Transistor : Postmodernism celebrated

By Maik "Onin" Biekart

I have long wanted to write about Supergiant Games' Transistor, but despite all its beauty and mechanical perfection I have long failed to understand what the game is truly about. Sure, it is about a feisty redhead set on finding answers and vengeance after her attempted character assassination. It teaches lessons like “don't judge a book by its cover,” “you can achieve anything you set your mind to,” and other such shallow inspirational messages. But none of those themes and messages convey a consistent artistic purpose or an underlying philosophy. There is a focus on the individual, a focus on identity, and a discussion (often through the lack of discussion) of gender, all of which hold their value in analysis, but none of which define the game in my eyes. As it turns out, I needed a new perspective.

I recently came across an elaboration on the concept of postmodernism, as part of research for my MA thesis. Postmodernism is one of those terms in art criticism that is often understood only in passing, as 'that thing that came after modernism.' While its chronology and context are definitely part of the definition of the movement, and much of postmodernism is the continuation of and reaction to modernist art, it has its own distinct mood, themes, devices, and purpose. And Transistor, as a game, encompasses all of the above in what I can only call a celebration of postmodernism.

For the sake of clarity, I will briefly define the movements of modernism and postmodernism, as they naturally can only be seen in relation to each other, highlighting the most important factors for this analysis. Modernism, a movement inspired by modern life of the 1920s and briefly continued in the 1960s, is a rejection of all things romantic. It rejects harmonic aesthetics, replacing them with plainness and abstraction; the mantra goes, “less is more.” It rejects the classical narrative structure, dismissing the omniscient narrator, the closed ending, etc. It invites experimentation, switching to an impressionistic style, a merging of genres, a play with form and reflexivity (i.e. the meta-narrative). Most vitally for the comparison, modernism is melancholic, longing back to the age of Enlightenment, where ruled a sense that all of society's struggles could be resolved by following one true reason.

As far as devices go, postmodernism is very similar to its predecessor. The rejection of classical narrative continues, as does the experimentation with genre, form, and reflexivity. But the first important difference is a switch in mood. Modernism is largely defined by its asceticism, its minimalist aesthetic, and this aesthetic is the result of the attitude that nothing better is possible in the modern age. Postmodernism rejects this pessimistic point of view, and instead celebrates its experimentation with form, genre, and abstraction, through excess and display. As a celebration of modern life, postmodernism looks down on the old societal structure that modernism longs back to. It realizes that a singular philosophy can never lead to utopia, and instead highlights the efforts of individuals or groups, empowering smaller circumstances. (These definitions are largely paraphrased from Peter Barry's Beginning Theory. For more elaborate explorations of postmodernist theory, look up Lyotard and Baudrillard, whose writings define the movement.)

Transistor and the Modernist Conflict

Applying the above definitions to Transistor, it is immediately obvious that the Camerata play the role of the modernists. Their aim is to overthrow the societal systems of Cloudbank, to assert a singular philosophy; the Transistor is meant to assemble that singularity through the assimilation of all of Cloudbank's popular voices. It may not be the Enlightenment they harken back to, but there is a definite melancholy behind their aims, a wish to return to a less fragmented city and have it flourish under a single movement, a single narrative. To further emphasize their modernism, the Camerata's tool of choice, the Process, rejects all the aesthetic of Cloudbank and returns it to its barest form: geographical shapes, hues of white and grey. Especially Fairview, an area likely to be designed by Royce personally, embodies the modernist aesthetic, with its reflexive level design and its play with perspective, doubtlessly inspired by Escher.

It is harder to define the Camerata's philosophy.
Transistor highlights several reasons for the creation of the Camerata. Grant's biography states that, after years of selfless service as administrator, he began to harbour wishes of his own. Asher's biography highlights that “the two shared a passion for seeking the truth of things.” Only Royce seems to actually believe in the statement by which he defines the group: “When everything changes, nothing changes;” indeed, Asher's biography states that, thanks to the Camerata's efforts, “Cloudbank would enter a new era.” So the true philosophy of the Camerata remains ambiguous; however, their methods are clear. They assimilate a wide variety of voices through the Transistor, thanks to which they will be able to give the people what they do not know they want (as says Asher, on Bracket Towers recording 3). They want to turn the individual experiences that shape and reshape Cloudbank into a singular, perfect experience for everyone, an aim that is inherently modernist, and counter to postmodernism. It is also this methodology that makes them the antagonist of Cloudbank, and the game.

The postmodernism of Cloudbank is most readily apparent in its aesthetic. The design of the city is highly impractical in many places, from the many dead ends around Goldwalk to the extreme height differences in Highrise. The former emphasizes the fragmentation of the city, how every area and every corner has its own identity without relation to the rest of the city. The latter highlights the use of geographical shapes and play with perspective, with every skyscraper somehow achieving greater height than the previous. The same hierarchy of perspective play over practicality can be seen in the Empty Set; it seems as if the audience sits both far below and far above the stage, and none of it is accessible to the player. Unlike Fairview, though, these areas are vibrant in colour and cohesive in design, not confusing or alienating to the player. The fragmented, experimental aesthetic enhances the vibrancy, instead of challenging it.

