Book Description

"Before answering the question 'how do we listen to video game music?' one should begin by asking 'Do we actually listen to video game music, and if so, when?' Of course, anyone steeped in gaming culture will be able to hum the theme to Super Mario Bros. (1985), but they might have picked it up when their little brother took the controller and played some of the game, giving them time to sit back and enjoy the sights and sounds of the game. Or they might have heard it in one of the many YouTube video performances on the most outlandish instruments, or even by a full symphony orchestra at a Video Games Live concert. In between avoiding pits, picking up coins, jumping on goombas (the game's mushroom-like enemies) and making it to the end of a level within the time limit, is there really a moment during which the player can divert their attention away from all this to the music? Or is it somehow possible to both play and listen at the same time? I want to start my account of musical listening in video games at its boundaries, at those moments where we do not listen to whatever music there is. The above example from Robert Fink's Repeating Ourselves (2005) conveys one such boundary experience-specifically engineered background music that does not attract our attention, but still affects us somehow. This is just one of many situations in modern everyday life where we encounter music in this, usually acousmatic, way: in films, on the television, in video games, in restaurants and shops, and in the workplace. Sometimes we even engineer such situations ourselves, such as turning on the radio to help us study or creating a playlist for a morning run. In all these cases we are doing something else (or our attention is directed at something else) while music is playing, but this does not mean that our experience of the music is the same in each: the simple fact that we choose radically different music when reading a book and while going for a run suggests that more is going on"--