Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
The Dreaded April
The month nears a closing, thankfully, its pattern complete and its reputation intact. For several reasons, I dread April's arrival, and usually spend the month holding my breath to see what tragedy the year's sinkhole will contain.
I have lost many to April - my grandfather, my grandmother, my first husband and my second husband - all passed away within this terrible month. It's as if, having braved the austere winter months, folks heave a sigh of relief and let their guard down, only to be tripped up by spring.
Over the years, I have lost friends to April - two bosses, a secretary, several coworkers and an employee. I get the feeling that their loss is magnified by the proximity to the other markings of tragedy. I've lost friends in other months and, while I mourn their passage, the loss seems to remain in perspective with more grace.
This is not to say that losses suffered in other months are not equally as tragic - of course they are. But those lost to April seem magnified and persistent, ghosts which cannot rest or be let sleep. It's as if the ground has thawed and the portal between this point of life and the next is just a bit more open, just a bit more accessible, and folks are drawn just a bit nearer, gentled along by the budding of leaf and grass. "Renew!" the earth says. "Time for the next step!"
The dread April draws toward an end. Sensing the end of the collapsing tunnel, I take a tentative breath and pray I do not regret being so selfish as to wish not to lose another to its clutches.
I have lost many to April - my grandfather, my grandmother, my first husband and my second husband - all passed away within this terrible month. It's as if, having braved the austere winter months, folks heave a sigh of relief and let their guard down, only to be tripped up by spring.
Over the years, I have lost friends to April - two bosses, a secretary, several coworkers and an employee. I get the feeling that their loss is magnified by the proximity to the other markings of tragedy. I've lost friends in other months and, while I mourn their passage, the loss seems to remain in perspective with more grace.
This is not to say that losses suffered in other months are not equally as tragic - of course they are. But those lost to April seem magnified and persistent, ghosts which cannot rest or be let sleep. It's as if the ground has thawed and the portal between this point of life and the next is just a bit more open, just a bit more accessible, and folks are drawn just a bit nearer, gentled along by the budding of leaf and grass. "Renew!" the earth says. "Time for the next step!"
The dread April draws toward an end. Sensing the end of the collapsing tunnel, I take a tentative breath and pray I do not regret being so selfish as to wish not to lose another to its clutches.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Common Sense and Other Outmoded Fads
... aka Keeping It Real.
Someone sent me a set of links yesterday which led to sites that, frankly, scared me - a lot. Several decried the genre of MUD as demonic in nature, satanist and cultlike, promulgating behavior which shall most certainly lead to eternal damnation and the end of life on this planet as we know it.
There was raised a great and vocal moral outcry on one, cautioning our youth to avoid everything from D&D and any roleplaying environment. This site also specifically mentioned the Beatles as a misleading influence and named several other cartoons as being dangerous to the minds of our trembling children. Any roleplaying environment? I suppose Shakespeare is right out...
One site declaimed ice hockey as well as fostering un-Christian behavior. Tennis was mentioned. So were transparent washing machine lids.
One site spoke to the validity of Dungeons and Dragon spells, saying they were authenticated as real life demon-summoning conjurations. Said authentication was supposedly performed before this website's author became Born Again. I must confess I did not read the entire page.
Through all of these ran a common thread of caution. These games warp our youth from the path of righteousness and place their feet upon the path of peril and lost souls. These games are addictive and fraught with dangers - by our very systems we breed serial killers and cause suicides.
Now, before a team of lawyers starts advancing on my house, chanting Free Speech epithets and scaring the cats... I am not in any way, shape or form saying that these websites full of moral outrage have no right to be up on the Net. I have a firm belief in a person's right to believe what they choose to believe, and to do so without being judged as to its 'rightness' - so long as said belief does not impinge on anyone else's right to believe what they choose to believe. Faith is a highly personal matter. I have mine. You have yours. May you be allowed to believe what you believe without feeling obligated to push your beliefs on me. I reserve the same right.
So I raise a toast to the morally outraged who feel duty-bound to write such sites and foist them upon all passersby as tracts of warning and impending Doom. You do the world a service, most certainly, and with the best of intentions, I am sure. Those of you who claim to be born again seem to screech the loudest. But please... Born Again does not mean Born Stupid.
Last I looked, they were not taxing Common Sense, so that's not a real good reason to avoid it.
Common Sense is as robust as its user allows it to be or as fragile as its user allows it to be. It should be applied liberally and without hesitation. It should be applied to known conditions on a regular basis, providing practice for dealing with the unknown condition when it arises.
Common Sense dictates that, if you are susceptible to influence by things such as roleplaying and find yourself unable to remain grounded in reality while you act the part of an elven king in text, you should not do this.
Common Sense would lead to the logical conclusion that, if you find it difficult to wake up in the morning because you played games on your computer until midnight, you should probably stop earlier and get some sleep.
Common Sense would say that. It's the same Common Sense that says that if you have a job and don't go do that job for a week, you will probably not have that job for long. You probably won't get paid for it.
Sorry if this is rather fragmented today, but I tend to get very troll-under-the-bridge when confronted with things like those pages which, while probably written with great sincerety and the utmost concern for our well-being as a species, are so significantly lacking in that precious commodity of Common Sense.
Someone sent me a set of links yesterday which led to sites that, frankly, scared me - a lot. Several decried the genre of MUD as demonic in nature, satanist and cultlike, promulgating behavior which shall most certainly lead to eternal damnation and the end of life on this planet as we know it.
There was raised a great and vocal moral outcry on one, cautioning our youth to avoid everything from D&D and any roleplaying environment. This site also specifically mentioned the Beatles as a misleading influence and named several other cartoons as being dangerous to the minds of our trembling children. Any roleplaying environment? I suppose Shakespeare is right out...
