In 2019, that changes. Here’s what I’ve got coming:

Violet Dawn

The Last People fled the legendary “world beyond” long ago; now, a young guardian leaves the only home he knows and discovers the true nature of an alien and wondrous land...

This one’s been in the works for ages. Launched in 2018, Violet Dawn is a reader-supported webcomic updating Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays telling an epic fantasy story in the realm of Avadnu. This is weird fantasy with a character-driven focus–there are swords and bizarre creatures but what matters most is the souls and scars of the beings who inhabit their strange, magical world.

If you’re feeling very generous, call it The Dark Crystal by way of Michael Moorcock, or the three-way child of Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard, and Ursula LeGuin. Look to role-playing games like Skyrealms of Jorune and Empire of the Petal Throne for influence, along with the comic book works of Moebius.

I’m enormously proud of Violet Dawn, and penciller Louis Sollune has done brilliant work bringing Avadnu and its inhabitants to life. Louis has been a fantastic creative partner throughout, and I can’t imagine what the comic would be without him. Editor and letterer Jeffrey Visgaitis has been a dear friend and colleague for years, and Violet Dawn is his vision more than anyone’s. Gaston Zubeldia and Frank Walls can never receive too much credit as our fantastic colorists, and Laure Henri-Garand has, with thought and artistry and diligence, translated the whole thing into French.

Violet Dawn is a project close to my heart–my history with the setting goes back decades, to when I was a freelancer hired to write for a series of Violet Dawn role-playing game books. The setting’s developed quite a lot since then, but it retains an element of wild imagination that appeals to me.

Go give it a read–after all, it’s completely free. And if you enjoy it, I urge you to click on the Support link and find a way to send us a little money to keep the comic going. We can’t do it without you, and we really want to keep going.

Violet Dawn is available to read now at violetdawn.com.

Anthem (the game) and Anthem (the comic)

On a world left unfinished by the gods, a shadowy faction threatens all of humankind. The only thing that stands between these villains and the ancient technology they covet are the Freelancers.

BioWare’s latest video game is Anthem, a multiplayer action RPG in which the player characters don suits of “Javelin” power armor to protect outposts of civilization on a mysterious world.

I spent a number of months consulting with the Anthem writing team, offering editorial feedback as well as designing and writing portions of an early iteration of the storyline. Ultimately, on a project as vast and long-running as Anthem, my contribution was a small one. Nonetheless, I’m proud to have had the chance to work with the team and hope I managed to kindle a few creative sparks here and there.

When Kismet’s family is ambushed while traveling between settlements, the young boy is rescued by one of the exosuit-clad warriors known as Freelancers. Now an orphan, it’s up to him and his adoptive sister, Jani, to build a future for themselves–and humanity–on a planet filled with danger.

When it comes to the Anthem tie-in comic (a 3-issue miniseries from Dark Horse Comics), my contributions are more immediately visible. The comic was plotted by Anthem developer Mac Walters; I worked off his story outline to create a detailed comic script for artist Eduardo Francisco and colorist Michael Atiyeh, similar to my work as scripter on the Dragon Age comics in collaboration with David Gaider.

While the comic story feeds directly into the game’s narrative (it’s a prequel, introducing characters and events seen in the game proper), it’s intended to be a relationship-driven adventure tale exploring “ordinary” life in the world of Anthem in a way that the video game can’t. My hope is that we created something fans will enjoy.

Anthem is out now for PC, Xbox, and Playstation 4. The Anthem comic book releases monthly (for three months) starting in February.

Alphabet Squadron, Book 1

On the verge of victory in a brutal war, five New Republic pilots transform from hunted to hunters in this epic STAR WARS adventure. Set after Return of the Jedi, Alphabet Squadron follows a unique team, each flying a different class of starfighter as they struggle to end their war once and for all.

It’s been a little while since my last major Star Wars project–if you don’t count my short story in From a Certain Point of View, you’d need to go back to the Rogue One novelization in 2016. But every time I wonder if I’m done with the Star Wars galaxy, something new comes along. It’s an honor and a privilege every time.

In this case, the “something new” isn’t just one book but a trilogy of novels chronicling the rise (and fall?) of the titular Alphabet Squadron of starfighter pilots. Book 1 is scheduled for release in June of this year, and while I can’t yet add a lot beyond the description below I hope folks who enjoyed my previous Star Wars novels will find something appealing here, as well. Alphabet Squadron isn’t exactly the same as tone and style as Battlefront: Twilight Company, but it’s fair to say it exists in the same tonal world.

Here’s the remainder of the description from the official website:

The Emperor is dead. His final weapon has been destroyed. The Imperial Army is in disarray. In the aftermath, Yrica Quell is just one of thousands of defectors from her former cause living in a deserters’ shantytown—until she is selected to join Alphabet Squadron.

Cobbled together from an eclectic assortment of pilots and starfighters, the five members of Alphabet are tasked by New Republic general Hera Syndulla herself. Like Yrica, each is a talented pilot struggling to find their place in a changing galaxy. Their mission: to track down and destroy the mysterious Shadow Wing, a lethal force of TIE fighters exacting bloody, reckless vengeance in the twilight of their reign.

The newly formed unit embodies the heart and soul of the Rebellion: ragtag, resourceful, scrappy, and emboldened by their most audacious victory in decades. But going from underdog rebels to celebrated heroes isn’t as easy as it seems, and their inner demons threaten them as much as their enemies among the stars. The wayward warriors of Alphabet Squad will have to learn to fly together if they want to protect the new era of peace they’ve fought so hard to achieve.

But there’s more! The Alphabet Squadron trilogy also has a sister series: Marvel’s TIE Fighter comic books, written by Jody Houser, tell the story of Shadow Wing from an Imperial perspective. Both the novels and the comics stand alone perfectly well, but add up to a greater whole. Jody and I swapped many late-night e-mails making sure we were coordinating, and I expect the final works will complement one another nicely.

Alphabet Squadron, Book 1, releases in June 2019. Issue 1 of Jody Houser’s TIE Fighter releases in April.

