In the game industry, everyone is keenly aware of just how far behind schedule the project is, and it's (usually) recognized that meetings can burn a huge number of man-hours in a very short period of time, so when people call a meeting they tend to get right to the point. People are in the room to find a specific solution to a specific problem, and then to document the solution and the reason behind it so that they don't forget later. Meetings in practice often fall short of this ideal, but we try.
During a meeting, everyone may have their own ideas and their own agenda, but they are entirely forthcoming. Creative disputes (sometimes involving voices raised in passion) are expected from time to time. Everyone cares deeply about making the best game possible, which means no one is going to hide their idea and keep quiet just to "not rock the boat".
In academia, meetings feel a lot different. There is not necessarily the same time pressure (you're certainly not going to have a whole group of people laid off just because their project is behind, since half of the people you're dealing with have tenure), so the atmosphere is more relaxed and reserved. There is more competition between individuals and less overlap, and there is a lot more concern about making sure no one else in the room is offended, so people tend to be less forthcoming with their ideas and they're much more subtle about pushing their own agenda on the group. As such, brainstorming effectively is much harder.
Bonus culture shock of the day: specific to the institution where I'm teaching, students add classes by filling out a "pink slip" (this is what they are called) and having the instructor sign it. I have to question the wisdom of whoever thought it would be a great idea to subconsciously train their students to energetically ask their superiors for a pink slip...
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Culture Shock. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Culture Shock. Sort by date Show all posts
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Culture Shock: Student Passion (or lack thereof)
I've recently mentioned the lack of passion I've seen in teachers, compared to that of game developers. It occurs to me that the same complaint can be made of students.
Admittedly, this is largely the teachers' fault. How hard is it to get excited about something when you're learning from someone in the field who just isn't excited about their own work? Still, it's a bit of a surprise for me, coming from a job where everyone is working together as a team to make games... and seeing students working in a totally different way.
In the game industry, at least on the projects I've worked on, most people care about the project. Sure, if you work really hard to finish the work on your plate, your "reward" is to get even more work piled on you. So if you're cynical, you could say that the best "strategy" is to just do the bare minimum you need to not get fired. After all, you're salaried, so it's not like working harder actually means more money or rewards or anything. And yet... that almost never happens in practice, because the real reward is that your game is better. And if you care about the game, and you want it to be a good game, then you'll do whatever you can to make it the best game you possibly can. If you don't care about the game... well, there's a whole big software development industry out there that has nothing to do with games, which will pay you more money for less work. So people don't tend to become game developers unless they have this drive to make great games.
You'd think that the same would be true of game dev students, wouldn't you? Put a group of students together to make a game, and you'd expect them to all work insane hours and do everything they can to make it the best student project ever. After all, it's not like students can't do amazing work.
But in practice, you don't always see this. Sometimes you get an outstanding student team (usually the result of a single outstanding student leader who pulls the team together, and if you removed that one student the whole thing would collapse). But I'm seeing a lot of cases where this isn't happening at all. Some students don't show up for meetings and don't do any work at all -- as if they wanted a free ride, just a grade, and they don't care that this project is something that could go in their portfolio and get them a job (among other things). Students make excuses about why their work is late, when I know full well it's because they were just goofing off and procrastinating, a sign that they don't really care much about their project (they just see it as classwork, not an original project).
I'm still trying to find ways to make sure students get it, that game projects are an opportunity to create something experimental and new and different and original and really really cool (possibly the last opportunity they'll have for the next ten years of their career), and that they should really care about it. But I feel like it's an uphill battle sometimes, like I'm fighting against a dozen years of "education" that teaches students to jump through hoops for a piece of paper with the attitude that the real stuff comes later after graduation.
And it's a bit of a shock for me, even now, because I don't have to deal with this in the industry. I don't have to ask the programmers on a big-budget game to show up to work and give their best effort, because they already do.
Admittedly, this is largely the teachers' fault. How hard is it to get excited about something when you're learning from someone in the field who just isn't excited about their own work? Still, it's a bit of a surprise for me, coming from a job where everyone is working together as a team to make games... and seeing students working in a totally different way.
In the game industry, at least on the projects I've worked on, most people care about the project. Sure, if you work really hard to finish the work on your plate, your "reward" is to get even more work piled on you. So if you're cynical, you could say that the best "strategy" is to just do the bare minimum you need to not get fired. After all, you're salaried, so it's not like working harder actually means more money or rewards or anything. And yet... that almost never happens in practice, because the real reward is that your game is better. And if you care about the game, and you want it to be a good game, then you'll do whatever you can to make it the best game you possibly can. If you don't care about the game... well, there's a whole big software development industry out there that has nothing to do with games, which will pay you more money for less work. So people don't tend to become game developers unless they have this drive to make great games.
You'd think that the same would be true of game dev students, wouldn't you? Put a group of students together to make a game, and you'd expect them to all work insane hours and do everything they can to make it the best student project ever. After all, it's not like students can't do amazing work.
But in practice, you don't always see this. Sometimes you get an outstanding student team (usually the result of a single outstanding student leader who pulls the team together, and if you removed that one student the whole thing would collapse). But I'm seeing a lot of cases where this isn't happening at all. Some students don't show up for meetings and don't do any work at all -- as if they wanted a free ride, just a grade, and they don't care that this project is something that could go in their portfolio and get them a job (among other things). Students make excuses about why their work is late, when I know full well it's because they were just goofing off and procrastinating, a sign that they don't really care much about their project (they just see it as classwork, not an original project).
I'm still trying to find ways to make sure students get it, that game projects are an opportunity to create something experimental and new and different and original and really really cool (possibly the last opportunity they'll have for the next ten years of their career), and that they should really care about it. But I feel like it's an uphill battle sometimes, like I'm fighting against a dozen years of "education" that teaches students to jump through hoops for a piece of paper with the attitude that the real stuff comes later after graduation.
