The Works of Fumito Ueda: A Different Perspective on Video Games

Preface

Are Video games Art?

This fundamental question has fueled debates for years, and the conversation continues today. While the medium’s cultural value is undeniable, this topic nevertheless evokes strong opinions, just as much among players and journalists as developers–not to mention critiques from those unfamiliar with the field.

What makes this concept of art so terrible for some? Is it the fear of this popular medium being praised and reappropriated by the higher cultural classes–a social issue? Or, is it because art–this three-letter word–is so loaded with connotations and misunderstandings that it brings us back to a type of bourgeois issue of contemptuous and snobbish elitism? What if video games were considered art? Would this mean the end of their role as entertainment? Above all, would this implicate each of their many forms?

Intellectualization is practically a swear word–even more so today, when the concept of a critique has been abused and emptied of all substance. Yet, reflecting on a work, a medium, a form of art is not a vain or self-righteous activity. Reflecting means trying to understand, to learn and discover. It means honing in on what’s most important. It’s not mutually exclusive from emotions, feelings or pleasure. Quite the contrary! Reflection is stimulating.

When the game ICO was released in 2001, it had several decades’ worth of video games behind it. The game itself was significantly influenced by video games that had touched its creator, Fumito Ueda: Another World by Éric Chahi and Prince of Persia by Jordan Mechner. Yet, when a player takes the ethereal Yorda’s hand, when they feel this physical contact through the vibrations in the controller, something happens. Something new and profound. Something that can only exist through a video game. A simple idea, attached to the R1 button, and digital interaction opens a new door. Of course, this insignificant-seeming gesture is but a small representation of what can really happen. Its strength lies elsewhere; it draws from everything that makes up ICO: its art direction (everything in chiaroscuro), its vanishing lines, its simple and clear game mechanics, its lack of visual interface, its quest for physical realism, its minimalist narration, its extraordinary sensibilities. It is an opening to an evocative otherworld that lets our imagination soar. Contemplative, slow and nearly speechless, ICO offers an uncommon, poetic adventure, rejecting traditional video game standards while still drawing from them. Many remained indifferent to it. Just as many were touched as rarely before.

Since then the medium has changed, and many developers have adopted this then-unprecedented artistic approach, coming from a man who, before working in video games, studied art. A man whose mission and that of his team was simply to offer something that didn’t really exist. Overall, to dare, to innovate. This approach set the road map for each of his creations: ICO, Shadow of the Colossus and The Last Guardian. Three works that share the same aesthetic, the same game design philosophy, and even the same universe. Three works that are distinguishable, however, through their unique concepts and approaches. Three works that bored and bothered some players, but left others deeply moved, brought to tears by the nuanced and subtle emotions they evoked. These emotions owe much, not only to the meticulous art direction and stories that draw from the essence of myths, but above all to what defines video games: interaction.

Because of their originality and the permanent mark they’ve left on certain players, Fumito Ueda’s works are often cited in debates on art and video games. But confusions abound. Are detailed visuals, a poetic feeling and emotions enough to make a work an art form? The "ICO trilogy" contains some parts of an answer to this question.

However, to uncover them, we must first introduce the three games in detail. We must explore the background of their creation, what story they tell and how they tell it. Only then will it be possible to enter into the heart of the debate, to bring together opinions from numerous creators in the field, to ask the right questions. After all, before even asking if video games are art, we also have to first define what art is. The bad news is that art theorists themselves have never solved the question. The good news is that video games open new paths for reflection.

At the heart of the question are Fumito Ueda’s works as a whole. Because his three games are indeed the reflection of a coherent, personal, unique whole, which has profoundly touched certain players and marked the history of video games. The reflection of a vision.

