Rewrite Report: Elves & Dwarves

Rewrite Report: Elves & Dwarves — Blue Ink Alchemy

At time of writing, the rewrite of Citizen in the Wilds stands at 50,230 spanning 17 chapters. I'm roughly more than halfway done. In addition to completely reworking the opening so it doesn't suck, I decided it would behoove me to move some of the folks in the story away from traditional interpretations of fantasy races. In earlier drafts, they were elves and dwarves. It made sense to go with what I knew, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was doing myself a disservice in trying to make my world something special but making these races no different than what's come before. Acradea is a living, breathing world all its own. Its native races should reflect that. So elves and dwarves became Yusarulim and Vulumae. The Yusarulim, or Children of the Grove, blend in with the foliage and greenery of their home in the forests and jungles, protecting what wildlife and resources they can from human intrusion. Events have left their people a bit scattered, with the biggest enclave being the titular Grove that rests at the heart of what Citizens call the Wilds.

At first, Asherian saw nothing. Then he detected movement, sliding down the vast trunks towards them. The coloration and texture of those approaching was nearly identical to the tree. Others emerged from the bushes and ferns, fronds wrapping around slender limbs that looked so delicate, Asherian feared they'd break with the slightest pressure. Their features and proportions, while vaguely humanoid, unnerved him, from their long digits to their slanted, almond-shaped eyes. The more they moved from the trees and plants, the more they appeared to be clothed in garments bearing motifs of leaves and sky, rather than those elements themselves. Their skin tones complimented these patterns, some with dark skin to match bark while others were the color of a clear summer sky. They were all armed, some with bows or spears, and others with wickedly curved daggers. And they were all staring at Asherian, not saying a word.

The Vulumae, while more numerous than the Yusarulim, are actually more secluded, living as they do far beneath Acradea's surface in Holds of various description. With magic outlawed and lacking open air in which to travel, they have developed a rail system spanning the planet. Their society is highly regimented and vigilance is constant, as many believe that their proximity to the depths of the world brings them perilously close to what is referred to as 'the Deep Darkness'. Where the Yusarulim are slender and graceful, the Vulumae are massive, tending to move with deliberate purpose. They're not quite as tall as the Children of the Grove, but the Stone-Folk easily have half again as much mass as a human of comparable size. Their skin tones range from soot to marble to obsidian and granite, slowly becoming more and more stiff and immovable as they age. They have large, dark eyes, well-suited for dark caverns and caves, and where humans have hair, they have either ridges of darker color than their skin that somewhat resemble cornrows or braids on a human, or strands or ringlets of what would appear to be spun metal, copper or gold or silver to name a few. They move in battle as one, with towering shields made to lock together and provide space for their spears, becoming mobile fortresses dangerous to approach and fearsome to behold when they charge. So there they are. I didn't want to just change the names of the races to sound different. My goal is to have them be functionally different from what we've seen before in "fantasy" settings. There's a lot going on with Acradea and its origins, and these two races are a part of that. It's my hope that readers will find them interesting and they add to the tapestry I'm weaving in Citizen in the Wilds. And I managed to avoid spoilers! Not bad for my first rewrite update.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Through A New Visor

Through A New Visor — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've had some negative experiences playing Halo in the past, mostly due to the nature of the X-Box Live community. This caused me to hop on the bandwagon of people hating on the games. I picked up the Anniversary Edition of the first game for my wife, and have sat beside her during her first playthrough of the campaign. In retrospect, I may have been too harsh on the game in the past. It's easy to see that Halo comes from fertile sources. There are elements of Larry Niven's Ringworld and Heinlein's Starship Troopers, though the latter also informed the most direct influence, which was Aliens. I'm sure there are others, but those are the most prominent. Anyway, the game does take steps to do something new with characters like Cortana, Captain Keyes and 343 Guilty Spark. And as a cypher for the player, looking back, I'm kind of amused by the fact that not only is Master Chief taciturn and seen as somewhat foolhardy, he's also not necessarily the sharpest knife in the drawer. On top of being planted in fertile source material, the gameplay is solid. Since Halo came to be before the chest-high wall advent of Gears of War and its ilk, it feels, in retrospect, a lot more like Doom or Painkiller, in which our hero fights a seemingly inexhaustible horde of bad guys. Health kits still exist, with the shield being a dubious stopgap between you and certain death depending on the difficulty. Instead of velcroing you to cover, it trusts you have the wherewithal to simply duck out of the way if your shield needs to regenerate. The fact that later games would apply this to your health and undercut their difficulty severely as a result is hardly Halo's fault Despite apparent restrictions, there's freedom to be found. While having only two available weapons slots can seem a bit of a bummer, you can swap your weapons around at pretty much any time. My wife even demonstrated how to get a weapon you want from a nearby Marine despite the fact this was before the convenient context command to do so. Let's just say that guy's squadmates were a bit more afraid of Master Chief afterwards. Anyway, the ability to hijack enemy vehicles as well as drive or man the turrets of your own opened up new ways to deal with one's opponents. I know this isn't terribly new for fans of, say, the Battlefield series, but again, Halo can hardly be faulted for the results of its own success. So why was I harsh? The fans. Consider fans of The Hunger Games, calling for some sort of boycott or action because Rue and Cinna are played by black actors. Or Homestuck fans, many of whom seem fond of depicting 13-year-olds having sex. I could bring up Mass Effect and the failed initiative to "retake" it or even the fans of any given sport who think smashing in the face of a fan of the other team is perfectly justified. Fandom unchecked leads to zealotry and even particular kinds of hatred. Halo is, at its core, a decent series of decent shooters and given the lion's share of credit for saving the original X-Box. Just as it's foolish to blame this particular game for every folly in shooters that came after it, it's foolish to blame the game for the behavior of its fans. That was a mistake I let myself make repeatedly over the last few years. With the benefit of hindsight and experience, I can say I was wrong about Halo. The first game, at least, holds up on its own with the benefit of a high-quality graphical touch-up. It just goes to show that fans of any stripe, no matter how enthusiastic they might be, need to check themselves. They otherwise run the danger of wrecking whatever the object of their affection might be, as well as themselves.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Slow And Steady

Slow And Steady — Blue Ink Alchemy

No writing happens instantaneously. There's no shortcut to success. From start to finish you must make your choices carefully. You have to discern the story you want to tell, and take the time to tell it properly. When your story opens, you are in essence making a promise to your audience. You are saying, "Here's a story I want to tell you, and if you stick with me, it'll be worth the time you've taken to experience it." The audience agrees to invest their time (and, in ideal cases, money) with you and your storytelling skill. You, in turn, are obligated to tell a good story. Not necessarily a story they will like, mind you, but a good one. If you rush this, if you try to barrel headlong to a scene or, worst of all, a conclusion, the entire story will suffer. It's your characters who should suffer, not the story. The events of the tale should include a variety of hardships for those involved in it. But if you instead make it a hardship for your audience to find enjoyment, be it on the surface of the narrative or in the deeper meanings they'll inevitably explore, you can be damn sure they'll let you know it. So take your time, won't you? Better food comes out of a crock-pot or an actual oven than it does from a microwave. You get better results painting something with tiny, painstaking touches of a small brush than you do the wide spray of compressed air mixed with paint. The more time you take to get your story right, to bring your characters to life and make the audience care when you inevitably hurt them, the better the story will be, and the more inclined your audience will be to ask you for another one.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Video Game Singularity

