I must have done something right at Bethesda, because the next thing I knew, I was headed back to Chicago, this time to meet with another developer—High Voltage Software.
The project was a licensed game based on the popular cartoon Family Guy. Take-Two had picked up the license during the show’s original cancellation. However, when Family Guy’s DVD sales began raking in the dough, the show was given a second life. This reversal of fortune extended beyond the show to our game. What was once intended as a small project aimed at a cult following was suddenly the official licensed game of the most popular cartoon on television. For that reason, the Fox wanted someone working closely with the developer to ensure the game reached its newfound potential. After spending a weekend watching Family Guy DVDs, the Fox decided that person should be me.
This wouldn’t be an overnight trip, like the one I’d made to Bethesda. The Fox wanted me to embed with HVS for an extended stay. Forget that this was only my third month on the job—I was to be the publisher’s on-site representative to ensure the game lived up to its potential, in the hopes it would make 2K and HVS a lot of money.
“It’s a test,” said D. T. “It has to be.”
“Not to sell myself short, but it seems insane that he’d send an entry-level guy into such a high-risk situation.”
“Could be he’s setting you up to fail. Ever think of that? He knows the game won’t be any good, so he’s making you the patsy.”
“I don’t think the possibility of failure has ever crossed the Fox’s mind. Where others see the impossible, he sees opportunity.”
“It’s trial by fire. The Fox wants to know how brightly you’ll burn if he douses you in gasoline and then hands you a match.”
There was only one problem: I was twenty-four. This meant I couldn’t rent a car (a necessity, since the developer was located forty-five minutes from the airport). I’d also never owned a credit card, which meant I had zero credit. Traveling for business is expensive. You have to pay for transportation, hotels, food. It’s not bad for one or two days, but it adds up when you’re gone for weeks at a time. It’s all reimbursable, but that means nothing if you don’t have a large enough credit limit to afford it in the first place.
I was able to solve the car situation by having my parents cosign the rental from Louisiana. Regarding the issue of the credit card, I had a better idea.
“I need a corporate card,” I said. In my head, I envisioned steak dinners, rented convertibles, and top-shelf cocktails garnished with tiny umbrellas. TV had taught me a corporate credit card was a blank check, a needle jammed straight into the company’s rich, money-filled veins.
The Fox laughed. “Not a chance.”
“Guess I’m staying here, then.”
“Like hell you are. It’s bad enough having you around being a smart-ass all the time. Half the reason I’m sending you to Chicago is to get you out of my hair.”
“How am I supposed to pay for it?” At his insistence, I applied for a credit card, but my limit would cover only three days—not nearly enough.
“Don’t worry about it. Just get on the plane, and I’ll work it out.”
Fair enough. I arrived to find the city blanketed in snow, with more falling every minute. This was a serious problem. As a native of Louisiana I was familiar with the concept of snow, but had never driven in it. In the back of my head, I remember something about snow tires. I didn’t know what they were, but they sure sounded like something you’d need for driving in the snow.
I sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes before finally calling the Fox.
“Are you at the hotel?” he asked.
“No. I’m at the rental-car place.”
“What’s wrong? Do the rental people not have a car for you? I thought you got a confirmation.”
“No. I have a car. It’s just . . . it’s snowing.”
“So, what? You stopped to make a snowman?”
“I’ve never driven in snow. Am I supposed to put chains on my tires or something?”
To his credit, the Fox did not mock me. He explained everything I needed to know about driving in the snow; the first thing being that tire chains were not necessary. Comforted, and cautioned to take it slow, I headed north.
When I checked into the hotel, the desk clerk asked for my credit card, as they always do.
“I was told the room would be paid for.”
“It is,” said the clerk. “I’m to charge the room to your card until it’s reached its limit, then put the rest onto a card for . . .” She searched for a name on her screen. She found it, read it back to me. The Fox.
In my room, I sent him an email. “Why not put the whole thing on your card?”
“So you can build up credit,” he wrote back. “Trust me. You can thank me later.”
