game development series - character development and storytelling

TLFeBOOK
TLFeBOOK
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TLFeBOOK
This book is dedicated to my parents
Helen and Harold;
to my grandmother Elsie King
(a promise kept at last);
and to Dolores Brown,
my sophomore high school English teacher,
who first introduced me to theatre.
Thank you all for helping to give me
the life I love today.
TLFeBOOK
M
any people helped make this book possible. I’d like to thank my contributing
writers, both official and unofficial: Mark Barrett, Hal Barwood, Bob Bates,
Jim Buchanan, Noah Falstein, Nate Fox, Chris L’Etoile, Bill Link, Steve
Meretzky, Matt Mihaly, Ken Rolston, John Szeder, and Mark Terrano.
Those who performed above and beyond the call of duty by reading the manuscript and
offering insight and critiques were Bob Bates, Mark Barrett, Hal Barwood, Noah Falstein,
Steve Meretzky and Mark Terrano.
Thanks are also due James Ohlen at Bioware; Jennifer Hicks and Scott Jennings at Mythic;

Alex Bradley; Chris Foster at Turbine; Jurie Horneman at Rockstar; Chris Klug; Dorian
Newcomb; Graham Sheldon; and the Game Design Workshop. My appreciation goes out
to all of the members of the workshop list for putting up with my book questions for the
past seven months.
More general acknowledgments are owed Chris Abbott, Ron Austin, Sandy Bianco,
Eddie Bowen, Glen Dahlgren, Steve de Souza, Mike Dornbrook, Elonka Dunin,
Phil Fehrle, Eric Goldberg, Brian Green, Hope Hickli, Geoff Howland, Amy Jo Kim,
Raph Koster, Peter Lefcourt, Niki Marvin, Di Meredith, Andrew Nelson, Nick Nicholson,
Otto Penzler, Jeff Perkinson, François Robillard, Liz Robinson, Jeri Taylor, Jeff Tyeryar,
John Valente, Doug Walker, Steve Wartofsky, Johnny Wilson, and Gary Winnick.
Some of you will know why. The others will just have to take my word for it that you
belong here.
And last, but not least, from Course Technology I’d like to thank Mitzi Koontz and my
superb editor Sandy Doell.
I’m sure I’ve missed a few. My sincere apologies! To all named and unnamed go my
deepest thanks.
iv
Acknowledgments
TLFeBOOK
LEE SHELDON was a writer/producer for 20 years on
TV shows such as Star Trek: The Next Generation,
Charlie’s Angels, Quincy, and many more. Over 200
of his original scripts were filmed, and he has pro-
duced and edited hundreds more. Lee was twice
nominated for awards by the Mystery Writers of
America. He was also nominated by the Writers
Guild of America for the daytime serial Edge of
Night. Since 1994, he has been writing and designing
games. His titles include solo games such as the
award-winning The Riddle of Master Lu, Dark Side of

the Moon, and Wild Wild West: The Steel Assassin.He
has worked on massively multiplayer worlds for
companies including Cyan (URU: Ages Beyond Myst)
and Disney (Disney’s Virtual Kingdom).
Lee is known as one of the leading experts on storytelling and character development in
games. For seven years, he ran a full-day tutorial on these and related issues at the Game
Developer’s Conference and has appeared on panels and given talks elsewhere. He is a
charter member of the Game Design Workshop, which includes most of the major game
designers in the industry. He is the author of the mystery novel Impossible Bliss (Mystery
& Suspense Press, Mystery Writers of America Imprint for iUniverse, ISBN: 0595194818).
v
About the Author
TLFeBOOK
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi
Part I Background. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Chapter 1 Myths and Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Why Make Games? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Why Tell Stories in Games? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
One Last Equation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Chapter 2 The Story Remains the Same . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Aristotle and Those Other Greeks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Jung’s Collective Unconscious . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Primary Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
From The Great Train Robbery to Birth of a Nation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
The Language of Drama and Film. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Part II Creating Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Chapter 3 Respecting Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Three Dimensions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Character Progression . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

