PACING IN INTERACTIVE FICTION<br>
By Brendan Barnwell
<P>
     Any experienced player of interactive fiction knows a certain feeling, and every
author tries to pinpoint its source.  It's the feeling of being rudely awakened, shocked
out of the immersive experience of a game.  Many things can cause it -- a glaring
typo, an unintentionally hilarious sentence, an "illegal object" error -- but one of the
most common is an error in pacing. Those moments when something happens
before the player expects it to, or when the player expects something to happen but it
doesn't, can be jarring.  On the other hand, there are those moments in a
game when things happen so perfectly that the player is pulled more powerfully into
it.  Some of these moments -- of both kinds -- are part of the author's plan, and some
are unintended.  Pacing, then, is the author's attempt to maximize the former and
minimize the latter.
<p>
     The pace of a game, more than its size, determines how large it "feels".  An
extremely long game can seem short if the player is able to move through it
easily; a short game can seem interminable if the player gets bogged down.  Many
components of the game contribute to the overall pace, and each is of great
importance to any author who hopes to "grease the rails" for the player to just the
right extent.  Regardless of whether the aim is to slow the player or move him along
more quickly, the same elements are relevant -- the point here is not to identify a
"right" pace, but to examine the things that affect the pace, and note the ways they
can be used to effect any given pace.  Even more important is the overall balance and
concert among these individual elements.
<p>
     First off, the ease or difficulty of moving through the game world is often a
major contributor to the pace.  Easy movement through many locations tends to
make the game seem more open and slow-paced.  With many locations to explore, it
is easy for the player to drift among them, dilly-dallying as he pleases, and not
concentrate on any one particular task.  Small games with few movement options, on
the other hand, channel the player more forcefully into a particular course of action.
<p>
     David M. Baggett's large and multifaceted "The Legend Lives!" (1994)
contains many different planets, each with its own group of several rooms.  These are
connected by "matter movers" which allow the player to transport from one
environment to another virtually at will.  Movement within a single "cluster" of
locations is in some cases restricted in traditional locked-door fashion, but the player
is generally free to transport away to an entirely different part of the game.  The
result is a leisurely pace, which allows the player to discover things on his own rather
than rushing him.
<p>
     "Photopia" (Adam Cadre, 1998) also has many different settings, each with
several rooms, but here the player's freedom movement from one such setting to
another is severely limited.  On the other hand, although there is usually only one
place to go, it is very "easy" for the player to get there -- that is, he does not have to
carry out any complicated interactions to move from one place to the next.  The
player is forced to proceed along the single path before him, and, because each step
along this path is easy to take, the game moves more quickly than if he had been
allowed to whisk himself away to somewhere else.
<p>
     Going hand in hand with freedom of movement is the "density" of each room,
in terms of the number and complexity of objects it contains.  If a room is devoid of
objects, the player is likely to move on to someplace more interesting; if it is full of
intriguing things, he is more likely to stay and investigate.  Most players
subconsciously measure the "interactive potential" of a room; hallways, staircases,
and other locations which serve purely as connectors are quickly recognized as such
and ignored, whereas rooms with furnishings or unfamiliar objects are flagged as
worthy of further study.
<p>
     The number of rooms and the density of each room together affect the game's
pacing significantly.  The expansive map of "The Legend Lives!" would be dull and
tedious to navigate were it not for the fact that many of the rooms are loaded with
unique and complex objects.  Conversely, "Photopia" would be irritating to play if
each new environment into which the player is thrust were packed with objects; the
game would become like an assembly line, with the player a helpless drone faced with
a dismal, unalterable sequence of complicated interactions.  Quantitatively, the sheer
size of the map and number of objects are significant from a pacing perspective;
qualitatively, the importance of these objects in the game world is significant as well. 
A hallway or a decorative plant, for example, is most likely unimportant, and has less
interactive potential than, say, an ornate throne room or a scented love letter.
<p>
     Both of these elements, in addition to being appropriate on their own, must
mesh reasonably with the pace of the game's text.  Games by inexperienced authors
often suffer from a lack of balance between the pace of the game and the pace of the
writing itself.  When the player has focused his attention tightly on a particular task -
- for instance, puzzling out the workings of a complicated device -- the prose must be
meaty enough for this investigation to be worth his while.  Performing careful,
detailed interaction, the player will expect commensurate weight in the game's
responses; if the author increases the pace by eliding information, the player will feel
that the game is not paying enough attention, so to speak, to his painstaking efforts. 
