1. Above all else, keep the game moving. [Continued]

 

Rule Discussion. Now we’ve taken steps to know the rules (or at least be able to quickly locate them), but that’s not always the end of it. Sometimes the rules are ambiguous and two parties may possess conflicting interpretations resulting in discussion. Which, discussion can be good, but too much can kill a session. “We came to kill a Beholder, not talk about how to kill it.”

 

Know the lingo and the basic mechanics. The D&D 3, 3.5, and 4th Edition books are written like law books. First they define key terms, and then proceed to use them. You cannot interpret the rules correctly without this information. 

 

I never cease to be amazed by how many people want to interpret the rules without knowing the term’s definition. At the WotC website, 3^rd Edition co-author Skip Williams wrote a series of multi-part articles called “Rules of the Game.” Part 1 is always defining key terms. Furthermore, most of the questions in the official D&D FAQ (written by 3.5 co-author, Andy Collins) are answered by defining key terms.

 

For example, a magical trap affects “all creatures who enter the area.”  What about the Iron Golem? It’s basically a robot, not a creature, right? Actually, in D&D a creature is defined by anything with a Wisdom and Charisma score, and Golems have both. So, yes, according to the Rules the Golem counts as a creature and will set off the trap.

 

Often times, the rules aren’t as ambiguous as we think. Looking up a few definitions can help resolve disagreements. 

 

One Shots, Temp Decisions, and Trial Periods. Sometimes the decisions are, in fact, unclear. But, even then, if the discussion can wait – and most of them can – don’t waste game time on it. You’re often better off waiting until you have time to read the books more thoroughly, search the FAQ and forums, and think about it at a more leisurely pace with fewer distractions. A common phrase of mine, “I’ll let you have it this session. And I’ll look into it later then give a final ruling.” Or, “We’ll try it out, see how it goes, if there’s no problems it can stay. If it becomes an issue, then we axe it.”

 

This demonstrates a willingness to work with the players and to give new interpretations a chance. I’ve found that reasonable players are less inclined to argue if the decisions governing their character’s lives aren’t rash decisions. I’m not stupid enough to think I’m immune from rash decisions (I’m human), but at least I make an effort to keep my decisions informed and based on observable evidence.

 

And every once in awhile there will be an overwhelmingly broken mechanic exploited by a player, but the creativity involved is so entertaining I’ll say, “You can get away with it this time and only this time.” Sometimes game-breaking exploits can be the highlight of the evening, and they really don’t hurt anything (except my plans for that encounter) as a one time instance. It only becomes a problem when they use it all the time. I let my players occasionally blow up one meticulously planned encounter. It’s better than letting them blow up the entire game (or blow up on their DM.)           

 

Open and Clear Communication. Whenever I render a verdict, I try to explain my reasoning and my concerns within the context of how they will impact the game (even providing references if I have them handy.)  Players only look at the character sheet in front of them. I have to look out for everyone at the table. Even if a player disagrees with me, they can at least see where I’m coming from.

 

I’ve found that reasonable players also don’t mind being told “no” so long as they feel that it’s a fair decision. Thus, this point combined with the previous point – trial periods and giving it time – go a long ways in resolving disputes over the table.

 

Compromise. My saying for DMing is, “Work with me, and I’ll work with you.” I really want my players to be able to shape their character and play them however they want. I try to make it clear that the only times I’ll step in and say “no” is when something should threaten the game, itself, and the enjoyment of the other players. 

 

And even then, I don’t like to say “no” and close the book. Things don’t have to be so black and white. D&D is a cooperative game built on trust. Players trust me to let them play the characters they want to play, and I trust them to run through the adventures I write for them. If I start tearing down their characters, what do you think they’re going to do to my adventure?   

 

Rule Zero. DM has final say. Period. I play by this rule regardless of what side of the DM screen I’m sitting. If I have a problem with how someone interprets the rules, I will not play in their game. If there’s a player who I know will be troublesome and challenge rule zero, then I don’t invite them to my table. When the DM makes a decision and says it’s time to move on, the game moves on. End of discussion.   

 

But I also caution that rule zero should be an issue of respect and trust … not a wild card to be flaunted. And a DM who goes through the trouble to guard himself against making snap decisions, a DM who is sensitive to his player’s concerns and simultaneously sensitive to the needs of the game, a DM who can articulate his reasons well, and a DM willing to compromise is far more likely to have this trust than one who hides behind the DM screen and decides things on a whim.

 

Theoretically, Rule Zero is the right of every DM, but in practice the DM must earn the right from his players.  

 

Preparation. If something can be done before the session starts and you have the time … why not knock it out of the way before hand? Draw out maps? Check. Find appropriate miniatures to use and separate them? Check. Roll some skill checks in advance? Check. Put all of your notes in order so you can find them more quickly? Check. Calculate XP for each individual monster so you don’t have to hunt it up on the chart and then break out a calculator? Check. 

 

I can’t do everything in advanced – nor do I expect to – but there’s a few things I can do. And maybe I can’t do everything before the session. Say I need to draw 2 maps on the battle mat, but we won’t need the 2^nd map until a few hours in? Great time to call for a five minute break, have the players grab some snacks, and I can use that time to break out the water based markers and draw out their soon-to-be-tomb – I mean, “their battle ground.” Yeah, that’s what I meant.

