Games and Culture

6(5) 395-413
ª The Author(s) 2011
Rules, Rhetoric, and Reprints and permission:
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Genre: Procedural DOI: 10.1177/1555412011402675
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Rhetoric in Persona 3

Todd Harper1

Abstract
Released in 2008 for the Playstation 2, Shin Megami Tensei: Persona 3 is a roleplaying
game with a diverse genre pedigree. It is a combination of dungeon-crawling RPG
and social interaction ‘‘datesim,’’ all wrapped up in the thematic trappings of occult
mystery and Japanese popular culture. Using Ian Bogost’s (2007) concept of proce-
dural rhetoric, this article examines how Persona 3’s use of genre conventions and
gameplay-based rhetorical frames construct the game’s message, as well as how
those structures can inform our understanding of genre for the digital game form.

Keywords
procedural rhetoric, persona, genre, role-playing games, persuasive games

Imagine a game focusing on a typical high school junior. He gets to hang out with
classmates, make friends, and date the ones he fancies, take tests, and generally
move through the everyday social and learning elements of school. Now complicate
that scenario: he also has a special supernatural power, as do some of his classmates,
that the rest of the world knows nothing about. In fact, if he doesn’t deploy that
supernatural power on a nightly basis, the world as he knows it is going to end . . .
but he’d better spend some of those nights studying if he wants to pass that final
exam and go out with his girlfriend on Sunday.

1
Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, MA, USA

Corresponding Author:
Todd Harper, Singapore-MIT GAMBIT Game Lab, 77 Massachusetts Ave Bldg. NE25-379, Cambridge,
MA 02139, USA
Email: [email protected]
396 Games and Culture 6(5)

This is the scenario in Shin Megami Tensei: Persona 3 (typically abbreviated

Persona 3 or P3; Atlus, 2007), a console role-playing video game with a long
pedigree. It is the third in the Persona series, which is itself a spin-off of the Shin
Megami Tensei series (and even that is a sequel to predecessor Megami Tensei).
Only a small number of the Megami Tensei/Shin Megami Tensei (Megaten or SMT)
games have been localized from the Japanese. Megaten games in general are known
for their dark and disturbing tone and use of demonic and mythological references
and settings; the Persona series also includes the eponymous ‘‘Personas’’ that the
main characters have the power to use.
The game does employ many of the thematic conventions of its genre and series.
P3 uses a semidefined avatar: a main, player-controlled and player-named character
whose actions the player decides upon, but whose appearance, gender, and general
demeanor are beyond the player’s control. Each main character (and even some vil-
lains) controls a Persona that grants him or her abilities in battle and certain statis-
tical characteristics. The dungeon exploration side of the game includes the
demonic/mythological thematic conventions common to the series.
However, the game is also slightly different from other games in the series. The
primary point of departure is the split of the game into two main types of activity: the
typical dungeon-exploring combat of the console RPG, and the social activity of
relationship-building that is more common in dating simulation/‘‘datesim’’ games
(a genre that is almost entirely unrepresented in games available in the United
States). The game makes these curious departures from the norm work by integrating
them through character statistics. The better the main character’s social links with
others in the datesim side, the more powerful Personas he can summon and control
in battle on the dungeon exploration side. Events in one side also affect events in the
other, with the two having a constant tug of war for the character’s (and player’s)
attention. For example, spend too many nights in the dungeon and the player will
not have enough time to build academic skills and pass exams, which limits the abil-
ity to create new social links, which in turn can hamper performance in the dungeon.
The question this odd fusion begs is why the designers would make such a choice
and what kind of implications that has for the text. Drawing primarily on Bogost’s
(2007) concept of procedural rhetoric, this study analyzes the relationship between
these disparate styles and interrogates how Persona 3 combines the game mechanics
(ludic) elements with narrative and stylistic (thematic) elements from both genres to
put forth certain ideological frames.

Shin Megami Tensei

One of the more popular video game series in Japan, the Megaten games were orig-
inally game adaptations of a novel by Japanese author Aya Nishitani, Digital Devil
Monogatari (Kalata & Snelgrove, 2009) that dealt with humanity’s sudden contact
with demons through the medium of technology. The overarching thematic material
in these games deals primarily with issues of the occult, mythology, and the
Harper 397

philosophical ideas present in a number of religions, ranging from Christianity to

Buddhism. The story in the recently released Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor,
for example, deals heavily with the Biblical story of Babel and the events of the book
of Revelation. The material in Persona 3 draws on a number of traditions, from
mythical Japanese legends to Norse gods and goddesses. Megaten games typically
involve, in one form or another, mythological beings, specifically demons. In the
‘‘main’’ series of games—Megami Tensei 1 and 2, the Shin Megami Tensei
games—the main character’s companions are demons, contacted through various
means and turned into allies (Ashby, 2004). In the Persona series, by contrast,
demons are not active party members, but instead the human characters have
‘‘personas,’’ spiritual expressions of their inner selves that manifest in the forms
of mythological beasts and demons.
In many of the series’ games, a significant theme is the player’s decision to follow
certain ideologies or ‘‘alignments,’’ resulting in various outcomes depending on
what choices the player makes as she or he progresses (‘‘What is SMT,’’ 2009).
Alignments range from the Dungeons and Dragons-inspired law, chaos, good, and
evil, to more abstract or faction-based results. Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne’s story
takes place in an embryonic reshaping of reality, and the actions of the player as she
or he moves through the story determine what sort of world results in the end: one
free of spiritual influence, one ruled by demons, or other options. The key thing is
that the games foreground the effect on the world made by the moral and social
choices of the main character through the auspice of the player. As is discussed
below, this notion of choice also has its reflections in Persona 3 as a major ludic and
narrative frame.