Similarly, when the game is flowing smoothly along -- the player is freely exploring
the map, for instance, rather than intensely investigating a single complicated object -
- so should the writing, or else the player's progress will be hindered by the necessity
of trudging through blocks of dense prose.
<p>
     Indeed, the size of blocks of text lies at the root of what pacing in interactive
fiction is.  Two of the fundamental questions are: how much text comes between each
pair of input prompts, and how significant is this text to the game?  This can reveal
much about the level of control that the player has over the game world, and the
balance of power between the author and the player in a particular game.
<p>
     Quantitatively, the sheer volume of text printed between prompts is
significant.  It can be bewildering to type a simple command and be met with a large
text dump -- and equally confusing to type a complex, carefully thought-out
command and have the game respond with an unexpectedly brief description.
<p>
     Qualitatively, the importance (to the story) of that text is equally significant. 
In general, the story is what draws the player in emotionally.  The more mechanical
events of the game, while they may provide an intellectual challenge, are less likely to
grip the player's feelings.  The distribution of text in the game should reflect this.  A
substantial text dump narrating in gruesome detail the exact motions of your hands
as you open the refrigerator to get some milk is much less satisfying than a short one
which succinctly states that you have opened the governor's safe and procured the
sensitive state documents.  Fast-paced games often pack more significant information
into a smaller space, in order to move the game along more quickly; slow-paced games
take their time, revealing information more gradually.
<p>
     Equally important are the commands which trigger these responses.  The
degree to which the player is acting at random, or basing his actions on instinct or
experience, as opposed to proceeding based on clues or nudges from the game itself, is
crucial.
<p>
     Quantitatively, the number of commands it takes to perform a certain action is
significant.  Many players are frustrated when a single, innocuous command triggers a
predetermined sequence of events, and the game goes along on auto-pilot for a while
without asking for input.  On the other hand, it is just as frustrating to have to
painstakingly perform a sequence of mundane actions, with the game never taking
the initiative, insisting that you do each explicitly.  Creating more detailed
interaction, and thus forcing the player to be more specific in his commands, can
enhance a game immensely.  A common mistake, however, is to increase the player's
workload without making the work any more interesting, as in the infamous "towers
of Hanoi" puzzle; the player must be rewarded with something out of the ordinary in
the text in order to be motivated to slog through a more lengthy sequence of
commands.
<p>
     Qualitatively, the commands themselves are significant.  If the player can
achieve a certain goal through many different sequences of actions, he is more likely
to be able to proceed quickly through the game than if each objective must be gained
through use of a particular command or sequence of commands.  Also, the source of
the player's inspiration for use of a particular command is important.  In general,
games which encourage the player to try a certain thing tend to be more fast-paced,
whereas those which allow him to figure it out on his own tend to move more slowly.
<p>
     In addition, the distribution of command-response text between passive
commands (examining things, looking things up in books, etc.) and active commands
(opening things, closing them, picking them up, etc.), and between the various
objects is important.  New authors of IF often fail to distribute their text
appropriately.  For example, a new author may create a verbose room description
which describes several objects, but then give each object only a brief description; or
the objects may be described carefully when they are EXAMINEd, but be
unresponsive to other actions.  This lopsided construction is jarring to the player,
who expects a somewhat uniform setup; if the mouth-watering perfection of the
scrumptious pastry on the table is communicated via a 100-word description, eating
it should not elicit a simple "You eat the scrumptious pastry.  Not bad."
<p>
     The quantitative aspects, then, are those most directly related to the pacing of
the GAME: how quickly and easily the player is able to navigate the game world,
interact with objects therein, and digest the information he receives in response to
these actions.  The qualitative aspects are more important to the STORY: how
significant the players actions are, how much he must do to advance the story, and
how much story-relevant information is packed into the text he receives.  Consider
this example from the quite fast-paced "Being Andrew Plotkin" (2000) by J.
Robinson Wheeler:
<P>
File Room<br>
This bleak room with its short, slumping ceiling does nothing to brighten your
morale. Short file cabinets, marked in reverse alphabetical order, crawl in a
line along the walls like an army of stupid robots. One measly window lets in a
tiny square of sunlight. 
<P>
You see a copier machine here. 
<P>
x folder<br>
The folders are a stack of about thirty plain folders, currently sorted into
reverse alphabetical order. On top is one labeled "Zefferelli." 
<P>
open z cabinet<br>
You open the Z cabinet.
<P>
put zefferelli folder in z cabinet<br>
You stick the Zefferelli folder into cabinet Z and close the drawer. 
