Sometimes it takes a look to the left to get a clearer idea of where you might want to be going. In this case, the left in question was to Tim Conklin’s “Antihero” table at the recent Google Play Indie Games Festival. We were there with “A Matter of Murder” and Tim was demo’ing his Dickens-inspired title which features wonderful art in a lovely, gritty, cartoony, gas-lit London. Of particular note for this story -- the characters all had wildly disproportionate head sizes in comparison to their bodies. And, while the extreme contrast of “Antihero” gives it a strong feel that’s not appropriate for Austen, it did inspire our Art Department to take a second look at the more “classical” proportions we were originally planning on -- and to do a little experimenting.
Note how serious and adult the character with the smaller, original head size appears to be. She’s prim. She’s the babysitter. She probably flosses daily. But the character with the 200% head size? She’ll be the one cutting tags off of mattresses while she eats three-day-old sushi off her boyfriend’s motorcycle helmet. We like her more. We connect with her.
Now Disney and anime have long exploited our fondness for characters with big heads and especially big eyes. Cognitive psychologists would point to humans’ hard-wired reactions to infants (with their large heads relative to their bodies) as the root of this almost visceral connection we tend to feel more for characters like the one on the right. We looked at larger (300% and 400%) but larger turned out to be a game of diminishing returns, and after 200% began reducing the clothes and hands to a scale where they were losing too much detail to carry story. So we’re thinking 200% may be about the sweet spot for “Austen."
As an added plus, the larger head/eye size also focuses player attention on facial expression, which may help solve the problem we talked about in an earlier blog entry about communicating reactions.
Tim may have inspired us to start thinking about character proportions (thanks, Tim!), but I blame evolution for making us love the big-headed freaks-of-nature my old life drawing professors would be appalled by.
We sat down with a group of W&M family members to playtest a “paper” version of “Austen Translation” last week. Paper play testing of a video game may sound weird, but it's a great way to try out game mechanics, make gameplay adjustments in real time, and to get immediate player feedback before we sink a lot of time into developmental dead ends. And boy, did we learn a lot in a single evening! A little wine, a few hardcopy printouts and a slapped-together spreadsheet to crunch the game calculations on the fly and we were off to the races — or, in the case of one of the scenarios we played out, off to the polo matches! Here’s four of the many things we learned from that session:
(1) TMI is Deadly
We were experimenting with ways to give players information about how they were doing as the rounds progressed so they could make game decisions based on feedback. Some of the initial options turned out to be game-breakingly overpowered. One of the players got lucky and basically ended up with a complete road-map to victory. The types and the frequency of information delivery seemed to provide players with a nice arc, so the overall strategy seems viable. But we’re looking at the volume of information that the players get, aiming for delivering less guidance so we don’t accidentally give away the farm. There was also some discussion of how the amount of information in a particular round could be adjusted up or down to modulate difficulty level.
(2) “Austen Translation” is a Multi-player Game
While our first game, “A Matter of Murder,” is a distinctly single-player experience, our play testers responded enthusiastically to the player-on-player competition that emerged in the AT paper play through. The addition of “scandals” that players could use to handicap a rival, or to make a suitor less attractive, seemed to make the multiplayer experience come alive. And the whole idea of social intrigue and infighting inherent in the game’s theme just dovetails so well with a multiplayer experience. So we’re going to be looking at ways to expand and enrich the multiplayer AT experience right out of the box.
(3) Tis Better to Receive
Some of the information options available in the paper play through turned out not to be information at all. They were really opportunities to act on information or to create information, like being given the option to spread a rumor about a rival. Some players felt like too many of these opportunities robbed them of the chance to get data they could use. These opportunities also felt very different from the events that gave players information. There’s probably room for this kind of manipulation at some point in the game, but we’re looking at ways to make it optional, or perhaps to create a special phase or moment in the game narrative when players can choose to take this kind of action.
(4) Marc Should Never Be in Charge of the Excel Spreadsheet
Putting the art school grad in charge of managing the game outputs had predictable disastrous results in a couple of cases. We’ve all learned a lesson. Hopefully it will never happen again.
So with some concrete gameplay experience in the bank, we’re back to structuring the rounds and developing content. Our next steps will probably be a crude but functional electronic model of gameplay. Stay tuned.
At it’s heart, Austen Translation is about relationships and we’ve been spending a lot of time lately thinking about and talking about the “opacity of romantic love.” I mean, you sit there across a tiny little table with a tiny little candle in between you and your date, and you’re trying to remember to smile and you’re trying to work in that charming polo pony story that paints you in good light, and you’re trying to remember to ask questions and you really don’t know anything for sure about what the other person is *actually* thinking. And that uncertainty, love it or hate it, is what gives dating its edge, its energy and its risk.
