Think think think

So, things are progressing on the phd front. Currently immersed in the methodology chapter and extensive discussion has revealed numerous aspects heretofore unexplored or considered.

That is clear is the need to ensure each component of the thesis is catered for. This means that the methodology chapter must outline the methods to be utilized in not only the data collection stage, but also the analysis stage as the following illustrates. An outcome of the research will likely be a series of recommendations about game development education courses in the form of a proposal. It is important to note is that in order for that proposal to be adequately validated, an evaluation of some sort is required. This evaluation requires criteria.

Two things arise from this aspect. One, the extent of the proposal must be determined. Is it merely a set of theoretical recommendations? Is it that plus implementation on some level, or is it a full blown implementation of the proposal (i.e. creating a space, filing it with students and operating it according to the guidelines specified in the proposal)? The last option is unlikely to occur given the time and budgetary constraints. The second is most likely; a purely theoretical proposal with no practical proof of concept will lack credibility. Once this issue has been settled, one must consider the second issue; determining the criteria used to evaluate it. Assuming a level of observation is conducted and supplemented with student feedback by survey or similar, that data needs stringent analysis using criteria that is independent of the research, i.e. the same criteria could be used to evaluate a different kind of course. Some criteria will clearly be GDE specific but will be derived from data acquired from educators and industry whose recommendations and opinions on how to deliver GDE will form a platform from which the implementation of the 'ideal GDE environment' can be observed and critiqued.

That aside, I need to determine research methods other than the case study in order to compare and contrast them. Given this research seems closest to the social sciences, it makes sense to select common approaches from that field of research and cover them enough to justify use of the case study as the primary method. Another issue arises; the case study may be sufficient to encompass the data gathering and analysis stages, but the proposal (and indeed the proposal to create an intermediary body that liaises with industry and education) and evaluation will need a second method. This must be covered in the methods chapter; how to derive from the data not only a proposal for an ideal games curriculum (or at least a series of recommendations) but also some of the criteria with which to evaluate it.

A pressing issue is the creation of a paper on collaborative spaces. The angle should be that given the value of collaboration in game development, is there an ideal method of creating an environment conducive to collaborative and beneficial interaction between GDE students? I'll explore research on creative or group/collaborative spaces and perhaps tie it in to observations that might be made in a classroom environment when group activity is occurring. I'll explore the theory behind collaborative spaces, existing applications, and look at the actual physical implementation of a collaborative game development space. It remains to be seen whether an opportunity will arise to actually test any hypotheses that are formulated.

Anyway, meeting next week to discuss the ins and outs of creating and managing a course and what some of the basic criteria are for evaluating a course's effectiveness. I need to get a handle on some of the basic educational standards that should apply to any course based presumably on extensive research and repeated evaluation. How do you know if the course is successful? How do you measure it? What metrics do you use? Student numbers, assessment styles, results, graduate numbers, employed graduates post-qualification? Hmm hmm hmm.

Foot!

A letter for my friends

Lonely Crocodile loved receiving letters. Every day he would open his dark blue front door and walk briskly down the short cobbled path that led through his neatly kept garden to his small green letterbox, prickling with anticipation.

Once upon a time, Lonely Crocodile had many friends and would receive many letters from them, though they lived close and visited often. Sometimes, there were too many to read over breakfast. Lonely Crocodile would receive so many letters that sorting through and replying to his many letters became a chore, though deep down he still enjoyed reading them. Time passed, and Lonely Crocodile and his friends grew older and though he sometimes tired of their company, he'd never admit it for he still loved them.

Eventually, both Lonely Crocodile and his friends grew apart, though not from spite; many of them moved to distant places to pursue new lives and explore new regions. Travel did not interest Lonely Crocodile; he liked his little house with its blue door and green letterbox and neat garden. Though his friends were now far away, they still sent their many letters. Lonely Crocodile would still read their letters but became complacent about replying to them; tending his garden and cleaning his little house kept him occupied and he would forget about his friends and their letters for a time.

