Developer Journal: Arcanum, pt 1
Game development. Late nights at the office, a pile of unintelligible, coke-stained notes alongside the four empty bags of cheetos atop the stack of dusty music and game CD's. Grunge and heavy-metal proliferate. Super hero posters on the walls. The cryptically scrawled white board above the coffee machine that's next to the six boxes of comic books that won't fit in the house anymore because the bookshelf is overflowing with classic science fiction, fantasy, and the newest industry magazines that haven't been opened but still can't seem to find their way to the garbage can. A girlfriend somewhere in the Midwest, or maybe further north, in the Canadian wilderness.
Does this sound familiar? Are these the images you conjure when you think of the socially-inept saps that spend their days and nights creating the games that, strangely enough, seem to make you socially-inept as well?
You know what? You've never been more mistaken in your entire life.
Enter the new, improved game developer. Well-educated. Media savvy. Shrewd, smooth, big-daddy Hollywood high-roller. Yeah baby. That's what I'm talkin' about.
How and when did this happen, you say? Well, perhaps not all of us have made the metamorphosis, but I know that I no longer place myself among the ancient, flannel-clad, long-haired-developer-intelligentsia. No. I've crossed over. I've been reborn.
Somebody get me a black turtleneck.
Last week I spent five days in Hollywood. Directing. Wait, let me repeat that. DIRECTING. You see, the time had come for us to record some of the voices for the main characters in our game. Being the "writer" (that's a new Hollywood term I've absorbed), it was totally and completely necessary for me to be there. Leonard Boyarsky, one of the esteemed founders of our company here, approached me a few days before we were scheduled to start recording. The conversation was as follows:
Leon: "Chad, look. We really need you there. I mean, who else can I trust to make sure this gets done right? It's just going to be me and you up there, pal."
Chad: 'Thanks, Leon. That means a lot to me. You know I only want what's best for the game..."
Leon: "Of course we know that. That's why we hired you. So are you sure you're ready for this? There's no one else who I'd rather have along."
Chad: "You can count on me, Leon. So, are we staying up there in a hotel for the whole time? Are they sending a car or something to pick us up?"
Leon: "Uh...no...we'll have to drive up there every morning. So make sure to pick me up and bright and ridiculously early in that big, comfortable car of yours! See you in morning!"
Ah! It was getting better by the minute! Not only did I get to go and help direct the "talent" (another invaluable industry term), but I also got to deprive myself of sleep and gas...you know, the whole Hollywood burning-the-candle-at-both-ends scenario! Great! I couldn't wait to get started!
4:30am the next morning comes awfully early.
For those of you who don't know, Troika is located in the city of Tustin, nestled comfortably within the confines of beautiful Orange County. Lots of neat-o things like "business centers", strip malls, the occasional juice bar. Sometimes we have crime. Orange County is located about 50 miles south of Hollywood. Between them is a war-zone, a no-man's-land of asphalt and deranged drivers that some call the 5 Freeway. That was the very road that Leon and I needed to traverse in order to arrive at our desired destination. As you can well imagine, there is traffic on this stretch of road almost 24 hours a day. We were forced to leave very early, as we needed to arrive at the studio around 7:30am to meet with Jeff, our project manager/slave driver from Sierra, before the talent arrived. So, in factoring wind speed, construction frequency, and holiday psychosis, we figured that 3 hours was a pretty safe estimate.
We arrive in Hollywood at 6:00am.
Hmmm. Here's a setback. But! Far be it from me and Leonard (who's been curled up in the back seat the whole time) to let something like this bring us down! We just find the nearest fast food place and hunker down for a little early morning grease. I have three eggloaf-and-bacon-patty monstrosities, while chuffing down a sizzling, fresh-out-of-the-boiling-pig-fat cube of hash browns. I feel refreshed. We sleep for another hour in the car, and then crawl into the studio around 7:30.
Jeff, Don (our producer), and Mike (sound technician) from Sierra are waiting for us. We had a small meeting to go over the particulars, which mainly consists of the Sierra party-line concerning voice actors and how to deal with them. I'm not absorbing things very well at this hour, but I'm feeling better, slipping into my new role. Somewhere, someone does a mike check. I find myself holding a latte. My cell phone hangs low and dangerous on my belt.
[Description of the setting: The recording room is small, 20 feet wide, 30 feet long. The actor sits in a sound-proofed studio at the far end of the room; a large window gives us visual contact with him. Between the actor and the directors, there is the engineer, who sits in a pit surrounded by millions of dollars of sound equipment with a lot of buttons and displays. He's running the technical show. Above the engineer is the director's platform, with a small built-in couch along the back wall and a long desk which faces the studio and seats 2-3 individuals, all vying for the actor's attention.]
Our first actor shows up about half an hour late. "Oh, he's ALWAYS this late. I can't believe you guys scheduled HIM in the morning," says the grizzled, thirty-something engineer. Jeff and Don are already scribbling furiously, making notes to self. Mike is playing with his laptop, and Leon is dozing on the couch. I sit back, unflappable, unconcerned with the details. I'm creative, you understand. Once the actor arrives and we've set him up in the studio, I put on my game face and belly-up to the desk that holds what comes to be known as "the button."
I didn't yet know the power of the button, but I would.
