I wrote this essay in the beginning of my Freshman year of college. Now that I’m about to graduate, I’m posting this again for reflections.
It was 4:10 PM, on 26 February 2012, and in many respects, the day was just like any other day in Albany, California. The sky, as often is in late February, was clear, though the season of rain was within weeks of approaching. The street, commonly with only few cars on weekends, seems even emptier, for most residents have decided to retreat to their homes to watch the Academy Awards. The sun is setting, and the earth is quiet, save for the chirping of a few birds that have refused to migrate for the winter. My ride was late, and I was forced to walk to the community center alone.
I was dressed slightly more formal than usual – a dark gray overcoat, a navy pinstripe suit, a white dress shirt, a white pocket square neatly folded to show three corners, and a red tie with white and blue stripes tied in a symmetrical full Windsor knot – not exactly the correct attire for carrying two large stacked crates. One of the crates contained the official laptop of the Game Designing Club – a rusty Dell Latitude prone to blue screens – a camera, and a video camera. The other contained gifts for the banquet guests – 36 yellow bags, 36 packages of gummy bears, 36 candy bars, 36 handwritten thank-you notes, 36 thank-you pens, and 36 copies of my just-completed computer game – Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master.
I began Legend of the Dragon Master as an eighth grader at Albany Middle School. I was free back then – lonely, in fact. I had long established my reputation as the class pariah through many years of being “weird,” and, expectedly, I had no friends. Instead, as I ate lunch alone every day in the corner of the blacktop, many came by to point at the “crazy genius,” whispering and giggling to their friends, wondering just what species I actually belonged to, since I definitely wasn’t human enough to fit in with them.
As I tore open the wrapping of the same sandwich in the same corner of the same blacktop, I wondered how I could change myself to be the same as my peers – how I could finally find someone to eat with during lunch. Yet, what seemed an easy task for most individuals was not simple to me. Through many years of isolation and confusion, I have established a reputation of being an aloof, eccentric, and outright weird child. My peers did not want to approach me, fearing that they’d become associated with the school’s outcast, and somehow become “uncool” as a result. Realizing that isolation would not help me in future years of schooling, I longed for friends – even just peers with whom I could chat and perhaps even have lunch. I longed for a moment that can reintroduce me to my teachers and classmates, convincing them that I am not insane – that I am one of them.
Through random searches on the internet performed during my long, boring, and friendless after-school hours, I discovered Legend of Cao Cao, an old Chinese game commonly modified by designers to create brand new productions. I was immediately interested. Having an immense interest within Chinese history and some experience with simple programming, I wanted to create my own game. It would be set in a futuristic environment oddly similar to that of Ancient China. The storyline would be based on a conflict between two forces: over time, the “just” force of the main character – I – would succeed in defeating the “evil” opposition and become a benevolent ruler of the world. As a creative twist, instead of taking figures from history, I planned to name characters after my classmates and teachers. To fit in with the theme of the game, characters would resemble warriors from medieval China, but would have characteristics exclusive of the people upon whom they were based. Yet, to realize my idea, I needed to do more than plan; I must start approaching others and tell them about my idea. With luck, they’d agree to be characters in my game. With luck, they’d be convinced that I’d be normal. With luck, they’d be my friend. With luck, they’d let me join them at lunch. With luck, Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master began.
Honks from a nearby car broke my daydream of remembering the beginnings of the production. I was one block away from the community center, and my friend Daniel, who had intended to drive me and my crates to the banquet site, had finally caught up with me. After a hastily mumbled excuse, he opened the door and let me in. 30 seconds later, we stopped before the building where my five-year journey with Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master will finally come to a close.
To my surprise, Daniel and I weren’t the first to arrive at the community center. Richard, the production’s coding director, had already waited there for ten minutes. With a tripod slung over his left shoulder, he complained about Daniel’s and my tardiness, and stated that he was always the first one to show up at any Design Team meeting. In fact, he was the first person to notice and support my creation of Legend of the Dragon Master back in the eighth grade. Sitting across from me in Spanish class one day, Richard found his desk flooded with papers overflowing from an almost-toppled stack on my desk. Slightly annoyed, he picked a few up and tossed them over the invisible border between the two desks. “What the hell is this anyways?” He glanced at the cover of the overflowing folder. “Wait, you’re making a game?”
I tried to hide the document. I had not intended for anyone to know about my project yet. The ideas had not yet been fully developed. Everything was still a draft. Wanting the game to be a testament of my sanity, I feared that telling others about my novel ideas before their full development would effectively sabotage my goals. However, to Richard’s urging, I gave in and explained my plans. I expected him to mock my unorthodox ideas, but instead, he expressed interest in blending ancient China with modern society. He said, “Let me help.” He became my first supporter and his integration in society attracted more peers to the game. In the next months, Spanish class was no longer awkwardly quiet, but instead, it was filled with sounds of Richard and I both working to recruit more characters and add more events to the storyline. “Put Mr. DeWall into your game!” he once suggested. “Add some scene in which he sings his song ‘No Puedo Dormir’ and gives all the enemies insomnia!” Our Spanish teacher was thus recruited as a character in the game, and in a month, half of our Spanish class had already been recruited into the game as characters, and the game became well-known across the school. My reputation improved and Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master was on the rise.
