






- Disoriented and unfamiliar with the layout of the town (honestly couldn't even remember the hotkey for the map, or if I had one), I tried to escape the firefight, running away from the loudest sounds of combat. This led me to a river and bridge. As I approached the bridge, an explosion of some sort almost killed me. I then realized mortars were being fired at me or the bridge as one flew over my head and landed in the river below. Panicking (I wanted to try and "survive" as long as possible this time), maybe intuitively thinking the bridge was too exposed, I dove in the river and tried swimming for the other side. At this point I actually thought I might be able to make it. All my other playthroughs of the game resulted in me being shot up in town and taken by the UFLL. As I swam under the bridge, however, I was struck with the effects of malaria and was apparently only saved from drowning by the timely appearance of the APR. When I came to in the APR fishery I discovered the explosion had apparently lodged a piece of rebar into my leg which I had to pull out.
- My first real mission was to take out some guys at a lumber yard and rescue my new best buddy. I carefully scouted the area from the convenient vantage point and counted four hostiles. I watched them for a while, noting their positions and behaviour - which of them were smoking, patrolling, chatting. I almost went down to begin my approach but hesitated - one last look. Sure enough, a fifth guard emerged from who knows where. Five. Okay, I started sneaking around the lumber yard, hearing people talk but unable to distinguish words. I ended up on the opposite side from where I had been scouting, crouched behind a stack of cardboard boxes with one guard on the other side. As I crawled around from behind the boxes he turned to face me and stared at me for what seemed like 3 or 4 seconds but was probably just a short moment. Worried that he might draw his weapon I shot him without thinking of the consequences, and alerted everyone else with the sound of a gunshot. I retreated behind cover and heard one guy yell out that he was going to call for help. I then took out another 3 of them, one at a time, in a pretty straight-forward firefight. I searched for the fifth. I had forgotten one said he was calling for help, or rather ignored it as just a "videogamey" bark with no real action tied to it. I spent a couple of minutes creeping around the lumber yard stepping over corpses looking for this last enemy, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally I stood up and went to rescue Quarbani Singh.
- At Mike's Bar, Warren Clyde became my second best buddy and offered to lend me a hand in tough situations.
Walking down the main street in front of the church, some mercenary pointed a mounted machine gun at me as I approached him. When I got beside him he laughed and stepped away from the gun, saying "What do you want?" as I paused to look at him. In the spirit of the game I vowed to kill him as soon as possible and memorized his face (took a screenshot). I can't break the ceasefire in town, but I'll be checking the bodies of mercs I kill for his face.
The general conclusion is, from taking the whole together, that wealth and power have never been long permanent in any place. That they never have been renewed when once destroyed, though they have had rises and falls, and that they travel over the face of the earth, something like a caravan of merchants. On their arrival, every thing is found green and fresh; while they remain all is bustle and abundance, and, when gone, all is left trampled down, barren, and bare.
May's topic challenges you to imagine that the artist had been a game designer and supersede the source artwork-whether it be a painting, a sculpture, an installation, or any other piece that can be appreciated in a primarily visual way-to imagine a game that might have tried to communicate the same themes, the same message, to its audience.

I recently unsubscribed from the IGDA Writers SIG mailing list. It is an incestuous, narrow-minded, self-congratulating community of writers who wrongfully believe they are still going to be relevant in 5 years. The fact of the matter is they have perfected their craft. The craft as they know it, as they learned from numerous writing workshops for other media, has reached a plateau with nowhere else to go. They know stories in games aren't perfect, but they don't understand why. Apply a 3-Act structure. Create compelling character development. Write smart dialogue. This is their recipe for a great game story, and when it only results in drivel that is worse than a B-Movie they throw up their hands in despair and lament the fact that they weren't brought into the project earlier.
The problem is of a more fundamental nature: A writer cannot create a meaningful story in a game.
Everything writers know about character development - or story arc, or anything for that matter - is irrelevant in a medium where the player is the central figure, where it is the player's personal story that matters. You cannot write player development, only design for it. You cannot write a compelling and meaningful game story, only design for one.
Miko Wilson, a young narrative designer at Relic, offered one of the few insightful contributions to a recent Writers SIG discussion of the definition of story. It was, of course, completely ignored. I don't know if it was because the implications of his observation were too horrible for these career writers to publically consider, or because the blinders they were wearing prevented them from seeing those implications in the first place. He said, paraphrasing, "I never would have thought my favourite part of game writing would be level design." And with that, Miko, Narrative Designer at one of the most successful game studios in the world, a member of Generation Y, sealed the fate of everyone on that mailing list. Game stories are not written, they are designed. You are irrelevant. Every month you continue to have an influence on mainstream games is another month we have to wait until they can achieve their full potential. You need to learn to become a Storyteller, a Narrative Designer, or learn to work in a non-interactive medium. It's that simple.
Corvus Elrod, improvisational storyteller, was the only other person making sense in that discussion, but his pleadings for these people to reconsider their approach to games fell on deaf ears. He was speaking to the wrong crowd. There are many people in the industry willing to give actual thought to improving storytelling in games. One of the most interesting sessions at GDC this year was about the level design in Far Cry 2, and how it was developed to encourage player self-expression and improvisation. In other words, how the game design encouraged emergent, personal, powerful, moment-to-moment stories. You can't write an experience, only the context of that experience. Context has never made anyone cry.
Of course, writers are still needed in some capacity. Dialogue needs to be convincing. Settings need to be fleshed out. Characters require a backstory. But this is all context. The dialogue provides context for the relationships the player develops through interaction with designed game systems. I am not saying writing story bibles or dialogue is useless, but the interaction between player and designer and system is not something a writer can or should have any control over. Writers can enrich a player's experience in the same way good sound and art direction enriches it, but they cannot shape or define the core of this interactive experience.
Please, writers, take a back seat. Stop thinking you have the ability or tools to create an interesting game story. Stop interfering with what you don't understand. Accept that designers, and designers alone, can define the conditions that allow the player to participate in the creation of meaningful stories, and in this way realize the potential of the medium.