The narrative is the game.
Typically, when people discuss the perfect "video game story," they bring up titles like Metal Gear Solid or Final Fantasy VI. In a video game, a "good story" is often a well-written plot with characters and events—ideally one that is improved or supplemented by the gameplay. Occasionally, somebody will bring up a game like Dwarf Fortress, which builds on the principles of interaction to produce intricate stories.
However, I believe there's another, more intriguing kind of video game storytelling. There is a kind that can only be found in video games, and it can be found in all games. It is often written inadvertently and becomes apparent only after the game has been completed.
The narrative that runs automatically
The ability to project narrative onto blank canvases is a skill that humans excel at. We're terrible at quietly observing the moments in our life that we retell. They are always a series of interconnected events, a mini-story with experience as its own creator. Frequently, video games are essentially an empty canvas. Games are tales we come to and stories we add to, but life is a narrative we create that is determined by our experiences. These are experiences that other people have created, laying the foundation for a fresh narrative.
I believe that every game inadvertently communicates a narrative since it's an interactive experience. It's what I like to refer to as a "automatic story." It's not anything that someone has written or is presenting; rather, it's something that just naturally emerges from the functioning of the human brain. When we observe broad brushstrokes, we instinctively fill in the details. Each person has a unique appearance since they are all the protagonist and the author. When I discuss this hypothesis with people in the past, they usually laugh it off. Conversations usually revolve on Tetris. The storyline of Tetris is unknown, despite the fact that everyone has played Tetris. I believe this is the case because a game like Tetris (or Pong, or Breakout, or any other arcade title you like) has a "plot" that is unique to the gaming medium.
Games invite you to co-write a tale, which is a very intriguing thing they do without even trying. Without giving it any thought, Alexey Pajitnov penned the rough outline of a story back in 1984. Without realizing it, he penned the opening line of every Tetris narrative after placing a number of bricks on a screen and giving the option to move them. For the last thirty or so years, every single Tetris player has finished Pajitnov's story when they complete the game. Whether on purpose or not, the moving bricks take on the roles of people, buildings, or freight. Everyone may relate to the increasing pace and strain for different reasons. In order to prevent the game from becoming monotonous, Pajitnov does everything quicker, yet it's hard for the player to resist seeing a purpose or some kind of narrative logic. Without recognizing it, we have transformed the experience of interacting with the work of other people into a narrative because we are human. One that is essentially just felt and very difficult to determine.
Alright, but what about "real" tales?
Of course, not every video game exists in this kind of abstract form. While the storyline of Tetris is difficult to explain, the events of The Secret of Monkey Island are easy to explain. The game's characters have names and descriptions; it is meticulously written. How does my notion of the automated tale apply to games like that?
A good many of the most excellent "narrative" games are simple enough to allow for some emergent storytelling. With the tools provided, a player can craft their own supplementary narrative that can either reinforce or contradict the main storyline. For example, while Link is supposedly on a mission to save Hyrule, I'm might be exploring the various ways in which a rock can be dropped on Link's head. Though they occupy the same place and are similarly co-authored experiences, they aren't really "automatic stories" since the game itself incorporates them rather than simply your brain.
Nonetheless, I see that two tales are consistently present in narrative games that don't let you do much experimenting. There are two stories being told: one by the player, and one by the game. Since almost everyone can agree that The Last of Us has a storyline, I believe that The Last of Us is the poster child for this hypothesis. The game has actually been criticized for being very narrative heavy, to the extent where a reasonably realistic HBO Max series may serve as a convenient stand-in. However, you are unable to fully assume Joel Miller's role while playing The Last of Us. While we are asked to embody a character in video games, we are not able to really become that character.
In The Last of Us, Joel engages in some really despicable behavior. He uses bricks to strike a number of people in the head, and the player, just by virtue of playing, joins in on the brick-hitting.The Last of Us tells two stories: one about a guy who uses bricks to smash people in the head, and another about a player who decides to support Joel's actions because, like Joel, there is only one way to roll credits: keep playing.
The player, as co-author of the automated tale, has the narrative option to either consciously or subconsciously continue playing (and, more precisely, to play well). The player contributes to the development of a new tale only by having the experience, agreeing to it, and interacting with it. That tale isn't the same as the one the game is telling; both will end at the same moment if you quit playing, but their meanings will change. The conventional and automated storytelling are a good match for one another. One is recorded, whereas the other happens on its own. A game acquires its own narrative only by virtue of having been created by one person and played by another. It takes place in the recesses of our minds, whether we are aware of it or not. It can only be experienced; it cannot be put in writing.
Because experience is ultimately a gifted writer.