ABSTRACT

Digital games consist of unique elements that clearly distinguishing them from more established screen-based media such as film and television. These elements, commonly known as mechanics, create non-linear and co-authored experiences giving rise to dynamic patterns of play producing aesthetic experiences that elicit emotion from the player. Existing genre analysis paradigms imported from more established disciplines may be useful to analyse games that heavily employ film or literary conventions, or which are derived from particular works or extant genres such as Film Noir. However, understanding how digital games – experiences often comprising a core of asymmetrical gameplay that gives rise to emergent narratives augmented by a representational shell with little or no characters, dialogue, or recognisable genre conventions – create meaning poses a distinct challenge for these frameworks. This paper identifies how game studies has developed concepts and methodologies to enable constructive critical analysis of game experiences for scholars and designers alike. 

INTRODUCTION

The prohibitive costs and high risks of AAA game development, the rise of the mobile and casual sectors, and an increase in digital downloading of games via platforms such as Apple’s App Store or Valve’s STEAM [Brightman, 2012] means start-ups and small game studios are increasingly developing compact games for a changing marketplace. Many of these games, such as Rovio’s Angry Birds, have a achieved considerable success through giving primacy to gameplay over narrative or rounded characterisation. 

Digital games without characters or structured narrative are not new. At the dawn of the medium, primarily as a result of technological limitations, games such as Spacewar!, its failed commercial derivative Computer Space, and the seminal Pong, relied on simple mechanics to produce a vast and engaging dynamic pattern of gameplay. All three “exhibit a basic asymmetry between the relative simplicity of the game rules and the relative complexity of the actual playing of the game” (Juul, 2005, p.75) and as a result can be regarded as emergent in nature.

Emergent gameplay results in high replay value as the inherent asymmetry between rules and dynamics ensures no two games are the same; a necessity in the arcade where games produce a return on investment by encouraging players to continually spend money. In addition simple rules led to simple instructions. Perhaps the most famous sentence in digital game history is the instructions for Pong: ‘Avoid missing ball for high score’. This simplicity helped make a new, and possibly intimidating, medium accessible by virtue of being simple to understand and play. Add the elegant if rudimentary representational shell, and it is unsurprising Pong has achieved constant popularity throughout its forty year history.

It would be erroneous to describe emergent games as totally without narrative, but the fictions enjoyed are fundamentally different to those usually enjoyed in a film or television text. These fictions are also emergent, not pre-structured or pre-programmed, instead taking shape through the gameplay experience (Jenkins, 2004, p.14). Even as technology has developed to allow the design of increasingly photorealistic games with vast structured narratives, LA Noire or Heavy Rain for example, games that rely primarily on engaging gameplay – the balanced combination of mechanics and dynamics – have continued to thrive. It may even be argued that such games constitute a ‘purer’ gaming experience, uncluttered by costly attempts to replicate the Hollywood blockbuster experience driven by deep-seated ‘cinema envy’ amongst game designers [Jenkins, 2005]. 

THE STRUCTURE OF DIGITAL GAMES

When seeking to analyse any digital game it is first useful to uncover its underlying structure. The question of ‘what a game is?’ has yet to be answered, and the scope of this paper fortunately does not extend to addressing it. However, Mayra (2008) suggests there are certain structural features that make it easier to distinguish between the different forms of meaning-making at work within any game. These distinguishing features are the two layers that constitute the concept of a game: the core and the shell. 

Figure 1. Mayra’s dialectic of Core (gameplay) and Shell (representation) in the basic structure of games. 

The core equates to the ‘gameplay’ layer of the game, comprising the mechanics that result in the dynamic patterns of play underpinning the play experience. These are both abstract – consisting of a unique system of interactions and relationships that remain when the aesthetics, technology, and story are removed (Schell, 2008, p.130) – and transferable; meaning this abstract structure will continue to function and give rise to same dynamic patterns of play regardless of the representational shell it is attached to. For example, Monopoly would be basically the same game regardless of changes in the aesthetic design of the pieces, cards, or board, so long as the designed core of ‘Monopoly mechanics’ was in place. 

