Analysis: Warhammer Fantasy

To follow up on my previous analysis of Warhammer 40,000, I thought it only fitting that I should address its source: Warhammer Fantasy, one of the most grim, down-to-earth "Tolkein-esque" settings there is. Unlike Warhammer 40,000, Warhammer Fantasy has a lot less to justify: It's the world of the 1500s with monsters and demons overlayed on it. No, really, look at the map. While many fantasy settings use existing cultures to influence their fictional ones, Warhammer Fantasy is "1500s Europe" in all but name - and even those names aren't fooling anyone ("Tilea" is "Italy"? I never would have guessed!). This means that it essentially has an existing framework for everything and can justify a lot more - unlike 40k, which required a lot of explanations for why society is basically in the dark ages when they're zipping around in spaceships.

This, I believe, is one of its strengths. We already know the Warhammer world, because it's ours. Sure, it's our world from a few hundred years ago, but it's still our world. We can identify that the Empire is Germany, or that Bretonnia is France (combined with the Arthurian Myths), or any of the other connections. Other settings have their work cut out for them when it comes to connecting to the audience. Warhammer Fantasy just has to sit back and let history do its work for it. Of course, this is highly connected to the established artistic style that has accompanied Warhammer throughout its lifespan, but even that artistic style was made easier through that historical record. Instead of having to extrapolate what people of the future would be wearing, Warhammer Fantasy just goes ahead and gives everyone period-appropriate clothing, weapons, and armor. It all works because it's already "made sense" once before in real life. It also allows a lot of existing aesthetics to be used in a new context, that being the context of magic and monsters and other fantasy elements.

Because of those historical origins, Warhammer Fantasy is probably one of the most grounded fantasy franchises. Everything feels like something "real" interacting with something "fantastic": peasant levies with bows and halberds going up against monstrous rats, flamboyant Landsknechts fighting demons, or winged hussars battling ogres. Everything feels like steel and cloth and wood and leather, without delving into the more fantastic materials that many "High Fantasy" franchises explore. In the past I've talked about how armor design can influence believability; since Warhammer's armor is based on actual armor of the period, it naturally does quite well. Everything feels solid and real, even the fairly impractical (but justified) armor of the Chaos Warriors. In fact, I would say that the "normal" elements actually make the "fantastic" elements a lot more believable, in a similar manner to Demon's Souls. By establishing that the universe runs on "real rules", it feels much more impressive when a dragon or a demon or a giant is brought out. It's immediately visible that a normal human being is going to fight a monster, and more than likely they are going to lose one-on-one.

One important thing to note about Warhammer Fantasy versus Warhammer 40,000 is that the latter is an attempt to fit the former's dynamic. Everything takes place at incredibly short ranges, thus justifying the presence of melee weapons like the infamous chainsword. Space Marines are essentially "space knights", complete with heraldry and religious devotion. The armies of the Imperial Guard could easily be considered like the conscript armies of Fantasy shifted forward in time (although their weapons are kept roughly the same in terms of range). The Orcs or Orks are brutal and primitive in both settings, but in 40k they have to explain why they can make guns and spaceships (hence the "they innately know" explanation).

In Fantasy, however, the baseline standard pretty much works. The ranges are what they need to be, and the rules match the setting. The only thing that really needs to be explained are the Bretonnians, who operate on tactics and technology a few hundred years behind the setting's standard (maille and bows instead of plate and guns). This is justified by magic within the setting, but it's nowhere near as much of a stretch as "Orks literally make machines work by thinking they do". Magic in Warhammer is fairly subtle, and like 40k has negative consequences associated with its use (thus explaining why it hasn't replaced technology). In Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, for example, wizard characters (rare as they are) will only be able to use a few cantrips until they hit an advanced career - but making use of those cantrips is part of the gameplay.

One aspect of this difference is the nature of the uniforms. Much like actual uniforms of the period, uniforms are bright and colorful, declaring the allegiance of the wearer right out in the open. This creates a function similar to that of the Space Marines, where a player can easily customize their own units and heraldry, or use an existing pattern. However, the uniforms worn by most troops are stylistically similar, but not actually uniform. In the game "Warhammer: Mark of Chaos", this is represented by having randomized parts for each unit, like so. This creates a sense of variety, but maintains the sense that everyone's in the same unit (in part due to the bright, identifiable colors). I thought this worked well in multiplayer matches, where the presence of things like banners made it easily identifiable whose troops were whose (which is the real purpose of having such bright uniforms), but the individual differences made them all feel like people.

One field in which I feel Warhammer Fantasy is inferior to Warhammer 40,000 is the issue of scale. In 40k, I liked the fact that there were a limitless number of worlds with different cultures, united by an underlying Imperial creed. In fantasy, there's certainly a large world (extending far beyond the reaches of Fantasy Europe), but there's a limit to it all. Not a huge limit, mind you, since most of the world is still unexplored, but still a limit. If you want to play Empire troops, they're going to be Empire troops. There's no room for the variety of 40k's Imperial Guard. Perhaps the variety of uniforms makes up for it, but that was one aspect of 40k that cannot be replicated in such a limited world.

However, a way in which Fantasy makes up for this is the use of mercenaries. Warhammer 40k is one of the most black-and-white settings, not with regards to morality but with regards to allegiance. Other than the rare Eldar-Human alliance, everyone pretty much just sticks with their own side. In Warhammer Fantasy the only real "permanent" enemies of humanity are Chaos and the Skaven. The Dogs of War can be hired by anyone except Bretonnia (for honor-related reasons), and their numbers range from the reasonable (crossbowmen and pikemen) to the unusual (ogres and giants) to the outlandish (a renegade elf mounted on a dragon). This makes the setting seem a lot less divided; war's just war, there's not necessarily a huge moral concept behind it all of the time.

Characters in the Warhammer universe usually seem more relatable than most 40k characters, as well. Perhaps this is because of the comparative simplicity of the world, but it's established that everyone from the lowest peasant to the highest wizard or king is still essentially a person. A heroic, powerful person - but a person nonetheless. In 40k, the presence of things like personal force field and genetic mutation make the difference between "weak" and "strong" much more noticeable. There's no Space Marines in Fantasy, and while knights naturally take their role, they're simply more trained and better equipped than normal soldiers. Even an experienced character in WFRP can die in a few lucky hits. Despite the presence of magic, there's nobody who's really "superhuman" to the extent of 40k. Everyone is operating under the same rules of reality, even if they can use magic.

Given all these concepts - the realism, the grounding, and the lethality of the setting - I'd like to briefly examine Warhammer Online. While I felt that Mark of Chaos did a good job of trying to maintain the feel of the setting despite graphical limitations, I can't say the same about WHO. Compare this picture (from Mark of Chaos) to this one (from WHO). The proportions and materials are noticeably different; everything in WHO seems cartoonish and exaggerated, almost like it's trying to imitate World of Warcraft while still technically being able to call itself Warhammer. The gameplay doesn't really match up with the setting either. Warhammer is about things being difficult, but overcome through hard work and risk. Warhammer Online is an MMO. It takes iconic characters and classes and uses them, but it's nowhere near the same feeling as the rest of the universe. It lacks the same base of reality, which is not only an aspect of "believability" but also one of the series' identifying characteristics.

To sum up:
1) Warhammer Fantasy uses familiar history and transposes it with monsters and magic. This establishes familiar, grounded material and concepts while still allowing for more "fantastic" elements.
2) Unlike 40k, Warhammer Fantasy's gameplay is largely in line with its background, due to the established limitations on technology and development.
3) The grim lethality of the game emphasizes its basis in reality, rather than seeming like an artificial construct to make things more "dark and edgy".

Improvisation and creativity

An M4 Sherman with sandbags as improvised frontal armor.

