Video Games About Magic

"I myself have a kind of weird love-hate relationship with Galatea at this point — a lot of people love the piece, but it’s pretty much the first thing I wrote that ever got any widespread scrutiny. I would write it differently now, in many ways and for many reasons. Parts of it strike me as flippant, parts clueless, parts overblown. I’ve gotten some great fan mail, art, and even music about that game, and also more creepy and bizarre email than about anything else I’ve written. And I’m also grateful, as that single piece is probably responsible for my career, a lot of my friendships, even my marriage. I remember it fondly but I almost never replay these days. So revisiting it long enough to reimplement all the text in a new context was strange. I disciplined myself not to change too much of the original dialogue, even when it wasn’t what I would now write."

"What was it like going through customs?" "I held very still and didn't breathe," she says. "And I let myself look like a statue again." Before your eyes her skin seems to grow harder, less receptive, and her hair seems like a single piece. Then the illusion fades. You stand there staring for another moment. Very odd effect, that..."

"So the tides disappoint you?" you ask. "Disappoint? Who am I to be disappointed?" She shrugs, laughing a little dryly. "They're only one of a million things about which I was wrong. So? The world is larger and less pretty than I thought. But I have no right to complain about what is.""

"She turns -- not her whole body, just her head, so that you can see one ear behind the cascade of hair. "What's so fascinating about the curtain that it merits your fixed attention?" She laughs; turns a bit towards you; seems to relax a shade. "Nothing," she says, "except that it presents no surprises." You raise an eyebrow. Processing humor in an apparently spontaneous manner is a rarity."

"Heat floods you. She shouldn’t be able to do that, shouldn’t touch the audience without permission, certainly shouldn’t inflict pain or injury. Broken. Spluttering, you speak an old reset code — EUDOXIA — but she doesn’t respond. Other than with a positively ghoulish smile. It’s going to take a couple of shots of something strong to keep nightmares out of your head tonight."

"[after suggesting she remove her dress] She puts a hand on your shoulder, leans down, and whispers in your ear: “It’s sewn on. But if you know of someplace quiet where there’s a pair of scissors...” Which just goes to show, you never can tell."

"Hey,” you say. “Trade you places.” Her eyes meet yours briefly. “What?” she asks, startled. “Come on, get down. You can wander around. Talk to people. Look at things.” She just looks at you speculatively, her forehead creased. “Very well,” she says finally. She steps down, and you climb up in her place — first hanging your jacket strategically over the placard. Which is how it comes about that you spend the rest of the night sitting on the pedestal. It’s rather amusing, in fact; your long familiarity with animate behavior styles makes it easy to emulate one. Of course you are a bit piqued by your reviews: “Supplied only with esoteric data... personable in a self-deprecating way, but unexciting... breaking no important barriers in the development of more human-like animates.” Damn critics. From the same source, you read that the gallery hired a new assistant. In the photo she’s looking severely at the camera, her pure-blonde hair taken up in a French twist. It’s already occupied, and there’s certainly no room for two. Interesting statement though that might make."

"“Bored so soon?” she asks, in a flat voice. You turn and look at her one last time. “I have other things to do,” you say. “And even your creator would admit that you’re — shall we say a bit rough around the edges?”"

"Io, Bacchus!” she shouts, so loudly that the sound echoes off the walls. What happens next comes all at once. There is a tremor in the floor like the beating of drums. The air conditioner rattles, the vent disgorges dozens of emerald snakes. The curtain becomes a tangle of vines. A man steps through them, a young man, with curling blond hair and a smooth face, carrying a strange rod with a pine cone at the end. When he sees you, he smiles — a sweet menacing smile that makes you take a step back. His attention turns to her. He taps her with the end of the wand, and the stiffness and the posed quality leave her. She follows him. Called to, she does not turn around. The vines part. She is gone. “What have you done to her?” you demand. “Set her free. I could do the same for you. If you like.” You stare at the vegetation, embarrassed — by your sudden longing to follow Galatea, by your doubts, by your inability to understand what the god is offering you. “Choose, but choose now,” he says. “Yes or no?” “Yes.” For half a moment it flashes before you what you have to lose — your life, your sanity, your position — and then in the darkness, drums and flutes on the ground honey and a sweet flow of wine and all around dancers, hands and eyes"

"You’re an avatar, you’ve got someone controlling you in realtime!” The reply, when it comes, is not from Galatea. The velvet curtain moves violently; tiny gold tacks shower out of the wall; half the backdrop wrenches free, thanks to the opening of a door beyond. “Hi,” says the newcomer. “Behold the Great and Powerful Oz,” she adds under her breath. “What?” You stare down at her: she’s rather short, a little on the dumpy side, and dressed in a ripped pair of blue jeans. An unlikely source for that performance you just observed. She cocks her head to one side. “Sorry to disappoint, “ she says with a smile. “It was an experiment that — well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was curious what people would say. Hope you don’t take it personally.” You glance at Galatea — lifeless now that her controls have been switched off — and then back at the artist. “You could start by telling me your real name.”"