Storyscape and Eternal City

A single choice can change everything. Enter Storyscape, where world-class writers bring you tales of romance, intrigue, and adventure and every decision you make transforms your story. Discover love aboard James Cameron’s Titanic or confront the unknown with the X-Files. Find romance in a new city or explore a magical realm as a slave-turned-revolutionary leader. New shows and seasons drop often, so there’s always something exciting to play.

Last but certainly not least: In 2017, I joined a new company called Fogbank Entertainment as Studio Writing Director. Fogbank began as part of 21st Century Fox’s FoxNext interactive unit, and since the start we’ve been quietly working on Storyscape: a free-to-play branching narrative story platform for Android and iOS. Or, in less jargon-y terms, we’ve built an app packed with a whole bunch of interactive stories in the tradition of a BioWare or Telltale game.

This feels very much like the next stage of the branching work I’ve been doing for over a decade–a chance to apply the tools I’ve developed in branching narrative to a more “pure” story-focused experience, stretching into a variety of genres (more “mainstream” content–romance, drama, comedy–along with a mix of the usual science-fiction and fantasy work). I’ve had the privilege to build a team of tremendously talented writers and edit them on projects I could never, ever write myself. I feel like the editor-in-chief of an ambitious publishing house bringing unique voices to the world and pushing the boundaries of the medium.

Storyscape is already live in Canada with a limited slate of shows and a small selection of episodes from Meg Jayanth’s Titanic (based on the James Cameron film), Laura Jacqmin’s Life 2.0 (an original romantic comedy), and Eternal City (more on that below). It’s very much early days, and we’ve already announced Sean Kelley McKeever’s The X-Files (based on the classic paranormal investigation franchise), Drew Karpyshyn’s Edge of Extinction (a science-fiction survival story), and Meghan Thornton’s Ageless (vampiric horror) as “coming soon.” That’s just for starters.

That said, while my most important role on Storyscape has been an editorial one, I’ve also contributed as a writer…

In an ancient metropolis ruled by power-hungry factions, magic, and secrets, a single life will change everything. The City once provided for its citizens richly, but corruption lives at the heart of the Garden and the people are growing desperate as food grows scarce. From child slave to powerful elder, you will live an entire lifetime and your choices will shape or destroy this world.

Eternal City is my own Storyscape show–a fantasy epic drawing inspiration from the likes of Gormenghast and Twin Peaks. This is a very different flavor of fantasy from Violet Dawn–while Violet Dawn uses bizarre visuals and action sequences to intimately chart the course of one soul, Eternal City is about the impact of interpersonal relationships over time on a volatile world.

I’m being intentionally vague (as I trust my marketing department), but I think the project is every bit what a person would expect based on my past work. For better or worse, Eternal City is the closest I’ve come to publishing an original fantasy novel, more intricately branched than my work on Star Wars: The Old Republic, massive in scope, and with a flavor and identity all its own.

Storyscape is available in Canada now on iOS and Android. A worldwide release date has not yet been announced.

This post is a companion to Writing Romance in (non-Romance Games): Linear Romances. You’ll find a number of assumptions about our overall topic outlined there; they still hold true, and I encourage folks to start with that post before jumping into this one. Here, we’ll cover three overall subjects: branching romance fundamentals, linear techniques in branching games (where we’ll revisit some of the approaches discussed in the previous post), and “casting” a variety of romantic interests in a branching game.

Branching Romance Fundamentals

When I talk about “branching narratives” I’m referring to games in which the player can make significant plot choices (whether inside or outside of dialogue) and, in the context of romance, choose whether to pursue a potential partner and how to treat that person during the relationship. Games in which the player has a choice of potential romantic partners but no decisions in the relationship itself fall into a gray area between branching and linear–the posts on both topics should prove applicable. For a more thorough treatment of branching dialogue generally, see this series.

Let’s run down some high-level challenges and approaches for branching games.

Is this really a good idea? “Players love romance!” is not a great reason to implement romance subplots in your game. Consider instead questions such as:

• Do the overall themes of the game lend themselves to romance (and if so, what kind of romance)? If a subplot doesn’t support, subvert, comment upon, or otherwise relate to your game’s primary focus, then it’s just diluting your strongest element. The answers here might not be obvious–one game about the importance of building relationships and alliances in service of a larger goal might be strengthened by the inclusion of romance, while another similar game might be weakened by losing its laser focus on platonic friendships.
• Do the circumstances of the plot support the development of romance? If you’ve got a game that takes place in (for example) an exceedingly short timeframe, there’s probably not a lot of options for naturally developing romance subplots. Look at your pacing, your cast, whether your player character would reasonably get a chance to initiate anything romantic, and judge appropriately. Check, too, whether there are romantic relationships between NPCs of importance–if they’re a major part of the story, it may feel tonally strange (in some circumstances) that romance can’t play a role in the player character’s own life. (The converse is also true–if I don’t see any romances in the world, their absence in my life feels less like an omission.)
• Does the player character’s sexuality matter? While the player character in a branching narrative game may not have a clearly defined personality, his or her character traits still exist within a range defined by the writer (Mass Effect‘s space marine Commander Shepard is never a pacifist). Regardless of whether you implement romance subplots in your game, know the romantic “range” you want to permit the player based on your range of player character archetypes. A coming-of-age story with a teenage protagonist will lend itself to obvious romantic options more than a military and political story starring a seventy-year-old veteran (which isn’t to say you couldn’t push either in another direction).
• Do you have the resources to do your vision justice? You only have so much time and money, after all. Are romance subplots the best way to spend your resources?

Depending on the answers to these questions, you may find yourself with a game where eschewing romance subplots feels unnatural, even if you don’t particularly want to support such stories. (If you’re writing a James Bond-style spy in a Bond-style story, it’s hard to justify not letting him or her try to seduce an asset.) Or you may discover that, despite the sparks a romance could add, it ultimately drags down your narrative more than building it up.