<P>
x folders<br>
(the sorted folders)<br>
The folders are a stack of about thirty plain folders, currently sorted into
reverse alphabetical order. On top is one labeled "Zarf: Classified." Below
that is one labeled "Zarf: Declassified." 
<P>
"Zarf?" you think to yourself. "Could it be?" The one and only Zarf? Xyzzy Award
winner? IF Competition winner? The mighty Inscruitable One? 
<P>
You are strongly tempted to open them and see what's inside.
<P>
open zarf folder<br>
(the sorted folders)<br>
Eagerly, you flip open the "Zarf: Classified" folder, only to find that it
contains a top secret patent application for the design of a new improved type
of cup holder. 
<P>
open declassified folder<br>
Eagerly, you flip open the "Zarf: Declassified" folder. It contains a blurry
photograph and an employee record. Could it be? Zarf works here, at Red Hat?
Gosh. You feel awed merely by being near the master. What it must be like to be
Zarf. 
<P>
open z-y cabinet<br>
The Z-Y cabinet drawer seems to be stuck. Not locked, just kind of not moving
very easily. 
<P>
pull z-y cabinet<br>
Man, this cabinet is really stuck shut. Better try again. This time, with
feeling. 
<P>
You feel a faint cool breath of air. 
<P>
pull z-y cabinet<br>
You give the stuck cabinet drawer the old heave-ho, and instead of merely
opening, it yanks loose from the wall, revealing a strange, small door in the
wall! 
<P>
open door<br>
A hush of ancient air, tinged with organic sweetness, flows out of the opened
portal.
<P>
enter<br>
You pass through the portal into a dark tunnel, which sighs with melodic longing
as you enter.
<P>
(Wheeler)
<P>
     In just a few moves, a lot has happened.  The first folder is entirely
uninteresting; its filing is described quickly and succinctly and is unimportant in the
story.  The next two folders are important enough to carry the name of the title
character; the descriptions of the actions associated with them are of comparable size,
but far greater significance to the story.  The text here stays in the narrow region
between the dull and the overzealous; just enough story-relevant information is
released at each command, so that the player is pulled along without being
overwhelmed with a sudden deluge of information.
<p>
     Virtually every command in this transcript advances the story noticeably --
and, just as important, each is EXPECTED to advance the story, because each follows
directly from suggestions in the text.  These suggestions, though, are subtle enough to
achieve their goal without standing out.  More blatant direction would push the pace
too much, and the player would feel rushed.
<p>
     The AMOUNT of text displayed in response to each command is small in each
case.  Nevertheless, the commands relating to the Zarf folders are far more
meaningful than those relating to the Zefferelli folder.  The player retains control, but
the correct course of action is strongly suggested by the text.  Rather than having the
examination of the Zarf folder lead directly to the discovery of the door without
input, Wheeler nudges the player at each prompt, suggesting first that the player
open the folders (an action not part of the interaction with the Zefferelli folder), then
that he pull the cabinet not once but twice.
<p>
     There are other ways to achieve a fast pace, however.  This example -- from
Stephen Bond's "Rameses" (2000) -- is just as fast-paced, but in a different way:
<P>
PJ's Cafe - Dining Area (on the chair)<br>
The dining area of the cafe is reasonably large, and fairly empty at this time.
The room is striving incongruously for a jungle theme - with mahogany-effect
tables and chairs, potted plants scattered everywhere, an annoying green carpet,
and prints on the walls depicting tropical scenes. The self-service counter is
to the west.
<P>
I can see Alice and Claire here.
<P>
z<br>
Time passes.
<P>
Who the fuck does Daniel think he is, anyway? What the fuck is he doing,
flaunting his fucking girlfriend and his all his fucking friends at me... does
he think I care? Does he think that impresses me? Is he trying to say 'Look at
me now! Look at all the friends I have! Why should I need someone like you
anymore?' Fuck him.
<P>
z<br>
Time passes.
<P>
Is he trying to dismiss everything that ever happened to us? Is he dismissing my
whole life with a glance? And why is he being so insensitive? He was never like
that before... Doesn't he realise how much he hurt me tonight?
<P>
z<br>
Time passes.
<P>
z<br>
Time passes.
<P>
z<br>
Time passes.
<P>
z<br>
Time passes.
<P>
Ferdia comes in. About fucking time - I was going mad here. He rushes up to our
table. 
<P>
"Hello, girls!" he says, brashly. "I hope Alex has been entertaining you." Then
he laughs. He has the most annoying, offensive laugh you could possibly imagine
- he sounds like a horse being castrated. Alice replies with a similarly
offensive laugh, and looks at me derisively. 
