SECOND PUBERTY #1: Super Modesty Bros.

Squinky and the Squinkettes present: SECOND PUBERTY is a currently-in-progress series of seven short games about the weirdness of feeling like a teenager and a thirtysomething-year-old at the same time.

In 2018, I began hormone replacement therapy after a lengthy period of hesitation – while I had understood myself to be transgender for several years prior, I was unsure as to whether my gender dysphoria was really “enough” to merit hormonal transition, and worried that the changes would be more than I could handle. To my pleasant surprise, my experience so far has been overwhelmingly positive, changing my relationship with my body for the better and making me feel hopeful about the future in ways I never thought were possible for me. Yet, with that hope comes regret and heartbreak for the past, and how long I spent enduring painfully uncomfortable circumstances I had no idea I could change.

SECOND PUBERTY is my way of grappling with these feelings, which its development in and of itself mirrors. The game is being created using the Godot engine, which is free and open source and completely new to me, yet makes a lot of sense to my brain, especially compared to many other engines and frameworks I’ve tried working with in the past. The individual games I’m designing focus more on movement and audiovisual experience than on text, which is a change for me as someone whose game design focus has primarily been narrative and interactive fiction – as a person who’s finally rediscovering what it feels like to truly inhabit a body after spending so many years stuck in my head, this feels only fitting.

The first game in the series is called “Super Modesty Bros.” and it is a reflection, of sorts, on my restrictive religious upbringing and the ways it made me suppress my authentic desires and ways of being in favour of behaving “correctly”. It is also just incredibly silly. Here is what it looks like:

You can play this now, and every subsequent game in the SECOND PUBERTY series as I finish them, by supporting me on Patreon. When all the games in the series are finished, I will release the whole thing to the rest of the world.

Goodbye, grad school: on quitting my PhD

As of this summer, I am no longer a PhD student.

A lot of factors went into this decision, but the pickle I was in really started to show itself last winter, when no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get anywhere with the dissertation proposal I was supposed to be writing. I did pretty well in my coursework and passed my comprehensive exams, but somehow, this particular step, where one has ostensibly proven their knowledge in their subject areas of expertise and finally has a chance to focus on their own work, just had me spinning in circles.

What is now obvious to me but wasn’t at the time was that I was going through severe burnout, and it had been happening for months, if not years. I hadn’t finished any new games for an entire year. My ability to concentrate and make anything resembling long-term plans had completely diminished, and I was flaking out on a lot of personal and professional commitments. I wasn’t the most depressed I’d ever been, but my faith in the quality of my work was at an all-time low, and since I have historically derived a lot of my self-worth from the work I do, that definitely took a significant hit.

On one hand, my inability to thrive in an environment as hypercompetitive and uncaring as academia seemed inevitable. A part of me was aware of this from the start, and I tried my best to protect myself by treating grad school as nothing more than a badly-paying job and claiming that I wasn’t married to the idea of becoming a tenure-track professor. But I did enjoy my master’s program, for the most part, and hoped that I could mould my PhD to work in a similar way. Making weird art games in an environment of supportive peers and mentors felt like the best possible job I could ask for, and justifying it as “research-creation” felt like an easy enough way to convince an academic institution to let me do just that.

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The games I didn’t finish making this year

It’s about that time of year when people like to start making year-in-review posts of various kinds, and I have to admit: while I did have a lot going on in 2018, I feel like I have very little to show for it, especially in a game-making sense. So, in the spirit of queer failure, here are some games I started working on in 2018 but didn’t get around to finishing.

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RIP Telltale Games

Yesterday, I learned that the first game studio I ever worked for shut down.

Admittedly, I’ve been paying little attention to Telltale’s output over the last several years. I stopped buying their games around the time their incredibly mediocre Back to the Future adaptation came out, though I did once get to present a trophy to some of my former co-workers when their critically acclaimed zombie game won awards at GDC.

