Alexx's Journal

Was chatting about this with Rick and he asked me to write it up.
Most stories that involve time travel are, to quote my wife "bullshit". But they don't *have* to be. A little thought can establish models that allow for greater narrative cohesion while not getting in the way of storytelling very much.

The most straightforward model is the one where time travel is possible, but *changing* time isn't. The only timeline there is already includes everything you do with your time machine. This has been used in many great stories, notably Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure (first movie only) and Ted Chiang's moving short story "The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate".

But say that you don't just want a story about moving through time, but actually *changing* it. That gets more complicated. Notions of how time works are baked into our language and thought at a very low level. Think about the very phrase "time travel". That includes the word "travel" which is generally thought of as a change in position *over time*. So time travel is a change in time… over time? That makes little sense and we're not even past the name.

But there is a fairly straightforward way for changing the past to make sense (or enough sense for a story), and it's even one that many stories already seem to be using instinctively. I'm going to use the recent Loki TV series for examples, so there may be spoilers.

One way to make sense of "change in time over time" is to posit two different *kinds* of time. Or, if you like, two different *dimensions* of time. If ordinary time is a line, then time travel stories often function as if time were a *plane*. Our ordinary experience of time we can call time-X, since it moves along the x-axis. But time-travelers like the TVA live in time-Y, orthogonal to time-X. Time-Y acts like time-X in most ways. Cause precedes effect, time only moves in one direction, etc. The one big difference is that people in Time-Y can (technologically or otherwise) change their temporal X coordinate. But they *cannot* affect their Y-coordinate, which proceeds inexorably forward at 1 second per second.

In this way the TVA can travel to any arbitrary point in what ordinary people consider time. But they can't change their *own* past. In this way it makes sense to talk of a multiversal war in the "past" – that is, an earlier coordinate on the Y-axis, or to say that the utopia at the end of time (time-X) isn't finished "yet" (time-Y). On a smaller scale, this is why, when Sylvie ambushes various agents, or even when she escaped the very first time, the TVA doesn't just use time travel to fix the problem. Sylvie's life (after she was taken) is proceeding along the Y-axis just like the TVA, and the TVA's tech only affects Time-X, not time-Y.

In the more general case, this gives us a model where we can do all kinds of fun rule-breaking (in time-X) but still have a story that functions in a way that doesn't require diagrams and math to wrap your head around (along time-Y).

Now, there are some things in Loki that *look* like the TVA tech can affect time-Y, such as their "prisoner rewind" collars. But since those clearly don't reset the *consciousness* of the prisoners, I'm going to call that a complicated piece of themed teleportation, not actually time travel. (Admittedly, I'm hand-waving here, since I don't think the Loki writers were actually using this model.)

There's one place in Loki that definitely doesn't fit this model (as explained so far), but which I think actually does so in a way that supports the story beautifully. If one can't time travel along the Y-axis, how can He Who Remains know everything that Loki will do once they meet? The obvious (to me at least) answer is that HWR has gotten to time-*Z*, from which he can time travel along the Y-axis. Which also rather neatly explains how he won the (First?) Multiversal War. Sylvie seemed to end up in possession (and control) of HWR's time machine. Is she now living on time-Z, and capable of messing with time-Y. That would explain how the TVA seems to have forgotten Loki. Loki remembers all this because, once you pop "up" a level, as he and Sylvie did when meeting HWR, you never go "down" again.

Again, I don't think the Loki writers are actually using this model, but I think it fits season 1, and offers interesting possibilities for season 2. On the off-chance that anyone reading this feels like using this model, be my guest.

[From a nit-picker's POV, I realize that this model fits actual physics about as well as FTL does – which is to say "not at all". It breaks symmetry, it has shared reference frames, it ignores spacetime curvature, etc. But, like FTL, it allows for some fun stories that would not otherwise be possible.]

I really like this indie horror film (though Kestrell was “meh”). It’s sort of a mix of M.R. James’ “Casting the Runes” and an 80s slasher flick. The protagonist is being followed by an implacable monster that is guaranteed to kill them unless they passed this curse on to someone else first – by having sex with them. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a sexually transmitted CURSE.

I thought it worked well on a number of levels. It’s a scary horror movie, obviously. It’s also in some ways a meditation on inevitable mortality, and the ways in which we try to avoid it; In a move that reverses the 80s trope that sex equals death, in this film sex is the only mechanism by which you can (temporarily) avert death. And it’s a great example of rules-based storytelling.

