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June 28, 2007

A Tree Grows in Upper Montclair

On my walk yesterday, I saw a tiny garden that gave me pause. Perhaps “garden” is too generous; it was actually a disorganized collection of plants growing in wheelbarrow full of soil. At first, I thought the use of a wheelbarrow as a rustic planter was deliberate, but when I noticed that the largest plants in the wheelbarrow were seedlings from the fir tree above, it became clear that the owner had used the wheelbarrow for some yard work, and then simply abandoned it long enough to develop its own ecosystem.

Most interesting of all, the wheelbarrow was the most attractive part of the yard, which the owner spends at least some effort keeping up—the yard isn’t neurotically manicured, but the lawn is mowed, the flowerbeds tended, the picket fence in good repair. Yet a random collection of wild plants was the prettiest part of it.

I wonder why. None of the plants were traditional flowerbed material; mostly, it was a mix of grasses, with some wildflowers and a few seedlings. My perceptions are not overly colored by an environmentalist’s love of nature for its own sake. Sure, I like hiking the woods once in a while, but any given patch of it just looks like mud and gravel and detritus; prairies are just a patch of weeds, viewed from close up.

In the absence of a better explanation, I chalk it up to the way that contrast draws the human eye. Contrast is no more inherently pretty than is nature, but when the contrasting element looks nice, setting it apart from the surroundings makes it seem much prettier. A miscellany of 4” to 6” plants the size of a yard would just look trashy. But a mound of earth can look lush and cool toward the end of a walk in hot, hazy, sticky weather.

June 27, 2007

Snzzzxzz...

Summer has struck full-force; it is now too hot to sleep upstairs. I am painfully tired today, as I had a hard time getting to sleep again in the air-conditioned living room—not enough cushioning blankets, a fan on my face, and a distractingly irregular beeping that I could hear through the living room floor.

Occasionally, being tired can make writing easier; it reduces the power of my internal editor, which can be excessively harsh when it comes to putting down anything at all. Usually, though, being tired is bad for writing; it’s hard to be creative when you can’t keep your eyes open.

Which doesn’t make much sense to me. We all get loopy ideas when we’re on the cusp of dreaming. There’s even a few stories of great achievements accomplished during sleep, such as Kekulé’s revelation of the benzene ring. Every so often, I’ll wake from a vivid dream and have the self-possession to write it down. Morning light may prove the idea useful or ridiculous, but always curious. Presumably, I could harness the lucid dreaming techniques to nap and further my writing at the same time.

Never works that way, though. I’m four paragraphs in, and all I can think to tell you is “Zzzzz…”

June 26, 2007

Isosceles Triangles? Intense!

There’s net-sophisticated companies, and there’s net-foolish ones. The Frito-Lay corporation has apparently heard about this new “internet” thingie, and apparently somebody told them the internet was popular with the youth demographic. Eager to hitch their wagon to a rising star, Frito-Lay has decided to join us in this wonderful new “cyberspace,” as the kids call it.

They’ve had a web site for years, of course, but somebody must have explained to them that the internet is a crowded place, and that generating mass interest takes more than a web page reminding folks that, yes indeed, we make snack foods, and we hope you’ll buy some. So, to launch Frito-Lay into the new millennium, some executive was put in charge of finding something else to draw eyeballs. He settled on a Doritos game.

To the clueless, this makes sense: kids like the internet, kids like games; give kids a Doritos game on the internet, and they’ll see lots of Doritos ads. Think things through a little farther, though: what can you do with a Doritos game that won’t suck? And a sucky game is not really what a smart marketing executive wants to attach his product to. The executive and his staff were clever enough to realize that somebody who wound up in the Doritos marketing department probably is not an A-list game designer, so they aren’t going to design their own suckiness directly. Instead, they turned the bad idea of a game into a three-tiered bad idea.

Phase One: hold a contest asking entrants to submit a game design! The five best ideas, selected by Frito-Lay, will earn their creators a wide-screen TV. These ideas will also suck, in part because the basic material is so flimsy, even with the hint to “Use our iconic shape, bold flavors or simply our intense experience—whatever comes to mind. How you use that inspiration is entirely up to you.” That is to say, a game with an isosceles triangle, or maybe some orange burst icons. Inspiring. But the ideas will also because, in the computer design business, you get what you pay for—if you’re lucky enough to get that. Somebody who can conceive of great games will not work for a television screen. I remain suspicious that the “tips from industry experts”—coming soon!—will turn the uninitiated into great game designers.

Phase Two: hold a poll about which game will be the best! In theory, this engages the whole online community. In practice, the poll only engages those whose arms the entrants can twist for a vote, because nobody cares enough to seek out a Dorito-intensive lifestyle. The poll will not select the least sucky game; it will select the game of whoever browbeats the most friends.

Phase Three: make the game available to visitors! Most people who hear about the game will immediately decide the game will suck, and go instead to their favorite porn site. The ones who foolishly try it out will soon learn it sucks. Any further thinking they exert on Doritos will be associated with a dumb game, and the youth demographic is not kind towards what it considers a dumb game.

Also, because the five finalists will be selected by the marketing division, I can already predict what three of the five games will be, because they’ll have to be cheap to program and easy for the marketing division to grasp. One: a Pac-Man descendant, in which you try to gobble up chips without letting the bad guys touch you. Two: a Space Invaders descendant, in which your vaguely-airfoilish isosceles triangle zaps bad guys threatening to interfere with humans’ Dorito-intensive lifestyles. Three: a Tetris descendant, wherein you try to match up groups of isosceles triangles with the same bold flavor (represented by color) until the screen ultimately fills with mismatched triangles. Super-intense triangles will allow you to clear a whole region at a sweep.

Aaaaand I’m out of ideas. Two more, and I could sweep the finals. If I had the energy to submit my ideas, I assure the judges that all of them would provide an iconic, bold, and above all intense experience. Or maybe not.

June 25, 2007

Conspiracy Hunting Made Easy

I finished Mike Resnick’s Second Contact last night. Meh. It’s a conspiracy/thriller with a science fiction twist—are aliens masquerading as humans infiltrating space fleet?—and for the first third or so of the book, it was better conspiracy/thriller material than the stuff from conspiracy/thriller specialists like Ludlum. Unfortunately, Resnick eventually started committing literary sins, and ended up with a final product no better than The Throckmorton Initiative, or whatever the latest item on the heap is.