After a while, the number of letters Lonely Crocodile received began to dwindle. Eventually, only a handful of letters would arrive every few months or so. Suddenly, sorting through and replying to those many letters, something that had become mundane, a chore, became something that Lonely Crocodile yearned for. When a letter arrived, Lonely Crocodile now became quite excited; if it was from an old friend, inner delight bloomed and spread his smile wide, though there was no-one around to notice. He would rush inside, sit by the kitchen window that looked out over his manicured garden and in the warmth of the morning sun, he would read and re-read and re-read again.

At length, when he had repeatedly read the letter through, he would gather his stationery and dwell on a suitable reply. He would carefully compose his response, ensuring he answered any questions the sender had asked and in turn posing queries of his own; how was so and so, have you traveled anywhere interesting lately and so on (Lonely Crocodile had noted that his friends never enquired as to his travels for they knew he was not interested in leaving his little house). When he did receive a new letter, Lonely Crocodile noticed something else; his friends no longer answered the questions he asked of them.

Yet more time passed and the letters became rare. Lonely Crocodile had not received a letter in a long time, so long he could barely recall. Still, every morning, Lonely Crocodile would open his dark blue door, trot down his neatly kept garden path to his green letterbox and, slightly dry of mouth, open the wooden letterbox lid.

This bright morning, tickled by warmth and a mellow breeze, Lonely Crocodile approached his letterbox. His heart leapt as he unlatched and raised the lid; a white flicker from within. He stuck a scaly hand into the letterbox and eagerly withdrew the letter. His heart sank as he beheld the words on the envelope: YOU MAY HAVE ALREADY WON!

Lonely Crocodile trudged back to his front door and quietly slipped inside. His green wooden letterbox remained unopened the next day, and the day after that. Lonely Crocodile would occasionally check on his way out to run an errand, but this too became rare. There were never any friendly letters anyway. Lonely Crocodile thought less about his garden, his house, his green letterbox. Weeks passed, then months, then years.

On a particular morning, a rather bleak and grey one, damp with drizzle, Lonely Crocodile sat at his kitchen table and thought. He thought for a long, long time; were you to see him, you might think him asleep despite his wide, distant gaze, so quiet and still was he. Eventually, having apparently come to a decision, he rose from the table.

A few months later, three crocodiles arrived at Lonely Crocodile's front gate, chatting happily amongst themselves, knowing laughs at private jokes. They swung the gate open, surprised at the rasping squeal of the hinge. They regarded this house they had visited so often; the green paint on the letterbox was peeling, the garden overgrown. A few catalogues sat by the letterbox; they collected these and walked up the cobbled path, weeds crunching underfoot.

They reached the familiar dark blue front door and knocked; once twice, three times. They waited for one minute, two.

Perhaps he's not home?

Perhaps he's moved!

Moved? Lonely Crocodile? Even if he had, he'd surely have mentioned it, though it has been some time since we last spoke. It wouldn't be much of a surprise if we let him know we were coming though would it?

They made their way across the garden to the kitchen window and peered through the layer of dust that had collected on the once gleaming windows. The kitchen appeared dark and quite empty. A small white envelope lay on the table.

Beware of cats

Thought for the week

Thought for the week: beware that which unduly occupies the mind for any length of time. It has an agenda which may not become apparent until said agenda has been unfurled and is in motion, you the catalyst. Don't act on it. Analyze, deconstruct, reconstruct then rationalize. It's what separates us from the violent chimp, the cunning weevil, the obfuscatory pikey.

Dwelling on negative thoughts has a peculiar feeling of empowerment, though; unsurprisingly though, this empowerment is borne of the resentful Dark Side, diametrically opposed by the ever positive Good Side, typically engendered by acts of creation and interaction. Positive stuff; you know, nice-nice. Flowers and kittens and pussywillows.

Maintaining control of these potentially malefic thoughts is tricky, as any thoughts which harbour a desire to perform impartial analysis of said naughty thoughts are immediately deemed the natural enemy of the eve-yil thought (known henceforth as EFs).

When EFs detect a rogue analysis thought (known heretofore as AFs), they launch a calculated assault, knocking over desks, lamps, flipping books from tables and flailing at inkpots in the hope that incurable disruption will ensue and that they might continue their nefarious plot to unbalance the mind's, er, balance of power.

