Better Than the Worst:
A Newbie’s Guide to Sidestepping Ridicule
The 2008 Revival
Part Six

By Jeremy Bursey (Pepsi Ranger)

We’re deep into the series now; therefore, I have to commend you if you’re still reading. The average newbie’s ADD would have kicked in chapters ago, so good job beating the odds.

At this point we’ve touched on nearly everything that matters. We know how to prepare a game file. We know how to research the engine’s capabilities. We know how to evaluate whether the game is ready for release. We know if our game needs more detail to make it better. So where could we possibly go from here? Well, since the feature is called “Better Than the Worst,” maybe we could investigate a couple more techniques that would make our games better than the worst.

Lesson #12: The Magic of Cut Scenes.

“Ah, we’ve hit the bottom of the barrel,” you may be thinking. “When there’s nothing left to talk about, talk about cut scenes.” Yeah, well, we’re surprisingly deficient of articles on this topic, so why not?

The average newbie doesn’t use cut scenes. The few who do tend to lean on a succession of badly drawn stills to tell the story between the story. This might translate into a stick figure (of pre-governator Arnold Schwarzenegger thickness) drawn in MS Paint getting blown into smithereens via three fingerlike lines representing blood splatter (in a very non-bloody bright red). The end result is often unappealing.

“So how do we make a better cut scene?” you may ask. Well, this question’s answer can go back to Part Four when we discussed the idea of experimentation. But for content’s sake, I’ll help out a little.

First of all, I can’t tell you how to make your game. I know I said this a few times already, but newbies tend to have a short attention span, so I think this warrants repeating. I can’t tell you how to make your game. Fair enough? Good. I can tell you what makes a cut scene interesting, though.

What level of detail have you established for your game? Are you going for a simple (but heartfelt) presentation, or something to make the designers of Grand Theft Auto blush? If simple, you may want to ask yourself if you even need cut scenes.

Take a game like Iblis’s Locked, for example. The premise is to find a way to unlock the front door (a game that, as involved as it is, could still benefit from Lesson #5 as it fails to actually allow the player to unlock the front door—it ends when the hero finds the last key), using a succession of puzzles to get the hero to his goal. It’s a straightforward game that has no need for dialogue, except to drop the player clues. Likewise, there’s not much of a story behind it. It’s just a game about moving from one puzzle to the next. Thus, in its simplicity, it doesn’t need cut scenes. Iblis was smart to leave them out.

Now, take a game like Monterey Penguin. The story involves a kidnapped penguin trying to get home. How did the penguin get kidnapped in the first place? Why isn’t he home? Well, the introductory cut scene (a series of cartoon-like backdrops) answers those questions. Thus, the player won’t be stuck wondering what the heck is going on when he starts the game. Steve (the game’s creator) was smart to include it.

So what kind of cut scene should you use, backdrop stills or an OHR movie? Again, this depends on your level of detail. A simpler game would benefit from a simpler style. Usually that might befall the backdrop stills (as a cut scene can play out comfortably in just a few backdrop flashes), but not necessarily. It depends on what the scene calls for.

I’ll use The Adventures of Powerstick Man for the next few examples, since it mixes both styles.

The game opens with a massive introduction (legendarily massive, in fact). First we see a non sequitur intro involving a guy named Elwood Walker (my oldest fiction character) downloading the very game we’re about to play. The entire segment plays out in one room as he talks to himself and surfs the Internet. The motions are pretty basic: he walks to his computer, taps the keyboard whenever he changes focus, watches the screen change to the original The Adventures of Powerstick Man title screen when he opens the game (that ugly blue one that’s been replaced twice now), and finally walks to a crate at the bottom of the room to pull out a hammer, with which he uses to smash his monitor from the frustration of hearing Chrono Trigger’s soundtrack ripped for the umpteenth time. Elaborate scripting isn’t needed. It’s a cut scene in its easiest form.

Next, it moves to a preview for another game of mine (which can only be seen in the Extended Edition due out late this year). The preview starts with that classic “the following preview is approved for all audiences” picture blazing to life, then shows the inciting event through minor NPC and major backdrop animation (a cut scene in a cut scene if you will), and finally segues into the promotional nonsense (involving more backdrops) like who makes it, etc. found in most previews. It’s much more involved, both aesthetically and in script, than the first, but not over the top. It offers exactly what the preview needs.

