INMOST Dev Blog #2: The Real Fear
Real life is different from books and movies: unexpected turns of events don’t exactly happen when you need them. Life is usually much more straightforward, and often you can see the ending way before you actually get close to it. However, sometimes things are different.
In August of 2017 we were about to shut shop. We shook hands with our Vilnius friends and packed our bags to leave. We had enough money for our tickets home, but that was it.
As new contract work stopped coming our way, Andriy and I took to discussing the INMOST sketches more frequently. In despair I combined my sketches and assets into an animated gif, showcasing the (absolutely fake) gameplay for a game I wished I had been able to make.
Sometime before that I’d set up a Twitter feed — mostly retweeting others and on rare occasions posting something myself. Most of my tweets had less than a dozen “likes” and barely a single retweet. Which wasn’t so bad, since some of my tweets were barely worth the attention.
So I posted my INMOST gif.
Within ten seconds my Twitter feed exploded. My phone didn’t stop vibrating. I actually thought it had broken at one point because hundreds of notifications were streaming in! Totally random people were retweeting my gif and commenting. With (admittedly agreeable) apprehension I noticed that there even were few high-ish profile developers among the retweeters, people I looked up to, who I’d never dreamed would ever notice me.
My phone kept buzzing all through the night and into the morning. When the dust settled my tweet had been retweeted about a thousand times and had fifteen hundred “likes”. Sure, it may not look like much to someone else. But for me, back then, it was crazy — and it still feels crazy to me today.
With our morale boosted, I wrote to a couple of publishers and sent the GIF, my sketches, and a bio of the team, its experience, previous projects, etc. Of course, practically no one bothered to write back.
One potential publisher did however reply:
“Guys, when you’re asking for money and you say ‘We’re your biggest fans’, you could at least hide the fact you sent this to ten different email addresses.”
OMG, did I really send the email like that? I was so ashamed back then but I can laugh about it now.
Let me digress a moment: Back when we were just starting out in game development, we went to various conferences, met new people, picked up valuable experience, etc. We’d visited DevGAMM pretty much every year.
Aside from the lectures and project showcases, they host a game contest with great prizes.
In 2017 the contest was absolutely insane. After a series of controversies and intrigues, the prize pool was increased to $50,000. The Best Indie Game nomination was set to win $30,000! Competition was obviously going to be fierce. Even if we did have some kind of demo version, our chances were still practically zero. Not to mention the fact that we simply lacked the resources to even knock a demo together from the INMOST sketches. We barely had the money for conference tickets, even though it was happening pretty much in our neighbourhood.
We’d only wound up the company a few months earlier. And what with the move back home, getting settled, finding work etc… There had been no time to work on the game. It was surreal!
But that’s not the whole story. The years spent making casual games had left us with great connections to a few former clients. Sometimes situations hadn’t been ideal: huge lists of changes to implement, cancelling projects when they were almost ready… But when this happened, it wasn’t usually our fault. So anyway, in the midst of this low point, we received an email from some former clients:
“Hey there! Remember that brand-based project that got cancelled a year ago? We got it sorted and even squeezed money from the client, even though the project wasn’t even released. The payment is on its way to you.”
Literally life-saving.
Three months before the conference
We were baffled by what had happened; but money was coming our way, and we didn’t have to do anything extra for it at all. The incoming funds were enough to cover a few months work, but we wouldn’t get another chance. Our expectations were low, but decided we’d spend this time doing what we loved.
A month later we’d already got a lot done, but still all we had was a bunch of files, drafts and sketches. No prototype in sight. Just a ton of to-do’s, GIF files, art assets, and the barebones of the game in Unity. Meanwhile I was constantly posting GIFs of new locations and new character animations. Each of them netted us a crazy number of “likes”.
Some developer contacted me via Twitter and said he was interested in the game and asked whether the demo was available. I had absolutely no time to talk and wanted to get back to work, so my responses were curt, but the exchange carried on for a while.
Out of curiosity I checked out his profile. He wasn’t a developer, but a representative from a top-indie publisher. The guys had found us; they wrote on their own volition. When you spend each day wondering whether what you’re doing is good enough, it’s hard not to get too excited about that kind of thing. I was terrified. Picked up a few more grey hairs. I promised them the prototype was on its way. Imminent. “We’re getting it all together right now!” A big lie, of course, but I had to play for time. Something might be ready.
We holed up in our respective homes and started working from sunrise to way past sunset. No entertainment. No time to cook. I’d find myself with a sausage in one hand, while my other hand kept drawing, my eyes glued to the screen. The world kept turning without us. I even missed my own birthday. Completely forgot it! Celebrated by chowing down on a chunk of cheese while drawing new sprites.
