The last thing I wanted was to return to Dubai, but it was out of my hands. Someone had to write the DLC. Over the course of two weeks, Yager and I hashed out a plan for a narrative expansion. We considered doing a prequel about Konrad and the Damned 33rd going to war against the CIA Grey Fox squad, but the idea had no meat to it. Most prequels are pointless; anything worth seeing was already in the original story. That left a sequel story, or a narrative coda. What happened to our characters after the game had ended?
Unfortunately, Spec Ops had already answered that question. Lugo was lynched, Adams was killed by a falling helicopter, and Walker was . . . well, depending on what ending the player chose, he was either dead or insane or on his way back to America. That didn’t leave us much wiggle room. The only thing we had going for us was that we don’t see Adams’s death. The player, as Walker, is sprinting across a bridge. Adams is behind you, shooting a helicopter with a mounted .50 caliber machine gun. We don’t see the chopper crash, but we feel it. Its explosion knocks us off our feet. Walker face-plants into the concrete and blacks out. When he comes to, there’s no sign of Adams; only smoldering wreckage.
Adams’s final act in the game was a purposeful one: he wanted to ensure his own death. But what if Adams didn’t die? What if the chopper crash missed him by just enough that the explosion blew him off the roof into the nearby water? Even after all he’d been through, would waking up scarred and alive be the worst thing that ever happened to him? That was the premise of our DLC expansion, Long Way Home.
This five-mission story was never produced, but the script exists. In it, Adams wakes up to find Dubai in a state of relative calm. The carnage caused by the player during the main game has brought a semblance of peace, if only because afterward, so few are left alive. The survivors are making their way out of the city. They know the sandstorms might kill them, but death is certain if they don’t try.
Adams, his face burnt enough to be unrecognizable, attempts to leave Dubai by pretending to be one of Konrad’s men. Along the way, he meets Sgt. Pozza, a young member of the Damned 33rd. Adams can’t help but see echoes of Lugo in Sgt. Pozza; somehow, the horrors of Dubai have not touched his youthful optimism. Adams came to Dubai to save people, but instead brought pain and suffering to everyone he met. Rescuing Pozza is his last chance to do something good.
The DLC ends with Adams and Pozza passing safely through the sandstorm surrounding Dubai. For Adams, his mission is finally over. He uses his radio to call for an evacuation. As Adams talks, Lieutenant Pozza realizes this man, his savior, is not who he claimed to be.
Pozza raises his pistol. Adams turns to face him, weapon already drawn. They lock eyes. Adams shakes his head, as if to say “Not yet.”
Adams finishes his report. Help is on its way. He shuts off the radio and lets it fall from his hand, almost thoughtlessly. It lands in the sand at his feet.
POZZA
You lied to me.
ADAMS
Yeah, I did. So what?
POZZA
So what? You ruined everything. This is your fault.
ADAMS
It’s everyone’s fault.
POZZA
We were trying to help.
ADAMS
So were we. Things got outta hand.
POZZA cocks his gun.
POZZA
You destroyed the water. You killed those people at the Gate.
ADAMS
Not arguing that.
ADAMS lowers his gun and throws it away. His shoulders sag..
He is weak, tired. His eyes stare at the ground.
ADAMS
Go home to your family. Be better than what happened here.
POZZA
The hell are you doing? This some kinda trick?
ADAMS
No trick. Just calling in your debts.
ADAMS pulls LUGO’s dog tags out of his pocket. He tosses them in the sand between him and POZZA.
ADAMS
Those belonged to Staff Sgt. John Lugo. Make sure they get to his family. That’s number one. Number two . . .
ADAMS lifts his head just enough to look POZZA in the eyes.
He points to the left side of his chest, below his heart but near his lung.
ADAMS
Aim here. It won’t be fast, but that’s all right.
I’ll bleed out before the medevac arrives.
Tell them I was injured during our escape.
You tried to revive me, but I was too far gone.
POZZA
. . . Why?