One site declaimed ice hockey as well as fostering un-Christian behavior. Tennis was mentioned. So were transparent washing machine lids.
One site spoke to the validity of Dungeons and Dragon spells, saying they were authenticated as real life demon-summoning conjurations. Said authentication was supposedly performed before this website's author became Born Again. I must confess I did not read the entire page.
Through all of these ran a common thread of caution. These games warp our youth from the path of righteousness and place their feet upon the path of peril and lost souls. These games are addictive and fraught with dangers - by our very systems we breed serial killers and cause suicides.
Now, before a team of lawyers starts advancing on my house, chanting Free Speech epithets and scaring the cats... I am not in any way, shape or form saying that these websites full of moral outrage have no right to be up on the Net. I have a firm belief in a person's right to believe what they choose to believe, and to do so without being judged as to its 'rightness' - so long as said belief does not impinge on anyone else's right to believe what they choose to believe. Faith is a highly personal matter. I have mine. You have yours. May you be allowed to believe what you believe without feeling obligated to push your beliefs on me. I reserve the same right.
So I raise a toast to the morally outraged who feel duty-bound to write such sites and foist them upon all passersby as tracts of warning and impending Doom. You do the world a service, most certainly, and with the best of intentions, I am sure. Those of you who claim to be born again seem to screech the loudest. But please... Born Again does not mean Born Stupid.
Last I looked, they were not taxing Common Sense, so that's not a real good reason to avoid it.
Common Sense is as robust as its user allows it to be or as fragile as its user allows it to be. It should be applied liberally and without hesitation. It should be applied to known conditions on a regular basis, providing practice for dealing with the unknown condition when it arises.
Common Sense dictates that, if you are susceptible to influence by things such as roleplaying and find yourself unable to remain grounded in reality while you act the part of an elven king in text, you should not do this.
Common Sense would lead to the logical conclusion that, if you find it difficult to wake up in the morning because you played games on your computer until midnight, you should probably stop earlier and get some sleep.
Common Sense would say that. It's the same Common Sense that says that if you have a job and don't go do that job for a week, you will probably not have that job for long. You probably won't get paid for it.
Sorry if this is rather fragmented today, but I tend to get very troll-under-the-bridge when confronted with things like those pages which, while probably written with great sincerety and the utmost concern for our well-being as a species, are so significantly lacking in that precious commodity of Common Sense.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Mirror Mirror on the Wall...
... who in this land is fairest of all?
Who among us does not recognize this line as something we should remember from childhood. But who spoke it, and in which fairy tale?
Go look. I'll wait.
Five points for your good self if you recalled the tale from which the reference came, without resorting to Google or other Internet searches. Give yourself another five if you remembered who uttered the phrase to the magical mirror.
Add ten points if you recall how many times the heroine is poisoned, and ten more if you recall the methods.
Add em up... what'd you get?
And your point, silly author? (I hear you mutter to your computer screen) What on earth does this have to do with game design?
Not much at all, quite frankly. But if you gave yourself over twenty points, consider yourself extremely high on the recognition and recall of detail scale. Of little consequence when dealing with fairy tales, perhaps. Of great consequence when juggling the intricate webbing of a game land. Of vast consequence when contributing to its weaving.
In a new world, such as Karinth, one does not have a wealth of childhood memories to fall back upon, a lingering memory of bedtime tales, a sneaking feeling that you've heard this bit of lore once upon a time and the participants all lived happily ever after. No, gentle reader. Each facet of the game lore is new when a player starts. Each bit of lore is gathered by exploration and exposure, and to presume to know something because you as a person heard it as a child is to taint the water with a history which does not exist within the game.
Approach a game as a child would - fresh eyes, curious mind, open ears.
oh, and take off seven points if you assigned names to each of the dwarves... the various translations I could find did not assign them names nor attributes which would lead to names.
oh, and give yourself back the seven points if you recall the gruesome ending of our antagonist.
Who among us does not recognize this line as something we should remember from childhood. But who spoke it, and in which fairy tale?
Go look. I'll wait.
Five points for your good self if you recalled the tale from which the reference came, without resorting to Google or other Internet searches. Give yourself another five if you remembered who uttered the phrase to the magical mirror.
Add ten points if you recall how many times the heroine is poisoned, and ten more if you recall the methods.
Add em up... what'd you get?
And your point, silly author? (I hear you mutter to your computer screen) What on earth does this have to do with game design?
Not much at all, quite frankly. But if you gave yourself over twenty points, consider yourself extremely high on the recognition and recall of detail scale. Of little consequence when dealing with fairy tales, perhaps. Of great consequence when juggling the intricate webbing of a game land. Of vast consequence when contributing to its weaving.
In a new world, such as Karinth, one does not have a wealth of childhood memories to fall back upon, a lingering memory of bedtime tales, a sneaking feeling that you've heard this bit of lore once upon a time and the participants all lived happily ever after. No, gentle reader. Each facet of the game lore is new when a player starts. Each bit of lore is gathered by exploration and exposure, and to presume to know something because you as a person heard it as a child is to taint the water with a history which does not exist within the game.
Approach a game as a child would - fresh eyes, curious mind, open ears.
oh, and take off seven points if you assigned names to each of the dwarves... the various translations I could find did not assign them names nor attributes which would lead to names.
oh, and give yourself back the seven points if you recall the gruesome ending of our antagonist.
Conflict, Controversy, Cows and Carbon-based Life Forms
A game without conflict is a pointless affair indeed.
