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Life in the Machine

Well, it’s been a busy month. That’s putting it somewhat mildly – the last week or so has been possibly the hardest I’ve ever worked on a project, putting in anywhere from 8-12 hours every day and culminating in one last completely brutal 14 hour day on the first of February to wrap the project up. It’s still not perfect, I could definitely find plenty to do if I wanted to spend a week or so on polish and fixes, but for now I really just need to let this one go, because I’m exhausted and I want to move on to something else.

For January, I participated in Wizard Jam, the Idle Thumbs community game jam. The premise of the jam is to create a game based on the title of an Idle Thumbs network podcast, and since many of those titles tend to be weird and imaginative to start with there’s plenty to work with. I picked The Convergence Compulsion, and then later when I found out that someone else was interested in using the same title, appended the subtitle “The Satisfaction of a Job Well Done”, another podcast title. My very early conception of a game to go with this title was a fast-paced 2d puzzle game in the vein of a match-3 or Tetris where you tried to get different laser beams to line up, but the idea that eventually captured my imagination was a game where you build machines out of elements that emit power, manipulate it, and then turn it into some sort of work. Along the way, it shifted away from the idea of building complex machines and towards figuring out a solution to a puzzle made out of a few components and a number of simple humanoids, kind of like the games The Incredible Machine and Lemmings. At the end it came out pretty close to that, except most of the humanoid behavior had to be cut/simplified.

The concept of Convergence Compulsion is that you work for The Convergence Corporation installing hardware in different locations. The hardware usually consists of at least one power orb, which emits power particles, and at least one converger, which attracts them, and then using these and some other devices which focus, reflect, or split these particles you need to power different machinery. This ended up being kind of a finicky concept – Sometimes machinery ends up getting accidentally powered on just due to random chance, sometimes it takes a while to get the equipment specifically where it needs to be to focus particles, sometimes solutions I didn’t anticipate work and sometimes solutions that should work fail to because I didn’t script the levels to account for them. For the most part, though, I think I’ve managed to achieve the game I had in mind.

Here it is:

Convergence Compulsion: The Satisfaction of a Job Well Done

 

In addition to this, Wizard Jam 8 participants created a number of other great games, many of which I commend to your attention. A few standouts among those I’ve played or seen played thus far:

I’m exhausted but generally pleased with what I accomplished during January, which brings us to February. Now, I had originally planned on making another game this month, a 2d platformer project so I could better understand the capabilities and methodologies of Unity 2d development, but right now I’m really ready to just not work in Unity for a while. Thus, the 2d platformer project is getting pushed back one month to March, and for February I’m going to be focused on writing music, ideally with the end-goal of making another album. I have a few tracks floating around already, so it will really only take maybe 5 or so more to have enough for an album, but we’ll see where I end up. Even if I don’t end up having enough it’s fine, I just want to spend this month making as much music as I can and definitely not programming.

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Everything in a game is there for a reason – whether that reason is because it’s necessary for the player to progress, because of aesthetic appeal, or because of an oversight on the part of the developers, there’s some history behind every bump and nook and crevice of the world. Much of the time, this history is merely of idle curiosity – the sort of stuff that’s interesting in developer commentaries but doesn’t really get talked about elsewhere.

Frequent players of games, though, tend to notice the patterns of this history. If two objects have a particular spatial relationship to each other – say, they’re just close enough to jump from one to the other – then we start to infer the intent behind the placement. This is particularly noticeable when solving puzzles in games. When the developer has created the environment to be navigated in one specific way, everything about the structure and layout of that environment becomes significant. It’s like a cryptogram: there’s a meaning behind this arrangement of elements which is directly being communicated to us, but the meaning hides behind a layer of obfuscation. And, like a cryptogram, solving the puzzle is mostly just a process of sorting all the information available to us properly: Once you know what every element’s role is, the solution becomes obvious. This is, more often than not, why people see twists coming in a story as well – not because the thing that happens next is likely, but because all of the pieces of the story moving to set up the twist lack subtlety and too clearly show the aims of the author. As with games, every part of a book was written for a reason, and if you’re good at seeing what that reason is then the shape of the story will start to take form long before it is read. Writers who are invested in creating a sense of surprise and discovery often need to find newer and more subtle ways to create surprise as we get better and better at reading their intent. We could view this as a sort of game itself: The artist’s attempt to create a surprise vs the reader’s ability to decode their intent prematurely.