 

Always have a simple clear goal for the players. The game is driven by player’s actions. If they don’t know what to do, then the game isn’t going anywhere. And it’s no fun sitting around trying to figure out what obscure bit of information to follow up on from last week/month. That sounds too linear? Replace “simple clear goal” with “simple clear option.” Boom. Non-linear. Having players wander aimlessly is dangerous waters for a tabletop game (it didn’t go over too well at the end of Chrono Cross on the PS1, either.)

 

Perhaps the only exception is a mystery-themed game. Even then, 1.) players should be told up front what they’re getting into, and 2.) even in a Mystery game you’re better off having simple clear goals. They may not know the reason behind said goals, but the goals are still there. 

 

Mysteries work better in other mediums because most other mediums don’t have week+ long gaps between sessions. They can be done over the table, but it’s a bit trickier. Maybe you have a great whodunit idea and the players are supposed to find the murderer. Great. Make it clear they have to go to the scene of the crime and look for clues. Once they find a clue, make it clear they need to go talk Wilkins the Gardener and intimidate information out of him, and once they’ve done that make it clear they have to break into Johnson’s room at the Inn and ransack his place for more clues, and after that … etc. Have an NPC spell it out for them if you have to. Remember, it might be days, weeks, or maybe even a month between clues. It could take over a year to collect all the clues they need to solve the mystery. Good luck remembering that.          

 

And remember, say there’s a mystery surrounding an ancient artifact from the Forgotten Ones. Well, the players don’t have to know what the artifact does to guard it from Bane’s minions. The villain’s identity could be an enigma, but since he’s from the church of Lolth they know he’s bad news – and hey, they do know the identity of three of his underlings so they can track him down. 

 

Just because the campaign is mystery-themed doesn’t mean everything has to be a mystery.  

 

Again, the game is bound to run into pauses. There’s no preventing it, and no point in trying to iron out every single potential time-waster. But, you can take steps to keep things moving at a reasonable pace.

 

Addendum: Just recently, I had a clear and simple non-mystery session turn into a mystery on account of crappy dice rolls coupled with the player’s meta-gamed decisions. You can lead a horse to water, as the saying goes …         

 ---
 

D&D 3.5 “Rules of the Game” : http://wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/arch/rg

D&D 3.5 FAQ: http://wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/er/20030221a

Everyone in the group has set aside time, dedicated resources to all meet in one place (not to mention spent a small fortune on all the books). Both the time and resources can be spent elsewhere. As the DM, it’s my job to make this investment worthwhile.

 

There are two golden rules a good DM must observe. Let’s examine them in detail. 

 

1. Above all else, keep the game moving.

 

Sure, individual DM decisions may frustrate individual players. But, a comatose game will frustrate everyone (including the DM.) Many things can slow the game down, but there’s a lot of preventative measures to minimize (or outright bypass) the molasses pit.

 

 Rule Hunting. There comes a point in every session when we have to open up the books and look up information. That’s unavoidable, and everyone should expect the occasional pause to verify a rule. But sometimes, the session grinds to a halt because one reference leads to another and neither the DM nor the player fully understand the rules in question. When the pauses become measurable in minutes, decisions need to be made.

 

Source restrictions. Players are only allowed to use approved books. I know what’s in each and every one of the books I approve, and I know where to find information in them. If I need to look something up, it’s usually to verify a detail or fetch some numerical variables (ie is this spell “1 minute per level” or “10 minutes per level?”)

 

Character Sheet approval/copies. Before the game, I do a thorough audit of each character sheet, and then copy down some necessary information (ideally getting a full blown copy.) This way I know the party’s capabilities, I know what I can expect (game mechanic wise) from them, and I know what rules I need to brush up on. There’s bound to be surprises – especially with a creative group – but there’s no reason to allow basic abilities be one of them. 

 

Streamline Encounters. Keep one-shot NPCs and monster simple. Your typical monster/hostile NPC has an average lifespan of 5 rounds, so there’s no need to give him 17 different abilities. Complex NPCs/Monsters increase the likelihood that you’ll forget something, they increase the amount of time you stare at their stats looking for where you wrote the proper modifier, and it will increase the likelihood that you will have to crack open a book for a rule hunt. Don’t be afraid to make one-shot NPCs one trick ponies; it’s not like they’re going to be alive long enough to use any other tricks. (Note: Recurring villains are an entirely different matter, and if they’re coming back they should have a level of complexity that’s not gratuitous.)

 

Homework. I re-read the relevant rules for each of the characters – a Wizard, I’ll glance over his spells; a grappler, I’ll go over the rules on grappling; Cleric, the rules on Turn Undead, etc. But, more importantly, I’ll re-read all the rules for the monsters, tactics, traps, relevant die-roll situations that the players will most likely face (placing book marks and writing out notes where appropriate.) In other words, if I plan it, I should know how it works, and if I keep things streamlined, I should be able to retain the knowledge at least until after the session. Again, there’s bound to be surprises, but the stuff I wrote out should not be one of them.

 

Pre-rolls. If I know an NPC is going to take a course of action the players may not know about, I’ll go ahead and make his relevant dice rolls in advance. For example, two elf NPCs were going to sneak up on a roof and attempt to snipe the party. I rolled their Hide checks in advanced, and I rolled the opposed spot checks for the NPCs around (my NPCs play by the same rules as players.)  When the appointed time came, I called for Spot checks, and once the players announced their results we could immediately start up the battle. 

 

If I know an NPC is going to use Bluff, Forgery, Disguise, Hide, Move Silently, or some other opposed check I’ll roll it in advanced and write down the DC players will have to beat when their turn comes. That way, all I have to do is call for Sense Motive, or Spot, or Listen. Sometimes, if the situation calls for it, I’ll do hidden rolls on the players behalf and not even ask for a check but that’s getting into another topic for a later post.