And it's a bit of a shock for me, even now, because I don't have to deal with this in the industry. I don't have to ask the programmers on a big-budget game to show up to work and give their best effort, because they already do.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Culture Shock: Information Sharing between Peers
When I was working at a game company, there were always a lot of people looking for information. Different people would read Gamasutra, GameDailyBiz, Game Developer Magazine, or any number of other websites, blogs and publications.
If you found something interesting, you would generally send it around to the other people at your company who might also find it interesting. Usually this meant one Game Designer would send an article on Game Design to all the other Game Designers, but there was no rule against crossing departmental boundaries; maybe an Artist would find an incomprehensible document on Graphics Programming, and forward it on to the Programming department.
And this was fine. We're all on the same team. If you find something that helps another teammate do their job better, you get social points for it.
As a teacher, I find myself continuing to do this out of habit. I hear a story on NPR about indie bands and I mention it to the professor who teaches audio production. I see an article on game writing and forward it on to the professor who teaches nonlinear storytelling.
And it just occurred to me, after half a year of doing this, that I've never received anything like that from anyone else on the faculty.
Maybe it's just that no one I work with is actually keeping tabs on the game industry as much as I am, or that everyone else is too busy to be thinking about it. But I'm wondering if there isn't a different culture in academia -- it feels less like we're a team, after all -- and maybe when I do this it's construed as me telling my colleagues how to do their job, or implying that they need my help or something. Not my intention at all, of course, but I have to wonder.
If you found something interesting, you would generally send it around to the other people at your company who might also find it interesting. Usually this meant one Game Designer would send an article on Game Design to all the other Game Designers, but there was no rule against crossing departmental boundaries; maybe an Artist would find an incomprehensible document on Graphics Programming, and forward it on to the Programming department.
And this was fine. We're all on the same team. If you find something that helps another teammate do their job better, you get social points for it.
As a teacher, I find myself continuing to do this out of habit. I hear a story on NPR about indie bands and I mention it to the professor who teaches audio production. I see an article on game writing and forward it on to the professor who teaches nonlinear storytelling.
And it just occurred to me, after half a year of doing this, that I've never received anything like that from anyone else on the faculty.
Maybe it's just that no one I work with is actually keeping tabs on the game industry as much as I am, or that everyone else is too busy to be thinking about it. But I'm wondering if there isn't a different culture in academia -- it feels less like we're a team, after all -- and maybe when I do this it's construed as me telling my colleagues how to do their job, or implying that they need my help or something. Not my intention at all, of course, but I have to wonder.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Culture Shock: Broken Terminology and How to Fix It
Going through the Expo floor at GDC is a rather unique experience. Like a highly expressive game (Minecraft or Sim City, for example), the experience is different for each person depending on their personal actions and goals. Students and unemployed developers looking to get jobs will be networking in the aisles, hanging out at the company booths, and maybe walking randomly through other areas to pick up swag or play with cool-looking toys. Professors network with industry on behalf of their students, and also visit the other school booths so they can all compare notes on who is best representing themselves. Exhibitors do... um... whatever they do. And so on.
Personally, I walk around looking for themes (this year I saw heavy representation of IT companies, cloud computing services, social media support services, middleware, geographic regions trying to attract companies, and schools trying to attract students - note the irony here, since most students at GDC are already at a school so it's a bit late to recruit).
School booths are interesting. Some show off student projects and allow you to play them. Others just show video. One showed a bunch of design docs and art bibles and other written works for a current student project in progress. Most have at least some printed documents talking about their academic programs, classes and curriculum. I always look at these to see what they're teaching kids these days.
One particular school I encountered, I won't name names, had a degree in "game design" (those were the exact words used). When I look at the core classes, I see: a token programming class, a level design class, and a dozen art/animation classes. Hopefully anyone reading this immediately sees the problem here. Obviously, the school did not.
I brought this to the attention of someone at the booth, who pointed me to a director-level person in the same booth. This director looked at me like I was from Mars, as if she couldn't understand why I was concerned or what the problem was. It concerns me because this isn't just a problem with a single school, it becomes a problem for every school. Imagine if a biology degree at School A was equivalent to a chemistry degree at School B, a physics degree at School C, and a science degree at School D. And biotech labs have to put this all together to figure out who actually learned the skills they need to hire. Even if just one school screws this up, the message to industry is "ignore the name of the degree on every resume you receive because it might be lying to you about what it means." But I'm an outsider to the school, and I have no influence to fix this myself, even though it totally screws me over, even if I'm teaching somewhere else.
I think the solution here has to come from industry. I would love to see more industry professionals stopping by the school booths, taking an honest look at what they're presenting, and calling them out on it -- in public, right there on the show floor, if need be -- if they are peddling the academic equivalent of snake oil. If every developer that passes through the expo takes five minutes to do this with just one school, any school that is just blatantly lying to its students about the value of its curriculum will hear that message over and over, loud and clear. So... any takers?
Personally, I walk around looking for themes (this year I saw heavy representation of IT companies, cloud computing services, social media support services, middleware, geographic regions trying to attract companies, and schools trying to attract students - note the irony here, since most students at GDC are already at a school so it's a bit late to recruit).
School booths are interesting. Some show off student projects and allow you to play them. Others just show video. One showed a bunch of design docs and art bibles and other written works for a current student project in progress. Most have at least some printed documents talking about their academic programs, classes and curriculum. I always look at these to see what they're teaching kids these days.
One particular school I encountered, I won't name names, had a degree in "game design" (those were the exact words used). When I look at the core classes, I see: a token programming class, a level design class, and a dozen art/animation classes. Hopefully anyone reading this immediately sees the problem here. Obviously, the school did not.
I brought this to the attention of someone at the booth, who pointed me to a director-level person in the same booth. This director looked at me like I was from Mars, as if she couldn't understand why I was concerned or what the problem was. It concerns me because this isn't just a problem with a single school, it becomes a problem for every school. Imagine if a biology degree at School A was equivalent to a chemistry degree at School B, a physics degree at School C, and a science degree at School D. And biotech labs have to put this all together to figure out who actually learned the skills they need to hire. Even if just one school screws this up, the message to industry is "ignore the name of the degree on every resume you receive because it might be lying to you about what it means." But I'm an outsider to the school, and I have no influence to fix this myself, even though it totally screws me over, even if I'm teaching somewhere else.