Gradually INMOST began to look more and more like an actual game. Glitches galore, bugs in abundance, but marginally playable. We got together a minimally functional demo and submitted it for the DevGAMM contest. We also uploaded it to our social network feed and asked people to send in their play-throughs.
I examined each gameplay recording and queued up tasks for Andriy, and he kept fixing stuff as I added more and more. One recording made me redraw a few dozen sprites; another called for switches in the level geometry and puzzle positioning. Then animations would alter, emitter settings, dialogues, etc. Each day brought more changes to the game than we’d achieved in all the weeks previously. We even revamped the controls a few times. The DevGAMM build was being updated up to ten times a day — at some point we stopped logging working hours in the time management program because there was no time to click those extra two buttons. If two months before that were a crunch time, this was crunching the crunch out of crunch time.
The submissions deadline arrived. The jury started playing. Our momentum was such that we just kept on working. Two weeks later, we put down our tools.
Two weeks before the conference
We tried to get some R&R. We were exhausted, but those two and a half months had been the best we’d had in years. Doing what you like is so much easier and sometimes I caught myself literally jumping out of bed in the morning, my head spinning with new ideas because I was itching to get back to work. I’d entirely forgotten the meaning of fatigue even after a few weeks of working non-stop.
My phone showed “One missed call”. I checked my Skype. “Hi, this is Lerika, DevGAMM manager. “Are you there?” I’d barely typed “Hi” when my Skype started ringing.
“Hello?”
“I’ve been calling you, but no one’s picking up! Why even bother submitting a phone number? Anyway. You’ve been nominated for Best Indie Game. The nomination means you’ve already won $5,000, and you could win $30,000! Congratulations!”
Conference, Day 1
Day 1, I had a meeting scheduled with Alina. Best Indie Game nominees had to share a bit about themselves and she was handling the interviews. I’d prepared six tiny-font pages of details and even spent two days trying to memorize it all like I was back in school.
Andriy, my partner, absolutely refused to go. So I was going alone.
I met other contestants along the way, a lot of familiar faces, or at least companies I had heard about. The Russian game dev community is very tightly knit: if you didn’t know someone directly, you know someone who knows them. Or you know someone who knows someone who knows someone…. The guys leaving the interview gave me the lowdown which only made me more nervous. Three minutes per person — jeez. What on Earth was I going to do with my freaking six pages?
We were wandering around the expo area, seeing a lot of games and people we knew. Everyone was trying to pull us towards their booth. We played a few games, had some fun, but we were still highly strung about the upcoming interview.
I’m not a great talker, especially to strangers. I hate being in the spotlight. Usually I’ll start stammering and lose my train of thought, worried I’ll say something wrong, or it’ll all come out stupid. It took some time to realize that it wasn’t as scary as I thought it was. I mean, I am still scared at times, but generally I can power through these things.
Suddenly a woman rushed up to me and said: “You’re the one I need. C’mon!”
It was Alina. The interview! AAARGHHH!
We had a longish walk through the corridors of the hotel hosting the conference. Amidst everything, I managed to calm down completely along the way. Made a few jokes, even.
Then they put me in front of the camera, like, go ahead.
I spoke for half an hour. Happily, fluently. I completely forgot about my original speech. They shook my hand, said I’d done good. Then as the door closed behind me, I got the shakes, and got ’em real bad. What did they ask? What did I answer? OMG — I was going to be up on that big freaking screen in front of hundreds of people!
We spent the rest of the day listening to lectures and hanging out at booths talking to people.
Skipped the afterparty completely. Zero energy left. Next morning though, I was grateful for yesterday-me. At least I’d avoided the hangover.
Conference, Day 2
More lectures. More expo booths. More talking. I saw Alex Nichiporchik rush past. Alex was TinyBuild’s CEO and the husband of Lerika, DevGAMM’s organizer. You’d catch a glimpse of him several times a day, but it was hard to even say “Hello”, never mind chat. Either he was in a hurry to get somewhere or talking to ten people at once.
We practically collided with each other. “Hi,” I said. He nodded curtly and went on his merry way.
“We’re INMOST,” I yelled, “Best Indie Game nominees! “We’re crapping ourselves!”
He turned his head for a second: “As so you should be!” Then laughed in a sinister way and disappeared.
Obviously, I’d started checking out the competition even before the conference — as soon as the nominees were announced. Weighing up our chances. You always want to be in control and plan far into the future.
