My rejected Amazon review of Travis Corcoran’s “Powers of the Earth.”
 
Four Stars
 
A note on my (admittedly subjective) rating system:
 
1 – not worth the time it to read
2 – flawed, but worth reading
3 – no flaws, but nothing new
4 – notable new ideas / recombinations
5 – Changes the way you view the genre – or even life (makes other things new again)
 
Reading this story easily gives you the impression that libertarian (and related) ideologies are the political expression of sperginess, autism, anal retentiveness, high consciousness, low agreeability, and extreme introversion. In other words, politics for people who hate dealing with other people. How does a colony of anti-social spergs band together to fight off a threat when the only thing that unifies them is that they are all against banding together?
 
The main character, Mike Morlock, is basically a libertarian Mary Sue. He gets things done and makes things happen – in all, he’s effective and accountable. His power to tick things off lists, and inspire other people to tick things off lists, is without parallel. He’s also an insufferable asshat. He could be a libertarian’s idealized outward persona.
 
His best friend, Javier, tries to get Mike to use social tact and has some things to say about the excesses of pure anarcho-capitalism. He seems to be the author’s critical voice, doubting Mike’s decisions, aggressiveness, and some of the anti-social tendencies of libertarian thinking.
 
A minor character, Hugh, could (in part) represent any socially awkward male’s difficulties with women.
 
All-in-all, the story develops its ideas well. The basic question is “can this anarcho-libertarian colony survive it’s confrontation with Earth and keep it’s ideals?” So far the author does an excellent job exploring this question through the character and situations. It keeps you turning pages. The story brilliantly includes the counterpoint question “Can socialist Earth engage in effective military action without bending it’s incentive-killing regulations?” The two situations mirror each other. The author does a credible job addressing them.
 
The story elegantly includes only enough futuristic technology to pose it’s philosophical questions. Anti-grav is real but wonky; just enough for a frontier story but not enough for space opera. AI and genetically modified dogs give the author venues to address tribal / racial divisions, but hard limitations prevent either from being super powered. They raise interesting questions: “how powerful is this AI? what are it’s motivations?” “How do freed slaves interact with their former masters?”
 
There are some scenes with Earth politicians and “SJW” social striver young adults where the constant, oversocialized reading of body language and subtle cues reads like a socially awkward person’s idea of how socially adroit people operate. This blemish aside, the difference in motivations between the Earth society and the Moon society is excellent. On Earth, the social hierarchy is more important than the mission. On the moon, not so much.
 
Unlike many books that are about ideas (like Foundation, which admittedly fails to even address it’s own premise) it doesn’t fall into the trap of being a dry, procedural working out of ideas / consequences. Instead, the choice of dogs , AI, and anti-social asshats allow the author to explore all sorts of interesting character situations. A thread of humor glues the whole thing together.
 
Lastly, the story ends on a glorious cliff hanger, forcing you to buy the second book. What else would you expect from a free-market enthusiast?

Composing by parameter is not the only way to write music, but it is rewarding. What you do is listen into the texture for individual elements and develop sensativity to how they affect musical expression across time. There are no formulas, but as you develop sensativity you develop awarenesss and understanding.
 

•Register. What is the highest note? What is the lowest? Around which notes is activity clustered?
 
•Density. How many lines or notes play concurrently? Are there registral gaps?
 
•Linear motion. Is there fundamental linear or scalar activity? Does it go up, down, or across?
 
•Rhythmic activity. How many attack points are there per measure?
 
•Rate of cycling. How often does the music repeat? At what level? Is that rate increasing, decreasing, or remaining the same?
 
•Clarity of pulse. How hard is it to tell where the beat is?
 
•Clarity of harmony. How hard is it to tell what the root is?
 
•Dissonance level. Which intervals are featured? Dissonant, imperfect, or perfect intervals?
 
•Space. Are there silences or moments with no attack points? How long are they? How often do they occur?
 

It’s impossible for every element to have a definable shape in every passage. Sometimes, for example, you can’t say whether or not the bulk of rhythmic activity is clustered in a particular register. Don’t worry. Focus on a few parameters or maybe just one. You’ll be surprised at the power of subtle changes.
 
Speaking of surprise, you can play with the listener’s expectations by shifting which parameters are the nexus of contrast. For example, this passage is about varying rates of rhythmic activity while that passage is about varying levels of density.
 
One final point, regarding why this type of thinking may be especially helpful to a game composer. Look at those individual elements again. Wouldn’t it be fun if they were tied to game states? There’s no reason not to try.
 
This will be the focus of upcoming collaborations and articles.

Let me tell you the real story of Mario. It’s not the story of a beautiful princess captured by a scaly reptilian super villain. It’s not the story of a plucky plumber and his gangly sidekick who storm the reptilian’s castle only to discover they’ve been duped (seven times!) and confront the scaly super boss only on the eighth attempt.
 
No, the real story of Mario goes something like this.
 
When I was in Kindergarten we got the NES and the second video game we played was Super Mario Bros, right after Duck Hunt. My family gathered around our living room TV and played. My mom tried exactly once and when she died to the first Goomba never expressed an interest in video games again. My dad lost interest and to date the only game he plays (and still plays) is Tetris. My brother was older and got pretty good. I can’t remember if he beat Super Mario Bros but he got very far. I remember spending more time watching than playing. Eventually I gave up on the game as too hard.
 
The first video game I beat was Mickey Mousecapade, which we borrowed from our neighbors. It was incredibly easy, but because it was the first game I ever beat, it felt like a real accomplishment. When we got Mario All-Stars on Super NES I beat Mario Bros 2, also an easy game. I remember thinking how odd that game was compared to the others. Of course it was all a dream!
 
My fondest memories were playing A Link To The Past and Super Metroid. I played them again on emulator in college and after grad school and they still seem like masterpieces. The best stories were playing Super Mario Kart with my brother. Rainbow Road, we maintained, was a psychedelic experience. In the summer after eighth grade we borrowed someone’s Nintendo 64 for a week. I tried the Mario game on it… it was OK but also kind of weird. I couldn’t get into blocky 3D with awkward camera angles.
 
So that was the end of my interest in consoles. This was the era of Golden Eye and boy did I suck at that game. But I got into PC gaming and that means Brood War, which I still watch. When I play these old games today I’m impressed at how they teach you without you realizing you’re being taught.
 
So that’s the story of Mario, or at least, my story of Mario. I’m sure yours is different. The point is your game doesn’t need a narrative to have a story. Humans engaging with a system over time is the story. Always is. No one loses sleep over Princess Peach, but we’ll stay up all night to beat the boss.
 
So when composing think of the player’s emotional journey, not the character’s. Imagine the players playing the game and anticipate their feelings. The music writes itself. And while you’re at it, consider the role of session length and totals hours sunk into the game. As Mario demonstrates, your feelings towards a system change over time. Maybe the music should reflect that too?