“I want to design a computer game about lawyers, for lawyers,” I announced to my group at the Computer Game Design Workshop.
The workshop was part of a ‘retro gaming weekend’ at the Sydney Powerhouse Museum. A professor of ‘gameology’ was hosting what she described as “a four hour geek-fest” to teach about 30 of us how to design our own computer games.
The five other geeks in my group considered my proposition.
“Are you thinking RPG?”
“It could be,” I said (trying to cover my then ignorance of the acronym for ‘role playing game’.)
“I guess it could work as a first-person shoot ‘em up,” said someone.
“Everyone dreams of shooting a lawyer.”
“Perhaps we could design it in a fantasy setting?” suggested another.
And so, after much goatee stroking and pimply-brow furrowing, it was agreed that our group would design a game called ‘Fantasy Lawyer’ where a lawyer, living in a Tolkien-like setting, would seek out, fight and settle cases for the ever-disputing creatures of Middle Earth.
Our hero would rise through levels by attaining ‘reputation’ points achieved by handling more notorious and glamorous cases until they moved into the biggest corner office ever. In order to achieve the necessary points, the lawyer would first have to develop ‘intelligence’, ‘charisma’, ‘strength’ (for fighting when words just aren’t enough), and, most important of all: ‘contacts’. The lawyer would persuade, fight and bribe their way to success until they acted in a dispute in the world’s most superior court, the highest level in the game.
The truth is I haven’t played computer games since the 80s (remember Leisure Suit Larry?), so I had to bluff my way through. Fortunately, my Pac-Man t-shirt wearing comrades managed to create some suitable characters for ‘Fantasy Lawyer’:
Troll – a poor dumb troll (with a law degree) who lives under a bridge. We thought the Troll might start out by resolving disputes between fellow (dumb) Trolls. It was suggested that Troll-disputes might go something like this:
“If you continue to fight over this baby, we might as well cut it in half!”
And they cut it in half.
Elf – from a family of jurists, but has fallen from grace after a drunken hit-and-run rampage on a horse. Still has a few good contacts.
Halfling – not really a lawyer. An ex-door-to-door encyclopaedia seller who survives on charisma, the Halfling is always worried about being found out. (Aren’t we all?)
Dwarf – a disability-ridden, retrenched, goldmine worker with a bent for social justice. The Dwarf is good at striking low blows.
My group figured that courtrooms would need stables for centaurs. Disputing mermaids and mermen would be have to be wheeled into courtrooms in bathtubs. Special forest hearings would be need to be held for the tree-people, the Erns, who were rooted to the ground, but might be able to double as furniture.
When it came time to share our concept with the other groups at the workshop, we stood in front of the class and held up our butchers-paper game plan. I stepped forward.
“We have designed a new game for lawyers called ‘Fantasy Lawyer’. I’m a lawyer and I think lawyers need a game like this.”
I enthused on and on while my group dutifully held up the plan.
The professor was unimpressed.
“I did a law degree once,” she said. She seemed to begrudge being reminded of the fact. “I decided to move into gaming.”
“Is it better than law?” I asked.
“Well, if you can write code, they’ll put you in front of a computer for 12 hours a day and you’ll be burnt out in a year.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“People survive because they love the industry.”
“That … bit … doesn’t sound so familiar.”
“Put it this way,” she said. “No programmer ever made their million in games.”
“Oh,” I said, staring blankly at the game-plan. “So, … you think I should stick to the law?”
“You’d better,” said the professor. “It sounds like you’re obsessed.”