The World's Highest Dev Blog

In his 31 years on this earth, Dean Hall has been a commissioned officer in two branches of the New Zealand armed forces and the developer of popular zombie survival mod DayZ. Now he's plunged himself into a survival situation as grueling as anything in his game: climbing Mount Everest.

I applaud Dean's pursuit of a worthy quest in the finest Middle Earth tradition. While blogging about the unexpectedness, profusion, and constancy of his bloody nasal discharge, Mr. Hall remarked, "I’m also developing a really great concept for a game here…"

If one man could give thunderous applause, you would hear such accolades from me, despite your possible location on another continent. My friends, this is an idea whose time has come. We've endured annual assaults to our sensibilities and wallets posing as American Football simulations. We've seen intriguing yet simplistic attempts to immerse players in virtual sports. The technology exists to bring the real most dangerous game into our living rooms. Only the will was lacking, and Dean Hall seems to be hinting that he intends to deliver.

Admittedly, a motion-controlled mountaineering simulator would have limited appeal. I assure any console manufacturers reading this blog that I would buy a new system just for a Dean Hall mountain climbing game. The single tantalizing sentence at the end of his post rekindles a hope I haven't felt since the demise of U2 Rock Band.

Godspeed, Dean Hall.

Self-Publishing: Commodity vs. Art

Ebook sales surpassed 20% of the US book market in 2012. Also for the first time, a self-published novel hit number one on the DBW best-seller list. In light of these breakthroughs, the advice from some quarters to skip traditional publishers altogether and make a career strictly from electronic and on-demand publishing is gaining credibility.

For Wool author Hugh Howey, self-publishing is a great writer's best option and a mediocre writer's only option for career success. He posits an invisible army of self-published mid-listers supplementing or replacing their regular incomes with ebook proceeds. Howey's evidence is entirely anecdotal, but the sheer volume of anecdotes isn't to be taken lightly.

Has the long-predicted demise of the New York publishing model come at last? In a word: no. No less a DIY publishing advocate than Dean Wesley Smith believes that the industry has reached a state of equilibrium between electronic, on-demand, and traditional publishing. He shows that the basic business model used by traditional publishers for decades is indispensable, even for authors who become their own publishers. Another telling fact is that almost every high profile self-published author to top the digital best seller lists has signed a print deal with a traditional publisher (including Howey himself).

Jane Friedman points out some of the self-publishing career path's quirks, including the dominance of genre fiction and the perceived need to sacrifice quality for high product volume. In her experience self-publishing openly views books as commodities. Traditional publishers do as well (they are running businesses after all), but they tend to emphasize the artistic aspect of literature.

It's hard to argue with the raw numbers. Self-published authors receive 70% of every ebook sale and retain all the rights to their work. Traditionally published writers get 25% of ebook sales. They also get 12-15% of each print copy's cover price, but only after the advance earns out. Gaining this compensation requires giving away almost all rights to their work. Also, ebooks can theoretically remain available forever, while most print books have a shelf life of six months.

Despite the mathematical proofs, I remain unmoved by the arguments for skipping traditional publishers in favor of self-publishing. Financial gain isn't my primary motive for seeking publication. A fundamental fact of the literary industry is that it's the wrong business to get into if you're in it for the money. I write, edit, and redraft; send query letters and endure rejections because, like Howey said, traditional publishers only accept the top one percent of submissions. Material success does not necessarily denote skill; neither does popularity for that matter.

I am a traditionalist by temperament and conviction. Yes, many aspects of the old publishing model are outdated and simply unjust, but it can be fixed without sacrificing standards (e.g. Norman Spinrad's call for 50% ebook royalties). I don't presume to dictate which approach is right or wrong. Self-publishing works for lots of writers, and I wish them continued success. At this stage though, having Random House buy your manuscript for peanuts still seems like more of an achievement than servicing your boat loan on the profits of a misspelling-riddled teen mystery series.

Those are my current sentiments on self-publishing. I welcome your praise, rebukes, and insights.

Contemplating Oblivion

I recently took in the new Joseph Kosinski film Oblivion. It's the director's second feature film after Tron: Legacy, and his creative sensibilities are already showing marked growth.

