#because Eon is a sick ass name and I thought it would be fun to add the extra N like in my username

[mokeonn]

One day I shall make a reference of my sweet ass fursona... That day is not today, here he is :3

[tysonrunningfox]

Open Flames: Chapter 20

Also known as...the epilogue

Ao3 

If I asked Fuse what her favorite part of our honeymonth was, I’d guess it was when I told my mom to ‘go away’ a little less than charitably because she thought she could interrupt our second day of wedded bliss to ask some question about some random thing that Acting Chief Hiccup could obviously handle.  If Fuse asked me the same question, I’d probably say what happened immediately after I told my mom to ‘go away’, because that was a memorable way to accidentally knock the weapons rack off of the wall and then realize no one could yell at us because it is our wall. 

If this hypothetical conversation happened in the first few days after the wedding, in that wave of the novelty of true, uninterruptible privacy that momentarily made Fuse do her best and mostly succeed to forget that she was pretty miserably pregnant, my answer would have garnered an enthusiastic response.  Any other time in the last month she probably would have rolled her eyes and asked me to rub her feet. 

Which I would have done.  Happily.  Without question. 

As always, I’d do anything to make Fuse safer or better. 

But this morning, when she assured me that burning Snoggletog breakfast didn’t make her sick while her hands curled into white-knuckled balls of pain at her side, there was nothing I could do.  She told me to get the midwife with the same even voice she uses to guide shaky hands into building bombs, and I did it, moving mechanically like she always wants me to around explosives. 

All day, for the first time, I haven’t been able to stop what’s hurting her.  My axe hanging useless on the crooked weapons rack, fists clenched against the urge to try and take control of the uncontrollable. 

“Does he need to wait outside?”  The midwife asks, yanking me out of my panic, and Fuse – Fuse, who I put into this situation – has the gall to look worried about me for a mortifying second.  “If he forgot how to move, I can get Arvid to drag him out by his toes.” 

Not a good look for a Chief. Or a man.

Or a dad. 

“Fuck,” I swear at the situation. At the house. At myself.  At the obligation to compose my face, to be a Chief, to be there for Fuse even when I want to apologize over and over every time I see the contents of one of those medical buckets.  “I’m good.  I’m good.” 

And then Fuse is breaking my hand and the midwife is encouraging her and then silence.  The worst thing I’ve ever heard. 

It stretches.  Seconds.  Years.  Eons. 

My useless axe couldn’t cut the tension.

My knees shake. 

Then there’s a cry. 

A baby’s cry. 

A shrill, instantly recognizable cry that makes me want to get that axe and face outwards from the doorway, but I can’t, because the baby is wrapped in a blanket and shoved hastily in my arms while the midwife works. 

“It’s a girl,” she says, offhand, like it’s not the most important thing she’ll ever say. 

And the silence in my head is the loudest, longest, beat of my life, looking down at that red little face. 

The baby’s furious.  Beyond pissed. 

I get it.

Hel, I just spent a month with nothing but Fuse and after being forced into the world I feel like sobbing.  And I have distractions. 

There’s something Fuse-like in the twist of the little girl’s anger.  Something righteous and unhinged and the weight of my two Fuse’s slams into my chest like a battering ram. 

I don’t remember sagging down against the wall, bundle in my arms. I don’t remember crying. I just know I have to wipe tears from my eyes when I hear the second cry, this one higher pitched as a wriggling, arching little thing is wrapped in another blanket.

“Another girl,” the midwife says, holding the screaming bundle in my direction. 

“You mean,” I jump upright as carefully as I can, still supporting myself on the wall, scared to take even a hand off of the bundle in my arms, “both? I—”

“You’re going to have to get used to having your hands full,” she adjusts my arms with brusque, bloody hands and sets the second baby in them. 

In theory, she pats my shoulder in a matronly way. I theoretically feel it and nod like her words made some kind of sense.  In practice, I float, lost in two tiny, indignant faces I almost recognize. 

Here they are. 

After all that, here they are. 

“Hand me the older one,” the midwife prompts and I reflexively shake my head, holding both bundles closer to my chest.  Her eyes are irritated but kind as she raises an eyebrow, “she needs to eat.  Unless you were intending to feed her.” 

