The Creative Process

Self-observation isn't an easy thing to do.  To examine my own creative process would require scanning my subconscious, something which seems a bit like an impossibility.  I would suppose my creativity emerges from my observations; things I see that strike me as interesting, something I heard that left an impression, a conversation that made me laugh.  From these scattered observations of real life my subconscious assembles my ideas, like little frankensteins of thought.

I enjoy imagining things as they weren't intended.  What would happen if that melody were inverted?  Could there be a happy-ending movie wherein the protagonist is defeated?  What about a game whose objective was not to win, but to lose as spectacularly as possible?  I want to expect the unexpected; I want to be surprised and to surprise others.  I enjoy media that breaks the mold, and so it's no surprise that my main influences are those who, I feel, try things a little differently.

Shigeru Miyamoto 

The Legend of Zelda

Anyone who loves video games will have Miyamoto on their list of influences.  Creator of Mario, Zelda, and many other classic franchises, he embodies the spirit of trying things differently.  Miyamoto is a master of employing active learning into his games.

For an example of didactic learning in games, you need to look no further than any modern high-budget role playing game.  There will most assuredly be a lengthy and tedious tutorial, along with a few hours or so of pushover enemies and little variety.  Only after you have proved beyond all worldly doubt that you know how to play will you be granted access to the interesting bits.  You are spoon-fed the objectives and controls, smothered with tips and hints until there remains not a trace of surprise or adventure.  What was intended as an epic, twisting, interactive drama has been reduced to a simple reflex exercise.  Push "A" a couple times at the right moment and win!  That is the didactic learning approach.

Contrast this with the active learning approach:  here's you, here's the world, figure it out.

This is the beginning of the original Legend of Zelda.  There is no tutorial.  No hand-holding.  There is only "It's dangerous to go alone!  Take this."  Thus you are given your sword and sent on your way.  Multiple dungeons stretch out in every direction.  With hidden items to seize, hidden treasure to hoard, and big 'ol bosses to battle, it's a classic adventure game, only - unlike the scripted, big-budget, modern, didactic versions - it's your adventure.  No one is telling you where to go or what to do.  How you approach and ultimately defeat the bad guy is your decision.  Active learning at it's finest.  Very fun.

Pikmin

A more recent example of Miyamoto's genius, Pikmin is by many accounts a masterpiece.  It remains one of my all-time favorite games, for many reasons.  One of them is the subconscious struggle you will feel while playing it.

Pikmin is about Captain Olimar, a spaceman whose ship crashes on a strange planet (a planet one could reasonably assume is Earth, or close to it).  Stranded and alone, Captain Olimar enlists the help of the native Pikmin creatures to help find the scattered pieces of his ship and return home.  Pikmin are tiny, cute, and immeasurably helpful, swarming enemies and lifting heavy objects for Olimar.  Therein lies the conscious objective: use Pikmin to find the pieces of your ship and return home.

See, you need Pikmin to win.  To lift the heavy ship pieces and defeat the towering enemies, Pikmin are absolutely essential.  The player is consciously aware of their importance.  

However, over time, the player will find himself developing a strange fondness for these little creatures.  You cannot help but fall in love with their unwavering willingness to help, their tenacity, the little squeaks they occasionally make, their camaraderie - it's all positively heartwarming.  One can see, then, where the problem arises.  The subconscious desire to protect your Pikmin comes in direct conflict with the conscious need to find your ship and go home.  The motherly instinct versus the survival instinct.

It's a brilliant design, precisely because of this struggle.  It is never explicitly stated that Pikmin cannot or should not be killed; indeed, they are a renewable resource, sprouting from the ground like flowers all around you.  But that doesn't matter.  They fight with you, they grow with you - certainly you can't just let them die for you.  It's an entirely subconscious battle; the game doesn't care about their lives, but the player most certainly does.

Tim Reynolds

Though games are clearly my primary area of interest, my creative influences inhabit a wide range of professions.  Take Tim Reynolds, guitarist.  He can usually be found playing with Dave Matthews, another of my favorites - though his technical skill far outclasses Matthews (and most others, really).  Tim Reynolds, like most of my creative idols, does things his way.  My favorite of his pieces are played with an acoustic guitar, amplified though effects pedals for a spectacular sound.  

The tension and subsequent release at the beginning of the above song is an excellent example of Reynolds using sound to manipulate emotion.  The first minute is a mildly incoherent, heavily distorted section; the spacey sound and unexpected effects raise the tension of the piece.  As Reynolds slows the pace and the sound drifts into silence, the audience is left expecting more.  What comes next?

As it turns out, a skillful acoustic verse comes next.  The contrast between the odd-sounding beginning and the clear, acoustic verse creates the tension and, then, the release.  What began as an interesting, pedal-driven soundscape evolves into a distinct and crisp, fully formed song.  Thus, what would have been an impressive enough song without the beginning is further enhanced by it's inclusion.  Such is the power of tension and release.