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I cannot be this.

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Inquisitor Aodhan Trevelyan, ten years later.

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monarchs 🦋

timeapse fuck yeeeas

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Sketchbook dump! Trying to figure out Liesl Ingellvar, Asla Mercar, and Lace Harding. Think I might finally be getting the hang of Lucanis at least. And Varric, my beloved 💜

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Arden 🥺 so like a jock to clear his head by going for a run (making for some pretty tight laps I’m guessing haha!). Varric is so good here. Just what he needed 🥺

“The general …should not be careless of the proper time at which to serve meals. For if he considers that it lies with him to lead out his troops to battle whenever he wishes, he may set a meal hour for his troops at whatever time he wishes. But if he should chance to have come into such extremities, because of the terrain, or the weakness of his camp, or for some other reason, that it is left in the power of the enemy to attack whenever they desire, and to compel his army to seize their arms and draw up for defense, he should not hesitate to order the first meal at sunrise, lest the enemy, by a prior attack, force his men to fight while still hungry. On the whole, this matter must not be considered of slight importance….” –Onasander

The world was a cloud, pushing in on him, obscuring everything else. They’d been here in this strange between-place three days, Arden thought–it was impossible to know for sure, his condition compounded by the strange nature of the Lighthouse. His head was pounding still. He felt so tired. Heavy and lost, as if he’d forgotten something important. 

He’d had a nasty concussion when he was fourteen–one of the other boys had managed to throw him while grappling, too close to the edge of the fighting lists. His head had hit the wall–hard. He didn’t remember much about the following days, which was sort of in the nature of the beast. Mostly he remembered it as the only time his mother had snapped back at his father. In retrospect, she’d been scared–scared by the concussion, angry at his father for wanting him to get back in the ring so soon. But concussions were hardly unheard of among training boys, and he’d seen them from the outside as well. This feeling of wandering lost in time, always returning to the only point of understanding as if stuck in an eddy. My head hurts. My head hurts. What have I forgotten?

“Shake it off, Rook. They need you out there.”

Arden groaned.

“Why, Varric? Is my presence somehow going to make the four of us enough to kill gods?”

“Well, they’re not doing it without you.”

“They know you. Neve doesn’t know me, and Lace trusts you completely.”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten it’s me that got them into this mess,” Varric replied.

“This mess? No, this one’s mine. All my magnificent, amazing mess. The mess of all time.”

“Hey!” There was something close to anger in Varric’s voice. “None of that. This isn’t on you. You did what I asked you to do. You stopped the ritual. Do I need to remind you what would be happening to Thedas right now if you didn’t? Do I need to remind you what Minrathous looked like before he even finished?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. ‘Do not waste time on what has passed, nor coddle yourself with pity when you should rise to action.’” The words were so ingrained that they came to Arden easily even through his fog.

“Is that what your dad would say?”

“More what he did say. Repeatedly.”

“Respectfully,” Varric drawled, “Fuck your dad.” 

Arden snorted explosively.

Varric smiled. “No, really. It’s fine to think this all stinks! It stinks! You can feel sorry for yourself and still ‘rise to action’. I should know. I’m an expert.” Varric shifted, gingerly rubbing his chest. “But you do need the action. And I don’t think I’m going anywhere soon.

“Neve and Harding aren’t leaders, Rook. They’re brilliant at what they do, but they’re not you. They need you.”

“To be the good little general Father worked so hard to make me.” It was spiteful and unfair, but the anger actually felt good, the way it cut through the fog. 

“No,” Varric said, and the gentleness in it stung. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think you can teach someone to be a leader. I mean, you can teach them a lot about effective leadership, sure. But I think being someone people want to follow comes from inside. I didn’t pick you because of your dad. I picked you because of you. Because of who you were out there being, all on your own. Shit, if you weren’t willing to piss off your dad, I don’t think you’d be the guy we need.”