Chapter I — Creation

In most instances, video games are an industry based on collaborative creation, much like movies. Movies, however–when they’re not drowning in an enormous set of specifications imposed by producers and shareholders–are more likely to be carried by the director’s vision. The director can be seen as an auteur in every sense of the word. When it comes to video games, auteurs are rare–and when they do exist, they are rarely highlighted.¹ Fumito Ueda is, without a question, one of them. With ICO, Shadow of the Colossus and The Last Guardian, he proved that it was possible to design a video game in which every pore, every element, carried the artistic vision and philosophy of its creator. This is why the Creation chapter will focus primarily on this man’s personality. Of course, we must not forget the essential nature of those who worked with him on Team ICO, at genDESIGN and Japan Studio, to bring these three games to life down to their smallest details.² Not to mention the vital role played by producer Kenji Kaido for ICO and Shadow of the Colossus, ensuring that the team had all the necessary resources and support from Sony to see the two projects through.

Fumito Ueda is nevertheless the mastermind behind his works, from the visual choices to the very design of the gameplays, including the stories and the actual animation of characters. As a high-standards perfectionist, he experienced three rather long development periods, each one with the same objective: to respect his initial vision to the very end. He has specified as much in interviews: he likes to work under pressure, and within technical limitations he finds the way to create the most expressive works. However, while he tends to be strict when leading his team, Fumito Ueda is also someone who puts a lot of heart into what he creates–to the point where he admits that he hates the periods leading up to game releases, when he experiences a great deal of stress. It takes him several years to replay one of his works, perhaps out of fear of not being pleased with himself. Today a husband and father, he is regarded both as a creative director and auteur whose personality has been forged throughout his life path.

Illustration The Early Years of a Future Artist

Fumito Ueda was born on April 19, 1970, in Japan’s Hyogo prefecture. He grew up in a rural area, in the city of Tatsuno. As a child, he loved all sorts of animals. He was adventurous, and enjoyed hiking in the mountains. He liked to make his own nets to catch fish. As a student he was not particularly studious, and enjoyed drawing manga during his classes; his love of drawing developed at a very early age.

Growing up, he discovered video games through Nintendo’s Famicom and SEGA’s Master System. He spent hours playing Konami’s Smash Ping Pong. It was also during this time that he decided his future would lie in artistic endeavors. Living in Osaka and attending Osaka University of Arts, he chose to study abstract art. In an interview compiled in the book Game no Ryuugi,³ he explained with a laugh that he chose abstract art because it takes less technical effort and less time than realistic, representational art. He defined himself as not a very serious student. He became more diligent and dedicated toward the end of his studies. He had always been especially passionate about manga, but the university opened his eyes to a cultural perspective that he never expected, and his own approach to drawing and art changed. In 2016, he explained to The New Yorker that his choice of abstract art was not inconsequential.

I also liked that, behind those abstract images, there was always an idea. That set me thinking about art in terms of ideas, rather than depictions. During his university years, his passion for video games also grew. For example, he played a lot of Genesis, and fell in love with Éric Chahi’s Another World, as well as Jordan Mechner’s Game Boy adaptation of Prince of Persia. The expressive aesthetic and minimalist narration of the former, as well as the engaging gameplay of the latter, defined the personal tastes that he would later develop further in his own creations. To pay for his studies, he worked in a video rental store. He discovered a lot of films, which served as another source feeding his imagination.

Illustration Arriving in the Industry

Shortly before graduating in 1993, Ueda wondered about his future. During this period leading up to final exams, most students were applying for jobs. He wanted to make a living off his art, and continued creating manga in his spare time. He said, ... what I liked about [drawing comics], it was the act of sharing what I’d done with my friends and seeing their reactions. Despite his interest in art, he didn’t especially like going to museums, and preferred to create and immerse himself in video games and movies. However, he was aware of the difficulty in the modern world of making a living with one’s art, and he decided to buy himself an Amiga computer with money he earned from selling his motorbike. At first, he was interested in multimedia art installations,⁴ but he soon realized there was potential in digital imaging.

He taught himself, relying on reading and the Amiga instruction manual (all in English, which required him to use a dictionary). He learned to master creating computer graphics. In particular, he studied the program LightWave3D.⁵ With this training, he worked part-time for a computer graphics design company, and also worked for local TV station Kansai Television. But his future began taking shape more clearly in 1995, when he joined video game developer WARP (known in particular for its game D⁶), after sending them film projects on which he had worked, by way of an application. He worked on several games in the graphics and animation department, starting as an animator on the 3DO conversion of D, called D’s Diner: Director’s Cut, then on the survival horror Enemy Zero. He not only worked on creating its visual elements, but also was involved with directing some cutscenes. It was hard work, because the team was understaffed and had to work many overtime hours. Fumito Ueda has stated he had fun during this time, but also experienced a lot of frustration, because he didn’t have complete artistic control.