I think the solution here has to come from industry. I would love to see more industry professionals stopping by the school booths, taking an honest look at what they're presenting, and calling them out on it -- in public, right there on the show floor, if need be -- if they are peddling the academic equivalent of snake oil. If every developer that passes through the expo takes five minutes to do this with just one school, any school that is just blatantly lying to its students about the value of its curriculum will hear that message over and over, loud and clear. So... any takers?
Friday, November 30, 2007
Culture Shock: Assumed knowledge and skills
Everyone thinks they're a great game designer. Even if they have no experience. Even if their idea of a great game is "the game I want to play, even though no one else will want to." If you tell people you're a game designer, one of the two typical reactions is "hey, I have this great idea for a game..." (the other reaction is "what's a game designer?"). Basically, it doesn't matter if you're a Junior Designer on your first gig or if you've got twenty years experience; everyone you meet thinks they're a better designer than you. This is something you get used to pretty quickly.
Strangely, I didn't see this much when I became a teacher. I don't think I ever had a single student who felt that they knew more about game design than I did. The student/teacher social dynamic is apparently stronger than the "everyone's a game designer" thought process. I have no explanation for this. (It's not just that I have the power of assigning grades; students who didn't even take my classes treated me with a respect that I'm totally not used to.)
Strangely, I didn't see this much when I became a teacher. I don't think I ever had a single student who felt that they knew more about game design than I did. The student/teacher social dynamic is apparently stronger than the "everyone's a game designer" thought process. I have no explanation for this. (It's not just that I have the power of assigning grades; students who didn't even take my classes treated me with a respect that I'm totally not used to.)
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Culture Shock: Deans and Heads and Chairs, Oh My!
When I was a student, my only real faculty contact came from my professors. Sure, there were all these other people out there with titles like "dean" and "department chair" and "provost" but I never had any dealings with them, nor did I have any idea what they did. I had no concept of departmental politics or inter-departmental territorial disputes; I couldn't see beyond the exam next week.
Now, as a faculty, I see all this stuff (even though I sometimes wish I didn't... sort of like if you enjoy eating sausage and then see how it gets made). But it occurs to me that it's still off the radar of most students (and, indeed, most industry professionals who have some dealings with educators).
I'm not sure what, if anything, to do about it. Part of me feels like students should probably at least know who the dean of their department is and why that matters. Maybe the non-teaching faculty should do more to have contact with students in informal settings (not that they would necessarily have the time, with their overloaded schedules)? Or maybe the teachers who have a lot of student contact should speak a little bit about departmental issues in their classes so that the whole thing is a little more transparent?
Now, as a faculty, I see all this stuff (even though I sometimes wish I didn't... sort of like if you enjoy eating sausage and then see how it gets made). But it occurs to me that it's still off the radar of most students (and, indeed, most industry professionals who have some dealings with educators).
I'm not sure what, if anything, to do about it. Part of me feels like students should probably at least know who the dean of their department is and why that matters. Maybe the non-teaching faculty should do more to have contact with students in informal settings (not that they would necessarily have the time, with their overloaded schedules)? Or maybe the teachers who have a lot of student contact should speak a little bit about departmental issues in their classes so that the whole thing is a little more transparent?
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Culture Shock: Retention and Turnover
In the game industry (and in fact, in any professional industry), employee turnover is expensive. If someone leaves the company and you have to replace them, there's the expense of interviews (which take a lot of time away from senior people) and then the extra time it takes the new hire to get productive. Companies that realize this do what they can to retain their employees. Indefinitely.
Being a professor is different. In my case, "turnover" means that a student has graduated. It means I'm doing my job correctly. It also means fighting against the instinct of "gotta keep our best people around" that I'm used to from being in the industry.
Being a professor is different. In my case, "turnover" means that a student has graduated. It means I'm doing my job correctly. It also means fighting against the instinct of "gotta keep our best people around" that I'm used to from being in the industry.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Culture Shock: Citations in Games?
When an Academic writes a research paper, the paper generally cites a large number of sources. This serves several purposes:
- The more sources a paper cites, the more legitimacy it appears to have at first glance, since it is building on established material. Especially if it cites sources that are already well-known and established in the field.
- The more papers that cite a specific source, the more weight is given to that source, and the more prestige to its author(s).
- It helps avoid claims of plagiarism, copyright infringement, etc.
Ultimately, it benefits the creators of the cited work and the new work.
Games don't really do this. In the industry, an obviously derivative game tends to not list the game it's derived from in the credits, even under "special thanks". Sadly, this is even the case in direct sequels, where the team that built the original engine may get no mention in the credits of the sequel. The closest we get is paying homage to an older game by including an easter egg as a direct reference.
It struck me the other day just how wrong this was, when a student of mine pointed me to a game called Bubble Tanks. This game is an extremely obvious ripoff of Jenova Chen's flOw: both take place in water, both have relaxing background music, both let you grow by defeating enemies and shrink by getting hurt, both send you back to easier areas if you get hurt too much. Bubble Tanks adds the ability to shoot, and that's about it. And yet, Bubble Tanks makes no mention of flOw, either in the main screen or in its credits. "Special thanks to Jenova Chen for inspiration" would have been appropriate, no?
The issue is even muddier in this particular case, since flOw was part of a graduate student project, as the practical application of a written thesis. If Bubble Tanks were also a thesis project, you can bet there'd be some serious allegations of academic dishonesty; and if flOw were simply a commercial project everyone would call one or the other a "clone" and be done with it. But when a game crosses boundaries from Academia to Industry, then what? (Not to mention that flOw was commercialized; you can play it if you have a PS3.)