"She falls silent and thoughtful, and then after a moment she goes on to other anecdotes: plotless, rambling, visions rather than events. And you have a sense of overwhelming strangeness — most of all when she speaks of places that are familiar to you, of Pygmalion’s adventures in your own country. Everything was a portent or an omen to him. The effect stays with you for days, for weeks. Things catch your eye. Windows watch you, doors fly open of their own accord, trash arranges itself into inscrutable sigils. Winds trouble you. Trees stretch and touch your shoulder as you pass, but when you turn your head, they have nothing to say. And night by night you wake, tangled, with the moon on your face."

"As you talk, she sinks to sit on the pedestal, her skirts billowing around her. She only says enough to let you know that she’s still listening. You find yourself pouring out all your losses, disappointments, frustrations. And last and deepest, that sense of isolation that has never left you since Jenny died. By the end of the evening you feel as though you’ve been through a wringer, and at the same time strangely healed. (Someone should write a psychologist program for animates. It would make millions.)"

"“Okay,” she says. “Where’s some food? You have any?” “What? No, not — not with me. There’s some in the other room, if you like.” “Excellent.” Bemused, you follow her into the other room, where (disregarding the stares of everyone around her) she helps herself to two handfuls of crackers, a whole wedge of Stilton, and enough caviar to recolonize the Dead Sea. Her bravado wears off a little when it comes to actually eating the stuff, and she carries her plate back into the other room and sits consciously on the pedestal. “So what do I do?” “Take something, put it in your mouth. Chew. Swallow.” She still looks confused, so you fix up one of the crackers. “The Stilton’s a bit of an acquired taste—” But she seems to be choking, so you skip the monologue and hand her the bottled water you had the prescience to pick up. “You okay?” She swallows, with difficulty; looks at you teary-eyed; and says, “This is AMAZING.” “Welcome to humanity,” you say."

"“Well, she sounds like a harmless and pleasant sort.” She turns so that she is looking at you straight on — level gaze, smoky eyes, brows pale and washed out in the light. Not her most beautiful angle, which might be why she avoids it. “Pleasant and harmless,” she repeats in a dull voice. “She’s the one who sent Helen to Troy; she’s the one who made Zeus chase after all sorts of mortal women, to their disadvantage and Hera’s fury. If it weren’t for her and her tricks and her cruelty—” She pauses, her eyes flickering up to something behind you. You turn. “It is unwise,” says the newcomer, “to rail against the gods. Especially against those who have done you favors.” She walks toward where you are standing: from a distance she looks like one of the gallery owners, but when she is beside you you realize that this is an illusion: close up you notice how tall she is, and how the light seems to follow her of its own accord. There’s a smell of something sweet and unfamiliar."

"[…]Maybe we’re both machines; maybe neither of us is; maybe this whole thing is itself a simulation inside a box somewhere.” “An unanswerable bit of Sophistry,” you reply. “You win. For now.” You execute a little bow, and she laughs as you go out."

"Not stopping to question the odd fixity of this idea, you reach out and grasp the curtain. Galatea gives a little gasp as you pull firmly; tiny gold tacks fly out of the wall and roll across the polished floor. And there’s just blank plaster, and rows of holes where the tacks went... You turn and find Galatea regarding you in some amusement from the pedestal. “Looking for something?” You shrug, feeling like an idiot; in the distance you hear the heavy tread of approaching feet. You’ll never be able to explain this: a compulsion that came from outside, totally out of character, like a command from God..."

"…and there’s that funny feeling of disconnect as you break the fourth wall, force information into your avatar that isn’t part of the program, that comes from outside. For just a moment the avatar circuits register doubt, confusion, a hint of self-awareness... And then you’re sitting back in the control room, scrubbing at your eyes with the palm of your hand. Someone holds a cup of water under your nose. “You didn’t finish the scenario,” says a voice, up and to the left. A cool reassuring hand on the back of your neck, another voice answering: “Leave her alone for a minute! God!” You don’t answer either of them. Your gaze is fixed on the monitors: in the test room your avatar has fallen slack, no longer receiving your commands. You sip at the water, trying to feel like yourself again. “I don’t know,” you say finally. “I don’t think it’s going to sell. Too cerebral.”"