Genre and Genre Theory

In terms of studies of film and television, genre is broadly considered a way of clas-
sifying like texts (Feuer, 1992). The broader issues extant in examinations of genre,
particularly when it comes to genre film, center around what constitutes ‘‘like texts’’
and on what qualities of the text are genres created, maintained, and changed. Scho-
lars such as Schatz (1981) and Altman (1984) have considered the implications of
these questions not only from the standpoint of studying film but also considering
the way that genre definitions and genre texts fit into culture at large.
At the most basic level, genre is what Feuer calls ‘‘taxonomy’’ (1992, p. 138):
basic classification. Movies that share a set of qualities are grouped together in a
genre. Movies that share commonalities with Broadway musicals are musicals;
movies that take place in the American west are westerns, as Altman describes it.
However, the above scholars (among others) argue that a merely taxonomic way
of looking at genre is not sufficient. One of Altman’s primary complaints is that
genre is seen, from the outside, ‘‘as if they spring full-blown from the head of Zeus’’
(1984, p. 8). In that regard, the argument is that genre classifications are treated as
naturally occurring rather than being cultural constructions.
398 Games and Culture 6(5)

Altman—as well as later scholars such as Mittell (2001), who speaks about genre
in television—claim that analysis of genres must consider the ways in which histor-
ical and cultural contexts produce and reproduce them. Thus, genre is not only the
base characteristics of a text but the industry context in which it was produced, the
cultural climate in which it is consumed, and the like. This is what Neale is speaking
of, broadly, when he speaks of genre being a process: ‘‘[i]n this way the elements and
conventions of a genre are always in play rather than being, simply, re-played; and
any genre corpus is always being expanded’’ (1990, p. 56). The notion of a genre
being a continual process of the playing out of expectations and characteristics has
resonance with the idea of a digital game as a process, noted below.
Study of genre in video games, however, has focused more on what elements of
the text to consider than on the more nuanced considerations of genre theory for film
and television. Wolf (2001) does acknowledge the work of Schatz when speaking of
genre in the video game, and argues that analysis of genre in gaming should focus on
‘‘genres based on interactivity’’ (p. 115), but his interactive genres—built on what’s
‘‘done’’ in the game—focus primarily on ludic concerns. Apperley (2006) takes a
similar stance, arguing also for the need to examine what is done in a game rather
than narrative concerns when attempting to build genres for them. In both authors’
arguments, it is suggested that narrative concerns like story, theme, and character are
not sufficient to the medium; that digital games, as something new and different,
demand a way of looking at genre that is specific to their unique qualities.
By contrast, Kirkland (2005) considers that in the Silent Hill series of games, it is
the thematic concerns of genre—particularly horror—that are in control of the game,
and the mechanics are the subservient element. Because the Silent Hill games strive
so much to incorporate the cinematic elements of film horror, he argues, the way that
players actually physically move through the game is already set, and the mechanics
are designed to fit that model. Thus, the games are relatively linear in scope, with
little room for exploration, because the horror film narrative also moves from start
to finish with little sidetracking. Kirkland argues, however, that understanding what
players do in a game helps to make clear its motifs and rhetorical/ideological
structures.

Rules, Fiction, and Player Engagement

This discussion of genre orbits a larger discussion on the formal aspects of the digital
game, and where meaning in the game comes from. The connection between game
mechanics, narrative themes, and ideology is one that has been explored by a number
of game studies scholars coming from a variety of different perspectives.
Conceptually, the video game text is broadly divided into the ludic dimension, or the
elements of gameplay, game design, and game mechanics, and the narrative dimen-
sion, where story, character design, and other thematic elements are key.
Scholarship that examines the confluence of narrative and ludic concerns is
considerable. In Jesper Juul’s (2005) half-real model, the ludic aspect (the ‘‘rules’’)
Harper 399

are what makes a game to begin with, and the narrative aspects (the ‘‘fiction’’)
contextualize and explain those rules; the rules are the ‘‘what’’ and the fiction is the
‘‘why’’ (or sometimes even ‘‘how’’). McAllister’s (2004) analysis of Black and
White focuses on how the narrative of playing as a god who shapes and builds a
mortal society combines with various in-game resource management aspects. The
result is the conveying of certain ideologies and rhetorics about economics that
bubble up out of the combination of rules and fiction.
Other research has considered ways in which the intersection of rules and
narrative works on the level of player behavior. In my own previous work (Harper,
2006) I suggest a model where both mechanics and theme are influences that are
subservient to the goals of the player. In that model, goal activity—what the
player wants to do—is at the center of the meaning-making process. Like Juul,
he takes a position midway between mechanical and thematic dominance, assert-
ing that both bring their own structural constraints and concerns into the mix.
Taylor (2006) speaks to something similar in her discussion of powergamers:
players whose goal is to gain statistical advantage regardless of other concerns
and for whom the game itself turns from the potential of a narrative experience
into a logic puzzle of sorts. On the other end of the spectrum are cheaters, as
explored by Consalvo (2007); she discusses players who ‘‘break’’ the mechanical
rules through cheating, sometimes in order to consume narrative material without
the interference of potential failure during gameplay.

