A humble theory on why Beyond Good & Evil is not very popular.

     We all love our cult classics, right? We all love our Twice Upon a Time, our Psychonauts, our Firefly. We love 'em.

     And almost as much as we love to promote them, we love to defend them, explain to others why they did not reach a more mainstream success. Released before their time, bad promotion, censorship, other reasons.

     And today, for your amusement (at least I hope you'll be amused), I am going to explain why Beyond Good & Evil remains a cult classic, despite enough years having passed to build a bigger audience through word of mouth.

     Let's get lack of promotion our of the way first, since that is not really the biggest issue. Over the years, good things find an audience. The INTERNET allowed hundreds of ppl to tell thousands of other ppl of under-appreciated games like Psychonauts and Ico. And the info on BG&E being a good game was widely available online for many years. And yet, BG&E did not become a game beloved by the mainstream.

     So, now I will tell you, the reader, the two biggest reasons on why Beyond Good & Evil does not appeal to a wider audience even now, one subjective and one objective.


                                                        ONE: objective and minor.

     The biggest thing about the game, the game's heart if you will, is the feeling of you changing the minds of an entire planet's population. Jade is a photographer who *ahem* with her photography exposes a supposedly good military organization for the monsters they really are. In a way, BG&E is a revolution simulator.

     In order to feel like you are changing the minds of the people, you need to feel connected to them. You connect with the population, and learn of their lives, by talking to them between missions. The problem? It is almost entirely mandatory. You can talk to a Hyllian or two in order to learn where to find more pearls, the game's currency. However, pearls can be just as easily obtained by exploring the world map, or going off the main path in dungeons. To learn about the hardships of the people, of the kidnappings, to find out how the population feels, you need to speak with EVERYONE after each mission. You are never reminded of the importance of talking to everyone between missions. Most players will miss 90% of dialogue on their first play.

     Another thing you do in the game to feel like you caused change, is reading the underground paper with the photos you took. The problem? You NEVER have to do that. 100% optional. Never told to do that either.

     Now, you might be saying "smart players know to explore everywhere and try everything to get all of the story!" True, true. Players who ALREADY KNOW WHAT TO DO. You, smart player, are very much in the minority. You are either a huge fan of adventure games (there aren't a lot of you), very OCD about 100%ing each level (again, minority), or already played the game.

     The majority of players will miss most or all of the optional dialogue, and never watch a single news report. Those who won't miss that on first playthrough are not large in number, as explained above. In a game focused mostly on STORY, and not innovative deep gameplay, missing on lore will make you feel like you haven't accomplished much after each mission. You won't feel like you spread the truth to the population of Hyllis; you will feel like you beat a dungeon.

     "But I did all the optional stuff, I figured out everything by myself!" you might say. Well, smart cookie, you are from the tiny village of Smart Cookie. Most gamers are from Plebville, a large metropolis populated by average Joe and Joannes, who don't care and don't know. They will miss half the story and will feel underwhelmed. Many of them will not like the game, or merely think it's "meh". That would mean less favorable reviews, less success, less popularity.


                                                      TWO: subjective, and major.

     The game looks like a cartoon. That's putting it short, and a full explanation requires long paragraphs.

     Regardless of what you say or think, the fact is: the general populace does not accept serious drama in cartoon form. Serious drama is preferred bundled with a strong dose of realism (like BG&E used to be bundled with cheese). To be taken seriously, a piece of fiction needs to be realistic. Give the audience a cartoon, and approximately 50% will walk away, thinking it would be wacky comedy (something Mature Adults™ do not enjoy on principle). And sooner than later, 25% more will leave, disappointed after not getting the wacky comedy they came to see. You will be left with a quarter of the original group, accepting of your cartoons with dramas.

     A cartoon with serious/dramatic elements is not enjoyed by many people. By "serious/dramatic" I simply mean that actions have consequences: when punched, people go "ow!", when stabbed they bleed, when killed they die. Anvil dropped on the head will smash the guy, killing the bastard instantly.

     And I won't waste my (and your) time with bullshit about historical and cultural reasons on why serious cartoons are not popular. I won't, because I know people are they way are just because. I accept that, and so should you. You will never change society to like dramatic cartoons more, even if you make a HUNDRED YouTube videos, or write a HUNDRED blog posts. And convincing people IRL won't help either. You can only change the minds of others when they are about to change themselves, with you helping them by providing a push. If someone isn't already open to the idea of serious cartoons being something they might like, you won't change their minds.

     Beyond Good & Evil is a mostly serious game with a cartoony presentation. That combination naturally does not appeal to the majority of people. And that is a major reason for the game not being super popular.




     Well, there's everything I wanted to say. Next time someone wonders "why isn't Beyond Good & Evil more popular?", tell them this. Or give them the link to this post, that would be nice also!





     Next post will be more Satyrday!

Waifus and kids' cartoons.

     So, the waifu phenomenon. About 90% of people who use that word are either having a giggle, or are being very ironic about things. So, naturally that leaves about 10% to talk about. But even that 10% is hard to write a ridiculous essay on, since it's a whole ocean of discussable material. Naturally, one must pick one small thing to concentrate on. And just like that, I will focus on one thing right now.

     So, here is my ridiculous thesis for the night – having stronger imagination increases your chances of having a waifu.

