Artist's Statement Time! (apparently)

I finished Borderlands a while back (the first one—I’m too much of a broke ho to purchase the sequel), and good god does that game know itself.  It’s consistent tonally throughout the entire experience, and it’s a ruckus because of it. 

I’m definitely biased—I want to (and do) make funny games, so of course I applaud a game that is endlessly off the wall.  Subtle geek-culture references are always welcome, too.  Nonetheless, it's thrilling to play games that aren't too far from the sort of beasts you'd like to tackle, from the bigness of tone down to the little jokes.  

I like making worlds.  Characters are good, and themes are great—but it’s the internal workings of a thing that make me create.  Starting with a little “what if things worked like that” and then extrapolating all of the details from there?  Nothing better.  It’s the best parts of creativity: first, you can go anywhere you want; second, you must stick to your internal logic. 
 
Paradoxes are also fun to write.  The best part of paradoxes is when they’re invigorating.  And comforting. 
 
Point being—it’s a bit overwhelming to make a world.  Infinite possibilities weigh heavily on finite shoulders.  Something needs to reign them in—and so we stick to the internal logic. 
 
Whatever the kernel of idea was, there’s some truth in there.  Something we recognize as
undeniable—otherwise, we’d nurture a different kernel—and we cannot do anything that sullies the truth of that idea.  We can go anywhere… but please, let’s remain logical. 

Constraints are an undervalued tool in creative endeavors.  Creativity is ideas pushing against reality. When you’re starting from scratch (as you do when creating worlds), constraints give your creativity something to push against.  Ideas cook within the pressure of constraint—your first idea might be good, but the one that simmers inside the troublesome logic of the world is usually more interesting.  It just fits better.  It knows the world, it’s clever, it’s unexpected—but most importantly, it makes the world wider.  Its existence pushes the walls out a bit more and simultaneously firms them up.  It rings true, and in this new world—it is. 
 
Everything grows from there.  One great detail that fits the logic of the world begets another, and before long they’re bouncing off of each other in terribly interesting ways.  

Of course, this can be done in any form of narrative art (and possibly any art at all, although I specialize in narrative), but I do seem to enjoy games most.  Is it because I spend more time playing games than reading plays or watching movies?  Maybe.  More likely, I think it's just a bit freer.  

As awesome as logic is, I may apply it a bit too thickly to some concepts.  When writing plays, I get too caught up in themes that some of the spontaneity and fun drops out—I'm more focused on convincing my audience than I am on playing it loose.  Also, as much as I love humor, I have a way of writing it out of plays and stories when I'm trying to craft them into "serious works of art".  I won't for a second say art can't be fun or games can't be art, but I don't feel as hung up over appearances when working on games as I do plays.  Maybe the form is less pretentious, or I'm just more comfortable with it (and so don't need to hide behind pretension).  Not sure.  

But I like finding the right way to flavor mechanics, as well.  It's a bit of metaphor-making that appeals to me—there's some in-game action or rule that needs to exist to make the game better, but what are we going to call it so it still fits the world?  Or, even more fun—the game needs a new troop type.  Now look at the world and twist the pieces until you find something that fits the world and solves your problem. That's where so much of the good stuff comes from—and it's not a coincidence there are more constraints pressure cooking that idea.  

That's what I'm looking for: small projects are nice, but it's the big projects, the ones that beg for more details and compound their logic that really thrill me.  

Now if only I had some of those projects up my sleeve...

 

Faces

We hope you've been making plenty of Sad, Sad Stories this week.  Aren't free games great?  Plus they download quickly!  But finding someone to play with--that's not necessarily quick. 

(it's hopefully free (stop playing board games with hookers))

So we're toying with some other options.  Options, unbelievably, which involve me drawing faces.  

I KNOW WHAT COULD IT BE FOR? 

I'm not saying any more.  However, I will show you some of the faces I've drawn.  Bear in mind I've not drawn pretty much anything for over a decade, and that shading in pen is such a noob move.  I think I've improved over the past few days, but feel free to tell me I'm wrong and that you'll gladly draw some faces instead.  

Also, I unintentionally drew a couple people I knew.  Feel free to decide someone looks like you! (or wish it didn't)

Some personal Sad, Sad Stories

Maybe with all this talk of Sad, Sad Stories, you think we're a bit morose.  

Not true!  


...not entirely true!  

For all the dark, there's still some color in our lives. We keep a sense of humor about all the droll, embarrassing, pitiable events we call "life".  Here's a couple from my experiences to pick you up.  