Procedural Rhetoric
All of these models, however, focus on the consumptive act as the point of meaning
creation, even if they put differing degrees of strain on where the greatest degree of
influence is coming from. Effectively, without a player, a game does not exist nor
take on form. Ian Bogost tackles the rhetorical end of this engagement in his book
Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Video Games (2007). Bogost’s model
is called ‘‘procedural rhetoric;’’ the focus is on the use of models and simulations to
act persuasively, a concept consistent with some of the earliest formative work in
game studies under the banner of ‘‘ludology’’ (Aarseth, 1997; Frasca, 2003). In
Bogost’s model, mechanics and theme combine to create modified simulations of
actual rhetorical events; by changing the system of representation in a simulated
way, the game makes a rhetorical argument about how things are, rather than repre-
senting them directly.
Procedural rhetoric works on a similar sense to the idea of constitutive rhetoric
(Charland, 1987; Tate, 2005). While constitutive rhetoric works by adapting,
changing, or reifying concepts of identity inside a particular sociocultural and/
or political context, procedural rhetoric lets the identity categories stand and
instead changes the system in which they operate in a simulational way. To draw
a contrast, consider Tate’s discussion of the ‘‘failed’’ constitutive rhetoric of white
lesbian feminism. A constitutive rhetorical response, from a persuasive point of
400 Games and Culture 6(5)

view, would focus (as Tate did) on the various ways in which the definition of
feminism and the lesbian as ‘‘woman-identified woman’’ (p. 15) are defined and
the ways in which subjects attached to that group are rhetorically interpolated.
Although it is difficult to fully develop a procedural rhetorical response in this
context, a possibility might be a web-based game in the vein of September 12
(Newsgaming.com, n.d,), where the player assigns a dollar value to particular
feminist identities and then sells them through a fake used car lot; the mechanics
of economy (much as McAllister argued with Black and White) combined with
the rhetorical structure of lesbian/feminist identity create a type of persuasive
environment separate from (but including) representation.

Method
Textual analysis is the obvious choice for a study of this nature, as it seeks to eval-
uate how both content-based and contextual factors can result in possible interpreta-
tions rising from the text (McKee, 2003). Somewhat atypically, this analysis was
performed on a ‘‘fresh’’ play of the game; that is to say, data were collected on a first
run of the text, where the player has little to no foreknowledge of what will occur
beyond their exposure to extratextual influences. That being said, some degree of
‘‘replay’’ was involved, particularly in the game’s ending scenario; the first play-
through specifically chose the ‘‘bad’’ ending, then was reset to finish the game with
the ‘‘good’’ ending path (‘‘bad’’ and ‘‘good’’ here being used loosely, per console
gaming slang on the subject).
Methods for analyzing games, and arguments for how it should be done, are
varied. Consalvo and Dutton (2006) in particular note that while more quantitative
methodologies for examining games are well established, qualitative methods
have not been so strongly so. They suggest a framework that moves from the very
specific—what objects exist in the game world? How does the player interface
affect gameplay?—to the ‘‘most nebulous’’ ({ 33) in the form of the researcher’s
gameplay experience. Yet while there are disagreements on exactly how it should
occur—consider Aarseth (2003) and Kücklich (2007) and the opposite ways in
which they characterize the role of cheating in game analysis—the common
element in methodologies for studying games is that they must be played and
experienced to be understood.
This analysis drew heavily on both Juul (2005) and Bogost (2007) as
theoretical frameworks. Both of these scholars’ works point to an intersection
of narrative or thematic content and ludic/procedural content as having consid-
erable importance. For Juul, this intersection is the sun around which the game
form itself orbits; for Bogost, the crux point of procedural rhetoric is how ludic
and narrative content are combined to convey ideological information. Accord-
ingly, most of the data points in the textual analysis focused on those types of
intersections. This is not to say that the rest of the text was ignored; thematic
areas emerged that were either entirely narrative or entirely ludic, for example.
Harper 401

However, as Elfriede Furisch (2009, p. 244) notes, ‘‘[a]ccordingly, media

content is not just raw material that can only be authenticated in specific audi-
ence readings. It is the task of the analyst to evaluate the possibilities of the text
under investigation.’’ In this instance, the primary area of focus was the game’s
potential for producing rhetoric in a procedural way, per Bogost, and so inter-
sectional points between narrative and ludic content formed the primary points
for analysis.

Results
Performing a textual analysis of a video game is a complex matter due to both the
density of the text (which includes the narrative as well as ludic dimensions) and the
ability of the text to change based on player choice. This analysis focuses primarily
on the major procedural themes of Persona 3—choice, Persona-as-identity, and
time—as these are the primary avenues for ideological content in the game itself.1

Choice
One of the major themes in Persona 3 is the power of choice. Whether it is the ability
to choose your destiny or the destiny of mankind, or simply how the player wants to
spend the afternoon once classes are over, choices and consequences of those
choices are everywhere. Primarily, it is the main character that embodies choice
so fully because of his status as a semi-tabula rasa for the player.
The sun around which Persona 3 orbits is the main character that the player
names and controls (hereafter called ‘‘the Hero’’ rather than ‘‘the player’’ to distin-
guish the two entities). He is male, 16 or 17 years old, a junior and recent transfer
student to Gekkoukan High School in the city of Iwatodai. Compared to the other
characters in the series, the Hero is ‘‘special’’ in a number of ways; his capabilities
(both in the fiction and in the ludic content) are above the norm and he serves a
particular purpose in the story that no other character in the game can. The Hero
is part cipher, part tabula rasa; the player knows little about him at the start of the
game and, barring one important fact revealed in the transition between November
and December of 2009, learns nothing about his past. He never independently
speaks, responding only from preset lists at the player’s command.
The Hero’s initial Persona is Orpheus, the self-described ‘‘master of strings.’’ His
characteristic attitude is ambivalence or disinterest; he rarely smiles or even speaks
and constantly has a music player around his neck on a lanyard that he listens to
while walking. Unlike other characters, he is not limited in his choice of favored
weapon and can equip whichever he likes, though his initial weapon is a
one-handed sword.
His role as the ‘‘semidefined avatar’’ is important to how Persona 3 functions on
a rhetorical level in regard to the power of choice. On one hand, the narrative of the
game does not function if the Hero has too much that is already defined, and so the
402 Games and Culture 6(5)

