non-playing characters and plot relevant buildings and locations are situated (Holleman 2018, 139). Still in the line of the voyage theme, after the small settlement of the Hammerhead service station, the party moves to Galdin Quay (Figure 16), a seaside resort and departing point for the ship that is meant to bring them to Altissia.

Figure 16  The sea resort of Galdin Quay in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016.

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Galdin Quay has the look of the typical tropical resort, with a floating bridge connecting the shore with the restaurant and hotel on stilts, again, another kind of architecture hardly found in fantasy RPG. The first proper city players encounter in Final Fantasy XV is Lestallum, a city built around a power plant set in a tropical climate, inspired by Cuba, but with elements from Malaysia and Morocco (Brands, Brands and Terpstra 2017, CL). Along the way, players come across small settlements that are mostly architectural signs of digital game functions: an inn along the road works as a rest point and shop to refill on items. An icon or any other object might have served just as well, as the save points did in previous Final Fantasy games, where they were for example floating spheres in Final Fantasy X and computer consoles in Final Fantasy XIII, or the phone booths in the Yakuza series (Sega NE R&D and Ryu Ga Gotoku Studio 2005–21). However, this is an example of how iconic signs are more effective to link game functions to the fictional game world. The denotative first function of inns is what would be expected from their real counterpart, whereas their secondary connotative function, their being shaped the way they are, mostly fulfils a narrative role and fleshes out the game world, instead of simply satisfying the game function. A larger city such as Lestallum, on the other hand, offers players more opportunities to explore, and in a rather different way than they would in the surrounding wilderness. As is quite typical of RPGs, cities usually offer a safe environment, meaning that gameplay activities that are common in the wilderness areas of the game, in particular combat, are not permitted or possible in a city. The city, especially in the context of travel, serves as a sign communicating the presence of an orderly environment to players, where they can engage in activities that would not make much sense in the wilderness, such as shopping. As noted by Square Enix artist Yuki Matsuzawa: ‘players coming from the vast open world should enjoy the change of pace in life that Lestallum offers’ (Goldfarb 2016). Players are thus invited to explore the city looking for areas devoted to some of the same functions as the small settlements, such as shops and inns, but larger settlements are designed with the ‘over-arching goal of creating a persuasive setting for the fictional world’ (Holleman 2018, 139) rather than the simplicity and accessibility of the functions of small settlements. Very much like their real counterparts, cities are some of the environments where the secondary connotative function of architecture is the most evident and used for narrative ends.

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Using the exterior look of cities and their relationship to the surrounding landscape to narrate a story or communicate ideas is a long-standing tradition. Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s fourteenth-century fresco cycle of The Allegory of Good and Bad Government (1338) in the Palazzo Pubblico of Siena uses the city of Siena itself and its surrounding countryside to display the effects of good and bad government (Figure 17). The effects of a good government are represented by a well maintained and active city, where new buildings are being constructed, with well stocked shops and a flourishing and cultivated countryside. The bad government is instead represented by a city with crumbling buildings, boarded up shops and a war-torn countryside. This is most visible in Final Fantasy XV where the main cities of the game are designed to communicate part of the story to players. The city of Lestallum, a bustling urban centre, has a large open market square, where players can actually go and shop for items, and that gives the city its characteristic flavour. The city is displayed as an industrial one, far from the riches of the capital Insomnia, yet still well developed. The architectural features of pipes that go from the ground up every building and even inside, smoking chimneys in the middle of public squares and air shafts that cover façades are ostensibly present to highlight the city’s nature as an industrial centre. These industrial attributes are reflected also in the infrastructures visible outside the city, with tied arch iron bridges and long concrete viaducts. The difference between smaller settlements and cities is highlighted by the ‘inn’ function as well. Whereas in locations such as the

Figure 17  Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Allegory of the Good Government in the City (1338–9) (detail), Museo Civico, Siena, Italy © Comune di Siena.

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Hammerhead service station the characters would sleep in improvised camper caravans, or camp outright in the wilderness, the city of Lestallum offers the full-fledged Leville hotel. While this does not change the function of the game, and the primary denotative function of this virtual architecture construct is still the same – to allow the characters to accumulate the experience they accrue during the game and ‘level-up’ – it is interesting to notice how in Final Fantasy XV the amount of experience points they obtain, the currency that allows characters to advance their level and become stronger, is multiplied based on where they decide to rest. If camping in a tent in the wilderness only gives the basic number of experience points accumulated, resting in hotels multiplies that number by two or three. Hence, while the hotels’ primary denotative function is that of receptive structures, and thus the same as that of other inns or camping, their narrative secondary function informs players about their superior value as they accumulate more points. The difference in style between the stark industrial empire of Nifelheim and the Kingdom of Lucis is one of the typical tropes of Final Fantasy, at least since Final Fantasy VI and VII, and is displayed also in the Nifelheim military outposts in the regions of Leide, Duscae and Cleigne. Installations such as the Aracheole Stronghold, Formouth Garrison and Fort Vaullerey (Figure  18) display imposing béton brut outside walls and high-tech steel structures inside. Their structure follows what everyone would expect from a military garrison, or any kind of well-protected structure. Centuries earlier, Alberti advised

Figure  18  Fort Vaullerey in the Cleigne region in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016.

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architects to design military fortifications with a ‘menacing, hard and savage’3 ([1485] 1989, 184) visual aspect as a result of their function, what Eco calls the psychologically persuasive discourse of architecture, where ‘one is prompted to follow the “instructions” implicit in the architectural message’ (1997, 180). It is not difficult to interpret ‘big concrete wall with no openings’ as the architectural equivalent of ‘stay out’. This is a case where the semiotics of real and virtual architecture differ in their end result, their ‘significance’ to use a term coined by semiotician Victoria Welby ([1903] 2017, 5–6), i.e. ‘the overall effect, import and value of signifying processes’ (Petrilli 2009, 264). The primary denotative function of the virtual wall is the same as a real wall, to divide the inside from the outside and to prevent intrusion. The secondary connotative function in the real world would be that, in most cases, people would avoid the physical structure, and even more so avoid trying to enter it. Instead, in a digital game, a structure such as these forts, especially when placed in sparsely built areas, constitutes a significant sign that encourages anticipatory play. Signs read in the same language as real architecture, namely defensive walls, have the same functions, yet lead to different outcomes. In digital games, players will unavoidably be invited to try to break into the structure and their likely assumptions upon seeing such architectural signs could be deemed as follows: ‘such a well-guarded building must hold valuable loot’, or ‘this is the camp of the enemy that must be destroyed’, or more simply ‘what is such a structure doing there?’. This spatial demarcation between the open outside world, freely explorable, and the heavily guarded military outpost also involves a partial change in gameplay that occurs whenever players decide to infiltrate these structures. Once inside, the exploration shifts from the complete openness of the outside wilderness, to a system more akin to stealth games such as Splinter Cell (Ubisoft 2002–13) or Metal Gear Solid (Konami Computer Entertainment Japan 1998– 2015), where players try to avoid confrontation with enemies, or eliminate them covertly, rather than look for open conflict. The configuration of space in the military camps of Final Fantasy XV facilitates this kind of gameplay, with crates, containers and walls conveniently placed to offer cover. Freestanding structures such as water towers and cranes can also serve as footholds where the player can use the abilities of the character to teleport and gain a vantage point to strike enemies unseen. The anticipatory play is set by placing various

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architectural features: a passageway that could give a clear view on a guard to strike him, or a series of containers that would allow safe passage to a switch to open a door. Players, simply by seeing these signs, can elaborate strategies before putting them into practice. As a matter of fact, these sections are rather simplistic and do not offer the depth of the tactical approach of completely stealth focused games, such as the previously mentioned Metal Gear Solid. Although the action nature of Final Fantasy XV is still evident, it is notable that in the case at hand it is mostly the architectural design of these places that changes how gameplay is approached, rather than actual modifications in game mechanics, thereby demonstrating the central connotative role of architecture. For example, there are no additions such as the sensitivity of enemies to noise, or the possibility to try and lure them with a diversion. At the core, players are offered limited options, such as moving around the scenery, teleporting to certain points and combat. Also, combat has been slightly adapted, so that enemies can be killed quickly so as not to alert the others, but it is the change from large open spaces, where hiding is impossible, to enclosed spaces, that constitutes the most evident difference. Moreover, these enclosed spaces offer what Nitsche calls Arenas: ‘open structures with one dominating demarcation line’ (2008, 183), where players, usually at the end of the infiltration in the military garrison, are faced with a combat against a particularly powerful enemy, or a series of numerous enemies within an enclosed perimeter, in this case represented by the same elements that were used as cover shortly before. In these contexts, the architectural signs of water towers, scaffolds and containers that before had a denotative function related to gameplay, acquire a new meaning, for they are the ‘canvas for a performance’ (2008, 183).

Altissia The town of Lestallum functions as the main urban centre from which players can explore the game world freely in the first part of the game, but the cities that most characterize Final Fantasy XV are distinct from the open world exploration of the initial part, and are presented as separate spaces to be experienced individually. This change of pace in the game, from the open world exploration to a more restricted and linear gameplay, has been negatively

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received by the critics (Beck 2016; D. Roberts 2016), usually adducing the cause of its linearity to troubles during the development of the game that forced Square Enix to reduce its scope and size (Jordan 2016; Kollar 2016). Only the city of Altissia is – almost – completely explorable by players and functions as a major hub of the game, populated by non-playing characters, as well as side quests and events. The other cities of Insomnia and Gralea are less of an actual hub and serve more as a backdrop to a particular gameplay style that is pertinent to these two cities. The three cities of Altissia, Insomnia and Gralea are respectively the capitals of the Accordo Protectorate, the Kingdom of Lucis and the Niflheim Empire, and as such, they graphically reflect the culture of these three nations. Insomnia and Gralea are the capitals of two fighting countries, the conflict around which the game revolves, and their visual aspect represents the differences between the two. Altissia, on the other hand, is an independent city that looks radically different from the other two: The city of Altissia serves as a visual counterpoint to Insomnia. In early design phases, the modernistic Insomnia was based on the Shinjuku area of Tokyo and had a distinctive Japanese feel to it – at least to its Japanese designers. To optimize the contrast, the design of Altissia was based on historic European cities. For research purposes, artists visited Italian cities like Venice, Rome and Milan, and sampled stylistic references from baroque, gothic and renaissance architecture. (Brands, Brands and Terpstra 2017, CLXXIX)

Altissia is also the first major city players encounter outside the initial vast open area and is strongly inspired by the city of Venice (Figure  19). Cities loosely based on Venice are not rare in digital games, including the city of Gondolia in the JRPG Dragon Quest XI (Square Enix 2017a), although its artistic interpretation is rather different from Final Fantasy XV, as with the rest of the game. The Dragon Quest series always displays a graphic style more akin to animation than photorealism, particularly exacerbated by the use of a rendering technique called cell shading, which makes 3D models appear flat and resemble traditional animation rather than realistic objects. Gondolia follows this artistic vision, and it is a cartoonish version of the city, without any pretence of realism or precise references to the real site. Still in the panorama of Japanese games, the city of Noatun in the action game Bayonetta 2

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Figure 19  Altissia in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016 (above), and canal Rio de San Vio in Venice (below) (photo by the author).

(PlatinumGames 2014) was inspired by Italian cities, especially Venice and Florence (Onishi 2014), yet it is a general inspiration to recreate a pseudorealistic environment, rather than a direct adaptation of the real locations. As is the case with other settings in the game, Altissia is not a reconstruction of Venice. Square Enix’s artists have nevertheless managed to use the architectural signs of the real city to construct a credible and yet different city that embeds all the central Venetian elements and still fits within the world of Final Fantasy. Venice, and as we saw in Chapter 3, Florence, are ancient cities that, while preserving their appearance over the course of centuries, are still lived in and ‘contemporary’ by any other standard. This dichotomy perfectly meshes with the mix of fantasy and realism that Final Fantasy designers

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wanted to instil in their creation. In order to reach this result, the Square Enix team not only travelled to Italy to visit and survey the city itself, but took advantage of its Italian localization team to effect a current and accurate cultural reconstruction (Kollar 2017). Unlike the Venice of Assassin’s Creed II, which is set in the historical past, Final Fantasy XV’s Altissia is set in a fantasy world that nevertheless looks like our present time in many respects. In this regard, Altissia is very much an interpretation of contemporary Venice, a capriccio of how the city feels and looks, not dissimilar from what the famous vedute painter Canaletto rendered in the eighteenth century. Painter Antonio Canal, better known by his nickname Canaletto, is most famous for his views of Venice, yet he started his activity as a theatrical set designer, a phase that strongly influenced his later works. Before specializing in the vedute that would grant him immortal fame, Canaletto in fact painted several capricci, from the Capriccio Palladiano (1756) (Figure 20), where he places the never built Rialto bridge designed by Palladio on the Canal Grande in Venice, next to other Palladio works, the Basilica and Palazzo Chiericati, that are instead in Vicenza, to what is probably his very last work, the Perspective with Portico (1765). In his last painting, Canaletto leaves a testament of his architectural thought, in defence of the baroque style against the neo-gothic trend that was developing at the time in both Venice and England. The setting is the portico and courtyard of the exemplary Gothic Ca’ d’Oro in Venice, reworked with baroque elements, such as the door of the Palazzo del Grillo in Rome replacing the original ogival door (Kowalczyk Bozena 2018, 204). His vedute of Venice are evidently much closer to reality, yet not entirely accurate either: Canaletto’s is, au fond, an ideal city, constructed very consciously. The first indications of that are shown by his assured handling of physical facts, disposition of buildings, and so on; keen observer though he was of every aspect of Venice (as his drawings confirm), he unobtrusively asserted his artistic right to modify, move, and rearrange those facts in the interest of creating a picture. Not the least artful result of this process is retention, even perhaps enhancement, of the general verisimilitude in the finished work. (Levey 1989, 17)

This arguably is what makes them so compelling. Canaletto, and, by extension, Square Enix artists are using a set of signs that identify the city of Venice

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Figure  20 Canaletto, Capriccio with Palladian Buildings (1756–9), courtesy of the Ministry of Culture – Complesso Monumentale della Pilotta-Galleria Nazionale, Parma, Italy (above), and the monumental entrance to Altissia in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016 (below).

and combine them in a way that suits their needs. The whole repertoire of architectural and environmental signs that characterize Venice are selected and used to create Altissia. Water is obviously a crucial element in the discourse. Players enter the city of Altissia via boat, through an elevated waterway that separates it from the rest of the game world (Figure 20). This entrance has a

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double function: firstly, a technical/gameplay denotative one, as it allows for the game to load the highly complex scenery of the city. While players can move in and out of most of the other cities and outposts in the game seamlessly, none reach the extension and complexity of Altissia. Accordingly, more time is needed for the hardware to load the scenery, and this is masqueraded by the slow trek along the waterway – players will be able to instantly go back to Altissia later on in the game via a fast-travel menu option, yet that still prompts a loading screen that interrupts the action. Secondly, the monumental entrance is effective in its connotative function to introduce players to the splendours of the city, very much like monumental entrances were wont to do with respect to real cities, such as the Propylaea that leads to the Acropolis of Athens, or the gargantuan Tiananmen that marks the entrance to the Imperial City in Beijing, which communicate the magnificence and power of who built them to the outsiders entering these cities. Doors and gates, by their very nature as mandatory passages, are what Eco labels coercive architecture, for the design itself forces users to behave in a certain way, and thus experience the architecture from a certain viewpoint, selected both for primary denotative purposes – their defensive function – and also for the aforementioned secondary connotative reasons. The waterway itself is already an architectural symbol that positions players in this new environment. After the impressive but rather mundane concrete bridges of the region of Cleigne, the long spanning, decorated stone-clad water bridge is a noticeable change. Moreover, the waterway is built above a body of water, as the city of Altissia itself stands at the edge of a colossal waterfall. The architectural feature of an extensive waterway above a lake, combined with the location of the city on the edge of a waterfall are all signs that are constructed in order to set Altissia apart from the real Venice. They are both cities built on water that can only be reached from a bridge that crosses water, however these characteristics are exaggerated in Altissia. The real-life Ponte della Libertà, a road and railway bridge that is the only vehicular entry to the historical centre of Venice, becomes a colossal ornate water bridge that gives access to a lagoon which instead of facing the open Adriatic Sea, faces a waterfall. Square Enix thus used architectural signs that are common to real and fantastic settings, and easily understood, such as bridges, yet crafted them in a way that makes them both recognizable and evidently not real.

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At the end of the water bridge, there is the monumental entrance to Altissia, the first proper building we encounter in the Accordo Protectorate. The entryway displays a central part in Gothic style, clearly inspired by the Milan Cathedral, and is not completely out of place in a Venice-like city, with gothic elements such as pinnacles and spires that can be seen in some of Venice’s churches from the Basilica of San Marco to the Basilica of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari. This gate is surrounded by an expansive hemicycle and two colossal statues. When entering the city, the resemblance to the real Venice is evident, yet what is immediately noticeable is the multi-levelled nature of the city. Square Enix artist Mizushi Sugawara has pointed out that they used the vertical development of Altissia and the multiple water levels to bring originality to the Venice-inspired design (Goldfarb 2016). In the highest position of the city lies the Cathedral, an expanded version of the Basilica of San Marco, with multiple domes instead of the real five, and much grander in scale, yet still easily recognizable. Situating the most important building in an elevated position is an obvious choice, and in fact Alberti recommended that ‘the space occupied by the temple and the portico must be in an elevated and prominent position on the terrain and the rest of the city, which confers the building great importance’4 ([1485] 1989, 290). Square Enix designers decided to make this addition since this is not possible in Venice, as the real city is flat. When entering the city, players are greeted by features more in line with a modern city, rather than a fantasy or historical one. To maintain the artistic vision assumed by the game, which purports a more realistic environment, Altissia is closer to a representation of contemporary Venice than the city of the past. There are touristic information kiosks, the streets are lined with restaurants and shops, and the characters populating the city are dressed in contemporary fashionable attire, all signs that make the environment familiar and strange at the same time, especially for a JRPG, where improbable attires are more common, and seeing passers-by sporting jeans and jackets is definitely a rare sight, not to mention the Vivienne Westwood boutique. The vertical dimension of the city and its canals are not there uniquely to differentiate Altissia from the real Venice, as they also influence the gameplay and allow for anticipatory play. Altissia is rather maze-like, and finding specific objects and reaching determined locations can prove complicated, with many dead ends and disconnected passages. Players can also move around the city

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on the typical gondolas, using canals and elevated water bridges that connect the various sectors of the city (Figure 21). The virtual buildings that line the canals and streets of Altissia are never exact reconstructions of existing Venice dwellings. However, by using the same architectural vocabulary, Square Enix artists were able to recreate a similar environment. We can find all the elements that characterize Venetian architecture, notably the typical polifore windows that adorn the façades of Gothic palaces such as Ca’ Foscari, or the framed arches typical of late Renaissance buildings such as Sansovino’s Palazzo Corner and the National Library of St Mark, or even covered bridges reminiscent of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, and obviously, the Rialto Bridge in Venice itself. The colours are also lifted from the palette one can observe in Venice, from the grey Istrian stone to the red and yellow plaster. These elements are extrapolated from the original buildings and reassembled to create new ones, that albeit different, maintain the same look and style, and when combined, recreate the same general feel of the city. Most of the resulting buildings are more of a backdrop that is, in Eco’s words, ‘experienced inattentively’ as is the case with real architecture. Their primary denotative function is a backdrop for the story, as they are not there to house real nor virtual people, and the vast majority do not allow the players in either; they simply communicate a certain feeling about the location. Their secondary connotative function, however, is rather similar to their real counterparts, as Altissia also takes after the original commercial vocation and independent nature of the Republic of Venice. In Final Fantasy XV, Altissia is

Figure 21  The ruins of Altissia in Final Fantasy XV: Episode Ignis © Square Enix 2017.

