Showing posts with label 7choices. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 7choices. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Find Your Way

While it wasn't probably wasn't included in design concepts at the time, hypertext is a choose your own adventure. The back button on browsers is a hell of a lot more painless than keeping one whole hand of fingers marking the pages of your last decisions, which is limited to five. The internet is one giant CYOA. Sometimes you die. Sometimes you find goatse. Sometimes you make it out alive.

I've actually done a proper one before, ish. I wrote out a html maze. Mapped it out on grid, inserted random numbers and lines, made sure there was actually a path from beginning to end, and then wrote one html page for every grid square, and made sure they all matched up, no matter what direction you came from. That was on geocities (anyone remember that?) back in 1996. YES. THAT IS HOW LONG I'VE BEEN FIDDLING WITH MY JUNK ONLINE.

Blogger being set up the way it is, I don't have the means of setting up a true, stand-alone static CYOA. Well, I could, but it'd be right pain in the ass getting all the urls set up.

The restrictions of doing a sort of live-action CYOA (a LARP CYOA? LOL? WTF?) worked to my advantage in this case. With each stage being rolled out once a night, the means of turning back, reneging a decision and choosing an alternate path are removed, which takes a huge load off. The fact that players won't see anything but the one path they choose is also a load off, as I discovered.

Here's the map of the first;



Which, as you can see, was a process of trial and error and I actually made it so I knew what I was doing, not you. And I still had no idea what I was doing.

At first I was skeptical on the idea; writing seven choices with branches, is that seven squared? Do I have to write 42 events when they'll only see 7? That's a lot of writing no one will see. To cut down, I started angling choices so that two different responses could lead to the same outcome - the ButlerBot completely ignoring you was useful for that. Using a scenario that was bare-bones simple - a conversation with only two participants and very little activity - was vital as well.

I also learned that at each level, the same information needs to be revealed, regardless of the decision that brought the reader there and what actually happens. Which I totally screwed up with the whole Lords of Heegurkurkur taking over the world thing.

Originally, there was only one way outcome out of all choices in all branches that saw you become a superhero, but I changed that at the last minute, for the hell of it.



Having learned all that, I was better prepared for the second one. The trick is actually to work backwards - establish the end point, and then deconstruct the steps to get there. Hence the narrative in this one made flowed significantly smoother. I also worked around having two streams with two sets of decisions by writing responses to each choice, and then having an overall 'next step' which all responses fed into, thus keeping it from branching out all over the place. Whether or not the pirate arrr!ed, dodged or shot the cowboy, the outcome was the same.

That said, bringing the two streams together meant I had to wait till the last night to actually write the end, and discovered I didn't want to do terrible battle with either, 'cause I liked them.

The last rule I couldn't break was inserting any choice that would see the reader die before the alloted time was over. My most powerful memory of reading CYOA in primary school was picking the book up and being dead within three page turns. Which kinda ruined the whole book and I didn't seem much point trying again after that. Although I would have liked to include some sticky deaths. It'd be easy to insert some, now I think about it. Just reveal you're dead, go back and repost according to the runner up choice. Hmm.

Anyway, there you are. I learned it so that you may use it. Now someone else write one! I want a go!

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

c. HAMMER TIME.

“I beg your pardon,” the ButlerBot says.

“HAMMER TIME!” you roar, and manifest your true identity of SuperFuturoidThor! With Hammer! And knock the ButlerBot’s head off. Which is mighty satisfying. Infiltrating the networks of those fools who would bring about a New World Order through alliances with the Lords of Heegurkurkur is tough, and requires significantly more patience than the ButlerBot displayed, but someone has to do it.

“Whoa.”

You turn, and find that a Lord of Heegurkurkur has manifested in the middle of the pillows, and is sinking into the mattress. It looks rather like rice pudding gone bad.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” The Lord oozes nervously, eyeing your hammer. “Have you seen my sacrificial breakfast around?”

“Parsley!”

“Aw, come on,” the Lord whines, “not again. I said no parsley. Er. That’s a big hammer you have there.”

You beam proudly.

“I’ll just be going,” and so saying, the Lord of Heegurkurkur demanifests.

Oh yeah, saving the world before breakfast is something you make look easy, ‘cause it is easy. Time for crocodile steak.

Congratulations. You avoided the parsley porridge.
You have winnar!
Game Over

Monday, September 29, 2008

a. Cry. (coin toss tie-breaker)

“There, there,” the ButlerBot says, without making even the slightest effort to sound comforting. “There’s a time and a place for that, and I must confess to have neither the interest nor software to indulge in such behaviour. Please save such displays for Miss Henry.”

The ButlerBot ejects a spoon and scoops a thick glug of green puree from the bowl.

“The Rites of Heegurkurkur deplete the physical body’s precious bodily essences. Miss Henry is quite clear on the matter.”

The spoon nears your face, gliding closer, closer…

“You must eat to replenish your essences, before it is too late. It is nearly time!”

a. Eat the damn porridge.


b. Cry more.


c. HAMMER TIME.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

a. Throw the damn parsley porridge at the ButlerBot, throw the pillow at the ButlerBot, throw yourself at the ButlerBot, etc.

The bowl of fine bone china made from real Chinese bones smashes on the ButlerBot’s monoform head, and fails to even scratch the polished finish. Parsley porridge oozes down the ButlerBot’s chassis like so much ectoplasmic mucus, the smell of overstewed herb thick and repugnant in the air.

