The lights dim in the theatre, and you settle back in your seat, tossing a few pieces of popcorn into your mouth for good measure. The movie is about to begin. But first...trailers. A slew of trailers keen to throw everything but the kitchen sink at you: noise, action, screams, explosions, teeth rattling bass drops, more action, smash cuts, actors staring wide-eyed at some vast monstrosity that couldn’t possibly be defeated (spoilers: it will). Come see, this movie, it roars in your face, you won’t see a bigger movie with bigger stakes than this. Until the next trailer declares the same, that is. Rinse and repeat. We’ve spoken about this before, in a couple of posts about “Stakes Creep”. The idea that, in order to inflate the sense of peril in a story, one has to up the ante for what is at stake if our heroes lose. What’s bigger than your protagonist losing a loved one? Well, how about their whole city being threatened by a calamity? And from there, where else to go but to the end of the world? Now, that is in of itself not a bad thing. As long as you remember that increased spectacle does not equal increased dramatic tension, that the true emotional connection your audience has is with the characters and not with the action around them, then it can work and work well. Trouble is, stories, movies especially, don’t exist in their own bubbles any more. The fight for your attention is fiercer than ever. People only have so many hours per day and only so much spare money to sink on their entertainment, and there seems to be an ever-increasing number of movies, games, books and TV shows out there. The battle for your eyes and ears is intense. This is in of itself not really a problem - better have too many options to have fun than too few - the issue is how most purveyors of big-ticket content will try to make themselves stand out amongst all the noise. That is, with more noise. And it’s not just movies that compete with one another, either. Even complementary stories exist within tension of one another. The idea of the “integrated universe” is bigger than ever, with the current ruler of roost being the MCU (aka. Marvel Cinematic Universe”. Before that, trilogies were the big thing. A trio of movies which saw growing stakes, growing peril for our heroes, the climax of each movie being bigger than the last. Some trilogies pulled this off successfully (The Lord of the Rings) while some didn’t (The Matrix, arguably). But at least you could say these trilogies got their endings. Whether the story could match the growing spectacle with deeper dramatic tension or not, at least a conclusion lay at the end of it. With the MCU, there is no such end in sight. An endless web of intertwined movies, characters and story threads. How can the story be sustainable? By definition, stories must have an arc, where conflict ratchets up, is resolved, and reaches a conclusion. How can each consecutive movie build upon the previous one in perpetuity, with no end in sight? After all, we can go all the way back to the first Avengers film to when we reached a spectacular peak: the threat of an alien invasion and, potentially, a nuclear bomb on New York. The bubble should have popped already. So how have Marvel managed to keep their stable of intertwined stories sustainable? How have they avoided “Stakes Creep” when it should have jumped the shark long ago? There’s a number of reasons: 1. The "Eras" For those of you who don’t know, the MCU is broken down into Eras, separated by the Avengers movies. If each movie is its own self-enclosed story while containing elements that nudge the wider, multi-movie arc along. That wider story arc reaches its climax in the Avengers movie, allowing just enough conflict that has been building up to be resolved and emerge into a new era having performed a semi-reset of sorts: most major characters are still here and the big MCU-wide themes and plot points remain, but individual arcs have evolved enough to enter their next stage. 2. The Stories are still Quite Separate Integration has become closer recently, but by and large the MCU movies are still their own enclosed story (if we count sequels to singular characters as one story, eg. Iron Man 2 and 3, Winter Soldier, Guardians 2 etc). The MCU can still keep the lid on rising stakes getting out of hand because each story bubbles away in its own pot. Well...it used to be that way. Recent outings such as Civil War and Infinity War, and to a lesser extent Ragnarok, are direct continations of the overarching story, and it’s no coincidence that these movies contain a lot more character combos. By drawing all of these stories together, it brings the focus onto the wider story which has been, among other things, Thanos and the infinity stones. This in turn develops and advances the major arc story, thus meaning the major story is going to draw to a conclusion pretty soon. This is in line with what many theorize, that the MCU will look pretty different after the next Avengers movie. Which makes sense: the infinity stone arc couldn’t go on forever. Not only will the make-up of characters in the MCU be different, expect to be introduced to a brand-new major plot arc post-Avengers: Endgame. 3. Marvel doesn't take itself too Seriously Ask yourself this question: which universe would you prefer to live in? The MCU, or the DCU, populated by Batman, Superman and the like? I imagine most people would say the MCU, because even though there is just as much danger and serious moments as any other fictional universe, at least the MCU looks fun to be in. There’s colour. There’s humour. Childlike wonder. Variety. The DCU is too po-faced and grim for its own good at times (though it has made recent changes to lighten up a bit). It’s this slightly lighter touch that gives the MCU its longevity. It recognizes that it is a comic-book, Sci-Fi-Fantasy universe, and it finds humour in the absurd moments. One of best examples of this was from Hawkeye in Age of Ultron: “The city is flying. We're fighting an army of robots. And I have a bow and arrow. None of this makes sense.” It’s this willingness to recognize its own silliness and laugh at itself that takes the heat off of the MCU stakes before they get too swollen, making it easier to keep it from getting out of hand. 4. The Novelty Factor of Character Combos Let’s face it: who didn’t get a thrill out of the first Avengers movie from the simple fact that it bought our heroes together? I expect that, for many like me, that was the main draw: seeing the Marvel characters interact, bicker and even fight. What would win: Cap’s shield, or Thor’s hammer? This movie was wish fulfillment of the highest order. The climactic battle was less about the resolution of the story and more about seeing them work as a team. It provided a certain endorphin rush. This helps to keep the stories from running away with themselves: these larger-than-life characters aren’t about to get swept away in an over-egged story when they’re the main draw. Again, it will be interesting to see how long this lasts. The thrill of seeing the Avengers assemble is wearing off. What will happen when nobody whoops at the sight of Spider-Man and Thor standing shoulder to shoulder? My guess is the focus will turn more into character and relationship development. We’re seeing hints of this in Iron Man and Captain America’s current falling-out. This is a healthy development: up until now, interactions between the Avengers have been pretty shallow. I expect the MCU at the end of 2019 to be less quippy, less noisy, and generally go deeper with its characters. Speaking of which... 5. The Main Conflict is Internal, not External One common criticism leveled at MCU movies is the lack of convincing villains (a big exception being Thanos). The bad guys are either overly simplistic, or no match for our heroes (Loki vs the whole Avengers team, for example). There’s also the issue of generic bad-guy-army fodder. Again, the alien swarm attacking New York was pretty forgettable, as were the creatures that attacked Wakanda in Infinity War. Make no mistake, stories without an effective antagonistic force are bloodless stories, simple as that. And yet, the MCU movies continue to enthrall and achieve critical acclaim ranging from decent to excellent. So what’s going on? How is the MCU getting away without having having a foil for our heroes? Well...they’re not. They do, in fact, have excellent antagonistic forces for our protagonists to bounce off. Except you won’t find them in the literal villain, but within. Yep, in most Marvel movies, the main battle our superhero fights is not the literal bad guy, but their own doubts, their own fears. We can go all the way back to the first Iron Man outing for a great example. While well received, many found Obadiah and the climactic battle with him to be too simplistic and underdeveloped. And on the surface, they’re right. But one has to look deeper to understand what’s really at play here, what Obadiah represents to Tony Stark’s character and it’s development. This is a man who is trying to move away from his weapons manufacturing past, while Obadiah is trying to pull him back into it. Obadiah isn’t so much an actual character as he is a devil on Tony’s shoulder, a caricature of his past and his doubts. Same goes for Ultron. If the villain isn’t necessarily a warped reflection of our heroes’ darker parts, they act as a device for our heroes to bounce off of and explore themselves. True, you could make an argument that the villains could be better developed, given more screen time etc. but in a way it’s actually a smart move. High-quality villains equals higher external stakes, which for a shared universe as extensive as the MCU would not be sustainable. After a few movies of increasingly competent and dangerous bad guys, we’d quickly run out of road and the spectacle would become overinflated. Internal conflict, however, is an almost endless well of potential. You can introduce further complications and crank up the tension without resorting to tiresome CGI-riddled battles. Two people arguing, or a character fighting with themselves, can be just as intense as a real fight. In short, you can heighten the dramatic tension without resorting spectacle, which has a limited shelf life. The MCU is a fascinating case study of the expanded universe, a fairly new concept to the world of cinema. It is impressive how deftly it has been handled so far to keep the enthusiasm high for such a high-volume output and avoid fatigue setting in. It will be fascinating to see how it continues to evolve and grow, especially after the conclusion of Endgame. The MCU and Thanos alike may have achieved perfect balance, but let’s see how long it will last.