A story without conflict might as well be a reference manual for an operating system. All bones, no giggles, no subplot, no conflict.
But what is conflict?
Conflict is created from encounters, created from motivation, created from drama - conflicting goals, conflicting paths, conflicting decisions and outcomes. Conflict comes from cross purposes.
It arises from differences in motivation, belief, purpose. Tragedy... comedy can hold conflict but must hold it gently and treat it with the delicate touch of humor. It arises from land wars, religious wars, property wars, personal wars, humanistic divergences.
So why is it that we pour so much effort into designing and building the non-conflict sides of the game, and so little into its conflicts? Aside from combat encounters in the scheme of the game itself, we provide very little to engender tension.
I think it is because of the very personal nature of conflict itself. We can provide a certain set of conditions. We can code in a few catalysts and set them loose upon the population. We can build swarms of orcs which invade the main city and cause great fear for a few hours.
Beyond that, though, we must sit on our hands and let the player's conflicting motivations begin to paint the walls, color the game, bend the will of the scene.
Several months ago, one of our staffers stole a cow of mine. This prompted a long-standing playful interchange (I want my cow back - he won't give it back, and for all I know he has slain it and is still munching on its hooves!). Those who observe our occasional banter on the topic smile hesitantly and listen, wondering if these two staffers have gone slightly off their rockers... but they do not participate - this isn't conflict to them. This isn't a condition they can influence.
Conflict in a game has to be something that the player feels he can influence - to his advantage or to the benefit of his future. Otherwise it's just an overheard conversation, of mild and passing interest, and probably falls into the category of spam.
A story without conflict might as well be a reference manual for an operating system. All bones, no giggles, no subplot, no conflict.
But what is conflict?
Conflict is created from encounters, created from motivation, created from drama - conflicting goals, conflicting paths, conflicting decisions and outcomes. Conflict comes from cross purposes.
It arises from differences in motivation, belief, purpose. Tragedy... comedy can hold conflict but must hold it gently and treat it with the delicate touch of humor. It arises from land wars, religious wars, property wars, personal wars, humanistic divergences.
So why is it that we pour so much effort into designing and building the non-conflict sides of the game, and so little into its conflicts? Aside from combat encounters in the scheme of the game itself, we provide very little to engender tension.
I think it is because of the very personal nature of conflict itself. We can provide a certain set of conditions. We can code in a few catalysts and set them loose upon the population. We can build swarms of orcs which invade the main city and cause great fear for a few hours.
Beyond that, though, we must sit on our hands and let the player's conflicting motivations begin to paint the walls, color the game, bend the will of the scene.
Several months ago, one of our staffers stole a cow of mine. This prompted a long-standing playful interchange (I want my cow back - he won't give it back, and for all I know he has slain it and is still munching on its hooves!). Those who observe our occasional banter on the topic smile hesitantly and listen, wondering if these two staffers have gone slightly off their rockers... but they do not participate - this isn't conflict to them. This isn't a condition they can influence.
Conflict in a game has to be something that the player feels he can influence - to his advantage or to the benefit of his future. Otherwise it's just an overheard conversation, of mild and passing interest, and probably falls into the category of spam.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Running Away from Home
I read a sad journal tonight.
A young lady wrote of her feelings regarding the invasion of her privacy by her parents. After reading her most current post, I scrolled back in time slightly to see what might have been behind it, and found myself staring into the reflection of several pasts.
There're rantings and angry words being slung like rocks from a slingshot:
1 - You invaded the space under my bed where I keep my private stuff!
2 - You invaded the space in my closet where I keep the things you aren't supposed to see as my parent!!
3 - You invaded my space in my dresser and read my diary!!!
There're threats and admonitions, reprisals and repercussions:
1 - That's it. I'm going to seek emancipation and live on my own away from these "parents"!
2 - I hate you I hate you I hate you and I wish I were DEAD! I'm outa here!!
3 - I can't STAND IT here anymore. I am GONE!!!
There are the determinants that these parental individuals cannot possibly understand the meaning of true love.
1 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with or I'll just DIE!
2 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with or I'll just DIE!!
3 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with or I'll just DIE!!!
To put this in perspective...
Comments marked 1 - were written yesterday by this young journalist on her online log.
Comments marked 2 - were from my daughter in 1982, screamed to me on her way out the door.
Comments marked 3 - were my own in 1967, screamed to my mom, on my way out the door.
Some things never change. Some change so fast.
When I was uttering my phrases, t'was the decades of Free Love, of Volkswagen buses painted with peace signs and dangling strangely beautiful beads upon the rear-view mirror, usually driven by someone 'cool' who was in reality too stoned to see the trunk of the car in front of him. I was madly in love with someone whose name I can't remember now, and my life would surely end if I could not drive off into the sunset with him and his pretty beads and his two other girlfriends, whom I was sure would vanish on demand. T'was the life of the Hippie, the possessor of free will, great weed and other mind-altering drugs with interesting initials, from which I was immune as they scared me to death. But it was great fun to watch people smoke some of them as I sipped on quite virginal ice teas and pretended to understand what they were doing. We were in Vietnam. We were in Woodstock. We were modern, post-modern, conscientiously objecting all the way to the nearest campus or border. We were wise. We were poets, crafting our art in single-syllable prose. We were troubadors and minstrels of our time, aspiring to the nobility of the day, a smash single on 8-track or vinyl, a mark upon our vast and changing world. We burned candles and incense, smelled of pachouli oil and the subtle undertones of smoke and spilled Sangria. Our parents did not understand us and our ways.
But our parents coped, with prayer and divine intervention, vigilance and infinite love. And somehow we survived and moved on.