Now we like to think of Austen Translation as a dating sim with a razor-sharp edge, a mercenary dating experience, a full-contact-sport type of literary adventure. But we also want to preserve the suspense of not quite knowing where you stand at any giving time during the play of the game. So then the question becomes: how do you give the player feedback so that they’re making meaningful decisions based on *something* without giving it all away in a text box that says “Commander Squinchly is obviously smitten with you.” Where’s the information density sweet spot?
AT is played in a series of rounds, most of which are social events at which the player gets to choose an action which influences how the bachelors and the other women vying for the suitors’ attentions feel about the player. The player and the other women each have a set of stats that determines the suitors’ opinion of them, and players try to make decisions each round to improve (or tamp down) their stats and thus their attractiveness to their chosen suitor. The player can see their own stats and the stats of the other competitors, but they’re not told outright what the suitors are looking for. Now, we’re not big on the whole “floating stats” idea, which is too often a lazy way to avoid any interpretation or storytelling, so we want to keep that hard math information delivery method down to a bare minimum.
One information delivery mechanic we talked about early on was social cueing. Very Austenian. When the player takes an action the other competitors’ facial expressions and the facial expressions and body language of the suitors would shift to cue the player in to what the various other characters thought of that choice. Of course, in real game time, reading and interpreting and remembering the reactions of seven characters on the screen might be a bit of a challenge, particularly when you think about playing the game on a smaller screen, like a phone. So that’s a nice idea, and thematically appropriate, but it’s probably not going to be enough.
Then, of course, there are the Deus Ex Machina type of information drops. Your maiden aunt pops in to give you a bit of matronly advice. You happen to stumble across Ambassador Dashing’s journal left behind on a carriage seat. A freak rainstorm strands you and your beau beneath an umbrella and you happen to have a few minutes of time alone to flirt and see if there’s any chemistry. The interesting thing with this kind of information delivery would be to think about how reliable these sources of feedback should/need to be. And how many of them we need. Are they cutscenes between each event? Every other? Randomly sprinkled?
Another feature we’re planning to incorporate is the “unexpected plot twist” about 75% of the way through a round. It would be a stand-alone scene where the player finds out a detail that changes the round. Her beau is actually her long-lost brother, or there’s a hot new girl who just moved to town. Something which shakes up the solidifying state of play. And while this will probably be a little more expository and a little blunter than some of the other feedback methods we’re talking about above, it would also shape the player’s choices and provide information for the player to base decisions on.
Like many gameplay mechanics issues, this one will probably be resolved through play testing and iterations to get the balance and sequencing right. The next step may be an evening of wine and paper playthroughs with a test group to see what works and what doesn’t. Maybe even some veggie chili with sausage. Stay tuned for photos and conclusions.
When we started work on our Jane Austen-inspired literary dating sim, we needed something to call it. It was tedious and uninspiring to call it “the new game” or “the second project.” So we put a stake in the ground and tentatively titled it “The Eyre Apparent.” Now, that placeholder title did its job — it gave us a handle for thinking about the project, and it gave the project the illusion of substance when it was still just vapor and good intentions. But as the actual release title, it has problems: the inheritance reference is off the mark and then there’s the Bronte problem (Jane Eyre wasn’t written by Jane Austen).
With development of the new Austen game heating up, we figured the time had come to determine the official release name. We started with a broad brainstorming process, with the requisite large number of terrible options cropping up. Lots of puns. Lots of unwieldy and unattractive word combinations. From there, we winnowed out the non-starters and ended up with about twenty-four intial choices.
Multiple expressions of the same idea — like “Marriage & Matrimony” and “Dowagers & Dowries” both riffs on Austen’s penchant for alliteration and ampersands — were evaluated and the strongest examples of each made it to the short list. We also had a lot of “matchmaking” references in the brainstorm dump, like “Matchbreaker” and “Playing with Matches” but these felt a little non-specific to our game world and promptly fell out.
From the short list of about ten, we evaluated the options on appropriateness (did the prospective title give an accuarate impression of what gameplay would be like) distinction (did it sound like other games in the market) mouthfeel (how did it feel to say the name out loud) and hook (was there an irony, contradiction or tension in the wording that would make the name memorable).
An internal focus group was polled on their top five favorite options from the short-list. We made an attempt to soften the social pressure on voting by using paper balloting. Results were weighted and tallied. No two voters had landed on the same option for their first choice, but one option had made it to everyone’s list. And the more we talked about that choice, with it’s lovely connections on multiple levels, the more excited the group became.
The official name for Worthing & Moncrieff’s upcoming literary strategy game will be — a drumroll please — “Austen Translation.” The name captures the aim of porting Austen’s literary tone and themes over to an interactive format, as well as softer and deeper ideas about the opacity of romantic love (see upcoming blog post on this topic). It also puts the genre, literary focus and time period of the game right up front. Plus it’s a terrible pun, and we’re suckers for terrible puns.
We’ll be taking a very short break from “Austen Translation” to bring “A Matter of Murder” to the Google Play Indie Game Festival at the end of September. Worthing & Moncrieff is proud to be one of thirty “up-and-coming” indie studios invited to work with Google to raise the profile of indie gaming. We hope to see you in San Francisco on the 24th for the big event!
