A soft hush falls as the envoy leaves the Pymm tradepost, laden with shellfish, spruce lumber and pearls, bound for Marltique. A horse nickers in quiet complaint as the slack in the traces between the team and the freight wagon is taken up and the full brunt of the weighty load descends upon their backs. The trademaster whistles sharply and cracks his whip, and the teams begin their struggle up the steep divide and across the narrow wooden bridge toward the mainland.
Tagne's team breaks north at the first intersection, intent on hauling their tradegoods to Dacona. The leader of the trade group, a more experienced merchant by far, shakes his head in silence. Toerlion has plenty of lumber, he recalls from the rumors and threads of gossip he has heard. The best the offshoot party will do is with their pearls and perhaps some of the rarer seafood that does not spawn in the colder northern clime.
He watches for a moment as the smaller team departs, then turns his wagon teams along the southern road toward Marltique Harbor. The chill coastal air feels good, he muses as he glances to either side of his formation traveling the wide cobblestone roadway. The warriors ride, sword hilts hidden beneath their traveling cloaks yet within reach in the event of trouble. There is almost always trouble, he grimaces.
They cross the invisible border from Pymm to Koller. The road surface changes slightly as their wheels catch in the less-maintained roadbed and are tugged by clumps of coastal mud. As the inherent protection of Naztari's chosen lands drops away, the tension of the group increases notably. No more are they within the lands of her providence - and that is never good.
The road curves toward the peninsula of Koller and its rugged cliffs; the forest thickens and grows dense with undergrowth and ominous darkness even at the height of day. The envoy guards' eyes dart from side to side, watching the shadowy cover, wary against attack. They do not have to wait long.
A howl pierces the foggy overhang, followed by a chorus of snarls. The din grows as the distance between the trading party and the threat narrows, falsetto owwww! bouncing through thick stands of coastal cedar.
With a hideous growl, the leader of the wolf pack leaps from the underbrush and onto the flank of the nearest rider's horse. The steed screams in agony and collapses, rolling sideways and sending its passenger flailing into the cobblestones. The man curves upward and leaps to his feet, sword drawn and at the ready, spinning to search for the attacker. A wagon skids off the canted road and tumbles into the weeds at the side of the roadbed, spilling several crates of pearls and lobster. A shout goes up near one of the rear wagon teams as a wolf's claws tear into the leg of a battle mage caught unawares.
[... pause here to go get coffee and sit back to watch the action... keep in mind this is all happening in a text game... what a hoot!]
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Banners of Discontent
Perhaps this journal should be called 'Musings of a Mental Midget' - more of a reflection of my current mood. It feels like we're caught in a backwater, spiraling slowly in place, making no progress. In fact, I think we're moving backwards at a rather good pace.
Nothing sabotages a project with greater efficiency than apathy. When a team member digs his heels in, passive-aggressive states firmly entrenched in the beach-head, nothing gets done. It takes too much energy to cajole things back into place.
We're at a stage in the development where we cannot afford the luxury of apathetic individuals. There is no particular stage of development where we -could- afford this luxury, but now even more than other times, there exists a fragile balance between stasis and collapse.
So sad - so many years invested in a project, so sad to feel it crumbling despite best efforts to keep things together.
I will not let it crumble entirely. I just have no clue how to prevent it at this very moment. Nothing in my years of corporate experience has prepared me for this. Nothing in the years of business ownership prepared me for this. Or - perhaps something has, and I'm too inwardly focused to sense how to apply the normal enthusiasm...
Nothing sabotages a project with greater efficiency than apathy. When a team member digs his heels in, passive-aggressive states firmly entrenched in the beach-head, nothing gets done. It takes too much energy to cajole things back into place.
We're at a stage in the development where we cannot afford the luxury of apathetic individuals. There is no particular stage of development where we -could- afford this luxury, but now even more than other times, there exists a fragile balance between stasis and collapse.
So sad - so many years invested in a project, so sad to feel it crumbling despite best efforts to keep things together.
I will not let it crumble entirely. I just have no clue how to prevent it at this very moment. Nothing in my years of corporate experience has prepared me for this. Nothing in the years of business ownership prepared me for this. Or - perhaps something has, and I'm too inwardly focused to sense how to apply the normal enthusiasm...
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Quasimodo in a Pink Tutu
I bet that title brought an evocative image to mind. What does it mean?
Nothing, if the reader has no idea who Quasimodo was, of course. Nothing if the reader doesn't know what a pink tutu looks like, naturally - the image of a tulle-skirted hunchback shuffling around the confines of a wooden belfry clutching a bell rope, however vivid they might be to some, won't appear to others unfamiliar with the framework.
