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I didn't realize this (very) short Murderbot story existed until very recently. It's a prequel to All Systems Red and can be read online in WIRED. It reads a bit like a microcosm of the entire series, a journey from apathy to protecting humans to musing about being protected itself, but in 1000 words rather than a handful of novellas and a novel.

It’s not like I haven’t thought about killing the humans since I hacked my governor module. But then I started exploring the company servers and discovered hundreds of hours of downloadable entertainment media, and I figured, what’s the hurry? I can always kill the humans after the next series ends.

I don't want to talk about the tv show too much, but it's hard not to think about what the books are doing differently. It's really interesting to me how much the opening line of this prequel story but also the opening line of All Systems Red both having Murderbot ostensibly considering killing people. Honestly, this particular feeling lines up more closely with the opening of the first tv episode than I was willing to give it credit for at the time.

This book covered a lot of things I've never heard of before, which is exactly what I was hoping for. Unfortunately, I think this book really relies on the images that are included and I listened to it.

The author references a supplementary PDF, and maybe that exists in my file somewhere, but I listen to audiobooks while I commute, which means that I definitely can't be looking at dozens of pictures as I listen to the author explain things that I have no knowledge about. The fact that there is a supplementary PDF is good, but I didn't have access to it, so that sucked for me.

I must admit that I also wasn't that partial to the way the book was structured anyway. So even though there were a lot of small tidbits that I was really interested to learn about, I couldn't really focus or keep up with anything that the author was talking about. Part of this was because I couldn't visualize the things that I didn't have pictures for, but part of it was just that I didn't really understand him.

I know the beginnings of a lot of things I want to look more into now though, so that's good at least.

1) Video games have always been queer. Even games that appear to have no LGBTQ content can be played queerly, and all games can be interpreted through queer lenses. This is because queerness in video games means more than the representation of LGBTQ characters or same-sex romance. Queerness and video games share a common ethos: the longing to imagine alternative ways of being and to make space within structures of power for resistance through play. From the origins of the medium, to the present day, and reaching into the future, video-game worlds have offered players the opportunity to explore queer experience, queer embodiment, queer affect, and queer desire-even when the non-heteronormative and counterhegemonic implications of these games have been far from obvious. Through new critical perspectives, queerness can be discovered in video games, but it can also be brought to games through queer play and queer players, whose choices to engage with games on their own terms and for their own pleasures can profoundly transform the meaning of games and unleash their queer potential. In this way, playing queer, like queer interpretation and queer game design, can be seen as a transformative practice that reframes and remakes games from the inside out.

2) [All] video games can become platforms for playing at the boundaries of heteronormativity-or for disrupting and dismantling heteronormativity itself. The queerness in a video game may lie in the opportunity to resist structures of power, or partake in alternative forms of pleasure, or inhabit embodied and affective experiences of difference. Queerness can be found in how video games construct or disrupt notions of desire, temporality, success, meaning, life, and death.

3) Pong is a classic arcade game, later brought to a number of home game platforms, inspired by the sport of ping-pong. The original Pong is a rudimentary game; only the paddles, the ball, the net, and the score appear on-screen. It has no narrative, no characters, and certainly no explicitly LGBTQ content. By contrast, Between Men is all about characters, narrative, and what would likely today be called queerness. In her book, Sedgwick uses examples from British novels to articulate a system through which she sees male same-sex bonds forming via a triangulation of desire through women. Video games are not mentioned in Sedgwick's book, and the abstracted forms represented in Pong make for an unexpected match with the detailed stories and dialogue analyzed in Between Men. Despite their many differences, however, these two classics can be seen to speak to one another in powerful ways. The dynamic structures that appear in both works in fact closely mirror one another: the erotic triangle described by Sedgwick and the geometric movement of the ball bounced back and forth between paddles in Pong. Both can be understood as interactive systems through which desire is communicated, connection is built, and queer intimacy takes form.

4) At the end of the long, hard struggle in Portal, there is the promise of cake-a girly prize made by women's labor to reward women's labor-but that cake is the very epitome of deception.

5) Specifically, to de-gamify is to strip away the game-like structures already imposed onto life and to remake the world without the imposition of those structures. This process takes place in three steps. First, de-gamification entails identifying instances in which society has already mapped game-like systems of goals, achievements, points, etc., onto human experience in an attempt to regulate, normativize, and exploit that experience. Second, de-gamification entails breaking down those structures and liberating the human experience that they oppress. Third, de-gamification entails creating opportunities for exploring-and thereby playing with-those experiences outside of the game-like structures that have been imposed upon them. This last step speaks to the complexity and even contradiction within the work of de-gamification. At the same time that de-gamification tears down game-like structures, it also facilitates play, which is itself commonly understood in game studies as being fundamentally bounded by rules.

6) I close by reasserting this intentionally incendiary conjecture: that if we accept failure as fundamental to games and we accept failure as coded as queer, all games become queer, in a non-representational sense. This does not just apply to games in which players willingly blow themselves to pieces. If we accept the premise that no game can exist without failure, then no game can exist without a mode of experience that might be called queerness.

7) When we, as players and scholars, talk only about fun experiences, we exclude from our discussions all of those moments in otherwise enjoyable games when we in fact had no fun. We also shut out of sight all of those games we have picked up and played for only a few hours, even a few minutes, and never played again because we found them boring, frustrating, or bad. These too are meaningful experiences, meaningful games, games worthy of attention, not because they are good but because their badness is itself a rich site of meaning. Attending to no-fun-ness allows us to return to these moments of interaction previously dismissed, discarded, and forgotten.

8) On the surface, it would seem that speedrunning and slow strolling are opposite approaches to playing video games. Speedrunners run; slow strollers walk. Speedrunners play to achieve a goal as quickly as possible, by necessity ignoring the nuances and distractions of the game world; slow strollers take their time, soaking in a game's details and tangents. Yet, crucially, what these forms of play have in common is that they both enact alternative-and indeed queer-relationalities to space and time. Both speedrunning and walking simulators resist the standard logics that determine how players should move through video games and at what speed.

9) If this is the future of video games, the future of video games is queer. Queerness describes a way of remaking the world as well as a way of desiring within it.

When times are tough, sometimes you need a comfort reread of fantasy books from 1990. This book still resonates well for me, but it's hard for me to know how much of that is nostalgia having read it so many times. I suspect I am biased for this one and for GGK in general.

Tonally, this book can sometimes feel overwrought and full of told-not-shown sentimentality. That said, it's also a book about grief and memory and tyrants, and I think its style is not out of place for what it's trying to achieve. There's a few lines that jar me as a reader thirty years later, but on the whole I think it stands up better than I would have expected.

I quite enjoy its fantasy politics and scheming, but I also really appreciate the fact that the clash between Alessan and Brandin is specifically about two very similar proud leaders who are too stubborn and unwilling to forgive sins from the past. They each have plenty reason to hate the other and not give up their fight, and it makes them both believable and imperfect characters in their own way. I like that this is not a book about military battles but rather an angry, grief-filled sorcerer who erases memories of the country that killed his son so it can't be spoken of again.

I still never know what to think about Dianora. I do think she makes for a very interesting character in terms of her inner conflict and the way her perspective humanizes one of the potential villains of the tale; on the other hand, she's the only significant woman point of view character, and she has incredibly limited agency. The end result is that her character arc is not particularly satisfying to me and I wish she had a better goal that her actions were aiming towards. I also think Caterina might have been a better point of view character than Devin.