Lessons of Game Design: Social Contracts and End-User Creativity

Today we have a guestblog from John Evans, please enjoy it!

For those of you who might not know me, my name is John Evans. My father is a computer programmer, and my mother a writer and former English teacher; being raised by them gave me the benefit of several different perspectives on everything. While I've exercised my creativity through both fiction writing (not seriously enough to have anything published) and software development (seriously enough to be paid for it), the one field that has truly captured my imagination is game design.

People have spent thousands of words debating "What is a game and how do you design it?", but I'll just lay out a couple simple working definitions (along with references, for those intrigued!).

A game can consist of a whole bunch of related materials; a game can consist of artwork, scenarios, levels, prose, all sorts of auxiliary assets to improve the experience. The most important aspect, however, are the rules. Rules are instructions to the player(s). In a sense they lay out a social contract; The game designer is saying to the player, "If you follow these rules, you will have a valuable experience." Even 'valuable' could mean many different things, from 'fun' to 'engaging' to 'educational' to 'tragic' to 'cathartic.'

Stepping back for a moment, this description is actually not too different from that of any medium. One could interpret Harry Potter and the Sorc—Philosopher's Stone as being an implicit social contract; J. K. Rowling is saying, "If you read this book from beginning to end, you will have a valuable experience."

The interesting point here is that a game designer does not directly design gameplay; a game designer creates rules that they hope will guide the player into an interesting experience. Think of poker for a moment. The rules define how players assemble hands and how they bet money. But nowhere in the rules is "bluffing" defined; that's an emergent property of the game. Because game designers have to work "at a remove," and for that reason it's sometimes called "second-order design."

But then again, that's not too far off from other media. Any work, like a book, has no meaning if it's not read. One could diagram the sentences and map out the plot, but the true meaning comes when someone gets to the end of the book and says "OMG I never saw that twist coming!" An author is not creating plot twists for the sake of plot twists, an author is designing the experience they wish the reader to have.

Now for another game topic; How are rules enforced? In a computer game, the software is the sole arbiter. It's impossible to fool.

Game: You need a key to get past this gate.
Player: But the fence is only waist-high. Can't I—
Game: YOU NEED A KEY TO GET PAST THIS GATE

Games played with other players are, sometimes, slightly more flexible.

Dungeon Master: You need a key to get past this gate.
Player: But the fence is only waist-high.
Dungeon Master: The fence grows up out of the ground until it is too high to climb. And it's covered with, uh, grease.

Actually, that was a rather silly example. Here's a more serious one:

Black: Okay, I want to move my queen like a knight.
White: That's against the agreed-upon rules. You forfeit your place in this chess tournament and I get the $1000 prize.

The social contract takes on an added meaning in multiplayer games. The players assume that, by entering into the game, they all agree to follow...whatever rules have been agreed upon.

That's not to say that rules are immutable objects. How about this example:

Nought: I move in the top left square. There's only one space left for you to move, and when you do, the game is a draw.
Cross: Okay, instead of moving, I erase one of your earlier moves.
Nought: You can't do that! We didn't agree to it!
Cross: But it might be cool, huh?
Nought: Okay, let's start another game using those rules.

Aha! Two players can play tic-tac-toe with whatever rules they like, because they agree to it. There is nothing that says the rules are completely inviolable. If you break the rules of tic-tac-toe, the world doesn't end, civilization doesn't crumble. You just might have to resolve the issue with your opponent...or you might not have anyone to play with!

Now, remember when I was talking about computer games, and I said a computer is "impossible to fool"? That's a lie. A computer game is defined by a program running on a computer. The information making up that program can always be changed, creating a "modification" (or mod). Some very famous games started out as mods of other games.

Over the years of games being modified, many game developers have started building in facilities to let modders easily change the game assets or code. Modding is often encouraged, as it gives the player community something to talk about and another way to enjoy the game.

Ultimately, I believe that the creativity of the players will become more and more important in computer games. For many games, the experience of playing them is a creative act. And with mods, the players have a growing ability to pursue the type of experience they want to have. Just think of it; soon we might see a Final Fantasy game where you could skip to the end if you wanted to play through it first!

Of course, you can already do that with books.

Hmmm...

Recommended Reading

Game Design: Theory and Practice (2nd Edition), Richard Rouse III — Practical and approachable.

Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals by Eric Zimmerman and Katie Salen — For when you want an exhaustive textbook with careful definitions of everything to do with games.

Chaoseed Softward — Free web-based games I designed and coded!

Zombies Need Love Too — A free (but you can pay small bits of money for advantages) Facebook game I designed and coded!

