When I write, I put on music. When I play RPGs, I put on music. I don’t know anything about music, really, but here’s something I’m listening to.

Lair Soundtrack

John Debney and Kevin Kaska composed a stirring and bold score for the ill-fated video game, Lair, about dragon-riding knights doing battle across fantasy kingdoms. Though I haven’t played Lair, I got into its world a bit through the now-defunct website and world-building designs on display there. The artists behind the game considered the looks of everything from textiles and banners to palaces and cities, creating a sense of the place and culture even without the story within the game to carry me through it. That’s what got me looking for the soundtrack, as I recall, and I’m glad I found it. This is a go-to soundtrack for me when I’m writing or playing fantasy material.

Some tracks, like the main title, are combinations of proud horns, sweeping strings, and dramatic choral pieces — what the kids might call “epic.” That same track, though, also contains a contemplative melody that suggests more than bombast. The whole soundtrack is like that — a great mix of moods and motifs without being scattered. This is a complete work for a single world that easily transplants to other fantasy realms for play.

Speaking of play, the way these tracks are built makes them great for mood-setting in RPG play. The track called “Diviner Battle” opens dramatically, serving as a nice mood-setter, before driving into a menacing mix worthy of battle. “Blood River,” “Serpent Strait,” and numerous other tracks provide great background music for combats heroic and frantic. One of my most played, though, is “Firestorm,” which has a great vocal motif and a marching forward momentum — good for action of various sorts, not just battle — so it feels as much like music for a rescue as it does a heroic combat.

“Funeral Pyre,” meanwhile, is a short moody piece great for backing up sorrowful remembrance or a bit of ominous exposition. The Diviner’s theme is a foreboding piece that turns triumphant, great for the darkness before the march to dawn. “Ruins of Mokai” is a wonderful short piece for sadness, grief, or even bitter victory.

Probably my most played track of all these, though, is “Darkness Theme,” which I’ve used for mournful allies and complex villains alike. This was, more or less, the theme for the enemy queen in my Viking-themed D&D 4th Edition game, though I also used it for various other magical practitioners from her tradition, so it wasn’t easy to tell if this was “bad guy music” or not.

Lair is a terrific soundtrack. While it’s a shame that we probably won’t get sequel games with sequel scores to expand on this world, Lair gives us a terrific source of music for fantasy-adventure games with the added bonus that your players probably won’t associate its themes with baggage or recollections from this or that film. Recommended.

I bought Lair at the iTunes store.

So protagonize may or may not be a word. Depends who you ask. I’m using it anyway.

The nice folks at Protagonist Labs — Stephen Hood and Josh Whiting — are in the early days of building something new. It’s a fun, creative product, this new thing, even in these earliest stages. They asked me for my opinion on it and now, as a result, I’m working with them as an advisor.

It’s too soon to reveal what Protagonist Labs (@protagonist) is building or what final shape it’ll take but I’m excited to bang my skull against the skulls of other advisors and the lab staff to see what sparks we can throw off. They’re gathering a terrific roster of allies over there.

While this isn’t quite like anything I’ve ever worked on before, you can imagine what sort of territory this new thing involves, since they asked for my opinion. When you see who else we’re working with, a shape may emerge from the fog. You’ll have an idea what waters we’re seeking to sail. Here’s to the voyage.

When I write, I put on music. When I play RPGs, I put on music. I don’t know anything about music, really, but here’s something I’m listening to.

Alan Silvestri’s Beowulf

Sometimes, it’s just a small part of a soundtrack that makes its way into my repertoire for writing or play. Case in point: “Beowulf Slays the Beast” from Alan Silvestri’s musical score for the Robert Zemekis adaptation of Beowulf. I haven’t actually, uh, seen the film. I’ve heard only samples of the rest of the score but I’ve heard this one track approximately one-hundred million times. It’s a staple of my fantasy action/adventure playlists and RPG adventures.

Why? Momentum. It has bold horns and a dramatic choral element and great percussion and it’s all brought together with a terrific forward momentum for six minutes. I first bought this track for my Northlanders-meets-D&D campaign a few years ago but I use it in fantasy RPG play of all sorts now. It’s a great backdrop to battle. It starts with a wonderful verve for battle and becomes more serious and dark as it goes. And it loops nicely. Great action music for play.

I bought Alan Silvestri’s “Beowulf Slays the Beast” at the iTunes store.

The thing is, if I talk about it, the electricity will go out of it. Explain the novel, tell the story, reveal the secret, describe the character arc — do these things before the writing’s done and it can feel like the writing’s done. For me, seeing the idea make contact with a brain or a heart is one big reason why I make things. If I can get a semblance of that from just telling you the idea, I have less motivation for making the thing for real.

The thing is, if I talk about it, it feels more real before it’s really real. I see your eyes light up, I see your frown, I hear you gasp with glee and I think to myself, “Good, it works!” A great deal of the motivation behind keeping me working is seeing what works — seeing if I can do the things that my favorite creators do. It’s the puzzle, the play of it. Once it’s spoken, it’s across the threshold from mind to space, from ethereal brain to material plane. I get a trace of the feeling that comes from making a thing.

The thing is, if I talk about it, I get through to almost as many people as if I make the thing. Telling a favorite author, a favorite designer, a favorite reader the root of the thing? That gets me the jolt of approval I sometimes need. Why put out all that effort to make the whole thing whole if (a) making it whole and real just makes it flawed and imperfect and (b) it’s going to be seen by just a few dozen people anyway? How to keep going when the best things I’ve made have all faded away in the face of new fads, new editions, new competition? Why work for a year on something that might only live for a day? And if I’ve already worked on it for a year, what can I do to ensure it lives longer?

The thing is, when I talk about it, I trick myself. I talk myself out of things. I talk myself into thinking I’m something I’m not — sometimes for the best and often for the other way.

The thing is, when I talk about it, the juice sometimes goes out of it. Talking about a thing makes it lively and possible, which are beautiful ideas. Making a thing turns it into something fixed and real, which are scary commitments.

If you want to make things, you’ve got to make things made. Sometimes it’s wise to just not talk about the damned thing, to keep the electricity in the bottle until the thing is made. Sometimes that’s not possible as collaboration and explanation and development require the talk. In that case, whether the winds in the sails or not, fight through the doldrums, row the fucking boat, and get that thing to port. Being a creator means doing it when it’s difficult. It means putting more lightning in the bottle.

Day by day, I chip away at a slew of projects which I’m writing, designing, art directing, laying out, or otherwise pushing along toward completion. Each one is a task bar floating in my head — a blue band of animated light ticking up, growing larger from left to right. I can see each one inch on, filling a half-full glass bar with light, and I can see each half-empty glass bar changing shape and size as the project gets redefined, expanded, contracted. No numbers, no percentages. How do you calculate a percentage of an unknown whole? Today I accomplish 3% of a project that changes shape at the end of the day. Recalculate, recalculate.

And back to work.