Fast forward a decade 'n change. Somewhere along the line, most of us grew up. Got married, got employed, had small bundles of joy (aka kids), bought houses, bought Chevys and Fords. We parked the spray-painted Volkswagen bus in the backyard to be consumed by weeds and rust. The love beads and peace symbols got dropped into small chests of cedar and pink velvet jewelry cases we'd hauled around the counter as our talismen of childhoods flung free and far, then set far back on closet shelves, to be blushed at and moved with wry grins once every year when the afghans came down for winter. The tie-dyed t-shirts made good absorbent garage rags.
We are parents. WKRP, M*A*S*H and CHiPs and other strangely punctuated television shows dominate the networks. Nixon is not a crook but has resigned anyway. Cable television races toward our suburban nests, inhaling our lawns and paychecks. We have clutched our chair seats and chests while watching Jaws for the first time. We've laughed ourselves silly over Monty Python even if we can't understand a third of what they're saying, watched Apocalypse Now and winced, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and nodded to ourselves at places. We've traded our Chevys and Fords for Datsuns and little diesel trucks hoping to survive the Gas Crisis. We line up at the pumps on our designated days, shaking our fists at those who dare cut in line.
Our small bundles of joy are no longer speaking to us, but are shrieking in rebellion. We pray nightly for the silence to break and wonder how in hell our parents survived us. For as our children might say: We are enraged. We are modern, post-modern, dressed in manners most unsuitable for the street, with high waves of puffy hair and torn sweatshirts layered over torn t-shirts, legwarmers and some strange glittery stuff on our faces. We want freedom from oppression, for all (starting with themselves, of course). We cannot find a pay phone after seven in the evening, as such devices magically cease to exist at sundown. We jam on the beach; we are fearless. We are stars in our own heavens. Our parents do not understand us and our ways!
They threaten us at every turn, these children of ours... They're running away, and nothing we can do or say will stop them. We are aghast at their accusations - violate their privacy? break into their rooms? betray their trust? No WAY! We're COOL... aren't we?
We are no longer cool.. but we coped, with prayer and divine intervention, vigilance and infinite love. But somehow we all three survived and moved on.
Then tonight I read this blog by this young lady, and much becomes clear. She rebels against the tyranny of parental guidance and love, as my daughter did, as I did - and in the forty intervening years, so much has not changed. She rails against the bounds, as my daughter did, as I did - and yet the bounds have not changed so much. For she might say: We are rappers and ravers, possessors of the night, hair of a hundred colors and pants that droop yet mysteriously do not fall off. We are chanters of phrase, spoken song, of M&Ms and Eminems, and our ringtones rival the playlists of the near-defunct radio stations. We own iPods and Shuffles, XBox, Blackberry, Mac Minis and cellphones that take pictures better than our dad's clunky webcams. We are aware, we are aware we are different, we celebrate rights and castigate wrongs. We have seen devastation, we have seen tsunamis wipe entire coasts from existence. We're proud of our piercings, ears, eyelids, tongues, navels and.. others. So? We have seen our parents' icons fade and pass, and warily await the new. We are owners of our own century. We've seen it arrive at the speed of light and we possess it as fast as we can. Our parents do not understand us and our ways.
I sought the right to ride into the sunset with a dazed hippie and his merry band of stoned chicks, hypnotized by the swinging of the beads over a Pepsi-sticky plastic dashboard. I'm now a grandmother, and spend hours on the phone with my farflung family and distant siblings, wishing the distance were much shorter.
My daughter sought the right to skip school and spend the day at the beach without me freaking out and calling her principal's office. She is now up in Central California, raising her three sons, the eldest of whom is probably graduating college in a few months.
She seeks emancipation, this young lady of the online journal - the right to do as she pleases without parental interference.
Deja vu all over again.
Though times have changed, sped up, gone electronic, shrunk the world and expanded it beyond our wildest imaginings, some things have not.
Young lady, though you will not believe this now:
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to have a diary read against your will, to the embarrassment of your mortal soul.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to scream in frustration when you discover that the box of secrets you had shoved beneath your bed or into your closet or into the back of your dresser has been removed and perused.
You are not the first nor shall you ever be the last to accuse your parents of the heinous deeds of invasion of privacy.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be consumed with the sense that your entire life has been laid open by prying eyes and that you have no recourse but to run as fast and as far as you can. It happens. Trust me, it happens.
If you are lucky enough to have parents who care enough to be aware of what you are doing, and you are lucky enough to be living under a roof they provide and eating the food they pay for, be grateful.
Be thankful, be proud of them for having made it out of their own childhoods and evolved to the point of being responsible enough to have you and raise you. They are not the enemy, no matter how you view them on this day. Do not abandon them on a whim nor in a moment of anger, causing wounds which may take decades or lifetimes to heal. Do not.
Parents of young lady, however unlikely it is for you to read this:
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be the targets of this animosity from someone you used to cuddle in a small blanket. This presence you created has evolved, and evolution brings change.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to spend sleepless tear-filled nights in panic, wondering where your child is or if she is all right.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be consumed with the feelings of helplessness, of hopelessness, of confusion and lack of preparation. Dig deep into the cosmic consciousness - and ask your own parents how they dealt. If you are here and reading this, someone coped somehow.
You are not the first nor shall you ever be the last to spot a small book in her closet or dresser or under the bed and open it out of curiosity even though you know by doing so you let free the contents of Pandora's Box. It happens. Trust me, it happens.
To you as a family unit, whoever you may be, wherever you may be reading this:
Discuss early and often the boundaries of life, the meaning of privacy and how that is a privilege which grows like a prized rose bush over time and with much care.
