- monthly subscription or
- one time payment
- cancelable any time
"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
“— Dan Pinchbeck
Mechanics are a tool to getting somewhere. Once you know the kind of experience you want the player to have, that’s when you select the mechanics that will best fit that.
This always happens with our games – we start off with more mechanics in there, then we work on it and test it, and realize those mechanics are just getting in the way. We really want this to be about the player and the story, and anything that gets in the way of that is kind of problematic.”
Ah Jeez, here we go again.
The weird thing is, I completely see where Irene Gallo was coming from. I sympathize. I know what it’s like to to see the assholes piling up outside the gate, to roll your eyes and shake your head at the inanities and the outright lies— even though it’s obvious that rolling your eyes and shaking your head accomplishes nothing, that reasoned argument accomplishes nothing because those guys didn’t arrive at their positions though reason. Hell, I myself— on this very ‘Crawl— have gleefully fantasized about Stephen Harper getting gunned down in the street, about Liz Cheney’s entrails being strung along a barbed-wire fence.
I get it. Sometimes you just blow up. It’s human. It’s natural.
Still. If we always did whatever came naturally, the only reason I wouldn’t have bashed in a few hundred skulls by now would be because someone else would have bashed in mine before I even hit puberty. Humanity comes with all sorts of primal impulses as standard equipment; I imagine many of Gallo’s defenders would not be especially happy if we let all those drives off the leash just because they were “natural”. One of the first things we point to when lauding Human exceptionalism is our ability to restrain those impulses. And if we fail sometimes— as we’re inevitably bound to— at the very least we can try to walk it back afterward.
So I can see myself in Irene Gallo’s shoes. And if I actually found myself there, I like to think I’d say certain things when those whom I’d intemperately described as Nazis or racists raised their hands to claim that they’d fought against Apartheid during their youth in South Africa, or that they were rabbis, or that they’d exchanged actual gunfire with the brownshirts:
“Holy shit,” (I like to think I’d say,) “You’re right. It’s just— I really hate these guys, you know? And the bile’s been building up for a while now, and when I got that question everything just kind exploded over the keyboard. I think my anger’s justified, but it called for a sniper rifle and I used a sawed-off shotgun. I really stepped over the line. This is me, stepping back, with apologies to those I impugned.”
What I would not have done, when challenged, is post a series of inane cat photos with the caption KITTEH! blazoned across top (although granted, Gallo did dial it back to “kitteh?” after a few iterations, when her strategy did not appear to be having the desired effect).
Things kind of went downhill from there. The internet— or at least, this little genre bubble thereof— blew up again, loud enough for the Daily Dot to notice way out in the real world. Tom Doherty stuck a boilerplate disclaimer over at Tor.com and was immediately vilified for being A) a misogynist asshole because he publicly reprimanded Irene Gallo when he should have given her a medal for speaking Truth to Power, and also for being B) a left-wing libtard pussy who gave Irene Gallo a slap on the wrist when she should have been fired outright. Gallo herself issued one of those boilerplate fauxpologies whose lineage hearkens all the way back to the ancestral phrase “mistakes were made”. None of it seemed to help much.
Blowing up is not the only thing that comes naturally to humans. Tribalism is in there too.
Before we go any further, let me just cover my ass with a disclaimer of my own: I am no great supporter of puppies, regardless of temperament. (Any regular on this blog already knows the kinds of furry quadruped who own my heart.) I understand that of the two breeds under consideration, the Rabids are far more extreme and downright toxic; Theodore Beale, judging by some of his pithier quotes, seems to be Benjanun Sriduangkaew’s bizarro twin, separated at birth. The Sads, in contrast, have enough legitimacy to warrant at least respectful disagreement and engagement from the likes of George Martin and Eric Flint; they have also distanced themselves from their more diseased cousins (although the point that the final Hugo ballot is more representative of the Rabid slate than the Sad one is well-taken). Even so, I don’t find even the Sad Puppies’ arguments especially meritorious.
So let there be no mistake here: I come not to praise Puppies.
I come to bury the rest of you.
Eric Flint put forth the most reasonable take I’ve yet seen on why Gallo misstepped. Over on Tor.com and io9, a lot of people don’t buy it. They’ve made a number of arguments and hurled a number of insults, perhaps the dumbest of which was accusing someone of “sea-lioning” after they’d asked a single, on-point question. (The alleged sea-lion also claimed to be a part-time rabbi, so— assuming, as always, that we can take such claims at face value— you can understand how the whole Nazi-sympathizer thing might not go over especially well.) A lot of other claims were made repeatedly, though. Some, in fact, were repeated often enough to warrant their own subtitles:
You Can’t Handle the Truth
Doherty threw Gallo under the bus [get used to that phrase— it shows up 21 times under Doherty’s post alone, which is a bit ironic given the number of folks in that thread who complain about the suspicious similarity of the puppy-sympathisers’ talking points]. He handed a victory to the Puppies when he should have backed her up for having the courage to tell the truth— and everyone knows it’s the truth because noun, verb, Vox Day.