ADAMS
’Cuz I can’t do this anymore.
Subtlety has never been my strong suit. This was my cry for help. I couldn’t write Spec Ops anymore. My characters had to die so I could get them out of my head.
* * *
THE FOX MANDATED I spend one week a month in California. Since I had relocated without his permission, he would not allow me to expense these trips. That’s what he said, but I later found out the real reason I couldn’t expense anything was because no one knew I was in Dallas. Everyone at the office believed I was still living in Berlin full time. The Fox was afraid that if word got out he’d have no choice but to fire me, and that’s not something he wanted to do.
Flying to the Bay Area for a week is not cheap. I did the math, and each trip would eat up an entire paycheck. I couldn’t afford that, so I picked up a sleeping bag and cot from an army surplus store and hid them in my office. Whenever I was in town, I slept there. My office was secluded enough that I could disappear inside it and most people wouldn’t know I was there. There was a window by the door, which I blocked with a bookcase. At night, after everyone had gone home, I’d set up my cot, put on my jammies, and watch TV on the free Wi-Fi until I fell asleep. In the morning, I’d wake up early and rush downstairs to shower in the men’s room before anyone else arrived.
Look, I’ve been pretty honest with you about my unhealthy relationship with work, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise when I tell you that living in my office felt natural. This was where I’d been heading all along, and you know what? I kinda liked it.
One night, after I thought everyone had left, I went for a stroll around the office. I’ve always enjoyed being alone in a place usually filled with activity. The stillness feels alien, the silence expansive. Both have a way of seeping into your skin.
This particular night, I wasn’t as alone as I thought. There was a light coming from the back of the hangar. By sheer chance of luck, I had not yet changed into my pajamas, so I decided to check it out.
The light was coming from Carlito’s office. I hadn’t seen him since I’d moved to Dallas.
I stuck my head in. “You’re here late.”
He grunted. “Going over animations for Darkness II.”
Based on the comic book of the same name, The Darkness II is an FPS in which you play Jackie Estacado, don of the Franchetti crime family and host to the Darkness, the supernatural embodiment of all things evil. What this means for the player is that you’re not limited to killing people with just guns; you can also tear them apart with twin demon heads sprouting from your shoulders, crush them inside localized black holes, or use your giant tentacle to whip them around like a squirrel caught by its tail. It’s quite fun. In the game, Jackie comes under attack from the Brotherhood, an ancient order once sworn to fight the Darkness that now seeks to harness its power to rule the world. The Brotherhood is comprised of some truly sick fuckers, as is required by the game’s main conceit. When your hero is an amoral mob boss literally possessed by the Devil, then your villains have to work overtime to convince you they’re not actually the good guys.
Before this moment, I’d had only a brief involvement with The Darkness II. When coming up with the game’s story, someone had sent me a summary outlining the Brotherhood’s evil plan. It read: “Jackie’s gang is selling drugs throughout the city. As part of their evil plan, the Brotherhood hijacks those drugs and adds a chemical to them, causing drug users to spiral
into paranoia and despair.”
To which I responded: “Drugs already do that.”
It was a humorous oversight that was quickly corrected, but no one sent me another summary after that. Having enjoyed the first game in The Darkness franchise, I was excited to see how the second one was shaping up.
I watched over Carlito’s shoulder as the Darkling crawled up the mobster’s shirt and proceeded to claw his eyes out. Lizard Brain punched me hard in the gut. Words oozed out of my subconscious, coating my mind in a rancid, oily film. Anyone with nails can claw someone’s eyes out, I thought. There’s no style in it. No flair.
My mouth said, “It’d be better if he face-fucked that guy to death.” Would it, Mouth? Would it really?
“I think they want the British Darkling to do that.”
“There’s a British one? If he doesn’t fuck that guy’s face while screaming ‘I call this one the Margaret Thatcher,’ then this game is bullshit.”
Lizard Brain smiled, and I smiled with him.