The Pivotal Character . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
The Player-Character . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Chapter 4 Character Roles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
The Character’s Role in Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Populating the World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Commentary and Gossip . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
Living Useful Lives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
The Player-Character Revisited (Protagonist) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Death of a Player-Character . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
vi
Contents
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Villains (Antagonists). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Mentors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Sidekicks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Servants and Pets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Merchants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Trainers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Quest Givers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Chapter 5 Character Traits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Mobility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Physical Skills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Professions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Race . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Sex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Character Emotion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Characters in Opposition. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Memory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Revealing Character Through Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Chapter 6 Character Encounters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

Perception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Perspective (First Person Versus Third Person) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Dialogue Systems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Entrances and Exits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
Return Visits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Part III Telling the Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
Chapter 7 Once Upon a Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
Building a Home for Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
Story or Game: Which Comes First? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
Original Material . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Adaptations from Other Media . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Sequels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Finding a Style That Fits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
Linear Versus Non-Linear. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Avoiding Clichés . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
Contents vii
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Chapter 8 Respecting Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175
Willing Suspension of Disbelief. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
The Fourth Wall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
The Trap of Cut Scenes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
The Trap of Too Much Backstory. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
The Trap of Letting Players “Discover” the Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188
Verisimilitude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
Expressionism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
Symbolism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
Consistency of the World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
Setting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194

Weather. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
Scope and Scale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197
Chapter 9 Bringing the Story to Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
Foreshadowing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
Point of Attack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
The Obligatory Scene . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
Reversals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
Arcs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Exposition in Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215
Chapter 10 Games: Charting New Territory. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Characters Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Puzzling Developments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
Quests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 224
Types of Quests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232
Rewards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
The Story Up Till Now . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
Chapter 11 Story Chiropractics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
Heart: Player Emotion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
Mind: Sharing the Theme . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245
Funny Bone: ROFLMAO! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
Chapter 12 Editing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253
Collaboration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254
Adapting to the Engine You End Up With . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
Stopping the Bleeding When You Cut Levels and Areas . . . . . . . . . 263
Polishing Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
Copy Editing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
Contentsviii
TLFeBOOK
Chapter 13 The Roots of a New Storytelling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
The Odyssey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276

The Canterbury Tales. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
Don Quixote de la Mancha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281
Charles Dickens and Publishing in Parts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284
Saturday Morning at the Movies (Movie Serials) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286
Dennis Wheatley’s Crime Dossiers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
Daytime Soap Operas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291
Episodic Television . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292
Chapter 14 Modular Storytelling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295
The Yoke of Narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Nesting Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319
Structuring Chaos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 320
Adventures in a Non-Linear World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321
Part IV Games People Play . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
Chapter 15 Game Types . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
Adventure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333
Role-Playing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338
Simulations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
Strategy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342
Multiplayer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 344
Chapter 16 Game Genres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345
Fantasy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349
Science Fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
Espionage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 358
Crime . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361
Mystery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 362
Horror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
Romance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 367
Western . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369

Chapter 17 Console Games . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
Demographics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 373
Push the Button, Get the Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 374
Contents ix
TLFeBOOK
Integration Versus Cut Scenes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375
How Story Enhances Gameplay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 377
Cooperative Games (Minimally Multiplayer). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
The Incredible Shrinking Game . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 381
Chapter 18 Bringing Virtual Worlds to Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 385
The Roots of Role-Playing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 390
Scope and Scale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 396
Death of a Player-Character Revisited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401
The Social World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 402
Footprints in the Sand. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 407
The Trap of Episodic Structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 408
Chapter 19 Enabling Story in Virtual Worlds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413
Thousands of Heroes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 413
Ongoing Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415
Revealing Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419
True Multiplayer Quests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
Crowd Control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 426
Variety . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428
Hiding the Numbers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429
Empowering Emergent Storytelling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 434
Part V Reflections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 437
Chapter 20 The Responsible Writer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
Part VI Appendices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447
Appendix A Opinionated Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 449
Appendix B Developer Primer on Building Writing Teams. . . . . . . . . . 453