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the capital of the Accordo Protectorate, a political entity formally independent from the Niflheim Empire. Its geopolitical position allows Altissia to be a peaceful city, despite ongoing conflict, and due to its commercial nature, it is very prosperous. The situation of the real Venice is quite comparable, as the city has never been sacked and remained a safe commercial port for most of its history. Accordingly, its palaces display larger openings compared to their contemporaries in other cities such as Florence, since they usually did not have a defensive function. Also, there was often a commercial activity on the palaces’ ground floors, called fondaco, which changed use with time, and is present in the game with the restaurants and shops that are currently in Venice. The impression of a rich and relaxed city that Altissia conveys is there also to offer a contrast to the events that are going to unfold. Indeed, an act of destruction is all the more evident when effected towards an architecture, a city, that we perceived as well developed, functional and beautiful, since we would consider that the damage inflicted is much more severe. This is a trope commonly used in digital games, where players get acquainted with a scenery for a long enough period of time – especially if compared to other media, such as film – so that when a destructive event takes place that alters it, the result is more impactful than a display of the act itself and its aftermath. For instance, in the RPG game The Witcher 3: Blood & Wine (CD Projekt RED 2016), it is the splendid fictional city of Beauclair that gets ravaged in the final act of the game, after players spent the whole game roaming its tranquil streets. The same happens in Altissia, which gets partly destroyed during the events of the game. This disaster also marks the change of pace of the whole game, that progressively becomes more linear, from the almost cheerful freeroaming exploration of the beginning, to the more coercive architecture of destroyed Altissia, and thereafter to straight train rides and corridor-like gameplay in the city of Gralea, whereby the variation in architectural design – and its destruction – accompany variations in gameplay, narration, and tone. The primary denotative function of architecture varies in being more or less coercive as to where the player is allowed to go, influencing the gameplay, and the secondary connotative function changes to suit the shift in tone of the storyline. The events that lead to the partial destruction of Altissia are also the focus of one of Final Fantasy XV’s downloadable contents (DLC), Episode Ignis

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(Square Enix 2017b), that partly changes the gameplay to accrue the players’ involvement with the environment. In the main game, players are able to explore Altissia uniquely on foot and on the gondolas. The game does not allow them to freely roam through the city as in games such as Assassin’s Creed, and is instead limited to the normal paths of streets and waterways. Instead, in Episode Ignis, players are given a grappling hook tool that enables them to explore Altissia like never before. The DLC takes place during the events that bring destruction to the city, and as such the scenery changes quite drastically from what the players were accustomed to (Figure 21). No more characters casually strolling along the streets, but rather enemies behind every corner. The architectural landscape supports this new development, and the previously regular streets and buildings are replaced by a maze of rubble and ruins. The function of architecture changes as well, from being coercive in the main game, where it would force players along paths, to the disorderly ruins of Altissia. These ruins become the tools of exploration, and elements that were merely part of the background, turn into signs that allow for new possibilities as well as anticipatory play. For instance, a bell tower that was simply a nice aesthetic connotative background acquires a denotative function as a useful point to reach in order to progress in the game. An addition in the DLC is also the possibility to ‘liberate’ the various sectors of the city from invading troops, which can be achieved by the usual combat, but planned from a bird’s eye view map of the city that allows players to organize their moves. While the map itself and this new modality have little impact on the gameplay at large, when players use the map and see the various city sectors to liberate, Altissia becomes more relevant to them as they are made increasingly aware of its existence as a city and not exclusively as a backdrop.

­Insomnia So this is the city Somnus built. Built on the back of his own flesh and blood. Just look at them, free of care and unaware of the war beyond their Wall. – Ardyn (Square Enix 2019)

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As a contrast to the old city of Altissia, the city of Insomnia (Figure 22 and Figure 23) is a modern metropolis, based on the Shinjuku district of Tokyo, but with elements of New York, Paris and London (Kollar 2017). Insomnia is the capital of the Kingdom of Lucis and hometown of the protagonist Noctis. The city itself is not explored much in the base game, while it is pre-eminently featured in the movie released at the same time of the game titled Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV and especially in the last downloadable content released for Final Fantasy XV, Episode Ardyn (Square Enix 2019). The divergence from Altissia is in architectural style rather than in how the city is depicted. Insomnia is a wealthy and elegant city as much as Altissia, and as the crown city it is full of grandiose architecture. However, contrary to Altissia, characterized by Venetian traditional architecture, a salient feature of Insomnia is the mixture of fantasy and modernity that permeates it, which

Figure 22  The Citadel in the Episode Ardyn DLC © Square Enix 2019 (above), and in the main Final Fantasy XV game © Square Enix 2016 (below).

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Figure 23  A street in Insomnia during the events of the main Final Fantasy XV game (above) © Square Enix 2016 and in Final Fantasy XV: Episode Ardyn (below) © Square Enix 2019.

is reflected in its architectural design. The skyline of the city is not dissimilar from what we would expect of a modern metropolis such as Tokyo or New York, with a cluster of tall skyscrapers and large highways, but in order not to make it look too mundane, Square Enix artists added architectural signs that are usually extraneous to modern cities. Insomnia is surrounded by a colossal wall, with elevated highways that reach inside the city passing through gates adorned by gargantuan statues. The wall is a connotative architectural element that plays an important role in the lore of the game, as it is part of a magical shield that surrounds the city and is fuelled by the power of the reigning monarch, and subsequently by Noctis, the protagonist. Within the city itself, there is much juxtaposition of modern and classical or medieval architecture. The royal palace, called the Citadel, a structure that is traditionally housed in old buildings – as is in fact the case with the Imperial

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Palace in Tokyo, or Buckingham Palace in London – is composed of two highrises, inspired by the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building designed by renowned architect Kenzo Tange in 1990 (Figure 22). The building is one of the tallest of Tokyo and the seat of the local government, holding thus both a functional and symbolic architectural importance. In Final Fantasy it serves a similar purpose, as the residence of the king and the court, and most importantly, of the crystal that through the monarch fuels the wall that protects the city. In accordance with its role as royal palace, the Citadel is surrounded by water, similarly to the moats of medieval castles, but unlike them, it is not deep, nor does it surround the building completely, making it a useless defensive measure, and existing only as a symbol that communicates the role of the Citadel as the royal palace. The exterior resembles typical art deco skyscrapers such as the Woolworth building in New York City, designed by Cass Gilbert and completed in 1912, with a rather austere exterior showing simplified mouldings and accentuating the verticality of the structure, yet with a very ornate interior, where the rooms evoke what one would expect from a royal palace, such as Corinthian columns and multi-coloured stone floors. The throne room, where important events in the game take place, is decorated with Gothic motifs, such as the typical pointed and trefoil arches, and compound piers with elongated shafts. The use of Gothic rather than classical or modern architecture for the throne room fulfils its connotative role implying the spiritual power of the monarch. Eco affirmed that we automatically link Gothic architecture to the religious and the spiritual (1997, 181), and it is indeed true that in many Japanese games, churches are most often represented in Gothic style rather than Renaissance or Baroque, such as in the action game Devil May Cry (Capcom and Ninja Theory 2001–19) and the JRPG Xenosaga (Monolith Soft 2002–6), two games with strong religious undertones, or the famous Sector 5 church of Final Fantasy VII, where players encounter the beloved character Aerith and which happens to be the only place where flowers can bloom in the city of Midgar. Unlike Altissia, where players discover a bustling and lively city only to witness its destruction in a pivotal moment of the game, Insomnia is the theatre of action exclusively after its destruction in the last part of the main game. This fact fits into the remaining part of the plot, which becomes darker

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as the game progresses. The final section set in Insomnia takes place after a hiatus of ten years, during which the main villain de facto won and is ruling the world. The architecture thus reflects this storyline. In fact, after the hiatus, which is not shown in the game, but only recalled by other characters when the protagonist wakes up, players are brought to the very first location of the game, the Hammerhead service station. Again, it is the architecture of the setting that shows how things have changed: elements such as barbed wire, heavy gates and walls protect the building, which was previously open and easy to access, showing a noticeable development in the region, from peaceful to dangerous. Insomnia is in an even worse state, devoid of its population with only a handful of resistance soldiers in the subway tunnels, and on the surface one can only see ruins and abandoned buildings (Figure 23). There is thus a dichotomy between the above ground, where the actual city should be, and which has become a battleground, where the only action players can perform is to fight, and the underground, safe for the most part. The only building that is still lit in Insomnia is the Citadel, which will in fact be the theatre of the final act of the game. The Citadel acquires a quasi-religious aura, as it was for Gothic towers attached to churches. Given its more elaborate and grandiose architecture compared to its real counterpart in Tokyo, this is all the more evident. An intact Insomnia is instead visible both in the movie Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV, where we see the events that brought upon its destruction, and especially in the final DLC for the game, Episode Ardyn, where it can be explored by players. In this instance, the city very closely resembles a modern metropolis. Very much like Altissia, Insomnia recreates the feeling of a large contemporary city by using various architectural signs, yet without exactly copying specific buildings. High rises are the main buildings we can see, and are embedded in the gameplay as the main character of the DLC, the titular Ardyn, can teleport himself using architectural elements as ‘hooks’ to move throughout the city and reach the various objectives. To make the city more realistic, large avenues and towering high rises are not the only buildings we can find, as smaller streets lined by three- or four-storied buildings, or quaint squares with benches are present as well (Figure 23). This architecture and its details, even if experienced exclusively on the tacit level, give the players the impression of an actual lived-in city, rather than a

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constructed backdrop designed exclusively to represent the crown city and its royal power. The objectives players need to reach within the city in Episode Ardyn are initially a series of shield generators that sport a visibly different design from the surrounding architecture, and in line with their role of ‘sacred’ protectors of the city, they received the same design treatment that we saw in the interior of the Citadel, resembling Gothic ciboria or funerary monuments. These shield generators recall monuments such as the fourteenth-century Scaliger Tomb in Verona or other funerary memorials namely the Albert Memorial in London, designed by George Gilbert Scott in 1872, once again underlying their religious symbolism. This connotative differentiation also serves as a visual sign for players to identify the objective, other than the pointers the map provides.

Gralea The city of Gralea, unlike Altissia and Insomnia, is not freely explorable by players during the game, and in fact marks the change of pace in gameplay, where architecture becomes more coercive and gameplay more linear. This section of the game has been received less positively by the critics, as in the following review: ‘[o]ne particularly painful section temporarily strips Noctis of his friends, his powers, and his gear, forcing him down narrow corridor after narrow corridor for almost two hours’ (Ingenito 2016). It is interesting to notice how the adjective ‘narrow’ carries a negative connotation, as corridors themselves are perceived as unwelcome architectural elements, if the gameplay is relegated to them. Gralea is a modern city like Insomnia, and the secondary connotative function of its architecture is to represent the Niflheim Empire as the negative force in the game (Figure 24). Insomnia and Gralea are both crown cities, yet their architecture can tell us more about how they are governed. Similarly to the aforementioned Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s fresco (Figure  17), the city of Gralea is dark and devoid of inhabitants; its buildings are stark and menacing. To further convey this idea, the players’ objective in Gralea is to reach the Zagnatus Keep, a visual counterpoint to the Citadel of Insomnia. Alberti’s writings about cities are relevant in this case:

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Figure 24  The city of Gralea in Final Fantasy XV © Square Enix 2016.

Depending if the power is handled by a tyrant (as he is called) or by someone who acquires and preserves it as a position given to him by others, almost all buildings and even cities change. It will be proper for a king to have a city fortified in the appropriate locations to defend it from external enemies; whereas a tyrant, since his citizens are his enemies as much as foreigners, must fortify his city against both. ([1485] 1989, 175)5

In fact, the main feature of Altissia is its large outside wall, whereas in Gralea the most striking feature we notice is the massive Zagnatus Keep, an immense fortress atop an extremely high tower. As underscored by Alberti: It will be convenient for the king’s residence to be placed in the middle of the city, to be easily accessible and richly ornamented, to be distinguished more for its elegance and grace than its imposingness. Conversely, the residence of a tyrant will be placed as a fortress, and as such it will not be part of the city, nor external to it. ([1485] 1989, 182)6

It is easy to see how this is exemplified in the two cities of Insomnia and Gralea as the differences in their architecture have the connotative function to communicate their role in the story to players, and how changes in gameplay are reflected in their denotative functions as well.

Conclusions It is possible to see how the architectural design of Final Fantasy XV and its main locations can be semiotically analysed in order to understand both how it

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informs gameplay via its primary denotative function, and how it is employed to communicate narrative information via its secondary connotative function. The architectural design of the main cities of Altissia, Insomnia and Gralea was planned by Square Enix artists and designers with a clear communicative intention that is best explained with an architectural semiotic analysis. The design of the various cities allows for different forms of gameplay as its primary denotative function, and accompanies the story and expands the lore of the game through its secondary connotative function, both ludological and narratological, while allowing for anticipatory play. Moreover, the main gameplay innovation of Final Fantasy XV compared to its predecessors, i.e. its open world, is communicated to players by way of architectural signs. The change in gameplay style during the game is also visually understandable as change in architectural design. The DLCs of the game which expand its options and allow players to freely visit structures and neighbourhoods not otherwise accessible in the game further demonstrate the importance of architecture. Final Fantasy XV therefore constitutes an excellent example of the role played by fantastic architecture in digital games.

­5

NaissanceE

Introduction NaissanceE is a first-person exploration and platform game developed by oneman team Limasse Five in 2014. The game was subsequently released free of charge as of September 2018. In NaissanceE there are no characters aside from the protagonist, no dialogues nor text, as the main idea behind the game, in the words of the author, Mavros Sedeño is ‘to make the player appreciate the loneliness, the feeling to be lost in a gigantic unknown universe and to be marvelled by the beauty of this world’ (2014a). Architecture plays a major role in the game, given the absence of any signs that usually communicate with players, such as text and voiceovers. For this reason, the architecture in NaissanceE is ‘[e]vocating and symbolic’ and ‘will lead player’s imagination to find an answer’ (2014a), making it particularly apt for a semiotic analysis. Despite its small size and development, the game received considerable media attention, with reviews appearing on major digital games websites. Since then, it has become a cult game amongst architecture enthusiasts, and not by chance, as its author claims that: architecture is the basic element of games. Because games are almost always a process of going from one point to another. And in-between you have doors, you have puzzles, and it is always a journey, always a progression through space. Except in pure puzzle games, or text adventures, but in the majority of games it is the architecture you are experimenting with, though with new rules: with different gravity, with different ways to move. It’s the essence of games. I played with this notion when I came to make NaissanceE. (Sedeño 2017, 100)

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So-called walking simulators where players’ only task is to travel across the environment to discover the story – either through narration or texts – such as Dear Esther (The Chinese Room 2012) or Gone Home (The Fullbright Company 2013) were becoming popular at the time when NaissanceE was first released. Unlike those games, despite being based on exploration, NaissanceE puts players to the test with puzzles and especially with platform sections that require precise timing and careful consideration of distances in order to be successful. Players thus interact with architecture not only in a passive way, but it affects gameplay as well, despite the fact that the platforming sections have been generally found frustrating and condemned by critics (Capozzoli 2014; Lafleuriel 2014; Rossignol 2014; Rubbini 2014). Nevertheless, the point on which all critics agree, and that determined the fame of the game, is undoubtedly NaissanceE’s environments, whose stark beauty is the most defining aspect of the game (Figure  25). In their reviews, Andrea Rubbini affirms that ‘most of the pleasure in the game comes from admiring the panorama and penetrating its geometries’1 (2014), and Jim Rossignol points out the similarities between NaissanceE and paper architecture: ‘It’s akin to wandering around one of those ultra high concept design pieces that architects occasionally spew out, but never build’ (2014). The architecture in NaissanceE is impressive and fascinating, but in a disturbing and foreboding way. Nick Capozzoli calls it ‘the architecture of the unwelcome’ (2014), and it is indeed an inhuman and inhospitable world that we have to wander in NaissanceE. Unlike visionary architectural projects that, even if impossible or barely feasible, are often an exercise in the design of a