Arden stared up at the ceiling for a minute longer. Finally, he rolled up out of the cot with something between a groan and a snarl. Once he was upright, he spared a moment to hold his head in his hands. “Fenedhis. How many more concussions do you think before I forget all of Strategikos and The Methods of Siege Warfare?”

“At least one more, I’m betting.” Varric grinned.

“Right.” Arden stood up. “First, I go for a run. Then we set a schedule. This fucking place will have us questioning which way is up if we don’t get strict. Let’s see–mealtimes. Morning roll call? Shit, we need a dwarven clock. I wouldn’t trust a magic timepiece in this place. What else? How In the Maker’s name do you set a training regimen for mages, Varric?”

“Fuck if I know.” Varric shrugged, and then winced. “You’ve got this, Rook.”

Arden rolled his shoulders, and then gingerly stretched his neck, first to one side and then the other. He grimaced at the way the room swam.

“I’ve got this.”

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You're not very good at silence.

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I AINT SEE NO ONE TALKIN ABOUT HIS GODDAMN DESIGN

Mayhaps I missed it from early discussions, but they made this man a goddamn corpse flower...

His designers deserve so many kisses on the forehead for this especially since he would have been a botanist if he wasn't a necromancer

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Got this targeted ad and checked what they’ll be playing, and it’s only movie themes. And I am furious now that I can’t listen to a live performance of Sea of Blood in a haunted ship surrounded by spooky candles. We were SO CLOSE people

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I was so happy that none of my Veilguard companions betrayed me because I love them all and they’re a delight

Until I remember that Solas betrayed me AGAIN and Varric betrayed me by really being gone and I betrayed MYSELF by not digging deeper and talking myself out of thinking something was wrong with him 😭

Dammit BioWare you did it again

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THE X-FILES | 6.06

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Hi I absolutely love this and all of the Mourn Watcher anatomy lessons and her patience with Spite and your Lucanis and Spite voices are so good and I am flailing over here! 😍

The pantry door is ajar rather than fully open today, so Rook raps twice on the doorframe before nudging it open and ducking inside. 

Lucanis is at his desk, charcoal in hand, diligently writing in his notebook. A single candle burns on the desk beside him. Not much of a meltpool around it, or at least, not enough for her to see one from here. He can’t have been at this for long, then. 

Rook glances down at the folded letter in her hand – another plea for action from Jacobus – before she speaks. 

“Lucanis,” she begins, “have you heard anything else from Treviso lately? New information from Teia and Viago?”

“Rook. Came. To visit?”

Ah, it’s Spite’s turn at the wheel. The voice – a little scratchier, a little deeper – leaves no question about that.

But… now that she’s really looking at him, she should have known that already. Spite has more of a hunch to his back when he sits, and his grip on the charcoal is – well, it’s a touch less careful than she would expect from Lucanis. She should’ve noticed as soon as she stepped in. If she wasn’t so preoccupied – but it doesn’t matter. Rook tucks the letter into a pocket. Next moves will have to wait.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s good to see you, Spite. What are you getting up to? Not too much trouble, I hope?”

“Making notes,” he says, and looks back at the notebook. “Documenting. Like he does.”

“Oh?” Rook crosses the room and comes to stand beside him. There’s a few scrawled notes, yes, but more than that…

“You have,” she says peering down at the geometric lines decorating the page, “the remarkable ability to create the straightest freehand lines I’ve ever seen.” Particularly given that he’s piloting the body of a caffeine addict running on two or three hours of sleep a night, if that. That this combination does not result in shaky, quavering writing is a wonder in itself.

“Is that. What makes his hands. Nice?”

“–come again?”

“Before. You said. His hands. Were nice.” Spite looks up from the page now, back at her. 

“Oh,” she says, casting her mind back and attempting to recall when, exactly, he is referring to. “Well. I don’t know that this was quite what I meant.” Really, she’d probably just meant that it would be nice for Lucanis to not wake up with burns covering his palms. 

“Then. What?” 