Improvisation is at the heart of innovation. Technology develops when people find new ways to improve mechanics. In any game, winning is a matter of using the environment and rules to your advantage. However, there can often be a divide between "the game's rules" and "the setting's rules". Something that's logical to the player may rely on a set of rules that don't actually exist in-universe. This is part of the necessities of abstraction: what the players are doing does not necessarily reflect what the characters are doing, and thus a gap is created between "in-universe" / "real" logic and "meta" logic. To put it bluntly: when you do something in a game, what does the character see? If your actions make sense as something the character is doing, then it's "real". If they're reliant on abstracted rule systems, then it's "meta".

For example, turn-based combat is a necessity of pen-and-paper role-playing games. Unlike a video game, it's almost impossible to make a P&P game "real-time". However, the worlds depicted in pen-and-paper games generally don't "see themselves" as being turn-based: it's an abstraction used to simulate real-time combat, in the same way that dice rolling represents a combination of the luck and skill of the combatant. Therefore, an action that makes the most out of the turn-based system will have good results in the meta-game sense, but not in the "roleplaying" sense.

The more complex and abstracted a rule system is, the more ways there are to exploit it in a manner that wouldn't make sense to the characters. One of the prime examples of this is the peasant railgun. The idea here is that the nature of the turn-based system means that an object can be passed hand-over-hand over 2 miles in the course of six seconds, which by real-life logic would accelerate it much like a railgun. It's a joke concept, and D&D doesn't have any rules about object acceleration anyways, but the point stands: this concept is possible because of the turn-based system, and would make no sense to the characters because they don't actually operate under those conditions. This is the difference. If a mage throws oil on an enemy and then uses a spell to set him on fire, that's "real logic". If the same mage exploits the turn-based system in some way, then that's "meta logic".

"Real Logic" is best described as an amalgamation of systems and reactions. There are specifically noted chemical reactions, and it is the use and exploitation of these reactions that leads to development. In real life, guns don't just "happen", they're a collected set of reliable sub-systems that produce a desired result: the ignition of gunpowder resulting in a controlled detonation, which propels a projectile, which is guided by the barrel to increase the accuracy (or reliability) of the event.

Almost every form of technology works along these lines: first there is a phenomenon, and then there is a use for it. First someone notices how sound can be carried, then someone figures how to use it for reliable communication. First someone notices how combustion can lead to mechanical motion, and then someone finds something to hook up to it. From the outside, it may appear that these items are innately complex, but in reality it's a lot of simple, fairly understandable reactions connected to form a much larger whole. Real logic can thus be described in terms of "problems", "tools", and "utilization". A problem is identified, and different tools are tried in different ways.

Arguably the most famous fictional improviser is MacGyver. While the memetic image of MacGyver suggests that his solutions were illogical or "magical", all of his solutions were based on at least some kind of logic. That's the appeal of improvisation, not just for MacGyver but in every sort of media: to come up with creative solutions within the confines of the setup. It's not about "doing anything with anything" so much as it's about problem-solving. Of course, the number of solutions present in the show mean that a huge number of them rely on some sketchy logic themselves, but at the time they're meant to make sense.

Another famous use of improvisational logic comes from Home Alone. Again, the realism of those traps is questionable on a lot of levels, but many of them are quick and easy conversions of normal items to obstacles, such as the shattered ornaments or the swinging paint can. The setup is: "Kevin needs to defend his house from robbers. At his disposal he has everything in the house." It is from this simple setup that Kevin creates most of his traps. Again, this is part of the appeal; the audience can connect to the simple household items that Kevin uses, and that makes it more believable. Of course, once floors start getting removed, it loses a lot of that plausibility. The whole point of Kevin's character is that he's finding ways to get the job done in creative ways using the resources he has. If "what he actually pulls off" exceeds "what should be expected of him given the resources he has access to", then that concept is undermined.

"Resources" are a big concept when it comes to real logic. This includes not just physical items but skills, spells, and abilities as well. Everything a character can do or use can be considered "important" when it comes to real logic, because "real logic" is the act of improvisation based on known reactions. An improvised explosive device, for example, is simply "something that creates an explosion" + "something to provide shrapnel" + "a way to set it off". Booby traps in Vietnam were made out of a hand grenade combined with something as simple as a tin can and a length of tripwire. Of course, when they had actual mines, they used them, but an IED is a way for guerillas to make up for a lack of "real" weapons with mundane items. Games can be the same way. In a tight spot, players can learn that everything in their inventory can have some value.

Some video games have managed to include improvisation, but to a limited extent due to the nature of the medium. In Dead Rising 2, you could combine items together, but only certain items, and only in certain ways. Therefore, it was less about "actual improvisation" and more about "figuring out what works for the programmers". The same was true of "Jagged Alliance 2" - you could make some gadgets out of mundane items you find, but what you could make was totally up to the developers. In both of these games, though, part of the gameplay is that there's a huge number of objects available to use. In Dead Rising, everything in the area (the mall or the strip) can be picked up and used, so "combining items" was a reasonable next step. In Jagged Alliance, there's not quite as much "normal stuff", but there's enough of it that finding ways to use them together makes sense.

"Hitman: Blood Money" included improvisation, but not in the same way. In Hitman, the player is given a limited area to work in, a specific number of people and tools in that area, and an objective. Finding ways to combine the tools and the environment often relied on real logic that was, itself, surprising. For example, Agent 47 carries around a syringe of poison. I was surprised to find out that, in one level, I could poison a cake that the target was going to eat. In real life logic, it might seem understandable, but in game logic this might not have been an option in many other games. The areas are large enough (and your methods vague enough) that actually figuring something out takes some level of creativity. Discussing methods with other players generally results in a lot of "oh, I should have tried that!" or something along those lines, because the exact methodology is so diverse.

Of course, I would be remiss in talking about video game improvisation without mentioning The Incredible Machine. This was a game all about the "basics", using simple machines and reactions to create more complex sequences. Depending on the scenario, more or less tools would be available, so often the player had to accomplish an objective given only tools x, y, and z. While there was some abstraction, most of the game could be accurately described as "using physics and chemistry to get things done". It's simple processes that are put together to create a chain reaction. Because it's working "from the ground up", it has a lot more leeway than a game with a wider focus.

In a video game, the logical reactions are limited by what the programmers include. In pen-and-paper, on the other hand, the improvisational capacity of the gamemaster is supposed to make it so that anything that makes sense is possible. It is the job of the players to figure out solutions based on what items and abilities they have on-hand, and this can be complicated by the capacities of their enemies. For example, in Dungeons and Dragons trolls can regenerate if not hit by acid or fire. Therefore, it is the players' job to find some way to apply acid or fire to the troll's body. Dealing with a monster is a process that involves either prior knowledge ("it's a troll, use fire on it") or trial-and-error ("it's not dying, try something else!"). Depending on how it's used, a monster's traits can be almost like a puzzle, rather than a tactical roadblock. Figuring out a monster's weakness while under pressure can create tense, memorable gaming situations.

A correlation of this is that the more powerful the player-characters are, the less likely they will be to try and improvise. Improvisation is a last resort, after all - why pick up a table leg if you have a perfectly functional mace? There's still some creativity when it comes to powerful magic, but the really creative stuff, when it comes to tabletop, involves the use of low-level magic spells like cantrips. How do you use something simple like "the ability to mimic a sound" or "the ability to summon a ghostly light" to overcome enemies? It certainly involves a more complicated setup than "throw a fireball at them". Yet, for a high-level party, there's no need to bother, because they're already got the solution. The less things they have, the more they'll have to make do with what they've got - and the more likely they'll find a creative solution. However, to make that feasible, you have to have enough mundane items for them to actually use creatively.

For example, one problem I had with Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay (a game I otherwise enjoy) is that certain things are simplified. Swords, maces, picks, and axes all fall under the general category of "hand weapons", and in stat terms they're all the same. In real life, of course, this is far from the case. Each of those weapons has a specific role, along with advantages and disadvantages - at the very least, swords and axes slash, maces crush, and picks pierce. By simplifying that aspect of weapon selection, a tool has been taken from the player. In a D&D game, a character might tote around a mace in case they encounter anything that's weak against bludgeoning damage, like a skeleton. By ignoring this, WFRP has removed a simple-but-effective player choice.