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There are good games. There are great games. And then there are games that become part of our DNA, making such a powerful impact on us that it will become part of the fabric of who we are as a person. Hollow Knight is firmly in the latter, for a multitude of reasons - the incredible hand-drawn visuals, the stunning soundtrack, the impeccable gameplay - but for me the real star of the show has to the story. And for those who have only just embarked upon your Hollow Knight adventure, that may surprise you. What little story there is is pretty opaque and scattered across the haunted halls of Hallownest to be discovered in any particular order. Ah, but that is the beauty and genius of Hollow Knight’s approach to storytelling, and it’s a perfect match for games like this. When you begin the game, you’re treated to a cut scene of a mysterious figure hanging by chains in a dark room. Something orange bubbles up in their brain and they scream - whether in rage or in pain is unclear. We then cut to our protagonist walking through a moody bug village, looking out at a civilization on the distance, then leaping over a cliff. The game begins here, and that’s about as much spoon-fed story as you’re going to get for several hours. Yep, in a game that can easily fill 40 hours of your time, I think I can count on one hand the number of pre-rendered cutscenes, totaling no more than 5 minutes. This is not to say that the story Hollow Knight has to offer is sparse - on the contrary, it is as dense, nuanced and deep as the insect kingdom itself - but it will not reveal itself in a structured, curated manner. There is no “walk to point A, watch cutscene One, proceed to point B” hand-holding here. Like an excavation site, the secrets and revelations are all there, but they won’t piece themselves together for you. Like a jigsaw puzzle, it is down to you to piece together the tidbits of information and decipher the clues to build a picture of what exactly happened here in Hallownest. And it’s all done very organically. NPCs or stone tablets won’t infodump on you, and rarely tell you where you need to go or what to do next. The closest you get to this is the Elderbug as you arrive in your first settlement, Dirtmouth. He comments that most people head down the well. That’s about as explicit as it gets. And that makes sense on both fronts: why would an NPC want to tell you where to go? They’re looking out for their own interest after all. And as Hallownest is an open world free to be explored in any order, one cannot point players down a prescribed path via NPCs talking in case the player has already been there. It serves to give Hollow Knight this very organic feel, of a world that existed long before you, will exist after you’re gone, and is full of characters who don’t just stand around waiting just for you. or me this effectively solves the age-old tension in gaming between story and gameplay. Too often it is regarded as a zero-sum game, where too much of one results in less of the other. A story heavy game is seen as being on the rails, pushing players down a path in order to maintain the pacing and rising tension a good story requires. But lean too much on the gameplay side, and story is sidelined, seen as disrupting the flow and sense of freedom and satisfaction a good gameplay ecosystem affords. Not in Hollow Knight’s case. Somehow, it gives you the best of both worlds while appearing effortless in doing so. Hallownest, on the surface, is presented as a pure gameplay challenge: tough bosses, precision platforming and tests of endurance. You could happily play through the entire game without a second thought for the narrative that surrounds it and still have a great time. You may not have a clue what’s going on, but the challenge laid out before you is more than enough reason for some to play on and overcome. But, look a little closer, read the inscriptions you pass and read between the lines of those you encounter, and you will form this rich tapestry that forms the background of Hollow Knight. In other large scale games, the story is integral to your enjoyment of the game. Skip a cutscene or zone out while a character is talking, and you lessen your understanding of the narrative, and therefore your enjoyment of the game as a whole. In Hollow Knight, it is an enhancing extra. Game comes first. For those who are here only for that, they will have a blast and will not be hindered by a cumbersome plot. For those that are here for the story, it will enhance their experience without it bogging the gameplay down. It seems that Hollow Knight has cracked the code: we have, at last, achieved perfect balance. Thanos would be proud. Now, as we’re a story-focused outfit here at PJL, let’s take a closer look as to how the story functions. As it is an unobtrusive narrative that inhabits Hollow Knight, it doesn’t ever leap to the forefront and infodump - even when it could get away with it. The story is fed via indirect means, told through the art direction, the music, the flavour-text scrawled on crumbling monuments...nothing is wasted. In keeping the gameplay front and center, Team Cherry fill the cracks in between with as much world-building as they can. Even the typical tropes you associate with games like this can be attributed to the story and the world it inhabits. You see, Hollow Knight is what we call a “Metroidvania”: a genre of games known for their labyrinthine maps, unlockable upgrades that allow access to deeper areas of the world, and a general emphasis on exploration. You what is naturally labyrinthine? An insect nest. Hallownest is a perfect fit for the genre. Even the protagonist himself has lore and meaning sleeping out him, just by his mere existence. While the Knight may appear to be your typical silent protagonist with no personality so the player can project themselves onto him, it is actually a key component of the story. Without spoiling anything, there is a reason the Knight is silent and personality-free. Again, you don’t need to understand the reasons why to enjoy the game, and even when the reason is revealed to you, you don’t need to let it colour your enjoyment of the game unless you want it to, such is the take-it-or-leave-it nature of the story at play here. But regardless, this is a prime example of how Team Cherry, in their realization of the world of Hollow Knight, left nothing on the table. They took even the cliches of gaming and owned them, turning them into something meaningful and fitting. No vessel is left empty. Now, for those of you who have completed the game and exhaustively scraped at every nook and cranny of Hallownest, from the summit of Crystal Peak to the depths of The Abyss, you may still feel unclear as to what exactly happened in Hollow Knight, not just the events that led up to the beginning of the game, but also what happens in the game itself. As mentioned previously, even if you are actively in this for the plot and lore, it will not reveal itself to you in a straightforward manner. As there is no prescribed order to play the game, there is no clear linear path to unpack the story, and you need to piece it together out of order. Even then, Hollow Knight doesn’t give it to you straight. Characters and engravings talk use dense, deep language that reference other things or places that you may not fully understand. What few cutscenes there are are tipped heavily toward “Show” on the “show don’t tell” scale, which is fine - great, even - but not helpful if you have no story foundation upon which to reference what you’re seeing. And even if you were some sort of high-functioning genius who could perfectly decipher everything Hollow Knight offers, you would still find gaps in the story, ambiguities, even supposed contradictions. This could (and likely will be) another article for another time, but essentially this all comes down allowing space for interpretation. The idea that gaps are deliberately left in the story where the audience is invited to draw their own conclusions. Done well, it can be an effective way to give the audience a sense of involvement, interactivity and ownership over the story, make it linger in the mind of the audience, and invite lively discussion and debate over what different conclusions people drew. Done badly, it is just lazy, plot-hole-ridden storytelling. It can be difficult to ascertain one for the other, unless the invitation to interpret it yourself is blatant (see the ending of “Inception” as an example of this). Is this hazy, vague narrative actually deliberately difficult to understand, or is it just neglect, plain and simple? It can be difficult to decide where to draw the line between the two, if there is a line. Certainly, it is a balancing act, and it a balance which I believe Hollow Knight absolutely nails. The story may be a little fuzzy around the edges, but the main broad strokes are clear. The basic facts are agreed upon, while it is the finer details of the story that are debated. This for me, is the key litmus test for quality, deliberate ambiguity: sharing ideas and theories about what the gaps could be filled with should be fun. It should be interesting exercise to enhance your love of something, rather than a chore where you feel like you’re doing the legwork that really should have been done by the creators. Again, looking at the ending of Inception as an example, people have different theories as to what it means, whether we are still in a dream state or not. And while it is a major thread left hanging that calls into question everything that we’ve just seen, talking about what you think it means is fun. As a bad example, think about the TV show Lost. While I haven’t seen it myself, the show has become synonymous for vague, unfinished ideas. The infamous mysterious numbers, for example. Were these ever explained? Never officially. Oh sure, you could probably scour the internet and find some explanation, devised by someone who had to perform mental gymnastics to stitch all the disparate pieces together - and that fails my test. You have to do work to make it all fit cohesively, work that really should have been done by the creators. With that, you can see that Hollow Knight is firmly in the former camp. Some people dislike any and all ambiguity in their stories and may want everything set out clearly for them, but that is not a fair test for quality, only a personal preference, and that is not what Hollow Knight sets out to do. It would not fit the mood or atmosphere of Hollow Knight to have a clear, linear progression through the story. Hollow Knight champions exploration and deciding your own path and how much or little of the story you invest in. Hand-holding through a linear path would jeopardise that.
