Boosterspice

I wrote this short story over the summer for a writing course.

Boosterspice

In the media room of their modest estate, Stephen and Jane sat watching the news.

“Another spice riot. Just what we need: poor people complaining about things that aren’t any of their business.”

“What I don’t understand is the idea that the booster treatment is a God-given right. Just imagine if we gave it to everyone: they keep copulating, but don’t die themselves. We’d be overrun!”

The TV showed a news anchor.

“The biggest discussion of the century is still ongoing in Washington: should the prohibitively expensive treatment known as boosterspice be included in the Medicaid program? Advocates are claiming that current research indicates the treatment is capable of extending a person’s life for up to forty or fifty years; some are even claiming it could let a person live forever. We have with us here a researcher from Kurzweil Technologies to explain the latest breakthroughs in his lab.”

It transitioned to a scientist.

“Well, as you know, the boosterspice treatment was designed almost eight years ago. It uses a fairly common drug, but the method of deploying the compound into patients using nanobot boosters is a radical advancement. So far, in human testing, we’ve seen powerful regenerative cycles. As far as we can tell, most cellular processes are refortified with almost 100% effectiveness. Essentially, the procedure restores the subject to the vitality they were experiencing around age forty.”

The anchor returned.

“The Medicaid inclusion movement suffered a major setback last week when the Catholic Church officially denounced boosterspice…”

The noise faded into the background when Jane spoke up, “Oh, Stephen, did you call Mark yet today?”

“Yes. He and Kathy are meeting John and us tomorrow at the hospital. I don’t know why he’s coming to the intervention. It’s not his dad. It should just be Kathy, John, and me.”

“Well, I’m coming.”

“Yes, but you aren’t bad news. I still can’t understand why Kathy married Mark of all people.”

“Just be polite to him. Remember that we’re there for your dad.”

* * *

The group of five sat in the waiting room, praying. Last week they had met and compared speeches, decided on a tone. Now an attendant came, showed them the room.

On the bed lay William Rowe, father of Stephen, Kathy, and John. A photo of Christie, their late mother, stood on the bedside table.

Kathy began. “Dad…”

Stephen stepped in, “This is an intervention. We want you to take the boosterspice treatment.”

William looked at his children, and then broke out in a wheezy laugh, which turned to a convulsive cough. He finally settled back down, but his face still glowed in amusement. “What the hell are you going to do to me if I don’t? Kill me? Stop paying for my care?” And he laughed again, this time more of a giggle to avoid straining his lungs.

Stephen looked to John, who looked down, with nothing to add. Kathy looked to Stephen. Stephen just stood there, flapping his mouth. They hadn’t really thought this through, Stephen realized. This entire venture was ill-conceived and even worse planned. Jane stepped forward, putting her hand on Stephen’s shoulder, and said to Bill, “We just want you to be happy.”

“I’ve lived a full enough life, and now I want to spend eternity with my wife. I wouldn’t blame you for taking the treatment, but as I’ve said many times before, I won’t.”

Stephen took over again. “But we haven’t lived full lives, and we want you around for as much of it as possible.”

“Sorry, son, everyone dies eventually.”

Kathy muttered, “Not anymore.” But the group turned and started shuffling out of the room. Stephen stayed behind, and heard Kathy explode at Mark in the hallway. “Why didn’t you speak up?”

“Well, I never really found a good time to intercede…”

Jane glanced at Stephen and left as well. Stephen knelt beside the bed. His eyes kept falling to the oxygen tube running into his dad’s nose.

“You won’t reconsider? Not for anything?”

“A new age is dawning, son. But I don’t want to be there for it. I belong in the past.”

Stephen put his hand on his dying father’s shoulder and left. In this day and age, nobody should have to be dying. A thought like that used to be entitled, or naive. Now it was… fact.

* * *

Later that day, Stephen was having coffee with two friends.

One of his friends said, “Those boosterspice riots are a pain in my ass. I had to drive twenty minutes out of my way to get around the mob.”

“It’s kind of ridiculous for people to demand it,” agreed Stephen.

“It’s ridiculous for them to block the streets. What, like we’re gonna pay for them after they get in my way?”