He felt a thirst for change and left WARP. With his savings, he bought himself a new computer. Shortly thereafter, in February 1997, he heard through an acquaintance working for Sony Computer Entertainment that they were seeking an expert in the computer graphics software that Ueda had used when he was at WARP. Sony made him an offer, but he turned it down because he wanted to create a personal project. He asked them to contact him again in a few months, when he would be able to present his idea. Fumito Ueda knew that he could have the opportunity to work with a certain amount of creative freedom at Sony; he was especially impressed with the aesthetic of the musical game PaRappa the Rapper, created by Rodney Alan Greenblat. What happened next serves as the beginning of the real story: the creation of ICO.

From The Beginning

Before diving into the creation of Fumito Ueda’s games, it’s important to draw a quick portrait of the video games, movies and other forms of art that influenced him–and that, in many respects, served as sparks for what was to be ICO. They provided both direct and indirect (or claimed) inspiration. However, their role is not so much of an aesthetic or game model as it is a shared philosophy and intersecting approaches and tendencies. Through their originality, these creations marked Fumito Ueda’s memories and helped build, sculpt and enrich his own artistic identity.

Illustration Prince of Persia

Jordan Mechner’s cult classic, first released on the Apple II in 1989, then adapted for numerous systems in the years that followed (Amiga, Mac, NES, Game Boy, Genesis, Super Nintendo, etc.), completely redefined the platform game genre. First, it freed itself from arcade characteristics, like the concept of a score. But it also focused on movements, and therefore credible physics. The Prince doesn’t jump many feet at once like Mario; his jumps are based on realistic inertia. Based on a simple premise in an eastern world inspired by popular Persian and Indian tales from One Thousand and One Nights, Prince of Persia isn’t weighed down with embellishments. The evil vizier Jaffar reigns over Persia in the absence of the sultan, who has left for war. To fully establish his power and seize the throne, he wants to force the princess to marry him. He locks her up in his tower and gives her one hour to decide; if she doesn’t marry him, he will have her executed. During this hour (in real time in the video game), the princess’ suitor, the Prince, must escape from the dungeon Jaffar has locked him in and rescue his lover.

At the time of the game’s release, the eastern world was still relatively untapped (Disney’s Aladdin wasn’t released until 1992). This exotic atmosphere was multiplied by a feeling of solitude. There are few enemies to fight, oppressive scenery lit by torches, and a sound environment that uses more sound effects than music. These are all elements found in Ueda’s games. The same goes for the environment, which is based in a castle. This economy of means⁷ contributes to the experience’s originality. At the end of development, Mechner moved towards making his game more accessible by removing levels and simplifying the controls. This approach evokes design by subtraction, which ended up being Ueda’s flagship development method.

Parallels with his games are also seen in the animations and the choice of realistic physics. In Prince of Persia, the rendering was especially impressive for the time. Mechner had used rotoscoping, a technique borrowed from filmmaking that consists of tracing the contours of a moving person image by image to reproduce their gestures in animation. Mechner filmed himself and his little brother David to create the Prince’s movements through rotoscoping. As mentioned earlier, the result was a departure from the customs of platform games. Besides the original sword fights, the Prince’s actions allowed him to run, crouch, jump and even hang–to climb a wall, for example. Today this latter action is a fundamental part of adventure games, but at the time it was innovative. The Prince’s progression takes place among numerous traps, with platform levels that require reflection. To open certain doors, it’s sometimes necessary to trigger mechanisms such as pushing down a slab in the floor-another element found in ICO.

Prince of Persia’s impact in the world of video games is evident (from Tomb Raider to God of War to Assassin’s Creed). However, it is interesting to note that Ueda was not only influenced by its mechanics, but also by the way of intertwining them, designing a universe in a vacuum and using certain video game codes from the time. This approach was even more radical in Another World.