Still, the setup was pretty good, particularly in the way the protagonist, Major Becker, is compelled to pursue a paranoid fantasy without being paranoid himself: he is a military lawyer, ordered to take the case of a space ship captain accused of murder. Since the captain refuses to offer any plea but Not Guilty, and insists on arguing that the crewmen he killed were aliens masquerading as human, it’s up to the lawyer to dig up whatever he can on behalf of his client. Soon (dun dun dun!) he discovers suspicious behavior, then (dun dun dun!) someone tries to kill him, and the chase is on. But even then, Becker can persist for a good long time in the belief that he’s found a conspiracy in the form of a drug ring, but not a capital-C Conspiracy to take over the world.

This worked so well that I began thinking about how to steal the idea for a role-playing campaign. I like the idea of a conspiracy RPG campaign, but there are so many pitfalls to actually trying one. The biggest problem with conspiracy theories generally is that they depend heavily on selective evidence: anything that supports the conspiracy theory is considered proof, while anything that contradicts it considered simply wrong, or possibly even disinformation planted by the conspiracy. In real life, this is no way to examine a hypothesis; in fiction, of course, it’s fine, because the conspiracy is there, the evidence can be found, and the hero can be just clever enough at just the right moments to separate truth from lies at a measured, dramatic pace.

The protagonists of an RPG campaign are not so lucky. Their decisions are not made by the mystery’s author; they are made by players just as much in the dark as the characters, and any attempts to work from selective evidence can take them anywhere at all, including the conclusion that the post office is using mind control drugs to turn the Boy Scouts into assassins capable of destroying the UN, when in fact the real danger is banks fuelled by Nazi gold subverting the phone companies to place an SS double agent in the Oval Office. RPG players are prone to cling to bad ideas in the best of situations. Give them reason to think the bad guys are actively messing with their information sources, and they’ll refuse entirely to accept GM leads designed to keep the story on track. The more firmly he helps the players along, the more “obviously” they’re being led into a trap. Leads will be ignored, players will get frustrated, mistakes will be made, the PCs will expose themselves, and any decent evil cabal would kill them. End of (a very unsatisfying) story.

The whole space lawyer gimmick allowed Resnick to set out 80% of the mystery right up front, and let Major Becker slowly talk himself into accepting it. That’s the trick I thought to steal: give the players almost all the mystery, and trust them to play true enough to character to slowly talk themselves into it. Striking just the right degree of implausibility is incredibly difficult, since players are all too willing to believe in shape-shifting aliens et al., but once past this hurdle, a GM could get away with a lot…until the first time the players go astray, at which point it’s back to square one. I’ll have to think some more about applying this.

June 22, 2007

Take Him at His Word

So Dick Cheney is back in front-page news. It seems he feels the vice presidency is not part of the executive branch of government.

Wait…what? Excuse me?

The motivation for this claim is a presidential executive order—reversed by Bill Clinton during his terms of office, and reinstated by Bush the lesser—that requires executive branch offices to give the Information Security Oversight Offices archival data on material those executive branch offices have classified and declassified. The idea of the presidential order is to enable the National Archives to protect national security information by keeping tabs on what is and is not classified.

Not only has the vice president refused to report that information, but has further refused even to give a tally on how much has been classified. Not even a simple count. The current administration has vastly increased the classification of government documents, including re-classifying documents which had already been released to public scrutiny years before. This last policy is so nonsensical as to prove that whoever is running the White House considers secrecy a virtue in its own right. Foreign spies with an interest in the information have already got their copies; the only people kept in the dark by reclassification are our own citizens. Democracy works best, according to the White House, when its citizens are kept ignorant of government activity. If a simple count of the number of documents classified is dangerous, it isn’t dangerous to national interests—only to the national leadership’s interests.

The overtly stated policy of our current executive to expand executive privilege to the point of independence from the other two branches of government scares me. The very attempt to make presidential (or vice presidential) activity secret from, and therefore unaccountable to the voters, scares me. The blatant attempt to destroy our system of checks and blances scares me. When did “conservative” come to mean “embracing the dismantling of the guiding principles of the constitution”? The fact that Cheney seeks to disobey the rules laid out by his own president demonstrates a deep-seated belief that the president (and vice president) should rest entirely above the laws, including its own. The executive’s act of making itself secret alone justifies using powerful legal and political tools to break that secrecy, and justifies using those tools more aggressively than would be justified with a more candid presidency.

Fortunately, there is a remedy, if someone has the guts to apply it quickly and firmly. Accept the vice president at his word. The vice presidency is not part of the executive branch of government; the vice president is simply a humble functionary without any legal participation in any of the three branches. As such, he can make no claim whatsoever to executive privilege. Not an executive, no executive privilege. Simple as that. His office may therefore be exempt from a specific presidential order to offices in the executive branch to disclose its activities, but it is entirely without a leg to stand on if subpoenaed by Congress. The vice president, by his own admission, is not an “entity within the executive branch.” He is therefore no longer privileged to enjoy the safeguards of our system of checks and balances; he must comply with any laws Congress should care to establish, without recourse to executive privileges of any kind.

Now. Let’s subpoena every damned document, memo, and record it’s created in the past seven years. Let’s see what we find.

June 21, 2007

What Was That? French Horns.

Although the blogs I researched yesterday failed to fill me with joy, they were a fruitful source of “you gotta see this” links. The top 100-200 list on bash.org, for example, made me laugh to the point of tears. And, while the LOLcats were just drek, I confess I laughed at the dramatic chipmunk film clip.

(No, don’t go see it. This is already moving to the internet meme phenomenon list, where “All your base are belong to us” resides. Before it passes, you will be sick to death of dramatic chipmunk. Chances are good you’ve already seen it; I am terminally unhip, and catch memes after everyone else on my block does. All right, all right; if you’re even less hip than I, you can see it at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHjFxJVeCQs. But I take no responsibility. I only brought the damn thing up because I wanted to talk about Darth Vader.)

Darth Vader is one of the all-time ass-kickin’est villains around, despite his overblown villainy. His general excessiveness blends in with the equally excessive Star Wars setting, putting him right up in the same league as Ming the Merciless, Long John Silver, the evil queen from Snow White, the Joker in his better moments, and Angela Lansbury in The Manchurian Candidate. The reason dramatic chipmunk reminds me of Darth Vader is that both are a triumph of sound. The black cape is fine, but the outfit as a whole, and especially those red and blue Lego bricks he wears as rank insignia, would just look stupid without the voice of James Earl Jones to back it up. Our first intimation of Vader is auditory, too: the evil overlord march begins before we see the man in the suit, and we remember that theme better even than the movie’s theme song. An entire generation still thrills to the soft rasp of Vader’s breathing mechanism, especially when accompanied by the whummmm of a light saber. Play those two sound tracks behind a drowsing 30-something just as he’s dozing off, and you might get him to wet his pants.