He was right. Every month, I maxed out my card, and every month I paid it off. Always on time, never a penalty, all thanks to the magic of expense reports. Pretty soon, I had enough credit to manage the trips without his help. Of all the lessons the Fox could have taught me, this wasn’t exciting or even game related, but it was one of the most important. He saw a backwoods kid who didn’t understand how the world worked and set him on a path to become a functional, modern adult. It was a very human, paternal thing for him to do. I’m not sure I ever thanked him for it, but I also never forgot.
LIVING IN A HOTEL can mess you up.
Living out of a suitcase is like doing time in prison, a statement I feel qualified to make as I have seen every episode of the HBO original prison drama Oz. Whether you’re gone for days, weeks, or months, it all comes down to compartmentalization. You have to shrink your life into a series of bite-size chunks in order to cope with the fact you won’t be going anywhere for a while. Acceptance is the key. Resign yourself to where you are and what you are there to do. Find ways to fill your life for one hour, then another, and another, until each day melts into the next, and time itself has lost all meaning.
My trips to HVS would last anywhere from one to three weeks, including weekends. When planning for these extended stays, I always made sure I would have access to three essential things. The first was alcohol. Nothing takes the edge off hotel habitation like a bottle of top-shelf hooch.
The great thing about working on-site is being able to expense your meals. There was a limit to how much I could spend each day, but no regulation on what I spent it on. If my body could digest it, my report could expense it. Every bar was a gateway to experimentation, an opportunity to develop a sophisticated palate on someone else’s dime. To ensure I always drank well, I developed a system built around the hotel’s free continental breakfast. Every morning, I’d eat until I was full, and then stock up on the three Bs—bananas, bagels, and bacon. I could keep these staples in my bag until lunch, so long as I wrapped the bacon in a napkin. That covered two meals per day without having to spend a single cent. Dinner was usually a cheap and greasy five-dollar burger, followed by a liquid dessert of Lagavulin 16, as many glasses as my limit would allow.
That brings us to the second item on my must-haves list: a gym. If I was going to be stuck in one place for a while, it seemed a good idea to spend time on self-improvement. Clearly, my dietary habits were not the best: a lot of carbs, fat, and cholesterol with the occasional vending-machine dim sum sprinkled throughout. Hitting the treadmill three or four times a week not only helped to keep off the weight, it also helped battle depression. Hotels are lonely places, devoid of the personal baubles and trappings that triggered my sense of comfort. The longer I stayed in one, the more disconnected I felt from myself. This was only exacerbated by the alcohol I guzzled on a nightly basis. Remember, alcohol is a depressant. The sadness it brings will sneak up on you. For me, regular exercise fought it off, but only for so long. Eventually, I would have to resort to the third item on my list.
If you’re going to live in a hotel, you have to bring your own entertainment. This is easy to accomplish these days, but iPhones and iPads weren’t a thing back in 2006. My only options were analog—books, comics, DVDs. If the TV in my hotel room had the proper hookups, I’d even bring along my PlayStation 2. I always packed too much. Better to have too many options than none at all. Working my way through a book or show gave me some sense of accomplishment, enough to convince me the hotel wasn’t syphoning off what limited time I had left on this earth. Eventually, I streamlined my entertainment to focus only on complete runs of classic TV shows. I didn’t care what the show was about, so long as every season was available on DVD. Reading and games were fun, but I needed something that required a minimal amount of focus. I often got insomnia when I traveled, and it absolutely wrecked my cognitive abilities. If I hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours, the written word took on an incomprehensible, alien swirl. All I could do was lie in bed like a coma patient, absorbing stimuli by osmosis, never fully awake or asleep—whatever it took to ensure I wasn’t alone through those long nights. Being alone only led to questions, the kinds you never want to ask.
Terrible, right? Wrong. Working on-site was fantastic, and I’ll tell you why.
You may not have heard, but New York City is expensive. While my job came with all the perks and benefits, it was still an entry-level position. I was paid a reasonable salary for my role and experience. Reasonable won’t always cut it, though.