player gets something approaching the bare minimum: his gender, his physical
appearance, an idea (as imparted by the discussion of nonplayer characters [NPC]
about him) of his capabilities and personality. However, for the most part the Hero
is open to player development. The player names the character, and through his or
her choices the Hero’s various abilities develop in particular ways, both personally
and socially. A player who chooses to have the Hero constantly study in the library
after school and go to sing karaoke at night is going to develop a high Academics
score (with titles ranging from ‘‘Average’’ to ‘‘Genius’’) and a high Courage score
(similarly, from ‘‘Timid’’ up the levels to ‘‘Badass’’). Similarly, the hero may
instead choose to socialize with other Gekkoukan students instead and develop
Social Links: ties with specific individuals that are ranked on a 1–10 scale gauging
how close a bond the Hero has developed with that person or persons.
More to the point, the Hero’s major power in the combat mechanics of the
game is his ability to shift Personas as needed in combat. This is atypical; the
other heroic fighting characters use only one Persona (though for each of them,
this Persona goes through a transformation at one point). The Hero, however,
can equip anywhere from 8 to 12 Personas at any given time and switch between
them as needed; he is thus considerably more versatile and powerful than his
allies, most of which have very specific strengths and weaknesses due to their
use of a single Persona. In fact, this chameleon ability to change his combat sta-
tistics (which are derived from the character’s Persona) on demand is central to
the combat system’s tactical element; ally characters are not only narrow in
focus but are also outside of the player’s direct command; the Hero can offer
suggestions (‘‘Heal and support,’’ ‘‘Conserve magic power,’’ ‘‘Attack full
strength,’’ etc.) at best. The narrative constructs this ability to shift Personas
at will as being a result of a traumatic event from the Hero’s past; at age 5, the
Shadow of Death was sealed inside him by a Shadow-fighting robot named
Aigis (who later becomes an ally; see below). As he grew up with Death living
inside him, the Hero developed this power as a result. Curiously, there is a sec-
ond individual who can use multiple Personas: an incidental NPC named Elisa-
beth. However, the reason for her power is not fully explained because of her
limited role in the narrative.
That said, there are considerations working against the idea of the Hero as the per-
fect blank slate on which the player can paint himself or herself. The issue of gender
is the most obvious; female players of Persona 3 are forced to play a male main char-
acter. In fact, the game’s roots in Japanese dating simulation and anime influences
means that, typically, plot situations, humor, and even combat equipment are based
on gender; the Hero accidentally seeing Yukari naked and her subsequent embar-
rassment or being forced to peek at the female protagonists in the hot springs of
Kyoto by his male ally Junpei are examples of such. The Hero is also light-
skinned (he, as well as the other characters, actually have a very Caucasian appear-
ance rather than a Japanese one; surprising, given the game’s heavy use of Japanese
culture), able-bodied, and athletic.
Harper 403

The primary arena in which the player has a choice in the personality of the char-
acter is the Hero’s responses to outside stimuli. When other characters interact with
the Hero, the player is typically given from 1 to 3 possible preworded responses,
each with varying emotional tones; this is standard in both the role-playing and the
datesim genres that Persona 3 draws on. However, for the most part, it also makes
the idea that the player has shaped the personality of the character by choosing a
given response something of an illusion. While this is certainly understandable—the
technology for fully simulated human interactions that respond dynamically is far
beyond the current curve, video games or no—on an ideological level it limits the
ways in which the Hero can develop at the player’s whim.
More importantly, there is a second factor that can drive these choices
beyond simply reacting ‘‘in character:’’ the gameplay consequences of each.
Social Links are perhaps the most common example of this. By developing
Social Links (bonds) with other characters, the Hero can empower his ability
to create new Personas relevant to the Social Link. Thus the line between
‘‘developed social bond’’ and ‘‘combat effectiveness’’ is quite easy to draw: the
better your bonds, the more effective your Personas . . . and as previously
stated, the Hero’s ability to switch Personas in combat is the lynchpin of the
combat system. Most Social Link building situations are a series of the
choice-making situations described above. One option is to simply react how the
player would like his or her controlled character to react in any given situation.
Another option, however, is to choose the most effective response for building
the Social Link, and these two are not always congruent.
For example: the Hanged Man Social Link is a young girl named Maiko who
plans to run away from home so that her divorcing parents will have to reconcile
to find her. When she announces this to the Hero, he can respond by asking her to
calm down, encouraging her choice, or warning her not to do anything hasty.
A player who wants to respond as being prudent or caring for Maiko’s safety might
suggest her not to do anything hasty; however, this choice will actually lower the
Hero’s relationship to Maiko (who sees him as a traitorous adult). By contrast,
encouraging her plan pleases her and increases the relationship between the two.
Similarly, to develop the Chariot Social Link with athlete Kazushi, the Hero must
encourage him to constantly exercise on a knee that is in need of surgery, rather than
suggesting he care about his injury first.
This can create a strong tension between character-building and game success; in
a way, the game creates a dominant code by rewarding favored answers with statis-
tical improvement. If the Hero acts in a way consistent with game designer vision, he
is rewarded with (literal) power. This tension between decision making and narrative
structure that Consalvo (2007) and Taylor (2006) discuss in their player typologies
and that tension has implications for the effectiveness of this procedural rhetoric.
Consider Taylor’s powergamer: she or he is always going to choose the option that
provides statistical advantage rather than following the narrative. A Consalvo-style
cheater may use a game guide to micromanage his or her in-game choices to any of a
404 Games and Culture 6(5)

variety of ends (see also Harper, 2006). These represent oppositions to that dominant
code and may produce commensurately different responses to the procedural rhetoric.

