Shortly after I played all the way through campaign mode for the first time, I received an invitation to participate in usability testing for Sparkle Dungeon 5, which was due to be released soon. The invitation specifically called out my “diva-casting expertise” and indicated we’d be usability testing the new voice interface for spellcasting that was currently in development. I was full of squee at the very thought. Oh, and goodness, a small stipend would be provided in exchange for my unique insights? Praise our capitalist overlords and sign my silly ass up.
The night before the usability test, I wanted to show off a little, so I DM’d the Keeper of the Moonlight Prism and said, “Did you get one of these shiny invitations?”
“What invitations?” the Keeper said.
“Oh, just an invitation to usability test Sparkle Dungeon 5,” I said. Obviously it was a chat session, but I was sure the Keeper could detect my air of performative nonchalance.
“Send me a link!” the Keeper replied.
But there were no links in the email to any landing pages about the testing, nor were there any separate invites I could share with friends.
I said, “I’ll put in a good word for you when I’m there.”
“Someday,” the Keeper said, “you will stumble, and I will be there to take up your crown as Queen of Sparkle Dungeon.”
“That day will be called sparklepocalypse,” I said, “and it will signify the end of days. There will be no monarchy after that.”
“Says you,” the Keeper replied.
The testing was held at the Los Angeles office of Jenning & Reece, an elite agency offering advertising, public relations, and market research to top-tier companies. Its client for this usability testing was SparkleCo, the wildly successful yet authentically indie development shop responsible for the Sparkle Dungeon series. For eight years, Sparkle Dungeon had reigned atop the crowded field of epic campaign-based VR games, in part thanks to the tireless promotional efforts of the creative wizards at Jenning & Reece.
I knew a lot about Jenning & Reece because I’d applied for a job there three different times. I’d memorized its marketing website and knew all its executives’ names and faces, learned its entire client roster by industry vertical, studied and even admired press coverage of the firm’s expanding technical prowess. Yes, it’s fair to say I applied for jobs there in the hope that I might be allowed to handle any aspect whatsoever of the SparkleCo account. It was perhaps a tactical error on my part to mention that during my interviews.
Testing was held in the basement of the Jenning & Reece office complex. I was led to what might have been an executive conference room judging by its size, but the walls were entirely made of thick glass, and the only furniture in sight was two folding chairs: one for me, and one occupied by the person who would be leading the testing. I recognized that person to be Olivia Regan, VP of Special Marketing Services at Jenning & Reece. The company’s marketing website used she/her for Olivia’s pronouns; she was short, middle-aged, white, exceedingly professional in attire (sharp black slacks; crisp pinstripe jacket that was stylish but not flashy), hair severely pulled back, aiming at a high-achieving archetype and, consequently, seething with rage at the mediocrity she undoubtedly faced all around her on a daily basis.
(I’m she/her by the way; also I’m white. I realize when I introduced myself as the Queen of Sparkle Dungeon that she/her might arguably be a fair assumption, but I prefer to be crisp about this.)
“Isobel Bailie?” she asked, and I nodded as I sat. She handed me a tablet with several documents loaded for me to complete.
I’d never participated in usability testing of a game or an app before, but I still didn’t expect a survey with questions like these. On a scale of 1 to 5, how’s your mood today? How much sleep did you get last night? Are you currently taking any psychiatric medications? Then came an agreement confirming that the standard payment for participating in this testing was one thousand dollars for three two-hour sessions, payable when all sessions were complete; an agreement indicating that Jenning & Reece’s corporate insurance covered acute reactions, but participants should rely on personal insurance for any long-term complications; a description of potential but theoretically unlikely side effects from the testing (dizziness, short-term memory disruption, loss of appetite, it was kind of a long list actually); a really beefy NDA that was heavy on threat language, preventing me from recording these sessions or even describing them to anyone outside Jenning & Reece; a reassuring statement about Jenning & Reece’s commitment to safety followed by a request for my emergency contact; and a tax doc.
I looked up at her when I finished reading the docs. She was waiting patiently with a curt smile.
“I thought we were just going to play a game,” I said. “This sounds pretty serious.”
“We’ll be testing a new user interface for the game, yes,” she replied. “The language in those agreements is perhaps overly cautious.”
Uh-huh. She knew I wasn’t leaving here without a sweet, sweet taste of Sparkle Dungeon 5. I filled out the survey, tapped all the available “I agree” buttons, and handed the tablet back to her.
“No emergency contact?” she said.
I was still trying to break myself of the habit of listing Wendy as my emergency contact, especially now that she lived in Brooklyn, even more especially now that she fucking hated me. I shook my head. Olivia set the tablet down on the floor and provided me with her full attention.
“Today,” she said, “we’ll be testing a library of new spells being considered for the game. In our first two sessions, I’ll recite sets of twenty, and after each one, I’ll ask you a question or two to gauge your psychological reaction. Sound reasonable?”
I didn’t know what to say. Some admittedly naive part of me assumed that the usability testing of computer gaming technology required at minimum the presence of a computer, but clearly I had much to learn in the ways of usability testing and market research. No wonder they never hired me—I was a bit too parochial for these elite marketing adepts. I nodded for her to begin.
Later, I only really truly remembered the first one. She seemed to bark at me, or growl somehow, but she combined this guttural ugliness with a pure overtone that reminded me of a Tibetan singing bowl, and in the midst of those contradictory sounds, I also thought I was hearing language. But not English, or even a language fragment I might recognize. So maybe it wasn’t actually language, but it was definitely meaning. And I remembered this joy swelling up in me, like back when I was still taking MDMA unironically, and laughing as though some grand riddle had been suddenly solved for me. And Olivia was smiling, too, pleased maybe, and she asked me a question I didn’t remember, and then another one, and then my experience started to become blurry.
Each subsequent spell unlocked a different reaction. Sometimes the reactions were intellectual instead of emotional; like, I’m pretty sure several times I responded by arguing with her about morality and ethics, or about the value of some pop culture artifact, and I’m pretty sure one time I told her a very private story about how I fell in love the first time. But it didn’t feel intrusive, and I would not have characterized my reactions as involuntary at the time.
And then, just like that, the first two-hour session was complete. I felt like five minutes had passed maybe, but Olivia said, “Let’s get you some lunch, and then we’ll pick up again this afternoon.”