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 454
Team Configurations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 455
The Lead Writer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 456
The Staff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 458
Additional Considerations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 459
Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 460
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461
Contentsx
TLFeBOOK
C
haracter Development and Storytelling for Games is meant to be a resource for
writers and designers and those who must work with us and who may want to
talk intelligently with us at some point.
This is not a book of rules that, if slavishly followed, will guarantee success. You’ll see that
just about every time I try to lay down some canonical law to follow, I immediately think
of exceptions. Don’t be afraid to break any rules as you write, as long as you know exactly
what they mean, and why they’re rules to begin with. Pablo Picasso knew this, as you’ll
soon see. It is one of the continuing themes running through this book.
Think of it as a book of ideas and of choices. With any luck, it will help you to generate
ideas of your own. And you will feel more comfortable when choices present themselves
as you write. Knowing which choices to make is not teachable. It’s part of that creative
instinct we call talent whose secret voice guides us in our decisions every time we sit down
at the keyboard. And anyway, they will be different for different people. Despite what writ-
ing gurus say, all stories are not identical. They are shaped by all those unique facets of the
human beings who write them.
I have some strong opinions, and you will find them in here. Hopefully, if you disagree
with them, you will still discover much that is helpful to you as a writer of games. Even
better, your disagreement can lead to enlightenment for all of us. Debate is a necessary
part of learning. Sometimes, as I wrote, I wished I could just stop and ask my own ques-
tions of you.

For those interested in such things, I’ll confess up front that in the way I’ve chosen to write
this book can be found all of the major concepts I’m writing about. The book itself has
been designed as a quest. Considering how much I’ll promote non-linear storytelling in
the following pages, you may be surprised to find it is a linear quest. I originally laid the
book out in modules that could be read in any order, something like Geoff Ryman’s novel
253, but in the end I went for a straight read instead of distracting page flipping. Write the
story in the way that fits your medium. I practice what I preach as much as I preach what
I practice. This book is an illustration of both.
xi
Introduction
TLFeBOOK
I warn you in advance that I’m going to drag in anecdotes and examples from all sorts of
strange places. This is how ideas blossom. I encourage you in your life as well as in your
writing to be open to all of the arts, and the world they seek to depict. Limiting oneself to
a favorite genre or type of entertainment may be okay for our audience (although I
wouldn’t encourage it), but we owe it to our audience to draw from a much broader world
of knowledge and experience.
This book is as much about game design as it is about writing for games. The two are vir-
tually inseparable. I’ll seem to stray off course occasionally into topics that appear to be
only about design, but hopefully, the discussions are of value to our chief concerns, char-
acter and story, if only for context. Ideas without context may be great for bumper stick-
ers, but they are useless to us as creators. Don’t worry; I won’t stray far.
When we look to other media to understand how to write for games, literature is surpris-
ingly a common first choice. We can learn much from literature, but games are visual, a
medium of action, as are drama and film. Game stories, like stories in film and television,
need not—should not—be convoluted, but as the mystery writer knows, it’s all in the
telling, and an apparently complex plot can actually be quite simple underneath.
We cannot talk about plot or character development or emotion in a vacuum. To do so is
about as helpful as trying to study medicine by examining only the left foot. All of the
weapons of drama must be aimed at what we write. Story and gameplay should evolve

simultaneously. Attempting to tack one form of entertainment on to the other is to lessen
the benefits of both. Even though they are very different, both can be woven together to
create a single entertainment experience.
I am not a programmer. I am a professional writer. Through several careers, no matter
what else I have been—story editor, producer, director, or game designer—I have always
been a writer first.
You don’t have to be a programmer to be a game designer, but you do need to know
enough about programming to carry on meaningful conversations with programmers on
your development team. You need to know enough to be able to at least suspect the dif-
ference between a firm commitment and wishful thinking. Contrary to popular belief,
programmers aren’t all liars, but they are the most optimistic bunch you’ll ever meet.
You don’t have to be an artist, but you should know quite a bit about art. It saves time to
be able to dismiss Jackson Pollock as a potential conceptual artist for your Disney treasure
hunt game. His Mickey Mouse would make you unhappy.
You don’t have to be a writer. But it helps to be able to recognize that fact. Just as you do
have to be a programmer to program, you really should be a writer to write. Everybody
seems to think that because writing doesn’t require manual dexterity the way art often
does, or an ability to do math, that anyone can do it.
Introductionxii
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One problem we come across when attempting to discuss games is our lack of a common
vocabulary. We’ve borrowed terms from other media and then changed their definitions.
We’ve made up our own words. A few gray areas of terminology should be mentioned here.
For the most part I use video game and computer game interchangeably, particularly if the
platform is irrelevant to the topic under discussion. At times, I will just be sloppy and not
modify the word game at all. Unless I specifically say so, assume I mean the same thing as
video game or computer game. The distinction becomes important only when discussing
hardware. Then computer games are played on personal computers and video games are
played on consoles.
In game development, the word genre is often mistakenly used when talking about action,