The topic of the moment is that framework. How do we immerse the player who has his (or her) feet rooted firmly in the 21st century into the framework of the high medieval? How does said player gain the framework, relate to it, begin to feel the lack of modern amenities one takes for granted in today's society? Do we deprive them of their Sony Playstation in order to introduce them to a realm without electricity?
Can't take away their computers, though. That's how they get to and into the game.
Such becomes the skill of authorship and immersion. Like a book that one picks up and cannot put down - The Da Vinci Code is a recent example for me. Dan Brown's pages reached from the binding and clasped inky fingers around my wrists which refused to break grasp until I fell away, exhausted yet needing to read more.
How? How does the author instill such power to mesmerize, to create and sustain momentum, to enthrall? Framework? Perhaps that, intertwined with seductive rhythm and a storyline which moves forward with the inexorable energy of the tides, provides the fuel which fans the flames of immersion.
But then comes the puzzle, or one of them at least. Books of that nature, the novel, are sequential and unidirectional. One moves forward from first to next chapter, from first to next scene, first to next tense moment in a predictable path and pattern.
Games of this nature are not sequential and unidirectional. There is no way to predict, in most cases, where the character will arrive, from what direction, having seen what rooms or creatures. There is very little room for backstory or history, and absolutely no room for telling a player how he feels about what he is seeing or encountering. To proclaim 'You are scared' is without question one of the silliest things to tell someone.
You are in a room. It is dark. You are scared. Scaary.
How lame is that, dear reader?
Framework becomes the incorporation of the known with the unknown, in photographic quality, a presentation of the quantitative sans the judgmental. We don't tell them they're scared. We provide things that would scare the stuffin' out of folks under normal conditions. We provide the plate and stack it full of pears. If the person likes pears, no amount of telling him he's petrified by them will make him scared.
Of course, if the person doesn't have a clue what pears are...
Nothing, if the reader has no idea who Quasimodo was, of course. Nothing if the reader doesn't know what a pink tutu looks like, naturally - the image of a tulle-skirted hunchback shuffling around the confines of a wooden belfry clutching a bell rope, however vivid they might be to some, won't appear to others unfamiliar with the framework.
The topic of the moment is that framework. How do we immerse the player who has his (or her) feet rooted firmly in the 21st century into the framework of the high medieval? How does said player gain the framework, relate to it, begin to feel the lack of modern amenities one takes for granted in today's society? Do we deprive them of their Sony Playstation in order to introduce them to a realm without electricity?
Can't take away their computers, though. That's how they get to and into the game.
Such becomes the skill of authorship and immersion. Like a book that one picks up and cannot put down - The Da Vinci Code is a recent example for me. Dan Brown's pages reached from the binding and clasped inky fingers around my wrists which refused to break grasp until I fell away, exhausted yet needing to read more.
How? How does the author instill such power to mesmerize, to create and sustain momentum, to enthrall? Framework? Perhaps that, intertwined with seductive rhythm and a storyline which moves forward with the inexorable energy of the tides, provides the fuel which fans the flames of immersion.
But then comes the puzzle, or one of them at least. Books of that nature, the novel, are sequential and unidirectional. One moves forward from first to next chapter, from first to next scene, first to next tense moment in a predictable path and pattern.
Games of this nature are not sequential and unidirectional. There is no way to predict, in most cases, where the character will arrive, from what direction, having seen what rooms or creatures. There is very little room for backstory or history, and absolutely no room for telling a player how he feels about what he is seeing or encountering. To proclaim 'You are scared' is without question one of the silliest things to tell someone.
You are in a room. It is dark. You are scared. Scaary.
How lame is that, dear reader?
Framework becomes the incorporation of the known with the unknown, in photographic quality, a presentation of the quantitative sans the judgmental. We don't tell them they're scared. We provide things that would scare the stuffin' out of folks under normal conditions. We provide the plate and stack it full of pears. If the person likes pears, no amount of telling him he's petrified by them will make him scared.
Of course, if the person doesn't have a clue what pears are...
Friday, January 28, 2005
Sheer Force of Will? [rep]
Debates are raging now over the lack of numbers we provide our players.
People need numbers. Balancing a checkbook is nearly impossible without them. It's helpful to know the number of miles between Here and There, if only to determine how many units of gas it will take to drive from Here to There.
People strive for quantification. Ironic, then, that our game tends toward qualification instead.
Why do we refuse 'essential' numbers to our player/characters? Well, that's a very good question, and the answer goes back to a game design decision taken quite some time ago. It's not that we refuse numbers. There are lots of numbers available to the player. They just don't happen to be the numbers that most MUD players are used to tapping into.