<P>
"Have you had anything to drink?" Ferdia asks the girls. 
<P>
I stand up. "I'll... go get you something," I say, and go over to the counter.
But I don't stop at the counter. I can't face being here, I can't face being
with them, any longer. And the cool evening air coming from the exit is so
tempting... lulling me to go... 
<P>
And I know then that the best thing I can do, the only thing I can do, is to
leave all of them. Leave all of them forever. So I walk out the door, on to the
main street.
<P>
                                     . . . 
<P>
The cool evening air calls me, and I follow it. I follow it through the main
street, past sleepy houses; I follow it to the quayside, where the sea breeze is
strongest. It's raining now, but the rain is soft and comforting, caressing me
as it falls. I feel as if I love everything in the world, as if everything is
singing to me, as if my mind is filled with poetry and music. Everything,
everything is beautiful now. 
<P>
<P>
(Bond)
<P>
     Here, NONE of the commands is expected to advance the story, but the
character continues musing, and the last command, despite being identical to those
before, brings about an abrupt shift in location and tone.  Rather than pull the player
along gently, Bond has chosen to suddenly yank him forward.  Nevertheless, the
transition does not seem forced or incongruous, because the resulting event fits
naturally into the story.  In other words, because the narrator's desperate exit -- a
story element -- flows with the pace of the STORY, its lack of relationship to the
command which caused it -- a game element -- is not perceived by the player as an
anomaly in the pace of the GAME.  Were the event instead, say, a nuclear explosion
across the street, the player would feel cheated, thrust into a bizarre situation
through the innocent use of an unrelated command.  (Conversely, in the previous
example, the pace of the player's commands was entirely normal, but the result --
discovery of a tiny door into a dark tunnel -- completely unexpected.)
<p>
     In the "Being Andrew Plotkin" example, the game suggested actions to the
player and then responded to those actions in a relatively expected way -- it
encouraged the player to pull the cabinet, for example, and then responded by
moving the cabinet away from the wall.  In this example from "Rameses", the game
has taken matters into its own hands.  Even though the player has done nothing, the
game is advancing; the character has ended the scene of his own accord.  Whereas in
"Being Andrew Plotkin" the commands were different and the responses the same,
here the commands are the same but the responses dramatically different.  In both
cases, the pace is rapid, but in the latter the game forces it to be so, whereas in the
former the game merely encourages the player to make it so.
<p>
     Each of these examples depicts a single scene, and ends as a new scene is
beginning.  (In the first example, the player is moving to a new location; in the
second, the new arrival begins to interact with the other characters.)  Transcripts of
similar scene changes in slow-paced games could easily be several pages long.
<p>
     Here "scene" is used to mean a section of a game which is defined by the
player character's attitude, goals, and/or modus operandi.  For example, if the player
character is a spy infiltrating a building to steal a technological prototype, then when
he enters the building the scene changes; he is no longer attempting to gain entrance,
but has begun searching for the prototype.
<p>
     Scenes in slow-paced games are generally longer and less numerous than those
in fast-paced games.  (The traditional "Advent"-style puzzle-fest is essentially one
long scene.  There is no change in the player character's objective -- he continues to
search for treasures.)  The ease with which the player can move to another scene (i.e.,
move within the story) is as important as the ease with which he can move to another
location (i.e., move within the map).  The player may be able to roam the map freely,
but be unable to figure out what to do to advance the story; or he may be able to
move to the next scene despite being restricted geographically.
<p>
     In other words, the scenes above have been analyzed with regard to their
interal pacing -- the pacing within a single scene.  Just as important to the game as a
whole, however, is the way the sequence of scenes is paced.  Just as each command is
one beat in the rhythm of a scene, each scene is a beat in the overall rhythm of the
game.  The principles of balance among interaction and exposition still apply.  Some
scenes, for example, may require the player to focus on achieving a certain objective,
putting aside for the moment the larger issues of the story; other scenes may lessen
the intensity of the interaction to give the player a chance to absorb the story.  Too
many scenes with too much to do can overwhelm the player; too few scenes with too
little to do can leave him unsatisfied, feeling that the game has ended too soon.
