Gold Machine

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Another Pull at an Old Thread

Recent discussions have attempted to bolster a few, key ideas. The first and most controversial, given the present critical landscape, is that while historical detail informs our understanding of humanity, it isn’t, in and of itself, a theme or interpretive “code wheel” that can unlock the meaning of Trinity. Instead, I think Trinity asserts that the details often do not matter. They might offer up an illusory sense of exhaustibility or reinforce ideas that equate mastery with knowledge. As the old song goes, “I shouted out ‘Who killed the Kennedys’ / but after all, it was you and me” (Jagger/Richards). Trinity isn’t a polemic against the United States government, or the state of New Mexico, or J. Robert Oppenheimer. In fact, individual action generally comes off as futile in the face of the cosmic inevitability of humanity’s tendency to overreach, to under-empathize, to mistake power for justification.

In order to get at the idea, Trinity features many encounters between the Wabewalker and non-human animals. Animals appear to us players as complexes of significance. They are doomed, as a matter of fact, with the possible exception of the roadrunner. The ducks and geese in Kensington Gardens are presumably vaporized. The many lemmings on the Siberian tundra–should they not make it to the cliff’s edge–die as well. Dolphin and rattlesnake alike: destroyed. The skink–today’s topic of discussion–is well on its way to a similar fate before we players intervene.

Let Them Have Dominion

Considering this fairly populous (by Infocom standards) menagerie of ill-fated creatures, what can we players deduce or discover about or in the text of Trinity? I believe that the animals have a synecdochical function. In plain terms, they are a part of the world that is meant to represent the whole. Humanity’s treatment of animals in Trinity reflects its disregard for the wider world including its inhabitants and ecological welfare.

Another key element of Trinity‘s presentation of devastation generally is an implication of blamelessness. It is crucial to note that the animals are blameless. They have no involvement in our conflicts or exercises in techno-destructive overreach. The same can be said of the young girl from Nagasaki (more on this next time). There are at least two implications of blamelessness in Trinity. The first is empathy.

In my series on Steve Meretzky’s A Mind Forever Voyaging, I claimed that one of its defining characteristics was empathy. It doesn’t just provoke empathic reactions in players. In fact, I argued that it was concerned with empathy as a crucial part of the human experience. Today, games with emotionally potent narratives are a familiar part of the gaming landscape, but it wasn’t something players were used to at the time. Trinity aims for–and lands–some punches of its own. Without declaring one better than the other–a hard thing to resist, apparently–I’m impressed with how both games approach empathy differently. In AMFV, empathy is resolved. It is an optimistic work, and better things are likely coming to those we empathize with. Empathy in Trinity is usually painful. This pain is often a consequence of hopelessness or inability to affect a situation. The protagonist may want to save the dolphin, for instance, but there is no hope of that.

The other outcome of perceived blamelessness is culpability. Whatever suffering we encounter in Trinity, you can be sure that humanity is its author. There are no earthquakes or tornadoes behind the white doors, only people and their gadgets. Sometimes, the culpability is not so general. We feed the terrified lemming to the snake, for instance. Some players will feel a pinch, there!

Hard Luck Lizard

The central mid-game puzzle of Trinity involves mixing spell ingredients in a cauldron. We discover both recipe and cauldron in the same shack where the book and map are located.

The magpie croaks, "Awk! Milk and honey, fresh whole lizard."
...
"Awk! Fresh whole lizard. Awk!" squawks the magpie.
...
"Awk! Killed in the light of a crescent moon," screeches the magpie.
...
"Awk! Crescent moon. Awk!"
...
The magpie says, "Awk! Mix 'em with a pinch o' garlic. Awk!"
...
"Awk! Then stand back! 'Cause it go BOOM. Awk!"

The lizard seems a rather extravagant request, particularly the bit about the crescent moon. There is a skink beyond the Pluto door, though it is–quite reasonably, as it turns out–afraid of the protagonist. It can be cornered with correctly placed lighting:

The skink scrambles out of the lighted crevice, slips between your legs and scurries away into the east tunnel. A moment later it reappears, blinking helplessly from the glow of the lantern.
With no place to hide, the flummoxed skink runs in circles at your feet.

Considering the entire Infocom catalog, we players are well on our way to shattering previous records for killing frightened animals. The skink’s story ends in what is, in my opinion, the most dramatic and visually striking scene of Trinity. Beyond the Mercury door lies the vacuum of space. The Wabewalker can survive–briefly–if they enter while encased in a soap bubble.

>enter door
You squeeze the soapy film through the white door.

Earth Orbit, in a soap bubble
You're five hundred miles above a sea of ice, hurtling in profound silence over the Arctic atmosphere. Layers of crimson and violet describe the curve of the horizon, blending imperceptibly into a black sky crowded with stars.

The soapy film around you freezes instantly, but remains intact.

The white door drops away behind you.

You watch helplessly as the white door dwindles to a distant speck, vanishing at last between the horns of the rising moon.

Provided the player plans correctly, the Wabewalker can kill the skink before getting back to the door. It will be unpleasant for what I hope will be most players: I personally cast about for alternatives, even though I knew that Trinity was not the sort of game where players can get out of killing small animals.

>kill skink
The tiny lizard writhes in your grasp and claws at your fingers, its pink mouth gasping for breath. You squeeze harder and harder until your fist trembles with the effort.

The skink stops squirming.

The episode further illustrates the adventure game ethos discussed in a previous post: take everything, use everything, go everywhere, win. It is a world in which nothing is more than its utility. Is humanity a kind of cosmic adventurer? In any case, the Wabewalker’s encounter with the skink engenders feelings of empathy, culpability, and also, yes, inevitability. The only alternative to killing the skink, after all, is quitting the game entirely.

All that remains is to throw the body in a pot resting–quite appropriately–near the map and book of hours. Casting a spell is, after all, a way in which Trinity participates in traditional adventure game design: this is a treasure hunt. The items in the shack speak to us–not the Wabewalker–as players familiar with adventure games. Whatever the moral or cosmic implications of the Wabewalker’s quest might be, we players know how to deal with a treasure hunt. In the end, Trinity‘s design fulfills, rather than abolishes, the cave game.

I think that must be the point.

By the Light of the Moon

A last detail bears mentioning. This outer space adventure takes place in a future. I say “a future” because in Trinity the so-called “Star Wars” antiballistic missile program was a success. The atomic relevance–each mushroom represents an atomic detonation–of this vignette is a confrontation between a satellite and a missile. Since Trinity is concerned with past explosions, it must take place in this hypothetical future.

Why is this important? Atomic warfare, in Trinity, cannot be stopped. In fact, in its future setting, it has already happened.

Next

Suffer the children.