What do you all think? Should commercial games be required (or at least encouraged) to list the games that inspired them in their credits somewhere? I think it'd be useful, in that it would make it easier for Game Studies folks to trace the history of games and game mechanics... but at the same time, I don't see it happening any time soon. Which brings up another question: why the difference between academic projects and commercial ones?
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Culture Shock: Academic Freedom vs. Industry Constraints
When reading about Brenda Brathwaite's series of non-digital games (this includes games about such heavy topics as the Middle Passage, the Trail of Tears, and the Holocaust), it struck me that this kind of project would never happen in the game industry.
I don't mean that it would never get publisher funding. I mean, it wouldn't, but that's not my point. My point is, even if it were on her own time with her own money outside of work, this would never be allowed to happen.
Think about it. Suppose you were a working game developer and you casually mentioned to some co-workers that you were thinking of making an art piece and showing it at galleries, and that the topic was highly controversial and this was sure to have a lot of people cheering, and a lot of other people up in arms. How many nanoseconds would it take before your producer found you at your desk and asked you very nicely not to do this, out of fear that the Company would receive negative media backlash, and this is the last thing we need when we're courting three publishers for our next contract, so if you're interested on working on non-digital games maybe you could make something about fluffy bunnies instead? (I suppose some companies make controversy part of their business plan, but I'm talking about everyone else.)
This is a completely different paradigm than academia, where the whole concept of tenure is (at least in theory) supposed to be about the freedom to do anything, no matter how controversial. As an academic, you actually get support for things like this. You can sometimes get funding for things like this. Not everywhere, I'm sure, but it seems more likely that a random school will at least not get in your way if you want to take on a controversial product, compared to a random game company. One more point to consider if you're considering a career in either and you prefer to have total creative freedom.
I don't mean that it would never get publisher funding. I mean, it wouldn't, but that's not my point. My point is, even if it were on her own time with her own money outside of work, this would never be allowed to happen.
Think about it. Suppose you were a working game developer and you casually mentioned to some co-workers that you were thinking of making an art piece and showing it at galleries, and that the topic was highly controversial and this was sure to have a lot of people cheering, and a lot of other people up in arms. How many nanoseconds would it take before your producer found you at your desk and asked you very nicely not to do this, out of fear that the Company would receive negative media backlash, and this is the last thing we need when we're courting three publishers for our next contract, so if you're interested on working on non-digital games maybe you could make something about fluffy bunnies instead? (I suppose some companies make controversy part of their business plan, but I'm talking about everyone else.)
This is a completely different paradigm than academia, where the whole concept of tenure is (at least in theory) supposed to be about the freedom to do anything, no matter how controversial. As an academic, you actually get support for things like this. You can sometimes get funding for things like this. Not everywhere, I'm sure, but it seems more likely that a random school will at least not get in your way if you want to take on a controversial product, compared to a random game company. One more point to consider if you're considering a career in either and you prefer to have total creative freedom.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Culture Shock: Doing the Work
As my class ran under time today and students left about half an hour early, it occurs to me that the decision to cut things short was met with enthusiasm -- not because my students hate taking my classes (I hope!), but they've just been conditioned through years of education to get out of class as soon as possible.
This sort of thing doesn't happen in industry. If I'm working as a game designer and spontaneously decide to take half of the afternoon off, the rest of the team isn't going to heave a sigh of relief that I'm leaving (nor is the publisher, or the client). But here, my "customers" are perfectly happy if I'm not doing the job I get paid to do, at least to a certain point. It's rather unsettling, really.
This sort of thing doesn't happen in industry. If I'm working as a game designer and spontaneously decide to take half of the afternoon off, the rest of the team isn't going to heave a sigh of relief that I'm leaving (nor is the publisher, or the client). But here, my "customers" are perfectly happy if I'm not doing the job I get paid to do, at least to a certain point. It's rather unsettling, really.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Culture Shock: Learning Disabilities
Autism. Aspberger. OCD. ADD. ADHD. Tourette's. Bipolar. You name it, someone in the game industry has it. Probably several someones, and probably at least one someone who is incredibly successful.
For this reason, it's hard for me to even call these "disabilities" -- given that the word "disabled" literally means that the person is not able to do something, and clearly it is possible to make games regardless of what psychological label might be applied to someone. But then, I'm not a psychologist.
For the most part, people in the game industry don't care if you've been diagnosed with anything, as long as you can help them make great games. You could be criminally psychotic for all we care, as long as it doesn't impact the development schedule. (Okay, I exaggerate. But only slightly.)
So, it took me by surprise the first time a student gave me this little slip of paper from the campus office of disabilities, several years ago (I've since gotten used to this ritual; it seems there's always at least one per class, and usually more).
For those of you who have not taught before, here's how it works: the student brings you this paper that gives you (as the teacher) no practical information, except to tell you that the student requires some special privilege (commonly, extra time and privacy when taking exams). You have to sign it -- in all the places I've taught, I've never been allowed to keep a copy -- and then the student takes it back. Presumably it gets filed somewhere, I don't know.
And then, naturally, you forget about it, because you're not allowed to keep a copy. Until exam time comes, and you remember that two of your students have special requirements, but you can't remember which students (many students with so-called "disabilities" are quite high-functioning), and one of them might have dropped your class a few weeks back anyway. Oops. I've been doing this for a few years and I still manage to screw this up most of the time.
The most frustrating thing, though, is that you're given no information about how to teach more effectively. I understand and accept that we're dealing with confidential information on a need-to-know basis, and I will often be getting the bare minimum of relevant information. But this conflicts with a desire to teach properly, and if I know that (for example) talking more slowly or repeating myself will help or hurt the situation, or if making my lecture notes available is useful, or if I should avoid calling on a student in class because it would embarass them... well, it'd be good to know, but there's no way for me to find out without a confidentiality breach.
The obvious thing to do in these situations is to talk to the student directly, and simply ask if there's anything you can do... but often the student doesn't know, because they aren't a professional educator.
Best solution, I suppose, is to take matters into my own hands. Read books on as many of these disabilities as I can find, particularly any that might give clues on how to teach better, and hope for the best.
