Game 461: The Pawn

 

Before Data Driven Gamer, I had virtually no knowledge of any IF titles outside the Infocom canon and Sierra's proto-adventures. Even now, it's still pretty limited. From my own perspective, Infocom remains the main contributor to the genre in 1985, but their relevance is quickly waning despite significant advances in world size, mechanical depth, and vocabulary. In the UK, where Infocom lacks a publisher and the disk drives needed to play their games are uncommon, audiences are served by Adventure International's exports, and a cottage industry of BASIC adventures in the same style (and limitations) thrives but sees no fame abroad.

The UK's biggest and most iconic homegrown IF studios are Level 9 and Magnetic Scrolls, whose games are released overseas through British Telecom. The latter is known for lusciously illustrated scenes on cutting-edge 16-bit platforms, and the former known for squeezing impossibly large game worlds into the confining limits of 32KB micros. I have yet to play a single game by either studio.

The Pawn was Magnetic Scrolls' first release, and the earliest by Telecom to make whale status, but their trademark illustrations aren't here yet; the initial release was on Sinclair's ill-fated 16-bit Spectrum successor "Quantum Leap" and was text-only. Presumably there is a reason why this was the target platform, but it's not a well explored one, and this is likely the only time I will ever emulate one. A consequence is that the only emulator I could find and get working with the QL's "microdrive" cartridge format is QemuLator, which lacks many modern emulation niceties, including native resolution screenshotting. Which I guess doesn't matter that much for a text-only game.

The original booklet, titled "QL-Pawn," explains that this adventure is set in the fantasy world of Kerovnia during a time of social upheaval driven mainly by whiskey and beer shortages. I'm not really sure how seriously we're supposed to take that backstory, but the dwarves are banished, King Erik is unpopular, and we're here for some unexplained reason and purpose. It also outlines the capability's of Magnetic Scrolls' parser, and demonstrates no particular feat that we haven't seen from Infocom, but complex, compound sentences parse, adjectives are recognized, and there is even some structure for interpersonal conversation.

 

Well, no points for originality in this intro.

Unsurprisingly, the wristband can't be removed, and has no remarkable qualities when examined. So, as always, I begin by Trizborting.

This initial area is wide open with most "rooms" having exits in all eight directions, though a few non-orthogonal passages exist, and rooms are not all uniquely named.

• To the east of the path, Honest John the traveling salesman, offers rations, water, whiskey, and armor for sale, but I have no money right now.
• Southward, a magician "Kronos" asks me to deliver a sealed message to King Erik.
• Further east, a bridge leads to the palace gardens, where a toolshed is seen in the corner, and a conspicuous mat reveals a key when lifted. This key does not open the toolshed, unfortunately, and the parser none-too-subtly reveals the existence of a metal key when I try ("wooden key or metal key?" it tasks, when I tell it to unlock the door with my key).
• The place guards permit me an audience with the king, but he promptly throws me out after reading Kronos' message.
• A series of notice boards posted on the southern edge of the map inform me that this is the edge of the adventure, and crossing any further in possession of artifacts is impossible. This proves to be correct.
• The western side of the map is the "Rank Forest" and gives me the most mapping trouble of any area, consisting of multiple confusingly laid-out rooms, though unique room descriptions help.
• A tree stump lies in a clearing in the middle, but there is no obvious significance.
• A sole tree in the forest is climbable, and at the top, a little wooden door is opened by my wooden key, but I get no further; the room is empty save for loose floorboards that I'm told are too heavy to lift.
• In the hills to the north, a  spiritual leader dwells in suitably austere living space, and is remarkably unhelpful.

 

And now I'm stuck. There are two other events I've seen while exploring, but I've restarted since and am unable to figure out what triggers them - an adventurer on horseback appeared once, somewhere around the main path, and Kronos appeared in the forest clearing demanding that I murder the adventurer with a cursed chest in exchange for my freedom from the wristband. Sound fishy, but I guess it's not called The Pawn for nothing.

 

My Trizbort map (so far) - most of the extraneous room connectors are removed in order to keep the map from looking like a Factorio blueprint:

Game 460: Little Computer People

Background: 

In late 1985, Activision's R&D department made a breakthrough computing discovery; that so-called "Little Computer People" dwell in every personal computer, and possess individual appearances, names, and personality traits. To aid in their study, researcher David Crane created the "House-on-a-Disk" diskette, a simulated three-story house with five rooms and a spacious attic, which said people can live in and be directly observed.