"Meta Logic" comes as a result of more complex rule systems that don't accurately represent what's actually meant to be going on. For example, when Dungeons and Dragons moved from AD&D and 2nd Edition to 3rd and 4th Edition, there was a flagrant switch in the nature of the game. 3e and 4e introduced a lot more rules about the specifics of combat and playing the game. This was meant to draw in players by making them more engaged with the direct mechanics of the game - to gain bonuses in the system. However, by doing so, focus was taken away from "real logic", and while there was a lot of overlap, the very nature of the game as being turn-based meant that a lot of the mechanics didn't have a "real" equivalent.

In 4e, this is most obvious with the nature of "powers", which are divided into "at-will", "encounter", and "daily". The nature of these powers is kind of ambiguous; generally, they're just sort of something that your class has, and as you level up, you get more. There's a lot of things abstracted in most RPGs - at the very least, "why does killing things make you directly more powerful, rather than just more wary or skilled?" However, 4th Edition powers get a remarkably low level of in-universe explanation. This is not helped by the nature of their usage. "At will" seems simple enough, especially when magic is involved, but how does a character justify an "encounter" power? If it was something like "they need to have a rest before they can use it again", why didn't they just make it like that?

Powers make plenty of sense for the rules. Here's how they work, that's how you use them, end of story. However, the question of "what do they actually do and why do they work like that" nags at the believability of the game. I've asked players what they think is happening, and the general response I get is that it's "narrative" - as in, the GM is weaving a story, and the players occasionally decide that something exciting should happen in the form of a move or maneuver. Maybe it's just me, but I can't see how this is more helpful than just saying "it's game mechanics", because it still doesn't explain what the characters see. Perhaps in a wargame it would be understandable to let that go, but the fact is that it's a roleplaying game: how can you play a role when you don't know what that character is actually doing?

This is actually kind of a staple of RPGs at this point. Everything from "hit points" to "challenge rating" is expressed in terms that don't make sense to the characters. A character knows "I'm hurt", but they don't know "I have 4 HP left" - and if they said something like that, it would be unusual. People invest so much in the "numbers game" that the issue of explaining what the characters are doing is less and less important. This is a question of gameplay and story segregation, which is understandable in a computer RPG, but baffling in a pen-and-paper one. The point of using a human DM as opposed to a computer is that a person can improvise, and improvisation can lead to new and exciting story developments that would not have happened normally. "Meta logic" simply relies on following the established rules, which is something that computers can already do perfectly.

Now, I should note here that if you enjoy playing games that use meta-logic, then I have no problem with that. However, it does seem to undermine the role playing process, at least in terms of creative solutions. If you have all the answers right there on your powers list, then why would things like "improvising" ever be important? I don't even like particularly powerful spells, even in older editions; it's not a question of "mechanics", it's a question of "doing a lot with a little". If you don't have everything laid out in front of you, then you end up figuring out what you can do with the little that you have.

What I enjoy about low-power RPGs like "AD&D" and "Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay" is the simple nature of the concept. It's not about getting the most out of your stats, it's about "applying this to that". The stats exist to reflect things like your training and background, and thus how likely it would be for you to pull something off. All the sourcebooks for those sorts of games aren't about establishing more rules and systems, they're about presenting a new dynamic or adding to the toolbox. Yes, the games are unbearably simple if you stick to the default hack-and-slash, but once you're forced into a new situation and you have to figure out how to get something done in unusual circumstances it's a lot more exciting. The rules exist in support of that thinking, not as an end to themselves.

This brings up another note: making a turn-based system more complex and intricate doesn't help the believability or tangibility of the game. The "reality" being simulated is almost always not turn based, so investing more time into that aspect of the game's rules creates even more of a split between "what the characters are doing" and "what the players are doing". Again, this can make a good game, but not a good role-playing game. It's like how Chess is a complex and detailed strategy game, but it's not particularly good at telling a story because of how abstracted it is. The chess pieces all relate to some concept, but nothing about the rules connects to any real battle or concept. It's just a game.

Conclusion

Like many earlier updates, the point of this post is to connect the player or audience to the character. In RPG terms, using "in-universe" logic can be beneficial to roleplaying, in the same way that equipping the character sensibly or being immersed in the setting does. Obviously I focused on improvisation in this update, but previously I've analyzed ways that "how a game is played" differs from "what a game is supposed to represent". RPGs are the same way, but being that they are role playing games it seems like that part should be much more important.

Here's one important disclaimer: I don't think the introduction of powers and abilities is necessarily a bad thing. Implemented properly, they're another tool in the toolbox, just like any other item or skill. One of the primary reasons for the huge diversity of the Superhero genre is the fact that superheroes can use their different powers in different ways, from Spider-Man's webs to Cyclops' eye beams to Storm's control of the weather. Their specialization means that they find ways to improvise using their powers. However, they have reasons for their powers.

In D&D, you can be playing a "human" and still end up with all these abilities, even if you're basically just a regular guy with a sword. This gap in logic can be a huge problem in sensory terms - how do you identify with a "human being" who doesn't react to things in the same way you do? In addition, the shared understanding of events found in "real logic" can create more understanding between a player and a character, in the same way that Kevin from Home Alone was more understandable because he was a "normal kid".

In short:
1) Improvisation creates a way for players to exercise their creativity within the constraints of their characters' abilities, provided that the players have enough items and abilities to actually do something creative.
2) Using logic that makes sense in-universe connects a player to a character in the same way that diegetic music does: it creates a shared experience between them, rather than separating "gameplay" and "story".
3) "Real logic" doesn't mean "non-supernatural". It just means there has to be an understanding of what the magic or power is actually doing, whether it's burning, freezing, cutting, piercing, crushing, and so on. If it's just "damage", then there's no way to connect it to anything other than gameplay.

Melee combat.

Melee combat is, naturally, one of the most common forms of combat found in media. It has a style, grace, and personal connection not found with guns or tanks or planes, whether it's done with swords, spears, axes, or bare-handed. Melee combat allows for a lot more personal investment than ranged combat, because both attack and defense are in the hands of the combatant. If the writers and choreographers can pull it off, it also allows for a lot of personalized styles and techniques, which ranged combat generally doesn't allow for. So, all in all, there are a lot of reasons to like melee combat. So how do we make it as believable as possible?

There are three attributes of melee combat that will be discussed today. Now, I'm going to confess here that I'm not exactly an expert on this particular subject, so I'll be avoiding the more specific details of form and style. If any of you are knowledgeable about specific aspects of unarmed or armed melee combat, I encourage you to post in the comments with any notes or corrections. With that said, the three major aspects of melee combat that are represented in movies are Effort, Impact, and Damage. There is a lot of overlap between these, and they all refer to the same basic concept of "weight", but in general the difference is thus: "Effort" refers to strain on the wielder, "Impact" refers to strain on objects, and "Damage" refers to strain on the enemy.

Effort refers to the effect of stamina strain on each combatant - not in terms of damage done by the other individual, but simply from the process of swinging a weapon or fist. It also refers to the depiction of the weight of a weapon, insomuch as that weight affects the user and how they are capable of using it. The depiction of weight tends to fluctuate wildly - differently balanced weapons will allow for different levels of strain on the user - but in general it's advisable to make the weapon seem like it actually has some weight.

Effort also includes the role of momentum as a sub-aspect of weight. When you swing a sword, axe, mace, or other weapon, you're often relying on the weapon's momentum to keep it moving. This can also allow you to be taken off-balance or tripped up. It can also be used to indicate that the combatants are tired or weakened, as they rely on the natural momentum of the swing because they don't have enough energy to control the weapon. A swordfight that conveys that weight and fatigue can make the audience connect with the participants just through the visible evidence of their pain and tiredness.