So, the actor starts reading from the script we have prepared for him. The script has all of the lines in Arcanum that have to be recorded in the next 5 days. The script knows all, tells all. The script weighs 37 pounds.
There are three of us in the proverbial director's chair. Jeff on one end, Mike on the other, and me in the middle. There is a small white button on the desk before me, right next to what looks like a miniature microphone. The button is made of plastic, old and worn. My hands are placed equidistantly from it; I tend to shy away from ambiguous technological devices. Somebody says we're rolling, and the actor takes a deep breath, beginning on the first line.
The actor gets about 3 words into it, when Jeff reaches across me, casually pushes the button, and says...
"Eh, sorry...let's try that from the top and with a little more energy."
The actor stops in mid-sentence, looking up at Jeff and nodding. Another deep breath, and he launches into the line again. The "energy" seems to have been included, as Jeff nods to the actor when he is done and the actor readies himself for the next line.
"Wait," I say to Jeff. "Why would we want more energy in that first line? He's talking about the fact that he's had a shady past, his mother is dead, and he doesn't have a gold piece to his name..."
"Ah, yes. I see that now." Jeff nods sagely, already going for the button. He pushes it. "Sorry about this, but can we get the first line again? This time, let's bring the emotion down a bit. More depressed here."
The line is read exactly as I intended it.
The button has saved us once. I believe I am ready, but my hands still hover nervously at its periphery. Jeff divines my anxiety, taking pity on the uninitiated. "Just go ahead and push the button whenever you want to make a comment." He smiles, placing a hand on my shoulder. "That's what you're here for. We couldn't do this without you."
Confidently, I ready my digit.
Line 2 goes off without a hitch. Line 3 is misinterpreted, and I push the button when he is done. "Ah...sorry...I'm thinking we need a little more, uh...energy maybe here. You see, the character is this guy who really just wants to find his sword, and..." Jeff interrupts me. "Chad means YOU. YOU just really want to find YOUR sword, okay?" I was beginning to understand how this whole thing worked. "Uh...yeah. Sorry about that. So YOU really want to find your sword, but there's this other guy who got it first, and..." I really didn't think the actor wanted a full breakdown of the game's design, so I decided to cut to the chase. "I think you should just read the line like this." And I read the line back to him with the enunciation and inflection where I thought it should be.
Jeff slaps my finger away from the button, his eyes widening in disbelief. I look at him, then back to the actor in the booth who stares at me coolly, arms crossed. Jeff glares at me for a moment longer, then pushes the button and says, "We're going to need a moment here." He pulls me aside, whispering furiously. "I TOLD you before! NEVER give the actors a read! These people are artists! Professionals! It's their job to bring life to these characters!" I'm a little confused. "But Jeff, I WROTE these characters. No one in the whole world knows more about how they feel or what they're supposed to talk like than me."
"No, no, no," Jeff shakes his head. "You're not getting it, here. We can have them re-read the lines a million times until they get it the way you want it. But you CANNOT EVER give them a read."
"Isn't that a waste of time and effort? I mean, we don't have all day..."
Jeff gives me that I'm-trying-to-be patient-with-the-developer look. "It's just the way it is. I mean, god...haven't you ever heard about Shatner?" Unfortunately, I haven't. We make our way back to the desk. The actor reads line 3 again. It sounds nothing like the read I've given him. In fact, it sounds exactly like the first take. I'm not going to show fear here; I assume that voice actors and dogs react to it in similar fashion. The button is depressed once again.
"Uh...let's try that again. Maybe try to, uh...you know, on the part where he talks about his family curse...err...think about saying something like...uh..."
"More energy," says Jeff. We get it, and move on.
I was learning. And don't get me wrong. The voice acting is absolutely superb. I'm not at all unhappy with the product, it's just the process that's a little baffling to me. I begin to realize that I'd entered a new realm when I'd passed through the Orange Curtain. This place...it had its own language and rules, codes of behavior. To question those rules was to put yourself outside, and so I decide to embrace them wholeheartedly. I make a few phony calls on the cell phone when we take a five-minute break. I flip through copies of "Variety" and "The Hollywood Reporter", nodding to myself and raising my eyebrows. I start calling everyone "babe".
We finish the first character in about 4 hours. Leonard wakes up, and we eat lunch. The next character is Leonard's, and so I give up the chair in front of the button and settle down next to Don on the couch. In five minutes I am prone, dozing, the tome that is the script lying open on my chest. I hear Leonard making some of the same mistakes that I did. I smile thinly, shaking my head. I remember being so young. Time passes. Now Leonard is shaking me, pointing to a line in the script.
"Hey! Didn't we change this? We don't call them the Ancient Order of the Eternally Damned anymore, do we?"
I lift my head off the couch, squinting and pretending to be interested. "Uh...hmmm...that's not my character...I think you're right, but don't quote me on it. Been such a long time..." I'm already drifting back to sleep.
"Okay, I'll call Jason and have him check it out. What did you think of the read, though?"
"More energy," I say, closing my eyes and wiping the drool off my chin.
We finish the day around 6:30. We hit rush hour traffic, which lasts for at least 7 hours in LA, and we're averaging about 3 miles an hour. Which isn't too bad, all things considered. I figure I'll make it home sometime before the holidays. All I want to do is go home and get some sleep...I'm already counting the hours before I have to wake up again. Leonard snores beside me. My cell phone rings. It's my girlfriend.
