Space used to be simple. Not necessarily the cosmic “outer space” of sci-fi, just space, as in the space between my ears, or the space behind your sofa. The seductive wraparound voids of Asteroids or Defender conjured infinities of space with a simple lack of luminescence. (Though they were 2D, they implied a limitless Z-axis.) Space meant potential for movement; a stage on which to enact your own choreography of spitting lasers and whirling dodges. Both Asteroids and Defender offered a risky hyperspace option, in which you might zap instantaneously either to safety or into the middle of a rock or mutant: the shocking discontinuity of this option really served, by contrast, to enhance the feeling of flow and smoothness in the gamespace.

In the transition to modern 3D worlds, space itself changed. Where once it was nearly a character in its own right, an inky, velvety blanket, now it is just the distance between furniture, or buildings, or metal walkways. You can no longer see it. But it’s just as important. Because it’s where you live.

Say there are two kinds of videogame space: cosmetic space and functional space. Cosmetic space makes up the largest volume of most environments: it’s that space 20 feet, or 2 kilometres, above your head when you are on foot and there are no ladders or aircraft to get up there. It’s that little nook between ventilation pipes that you can’t squeeze into. It’s the other side of that courtyard at night, where the designers have stipulated that you will never go. Functional space, on the other hand, is all the space in which you can move. The blank piece of paper on which you will write your thrilling adventures.

Clearly, the interplay between cosmetic and functional spaces, and the relative volumes of each, can differ widely across games. One of the hallmarks of a good exploration game, for instance, is the way that it teases you as to the particular species of space you are witnessing: intriguing spaces appear cosmetic when you first see them but may actually turn out to be functional, once you find a way of getting there. This is true of Tomb Raider and ICO, for instance. The converse is one of the prime videogame sins, when space that looks as though it should be functional turns out to be merely cosmetic. A slit in a rock which you can’t get into because the game won’t allow you to turn sideways; a meaningless hut with painted-on doors.

Of course, cosmetic space has an aesthetic value in itself; to create a sense of awe and vastness, or merely to fill in atmosphere - after all, the other side of that courtyard needs to be drawn even if you’re not going there. And functional space, meanwhile, can be more or less successful at creating an arena of compelling action. The puzzle-spaces of Tomb Raider, Prince of Persia: Sands of Time or Mario 64; the wide-open beach studded with hillocks and shrubs of the D-day-esque landing in Halo; or the lush vegetation and rippling shallow waters of Far Cry - each is richly functional and creates a deep sense of strategic possibility.

My reason for insisting on this distinction of terms is that critical terms like “level design” or “environment” or “architecture” refer to the whole world of the videogame, but beautiful and dazzling environments can have impoverished functional spaces, making them less interesting than worlds which aren’t as pretty but are more fun to be in. And here we come, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to the prime exhibit for the prosecution: Doom 3.

“What exactly is wrong with this game?” I kept asking myself. Sure, the fact that you have to switch torch for weapon and back again every 0.3 milliseconds is annoying, and it’s no excuse to defend it, as some have done, on the grounds that this arbitrary restriction is no more “unrealistic” than the fact that you are fighting demons from hell, or by saying that this is ordinarily a well-lit facility so why would anyone think of stocking night-vision goggles or firearms with built-in flashlights. It’s a marine base, people, which means that soldiers would expect to be sent to locations outside the base on missions where perhaps it might actually be dark. The restriction makes no sense on the game’s own fictional terms.

Stupid though it is, however, it’s a quirk which you can decide to buy into if you are determined to enjoy the game’s undoubted ghost-train thrills. What is harder to forgive is the fact that Doom 3 is perhaps the game the most obsessed with cosmetic space at the expense of functional space that I have ever seen. All the exquisitely beautiful solid texturing, the pipes and cables on the walls, the nooks and crannies, the gorgeously modelled unapproachable machinery - all this defines a massively complex cosmetic space in room after room. Functionally, however, you are essentially for most of the time running around in a series of small boxes, trying to shoot monsters.

This would be bad enough - a bit like playing Robotron on a screen one-eighth the size, at about a third of the speed. But then we come to the issue of teleporting enemies. Shoot the two demons in front of you and, time after time, another one just appears out of thin air behind your back. It’s good for shock tactics. It made me jump. But what it accomplishes is entirely to destroy the strategic functionality of the game’s space. If a monster can appear from anywhere, it makes no difference where you position yourself. It’s easy to see how teleporting enemies would utterly destroy Robotron’s playability, because the functional space in which you enact your strategies would just become mercilessly unpredictable. If the rocks in Asteroids could use your hyperspace option, the game would break. So in Doom 3, the combination of small rooms and teleporting enemies - despite the odd strategically placed pillar or crate - tends to void the game’s space of any real meaning. This has the effect, for me at least, of compromising my immersion in the gameworld. In quiet moments, marvelling at the game’s cosmetic creativity and shuddering at the brilliant sound design, I can imagine myself really there, but as soon as the demons appear it all breaks down; I might as well be anywhere, wheeling around, running backwards and pounding on my mouse button. The space doesn’t matter.

The irrational space of Doom 3 runs counter to the current laudable tendency of increasing the functional interest of game-spaces. In much less pretty games such as kill.switch or Full Spectrum Warrior, you are really made to think about where you are in relation to your enemy, and to engage in mightily enjoyable cat-and-mouse combat. A single block of Full Spectrum Warrior holds more functional interest than whole kilometres of Doom 3’s corridors, and I would argue that by this measure it situates you more firmly in a believable and challenging virtual space. Doom 3 defenders may reply that it is supposed to be an old-school shoot-’em-up, not a tactical simulation, but that’s no excuse. Old-school shoot-’em-ups didn’t have normal mapping, but they knew what they were doing with space.

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