Give it the weight it deserves. There are lots of different ways to inject romance into your game if you determine it’s appropriate. You could allow the player character to casually flirt with dozens of different NPCs but never develop those “romances” any further; you could present a handful of potential love interests but leave the relationships largely subtext; you could present short optional romance subplots serially, in different areas of the game world, none of them lasting beyond the scope of their side quests; you could track long-term relationships with major NPCs, chronicling developing friendships, first kisses, and going all the way to wedding bells and beyond.

Figure out the scope of your romance–whether a line here and there or something hefty and pervasive–and make sure your scope is in line with your vision. It’s okay to have a pleasant flirtation that never “goes anywhere” if that’s what fits best, so long as you’re not promising the player more than you can provide.

A romance subplot’s “weight” ought to affect its integration into the overall story structure, too. If you do have a long-running, start-to-finish NPC relationship, try not to sequester the romance content in discrete scenes–weave the romance into the main plotline at appropriate moments. Let the player character talk about his or her love life with platonic buddies. Have decisions unrelated to the romance bring out references and consequences in the romance plot. (That’s not to say romance-exclusive scenes are bad–but if you want your romance to be “important” then they shouldn’t be the entirety of the subplot.) The more separate the subplot is from the rest of the game, the more players will treat it as a minigame of sorts–a minigame whose themes and expectations may not carry over to the broader narrative.

Know what sort of relationship stories you’re telling. Based on the overall themes and sensibilities of your game, do you want operatic romances often doomed to end in tragedy or betrayal? Do you want fantasy fulfillment romances, in which all problems can be eventually overcome through mutual understanding and where blissful coupledom is the natural end? Do you want a naturalistic romance, where problems and misunderstandings accrue, couples can fall apart over time, and the future is always uncertain and relationships always evolving?

You can have some variety, of course, by utilizing different romantic interests and different branches based on player choices. But you’ll want to make sure everything fits with your core “feel.” You’ll want to teach the player what to expect as early as possible (preferably before the relationship even begins), at least in a broad sense–don’t let the player go into a romance expecting the love interest’s flaws to be treated as charming, romcom-esque fodder when you’ve written a cerebral exploration of emotional abuse.

How do you indicate to the player what to expect? If your romances are in key with your larger themes, some of the work should be done already. You can also show examples of other characters in relationships to help nail down the tone in the player’s mind and use NPCs to call out expectations directly (“Are you sure you want to get involved with him? He seems funny, but also mean.”)

I advise against attempting a bait-and-switch to surprise the player regarding the general tone of a romance–rather than being awed at the narrative twist, most players will simply become frustrated with the game (and its writers). That doesn’t mean you can’t have surprises, but they should be the kind of surprises a player might expect–if my romcom-style love interest turns out to be married and many misunderstandings and hijinks ensue before the happy ending, great; if my apparent fantasy romance involves the slow deterioration of the relationship because the love interest is wrestling with deep-set problems totally beyond my control, then not-so-great. (I discuss player expectations and theme a bit more here.)

Be especially careful with fantasy fulfillment romances, even in games that are, broadly speaking, power fantasies. A romance that comes without sacrifices, that results in what’s by most definitions a “better” end for the player character, becomes a sort of trophy–and once you start offering up trophies, it’s hard to present not having a trophy as an equally viable option. If your game has the tacit assumption that ending up coupled is always superior, then you’re putting yourself in a position where either a) you need to provide a particularly wide variety of romantic interests to accommodate every taste; or b) you end up encouraging players to romance NPCs they don’t actually like, just to get the “good” result. “A” is a massive pain for the writer. “B” is awful for the player. This isn’t to say that power fantasies are bad–they can, in fact, be empowering–but know what you’re getting into.

Allow multiple entry and exit points. One of the joys of branching narrative is that it allows player characters to change over time. In recognition of this, try to give the player multiple chances to begin or end a given relationship.

Entry points are largely a matter of convenience and a means of reassuring the player that, if a given moment doesn’t feel like the “right time” to start a romance, it doesn’t have to be. Exit points are more important–if the player feels trapped in a romance about which he or she has doubts, that resentment will very likely grow stronger. Simply by presenting an escape route, you acknowledge the player’s doubts and misgivings about the relationship and assure the player that, no, the relationship isn’t intended to seem perfect–there are real problems here, and it’s totally up to the player if he or she wants to try to make it work or to part ways.

Encourage a give-and-take. As with non-romantic relationship-building, make sure that (if your game has branching dialogue) player characters are given opportunities to talk about themselves and their feelings. It’s easy to write an NPC who talks at length about his or her background, relationship with the player character, hopes, fears, and so forth–but to help create a real bond, the player character needs to be able to express the same sorts of things and feel heard.

Allowing the player character to express his feelings about the relationship doesn’t need to be limited to the relationship itself, either. Why can’t the player character’s sidekick (or best pal, or therapist) ask how the relationship is going? Let the player complain or not complain; either way, it helps build up the relationship’s narrative within the player’s mind.

Don’t make assumptions about player reactions. The love interest you intend as charming may come across to some players as sleazy; the love interest you wrote to be shy make come across as frustratingly oblivious. That’s fine–different players should bring different interpretations of the narrative to the table! But make sure you give the player plenty of options to express dislike, disenchantment, or offense at the actions of (potential or current) romantic partners–limiting a player’s options to insist that she like a character tends to change the player’s dislike for a character into a dislike for the game in general.

(Allowing the player character to react negatively can also allow you to change course, if need be; maybe the “charming” love interest turns apologetic when called on his sleaziness and tries to mend fences with the player character. Or maybe not.)

Beware the triangles. Are there love triangles in your story? Do NPCs get jealous? Does it only happen if they’re actively in a relationship with the player character, or can they get jealous if they’re not in a relationship? Does serial monogamy have consequences? Are any of the love interests polyamorous? Are only some of the love interests polyamorous?