These studies have, of course, been long abandoned, superseded by projects such as "The Sims" and "The Sims 4" which do not require obsolete 8-bit personal computers. However, the sudden scarcity of RAM in the year 2025 impels fieldwork with more modest requirements, and with it, an opportunity for a retrospective in 64KB. How are these Little Computer People doing after 40 years? Can they tell that their natural habitat is also a simulation? Does the Y2K bug affect them?

 

Video log of activity:

 

Field notes:

 

9:30: Simulation begins. A Little Computer Person (henceforth to be referred to as LCP) enters the domicile and begins to inspect it. The kitchen pleases him. The computer in the study does not. LCP uses the washroom, does not flush or shut the door, and barely washes his hands afterward.

9:35: LCP goes to the living room and sits on the lounge chair for less than a second before standing back up. Exits and leaves the lights on. LCP inspects the bedroom and leaves the closet door and all drawers open. Attic and kitchen are re-inspected before he leaves via front door - at least he closed the refrigerator.

9:37: LCP returns with a small parcel of his personal effects. A small dog follows. LCP watches television, then acknowledges my presence by turning his head toward the glass of the computer monitor. He speaks, but I cannot understand his language. I suggest to him, through a teletype-like interface, that he type me a letter, but he ignores me and goes downstairs, leaving the TV on.

9:39: LCP picks up the phone and speaks. Did he mean to speak to a friend, or is he trying to speak to us? He didn't dial. Either way, I still can't understand him. LCP then does jumping jacks in the master bedroom.

I said please!

 

9:40: LCP puts on a 33 1/3 RPM record. "We Wish you a Merry Christmas," and sits and watches TV quite unmerrily. Perhaps a new record might brighten his mood?

9:41: LCP taps on the glass of the monitor and requests a game of "Card War."

This is an incredibly boring and drawn out game of chance with no strategy and no decisions whatsoever, but this is also the most interactivity that's been offered since the simulation started, so I humor him. Playing improves his mood somewhat, namely when he is winning, but beating his hands makes him grumpier.

9:47: I unilaterally end the game, being ahead by 26 cards at the time with no end in sight, and LCP is visibly unhappy. I send him a new record as a holiday present, which he dispassionately collects from the front door and stashes away.

9:49: LCP makes another unintelligible phone call. I call him, and we speak, unproductively.

 

9:50: LCP plays his new record, a progressive rock album, and leaves the house, not bothering to stop the player.

9:51: LCP returns and makes another phone call. I attempt to pat him on the back; he stands up before the network-activated mechanical hand can make physical contact. Nevertheless, and to my surprise, this immediately improves his mood. Could simple touch be the key to a good disposition? LCP turns off the record and feeling inspired, plays some piano, and shows himself to be fairly skilled.

The sprite animation does a reasonable job of looking like the LCP is playing music and not just pressing random keys.

9:54: LCP washes his hands and prepares a quick, unheated meal.

9:56: LCP brushes his teeth. I try to tell him to turn off the TV, but he ignores me again.

 

9:57: LCP makes another phone call, then goes upstairs to watch more TV. I end the observation, leaving him to his devices.

 

Addendum:

I return briefly in the afternoon. LCP is named Ian - I learn this as I'm able to coax a letter out of him.
 

Ian misspells 'typist' before backspacing and correcting.

Strange - his water cooler isn't empty! In fact, it's at the same volume as when I left it. Is he rationing?

I dutifully fill it to the brim and offer a phone call, but then I leave.

 

GAB rating: N/A.

Little Computer People is a cute semi-interactive toy, but it's not a game, and there's only so much to see and do. Even in 1985, I have to imagine that I would have exhausted the possibilities of this house-on-a-disk very quickly and gotten bored of it.

Also, in a rather consumer-unfriendly twist, though one that makes sense in-universe, once you generate an LCP, you're stuck with him on your disk forever, without any way to "reset" the game except by using fanmade utility disks. The manual even recommends ordering more house-on-a-disks if you want new LCP's. I don't think they can die through neglect a la Tamagotchi, but wouldn't it be cruel if they could?