Detroit: Become Human is evidence that breathtaking production isn't effective camouflage for anemic dialogue and abysmal writing. By co-opting famous racial prejudices and projecting all of them onto society's assimilation of androids, Detroit spoils its power to create convincing drama. The sense of agency and control over its story remains exciting, but archetypal plotting and cosmetic platitudes leave Detroit without much to say about anything.
Detroit: Become Human lives inside of its moments and dies as quickly as they fade away.
This trick is developer Quantic Dream’s specialty; applying extreme tension to broadly-relatable conflict and providing the player with options to sort it all out. It was proven in Indigo Prophecy’s coercive diner sequence, fleshed out with Heavy Rain’s commitment to “interactive drama,” and pushed to its ludicrous maximum inside of Beyond: Two Souls’ supernatural spectacle. Detroit, inspired by Quantic Dream’s encouraging Kara short from 2012, represents their latest attempt to explore the relationship between player and narrative.
The year 2038 witnesses the integration of androids into American society. Fueled by the city of Detroit’s return to prominence and manufacturing, androids have found a place in civilization as caretakers, laborers, and sex workers. As one can imagine, in the ten years since androids emerged, humans have developed a reason to collectively protest their existence. The othering of a synthetic race is a popular trope in science fiction and it usually boils down to a familiar question: should androids be afforded the same right as humans? Despite the numerous times a version of this question has been asked, Detroit believes it can provide a fresh and satisfying answer.
Detroit pulls its racial conflicts from prejudices cast upon our own culture’s minorities. Like immigrants, androids receive blame for taking away jobs from hard-working citizens. They’re banned from some public merchants, just like animals or people with the wrong skin color. They ride in the back of the bus like African Americans under segregation. Some deviant androids are a mirror for the mentally ill. All androids are made to wear arm bands like the Jews under Nazi Germany and, much later on in Detroit, may be sent to camps where they’re stripped naked and collectively murdered in a chamber. Detroit goes there, but only because someone else already went. Borrowing powerful imagery creates an emotional shortcut, but it also removes the androids’ common identity. Their pain not their own, especially when Detroit’s references are so conspicuously pilfered from recent history.
Quantic Dream’s style steps away from the combat-heavy stature of other expensive looking videogames and takes the form of a narrative adventure. Exploration is left to the player, but action is handled with rapid fire, contextually-sensitive button presses. Ideally, events that lead to the action should feel like a reflection of carefully selected dialogue options. Telltale’s post-Walking Dead games and Until Dawn are close analogs, but none feel as committed to (and consumed by) their craft as Quantic Dreams’ work. Heavy Rain did very well and people started paying attention.
A trio of protagonists guide the player through Detroit’s hostility. Kara begins as a housekeeper and nanny for a little girl, Alice. Markus is a servant and caretaker for his walking-impaired master, a brilliant artist, Carl. Conner, a specialized android manufactured to find and eliminate deviant androids, plays a less sympathetic role and exists as a foil against the rebellious action of Kara and Markus. Allowing the player to (consciously) control an opposing point of view is a first for a Quantic Dream game. It’s also Detroit’s best shot at creating conflict not only in its characters, but also in motivation of the player.
Detroit’s means of expression rotates through its three protagonists. Conner conforms to the role of the detective, investigating crime scenes to come up with a thesis and a motive. It’s a modern adventure game, not unlike L.A. Noire or the Norman sequences of Heavy Rain, and it rewards the player for being thorough with their examination of the environment. Finding select clues provides Conner with additional dialogue options and can affect whether or not Conner is ultimately able to pin a particular suspect. Conner’s opening sequence, frequently demoed in the years leading up to Detroit’s release, is also its most tense and effective. It works as a moment, but washes out when it’s part of a larger story.
Conner’s path is also shaped by elements of a buddy cop movie. He’s paired with an alcoholic burned-out, android-hating detective, Hank (played with fitting incredulity by Clancy Brown), and challenged with maintaining their volatile relationship. Conner’s treatment of Hank reflects back on Conner, creating (or denying) options as the plot unravels. Between dialogue selections and a ridged sequence of events, however, Hank’s instability increases to the point of distraction. The first time I played Detroit I placated Hank’s judgement. On my second time through I openly defied him. Hank’s fate changed, but his demeanor remained the same. This felt weird, and it exposed a limitation of Detroit’s ability to tell a coherent story. Hank makes sense as a character, but he’s ultimately a slave to the plot.
The sequences with Conner and Hank marked occasions where Detroit didn’t feel joyless. When Conner thinks Hank is a useless turd and Hank considers Conner an insipid Boy Scout, Detroit is capable of presenting a fun interpersonal dynamic. During their investigation at the Eden Club, an android brothel, Conner forces Hank to rent a bunch of sex work sessions so those particular androids can be questioned. Conner’s attempt to sober up a hammered Hank is also a fun sequence. These are great scenes! It’s one of the few times Detroit expresses a sense of humor, and it’s a pity the tenor of Detroit dismisses an entire game about the ridiculous adventures of the android jerk and his permanently drunk friend.