     But first thing foremost, what's a waifu?

     Well, to make matters understandable, you need to be aware that there exist two popular definitions. One is a fictional female you really like for whatever reasons (this one is rarely used). Another is a fictional female you really wish were real (to marry and/or fuck and/or hug) (most widely used). Sometimes the two can overlap, and you get both. But tonight we are going to focus on the second definition only, because I want to.

     There is one thing all sane individuals (mostly those without waifus) can agree on: fictional females are not real. And before we get all metaphysical, by "not real" I mean "not in the real world right now cannot touch" not real. So yes, waifus are not real.

     So, why do so many silly people obsess over fictional females who are not real?

     That is something that will only puzzle a person with weak imagination (like you lol).

     Commencing explanation of the "imagination = waifu" relationship:

     Imagination is required to experience fiction. Just like shrooms are required to get high. Without imagination, fiction will leave you unimpressed and uninterested. So, in order to care for a story that is not real, you must imagine, even for a minute, that it might be real. And, as you should already know, there are no stories without characters (I even wrote a post about that). Stories are largely made of characters; in order to feel for the story, you must feel for the characters. You must consider the distant possibility that they might be real.

     And that's when things get interesting.

     You pretend that non-existing characters are real so they could move you and leave a lasting impression. And some of those non-existent persons are females. Some are main characters, some supporting, some rivals, some love interests, some not. And you will feel something for them. In case of a female being a love interest in the story, you are likely to feel something resembling interest, as the protagonist does.

     So, you will consider the possibility that that female is real, and you might love her. So, who is to say that this game of imagination cannot shift to full blown delusion? It is a slippery slope in some way: "could be real in some land far far away" >> "might be real somewhere else" >> "might be real" >> "maybe she's real" >> "OH MAH GOSH SHE'S REAL!"

     WAIT A MINUTE, do I have a point? Well, I haven't made it yet. But I will now!

     1. Some of us with stronger imagination can become rather attached to the fantasy, and value it almost as much as the real. She's real in my <3, dammit!

     2. With strong imagination and poor control over it, one can lose the ability to distinguish between the real and fantasy. She's real in Fictionland, and I cannot wait until I can get my hands on a magical transporter to be with her! :'(

     But in both cases, you need to have a very strong imagination. That is not to say that you will have a waifu if you possess imagination of that level, BUT that will increase your chances by many percents.

     Another thing that will increase your percents is the medium. Visual storytelling provides an image in addition to words, making it easy to fall in wub with fictional womenz. It is even easier with cartoons, since voice is added to the mix, making it that much harder to RESIST. Can you resist?

     So, if anyone wonders again why do ze nerds have waifus, remember – strong imagination and waifus tend to walk together.






     The same applies to husbandos I guess.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 5 & 6.

     Derin was taken by the water as though he were a leaf. He fought to the surface for air against the long tendrils of river wrapping themselves around his legs, pulling him under. The tendrils snaked after him, never let him go. He tumbled in the though, a shell, a tiny pebble.
     His body no longer felt the water's coldness. He felt no pain at all. As he relaxed, he felt a deep peace envelop him. He ceased fighting, let himself be taken by the current, and he drifted, weightless, just conscious enough to see the strange rock swim toward him. The water blurred his vision, but he made out the rock's elongated shape, tapering away at the end, covered with white weeds at the other. As it approached, the boy saw it wasn't a rock at all. Her hair streamed in the water, fanning out behind her, over her shoulders, and he followed the sleek curve of her body until, at the hips, she became a fish, covered with grey scales, honing down to the final finned flare as she dissolved into water.
     Vera darted under him, her long arms stroking in front of her, and he tightened his legs around her as she swam between them. He felt her scales under his thighs. He reached down, held her shoulders with both hands, and she surged toward the surface.
     The dark skin of water grew closer and broke around his head in a crown of spray. Together, they left the surface of river and rose into the air. Vera arched her back, and using her hands to scatter the surface, dove again into the river. Derin caught a glimpse of spray, of the shore toward which they headed, and he gasped, coughing deeply, before the silver-grey water closed around him. Again Vera broke the surface, allowing Derin time to breathe, and together they swam toward land.
     The rush of wind and water on his face drew him awake. Under him, the nymph rolled and twisted around snags, rocks, dangerous stretches of current. He tightened his thighs, locked his ankles as she bucked beneath him. The water flashed from his back as though it could no longer harm him.
     In the air, into the water they rocked. Tall firs loomed from the muddy banks, the sky hung low over the river. When they reached water shallow enough for Derin to stand in, Vera rolled, throwing the boy on his side. For a moment, Derin floundered, but then his foot hit bottom. Splashing, coughing, he staggered the few remaining feet to shore and fell on his knees in the mud. Behind him, he heard a rasp coarse as rock ground against sand, and when he turned he saw the fox drag herself from the water, gasping. She came and lay beside him, looked at him once with her large grey eyes before she closed them, and the boy reached out and ran his hand the length of her soiled sodden fur, in wonder, in disappointment. When Matthew found him, Derin was alone. The fox, after resting, had left him on the bank, but Derin was not thinking of the solid ground beneath him. He stared at the river's roiling surface, remembering the leaps from the water, the wild bucking of the nymph under him, the touch of her smooth scales against his skin. He was in an undiscovered country, trying to follow the course of a map which has not yet been drawn.