“I’ll feed her,” I insist mindlessly.  “How—I mean, how do I feed her?” 

“By handing her to your wife, Chief.”  The midwife says the title like a mild admonishment, and I flush. 

“Right.  I knew that.  I know that.”  I reluctantly allow her to take the older twin, clutching the younger one to my chest as I appear by the bed, my feet insubstantial against the floor as I allow myself to take in the scene. 

Fuse.  Obviously exhausted, pink hair stuck to her face, head back against a pile of pillows. A baby in her arms, expression placid and overwhelmed as she listens to the midwife and tries to position the squirming bundle against her chest. 

I clear my throat.  She glances at me and there’s all that understanding, all that coping, all that resilience that’s always left behind after the blast.  It’s all familiar, all such a relief that I can barely breathe as I sit on the edge of the bed before my quaking knees dump me on my ass. 

The older twin goes to sleep after she eats, a squishy little bundle with red-brown hair tucked under Fuse’s arm as I reluctantly hand over the younger girl, her hair just starting to show blonde where it’s brushed clean on the blanket.  I was hoping for pink, but she has Fuse’s nose and I don’t remember the last time I was this lost for words.

Probably when I was our babies’ age and didn’t know any words. 

Gods, they don’t know any words. I have to teach them everything and keep them safe and I cradle my head in my hands, trying not to dwell on how easy it’s going to be to mess up. 

“I’m going to let you two get settled while I go tell your families,” the midwife starts picking up her supplies and I sit upright. 

“You’re leaving?”  I fumble for the words, “does that—what if—it’s over?”  I look at Fuse, all three of my Fuses, impossibly safe and tired and terrifying, because of how much they need me.  Because all that’s left in me is how much I need them. 

“Unless you think there’s a third.”  The midwife raises that eyebrow at me, and I get the feeling she’s thinking about moving to some other island with a chief who makes sense.  “I’ll be back.” 

“You’re alright.”  I let myself say it once the heavy front door is shut and we’re alone, let the relief bleed around it, let my hand shake now that I can’t drop anything. 

“That’s one word for it,” Fuse mutters under her breath, but my expression makes her pause and she sighs, shifting a bit uncomfortably, “I will be.  Just…a long day.” 

“Why?”  I snort even though I don’t think it’s explicitly a joke, scooting a little closer and barely biting back a sigh of relief when she lifts her head for me to slip my arm behind it, like she doesn’t hate me even after what I just put her through.  “Been busy?”

“A little bit.”  She glares at me, eyes blue fire, and that’s the same too, like I really managed not to lose any of her in the multiplication. 

“I’ll trade you for the next one,” I glance between the two babies, still more than a little in awe of how persistently they’re existing here, “I can do the hard part while you freak out and the midwife makes fun of you.” 

“Next one?”  She huffs, intact eyebrow raised. 

“I was operating under the impression that the grumpiness was supposed to end when you weren’t pregnant anymore,” I joke, kissing her forehead, happy pang in my stomach when that little blonde head nestles against my chest. 

“To be fair, I said I’d be grumpy as long as I couldn’t see my toes,” she leans back against my arm a little harder, circles under her eyes prominent as the other baby fusses, less furious than before, little hand fisting in the blanket. 

I glance at Fuse’s foot peeking out from the blankets and laugh, “and you haven’t looked yet?” 

“I don’t intend to.”  She almost laughs, breathy and exhausted as she leans a little harder into my side.  The older twin fusses again, bordering on a cry. “Can you take her?”  She asks, a little unsure of herself, holding the little blonde bundle like some rare and exciting mineral she hasn’t worked with before, but believes will combust especially impressively. 

“Sure.  Yeah.”  I nod, apologizing at least a dozen times under my breath throughout the clumsy shuffle as Fuse adjusts the blankets and picks up the older baby, steady hand gentle against the back of her neck. 

My hands feel too big, too rough, ill-equipped and shaky as my thumb brushes a blonde curl away from a tiny furrowed eyebrow.  Fuse’s eyebrow as if it had never been burned, focused on something no one else can see. 

“Gods, she looks like you,” Fuse mumbles, looking down at the older twin in her arms, temple on my chest. 