Figure 25  A corridor in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

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desirable result, the scenery of NaissanceE is a dystopian capriccio that is not intended as a welcome outcome. In NaissanceE, no explanation is given as to why the world is the way it is, nor where we are precisely, and as such it does not follow the tropes of many other dystopian digital games or movies, set in post-apocalyptic scenarios such as after a nuclear war as in the Fallout series (Interplay Entertainment et al. 1997–2018), a global pandemic as in The Last of Us (Naughty Dog 2013), or just the typical cyberpunk grim future of the Deus Ex series (Ion Storm and Square Enix Montreal 2000–16). In these examples, the look of the virtual environment is shaped by and for human actions; the ruins of cities in Fallout are due to nuclear bombings, the cities reclaimed by nature in The Last of Us are due to human absence and neglect, and the hightech, grim cities of Deus Ex are the direct results of human-enforced policies. In NaissanceE, the human factor is completely absent, both in the motivation for the existence of the world, and for its design. In fact, it is precisely designed so that it communicates a feeling of estrangement to players: ‘I just wanted the architecture to express the feeling you need to feel, in this place’ (Sedeño 2017, 95). Players are dropped in a gigantic megastructure without knowing anything about the why, where or what is going on, except that they are initially chased by a monstrous presence. The first aspect that players notice is the size of the environments, with seemingly interminable corridors and incredibly high ceilings. Crossing these spaces requires noticeably more time than we are used to in digital games, where transitions between one space and another in a straight line, especially in interior environments that offer no other task than to proceed, are resolved in a matter of seconds. In NaissanceE, there is a breathing mechanic whereby players are prompted to time the click of the mouse to the breathing of their avatar in order to sustain the run. This feature has been at times praised by critics as a nice touch that makes players active during long straight distances (Rossignol 2014; Rubbini 2014), or shunned as an annoying distraction (Capozzoli 2014). Aside from gameplay considerations, the act of breathing provides some information about our avatar and gives some meaning to the player’s position in the strange world of NaissanceE. As we are not given any information about who we impersonate, this knowledge can only be inferred from external clues. The voice we hear from our avatar, the fact that she needs to breathe, that she cannot sustain falls from high places or run for extended periods of time, and also the movement speed and jump height, make

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us understand that we are somehow humans, in a world that has been hardly designed with humans in mind. The denotation of space is thus effected through our movement possibilities: we read architectural signs based on their distance from us. In a room of seemingly random cubes protruding from walls, our next course of action will be to jump to the cube we can reach, or to jump down if we see that the height is not too dissuasive. The primary function of architecture, which in this case is to let us progress, is semiotically communicated through size and distances. This concept has been articulated by Enzo D’Armenio, who affirms that the semiotics of digital games is expressed through the exploration of their spaces, which are defined – before being a visual effect – as the movement that players can effect within the environment (2014, 93–5). What makes the environment even more alien is that it lacks any noticeable features, such as textures or colours, architectural signs that communicate to us the material employed: NaissanceE uses simple texture-less shapes combined in such a way that leads to rich and complex environments. This paradoxical association creates an unusual visual style helping to give this world its particular mood. In addition, the almost colour-less ambiance re-enforces the feeling of desolation and abandonment the player experiences when exploring the endless gigantic structures of NaissanceE. (Sedeño 2014b)

The bleak landscapes, especially since they are, for the most part, devoid of any life, might bring to mind sepulchres of a dead civilization, and in fact they do resemble the description that eighteenth-century architect ÉtienneLouis Boullée gives of funerary monuments ‘in order to produce sad and dark images, as I tried to do with funerary monuments, we need to present the skeleton of architecture as an imposing wall, completely bare’2 ([1790] 2005, 33). Boullée, on whom we will elaborate later in this chapter, is a particularly relevant architect for the analysis of NaissanceE. Although he was not a direct influence on its design, he is reputed as one of the most famous ‘visionary’ architects, and both his colossal designs and his theory of an architecture of ‘lights and shadows’ very much recall what we experience in NaissanceE. This architectural vision of a world radically different from ours in scale and design is inspired, in the case of NaissanceE, mainly from the works of Japanese

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mangaka Tsutomu Nihei, but it fits within a long-standing tradition of visionary architecture that tried to imagine how the future would look, or simply to extend to its limits the imagination of designers to create so-called ‘paper architecture’, that is, projects that are planned to remain as such. Architecture has always been a clear symbol that represents cultures, civilizations and their status. Using architecture as a metaphor of a social system, or as a physical representation of the latter has been common practice, from Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s Buon Governo frescoes we discussed in the previous chapter, to the dystopian vision of the future in films such as Blade Runner (Scott 1982), all the way to contemporary digital games. Sedeño affirms that ‘a lot of structures in NaissanceE are inspired by real architectures and architects’ [sic] works, mainly Frank Lloyd [sic] Wright. But indeed fictional architectures take a big place as influences’ (2017, 97). It does not come as a surprise that Frank Lloyd Wright’s sleek and monumental forms served as inspiration, especially if we look at some of his later projects, such as the Pittsburgh Point Park with its suspended bridge and monolithic tower, or the interior of the Marin Country Civic Centre, with its long smooth surfaces. In fact, Wright’s architecture has already been used several times as the actual background for science fiction movies, such as Gattaca (Niccol 1997) and THX 1138 (Lucas 1971), and the design of Rick Deckard’s apartment in Blade Runner (Scott 1982) is modelled after Wright’s Ennis Brown House (Fortin 2011, 100). Wright’s production includes ‘paper architecture’ as well, from his large-scale urban projects, to his mile-high skyscraper. Save for stylistic reference, however, we do not find the same kind of megastructures or voluntarily inhuman structures offered in NaissanceE, hence a parenthesis about visionary architecture is opportune.

The visionary tradition in architecture In the preface to the second book of his De architectura, Vitruvius mentions the architect Dinocrates, who proposed to Alexander the Great to shape Mount Athos in Greece as a colossal statue, holding an entire large city in its left hand. A poorly planned idea, as Alexander did not hesitate to point out to Dinocrates, since providing food to the city would be overly complicated. However, the great conqueror appreciated the architect’s inclination to grandiose plans, and offered

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Dinocrates to come with him as part of his entourage (Vitruvius 1931, vol. I, bk. II, 1). Seemingly monumental projects in architecture can be found, either on paper or actually built, throughout time and space, for example the cathedral of Florence, mentioned in Chapter  3, built without knowing how to actually construct the dome that was intended to crown it, which was indeed realized only several decades later, or the mile-high skyscraper imagined by Frank Lloyd Wright, of which a halved but similar looking version can be seen today in the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, the tallest man-made structure at the time of writing. It is worth mentioning the works and writings of eighteenth-century engraver Giovanni Battista Piranesi, if anything for the enormous influence that his etchings had on much of subsequent fantastic architecture. The most famous work of Piranesi is a series of capricci titled Carceri d’invenzione (Imaginary Prisons, Figure  26), a series of engravings portraying grim and convoluted underground environments, which have been unsurprisingly compared to NaissanceE on more than one occasion (Capozzoli 2014; Sedeño 2014b).

Figure 26  Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Scale, arcate e capriate, etching, mm 410 × 545 (1761) © Roma, Istituto centrale per la grafica, courtesy of the Ministry of Culture.

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Piranesi was trained as an architect and set designer in Venice, and although his major works involved the etchings of Roman vedute, he always displayed a particularly imaginative style. Even his capricci, when compared to his Roman contemporaries, ‘marked a distinguishable contrast to the highly ordered schemes of the capricci of Panini, Canaletto and Ricci’ (Selena 2016, 97). Piranesi’s work is interesting to look at when taking into consideration Nihei’s Blame! as well as Sedeño’s NaissanceE, as they are both set in environments where their ancientness and stillness are evident. Piranesi’s depiction of Roman ruins followed a similar programme, as his design ‘is fantastic instead of imitative’ (Wittkower 1938, 155) and together with accurate surveys and architectural drawings of temples and aqueducts, we can find fantastical reconstructions of a gigantic Rome that never was, such as in his Ancient Intersection of the Via Appia and Via Ardeatina (1756), where colossal monuments line the ancient Roman roads walked by minuscule figures. It is easy to see the echo of the complex architecture of Piranesi’s Prisons in NaissanceE, and even more so in the works of Nihei. These dystopic dungeons with vast interiors full of connecting bridges, stairs and narrow passages, often filled with smoke coming from various openings, look like ancient versions of NaissanceE’s levels. In Piranesi’s work there is often a sense of contradiction that stuns the viewer, using architectural signs in a novel language: He reverses the traditional meaning of architectural structure in general and of the single parts. A pediment, on which the structural emphasis of the building is usually laid, is degraded by him to a decorative detail; ornamental frames, on the other hand, became structural features; one architectural feature is placed in front of another in such a way that the different planes of the building are confused. (Wittkower 1938, 156)

Sedeño does not cite Piranesi as a direct influence on his level design, nor does Nihei, who is, however, more secretive about his sources (Nihei and Seshita 2016). The evident resemblance is proof of the long-lasting impact of Piranesi’s etchings and his influence on many subsequent architects, especially when it comes to visionary and fantastic architecture. Piranesi’s work ‘was catalytic to experiment in architecture among French, English, and German designers, as studies on Adam, Soane, Boullée, Ledoux, Gilly, and Schinkel demonstrate’

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(Kirk 2006, 239), and even inspired later authors, down to deconstructivists such as Franco Purini, whose drawing Casa di un collezionista di stampe piranesiane (House of a collector of Piranesi’s etchings) (1979) would not look out of place as one of NaissanceE’s levels. The already mentioned French architect and scholar Étienne-Louis Boullée is the second most evident precursor to the megastructures of NaissanceE. Although his design is also based on principles of utility and feasibility, Boullée’s architecture is probably one of the most famous examples of ‘visionary’ architecture, if anything because none of his projects have ever been built. As many of his contemporaries, Boullée’s designs were ‘ideal in the sense of being dedicated to civic virtue, but they were often rendered on a gigantic scale that defied both man’s comprehension and his building techniques’ (Collins 1968, 311). His most famous work, the Cénotaphe de Newton (1784) (Figure 27), is a colossal sphere on a pedestal. Its empty interior is lit at night with a massive spherical lamp at its centre, whereas during daytime light will filtrate through small holes in the dome, simulating the starry sky, in a reversal of the natural cycle. Boullée considered that sepulchres in particular have to be ‘completely bare’ ([1790] 2005, 33), which makes his work resemble NaissanceE’s environment even more, but all of his production is a stylized classical

Figure  27 Étienne-Louis Boullée, Cénotaphe de Newton (1784). Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, département estampes et photographie.

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design that plays more on scale and light, rather than on the articulation of architectural elements. As George R. Collins explains when describing Boullée’s work: These prismatic, cylindrical, spherical, and pyramidal elements were then so deployed that they seemed to confront each other in wilful and often surprising relationships – quite devoid of the effects of continuity and of transition between parts that had characterized the baroque styles against which they were reacting. (1968, 311)

The choice of forms is unsurprisingly semiotically relevant, not just the forms, but the whole design is supposed to convey meaning: ‘I find it impossible to conceive something sadder than a monument consisting of a smooth, bare and plain surface, made with a light-absorbing material, completely devoid of details and whose decoration is an assemblage of shadows delineated by even darker shadows’3 (Boullée [1790] 2005, 89). In the project for the Royal Library (1785), Boullée designed the enormous space as an effective solution to the growing collection of books and for ease of access, yet he did not ignore the type of message a royal library is meant to convey, since ‘I wanted our literary heritage to be collected in the most beautiful context possible. For this reason I thought that nothing would be grander, more noble, more exceptional and more splendid than a vast amphitheatre of books’4 ([1790] 2005, 83). The theme of large structures, and especially their relationship to the human scale and their representativeness of a culture, was also common in the following century. Albeit usually within a natural setting, the theme of small figures dwarfed by the environment was a recurring one amongst the Hudson River School painters in the first half of the nineteenth century. Architectural examples also abounded, such as Thomas Cole’s The Architects Dream (1840) (Figure 28), a composition of multiple styles, all of them at incredible scale, with pyramids, Greek temples and Gothic cathedrals several times larger than anything ever constructed. His The Titan’s Goblet (1833) features an entire lake and buildings built upon a gigantic goblet, reminding us of Vitruvius’ story of Dinocrates and Alexander mentioned earlier. Cole’s famous series, The Course of Empire (1833–6) – composed of The Savage State; The Arcadian or Pastoral

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The Semiotics of Architecture in Video Games

Figure 28  Thomas Cole (American, born England, 1801–48), The Architect’s Dream, 1840, oil on canvas, 53 × 84 1/16 in., Toledo Museum of Art (Toledo, Ohio). purchased with funds from the Florence Scott Libbey Bequest in memory of her father, Maurice A. Scott, 1949.162.

State; The Consummation of Empire; Destruction; and Desolation – displays the rise and fall of an imaginary civilization, with a clear recall to the history of ancient Rome. Architecture is the protagonist of the series, with grandiose buildings in The Consummation, which are subsequently destroyed by the invading enemy in Destruction, and of which only a lone column and ruined bridges are visible in the final Desolation, the last architectural signs of a dead civilization. In an etching for the first edition of Jules Verne The Begum’s Fortune (1879), Léon Benett illustrated the imaginary industrial city of Stahlstadt as filled with high smoking and flaming chimneys, surrounded by a colossal wall with a central massive building in the distance and small, in comparison, freight trains going inside. By looking at it, this dystopic vision of the industrial city cannot but remind us of the portrayal of future Los Angeles in the film Blade Runner a century later, and its display of the dehumanizing aspect of the industrial city, an aspect that will be prevalent in the 1960s radical imaginary cities proposals. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the artistic movement Futurism was founded by Italian poet Filippo Tommaso Marinetti and soon joined

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by artists from other disciplines. Antonio Sant’Elia, whose work was highly influential in the design of futuristic architecture in fictions, was an architect who became part of this movement, and who penned the Manifesto of Futurist Architecture ([1914] 2007). As highlighted by Llorenç Bonet, ‘[i]ndeed, the work of Sant’Elia, along with Fritz Lang’s film “Metropolis” (1927), comprise a highly potent twentieth-century image of the modern city’ (2003, 7). In Collin’s opinion: futurism, does not bear much relation either formally or programmatically to the eighteenth-century revolutionaries, to judge from the projects of Antonio Sant’Elia, the major architectural representative of the movement. While some of his renderings do have a certain geometric quality to their volumes as well as a free and arbitrary interlocking of elements and an over powering scale, the similarities stop there. Sant’Elia sought dynamics rather than stasis, skeleton rather than mass, instantaneity rather than elementarism, and, above all, impermanence, which is the negation of the romantic-classic tradition. (1968, 313)

Sant’Elia’s Manifesto brings an idea that will be central to the twentieth century and especially to radical visionary architecture, and to a certain extent even to the manga Blame! and then NaissanceE: that of constant change. In the Manifesto he writes: ‘we have to invent and rebuild the futurist city similarly to an immense building site in uproar, agile, mobile, dynamic in its every part’5 (Sant’Elia [1914] 2007, 8). Despite the look of monumental immobility, the world of Blame! is constantly in flux, changed by automated machines without pause. In NaissanceE as well we can see moving and changing parts, all without human intervention, signs of a ‘living’ mechano-architectural world. Sant’Elia himself, despite being against monumentalism and square forms in his Manifesto, writes words that would make sense in the inhuman and artificial architecture of NaissanceE: ‘as the ancients drew inspiration from the art of nature, we – materially and spiritually artificial – must find that inspiration in the elements of the new mechanical world we created’6 (Sant’Elia [1914] 2007, 12). If we look at Sant’Elia’s main work, the series of drawings La città nuova (The New City), which depicts a futuristic metropolis, despite the focus on communications, roads and movement, we can still see some of the

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same  monumentalism we witnessed in Boullée’s works. One of Sant’Elia’s aspirations was ‘revealing an unadorned architectural composition language where the forms were the building’s sole protagonists’ (Bonet 2003, 45) and the towering, sleek buildings he designed would not be out of place in NaissanceE. In fact, due to the influence of the works of Viennese architect Otto Wagner, who ‘encouraged his students to work on fantasy projects to get them to give their imagination a workout’ (2003, 31), in some of Sant’Elia’s buildings it is possible to see ‘staircases of a considerable degree of slope – and without a human scale – that establish perpendicular axes into powerful accessways; vast buttresses that transform the building into a tectonic mass that more closely resembles a lone pyramid than a structure destined to any urban use’ (2003, 31). These sights are common in both Nihei’s work and NaissanceE, where the architectural signs of stairs often have the secondary function of connoting the scale and artificiality of the environment, with their lack of handrails and vertiginous heights. The design of colossal structures was evidently not an isolated fact. Architect Le Corbusier, one of the ‘fathers of modernism’, proposed several city plans consisting of megastructures, including a colossal elevated highway incorporating housing as its base in his 1930 plan for Algiers. This gigantic structure would stretch along the littoral and connect the city to the suburbs, while hosting ‘hanging villas’, duplexes with garden terraces, as well as shopping districts and pedestrian walkways. It is, however, in the 1960s that ‘appear hyper technological proposals from those who want to bring to the extreme the suggestions of the avantgarde’7 (Montaner [1993] 2006, 113), and the concept of megastructure, a ‘large structural frame providing shelves that can serve as sites for buildings, neighbourhoods, or whole villages’ (Collins 1968, 320) becomes more prevalent. The idea of a megastructure is characterized not only by its exceptional size, but it is also constituted by smaller units within, often flexible and modifiable (Eaton 2002, 219). Architect Kenzo Tange proposed an expansion for the city of Tokyo inside its bay through the use of several colossal modules connected along an axis, called Tokyo 1960. Peter Cook, from the British group Archigram, proposed a Plug-in City in 1964, a megastructure composed of giant cranes that would move the various ‘plug-ins’ of residential units around a central giant machine. Inspired by Archigram works, the collective Superstudio, founded in

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Florence in 1966, developed many visionary projects during the second half of the 1960s and the 1970s. The most influential, as well as relevant for our analysis, is Il Monumento Continuo (The Continuous Monument) (1969–70), a series of featureless monolithic structures – not unlike the monolith of 2001: A Space Odyssey (Kubrick 1968) – that span the natural and urban landscape. In these projects, the enormous geometric figures cross the environment as completely alien elements, with no relationship to either the natural landscape or the built environment, as the definite supremacy of form and technology over matter and nature. The architectural sign here is a complete dichotomy with nature, including humans. Inspired by Superstudio’s works, Rem Koolhaas and Elia Zenghelis designed a visionary project in their Exodus, or the Voluntary Prisoners of Architecture (1972), where enormous megastructures enclose part of the city of London. The works of Superstudio were in fact designed as a criticism of the ideas of modernism, done by ‘cynically transforming the entire planet in a funereal parade of the spoils of its absurd «order»’ 8 (Biraghi 2008, II: 188). This extreme outcome is the world portrayed in Blame! and NaissanceE, where architecture is based on functions and ideas beyond the human needs, and ‘architecture must abandon its artistic, handcrafted and historical condition, and enter in the world of industrial production’9 (Montaner [1993] 2006, 117). On the opposite side, at least conceptually, we can find Paolo Soleri’s ‘arcologies’, a neologism born from the combination of ‘architecture’ and ‘ecology’ based on the idea of a peaceful coexistence between humanity and nature. These megastructures are intended to be self-sufficient cities and eliminate criminality and social segregation: ‘A social pattern is influenced, if not directed, by the physical pattern that shelters it’ (Soleri 1973, 31). Unlike the completely mechanical, industrial design of the previous megastructures, for Soleri ‘[a]rchitecture is the physical form of the ecology of the human’ (1973, 7). Humanity and nature are thus at the centre of the design, which still resembles in many ways, at least on the outside, the geometric monoliths of Superstudio and the Euclidean forms of NaissanceE. In what he calls the ‘second generation’ or arcology, Soleri envisions an ‘envelope which is substantially an elementary geometry: cube, sphere, pyramid, hexahedron, cylinder’ (1973, 112). In the opinion of Soleri, free forms in urban aggregations have inherent dangers, especially in terms of balance, where some sections might be overdeveloped and others underdeveloped.