As a gamer since the tender age of six, Hollow Knight delighted me, but as a storyteller, Hollow Knight inspired me. Quite how a game made by a team of three people gets so many things right - and not just in a small-team-done-well kind of way, but in a genuine best-I’ve-ever-seen kind of way - is not just amazing, but also reassuring. For the seeming dominance that large studios seem to have over the stories we consume nowadays, it is good to know that three people with skills and ideas can band together and raise the bar in several criteria. The Knight may be Hollow, but it has breathed new life and new possibilities into what stories in games can be. Back to the Future Finally, I’d like to round off this epic discussion of Undertale by talking about the visuals. Yes, I know that I said at the start that I focus on story, so why would I want to look at...well, the looks? Well, the visuals of Undertale have played a big part in Undertale’s success, ignited the imaginations of a creative fanbase, and can tell us so much about good storytelling. That’s a big and bold claim, so let’s back up and take it one step at a time. One of Undertale’s defining features is its retro graphics. However, nobody would ever call these graphics impressive. I’ve seen many people call them downright ugly, and while that’s a bit harsh, I can see the thrust of their point. And yet, if you to take a peek into the Undertale fanbase, you will find a mountain of fanart, fanmade games, music, fan-fiction and a whole host of creative tributes, some of which you could argue exceed Undertale itself in pure aesthetic and technical quality yet show unconditional love for it’s inspiration. Lavish, “triple-A” titles like Assassin’s Creed or Final Fantasy have fanbases the size of small empires but the creative output of that fanbase is nowhere near as pronounced as Undertale’s. What gives? Well, it all comes down to that little thing called imagination. Those aforementioned Triple-A titles are already stuffed with millions of polygons and visuals that come threateningly close to realism. There is very little for your imagination to do. With Undertale, however, the simple sprite design and level layout is an open invitation for the player to fill in the blanks. Of course, this can be done badly, but Undertale is a great example of giving just enough for the player to work with, and trusting in them to fill in the rest. Imagine all the People And that trust in your audience is key. One of my very first posts about good writing technique talked about trusting your reader, that not everything needs to be spelled out for them, and it is as true as it has ever been. Look at the cultural phenomenon that is Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling is often lauded for her excellent worldbuilding and vivid characters. If you are or were a reader of her series, you could probably conjure up a rich tapestry of the wizard of world from memory. But if you were to go back and read them, you might be surprised at how sparse the description of most characters and places are. The introduction of Hogwarts castle is a single sentence. Ron is described as "tall, thin and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose." From this, we all conjured people and locations as real and breathing as the real world. And Undertale does the game equivalent of these simple descriptions, with same result of imaginative gap-filling as witnessed in a very creative fan base. The imagination can do incredible things! This all sounds fantastic, so you might be wondering why so many writers, especially aspiring and new ones, still inflate their work with over-description, painting every last corner of a room and every freckle on the cheek of their protagonist. I think the reason is twofold: first is a misplaced belief that flowery description is a sign of writing skill, and using plain and straightforward language is a sign of weakness or poor skill. This is clearly untrue: your writing is like a window that looks out on the story beyond, and the clearer the window the better the story can be viewed. Over-descriptive prose turns that window to stained glass: it puts the attention on the window itself and obscured what lies beyond it - your story. The second reason, I think, is the fear of surrendering control of your creation. The writer has spent so long incubating these ideas and building a world in their head that they want to convey that exact same specific world over to the reader, down to every last rigorous detail. Not giving your world or characters enough description can feel like you’re selling them short, or that you’re not giving your reader enough information to really sync up with your fictional world in the way you have. Leap of Faith You have to trust in your reader, to give them just enough to go by and allow them to fill in the blanks. You have accept that your detailed vision of your fictional world cannot be perfectly conveyed to your reader. But take heart: with the right approach you will be surprised at how closely readers can synchronize their imagination with so little information. Again I refer to Harry Potter: when the first movie was new, almost everybody remarked that this was exactly how they envisioned it. Think about that: two people, from entirely different backgrounds and thought processes, conjuring the same mental image while reading words on a page. And Ron’s description is only 14 words long! So rest assured that while you’ll have to accept some loss of control of your creative vision, you won’t need to relinquish completely. You just need to be economic and selective in what you choose to describe - much like what Undertale achieves. And look again at all of that fanart: sure there’s some interpretation and slight differences, but there’s a huge amount of overlap. The added advantage of trusting your reader is that you allow them a sense of ownership of the world you’ve painted. If they need to fill in certain gaps with their imagination, they participate within it in a way that wouldn’t be possible if the writer was at pains to describe everything on their behalf. And if the reader takes ownership, they become invested, and are much more likely to enjoy build a connection with your creation. It’s a powerful tool, one I’m sure even you have experienced. How many times have you read a book with a certain idea of what a character looked like, only to discover that you’d missed a certain piece of description and they in fact look completely different, but you prefer your version anyway and keep it? No word of a lie, for the first three books of Harry Potter I imagined Hagrid looked like Mr Hyde from the Pagemaster movie - yes, green skin and all! But do you think J.K. Rowling failed me as a reader as a result of not giving me enough handholding on Hagrid’s description? Do you think it stymied my enjoyment of the books? Of course not! When training yourself to write economically, you constantly ask yourself “do my readers absolutely need this information? Or is it just purely cosmetic?” if the answer is the latter, then you should seriously consider whether you want to keep it. And this is what Undertale dos so well. It gives your imagination room to breathe. It doesn’t use the stain-glass window of florid and fanciful visuals to obfuscate it the content. The added benefit of this stripped-back approach allows Undertale to really stand out when it needs to. The big moments feel big. Look at Omega-Flowery: it is a design that, without fail, incurs a reaction when it appears (usually a “What the f***?”). The creep factor in the True Lab is real. And two tiny sprites hugging on an otherwise blank screen will make you cry. Not all the polygons in the world can conjure up half of the emotional range that Undertale has. The player is invested by being plugged into a medium that allows you to think and feel for yourself. Game, book or movie, this is something that all creators should aspire to. I hope you've enjoyed this deep-dive look into Undertale! It's the first time I've deconstructed a game on it's narrative aspects, so if you've liked this and want more let me know your thoughts in a comment below! But wait, there's a twist! Subversion is a word that's often thrown around these days. And when that happens, it typically loses meaning. But in simple terms, it is when the audience expects a certain thing to happen because of previous experiences, but then something else happens. Subversion is neither an inherently good or bad thing, though it's often misconstrued as being good, or clever. Twisting or breaking expectations and throwing cliches and tropes out the window does not give you a free ticket to greatness. Put it this way: cliches and tropes are cliches and tropes because they work. Very well. If you're going to throw out time-tested methods of telling a story, then you'd better have something just as good, if not better, up your sleeve. So as you can imagine, most of the time subversive ideas and experiments just don't work. Creators can often be so fixated on the destructive (“I hate this cliche/expectation and I want to twist it!”) that they forget to be constructive. To do their job. To tell the story they want to tell (“I have this great idea that the cliche/expectation doesn't fit, so I will subvert it.”). It's like going on a diet and deciding to cut out all carbs without understanding what carbs do for your body and what you plan to replace it with. Undertale Rules Undertale is an example of good subversion. It is an RPG, specifically a JRPG, a sub-genre heavy with tropes and cliches. But Toby Fox, the creator of Undertale, didn't approach Undertale with a mind to just undercut all established cliches for the sake of subversion. No, he was constructive. He had a story to tell. A point to make. He toyed with the audiences expectations but crucially replaced them with something good. Not just new for its own sake. Turn-based combat? How about a bullet-hell interface? Oh, and rather than fighting random encounters just for the sake of gaining EXP and LV-ing up, why fight at all? And this is the key point: while Undertale makes a point of morality, of deploring violence and pointless death, it has a wonderful alternative up its sleeve. It is subversion at its finest. And the finest subversion makes you question the established rules. In Undertale’s case, it does make you look at JRPGs as a whole and think. Am I really the good guy if I'm carving my way through hordes of characters without a second thought for who they really are? Can I really have a clean conscience if I have killed