Thanks very much, John. Check out his game design blog, Chaos Garden, or follow him on twitter for more tasty thought-food.

Sometimes I get the impression that people believe I seek out ideas that are innovative or different.

I don't. I'm not trying to be different; what I'm doing is familiar—to me.

I've given up working out why it doesn't seem familiar to anyone else.

Maria and I bond or something

Dante and Avalon excused themselves to handle the reporting of the former city of London missing. I’m left with Maria to wait for their return. We’ve retraced our route to the steps of the art museum. I can feel the cement through my jeans. Cool like my latte. Only the ceramic mug retains any lingering warmth.

I can’t remember how to make the coffee inside warm again. Stuff just happens because Matt tells it to, so I’m trying that. But the liquid is feeling wholly uncooperative. Means either I’m not saying it like I mean it harm if it doesn’t obey. Or the city guardians still have wards up throughout this city to disperse powers before they make things happen. It helps maintain the order of things.

“Fine,” I say. “Don’t be warm. I’ll still drink you.”

Maria looks at me, but it’s not one of fear. Just mild concern. “Is it your fault?”

“Yes. I should have drank it sooner.”

“No.” She almost smiles. I see her mouth twitch. “Whatever happened to London. The scone seems to think you’re to blame.”

“Most people think I’m to blame for most things,” I reply. “I’m the only one of my people who can do what I do. Makes me an easy target.”

“So you can transform cities?”

“No. I can change probabilities.” I frown. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to London. At least, I don’t remember having anything to do with it.”

I always do. Remember. Like I’m not capable of forgetting. I didn’t cause whatever happened to London. I know that. What I don’t know is why I’m telling her any of this. She thinks what I can do is relevant. I’m not so convinced.

“So that’s what a Twilight King does.” Maria rubs her feet.

Oh. We have a miscommunication. Failure of understanding. One that should be clarified.

“I’m not the Twilight King.” I try giving the mug a little hug with my hands. Maybe it just needs to feel appreciated. “That’s my brother. I’m the Twilight Prince.”

She blinks. Looks at me like she’s really seeing me. Maybe for the first time. “You’re a prince?”

“It’s not a big deal.” I shrug. “Lots of my people are.”

Vancouver people pass the museum. They’re far enough away that it doesn’t matter. They can’t hear us. Up on the steps is its own place. Part of but not part of what happens on the sidewalk.

We watch them in silence. If the mother or any of her toddler entourage think I stick out, they don’t comment. Probably because the city guardians have trained people to observe but not to notice things. Makes it almost like Vancouver was still on your side of the glass.

Mom and Tots cross the street at the corner. No Art for them. Fine by me. I don’t like young children. They seem unnatural.

“So where are you a prince of?” Maria asks. “Is Twilight the name of a city?”

Depending on when you are, you might think this is a stupid question. You might be wondering how Maria could not know that cities don’t have princes. Kingdoms do. There aren’t any kingdoms when Maria’s from.

“Twilight is the name of our tribe,” I say. “Tribes are like families you’re related to through power instead of genetics.”

She shakes her head. “This is such a weird place.”

“Where you’re from communities are where groups of people live. Here communities are those groups of people.” I abandon my mug on the step between us. “You would say ‘I’m from Emerald.’ Location is what links you and everyone else who lives there together. Mutual geography. Here you would say ‘I’m from the Beauty tribe.’ It’s the power that identifies you.”

Except it isn’t power that identifies her. Her tribe didn’t want her. She doesn’t belong to them. Doesn’t understand why this is such a bad thing. Most of the others like her, the ones who refuse to belong to anyone, are in Vancouver. They had the choice. They could have joined tribes. But, like Maria, they were too used to belonging to a place.

“Each tribe has a prince or a princess. Maybe Both. Maybe more. Depends on the tribe is.” I shrug. “Means your second-in-command to the King and Queen.”

She isn’t following. I can see it in how she’s poised, her mouth slightly open, to argue with me.

“How can you not have cities?” she settles on, finally. “Are you all nomads?”

“No. We have cities. We just don’t use them the same way.”

She’s quiet for a few heartbeats. I watch the family disappear into the distance.

“Do you think that’s what happened to London, Ethan?”

My name has changed. There’s a kindness to the way she says. Not the same as how she says Andy. But she’s finally saying Ethan like it doesn’t frighten her.

“What do you mean, Maria?” I glance at her. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. It got swallowed by the dream fields. Spat out as something else. It happens. No one’s responsible for it.”

“That’s what I mean.” She shifts on the step. Faces me. “What if London isn’t wrong—what if neglect is what caused the city to be eaten by the dream fields?”

