If you don’t know the editors of this magazine, I can tell you that they are a cabal of frightening tyrants*. Do they care that I have visions of Caribbean beaches gleaming behind my eyes? No, they only care that I hand in my column before the magazine goes to print. Do they enjoy my favourite game to play with them, that of cramming as much unprintable profanity and obscure American slang into my writing as possible to see how they’ll choose to replace it?
I used to think that film had it easy when it came to conveying story. Then I thought about why I generally don’t like older movies: the information design is too often clumsy. Casablanca, supposedly the best screenplay of all time, has a confusing first five minutes, packed to the gills with a telegraph reporting murders, a police roundup of normallooking guys in suits, planes taking off, a pickpocket, a shooting of a guy carrying posters, and the arrival of a German officer. What was I actually supposed to take from all of that?
Say you’re a videogame designer of some minor renown who’s had the good fortune to write for your favourite gaming magazine, in which you rhapsodise about games as a unique art form and how the industry should be bolder and less degenerate.
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