(and look for Sad, Sad Stories on Sadderday)  

(puns: the saddest jokes of all)

Doughboy

1. Fourth grade: I first realize I can be funny.  
2. Jiggling my gut.  
3. If I sit and slouch, there's more to grab.  
4. This year I write 114 book reports.  
5. Set the new Mrs. Weiss' classroom record.  
6. When people poke me in the gut, I pretend to be the Pillsbury Doughboy.  
7. "Whoo-hoo!" I say.  
8. I pretend a lot.  
9. That mascot's an inaccurate depiction of American soldiers from World War I.  
10. His hat's not bullet-proof.  
11. Or mustard-gas proof.  
12. I suppose it's flamethrower-proof.  
13. Does Pillsbury make mustard?  
14. Seventh grade: I stop depending on physical humor.  
15. Try out for track.  
16. Coaches suggest & field.  
17. Public speaking class is the humor catalyst.  
18. Suffice it to say I'm really funny.  
19. (for seventh grade)
20. No idea how many book reports I write this year.  
21. Sophomore year: I run cross country for a couple weeks.  
22. Return of physical humor.  
23. Result:
24. Shin splints and stress fractures.  
25. Common in heavy runners.  
26. I attend the end-of-season banquet.  
27. There's a slideshow.  
28. Runners running.  
29. Many runners.  
30. I stand holding a can of soda.  
31. Only picture they have.  

Ease

Swanson tells everyone who rides wtih him to write on the ceiling of his car.  "The fabric fell off, so fuck it.  Write whatever."  

Mine has to be good.  

Swanson wants to go into film.  He writes shorts and we film them--we did the original Star Wars trilogy in under twenty minutes, using only what we found in the garage, three actors, and a George Bush mask for Jabba the Hutt.  Yoda was a green bottle of weed killer, R2-D2 a Weber grill, and every character I played said, "shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit," and died in a cross-fade.  

After filming, I realize I used Greedo's lines when playing Jabba the Hutt.  We all make mistakes.  

Today, we are filming a knight video.  Swanson has painted some cardboard to look like fake rocks and wedged them against his house.  Bill, Carlos and I have fake swords and faker acting.  I am the king.  

Our horses are cars.  Swanson wants a shot of the king leaving his castle on horseback.  I can't drive, so Swanson parks his car perpendicular to traffic--he lives on a dead end, so it's cool--then moves to the passenger seat to explain.  

"It's simple.  The pedal on the right is the gas, and the pedal on the left is the brake.  Everyone hits the pedals too hard the first time they drive--so don't.  All you have to do is ease onto the pedal and we'll start moving--and it's almost a straight shot to that alley over there, so you don't even have to steer. Got it?"  

I look down at the shifter.  R.  

I hit the pedal too hard.  The tailpipe fills with grass and dirt before we jump the curb and lunge toward my castle.  

"Brake brake brake brake brake!"  

Outside, Bill and Carlos panic.  Mostly they laugh.  

Swanson shifts to D.  "Okay... now ease on the gas and get us back onto the street."  

I'm easing.  We whump to street level.  

Swanson sighs.  "EASE on the gas and get us into that alley."  I mostly do.  

"Now get the fuck out of my car!"  

It was a trial run.  We didn't film it.  Swanson drives the car into the alley and Carlos films.  I watch. The next time I attempt driving I am nineteen.  

"R... what does R stand for?" is on the ceiling of a car if that car still exists.  

Two is the new one. Five is the new two. Ten is the new five... maybe?

One of the biggest design challenges when working in an analog medium is numbers.  

MATH.  It fucks people up.  

That's a big problem when you're designing something that's meant to be fun.  People don't want to feel like they're working when they're playing (even though people are virtually always working when they're playing games)--it's the feeling that counts.  

Which is why I'm thinking about base 1.  

I'm definitely getting the terminology wrong, and I should look into what this concept is called--but I'm talking about using 1 as the lowest common denominator of the balancing system.  One is pretty average, and anything higher than one is good.  We'll say one is "normal".  

But then what's worse than 1?  Zero?  Zero means there's nothing there.  And if I want a troop to deal some damage, it has to be a fraction of 1 in order for it to be worse than 1.  

FRACTIONS.  They fuck people up worse than MATH.  

So,one is not a good starting point because you can't go down from there--but going up when your normal is one isn't great, either.  When your normal is one, you can double it, triple it, quadruple it--and those are all enormous changes, all achieved by adding only 1 at a time.  Instead, let's say your normal is two--now you can halve it, or add 50%, or double it... the same numbers are used (1-4), but their relative value is worlds apart.  See the difference?  You're able to tune your quantities more finely by changing your normal.  

However, if we make the leap to three--we have User problems.  Because my brain's a bit wired for math, I can do multiples of three pretty easily, and I can do halves or thirds of it.  Quarters are tougher, and fifths straight out--but you understand the problem already, by trying to think about those integers.  Thinking of 6 as double 3 is easy, but thinking of 11 as 3 2/3 times better than 3 is rough.  Players don't necessarily need to understand exactly how much better one option is than another, but it certainly helps when designing a deck-building game, or any game with variables the player is allowed to tweak.  When numbers are easy, understanding the systems is easier, which means players can play the game at a more optimum level with a minimum amount of confusion and frustration.  

Which is what we'll call "fun".  