People will take you seriously if you’ve got a good sound track, whether they’re aware of it or not. Dramatic chipmunk is a bloody guinea pig, or maybe a prairie dog, but he looks like he’s actually got something up his furry sleeve when you give him a horn cue. Contrive to get the band to play that crescendo as if by coincidence when you enter your next big business reception, and you’ll be noticed. Positively, despite the obvious humor of the situation. We’re conditioned by a lifetime of movies and television to pay attention to people with their own musical cue. Arranging a silence for your theme music to drop into is more difficult, of course, especially if your rivals for your next big promotion decide the trick works, and start employing it themselves, and the trick, like all advertising tricks, becomes over-copied and ignored.

But until then, I think I’ve got a gimmick that will get me in with an editor. Now I just gotta find the right piece, a band that’ll work cheap, and an editor to try it on.

June 20, 2007

Sisyphus

Demoralized today. Having decided to turn this blog from writing exercise to networking tool, I passed the address around to friends, told old friends the site is active again, added the address to sigs and newsgroup IDs. But most of all, I spent a long day looking over blog sites, some good, many bad, most indifferent.

The point was to examine how the interplay of comments worked, and to find sites where I could contribute more than “Great post!” To be loved, be loveable; networking advice tells me to do favors before asking them. Of course, that involves a fair amount of reading the blogs themselves, and the blogosphere is filled with a lot of wasted time, including the readers’. And what’s got me down is the sense that I’m not doing right by mine.

To much of the blogosphere is me, me, me. And, though I work to tie my daily thoughts into a larger picture, it’s hard to touch big issues in meaningful detail day after day. So all too often, I end up talking about me. I’m doing it right now. That makes it awfully hard to break away from the pack. I’m proud of some of my entries, but too many are no better than pages I quit halfway today. They’re boring. I’m boring.

Nobody bats 1.000, of course, not even Thurber and Orwell and Barry, and I’m nowhere near their league, nor will be without an intimidating amount of practice. Probably never will be. Like I said, demoralized.

So.

See you tomorrow?

June 19, 2007

Dynamic Difficulty Adjustment

A conversation about Maxis’s upcoming Spore yesterday made me think harder about a specific design feature it will employ: Dynamic Difficulty Adjustment. DDA is an appealing idea at first blush, but the more I think about it, the less appealing I find it.

The idea is to adjust the difficulty of the game to the player’s skill. A game which is too easy is dull; a game which is too hard is frustrating. Fun lies in a sweet spot between the two. Unfortunately for game designers, that sweet spot is different for different players, with varying degrees of talent and skill.

Enter the concept of dynamic difficulty. Instead of taking a guess at what level of challenge most people will enjoy, possibly getting it wrong, and certainly alienating consumers too far towards either end of the spectrum, designers hope with DDA to adjust the play experience to each individual. As you play, the computer or console tracks your progress. If you take too long on certain levels, miss too many scoring opportunities, or die too often, the next level will be made easier—fewer enemies, perhaps, or stupider ones, or power-ups hidden in more obvious locations, or faster resource production. Conversely, if you’re breezing along, the game raises the difficulty until you have to start pushing yourself a bit. Done right, everyone from 4-year-old with no motor control to pinball wizard gets the thrill of victory against what feels like stiff opposition.

This technique has been around a while, actually. I first noticed it myself in Area 51: after many plays, the first couple minutes became routine, until I suddenly began to face aliens that had never appeared before; the game was adding enemies to speed my inevitable death. If, on the other hand, I screwed up and died early, the game took it easy on me for a while, and aliens that should have been there shooting at me weren’t. Because I am not an arcade junkie, I suppose other games had already employed DDA, and this was the first I’d noticed it.

There’s a difference between arcade games and computer/console games, however, when it comes to DDA. Arcade games set themselves to a level to suck your quarters at maximum efficiency, and DDA works just fine for this. Games you buy at an outlet seek to employ DDA to make your experience as fun as possible, and maybe it works. But I can see a huge pitfall which may be impossible to avoid.

The ideal level of challenge depends not only on a player’s skill, but upon his tolerance for losing once in a while, and the game has no way to measure this. I like to lose occasionally—occasionally!—just to demonstrate that playing well matters, and to feel like the usual victories took skill. Because this is the majority attitude, DDA will tend to aim for this level of difficulty. But not everyone feels that way. My friend Tim enjoys a hard-fought loss, including full nuclear exchanges, in a Civilization game more than a sweeping victory. Other gamers go out and look up cheat codes before they even start the game. Effective DDA will disenfranchise such players as thoroughly as fixed difficulty levels disenfranchise the very skilled or very unskilled. Under DDA, Tim’s opponents would slowly handicap themselves to make sure he wins the arms race, and the cheat code kids will soon find themselves facing so many enemies that immunity to bullets only makes fights eternal, rather than guaranteeing victory. In this way, DDA fails to serve its purpose of matching everyone’s play style.

Less dramatic than winning and losing, but possibly more important to overall game enjoyment, is the question of the difficulty of moment-to-moment play. Play improves with increased attention and effort, but we are, after all, talking about games. Some players want deep involvement, others just to goof around, and the game has no way to measure this, either. Suppose, for example, that you’re playing a Space Invaders-style shooting game, and doing fairly well. So the game ramps up the difficulty. You can still handle the new difficulty, but you have to pay close attention, maybe pause the game occasionally, and push your thumbs harder than you like. You’re still winning, but the play is no longer so fun. In theory, you could commit suicide to tell the game to ease up, but few players will have the willpower to do that. 4X players experience a similar phenomenon in automated functions. 4X games often offer to automate certain tedious tasks, like laying roads or fighting tactical battles, but because the automated functions are inferior to an intelligent person, the player feels compelled to perform the tedious task himself, in order to preserve a possibly vital advantage. DDA merely shifts the design question from “How hard should this be?” to “How much focus should this require?”

In a similar vein, DDA takes some of the fun out of experimentation. A well-designed strategy game has room for several distinct and viable strategies. Sampling these, and figuring out how to make each work well, and discovering which works best is fun. It is also fun to invent oddball strategies and see whether they have merit or fail spectacularly. But if the game adjusts its own difficulty while the player explores them, he has no way to judge which strategies work because they are sound and which ones work only because of the built-in handicap. Traditionally, a player wanting to fool around with oddball strategies could set the difficulty levels himself at the start of the game, choosing an appropriate handicap; DDA denies this control.