The Video Game Singularity — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel we are rapidly approaching what I've chosen to dub "the Video Game Singularity". It's the point at which the lines between developers and players of video games blurs to the degree that the storytelling experience these games convey is one truly shared between both camps. We're on our way with RPGs with user mod tools like Skyrim, massively multiplayer experiences and yes, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tales like the Mass Effect trilogy. Now, things like marketing departments, stratospheric fanatical expectations, and the limitations of current technology will hinder this advent, but it's sooner than we think. The Internet's instant communication and dissemination of information is accelerating the process as we, as gamers, find and refine our voices. While we'll never be able to excise every single idiot or douchebag from the community, we can minimize their impact while maximizing what matters: our investment in our entertainment. We are patrons, and video games are the art for which we pay. Games are unquestionably art. Moreover, they a new form of art all their own, with their own traditions, their own classical periods, their own auteurs, their own mavericks. So I pose the question: why do we judge them as works of art extant in other forms when they clearly do not belong there? Think about it. A movie critic, with little to no exposure to gaming in general, has no basis by which to judge the merits and flaws of BioShock or Killer7 in comparison to Kane and Lynch. By comparison, many gamers who only see a handful of movies may not recognize the reasons why film aficionados praise Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two mediums are completely different, and the biggest difference is in the controller held by the player. From the moment we put our fingers on buttons, sticks, or mice at the start of a game, we have a measure of control over our experience. A well-designed game lets the player feel like they are truly a part of the world they're being shown, that their choices will help shape the events to come. In a movie or a book, there's no interaction between the observer and the observed. We experience the narrative the authors want us to experience regardless of whatever decisions we might have made differently. Video games, on the other hand, invite us to make our choices and experience the consequences for better or for worse. Since players are a part of the building process for the narrative, it could be argued that they have just as much ownership of the story as the developers do. That isn't to say they should get a cut of the game's profits, as not everyone can render the iron sights of a gun or the glowing eyes of a dimensional horror-beast as well as a professional, who has to pay for things like training and food. A game done right, however, makes the player feel like a part of its world, and with that comes a certain feeling of entitlement. That word's been bandied about quite a bit lately, and to be honest I don't think gamer entitlement is entirely a bad thing. The problem arises when gamers act like theirs is the only opinion that matters. Gaming is, at its best, a collaborative storytelling experience. Bad games shoulder players out of their narratives with non-interactive cutscenes or features that ruin immersion. Bad gamers scream their heads off whenever things don't go exactly the way they expect in a given story. "This sucks and so do you" is not as helpful as "I think this sucks and here's why." Not to belabor the point, but you can tell an author or director how much a book or movie sucks in your opinion, and the most you might get is a "I'm sorry you feel that way." Game developers, however, know their medium is mutable. It can be changed. And if mistakes are made in the process of creating a game that slipped by them or weren't obvious, they can go back and fix them. Now, the ending of a narrative is not the same as a major clipping issue, games crashing entirely, or an encounter being unreasonably difficult, and not every complaint from the player base is legitimate. And in some cases, the costs in time and money required to make changes to adjust a story even slightly can be entirely too prohibitive. But when there's truth found in the midst of an outcry, some merit to be discerned from a cavalcade of bitching and moaning, game developers have power other creators of narrative simply don't have. The question is: should they exercise it? Let me put it another way: Should finished games be considered immutable things like films or novels, set in stone by their creators? Does listening to players and altering the experience after much debate ruin the artistic merit of a given game? I think the answer to both questions is "no." Changing the ending of a novel or film because fans didn't like it is one thing. Most directors and authors would cite artistic integrity in keeping their tales as they are. There are those who feel game developers should maintain the same standards. That doesn't seem right to me, though. For one thing, a writer may change an ending if a test reader can cite issues with it, and a director can re-cut their film if focus groups find it difficult to watch without any benefit. Moreover, gaming is so different from every other art form, so involving of the end user of the content, that sooner or later a different set of standards should be observed. As we approach the Video Game Singularity, it becomes more and more apparent that the old ways of judging those who create the stories we enjoy no longer apply. We are just as responsible for the stories being told through games as the developers are, and while games empower and encourage us to make decisions to alter the outcome, we must realize that our power in that regard is shared with the developers, and is not exclusively our own. By the same token, the onus of integrity does not solely fall on the developers. We, as participants in the story, must also hold ourselves to a standard, in providing constructive criticism, frank examination, and willingness to adapt or compromise when it comes to the narratives we come to love. Only by doing this can we blur that line between gamers and developers. Only by showing this desire to address these stories as living things in which we have a say and for the benefit of which we will work with their original creators will gamers stop coming across as spoiled brats and start to be considered a vital part of the game creation process. We can stop being seen as mere end-user consumers, and start participating actively in the perpetuation of this art form. To me, that's exciting and powerful. I mean, we still have people using racist and homophobic language in the community, but hey, baby steps.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Rewarding Rewrites

Rewarding Rewrites — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Floating Robes You finished writing something! Congratulations! All your time and sweat and inspiration and maybe even some blood has contributed into a new idea and a powerful work you feel some measure of pride for. Yay! Now go rewrite it. Any writer who's actually worth their ink will tell you that you're an idiot if you think the first draft of anything is worth reading. I mean, yeah, you have good ideas, interesting characters, some cracking dialog, and maybe even a powerful theme or two, but let's face it, after tens or hundreds of thousands of words, you're at a very different place at the end of the story than when you were at the beginning. Once you reach the end, you can go back to the beginning with fresh eyes and start pulling out things that don't work. Use a scalpel in some places, a hatchet in others, and the rubber cement of new words in between. It's arduous at times, and takes time away from the fresh new ideas dancing like sugar plums in our heads, but it's ultimately rewarding. Rewrites make our stories better. As we smooth out rough passages and form more coherent connections between the events in the story, we make the read more enjoyable. Taking the time to rewrite means refining our story more and more. Sometimes this means losing words left and right, and other times you'll find chapters growing or splitting to accommodate more text. Either way, once you're done with the rewrite, you get to feel accomplished all over again. The way I see it, every rewrite yields something new, and there's always something that can be touched up a little. So if your writing is out there, and nobody seems to be picking it up, keep rewriting until someone does. Find your rewards in this process, and the rewards of actual recognition will be all the sweeter as a result.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Dyson's Questions

Flash Fiction: Dyson's Questions — Blue Ink Alchemy

When Chuck listed Lunar Brothel as a setting, I couldn't resist the urge to do a sequel to Hart's Office.

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He shook his head as he walked away from the depot, clearing out the cobwebs in his mind. Traveling by slug was the cheapest option, and he was on a budget, but the claustrophobic nature of what amounted to a coffin inside a ferrous projectile still bothered him. He checked the oxygen rig he wore, just in case he'd missed something after swapping it with his filtration mask. Safety regulations on Luna were strict, what with hard vaccuum outside, but he wasn't the type to take chances. Then why are you here, Dave? He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he walked. His PDA hummed and he tapped his wrist to check its holo-display. Another message from the Futuron investors. Working for two clients at the same time was nothing new for him - times like this, you took all the work you could - but he couldn't shake the feeling he was caught between two warring sides. "You might want to start with Clive Jameson, the research head." Catherine Hart's suggestion echoed in Dyson's ears. He pushed memories of her away. Her presence unnerved and intrigued him all at once. She was corporate, meaning she wasn't to be trusted, but her perfect body and velvet voice refused to let go of him. She was by far the most dangerous woman he'd ever met, which probably explained at least part of the reason she turned him on. Focus, Dave. Find the egghead. Neon pulsed above and around the storefronts in the dingy corridors. Luna's miners and researchers were in two separate compounds, and while most respectable scientists stuck with their own, Jameson hadn't come here to compare notes on nanorobotics with someone. Dyson rounded a corner to find the lurid silhouettes and tantalizing signage he was seeking. RED LIGHT ROOMS - OUT OF THIS WORLD - GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS He took a deep breath and walked through the door. The lighting indeed was more subdued and crimson than the utilitarian fluorescence in the corridor. A few girls of various builds and wearing about one outfit between the lot of them were dancing on tables and around poles, enticing tips from the leering men and women around them. A tall woman with a buzzed haircut stood behind the bar, and she was the one Dyson approached. "What'll it be, dick?" "Beg pardon?" She smirked. She had a ring in her lower lip. "You walked in here with a purpose, rather than a hard-on. You're dressed for Earth streets, you've got a high-end comm on your wrist and if I'm not mistaken you're packing a 10mm select-fire Ruger Blackwater under that fashionable coat. So do you want a drink before you start busting up the place?" Dyson smiled. "You an ex-cop?" "Five years, Dallas downtown." "Seven, Philly homicide." She extended her hand. "Mira. Nice to meet you." "Dave. Likewise." She had a firm grip. "And I'll take a Walker Twenty on the rocks and a quick ID." "Information costs more than imported booze, handsome." He put a bill on the bar. She examined it and set about his drink. "I'm looking for a Terran egghead." He brought up the picture on his wrist display. "Saw him disappear into the back with Chloe. Wasn't too long ago so you probably won't catch them at it if that's what you're after." He thanked Mira, downed his whiskey, and headed towards the back rooms. Only one door was locked. Knock, knock. "Clive Jameson?" "Go away." "I'm here about Catherine Hart." A pause from within, followed by some scrambling. The door opened a crack. "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of..." "The late-night experiments. Tell me about them and I'll leave." After a moment he stepped out of the door, closing it behind him. He wore a Red Light Rooms robe which he held closed with a tight fist. "I should call my lawyer." "I'm private, Doc. No Miranda, just questions. Your boss is concerned about your extra-curriculars, and I don't mean the Lunar trim you've been plowing." Jameson winced. "If my wife and kids knew..." "I won't say a word to them if you start talking." "Okay. We wanted to explore artificial intelligence. We have the means for a subject to walk around indistinguishable from-" "Stop right there. You know how illegal that shit is." "Yes, yes, I know. Why do you think I'm here? If Futuron found out..." There was a ruckus back in the main room. Women screaming. Dyson looked over his shoulder and saw three men in dark suits with weapons drawn scanning the room. One of them spotted Dyson and raised the rifle. "Get down!" The coilgun slug made a whip-crack sound as it flew past Dyson. He ducked into an open room. Two more goons appeared flanking the shooter and started opening up. When the tiny sonic cracks of the weapons subsided, he moved back out, pistol in his hands, and old firing range instinct kicked in. Center of mass. Take your time. Make them count. He dropped two and winged the third. The wounded one tried to raise his weapon but there was the boom of a shotgun from the bar. Mira leaned out to look down the corridor, a sawn-off over-and-under in her hands. "Everybody okay?" Dyson looked to Jameson. The scientist lay dead on the floor, the robe splayed open, a hole each in his chest and head. "Everybody but Chloe's client." He stood and walked to the dead assassins. Mira was already searching the bodies and handed him a slate. "You'll want to see this." It was a list of five names with attached photos. Two were men he didn't recognize. One was Jameson. One was him. And one was Catherine Hart. He fumbled in his wallet for more bills. "Call the Lunar PD. Sorry about the mess." He handed her the money and ran out towards the depot. He wasn't a praying man, but if he were, he'd pray the damn slug back to Earth moved fast enough.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Unexplainable Photo Challenge

