the games industry for the same reason
they were common in books and films; they were the best way to build and expand a
brand identity. Tom, who assumed the role of creative director, mapped out the game
plan.
Mario, this was not. As a hero, an eight-year-old misfit who steals his dad’s Everclear
for rocket fuel was more identifiable than a middle-aged Italian plumber. It was as
if the gamers had followed that golden rule of writing about what they knew. Tom,
as a kid, used to walk around in a Green Bay Packers helmet and red Converse sneakers,
just like Billy Blaze. And, in a sense, they were all Billy Blazes, oddball kids who
modified technology to create elaborate means of escape. Keen was a punk, a hacker.
And he was saving the galaxy, just as countless hackers like Carmack and Romero used
technology to save themselves.
The roles were set: Carmack and Romero were the programmers, and Tom the lead designer—the
person in charge of coming up with the game play elements, from the story and setting
to the characters and weapons. Carmack and Romero were happy to leave Tom to the creative
work; they were too busy programming. Carmack was refining his engine, getting the
smooth scrolling down to the point where Keen could move as fluidly left or right
as he could up or down. Romero, meanwhile, was working the editor, the program that
allows the developers to put together the graphics of the game—characters, rooms,
monsters. It was essentially a game designer’s construction kit. Carmack and Romero
were in sync.
Not everyone else gelled quite as well. Lane was now officially kicked out of the
Keen development. Despite Romero’s fondness for him as a friend, he felt that Lane’s
energy was lacking. Adrian was having problems of his own. Though he was recruited
later to help them work on Keen, Adrian hated the project. It was too . . . cutesy.
Tom had a target audience in mind: “kids,” he said, “or those who have kidlike mentalities
like we do.” Adrian hated kiddie stuff. Even more, he hated cutesy. Worst of all was
cutesy kiddie. And now here he was having to sit all night drawing pizza slices, soda
pop, and candy. Tom came up with a little character called a Yorp with a big fat green
body and one periscopelike eye over his head. Even the monsters were cute. In most
games, when a character died, it would simply disappear, vanish. But Tom had other
notions. He was eager to incorporate some “larger philosophical ideas,” as he said.
He loosely based characters on ideas he’d read in Freud’s
Civilization and Its Discontents;
a guard was made to represent an id. He wanted to teach kids that when people or
even aliens die, they
really
die, they leave corpses. So he wanted the dead creatures in the game to just . .
. remain: not graphic or bloody corpses, just dead Yorps.
Cute
dead Yorps.
The cuteness of the characters wasn’t the only thing bugging Adrian, it was the cuteness
of their creator. Tom was getting on his nerves. He would run around the house, craning
his neck and making sounds to show Adrian exactly what the alien creatures in the
games were supposed to look like. Romero would usually crack up at these displays.
Adrian took a liking to Romero, who shared his taste in heavy metal and his appreciation
of sick humor; but Tom, in Adrian’s mind, was just plain annoying. To make matters
worse, they had to share a desk, and Tom was so full of energy that he kept bobbing
his knee up and down, inadvertently hitting the table when Adrian was trying to draw.
But it was better than working at the last open space in the house, next to the litter
box used for John Carmack’s cat, Mitzi. Tom had no idea how Adrian felt. He thought
he was just quiet.
For the majority of the time, however, those late nights at the lake house were a
perpetual programming party. With Iggy Pop or Dokken playing on the stereo, the guys
all worked
they were common in books and films; they were the best way to build and expand a
brand identity. Tom, who assumed the role of creative director, mapped out the game
plan.
Mario, this was not. As a hero, an eight-year-old misfit who steals his dad’s Everclear
for rocket fuel was more identifiable than a middle-aged Italian plumber. It was as
if the gamers had followed that golden rule of writing about what they knew. Tom,
as a kid, used to walk around in a Green Bay Packers helmet and red Converse sneakers,
just like Billy Blaze. And, in a sense, they were all Billy Blazes, oddball kids who
modified technology to create elaborate means of escape. Keen was a punk, a hacker.
And he was saving the galaxy, just as countless hackers like Carmack and Romero used
technology to save themselves.
The roles were set: Carmack and Romero were the programmers, and Tom the lead designer—the
person in charge of coming up with the game play elements, from the story and setting
to the characters and weapons. Carmack and Romero were happy to leave Tom to the creative
work; they were too busy programming. Carmack was refining his engine, getting the
smooth scrolling down to the point where Keen could move as fluidly left or right
as he could up or down. Romero, meanwhile, was working the editor, the program that
allows the developers to put together the graphics of the game—characters, rooms,
monsters. It was essentially a game designer’s construction kit. Carmack and Romero
were in sync.
Not everyone else gelled quite as well. Lane was now officially kicked out of the
Keen development. Despite Romero’s fondness for him as a friend, he felt that Lane’s
energy was lacking. Adrian was having problems of his own. Though he was recruited
later to help them work on Keen, Adrian hated the project. It was too . . . cutesy.
Tom had a target audience in mind: “kids,” he said, “or those who have kidlike mentalities
like we do.” Adrian hated kiddie stuff. Even more, he hated cutesy. Worst of all was
cutesy kiddie. And now here he was having to sit all night drawing pizza slices, soda
pop, and candy. Tom came up with a little character called a Yorp with a big fat green
body and one periscopelike eye over his head. Even the monsters were cute. In most
games, when a character died, it would simply disappear, vanish. But Tom had other
notions. He was eager to incorporate some “larger philosophical ideas,” as he said.
He loosely based characters on ideas he’d read in Freud’s
Civilization and Its Discontents;
a guard was made to represent an id. He wanted to teach kids that when people or
even aliens die, they
really
die, they leave corpses. So he wanted the dead creatures in the game to just . .
. remain: not graphic or bloody corpses, just dead Yorps.
Cute
dead Yorps.
The cuteness of the characters wasn’t the only thing bugging Adrian, it was the cuteness
of their creator. Tom was getting on his nerves. He would run around the house, craning
his neck and making sounds to show Adrian exactly what the alien creatures in the
games were supposed to look like. Romero would usually crack up at these displays.
Adrian took a liking to Romero, who shared his taste in heavy metal and his appreciation
of sick humor; but Tom, in Adrian’s mind, was just plain annoying. To make matters
worse, they had to share a desk, and Tom was so full of energy that he kept bobbing
his knee up and down, inadvertently hitting the table when Adrian was trying to draw.
But it was better than working at the last open space in the house, next to the litter
box used for John Carmack’s cat, Mitzi. Tom had no idea how Adrian felt. He thought
he was just quiet.
For the majority of the time, however, those late nights at the lake house were a
perpetual programming party. With Iggy Pop or Dokken playing on the stereo, the guys
all worked
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