Daniel again awoke me from my imaginations, slapping his wrangled necktie in my face. He had a tendency to do that – reminding me of reality when my ideas become too abstract. As my associate producer, he was my most trusted adviser in the creation of the game. We began to speak a few months after the game became known to the public. I had stopped eating lunch in the corner of the blacktop, and instead had moved into classrooms – I took advantage of the computers there to perform the research needed to complete my game. By coincidence, Daniel was there one day, and we chatted randomly about swords in ancient combat as we chewed our sandwiches. To show him a Chinese sword, I turned on the computer and opened Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master, and he was immediately drawn – not to the scaly bitmap of the sword, but to my wish to create my own RPG. “Let me help you!” he offered enthusiastically, extending his hand. “I can help you test it, make it – do whatever you want.” As the production had grown to include a sizeable number of characters, I offered my hand as well, completing the handshake and accepting Daniel as my second co-worker.
Over the next few months, Daniel spent his Computer Science classes playing the game, and though the teacher did not quite appreciate it, I certainly did. Every day, Daniel would complete the levels that I had programmed, report bugs, and pester me for more stages to test. Now accompanied by an enthusiastic co-worker, I found myself working more efficiently. In four months, twenty stages of Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master had been completed. A month after that, we made the first custom Legend of Cao Cao engine in English. Internet critics were stunned. They proclaimed it “the Dragon’s Miracle,” crediting me with the incredible feat, but, in reality, it was Daniel’s constant encouragement that had powered me to success, and ultimately, allowed me to host the celebration banquet of that day.
Shing– the music director– arrived next, and I was to go with her to the caterer and pick up our food. As she drove, I began to think of the night’s agenda. The banquet would begin with the arrival of guests, and proceed with a welcoming speech by Daniel. Then, accompanied by the men who helped me begin the production, I would formally announce that Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master was completed and released. Later, with numerous excessive formalities, I would thank the guests one-by-one for their help, and, ultimately, dedicate the game to a surprise guest and allow the guests to enjoy the rest of their meal without the sound of my voice droning on.
Shing had no idea that she was the surprise guest and dedicatee of my game, though it was not hard to predict that she would be on the top of my pick list. As the music director, she switched the collection of Chinese songs originally on the game soundtrack with a group of relevant songs in English – so that gamers could actually understand and enjoy the contents of the background music, rather than putting their computers on mute to avoid the ear-piercing screeches of a Chinese opera singer. In addition to her many contributions to the production, Shing had been a sister to me as well. Years ago, during English group projects, the oddly-numbered class would divide cleanly in two – with me as the lone remainder. At these moments, Shing would willingly take me into her group. Unlike my previous experiences with group projects, in which I would do all the work while other group members sat around and chatted, projects with Shing were always enjoyable. I never had to sit around and listen awkwardly to conversations in which I could not participate, for Shing worked to include me in group chats. Though I sometimes had trouble understanding references to popular shows, Shing would connect the conversation to a subject that I had an interest in. Later, she showed me Google Talk and Google Voice – two methods of keeping in touch with my newfound friends, finally allowing me to walk through the school as an integral part of society.
As I carried boxes of fried rice and chow-mein to the car, I continued to think about my change from the past years. As we drove back to the community center, I began to consider the speech – designed to be mostly impromptu – that I was about to give that night. Merely five years prior, I was a kid whom no person in his right mind wanted to approach. I was awkward and detached from society – though with high academic intellect, I had nearly no social ability. My partners in producing Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master taught me differently. By paying attention to my plans, Richard told me that I had a thread of sanity. Through my work with Daniel, I grew confident in both myself and others’ willingness to accept me. With Shing’s help, I became integrated in the society around me, finally becoming that member of community that I had often longed to be. Others, too, aided me in my progress: there was Mr. Pressnall and the permission to be different, Profe and the ability to be liked, Nir and the process of self-presentation, Juneyoung and work efficiency, etc. etc. etc. Memories filled my mind as I walked to the lectern. Turning at the toe mark, I took a deep breath and looked ahead directly at the camera. Before me, 36 guests sat with plates of food before them. They were waiting for the signal:
Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor and responsibility as Chairman of the Dragon’s Fury Game Series Design Team to announce the final release of Dragon’s Fury: Legend of the Dragon Master!
A thunderous applause filled the room, but only the youngest of children touched their forks, only to be quickly told to put them down by the parents. The guests were waiting for me, and I understood. I wrapped up my speech quickly and concluded with the game’s dedication to Shing and soon joined the guests as they began their long-awaited meal. As plastic utensils moved rapidly above plates of food and plastic cups came together in toasts, many guests were celebrating different things.
Some celebrated the end of a five-year project.
Others cheered at the realization of a seemingly impossible goal.
The kids liked that the old-looking-young-guy in the suit finally stopped talking and their parents finally let them start stuffing their food.
Yet, I celebrated a different change – simpler, more obvious:
I celebrated that I no longer ate alone.