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304 pages, Paperback
First published September 19, 2017
At the mall, you run ahead of your mom, making sure you’re outside her shouting range when she passes through the young men’s section of JCPenney, otherwise you’ll be trying on slacks for the next hour. Also, no one wants their mom looming over them at the game store. The cool kids would laugh at you. Everyone knows cool kids don’t have moms. At the store, you agonize over which game to buy. (...) At thirteen, you’re practically a grown-up. Using your adult intellect, you select the game most likely to show you some boobs, then make your purchase, being careful not to look the cashier in the eye. Afterward, you meet your mom in the food court, where you eat a corn dog because corn dogs are delicious. You lie to her about the game you bought, keeping it carefully wrapped in its bag so she can’t see it. If she sees it, she’ll know about the boobs. On your way out of the mall, you stick by your mother’s side. You’re almost in the clear; you just have to play it cool. Too late, you realize your mistake—JCPenney is having a sale on slacks, and you’re just growing so gosh-darn fast. An hour later, you finally head home.
I submitted reviews for restaurants, plays, books, and films. Not a single one earned a response, and with good reason—I was a terrible critic. If I hated a play or a restaurant, it was easy to rip it apart with words, but I lacked the thoughtfulness to analyze and celebrate the things I loved. It’s a good thing there was no market for clickbait and hot takes back then, or else I never would have learned there is a big difference between being a writer and being an asshole.
If this were a story, now would be the point where the hero is granted a vision of his or her possible future, as personified in an older, more successful acquaintance. Our hero would then express bright-eyed eagerness, along with moral flexibility, signaling his or her willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed. This would be enough for the elder statesman to take a shine to our hero, having recognized they are the same on some primal level.
None of that happened, because this isn’t a story; it’s my life.
I hate asking questions during an interview. My ADHD-raddled brain can listen to someone for only about three minutes before it starts looping Muzak and my brain goes into energy-save mode. Luckily, this trait is balanced out by my narcissism, which allows me to remain focused for a good hour and a half, so long as we’re mostly talking about me. It’s a great combination for staying focused during a job interview, but it’s terrible when it comes time to ask questions, because I probably haven’t picked up enough information to form any reasonable inquiries. At best, when someone asks, “Do you have any questions for us?” the most honest response I could give is “No?” or “Can we keep talking about me?”
D. T. had removed his belt and wrapped it around his forehead as a means of holding a telephone receiver to his ear. He was listening to the weekly marketing call while playing one of our upcoming games. For the last half hour, he’d been firing a gun at two enemy corpses, trying to nudge their hands onto each other’s crotches. He had almost achieved this goal and wasn’t about to stop just for a phone call.
Geekjock introduced us. “This is Walt, my game analyst. Walt, this is Mark Cerny.”
Mark Cerny is a bit of legend in game development. He’s done it all—design, programming, production, even business. He was the lead architect for Sony’s PlayStation 4 and the PlayStation Vita. If that’s not enough, his body of work includes more successful, beloved franchises than that of anyone else I can think of: God of War, Resistance, Ratchet & Clank, Jak and Daxter, Uncharted, Spyro the Dragon, Crash Bandicoot. But all these accomplishments paled in comparison to one.
“So, you’re the guy who made Marble Madness?”
“Oh God . . .” Mark cringed. “Are you seriously going to bring that up?”
Booze always loosens the tongue, but it has nothing on the freedom that comes in the aftermath of battle. And make no mistake, game development is a battle. Our universe is one of law and logic. To create is to shatter those laws, to reach inside yourself and produce a thing where once there was none. The universe doesn’t like that. It will set everything it has against you—time, space, and everything in between. When the fight is over, it’s easy to forget how hard it was. No one will fault you for speaking the truth. You’ve achieved the improbable, and they know how that feels.
I gave Mark a drunken, shit-eating grin. “You misunderstand. I’m not geeking out. Marble Madness was the first game I ever rented as a kid. I never got past the second level. I just wanted to take this opportunity to say ‘Fuck you.’ ”
Laughter. Clinked glasses. Cheers all around.
These are the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Avatars are meant to be the player’s physical representation within a game. They are blank slates, designed with no real personality of their own. Our industry has this idea that a player needs to project him- or herself onto a character in order to be fully immersed, which can be difficult to do if the character expresses thoughts and opinions different from those of the player. It’s an argument I don’t really buy into. People have never had difficulty relating and connecting to characters in stories. It’s shockingly narcissistic to assume controlling a character in a game somehow diminishes your ability to empathize with someone else.