The second friend butted in. “400 million treatments. I really don’t think they understand the magnitude of that order.”

“The only order they understand is a double cheeseburger with fries, am I right?” Stephen’s two friends chortled.

“Maybe they wouldn’t want it if we told them they couldn’t have kids anymore,” Stephen suggested.

“Or jobs. No, I guess they can have one: kids or jobs. But not both.”

“Well, they already don’t have jobs.” Again, the friends chuckled.

Stephen coughed after a vaguely uncomfortable pause. “So, are you guys going to get the treatment?”

“Well, yeah, of course.”

“It would be wasteful not to.”

Stephen nodded and followed up, “My treatment is in a few days. Actually, it’s gotten me thinking about death. Now that we’ve cured it, it’s even scarier–”

“Well… nobody is certain that the treatment ʻcuresʼ death.”

The other friend jumped in. “All they can predict now is that it extends life by forty or fifty years. Maybe it works indefinitely.”

“You can still get diabetes and blood clots from lifestyle choices after the treatment.”

“And prostate cancer. Although it’s less likely.”

“And obviously it doesn’t protect against bodily harm. It doesn’t make you invincible.”

“But even so, it’ll still stagnate the economy, et cetera, et cetera,” Stephen replied.

* * *

It was ironic, considering the state of things, that as Stephen’s car accelerated onto the freeway, time slowed down and Stephen glanced sideways out the window to see Death looking back at him. To the serenade of screeching rubber and twisting metal, Stephen’s eyes watched the sky vanish and a tractor trailer spin by, seemingly miraculous and counter to all worldly physics, passing Stephen again and again. Finally the sky ceased to be a blur and became concrete. Upside down, next to a twisted guardrail, Stephen passed out.

He awoke slowly, painfully. He was in a hospital room, a bandage across his midsection. How much time had gone by? A vague dream, or memory, of waking in Intensive Care, with a tube down his throat. Stephen’s stomach roiled. The only thing he could think about was how close to death he had come. Internal bleeding, concussion, rib fractures: the works. Miraculous that he had survived. Was it miraculous that the accident had come days before his boosterspice clinic appointment?

When Stephen arrived at his home again—after furiously protesting his being driven home on account of a newly developed fear of cars—the first thing he did was reschedule the appointment to the next open slot: the following week. For the interceding days, Stephen kept off work with sick-leave and refused to depart the house. Often he stayed in the bedroom, away from the stove and stairs. He paced the room for exercise, wary of catching pneumonia or having his muscles atrophy.

Jane tried to reason. “There’s no point in living longer if you’re just going to spend that life hiding here.”
But Stephen would have none of it. He took the bus (the safest form of transportation) to his first boosterspice treatment. He wore a surgical mask on the bus. At the appointment, Stephen sat before a desk, with a paper in front of him, and a doctor talking to him.

“The actual application of the process is fairly extensive and time consuming. We’ve performed all the necessary pre-tests. This is your point of no return. If you sign this, we will move you into our care facility and perform the treatment over the course of the next 12 days. Afterward, your natural lifespan will grow by at least 45 years with your current lifestyle. The decision lies fully in your hands at this point: do you want to receive the metabolic retro-senescence treatment?”

Stephen rocked slightly in his chair. He looked at the paper. The signature line stared back. For the first time in weeks, Stephen really thought. Stephen thought about his father. A lifetime of memories began to come to him, of good and bad times with his parents. Then Stephen thought about his wife. About the terrible car accident. About the hospital, about his job, and about his lack of children. It was his life. His life. No matter how he felt, the accumulation of events is what composed the entity known as Stephen.

In all this thinking, Stephen entered a world of imagination. A world of undying people, afraid of death. Liability was no longer the drive behind safety measures. This world had rounded corners (too easy to hurt oneself on a sharp edge), no fallible machinery. A world abandoned by the adventurous, who would escape to humanity’s frontier among the stars. Such a world would succumb to a slow death by fire, or poison. Centuries of climate change and overpopulation would slowly choke the planet to death, because the inhabitants couldn’t look farther ahead than the dangers of today. Ethics would become twisted, and humanity would become a shell of itself. There would be no war, no violence, only inevitable decay from the relentless march of entropy.