“Are you kidding me?”  I kiss the top of her head, “did you hear her screaming?  All you.” 

“This is your morning face,” she insists, “exactly.” 

I look down at the babies, the older one’s grumpy face and the younger one’s blonde curls, seeing Fuse in every twitch of tiny fingers. 

“We have to name them,” I say a bit slowly, awkwardly, trying not to show how nervous I’ve been for this part.  It’s obvious that Fuse picks up on it anyway because she kisses my shirt and sighs, settling in for a conversation she’s obviously too tired to want to have.  “I can’t keep referring to them as ‘older’ and ‘younger’ in my head.” 

“One and two?”  She offers and I shake my head. 

“Of course, when I have my first opportunity to mess a kid up for life, I double down.”  I can’t imagine shoving some of my own generational baggage down onto either of the nameless girls’ beautiful, wrinkled faces.  I’m not going to lie, I feel like I’ve gotten off the hook a little bit because Eret IV, Hiccup IV, and Stoick III are all out of the running just due to gender. 

“Sounds like you,” Fuse wakes up enough to mull the problem over properly, “they don’t look like Nuts to me.” 

“Do twins names have to go together?  Like a set?”  I love how our house feels like an extension of my mind, like anything I think, I can say out loud and it’ll find purchase, not judgement.  “Thunder and Drum.  Or rhyme?  Inga and Helga.”  Nothing sounds right, and Fuse agrees from the way she shifts, silence heavy, shoulder digging into my ribs.  “Purchase,” I gesture to the baby in her arms, “and Free Gift The Merchant Threw In For A Loyal Customer.” 

“That’s a little wordy.” 

“Maybe we should work off your name?”  I don’t bring up mine and she doesn’t either and I love her so much I don’t know where to put it all.  I’m glad for the girls to collect the love that feels like it’s spilling over.  “Fuse, Grenade, and Aftershock.  Casing and Powder.  Blast and Shrapnel.” 

She snorts half a tired laugh before sitting up a little straighter, “wait, Shrapnel.” 

“I was kidding.” 

“I’m not,” she tickles a chubby foot that has escaped the blanket bundle on my lap, “she is the second wave of destruction after the explosion.” 

“Fuse and Shrapnel.”  I mull it over and nod, “I like it.  Halfway done.” 

“The easy half,” she bounces the little girl in her arms. 

“Just because Shrapnel is a side effect of an explosion doesn’t mean she’s not destructive,” I chide gently, that heavy bond in my chest deepening when I look at the baby on my lap and tie a name to her. 

“No, I—whatever we choose has to sound good with Chief in front of it.” 

“Oh.”  I swallow, “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“The future Chief of Berk,” Fuse says quietly, messing with chubby fingers until the baby girl’s face furrows. 

I want to deflect.  To say something stupid about how Shrapnel could stage a coup at any time.  I want to tell Fuse that she doesn’t have to worry about that now, just how I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to worry about the mantle of Chief’s wife. 

But she’s right.  And as much as I hate needing it, especially now, her support makes the hazy future feel possible. 

How much can I really mess up this dad thing if Fuse is helping me? 

“So, it’s got to be easy to pronounce,” I swallow hard, “you know how Christians have problems with Viking names.” 

“And it has to be strong.  If she looks like you this much already, of course she’s going to be strong.” 

I don’t see any of my scrawny, freckled mess in the baby’s perfect little face, but it’s not the time to argue. 

“I hope she’s smarter than me,” I rest my cheek on Fuse’s head, “a little quicker on the uptake, maybe.  Some of your common sense couldn’t hurt.” 

“So, something with some strength, some wisdom.”  A smile leaks into her voice, the kind of sly smile that usually only follows billowing smoke and destruction, “something that looks good in an Edda claiming victory over an enemy.” 

“There are a few Sigrids in my family tree,” I offer, “victorious, wise, easy for Christians to pronounce as they run away screaming.”  

“Sigrid Haddock, Heir to the throne of Berk,” Fuse whispers like she’s scared to say it louder, like I’m not the only one who feels like I’m going to wake up to some other, worse reality.  “How do we make it official?” 

“I think I just tell Rolf to write it down,” I kiss her ear, the top of her head, trying to communicate how amazing she is and knowing I’ll never quite get there, “one of the perks of being Chief.” 