At this juncture it is important to point out that while game designers carefully craft a meaningful system of play, they cannot directly design a play experience itself. That only occurs when a player interacts with the designed system. And due to variables in the way the player interacts – cognitively, functionally, and explicitly – this experience will differ. Game designers design the structures and context in which play happens – indirectly shaping player experience – through creating a space of possibility for future action to occur (Salen and Zimmermann, 2004). The experience is unique for each player – particularly in emergent games less hindered by linear requirements of a pre-scripted narrative – and in addition to the designed mechanics, variables related to programming code, hardware, and controls also impact the final player experience in digital games.

Enveloping and dynamically interacting with the core is the shell, or representation. This contains all the semiotic richness modifying, containing, and adding significance to the core gameplay experience (Mayra, 2008). This element is also sometimes referred to as the presentation, and is understood as the expressive and representational element of digital games, dominated by moving images and cinematic techniques,  augmented by sound (Nitsche, 2008). It is the game as a system of signs and cues, both visual and audible, that open up and extend possibilities for narrative layers and cultural context. It is here that existing theory – aesthetic, literary, media, cultural etc. – can most usefully be deployed for the analysis of digital games. Many scholars have made use of extant theories to analyse the representational aspect of games, but before this embarking on this analysis the scholar must consider the core. 

MECHANICS, DYNAMICS, AESTHETICS

The Mechanics, Dynamic, and Aesthetic (MDA) framework is a formal approach to understanding games. Developed by Robin Hunicke, Marc LeBlanc and Robert Zubeck between 2001-2004, it views digital games as artefacts created within an iterative design methodology, and therefore uses the same approach to analyse them. The authors specifically suggest that iterative analyses support understanding of the end result of game design to refine its implementation, and help analyse the implementation to refine the end result (Hunicke, LeBlanc and Zubeck, 2004a, p.1). In particular the authors suggest that scholars must learn to recognise the interactions and interdependencies present in digital games that “create complex, dynamic (and often unpredictable) behaviour” (2004b, p.1) before they can reach informed conclusions about the nature of the experience generated. 

The MDA framework focuses on the game’s core, stressing that fundamental to the methodology is the notion that games are more like artefacts than media. The authors suggest “the content of a game is its behaviour – not the media that streams out of it towards the player” (2004c, p.2). The framework argues that games are designed systems that build behaviour through interaction, and in order to understand this behaviour it advocates concentrating on the mechanics, dynamics and aesthetics of the experience. 

Figure 2. The Components of the MDA Framework. 

MDA treats the relationship between the designer and the player as a ‘two-way street’, with each experiencing the game from a different perspective. The designer crafts a set of mechanics expected – when the player interacts with them – to give rise to dynamic patterns within the game system, resulting in a particular aesthetic experience. These three layers of Mechanics, Dynamics and Aesthetics are mutually dependent. When undertaking analysis of a game it is beneficial to consider both the designer and player perspectives, but to understand and interpret the player experience scholars and researchers start with aesthetics. This starting point also allows designers to focus on experience-driven rather than feature driven design (2004d, p.2). 

Aesthetics 

The MDA framework use aesthetics as a layer to capture the subjective experience of the player, and the emotional response or pleasure the game is designed to evoke (Aleven et al, 2010, p.70). It outlines a non-exhaustive taxonomy of eight different aesthetics in an attempt to further define the vague and highly debated concept of ‘fun’. 

When deploying MDA it is usual to first identify what aesthetics the player experiences, or what the designer wants them to experience. By applying these aesthetics to the games Charades, Pong, Grand Theft Auto IV, and FIFA13 it can be suggested that they each create the following combinations of aesthetic experience: 

Charades: Fellowship, Expression, Challenge

Pong: Challenge, Sensation, Narrative, Submission,

Grand Theft Auto IV: Discovery, Narrative, Challenge, Fantasy, Sensation, Submission

FIFA13: Challenge, Fantasy, Expression, Sensation, Fellowship, Narrative, Submission

Dynamics

These are the behaviours that result when the player interacts with the designed mechanics during play.  Unlike aesthetics there is no taxonomy of game dynamics offered by the MDA framework. Therefore it is up to the scholar or designers to invent the terms and concepts needed to characterise the dynamics of a given game (Aleven et al, 2010b, p.71). Dynamics are the place where choice meets: the choice of mechanics implemented by the designer, and the choice of action by the player. These choices create a feedback loop that influences behaviours and further choices within the game system. For example, if the designer wants to achieve the challenge aesthetic they will consider dynamics that may elicit this aesthetic, such as opponent play, time or resource pressures. They will then attempt to craft and implement mechanics that could give rise to this dynamic e.g. a two-player game, a timer, or finite lives or health.  A game’s dynamics are the behaviours that result within the game world from actions sanctioned by the games mechanics. 

