Chris Crawford on Interactive Storytelling (43 page)

The simplest scheme is simply the passage of time. It’s easy to set up a sequence of timed plot points that force the story forward. For example, in my Arthurian storyworld, Mordred steadily moves toward rebellion, regardless of player-Arthur’s actions. Early in the story, Mordred confronts Arthur and suggests that he step down in favor of Mordred. Arthur, of course, refuses. Some time later, Mordred begins fomenting discord within the social group at Camelot. Later still, Mordred raises the flag of rebellion and begins recruiting an army to attack Arthur. All these events lead inevitably to the climactic battle resulting in the vanquishing of Mordred, the Long Walk Down the Short Spear, or the utter defeat of Arthur. This simple time-based scheme forces the story forward regardless of the player’s actions. The player is kept busy reacting to Mordred’s actions and striving to retain the loyalty of other Actors. This kind of scheme certainly serves its purpose well, but it must be camouflaged properly lest it appear heavy-handed. No explicit clock should appear; events should simply move forward regardless of the player’s actions.

I’ve saved the worst for last. The crudest scheme is to drop the fourth wall and advise players as to actions that are inhibiting satisfying development of the story. I used this technique rather miserably in my game Trust & Betrayal (1987), so I suppose I can lay a feeble claim to having built the first “interactive” drama manager. Here’s an example of a typical response when the game detected a player problem; the following text appeared in a new window onscreen:

Chris Crawford is waiting outside, dressed in a zoot suit, swinging a pocket watch by a fake gold chain. “Struck out again, huh, baby?” he taunts. “Maybe you haven’t figured it all out yet. Let Uncle Chris give you some advice.” He sidles up to you, blocking the escape path you were eyeing. “I bet you just walk in on somebody and start offering them deals, right? Well, maybe you can get away with that kid stuff in the Beginner Level game, but in the Expert Level game, you gotta use your head. Look, how would you feel if somebody came barging into your house talking serious deals about tattling on other people? You’d be pretty reluctant, wouldn’t you? Especially if they jumped right into it without so much as a howdy-do? You gotta break the ice first. You walk into somebody’s house, you say ‘hello.’ It’s a courtesy thing, you know what I mean? Then you make a little small talk, to sorta warm things up. You can really warm up the conversation by offering some free information about somebody betraying somebody else. Just don’t pop the first deal-offer until you’ve got ‘em warmed up and ready. So, baby, the name of the game is…” The sound of a big band playing softly fades into the scene; Chris begins a little soft-shoe and starts singing “Getting to Know You.” By God, is he bad! You stand dumbfounded as he dances to the left, disappearing behind a small shed. A clatter of garbage cans terminates the music.

As you can discern, my claim to fame isn’t a particularly proud one.

Hold on! Didn’t you maintain earlier that players should have free will? Don’t some of these drama manager ideas tread on that free will?

Well, er, yes, I did say that free will can be maintained, and it’s true that some of these ideas abuse the player’s free will. Certainly the very notion of “correcting” the player implies imposing the storybuilder’s will onto the player.

I have already explained in
Chapter 5
, “Abstraction,” that reconciliation between plot and interactivity can be achieved only by moving to a higher level of abstraction. Therefore, the notion of “correcting” the player derives from an obsession with plot at the concrete level; it’s fundamentally misguided and doomed to failure. Storybuilders who assume an adversarial role with players ruin their relationships before they even begin.

Good software designers take full responsibility for their creations. If a user perceives that a problem has arisen, it’s not the user’s fault; it’s the designer’s fault. Users can never be in error; if the system consisting of user and software fails to carry out the user’s desires, the blame falls entirely on the software design.

That’s not fair! What if the user is a mumbling moron who doesn’t read the manual?

The degree to which a manual is required is indicative of poor design. A truly brilliant design needs no explanation; its operation is transparent. Of course, this grand ideal is never achieved in practice, but it’s certainly a goal of good software design. Mere mortals will never achieve such divine perfection, but inasmuch as designers are playing God every time they create software, they must acknowledge how far short of true divinity they fall—and not blame their users for these shortfalls. To begin the design process with the assumption that the user will make errors betrays the user. The initial assumption should be that the user is always right, so the software must focus on how to respond should the user’s wishes deviate from what was anticipated.

But what if players want to do something idiotic? Must the design go along with their idiocy?

If that’s what players want, by all means! Remember, they’re paying for the software. If they want to jump off a cliff, behave boorishly, squash Bambi, befriend Darth Vader, or pick their noses, who are you to defy them?

But I am the storybuilder, the artist who creates this artistic expression! I’ll not be party to perversion and ugliness.

Consider the following text:

;oaiuhoisfhga;/gohnwdgsoiwei;’/oisdgshsd;li ‘jwkjs;iowensd;gthwoi

Evil is beautiful.

Murder is nurturing.

2+2 = 5

All this text was created with Microsoft Word. It includes gibberish, outrageous lies, and factual errors. Bill Gates can be considered the creative force behind Microsoft Word; are we to accuse Bill Gates of the aesthetic, intellectual, and moral crimes I have perpetrated with his word processor? Is he an accessory to those crimes? Of course not. The software allows me, the user, to do anything I want, so if I exercise my own free will, is there anybody to blame other than me?

But I have no desire to create a soulless storyworld in which any form of depravity is treated as morally neutral.

You don’t have to. If a player chooses to jump off a cliff, kill him. If he behaves boorishly, ostracize him. Your design doesn’t have to be morally or aesthetically valueless; it need only
address
all reasonable player options, not
reward
them.

But must I waste my time arranging responses to all manner of crazy player activities?.

No, only the reasonable ones. The fact is that no reasonable player will want to jump off a cliff (except in contrived situations), so you don’t need to provide for that option. The point I make here concerns the difference between your
preferred
options and
reasonable
options.