 

The players will have plenty of opportunities to roll dice against NPCs and monsters, so by cutting out the excess, it’s not like I’m taking away anything by making a few rolls in advance.

 

Optional Reading. Wizards of the Coast has a wonderful 3.5 archive on the net rich with information, clarifications, advice columns, and other helpful articles. I’ve done my fair share of reading over there, and I’ll skim over the articles before a session to see what kind of surprises I might be able to anticipate. Check it out sometime: http://wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/archives

 

Delegate. So one player wants to buy an Adamantine weapon, and I don’t remember the exact price off the top of my head? Well, I see that player has the DMG sitting right in front of him. “Check the price for me, okay?” He can look it up himself (he did buy the book – he can bloody well use it) while I resolve what the other players want to do. What if he lies to me? Well, I don’t game with people stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds their characters, and I certainly don’t game with people I can’t trust.

 

The DM doesn’t have to do everything. I’ve got a team of perfectly capable players sitting here, and there’s a lot of things they can do on their own.

 

[To Be Continued.]

Current Mood: geeky

The classical D&D formula involves 4 players and one DM (total of 5 people.) There can be fewer or more, of course, but the rules anticipate five. Five people with five opinions and (possibly) five different play styles. Some gaming groups have fallen apart due to incompatibility, but to be perfectly frank, I would blame stubbornness and narrow mindedness over “incompatibility” 99% of the time.

 

Some people prefer the role-playing and interactions with other players and NPCs, other people like power gaming, some people like to be the supreme invincible hero with no faults or weaknesses, and other people like to be the quirky character in the back of the room staking out the villain. That’s all fine. There’s room at my table for you. But, you know who isn’t welcome? The juvenile bastard who thinks that D&D is ONLY about powergaming. The simple-minded jerk who thinks D&D is ONLY about role-playing. The 6 year old in an adult’s body who thinks his character’s superhero-like exploits should be the focus of the ENTIRE session. Oh, and the immature idiot who wants me to play out the entire conversation the quirky character is eavesdropping on while the other 3 people at the table fall asleep.

 

People have different play styles and different expectations, and everyone present needs to demonstrate an awareness that other people come to the table for different reasons, with a different play style, and with different expectations. Everyone needs to be respectful of those sitting around them. There’s a job for taking care of inconsiderate people who think the world revolves around them and their beliefs and who refuse to listen to any other input. It’s called “babysitting.” 

 

I’m not a babysitter, I’m a Dungeon Master. 

 

All people at the table, including the DM, has to show up willing to make concessions and compromises for the good of everyone’s enjoyment. The Wizard has to accept the fact the spell he really really wants from Dragon magazine is way overpowered. The fighter has to live with the fact Keen and Improved Critical no longer stack in 3.5. Tough luck, Mr Rogue, but you don’t have enough ability points to qualify for that Eyes in the Back of your Head feat. As for you, Monsieur Cleric, you wouldn’t have picked the spell Miracle anyway so stop bitching that it got banned. Oh, and DM, the players want to take the route for which you didn’t prepare anything. Improvise something and deal with it.

 

Everyone should be willing to compromise. Everyone. If four out of the five people are willing to make compromises, and the fifth refuses to give in to anything put it to him like this:

 

Get with it, or get lost. 

 

In the utopian vision, you might think four generous people willing to make extensive compromises will be able to keep the group together and happy. Here’s the reality: it’ll keep you together for a little while, but you won’t be happy. The four generous people will start harboring a grudge and remember each and every time that selfish son-of-a-bitch refused to give in on even the most minute issues. The fifth member will be evicted from the group sooner or later, plus there will be harsh – possibly friendship-ending – feelings too (friendships ended over an arbitrary and essentially meaningless game. Pathetic, isn’t it?)

 

The point of D&D is for a group of friends to get together, hang out together, and have fun together. It should not cater to any one individual. If you can’t have fun without the entire game pampering you – if the concept of “together” is too much for you to grasp – that’s your own fucking problem.

Current Mood: dorky

I’d have to say a sense of curiosity. A sense of exploration and wonder – that the author, himself, is making this journey with his reader. A sense that the author not only dared to ask “what if”, but also takes that “what if” scenario seriously enough to seek out answers, organize and articulate them, and present them as a coherent, cohesive, narrative. 

 

The storyteller must not simply tell the story, but believe in it. If the author, himself, cannot believe his own story, then why should I suspend my disbelief?

 

One of my favorite authors, Isaac Asimov, wrote a trilogy about robots (Caves of Steel, the Naked Sun, and Robots of Dawn.) All three are detective stories, and the main narrative of all three are, quite honestly, a let down … especially juxtaposed to the magnificent worlds Asimov conjures. God, the worlds are beautifully realized in a symphony of words that flows off the page and into the reader’s imagination.

 

Asimov’s relentless curiosity with the cause and effect in the futuristic earth; the titular caves of steel and their effect on the psychology (not to mention phobias) of mankind; the culture, lifestyle, and politics of the spacer worlds and how they interact with other cultures; his fascination with the practical conflicts of the three laws of robotics and how the machines can seemingly break them – all aspects of this setting have a consequence on the characters, how they think, how they act, and how they exist. Aasimov’s sci-fi setting is real because therein lies his passion.