Don’t let the complexity of your romance subplots dwarf the rest of the game (or just accept that you’re writing a romance game, not a game with romantic subplots). Make sure that you’ve got a plan for dealing with all entanglements that fit the personalities of all characters involved and doesn’t leave you overworked. If that means finding ways to geographically separate potential love interests, do it (“My first wife lives in New York; my second lives in Hong Kong. They don’t know about each other.”); if that means establishing polyamory as universal in your game setting with some quick and awkward exposition, do that; if that means reducing the number of romantic interests so that you can have a branch-heavy, nuanced set of interactions between them, go for it! But have some sort of plan.

Build equally strong non-romance content. The more substantial and pervasive your romance subplots, the more important it is to have equally compelling exclusive content for players who choose not to engage in a romance.

Why? Not out of any sense of “fairness,” but because you’ll want to persuade players that they don’t have to engage in a romance to get the game’s full experience. Fail to do so, and you’ll get a lot of players angrily taking up romances they don’t like. This isn’t such an issue if your romance subplots are relegated to small scenes and sidequests here and there, but if they’re heavily integrated into your main plot, this is an issue you should consider.

So how do you build compelling non-romance exclusive content? The most obvious way is to find a different tack to approach the relationship with the same NPC–to develop a platonic friendship or rivalry that’s interesting and rich in its own right and opens up a side of the NPC the romance-involved player never sees. You could acknowledge the player’s choice to not engage in a romance, having other characters questioning that decision and allowing the player to express her reasons. Maybe engaging in a romance blocks off certain other paths altogether–an intense relationship causes the player character’s non-romantic relationships to suffer, say. Anything that reveals a meaningful path in opposition to the romantic choice will feel rewarding to the player.

Try to make it clear to the player that exclusively non-romantic content is exclusive, as well–that the choice not to pursue a romance led to a certain point. Otherwise, the player may still erroneously believe that romance content is an extra, not an alternate path.

Take care when attaching mechanics. Attaching any sort of game mechanics directly to a romantic relationship–anything from a friendship meter to a need to grind content to unlock new relationship “stages”–can be risky. On the one hand, doing so can nicely integrate the relationship with the fundamentals of gameplay. On the other, such mechanics can provide a clear goal and “win point,” strongly encouraging players to push forward regardless of their feelings about the relationship. (Personally, I’m a big believer in using visible mechanics to augment narrative, but be aware that players tend toward optimization!)

Signpost choices and consequences. It’s always wise to signpost branches–to make it clear to the player what sort of choice she’s making before she actually makes it–and with romance subplots, players may be especially frustrated if they inadvertently move down an unintended path. If a player has an option to start flirting with or otherwise pursuing an NPC, make that choice unmistakable; if the player can break up with a love interest, make that clear, too. (I talk more about signposting here.)

Making the intent of an option clear doesn’t mean that the ultimate outcome needs to be obvious. It’s fine for aggressive flirting to turn off a potential love interest while friendly conversation makes the NPC more receptive; but such friendly conversation shouldn’t “activate” a romance without the player making a clear and deliberate choice. (If it leads to the NPC seeing interest where none may exist, that can make for interesting and awkward drama–but then you need to give the player the option to express surprise at being misinterpreted.)

More than anything, avoid leaving the player confused about the status of a relationship, wondering “Why does the game think X#8221; If the player character is meant to be confused, allow the player to express that confusion.

Don’t try to please everyone. We’ll touch on this more below, but really–don’t. If you want tragic romances in a game where they make sense, run with them and accept that you’ll have a small number of players who simply want a different game. It’s okay not to make a game for everyone–so long as you make it clear early on what game your players are getting.

Linear Techniques in Branching Games

In our last discussion we ran through a long list of techniques for romances in linear games. Let’s review a few of them and whether and how they might be applied in a branching context.

Establish the romance as part of the story’s background. Tricky, but not necessarily a bad idea. This narrows the spectrum of potential player characters considerably, of course, but if the player is given proper exposition and context then there’s no reason he or she won’t willingly buy into the relationship. You just need to show the player that she doesn’t have full ownership of the player character, but rather a small variety of options as to how to play him.

You’ll need to contend with the nature of the relationship itself being indefinite early on, in the same way that a player character’s personality is indefinite before the player has made a good number of choices. You’ll want to use other linear techniques to try to establish the plausibility and likability of the relationship, too–you can’t expect the player to much care about her love interest in this scenario without a good bit of work, and the player may revolt if the love interest isn’t sufficiently compelling and believable. (In other words, don’t expect the romance to matter to the player just because it matters to the player character; you still need to earn it.)

Make the romance engaging and enjoyable and don’t make the romance an obstacle. You’ve got more flexibility on these points in a branching narrative, largely because your player (presumably) chose to get involved in the romance and can back out if it becomes too unpleasant. Making the romance into an obstacle sometimes can add real nuance and test the player’s dedication and willingness to sacrifice.

Nonetheless, if you want the romance to be generally a positive experience, these points should still generally hold true. And if you are going to make the romance into an obstacle, make sure it’s the right kind: Forcing me to, e.g., grind for gift objects in order to maintain my loved one’s affection doesn’t add any narrative depth to the relationship; but dealing with my loved one’s frustrations about whether and how I keep working alongside my ex could strengthen or break the relationship in a story-appropriate way.

Integrate the romance into gameplay. Just as true in branching narratives as in linear ones. If your game has branching dialogue or a similar system, that is gameplay, so you’re probably a step ahead already. But… don’t forget the rest of your gameplay, either.

Make it a one-way street. This is a difficult approach to deploy effectively in a branching narrative–if an NPC is mooning after me, why can’t I just “go for it”? Even if you believe that you’ve established all viable variations of the player character as too shy or obtuse to respond to an NPC’s interest, you’re still setting up a situation where the player gets frustrated by her own character and by the game’s lack of options. Be careful of having any NPC flirt or otherwise express interest in the player character without allowing the player to respond in kind!

(As always, I’m sure there are ways to brilliantly subvert this–maybe you want a game about self-loathing, in which the lack of player options and ensuing frustrations are intentional–but know the risks you’re taking and how horribly wrong things could go.)