When working on-site at the studio, my daily cost of living was covered by the company. Food, shelter, and transportation could all be expensed—basically free money. If I’d been working in the New York office, I would have paid for food and transportation out of pocket. When you’re young and just starting out, extra cash is very enticing. It’s great for paying off loans or building up a savings account. You just have to be able to resist its siren call.
“I’m thinking of giving up my apartment,” said D. T. We were catching up over lunch. Both of us had been on the road for a while, and this was a rare opportunity to sit down and talk. “I’m never in town. When I am, I usually just crash at my girlfriend’s place. Might as well save some money.”
“Is she going to be cool with you moving in?”
“Cohabitation? Walter, what are you thinking?! This is freedom we’re talking about: no apartment, no rent, nothing. Imagine how much money you’d have if you weren’t paying rent every month. Just living in hotels, expensing all your meals like a professional hobo.”
We hadn’t been around long enough to realize money could only get you so far. There’s actually an emotional arc that occurs when your earnings suddenly increase. You start by convincing yourself to work harder, as if you need to prove you’re worth it. As the stress rises, your mentality shifts, and you accept that you are being adequately compensated for what you’re doing. The more you prove yourself, the more people begin to rely on you alone. You’ve always been able to handle things in the past, no matter what it took; there’s no reason for that to change. It’s then that the truth finally hits you—you’re not paid nearly enough to deal with this shit.
Money is necessary to our physical survival. That’s just capitalism. To keep our spirit alive, we also need a sense of purpose. How you find that depends on the type of person you are. Maybe you’re working on your dream project, or you want to show the world what you’re capable of, or perhaps you’re just the kind of broken, malformed mutant for whom the work itself is enough. Whatever does it for you, heed my advice—find it fast, then suck every last drop of marrow from its bones. Without its nourishment, you will not be long for this world.
For me, that purpose was writing. Eventually, HVS would get around to writing the script for the Family Guy game. I knew if I hung on long enough, I’d get to be part of it. Then, I’d show 2K, the Fox, and everyone else just what I was capable of.
When the time came, it was decided to bring in the Family Guy staff writers; that way the game would match the quality and humor of the show, plus it would be a great selling point. I was instantly opposed to the idea. I wanted to write the game, or at least part of it. If the show writers got involved, they wouldn’t need my talents. Luckily, the Family Guy staff didn’t have time to write the script; they were too busy making a TV show. We floated the idea of HVS writing the first draft and then sending it to the show writers for a final polish. They agreed. This was my chance. All I had to do was find a way to insert myself into High Voltage’s writing process.
If you’ve ever wondered why so many games have bad writing, it’s because developers don’t usually have a dedicated writer. It’s more common now, but a few years ago, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for a script to be cobbled together by anyone who cared enough to force their way into the discussion. It was a train wreck of designers, coders, and artists pushing for their ideas. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in other disciplines. Art and design occasionally, but take programming, for instance. Try telling programmers you want to do a studio-wide review of their code and see which breaks first—the game or your legs. I don’t know why, but when it comes to story, suddenly everyone’s a writer. The script you end up with won’t necessarily be bad; oftentimes it’s perfectly passable. But there’s a wide margin between good enough and great, and the quality jump is always noticeable.
The script HVS sent us was, in my opinion, rough. I freely admit I was biased; after all, I didn’t write it. On top of that, it just didn’t read like Family Guy to me. I told the Fox we couldn’t send it to the show writers; they’d have to start over from scratch. As far as I could see, the only way forward was for me to rewrite the entire script. All I needed was five days.
In college, I had a process for writing a lot in a short amount of time. I’d isolate myself, usually by dragging a desk into a storage closet. Then I’d write by hand, using different-colored pens to help me keep track of sections and corrections. Once I’d written fifty pages, I’d type them up, print them out, and sleep for six hours. When I got up, I’d slash and burn the printed pages until I was left with ten to fifteen pages of usable material. Then I’d pick up where those pages left off and do it all over again. I did this Monday through Friday, every week. It was an effective process, and even though I’d have to modify it for working in the office, I knew I could use it to finish this script within five days.
The Fox didn’t buy it. “I’ve never worked with a writer who could write a script in just five days.”
