Entropy Ink

Even the most junior writers know the admonition of "Show, don't tell".  The best writers have mastered this art, and know when it is appropriate to break that rule.  When, for example, is it fitting to show Mary's slurred speech and always handy bottle as compared to stating that the woman is a lush? 

It's a difficult to master technique as a writer, but it lets you treat your readers as intelligent people without smacking them rudely with bold statements.  Now, many of us in the game industry are tasked (and love) the creative writing aspect of the job.  While it may take years of practice and rejection to perfect the art for reading, how is this applied to games?

I have an opinion that the *best* game writers also write in this fashion.  Ignoring of course the obvious fact that nobody out there is actually going to read your quest, (until they're stuck) realize that interacting with a statuesque NPC who doesn't respond to your character at all is BORING.  Add all the personality you want in your text or talk tree...and nobody will care. 

So, with the above rule in mind, I strive to make interactions with in-game NPCs dynamic and memorable.  Granted, this may be overwhelming to flesh out the entire population, but "showing" your story through actions is much more interesting and immersive than 12 pages of backstory.  (I will admit that there *is* an audience for the prolific backstory). 

I sleep with my pets. For more than 20 years, cats have shared my bed. My last cats, Scratch and Dent, used to spend the night perched on top of my head, and I found this purring beret deeply comforting. When I just had cats, it never occurred to me that having pets in the bed was anything more than a harmless personal preference. Then I got my rattie Calamity Jane and discovered the issue of allowing your dog to sleep with you is deeply fraught. Supposedly, bed privileges destroy the owner's standing as pack leader. Allowing a dog in the bed, I learned, is a critical dog-rearing error, like giving brandy to quiet a cranky baby and ending up with an alcoholic teenager.

The dogma was everywhere. A recent Washington Post interview with a dog trainer stated that a dog in bed is "a sign the dog is completely in charge. Get the dog off your bed. It can make a bigger difference than anyone can imagine." How To Be Your Dog's Best Friend, the dog obedience manual by the Monks of New Skete, advises letting the dog sleep on the floor in your bedroom, but never in your bed. A dog trying to get too intimate should receive "slapped paws and a shove off"—not wholly surprising advice from celibate trainers.

Despite this, my rattie, Calamity Jane sleeps in our bed every night.  She likes to curl up like a furry cinnamon bun between our pillows, or in the dip of my waist as I lay on my side. Despite the warnings of provoking deep status anxiety (my own), I decided to let her stay in the bed. I figured it was impossible that Lammy could wreak more havoc than she already was; she obviously wanted to be with us; and I loved her being there. Except for the occasional bout of rabbit-chasing during REM sleep, she has been a quiet and companionable bedmate. While her daytime behavior seems no worse, I have been troubled that I might be making a mistake that could come back to bite me.

There is historical evidence that sleeping with pets is not necessarily aberrant behavior. According to The International Encyclopedia of Dogs, the xoloitzquintli, or Mexican hairless, was used in pre-Aztec Mexico as both pet and bed warmer (and dinner—let's not talk about that here). An account from a 19^th-century explorer in Australia, as quoted in The Domestic Dog, describes how Aborigines were so devoted to their dingoes that the dogs were treated as members of the family and allowed to sleep in the hut. (The rock group Three Dog Night takes its name from the supposed Aboriginal practice of judging the coldness of an evening by the number of dogs required to keep warm.)

And here in the land of the electric blanket and the 600-fill goose-down comforter, millions of pet owners are, like me, sacking out with their animals. A survey from the American Pet Products Manufacturers Association found that about 62 percent of American dog and cat owners keep their animals in the house at night, and of those, about half the cats and one-third of the dogs spend the night on the bed. Dr. John Shepard Jr., a physician at the Mayo Clinic Sleep Disorders Center, discovered so many of his haggard patients slept with their animals that he did a survey to see how much the pets disturbed their sleep: About half the pet sleepers said their animal woke them nightly.

But here's the good news. My unscientific survey of veterinary behaviorists concluded that as long as your pets are good at sleeping with you, it's just fine to sleep with them. Pets are not going to get any uppity ideas just because you're all snoring together, they say. Dr. Marsha Reich, who has a private animal-behavior practice in Maryland, says she disagrees with the notion that your dog will try to dominate you if allowed in bed. "It has nothing to do with social status," she says. The dog, like the owner, just likes being cozy and having a soft place to sleep. "Unless a dog growls when you roll over, I don't have a problem with a dog in the bed."

