Posts Tagged ‘thoughts on’

I wrote a bit about this last year, when I talked about how Overthinking is Toxic[1]. Let’s revisit that, but with some more concreteness to it.

My day job is as a software developer, and while I never talk about my work, I find parallels between software development processes & good writing processes often. Which is only natural, since that’s my paradigm[2]. I’m in front of the keyboard between seven & eight hours a day, roughly, coding. But I’m not only thinking about work at those times. I’d say that around two hours beyond that, my mind’s chewing through work — during my commute[3], while grabbing lunch, taking a pipe break, etc.

So, on the top end, that’s ten hours that I’m chewing on work. My mind can’t not think about something, and since I’m partly geared as a puzzle-solver, I chew on things. It turns out that that time I’m away from the keyboard but still thinking is vital — that’s when I end up getting a different form of work done, where I’m reviewing in my head what I’ve just been doing because I am physically incapable of just rolling on. I have walked away from my desk for a few minutes of starring out into the bay, only to come back to a smart idea that I wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t given myself space to revisit mentally.

How does that relate to writing? Two points:

• My ratio of “thinking about writing code”-”actually writing code” is roughly 1:4.
• The fruitful time is when I’m reflecting on what I’ve done and how to proceed, not when I’m starting with a blank file.

Applying that to writing:

• How much time am I spending before I’m writing? Am I doing serious, productive thinking? Or am I really just expecting magical writing fairies to deliver me the goods before the pen hits the paper?
• What’s my ratio of time thinking versus time writing? When it hits around 1:1 or worse, I start considering “Well, guess I’m not really a writer if I’m not actually, you know, writing.”

The sharpest people I know in writerland seem to hit around what I do in softwareland above. They write, they take breaks — sometimes forced thanks to biology & life — and reflect on what they just did and what’s coming next, and they get back to writing.

What are you doing? What’s your “thinking:actually doing” ratio? Do you feel like you’re honestly a writer when you look at that?

- Ryan

[1] Interesting-to-me side note: the original title was “Overthinking is Masturbation,” which is actually how I remember the post. Then I’m all “right, I sanitized that.”

[2] Admittedly, there’s a little Mage: the Ascension fanboyism whenever I think about the word “paradigm”.

[3] Which is where public transit is way handy. Plus, working in San Francisco and all. Traffic is nuts here.

Talking with a friend today while I’m home sick, the subject of setting transmission came up. One of the things I’ve noticed is that the games that feel like they have the most traction with people are the ones that work to imply their setting in other parts of the game, rather than get into detailed bits about setting up-front.

Take Dungeons & Dragons. What’s the setting? “Fantasy dudes go into far-off places to kick ass and bring stuff back.” But there’s more to it. The classes and races tell you something about the world you’re playing in — that there are these high-elves from a culture of wisdom and beauty. That tieflings are from a cursed race. That humans and wood elves can interbreed, as can humans and half-orcs. And there are paladins and clerics that take power from a god, wizards and warlocks that wield magic, etc.

There’s a lot of setting there. Then look at the Monster Manual. That book is nothing but setting. What sort of world has kobolds or gelatinous cubes or, you know, dragons. Setting, setting, setting.

And because it’s mostly implied, you can change the dials on the setting. You can say “my world doesn’t have Clerics or Paladins” like the Midnight d20 game did some years ago. There’s a lot of mojo there. Apocalypse World does the same thing with the playbooks. Gamma World does with the character class combinations.

Mythender will as well, with the Hearts & Histories at character creation, and a chapter filled with myths rather than rules for making them. (I can also rely on some advice I constantly tell others: “Your readers are smart enough to hack this without you telling them how. And they’ll surprise you in ways you didn’t expect.”)

I played in a game recently where the GM spent roughly the first hour conveying the stated setting of a game — the timeline of events that lead up to the current day, material written by characters in the fiction, things like that. It was not a fun experience. Between that, explaining the mechanics of the game pre-play, and a very boring “let’s research stuff” scene between two characters, I didn’t actually start engaging in the game until around two hours in (and the game took four hours). Now, I can’t fault the game for how the GM presented it, but it did remind that that a game that relies more on implied setting gives the GM and players tools for engaging in a game sooner.

It occurs to me that one of the ways that implied setting works is if the past is not given primacy in the text. In D&D, there isn’t a lot of conversation about how the dungeons and dragons got there. In Apocalypse World, there’s a sentence devoted to the past. Gamma World is similar, and rather irreverent about it. That means the current moment is what needs to be fleshed out in the minds of players, and that’s easier to imply. It also gives you something to explore in the fiction.

