by Bob Goodrich
I am not Commander Shepard.
It’s obvious, really; I am not brave like Shepard, I have never been in the military, I have no skill with any firearms, and I am definitely not a woman. Commander Shepard is a character I created, like an author writing a novel, or a director coaching an actor. I am in charge, but she is separate from me.
In Mass Effect 1 and 2, BioWare appeared to believe otherwise. Nearly every piece of dialogue was chosen from a wheel, even when both choices led to the same audio file, and only a handful of direct actions Shepard took were out the player’s control. Player input was the order of the day. Every decision Shepard had to make, I made for her, but nearly every feeling she had, I had to impart myself. Mass Effect may have let you create a character, but that character was still a blank slate, an audience cipher. The game was built around Shepard’s deeds, not her thoughts or feelings. As such, the handful of lines Shepard where Shepard talked about herself – her spacer background, growing up in a military family, moving from one ship to another – were welcome, but felt strangely out of place; this was someone who existed beyond the character I had created.
In Mass Effect 3, the focus shifted in a significant way. Shepard takes far less direction than before. Conversations carry on and often Shepard will speak without any input from the player beyond an initial stance. She is also more than willing to take action on her own, without asking for permission from the person with the controller. As a result, Shepard emerges as her own woman. Shepard has dreams. Shepard feels anger, fear, guilt, and even despair. What the player chooses is not necessarily if Shepard has these feelings, but how Shepard deals with them. Does she lash out, or quietly blame herself? Does she confide in her friends and crew? Or is she stoic and alone, the solitary leader? Does she regret certain actions she took? Or does she have perfect moral certainty?
The intricacy of Mass Effect 3′s writing and voice acting is such that, though much of this is out of the player’s hands, he or she can still feel as though they are coloring the story and the character in meaningful ways. When Shepard betrays a close friend, and a crew member asks about their fate, that pause before she speaks can be a pang of guilt, or a hardening of resolve. When someone asks how Shepard is feeling after waking from a disturbing dream, and the player chooses not to speak of it, Shepard might be refusing to acknowledge her fears, or simply maintaining an example of strength for the crew. The truth is both, and neither. Writing for multiple valid interpretations of the same line of dialogue is no easy feat, but Mass Effect 3 manages it more often than not.
In previous Mass Effect games, Shepard had no conflict, no feelings, no personality beyond the lines the player chose. Now, Mass Effect 3 has given Shepard depth and made her a character the player influences, rather than an avatar he controls.
And yet, despite all this, when I discuss a Mass Effect game, I still say “I did this,” or “I did that.” I punched that reporter. I shook hands with Wrex. I made the choice that saved a life, or damned it. And I think I’ve realized why.
I am not Commander Shepard. I am her conscience. And sometimes, she’s just too busy to listen.
Further reading: “There’s No ‘I’ in Shepard: How Mass Effect Cured My Avatar Obsession” (Medium Difficulty)
“Moral Relativism in Heavy Rain: Pre and Post-partum” (Medium Difficulty)
