Posts Tagged writing
Trudy’s Language
Posted by The Management in projects, writing on May 6, 2011
JRPGs, and by extension SRPGs, have an unfortunate tendency to use text as filler. Even with numerous types of fast-forward buttons — something of a band aid solution — their dialogue sequences are often very lengthy.
Luminous Arc starts off with roughly 150 text boxes. Such quantities are pretty common throughout the entire experience.
Verbal diarrhea is never necessary, though, and with Trudy’s Mechanicals we’re taking multiple steps to avoid it:
- Dialogue sequences are often optional. If the player doesn’t want to listen to a character, he can simply choose not to initiate the conversation.
- Colourful tid-bits are non-blocking. This means that if an enemy or an NPC wants to deliver a bark-style one-liner, it simply fades in and out. The text itself is aesthetic and doesn’t hijack the player’s interface, leaving him free to navigate the UI or issue battle commands.
- Cutscenes are short and to the point. Characters don’t prattle on if they don’t have anything interesting to say, and the player never needs to wait too long before he’s back in the “driver’s seat”. A skip option is also implemented as it’s an expected standard for those who are not interested in the story or might be replaying the game.
This less-is-more approach means that our script is much, much smaller than that of a typical tactics game. As a result, we’re taking extra care to make sure the language itself feels unique and interesting.
Here are some examples:
Slang
Planescape: Torment is famous for its cant, Victorian slang that adds personality to its setting. Seeing as Steampunk has its roots in a romanticized Victorian era, we decided to take a similar approach with Trudy.
A few examples of facial expression that accompany the text of Trudy's main characters.
Although it’s tempting to go overboard with jargon, it doesn’t help if the script can’t be understood by most people. Consequently the use of slang is somewhat conservative and the words we picked often have current-day connotations.
Here are some examples:
- Barker – A gun. Not immediately obvious, but easily grasped given proper context.
- Nibbed – Arrested. As in nabbed, or kidnapped. The word doesn’t have a strict association with the police, but its sentiment is easily understood.
- Lushery – A public drinking den. Lush isn’t a common term for alcohol, but this one was just too amusing to pass up.
Names
Naming characters in a fictional setting is a bit tricky. You typically want to steer clear of popular current-day names that might break the suspension of disbelief, e.g., Mike Smith or John Brown. On the other hand, something truly alien might prove too difficult to vocalize internally, while symbolic names like “Black Lightning” tend to come off awkward and hokey.
Of course we could’ve simply used Victorian era names, but I wanted to differentiate Trudy from typical Steampunk pulp.
Unlike the lead stars of the game, NPC dialogues are not accompanied by "talking heads". This is to save on production costs as well as prevent NPC barks from taking up too much space on the screen.
Our solution was to use old Greek and Slavic names.
The result is not entirely alien, but it’s enough to stand out. Characters are given names such as Renatus, Tatjana, Darko, Milos, Daria, etc., which keeps the naming conventions consistent and adds a bit of flavour to the world.
Proverbs
Finally, proverbs are my favourite trick for imbuing a setting with a sense of culture and history.
Proverbs are usually quite short, but they convey words of wisdom that often speak volumes about an entire society. In keeping with our naming approach, I picked out a couple of Greek and Slavic proverbs suitable to our script:
“Gray hair is a sign of age, not wisdom.”
“As long as a child does not cry, it does not matter what pleases it.”
“Eat and drink with your relatives; do business with strangers.”
The Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon
Posted by The Management in design, writing on April 3, 2011
Videogames are filled with conversations. These range from simple barks to deep and varied dialogue trees, but they’re fairly prevalent regardless of implementation.
And it makes sense, too. People like stories, and stories are built on characters.
Despite this fairly natural desire for dialogue, games used to be pretty devoid of conversations. This struck me as particularly odd in RPGs where groups of people set out on a quest to save the world. After all, one would assume the journey would foster some banter and comradery.