 

In Caves of Steel, Elijah Bailey and Daneel Olivaw’s elude their pursuers in a breathtaking chasing as they hop from accelerator strip to accelerator strip. Imagine instead of driving on roads, the roads, themselves, propel any object on them (kinda like turbo-charged escalators and moving sidewalks).  And it’s like a dance as these protagonists hop from strip to strip, changing directions, changing speeds, all while cityscapes and faces whir past. Aasimov uses the tried and true chase to showcase his imagination for one of our potential futures.

 

And few confrontations can match the battle of threats in Robots of Dawn. Elijah is sent out of his jurisdiction to Aurora, and with no real authority (and no one willing to help) he has to solve a case. Everyone expects him to fail, and all hell will break loose if he does. Armed with the knowledge that things can’t possibly get worse – that he and Earth have nothing to lose – he fearlessly uses robot logic and his robot allies to force answers out of these uncooperative alien bastards without raising a finger. Few men can write an escalating action sequences so intense; Aasimov doesn’t need action … he uses only dialogue.

 

Such is the beauty of these novels. Aasimov’s curiosity permeates the fabric of the story – the three laws of robotics, Earth’s place in the interstellar hierarchy, the conditions within Earth’s steel cities. He asks “what if” after “what if” and happily articulates his answers over the course of the narrative. He uses Elijah Bailey as a base point for the reader to connect with, and then guides them across this spectacular imagining of Earth’s future. We literally explore these worlds with Aasimov, himself, through the character of Elijah Bailey. Curiosity, exploration, and a sense of wonder.

 

And notice I said very little about the plot of the Robot trilogy, even going so far as to call that aspect a “let down.” There’s more to a book than the plot. Far more.

 

Then again, some authors have a passion for plots, and that’s what they choose to explore – that’s what intrigues them and makes them ask “what if”. A brilliant example lay within H.P. Lovecraft’s The Music of Erich Zahn (which actually breaks from the Lovecraft norm.) The title says it all – what is so special about the music of Erich Zahn? Across the story, we journey with the narrator as he tries to understand those strange melodies, what they mean, and who – or what – are they for? The narrator and Erich Zahn, himself, are almost inconsequential. The music … the enigma … that’s what Lovecraft is after. Curiosity, exploration, and a sense of wonder.

 

And, as stated, the Music of Erich Zahn actually breaks dramatically from Lovecraft’s usual obsessions. Typically, Lovecraft explores mythos, histories, long forgotten secrets, ancient creatures lurking beyond the shadows. Take for example At The Mountains of Madness where the protagonists set out to explore newly discovered mountains in Antarctica who hold relics of a civilization about which we know very little. And as Professor Dyer and crew explore those dark corridors, their flashlights moving across seemingly miles of relief sculptures, the history of this strange race is unveiled. Have you ever been captivated by a history lesson?  Fans of Lovecraft have. Very little actually happens At the Mountains of Madness, but Lovecraft intrigues with a lecture’s worth of details and information, none-the-less. Most writers are better off leaving backstory in the obscure references of the present situation, but Lovecraft could make your heart stop with fear while explicitly exploring backstory.  

 

Lovecraft was not satisfied dreaming up exotic god-like creatures from beyond the cosmos, he wanted to understand them too. Curiosity, exploration, and a sense of wonder.

 

What draws me to the conflict in The Exorcist? That author William Peter Blatty explores his faith through the character of Father Damien Karras – how could an all knowing, all powerful, loving God exist and allow so much evil in the world? After counseling fellow priests struggling with their faith, Damien finds himself shaken in regards to the almighty. Yet, now he must find answers and restore his own heart and mind because a very real demon torments a very real little girl in Georgetown. Psychiatry and medicine have failed her, and now only the Exorcist can save her. Again, curiosity, exploration, and a sense of wonder.   

 

Does it really matter where an author’s curiosity lies? Not for me, no. As the examples above prove, I’ll respond to the plot, to the characters, to the setting, and even to the backstory. Each book is written differently, thus I approach them all differently. Somewhere along the way, the writer becomes infatuated with a “what if” question, so infatuated that he breaks out his pen and lets it lead him where ever it may.

 

Lastly, I want to emphasize that I’m speaking of my strongest reaction – what resonates most deeply and makes me rank them as my favorites. I do want to reinforce a point in a previous entry – that all elements of the aforementioned stories come together to support my favorite aspects. Yes, I love the setting in Caves of Steel, but I wouldn’t have found it without the character Elijah Bailey. And, sure, I said the plot is a bit of a letdown, but I never said it outright sucked either. It works well enough to carry Elijah across the span of 300+ pages and unlock the true charms of the Aasimov tale.  

 

A story can be okay or good or, in very rare cases, even great just running through the motions of formula, and I’ve very much liked those tales as well.  However, most of the time, the ones that resonate, the ones I fall in love with, the ones I come back to, are the ones where the author looks across an enigmatic horizon with a hunger to explore … and then sets sail.

Current Mood: geeky

“What is art?”

 

I personally believe the most useful and accurate answers lie within the people most likely to create the art, which poses the question “what is an artist?”

 

Fortunately, artist is much easier to define than art, and, no, I’m not going to cop out with “an artist is someone who creates art” – a cyclic definition that never really nails down intended meanings. Strangely enough, art doesn’t play into the definition of artist at all; however, art is a natural result. The key to defining artist is in the relationship the individual has with their medium. Thus, it’s possible for an artist to go their entire life without creating art. 