Your normal needs to be something that allows for easy-to-comprehend worse numbers, but we can't get too high--100 gives you approximately one hundred times more fine-tuning capability than 1, but forcing players to add, subtract, or multiply numbers like 37 and 82 is even worse than not allowing them to understand exactly what all of the values mean.  On top of that, players understand there's a difference between 80 and 82, but understanding the difference is much tougher.  Don't forget you're going to go above your normal as well.  You'll hit values like 135 and 337, since 100 is "normal".  How different, then, is 135 from 13, or 337 from 34?  Just make your normal ten and be done with it, right?  

At the bottom of this discussion comes the question: what's the optimal normal that allows for sufficient fine-tuning of design, without compromising usability?  

Answer: Pffft, I don't know.  

Two, five, and ten seem like the best options.  Ten fails at keeping numbers small (and when tallying 8s and 7s together, the math isn't friendly), but it's a scale we all understand with ease--being able to say that a 3 is 30% of a 10 is pretty clear to most users.   

Five is nice, because there's not too much variance in the in-between integers, and working in 20% increments is pretty convenient, as well.  

Two keeps the numbers much lower and easier to deal with, but might not lack enough finesse for your game.  

Which is sort of the ultimate conclusion--you have to do what is right for your game.  Or, possibly, individual systems in your game.  

When tallying damage in a game with multiple pieces dealing damage to a variety of sources (or worse, having modified damage on top of the initial quantity), a normal of ten is probably too complex.  Five probably runs numbers too high... but two sounds pretty good.  However, if multiples of the same piece are dealing damage (so four pieces all deal 7 damage a piece), then we can depend on multiplication tables to ease the load on players (a bit).  Perhaps not enough for some, but it's certainly easier than adding 9, 6, 5, and 7 together quickly (that's not even 28... see how hard it is?).  

All of which is to say, computers are really good at math.  Utilizing a computer (as video games do) solves these User issues for you and opens up a lot of design space--but the constraints of keeping your game systems simple can lead to interesting design choices.  And if we're not making those, why are we making games?  

Although seriously, any of you feel like programming for us?  

And doing a lot of art?  

Let us know in the comments.  

The Information, or "How about an aural RTS?"

I was thinking about time and space and especially information in RTSes, because it was Wednesday.  

Quickly--RTSes are real-time strategy games.  The genre is based on the tension between how resources are spent (defense, economy, and offense), and take place on a relatively large map to highlight the importance of territory control.  Basically, workers collect resources, build a base, and the buildings create an army, and you have to attack your opponent in an attempt to destroy his army, his base, and his economy so that he's out of options.  Because of the extensive options available to players and the multitude of decisions they must make in a game, the genre is also about optimizing players' attentions--there's too much to do, and not enough time to do it (strategy + real-time = RTS).  Some examples are Starcraft, Warcraft (not World of Warcraft), Company of Heroes, and Dawn of War.  

Point being, I was thinking about how you always have information about your troops' surroundings at all times.  I thought about this because how much do we think about this?  Never.  This isn't how reality works, I'm afraid, but it's certainly a conceit that makes the games more approachable.  It simplifies how you keep track of your troops' circumstances and determine whether to push or pull back.  Basically, you can tell how you should play because you can see what's happening to your troops, which is essentially the entire game.  That information matters more than anything else.  

But reality, by no means, always makes games better.  How realistic is it that a single marine has the time to tell anyone that a dozen zealots, fifteen stalkers, four colossi, and a mothership are coming at him?  Not at all.  It'd be more like, "Hey!"  [Horrible death].  

So, what if you no longer knew what was happening to your troops?  At least not all of them.  What if you would send troops out on specific missions, but wouldn't know how they were doing, where exactly they were, or even whether they were alive?  

That's pretty much what the military's had to contend with forever.  Would that make for compelling gameplay?  

No.  It'd be awful, because games are about simplifying systems and letting people make informed decisions to maximize their benefits in the game world.  Not knowing what happened is... pretty awful.  

Radios, though!  Radios are cool.  So what if there were troops that had radios, and if they were with other troops, you would receive information about how they were doing?  They'd tell you they were under attack, by how many troops, and what they were going to do about it--and you could tell them how they should respond.  

If troops with radios are expensive, then you can't afford to always send squads into battle with radios--or else you need to send out fewer squads, which has its own opportunity costs.  

And then--what if your radios only communicate with you, and your opponent's radios only communicate with them... but when a radio operator is killed, the opponent gets access to that radio?  Now you're receiving information from the front lines... but you're not sure you can trust that information.  It could be the opponent sending lies back to you, which would mean you're operating under false pretenses, and could sway the game.  This wouldn't work very well as a top-down game any longer--sure, there'd be a map and territory, but you wouldn't be looking at what you knew--you'd be looking at what you thought was likely the game state.  It would be about receiving audio feedback from squads of troops, then deciding how to respond to these new circumstances.  

This is less of an evolution of the RTS genre, though, than approaching it from the angle of psychological thriller.  It's Fox Mulder commanding an army--he wants to believe, but he's just not sure who he can trust.  

(no one)

(obv)

But it felt like an interesting way to highlight the importance of information in RTSes, so I wrote about it.  Bam.