Makes me think about how to present setting-rich games. I have some in the works — very distant works — and don’t want to run into the pitfalls of having games like the one I played happen. And how to give a stated setting some of the magic implied settings have, if that’s even possible (or the right thing for the product). No answers for that now, just questions and thoughts.

- Ryan

(Of course, then you have games where setting canon is really important, but there’s a difference between stated setting wholly invented and stated setting that people already have investment with. Very different topic.)

I’ve been talking about The Long Game for a bit now, but today I’m going to get into it.

There are two “games” we can play as creative-types: The Short Game and The Long Game. And we always, always, always start out playing The Short Game. So I’ll start by talking about that.

The Short Game

When you were a child, you didn’t have the emotional context to understand that there would be a future and that your decisions impact that. So, when you’re hungry, you’ll just eat whatever’s easy and tasty. When you want attention, you’ll just throw a tantrum. You’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill a short-term need — which may or may not impact the future.

Fast forward to being a teenager. You have this intellectual understanding of the future, but no real emotional context for it. (All high school drama is about the moment and the about-to-happen social event.) Actually, that parenthetical (which I’ll leave as-is) points out where the emotional context lies: the future is weeks away. So planning takes place on that level. Yes, some people plan for college and the like, but that’s done with the accepted help of others who have a further sense of future.

If you’re in your mid-twenties or older, you probably see the vast difference between your emotional context for the future now and what it was back then, and how long you naturally plan ahead for. With the groundwork laid, here’s how it relates to being a writer, artist, or whatever that’s starting to get exposure: it’s pretty much the same thing.

As someone who is starting to get exposure, much like life is constantly new for the child, getting recognition for this thing you’re doing is new for you. That first short story sale or that first little RPG hit you have makes this thing you’re doing Real. And with that, another thing sets in:

Holy shit, this could go away at any moment.

Without the context I’ll get into later, the idea that this good feeling you have at accomplishing something you’ve been wanting could go away at any moment — it’s like being hungry. You want another cookie. You want to keep Doing This Thing, so you keep creating cookies for yourself, often far too many. Here are the mistakes people playing The Short Game make because they’re trying to take on too many cookies:

• They assume the short burst of passion they had is sustainable, and they can always work at that capacity. I call this “mental bandwidth,” and working at over 100% for a short period is possible. But if you treat yourself like that’s normal rather than peak, you’re playing The Short Game.
• They take on too many projects. This is partly because of New Project Energy, partly because of fear that saying “no” to a project means this magical thing we’re doing will suddenly dry up.
• They try cramming all of their self-perceived good ideas into one thing. (I used to say “fuck you, are you only going to make one game?” to people doing this.)
• They don’t say “no” enough, if at all. This is worth double-scoring. They don’t recognize their limits and they fear that saying “no” means they’ll be blacklisted from projects or push away interest or however they mentally justify “saying no is the worst thing I can do evar” to themselves.
• Every cool project they get offered must be taken because OMG COOL PROJECT!
• They take on too much, piss off people they’re working with or for by being overstretched, and otherwise fucking up their reputation and potentially also their love for this thing.
• They rush to produce, not taking their time to produce well.
• There are other hallmarks of The Short Game. This is not an exhaustive list.

(Yes, I’m talking about myself here.)

The reason we play The Short Game is actually simple: we don’t think The Long Game exists. At least, not emotionally. And we can’t play a game we don’t see.

The Long Game

At some point, the realization occurs that you can say “no” to something. Not only that, but that saying “no” is smarter that saying “yes.” This is based on a new emotional understanding: there is a long future, I’ll be doing this for years, and that’s okay.

I keep using “emotional context” and similar phrases for a reason. Intellectually we can get things, but many of our life decisions are based on what we understand not just intellectually. We make decisions based on what feels good, feels comfortable, and well, whatever other “feels” you want to say. It’s rare the person who “feels” intellectually. We’re meatbags of emotions, sometimes tempered by intellect (which is why we’re capable of, say, losing weight), but that’s effort. And for The Long Game to actually work, the effort has to lessen over time until it becomes negligible and later nil.

