The Ludonarrative Podcast – 1.2 Shadow of the Colossus

February 8, 2018

In this month’s episode of the Ludonarrative Podcast, Preston and I spend time unraveling the hauntingly beautiful “Shadow of the Colossus” (2005). This game, designed by Fumito Ueda, adheres to the design principle, “design by subtraction.” The game’s mechanics come alive, even today, as we anticipate the forthcoming redesigned release for the PS4.

The Ludonarrative Podcast – 1.2 Shadow of the Colossus

Check back with Epilogue this month for more on “Shadow of the Colossus.” And, if you’d like to see more of this kind of content, head over to Patreon to support us.


Life is Tumblr: A Refutation

January 28, 2018

My latest column for Epilogue argues against critics like E;R who say Life is Strange is a bad game. My problems with these critiques are that they are lazy, boring, and misogynistic. For a game that capitalizes on what I’ve called the “Telltale genre,” they represent some serious innovations in videogaming and storytelling that deeply move me as a player.


My Defense of the videogame Life is Strange

January 17, 2018

So I can officially say that I get paid to write about videogames. That’s pretty cool. Take that, mom!

Here is the article in question: “Life is Strange: A Ludonarrative Lighthouse in the Darkness”

It would mean the world to me if any of you read through my piece on Life is Strange. I put a lot of work into everything I do, but this piece stands out as something that I truly believe is important work. Any feedback, as always, is cherished.

And if you like it, please check out the rest of Epilogue Gaming’s website. They’ve done a lot for me so far, and I want to help them grow as much as possible. They’re doing a stellar job of carving out a space for intelligent discussions about storytelling that I’ve never seen before.

And if you enjoy my article, which I think you will, then please head over to the Epilogue Gaming Patreon. For as little as $1 per month, you can promote my ability to write more articles like this one. 🙂

The Ludonarrative Podcast – 1.1 Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons

January 7, 2018

I’m excited to release a new project that I’ve been working on for weeks: The Ludonarrative Podcast. This podcast investigates the relationship between videogames and storytelling; or, more specifically, the intersection between gameplay and narrative: how do game mechanics tell stories?

The Ludonarrative Podcast – 1.1 Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons

This podcast was born out of a literal dream that I had in June, after beating The Last Guardian for the first time. It was the first videogame I’d had time to play in almost a year. I had just wrapped up a grueling semester. And this game made me cry. I was so moved by The Last Guardian‘s ending, that I went down a rabbithole of research, trying to find discussions about how powerful this game is/was. And there was almost nothing deep, almost nothing compelling. There was a noticeable absence of critical discourse about videogames.

A maxim that I’ve picked up from Dr. Jordan B. Peterson’s lecture courses is that opportunity lurks where responsibility has been abdicated. This maxim becomes truer with each iteration that I say it. In this case, the absence of critical discourse about videogames gripped me: it was my responsibility. And so here we are. This is a project that to say I’m proud of would be to understate the case entirely: it’s one of the best things I’ve ever worked on. And I get to do this podcast with two great, generous, sagacious friends: Ben and Preston. Thank god for them.

Please give this a listen. If you like it, check out Epilogue where I’ll be publishing a minimum of two articles per month about ludonarratives. And, if you’d like to see more of this kind of content, head over to Patreon to support us.

Joyshtick III: Ludonarrative in Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons

December 7, 2017

The third (and likely final) installment of the “Joyshtick” series of academic conferences.

Enjoying these conversations? Check out (@EpilogueGames)

Preston, Ben, and I will be launching a ludonarrative podcast in January.

A Brief Tale of Sacrifice: The Unlikely Alliance of Jacques Derrida and Jordan B. Peterson

December 1, 2017

Jordan B. Peterson, a clinical psychologist who has risen to international fame in the previous year, regularly disparages Jacques Derrida in his talks and lectures. Peterson recently argued on the Joe Rogan podcast, for instance, that Derrida’s influence on the University system has been a “corrosive force,” the results of which are “absolutely pathological to the core.” Many of Derrida’s conclusions (e.g. lifedeath) are, for Peterson, “true, but…” because they always rest on the notion that categorization in society exists primarily to marginalize others, a notion Peterson finds “absurd” as a critique. The absurdity that Peterson attributes to Derrida momentarily disappears, however, when they discuss sacrifice and responsibility. Peterson, a champion polemic of post-modernism, at least within the scope of this discussion, sounds a lot like Derrida, the post-modernist who he claims to most condemn. Perhaps Peterson might take Derrida’s Gift of Death into account in the future, an act which might soften some of Peterson’s harsher blows against post-modernism.

Jordan B. Peterson’s arguments about Christian sacrifice in the story of Abraham most strongly coincides with Jacques Derrida’s recasting of Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. Derrida, through the writings of Jan Patočka and Martin Heidegger, argues that even Kierkegaard’s reading of the story of Abraham was insufficiently complete as an interpretation. In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard epically interrogates the “faith” that many people claim to have, and yet “go further” in vain from their own mistaken presuppositions. Kierkegaard dismantles these presuppositions and painstakingly details the “anguish” that Abraham would have felt when he was commanded by God to sacrifice Isaac. Kierkegaard’s portrait of Abraham’s anguish underscores the multifaceted sacrifice that transpired when Abraham committed to the task that God has commanded of him. Abraham’s multifaceted sacrifice is threefold: (1) his son, (2) his ethics, (3) his future. The call is a call to accept the aporia of responsibility, as Derrida would have it, or the call to willingly adopt sacrifice in order to transcend suffering, as Peterson would have it. This aporetic (perhaps transcendent) responsibility cannot be refused but, simultaneously, will inevitably fail to manifest into being.

