This is a 7000-word essay that I submitted for a course in EFL University, Hyderabad. Read Part I here.
Gamers, Gods and the Existential Struggle of NPCs in OP Lands - Part II
Let us continue the aforementioned example of the horses Phobos and Abraxas. Consider the average NPC of Odyssey; perhaps, a farmer or a baker in ancient Greece; witnessing this gradual change in Kassandra’s mount. Consider their sense of awe as their reality of what the limits of horses ought to be is shattered, as they see a full-grown fire-breathing horse galloping at tremendous pace in front of their wondrous eyes. For them, whom a departure even from common skin to rare would be a sight to behold, this apparition of a legendary skin is verily worthy of worship.
Consider, even, the impersonality that Odyssey itself lends toward NPCs like rival mercenaries and soldiers, of those who lift the sword and attempt the futile task of ending the life of the avatar8. Suffice it to say, their attempts are necessarily doomed to failure, for Odyssey was never meant to be their story. In no combat scenario is it imaginable that the average warrior will end the life of the OP Kassandra, for even if they do, all the gamer must do is reboot the game until fate catches up with the puny warrior. The NPC thus remains caged in a tragic loop of continually serving the whims and wishes of the avatar as well as the gamer.
To investigate the alienated psychology of an NPC appears, at first, trivial. After all, most NPCs simply add to the gamer’s immersion, and do not by themselves have encoded, inherent, humanlike emotions. They are, to put it another way, arbitrary creations and scaffoldings for the avatar and the gamer. But couldn’t one lay the same claim to the crowd on the road to Mithila in The Ramayana, during Rama and Sita’s marriage? Are they, too, not arbitrary creations of an artistic mind, and do they not display monotonous emotions for the sheer sake of world-building? Any arguments that non-OP characters like Shakuni or Draupadi have deep psychology and affect the action of the tale are equally redundant, for NPCs in several videogames perform the exact same tasks.
We must then confront the necessary conclusion; that the obvious hierarchies between OP avatars and the occupants of their OP lands (i.e. NPCs), parallel the same inherent storytelling hierarchy between the heroes of Ramayana and Mahabharata and characters whose primary task is to exist and act as their foil.
In addition, a brief examination at the collective bardic history of the tales—for it is, by now, an acknowledged truth that Vyasa or Valmiki were not the only authors of the text—shows a consistency in most versions valorizing the OP characters of the tale. It becomes apparent that the Pandavas, Rama, Krishna, etc. were meant to be the people upon whom the oral tradition was focused. While it is true that, once upon a blue moon, one might find a version that glorifies, say, Ravana instead of Rama, even Ravana is, in relation to the ordinary subject of Lanka, an OP character. Therefore, consequently, it could also be posited (because of the strong parallels between game studies and Indian mythology), that, akin to game developers who conceive their stories with this hierarchical intention, it is likely that the original authors of the epics shared this intent.
The NPCs9 of Ramayana and Mahabharata are, therefore, trapped in the same existential loop as the NPCs of Odyssey; forced to oppose, support, succumb or sing songs of the might of OP avatars. The OP land has a pervading collective consciousness of sorts; of a story destined to end a singular way because its each participant—be it the cliffs, crags or characters of the OP land—have been consciously or unconsciously created to will it so.
The inseparable attachment of NPCs to OP characters for their very existence to have meaning within the epics is essential. If Rama, Lakshmana, Ravana, Kumbakarna, etc. did not exist, the importance of NPCs would be rudderless, and The Ramayana would not be a story worth telling. The story of Eklavya is nothing if not juxtaposed with Karna or Drona, and the relevance of Draupadi minimal prior to her relation with the Pandavas. A casual glance at the analogy of The Myth of Sisyphus could illuminate this tragic, cyclical and absurd existence of the NPCs as personified in Sisyphus, while the boulder simultaneously concretizes tasks set by OP characters, to which Sisyphus is at the beck and call of, and from which the condemned man is eternally unable to emancipate himself.