 

Regardless of the medium, regardless of the education, regardless of skill level – whether veteran or novice – there is a common factor across all boards: the passion.   

 

An artist is an individual who loves their medium.

 

The key word being love, an ambiguous term, so let’s explore and clarify that definition as well. The love – the passion – is a powerful emotional attachment that drives the artist to actively explore and create within their medium. An artist will want to work within their medium – maybe take classes, do some independent reading/studying, and at the very least he will work within his medium regularly.

 

The music you love stays in your CD Player and/or atop your iPod playlist more than music you hate. Books you read on your own are on subjects that interest you. You tend to eat foods you like as often as practicality and health concerns will permit while avoiding foods you dislike. You probably put off dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, cleaning, and laundry as long as possible because those chores aren’t exactly your idea of a good time – you’d rather be playing video games, hanging out with friends, going to the movies, watching TV, or something because you like those activities. (And even if you do get the chores out of the way first, it’s to enjoy leisure activities more thoroughly is it not?) 

 

So is it elitist to ask to see a so-called artist’s portfolio? If that person loves their medium, and assuming they didn’t just decide to pursue this course five minutes ago, wouldn’t they have something to show for it? Wait, hold that thought.   

 

You’re child is going in for a critical surgery. Two people calling themselves doctors offer to do the operation. One guy spent the first half of his life in college and med school learning this stuff and the second half of his life actually performing these operations; the other guy took biology in high school where he dissected a cat. Is the second guy really a doctor? And if so … are you going to put your child’s life in his hands?

 

What I like about this definition is that it excludes arbitrary benchmarks in education. Many artists never receive a formal education in their mediums, but, worst case scenario, they get their hands on the tools and they teach themselves through trial and error. Then the inverse happens – people blow 60+ credit hours and thousands of dollars on formal education, hang the diploma on the wall, and do nothing with it. Experience is the ultimate teacher, so the former example will continue to learn and grow and eventually surpass the latter example whose knowledge and skill will atrophy. Between the two, which one is the artist?

 

Also, this definition bypasses the person’s skill level entirely. As much as filmmakers would love to disassociate themselves from the freakishly incompetent likes of Ed Wood and Uwe Boll – terrible, terrible, terrible filmmakers – they’re still filmmakers. Nowhere near the same league as Alfred Hitchcock, F.W. Murnau, Martin Scorsese, and Werner Herzog … but, they’re still all lumped in that broad category together (as much as I hate to admit it.) So, the passion for the medium defines an artist, but doesn’t state whether said artist is any good.  

 

Passion defines an artist, but can passion – a subjective term – be measured? I think so with the most reliable measure of all: time. Words are infinite, but time is fleeting. A poser will talk about their dedication and bitch that they can never find time, but an artist will make time. An artist cares enough about his medium to spend the time creating in it, developing their skills in it, and exploring its possibilities. An artist will make time for his medium because it is the pulse behind his existence. They are inseparable.

 

“What is art?”

 

I actually did write an answer for this LJ entry, and then deleted it because ultimately I didn’t give a damn about the statement. If you still want an answer, go ask someone else. If you need me, I’ll be exploring more interesting questions (with more interesting answers) like asking my good friend Rocky Adams, a fellow writer, “What compelled you to write that short story Duty of Man?” and while I’m at it mention how I admire the brisk pacing and off-the-cuff flow that my writing can never seem to capture. Or maybe I’ll play through the short but sweet PC/XBox game, Dreamfall, and think about what makes its dramatic narrative work so powerfully (my money’s on the excellent development and conflict facing its protagonist Zoe Castillo.) Or, maybe I’ll open my sketchbook and exercise my own passion for the medium.

 

After all, I can think of many things more interesting and rewarding things to do than sitting around asking/answering “What is art?”

Current Mood: dorky

Early in this LJ’s life, I wrote extensively about criticism. More specifically: critiques. But there’s another side to criticism: reviews. Now, both are very very similar to one another. In fact everything written under the “Criticism” section applies to reviews as well so I won’t regurgitate them here. The key difference, though is that critiques speak directly to the artist; reviews, by contrast, broadcast an opinion to the world. One has a precise focal point, the other a universal focal point.

 

Recently, I fell in love with a PC/Xbox game entitled “Dreamfall: The Longest Journey”, and I was so riveted by the experience that I wanted to share it with all my friends and everyone I knew. There’s something magical about sharing a great experience with other people. When it resonates deep inside you, inspires you, makes you dwell on it long after you’ve stepped away, it brings you and your friends one step closer through the common experience. You’ve all been touched by a work of art.

 

But after a little bit of thought, I found myself reluctant to outright recommend the game. I can say with absolute confidence that one unnamed individual won’t like it because the main character is female, and God forbid he ever play anything but a steroid-pumped avatar of himself. Another guy won’t like it because Dreamfall is an Adventure game (thus, linear.) A girl I know will hate it because her stories have to be completely and neatly wrapped up at the end, and Dreamfall leaves many many doors open and many more questions unanswered. Are they closed-minded? Absolutely. But I hasten to add that I’m no better and dismiss games for equally trivial reasons.  Guilty as charged.  It has something to do with being human, I suspect.
 

Anyway, this brings me to the point of a review – to tell the world what I see in Dreamfall. I did not set out to write a static list of features or paraphrase the plot – that’s what advertisement and product summaries are for. Nor did I set out to “objectively” evaluate the game’s quality and rate it appropriately – objectivity is a delusion perpetrated by condescending people obsessed with the world conforming to their own subjective opinions. Rather, I simply announced to the world what I see in Dreamfall – I channeled my passion for the game and my passion for writing, and I articulated my perspective.

