by Неизвестный
Ghosts in the Machine
A Short Story Anthology
Edited by
Lana Polansky and Brendan Keogh
Copyright © 2013 by Lana Polansky
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
Ghosts in the Machine is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-304-35256-9
Front and back cover design credit: Max Temkin, creator of tabletop game, Cards Against Humanity. Find him on Twitter @MaxTemkin and check out his blog and portfolio at http://maxistentialism.com/.
Preface
Lana Polansky
One summer, I worked at a videogame testing facility as a “functionality” tester. It was my job to find and report all product malfunctions, big and small.
I can’t go into much explicit detail about what I saw or did—I’m bound, to this day, by a big, scary non-disclosure agreement to keep my mouth shut. But while I was there, I found endless amusement and stimulation in all the myriad ways a game world could break down, not work, or be incomplete. In many cases, I found myself wondering if I wouldn’t find the game more interesting if the bugs were left in.
Screenshots and animated gifs of bugs in popular games (often of the open-world variety) tend to fetch a high value in terms of social currency. These clipping and collision and AI mishaps stand out because, after all, a game is something many of us have come to expect to be a polished product. We find these bugs comical or surreal or, in some cases, genuinely upsetting. These snapshots of mistakes and oversights often compel, even if only as curiosities. And this says nothing of all those conceptual idiosyncrasies and peculiarities that we take for granted, not because they’re logical or sensible but because they don’t halt the player’s momentum.
Games like GZ Storm’s Vidiot Game , for example, or those by Michael Brough (Corrypt, Zaga-33) or thecatamites (Goblet Grotto, Space Funeral), will take things a step further, making exploits, bugs and idiosyncrasies into self-conscious parts of the play experience. Instead of being discarded as deficiencies that break the fantasy, they get incorporated into the relationship between the player and the game; they inform the worlds we inhabit, and they in many cases become the stewards of theme and symbolism that make these games more relevant to the people playing them.
Then there’s the work of photographer Robert Overweg, whose snapshots of glitches in virtual worlds are an embodiment of Susan Sontag’s observation in On Photography that “To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed.” Overweg’s photos of functionally annoying or visually jarring bugs are evocative, suggestive, almost totally decontextualized from the “polished” games they belong to. A house simply missing texture to a gamer is a symbol of dilapidation and despair to the viewer of a well-angled screenshot.
Ghosts in the Machine was put together with this outlook in mind. These stories aren’t meant as fanfiction (though many of us, including myself, have written our share of fanfiction and hold nothing against it). While the stories do draw inspiration from those games that have been so formative to their writers, they are each original works drawing from a specific videogame “problem”—maybe one that takes us out of the fantasy, maybe one that’s protected by the fantasy that we’ve learned not to question.
It might be tempting to ask why we didn’t just make a game. But I think the better question is, “What is the difference between prose fiction and videogames?” It’s been repeated many times—by Darius Kazemi, by Merritt Kopas, by Richard Lemarchand and many others—that games do what they do best by inviting players to explore systems. But prose—and for that matter, the short story—explore ideas largely through causal relationships. Time, space and perspective are accounted for differently. An entire tale can be told through monologue alone. The same assumptions that we make when we suspend disbelief for a videogame can’t necessarily be made when we’re reading fiction. This is what excites me about exploring the formal and conceptual pitfalls of one form through the lens of another.
I worked at a facility that ran on the principle of videogame flaws as undesirable. Of course, games, like stories, need editors. Games need to be playable in order to communicate, just like stories need to be readable. But the mistakes and peculiarities of games can also speak for their creators, as flaws have a habit of being revealing of the attitudes and conditions that led to them being there. The stories in this anthology were written by a superb group of contributors—some of whom are veteran writers, some of whom are visual artists, some of whom make games themselves—and co-edited by Killing is Harmless author Brendan Keogh (to whom I offer endless thanks) and myself. We believe these stories demonstrate why the things that can go wrong in videogames can also be treated as significant and humanizing in their own right, and we’re proud to share them with you.
GDD
Ashton Raze
[All good games start with a great idea.]
If I had my own game, if I could make games or think up worlds or had any fucking imagination whatsoever, this wouldn’t be a problem. Type type type, a few lines of code, head onto Twitter, find an artist or two, find a guy to lay down the beats [a good soundtrack will immerse players in your game] put it all together. No more of this drivel, control wrenched from me, switching to autopilot, watch as the scene unfolds. Orchestral swells score dragon swoops, string crescendo, clash and clang of steel [high quality sound effects can really add to the feel] and yawn through another cutscene.
If I had my own game, I’d play it.
I can do it, they say; they all say I can. This bitter fucking no-hoper without an original idea [keep a design diary; note down any ideas you have before you forget them] could do it. Instead, instead of sitting, languishing, controller clenched in tense grip, vice-like, [be sure not to frustrate the player—test your game thoroughly] cursing as I clip through the wall, my companion flails in tree roots. Or maybe it’s a racer, the damage model’s off, these fuckers know nothing about track design. Or a shooter, brazenly all-American [gunshot puncturing silence and a fistbump for solidarity can go a long way] filled with cursing and lazily-drawn blood decals. Did the QA monkeys even bother to test this bit?