I enjoyed the Tron sequel--mainly for its rich visual style. Despite lacking the name recognition of a readily identifiable franchise (or perhaps because of this fact), Oblivion is the superior film. Sure it's a Tom Cruise vehicle, but those have a surprisingly good track record. After all, Cruise has proven himself a shrewd businessman with a keen eye for winning scripts. Even his critical failures almost always turn a hefty profit. The fact that he chose to appear in a risky sci-fi feature by a rookie director hints at the film's appeal.

Oblivion is Kosinski's second major release, but it's the first he's written. Here the comparisons to Tron: Legacy are most striking. The Tron sequel was a mix of disjointed, poorly paced scenes populated by a bland ensemble of stock characters upstaged by a dazzling visual setting. Oblivion is a mix of familiar yet serviceable science fiction tropes convincingly held together by characters who actually have something relatable at stake, and whose inner and outer conflicts are directly relevant to the breathtaking backdrops (Oblivion's visual design gives Prometheus a run for its money).

For all its strengths, I can't give Oblivion unreserved praise. Like I said, its plot is fairly contrived and salted with cliches. Every ten minutes or so you'll get the nagging suspicion that you've seen all of this before (and if you've seen The Time Machine, Independence Day, and The Matrix, you have).

It is with more dismay than excitement that I recommend Oblivion, if only for the fact that this film stands alone among the recent crop of corporate-engineered marketing and incoherent, nihilistic ramblings bandied about as serious science fiction. It's easy to see how Oblivion could have ended up like its more vapid genre mates, and it avoids total self-indulgence only through narrative meditation on a verse of ancient Roman poetry (go figure).

Final analysis: there are worse ways to spend two and a half hours than seeing Oblivion. You've already seen most of it, but the action is grounded in believable characters, good performances, and genuinely beautiful visuals that reinforce the narrative instead of detracting from it.

Have you seen Oblivion? If so, feel free to share your thoughts.

Doubting Thomas

I finished reading Odd Thomas over the weekend. It's taken me far too long to start reading Dean Koontz. I'll definitely be back for more.

Being a mystery story, a spoiler-free review would be unintelligible. Instead I'll comment on Koontz's stated intent to chronicle the title character's journey toward perfect humility in light of the first novel's action and themes.

Humility is nothing more or less than self-honesty. It fulfills the ancient exhortation to "know thyself". Humble people understand their own strengths and weaknesses. Bearing all people's inherent worth in mind, they don't compare their gifts, faults, or accomplishments to others'.

How well does Odd meet these conditions? One character trait that the novel really drives home is the protagonist's simplicity. He lives above a nice old lady's garage with interior design by the Salvation Army. Eschewing automobile ownership, he walks to work and borrows friends' cars for trips farther afield. Having worked as a short-order cook since high school, he dreams of a future in tire or shoe sales but is content to nurse his plans slowly.

Such a frugal, unassuming life could result from humility. It could also signify a lack of magnanimity. The novel repeatedly speculates that its main character may be neurotic or even psychotic. His modesty could be the product of a traumatic, imagination-killing childhood.

The best evidence that Odd practices genuine humility is the insight Koontz gives us into his interior life, especially when he deals with others. The author conjures a motley cast of flawed characters to serve as foils. There's the rootless materialistic father, the spoiled and arrogant gold-digger, the irredeemable sociopath. Even when he encounters truly reprehensible people, Odd never uses his own conduct as a standard by which to judge them.

There are a few signs of residual pride operating within Odd's psyche. His willingness to endanger himself for what he sees as the cosmic mandate of his psychic gift clearly exceeds altruism. Garden variety rashness may explain it, but a subtle form of pride underlies his penchant for taking matters into his own hands because the cops are too slow/wouldn't understand/might accuse him. These rationalizations for bypassing the proper channels of justice boil down to the fact that Odd knows he's gifted and the police aren't.

Still, Koontz wants to portray a character on his way to perfect humility. That moral arc would be redundant if Odd started out perfectly humble. I'm interested to see where the road leads.

Souldancer Apocrypha: Out of the Flames

Sorry for the lateness of this post. My internet was down most of yesterday. In reparation I offer a side story exclusive to this blog.

            “Is he coming?”

            Sheb’s question evoked a sharp hiss from Quor.

            “I’m sorry,” the younger boy said.

            Reducing his two-handed grip on the upper branch to one, Quor turned to frown at Sheb. “Be less sorry and more quiet,” his elder brother whispered. He ain’t never coming if you scare him off!”