 

Why? For the same reason I strive to give detailed and constructive input when an artists shows me their latest work and asks what I think – there’s enough people who leave it at “I liked it. *crickets chirp*.”

 

Agree, disagree, play the game or don’t – it doesn’t change how I feel about Dreamfall. My review is up and available to read. I hope you do play it, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. There are few things in this world as satisfying as being wowed, awed, and humbled by an art form. Dreamfall did that to me. If there’s a chance the game might do the same for you, I’d love to lead you there. 

 

And maybe you have played it and didn’t care for it – or even hated it – my hope is that maybe, just maybe, seeing my perspective will open a door for you. Maybe you’ll see what I see in the game, and maybe Dreamfall can give you those goosebumps of being gripped by an engaging heartbreaking narrative with compelling sympathetic characters. Or at the very least appreciate the game even if you don’t like it.

 

But ask yourself this: Suppose you did play Dreamfall. Suppose you absolutely hated the game over some preconceived or trivial idea that got stuck in your head, what kind of review could shed new light which in turn lets you enjoy the game for what it is? A static summary of the game? A bunch of “objective” statements testifying to its unequivocal greatness which is set in stone and cannot be challenged? Or is it a review that invites you to momentarily glimpse through another pair of eyes?

 

People forever bitch about critics because they sometimes write unfavorable reviews we disagree with. Get over it. I read Roger Ebert regularly, and yeah I disagree with his reviews very often. But, you know, through Mr. Ebert I’ve discovered so many films that I treasure, and I never would have found on word of mouth (Herzog’s Nosferatu, The Third Man, Touch of Evil, Metropolis, Cabinet of Dr Caligeri, the list goes on and on.)

 

I hated hated hated Kubrick’s The Shining, but Ebert’s review left me spellbound and fascinated – that was not the movie I saw – and so I revisited The Shining. And, you know, I still don’t like it … but I see what Ebert sees in the movie. The paradox he describes is clearly there. It’s an intriguing aspect to the narrative and structure of the film, and now I can at least take something away from The Shining. I can appreciate it. And because I’ve seen that perspective, seen what Kubrick managed to do in a manner so subtle I didn’t see it the first time, now I can learn from it.

 

Now granted, there are more negative reviews than positive ones (and the negative ones cause the most communication breakdowns, especially if the review challenges your tastes.) Here’s the thing that is not outwardly apparent, and that any worthwhile critic will tell you: sure, it can be fun trashing a POS. You might even go so far as calling it an act of vengeance getting to finally express all that built up hatred and disdain, but there’s no satisfaction in the extreme negatives. 

 

I can get even with XenoSaga 1 for wasting 35 hours of my life, but it’s an empty act. Those 35 hours of my life are gone forever and you know what? I’m wasting more time writing a damn scathing review about it; I’ll settle for whatever prose gets this crap out the door and out of my hair for good. On the contrary, a review expressing a positive passion is far more rewarding. I loved Dreamfall, and I felt it was my responsibility in writing a review to compose prose worthy of the game, a description that reflected my experience of the game, and express my affection for the game – it’s a challenge to meet, and when my pen rises to the occasion I can feel proud. 

 

When you write a review, you relive the experience while you explore your own reaction towards it. For that POS that you never want to see again? Well, that means reliving the pain and horror all over again. But your favorite game?  You get to bask in the memory and relive the good times.

 

And really, why do you read reviews? For a pat on the back that an “authority” figure endorses your personal favorite CD/DVD/book/game/play/musical? For “guidance” on what mainstream crap to purchase in an age of supreme over-exposure? (Seriously, who did not know about The Dark Knight?)

 

I write reviews to offer the reader a chance to see from another angle. My angle. It isn’t necessarily better or worse than your’s. Just different. Whether we agree or disagree is entirely irrelevant. I guess the real question is, when you read a review do you want to see another view, or just a reflection of your own? And if you’re looking for the latter … why are you reading reviews at all?

 

Why look out a window when you’re searching for a mirror?

Current Mood: geeky

“What is art?”

 

The question truthfully does not interest me.  It’s a static, sterile, not to mention incredibly vague question which in turn keeps the issue at arm’s length.  It’s the perfect question to ask if you don’t want the conversation to really go anywhere.  If you don’t have a pretty good background in the field, where can it go?  You can dance around for an eternity throwing rocks at its surface without ever hitting anything important thanks to overwhelmingly sweeping generalities.

 

Thanks, but no thanks.  I’d rather experience art in its various mediums and incarnations.  I don’t want to know about the arts; I want to know them.  If someone seriously wants an answer, they don’t ask at 3AM in the local Denny’s with complete strangers, nor do they post it on some random forum, then leave it at that.  If someone seriously wants an answer, they go and dive in.  Maybe ask some questions about where to dive in and which way to go (and some internet forums are great places to start), but the point is you eventually dive in.  You submerge yourself into the topic.

 

Art has a paradoxical quality of being both definable and amorphous.  I think of a medium as being an insanely complex math equation that no one wants to mess with analytically – it literally has a domain of hundreds of variables (most of which defined by yet more insanely complex equations) and no constants, and there may not be one absolute answer, but there are hard-fast rules (and even cheats) to work through it and yield an answer (and yes, there are numerous right and near infinite number of wrong answers.) 