He leans closer still to her, as if searching for answers in her face. Strange to be under such close scrutiny and yet not feel the need to shy away, but Spite doesn’t mean anything by it. 

“We-e-ell… he’s very precise with his knife – in and out of battle.” She’d thought she had passable kitchen skills before she met Lucanis, but if the others in the Necropolis could know what it was like to dice an onion with even a quarter of his skill, supper would have been a far more joyous occasion. “And he knits, too. So he’s as deft with fine details as he is with, ah, broader movements. Y’know.” She mimics stabbing the air. “And…”

And she imagines he would direct just as much care and fidelity into his motions if his hands were to find themselves cupping her jaw, or on her hips, or–

“Rook does this. Too.”

For one, brief moment, she forgets that it is not her head Spite can see into, and he is not referring to what she was thinking about. So, then, he means – 

She stifles a laugh. Spite does not seem to notice, or if he does, he does not take offense. 

“To a degree,” she agrees. “But I’m afraid I cannot match the dexterousness Lucanis possesses. My knifework suffices because I can send a mass of necrotic energy along with it, but it’s really just a focus to channel magic through. If I were to rely solely on a blade, I’d be hard-pressed to do any real damage, and my movements would be… a fair bit clumsier.”

Unbidden, she remembers those close quarters moments down in the Necropolis, pitted against Baron von Markham. The waving of arms and fluttering of fingers to evoke the image of some grand spell being cast. The look on his poncy face when she dropped this pretence and lunged at him with the snapped off pole that once held one of his precious, territory-claiming banners. The struggle; the scuffle; the ragged breathing as she exerted all her energy to thrust it into his chest and then slash and smash and shatter and crush until she was certain he would never move again. 

And the absolute mess of his remains in that urn… she’s certain that Lucanis has never made such a mess of a contract before. Not like that.

Rook shakes off her reverie. “No,” she concludes, “it isn’t quite the same.”

Spite’s brow furrows. “Are Rook’s hands. Not. Nice? Only Lucanis?”

“Mm, I don’t know that I would go that far. They’re different, that’s all.”

“What makes them. Different?”

“Practice?” she suggests. “Repeating the same motion or skill over and over again builds the ability to do it better the next time. Makes quicker mental pathways – and it can make a physical difference in the musculature of the hands. Or in any part of the body that’s used,” she adds. 

Spite looks down at his hands – at Lucanis’ hands – turning them over, then back. Then, his gaze meets hers once more. 

“Let me. See.”

His words are decisive, but it’s less of a demand than it seems on its face. She could decline easily. Not much he could do about it. But she will oblige. It’s good for Spite to have a safe way to test the constraints of this world, so different from the one he comes from. 

“Certainly.” She holds out both hands and Spite rises with haste, nearly knocking the chair back as he reaches for her. This time, she does not bother to muffle her laugh. “They’re not going to wander off,” she says.

Spite takes first one, then the other, until he is turning both of her hands back and forth, examining them from mere inches away. 

“The musculature is likely to have some distinct divergences, but it can be difficult to see that from the outside,” she says, suppressing the urge to point out the way her palmar interossei muscles engage with the gentle flexion of Spite bending her fingers towards her palm, or how his flexor digitorum superficialis and profundus allow him to take hold of her fingers now. “Far easier to see during an autopsy – which we will, ah, not be doing today.”

Spite makes a noise that is not quite a growl, but which nevertheless conveys no small amount of frustration. 

“You can still learn quite a bit while leaving the skin intact, though,” Rook says. “Look here, at these calluses.”

She tugs until he gets the cue to stop testing the flexibility of her fingers and loosens his grip, then turns both her palms up. 

“Thickened layers of skin that build up in response to repeated friction.” She rubs her right thumb over her index finger. “From writing. Used to be more prominent, but they faded a little after I finished my thesis, and after leaving the Necropolis, well… I haven’t had many opportunities to write more than the occasional letter home.”