            Hanging his head, the younger boy clutched tighter to the bulbous oilcloth bundle he held.

            “Don’t pout,” Quor said with a note of regret. “I’m just the lookout. You have the best job.”

            Sheb looked past his arboreal perch to the trail far below. The dirt path was remarkably clear for how seldom the villagers used it.

            The younger boy returned his attention to his brother. Quor had resumed his post, scanning the woods in the direction of Vale. His sandy hair caught the red-orange light of sunset that filtered through the canopy. A gust of wind shook the leaves. Though not quite cold, it already lacked summer’s heat.

            Sheb’s focus snapped back to the present moment when he saw Quor’s body tense. “Someone’s coming,” the elder boy said.

            Well trained in what was required of him, Sheb braced himself against the tree trunk and held the bundle over the path. His heart pounded in expectation of a white-robed figure meandering along the trail.

            Minutes passed, and no one appeared. The bag weighed no more than five pounds, but the effort of suspending it over empty space started to take its toll on the boy’s arms. The bundle’s contents shifted as his hands began to shake.

            “Hold steady!” Quor hissed.

            Something flew up and bit the back of Sheb’s leg. Abandoning stealth, the younger boy screamed and pitched forward. He clutched desperately for support as the bag plummeted, painting the trail in a spatter of rotten blackberries. His grasping hands found Quor’s shirt. The effort gained only a moment’s reprieve before both boys toppled from their boughs to land in bushes defiled by fermented pulp.

            “Look what you’ve done!” Quor raged as he struggled to free himself from sticky, pungent shrubbery and his brother’s gangly limbs.

            “I’m sorry,” Sheb wailed. “Something bit me!”

            “The sting of a cast stone is better than you deserve,” a husky voice declared.

            “Who’s there?” Quor asked, his voice trembling.

            “It’s highwaymen,” Sheb yelled. “They’ll slit our throats and dump us in the brush!”

            “You’re already in the brush,” the stranger said. “Stop squirming unless you want to stay there.”

            A heavy, callused hand grabbed Sheb’s arm and yanked him free of the sticky shrub. A moment later he stood beside Quor, covered in musky syrup and leaves. Sheb knew the man towering over them was no highwayman. The children of Vale were warned that troublemakers would be exiled to the deep dark woods with old Janto. Now here he stood in his ragged clothes; his stern eyes framed by a wild wreath of hair and beard.

            “Do you know the trouble you nearly caused?” Janto asked at length.

            “We was just out berry-picking,” Sheb lied.

            “You should learn to tell ripe fruit from rotten,” Janto said. “But I know what you were doing here.”

            Quor suddenly broke his silence. “Please don’t make us live in the woods!” he cried. “We’re sorry. Just let us go home!”

            Janto raised a shaggy eyebrow at the elder boy. “I have troubles enough without a pair of delinquents to look after,” he said, and Sheb’s heart leapt.

            “But neither can I let you return home,” the hermit added.

            The brothers exchanged desolate looks. To their surprise, Janto turned and started down the trail.

            “Come,” he barked. “I know a stream nearby. You can go back to your mother when we’ve improved your smell.”

 

            Almost an hour later, Sheb sat beside Quor on a mossy stone; the hermit’s musty cloak enveloping both of them. Their wet clothes hung from low branches nearby. Janto seated himself on the bed of needles beneath a dying pine. Sheb felt his brother shivering beneath the cloak, and he noticed that the coming night had lent a slight chill to the once balmy air.

            “Pardon me sir,” the younger boy said. “It’s nearly dark. Won’t you light a fire?”

            Janto brooded, stirring the brown needles before him with a twig. At last he said, “No fire tonight. Not with the Journey underway.”

            “He came, then?” Quor asked through chattering teeth. “We was up in that tree since noon and didn’t see nobody.”

            “But you were seen,” the hermit said. “A blind man could have. I met the sojourner and set him on a safer path.”

            “You turned him away?” Quor groaned. “Why’d you let us spend all day up that damned tree?”

            Janto’s silence made the stone seem raucous. After a moment he said, “Nothing must hinder the Journey. If I’ve taught you nothing else today, I pray that seed alone takes root.”

            Sheb leaned closer, causing Quor to jockey for his share of the cloak. “We wasn’t gonna hurt Jemai,” he said. “We just wanted a bit of fun with him.”

