Team Shirts: A Visual Retrospective

As part of a recent project, I ended up going through my closet and photographing all of my shirts from student teams. These are all from immersive learning projects, where my teams worked with community partners to create original educational games. We wore the shirts when meeting with partners and showing the work at public events. They are shown below in no particular order.

The polo shirts just have the team logo, but the T-shirts have team names on the back.

The Worst Thing about Clair Obscur: Expedition 33

The clear worst thing about Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is that someone got some game in their movie, but that's not much of a blog post. Instead, I'm going to share a few thoughts about narrative, and along the way, I will include some spoilers about Marvel's Midnight Suns and Clair Obscur. You have been warned.

Years ago, I played Marvel's Midnight Suns. I really enjoyed the gameplay, which brought together a lot of the pieces I enjoy in videogames. There were a few moments in the narrative experience that were frightfully disrespectful, enough that I kept a list on a scrap of paper on my desk with the intention of writing about them later. Unfortunately, I lost that paper, and so I never was able to assemble my player experience into an effective critique. The only part I vividly remember was not the first such part, but it is the one that made me start my list. Tony Stark is stuck in a position where he could save the world by killing his best friend, but he cannot bring himself to do it. It tears him up. He understands that this is about weighing his desires against the greater good. It's a competently designed scene. Immediately on the heels of that experience, my character ran into Tony at base camp, where he happily told me how he was making his grandmother's goulash (or something like that). It's a happy little encounter, a filler, something meant to make the player smile and enjoy the camaraderie. But in my playthrough, it immediately followed Stark's monumental crisis.

I call this disrespectful because it reduces narrative to content. While it's true that no narrative designer intentionally juxtaposed these story beats, they also did not prevent it. Give the player content, regardless of its sensibility, so that they remain engaged. That is the message underlying my experience: the player must be satisfied by feeding them content.

Sorry, that's been pent up in my fingers for years now. Too bad I lost the original notes, since I had more coherent suggestions at the time.

I'm currently in the third act of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33. There are many parts of the game that I really enjoy, but there are other aspects that echo all the worst tropes of videogame design. In the latter category are the unforgiving and unwelcome platforming experiences. A reasonable person might ask why I don't simply skip them, and the answer is that the game doesn't want me to. The game is designed to provoke in the player the desire to complete these challenges so that we can get the mysterious reward at the end: maybe it's a hat, but maybe it's a game-changing picto. There's no way to know ahead of time without asking the Internet. Because little treats are scattered in the corners of each map, there is no incentive to ever follow the narratively sensible route—from the entrance to the goal, for example. Instead, the game designers want you to scour the edges of the map lest you miss something you need for the ever more powerful enemies. It's painfully common in RPG level design and always disconnects play from the authored narrative.

I controlled Maelle, the teenage heroine, to complete these platforming challenges, or at least the ones I could stomach, since I have since given up on them. It seemed like it was easier to land precisely with her than with the other characters. A quick search online makes it seem like I'm not the only one who did this. So, in my experience of the world of Clair Obscur, Maelle is the one who climbs across floating obstacles, jumps onto spinning disks, grabs bits of flotsam to pull herself up, and who falls hundreds of feet into the water, only to get up and try again.

In the game's third act, Maelle and company must climb to the top of an enormous structure. At one point, in a cutscene, she mentions off-handedly that she has always suffered from vertigo. 

Vertigo? Where did that come from? You're the one doing these crazy platforming challenges!

Shortly later, the party meets a peculiar Nevron who has crafted for Maelle specifically a set of wings. Wings! Yes, please! That is exactly what I need as a player to get through these awful platforming levels! Maelle gives them a glance then shrugs and says, "Vertigo, remember?" The rest of the party sighs and leaves the wings behind.

We could leave this as an example of ludonarrative dissonance if we were so inclined, but it's actually worse than that. From the very start of the game, we meet Maelle and Gustave on the rooftops, and they run and leap across the city of Lumiere. Maelle is especially pleased that she has acquired the technology that allows her to ninja-rope herself across huge gaps. This is her happy place in her job as a parkour courier.

To this, I can only shrug and say, "Vertigo, remember?"

I know that writing is hard and that managing a staff of writers is even harder, but someone should have noticed that there's a massive story problem with introducing a character trait that is contrary to the core gameplay, and that is only brought up once, and only to reject a thing that serves no purpose anyway. It's like seeing a straw man over the mantel in act one and never speaking of it again.

A short poem about smells

Here is a short poem I improvised this weekend while attending a youth art showcase.