I'm aware of the importance of Computer Science. But to make great digital games requires the succesful integration of art, design, and science – a Renaissance model if you like. Unfortunately Jamie MacDonald, Senior VP at Codemasters, stated that anyone wanting a job in the games industry needs to get a Computer Science degree, and that undergarduate games degrees were a scandalous waste of money. Mr. MacDonald, who did a BA in Philosophy, went on to say: 

"It has been a scandal really the amount of money that’s been wasted on undergraduate courses on kids that will never get a job in the industry.

In the console world – maybe I’m old fashioned – I like people to have really good first degrees from good universities in computer science, then they can do a gaming course.

Let’s not forget that we are competing in a global industry so we have to compete with the best in the world. We can’t do that with people who are not up to it."

As I always say, why bother with reasoned and supported statements when you can make sweeping generalizations? Never mind the great courses at universities such as Abertay, Norwich University College of the Arts, and a few others – according to MacDonald all games courses are terrible. So, in the true spirit of MacDonald's missive, here's my response:

It's a scandal the way the UK games industry is run by men (yes, men) so lacking in vision. Current senior executives are relics of a model that relied on serendipty and nepotism. Now they've had their careers and made their money they want to tell everyone 'how it is'. Unfortunately they don't know how it is, as they're still living in 1996. 

It's unbelieveable these men are still employed, after failing to predict so many sector changes over the past few years. The coming of social gaming – in particular Facebook games – left these dinosaurs playing catch-up and lay-off. But, like the bankers, they are still rewarded for failure. 

This is a crucial time for the future of the UK games sector, facing increased competition from both the developed and developing world. It just can't afford to tackle these challenges with the wrong people in charge. 

Yet. 

Postmodernism at the V&A (Flyer)

I have a love/hate relationship with Postmodernism. So I was slightly dubious as I headed for the V&A last week to view Postmodernism – Style and Subversion 1970 – 1990. 

Postmodernism’s genre bending and splicing, its mixing of fiction with non-fiction, its blurring of the lines between high and low culture, has resulted in some wonderful art, design, music, film, and literature. The world would be a poorer place without Jeff Koons or Cindy Sherman, Neville Brody and Peter Saville, Bladerunner, The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash on the Wheels of Steel, Mclaren’s Madame Butterfly, or The Crying of Lot 49. Of that I have no doubt. But before I get too gushy, let's look at the downside.   

Postmodernism’s blank stare and inherent knowingness can get irritating, fast. Its unwillingness to either criticize or celebrate, or take a political or moral standpoint, can leave the work feeling deeply empty. And the less said about the often impenetrable accompanying theory the better. Personally I often suspect the obfuscation and awful writing was deliberate, an attempt to hide a weakness of ideas. But despite my reservations I found myself enjoying this exhibition more that I expected, for two main reasons.  

The first is Postmodernism’s ability to still confuse and outrage ‘Middle England’. I was preceded through the V&A by a gaggle of ladies about to lunch, dressed in obligatory twin-sets and pearls. In a well curated and contextualized exhibition they remained utterly bewildered. Perms were scratched and gold buttons twiddled as they passed from Venturi and Scott-Brown’s Learning from Las Vegas, to Jarman’s The Last of England, Anderson's O Superman, and on to Westwood’s Punkature. Exclamations of ‘I don’t understand it’ or ‘I don’t get it’ issued from glossed lips. The nearest to a discussion consisted of one lady asking the other if she’d ever been to Las Vegas. ‘No...’, the other replied, ‘...and I wouldn’t want to’.  

Now there's a surprise.  

