All Problems Are People Problems

One of the things that can snipe a game writing career, like a silent killer, is the desire to seem like you know what you're doing — even when you don't. Especially when you don't.

I can remember sitting in meetings where we'd start out talking about something like a quest’s narrative, and within two minutes we'd be talking about map loading, why clues are hard to place given state changes, and while we’re at it let’s talk about the frame rate... Terms were flying! Priorities were shifting! And half the room was working on something I didn't quite get.

And I never felt comfortable saying, "Wait, I'm not sure what we're talking about anymore."

So I'd stay quiet. Take notes. Smile. Wish I knew more than I did.

I've seen that look on other writers' faces recently — that polite, smiling deer-in-headlights expression that says: I don't know what's happening in this room, but I'm going to be agreeable about it. I know that look!!

So I’m going to say something that may sound rough, but it's something that I wish somebody had said to me, way back when: staying quiet to look competent is exactly how you end up looking incompetent. Game developers are not dumb. They can see that you’re not saying anything. And so the next time they call a meeting, they don’t bother inviting you. You stop knowing what's going on in the project. You feel like you have nothing to contribute. And eventually, everybody else feels the same way. 😖

That instinct to keep your head down and stay in your lane, mind your own business, feels safe. It feels professional. (“I don’t want to ask dumb questions and waste everybody’s time!”) But that instinct is the very thing that gets you on the list of people that the studio doesn't really need.

This problem comes up all the time, even when there are no meetings happening! I know because I lived it.

Years ago, I was working on a project where war was happening among the stars (and that’s as specific as I’m going to get). For a while, the design department was in turmoil — there were no lead designers attached to the project, just me and the story. Secretly, I was thrilled. Peace in the valley! I could put my head down and write my material without getting interrupted or derailed. Wahoo! The game was going to be co-op, so I wrote a buddy story. We created a relationship that developed across the campaign, with plot twists and jokes, and as much Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid energy as I could muster.

Then new designers came on. And with them, a new creative direction: single player! Surprise!

So guess what happened? All my work - every word of it - went straight into the trash.

Because a buddy story can't work if there's no buddy. 😟

In retrospect, I should have known this could happen. I'd been working in a vacuum, writing toward a premise that the team had quietly moved away from. I hadn't been in the rooms where those decisions were being made. I hadn't built the relationships that might have gotten me a heads-up. I just kept writing — and then one day, I didn't have anything to show for it.

Maybe you can relate. Maybe it wasn't a AAA project, but you've had a scene gutted, a character cut in pre-production, a whole arc quietly redirected while you focused on your task list and trusted that good work would be enough.

Good work just isn’t good enough when you’re building with a team.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, in part because of something Will Shen (Creative Director, Lead Designer, Unknown Worlds Entertainment) said to me that now lives rent-free in my head. Will is a veteran game designer — he spent years at Bethesda, and now teaches in my program — and he has a talent for getting straight to the point.

He said:

All problems are people problems.

And they can’t be solved. Only managed.

That means when we are trying to figure out how to work with other people, they aren’t going to change, and neither will you.

We’ve talked about not understanding people in meetings. We’ve talked about not having any people to meet with. But other problems come up, too, like:

• The colleague who keeps pushing back on your work (for reasons you may not fully see)
• The producer who needs something from you that seems unreasonable (because she is trying to protect something you don’t know about)
• The narrative director who is incredibly blunt in reviews (because he grew up in a studio culture that shaped how they work, and doesn’t know any other way to be)

If this stuff throws you for a loop - as it did me, as it does so many people in the industry - don’t feel bad. It doesn’t mean you are not talented. It doesn’t mean you have a personality defect. It means that you’ve identified a skill you would like to work on — the skill of working with people — and nobody in this industry formally teaches it.

The industry is made of people. Learn to work with them.

You can't YouTube your way into this. You can consume all the advice in the world about how to handle a conversation that goes sideways, or a relationship that's gotten complicated, or a room that's turned against your idea. Information tells you what to do. It doesn't change how you work when the pressure is real, and someone is waiting for your answer.

That's a different kind of learning. And it requires practice.

I know what it's like to have a meeting go badly and have absolutely no idea what I did wrong. To replay the conversation afterward and still not be able to find it. To have no one to talk it through with, no framework for figuring it out, no way to get better at the thing that just cost me.

I’ve been thinking about this. Thinking, “There has GOT to be a better way.”

So I started thinking about rehearsals. (Shoutout to my students who came from theater - they planted this idea in my head.)

Every serious creative discipline has a rehearsal practice. Theater, film, music — you don't perform without rehearsing first.

But those rehearsals are about the work: the script, the blocking, the arrangement.

Nobody rehearses the conversation with the director who just cut your favorite scene. Nobody rehearses what to do when you and a fellow writer want opposite things, and everyone's looking at you. In these meetings, you're just supposed to navigate on instinct — or survive and learn from the wreckage.

At TND, we are building something different. Not a rehearsal space for the work. A rehearsal space for the job.

Because collaborating with other people - all day, every day - IS the job. We are never working alone.

And so if there is one thing we need to figure out, it’s the art of working with other people.

Imagine this: you have to walk into work tomorrow and pitch a story direction to skeptical designers. Or respond to feedback that feels like it's wrecking your work. Or have a hard conversation with your narrative director that you've been putting off for two weeks because it makes you want to puke.

Now imagine you'd already done it. Not in your head, running through it at 2 am — but out loud, with real guidance, with someone in the room who could stop you and say "try this instead." Imagine going into that meeting knowing it will be ok - because you’ve already seen it work.

That's what our new Rehearsal Room is. A place to practice. To ask questions in a low-stakes environment. To learn more about what other people on the team are doing, and to find ways to help them. To try different approaches and see what works. To practice - and get better.

Getting serious about your ability to work well with other people isn't just about becoming a better writer. It's about becoming the writer the team fights to keep.

The expensive mistakes — the ones that torpedo careers silently, over time — are almost never about a person’s writing ability. They're about the meeting nobody understood, the relationship nobody built, the room nobody knew how to read. Don't wait for those mistakes to teach you the hard way.

I'm heading to GDC next week. When I get back, I'm hosting a free live debrief — what I heard at the conference, what studios are looking for right now, and what it means for game writers (especially working game writers). I'd love to see you there.

Susan O'Connor is an award-winning, best-selling game writer with credits on over 25 titles. Her projects have sold over 30 million copies and generated more than $500 million in sales. She founded The Narrative Department to help writers learn the ins and outs of writing for games - skills that everyone (including your lead!) assumes you somehow already know.