Fuse hums in agreement, half asleep, and I’m settling in for a shift as her dedicated pillow when the front door swings open and the midwife steps inside, asking how Fuse is doing and leading a small group of people along with her.

Tuffnut is first, holding a stuffed Zippleback toy half his size with a white knuckled grip and a worried expression that I recognize as similar to my own before I realized that Fuse was ok.  My mom is white faced but excited, eyes widening when she sees the baby on my lap.  My dad is with her, also searching for the babies, counting really, like he also doesn’t trust the good news until he catalogs everyone. 

Hiccup trails behind a little bit, as unsure if he’s invited as his name is in my head, and I kiss the top of Fuse’s head as I wiggle my arm out from behind her, standing slowly, carefully, Shrapnel’s tiny body more precious and fragile than anything I’ve ever held. 

“Can you shut the door?”  I ask when the Snoggletog wind whips through the room, trying not to panic when the gust of cold makes Shrapnel’s face screw up as she lets out a single, indignant cry.  “It’s ok,” I bounce her like I’ve seen Rolf do, but it doesn’t seem to cheer her up any, “your grandpa is shutting the door.” 

“On it,” he says too quickly, and if I weren’t so busy trying to prevent my baby from crying, I’d comment on how Hiccup sounds like he’s about to join in. 

“Two healthy baby girls,” the midwife assures as the door clicks shut and my dad tosses a log on the fire without me having to ask, “one healthy mom.” 

Mom. 

Fuse is a mom. 

It’s the first time I’ve heard it and I look up at her, again searching for some sort of change, something that’s getting away from me.  But she’s still Fuse, thanking her dad for the Zippleback and rolling her eyes when he ruffles her hair. 

“One overwhelmed new dad,” Hiccup jokes and I nod, willingly admitting to that much. 

Dad. 

I’m a dad.  It’s different when people say it out loud. 

“Do you want to hold her?”  I ask, glancing at Fuse to double check that it’s ok, but she’s already handed off Sigrid to her dad, who’s cooing enthusiastically over her and saying something about the chaos she’ll cause. 

“Y—Absolutely,” Hiccup nods and I carefully rest my daughter—I have a daughter.  I have two daughters—in his arms. 

“Hold her head.” 

“Of course,” he says, humoring me, even as Mom steps up beside him and gives me a fond, exasperated smile. 

“He has held a baby before.” 

“You haven’t been a dad before,” he tells her gently, voice low as he rocks Shrapnel, “he’s got to be protective, he can’t help it.” 

“She’s beautiful.”  When Mom looks between her husband and me, there’s a ghost of that old ‘what if’ I used to hate on his face, but now it just makes me think about what it would have felt like not to be able to hold my baby the second they came into the world.  “Older or younger?”

“Younger,” I nod, “by all of a few minutes, so I don’t know how much it matters but…” 

“It’ll matter to them,” my dad points out, very carefully taking Sigrid from Tuffnut and smiling at her. 

“Ruffnut never forgave me for beating her on the way out,” Tuffnut shakes his head, “you’ve got a long life of guilt trips ahead of you, little miss.”  He frowns, “assuming this one is the girl twin.” 

“They’re both girls,” I correct him, risking the few steps of distance from my parents to stand next to Fuse, hand on her shoulder. 

“Yeah, but which one’s the boy?”  He asks and Fuse sighs, exhausted. 

“Dad, there’s no boy.” 

“But they’re twins.”  Tuffnut looks around the room confused and for the first time today, the midwife is looking at someone other than me like they’re the dumbest person on Midgard. 

“Twins who are both girls,” Hiccup cradles the head, like I asked, as he hands Shrapnel carefully to my mom. 

“Yeah, but which one’s the boy?” 

“Neither,” I say, the room feeling a little smaller than it did a few minutes ago.  A little more cramped.  “Because they’re both girls.” 

“No, really,” he laughs, “which one’s the boy?” 

I look down at Fuse, her pale face barely sustaining her irritated expression, and sometimes, the Chief mantle isn’t as heavy as I feared it would be. 

“Ok, everybody out,” I clap my hands together before reaching out towards my dad, “baby please.” 