Being who I am, I feel compelled to analyze the rules in some detail. Naturally, this involves heavy spoilers.( Read more... )

I’ve been a fan of Eric Shanower’s work for many years now. His in-progress magnum opus “Age of Bronze” is a detailed retelling of the entire Trojan War. To quote his own web site: “While everything in Age of Bronze is based on existing sources, whether mythological or archaeological, the final product is a version for the 21st century. All the comedy, all the tragedy, all the wide canvas of human drama of the Trojan War unfolds within the pages of Age of Bronze.” It gets a strong recommendation from me.

I just recently read the latest issue in paper form. AoB is one of the few comics I still have to read that way, due to it not coming out in ebook form. But I discovered, in the back matter, that AoB is, sort of, available digitally. The digital version is not in the now-standard model, but is a standalone iPad (only) app that (so far) only covers the first four issues. But, balancing these unfortunate restrictions, the digital version adds a LOT.

Firstly, the issues have been colored, very well, by John Dallaire. Shanower’s B&W art was 9and is) excellent on its own, but color is a valuable tool, well-deployed. Personally, I have trouble differentiating faces (the trouble is more in my brain than in Shanower’s art), so having different colored clothes significantly eases my comprehension of the story, especially in scenes involving many characters.

Secondly, there is a “Reader’s Guide” by Thomas Beasley, a mini-essay accompanying (optionally) every page, with a wealth of commentary, questions to consider, and links to the sources that Shanower is drawing upon. These are *very* well done, and it can’t be an easy job. To properly comment on this story, you need an extremely thorough understanding of mythology, literature, archaeology, and the formal concerns of comic book storytelling. Beasley appears to have all these well in hand. I’m 3.5 issues in, and I’ve only had one minor disagreement with what he’s said, while his essays have enhanced my understanding and appreciation of the book from their already high levels. It’s informative and scholarly, while being written in language any layman could understand.

It’s not *perfect*, of course. There are formatting bloopers here and there, and the interface, though serviceable, could stand improvement. But at $0.99 per issue, this is astonishingly underpriced.

If you like comics, or mythology, or ancient history, or just good storytelling, I cannot recommend this app too highly. Buy all four issues – the fourth covers the seduction/abduction of Helen and is an absolute masterwork, not to be missed. Seriously, go buy this; I want to encourage these folks to continue producing new issues.

Yesterday, kestrell and I saw the Actors' Shakeseare Project "Twelfth Night" at the Boston Center for the Arts. An above-average production, with particularly excellent performances for Viola and Feste. Also a really succesful impressionistic set design, evoking ocean waves, and literally using elements like water, sand, and dark reflections. Illyria is an extension of the sea, just as unpredictable.

There were two poor directorial choices that I feel strongly enough to call mistakes, but luckily they were not enough to kill the overall. enjoyment of the show, which I do recommend.

Firstly, having cast the twins as actors who were, though vaguely similar, clearly *not* twins (not, in itself a terrible problem), they decided to 'fix' things in a way that added to the confusion, rather than clarifying matters. Most of Sebastian's early scenes are 'shadowed' by Olivia, with the two of them talking simultaneously. To quote a puzzled Olivia, "What's your metaphor?"

Secondly, in the final scene, they let Malvolio be sympathetic. This sort of thing has ruined other productions I have seen, but at least here it was restricted to the final scene. Yes, modern sensibilities have some issues with the sort of maltreatment that Malvolio receives. But foregrounding that does damage to the story. The way to handle him (and Caliban, and Shylock, and so on) is to make it clear how much he in fact *does* deserve the treatment he gets, which the text will quite easily support. In this case, Malvolio at least had been sufficiently obnoxious through the rest of the play, even if they faltered at the last.

In chatting with Kes, I had an insight into one of the qualities present in all the best Shakespeare (and perhaps all good fiction): the audience can laugh at the characters. No matter how seriously the characters take *themselves*, one must be able to appreciate the levels at which their striving (like all human striving) is absurd. In acting mediums, that responsibility often lies with the actors and directors. The text of Twelfth Night *allows* you to play Orsino's love for Olivia, and Oliva's love for Cesario, as deep, meaningful, and tragic -- I've seen it done. But when you do that, your storytelling is confined to a single note, dull and flat. I'd be interested in hearing any counterexamples, if y'all can think of any.

My 25th High School Reunion is coming up in a few weeks, and I'm actually going, for once. Last night, I started looking through my old yearbooks to spark memories.

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http://grandmothers-house.net/
This is an interesting experiment in interactive storytelling that I commend to those interested in such things. I don't recall ever seeing anything quite like it before. I don't think it's directly applicable to my current project, but good food for thought nonetheless.