When I’m told to write a vague protagonist, what I hear is, “Make them boring.” If a player needs a boring avatar in order to feel immersed in a game, then that player is not projecting onto the character. Instead, they are relating to someone who is boring because they, too, are boring. The boring avatar isn’t pulling them deeper into the game; it’s just helping the player’s boring brain imagine what it would be like to live in a world where boring people are also powerful and important. That’s why you rarely see overweight, unattractive avatars. Players aren’t projecting themselves onto their avatars; it’s actually the other way around. By taking control of an avatar, players project its superior qualities back onto themselves. It’s not projection at all, really. It’s just wish fulfillment.
One of the most famous avatars is Gordon Freeman, the protagonist of Valve’s celebrated Half-Life series. (...) Gordon has a PhD in theoretical physics, so you can assume he’s always the smartest guy in the room. As far as we know, Gordon does not play sports or exercise, but he is still in perfect physical shape. He is also a weapons expert, despite only receiving minor training once in his whole life, because dumb rednecks shoot guns all the time, so there’s no reason (...)
Gordon does not speak. His genius brain, which is housed inside a perfectly symmetrical head that has neither a double chin nor a receding hairline, doesn’t have time to talk; it’s too busy contemplating supraquantum structures. Besides, words are for plebeians and should be used only to praise the great Gordon Freeman, never to nag him about taking out the trash or cleaning up his room. This sounds like a joke, but it’s true—almost everyone Gordon meets gushes over how amazing he is. Even the villains do it.
That was the thing with Transistor. I wanted to set up the seemingly cool band of supervillains and then just sort of watch these characters unravel and discover they had these more tragic, potentially more noble intentions in mind that maybe fell apart.
I also think it leads to better characters when characters have motivations you can relate to. Those are the most compelling antagonists, when you’re like, “I guess if I was in your position, I would do that, too.” I think that leads to interesting characters and interesting stories and interesting twists. I’m really interested in the gap between intentions and reality. I think people typically act with good intentions in mind, but their actions can be deeply misconstrued or have terrible consequences they didn’t really anticipate.
We’ve all been there when we tried to do something good or nice and it just blew up in our face, or situations where we’ve been really angry with someone, and we realized we were angry on a false premise. Maybe if we had a little more information we wouldn’t have reacted the way that we did. I really like taking those kinds of stories and spinning them in a really fantastical context. That stuff is just deeply humane to me.
What will the player want?
What will they think?
What will they do?
We’ve been asking ourselves these questions for so long that we’ve forgotten how to ask our own questions. “What do I want? What am I doing? What does this mean?” We’ve removed ourselves from the equation. Nothing makes that more obvious than the rhetoric we spew in support of moral choices.
“It’s the player’s choice.”
No, it’s not. We conceived it and built it. The choice is ours. Forcing it onto someone else does not excuse us from moral obligation. If we believe games can establish and reinforce social norms, then our obligation is to the future, not the player. We are the architects of these digital worlds; the power to design a better future is in our hands.
“I’ve been thinking of making a comic strip about game development. I’d call it ‘What if We Made Airplanes?’ Every strip would be a single panel of people gathered around a whiteboard, trying to design an airplane the way we design video games.
“ ‘There’s nothing special about flying. Any plane can do that. What if—just hear me out—what if we put the wings on the inside?’
“ ‘I’m telling you, once passengers see how much work we put into our tray tables, they won’t care that the plane doesn’t have any seats.’
“ ‘Of course they’re going to crash. These things are really hard to build.’ ”
(...) the production cost of AAA games has steadily increased while the consumer cost has remained at sixty dollars for around eleven years. If AAA games were appropriately priced, you’d pay more than a hundred dollars for them. Since that won’t fly, we’ve turned to DLC to cover the difference.
Daniel Day-Lewis is (...) notorious for staying in character for the entire duration of a film’s production. While filming The Last of the Mohicans, he didn’t go anywhere without his twelve-pound flintlock. During The Crucible, he only traveled on horseback. As Bill the Butcher in Gangs of New York, Lewis made things very difficult for the catering department, as he refused to eat meat he did not personally butcher. A lot of people don’t know that. Mostly because I made it up.
“Crunch is exploitative (true). Employees feel their jobs are at risk if they resist the will of Crunch (also true). And, most damning of all, Crunch isn’t necessary (so true it hurts).” pg 223
“Crunch is a natural occurrence brought on by the creative process. Driven by passion, artists give themselves entirely to their art. When art exists in a collaborative medium, Crunch will always deal collateral damage.” pg 224