“I’m just asking—”

“Tuffnut,” I nudge my chin towards the door as I accept Sigrid, “get out of my house.” 

“Mom needs her rest,” the midwife is finally my ally, helping me herd the extra family towards the door. 

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” My mom asks, hesitant to hand Shrapnel over. 

“I’m good,” I insist, feeling overwhelmed but symmetrical when she sets the baby in my free arm.  

“Come on,” Hiccup takes her hand and tugs, and I don’t know what to do with how easy it is for him to be on my side right now, but I’m glad for it, “let’s get back to the feast, I have a lot to brag about.” 

“If you’re sure—”

“He’s sure,” Dad helps move her towards the door and then we’re alone again.  The four of us. 

My family within the family. 

Fuse yawns, scooting down in bed a bit with a wince that makes my chest hurt. 

“Get some rest,” I look down at the babies in my arms, both of their eyes closed, their barely there weight soothing.  “I’ve got this for a while.” 

“You could put them down and come rest with me,” she offers, already comfortable in the center of the bed and I smile. 

“Maybe later,” I shrug, barely, my always moving hands finally forced still like Fuse is always trying to do.  “I’ve got a lot to tell these girls, might as well get started.” 

“They need to sleep too,” she says like she feels like she has to, but she’s looking at me with a soft, hazy expression I can’t possibly deserve before she yawns again. 

“I’m not stopping them.”  I adjust my grip and Sigrid’s little hand escapes the blanket, fingers curling reflexively against my shirt.  “They like my voice, remember?” 

“I love you,” she says, quiet and sleepy, tugging the blankets further around her shoulders. 

“Love you too.”  I’m not sure if she hears me, because her light snores start almost immediately, chest rising and falling evenly under the covers. 

I walk to the small front window, mostly to check on the snow, but the torchlight in the village catches my eye.  My village. 

I look down at my daughters.  Our village. 

“This is Berk,” I whisper, swallowing hard and watching the fluffy snow drift towards the ground, casting shadows across my babies’ faces when it passes in front of the moon.  “Our home for eight—well, nine generations.  It snows so much that the only way you can really tell that it’s winter is when you haven’t seen the sun for the better part of a month.  The food is…mostly mutton, I’m not going to lie to you.  Lots of mutton now that we have fewer dragons than ever, but that’s alright, the ones sticking around are family.” 

I’m unsure what to do with the feeling that this day, this conversation, this moment is the first of many, not part of a countdown, but I’m glad for the change. 

[symbianosgames]

The following blog post, unless otherwise noted, was written by a member of Gamasutra’s community. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the writer and not Gamasutra or its parent company.

Life is funny in that the things you expect the least inspire you the most, and sometimes having no real plans is just the way to go.

That was GDC 2017 to me. It was my third one and while I had some definitive plans on the first two-- meeting an investor in 2015, learning about mobile development last year-- that wasn't the case at all this year. Having spent virtually the entire winter being incredibly sick and practically housebound, all I knew was that I wanted to be around human beings again who weren't medical professionals or Grubhub deliverymen. Talking about games for days on end would just be a bonus.

A few months prior, I decided to resign from Himalaya Studios. It's a friendly parting and so I can focus on what was originally my second business but is now my primary one, Sonic Toad Media & Consulting. Clam Chowder Hub Run will be released under the Sonic Toad banner and I think it's for the better since it's not an adventure game.

Admittedly, between the legal complexities surrounding my resignation, lucrative-but-not-that-thrilling projects Sonic Toad picked up, and dealing with health issues I hadn't worked on Clam Chowder Hub Run in forever. It was compounding that feeling of being trapped beneath the wheel. Unable to create. All my story ideas sucked and went nowhere, lacking the epicness that makes people hang on every word and laugh their asses off whenever I tell the game's origin story. It was the exact quandary I had been in when I was still a miserable tax advisor who wanted to make games, but nothing could come out because stress and things beyond my control were short-circuiting my brain.

I figured that heading out west for this game development mecca was exactly the shot in the arm that I needed to get back in the spirit of the game. So there were no real plans. Just...show up. (It helps to have an Indie Summit pass for this if you couldn't scrap your way to an All Access pass. Which is something I would've written about in a pre-registration piece had I not spent most of the past few months trying to keep my lungs contained to my chest.) 

