Understanding the Sublime Architecture of Bloodborne: Interpreting Bloodborne through the architecture of its city, Yharnam, and the real-life historical precedents that can be associated with that architecture, like Michelangelo’s and Piranesi’s work.
Piranesi and Boullée: Two Artist-Architects Unmined by Game Designers: Visual artists are expected to place their work in a historical context, yet there seems to be an absent consciousness of the material that can be used for games’ environments. Here are two artist-architects whose work game designers should know about.
The Lay of the Land: A Critical Look at Dark Souls 2’s DLC, Part 1: Dark Souls 2’s DLC was a chance for the developers to hone their craft. Despite some novel ideas, though, the DLC was mostly characterized by tedium and absurdities. This is the first of two articles, each emphasizing environment and encounter design.
Economy and Thematic Structure: Symphony of the Night’s Level Design: The castle’s structural design in Castlevania: Symphony of the Night has rarely been factored into analyses of the game’s strengths. This article will do so, using comparisons to several other exploration-based Castlevania titles for effect.
A Study of Michiru Yamane’s “Dracula’s Castle”: This essay explores how “Dracula’s Castle”, from Castlevania: Symphony of the Night’s soundtrack, mainly revolves around two melodic germs, and how these are used in conjunction with formal developments which can be interpreted narratively.
My first novella about a moron who joins an anarchist club after his girlfriend is accidentally murdered by police, falls out with them, then winds up bumbling into intrigue about a sentient AI (shit)
My second novella which is a transcription of my harbringer dreams of my psychosis (shit)
A short story about Socrates vs The Grand Inquisitor (overwritten shit)
And then I wrote a third novella which is a roman a clef about my life but I don’t trust you guys enough to post it here.
I’ve also written some stuff as flash fiction:
There once was a dragon named Nachtschwinge,
Who solemnly wished he could sing,
He gave up in a huff,
When reviews came in rough,
After burning down the whole lounge scene.
Doing research for a thesis I’m gonna pitch to Boston publications. The article will highlight a buildings, mostly educational sites/arts centers and condos, that are going up or have recently gone up around Boston, put them in a historical context, and also argue that they’re B.A.D. and not conducive to a civically rewarding architectural legacy.
I got banned from OG SB before you joined, but I still read on occasion and I always thought your blog was pretty cool when I clicked on one of your links. Pretty sure you had some stuff on rock paper shotgun for a while too, right?
I’ve been writing the same book for 10 years now and it finally seems to be coming together. If any of you were on the ancient SB writing club mailing list, I shared a (now deleted) chapter there. It’s technically book one of two, but if no one wants to publish it I never have to write the second book anyway!
Logline: With an upcoming presidential election threatening to bring about World War III, two American teenagers attempt to unite the world under a religion older than the universe itself: Terrorism.
Currently sitting at 98,000 words. Hoping it’ll be a nice round 100,000 by the time I’m done. If anybody wants to read it just PM me!
Man, so close to finishing this book. This is the beginning of Chapter 14, about 3/4th of the way through. Its one of my favorite things I’ve written:
Ever since that first white man left a perfectly good buffalo carcass to rot away on the open plains, America has been waging a never-ending battle between the land’s natural beauty and its occupants’ tendency towards excess. Unfortunately, in recent decades the conglomerates have all but claimed victory in this war, constantly devising new ways to corrupt almost every facet of culture with the rank scent of unwashed capitalism.
First our great coliseums were claimed by their brands, sports fans gathering around their massive screens to watch the Denny’s Broncos take on the Oral-B Raiders at Old Spice Field. When the national parks system threatened to go bankrupt, again the corporations stepped in, Old Faithful now erupting every 91 minutes there at the heart of Tropicana National Park. Worst of all though is how the unchecked expansion of mass retailers and chain restaurants all but destroyed whatever unique charm America’s towns once offered. The title of “small business” could no longer be claimed by the small mom and pop stores which had once fought for life amongst urban sprawl, but were now simply a label for the smaller chains: the Blimpies and S’Barros populated only by those consumers too tired to brave the massive lines at Subway or Little Caesars. Miles of bland strip mall architecture had overtaken nearly every town in America, the only way to tell some zipcodes apart being the particular selection of brands which adorn them: whether the citizens eat at Red Lobster or Chili’s, whether they shop at a Wal-World or a Target Town.
Thankfully, there’s still one feature of America which remained relatively unspoiled by this rampant branding, with even the latest advancements in holographic billboards unable to pull our attention away from its majesty. I speak of the American highway, that proud, sprawling system of concrete arteries which connects us all, even in an era of rampant xenophobia and similar maladies. After all, what American could not claim to have felt the call of the open road? That undeniable urge to let our vehicles drink deep from an ever-depleting ocean of black blood, speeding towards the vanishing point in hopes of escaping the meaningless consumerism that engulfed our everyday lives?
Sure, we weren’t always devout in this pilgrimage, sharing our travels with a rustling bag of grease-laden French fries, listening to a chatty pair of morning radio jocks endorse the latest fad surgeries between a slew of Top 40 hits. Yet occasionally, sandwiched between that inescapable noise, one could be lucky enough to spot a rare moment of transcendent beauty. The splendor of America projected upon a widescreen of windshield glass, the blur of painted white lines like the contrails of angels, pointing the way to salvation. Moments that reminded you why so many forgotten soldiers had believed that America was a place worth fighting for. Moments that almost convinced you of the same.