"Hi!" she says. "How was your big day in the studio?"
"Great! I...uh...I mean, well, you know how it is." I'd almost forgotten that this Hollywood thing was a lifestyle, not just a frame of mind. "The talent is always SO hard to deal with. And the food they got us! Uggh! Tres proletarian." She is silent for a moment, more than likely awe-stricken with my sudden transformation. My life has become art and performance. I listen to her silence.
"Yeah, sure. So you've got to go back up tomorrow?"
"You got it. And I am wiped out. This is tough work, believe me."
"So I won't see you tonight?"
I'm doing calculations in my head. If I go home right now, jump into bed fully clothed and wake up without a shower I can squeeze in exactly eight hours. All I can think about is sleep. Nothing could possibly convince me otherwise. Except, of course, the silence I am listening to on the end of the line.
"I'll see you in an hour or so," I say.
The next day at the studio is a tough one. The air is crackling with creative energy, but, unfortunately, none of it is mine. Of course, I'm at the helm first. Leonard sleeps behind me on the couch, smiling smugly. Has he deliberately scheduled it so that my actors are always first? Or perhaps it is Jeff, poor, misinformed Jeff, who has done this to me-an act of retaliatory vengeance against the hated developer? Or you Don...was it you...? I can't trust anyone anymore. I've carried these people for years, and now they treat me like this...? Wait! What the hell is wrong with me? Two days in Hollywood, and I'm ready to snap. I shake myself, get some wheat grass juice and a croissant. You've got to be careful out here.
We're a couple of hours into the first character, a female, when we run into a few problems. She gives me a great read on a line, then stops when she gets to the next one. "Uh...the next line. It's exactly the same as the one we just did. Can you guys just copy it?"
I look at the script, seeing how she might be confused. "Yes, they are the same. But in THIS line, you're speaking to a dwarf, not an elf."
She nods, a bit amused, then looks further down. "Uh...the next three lines are exactly the same, too. What are the...uh...differences in these?"
I do my best to keep the exasperation of out my voice. Don't these people read the scripts before they show up? "Okay. Line 484 is to a dwarf as well, but he's got a parrot on his shoulder. Line 485 is to a halfling with one arm and three eyes, and the Line 486 is the same halfling with a parrot, except that you're talking to the parrot this time."
It takes us a while to get through these. Sometimes I wonder if these people can truly appreciate what we're trying to do here.
We spent the next three days in the studio. By the end of it, I had become a new man. I have ritually burned every free t-shirt I ever received at E3. Yesterday, I bought a pair of shoes at Cole-Hahn. I've got a headset for my StarTac, and I ask people what they do in "the business." Whenever possible, I try to exude an attitude of detachment, of quiet disgust. All in all, I'm fairly miserable most of the time, and that's just where I want to be.
As far as the voices for Arcanum, they really couldn't be any better. Despite our relative inexperience in voice directing, Leonard and I mucked through and got phenomenal results. The voice actors we worked with were all top-notch. Some of the characters were exactly what we expected; most of them were much, much better. I don't think there's a game out there that has better characters than what you'll see in Arcanum. That's a completely unbiased, objective opinion.
Hold on...let me try that again with a little more energy...
-- Chad Moore, Troika
Developer Journal: Arcanum, pt. 2
The Joys of Being Lead Designer
OR
"What if the player talks to the OTHER guy first?"
Typical day here at Troika Games. I, Chad Moore, computer graphics and animation specialist, am slaving away over the dialogue script of one of the many characters in Arcanum. One might ask: Dialogue? Isn't that a designer's job? Well, yes it is. And so is the scripting that I often do, as well as the writing of various documents concerning character development, back story and location descriptions. To tell you the truth, I haven't loaded up a 3D package in the last 9 months. Have any of you out there played football? Well, what we're doing here at Troika might be called "platoon" football, or "playing both ways." If there's a job to be done around here, then someone's got to do it. And although I do miss the graphics work, I must admit that learning how to design an RPG has been very enlightening. Sometimes it's almost enjoyable. It's also frustrating as hell.
Case in point: a little while ago I was writing the dialogue for a fairly "simple" character. This character had some information necessary to the player. So, this character needed to express that he indeed had the information, while appearing to be involved in his own affairs, and thus allowing the player to identify a particular course of action. Simple, right? Oh, and he was a half-orc, so we needed to take into account the growing unrest of his people in the city, his inherent dislike of certain other races, and the fact that he was employed by a particular individual who had his own political agendas, as well as a dark secret concerning particular magicks, and...well, you get the idea. Nice and simple.
So, I needed a little guidance. I made my way over to Leonard's office. He's the Art Director on Arcanum, so, of course, he had the scripting tool open, as well as about three dialogue files and an email from the sound guy detailing his latest work. Leonard was in the zone. This means that he doesn't look up when you come into his office, and hears about 1 in 4 of the words that you say to him. But I was desperate, so I gave it a shot.
"Leon. Remember the guy we were talking about yesterday?"
Silence. Then, "Uh, what?"
"The guy I'm writing. The half-orc bounty hunter with the wooden leg?"
"Hmmm." Typing. A deep breath. His head turned imperceptibly towards me. "Say that again?"
