
Game characters talk too much. Unless, of course, they're J'zargo.
I like shirts. I enjoy owning them, wearing them -- pretty much everything you can do with shirts, really. Which is mostly just those two things. So I recently visited a custom T-shirt website, because why not? And then -- because I'm oddly proud of my exceedingly embarrassing geekiness -- I searched for Skyrim apparel. What I discovered made me laugh like a hyena that'd recently eaten a live clown. Then it made me deeply, deeply depressed. Mere days after the game had launched, there were shirts emblazoned with phrases like "You tried mercenary work? It might suit you" and "My cousin's out fighting dragons, and what do I get? Guard duty."
If you've played Skyrim for more than two seconds, those phrases probably haunt your nightmares -- perhaps uttered by deeply unsettling images of your disapproving father as a giant praying mantis. Why? Because Skyrim's all-too-talkative denizens bellow them every time you're within bellowing range. Dovahkiin shouts? The Voice? Those are nothing compared to these all-powerful, sanity shattering sentences. And that's a rather large problem.
Skyrim's blabbermouth inhabitants speak to a much larger issue within modern games: There's far too much telling, and not nearly enough showing. Ken Levine recently put it best when he said, "It's always very tempting to have people talk. We'll do a level review and either me or somebody else will have like an idea, 'this person will say this!', and generally that's the least effective way to get across information in a videogame." Because it really, really is -- and not just in the case of 80-trillion-hour behemoths like Skyrim.
For example, let's take a game that's essentially Skyrim's polar opposite, like Modern Warfare 3 or -- on the console side of things -- Uncharted 3. Both games are so heavily railroaded that, if you so much as briefly wobble off the tracks, everything explodes and dies. Sometimes literally. In Uncharted's case, especially, it's a byproduct of telling a very deliberate, pre-written story. If those spike-and-glass-and-bee-coated guard rails weren't in place, the whole illusion would fall apart. Expertly crafted scripts would be read out of order. The player could put a bullet in allies' one-liner-spewing robo-brains mid-sentence. And that'd make some weird fraction of a liner. A half-liner? Where's the fun in that?
In all of the above cases, dialog -- what the game's explicitly telling us -- is the first thing to break. And when you can see immersion's seams, it's not long until the stuffing's all over the floor and your cat eats it. Dialog, after all, is a limited resource. No matter how much fancy AI or procedural tech you have, you can't magically teleport voice actors back into the studio each time someone scales to the tippity top of a dialog tree. So typically, the character just goes on infinite repeat, and that's the game's way of saying, "Alright, you can go away now. Nothing to see here. Go on, then! Shoe!"
Obviously, good writing -- and, perhaps more importantly, well-placed writing -- can help remedy this to a certain extent. But even then, in order for it to be effective, incredibly restrictive design constraints are pretty much required. Take Portal, for instance. As far as writing and dialog go, it's nearly untouchable. But it's also a few hours long, linear as a maze designed by a Medieval jouster, and good for roughly one playthrough -- at least, storywise. Moreover, one of its best story moments arises not from prose that'd make Shakespeare throw down his quill and pick up some Ben and Jerry's, but from the power of ever-so-slight suggestion.

I'm referring, of course, to the Weighted Companion Cube. GLaDOS -- mostly in an attempt to mess with your head -- briefly imbues the Companion Cube with vaguely human qualities by saying things like "It would rather die in a fire than become a burden to you." The player's brain, however, does the rest. For me, slam-dunking my cuboid companion into certain fiery doom was utterly heartbreaking. Much moreso than, say, the death of what's-his-stubbly-face in Modern Warfare.
The very notion, of course, is silly. I mean, it's a freakin' cube. It can't speak -- let alone posses a well-developed personality. And yet -- during that five-minute-long segment -- Portal subtly pushed me into bonding with it. Not once did it outright say, "Your character wishes to share a long, passionate make-out session with this geometrical object just before the credits roll." It didn't need to.
And let's not forget the likes of Ico and Shadow of the Colossus -- both of which are held up as de-facto examples of Games As Art because of the overwhelming emotions they evoke with nary a peep from their characters. Also, while we're in console territory, I may as well bring up The Darkness, which I can't seem to go a week without praising like a lovestruck teenager. There's a good reason for that, though: Snuggling up with main character Jackie Estacado's girlfriend on a couch and watching the entirety of "To Kill a Mockingbird" is one of the most convincing moments I've ever experienced in a game. It's one thing for a game to say, "These two characters are in love because of course they are." It's another thing entirely, however, to stick around until after the danger's passed and there's nothing good on TV.
Hell, I only chose to slap a big "Berate Me" sign on Skyrim's back first because it's so completely brilliant when chatterbox citizens are nowhere to be found. The game's world is so meticulously constructed that -- when I'm off adventuring all by my lonesome -- I can't help but imagine motivations and stories for characters and environments I encounter. Bethesda's sprinkled each area with just enough information -- skeletons, books, half-eaten food, notes, etc -- that my brain practically leaps at the chance to connect the dots.
Ultimately, though, the game tells me I'm a Big Damn Hero with a Big Damn Destiny. So, somewhat ironically, I'm the same as everybody else. But -- through my adventures -- I've molded my character into a Nord who's equal parts just, prideful, and ruthless. He'll never even consider joining the Dark Brotherhood, but if he deems you a drain on society, he'll slice you until you resemble the Black Knight from Monty Python, watch as you hobble away in fear, and bathe you in flames until you don't even look human anymore. Because in his eyes, you never were.
It's interesting: People love to rationalize events and create stories. Meanwhile, they hate being bossed around and forced into teeny-tiny boxes. So why are videogames so gleefully in love with getting it backwards?