Enhancing the game experience by (re)uniting mechanics and narrative

We need to talk about narrative design

When working on a video game, one of the most complex challenges is often reconciling the narrative with the game mechanics. Frequently perceived as two separate elements, these components must instead be deeply intertwined to offer a consistent and compelling game experience, where every action the player takes contributes to their immersion in the fictional universe. Even today, narrative is sometimes viewed with suspicion or misunderstanding by production teams, relegated to a secondary, superfluous role, and disconnected from the overall experience. We often talk about gameplay as being opposed to narrative. But in the way I see it, narrative is also part of gameplay.

In some studios, the term “narrative” still raises concerns. The word is often misunderstood and too frequently reduced to dialogues, characters, or the main story. But narrative in a video game goes far beyond that. Sometimes a game has no plot or no character in the traditional narrative sense. The narrative then takes on an entirely different form, inherent to the medium in which it exists. Interactive narrative must use the specific tools at its disposal, and the most powerful of these is interactivity.

This article explores how game mechanics and narrative can come together to offer a consistent and immersive experience, illustrated through concrete examples.

What is the game experience?

Since we’re discussing how to enhance the game experience by uniting narrative and mechanics, I’d first like to offer my definition of what game experience means. It begins with this quote from Don Norman in The Design of Everyday Things. He discusses the experience a person has when interacting with an object:

« Experience is critical, for it determines how fondly people remember their interactions. (…) Cognition and emotion are tightly intertwined, which means that the designers must design with both in mind.  »

Let’s now revisit the definitions of cognition and emotion.

Cognition refers to the set of mental processes related to knowledge, such as perception, memory, reasoning, problem-solving, and daydreaming. Emotion, on the other hand, refers to an intense affective state, whether it be pleasure or pain.

In the logic I aim to develop here, game mechanics primarily engage cognition: they involve the player in a series of actions, choices, and problem-solving tasks. Narrative, on the other hand, primarily engages emotion, providing meaning and context to the player’s actions and eliciting emotional reactions. When these two aspects are harmoniously integrated, they create a memorable and consistent experience.

MECHANICS (cognition)
+
NARRATIVE (emotion)
=
GAME EXPERIENCE

In light of these definitions, I propose adapting Don Norman’s original quote into a new mantra:

 

Experience is critical, for it determines how fondly people remember their
interactions.

Mechanics and narrative are tightly intertwined, which means
that the designers must design with both in mind.

 

Before moving forward, let’s look at a concrete example: the shooting mechanics tutorial in The Last of Us II.

In one of the game’s opening sequences, the player, controlling Ellie, finds themselves in the middle of a snowball fight. At first glance, it seems like a simple, lighthearted interaction between children, an innocent game. But the sequence also serves as a shooting mechanics tutorial for the player. This moment of levity works all the better because it foreshadows the violence to come when these snowballs will be replaced by real weapons and far less innocent enemies.

This introduction to shooting mechanics is not purely playful; it also sets up the story. The snowball fight even concludes with a joyful melee and an excellent foreshadowing in the form of a line of dialogue from Ellie, which hints at the terrible events to come: “Get off of her, you monsters!”

“Interactivity” in interactive narrative

Interactivity is what fundamentally distinguishes video game storytelling from other narrative forms. It allows the player to become an active participant, directly linking their actions to the narrative progression.

In a linear narrative (as opposed to an interactive narrative), events unfold according to a logic determined by the author. One example, provided by Yves Lavandier in La Dramaturgie: “The king is dead, then the queen died of grief.” Here, we see a logical link between cause and effect: if the queen died of grief, it’s because the king died before her. The reader or viewer passively receives this logical sequence of events.

In a video game, interactive narrative changes this dynamic. It is the player’s actions that drive the story forward. The player becomes an active participant in the narrative progression, as they are now the logical link between cause and effect. This interactivity can also help strengthen their emotional engagement.