“I’ve decided to forgo.”

* * *

Stephen entered a bagel shop, accompanied by two of his buddies. He ordered and pulled a third chair up to a round table.

“Wow, it’s been a while, Stephen. What, a little over a year since your big accident? How has it been going?”

“It was rough for a while. The car crash and my dad’s death did a number on me. I was in therapy for six months, I think.”

“And then the divorce… wow. When was that?”

“Three months to the day.”

“How are you holding up?”

“Fine, you know. Jane didn’t want to be with a ‘purist’. It would get awkward real fast with her taking boosterspice. I thought I might have trouble letting her go, but she’s dead to me. Rather, I’m dead to her. In my mind, she’s already faded into the mists of the future.”

“Stephen, that’s a little messed up.”

Stephen shrugged amiably, and rose to claim his order. When he sat back down and the group started in on their food, the conversation paused for a moment. One of his friends idly asked, “So you really gave up boosterspice?”

“I’ve come to believe in purity more than anything else.”

“Think of it: last year, nobody even dreamed of purists. There were the initial rejects, but certainly no culture. Now… it’s crazy. No offense.”

“I don’t care about that. It’s the philosophy, not the culture.”

The conversation continued.

Suddenly Stephen rocked in his chair and pressed his palms to his forehead. A wooziness, cold on his insides, pulsated. He felt his sense of direction go.

His body fell to the floor; his mind seized for tense, terrifying moment, and then it seemed to drift away. For a split second, his mind was in a timeless ether. Then he returned to consciousness hours later, in his own body, in the hospital. Stephen hated hospitals. The décor always threw him back to the night of the crash.
The doctor came in eventually. He took some readings before breaking the news.

“You are suffering from kidney failure. The waiting list is too long. The only viable option is to have the boosterspice treatment applied as soon as possible. It will rejuvenate your body long enough to receive a transplant. I see you were initially slated for a dosage last year, but you rejected it. Are you morally opposed to the treatment?”

“I’ve become a purist—” the doctor wrinkled his nose at the term “—as a result of that time in my life.”

“But do you reject the treatment as a medical procedure, rather than a cosmetic, non-essential measure?”

Stephen hesitated, just a moment. It had been a long time since the belief system he had built up around himself had been questioned.

The doctor interceded before Stephen could work out a response. “I’ll check back tomorrow. You have until then to make up your mind.”

Stephen had come to accept an existence without immortality. When a person comes to terms with a reality that may scare them at first, it becomes a building block of their life. If Stephen accepted the miracle drug back into his life, it would wreck the philosophical barriers he had constructed to protect himself. Tomorrow he would deliver his answer to the doctor: no.

* * *

During visiting hours, Kathy and John showed up. Stephen eyed them. The family had fallen out of touch after Bill’s death. John, with a newly acquired air of sureness, approached Stephen.

“This little experiment of yours has come back to bite you. I told you it would never work out. That you would come back to your senses after a while. You’re a fool for not getting the procedure done earlier. If you had gone much longer, you could have died before anyone diagnosed–”

“John!” Stephen broke his brother out of it before a rant precipitated. “I’m rejecting the treatment.”
Kathy started. “Wait, what? Stephen, how can you do this to us? Also, how can you do this to yourself? If you don’t get the treatment, you’ll die!”

“Yes. I know. That’s the point. Look, I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

John stepped forward, jaw high and imperious. “I know you took dad’s death hard, and that you’re somehow punishing yourself for his death, but you need to think about this.”

“I see you’ve been going to those ‘make the most of an endless life’ seminars. Too bad those don’t teach you how to use your brain. Death is a choice now, brother. You’ve decided one way, and I’ve decided the other. It’s as simple as that.”

John snorted, stood up, and walked out.

Kathy also turned and began walking out. She paused at the door.

“You are unbelievable, Stephen.”

* * *

That night, he woke up in pitch black. The lights from his bedside monitors were out. The hospital must have even lost its backup generators.