Dr. Nicholas Dodman, author of If Only They Could Speak and director of the Animal Behavior Clinic at Tufts University School of Veterinary Medicine, celebrates the "warm and fuzzy feeling" of all species curling up in bed together. This is not to say that some animals don't abuse the privilege. He tells of one couple who came to him after their Yorkshire terrier, who liked to settle in with the wife when she went to bed early to read, took to lunging at the husband when he arrived. There was an obvious solution, and the couple chose it: The husband moved to the guest room. When this proved maritally unsatisfying, they turned to Dr. Dodman. He says such animals have to be re-educated by being placed in a crate at night, or even attached to a dog bed with a long line.

The most common problem with sleeping with cats, says Dr. Lynne Seibert, a behaviorist at the Veterinary Specialty Center in Lynnwood, Wash., is—as I can attest—they don't sleep. "Most of the issues I see are about exuberant play," she says. "They've got a captive audience and end up pouncing and scratching." The usual cause is that the cats have been home sleeping all day, leaving them ready to party all night. Seibert recommends getting the cats more daytime stimulation and engaging in a play session with them before bed.

Dog trainer Kathy Diamond Davis, in an article at veterinarypartner.com, writes that there's no reason a well-behaved dog shouldn't sleep on the bed. However, she recommends having the dog trained to reliably obey a "get off the bed" command, to be used in particular for those moments when "people want to be intimate." (For couples who don't use that command, she does not deal with the psychological damage the humans suffer when they find even their most fervent lovemaking doesn't wake the dog.)

I was relieved to learn that Calamity Jane can stay, but I realized, even if the experts had told me I shouldn't let her, it wouldn't have made any difference. Maybe some of us are just born with a desire to sleep with animals. (This could be a debate subject in the next presidential election.)  I have a friend who spent years with their epileptic Dalmatian on the end of the bed. The dog regularly woke them in the middle of the night, in midseizure, flailing around and losing control of bodily functions. They became like paramedics, spending the night ever-alert so at the first twitch they could get the dog on the floor and covered in towels. Now she has a Jack Russell terrier puppy. The puppy spends the night burrowed deep under their covers, attached to her like a tick, and the girl is in heaven.  

For the most part, however, my job bore little resemblance to that of the fictional gumshoe. I was never held at gunpoint, nor did I ever pistol-whip anyone. No one ever asked me to find an invaluable figurine of a mysterious blackbird. Of course, I didn't expect those things to happen. But in the back of my head, I had always hoped I'd get to snoop. It seems to me that rifling through a person's belongings is the direct route to that person's character. To properly investigate a subject, we must investigate a subject's stuff.

Sometimes a single item can wrap up, in a nutshell, who a person is. In my fathers' home, his Harley was always enshrined. Nothing, and nobody, was allowed to so much as breathe too closely to it.  I recall once bringing a friend home and quietly guiding him toward the Harley, as if introductions with their human incarnations were unnecessary: Allow me to introduce you to my dads' chrome pony.

"No, thanks," I said, wondering if I had inadvertently given off that vibe.

"Fred," snapped Wilma, "she's a grown lady. If she needs to use the bathroom, she'll ask."

Dinner was good, and a fine introduction to my investigation. Fred offered me Triscuits. I said no, thanks. He then opened a cabinet and brought out a selection of four other cracker-type substances. I ate some Wheat Thins because I didn't want the effort to be wasted. After some tasty leftovers, Wilma sliced and defrosted a zucchini loaf, which we topped with ice cream. Fred showed me the careful labeling on the package that held our dessert and explained that they always date the leftovers to keep track of the inventory in the extra freezer in the garage. I commented that 1994 was a good year for zucchini bread. (Please note that it was 1995 at the time.)

 

We then discussed the television. Fred first demonstrated how to use the VCR. I admired the relic, but ignored the instruction until he broke the news to me:  they didn't have cable. "Feel free to look through the tapes," Fred said, "and watch anything you'd like." Fred said that he taped the movies right off of the regular TV, commercials and all. He explained to me that I could just fast-forward through the ads. He does it all the time.

"Now let me show you the bathroom," Fred said. He demonstrated how to turn on and off the cold and hot water and showed me where the sink, shower and toilet were located. He showed me how to use a key and tested me on my own key-lock dexterity. I passed. Fred then did a funny thing. He turned a knob that was sticking out midway through a wall. As I looked on studiously, a portion of the wall opened into another room.