In the seventh installment of his wildly popular Biblical lecture series (“The Great Sacrifice”), Peterson argues at length that the sacrificial tale of Abraham and Isaac is an archetypal foundation for Western Culture. This archetypal foundation presents itself as a fundamental problem to contemporary life; that is, sacrifice is a religious notion. Sacrifice requires integration of pain and suffering. This religious notion has still not fully integrated itself into secular society. Reading from a draft of his forthcoming book, 12 Rules For Life: An Antidote to Chaos, Peterson concludes his characterization of Abraham’s sacrifice with a discussion of pain and suffering that echoes Derrida’s sentiments from Gift of Death:

“Pain and suffering define the world; of that, there can be no doubt. Sacrifice can hold pain and suffering in abeyance to a greater or lesser degree. And greater sacrifices can do that more effectively than lesser. Of that, too, there can be no doubt: everyone holds this knowledge in their soul. Thus, the person who wishes to alleviate suffering, who wishes to rectify the flaws in being, who wishes to bring about the best of all possible futures, who wants to create Heaven on Earth, will make the greatest of sacrifices: of self and child, of everything that is loved. To live a life aimed at the Good, he will forgo expediency. He will pursue the path of ultimate meaning. And he will, in that manner, bring salvation to ever-desperate world.”

Peterson’s evocation of salvation, in this conclusion, harkens Derrida’s notion of originary responsibility. For Derrida, responsibility is Biblical in origin: love thy enemy, love all children (not just one’s own). This responsibility produces an aporia, for Derrida. For, as finite beings with limited resources, one can only discharge one’s responsibility only incompletely. That is, one can never properly care for (love) all children, one’s enemies, etc. One’s mortality prevents oneself from properly caring for these others, as one can’t possibly discharge the eternal, infinite obligation present in human beings: responsibility through sacrifice.

Sam Kimball, in the twelfth lecture of his 2017 graduate-level literary theory course, tangentially argued against the ontological notion of responsibility. In Kimball’s terms, each of our decisions is urgent, yet problematic. A decision is only a decision, in other words, if one has inadequate knowledge; one must be uncertain. If one isn’t certain, then one is following a protocol. To make a free decision, a responsible decision, one has to make a decision under certain circumstances of inadequate information; but that makes one’s decision irresponsible, by definition. To decide responsibly is, thus, according to Kimball, to decide irresponsibly. Derrida’s ethical aporia of responsibility is thus evoked in this consideration of irresponsibility (again, in Kimball’s terminology): my responsibility will occur within a Darwinian world that is governed by the logic of the infanticidal, without which the sacred would not appear to me. This apparition of the sacred harkens back to the “salvation” that Peterson describes in his conclusion on the Abrahamic tale of sacrifice. That which is sacred, the ideal future, is achieved through sacrifice, through responsibility.

After arguing against the ontological notion of responsibility, Kimball retraced his logic back through the chronology of Derrida’s Gift of Death. This chronology begins with the Akeda, a text which makes infanticidal logic explicit. This explication complicates the notion of responsibility further, according to Kimball, because Abraham sacrifices Isaac even if he doesn’t. Abraham sacrifices all other sons, furthermore, even if he doesn’t. These “even if” conditionals reveal Derrida’s logic of responsibility: to sacrifice all other possibilities (decisions) even if they aren’t sacrificed.

The (or any) instant of life (or care) is an eternity (infinitude) of sacrificed futures, in Kimball’s terminology. As an individual, one can only be a parent to some kids – it’s encoded in the structure of existence. Parenthood is thus a matter of responsibility and irresponsibility, logically necessitating another form of the gift of death: by taking care of one’s own children, one is sacrificing others’. If one truly understood one’s implication in the infinitude of sacrificed futures, according to Derrida, one would tremble before this mysterium tremendum demanded by the wholly other (God). Every responsibility is thus a coming to face with the resurrection, the gift of death that one can never repay but must try to. This gift of death takes the form of the “bargain with the future” that Peterson emphasizes in the Abrahamic story. To bargain with the future, to sacrifice the present, is an ultimate responsibility – a gift of death willingly sacrificed to one’s future self.

Peterson offers the evolutionary anecdote of mammoth hunting to illustrate the biological origin of sacrifice in human culture. In human culture, unlike in animal life (culture?), massive food resources like a mammoth are preserved and shared in order to bring about a more sustainable future. Animals don’t participate in this bargain with the future, as humans do; rather, wolves, for instance, will eat entire carcasses at a time. Humans, however, distribute the carcass amongst members of the group, thereby conferring notions of sharing, trust, and sacrifice. One who shares, or, in Derrida’s terminology, gifts, is responsible. Peterson continues with the detailed account of the pre-Abrahamic sacrifices:

“Eventually, the utility of ‘for later,’ starts to be appreciated. Some provisional notion of sacrifice begins to develop at the same time. If I leave some for now, I won’t have to be hungry later. That provisional notion then develops to the next level: if I leave some for later, I won’t have to go hungry, and neither will those I care for. And then to the next level: I can’t possibly eat all this mammoth, but I can’t store the rest for too long either. Maybe I should feed some to other people. Maybe they’ll remember, and feed me some of their mammoth when they have some and I have none. Then I’ll get some mammoth now, and some later. That’s a good deal.”