Real spaces, too, have a history that is shaped by cause and effect. Places where people walk become trails and trails become roads – spaces not made to create puzzles, but merely to be traversed and lived in. The ability to infer the history of a space, whether virtual or real, can be a useful skill. It is not, however, a generalized problem-solving skill. That is to say, if you’re very good at solving puzzles, that doesn’t necessarily make you very good at solving problems. The problems we encounter in the world aren’t very much like the problems that games propose to us. They are not bounded or discrete, their elements are not carefully placed to be used. They are inconvenient and messy, and it’s not always clear when one has found a solution – or what other new problems that solution may pose. Problems may not even be solvable at all. The obstacles that games present may be useful for keeping your mind sharp, but the amount of transferable skill between the tiny constrained problems offered by a game and the huge incomprehensible problems proffered by day-to-day life is minimal.

While the skills games teach may, at times, have utility, that utility is rarely anything like the way those skills are represented in-game – that is to say, while the manual dexterity and tactical thinking needed to become a martial arts master in Street Fighter may have other applications, it won’t help you win many actual street fights. It’s sometimes difficult to accept that the skills don’t transfer, though, because to accept this is, some feel, to denigrate their validity as skills. Beating Dark Souls doesn’t mean you can fight a horse, but it does mean you’re capable of a certain degree of patience and care and precision. Doing something that’s difficult doesn’t necessarily mean you can do anything else that’s difficult, but it does mean you have the capability to face and overcome a difficult problem, if perhaps a very constrained one.

It may be obvious that playing video games isn’t generally good training for real life problems, but it’s worth restating because we tend to believe in the idea of generalized mental capability, in a sort of hierarchy of intelligence, to believe that if you can do one difficult thing that smart people do you can probably do other difficult smart-people things. What lets people do difficult things, though, isn’t some sort of abstract intelligence, some numerical value that makes them better at brain stuff than other people. It’s skill and it’s practice. We have a very easy time with this idea when it comes to athletic pursuits, to the idea that the abilities that make a person great at one sport probably don’t lend themselves to making them great at another sport, but have a harder time with it when it comes to mental skills.

Movies and television like to use a visual shorthand to show that a person is smart, so that we know to respect whatever they’re about to say. They show them playing smart-person games like chess or playing smart-person instruments like violins, have them wear smart-person glasses and speak in smart-person voices. And, of course, we know that wearing glasses or playing chess don’t necessarily make you smart – but we still believe there must be such a thing as smart, and that there must be a certain set of pursuits and attributes that belong to this class of smart people.

Pursuing skill in any endeavor is admirable in its own right, but it won’t somehow train up your intelligence score. You can’t grind your stats. All you can do is get better at doing a thing, and sometimes that will also be helpful for doing other things. Even then, there’s many ways to get better at a thing – for instance, if you want to play the piano, you could improve at sight-reading music or at improvisation, you could improve at jazz or classical music, you could improve your ability to play quick phrases or to make big jumps across octaves on the keyboard. These are all related but distinct skills, and together they can make you “good at the piano” – but what does “good” mean to you, then?

It takes a whole other skill, a whole other kind of dedication, to be able to face a problem of unknown size and indefinite scope, and slowly pick away at it bit by bit, unable to know when or how it might be solved. That’s one I think we’re all still trying to get the hang of.

Eh well the December project didn’t really go anywhere. I can at least put some screenshots of how far I got before I decided I’d kind of messed up:

I spent a week or two planning this building layout, figuring out Pro Builder (a tool for constructing 3d objects within Unity), and picking up the basics of other tools, such as Unity’s terrain system. In the end, I was… dissatisfied. I felt like I had just the very edges of what could be an interesting environment, but Pro Builder was becoming increasingly unfriendly the more I worked on it, and small issues with the geometry got harder and harder to fix – leaving me unable to make important changes, such as adding more windows.

I then decided that I needed to be able to work on this in a more full-featured 3d environment. I don’t know whether this was a good or a bad decision, but it was definitely the beginning of the end for this project. Originally, I’d hoped to just export the model from Pro Builder into Blender, a free and very full-featured 3d editing software. Unfortunately, all of the work I’d done in texturing and detailing the environment in Pro Builder came to work against me, with every separately textured subsurface of the object exporting as a separate element. I’d hoped to just drop my old work into Blender and immediately start work again, but this proved to be unfeasible. Over the next few days I studied the basics of Blender, and I began to reconstruct the building – but it is, after all, very difficult to be enthusiastic about doing the same work twice, and my capacity for enthusiasm is inconsistent at the best of times.