Flash Fiction: The Unexplainable Photo Challenge — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Sport." No response. "Sport." "Mmmmmf." Skeeter blinked. He hated it when his best friend acted this way. They'd been show dogs together for years. It was how they'd been raised. Training, grooming, shows, repeat. But lately, the pressure seemed to have been getting to Sport. "Sport, knock it off. The humans are watching." "Eh? Fuck 'em. They wanted tricks, right? I got their trick right here." Skeeter maintained his position. His master had told him to sit, so he sat. He was a good dog. They rewarded good dogs. He wasn't sure what they did to dogs who rolled onto their backs after getting their jaws wrapped around the neck of a bottle of beer. "That's not a trick you trained on, Sport. You're misbehaving." "Dude, am I talking cat over here? Fuck. Them. I'm sick and tired of doing whatever I'm dogdamn told by these idiots." "They do happen to be smarter than us." "HA!" The bottle almost slipped from Sport's mouth. "Your Honor, I object, the obedient slave is showing insufficient evidence. To support my case I submit the sweater he was made to wear last Christmas, the poor state of affairs in our respective food bowls and, oh yeah, the fact that these hairless apes are basically raping their own dogdamn planet for the sake of nebulous concepts like righteousness and profit." "Sport, please. You're embarrassing yourself." "I'm not the one they named fucking 'Skeeter', I have to catch up to you in the embarrassment department." Skeeter didn't respond. He maintained his position. He was a good dog. "I mean, what the hell does that even mean, anyway? Is it short for 'moskeeter' or something? Nevermind the fact you live on the lower east side and your humans are upper middle class socialites, not backwater rednecks. And if they did name you for a tiny insect with an even tinier probosces, they're insulting you every time they say it." "I don't know what you're talking about." Sport hiccuped. "I'm talking about your dick. You know, the thing you 'clean' just about every chance you get." If Skeeter had been capable of blushing, he'd have flushed red. "That's highly inappropriate talk for public, Sport." "Bullshit! We're fucking dogs, they can't understand us. It's just yips and barks and tailwags and smells to them. Christ, how do these people communicate using only sound? My mind's fucking boggled." "Sport, you're drunk." "You're darn tootin' I am. If these dogdamn morons were capable of meaningful communication with us, and they fucking aren't nor will they ever be, they'd know I'm sick and tired of this bullshit. And don't change the subject. These control freaks want you complacent and obedient while they put you down every chance they get by intimating you're lacking in the between-the-hinds department." "They're mistaken." "Of course they fucking are. They don't think you know that. It's a big dogdamn joke to them. Look at 'em. Bunch of gawping hat-wearing douchebuckets. HEY!" Sport dropped the bottle, got up on the chair and started barking. "I'M TALKING TO YOU, IDIOTS! YOU FUCKING HUMANS AND YOUR SMELLY-ASS CARS AND YOUR STUPID CLOTHES AND INSIPID BABY-TALKING AT US. FUCK YOU." Skeeter sighed. He wanted to lay down, cover his ears. But he was a good dog. "Fuck! Nothing." Sport turned in place and sat facing Skeeter. "And here I am sauced on a single beer. It's what I get for weighing all of twenty pounds." "I noticed you'd lost weight. Doesn't that make your master angry?" "Not as angry as when I start humping his wife's leg." "Sport! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Have you fucking seen her? If she were a dog I'd be mounting her twice daily. Not my fault that fucking tool doesn't. Too busy counting up shit that won't matter when he gets hit by a bus." "That's a terrible thing to wish on anyone. My brother..." "Yeah, yeah, I remember, went chasing a stick and got pasted by the crosstown. Not his fault or yours so stop beating yourself up over it. The responsible party is the fucking brat who threw the stick. Yet was he put away for it? Was he punished for murder? No! They just got him another fucking dog. I'm grateful I discovered the appeal of booze. I need another dogdamn beer." "Look, Sport, I'm your friend. I'm worried about you. You drink too much and your language is foul." "Skeeter, no offense, but what the fuck happened to you? Time was you'd be laughing your tail off at me rolling around with a dogdamn beer bottle in my gob. Something's changed. Something's eating you. Let's hear it." "I'd rather not." "Oh? Okay." Sport stood again, barking and howling, which registered in Skeeter's brain as song. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS..." "STOP IT! I'll tell you. They cut me, all right?" Sport stopped, blinking rheumy eyes at his friend. "They what?" "You remember Daisy? She had her pups. Beautiful litter. But none of them met the humans' standards so they determined my breeding potential was insufficient." "Skeet, are you telling me they CUT YOUR FUCKING BALLS OFF?" "Essentially, yes." "FUCK. No wonder you're being such a toolbox. I'm sorry, I didn't know." "How could you? We haven't seen each other since spring." "You realize this means you have even less reason to do what they tell you." "They've already robbed me of future pups. What more can they do?" "They don't understand us. They never will. So they're afraid of us. They mitigate that fear by leashing us and making us do tricks and talking at us they way they do their wriggling newborn spawn and toss us bones. As long as we do what we're told and don't remind them we have as much power and rights as they do, they're happy." Skeeter thought about it. He was a good dog, and they still had cut him. So he started singing. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS..."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Hiatus

Hiatus — Blue Ink Alchemy

This is something I've been thinking hard about lately. Here's the situation. Angry Robot Books and their precocious & spry child company, Strange Chemistry, are opening their doors to authors in late April. I'd love to send them a finished novel, and the work with the best chance, Citizen in the Wilds, is in the middle of a major rewrite. Between work and my other interests it's been difficult to find the time to give the novel the attention that it needs, and I've been making lots of lame excuses to myself. I'm gonna nip that in the bud right now. I'm putting IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! on hiatus for the foreseeable future. It's had a decent run, but it's a bit time-consuming to put together every week considering how little difference it makes in my overall impact at the moment. And besides, the plan's always been to become a novelist, and insightful if occasionally cranky podcast movie reviews may be fun but they really don't contribute to that. I've been brewing something else to do on Fridays, something more in line with my overall goals, but that too will have to wait. What I will probably do between now and April 30th, the day the aforementioned doors close, is keep track of how many words I've written/copied from the old draft, how far along I am in the overall plot of the novel, and share inspiration or frustrations I've encountered in the course of the rewrite. This also means that my Cold Iron efforts are somewhat on hold. I've gotten great feedback from a couple of my test readers and I'm excited to work on the cover for the novella, but to keep working on that would, again, take time away from Citizen. To make sure I meet my deadline I've had to flip those priorities, so I'll be back to writing about the pursuit of supernatural nastiness Law & Order style sometime in April or May. Finally, I'm going to have to force myself to not log into my games. Chuck would tell you that writers need to carve their time in bloody chunks out of other parts of the day, and sometimes you need to stick the gore-dripping knife in the well-meaning face of your distractions and say "No." This is one of those times. So that's it. To everyone who's supported ICFN with your comments, suggestions, and criticisms, thank you. I'm in your debt. I'm glad my work in that particular experiment has entertained and amused, and am especially grateful to those of you who supported me with direct donations. I'll update the archive page over the weekend so you can always find the old entries, filled with spotty audio, derivative commentary, plenty of would-be intellectual musing, and the occasional cuss-filled rant. Just be sure to hit the lights on your way out.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Video Game Singularity