The bending, splicing, and mixing that form the best of Postmodernism is the exact thing that confused them. To truly appreciate postmodern culture you need extensive cultural capital – and not just of high culture. You need to know about popular culture too. If you’re not interested in Las Vegas, street fashion, popular music, commercial graphic design, or Sci-Fi movies, postmodernism will leave you feeling excluded. Sure, there are myriad references to classical art and high culture, but without understanding the context these are employed in, you’re lost. And that’s a good thing. It puts the boot on the other foot. If only for a minute. 

The other reason I enjoyed the exhibition is more personal. I was born in 1971, at the beginning of the period defined as Postmodern by the curators. I became an adult as this period ended in 1990. The exhibition I walked through – arranged chronologically – was really a journey through my life. I had studied the earlier stuff at University, but once the exhibition got to the 1980s a curious sense of nostalgia hit me. My life was on the walls of a museum. On this wall record sleeves that reside in my collection, on that a T-shirt I once wore, and in this cabinet a copy of The Face salted away in my cupboard somewhere. I expected this to a degree – I’d even bet with myself on which Peter Saville sleeves would make the final cut – but it still gave me an unsettling yet rather comforting feeling.  

The Face May 1984 – Design, Neville Brody (Author's Collection)

And that’s the brilliance of this exhibition. It's curated in away that elicits that most postmodern of emotions: nostalgia. The end of the exhibition has the heading “Why can’t we be ourselves like we were yesterday?” This lyric from New Order’s ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ introduces the final exhibit, the promotional video for the same song. The curators discuss nostalgia here, but the genius is that they've been carefully cultivating the emotion throughout the exhibition. It’s a very clever and rather knowing piece of design. 

And ultimately, truly postmodern.  

Postmodernism: Style and Subversion 1970 – 1990 is on now until January 15 2012 at the V&A Cromwell Road, London. 

vam.ac.uk/postmodernism

Facebook Timeline Beta

You all know about Facebook Timeline, right? Well if not, you will by Thursday. 

Get ready for the paranoid messages flying around social media channels, asking you to paste them into your status and tell the world how Facebook's new Timeline feature is the worst thing since silced bread. 

Timeline basically documents your life on Facebook and, if you feed it enough data, even before it. It creates a timeline narrative of your life, recording every status update and drunken photograph you've posted to the world's most popular social network. Cool huh? 

Well yes and no. I've been using it for a couple of weeks now and really like it. But I'm one of the people it's aimed at – a social media professional who uses Facebook as a tool to engage customers for businesses and brands. You might not be quite so keen. 

The thing most people will struggle with is Timeline's elephantine memory. Where you could once post a stupid status update or photo of your friend getting off with your (married) boss and after a while it would disappear into Facebook Siberia, this will no longer happen. One quick scan along your timeline and it will be revealed to anyone who has permission to look. And this could be disasterous for the unaware. 

I've always believed, and advised people, never to put anything on social media you wouldn't want your boss to see. Or to say anything to somebody you wouldn't say to their face. With the introduction of Timeline the importance of this will be hugely multiplied. Something you say today could really now stop you getting a job in five years time. Now more than ever the ability to self-edit will be crucial to your online profile. 

I recommend three easy things to make sure you don't get caught out: visit the Timeline page, master your privacy settings, and most importantly: learn to leave that status un-updated when you roll out the pub at 3am! 

The Godfather, Paramount Pictures, 1972

Digital games are better than films. How do we know this? Because game-loving TV critic Charlie Brooker says so. What a relief. Now pompous twerps who stop their children playing digital games, or limit gaming time, can cut the poor mites some slack and stop them being shunned by their more ludic mates. Games are officially good. The Guardian has said so.

Brooker correctly highlights how big budget drama for adult audiences has deserted the cinema for television. He could have been even more specific and said American television. Let’s face it, if The Godfather was released today it would be as a miniseries on HBO. Anyone who has watched Boardwalk Empire can see the New New Hollywood happening on the small screen. Take into account other shows like Big Love, Mad Men, The Wire, Treme, or Generation Kill, and Tinsel Town’s efforts start to look very mediocre indeed. I think few people with a brain would disagree with Brooker on this first point. But his second point, that we might look for quality drama on our game consoles, might be harder for some to swallow. Is it really true that digital games are now better than films?