What people who play The Long Game know & do:

• They know the difference between running at peak bandwidth and normal bandwidth, and give themselves the space to run at their normal pace.
• They know that saying “no” to an opportunity (provided done gracefully) is an ally, not a threat to their creative existence. It makes it so the things you say “yes” to are given rightful attention. It also, as a side effect, turns you into a coveted commodity. (At least, for me it’s a side effect. For others, it make be an intentional play.)
• They know, emotionally, they’re going to do this for years, and make decisions accordingly.
• They make smarter business decisions because they’re playing The Long Game in other arenas in their lives.
• They know there’s another cool project around the corner. “Cool,” it turns out, is not a scarce resource.
• They shelve neat ideas for appropriate projects, and treat each project as something that shouldn’t be a grab bag of everything they’ve ever thought of.
• They read, watch TV & movies, hang out with friends, and other things that allow them to unwind so that they’re better at thing thing we’re all doing. That goes back to bandwidth above — bandwidth is something that needs recharging (which makes the bandwidth analogy go sideways, but whatevs).
• The see the value of taking a few more weeks on a project, and can better weigh the costs & benefits of taking that time without the emotional need to rush.
• They finish more projects.

And hopefully they forgive the Short Gamers they work with for the mistakes of youth. Some do. Some don’t.

The Professional & The Mortgage

There’s a space where this changes, and that’s when you depend on this thing for your livelihood. Even so, the Long Game is played in order to secure that livelihood for years to come, rather than getting some money for a few months and burning out. There is a difference in how this is played when the money gained from this venture is important to your rent or mortgage, but I believe the points still stand.

After all, I’m pretty sure folks who play The Long Game have more desirable qualities from the perspective of folks actually worth working with.

I’m Not Actually Saying Play The Long Game

I’m not sure if this sucks or not, but as time goes on I grow convinced that you have to play The Short Game for a bit. You have to come to the emotional context yourself, though there are many ways to go about that — as many ways as there are individuals trying this thing. It’s a path of experience. So I can’t just say “play The Long Game,” no more than you can just tell a kid about planning for the future and expect it to stick.

That, and The Short Game is a hell of an education, school of hard knocks-style.

Instead, I offer this as a mantra to people who are in that transition period, like I am. I tell myself “it’s okay, Mack, you’re playing The Long Game.” I still need to tell myself that in order to keep myself from making stupid Short Game mistakes. And I’m still dealing with Short Game mistakes from yesteryear, lessons that sting. So to all of you who are starting to see The Long Game, keep that realization close to your heart.

Let’s not be awesome for just today. Let’s be awesome for motherfucking years to come.

- Ryan

P.S. There’s another class of people who play the Short Game: folks who do not believe themselves to have years — the elderly, the terminally ill, folks with mental degenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s, and suicidal people. People for whom the emotional context for “future” has eroded. It’s something I think about if I see a Long Gamer suddenly go Short Game. And I feel for them all.

A couple months ago, I told a dear friend the following. She said she has it on a post-it note on her wall now. So I thought maybe someone else in blogland might make use of it.

Opportunities do not stop coming if you continue walking forward. No matter how slowly, forward is still forward.

It took me a few years to learn this. When I started out, I felt like I had to say yes to every opportunity that came up…which wasn’t many or often. A slow trickle. And really, I had little reason then to say no to something — Paul Tevis wanted me to edit his book, awesome. Fred Hicks wanted to work with me on Don’t Lose Your Mind, sweet. Jenn Brozek wanted me to write short stories for her, fuck yeah. These all trickled in, and I kept saying yes.

Then, as I started to become known as this dude what makes your words pretty[1], I started getting more in demand. And I was suddenly in a situation where I was afraid to say no, because I believed in the back of my mind that saying no would be like dispelling this amazing thing happening to me. One “no” and no one else would ever offer a sweet gig to me again.

Yeah, I know, it sounds stupid. That’s why I say “back of my mind.” So I pushed myself a bit too much during the last few months of Dresden and burned out a bit. People kept approaching me, but then I started to say no. (I’ve also started to say “maybe, but I can’t right now,” which is slightly different.) I was afraid still, yes, but I had to for my own sake and for the sake of my would-be clients, you know?[2]

I was prepared at this point for opportunities to cease. Turns out that I was full of shit in the back of my brain, because opportunities keep coming. The reason they keep coming is because I keep walking forward — sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly — but I keep making progress in this thing I’m doing in my life. And now that I’ve come this far[3], I now trust that saying no to opportunities will not screw me over for ever and ever. Intellectually, I could understand this from day 1, but now I trust that. And that means I can say no when I need to. (It helps that I avoid being a cockbite in saying no.)