"Right. Hertrod Bellygore. Half-orc bounty hunter wood leg need help." I cut down on the complexity of the sentence, hoping to use his word-filter to my advantage.
It seemed to work. "Yeah. He lives in...uh..." More typing. Windows are opening and closing faster than the pop-up banners on our publisher's site.
"Tarant! Look, just real quick here. He's supposed to give you the directions to the Swamps of Ridiculous Sorrow, but I remembered that his brother in Caladon says something about their family being averse to moisture, so I ask myself, why would THIS guy know how to get to the swamp? You see the problem?"
Leonard was silent. Contemplating, I assumed. I stood there for five minutes while he tested a script, touched up a character portrait, and shot off an email to our translators in Dublin. Then he turned around, jumping a little when he noticed me behind him.
"Yeah?"
"Hertrod Bellygore, Leonard."
Blank look. "Right. Listen. Just do what you think is best. I mean, YOU'RE the Lead Designer."
I looked at him. He looked at me, nodding gravely. I made my way back to my office, shouldering this new responsibility. Lead Designer on a major RPG? I was immediately overwhelmed. I mean, I've done plenty of design work in the last 6 years, but this was a whole new ballgame. I needed to do some research and fast. I grabbed a few games off the shelf, and went to work.
Now I'm back in the office. In front of me are what most people consider to be the best RPG's of the year 2000...Baldur's Gate 2, Deus Ex, and Diablo 2. If playing these games doesn't show me how to design an RPG, then I assume that all is lost and Arcanum will fail horribly. It's my duty to learn as much as possible as quickly as possible. After all, I'm the Lead Designer.
So, I start with Baldur's Gate 2. I've played the first game, so I'm fairly well-acquainted with the interface and the basic rules of gameplay. I watch the intro movie, create a dwarf fighter named Magnus, and start playing.
The game starts in a torture chamber of sorts, where I am being held prisoner. The room contains various cages, chains, pipes and vents. This, in itself, is a little unusual. For a traditional fantasy RPG, the d¿cor is very post-industrial, what some forward-thinking designers might term as "edgy." I make notes. Almost immediately, I am freed by Imoen, my thief friend from Baldur's Gate 1! We speak for a while about the physical and mental atrocities we have endured for the last few weeks at the hands of our unknown captor, and then decide to figure out a way to escape.
Along the way, we meet some more old friends, Minsc and Jaheira. What a reunion! Man, if these old gauntlets could talk...well, anyway, we continue on. Things are going well. We meet a golem who wants us to go back to our cages, but does nothing when we take all of the dangerous weapons in the room he's standing in. Must have been my dwarven charisma.
Then Imoen starts piping in about special powers and corruption. I tell her to put a sock in it...I mean, there's kobolds to be killed, for crying out loud! But every 2 minutes she's nagging me about how she's worried that I'll use the powers that I have for darkness or something like that, so I decide that I've heard enough, and I tell Minsc and Jaheira to take care of her. They start beating on her, and then, just before she's dead, she turns to me and says something about not wanting to die in this place and disappears.
Hmmm. Interesting. Perhaps she's learned some magick during our horrible, torturous incarceration? I reload my game, then check her stats. Nope. Just plain old Imoen. But somehow she's learned to teleport herself just before the moment of death! Then it dawns on me. There has been divine intervention, here. The designers have spoken.
I make more notes. It seems that the fundamental rules of life and death need not apply to important characters in an RPG. Seeing that I am responsible for a large number of that type of character in Arcanum, I am very, very happy. My job has just become exponentially easier.
I play BG2 for a little while longer, then tear myself away to load up Deus Ex.
I'm a little partial to it from the get-go. You see, I'm a HUGE cyberpunk fan, and this game has Gibson and Stephenson written all over it. I can't wait to jack in, avoid some ICE, eat take-out sushi and play pachenko. From what I've heard, this game has it ALL.
So, I start up the game. Nice interface, lots of 3D, cool sounds, etc. I watch the intro movie, which utilizes the game engine while making me aware of the world-threatening virus, which has undoubtedly been both created and unleashed by a zaibatsu or some Russian equivalent of the same. I'm completely hooked.
So, I start making my character. The first option I have is a slick, super-cool, nano-augmented agent code-named JC Denton. I search around for the gender button...I prefer females with my espionage. Hmmm. Can't seem to find it. Strange. Well, I guess JC will do for now until I can read the manual. JC is wearing a black trenchcoat. I'm in more of a Chiba-City-neon-red-mood, so I decide to change it. No dice. Maybe I do need to read that manual. Oh, well. I pick a few nano-stats, and start up the game.
I receive an incoming message from someone who tells me what I'm doing on the docks of Liberty Island, then tells me to find my brother. I walk down the docs and run into him. A conversation begins. Now this is the part I like...I can really begin shaping the kind of character I want to be. I'm thinking a surlier, detached, seen-a-lot-of-bloodshed-want-to-get-out-of-the-business approach.
But, unfortunately, there's only once in the conversation that I have my choice of what to say. The options were as follows:
Gimme the little gun.
Gimme the big gun.
Gimme the really, really big gun.
I'm stunned. And again, I see what is happening here. I grab my notebook and start scribbling madly. In an RPG, it's okay to limit the player's choice of race, gender and appearance, as well as limiting his choices in conversation trees to the type of lethal hardware he prefers! I breathe a sigh of relief. Months are falling off my schedule like vat-grown cellulite.