Crayons smell like youth and playfulness
in exactly the same way
that source code doesn't

Algorithmic Authority and the Categorical Imperative

I was reminded yesterday of Immanuel Kant's categorical imperative, his lens for thinking about ethics. As I understand it, he suggested that to decide if an action is ethical, one can consider the implications if everyone did it. To determine if one ought to lie, one can consider a world in which everyone is allowed to lie; clearly, that's not a good place to live, so it is better not to lie.

This gives me another way to talk to my students about using generative AI on assignments. Would the world be better if all students fed their assignments as prompts to ChatGPT and turned in what it spat out? It is clear to me that this would be a worse educational system. The question remains whether they would agree with me. One might instead argue that the dose makes the poison and that there is no universal around such tools.

Yet, I cannot help but extend the Kantian perspective. Would it be a better educational system if everyone relied on grammar check to alter their prose into a machine-acceptable format? Would it be a better world if everyone delegated spelling authority to algorithms? The answers are clear to me when one considers the categorical imperative, and the principle underlying these questions is humanism. Will my students agree that it is universal?

Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma

I am going to try to capture some elusive concepts that require me to reach into philosophy and sociology, which are areas outside of my professional specialization. Caveat emptor. If you recognize a mistake or misunderstanding in my arguments, please let me know in the comments or over email.

I have been mulling over the idea that every D&D player knows the difference between Intelligence and Wisdom but few consider that they are engaged in classical epistemology. Aristotle wrote about the distinction between the intellect and the will, although I came across this by way of Thomas Aquinas. Thomas described how the intellect apprehends and abstracts while the will chooses. This is essentially the distinction in D&D and related tabletop roleplaying games. 

It's a fascinating case where players learn philosophy without knowing that they are doing so. I hypothesize that this has a real impact on their lives as well, that when people come to think of the powers of the mind in terms of Intelligence and Wisdom (or intellect and will, or intellectus and voluntas), it gives them a lens to think about life outside the game. If my observations and hypotheses are correct, then if D&D can do it, so can other games.

Yesterday, I listened to a podcast that gave me a different perspective on the matter. In the Conversations podcast, Mark Bauerlein interviewed Molly Worthen about her work on charisma and leadership. She caught my attention when she pointed out that sociologist Max Weber secularized the word "charisma." The word had traditionally only been used in the New Testament sense, where the Pauline epistles refer to spiritual gifts. As I understand it, Weber took this idea and turned it to refer to extraordinary (but not supernatural) leadership capabilities.

This forced me to recognize that I had never really considered the two definitions of "charisma" despite being familiar with both. It was a revelation to me to hear that it was a scholar's intentional appropriation of a term, not a gradual evolution of a concept. It also made me recognize that D&D players would only ever recognize Weber's concept, not Paul's. Here is a case in contrast to Intelligence and Wisdom, where a player comes to understand only half a concept while presuming to understand a whole.

To me, it is a cautionary tale about learning from games, that a designer must choose words carefully. I do not know whether Gygax or Arneson dove into the etymology of the terms they used to describe player characters in D&D. I suspect, like most designers, they simply chose the words that evoked the right sensibility for what their game was trying to communicate. If I am right about this, then this means that they were clearly established in a classical epistemology and a modern secular sociology. That itself is a fascinating thought, for if they were, then what about us?

Why I am not using GitHub Classroom

As I mentioned the other day, I have turned my attention to preparing for Spring's courses. I am on deck to teach CS222 in the Spring. It's a fun and challenging course to teach, and I've been thinking about whether there are some ways to streamline the student experience. This morning, I spent some time investigating GitHub Classroom. It wasn't the first time, and that's why I'm writing this quick reminder to myself about why it's not the right fit for me.

There are two things that keep attracting me to GitHub Classroom. The first is that it reinforces the use of distributed version control. Anything that gets students into the habit of using version control and making small commits is good. The other is that it leverages the power of Markdown, where a writer can seamlessly integrate different kinds of text into one document: prose and code live happily together. This forms a synergy with the first point, since it gets students to start to think about version controlling all the things. 

What specifically got me looking again at GitHub Classroom though was its support for feedback via pull requests. This would allow me to comment on an individual line of student work as well as the work as a whole. The shortcoming is that the writer cannot do the same. 

I need a student to be able to do three kinds of writing:

• Traditional prose
• Source code
• Commentary on specific lines of the source code

The writing environment has to allow a student to say that a particular section of code manifests a particular property. This cannot be done in source code comments because those comments are part of the code itself. Rather, I'm talking about a kind of metadiscourse that is at a different level of abstraction than the code. It cannot easily be done in prose either. This requires either interrupting the code with commentary or using a referencing system, such as line numbers. The latter is not terrible, but it pales in comparison to the approach I have used for years: using Google Docs' comment feature to comment on different parts of the document. Using this approach, both the student writer and I can evaluate the text. In fact, I wish I had one more level of abstraction: I would like to comment on the students' comments, not in a thread, but at another level yet. 

