Why would anyone build a secret room no one can access?

Its a night-time cityscape, much like Montreal at night. Only this is a game: a game we are building. Slumbering birds are affected by the colour and intensity of nearby streetlights. If the conditions make them uncomfortable enough, they will leave—alternatively, they may just build a nest, hang their hats, stay awhile.

Birds have preferences related to this one focal point of the game: street lights. But how far do these lights extend? What do their halos touch? The edge of a tired dog-walker's feet? The shell of an abandoned egg? The cornea of a crow just now awoken by the nightmare scream of a bee? Or a sleeping child's first mile of hair, lightly tangled on the surface of their quiet pillowy room.

this is not a screen shot of the game: it's a bird-rabbit happily hanging out with its insect-rabbit neighbours, in the magical world of my mind.

I'm learning to code. I look at the bird's code, and I feel strongly: these birds need community. They need to feel things about the birds around them. What bird should be forced to stand alone? What bird should only think of one thing, be it light or whatever a game cares about despite them? So, ignoring the fledgling game designer in me, yelling that this is convoluted, and will only confuse everyone (the players, the code, and me!), I give the birds a tangling mess of code. I fight with myself, and the code, but after a few arbitrary decisions, its done: the birds can love or hate other birds--their neighbours. Strangely, it doesn't concern me that the code is useless. It comforts me that it's there, hidden in the folds of the game.

I've always loved secret pockets... you know that vintage perfectly tailored coat? You pull it on, and on the inside, against your breast you discover a softer seam, and the smallest button, like a button made for the child of a child, a dexterous doll that hides candies for its grown-up coat.

Now, beyond the love of hidden/useless artifacts, can an argument be made for this kind of building, this kind of thinking? Might a parallel be made with an athlete stretching before a performance?

I'm not much of a sportsman. I've heard interesting things said about stretching in the context of physical activity. I would say that what I gave myself was a little room to maneuver. Perhaps like stretching muscles, or perhaps like stretching the area through which I could think.

Baking lights--the oven light

We are working on a game that takes place at night. And I'm told there's this thing you should do, when you work on a game, which is to bake things (which reminds me: my oven light is dead...). Not all the things... just certain things. Like lights. And not all the lights, just the ones you want to crystallize into your scene.

From my limited understanding this means: take your raw light (in our case: the runny yolk of moonlight), whip it up with melted butter, and honey—because don't all these things remind you of light? delicious light.

Okay. Seriously. From my limited understanding, baking light has nothing to do with food (I'm lying). Its about "freezing" the lights in your scene into place (but with a warmer metaphor, because: light). Why? Because light is energy. It flickers. It needs to be crystallized at the right moment. Wait, wait. Whats all this got to do with baking, and my dead oven light?

Who bakes the lights? Me. In other words, I'm in the middle of the end of production, and baking lights can take hours I'm told. Just like baking in the real world, and what is all this designed to remind me of?  Pastries. So... while I let Unity bake my lights, I'll take a walk to the the bakery, and buy some streusle—or more likely, I'll walk to the fridge... or even more likely, I'll think of eating, and keep working, which is why I clearly need the language of this thing I'm working on to remind me of my actual needs.

Working from home; where to start?

left to right: unimpressed peacock, distracted pigeon, vulgar vulture,  squawking seagull, critical crow, and off-key song bird.

Working from home today? Not sure where to start?

Get to Work

Well. First, you really need coffee. Okay. Got your coffee. Now get to work. You see that thing in front of you? Looks like a disorganized mess? Yeah, that's what it thinks when it looks at you. Its okay. Mornings are hard, with all the birds congregating outside just to mock you...

Next Step: Get to Work

Get yourself somewhere in proximity of your work area. You can stare at it for a while. Its the existential version of looking at yourself in the mirror—a thing anyone rushing to an actual workplace (and not staring at the bedroom desk in their pajamas) might do every morning. You're working from home today; you get to bypass the actual mirror, and all its superficialities. You see that amorphous shape slithering away from you? This is also you. Now stab it with a fork to keep it still, and get to work.

Where to start? Anywhere. Just get to work.

Anywhere is not a place. Start at the beginning? Eh... not again. Not today. Start where you left off. Where was that again? Somewhere in the mess. Actually, its on a list somewhere. There's a list. Find the list.

The Infamous List

Okay, got it? That place where you left things off last time? Good. Perfect. That's all you needed right? Except your coffee is cold. But its okay. Cold coffee is the sign that you're getting warmer... closer to actually getting something done.

If you feel lost staring at your imaginary list, draw a square somewhere, anywhere (on the wall even). On the right-hand-side of the square, write the following: “Get to work.” Now, put an x in the box, and rejoice. One thing done. The first task is always the hardest. “X” marks the spot of where to start, its a process, not a destination. This is not a treasure map... although... your plan could deviate, you could spend the day designing a treasure map, for the children you'll never have if you don't get to work.

The Random Number Generator

Now, if you still feel lost, build a random number generator, put a number next to each task on your list, and let the system choose (or google “random number generator”). You'll find that your mind quickly comes to focus when a piece of code tells you to put socks on after it tells you to put on your shoes (or, in my case, to put a number of bird icons into my game before they exist).