In this business - in any creative business - it's very hard to actually get a project going. Even when you have a proven track record, even when you've been an important contributor to a certified hit, you're often back to square one when it's time to start something new. There are some major exceptions, of course; Miyamoto, Spielberg, Molyneux, Lucas, Spector, Whedon - these guys don't necessarily need to cross a lot of hurdles when they're putting together a new project. After all, in combined revenues, their games and movies and TV-shows have amassed enough cash to buy a galaxy far, far away.

But not everyone can be them. In fact, only they can, um, be them. Stands to reason, right?

Take me, for example (since this happens to be my website, it's a fair case). I'm not exactly a Miyamoto or a Spector. I've worked in the games industry for nine years (approximately), and I've only two games to my credit: Casper and The Longest Journey. I've worked on a bunch more - including The Snow Arrow (my first job; it limped to a sad but inevitable death eight years ago), Anarchy Online (which I'm still working on), and, ugh, Dragonheart (probably the worst game in the history of ever) - but Casper and TLJ are the only two games I feel I can take any credit for. Luckily, they were both big successes: in the case of the former, this was due more to the enduring (and incomprehensible) appeal of the character (a dead little boy, grotesquely enough) than any particular skills on my part. In the case of the latter, I was blessed with an incredibly talented team of artists, programmers, audio designers, and voice actors who made my job much, much easier. Also, with TLJ, management and marketing left us alone. Which can be a Very Good Thing.

TLJ was completed in November 1999. The very next day, I started pitching a game called Miracle - an MMO that I'd been thinking about, and working on, for many, many months. In addition to Miracle, I also had the plot for a TLJ sequel and prequel ready to go, as well as a bunch of other ideas and concepts for games, both online and single-player.

Ideas are cheap. This is an important fact to remember. Any game designer has a hundred Good Ideas in his or her head, ready to pitch at a moment's notice, like some fancy, automatic pitching-machine. Turn us on and we start selling. We're like some zombie army of sales-pitchers. Ahem. Now, the hard part is transforming that idea, any idea, into a full design, and making a playable game from that design. That's what separates a skilled and experienced designer from someone off the street with a Brilliant Idea - transforming a dream into reality. And that ain't as easy as it looks, boys and girls. It's actually very, very hard, which is why so many games turn out to be a terrible waste of time. The idea may have been good, but the implementation wasn't.

So, yes, plenty of ideas, but also - I think - a proven track-record for turning Ideas into Games. That's where I was at, two and a half years ago. Rearing to go with any of a dozen Good Ideas. Inspired by the completion of one game, in good shape, ready to invest another two to three years deep in the trenches of development.

Fast forward one year, to spring 2001, and I'm working as game director - the vision-bearer and creative lead - on Midgard. Not one of the projects I've been carrying around in my head, but a good place to be, a great game, a great team.

Fast forward another year - bang! - spring 2002. Midgard has been put on hold, and I'm mostly doing AO writing tasks, story stuff, NPC dialogue, design jobs, marketing, whatever's needed, wherever it is needed. Lack of resources and a general uncertainty about how to carry through on the storyline means that the work, at times, can be frustrating. Still enjoying myself, still getting things done, participating and contributing together with everyone else at Funcom. But, of course - no secret - waiting, itching, to start working on my next project, because, hey, that's what we live for. Our own babies, our own creations. No matter how cool AO may be, how important it is, it's still someone else's game; I still have to follow someone else's rules, even when I don't agree with them.

Summer 2002. Now. Today. This minute. Still waiting. And working. The AO story is slowly being integrated into other parts of the game, assigned to other people on the design and events teams, and that's a good thing. It may mean that the players, finally, will get what they've asked for, what they've been promised, what they deserve. We'll see.

Still waiting. I'd like to make a game. I've been waiting for two and a half years. Still waiting.

It's hard to get a project going, no matter who you are and who you're working with. It's hard, because in this business - like most other creative businesses - projects are expensive to put together. They take a lot of time, they require a lot of skilled professionals, and they cost a lot, a lot, of money. Investors and share-holders and executives are afraid to commit to anything, because they don't like risks. Risks mean that there might not be a payoff, and that's a frightening prospect, understandably enough.

But what does this do to the people responsible for coming up with ideas and turning them into games? It's frustrating. It's bloody frustrating. Even when you have something to show for, it means very little in the long run. And when months turn into years, it's no longer a question of "what have you done?", but increasingly of "what have you done lately?". And lately, there's been no "lately". There's a limit to how long you can live off past successes when that past is slipping below the horizon behind you.

And by "you" I do mean, of course, "me".

Naturally, I use TLJ to leverage my own position. If that's what it takes to get a project moving, then that's what I'll do. I want to create more games, and I think people will want to play them when they're done. I'm arrogant in that way. It's what I do for a living. Although I'm not really sure what I do for a living anymore, because it sure ain't making games.

Yes, it's a little pathetic to whine about it. After all, I have a job, right? I get paid for working with games, and a lot of people would kill to be able to do what I do, to work where I work. Fact? Probably. But there's a difference. I've worked in this business for nine years. I've created hits, and I've learned the craft. I've paid my dues, if that's the right word to use. You'd think that would mean I'd be able to put together a project, get it rolling, and create a great game for people out there to play and enjoy. Yes?

Still waiting.

(And if you're waiting for a sequel to TLJ, don't hold your breath. Seriously. I'll be honest with you: even if that was my first choice for my next game, it still wouldn't happen. Not now. Not bloody likely. The only way a TLJ2 will ever see the light of day is if Funcom suddenly starts making loads and loads of money, and simultaneously changes its strategy to encompass single-player games. Or, alternatively, they could sell the license to someone else and let them carry on the legacy. Because Funcom's future, boys and girls, is online only. Sad? Sure. I'd love to see a sequel. But I'd be happy to work on any game of my own creation right now. Ack!)  ¶ 11:34