She sits back. Crosses her arms. Looks damn pleased with herself. She deserves to. I know that places move without Old Ones and tribes to keep them in place. Never mind we couldn’t find London to keep it from becoming forgotten. History is made by those telling it. Easy-peasey for Stellina to make history include the Twilight King decreeing that the city be abandoned.

“That is exactly what happened.” I lean forward. Slip on my headphones. Listen as hard as I can. Straining for strands of Stellina’s easily recognizable refrain.

Avalon’s not wrong about us needing to speak to London. But he’s not right about us not needing to speak to Stellina. Of course, there’s a trap waiting for us wherever she is. All we can do is be aware and hope the element of surprise will better serve us.

This is twice we’ve been pointed in Stellina’s direction. Got a feeling if we don’t take the hint, we’ll see a third reminder and I’m not risking a waffle showing up.

Blogging The Graveyard Book 2/3

Chapter 4: The Witch's Headstone

• How does Bod know about Baba Yaga? Did Miss Lupescu tell him or is there a completely unmentioned Russian ghost in the graveyard?

• Each time I read this sequence I am left wondering WTF a "snake stone" is. I have googled. I do not receive answers that seem to match the stone's description in the book. Also on this note: That thing would be far more tarnished than could be wiped away with a polishing cloth.

• WE ARE THE SLEER. WE CAPSRANT.

• This chapter has a lot of lessons in it. Far more lessons per chapter than the previous one. Like wherever you go, there you are. Don't steal from the SLEER. Trust your instincts. Don't trust someone named Abanazer. Never burn the Man Jack's card.

• The whole Man Jack thing bothers me. I feel that we're being given the clues to know his identity, but they aren't coming together in a way that makes sense to me yet. Why are we told about his grandmother and the cauldron?

• Despite how pleased I am to see a reminder of the Man Jack plot, this is probably my least favorite chapter. This is evidant in how it was easy to remember what I objected to in this chapter and far harder to recall what I delighted in.

Chapter Five: Danse Macabre

• Does anyone else spend this entire chapter thinking it's pronounced maca-brah?

• I love the whole musical aspect of this section, and had I not completed FRAGMENTS before reading The Graveyard Book the first time, I might suspect this chapter left a lasting impression.

• I also really enjoy the play of modern and tradition, dead and alive, and how those dualities don't matter during the dance. There's something beautiful about it. (And incredibly morbid.)

• It is a rule that male characters crush on Neil's Deaths. Silas is sad about this, because he realizes it makes him Morpheus and no one wants to be Morpheus.

• Seriously, though, Silas is upset because Bod's love of Death reminds Silas that one day Bod will go with the Grey Lady.

• The fact that it snows at the end of this chapter made it more personal as I read it on the day it first snowed here.

Interlude: The Convocation

• Markers of Great Books: (1) Footnotes or (2) Interludes.

• There is always a short story in the middle of a Gaiman novel. Sometimes, like with American Gods, it's actually a whole other novel.

• Again, I feel like I should know who these characters are and I don't. Not in a frustrating way, but in the way of there's obviously more to this than what I'm being permitted to know. Would I know if I was old and English?

Interrogation PT 2

“London who?” Maria twists the fork again.

“London, ye cruel beastie!” The scone howls. “Big Ben, Hyde Park, The Tate, Double Decker buses. London.”

Maria eases up on the fork to look at us. “Anyone know what in the Abyss this thing’s talking about?”

Oh. Yeah. I think we do.

“London,” Avalon says. It’s not in the thoughtful tone. It’s in a slightly bewildered one. Not doubtful. He’s been here too long to doubt much of anything.

Dante looks at him. “The missing city?”

“Formerly missing from the sounds of it.” Avalon digs around in his pocket. “Also, formerly a city if we can trust what Sconey MacScone has said.”

Depending on when you’re reading this, you’re at varying levels of confusion. Some background: London is a big city in the south of a country called England. At some point in your future—or past—London vanishes. It’s not the only place. One day—possibly a Thursday—several cities around your world just aren’t there anymore. I won’t go into specifics of why or how. There’s a generally agreed upon explanation among my people that places the blame mostly on your people. Doesn’t matter. You just need to know those cities reappeared in the Twilight Lands.

Unlike Vancouver, we never found London. Except for the Chronograph. Given the evidence of mean scones and exclamation-bomb carrying pancakes, I’d say London also left the Chronograph to torment us. Obviously, the former city has transformed into a douchebag.

“Where’d you get the brilliant idea to go after Ethan?” Maria twists the fork again.