Persona as Identity and Mirror

As previously stated, in Persona 3 and in the Persona series of games in general, the
Persona is a reflection of the self. When creating Personas (by fusing one or more
existing ones together), the Personas typically respond by asserting that they are,
in some way, coming from within the Hero (two such lines are ‘‘I’m a part of you;
remember that!’’ or ‘‘I was born from thee, and shall walk with thee.’’). However,
beyond a simplistic notion of the Persona as a supernatural ‘‘super-self,’’ the game
uses different Personas to make commentary about characters, their links to each
other, and their role in the game and in society.
Other than the Hero, the protagonists of Persona 3 are the members of S.E.E.S;2
they serve as his family, friends, and allies in combat. In contrast to the Hero, who is
primarily controlled by the player and develops (partially, as discussed above) in
relation to his or her choices, the members of S.E.E.S are quite static. They cannot
switch Personas in combat and tend to center on a handful of critical and defining
personality traits. Examining the different characters in S.E.E.S and their relation-
ships with their Personas gives a good picture of the base level of linkage between
Persona and self.
These heroic characters are actually quite narrow in focus compared to the Hero
and can be linked into rough groups. Both Mitsuru and Yukari, for example, are
young women dealing with their relationships to their fathers. Akihiko, Shinjiro, and
Ken are all linked by the death of Ken’s mother in the earliest incarnation of S.E.E.S.
Junpei and Aigis share a strong connection to the Hero, either in the role of best
friend (Junpei) or by sealing Death within him 10 years ago (Aigis). Fuuka tends
to stand on her own as a social outcast struggling to fit in, while Koromaru, as a dog,
is usually ignored in terms of the story after his introduction.
The link between Personas and individual personality (and the otherness of the
Hero’s ability to switch them at will) becomes more evident through the lens of
S.E.E.S. Their Personas and abilities tend to strongly reflect the user, both themati-
cally and statistically. Yukari’s initial Persona is Io; the visual representation of
which is a woman who looks strikingly like Yukari chained to a stylized bull’s head
(per the Greek myth). Io specializes in magic (particularly healing) and has weak
physical statistics. Yukari, a supportive and caring individual who nevertheless is
constrained by her father’s legacy, thus gets a Persona that suits her. Shinjiro’s Per-
sona, Castor, makes a duet with Akihiko’s Persona, Polydeuces as the twins of the
Gemini constellation, in accordance with their strong friendship. Ken, who initially
seeks revenge for the death of his mother, has a Persona named Nemesis that specia-
lizes in holy-based magic that kills the target instantly. These are only a few exam-
ples; with nine characters (not counting the Hero) and a total of 16 Personas between
them, the list could go on for quite some time.
Harper 405

Second, each character in S.E.E.S except Shinjiro (who dies midway through the
game) and Koromaru eventually has some sort of personal epiphany—typically
sparked by loss—that unleashes the true power of his or her Persona. Shinjiro’s
death, for example, triggers the change of Akihiko’s Persona from Polydeuces to
Caesar, thanks to Akihiko’s newfound resolve to defeat the Shadows in place of his
departed friend. Caesar, compared to Polydeuces, has significantly better statistics
and learns much improved magic and abilities. Both Yukari and Mitsuru’s awakened
Personas come from revelations concerning their departed fathers’ intent for their
daughters’ lives; Yukari’s in particular is notable due to the change of Io to Isis and
the removal of the ‘‘chained girl’’ motif; the personal change is reflected, naturally,
in the Persona. Junpei’s Hermes becomes Trismegistus, shifting from the blithe
trickster to the keeper of wisdom and hermetic knowledge, once he experiences a
true loss and brush with mortality for the first time in his otherwise carefree existence.
At the same time, this is all contrasted to the Hero and his seemingly endless array
of possible Personas. This distinction makes an ideological break between the Hero
and the members of S.E.E.S, both in terms of the characters’ given roles in combat
and in the story. It is implied that the Hero is ‘‘special’’ somehow even before it is
revealed why he can change Personas at will (due to his brush with Death), and his
chameleon ability to change the inner self reflects on what his purpose is in the first
place. For example, consider the ‘‘awakening’’ of Personas, as each S.E.E.S member
experiences it. As previously described, these situations are typically loss-related
(the deaths of Shinjiro, Junpei’s love interest Chidori, and Mitsuru’s father spark
four of the seven total; Fuuka’s involves the loss of a friend and Yukari’s is related
to her dead father) and emphasize that through surviving loss the character matures
into a new, more powerful self . . . but that new self is merely an enhancement of
existing traits rather than a shift in a new direction. These individuals can never
be more than they are; the game ideologically traps the members of S.E.E.S into
their characteristic roles forever.
The Hero is not so fettered, but in the process he loses some definition of self.
Presumably, the ‘‘choice’’ of Persona the player favors influences this read, but the
role of game mechanics must again be emphasized here. It may be that in order to
obtain a game benefit, the player must choose to use a Persona she or he is not com-
fortable with ideologically. Consider the Personas Lucifer and Satan, extremely
powerful high-level Personas that have the potential to trivialize the combat portion
of the game with their extremely powerful abilities. The trick, of course, is that in
order to utilize their power you must ‘‘become’’ Lucifer or ‘‘become’’ Satan, to
adopt their Persona. Depending on the player’s subject position, this may or may not
be comfortable. Comparatively speaking, another ‘‘ultimate’’ Persona for the Hero is
called Messiah; while it is not as powerful as the Lucifer/Satan combo, it is still
exceptionally powerful . . . and comes with different and, perhaps, more ‘‘accepta-
ble’’ ideological ties.
Procedurally, this use of the Persona as a mirror of the self is an example of
Bogost’s idea that rather than shifting the representation (see the above discussion
406 Games and Culture 6(5)

of constitutive vs. procedural rhetorics), a procedural argument shifts the systems in

which representations are created. Rather than forcing the player (and by extension
the Hero) into a single path and moving characters around him, Persona 3 estab-
lishes the terrain through these fixed friendly characters and then allows the player
to navigate around them—both narratively and ludically—by making the Hero the
focus of change and adaptation.