To cite a specific example, and to return to Spore, Maxis favors games like the Sims and SimEarth which are about exploring the game itself, seeing what it can do, and not about victory of one kind or another. They do very well with the segment of gamers who like to explore. Gamers as a whole, however, are a goal-oriented bunch, and often pooh-pooh Maxis games because they are too easy to win. This is unavoidable; if players are to be encouraged to pursue lots of interesting new ideas, they can’t be made to lose every time they do. The core of Maxis fans will want to see what happens if their creatures grow too many legs, or if they deliberately hunt dangerous beasts, or if they pick a fight with a technologically advanced species, and must be allowed to pick up the pieces and continue when these actions don’t work so well. Players who stick to optimal strategies, obviously, perform much better against some scale of progress.

I believe Spore embraces DDA in an attempt to reach both audiences, but expect it will fail. DDA aims largely to ramp up environmental resistance to players seeking to reach interstellar empires as efficiently as possible, so that such players can feel they’re beating meaningful opponents, or overcoming significant environmental obstacles. Done well, this can work, but only at the expense of making every play of the game equally effective. Players who like to win will rapidly discover they reach the same endpoint in the same amount of time no matter what they do, and will grow bored almost as soon as they would with a fixed difficulty set too low. Done poorly, Maxis will turn out another SimEarth or SimAnt, both of which could be won without a single mouse click. These games played themselves, and, while the player was welcome to participate, he wasn’t necessary, or even particularly helpful.

Almost all of us like to win, almost all the time. We like the illusion of a challenge, but not, generally, a true challenge. Although hard-core players insist on the importance of an objective challenge, and sneer at sissies who play at “medium” difficulty or dislike PvP, this is because the hardcore players can easily master harder tasks. Typically, those same players quietly alter the difficulty of games they aren’t so good at, or, more often, won’t play those games at all. DDA cunningly aims to satisfy what we really want, and not what we pretend we want. Skillfully aimed, DDA can give just the right amount of resistance to player victory to give most of us a fun time. But I don’t think it can give any more of us any more fun than a skillfully aimed fixed difficulty level.

June 18, 2007

Day Watch review

With Day Watch (Dnevnoy Dozor) , Timur Bekmambetov returns to the showdown between wizards, shapechangers, and vampires fought beneath the noses of an oblivious Muscovite public over whether these supernatural entities should protect or exploit ordinary humanity. For a thousand years or so, a tense and fragile truce has stood between these evenly-matched forces, but the stand-off is about to break down with the appearance of two beings of extraordinary power, one on each side. Power is not the same as cunning, however, and agents of the Light and Dark still seek to outmaneuver one another. Zavulon, local leader of the Dark Ones, calculates that his side has finally achieved a decisive advantage, and urges war forward; Geser, who leads the Light Ones, hopes to prevent it, without violating the terms of the truce. The movie retains Anton, unenthusiastic agent of the Light, from the earlier Night Watch as its protagonist, instead of telling a story from the point of view of a Dark One. Not entirely by coincidence, the great new forces to threaten the balance of power are Anton’s partner and hopeful girlfriend, Svetlana, and Anton’s estranged son, Yegor, who fight not only for their faction, but over Anton’s affection.

Complicating the likely eruption of war is the Chalk of Fate, an ancient relic with the power to rewrite history. As the Light and Dark dance around the finer legalities of the truce, individuals on either side seek this handy little dues ex machina for their own use, while blaming one another for ruined lives.

Day Watch retains much of what made Night Watch a success: tight, dark camerawork matched to wild action sequences, including a memorable drive across the face of a hotel and a holocaust wrought by a toy akin to a yo-yo. Like its predecessor, Day Watch only hints at a rich mythology behind the story and characters, which can be enticing or wearisome, depending on your tastes. Unfortunately, Day Watch also fails to bring anything new to the formula, revealing how much the earlier film depended on the thrill of novelty—novelty of the ground rules for the conflict, novelty of the implied background, and novelty of the Russian aesthetic.

Although he still faces great challenges in the second movie, Anton is past his trial by fire. He is a seasoned operative, knows his way around the occult underground, and knows the tricks of the trade. The story line, while simpler, is still often confusing and contradictory, so the movie is hurt by the loss of identification with a protagonist just as confused as the audience. Day Watch works so hard to highlight the moral ambiguities of the Light/Dark division that the viewer loses the sense that he should be rooting for either side. Incongruously comic moments further jar the sense of involvement. Instead of feeling like I was missing important details, as I did for Night Watch, I found myself convinced that Night Watch had nothing beneath the sound and fury.

The Night Watch series plays much like a low-budget version of The Matrix: striking action visuals, engagingly over-the-top characters, and above all the unfulfilled implication of a rich setting. Like The Matrix, the second film is a disappointing rehash of elements from the original, without the unidentifiable spark that made the original work. A third film, Dusk Watch, is in the works; pray it does not suffer the fate of Revolutions.

June 15, 2007

To Thine Own Self Be True

I’d like to return briefly to the zombie theme I touched yesterday. I was a little disappointed in myself for being unable to participate in any way but denying the premise. But, once past the project, and no longer afraid that reading other entries would somehow prejudice my own, I went and read some of them, and felt a lot better, for several reasons.

First, a significant portion of the participants didn’t participate at all. Apparently, they signed up, but didn’t deliver. One particularly inactive fellow hadn’t posted a blog entry since last November. Compared to that admittedly low bar, I did quite well. Doubly so if I get credit for involvement in a project I didn’t learn about until it was almost over.

Second, most of the participating zombie blogs were really boring. The first few that I read, ignoring the no-shows, were dirt-standard refrains of how the writers were holed up in some corner, maybe with a bit of food, running out of ammunition, and worrying about the increasingly painful bite mark. So were the next few. And the next few after that. There was no variation at all in language or tone, and hardly any in details of content. The nitpicker in me began to wonder how nearly every poster had acquired a gun of some kind. Sure, bloggers from West Bumble, Nebraska, could easily have a gun rack in their house, or car, but what about the bloggers from New York City, and similar havens of gun control advocacy? People weren’t so much writing their zombie experience as inserting themselves into somebody else’s well-documented zombie experience. An honorable mention for originality of tone goes to the entry which read only, “ohgoddon’tturnoffthelightdon’tturnoffthelightdon’tturnoffthelightdon’ttu” (or close enough). Still, I couldn’t help wondering who would have the presence of mind to blog, but not to punctuate. Maybe her space key had broken off as she gave a zombie a quick blow to the temple with her laptop. But the clichés were merely dull; it was harder to take the blogs that didn’t simply recreate Dawn of the Dead, and sought to add themselves in a personal way, because…

Third, those who did sounded pretty silly. The blogosphere is heavily populated by educated liberals, and gosh darn if, in the middle of a zombie crisis, several posters didn’t pause to find reasons to criticize Bush. A large portion of our National Guard may be off in Iraq, but we’ve still got a large portion of them here, with arms; if the remainder couldn’t stop a zombie outbreak, I doubt any number could. One fellow even implied that the whole zombie thing had somehow started in Iraq, though he did not go into details about the causal connection between invading Iraq and causing the living dead to rise from American graves.