Hence, societies begin to organize and emerge out of the pleistocene, as Peterson would have it. This emergence, in Kimball’s terminology, does not guarantee an escape from the Darwinian economy of necessity. Rather, in the peace that follows the emergence, society invents culture. Culture, in this conception, is a collective noun for a series of manifestations that subvert the necessity to sacrifice (i.e. taboos, curses, prescriptions, anathemas, oaths, law, religion, customs, etiquette, and gift giving). This subversion is, like the gift of death, precarious. Eventually, this precarious contract will expire and the economic necessity for the group will undermine the peace from which the sacrifice has precluded itself (e.g. natural disaster, invasion, war, pestilence).

When this precarious contract expires, a new sacrifice will have to be made. Peterson might argue that, as sacrifice is a bargain with the future, the reemergence of the sacrifice is inevitable, and even good, if voluntarily undertaken by an individual:

“And maybe those I’m sharing with will come to trust me more generally. Maybe then we could trade forever. In such a manner, mammoth becomes future mammoth. And future mammoth becomes personal reputation: that’s the emergence of the social contract. To share does not mean to give away something you value and get nothing back. That’s only instead what every child who refuses to share is afraid that it means: to share means to properly initiate the process of trade. The child who can’t share, who can’t trade, can’t have any friends, because having friends is a form of trade.”

Sacrifice, in Peterson’s conception, builds cultural trust. Trust through sacrifice is concretized in the social contract, and initiates trade between individuals. This reciprocal trade is precisely what is at stake in Derrida’s Gift of Death. Derrida’s argument about gifts and giftgiving is that a gift is only a gift if it is received and not acknowledged as a gift. A gift, ontologically, cannot be reciprocated, otherwise the intended “gift,” now profaned, enters the market of economic exchange, of Darwinian necessity. This reentry into the market of economic exchange, though necessary, precludes the possibility of the object of intent ever being received as a gift. A gift is thus sacrificed in one’s perceived responsibility to say “thank you,” and pay the gift-giver back for their generosity.

Derrida intentionally refuses to define precisely what he means by the “gift of death,” but repeatedly he emphasizes the “mystery” that the gift reveals. This mystery can be thought of in terms of sacrifice, as well. For all life survives on the sacrificed (gift of) death of other living beings. All life predicates itself on the sacrifice of other life. This sacrifice becomes a gift truly given, a gift which retains its ontological status as gift. That is, one doesn’t give one’s death to others; rather, one gives one’s life for others. This reciprocal relationship culminates in the deconstructed notion of “lifedeath.”

Lifedeath arises as a seemingly self-contradictory term because, as we have seen, life is never purely life. Life is always sacrificial of life. According to this explication, life is infanticidal. Similarly, life produces more life. This production of life is a production of future(s) at the cost of other, lost futures. The (present) instant of time in which the sacrifice is willfully adopted, as Peterson would have it, bears the trace of eternity. This trace implicates an infinitude of lost future, futures lost as permanent loss of infinitudes. If this line of logic holds, then each moment (the present) then inheres infinite value, infinite amplitude of importance. Each moment is infinitely valuable because of the infinitely infinite sacrifices inherited (or gifted) from the past (i.e. lost futures). Each moment of life, then, is a moment intimately bound with death. This intimacy, for Derrida, collapses the illusory semiotic opposition between the logocentric binaries of life and (as independent from) death. Perhaps Peterson’s dogmatic adherence to this logocentrism is at fault in the disconnection between these two great thinkers. Or, perhaps, the psychological truths embedded within the substructure of these Biblical stories are uniquely sufficient to unite the most disparate thinkers. 


Works Cited

Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death. University of Chicago Press, 2007. Print.

Peterson, Jordan B. “Bible Series XII: The Great Sacrifice: Abraham and Isaac.” YouTube, 19 August 2017,

Peterson, Jordan B. “Joe Rogan Experience #877 – Jordan Peterson.” YouTube. 28 November 2016,

Sloganeering: An American Critique of Identity and Place in the Neoliberal University

November 23, 2017

The University of North Florida boldly boasts its twelve-year-old slogan throughout campus: “No one like you, no place like this.” This slogan rings like an apology, vehemently denying an accusation that no one has made. The slogan promises to retain “that small college feel,” according to President John Delaney, without yielding to the fact that “we’re growing larger” (Kormanik). But, like all slogans, the vacuity and imprecision of these words – promising individuality and appealing to the neoliberal banking model of education – betrays Delaney’s intentions. The antecedent premise, “No one like you,” appeals to archaic notions of selfhood that are inscribed in the pronoun “you,” a signifier that the UNF slogan takes for granted. More accurately, the UNF slogan uncritically appeals to the shifter pronoun “I” implied in “you.” The UNF slogan appeals to what traditional American literature has revealed as the now-vacant status of the “I” pronoun, a vacancy to which the UNF slogan is now anachronistically performing. The UNF slogan’s consequent premise, “no place like this,” appeals to an outdated and mistaken metaphysics (of subjecting reference to essence). This mistake is effortlessly revealed by the self-examining writings of Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson. These two writers warrant the call for a new slogan.

“No one like you.”