Time
Although not as key a factor as choice or Persona/identity, time does play a strong
role in Persona 3. The game works on a simulated calendar of the Japanese public
school year, starting in April of 2009 and ending somewhere between January 1 and
March 31 of 2010. The game uses the flow of time as a narrative and gameplay con-
trol; each day has a limited number of dayparts in which to act, and most major plot
points are tied to specific days of each month.
The concept of time as a limiter is the most prevalent in the game. Each day con-
sists of seven dayparts, some of which pull double duty: Early Morning/Morning,
Daytime, Lunchtime, Afternoon, After School, Evening, and Late Night/Dark Hour.
A typical ‘‘day’’ in Persona 3 involves moving through each of these parts in order,
with school taking up the majority. The most important dayparts are After School,
Evening, and Late Night, as these are when the player has control over the Hero’s
actions. As per the Japanese school schedule, classes go from Monday to Saturday,
with Sunday as a holiday.
Social links and time work together. As noted, Social links are needed to boost the
Hero’s ability to create powerful Personas, but building a relationship takes time,
which is a limited resource. While it is possible to get every Social link to rank
10 (the maximum) in a single playthrough, this is generally speaking highly unlikely
unless the player totally eschews playing in a ‘‘natural’’ way and micromanages
every last possible second of free time available to the Hero . . . and even then, some
luck is involved. Thus, the player is forced to prioritize some relationships over oth-
ers depending on a variety of factors: whom the player likes, what types of Persona
the player enjoys using, and when the NPC for that Social Link can be met. Since
every NPC has his or her own schedule of days when s/he is available, planning
is crucial.
And of course, the school setting forces demands on time as well. Most Social
links are tied to students of Gekkoukan, for example, but during the week before
exam periods (of which there are three), all students are so busy studying that they
do not have time to spend with the Hero at all. Once exams actually begin, there is no
time for socialization period; the Hero moves from one day of testing to the next,
frequently blowing an entire week of time in one go. Some Social links are also
dependent on the Hero’s three scores in Academics, Courage, and Charm; the only
way to raise those is to perform a number of activities such as studying in the library
(Academics), seeing a marathon of romantic movies (Charm), or singing karaoke at
Harper 407

the mall (Courage). Of course, if the player is spending time developing the Hero’s
own abilities, she or he is not spending time building social relationships.
If it sounds complex, that is because it is . . . but in a sense it is also sending a
message about budgeting time. The game uses mechanics—particularly Social
Links and the Personas they empower—to enforce a particular way of budgeting
time. It is entirely possible to play Persona 3 without building a single link (though
some, like Fool, Death, and Judgment, are automatic) . . . but it is going to be con-
siderably more difficult than the alternative. Further, if the Hero is to be a hit
socially, the player needs to develop him; if the Hero is not charming, Yukari will
not be interested in him. If the Hero is not highly Courageous, then team manager
Yuko will not look his way.
Above and beyond that, however, is time functioning as a Sword of Damocles.
For the first 7 months of 2009, S.E.E.S focuses on defeating powerful Shadows
that only appear when the moon is full (e.g., every 30 days). Thus, time is con-
stantly moving forward and the game cares little if the player is prepared or not;
the game’s difficulty is not adaptive, so a powerful monster remains so regardless
of the characters’ levels of statistical power. Once the plot reaches December
2009, a second deadline is added in the form of Nyx’s arrival and the (literal) end
of the world.
This use of calendar time is actually quite unusual in modern console role-playing
games, and in Persona 3 it seems to indicate the inescapability of the moment. While
doomsday devices are commonplace—meteors about to impact the planet, an evil
demon about to recite the spell that destroys humanity, and so on—they frequently
exist in a sort of frozen, eternal now; the future is inevitable but a distant country.
One could take the equivalent of 100 in-game years in Final Fantasy VII to eventu-
ally stop its villain because time is not important in that game’s theme and cosmol-
ogy. In Persona 3, failing to defeat Nyx on January 31, 2010, really does result in the
end of the world. Of course, the relationship between in-game time and real-world
time is more abstract; a player can spend 15–20 hours exploring Tartarus during the
Dark Hour if she or he wishes, and that individual Dark Hour will technically last
forever until the character ends it by leaving Tartarus.
This fluidity of time creates an ideology where every moment counts in the
context of the one big event of the ‘‘good’’ ending: the Hero’s death in order
to seal Nyx away for good. This mythic calendar year—the school year—
suddenly becomes a microcosm for life itself. The Hero is ‘‘born’’ (revealed to
us at the beginning, a more or less blank slate as discussed above), he ‘‘lives’’
(fights, develops links with others), and then dies. On some occasions, time moves
slowly (e.g. the Dark Hour and exploration) and sometimes it seems to breeze by
so past one does not recall exactly what happened (exam weeks or even a week in
which the characters volunteer to do menial work where the entire 6 days blow by
in one go). But the constant deadlines and inevitabilities remind the player that
time itself is always moving forward and suggest certain discourses about how
that time should be spent.
408 Games and Culture 6(5)