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Nature solves this problem and balances uneven conditions with symmetry, in both shapes and performance. Indeed, since humans cannot be expected to act and perform as the cells composing a living organism, the solution is to design human space in the same shape as inorganic, mineral structures, as ‘[t]he man-made landscape has to be a multilevel landscape, a solid of three congruous dimensions’ (Soleri 1973, 14). Soleri’s Arcube and Hexahedron are in fact two enormous solids mounted on pillars one kilometre high, megastructures that would not look out of place in NaissanceE. Ironically, the ultimate form of the perfect symbiosis between humanity and nature is again a platonic solid, as Soleri himself explains: The organization of the inorganic to construct a container to the condition of man is thus turned upon a specific and not organic structurally, a postorganic structure and indeed a pseudostructure compared with the miraculous order of the mineral and of the living. This is why such pseudostructures, purely functional and always on the threshold of obsolescence, must find redemption in form, the aesthetic side of compassionate man. Morphologically and structurally, Hexahedron is, like Arcube, a pseudocrystal. Its validity would be in the high human and emotional standard texturing it. (1973, 113)

Interestingly enough, seemingly very dissimilar proposals and designs with programmatically divergent concepts all verge into visually similar outcomes, showing how architectural signs can be interpreted and even employed with various meanings.

Metaphysical Architecture The abstract architecture of NaissanceE warrants a look outside of actual architectural projects, realized or not, and into architectural constructs in other media, especially since they are intended to be experienced through a bidimensional surface, such as a canvas or a screen, rather than physically explored. Other than the already mentioned manga Blame!, on which we will elaborate more in detail shortly, the metaphysical architectures in the paintings of Giorgio de Chirico are worth mentioning. De Chirico’s influence is already evident and documented in another game in which architecture

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plays a prevalent role: Fumito Ueda’s Ico (Team Ico 2001). Game Director Fumito Ueda affirmed that ‘the surrealistic world of de Chirico matched the allegoric world of Ico’ (2005). Ueda even painted the cover of the game himself, with an homage to de Chirico’s The Nostalgia of the Infinite (1911). Much like NaissanceE, Ico features minimal dialogues, however its narrative is less left to the imagination of players on account of the presence of characters. It is nevertheless a game where the architectural environment is the main protagonist. Since de Chirico’s architecture is deeply symbolic, it is often used as an inspiration for digital environments where communication needs to be effected through design rather than verbally: Architectural elements seem animated by their own character, which they communicate to us. De Chirico marvelled at this phenomenon in his writing where, for example, windows, columns and arcades seemed to him to have a soul and to look at him ‘with a strange and questioning glance’. (Weston 2018, 35)

As in NaissanceE, ‘De Chirico’s representations of spaces, interior and exterior, are fundamentally empty’ (Mical 2003, 80), so that it is the environment that speaks to the viewer. Said environment does not offer an idyllic landscape, but rather ‘[t]he persistent appearance of the architectural exerts a disruptive effect on the viewer, offering a dream-like vision of a “convulsive” urbanism that is both familiar and uncanny’ (2003, 78). The forced perspectives of de Chirico are part of what makes his architecture so strange to the viewer, and this makes it hard to translate in a correctly represented three-dimensional reconstruction as is the one in a digital game, which is what the independent game SURREALISTa (Gigoia Studios 2015) aimed to do. SURREALISTa is more of an interactive reconstruction of de Chirico’s paintings than a game proper, but it is nevertheless interesting to notice how difficult it is to convey the same feeling of the paintings simply by reproducing their architecture. One notable feature of de Chirico’s paintings is their relationship with history: they often depict classical-looking architecture in a sort of timeless composition and the buildings are halfway between ancient ruins and regular structures. As explained by Thomas Mical: ‘In place of the Vitruvian man, de Chirico’s architecture centers the ruin of time in recurrence, as a document of loss, a void in the place of an origin’ (2003, 90). This is similar to what we

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find in NaissanceE where the sense of history is absent, and the abandoned colossal structures could just as well be from a faraway past or recently built. Moreover, even the game progression itself is temporally shrouded in mystery, with the last chapter enigmatically titled The Beginning, paralleling de Chirico’s enigmas: The enigmas of de Chirico’s architectural representations posit repetitively the end of history as a disappearance into the unknowable vanishing point of the absolute past. The origin and the end repetitively achieve unity, make thought of eternal recurrence into a series of fragmentary spaces disturbingly outside linear temporality. The assumption of the origin of architecture, not in dwelling but in sacrifice, of eternalizing the body into stone, duplicates the Medusa effect that eternal recurrence had upon Nietzsche, which posit the eternalization of the moment, and renders the origin and end of history as points revisited in an endless journey or exile. (2003, 91)

Even in Blame! the protagonist Killy traverses the practically infinite distances of his world which display little changes. Not only the architecture, but the time scale as well is beyond human. Martin finds a similar relationship with history in NaissanceE as it ‘gestures towards both the end of architecture and its beginning. Across the several hours it takes to descend through its urban strata, the player is witness to a kind of architectural history’ (G.D. Martin 2017, 68). In this case, he interprets this ‘architectural history’ as a digital evolution of styles, from simple low-poly form to more complex vast landscapes. However the interpretation might be, the concept of a timeless, ahistorical, metaphysical architecture is something that can help us understand the world of NaissanceE and that can be hard to find in real architecture, or even paper-architecture, as the relationship to the physical, built world is more tenuous.

­Tsutomu Nihei and Blame! As mentioned, the main influence on the design of NaissanceE comes from the manga Blame! by Tsutomu Nihei. Blame! was first originally published in Japan on the magazine Afternoon between 1998 and 2003 and successively collected in ten volumes. Since then, the series has been translated and published in

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several countries, and despite it not being Nihei’s most successful work, it gathered a cult following due to its unconventional setting and style, as said by the author himself: Back when I was starting out I thought of drawing manga not as work, but as a means of self expression. I wasn’t concerned with entertaining my readers or making something that’ll actually sell, which I suppose is why I made such an opaque manga. (Nihei 2016b)

Blame! narrates the story of protagonist Killy as he wanders through ‘The City’ searching for the ‘Net Terminal Genes’ in order to access the ‘Netsphere’ to regain control of The City and stop its uncontrolled growth. The City is an enormous megastructure ‘made of an accumulation of countless floors’ (Nihei 2017b, 63) whose size is never clearly stated in Blame!, save for sporadic mentions, such as a 3,000 kilometre staircase (Nihei 2017a, 6:67) or a spherical room 143,000 kilometres in diameter (Figure 29), the size of planet Jupiter (Nihei 2017a, 6:85). However, Nihei stated, in the artbook BLAME!

Figure 29  A room the size of planet Jupiter in a spread from Nihei’s Blame! Master edition volume 6, pp. 78–9 © Tsutomu Nihei/Kodansha Ltd.

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and so on, that ‘[t]his world extends to approximately the outer edge of the solar system. The layered city is a smaller portion of it, coming up to Jupiter’s orbit’10 (2003, 82). In words that echo what we have read infra in Sant’Elia’s Futurist Manifesto, Nihei affirms that ‘I wanted to create a completely artificial world, completely created by human hands.’11 He continues regarding its size: if it were too small, it would be too easy to cross it from one end to the other, so I wanted to create something so that a human being would be like an ant thrown inside a building. The ant starts to turn around and tries to understand its position within the surrounding world, losing itself. I conceived the world this way to convey a sense of vastness.12 (Nihei 2016c)

Much like in NaissanceE, the size of the environment is a sign used to make the player/reader feel small compared to the surrounding architecture. In ‘The City’, machines known as ‘The Builders’ constantly expand, rebuild and change the environment in an endless and aimless cycle. In the manga, we rarely see structures built with a clear intent in mind, and even less inhabited and used by humans. As Keith Leslie Johnson aptly puts it: Nihei’s environments, in their scale, design, etc, are not designed with humans in mind. They are, in fact, machine constructions, emerging from the Builder’s database of architectural options – a kind of parody of urban planning. Even when people live in these environments, the feeling is of compromise, something jerry-built atop a pre-existing structure; it is humans who must accommodate themselves to architecture and not vice-versa. They are squatters in their own homes. People, in short, are an afterthought. (2013, 196)

David Gissen identifies a ‘subnature’, referring to ‘peripheral and often denigrated forms of nature’ (2009, 21) such as mud, filth, exhaust and insects, which contrast with the ‘seemingly central and desirable forms of nature – e.g., the sun, clouds, trees, and wind’ (2009, 22). While most architects and designers obviously aim to include the latter within their works, Gissen analyses how architects engage with the undesirable forms of nature, the ‘subnatural’. This relationship of nature and architecture is exemplified in Nihei’s design, and Johnson argues that:

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Nihei’s worlds essentially imagine the ascendence of subnatures: biozones divided by infrastructure (Megastructure), access tunnels, exhaust and electronics ports; leaking, derelict water mains mingling with cooling liquids, contaminated run-offs, in other words, all that is ‘inherently uncontrollable, filthy, and fearsome’ about urban environments that ‘confront[s] the stability of architecture itself ’. (Johnson 2013, 194; quotes from Gissen (2009))

Also in Nihei’s works, from Blame! to Knights of Sidonia, the enemies are always organic in look, whereas the environment in general is very artificial. Organic-looking forms are signs that become associated with the unwelcome. Nihei downplays the influence that actual architecture has had on his work, and cites science fiction literature and digital games as more conscious sources that shaped the worlds he creates (Nihei 2016c). He nevertheless admits that it is his experience in the field of construction that shaped how he understands and designs architectural structures (Nihei 2016b), and especially how he employed architectural signs, such as plumbing, to connote an organic look to the architecture, as if it were a mechanical living being (Nihei 2016d). Especially in the first volumes of Blame! it is indeed the architecture that carries the story, given the extremely limited presence of dialogues and characters, and their limited interaction. The protagonist Killy traverses these immense environments looking for the ‘Net Terminal Genes’, but as readers we are not made aware of the logic of the place, we only understand that it is structured vertically, and that distances are enormous, but given the artificial nature of Killy, even the sense of time is skewed, and it is implied that his trip takes place in the span of years and possibly centuries. The inhuman timescale is only mimicked and semiotically expressed by the equally inhuman scale and design of the architecture, which seems immovable and ancient, while at the same time we see sections being constantly remodelled, communicating the idea of a vast being that mutates but on such a grandiose scale that it is hard to grasp for the human mind, not unlike the metaphysical architecture of de Chirico. As we will see, these concepts are present in NaissanceE, where they are adapted to a digital game which preserves many of the same architectural signs. As the difference in the medium dictates, their semiotic functions are used differently.

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­NaissanceE Sedeño is quite aware of the signs that govern digital games, as he explains: players have habits, like having the way very well indicated, and there are a lot of ‘codes’ in videogames, so you can easily lose the player, but not in the way you want! You are often balancing the design between breaking these codes and using them. (2017, 97)

There is not much indeed in NaissanceE that can guide players, save for its environment. There is no on-screen interface, no map, no text that tell us where to go and what to do. With such scarcity of information, the only thing that can communicate to players is the architecture and the level design, which are also particularly stark and bare. There are – almost – no colours and no textures to indicate a path, such as the red pipes and ledges of Mirror’s Edge (EA Dice 2008), that get their meaning by virtue of their colour. In NaissanceE, it is thus the forms of the architecture and the lighting that fulfil the primary and secondary semiotic functions in the game. In the words of the author himself: You also can notice in the different videos and screenshots that there is a large range of abstraction in the environments, from pure visual to more representative constructions. These many variations, however still homogeneous on a large scale, are in correlation with the several games mechanics the player will encounter, like sections where lights and shadows are used to alter the perception of space and rhythmically structure the player progression. (Sedeño 2014b)

The visual aspect of the environments is thus linked to its primary denotative function, the game mechanics. Given the abstract nature of NaissanceE’s world, there is hardly any other denotative function aside from the one strictly related to the game. This assumption varies based on which part we will analyse, but aside from when structures can be recognized and associated to existing human ones, such as a bridge, or a staircase, the raison d’être of the simple geometric forms is to guide players in the game, and not resemble

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existing architectural constructs. This does not mean that they are devoid of any secondary connotative function. On the contrary, due to the lack of conventional narrative tools, forms are the main semiotic vehicle in the game, and the ‘story’ of NaissanceE, whatever it might be, is structured by its architecture. The game starts with the only cutscene, the protagonist being chased by some kind of monstrous floating entity. Without dialogue nor explanation, we can only guess some information. By the sound of the voice, height of the camera and speed of movement, we can infer we are a woman. It also appears that we do not know the environment well, as the first-person camera looks frantically around for an escape route from the danger. We can also assume that our avatar is not strong, or does not have particular powers, as all she can do is flee. After she falls in a hole in the floor, we are confirmed by a pop-up that indeed ‘Lucy is lost’. Lost we don’t know where, but that word signifies a purpose: if we are lost, our aim should be to find our way, which is, in fact, what we are going to do in NaissanceE. The first room is completely bare, made of a grey textureless surface, with only an opening on one side. The primary denotative function is evident, as players are guided towards the only door, which is surmounted by a light. The light is another symbol that has a primary function related to gameplay, as it becomes quickly apparent that the only way to proceed is to follow it. The first one is conveniently placed atop the opening, indicating to players where to go, whereas as we advance the light floats, and surrounded by obscurity, the only way to move further on is to run after it. In a baroque game of light, only part of the architecture is revealed. The lighting system of the game is designed in such a way that there are no scattering or reflections, and there is only light or complete darkness, as if there were no atmosphere. This creates a situation of anticipatory play where players have to plan in a split second where to jump and to go, basing their action on the limited architectural signs that are lit and visible. We are also introduced to one of the mechanics of the game, that involves going through areas where parts of architecture become immaterial if in the dark, while obtaining materiality as soon as lit, in a baroque game of shades where visibility and materiality are one and the same. Any mistake can lead to the premature death of our avatar, forcing us to repeat the same session until we succeed, as explained by Sedeño: ‘you can die very easily in

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NaissanceE, there are no invisible walls, no security, and this contributes to the feeling of being very vulnerable and fragile’ (2017, 99). Andrea Rubbini gives us a textbook definition of the anticipatory play in his NaissanceE review: ‘Forms and lights suggest visual clues that our eyes send to our mind for a rapid decode. So that, without realizing it, we know what to do’13 (2014). The architectural signs we find at the beginning are a clear indication of the direction to take, together with the light guiding us. The various rooms are composed of simple geometric forms, arranged in a way that invites us to follow a pattern, for example a series of cubes stashed so that we can climb them, a hole in a wall that is the only way to proceed (Figure 30). In order to familiarize players with the game, the primary semiotic functions are clear, since there is hardly no possibility of misunderstanding the first signs. As explained by Sedeño: The idea was to create a kind of claustrophobia, to make the player’s progression hard in these confined dark environments. The world is meeting the player for the first time, and wants to know how he is reacting, to test his motivation and see if he deserves what follows. So the wide open well breaks that and comes as a reward. It surprises a player who has become used to small or closed rooms and makes him understand he’s really lost inside something big. (2017, 94)

The stark simplicity of the architecture has a secondary connotative function, as players soon find themselves in a larger corridor with more elaborate

Figure 30  One of the initial environments in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

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structures, and rooms with openings resembling more doors rather than simple holes in the walls, and light fixtures rather than simple bright solids. This dichotomy communicates to players that they are not part of a ‘gamey’ puzzle world, as would be the case in Super Mario Bros. (Nintendo Creative Department 1985) or a pure puzzle game as Tetris (Pajitnov 1984), where the only logic that governs the world is the one of pure gameplay, but that there is indeed some link to our way of conceiving and creating architectures, with elements such as doors and stairs that are modelled for their corresponding function in the real world, and not just as forms to allow for gameplay. This secondary connotative function is what carries the ‘narrative’ of NaissanceE, as it is evident that we are in a world with some human relation or intervention, but at the same time completely alien.