The interpellative and thereby obfuscating function of the pronoun “you” is one indication that the first premise of the UNF slogan (“No one like you”) rests on a faulty foundation. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s timeless essay, “Self-Reliance,” harshly accuses society of manipulating its citizens such that they thoughtlessly defer to authority: even one’s pronouns are not one’s own. Emerson’s description of thoughtless deference to authority that “you” provokes could just as easily apply to the UNF slogan’s invocation (though not explicit use) of the “I” pronoun, which signifies the same thing: “the hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified their consciousness” of rights and responsibilities within the University (149). Emerson does not (explicitly) define the pronoun “I” in this precise manner, but psychoanalytic and deconstructive thought have, for the past decades, mutually vacated the pronoun “I” in ways that might recast Emerson’s writings on authority such that it decays into a “hieroglyphic” that “obscurely [signifies (or, outdatedly, signified) one’s own] consciousness.” The hieroglyphic pronoun in the UNF slogan might be fairly described, then, as obscurely signifying one’s conscious relation to the University itself. That is, if the first premise (“No one like you”) obscures one’s relation to oneself, then the University of North Florida is implicated in a shell game of promising individuality, and attending to it, all while subordinating it to the incoherently assembled collective of “you.”

Walt Whitman modifies Emerson’s “hieroglyph” to explicate the interpellative effect of each utterance of “I” (or “you,” in the UNF slogan’s terms): each hieroglyph is uniform. Walt Whitman’s epic lyrical ballad, “Song of Myself,” openly interrogates the relationship of “I” with the rest of the world (not-I) through an anecdote of a child offering the narrator a blade of grass: “Or I guess the grass is itself a child…the produced babe of the vegetation. // Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic” (29). This “uniform hieroglyphic,” a simple blade of grass, is, according to Whitman, referentially identical to a child: an individual with potential. In other words, the grass is a yet-to-be (perhaps already) “I” pronoun. Indeed, a blade of grass even (uniformly) looks like an “I” pronoun. The uniformity might be the primary reason that UNF chose their current slogan; it masquerades as a caring, individualistic, hieroglyphic appeal to each student, while actually applying to everyone in a uniform way that applies to no one. One might even say that the UNF slogan appeals to no one (like you).

Whitman further distinguishes a “Me myself” pronoun which problematizes the lazy, uncapitalized pronoun “you” that the UNF slogan appeals to. Whitman crafts the curious phrase “the Me myself” first in place of the “I” pronoun, which is another reason to suspect the truth-claim to which the pronoun “I” (and, for the purposes of this argument, “you”) adheres. The opening stanza of the fourth section of “Song of Myself” loquaciously lists off gobs of gossip and nugatory news, concluding: “but [these externals] are not the Me myself” (28). The capitalization involved in Whitman’s diction of “Me” evokes the proper noun status of the pronoun “I,” but somewhat redundantly continues to modify “Me” with the common noun “myself.” This hierarchical redundancy serves to distinguish not only between “I” and “not-I,” but to distinguish the thoughts and cares of others with the narrator’s (Whitman’s?) own. It also breaks down the interpellative effect of “you” that the UNF slogan employs. But even further, the “Me myself” evokes a kind of spirituality: an inner life which isn’t immediately accessible in the presence of others. Whitman’s spiritual idea of the “Me myself” is precisely what’s missing in the UNF slogan.

The pronoun “I” thus ontologically collapses into the vagaries of UNF’s “no one like you” slogan; “I” becomes “you,” for Whitman. Emerson, for instance, condemns the timidity of the times, the unwillingness to declare “I think,” or “I am.” These declarations are antithetical to Whitman’s project throughout “Song of Myself.” That is, Whitman answers Emerson’s criticism to the extent that Whitman vacates the “I/you” pronoun of all distinction: “I celebrate myself, / And what I assume you shall assume, / For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (25). Hence, Whitman’s need to articulate the “Me myself” in contradistinction to Emerson’s charge. “I” and “you” are thus a self-reference, hyper-linking access points to sources of meaning in other parts (places) of the world. Whitman further develops this idea that the thoughts within his poem are, in fact, “the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands” (41). His ideas are, in other words, “not original” (41). And, in some sense, the opening lines of Whitman’s poem are not original: either they, the words, belong to you, or “I,” the narrator, belong to “you.” Yet, if these words belong to “you,” that is to say, everyone, then one can’t help but be timid and apologetic in a world where neoliberal institutions like UNF shamelessly rely on empty promises without nuanced distinctions regarding identity: “No one like you, no place like this.”


“No place like this.”

The second premise of the UNF slogan, “no place like this,” is similarly defeated by a cursory glance at the tradition of American literature. Whitman’s “Song of Myself” perplexingly evolves from an examination of the self, the “I,” into an examination of the self in a place. Or, more accurately, Whitman’s poem declares that “I resist any thing better than my own diversity, / Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, / And am not stuck up, and am in my place” (41). An overtly literal reading of these three lines might interrogate (in a similar fashion to the discussion above) the “I” in relationship to “my own diversity.” Furthermore, the buried double-negative in Whitman’s formulation “resist anything better than” could simply be rewritten as “can’t (or don’t) resist.” In other words, I can’t resist my own diversity. The diversity of the self, or the “I,” becomes present in the following lines, in which the the narrator describes the breath. Breathing entails an ebb-and-flow routine of inhalation and exhalation. In breathing, one takes a part of the world into oneself and then releases it back to itself. This reciprocal relationship of the body and external world (“I” and “not-I”) leads Whitman’s narrator to conclude that he is “in [his] place.” This feeling of being in one’s place might be a way to frame the following discussion of the UNF slogan’s second premise, “No place like this.” That is, if one is always in one’s place, then one is always in places “like this.”