Then we have an interlude featuring a warning label that informs those easily offended by pop culture not to play the game, which is then eaten by a very hungry Pac-Man. It is made entirely out of animating backdrops. And though time-consuming to draw, it is very easy to implement.

Finally, and the point is probably beaten to death now, the last piece juggles a heavier plotscripting sequence involving NPCs acting out events that set the story in motion, requiring a cycle through several scenes, jumping between two characters (a tennis player and a police officer), and breaking each element into segments by way of narration and introductory movie credits. Since it sets up a detail-rich game, the intro has to offer a rich presentation. In the end, we find NPC animation, tile manipulation (the cop shoots out a window and jumps from it into a manhole), and backdrop narration (the cause of the tennis player’s transformation into a superhero) are used in conjunction with each other to tell the story.

In retrospect, if I had omitted the richness of the game and went for a straightforward RPG, I probably would’ve left out the Elwood Walker intro and the Tightfloss Maiden preview (and maybe even the warning label). But since I wanted a true epic experience (out of a game that starts with the words “The Adventures of”), I needed all of those cut scenes to set the game in motion. If you want a masterpiece, don’t be afraid to hold back.

Introductions aside, it also helps to consider what you’re trying to show (keyword is show, not tell) during the game. I find that the game’s alternative plot, a story that shows what’s happening on the other side of the law, is better shown through NPC animation (as the background plot’s presentation should integrate seamlessly with the main plot’s presentation) than through the distant feeling of backdrops. It lets the player feel like he’s deeper into the game than if I’d revealed the subplot through PowerPoint stills.

On the other hand, if I need a character’s facial expression or superhero pose to illuminate the screen (for dramatic effect), then stills are the way to go. Likewise, epic scenario transitions that really don’t need to be played out—firefighters putting out the town fire, for example—are better shown in backdrops, as it’s quick, effective, and still allows room for drama.

But again, I can’t tell you what you need for your story. You have to figure that out yourself. I can only make suggestions.

Lesson #13: Go Ahead, Scare My Dog.

“Now you’re just being cruel and ambiguous,” you may be thinking. Yeah, well, shaddup. I’m not suggesting you should try to scare animals as your next OHR lesson. Hardly the case. Let me explain:

As of Ubersetzung, the OHR has catapulted to new technical heights. Former limitations (including those that were thought permanent back in the days of “Better Than the Worst’s” first appearance) have been obliterated. This includes the threshold of sound.

The greatest leap in dramatic presentation for the OHR landed it in a pool of sound effects. Swords can now swish. Selections can now beep. Fat innkeepers can now burp. Game designers have a reason to cheer.

And also have a whole new reason to create a pile of crap.

“What? That’s impossible! Sound effects are awesome and flawless.” No, they’re not. Like any advancement in technology, those testing it for the first time will salivate, and then do everything in their power to screw it up. In truth, it’s a scary time for the rest of the world to experience the result.

Sound effects, like anything else in the OHR’s arsenal, can fall victim to cheese if used by unskilled hands. Though, it doesn’t have to be this way.

Before implementing sound effects, it’s a good idea to know your story. Sometimes it helps to have a finished version (something you can see in its entirety) before considering its sound effects. This way you can have a visual thought of how it might play should you use too many or too few.

“How can you have too many?” you may ask. Well, like any good thing, there’s a time when it becomes overkill. As a rule, we don’t want that. Sound effects, therefore, are included in this paradigm.

Consider music in the equation. Now that the OHR can play MIDIs, we have to assume we’ll be using them for our soundtracks (or MP3s if we’re feeling especially sadistic toward dial up users). A higher quality of music will translate into a higher quality of dramatic tension. So do we really want a gaggle of sound effects tearing that drama apart?

I’ll use Scary Game 3 as an example. The game starts with a classic scene of “It was a dark and stormy night” without actually saying the words. The visual is dramatic enough without the music, which is slightly upbeat for a haunted house, until the screen flashes over the rain and a horrendous crack of thunder breaks the PC speakers. The dog runs like hell out of the room it’s so frightening.