            The hermit’s deep brown eyes fixed themselves on the boy so suddenly that Sheb nearly toppled from his seat. Pain and loss were graven on that weathered face, along with a kind of fervor bordering on fear. Then, just as suddenly, he looked away.

            “Neither of you knew the time before the Journey,” Janto said. “That is a blessing. It was not a time of pleasant memory. Years before you swelled your mother’s belly, a handful of us gathered in the Vale. We came from all the corners of the world looking for rest and relief. What we found was hunger and hardship.

            The hermit paused. Taking up his stick again, he resumed scratching in the pine-scented dirt. “I had a younger brother not much more than your age,” he told Quor. “God never game him the natural fear of foolishness that helps most folks survive. He got tired of being hungry and set out east: the first to leave of us who’d come.

            Sheb felt Quor shifting beside him. Now both of them sat on the rock’s edge.

            “The old folks figured he’d come home when he got tired. There was talk of a search when the first day passed, but no one ever went. Finally folk just stopped talking of him—even our mother.”

            “Did he ever come back?” asked Sheb. The shame of his sudden intrusion warmed his face.

            “Aye,” Janto said. “It was me who found him. I shared the others’ fear of the outside, but it was my brother who’d gone missing. So I took to walking the woods; never going much farther than we’re sitting right now.

            “One day at sundown I rounded a bend and there he was: stumbling out of the bush near the fork in the stream. I waded right across to him and was about to embrace him till I saw what had become of his face.”

            The storyteller paused. Sheb held back the question on his lips, but just barely.

            “What happened to him?” Quor asked instead.

            Janto was a moment longer answering. “I almost thought it a trick of the failing light,” the hermit said, pressing the twig into the ground point first. “But I got close enough to make no mistake, and the sight banished all doubt that what folk said about the Great Fire was true. My brother was burnt: not by the sun or even by open flame. There wasn’t a mark on him besides the palm print branded into his face.”

            Quor’s eyes widened. “Demons,” he whispered.

            “Perhaps,” Janto said. “But demons in stories have claws or hooves. I never heard of one with hands dainty as a young maid’s.”

            Sheb’s breath caught in his throat. The night’s chill returned in force.

            “I don’t know how he made it back,” the hermit went on. “The burn had already festered. One of his eyes was a weeping boil, and the other was nearly sealed shut. He was starved and exposed, but somehow he’d found his way. I helped him back to the Vale where he died in the night.”

            This time Sheb needed no help keeping silent. There were no words.

            “The next spring was the first time there was more green than grey,” Janto said. “The Journey’s been made every year since, and it’s never left us wanting.”

            “I’m sorry for your brother,” said Quor.

The hermit grinned, perhaps with pride. “Horth was the first to seek the Fire beyond the mountains. He’s still the only one who’s come back. If it teaches you why we send one soul each year to ransom many, and why we light no fires at summer’s end; then his tale’s worth the telling.”

 

            Sheb didn’t remember falling asleep when he awoke next to Quor early the next morning. The hermit was gone; leaving his cloak and the boys’ dried and folded clothing.

            The walk back to Vale passed in silence. Emotions warred inside his heart: pity for old Janto, gratitude for the blessings gained by his long-dead brother, and shame for nearly desecrating his rite.

            One question kept nagging him, though.

            “Quor,” he finally asked, “why do they send simpletons like Jemai if the Journey’s so important?”

            “It’s an honor, Sheb,” the elder boy said at last. “The only one his kind can hope to get.”

Sex and Characterization

I realize that some readers may find the title of this post misleading. I am discussing sex, but in the broader sense of the term. My specific goal is addressing characters' sexes from a literary viewpoint.

First some clarification. Using the words "sex" and "gender" interchangeably is an increasingly common error. Properly understood, the former is a function of biology while the latter is a function of grammar. Living beings are male or female. Words (especially in Romance languages) can be masculine or feminine. Applied to characters, sex is intrinsic; gender is extrinsic (male and female people can have masculine and/or feminine qualities).

Besides the difference between "sex" and "gender", another key premise is the observation that men and women differ substantially in certain respects. Once considered a controversial stance, behavioral science now leaves little doubt that some psychological differences between the sexes are biologically derived.