I begin the final Odyssey. The big bad boy. Diablo 2.
Of course, the intro movie is long and well done. Character selection is flashy and awe-inspiring, and I have a hard time figuring out which one of the five character classes will be the most efficient death-machine. In the end, I choose the Barbarian. Mainly because he screams incoherently when you choose him, then starts sharpening his axe. Nice.
The game starts in the rogue encampment. I start talking to people, or maybe it's better to say that people start talking to me. I can't really respond to them. I'm liking this more and more. Then I decide that I don't really like anyone at all in the camp, and I decide to practice some of my barbarian moves on the locals. For some reason, I can't attack any of them...when I click on them, all I can do is listen to them talk to me, or sometimes trade items.
I start to glow inside. Arcanum will be done in no time flat.
The next day I was back in Leonard's office. He'd exited the zone, and sat quietly reading through some of the beta feedback we'd been getting. He turns to me as I take a seat next to him, notes in hand.
"Leon, I've got the solution to the whole Hertrod Bellygore thing."
He still doesn't know what I'm talking about, but pretends he does extremely well. "Good, good. What did you, uh, come up with?"
"Well, when you ask him for the location of the Swamps of Ridiculous Sorrow, he just says 'Die, human techno-scum!' and attacks you. It will be a tough fight, but I figure with Virgil's help it should be no problem."
Leonard looks at me. He seems a bit confused. "What if you're a half-elf wizard? What if Virgil is already dead?"
"Well, that's not going to be a problem because the player will only be able to be a human male technologist."
Bewilderment blossoms in his eyes. "Huh?"
"Oh, and Virgil won't be able to die anymore. So we'll know for sure that he'll be alive and well."
Leonard is silent for a moment, his mouth slightly open.
"Uh, look. I don't know what you're talking about here..."
"I'm talking about design, Leon! I'm talking about solutions! I've done some preliminary calculations...according to my figures, based on my new design, we were done last week! Call up Sierra! We're going home!"
Leonard turned back to his monitor. "Whatever. Listen, just do it like we always do it."
"But wait! I thought you said I was the Lead Designer!"
He was already slipping back into the zone. "Right. Just, uh, cover all the bases like before."
"But Leon! This guy has racial issues, political issues, his mother was a magick user and his father was a 23rd level herbologist from Caladon of all places. Do you have any idea how many variables I'm dealing with, here? How am I supposed to figure all of that out."
I knew what he was going to say before he said it, so I left before he did.
This little excerpt wasn't written to defame any of our competitor's products. I mean, would I ever do that? I've played all of the games mentioned here, and enjoyed them. In reality, I'm really trying to give you all a little idea as to the process we go through in determining what is important to your experience as a role-player. Every designer is different, and every designer has different ideas about what role-playing really is. And here at Troika, ALL of us are very involved in the design. The title of Lead Designer is frequently conferred on any number of individuals throughout any given day.
In Arcanum, we've done our best to cover as many bases as possible. You have your choice of eight different races, many of which give you a choice of gender. You can choose to be either a magick user or a technologist, or both. There are 16 different magick colleges, each with 5 spells, and there are 8 different technological disciplines, each with 7 different schematics. Players in the world respond to these choices you have made. There is not one item in Arcanum that is necessary in order to finish the game. There's not one character in the world that cannot die. If you want to, you can kill every single person in the game, without ever saying a single word to them, and you'd still be able to win the game.
That's a lot of bases. And, hopefully, it defines what Troika believes is role-playing. We're extremely happy with the result. I think you will be, too.
Believe me, I know. I'm the Lead Designer.
-- Chad Moore
Developer Journal: Arcanum, pt. 3
WELCOME TO TROIKA!
Or
"If I got paid hourly, I'd buy myself some more time."
It's 2 o'clock in the morning. I've been listening to the same CD for the past four hours. The empty vessels from various caffeine-based drinks litter my desk because the garbage can is full of candy wrappers and coffee filters. My eyes hurt. That might be due to the fact that I've been up for approximately 21 hours, or it might be because I haven't taken out my contacts in two days. Did I shower this morning? What did I eat for breakfast? When is my birthday? I'm thirsty, but I don't move. I really don't know if my legs work anymore. I hear someone scream behind me. Something that might be a keyboard hits a wall, shatters. Silence, then demented laughter. Or is that me? It doesn't matter anymore. We've got a deadline.
Sometime later, I wake up on the floor. I drag myself to the bathroom, splash some water on my face. The sun breaks over the horizon, another beautiful day in California. This is the loneliest time in the game developer's life. Do you go home for a few fitful hours sleep? Or just go grab a coffee and a donut, try to bang out a few more hours before you start hallucinating.
On my way back from Dunkin Donuts, I ask myself why we always seem to be doing this. I mean, come on...we're professionals for god's sake. If anything, we should know how to put together a schedule. Eight hours a day for 18months should be PLENTY of time for 10 guys to make a game...even a game as large as Arcanum. We're knowledgeable, we're veterans, we're grizzled. We know the ins and the outs. So why? Why am I always coming home when the really bad cable shows come on? Eric Roberts, Michael Ironside, Harry Hamlin...these are my friends. Why? Why?