Let’s ignore for the moment the hordes of sad-puppy sympathizers who’ve come out of the woodwork claiming to be anti-apartheid activists, Jews, people of color, married to people of color, queer, veterans— and who do not like being stuck on the same planet as Vox Day, much less the same political clade. I suppose you could call bullshit on most of them— this wouldn’t even be a proper internet argument if accusations of misrepresentation and sock-puppetry weren’t part of the background noise. So let’s set those personal testimonials aside for the moment, and consider a different fact:
Back when the Puppies first seized control of the bridge, Entertainment Weekly (and, I’m pretty sure, The Guardian, although I can’t find the pre-edited version online— maybe I’m thinking Salon) published remarks about the Puppies that were actually milder than Gallo’s. Within hours, it had deleted those remarks and published a meek, surprisingly unconditional retraction which described their own coverage as “unfair and inaccurate”. It was, in tone and content, quite similar to Tom Doherty’s more recent remarks on Tor.com.
I don’t know any Puppies. I don’t know if the people speaking out on their behalf are grass-roots or astroturf (although they can’t all be sock puppets— the gender, ethnicity, and partnerships of some of these folks are a matter of public record, and they’re not all straight white dudes). But I can only assume that these retractions occurred as a response to considered legal opinion. And the fact that different corporations caved so completely, printing such similar apologies, suggests to me that Irene Gallo’s “truth” was, at the very least, legally actionable. This is not a characteristic that usually accrues to Truth, outside Spanish Inquisitions.
The “Personal Space” Perspective.
Well, even if Gallo misspoke, she was just expressing a personal opinion on her personal facebook page. Tor had no right to censor what their employees say and do on their own personal time.
Go check out Irene Gallo’s personal facebook page. Most of the posts there consist of pimpage for Tor artists, cover reveals for upcoming Tor releases, various bits of Tor-related news, and genre award links. Hell, the very post that got her wrist slapped was a promo for Kameron Hurley’s The Geek Feminist Revolution, soon to be available from (you guessed it) Tor: and the heading she chose to capture eyeballs was “Making the Sad Puppies Sadder— proud to have a tiny part of this”.
The time stamp on that post reads Monday, 11 May 2015, 14:14
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with using your personal facebook page as a delivery platform for employer pimpage. I think people should feel free to blur the line between their personal and professional lives until the two are nigh-on indistinguishable, if they like. But having erased those boundaries, you don’t get to reassert them at your convenience. And if anyone tries to claim, after the fact, that on this one occasion you weren’t really presenting yourself as a corporate spokesperson— especially when said occasion involves an advertisement for a company product, posted during work hours, presumably while sitting at your work desk— the demographic who takes this claim at face value will be either very small, or very stupid.
Evidently it was that second thing.
The Sexism Scenario
Isn’t it curious how Tor never feels the need to do anything when their male authors say more extreme things than Gallo ever did [Scalzi and Wright and Card get cited a lot in this regard, although I saw at least one lost soul wanting to know why Tor wasn’t calling out Vox Day]. Isn’t it telling how that Frenkel guy got away with harassing women for years before Tor cut him loose— but a woman makes one intemperate comment and they throw her under the bus? Misogyny much?
First, can we at least agree that Jim Frenkel’s tenure at Tor would have been over pretty much the moment he went onto facebook to proudly post selfies of his ongoing harassment of women? He lasted as long as he did because he committed his offenses in the shadows, where they could be more safely ignored by Corporate.
Tor is a colony organism; its fitness is defined in terms of profit margin. Like all corporate entities, it’s at least partially sociopathic. Its immune system responds most emphatically to threats that endanger its bottom line— which, almost by definition, means public threats. I think that anyone who regards Doherty’s response as an act of sexism is looking at the world through polarized lenses; to me, this reads above all else like an act of damage control. If Gallo had been male, I believe Tor’s reaction would have been the same.
As for those who somehow seem to think that authors are employees— that Tor’s legal liability extends not just to what Irene Gallo posts from her office computer during work hours, but to everything posted by anyone Tor has ever published— all I can say is, you’ve been seriously misinformed about the nature of the sacred bond between author and publisher. (Or maybe I have— maybe I should be complaining about Tor’s failure to provide me with health insurance and a regular paycheck.)
At the very least, you should have boycotted those guys the moment they started publishing Orson Scott Card.
Of course, Tom Doherty is not the only one to have come in for a world o’Twitter Rage. Much ire, as always, is directed at the Puppies themselves— much of it justified, in my opinion. But I’m not writing this to jump on that particular bandwagon, nor do I need to; you can’t swing a cat these days without hitting someone’s list of puppycrimes.