 

Or, to put in different (simpler) terms, creating in a medium is a balancing act with lots and lots of objects to balance.  How much attention do you give each and every individual object to keep the whole thing from crashing down?  That depends on what objects are being balanced.  Easy enough, right?  So what objects are we balancing?  That depends on what you’re trying to do with your creation.  One question frustratingly leads to another question then to another and so on. 

 

This is why the vague “what is art” does not interest me.  We can’t define it simply, and it takes way to long to be all-inclusive.  It’s much easier, not to mention more effective, to tackle an individual piece and discuss how it balanced everything (or, if you prefer, how it worked through the impossibly complex equation.)  And when doing this, it’s important to note what worked for Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring probably will not work for the love song you’re composing for your spouse (Hector Berlioz’s Witch’s Sabbath … now there’s a love song.) 

 

Is it any surprise then, that I’m more interested in exploring the wonder of Fritz Lang’s 1927 masterpiece Metropolis with its abstract, incredibly surreal, completely illogical, yet virtuoso vision that’s shaped our perception of the future in science fiction?  How the imagery combined with the rhythms in Edgar Allen Poe’s famous The Raven are so haunting in their fluidity?  How the torment of the girl is both beautiful and disturbing in Swiss painter Henry Fuselli’s The Nightmare?  How the relentless progressive cries of Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings brings the listener to the brink of an emotional breakdown every time they hear it?

 

Taking an individual piece and exploring it – discussing what worked, what failed, what resonates, what is communicated, and whatever other reaction the viewer/listener may have.  In a word “criticism.”  Not the public perception of what a critic is, but what a critic should be (and what most critics fail to be.)

 

Thus, art can exist without criticism, but criticism completes art.  At its best criticism has an appreciation and love for the medium – an eagerness to engage it – that helps the art form grow and evolve by offering explicit and detailed observations for the next generation of artists.

 

So “what is art?”  If you can’t take up the artform itself to answer, criticism goes a long ways in answering it.  One way or the other, you’re exploring the art and not asking rhetorical questions.

Current Mood: geeky

I’ve come to loath a number of topics in casual discourse. Most of my animosity stems from lack of actual discourse, where conversation takes the format of expressing uninformed opinions and not listening to the other person (made even more infuriating when one participant’s hobbies/profession would make them pretty knowledgeable in the given field, and yet other parties who merely speculate refuse to listen.) That’s not conversation. It’s posturing.

Some topics seem particularly suited to posturing – politics, history, philosophy, and art in particular. These topics have a common tangent: complex and in-depth records usually reduced to pop sound-bytes simplified for mass consumption. These disjointed bits rely heavily on multiple relays, thus numerous interpretations, reinterpretation, and yet more reinterpretations. Even worse: they don’t require any real knowledge about which to ramble at length, and as a bonus most times blind conjecture makes more sense on a surface level than the actual underlying mechanics.

And since few people actually do their homework anymore or, you know, double check the premise of the speaker’s opinion, a subject like politics serves as a wonderful opportunity for all parties to bask in the illusion of intelligence. Nobody knows anything – nobody cares – so any opinion sounds valid. And, hey, we can all bitch about the comings and goings of our Government, non?

There’s one subject in particular with which I have a bone to pick. One question that almost always outright offends me simply because the speaker doesn’t have the attention span to listen to a complete answer – because they do not realize they are asking an empty question that likely receives an equally empty answer. So what question do I so hate?

“What is art?”

What the hell kind of question is that? Really. What kind of question is that? Sure, someone intimately familiar with a medium can pose the question with intentions of challenging conventions, and such circumstances can be quite fascinating, even enlightening, not because they asked – rather because they, usually an artist, have first-hand experience to provide their answers with a detailed context. They have insight that penetrates surface impressions to the core of the issue.


I think it’s safe to assume that each and every one of those 10,000 incorrect attempts had a logical possibility, very remote possibilities perhaps, but hypothetical possibilities none-the-less. All sounded reasonable to the speculation of an imaginative mind, and those minds could go on at length about why any one of those 10,000 should work¹. But, unless that imaginative mind actually tries these possibilities, they won’t move forward. Likewise, a conversation based purely on speculation with no experience will never move forward. At best it goes in circles.

Furthermore:

Regardless of how imaginative one may be, without preparation (experience, studies), their mind probably will not recognize the methods that do work. This principle spans more than just the arts. People with a lifelong ambition to be a dog-catcher did not put a man on the moon, invent the micro-processor, or discover atomic energy. Had Sir Alexander Fleming thrown out his plate culture when that pesky mold grew on it, he would not be credited as the key to discovering penicillin². Likewise, a trash collector did not – could not – write Hamlet, paint the Sistine Chapel, or compose The Planets.

If I had to draw an analogy, I’d say art, if anything, is like a still lake with a reflective surface. Strangers gaze upon it and become engrossed with only the surface qualities. When someone speaks on art who has never picked up a paintbrush, never bothered to learn to play an instrument, never composed real poetry nor prose, never partook in any of the other mediums out there – they’ve only seen that still lake from a distance, and their words represent only those exact same surface impressions every one of us has experienced. And what is the most prominent surface quality of that lake?

The reflection.

They’re speaking about themselves.

On the other hand, someone who loves their medium – someone who has submerged themselves into it – knows there’s an entire world awaiting. Those are the people whose opinions I value and treasure. Those are the opinions with insight, intimacy, and understanding of the underlying art form.

Those are the opinions worth hearing.