But back in 2006, as a young computer science student with an obsession with a special interest in point-and-click adventure games from the nineties, working for Telltale, the new studio where the people who used to work on adventure games at LucasArts all went, was kind of a dream job. So, I cold-emailed asking for an internship, showing off a game I made for fun back in high school, and they were impressed enough with my enthusiasm that they actually hired me.

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What happens after your game gets nominated for IGF awards

You don’t really believe it. This has got to be a dream, right? Your game wasn’t THAT good, was it? Oh no, your Twitter’s blowing up. All your friends are congratulating you. You feel momentarily self-important, but the feeling then gets overshadowed by how guilty you feel for your self-importance.

You struggle to figure out who to invite to your VIP table. You have all these seats to fill, given that tables like these are meant for actual games studios with actual teams. In the end, you put out an open call on social media, so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings. The people who take you up on it are grateful, sometimes effusively so. Some of them even bring glowsticks.

You discover firsthand the sensory hell of the expo floor, now that you’re actually forced to be there. You field questions from baffled business dudes who don’t understand how you would monetize something like this. (That is, after they go up to chat with the cis dude friends you asked to help out at your booth, who have to explain to the business dudes that um, actually you, and only you, were the one who made this game, yes, all of it, even the programming.)

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Montreal, for boring old white people: a report on two walking tour experiences

The following is an essay I wrote for a graduate seminar I am currently taking called “Performative Dramaturgies”. I thought it would make for an interesting blog post, so I’m reposting it here.

This year is the 375th anniversary of Montreal — the number alone being an indicator of the centring of white European settler-colonialists rather than the First Nations people who lived on this land for considerably longer — and with it comes a great deal of funding for celebratory installations and performances around the city. Among these are guided walking tours taking place in particular neighbourhoods of Montreal, two of which I have experienced for myself. The first, “Paul à Montréal”, is set in the Plateau-Mont-Royal, and the second, “Cité Mémoire”, is located in Old Montreal.

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you used to be someone – design goals

you used to be someone is a work in progress about my experiences with depression. It entails going for a solitary walk at night in an attempt to alleviate restlessness and agitation, frequenting the kinds of spaces that stay open late: bars, convenience stores, laundromats, fast food restaurants, etc. while at the same time feeling unable to meaningfully interact with others in these spaces.

This game, contrary to my other works, is a first-person 3D game, but one that features a collage art style wherein cut-out pieces of public domain photographs on 2D planes are assembled in 3D space. Combined with the first-person camera, this creates a distorting effect when moving around the space: from certain angles, objects look three-dimensional, but from others, it becomes obvious that they are actually flat. The effect is intended to convey feelings of disorientation and distance, invoking a sense of dreamlike hyperrealism.

Additionally, the use of the first-person camera and controls is a very deliberate choice on my part. As a player, I have found that first-person shooter interfaces in particular are very disorienting — they are likely to make me motion sick, and the frequent experience of looking down and seeing body parts that belong to a white cis man (i.e. what society sees as a “default human”) is also very strange to me. However, as the standard first-person game interface is seen as intuitive for players who are accustomed to the control scheme, I find it important to deviate from it somewhat. In you used to be someone, the camera is only controlled by directional input (WASD or arrow keys) whereas “mouselook” is disabled; instead, the mouse behaves as it would in a 2D point-and-click game. I am additionally interested in experimenting with different control peripherals, such as an arcade joystick and trackball, or completely custom controls, in order to fine-tune a balance between slight disorientation vs. complete inaccessibility. My end goal is to create a user interface that is equally unfamiliar to most players, in the sense of not giving seasoned first-person game players an advantage, but one that is at least navigable for those who don’t normally play games.

As this is a game based on my lived experience, I would consider it autobiographical, but in a more abstract than representational sense. For instance, the architecture of the cramped apartment and city street in this game are not directly modelled after any actual apartment I have lived in or any street through which I have walked, so much as they are designed to represent my feelings in these kinds of spaces. I have dreams in which I am in familiar spaces but the architecture is very different: there are extra rooms, the layouts are all jumbled, and even the building materials and lighting are different. A major depressive episode, in its own way, can be a state of un-reality with dream-like qualities, in that it is different from one’s “normal” state of being.