role-playing, adventure games, and so forth. In this book, I reserve the word genre for its
more traditional definition of an artistic category. In painting, this could be expression-
ism or minimalism. In arts that tell stories, genres are mystery, romance, science fiction,
and so on. Since we have these kinds of genres in games as well, I differentiate action,
adventure, role-playing, simulation, and strategy as “types” of games.
Another tricky word is script. A script in my former life as a Hollywood writer was a tele-
play or screenplay, the dialogue and descriptions of the action. In games, we also use
script to mean a simple sort of pseudo-programming language that can be translated
into program code. I have often been called upon to write scripts in script, compound-
ing the confusion when I meet with other developers to discuss a project. You’ll find both
types of script are discussed in the following pages, but the context should make which
one I mean clear.
Finally, there is the bewildering alphabet soup surrounding our most recent type of game:
massively multiplayer. Virtual worlds, persistent worlds, massive persistent worlds, and
tongue-torturing acronyms such as MMORPG (Massively Multi-Player Online Role-Play-
ing Game), MMO (Massively-Multiplayer Online) and MMP (Massively-Multi-Player)
are only sort of synonymous. I prefer the term virtual worlds used by Richard A Bartle in
his book Designing Virtual Worlds. It covers all of them: persistent or non-persistent, mas-
sively multiplayer or the MUDs and MUSHes upon which they’re based. But you’ll be sub-
jected to most of them at one time or another when we explore their differences.
I try and provide the birth and, if appropriate, death dates for many of the real people
you’ll meet in these pages who have contributed to my understanding of, and love for,
writing. I don’t do this because of some textbook convention, but because I believe it is
important to realize that we’re not creating new paradigms here from scratch. We’re build-
ing on concepts that, in some cases, date back to primitive men like Urk (790,067
BC–790,025 BC), that great mastodon hunter who became the “father of the campfire
story.” The dates will hopefully put into perspective how long people have been thinking
about characters and story and, yes, writing about their creation too.
Introduction xiii
TLFeBOOK

In a book with the scope of this one, there are thousands of details. Every human effort has
been made to confirm historical references, quotes, and facts. Sometimes primary sources
were available. Sometimes they weren’t, but reliable secondary sources were. Often, I have
had only anecdotal references to draw upon. In other cases, attempts to verify specific
examples failed, and I’ve had to rely on my own powers of observation (good) or memory
(fanciful). I’m going to make mistakes. This isn’t a newspaper. I’m not a journalist.
If I get an example wrong, forgive me. Look at the substance of the argument instead. I
guarantee, even if the example is inaccurate, it at least supports my thesis! Please send me
corrections or additions. If there is a second edition of the book, I’ll be happy to incor-
porate them.
I’ve used the word hopefully quite a lot in this short introduction. This is a hopeful book.
You hold in your hands most of what I know about writing for games and much of what I
believe and practice, no matter what kind of writing I’m doing. It is meant to inform, to
instruct, and maybe even inspire. Use the ideas you can, discard the rest. Make your own
choices. We are all of us on a journey toward a destination for which there is no single road.
Introductionxiv
TLFeBOOK
Background
Chapter 1
Myths and Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .3
Chapter 2
The Story Remains the Same . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13
PART I
TLFeBOOK
Prelude in a Fire-Lit Cave
The body of one hunter was already cooling in the patch of low fern where it had been
thrown. A second hunter, gored twice in chest and shoulder, lay nearby, blinking at the sun
filtered through the broad leaves of a towering tree. He would be abandoned; his bones
picked clean by scavengers, bleaching memorials and sacrifices to the hunt.
Men wielding stone knives were chopping meat into manageable slabs and scraping gris-