¹ Also of note: ignorance has a funny habit of dramatically increasing the number of possibilities. “Why not just use a really big sling shot to get people across the Atlantic Ocean?” If an intelligent imaginative mind comes up with 10,000 possibilities, an ignorant imaginative mind can come up with about a thousand times more.

² Incidentally, Fleming’s mind wasn’t prepared to see the research through, but it was prepared enough to see some potential and open the door for others, none-the-less.

Current Mood: frustrated

Characters without conviction

Now, let me pose this question to you: if suspense is created through characters (usually the star) in danger, and Jason is the star … who cannot die … and who happens to be doing all the killing … how do you create suspense?

Let me pose this question to you: if you know everyone in a fictitious world exists to be hacked up by the star, why should you care about them? (Most message board discussions about F13 characters usually boils down to their physical appearance.)

How about this one: if nobody is coming back for the sequels … why invest in the current crowd?

Early Friday the 13th assembled a group of sex-crazed camp-counselors and at most assigned each their own traits to tell them apart (a prankster, a guy who can walk on his hands, guy in a wheel-chair.) Later on personality templates evolved:

Protagonist
Slut
Bully
Evil Doctor/Teacher– Yes, mad scientists in F13. Didn’t see that one coming, didja? Parts 7,8&10 – pts5-10. Interesting note: if the protagonist is female, the bully is also the slut (7&8). – I think you can take your pick of any F13.

 

There’s more, of course, but why go through and detail them all? Whether dealing with main templates or less frequent character sets (like the insultingly corny "comic relief" paint ball morons in pt 6, the whiney fat-guy with mindset of a four year old in part 5 who takes an axe in the back, the black Boxer in part 8, etc) All of these characters exist to fulfill the plot’s demand that Jason pave the way for Tom Savini to show off his gore makeup. They’re puppets of the plot – they’ll do their pre-appointed dance with their assigned "trait" or "template" until Jason cuts the strings. Blood splatters, and then the fans cheer.

What’s fascinating about Friday the 13th is that even rabid fans typically admit to the piss poor writing, and instead throw up defenses like, "lighten up! it’s not supposed to be Casablanca!" Granted: the point of Friday the 13th is blood and boobs – that is the formula fans demand – and that is why every character within the franchise is a gimmick. They exist to obey the formula.

The point is, when your protagonist’s girl friend stabs the hero in the back on the last page of the book … you damn sure better convince the reader that she exists for more than just a cheap plot twist in chapter twenty-one. If the character’s action reads like a grocery list written by the plot (go to camp pg2, meeting someone of the opposite sex pg15, wandering off for kinky sex by the lake pg 45, and then spontaneous skinny dipping pg 46, then wandering off into the woods alone looking for your missing lover pg47, and then … thank F13 for that example.). Yes, grocery lists are bad, and if a character’s activities resemble one we have a serious problem.

– after 6 they were usually quieter, shy, "pure" characters (7,8&9). Roughly every-other film the protagonist is allowed a tag-along partner, usually of the opposite sex (4,6,8,9). – It took five years and one non-Jason sequel (#5) for the creative powers to figure out Jason was the star of the franchise (hence his heroic-treatment in #6, Jason Lives – shrilly dies irae, Alice Cooper song, and everything.) Screw Tommy, and Tina, and Rennie, and all those other characters whose names I’ve forgotten (and looked up just for this entry) – it’s all about Jason. Tommy made it through 3 films, and is the closest thing remotely resembling a rival for Jason. Since Jason is the only one showing up from film to film (and even Jason doesn’t have a 100% attendance record) naturally he becomes the star. When F13pt4:Final Chapter was released people didn’t show up saying, "I can’t wait to see Tommy Jarvis survive this movie!" Hell no. They showed up saying, "Jason’s gonna cut up some nice meat!"

Settings without function – What does Jason do when he gets tired offing teens one by one at Crystal Lake?  What about when the newness of tackling telekinetic and body-hopping gimmicks wears off?  Why, change of Venue!  

I submit to you Friday the 13th VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, which is actually “Jason on a boat” because someone apparently forgot that an 80s F13 budget (under the Paramount flag) couldn’t afford to shoot in New York.  But never mind.  Let me also submit, Jason X aka “Jason in Space” (under New Line management).  The exploration of futuristic outer-space is not a new phenomena in horror films (sadly), and was not new when Jason X came out.  By that time, both Leprechaun and Hellraiser had tested the waters (vacuum?) with abysmal results.

Okay, really … who cares if you can see the Statue of Liberty behind Jason as he boxes (yes boxes) his latest victim’s head off?  Or the dark space-station corridor when he breaks some guy’s neck?  “Oooh, so different from Crystal Lake!”  If I want to see Jason in Paris, I’ll photoshop the damn Eiffel Tower into a still of part 3,4,5,6,or7 (and I’ll photoshop a smiley-face on his mask while I’m at it)!

Good God this is such a superficial alteration – it’s like spray painting the word “corvette” on your SUV thinking that’ll fix the flat tires.  People are a product of their time and environment, so naturally a character should at least appear to be a product of her setting.  Likewise, events are a product of the age – nuclear weaponry wasn’t employed in the war of 1812 – thus its only natural setting and story should be intertwined.  If the story floats on top of the setting like oil on water, and the separation is clear – if the setting looks like it’s crudely photoshopped into the narrative – then you have a gimmick.  You might as well be writing Friday the 13th in Space, and if that doesn’t bother you you probably shouldn’t be allowed to touch piece of paper (much less a pen.)

Current Mood: bored