Significant Zero

by Walt Williams

  The first thing I did was head straight to Vivec City, the largest city in Vvanderfell, where I broke into the treasure vaults of House Hlaalu and became the richest adventurer to not reach level five. I murdered my way to the top of an assassins’ guild, led an imperial cult while serving as the patriarch of my native Dunmer religion, became grand spymaster to the Dragon Emperor of Tamriel, and worked as a double agent in the Thieves and Fighters Guilds. By the time I reached Solstheim, a frozen island to the north, I was so immersed in the game that I hung blackout curtains over my windows and turned the AC down to sixty-seven degrees. Outside, it was summer, but I wanted to feel the cold, biting wind. My body sat on the floor in nothing but my boxers while my mind roamed icy Solstheim as a Dunmer-turned-werewolf, wreaking havoc just for the hell of it. Somewhere in all that, I made a quick stop to Red Mountain so I could teach Dagoth Ur that immortality didn’t mean shit with someone like me running around. Then it was right back to living large.

  I miss the days when I could immerse myself in a game so completely. It’s easy to think life has gotten in the way, but really it’s the games. There is no lack of open-world games out there, but almost none have come close to matching the quality and richness of Morrowind. It’s still one of the best games I’ve ever played. It was four years from when I got my first taste of Morrowind on PC to when I could finally sink my teeth into it on Xbox. And believe me, it was absolutely worth the wait. I almost want to buy it three more times, just because I think Bethesda deserves the money.

  The Fox knew of my love for Morrowind; I’d mentioned it in my interview. Being sent to meet its creators and play the sequel, Oblivion, was nothing short of a gift. I took no care to hide my fanboy excitement. That’s why the Fox pulled me aside the day before I was scheduled to take a train from New York to Bethesda, Maryland. He wanted me to know that it was okay to be excited, but I also needed to be careful. This trip would not be without danger.

  The relationship between a publisher and developer can be tricky to navigate. A development studio makes the video game; they are artists working hard to bring their vision to life. Unfortunately, making a video game costs a lot of money, especially if it’s categorized as AAA. I’m not going to hit you with a lot of math right now, but imagine a developer with sixty employees who make on average a salary of fifty thousand dollars, and that it takes three full years to make a game. Then you’re looking at a nine-million-dollar price tag, not counting marketing, PR, bonuses, and a whole load of other stuff. Most developers don’t have that kind of money lying around, so they turn to a publisher. Every deal is different, but for the most part, a publisher will front the cost of development and promotion in exchange for the financial returns. If the game sells enough copies, then the developer will begin to earn royalties. However, most games don’t earn royalties. This is basic business stuff; nothing too contentious. The real trouble is around the question of creative control.

  It would be easy, if not incorrect, to say a developer is to its publisher as an artist is to its patron. The comparison draws a semisolid line of demarcation between the two parties; the former creates art, the latter commissions it. While a patron is certainly entitled to request art on a certain topic or theme, the artist-patron relationship generally assumes an artist is free to interpret that request through his or her own creative vision. This is a harmful simplification of the developer-publisher relationship because it reinforces the false belief that publishers are creatively bereft, and developers are perfect stewards of their own talent.

  To get at the truth, we have to dispel the myths we’ve built around developers. AAA development studios are not artists; they are companies founded on the premise that you can make money by making art. There’s nothing wrong with that—greed and artistic intent are not mutually exclusive, and we all have bills to pay. Creating marketable games with broad appeal does not make you a greedy, corporate whore. The reverse is also true; creating pure, vision-driven games does not exclude you from being a money-grubbing, credit-hogging asshat.

  If developers aren’t necessarily pure of heart, then we can’t assume publishers are devoid of it. Holding the purse strings doesn’t make you Ebenezer Scrooge. Most publishers are collaborative curators using their resources to empower studios to create on a scale they never would have reached on their own. If a publisher sometimes overshadows their developers, it’s because the publisher’s reputation carries more weight. That’s the risk you run when dealing with a curated system—an audience will flock to the name they most associate with quality, even if it doesn’t belong to the creator.

  Developers operate on a smaller scale, allowing us to humanize them by giving a face and name to their corporate identity. We fetishize them because their beauty enriches our lives, and we are hardwired to equate beauty with value, regardless of how either is defined. It’s a lot easier to villainize a publisher for being a cold, distant corporation. A publisher doesn’t create; it simply capitalizes on the hard work of others. Whatever happens, there’s always someone you can trust and someone for you to blame. It’s a convenient arrangement for everyone involved.

  So, who gets the final say—the developer who makes a game or the publisher who funds it? Almost everyone would say the developer, but that’s not always the case. Both parties want the game to succeed and make a ton of money. That doesn’t mean they’re on the same page. A developer might want to make a single-player game, whereas the publisher thinks the game will sell more if it includes a multiplayer mode. The developer doesn’t agree, the publisher threatens to cancel the project, and suddenly there’s a multiplayer mode. This is an extreme example, but you get the idea. Honestly, most publisher meddling comes in the form of suggestions and notes like, “Tone down the difficulty to make the game more accessible”—innocuous stuff that makes a developer cringe all the same.