tle from great swatches of hide. The work was done with little grace, speed the only impor-
tance. The meat must reach the tribe’s current camp as soon as possible to be seared and
consumed within a few short hours. Each lost minute tainted it and increased the chance
of illness, possibly death, instead of nourishment.
Death was every bit as much a member of the tribe as the hunters, the gatherers of roots
and berries, the cooks, and the artisans who fashioned the stone heads of spears and
blades of knives. Death was a constant companion, sometimes cruel, at others merciful;
inevitable as nightfall, a companion to be depended upon.
Once all that could be carried had been harvested from the shaggy, long-tusked beast, the
hunters began their weary trek back to the cave where they had taken refuge when
autumn’s first frost had touched the land only a few sunsets before. Their burden meant
the traveling was slow. And they must always be on guard against some other predator that
caught the scent of the easy meal they carried. At last the mouth of the cave was spotted;
other members of the tribe gathered about it, awaiting their return.
Once inside, amongst the women, children, and infirm—there were no old ones in this
life—the meat was skewered on long stakes and placed in the central fire pit. Hide was dis-
tributed to the women to be fashioned into protection against the fast approaching winter.
Lamentations were sung for the two hunters lost to the beast, the meal consumed, and the
fire stoked against the encroaching darkness. All gathered round that fire now: hunters,
women, children. Finally the work-a-day chatter died, and all eyes turned to the chief of
the hunters.
He was possessed of only one good eye, and his left hand had withered to a frozen claw
after it had been savaged by the teeth of a great cat three winters gone. Yet he was the
bravest of them all, the most cunning, and ablest of the hunters.
The chief hunter waited in the silence, biding his time, allowing the stillness to linger. He
gazed into the fire as it sparked and spit from animal grease. At last, when the quiet was
stretched taut as a tendon, he looked round at them and began to speak . . .
And with every word he knew, he told the story of the hunt . . .
TLFeBOOK
3

Myths and
Equations
chapter 1
E
ver since tales of great hunts and hunters were told to awestruck listeners huddled
around the protecting fire, consumers, from cave folk to moviegoers, have been
drawn to the power of storytelling. The story is the single thread that is woven
through the entire fabric of what entertains us. The appreciation of a good story is a gift
not granted to any other species on this planet. It is reserved for Homo sapiens alone.
Like other species, Homo sapiens play games. From professional sports to the puns and
word juxtapositions that pepper our conversations, games appeal to us on many levels. We
enjoy games because they have been a major source of our entertainment and a stimulus
for our consciousness since we first focused our newly born eyes on a world of possibili-
ties. Play was a way of dealing with the unknown. If our toes could be successfully played
with, maybe they weren’t something we needed to fear!
Games and stories have much in common. Both deal with how we handle fear. Both can
teach us about the world and ourselves. Both can challenge us, move us to laughter or
tears. Both spring from the child inside, and both can keep us young. Each can exist sep-
arately from the other, and be consummately entertaining, yet there are also times when
the two meet, feed off of one another, and grow into something greater than they were
separately. One of the most interesting opportunities for games and stories to coincide is
in the still relatively new form of entertainment called computer games. And that is the
focus of this book.
Before we get down to the nuts and bolts of manufacturing stories and constructing char-
acters, there are two fundamental questions we should think about, a few myths that need
to be dispelled, and an acknowledgement made that since games are an interactive
medium after all, we do want to hear from our audience. First, the questions.
TLFeBOOK
Why Make Games?
Is it a need to create? A need to express ourselves? A need to entertain? A need to illumi-