Spite pulls the hand in question nearer and, for a moment, just stares and stares, then traces over the spots she’d touched much as she did. He repeats this a few times, light enough that she snorts at the ticklish sensation this elicits. Then, he drops her hand abruptly and stares at Lucanis’ right hand. He probes the index finger inquisitively. 

“The same,” he says. 

“Yes, very similar to mine,” she says. “No surprise there. Lucanis keeps diligent notes now, but… I don’t suppose they gave you – him – access to writing tools down in the Ossuary, did they?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Spite’s voice. A simmering anger that emerges at the mention of the place that bound and trapped the two of them. “Kept logs. In his head. Only.”

“Right,” she nods. “So, not too much time to build up since getting out, but if he keeps up the habit – and if you do, too – those may become a little rougher, in time.”

He pokes at this again for a little while, then turns his attention to the ones at the base of the index finger and just below it, on the palm, then to smaller calluses along the first knuckle of Lucanis’ other fingers. 

Spite looks at her. “These.”

She catches the unspoken question: explain.

“These, I’d wager, come from all that bladework,” she says. 

Spite looks at Lucanis’ hands a moment longer, then at Rook’s, fingers passing over her palms. Then, over Lucanis’ once more.  

“…more here. Than. Rook.”

“Yes!” She beams at Spite. “Very observant. You’re really getting attuned to physical senses.” 

Spite bares his teeth in a facsimile of a grin at her words, the mark of one who is a little unused to making such an expression. She wonders if he has a form that can smile when he’s not possessing Lucanis. She’s never seen a spirit of Spite made manifest before. 

“Been. Practicing!”

“I can tell!”

Space still seems to be oddly difficult for Spite, but up close, sound and smell and touch all seem manageable, particularly in recent days. She’d like to ask him how his ability to perceive taste has been developing, but despite her attempts to offer more suitable methods of testing that, he remains most drawn to things that would make Lucanis sick, if indulged; drawn to the allure of a magical candle more than a pilfered sweet from the catacombs. Best not to bring it up, for now. 

“How. To tell?” Spite asks. 

“That you’ve been practicing?”

“No. Tell. Where. They come from. What makes them.”

“Ah. It can be difficult to know for sure, without outside context, as they can come from using various tools as easily as they can come from weapons – but you can generally tell how frequent the use is based on how numerous and how thick the calluses are.” She flexes her fingers. “So when you compare our hands, you can tell that I don’t handle knives to the same extent that Lucanis does.”

Spite’s gaze, faintly glowing, darts between their hands again, then back to Rook’s face. “What. Else?”

“Well… beyond external appearance and what can be gleaned by observing them at rest, you get the clearest idea of what they can do by… putting them to use – or watching someone else do it. Seeing them in action. How fast they can move, how strong their grip is…”

She laces her fingers together and presses her palms together demonstratively. Demonstrative of what, exactly, is unclear, but she’s not about to summon fire and kick off that whole debate again, so – something simple. A physical touchstone for him to reference. 

Spite does the same, watching her as though to confirm that he’s doing it right, so she nods encouragingly. Spurred on, he spends a long moment just staring at his pressed together hands, turning them about and looking at them from different angles.

“Mmm…”

She’s not actually sure how to interpret that noise. Not overly frustrated, yet not content. Contemplative, perhaps? He continues turning his – Lucanis’ – linked hands together, so she leaves it be. It doesn’t occupy him for terribly long, though. Soon, his eyes return to Rook and he separates his hands – and then reaches for her wrist. Again, she obliges, following until their palms are aligned. 

“You. Try.”

A comparison? Well, why not? She slots her fingers in the spaces between and squeezes lightly. 

Again, he makes a contemplative noise. “Now I go.”

Rook has only a brief moment to bask in the feeling that she is successfully assisting Spite in expanding his understanding of this plane – bonding, even! – before he clenches his fingers with far more pressure than is comfortable. 