"I've been wondering how those things worked," I said, although what I was thinking was, Forget their stuff, I'm going to move in and study these people in their natural habitat.

I pictured myself pitching a book about them. It's like when Margaret Mead moved into a Samoan village to study adolescent courtship behavior. Only I'd have a better bed and way more snack food. Later, when I retold the story, emphasizing that Fred had actually demonstrated to me how to open a door, I would add that Fred was an engineer. Most people would then say, "Ah," as if that explained everything.

Alas, they took their vacation and I was left alone with their stuff.  My friend (the daughter to this couple) called often that week to "check in."

"So how's it going over there?" Jenny would ask. I'd respond with, "Oh, it's very interesting," followed by a fact I'd recently discovered.

"Did you know that this guy has a total of 10 different types of cereals in the house?"

"Yes," she'd say, unmoved. "He eats two bowls every morning."

"The same kind or different?" I asked.

"Different."

"Very interesting," I replied, jotting it down in my notes.

"Did you know that every room in the house has an exit?"

"You should tell your parents to get cable," I suggested. If this house had cable, all that snack food and seven exits, it would be the perfect home.

One evening, after flicking through the dismal prime-time fare, I turned to the videotape collection. I sifted through the incongruous mix of art films, music specials, blockbusters and public television fare. And then I saw it: A triple feature neatly labeled, just like every other tape, with both the year and the running time adjacent to each title. I have tried many times to find some theme that unites the three following films, but have failed:

Wilma's Colonoscopy - 2003 - 25 min.

Robin Hood - 1991 - 150 min.

The Chosen - 1982 - 120 min.

For movie buffs, the second feature was "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves," co-starring Kevin Costner and the always impeccable Morgan Freeman. "The Chosen," if you recall, was based on the Chaim Potok novel and featured Robbie Benson's persuasive performance as a Hasidic Jew.

"I have made a discovery that I think you need to know about," I told Jenny over the telephone five minutes later. I read to her the contents of the videotape. As I anticipated, she screamed in horror and hilarity.

"I bet there's one here for your father," I said, and then dug through the cabinet. John's colonoscopy shared a bill with "Elvis: The King," "Remember the Titans" and "The Life of Churchill." That must be an eight-hour tape, I thought to myself.

Jenny's laughter abruptly died down and an edge came over her voice.

"You can't tell anyone," she said to me in her most threatening tone.

"What?" I said.

"You can't tell anyone," she repeated, simply switching her word emphasis.

"Be reasonable," I replied.

"Promise me," she said, sensing a brick wall.

"But I have to tell someone," I responded, almost in a panic.

We negotiated for the next five minutes and agreed that I could tell our mutual friend.  My interpretation of our agreement was that I could not tell any close personal friend of Jenny's other than the agreed-upon individual. Everyone else was fair game. And I told everyone, to varied, but equally satisfying, responses. A number of people followed up their laughter by asking me if I watched the tape. No. Why would I watch the tape? I've already seen "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" and "The Chosen."

It is true: I got lost in the glory of my discovery. But what about my investigation? What mystery did the videotape solve? Why was I compelled to share it with anyone I could fit into the loophole I found in Jenny's and my negotiation?

Simple. It was a beautiful thing. In a world where good taste is dictated by flocks of celebrity designers on television, in a time when the words "feng shui" have worked their way into Middle America, in a culture where self-consciousness is consciousness, I had met two people who didn't care. They were going to fill the entire videotape, serve 1-year-old zucchini loaves, offer their guests a refresher course on bathroom use, and not waste an ounce of their energy faking who they were.

What happened to the dedicated sleuth? Let's just say people's stuff never lost its luster. This was my Maltese Falcon, however. Who cares about medicine cabinets after that?

Note: All names have been changed, including those of the dogs.

I'm not the only one who yearns for the future that never showed up. The frustration is widely felt and has been mounting for some time, gathering serious speed in the late '90s when the really-ought-to-be-momentous new millennium loomed. Dates like "1999," "2000" and "2001" set off special reverberations -- not just for the science fiction fans among us but for plenty of regular folk too. Even now, when we should have grown blasé about living in the 21st century, the dates still have a faint futuroid tang, a poignant trace of what should have been. The obvious landmarks of tomorrow's world never materialized: vacations to the moon, 900 miles per hour transatlantic trains hurtling through vacuum tunnels. But the absence is felt equally in the fabric of daily life, the way that the experience of cooking an egg or taking a shower hasn't changed in our lifetime.