Moogle (or Mogri, as I guess he wants to be called now) just used his sound effect (yes, singular—no rain hitting the gutters here) with skill. We don’t hear another one until the hero throws a punch at an enemy. He identified where the sounds are needed and left the excess out. Likewise, he didn’t get lazy—everything that needs a sound effect has one (with the possible exception of Eric’s feet hitting the ground when he lands from a jump). He did sound effects right.

It might be tempting to go overboard with a new trick once we know we can use it, but resist the urge. Not every grass tile has to crunch under the hero’s feet when he walks. Not every woman has to sigh when the hero enters the room. Modesty is the best policy when dramatic tension is considered. Sometimes it’s better to leave a room silent if the score is leading the mood.

Once the game is finished, though, you’ll have an idea whether it needs a few sound effects, a lot, or none at all. For most RPGs, it’s expected that battles will carry the brunt of the effects, and that’s fine. In world maps, and especially cut scenes, they’re not as important. In those cases, the music should dominate the scene. And that’s assuming your genre is traditional. If you’re making a horror or game show game, then sound effects set the mood more than the music, and thus should be more of a crutch than the former. At the end of the day, though, whatever sets the mood of the game is the most important consideration here.

You’ll also want to keep it relevant. If you’re making a horror survival game, a bicycle horn probably won’t be a good choice for selection sounds. Likewise, if your hero is slashing his sword, it’s best not to attach a fish plop to the accompanying effect. And while this may seem like common sense (and how often does that get violated in OHR game design?), it may be harder to identify a sound of similar likeness being used poorly.

Consider a slashing sword again. Most players expect to hear a “swish” and a “metallic hit.” So would the sound of a hand swishing against water work? Or maybe the winded sound of a fan? Probably not. What about a saw blade hitting a knife? Better, but still lacking. Getting the sound right will take some imagination. It’ll also take clever use of resources.

Now, there are two ways to acquire sound effects. The first is to find them online or on special CDs. The second is to make them. And while the first method may be more effective in the long run, the second will allow you to personalize your game more (and have more fun making it). Therefore, I recommend trying the second alternative at least once.

Assuming you want to make your own, you must first see if you have the resources to do it. If you have a microphone, then the answer is “yes.” From there you have to decide what sound effects you want and what you have lying around the house to help make them.

If you visit MGM studios or watch a documentary on sound effects, you’ll see that Foley artistry is one of the more unique arts in entertainment. It requires the artist to use common objects to make realistic (and unrelated) sounds. It can be challenging, certainly, but a lot of fun figuring out what works.

Two images I still hold in my mind about the Foley arts involve food items. The first is the description Bruce Campbell used on a talk show to describe how he and Sam Raimi made the “bone crunching” effects for Evil Dead. Instead of letting a real zombie grind up someone’s bones (the realistic way) and filming it, they had someone break a celery stick in half and bite into it. The effect then, while not perfectly identical to real bone crunching, delivered the appropriate feeling to the scene. It worked great, and moviegoers wouldn’t know the difference. The second, a documentary about Foley artists on ER, showed two people pressing into a roast turkey to simulate doctors trying to restart someone’s heart. While mildly disturbing to think about, the example proved that common objects could sound like anything.

Consider a sword unsheathing. You decide the attack isn’t complete with just the swish or the metallic hit. You need the hero to first unsheathe his sword. To finish the sequence, you must implement the unsheathing sound effect. But how? Well, the easy method is to find it online. But the creative method is to go into your kitchen and pull out some silverware.

If you choose the creative method, it’s best to go with a fork and a knife (butter knives are heavier than steak knives and are thus better for this exercise). Bring the two utensils to your microphone, start Sound Recorder (usually found in “Accessories” in your Windows start menu), put the knife—blade side down—between two prongs, and pull. Listen to how it sounds. Not bad, huh? Keep doing this until you get the right sound.

For added coolness, you can use Sound Recorder’s echoing features to simulate a sword unsheathing in a cave.

Need a weapon hitting a shield? Try thunking a brick against a slab of wood. Want that weapon to be an axe? Jam a butter knife into a tree branch. You can use just about anything. All it takes is creativity. Just be sure to turn off interference sounds (especially fans and air conditioners) before you start recording. Before you know it, you might even have a sound effects library under your belt.

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