The Video Game Singularity — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel we are rapidly approaching what I've chosen to dub "the Video Game Singularity". It's the point at which the lines between developers and players of video games blurs to the degree that the storytelling experience these games convey is one truly shared between both camps. We're on our way with RPGs with user mod tools like Skyrim, massively multiplayer experiences and yes, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tales like the Mass Effect trilogy. Now, things like marketing departments, stratospheric fanatical expectations, and the limitations of current technology will hinder this advent, but it's sooner than we think. The Internet's instant communication and dissemination of information is accelerating the process as we, as gamers, find and refine our voices. While we'll never be able to excise every single idiot or douchebag from the community, we can minimize their impact while maximizing what matters: our investment in our entertainment. We are patrons, and video games are the art for which we pay. Games are unquestionably art. Moreover, they a new form of art all their own, with their own traditions, their own classical periods, their own auteurs, their own mavericks. So I pose the question: why do we judge them as works of art extant in other forms when they clearly do not belong there? Think about it. A movie critic, with little to no exposure to gaming in general, has no basis by which to judge the merits and flaws of BioShock or Killer7 in comparison to Kane and Lynch. By comparison, many gamers who only see a handful of movies may not recognize the reasons why film aficionados praise Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two mediums are completely different, and the biggest difference is in the controller held by the player. From the moment we put our fingers on buttons, sticks, or mice at the start of a game, we have a measure of control over our experience. A well-designed game lets the player feel like they are truly a part of the world they're being shown, that their choices will help shape the events to come. In a movie or a book, there's no interaction between the observer and the observed. We experience the narrative the authors want us to experience regardless of whatever decisions we might have made differently. Video games, on the other hand, invite us to make our choices and experience the consequences for better or for worse. Since players are a part of the building process for the narrative, it could be argued that they have just as much ownership of the story as the developers do. That isn't to say they should get a cut of the game's profits, as not everyone can render the iron sights of a gun or the glowing eyes of a dimensional horror-beast as well as a professional, who has to pay for things like training and food. A game done right, however, makes the player feel like a part of its world, and with that comes a certain feeling of entitlement. That word's been bandied about quite a bit lately, and to be honest I don't think gamer entitlement is entirely a bad thing. The problem arises when gamers act like theirs is the only opinion that matters. Gaming is, at its best, a collaborative storytelling experience. Bad games shoulder players out of their narratives with non-interactive cutscenes or features that ruin immersion. Bad gamers scream their heads off whenever things don't go exactly the way they expect in a given story. "This sucks and so do you" is not as helpful as "I think this sucks and here's why." Not to belabor the point, but you can tell an author or director how much a book or movie sucks in your opinion, and the most you might get is a "I'm sorry you feel that way." Game developers, however, know their medium is mutable. It can be changed. And if mistakes are made in the process of creating a game that slipped by them or weren't obvious, they can go back and fix them. Now, the ending of a narrative is not the same as a major clipping issue, games crashing entirely, or an encounter being unreasonably difficult, and not every complaint from the player base is legitimate. And in some cases, the costs in time and money required to make changes to adjust a story even slightly can be entirely too prohibitive. But when there's truth found in the midst of an outcry, some merit to be discerned from a cavalcade of bitching and moaning, game developers have power other creators of narrative simply don't have. The question is: should they exercise it? Let me put it another way: Should finished games be considered immutable things like films or novels, set in stone by their creators? Does listening to players and altering the experience after much debate ruin the artistic merit of a given game? I think the answer to both questions is "no." Changing the ending of a novel or film because fans didn't like it is one thing. Most directors and authors would cite artistic integrity in keeping their tales as they are. There are those who feel game developers should maintain the same standards. That doesn't seem right to me, though. Gaming is so different from every other art form, so involving of the end user of the content, that sooner or later a different set of standards should be observed. As we approach the Video Game Singularity, it becomes more and more apparent that the old ways of judging those who create the stories we enjoy no longer apply. We are just as responsible for the stories being told through games as the developers are, and while games empower and encourage us to make decisions to alter the outcome, we must realize that our power in that regard is shared with the developers, and is not exclusively our own. By the same token, the onus of integrity does not solely fall on the developers. We, as participants in the story, must also hold ourselves to a standard, in providing constructive criticism, frank examination, and willingness to adapt or compromise when it comes to the narratives we come to love. Only by doing this can we blur that line between gamers and developers. Only by showing this desire to address these stories as living things in which we have a say and for the benefit of which we will work with their original creators will gamers stop coming across as spoiled brats and start to be considered a vital part of the game creation process. We can stop being seen as mere end-user consumers, and start participating actively in the perpetuation of this art form. To me, that's exciting and powerful. I mean, we still have people using racist and homophobic language in the community, but hey, baby steps.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The Video Game Singularity

The Video Game Singularity — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel we are rapidly approaching what I've chosen to dub "the Video Game Singularity". It's the point at which the lines between developers and players of video games blurs to the point that the storytelling experience these games convey is one truly shared between both camps. We're on our way with RPGs with user mod tools like Skyrim, massively multiplayer experiences and yes, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tales like the Mass Effect trilogy. Now, things like marketing departments, stratospheric fanatical expectations, and the limitations of current technology will hinder this advent, but it's sooner than we think. The Internet's instant communication and dissemination of information is accelerating the process as we, as gamers, find and refine our voices. While we'll never be able to excise every single idiot or douchebag from the community, we can minimize their impact while maximizing what matters: our investment in our entertainment. We are patrons, and video games are the art for which we pay. Games are unquestionably art. Moreover, they a new form of art all their own, with their own traditions, their own classical periods, their own auteurs, their own mavericks. So I pose the question: why do we judge them as works of art extant in other forms when they clearly do not belong there? Think about it. A movie critic, with little to no exposure to gaming in general, has no basis by which to judge the merits and flaws of BioShock or Killer7 in comparison to Kane and Lynch. By comparison, many gamers who only see a handful of movies may not recognize the reasons why film aficionados praise Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two mediums are completely different, and the biggest difference is in the controller held by the player. From the moment we put our fingers on buttons, sticks, or mice at the start of a game, we have a measure of control over our experience. A well-designed game lets the player feel like they are truly a part of the world they're being shown, that their choices will help shape the events to come. In a movie or a book, there's no interaction between the observer and the observed. We experience the narrative the authors want us to experience regardless of whatever decisions we might have made differently. Video games, on the other hand, invite us to make our choices and experience the consequences for better or for worse. Since players are a part of the building process for the narrative, it could be argued that they have just as much ownership of the story as the developers do. That isn't to say they should get a cut of the game's profits, as not everyone can render the iron sights of a gun or the glowing eyes of a dimensional horror-beast as well as a professional, who has to pay for things like training and food. A game done right, however, makes the player feel like a part of its world, and with that comes a certain feeling of entitlement. That word's been bandied about quite a bit lately, and to be honest I don't think gamer entitlement is entirely a bad thing. The problem arises when gamers act like theirs is the only opinion that matters. Gaming is, at its best, a collaborative storytelling experience. Bad games shoulder players out of their narratives with non-interactive cutscenes or features that ruin immersion. Bad gamers scream their heads off whenever things don't go exactly the way they expect in a given story. "This sucks and so do you" is not as helpful as "I think this sucks and here's why." Not to belabor the point, but you can tell an author or director how much a book or movie sucks in your opinion, and the most you might get is a "I'm sorry you feel that way." Game developers, however, know their medium is mutable. It can be changed. And if mistakes are made in the process of creating a game that slipped by them or weren't obvious, they can go back and fix them. Now, the ending of a narrative is not the same as a major clipping issue, games crashing entirely, or an encounter being unreasonably difficult, and not every complaint from the player base is legitimate. And in some cases, the costs in time and money required to make changes to adjust a story even slightly can be entirely too prohibitive. But when there's truth found in the midst of an outcry, some merit to be discerned from a cavalcade of bitching and moaning, game developers have power other creators of narrative simply don't have. The question is: should they exercise it? Let me put it another way: Should finished games be considered immutable things like films or novels, set in stone by their creators? Does listening to players and altering the experience after much debate ruin the artistic merit of a given game? I think the answer to both questions is "no." Changing the ending of a novel or film because fans didn't like it is one thing. Most directors and authors would cite artistic integrity in keeping their tales as they are. There are those who feel game developers should maintain the same standards. That doesn't seem right to me, though. Gaming is so different from every other art form, so involving of the end user of the content, that sooner or later a different set of standards should be observed. As we approach the Video Game Singularity, it becomes more and more apparent that the old ways of judging those who create the stories we enjoy no longer apply. We are just as responsible for the stories being told through games as the developers are, and while games empower and encourage us to make decisions to alter the outcome, we must realize that our power in that regard is shared with the developers, and is not exclusively our own. By the same token, the onus of integrity does not solely fall on the developers. We, as participants in the story, must also hold ourselves to a standard, in providing constructive criticism, frank examination, and willingness to adapt or compromise when it comes to the narratives we come to love. Only by doing this can we blur that line between gamers and developers. Only by showing this desire to address these stories as living things in which we have a say and for the benefit of which we will work with their original creators will gamers stop coming across as spoiled brats and start to be considered a vital part of the game creation process. We can stop being seen as mere end-user consumers, and start participating actively in the perpetuation of this art form. To me, that's exciting and powerful. I mean, we still have people using racist and homophobic language in the community, but hey, baby steps.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The Video Game Singularity