But stay tuned for the next dev blog installment for “Austen Translation,” as our dev process gears up. Exciting stuff is in the works.
When it comes to questions of race and minority representation in games, we’re firmly in the “biggest possible tent” camp. The more players see themselves reflected in our game world, the more welcome and comfortable and connected they’ll feel there. As gay folks coming of age in the 80’s and 90’s, we were starved to see members of our community in the popular media, and we’re committed to never make any other group feel like they’re outsiders.
But skin color poses a special issue in a game like “The Eyre Apparent.” If we’re going to be true to the Austenian canon, there really were no folks of color to be seen. Surely literary purists and hard-nosed historians would be apalled to see a rural 18th century English village with the population of a Benneton ad. And we could have used that fact -- that kind of dry analysis of source material to avoid having to consider the issue of race at all. It would have been a defensible (though perhaps not very brave) choice.
In the end, we’ve decided to let inclusion trump accuracy. We may well find that some players’ keen sense of authenticity is bruised by this choice, but we’d rather build a welcoming and factually incorrect Austen world than a small, blandly faithful one. Of course, that doesn’t explain why one of the six available skin tones is pale purple, but that’s a post for another day…
In “Eyre Apparent” we’re working to provide just enough of a sense of place to cue the player without distracting them from the real action going on between the characters. Like a minimalist stage, we want to suggest the Archery club Picnic without having to show every quiver and every folding chair.
By choosing a strong, boldly colored iconic foreground object and running a string of pale, distant background objects, we’re leaving a clear open area for the characters to interact. In a nod to the Hanna Barbera cartoons of our youth, the background art is also being done “roll-of paper” style, with a repeat of simple objects dotted irregularly along the back wall of the imaginary space.
Note the intentional letterboxing of the 16:9 cinema aspect down to an even more extremely horizontal 16:7 format. Since we’ll have seven or eight characters “on stage” at any given time, we wanted to focus the player’s attention on the active area, not on the dead space at the top and bottom of the screen. But we can always choose to break our own letterboxing rule and reclaim that space if we need it somewhere, like on a character creation screen.
Palette building can be a tricky business. Unless there’s a strong graphic idea pushing you one way or the other -- like the choice to have a grimly limited palette for “A Matter of Murder” to compliment the Gorey-esque artstyle -- detemining an optimum size for a palette can be daunting. Too few colors and the game’s visual variety can be stunted. Too many colors and the player’s faith in the cohesion of the game world suffers.
Through trial and error with the avatar models, we ended up with a preliminary palette of twenty-four colors, including six potential skin tones. An emphasis was placed on groups of closely-related shades so we could play up the subtler wallpaper textures being used in the dresses. The greys and blacks are mostly reserved for the male characters. So far, this seems like a comfortable range, particulary as the settings have been developing with a lot of white, open space to allow the saturated colors to shine. But that’s another blog entry…
We’re big believers in the power of customizable avatars to connect players to a game experience. Whether players choose to craft an avatar that looks like them irl, or is their polar opposite, it’s the act of choosing that allows players to invest emotionally in the game world. So when we started character design, it was important to be sure the overall system (theme) had the flexibility to stand up to some vibrant personalization (variation.)
We started with a very flat “cut-paper” look (built in Adobe Illustrator) and a set of damask wallpaper textures. We thought it was an interesting idea to “commoditize” the women by giving them all the same base dress and body, and then layering on the choice of six skin colors, six dress colors, six dress patterns, twelve hairstyles, and twelve accessories. A good math person could probably figure out how many permutations that could potentially generate. Pictured above is Marc’s favorite, the avatar we’ve been calling Prunella Blinkington.
Once a couple of dozen avatars were carefully crafted and duly “ooohed” over, we did a couple of sets of randomly mixed combinations which seemed to work almost as well. Which either speaks to the robustness of the customization system or is a shameful indictment of Marc’s design education. We haven’t figured out which yet.
Once we had a rough idea of the themes and tensions that would power the gameplay, we put together a diagram of how a sample round of “Eyre” might be put together. Game phases are color coded by the kind of activity that would take place in that round. Emphasis here was placed on gauging the storytelling rythm of a round. We also tried to put some stakes in the ground re how long a round needed to be to feel satisfying but graspable (a tricky balance -- we may not have hit that balance quite yet).
Note the “cinematic recap” at the end. Marc (being the writer nerd) felt like watching a thirty second replay of all the decisions in the game, zipping along like a cartoon on steroids, would make the experience feel more like writing your own Jane Austen novel… Somehow… Now whether this is intuitively brilliant is up for debate, but it’s probably all wrong in terms of capping the player experience in a satisfying way. It’s probably the wrong gesture. He’s already abandoned this dicy stand and the next generation of storyboards dropped the recap.
You can also see how the stand-in labels are already starting to show some of the game’s evolving “personality.”