“Ah–” She winces, but resists the urge to pull away. “Spite, my friend, you must remember that mortal vessels are fragile things; be gentle.” She squeezes back, a little firmer than she did before but still with markedly less force than he is exerting now. “You see?”

Spite grumbles, but the pressure does ease. “What. Is the point. If not. Testing limits?”

“Learning them, I suppose, if not exactly pushing them.”

“And?”

“And… not much else. I think I’m out of things to show you,” she says, “on this topic, anyhow. If you’d like to really suss out all the things they can do, perhaps you could ask Lucanis to show you some tricks. I’m sure–”

A noise outside the pantry breaks her concentration. Something falling? A log shifting in the fireplace? Or perhaps the dining room doors opening? Not likely to be urgent either way. Still, she makes a note to look into that later before looking back to Spite.

Only it isn’t Spite.

“Rook?”

Softer. Smoother. And unmistakably confused. 

“–Lucanis.”

He’s blinking heavily, as though awakening from a deep sleep – which he is, really. His body may have been active, with Spite at the wheel, but his mind was drifting in dreamland. 

“What are you… what am I…? Rook, what happened?”

Only now does she become aware of their proximity. It hadn’t seemed so strange before – Spite can’t really be expected to have the same understanding of personal boundaries among polite society with so little exposure to the idea, but now she realizes that they’re so close she can feel the warmth radiating off of him – so close she can feel his breath against her skin. Maker, they’re practically nose-to-nose – and they are still holding hands.

It’s a realization he makes a mere fraction of a second after she does, as his eyes take in the room around them, the candle on the desk, her, and then finally dart down to their joined hands between them.

Ah. 

She takes a step backward, chagrined to find that detangling her fingers from his is slightly trickier than she’d anticipated and she does not manage to do it in the swift, smooth motion she was hoping for. It takes only a moment, but that moment seems to stretch out for far too long. 

“Lucanis,” Rook says again. “It’s… good to see you awake again.” That… was not an answer. And she should probably not still be this close to him, even if she has let go. She takes another shuffling step back. “I, ah, came to ask about how things were going in Treviso, but when I got here, Spite was writing, and he had some questions. …about hands.”

“About hands?” Lucanis’ brow furrows slightly. “Again?”

Again?

“Oh, did he already ply you for answers? That… rascal. Ha.” What the hell is she saying? She’s veered too hard into trying to sound nonchalant. Pivot back, now, before she makes this even stranger. 

“He – nevermind.” Lucanis shakes his head. “He didn’t do… anything else?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” she says. “I mean, I can’t speak to what he was doing before I came in, but… making notes and talking, that’s all I saw him do.”

“Good. Still…” Lucanis glances askance, sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks up at her then, and Maker but he has the most beautiful eyes. No, focus, he’s speaking now. “I am sorry. That he bothered you again.”

“No! No. It’s fine, really, it’s – I know what he’s like and he was only curious, and I… really should have just waited until you were awake and came back then, instead of… intruding.”

At that, Lucanis chuckles. “Rook. You’re not intruding.” The ghost of a smile that graced his lips fades quickly into something markedly more bitter. “If anyone is, it’s him.” There’s no heat in the words, though, just… exhaustion. Another sigh, and Lucanis swipes a hand over his face. “...no. It isn’t his fault, either. I just wish–” 

His words fade into a grumble she can’t quite make out, but… she can imagine how he would’ve finished it. The looming threat of a loss of control – of waking up somewhere else having done Maker knows what – lurking around every corner… well. It can’t feel great.  

“…hey,” she starts, “at least he stayed put, right?”

Now he does smile wryly. “I asked Emmrich to put wards on the room,” he says, “after the last time Spite slipped out.”

“Ah.” That… makes sense, actually. Something about the pantry did feel different lately. She might be losing her touch, to not have recognized it sooner. “Nevermind, then.”

“You should rest easier now, knowing he won’t be able to wander as freely,” Lucanis says. 