One example of momentum in swordfighting is this fight from the 2003 Zatoichi film. This fight, though less than ten seconds long, is probably one of my favorite cinematic duels. There's such a sense of strain on both combatants' parts, though you can only see the face (and exertion) of the blue samurai. It ends when one fighter is thrown off balance and an opening is exploited. It's short, brutal, efficient, and weighty. Of course, the crowd fight has some problems of its own, but we'll ignore that for now.

Impact refers to the weight and momentum of the weapon in regards to an object being struck. That is, while "effort" reflects the weapon's weight and strain on the user, "impact" centers around the weapon's weight and strain on the target - specifically another weapon, a shield, or armor. This is reinforced primarily through the use of sound and the momentum of a swing. This simple scene from Kingdom of Heaven, for example, uses "impact" effectively when conveying a warhammer descending point-first into a mail coif.

A shield-based example can be found in the intro for Final Fantasy XI, where metal shields stop both a thrown javelin and a club attack, both at visible effort to the shield-bearer. Another shield-based example comes from Eowyn's fight against the Witch King in Return of the King, where her shield is shattered by the Witch King's heavy flail (though the actual effects of that shattering are a bit hokey). A third comes from The Thirteenth Warrior, where damage to the shields reflects the weight and power behind the swing.

What these examples have in common is that they make the objects feel weighty in conjunction with other objects. In reality, these prop weapons would have less weight, to stop people from getting hurt accidentally. In the case of CGI, there is no "real" weight, so the entire conveyance of weight has to be done through animation and effects. There are some contexts where we can see the effects of weapons on armor or materials, but in general movies and live-action combat can't really show that. However, it's easier to show shield or armor damage than "people damage". A proper-sounding hit to a shield or armor can convey the danger of a situation more cleanly than actual damage can.

One thing that is difficult to convey is shock and trauma carried through armor, as can be seen in this clip. From the outside, the armor looks fine in that clip, but that's because the armor being damaged wasn't the objective. Instead, the nature of the attack carried the force of the blow through the armor and damaged the body behind it. Conveying the solidity of armor can be a problem, because it's hard to understand, from watching movies, whether it's totally useless or entirely impenetrable (like with Tony Stark's totally bulletproof armor in the beginning of the movie Iron Man). Of course, there's plenty of information about it you could look up, or watch on Youtube, but the results seem to vary enough that even going out of your way to do that can be confusing.

Damage refers to the physical damage caused by an attack to its target. This can be, perhaps, the most difficult concept to convey due to the necessities of safety. An otherwise-good fight scene can be undermined by the presence of obviously fake damage or blood. On the other hand, conveying the damage and impact of a strike can make an average or simple fight scene seem much more real. The concept is simple: if people are getting harmed in-universe, then they should appear to be getting harmed, and not simply tossed around or "slashed at". Like "impact", the idea of damage involves the momentum and power of a weapon being established, but the material in question is the flesh and bone of the human body, not metal or wood.

The actual details of damage to the body are in the realm of medical professionals, but you can still establish some simple concepts. In our lives, we may not have extensive experience with being hit by swords, axes, arrows, or fists (though that last one is probably the most likely), but most people do know what it feels like to be cut, or what it feels like to be hit by something blunt - at the very least, whacking one's head on something gives you an idea. Magnifying these simple, mundane feelings can connect an attack to our sense of touch. This is probably why the groin attack is so eye-watering for men: because we know that ache so well that we can connect to it, whereas sword damage seems more cartoonish or implausible.

A related task is the actor actually conveying the injury done to their character. Although this certainly isn't a melee example necessarily (since he ends up being shot, rather than stabbed), the way Boromir's death was handled in The Fellowship of the Ring conveys the impact of the arrows, the damage they've done to him, and the strain of continuing to swing his sword despite his injuries. The way he reacts to each strike, as well as his increasing fatigue and reduced capabilities, conveys the nature of his injuries. Like impact, damage is also conveyed by the nature of sound. In that clip, for example, the heavy thump of the arrows indicates their power. Later in that scene, the Uruk-Hai leader headbutts Aragorn with a comparatively wimpy sound, when it would seem more appropriate to have a bone-crunching bludgeon.

Selected Scenes
In addition to the scenes analyzed above, here are some other fights from movies and games examined in terms of their effort, impact, and damage.


Rob Roy. One of the classic swordfighting scenes in cinema, Rob Roy's climactic battle manages to convey both effort and a contrasted lack thereof. Rob Roy (Liam Neeson) is tired and weakened, while Archibald Cunningham (Tim Roth) toys with him. Of course, there is exertion on both sides, but the fact that Rob shows it much more than Cunningham establishes the difference between their characters. Rob's breathing is heavy and labored, and his swings - while graceful - reflect desperation. The light cuts that Cunningham delivers show that, in essence, he is toying with Rob. It shows damage without needing to go into cartoonish effects. Finally, the impact of the weapons is superb, with the iconic clash of swords conveying the flashier parts of old Errol Flynn routines while still having a more realistic system.

Die Another Day. This fight scene is so good that I question how it could have come from the same movie that gave us a giant North Korean ice palace. It succeeds in all three fields. Firstly, the exertion of both combatants is obvious, as their body language and facial expressions indicate the strain and effort of their battle. The impact of sword-on-sword is good, but this is augmented by the environmental involvement (especially bashing through a glass case and knocking over a suit of armor). The energy and damage behind every strike is easily felt, and is reflected in their status at the end - exhausted and bloodied.

Kingdom of Heaven. This short fight is simultaneously realistic and unrealistic. It's realistic because the armor of the knights is played fairly straight - Balian takes them on by attacking joints and weak spots in whatever way he can, or by relying on blunt trauma. In addition, when one of them briefly gets the upper hand and hits Balian with his mailed fist, and then gets headbutted by a guy wearing a helmet, it looks like it hurts. On the other hand, the knights all open with large, wide swings designed to allow Balian to get close-in with an improvised weapon (this happens twice). However, this can at least be partially justified by the knights being overconfident or impetuous.

Warhammer: Mark of Chaos. One of the key things about this fight is the central role that armor plays. Armor, as worn by both the Empire and Chaos soldiers, is not easily penetrated. Instead, either the joints are attacked, or a bludgeoning weapon is used. Even the armor itself is occasionally used as a weapon, when a plate-covered knee or elbow is driven into an enemy. The excellent use of sound conveys the nature of the fight and the objects involved. The one point I don't like about this fight is the reaction when the priest is hit in the back of the head. On the one hand, it would be acceptable if he wore a helmet, as it's a good simulation of the headache and disorientation that would result from such an injury. On the other hand, he's not actually wearing a helmet, so that really should have just crushed his skull.

Warhammer: Age of Reckoning. A bit more cartoonish than "Mark of Chaos", but still fairly solid. The duels in the first half showcase the impact of steel on steel, as well as (at one point) the effect of a gauntlet-clad fist on a bare face. The weapons seem heavy and powerful, and the fights feel more "epic" because of it even though they're fairly simple in theatrical terms. The second half (the intro to the game itself) is a bit harder to judge. Orcs go down cartoonishly from a single bullet, while a Chaos marauder takes a great deal of punishment without dropping. The latter case is justified by the supernatural nature of the character, but in that sense the former just seems sillier because of it.

Final Fantasy 12. There's good use of metal-on-metal in this scene, although the usefulness of armor actually leads to the question of why that armor is fully covering for the Imperial Soldiers and...less so for the Dalmascan soldiers. However, for every attack deflected by armor, there's another attack that passes right through it. Of note is the arrow that kills Prince Rasler. His armor is strange as it is, but then its inability to deflect a single arrow despite its thickness is stranger still. This is a universe with healing magic, too, so clearly the arrow wasn't even slowed down by the armor and managed to kill him instantly. This is a situation where an attempt at realism was actually detrimental, because the rest of the universe wasn't realistic enough to support it. An alternate hypothesis (it's difficult to tell from the scene) is that the arrow actually hit the little "hole" in the armor's neck area that makes no real sense; if that's the case, then it kind of highlights why you shouldn't leave weaknesses in your armor's coverage.