Discussion
What Persona 3 offers is a text where ideology bubbles up from the fusion of ludic
qualities and thematic/narrative elements. Personas themselves, the characters, the
settings, even the statistical systems; all of these have particular ties to the narrative
and in concert suggest certain ideological frames. In particular, Persona 3’s micro-
cosmic view of birth, life, and death through the auspice of the Hero suggests a num-
ber of views on how life should be lived. It valorizes social contact, persistence in the
face of despair, personal growth through self-knowledge, and ultimately, privileges
acceptance of death over fear of death.
Interestingly enough, a fourth major theme—death and the life-journey—bubbled
up from analysis. It is not discussed extensively in the results section, however, for a
very particular reason. In attempting to describe the theme, I discovered that all of
my examples from the text were narrative examples; while there were a small num-
ber of ludic elements that supported it (primarily, that the in-combat death of the
Hero results in a game over, even if the other party members are still up and around),
the concept of the game itself as a journey from birth to death was almost entirely
narrative.
However, this narrative/ideological frame arose from the procedural frames out-
lined in the results section above. The game as a succession of personal choices that
result in both narrative and statistical growth, the concept of a second self released
through a symbolic death, even the idea of linear, inexorable time . . . all of these
work together to construct the life–death journey the Hero undertakes. Thus, while
the ideas of choice, Persona-as-self, and time are certainly procedural frames, they
may not be rhetorical frames; rather, each set of procedural themes contributes to the
overall ideological character of the text, which in the case of Persona 3 is easiest to
grasp from ‘‘outside’’ as the narrative.
I make a distinction here somewhat between ‘‘the story’’ and ‘‘the ideological
argument’’ because the game text as a whole treats them somewhat differently.
Certainly, Persona 3 presents a self-contained story: a young man becomes
involved in various plots and then saves the world, resulting in his death. The
marks of the rhetorical master frame—the journey from birth to death—are still
there, but they are relatively weak on their own. Similarly, so are the ludic
frames. Limited timeframes in which to complete game objectives and charac-
ters with varying and unique statistics are common, so their inclusion taken
by itself means little.
Combining the narrative with the ludic gives the ideological content robustness. It
makes more sense that the game presents an allegorical life journey when we realize
the Hero is a tabula rasa the player fills in, when the inexorable march of time toward
the literal end of the world has real in-game consequences, and when the ideological
aspects of the characters in the narrative are reflected in what the game allows them
to do in gameplay. In short, thematic areas that would on their own be considerably
weaker are given substantive strength by combining the narrative and the ludic.
Harper 409

The result in Persona 3 is a game that not only has a compelling narrative but
which drives that narrative forward by attaching various procedural frames to it.
Marrying gameplay to ideology makes the conveying of that ideology part of the
experience, rather than something attached to the experience. Instead of a top-
down fashion where the game has a specific story to tell irrespective of its ludic con-
tent, Persona 3 weaves the story into the gameplay in subtle ways. It may be this
particular quality of not just P3, but of most Shin Megami Tensei games (see above),
that has made them so popular.
In that regard, Persona 3 certainly is a genre game, though the genre in question
might simply be ‘‘a Shin Megami Tensei game.’’ My own previous work on meaning
making in gaming refers to genre as a hybrid antecedent, an influence on gameplay
that is rooted in both in-game (internal) and out-of-game (external) factors. This is
similar to Neale’s description of genre as a process, where the consumer of a genre
text measures expectations on the ‘‘generic corpus’’ (1990, p. 56) against what ele-
ments the text decides to include or exclude from that corpus. Texts expand the body
of technique in the genre by adding their own unique touches and qualities, which
consumers then go on to use in evaluating future genre work. Thus, genre is never
set in stone nor fixed; it is a constant cycle of adaptation and evaluation.
The previous discussions of genre in digital games mentioned above centered
their arguments on which formal area—narrative or gameplay content—should get
the most attention. However, what frameworks like procedural rhetoric suggest is
that it may be more useful to consider genre as a way in which games and game
designers structure their content. Remember that Persona 3 draws on multiple genre
traditions: the Shin Megami Tensei games (known for their dark tone, emphasis on
the effects of choice, and focus on psychological issues), the Persona series (which
give a particular structure—including the use of Personas—to the SMT superstruc-
ture), and even the broad level of console role-playing games, which are traditionally
heavily story based.
Even within those two limited genres, however, there are narrative and ludic
aspects to them all. Recall that Shin Megami Tensei games are known for both their
narrative elements, like use of demons and the occult, and their ludic ones, such as
the emphasis on developing a blank slate character through player choices. Console
role-playing games have both common narrative tropes—the journey to save the
world, the hero’s journey, and the general primacy of a progressive storyline—and
also mechanical ones such as numeric statistical representations and menu-driven
combat systems ... generic elements themselves borrowed from another genre form
entirely, the tabletop role-playing game in the vein of Dungeons and Dragons.
Looking at Persona 3 and attempting to determine its genre in a traditional way
would simply look for the presence or absence of something. Does the game have
menu-driven combat and a fantasy-based setting? Then it is a role-playing game.
What the procedural way of looking at genre suggests is that instead of looking for
the presence or absence of elements from a set genre list, we should consider the ways
in which various common narrative and ludic frames are configured.
410 Games and Culture 6(5)

The same procedural theme can work in different ways depending on the genre of
the text. Consider the idea of ‘‘limited time.’’ In Persona 3, it serves a ludic function
(limiting and shaping gameplay functions) and a thematic function (structuring the
Hero’s journey and framing the microcosm of the school year). ‘‘Limited time’’ is
also at work in a sports game like Madden NFL, however; as with its nonvideo game
counterpart, in Madden NFL, players have the same limited amount of time to make
plays, score points, and the like. In one sense, time is working in the same way in
both games: the player only has (x) time periods—be they dayparts and months in
Persona 3 or quarters and the play clock in Madden—to accomplish what she or
he wants.
However, are the rhetorical uses of time in these two situations comparable? In
Madden, the concept of time is situated primarily in rhetoric of ‘‘realism;’’ because
actual football has these temporal dimensions, its representation in the video game
should also have them. On the other hand, Persona 3 makes no claim to realism at
all; the inclusion of time as a procedural theme here suggests that the game’s
designers included it (when it is, as previously noted, often absent from the genre)
for a specific purpose.
The difference is that Persona and Madden are two very different types of games
with different influences. Sports games in general tend toward faithful replication of
real life systems; Persona comes from a tradition of both horror-influenced fantasy nar-
ratives (as a console role-playing game) and of a space to play out fantasy relationships
(as a datesim). Thus the same procedural frame—in this case, limited time—is refracted
through the prism of genre (and almost certainly other factors not discussed here as
well) and gives rise to the potential for multiple readings of the same basic concept.