Finally, I want to stress that you used to be someone is not going to be “a game about depression”, but instead a game about how I, personally, experience depression. Unlike works such as Depression Quest, which aim to generalize the experience of clinical depression, I aim to be very specific. I am interested in eventually comparing and contrasting audience reactions to specificity vs. generality in experience when it comes to autobiographical games, but that may be a forthcoming project for when I have a more established data set to draw from.

Scattered thoughts on QGCon 2017

Early this month, the Queerness and Games Conference took place at the University of Southern California. This was the fourth time the conference was held, and the third for which I was a co-organizer. Aside from my usual organizer duties, I gave a microtalk and had two games on display in the QGCon Arcade: DomPam2 and The Truly Terrific Traveling Troubleshooter (which my collaborator, Jess, wrote a lot about here).

Here are some scattered thoughts on this year’s incarnation of QGCon:

This was the first year we held the conference in LA instead of Berkeley. It made sense to move it because most of us organizers are no longer based in or near the San Francisco Bay Area. There was a lot I missed in terms of the change in location — USC is not as centrally located to food and other amenities as Berkeley, and we ended up having an unfortunate issue with campus security that made our Saturday night karaoke party less well attended than usual. We’ve been floating around the idea of moving QGCon to different locations every year (I keep rooting for Montreal, of course, and not just because I live here now) but everything’s still up in the air for the moment. Stay tuned, I guess!

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QGCon 2017: falling in love in a cyberpunk dystopia

Below is the text of a talk I gave at last weekend’s Queerness and Games conference, as part of a microtalk series on the topic of “Out of Sheer Spite”, moderated by Kris Ligman.

This time last year, I went through the worst major depressive episode I’ve ever experienced. Up until then, I’d experienced periods of what I thought was depression, but could really be more described as melancholy. This time around, however, was a complete, utter breakdown. I’d alternate between states of heightened anxiety and uncontrollable crying spells. I lost my appetite. I had trouble sleeping. I couldn’t even write code without having to stop because I was too anxious.

I’ve known how to program since I was ten, to give you an idea of how drastic that was for me.

I’d moved to Montreal at the beginning of the year, eager to have a few months to myself to live alone in a tiny apartment and make some games while living off my savings, waiting to start my PhD in September. For as long as I can remember, I would have given anything for unstructured time where I didn’t have to work for a living and could just make art for a while.

Unfortunately, my brain had other ideas.

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CHESS FOR MEN: a game for Pippin Barr

This past semester, I took a class in Player Studies, where one of the assignments was to study one particular player and then design a game specifically for them. When I was given this assignment, I thought it would be especially fun to use another game designer as my test subject. I chose to work with the renowned Pippin Barr, not only because I’ve admired his work for a long time, but also because he happens to work in the same game lab as me and was therefore easily accessible.

What I found when playing games with Pippin was that there was a difference between the games that he designs versus the games he enjoys playing. Pippin’s design style is short, to the point, and “jokey”, with a low-fi aesthetic; he is perhaps best known for adapting the works of contemporary artist Marina Abramović into games, which really says it all. The games he enjoys playing, on the other hand, range from masocore (e.g. Terry Cavanagh‘s work) to lushly-rendered exploratory “walking simulator” games (e.g. everything by The Chinese Room). Another game we ended up playing together was chess, which we both played when we were younger, then stopped — though Pippin did take it up again recently, via play-by-mail with a long-distance friend. While we were playing, and as he was about to win, he uttered the following phrase:

“I’m not very good at winning games… actually, I guess I’m not very good at games at all.”

This both intrigued and inspired me. What is it about winning games that would make someone uncomfortable? Moreover, how can I, as a designer, enhance this discomfort? In contrast to the idea of a masocore game that is so difficult that constantly losing is part of the fun, what if the game were ridiculously easy, and the accolades you got for winning then felt completely and utterly meaningless? Moreover, what if the way to play and win the game was to be a complete, utter sociopath?

The result was that I made a game called CHESS FOR MEN.

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