Make me feel my romantic interest’s absence. This one’s harder in a branching game, since most players will likely be running through the same scenarios regardless of whether they’re in a given romance or not. But by emphasizing positive, unique traits in the romantic interest you can still make his or her absence felt by separating the player character from his loved one.

The relationship is what you show. Still totally true. Keep in mind, however, that the player is also constructing a parallel narrative of the relationship in her head based on what you show–all the player character’s complicated feelings are in the player’s hands, not yours. Treat that variable with care and respect, and avoid assuming the player is on the page you want her to be.

Remember what your game is really about (not romance). As we’ve discussed, building your romances in the context of a larger story remains vital.

Go vague and archetypal. Sure, why not? It’s your weird game!

Casting for Branching Romances

“Casting” isn’t the right word, but I don’t have a better one. Assuming you want to provide more than one romanceable NPC in your branching game (common but not necessary–there’s no reason all romantic elements couldn’t be placed on a single character), how do you determine what sort of love interests are available? Whether you’re creating NPCs with the intent of making them love interests or figuring out who in an existing cast of characters should have a romance branch, you’re going to need to make some difficult decisions.

For the moment, let’s focus just on character types. We’ll get to questions of gender and sexual orientation after.

You can approach this question from a few different angles. You can take a purely meta approach and figure out what sort of characters your players might want to romance–considering your target audience, looking at popular pop culture romance characters, and so forth. This, however, doesn’t guarantee you’ll get anything particularly relevant to your story and themes. Conversely, you can approach the problem from the story side, trying to find relationships and character types that make for particularly interesting drama. Lean on this approach too hard, however, and you may end up with romances that players aren’t interested in actually playing.

Somewhere between these two approaches is one focused on the player character. If you’re writing a branching game, it’s imperative to understand the range of player character personalities you’re permitting and to have an idea of what personalities players are most apt to gravitate toward. These player character archetypes should be appealing in their own right (there’s little point supporting a player character personality that no player will end up role-playing); therefore, if you create romances that appeal to your different player character archetypes, they should (in theory) also appeal to a variety of players and naturally be well-integrated into your themes. Look at your player character possibilities and find relationships that are both attractive and challenging–build love interests that certain player character types would gravitate toward, and that have the potential to bring new depth to your story.

But here’s where we hit a problem: In most games, your cast of characters will not be genderless blobs. If you’re allowing the player to determine the player character’s gender and sexual orientation, then your life gets a lot more difficult.

To an extent, the more your game is interested in exploring gender and gendered relationships as a theme, the easier your job gets. If you’ve got a branching modern-day military RPG that’s deeply engaged in questions of military culture and masculinity, then you’ll probably find that your love interests (of whatever gender and orientation) sort themselves without massive difficulty–their personalities, backgrounds, and subplots will be tied to your core themes and you’d be hard-pressed to easily rewrite, for example, a gay male love interest subplot into a bisexual female subplot in this kind of context. Or imagine a branching game invested in questions of women’s power in 11th-century Germany–again, your love interests are going to have relatively clear thematic roles exploring these ideas.

On the other hand, the more you make gender a nonissue in your world and your central themes, the more your romanceable characters’ subplots may become detached from gender and orientation. If “wisecracking rebel” is a prominent player character archetype for my cyberpunk game, I may decide that “by-the-book member of the establishment” makes for a strong Romeo-and-Juliet-esque romance choice; but should that love interest be male or female? Gay, straight, or bi? Trans or cis? There’s no obvious “best fit” here the way there would be in our medieval German game (where if I want a romance subplot emphasizing male-female cultural power differentials, I’m not going to put it on a gay male love interest). But we need to pick something–or else build multiple love interests who are all pretty much identical, or find a way to procedurally generate the NPC based on the player character, or find some other high-risk or expensive solution. Multiply this out by several different player character archetypes and their potential matches (I need an establishment love interest for the rebel archetype, a cynic for the idealist / reformer, and so on…) and the more you have a challenge.

And of course, the player first creating a player character won’t have any idea what romances may be available in your game–it’s never great to have a player think, “Well, if I’d known a love interest with that personality was around and only interested in women, I’d have made a female player character!”

So, yeah. Those are problems. There’s no easy solution. Here are a few options to consider:

As discussed previously, beware “trophy” romances without alternatives. If romantic subplots are treated as rewards and sufficiently rich in exclusive content to be superior to non-romantic alternatives, can you blame the player with a lesbian player character for being irritated by the lack of a variety of lesbian or bi love interests? If romances are treated as a thematic or gameplay “win,” creating a world in which straight male player characters (for example) are most likely to achieve their goals (by virtue of having more and more varied love interests) probably isn’t your intent (unless, again, that’s one of the themes you’re going for!) Finally, the more your romances are fantasy fulfillment, the more likely it is that your players will want love interests of their preferred sex (rather than their player characters’ preferred sex).

Reduce the “weight” of the romances to a degree you can support. Maybe you can’t budget 20,000 words apiece for multiple NPCs of every possible variety, but you can budget 2,000 words apiece. This means a very different role for romance in your game, but is that necessarily bad? If you’re not making a romance game and you’re spending disproportionate resources on romances, is that the best use of your time?

Make your non-romance options rich and interesting and full of exclusive content in their own right.

Accept imperfection. Earlier I wrote “Don’t try to please everyone.” This includes you. Your romance subplot casting will probably not have all the variation and diversity that you’d ideally like. On the other hand, your game is not the only game in the world. It probably won’t even be the only game you ever make. Get it right over the long term, and do what you can in the short term.

Consider your target demographics. This is a sensitive topic, and one that requires a more lengthy discussion than I’m prepared to go into here–objectionable use of (often inaccurate) demographic data has done terrible damage to the games industry. That said, it’s always worth considering your content in the light of who’s actually playing your game and what their interests may be, as well as who you want playing your games in the future. When it comes to romance, consider also whether the players most interested in romance subplots form a distinctive demographic in their own right (not just in terms of age, gender, and so on, but also in regards to why they come to your game).

