Years ago, Matt, a friend of mine, and
I would play lots of games, and in them we'd have adventures far
beyond what was actually present in the rules. One game that stands
out in my memory was The Arkham Horror, a game based on the writings
of H.P. Lovecraft. In this game, the players became investigators in
the small fictional town of Arkham, which was the focus for an
transdimensional invasion by forces beyond human comprehension.
Still, being intrepid truth-seekers,
we'd load up on shotguns and amulets and kick multi-dimensional ass
across Arkham and various alternate realities. Matt and I would
weave all sorts of imaginary elements into the gameplay, occasionally
making less-than-ideal play decisions because we were more interested
in narrative coherence.
Sooner or later, we'd reach a sort of
nexus, and either forge on to victory, or enter a state of play we
came to call Escape From Arkham. The wheels had truly come off, and,
battered and half-crazed with what we'd seen, our characters would
attempt to reach the train station and take the last train out as
reality crumbled behind them.
The lesson, for me, was that it doesn't
take very much for a story to emerge. The game was not structured in
any narrative way. The phases of the tale were strictly in our
heads, including the moment when we looked around, shrugged our
imaginary shoulders, and grabbed our train tickets.
For me, this happens for almost every
game I play. My daughter also sees things this way. When we play
board games, she's always narrating the details of the story. She
does this is more situation-driven games (like Survive!), but also
for abstracts like checkers and chess. The elements of story are all
there: character (the pieces), setting (the board), and conflict.
Given these simple ingredients, story spontaneously arises.
As writers, we need to keep in mind how
little a story actually takes to exist. Story, and narrative,
are hardwired into us like all other pattern-finding capabilities of
the brain. Perhaps the greatest impact is created by a story that
holds back, allowing the readers to fill in the missing pieces. The
readers become invested, literally stuck into the story, their mind a
fundamental component of the tale.
But this cuts both ways, as writers are
also enmeshed in the pattern, and can imagine they see things that
simply are not present in the writing. That's why I wait a year to
reread my novel manuscripts. Any sooner, and I see what I saw when I
wrote the book, not what is there on the page. I want to see what a
new reader sees, not simply review what I remember. Does this slow
my output? Not really, since I just write more during this time.
But even if it did, it's the only way I know of to escape the fabric
of the narrative, and see it as cloth.
Because stories don't have an escape hatch, no matter how damaged their reality becomes. Writers need to grab their amulets and get off that train. But not too soon. Never too soon.
Because stories don't have an escape hatch, no matter how damaged their reality becomes. Writers need to grab their amulets and get off that train. But not too soon. Never too soon.