Discuss the importance of those boundaries, even though you may be scorned for the words in later conversations.
If you make a promise, keep it. If you cannot possibly keep it, be honest and explain why. If you promised a family a certain level of stability then lost your job and can barely afford rent, for the love of God, don't lie about it and delude those who are depending on you for that rent.
Set good examples. If you tell your son not to drink, do not do so while waving a bottle of whiskey at his face. If you admonish your daughter not to smoke, do not do so while brandishing a flaming Marlboro at her nose.
Be thankful for the small telltale markings of progress, encouraging in your words, and respectful in your dealings. They are not the enemy, no matter how loudly they may rebel at a midnight curfew.
Do not abandon them on a whim nor in a moment of anger, causing wounds which may take decades or lifetimes to heal. Do not.
Create laughter when and where you can. Anger cannot live where laughter grows. Be reasonable in your expectations of each other - as child, as parent. Don't demand beyond reason - as parent or as child. There are no easy answers. Heck, there aren't even easy questions. But together as a team, you might just make it through this.
I wish you all well. May you deal with it all, with prayer and divine intervention, if that helps you, with vigilance and infinite love. May you somehow all survive and move on.
A young lady wrote of her feelings regarding the invasion of her privacy by her parents. After reading her most current post, I scrolled back in time slightly to see what might have been behind it, and found myself staring into the reflection of several pasts.
There're rantings and angry words being slung like rocks from a slingshot:
1 - You invaded the space under my bed where I keep my private stuff!
2 - You invaded the space in my closet where I keep the things you aren't supposed to see as my parent!!
3 - You invaded my space in my dresser and read my diary!!!
There're threats and admonitions, reprisals and repercussions:
1 - That's it. I'm going to seek emancipation and live on my own away from these "parents"!
2 - I hate you I hate you I hate you and I wish I were DEAD! I'm outa here!!
3 - I can't STAND IT here anymore. I am GONE!!!
There are the determinants that these parental individuals cannot possibly understand the meaning of true love.
1 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with
2 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with
3 - You don't know how it feels! My life is over! I've got to be with
To put this in perspective...
Comments marked 1 - were written yesterday by this young journalist on her online log.
Comments marked 2 - were from my daughter in 1982, screamed to me on her way out the door.
Comments marked 3 - were my own in 1967, screamed to my mom, on my way out the door.
Some things never change. Some change so fast.
When I was uttering my phrases, t'was the decades of Free Love, of Volkswagen buses painted with peace signs and dangling strangely beautiful beads upon the rear-view mirror, usually driven by someone 'cool' who was in reality too stoned to see the trunk of the car in front of him. I was madly in love with someone whose name I can't remember now, and my life would surely end if I could not drive off into the sunset with him and his pretty beads and his two other girlfriends, whom I was sure would vanish on demand. T'was the life of the Hippie, the possessor of free will, great weed and other mind-altering drugs with interesting initials, from which I was immune as they scared me to death. But it was great fun to watch people smoke some of them as I sipped on quite virginal ice teas and pretended to understand what they were doing. We were in Vietnam. We were in Woodstock. We were modern, post-modern, conscientiously objecting all the way to the nearest campus or border. We were wise. We were poets, crafting our art in single-syllable prose. We were troubadors and minstrels of our time, aspiring to the nobility of the day, a smash single on 8-track or vinyl, a mark upon our vast and changing world. We burned candles and incense, smelled of pachouli oil and the subtle undertones of smoke and spilled Sangria. Our parents did not understand us and our ways.
But our parents coped, with prayer and divine intervention, vigilance and infinite love. And somehow we survived and moved on.
Fast forward a decade 'n change. Somewhere along the line, most of us grew up. Got married, got employed, had small bundles of joy (aka kids), bought houses, bought Chevys and Fords. We parked the spray-painted Volkswagen bus in the backyard to be consumed by weeds and rust. The love beads and peace symbols got dropped into small chests of cedar and pink velvet jewelry cases we'd hauled around the counter as our talismen of childhoods flung free and far, then set far back on closet shelves, to be blushed at and moved with wry grins once every year when the afghans came down for winter. The tie-dyed t-shirts made good absorbent garage rags.
We are parents. WKRP, M*A*S*H and CHiPs and other strangely punctuated television shows dominate the networks. Nixon is not a crook but has resigned anyway. Cable television races toward our suburban nests, inhaling our lawns and paychecks. We have clutched our chair seats and chests while watching Jaws for the first time. We've laughed ourselves silly over Monty Python even if we can't understand a third of what they're saying, watched Apocalypse Now and winced, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and nodded to ourselves at places. We've traded our Chevys and Fords for Datsuns and little diesel trucks hoping to survive the Gas Crisis. We line up at the pumps on our designated days, shaking our fists at those who dare cut in line.
Our small bundles of joy are no longer speaking to us, but are shrieking in rebellion. We pray nightly for the silence to break and wonder how in hell our parents survived us. For as our children might say: We are enraged. We are modern, post-modern, dressed in manners most unsuitable for the street, with high waves of puffy hair and torn sweatshirts layered over torn t-shirts, legwarmers and some strange glittery stuff on our faces. We want freedom from oppression, for all (starting with themselves, of course). We cannot find a pay phone after seven in the evening, as such devices magically cease to exist at sundown. We jam on the beach; we are fearless. We are stars in our own heavens. Our parents do not understand us and our ways!
They threaten us at every turn, these children of ours... They're running away, and nothing we can do or say will stop them. We are aghast at their accusations - violate their privacy? break into their rooms? betray their trust? No WAY! We're COOL... aren't we?