                                                   *                          *                           *



     Vera battled her way upriver in search of fish. The water pulled at her, surging over her body as if she were a stone or a log blocking its natural course. She was exhausted. Her arms ached with the strain of swimming and her hips were bruised from carrying Derin to land. Her hair swirled in the currents, now hazing her sight, now swept backwards off her shoulders so she felt the rush of water fresh on her face. At times her struggle seemed useless, as though she were being inexorably swept downstream against all her best efforts. But she kept swimming, flexing her sinuous tail, flicking the great caudal fin in the icy water.
     It was a crazy idea, but it just might work. They would take some convincing, for fish were stubborn and proud, inclined to silence, but they would not be frightened by the owl. Vera doubted they even knew of him. In the Deadwood Forest there was no water, and fish were the only animals who had no place in the owl's plans.
     Ahead of her, in the shallows of a spot where the river bent and left in its wake a small pool of less turbulent water, she saw the torpedolike shapes of fish. They hung in the pool as if suspended by strings, barely moving their fins. Under them, on the sand of the river's bottomm were hundreds of shellfish, lobsters in their mottled green armor, the fluted shells of scallops, a colony of mussels, shiny and blue-black, studded with limpets and barnacles, attached to one another by golden byssus threads. They were silent under the dark canopy of swordfish and blues, sea bass, halibut, the square slatelike tail-whipped forms of skate.
     Vera hurried toward them, wanting the quiet of their undisturbed water. If I can rest for a minute, she thought, I'll be fine again. But the sight of this strange half-fish swimming toward them threw the fish into confusion. They panicked. Swordfish swept to the water's surface and leapt, arching, flinging spray toward the clouds, slapping the water with their tails as they fell. Other fish swam upstream, fighting the current. The shellfish scattered across the bottom, mussels and scallops clattering like waterlogged castanets. The calm Vera had expected turned into a turbulent series of cross-currents, a slap in the face.
     She called to them, worried she'd lost them all. She gasped for breath; her words were bubbles of sound only she could hear, for the fish were too far away, frantically trying to escape her.
     She darted upstream but she couldn't catch them. This river was their home, and they were built for swimming, their sleek long forms adapted perfectly to the water. Vera let her arms drop, and felt the water take her. She twisted until she was headed downstream, then floated in the current, resting. When she was close to the shallows where the fish had been, she came alive again and swam there, letting herself sink almost to the bottom. She couldn't remember ever having been so tired.
     Vera crossed her eyes and opened them only after she felt the water push against her, crowding her. On the sand below, the shellfish had gathered, the lobsters' claws waving up at her like ominous underwater plants. She could see the scallops' twin rows of tiny blue eyes watching as they barely opened their shells. Above her, the bluefish and swordfish, halibut and skate had returned, and for a minute she was the one who was frightened, surrounded. They stared at her, their cold round eyes unnervingly lidless. What were they thinking? The lobsters peered up from under their horned ridge of chiton, antennae quivering in the slightly moving water.
     "I didn't mean to frighten you before," Vera said. "I'm sorry."
     The fish said nothing. Streams of bubbles filtered from their mouths as they waited for her to speak again.
     "I'm a sea nymph," Vera explained, and suddenly felt ridiculous, riding this water, trapped between skate and lobster. "Listen," she said. "I've come to help. I know why the river's so wild, why the current is stronger and the water colder."
     She remembered seeing great schools of fish lying on the bottom of a pond, irradiated by the full moon's glow upon the water's skin, their scales shining like silver. She had seen fish surge to the surface and break through, throwing themselves toward the moon, splashing the silver drops of water into the air in homage, desperate longing. "The moon's been wrenched from the sky," she said. "Stolen. She's held captive on land, miles to the west."
     A bluefish with cold ded eyes interrupted her. "In this ruver there are no directions but upstream and down."
     "There are creatures whose lives are not so simple," she said. "A great horned owl who lives in a place called the Deadwood Forest had kidnapped the moon. Without her, the world's gone crazy. There aren't any tides. The river's running wild."
     "You can say that again," a swordfish said. "It's worth your life to get caught in the current these days."
     "I need your help," Vera said. "Or you'll never again have the moon's gold shadow cast upon this water. I have no idea what will happen to the river if she isn't rescued."
     She was sure of it. A startled, frightened look shone from the fishes' eyes. They eddied in the water, looking at one another. Their tails twitched. Under them, all the scallops and mussels snapped open and shut. Vera saw a school of shrimp, translucent, almost impossible to find in the dimness, their pairs of legs jerking spastically.
     The water around her began to churn and Vera was afraid they would all burst loose again, flying in different directions, upstream and down, the only life they knew.
     "Please," she said. "Come with me. Help me."
     The water calmed again, and Vera felt the force of all those eyes upon her, but now they were not so indifferent or cold. They pleaded with her in return, as she had pleaded with them.
     "What would you have us do?" a swordfish asked.
     "I have two friends who do not swim," Vera began.
     "We have no friends who do not swim," the swordfish said, his eyes wild with confusion and distrust.
     "Listen to me," Vera said, losing patience. "We're going to rescue the moon. There isn't tom for quibbling."
     "Why don't you swim them across?" a skate asked.
     "Because teh water's too cold," Vera said. "They'd freeze. They're warm-blooded creatures."
     "And why don't you find someone else?"
     "There is no one else," she said firmly.