So as I stare at the monitor in front of me, my eyes as glazed as the pastry I just engulfed, I think back and try to figure out where all the time has gone...
My alarm goes off at 8:00am. I'm supposed to get up and go the gym. I snooze until 9:30, which give me exactly enough time to shower, shave and get to work half an hour late. Tim and Leonard are here when I get in...every one else is on the one-hour late plan, and will join us shortly. I come in, turn on my computer. It's a new day, and I've got lots to do. Time is of the essence. I check email, read the boards, do a little internet shopping, follow a few tasteless links sent to me by friends from college.
Sometime around 11:30, I remember that time is of the essence. I check the bug lists, find that mine has grown exponentially in the 6 hours I've been away. I put on my game face. I've got a lot of work to do, and I've just got to hunker down and get it done.
Mike McCarthy comes in, holding his stomach. "Dude, I am STARVING. Let's go grab some lunch."
"Come on, man. We just got here. I've got lots of work to do. Maybe in an hour or so."
He puts on his most pathetic face. "Chad, I'm serious. I need FOOD. Plus, I already called some of the boys...we're meeting down at the Gypsy Den in 15 minutes. Let's go."
"No WAY am I going to the Den with all the guys. It's a guaranteed two-hour lunch. Forget it. See you later."
He pulls the card. "I'm buyin'."
It's more like two and a half hours, but it's a damn good lunch all the same.
2:00pm. I'm back in the office, and am I ever ready to get started. No more half-steppin'...I'm ready to get into the zone. I pull up the bug list. The first bug has to do with a script I wrote nine months ago. The script is simple, direct and flawless. After all, I wrote it. So, of course, I am confused that there seems to be a problem with it. I do a few preliminary tests, then decide it's time to confer with someone who might be able to shed some light on the situation.
I storm into Tim Cain's office, because I believe that storming lends significance to my arguments. This is a personal misconception, but I am an expert at self-delusion, and so I continue to do it. At Troika, I am the angry one. Being perpetually angry and embittered has done nothing for either my schedule nor for my peace of mind, but I suppose we all need something to hold on to. And so, into Tim's office I storm.
"Tim, there's a problem with this script I wrote that has always worked perfectly until yesterday." I've become adept at explaining situations, placing blame, and extolling my own virtues in single sentences. I furrow my brow to show him that I'm really perturbed and upset.
Tim gives me the Look. This look must have been honed for generations in the Cain clan. It's fatherly, patient, and completely exasperated. For a long time, it was very intimidating. But today I am going to get my work done, and not even the Look is going to get in my way.
"Have you checked the script?" Tim says this in the Voice. It's the perfect compliment for the Look, and is perfect for rhetorical questions.
"Of course I have. Look, this thing has worked for...hey, what's this?" My attention is drawn to a magnetic thingamabob on his desk. Every programmer I know has at least one or two thingamabobs on their desks; most of these seem to prove elementary physical principles in simple and compelling ways. I am completely absorbed. I spin it a few times, thinking.
"You know, I think I could make a perpetual motion machine out this thing."
"No, Chad. That's impossible."
"Seriously, just listen." We sit there for the next half an hour talking about Newton and thermodynamics. I'm drawing blueprints in my head, when I remember why I am there.
"Okay! I have to get this script debugged! No more games! I'm serious! What the hell is wrong with it?"
Tim sits a moment, thinking. "Oh! That's not my problem! It's Jesse's...he was changing some parameters in the animation sequencer the other day. Talk to him."
Finally! I'm really on fire now...dogged, relentless. Things are getting done. I walk into Jesse's office, ready to get to the heart of the matter.
Jesse Reynolds is a programmer. Jesse is also an avid collector of art, games, and Dilbert paraphernalia. He's also a science-fiction fanatic, which I find very, very cool. But today is a work day, and I have many bugs to track down. Jesse sits in his office, backed by shelves of art books, RPG manuals, and a Michael Whelan calendar showing a cyber-angel in Milton-esque repose. I am momentarily distracted. Jesse takes off his headphones, waiting patiently.
"Yes?"
"Oh! Hey, Jesse. I've got a bug I'm tracking down...Tim sent me over here. Something to do with the animation sequencer. I've got a script that won't work because of it." I explain it to him.
He thinks a moment. "You know, I think you're problem is with AI, not the sequencer. Jason has been making some changes to the AI parameters in the last couple of days. You might want to talk to him."
"I'll do that." I'm almost out of the office, but I just can't help it. "You know, speaking of AI, I just picked up this book by Dan Simmons the other day..."
I'm there for 20 minutes before I realize that I'm starting to get hungry.
On the way to Jason's office I run into Yong Park. Or perhaps it is better to say that he runs BY me. Yong is an artist who has done a ridiculous volume of work for Arcanum in the last two years. Yong is also always moving. I suppose it's a possibility that there's a correlation between the two, but my mind is currently grappling with heavier matters.
"Hi, Chaaa...aaadd." His voice Dopplers behind me, the door to his office closing before I can elicit a proper response. But his speed and direction have inspired me. I am prepared to journey on.
Jason Anderson, along with Tim and Leonard, is one of the founders of Troika Games. Jason and I have a very complex relationship; we both aspire to game-making martyrdom. Often we will take on responsibility solely to garner more pity from our friends and co-workers. Today is no exception. The games begin almost immediately.