innocents? Oh, and I'll give you a hint: in Undertale, EXP and LV don't stand for “experience” and “level”. To be clear, Undertale does not stand opposing RPGs. It is not a rebel. To bend and break rules, one must know the rules. And Undertale is full of love letters to the genre. Look into Toby Fox’s history and you’ll see a man rich with the DNA of JRPGs such as Mother and Earthbound. This makes sense: in order to twist the established expectations of a genre, one must know those expectations inside and out first. And it's not as if the game is one big subversion on JRPGs: some things still remain in place. You can still buy equipment that improves your attack and defence. Random encounters in the wild still ‘feel’ like they always have. There's still a smattering of room puzzles here and there. Even in a game as different as Undertale, not everything is or needs to be different. On the contrary, following some of the rules can heighten the impact of the subversive elements when they do happen. Take the shops, for example. You can buy stuff and talk to shop owners as normal. But when you try to “sell” to the shop owners, in almost all cases the shop owner will say something like: “why are you trying to sell me things? I'm a shop, I do the selling!” Which is a perfect microcosm of Undertale’s wonderful subversive elements: it happens in a moment of the game where all seems normal, and the twist makes sense and makes you think. Yeah, why would a shop let me sell things? Projection Mapping There’s something else that gives this retro 2D game an unerring sense of realism: the characters. Not just the ones you interact with, but your own avatar as well. As is typical, your character is a silent protagonist, and so weakly defined that not even the gender is specified. This is all deliberate of course - Undertale isn’t the first RPG to give us a personality-free character so we can project our own personality onto them - but what Undertale does is just that little bit different. You see, Undertale does indeed tell it’s own story, but it’s meta-narrative is also a meditation on the nature of games and the people who play them. Undertale is all about making your choices have weight, so it will directly reach over your character and address you, the player, and question your choice. This is especially true if you play what is known as the “Genocide” run, where you essentially play Undertale as a normal RPG: kill everything you can, level up, collect bigger and better equipment. The game makes the bold move of making you feel like a terrible person. The music gets distorted, all humor drops out of the narrative, the streets are desolate and what few characters you do interact with will call you out as a monster. Battles also become much, much harder. It really does feel as though the game is actively pushing back against you. As it should: it stays true to its core of making you question the nature of RPGs and making your choices matter. If you are going to play Undertale like a normal RPG and kill for the sake of acquiring EXP and LV, you will face the consequences. Ah, but why would Undertale make you feel stronger if it was a bad thing? Why give out EXP to increase your LV at all? Well, when you receive judgement from Sans, the meaning of those terms become clear. EXP means “Extermination Points”, and LV is you “Level of Violence”. And if you have carved a path through everything that moves in the Underground, expect Sans’ judgement to be very cruel indeed - the hardest battle of them all. It will stress you out. You will think it’s impossible. You consider quitting. In short, you will feel as bad as the character you’re acting. Git Gud to Get Good And that’s something I’ve seen a few people take note of. Of how the pacifist path, while not without its challenges, is easier than the path of evil. It flies in the face of the narrative that most games, books and movies take, that the path of evil is seductively easy while the path of good is harder but ultimately more rewarding. Why is that? What is the message that Undertale is trying to give us as a result? I don’t think that there’s any solid answer beyond the one you interpret, but for me it fits perfectly with the theme of Undertale skewering the norms of RPG gameplay and narrative as we mentioned before. Let’s be honest here, is it really easy to be evil? Is being good so hard? No, says Undertale, not if you have determination! I think this is why Undertale resonates so deeply with so many people. While on the genocide route the game seems to actively hate you for it, on a pacifist run the game rewards you. The story opens up, with sub-plots and character building becoming richer the nicer you act. Look out for the family of rocks (yes, rocks) in Snowdin. If you’ve been good up to that point, the family will be outside playing and the father will comment on how he feels something good in the air today. But kill just one character, and the children are sent inside, and the rather comments that something doesn’t feel quite right today. And all of those sub-plots and mysteries that the game throws up can only be fully understood on a pacifist run. What are those hidden cameras for? What’s that mysterious door near Snowdin? What’s with the flowers in Toriel’s house? It’s all there for you, and they are the payoff you receive for the pacifist run. Compare the final challenges of the pacifist and genocide run for the best comparison. The climactic battle with Asriel in the pacifist run, while challenging, is built purely for fun and pulling at the heartstrings. You can’t lose this fight - literally. The music is exciting. The attacks are colorful and awe-inspiring, and the denouement is satisfying and emotional. By contrast, the fight with Sans on the genocide is cruel, stressful and will kill you multiple times. This is the game actively throwing up a wall to stop you: it wants you to do the right thing by giving up. Power through, and no satisfaction will be awarded to you in the epilogue, only a jump scare followed by 10 minutes of a black screen and the sound of a howling wind that you have to sit through in order to reset the game. Undertale stacks everything in favor of those who do good, and you have to admire it for that, rather than taking the usual “easy but bad path or difficult but good path” approach. It’s a game that makes you feel good for being good. And the more you think about that, the more you’ll fall in love with that philosophy. In the third and final part, we'll look at how Undertale's simple visuals teach us about trusting the audience. No, really. True Greatness Have you ever found yourself in the situation where the hype around a certain something was so high that it actually put you off watching/reading/playing it? That it couldn't possibly be that good, that the raving fan worship was off-putting, or it simply didn't seem like your type of thing? Well, that was me when I approached Undertale. A game that seems to convert even the most cynical of people. Not that I was ever cynical, mind. I was sure it would be good, but not that good. Now here I am after my third playthrough. Yes, third. I have laughed, cried, jumped out of my seat and shivered from terror. Undertale did not just surpass my expectations, it launched over them and is now somewhere in the stratosphere, possibly in orbit. The praise is absolutely deserved and then some. It is now safely one of my Top 10 Games of all time - and as someone who has played games since 1991, that is not a claim I make lightly. It is a masterpiece, a milestone of the medium that everyone must play, even those who don't “do” games. But I am getting ahead of myself. What is it exactly that makes Undertale so great? After all, at first glance it just looks like some retro RPG with an unusual battle mechanic. Well, as we focus mainly on story here at PJL, that's what we’re going to do with Undertale, though you really can't separate the story from interactive experience. Undertale could never be anything other than a game. Going Underground So what’s the story? At its most basic level, it's about a civilisation of monsters living underground, banished beneath the surface after losing a war to humans long ago. A child falls into this monster world and must now find a way out of it - one way or another. Doesn't exactly sound like Top-10-Game-Of-All-Time material, I know, and the game itself doesn't make the best first impression. While the aforementioned battle mechanic of using a “bullet hell” style area to dodge attacks from opponent, in the beginning Undertale seems to be a fairly generic RPG. Random encounters, battles, EXP, increase LV, gain gold, buy equipment, etc. But here’s the thing: that's exactly what the game wants to think. It wants to come across as generic at first, so the rug-pulling moment has that much greater impact. Because - and this is your last warning for spoilers if you want to go into this game blind, which is the best way to play - you don't have to fight. You don't have to kill. Undertale can be played purely as a pacifist, and indeed Undertale does nudge you into playing it that way - not because it's the better way to experience the game, although it certainly is - but because it's the right thing to do. Who in their right mind goes around killing everything in sight? The rug-pulling moment It's this simple yet effective skewering of RPG conventions that gives Undertale it’s first big tick - one of many. I'll admit it threw me for a loop the first time I played it. A fell into the trap. I played the game like a straight RPG, killing monsters to gain precious EXP, gold and LV-ing up. I had to, surely - I'd need that later in the game when battling tougher beasts and buying better gear, right? Then I got the rug-pulling moment. And this is my final warning for spoilers, which are going to come thick and fast now. The kindly tutorial goat-mother (called Toriel, one of many playful bits of wordplay in this world), who has been my guide and protector throughout the opening area, blocks my path ahead. It is for my own protection, she says, to shield me from the dangers beyond, but it is clear that I can't advance further in the game until I confront her like any other monster. So I do. The battle scenario looks like any other battle. Sure, I tried talking to her, but she is having none of it, and her attacks are aggressive and damaging. So I fight back. And I win. She gives me a gut-wrenching speech, wishes me well, and as she turns to dust I literally watched her heart break. The battle ends, and I'm alone, walking through a silent corridor. Somethings feels