For this reason, it's hard for me to even call these "disabilities" -- given that the word "disabled" literally means that the person is not able to do something, and clearly it is possible to make games regardless of what psychological label might be applied to someone. But then, I'm not a psychologist.
For the most part, people in the game industry don't care if you've been diagnosed with anything, as long as you can help them make great games. You could be criminally psychotic for all we care, as long as it doesn't impact the development schedule. (Okay, I exaggerate. But only slightly.)
So, it took me by surprise the first time a student gave me this little slip of paper from the campus office of disabilities, several years ago (I've since gotten used to this ritual; it seems there's always at least one per class, and usually more).
For those of you who have not taught before, here's how it works: the student brings you this paper that gives you (as the teacher) no practical information, except to tell you that the student requires some special privilege (commonly, extra time and privacy when taking exams). You have to sign it -- in all the places I've taught, I've never been allowed to keep a copy -- and then the student takes it back. Presumably it gets filed somewhere, I don't know.
And then, naturally, you forget about it, because you're not allowed to keep a copy. Until exam time comes, and you remember that two of your students have special requirements, but you can't remember which students (many students with so-called "disabilities" are quite high-functioning), and one of them might have dropped your class a few weeks back anyway. Oops. I've been doing this for a few years and I still manage to screw this up most of the time.
The most frustrating thing, though, is that you're given no information about how to teach more effectively. I understand and accept that we're dealing with confidential information on a need-to-know basis, and I will often be getting the bare minimum of relevant information. But this conflicts with a desire to teach properly, and if I know that (for example) talking more slowly or repeating myself will help or hurt the situation, or if making my lecture notes available is useful, or if I should avoid calling on a student in class because it would embarass them... well, it'd be good to know, but there's no way for me to find out without a confidentiality breach.
The obvious thing to do in these situations is to talk to the student directly, and simply ask if there's anything you can do... but often the student doesn't know, because they aren't a professional educator.
Best solution, I suppose, is to take matters into my own hands. Read books on as many of these disabilities as I can find, particularly any that might give clues on how to teach better, and hope for the best.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Culture Shock: Professional Humility
If you're a game designer for long enough, eventually you'll work on a game that ends up just not being all that fun. (No matter how great you are, everyone has their mediocre projects.)
As a teacher, there are analogous cases. Eventually you'll meet a student who you know is capable of grasping the course material, and they genuinely try hard, but for whatever reason they just don't seem to get it. Or, eventually you'll create an exam or assign a homework and half the class completely bombs it.
In either case, there are two types of people. There are the ones that look at the tiny amount of positive feedback (the one glowing game review, the one student who gets everything perfect) and decides that if this tiny minority understands what they were trying to do, then everyone could, and it's just that the others aren't trying hard enough. It's certainly not their fault if these people just don't put in the effort to see their obvious brilliance. They feel better, but they don't actually get any better.
Then there are the ones who learn humility. Yes, others may have made mistakes along the way, but something in your own work went wrong as well -- enough that it was unable to save everything else. By figuring out what you did wrong, you become stronger.
In games, this is actually pretty easy. Reviewers will quite happily lay your game on the table and dissect each of its flaws, for all to see. Post-mortems, likewise, show us that most development teams are painfully aware of their issues; if you as a designer have made mistakes, even if you don't know what they are, someone else on your project team certainly does.
In teaching, it's much harder. There is no "project team" -- in fact, it's rare to have even a single other education professional observe your work and offer any constructive feedback at all. Students can help you identify weak points, but they can't tell you what to do about them. Teaching, then, forces one to go beyond humility into the realm of self-reflection in a way that game development does not.
As a teacher, there are analogous cases. Eventually you'll meet a student who you know is capable of grasping the course material, and they genuinely try hard, but for whatever reason they just don't seem to get it. Or, eventually you'll create an exam or assign a homework and half the class completely bombs it.
In either case, there are two types of people. There are the ones that look at the tiny amount of positive feedback (the one glowing game review, the one student who gets everything perfect) and decides that if this tiny minority understands what they were trying to do, then everyone could, and it's just that the others aren't trying hard enough. It's certainly not their fault if these people just don't put in the effort to see their obvious brilliance. They feel better, but they don't actually get any better.
Then there are the ones who learn humility. Yes, others may have made mistakes along the way, but something in your own work went wrong as well -- enough that it was unable to save everything else. By figuring out what you did wrong, you become stronger.
In games, this is actually pretty easy. Reviewers will quite happily lay your game on the table and dissect each of its flaws, for all to see. Post-mortems, likewise, show us that most development teams are painfully aware of their issues; if you as a designer have made mistakes, even if you don't know what they are, someone else on your project team certainly does.
In teaching, it's much harder. There is no "project team" -- in fact, it's rare to have even a single other education professional observe your work and offer any constructive feedback at all. Students can help you identify weak points, but they can't tell you what to do about them. Teaching, then, forces one to go beyond humility into the realm of self-reflection in a way that game development does not.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Culture Shock: Parking Policies
It didn't occur to me until recently that different institutions have wildly different ways to treat faculty when it comes to parking lots, of all things.
In my experience, parking for a normal job is pretty uneventful. Some buildings have private lots and you get a sticker or an assigned space or something, while smaller companies might need you to park on the street nearby. Either way, the company is paying you to come to work, so it's in their best interests to make it easy for you to actually arrive. Also, most companies aren't so huge and bureaucratic that Parking Enforcement is its own private department... especially in game development.
For colleges and universities, by contrast, parking is a huge problem. When you've got thousands of people commuting every day, you need some way to ensure that parking spaces are allotted fairly. Unfortunately, the parking office is usually not part of Human Resources, which means that a lot of places inadvertently send some pretty harsh messages. Here's three policies at three different institutions that I've observed (feel free to add your own in the comments):
In my experience, parking for a normal job is pretty uneventful. Some buildings have private lots and you get a sticker or an assigned space or something, while smaller companies might need you to park on the street nearby. Either way, the company is paying you to come to work, so it's in their best interests to make it easy for you to actually arrive. Also, most companies aren't so huge and bureaucratic that Parking Enforcement is its own private department... especially in game development.