“People talk about how games don’t have the emotional impact of movies. I think they do -they just have a different palette. I never felt pride, or guilt, watching a movie.”
— Will Wright

Aristotle wrote this sentence, which is displayed above my desk:

“Every situation is inherent to the character”

In a video game, we could say:

 

Every situation is inherent to the player.

 

Even in the most scripted video game, nothing can happen without the player’s input, no matter how simple that input is. Once this logic is understood, it becomes clear: every player action has narrative potential, an intrinsic narrative power. As narrative designers, one of our primary tools is the player’s input. It is impossible, then, to disregard design, neglect mechanics, or ignore systems.

Chris Crawford, in his book On Interactive Storytelling, captures this well:

Interactivity requires that authorial control be exercised through processes, not events.”

To illustrate this point, I’ll use an example from Behind Every Great One, a game developed by Deconstructeam during a game jam, which you can try here.

In Behind Every Great One, the narrative is essentially driven by a simple, central mechanic. The character, a housewife, is trapped in a daily routine of household chores. The game allows the player to interact with several objects in the apartment each day, a bit like The Sims, with tasks ranging from mundane (cleaning the floor) to more enjoyable (watering plants, reading a book, smoking a cigarette). Each day ends with a scripted dialogue with the husband, who scolds his wife—and thus the player—for not completing certain tasks.

However, as the player quickly realizes, the game design prevents them from completing all the tasks: there are more chores than the player is allowed to interact with each day. It is therefore impossible to meet the husband’s expectations. The game’s central mechanic forces the player to relive this injustice daily, frustrating them and creating an emotional state that parallels the character’s predicament. This unexpected symbiosis is made possible by the game’s system.

Meaningful interactions

Let’s now begin with a quote attributed to Sid Meier:

Tie players decisions more with what your game is about.”

As we’ve seen, one of the strengths of video game narrative is that every action, even the most mundane, directly impacts progression. I must emphasize this point again: we are not talking here about major narrative decisions (like those in Sid Meier’s games!), but rather simple actions or inputs with immediate consequences. An action could be as simple as interacting with the environment, a character, or even an interface (yes, interfaces can also be narrative tools).

In The Bookwalker: Thief of Tales, for example, the player is forced to remove the batteries from a particularly friendly android who is building a snowman in order to progress in the game. After choosing the option “remove the battery,” the little character who accompanies you adds this painful comment: “Wait… maybe we should let it finish building the snowman first?” But it’s already too late; the game forces you to press “Continue.” It’s an unpleasant but meaningful action, as it illustrates that the character you’re playing, who is in a complex situation, has no other choice.

In the early hours of The Last of Us II, the player must push the corpse of an infected person. Again, it’s a simple input. But this mechanic carries narrative depth: it says a lot about the world and Ellie’s character. The act of seeing and touching a corpse, treated with some detachment by the character who is used to such situations, shows us that death is omnipresent in this universe. This input also reinforces the game’s theme: violence and its psychological consequences. Finally, it creates an emotional proximity between the player and the brutal world they’re exploring.

These kinds of meaningful interactions contribute directly and profoundly to the narrative without relying on dialogue or explicit cutscenes.

Other examples exist on a larger scale, such as Papers, Please or Beholder: games built on repetitive mechanics that perfectly serve the game’s themes by reinforcing ideas of totalitarianism and the individual versus society. We will revisit the theme of these games later.

Characterizing through mechanics and systems

First, a quick reminder of what characterization is. Characterization is the expression of a character’s personality through their actions (and dialogue is also action!). In a video game, the player’s actions and the game’s mechanics contribute to characterization.

