As you all know, I teach game writing/game design. I have expertise in various other areas (all manner of digital production, digital and cultural rhetorics, visual rhetoric, etc.), but if one were to ultimately define my teaching perspective, it’s that of the inquisitive gamer-as-teacher. And there’s a truth that gamers know: you learn through failure.
This has always been true of almost all learning, but it isn’t celebrated in the work-a-day world the way it is in games (though it should be). When you play a game, it is through practicing and failing and trying again that you achieve any level of mastery.
This semester, as a class a group of students set out to accomplish a lofty task: to build a web series (think sitcom) pilot. It was going to be a bumpy ride to do this in a semester with a full class of people who knew the skills needed, and as the time approached to start, we didn’t have a full class of people with the requisite skills. For some reason, a number of the students interested in film and cinematography chose not to be involved. And that’s okay; there was still a ragtag but suitable crew, all sort of “rebel scum”y in the good way (if you’re a Star Wars person you get that). The problem became that their goal was so taxing, so far out there ahead of them, that they had to hit the ground sprinting and infinite-runner style the semester to get it done.
I assumed, as we started, that we would need a second semester. I didn’t want to deflate them, though. I didn’t want to give them the built-in sense of failure.
As it ended up, the group failed– at least for the semester timeline– to achieve the goal of filming the pilot.
And in some of their minds, that means they failed, period.
But oh no, not even. This is where the value comes in. This was a class. It was meant to teach things. And so this is where two paths divide, and I explain the educational value of what happened this semester.
First of all, in the reflections on the class, almost every student made one big revelation: they didn’t take the work seriously early enough and they realize they should have done more. This is element one of learning by failure. In a video game, playing lazy (or in pro sports what the New England Patriots have been accused of for years, playing up or down to the level of a challenge) puts you in a dangerous spot. If you judge right and do just-enough-to-get-by, you might be okay. But if you slack too much, you’ll fall behind, and you’ll fail/lose. Unfortunately, I can tell you that a thousand times, but a voice in your head will tell you “he doesn’t mean me. I can judge what is enough.” I know this thought process happens because when I was 19 that was my thought process, too. It’s still how I play Hearthstone. Hearing it only does so much. Feeling it, and saying it without me prompting you, means that you learned it viscerally. It’s a part of you now.
The second piece of valuable teaching here is that a number of people feel shame and anger over how little was accomplished materially over the course of the semester. This is useful because emotion ties to logic, but we often don’t lash the two of them together. For example, the anger and shame here exist because they should. If you have a semester to work on something–even if you know it might take a year– you shouldn’t end the semester at the starting point. If you’re good at what you do, there should be progress. So being mad, being embarrassed, being ashamed… that will teach you to keep to the schedule and to use all the time you have better than me telling you ever will.
The last part of what this sort of experience teaches is that you have to be realistic about what you learn (as you fail). Some of the students in this class told me they didn’t feel like they learned much, but they wrote about the experiences, there’s a great deal of learning there. Now given, part of the genre of writing that reflection is to justify to me that something was learned, but even if some of them are stretches, that so many things came to mind means that things were indeed learned.
So I’m going to say this: the class failed at making a pilot, but it’s a glorious failure, and as a class, in spite of some really rocky moments, learning happened. I’m proud of them, even as they share some of my shame with how it went.
And so I leave my reflection on this with a line of dialogue from Aaron Sorkin, one of my favorite TV writers. In an episode of Sports Night (which is a great show worth going back to watch), one of the main characters laments that he’s lost his chance with a woman he loves. Then this exchange:
“The thing is Casey…” -Natalie
“What?” -Casey
“With you, I didn’t hear it.” -Natalie
“Hear what?” -Casey
“Did you hear it, Dan?” -Natalie
“I didn’t hear it. Did you hear it, Jeremy?” -Dan
“I didn’t hear it.” -Jeremy
“Nobody’s heard it. Nobody’s heard the bell ring.” -Natalie
“Yeah.” -Casey
“Yeah.” -Natalie
“I’m gonna need a plan.” -Casey
It’s a boxing metaphor, but it’s a beautiful one. It might look like you’re losing, but the match isn’t over until the person at ringside hits the bell. And if anyone throws a white towel, I’m catching it and throwing it back.
Look for the pilot in May. From what everyone learned, it’s going to be can’t miss.