So, to sum up:
1) Conveying melee combat is a question of conveying the sense involved. Those senses can be conveyed through the power, strength, and speed of the combatants and weapons involved.
2) Making objects feel "real" is a key aspect of connecting fantastic or implausible battles to the kind of "real experiences" that a normal person might encounter in their daily lives.
3) The use of sound and cinematic trickery can overcome the necessities of safety when it comes to creating the illusion of "real combat" by doing what cannot be safely done in real life.

Moral intention.

We're all used to morals, aesops, and lessons. There's just no getting around them when it comes to fiction. They're a constant presence from childhood, and it seems natural to use fiction as a way to illustrate a moral concept. This is a combination of two main factors: firstly, "childhood aesops" are used to simplify and illustrate morals that may be too complex for a child to grasp. Secondly, every writer inevitably reflects their viewpoint of the world onto their writing, so in many cases the events of the world will match their political views or philosophical views (subtly or not).

Many of the aspects of "believability" can be traced down to smaller factors influencing the larger whole. Morality is no different, and one of the key points of a "moral" is that it is meant to connect to real life. Many aspects of "unrealistic" concepts are justifiable because they're just there to look cool. This is not the case with most morals: a moral exists to be connected to real life. Of course, that's not always the case (plenty of morals are perfectly applicable only in-universe) but usually if it's identifiable as a moral, then the author intended it to reflect on reality.

Where morals tend to break down is in that applicability. There are several potential reasons for this: a lack of connection to reality, the introduction of mitigating elements, or authorial control. These three concepts form the baseline for what can disrupt or affect a moral, but they all work on basically the same grounds: there is no way for the audience to reasonably apply this moral to their real lives and expect it to work in the same way. The little changes and influences quickly turn a "simple" moral into a moral that requires many additional factors to make sense.

Lack of Connection to Reality
Known on TVTropes as the "Fantastic Aesop", this sort of moral is based on the presence of a factor that isn't present at all in real life, such as magic or time travel. A moral of this kind is only applicable in-universe because of the base fact that whatever allows for that magic has rules existing only in that universe. The lesson cannot be applied outside of the story, not just because it's "unrealistic" but because making a decision involving the lesson is impossible.

For example, take any setting that uses magic. Does that setting have resurrection magic? Has this magic not been used because "that wouldn't be right"? That's this kind of moral lesson. There is technology in-universe, of one kind or another, to do something. The reason that this technology can't be used is vague and "morally centered". There can be some interesting dilemmas if there is a logical backing to that moral justification; for example, using magic in the Warhammer campaign setting is risky, because there might be a backlash and bad things could happen. However, if it's just bad by itself, for no given reason, then it's not enough.

The same is true of any "magic"-based moral, regardless of what it intends to teach. In real life, humans can't use magic. It's just how things are. Trying to make a moral statement about proper magic use has no effect on people in real life because they can't do that anyways.  There is a "moral setup" in such a situation (x magic is Good, y magic is Bad) but the situation is so artificial that it doesn't matter. Again, the dilemma can be interesting in-universe if it's internally consistent, but it's not a moral that can actually be related to real life except in the loosest sense of "making a choice between two things".

Introduction of Mitigating Elements
This is a situation where a real-life moral lesson is being taught, but the justification for that moral lesson is outlandish or unlikely enough to make the moral not work. On TVTropes, this is known as a Space Whale Aesop, named after the plot of Star Trek IV. In short, it can be summed up in this way: would the moral work without the addition of a fantastic element to justify it? If not, then it falls under this umbrella.

One example of this comes from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Eowyn, who has been established as wanting to fight alongside the men (but who is prevented for various reasons), finally gets to establish herself as a strong warrior. She does this by fighting off the Witch King, the leader of the Nazgul, whom no living man can kill. Eowyn, of course, is a woman, and is thus exempt from that particular prophecy.

Now here's the problem: while Eowyn does get a few scenes illustrating her prowess (fighting off the Oliphaunts and various Orcs), this particular example only exists because the prophecy was there to fulfill. It's meant to be uplifting, but the issue is that the prophecy required a woman (or, really, any "non-man") and she was there to be that woman. How applicable is this to our daily lives? You could use her strength as a justification of female soldiers, but when you reached the whole "prophecy" thing, what does that tell us? It essentially renders her characteristics useless, because it stops being about things that exist in real life (strength, determination, courage) and starts being about things that don't (prophecies involving witch-kings).

In short, if any "real lesson" is justified through the use of unrealistic or non-applicable elements, then this is the issue. Why does this exist? Because it's usually more dramatic to show an immediate magical backlash to an action than to realistically try to depict the actual issues. It's one thing if pollution leads to the destruction of valuable resources, it's another if it leads to an ancient evil being unlocked. It's essentially a childish scare tactic, no different than any over-reactionary news bit.

If the issue was defensible, then more plausible scenarios would be perfectly able to encapsulate why something is good or bad. For example, if you wanted to have an anti-pollution message, all you'd have to do is go forward fifty years and show how bad things would be. The potential problem is that things might not be bad enough for the audience to care, which often results in the author or writer exaggerating to try to "make a point".

Another form of mitigating element is a bit of a reversal: an aesop that works "in real life", but not "in-universe". "Chrono Cross" is one example of this. In the game, the humans are chastised for destroying nature even though they live in small villages with little to no major industrialization. In addition, "nature" is represented by a bunch of hostile races that spend an inordinate amount of time trying to kill humans. The aesop might be justifiable in real life, but in the Chrono Cross world it makes no sense because the same elements aren't in play. The reasons why it doesn't make sense are essentially the same (a mismatch of "cause" and "effect"), but the actual lesson only applies to a situation like one present in reality.

A different example is "Final Fantasy Tactics Advance". In FFTA, a magic book teleports the protagonists to the fantasy world of Ivalice. In-universe, this world is just as real as the "real world" is. However, the main character identifies it as "escapist fantasy" because good things happen to the protagonists. His choice, then, is to sever the two realities - potentially destroying Ivalice - on the assumption that escapism is bad. It's perhaps true that escapism is bad in real life, but in this case it's not really escapism, because the world itself is just as real. There are plenty of things he could mention (the risk of death, the fact that he'll never see his mother again, and so on), but he doesn't. He just insists that escapism is bad, and continues trying to destroy the world.

Authorial Influence
Even if both the subject and the lesson are perfectly realistic or plausible, the basic fact is that the author dictates the events of the story. The previous issues were issues of cause-and-effect, but even if that is intact, there's still a measure of probability that can be manipulated. That is to say, if an action might lead to a negative consequence, the author can still portray it while maintaining a logical chain of events. However, that depiction will not reflect the actual likeliness of an action. TVTropes considers this to be part of the Alternate Aesop Interpretation concept.

The classic example of this is the Tortoise and the Hare. To put it simply, the lesson is that slow and steady wins the race. However, depending on the version, the hare's role can vary. In some versions, he tires himself out, while in others he stops to take a nap because he believes he has the clear advantage. The former is more justifiable, because it would have happened anyways. The latter is less so: without the hare's hubris, the tortoise wouldn't have won. In that case, "slow and steady" is only justified by "fast" going out of its way to let it win.

Here is the weakness of the aesop, and this applies to the previous categories as well: all you can do in fiction is depict events with a correlational relationship. The author cannot determine the reaction an audience will have to a lesson. However, they will often have a particular agenda that they are trying to push: one viewpoint is "right", the other is "wrong". Therefore, things must be orchestrated in a way that makes it so that the methods of the "right" side lead to success, and the methods of the "wrong" side lead to failure. Think of any show or story with a "cheaters never prosper" lesson: what if they got away with it, as many cheaters do? The lesson goes right down the tubes. Therefore, the lesson focuses on the times when they didn't prosper, and ignores the times they did. This can result in Laser Guided Karma: the actual likeliness of an event is secondary concern to the moral "cause and effect" relationship. A bad deed must be punished, no matter how unlikely it is.

