Many people think they have good ideas. None of them (people, that is) are qualified to judge whether or not they're right. A good idea is always one that's validated only by others, not by whoever thought of it. What do you think of that?
One of the reasons I've always wanted to work on games is because I like the process of coming up with what seem like new ideas and getting excited about them, especially about the underlying idea of making them real. I know and accept that I can't make them real on my own. I'm not a graphic designer, I'm not a sound designer, and I'm not a programmer. I can't solo that shit. I'm trained as a writer, though, and my parents have often said, why don't you write a book. I tell them it's because I'd rather make a game. I can't articulate it any other way--the opportunity cost of a creative pursuit that isn't game-related just doesn't come close to one that is game-related in my book, if you'll pardon the expression.
Knowing I have no right to the thought, I nevertheless sometimes catch myself smugly thinking I've got some pretty good ideas. This is as close to self-confidence as I get, and still I call it arrogance and try to shut the feeling off. At least, then, I know not to press on these ideas of mine any harder than I should. Game making is a team-oriented process and there's little room left in the business for creative bullies or prima donnas; successful games are the ones created by people who share an idea and a vision, rather than are forced to execute on the whims of some crazy "idea man". To that end, I wouldn't want carte blanche on a game even if I could have it. I like when ideas are vetted, challenged, and refined. I like when my seemingly good ideas are overturned--I'm forced to reconsider the issue from a different angle and come up with something better.
There was this one idea I've had for my next project that I've been very excited about for weeks. I didn't necessarily expect my colleagues to buy into it but I didn't intend to sell it short, either. And while the idea didn't seem serious, I was satisfied to get the impression that it was at least considered for whatever it was worth. Furthermore, I felt better having had the guts to vocalize and present something that I could have just as soon kept bottled up, and regretted not having ever told to anyone.
I confirmed yesterday that this idea of mine wasn't on the table anymore. If I felt so much as a tinge of remorse at this, it was quickly replaced with a sense of relief at knowing then and there that it was time to move on to the next idea. I felt reinvigorated all of a sudden, free to reconsider everything I'd been thinking about. The investment I put into the previous idea was not lost--it was reinvested into my next train of thought. Now I feel as though I'm closer to thinking on the same wavelength as the rest of my colleagues thinking independently on similar topics. After a little more iteration, we'll all be in accord. And the best ideas of all emerge from that state.
There's a temptation in getting too fixated and defensive about one's own ideas. This is a dark road that's contrary to the desirable habit of keeping an open mind. Having the confidence to know that one's ideas won't always be good enough or timed appropriately to win over one's colleagues has to be an important trait for anyonw who hopes to work on games for more than a little while.
One of the reasons I've always wanted to work on games is because I like the process of coming up with what seem like new ideas and getting excited about them, especially about the underlying idea of making them real. I know and accept that I can't make them real on my own. I'm not a graphic designer, I'm not a sound designer, and I'm not a programmer. I can't solo that shit. I'm trained as a writer, though, and my parents have often said, why don't you write a book. I tell them it's because I'd rather make a game. I can't articulate it any other way--the opportunity cost of a creative pursuit that isn't game-related just doesn't come close to one that is game-related in my book, if you'll pardon the expression.
Knowing I have no right to the thought, I nevertheless sometimes catch myself smugly thinking I've got some pretty good ideas. This is as close to self-confidence as I get, and still I call it arrogance and try to shut the feeling off. At least, then, I know not to press on these ideas of mine any harder than I should. Game making is a team-oriented process and there's little room left in the business for creative bullies or prima donnas; successful games are the ones created by people who share an idea and a vision, rather than are forced to execute on the whims of some crazy "idea man". To that end, I wouldn't want carte blanche on a game even if I could have it. I like when ideas are vetted, challenged, and refined. I like when my seemingly good ideas are overturned--I'm forced to reconsider the issue from a different angle and come up with something better.
There was this one idea I've had for my next project that I've been very excited about for weeks. I didn't necessarily expect my colleagues to buy into it but I didn't intend to sell it short, either. And while the idea didn't seem serious, I was satisfied to get the impression that it was at least considered for whatever it was worth. Furthermore, I felt better having had the guts to vocalize and present something that I could have just as soon kept bottled up, and regretted not having ever told to anyone.
I confirmed yesterday that this idea of mine wasn't on the table anymore. If I felt so much as a tinge of remorse at this, it was quickly replaced with a sense of relief at knowing then and there that it was time to move on to the next idea. I felt reinvigorated all of a sudden, free to reconsider everything I'd been thinking about. The investment I put into the previous idea was not lost--it was reinvested into my next train of thought. Now I feel as though I'm closer to thinking on the same wavelength as the rest of my colleagues thinking independently on similar topics. After a little more iteration, we'll all be in accord. And the best ideas of all emerge from that state.
There's a temptation in getting too fixated and defensive about one's own ideas. This is a dark road that's contrary to the desirable habit of keeping an open mind. Having the confidence to know that one's ideas won't always be good enough or timed appropriately to win over one's colleagues has to be an important trait for anyonw who hopes to work on games for more than a little while.
