When it comes to video games, there are good games and there are great games.
The good games provide entertainment. They are challenging but not unfair. They show you a hint of what is possible and then push you on to incrementally discover the joy of the player mechanics and the choreograph of simple components that give rise to complex interactions.
The great games, on the other hand, tell a story. They are the true masters of the medium. For them, gameplay is not just a fun diversion but the essence of reality presented in radically new forms. What we receive from them is not a primeval sense of achievement at having accomplished a task whose primary meaning is a function of the time we spend on it, but a different, artistic and insightful take on the deeper questions of our past, present and future.
In that, it can be said that a great game is merely literature, but literature in its broadest sense because written words alone are not how games convey their meanings. A great game, like any other work of literature, has the capacity to inspire the mind and touch the soul, but it does so in its own wondrous ways.
Without a doubt, Bioshock Infinite is widely acknowledged to be a great game. I personally would take a step further and say that it is a great work of literature–perhaps one of the greatest.