“You about to head to your hotel?” asked Carlito. He was busy. This conversation may have been a brief respite, but I could tell he was ready to get back to work.
“Technically, I’m at my hotel. The Fox won’t let me expense my trips out here, so I’ve been sleeping on a cot in my office. Don’t tell anyone.” Telling Carlito was a little risky. I knew that if the Fox learned I was sleeping in the office, he’d make sure to kick me out every night. But honestly, I’d been dying to tell someone. If there was anyone I could trust to keep it a secret, it was Carlito.
He sniffed at the air. “Have you been showering?”
“Don’t worry; I’m clean. I wake up at five a.m. and use the shower downstairs before anyone else shows up. If you’ve noticed a pair of flip-flops in the hall drying over an air vent, those are mine. I’ve been thinking about getting a hot plate. Then I can invite people over for dinner. Honestly, I don’t even know why he has me fly out here. I’m not working on anything.”
Carlito looked up. “You know, we need someone to write lore for Darkness II—”
“I’ll do it.” My answer came out a little too fast. Carlito could see I was jonesing. With nothing of substance to write, my depression had been steadily growing. I didn’t need a long-term fix; I was still holding out for a new project I could shepherd from start to finish. Until that came around, I needed something to fill the hours and make the keyboard go clickity-clack. I needed to save the day.
“Are you sure you want to work on this?” asked Carlito.
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to join up for the rest of the project. All I want is to help out.” I was pumping myself up as I spoke. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll send you a script. After that, you and the team can do whatever you want with it. We saved Spec Ops, man. We can save this, too. Let’s do it. Let’s slay the fucking dragon!”
Carlito was not the sort of person to be moved by a motivational speech. He arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Do you actually want to help, or are you just bored?”
“Seriously, I want to help.”
“Okay. I’ll send you the stuff.” He turned back to his wall of computer screens. “Now, fuck off. I got shit to do.”
* * *
WHAT IS LORE?
If you play video games, you already know about lore. For the uninitiated, I’ll try to explain it to you in a way that gives you the fullest picture.
Imagine you are a level-one associate at the latest installment of a derivative yet beloved fast-food franchise. You lead a life of grand adventure, undertaking such quests as “Fetch Ten Hamburgers” and “Defeat the Clogged Toilet,” and yet it all feels so arbitrary. Why am I fetching hamburgers? you wonder. Who’s eating them? Where did they come from? Is there some ancient, mystical significance to the number ten? If you could answer these questions, it would strengthen your resolve and renew your sense of purpose. Lucky for you, the franchise managers have hidden a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica around the restaurant. During your legally mandated break, you track down a few volumes and learn how your fast-food franchise got its start in Southern California, a state whose name was derived from an early-sixteenth-century Spanish novel, Las Sergas de Esplandián, the fifth book in a series of chivalric romance novels, which was a literary genre of high culture famously burlesqued in Don Quixote, which served as the source material for the film Man of La Mancha starring Sophia Loren and Peter O’Toole, an actor who received eight Academy Award nominations for Best Actor in a Leading Role, making him the most nominated actor to never win the award, a fact many people consider a travesty since his body of work includes such beloved films as Lawrence of Arabia, High Spirits, and King Ralph, many of which were once available on VHS, an ancient video-playback device you’ve seen gathering dust in a dark corner of the break room. Wow! You had no idea you were fetching hamburgers in a world with such a rich, vibrant history.
That’s lore—an encyclopedic brain dump of nonnecessary exposition injected into a video game by way of audio logs, notepads, books, and actual encyclopedias. These textual diversions exist to make digital worlds appear larger by padding them out with useless trivia. Lore is great, and I love it dearly.