For colleges and universities, by contrast, parking is a huge problem. When you've got thousands of people commuting every day, you need some way to ensure that parking spaces are allotted fairly. Unfortunately, the parking office is usually not part of Human Resources, which means that a lot of places inadvertently send some pretty harsh messages. Here's three policies at three different institutions that I've observed (feel free to add your own in the comments):
- Separate parking lots. If you're a student and pay a fee, you get a sticker for the student lots. If you're faculty, you get to park in the faculty lots for free, but you're not allowed in the student ones. There are also some "seniority lots" at prime locations on campus; when someone with a space dies or retires, whoever's most senior on faculty gets the space. What this says: Students and faculty are different people, so we're putting up artificial walls to make sure they don't accidentally get to know each other. Also, no matter how great a teacher or researcher you are, what really matters is that you stay here for a long time.
- Separate parking spaces within many lots. Each lot has some student and some faculty spaces, and if you pay a fee you get a sticker that gets you in to the right kinds of spaces in each lot. You have to pay even if you're faculty. What this says: This institution doesn't care who you are. You are nothing to us, a mere insect. If you don't like it here, there's a line of people out the door waiting to replace you, so put up and shut up.
- Common lots. There are a variety of parking lots and every space is exactly the same. Students pay for a parking pass, faculty get one for free, but everyone is fighting for the same spaces (and they're a bit scarce at certain times during the day). I haven't had a space stolen in front of me by one of my own students before, but I'm sure it happens occasionally. What this says: We're all in this together... or, every man for himself... depending on how you look at it.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Culture Shock: the role of policy
In academia, there is less of a team spirit than there is in the game industry. Probably this is because there is less of a threat of, say, an entire department getting laid off because their collective product didn't sell enough units at retail. This difference has many manifestations.
One difference is in how closely people follow written policies.
In industry, while most workplaces do have some kind of Employee Manual with a list of policies, these are usually seen more as guidelines (except in the obvious cases where there would be legal repercussions if the policies are ignored). Getting an exception to, say, a sick leave policy is a matter of talking to your boss about it and having a good reason, especially if that reason ultimately benefits the team and the game.
In the academic world, policy seems a lot stricter. Asking for an exception is essentially asking your boss to go through some kind of appeals or justification process on your behalf. It is asking for more work, in a world where everyone already has quite enough work on their plate, thank you. So it is far more likely to meet a stone wall in this case. You are more likely to see bosses and administrators hiding behind official policy rather than explaining it or working around it, because following the rules is the path of least resistance, and there isn't much personal reward to putting in the extra effort.
For my peers in industry considering academia, this is one of those annoying things you can expect to run into. Ultimately, it means you have to choose your battles carefully, because you won't have enough time to fight over every silly little thing (at least, not if you expect to get all your work done).
Obviously, not all schools are this bureaucratic, and not all game companies are this relaxed. I'm talking general trends here, based on my experience. As usual.
One difference is in how closely people follow written policies.
In industry, while most workplaces do have some kind of Employee Manual with a list of policies, these are usually seen more as guidelines (except in the obvious cases where there would be legal repercussions if the policies are ignored). Getting an exception to, say, a sick leave policy is a matter of talking to your boss about it and having a good reason, especially if that reason ultimately benefits the team and the game.
In the academic world, policy seems a lot stricter. Asking for an exception is essentially asking your boss to go through some kind of appeals or justification process on your behalf. It is asking for more work, in a world where everyone already has quite enough work on their plate, thank you. So it is far more likely to meet a stone wall in this case. You are more likely to see bosses and administrators hiding behind official policy rather than explaining it or working around it, because following the rules is the path of least resistance, and there isn't much personal reward to putting in the extra effort.
For my peers in industry considering academia, this is one of those annoying things you can expect to run into. Ultimately, it means you have to choose your battles carefully, because you won't have enough time to fight over every silly little thing (at least, not if you expect to get all your work done).
Obviously, not all schools are this bureaucratic, and not all game companies are this relaxed. I'm talking general trends here, based on my experience. As usual.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Culture Shock: Transparency
In every game company I've worked at, management was pretty transparent. It's not like you could always walk into the CEO's office and ask to see the financials, but in general any company-wide decision was justified to the employees and there was room for discussion. Often there was discussion before any decision was made.
Universities aren't like that. For one thing, they're much larger than your typical game dev studio, so there's a lot more things going on at once; if you were informed every little detail crossing the desk of your boss (and your boss's boss, and boss's boss's boss) you'd have so much information to sort through that you wouldn't have time to get any work done. Also, I think there's more of an overall attitude that people should be separated; professors should teach and do research, administrators should administrate, and no one needs to be aware of anyone else's job. Information is distributed on a just-in-time, need-to-know basis.
I understand that there are very practical reasons for this, but at the same time it's still unsettling to not really be aware of what's going on around me. I hear the results, but not the reasoning... so when I hear "such-and-such department now has a new vision" I have no way to place that information in the proper context. I also worry that such opaqueness at the management level, whether at a university, company or government, opens the door to abuse of power since there's less accountability. Not that this will absolutely happen, mind you, but the door is open.
I suspect this isn't an "industry vs. academia" thing, so much as a "small vs. large organization" thing. All of the game studios I've worked for have been small: dozens of people, not thousands. And it's not like I can find a 30-person university to compare.
Universities aren't like that. For one thing, they're much larger than your typical game dev studio, so there's a lot more things going on at once; if you were informed every little detail crossing the desk of your boss (and your boss's boss, and boss's boss's boss) you'd have so much information to sort through that you wouldn't have time to get any work done. Also, I think there's more of an overall attitude that people should be separated; professors should teach and do research, administrators should administrate, and no one needs to be aware of anyone else's job. Information is distributed on a just-in-time, need-to-know basis.