The light in his room flicked on. His father stood in the doorway, the pall of death bearing heavily on his face. “Stephen,” his dad spoke. Stephen was hanging, held upside down by the thousand tentacles of a nightmarish seatbelt. He hung above a beach of shattered safety glass. Beyond the walls of his world sat a semi and a guardrail, both clinging to the ceiling of the universe. William Rowe crouched down by one window, dressed in his finest Sunday clothes, fresh from the coffin.

He began to speak, slowly and deliberately. “When you have time, you may decide that you don’t want immortality. But when you are stuck with the hard choice between death and life, you always choose life. You think of that one lifetime activity you never got around to: swimming in bio-luminescent algae right after sunset, nobody around for miles; parachuting into the Grand Canyon; having the love and respect of all your neighbors; raising a kid who goes on to be wildly successful and happy. Procrastination turns out to be the ultimate life-saver.”

The world rotated and hardened into the topography of a hospital room. The doctor stood before Stephen. “Oh good, you’re awake. Now, have you made a decision about taking the boosterspice treatment?”

Stephen groaned a long, hard, satisfying groan into his hands. “Yes, fine, I’ll take the treatment this time.”

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Ender’s Game

I feel I have to talk about my thoughts with regards to the Ender’s Game movie, especially in light of the mixed reviews I have heard.

There are two ways to think about the process of turning a book into a movie.

The Engineer’s Way is methodical. Given a movie, what are the changes from the book? For each change, does it modify the meaning or impact of the event from the book? The fewer the changes, the more faithful the movie is to the book.

The Artist’s Way takes a more emotional approach. What messages and emotions made the book interesting? How can we capture those same elements in the cinematic form?

Up front, neither way is inherently better. For a literate moviegoer, the Engineer’s Way may prove more interesting. With the supporting knowledge from having read the book, the movie falls into context. In this case, the moviegoer is looking to see the images in his head turned into CGI reality on the screen. He wants to see the cool things, watch the faces of the characters as they go through their journey. The literate moviegoer has already been inside the character’s head, and emotionally experienced the story. Now they want to graphically experience it.

On the other hand, the hapless, un-informed average Joe has not experienced the story yet, on any level. They have not heard the facts, been on the emotional roller-coaster, or seen the end. In this case, some may prefer the Engineer’s Way, especially if they are looking for shallow entertainment. But if the moviegoer is looking for an engaging story, they will almost always want the Artist’s Way.

This presents a dilemma for the cinematographer. Do you risk the wrath of the fans by deviating from the book? Or do you faithfully reproduce the book and risk losing the emotional intensity found within its pages? Few books allow for both approaches.

Ender’s Game took the Engineer’s Way. Personally I think this was wrong. Ender’s Game is a long book with a couple of plot lines and milieu elements that don’t especially lend themselves to the film medium. In fact, some of the best parts in the film adaptation of Ender’s Game were the parts that deviated most from the book. For example, the two invasions compressed into one and the space battle turned into a fighter plane battle. Of course, that didn’t change the impact of those events — you might say that it is an example of the Engineer’s Way. But the exclusion of the Earth-bound politics certainly falls under the Artist’s Way.

The point I want to make, in a strange, round-a-bout way, is that the film was faithful but devoid of emotional involvement. It had the intensity, but the audience was left behind as the film skipped along at a brisk pace. One of the cardinal sins of blockbuster films (or AAA games, for that matter) is that their sense of pacing is non-existent. There were almost no moments of complete silence in the Ender’s Game movie. Much of it flew along, approaching the discontinuity of montage. Light music accompanied the quick delivery of dialogue and display of action, squelching any opportunity for a realistic pause.

Even having read the book a number of times and enjoying it, I could not emotionally connect with the characters onscreen. I watched the action, rather than experiencing it. The movie did a little too much tell, and not enough show.

While armchair directing is the most despicable form of cinematic criticism, I want give my two cents. If they had selected a few of the most emotionally charged and story-driving scenes and played them out over an extended period, the audience would have been given time to think. When there are realistic pauses in a conversation, the audience can create their own responses and then contrast them with what is said onscreen. In this manner of comparison, the audience connects with the characters. There is nothing wrong with having a second or, god forbid, two seconds of near-silence. A moment of ambient room noise can say as much as a minute of dialogue.