Kara’s sequences begin to uncover Detroit’s languid difficulties with characterization. As a newly-refurbished android, Kara is taken home by her drug-addicted, shiftless, divorced, abusive asshole owner, Todd. There is zero trace of subtlety with Todd. He acts like he looks, and events transpire where Kara can break from his command, go “deviant,” and run away with Todd’s young daughter, Alice. Kara’s primary objective in Detroit is to keep Alice alive and comfortable as they try and make their way toward safety. This task proves to be increasingly difficult with Detroit’s rising hostility toward androids.
Kara and Alice’s sequences are where Detroit begins repeating versions of tricks Quantic Dream already played in Heavy Rain. An early sequence returns to a convenience store for a moral quandary: steal from the register and sleep in a hotel, or stay clean and go to bed in squalor? Sometime later, Kara trusts the wrong person and finds herself bound to device where a maniac performs horrific experiments. Madison already did this in Heavy Rain and it’s depressing that Quantic Dream can’t figure out another way to threaten its women. Torture is apparently too relatable.
Alice is the heart of Kara’s story. The drive to keep her safe and sheltered and to make decisions that shield her from danger are effective in developing empathy for both characters. At the same time, there isn’t much of a character to Alice. Detroit makes it impossible to miss literal Alice in Wonderland references, but, beyond the trauma suffered at the hand of her father, she’s nothing. Caring for a small child creates some very sweet moments that survive entirely on premise. Alice is an emotional shortcut who obviates the need for an actual character. Of course you’re going to selflessly protect the little girl.
Markus is where Detroit finds most of its direct conflict. As a servant for Carl, he’s treated with dignity and respect. When he ventures out into the world to run errands for Carl, we see Markus as the victim of hate and violence when he walks by an anti-android protests. Markus’ ethos develops when Carl encourages him to pick up his paint and brush, but comes crashing down when Detroit feels the need to attack Markus’ humanity with a blunt force object. Leo, Carl’s son, shows up playing a predictably spoiled miscreant and, before long, Markus is removed from his position and left to the dregs of society.
Before long Markus finds his way to an android resistance collective, Jericho, and is compelled to a messianic rise. The player decides whether Markus must conduct his revolution peacefully or with riotous violence. This manifests in decisions where Markus can opt to deal with a problem indirectly or simply murder whatever is human standing in the way. On Markus’ shoulders are Josh, who pushes for peace, and North, who believes violence is the only way to achieve their goals. Detroit invests more of its time in North, including a strained romantic angle, creating a clumsy sense of inequality between Markus’ closest advisors.
Markus’ actions are subject to the same shortcomings as Conner’s relationship with Hank. Decisions matter in the moment they happen, but don’t always have the desired effect on the larger story. At one point I was charged with commanding Jericho recruits to create a scene in a public park. In one play-through I modified billboards for peaceful change and spray painted messages of defiance. In another I basically burned everything down. Both resulted in two cops showing up and murdering androids, but it only felt justified in one. You could make the argument that cops show up and kill people for no reason all the time in real life, but it felt incongruous with my actions in Detroit’s story. The whole thing was a setup for the fate of those two cops.
As a whole, Detroit is better about handling player choice than any of Quantic Dream’s previous projects. After completing a chapter you’re treated to a flowchart that hints at ways sequences might have gone if you had made different decisions. Some branches are available by replaying the chapter while others reference decisions from much earlier parts of the game. Meaningful variation is scant until Detroit’s third act, which opens up a significant amount of possibility. There is a remarkable amount of content that a player who only experiences Detroit once may never see. Whether or not it’s worth it is a different question, but the possibility left inside of Detroit’s final act redefines the concept of “multiple endings.”
Mimicry is a peculiar craft, but Detroit goes further than Uncharted 4: A Thief’s End in its quest to feel like an interactive motion picture. Character motion looks natural, even when you’re fumbling around an environment like a goofball. Default camera angles present scenes like concept art, suggesting a skilled cinematographer got ahold of Detroit’s framing and staging. Technically speaking Detroit, through a 4K HDR television and on a PlayStation 4 Pro, joins God of War as one of the most visually competent and collected games I have ever seen. The back-and-forth of dialogue, the posture of idle characters, the camera movement while following the player, the positioning of background elements, the use of lighting to create depth — every aspect of Detroit looks and feels like a movie.
Unfortunately, Detroit does not act like a movie, or at least not one groomed to receive any awards with its script. Characters exist inside of their scenes and it is impossible to imagine them outside of their specific conflict. They’re archetypes, regardless of the control you exert over them, and seem less human because of it. Motivation is assembled in the background, often for no reason, and characters come up with ideas for schemes with no apparent foundation. Plot moves independently of character, which feels disingenuous in a game centered around its characters.