His words give her pause.

While many outside Nevarra may call those such as Spite demons, the Mourn Watch takes a more… nuanced stance on such matters. Each spirit is unique, just as each living person is, and while there may be certain dangers or pitfalls associated with some, they must be taken as the individual they are to truly understand them – and, when considered this way, Spite just… isn’t a fearsome figure. There’s the risk of being caught up in a tantrum, she supposed, but she can’t say she’s ever lost sleep over fears of what Spite might do.

But. Lucanis does not share in this conviction. And it seems… uncouth to belabor the point. Again. 

“I suppose that explains why Emmrich hasn't been setting out an extra tea cup lately,” she says instead. “And here I thought it was just because he’d given up winning me over to the tea-loving cause.”

She cannot deny the flicker of satisfaction that sparks when her words make Lucanis’ smile widen. 

He breaks eye contact and looks around the room once more. 

“...at least he did not seem to cause too much havoc, except on my notebook.” Lucanis picks it up and narrows his eyes at the open page. “Mierda, what was he even trying to say here? And here, and…” He flips a page. “On my notes? The messes he leaves me to clean up…”

He sounds, as he ever does, tired. And perhaps her presence is not helpful in that regard. Waking up in strange circumstances likely does not help with that, and she… was the cause of today’s odd awakening. 

“Y’know, I should… probably… leave you to your evening in peace. Let you orient yourself again. …sorry about your notes.”

His mouth opens a half-beat before he speaks, as though he means to say something else but stops himself. “You are not the one that needs to apologize,” is what comes out. 

This… is something for the two of them to sort out; not much she can do to smooth this over. 

As she leaves, she hears faint muttering –

“What is ‘the infinite?’ And what do you mean by a ‘small shade?’ Spite, what–?”

It takes no small amount of effort to keep each step steady and even, but she concentrates on this task and this task alone until she has managed it. 

Only after the dining room door has clicked decisively shut behind her does she allow herself to lace her fingers together and remember the warmth of his skin again. 

Maker’s breath, she’s in trouble. 

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THIS JUST HAPPENED

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MY HUSBAND

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kinda upset by how many people are insisting that davrin's narrative is more about assan than davrin

it's really not

everything revolving around how davrin interacts with assan is also him talking to himself

which is a perspective problem that all of the companions have

they are all people who are too in their own heads to be able to resolve some of their deeper fundamental conflicts, because all of them are deeply lonely and alienated from their respective social environments, convinced in various ways that they cannot relate too others or be related too in turn, which is one of the things that makes them the perfect team to hunt down solas, who has the same problems writ large across the ages.

and in overcoming their issues and turning to rook and each other for external opinions while solas observes rook it demonstrates that other courses of action are possible and that there is value in trusting others with their loneliness and vulnerability but ANYWAY

davrin pretty clearly projects his feelings about his own upbringing onto assan, including the very

clearly present problems he has experienced as a dalish warden, if we let ourselves see them. he's not turning around to us and saying directly that he's been treated like shit by humans for most of his life in any run i've had so far. he also doesn't need too. he demonstrates it with the positions he holds.

how he advocates for not revealing the truth behind the origins of the elves, because it will make their lives harder than they already are.

how he tells assan that he needs to toughen up or he'll get chewed up by the world. that he's meant to be a hunter. that it's in his blood. it's what he's for.

how he changes his mind when he sees assan interact with the halla. how it clearly reminds him, along with his reconnection with endrin, that he was once a little boy who sang to halla. that he is more than violence, more than the hunt, more than a living weapon meant to be used once and then disposed of.

i've barely touched on his romance at all in my current run but like. please. even without it, just from my first run:

davrin is so clearly afraid of abandonment, of rejection. of letting his guard down and letting people in because it might compromise his dedication to his chosen path - *as are they all, in different ways, which is on purpose* - that he is trying to raise assan to protect him from davrin's own pain.

which doesn't work! that doesn't work.

davrin looks at assan and names him arrow. davrin looks at himself and calls himself a weapon. davrin doesn't let himself return to his clan because he anticipates their rejection. because he already didn't fit in with them to start with. davrin never gives us his last name.

the unity between warden and griffon comes when davrin stops just projecting his own pain and fears onto assan, and learns how to work with assan as he is. In doing so, it makes him realize he can be more than a weapon. That there's an option for him beyond sacrifice and vigilance. That he can find peace. it is a reconciliation of disparate aspects of his Self, which is another recurring narrative thread in the game.