                                                         *                         *                        *


     Here are some lines to take out of context:

—"he tightened his thighs, locked his ankles as she bucked beneath him"
—"she came and laid down beside him"

     Just because I could.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 3 & 4.

     The ax fell through the air and bit deeply into the fallen fir. Matthew wrenched it loose, swung it back over his head, and down again. A wedge of wood bigger than the boy's foot jumped from the v-shaped cut. Derin scraped resin into the earthenware pot, added some water, and put it over the flames. The amber resin bubbled and boiled down into a darkened syrup. Off the fire, it thickened still more.
     Together, the two carried the logs Matthew had cut until there were seven of them side by side near the riverbank in a small declivity level with the water. Vera watched as Matthew lashed the logs together with the leathery vines she had found lying on the ground while Derin was off on his own search to the south. "I didn't have to climb a tree," she said. "They were waiting for me." "Lucky for you," Derin said. The satyr wound the vines until the logs were as tight as he could make them, and then Derin caulked the spaces between them with the resiny tar.
     At last, the tar hardened and, when Matthew splashed water between the logs, it stayed in glistening ponds.
     "Looks watertight to me," Vera said. "Let's go."
     Matthew looked out over the river, and shrugged. "It's the best we can do," he said. He gathered together the belongings he'd flung from the pack, dismantled his makeshift ax and placed the head back in its sheath.
     The river was even rougher than it had been that morning. As the day moved toward its zenith, the water rose in higher and higher waves which crested and broke as the river swept from north to south. "It's a tidal river," Vera said, "salty as the sea. It cuts across the whole land connecting the ocean's halves. But there aren't any tides since the moon's been gone. Why is it so rough?"
     They maneuvered the heavy raft until a corner of it dipped into the water. The river met the obstacle and flew apart into spume, drenching the three. Matthew and the boy shouldered their packs, and the satyr told Derin and Vera to board the raft and stay together in the center. When they were ready, he heaved at it. It budged an inch and stuck fast.
     "It's digging into the bank," Matthew yelled, trying to make himself heard above the river's noise. "Get off there. Help me push."
     Even with the three of them, it was difficult. The harder they shoved, the deeper the firs sank into the mud at the river's edge. "We'll have to pick it up," Derin screamed.
     "Be careful of your backs," Vera said.
     Derin and Matthew braced themselves and pulled upwards on the raft. The mud didn't want to let go. "At least it's holding together," Matthew said.
     "What?" Derin yelled, cupping a hand behind his ear. The satyr shook his head and waved a hand.
     They pulled again, and the bank began to relinquish its grasp. From where Derin stood, he could hear the pops and sucks as the logs ripped loose from the mud. Suddenly, Derin felt the resistance lessen, and with and enormous slap, the raft came free and Matthew and the boy fell forward as the water tugged at the raft's corner, pulling it into the current. "Quick!" Matthew screamed. "We'll lose it." Derin was on his knees in the mud, the raft several feet in front of him, gaining ground. "Jump," Matthew said. "Both of you."
     In a graceful arc, Vera leapt to the raft and hunkered down in the middle. Derin scrambled to his feet, thrashed through the water and threw himself onto the closest loge. His legs scissored, he pulled, and he crawled to the middle and turned to look back at Matthew.
     With a groan which seemed to come from the timber's interior, the raft gave up its hold on the land. For a moment, Derin didn't know what was happening. He and Vera lay flat, trying to balance the logs, but they tipped landward in a precarious slant. Matthew clung to the far corner, his legs in the water, trying to climb the slippery logs to where the others were. Derin crawled away from the satyr to equalize the weight, and hung with his hands to the edge jutting over the water. "Grab my leg," he screamed and he felt his body being stretched as the satyr pulled himself toward the raft's center.
     Spray flashed above them, drenching them with brine. The raft took off like a frightened animal. It reared and plunged, rising to the crest of a wave and plummeting to the trough beneath. Derin hung on; he grabbed the ropes which bound the raft together, wedged one foot under some vines at the other end. "Don't do that!" Matthew screamed. "If this thing turns over, you won't get loose." The boy jerked his leg free and began to slide. As the raft pitched forward, covered with icy water, there was little to hold him.
     For the boy, the ride was exhilarating. The wild torrent required every ounce of his energy, and his concentration was taxed to the fullest. He felt equal to the river's demands as the raft was tossed into the air and thudded down again on the back of a cresting wave.
     The boy looked behind him. Vera lay played on the logs, her eyes glazed. Her white fur was saturated with water. The satyr had assumed the same position; all three of them clung to the raft, trying to burrow into the crevices between the logs as the land sped by in a dizzying rush. The river took the raft, spinning it so Derin alternately saw the water rushing at him and before* him. He had lost all sense of direction.
     They were enveloped in mist, the land dropped away, and the exhilaration the boy felt changed to fear. He was swirling in a vortex whose only coordinates were noise and cold. Waves towered above them and crashed, trying to wrench them free. The roaring in his ears grew so loud he could no longer hear his own screams. A cold and brutal wind howled around him, attempting to rip the shirt from his back.
     When the edge of the raft hit the rock, the log which took the blow splintered. For a moment, the whole raft stood almost on end, and then feel back with a mighty crash, sending a wall of water upstream. It met the oncoming waves, and the two waters thundered into the sky and splashed down, inundating the raft. Derin saw the splintered log tossed skyward where the wind hit and threw it like a matchstick. Something slapped his leg; he saw a vine unraveling, whipping through the air.
     "Matthew!" he screamed. Matthew looked at him oddly, but the expression in his eyes was frozen there, as if he stared into a dead face. Then the boy noticed how far away Matthew was, and what he had feared had already happened. Matthew clung to a few logs which pitched forward, upended, and disappeared. He thought he heard a scream, but he couldn't tell if it was a voice or the commotion of the river. He looked behind him, but Vera was gone as well. Was that a paw he saw sticking from the water? It could be foam, or a skinned stick. It could be anything.
     And then the small solidity beneath him disappeared. The logs tore apart, the vine washed away, and the pitch ripped from end to end. Derin was flung into the air like so much flotsam, his pack lopsided on his back, unbalancing him, and he fell ten feet from the crest of a wave into the valley of water which lay beneath him, beckoning with its furious icy arms.