Portal 2, Valve Corporation, 2011

The real answer – as Charlie knows – is yes and no. Games like LA Noire and Portal 2 – his examples – are easily more entertaining, thought-provoking, and fun than the vast majority of dross Hollywood puts out for the mainstream audience. Ask any of us who’ve played the Grand Theft Auto series since it’s inception and we’ll bore you with how the franchise has grown from a slice of throwaway top-down fun to one of the sharpest send-ups of contemporary Western culture on screen. Red Dead Redemption – another Rockstar title with GTA and LA Noire – is also engaging drama and sharp cultural critique, especially for Western geeks like me. All these – and many more – prove that games are often better at being dramas than many films.

Grand Theft Auto 4, Rockstar, 2008

But before we get too excited we should remember that for every LA Noire there is a Call of Duty: Black Ops. One of the most commercially successful games in history, Black Ops is also possibly one of the worst. A rushed, poorly constructed, and greedy sequel that in Campaign mode – where a single-player plays the story – is one of the worst pieces of so-called drama I’ve ever encountered. The premise and narrative structure are appalling – so bad that I neither understood why I was killing things – call me a lily-livered liberal but I like to know why I’m commiting mass murder – nor cared.

Brooker attempts to gloss over these games by suggesting they’re a phase, like the puberty of the ‘teenage boys’ who play them. He’s right about that to a point, but he’s wrong in saying only teenagers play them. All kinds of people have told me about their love for the CoD franchise – taxi drivers, bartenders, university lecturers, doctors, butchers (apt that) – and yes, before you ask, they were all men. These games may be mediocre at storytelling but they have mass appeal.

Before the whining about singling out First Person Shooters (FPS) starts, I’m not. Not at all. I like a decent FPS as much as the next wannabe Navy SEAL. But admit it, the narratives and dialogue are usually risible. You know it really, don’t you? They aren’t great storytelling devices that make us ponder the nature of war in the way The Naked and the Dead, Catch-22, or The Deerhunter might. They create drama a different way, by eliciting quick reactions and demanding hundreds of player choices are made per minute. Done well this usually allows players to overlook the poor premise and dodgy dialogue, and the games are great fun for a couple of hours. But serious storytelling they ain’t.

There are plenty of other non-FPS digital games that are also poor storytellers, too many to mention here. And to be honest even the best game narratives aren’t perfect. The Rockstar titles often suffer from the kind of clunky and hackneyed dialogue that makes you squirm and run to the nearest bookshelf for salvation. They can be childish and derivative too – often taking their mission scenarios directly from the designers favorite books, comics, or films. Even Portal 2 is – as you might have guessed – a sequel. But that doesn’t mean it’s not entertaining, or dramatic.

One thing Charlie Brooker does touch on in his description of Portal 2 is its experiential nature. And here’s the key to understanding digital games. It’s how these immensely complex and clever pieces of popular culture create drama, by creating an experience, not necessarily a story. The drama isn’t always laid out for you in the same way as a film or book, it needs your input. And therefore it needs to leave some gaps for you to fill. You have to do something to experience something – be that tension, frustration, excitement or whatever. These all go towards creating drama, but not always the kind of drama you might be expecting, or the kind you can directly compare to a film or book.

When we talk about digital games and film it’s natural to try and draw comparisons. Can games tell stories as well or better than films? Can films be as experiential as games? Over the past ten years or so this constant comparing has lead to accusations that game designers suffer from so-called ‘Hollywood envy’ – a Freudian-lite concept that describes an impotent desire to make big sprawling epics that tell complex, immersive stories like The Godfather or Once Upon a Time in America. The best game designers – with a few select titles – have proven this impotency is over – even if the dialogue could still benefit from some extra Viagra. As Brooker describes, the reverse has happened in our mainstream cinemas. These are now dominated by poor 3D extravaganzas that have little story and rely on eliciting a visual ‘wow factor’ to create a usually unsatisfactory experience. (These sexual metaphors just keep coming – Ed.).

Remembering that not all games tell great stories – or should even try to – it seems to me that old Charlie might well be right:

The envy is now flowing in the opposite direction.

Ms. Murison is understandably excited Brett Anderson – subject of both her teenage crush and GCSE Art portfolio – is gigging again this summer. This means she gets to interview him. Unfortunately this excitement is leading her into the dangerous land of received wisdom.