We are no longer cool.. but we coped, with prayer and divine intervention, vigilance and infinite love. But somehow we all three survived and moved on.
Then tonight I read this blog by this young lady, and much becomes clear. She rebels against the tyranny of parental guidance and love, as my daughter did, as I did - and in the forty intervening years, so much has not changed. She rails against the bounds, as my daughter did, as I did - and yet the bounds have not changed so much. For she might say: We are rappers and ravers, possessors of the night, hair of a hundred colors and pants that droop yet mysteriously do not fall off. We are chanters of phrase, spoken song, of M&Ms and Eminems, and our ringtones rival the playlists of the near-defunct radio stations. We own iPods and Shuffles, XBox, Blackberry, Mac Minis and cellphones that take pictures better than our dad's clunky webcams. We are aware, we are aware we are different, we celebrate rights and castigate wrongs. We have seen devastation, we have seen tsunamis wipe entire coasts from existence. We're proud of our piercings, ears, eyelids, tongues, navels and.. others. So? We have seen our parents' icons fade and pass, and warily await the new. We are owners of our own century. We've seen it arrive at the speed of light and we possess it as fast as we can. Our parents do not understand us and our ways.
I sought the right to ride into the sunset with a dazed hippie and his merry band of stoned chicks, hypnotized by the swinging of the beads over a Pepsi-sticky plastic dashboard. I'm now a grandmother, and spend hours on the phone with my farflung family and distant siblings, wishing the distance were much shorter.
My daughter sought the right to skip school and spend the day at the beach without me freaking out and calling her principal's office. She is now up in Central California, raising her three sons, the eldest of whom is probably graduating college in a few months.
She seeks emancipation, this young lady of the online journal - the right to do as she pleases without parental interference.
Deja vu all over again.
Though times have changed, sped up, gone electronic, shrunk the world and expanded it beyond our wildest imaginings, some things have not.
Young lady, though you will not believe this now:
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to have a diary read against your will, to the embarrassment of your mortal soul.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to scream in frustration when you discover that the box of secrets you had shoved beneath your bed or into your closet or into the back of your dresser has been removed and perused.
You are not the first nor shall you ever be the last to accuse your parents of the heinous deeds of invasion of privacy.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be consumed with the sense that your entire life has been laid open by prying eyes and that you have no recourse but to run as fast and as far as you can. It happens. Trust me, it happens.
If you are lucky enough to have parents who care enough to be aware of what you are doing, and you are lucky enough to be living under a roof they provide and eating the food they pay for, be grateful.
Be thankful, be proud of them for having made it out of their own childhoods and evolved to the point of being responsible enough to have you and raise you. They are not the enemy, no matter how you view them on this day. Do not abandon them on a whim nor in a moment of anger, causing wounds which may take decades or lifetimes to heal. Do not.
Parents of young lady, however unlikely it is for you to read this:
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be the targets of this animosity from someone you used to cuddle in a small blanket. This presence you created has evolved, and evolution brings change.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to spend sleepless tear-filled nights in panic, wondering where your child is or if she is all right.
You are not the first nor shall you be the last to be consumed with the feelings of helplessness, of hopelessness, of confusion and lack of preparation. Dig deep into the cosmic consciousness - and ask your own parents how they dealt. If you are here and reading this, someone coped somehow.
You are not the first nor shall you ever be the last to spot a small book in her closet or dresser or under the bed and open it out of curiosity even though you know by doing so you let free the contents of Pandora's Box. It happens. Trust me, it happens.
To you as a family unit, whoever you may be, wherever you may be reading this:
Discuss early and often the boundaries of life, the meaning of privacy and how that is a privilege which grows like a prized rose bush over time and with much care.
Discuss the importance of those boundaries, even though you may be scorned for the words in later conversations.
If you make a promise, keep it. If you cannot possibly keep it, be honest and explain why. If you promised a family a certain level of stability then lost your job and can barely afford rent, for the love of God, don't lie about it and delude those who are depending on you for that rent.
Set good examples. If you tell your son not to drink, do not do so while waving a bottle of whiskey at his face. If you admonish your daughter not to smoke, do not do so while brandishing a flaming Marlboro at her nose.
Be thankful for the small telltale markings of progress, encouraging in your words, and respectful in your dealings. They are not the enemy, no matter how loudly they may rebel at a midnight curfew.
Do not abandon them on a whim nor in a moment of anger, causing wounds which may take decades or lifetimes to heal. Do not.
Create laughter when and where you can. Anger cannot live where laughter grows. Be reasonable in your expectations of each other - as child, as parent. Don't demand beyond reason - as parent or as child. There are no easy answers. Heck, there aren't even easy questions. But together as a team, you might just make it through this.
I wish you all well. May you deal with it all, with prayer and divine intervention, if that helps you, with vigilance and infinite love. May you somehow all survive and move on.
That Sinking Feeling
You know the one. Or if you don't, you will someday. That emptiness in the pit of your stomach, the hollow ache of worry and grief. The lump in the throat that won't budge no matter how hard you swallow or how long you concentrate. The raking pain that sears through your very heart like white hot iron, consuming each waking moment and refusing to fade into the background, its claws clamped around your chest firmly, disallowing sleep.
The game is down. The hard drive failed to do what hard drives are supposed to do for thousands and thousands of uninterrupted hours, began badblocking itself and demanded replacement. The new one is behaving with all the grace of a prima donna, ignoring all efforts to install the OS until its demands for a bigger dressing room are met. So the game is, for all intents and purposes, down.
Ok. Shrug all you wish. I understand if your empathy does not extend to the status of a collection of text supporting the action of 4500 denizens of ascii origin.
