The Problem with "Games"

At the crux of the ongoing conflict between the Long-Form and Short-Form camps of improv is the deceptively simple term, "game".

Those in the long-form group have a tendency to look down their noses at their short-form comrades, basing their opinions on fundamental misconceptions such as, "The terms “long-form improv” and “short-form improv”...tend to imply different relationships between participants. Short-form improv tends to involve small teams (or more purely, individual actors) competing against each other to produce a sole victor. This is to say that in short-form improv, the relationships between actors (or teams) are immediately oppositional and ultimately competitive. On the other hand, long-form improv tends to involve a single team of actors working for each other to produce a victorious whole. In long-form improv, the relationships between the actors are immediately supportive and ultimately cooperative." (Hauk, Long-Form Improv)*

There is a small cadre of long-form enthusiasts in the United States that seems to get their information regarding short-form from Whose Line Is It, Anyway? What they don't appear to understand is that, while WLIIA? is certainly entertaining, it is not an accurate example of short-form improv. It is, in fact, a hybrid form of improv designed exclusively for television and is no more a real-world example of short-form improv than Chopped is of home cooking.

"Whose Line Is It, Anyway...is not an accurate example of short-form improv."

Here's the gist of it: the term games simply refers to a scenic form. Long-formers might call this a gimmick, and in doing so are intending it to be derisive. Merriam-Webster, however, defines "gimmick" as, "an ingenious and usually new scheme or angle". Games do not make for bad improv; bad improv makes for bad improv, and can be found with equal ease in both short- and long-form.

Games are templates for driving scenes. They provide a format that can be quite simple or insanely complex. The point is they give the scene its basic structure, with the actor's scene work supplying the details. Long-form formats such as the Harold are little more than an extended series of scenes and games loosely (if at all) tied together by common themes. They are templates, just as games are. In fact, most of what we refer to as long-form is in reality a collection of short-form; it's rare to see true long form unless you go to see performers like TJ and Dave.

Both forms of improv employ games, but not all improv must use games. Short-form can and is performed with little to no use of games, just as long-form is often performed with heavy reliance on games. 

It's doubtful that Renaissance artists spent their time ridiculing the art form of other artists. "What? You're a sculptor? Ha! It's easy to make something look human if you can use all three dimensions. Try using oil paints...they're flat, and they never dry!"

When improvisers waste their time putting down their fellow improvisers they sound petty and show themselves to be insecure and unknowledgeable. We should instead be learning from one another and reveling in the joy improv brings to us all.

Happy improvising!

*To set the record straight, Ben Hauk could not be more wrong about short-form improv. He apparently derives his view of the form from nothing other than Whose Line  and ComedySportz. The joke's on him, though: in neither format is the competition real; it's simply a veneer put on for the audience's sake.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: “Whose Line”

We make every effort to attend performances by local improv groups and watch online videos of companies all around the globe. It’s important from a learning perspective to do so; you can’t properly self-assess if you have no experience of what’s going on outside your field of vision.

In what will be a series of articles, we will be looking at some popular improv games and offering recommendations on how best to play them. Bear in mind, there are as many variations to games as there are groups; what we present here is simply an analysis of what brings out the best in the core games. It is a best practice to learn the game as it was designed before making changes; learn how to play by the rules, and you will learn when and how to break those rules.

The game of “Whose Line” goes many other names, such as “Blind Line” and “Pockets”. Whatever name you use, how you play it will decide how successful you are.

To play “Whose Line”, it is first necessary to have audience members write sentences on slips of paper. How many depends on how many actors will be in your scene. As a two-player group, we get four sentences each; usually three or four per player is enough. A suggestion is given by the audience and a scene is played. During the scene a player will take a sentence out of their pocket, read it aloud and incorporate it into the scene. Here is where things get fuzzy.

A natural inclination when first playing “Whose Line” is to preface the reading of the sentence either by saying, “As my grandmother used to say,” or “Let me read you something from the manual,” and then reading the line.  

While you may get a small laugh from doing so, you have missed the point of the game. 

The point is to use the sentences as dialogue, and then skillfully justify and incorporate it into your scene, moving it forward in a potentially new and interesting direction.

Refusing to use the sentence as dialogue is a fear reaction; it negates an actor’s responsibility for taking ownership of the line. It’s safe to place the words into the mouth of someone else, and it allows the scene to continue unchanged until it sinks to the level of boredom. 

Change is what makes scenes interesting; to refuse to change is to refuse to entertain.

“Whose Line” can be considered a game of “mini tilts”. A tilt is by definition something that pushes a scene into a new trajectory. It is necessary from a storytelling aspect to have tilts; they keep the story fresh and interesting. Every audience sentence has the potential to provide a tilt, but only if it is used in an active, not passive, manner.

We recently performed at a Moose lodge, and one of our lines was “Every start is a new beginning.” This line alone sent us, as a hotel maid and guest, spiraling into a love affair that would not have happened if not for the audience’s sentence. If we had read it as a quote from someone not present on stage, it may have gotten a chuckle from the audience, but the scene would have stayed where it was and been far less interesting.

It’s scary to have another person put words in your mouth. It’s challenging to have to incorporate a strange line into your scene immediately. It’s tough to avoid using the “I’m crazy” explanation when a bizarre sentence comes up. But then again, this is why we do what we do. To do anything less is to give into fear. 

Happy improvising!