Going Down It is in the second chapter of the game, aptly titled ‘Going Down’, that players encounter for the first time structures really resembling a city, or at least a more human kind of settlement, with windows, staircases, pipes and antennas. As Sedeño points out: I wanted the architecture to be in-between symbolic spaces and more real space […] The idea was for the player to feel the sensation of being lost, of being very small, almost insignificant, in this world. But at the same time, to feel that world is leading you into itself. Into its heart, into its structures. (2017, 95)

The environment becomes more familiar; we can see architectural signs such as flights of stairs, whose primary function is clearly of allowing us to ‘go down’ as suggested by the title and by the design itself of the deep well that opens in front of us at the beginning. Their secondary function is to remind us again of how strange the place in which we find ourselves is: the stairs are clearly designed without safety in mind, there are no landings and no handrails, and the complicated maze of interconnected stairs is straight out of a Piranesi Prison, rather than a rational design. Sedeño confirms this:

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When you see these ridiculous, impractical stairs, you really wonder what they are used for. I thought it would be interesting to give it a meaning, but as a game element, reinforcing the feeling of both being in a dangerous place and being unsure that the way you are taking is a good one to progress. (2017, 97)

The more we dive into the structure, the more we find recognizable signs: arches, doors, vents, almost as if someone were actually there. A balcony is a strange sight, and in one there is also a semi opened door and if we go in, we end up in some infinite staircase, where we can exit only by listening to a sound of something like hitting a metal surface. As if there were something alive behind the wall. There is also a room that looks like a nightclub, a gallery with shops, one is clearly a room with beds, chairs and tables, albeit in very rough geometric forms. Sedeño explains that the reason I used some recognizable shapes and places, but also very unusual spaces, was to get a good mix between the symbolic and the abstract. And so to let the personal experience of the player make the experience of the game. Depending on your references in games, art, and architecture, and in life in general, you have a different experience. (2017, 102)

An element introduced in the ‘Going Down’ chapter, but that is also present later in the game, is the dichotomy between the cyclopean architecture and the rather mundane doors and stairs. Since there are no textures and we cannot connote doors or walls as high-tech or futuristic, it’s the scale and shapes that connote how we feel about the architecture. A normal sized opening, while being surrounded by extremely large bare surfaces and structures, feels strangely familiar and out of place at the same time in the world of NaissanceE, a characteristic taken from Blame!, where the difference in scale between the architectural parts is always accentuated. In the city-well we can see some strange moving ‘snails’, regularly churning their way on the vertical walls. This is an allusion to the ‘Builders’ of Blame!, entities that constantly destroy and rebuild The City, and we can assume that they have a similar function in the world of NaissanceE, albeit not explained. Aside from the swirling entity chasing us in the prologue of the game, they are the first ‘living’ organisms we see, and their geometric shape makes players

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wonder about what kind of inhabitants dwell in these spaces. This idea of a constantly changing city resembles Superstudio’s Città nastro a produzione continua (1971), which was similarly imagining a city constantly rebuilt by a colossal factory trudging in the land, or Italo Calvino’s city of Tecla from his Invisible Cities (1972, 61–2), published around the same time, where the city is constantly under construction with no end in sight and no specific aim. Proceeding in the exploration, we are presented for the first time with a real large open underground city, jumping from a small enclosed corridor to the first expansive vista of the game (Figure 31). Here, the primary function of the open space’s architecture is to allow for anticipatory play. In contrast with the corridor-like gameplay up to this point, where the architecture’s primary function was only to give us information on where to walk or jump next in that precise moment, in this case we are presented with a vaster scenario where we can clearly see different points of interest, even if we do not know if we will be able to reach them. The secondary connotative function is to add more to the players’ idea of the environment they find themselves in. As we progress in the game, the scenery becomes larger. The architectural signs that we identified as the outer shell of the world in the previous parts, become just one of the numerous megastructures we see repeating and stretching to the horizon. We cannot reach any of the other structures, but the architectural configuration of the space communicates another information about the scale: even the large halls and wells we have seen up to now were just enclosed in one of these structures, of which there are endless copies. The scale of the architecture is used with a primary function in mind as well. Among the

Figure 31  The first open vista in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

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colossal towers we can also see human-sized buildings, which clearly denote different characteristics from the rest. It is in fact towards them that we should proceed. In order to cross the space between the two towers, floating cubes come to our aid to create a bridge, as would some living architecture that is, for a change, not hostile to players. Atop the megastructure we are greeted by seemingly common buildings, with architectural features that connote familiarity: there are windows, humansized staircases and normally placed doors. As to shred any idea of familiarity we might have had, the next session involves puzzles with strange moving blocks that react to light, other possible living geometrical entities. Other than their denotative function as platforms to progress in the level, their similarity in design to the rest of the architecture connotes the idea that they are indeed the intended occupants of the structures and the reason of the inhuman architectural design. In the scene directly inspired by the manga Blame! we are to climb a stairway or staircase made of small steps directly enclosed in the wall (Figure 32). The primary function of the stairway-case is, as much as

Figure  32  A plate from Blame! Master edition volume 2, p.  118 © Tsutomu Nihei/ Kodansha Ltd (left) and a screenshot from NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014 (right).

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its real counterpart, to reach a higher position. The fact that it is so strangely placed connotes that it is the one we have to take, instead of other, more normal looking staircases. For readers of Blame! the citation is evident, as the original staircase in the manga is usually mentioned as one of the most interesting designs, but even without knowing the source, its semiotic is evident. The architecture in this part of the game is relatively normal. Aside from the gigantic scale of the structure we can see, we navigate spaces with recognizable architectural signs: doors, arches, stairs. Progressing, we even encounter an elevator that brings us to the ceiling of the megastructure, where we proceed onto hanging platforms. Architectural signs such as the elevator and the hanging platforms, both humanly shaped and sized, have the primary denotative function of allowing us to move forward, and also function as signs that are recognizable by the player. Their secondary connotative function is to keep the duality of the architecture in NaissanceE, where we constantly fluctuate between alien simple geometric forms and actual architectural constructs, that make players wonder by and for whom this world was built. This idea of contrast is one that permeates the whole game, and which becomes even more evident in the following sections.

Deeper into Madness After the section on the hanging platform, there is an opening that unlike the rest is made of disjointed squares, almost as the wall is breached open, and unlike the other openings, it also moves as we approach it (Figure 33). Inside it, instead of a normal corridor there is a mass of haphazardly amassed cubes. The dichotomy between the orderly exterior, with recognizable architectural elements, and the inside of the corridor with disorderly shapes is evident. Architecture as the bringer of order from the chaos of nature is an ancient concept. In this case the chaos is artificial, and it is the architectural design that connotes that we are moving from a place of order to one of disorder. Michelangelo Buonarroti applied a similar concept in the design of the Ricetto of the Laurentian Library in the sixteenth century (Figure  33). As the eminent architectural historian Rudolf Wittkower points out: ‘[i]n no architecture, however, has the idea of conflict been carried through in so

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Figure  33 The door leading to the ‘Deeper into madness’ level in NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014 (above) and Michelangelo’s Vestibule of the Laurentian Library. Photo by Heinrich von Geymuller (1904, Plate 5). Public Domain.

new and individual a manner, and with such relentless consistency as in the anteroom of the Laurenziana. Michelangelo has submitted the whole building, in general as in detail, to the idea of conflict’ (1934, 213). As in NaissanceE, we are moving from a semi-outside space, the cloister of the San Lorenzo complex, to a more enclosed space, the library. We are moving from the chaos and noise of the outside world, to the orderly and structured world of man-made knowledge in the interior of the library. The Ricetto, as the space that links

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the two contrasting worlds, was designed to architecturally and semiotically represent this contrast, with an excessive height and blank windows, and the light coming only from above. The most striking feature is the staircase, which occupies almost all the floorspace, and presents a sinuous, almost liquid form ‘which seems to impede rather than encourage ascent […] while the straight flanking flights, lacking an outer balustrade to provide protection, suggest new hazards’ (Watkin 2015, 233). Much like the stairs in NaissanceE, the secondary connotative function is to set the staircase apart from normal stairs, by virtue of its shape and lack of features such as parapets. These features make the stairs uninviting, but at the same time the staircase attracts attention. Michelangelo achieved his aim by bending the established language of architecture and using it in a subversive manner, generating uneasiness. His contemporary Vasari talks about the ‘marvelous entrance of that vestibule’14 as the place where Michelangelo ‘broke the bonds and chains of the things [of architecture]’15 ([1568] 1997, vol. II, 740). The meaning of architecture is central to the effect Michelangelo wanted to achieve. Every architectural piece has its own communicative and structural role, for instance: A capital normally stands at the conflicting point between soaring strength and pressing weight: the burden, as it were, presses the strong pillar out in breadth. Here, however, the capitals hang on the entablature of the gable, which they should properly bear. Since capitals are there, one inclines a priori to attribute to them their usual function. Then one is convinced by the facts that only the form is there without its real content. And so on: triglyphs, members of the Doric entablature, hang like dewdrops below the pilasters. (Wittkower 1934, 207)

Or the fact that the columns are plunged inside the walls, rather than protruding from them, making the walls look as if they were expanding towards the interior of the room and absorbing the columns, leading to: the fact that the usual form of wall and covering orders is simply reversed. The observer is plunged, unconsciously, into a remarkable situation of doubt and obscurity. He perceives, on the one hand, that walls and orders have exchanged function, reacts immediately, however, to the instinctive consideration that this is impossible. The whole arrangement

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of the wall articulation thus contains a conflict to the solution of which the architecture provides no clue. (1934, 206)

The architecture forms, whose connotative function is to communicate solidity and stability, are here transmuted into a flexible, malleable mass, where the normal order of things has been scrambled. The door as well presents itself as a tumultuous assembly of architectural parts, with a broken pediment ready to consume the visitor. This unwelcoming design is paralleled by the orderly and regular interior of the reading hall, where all the architectural parts are in their expected position and the windows are open and at eye level. The only concession Michelangelo makes to this otherwise perfectly classical space is the entrance door, which, albeit less extravagant than on the side of the vestibule, still displays an embedded frame and double pediments, as if the chaos of the vestibule were trying to penetrate the reading room. Unlike the Laurentian Library, in NaissanceE we go from order to chaos. The identifiable constructs of stairs, windows and catwalks give room to randomly assembled geometric shapes. The primary function of the door is still the same as any other opening we encountered, to progress to a new level, but its secondary connotative meaning informs us that we are entering a different kind of space. The following chapter is titled ‘Breath Compression’, which is a clear reference to pulmonary resuscitation. ‘Whose resuscitation’, one might ask? That of a person or a civilization? The answer is left to the imagination of the players. After a section involving navigating through pipes, vents and various platforming sessions, a strong air current brings players up to a landscape that unlike anything else before resembles an actual city, with strips of windows from which we can glimpse interiors. The vision does not last long as white rectangular shapes start floating around to surround the player and form a simple white room with a single door. Walking through the door, we arrive into a room that looks exactly the same as the one at the beginning of the game (Figure 34), greeted by the text of the new chapter ‘Deeper into madness’. The connotative function of the room in this case is not only its disturbingly simple design, with featureless walls, but the likeness of the room to the one where we started our journey can allude to a recursive path we took. The repetition of

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Figure  34 The plain room that repeats itself after the beginning of NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

identical architectural features has a negative semiotic connotation, as it negates the very notion of progress. Players move through the levels and the progress is made manifest by the changing architecture, so a repeating architecture means that we have already been there, whereas we should be seeing something new. This notion is brought here to its extreme, as when we go through the door we keep returning to the same room in a seemingly endless loop. An interesting detail is the broken tile on the floor. Aside from the same room at the beginning of the game, we are never shown any broken, used or consumed part of the architecture. The extreme perfection of the architecture connotes its surreal nature. Signs such as chips, cracks and scratches make architecture real, whereas a perfectly smooth and featureless material is unnatural. The perfect incorruptible architecture up to now represents the absoluteness of the game world, it communicates that we are in a place beyond humanity, and seeing something cracked and broken signifies that something in this absolute system may be broken. We can witness a similar dichotomy in the first person puzzle game Portal 2 (Valve 2011), where players start to be able to go outside the imposed puzzles through some cracks in the walls, in a clear contrast between the sleek white architecture of the puzzle room and the ‘outside’ of the game, with its dirty and untidy rooms (D’Armenio 2014, 209). To keep in line with the title of the chapter, this level of NaissanceE continues with a series of more and more abstract scenes, from floating formations of cubes and lights, to a room whose walls wiggle and tremble as if they were made of a liquid substance, to an assemblage of lights and shadows that is the

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digital game version of Anouk De Clercq’s Building (2003). The series of strange environments concludes in another ‘familiar’ big room, which displays the same architectural characteristics of the majority of the other environments of NaissanceE, with high sleek walls and clear-cut openings. In a situation similar to Michelangelo’s library, there are still ‘remains’ of the madness that preceded us, just as the door on the side of the reading hall still displays the strangeness of the vestibule. This big dark room is littered with pieces of cubes protruding from the walls and ceiling, until we can enter a ‘normal’ corridor that leads us to the next session of the game, appropriately titled ‘Interlude’. The interlude is in fact supposed to bring players back to normality, to give them a break after the madness of the preceding chapter (Sedeño 2017, 99). This is achieved through the connotative function of architecture: large, sleek environments, with recognizable architectural features, such as arches and bridges. This chapter is also where another one of the most evident citations from the manga Blame! occurs, with the suspended bridge on an impossibly deep canyon between two walls of buildings lit by roaring lightnings (Nihei 2016a, 1:4–5). The architecture communicates to us that the ‘madness’ has passed. The primary function of the bridge is to allow us to cross the canyon, but it connotes that we are indeed crossing to another side, we are leaving the strange world of pure geometric forms to go back to a known world of – almost – human architecture. It nearly feels as if we are on the other side. A seemingly endless staircase surrounded by darkness brings us to what we could arguably interpret as the ‘ceiling’. We could not see the bottom of the previous canyon, but we can see the ceiling of the structure. The architectural design connotes that we should find ourselves near the top of the structure, and ascending the staircase should only bring us closer to the ‘exit’.

Endless Dive For the first time we see the ‘outside’ reasonably at the top of the structure we were in before. However, by looking up we find that there is still a ceiling (Figure 35). The architectural connotation is clear, we are still inside the structure. Moreover, on the ceiling we can see countless identical megastructures, telling us that we are just atop one of numerous others.

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Figure  35 The ‘ceiling’ of the megastructure and the first ‘natural’ landscape of NaissanceE © Mavros Sedeño 2014.

The landscape is made of dunes, so the only reference points we have are architectural structures scattered in the landscape. The anticipatory play is triggered here by the presence of architecture in an untouched ‘natural’ landscape. Players are obviously prone to move towards the structures as they are read as points of interest. We can see what looks like remains of the structures we visited before, the impregnable architecture we have seen until now is here displayed as ruins, reminiscent of ancient megalithic structures and not dissimilar from what we saw before, but in a state of disrepair. However, many of the structures have a slightly different aspect from the ones seen inside, more akin to ziggurats, or towers. Their aspect is more human in a way, as is also their scale. Especially tapered doors, usually associated with ancient Egyptian architecture, are not to be seen elsewhere in the game. The secondary connotative function of these architectures is to give players some hint about the world’s structure and story. Nothing is clearly described, but already the fact that there are ruins communicates a passage of time, and different designs from the ones we have seen. The presence of ruins is not extraneous to digital games, as Paul Martin writes regarding the role-playing game Oblivion (Bethesda Game Studios 2006): Ruins signify throughout the game the world’s forgotten history. They speak of a past golden age and so establish Tamriel as an ancient land that diminishes the player/hero’s role as existing for a mere moment in the world’s long history. The ruins establish a temporal sublime in the same way that the landscape establishes a spatial sublime. (2011)

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As we mentioned earlier, NaissanceE establishes a rather atemporal setting, where we do not know if we are in the present, past or future, nor for how long the structures we visit have been there. The architectural ruins’ connotative function is to give for the first time some temporal coordinates to the environment. One wonders if the weird geometric inhabitants of this place inherited it from humans and at the beginning started imitating them, with rooms and tables as we have seen in ‘Going Down’, then developed a proper one more appropriate to them. Wandering through the desert we are greeted by various structures, one of these has a bright door, and when we pass through it, it starts blinking with the current ruins, then its original built state, and finally only the floor, all alternating rapidly. The transformation accelerates as we get closer to the exit of the maze. Here we have a visual depiction of the passage of time, which confirms to us that they are indeed ruins and that they looked different in the past. If we walk far enough, we realize that the immense open desert is none other than another big block, the same as the ones that we see hanging on top of us. It is evident that we are still deep within the immense megastructure. By climbing onto the highest dune, we can see a tower in the distance, our obvious next objective. There is a black monolith in the way, not unlike the one of 2001: A Space Odyssey (Kubrick 1968), and if touched, players are teleported to a structure that looks like an altar where we can see, in one of the few graphical indications in the whole game, what we are supposed to do next: jump down the structure. All the architectural structures we can find in this desert are just symbols, whose primary function is to allow anticipatory play, and they do not advance the game in any way, only our idea of the story. After having reached the ‘top’, which clearly is not the top, we are forced to jump down again. In a similar situation, as witnessed in the upward fall leading to the ‘Deeper into Madness’ level, we first fall through a cyberpunk cityscape, with very Nihei-Piranesian arches and buildings. The architectural simplicity of the place where we land, however, tells us that we are back to the purely abstract geometric world. In the final act of the game we are in fact confronted by ‘The Host’, a whirling entity not too dissimilar from the foe that chases the player in the prologue of the game. The Host ‘dismantles architecture entirely, tearing away exterior to reveal an endless void of inner space’ (G.D. Martin 2017, 68), and the only possibility for players is to run

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and jump between platforms, where, in the tradition of pure platform games, architecture’s primary function is to provide physical space where to land and jump, whereas its secondary function is to allow for anticipatory play, permitting to see far enough to plan our next moves, while keeping players always on their toes and needing split-second reactions. The final door we pass through concludes the game, rewarding players with the enigmatic words on screen: ‘The Beginning’.

Conclusions Without analysing its architecture, it would be rather hard to make sense of NaissanceE at all. There is no clear story; however, there is indeed a narrative development that can be understood if we analyse architecture as a semiotic element. Most notably, in this case we can see how there is the potential for narration without resorting to written or oral text, for architectural design alone can be sufficient. The fact that NaissanceE is not exclusively a ‘walking simulator’, an interactive experience without any gameplay component, but features – albeit sometimes with questionable results – sections that make it akin to other genre games, further demonstrates how it is possible to link the two mechanics: a virtual architecture that has the function to instruct the gameplay as well as tell the story without any additional aid. The narrative capability of NaissanceE’s architecture is built upon our previous knowledge and understanding of architectural codes, other than our innate sense of space and our senses. This is why it is indeed important to analyse NaissanceE’s architecture similarly to ‘real’ architecture, since this is the way players often read and understand virtual architecture.

