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.
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.
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.)
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.
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!
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.
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.
I’ve been wanting to write a post about Brechtian influences on DomPam2 for a while now, but with trying to wrap up course work this semester and dealing with other life things, it’s been hard to focus on things that don’t have immediate deadlines. My general stress level has, in part, been heightened by last month’s US election, which affects us here in Canada pretty significantly, even though I honestly am glad to be back.
In times like these, I believe it’s more important than ever for artists to engage with politics in their work, even as some folks seem to get all bothered about it. “Artists are supposed to make people smile, not think.” “Games are supposed to be fun.” That sort of thing. And, well, sure, what I want to do is not going to make me popular or garner me a lot of Steam sales, because most people who play videogames seem to want to have fun and feel good, at least as I understand it.1 And yet, I’m at a point where I can’t not make games that express the things I’m thinking and feeling.
So, Brecht. I first encountered Bertolt Brecht‘s work sometime after I released DomPam1, when people much smarter and more well-read than me started comparing it to The Threepenny Opera, and Weimar Germany-era cabaret theatre in general. So, of course, I eventually started to look into the stuff I was being compared to, and found it resonated with me in a big way. I mean, gee, I can’t imagine why, in this current political climate, I’d find a lot in common with a playwright who worked during the rise of fascism pre-WWII, but there you have it.
I feel like there’s a misconception among well-intentioned games people that to promote diversity in games, the goal ought to be to make a game that everyone can enjoy. While it’s a goal that sounds nice in theory, in practice, it tends to result in bland, uninteresting games that don’t really speak to anyone in particular. I personally feel that what we should really be doing is making more games for people who don’t typically have games made for them.
One of the most frequently repeated criticisms of DomPam1 was, in fact, that it wasn’t a game for everyone.1 To this day, I’m still frequently confused as to why this is even a bad thing: the vast majority of videogames in existence — the vast majority of works in any medium, even — are not for me, and I learned that lesson pretty early on in life. It occurs to me, however, that some folks do in fact go through life assuming that their tastes are universal, particularly those for whom the constructed “gamer” identity is a perfect fit. That is to say, if you play videogames, there are very particular reasons why you like videogames, and very particular games you hold up as gold standards for the medium. Generally speaking, you enjoy smooth-feeling gameplay that makes you feel empowered and as if your choices actually matter, and you like having impressive production values to go with that.
So, I’ve leaked a few teasers here and there, but in case you weren’t aware of them: yes, I am indeed officially working on the sequel to Dominique Pamplemousse in “It’s All Over Once The Fat Lady Sings!” — which will be called Dominique Pamplemousse and Dominique Pamplemousse in: “Combinatorial Explosion!”
Full disclosure: I kind of hate sequels. I especially hate the idea of being obligated to write them. When the first DomPam game exploded and people started to ask me if there was going to be a sequel, I’d either groan audibly or joke that sure, I’d make a sequel, but it would be an angsty Twine game about my feelings, or something equally far-fetched. As far as I was concerned back then, I’d already written the story I wanted to write the first time around, and there was no point in continuing it.
But then, sometime last year, I got an idea. I was at WordPlay, and Sherwin Tija1 was giving a talk about his “You Are A Cat!” gamebook series. He stated that if you write a story with multiple endings, and you then decide to write a sequel to said story, then it logically follows that you have to choose one of your multiple endings as the canon endings. And then I started thinking, hey wait a minute, what if you didn’t have to choose? In fact, what if the entire plot to a sequel involved being confused about which ending was canon?
So, I started thinking about Dominique again. Regardless of my feelings towards its completeness, a lot of things have happened in my life in the intervening 3-4 years since making it, which I now want to address. As it happens, my current PhD research is on autobiographical games, and while DomPam is not explicitly autobiographical, it has enough of my lived experience in it that it feels very formative to who I am as a person.2
The premise, therefore, is that since the first game had two endings, the sequel features two versions of Dominique, one from each alternate timeline. And so, they wind up wandering around in search of answers to the question of which one of them is canon, while encountering a number of wacky characters and situations in the process. I hope you find it as fun as I do.
Stay tuned for more writing about my design process, including thoughts on Brechtian alienation and stand-up comedy!