The adventure started with the annual kickoff dinner at Canton, which is always a fun and fruitful event where new and familiar faces abound. I finally met my longtime Gamasutra buddy, Nick Laborde of Raconteur Games, in person and some promising younger game devs who made me lament that game design programs in school just weren't a thing when I was college age. Even after I finished both college and grad school and was looking to take some writing courses, none of them were geared for video games. That's changed now as even small writer groups are starting to offer game writing workshops. (Moral of this paragraph: don't take all this amazing games-related education for granted whether it's at a traditional university or adult education organization. Take classes. Go to talks. Learn from both your instructor and the other attendees.)

The first talk I attended was Don Daglow's Crash Course in Business and Leadership for Indie Game CEOs and GMs. Don's talks are always really helpful and energizing. The talk he gave last year hit home so hard for me, when he talked about how his father gave up his dream to become an accountant. While some of what he covered this time was old hat for me after years in the financial industry, everyone definitely needs to learn the difference between the different types of cash that he discussed. But the following quote stuck with me to the point that I had to make it the thumbnail for this article:

I've heard all kinds of variations on living the dream, why they're still called dreams. Hell, I'm referring to it through this entire piece and it seems to be a theme to me personally at every GDC now: traversing the country to remember why I had this dream. What put that dream in me. We all dream of different things, but for most indie developers that core dream remains the same: to make games for a living without needing outside work. Some manifest that dream differently such as wanting a supportive partner or starting a family to go with that. Others want to travel the world as they make games. There's no right or wrong way to manifest that dream.

But while we shouldn't ignore the financial and emotional realities of indie developer and hustler life, we need to stay motivated and focused so that Don's words sound truer to you than the people who say things like "They're called dreams because they're not always meant to be fulfilled." That is exactly what I heard from the naysayers who told me I was stupid and unrealistic for leaving the financial industry. Lost touch with most of them. Last I heard, they're pretty much in the same place they were in before. There's a lot to be said about having the audacity to dream and dropping the whole notion of letting go of what people expect you to do-- even if it's something you willingly took on, such as working in a specific genre.

Now, it would be impossible to give a thorough blow-by-blow account of every other talk I attended since this time around my pass covered far more talks than I was able to access in previous years. But I'd have to say that one of the best ones that helped me out of my current pickle the most was Mata Haggis' storytelling talk. If you're a narrative designer or interested most in the storytelling aspects of game development, you definitely don't want to miss his presentations. He discussed the tension and flow aspects of narrative design that are always overlooked in those fiction writing classes because they're structured for far more passive mediums like film and novels. THAT'S what my story was missing. Where does the tension pick up? How do you stop the player from getting bored?

Tim Keenan's talk about how his game Duskers was made was also very helpful and inspiring, discussing how design pillars were created throughout development and based on emotions, and that this is how it's simpler to stay true to design pillars with each design decision. This talk was especially helpful if you're feeling like you're ripping off other games when it comes to a mechanic or design principle and that your work isn't original enough. This is definitely something I struggled with with Clam Chowder Hub Run since it plays on mechanics from at least 8 different games from various eras that I can think of. But you know what? Providing that you're not doing a complete reskin of someone else's game, I think you'll be fine. Everyone gets inspired by different games and wants to use that element in something new. Perhaps your game will be the next one where someone decides to make a whole new game that borrows one of your elements.

Lastly, the narrative design panel featuring many folks from back east like Cosmo D and Francisco Gonzalez of Grundislav Games/Wadjet Eye also helped put things in perspective for me as both a game dev and also as a human. Francisco discussed "failure as option" with A Golden Wake and the new adventure game he's currently working on, Lamplight City. That traditionally, most games just do not want to make failure an option. The player is punished for failing to do something, where in classic adventure games this would mean that if you died you had to have a savegame or else you were totally screwed. Some adventure game die-hards say that this added to the design by making it more intense, others say it's a design flaw that got fixed as game design evolved. Those dead-ends though like eating the pie in King's Quest V because you needed to throw it a yeti later were definitely more irksome. It wasn't so much that they didn't make failure an option, but you don't even know how or why you failed.