It is precisely this existential angst that, I think, retellings of epics such as Anand Neelakantan’s Asura: Tale of the Vanquished (henceforth Asura) and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s The Palace of Illusions (henceforth Palace) attempt to address. The discourses that were lost due to constant pandering toward OP characters for whom the story was made, are now attempted to be recaptured and redefined in a manner that, in a Derridean sense, deconstructs the logocentric notion of the one focal point (i.e. the OP characters) guaranteeing all meaning.
It was earlier mentioned that it may be argued that the stated sources behind Rama and Kassandra’s powers are different, which may introduce a technique to ease the aforementioned angst. Consider this: in Ramayana, Mahabharata or even Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey, if certain characters are far stronger and far greater than others, if some characters are controlled by gamers and gods in external realms, and if other characters are merely expected to act in accordance to OP characters, then how have these stories managed to create conflicts? How have they managed to retain universality and entertain and educate a vast variety of audiences? How did they maintain, to put it candidly, their storytelling integrity?
A response to these queries may be found through an analysis events causing major conflicts in either of these epics. Rama’s exile, for instance, is contingent on two promises that King Dasaratha had afforded to his wife Kaikeyi. Or, in Shiv K. Kumar’s modern rendition of The Mahabharata, the reason behind the disrobing of Draupadi is closely connected to the relation of the Pandavas with dharma—which is to say, had the Pandavas not previously succumbed to the metanarrative of the sacredness behind what is wagered in a dice game, they would not have hesitated to use their Overpowering10 capabilities on the Kauravas and slain them then and there, thus ending the conflict.
While, therefore, OP characters in epics have tremendous capacity in terms of physical strength (as evidenced, among other instances, in the siege of Lanka or the Kurukshetra War), they are continually hamstrung by an unconditional obedience towards laws and norms that stem from a Brahmanic tradition. Let us ascribe a universal term virtue to encapsulate these laws and norms. Then, to use brief examples, it is Rama’s virtue imbibed that entails him to carry out his father’s wishes, or the virtue imbibed in Pandavas to obey their mother, that causes complications like Rama’s exile and the marriages of all the Pandava brothers to Draupadi.
Before we enter an analysis of the existential angst of the NPCs, it is important to briefly note how Indian mythology strongly suggests an inseparability between virtue and OP. Unlike videogames like Odyssey—where the avatar or the gamer has total freedom to explore their morality whilst retaining their power—Indian mythology posits virtue as the necessary condition for being OP. There are several examples validating this. Rama is powerful not only because he is an incarnation of Vishnu, but also because of his rigid adherence to virtue. Kunti considers Karna as the noblest of the Kuru race because of his allegiance with Duryodhana on bonds of friendship. It is because Amba engages in tapas that Shiva grants her the necessary skills to become Sikhandi. The stated reason in The Ramayana for Rama’s victory and Ravana’s defeat may be encapsulated in clever phrases used by Narayan, at the time of Ravana’s death.
Rama, with prayers and worship, invoked its fullest power and sent it in Ravana’s direction, aiming at his heart rather than his head; Ravana being vulnerable at heart. While he had prayed for indestructibility of his several heads and arms, he had forgotten to strengthen his heart, where the Brahmasthra entered and ended his career. (Narayan 146)
It is perhaps because virtue precedes power that, while the power of OP characters is what is their real advantage, it is virtue that gains greater focus. Indian mythology is known for its philosophical discourses; discourses like the Bhagavad-gita that establish and embellish the virtues of OP characters. Therefore, in modern times when virtue has been deemed a construct and not, as earlier supposed, the property of Brahmins, even retellings of Indian classics focus on virtue more than OP.
Neelakantan’s Asura is a great example of interrogating this hegemony of virtue. Asura, a retelling of Ramayana from the perspective of Ravana and Bhadra (a commoner, the creation of Neelakantan, whose life becomes inextricably interlinked with Ravana), deeply explores the relatively free and modern Asura culture in Lanka, juxtaposing its virtue with patriarchal and rigid Brahmanic virutes symbolized and spearheaded by Rama.
Interestingly, Asura does away with the supernatural elements of the epic that is its parent text, evidenced by Ravana not being ten-headed, Rama not wielding any astras, mantras and prophecies not necessarily being correlated with power, etc. The setting of the story in material reality allows the author to portray, for instance, the defeat of Pramyudha by Indra not as inevitable (since the king of gods is more virtuous than the asura Pramyudha), but resulting from folly in strategy. It may be argued that the capabilities of OP characters are erased to argue Neelakantan’s views on virtue with greater clarity.