What do these differences imply for writers? It depends on the literary field. Writing a female protagonist who exhibits traditionally masculine traits (or vice-versa) for the explicit purpose of challenging traditional gender roles works best in contemporary mainstream or revisionist historical fiction.

Unless one holds advanced degrees in women's studies, cultural anthropology, and/or medieval history, creating protagonists who defiantly transgress established gender roles is inadvisable in genre fiction. Only expert skill will prevent such stories from feeling heavy-handed and jarring.

Genre fiction (especially fantasy) largely relies on received understandings. Because fantastic tales draw much of their power from readers' vicarious experience of the story, it is helpful to make the main characters broadly relatable. Thus fantasy (and even science fiction) tends to invoke archetypes. Note that "archetypal" is not synonymous with "one-dimensional". The former concerns a character's cultural resonance, while complexity depends on the layering of internal conflict.

One may object that genre fiction deals in stereotypes. I respond, "Yeah. So what?" Stereotypes are simply preconceptions. They are morally neutral in and of themselves. It is only when they become prejudicial that stereotypes acquire negative moral value.

Some stereotypes are helpful. When I see someone in a blue uniform driving behind me in a car with sirens and flashing lights, I respond by pulling over. This is a stereotypical assumption since I don't know the vehicle's driver but rely on visual and audio cues that identify police officers. Stereotypes can likewise aid genre characterization by giving the reader subtle guides to character engagement.

That isn't to say that all male characters must be blood and lust-crazed brutes; or that all female characters must be shrinking violets. As always, strong characters should be people first and foremost. Avoid the twin excesses of treating men and women as identical or as wholly separate species. Sex shouldn't define a character, but it should have an obvious behavioral impact.

Readers should easily be able to tell a novel's characters apart. Sex is an important aspect of character differentiation. Whether or not one agrees that men and women bear certain fundamental differences, the fact is that a character's sex does affect the reader's reaction to him or her. The timeless themes and conflicts associated with motherhood and fatherhood cannot be overemphasized.

Now that we've seen the impact of sex on characterization, the question of how to put this theory into practice remains. I'll go into more detail later, but for now I advise against the following approach:

I Don't Need Your Life Story

A common mistake among  beginning novelists is to front-load the narrative with the main character's back story. I've been guilty of this rookie error myself.

There's a sort of flawed logic behind a new writer's tendency to deliver the protagonist's full personality profile, family background, and job history up front. These details are foremost in an author's mind when writing about any character (or they should be). Thus, withholding this information takes considerable discipline.

Some writers are adamant about making formal introductions right away. They worry that readers will have difficulty relating to the characters if their back stories are withheld. This fear is largely unfounded because it projects the author's inverted character priorities onto the reader.

Authors grow attached to their characters' personal histories because they spend copious amounts of time intricately constructing those characters' imaginary lives. Readers, on the other hand, engage with characters based on their responses to conflict.

One might object that foreknowledge of a character's past is required for truly gripping conflict since that's what determines how a character deals with challenges. I reply that this objection is, again, backwards. Detailed background isn't needed to enhance conflict. Conflict reveals background. Dumping half a page of character exposition into the narrative dilutes conflict and diverts reader interest.

When should character background be revealed? Later. After the story's central conflict has clearly emerged, authors can address the cast's back stories at leisure--preferably spread out over the rest of the novel like seed in a tilled field.

I learned that I'd fallen into this trap when several Nethereal beta readers reported difficulty getting past chapter two. When questioned they all agreed that the book's opening was strong, but the second chapter read like a text book. I looked again and saw that they were right. The narrative was bogged down with background minutiae that fascinated me but distracted my readers. Since I was establishing the first novel in a series I couldn't cut all of the exposition, but I did minimize it to the point of readability.

Any other thoughts on handling character background?

The State of the Art

I recently addressed creative stagnation in genre novels. That post led to speculation on where to find cutting edge science fiction and fantasy. Several interested parties identified video games as the new medium for visionary storytelling. I agree that games have inherited a large swath of the cultural real estate once dominated by novels. But is this a positive development?

One fact that tends to be overlooked in a given "video games are the new novels" discussion is that the medium a story is told through matters. That's why artists use different media to tell their stories. One of the most common mistakes made by first time novelists is to write like they're dictating the action of a movie. Similarly, a film shot at the relentless pace of a novel would be an exhausting visual jackhammer.