If I had my own game, I’d test the shit out of it.
But what chance do I have? Can’t code, can’t think, can’t even hold down a steady job. Working afternoons at the bookstore, scowling over a copy of 250 Indie Games You Must Play. Final warning, but not for that. If I could just [sort out a self-employment tax reference number] work harder and maybe just pin something down, turn this whole ‘playing videogames’ thing into more than just a pastime, I know I could make it. All this turgid shite, all these frustrations, I know I could do a better job. Then, when I put my game out there, let’s see all those shill reviewers make asses of themselves by giving it a bad score. This is another problem [perhaps consider a loan if you need to get your development studio off the ground] because I don’t have the money to pay off the big sites like some of those publishers obviously do. And some of the indies too, obviously. I mean, a 7/10 for a fucking feminist visual novel? 10/10 for a buggy, broken open world RPG? Come on. That’s not what gamers want. Reviewers are so out of touch with modern gaming, [an 8-bit platformer or a SNES-era JRPG is always a good place to start] it’s
not even funny.
Flash. Flash is good. Flash games on Newgrounds or Kongregate. You get some good shit on there, and the creators are sometimes barely literate. If they can do it I can do it. This quest is broken, though. How does stuff like this even get released? What kind of piece of shit do you have to be to rip off customers like this? Makes me so mad.
***
I’m at work. I’m not reading that indie game book, that was ages ago, don’t take my anecdotes literally. I’ve been scribbling on a pad, desperately trying to crowbar inspiration out of my brain [take care in choosing your engine—remember, you may be stuck with it for the duration of your project] and onto the page. So far I’ve got a level with spikes and a little dude who has to leap over them. It’s a bit like that one game, but not bullshit hard like that, and not made by a couple of [an original hook is holding down a button to affect gravity] clowns who never played a platformer in their lives. I’m at work, and this girl approaches me. Great body, smooth-as-hell legs, but she’s wearing a jumper and I can’t see as much of her torso as I’d like. Not bad, though. The only real perk to working in a bookshop is being able to check out hot nerdy girls, and most of them aren't faking it if they're actually in here buying Sartre or whatever.
She comes up to me at the desk and I’m still doodling in my notepad. I’ve written down B = 8/F = 6. Body, face. I make no attempt to cover it up, not like she'll know what it means. I am disconnected.
“Do you have any copies of The Secret History?” she asks, “Because I really need a copy for college.” And I ask her if she’s tried checking the shelves and she’s like, “that’s the thing, I can’t remember who wrote it.”
She glances down at my notepad, back up at me. I smile, avoiding her gaze, my eyes drifting down to her chest instead. If she notices, she doesn't let on. I tap away at the computer, look it up, find [be sure to play similar games in your chosen genre—learn from the successes, and the failures] the author (Donna Tartt), we have two copies in stock I tell her. “Thanks,” she says, then waits.
“Can I help you with anything else?” I say, while resuming my doodling. There’s a bottomless pit now, and at the bottom is a bunch more spikes. Wait, no, it’s not bottomless then, is it? There’s a silence, a bottomless pit in the conversation, perhaps that’s where I got it from.
“Who wrote it then?” she asks. I don’t like her tone. “I need to know where to look.” I sigh, and go straight to the correct shelf, grab the book, come back. I hand it to her.
“Did they make a movie of this or am I thinking of something else?”
“No, they didn't, you moron,” I want to say, but don’t, or, “My own fucking generation makes me sick. Movie version? Just read the damn book,” I want to say, but don’t. Instead I tell her no, because if they had it’d be one of those shitty movie tie-in editions and it isn’t [the best way to ensure there is no disconnect between player agency and your narrative is to script your game in a dynamic way] and she seems resigned and accepting about this. She pays by card, and I see her name is Carla. I watch her as she leaves. She has quite a nice ass.
***
Later, I leave work and go home. Dishes fill the sink, my lazy shit of a roommate no doubt too busy fucking his girlfriend to bother to clean up after himself. Or were they mine? I don’t recall, because I think [adding cooperative play to your platformer can transform it into a best-selling title] mine are still in my room.
I sit at the computer and the internet is bullshit. I play some Flash games, and they’re all bullshit. I rate a few, leave a few comments. I’m already picturing my game up there, top of the rankings, a game for gamers by a gamer. None of this corporate-funded red-tape crap. I have the freedom to create the type of game I’d like to play. I go back to playing games on my console, carry on with my archer build, but it all feels so asinine now. I think about that girl Carla a bit and feel a bit guilty for being snappy. Maybe she just likes movies. It's hardly a crime. [It’s important for your central character to have a motive. A girlfriend, kidnapped, who he has to rescue, is a good motivator. Or perhaps she’s not his girlfriend, at least not yet, and he wins her over with his daring rescue. Maybe he could be a knight, an agile knight.]