Received wisdom occurs when statement, opinion, historical narrative, or theoretical standpoint become orthodoxy. There's a lot of it going around – particularly regarding popular culture – mostly propagated by well-meaning BBC programmes or broadsheet articles seeking to explore our recent cultural heritage. Directly related to Ms. Murison's article is the British Indie episode of 2007 documentary series Seven Ages of Rock recently repeated on BBC4.

The programme identifies Suede as precursors and shapers of the Britpop phenomenon. It argues that in the early '90s – after the implosion of The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, and 'indie dance' – those pesky Americans came and took over 'our charts' with their grungy guitars. The cheeky bastards then made the British music scene cower in fear of plaid shirts and anything from Seattle for a few years. Until Suede released Metal Mickey in late summer '92, followed by Animal Nitrate a few months later. A movement grew out of these seminal recordings that saved us from legions of smacked-up, suicidal lumberjacks warping our minds, and kick-started the heart of British music into the bargain.

What utter bollocks.

Sure, Animal Nitrate is a decent enough record. Not groundbreaking, but a decent little tune. And yes, Suede were one of the first British indie bands to emerge post-grunge, but that doesn't mean the British music industry was dormant during this time.

You see this particular received wisdom forgets one thing. It's called dance music. That's actually what most young Brits were listening to in the early '90s. It was mainly students and indie poseurs who liked grunge. There were thousands more losing it every weekend in clubs, warehouses, and fields across the country to house and garage, hardcore, early jungle and proto-drum & bass. Some of these musical forms were admittedly US imports, but most were home grown.

In particular the breakbeat-based genres were purely a UK phenomenon at the time. For some reason the received wisdom ignores this narrative – one that gave us tracks like Underworld's Cowgirl or Alex Reece's Pulp Fiction, and ultimately led to James Blake, Panda Bear, Gang Gang Dance and LCD Soundsystem – in favour of Britpop. A few decent songs and a whole heap of mediocre bands.

The problem (or saving grace) for dance music is that it's faceless and anti-star, despite stories of God being a DJ from idiots like Faithless. And the music industry likes stars. It really does. It likes lead singers doing a 'Where's Wally' in front of Michael Jackson (who wouldn't Jarvis?), or pure arrogance and sibling rivalry (the Gallaghers), mouthy middle-class Mockneys taking cheap drugs (Blur), or an androgynous frontman making coy, vague statements about his sexuality (step forward Mr. Anderson). And stardom is what Britpop was about.

Britpop was both invented moment and movement. Invented partly by Select magazine (remember that?) and its infamous 'Yanks Go Home' cover featuring Suede, Pulp, St. Etienne, and others I can't (or won't) remember. Partly by middle-class indie kids and wannabe soon-to-be NME writers who hung around Camden pubs like The Good Mixer and Dublin Castle. And mostly by an industry desperate to make money again.

I remember the then minor bands – Suede/Blur/Lush/Elastica etc. – in The Good Mixer, but after a couple of articles about the 'Camden scene' and subsequent bestowing of the Britpop sobriquet, they scarpered. Quickly it became full of kids searching for a movement and someone to look up to. Kids much like the then teenage Ms. Murison I would imagine. The key here is the movement came after the publicity. Anderson is right in saying, "...Britpop, whether you like it or not, and generally I don't like it, was a coherent movement and I don't think there's been a coherent defined movement for quite a while now". But this coherence was imposed from the top. Britpop wasn't a meaningful grassroots movement – if it meant anything why is everyone involved so keen to disown the name? – it was really the last waltz for the traditional music industry.

The industry had been unsettled by punk in the seventies, then acid house in the eighties. These movements started through a grassroots coming together of people – whether art school students or football lads in the Balearics – and had DIY ethics for making and releasing music. They tended to cause public outrage after being picked up on by the red-top media before being assimilated into mainstream culture. (These are classic youth cultures, in the style of Teds and Mods before them, and have probably disappeared forever). It took a while for the industry to cope with them, but eventually they did. Buying up small labels and signing bands using large advances gave them an in. It was simply a game of catch-up. 

Britpop was different. The media and industry created and named it together, riding the brief intense wave for all it was worth. It set the industry up for a while in a haze of cigarettes and alcohol and crap cocaine that blinded them to the coming digital era. The young fans latched on, understandably. Britpop was – like it's much vaunted contemporary 'Girl Power' – a simple but effective marketing ploy. And thousands fell for it.