Not everyone feels this way about lore. If a game’s lore is too detailed, it runs the risk of committing the one true cardinal sin of game design—infringing on the self-indulgence of the player. By expanding a game’s world through backstory, we create a prison of words and meaning. Our authorial intent destroys the player’s narrative agency, turning a subjective story into an objective one. But lore isn’t just for the player; it’s also for the writer. I may write a game’s story, but it doesn’t belong to me. I bend and twist my words to fit the player’s dreams, not my own. Lore is mine. The player can’t have it. Even if they could, it would never give them the same thing it gives me—the sweet release of artistic freedom.
Everyone who works on a AAA game will find some way to leave their personal mark. Audio designers secretly implement their own sounds, audibly immortalizing their cat, car, or child. Designers build hidden rooms into their levels, never intending for them to be found. Artists create signs for stores and products, naming them after friends, family, and teammates. These are fingerprints—small, human touches added to huge AAA games. Each smudge is a moment of self-indulgence through which we claim ownership of our work. For writers, this can be hard to accomplish. So much of what we write for a game is directional. “Go here.” “Shoot them.” “Find the thing.” It’s only with lore that we’re free to just be writers. For us, lore is the easiest way to leave our mark.
“I made this,” we shout into the digital void. “I was here. I mattered.”
* * *
DIGITAL EXTREMES, THE DEVELOPER of The Darkness II, needed me to write lore for thirty Relics scattered throughout the game. The art assets had already been created; they were random things like an old metal box, a human skull engraved with runes, and a Nazi dagger.
JOHNNY POWELL
Oh, man . . . This takes me back. It was the year I turned twenty-one. I scrawled my first pentagram that summer. Talked to my first dead person. Slept with my first succub—uh, you know what? Forget that. I’m rambling. It’s this knife. Nazi paraphernalia always makes me nostalgic, and wow, that sounds really bad when I say it out loud. I should explain . . .
It was my job to provide narrative and historical context to each Relic. The information would be explained by the character Johnny Powell, the player’s in-house occultist. When the player brought Johnny a Relic, he would rattle off the description, giving the player some lore. When strung together, these bits of backstory would tell a semicoherent tale of the war between good and evil spanning all of human history.
JOHNNY POWELL
What you got here is “The First.” As you can guess by its name, this thing goes back. Like, way back. To the beginning. You’re a good Catholic boy, so I know you remember the story of Cain and Abel. How Abel was like, “Oh, God loves
me,” and Cain was all, “Jealousy! Wham!” and killed him. With this. That’s right—you’re now the proud owner of Murder Stick #1. So, congrats, I guess.
Carlito sent me the spreadsheet on a Friday. As usual, he needed the lore by Monday. There were no reasonable schedules with this man. That was fine. A weekend was more than enough time, and it’s not like I was doing anything with my life. I hadn’t cracked a copy of the Bible in ten years, but it all came rushing back to me.
JOHNNY POWELL
Ah, the Lantern of St. Anthony. Possibly the most misidentified item ever created. I don’t mean people look at this lamp and say, “That is a very luminescent club sandwich.” I mean most people see this lantern as a symbol of hope, but really it’s a symbol of soul-crushing despair.
I wasn’t filling in cells on a spreadsheet; I was exorcising demons.
JOHNNY POWELL
This is the Reliquary of the Blessed Blood, said to contain a relic of untold worth. An object of unfathomable holiness. A preserved piece of flesh from the Messiah himself. Yes. That’s right. We’re talking about the foreskin of Jesus Christ.
Over the next two days, I channeled all my years of Bible schooling into that lore. When Monday rolled around, I proudly delivered thirty Relics to Digital Extremes. I had no idea how they were going to react, and I didn’t care.
JOHNNY POWELL
This is, well . . . it’s a thumb screw. Don’t really know what else to tell you.
What? You want more? Ugh. Sure. Just gimme a second . . . Ummmmm, ah! Okay, I got something . . . This is the infamous Black Thumb. In 1631, it single-handedly ripped its way across the English countryside, leaving behind a trail of bloody bastards and broken dreams. Never has the world seen such carnage. Pray it never will again. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. No, I don’t want you to kill me. Okay, I’ll shut up now.
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