"Hey, Jason. Listen...I was here last night until about 4:00am, doing that stuff that no one else wanted to do, and then when I came in this morning there was like 500 more bugs on my list, and the first one I run across has to do with this script that won't run because someone changed some AI parameters without telling me."
Jason is ready with a counterstrike. "Yeah...that was me. Sorry I didn't tell you, but I was at home last night...didn't get to bed until about 6:00am this morning because I had to work on game balance AND finish the stuff on that art list that YOU gave me. Plus, Gwyn didn't get to bed until midnight, and my computer crashed three times. I had to re-install windows. Twice." He shook his head, his beard adding a solemn weight to his malaise.
I was silent. Undone. I couldn't top it. "Yeah, well...uh...no problem. But what do you think I should do about this bug?"
"You need to talk with McCarthy. He's making the calls on the AI stuff. If you need a parameter changed, then run it by him, and I'll make the change." A heavy sigh. "If I can find the time."
This time I was ready. "I know what you mean. I mean, just this one bug has taken me ALL day to fix. And I'm still trying to get it worked out. You just can't schedule for this kind of thing."
"You don't have to tell ME about it," he said.
"Well, I'm going to talk to Mike. See ya."
"Alright. But be careful."
"Why?" I ask.
"You know Mike and his Jedi mind tricks."
I've worked closely with Mike McCarthy for the past 3 years. I met him when he was an intern at Interplay, and we were office mates for a year before I came over to Troika. Mike joined Troika about six months after I did. He's a very talented animator, musician, and oral tactician. Mike works well in the realms of faith and belief. He realized at an early age that the best solution for a problem is often the one that is best elucidated. He speaks in superlatives and percentages. He is usually the champion of the common man.
I prepare myself mentally before I enter. "Mike...can I talk to you for a minute?"
He turns to me. "Sure, bud. What do you need?"
"It's this bug I've got. I've tracked it through just about everyone, and I think it's got something to do with a change to an AI parameter that you okayed. I think we need to change it back."
Mike shakes his head. "Man, I wish we could. But there's no way we could even THINK about shipping this game without that parameter being what it is now. I mean, how could we?"
I'm almost convinced. But something keeps me from running back to my office. "Uh...wait. We've been playing the game for the last year with the old parameter. When did it become such a show-stopper?"
Mike smiles, patiently, trying to put it as simply as possible. "Bud. We both know that the game wasn't as fun before. Now it is. I mean, you can see that right?"
I'm losing it. "I...I can?"
"Of course you can, bud. You're a smart guy." He takes out his Cassiopeia, scribbling idly on its screen. "I'm thinking that at least 83% of everyone who plays this game is going to see a real difference. That means sales, bud."
"I...I guess you're right, Mike. I'll try to work around it." It's 6:00pm, and I still haven't figured out how I'm going to fix this bug. I've got to get cracking on this thing and fast. The next few hours are crucial. So I ask Mike if he wants to grab some food. I'm buying.
Two hours later, I'm back at the office. It's go-time. I do my best work at night. I'm ready to hit the ground running. I know just the man to see.
Mark Harrison is a programmer whose main responsibility is the Arcanum World Editor. This is a major chunk of work. I find myself in his office quite often. Mark is just coming back from dinner as well.
"Mark! Just the man I wanted to see! Listen...I have this problem..."
"Yeah...I've heard about it. Something to do with AI parameters? Tim was telling me about it at dinner."
"Really? What did you guys eat?"
"Raw fish." A grave look comes over Mark's face. He takes his sushi very seriously. "We tried a new place over in Tustin."
Now this is the moment of truth. I've got a pile of work to do, and it's already getting well towards the small hours. I need to be focused. I need to be persistent.
But I just have to know. "How was the tuna sashimi?"
Forty-five minutes later, I know the chef's name and the five best items on the menu.
Mark turns to me, just before he leaves. "Oh, and about your problem. I can probably add a flag to the World Editor that will fix it, but you're going to need to talk to Chris to see if it's all right. See you in the morning."
I'm starting to get the idea that I'm going to see the morning long before he does.
After talking with Mark, I've resigned myself to the fact that this particular bug isn't going to be fixed in as timely a manner as I would have liked. This is disturbing to me, as I'm a creature of will and efficiency. Being a veteran game developer, I see the world in terms of the bottom line. I trudge over to the office of Chris Jones, our graphics programmer, hoping to ensure that this particular bug will be squashed sometime before the witching hour.
Chris sits in his office, intent on whatever happens to be on his screen. As his screen faces away from his door, I never really know what it is he is working on. But, judging from the look on his face, it must be extremely important; I don't believe I've ever seen a more intense countenance in my entire life. Except, perhaps, for the last time I ventured into Chris's office. Chris is an intense individual, and he's mastered the technique of manifesting that intensity in everything he says and does. I notice that the very air in his office is crackling with potential intensity. I imagine the carpet is humming, saturated with kinetic vibrations. He looks up at me, saying nothing.
"Uh...hey, Chris. What's up?"
"Not much." He looks back at his screen. Intensely. "What do you need?"
Any gusto I've built up concerning this bug leaks out of me like the air in a raggedly slashed inner tube.
"Well...I...uh...I've got this problem with this bug. I was kind of hoping that...well...I mean, it's kind of an AI thing, but Mark said..."