Despite Neelakantan’s efforts to steep Asura in material reality, it may be argued that a strong theme of fate pervades the entire novel. Before the reader opens the book, they know its outcome—broadly, that Ravana will kidnap Sita, Rama will defeat him, and that the Asuras will be defeated at the hands of the Devas. While Ravana is OP in relation to Bhadra and the other citizens of Lanka, this necessary conclusion means that Rama, Lakshman and the Vanaras will always be OP in relation to Ravana, since they will always be destined to victory.
Since no retelling can overturn this fundamental fact, Asura finds its value in the ergodic space of narrating the sequence of events that will lead to this conclusion; where it interrogates Brahmanic morality. Through its tragic endings, it attempts to rewrite the metanarrative of good conquering evil present in The Ramayana by implying the opposite. Asura has, therefore, acknowledged its incapability of making Ravana more powerful than Rama on purely physical grounds, and attempted instead to posit the Asuras as superior on moral grounds.
This important distinction between virtue and power helps explain the coping mechanisms of Bhadra. Within the context of The Ramayana, Asura and this argument, let there be no doubt that Bhadra is an NPC. He is a commoner thrust from failure to failure, desperate to make ends meet, and nothing in relation to OP characters like Ravana and Rama. While it appears from the outset that most of Bhadra’s primary conflict is purely material (i.e. a hunt for food, clothing, shelter and some semblance of stability in war-torn India), several internal dialogues show that his conflict is as much spiritual, if not more. Even the casual reader of the book’s cover will be aware that the Asuras, of which Bhadra is a part, will eventually be ‘the vanquished’. Bhadra’s very existence was crafted for failure by his very creator.
Then, in a Sartrean sense11, Bhadra must find meaning in a life where there appears to be none. He must revise the events of his life—his unconditional support for Ravana which turns sour, his pitiful life as a subject of Lanka, the ignominy of being subservient to Brahmin ideology after the fall of his king—and reconcile it with some sense of finality. The result is twofold. Bhadra, at and after the death of Ravana, copes with this tragedy by asserting that no matter what, the Asura ideology is in his mind superior. Rama and the Brahmins may be OP, but they would never win on this ideological front. An example of this may be seen below:
The society he [Ravana] had created was not perfect. The majority of us remained poor. Yet we knew that hard work and luck could make us rich and powerful. There were no congenital, privileged castes such as the Brahmins were among the Devas. Despite our crushing poverty and the seething anger we felt for the rich and privileged, we enjoyed one luxury compared to our counterparts in the Deva kingdoms – we were treated like human beings. (Neelakantan 447)
However, toward the end of Bhadra’s life, he arrives at another conclusion:
There may be glory in living and dying like Ravana or Meghanada, there may be satisfaction in standing steadfast for some abstract idea like dharma and sacrificing everything like Rama. But such glories are unaffordable luxuries for men like me. (Neelakantan 494)
This conclusion, I think, is truer to the character of Bhadra, and in my mind cements his existential conflict of being pigeonholed as a lower character, an ordinary man, an NPC. Bhadra’s initial support for the Asura ideology was in opposition to the Deva ideology, which is to say that he would not have strongly supported Ravana had Deva soldiers not killed his family and put his village to the torch. Bhadra’s virtuous stance, therefore, was countercultural to Brahmin virtue; i.e. his support for the Asuras was contingent on his opposition to the Devas, just like the atheist is perennially dependent on the theist.12
However, to even attain the status of spearheading the ideology of the Asuras, one must be a relatively OP character like Ravana or Kumbakarna. Bhadra, being a mere NPC, realizes the futility of having any virtue, either in support or opposition to the dominant virtue. It did not matter that he supported Ravana during his rule over Lanka, and it did not matter that after Ravana’s death, he became a cog in the wheel of the caste system. It is because of this realization of his insignificance within OP lands that he identifies virtue, for him, as a ‘luxury’.