nate the human condition? A need to make great wads of cash? Ask yourself why you want
to make games as you read this book. We will never arrive at an answer that pleases every-
one, but it’s important to arrive at an answer that satisfies you.
Interactive entertainment will never replace passive entertainment any more than movies
replaced the theatre, or TV replaced movies. It will, however, grow to be an equal source
of pleasure and satisfaction for millions of people throughout the world. Opportunities
are boundless for those who have the time and the patience to learn the skills necessary to
build games, and the talent to take advantage of them.
There are two goals many say we need to reach as an industry. The first is mass market
entertainment. The game industry may appear to be there by virtue of its sheer bulk, but
until a single title reaches true mass market numbers, we’re just flirting with the concept.
One night in 1977 an episode I wrote of the television series Charlie’s Angels was seen by
close to 60 million people. Now, we’re not necessarily talking about quality of product
here, but the quantity of people who experienced it. Even in today’s highly fragmented
television industry the audience for a single episode of a hit TV show is measured in tens
of millions. That is mass market penetration. And our most successful titles do not come
close.
The second goal is achieving some sort of legiti-
macy in the eyes of critics, other media, and the
population at large. I don’t believe art (or even
quality entertainment!) is achieved by someone
who sets out to make Art. I’m talking now about
Art with a capital “A,” a painting or symphony or
book or film that is considered classic because it
“stands the test of time.” What does this well worn
phrase mean? That the creator of that piece of Art
has succeeded in touching the hearts and minds of
generations unborn when the Art was created.
Antonio Salieri was the star composer of socially
conscious Holy Roman Emperor Joseph II’s court,

but it is Mozart we treasure. Salieri would have
remained a footnote in music history were it not
for Peter Shaffer’s brilliant play, Amadeus, and the
film adapted from it. But even with his new found
fame, Salieri’s work does not get performed much
today. Art endures. Popular opinion fades.
Chapter 1
■
Myths and Equations4
Figure 1.1 Antonio Salieri, famous
footnote.
Gemalde-Galerie
TLFeBOOK
So while it would be pompous to suggest that any game creators should be attempting
to make Art, we should also be aware of those qualities that may be conducive to its
generation.
The game industry has failed to reach true mass market penetration; and few of our prod-
ucts even flirt with Art. And while they aren’t as out of reach as many might think, nor are
they waiting around placidly for us to catch up with them. What is needed is a solid body
of work we can learn from, and a critical perspective with which we can study it. You can
begin to suspect how a watch runs by watching the hands move, or hearing the ticking
sound it makes. But you learn how it works by taking it apart, and putting it back together.
We can see examples of how this happens in other youngish industries with aspirations to
the capital “A.”
My mentor at California Institute of the Arts was a screenwriter and director named
Alexander MacKendrick. Sandy was a product of the “golden age” of British film comedy,
a period from the late 40s to early 60s when motion picture studios (most famous of them
was Ealing Studios, where Sandy worked for nearly all of his early career) released what
are considered by many to be classics of film comedy. The Ealing Studios’ films such as
The Man in the White Suit, Kind Hearts and Coronets, The Lavender Hill Mob, and The

Ladykillers were notable for (amongst other things) their impeccable story structure, non-
stereotypical characters, and their illumination of the humanity and truth in the goofiest
of characters and situations.
Why Make Games? 5
Figure 1.2 Alec Guinness sports the funny teeth in
the first version of
The Ladykillers
.
Studio Canal +
TLFeBOOK
In one course Sandy taught, we watched a handful of films over and over again: North by
Northwest, On the Waterfront, Sandy’s own The Ladykillers. The purpose was to see beyond
the entertainment value each film possessed, to see the seams, to see how all the elements
came together to create a unified entertainment experience. If you can get to the point
where your favorite game no longer entertains you, you will have taken a crucial step
toward understanding how it worked its magic. It can be a sad moment and an exhilarat-
ing one all at the same time.
Why Tell Stories in Games?
Should games try to tell stories? Not all of them. But they can, if we want. If we would like
to involve emotions higher than an adrenaline rush, we need to reach the human spirit,
not just endocrine glands. If we would like some day to be legitimized, stories and char-
acters are time-honored ways to begin.
Can we do it? The answer is obvious: yes. Stories have gone from being the afterthought
of early games to at least being considered of some value. Story and gameplay need to stop
fighting with each other though, like naughty siblings competing for parental attention.
We come to this struggle again when we explore Myth #2 below.
Can we do it well? Of course. Given some imagination, talent, and craft. Imagination and
talent cannot be taught, but they can be encouraged. Give a craftsman the tools he needs
to create, and both imagination and talent can blossom.
Stories are present in all other forms of crafted entertainment. In some, like live theatre or