Cutscenes eventually filled the void, but it took a while for another mechanism to catch on: letting the player manually choose to speak to his followers.
Planescape: Torment was one of the first titles to do this, and its discussions on the Circle of Zerthimon remain one of my favourite examples of player-initiated dialogue.
Introduction
“No wonder my back hurts; there’s a damn novel written there.”
Planescape: Torment opens up with its scarred protagonist, The Nameless One (TNO), waking up in a morgue. A talking skull quickly floats by initiating a conversation.
The "cant" is a bit alienating at first, but it adds another layer of immersion to the setting.
We soon find out that Planescape: Torment is not afraid of being verbose. Dialogue is plentiful and it’s buffeted by descriptions, creating entire paragraphs that read like a novel. The Planescape cant — 19th Century British slang — adds further colour to the text.
Morte, the talking skull, informs us that TNO is effectively immortal as he resurrects each time he dies. The caveat is that he risks losing his memories whenever this happens, which is exactly how the game begins.
A Meeting at the Smoldering Corpse Bar
“Here? This is the Smoldering Corpse, though the person smoldering ain’t dead yet.”
TNO’s only clues to his past are rather vague; all he knows is that he’s missing a journal and should seek out a man named Pharod.
A motley crew at the aptly-named Smoldering Corpse bar.
Sigil is a wondrous city, but in some ways it’s not that much different from a typical fantasy hub. To get a few quick answers, the easiest solution is to visit the local tavern.
The gruesome Smoldering Corpse bar is filled with all sorts of interesting characters, one of whom is noted to be observing TNO. His name is Dak’kon, and he’s a withered old githzerai who wields a shimmering glaive.
Talking to Dak’kon reveals that his weapon, a karach, is shaped and sharpened by his mind. The karach represents a zerth, a follower of Zerthimon, but Dak’kon’s blade is somewhat degraded due to a spiritual crisis. The githzerai dwell in the ethereal world of Limbo, forging their surroundings from clear thought, so this is a fairly significant issue.
Unfortunately Dak’kon cannot answer TNO’s immediate questions, but when the conversation ends, he offers to accompany us on our journey.
Getting to Know Dak’kon
“This is his gallery. He says that he *knows* you as his canvas. He shows respect to your strength with his admiration.” Dak’kon is silent for a moment. “Then he insults you by giving you his pity.”
The initial conversation options with Dak’kon are limited, but talking to other githzerai in his presence reveals more about him. We pick up on the fact that Dak’kon’s sullen disposition is a result of what’s seen as a terrible disgrace by his people.
What’s more, Dak’kon is purposefully hiding things from us.
Fell's grotesque backstage gallery consists of TNO's moulted skin.
In the Weeping Stone Catacombs, TNO comes across a severed arm that once belonged to his previous incarnation. The arm can be taken to Fell’s parlour to ask the Dabus about the tattoos that adorn it. If Dak’kon is chosen to translate Fell’s rebus dialogue, TNO can detect that the seemingly honourable gith is actually lying.
When confronted, Dak’kon states that he will not say any more in the parlour. The issue can be pursued later on, at which point we discover that Dak’kon has actually traveled with one of TNO’s previous incarnations. This revelation leads to the rather unique Xachariah subquest that sheds more light on TNO’s own past.
Learning the Circle
“*Know* that I am not a teacher in this, but *know* that I can serve as a guide.”
When TNO asks Dak’kon about his magic — the ‘Art’ — the gith replies that he does not know how it manifests itself in humans. However, if TNO were able to use it, he could learn more of it from Dak’kon.
This is achieved by completing Mebbeth’s sidequests and becoming a mage. While a mage, TNO can study under Dak’kon, and also switch classes by talking to him.
“To learn, you must *know* the People. To *know* the People, you must *know* the Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon.”
The Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon is a device composed of a series of interlocking stone carvings. It’s a clockwork bible of sorts that Dak’kon carries with him wherever he goes.
