Editor's note: So it's our time, not just our characters, that's getting fracked every time we play a game? Nicholas explains how videogames are out for our most valuable currency. (Hint: It's not money) -Jason

My first post began, in a way, as a response to an article from Omar Yusuf on the consequences of death in videogames, but by the end I found that it had become a monster of a different nature. However, this preamble is crucial to my argument later on. This is a controversial topic, but I hope to approach it from a fresh angle.

Death, fundamentally, is a communication breakdown between the user and the device. In other words, the player does not experience anything within the virtual world posthumously (it's important to distinguish between the death mechanic and death within the narrative, which does not necessarily entail this disconnect).

"Kicking" the player off of the machine is clearly an archaic methodology, a holdover from when quarters were a significant source of revenue and arcades were, well, relevant. Today, many designers have implemented less jarring interruptions, choosing to encourage success through tangible reward systems rather than chastisement.

The proliferation of RPG elements, like Call of Duty 4's rankings and even Microsoft's meta-Achievement system, offer permanent "benefits" for exceptional performance, and both have proven to be exceptional motivational tools. Of course, today's indisputable champion of character growth, World of WarCraft (with a respectful nod to Diablo), functions as an immersive and addictive player experience by providing a number of obtainable items, titles, mounts, and achievements.

With this in mind, I encounter a rather obtuse question: Death, from its humble arcade beginnings to its mellow and progressive form today, is a necessary tool in the videogame medium that must either be included or suitably substituted for -- but what is its ultimate purpose?

The answer, I'm afraid, is a little anticlimactic and painfully obvious.

The true cost of death in a videogame is time, the universal currency that you're endowed with at birth. The disconnect between man and machine brought about by death is not favorable, but in simpler times it was a sufficient, albeit frustrating, tool to occupy the player.

Today, game designers have implemented mechanics that ensure greater time investments by limiting breaks in the immersion of the experience. Death and the "Reward Stream" serve the same purpose: to extract more of your time. Yes, every major company on the planet is desperately competing to occupy as much of your life as possible, and the videogame industry is no exception.

Thom Yorke and Daniel Day-Lewis -- best friends?

This applies to the entertainment industry as a whole. It is, of course, their role in the grand scheme of things. But consider the last film that you saw or album that you listened to. Did Thom Yorke get to track 8 and then force you to listen to tracks 4 through 7 again because he made a mistake? Did you have to endure a corpse run through the state of California at any point during There Will Be Blood? It's unlikely.

Yet if either of these situations ever came to fruition, the general public would undoubtedly pan the piece for being repetitive or meandering. But these seem to be qualities that we value in videogames. It's not because the scope of the narrative or sequence of events is impossible to condense into a three-hour movie. Videogames, more then any other division of the entertainment industry, benefit from the consumption of your time. The notion of "bang for your buck" breeds a ludicrous amount of customer loyalty given the steep initial investment most games require (when compared to, say, a movie ticket).

This brings me to my final question, and it's a big one: Can one consider games as an art form when many (but not by any means all) of the fundamental mechanics of the medium are designed to occupy as much of your time as possible?

In other words, when such a great deal of the average game experience is dedicated to consuming the player's time, can there be legitimate, untainted expression akin to a Radiohead album or a Paul Thomas Anderson film, which are essentially undisturbed by content-volume prerequisites? Where other entertainment mediums often predate the growth of their own industries, videogames originated as a marketable product and continue to focus on consumerism. If you compared the intended artistry of the videogame to, say, cocaine, 99 precent of the material on the market would be a 10/90 split of the good stuff and baking soda.

I think the question may be a little more complicated than stated above. While significantly larger than it was even five years ago, the potential audience for videogames pales in comparison to the recording or film industry. The time and manpower invested into a game necessitates the price tag, given that there are relatively few customers to purchase the product in the first place.

Videogames have the unfortunate privilege of being the new kid on the block in the world of entertainment, and they've entered at a stage where corporate control at all levels of production is practically mandatory. And while services like iTunes have enabled a resurgence in independent game design and distribution, it's important to remember that the videogame medium was born and developed in a period of time that demands commercial success.

As it matures, perhaps the industry can rework the fundamental components of its product into something that can be appreciated in the absence of consumer-oriented hooks. But I feel that the gaming community should take a moment to appreciate the fact that reaching that plateau is by no means a necessity or eventuality, and as such that plateau may never be attained.

What do you think? Leave your thoughts below.