Caveats:
1) Despite the description, it is only vaguely game-like. Very few standard gaming conventions, and most of those subverted in some way.
2) *Very* slow-paced. There is considerable content here, but it may take you a long time to discover it.
3) The narrative is very symbolic and allusive. You will not get a pat ending explaining what everything 'really means'.

If none of those is a show-stopper for you, check it out. It's only ten bucks, and I found it well worth that.

If you're on the fence, I can point you to this review for more information.

Finally got around to catching up on the end of the current season Spoilers ho!

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I recently read the conclusion to Joss Whedon's X-Men run. It was a decent story, but I'm mostly writing about one trope he uses in it. It's one I know I've seen in other superhero fiction over the last few years, but I can't recall specific examples. Part of why I'm posting this is the hope that some of you will either jog my memory, or provide examples of your own.

As a long time gamer (and rules lawyer), I tend to see stories in terms of their underlying (if only implied) rules systems. In general, a given hero's powers will stay within fairly consistent bounds. Sometimes a hero can temporarily exceed these bounds when the plot really requires it. Many game systems allow this sort of thing through a 'Hero Point' mechanism, whereby you can essentially turbocharge a character briefly at the cost of a rare meta-game resource.

The 'Hero Point' concept generally covers relatively small degrees of overpowering, and can be done many times without significant repercussions. Lately, however, I've been seeing a new variant in the fiction: The Mega-Overpower Sacrifice.

Here's a stab at a definition. A character may, if the stakes are high enough (at least a city full of civilians; more typically, an entire planet), use their power at an *arbitrarily* high level -- once. This use is essentially guaranteed to succeed in averting the disaster, but at great personal cost. In order to prevent abuse of this mechanic (by authors or gamers), this has to have permanent repercussions. In the best case, the power is 'burnt out', and may never be used again (typically relegating the character to NPC status). More often, the character making this heroic effort dies as a direct result.

(Of course, since we're talking about superhero universes here, 'permanent' is really more of 'for at least a few publisher-time years', until someone decides to repower or resurrect the character. But the other characters/players are still obliged to treat the loss as permanent and roleplay as such.)

So, what's your favorite example of this mechanic?

MZD's first book, _House of Leaves_ was a phantasmagorical revelation, playing complex literary formalist games with the nature of book-as-artifact, while simultaneously being a gripping horror novel. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and was really looking forward to his next book, which I have finally gotten around to.

A brief digression: my wife kestrell being blind, she will often ask me to identify a book (that she wants to scan), and along the way asks, "Is this the right way up?" For _Only Revolutions_, that answer will always be yes. It's structured as two books that interpenetrate each other. There's a yellow side and a green side, but they are both 'right'. The narrative of your current side takes up the top section of each page, with the narrative from the other side lurking upside-down below it. Each page features two page numbers in the center-outer margin, one for each direction. The inner margins of the page each feature a date, and a series of phrases that evoke historical events of that period. (If, like me, you slept through high school history, many of these have an echoing familiarity, without actually conveying any meaning.) The rest of each page is taken up by the 'story', with each half being narrated by a different character.

You notice how I put 'story' in scare quotes? The bulk of the writing is poetic, but not in a positive way. The language is elliptical, allusive, and opaque. After an hour of reading, I still had *no idea* what was going on, so I stopped. The two narrators appear to be describing the same 'events' from differing points of view, but I don't have any real notion what those events *are*. There are no defined characters apart from the protagonists, and there is no defined context whatsoever. Without that grounding, any 'events' are meaningless, and even the protagonists barely rise above ciphers.

While _House of Leaves_ played a lot of similar structural games, and left a lot of unanswered questions, most individual chunks of it were comprehensible on the level of basic narrative: characters, events, and settings which might be mysterious, but at least were basically recognizable. _Only Revolutions_ doesn't have that baseline of normalcy. As it turns out, I require that baseline as a bare minimum for enjoyment.

Well, at least that was my reaction to the opening few sections (of each side). Mileage obviously varies. A coworker of mine has had a copy on the outside edge of his desk for months, bearing a post-it that says, approximately, "Please take this and read it, it's the most moving book I've read in years." I shall have to ask him why he thinks so. But for my part, this book, despite being a gorgeous physical artifact, is Not Recommended.

Tangentially, this business of context being of vital importance to storytelling is something I've been thinking about ptofessionally for quite a while now. Quite often, the games which get lauded for their 'story' have stories that are just as thin as an average game; what they have that makes them special is a fully-realized *setting* to *contextualize* that story. BioShock's story may be a few notches above average on the merits of pure story, but what puts it over the top for people is how completely realized the city of Rapture is. Without that supporting context, it would fall a lot flatter, and the seams would be way more apparent.