Something quite interesting happens in the first few minutes of Ninja Gaiden II: The dead people don't vanish.

About five minutes into the game, I finished my first battle, and it was a grisly spectacle of carnage. I'd killed about seven guys, and their corpses lay scattered about. Then I went around the corner to save my progress at the "sacred statue."

When I turned around ... the bodies were still there.

All seven of them. Everything was intact: the fractal flowers of blood on the walls, the body pieces I'd severed from their hosts – a couple of legs, a stray arm – scattered like doll parts.

Why was this so weird? Because the bodies weren't gone.

In the originalNinja Gaiden, every time you killed someone, within a few seconds the body would poof away in a cloud of eldritch smoke – leaving nothing behind, not even a bloodstain. You'd dispatch 20 guys, go around the corner to snare some loot, and when you came back a few seconds later, the fight scene was as clean and sterile as an operating room.

This phenomenon is not limited to the first Ninja Gaiden. Over the years, I've noticed that most of the seriously violent games I love deal with the corpses by simply whisking them away. Take the recent Grand Theft Auto IV: I'd butcher my way through a gunfight, wander off to admire the view out a window, then on the way back to my car discover that the bodies were gone, neatly as if they'd been Raptured. Nothing left behind but their ammo!

On the one hand, this vanishing-body thing is such a blasé convention of gameplay that it's barely worth mentioning. No big deal, right? Often the designers make the bodies disappear for reasons of gameplay, because leaving all the bodies piled up is ludologically impractical: If every monster killed in World of Warcraft hung around forever, Azeroth would be so chest-deep in stinking corpses that you couldn't walk anywhere. The sheer metric tonnage of killing in our favorite games essentially requires that there be some sort of cleanup crew.

But still, I wonder if there isn't a moral effect here, too.

I mean, I've been gaming for 25 years. How many people – or monsters, or entities, or robots, or whatever – have I killed? If you add up all those gunfights, laser battles, BFG attacks, crazy Japanese RPG spellcasting deaths, throat-slittings from behind, starcraft pulverized by plasma missiles: Man, it's probably nearing a million or something. That's war criminal territory.

So when you put it that way, this idea – that the bodies of everyone we kill just sort of wink out of existence – is so hilariously pregnant with misplaced dread that it's practically Freudian. It's as if our violent games can't quite bear to have us face up to the dimensions of what we're doing. So they just get rid of the evidence.

Now, I'm not saying that games turn us into killers, or that I'm going to stop playing these things. I'm just ... sayin'.

All of which brings me back to Ninja Gaiden II, the Xbox 360 game that hit stores Tuesday. Unlike in its prequels, the bodies hang around. Indeed, they hang around for a good long while. After I'd killed my way through about seven battles, I experimentally backtracked all the way to the beginning, and sure enough – every body was still lying there, every blood fleck on the ceiling intact. I peered off the edge of a promontory to spy a battleground far below and, yep: There's that guy I disemboweled. Still dead.

Now, did this change the emotional, or even moral, timbre of the game?

In some ways, yes. You really do get a better sense that you're a sociopath when the evidence of your crimes is stacked around you. (The human bodies, anyway; magikal beasts still vanish in a puff of smoke, but since they were probably undead in the first place, you could mount some legalistic argument that you didn't technically kill them. Or something.)

On the other hand, you could argue that the moral and aesthetic content of all those racked-up corpses isn't negative. It can be meaningful in a sneaky way: As I meandered back over the scenes of my previous slaughters, the preposterously huge body count sometimes had a Wagnerian feel to it – all this senseless, tragic death!

Other times it felt self-parodic. The jumbled piles of cut-off legs felt more like the severed-limb knight scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, or maybe Ovid's gore-flecked parodies of Greek combat in The Metamorphoses. By leaving the bodies in, the game manages simultaneously to take the violence more seriously, and less.

We're going to see more and more of this – because unless I'm mistaken, the new trend seems to be to leave the bodies onscreen. Maybe it's the stronger pixel-pushing abilities of next-gen consoles, which makes it easier to leave the bodies around for Halo-style looting. Personally, I applaud this trend, because it brings these hidden moral and narrative dimensions to the fore, at least slightly.

Let the dead lie. We'll learn something about them – and, maybe, ourselves.

- - -

Clive Thompson is a contributing writer for The New York Times Magazine and a regular contributor to Wired and New York magazines. Look for more of Clive's observations on his blog, collision detection.

Complex Gameplay Saves the Day in The World Ends With You

Grand Theft Auto IV Delivers Deft Satire of Street Life

Poetic Passage Provokes Heavy Thoughts on Life, Death

Frag With a Friend for Ultimate Fun

Gamers Get Their Kicks From Dying