The Game Boy: Dear Videogames, Shut Up

Game characters talk too much. Unless, of course, they're J'zargo.
I like shirts. I enjoy owning them, wearing them -- pretty much everything you can do with shirts, really. Which is mostly just those two things. So I recently visited a custom T-shirt website, because why not? And then -- because I'm oddly proud of my exceedingly embarrassing geekiness -- I searched for Skyrim apparel. What I discovered made me laugh like a hyena that'd recently eaten a live clown. Then it made me deeply, deeply depressed. Mere days after the game had launched, there were shirts emblazoned with phrases like “You tried mercenary work? It might suit you” and “My cousin's out fighting dragons, and what do I get? Guard duty.”
If you've played Skyrim for more than two seconds, those phrases probably haunt your nightmares -- perhaps uttered by deeply unsettling images of your disapproving father as a giant praying mantis. Why? Because Skyrim's all-too-talkative denizens bellow them every time you're within bellowing range. Dovahkiin shouts? The Voice? Those are nothing compared to these all-powerful, sanity shattering sentences. And that's a rather large problem.
Skyrim's blabbermouth inhabitants speak to a much larger issue within modern games: There's far too much telling, and not nearly enough showing. Ken Levine recently put it best when he said, “It's always very tempting to have people talk. We'll do a level review and either me or somebody else will have like an idea, 'this person will say this!', and generally that's the least effective way to get across information in a videogame.” Because it really, really is -- and not just in the case of 80-trillion-hour behemoths like Skyrim.
For example, let's take a game that's essentially Skyrim's polar opposite, like Modern Warfare 3 or -- on the console side of things -- Uncharted 3. Both games are so heavily railroaded that, if you so much as briefly wobble off the tracks, everything explodes and dies. Sometimes literally. In Uncharted's case, especially, it's a byproduct of telling a very deliberate, pre-written story. If those spike-and-glass-and-bee-coated guard rails weren't in place, the whole illusion would fall apart. Expertly crafted scripts would be read out of order. The player could put a bullet in allies' one-liner-spewing robo-brains mid-sentence. And that'd make some weird fraction of a liner. A half-liner? Where's the fun in that?
In all of the above cases, dialog -- what the game's explicitly telling us -- is the first thing to break. And when you can see immersion's seams, it's not long until the stuffing's all over the floor and your cat eats it. Dialog, after all, is a limited resource. No matter how much fancy AI or procedural tech you have, you can't magically teleport voice actors back into the studio each time someone scales to the tippity top of a dialog tree. So typically, the character just goes on infinite repeat, and that's the game's way of saying, “Alright, you can go away now. Nothing to see here. Go on, then! Shoo!”
Obviously, good writing -- and, perhaps more importantly, well-placed writing -- can help remedy this to a certain extent. But even then, in order for it to be effective, incredibly restrictive design constraints are pretty much required. Take Portal, for instance. As far as writing and dialog go, it's nearly untouchable. But it's also a few hours long, linear as a maze designed by a Medieval jouster, and good for roughly one playthrough -- at least, storywise. Moreover, one of its best story moments arises not from prose that'd make Shakespeare throw down his quill and pick up some Ben and Jerry's, but from the power of ever-so-slight suggestion.