Detroit’s chaotic narrative is a fault of its writing. Part of it—and the only part that makes sense—is its reliance on letting the player choose how to portray their characters. It isn’t realistically possible to produce the amount of content that would respond to every single decision the player makes. Other than Detroit’s ending sequences, which can be wildly divergent based on player choice, most of the game is fixed to a very firm rail. These inconsistencies should and can be excused in the name of striking out to create a different type of videogame.
Other elements are harder to forgive. Take, for example, some of the dialogue choices afforded to Detroit’s characters. At one point Luther, a friend to Kara and Alice, exclaims, “It was like opening my eyes for the first time. Finally, I could see.” Later, when mangled androids can take revenge upon their human captor, he states, “He likes to create monsters by abusing us. But who’s the real monster?” It’s one thing to trot out popular metaphors for the progression of the story but it’s another to openly state them with actual dialogue. Detroit assumes players are not smart enough to grasp what’s happening on screen.
Dialogue failings are not limited to one specific sequence. Lucy, an android mystic who reads Markus’ palm and speaks in metaphors, tells him “your heart is a part of shadow and a part of light. Which will prevail?” North later states, “Violence is the only language humans understand!”. Upon seeing two androids in love, Conner justifies his heinous actions by declaring “They’re machines, and machines don’t feel anything.” Either Detroit doesn’t have faith in the story it’s trying to tell or the writing team is oblivious to bland phrasings of the english language.
It’s a shame because Detroit gets a lot of mileage from its acting cast. Valorie Curry’s Kara is a force of panicked insecurity and obstinate improvisation. Bryan Dechart, as Conner, can either feel like a dickhead narc or an oblivious formalist depending on the action of the player. Dana Gourrier, as Rose, is deeply sympathetic in her plight to help Kara, and her son Adam feels genuinely conflicted about his mother’s choices. Their performances, translated from facial tracking software and motion-captured acting, justify Detroit’s investment in its technology. Who knows what its cast could have done for the medium if their dialogue was stronger and Detroit’s plot could bother seeing shades of grey.
Story machinations also fail to hold up to scrutiny. The most destructive part of Detroit is that it takes place in a single week. This makes sense when considering plot elements like Kara’s desperate mission to protect Alice or Conner’s quest to neutralize deviant androids. Suspension of disbelief is destroyed, however, when characters fall in love, die for each other, or consider themselves family. Markus’ rise with Jericho, in particular, feels like the product of months of work, not weeks. Interpersonal relationships are always subservient to the plot and weaken their intended impact.
Detroit’s rendition of the United States is also subject to gross disbelief. Outside of an often referenced aggression between the United States and Russia in the arctic, androids dominate every form of conflict and strife. Culture as a whole is united against androids, leaving social issues like racism, classism, disease, income inequality, and famine, presumably, solved. Matters of legislation and military mobilization appear to happen instantly, projecting Detroit as a social utopia united against the proliferation of android life. This is great for the plight of Markus and deeply confusing for anyone else who happens to be paying attention.
While its story falters, elements in the background of Detroit benefit from its non-android utopia. Same sex relationships are visible in the city and sex work appears to be normal. The President of the United States is a woman (and a former vlogger, which, OK, sure), though it is unclear why she speaks english like a British person trying to suppress her accent. Additionally, a diverse selection of body types is on full display with secondary characters, joining Tacoma as one of the few games to embrace (rather than spite) larger bodies. Detroit’s vision of the future is hardly cogent, but it suggests Quantic Dream is at least comfortable with demonstrating social progress.
Most damaging to Detroit is its inability to tell a story outside of binary depictions of black and white. Android fiction, from The Measure of a Man’s interrogation of Data’s humanity to Ex Machina’s underlying duel of cognitive superiority, stresses the necessity of creating an argument to support the plot. Detroit, on the other hand, is willing to let Markus paint “We have a dream” on the side of a building, pick the severity of a revolution, and assume it’s making a profound statement. Science fiction is written to absorb and reflect the ills of contemporary society, but Detroit is so on-the-nose with its metaphor that the only viable response is to issue a groan and assume that Quantic Dream, at least, meant well.
There are still pieces of Detroit left to admire. It’s willingness to permanently remove main characters from the story—especially when there is quite a bit of “story” left—goes against an AAA game’s frenzied drive to make sure the player sees everything. Along the same lines, creating a game of Detroit’s magnitude that places narrative way, way ahead of combat is positive for the health of the industry. These risks aren’t the source of Detroit’s collapse, but rather a place for Quantic Dream to find strength for their next title. Even in a proper movie, the best looking cinematography in the world can’t survive without a matching script.
Detroit is a showpiece for hardware technology and a letdown for the power of the medium. Just last year Nier Automata (another story about three androids!) demonstrated the potency of blending an eccentric narrative with interactivity, a venture only possible through playing a videogame. Detroit will make you believe that androids can feel like humans, but not that its prowess can compete against other forms of media. There are better movies, games, and books about the same subject and Detroit doesn’t seek to threaten any of them.