Davrin doesn't have to completely disconnect from his people. He doesn't have to himself separate and away from everyone, protecting them from what he perceives as his inevitable end, or from harming them. Assan can just be Assan, and Davrin can just be Davrin, and they love each other.

he reconciles himself with his complex feelings around his clan, finds value in the lessons they taught him that he chafed against as a younger man. he reconciles himself with the complex history of the wardens, and looks for a different future with them too.

assan is bright and vibrant and alive and new and, to borrow davrin's word, "pure". He can be anything. He reminds Davrin that he can be anything, too. Assan is a catalyst, he's not the actual focus. He is the catalyst for realizations in every scene we see him in in Davrin's personal quests, which are always actually about Davrin.

[fanfoolishness]

"Food is always welcome. So is dancing." commissioned piece for @neb-art-zeke ^^

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I feel like we need a refresher on Watsonian vs Doylist perspectives in media analysis. When you have a question about a piece of media - about a potential plot hole or error, about a dubious costuming decision, about a character suddenly acting out of character -

A Watsonian answer is one that positions itself within the fictional world.

A Doylist answer is one that positions itself within the real world.

Meaning: if Watson says something that isn't true, one explanation is that Watson made a mistake. Another explanation is that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle made a mistake.

Watsonian explanations are implicitly charitable. You are implicitly buying into the notion that there is a good in-world reason for what you're seeing on screen or on the page. ("The bunny girls in Final Fantasy wear lingerie all the time because they're from a desert culture!")

Doylist explanations are pragmatic. You are acknowledging that the fiction is shaped by real-world forces, like the creators' personal taste, their biases, the pressures they might be under from managers or editors, or the limits of their expertise. ("The bunny girls in Final Fantasy wear lingerie because somebody thought they'd sell more units that way.")

Watsonian explanations tend to be imaginative but naive. Seeking a Watsonian explanation for a problem within a narrative is inherently pleasure-seeking: you don't want your suspension of disbelief to be broken, and you're willing to put in the leg work to prevent it. Looking for a Watsonian answer can make for a fun game! But it can quickly stray into making excuses for lazy or biased storytelling, or cynical and greedy executives.

Doylist explanations are very often accurate, but they're not much fun. They should supersede efforts to provide a Watsonian explanation where actual harm is being done: "This character is being depicted in a racist way because the creators have a racist bias.'" Or: "The lore changed because management fired all of the writers from last season because they didn't want to pay then residuals."

Doylism also runs the risk of becoming trite, when applied to lower stakes discrepancies. Yes, it's possible that this character acted strangely in this episode because this episode had a different writer, but that isn't interesting, and it terminates conversation.

I think a lot of conversations about media would go a lot more smoothly, and everyone would have a lot more fun, if people were just clearer about whether they are looking to engage in Watsonian or Doylist analysis. How many arguments could be prevented by just saying, "No, Doylist you're probably right, but it's more fun to imagine there's a Watsonian reason for this, so that's what I'm doing." Or, "From a Watsonian POV that explanation makes sense, but I'm going with the Doylist view here because the creator's intentions leave a bad taste in my mouth that I can't ignore."

Idk, just keep those terms in your pocket? And if you start to get mad at somebody for their analysis, take a second to see if what they're saying makes more sense from the other side of the Watsonian/Doylist divide.

[fanfoolishness]

The Mandalorian Fireside (ambience)