First of all, the opening demonstrates the overlap of content areas with game design. One of my problems before coming into this program, was I had no vision of myself in a single content speciality area. I had two majors and for all I cared could have ten more and be extremely satisfied. I enjoy the process of learning and the act of using knowledge. After reading this chapter, I saw this once personality flaw something of great value to a game designer. This appealed to me and kept me reading.
The abrupt discussion of doubts, too, encouraged me. I whole-heartedly admit, that the reason I did not pursue studies of animation in college was a great deal of self doubt about any design talent others saw in me. I chose fields that I had been measured in a way I deemed quantitative where I could prove success, even when I lacked confidence in myself. To see that “The Imposter Syndrome” is a large part of being a designer was soothing. Of course, Schell's words to “blow away” those thoughts also stuck. In middle school, I received private horn lessons with my band instructor. I always played so quiet because I was afraid to make a mistake. One day she told me, “If you are going to make a mistake, make it a gosh-darned big one.” I've since attempted to think big enough, act big enough, invent big enough that if I fall, the fall itself is rather impressive. This is much more fun than tripping over the sidewalk. When I am successful, it also means I've accomplished something, rather than tiptoeing around without being noticed.
This leads to the idea of designing an experience. I enjoy designing experiences—almost as much if not more than I enjoy having experiences. Until reading this book, it had not occurred to me that the act of designing an experience is a significant portion of game design. Antonisse and Bouchard's presentation at Meaningful Play 2010 gave a great way to get at the heart of experience. Describe a topic … “I want my game to be about ____.” Then, describe the way you want the player to feel. “The player should feel ____.” Experience brings us back to the worlds in games, and is perhaps why since I was somewhere between the age of 5 and 7, I've been obsessed with creating worlds and filling them with memorable characters, histories, and stories. It is a secondary hobby of mine—and I still have a copy of the map of my very first world. One day, I may create it in a way others can enjoy the “essential experience” of the world.
I also like to recreate experiences, which may or may not make me a daydreamer. However, when I taught middle school through Teach for America in a low performing school in New Haven, recreating experiences became a powerful tool. My school organized a Multicultural Day, and I served on that committee both years as a Corps Member. Before teaching, I had spent significant time in undergraduate studies overseas in Japan, either studying or interning. Somehow from that experience and my experience with the members of the PK-8 school, I was able to work with my students to boil down my memories of the country, the people, and the culture that they were proud of, into an essential experience that could be enjoyed by PK-8. By far my most memorable and easy teaching days, as I watched the “world” create itself around the kids. You know you've done your job creating an experience when you can watch the look of wonder spread across a child's face when they step into your classroom. I want to create that look of wonder for a living—it is powerful. Several students who were the biggest help are still in touch with me, still interested in Japanese culture, and I've even heard word of some of my most troubled students still using knowledge that came from both the day and the creation of the day.
What did it look like, sound like? You enter through the torii gate. From the ceiling hang kodomo no hi carp banners, in such a manner as maybe there is wind catching them in the classroom. You can hear a shamisen and as you look up through the cherry blossoms, pictures of different places in Japan roll across the projection screen. A girl in a kimono asks you to take off your shoes and enjoy the tea ceremony. You are free to wander as you choose, from origami to calligraphy, then step out into the hallway and remember, “Oh yeah, I'm at school.”
As experiences go, this was a great precursor to game design for me. If everyday at school were like that (or working toward a monthly day like that, as it was collaboration with students), perhaps many more children would be excited to go. However, selling the administrator on it without test scores … Well, it brings us to games as a possibility.
Which leads to, what is a game? I admit, defining a game is a bit distasteful on one level. The double language major in me begs to name, classify, and define, though. I am less enamored with Schell's definition of game I think, than the definition of play: “play is manipulation that indulges curiosity,” and with that definition it is no wonder that both children and ferrets are so skilled at it. Sometimes play makes me think of the idea in Peter Pan of forgetting how to fly. Adults forget how to play, and I think it is most unfortunate. From play arises games and all kinds of new learning. Plus, it is fun (another word obviously too general to be definable—like good, bad, it, thing).
So, perhaps, reflecting on these first chapters, I desire to make games to keep people from forgetting how to fly, and to remind those that have of their wings. It sounds kind of romantic that way, at least, doesn't it?
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