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  The problem with franchises is that they can never rest. The longer a franchise runs, the more people it’ll try to reach. Each installment becomes a balancing act between innovation and familiarity. Assassin’s Creed 15: The Seattle Grunge Assasscene might be your fifteenth Assassin’s Creed game, but it’s the first for someone else. It has to please both newcomers and the faithful, while also trying to win back fans who have left the franchise behind. It’s enough to drive developers mad.

  “We love what you did,” scream the fans. “Now, do it again, but better.”

  * * *

  PART OF MOVING THE company to California was the formation of our newest developer—2K Marin. Founded by former staffers from Irrational, the studio was tasked with creating BioShock 2, a sequel to a game many considered to be sequel proof. The game had been self-contained, with a clear ending. A sequel flew in the face of that and seemed to scream, “Cash in!” The fact that Ken Levine, the visionary behind the original BioShock, would not be involved only seemed to prove that BioShock 2 was unnecessary.

  None of this was factored into the decision to make a sequel. We were making BioShock 2 because the original BioShock had been a financial and critical success. That’s just how franchises work. It doesn’t mean we’re cashing in; we’re just trying to keep our business running while giving you what you want.

  * * *

  COMING OFF OF MAFIA II, my ego was at an all-time high. I survived Carlito and in the process saw what a writer could do when given a little freedom. Carlito’s story for Mafia II was a tragic tale of two friends driven to ruin by their ambition as well as their loyalty to each other. You don’t see many games like that in this industry; we like to pretend the player is a hero no matter what type of character he or she is controlling. You can be a mobster or a bloodthirsty Spartan or a mute physicist—we’ll jump through hoops to ensure whoever you’re killing is way worse than you; that way you’re never not having a great time.

  Carlito didn’t do that. He played to the expectations of a mob story, while also being true to the risks inherent in that lifestyle. It was a monkey’s-paw fantasy, in which a wish comes true and reveals itself to be a curse. I loved it, and was proud to have worked on it. If I could get my hands on the kind of power Carlito had, I knew I could tell a story just as good, if not better.

  There was a problem, though. Carlito had been in a special situation. The dev team was writing Mafia II in Czech and then having it poorly translated into English. Carlito, being the cultural custodian, was then rewriting the script so it actually reflected the voice and tone of an Italian mafioso in the forties and fifties. This gave him the opportunity to tweak the narrative beats as well. If something was too outlandish or unbelievable or simply off point, he’d rework it and take it back to the team. Normally, that sort of power was reserved for a creative director.

  In the game industry, there are three types of writer: creative director, narrative designer, and script writer. A creative director is the person in charge of a game’s creative vision. A narrative designer writes a game’s quests, or missions, and implements them in the game engine. A script writer writes the script.

  Script writers and creative directors are two sides of the same coin. The key difference is authority; creative directors have it, script writers don’t. Both jobs are unique, as they require you to see the big picture. To do either job well, you must incorporate every aspect of the game; art, sound, design—nothing can be left out. Neither position is required to implement ideas in the game. I won’t say it never happens, but normally implementation falls to the designers. That’s why the narrative designers sit in the middle. Implementation affords them a measure of creative freedom, but it doesn’t grant them authority over other disciplines.

  I wanted to be a creative director. I just didn’t know how to become one. So far, every creative director I worked with had been a founder of their company. The job appeared to be synonymous with, “I own this place, so you do what I say.” That changed with 2K Marin. The studio’s creative director, Jordan Thomas, had been a designer on the original BioShock and Thief: Deadly Shadows. He was a fiercely talented designer who aimed to create something new within the AAA space. Seeing him rise to creative director showed me there was more to the position than simply being the boss; talent and ambition could be rewarded.

  I liked Jordan. We’d hung out a few times during the making of BioShock. He was funny, dry, and intelligent to the point of almost being intimidating. Since moving to California, we had passed each other in the hall a handful of times. Names had been remembered, greetings were exchanged. I took it as a good sign. Normally, a publisher and developer wouldn’t cross paths so regularly, but we both shared the same office hangar. A dev team needs freedom to brainstorm and experiment without the purse holders peering over their shoulders. On the other side, a publisher’s presence should be limited so it will carry the proper gravitas when necessary. The publisher-dev relationship is one of checks and balances; too much familiarity can wear down those carefully constructed walls.

  It was that familiarity that convinced me to reach out to Jordan via email.

  “Hey. Congrats on the creative director thing! We should get drinks some time. I’d love to pick your brain about how to get from where I am to where you are.” It seemed okay to me—just a simple, straightforward request to exchange booze for knowledge.