soap operas, the story is often pre-eminent. Production limitations place a necessary pre-
mium on good writing. If we want to eventually achieve some sort of critical recognition
at least the equal of television and film, or simply reach the true mass market, it’s time we
accorded the writing of computer games respect and professionalism at least equal to that
we currently reserve for graphics and sound and programming.
Myth #1: Interactive storytelling first appeared in computer games.
Some of us who make games have a tendency to believe that our civilization came to inter-
active storytelling late in our dramatic development. In fact, interactivity was a part of sto-
rytelling from the very beginning. There is a scene in the film The Wind and the Lion,
written and directed by John Milius, where the “last of the Barbary pirates,” a desert chief-
tain portrayed by Sean Connery, is relating the story of his life at yet another campfire. As
he spins his tale to his captive, played by Candace Bergen, his men, having heard it many
times and knowing it almost as well as he does, prompt him to retell the most significant
and impressive parts. They attempt to shape the story, and the storyteller, wise leader that
he is, molds his yarn to suit their requests.
Chapter 1
■
Myths and Equations6
TLFeBOOK
We can trust that as the chief hunter tells the story that opens this chapter the men who
were on the hunt with him will interject their recollections, and those members of the tribe
who were not part of the experience will ask questions and respond with exclamations of
amazement, satisfaction, or sorrow. Both the additional material added by the chief
hunter’s men and the response from the rest of the tribe will help shape the narrative.
Live dramatic performances have always taken into account that extra character, the audi-
ence, and adjusted accordingly. If the audience is responding with enthusiastic laughter to
a comedy, the actors will draw on that energy to enliven their performances. If the audi-
ence is bored and restless, the actors may try harder
to infuse their words with intensity, or they may just
speed up their dialogue to minimize the experience

for both them and the audience. William Shake-
speare acknowledged the role his audience at the
Globe Theatre, most notably those standing in the
pit armed with vegetables, played in his produc-
tions. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats creep and crawl
through the audience as the play is about to begin.
Why Tell Stories in Games? 7
Figure 1.3 Stories and games in
The Wind and the Lion.
Figure 1.4
Cats
on the prowl begin
each performance.
Warner Home Video released DVD (film originally released by MGM)
Universal Studios
TLFeBOOK
Many years ago I was at a performance of Paul Giovanni’s Sherlock Holmes pastiche The
Crucifer of Blood at a theatre in London’s West End. In the midst of the play there was a
sudden disturbance in the balcony. It quickly became impossible for either the audience
or the actors to ignore. A man actually shouted from the balcony, “Is there a doctor in the
house?” Keith Michel, the actor portraying the famous detective in the play, repeated the
question. There was indeed a doctor in the orchestra section of the audience, and a man
who had suffered a heart attack was removed by ambulance to a hospital.
When the play resumed the actors replayed the beginning of the scene that had been inter-
rupted. Mr. Michel, to draw the audience back into the fun of the experience, sped
through his lines, giving them deliberately comic overtones the text did not possess. Even
though it broke “the fourth wall,” a term we’ll discuss in Chapter 8, the audience loved it,
and was able to relax back into the play-going experience. His leading lady, Susan Hamp-
shire, was not as taken with his efforts, and kept glaring at him, until he finally lapsed back
into the rhythm of the play as directed, and the reality of the performance.