Conclusion
Persona 3 fairly clearly combines the procedural with the narrative in order to pres-
ent a certain ideological frame. As this study illustrates, Bogost’s procedural rhetoric
provides a useful framework for analysis of games, particularly their ideological and
cultural content. As various scholars discussed above have noted, the crux point of
analysis for games is gameplay. Themes that arise from intersections of narrative
and ludic frames—the procedural moments of Bogost’s system—represent moments
in gameplay where there is great potential for ideological arguments.
Accordingly, it also suggests new ways of conceiving genre in video games, a
contested territory that mirrors early arguments in game studies about the nature
of games as either ‘‘interactive’’ traditional narratives or nonnarrative simulations.
Genre is strongly at work in Persona 3 on multiple levels, as described above, and
it cannot be separated from the mechanics or the narrative. Both the cinematic genre
of Kirkland and the ludic genre of Apperley are involved here, and each has their
own distinctive effect on the game’s presentation. Persona 3’s use of various proce-
dural frames and narrative elements in combination suggests that in classifying
genre merely examining the narrative or the ludic alone is not enough; the ways
Harper 411

in which the game rules express certain concepts—such as the difference between
sports games and RPGs in using time to express either ‘‘realism’’ or ‘‘tension’’—
may be a more effective way to think about game genres.
Since the initial writing of this research, there have been two sequels to Persona 3;
one is actually an ‘‘expansion’’ for P3 called P3:Fes, which includes the entire
original game with expanded content, as well as an ‘‘epilogue’’ that continues after
the death of the player character. The other is Persona 4, a self-contained sequel.
A comparative examination of Persona 4 would be particularly interesting, as the
game appears to build on and refine the systems used in P3 while telling a different
story. Such an analysis could consider if the link between ludic frames and rheto-
rical frames stays consistent within the series.
Future research may wish to apply this concept to games that do not appear
to have a strong rhetorical frame built in. As both the game itself and the
designer commentary in Art of Persona 3 (2007) suggest, this game had ideolo-
gical expression (if not rhetorical persuasion) built into it from the ground up.
Would the same apply to something equally modern, but with a different narra-
tive structure? Consider another popular game series, Katamari Damacy; the
series has a relatively weak narrative and its primary draw is its novel mechan-
ical gameplay and ‘‘cute’’ thematic presentation. If the concept of procedural
rhetoric is to be extended outside the realm of persuasive games, however, it
should be able to hold even in such a situation; I suggest Katamari Damacy
because I believe it does, in fact, follow similar structures regarding themes
of togetherness and community. While Persona 3 does suggest that the frame-
work has merit outside the field of persuasive games, it is only one star in an
increasingly diverse cosmos of games; future studies can and should build on
this to make the approach more robust.

Notes
1. Here I identify a few of the important terms as the game defines them that are useful in
understanding the procedural systems that are described in the results section:

(i) Personas are manifestations of a living being’s inner or true self; they take the
form of stylized mythological figures (gods, demons, monsters, etc.) and
grant their masters supernatural abilities. A Persona is called forth by a
gun-shaped device called an ‘‘Evoker;’’ the Evoker is pointed at the body
and the trigger pulled, calling forth the Persona for a brief time.
(ii) Shadows are monstrous beings that prey on the living. They emerge during
the Dark Hour, a nebulous time period between 12:00 a.m. and 12:01
a.m. each day that only Persona users and Shadows can perceive. They
are the standard enemy of Persona 3 and the Hero and company spend
most of the game attempting to defeat various Shadows.
(iii) Tartarus, the ‘‘Tower of Demise,’’ is what Gekkoukan High School
becomes during the Dark Hour. In ludic terms, it is a 200þ floor
412 Games and Culture 6(5)

randomly generated dungeon where the lion’s share of the game’s

combat play takes place. Thematically, it is a Tower of Babylon full
of Shadows meant to receive Nyx when she descends to start the Fall;
in Art of Persona 3, the designers liken Tartarus to the human psyche.

2. The ‘‘Specialized Extracurricular Execution Squad,’’ a partial send-up of an after-school

activity group. In this case, the ‘‘activity’’ of S.E.E.S is the destruction of Shadows. The
S.E.E.S roster consists of the game’s protagonists: the Hero, Takeba Yukari, Iori Junpei,
Kirijo Mitsuru, Sanada Akihiko, Amada Ken, Fuuka Yamagishi, the dog Koromaru, and
the robot Aigis. Former member Aragaki Shinjiro temporarily joins between October and
November by the game calendar.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interests with respect to the
authorship and/or publication of this article.

Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research and/or authorship of this
article.

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Bio
Todd Harper is a recent graduate of the PhD program in Media Studies at Ohio University;
his dissertation work examined the role of social play and performance in fighting games and
the fighting game community. He is currently a postdoctoral researcher at the Singapore-MIT
GAMBIT Game Lab at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. His current research
includes work on sexual identity in digital games, and the aesthetics of player-created content
in Little Big Planet.