  The Fox warned me that while visiting Bethesda, I would be 2K’s official representative; the publisher made flesh. Many at the studio would view my appearance as an ill omen. They would be cagey, hesitant to answer questions for fear I might trick them into revealing vital secrets. I’d do well to watch my back. A dev team nearing the end of a multiyear project is not unlike a ship’s crew too long at sea. The monotony has warped their minds and dulled their senses. For them, there is no escape; only the work, and the hope of land on the horizon. Under such circumstances, even the most stalwart developers can be driven to paranoid superstition. You hear rumors of visiting publishers going missing, their bodies later found in a ditch with throats slit by the jagged edge of a broken CD-R. Who can say if these rumors are true? Not me. You can ask about the scar on my neck, but I’ll swear it’s from spinal surgery.

  In contrast to the warning I received, the staff at Bethesda was very welcoming. Everyone I met was friendly and excited to share what they’d been working on. It probably didn’t hurt that I was wide-eyed, like a kid in a candy store. It must have really put them at ease, because during a tour of the studio, they made sure to lead me down a row of cubicles tucked away in the back.

  The guy leading the tour gave me a sly smile. “Uh-oh. Don’t look to your right or you might see some concept art for Fallout 3.” It was clear from his tone that I absolutely wanted to look to my right.

  “Cool! What’s Fallout?” Only one of the most beloved and celebrated PC franchises of all time. Which meant I’d never heard of it.

  His eyes flashed shock, disappointment, and finally disdain. “. . . Follow me, and I’ll show you where you’ll be playing the game.”

  That was it. End of tour.

  I played as long as I could—eight to ten hours at least; barely a drop in the bucket. Playing an Elder Scrolls game is a commitment. As open-world games, they have a lot of content for the player to discover. Not all of it is mandatory. If you only play the mandatory missions, it might take between twenty and thirty hours to complete. To finish every optional mission, master every skill, and track down every piece of equipment would take almost two
hundred hours. I’d have to play all day and night if I wanted to see a sizable chunk.

  Oblivion was very different from Morrowind. This time around, I was no reincarnated hero. I wasn’t even a first-time hero. I was nobody, just some schmuck in a jail cell. The only reason my character was even caught up in the story is because someone was trying to kill the emperor, and his secret escape route happened to go right through my cell. It was sheer luck that brought Emperor Uriel Septim VII and I together. When the assassins finally caught up with him, I was the only one still alive to hear his last request—I was to locate the emperor’s illegitimate son and place him on the throne. Failure to do so would break an ancient covenant and open the gates of Oblivion, allowing the demonic Daedra spirits to invade and destroy our world. It was a lot of responsibility to put on someone who wasn’t the foretold reincarnation of a legendary, god-killing hero. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

  As the hours wore on, I became aware that I wasn’t alone. Bethesda couldn’t leave me, the publisher, free to roam their halls without supervision. I was at the office, and so were my handlers. They had lives waiting for them at home, but instead they were babysitting me. Around 10:00 p.m., I thanked everyone for their hospitality, then excused myself to the hotel across the street. I didn’t return the next morning. Instead, I caught a train back to New York and went straight to work.

  “So?” asked the Fox. “Will they be ready to ship by end of the year?”

  It dawned on me how ridiculous the question really was. I could have made an uneducated guess, based on additional questions such as: Was it very buggy? Did it crash a lot? Were all the systems in place? Was it missing large chunks of content? These were valid technical questions. And maybe that’s all the Fox was asking. But I got the sense he was digging deeper: Does Bethesda consider the game technically complete? Does “technically complete” equal good? At what point should a creator be satisfied releasing their work to the public? When is good considered good enough?

  The Fox had to know I couldn’t answer his question with any certainty. Even if you ignore that it’s an impossible question, I was clearly not experienced enough to provide a real answer. He had to know. But if he did, then what was it all for? What was the takeaway? What was the Fox trying to teach me?

  “I don’t know” was the only acceptable answer I could give, but it wasn’t the answer I gave. “I think they’ll be done by the end of the year.” Oblivion didn’t ship until the next year, around the end of March.

  5

  * * *

  THE CRUEL TUTELAGE OF PETER GRIFFIN

  I must have done something right at Bethesda, because the next thing I knew, I was headed back to Chicago, this time to meet with another developer—High Voltage Software.

  The project was a licensed game based on the popular cartoon Family Guy. Take-Two had picked up the license during the show’s original cancellation. However, when Family Guy’s DVD sales began raking in the dough, the show was given a second life. This reversal of fortune extended beyond the show to our game. What was once intended as a small project aimed at a cult following was suddenly the official licensed game of the most popular cartoon on television. For that reason, the Fox wanted someone working closely with the developer to ensure the game reached its newfound potential. After spending a weekend watching Family Guy DVDs, the Fox decided that person should be me.

  This wouldn’t be an overnight trip, like the one I’d made to Bethesda. The Fox wanted me to embed with HVS for an extended stay. Forget that this was only my third month on the job—I was to be the publisher’s on-site representative to ensure the game lived up to its potential, in the hopes it would make 2K and HVS a lot of money.