Illustration Another World

Éric Chahi’s award-winning creation, originally released for the Amiga and Atari ST in 1991, has always been considered a distinct work in the video game landscape. This is a result of its environment, visual and sound depiction, construction and its way of playing with suggestion and the unsaid.

From the introduction, with movie ambitions evident in the staging and editing, it holds a unique identity based on vector image graphics. The result is a refined aesthetic that is further strengthened by the desire to remove all visual components inherited from video games: no health bar, inventory, menu or map. Fumito Ueda adopted this approach for ICO.

The context of Another World is simple: the physicist Lester Chaykin finds himself projected into another world following an experiment using a particle accelerator. He must somehow survive, escaping a race of primarily hostile humanoid aliens. The story’s context as well as its general happenings are never clearly explained except visually, leaving a large portion up to players’ interpretation. The aliens themselves communicate in an unknown language, and no subtitles are provided. Ueda used this approach as well: when two characters cannot understand each other through speech, they communicate through their actions.

Considered the successor of Prince of Persia, Another World extends the philosophy in its realistic approach to movements and actions, also using rotoscoping. There is, however, a different gameplay design: Another World relies a great deal on trial and error, involving numerous failures to understand how to get past a scene. Although this component is considered archaic today, it doesn’t take anything away from the evocative power of the game-which, through various re-releases, never stopped confirming its unique and influential status in the medium.

While the environments of Another World and ICO have nothing in common,⁸ the two games nevertheless share a similar philosophy: in the minimalist approach, the environmental storytelling, the art of the unsaid, the speechless interactions and the use of the soundtrack, which relies on surrounding sound effects and uses very little music⁹, all with the aim of escaping the traditional techniques of video games.

In 2016, Fumito Ueda again mentioned Prince of Persia and Another World among his major video game sources of inspiration on the site PlayStation.Blog: What they all have in common is the intricacy of the animation. I’m always curious in finding ways that animation can help breathe new life into characters.

Other video games inspired Fumito Ueda, such as Lemmings, created for all platforms imaginable when it was released in 1991. This point and click puzzle game required guiding little green-haired creatures, called lemmings, through levels filled with traps and obstacles, with each lemming being able to fill a certain role (blocker, floater, digger, climber, etc.). The feeling of indirectly interacting, and establishing this interactive dialogue, with these little virtual creatures impacted Ueda, as did the way they were represented, with animations that breathed life into them. This desire to establish a physical interaction between the virtual beings ended up being the very essence of the ICO creator’s work.

Illustration Le Roi et l’Oiseau

Beyond video game references, the heart of ICO–that is, the relationship between the characters Ico and Yorda–seems to stem directly from a masterpiece of French animation, Le Roi et l’Oiseau (The King and the Mockingbird). Although Fumito Ueda has never mentioned it in an interview, this film (in particular its draft La Bergère et le Ramoneur¹⁰ [The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep]) influenced many artists, including masters of Japanese animation Hayao Miyazaki (Castle in the Sky, Spirited Away) and Isao Takahata (Grave of the Fireflies, The Tale of the Princess Kaguya). Takahata has even admitted that La Bergère et le Ramoneur made him want to work in animation.

Le Roi et l’Oiseau was created by Paul Grimault (a pioneer in French animation and creator of many short films) and his friend Jacques Prévert, a well-known poet and screenwriter who died in 1977, three years before the release of the final version of the movie. It tells the story of King Charles V + III = VIII + VIII = XVI, a megalomaniac tyrant that brings terror upon his kingdom of Tachycardia. His towering castle reaches up high into the sky, and a bird decides to make his nest up at the top, taunting the king. The king is in love with a shepherdess who lives in a painting in his personal collection. He decides to marry her, but the shepherdess doesn’t feel the same way. She is in love with a chimney sweep who lives in the painting next to her. The two lovers decide to leave their paintings and flee the castle.