This universal well-placedness of oneself, if Whitman is to be believed, fundamentally undermines UNF’s presupposition that there is, in fact, “no place like this.” And, to be charitable to the UNF slogan, Whitman isn’t as categorical about “always” being in one’s place. But the poem’s following (parenthetical) stanza warrants such a reading: “(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, / The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place, / The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)” (41). At the risk of being obvious, moths and fish-eggs live and breed in vastly different ecological conditions: ocean vs. air, hot vs. cold, etc. Yet, the disparity between such diverse creatures is insignificant for Whitman’s narrator. Furthermore, bright suns and dark suns that the narrator can’t even see are “in their place” as well. Epistemological ambiguity, in other words – something to which the narrator has no epistemic access – is still confidently “in its place.” Finally, both the palpable and impalpable are “in their place,” suggesting a metaphysical certitude on behalf of Whitman’s narrator. Both what seems tangible and what seems intangible, or real and fake, etc., are to be confidently believed in as “in their place” as well. At each instance, Whitman’s narrator walks the reader down the path of understanding the universal well-placedness of things. Again, to the UNF slogan, there are many places like this.

Here, one might object to Whitman, defending the UNF slogan to the extent that there will never be a place like this again: one’s experience at UNF in 2017 will be different than one’s experience at UNF in 2018, and so on. Even if this objection holds, and Whitman’s discussion of the universal well-placedness of things is an eccentric oversimplification of the world, Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” palliates this objection with a definitive discussion of temporal “place.” That is, Emerson writes of time in a fourth-dimension-evoking sense of place. Emerson argues further in “Self-Reliance” that, by civilizational disposition, “man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future” (151). By postponing or remembering something other than the present, one is, in effect, not where one is. And, in Emerson’s terms, one “does not live in the present.” One must thus avoid the “reverted eye” and “tiptoe,” for one will be “heedless” of that which surrounds oneself. Furthermore, if one rejects Whitman’s notion of the universal well-placedness of things, as Emerson does, then one is, in fact, never where one is (in time). Either instance – of spatial or temporal “place” – reveals the empty promise behind the UNF slogan that there is “no place like this.” Both defenses, spatial and temporal, fail. The situation is thus twofold: one is either always in a place like this, as Whitman would have it, or one is never in a place like this, as Emerson warns. Categorically, there can be no “no place like this.”


Symptoms of Sloganeering

For a place that claims to be unique, UNF spends an inordinate amount on advertising and facilitating international study abroad programs, a trend that Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” (predictably) warns about. To travel, or to study abroad, for Emerson, is to pursue a “fool’s paradise” (160). This paradise is that of a fool because one who travels for amusement, or seeks some external fulfillment or insight into the self, “travels away from [oneself]” (159). That is, as was the case above, one who travels is never where one is. The question then becomes whether the promise of UNF’s uniqueness as a place conflicts with its honored commitment to multicultural globalism, sending its students to novel places: places not “like this.”

The UNF slogan promotes the “superstition” that Emerson condemns and attributes to the archaic urge, specifically amongst University students, to travel (159). Emerson associates this superstitious urge to travel with “all educated Americans” whose “fascination” still permeates educational spheres (159). One might suppose that students, as intellectuals or “all educated Americans,” would be immunized to superstition; obviously this is not the case. Rather, according to Emerson, “it is for want of self-culture” that students feel compulsion to study abroad (159). The compulsion to study abroad, seen as incompatible with UNF’s vain slogan, is the pathway towards growing old “even in youth,” according to Emerson (159). Surely, growing old is not the aim of students seeking fulfillment abroad or in travel. Rather, returning to Emerson’s earlier evocation of the temporal aspect of “place,” one travels to escape the present. Or, in this case, one travels to escape the present place: “this,” as UNF would articulately prefer.

The urge to travel manifests itself within the University’s culture and structure due to a deeper problem: intellectual morass. For Emerson, “the intellect is vagabond, and our system of education fosters restlessness” (160). Obviously, Emerson wrote “Self-Reliance” in 1841, nearly two centuries ago, far before publicly funded high schools were mandatory, much less Universities. Emerson’s prescient problematizations for pedagogy thus presage this historical worry which, to this day, fails to undercut the persistent “restlessness” of studenthood and the isolating  “vagabond” feeling that attends one’s completion of a college degree. One graduates restlessly insofar as one’s education misleadingly “trains” oneself for an incongruent, unforgiving world. One is restless when confronted with the prospect of what one does not already know; as one is educated (or, as one might worry, indoctrinated), one becomes increasingly aware of one’s uncertain relation to the world. And, to Emerson’s second point, one seeks to study abroad because one’s intellect is already vagabond. One might say that the University structurally disassembles people, that the role of a classical education was to train students for the project of becoming who one is, living out the heroic archetype underneath the foundations of Western culture. Only vainly does the UNF slogan project the heroic archetype onto its students; there is, after all, “no one like you.” If UNF sincerely squared itself against Emerson’s mordant critique of what the UNF slogan’s second premise promises, then perhaps the dissonance between the UNF slogan and the experience of individual students subsides. Perhaps there can be a harmonious relation between the UNF slogan and its students, if the University were to critically examine and recast its own slogan.


