6/4/2021

6/10/2021 6:17 PM

11

0

0 wins / 0 losses

Sage

Autumn Beach

unpublished

This is my first game. Currently, it is very short. I lack any real knowledge of writing, editing, game design or .... whatever the word is for knowing the best place to stick forks in the road. However, my father once told me that the only way to succeed was through constant practice. So here goes. Current state: unpublished and subject to heavy rewriting.

Ford's just a place-holder character while I practice with how links work in this format. You will be filling in who Emma is as the story progresses, and the first choice was an alignment choice towards either order or chaos, or an emotional choice between caring and not caring if you prefer. As there may be 83 or so choices, dismissing something so quickly while it's in the first-draft stage is a bit premature. However, I accept that this sort of thing isn't your cup of tea. If it's not for you, it's not for you. This will be your final word on the matter that I'll ever hear, as it's pointless to listen to someone being spitefully dismissive.

It sits on my mantel over the bookcase behind a cup filled with pens, a square of rubber bands and paper clips, and a flag. I'm tempted to do something useful with it like make it a paperweight, but I haven't thought about it in years and won't remember it tomorrow. As you yourself inferred, unless you're an actor, no one gives a crap about the accolades you achieved yesterday or a decade ago, and people just want to know what you can do for them today.

It was just first draft boilerplate to test the chooseyourstory.com editor. Once I have a better feel for how to design branches and loops, I will go back and polish and rewrite as necessary. But I never edit while writing, only after, because in my own particular personal case my editor brain starts judging my writing brain mid-word, and that leads to really terrible writing.

That kid who got banned and created alts came here because even a 10 year old can write better than this gibberish, possibly an example of the worst writing ever to exist, ever: ""Not so, my master. I believe Miss Apples is creating her first lich today, using the courtyards' darkstone." "Ooh, a lich. I do enjoy the pretty light shows from lich awakenings. Let us watch from a respectable area." End snapped his fingers again, and he appeared beyond the columnade of the courtyard with several onlooking maids and servants. I understand the total and complete lack of talent that has prevented you from creating a single game in 7 years, and I feel pity for you, but please don't troll me. I may be a terrible writer myself, but I get paid a lot of money to be an award-winning editor, and I'm tempted to make it my life's work to correctly point out errors in every sentence you ever write, since you went out of your way to be an unhelpful asshole. Though I probably won't, as idiots will die idiots, and I try never to lower myself down to the level of internet assholes; you're not worth it and will die alone and unloved. Ok, so you're an unhelpful asshole. But it got me researching for myself, and I found this: https://chooseyourstory.com/help/articles/article.aspx?ArticleId=3 The following is first-draft prototyping without the sensory information. It is still better than anything you can write, child: ==================================================== You are Emma, a divorced woman who is currently between jobs, lovers, residences (currently sleeping on the living room couch of your ever-patient younger sister) diet and exercise routines. . . and pretty much all the other trappings of modern life. Having nothing better to do, you decide to take a walk along the seashore. It is a crisp but not yet cold September day, early enough that it is probably still the morning, but as you've given up alarm clocks, watches and even looking much at your cell phone . . . well, you really have no idea. You're not sure if you even care. But you might. 1) Pull your old iPhone-7 cell phone (did you remember to thank Jane for paying the bill this month?) out of the back pocket of your cutoff jeans and give it a grudging glance, trying hard to not notice the complete lack of calls and text messages. 2) Continue to stroll along the beach without concern as to the time of day. You were a Girl Scout. You can look up and estimate by how much moss is on the north side of the sun, or something. Looking at the time Unconcerned by Patriarchal Chronological Distinctions

Well, I assume Ford, who is an unhelpful asshole, will deliberately give it a "1" and will cajole others to do so out of pity that he's been here 7 years and hasn't created anything. But the writing is okay so far: =================================================================== You are Emma, a divorced woman who is currently between jobs, lovers, residences (currently sleeping on the living room couch of your ever-patient younger sister) diet and exercise routines. . . and pretty much all the other trappings of modern life. Having nothing better to do, you decide to take a walk along the seashore. It is a crisp but not yet cold September day, early enough that it is probably still the morning, but as you've given up alarm clocks, watches and even looking much at your cell phone . . . well, you really have no idea. You're not sure if you even care. But you might. 1) Pull your old iPhone-7 cell phone (did you remember to thank Jane for paying the bill this month?) out of the back pocket of your cutoff jeans and give it a grudging glance, trying hard to not notice the complete lack of calls and text messages. 2) Continue to stroll along the beach without concern as to the time of day. You were a Girl Scout. You can look up and estimate by how much moss is on the north side of the sun, or something. Looking at the time Unconcerned by Patriarchal Chronological Distinctions

All right, it's going well! Once I figure out how to create a 2nd page, there will be no stopping me!

Well, based on what I've seen here, my first game will probably be very terrible, and by definition it will be annoying in a frustratingly watching-FantasticFour kind of way where you know there's a good story in there somewhere but something went sideways. I don't know. I won't know until I start writing. It might be okay. Guess I'll go crank one out and see.

Take this with a grain of salt, as I'm neither Mormon nor a computer programmer nor in any way involved with the Waltons, but according to the Internet (Reddit, et al) his hands were forced by OpenAI, and that it is the OpenAI programmers who ordered Latitude to get rid of all the NSFW stuff. I'm not clear how that ended up lobotomizing the AI, but apparently it did. I'm waiting for NovelAI and HoloAI and a few others that are in beta-testing right now. And with time to spare, I shall read various adventures here on chooseyourstory.com

I try never to judge anyone except on their looks and hygiene, but ... I have to admit, this entire thread made me seriously balk before joining. I've a pretty weak ego and don't take rejection well, and if the criticism here was strong enough to turn someone into a raving lunatic, I fear how my own stuff will be received. And thus how I will respond. So I don't want to end up skittish. But I also don't want to go the other extreme and end up a perfectionist forever polishing stuff that doesn't need it. It's a dilemma.

Well, it's not terrible now, just really really random. It's like dealing with an amnesiac dungeon master: Mizal, you are in a dungeon corridor in medieval times. To your left is a band of rampaging orcs. To your right is a horde of kobolds. In front of you is a door, perhaps to safety or perhaps to more danger. > Mizal decides to go through the door. Mizal steps through the door. She is standing in the dentist's office. Abby the receptionist says "Oh I'm sorry, Dr. Endmaster just had to take an emergency flight to France. Would you like to sit and watch Paramount Plus while you're waiting?" It is a brisk, sunny Chicago day. You can stay with the receptionist or return to your apartment. >Mizal returns to his apartment. Smoke fills your lungs as you return to your apartment in 24th century StarFleet Headquarters. As you step over a pile of rubble, you see a bald man rapidly barking orders in a stentorian tone to his crew. Next to him, a bearded man is tapping his communicator. "Geordi, give me a damage report. How did they get through Earth's defense perimeter? And that's when the kobold dentist attacks you.