As is rightly said, film is primarily a visual medium. Directors can include pages of expository dialogue and whole reels of establishing scenes because the visuals keep the audience entertained. A novelist who writes two consecutive paragraphs of description or whose characters spout exposition for more than half a page will quickly find his book set aside. Words are all writers have, so each one needs to be important.

Video games are something of a chimera. They too rely mostly on images. However, it's not uncommon to find blocks of text, audio snippets, and non-interactive video in the mix. Your mileage will vary by genre, but the one feature that all games must have in order to be games at all is challenge.

It's been said that interactivity is what makes games special and that books and films are passive media. As I point out here, that's an oversimplification. Whether you're immersed in a game or staring at a sculpture, all art is interactive. No artist can force engagement with his work. The audience's personal perspective is always vital to shaping the experience.

Games aren't the only interactive art medium. They are the most prominent art form that calls attention to audience participation. Video game interactivity is so overt that players feel cheated if a game is too linear or arbitrarily limits their choices. That is as it should be since the most fundamental level of engagement with a game comes from meeting and overcoming challenges.

The fundamentally different approaches to narrative in novels and games are why I doubt that video games can truly replace books. They're built for different jobs. Conflict is essential to novels, but only as a narrative device. In contrast, conflict is the whole point of a game. Hence the rising criticism of a certain game that shall remain nameless.

Balancing complex character, engaging narrative, striking scenery, and challenging conflict in a game is a herculean task. Overemphasizing character may impede the player's vicarious experience. Excessive focus on narrative can make players impatient. Visuals that are too lush can be distracting, and we all know how frustrating imbalanced difficulty is.

Novels are far more straightforward. All a writer has to worry about is setting up strong internal and external conflict and arranging the story so that the stakes progressively rise. None of that is simple, but it's far easier without the added burdens of game development.

In short, the natural focus of games is on the overall immersive experience. Novels are entirely about the story.

How About a Magic Trick?

Is every masterpiece a deliberate result of its creator's intent? A discussion resulting from Friday's post grappled with this question. I think it presents what catechists call a "teachable moment".

Where do groundbreaking works get their emotional power? Opinions on this subject fall into two broad categories. Fans of auteur theory credit all of a story's emotive resonance to the storyteller. In this view crafting a compelling game, novel, or film is a matter of talent and skill.

The concept of developer/author/director as a work's primary interpretive key was challenged by Roland Barthes' essay "Death of the Author". Barthes argued that an author's intent and background are totally insignificant to a work's meaning and emotional impact. According to this theory one could say that no creative expression is ever singular. Instead, each work exists simultaneously in three forms: the story in the author's mind, the story as it exists in writing (or as data or on film), and the story as it takes form in the audience's mind.

In effect, there are far more than three versions of every story because a new one springs into being with each new audience member. How often have you seen the film version of a favorite book and said, "That's not how I pictured that character/setting/prop"? Everyone who saw the movie after reading the book probably felt the same way because each reader invests the story with his own experience and preconceptions.

Personally I don't fully buy into either auteur theory or post-structuralism. The fatal flaw of each is a tendency to be too reductive. John C. Wright charts a sensible middle course between both extremes, likening a story to a magic trick. An author is like a magician who fools the reader into accepting a fiction that would prove absurd under the least bit of scrutiny. Like prestidigitation, lulling someone into full suspension of disbelief takes skill honed by practice.

But all the sleight of hand in the world is wasted if the story behind the smoke and mirrors doesn't emotionally resonate with the audience. Striking an emotional chord is the quality most associated with breakthrough fiction. Yet it is the audience who supplies the required sensibilities and life experience.

There are ways to maximize a story's chance of resonating with its audience, such as constantly escalating conflict built around widely-shared themes. However, aligning a story so as to evoke that dizzying "car with no brakes" feeling often happens through blind luck.

I'm sure you have a favorite game, book, or movie that no one else likes. On the other hand, I bet there's a universally lauded work that you can't stand. In either case, please share.

Seriously My Final Post on Bioshock Infinite

*SPOILER ALERT*

 

Slate's review of Bioshock Infinite is compelling. It's a great example of a modernist critique of a postmodern viewpoint (modernists believe that scientific and social advances can save humanity, while postmoderns are disillusioned with progress and champion individual autonomy).
 