Still, these last went far towards making me feel better about my own effort. They were following the accepted maxim: “Write what you know,” and they may not know zombies, but they know they hate Bush. And devoted bloggers do blog by reflex. Given twenty minutes to rest between dashes for safety, I suppose many of them would sit down and blog, instead of staying focused on getting to safety. To thine own self be true. It was in that vein that I failed to write my own zombie story; I don’t know zombies, but I know I go coldly logical in a crisis, cold enough not to waste time sharing my unstructured feelings (“oh god oh god oh god”) with the general world. And I definitely wouldn’t stop thinking lots of activities are stupid just because the end of the world was at hand.

June 14, 2007

What's My Motivation?

Yesterday, a segment of the blogging community decided to blog as though writing under zombie attack. It’s an interesting exercise. I didn’t participate, largely because I didn’t find out about it until after I’d written my own, less inspired entry for the day. But it sounded like fun, and I considered doing a second entry that day, just a quickie. But I had another commitment last evening, and by the time it was over, I went right to sleep.

Nothing truly lost, though, right? Nobody is depending on my timely expression of the zombie experience, so I began this entry as a day-late report of the zombies outside our own window.

I never got past the first paragraph. Why not? I couldn’t envision a scenario that made any sense. No, not the question of what animates the zombies—the nonsensicality of brain-devouring walking dead is a given. I’m talking about the nonsensicality of stopping to chronicle it from the figurative front lines.

Picture this scene: Something has gone terribly wrong in the cemetery up on Mt. Hebron Road. The streets are littered with shambling corpses breaking into my neighbors’ houses and devouring their vital organs. Sometimes, an alert resident, with a proper education in B-movie natural law, takes out a few zombies with a bullet or blow to the head, but most people panic, the zombies are tireless, and every loser joins the other side, so Upper Montclair is slowly being overwhelmed. Somehow, I’ve become aware of this. Honestly, I’d more likely be one of the first victims. My first awareness of zombie attack would come with my front door breaking in, at which point, it would be too late even to grab a suitable weapon, and my participation in the zombie attack would consist of at expletive followed by munching noises. But, for the sake of argument, imagine this is one of the few nights I spend some time looking out the window. I haven’t watched a lot of B movies, but I know the basic rules of zombie engagement, and I realize what’s up. Zombie attacks can sweep the world, in which case we’re all doomed, or they can be local outbreaks that can be contained by swift military action, in which case the only hope is a level-headed escape to armed authorities, and the only way to find out which kind of outbreak we’ve got is to get moving. I need to grab Eileene and anyone else still among the living, collect as many weapons as we can capable of causing massive head trauma, locate the nearest National Guard base, commandeer sufficient large vehicles to carry us all and plow through zombies on the roads, and go.

Nowhere on that list of things to do is the statement, “Wait. All that’s important, but first I need to put up a blog entry about this.” No, not even the situation is clearly hopeless; that would mean nobody is going to be left to read the damn thing. I’d rather spend my last few minutes on earth trying to phone loved ones, then polishing off the ice cream in the freezer. If I’ve somehow become aware that this is a purely local outbreak, but decide that I’m doomed anyway, I might experience a certain sense of civic duty, and I’d spend my last minutes trying to work out how to die in such a way that my head is already staved in, so I can’t become a zombie threat to anyone else. Capturing the experience in text would be a rather arduous and entirely pointless way to go.

Knowing this makes writing as though I were in a zombie attack impossible. “What’s my motivation?” is so clichéd that it’s the punchline to innumerable actors’ jokes, but it got clichéd because it’s important. Believable characters must have believable motives. The rule applies to good fiction, too. (And, incidentally, to good role-playing, which is how I came by it.) After three abortive attempts this afternoon, I still don’t know what my imaginary report on the zombie attack would have to say. But do I know that, whatever it is, it would sound stupid, because I would never, ever say it in an actual zombie attack.

June 13, 2007

It Makes a Fellow Proud to be a Soldier

With much tittering, stories of some half-baked proposals for research into inventive new non-lethal weapons are circulating about the internet and the kind of news services that titter about the news. Among the proposals are identifying combatants that melt into the civilian populace by spraying them with a chemical that gives them lasting bad breath and another chemical to induce stinging insects to attack the target.

The proposal getting all the attention, however, is a proposed chemical to turn soldiers gay. It’s not the first time the military has come up with some really stupid ideas, but this is just so stupid on so many levels that it’s hard to imagine anyone seriously suggesting it in the first place. Wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall when the guy who thought it up made his proposal?

“Now, see, it has long been scientific’ly proven that homo-asectialty is a preversion. And it stands to reason your basic prevert can’t control his sectial urges, otherwise he wouldn’t be a prevert, right? So the moment a homo-asectial is in a foxhole next to another man, he’ll immediately throw aside his weapon, even if he’s getting shot at at the time, and start trying to grope the other man, distracting him and effectively taking two soldiers out of the fight at once, which is why we in the army have long maintained a zero-tolerance policy of making sure none of them homo-asectials get in.

“Besides which, even when he is alone, a homo-asectial is a poor fighter on account of anti-masculine brain chemicals that make him less aggressive in combat.

“Now it has also been scientific’ly proven that homo-asectialty is caused by a imbalance in the brain chemicals. So if we can find the right chemical to turn the enemy into a homo-asectial, we can spray it over his side of the battlefield, thus simultaneously decreasing enemy combat capacity, undermining enemy morale, and incident’ly making sure there won’t be no next generation of terrorist hostiles to worry about.”

I’m certain it didn’t go quite like that, but I’m not so certain that the internal dialogue of the guy who thought of it wasn’t pretty similar, even if it wasn’t quite so verbally explicit. (Explicit reasoning and really whacko thinking are not, strictly, mutually exclusive, but they rarely walk arm-in-arm.)

Even more than the proposal, however, I’d like to know whether anyone thought about the possibilities of a gay-bomb arms race, and what that would mean for the U.S. military, which seems to fear homosexuality more than any enemy military force. Once the technology got out, whole stretches of our own army would be one quick chemical bomb away from being rendered wholly ineffective; our generals could never trust them to fight again, and the soldiers would be overwhelmed with self-loathing in any case, shooting themselves if they’re not too busy feeling up the next soldier. Treatment would be impossible, of course, thanks to “don’t ask, don’t tell.” If a gay-bomb could ever work, we’d be screwed. Better just to keep our mouths shut on the subject.