Giving the Devil his Due

Emerson warns that, in polemically addressing the UNF slogan and thereby its contradictory relationship with travel, the “rejection of popular standards” will be seen as a “rejection of all standard, and mere antinomianism” (155). This critique is not “mere antinomianism,” a cynical rendering of bureaucracy as such, or travel as such. Rather, the UNF slogan in particular reeks of detached corporate sterilization that seeks to please everyone, a task which no one need ever embark. Rather, UNF should rally around something else: laying out a path of coherent orientation for students who, ultimately, attend University in pursuit of direction and meaning in their lives.

Young people enter University with the primary intention of contributing meaning to the world. This seems to have been the purpose of the classical University structure, as Whitman’s “Song” suggests: to teach people how to meaningfully contribute to the world, to equip people with the vocabulary for generating significance in otherwise insignificant things like a blade of grass. But the University no longer participates in such activity; rather, the dominant narrative throughout the humanities departments is that the world is a corrupt and terrible place, that one’s sense of self (“you”) is conferred constitutive worth by one’s ability to undermine it. The problem with the impetus to undermine society is that it undermines the constitutive identities of the student. Then, undermined, students haphazardly search for that which is worthwhile, something which is easy to seek refuge in: the socially pressured escape in travel, partying, and the online advertising of identity. Hence the phrase that sounds equally lost: “No one like you, no place like this.” The attractiveness of these refuges, according to Emerson, arises from the University’s general cynicism towards cohesive, traditional meaning, the meaning that the classical University structure – as opposed to the banking model of contemporary Universities – once promised to produce.

Works Cited

Emerson, Ralph W. The Portable Emerson. Penguin Classics, 1981. Print.

Kormanik, Beth. “New logos, new slogan and a new angle for UNF.” The Florida Times Union, 19 August 2005, Accessed 10 November 2017.

Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass: The First (1855) Edition. Penguin Classics, 1961. Print.


Joyshtick II: Ludonarrative discussion of SOMA and The Last Guardian

November 16, 2017

The second of academic conferences in which Blake Guthrie and Preston Johnston argue that video games have literary value. This video took place at the FCEA conference in Melbourne, FL, in October 2017.

In this conversation, we discuss the history of video games, arriving at a discussion of SOMA and The Last Guardian. We move into other concerns such as The Witcher: 3 and Fallout: New Vegas towards the end of the Q&A.

Ben, our originally scheduled copanelist, sadly could not attend this presentation. Our discussion thus took a more formless structure towards the end.

Our third and final panel will take place on December 6th at the University of North Florida. We will be condensing the content from these first two discussions and proposing some paths forward for this field of study.

Murray, the Trickster: Correcting Ernest Becker’s neglect of Carl Jung

October 12, 2017


Jordan B. Peterson remarked in the fourth installment of his biblical lecture series that Ernest Becker’s book, The Denial of Death, is “seriously flawed, but wrong in useful ways.” Becker, according to Peterson, “missed the point in the way that Freud missed Jung’s point,” and a “major mistake” of Becker’s work was only briefly referring to Carl Jung in the introduction to his book. Peterson quickly digressed and never followed up on his claims about Becker’s work, or what “the point” is, but much can (and should) be inferred from Peterson’s equation: Becker’s theoretical sketch of Heroism and its inescapable ubiquity is an astonishing but incomplete answer to Freud’s psychoanalytic writings on religion; Freud and Becker share the mistake of missing Jung’s point, according to Peterson; Jung’s point is more sophisticated, more all-encompassing, and better accounts for the situation that Becker outlines (in response to Freud); therefore, revisiting and correcting Becker’s and Freud’s mistake will yield a more accurate and more useful account of the human situation.

The most economical way to demonstrate this pattern of inferences from Peterson’s ambiguous thesis is to analyze Don Delillo’s novelization of Becker’s theories in White Noise, a book of death denial in which the character Murray is a clear instantiation of how Jung’s reading of the human situation, though similar in scope to Becker’s, is greater in explanatory power. Murray is better represented by Jung’s “trickster” archetype than Becker’s sketch of “heroism,” and, further, Delillo’s book could be more accurately read by a Jungian framework than a Beckerian reading – all the way down.

Peterson’s accusation that Becker missed Jung’s point can be sourced to the tepid conciliatory gesture at the end of Becker’s introduction, in which he dismisses Jung’s theoretical relevance. Instead of grappling with Jung’s arguments, Becker grounds many of his core arguments in the writings of Otto Rank, whose neglected writings become a sort of causa-sui revival project of Becker’s own. To these “heroic” ends, Becker attributes Jung’s absence to the then culturally prominent status of psychoanalytic literature, but doesn’t resist the temptation to jab (thus revealing a deeper-seated motivation to ignore Jung’s work): “I can’t see that all his tomes on alchemy [my italics] add one bit to the weight of his psychoanalytic insight.” That is, Becker conceived of his own central claims as operating independently of Jung’s more obscure works primarily because of Jung’s willingness to encompass seemingly any metaphysics within his own; Becker’s reading of Jung thus discards the nuance of Jung’s more central claims: the collective unconscious, the archetypes, the symbols of transformation – all of which litter the otherwise vacant cavities of Becker’s massive theory. Here is where Becker “misses the point,” as Peterson would have it: Becker confused Jung’s “needless esotericism” with his more important writings. Becker’s compartmentalization and thus misreading of Jung admits to a faulty first premise by which Becker (incompletely) argues the rest of The Denial of Death.