“Ow! Master was told by a lass calling herself Stellina that the Twilight King was to blame.” A whimper. “Please, I beg of ye, lassie—stop forking me.”

She looks to us. Waits. Avalon nods. She pulls the fork free and offers it to him. Accepting, he returns it to the table. Whether he wants it or not, she’s handed him the leadership of our little group. Makes sense. He’s the one with seniority. Dante hasn’t picked a vocation yet. (He’s told me there’s pressure for him to be an accountant like his father.)

“Where can we find this Stellina?” Maria asks.

“No, I’ll not tell ye that.” Sconey MacScone shudders. “I fear her far more than I fear ye.”

Maria reaches for the fork. Avalon stops her with a little shake of his head.

“Looking for Stellina doesn’t address the larger problem.” He traces something on the object he’s pulled out of his pocket. “We need to speak with London.”

“I’ll not tell ye where my master is, either.”

“You will, Sconey MacScone.” Avalon displays the small silver circle in his palm. “I’ve named you.”

A single glyph glows on the mirror. Sconey MacScone has been written above.

“Well played,” Dante says.

Yeah. I wish I’d had the resistance to exclamation marks that would’ve allowed me to think of naming the pancake. Dante would have never had to step in to save me from it later. I could have just made it drown itself in syrup.

“I don’t understand,” Maria says. “Why is naming it a big deal? I mean, how do we even know that’s what it’s called?”

“When you name something, you get power over it,” Dante explains. “Well, you do if you do it properly.”

It’s recommended you to go to school and get certified as a mirror mage first. But if you do, your parents might try to convince you to become an accountant.

Avalon indicates the mirror. “You can challenge this, if you like.”

I think the scone is sulking. It’s making discontent noises as it vibrates slightly on its plate.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dante crosses his arms. “There’s just a little life in you. It’s not enough will to counter a naming. Even the daf—dumb pancake had more.”

The plate rattles violently against the table.

Maria looks at me. “What’s going on?”

I finger my headphones. “I…really have no idea.”

It’s true. I don’t. As exciting as my life is, angry Scottish not-cakes aren’t something I see a lot. My people are a lot less silly when it comes to their means for revenge.

Dante gets a funny look on his face and grabs either of us. Pulls us away from the table. Avalon grabs his mug—it’s one of those big wide ones—and tosses what’s left inside into a nearby plant. Slams the upside down cup over the plate.

Parts of the scone don’t fit inside. They vibrate madly for another few seconds then explode. Like BOOM. Really. The plate goes skidding the table. Takes the fork with it. Maria yells. Dante grabs her. We duck. Shield our eyes. A cranberry scores a trail of gunky red across my hand.

When the crumbs settle, there’s a cranberry splattered against the nearby wall. Shards of a once-plate and crumbs strew the floor like limbs. Another berry-shrapnel is embedded in the counter.

The barista doesn’t meet my eyes as he walks over. He’s got a broom. And the frown of someone doing everything he can to keep his temper so he doesn’t lose his job.

“I think it’s time you left, sir,” he says to Avalon.

Avalon’s turn to frown. Not at the sir. It looks like a cranberry is smeared across his jacket.

“Of course,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking to the barista, but the barista nods and looks satisfied. Avalon’s jacket says nothing.

Dante and Maria untangle from each other. There’s a general lack of blushing. My respect for her increases. Not only is she mean with a fork, she knows the difference between survival and snuggling.

“What happened?” she asks, as the barista leaves. “I mean, I get that the scone thing exploded. But why? Because it wouldn’t do what you told it to?”

“No.” Dante picks crumbs out of his hair. “It was destroyed from afar. There must have been a link to his creator. London was using the scone for surveillance.”

She gives him a look that says and you know this how?

“The plate rattling. Power built up. Overloaded the scone.” He flicks the crumb on the floor. “A vassal that simple can’t hold a great deal of power.”

“Should that be possible?” I ask Avalon. “Since when could former places create things?”

He shrugs. “Last I checked, possible didn’t have a lot of sway once the dream fields were involved.”

The barista clears his throat. In that way meant to assert authority. It doesn’t mean anything. If he thinks we’re city guardians, he knows he can’t really make us leave. Not if we don’t want to. But if we were city guardians, we wouldn’t risk making him feel uncomfortable by staying.

Avalon lifts the mug that’s managed to remain upright on the table. Sniffs it. Pushes it into my hands.

“I don’t see any crumbs in it,” he says. “Finish your latte.”

I point to the mug and give the barista an authoritative look. “I’m taking this with me.”

