Actually, the assertion is more problematic: Can video games be art? America’s most prominent film critic provides a definitive answer, “No.”
Jabootu contributor Sandy Petersen sent me this link. Sandy, of course, is a game developer of long and major standing, having helped design seminal titles like Doom and Quake. His reply echos that of the majority of the commenters to the piece:
“So, Ebert threw down his gauntlet (again).
He jumps around definitions and generally proves clumsy at trying to explain why games are not art. This seems particularly odd, seeing as the game development process consists of dozens or even hundreds of creative people putting together visuals, sounds, and a hopefully emotionally gripping story for a many-hour-long experience
While I personally squirm and try to avoid the “artiste” label as a game-maker (preferring to be a “craftsman”), I do believe that if things as disparate as tribal dances, music, and paintings can be art (I mean, what do those things have in common?), that it is special pleading indeed to say that games are an exception.
I especially find worthy of derision his contention that true art has a single creator. He reviews movies, for heaven’s sake.”
For myself, this raises again the issue of my mixed feelings regarding Ebert. Perhaps partly due to being compared to him a lot as a kid (as a fat guy in glasses obsessed about movies who lived in suburban Chicagoland), I actually gravitated more to Gene Siskel.
However, a lot of that ( more, I hope) had to due with the fact that Ebert was more likely, in my opinion, to conflate his personal feelings and tastes with objective critical judgment. This is a trait I’ve always found noxious and intellectually dishonest, especially from someone held out as an ‘authority.’ And in Ebert’s case, this tendency has but snowballed in recent years.
Don’t get me wrong; Ebert is one of our greatest thinkers about films. His essays on (particularly) The Great Movies are generally everything you could wish from a film historian. They are informed, passionate, articulate and massively entertaining to read. The books that collect these columns deserve a spot on the shelves of every film lover.
As a film critic, however, working in the present time, Ebert’s work has become increasingly problematic. Old age generally does one of two things to those it leaves with their mental facilties: It gives them wisdom and a more expansive view of things, or it makes them more reactionary, more impatient with anyone who dares disagree with them.
Ebert clearly falls into the second camp, and this essay is a prime example. Like Woody Allen before him, Ebert marshals a lot of big names and education to bolster his contention. Yet in the end, his point basically amounts to “What I like we should call Art, and what I don’t like we shouldn’t.” This is as intellectually callow and, really, rather pathetic as Allen’s equally self-serving (and defeatist) dictum, “The heart wants what it wants.”
All philosophers know that. However, it’s the starting point for the search in a larger truth, not the endpoint.