To illustrate this, let’s start with a counterexample: a moment when what the player is asked to do contradicts the character’s personality. In Red Dead Redemption 2, Arthur Morgan is often faced with choices that highlight his moral complexity. However, let’s consider a moment where the game forces actions that go against what the player and Arthur want to do. In this mission, Arthur is forced to free a character he hates: Micah. At this point, there is no narrative justification for this action. The player must go through with it because it’s the mission’s objective (and, more importantly: because without Micah, there’s no end to the story… but they are not aware of that yet!). Moreover, the mission concludes with the massacre of innocents, which is impossible to avoid. The situation immediately creates dissonance: forcing actions without narrative justification can break immersion.

Conversely, in Firewatch, every game mechanic is designed to strengthen the characterization of the protagonist. Every decision helps the player understand Henry and his story better. Reading notes, spending a night in his lookout tower, making a dialogue choice, exploring the environment—all of these allow the player to immerse themselves more deeply in his daily life and personal dilemmas.

In Dordogne, the player controls a little girl, and during a breakfast sequence, the action of pouring cereal is made difficult and awkward by the controls. The player struggles to aim at the bowl, spilling cereal all over the table. Here, the mechanic becomes a tool of characterization, as it literally puts the player in the shoes of a child. (Was this truly intentional? That’s another question!)

Narrative structure, player objectives, and character objectives

The narrative structure should ideally align with the progression of both the player and the character. This means making the character’s motivation align with the player’s and adopting a narrative structure that supports the progression toward this shared goal.

Game objectives must become narrative objectives; otherwise, the experience may feel incoherent or dissonant. Traditional narrative, which follows rhythmic and structural logic, is often challenged by interactivity. This is why it can be difficult to strictly adapt linear narrative techniques to certain game structures.

For example, open-world games rarely feature a transformative character arc (i.e., a character who changes and evolves over the course of the adventure). Instead, they offer what I call “Tintin characters,” meaning characters who don’t fundamentally change despite the (mis)adventures they go through, much like Geralt in The Witcher 3. Since open-world games, by definition, allow the player to experience events in any order they choose and often favor a systemic approach, it becomes nearly impossible to sustain a coherent transformative character arc.

Thus, the narrative structure must be in harmony with the player’s progression and objectives. This alignment is what allows the player to become truly invested in the experience.

In Little Nightmares, the player’s objective is to escape the place where the main character, Six, is imprisoned. This escape is punctuated by scripted moments where Six succumbs to hunger. She starts by devouring a piece of cheese, then a rat, until this hunger reaches its full meaning in the final scene. The player’s goal — escape — perfectly aligns with the character’s, and these scenes punctuate the progression, reinforcing the impact of the ending.

Another example is the recent 1000XResist (spoiler alert). After a character is publicly executed, the one controlled by the player is in shock. The screen becomes blurry, and running is impossible. The usual objective displayed in the HUD (“Go to the garden”) transforms into “Go Home,” then “No, can’t be alone…”, “Cut them”, “Watch them bleed”… (watch the excerpt). The HUD spirals out of control, with objectives stacking up like intrusive thoughts from the character, and even the sound design joins in, with each new objective accompanied by a sound that quickly disrupts concentration. The HUD becomes the direct vector of the character’s emotions, attempting to convey them to the player. At that moment, the fourth wall is broken, and the player’s objective and the character’s objective are literally unified. It’s a powerful and surprisingly unsettling moment. (I told you the interface was also a narrative tool!)

Evoking rather than telling: interactions with the environment

I borrow the foundations of this idea of evoking rather than telling from Marie-Laure Ryan. This approach perfectly reflects my vision of video game storytelling: instead of telling stories, we can choose to evoke them. And to do this, the environment is one of the most effective tools. It can suggest the past, present, and even the future of the locations the player explores, offering them the opportunity to develop their own theories and connect narrative elements. (This is the subject of one of my talks on worldbuilding at the Game Access Conference in Brno, which will soon be the focus of a new article.)

Just as players are encouraged to stay longer in an environment by making navigation more complex, prompting them to interact with environmental elements forces them to pay closer attention.

