Why It Matters: Music
Games are alive with the sound of music.
Early this year, Kotaku's Stephen Totilo wrote a fascinating essay about how music in video games is nonessential. It's a good read and is well written, but I disagree with Totilo on a very fundamental level. Of course, he is technically correct: you can play most games with the sound off, and in extreme cases, I've done so due to awful voice acting or repetitive music. But to dismiss an important aspect of the gaming experience as nonessential undermines it; after all, games themselves are nonessential. We do not need them to function; they do not provide physical warmth (unless, of course, you use them to create a fort) or nourishment (they are not an appropriate source of fiber).
Yet like fine art, and literature, and love, and all the creature comforts that make our lives extraordinary, games entertain and enrich us. Music, too, is not a necessity, but it's a joy that has elevated human beings for countless centuries. And it's no less desirable in a game than it is on its own. In this way, the game is a microcosm of life itself: its soundtrack may not be essential, but it is an expression of emotion and intellect that should not be rejected simply because it isn't a requirement of life (or in this case, game) function.
And so music matters and is a core aspect of the gaming experience for most of us. Consider:
You know this music. When you hear it, it initiates a reaction. Music has power, and used properly, it can elevate a game (or misused, it can sink a game like a boulder).
I think games use music in one of four ways. Of course, some of these ways overlap; abstract music (say, the Mario tune above) still creates an atmosphere, and indeed, a Pavlovian response. (I dare anyone in their 30s to hear that and not have an immediate emotional response.) But I believe these categories work well and are a good place to start when considering how music exerts its power over a gaming experience.
Music as Atmosphere -- "It's like I'm Really There"
You are Ezio Auditore di Firenze. As you ride your steed through the streets of Rome, a lilting tune in 5/4 time brightens the journey, just as the glowing sun brightens the cobbled streets.
You are John Marston. The strums of a guitar elicit images of rattlesnakes and cacti in the Mexican wilderness--you don't even need to open your eyes.
These are great examples of music matched with visual design to pull you into its world. In many cases, these are period pieces, in which music gives immediate historical context. BioShock is another terrific example: an interesting mix of '30s/'40s/'50s tunes and an original orchestral score from Garry Schyman. Atmosphere is BioShock's single greatest asset. It uses period music and art design in a unique fictional setting, and I can't imagine being swept into Rapture if I turned the music off--or indeed, if BioShock had gone with a purely original score. I'm reminded of my favorite film, Moulin Rouge, in which familiar music is used to tap into existing emotions. I think of this music as emotional shorthand, and in BioShock, it's incredibly effective.
On the flip side, I offer up Fallout 3 as an example of a game that did not leverage music to its advantage. An excellent game, no doubt, but the soundtrack did it no favors. Its symphonic swooning and light musical accompaniment didn't fit its postapocalyptic vision. It struck me as particularly "Bethesda-ish," in the sense that it might have worked well in an Elder Scrolls game, but it didn't fit the setting particularly well. Like BioShock, Fallout 3 used period music in an attempt to elicit a response, but there were scant few radio tunes, and they weren't used to any particular effect. I referred to this in Why It Matters: Storytelling, but it applies here too: games are best when every aspect of them is used to communicate a singular vision. Because the soundtrack was incongruous, and because the period tunes were so sparse, Fallout 3 doesn't make a musical impression.