He sighs. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Thanks.” Dante smiles at him. Guides Maria toward the door with a hand. “We’ll be going now.”

“I’m keeping it, too,” I mutter. Sip my lukewarm sweet caffeine.

“You tell him, E,” Avalon says. Real quiet. So the barista doesn’t actually hear. Neither does Dante.

We leave through the glass doors. Go out into the street. I hear bicycle bells in the distance. Talking. The metallic clack of gates opening. Robson’s no longer asleep.

I don’t think Stellina is as involved in this as Sconey MacScone would have us believe. I know she didn’t send the pancake that claimed to be delivering her message. I can’t doubt she’d tell the former city of London to seek vengeance against the Twilight King. It’s absolutely something she would do, but her harmonies didn’t accompany the pancake attack. Someone’s trying to put the blame on her.

A little while ago for me—again, I don’t know when it was for you—Stellina was involved in something sneaky. She had a deal go bad on her. It’s part of what made Maria Not Right. Why Val isn’t here and Avalon is. How Dante knows about Oliver. Now, it appears it’s also the reason why I was assaulted by my breakfast.

All these threads getting tangled together might make you think of words like Fate and Destiny. I get that. Trufax: There’s a wannabe puppet-master at work here. But let’s not flatter her. This isn’t destiny. She’s working probabilities and people same as I do. Maybe I can’t spin right now, but when I get my rhythms back she is going to get a beat smackdown so big she won’t be able to escape its echoes.

Teach her to ruin pancakes for me.

“So.” Dante tucks his hands in his pockets. “How do we find the former city of London?”

“Simple.” Avalon slips on his jacket. “We report it missing.”

Blogging The Graveyard Book 1/2

December's book for Teen Book Club is Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book, and it has occurred to me that it might be helpful if I actually took notes while reading this time so I can say something a little more insightful than "OMG best book evahhh" at the meeting. Which I shall say anyway and none of you will argue because I will employ the Tone of Judgment that You Must Obey.

Assuming I can consciously invoke it, because usually I have no idea I've used it.

Chapter One: How Nobody Came to the Graveyard

• Still think this book has one of the best opening lines ever.

• #Readerfail: The first time I read The Graveyard Book, I must've only skimmed the line about Bod's age. I recall wondering how a 6 month old was capable of walking so far. He's more like 18 months, which makes a great deal more sense.

• I love the way Silas is described when we first meet him.

• The word expostulated does not mean what I thought it did. I can't decide if this makes me stupid for not knowing what it means or stupid for not looking it up the first time I read the book.

• I also just plain love Silas.

• You do not argue with Death The Lady on the Grey.

• I want to know why Bod's original family was killed and I can't recall if we ever learn that.

Chapter Two: The New Friend

• Why is it when we're introduced to Scarlett I immediately picture her mother as Catherine Tate's Aga Saga Woman character?

• I thought Bod was way older than 5 in this chapter. Apparently the #Readerfail regarding his age lasted the entire book.

• Particle Physics is imaginary science.

• Still love this line: "The treasures of ten thousand years ago were not the treasures of today."

• OMG, this is the chapter where they meet the SLEER! How could I have forgotten about the SLEER and their CAPSLOCK DIALECT? They are Very Scary Indeed.

Chapter Three: The Hounds of God

• Are The People of the Sandman story "The Hunt" ever referred to as the Hounds of God? I know they're from the Old Country just like Miss Lupescu, which never occured to me before. (Probably because it had been eight or nine years between my reading of "The Hunt" and my first reading of The Graveyard Book.)

• This is the chapter I can match up to The Jungle Book easiest, as I can only remember the Disney version* and I seem to recall the monkeys playing catch with Mogawli and then they go to the place where King Louie wants to be man, which was some kind of ruins.

• I do not find the SLEER nearly as alarming as I find the Ghouls. It amuses me how they're all named after Very Important People.

• The entire GhoulGate/GhoulWorld sequence makes me think of Sandman. No, it makes me think of HP Lovecraft's Dream Cycle stories, which is probably why this chapter gets under my skin.

• Definitely more Lovecraft than the Sandman. It's the Ghulheim description: "It was a city that had been built just to be abandoned, in which all the fears and madness and revulsions of the creatures who built it were made into stone."

• I wish we had a word that meant both thank you and good bye so I could sign my emails with it.

*My parents didn't ensure I read the classics, but I am well-versed in all the Disney adaptations.

Congratulations to Rachel Olivier

Dear old friend Rachel V Olivier has announced the release of her holiday romance The Holly and The Ivan from Drollerie Press.

You can read an excerpt here and buy the eBook here.