Chapter Two #2
I’m suddenly aware of a ringing in my ears from grinding my teeth together too hard. “Tweaks”—what a shitty way to describe people’s actual lives. I can’t help the fury I feel every time I see news like this. It makes me wonder if I know any—
My brow furrows.
Hurricane. Wasn’t that where—
Uninvited, his cocky half grin flashes to life in my mind.
Wesley Locke.
Boston’s not so far away.
But the moment he’d disappeared, it might as well have been a million miles.
Oh, I’ve done my level best to erase every trace of that asshole from my life.
But in a world as connected as ours, I haven’t been able to escape the occasional tagged photo of him and a mutual friend—it used to sting that he and Nali keep in touch—or a post from an old classmate playing one of his games, or a shared story of him shoulder to shoulder with his Hurricane team, celebrating before an annual game award show, sharing teasers of the upcoming Lorekeeper.
Well. He won’t have any more photos like that now. Maybe not for a long time.
Some of my old anger cools, momentarily replaced by melancholic resignation over just how cutthroat the industry can be.
It’s been six years since we graduated; only a handful of our cohort had actually gone on to work in games, and along with Nali and a couple others, Wesley was one of the few left standing.
Not anymore.
It doesn’t matter. Fuck him.
“Reagan?”
I flinch and swing to face Mona, who stands silhouetted in my doorway. I’ve lost track of how much time has passed since she started playing. I open my mouth to ask, but she beats me to it.
“I love it,” she says.
I sit up. “Really?”
“Really.” Mona plops down on her stomach next to me.
Her messy bun, bound on top of her head, bounces as she nods enthusiastically.
“I mean, the theme is kind of dark, but that’s sort of your vibe right now.
” I frown, but she ignores me and continues.
“I think you should keep going. I think you should try to finish it.”
“Really?” It seems to be the only word I’m capable of saying. Mona is always honest with me; if she thinks I’ve got a shit idea, she’ll tell me, so when I’m not sure whether I want to fully commit to a project, I let her be the judge. She’s always a good compass for me.
“I do. Honestly…” She draws out each of the three syllables as she spreads her hands toward me, almost in offering. “Honestly, Rea, I think you should try submitting it to NEWT this year.”
No. The word sits on the tip of my tongue, but instead of spitting it out, I press my lips together and taste the bitterness of it.
New England Worldbuilder’s Tournament—NEWT, for short—is an annual Boston-based indie games festival.
One of the many contests they host is for games still in development, which I know is the one Mona’s got her eye on for me.
Each demo competes for a variety of awards, and the winners receive a cash prize to help them finish the game, huge marketing opportunities on the best-known games marketplace site, and lots of chances to connect with players and other developers—and, in some cases, even publishers.
It’s a great opportunity that could kick-start any creator’s career.
It’s not the first time Mona has suggested NEWT for one of my games.
Honestly, with the number of half-baked ideas I’ve come up with, I could have submitted something for the last four years.
It’s not that I don’t feel confident in my games.
I’ve even published a few online for people to buy.
They’re short, and cheap, and the sales are pretty shit—but what reviews I do have are glowing.
I’ve just never put in the time, money, or marketing support they would need to really succeed.
But submitting to NEWT feels like a commitment.
I know how I get with competitions; I want to win.
Submitting would mean taking game dev seriously for the first time since college.
It would mean pouring all my resources into making the best game that I could possibly create and fully committing myself to finishing the game after the contest—hopefully, after I won.
I’d have to take a chance on it and be willing to see it through afterward, or there would be no point in competing at all.
And despite my newfound well of free time to devote to an endeavor like this, Mona knows how I feel about commitment right now.
“I’m not sure,” I say, carefully casual.
But since it’s not an immediate no, Mona leaps into her campaign with only more vigor. “Just one year, I want you to try submitting. You don’t even have to finish the game! It’s a demo contest. If you win, they’ll literally pay you enough prize money to finish it.”
That’s the part I’m worried about. I exhale slowly through my nose. “I’ll think about it.”
She squeezes my hand before standing. “That’s all I’m asking.”
After Mona leaves, I return to my office and watch the colors of my game swirl across the screen. I should go to bed. It’s past eleven; I should be tired. But it’s not like I have anywhere to be in the morning other than the gym, and truthfully, my start time for my job is pretty flexible.
Daydreaming about NEWT and our new D&D game has me feeling inspired and wired, so I take a seat in my desk chair and sink back into my latest creation.