At this point we were pretty close to Christmas anyway, and my attention went away from getting game work done and towards all of the preparations that came with that. After Christmas I was mostly focused on cleaning and thinking about what the next year is going to look like. I’m still thinking a lot about those things, but it’s time to start a new project…

Well, close to it anyway! I’m actually not quite done with holiday stuff, and will be traveling for the next several days. Once that’s past I’ll have all month free, and hopefully by the time I get back home I’ll have a solid idea of what I want to work on. I do have a general plan of approach, though, for what I want the next several projects to be, based on the skills I want to pick up and practice:

January: Wizard Jam. The Idle Thumbs community runs a semiannual game jam where people spend a couple of weeks making a game, usually based on the title of one of the podcasts. This community has been a great source of support for me over the last couple of years, and though I’ve participated in the Jam a couple of times I’d like to put some work into something I can really be proud of this time. I’d also like to collaborate with at least one other person.

February: 2d Platformer. I would like to spend a month putting together a simple but complete 2d platformer. The purpose of this is twofold: First, to create a game simple enough that I can focus on creating content for it, and second to gain an understanding of how 2d works in Unity. The latter is important because it’s going to determine if, when I return to work on EverEnding, I continue that project in Flash or reimplement it in Unity. Probably the former, but I want to be open to the latter.

March: Album. I miss writing music, and though these other projects will probably provide opportunity to do so I’d really like to make it the focus of my efforts for a while. There’s a slight chance I might swap this one to February, since I’d prefer to dedicate fewer days to it and more to the 2d game, all else being equal.

April: EverEnding, Chapter 1, Part 1. I think if I really focus for a month, I can create the introductory areas of EverEnding to a degree that is, if not finished quality, at least close enough that I can finish most of the rest of the game before I take another quality pass. If I hit this milestone, I’ll start regularly setting up work months like this. I really don’t want to abandon this project! But I don’t want to be okay with it taking forever either.

All in all, it’s hard to be upset with how this month went. I’m disappointed that the project didn’t turn into anything, but I’m hoping I can keep up the momentum I started in learning these 3d tools, which have generally been a weakness of mine for a long time. I learned a bit more about the danger of trying to do things the ‘right way’ as well – this has been a vulnerability of mine for a long time, of feeling bound to execute whatever I feel to be the ‘proper’ way of doing something. The proper approach, though, is the one that creates a game, and so far that seems to elude me.

Hopefully, in a month, this space will describe my new Wizard Jam game – or games? Until then, hopefully I can also manage to keep up on Problem Machine blog posts a little bit better than I’ve been managing the last couple of weeks.

Over the last few years, I’ve been trying to get better at art – in the specific sense of visual art, that is – drawing and painting and, most frequently, digital art. I think I’ve succeeded at the goal of getting better, though I still fall short of what I want to be able to achieve. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to understand 3d art – in this case trying to construct an environment that’s visually interesting and feels reasonably natural to exist in. Most of my abortive forays into 3d work haven’t really concerned themselves at all with scale or natural placement or trying to set a scene – at best I’ve learned the basics, and now that I’m learning the basics again I suspect I didn’t actually learn them very well the first time.

It’s a strange sensation, sometimes, trying to extrapolate the things I’ve learned from 2d art into 3d art. When I’m doing a painting, I compose the view and then decide where the light is and, as I flesh the piece out, I try to remain true to those decisions. When I’m working in 3d, I have to position the entrance to the room and position the lighting to create the ‘composition’ the player actually encounters in the world, and the specifics of how that light gets rendered are handled by the 3d program. I’m still far short of where I want to be in this field, as well, but because it’s a newer skill to me I at least feel like I’m quickly improving.

The more I work at it, though, the more I notice there’s something missing. If I were to sit down in a drawing workshop and draw a model, then move my chair and draw them again, and do that several times, those drawings together would comprise something like a 3d interpretation of the model. Even if I did a very good job of those drawings, though, there would be discontinuities – part of the process of drawing would be to make decisions, exaggerations, corrections… there’s no such thing as perfect representation, because the lines we use to draw are largely conceptual, whereas the model is a person with a physical presence. Each drawing goes through its own artistic process, interpreting what I am able to see through my flawed eyes and converting it into a linear and shaded approximation. In 3d art, though, I just create the environment and leave that visual interpretation, what would be my drawing in this analogy, entirely up to the renderer. The gap, the thing that’s missing, is the 2d artist whose place is being taken by the computer – or, to be more precise, in this case the artist’s place is taken by Unity’s default rendering pipeline.