I understand that there are very practical reasons for this, but at the same time it's still unsettling to not really be aware of what's going on around me. I hear the results, but not the reasoning... so when I hear "such-and-such department now has a new vision" I have no way to place that information in the proper context. I also worry that such opaqueness at the management level, whether at a university, company or government, opens the door to abuse of power since there's less accountability. Not that this will absolutely happen, mind you, but the door is open.
I suspect this isn't an "industry vs. academia" thing, so much as a "small vs. large organization" thing. All of the game studios I've worked for have been small: dozens of people, not thousands. And it's not like I can find a 30-person university to compare.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Welcome, newcomers
It seems I met about a billion people this year at GDC, and I'm sure at least a few of you have found this blog by following the URL on my business card (if only out of morbid curiosity).
Some of the more popular areas of this blog (based on emails I've received):
Some of the more popular areas of this blog (based on emails I've received):
- My proposed game design curriculum
- Reviews for textbooks on game design
- A series of articles on the differences between industry and academia (I'll retrofit with a "Culture Shock" tag at some later point)
- A two-part description of an interactive final exam
- A list of analogies to explain the field of game design
- A two-part article on what all teachers should know about game design
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Culture Shock: Textbook Evaluations
There were definitely times as a game developer when I'd have "I can't believe I'm actually getting paid to do this" moments.
The other day, I receive an email from a textbook publisher asking me to fill out a survey on one of their books; they're considering a new edition and they want to know what teachers think of the current one. I happen to already have a copy, so it doesn't involve any extra time on my part to evaluate the thing -- I did that months ago.
So, I'm offered a complimentary copy of the book that I already have (hello, ebay), plus another book of my choice, plus a small amount of cash. In exchange for the privilege of letting a textbook company know how their products can be better modified to serve me, and knowing that they'll actually listen. Twist my arm, why don't you!
I never had this in the game industry. No one ever came to me as a programmer and said "here, we'll pay you to tell us what new features to implement in the next version of Visual Studio". No one approached me as a designer saying "we'd like to give you this complimentary copy of our mind-mapping software, just let us know if you find it useful." It's an entirely different dynamic.
The other day, I receive an email from a textbook publisher asking me to fill out a survey on one of their books; they're considering a new edition and they want to know what teachers think of the current one. I happen to already have a copy, so it doesn't involve any extra time on my part to evaluate the thing -- I did that months ago.
So, I'm offered a complimentary copy of the book that I already have (hello, ebay), plus another book of my choice, plus a small amount of cash. In exchange for the privilege of letting a textbook company know how their products can be better modified to serve me, and knowing that they'll actually listen. Twist my arm, why don't you!
I never had this in the game industry. No one ever came to me as a programmer and said "here, we'll pay you to tell us what new features to implement in the next version of Visual Studio". No one approached me as a designer saying "we'd like to give you this complimentary copy of our mind-mapping software, just let us know if you find it useful." It's an entirely different dynamic.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Culture Shock: Textbook Writing
As a student, I never really gave a thought to where textbooks actually came from. The extent of my understanding was
Step 1: Professor says 'I have a Great Idea for a textbook'
Step 2: Then a Miracle Occurs...
Step 3: Profit.
Most people working in the game industry don't think about writing a textbook in their spare time. It never really enters our minds. It's not like textbook publishers come calling to remind us. And it's not like we have any spare time, anyway.
This cannot be said of academia. Textbook company reps actively court professors in a variety of ways, both to peddle their wares and to seek out any future book authors.
Through talking with one reps, I now know how textbooks get made, at least at one large publisher.
Step 1: Professor says 'I have a Great Idea for a textbook'. I didn't expect to get this part right! It's a little more involved, though; the professor submits some materials like a resume and proposed table of contents. The objective here is to show that there's a need for the book, and that you're the one who should write it.
Step 2: Marketing people at the publisher do market research to see if there's enough people who would want to buy the book. If not, begin negotiation to find something that the professor is qualified to write. Meanwhile, an Editor evaluates the resume to see if this is someone who has the basic skills required to write a book.
Step 3: Professor is asked for a sample, maybe one or two chapters. Publisher submits these to colleagues in the field -- other professors teaching relevant classes, for example. This lets the publisher know if the professor has a clue what he's talking about, and also whether the book would be remotely useful in classes. If not, publisher may ask for edits and try again, or may simply hold on to the idea and try again the following year.
Step 4: Publisher receives positive feedback from the sample chapters. Begin negotiations on the actual contract, payment schedule, milestones, etc. The entire process up to this point takes maybe two or three months, minimum.
Step 5: Write the book. That part usually takes one to two years, although it varies (of course). Then it's printed, marketed and shipped.
Step 1: Professor says 'I have a Great Idea for a textbook'
Step 2: Then a Miracle Occurs...
Step 3: Profit.
Most people working in the game industry don't think about writing a textbook in their spare time. It never really enters our minds. It's not like textbook publishers come calling to remind us. And it's not like we have any spare time, anyway.
This cannot be said of academia. Textbook company reps actively court professors in a variety of ways, both to peddle their wares and to seek out any future book authors.
Through talking with one reps, I now know how textbooks get made, at least at one large publisher.
Step 1: Professor says 'I have a Great Idea for a textbook'. I didn't expect to get this part right! It's a little more involved, though; the professor submits some materials like a resume and proposed table of contents. The objective here is to show that there's a need for the book, and that you're the one who should write it.
Step 2: Marketing people at the publisher do market research to see if there's enough people who would want to buy the book. If not, begin negotiation to find something that the professor is qualified to write. Meanwhile, an Editor evaluates the resume to see if this is someone who has the basic skills required to write a book.
Step 3: Professor is asked for a sample, maybe one or two chapters. Publisher submits these to colleagues in the field -- other professors teaching relevant classes, for example. This lets the publisher know if the professor has a clue what he's talking about, and also whether the book would be remotely useful in classes. If not, publisher may ask for edits and try again, or may simply hold on to the idea and try again the following year.