<p>
     These kinds of effects on pace can also be achieved more directly with some
kind of time constraint in the story, or with a naturally restrictive location.  For
example, if the player character is a bomb specialist and the game is about him trying
to defuse a bomb before it blows up a building, the pace is naturally fast.  Movement
can be restricted by placing the player in some place which he cannot easily exit, such
as a moving train.  Also, some types of interaction have an inherently different pace
than others; menu-based conversation, for instance, is more straightforward to
navigate than ASK/TELL, because all options are clearly visible.  This allows the
player to more rapidly navigate the "conversational space", just as a map free of
locked doors allows him to more rapidly navigate the geographical space.  Less
frequently, the game can have a special structure which affects the pacing, as in Adam
Cadre's "Varicella", which must be restarted repeatedly, forcing the player to use
information from previous play-throughs.
<p>
     More important than any of the individual elements, however, is the
relationship between them.  An IF game can only be altogether well-paced if all of its
parts -- the rhythm of the text, the ease of motion through game and story, the
granularity of the interaction -- are arranged in a harmonious balance.  It is for this
reason that such a great number of games are greeted with remarks like "incredibly
intriguing, but the writing just doesn't fit" or "the objects are wonderful toys, but
they don't seem appropriate for this type of story".
<p>
     When the quantitative and qualitative components of pacing are not
appropriately balanced, the game will suffer.  If, for instance, the map is large and
easily traversable and objects plentiful, but exploring the map and investigating the
objects brings little or no advancement in the story, the player will become bored. 
This is a common problem in first works, or more generally games where the author
has not spent enough time formulating the relationship between story and game.
<p>
     When arranged auspiciously, however, the elements of pacing can contribute
powerfully to a game's overall quality.  Emily Short's "Metamorphoses" uses a variety
of complex and unusual objects, combined with a carefully structured map, to
delicately draw the player into the world and story.  The unfamiliar nature of the
objects and rooms slows the pace of the game, reinforcing the mood of wonder
created by the writing.  "Photopia" is able to tell its story more effectively by keeping
the scenes short and free of excessive scenery, and the rapid scene transitions parallel
the atypical temporal structure of the story.
<p>
     Finally, it is worth taking a brief look at how pacing can be used in avant-garde
games, those which take IF in new directions.  Often, these games break standard
conventions of interactivity, and the pacing of such a game is in some ways unique. 
Kevin F. Doughty's "Threading the Labyrinth" (2000) is a recent example of an
experiment with interactivity:
<P>
          There is a fundamental difference between mazes
     and labyrinths, and this difference has more to do
     with us than with them.
<P>
difference
<P>
Our goals and expectations are what create the difference between what we see as a
maze and what we see as a labyrinth.
<P>
between
<P>
This "between" is the place we want to explore.  It is the place of connection between
absolutes.  But as much as possible should be taken from this place we are now before
it is left.
<P>
mazes
<P>
Mazes must be gotten through or gotten out of.
                        They must be conquered.
<P>
and
<P>
Both mazes and labyrinths are things to be explored.
     and
Both conditions expressed are simultaneously true.
<P>
labyrinths
<P>
Our goal in the labyrinth is to be experiencing of it.
                      What have you encountered
                         in your travels within?
<P>
between
<P>
The decision is made and the space between is entered.
<P>
(Doughty)
<P>
     Questions of the ease of navigation of the map or interaction with objects seem
irrelevant here, since there appear to be no rooms or objects -- the player interacts
directly with the text.  (An introductory text, not part of this excerpt, tells the player
the general form of interaction that is required, so even a first-time player will have a
reasonable idea of what commands will produce a response.)  Nevertheless, there are
noticeable subtleties of pacing.
<p>
     The total interactive potential at first appears to be finite and very limited --
typing any of the 21 words in the first paragraph will presumably elicit some
response, but any other input will be meaningless.  However, each word entered is, in
effect, an exploratory move, much like moving a to a new room or examining an
object; the player learns more about the meaning of the text.  At the same time, each
command reveals part of the "story" (such as it is -- in this case less a narrative than a
philosophical musing).  Responses to the more significant words (in this excerpt, the
nouns) have a more direct relationship to the central theme of the game, whereas
information from less important words (e.g., "and") is less revelatory.  The interactive
potential is also not as simple as it seems -- the response to the first "between"
command is different than the response to the second.  The second, in fact, launches
a new scene (with a new paragraph displayed, and thus a new set of words to
explore).
<p>
     In a sense, as Doughty suggests here, each player is traveling through a
labyrinth.  Some games are trivial labyrinths, and the player is able to move quickly
through them; some are more difficult, and the player must move more slowly.  The
author controls the pace, then, by painting on the walls to keep the player occupied,
and by doling out the appropriate amount of thread, and perhaps tugging on it, just a
bit, to pull him along.