‘Life is Strange’: A Ludonarrative Lighthouse in the Darkness

A common critique of the choice-based, point-and-click, episodic genre of games that Telltale Games have popularized is that choices don’t matter and gameplay is tedious. Life is Strange, though adhering to this genre, defies such critiques even as it embraces them. Choices absolutely matter in Life is Strange, though for reasons that many critics of this game have neglected to notice. And the gameplay, though admittedly tedious at times, is nested within a larger ludonarrative structure that, unlike the Telltale genre, believably invites the player into Maxine Caulfield’s world. Life is Strange stands out as exemplary in the so-called “Telltale genre.” Warning: the following material contains spoilers of the game and its ending.

The 2015 DontNod episodic game Life is Strange is seldom discussed in terms of its ludonarrative: the intersection between gameplay and storytelling. Life is Strange’s ludonarrative primarily operates through Maxine Caulfield, an adolescent photographer whose career ambitions are yet unrealized. Max’s identity as a photographer is overlooked in the instances that ludonarrative enters the discussion of Life is Strange. In a point-and-click game centered around choice as a game mechanic, the player guides a photographer to point and click as she chooses. This premise provides perfect ludonarrative consonance (or “ludonarrative harmony,” for those of you unwilling to be consistent with your Latin-derived word parallels) between player and character.

Curiosity is rewarded in Life is Strange, as evidenced by how the lore aligns with its ludonarrative premise. The lore is established through the achievements and trophies of this game, by seeking out and photographing certain moments. Max’s photographic portfolio expands as the player goes out of their way to capture these photographs, which is perfectly believable to her character. These achievements are all instances of Max developing her creative eye for professional photography. Further, it’s as though these (optional) photographs are Max’s attempts at developing confidence to submit a photo to Mr. Jefferson’s “Everyday Heroes” competition, which he has been hounding Max to do since the game’s beginning.

The most common discussion of Life is Strange’s ludonarrative, if it is brought up at all, centers itself around the game’s primary story-driving mechanic: time-travel. This game distinctly excels in the Telltale genre almost entirely because of Max’s ability to rewind time. The rewind game mechanic is a perfect example of ludonarrative consonance, when the gameplay literally and effectively contributes to the story’s unfolding. The often smooth blend between cutscene and gameplay in Life is Strange also lends itself to a successful ludonarrative. In short, every detail of this game – from story to lore – establishes itself in terms of Max’s ability to rewind time, thereby undoing, redoing, or simply circumventing the inevitable progression of time.

In discussions of ludonarrative, we forget that the controllers tell the story, too. In this case, Life is Strange’s ludonarrative is enlightened by virtue of the controller layout. I played Life is Strange on a Dualshock 4 controller, but would suspect that this analysis is true for all controller-wielding players (sorry, PC master race): the rewind mechanic, situated on the left-hand side of the controller on the trigger buttons, feels and looks like the rewind symbol (⏪). It’s as though the player “rewinds” the game like they would on a classic television remote. Furthermore, on the Dualshock 4, the primary rewind is accessed by holding the L2 button. To accelerate Max’s rewinding of time, the player adds their right finger to the R2 button; this addition of both hands truly feels as though the player is gripping onto the controller the way Max grips onto reality throughout her time travel. The player is finally afforded the ability to rewind to a specific plot-splitting moment from the story – as signified by the blue butterfly – eliminating the need for the L2 + R2 rewind dynamic. To rewind to the most recent plot point, the player taps the L1 button, again harkening the rewind symbol, but further. By skipping the ability to decide when to stop rewinding time – and abnegating that decision to the game’s set narrative – this tap of the L1 button is a “hands-off” approach to rewinding. It’s as though, in pressing L1 and giving up control for a moment, the player is, like Max, ceding agency to her mysterious time-travelling powers. There is something bigger than both her and the player at work here.

Life is Strange’s time-travel mechanics ultimately deepen the game’s narrative by inviting multiple rewinds of conversations in order to experiment with character reactions and plot developments. Life is Strange also capitalizes on the usual disadvantages of choice-based gameplay: it feels in most games from the Telltale genre that choices don’t matter. But the time-travel mechanic is not a gimmick, as it has been in other games. Time-travel in Life is Strange rewards its players for going back with easter eggs, plot nuances, and character manipulation. These rewards encourage eager exploration within the game’s world in a way that other games in the Telltale genre do not. (Although, the infamous “bottle scene” couldn’t be redeemed by any amount of time travel)