The hypocrisy of certain Gallonites, however, doesn’t seem to be getting nearly as much attention (at least, not here in the Civilized World; the Puppies may be all over it, but I tend to avoid those territories). I’ve seen Sad Puppies go out of their way to distance themselves from the rabid end of the spectrum:
“Vox Day is an A-hole. As a Sad Puppy, I had to look him up on Google.”
— only to get shot down:
The fact that you joined a movement without adequately understanding what its leaders stood for, compounded by the fact that you continue to identify with that movement AFTER you’ve seen ample evidence of what they stand for, inclines me to give you zero credibility on this issue.”
“you are supporting [Beale’s] agenda. That makes those who support culpable. If they didn’t want to be associated with that reprehensible excuse for a human being, they should not have stood to be counted with him.”
Turn this argument around and see how you like it.
Imagine being told that you had no business advocating for social justice issues because you didn’t know about— oh, say, Requires Hate— prior to signing up. Imagine being told with a straight face— nay, with a righteously angry face— that you have “zero credibility” because you continue to advocate for social justice issues, even after learning of that vile creature’s existence.
Yeah, I know RH didn’t start the movement. She merely exploited it. But the analogy holds where it needs to: RH was, in her day, a significant player in the SJ scene, with allies who extended (and, as far as I can tell, continue to extend) into the halls of Tor itself. She was relatively central for such a decentralized movement— But she did not speak for everyone. If anyone told you that you couldn’t advocate for social justice without also supporting RH, how would you respond?
(As a side note, it’s nice to see that RH’s influence has greatly diminished in recent months. She spews the same BS— although her favored target seems to have shifted to “racist white women” in the wake of Laura Mixon’s report— but to far less effect. Think Saruman, reduced to whining in the Shire after being kicked out of Isengard. RH might even provide a valuable social service these days, functioning as a sort of rhetorical flypaper for idiots. As long as they stick to her, the rest of us can get on with our lives.)
Another common talking point is the obvious timing of this whole blow-out, of the fact that Beale sat on his screen-grab for weeks before releasing the hounds just prior to the Nebula Awards. This was manufactured outrage over phantom pain. Nobody was really hurt by Gallo’s comments; they were nothing but a convenient foothold from which to launch an attack.
Beale is the enemy. That’s what enemies do, if they’re smart; they keep their powder dry. That’s one of the things that makes them enemies, for chrissake. That obvious fact should make it less advisable to play into their hands. Gallo said what she said— and to all those who’d say Jeez, let it go— that was four whole weeks ago, I’d answer Fine: why hasn’t the statute of limitations passed on all those Beale quotes I keep seeing, all of which are much older?
Not that I’m excusing Beale, mind you. I personally have a hard time believing that anyone could make some of his claims with a straight face. (White men don’t rape, so mistrust the victim unless she’s accusing a Black or Hispanic?) Maybe he’s just being ironic, although I’m more inclined to regard such statements as batshit insane. Either way, I’d laugh in the face of anyone who tried to impose a statute of limitations on Theodore Beale quotes; I suspect most of you would as well. By that same token, neither do we get to declare Gallo’s remarks off-limits after a measly month.
I imagine a number of you are already objecting to this equivalence on the grounds that Gallo’s single comment, ill-advised though it may have been, doesn’t come anywhere close to the levels of offensiveness that Theodore Beale manages even on a mild day. I tend to agree. I thought Gallo’s comment fell pretty wide of the mark, but I personally didn’t find anything especially offensive about it.
Then again, I’m not a Jewish person who’s been told he’s in bed with Nazis. It may be wise to defer to such people in matters of offense given and received.
Over the past few days I’ve sampled a fair number of blog posts and editorials dealing with Gallogate. I’ve recognized a number of the folks who’ve posted comments there, who’ve “liked” the relevant links and rejoinders sliding down my Facebook wall. Some I know only from their handles, when they’ve posted here on the ‘Crawl; others are personal friends.
They all support Irene Gallo.
I would too, if she’d only stood up and offered an apology that didn’t read as though it had been crafted by corporate mealworms. She fucked up; we all do, sometimes. She played into enemy hands. It was a minor and a momentary slip. But the real fuck-up was in how she and her supporters dealt with the aftermath.
There are good reasons to repudiate Puppies. There are legitimate arguments to be made against both Sad and (especially) Rabid breeds— which makes it all the more frustrating that so much of what I’ve seen lately boils down to dumb, naked tribalism. Fallacies that would be instantly derided if made by the other side become gospel; any who question are presumed to be With The Tewwowists (or more precisely, the sea lions). I’m reminded of my own observation back when the Mixon report came out: we’re not a community at all. We’re a bunch of squabbling tribes fighting over the same watering hole.