That said, they did pretty well with adapting the book. I’m not going to comment on the ending, because I am as stumped as anyone when it comes to turning the end of that book into a meaningful cinematic sequence.

Execution vs Conception

I love having ideas. Ideas are fun, manipulable, infinitely complex or simple. They don’t take any work to think about, expand in breadth and depth. It doesn’t take effort to plan execution. Much like calculus, the manipulation of abstract possibilities is fun and easy. Once it gets to the actual computation and execution, though, the process becomes less fun.

This is why I experiment with so many engines and SDKs, and why I draw and write much more than I model and map. It is enough to know that I have the skills to do (or figure out how to do) what I want to do. If carrying through and actual doing the boring grunt work isn’t fun, why should I do it? That said, having a final product is the most satisfying thing in the world. When an external motivator hits the project, like money or responsibility or grades, I am motivated to work through the grunt work. Then I get to stand on the other side and beam at my beautiful realization of an idea.

Carrying this through to its logical extreme, I feel like the best way to force myself to produce a final product in the real world is to throw myself headfirst into the deep waters. If I make game creation my livelihood (and preferably a few other persons’s too), a final product will emerge in due time. If I keep it as my hobby, my ideas will never get off the ground floor — at most I will get some proof of concepts, or a half-completed level.

The Nature of Writing

My dad got me a typewriter for Christmas as a gag gift. It’s a Smith Corona Electra 120 vintage approx. 1970; it comes in a suitcase because it is “portable”, although it still feels like a couple of bricks taped together.

The same kind of typewriter.

The same kind of typewriter.


Using it has given me some interesting insights into the nature of writing. I’ve always known that writing by hand, with a pen on paper, is fundamentally different from typing into a computer. I always thought that this difference boiled down to the fact that writing by hand lets you control every aspect of the paper, as if you are crafting your work of literature by hand. You become an artisan, as well as a writer. Typing on a computer takes away the visceral aspect. Your work becomes the stark logical words, purely abstract. The printer is the artisan, you are the writer. Separating those two roles removes a critical piece of the puzzle.

Now I realize that this line of thinking is false. Typewriters lie in this strange ether between pens and word processors. Yet using a typewriter is more like writing by hand than typing on a computer. Why is this? Now I think that it has to do with the singular focus on your work. Computers let you jump away for just a second when you get stuck; Twitter is always there. Yet when your sole focus is on your writing, you have to work through breaks in your train of thought. Trying to remember what you were going to say, I think, causes an internal rumination in which your thoughts are pared down and improved.

Of course, typewriters also have some unique benefits and downfalls. The most prominent is the complete immutability of your words. Yes, you can go over and white-out mistakes. But even with a pen on paper, it is possible to cross out a section and squeeze in a replacement overhead. Unless you write double-spaced, this is impossible on a typewriter. I’ve found, however, that this inability to revise lets me enter a stream-of-consciousness mode. Because I don’t need to review the words I just wrote, I can spell out all of my thoughts without getting caught up in phrasing.

The only problem with leaving self-editing for later is that I get lazy. Then you end up with something like this blog.

Programming Paradigms

Computer science is a relatively young field, and it has rapidly evolved ever since its inception. This becomes increasingly evident when you look at computer science being taught versus computer science being used. This is extremely apparent in the misnomer: computer science. CS is more technical art than science.

For a long time, computers had finite computational resources and memory. Today, our average consumer-grade computer is comparable to a super computer from 1985. Thusly, the twenty first century requires programming paradigms far different from those taught in the twentieth century. It no longer pays off to optimize the number of calculations or amount of memory your program uses, unless you are specifically performing mathematically intensive operations. This blog voices that sentiment much better than I can.

So programming now is about implementing an idea. Its easy to rise above the technical nitty gritty details and focus on the concept at hand. Then programming becomes a form of poetry, in which you express your ideas in a structured and rhythmic way. Programming, at a consumer level, is no longer about getting a machine to do what you want; its about empowering people.