The function of Cloudbank, too, is inherently postmodern. While the exact details of the structure of the virtual reality of Cloudbank is left up in the air, the character profiles suggest a method of application. In this application, citizens select two character traits they wish to emphasize on: for Red, it's “Music [and] Linguistics,” for Royce, “Engineering [and] Mathematics.” Some characters add a reason for their entry, explaining why they chose those traits: race driver Preston Moyle says “I just want to go fast,” Maximilias Darzi designs fashion in “pursuit of beauty.” Assumably, Cloudbank is able to emphasize and empower these traits, giving every entrant the ability they need to achieve their dreams. Furthermore, Cloudbank records the achievements of its citizens in their traces, which the player can access through the Transistor. Thus Cloudbank both facilitates and puts on display the narrative of each individual, without hierarchy, prejudice, or curation. It celebrates every achievement equally and does not impose a greater purpose or supreme truth on any of its citizens.

The conflict between the two meets in Red, and an interesting reversal occurs. The Camerata steals Red's voice, directly and indirectly diminishing her character, but in the process lose their transistor, empowering Red with abilities she has never had before. So the transistor transforms, from the Camerata's tool of assimilation to Red's tool of expression. Its initial intention was to download the traces of Cloudbank's citizens until it could unify them into a complete perspective, as Asher implies. In Red's hands, it does the opposite: it separates the traces into their own functions, allowing the player to experiment with them and use them as medium for self-expression. This makes the transistor a metaphor for artistic devices; modernism employs them in the search for the supreme truth, while postmodernism transforms them into elements of individual style.

Thus, Transistor embodies the conflict between modernism and postmodernism. It gives both artistic movements agency, stages a conflict between the two, then positions the player in medias res. It takes away the power from the modernists and hands it to the player, allowing them to execute postmodernism in their combat. It immerses the player in the vibrancy of Cloudbank, then makes the asceticism of the Process threaten its beauty. In essence, a player of Transistor is a postmodernist artist.

Transistor and Reality

Aside establishing the narrative of the game, viewing Transistor in a postmodern frame of references helps shed light on some common grounds for confusion. Most importantly, it gives context to the game's use of signs. From the very first level, the aesthetic features posters, shop names, and other signs that are completely unintelligible: a sign next to the exit to the overpass in Goldwalk reads “EQØ©NY,” the building next to it I like to call the T . T-shop, and a bit further the posters advertising Red's concert feature two different sets of random characters. These characters are unlikely to be a foreign language used in Cloudbank, considering the OVC is written in English, as is Junction Jan's food delivery. Clearly these signs are not meant to be read or understood, but they can still be seen and their function interpreted, paradoxically.

A major element of postmodernism I have not brought up yet is Baudrillard's notion of “the loss of the real.” This is the view that contemporary media (film, TV, advertisement, and certainly the internet) have filled modern life with such pervasive images that the distinction between reality and construction is blurred, to the point where they become one and the same. Where in the past signs represented the depth of reality, gradually the sign has come to represent other signs, employing what is not reality, but a hyperreality. In a sense it is a modern Platonism, the idea that modern life is just the image of a mystical idealized reality perpetuated by media.

The signs in Transistor offer a good example of this admittedly vague concept. The lack of direct meaning in the signs underlines the loss of the real: these signs don't represent any reality. What gives them meaning is their context, and the interpretation of the player. The purpose of the signs is immediately clear: one designates the overpass, one brands the shop, and one informs the purpose of the posters. They are signs representing signs, both literally and figuratively, while their precise designation is left to the individual (personally, I hold the firm belief that the shop is a tea shop, because I cannot resist the pun. I am certain other players will have given it other names).

This loss of the real helps shed light on perhaps the most widely contested plot point of Transistor: the ending. The game deliberately avoids defining the area where Red and Royce end up after restoring the transistor, saying only “we're here, not there.” Likewise, the game often refers to The Country as a place where citizens of Cloudbank retire to; it deeply suggests a metaphor for death, but after the credits Red and her bodyguard reunite in an area that can only be described as 'the country,' which might or might not exist inside of the transistor. Many explanations, hierarchies of existence, etc. have been suggested, but none are consistent. If the Country is a space inside the transistor, every citizen who went to the Country must have entered the transistor, and they did not. If the stage for Red and Royce's battle is reality outside the virtual world, Royce must have exited Cloudbank to get there. He did not, for his trace still exists in one of the pods (while Red's is nowhere to be found). Defining the three planes of existence in Transistor in a way that is consistent with its own lore is difficult if not impossible.

But they don't require definitions. The Country's primary function is a metaphor for death. Red's appearance in the country only serves to confirm her suicide, to answer the possible question of whether suicide in a virtual world is possible. Equally, the world 'outside' of the transistor primarily confirms to the player that the transistor is not a unique device, as there seems to be a giant server farm of transistors. If the Country stands for death, and Cloudbank stands for existence, perhaps this last area represents the metaphysical, the hyperreality. If it does, its image is bleak: it offers no beauty, no comfort, no wisdom, only conflict. The focus of the image lies on the many transistors, representing many possible alternate realities, individual experiences, devoid of one supreme truth. Thus, in Transistor, there is no reality, only the combination of realities constructed by the experiences of each city, each group, each individual.