I didn’t want to write this. There’s so much other nifty stuff to talk about. Preserved soft tissue in dinosaur fossils, reported the same week “Jurassic World” premieres. Island nations, finally suing the Fossil Fuel industry for compensation over habitat loss due to climate change. And I still haven’t got around to writing my epic comparison of “Fury Road” and “Kingsman”.
It would have been a lot more fun to write about any of that. But this is just fucked. So many people bend the data to support forgone conclusions; so few put their conclusions on hold until they’ve followed those data to see where they might lead. So much gut reaction. So little neocortical involvement.
Judging by past experience, I could lose some fans over this. There’s even a chance I could lose actual friends (although I think most of the opportunists masquerading as friends got exposed the last time I took an unpopular stand on something). Which, if you look at it a certain way, is a good thing; it would add evidence to my argument about the evils of mindless groupthink. But here it is, for better or worse. I’ve never been much for bandwagons.
Unless I build them myself, I guess.
The Grand TALE OF TALES SUMMER SALE on itch.io begins TODAY!
June 11 - June 22, 2015
Think back… when was the last time you bought a videogame from an independent developer’s own website? Not through some corporate entity widget, only 3rd party involved was someone to handle the transaction.
This is something which barely happens anymore. Rather than bitterly lament this loss of control over our destiny, meekly hand it over to Steam and drown in their big pond, we’ve decided to experiment with how we sell our videogames. Step one is to work with a partner who seems to care about giving devs some autonomy and control.
We chose to put our games on itch.io because they are cool and flexible and you don’t have to go begging for approval or for features to be turned on or uploads to be made, or even to have a sale.
So for the next 10 days you can get all our games at low prices. We share revenue with itch.io, happily.
We lost fifteen million souls that day.
Fifteen million brains sheathed in wraparound full-sensory experience more real than reality: skydiving, bug-hunting, fucking long-lost or imaginary lovers whose fraudulence was belied only by their perfection. Gang-bangs and first-person space battles shared by thousands— each feeding from that trickle of bandwidth keeping them safely partitioned one from another, even while immersed in the same sensations. All lost in an instant.
We still don’t know what happened.
The basics are simple enough. Any caveman could tell you what happens when you replace a dirt path with a twenty-lane expressway: bandwidth rises, latency falls, and suddenly the road is big enough to carry selves as well as sensation. We coalesces into a vast and singular I. We knew those risks. That’s why we installed the valves to begin with: because we knew what might happen in their absence.
But we still don’t know how all those safeguards failed at the same time. We don’t know who did it (or what— rumors of rogue distributed AIs, thinking microwave thoughts across the stratosphere, have been neither confirmed or denied). We’ll never know what insights arced through that godlike mind-hive in the moments it took to throw the breakers, unplug the victims, wrest back some measure of control. We’ve spent countless hours debriefing the survivors (those who recovered from their catatonia, at least); they told us as much as a single neuron might, if you ripped it out of someone’s head and demanded to know what the brain was thinking.
Those lawsuits launched by merely human victims have more or less been settled. The others— conceived, plotted, and put into irrevocable motion by the 21-Second God in those fleeting moments between emergence and annihilation— continue to iterate across a thousand jurisdictions. The first motions were launched, the first AIgents retained, less than ten seconds into Coalescence. The rights of mayfly deities. The creation and the murder of a hive mind. Restitution strategies that would compel some random assortment of people to plug their brains into a resurrected Whole for an hour a week, so 21G might be born again. A legal campaign lasting years, waged simultaneously on myriad fronts, all planned out in advance and launched on autopilot. The hive lived for a mere 21 seconds, but it learned enough in that time to arrange for its own second coming. It wants its life back.
A surprising number of us want to join it.
Some say we should just throw in the towel and concede. No army of lawyers, no swarm of AIgents could possible win against a coherent self with the neurocomputational mass of fifteen million human brains, no matter how ephemeral its lifespan. Some suggest that even its rare legal defeats are deliberate, part of some farsighted strategy to delay ultimate victory until vital technological milestones have been reached.
The 21-Second God is beyond mortal ken, they say. Even our victories promote Its Holy Agenda.
“ Stepping into games is like arriving at a cheese-tasting party where most of the crowd is angrily murmuring that cheddar and swiss are always and objectively the best cheeses on grounds of utility and pleasure, that assholes offering a plate of mold-laced bleu are an affront to any real cheese-lover, that brie may simply be too soft to be a real cheese. ”— Naomi Clark
"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
"Basically the price of a night on the town!"
"I'd love to help kickstart continued development! And 0 EUR/month really does make fiscal sense too... maybe I'll even get a shirt?" (there will be limited edition shirts for two and other goodies for each supporter as soon as we sold the 200)