Just like a poet spends many hours revising their verses and getting the words to say exactly what is meant, a programmer spends hours rearranging and improving code to fulfill their idea effectively. And like poetry, there are many genres and styles of programming. Unfortunately, programming is also like poetry in the way that many students get turned off to it by the experiences they have with it in school.

Programming should be taught with the main objective in mind: we are here to accomplish a mission. Writing mechanics are practiced and improved, but without an idea behind a poem or story, it is pointless. Algorithms are important, and so is project design and planning. But these are merely implements with which to express the programmer’s idea.

This is why the most successful software is easy to use, is powerful, or grants people an ability they didn’t have before. When you use a program, it doesn’t matter whether all the variables are global, whether the project was built top-down or bottom-up. The functional differences of some of the most disputed methods are miniscule. Optimization is a trivial concern when compared with the user interface. Is the parse speed of one file format more important than the support of a larger number of formats?

Kids want to be programmers because of coding heroes like Notch, the creator of Minecraft. But Minecraft isn’t well-designed. In fact, the program is a piece of crap that can barely run on a laptop from 5 years ago despite its simplicity. But the idea is gold, and that is what people notice. This is why Minecraft and Bioshock, and not COD, inspire people to be game developers.

However, functional programming is the CS taught in schools. Schools need to teach the art of computer science, not only the science. Imagine if writing was only taught, even up through college, in the scope of writing paragraphs. Essays and papers would just be a string of non sequiturs (kind of like this blog). Fiction would have no comprehensible story, only a series of finely crafted paragraphs. Only those who figured out the basic structures of plot, perhaps by reading books by others who had done the same, would learn to write meaningful stories.

In the future, everyone will be a programmer to some degree. At some point data will become so complex that to even manipulate information people will need to be able to interface with data processors through some sort of technical language in order to describe what they want. To survive in a digital world you either need software to help you interface with it, or learn the language of the realm.

Yet children are being driven off in droves because computers are being approached in education from completely the wrong angle. Computers are tool we use to accomplish tasks; the use of computers should not be taught just because “people need to be able to use computers in order to survive in the modern world”, but because children will be able to implement their ideas and carry out tasks much easier if they do have an expanded skillset on the computer. Computer skills should be taught in the form of “how would you go about doing X? Ok, what if I told you there was a much easier way?”

Minecraft Server: RPCreate

A while back I wrote a post about Minecraft servers. Since then I’ve put more thought into it and I’m thinking about starting a new server. This will be a much more informed endeavor, and hopefully it will turn out for the best. Here are some highlights:

The main idea is that the server puts all the players on an even playing field by allowing all users to use creative mode and basic commands. This will eliminate hoarding and allow players to focus on interacting, not making money or getting resources. It also removes any worry about stealing. However, because players have the capability to get any resources they need, I am hoping they will be more willing to fill a so for economic role (farming, lumberjacking, mining, building, etc) and resort to using legit materials as much as possible.

You need to be able to write!
Number one requirement to join will be the ability to write. This indicates that you are at least somewhat intelligent and able to express your ideas. In addition, it means you can read what others write and grasp new concepts.

You need to relax!
With a guaranteed level of intelligence hopefully comes a certain ability to compromise and handle a situation gracefully if you don’t get what you want or disagree with someone. We also need people who can play fairly and understand the importance of keeping a balanced economy by not hoarding legitimate materials or abusing creative mode.

You need to play fairly, and build sensibly.
As stated before, each member should be responsible. It is their server, and thus they need to actively work to keep it fun. This is the main idea I want to permeate through the server community: the server is merely a utility through which the players, as a community, get to act out fantasies and epic stories. There are no “admins” lording over the players, telling them how to play; it is the players that get to enjoy the world they have made, and the players who have to maintain the server.

This is not to say that I won’t make suggestions about economy and distinguish between responsible building and overbuilding; I’ll be doing it as a concerned player, not moderator. I won’t have more powers than anyone else on the server, and I won’t get the final call on decisions.

One thing I won’t tolerate, however, is plugins and mods. Besides the basic Bukkit server framework, no mods or plugins will be installed, by request or otherwise, that change or enhance game mechanics. This means no currency, no WorldEdit, no seasons or races or NPCs, nothing.