Step 4: Publisher receives positive feedback from the sample chapters. Begin negotiations on the actual contract, payment schedule, milestones, etc. The entire process up to this point takes maybe two or three months, minimum.
Step 5: Write the book. That part usually takes one to two years, although it varies (of course). Then it's printed, marketed and shipped.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Culture Shock: Iterative Design is not Iterative Design
When designing a game, most people at least give lip service to the concept of iteration: that is, no one gets it right on the first try, EVER, so build some time into your schedule to make major changes that you'll find along the way. It's the game developer version of the saying from engineering, "build one to throw away". I'm sure other fields have their own jargon for essentially the same thing.
Of course, with games (especially for console), once you ship your game you're done. No more iteration for you! If you're lucky and the original game is Good Enough, you might be able to improve some things in the sequel... but you can never go back and actually change the first one. "Remakes" of old games are incredibly rare.
Designing a class is just the opposite. I taught Game Industry Survey once already, and I'll teach it again two more times this year. Each time, I get to look at the results from previous classes and iterate on the design, improving weak points, tweaking the grading system, updating the content, and generally making the whole thing better. And I get to do this again and again, with fresh students each time who don't have any previous experience with earlier versions.
This property of classes encourages risk-taking. I can do something crazy like make each homework worth a hundred thousand points, and if it doesn't work then I can just apologize to the current class and change it next time around. It's quite a different environment from the risk-averse environment of the game industry, and the only thing that changes is that I get to redo my work after it "ships".
Of course, with games (especially for console), once you ship your game you're done. No more iteration for you! If you're lucky and the original game is Good Enough, you might be able to improve some things in the sequel... but you can never go back and actually change the first one. "Remakes" of old games are incredibly rare.
Designing a class is just the opposite. I taught Game Industry Survey once already, and I'll teach it again two more times this year. Each time, I get to look at the results from previous classes and iterate on the design, improving weak points, tweaking the grading system, updating the content, and generally making the whole thing better. And I get to do this again and again, with fresh students each time who don't have any previous experience with earlier versions.
This property of classes encourages risk-taking. I can do something crazy like make each homework worth a hundred thousand points, and if it doesn't work then I can just apologize to the current class and change it next time around. It's quite a different environment from the risk-averse environment of the game industry, and the only thing that changes is that I get to redo my work after it "ships".
Friday, November 24, 2006
Culture Shock: Class Post-Mortems
In the game industry, it's traditional to do a post-mortem at the end of a project: everyone on the development team sits down and tries to identify what went right and what went wrong, as a way of avoiding past mistakes on future projects. I wanted to bring that same spirit to my classes, particularly the one that I'll be teaching again immediately after winter break.
Now, in both cases, brutal honesty is hard to come by. If you're working on a development team, your desire to be honest for the good of the company is tempered by your desire to not tell your boss why he sucks. Likewise, it's hard for students to tell a professor why his class sucks if he hasn't yet submitted final grades. So that much, I'm used to.
That said, there's a self-selection bias that exists in a classroom but not in industry. That is, at a game company everyone on the team shows up for the post-mortem, because it's part of their job and they're getting paid for it, so the people who got burned on the project will be there as advocates for change. After a class is over, the students who hated the experience are going to leave as soon as possible; they don't want to stick around for a post-mortem. The only students who remain will be the ones who were already loving the class and don't want it to end, so any comments will be skewed very positive. Meanwhile, the students who struggled and had real issues won't be there to let me know, so I'm likely to repeat my mistakes by catering to a certain breed of student while possibly alienating others. (Don't get me wrong. The students who participated made some great suggestions that I'm going to implement next time around; I just want more information from a wider range of perspectives, because that tends to lead to more surprises.)
I suppose that's what the student course evaluations are for, but I don't really trust those either. Many students don't take them seriously and will comment more on the professor's hair style than teaching ability; also, it doesn't give me the ability to ask targeted questions ("what do you think about Homework #4?") so the comments may be too general. Oh, and I had my evaluations done about two-thirds of the way through the course, so anything that happened in the last third won't be represented on the evals.
I was thinking of perhaps using class time to conduct a post-mortem, as a way of forcing the issue, but then I'd have to remove something else -- so I'd be cheating my current students out of valuable class time, in order to benefit the students next quarter. Not really fair.
Any other ideas of how I might get honest feedback from all my students -- both the ones that love the course, AND the ones that hate it?
Now, in both cases, brutal honesty is hard to come by. If you're working on a development team, your desire to be honest for the good of the company is tempered by your desire to not tell your boss why he sucks. Likewise, it's hard for students to tell a professor why his class sucks if he hasn't yet submitted final grades. So that much, I'm used to.
That said, there's a self-selection bias that exists in a classroom but not in industry. That is, at a game company everyone on the team shows up for the post-mortem, because it's part of their job and they're getting paid for it, so the people who got burned on the project will be there as advocates for change. After a class is over, the students who hated the experience are going to leave as soon as possible; they don't want to stick around for a post-mortem. The only students who remain will be the ones who were already loving the class and don't want it to end, so any comments will be skewed very positive. Meanwhile, the students who struggled and had real issues won't be there to let me know, so I'm likely to repeat my mistakes by catering to a certain breed of student while possibly alienating others. (Don't get me wrong. The students who participated made some great suggestions that I'm going to implement next time around; I just want more information from a wider range of perspectives, because that tends to lead to more surprises.)
I suppose that's what the student course evaluations are for, but I don't really trust those either. Many students don't take them seriously and will comment more on the professor's hair style than teaching ability; also, it doesn't give me the ability to ask targeted questions ("what do you think about Homework #4?") so the comments may be too general. Oh, and I had my evaluations done about two-thirds of the way through the course, so anything that happened in the last third won't be represented on the evals.
I was thinking of perhaps using class time to conduct a post-mortem, as a way of forcing the issue, but then I'd have to remove something else -- so I'd be cheating my current students out of valuable class time, in order to benefit the students next quarter. Not really fair.
Any other ideas of how I might get honest feedback from all my students -- both the ones that love the course, AND the ones that hate it?
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