This article clarified what I did and didn't like about the game. I really liked Ken Levine's decision not to have Dewitt side with either the Founders or the Vox because neither was worthy of his allegiance. The Slate reviewer really seemed to want him to join the Vox Populi and complained that they weren't more sympathetic. This complaint is based on the premise that rebels are rarely as bloodthirsty as their oppressors--a statement that is immediately contradicted with historic examples of revolutions that clearly made things worse. Levine's decision to have everyone turn on Dewitt is called heavy-handed, but so is asking that he change a major theme just to suit one's personal politics.
 

On the other hand, the review pinpointed what's been bugging me about the ending. The Founders/Vox conflict follows the classic thesis/antithesis structure. Levine forgot that for this model to work, you need to supply a third option: the synthesis. He disdains exploring a middle way in favor of skipping straight to nihilism. This tactic contradicts the stated "Extreme ideologies aren't worthy of belief" theme because nihilism is as extreme as it gets.
 

I'm generally opposed to critiquing the game I wish they'd made instead of the game we got, but by way of friendly advice I'd suggest that Levine could resolve the paradox he walks into by subjecting his own systematic doubt to a little healthy critical thought. If he'd paused to examine the content of each ethos instead of judging them based solely on the sins of their fallible human adherents, he might have found room for a second, noble resistance movement like Gandhi's--or because FPS's do need a modicum of physical conflict--one modeled on the American Revolution which was fought with comparatively restricted continental warfare.
 

Or, to invoke my own background, he could've avoided treating religion like a monolith and answered Elizabeth's question thusly: "You're right. We don't deserve to be saved. No one does. Salvation is totally gratuitous." If your conflict hinges on the Christian economy of grace, you should take the time to understand it thoroughly. "Redeem" comes from the Latin red + emptus: "buy back". In this context it alludes to POWs or slaves being ransomed by their king, who buys their freedom not because they earned it, but out of sheer generosity. It's difficult to see how Booker never stumbled across this basic teaching. Elizabeth's ignorance is even more jarring since her theological credentials are solidly established. Thus the characters' frequent brooding over redemption strikes a sour note.

 

But because Levine's one criterion for a movement's validity (Thou shalt not kill.) is rooted in Judeo-Christian tradition, his story manages to illustrate a strongly Christian point. Money can't save us. Technology can't save us. Charismatic leaders can't save us. We can't save ourselves, and what's more, we don't deserve to be saved. Upon making these conclusions, the characters despair; thus committing the only sin that is truly unforgivable because it rejects all hope of mercy. The biblical metaphor that the hopeless would be better off drowned is then applied literally.

 

Thus Bioshock Infinite remains a masterpiece, albeit unintentionally.

Why Should I Care?

I'm the rare person who enjoys video games as a spectator sport. I'm not averse to playing them, but I get almost the same thrill from watching someone else do all the heavy lifting while I take in the narrative.

My friend Nick and I finished Bioshock Infinite last night. It's one of the games that made my list of places where visionary storytellers are migrating to. I can confidently say that it's one of the best games I've seen in years. The setting is vivid. The themes are strong. The characters are deep. I can't comment on the game mechanics, but Nick never complained.

MILD POTENTIAL SPOILERS (though if your enjoyment of games, books, and movies relies mostly on the plot, you're filling up on bread instead of character meat and thematic wine). Bioshock Infinite's ending feels rather inconsistent with its own thematic and character development. The dissonance results more from the ending's execution than its content. Having agonized over why this amazing game's conclusion felt flat, It's my opinion that the problem is a matter of stakes.

I've discussed how to end (and start) a story before. The reason it's not as hard as most people think (and why Bioshock Infinite's mishandled ending doesn't tarnish my perception of the game much) is that endings are among the least important story elements. Strong protagonists and antagonists, engaging conflicts, and fully fleshed-out themes are far more vital, as are beginnings. One relevant aspect of storytelling I haven't touched on yet is the conflict's stakes.

In brief, stakes answer the question, "Why should I care?" Conflicts can operate on two basic levels: personal and public. Personal stakes set the characters' degree of concern, while public stakes are more immediately urgent to the audience. A balance of both is essential to a story's emotional impact.