The community will have a say in everything else, though. The players will make the stories, vote on policies, and build the world. The server will be quite open to change. If the players want to institute a new policy, they can. Since there are no admins or moderators, they will be the ones carrying it out. Since there is no higher authority to appeal to, players will be forced to talk out disagreements among themselves.

Obviously its impossible to completely eliminate a leader who “runs” the server. Someone needs to host it, and someone needs to maintain the bulletin boards and websites. I suppose I would do that, but nearly anything could be changed if it was popular opinion backed by a vote. What I want is a player-made server and community, not a pre-made admin’s framework which has been filled in by the players. That breeds a dependency that ultimately leads to arguments and unrest, and it gives the players something to blame for all the bad things: namely, the admin.

I mentioned in passing a website, which would actually be a key element of the server. In my opinion, a bulletin board isn’t enough to truly let a server grow into a community. It needs independent features for planning events, posting featured videos, screenshots, and stories, and a hub for bulletin board, wiki, and all the other possibly third-party utilities. A website lets the person hosting the server to post updates, which can be emailed to people in case they didn’t catch it on the bulletin board.

If I built my own bulletin board and wiki utilities (which I am interested in doing anyways), the website could have a single account for commenting on news, RSVPing to events, editing the wiki, and posting on the forum. I HAVE been wanting to get back into web programming… maybe I’ll start that this weekend.

Starting a Game Studio

How do game studios get started? We always hear about game studios releasing a hit game and being boosted to fame. But whence do they come? I suppose most large companies and studios start as some guys in a garage or in a basement. Nowadays many companies are funded by the groups of venture capitalists, waiting to hit the next media goldmine. But in terms of game studios, are there still grass roots talent being formed and emerging? Or has the market environment become too hostile, and now new talent is forced to hop into the large studios as an insignificant piece of a game producing machine?

With most mainsteam games coming from the huge studios that have been bought up by corporate syndicates, there has been an increase in indie games recently. With the increased popularity of Valve’s digital distribution platform, Steam, fledgling studios don’t have to sign onto a corporate distributor to get their game noticed. Tiny, 5 dollar stocking stuffer games are now feasible to distribute, since releasing on Steam costs virtually nothing. Gone are the costs of creating discs and advertizing.

Studios still have to come from somewhere, though. I guess college is a great time to form a game studio. People are already there and live relatively close together, they don’t have a job, they have been studying their trade and want to apply it, and they have the time and motivation to accomplish something. I would go about creating a core team of one writer, and two coders, one or two artists. I would be a coder, but also keep the group coherent. Although 5 people may seem a little big to get off the ground, there would only be 3 people actively involved at one time on average. We would also need a couple voice actors, but that is outside talent and can be dealt with on a one to one basis.

After assembling, we would create our first game. No doubt it would take a couple iterations to get something desirable, but as long as something gets made, we’re fine. The game would probably be built on a pre-existing framework to speed up the development process. Once we have our first game out, we can bring one or two more people on board, and improve our infrastructure with the money from sales. After a second, larger game, we could probably get some investments and move into a building once graduated from college. As a standalone studio, it would probably be tough to make ends meet, but as a lead producer, I think I could keep projects on task and on time, yet still deliver an exceptional product. Perhaps we would eventually be bought up, but we could certainly argue a large amount of freedom in our contract if our games did exceptionally well.

Being the head producer of a studio would be great. It is your job to make sure good games are made, which means checking out and guiding every part of the process, from writing to coding to art design. It is your job to make sure people are working together, working quickly, and doing quality work. Such a job would suit me, as I have an interest in all aspects of game creation, an ability to hold a grand vision, the ability to help people communicate and work together, and the ability to split up an idea into steps and develop a timeline.

Another side of being the lead producer at a game studio would be dealing with management. If you belonged to a larger company, you would have people above you that don’t really understand or care what makes a specific game good; all they are dealing with is sales and other numbers. It might come down the chain of command that I should implement a certain system in my game, because it increased sales for these other games. Of course, my game is completely different and incompatible with that system. So it is up to me to please the management but still make a good, undiluted game. That sort of challenge is what makes producer an especially appealing job to me.

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