Knowing your audience doesn’t require catering to your audience’s whims. But ignorance of your audience won’t help you reach anyone (old or new).

Restrict player options upfront. If you can’t actually support the variety of player characters you allow the player to make, maybe you need to reduce that variety. If your plot only has one significant NPC and you want romantic tension between that NPC and the player character to be a major source of drama, well… maybe you just don’t let me make a player character who doesn’t fit the plot’s ideal gender and orientation. (Firewatch is a good example of a non-romance branching game that restricts player options in this way.)

Even in a branching game, there’s nothing wrong with telling the player upfront, “For this story to work, you need to play a lesbian” (or a straight man, or a gay man, or whatever); just be sure both parts of that statement are actually true.

Cheat. For games and characters where certain questions of social dynamics are largely pushed aside, there are ways to “cheat” by dynamically adjusting the gender or orientation of NPCs. In a branching dialogue RPG with voiceover, a given love interest is probably going to sound (thanks to the voice actor) male or female, but could have a variety of alternate lines to support his or her identity as gay, bi, or straight, depending on the player’s own choices. In a game without voiceover, text could be dynamically adjusted to result in a whole spectrum of NPCs from one baseline personality.

Of course “cheating” in this fashion has a number of downsides–in addition to the difficulty of implementation, it does make it hard to create NPCs with personalities shaped by the intersection of their culture with their sex and sexuality. For some games and some NPCs, this may be fine; for others, it could be problematic.

Say, “Screw it, I’m making a pure romance game.” If that’s where your heart takes you, then go for it!

(Thanks to Andrew, alias Anndru, for the Star Wars: The Old Republic screenshot!)

Compelling romance subplots are tough to write at the best of times. Consider their place in linear media–how many otherwise strong films or novels suffer from an unconvincing, uncompelling, or tacked-on romantic element? Add in the complexities of interactive narrative and of course things often go badly.

But that’s no reason to eschew romantic storylines altogether. No one needs convincing that there’s a rich vein of material to be mined here. So what should we think about as game writers when we introduce romantic elements into our projects? What are the pitfalls to avoid and the game-specific challenges that need to be overcome?

I’ll be tackling these issues across at least two different posts–first analyzing non-branching games, then concentrating on romance in branching narrative (with possibly some other stops in-between). Before we get into either of those, however, let’s narrow our focus a little…

The Elephants in the Room

This is a big topic. We’re not talking about a lot of it. Specifically:

Our interest here is mainly games whose primary focus is not romance. If you’re writing a story-driven adventure focused on chronicling a specific romantic relationship, a party management game where pairing up individuals is your primary mechanic, a dating sim, or any other game in which removing the romantic aspect would leave you with little gameplay and story left, a lot of this advice may not apply. (A lot still will–just be sure to consider it in a different context.)

We’re also assuming that you want your romance to be a meaningful and well-constructed part of the narrative (if your romance is intended to have the weight of the relationship between Mario and Princess Peach, you hardly need me) and that you’re already comfortable writing romances in traditional media. If you’re still struggling with basic issues like how to pace a romance, how to make a romantic interest an engaging and compelling character in his or her own right, how to handle romantic dialogue, how to avoid gendered stereotypes, etc., you’ll find no help here.

We’re looking only at romantic relationships between the player character and non-player characters. If you’re figuring out how to deliver a strong narrative with NPCs romancing one another, you’ve still got a challenge–but it’s little different from making the player care about any relationship between two NPCs. The romance is entirely filtered through the player’s eyes, and matters mainly in how it relates to the protagonist. (This may be worth an article of its own at a later date.)

We won’t be talking much about audio, visual, or mechanical aspects of romance in narrative, though we’ll touch on these items in a few spots. There’s lots worthwhile to discuss here (you could easily fill an article or two on visual character design for romantic interests–whether to favor the gaze of players or player characters, and so forth); it’s just not our topic today.

We won’t be talking specifically about sex. Since we’re not worrying about romance-focused games and we’re assuming you can write well and tastefully already, handling sex scenes should be relatively easy compared to everything else.

We will be talking about romantic storylines of all stripes–not just “fantasy” romances. Nuanced, rocky, and even hurtful relationships are all good storytelling fodder, and we’ll highlight a few challenges specific to unhealthy or simply not-blazingly-positive romances.

The concept we’ll come back to again and again is this: Employ romance the way you would any other important theme within a larger narrative framework. The difference between integrating a romantic element and a horror element into your military shooter isn’t one of kind; yet players have special expectations of and particularly strong reactions to romantic elements that raise the stakes and the risk of derailing the narrative.

Non-Branching Games

Compared to branching narrative romances, romances in non-branching games are comparatively simple. But “simple” doesn’t mean “easy.” The challenges may be every bit as great.

(Note that I’m using the term “non-branching” instead of linear for this category so as to include, for example, open world games that lack branching storylines. One can argue whether the Assassin’s Creed or Grand Theft Auto games qualify as narratively linear, but if they don’t offer multiple story branches they belong here.)

In the AAA space, non-branching games have a fairly poor track record for handling romance. Too often, romance elements boil down to “you killed my dog” or a paper-thin “obligatory Hollywood romance subplot” that adds no real thematic or character depth to the work. These aren’t approaches that can be easily redeemed by smart implementation, but let’s assume you have loftier ambitions.

Consider the following:

Is this really a good idea? The overriding risk of implementing a romance in a non-branching game is this: Game narratives are most powerful when a player’s motivations and emotions sync with the player character’s, but love and attraction are hard to reliably reproduce in a player audience.

It’s one thing to make me (as a player) like or loathe a non-player character, but much harder to make me attracted to one (assuming I’m attracted to persons of that NPC’s gender at all). My ability to generally empathize with a protagonist in a romance or simply enjoy the relationship as engaging drama–as might apply in a book or film–is less important in a game than my ability to share the player character’s headspace.