The game differs from others of its genre, and we've strived for years to continue this differentiation without sacrificing playability. I suppose that sacrifice is a matter of opinion, for it has certain morphed into a matter of stubborn debate.
I suppose I should be grateful that it's a rarity for an 'us versus them' posture to overcome the calm of common sense. Goodness knows there have been plenty of opportunities for this to happen in the past.
People need numbers. Balancing a checkbook is nearly impossible without them. It's helpful to know the number of miles between Here and There, if only to determine how many units of gas it will take to drive from Here to There.
People strive for quantification. Ironic, then, that our game tends toward qualification instead.
Why do we refuse 'essential' numbers to our player/characters? Well, that's a very good question, and the answer goes back to a game design decision taken quite some time ago. It's not that we refuse numbers. There are lots of numbers available to the player. They just don't happen to be the numbers that most MUD players are used to tapping into.
The game differs from others of its genre, and we've strived for years to continue this differentiation without sacrificing playability. I suppose that sacrifice is a matter of opinion, for it has certain morphed into a matter of stubborn debate.
I suppose I should be grateful that it's a rarity for an 'us versus them' posture to overcome the calm of common sense. Goodness knows there have been plenty of opportunities for this to happen in the past.
Cart Firmly Before the Horse
Remember the nursery rhyme? For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe...
I drift out of the vivid mountain meadow conjured within a flu-generated dream and blink myself awake toward a first cup of coffee (today: Yuban with a hint of Gevalia's creme brulee). The dream danced with detail which tagged along from sleep to waking, a continuation of one from a few days ago, which means it's one of those resolution-type-of-dreams that often lead to a breakthrough in the game design.
-=-
I'm crouched in a meadow near the forest's edge, about midway up the slope of a thickly eroded mountain range, surrounded by an array of tiny blue flowers which peek through the knee-high grasses. The flowers sparkle in the thin pre-dawn chill. I crawl through the grasses, following a small trampled path. Remnants of snow cling to my knees and the toes of my boots as I make my way as slowly and as silently as my *pull-cart* will allow. I search for a moment, hands digging through the trample, until I locate the beginning of my *trapline*, a length of rope along which I have pulled loops to signal the location of a nearby trap hidden off the trail.
As the meadow steepens, I remove the shoulder sling which secures the cart behind me, and loop it around a stump to keep it from sliding away downhill. I glance at the contents: *pelts* toward the front, several still damp and uncleansed. *Bones and teeth* toward the back scattered across a canvas layer to dry. I must hurry before dawn breaks, to locate the night's catches, before day brings heat and the chance of ruining a highly marketable hide.
Every few feet I find the loop knot in the rope line I am following, and reach through the grass wall, brushing the curtain aside to check the *trap* nearby. I replace the broken ones and reset the empty sprung ones, baiting each with a chum of gamey meat and sinew. Most of the traps are empty, sprung, as is usually the case, by the packs of wolves which rule this mountainland west of New Linden, a clever lot.
I crawl upward and through a thorny divide of howe berries, their brambles lurking beneath the pressed grass of the path and ripping the knees of my leggings, tearing at my jerkin and through my gloves. I mutter and remove my left glove, tending a rather deep puncture with the juice of one of the howe berries from the ground. It's a common curative found at this altitude, I recall, as the blue juice soothes the wound and makes me a bit giddy. The effect diminishes and I move onward to the next trap.
Success! An nearly dead wolf lays to one side of the trap pulled free from its grassy camouflage, its left hind leg secured in the iron jaws. I invoke a small frost shield, thanking Chrona for its protection, and end the wolf's dwindling life with a silent thanks to Astria. The renegade beast's jaws clip furiously at my arm as I slit its throat and give its lifeblood back to the ground.
Drawing my *skinning knife* from its sheath, I kneel next to the cooling corpse and slice through the belly from neck to tail, careful to preserve the pelt. It takes much less time to do this than it did when I started collecting pelts, for my studies in skinning have advanced, as has my knowledge of pelts themselves. Within a very short time, I have stripped away and folded the wolf's hide, retrieved its teeth and sinew, and begin to carry what I shall *trade* back down the steep grassy incline to the waiting cart.
I return to the trap and reset it, loading it with stacks of the still-warm flesh, reknot the trap line at the path and straighten out the guides before moving on -
-=-
Player-pullable cart, pelt, bones and teeth, trapline, traps, baiting, skinning knife, trade, material-based training - I'd seen the bits and pieces before, but not in sequence, not in action. I store the components of the dream away as I stare at the coffee pot's slow slumping and steaming chugs toward a drinkable cuppa joe.