These qualities describe a writing environment unlike any I have seen. It would be an interesting HCI exercise to explore how one might interact with such a thing. One might start by looking at Google Wave (RIP) or Code Bubbles. In the meantime, I will have to keep using word processors like Google Docs that allow for the metadata stream of comments.

Updated postscript:

I was thinking about switching from Google Docs to Office365, but after that experimentation, I don't think it is fit for purpose either. It seems like Word insists that we are preparing documents that will be printed on paper, whereas Google Docs has long allowed for continuous, non-paginated documents. 

Course revisions: CS390 Preproduction

I wanted to switch into writing mode this week, but I recently received my teaching assignment for Spring, and some relevant decisions were looming over my head. Of the three courses I'm teaching, I knew that my Game Studio Preproduction—the first in the three-semester game production sequence—needed the most attention. I have taught this course twice, both times closely following Lemarchand's Playful Production Process. It provided a useful framework for me and my students as we built our new curriculum.

The game production sequence has been on my mind as I have read other books over the last year, including Vasco Duarte's No Estimates and Tynan Sylvester's Designing Games, both of which I blogged about, as well as books like Mike Sellers' Advanced Game Design, which I did not. I have been particularly troubled by my agreement with Duarte about the distinction between scope-driven and value-driven software development. The former is based on a fixed scope, which unbinds budget and time, and the latter is based on fixed budget and time, which unbinds scope. I wrote a paper about this distinction that I will be presenting in two weeks at the Symposium on Games. To make a long story short, most of the published advice about games draws from AAA production patterns and takes a scope-driven approach, but my experience and learned intuition suspect that my teams will have much better luck with value-driven approaches. Sylvester was one who really helped me put a pin in this idea when he wrote about how much of game production borrows concepts from other fields rather than embracing the idea that software is different—which, of course, it is. He also introduced me to the phrase "therapeutic planning," which he cites to Nassim Taleb and which I find terrifyingly evocative. 

As a result, I have decided to forego my previous approach to preproduction and, if it goes well, the production sequence next year. The scope-driven methodology will be replaced by an agile, value-driven one. Preproduction has an agile bias no matter how you slice it, but where this change makes the most material impact on the course will be in the expected deliverables. In the past two offerings, I have followed Lemarchand's advice and had preproduction culminate in a macro document and production schedule. My experience is that these are always spectacularly wrong, but you cannot exactly blame the students for this: given their limited experience, of course these will be quite wrong. Laying them out feels like therapeutic planning to me. I will replace the macro document and schedule with the concept document format proposed by Sellers, peppering a few of my perspectives and additions. Sellers' is a three-part document that includes a high-level description, a business-oriented product description, and a lengthy detailed design that captures core loops and interactions. I hope that the production teams will be able to use these document as more appropriate starting points once production starts, compared to the compounded awkwardness I have witnessed of having teams attempt to base production plans on poorly composed progenitors. On the contrary, something from Lemarchand that I have seen teams make incredible use of is an articulation of experience goals and design goals, and that is something I want to weave into Sellers' recommendations for concept documentation.

My previous sections included an explicit element of learning how to learn from a book like Lemarchand's, and I have no regrets about that: the students who engaged with the reading did learn significantly from it. This included spending significant time at the beginning of preproduction talking about and practicing techniques of ideation. This was usually interesting, but I realized that the student projects rarely had any significant connection to this part of the class. It is more like pre-preproduction. In my plans for Spring, I have cut this down to two in-class exercises that are designed more to get people talking and thinking than to generate anything weighty.

This change allows me to move into a slightly more structured prototyping phase, for which I am borrowing ideas from my colleague Travis Faas. I am putting a little more structure into the prototyping weeks, including constraints that I hope will foster creative problem-solving. My sketch right now includes a short paper prototype, a short experience with greyboxing, and two two-week explorations. My plan is for students to get into teams and settled on a direction just before Spring Break.

I still have a few holes to fill in my plans. For example, I would like to incorporate a structured analysis of successful games, showing students how they might reverse-engineer a Sellers-style concept document from a game that they have played. I would like to have everyone play the same one or two games so that we can share our analyses. If you have ideas of freely available games that would fill the bill, let me know. I'm seriously thinking of Rogue, given the popularity of "roguelikes" and the dearth of knowledge about the original, but I want to make sure I'm not doing it only for my own nostalgia.