The Little Nightmares series is a prime example of environmental storytelling. One of its strengths lies precisely in its subtle use of narrative details scattered throughout the environment. For example, in Little Nightmares 2, at the beginning of the school level, you can see a rope made of knotted sheets hanging from a window. Without any explicit information being given, the object immediately evokes an escape attempt. The image is strong enough for the player to understand what it signifies, without dialogue or explanation. But what strengthens the impact of this environmental storytelling even further is that the player is not a passive observer: they must interact with the rope to enter the school, increasing the tension and unease right from the start of the level.

Environmental storytelling doesn’t tell; it suggests. It gives the player the freedom to interpret the elements they discover throughout the game. In this sense, this organic approach perfectly aligns with the interactive nature of video games.

Note: If the concept of narrative potential interests you, I delve further into this topic in another article.

A question of rhythm

Narrative is also a matter of rhythm. Tension rises and falls, stakes evolve. Some compare a story to a musical score. Similarly, a video game also follows a rhythm, influenced by the player’s actions. The “verbs” of the player, meaning the actions they can do in the game, modulate this rhythm. Simply speeding up or slowing down a character’s movement can affect how the player feels, and therefore how narrative elements are conveyed to them.

In Life is Strange, during the approach to the lighthouse, the pace is slowed to give the impression that the player is struggling against the storm. In Inside, the player is forced to march in step after a fall. In Spiritfarer, the journey to guide characters through their final voyage is slow and deliberate; the slowness of this final journey enhances the solemnity of the moment, allowing the player to feel the weight of the souls’ transition. Journey is a masterclass in this regard, alternating between fast-paced gameplay phases and poetic exploration moments, where the environment is gradually discovered. The final ascent, slow and difficult, contrasts with the preceding climax, creating a unique emotional progression.

Variations in rhythm are a key factor in building dramatic tension.

Mechanics and themes

When mechanics directly support a game’s central themes, they become a powerful narrative tool.

In Gris, for example, the character uses their cloak to protect themselves from storms, a gesture that seems to symbolize, beyond its mechanical function, a psychological defense against their emotions. In this game, with its diluted and symbolic narrative, this mechanic evolves, transforming what initially seems like a weakness into a strength, echoing the game’s central theme: resilience.

In Frostpunk, where resource management and moral choices are crucial for the survival of the population, every decision the player makes reinforces the theme of survival. The dilemmas highlight and support the central thematic questions — how far can you go for the greater good? Or: where does one person’s freedom begin, and where does another’s end?

Similarly, in Braid, the mechanic of rewinding time to solve puzzles is intrinsically tied to the game’s theme: regrets, the passage of time, and the quest for redemption. One of the chapters is even titled Time and Forgiveness, illustrated in this passage:

“Their mistakes are hidden from each other, tucked away between the folds of time, safe.”

The theme is a fundamental narrative pillar. Designing mechanics based on themes also opens up new perspectives, allowing for the exploration of design possibilities that wouldn’t have emerged otherwise.

An immersive and consistent experience

I’ve proposed several avenues of reflection here on the essential question of the marriage between mechanics and narrative. For this union to work fully in the context of production, the integration of narrative into a video game must not be an afterthought. More than just a collaborative discipline, narrative is truly transversal, cutting across all aspects of the game, from mechanics to systems, level design, audio, art, and animation. It is in response to this interdependence that narrative must be considered from the beginning of the design process, not tacked on later as a mere aesthetic layer. A constant dialogue must take place between teams to collectively ensure the emergence of a consistent, immersive, and memorable game experience.

I conclude by reiterating the fundamental principles that underpin my reflection on interactive storytelling and guide my approach in all my projects:

  1. Mechanics and narrative are tightly intertwined, which means that the designers must design with both in mind.
  2. Every situation is inherent to the player.
  3. The thematic question is a central pillar of the experience.

Today, it seems to me that this holistic approach is a crucial element for innovating, renewing, and rethinking the way we make video games.


Cover image: The Beginner’s Guide