Tad Williams

I remember reading about a novel once that told the story of a writer who had given up writing. There is nothing groundbreaking about that, since writers give up the most thankless of crafts every second of every day. But his reason was that the world was in such a horrible state that he couldn’t bring himself to create fiction, to waste the energy on it, since it clearly didn’t matter. He was stuck in a state of non-doing, because to write would be an act of selfishness, when all energy should be pointed towards solving the world’s problems. And since no man alone can do that, he did nothing.

Lately, I can empathize. The Gulf of Mexico apocalypse seems to me the beginning of the final act of our time here. It’s an environmental fuck-up that is undeniable to nay-sayers who have made a career out of dismissing global warming, who can wave away numbers and studies as being biased and the work of hippie interest groups. But it’s a little more difficult to use rhetoric against burning dolphins and sea turtles, against struggling birds dying in oil. Granted, they’ve tried–dropping to the meagre defence of the importance of maintaining oil industry jobs to continue off shore drilling, but that must sound hollow even to those Republicans full on BP’s Christmas card list.

The simple truth that this is our only planet–and we have nowhere else to go–doesn’t faze most of humanity. Someone will make it right, so why worry? We can do what we want, and we have the religion and/or the family values to justify our selfishness. We imagine we have rights to any cruelty we perpetuate. Animals are dying in an oil slick? Well, that’s okay–they don’t have souls. They can’t feel pain. And why are they swimming near our oil rig, anyway? It’s not like there aren’t millions of dolphins and stupid sea gulls anyway. And when does the golf start?

Even here in London, this attitude reigns supreme. The shelters are bursting with abandoned animals because people are too selfish to have their pets fixed, or are dumping them because caring for them cuts into their beer money. What does it matter? They’re only animals, and fuck, I wanna get that sweet ass tattoo I saw that guy had on UFC. I needs my money for that.

And to think that this in an injustice that will be rectified through education is to chase unicorns: this is the society governments want. You want your populace to be selfish and short thinking, to not be able to see past their own bill payments and paycheques. Things can quickly become untenable if compassion begins to take root. People start questioning then, start thinking outside themselves, and that’s the last thing you want when maintaining power. Better to keep everyone just wanting stuff, filling their TV sets with greed inducing commercials, making people think turning their lawns into living rooms is a good idea, creating inferiority complexes based on body image that can only be rectified with weight loss programs and not simple willpower, to point out the lack of perfection in their lives with images of sunlit, massive kitchens accompanied by eternally smiling Stepford mates and children.

In this way, everyone just keeps buying stuff they don’t need, and the wheels keep turning, and the weekend is only a few days away.

And still the animals die. And still pets find themselves in stinking cages, surrounded by misery, or shivering outside at 2 a.m., hungry and scared, wondering why they can’t find their home. From this micro to the macro of the Gulf, it continues, all across this wonderful planet. Our needs will stand paramount, until the last animal is gone, the last bit of wild paved over, the last songbird shot.

And then we’ll turn on each other.

So why, in light of this, should you do anything for the world? Why create? Chances are there will be no-one with the attention span to read a story, appreciate a painting, or watch a film that doesn’t involve boobs and explosions in ten years anyway. Sure, they’ll be buying lots of things, like lawn furniture made of real oil soaked dolphin skin straight from the Gulf, or commemorative plates from the assassination of the next Enemy Of Freedom. But thinking? That will be bred out of them, cut away like a useless vestigial tail, with families sitting around to watch seven minute long reality TV shows, with the kids complaining that the show is too fucking long.

And so here I sit, on a Sunday afternoon, looking at the novel I’m writing, images of G20 protests and dead dolphins on the screens behind me. And I’m reminded of another story, this one by Harlan Ellison, who wrote about the last storyteller, about a man who spent his final days telling stories to a wasteland, to anyone who would come and sit by his campfire. And this seems a better fit, a more sane approach. As the last songbird will sing before the bullet hits, as the last dolphin will play before it swims into the oil, I’ll write before I’m silenced forever, just as anyone who has a talent or gift should keep using it, even if the world has and never will care.

I’ll just be another useless animal, doing what I was born to do, as the smoke fills the sky.