While Asura is narrated from the perspective of those opposing the dominant virtue, Palace is narrated from Draupadi, wife of the heroes of Mahabharata. It must here be noted that, while she may be a queen and an important character in the epic, marginalization on feminist or postcolonial grounds are merely supplementary in distinguishing OP characters from NPC characters. Primarily, it is her lack of combative skills, inability to wield any astras, and her consecutive lack of importance to the narrative (in relation to OP characters), etc. that makes her as much an NPC as any commoner.
In the context of this argument, Palace explores Draupadi’s utility to the epic as the faithful wife of the eventual victors. Initially, Draupadi herself interrogates the virtues imbibed in Brahmanic ideology from a primarily feminist perspective; i.e. in rueing the origins of her name13, or interrogating the absurd assumption that women must not be allowed to learn as much as men. If, then, Draupadi’s significance is synonymous to the NPC, how can she be expected to change the course of history, as is her stated destiny?
The development of Draupadi’s feminist perspective helps her understand her important role in the Kurukshetra War, even as an NPC. This is encapsulated in a particular piece of advice that Sikhandi offers Draupadi, thus helping her realize a more subliminal difference between men and women.
“But here’s one that may be of use to you [Draupadi]: the power of a man is like a bull’s charge, while the power of a woman moves aslant, like a serpent seeking its prey. Know the particular properties of your power. Unless you use it correctly, it won’t get you what you want.” (Divakaruni 52)
Contemporary feminist critics may—rightly, for their time—criticize the structural assumptions of man and woman behind Sikhandi’s advice. After all, why cannot the power of a woman be likened to a bull’s charge? However, considering the virtues imbibed in the OP lands in which Palace is set, Sikhandi’s advice may be seen as a recognition of the power relations that are certain and unshakable in its time; and, therefore, of the unreality of any radical feminist changes, along with the desire to accept and work within the framework of those harsh realities.
One can see that, once Draupadi incorporates this reality, she consciously uses her femininity in power relations to aid the virtue of the Pandavas. If the virtues of the OP Pandavas are swords, Draupadi’s task as the NPC is to assume the form of the whetstone, sharpening their virtues. When, for instance, Yudhishthir’s innocence threatens to get the better of him—as he exclaims, during their days in exile, that one could grow used to living like this—Draupadi replies scathingly to remind them of their revenge; or, when Keechak’s advances become more and more threatening, she uses Bheem’s true love for her to get him killed.
Draupadi’s manipulation of the Pandavas stems from the tacit admission that she will never wield sovereign, material or physical power over them. She realizes the infallibility of their virtue and power, and—while Bhadra opposes the OP characters and their perpetuated virtue—Draupadi aids its success.
We have explored the metanarrative of virtue in the case of both NPCs—firstly, as one who was predisposed to oppose it, and secondly, one who aided its actualization. It appears as if Palace, by succumbing to and supplementing the virtue of the victors, ends relatively happily, while Asura certainly ends on more cynical grounds. The conclusion seems to be, for NPCs residing in OP lands whose existence is dependent entirely on OP characters, that it is better to aid the dominant discourse than rebel against it and necessarily fail. However, there is a trade-off inherent to this conclusion that must be interrogated as part of the argument’s conclusion.
At the end of Palace, Draupadi, at the time of her death, wonders if she found love. She realizes that it was neither any of the Pandavas, nor any members of her family that she truly loved, but Krishna, and that Krishna loved her back.
It’s only now I see that he’d always been there, sometimes in the forefront, sometimes blended into the shadows of my life […] He loved me even when I behaved in a most unlovable manner. And his love was totally different from every other love in my life […] How blind I’d been not to recognize it for the precious gift it was! (Banerjee 356)
Personally, the culmination of Draupadi and Krishna’s curious relationship have appeared problematic. Why does Palace, a novel that continually undermines Brahmanic virtues (while, granted, simultaneously aiding its realization) ends with the protagonist professing their love for the person who is the very personification of those virtues? Why is Krishna, one of the most divisive characters in the context of modern morality, valorized by the very person who, in the novel, interrogates these obsolete morals?