The trick is to remain steadfast in the face of such an onslaught. Constantly reassess your approach, think around the insurgent cogitation and never lose your nerve. They are just thoughts after all; neutralize them before they become manifest and cause you to do something irreparably fucking stupid.

Brraaarrgh he roared, shitty but somehow glad of it all. It is the 73rd of Jactobuary and I am feeling the pinch.

It occurs to me that the trick to writing is to have something to write about. I know what you're thinking; "Has he been wolfing members of that delicious, fragrant and chatoyant yet highly toxic species of forest frog again?" The wanser (better than an answer!) is yes. I mean, no. What I mean is, frogs have just as much right to churn out an aimless blog post as the rest of us, unladen with the ability to write much less comprehend though they might be. I press on.

What separates us from the humble frog is a distinct sense of self; while the cockily lustrous amphibian may outreach humanity where sheer toxicity is concerned, this frankly useful characteristic is just no match for that vital self awareness when it comes to writing. Aristotle himself would no doubt agree with me; he was a prat though. Back to my original point.

If one needs something to write about, one must engage in activities, carry out tasks, interact with the world and those in it. In short, a writer needs experiences. Sam Keith taught me that, bless him.

These experiences your average writer must, um, experience fill that cavernous void, heretofore empty, begging to be furnished with a glut of rippling dates, names, conversations, impressions, fears, joy, impudent gesticulation, each washing over the other in a subterranean ocean of material.

Or, there's the alternative. I am currently engrossed in fleshing out this lesser known technique. I will explain.

Rule number one: Do (now this is important) nothing. That's it, more or less. Your first inclination will be to do something, anything; surely to write, one must have something write about (for the crab eyed, that was in the first paragraph. The likelihood of crabs reading this thing is roughly equal to that of people, an irony not lost on me despite my occasional references to an audience I know full well does not exist. If any crabs are reading this, well done). Aha, but that is the real trick isn't it? Do nothing, then write. The words will flow like the verdant juices of a freshly crushed frog, though they will hold little meaning.

That's what it boils down to. A total absence of anything resembling experiential content will inevitably lead to sparkling prose about dead frogs. If this withering burst of insight does not floor you, then I have no idea what to write next.

In fact, forget all that.

Gamer's fatigue

I'm worn out. That is to say, virtual me is worn out. He's been under constant fire for weeks and at turns has tired of it, but without fail has returned to the battlefield for more, reasons for which known only to himself. Eventually, it dawned on him that this endless conflict was just that, endless. Fucking interminable actually. His accuracy was improving but his kdr was jammed at around 0.87 and the myriad random deaths routine was wearing awfully thin.

Once this epiphany was properly played out (this was not the typical epiphany where you see a moose hit by a beer truck and suddenly realize at that very moment that you want to be a fire spotter; this was more gradual, a supple twisting of sinewed gears) he gradually dipped a pixelated toe into waters unknown yet utterly familiar.

His first sojourn beyond the borders of modern combat led him to barren wastes, though they teemed with mutated insectoid life. His reflexes sharpened by months of intense yet farcical weaponized tomfoolery had left him jittery; the thud of rock on soil as a skittering cockroach dislodged some nearby debris caused him to whirl expectantly, holographic scope primed and grenades at the ready, though he had neither.

The slower pace eventually settled his frayed nerves and he set about actually communicating with the local inhabitants rather than atomizing them with laser guided ordnance. On entering proper the wastes, he quickly discovered that weapon and foe were primitive, though no less deadly for it and he eventually succumbed to a 6 foot long scorpion.

The fallout from this disheartening turn of events was largely positive; he determined that this transition was viable and a return visit was warranted. In the meantime, his horizons expanded, he set about assisting the plight of a rebel cell on a Mars colony. Armed with his mighty demoltion hammer, he cut bloody swathes through callous military, special menace reserved for those directly responsible for the death of his brother whom he had only just made the acquaintance of. The red dust of Mars swirled around him, coating his figure in thick Martian burgundy and leaving blood red his fellow faction members as they stood, earnest, at the precipice.

The shackles were off; the chain, dragging and whipping, snakelike, though the dust of differing universes behind him. His future before him; varied, prosperous, ripe with choice and unencumbered by noob toobing fuckshits that spoke in broken timbre and hadn't started shaving yet.