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?