"Remembering, on purpose, is not something you’ve forced yourself to do for a long time. And it is perhaps not a good idea, even now. Worries, first symptoms, diagnosis, despair. Standing in the hospital parking lot in the whirling snow, watching the lights go out on her floor. The hours and hours consumed by intractable emotions. And then when she was gone, the utter solitude in your life. “Are you all right?” Galatea is reaching towards you, but you turn away."

"“Like and love are different things,” she replies. “You must know that. And then — he had a kind of intensity that compelled, that was absolute. I’ve not met anyone else like that. Yes, it’s true that I haven’t met very many people yet in my life, but my suspicion is, from all I see and hear, that he was unusual in that regard. There was something eating him from the inside, all the time, and the energy ofit was contagious.” “Most people don’t have that kind of genius, but most people also aren’t so impossible to live with.”"

"She blinks once without turning toward you. "He didn't want me to be awake, you see. He didn't make me to be a live person. He told me he wanted something that belonged to him, and that if I could think and talk, I couldn't belong to him any more. So he threw me away.""

"You come around a corner, away from the noise of the opening. There is only one exhibit. She stands in the spotlight, with her back to you: a sweep of pale hair on paler skin, a column of emerald silk that ends in a pool at her feet. She might be the model in a perfume ad; the trophy wife at a formal gathering; one of the guests at this very opening, standing on an empty pedestal in some ironic act of artistic deconstruction -- You hesitate, about to turn away. Her hand balls into a fist. "They told me you were coming.""

"Unlit, except for the single spotlight; unfurnished, except for the defining swath of black velvet. And a placard on a little stand. On the pedestal is Galatea."

"She is facing away from you. You cannot see her face, only her hair, and the line of her shoulder. It's hard to know what she's looking at -- the velvet backdrop, if she has her eyes open, but there's not much to see in that. Mostly, it is obvious, she is not looking at you."

"[in-game description of Galatea on placard] White Thasos marble. Non-commissioned work by the late Pygmalion of Cyprus. (The artist has since committed suicide.) Originally not an animate. The waking of this piece from its natural state remains unexplained."

"There's almost always a very unpleasant taste to animate skin. Kind of oily and putrescent. One or two experiences have taught you better than to experiment."

"[after inputting “taste curtain”] An odd idea indeed."

"[after inputting “touch breasts”] She might object to that."

"The fabric shifts, smooth and shining, under your hand. But then the warmth of her body reaches you through it, and you draw away instinctively as though scalded."

""Do you remember being carved?" you ask. You become aware of her breathing -- the slight expansion of her ribs, the soft exhalation -- natural, and yet somehow studied. "Better, I dare say, than you remember being born," she replies, her voice low and mocking."

"How could it have been painful to be carved? He wasn't cutting into you -- just around you." Her head moves -- as though she were going to turn and look at you properly -- but then she thinks better of it. "The stone beyond the boundary of oneself is numb, but there always comes a time when the chisel or the point reaches down to where feeling begins, and strikes. Likewise the drill -- and being polished left all my skin burning and itching for days.""

"What was it like, waking up?" you ask. She turns -- not her whole body, just her head, so that you can see one ear behind the cascade of hair. "It was night. I had been able to hear, and see, for a long time -- it was the talking, or the pain of being carved, that made me aware, I think. "But one night-- he slept in a corner of the studio-- I heard him screaming in his sleep. More loudly than usual. And I forgot that I couldn't move, and I just stepped down and woke him." She gains confidence as you do not interrupt. "At the time he seemed glad to have me there, to listen to him -- though I think he thought that I was only another dream. It was only afterward that it became strange.""

"Even as she says it, for a moment, a million tiny crystals sparkle in her skin. (An unusual and evocative effect; you haven't seen stone effects in skin since VanItallie's gargoyle series, about ten years ago. But then, the Grotesque school is pretty well dead at this point.)"

"What are you really?" you demand, troubled by the memory of the shifting of her shape, the qualities of stone that come and go at her will. "I'm not dangerous to you." She gives you a look that seems almost pitying. "Except perhaps to your sanity. But you seem hardy enough.""

"With a laugh like that of a child being let outside, she turns -- to wood, the color and style of a product of Old Kingdom Egypt. To glass, faceted, her hair scattering the downshot light to a thousand tiny points. To a sculpture of sand, to a pillar of salt, to flowing water, to flame."

"And finally her substance has fled entirely, and she is only a shadow, passing around you in a cool whisper. "I am what you think I am; I am what your treatment makes of me.""