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Conclusions

This book has demonstrated that architecture constitutes a central signifier in digital games. It has underscored the ways in which virtual spaces communicate to players and correlate to gameplay. The case studies showed how virtual space not only enables gameplay by creating the environment in which players will move and act, but can also enhance the narrative and elicit emotions. The first two chapters discussed two fundamental frameworks. The first chapter explored Umberto Eco’s semiotic theory of denotation and connotation of architecture, and how it can be applied as a framework to analyse digital game architecture. This framework is even more appropriate in digital games than real architecture. Indeed, in the latter, events and contingencies outside the designer’s control can influence the shape or outcome of a building. While elements of real architecture can still be interpreted semiotically, such as destruction or usage, in the case of digital games they are always the fruit of a conscious choice, and as such they bear a semiotic intention. The semiotics of virtual architecture is thus effected in the denotation of its primary function by virtue of its visual aspect to allow for gameplay, and in the connotation of its secondary function in order to communicate to players other aspects of the game, for example the storyline, or to enhance the gameplay. The second chapter examined Brian Upton’s semiotic theory and his concept of ‘anticipatory play’ – whereby the anticipation and planning of the action are as important as the action itself – and how it is expressed mainly through digital game architecture. As such, its semiotic function is functional to the gameplay as well as to allow anticipatory play. Through the case studies, it was demonstrated that the proposed methodology is applicable to any type of digital game that displays recognizable

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architectural environments. In Chapter 3, we have seen how the effectiveness of Renaissance Florence in Assassin’s Creed II can be explained through a semiotic analysis. The developer Ubisoft had to operate conscious choices to deliver an entertaining gaming experience, as well as communicate a believable historical reconstruction to players. The semiotic analysis of virtual architecture explains how it interacts with gameplay, and the History-Game Relation framework enlightens us on the approach Ubisoft used for the reconstruction of Renaissance Italy. In Chapter 4, we saw how the architectural design of Final Fantasy XV was used to semiotically communicate narrative information as well as to define the artistic vision that the developers had in mind. Architectural signs are used to situate the design of the game, and unlike Assassin’s Creed II, the architecture of Final Fantasy XV is invented, albeit rooted in reality. Finally, in Chapter 5, in the game NaissanceE, where there is no story or conventional narration per se, we have seen how virtual architecture can be semiotically relevant in the absence of other forms of communication. Moreover, a semiotic enquiry of digital game architecture has proved useful to understand how the games were created as well as how architectural design influences gameplay. Through these diverse case studies, we observed that the semiotic analysis based on the theories of Eco and Upton can be applied to different genres of games with different settings: third-person action-adventure, thirdperson Japanese role-playing games and first-person exploration-platformer. In all three case studies, it has been noted that the architectural design fundamentally contributed to the development of the gameplay as well as the level design, as clearly visible in Assassin’s Creed II and NaissanceE, and to a lesser extent in Final Fantasy XV. It can be argued that in some digital games, the architectural design is a minor element in determining the gameplay, such as MMORPGs (Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games), where the environment is a backdrop to the action rather than functional to it. In such cases, the secondary connotative function is preponderant, and architecture has a narrative function to reinforce and visually communicate to players the ‘lore’ of the game. Architecture in digital games thus has a role regardless of the genre, be it related to gameplay and its primary denotative function or the narration and its secondary connotative function. Moreover, if we assume that anticipatory play is an aspect that enhances gameplay, and that it is allowed mostly through architecture and level design, it follows that the architectural

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design of any game is a fundamental element for anticipatory play and thus gameplay in general. Conversely, it can be said that the architectural design of a digital game has little or no bearing at the level of basic gameplay: it does not make a difference in gameplay if the character is climbing a wall made of bricks, or concrete, or stones, and it makes even less of a difference on the actions players have to perform. This argument goes back to the old ludology versus narratology quarrel (Aarseth 2004), and despite the fact that it is technically true, the amount of effort, work and care that goes towards the creation of architectural environments in games should be enough to demonstrate the central role virtual architectural design plays in forging an engaging experience for players. Very graphically simple games – and by ‘simple’ we do not mean in terms of graphical style or technical aspect, but rather in terms of the simplicity of the signs they use: if only simple geometric forms for instance – can only get that far in telling stories. Naturally, they can work exceptionally well as pure ‘games’: one can still pick up Pong today and have fun with it, and this will likely hold true for centuries to come, as much as we can have fun with a racket and a ball. However, in order to ‘evolve’ into a medium that in a way transcends mere ‘entertainment’, digital games require a certain sophistication – which, again, does not necessarily mean technical complexity nor photorealism – in their visual representation. In order to tell us something, digital games need to be able to communicate, and in order to do so, they can obviously use text, in fact the first narratively complex digital games were textual adventures. However, if digital games are to be anything different from a ‘choose-your-adventure’ book, they need to communicate visual information to players, and in fact the genre of textual adventures all but disappeared as soon as computers were capable of delivering images. Since, outside of language, people seek information in their environment through surfaces, spaces, and geometry (Salingaros 2013, 99), it is only natural that architecture plays a fundamental role in how digital games can stimulate us. This is why the professional role of the level designer, who structures how a game flows and how the space is organized, is different from that of the artist, who gives this ‘platonic’, ludic space a precise connotation. It is for this reason – their visual, architectural differentiation – that games can be played exactly the same way while having radically different visual styles and telling different stories.

Further Research ­ s an initial exploratory study into the semiotics of architecture, this book A established a framework and applied it to a strategic selection of case studies. As the framework is intended to be applicable to almost all genres of games, further research in that direction is indeed possible and encouraged. It is worthy of note that the present work does not examine 2D games. How virtual architecture is experienced in a bidimensional environment is obviously different from a three-dimensional one. However, in 2D platform games such as Celeste (Matt Makes Games 2018), players still interact with the architectural space. It would thus be interesting to analyse to what extent this happens and how the present book’s semiotic framework is applicable or could be modified or adapted, and how. Adventure games such as 2064: Read Only Memories (MidBoss 2015) would be another genre of 2D games where it would be interesting to test the limits of the semiotic framework for the analysis of virtual architecture, as in this case the architectural design present in the games is usually just a backdrop, and shapes players’ actions in a very limited way. Additionally, some digital games present a limited or non-existent architectural space. This is quite true in the case of pure puzzle games such as Tetris (Pajitnov 1984), where there is no architecture proper, or even a space that players travel through and thus it is hard to argue for an analysis of ‘architecture’ proper, since the screen only shows an empty space that is filled by the pieces of the puzzle falling from the top. Yet, said pieces do indeed compose forms and create a space that can be argued to possess architectural qualities. Indeed, any kind of virtual created space can, in one way or another, be subject to an architectural analysis, especially from a semiotic point of view. Genres of digital games that could bring interesting developments are the ones where players can actively affect and build the architectural environment, such as strategy games like the Anno series (Blue Byte 1998) or city builders like Cities: Skyline (Colossal Order 2015). Moreover, it would be pertinent to pursue further research into the virtual architecture created by players within

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game platforms. For example, in games where players are given substantial freedom in the structures they can create, such as No Man’s Sky (Hello Games 2016) and Minecraft (Mojang 2011), or modify and add assets to the game, such as in the modding scene of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (Bethesda Game Studios 2011), where players create or modify external assets to be added in games. This scenario in particular could assess the limit of the theory here exposed, by testing if the framework can still work in player-created virtual architecture, rather than with a designer-created one. Another aspect of virtual architecture, that might bring interesting developments is how virtual architecture functions in multiplayer games, if there is any difference from single-player games, and how it might influence the social interactions between players. Multiplayer and single-player game genres mostly overlap, such as role-playing games and first-person shooters, however the dynamics within them vary greatly, and it would indeed be interesting to analyse if the virtual architecture in games that are very similar on the surface but rather different in how they are experienced varies and to what extent. It would also be interesting to examine if players in multiplayer games experience virtual architecture differently, and to what extent artists modify it to adapt it to a multiplayer environment. Research on virtual architecture in digital games is likely to expand. The production of digital games, the expansion of markets, the participation of increasing numbers of players are authentic planetary phenomena of our time. In this context, Cao Xueqin’s quote from his Dream of the Red Chamber, anticipating by a couple of centuries Baudrillard’s simulacra ([1981] 1994), comes to mind: Truth becomes fiction when the fiction’s true; Real becomes not-real when the unreal’s real.1 ([1792] 1973, I:130)

More than ever today, virtuality and reality intersect, cumulate and interact.

Notes Introduction 1

Nel gioco digitale la componente visuale non è la dimensione esclusiva dell’esperienza ludica ed estetica, ma indubbiamente la più pervasiva ed evidente (all translations from the Italian are mine unless otherwise indicated).

Chapter 1 1

Nos tamen brevitatis gratia sic diffiniemus: ut sit pulchritudo quidem certa cum ratione concinnitas universarum partium in eo, cuius sint, ita ut addi aut diminui aut immutari possit nihil, quin improbabilius reddatur. (Alberti 1485, bk. VI, 2 emphasis added)

2

una composizione plastica tridimensionale sia morfologicamente organizzata, sia proporzionalmente controllata, sia strutturalmente efficiente (in quanto fondata sull’antichissimo principio costruttivo del sistema statico pesante del trilite: cellula costruttiva formata da due ritti portanti e da una superiore traversa portata), nonché anche simbolicamente ‘parlante’ sotto il profilo delle credenze mitico-religiose, delle teorie scientifico-filosofiche e delle metafore poetico-letterarie; è un aggregato di componenti elementari elaborate nel corso di più generazioni di monumenti sia classici greco-romani sia classicistici rinascimentali ed oltre, sempre rigorosamente codificate ‘in parallelo’ dalla trattatistica architettonica.

Chapter 2 1

sequenze ritmiche grazie alla successione di determinate impressioni estetiche.

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Chapter 3 1

per fare che il mio disegno venisse più appunto e comprendesse tutto quello che era in quel paese, tenni questo modo, per aiutare con l’arte dove ancora mi mancava la natura.

2

fra gli altri ve n’è uno, in sul quale da ogni parte furono bellissime botteghe d’Artieri, lavorate di pietra concia, che non pare che sia Ponte, se non in sul mezzo d’esso, dove è una piazza, che dimostra il fiume di sopra, e di sotto.

3

struttura sì grande, erta sopra e’ cieli, ampla da coprire con sua ombra tutti e’ popoli toscani.

4

camminiamo per le strade della città siamo dei cittadini, assoggettati alle leggi della città. Dobbiamo stare attentissimi a rispettare i canali indicati dagli abitanti della città: non possiamo andare dove vogliamo, né come vogliamo (dobbiamo colorare dentro le righe). L’intelligenza orizzontale di AC2 consiste nell’identificare a colpo d’occhio la posizione di tutti i personaggi a noi prossimi, connettendo mentalmente l’uno con l’altro nel rispetto di regole precise. L’esplorazione orizzontale impone di pianificare attentamente ogni passo e ogni incontro. Al contrario, quando saliamo sui tetti diveniamo dei nomadi: possiamo muoverci come meglio crediamo, con una grande libertà di scegliere il percorso che preferiamo. La gravità è una legge gentile in AC2, regola salti e cadute senza però far sentire troppo la sua presenza. Certo anche saltellare tra tetti e balconi richiede di identificare velocissimamente gli appigli su cui poterci dirigere, le strade senza uscita e i posti dove nascondersi. L’intelligenza verticale di AC2 consiste nel saper tracciare col corpo di Ezio delle linee di giusta misura. Ma il modo in cui è fatto AC2 lascia molto più spazi di libertà in verticale che in orizzontale: quando scappiamo per i tetti l’importante è correre, pensare poco e soprattutto in fretta.

5

ha dato al castello una grandissima visibilità e la possibilità di essere conosciuto in tantissimi luoghi dove noi difficilmente saremmo riusciti ad arrivare con la nostra attività promozionale. Una curiosità che può dare alcune indicazioni in merito: la sezione distaccata The Cloister, del Guggenhein Museum di N.Y [sic], dedicata appunto al medioevo, ha richiesto una ricostruzione in miniatura del nostro castello, conosciuto proprio attraverso il video gioco.

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Chapter 4 1

Le architetture contemporanee e quelle futuribili appaiono sicuramente più interessanti e, talvolta, testimoniano persino un legame con i progetti del mondo reale. Le costruzioni sono spesso originali e non ricalcano pedissequamente quelle delle copertine dei romanzi di fantascienza. In genere cercano di rimanere in equilibrio tra fantasia e realtà, ed è proprio questa la loro forza.

2

Una strada militare campestre trova un importante ornamento nella campagna stessa nella quale essa corre, se questa è ben tenuta e coltivata, con frequenti ville e locande, abbondante di prodotti e di bellezze; e se compaiono ora il mare, ora le montagne, ora un lago, ora un fiume o una sorgente, ora una rupe o una pianura senza vegetazione, ora un bosco o una vallata.

3

minaccioso, duro, selvaggio.

4

A nostro giudizio lo spazio occupato dal porticato e da tutto il tempio dev’essere in posizione rialzata e prominente sul terreno del resto della città, il che conferisce all’edificio grande importanza.

5

A seconda che il potere sia in mano di un tiranno (come questi vien denominato) o di chi lo acquisisce e lo conserva come una magistratura concessagli da altri, variano quasi tutti gli edifici e le stesse città. Sarà propria di un re una città fortificata soprattutto dove serva respingere il nemico esterno; mentre un tiranno, essendo i concittadini i suoi nemici allo stesso modo degli stranieri, deve fortificare la sua città sia contro gli uni che contro gli altri.

6

Alla dimora del re si conviene essere collocata nel bel mezzo della città, essere facilmente accessibile e ricca di ornamenti, distinguersi più per eleganza e raffinatezza che per imponenza. L’abitazione del tiranno sarà invece situata come una rocca, e come tale essa non si potrà dire né facente parte della città, né esterna ad essa.

Chapter 5 1

gran parte del piacere del gioco deriva proprio dal fermarsi ad ammirare il panorama e addentrarsi nelle sue geometrie.

2

per produrre immagini tristi e oscure, bisogna, come ho cercato di fare nei monumenti funerari, presentare lo scheletro dell’architettura come una muratura imponente, assolutamente nuda.

Notes 3

149

Mi sembra impossibile concepire qualcosa di più triste di un monumento composto da una superficie piana, nuda e spoglia, fatta di una materia che assorba la luce, assolutamente priva di dettagli e la cui decorazione è costituita da un insieme di ombre tracciato per mezzo di ombre ancora più scure.

4

Ho voluto quindi che il nostro patrimonio letterario fosse raccolto nel più bel contesto possibile. Per questo ho pensato che nulla sarebbe stato più grande, più nobile, più straordinario e più splendido a vedersi di un vasto anfiteatro di libri.

5

Noi dobbiamo inventare e rifabbricare la città futurista simile ad un immenso cantiere tumultuante, agile, mobile, dinamico in ogni sua parte.

6

come gli antichi trassero l’ispirazione dell’arte dalla natura, noi – materialmente e spiritualmente artificiali – dobbiamo trovare quell’ispirazione negli elementi del nuovissimo mondo meccanico che abbiamo creato.

7

appaiono le proposte ipertecnologiche di quelli che vogliono portare fino alle estreme conseguenze i suggerimenti delle avanguardie.

8

trasformando cinicamente l’intero pianeta in una funerea parata delle spoglie del suo parossistico «ordine».

9

l’architettura deve abbandonare la sua condizione artistica, artigianale e storica ed entrare nel mondo della produzione industriale.

10 この世界は、ほぽ、太陽系全てに及び’ すでに 少なくとも木星軌道面までは階層都

市化されている。English translation from http://www.randomisgod.com/blame/ Artbook82.html.

11 Volevo creare un mondo completamente artificiale, completamente realizzato dalle mani dell’uomo. 12 Se fosse troppo piccolo sarebbe fin troppo facile poterlo attraversare da un’estremità all’altra, quindi volevo creare qualcosa come se l’essere umano fosse una formica gettata all’interno di un palazzo. La formica inizia a girare e cercare di capire la sua posizione rispetto al mondo circostante, perdendosi. Ho ideato il mondo a questo modo per dare questo senso di vastità. 13 Forme e luci suggeriscono indizi visivi che i nostri occhi inviano alla mente per una rapida decodifica. Così, senza rendercene conto, sappiamo cosa fare. 14 meravigliosa entrata di quel ricetto. 15 rotto i lacci e le catene delle cose.

Further research 1

假作真时真亦假, 无为有处有还无。

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­Ludography Bethesda Game Studios. 2002. The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind. Microsoft Windows, Xbox. The Elder Scrolls. United States: Bethesda Softworks. Bethesda Game Studios. 2006. The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows. The Elder Scrolls. United States: Bethesda Softworks. Bethesda Game Studios. 2008. Fallout 3. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows. Fallout. United States: Bethesda Softworks. Bethesda Game Studios 2011. The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, Mac OS X. The Elder Scrolls. United States: Bethesda Softworks. BioWare. 2007–21. Mass Effect (Series). Microsoft Windows, Xbox 360, Xbox One, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Wii U. Canada: Electronic Arts. BioWare. 2009–14. Dragon Age (Series). Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox 360, Xbox One, OS X. Canada: Electronic Arts. Blizzard. 1998. StarCraft. Microsoft Windows, Mac OS, Nintendo 64. StarCraft. United States: Blizzard Entertainment. Blizzard Entertainment. 2016. Overwatch. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. United States: Blizzard Entertainment. Blow, Jonathan. 2016. The Witness. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4. United States: Thekla, Inc. Blue Byte. 1998–2019. Anno (Series). Microsoft Windows, Nintendo DS, Wii, Web browser, Android, iOS. Germany: Ubisoft. Bruce, Alexander. 2013. Antichamber. Microsoft Windows, Linux, Mac OS X. Australia: Demruth. Bungie. 1997. Myth: The Fallen Lords. Windows, Mac OS. United States: Bungie. Capcom. 1996. Resident Evil. PlayStation, Microsoft Windows, Sega Saturn, Nintendo DS. Resident Evil. Japan: Capcom. Capcom. 2010. Super Street Fighter IV. Playstation 3, Xbox 360. Street Fighter. Japan: Capcom. Capcom and Ninja Theory. 2001–19. Devil May Cry (Series). Android, iOS, Microsoft Windows, Nintendo Switch, PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Shield Android TV, Xbox 360, Xbox One. Japan: Capcom. CD Projekt RED. 2007. The Witcher. Microsoft Windows, OS X. Poland: Atari.