The Video Game Singularity — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel we are rapidly approaching what I've chosen to dub "the Video Game Singularity". It's the point at which the lines between developers and players of video games blurs to the point that the storytelling experience these games convey is one truly shared between both camps. We're on our way with RPGs with user mod tools like Skyrim, massively multiplayer experiences and yes, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tales like the Mass Effect trilogy. Now, things like marketing departments, stratospheric fanatical expectations, and the limitations of current technology will hinder this advent, but it's sooner than we think. The Internet's instant communication and dissemination of information is accelerating the process as we, as gamers, find and refine our voices. While we'll never be able to excise every single idiot or douchebag from the community, we can minimize their impact while maximizing what matters: our investment in our entertainment. We are patrons, and video games are the art for which we pay. Games are unquestionably art. Moreover, they a new form of art all their own, with their own traditions, their own classical periods, their own auteurs, their own mavericks. So I pose the question: why do we judge them as works of art extant in other forms when they clearly do not belong there? Think about it. A movie critic, with little to no exposure to gaming in general, has no basis by which to judge the merits and flaws of BioShock or Killer7 in comparison to Kane and Lynch. By comparison, many gamers who only see a handful of movies may not recognize the reasons why film aficionados praise Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two mediums are completely different, and the biggest difference is in the controller held by the player. From the moment we put our fingers on buttons, sticks, or mice at the start of a game, we have a measure of control over our experience. A well-designed game lets the player feel like they are truly a part of the world they're being shown, that their choices will help shape the events to come. In a movie or a book, there's no interaction between the observer and the observed. We experience the narrative the authors want us to experience regardless of whatever decisions we might have made differently. Video games, on the other hand, invite us to make our choices and experience the consequences for better or for worse. Since players are a part of the building process for the narrative, it could be argued that they have just as much ownership of the story as the developers do. That isn't to say they should get a cut of the game's profits, as not everyone can render the iron sights of a gun or the glowing eyes of a dimensional horror-beast as well as a professional, who has to pay for things like training and food. A game done right, however, makes the player feel like a part of its world, and with that comes a certain feeling of entitlement. That word's been bandied about quite a bit lately, and to be honest I don't think gamer entitlement is entirely a bad thing. The problem arises when gamers act like theirs is the only opinion that matters. Gaming is, at its best, a collaborative storytelling experience. Bad games shoulder players out of their narratives with non-interactive cutscenes or features that ruin immersion. Bad gamers scream their heads off whenever things don't go exactly the way they expect in a given story. "This sucks and so do you" is not as helpful as "I think this sucks and here's why." Not to belabor the point, but you can tell an author or director how much a book or movie sucks in your opinion, and the most you might get is a "I'm sorry you feel that way." Game developers, however, know their medium is mutable. It can be changed. And if mistakes are made in the process of creating a game that slipped by them or weren't obvious, they can go back and fix them. Now, the ending of a narrative is not the same as a major clipping issue, games crashing entirely, or an encounter being unreasonably difficult, and not every complaint from the player base is legitimate. But when there's truth found in the midst of an outcry, some merit to be discerned from a cavalcade of bitching and moaning, game developers have power other creators of narrative simply don't have. The question is: should they exercise it? Let me put it another way: Should finished games be considered immutable things like films or novels, set in stone by their creators? Does listening to players and altering the experience after much debate ruin the artistic merit of a given game? I think the answer to both questions is "no." Changing the ending of a novel or film because fans didn't like it is one thing. Most directors and authors would cite artistic integrity in keeping their tales as they are. There are those who feel game developers should maintain the same standards. That doesn't seem right to me, though. Gaming is so different from every other art form, so involving of the end user of the content, that sooner or later a different set of standards should be observed. As we approach the Video Game Singularity, it becomes more and more apparent that the old ways of judging those who create the stories we enjoy no longer apply. We are just as responsible for the stories being told through games as the developers are, and while games empower and encourage us to make decisions to alter the outcome, we must realize that our power in that regard is shared with the developers, and is not exclusively our own. By the same token, the onus of integrity does not solely fall on the developers. We, as participants in the story, must also hold ourselves to a standard, in providing constructive criticism, frank examination, and willingness to adapt or compromise when it comes to the narratives we come to love. Only by doing this can we blur that line between gamers and developers. Only by showing this desire to address these stories as living things in which we have a say and for the benefit of which we will work with their original creators will gamers stop coming across as spoiled brats and start to be considered a vital part of the game creation process. We can stop being seen as mere end-user consumers, and start participating actively in the perpetuation of this art form. To me, that's exciting and powerful. I mean, we still have people using racist and homophobic language in the community, but hey, baby steps.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The Video Game Singularity

The Video Game Singularity — Blue Ink Alchemy

I feel we are rapidly approaching what I've chosen to dub "the Video Game Singularity". It's the point at which the lines between developers and players of video games blurs to the point that the storytelling experience these games convey is one truly shared between both camps. We're on our way with RPGs with user mod tools like Skyrim, massively multiplayer experiences and yes, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure tales like the Mass Effect trilogy. Now, things like marketing departments, stratospheric fanatical expectations, and the limitations of current technology will hinder this advent, but it's sooner than we think. The Internet's instant communication and dissemination of information is accelerating the process as we, as gamers, find and refine our voices. While we'll never be able to excise every single idiot or douchebag from the community, we can minimize their impact while maximizing what matters: our investment in our entertainment. We are patrons, and video games are the art for which we pay. Games are unquestionably art. Moreover, they a new form of art all their own, with their own traditions, their own classical periods, their own auteurs, their own mavericks. So I pose the question: why do we judge them as works of art extant in other forms when they clearly do not belong there? Think about it. A movie critic, with little to no exposure to gaming in general, has no basis by which to judge the merits and flaws of BioShock or Killer7 in comparison to Kane and Lynch. By comparison, many gamers who only see a handful of movies may not recognize the reasons why film aficionados praise Citizen Kane or 2001: A Space Odyssey. The two mediums are completely different, and the biggest difference is in the controller held by the player. From the moment we put our fingers on buttons, sticks, or mice at the start of a game, we have a measure of control over our experience. A well-designed game lets the player feel like they are truly a part of the world they're being shown, that their choices will help shape the events to come. In a movie or a book, there's no interaction between the observer and the observed. We experience the narrative the authors want us to experience regardless of whatever decisions we might have made differently. Video games, on the other hand, invite us to make our choices and experience the consequences for better or for worse. Since players are a part of the building process for the narrative, it could be argued that they have just as much ownership of the story as the developers do. That isn't to say they should get a cut of the game's profits, as not everyone can render the iron sights of a gun or the glowing eyes of a dimensional horror-beast as well as a professional, who has to pay for things like training and food. A game done right, however, makes the player feel like a part of its world, and with that comes a certain feeling of entitlement. That word's been bandied about quite a bit lately, and to be honest I don't think gamer entitlement is entirely a bad thing. The problem arises when gamers act like theirs is the only opinion that matters. Gaming is, at its best, a collaborative storytelling experience. Bad games shoulder players out of their narratives with non-interactive cutscenes or features that ruin immersion. Bad gamers scream their heads off whenever things don't go exactly the way they expect in a given story. "This sucks and so do you" is not as helpful as "I think this sucks and here's why." Not to belabor the point, but you can tell an author or director how much a book or movie sucks in your opinion, and the most you might get is a "I'm sorry you feel that way." Game developers, however, know their medium is mutable. It can be changed. And if mistakes are made in the process of creating a game that slipped by them or weren't obvious, they can go back and fix them. Now, the ending of a narrative is not the same as a major clipping issue, games crashing entirely, or an encounter being unreasonably difficult, and not every complaint from the player base is legitimate. But when there's truth found in the midst of an outcry, some merit to be discerned from a cavalcade of bitching and moaning, game developers have power other creators of narrative simply don't have. The question is: should they exercise it? Should finished games be considered immutable things like films or novels, set in stone by their creators? Does listening to players and altering the experience after much debate ruin the artistic merit of a given game? I think the answer to both questions is "no." Changing the ending of a novel or film because fans didn't like it is one thing. Most directors and authors would cite artistic integrity in keeping their tales as they are. There are those who feel game developers should maintain the same standards. That doesn't seem right to me, though. Gaming is so different from every other art form, so involving of the end user of the content, that sooner or later a different set of standards should be observed. As we approach the Video Game Singularity, it becomes more and more apparent that the old ways of judging those who create the stories we enjoy no longer apply. We are just as responsible for the stories being told through games as the developers are, and while games empower and encourage us to make decisions to alter the outcome, we must realize that our power in that regard is shared with the developers, and is not exclusively our own. By the same token, the onus of integrity does not solely fall on the developers. We, as participants in the story, must also hold ourselves to a standard, in providing constructive criticism, frank examination, and willingness to adapt or compromise when it comes to the narratives we come to love. Only by doing this can we blur that line between gamers and developers. Only by showing this desire to address these stories as living things in which we have a say and for the benefit of which we will work with their original creators will gamers stop coming across as spoiled brats and start to be considered a vital part of the game creation process. We can stop being seen as mere end-user consumers, and start participating actively in the perpetuation of this art form. To me, that's exciting and powerful. I mean, we still have people using racist and homophobic language in the community, but hey, baby steps.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

The End of Shepard

The End of Shepard — Blue Ink Alchemy

Using this picture again, because Garrus calms me down. So now is when we discuss the ending to Mass Effect 3. I know it's been discussed and being discussed all over the Internet as I type this. One of the best articles on the subject is over at GameFront and the Escapist podcast gives a good slice of opinions on the subject from people not frothing at the mouth in entitled rage. Let me tackle that issue first to ensure I push spoiler material past most summary snippets. I'm as flabbergasted by the endings to Mass Effect 3 as anyone. Moreover, I feel that at least a couple of the problems I have with them could be solved with some quick edits that leave the overall 'message' (if there is one) intact. But as much as I would like to see what I consider to be improvements applied to this conclusion to satisfy me personally, I know full well it may never happen. Just like we'll never get a truly & universally satisfying end to the Star Wars prequels, or that "other" Indiana Jones movie, or Battlestar Galactica, or LOST, or the Transformers live-action films, we may never get one for Mass Effect. Now, I'm not saying gamers shouldn't try. I'm not saying we can't be upset. The problem I have is in the way gamers are approaching it. Raising money for charity to make BioWare aware of this wide-spread disappointment is one thing, but to claim we want to "retake" it is preposterous. Mass Effect and its universe was never really ours, not entirely. It is a product of BioWare's creative minds and programming chops, and to a lesser extent, it also belongs to EA's marketing department just as much as Madden does. Yes, we add to the experience of the game by playing it, by making decisions, and by growing attached to its rich cast of deep characters. And as participants in the story, we can and should have something to say about how it ends. But we never owned it, outside of purchasing a copy of the game disc or downloading it onto our PC. There's nothing to "retake". Now. Let's talk about the actual endings. This is bound to get a bit long, so grab a drink. You may need a few, actually.