Implement a romance poorly and you risk the player becoming frustrated and detached from the player character. “Why” (our theoretical player asks) “is my character spending so much time pursuing this awful (or merely not-to-my-taste) guy? I don’t want to do this. I want to go back to shooting aliens.”

If you think you’ve got a romance element for your narrative that’s worth the risk, there are ways to avoid or mitigate these problems. You don’t need to use all the tools below, and likely don’t want to–but individually, each is a way to smooth out the experience.

Establish a strong player character personality. So much of game writing is getting player “buy-in” by establishing expectations early on. If you intend to compel the player character into a romantic situation, make sure that the player understands from the start that she’s not free to project her own motivations and personality onto the player character–that the player character’s personality is very much predetermined, and that the player is as much accompanying as embodying him. The more control the player thinks she has over the character, the more frustrating it will be if her character does something she doesn’t want.

And make sure that the player character’s personality isn’t just well-realized on paper–convey the particulars in an unmistakable fashion! Broadly speaking, players will be a lot less resistant to a romance involving a Nathan Drake-style player character (a clearly defined personality) than a Gordon Freeman (silent and entirely player-projected). That said, for truly vague or passive protagonists, see “Make it One-Way” below.

The more the player feels a sense of ownership over the player character (and by extension, the romance), the more likely the player is going to have complaints at some point when the romance plot moves forward without player control (“but I don’t even like him–why are we kissing#8221;). The downside of reducing ownership, of course, is that ownership is a powerful and valuable tool to improve player engagement; you need to make sure this tradeoff is worth the gain.

Establish a strong personality for the romantic interest. This goes hand-in-hand with the item above. In taking this approach, your goal is to convince the player that the player character and romantic interest obviously should be attracted to one another, based on their established personalities. It only makes sense, even if the player doesn’t actually like it. If your player is ever wondering “what does my character see in him / her#8221; then you’ve got a serious problem.

You may not be able to achieve emotional synchronization between the player character and the player, but you can at least get the player on-board intellectually (which in turn may lead to the sort of audience-protagonist sympathy you’d find in traditional media). This works well for rocky or doomed relationships, too–if the attraction is obvious and convincing, the player is more likely to run with the storyline rather than simply being frustrated by it.

How do you handle this in practice? Great dialogue helps–if the banter is funnier and flows easier between player character and romantic interest than with anyone else, or if player character and romantic interest share a unique interest no one else has, it’s a place to start. Don’t rely on physical appearance or some sort of vague, charismatic “presence” or mystique–if I can’t glance at the dialogue in a scene and come away thinking, “Man, I may not personally like the love interest, but he’d obviously be appealing to the protagonist!” then you haven’t gone far enough.

Establish the romance as part of the story’s background. Declaring that the player character was already involved with his or her romantic interest before the game’s start helps with player buy-in–the player may not like it, but won’t question the characters’ pairing as would be possible with a romance kindled in-game.

That said, this isn’t an excuse not to do the groundwork–you still need to convince the player that these characters are a natural match. It’s just a little easier this way.

Make the romance engaging and enjoyable. Does it need to be said? Yes, it does. The more the romance is something I want to see–the more it’s funny, heartwarming, hot (though be careful with this one, given varied player orientations and interests), and so forth–the more I’m willing to buy into the romance and accept it as part of the story. Make me grin at two characters joking together; make me smile at two shy characters fumbling toward romance; make me laugh in shock and horror at the antics of two villains in love. If it’s fun for me, I assume it’s fun for the player character, and can give it a lot of leeway.

A lot of games fail on this particular point, presenting lovers or would-be lovers tragically separated; or relationships at their lowest ebb amid stress and tension. But such presentations don’t make the player want to rekindle the romance per se–at best, they make the player want to alleviate the characters’ pain. If you want me to want the romance, make the romance something worth wanting.

For “bad” romances, this method has its limits–if a relationship has profound flaws and is doomed from the start, you can’t make it entirely desirable–but it can also play an important role in emphasizing the good side of the equation. A bad romance without any redeeming qualities isn’t terribly plausible or terribly interesting.

Make the romantic interest impossible to dislike. This is a cheat I’m not really a fan of, but it can work: Scrub away the romantic interest’s rough edges, make sure she’s relentless supportive (but not servile or humorless), give her a sharp-but-inoffensive sense of humor, and never let her seriously disagree, lie, or put her needs above mine. Load her up with appeal and never give the player an excuse to dislike her.

The problem with this approach, of course, is that you’re not left with a particularly interesting character and you’ve exorcised most of your potential for genuine emotional drama. You’re giving the player a sugar rush, which is rarely a boon to storytelling intended to carry real weight.

I won’t lie: people love sugar rushes. But you’re aiming higher than that, right?

Don’t make the romance an obstacle. Conversely, be exceedingly careful about making your romance into an obstacle to–well, to pretty much anything the player may want. There’s little that irritates a player more than something that gets in his or her way. Does it impede progress in the main storyline (a mission in which I need to rescue my lover instead of killing the alien boss)? Does it keep me from gameplay (lengthy romantic cutscenes with no direct bearing on the plot, or a romantic interest who wants to keep me out of danger)? Does it frustrate my play experience (escort missions!) When you make your romance into an obstacle, you risk souring the player on the romance as a whole for reasons not true to the narrative.

Angst, no matter how appropriate outside of games, is another obstacle and difficult to deploy effectively–it’s enormously difficult to get players and player characters mooning over an NPC or a lost love together, and it’s difficult to give a player much to do in this regard. Games are active experiences, and while emotionally anguished player characters are fine, you’ll have an easier time giving the player something to directly work toward.

That’s not to say you can never deploy romance as an obstacle, but that tactic tends to work best when the player is thoroughly sold on the concept already. If I have to change course to rescue my romantic interest, I’d better be really invested in that character. (That’s not the player character who needs to be invested–that’s me, the player.)

Integrate the romance into gameplay. This relates closely to the previous points (see also “Remember what your game is really about,” below). If your romance has no impact on gameplay, it’s almost, by definition, an obstacle to the game’s primary experience.