  “It’s a test,” said D. T. “It has to be.”

  “Not to sell myself short, but it seems insane that he’d send an entry-level guy into such a high-risk situation.”

  “Could be he’s setting you up to fail. Ever think of that? He knows the game won’t be any good, so he’s making you the patsy.”

  “I don’t think the possibility of failure has ever crossed the Fox’s mind. Where others see the impossible, he sees opportunity.”

  “It’s trial by fire. The Fox wants to know how brightly you’ll burn if he douses you in gasoline and then hands you a match.”

  There was only one problem: I was twenty-four. This meant I couldn’t rent a car (a necessity, since the developer was located forty-five minutes from the airport). I’d also never owned a credit card, which meant I had zero credit. Traveling for business is expensive. You have to pay for transportation, hotels, food. It’s not bad for one or two days, but it adds up when you’re gone for weeks at a time. It’s all reimbursable, but that means nothing if you don’t have a large enough credit limit to afford it in the first place.

  I was able to solve the car situation by having my parents cosign the rental from Louisiana. Regarding the issue of the credit card, I had a better idea.

  “I need a corporate card,” I said. In my head, I envisioned steak dinners, rented convertibles, and top-shelf cocktails garnished with tiny umbrellas. TV had taught me a corporate credit card was a blank check, a needle jammed straight into the company’s rich, money-filled veins.

  The Fox laughed. “Not a chance.”

  “Guess I’m staying here, then.”

  “Like hell you are. It’s bad enough having you around being a smart-ass all the time. Half the reason I’m sending you to Chicago is to get you out of my hair.”

  “How am I supposed to pay for it?” At his insistence, I applied for a credit card, but my limit would cover only three days—not nearly enough.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just get on the plane, and I’ll work it out.”

  Fair enough. I arrived to find the city blanketed in snow, with more falling every minute. This was a serious problem. As a native of Louisiana I was familiar with the concept of snow, but had never driven in it. In the back of my head, I remember something about snow tires. I didn’t know what they were, but they sure sounded like something you’d need for driving in the snow.

  I sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes before finally calling the Fox.

  “Are you at the hotel?” he asked.

  “No. I’m at the rental-car place.”

  “What’s wrong? Do the rental people not have a car for you? I thought you got a confirmation.”

  “No. I have a car. It’s just . . . it’s snowing.”

  “So, what? You stopped to make a snowman?”

  “I’ve never driven in snow. Am I supposed to put chains on my tires or something?”

  To his credit, the Fox did not mock me. He explained everything I needed to know about driving in the snow; the first thing being that tire chains were not necessary. Comforted, and cautioned to take it slow, I headed north.

  When I checked into the hotel, the desk clerk asked for my credit card, as they always do.

  “I was told the room would be paid for.”

  “It is,” said the clerk. “I’m to charge the room to your card until it’s reached its limit, then put the rest onto a card for . . .” She searched for a name on her screen. She found it, read it back to me. The Fox.

  In my room, I sent him an email. “Why not put the whole thing on your card?”

  “So you can build up credit,” he wrote back. “Trust me. You can thank me later.”

  He was right. Every month, I maxed out my card, and every month I paid it off. Always on time, never a penalty, all thanks to the magic of expense reports. Pretty soon, I had enough credit to manage the trips without his help. Of all the lessons the Fox could have taught me, this wasn’t exciting or even game related, but it was one of the most important. He saw a backwoods kid who didn’t understand how the world worked and set him on a path to become a functional, modern adult. It was a very human, paternal thing for him to do. I’m not sure I ever thanked him for it, but I also never forgot.

  * * *

  LIVING IN A HOTEL can mess you
up.

  Living out of a suitcase is like doing time in prison, a statement I feel qualified to make as I have seen every episode of the HBO original prison drama Oz. Whether you’re gone for days, weeks, or months, it all comes down to compartmentalization. You have to shrink your life into a series of bite-size chunks in order to cope with the fact you won’t be going anywhere for a while. Acceptance is the key. Resign yourself to where you are and what you are there to do. Find ways to fill your life for one hour, then another, and another, until each day melts into the next, and time itself has lost all meaning.

  My trips to HVS would last anywhere from one to three weeks, including weekends. When planning for these extended stays, I always made sure I would have access to three essential things. The first was alcohol. Nothing takes the edge off hotel habitation like a bottle of top-shelf hooch.

  The great thing about working on-site is being able to expense your meals. There was a limit to how much I could spend each day, but no regulation on what I spent it on. If my body could digest it, my report could expense it. Every bar was a gateway to experimentation, an opportunity to develop a sophisticated palate on someone else’s dime. To ensure I always drank well, I developed a system built around the hotel’s free continental breakfast. Every morning, I’d eat until I was full, and then stock up on the three Bs—bananas, bagels, and bacon. I could keep these staples in my bag until lunch, so long as I wrapped the bacon in a napkin. That covered two meals per day without having to spend a single cent. Dinner was usually a cheap and greasy five-dollar burger, followed by a liquid dessert of Lagavulin 16, as many glasses as my limit would allow.