Looking at the summer festival line-ups, it seems we're falling all over again.

Why don't I do this more often? This question pops into my head whenever I make the quick hop across the North Sea to Amsterdam. And me with a half-Dutch girlfriend too.

(Dear reader: I'm keep agonizing over the word girlfriend. If I'm nearing forty and my 'girlfriend' is a few years older, can we still be boyfriend and girlfriend? I think not. But what do we term ourselves? None of these are really grabbing me.)

Anyway, back to Amsterdam. We arrived and made our way leisurely from the airport via the city centre to Amsterdam-Zuid by public transport. At this point British readers might take exception at the use of leisurely in conjunction with public transport, and I hear you. But it's true, the transit system is a breeze: cheap, clean, and convenient. And the reason? It is state owned and run primarily as a service.

Nederlandse Spoorwagen (Dutch Railways to you and me) was 'corporatized' - a kind of pre-cursor to privatization where commercial management systems are introduced to state organizations - in the '90s. Whilst this initially worked things took a turn for the worse when internal markets started to be introduced. By the beginning of the '00s things had reached disaster point. So, a new CEO was appointed who proceeded to undo most of the neo-liberal, pro-competition reforms, and the Dutch government realized that introducing competition on passenger services was more trouble than it's worth. They acknowledged this and have subsequently abandoned it. Of course the poor sods who use the mess that passes for a rail network in Britain could have told them not to bother in the first place, but at least things are now back to normal - cheap, punctual and efficient.

The Amsterdam transit system (GVB), responsible for trams, buses, metro, etc., is also a public-owned affair. This municipal body was last year awarded €1 million bonus for improvements to service and punctuality. Can you imagine this happening in the UK? A country where the myriad private companies vie with each other to wring the last penny out of the consumer whilst providing the worst possible user-experience.

Then there's the bikes. Like frothy beer, plastic cheese, and tulips, bikes are a cultural cliche the British rather sniggeringly assign to the Dutch. But the bike is popular in the Netherlands for good reason. Firstly, apart from bridge ramparts, Amsterdam is flat as a pancake – no need for hundreds of gears or serious peddle pumping here. Then there's the cycle network itself - proper cycle paths everywhere, dedicated traffic lights, and cycle crossings. Finally, there's the culture. Everyone bikes here, mostly using Dutch bone-shakers, wearing everyday clothes.

I like cycling but am never inclined to do it at home. Our cycle network is an urban myth, and I can't stand the puritanical culture that's grown up around the simple bike. British cyclists seem compelled to spend ridiculous amounts of money on both cycle and kit. Middle-aged men who bike a 4 mile round trip to work are kitted out like urban Lance Armstrongs – yards of shiny lycra highlighting every unsightly lump and bump, reflectors, aerodynamic helmets, cycle clips, goggles, GPS connected social media devices to record their hero's journey etc. etc.

But it's just signification. They don't need this stuff, but they do need you to know they are cyclists, ploughing that difficult and lonely furrow to save the world from the horrors of the internal combustion engine. It's all about being pleased with yourself, a strangely British kind of snobbery I can't stand.

It's not that the Dutch can't be guilty of snobbery – check out the grachtengordel set's Calvinistic design ethos – or that they run a faultless operation, try getting served on the terrace at Vertigo on a sunny day. But they do seem to be happier. And so much less up-tight.

This wild assumption is actually borne out by data from the Happy Planet Index. This shows the Netherlands as the happiest nation in Europe after Scandinavia. A contributing factor must be that many aspects of everyday life are simply easier. And part of this is due to great public transport and an egalitarian and ubiquitous cycling culture making it is easier to get to work without the stress of traffic jams and long waits. This stress reduction twice a day makes a big difference to the urban experience, overall experience of life, and ultimately to levels of happiness.

Happiness doesn't get talked about much at home. It's all cuts, expense scandals, and penny-pinching. No mention of the happiness of citizens. This needs to change. In other countries forward-thinkers like Jane McGonical talk about happiness and nobody laughs. In fact people listen and take note. From game-designers to corporate executives, happiness is getting back on the agenda. And that's as it should be.

Surely, we all derserve a little happiness?