This isn’t to decry 3d art as in some way being less ‘real’ art, but to bring up the idea of the many kinds of art that it could be but currently is not. In our quest for consistency, for realism, we’ve left behind much of the power of 2d art – the ability to exaggerate, to portray the impossible and cartoonish. A good example of this would be the video game adaptations of cartoons like The Simpsons: In these shows, characters rarely face towards the camera because the style of the show usually only holds when they’re in 3/4 profile view. The particular cartoon squiggles that comprise the mouths and eyes only really make sense in that perspective, so whenever the script calls for a character to be seen from a different angle it looks off, weird and confusing and sometimes downright unrecognizable. The 3d game adaptations, however, require the characters to be viewable from every angle – so the style is collapsed into 3d models that makes approximate sense from every angle but also never really look like the cartoon original. Even the most elegant and well-executed cel-shaded outline shader can’t fix the issue that 3d rendering will, at the end of the day, be a faithful and uncreative depiction of the model data.

I know that you could affect the geometry of the model with a shader as well, but I haven’t seen it applied towards this problem – unsurprising since I expect I’m the only person who considers it a problem. Whether because of the constraints of technology or because of our worship of ‘realism’, the idea of making models that don’t appear the same from every angle doesn’t seem to have ever really taken hold. Every game establishes its own language, so in the end objects in a game can look like basically anything and the game continues to work. Just like playing make-believe as a child, a stick can be a sword if we agree it is a sword, a bush can be a dragon, the floor can be lava. If we can push things this far, why don’t we? I mean, we sometimes do, but usually only in the context of relatively low-tech ‘retro’ experiences, either using simple pixel art or low-poly 3d styles. We have yet to unleash most of the power on our disposal on the challenges of surrealism, impressionism, cubism – and, on the rare occasions when we begin to push in these directions, it’s usually only to try to emulate the most well-known 2d visual aspects of that style, rather than making any attempt to interpret how these might translate into a 3d space.

In general, the aesthetics of games fall into two R’s: Realistic and Retro. Recently there’s been a bit of leeway around ‘realism’, but it’s still the broad category AAA games fall into. While games like Dishonored and Breath of the Wild may not be attempting to appear real, they still try to emulate a version of reality, a world that is consistent in its rules and its appearance, a world where even if the particular appearance of a thing is stylized it still has the essential properties expected of a real object. Retro games, conversely, are willing to be weird, to be inconsistent, to be arbitrary and unreal – if they emulate the exact forms of inconsistency and arbitrary unreality that were the hallmarks of the nostalgic history of video games.

Any one of those quirks that are typical of retro games, though, could be harnessed now, and recontextualized into a modern space. The tendency for sprites to receive erroneous memory addresses and replace parts of an important game character with text or another character was caused by the specific implementation of pixel graphics used in old games, and has been used narratively in interesting ways by games like Undertale, but there’s no reason that must be married to a retro style – we could just as easily have a scene where parts of a 3d model flicker and are replaced with parts of another 3d model. It wouldn’t have the same contextual meaning as it does with sprites, where it comes to stand in for the concepts of corruption and elemental chaos – but that wouldn’t keep it from being visually interesting! Or, another artifact of retro games is pixelation – pixelation is still called back to in 3d contexts, sometimes, but only by creating low-resolution textures or occasionally creating 3d equivalents, voxels. However, that’s an interpretation rooted in a visual rather than a systemic understanding of what pixels were – what about an art style where all vertices of a 3d object snapped to a grid? What about an art style where models are rendered to a texture and then crunched down into a sprite and projected back into the world?

I bring up retro art, though, just because it’s the most understandable entry point into non-representation (or at least less-representation). Retro is the only area in game design where looking anything besides beautiful, anything besides representational, gets much allowance from potential players. We are prepared to accept retro because we know what it’s trying to be. We must be prepared to accept more, to accept the weird and ugly and inexplicable.