Let's try these instead:
While you're off snowboarding in Colorado for spring break, a rolling power outage hits your apartment in LA, and the 1960s-vintage refrigerator takes the opportunity to die permanently, leaving you with a freezer full of thoroughly spoiled chicken and Hot Pockets.
Your Uncle Charlie gets smashed while watching basketball at your house, and tosses a boot through your television at the Utah Jazz .
Your fiance forgets to set the parking gear of your SUV as he climbs out to admire the rugged coastal views of Big Sur, and it rolls merrily into midair and tumbles to the drink.
You find out your best friend has been embezzling funds from your cousin's company (where you happen to work), has been arrested and is being indicted next Tuesday, and said company can't make the payroll - including yours.
All sinking feelings of varying intensity - apply your choice, consider your favorite and multiply it by 200. That's about how I feel right now.
Actually, the game is up, but is captured in a state of lostness on an IP not our own, far from the reach of any player who might want to log in. I can get there; I know the secret phrase and possess the decoder ring. Our system admin can get there; he cloned his ring and whispered the pass-phrase to me in between pulling out handfuls of hair and beating on the console window trying to get Debian to install.
-sigh- I suppose I could take the opportunity to work on the Master Plan For Conquering the Universe while it's quiet... or get some work done on the ability templates.... or go watch the Utah Jazz, and avoid flying boots and spoiled Hot Pockets.
The game is down. The hard drive failed to do what hard drives are supposed to do for thousands and thousands of uninterrupted hours, began badblocking itself and demanded replacement. The new one is behaving with all the grace of a prima donna, ignoring all efforts to install the OS until its demands for a bigger dressing room are met. So the game is, for all intents and purposes, down.
Ok. Shrug all you wish. I understand if your empathy does not extend to the status of a collection of text supporting the action of 4500 denizens of ascii origin.
Let's try these instead:
While you're off snowboarding in Colorado for spring break, a rolling power outage hits your apartment in LA, and the 1960s-vintage refrigerator takes the opportunity to die permanently, leaving you with a freezer full of thoroughly spoiled chicken and Hot Pockets.
Your Uncle Charlie gets smashed while watching basketball at your house, and tosses a boot through your television at the Utah Jazz .
Your fiance forgets to set the parking gear of your SUV as he climbs out to admire the rugged coastal views of Big Sur, and it rolls merrily into midair and tumbles to the drink.
You find out your best friend has been embezzling funds from your cousin's company (where you happen to work), has been arrested and is being indicted next Tuesday, and said company can't make the payroll - including yours.
All sinking feelings of varying intensity - apply your choice, consider your favorite and multiply it by 200. That's about how I feel right now.
Actually, the game is up, but is captured in a state of lostness on an IP not our own, far from the reach of any player who might want to log in. I can get there; I know the secret phrase and possess the decoder ring. Our system admin can get there; he cloned his ring and whispered the pass-phrase to me in between pulling out handfuls of hair and beating on the console window trying to get Debian to install.
-sigh- I suppose I could take the opportunity to work on the Master Plan For Conquering the Universe while it's quiet... or get some work done on the ability templates.... or go watch the Utah Jazz, and avoid flying boots and spoiled Hot Pockets.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
How to Beat the Game!
Well, I bet that title got the attention of a few people. I suspect I should have stated which game I was talking about - for those familiar with this journal, you already know I write about our progress at Legends of Karinth.
For those hoping for clues about World of Warcraft or Everquest - sorry to disappoint you.. this is not that place. Thanks for visiting; there's cookies, coffee and punch in the corner over there, and feel free to come back anytime.
LOK fans - there is a cycle one goes through with any game of this sort. Pick a strategy, pick the skills which support the strategy, get gear, make progress, finetune and move on. Karinth is no different. From the moment you choose a starting ability set - combat, magic, healing, stealth - or none - you begin to formulate your strategy. Your mind has things set in a particular direction -
I'm a warrior.
I'm a fire mage.
I'm a monk
... and by selecting that starting template, you set foot on a path (from which the game is quite glad to let you deviate from any time).
Just like life, it's a matter of balance, of juggling the intricate details and nuances. Focus purely on one skill to the exclusion of all others, and you risk becoming a master of making toothpick sculptures of the Eiffel Tower while neglecting the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time.
On the other hand, if you select a set of abilities and skills which support your aforementioned path, additional interests and the like, and spend your training hours with wisdom and an even hand, advancing them slowly and evenly as you gain more training hours (you get more each time you level), your character will be able to cope with pretty much anything it will encounter for its level, and it will do so no matter what path you choose. Keep some gold in your purse and don't get tempted to buy 32 of everything you find everywhere. Keep your gear up, either by having it repaired or by acquiring new, appropriate to your level. Moderation in all things, including moderation.
Now, as far as how to beat the game... there is no level limit. There's no real point at which you are kicked out of your starting house - the only deal is if you leave after level 11, you won't be able to get back in. Until then, you can come and go from the house as you like. Stay as long as you wish, gather all gear, and make sure to get a couple of weapons which suit your style. Don't neglect jars of balm and other beneficial herbals - collect them and save them for when you need them. Grab all the elven willow leaves you can carry, then find the backpack and fill it full with more.
Continue to tune your character from now until you retire with a gold watch from your day job. Go as fast or as slow as you wish. You've beaten the game when you realize that you are applying your own pace, decisionmaking and determination, are comfortable with those decisions and feel that your path is leading to success. You're driving your own wagon in the direction you wish to go, not a direction in which someone else says you should or must.