Even the explicit intertextuality of Don Delillo’s White Noise and Becker’s The Denial of Death is interrupted through a more patient inclusion of Carl Jung’s arguments, yielding a more complete sense of the work that Becker (and Delillo after him) was trying to accomplish. Delillo’s illustration of Becker’s work is most obviously present in White Noise’s protagonist, Jack Gladney, but Delillo’s illustration loses focus when peripheral characters, like Murray, collide with Jack’s heroism. Delillo’s focus on Jack’s heroism by definition excludes the heroic complexity of the novel’s less immediate characters, a subtlety that Becker’s account of heroism similarly omits. Becker stretches the theory of heroism across all swaths of society but Jung goes deeper, detailing and accumulating evidence of archetypal manifestations beyond the generalities of heroism.

Carl Jung’s illumination of the trickster archetype more powerfully explains Murray’s character than Becker’s rendering of heroism. Murray is an embodied counterexample to Becker’s claim that “our central calling, our main task on this planet, is the heroic,” and that Jung’s archetypes – personified representations of instinctual systems – have a greater explanatory power than Becker’s heroism – attitudinal descriptions of terror management. Murray symbolically embodies Jung’s response to an ambiguity at the heart of Becker’s thesis: “If the basic quality of heroism is genuine courage, why are so few people truly courageous?” One might imagine that Murray has read Becker and is investigating this question of courage at different levels of analysis throughout the novel. White Noise’s protagonist, Jack, shores himself with the courage to pursue heroic projects like learning German, while Murray, Jack’s colleague and friend, is written into the novel as an unorthodox, brilliant, and foolish character. Murray’s absurd investigations into Becker’s question of genuine courage are best explained through Jung’s “trickster” archetype, a character that evades direct contact with powerful threats while at the same time more cleverly deals with these powerful threats than the “hero” archetype.

Murray’s presence as the Jungian “trickster” archetype first becomes clear at the Most Photographed Barn in America (Barn, hereafter). Becker’s heroism would interpret the following exchange as a demonstration of neurotic, learned, narcissistic character traits:

“What was the barn like before it was photographed?” he said. “What did it look like, how was it different from other barns, how was it similar to other barns? We can’t answer these questions because we’ve read the signs, seen the people snapping the pictures. We can’t get outside the aura. We’re part of the aura. We’re here, we’re now.’ He seemed immensely pleased by this.

Murray’s phenomenological remarks in this scene examine the “aura” that Becker describes with regard to psychological transference. The Barn’s aura is sustained by the masses who pilgrimage to the site, and Murray’s comments to Jack juxtapose their own silent presence to the unthinking, “incessant clicking” of the masses. This juxtaposition sustains Murray’s sense of heroism, and Jack’s own by extension, according to Becker. Jung’s account of this juxtaposition, however, in terms of the “trickster,” clarifies what Becker would call Murray’s heroism as the “therapeutic effect.” The therapeutic effect of Murray’s character, in Jung’s terms, presents the “low intellectual and moral level before the eyes of the more highly developed individual,” namely, Jack, “so that he shall not forget how things looked yesterday.” Murray’s presence reinforces Jack’s heroism, but Murray himself cannot be described in the same terms. Recall Murray’s supposition that “we can’t answer these questions […] we can’t get out of this aura.” Jung would argue that these remarks came straight from the mouth of the trickster: “We like to imagine that something which we do not understand does not help us in any way. But that is not always so.” Here, both Murray and Jung’s trickster archetype presuppose intrinsic worth in (seemingly) impractical knowledge, as well as take pleasure in the impracticability. Seen in this way, the questions Murray says we “can’t answer” are, as Jung’s portrayal of the trickster suggests, “helpful” – a claim that doesn’t traditionally make sense. The immediacy of this parallel demonstrates how Jung’s explanatory power outshines Becker’s with relation to the manifestations of heroism in Delillo’s novel. Heroism doesn’t sufficiently account for Murray’s presence in this scene; or, at least, Jung better details and contextualizes the uncanniness of Murray’s presence as it relates to Jack’s heroism.

Murray’s response to Babette’s uncanny television appearance is, similarly, only partially explained by Becker’s account of heroism. Babette’s television appearance startles every character except for Murray, whose “sneaky” smile and notetaking unhinge Jack’s sense of heroic certainty. In Becker’s terms, Murray calmly reasserts his heroism in this unexpected scene, a response which “covers over” the anxiety that Babette’s appearance has produced. A Beckerian reading of this nature might ignore Murray’s emphasis on “the wrong kind of attentiveness” so present in the characters’ attitudes towards television, and might renegotiate (or undermine) Murray’s palpable ambiguity within the Gladney family dynamic.

Jung’s characterization of this television scene would critique the generality of Becker’s reading of Murray, which allows for but does not predict Murray’s specific responses. Jung’s “trickster” explicates Becker’s vague reading of Murray to the extent that a primary feature of the trickster is “a reversal of the hierarchic order.” Murray argues that society has “reversed the relative significance” of higher and lower order consciousness in passive engagement with television. Murray goes on to say that “misuse” has lead to this reversal, a trend similarly found in Jung’s discussion of the trickster’s origin in which “a higher level of consciousness has covered up a lower one [while] the latter was already in retreat.” Murray thus embodies the revelatory aspect of Jung’s trickster as well, as evidenced in his critique of society’s “misuse.” Seen this way, Jung might correct Becker’s emphasis on the heroic aspects of Murray’s critique in terms of the “gradual civilizing” force of television. Murray, as does the trickster, behaves in the most uncivilized ways in situations when Jack’s heroic narrative fails; Murray is most alive in times when Jack is most flustered. Reading Murray’s character in this way further demystifies Jung’s remark that “the so-called civilized man has forgotten the trickster” until the “shadow,” the dark force of the unconscious, arises. That is, Jack, like Becker’s heroic portrait of humanity, has forgotten the importance of recognizing archetypes – perhaps with mortal consequences at stake.