I turn again to the cultural touchstone of our times: the original Star Wars trilogy. All three films raise their public stakes as high as possible. If the Rebellion fails, the galaxy faces indefinite domination by a fascist empire with a planet-cracking superweapon. The first movie makes these consequences clear right away and draws the audience in. Not until The Empire Strikes Back are we given personal conflict to rival the military struggle. The ingenious part is how both conflicts conflict with each other in the character of Luke Skywalker. He's strongly invested in destroying the Empire, but it's made painfully clear that doing so means killing his father.

Star Wars is an apt example because I think Bioshock Infinite raises its personal stakes to heights that could have produced an Empire-level payoff. I could be wrong, but the game's public stakes never seem quite as compelling as its characters' inner turmoil (we're given visions of airships bombing Manhattan early on, but I'll admit that 9/11 somewhat desensitized me).

The game's immense personal conflicts do reach a natural conclusion some time before the actual ending. The main themes are resolved well before that. At that point, a storyteller can really call it a day any time he wants. What he shouldn't do is bet all the stakes on black when the wheel could land on red. Which in this case it does.

Don't get me wrong. Writers in any medium should take risks. Making truly revolutionary fiction requires it. But waiting till after the natural resolution of your main themes and conflicts is not the best time to risk losing the audience's emotional engagement. Pulling off such narrative sleight of hand takes absolute mastery of story structure and saintly patience. Personally, I know I'm not equal to the task.

Based on the spectacular experience he created with Bioshock Infinite, I think Ken Levine has reached that level. He's made his Star Wars. I'm raptly anticipating his Empire.

Have an opinion on Bioshock Infinite or any other high-stakes story? I await your comments.

Special Edition: Request for Emergency Assistance

I normally post on MWF, but today a friend told me that his grandmother has stage 4 cancer. As many of you know, caring for a loved one with dire medical needs can severely strain a family's budget. They've started an online fundraising campaign to help defray some of the costs.

http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/taking-care-of-mom

If you have anything to spare, please be generous. If you're the praying kind please be generous in that regard as well.

Thank you.

Music Makers and Dreamers of Dreams

Last time I discussed the thematic stagnation of genre fiction. Since proper criticism balances the bad by pointing to the good, I offer the following examples of vivid counter cultural fiction. These gems don't reside where one might expect. In fact, I had to look far from the print fiction best seller lists to find them.

Today's prophets and social critics don't ply their trade through books at all. They send their messages through video games.

I said before that I'm hard-pressed to name a popular genre novel published within the last decade that transgressed convention to devastating effect. I can think of three video games released within the last couple of years that masterfully achieve this feat.

The first landmark game is Spec Ops: The Line. The genius of this title lies in its myriad layers of meaning. Superficially resembling a staid infantry combat simulator, Spec Ops: The Line achieves thematic heights to shame its more profitable brethren. The plot roughly follows Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. But by transporting the story to the current day Middle East, the narrative attains a high degree of originality. Even more intriguing is the developer's subtle use of character, dialogue, camera angles, and game mechanics to mount a scathing rebuke of turning war into a game.

Journey by That Game Company readily fills my fantasy quota. Though far more subdued than Spec Ops: The Line, Journey makes a more immediate and deeper emotional impact by stripping the classical quest down to its basic structure. Despite having no dialogue and minimal aesthetics, Journey evokes a stronger level of attachment to its setting and characters than many far more lavish games. Though grounded squarely in fantasy, Journey features a grave warning about what happens when technological development outpaces moral maturity.

Finally we come to Bioshock Infinite. As a first-person shooter, it's the most conventional title on this list in many ways. It is also the most convention-smashing game in years. Contradictions define Bioshock Infinite. The setting emulates the past but includes technology far beyond our own. Its themes condemn religious zealotry while warning against unchecked nationalism. The dehumanizing tendencies of capitalism are skewered, as are populism's brutal excesses.

Even the characters are signs of contradiction. The oft-despised buddy character trope is central to the game mechanics, but in a way that no one expected. For perhaps the first time, the AI-controlled partner isn't a burden that mucks up combat or necessitates frequent checkpoint resets by dying at the worst times. In fact, this mechanic works so well that one gets a creeping sense of role reversal. At times, the faceless main protagonist seems suspiciously like an appendage of the supposed helper character. This arrangement feels oddly satisfying.

These are the examples of challenging non-print genre fiction that stand out most in my mind. Any other suggestions?