That said, “integration” and “impact” can mean a wide variety of things. Is the player character’s romantic interest a helpful sidekick character, an enjoyable and consistent presence during gameplay? Is the romantic interest a voice providing advice or instructions? A fun enemy to be battled in boss encounters? Are gameplay levels representative of different levels of the romantic interest’s soul? Are “relationship mechanics” built into play, where the more the player takes certain actions (protecting the sidekick romance character in gameplay, collecting flowers, whatever) the stronger the relationship becomes and the more bonuses are stacked onto the player character?

Be very careful if you’re using a romance plot to contrast the primary plot of a game, treating it as a passive gameplay experience that the player returns to between “real” game segments. Try not to make romance a speed bump. If you want my tough-as-nails soldier player character to return to her husband during downtime between missions, don’t just make these passive cutscenes–find a way to engage the player and make the experience relevant to the rest of the game.

Make it a one-way street. Or… do things very differently. This one works well with relatively undefined player characters–silent protagonists and the like–and gets increasingly awkward the more the player character develops a true personality. A romantic interest who adores the player character can be a powerful thing–players generally respond well to flattery and adulation and a sense of being wanted, even if they don’t necessarily wish to respond in kind. I’m probably going to at least be sympathetic toward a well-realized and intriguing character who clearly is falling in (non-creepy, non-stalker-ish) love with me.

Of course, you need to justify why the player character doesn’t respond (whether positively or negatively). For silent protagonists in relatively subtle “relationships,” you may be right at home; for more active protagonists, you may need to put an actual communications barrier in place (the relationship is literally one-way, with the romantic interest able to speak to the player character but not vice-versa).

As mentioned, you really want to be careful to avoid a creepy vibe with this approach. For that reason, I’d absolutely recommend not trying this in reverse–an adoring player character and a passive / silent / dead romantic interest is very likely going to seem overbearing.

Make me feel my romantic interest’s absence. Romance is intense. If you want to convey that intensity, make sure the player feels when the player character and romantic interest are apart.

Assuming the romance is generally positive, emphasize those positive traits when the romantic interest is present and emphasize the opposite elsewhere. e.g., if I’ve got a romantic interest sidekick character and the relationship is defined by excitement and one-upsmanship, make sure the missions where we’re together feel appropriately exciting and over the top; whereas those without the romantic sidekick might feel somewhat stifling, lonely, or overly cautious. Make sure many of my best times (however you define “best”) are with the romanced character so that I always want to get back to him or her. You don’t need the player character to mope when he’s alone if the joy of the active relationship is powerful enough; the player will make those comparisons herself.

If the romance is ultimately harmful, go the opposite route: No matter what enjoyable aspects life with the romanced character brings, I should feel better when the character isn’t around.

The relationship is what you show. If all you depict of the relationship is arguments, nagging, or one partner getting into trouble and frustrating the other, then that’s what defines the relationship. You can’t convey a healthy, vibrant, warm partnership if you spend most of your time with two characters displaying something else entirely; make sure that whatever the core of your relationship is, that’s the primary aspect in a majority of scenes.

Remember that plausibility isn’t likability. Returning to a point we’ve touched on several times: Just because you’ve convinced me that a relationship between player character and NPC is plausible doesn’t mean that I’m going to like the romance or the romantic interest. You still need to do all the groundwork you’d need to do to make me like any character–establishing character, agency, and likability certainly isn’t less important with a character who’s part of a romance.

If you’re trying to build a “bad” relationship, be careful not to simply end up with an irritating one–you very likely want a relationship the player is torn over, uncertain whether he or she really wants it to end. In this case, you still probably need to emphasize the positives over the negatives (in both the relationship in general and the romantic interest)–unlike in real life, it doesn’t take much to sour a player on a relationship; the player hasn’t invested much in it, so why stick around for something bad?

Remember what your game is really about (not romance). If you’re making a first-person shooter, your game is probably about violence. If you’re making an RPG, it might be about exploration or ascending to power. Your game is about whatever your core mechanics are about, flavored and directed or subverted by your narrative. Which means, in most cases, your game is not about romance.

Therefore, make sure that your inclusion of romance in your game fits neatly within–and is subsidiary to–your larger themes. The idea that the power of love wins over all else at the end of your shooter probably isn’t going to fly–you just built 10 hours of gameplay about how the power of shooting people is what wins, and threw a detached romantic subplot off to the side and expected me to care.

Whatever reason you have for including a romance in your game, it needs to have an appropriate place within your larger narrative. Don’t put more weight on it than it can support; and remember that what it can support is defined largely by its integration into gameplay (as we discussed above).

Go vague and archetypal. Want a way to ignore almost all of the advice above and still pull off a successful romance? I’m sure there are methods. Maybe you can play on the power of archetypes–a game like Passage manages to generate emotion without falling back on crutches like “actual characters.” Or maybe you can can lean on symbolism instead. Maybe your “romance” is entirely subtext, and the text allows for an entirely platonic interpretation of a player character and NPC relationship. Maybe procedural generation and clever mechanics can create a compelling romance in the context of a roguelike!

This post spends a lot of time looking at traditional romances in games with mainstream storytelling sensibilities. But there are whole worlds left to discover. Maybe innovation is worth a shot for your project?

Allow branching after all. Finally, here’s something of a Hail Mary pass: Even in an otherwise non-branching game, there’s nothing stopping you from making a romance optional–by giving the player a way to “opt in” or “opt out” of the romance, through whatever method is appropriate to the gameplay. This doesn’t mean you don’t need to make the romance compelling, of course, but it lets your players escape a subplot that doesn’t appeal to them (so long as you aren’t tying the romance to exclusive content or mechanical benefits).

Such a romance, of course, can’t play an enormous role in your narrative–otherwise, it couldn’t be made optional. And we’ll get into all the particulars of more complex branching romances–like what variety of romance options to present, setting player expectations, and offering rewarding non-romance content–another time.