All the games were sound. All were unique. All worthy of the Best Indie title. Well, apart from ours, of course. Ours was a glorious mess. What would anyone see in it? Each rival had more than one nomination. One game was nominated in five categories. FIVE. We had one. That said it all. If that wasn’t a measure of the game’s quality, what else was?
Hope was ebbing fast.
An hour before the awards
We had front-row seats, right in front of the stage. I had no hope of winning, but my nerves were still jangling and adrenaline was up. What would I have to do? Get up for a moment, listen to the announcement, congratulate the winner. Slap the bastard on the back. Step down. Nothing complicated.
By that point we’d already won $5,000 just doing what we liked. That alone was incredible!
The show began. Freaky things started happening on the stage. Five industry experts were meant to come and evaluate five games. But instead we got:
And all I could think about was our nomination. I wasn’t just stressed, I was trembling. I was terrified that if I stood up, I wouldn’t be able to take a single step. I smiled as I looked around, but inside I was so freaking scared. Petrified of the stage. All I had to do was get up on it and then get down from it, but that didn’t make it any easier.
We’d actually rehearsed that bit but it made no difference. Lerika had got the Best Indie Game nominees together during lunch.
The winner steps forward, takes the cheque in one hand and the statue in the other… Then takes the microphone.
Hang on a moment! Where does the microphone go…? If we’ve got a check in one hand, and a statue in the other. People generally have two hands!
O-kay. We didn’t think of that. Oh, you know what? You’ll figure something out as it happens.
The ceremony begins!
From the outset there were rumours that some big star was going to conduct the award ceremony. I’d spent the whole day trying to figure out who it’d be… but to no avail.
Masanya suddenly appeared on the giant screen above the stage. Alright. That makes sense.
A cartoon character with a cult following in the CIS region. In the early nineties the cartoons had been widely shared among fans. Every episode was hugely popular and totally quotable. The series creator had produced a few episodes especially for the ceremony. The crowd went wild.
Then our interviews began. I sat there staring at the ten-foot image of myself, anxiously waiting for that other me to say something stupid. It went pretty well though and I silently thanked the editors for saving my reputation. I seriously cannot thank the people who worked on that interview enough.
And now I would like to invite all nominees onto the stage!
That’s us. I stood up and, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, shuffled towards the stage. It took all my concentration to avoid tripping on the steps and falling over.
A short display of the nominated games followed. Ten seconds each. As I watched our own footage I saw a minor bug in the particle emitter and began thinking how to fix it.
AND THE WINNER IS…
That last Unity update had broken something; if the acceleration was higher than…
INMOST by Hidden Layer Games!
WHAAAAAA?
I looked at the audience, saucer-eyed. The audience looked back at me. Alex was standing next to me with this big cheque, $30,000 in giant numbers.
I slowly returned to the real world.
Alex handed me the cheque…
Or at least I think he did. That would have been logical. Quite possibly, however, I leaped on him and grabbed the check myself. Sounds probable; at that point, I had lost my grasp of what was going on around me. Ringing in my ears, stars in my eyes.
I remember buttoning and unbuttoning my jacket nervously. And then wanting to button it again. I remember the lump in my throat. Remember fighting with it, trying to get something out. I think I may have succeeded. I even have a distant recollection of applause.
There was this super-heavy award in my hand. I held it up high, but couldn’t help thinking that, if that weighty piece of glass slipped from my sweaty fingers, it would hit the guy next to me and most likely kill him.
I was back in my seat in front of the stage. A death grip around the award. How did I get here? My phone was vibrating non-stop again.
Then we were called back to the stage. Winners in every category were called back for a photograph.
Five minutes went by, then ten, then fifteen. Almost everyone had left; I was still standing on the stage. Only then did it dawn on me what had just happened.
People kept coming up to me. Other nominees, judges, organizers, people from the audience. They were shaking my hand, saying stuff.
We’d won Best Indie Game!
And it wasn’t even about the money. Sure, the money would buy us months of independence. Months of work without worry. Extra months to find a publisher who felt the same way about our game as we did.
The most important thing was that everyone who came to congratulate me was incredibly kind. People were really rooting for our game. Believed in it. Believed in it more than we did ourselves!
Someone said that when he saw INMOST among the Best Indie Game nominees, he’d thought: if this game wins, there’s still some hope for the industry. I am really sorry I don’t remember who said that, but it was one of the most heartwarming things I’ve ever heard. If there’s at least one person thinking that, our work has not been in vain.