off. I can't quite put my finger on it. Then I meet Flowey again, the main antagonist of the game who nearly killed me at the beginning. His motto is “Kill or be killed”, and he mocks me and Toriel. “She couldn't even save herself,” he says before disappearing. Then the game begins proper. At some point, I open my inventory to use my cell. I try to call Toriel’s phone. Of course nobody picks up. I killed her. Then it hits me. I know what that nagging feeling in the back of my head is. Guilt. For the first time in gaming, so have been made to feel guilty for an action that I thought was perfectly normal. Then I looked at myself, and I realised how crazy that sounded. Killing is normal. No, of course it isn't: I know that, but for the first time a game has made me realise that there are consequences to my actions. Of course there would be consequences. I'd just killed someone, a someone who’d been my first friend in this strange world, no less. I'll admit I chickened out. I really didn't feel comfortable continuing the game knowing what I’d done. About 30 minutes after that one time I “reset” the game, an option on the start menu that effectively takes you back to the beginning. No, I’d do it right this time. I wouldn't kill. I hadn't gotten that far in, so starting over wouldn't do any harm, right? "I know what you did." Wrong. Flowey knows. He always knows. After successfully getting past Toriel without resorting to violence, the flower sneers: “Clever. Veery Clever. So you were able to play by your own rules. I know what you did. You murdered her. And then you went back, because you regretted it.” Flowey taunts while wearing the broken face of Toriel. It is a moment of gaming that will cling to my memory for a long time. It chilled me. Because he was absolutely right. Consequences didn’t just have an impact through a singular playthrough, but permanently, even if you “reset” the game. And Flowey isn’t just talking to my in-game avatar. He was talking to me. All bets were off now. Undertale remembers. My actions would have lasting consequences. And it wouldn't be just the big decisions, either. Even the more innocuous stuff would be remembered and have knock-on effects later on in the game: whether you talked to the snowman, if you're wearing a certain clothing item, if you prefer cinnamon or butterscotch. In this respect, Undertale is one of the most realistic games ever made. Seems like an outrageous claim for a game filled with talking monsters, magic and tangible souls, but that's not what I'm talking about. No, your actions have an impact, both big and small. It's an almost “butterfly effect” level of consequence. On one hand, it's a joy - what will this interaction do? Will it be different if I do this? What happens if I go back and talk to this character? - but on the other hand, there's an element of fear as well. When every move you make in a game world has real weight, you really wonder if you'll send the narrative spiralling down a path you don't want it to if you say the wrong thing or turn left instead of right. And what is more true to real life than that? In part 2, we'll discuss the nature of subversion in stories, and what Undertale's moral lessons are. “Weird Fiction” is such a strange tag when you think about it. There's no other genre of fiction where the name is a description of the contents, rather than the category of story. You don't get “Boring Fiction” or “Pretentious Fiction”. But there it is, and Neil Gaiman is an author often labelled as writing Weird Fiction. I'm not sure if that's a badge he wears proudly or not, but likewise I can't say for sure if American Gods counts as “Weird”. Unusual, yes, and it does twist and subvert many of the tropes and structures you'd expect in a story. But here's the thing, the reason why such tropes, archetypes and clichés exist is because they work. If you're going to step off of the beaten track and be “weird”, you need to have a darn good substitute. You need to still tell a story. You cannot get by on just being different if that difference isn't very good. "The God Complex" So is American Gods good? To many, it is. Great, even. And far be it from me to take that away from them. But I can only offer my perspective. And for me, American Gods, while full of rich subtext and ideas, is flawed. Some experiments work. And some don't. I'm going to talk about those flaws here. I won't really talk about the plus points of the book, of which there are many, so if it seems like I'm being unfair, that's not my intention. American Gods is a critically lauded and fan-loved novel, you already know he reasons you like it. It's on me to submit my reasons for not liking it. American Gods is a dense book. A lot happens, seen and unseen. Themes weave a thick web throughout the book: belief, religion, American culture, life, death...all the while the names of songs, movies, actors, actresses and other books are dropped everywhere. And this is before we get to the plot, which covers the length and breadth of America, and revolves around the high concept of the Gods taking physical form, both old and new, representing the old and new beliefs. It's a lot to juggle, and it's testament to Gaiman that he manages to keep it all in the air, let alone make a cohesive novel out of it. But through the sheer complexity of the book, something is lost: clarity. It's like a fine stain-glass window: a wonder to behold in its own right, but really doesn't lend itself to clearly viewing the subject matter beyond. Scene-by-scene, frame by frame, there are some truly wonderful moments in American Gods, but when put together as a cohesive whole the narrative gets muddy. I enjoyed the feel of Shadow’s side-trip to Cairo, but I'm not quite sure what purpose it served to the story overall. To the themes, yes, but story is key. More on that later. "Knowledge is Power" Now, I'm sure that there some people out there who can tell me exactly what the purpose of the scenes in Cairo were. Who Whiskey Jack is and why he’s important. Why Shadow is so keen on coin tricks. But this leads me onto the second issue I have: Gaiman’s writing style. While it is full of flavour and verve, is no doubt unique. Nobody writes quite like him. He's not the kind of writer who spells out exactly what is happening and the significance of it. And while that is to be admired - it is refreshing to have an author who assumes a high level of intelligence and perception from his audience - I feel it matches poorly with American Gods. It is complex enough as it is, and I could have really done with a straight-shooting writing style to give a more reassuring guide through this bewildering world. And again, while I thank Gaiman for respecting my intelligence, I felt like I needed to have an advanced level of understanding for Norse Mythology, American culture and world religions to gain a complete understanding of American Gods. Sorry Gaiman, I'm just not that smart after all. Related to that point is the speaking style of the characters. Everyone speaks as if they're experts in said topics on Myths and Legends. Take the scene when Sam hitchhikes a lift from Shadow, for example. So we have this big guy on the run, picking up a girl of college age. And what do they talk about? Gods. And they talk about it as if they're both majors in the field, with technical terms thrown around. It really stretches that suspension of belief. And they still speak with a hint of that Gaiman-esque uniqueness that makes it difficult to follow their conversation at times. Speech patterns begin blurring into one. I think I reread the passage where Shadow enters the Underworld three times and there were still some things I couldn't quite be sure the characters were talking about. "In the beginning (and the end)..." American Gods starts well and ends very well. The extended epilogue wraps things up nicely, clears up some of those hanging questions, and strangely enough the writing style is more straightforward as well, making it easier to digest and absorb. But the middle of the book tried my patience. We jump between long meandering days in Lakeside, where Shadow reads books, has dreams and literally waits for Wednesday to pick him up. Then it's off to meet another God, to persuade another one to join the team, then back to Lakeside. Gaiman isn't afraid to take his time through the narrative, and again that is to be admired, but you do have to wonder what the importance and significance of these meanders are. How do they add to the novel as a whole? Take those interjections of scenes from other times and places: the salesman in New York, the children brought over during the slave trade, the short story of Essie. Sure, these all add to and enrich the themes of American Gods, but not the story. Ultimately, I enjoyed my time with American Gods. While the middle of he book tried my patience, the payoff in he end pulled it back for me. And even now, over a week after I've put the book down, I still think about it, and I've done some research to fill in the gaps where I feel I missed something. But that's the critical point for me. See, I have no problem with books that are filled with symbolism, themes and metaphors. One the contrary, I love them. Lord of the Flies is one of my most adored books, and nearly every other sentence of that oozes with allegory. But they are both fiction novels, and the simple rule of “story first” applies: the concept that you can fill your stories with as many themes, meanings, agendas and politics as you want, but the story comes first. Somebody should be able to sit down with your story, take it at face value, and still enjoy it for what it is. You can certainly do that with Lord of the Flies. Can it be done with American Gods? Can you take the adventure of Shadow purely at face value and still enjoy it? For me, the answer was no. Everybody in American Gods talks of the divine, and people in the real world talk of American Gods as if it is just as revered, but I wasn't converted. The very concept of historical fiction is an oxymoron. Fiction is, by definition, a flight of fancy, the imagination given form. History is fact, set in stone, our true past. To deviate from history puts it straight into fiction. There's no balance between the two. When we say “Historical Fiction” there's an unwritten understanding between creator and audience that, while certain efforts have been made to attain accuracy to the time period and the characters, the main purpose of the work is to entertain. If there is to be some tweaking or culling of the facts to make for more impactful storytelling, then so be it.