I understand why it has been necessary to attempt ‘realism’ for so long. Picasso drew a lot of normal very pretty paintings before he started painting blue shit and weird cube people. Eventually, we need to accept that we’ve got this reality thing down pretty well, and be willing to push outwards. We have the power to make worlds – why do we keep trying to just make this one, over and over and over again, with just slight thematic variations?

An ugly trait of our society is that we tend to see people’s value primarily in terms of the goods they might produce. We even tend to see ourselves this way, to want to maximize our productivity, to be able to demonstrate ourselves as worthy. As I’ve come to notice this ugliness more and more, though, this has raised a dilemma for me: I know that this worldview is shitty and exploitative and dehumanizing, but I also deeply value art and believe that it’s worth spending time to make it.

Everything that human society has produced it has done at the cost of some portion of a person’s life. People trade pieces of their lives with each other to make each other’s lives more enjoyable, whether directly by means of friendships and other relationships or by spending time on producing goods and services which they trade with each other. Money hypothetically facilitates this exchange, provides a layer of abstraction which makes it easier for large groups of people to exchange pieces of their life in ways which are valuable to each other. In the abstract that’s wonderful, but in practice this leads to Problems: It leads to stockpiling – people hoarding away money and goods, keeping away chips that each represent seconds and minutes and hours of another person’s life, and offering no benefit to anyone. It leads to exploitation, someone with relatively more resources taking labor from a person with relatively few in exchange for the abstracted, liquefied version. It becomes an end in and of itself, a method of power and class rather than of helping people exchange their time in beneficial ways.

A person’s time can be used to create things that are beneficial for others, and that’s beautiful. Unfortunately, rather than us giving ourselves, we are being taken. Rather than nursing, we are being milked. The entire apparatus of creativity becomes implicated in a monstrous crime.

There’s a temptation when faced with this evil to discard its fruits entirely. This is probably the proper approach on a greater structural level, but less so when it comes to specific objects – that is, yes, the exploitation needs to be stopped, but the goods themselves still represent slivers of a person’s life, and that should be treated with respect. The things we make are important. The things we make are still part of us, even if the method of their making is contemptible.

The old promise of automation was that it would save us by reducing how much of a person’s life they had to spend making each individual object. The bulk of the time could be offloaded to the machines, leaving the person to manage the work using a fraction of the time. In practice, of course, this resulted in people simply being let go, and made even more vulnerable to exploitation, driving the trade value of human time, of human life, down. Not down far enough, though: Companies started building factories where human time and life were even cheaper, and then automating those factories so each individual put into them could produce even more. The low price of these goods directly reflects the contempt in which we hold the people who actually produce them, though that contempt is negotiated through the corporations themselves so that we seldom have to acknowledge it directly. We are incentivized to create poverty and suffering so that human life is worth less in some places and we can make affordable trinkets. The old twist about a machine being powered by lost souls has come true, but it’s every machine, brought into existence by sacrificing a small but significant piece of another human being’s life.


Yesterday, at the time of this writing, was Thanksgiving, a holiday about gratitude – a sentiment I can largely get behind, at least in the abstract. When I was taught about Thanksgiving in schools, we learned the story of how the kind native Americans taught the Pilgrims to survive, and so this day became a day of feasting and gratitude. This was, again, an abstract gratitude, and in no way impeded the progress of the subsequent genocide. We mostly eat turkey on this holiday so have a tradition now of the president pardoning a turkey, which is a funny joke about not killing a bird except – was the turkey supposed to have committed a crime? Why are we pardoning a creature to excuse the crimes we intended to commit against it? Surely we should be begging the turkey’s pardon. It’s funny the way crimes and punishments tend to fuse together and cipher for one another.

Today, at the time of this writing, we have another holiday called Black Friday: A holiday about buying things, consuming those fragments of human life that have been shaved off into technological marvels. Mostly, when we talk about being thankful during Thanksgiving, the American version of gratitude is being thankful to be an American, thankful to be here and not in one of those countries where human life isn’t worth so much, and where they make the electronics we buy on Black Friday. Thus we can more efficiently reap the benefits of making other countries worse.

They’re an interesting pair of holidays: Having what you need, and then desperately wanting more.