A common explanation is that Draupadi’s love for Krishna, in Palace, stems from her acknowledging his divinity. Therefore, it could be argued that Draupadi’s affection for Krishna is not only restricted to Krishna’s humanlike self, but extended to the person externally controlling him. Draupadi sees Krishna as a conduit of a higher reality, and loves them for it.14
From previously discussed theories relating to game studies, we may recall that Krishna is not only an OP character but an OP avatar; which is to say that he is an incarnation of Lord Vishnu. As aforementioned, the results of Real Feelings for Virtual People have concluded that gamers can build genuine emotional relationships with NPCs. If, then, we were to equate Vishnu as the gamer, his decision to form emotional bonds with Draupadi through the conduit of Krishna would give both Vishnu and Krishna the willingness (and, because of their OP nature, the ability) to show an existentially trapped and caged NPC like Draupadi a glimpse into a higher reality. In addition, since Palace makes explicit Draupadi’s attachment to Krishna—an attachment that, as per our reasonable interpretation, extends to Vishnu—she would doubtless be willing to view and engage with this reality, receiving it like the salt of true freedom.15
However, this freedom is not without a trade-off in self-identity. It must be noted that it is only because Draupadi aided the dominant virtue, that she was allowed to build relations with Lord Vishnu. Had she, being an NPC, defied the dominant virtue, her story would have undoubtedly ended like Bhadra; a pitiful being struggling for scraps of meaning. For Draupadi to be the beneficiary of this discovery, she needed to forego the Sartrean ideals of Authenticity and being-for-itself, and reluctantly embrace instead the vices of individuality i.e. bad faith and being-in-itself.
Let us, then, to conclude, place ourselves in the shoes of Bhadra, Draupadi and the NPC, and afford ourselves the assumption, for the sake of this argument, that there exists a higher realm of reality, and from that realm an OP being, who is the incarnation of an external being, has been sent to Earth. Whether this being is a gamer or the Creator himself will, of course, be hitherto unknown. Like Rama or Krishna, the virtues imbibed in this being will be problematic and open to scrutiny from contemporary morality.
Is it, then, the duty of the commoner and the NPC, to raise swords against these virtues and run the risk of being a lowly rebel in the eyes of the OP person? Or must the NPC succumb to the power or the person (and, subsequently, their virtues) and gamble on the slim possibility of a glimpse of a fundamentally different form of reality?
This is the choice posed to the NPC, the supporting character and the destined nobody trapped in OP lands. It is this choice that Neelakantan and Divakaruni explore when they revisit classics hitherto written at the whims and wishes of the OP characters. It is, to conclude, in this choice that contemporary readers may view how these NPCs cope with their existential angst.
Footnotes
8. An interpretation of the hitbox combat system used by Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey may be that it adds to the notion of impersonality in NPCs. Due to the third-person, zoomed out perspective from which the combat is viewed, the opponents of the avatar appear less as humans and more as obstacles.
9. The term ‘NPCs’ shall, henceforth, be increasingly interchanged with terms like ‘side-characters’ or ‘supporting characters’, that would have otherwise described characters like Shakuni, Draupadi, Kooni, etc. This is done not only for the sake of convenience, but also to emphasize the parallels between Indian mythology and game studies.
10. ‘Overpowering’ is merely a pun on ‘Overpowered’ (OP), and the present continuous tense of ‘overpower’. The word itself is not necessarily used in game studies.
11. “The essential consequence of our earlier remarks is that man being condemned to be free carries the weight of the whole world on his shoulders; he is responsible for the world and for himself as a way of being.” (Sartre 553 – Being and Nothingness)
12. The conception of the atheist exists in its negation. It is the task of the atheist to refute the claims of the theist. However, if the theist did not exist, what claims would exist for the atheist to refute?
13. Draupadi is the daughter of King Drupada.
14. The relationship between Draupadi and Krishna may, in The Palace of Illusions, parallel the relationship between Arjun and Krishna in The Mahabharata and the Bhagavad-gita.
15. To understand the scale of the trade-off, the importance of this discovery cannot be undermined. Indeed, it could be argued that the inherent sense of curiosity is, in the history of humankind, the source of all invention and progress.
Originally written: 2 May 2020
Comments