(…than to open them and remove all doubt.)

With much tittering, stories of some half-baked proposals for research into inventive new non-lethal weapons are circulating about the internet and the kind of news services that titter about the news. Among the proposals are identifying combatants that melt into the civilian populace by spraying them with a chemical that gives them lasting bad breath and another chemical to induce stinging insects to attack the target.

The proposal getting all the attention, however, is a proposed chemical to turn soldiers gay. It’s not the first time the military has come up with some really stupid ideas, but this is just so stupid on so many levels that it’s hard to imagine anyone seriously suggesting it in the first place. Wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall when the guy who thought it up made his proposal?

“Now, see, it has long been scientific’ly proven that homo-asectialty is a preversion. And it stands to reason your basic prevert can’t control his sectial urges, otherwise he wouldn’t be a prevert, right? So the moment a homo-asectial is in a foxhole next to another man, he’ll immediately throw aside his weapon, even if he’s getting shot at at the time, and start trying to grope the other man, distracting him and effectively taking two soldiers out of the fight at once, which is why we in the army have long maintained a zero-tolerance policy of making sure none of them homo-asectials get in.

“Besides which, even when he is alone, a homo-asectial is a poor fighter on account of anti-masculine brain chemicals that make him less aggressive in combat.

“Now it has also been scientific’ly proven that homo-asectialty is caused by a imbalance in the brain chemicals. So if we can find the right chemical to turn the enemy into a homo-asectial, we can spray it over his side of the battlefield, thus simultaneously decreasing enemy combat capacity, undermining enemy morale, and incident’ly making sure there won’t be no next generation of terrorist hostiles to worry about.”

I’m certain it didn’t go quite like that, but I’m not so certain that the internal dialogue of the guy who thought of it wasn’t pretty similar, even if it wasn’t quite so verbally explicit. (Explicit reasoning and really whacko thinking are not, strictly, mutually exclusive, but they rarely walk arm-in-arm.)

Even more than the proposal, however, I’d like to know whether anyone thought about the possibilities of a gay-bomb arms race, and what that would mean for the U.S. military, which seems to fear homosexuality more than any enemy military force. Once the technology got out, whole stretches of our own army would be one quick chemical bomb away from being rendered wholly ineffective; our generals could never trust them to fight again, and the soldiers would be overwhelmed with self-loathing in any case, shooting themselves if they’re not too busy feeling up the next soldier. Treatment would be impossible, of course, thanks to “don’t ask, don’t tell.” If a gay-bomb could ever work, we’d be screwed, so to speak. Better just to keep our mouths shut on the subject.

(…than to open them and remove all doubt.)

June 12, 2007

Between Trilobite and Carrier Pigeon

Last night, Eileene fell asleep early on the couch, so I entertained myself surfing the internet, and stumbled across the interactive fiction archive. This is a collection of largely amateur imitations of the old text adventures like Zork, or, more often, adaptations of the basic format to a narrative. While I had some fun with them, the results were also worrying. I’ll get to that in a bit.

The format of old school text adventures was dead simple to implement, and perfect for the dawn of the age of the personal computer, when 64k of RAM was considered ample. The game comprised a list of rooms, a list of which directions out of each room went where, a set of objects and their locations, a set of flags for what state certain objects were in, and a remarkably sophisticated parser. You could travel from room to room, and the computer would describe the room you were in, then list all the objects in that room. The objects acted as obstacles or tools for overcoming those obstacles, which you controlled with verb-object commands: “eat the muffin,” “jump,” or “throw the magic coconut at the steam release valve.” The computer would reset the flags accordingly—noting you’d recently eaten and sending the muffin out of the game by moving it to an inaccessible room, or moving you to the room labeled “bottom of the cliff,” or simply replying that the coconut bounces off the valve and nothing else. If you were clever, you could reach the end goal and win. The whole thing took virtually no memory, but, done right, could entertain for weeks.

Alas, text adventures did not survive the exponential growth of computing power, and the whiz-bang graphics and the instant gratification of real-time play that came with it, though one can trace the influence of text adventures through titles like Myst and World of Warcraft. Happily, text adventures are easy enough to implement that any dedicated amateur can make one. A talented amateur can even make a good one, and a handful of devoted artists use internet archives to keep the genre alive.

Alive, perhaps, but on life support. The list of games is short, about ten or twenty a year, too few to justify the half dozen annual awards. I also see a strong trend away from game or puzzle value, and towards experimental narrative that threaten to save the patient by killing it. The more recent the title, the more likely it is to simply encourage the player to wander from room to room, reading back story without solving any puzzles, or to be minimalist ironic statements, or simply to be too weird to understand. I won’t go so far as to say the genre is dead, but it looks like the devotees are running out of ideas, first for the basic zork-style approach, and increasingly even for experimental games.

That’s sad enough. I enjoyed several text adventures, as I later enjoyed their graphic descendants like Monkey Island, and I miss them. But as I was pitying the die-hard text adventure fans, I began to see an analogy to tabletop role-playing, which hits closer to home. Dungeons & Dragons hit the market, followed by a flurry of imitators, and quickly drained the hack-n-slash genre dry. A second wave took the game out of the dungeon-crawl and into every possible milieu: space, superhero, cartoon. A third wave of story-driven games followed, exploring RPGs as an art, and demonstrating what RPGs could be.

And now…? It’s hard to find any new products at all on the shelves other than d20 (D&D’s latest face-lift), and World of Darkness (built on Vampire), and even these become rarer and more repetitive. The business model depends heavily on getting players to buy rules revisions instead of creative settings, and jaded players aren’t really biting. Even the encyclopedic GURPS hasn’t come out with an interesting and original world book in years. To find something new, you need to dig around the internet, where you can find homemade games. With minimalist systems. And a high proportion of self-satire. And occasionally really, really weird premises. While the nerd demographic upon which RPGs used to draw are increasingly pulled into computer games instead, with their whiz-bang graphics and instant gratification.

June 11, 2007

Better Living Through Sin

Stan, my future brother-in-law, surprises me with his complete disinterest in decent eating. My sister-in-law is dismayed by his “whatever you want” responses to her questions whether he would, for example, prefer pork chops or salmon croquettes for dinner. Worse, he’s just as likely to decide to eat an entire bag of goldfish crackers instead. (She does not exaggerate. I’ve seen his eating habits when she isn’t around.) Eileene and I are foodies—she more than I—and it just seems weird to want crackers more than actual food on a regular basis.