Maybe some people see being punished for failure in-game as intensity that levels up the challenge. Others see it as pointless masochism. But how many times have business magazines and even many pieces right here on Gamasutra go on about how failure is not an option? Yes, I frequently say that it's only a failure if you fail to learn from your mistakes as will virtually any other business coach. You might not like that statement if you have a game that you invested a lot of time and money into and it didn't sell that well. Failure doesn't have to be financial though. There are many games and developers that are endlessly lauded but don't make that much money. Our economic contributions don't start and stop at what determines who's a success.

Many of us feel like failures for not doing enough.

We live in an over-scheduled world full of information overload. We may feel like we're shitty and inadequate spouses, parents, community members, you name it because we're too busy and can just never get it all done. That we're failures not doing enough to chase our dreams no matter how big or small.

I definitely felt like a failure for having gotten this epic game idea almost two whole years ago and that I didn't work hard or fast enough on it since I was hoping to have something expo-ready by now. There was so much I wanted to do by GDC this year but it was physically impossible. But you know what? SO WHAT. I fucking failed before. Failed to get an investor for my previous studio numerous times, which led to success with crowdfunding and getting paid to speak about it and teach business classes using everything from an industry I couldn't stand for good causes now. I spent a lot of time on learning about mobile development and business models just to not go into it, not much unlike that $700 and two weeks I wasted getting a Quickbooks certificate for the Quickbooks job that never came eons ago. (If there was anything I got for said $700, it was being able to tell snarky jokes about why you should outsource your accounting for that kind of money and learning about the type of adult education opportunities that would allow me the flexibility needed to work on games.)

People often misinterpret failure the way they misinterpret other things, such as networking. Networking isn't necessarily going to some event where everyone awkwardly hands out business cards, dons suits, and only start conversations for the sake of getting a job or gig. It happens naturally when you're talking about your passions and there's none of the pretenses of trying to get something out of the other person you're talking to. Similarly, failure isn't necessarily the end of the world.

The world doesn't stop turning just because there's a massive gap in development or you couldn't get the funding you needed, or scrapped time spent on seminars to not pursue that path at all. People asked about my game and were excited to see the prototype. The reactions I got from game devs from around the world were motivating. If I had to slow down to take care of my health and business decisions, so be it. Screw the latter; if you don't have your health, what do you have?

Failure is an option. It can be a new beginning. And most of all, only temporary.

* * *

The rest of the conference was a blur. So many parties and randomly running into people all over downtown San Francisco that made up for hardly being able to go out for months.

Interestingly, this year wasn't full of the "Why are you here" questions. Maybe it was just because I was able to show I know the ropes (which I promise to share in an article leading up to GDC 2018!) or that I felt much more confident than I had in the past. Or perhaps it was just the sheer excitement of being able to talk to people and eat real food again after a month and a half of illness.

Most of all, it was despite there being no real defined purpose for this year's sojourn that I suddenly got all this clarity and inspiration for both my game and other projects. When you go to GDC, the conference is whatever you make of it: meeting new people, going to talks dedicated to just one or two areas or a little bit of everything, trying to get a publisher or investor, get feedback on your game, you name it. Regardless of what your main goal is (or if you have none at all like I did!), you should try to make some post-GDC resolutions to keep up with that momentum.

For instance, I'm resolving to not only create new income streams and digital goodies in addition to Clam Chowder Hub Run, but I also want to get back into writing here and even resurrect my blog to a lesser extent. Playing more games is also an important goal of mine because it's easy to fall into a rut when you don't make time to play.

While making use of digital/online resources is fantastic, and often the most cost-effective option if you don't live in an area with a bubbling indie dev community, there's nothing that can replace the feeling of Game Dev Summer Camp in March. That frenetic energy around you is impossible to replicate. The ability to just go up to someone and ask how the conference is going and whip out your laptop to get an opinion on what you're working on, that's what you're there for! And if you have nothing to show yet, it's okay. You're there to learn, to meet people, and get used to more GDCs to come.

It's your conference. It's your dream. Now it's up to you to stick to your resolve to manifest that dream. And while there was someone who once said "Desserts aren't always right!", I hope that this fortune cookie I opened at Canton will be true for all of us.