 One sub-type of this comes from any video game where there's a "good/evil" system. The system rewards you in an abstract sense for carrying out good or evil tasks by giving you appropriate points: good actions get good points, evil actions get evil points. This can create a bizarre sort of dissonance, as it indicates there is an objective good and evil that exists in the universe, rewarding the specific actions that are perceived as one or the other. There's no room for argument: one thing is good, the other is bad.

The most obvious example of this I can think of is one quest from Fallout 3. In this quest, the "good" option is to force Diego to marry Angela, no matter how it happens (the default method is through pheremone-based compulsion). There is no room for disagreement here: players who support Diego's entry into the priesthood will find that their viewpoint is literally not supported by the game's morality system, and players who object to the idea of using ant pheremones to allow a woman to date-rape her prospective boyfriend will be similarly shortchanged. It is not a question of reactions or behaviors - the universe has literally decreed "this is a good thing to do" and that's that.

An alternative system to this is a faction-based system, such as one used by the "Way of the Samurai" series, the "S.T.A.L.K.E.R." series, or in the development kit for "Neverwinter Nights". In this system, there is no morality per se - but there are reactions. If you do jobs for a faction and help them out, they will like you more. If you hurt them, or help their enemies, they will dislike you. In Way of the Samurai 3, helping a faction would result in members cheerfully greeting you as you passed, and their dialogue reflecting a more positive opinion of you. Harming a faction would result in some members attacking you and other members fleeing at the sight of you. This is a logical system based on reputation: people like or don't like you because they know what to expect from you. In addition, you can support a viewpoint that you agree with without it being "right" or "wrong". Instead, the game makes no value judgments and allows you to do what you believe is correct.

The Neutral Story
 To me, a good, believable story does not exist with the meta-influences of "aesops" and "morals". If you set out to influence the audience, your story is going to be slanted. I prefer a story where things happen naturally, and based on those logical events the audience can make their own judgments. For example, you can prove that smoking is unhealthy in many ways, but if you want to prove this to an audience you shouldn't have to exaggerate. On the other hand, if they weigh the risks and rewards of smoking, and say "well, I'd rather smoke than not smoke", then there's not much you can do about it - it's their decision.

This is connected to what is known as the "Death of the Author". This is a phenomenon where the intentions of the author become less relevant because of the role of the audience's interpretation. To put it simply, I support this view. An author influencing their work and shaping it to have the outcome they desire is not something that should be considered positive, at least when it comes to learning a lesson about the subject. Every part of a story is orchestrated, yes, but when that orchestration becomes overwhelming, the audience ought to be driven away. The value of a lesson should be obvious if the author really thinks it is. If the author decides that things must be exaggerated to make a point, then they should reconsider their own perspective.

The difference between a "good aesop" and a "bad aesop" isn't necessarily that big - it's just that things that would be forgiven for a "good aesop" (protect the environment, be nice to people, and so on) are not forgiven when it comes to a bad aesop. People propagate Aesop's Fables not because they're perfectly constructed logical arguments with no potential weaknesses, but because the values they teach are usually ones that people like. If faulty logic is used in defense of a popular group, then it will be accepted as "just part of the story". If faulty logic is used in defense of an unpopular group, it will be identified and attacked. This, perhaps, can serve as its own lesson about cognitive biases and double standards.

The concept of making an argument that appeals to the audience is ingrained in this blog as much as I can make it. Plenty of "realism arguments" fall flat because they appeal to realism for realism's sake. This is fine for some people, but other people don't care. This is why I've tried to make the articles on this blog as universal as possible - they're connecting to senses and emotions and logic, not just a vague sense of "this ought to make sense". Of course, the actual results of that are up to you to decide.

So, to sum up:
1) Morals cannot be abstracted - the further you remove them from reality, the less applicable they are in real life. This is not because of sensory details, but because of logical trains of thought.
2) An author is in control of a story. This must be remembered when analyzing a moral lesson: things happened because the author wanted them to, nothing more, nothing less. It might be coincidentally plausible, but it is not truly logical.
3) If a moral is "right", then it should stand on its own. Exaggerating to prove a point only establishes insecurity about the value of a course of action.

Canon and continuity.

One of the most basic rules of fiction is that the fact that it's made up should be in some way disguised - not overtly, but subtly. Getting the audience to identify the actors as characters, or the sets as places, is a key aspect of creating fiction, and is largely connected to immersion and depth - the goal of this blog. If a setting or series does a good job of this, the environment will seem intriguing and immersive enough for the audience (and potential new writers) to want to be part of it. They'll like the characters, the background, the aesthetics, and so on.

However, there are some times when there will be breaches in the meta-framework of the setting - two writers will disagree on the tone, or an audience member will like one part, but not another. In my analysis of Lost Planet and Warhammer 40k, I pointed out the parts that I thought were interesting and the parts I thought should have been left out. This creates a conundrum: If I, or any other person, only like those parts, then why don't I create my own setting instead, and incorporate the parts I like? Of course, I would have to borrow from that setting to include those parts, but there are many things (such as vampires, dwarves, elves, and so on) that are already "public domain", as it were.

Another example is fan-fiction: if the writer wants to look at a scenario using a main character, but writes them like a different person, then why don't they just make up a story about a new person? Even if they represent the main character "accurately", why do they do it? What makes up for their lack of imagination when it comes to storytelling?

So in essence here's our issue: what is it about "established franchises" that makes them appealing enough to prevent people from simply making their own, even though making a setting isn't that complex? Relatedly, why is the "canon" of a series important - isn't it all made up?

Suspension of Disbelief
Canon is a strange thing. Some people claim not to care about it, and say "just think what you want", but the intrinsic issue is that fiction is fake, and more importantly to get immersed in the setting you have to try to hide that somehow. A story is valuable in the sense that you temporarily try to ignore the fact that it's fake. You get involved in the characters and their actions even though "the characters" don't exist, and are just actors in costumes. If you realized they were just actors in costumes, or this fact wasn't disguised, it wouldn't be possible to get the same level of emotional attachment. Therefore, you willingly suspend your disbelief so that you can get that attachment and convince yourself that, on some level, it's "real".

This may explain a few different things. For example, the issues of PvP/PvE and authorial fiat are both tied to this: even when something is just made up, the "fake reality" of the situation allows the audience to feel that it's got some kind of importance even though they're being lied to about it. It may also explain why people prefer to attach to existing franchises, rather than constantly making up new ones to fit their own viewpoints and preferences. Regardless of the fact that an author is just as "human" as you or me, their status as being in control of a franchise gives their words additional weight and importance. In the meta-sense, they're just making stuff up (even if that stuff is internally logical), but the necessity for suspension of disbelief means that it becomes more "real" than that. If that could be replicated without the author, we wouldn't need authors or writers at all.

The emotional reactions that we experience in response to the events of a show or movie are based on this sort of buildup. Why should we care if a character dies, or if a planet is destroyed, or an entire species is wiped out? It's not really happening; it's all just made up words. They could say that a guy killed a billion people and it would be just as easy for them as saying that they killed a million, or a thousand, or one. The point of believability (or at least the "logic" aspect) is to add the kind of depth that prevents the audience from saying that - to make the world feel more real, and thus avoiding plot holes that would drag the audience out of the experience.

Continuity
If the brain can be convinced that a fictional thing is, on some visceral level, "real", then what happens when the same source for that information tells you something you don't want to hear? There are plenty of franchises that have been ruined forever, and while that TVTropes article may play it off like people are overreacting, you have to think about the logic here:

1) I, the viewer, am suspending my disbelief to pretend that this franchise is "real" - real enough for me to care about, to sympathize with the characters, and so on.
2) There is a part of this franchise that does not have the appeal of the parts I like, in terms of its nature or logic or whatever.
3) If I pretend that one part is real, I cannot pretend that another part isn't real - because they come from the same "source". I cannot pretend that one doesn't exist without damaging the parts that I like, because I am drawing attention to the fact that the whole thing is fake.