Which got me thinking about the prominence of foodies today. My perception may be slightly exaggerated by moving to the orbit NYC, ethnic food capital of the world, and by living in a relatively wealthy suburb that can support a couple of Whole Foods and several decent restaurants of its own, but I know the trend towards more interest in good eating is a national phenomenon. The Food Network is one of the most popular channels now (although, distressingly, one study holds that a large segment of its audience watches the programs instead of eating well, preferring the vicarious experience to actually duplicating the recipes or trying out the featured restaurants). Specialized food magazine like Gourmet, Cooking Light, and Cooks Illustrated have replacing the food sections of ladies’ magazines, and the recipes pay less attention to budgets and convenience, and more on how the results actually taste. Locally-grown produce is pushing itself, disingenuously, as environment-friendly, when in fact it does little for the environment, but tastes a lot better.

Food seems to be this decade’s form of hedonism. If the 70s were the peak of the sexual revolution, then the 80s health clubs were obsessed with beauty, and the 90s, with the eruption of internet file-sharing and homemade remixes, were about music. There seems to be a trend here, as each generation picks its vice. But really, how many more decades can we keep this up? The list of basic hedonistic topics is rather short, and cycling every forty or fifty years doesn’t seem very likely either. We live in an era where the past is made retro-fashionable before it’s properly gone out of style, so the generation-defining novelty of lifestyle defined by a single hedonistic pursuit won’t last.

My half-baked prediction: the 2010s will see a huge upsurge of interest in sleeping well. Like lust marketed as love, or vanity marketed as exercise, sloth can be marketed as healthful if it’s packaged as “getting the rest your body needs.” Products of dubious value will crowd the shelves: magazines devoted to mattress designs, new age self-help books on fighting insomnia, and individually-designed sleeping pharmaceuticals. And then…I’m out of ideas.

Wither the 2020s? Envy?

June 8, 2007

Where Have You Gone, Old Los Alamos?

Where did Los Alamos go? We’re planning a trip to the Grand Canyon and surroundings this fall, and there’s large stretches of nothing between the landmarks. This is not surprising. As Sam Kinison observed: “We have deserts in America; we just don’t live in ‘em!” Deserts can certainly be pretty, but they’re not known for supporting large populations. Most of what’s out there to see, then, is natural geography, sparse but curious plant life, and the stars, which are fast becoming no more than rumor here in New Jersey.

There are exceptions, however: Hoover Dam has to be out there because that’s where the Colorado river is. Various mining towns appeared and vanished with the ore, leaving behind a few museums to the gold rush. And Los Alamos is out there precisely because it’s so far from anything else.

(Curiously, isolation was considered important primarily for security reasons, and not to protect people from radiation. Deep in the interior, it was safe from the prying eyes of spy planes. Far from outside populations, it was easy to police for nosy neighbors, and to track the residents’ movements, though Klaus Fuchs managed his work. Out in the desert, it had few distractions for a team of heavy-hitting physicists who were supposed to be working as hard as humanly possible. Irradiating people was fine; as late as the 1950s, Las Vegas was promoting itself as a site from which visitors could watch atomic bomb tests.)

So on a trip to the desert, it’s fairly easy to catch everything, and I wanted to add Los Alamos to our “to-see” list. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like there’s anything much left of historical Los Alamos; the town that grew up around the atomic bomb program just kept on building, apparently right over the prefab huts, until nothing was left. This is understandable—prefab huts are just an eyesore to the people who actually live there—but regrettable. Eileene and I really enjoyed the war rooms preserved as museums in the basement of Parliament, and a well-preserved Los Alamos could do the same, if it weren’t gone. The town’s tourism bureau places its fine schools at the top of the list of reasons to visit. What tourist wants to see somebody else’s junior high school?

Instead, we’ll be getting our history from Anasazi ruins. They may not be all that well-preserved, either, but at least there’s something there. There’s more to see of American pre-history than from one of the most significant events of our own era.

June 6, 2007

It's My First Time; Be Brutal

I mentioned Kloonigames in my recent item on “The Truth About Game Development,” a very simple but well-executed game of wage slave abuse. Crayon physics, the latest addition to his game-a-week schedule, is the best so far, or would be if it weren’t painfully short. Like TAGD, it employs a simple engine, as you might expect for a game created in a week. Like TAGD, it sells itself on presentation, in this case the appearance of a child’s crayon drawing. You try to manipulate a red circle onto one or more stars by drawing crayon rectangles with your mouse. Both the ball and your rectangles are subject to “gravity,” sliding down ramps and falling off the bottom of the page if there’s nothing to support them. The idea is good, and it deserves more attention, and definitely deserves another twenty screens or more.

I bring it up not to praise the game, but to praise the designer’s attitude to criticism. He invites it, and asks that it be as harsh as possible, on the understanding that praise is nice, but complaint is the route to improvement.

I’ve never understood people who ask for criticism followed in the same breath by a request to be gentle—“it’s my first attempt.” If this is your first novel, or your first home-made game map, or your first creative enterprise of any kind, it won’t be good. Okay? It’s going to suck. Depending on your level of talent, it might suck just a little bit, or it might suck a whole lot, but it will suck. That doesn’t make you a bad person, it makes you human.

The guy who spares your feelings by pretending your first attempt is great is not your friend; neither is the guy who says it’s great because he doesn’t know the difference. Your friend is the guy who sits down with his blue pencil and marks it all up; if he’s very generous, he’ll offer thorough explanations of why he marked things up. Then you can fix the problems, and produce something much better. With luck, you’ll learn a big lesson of the “Wow! That never would have occurred to me!” variety.

My writer’s group meets several times a week, on different days. I only attend once. This is not for want of time, but because the different sessions have different members, and very different characters. The Tuesday morning sessions are more support group than writer’s group, where everyone reassures one another that we’re all good people, with really good ideas, and…er…very neat typing. I’m happier with the Thursday evening group, one that will savage mistakes if need be.

“Murder your darlings,” goes one bit of writing advice; eliminate the cute turns of phrase of which you are too proud. A friend who can wield the bloody, blue pencil for you makes it a lot easier.

June 5, 2007

Moderates? In the Mideast?

The 40th anniversary of the first Arab-Israeli War (the Six-Day War) has NPR and the BBC, at least, airing retrospectives. When these retrospectives first started, I rolled my eyes, prepared for a long sequence of partisan harangues. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to hear a lot of considered judgment. Where the news services found Arabs willing to blame the various Arab states for creating in Israel a siege mentality, and Israelis willing to call a continuing siege mentality madness, I don’t know, but it was a pleasant and striking change of pace.