His eyes never leave his screen. He's typing at a million miles an hour. "Just tell me the problem."
Somehow I get the words out. The office is like a pressure cooker. If I don't get out of there fast, I'm going to get the bends. Time passes like I'm at the event-horizon.
"Hmmm. Okay. I'll look into it."
Translation: Bug Obliterated.
I breathe a sigh of unadulterated relief. Bug #1 of 500 has been taken care of. For the first time all day I'm feeling relaxed. I'm feeling the urge to chew the rag with someone about something not work-related. I'm in the mood to get real.
"Thanks, Chris. I appreciate it." I take another step into the room. "So how's things with you?"
"Fine, thanks." His eyes never leave the screen.
Maybe he's not getting the message. I'm taking a break, here. "So...ah...big plans for the weekend?"
"Not really." More typing.
"Right. So...uh...how about those Lakers?"
He stops, looking up at me. "Ah, sorry, Chad. I've got some work to do here."
I walk back to my office, a little dejected. I mean, can the guy EVER relax? It's not like I haven't had my nose to the grindstone all day long. I sit down heavily in my chair, looking at the list of bugs in front of me. I look at my watch. It's 10:00pm. I've been here twelve hours.
Leonard Boyarsky, art director and friend, walks by on his way out the door. Leon has been here since 7:00am. He's a family man, with a 2-year-old daughter named Samantha. Leon hasn't figured out how to tell Sam that it's not at all appropriate to wake up while it's still dark. Leon has been forced to maintain a careful balance between sleep, work, family and his overall general health. Leon is coming apart at the seams.
"What's up?" he asks.
"Fixin' bugs, Leon. It's going to be a late night."
"Bummer." Leon's vibe lacks any semblance of pity or empathy. Of course, that might be due to the fact that he teeters on the brink of sheer exhaustion.
"Yeah. Just one of those days."
"I guess." Leon shuffles away, heading for freedom. "Don't stay too late."
Easy for him to say. He obviously has no idea what I'm up against, here.
Sharon Shellman comes in around 11:00pm. Sharon is our office manager, PR specialist, designer, and den mom. She works in the morning, goes home to her daughter, Gwyn, and then comes back at night to do more work. She is a very dedicated individual. She brings us cookies almost every single day.
I'm still on bug #2 when she walks into my office. It's been taking me a long time because I've been talking to my girlfriend, Deanna. Deanna has been giving me some TLC. Even veteran game developers like me need emotional support from time to time. Sharon shakes her head, laughing.
"On the phone again?"
"Hold on sweetheart...I'm sorry, Shellman? What did you say?"
"I said 'On the phone again?' Sorry...I forgot to add the 'slacker'."
This was too much. I'd hit the end of my rope.
"Yeah, whatever. I haven't been on the phone all day. I've been working on fixing bugs. Making this game. In the trenches. Comprende?"
"Cry me a river," she says. "Did you clear out those bugs I sent you?"
I yawned, looking at my watch. Maybe I'd go home early tonight. Midnight is early for veterans like myself.
"Yeah, some of them. I'll probably finish them up by the end of the week."
Shellman laughs. "Sorry. Didn't you get the email I sent? You've got to finish those by tomorrow...we're sending a build to Sierra, and those bugs are priority." She turns, heading back to her office. "Have fun!"
If I weren't so grizzled, I would have started sobbing uncontrollably. As it was, I held it to a quiet whimper.
Dave Bragg, our do-it-all intern, constitutes Troika's early shift. He comes in around 5:30am. Dave comes in early so he can leave early. Obviously, Dave hasn't yet caught on that game developers aren't allowed to have lives. He finds me slumped in my chair, the victim of an unusually belligerent bug #5. I am tired. I am spent. If I drink another cup of coffee, I'm going to spontaneously combust.
"Hey, Chad. Have you been here all night?"
"Yeah. Have to finish fixing these bugs before the end of the day."
"Well, I'll leave you to it." Dave has a box of donuts in his hand. "Want a donut? I picked them up on the way here."
"Sure. Thanks." I grab a bear claw. Dave walks out. I take a bite. It's good. Real good.
I look back at my screen. I have so much left to do. I need to get a mean-on. Lock and load. Put these bugs out to pasture.
But I'm already halfway out the door. I've just got to find out where he gets those donuts.
Alright. So maybe it's not this bad every day. But the fact of the matter is that when you're making a game, you just never know what's going to happen next. Making schedules is tricky business. You usually end up taking your estimates and doubling them, and then doubling them again, and then wondering why you're popping no-doze at the end of the month. The answer? Game development is dynamic, complex, and unpredictable. Even those not as prone to the occasional tangent as I am will tell you the same thing. You just never know what's going to happen next.
Here at Troika, it's even tougher. We've got 10 guys making a game that would normally require a team three times this size. We all wear a lot of hats around here, and we've all spent some late nights and early mornings at the office. Is it hard? Sure. Do we make sacrifices? All the time. Unfortunately, that seems to be the norm among small development houses like us. Do we think it's worth it? Definitely. No doubt about it. We love this game, and we're not willing to let it go until it's perfect. So, we'll continue making schedules and working late nights and I'll keep complaining about it, right up until the end.
I've got to get back to work. Of course, all this writing has made me really hungry...
-- Chad Moore, Lead Designer