As an artist, how can I produce in this context, without feeling that I am exploiting or being exploited? The first and, perhaps, most difficult lesson is learning what my creative resources actually are. What can I put into my art? Not just in terms of skill and talent, but in terms of how much time and energy I can capably invest into my work. We’ve been trained to think that eight hours of work makes a complete day of work, but that’s quite a lot. You might be able to put that much in, but maybe you can get more done by putting in 3 and then putting 3 into something else that needs to get done; or maybe by putting in an hour or two here and there; or by going on creative binges that last a few days but leave you exhausted once a month. I’m still trying to discover what my personal alchemy is. The goal is to find what I can produce readily and calibrate my work to that. Once I’ve done this, I can at least and at last know when I am working and when I am not working – I constantly felt like I was always half-working, not really putting my all in but not really able to relax. If you try to put more of yourself than you have to give into something, you start burning yourself, like burning books to stay warm or burning muscle to keep from starving, you’re consuming parts of yourself that weren’t meant to be used this way, and that will have consequences, sooner or later.

Finding a way forward is a matter of balance – of putting the time and energy I have in the places where they do the most good, of finding the art where it’s lying most ready to be found instead of wasting resources trying to hunt it down.

Allocating time that isn’t time for work and then not just spending it sitting around doing nothing is still hard, though, because I have no idea what I want to do with myself beyond make things. I feel isolated in a way that sometimes bothers me, feel a need to make new connections with people, but also simultaneously have a loathing of all the baggage of unfamiliar social situations and potential conflict that comes with meeting people. Even more than working on art, it can be difficult to cut off from spending extra time and energy on a social contact once you’ve already reached your capacity for putting in that sort of effort – and, unlike art, the damage caused by doing so clumsily can have deep ramifications.

Left to my own devices, I might spend forever happily tinkering with my own projects, existing in stasis – but the world keeps moving. Sooner or later, something I rely on is going to break, there’s going to be some sort of disaster that throws me off balance, and if I don’t expand outwards to discover a world beyond myself before that point it’s just going to be that much worse. I feel myself becoming isolated by degrees, and I’m reminded of Edmund McMillen’s game Aether. Aether is a short game where you play a child flying around space on an octopus-like monster. As you visit different planets, there are creatures there with simple problems which you can solve, and as you do the planet blooms. However, each time you do, when you come back to Earth it’s slightly smaller. The game ends after you solve every planet’s problems and come back, and the Earth is smaller than you are, and crumbles when you touch it. It’s a metaphor for getting lost in creativity that I keep coming back to, because I do feel like my connection to the world is very tenuous in some ways, anchored by just a few people and places.

I’m reaching out and trying to touch these two ideas at the same time, of creating things of worth and beauty and of building connections to new people and places. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I’m at least getting better at making things without completely losing myself to that process. Perhaps once I get really good at that it will make it easier for me to expand outwards. The challenge then will be learning to want to.


We’re all burning our resources and trying to do it the best way we can, to make the best life we can for however long it lasts. If we must burn up, let us at least warm each other in the process. It’s up to you to find out the way you burn brightest, and longest, and kindest.

I didn’t put up a devblog last month, and I’m not sure if anyone noticed. I’ve noticed a cyclical trend over the last couple of years: I work on EverEnding, hit a point where it’s difficult or tedious to progress, decide I need to take a break from EverEnding, I start working on another project, something goes wrong with that project or I get anxious about not making progress, and I come back to EverEnding. Throughout it all, progress gets made, and I learn. Slowly.

That’s what’s killing me now. What good is slow progress? How long is the rapidly deteriorating world going to sit and let me ‘perfect my art’? Can I sit down and write another blog post about how “it may take me five more years to finish this but so be it I’m in for the long haul!” when I know so little about what the world will look like in five years? Will there be a world in five years? Even if that weren’t the situation, though, I think I’d be coming to be less comfortable with this idea of finishing art ‘eventually’, ‘someday’. It’s tenable to put art out there which you’re not sure if anyone is going to care about, and it’s tenable to spend many years making art, but combining these, spending years creating something you have no idea if anyone is going to care about…

I’m increasingly tempted to focus more on things that aren’t making games, on trying to make art and music or trying to do more writing. They might not have any more of an audience, but at least they can be done to a reasonable level of quality within a few days – or a few weeks or months, depending on the scope. At the same time, I have a hard time seeing myself ever completely focusing on any one of these pursuits – one of the reasons I’ve always been enamored with the concept of game development is the promise of being able to explore all these different media through a unifying meta-medium. Now, though, I just feel scattered – it would be bad enough to spend my days carrying water to fill a well that might not have a bottom and that I’m unsure if anyone will drink from, but I find myself pouring into several such wells. What can this achieve?