                                                           *                      *                      *


     Matthew clambered to shore, bone-tired, nearly frozen, his brain dulled by the cold. Twice he had been thrown by the water towards submerged rocks, but he had lunged to safety. Blindly, he let himself be taken by the current until he had a clear sense of its direction, and then he struck out toward the shore they had set from not much earlier.
     His pack felt unnaturally heavy on his back. He threw himself on the bank, panting, and attempted to calm himself, but waves of hysteria rose in him, threatening to engulf him as the river had the raft. Shaking, he stood up, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked out over the turbulent water. He saw the rocks, the rearing waves, but not a trace of his friends. He stopped himself from yelling their names, knowing it would only be wasted breath.
     How far downstream had he been taken? Here too, firs rose from the riverbank so it seemed to the satyr he'd never left the land. But he knew he'd been swept further south. Still wobbly, he took off downriver. Maybe Vera and Derin had been washed ashore as well. He tried to be hopeful, but there was no reason for hope. Matthew knew how cold the water was, how it robbed him of breath, paralyzed his hands and feet. The river had two levels. A deadly calm, a slow suck downward, like gravity, lay under the furious rushing surface. In that lower stratum a body had no buoyancy, little hope of escape. The boy might be held in that calm now, or else he'd been dashed on the rocks. And where was Vera? Was her magic not enough in the face of this raging river?
     He began to walk more slowly, as these thoughts sapped what little energy he had left. Across from him, the opposite shore appeared and disappeared through the mists the river flung into the air. Matthew stopped, shaded his eyes again, and looked. In the middle of the water, he thought he saw Derin's body rise and fall with the waves. Was it really the boy or only a log, a floating branch? He thought again of the temperature of the water, and realized that if it were Derin's body, it would be dead.
     He stopped walking, he stopped looking, he stood on the riverbank, barely breathing. He knelt on the bank, raked his hands through the gravely mud. Without thinking of the dirt, without thinking of anything but the boy, he put his face in his palms and howled.


                                                        *                        *                        *

* I'm pretty sure the word should be "behind", but "before" is written on the paper. Is this a mistake, or intentional? No idea.


     Well, as always, more = later! (hope later would come soon)

If it's not a hit, it's shit!

     All too often have I been witness to the following: people favoring a performer's hits over all the other songs. And why? Because "the hits are catchy".

     What a deceptively simple excuse.

     When you stepped on a cow turd at the tender age of 4, do you remember that? Sure you do, because it's poop, and it was huge!

     But do you remember that book you tried to read at the age of 8, that one that's actually really good? Nah, "it didn't grab me in the first 10 seconds so I closed it".

     What I am getting at here, is that sometimes you need to give it some time. Maybe, after 10 seconds, or 10 minutes of patience, that boring book from your childhood will turn out to be the greatest thing you ever read, and memories of reading it will eclipse the cow poop one.

     With music, it is exactly the same as with any other type of experience. Just because something grabs your attention, does not mean there is more the be found.

     But what is my point??

     My point is: stop listening to radio hits and Top 50s exclusively. Give the other songs by your favorite performers a listen; you just might find something greater.

What reviews aren't.

     It is that time of the year again: the time to explain what reviews are!

     I know what you might be thinking: "But I know what reviews are!"

     Well, sadly, chances are, you don't.

     A review is not you telling your audience what happens in the story from beginning to end. That is called "plot summary". A plot summary is not a review, and it spoils the story. You are ruining the experience of discovery for your audience by doing them this disservice.

     A review is also not you going through the story scene by scene and commenting as you go. That is called "riffing", and was probably invented by Mystery Science Theater 3000.

     If you are riffing on a story, or summarizing the plot, you are not a reviewer and what you are doing is not a review.

     A review, is an article, or a video, that serves one purpose. That purpose is to convince you, the audience, that a product is worth purchasing, OR convince you to stay away from it.

     I am not going to touch reviews of eggbeaters or beds here; this is not the time.

