Well, I’ll admit before getting too far into this post that I’m perhaps not as far into the reading as many of you, but in a way I’m glad for that because I think if I’d read too much further it would be difficult for me to respond to so much of what Bogost is saying. What I want to do here is provide my understanding of what Bogost means when he says “procedural rhetoric,” and dwell on some of the questions I have at this point in the reading–having just finished the introductory quarter of the book. So here goes:

I think I understand plainly enough what Bogost means by “rhetoric.” He’s using the term broadly to mean intentional expression that is geared at persuasion, which he opposes to “compulsion.” In other words, a rhetorical text should win over the reader, convincing her of the validity of its claims, as opposed to simply compelling her to buy a product or drop more coins into a machine. Significantly, Bogost links rhetoric to dialectical relations. The type of rhetoric he describes engages the reader in an exchange, to which the text is able to respond in a meaningful way. I think I’m clear on that.

It’s the “procedural” portion that I’m either fuzzy about or perhaps unconvinced of. Bogost says that many people mistakenly think of “procedures” as strict, external rules that are inflexible, as opposed to human interaction. He points out that humans operate based upon procedures themselves, but that computers texts (I lack a better word right now–procedural texts seems not-quite-right, too general) “represent process with process,” and that “The inscription of procedural representations on the computer takes place in code,” which is procedural (14). So far, I’m on board. He’s saying (I think) that texts designed for computers–we’ll use the example of video games, since that’s the focus of his book, though he is careful to point out that numerous pieces of software fit into this category as well–require the reader to go through procedures in order to “read” the text, and that the form of which the text is composed, computer code, is also procedural in nature. I’m intrigued by this parallel and curious to get at what it means to play a game, to follow a set of procedures in the interest of an end goal, when the text is dictated by its own underlying, invisible set of rules and procedures that express representations of movement, gravity, etc. I’m even interested in the types of games Bogost proposes in which the player is invited into dialogue with the text and asked to respond to the procedures that compose the game–the choices that are allowed vs. those that are excluded, the consequences of those choices, etc.

Over the summer I read John Greene’s The Fault in Our Stars, a young adult novel about a young woman and young man with cancer. In it, Agustus and his friend play a first-person shooter, and Agustus is very bad at it because instead of maximizing his kill-to-death ratio, he instead makes it his goal to save as many civilians and comrades as possible. In Greene’s novel, this tendency is meant to exemplify Agustus’s refusal to adhere to the rules that govern reality–rules that tell him that he cannot save anyone, including his ex-girlfriend or himself. I’m oversimplifying, but the novel isn’t my focus here. Greene’s argument would be, arguably, that Agustus’s refusal to adhere to the rules/procedures of the game represents not a direct dialogue with the game in which he constructs his own competing argument about war, life and death, etc., but instead that Agustus simply is railing against the inflexible rules of the game the same way he rails against the unfair and equally unyielding rules of his own abilities within the world. For Bogost, though, perhaps Agustus’s alternative gameplay might represent a counterargument, and Agustus should respond by creating an alternative text, his own game with more flexible rules, or perhaps rules that reward different behaviors. Bogost has already explained that “[d]ialectics…function in a broader media ecology…they merely require the interlocutor to construct a new claim in another context–for example, in a responding TV spot or software program” (38).

All of this was very intriguing, especially since I’m trying to connect my Python experience (sad and limited though it is) to Bogost’s argument. I can make procedural arguments about the world and compel readers to follow my logic through following their own set of procedures (in theory)!? Exciting! How does the product reflect the code? Tell me, please, how can I create procedures in code that are reflected in the play of the text I design?

And then I read this: “The player can see how the simulation runs: this is, in no trivial way, what it means to play the game.” and “Understanding the simulation at the level of code does not necessarily solve this problem…does not guarantee an understanding of making and interacting with arguments as processes rather than words. Rather than addressing this problem from the bottom up through code literacy, we need to address it from the top down through procedural literacy” (63-64). So he seems to be downplaying the significance of code–now the text seems to be what the reader/viewer/player sees/experiences and not the underlying code, of which he says “demanding access to a computer program’s code might be akin to asking for direct access to an author’s or filmmaker’s expressive intentions” (64). I’m not a game designer, and I’ll admit I was skeptical that code would be procedural in the same way that a video game’s gameplay is. But it seemed to me that the linchpin of Bogost’s argument was that what made video games a special kind of text was that they were procedures built from procedure, that the code was part of, if not the essential part of, the text. Now, he seems to be stepping back from that, and in a way that seems kind of bogus to me. He’s already complained of other theorists doing the same thing (27). Code is equated with intention? I’m skeptical of such a claim. After reading Turing talk about how he is surprised by machines every day, it’s hard to believe that code is closer to/identical with intention as opposed to the text. Still, it’s hard for me to think of where the code would fall if mapped on to writing–an outline, maybe? Something more like that–the logical frame onto which the actual text is built? Definitely a part of the text, but deducible rather than obvious, visible.

One last remark, though I know this post is getting SUPER long–I’m interested in the arguments that computer code as a genre makes about the world. I mentioned this briefly in my last post, and I don’t have a whole lot more to add, since I don’t know jack about coding. But I do know–at least I think I know–that the fundamental argument that computer programing makes about the world seems to be that a task is the sum of parts–mini-tasks into which it can be broken down. When all of the mini-tasks are carried out, the overarching goal is achieved. Except it isn’t, I don’t think. The goal is something human, the goal that the code achieves is something different–a reflection of that goal in the red-blue-yellow-green that the computer can produce. Round edges become pixelated, however subtly, on a screen. I don’t know that this isn’t a valid way of reading the world–as replaceable, representable. After all, texts, paintings, films all do the same thing. But I do want to investigate how computer programs go about representing the world via procedures, logical structures, etc. What is to be said of that?

That last remark isn’t really fully formed or super well thought out. Again, I don’t know enough about code, software, and hardware for that matter, to really make an argument abbot the way computer programs (re)structure reality in their representations, but I’m very curious to see what you all think and to investigate this problem further. Bogost seems uninterested, but perhaps I haven’t read far enough. I’ll remedy that soon!

See you all in class Thursday. Please comment if you have insights for me!