If you rush, rush because it is your own decision to rush. If someone else is rushing you, stop and tell them to stop. The game of Legends of Karinth has many levels, and the faster you go, the fewer levels of the game you will see. If you think you are experiencing a shallow game, slow down, or create a new character and go back and look at things. It will pay off later.
There are no big secrets to success. There are no cheats or 'best way to play' lists, although several players claim to have found 'the best way to play.' Sure they have. They've found -their- best way to play - a most personal and broad-brush decision which only they can make. Your mileage may vary - dramatically.
For those hoping for clues about World of Warcraft or Everquest - sorry to disappoint you.. this is not that place. Thanks for visiting; there's cookies, coffee and punch in the corner over there, and feel free to come back anytime.
LOK fans - there is a cycle one goes through with any game of this sort. Pick a strategy, pick the skills which support the strategy, get gear, make progress, finetune and move on. Karinth is no different. From the moment you choose a starting ability set - combat, magic, healing, stealth - or none - you begin to formulate your strategy. Your mind has things set in a particular direction -
I'm a warrior.
I'm a fire mage.
I'm a monk
... and by selecting that starting template, you set foot on a path (from which the game is quite glad to let you deviate from any time).
Just like life, it's a matter of balance, of juggling the intricate details and nuances. Focus purely on one skill to the exclusion of all others, and you risk becoming a master of making toothpick sculptures of the Eiffel Tower while neglecting the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time.
On the other hand, if you select a set of abilities and skills which support your aforementioned path, additional interests and the like, and spend your training hours with wisdom and an even hand, advancing them slowly and evenly as you gain more training hours (you get more each time you level), your character will be able to cope with pretty much anything it will encounter for its level, and it will do so no matter what path you choose. Keep some gold in your purse and don't get tempted to buy 32 of everything you find everywhere. Keep your gear up, either by having it repaired or by acquiring new, appropriate to your level. Moderation in all things, including moderation.
Now, as far as how to beat the game... there is no level limit. There's no real point at which you are kicked out of your starting house - the only deal is if you leave after level 11, you won't be able to get back in. Until then, you can come and go from the house as you like. Stay as long as you wish, gather all gear, and make sure to get a couple of weapons which suit your style. Don't neglect jars of balm and other beneficial herbals - collect them and save them for when you need them. Grab all the elven willow leaves you can carry, then find the backpack and fill it full with more.
Continue to tune your character from now until you retire with a gold watch from your day job. Go as fast or as slow as you wish. You've beaten the game when you realize that you are applying your own pace, decisionmaking and determination, are comfortable with those decisions and feel that your path is leading to success. You're driving your own wagon in the direction you wish to go, not a direction in which someone else says you should or must.
If you rush, rush because it is your own decision to rush. If someone else is rushing you, stop and tell them to stop. The game of Legends of Karinth has many levels, and the faster you go, the fewer levels of the game you will see. If you think you are experiencing a shallow game, slow down, or create a new character and go back and look at things. It will pay off later.
There are no big secrets to success. There are no cheats or 'best way to play' lists, although several players claim to have found 'the best way to play.' Sure they have. They've found -their- best way to play - a most personal and broad-brush decision which only they can make. Your mileage may vary - dramatically.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Difficult Choices
Life is a matter of choices made or not made.
What suits you very well might be a terrible choice for me. What works perfectly for me might be quite awful for you. I cannot predict what a choice will be for you, any more than you can predict what will work for me - nor should you. Nor should I.
Nor should a game.
I have a basic argument with games which force folks into pigeonholes. Ones which blithely declare a player to be A Cleric, or A Warrior, or A Thief, or A Mage - and that, kind player, is what thou shalt be and be content with the rest of your playing life! (unless of course we deign to offer you a few more choices for a reclass...)
Karinth places no such restrictions on its players. Be what you will, make your own choices, make up your own mind. If you want to be a warrior, train yourself in those skills which fit that lifestyle. If you want to be a healer, fine. Study the magics, scribe the spells, collect the potions, be a healer. Want to pick pockets and skulk through alleys? Great. Do so. Learn the skills to sneak, hide, pilfer from pockets, etc. We sure won't stop ya. Or do all three!!
Now then, gentle reader. Tell me why some folks have found this concept distasteful? I'm curious - I've played both class-based and class-free games, and always have found the freedom of choice to be one which is exhilirating and encouraging. I've almost always found the class-based ones to feel constraining and presumptive.
What am I missing? Tell me?
Your feedback may help break a severe bottleneck - so fire away!
What suits you very well might be a terrible choice for me. What works perfectly for me might be quite awful for you. I cannot predict what a choice will be for you, any more than you can predict what will work for me - nor should you. Nor should I.
Nor should a game.
I have a basic argument with games which force folks into pigeonholes. Ones which blithely declare a player to be A Cleric, or A Warrior, or A Thief, or A Mage - and that, kind player, is what thou shalt be and be content with the rest of your playing life! (unless of course we deign to offer you a few more choices for a reclass...)
Karinth places no such restrictions on its players. Be what you will, make your own choices, make up your own mind. If you want to be a warrior, train yourself in those skills which fit that lifestyle. If you want to be a healer, fine. Study the magics, scribe the spells, collect the potions, be a healer. Want to pick pockets and skulk through alleys? Great. Do so. Learn the skills to sneak, hide, pilfer from pockets, etc. We sure won't stop ya. Or do all three!!
Now then, gentle reader. Tell me why some folks have found this concept distasteful? I'm curious - I've played both class-based and class-free games, and always have found the freedom of choice to be one which is exhilirating and encouraging. I've almost always found the class-based ones to feel constraining and presumptive.
What am I missing? Tell me?
Your feedback may help break a severe bottleneck - so fire away!
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