Now, this isn't absolute - some people are just capable of only caring about the parts they care about, and ignoring everything else. But let's use the Aliens franchise as an example (SPOILERS AHEAD). In "Aliens", the audience is made to care about the survivors, and when Ripley, Hicks, Newt, and Bishop make it off that rock, we get a sense that finally something has gone right for them. It's a happy ending, albeit one that comes at a high cost. This provokes an emotional reaction in the audience - one of bittersweet victory, but ultimately connected to the idea that they're going to be a family.

Then Alien 3 killed off Hicks and Newt in the opening and put Ripley back onto a planet with a xenomorph. Wait, what?! That's what you're going with? They die in a spaceship crash without even getting home? This might not even have been so bad if it wasn't for the fact that this was done for totally meta reasons. The franchise continued because people need to make money, and Hicks' and Newt's actors weren't available for one reason or another. So now when you watch Aliens again, you have to face the ending with the knowledge that, in-universe, Hicks and Newt both died without ever being part of Ripley's family - that happy ending is just an illusion.

Now here's the conundrum: people like Aliens because they connected with it, and thought of it as a universe that, while not actually real, was at least "real" in its own sense. You care about the characters because you're suspending your disbelief about them. When Alien 3 is thrown into the mix, you have two choices: one, accept the ending that makes things awful, or two, pretend that Alien 3 never happened - and bring to light the fact that Aliens could just as easily be considered "fake" or "not real", which makes it kind of silly to care about those characters in the first place.

One of the complaints about the New Star Trek was that, unlike old additions to the Star Trek mythos, the new one actively erased the rest of the continuity. That is, everything else is no longer canon - or at least it cannot be built upon. This introduces us to the other half of the "canon" issue: who's allowed to do what. This applies both going forwards and going backwards.

Star Trek XI is of the "forwards" variety: all new Star Trek material is going to have to play by its rules if it wants to be considered canon. The people in charge of making new Star Trek movies are going to enforce this, but even if they didn't, suspension of disbelief would maintain that rule for them. "Forwards canon" is based on ownership and established rules: George Lucas operates on the canon that George Lucas has established, and all new material in the Star Wars universe is going to have to connect in some level to that canon.

When people complain about "forwards canon", it's not just because of the fact that they don't like the upcoming product. It's because they're never going to see the product they like ever again. The new X-COM (or XCOM) game, for example, might end up overtaking the old, established franchise. There have been bad X-COM games before, but they existed off to the side. None of them have ever reinvented the franchise in a way that indicates the good parts are never coming back. The same is true for Deus Ex 3: the backlash isn't just because it's not like the original Deus Ex, but because it is going to overtake the original Deus Ex, and effectively cut off any potential for the original getting a proper sequel.

"Backwards canon" refers to the concept of retroactive continuity: the official process of pretending something didn't happen, or that it happened in a way that was different from what had happened before. In the context of the Star Trek example, it's like this: in the new universe, the old universe is destroyed - but it had to exist at some point so that it could be destroyed, and all the things in that universe happened in a meta-sense so that they couldn't happen when the past was changed. This is all a complicated way of saying "even if you retcon things, people are going to remember what happened before that".

For example, the movie "Superman Returns" is a sequel to Superman I and II, and ignores III and IV. Those movies cannot be "undone" - you can still go find them and watch them - but this new one is going to pretend that they didn't exist, like many fans tried to. The thing is, though, that there's no real sense of "prioritization". Can you really say that Superman Returns is more "real" than Superman III/IV? Would you want to, given that the story is basically just a retread of Superman I? Again, the same difficulty pops up: they're all equally fake, so how can you pretend one is "real-fake" and the other is "fake-fake"? It can't be undone that easily.

A term that I use a lot to describe these kinds of situation (both forward and backwards) is demoralizing. I enjoyed the heck out of the original Star Wars, as did millions of other people. I'm sure you won't be surprised at this point to find out that my favorite part was the Empire. You also might not be surprised to find out that I didn't enjoy the totally nonsensical military system in the prequels, because there was no real lead-up to the kind of government that the Empire became.

Like the Aliens example, one part of the franchise influenced the other. I can't accept the original trilogy without it being influenced by what happened in the prequels. I can enjoy it on its own, sure, but that's tempered by the fact that it comes from such ridiculous origins. In this sense, the prequels are demoralizing. It's not just that they're bad, it's the fact that they call attention to the fakeness of the original trilogy. Yes, you can say that "I liked this part" or "I liked those characters", but if you want to accept the prequels as being fake, then you have to acknowledge the fictional nature of the original as well.

The end result is that the original feels somehow more hollow, because as mentioned before, my choices are "admit it's fake, become less immersed" or "hold onto suspended disbelief, include the prequels". This is the kind of thing I feel like a lot of people dislike George Lucas for: he's almost going out of his way to make you feel bad about liking the movies he's made. That's demoralizing.

"Developing Characters" vs. "Iconic Characters"

In fiction, there are basically two sorts of characters. "Developing characters" are people who naturally develop through the course of the story. They're part of an ongoing cycle of events that changes situations, events, and how they think about things or perceive the world. A developing character is also tied ot their actor, for the most part - they are an individual, and thus "who's portraying them" is an intrinsic part of the role. Developing characters are most often found in limited productions - shows or movies with a definite endpoint, rather than an ongoing super-mythos. They have one run. Harry Potter is a "developing character", because after seven books he's done. Throughout the story, Harry grew and changed things, and each book is a year of his life. Even if a new book comes out, it would be set later in his life - it wouldn't just retread his previously established school years.

"Iconic characters", on the other hand, are "roles". It's okay if we know what happens to them - they exist as a sort of "comfort food", to be seen over and over, rather than actually worrying about a developing story or setting. Robin Hood, for example, is a key iconic character. We know his story, and we don't expect a lot of deviation from it. We watch the countless shows and movies not to see what happens to him (usually), but to experience "Robin Hood and his Merry Men fight the Sheriff of Nottingham and Prince John". Most superheroes are the same way - Batman versus The Joker, Superman versus Lex Luthor, Captain America versus Red Skull, whatever. The audience doesn't expect things to change or develop - they come to watch the fight. There's not a "finite amount" of adventures that these people can have. If they want a new Batman movie, bam, there's a new Batman movie. It might even be its own short-term continuity, which happens for most Superhero movies: you keep track of things that happen to "Tobey Macguire as Spider-Man", but that has nothing to do with "Spider-Man" as a larger character.
 
Developing characters have limited runs, and everything counts the first time through. Iconic characters are like Saturday Morning Cartoons - only a few things (if any) actually change, and the viewers are just there to see that week's adventure. A developing character exists for the story, and has a hand in its events. An iconic character is pure escapism. The audience shows up not because they think he or she might actually die for real, but just to take part in their adventures. You could argue that there's a lot of protagonists who blur the line, but in essence developing characters are part of a story, and iconic characters just sort of exist. There's no point worrying about canon for iconic characters, because they exist in a way that allows for perpetual adventures. The Status Quo is the most important part, because if things changed (the bad guy was actually caught, for example) then the adventures would be over.

Iconic characters exist because they provide a solid emotional connection. You know these characters, and you've known them all your life. They provide an easy way for the audience to go "hey, yeah, it's that guy! I love seeing that guy do stuff!" It may not be exciting in a developmental way ("Gee, I wonder if they'll kill Sherlock Holmes off?") but the point is that you're there to watch a familiar character do things, and that triggers a lot of comfort zone sensors. Like with games, the point of an iconic character is to make it so that things keep going. In a game, if one faction actually won, then there would be no more game. For an iconic character, it's the same thing. If they just shot Cobra Commander or Skeletor or the Joker, the game would be over. For a developing character, there must be a conclusion eventually.

Earlier, I said that fanfiction was unusual because people often change things enough that it might as well be a new franchise with thematic similarities to the intended original product. This, I feel, is the reason why: the pre-existing emotional connections and suspensions of disbelief that make an established universe more "real" to an author than something they just made up. They've already gone through the process of subconsciously convincing themselves that, on some level, it's real enough to care about. Why would they go through that again? It provides context, familiar characters, and social connections as well (it's easier to find people who like Harry Potter than to convince people to like "Wizard school I just made up"). The fact that people have internalized Draco Malfoy or Ron Weasley makes a story about them (even a "non-canon" one) more familiar, because they're starting on established ground. It may not be a challenging or creative concept, but it does have its justifications.