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CD Projekt RED. 2007–15. The Witcher (Series). Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox 360, Xbox One, OS X, Linux. Poland: CD Projekt. CD Projekt RED. 2015. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. The Witcher. Poland: CD Projekt. ­CD Projekt RED. 2016. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt – Blood and Wine. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. The Witcher. Poland: CD Projekt. The Chinese Room. 2012. Dear Esther. Microsoft Windows, OS X, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. United Kingdom: The Chinese Room. Colorfiction. 2018. 0°N 0°W. Windows, Mac OS X, Linux. United States: Colorfiction. Colossal Order. 2015. Cities: Skyline. Microsoft Windows, macOS, Linux, Xbox One, PlayStation 4, Nintendo Switch. Finland: Paradox Interactive. Core Design, Crystal Dynamics, Ubisoft Milan and Eidos Montreal. 1996–2018. Tomb Raider (Series). Android, Arcade, Dreamcast, Game Boy Color, Game Boy Advance, GameCube, iOS, Linux, Mac OS X, Microsoft Windows, Mobile phone, J2ME, MS-DOS, N-Gage 2.0, Nintendo DS, PlayStation, PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Network, PlayStation Portable, Sega Saturn, Wii, Windows Mobile, Xbox, Xbox 360, Xbox One. United Kingdom, Canada: Eidos Interactive, Square Enix. Creative Assembly. 2000–22. Total War (Series). Microsoft Windows, OS X, Linux. United Kingdom: Electronic Arts, Activision, Sega. Creative Assembly. 2014. Alien: Isolation. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox 360, Xbox One, Linux, OS X. United Kingdom: Sega. Creative Assembly. 2019. Total War: Three Kingdoms. Microsoft Windows, OS X, Linux. Total War. United Kingdom: Sega. Dontnod Entertainment. 2015. Life Is Strange. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox 360, Xbox One, OS X, Linux. Life Is Strange. France: Square Enix. DrinkBox Studios. 2013. Guacamelee ! Microsoft Windows, Linux, OS X, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Vita, Wii U, Xbox 360, Xbox One, Nintendo Switch. Canada: DrinkBox Studios. EA Dice. 2008. Mirror’s Edge. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, Xbox 360. Mirror’s Edge. Norway: Electronic Arts. Eidos Montreal. 2016. Deus Ex: Mankind Divided. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Deus Ex. Canada: Square Enix. Firaxis Games. 2016. Civilization VI. Microsoft Windows, Mac OS, Linux. United States: 2K Games. The Fullbright Company. 2013. Gone Home. Windows, Linux, OS X, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Nintendo Switch, iOS. United States: The Fullbright Company.

166

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Gigoia Studios. 2015. SURREALISTa. Windows, Mac OS X. Gygax, Gary and Dave Arneson. 1974. Dungeons & Dragons. United States: TSR, Wizard of the Coast. Hello Games. 2016. No Man’s Sky. Microsoft Windows, Playstation 4, Xbox One. United Kingdom: Hello Games. id Software. 2016. Doom. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Doom. United States: Bethesda Softworks. ­Interplay Entertainment, Black Isle Studios, Bethesda Game Studios and Obsidian Entertainment. 1997–2018. Fallout (Series). DOS, Microsoft Windows, Mac OS, Mac OS X, PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox, Xbox 360, Xbox One, Nintendo Switch, iOS, Android. United States: Interplay, Bethesda Softworks. Ion Storm. 2000. Deus Ex. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 2, Mac OS. Deus Ex. United States: Eidos Interactive. Ion Storm and Square Enix Montreal. 2000–16. Deus Ex (Series). Windows, Mac OS, Linux, PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Wii U, Xbox, Xbox 360, Xbox One, Android, iOS. United States: Eidos Interactive, Square Enix. Konami Computer Entertainment Japan. 1998–2015. Metal Gear Solid (Series). Microsoft Windows, PlayStation, PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox360, Xbox One. Metal Gear. Japan: Konami. Limasse Five. 2014. NaissanceE. Windows. France: Limasse Five. LKA. 2016. The Town of Light. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Italy: LKA. Locked Door Puzzle. 2013. Kairo. Windows, Mac OS X, Linux, iOS, Android. United Kingdom: Lupus Studios Limited. Matt Makes Games. 2018. Celeste. Microsoft Windows, Linux, macOS, Nintendo Switch, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Canada: Matt Makes Games. Maxis. 1989–2014. SimCity (Series). Microsoft Windows, Linux, Mac OS, Wii, PlayStation, Nintendo 64, Sega Saturn, PlayStation 3, Nintendo DS, Amiga. United States: Electronic Arts. MidBoss. 2015. 2064: Read Only Memories. Microsoft Windows, OS X, Linux, Ouya, Razer Forge, Amazon Fire TV, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Vita, Nintendo Switch, Xbox One, Android, iOS. United States: MidBoss. Mojang. 2011. Minecraft. Microsoft Windows, Mac OS X, Linux, Android, iOS, Xbox 360, Xbox One, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Vita, Nintendo Switch, Nintendo 3DS. Sweden: Mojang, Microsoft Studios, Sony Computer Entertainment. Monolith Soft. 2002–6. Xenosaga (Series). PlayStation 2, Nintendo DS. Japan: Namco. Naughty Dog. 2013. The Last of Us. PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4. United States: Sony Computer Entertainment. Nintendo Creative Department. 1985. Super Mario Bros. NES, Game Boy Color, Game & Watch, Arcade, PC-8801, PlayChoice-10, SNES; X1. Super Mario. Japan: Nintendo.

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Origin Systems. 1981–99. Ultima (Series). Apple II, Atari 8-bit, VIC-20, C64, DOS, MSX, FM Towns, NEC PC-9801, Atari ST, Mac OS, Amiga, Atari 800, NES, Master System, C128, SNES, X68000, PlayStation, Windows. United States: Origin Systems. Pajitnov, Alexey. 1984. Tetris. Electronika 60. Russia: Dorodnitsyn Computing Centre. Paradox Development Studio. 2000–13. Europa Universalis (Series). Microsoft Windows, OS X, Linux. Sweden: Paradox Interactive. Paradox Development Studio. 2004–12. Crusader Kings (Series). Microsoft Windows, Mac OS X. Sweden: Paradox Interactive. Paradox Development Studio. 2013. Europa Universalis IV. Microsoft Windows, OS X, Linux. Sweden: Paradox Interactive. PlatinumGames. 2014. Bayonetta 2. Nintendo Wii U, Nintendo Switch. Japan: Nintendo. Red Storm Entertainment. 1998. Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six. Microsoft Windows, Nintendo 64, PlayStation, Mac OS, Game Boy Color, Dreamcast, PlayStation Network. United States: Red Storm Entertainment. Roberts, Jason. 2013. Gorogoa. Microsoft Windows, iOS, Nintendo Switch. United States: Annapurna Interactive. Rockstar North. 2004. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. PlayStation 2, Microsoft Windows, Xbox, Mac OS X, iOS, Android, Windows Phone, Fire OS, Xbox 360, PlayStation 3. Grand Theft Auto. United States: Rockstar Games. Rockstar North. 2013. Grand Theft Auto V. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Microsoft Windows. Grand Theft Auto. United States: Rockstar Games. Sega AM2. 1999. Shenmue. Dreamcast, Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Shenmue. Japan: Sega. Sega NE R&D and Ryu Ga Gotoku Studio. 2005–21. Yakuza (Series). PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation Portable, Wii U, PlayStation 4, PlayStation 5 Android, iOS, Microsoft Windows, Xbox One, Xbox Series X/S. Japan: Sega. Sledgehammer Games. 2017. Call of Duty: WWII. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. United States: Activision. Square Enix. 2002. Final Fantasy XI. PlayStation 2, Microsoft Windows, Xbox 360. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix, Sony Computer Entertainment. Square Enix. 2006. Final Fantasy XII. PlayStation 2, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Microsoft Windows, Nintendo Switch. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix. 2009. Final Fantasy XIII. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, iOS, Android. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix. 2011. Final Fantasy XIII-2. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, iOS, Android. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix.

168

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­Square Enix. 2013. Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, iOS, Android. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix. 2016. Final Fantasy XV. PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Microsoft Windows. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix. 2017a. Dragon Quest XI. Nintendo 3DS, PlayStation 4, Microsoft Windows, Nintendo Switch. Dragon Quest. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix. 2017b. Final Fantasy XV: Episode Ignis. PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Microsoft Windows. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix. 2019. Final Fantasy XV: Episode Ardyn. PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Microsoft Windows. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix and Enix. 1986–2021. Dragon Quest (Series). MSX, NES, Super NES, Game Boy Color, Game Boy Advance, Nintendo DS, mobile phone, Android, arcade, PlayStation, PlayStation 2, Wii, Nintendo 3DS, Wii U, Nintendo Switch, Microsoft Windows, iOS, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Vita. Japan: Square Enix. Square Enix, Inc. 2019. ‘Square Enix Press Center – General Assets’. 2019. http://press.na.square-enix.com/about.asp. Square, Square Enix. 1987–2021. Final Fantasy (Series). Android, Arcade, BlackBerry OS, Windows Phone, mobile phone, MSX, Nintendo 3DS, Nintendo DS, Game Boy Advance, Nintendo Entertainment System, GameCube, iOS, Ouya, PlayStation, PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Portable, PlayStation Vita, Super Nintendo Entertainment System, Wii, Microsoft Windows, WonderSwan, Xbox 360, Xbox One. Japan: Square Enix. SquareSoft. 1994. Final Fantasy VI. Super NES, PlayStation, Game Boy Advance, Android, iOS, Microsoft Windows. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square. SquareSoft. 1997. Final Fantasy VII. PlayStation, Microsoft Windows, iOS, PlayStation 4, Android, Nintendo Switch, Xbox One. Final Fantasy. Tokyo, Japan: Square. SquareSoft. 1999. Final Fantasy VIII. PlayStation, Microsoft Windows, Nintendo Switch, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Final Fantasy. Tokyo, Japan: Square. Squaresoft. 2000. Final Fantasy IX. PlayStation, iOS, Android, Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Nintendo Switch, Xbox One. Final Fantasy. Japan: Squaresoft. SquareSoft. 2001. Final Fantasy X. PlayStation 2. Final Fantasy. Japan: Square. Taito. 1978. Space Invaders. Arcade. Japan: Taito. Team Ico. 2001. Ico. PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3. Japan: Sony Computer Entertainment. Team Ico. 2005. Shadow of the Colossus. PlayStation 2. Japan: Sony Computer Entertainment.

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Ubisoft. 2002–13. Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell (Series). Xbox, Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 2, GameCube, Game Boy Advance, Mobile phone, N-Gage, OS X, Nintendo DS, PlayStation Portable, Xbox 360, Wii, PlayStation 3, iOS, Nintendo 3DS, Android, Windows Phone, Wii U. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft 2007. Assassin’s Creed. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2009. Assassin’s Creed II. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, Mac OS X. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft 2010. Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, Mac OS X, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2011. Assassin’s Creed: Revelations. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2012. Assassin’s Creed III. PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Microsoft Windows, Wii U. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2014a. Assassin’s Creed Unity. PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Microsoft Windows. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2014b. Watch Dogs. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, Xbox 360, Xbox One, Wii U. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2017. Assassin’s Creed Origins. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Ubisoft. 2019. ‘Ubisoft 2019 Press Kit Facts and Figures’. Ubisoft Montreal. 2020. Assassin’s Creed Valhalla. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, PlayStation 5, Xbox One, Xbox Series X/S, Stadia, Luna. Assassin’s Creed. Canada: Ubisoft. Valve. 2011. Portal 2. Microsoft Windows, OS X, Linux, PlayStation 3, Xbox 360. Portal. United States: Valve. Warhorse Studios. 2018. Kingdom Come: Deliverance. Microsoft Windows, PlayStation 4, Xbox One. Czech Republic: Deep Silver. William Chyr Studio. 2019. Manifold Garden. Windows, MacOS, iOS. United States: William Chyr Studio.

­Works of Art Bellotto, Bernardo. 1740a. The Arno in Florence. Oil on canvas. Budapest, Hungary: Museum of Fine Arts. Bellotto, Bernardo. 1740b. The Piazza Della Signoria in Florence. Oil on canvas. Budapest, Hungary: Museum of Fine Arts. Bellotto, Bernardo. 1740c. The Ponte Vecchio. Oil on canvas. Boston, USA: Museum of Fine Arts. Bonaiuto, Andrea di. 1365–1368. Via Veritatis. Fresco. Florence, Italy: Santa Maria Novella Museum. Boullée, Étienne-Louis. 1784. Cénotaphe de Newton. Ink on paper. Paris, France: Bibliothèque nationale de France. Boullée, Étienne-Louis. 1785. Restauration de la Bibliothèque nationale. Ink on paper. Paris, France: Bibliothèque nationale de France. Canaletto. 1756. Capriccio with Palladian Buildings. Oil on canvas. Parma, Italy: Galleria Nazionale. Canaletto. 1765. Prospettiva con portico. Oil on canvas. Venice, Italy: Gallerie dell’Accademia. Cole, Thomas. 1833. The Titan’s Goblet. Oil on canvas. New York, USA: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Cole, Thomas. 1833–1836. The Course of Empire. Oil on canvas. New York, USA: New-York Historical Society. Cole, Thomas. 1840. The Architect’s Dream. Oil on canvas. Toledo, USA: Toledo Museum of Art. Daddi, Bernardo. 1352. Madonna della Misericordia. Fresco. Florence, Italy: Museo del Bigallo. De Chirico, Giorgio. 1911. The Nostalgia of the Infinite. Oil on canvas. New York, USA: The Museum of Modern Art. De Clercq, Anouk. 2003. Building. Video. https://portapak.be/works/10/building. Elmgreen, Michael and Ingar Dragset. 2005. Prada Marfa. Valentine, USA: Sculpture. Ghirlandaio, Domenico. 1483–1486a. The Confirmation of the Rule. Fresco. Florence, Italy: Sassetti Chapel, Basilica of Santa Trinita.

­Works of Ar

171

Ghirlandaio, Domenico. 1483–1486b. The Resurrection of the Boy. Fresco. Florence, Italy: Sassetti Chapel, Basilica of Santa Trinita. Holiday, Henry. 1883. Dante and Beatrice. Oil on canvas. Liverpool, UK: Walker Art Gallery. Khoolhaas, Rem, Elia Zenghelis, Madelon Vriesendorp and Zoe Zenghelis. 1972. Exodus, or the Voluntary Prisoners of Architecture. Cut-and-pasted paper with watercolour, ink, gouache and colour pencil on gelatin silver photograph. New York, USA: The Museum of Modern Art. Lorenzetti, Ambrogio. 1338. Allegoria ed effetti del Buono e del Cattivo governo. Fresco. Siena, Italy: Civic Museum. Patch, Thomas. 1775. A Panoramic View of Florence from Bellosguardo. Oil on canvas. New Heaven, USA: Yale Center for British Art. Petrini, Francesco and Raffello Petrini. (1472) 1887. Veduta della catena. Tempera on canvas. Florence, Italy: Palazzo Vecchio Museum. Piranesi, Giovanni Battista. 1756. Ancient Intersection of the Via Appia and Via Ardentina Viewed at the Second Milestone Outside of the Porta Capena. Etching. Prague, Czech Republic: National Gallery. Piranesi, Giovanni Battista. 1761. The Gothic Arch. Etching. Princeton, USA: Princeton University Art Museum. Purini, Franco. 1979. Casa di un collezionista di opere piranesiane. Rome, Italy: Purini-Thermes Studio. Sant’Elia, Antonio. 1914. Casamento con ascensori esterni, galleria, passaggio coperto, su tre piani stradali. Ink and pencil on paper. Como, Italy: Pinacoteca Civica di Palazzo Volpi. Superstudio. 1969–1970. Monumento continuo. Lithography, ink on paper, photomontage. Orléans, France: Frac Centre-Val de Loire. Superstudio. 1971. Le dodici città ideali. Settima città: città nastro a produzione continua. Drawing. Orléans: Frac Centre-Val de Loire. Vasari, Giorgio and Giovanni Stradano. 1556–1562. The Siege of Florence. Fresco. Florence, Italy: Palazzo Vecchio Museum.

Index Aarseth, Espen 2, 4, 7, 10, 39, 41–2, 143

action orientation 3–4. See also Agon or competition (Caillois) Adagio (Signac) 18 aesthetic orientation 4. See also Mimesis (Caillois) Agon or competition (Caillois) 3–4 Alberti, Leon Battista 18–20, 23, 53, 58, 61, 63–5, 82, 86–7, 94, 103 Alea, or chance (Caillois) 3 Alexander, Christopher 28 Alighieri, Dante 71 Vita nova 54 Amano, Yoshitaka, Vampire Hunter D illustration 77 Antichamber (Bruce 2013) 46 anticipatory play 6, 14–15, 39–44. See also Upton, Brian architecture of 14, 40, 42 definition 14 fundamental elements 142–3 game enjoyment 43–4 ludic sign 41 non-interactive or motionless parts 39 secondary connotative function 57 Anvil 49 AnvilNext 2.0 49 Archigram 116 architects buildings with significance 9, 27–8 designer’s comparison with 2, 122 digital games development 11 military fortifications 87 mission 19 ultra high concept design pieces 106 view on space and occupant movement 12, 29 architectural order classical theory 22–7 construction systems, examples 22–7

iconic signs 25–6 regional and cultural identity 26–7 Arcube and Hexahedron (Soleri) 118 art anime inspired 82 auditory and visual sensations 18 in Florence 53 iconic sign in 37 ­modern architecture, examples 100 music as 17–18 in NaissanceE 115 painting 4, 17–18, 35, 37 representative and non-representative 17 sculpture 17 artists 3, 12, 51, 55, 62, 64, 73, 89–91, 95, 99, 104, 115, 145 development cost of digital game 1 space perceptions 12 Art of Videogames, The (Tavinor, Grant) 4 Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood (Ubisoft 2010) 61 Assassin’s Creed II (Ubisoft 2009) 11–12, 15, 37, 45. See also Florence anticipatory play 62, 70 architectural signs 51, 62, 65, 68, 71, 73 bridges in 59–60, 65, 72 building architecture 47, 49, 52–3, 56, 58–9, 61–5, 68–72 denotative and connotative function 56–7 digital translation 68–9 fifteenth century’s collective ideas 61–2 Forlì 49, 57, 71, 74 games procedure 64–8 high-tech gadgets to players 47–8, 55–7 historical reconstructions 47–8 horizontal and vertical movements 69–71 hybrid approach 57–60