And this rewind mechanic allows the player to adeptly navigate the game’s social circles (e.g. The Vortex Club) and assess character motivations in a way that is noticeably missing within the larger scope of the Telltale genre. For instance, toward the end of Life is Strange, Max is tasked with entering the Two Whales Diner to obtain information from a patron inside. The easiest, direct path is to walk straight up to the diner’s entrance. But the curious player is able to continue walking past the entrance where Max encounters a trucker who’s leaning on the diner’s facade, smoking a cigarette. Max has the option to look across the street at a red, shiny eighteen-wheeler truck. She can also talk to this trucker. At first, before any rewinding, the trucker is standoffish and unwilling to open up to Max. He even denies her the opportunity to photograph his truck. But, after some patient rewinding, Max learns the precise name of his “1977 Needham” truck, and coaxes him into allowing her to take a photograph of the truck: achievement unlocked. This microcosmic moment illustrates the larger cosmos of Life is Strange. This game goes further than what players have grown used to expect from the Telltale genre, into deeply affective, heartwarming (and heartbreaking) territory which is entirely contingent on the player’s willingness to dig.

In games like these, the player can safely expect that interacting with objects within the world is an obstacle to plot progression. Not so, in Life is Strange. For instance, toward the back end of the game, Max and Chloe pay a visit to Frank: the sketchy drug dealer who has served as an antagonist throughout the game. Chloe knocks on Frank’s trailer, they interrogate him, and, by the end of the conversation, Chloe shoots Frank and his dog. They instantly fall to the ground, bleeding out, dead. Chloe’s violent reaction startles Max and herself, but Max has the wherewithal to rewind time. Once back in time, Max approaches Chloe, who is ready to knock (again) for the first time. But Max now has an alternate option of dialogue that the player can use to warn Chloe: “Be careful.” If the player conscientiously chooses this option, peaceably proceeding to ask Frank questions in order to help find the missing girl Rachel, then the scene ends without a gunshot. And you’ll move forward in the game a lot quicker, easier, and with a clearer moral conscience, than if you’d impulsively antagonized Frank into another death. But the player does not have to do this. Choices. Matter.

One might analogize in defense of Telltale’s games and argue that, although player choices might not always directly effect plot in this genre, character choices do inform a player’s experience. In The Walking Dead, for instance, if Lee’s character fails to save Kenny’s kid Duck, then Kenny will behave differently throughout the rest of the game: begrudgingly, brokenly, resentfully. If Lee saves Kenny’s kid, then Kenny’s later sacrifice becomes all the more meaningful. To this extent, Life is Strange is no different than The Walking Dead. And fair enough.

There are such a series of these kinds of options in Life is Strange, however, that the branching of individual player experience overshadows the options in the usual Telltale genre. One instance is the early scene in Chloe’s room when David busts her for smoking a joint. In this scene, Max may (1) fail to hide and get busted; (2) successfully hide; (3) either (1) or (2) and still take the blame for Chloe; and so on. The myriad of moves the player can make in this scene reflects the depth of thought and meaning infused into this game. This scene doesn’t substantially shift the story, but it absolutely shapes the player’s own relationship to the story. And it shapes it in direct proportion to the player’s own willingness to invest (and investigate) the game’s narrative.

Even further than the choices that shape the player’s relationship to the story, many choices in Life is Strange reflect a pattern of the player’s preferences and prejudices. The option for Max to kiss Chloe, for instance, is the kind of option that, though it might not seem important, effects the game’s conclusion scene. And, even if this decision didn’t have plot implications, these opportunities arise to enable the player to project feelings onto Chloe’s character, as well as others. Again, this optional choice both offers the opportunity for players to confirm their biases, and redirects them once the implications for time travel are clear to the player: this choice will affect Max and Chloe’s relationship going forward. It’s as though the triad identity that James Paul Gee mentioned in his book, What Video Games Have to Teach us about Learning and Literacy (2003), has come to life in scenes like this. Gee argues for three “identities” in successful videogaming: the player, the in-game character, and the amorphous, negotiated hybridic identity in-between. Life is Strange invites the player, more than most other games, even games in this Telltale genre, to situate themselves as both self and character – a kind of “Max/I” mixture that the player develops throughout their choices across the game’s narrative.

These deviant details won’t be experienced by most players, especially those who are in a rush to progress the plot. And the appreciation of alternate realities and their implications for identity and ideology depends upon the degree to which a player invests in the game. This account in no way exhausts the necessary articulation of ludonarrative in Life is Strange. Players should, in future investigations, spend time exploring the thoughtful, powerful story(ies) that DontNod has produced. Life is Strange is not perfect. But it’s a masterful iteration of ludonarrative capacities in the evolving genre.

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