The Death Knell of Choice

Once Shepard talks The Illusive Man (hereafter referred to as TIM) into blowing his brains out in a nice if somewhat inexplicable call back to the first game, he's conveyed via magic elevator into the Crucible. There the Starchild or whatever it actually is tells Shepard (and, by extension, us), that the Reapers do not in fact slaughter organic life as part of their reproductive cycle or just because they're evil eldritch sci-fi horror-terrors. It is part of a "natural" cycle created to ultimately preserve organic life. The Reapers destroy sufficiently advanced civilizations so that they will not destroy themselves and all other life when they inevitably create synthetic life.
"It has been my plan all along to destroy organic life in the galaxy down to the last squirrel. Except for Jeff.
"... That is a joke." First of all, Shepard should be able to point outside the window at EDI. She's spent the entire game exploring the aspects of organic living she doesn't understand in an entirely peaceful way. And if you, like me, managed to broker peace between the Quarians and the Geth, then you have another huge example as to why the reasons for this cycle are monumentally flawed. While both races have work ahead of them to repair rifts left by racial hatred and near-genocide on both sides, the evidence exists that the peace will last, and synthetic and organic can work side by side without any sort of artificial reset button of face-melty death. Just as perplexing is the notion that this sort of wholesale slaughter is necessary to preserve lesser species. It's a given fact that organic life in general can get pretty wild. It does tend towards patterns of chaos rather than the rigid order of manufactured forms. However, imposing order on that chaos does not mean destroying it. When I want to prune a bonsai tree, I do it with tiny shears and patience, not a blowtorch. The Starchild is basically imposing SOPA on the universe with organic life taking the place of the Internet. But Shepard, beaten and half-dead, just kind of rolls with it. The Starchild presents three options: Destroy the Reapers (and, he says, all other synthetic life in the galaxy), control them (because that was such a hot idea when TIM was ranting about it all Huskified just minutes before), or synthesize synthetic life with organic life. Let's leave aside the two obvious ones and look at that last one. Instead of doing what we've been doing all game long, brokering peace and helping people overcome differences to work together towards a common goal, we are essentially forcing every individual being in the galaxy to forgo all differences to become a single, homogenized race. They are given no say in this. It all comes down to what Shepard wants. I mean, all three endings have this problem and the word choice of the kid in the stinger calling him "the Shepard" seems to indicate this messianic overtone carried over into whatever life survives this idiotic illusion of choice. I say "illusion" of choice because they are all essentially the same. All three endings end the same way. The Reapers are dealt with, the mass relays are destroyed, and the Normandy struggles to outrun an explosion. I'll deal with those last two later. Stepping back and looking at the endings from a broader perspective, we see that the only true difference is a swap of colors and a few different graphical assets. The original Mass Effect only swapped dialog lines, it's true, but those lines and choices actually had an impact on the games the followed. The finality of these endings, however, precludes any sort of feeling that we made that big a difference. We see nothing of what our teammates after those last moments on Earth. There's no way to know how the galaxy reacted to its fate. There's no closure. It's an ending instead of a conclusion, an abrupt and forced truncation of the story of Shepard that leaves the player empty and unsatisfied.

The Indoctrination Theory

If you take a closer look at this, carefully prying up the cow patties BioWare seems to have left all over their trilogy, evidence exists of something deeper going on. Several sources on the Internet have pieced together moments and snippets of lore throughout all three games to put together the following theory. To me, it's a bit of a stretch, but not much. Since the very first Mass Effect, we've known that one of the most insidious weapons in the arsenal of the Reapers is the process known as "indoctrination". An individual of sufficient power or influenced exposed to the Reapers begins to come around to a way of thinking not necessarily their own. Their reasoning seems sound and logical to them, but to the outside observer it's clearly flawed, even dangerous. This influence is pervasive, creeping into the thoughts and dreams of the target often without their knowledge. This is called indoctrination. It happened to Saren. It happened to TIM. And some say it happens to Shepard.
After all, Harbinger's thing has always been to assume direct control... The VI taking the form of a little boy Shepard failed to save in the prologue doesn't make much sense even in the rather dumb "a form you can understand" explanation given in things like Contact. At least Q from Star Trek: The Next Generation used human perceptions of him to make various points or play some pranks. The Starchild, though, isn't just present at the end. Shepard sees the sprog in nightmares throughout the game. And the nightmares, while carrying the voices of lost comrades and the cries of the dying, also are possessed of an inky blackness that pervades them, just as inky black tendrils try to creep into Shepard's perceptions during his showdown with TIM. The evidence doesn't stop there, according to this theory. Consider the "choices" offered. Two of the three of them end with Shepard dead and the Reapers alive. In synthesis they exist in a new form but they continue to exist. And in the control option, even if Shepard believes himself to be strong-willed enough to call them off, they still live. Only the destruction option matches up with Shepard's goals, but two things happen that not only are meant to dissuade players from choosing them but give subtle hints that there's more going on. First, the Starchild plays down the option, saying that destroying the Reapers is not enough, and the explosion will kill all synthetic life. For a weapon painstakingly designed to only kill Reapers, this seems incongruous. Second, the option and its explosion are colored red, the color of Renegades. It's directly opposite the control option, colored Paragon blue, despite it being in line with TIM's wishes, to which Paragons are staunchly opposed. The cherry on this theory is that with enough readiness and war assets, when the destruction option is chosen and the result plays out, a hint is slipped into the end that Shepard survives the ordeal. This is probably the 'best' ending possible, very hard to attain, and yet it comes bundled with free genocide for the Geth? There's something wrong, here. Either it's yet another facet of the ending I simply cannot grok as a writer, or the Reapers are lying to you.

The Real Problems

Even if this theory proves true, or BioWare reveals some other greater agenda to explain away the aforementioned malarkey, the real problems of the endings still exist. We're not just watching Shepard make some sort of sacrifice to deal with the Reapers once and for all. We're watching the end of galactic civilization as we know it, and we're watching perhaps the cruelest betrayal in all three games combined. The mass relays are destroyed. And the Normandy abandons you. Let's tackle the bigger one first. The DLC Arrival had you destroying the Alpha relay, an act that wrecked the system so thoroughly that hundreds of thousands of innocent beings died. This was why Shepard was on Earth in the first place, facing down trial for that act. And then, at the end of Mass Effect 3, we apparently destroy every single relay in the galaxy. That's going to be a LOT of dead people. Let's assume that this isn't the case, and some sort of space magic preserves trillions of lives from the big booms. Civilization's still pretty fucked up. While it's an established fact that FTL drives do exist on all civilized spacecraft in the galaxy, they are a great deal slower than using the mass relays. Journeys that take hours or days would take years without them. So those aliens who lept to your aid at Earth now have to limp their way home. If you managed to assemble the largest force possible, this means the quarians who finally retook their home planet may never see it again. It means the krogan possibly freed from the genophage will never actually sire children on Tuchanka. I think you get the idea. I'm not entirely sure if galaxy-wide communications relied on the mass relays or not, but if they did, Shepard saved the galaxy only to plunge it into a dark age. Fierce fighting over fiefdoms and religious zealotry ahoy!
Pictured: James Vega twenty years after the 'liberation' of Earth. But even beyond this issue there's one even more personal. The Normandy has been our home for three games, moreso in the last two. The final game even makes an effort to put a more lived-in feel into the ship, with crew members wandering around and conversing freely with one another without our prompting. This ship and her crew have been there for Shepard through thick and thin. They flew through the Omega-4 relay in Mass Effect 2 knowing it was a suicide mission. In fact, at the start of Mass Effect 3, the ship was grounded. To get to Shepard as quickly as they did, the Normandy had to have already been airborne when the Reapers hit. They knew what was coming and they knew their commander needed them. And yet at the very end, when Earth is on the cusp of rescue and their leader making a dire and perhaps final choice, what do they do? Apparently, according to BioWare, they tuck tail and run as fast as they can. It's possible they didn't know about the space magic that would keep the mass relay explosion from killing them all, and were trying to escape before what happened to Bahak happened to Sol. I still don't get that, though. They're not just abandoning Shepard but the entire planet they just helped liberate. And how would they know it was coming? Their motivations for running are unexplained and nebulous. You do see some of them living after the whole outrunning-the-explosion bit if you had enough war assets, but again, logic comes and bites whatever happiness you can get from this stupidity right in the ass. If Garrus or Tali survived, what happens when the humans run out of dextro-friendly food? If Liara survived, how do you think she's going to like living out her long life on this planet while every other person she survived with dies around her? They're stranded, and with the mass relays destroyed and given the distance Joker probably jumped, chances of rescue are slim to none. To me it would make more sense if the Normandy was caught in the blast from the relay and Joker has to struggle to keep her aloft long enough to land safely on Earth. And when they do land, depending on the war assets, either they're all killed, they survived but the battle wiped everybody else out, or they survived and are hailed as heroes... with the notable and palpable absence of Shepard. But hey, what do I know, I don't write for BioWare.