So I had a day off from work. I had booked it months ago, knowing that deep in a Canadian winter, I would probably be grateful for a Friday where I didn’t have to resurrect myself at 4:45 a.m. Waking up to find the digital clock merrily informing me that it was 10:00 a.m.–and that my cat Dexter was curled up against me–was the sort of moment you want to put in a temporal Mason jar and hide in the attic as a refuge when a Craptastic Wednesday arrives.

My plans for the day involved being Writer Boy. I have deadlines to meet on a few projects, and the thought of actually getting to write when a) I wasn’t a zombie from a ten hour day of work and b) the sun was still in the sky was like discovering a forgotten Christmas present. So extricating myself from a purring white cat, I put on my official Writer’s Uniform and headed downstairs.

THE OFFICIAL WRITER’S UNIFORM CHECKLIST:
1. Housecoat
2. Uncombed Hair
3. Contemplative Look of Artistic Creativity
4. X-Files Coffee Mug, Filled With Black Coffee
5. Burning Need To Be Distracted From Doing Any Real Writing

I wandered into the living room. I used to have an official writing room upstairs where I would go after work, seal the door, and try to write the Great Canadian Novel. But wuss that I am, I soon moved my computer and books downstairs to the living room. I missed my wife, okay? After being away from her all day, the thought of spending my evenings being taunted by a blinking cursor was too much. Besides, who would hear me when I started to whine? I’d have to shout from the upstairs room, and at 43, I’m not sure my voice is up to it.

Coffee in hand, I glanced at the computer, lurking in the corner like a Shelob of guilt. I crashed on the couch, sipped my beverage, and examined the detritus on the coffee table.

–a pile of New Scientist magazines, which seems to grow taller each week
–a Shadowrun gaming manual (I love the writing in it, and often re-read it. Geek alert!)
–a hardcover copy of The Name of The Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss. Deb recommended it, and I keep meaning to thank her for that.
–John Hodgman’s The Areas of My Expertise–almost finished reading all the hobo names
–various issues of Avengers comics
–a spray bottle of water, used to spritz my budgies and/or convince cats not to chew on X-Box wires

Finally, with a burst of willpower that would make Hal Jordan proud, I walked over to the computer. Clicked it on, and waited while the Microsoft genie woke up, stretched, and began wondering what blue screen to use today.

And once again I failed the Will Save facing all writers. I did not go straight to Documents. Instead, I went online.

I mean, I couldn’t get to work until I’d checked out BoingBoing, right? If someone had knitted an R2-D2 tea cosy, I had to know about it. Then I checked Tad’s site, guiltily wondering if anyone else had posted a new blog. Then over to Neil Gaiman’s site, to see if there were any new photos of his dog, Cabal. Then over to Newsarama to see who else had quit DC Comics in disgust.

Three cups of coffee later, I dragged myself offline. I wondered just how much work H.P. Lovecraft would have produced if he’d had the internet. He would have terrorized newsgroups, I think. He and Robert E. Howard would have started flame wars that would make the Boxxy War on 4Chan look like a tea party. Oh, to have a time machine and a reliable Depression era modem, the chaos I could cause.

Then, with a heavy sigh, I brought up the horror that was my deadline work. And re-read what I had already written. Then quickly closed it and went to update my Twitter feed. Then went to make another pot of coffee.

I went to tackle the work again. Then realized that the formatting was wrong, and blew more time fixing that. By this time, my Muse had stormed off, taken the car keys, and had driven off to see if Robert Sawyer was looking for a new source of inspiration.

Finally, I admitted defeat. I closed the file, and opened up another one, with the list of Things I Really Have To Do, REALLY.

I owed Tad and Deb a blog.

And realized I had no idea of what to write.

Or...did I?

When I heard that Tad’s Otherland series was going to become the basis of an MMO, I had two reactions.

First, I felt happiness for Mr. Williams. He’s one of the nicest people I know, and he deserves good stuff like this. (And I say that with all honesty and not just because I write for his site. I’ve met many writers and artists in my own creative career, and very few are as pleasant a human being as Tad Williams. Very few.) So when things line up well for him, I think the world may not be such a horrid place.