You leap after the bowl, flailing through the manchester trappings, and the ButlerBot bats you aside with ease, wrapping and pinning you in a sheet with a smooth fluidity that suggests you are not the first person to react in such fashion.

The ButlerBot produces another fine bone china bowl made from real Chinese bones.

The ButlerBot vomits parsley porridge into the bowl.

“Please eat, before it gets cold. The time is at hand.”

a. Cry.


b. Scream bloody murder.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

a. Swim to the edge of the bed, find your clothes and GTFO!

The ButlerBot sighs as you surge into action. The pillow, holy smokes, the pillow! It’s a trap! You flail about like an epileptic fish, the pillow your soft and loving captor, the sheets your decadent bindings. Oh, the pillow! An ill-calculated roll sees you near suffocating in that soft lovingness, but the same move allows you to get your arms beneath you, and you surface, gasping.

At last you can see the room. It’s all pillows and drapes and suspicious stains and burnt out candles and floral patterns and goat testicles.

Aaaugh, must get out must get out. You flounder about the bed, but holy smokes, the bed! It has no edge! The whole damn room is one giant bed and you’re drowning in throw pillows and 10,000 thread count sheets! It is a bog! A terrible bed bog!

“Please don’t spill the porridge on Miss Henry’s sheets,” the ButlerBot says.

a. Throw the damn parsley porridge at the ButlerBot, throw the pillow at the ButlerBot, throw yourself at the ButlerBot, etc.


b. Calm down, be reasonable(ish), request your clothes and a taxi. Quickly. NOW.

Friday, September 26, 2008

a. Do I look like I eat peasant food, you obsolete calculator?

“I’m afraid that is the extent of the morning menu. Miss Henry has very stringent ideas concerning early morning digestion. As is oft quoted, ‘that will go straight to your arse.’ I have no comment on parsley.”

The events of the previous night rise to the surface of your mind like so many cooked potatos. There was some tequila at a bar after work, which saw you entangled with someone’s after party that somehow lead to a circus, then there was some gin, and some gin got in your gin, followed by a sports bar, some scotch got in your gin, a souvlaki at an all night kiosk, and…Miss Henry. Followed by a lime milkshake and the Rites of Heegurkurkur.

Oh boy.

a. Swim to the edge of the bed, find your clothes, and GTFO!


b. Sit there grinning like a top square school kid who just won the spelling bee.


c. I’d really like a crocodile steak.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

c. Wait…er, where am I?

“You are in bed,” the ButlerBot says, with a faint tone of long-suffering and entirely non-judgemental patience that is nevertheless pure scorn. The robot goes on to lay out a silver tray set with lovely fine bone china, made from authentic bones removed with surgical precision from the bodies of authentic Chinese people.

There is a small vase with a jonquil. There is a large deep bowl. It is full of a disgusting green slurry. This is parsley porridge.

a. Do I look like I eat peasant food, you obsolete calculator?


b. Actually, I’m allergic to porridge.


c. Er…so how did I get here?

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Predestined (to a point): MAJORITY RULE

These sheets have a 10,000 thread count. It could be higher, but there comes a point where quality can no longer be measured, and merely falls in that vast and unquantifiable realm of luxury. These sheets speak to you through your skin, and they aren't so much talking as kissing your back and ankles and when you shift, ever so slightly, oh goodness.

These pillows have been filled with the downy feathers of two week old baby FlufferBirds, lovingly plucked by VestalVirginBots, spun with the hair of plump burbling blonde babies and stuffed in something that also has an astronomically high thread count. Your head is sunk in one, and while it supports you perfectly, just perfectly, you’ve no peripheral vision and your ears are covered. No wonder you slept so well.

This mattress is...kinda weird.

As sleep recedes slow and gentle you open your eyes. Great veils of velvet obscure the ceiling. And the walls. You raise your head, but don’t quite escape the pillow.

"Good morning," the ButlerBot says. "I trust you slept well. Will you be taking breakfast in bed today?"

a. Not this morning, please pass my clothes.


b. Yes! I want a crocodile steak. With tomato sauce. And a toasted muffin. Is there any vegemite?


c. Wait…er, where am I?

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

7wishes Table of Contents

The stories of 7wishes were written to keep my head above water, posted to alleviate the loneliness and isolation of nightshift, and have moved on from their humble bloggy beginnings as these things are wont to do.

The collection has been gussied up so as not to be an embarrassment in polite society and is currently represented by Sally Harding of the Cooke Agency (Canada).

7wishes
  • for a day when the gravity is turned down
  • for a pony
  • for a day in which we are only allowed to talk to strangers, and are not allowed to acknowledge anyone known to us
  • for real true amazing sleep
  • that there is a little door in my room, only big enough to crawl through on my belly, with paint so faded and peeled it is no colour, it is all colours
  • for silence
  • for them to finally drop the bomb
7wishesII
7wishesSpecialEdition
  • for a bigger, better, blimptastic balloon
7paintingfiascos
7wishesIII
  • for a world without secrets or strangers
  • for a rock to hide under
  • to save the world, one light globe at a time
  • for foresight
  • for the world to respect people on nightshift and during the day just stop it, seriously now, we’re trying to sleep
  • for consequences and crocodiles
  • for earthquakes
7paintingfiascosII
7wishesIV
7choices
7wishesV
  • for more time
  • to be king, I hear it's good to be king
  • to live in the path of some great migration
  • for it to be bleeding obvious
  • sharing is caring
  • for a bear
  • for the revolution
Extra Love