Lately I’ve become wary of situations in which everyone appears to agree on something. There are plenty of reasons; the most coarse is simply the vague dystopian creepiness of an entire group adhering to an idea without harsh enough inquiry. Less cynical is the scientific concern that homogeneity leads to stagnation, and progress can be stunted when there isn’t enough variation in the gene pool. But perhaps the most important reason - one that I learned from Iain M. Banks’ A Few Notes on the Culture - is this:

It’s boring.

If this sounds flippant, allow me to elaborate. I’m convinced that the proper objective of sentient life (or at least human life) is self-actualization and the betterment of one’s surroundings, whether immediate or distant, in time or in space. I believe that a happy life revolves around the continuous ascent of Abraham Maslow’s somewhat cliché, but no less apt, hierarchy of needs. This is the root of my love for science fiction. Sci-fi is a window into the possibility space of our future. It is a way to predict, plan or simply wonder about the next stages of our ascent. For just as individuals have a pyramid to climb, so too do civilizations and entire species. And this is only possible through variation and originality. Through the pursuit of the new, the exciting and the totally wild.

Boredom is the sound of the mind suffocating. It is the sound of stagnation, of progress halted, of self-defeat. It is the only true torture I know, because it denies upward movement.

So then, this unease with homogeneity. My fear of echo chambers. They rear their heads often, in science fiction and in games, the fields to which I am most dedicated. Per Sturgeon’s Revelation, the sad majority of sci-fi regurgitates the same ideas across decades, sapping them of whatever originality they may have once held. Frank Herbert’s future of political intrigue begat scores of faceless interstellar hegemonies and clairvoyant demigods, while Arthur C. Clarke’s homicidal supercomputer has already copied himself into a thousand doomsday scenarios from Jupiter to post-apocalyptic Earth.

The truth is that sci-fi writers often appreciate sci-fi to worrisome exclusion. They start writing not because they take joy in speculation and the pursuit of intellectual novelty, but because they want to tell stories about lasers and hyperdrives and all that cool stuff they used to enjoy as readers (note the subtle irony of me making this observation from the bleachers of amateur grandiosity).

The same dozen or so ideas get lobbed back and forth like so many frisbees until all the interesting material gets stuck on the roof and the players stagger about, blithely wondering where all the creativity went. Sometimes they leave the genre in disgust, or become post-modernists. Sometimes they make a living on extended universe fiction. But precious few ever manage to make the world a more interesting place. Somewhere in the distance, Harlan Ellison and Samuel R. Delany sigh in exasperation.

Science fiction is prone to echo chambers, and so are videogames.

“Ahh,” you think, nodding your head. “The man is finally making his point.” I just hope that I can break it down with enough clarity and fairness that I don’t come off like a total maniac.

I’ve found that I’m really uncomfortable with the world of videogames. With all aspects of it; commercial, indie, academic and journalistic. My reasons for this are still largely intuitive, but I know enough to say that homogeneity is at least partly to blame. Some convenient blindness, perhaps a kind of willful ignorance, glares at me from the shadows whenever I skim the blogs, glance at the scores, gloss over the magazine covers and stare blankly at the reams of analysis and critique produced by our most talented thinkers.

At my worst, I get insecure about it. “What the hell do I know about all this stuff anyway?” I ask myself, mostly rhetorically. “I’m just some stupid engineer. I’m not equipped to criticize an entire medium.”

This from a guy who demands intellectual stimulation from sci-fi literature.

In truth, I’m not really stupid. I have ideas about videogames, and I know why I have them. I’m perceptive enough to find our reliance on memes a tad ridiculous. From bald space marines to aesthetic art-film mimicry; from dubiously practical deconstruction in pursuit of scholarly publication to weekly top-ten lists and flamebait article headers screaming desperately for more page views; every aspect of the videogame world has some pretty major issues it needs to work out.

And I truly believe that they will get worked out. Mainstream games will grow out of their adolescence, indie games will become more than an isolated commune of cynics, games academia will find relevance, and games journalism will find its voice. But I don’t know if I’ll ever fit comfortably into the system. My goals are, to varying degrees, incompatible with the prevailing theories.

Manipulating the player’s expectations is considered bad game design; it’s one of my favorite tools. Dialogue is considered the enemy of immersion; I can’t tell a story without it. Forcing the player to act against his own judgment is considered callous; I believe it can lead him to a greater awareness of ethics. Refusing to offer scheduled rewards is considered dishonest; to me it’s a gesture of respect for the player’s self-motivation.

To me, games can be a window to our own potential. What better way is there to know oneself than to witness one’s own reactions to as many diverse scenarios as possible? Games can lead to personal growth, to better people and to a better world. And I think I know how to make that happen.

But I hear “no” far too often, and that doesn’t sit well with me. I think I’d rather find out for myself than take the words of experts. So, my colleagues and I are building a game and a studio from the ground up, avoiding outside influence as much as possible, and when the time is right we’ll set up shop here…

…and we’ll see how fair the wind can carry us.