Examining the Circle as a mage opens up a dialog box. Each level of the Circle tells a different tale of the githzerai race, its genesis, mass enslavement, and eventual rebellion. It reveals the rise of Zerthimon and the eons of suffering him and his people endured. The Circle teaches how the zerth came to learn and master themselves, and how enslavement became their greatest anathema.
“Endure. In enduring, grow strong.”
The full transcript of the Circle’s teachings can be found here, although it doesn’t contain Dak’kon’s and TNO’s commentaries.
Reading and learning the Circle comes across as a ritual; TNO must unlock each layer himself — as shown by Dak’kon — and talk to the gith after each session to discuss it. If TNO’s wisdom statistic is high enough, the proper lesson can be gleaned. This rewards the party with some experience, and a unique spell disk for TNO that magically slides out of the artifact without diminishing its weight or content.
Discussing the Circle in front of the Tomb for the Planes, it's finally revealed what plagues Dak'kon with doubt: he fears that Zerthimon was just a puppet of his enemies.
This pattern goes on for six lessons until it’s revealed that Dak’kon himself does not *know* the full Circle.
Teaching the Circle
“You performed a great service for me. In so doing, you enslaved me.”
With with the sixth layer, both TNO and Dak’kon receive a new spell. To unlock the seventh and eighth layers, TNO’s intelligence must be high enough to work the mechanism, and his wisdom high enough to understand the lessons themselves.
This is a nice transition of student-to-teacher, and ultimately rewards Dak’kon with some permanent stat increases. These in turn affect the karach blade, empowering it with each increment.
The lessons of the Circle also lead to the truth behind Dak’kon’s and TNO’s past.
The ruthless “practical” incarnation originally found Dak’kon close to death in the world of Limbo. He desired the karach blade, so he ensnared the gith in a devious trap. By constructing the Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon and speaking of its lessons, he showed Dak’kon a glimmer of hope to his spiritual ailment. In exchange, Dak’kon promised to follow TNO until his death, effectively becoming bound to the immortal for all time.
Although purely text-based, this was one of the most moving moments I had ever experienced in a videogame.
This enslavement constituted the greatest sacrilege for the zerth, yet it was the only salve for Dak’kon’s moribund soul. By completing the Circle, we finally brought him the resolution he so desperately craved.
Conclusion
“*Know* that there is now nothing left that I may surrender except my life.”
Although still bound to TNO, completing the Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon allowed us to strengthen Dak’kon’s body, mind and spirit.
The process also facilitated character development and character progression. It was meaty, and deep, and unfolded gradually as the game progressed. It sparked numerous discussion that are still ongoing to this day, and it’s held up as a prime example of what made Planescape: Torment such a compelling title.
And it was all for a completely optional character.
Three Small Definitions
Posted by The Management in writing on March 16, 2009
It’s not entirely surprising that the syntactical quality of writing in videogames is hit-and-miss. After all, not every studio can afford an army of English-grads, and many projects are enormous undertakings where something can easily slip through the cracks (especially when localization is involved).
Writing about games, though, should be different. Videogame journalists are primarily writers that are the sole authors of singular pieces relatively small in scope, and they also have an editorial staff backing them up.
Well, one would hope.
I kind of do...
I’m not too intrigued by the idea of consumer reviews vs. artistic critiques — I think both are relevant, although it’s very hard combining them – but neither approach should be exempt from, to put it quite simply, the proper use of words. Matthew has been known to point out an example or two of this, and I’ve decided to do something similar. Below are three definitions of some frequently misused words in the land of videogame writing.
1). Ironically
This is a tricky one, but, as a general rule of thumb, simple coincidences are not necessarily ironic.
- Poignantly contrary to what was, or might have been, expected or intended.
In short, “ironically” is not a synonym for “incidentally” or “conversely.”