Murray’s encounter with the prostitutes during the Great Airborne Toxic Event (GATE, hereafter) most benefits from a Jungian revision to more obvious Beckerian readings throughout the novel. An unorthodox encounter with a car full of prostitutes undermines Jack’s relief at Murray’s familiar presence during the alienation of GATE. Jack, surprised, asks Murray what he’s solicited these prostitutes to do for “twenty-five dollars,” to which Murray’s deadpan answer shocks Jack into silence: “The Heimlich maneuver.” Murray’s answer subverts the casual reader’s expectations of lust, sexual fulfillment, and economic predation associated with prostitution. Becker might describe Murray’s justification to Jack that he will be satisfied “as long as she collapses helplessly backward into my life-saving embrace,” in terms of a way to reinforce his sense of heroism. Murray externalizes his anxieties in the form of what might otherwise be read as a “love object.” More accurately, however, the trickster’s “divine-animal nature” emerges in this scene. That is, two fundamental identifying aspects of the trickster archetype are “extraordinary clumsiness” and a “considerable eagerness to learn.” In this scene, Murray’s “extraordinary clumsiness” arises in his catechetical diction with regards to prostitution (e.g., “representative” and “fellow” clearly refer to a pimp), and Murray’s “considerable eagerness to learn” about the Heimlich maneuver serves to confuse Jack as to Murray’s “divine-animal nature.”

Becker might object that he accounts for Jung’s distinction when he writes that man’s “paradoxical nature” arises from “the fact that he is half animal and half symbolic.” In other words, Jung and Becker may eventually agree about Murray. But Jung’s distinction is more subtle, in that the trickster is a “primitive ‘cosmic’ being,” something prior to the symbolic move towards the heroic on which Becker’s book focuses. In Jung’s revised account, then, Murray, the trickster, never quite makes the Beckerian move into the heroic. Murray’s role as the trickster in White Noise embodies more primitive elements of Jack’s character.

In contrast to the archetypes, Becker has much to say, but Jung says it better and more thoroughly – especially in the task of analyzing Murray’s character. One might suggest the ambitious project of nesting the totality of Becker’s heroism into Jung’s archetypes and collective unconscious; for the trickster archetype is hardly all Jung has to offer in this theoretical domain. Jack Gladney, for instance, might benefit from a cross-examination of Becker’s heroism and Jung’s hero archetype. Babette, as well, might gain symbolic depth through a deeper integration of Jung’s writings on the mother archetype into her character. And so on. Delillo’s White Noise might not exist if not for Becker’s Denial of Death, but it might come back to life through a Jungian revival.

These brief examples of Murray’s better-suited role as the trickster archetype rather than a manifestation of heroism return to a higher-order theoretical concern: Does Ernest Becker’s theory of heroism warrant a full-scale Jungian revision? After all, Peterson’s adamant accusation that Becker “missed the point” still remains. In fairness, Becker’s avoidance of Jung’s more esoteric, amorphous, relativistic metaphysical investigations (on alchemy, on religion, etc.) wisely focuses the scope of Denial of Death’s arguments. Murray’s role as the trickster, however, demonstrates the imperfections of Becker’s oversights as they apply to individual cases and idiosyncratic characters – whether Becker intended for this or not. Parsing this relationship requires a patient negotiation of neglected Jungian nuance into the increasingly anachronistic isomorphism of Becker, a task which might be taken up by Jordan B. Peterson if he ever gets back to his point.


Works Cited

Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. Free Press Paperbacks, 1973. Print.

Delillo, Don. White Noise. Penguin Books, 1984. Print.

Jung, Carl G. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Princeton University Press, 1969. Print.

Peterson, Jordan B. “Adam and Eve: Self-Consciousness, Evil, and Death.” YouTube, 19 June 2017,


Joyshtick: Approaching Video Game Ludonarratives as Literature

October 8, 2017

Part One of the “Joyshtick” ludonarrative panel series:


The first of several conferences in which Blake Guthrie, Preston Johnston and Ben Vollmer argue in favor of the academic and literary benefits of video games. In this panel, we discuss games like Dark Souls, The Last Guardian, The Witcher 3, and so forth.

I organized this panel back in July when these ideas literally came to me in a dream. Preston is my podcast cohost who I consider to be perhaps the wisest friend in my life. Ben is my coworker and friend who I consider to be the unknowing incarnation of Siddhartha Gautama in terms of his patience and demeanor. The content of this panel was discussed independently between Preston and myself, as well as Ben and myself, but Ben and Preston hadn’t shared a lengthy discussion before this recording.

This first panel represents both the beginning stages of a larger series of projects, and the beginning stages of what I predict will grow into a vigorous triad friendship. Our second panel will take place in two weeks time, at the FCEA conference in Melbourne, FL. Look forward to the next series of discussions!