Disco Elysium was an awe-inspiring writing challenge. Meaning: I was afraid of it. Pretty much every night I went to sleep. What if it doesn’t come together? What if we prove the opposite of what we set out to prove: this kind of game can’t be made - it’s not fun. Or, what if it works - but we just can’t get the bugs and logic errors out of the text? “it was an interesting idea,” they’ll say (I hate interesting ideas) “but sadly a clanky mess of Eastern European jank-ware.”
Head bowed in shame, the lowly Eastern European jank-master walks down the street. His quests are unfinishable. There are logical inconsistencies. His Journal system doesn’t work. We came very close to that last one, by the way. We designed a terrible journal system that needed a complete overhaul one year before release. This caused considerable rewrites.
“Considerable rewrites” - words no game producer likes to hear.
没有任何一个游戏创作者想听到*大量的重写*这个词。
Some numbers: The original release of Disco Elysium was 1,000,000 words long. It took us five years to write. Quite a few RPGs have scripts above a million words and they take two, maybe three years to complete. Why, then, did it take us five to write Disco Elysium (plus one more for The Final Cut)?
It’s because of the rewrites. About 70% of the game is a rewrite. About 50% is a rewrite of a rewrite. There are large portions of the game that are triple-distilled, quadruple-distilled, or even quintuple-distilled. (Rewrite of a rewrite of a rewrite of a rewrite of a rewrite...). You’d think this results in a perfect, polished script, but large parts of Disco Elysium are bloodied and rough around the edges. We didn’t lick one version of the text endlessly, we analyzed why it didn’t work and then wrote an entirely new one. Entire scenes and versions of characters were cast aside. Some were rewritten four months before release, spring 2019 There wasn’t time to polish, we just wanted each character and scene not to completely suck.
“Make it so that it doesn’t suck” was an oft-used instruction.
“再想想办法让这里别这么胡逼。”是我当时最常下达的指示。
This constant rewriting is not how it’s usually done. It doesn’t make for a smooth production. Large parts of the company have no idea what the writers are doing. It seems they’ve lost their minds. I hear Argo is rewriting Rene. Again!
What it does make for are scenes and characters that are true. You fight to get to the true version of Rene. What he’d actually say. What he’d feel. We tend to think of our characters as real people. They have real dignity we need to look after. Real hearts we need to get across to the player.
Another unusual part of Elysium’s writing is the micro-reactivity. We did some spooky things with reactivity is this game, which required devilishly intricate writing. We decided every playthrough should include some examples of what we call “mind reading” - moments where you feel like a real Game Master is reacting to your choices. Especially the small ones. Micro-reactivity is the game reacting to a minor choice you made long ago. For example: you have the gardening gloves from Elizabeth the Gardener, and now, many hours later, in the middle of a completely unrelated quest, you’re considering what hobby to take on. Kim should say: “Why not gardening?”
This is cross-quest micro-reactivity and developers who aren’t brain damaged don’t have it in their games. Those moments are a doubled-edged sword. The player starts noticing when it’s not happening. Why doesn’t this guy react like that guy did? Why can’t I do this because I did that? Suddenly your whole RPG is one giant logic error that can only be corrected with endless writing. We had to write a mad amount of small content that few players will see - a big no-no in any kind of capitalist endeavor. You want to convert budget into customer enjoyment. That is: the enjoyment of the median customer, not the outlier who wants to talk about Contact Mike at the “appropriate” time.
Rewrites and micro-reactivity are why it took us over half a decade to write Disco Elysium. Also, we did it in a program called Articy that’s slow as hell. Our monstrous, quadruple-distilled clusters of micro-reactivity were crashing the program. We still love Articy, though It’s so indelibly green. A green garden of cute little looping arrows - that’s what our minds became for half a decade. However bad it got in production, there was always something so nice about that green garden of visual programming nodes. The promise it represented, this sprawling Alhambra pattern that was becoming our lives’ work.
“They’re gonna f-n love it!” We were also quite sure of ourselves, I remember. And each other too. Writers are quite wonderful. They really care about people. They take responsibility for what happens in a stranger’s mind when it reacts to text. They care about the feelings that are summoned. Don’t let anyone tell you writers are self-centered assholes. Isaw so many of them work so selflessly to elicit a single giggle out of a stranger huddled over a laptop screen at 3 a.m. It was never about ego, it was all about You. That abstract unknown entity Disco Elysium is constantly addressing. You see this. You do that. We hope You are delighted.
In case you’re a writer yourself - I wanna close this off by saying something strange and megalomaniacal. (Megalomania is what happens when you’re starved for success for 35 years.) I think the cycle of novels - The Rougon-Macquarts, The Lord of the Rings - is no longer the biggest writing challenge out there for a writer. I think that’s now the Role-Playing Game. The colossal word count, the immense intricacy, the co-writing challenge - incorporating ten writers’ voices into a single text - is just so much larger than a cycle of novels. It’s harder to accomplish. And the payoff is greater. Strangers at night behind blue screens will be grateful to you - and there are many of them.
Games spread like wildfire over the world, in a way novels never can. They cross national borders, languages, ideologies, age cohorts - in a matter of months. They change minds. They make minds. They’re so new it’s almost impossible not to innovate in them. In short, dear beleaguered colleague, consider dropping book-writing for game-writing. It’s worth it.
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