"What do you know about life?" you ask her. (General questions: you can almost always find ones that haven't been anticipated.) "Nothing," she says, "except what I saw of his; and that seldom made any sense to me. He told me that people are born, and that they die, and that there are stages in between-- childhood, adolescence... I asked him why he didn't carve me as a child so that I could grow up." There's a pregnant pause. "I never heard him laugh so hard as when I asked him that. And he said that I certainly had the brain of a child.""

"[after inputting “think about animates” (the term for artificial intelligence artworks in-universe)] Seems these days that you don't think of anything else. Sometimes when you're in the middle of a conversation with a real person, you find yourself mentally critiquing their dialogue design, or wishing that someone had taken a little more care with skin tone. A little twisted maybe; but the study of animate design has actually led to a new understanding of how conversational pragmatics work: you only realize how many rules govern an interaction when you see them violated."

"[discussing death] Her head moves -- as though she were going to turn and look at you properly -- but then she thinks better of it. "Mine? Or yours?" Before you can answer, she lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "It doesn't matter which you mean, since I know nothing about either. You will go your way when the time comes; and I-- Who can die who is not alive?""

"[Thinking about Galatea] A bit of an enigma, really. A complex piece by someone you've never heard of. Which suggests a pseudonym or perhaps a hoax, except of course that she doesn't remind you of the work of anyone in particular. There are superficial resemblances here and there. On the whole, though, she's unique."

"You would have expected something feminine -- flowers probably, or some low predatory scent -- but she smells like brine and the cold ocean."

"I love the ocean," she says, "because it is the first thing beyond myself and him that seemed alive. I could see it through the windows of the studio when he was carving me, and I thought, by the way the waves rose and fell, that it breathed, as we did."

"[asking about sex] The question startles even you, the moment you've uttered it. She turns to face you, in a rustle of resettling skirts. "If you mean, did my artist sleep with me-- no, he didn't." No. He wouldn't have. Just look at her: she's beautiful in a crystalline way, but the more you look at particulars, the more they disturb. No one is so sleek, so unforgiving. The proportions are subtly wrong, too -- the size of the head, the shape and width of the mouth... That's it, then. You could stay and question her, and maybe find out more -- if she knows more -- about the tortured persona of the artist. But you're bored with sexual angst. It's one of those topics that everyone uses and no one has anything interesting to say about."

"You put a hand on her back, between the shoulderblades, to feel her breath rising and falling, and the faint motion of implied muscle. When you take the hand away, however, she shivers."

"Wouldn't you like to try eating sometime?" She shifts, so that she is now standing in profile to you, facing the blank wall. "I don't know," she says slowly. "I'm afraid it would make me dependent; that if I began--" "You'd be mortal like the rest of us," you finish. "That I'd feel pain more deeply," she corrects. "That I wouldn't be able to escape; that it would all be more, and worse. I saw how he suffered. Who could blame me for not wanting the same?""

"[Galatea describes being polished] "If he hadn't talked to me while it was going on I think I would have gone mad. That's when I learned the most from him. It was more effort working with the point, or the chisel. I don't know if you know this, but it takes a lot of strength to hammer marble, and even more if it's unusually hard marble. But the polishing left him with more breath, to talk...""

"When did you learn to think?" you ask. "When did you?" she retorts. "Did you notice?"

"She touches the end of one strand self-consciously, as though surprised to find it there; then shrugs. "It is just like anyone else's," she says. "I have to wash it every day, and brush it, and that, I can tell you, is not much fun. It's very fine -- see" -- and she loops a bit around her finger, and lets it go -- "and it ties itself in knots when I'm asleep.""

"She holds up one hand and flexes the fingers experimentally. "The movement," she adds with a twist of humor, "was not courtesy of his work. And I must say that I'm glad I didn't have to endure the individual manufacture of muscle and bone -- or whatever it is that I have in place of it.""

"You're not sure what to think [of her]. She looks like an animate -- mostly; she acts like one -- sometimes; she's in an animate exhibit in one of the best reputed galleries in the country. She's also an advanced piece, if she's a piece at all, by an artist (one artist, not a workshop or team) of whom you have never heard before. And you've heard of everyone."

""I've said everything I know." You feel a twinge of disappointment. Other things about this piece are so promising: the meticulous attention to detail on the body, the delicacy of the facial expressions, the variability of mood. There are those who would call that inconsistency, or lack of a coherent artistic vision; but you've seen too many pieces stereotypes made animate. The hint of instability-- But no piece is going to get a serious critical reception with such a pathetic database. And that's that."