Talking of movies, I torrent a movie, the inspirational one. The one with Blow and Fish and those guys I mentioned earlier. It’s alright, and I think, one day this could be me. Loads of them started out making Flash games. Mostly I don’t really care, but Blow says something that resonates with me, something about taking his deepest flaws and vulnerabilities and putting them in the game [eliciting emotion from the player is definitely something to think about] and I am down with that. That’s how you make a meaningful experience. That’s what these big budget games are lacking; the human touch. They’re churned out by corporations, there’s no soul, and increasingly these days they’re pandering to the limp-dicked faggot liberal brigade but [consider porting your game to a wide variety of formats, in particular mobile platforms] with indie games, with MY game, I can make what I want to make, say what I want to say, and nobody can stop me or argue otherwise. It is my right, my god-given right, my right to freedom of speech. I am an artist, [never compromise] a creator, and I’m beginning to understand how to do this now.
If I made a game, it would represent me: the gamer, the person, the man. Playing the game would be like seeing the world through my eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. I laugh at the irony of the situation when I’m trying to be deep. I can hear my roommate, and my roommate’s girlfriend. My roommate is called Danny and I met him through Craigslist looking for a house share, and he’s cool I guess [do not be concerned about making a game to please everyone, it is a fool’s errand]. Plays some games, doesn’t hassle me, but his girlfriend really is a total bitch. I won’t even go into specifics but seriously, some people fucking astound me with their rudeness and shit.
Later still, I am sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal. I normally eat in my room, but I wanted to use the table. I’m making notes. My little dude, Sir [players want to feel like the hero. Give your character a strong, masculine jaw and a clear sense of justice] Brian is leaping, tumbling, swinging [a rope swing mechanic will add a retro feel, igniting memories of Pitfall] and saving his princess. I think about possible metaphors but decide to keep it simple. Danny’s girlfriend wanders into the kitchen. She’s wearing a bathrobe and when she stands at the fridge I can see her left breast just through the opening in her robe. She sees me and smiles.
“Hey, Chris.”
“Hi,” I mutter.
She closes the fridge and comes over with a carton of orange juice—MY orange juice—and sits down. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I am designing a game,” I say, looking down at my game design document, trying to highlight the obvious.
She laughs, and I know there’s scorn implied. “Really? Didn’t know you could code.”
What the fuck does she know about coding? Her robe’s too small for her and I can still see her tits [RPG elements, if implemented right, can work cross-genre] a bit. I don’t care if she sees me looking; she's a bitch.
“I can’t, yet,” I say. “Working on it.”
“Well, good luck,” she says. Doesn’t even bother to ask what kind of game it is.
“Hey, while you’re here, have you got any idea when you’ll be able to give Danny your rent check?” [It’s important to ensure that the player is engaged at all times]. Oh, here it is. Here she goes again. Sick of her already.
“Soon,” I mutter, and gather up my notes. There goes my train of fucking thought.
***
Four months later and I still can’t code. I still can’t make my game.
It feels like forever since I started. I am making next to no progress. That’s a lie, actually. I’ve made a lot, just not in the right directions. I have pages and pages and pages of notes [meticulously planning your game will pay dividends in the long run] and I know pretty much exactly what I wa
nt my game to be like. But I was bad and got distracted, life got in the way, and everything’s fallen apart.
Carla came back to the store. It was about a month before I lost my job. I’d finished playing that RPG and moved onto a multiplayer shooter phase. 60 hours clocked and speechless at the idiotic fucking design flaws the developers had left in. It’s like they’ve never played a game before [if you are making a game, acting on player feedback is important]. Carla came back a bunch of times, actually, and it turns out she’d never noticed my rudeness, I guess, or never cared. We ended up becoming friends, and then got closer. We nearly hooked up, or so I thought, but I told her how I felt about her and things went a bit wrong, which is honestly a relief because I was done with her. I refuse to be friendzoned. All girls are the same. You say one thing wrong, just do one wrong thing, after being the nicest fucking guy [do not punish the player excessively—while extreme difficulty can work, it is a delicate balance that often requires years of developmental practice] and you’re no longer good enough. Maybe if I’d treated her like shit or whatever she’d have liked me, I dunno. I expended so much energy on this girl, tried to do fucking everything for her, but no, she was interested in some guy who by all accounts is a massive douche which is fairly typical [creating a believable antagonist, the perfect foil for your main character, is the key to a strong narrative] I guess. All that time, energy and emotion wasted, and no further progress on games development. What did I get out of it by the end? Nothing. Fucking nothing. A broken heart, a wasted few months [your player’s time is precious. Every aspect of the game should serve a purpose], and not even a sympathy fuck.
All that time, up until now, those words resonated through my mind. Blow’s words, those softly-spoken syllables dancing in the back of my head. Take your deepest flaws and vulnerabilities. Put them in the game. [Take your deepest flaws and vulnerabilities. Put them in the game].