Interactivity, that two way street of storytelling, has always been with us, even if later
media, such as film, radio, and television, have been largely insensate of the audience, at
least during the actual performance. Happily we still have live theatre! If we were to
express this relationship as an equation, it might look something like this:
Scripted/Rehearsed Story + Audience = Entertainment Experience
So we have in computer games a far more natural approach to storytelling than one might
at first suppose, one that includes the participation of the audience, those individuals we
call players.
Myth #2: Games and stories don’t mix.
This is often the first observation out of the mouth of someone who believes we should-
n’t attempt to tell more than cursory stories in games, or that we need to throw out all the
old “outdated” rules of storytelling, and find some completely new paradigm like Artifi-
cial Intelligence to drive non-player characters in games, or force the players to do all the
work and create any necessary story. Both actually have a place in games, but not as
replacements to imaginatively drawn characters or carefully crafted stories.
Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee’s play Inherit the Wind was inspired by the Scopes
Monkey Trial in 1925 where a teacher was prosecuted for teaching evolution. At the end
of the film version, Henry Drummond (a fictionalized Clarence Darrow), played by
Spencer Tracy, picks up a copy of the Bible and a copy of Charles’ Darwin’s Origin of the
Species, weighs each for a moment, then packs them away together in his briefcase. The
symbolism is obvious. Biblical teaching and evolution can coexist. The same is true for
stories and games.
Chapter 1
■
Myths and Equations8
TLFeBOOK
Games are a very different animal from stories. We all know that. While the word game is
often taken to mean a competitive activity, the most general definition is simply “a way of
amusing oneself.”
In fact, games that encourage active participation in storytelling are as old as games them-

selves. Children learn through playing games. They act out stories, play characters, and
mold their stories and characters in reaction to their friends’ actions. Adults role-playing
at their kitchen tables enjoy the structure of a game that allows a fluid storytelling that
adjusts to their play. Here our equation might resemble the following:
Game Rules + Scripted/Rehearsed Story + Players = Entertainment Experience
The key to a satisfying entertainment experience is in the balance of its parts. Balance is a
key concern in many areas of game design as well as writing. You’ll discover it is one of the
main themes we come back to again and again in this book.
If, in our first equation above, the storyteller is unable to adjust to his audience, audience
participation will diminish (or degenerate into heckling!), and the entertainment experi-
ence will be adversely affected. (In the case of theatrical productions in Shakespeare’s day,
of course, the heckling was an acknowledged part of mass entertainment. Polite society
was forced to endure it, or sponsor private productions.)
In the second equation, if the game rules or the scripted story are too rigid to adjust to the
improvisations of the players, the entertainment experience will suffer.
Why Tell Stories in Games? 9
Figure 1.5 The
Bible
and
Origin of the Species
side by side.
MGM/UA
TLFeBOOK
What games played on computers have altered in this mix is the replacement of human
beings with algorithms on one side of the equation or the other. Instead of human story-
tellers responding to their audiences or actors adjusting their performances, we require
the game’s programming to adjust, a far trickier proposition, and one we will address
often in the following pages.
Since we’re messing around with equations, let’s look at one more common myth.
Myth #3: Life equals drama.

Webster’s Dictionary gives the following definitions of drama:
1. A play in prose or verse
2. Dramatic art of a particular kind or period
3. The art or practice of writing or producing plays
4. A real-life situation or succession of events having the dramatic progression or
emotional content typical of a play
It is that last definition that is of most interest to us here. I remember a debate during a
roundtable at the Game Developer’s Conference several years ago where a number of
game designers insisted that if we witness a child struck by a car on the street we are see-
ing drama. But this position reflects a misunderstanding of the colloquial or common
usage of the word, as in “Wasn’t that a dramatic basketball game?”
What we really mean is “Wasn’t that basketball game as exciting as the Disney movie about
a basketball game we saw?” There is more to drama than real life. Drama only exists in real
life when real life events mirror dramatic structure and remind us of created drama we
have witnessed. This is not to say that intense emotions cannot be aroused by an injured
child or a close score in a sports contest. We may even call these examples “drama.” But it
is dangerous for creators of drama to assume that all we must do is follow Hamlet’s
famous advice to his players: “To hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature.”
According to definition, we must start with drama as a structure in which to wrap real life.
Drama begets Real Life Drama. Therefore the progression looks like this:
Drama -> Real Life Drama
But wait! Which really came first? Wasn’t it life? Shouldn’t the cause and effect look like
more like this?
Real Life -> Drama
Chapter 1
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Myths and Equations10
TLFeBOOK