Index large environments and crowds 48–9 ludic translation 71–3 main missions 48 Monteriggioni 49, 57, 71–4 number of characters 48–9 perspectival translation 61–8 player experience 47–50, 55, 57–9, 61–3, 65, 71–4 Ponte Vecchio 54, 59, 61 San Gimignano 49, 57, 74 sgraffito textures 63, 69 story narration 48–50, 61–8 technical limitations 68–9 three-dimensional reconstructions 47–8 time period and culture 51–3 Venice in 92 Assassin’s Creed series, second entry 49 Assassin’s Creed Unity (Ubisoft 2014a) 12 Auditore, Ezio 48–9 Bartoli, Cosimo 20 Bartolomeo, Maso di 63 Bateman, Chris, Empirical Game Aesthetics 4, 43 Beatrice 54 Bellotto, Bernardo 37, 53 Blade Runner (Scott’s film 1982) 109, 114 ­Blame! (Nihei, Tsutomu) 111, 120–3 architectural design 117, 122–3, 130–1, 136 (see also Piranesi, Giovanni Battista) mechano-architectural world 115 story narration 121–3 Boullée, Étienne-Louis 18–19, 108, 112 Cénotaphe de Newton 112 choice of forms 113 Collins on 113 Royal Library (1785), project 113 Brunelleschi, Filippo 25, 51, 58, 61 Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral 25, 51, 58, 61 building architecture in Assassin’s Creed II 51, 62, 65, 68, 71, 73 codification, samples 23–8 contemporary history 29–31 development of logic 25–7 in digital games 31–2

173

in Final Fantasy XV 75, 83–8 logic development 25–7 multiple levels 36 in NaissanceE 105, 124–31 Upper Castle of Rattay in Kingdom Come: Deliverance 35 windows and stairs, in puzzle games 35 Building (De Clercq) 136 Buonarroti, Michelangelo, Ricetto 131, 133 Caillois, Roger 4, 33, 43 Les jeux et les hommes 3 Call of Duty: WWII (Sledgehammer Games 2017) 35, 55 Calvino, Ital, Invisible Cities 129 Canaletto (Canal, Antonio) 53, 91–2 Arno River (1740a) 54 baroque style 92 capricci 2, 12 Capriccio Palladiano 92 Perspective with Portico 92 Piazza della Signoria (1740b) 54 Ponte Vecchio (1740c) 54 views on Venice 91 Capozzoli, Nick 106–7, 110 capriccio (pl. capricci) 2, 12 Carbone, Marco 11 Carter, Marcus 11 Casabella (Maldonado, Tomás) 20 Chamoust, Ribart de 26 Cicero, Marcus Tullius 20 Città nastro a produzione continua (Superstudio 1971) 129 classical architecture, examples 23 Cole, Thomas Arcadian or Pastoral State, The 113–14 ­Architects Dream, The (1840) 113 Consummation of Empire, The 114 Course of Empire, The (1833–6) 113 Desolation 114 Destruction 114 Savage State, The 113 Titan’s Goblet, The (1833) 113 composite order 24–6 computer games 2, 5, 14, 41 narrative architecture 1 spatial representation 7 concinnitas (Alberti) 20

174

Index

connotative functions 8–9, 22, 36, 59, 64–5, 70, 80, 82, 87, 103, 127, 129, 136–8 secondary 10, 14, 25, 42–4, 57, 62–3, 84, 93, 95–6, 102, 104, 125–7, 129, 131, 133–4, 137, 142 conventional signs 20, 24, 31 Cook, Peter, Plug-in City in 1964 116 Corbusier, Le 116 Corinthian order 24–6 Croft, Lara 42–3 Crusader Kings (Paradox Development Studio 2004–12) 47 cyberspace 6–8 D’Armenio, Enzo 5, 31, 38, 43, 108, 135 da Vinci, Leonardo 50 Dear Esther (The Chinese Room 2012) 106 denotative functions 8–10, 22, 36, 42–4, 58–9, 61, 65, 70–1, 74, 81, 95, 97, 103, 130 primary 41, 56, 59, 62–3, 82, 86–7, 93, 95–6, 104, 124–5, 131, 142 De re aedificatoria (Alberti, Leon Battista) 19–20, 23 designers 1–5, 12, 14, 18, 31–2, 41, 56, 143, 145 comparison 4 development cost of digital game 1 Final Fantasy XV 76, 79, 81–2, 89–91, 94, 104 level design 5 NaissanceE 109, 111, 122, 141 signs, use of 32 space perceptions 12 technical limitations 2 Deus Ex (Ion Storm 2000) 30, 43–4 Deux Ex Mankind Divided (Eidos Montreal 2016) 46, 107 Devil May Cry (Capcom and Ninja Theory 2001–19) 100 Dezmond (Compagno, Dario) 5 digital games. See also connotative functions; denotative functions; designers aesthetic experience 41 capricci, notion of 2, 12 communicative aspects 27–32 definition 2, 33

development cost 1 fantastic approaches 15, 45–6 fictionalized environments 45 ­fictive composition of forms 3 iconic representation 33–7 interaction and narration, role in 6, 13 interactive aspects 36, 38–9 layout techniques 12 ludic aspects 4 ludological features 3, 10–14 mass communication 28–9 narratological functions 10–14 non-interactive or motionless aspects 39 notions of space and cyberspace 7 as play spaces 5 real and virtual 5, 12 reconstructive approaches 15, 45 recursive perception analysis 36 representation of space, examples 33–4 signal versus sign 36–7 special effects technology 8 visionary approaches 15, 45 di Mascio, Danilo 11 Dinocrates 109 Doric order 24, 26 Dragon Age (BioWare 2009–14) 75 Dragon Age series (BioWare 2009–14) 46 Dragon Quest series (Square Enix and Enix 1986–2019) 76 Dungeons & Dragons (Gygax, Gary and Dave Arneson 1974) 75–6 Eco, Umberto 5–6, 8, 10. See also connotative functions; denotative functions architectural message 28–9, 87 architectural objects 5–6 on coercive architecture 93 on communicative aspects 29 on indexes 20 primary function 10, 22, 41–2 religious architecture 100 secondary function 10, 14, 22, 25, 36, 41–4 semiotic research 14, 20–1, 55, 61, 74, 142 Eisenman, Peter 28

Index Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, The (Bethesda Game Studios 2006) 40, 49 eloquent architecture 27–32 Empirical Game Aesthetics (Bateman, Chris) 4 Ennis Brown House (Fortin 2011, 100) 109 Europa Universalis (Paradox Development Studio 2000–13) 47 Europa Universalis IV (Paradox Development Studio 2013) 34–5, 56 Exodus, or the Voluntary Prisoners of Architecture (Koolhaas and Zenghelis) 117 Fallout 3 (Bethesda Game Studios 2008) 40, 46, 107 Final Fantasy VI (SquareSoft 1994) 77 Final Fantasy VII (SquareSoft 1997) 77 Sector 5 church 100 Final Fantasy VIII (SquareSoft 1999) 77 ­Final Fantasy IX (SquareSoft 2000) 77 Final Fantasy X (SquareSoft 2001) 78 Final Fantasy XI (Square Enix 2002) 78 Final Fantasy XII (Square Enix 2006) 78 Final Fantasy XV (Square Enix 2016) 15, 46. See also Venice Altissia 88–98 anticipatory play 83, 87, 94, 97, 104 architectural design 75, 83–8 city of Insomnia 97–102 design team 77 Dragon Quest, comparison with 76–7 Episode Ardyn 98 explorative component and open world design 78, 88–97 Gralea 102–3 inspiration and settings 77 JRPGs standard 76, 78 player experience 76, 78–80, 82–9, 92–7 story narration 78–83 technological revolutions 77 travel theme, road trip 78–83 waterway in 92–3 Western RPGs 75 first-person games 39, 47 first-person-shooter (FPS) 35–6, 39, 55

Florence 13th century descriptions 51 15th century cultural change 51 anticipatory play 69–71 architectural features 50–5 Bonsignori Map 53 Canaletto’s vedute 53–4 cities (1476 and 1499) 49–50 contemporary imagery 54–5 meeting between Saint Francis and Pope Honorius III 52 Monteriggioni 71–4 player experience 55, 57–61, 71 political power 52 Ponte Vecchio 54, 59–61, 95 Santa Trinita 52, 54, 65 siege in 1529–30 53 technical limitations in digital translation 68–9 towers and monuments 50 Ubisoft’s architectural designs 55, 57–68 in Vasari’s paint 53 Forster, E. M. 54 FPS Doom (id software) 43 Futurism movement 114–15 Gambouz, Mohamed 70 gameplay ­anticipatory play 14, 40 architectural object 6, 10, 42 characterization of environment 14 constraints and costs 2 discovery effect 38 dual function 4 functional aspect 44 iconic signs 34–5 mechanical 43 narrative aspects 14 space and time, concepts 6–7 storytelling 3, 13 unique forms 7 games. See also specific games Caillois four category 3 mimicry category 33 symbols and texts 35 three main motivations 3–4 Gattaca (Niccol 1997) 109 Gissen, David 122

175

176

Index

goal orientation 4. See also Ilinx, or vertigo (Caillois) Gone Home (The Fullbright Company 2013) 106 Gorogoa (J. Roberts 2013) 35 Grand Theft Auto V (Rockstar North 2013) 45, 47 Guacamelee! (DrinkBox Studios 2013) 35 Guardi, Francesco 2, 37 Gust, Mike 11 Harmony in Green and Rose (Whistler) 18 History-Game Relations Framework (Cassone and Thibault) 142 implementation procedure 55–6 translation process 56 History-Game Relations (HGR) framework 56–7, 61, 74 Holiday, Henry, Dante and Beatrice (1883) 54 Howard, Ron, Inferno 54 HTC Vive 12 Huizinga, Johan, Homo Ludens A Study of the Play-Element in Culture 6–7 iconic signs, visual 25, 28, 31, 33–7, 84 architectural order 25–6 in art 37 examples 33 real objects 34, 37 representation of space 33–7 Ico (Team Ico 2001) 13–14 Ilinx, or vertigo (Caillois) 3–4 Il Monumento Continuo (The Continuous Monument) (1969–70) 117 Janet, Murray, Hamlet on the Holodeck 1 Japanese games 76, 89, 100, 108–9 manga and anime 76 religious architecture 100 ­Japanese role-playing game (JRPG) 15, 75–8, 142 Jeanneret, Emmanuelle 9, 27 Jenkins, Henry 2–4, 38 Kairo (Locked Door Puzzle 2013) 46 Kikuchi, Hideyuki, Vampire Hunter D 77 Kingdom Come: Deliverance (Warhorse Studios 2018) 35–6, 42, 45, 47

Kingsglaive: Final Fantasy XV 98, 101 Koenig, Giovanni Klaus 19 language and architecture 19–22, 82, 87, 111, 116, 133 classical and modern works 27–32 codification of 28 ludic space 143 translation 56 Larghetto (Signac) 18 Last of Us, The (Naughty Dog 2013) 107 Lefebvre, Henri 6. See also representation of space theory of space to digital games 7 Les jeux et les hommes (Caillois, Roger) 3 level design 2, 5, 11, 29, 40, 111, 124, 142–3 Life Is Strange (Dontnod Entertainment 2015) 13 Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII (Square Enix 2013) 78 Lord of the Rings, The (Tolkien 1954) 75 Lorenzetti, Ambrogio, Buon Governo 109 ludic sign 3, 10, 40–4 anticipatory play 41–2 MacTavish, Andrew 8 Maietti, Massimo, Semiotica dei videogiochi 5 Maldonado, Tomás 20 Manetti, Antonio 25 Manifold Garden (William Chyr Studio 2019) 46 Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso 114 Mass Effect (BioWare 2007–21) 14, 46 Medici, Lorenzo de’ 26, 50 megastructure 107, 109, 112, 116–18, 121, 123, 129–31, 136–8 Metal Gear Solid (Konami Computer Entertainment Japan 1998–2015) 43–4, 87–8 Metropolis (Lang’s film 1927) 115 Mimesis (Caillois) 3–4 Minecraft (Mojang 2011) 6, 145 Mirror’s Edge (EA Dice 2008) 124 modern architecture 100 physical reasons 31–2 space requirements and construction methods 27–30

Index Mondi paralleli (D’Armenio, Enzo) 5 Monet, Claude 18 Harmonie rose 18 Harmonie verte 18 Morolli, Gabriele 23–4 Munro, C. F. 19, 21–2, 31 ­Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 54 Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest 54 Myers, David 14, 33 Nature of Computer Games, The 5 Myth (Bungie 1997) 7 NaissanceE (Limasse Five 2014) 14–15, 46 anticipatory play 125–6, 129, 137–9 architectural design 105, 124–31 atemporal setting 138 denotation of space 107–8 human factor, absence 107 landscape 136–7 Laurentian Library 131–2, 134 media attention 105 metaphysical architecture 118–20 paper architecture 106, 109 player experience 105–6, 124, 127–31 story narration 125 narratological and ludological functions 10–14, 104 Nihei, Tsutomu 109, 116, 122–3, 138. See also Blame! (Nihei, Tsutomu) Knights of Sidonia 123 Nitsche, Michael 8, 38 Oblivion (Bethesda Game Studios 2006) 137 Oculus Quest 12 Onians, John 25 Ordre François (Chamoust) 26–7 Overwatch (Blizzard Entertainment 2016) 13 Patch, Thomas, A Panoramic View of Florence from Bellosguardo (1775) 54 Pearce, Celia, Interactive Book 1 Peirce, Charles S. 20, 25, 41 iconic sign 10 Pellegrino, Pierre 9, 27 Perrault, Claude 18–19 physics, laws of 2, 7, 15, 41, 46

177

Piranesi, Giovanni Battista 110 Ancient Intersection of the Via Appia and Via Ardeatina 111 architectural elements 111–12 Carceri d’invenzione (Imaginary Prisons) 110 Prisons in NaissanceE 111 Roman vedute 111 players. See also specific player experience architectural object 36–9 communication varieties 34–5 exchange of symbols 41–6 virtual worlds of 1–6, 12, 14–15, 31 Poggi, Giuseppe 55 Prop Theory. See Upton, Brian Purini, Franco, Casa di un collezionista di stampe piranesiane 112 Rainbow Six (Red Storm Entertainment 1998) 14 ­real architecture 47, 74, 87, 95, 109, 120, 139, 141 versus made object 37 semiotic investigation 36–7 visual world architecture versus 31 real objects 34 made objects and 37 Regola delli cinque ordini (Vignola) 23 Renaissance 15, 19, 23–5, 45, 48–9 representation of space in Assassin’s Creed II 51, 58, 63, 70–1, 87–8, 94 in computer games 41 iconic signs 33 Lefebvre’s theory 7 in NaissanceE 105, 107–8, 110, 113, 117–20, 124, 127–34, 138–9 Resident Evil (Capcom 1996) 12–13 role-playing game (RPG) 35–6, 45–7, 75, 137, 142, 145 A Room with a View (Ivory 1985) 54 RPG Deus Ex (Ion Storm 2000) 30 Sant’Elia, Antonio 115 architectural aspirations 115–16 La città nuova (The New City) 115 Manifesto of Futurist Architecture (1914) 115, 122 Scherzo (Signac) 18

178

Index

Scolari, Massimo 12 Scruton, Roger 22 Sedeño, Mavros 105–11, 124–30, 136 Shadow of the Colossus (Team Ico 2005) 13 Shenmue (Sega AM2 1999) 45 Siabra-Fraile, Joaquìn 13 signal 13, 20, 36–7 expression and content plane 37 sign system anticipatory play 87 connotative function 64 examples 135 expression and content plane 37 game activity 33 made object 37 Morris’ definition 20–1 signal versus 36–7 SimCity (Maxis 1989) 6 space in games. See also representation of space actual qualities 6 kinetic component 38 manipulating elements 38 movement and 38 narratology and ludology 38 Space Invaders (Taito 1978) 33–4 A Space Odyssey (Kubrick 1968) 117, 138 ­spatial representation 7 Spirits Within (Sakaguchi 2001, movie) 77 StarCraft (Blizzard 1998) 35 Super Mario Bros (Nintendo Creative Department 1985) 1 Super Street Fighter IV (Capcom 2010) 43 Superstudio 116–17 Symphony in Grey and Green (Whistler) 18 Tange, Kenzo 100 Tokyo 1960 116 Tatsunoko Production Casshan 77 Hutch the Honeybee 77 Tekkaman 77 Tetris (Pajitnov 1984) 33, 46, 127, 144 3D digital games 7, 11–12, 36, 78, 89 2D to 8 first- and third-person 6 real space in 7–8

THX 1138 (Lucas 1971) 109 Tomb Raider series (Core Design) 42 Total War series (Creative Assembly 2000–19) 47 Total War: Three Kingdoms (Creative Assembly 2019) 13 Totten, Christopher 5, 11–12 Town of Light (LKA 2016) 45 Tuscan order 26–7 2D digital games 8, 35, 77, 144 Ueda, Fumito 13, 119 Ultima series (Origin Systems 1981–99) 75 Upton, Brian 39–41, 61, 74, 141–2 Aesthetic of Play, The 4 anticipatory play theory 6, 15, 39 ludic theory 44 Prop Theory 4 semiotic analysis of texts 41 Situational Game Design 5 on virtual architecture 14 Vasari, Giorgio 25, 53, 60, 133 vedute 2, 37, 50–3, 91, 111 eighteenth century artists 2 Venice architectural signs 90–7 artistic interpretation 89–90 commercial activity 95–6 Gothic Ca’ d’Oro 91 Ponte della Libertà 93 waterways 92–4 Verne, Jules, The Begum’s Fortune (1879) 114 video game 2, 73 architecture’s role 11 ­navigation and interaction elements 1 virtual camera 12, 35 virtual space 1, 3, 8, 38, 141 functioning 7 visionary architecture 109–18 visual arts 33 description 17 Vitruvius, Marcus Pollio 9, 18, 23, 26, 109–10, 113 De architectura 9, 13, 23, 109 utilitas 13

Index Wagner, Otto 116 Wallis, Mieczyslaw 9, 17–18, 33, 37 Watch Dogs (Ubisoft 2014b) 45 Western RPGs 75 characteristics 76 Whistler, James McNeill Harmony in Green and Rose 18 Symphony in Grey and Green 18 Witcher 3: Blood & Wine (CD Projekt RED 2016) 96 Witcher 3, The (CD Projekt RED 2015) 35–6, 42, 76 Witness, The (Blow 2016) 11

179

Wittkower, Rudolf 9, 111, 131–3 Wolf, Mark J. P. 2, 6, 10 Wright, Frank Loyd 109–10 Xenosaga (Monolith Soft 2002–6) 100 Younés, Samir 9 Zeffirelli, Tea with Mussolini (1999) 54 0°N 0°W (Colorfiction 2018) 46 Zevi, Bruno 19, 27 Modern Language of Architecture, The 27 Zonaga, Anthony 11

180