The Biggest Tragedy Of All

The worst part of the endings has nothing to do with the decisions themselves or the gaping holes in the plot through which one could fly the Normandy. The worst part is how the ending of Mass Effect 3 renders every decision you've made over the 150+ hours spent across the trilogy completely inconsequential. It doesn't matter if you cured the genophage, brokered the peace that ends a centuries-long race war or even how many lives you save or change just by being Shepard. In the end it all comes down to different colored explosions that basically give you the same results. Stories have done the "what you choose doesn't matter" ending before, and it's been effective. Brazil and 12 Monkeys spring to mind. But those were films. These are video games. Moreover, the Mass Effect series are video games that emphasize player choice, tolerance, examinations of individuality and life itself. We are told, and invited to exemplify through gameplay, that the choices we make matter, that the direction lives take are important, and that tolerance and peace are not only possible, they are preferable to the alternatives even in our current, modern day lives. A world where different species can form friendships and even romances without any serious social implications and a man can talk about his husband in a very real and moving way is one that is definitely worth dying for. But Shepard's death, just like our choices, really has no meaning. I mentioned before that there's no sense of closure. There's also no sense of gravity to our decisions. We have no idea if the alliances we've forged, the peace we've brokered, will last beyond the multi-colored explosions we create. And in the end, we're given to understand that it really doesn't matter. To make everything in all three games come down to a single choice could work, if the aftermath of that choice also reflects choices we've made since the beginning. As it stands, those decisions carry no weight. Even in the case of the 'best' ending, there's no sense that what we did was ultimately worthwhile. The whole trilogy, from who to rescue on Virmire to the events on Thessia, feels like a waste of time, because no matter what we do, the completely interchangeable endings are waiting for us. It's one thing to botch the ending of a video game. It's another to ruin its replay value as a result, and another still to also destroy the replay value of the games that came before it. As a writer and a gamer, I simply cannot grok this decision. I'm fine with Shepard dying. Just as I was with Spock dying in Wrath of Khan. It's all a question of the how and why behind that death. If BioWare do indeed heed the criticism of their fans, there's no reason to simply push them into a "happy" ending. But the ending should mean something. It should have an effect on us other than anger. We should feel our time was well-spent, and worth spending again. Even if the end is bittersweet or downright tragic, if it's satisfying enough it will be worthwhile, perhaps even to the point of repetition. People watch The Lord of the Rings trilogy and all of those Star Wars films multiple times, even if the ending isn't entirely happy, because the world is still rich and full of life and meaning after the end. As it stands now, the Mass Effect universe is left empty. Shepard's death is essentially meaningless. Shakespeare put it best: "It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." This post may be similar, in the end. I have no idea if BioWare is actually listening. But even if they aren't, if you've gotten this far and are still reading, I thank you for your time. I welcome other thoughts on this matter. And I pray that I never, ever botch the ending of anything I write this badly.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Game Review: Mass Effect 3

Game Review: Mass Effect 3 — Blue Ink Alchemy

Endings are tricky things. It can be difficult to tie up loose ends, wrap up character arcs, and bring the lines of the plot to a satisfying conclusion. It's as true for romantic comedies as it is for war stories, though the latter tends to be more harrowing and bittersweet in the end result. And make no mistake. Mass Effect 3 is a war story. As an aside, I will maintain my usual policy of avoiding spoilers in the review, which is difficult in this case because the controversial ending of Mass Effect 3 has an effect on the game as a whole, but I can't discuss it without spoiling things. I will do my best. In the 6 months since the events of Mass Effect 2's Arrival DLC, Commander Shepard has been under house arrest on Earth. Finally brought before Alliance Command, it turns out they suddenly believe Shepard's story about the Reapers. That's because the Reapers invade Earth. The race of sentient murderous machines have begun a unilateral campaign of annihilation across the galaxy, and as much as Shepard would like to stay on Earth to fight, the Normandy is instead sent out to get help. And with an enemy as numerous and implacable as the Reapers, they'll need all the help they can get. The theme of war and an impending sense of doom hang over Mass Effect 3 like a dark shroud. The Reapers are everywhere. Even in the galaxy map, you can see them descending on system after system. Shepard has to deal with them as well as just about every friend and foe that's been made over the course of the trilogy. This being the last game in the story, anybody who's survived thus far is pretty much obligated to make an appearance. Thankfully, Mass Effect 3 continues the tradition of maintaining a coherent narrative in its character moments right down to incidental things like individual rescued colonists and well-meaning but overenthusiastic fans. It also looks even more polished and expressive than the previous titles, even if the pervasive lens flares get a bit irritating.
Actually it's pretty mild in this shot. The inventory and combat systems have been tweaked a bit, making things feel like a hybrid of both previous games. Shepard's loadout is now based on weight rather than class, allowing you to customize your experience to some degree. You can load up an Infiltrator with a shotgun or a Vanguard with a sniper rifle, with the only price being an increased recharge time for your powers. Returning from the first Mass Effect are weapon mods, this time handled in their own interface rather than being buried somewhere in the general inventory system. Procurement, upgrades, and customization are all done in one place, with separate interfaces for each, making these decisions easy and actually interesting instead of the tedious chore they were in the first game. As for combat, we continue to handle our differences in opinion in a succession of corridors full of chest-high walls. The reintroduction of grenades, however, encourages us to move around the battlefield and keep the pace and tension high. Enemies will also employ special tactics against you, such as setting up turrets, siphoning health from nearby friendlies, and approaching cautiously behind riot shields. Your powers remain satisfying to use in response, for both you and your squadmates. It bears mentioning, though, that having one button for taking cover and picking up items and using environmental highlights and just about everything else can be frustrating when you meant to take cover but wind up trying to hack a terminal while angry enemy warriors use your N7 logo as a bulls-eye.
"My momma says I'm pretty." The scanning mechanic of the previous game also makes a return, but it's not quite as crap. The removal of resource-gathering, the reduced time to find a particular item, and the chance of getting chased down by angry Reapers actually makes it a bit fun to search for war assets. The purpose of scanning this time around is not to buy fancy upgrades but to bolster the war effort. Discovered assets and forged alliances can be viewed in the Normandy's war room, along with a 'readiness rating' that reflects participation in the multiplayer, iOS interactions, and possibly other aspects as well. The goal is to gather as much support and firepower as possible in order to, in theory, get the best ending. While it's to be expected that a war story is going to have all sorts of tragedy and noble death, it must be said that Mass Effect 3 does a great deal of it quite well. Despite some of the forced tragedy of the opening, some of the character moments are absolutely amazing. We get the feeling that things we've done in the previous games do, in fact, have lasting meaning. Characters we've come to know and love come out guns blazing, defending their ideals to the death and showing just how much influence one individual can have. These moments, combined with the smooth combat, improved world-map hunting, and some above-average dialog even by BioWare standards, had me absolutely adoring the Mass Effect 3 experience...
Wouldn't be a story about Shepard without Garrus. ...right up until the ending. Which I will discuss tomorrow. Stuff I Liked: The variety of weapons and the ability to try them out on Shepard no matter what your class. The diversity of the enemies that required tactical thinking to overcome. The revamped Normandy and the way crew members walked around it naturally instead of being stuck in one place constantly. Stuff I Didn't Like: The reduced number of conversation choices, while allowing things to move more quickly, felt a little off, as if choices were being made for me. The finicky use/cover button. So many lens flares. The occasional graphical glitch or clipping issue. And while I appreciated Kai Leng's role as a villain, was it necessary to make him a space ninja? Stuff I Loved: The tight focus on characters. The smartly-written dialog. The casual and progressive way in which the game handles same-sex relationships. The way every decision feels important, and the ways the game shows you the consequences of those decisions, until the ending begins. Bottom Line: Mass Effect 3 is like going out to dinner with a bunch of old friends. You have some drinks, laugh about old times. The food is delicious and the company's fantastic. It's a deeply satisfying experience... and then, suddenly, your friends are gone, you're stuck with the massive check, and something on your plate was undercooked and now you have food poisoning. The ending ruins what was otherwise a great gaming experience.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Fire of the Gods

Flash Fiction: The Fire of the Gods — Blue Ink Alchemy

Greek Tomb or Treasury 2011 by Mylissa @ Captive Eye, on Flickr This week, Chuck Wendig gave us the title and nothing else.

