I tried to explain Dwarf Fortress to my friends, they didn't understand, so I printed a picture of my fort, and they said to quote, "Ew, what the fuck is that shit?! Why don't you buy Black Ops and play a decent game?" I printed a screen shot of some combat records of a war tiger ripping an elf's throat out, they now won't stop talking about it.
This hints at a deep, important aspect to Dwarf Fortress.
In dwarf mode, the game paints its action in two complementary ways. The first is a spatial representation of the fantasy world, painted in symbols; the second is a descriptive text or combat report: procedurally generated, utilitarian verse.
On one screen, a fight between an army of dwarves and a siege of goblins bloodily unfolds in a near-incomprehensible, rosy mess, an alphabet soup with tomato base, noodles run amok. On another, the same battle is a near-interminable, prosy mass of horrific combat reports -- a War and Peace of gore and pieces.
The magic lies in the synthesis. How much fun would Dwarf Fortress be to learn if it had no written explanations, or if it was wholly restricted to them? Through heroic efforts studying dense screens of code and connecting it to richly written descriptions, the player not only begins to understand, they begin to
imagine. A unique world arises in the player's mind, functional and recreative, borne on both the game's graphics and text, unlike either.
The phenomenon of any person's Dwarf Fortress comes within a stone's throw of a boundary beyond both picture art and literature, combining the two in a way only Roguelikes can. This is by way of a fantastic
alchemie that is only in its least parts contained in the game itself. It is an ephemeral form of, an opportunity for, art that even a film critic couldn't imagine. Tarn and company can fit through the eye of a needle larger game developers have spent years running away from.
If someone is turned off of Dwarf Fortress by the ASCII graphics, it is because they did not actually see the game.