     Instead, I will talk about the reviews of fiction: books, movies, videogames, and such.

     When you review a piece of fiction you are again adhering to the basic purpose: to convince the audience to (not) get the thing themselves. You are convincing me to read, or not to read the book.

     A review should begin with a description of what kind of story it is; what genre it could be pigeonholed in.

     Then, you give the premise: who goes where, when, and why. Tell me how the story starts; that much is not a spoiler.

     Then, you describe the tone to me: is it serious, or crazy? Sad, or funny? Realistic, or cartoony?

     Then, you give me your view on the quality of writing: do you think the premise is executed and expanded upon well? (you can actually find a guide to good writing on this very blog)

     AND THAT'S IT.

     There is nothing else you should do. Good job. Your review is done. Finished. Now you relax and sip some tea. Your review is complete, for it has every single thing a review should.




     I hope you learned something today, future YouTube superstar.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 1 & 2.

WEDNESDAY

 
     The owl called the congregation of ravens for the early hours of the day, past midnight. As the darkness grew in intensity, the owl seemed to bloat. His golden eyes bulged and took on a reddish tinge, as though the beating of his heart had become so frantic that the blood moving through his veins had nowhere to go but into his eyes. He puffed in the clearing, his feathers bristling, until the bulk of his body was overpowering.
     In small groups, the ravens arrived. Word had gone out that afternoon that the owl wished to speak with them, and the place and time were transmitted with a flick of wing, a blink of a red eye.
     The meeting was held in another clearing, several miles from where the moon hung caged. Deirdre arrived late, but she was not the last. The owl sad dead-center, silent as an idol, and the glossy birds landed on trees and bushes around him, even in the edges of the clearing, all eyes intent upon the horned tyrant.
     Deirdre was grateful she'd gotten there at all. When she returned from the swamp, she'd fallen asleep, in plain view, a silly mistake, but one she could do nothing about. She's been awakened by a rustling in the limbs above her, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a small group of ravens perched above. It was already dark and their eyes shone down at her like live coals.
     "Sleeping late," one of them said.
     "Yes," she said, "I overslept," although she'd gotten barely six hours of rest.
     They flew off, one after another, and when all had abandoned her, she flew after them. Now they sat, surrounding the owl, waiting for him to speak.
     He was waiting as well, but Deirdre didn't know why. A few ravens straggled in late, and the owl fixed each one with his glassy bulbous stare, as if to question their right to remain alive. Deirdre began to get edgy; the encounter was eerie, like a showdown. When she thought she'd burst, two weasels came slinking through the underbrush and entered the clearing, remaining some distance form the owl. He looked down at them imperiously as they sank to earth, their eyes to him.
     "You're late," he said, his voice conveying his displeasure. "You've kept us waiting."
     One of the weasels spoke in a quavering voice. "We're sorry, my lord. We received your summons late, and we, as you know, cannot fly."
     "I know you can't fly," the owl thundered. His gaze left the cowering weasels and slowly took in the ravens. He thought how they looked like a night sky, those blinking eyes like thousands of read stars. Not a raven moved as he surveyed them. Paranoid, Deirdre thought he stared too long at her, and did her best to appear inconspicuous.
     "My friends here have something of interest to say," the owl said, nodding to the weasels.
     "We are just poor weasels from the Outer Lands," the second weasel said. "We live on the plain to the east of the mountains."
     "They can see what you are, you sniveling fool," the owl said. "Get to the point."
     "Yes, my lord," the weasel said, shaking with fright.
     "We've seen a raven fly out over the plain where we live, headed for the Swollen River," the second said. "And later we've seen him return."
     "So you think it's a 'he'?" the owl asked, interested.
     "We don't know for sure," the first weasel replied.
     "Go on," the owl ordered.
     "Twice in the last two days," the second hastened to add. "Since the moon was stolen."
     "What else?" the owl asked.
     "There's nothing else to say," the first weasel said. "That's all we know."
     The owl was exasperated. "Look around you. Do you see the raven who flew east?"
     The weasels were a model of concentration. Deirdre thought they were stalling, but still tried to shrink into her feathers, to disguise herself. They took forever, looking closely from the clearing to the bushes to the tree limbs. Finally the second one spoke.
     "It's no use, my lord. I can't tell the difference between them."
     "May your bones rot in darkness," the owl said. "Get out of here." With great haste and equal relief, the weasels slunk from the clearing and disappeared.
     "So," the owl said, frowning. "There seems to be a traitor in our midst. I have given strict orders that none of you should leave the Outer Lands. The Swollen River and the meadowlands beyond are alien territory. According to these weasels, someone has disobeyed me. Which one of you was it? I won't deal harshly with you if your explanation is fair and true."