Chatterbox, the younger of our two cats, mutters at my ankle, teeth sinking into the lace of my slipper. Her tail language translates to "an empty food dish coinciding with rising sun equals feed me before I chew off the toe of your slipper and further demolish this leather lace in my teeth which shall in no way diminish my desire for food or attention but signal my growing impatience with you my human wielder of can opener technology' - cats aren't big on punctuation.
I grin and comply. The coffee will wait - the cat will not, nor will the pelts in the cart.
Now to sketch the dream onto paper, determine the importance of the components in terms of the game, second-guess the befores and the afters, and add a dab of paint to the trade/econ module's design picture.
I should add that I've never set a trap or hunted like that in my life...
I drift out of the vivid mountain meadow conjured within a flu-generated dream and blink myself awake toward a first cup of coffee (today: Yuban with a hint of Gevalia's creme brulee). The dream danced with detail which tagged along from sleep to waking, a continuation of one from a few days ago, which means it's one of those resolution-type-of-dreams that often lead to a breakthrough in the game design.
-=-
I'm crouched in a meadow near the forest's edge, about midway up the slope of a thickly eroded mountain range, surrounded by an array of tiny blue flowers which peek through the knee-high grasses. The flowers sparkle in the thin pre-dawn chill. I crawl through the grasses, following a small trampled path. Remnants of snow cling to my knees and the toes of my boots as I make my way as slowly and as silently as my *pull-cart* will allow. I search for a moment, hands digging through the trample, until I locate the beginning of my *trapline*, a length of rope along which I have pulled loops to signal the location of a nearby trap hidden off the trail.
As the meadow steepens, I remove the shoulder sling which secures the cart behind me, and loop it around a stump to keep it from sliding away downhill. I glance at the contents: *pelts* toward the front, several still damp and uncleansed. *Bones and teeth* toward the back scattered across a canvas layer to dry. I must hurry before dawn breaks, to locate the night's catches, before day brings heat and the chance of ruining a highly marketable hide.
Every few feet I find the loop knot in the rope line I am following, and reach through the grass wall, brushing the curtain aside to check the *trap* nearby. I replace the broken ones and reset the empty sprung ones, baiting each with a chum of gamey meat and sinew. Most of the traps are empty, sprung, as is usually the case, by the packs of wolves which rule this mountainland west of New Linden, a clever lot.
I crawl upward and through a thorny divide of howe berries, their brambles lurking beneath the pressed grass of the path and ripping the knees of my leggings, tearing at my jerkin and through my gloves. I mutter and remove my left glove, tending a rather deep puncture with the juice of one of the howe berries from the ground. It's a common curative found at this altitude, I recall, as the blue juice soothes the wound and makes me a bit giddy. The effect diminishes and I move onward to the next trap.
Success! An nearly dead wolf lays to one side of the trap pulled free from its grassy camouflage, its left hind leg secured in the iron jaws. I invoke a small frost shield, thanking Chrona for its protection, and end the wolf's dwindling life with a silent thanks to Astria. The renegade beast's jaws clip furiously at my arm as I slit its throat and give its lifeblood back to the ground.
Drawing my *skinning knife* from its sheath, I kneel next to the cooling corpse and slice through the belly from neck to tail, careful to preserve the pelt. It takes much less time to do this than it did when I started collecting pelts, for my studies in skinning have advanced, as has my knowledge of pelts themselves. Within a very short time, I have stripped away and folded the wolf's hide, retrieved its teeth and sinew, and begin to carry what I shall *trade* back down the steep grassy incline to the waiting cart.
I return to the trap and reset it, loading it with stacks of the still-warm flesh, reknot the trap line at the path and straighten out the guides before moving on -
-=-
Player-pullable cart, pelt, bones and teeth, trapline, traps, baiting, skinning knife, trade, material-based training - I'd seen the bits and pieces before, but not in sequence, not in action. I store the components of the dream away as I stare at the coffee pot's slow slumping and steaming chugs toward a drinkable cuppa joe.
Chatterbox, the younger of our two cats, mutters at my ankle, teeth sinking into the lace of my slipper. Her tail language translates to "an empty food dish coinciding with rising sun equals feed me before I chew off the toe of your slipper and further demolish this leather lace in my teeth which shall in no way diminish my desire for food or attention but signal my growing impatience with you my human wielder of can opener technology' - cats aren't big on punctuation.
I grin and comply. The coffee will wait - the cat will not, nor will the pelts in the cart.
Now to sketch the dream onto paper, determine the importance of the components in terms of the game, second-guess the befores and the afters, and add a dab of paint to the trade/econ module's design picture.
I should add that I've never set a trap or hunted like that in my life...
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