And yet there are those who would like to see the author held to the same standards as the historian, with all anachronisms ironed out, twisted truths unknotted and every facet of the facts bolted into place. Anything else is a failure, a disrespect to the source material. The imitation game was no exception to the criticism. While it was largely hailed as excellent upon release in 2014, there was still the usual voices decrying the falsehoods in the movie. That Alan Turing was actually quite sociable. The true name of the Enigma machine was not Christopher but Victory. That the project was not a small crack team of geniuses working on a single machine, but that the Enigma project involved thousands of people, multiple machines and Alan Turing stepped in midway through the project. That the chemical castration didn't directly result in Turing’s suicide, that he was off the stuff 14 months before he died, and even then it's not entirely clear if he committed suicide. Now, I am not at all saying that the people who point out these inconsistencies are wrong, or that they should simply enjoy the story for what it is. Certainly, all due diligence should be made in the research phase of the story, and to respect the facts. And I'm definitely not saying that historical fiction, as a source of entertainment, has no duty to inform. It certainly does, and those people who point out the inaccuracies help to push us all to a higher standard. But there has to be a reasonable limit on just how much a storyteller can be expected to follow the facts. The reason is twofold. Firstly, to be blunt, a storyteller’s job is to tell a story. A story’s job is to entertain, and anything learned from it is a happy bonus. Why don't we hold historians to the same standard? That they must present their facts in a pleasing and readable narrative? Sure, some historians are gifted storytellers with a knack for making a potentially dry history lesson of the past a joy, but the difference between the two is stark. We happily forgive history books if they are as dull and readable as a dictionary - indeed, we praise history books as this as being the real deal, the pedigree authority on our history - and yet if a historical fiction gives a character a fabric type that isn't invented for the next 73 years, or the villain a gun that what never been made available outside of South America, then you can bet that the author’s going to hear from some very unhappy people. We should be more sympathetic to the author who has clearly at least tried. Tried harder than the historian who can’t (and won't) make their work more digestible. Secondly, as the storyteller, the author is well versed in - and has a duty to - make the story work. Let's face it, despite there being many strange and wonderful true stories of drama, terror, excitement and wonder in the world, very few of them would translate perfectly into a story. Stories and real life have similarities, yes, but the differences are key to understanding why storytellers make the changes they do. Stories have to hit certain emotional beats. Have clear beginnings and endings. Keep a certain level of tension and pacing. Have an antagonistic force for the main character to play off of. Simply put, real life does not have an audience to keep in rapt attention. A story does, and when retelling a true story certain adjustments and sacrifices have to be made to keep the audience engaged. Let's look at the differences between the fact and fiction of the imitation game again. In the movie, Alan Turing basically has Asperger’s. He may not have been like that in real life (though he was indeed a private person), but can you imagine the story if the Enigma crew got on perfectly well from the outset? It would seem too easy, and Alan wouldn't have the scope to develop as a character. Now again, you can argue that character development of Alan isn't true to the real man, but this is what engages an audience. A protagonist who stays the same throughout does not a satisfying narrative make. Same with the naming of the machine: naming it after Alan’s childhood friend gives it that extra emotional oomph that has a great payoff towards the end of the movie. His death is probably the most contentious discrepancy, and I can understand why. It is argued that Alan Turing’s time on chemical castration wasn’t that bad for him, and his death was a separate issue with an unclear cause. To be blunt, if this had played out in the movie it would have been an anticlimactic mess. Imagine it: after completion of the Enigma machine, Alan Turing is arrested for homosexual acts. He's put on a program of corrective medicine that doesn't impact him that badly, then he dies of an indirect cause later. Credits roll. It wouldn't work. Stories require payoff, closure. You can see the thinking of the creators when they were deciding how to get the right impact without sacrificing the integrity of the story. Clearly a happy ending would be disastrous: Alan Turing's story could only ever end in tragedy. Having Turing’s story (not life, but story) end on a clear suicide as a direct result of the chemical castration gives the story clear closure, deals an emotional blow to the audience, and puts one of the core themes of the story (and of Alan Turing’s real life) into sharp relief: homosexuality. Of course it can be done badly. There's countless examples out there of poorly researched historical fiction that plays fast and loose with the facts. The key thing here is respect for the source material. In my opinion the imitation game is not just a good story but also good historical fiction, because it manages to tell a story while staying true to the spirit of Alan Turing’s life and work. The facts can be respected without being mimicked. The alterations don’t compromise the integrity of the truth: in many respects, the alterations can enhance and bring focus to the points that matter. While it may have been true the Enigma project was the work of a much larger group of men and women, showing the group as being a much smaller, concentrated effort brings the attention squarely onto Turing. And let’s be clear here: tweaking the facts to make digestible, audience-friendly historical fiction is by no means selling out. Good historical fiction leaves the audience in one of two mindsets: feeling intrigued enough to go off and learn more, or they never look up anything further on the topic but the movie leaves them with an impression more or less aligned with the historians (ie. that Turing was a genius, unfairly persecuted for his sexuality, and taken before his time). In the case of the former, this is wonderful because it piques the interest and drives the viewer or reader to investigate and read up on the real deal. This is easier than it has ever been thanks to everyone having immediate access to the knowledge of the world through a device in our pockets. In the case of the latter, it is also good news because you have a casual viewer who would have otherwise been uninformed yet thanks to a movie or book now possess a sketch of the facts without being grossly uninformed. Either way, historical fiction brings important benefits to opening the eyes of an audience to the work of a person, a time in history, a tragedy or great battle that they would have otherwise never known about. Historical Fiction faces unique challenges in striking a balance between telling an impactful story while respecting the facts. While every effort should be made to present the truth, it must be understood that it’s main purpose is to tell a story. Done well, historical fiction can be an effective primer for the masses, and a gateway to encourage looking into the real deal. And I have learned a lot about Alan Turing since watching ‘The Imitation Game’! Many, many moons ago, I gave a standard submission to a literary agent. The reply wasn’t so standard. No, it wasn’t a Holy Grail answer of “YES! We love you, sign a contract with us IMMEDIATELY!” unfortunately (I imagine that’s what a positive response from a literary agent looks like. I’ve no idea: I’ve never had one!).