     None of the ravens moved for a minute or two, and then all heads began to turn, each bird glancing at his neighbors with suspicion. Deirdre looked right and left as well, trying to appear as unruffled, as critical as her fellows did. Ah, self-righteousness, she thought. Has there ever been such a concentration of it?
     She was alarmed by this turn of affairs, but not particularly frightened. She felt she'd done nothing to give herself away. True, she was an outcast of sorts, having no particular companions among the other members of her clan and thus was vulnerable to suspicion. No other raven would defend her is she were called to account; none could say, "No, my lord, the raven Deirdre is your good and faithful servant. She was with me at the time in question." And since Deirdre could not offer this to any of them, she felt herself alone. But aside from the small group who had caught her sleeping earlier that evening, she was sure there were none who could accuse her.
     Out of the darkness behind her and slightly to her right, the voice of a very young raven filtered past
     "My lord," the raven said, his voice shaking badly. "Perhaps it was I."
     "Come here," the owl ordered, his voice as heavy as lead.
     A flapping emerged from the night, and a small handsome raven flew past Deirdre. He landed some feet from the owl, doing his best to square his wings and face his master.
     "What is your name?" the owl asked.
     "Maxwell," the raven said bravely. In the deepness if the night, Deirdre thought she could see blue highlights flashing amid his feathers.
     "No, my lord. They both perished in the ice storm of the winter."
     "Have you any neighbors or companions who can vouch for you?" the owl said severely.
     Maxwell looked behind him for assistance. "There are some I fly with," he said. "Bingor and Tera."
     "Are you here?" the owl roared, his voice coming back at him, echoing off the tall dead trees.
     There was no reply, only he deepest silence in which Deirdre could feel her blood pulsing in her throat.
     The owl looked down at Maxwell, a strange gloat in his eyes. They seemed to have become more red, almost as red as the ravens' eyes, "No one will speak for you," he said. So, Deirdre thought, it has come to this.
     "Bingor," the little raven implored, turning to look behind him at the hosts of his people.
     "Silence!" the owl ordered. "You flew east?"
     "Yes, my lord." The raven had lost his composure. He shivered in the darkness until Deirdre thought the earth picked up his fright and began trembling in empathy.
     "Against my orders?"
     "No, my lord, I did not disobey you. I was visiting the graves of the ancestors," he said bravely, "the ones who died in the great wind."
     The owl's chest swelled. "You crossed the Swollen River?"
     "No, my lord. I visited the graves on the Plain of Desiccation, the graves of those who dropped form the wind when it passed over the river. My mother and father often took me there, and since they died.  .  .  ."
     "An act of filial devotion, then?"
     "Yes, my lord."
     "I don't believe you," the owl said harshly. "Why was it never reported to me before?"
     "I don't know," Maxwell said. "I didn't know I was doing anything wrong."
     "You flew with this Bingor?"
     "No, my lord, I went alone. I could find no one who would go with me."
     "They were wiser than you, my son," the owl said. He called, and from the darkness behind him, three falcons swooped from the highest branches of a very tall oak. "Take him to the southern forest," the owl said. He paused for effect. None of the ravens knew of this place, except Deirdre. She shuddered on her branch, drawing herself tighter.
     "And break his wings," the owl said.
     Deirdre cried out in alarm.
     "Who was that?" the owl shrieked.
     "It was nothing, my lord," Deirdre said. "I have a cramp in my claw."
     "Take him away," the owl said. "Take him from my sight."
     Deirdre heard a soft noise in the distance, like weeping. Whoever grieved had not grieved enough to speak on Maxwell's behalf, but still Deirdre felt great pity. And she was beside herself with indecision. If she spoke up, if she offered herself in his place, she knew the owl would not spare the young bird. She would be killed, and he would still be banished and mutilated. And she would be abandoning the satyr and the boy.
     The falcons bound the raven and took off, each of them holding a rope. They hovered above the clearing, displaying their captive, before heading south.
     "Let that be a lesson to you," the owl said.
     "But my lord, if I may humbly ask a question," a raven said from a branch to Deirdre's right.
     "You may ask," the owl said.
     "The young one did not cross the Swollen River, if what he said was true."
     "But who would speak up for him?" the owl asked. "Not one of you. NOT A SINGLE ONE. You are a cowardly flea-infested lot, and it makes me sick to look at you."
     There was total silence. The raven who had spoken did not speak again.
     "Now leave me," the owl thundered. "All of you."
     As Deirdre rose in the air, it was like the whirlwind which had carried her west. Thousands of ravens surrounded her, and she was buffered by fierce currents. All was wing and beak and flashing eye. The sky reverberated with harsh breathing and cawing. Ravens collided in the air and fell away from each other, screaming. Feathers torn loose from their wings drifted below them. Bruised and battered, all left the clearing, Deirdre with them. She remembered the night she had been taken by the wind. Her parents lay below her on the ground, broken and bleeding, calling her name.