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Grace inhaled sharply as her booted foot caught on a loose rock on the floor of the cavern. The four of them had been keeping relatively quiet as they made their way through the darkness. The only one who seemed to notice was her professor, Dr. Murphy, who looked over his shoulder at her. The light of their torches reflected in his monocle. "Grace, are you all right?" "Perfectly. Just need to watch my step." The other man, a dour gent Grace knew only as Mister Stephens, brushed rock dust from his coal-black hair and sideburns as he walked. "I'm still not certain bringing the ladies was the best of ideas, Professor." "Nonsense, old chap! Grace is one of the finest students I've ever had the pleasure of training, and Violet is an invaluable research assistant. I couldn't imagine embarking upon this expedition without them!" Grace glanced at Violet and fought down a surge of anger. Violet was picking her way carefully through obstacles in shoes completely unsuited for such an endeavor. She also had one hand occupied with keeping her skirts lifted as the other held her torch. The bag she carried, full of books, scrolls, and writing implements, kept slipping down her arm as she picked her way through the rocks. You would have thought she was going to a lecture at university, not plumbing ancient Greek tombs. What they were after, Grace knew, was not in fact a tomb. It was an ancient temple, one written about by Ptolemy in one of his lesser-known works. It was said to mark the place Prometheus descended from Mount Olympus with the fire of the gods. Their guide, Christos, was far behind them, having stayed at the entrance to the cavern. The fear in the man's eyes as they'd lit their torches stayed with Grace as they closed in on their destination. "Still, I'm concerned for their safety." "You weren't so concerned when we were looking for the secret vault of Suleiman, Mister Stephens." "That's true, Grace, but we were under Constantinople at the time. A touch more civilized than a cave in the middle of nowhere." "The legends say this temple was so remote so it would discourage - ow - all but the most determined of pilgrims." Violet was still struggling to keep up. "Nonsense. It was remote to keep the common man away from the finest treasures." "Why, Mister Stephens! Surely you don't believe there's no power in myth whatsoever?" "It's 1926, Professor. The twentieth century has no place for invisible men doling out judgement from some remote location." Grace shook her head. "But you can't deny that those who do believe will do things like build a temple far from their city-state." "It's superstitious nonsense to placate the idiot masses." "She does have a point, Mister Stephens." "Professor, you are a man of letters and learning. You shouldn't let a woman's opinion sway you from the facts." Grace wanted nothing more than to set Stephens' coattails on fire. But she bit her lip and kept pace with the men. When they had, in fact, found Suleiman's hidden vault, she'd been the one to disarm his traps to allow them entry. Many mementos of his wives and children, little of real value, had been discovered, but they were now on display at the British Museum, minus a few pieces Stephens kept for himself as partial recompense for funding their discoveries. There was something about Stephens that had always bothered her. He claimed to be in the newspaper business, which explained his overall worldliness. But there was a distance in his eyes, dark green flecked with gold, she'd never been able to categorize. At least her Professor and Violet were easy to figure out; Grace still wished the Professor had left his "research assistant" in their rooms at the hotel in Corinth. At last, the cavern opened around them. Their torches reflected off of the faces of the gods carved into the rock. The wall before them was unnaturally flat and smooth. The stone door was flanked by Corinthian columns, each topped with a representation of a large eagle, and various inscriptions. They unnerved Grace even as Doctor Murphy surged forward. "This is astounding! I never thought the entryway to a back door would be so finely detailed!" "Are we sure this is a back door? It could be the entire temple was underground to begin with." "None of my research suggests that." Violet walked up to stand next to Murphy. "It did speak of a locking mechanism, though. Something advanced." "Ah, yes! There's a globe, here, in the middle of the door. Now..." Grace raised her torch, looking across the ancient letters. They began to form words, and as she translated them, the words became a warning. "'A Titan stole fire from the gods, and an eagle eats his liver every day. If a mortal...'" "Read to yourself, please." Stephens was watching the pair at the door. "The Professor is working." Grace almost didn't hear him. Her blue eyes went wide as she took in the words. "Get away from the door!" The Professor and Violet glanced back at her. Both were touching the globe in the middle of the door. Their hands slipped and the cavern echoed with an unearthly mechanical sound. The globe slid open, revealing a glowing amber crystal. "It's beautiful..." Violet reached to to touch it. Grace dove behind a stalagmite. The next moment, a flash of blinding light and incredible heat filled the cavern. As she sat squeezing her eyes shut, she felt a presence, a towering being close by that looked down at her. It spoke, and her head translated the words. "LEAVE THIS PLACE." The light and heat were gone. She took a moment to catch her breath before standing and raising her torch. Two burnt human skeletons lay before the door, still smoking. The globe in the center of the door was still open, but the crystal was gone. And so was Stephens.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Fire of the Gods

Flash Fiction: The Fire of the Gods — Blue Ink Alchemy

This week, Chuck Wendig gave us the title and nothing else.

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Grace inhaled sharply as her booted foot caught on a loose rock on the floor of the cavern. The four of them had been keeping relatively quiet as they made their way through the darkness. The only one who seemed to notice was her professor, Dr. Murphy, who looked over his shoulder at her. The light of their torches reflected in his monocle. "Grace, are you all right?" "Perfectly. Just need to watch my step." The other man, a dour gent Grace knew only as Mister Stephens, brushed rock dust from his coal-black hair and sideburns as he walked. "I'm still not certain bringing the ladies was the best of ideas, Professor." "Nonsense, old chap! Grace is one of the finest students I've ever had the pleasure of training, and Violet is an invaluable research assistant. I couldn't imagine embarking upon this expedition without them!" Grace glanced at Violet and fought down a surge of anger. Violet was picking her way carefully through obstacles in shoes completely unsuited for such an endeavor. She also had one hand occupied with keeping her skirts lifted as the other held her torch. The bag she carried, full of books, scrolls, and writing implements, kept slipping down her arm as she picked her way through the rocks. You would have thought she was going to a lecture at university, not plumbing ancient Greek tombs. What they were after, Grace knew, was not in fact a tomb. It was an ancient temple, one written about by Ptolemy in one of his lesser-known works. It was said to mark the place Prometheus descended from Mount Olympus with the fire of the gods. Their guide, Christos, was far behind them, having stayed at the entrance to the cavern. The fear in the man's eyes as they'd lit their torches stayed with Grace as they closed in on their destination. "Still, I'm concerned for their safety." "You weren't so concerned when we were looking for the secret vault of Suleiman, Mister Stephens." "That's true, Grace, but we were under Constantinople at the time. A touch more civilized than a cave in the middle of nowhere." "The legends say this temple was so remote so it would discourage - ow - all but the most determined of pilgrims." Violet was still struggling to keep up. "Nonsense. It was remote to keep the common man away from the finest treasures." "Why, Mister Stephens! Surely you don't believe there's no power in myth whatsoever?" "It's 1926, Professor. The twentieth century has no place for invisible men doling out judgement from some remote location." Grace shook her head. "But you can't deny that those who do believe will do things like build a temple far from their city-state." "It's superstitious nonsense to placate the idiot masses." "She does have a point, Mister Stephens." "Professor, you are a man of letters and learning. You shouldn't let a woman's opinion sway you from the facts." Grace wanted nothing more than to set Stephens' coattails on fire. But she bit her lip and kept pace with the men. When they had, in fact, found Suleiman's hidden vault, she'd been the one to disarm his traps to allow them entry. Many mementos of his wives and children, little of real value, had been discovered, but they were now on display at the British Museum, minus a few pieces Stephens kept for himself as partial recompense for funding their discoveries. There was something about Stephens that had always bothered her. He claimed to be in the newspaper business, which explained his overall worldliness. But there was a distance in his eyes, dark green flecked with gold, she'd never been able to categorize. At least her Professor and Violet were easy to figure out; Grace still wished the Professor had left his "research assistant" in their rooms at the hotel in Corinth. At last, the cavern opened around them. Their torches reflected off of the faces of the gods carved into the rock. The wall before them was unnaturally flat and smooth. The stone door was flanked by Corinthian columns, each topped with a representation of a large eagle, and various inscriptions. They unnerved Grace even as Doctor Murphy surged forward. "This is astounding! I never thought the entryway to a back door would be so finely detailed!" "Are we sure this is a back door? It could be the entire temple was underground to begin with." "None of my research suggests that." Violet walked up to stand next to Murphy. "It did speak of a locking mechanism, though. Something advanced." "Ah, yes! There's a globe, here, in the middle of the door. Now..." Grace raised her torch, looking across the ancient letters. They began to form words, and as she translated them, the words became a warning. "'A Titan stole fire from the gods, and an eagle eats his liver every day. If a mortal...'" "Read to yourself, please." Stephens was watching the pair at the door. "The Professor is working." Grace almost didn't hear him. Her blue eyes went wide as she took in the words. "Get away from the door!" The Professor and Violet glanced back at her. Both were touching the globe in the middle of the door. Their hands slipped and the cavern echoed with an unearthly mechanical sound. The globe slid open, revealing a glowing amber crystal. "It's beautiful..." Violet reached to to touch it. Grace dove behind a stalagmite. The next moment, a flash of blinding light and incredible heat filled the cavern. As she sat squeezing her eyes shut, she felt a presence, a towering being close by that looked down at her. It spoke, and her head translated the words. "LEAVE THIS PLACE." The light and heat were gone. She took a moment to catch her breath before standing and raising her torch. Two burnt human skeletons lay before the door, still smoking. The globe in the center of the door was still open, but the crystal was gone. And so was Stephens.

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Blue Ink Alchemy