So, when I see others struggling to try to make a sudden wave of opportunities all work, I want to sit them down and talk about how they should focus on fewer and to make those they take on badass, rather than stretch themselves too thin because they haven’t yet learned how to say no. And I want to help convey in them how to keep self-confidence after saying no that there is still a bright future ahead.

Opportunities do not stop coming if you continue walking forward. No matter how slowly, forward is still forward.

A corollary: taking on too many opportunities and burning out or failing on them is not walking forward, but backward. It’s a line in yourself that you probably won’t really learn until you hit it and screw up, so it’s hard to say where it is in each person. But be mindful, yo.

- Ryan

[1] Clearly, I could use such a dude right there.

[2] Another hard-learned lesson I still struggle with.

[3] Which with only a few years under my belt, frankly, isn’t that far.

I may have been a little unfair to Action Horror in my last couple posts. “May.” To that end, I want to talk a bit about action horror.

Remember Doom? The original action horror video game[1]. I remember the first time I saw a cyberdemon. I was a little cocky taking out whatever was before it, and then there was a short pause in the game, not quite long enough to make me on edge, and then I triggered the baron’s appearance.

“OH MY FUCKING FUCK FUCK WHAT’S THAT GOD LET IT DIE WHY IS IT GOT A ROCKET LAUNCHER IT WON’T GO DOWN WHERE’S MY AMMO MOMMY!!!!!!”

I was scared out of my gourd. And it was awesome. But a good part of that was the medium — both in the visual & audio elements, and the immediacy of real-time play. It hits my lizard brain with fear, makes my breathing tense, makes me twitch and jump. Before I played Doom, I was only mildly interested in horror as a genre. Doom blew me away and showed me how the art of suspense can be wielded.

Contrast that to a horror novel. It relies on creating an imagined space between the author’s words and the reader’s mind. That’s a different part of the brain that’s interpreting language. And it’s not immediate, it’s at the reader’s pace. A tabletop RPG is more akin to a novel than a video game, with the difference being that you have agency in a RPG or video game and don’t in a novel.

RPGs that try to emulate Doom are fun action games, and I like playing them, but they don’t feel like the lizard-brain horror elements. When I’m this badass space marine walking around Hell with my shotgun, and suddenly I hear a cacodemon to my left[2], HOLY CRAP TURN LEFT FIRE FIRE FIRE. That feeling can’t really be captured in an RPG the same way.

First of all, there’s the Alertness roll to see if I notice the cacodemon — which gives away to me the player that I should be on edge about *something*. Doom didn’t do that. You either noticed or you didn’t.[3] It also slows down the play to something far from immediacy. Then there’s the GM describing the situation — which is either quick and incomplete, allowing for something closer to immediacy but lacking in rich details, or is detailed but removes the suspense that’s built around immediacy. Then there’s the to-hit roll, all of that. The farther you go, the more you drift away from the immediacy of an action horror video game or movie.

So, there’s that factor. There’s another that feels true in a movie or video game but feels false to me in a novel or RPG about horror: hyper-competency. One of the themes of a horror story is hopelessness, and I find it hard to feel like that when The Gun is presented as being equivalent to The Threat. That turns the protagonists away from fighting for survival — fighting for their own hopes — and into people who can fight for others. As a character motivation, that’s great, but I want a horror game to constantly feel like one’s own hopes are at Threat, that they can be chewed up and spit out for entering the arena of a Threat.

Hyper-competency shoots that story element to hell. The macho “they have tentacles, we have shotguns. Bring it on!” sense of action turns the characters from Victims into Heroes. For something paced like a video game, taking the role of a Hero is great. You still have a lot of lizard brain-generated tension to play with. But for something paced like an RPG or novel, I am more interested in the Victims.

(Hypoer-competency also tends to destroy the mystery element of a game, when all you need to know is where to shoot it. The mystery still exists, but the drive to it is lessened dramatically.)

That isn’t to say you can’t run a fun action horror game. Who doesn’t want to shoot up some vampires? But that’s not engaging in the themes I look for when I think “horror” because of the limitations of the medium.

- Ryan

[1] At least, to me. If there’s one earlier, I’m all ears. It certainly is one of the iconic ones.

[2] Back then, I had a SoundSource, so I was all about plugging my headphones in to hear in stereo. Man alive that was awesome. Not the SoundSource, but needing to wear headphones turned into loving wearing headphones in horror video games.

[3] I like what Left 4 Dead does, where you get audio cues that something is about to happen. That’s anticipation-driving insanity. I only wish I liked playing console FPS games, but I haven’t gotten used to the controllers yet.