The exact wording of the reply escapes me, but I’ll never forget the tone: it was one of exhausted desperation, like someone who has run a marathon and ended up at the wrong finish line. While she liked what I had submitted (it was ‘Tick’, by the way), she craved something that was high-octane, high-drama, high-stakes, characters that burst off the page, the works. And ‘Tick’ wasn’t showing that. Well, to be specific, the opening three chapters of ‘Tick’ weren’t showing that. I did offer a second submission to the poor agent, one that I felt was more up their street, but I never heard back from them. I presume they must’ve spontaneously combusted out of boredom from lack of high-octane action. It was very disappointing for me, and not just because I felt like I’d started to make an in-road with an agent, but also because this agency was famous for certain series of books. Possibly the most famous book series of the modern age. And that book series sure didn’t burst out of the gates with high-octane, high-drama, high-stakes and characters that burst off the page, that is for sure. But most worrying of all is how this agent gave a very real glimpse into what is a trend in the writing world: something I call First Chapter Frenzy. First Chapter Frenzy is the desire, both from agents and writers, for a faster paced, more explosive, adrenaline-fuelled opening. This stems from the concern of an increasingly competitive fiction market, and a belief of a reader’s ever-shortening attention span. But there’s also a behind-the-scenes element going on, possibly the most important one. Simply put, poor agents like the one I'd made contact with wade through a mountain of submissions from writing hopefuls such as myself every single day. This is known affectionately as the slush pile, and everyone desires to make themselves stand out from the crowd and grab the ear of the agent. Knowing full well that most agencies are looking only for the opening three chapters or so, authors will polish up these chapters and configure them to such a degree of attention-seizing mania that they're virtually unrecognisable from the rest of the book. No kidding, I have read draft novels like this. One example springs to mind: the first chapter was this blistering opening of a man standing in a rain lashed street, waiting. A car comes veering around the corner and racing towards the man, but he holds his ground. The headlights catch his face, and the car swerved to avoid him, breaking to a stop. The man punches through the windshield and grabs the driver by the throat. “I've been waiting for you,” he says. Woah. Pretty intense stuff, yes? How can that be possibly be followed up on? Well, short answer: it isn't. Long answer: the next chapter is nothing but the two same characters, presumably one week prior to Chapter One, doing nothing but sitting in a cafe and talking. Infodumping. It was painfully obvious that this writer was well aware that their original opening (which I guess wasn't too far off from the soporific pacing of Chapter Two) wasn't going to grab an agent’s attention. So they threw their first chapter into a dubstep remix machine, filled it with a six pack of red bull and now we have a moody man punching car windows in the rain. Now, I am not saying that frenetic and explosive first chapters aren't good. On the contrary, they can be great - if it fits with the overall tone and theme of your story. It's no good shoehorning in a pulse-pounding thriller of an introduction it the rest of your book is a ponderous murder-mystery. The aim of the first chapter is to not just to seize attention for the sake of it, but to immerse the reader in the world and keep reading. A novel doesn't succeed by pure footfall alone. And there's many types of novels out there for which a frenetic opening simply wouldn't work. It sure as hell wouldn't work for Tick. Yet many follow the George Lucas school of “once again, but this time faster and more intense,” as if simply cranking up the speed and energy and urgency are the shortcuts to success. They aren't. Many books open with not so much a fireworks display as they do a whisper on the wind. And yet they are just as successful in seizing a reader’s attention. They set the mood, the feel, the mystery, the questions that will compel the reader on beyond Chapter One in search of answers. Cast your minds back through the opening of some of your favourite books and I guarantee that most of them open with a steady, slow burn. Pyrotechnics on the page are no sure fire way to success. Think back to school. Think of that teacher who was able to hold the entire class in rapt attention and yet barely raise their voice above a normal speaking volume? Why did it work? Was it the way that teacher simply exuded confidence? Or was it the content of what they were saying that held you? Whatever it was, it was something that didn’t need to be shouted from a megaphone through a smoke and laser show. And I’m sorry, but I do not buy that an increasingly competitive market and shortening attention spans are to blame here. Yes, we have more access to a wider range of entertainment than ever - the audience have the luxury to be choosy - but that doesn’t mean we need to be increasingly desperate in our methods to hold our reader’s eyeballs. A good story speaks for itself. Let’s not insult our readers by thinking they cannot possibly go for more than three pages without some sort of action scene. This whole idea of ever shortening attention spans is pure myth. Do not fear the quiet, calm moments of your book. In fact, some of my favourite moments in books are when characters are given space to just simply...be. Develop. Interact with the world around them. These aren't just holes in the pacing or places of exposition, but vital moments where the story you’re weaving enriches itself. And moreover, they are just simply...relaxing. Take pride in having them in your writing, and the fact that you feel you can trust your readers to not be kept excited on every page. First Chapter Frenzy demands that your opening is a veritable supernova. You may feel you need to compete against the greats, against an already overcrowded mass of other books. But do not feel pressure to shout louder and write a high-octane, high-drama, high-stakes, characters that burst off the page opener. Amidst the noise, the reader is attracted to the writer who offers calm shelter, and quietly goes about weaving a captivating story, free of the frenzy I make a big song and dance about how good stories can be found anywhere. Well, it's time to put my money where my mouth is and put my first ever music album under the magnifying glass. And what better way to start than with one of my favourite bands, Muse, and their conceptual album, Drones.
Music faces a unique challenge when it comes to telling a story, in that it's not the main purpose of the medium. Movies and books tell stories. Music is...well, what is music for? It's entertainment, sure, but isn't there more to it than that? For me, music serves to create or enhance a mood. Music can relax, excite, enrage, make you smile, make you cry. And it can do that even when you were feeling in a completely different mood prior to listening. It's also the only form of entertainment that doesn't require your complete attention: you can leave the music to play while you cook, exercise, chat or even sleep. So how do you match this format of entertainment with telling a story? It's a challenge, to be sure, hence why those “albums that tell a story” are rare compared to your straight-shooting one-track-at-time album. And even then, conceptual albums can be very hit or miss, often failing for not committing to its story enough or too much (when there's filler tracks to simply move the story along). Sure, you get songs that tell a whole story in one go (Eminem’s ‘Stan’ is a prime example), but sustaining the narrative across a dozen tracks is a very different beast. People rarely come to music for the story it tells: they come it for those reasons I mentioned earlier; for setting a mood or for background entertainment. So it’s a real challenge for the more narrative-inclined songwriters out there. There’s multiple methods and techniques out there, but for me there there’s two main points that a good story-based album need to demonstrate: the stealth story, and the feel of the story arc. And I feel that Muse’s Drones displays both expertly. Let’s cover the stealth story first. How many times have you been told that the song you’ve enjoyed listening to hundreds of times has an interesting story to it, and you never noticed it? Well, in a backwards kind of way, that's the ideal. You see, you don’t feel short-changed from your entertainment: you have been enjoying the music on a different level. If anything, sometimes knowing what the lyrics really mean can spoil the music for some. Not because the narrative is distasteful, but because you can’t not hear the story when you’ve first noticed it. People prefer their music to complement their lifestyle, as a form of escapism that doesn’t intrude, while stories push a specific agenda that demands attention and a certain thought process from the listener. That can put off listeners who just like their music to be something that makes their commute a little more enjoyable or something to unwind with at the end of the day. It’s why people understandably raise their hackles whenever an album strips away all the music for a bit of tuneless narration. A good story can enhance the music in the same way that a good soundtrack enhances a movie, but it should never overpower it. The story should be inserted stealthily, threaded seamlessly into the fabric of the sound. Lyrics are deliberately opaque, painting the underlying narrative in broad strokes without filling in the detail. If the lyrics explicitly spell out what is happening, it sticks out and can irritate those who simply wish to enjoy the music. Look to songs like Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz, with lyrics and accompanying video signalling the dangers of excess and the loss of innocence, but you need not know that. You can take it on a surface level. This isn’t to say that listeners don’t wish to be challenged. Rather, they prefer to make up their own mind up about what the music means to them. That’s why the best concept albums are often interpreted in different ways: the meaning was never clearly laid out. We get a general feel for the themes and the vague direction the story takes, but the finer points are left to the audience to fill in - if they want to. Coming back to Muse’s Drones, I think all listeners can agree that the album has an anti-military, anti-authority stance, and there seems to be a character who falls into the system, becoming a drone, before breaking free of their oppressor. But beyond that, the detail of the story is unclear, at times contradictory. The band has said that the protagonist is female, yet there’s evidence in the album to the contrary, such as the male screams of ‘aye Sir!’ on Psycho. Psycho itself paints a picture of military-style mental abuse, but other songs like Mercy (and the accompanying video) allude to a more scientific theme of mind control. Some have said that this is a downside, that the concept is unclear. On the contrary, this is the greatest sign of a story that’s been stealthily inserted into the music: it’s up for interpretation. After listening to Drones from beginning to end we all get a rough sense of the story told, while having individual elbow room to fill in the blanks. Personally, I latch onto the opening lines in Mercy, where we have lines like: “I tried to change the game/I tried to infiltrate but now I’m losing.” So for me the protagonist was some kind of double agent who is failing to stay true to themselves. The 10-minute epic of The Globalist seems to me to be the protagonist coming face to face with the big bad guy (whoever he is), who decides to detonate and flatten the entire world before he dies, leaving our protagonist and his/her love interest as the only humans left. If you have listened to Drones, you likely have your own interpretation, and that’s fine, but there’s a good chance it’s not far off of what I got out of it. We might differ on the small points but the general spine of the story is agreed upon. Which, if you were to simply print off the lyrics for each song and read them out without any of the music, is actually pretty incredible: Drones leans heavily on those obtuse lyrics I mentioned earlier. And this is where we get the second key technique of storytelling in a concept album: making the mood. The story of a conceptual album doesn’t just exist through the words, but also through the music. The feel, the tone, the way the words are presented, all serve to gently build the theatre in the mind of the listener, and inform the way they should feel while they listen. This is one of music’s greatest strengths, why some movies would simply feel wrong if they had no soundtrack. Seriously, can you imagine Return of the King’s famous beacon firelighting scene without the music? It wouldn’t work because the music swells with the feel of Gandalf’s words: “Hope is kindled.” Hope is carried through the air on the back of elated strings and a stirring brass section. Music is excellent at pulling at the heartstrings, and is surprisingly effective at inspiring a certain mood in the audience. This is what Drones does so well. The feel of each song conjures certain images in the mind. So where the lyrics may only hint at what is happening in the story, the music itself helps to frame what is happening through the atmosphere of the sound. This is what Drones does so well, and is the reason why so many get the feel for a story without it feeling as though it intrudes on the music. Rather, the story is told through the music. Dead Inside feels robotic, claustrophobic. Psycho is aggressive and abusive. Mercy, with its tinkling piano, gives the album’s first hint of human emotion, of softness. Reapers is wild and full of panic. The Handler is heavy and leaden, as though...yep, oppressed - until that wail of “LET ME GO!”. Defector is at turns euphoric and seething with sweet revenge. And so on. The music echoes the beats of the story itself, and it follows a classic story arc of trigger, quest, climax and resolution. So the story lives through the music, not in spite of it. Each track can conjure a mood which, when played one after the other, stacks up into a kaleidoscope of moods and captured emotions that echo that of a story. If this is combined with the stealth story, then you are coming close to finding what all the best conceptual albums share: music that can be enjoyed on a surface level, but with hidden depths for the more perceptive listener to delve into if they wish. But the music must always come first. I know I’ve repeated ad nauseum how the story comes second on music albums, but let’s be real here: when we have a movie we enjoy, how many times are we going to rewatch it in, say, a year? Twice, maybe three times? Now, how about an album you enjoy? You’re going to replay it at least twenty times or more. No matter how good a story is, it’s going to lose it’s shine after a couple of playthroughs, whereas music is much more durable when it comes to replayability. Being overly pushy on the story front on an album is going to dramatically affect its shelf life, no matter how good that story may be. It can be a tricky balance for music to tell a story, primarily because of the listener’s preconceptions about what music should be. But when the balance is struck, and I believe Drones is a perfect example of this, we get albums that transcend into something else: piece of entertainment that works on multiple levels. Don’t underestimate how much of achievement that is! It's an oft repeated mantra of the writing world: to write what you know. To take your experiences and make them fodder for your creative writing.