  Jordan never responded. I don’t know why, but I can hazard a guess. He was the creative director of a brand-new studio. Giving career advice to some kid in publishing would not have been high on his to-do list. Odds are my email briefly crossed his eyes before being shoved deep into his inbox by a flood of other emails, all more important than mine. Looking back on it now with more wisdom and empathy, I completely understand. At the time, however, I was a petty little bitch. Jordan and I weren’t exactly friends, but I thought we had hung out enough to at least warrant a reply. In my mind, there was only one logical reason why he wouldn’t—that bastard thought he was better than me. Well, I’d show him. I was a vengeful idiot, desperate to prove I was a better writer than a guy who did nothing worse than ignore me.

  I pestered the Fox until he gave me the green light to review the scripts for BioShock 2. Jordan would be too busy for me to bother, so instead I turned to Gage, 2K Marin’s narrative producer. It was Gage’s job to monitor story development and track script content. Everything in a script is an asset someone will need to create. When a new character is introduced, the team has to create and review concept art, model the character, rig it for animation, hire an actor, record the lines—there’s a lot involved. The same goes for locations, items, story beats, etc. Everything you write in a script creates work for many other people. A narrative producer tracks these dependencies to ensure a game’s story doesn’t sink the entire production.

  Gage and I had worked together briefly when I helped write text for the BioShock 2 multiplayer mode. I suggested naming a pistol upgrade “Extended Clip” because it allowed the player’s pistol to hold more bullets. Gage responded, “The pistol is a revolver, and revolvers don’t have clips. Everything in BioShock needs to be realistic.”

  Revolvers do use clips. They’re called moon clips, and they can hold either a full or half cylinder’s worth of cartridges. I sent Gage a link to a website where he could purchase these very real items, along with my personal evaluation of BioShock’s realism—“Your game takes place in a city at the bottom of the ocean and lets me shoot bees out of my hands.”

  We didn’t get along.

  None of the scripts were ready to review. That didn’t stop me from hounding Gage until he relented and sent me an early draft of the game’s first chapter. I scoured the pages looking for mistakes, bad grammar, plot holes—anything I could show the Fox to prove BioShock 2 needed me as its editor. What I found was text for an audio log about diving bells.

  “This is sloppy work,” I said to Gage in an email. “The audio log mentions two different types of gas, but
a diving bell would only use one of them. Is no one reviewing this stuff?”

  In the Fox’s office, I leaned forward and spoke in a low, controlled voice. “BioShock 2 needs me.” You couldn’t come at the Fox with anger. If he thought you were being emotional, he’d write off anything you had to say. The key to making him listen was to remain calm, maintain eye contact, and press your point.

  “If we don’t stay on top of this project, the whole thing is gonna crash and burn.”

  * * *

  GAGE STARED AT THE Fox and me from across the conference table, his arms crossed in a petulant manner. This was the last place he wanted to be.

  “I don’t see the point in these meetings,” he said. “I understand that as the publisher you can arrange meetings where I sit here and explain the story to you. What you need to understand is that I have complete faith in this story, and these meetings will only slow down my ability to work on it. But again, this is your prerogative, and I am obliged to be here. Just recognize your actions are delaying my work.”

  The Fox grinned back at him. Gage was emotional, which put him at a disadvantage. To the Fox, a meeting was like a fight in an old-school kung fu film. Every word was a blow whizzing through the air. People would come in swinging, thinking to make quick work of this Frenchman, only to grow frustrated as each attack failed to connect. Then, when his opponents were ready to explode with righteous fury, the Fox would deliver a swift blow to the chest and knock them on their asses. He was a drunken master of not-so-passively aggressive confrontation.

  “We appreciate you taking the time,” said the Fox. “There are just a few things we would like to discuss, so we have a better understanding of what you’re trying to accomplish.”

  “Such as?”

  “The dialogue, for instance.”

  Gage stiffened. “What’s wrong with the dialogue?”

  “Eh . . .” The Fox wiggled in his seat, like he was hesitant to speak until he found the right word. “Everything.”

  Before the Fox could say another word, Gage threw his hands in the air and shouted, “How is that at all helpful?”

  “Maybe you’d find out, if you gave him a chance to explain,” I shouted back.

  I’m not like the Fox. In meetings, I’m a mirror. Come at me with politeness, that’s what you’ll get. Try to start some shit, and I will burn your goddamn bones.

  The Fox laid a hand on my arm. It wasn’t time for that yet.

  “The dialogue isn’t bad,” said the Fox. “The problem is it uses a lot of ten-dollar words. English is not my first language, and I’m having a very hard time understanding what the dialogue is trying to say.” That wasn’t the only thing that stumped him. Some of the dialogue had also been written phonetically to emphasize different dialects. Even Gage had to admit it was a fair point.

  Any admission of fault was a weakness, a chance for me to strike fast and bring the entire narrative crumbling down. “The dialogue is just indicative of a larger problem. Story is a big part of what makes BioShock such a unique franchise. Right now, we can’t tell what that story is going to be.”

  “We recorded a story video,” said Gage, reverting to his stubborn posture. “Watch that.”

  To avoid spending time explaining the story whenever he was asked, Gage had sat Jordan down in front of a camera and had him recount it from start to finish.