I think I’m improving, but improving at what? I’m improving at working on making a game, but not at actually making games – after all, in all this time, how many games have I actually made? I’m getting better at being comfortable in a cycle of development that never ends, miniscule gains that never pay off. I don’t know that this is the correct skill to learn. I need to learn how to actually make things, not how to be ceaselessly in the process of making them.

So that’s the skill I’m going to try to practice. I’m going to spend some time studying the tools that are available, most notably Unity, and techniques that I’ve neglected. I’m going to set out blocks of time which I can use to make projects, and then complete them as best as I can within those time blocks – small games, primarily, but maybe I’ll also try to make an album or two or spend a month entirely on creating characters or environments. It doesn’t really matter what it is, as long as it’s something with a beginning and an end, instead of being ceaselessly borne on a current.

I’ll write about this more later, but you can expect posts around the beginning of every month detailing these projects and, hopefully, sharing some finished work. How do I know this time is going to be different? That this isn’t just another part of the cycle? I don’t, really – but these questions have begun to weigh on me more and more, and I don’t think they’re going to stop until I do something about it.

It’s time to finish something. Maybe I’ll know what it is once it’s finished.

In art, characters are designed and presented – every aspect of the character’s design was considered at some point along the way, and most have some sort of significance. Even in live-action films and theater, people are cast to embody the traits of their character: Thus, every line, every curve, every bulge, every tone of skin and voice has Significance. Every dimple, every freckle, is a Chekhov’s gun. This causes problems, though: We learn things from art, inevitably, and in most ways people’s bodies have very little to do with who they are – or, at least, have a far more complex relationship with their personality than the simple stereotypes usually mined by character artists and directors.

Much has been written about the impacts this has. The way people with more fat are frequently portrayed as unhealthy and lazy, the way darker people are frequently portrayed as criminal and unambitious, the way more feminine people are portrayed as deceptive or as hapless victims, and so forth. But even though fat people aren’t unhealthy or lazy by constitution, the dismissive inattention of doctors gives them worse health outcomes and saps their energy: Even though darker skins don’t lead to criminality, they do lead to loss of opportunities in a bigoted system, sometimes leaving crime as the only option for those whose ambition refuses to die: Even though femininity isn’t deceptive or weak, those who show it frequently have their feelings dismissed and their vulnerabilities preyed upon, so they eventually have deceit and victimhood thrust upon them. These embodied character traits end up having a cruel backhanded truth to them: The systemic disadvantages people with these bodies encounter in their lives come to become wholly aligned with their fictional representation.

So just ignore all that stuff, right? Color-blind casting, age-blind casting, body-type-blind casting, gender-blind casting, and so forth, just make everyone draw their character names from a hat. And yet, if we do that, we lose the entire visual channel of communication about who a character is, where they’re from, and what they do – because these things do affect our bodies in certain ways. If we do that, we sacrifice the ability to have conversations about how our society treats different bodies and different backgrounds, sacrifice any real discussion of our real world in favor of making every world an aspirational one where there is no background, no history, no context, only the melting pot.

To some this conflict might seem intractable. It’s very simple, though: Your characters do not have to be statistically representative samples of their respective populations. Your characters have the freedom to be from any race, body type, age, preference, and still pursue their ambitions and hobbies, and these things will have an effect on their bodies that will modify their appearance. A blacksmith will probably have strong arms regardless of sex or weight. A bicycle courier will probably have strong legs. Someone who performs a desk job all day might put on a lot of weight – then again, they might not. Someone who hikes over mountains as a hobby might be very slender – then again, they might not. All it takes to make a character design that doesn’t propagate shitty ideas about who can be what and how is to separate the improbable from the impossible. Aren’t improbable characters more interesting, anyway? Most of the things we often tend to think of as improbable really aren’t very unlikely at all, anyway, especially at the level of serendipity fiction tends to operate at.

Even a character who’s a realistic embodiment of a societal ill, though, would be far better than what we get right now: Punchlines and cardboard cutouts, characters whose only role in the story is to be exactly what we expect them to be. If you still want to make one of these archetypal characters, at that point you have a duty to at least pay some attention to the systems that make them what they are. The cruelest villains and most pitiful victims don’t emerge from nothing, but from the societies of their worlds, their oversights and acceptable losses and untouchable elites.