My second reaction was about time. It seemed—to me—so obvious that the concept of Otherland lent itself to an actual game that it seems remiss that it took this long for someone to make one. The idea of any sort of virtual world linking to others blows the limitation facing most MMOs, namely choosing which milieu to set the game. Here, you wouldn’t be limited to the flavour of choice among MMO connoisseurs—medieval fantasy or science fiction. You could do both, and more besides. Steampunk, 50s romance novels, gothic horror, a social gathering world a la Second Life, even a world that takes place in a coffee joint filled with attractive, witty young women who find me utterly fascinating. (Okay, that’s just me. I’d subscribe to that world. So if you’re reading this, Tad, put in a good word with the developers, ‘kay?).

So while I thought about the Otherland MMO, this also led me to start thinking about my own relationship to games.

To begin with, I believe that the need to escape from reality is a necessity for all creatures capable of thought. The most healthy way to do that is through the avenue of play. One of the great crippling injuries we do to ourselves as adults is when we apply a time limit to when we can enjoy freeform play— for example, you can only pick up a toy jet and zoom it around the room making zoom zoom sounds until you are eight. Then it becomes embarrassing, and you should stop. It’s considered grownup to then start to redefine the word play itself: it now only relates to an organized sport, something that is approved of by the rest of society, not to mention your in-laws.

For example, the neighbours don’t blink if Joe The Accountant puts in a hard day of work and then goes off to play golf. But if Joe The Accountant puts in a hard day of work and then goes home to play Dungeons and Dragons, suddenly he’s weird, he’s a social misfit, and the police should probably check his hard drive. Play is fine as an adult as long as there is no creative element involved outside of being able to make good chip shot.

For years, playing video games as a form of play in your adult years was seen in this light. Since both books and video games form the basis for most of my play/escape, I was well aware of this. While my co-workers saw the weekend as a time to drink themselves blind and pick up some tattooed Aphrodite in the sorts of bars where teeth litter the floor, I would spend my early Nineties weekends playing games like The Legend of Zelda or Super Mario 3. Come Monday morning, I would listen to tales of copious vomiting and hasty engagements, keeping the victories I attained (like finally beating Dragon Warrior 3) to myself. Because, you know, I didn’t want to be seen wasting my life.

In fact, I can affix games to certain periods of my life the way I can affix books. I can remember being 14 and making myself read Dune while still trying to make it to the fifth screen in Ms. Pac-Man. The pure hell of my first year at the University of Western Ontario was softened by spending precious quarters on Gauntlet and Dragon’s Lair, while I read Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and Grey Mouser series instead of my English textbooks. In all times of my life, both games and books have allowed me the breathing room I needed to tackle the next day. While others turned to drugs, alcohol or space based religions, I had this. I had play. And in the end, I had myself.

These days now, the term gamer is merrily self applied by many, with clarifying adjectives thrown in front. Are you a casual gamer? Hardcore? RTS? FPS? Final Fantasy emo RPG or American RPG? Peggle or Mah Jong? If you play MMOs, what tribe do you belong to? World of Warcraft, Guild Wars, Lord of the Rings, or Warhammer? Or do you—please say you don’t—play Star Wars Galaxies? And if so, why?

It’s gratifying to see, this acceptance of a need for play. Still, society still remains uncomfortable with what it can’t control, and with every gaming tragedy that makes the newsfeeds, accusatory fingers are pointed and somewhere Tipper Gore smiles. Yet when I look at gaming in 1980 (dark arcades, hunched men in Led Zeppelin jean jackets, drifting eddies of pot) and gaming in 2008 (LAN parties, 10 million playing Warcraft, Nintendo’s Virtual Console, Xbox Live, Spore, Little Big Planet), I smile. I may not understand many of my new gaming brothers and sisters (I don’t get Second Life, I can’t play Civilization to save my life, and I become nauseous playing Call of Duty) but I’m happy to have them around.

And now Tad is going to join in. As I listen to him talk about the importance of story in the Otherland game, I’m comforted. Tad gets it. It’s all about the need for escape, for story, for play, and in the end, how those three things allow us to remain who we are, and who we need to be.

(Sean is currently enjoying Penny Arcade Episode One, Spectromancer, and is ranked 133, 860 in the world on Pac-Man Championship Edition on Xbox Live. FTW!)

"For a month, things went well. Later, we wondered if it took the house that long to notice us. It was 75, after all. Perhaps it was dozing."

Read Sean's full account at theglobeandmail.com. Don't forget the duct tape.

Deborah here - posting in Sean's blog - check out the following...

"My Globe and Mail Piece -- with podcast! But read by a real actor, not me."