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     In the morning's dim light, Derin stood with Matthew and Vera, looking down at the Swollen River. By day, the water was molten rock, not mud. Blue-grey, like the hottest part of a fire, it laughed at them. A few boulders jutted from the water, their sleek black backs like seals. Around the rocks, the river churned, flinging spray high into the air. There were no islands, no sandbars, nothing but the deep channel.
     Derin walked down the rise. His ankle was completely healed, good as it had ever been; even the bruise had disappeared.  He knelt by the river's side and put a hand in the water. It felt like swiftly flowing ice. Down the bank, cedars gave way to tall firs which crowded to the river's edge. Across from him, Derin could make out the thin line of the opposite shore, marked by a rise of trees.
     He climbed the bank again and pointed to what he'd seen.
     "It's swamp at first," Vera said, "just like this side. But it's much more narrow. We'll have some wading to do when we get across. From here on there's nothing like the meadowlands again. You're in for a geography lesson."
     "You said there were mountains," Derin said.
     "That's right," the fox said. "That's where I live. They're at least two days away. After the swamp, we'll get to the Plain of Desiccation. Dry, dusty, hot and nasty. Not much lives there. I've seen a few weasels, and scorpions of course. Wild board. They're all in league with the owl, so we'll have to be careful. And there are other pitfalls. Like getting lost in the sand, Just one hill after the next, nothing to even give you the sense you're moving."
     "Sounds like fun," Matthew said. "I can't wait."
     "After that, we'll get to the mountains, a bit more hospitable terrain, I promise. And I know them backwards and forwards. They're beautiful, but of course I'm prejudiced."
     "And then?" Derin asked.
     "Then you're on your own," Vera said. "I'll take you as far as the mountains, but I won't go into the Forest."
     "The Deadwood Forest," Matthew said.
     "That's right," the fox said. "A vast tangle of dead trees and bushes, the most desolate place you could imagine. Nothing grows there. It used to be full of oaks and maples, before the owl came to power. I wouldn't go near it."
     "We'd better get started," Matthew said. "It's going to take time to build the raft." Long into the night, they had talked about how to cross the river, and Matthew had convinced them his was the best solution. They would need logs, and vines to lash the logs together, and a bit of luck.
     The three of them left the overlook and descended to where they'd slept. The only logs they'd found were fallen cedars, big around as Matthew's armspan, heavier than he and the boy could even lift. "The firs will be better," Matthew said, rummaging in his pack for the ax head. "They'll float higher in the water. Derin, go south along the bank and look for vines we can use. They should be old and weathered, nothing too young or they'll snap. I'll find a handle for this and get to work on the logs." Derin stood and watched as Matthew honed the ax head with whetstone, found a piece of cedar to use as a handle, and bound the head to it with rawhide. "Go on," Matthew said. "Get going."
     Derin walked along the rise, the river on his left rushing much faster than he was walking. Firs rose around him. He looked for vines which matched Matthew's instructions, but there were none, nothing but the straight druidical presence of the trees, their needled branches drooping toward the ground. The light under the firs was like the swamp's, a mottled green.
     As Derin walked, he peered across at the other side, trying to imagine it. From Vera's description, it was unlike anything he'd even dreamed about, a harsh and forbidding landscape over which the owl brooded like a malevolent cloud. Crossing the river seemed impossible. He thought of the three of them, huddled together on their flimsy raft, buffeted by those waves which even now rose and fell like the foaming backs of stallions, flinging spray sky-high. Behind him, he heard the first crack of a tree. The satyr's voice rang out, and then Derin listened to the slow crunsh as it fell, breaking the branches of other firs, the slam it made as it hit the ground.
     He shaded his eyes with his hands. There, above him, he saw what looked like a tangle of vines. It festooned the upper branches, hanging down toward him, taunting.
     Derin shrugged and rubbed his hands together. He took a few steps back, approached the fir, and jumped. He wrapped his arms and legs around the trunk and inched his way up, raising his knees, hugging the fir, and grabbing above him with his arms. The rough bark scratched his legs, but he kept climbing until finally he could reach up and hold onto a branch. His legs let go, and he hung there by both arms. The branch creaked, bending downward, but it held. Kicking against the trunk to gain some leverage, he managed to swing a leg over the branch, and wrestled into a sitting position.
     He started upwards, breathing harshly. The vines still hung above him, up where the fir broke open and gave way to the sky. When he'd rested, he crouched on the branch, close to the trunk, holding on to other branches above him for balance. He climbed quickly, the fir providing an awkward ladder. Matthew would have to be satisfied with these. He wasn't going to climb another tree.
     The closer he got to the vines, the odder they looked to him. They were smooth and shiny, grey and black. He was five feet from them when he realized they weren't vines at all. The entire tangle began to writhe above him, and the snakes' tapered heads appeared, waving in the air, their eyes red pinpricks of light. Derin pulled away, crouching on the branch he'd been straining to leave. He grabbed it with both hands and swung free, reaching with his toe for a safe hold below him. He found the branch, let go and tottered, lost his balance. He crashed against the trunk and fell, but he managed to grab a branch, and he hung there, almost wrenching his shoulders from their sockets when the tree ceased to give.
     He looked above him. The snakes had made no move toward him, and he hurriedly let himself down from branch to branch, until he hung from the lowest one and let himself fall. He sprang to his feet, ready to run. Above him, the snakes were motionless, their heads hidden, looking again like a tangle of vine.
     He caught his breath; for him, the owl was everywhere. Perhaps the snakes had not been threatening at all, simply a nest of tree vipers disturbed by his ascent. But he wasn't about to climb again to find out. The menace in their twisting heads had not been imagined, and whether they belonged to the owl or simply to themselves, they meant him only ill. He made his way back up the riverbank toward the place where the heave of Matthew's ax was again audible.
     The river leapt to challenge him, and his face was wet with salt spray. "We're crossing you," he said. At his feet, the ground rustled. Sand grains and tiny stones rose from the earth and bounced off his legs. The river continued in its deep channel from north to south, ignoring his threat.



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Sorry for not working on this for so long. More = later!