I have no real way to know how representative such voices of moderation are. We don’t hear them much on the news, but that might be due to the way news services seek the sensational. Dialogue doesn’t sell as well as invective. Certainly moderates aren’t well represented in the upper echelons of mideast governments, but all too many governments (cough) got where they are by embracing a vocal wing of the electorate. The general public may be a little less ideologically committed.

Hearing nonpartisans speak in the retrospectives gives me hope that my intuition is more than wishful thinking. Frankly, I think the bulk of Israelis, Palestinians, and Palestinian sympathizers throughout the region really would prefer everyone just to stop provoking one another, and that most people on all sides of the conflict have more in common with each other than with the fire-eaters on their own respective sides. For that matter, those who would like to polarize the conflict further have a lot more in common than they would ever admit.

If so, my belief offers hope for a much broader peace, although only a slim one. Champions of Israeli security will never be able to stamp out the murderous bastards of the Intifada; they’re too dug in, too hard to distinguish from the general Arab populace. Attempting to stamp them out breeds resentment as the methods hurt the innocent, as well, creating more resistance than it eliminates. Likewise, the revolutionaries will never be able to sweep Israel into the sea; the more vicious terrorist acts become, the firmer Israeli national unity grows, and the easier it is for land-grabbing nationalist bastards to push through programs to “pacify” territory by annexing it. The only path to peace is for the moderates on both sides to police themselves, and throw the bastards out, for Palestine to jail and execute its terrorists, and for Israel to hold its own officers accountable for war crimes, and to vote out the hard-liners.

That, of course, is only possible if the decent folk do indeed outnumber the bastards, and by a large margin, because the hard-liners are, inevitably, entrenched in the military organizations. They’ve got the guns, and have proven themselves more willing to kill a few civilians to keep tensions high than to allow serious questions about the use of force. So I hope the moderates outnumber the hard-line bastards by a lot, or find a way to get to that point, and that they find the extraordinary courage necessary to undermine the very people most needed to protect the moderates when tensions flare again, and to be willing to do it unilaterally, if need be.

Not many people have that kind of guts. I know I don’t. But it’s the only way out.

June 4, 2007

Non Game Shows

Somewhere, years ago, I heard second-hand a stand-up comedy routine about Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, and specifically the quality of contestants you see on each show. Jeopardy! relies on educated professionals: lawyers, engineers, doctors, journalists, and plenty of teachers. Wheel of Fortune contestants bounce and shout, “Big money! Big money!” The challenge of the questions, for contestants and home viewers alike, is scaled to match; Jeopardy! is big on geography, history, vocabulary, and of course the Academy Awards. (If we are to measure human achievement by trivia contests, fully 10% of our existence is to make the Oscars possible.) The Wheel of Fortune sticks strictly to the lowest common denominator of human experience: household items, well-worn clichés, and headline names.

But still the contestants manage to miss the answers: “A stitch in time sounds fine?” Awwww…. You have to be a special brand of stupid to by the third player in a row to ask for an L. If there weren’t any L’s available for the last two guesses, they won’t appear magically for a third try. I still chuckle when I think about Family Feud: one player, asked to name a bird you see in springtime, offered “Squirrel.”

Everyone likes a winner, including the folks who supply the purse. Denying the viewers the vicarious thrill of victory is bad for business. So what do you do when the common man can’t measure up to even simple challenges? You remove them entirely.

I thought the show Deal or No Deal would be unique in its revamp of the old Let’s Make a Deal. You give the contestants a series of choices: take what’s hidden in box A, or what’s in box B? It’s impossible for contestants to shoot themselves in the foot. Yes, there are right choices and wrong choices, but there’s no way at all to distinguish them ahead of time. No matter how stupid the contestant, he can’t make a stupid choice; either way, it’s a blind guess. And the game is rigged, too: the contestants make a sequence of choices. This is treated as a way to squeeze out maximum drama, but in fact it lets the director tweak the odds. Too many players losing? (Or winning, for that matter?) Just let them keep choosing until they get to a better result.

Like I say, I thought this game show would be unique, because there’s no game to the show. The market for the vicarious thrill of pointless challenges, I figured, couldn’t be that big. Never underestimate the lowest common denominator. Apparently, Deal or No Deal is doing just fine, because I’m seeing ads for new game shows similarly designed. Gone are the game shows of my youth, where you actually had to know something to win, or show some tactical sense. Now we’ve got Jeopardy! and a half dozen games of “flip a coin,” with each non-choice accompanied by dramatic music, because that’s the only drama they have to offer.

I’d trade them for what I could get behind door number three, but I fear it would somehow involve Paris Hilton.

June 1, 2007

Plain, Spicy, or...Hey, That's New!

I spent a huge block of time today watching lectures delivered at the Technology, Entertainment, and Design (TED) conference, available online at ted.com. Some of the lectures are dull, others fascinating, fascinating enough to keep me from doing the dishes yet today. Many lectures offer proposals built upon dubious leaps of reasoning.

The most interesting I’ve seen so far is a history on one man’s effect on the entire market, stemming from a Diet Pepsi marketing contract. Harold Moskowitz’s great discovery was that, instead of a single norm for people’s taste in diet cola, people clustered in several distinct regions of preference. Eventually, Moskowitz took this insight to a huge success for Prego, which was then losing a market battle with Ragu as they competed for market share by trying to match the average taste in spaghetti sauce—an average taste that did not, in fact, exist. Armed with the discovery that consumers divided into three distinct camps (plain, spicy, chunky), Prego soared into market dominance with three different Prego flavors. The discovery was all the more significant because consumers never asked for chunky sauce; they hadn’t even considered that possible variation.

The principle that there is no single, ideal version of a consumer product, but rather several ideal versions for several distinct tastes was a radical idea at the time. For years between the Pepsi contract and Prego’s success, Moskowitz had a hard time selling his notion that there is no perfect pickle, but various perfect pickles; no perfect diet soda, but various perfect diet sodas. The idea took a surprisingly long time to take root; manufacturers persisted in learning the wrong lessons from successful introductions of new products.

This strikes me as terribly odd, because “at the time” was the ‘70s and early ‘80s—after my birth. Only dimly do I recall a time when Kraft had only one flavor of barbecue sauce, or Kleenex one color of tissue, though I can indeed recall it dimly. So saturated are our stores with variety today that it seems inconceivable that people wouldn’t realize shoppers had different tastes, certainly inconceivable for marketing teams whose very job it is to identify and target tastes. And I know full well marketing departments have been around longer than thirty-five years.

Before today, I had no idea that I owe all this freedom of choice to one person, or that his idea should have required a one-man crusade. Now that I do, I’m deeply grateful.