Now, I won't lie here: I don't like iconic characters, and relatedly I don't like fanfiction. However, I do try to understand why people do. I get that it's comforting and reliable and emotionally evocative. A lot of the things I like in a story come from its logical development, which is impossible to achieve with iconic characters. It's just that "what I like" and "what they like" come from different places. Believability is about making the product connect with the audience, not just enforcing realism.

So, to sum up:
1) Fiction is fake. When the audience has to think about this, it takes them out of the experience.
2) A divergent part of the franchise can undo the plausibility of a series, which is unimmersive.
3) The emotional connections created by a series are a source of comfort for a lot of viewers.
4) Removing those connections is going to eliminate a primary reason for people watching something.
5) Creators aren't usually going to care about 1-4 as long as they get paid.

Sound and music.

When it comes to media, there's really only two senses that can be represented: sight and sound. Of these, we've largely talked about the former: making things look accurate and look plausible through things like costume design and accessories. Sound, despite being the other 50% of presentation, has been largely untouched. This is because sound design is a lot more subtle than visual design - while visual design is right there in the open to be observed, sound design often has a much lower level of active recognition from the audience. In some cases, you might not even notice it's there - at least not actively. Sound in media expresses itself in a few different ways.

Music
Probably the most direct, overt sound influence, music can be broken up into two groups for purposes of believability: "diegetic" and "non-diegetic". This refers to the nature of the music; diegetic music exists in-universe (coming from a source within the film itself), while non-diegetic music is instead layered over the film with no source. For reasons of plausibility and connection to the characters, the difference is this: the former is part of the immersion, and the latter is part of the "audience experience".

Now let me establish this up front: non-diegetic music in movies and games can do a lot of great things. Music helps presentation in a lot of ways. It can evoke emotions and add a lot of powerful influence to a scene. What music does is reinforce the feelings that the audience are meant to be feeling, from hope to fear, or from awe to terror. The use of leitmotifs can help the audience identify a given character, group, or event. In games, music can help to reinforce the gameplay and make the experience feel more epic and important, whether that be for good or for ill. This is, overall, what non-diegetic music does: it creates a powerful, moving performance in a way that is often not justifiable in-universe.

However, it's also important to note that effects just as dramatic (if not more so) can come from in-universe music, as well. The most obvious example, in my mind, comes from the final scene of Zulu. The nature of the music is still inspiring and impressive, but it exists in a way that's justified and explained in-universe. In addition, what the audience is experiencing is also what the characters is experiencing. Music stirs emotions, yes, but in this case it stirs the emotions of the characters as well as the audience. The presence of music that exists in-universe can cause us to share those emotions with the characters.

The lack of music can also paint a very stark picture. Music's positive effects are also very manipulative, in the same way that a propaganda film is. Music takes an event and frames it in a way according to the emotional theme of the music. Compare the following two versions of a battle from Band of Brothers: with and without music. Or compare two versions of Omaha Beach, again with and without music (or even with inappropriate music). Music affects the emotional tone of a scene, and thus its presence can reinforce or distract from the default audience reaction to the scene.

Non-diegetic music is dishonest in one major way: it can add emotions to a scene that wouldn't have them otherwise. The battle scenes before, which were grim and overwhelming without music, are instead noble and emotionally moving in ways that the soldiers themselves would not have felt. This creates a divide between the audience, who feels those emotions, and the characters, who don't. It's comparable to the phenomenon of singing or reacting to songs that only you can hear (through headphones, for example). In short: music stirs emotions, but if the characters can't hear the music, there's going to be an emotional divide for the audience and characters.

Environmental Sounds
In most environments, there are a lot of sounds that exist in the background, suggesting a scale larger than the immediate scene. In urban environments, the ever-present buzz of people and vehicles creates the feeling that the scene actually takes place in a city, rather than a small set. In a rural setting, the same effect can be created with appropriate sounds like the chirping of birds or the operation of farm equipment. In addition, things like thunderstorms can have an emotional effect as well. As with rational character design, a lot of little stuff adds up: there's a source for every sound, and that source exists somewhere in-universe. This can create depth and make the world feel more "real".

The use of "stock" sound effects, on the other hand, can point out the falseness of the world. When was the last time the Wilhelm Scream contributed positively to a scene? At this so point it's so familiar, and thus so fake, that it immediately draws the audience out of the scene in exchange for, at best, a few laughs of recognition. The human voice, specifically, can create this kind of problem, because each person's voice is different in subtle ways. In Metal Gear Solid 4, the use of stock screams (over constantly occurring background deaths) was enough to become distracting, and made the world feel extremely fake.

The goal of environmental sounds should be to convince the audience that there is a real world in the background, with things going on that are actively causing these noises. This can add depth to a world that, for all intents and purposes, is a relatively small stage with a focused, central set of actors. If the sounds are either not justifiable or too repetitive, the fakeness of the world takes center stage, and the immersion bonus that the audience should feel is lost (if not worsened due to the jarring break).

Tactical
One subsection of background noises is, naturally, gun noises. Like other background noises, the noises of the battlefield exist to show that there's other things going on, namely other battles. In the sense that "every sound has a source", though, combat noises can also be used to illustrate the fact that there is combat, which becomes important when it's the default assumption that there isn't. To return to Metal Gear Solid 4, in online mode there are two contrasting forms of match: "ongoing battles" and "find the enemy". In the former, gunfire is an assumed noise - there's always someone shooting someone somewhere on the map. In the latter, gunfire is an anomaly, meaning that someone's been spotted, and all players should react accordingly.

In real life, guns make fairly distinctive sounds. In combat, the difference between "the sound of friendly guns" and "the sound of enemy guns" is just as important as the color of their uniforms. This is why the practice of using an enemy weapon is frowned upon in real life - because it still sounds hostile, even if it's shot by someone who isn't. The sounds of artillery firing, and where it's firing from, can determine if someone is "safe" or whether they should take cover. Few games take advantage of these concepts. Company of Heroes is one exception - the different machine guns and rifles make different enough noises that you can tell what's going on or where they're coming from.

One thing that annoyed me about Killzone was that while each faction had their own main rifle (the M82 for the ISA, and the StA52 for the Helghast), there was no effort to actually regulate these guns in multiplayer. There was no reason for the ISA to use their gun exclusively, and vice versa. This was done for gameplay purposes (the different guns have different uses), but resulted in gun noises being basically useless. Being able to recognize gun noises would have helped determine if you were, for example, coming up on a group of friendlies. Removing this meant that the sounds of gunfire were just sort of a "background mess" - they were there, but you couldn't get any useful information from them.

Of course, guns aren't the only things that make sounds in combat. Identifying enemy locations from the sound of footsteps or vehicle noises is a time-honored tradition. In Metal Gear Solid 3, the player is equipped with a directional microphone to aid in this task - often necessary due to camouflaged enemies blending into the background. While vehicle noises exist in Company of Heroes (and can be heard through the fog), one thing I appreciated about the Eastern Front mod was the distinctive noise of Russian tanks - a loud, obvious "clacking" noise. This was interesting to me because it wasn't just a generic "there's a vehicle here" sound - you could specifically tell that it was a Russian tank, rather than a truck or something.

Conclusion
There's a lot more that could be said about sound, but it should be said in individual, focused updates. To sum up, though:
1) Music evokes emotion. If that emotion can be shared with the characters, then all the better.
2) Sound has a source. Using sound in the background indicates that whatever caused that sound also exists in the background. This can make the world more believable in terms of background events.
3) The importance of sound as an identifier should not be underestimated. Many games leave sound in the background as an unimportant layer of white noise, rather than having them be an important tactical element (as they are in real life).