Editor’s Note: This is a guest post by Brieal M-T, a student in an Independent Study Course with Dr. Biittner. They are also in Dr. Shulist’s seminar class on Language and Power so they are tapped into the whole “Anthropology As” ethos. This post has been submitted as part of their course requirements; it is a reflexive piece representing the journey traveled so far. Need an archaeogaming primer? Check out #Archaeogaming101! Wanna check out these Tweets as they were discussed “in-class”? Check out #ANTH498!
The first time I ever held a controller I was probably about 3, and my parents were (trying) to teach me how to play Super Mario Bros.
My hand-eye coordination doesn’t work well with platformers (at least I learned young), but it’s perfect for puzzle games so I quickly moved on to games like Tetris/Dr. Mario and Goof Troop. By the time my younger brother caught up with my skills he had frankly already surpassed me, and between about age 5-14 we either played games cooperatively or separately. As someone who requires there to be an element of risk in order to find a game interesting always knowing who’s going to win in a competition isn’t very fun, and whenever my brother and I would play competitively we pretty well knew I’d win at a puzzle game and he’d win at [basically every other game].
Cooperation worked for us, though!
Because I was learning to read when Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time found its way into our N64 I’d work to read the text and make maps/generally keep notes while my little bro adventured his way through Hyrule. This schema of me keeping notes while he played continued well into my own exploration into Games I Could Play Alone (ex. when Dead Space was released he handle the silence, and would have me narrate him through the area while he stared at his controller).
Besides being an opportunity for me to reminisce about one of my favourite parts of my relationship with my brother this story has a point, I promise.
Dr. Biittner and I started this independent study with the intent of following a punk archaeology ethos. I will wholeheartedly admit that when we agreed to use that descriptor I had no real idea of what that would entail, despite having read Punk Archaeology a couple semesters ago. Looking back, though, I’m very comfortable describing the past 3 months (and change) as encompassing a bit of everything: “bits” of stuff (101).
That said: so many of these “bits” have been grinding slowly away at me.
One thing I did expect to encounter at the beginning of the course was archaeological theory, concepts of archaeological ethics, and the practice of specific archaeological tools. As an anthropology major with some previous experience in ethnographic practice, however, I totally turned learning of these Things into a pseudo-autoethnographic analysis.
As an undergraduate proto-/non-academic with little archaeological training I’m definitively classed as “other” in interactions with many (most?) archaeogaming folx on Twitter (the primary site or field by which I have gained introduction and access into archaeogaming).
This is totally understandable, and a position which I’m somewhat appreciative of as it allows me to learn skills which are arguably necessary to archaeogaming with a low-risk factor, and I am incredibly appreciative of the labour so many in the archaeogaming ~community have expended for my education.
The thing that grinds away at me is the disconnect between what archaeogaming (presently) is and what it is presented as.
In my introduction to archaeogaming I initially assumed that it was something which both archaeologists and non-archaeologists could and would take part in.
While I still believe this to be true, the “punk” open-access ethos of archaeogaming seems to have shifted over time into becoming something which is primarily for academic archaeologists who are interested in studying games as part of their practice.
Now at this point I cannot stress enough: I don’t believe this is an intentional shift. Rather, I believe it is an aspect of the practice which is being influenced by the subject positions of the archaeogaming ~inner circle, which just so happens to presently consist of people who are either already academics, or are otherwise proto-/non-academic with previous professional archaeological experience.
While there’s nothing inherently wrong with this type of “‘secret writing and assumed norms”, the fact that archaeogaming can be (and rightfully is) presented as something which can be practiced by non-academics and non-archaeologists does grind away at me, by virtue of the gatekeeping which is thus inherent.
I won’t even pretend to say I have a ~solution or something for what I’m perceiving to be a problem of intent vs. actuality here. What I will say, however, is that I’m very (very) interested in mapping out what I’m perceiving to be a part of the problem. In that spirit my final project planned for ANTH 498 is a mapping of specific terms and concepts as they are described within different communities. My aspirations for my own degree include further archaeogaming studies, and I don’t think that will be possible or useful if I’m only speaking with academics. Thus I see this map I’m planning as personally necessary to translating thoughts and concepts between my communities (gaming and anthropology/archaeology).
If my linguistic anthropology (and, honestly, psychoanalytic theory) schooling has given me nothing else I have been given the ability to respect naming and titles as important to communities. Recognition is important to inter-community respect and cooperation (see? It came up again after all), and without it I don’t see archaeogaming becoming the cooperative field I think everyone (?) wants it to be.