“To be fair, none of those other writers were me.” Cocky, I know. I had to be, because I had nothing to back it up.
Being an artist isn’t like being an accountant or a doctor. People need medical care. If you can provide it, you will never want for patients. People also need art. It speaks to who we are as individuals, as well as a species. That doesn’t mean they need your art.
Anyone with a proven track record can be confident. When you’re just starting out, you have to convince yourself that you are talented and worthy of recognition; otherwise, you’ll be held back by self-doubt. In other words, fake it until you make it.
My arrogance and narcissism must have resonated with his French blood, because he gave me the go-ahead. Hidden away beneath a stairwell, I spent the next week rewriting the game’s script. In my opinion, the resulting product was pretty good. Even the Fox agreed. We fired it off to the developer and went home for the weekend.
Come Monday morning, there was an email from HVS’s producer waiting in our inboxes. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry; he was disappointed. His team had worked hard on the script, and he couldn’t understand why it had been rewritten. “This isn’t a rewrite. It’s an entirely new script. The whole thing is just an excuse for Walt to replace our stuff with his.” All valid points, but it didn’t matter. This was the plan the Fox and I had agreed upon. HVS’s script never would have passed muster had we sent it to the show writers. We were on a tight schedule, and there was no time to make sure everyone’s delicate egos remained unscuffed.
A week or so later, we flew from New York City to Los Angeles to meet with the show writers and discuss the script. I was over the moon. I’d written a full game script—based on the hit TV show Family Guy. That script had been read by the show’s actual writers. Just a few months ago, I was unemployed with no career prospects. Now, I was flying to Los Angeles to visit the FG offices and meet with the people who made the show. This was my moment. Anything was possible.
“The script is bad. Like, really bad. One of the worst things I ever read.”
It turns out anything was possible, including having my script ripped to shreds. So much for my dreams of collaboration. I tried to hide my disappointment, but my poker face is weak. I think the show writers could see they were tearing my heart out, because they toned down the criticism. No concessions were given, not even a “Nice try” or “It wasn’t all bad.” But they stopped calling it the worst thing ever, instead choosing to focus on how much work it would take for them to fix it.
The Fox and I left the studio completely dejected. We thought we’d brought our A game, but Hollywood shut us down real fast. We were just a video-game publisher. The “real” writers would take it from here. I’d been shut down in the exact same way I’d shut down HVS. Had I been wiser at the time, I might even have learned a lesson from it all: It doesn’t matter how good you think you are. It doesn’t even matter if you’re right. All that matters is the opinion of the next person down the line.
MONTHS PASSED, AND WE finally got the final script from the show writers. The story was basically the same, but the words and jokes were different. That is, every joke except for one.
It was at the end of a scene in which Carter Pewterschmidt and the police show up at the Griffin house, looking to arrest Brian for once again knocking up Carter’s prized dog, Seabreeze. Brian denies the allegations, but Carter won’t hear it.
Carter pulls a stack of cash out of his pocket and hands it to the Cop.
CARTER
He’s lying.
Carter hands the Cop a second stack of cash.
CARTER
And he’s not Caucasian.
The Cop runs into the room and beats Brian with his nightstick.
“Good for you,” said the Fox. “I’ll make sure you get an additional credit on the game.” And he did. When the game shipped, I was credited under Additional Writing and Design, which is a nice way of saying I put words and ideas in the game, though not in any official, titled capacity.
The Fox dropped what looked like a tube of toothpaste onto my desk. “Here. I got you something.” He’d been traveling overseas the previous week. He must have bought souvenirs.
The tube had a picture of a reindeer on it. “What is it?”
“Consider it a bonus for all your hard work.”
I uncapped it and squeezed some onto my finger. It looked disconcerting: a grayish-white paste with bits of darker gray things scattered throughout. Was it some weird, foreign Christmas treat? No. It was pureed reindeer. And it had already gone bad.
As I stood gagging in the office kitchen, trying not to vomit in the sink, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d won somehow. One joke wasn’t much, but my foot was now in the door. From there, I could move on to writing generic lines, a whole character, maybe even a script for an entire mission—more and more, until every word was mine.