Everything about this escape by the Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep fully evokes ICO. The two lovers hold hands when they run; the Shepherdess has bare feet, and she emits a fragility similar to Yorda’s. The castle in which they are prisoners is an immense structure of gigantic proportions, with a maze-like architecture that could swallow up the two characters. Also, they are chased and attacked several times by strange flying creatures, showing a parallel with the creatures in ICO.

Full of elegance, poetry and satirical and burlesque humor, visually creative and musically magnificent, Le Roi et l‘Oiseau is an essential work that had a major impact on the imagination and creativity of many artists. Maybe in reality the obvious common traits with ICO are simply the result of a coincidence or unconscious inspiration. However, the parallels don’t end there, as the geometric, pared down images of Le Roi et l’Oiseau owe a lot to the works of two artists cited by Fumito Ueda. First, there are the both chaotic and monumental Imaginary Prisons of 18th-century etcher and architect Giovanni Battista Piranesi. Then, there are the metaphysical paintings of Giorgio de Chirico.

Illustration Giorgio de Chirico

The Japanese and European cover for ICO, painted by Fumito Ueda himself, leaves no doubt as to its precursor. The chromatic hues (the yellow of the ground, the blue-green of the sky), the tiny silhouettes of Ico and Yorda holding hands, the shadows that stretch out over the whole painting, the vague geometric perspectives, the monumental architecture of the windmill and the arches-everything evokes the works of Giorgio de Chirico. It is particularly similar to Melancholy and Mystery of a Street (1914), in which the silhouette of a little girl playing with a hoop appears frozen in time, despite her body being in motion, with immense arched buildings looming overhead stretching to the horizon, and the same approach with shadows streaking over a yellow ground. It also evokes The Nostalgia of the Infinite (1913), in which the tiny silhouettes of two people face a giant tower, encircled by columns–and again the hues (here, orange replaces yellow, but the sky is again blue-green) and shadows stretching across the scene.

Asked by the American website 1 Up about his decision to imitate the style of Giorgio de Chirico for the cover of ICO, Fumito Ueda said: "I thought the surrealistic world of de Chirico matched the allegoric world of ICO." One of the theories behind the name ICO¹¹ is that it is the last three letters of Chirico. This theory would mean that the entire game, beyond just the cover, is a clear homage to this Italian artist.

Giorgio de Chirico lived from 1888 to 1978. He painted his whole life, but it was especially the works he completed during the 1910s that brought him fame, then rejection from some of his contemporaries. In particular, he was criticized for his tendency to repeat himself, and from the 40s, even reproducing and creating alternatives to his older paintings. Some saw this as a form of forgery. But beyond these controversies, Giorgio de Chirico left his mark on art history. His paintings from the 1910s, called metaphysical, preceded the surrealist movement in its breaking of the real. Chirico’s paintings mostly show vast, deserted spaces, inhabited only by statues, busts, frozen silhouettes or giant composite figures (combinations of geometric shapes, pieces of wood, parts of objects and human elements). Illuminated by an unreal light, on the verge of twilight, these surroundings are filled with buildings boasting monumental architecture, with recurring themes such as train stations, locomotives, columns, arches, and many out of place objects diving into the composition. Chirico’s paintings invite the viewer into a fantasy melancholic universe with an uncertain time frame, with unclear perspectives that disrupt the real, where everything seems to be moving (shadows) and inert at once. There is a certain sadness that results, but it is also a form of meditation; a suggestion that triggers reflection on the meaning of the works. Several of his paintings include the word enigma in the title.

While ICO aims to present a credible, palpable world, it nevertheless shares Giorgio de Chirico’s interest in the realm of dreams. This is seen in these contrasts between the imposing architectures and the smallness of the humans, this melancholy that emerges from the foggy horizons and the silence of the deserted castle–and of course this importance placed on a fantasy light as a source of atmosphere and emotion. Like Chirico’s paintings, the adventures in Fumito Ueda’s games seem to be frozen in time, in an opaque yet fascinating otherworldliness.

From Prince of Persia to Giorgio de Chirico, Ueda drew inspiration from his knowledge of art and video game experiences that affected him. But he didn’t