When I was but a youngster, striking out into the world of writing for the first time, this advice confused me no end. As a 16-year-old, my life experiences were limited to school, homework and biking up to my mate’s house on the weekends to play Mario Kart. How on earth could that translate into creative material? Besides, I don't think all the life experiences of the world could help me with what I was trying to write: an epic adventure spanning galaxies. And it wasn't just me: whenever I'd wonder into my local Waterstones (which was a lot: I used to work there!) I'd wander around the sci-fi and fantasy sections. Books about world's conjured from the imagination, filled with the unreal, the surreal and he fantastic. Many of them excellent, many of them successful. The authors of these books sure hadn't lived in those worlds! So I dismissed that advice out of hand and got on with writing my epic space adventure. And what an adventure it was, both in terms of the content and in the writing of it. I lived and breathed that project for a whole year, drew up elaborate plans stretching as far as book five, sketched pictures of the main characters, made maps. It became my life. When I wasn't writing that book I wanted nothing more than to be back writing it, even in my sleep. When I completed the first draft of that book, I just knew that I’d created something incredible. A story for the ages. And all at the age of 16! I was a child protege! So much for that ‘write what you know’ advice! It was my moral duty to get this book out to agents as soon as possible. They needed to get this onto bookshelves and into reader’s hands right away. So imagine my shock when those rejection letters came rolling in. One after the other, some without even a note of why they rejected it. Those hurt the most. How could this be? What had I missed? Could...could it be that the book wasn't as good as I thought it was? So I hit the books, studying up on the art of writing fiction. Prior to that point I'd only passed a cursory glance across the basics, thinking that I could get by on pure raw passion and enthusiasm. It was then that hit the trough of the Dunning-Kruger Effect: the phenomenon where newbies who are ignorant of the skills required in a craft consider themselves to be better than veterans. The more I learned about how to write - plotting an arc, building characters, theming, show don't tell - the more I realized how little I knew. Rereading my original manuscript after getting a grasp of some of these techniques and key dos and don’ts was a sobering experience. I couldn't fault the enthusiasm in my first draft, but technically it was a mess. Long, meandering sentences. Flat characters. Atrocious pacing. But worst of all, a general feeling of hollowness to the events unfolding in the story. It felt...empty somehow, like things were just happening and characters were simply resigned to go along with it, like apoorly rehearsed play. And all the while that advice kept popping up: write what you know. That was a pretty frustrating period. What was I missing? I was keen to learn, to try and improve my work, but this piece of advice was about as helpful as the classic catch 22 of job hunting: that you can't find a job because you need more experience, yet you can't get said experience because nobody will offer you a job. In this instance, though, I was being asked to ‘know’ about space travel, about interplanetary war, about...well, a fictional world that I had made up! How could I know something I'd invented? And that was when it hit me. That was when I really understood what the ‘write what you know’ mantra truly meant. Because it's not just talking about life experiences. It's not saying that mechanics can only ever write about machines, or doctors can only ever write medical drama. Of course not. Jeff Lindsay invented Dexter but nobody would accuse him of being a serial killer! No, what it means is you have live the world you're creating. You absolutely can build a world from scratch, but you have to understand it inside-out. You must get under the skin of you characters, know what makes them tick, how they'd react in almost any given situation. You must know the history of your world, how it informs the culture and traditions, the factions and tensions that play out to this day as a result of that history. You have to know it. Completely and absolutely. So you can write it, and do it justice. That was the mistake I'd made with my first draft. Sure, it wasn't a total disaster - as I said, I was in love with my own creation and had created this wealth of background material that sketched out bits of the world and history and the characters that occupy it. But that was the problem: they were sketches, nothing more. The characters had bios and I'd assigned arbitrary personality traits to them, but I hadn't actually gotten into their heads and tried to know them. The world I'd created was vast but sparse, seeming to exist purely to drive the plot, rather than being a living breathing place that exists well beyond the realms of the story I was trying to tell. I loved my story, but I didn't know it. Not yet. This is what separates the good from the great. The good can tell a good story, but only the great know their creations so well that they pen the narrative like writing their own diary. The world J.K. Rowling presents in Harry Potter is a perfect example of this: the story follows Harry but you constantly get this sense that this wizarding world exists well beyond the story we’re presented with, has existed long beforehand and will continue to exist for a long time after. JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is famously just a tiny tip of the mythology of Middle Earth, and the sense that there’s a wider world beyond the events that unfold during The War of the Ring aren't an illusion: every detail of Arda has really has been meticulously crafted, most of it never appearing in the main novels, but all contributing to the sense of depth. It's like the difference between shooting on a green screen set and shooting on location: shooting on a set that's been designed purely to present the story that's being told can work, but there's something about shooting on location, in a real city where the cracks in the walls are real and the cobbled streets are polished from the countless feet that have strode across them down the centuries. It offers something a little deeper, a little richer. The world is there for real. It is known. J K Rowling had to walk through every corridor of Hogwarts and beyond before she could bring a Harry Potter to life. JRR Tolkien had hiked across every inch of Middle Earth and taken note of all the languages he'd found before writing the stories of the Baggins. They had to before they could write what they know. Again, 90% of the world they explored would never make it into their publicly released writing, but you can feel it in their words. That they're simply writing what is really happening, rather than ‘making up a story’. That, if they so wish, they could veer the narrative off in any random direction at any time and you'd not be met with a blank and unfinished canvas but yet more works to explore. Finally, I understood. Just because it could never be a real life experience didn't mean I couldn't know it. But it did mean that I’d have to work extra hard to know the world of my space adventure. That I'd have travel to every corner of...well, not just a world, but an entire galaxy of my creation before I could ‘write what I know’. It would be a mammoth task. But it wouldn't be one that I'd have to conjure entirely from my own mind. My real life experiences, such as they were, could offer rich pickings to mix into the fiction. The Shire in Middle Earth is clearly inspired by The Cotswolds. The journey of The Hogwarts Express is inspired by JK Rowling’s own train journeys up to Scotland. And that was another lesson I learned about ‘write what you know’: that if I were to use my own life experiences, they didn't need to be major experiences. Even the little things could help to fill out the corners of my world. What I can see from the train window of my commute. The colorful personalities of my colleagues. My biking trip from last year. It could all contribute to building my knowledge of my world, while also imbuing it with a sense of truth, of reality that rings true to me and hence imbues a sense of gravitas to my writing. To this day, I continue to learn about that world I'm making. I'm still not ready. But when I am, I will be ready to ‘write what I know’ and my writing will be all the better for it. |
Off the ShelfHere I share my ideas, musings and advice on the writing process. I also analyse some of my own writing for examples to show how I work. ShowcaseHere I will show off of some of my favorite good and great stories, gushing lovingly over why I adore them and why you should too. I will also show you the other side of the spectrum: bad examples of stories and what we can learn from them.
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January 2019
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