  “Gage—the video is ninety minutes long. The Fox and I aren’t going to spend the time watching it when you could just tell us what we need to know, right now. We don’t need a full summary or a beat-by-beat breakdown. All we need is for you to tell us what the story is about.”

  He took a deep breath and sighed. His eyes glazed over as he stroked his chin in thought. Whatever he was searching for, he was digging deep. A moment later, Gage lowered his hand and looked me straight in the eye.

  “Solipsism.”

  * * *

  I DON’T THINK GAGE was trying to be a dick.

  Actually, I take that back. I do believe he was trying to answer my question as succinctly as possible. He just did it in a way I found to be kind of dickish. He might have done it on purpose, but I can’t tell you for sure. Even if he had, being kind of a dick is very different from being a total dick, especially since he did answer my question. He just answered it with a word I’d never heard before.

  If you’re like me, let me save you a Google search.

  solipsism: noun; 1) the theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.

  2) extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one’s feelings, desires, etc.; egoistic self-absorption.

  Anyone else would have said egoism or narcissism. Neither word fully encapsulates solipsism, but it would have gotten me close enough to understand what Gage was talking about. Instead, all it did was piss me off.

  * * *

  LET’S GO BACK IN time, to a little over a year prior to my conversation with Gage. I was still living in New York, working on the original BioShock. I was putting together a video trailer for the game; it was a big deal. In a week, the first playable demo would become available on Xbox Live, Microsoft’s online gaming service. This demo would be the first time consumers had been able to play the game, and when they were finished, they’d be presented with a video. It needed to be impactful and hint at everything the game had to offer, while also enticing people to preorder from their local game store.

  “Think you could put something together?” asked Geekjock.

  I’d done some video editing in college but had never captured and edited a professional-quality video. “Yeah, I can do that.” If you want to learn how to fight, you have to throw yourself to the wolves.

  I started on Monday. The video had to be delivered to Irrational on Thursday night, or before they arrived at work on Friday morning. I was there from 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m. every day, putting everything I had into that trailer. I wanted to prove I could do it, that they could trust me.

  Thursday night, I didn’t even go home. I stayed at the office, putting the final touches on the trailer. When I finally sent it off Friday morning, it was too late for me to leave. I had a conference call scheduled with Irrational at 9:00 a.m.

  I was alone in the conference room. In Boston, Geekjock and the team sat around a speakerphone, listening to me explain what was still needed for the trailer. It had been edited without music; they would need to either find a track that matched the edit or record an original piece of score that afternoon. I talked nonstop for a good seven or eight minutes. When I was done walking them through the trailer, I sat there waiting for someone to respond. There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line.

  Goddammit, I thought. Did the call drop? How long had I been talking to no one?

  I was about to call them back when muffled laughter came through the speaker, followed by someone affecting a fake southern accent.

  “So, what part of the South are you from?”

  When I brought it up with Geekjock later, he told me I apparently said the word “y’all” quite a bit, and they just couldn’t help themselves. I’d worked really hard to give them a fantastic trailer, and they couldn’t see past my use of a fairly common contraction.

  When Gage said “Solipsism,” for some reason it brought that moment rushing back into my mind.

  In the trunk of my car was a pink softball bat I had purchased when I was on the 2K softball team. My involvement lasted two practices before my travel schedule made it impossible to continue. It was pink because I felt stupid buying a softball bat. I didn’t know what type or length I should get, so I went with the most audacious. There may have been some serendipity in that purchase, because let me tell you, people notice when you carry a pink softball bat around the office.

  That pink bat went everywhere. When I spoke to people at their desks, I rested it on my shoulder, like I could take a swing at any second. During meetings, I laid it on the table in front of me, for everyone to see. I was angry and wanted people to know it. As terrib
le as this was, I have to admit, people did not argue with me so long as I carried that bat.

  After a few hours, the Fox showed up at my desk. “You can’t walk around with the bat anymore.”

  “Why not?” I wanted to hear him say it.

  “People are starting to complain. They think you’re going to break something.”

  “That is ridiculous!” Not really. “I would never do something like that.” True, but I was hoping no one knew that. “What the hell is wrong with these people?” Because how dare people get upset when I actively try to intimidate them?

  The Fox didn’t buy it. “I don’t care. Just stop it before someone reports you to HR.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT STORY MEETING didn’t go much better. For an hour, the Fox and Gage’s assistant sat back and watched us yell at each other. There was no discussion or concession, just venom. The only time we found common ground was when I called the game’s main villain impotent, causing Gage to instantly begin nodding. “That’s true. She doesn’t really do anything right now.”

  As we left the conference room, the Fox leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I think Gage was about to jump across the table and punch you in the face.” I didn’t know it at the time, but Gage’s assistant was making the same observation about me. I’m not entirely sure they were wrong.

  “We’re getting nowhere,” said the Fox. “You need to fix this.”