As a side note, before Matthew Sturges did all the funny-book stuff, he taught me a bit about definitions and grammar. He also wrote a somewhat famous article about Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic.” It’s a good read, although whoever archived it seems to have mangled it up a bit.
2). Irreverent
Irreverent does not mean wacky, original or interesting.
- Lacking or exhibiting a lack of reverence; disrespectful.
- Critical of what is generally accepted or respected; satirical.
Irreverence is basically an antonym of reverence. This means that the act of being irreverent must fly in the face of something that’s revered. Also, it helps to explicitly state the subject of said irreverence — simply saying that a game is irreverent is an extremely vague description.
3). Comprised (of)
“Comprised of” is an incorrect usage and a misunderstanding of the word. Yes, I know it sounds right, but it isn’t.
- To consist of; be composed of.
- To include; contain.
Comprised (complete with the redundant “of”) is often used to tick off a bullet-point list of a title’s defining qualities. Instead, “consists of” or “is composed of” should be used, i.e., fifty states comprise the United States of America, and the United States of America is composed of fifty states.
It might be a lost battle, though, as “comprised of” is fairly prevalent in all sorts of writing and is well on its way to becoming the next flammable.
Melodrama
Posted by The Management in writing on February 11, 2009
The term melodrama comes from the world of theatre. More specifically, it stems from plays that used music in unison with the on-stage action, i.e., a series of quick bow slices to the violin would accompany the entrance of the evil, mustache-twirling landlord. Melodramas were widely laughed at by the critics, yet lapped up by the common folk.
The quintessential image of a melodrama.
Today, most forms of entertainment media are melodramas, and the “common folk” are the mainstream audience. Even when aiming for the so-called lowest common denominator, though, melodramas don’t have to be bad.
There are a lot of negative connotations that accompany the term: black and white characters, formulaic stories, sensational confrontations, implausible coincidences and a rigid commitment to happy endings. Still, these can easily become positives by embodying: unambiguous characters, clear plotlines, emotional climaxes, exciting twists and satisfying finales.
This is the difference between pathos and bathos.
- An element in experience or in artistic representation evoking sympathy, pity, compassion or sorrow.
- An insincere or overdone pathos that fails to evoke sympathy, pity, compassion or sorrow.
Unfortunately, stories in videogames tend to fall into the latter category. It might simply be an after-effect of their heritage — after all, games are still largely perceived as toys, and everyone (including most publishers and developers) seems to have a hard time accepting the fact that the average gamer can legally purchase alcohol. Of course I also understand that it’s safer to accommodate the youth while banking on the loyalty of older, nostalgic fans, but the same writing principles should apply regardless of the target age-group.
I wouldn't be surprised if this character turns out to be a fun but gruff rebel with a heart of gold. As leader of the resistance, he'll probably be punching out tanks with a bunch of other teenagers as they attempt to save the world.
Final Fantasy is a good (or bad, depending on your outlook) example of this. The 8-bit/16-bit games were great for grade-schoolers, and while the later ones swung their focus to teenagers, they were pretty trite and not nearly as sophisticated as one might think. Someone on Slashdot: Games once responded to a post about Square-Enix’s titles saying (and I’m paraphrasing here): “They’re to deepness what Goths are to people with severe clinical depression: showy, self-infatuated shells that take on the trappings instead of the content.” Regrettably, that’s a very accurate description.
So how do we avoid this? If we have to stick to melodrama, how do we fill it with pathos, not bathos?
It’s quite simple, really: respect the setting, the story and the characters.
That’s it.
You don’t have to be Shakespeare, you just have to examine your own work and ask: “Is this good, or is it…laughable?” Everyone has their own subjective preferences, but this alone would eliminate a plethora of banal storytelling in videogames.
About
Hi, my name’s Radek Koncewicz, and I'm the Creative Lead of Incubator Games, a small development studio I started with a few former coworkers.
I think a lot about videogames, and when I find the time, I post those thoughts here on this blog.
