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Author Archives: Anna Alexis Larsson

Keramidas: yay; Bogost: okay.

Keynote speech at 2015 CCCC by Adam Banks

In his article, “Persuasive Games: Exploitationware,” Ian Bogost grapples with (rants about) the political consequences of the rhetorical decisions we make in how we describe designing games for learning. In order to get a sense of the way in which game design is a radical departure from “many of the practices of industrialization that gamification silently endorses,” it’s useful to pair his discussion with the more in-depth attention to questions of design and pedagogy that Kimon Keramidas provides in “What Games Have to Teach us about Teaching and Learning: Game Design as a Model for Course Design and Curricular Development.” But first, for those of you who are reading this to get the gist of the articles, I’ll summarize Bogost’s beef with “gamification.” As implied above, gamification according to Bogost involves applying an abstract, therefore vague, concept to an already-existing set and structure of practices (in this case, pedagogical practices) instead of creating a new system. A new system, my best guess suggests, would involve reorienting pedagogy from what Freire called the “banking concept of education” (Freire 72) to designing a learning process through encounters in and with a context.

 

This seems to be the main difference in a game-design system: that of switching from the priority of a teacher-expert passing knowledge to a student to that of a student using the teacher as one of a number of tools in a rewarding, stimulating, and challenging learning environment designed by the instructor. This learning process, I gather from Keramidas, depends on the student making decisions and learning how to make better or wiser decisions in a context that periodically gives them “value assigned” outcomes and opportunities for “meaningful play.” This is what Keramidas has described as a learning environment compatible with game design. Using Jesper Juul’s definition of a game, he outlines the elements of game design that parallel, in some way, course design and learning environments; and those that could parallel game design more than they currently do; or that differ in an important way. Regarding difference, for example, Keramidas notes that games are isolated from real-world consequences for the player unlike the learning environments that explicitly prepare students for their activities beyond the classroom. These “non-negotiable outcomes,” for Keramidas, add to the relative worth of classrooms over games.

 

Keramidas is careful to point out that, in many ways, the description of a game, and its individual essentials, is already compatible with contemporary pedagogy. Like games, learning environments have rules that set these spaces apart from others. They have variable, quantifiable outcomes. They have “value assigned to possible outcomes,” such as grades or new challenges. As in both games and learning, the “player” must exert effort to get anything out of the process. However, they don’t necessarily have play: certainly not enough of it. Play, in this context, involves much more than having a light-hearted attitude or a variety of low-stakes, creative activities. Drawing from Salen and Zimmerman’s Rules of Play, Keramidas stipulates that “meaningful play” includes multi-player interactions, an emphasis on interactivity in general; having tasks/work that are/is relevant to the next and future activities, as in the case of multi-staged assignments, and opportunities for the “player” to make choices. Keramidas also asserts, through Salen and Zimmerman, that the rules (or rule makers) of the learning environments could learn from games by including more student-led learning and more opportunities to negotiate outcomes and assessments for assignments.

 

If any of you are involved in the College Composition community, and if any of you have attended a Conference on College Composition and Communication, you already know about and put into practice the principles listed above, and you’ve probably done so without thinking about games or gamification. That’s why it’s surprising that Bogost characterizes the compositionists at the C’s the way that he does. Tweed and patches and twin sets? I don’t know what lenses he was wearing. Teachers come to the C’s dressed like they’re looking for a hip publisher or a “conference boyfriend.” He implies that it took them forever to catch on to his ideas, but compositionists have emphasized play and interactivity since the 1970’s, and books like Geoffrey Sirc’s Composition as a Happening (2002) and Jody Shipka’s Toward a Composition Made Whole (2011) trace and revise some of that history without ever even mentioning Ian Bogost.

 

Perhaps this historical precedent is why the conference organizers gave him one of the most prime spots for presenting—the second session of the first day. I was dismayed that Bogost took a long-time allay of responsive, interactive pedagogy with multi-staged assignment sequences, teacher-student collaborative assessment rubrics, and multimodal compositions that emphasize rhetorical decisions over mechanics, and turned this community into a straw man for his complaint about “gamification.” He must have been referring to the administrators (perhaps not present at C’s) who determine the budgets for those rad WPAs (writing program administrators) who provide the space and resources for composition classrooms to be some of the most playful and interdisciplinary spaces in the university. If we are to use criteria drawn up by Keramidas and Bogost, compositionists already are game designers. We are also extremely conscious of the real-world, non-negotiable outcomes and consequences of our courses, and therefore of our curriculum design. So, what kind of game is this? Calling compositionists the traditionalist keepers of poor practices? Perhaps it took him so long to get a spot at our conference because he didn’t bother to learn about it, or about us.

 

 

 

 

Errors and Expectations

Hi All,

I apologize for writing this so late in the week. I’m inundated by student papers at the moment. Perhaps this is the perfect time to be thinking about Mina Shaughnessy’s Errors and Expectations. In the introduction, the most famous section of the book, Shaughnessy explains that the era of open admissions at CUNY presented a huge influx of students to the then-free CUNY campuses, many many many of whom were unprepared for college writing by the most generous of traditional standards. Much more importantly, instructors trained “to analyze belletristic achievements of the centuries” were completely unprepared for those struggling student writers. From this emerged the concept of the “Basic Writer” (BW), and a body of work aimed to assist Basic (or, now often called, developmental) writers “catch up.”

The big takeaway from this section is twofold. First, Shaughnessy warns instructors against assuming that student writing errors are random or lack an attempt to fulfill the requirements of the assignment. She urges instructors to recognize patterns in student error and to respond to the logic(s) they see within/behind those patterns. Additionally, she stresses that instructors should not see the ‘basic’ of basic writing [as] not how to write but how to be right” (6). Shaughnessy’s aim is not to make student writing error the focus of the class but to inform instructors the errors of their own common interpretations of basic student writing. “[Since] teachers’ preconceptions about errors are frequently at the center of their misconceptions about BW students, I have no choice but to dwell on errors” (6).

Shaughnessy concludes her introduction with an explanation of her view of the role of error in student writing. She describes the BW student’s struggle to write despite the writer’s awareness of the probability of the reader’s criticism over error, and she places the importance of error in no more prominent or important a place than in the economy of audience attention. If the text takes too much time and effort without a big enough payback (it’s not Milton, after all) for the audience then the prose needs reworking. It’s important to distinguish this outlook from one that would suggest BW textual errors amount to illiteracy or an illegitimacy of the writer’s place in college. From errors we’ll now move to expectations.

The major takeaway from “Chapter 8: Expectations” is simply (deceptively simply) that instructors can expect students to improve significantly with regular, though not intensive, instruction based on an understanding of the patterns and logics at work in BW texts. I should, here, note that when I use the phrase “patterns and logics” I’m trying to forward a sense of the concrete that Shaughnessy provides when she advocates for basic writers. I refer to the evidence, which she provides, of something at the heart of what Shaughnessy wants instructors to understand about basic writers: that they are fundamentally intelligent people who deserve a college education and a place in public discourse.

I’d love to elaborate further, but I need to return to my students’ papers. On Monday, I’d love to hear your thoughts about Shaughnessy’s premise in our current system. How much is education actually based on her fundamental premise? How much is your pedagogy driven by this understanding? Is this at the heart of things, or not so much?