What makes a 'good' teacher?
A quote that I love, which I originally heard from Gerald J. Sussman, was that "the key to understanding complex systems is knowing what to ignore; what not to think about." Much in this spirit, I'll inevitably ignore many subtleties in the hope of elucidating a useful principle. I believe a 'good' teacher can be said to:
Not only understand the content of whatever it is they're teaching, but also to realise what cannot be assumed about a student's ability, and to act accordingly.
As you can see, this relates very neatly to the above quote. On the flip side of this, poorer teachers - lacking this understanding - will gloss over certain aspects of a topic. There could be multiple reasons for this; it may mean that there are gaps in the teacher's own knowledge, or, likely more often, that details are skipped because they are presumed trivial.
When dealing with multiple students, the background and ability of each will vary; the teacher's - admittedly challenging - role, is to evaluate these individual differences, and adapt their methods accordingly.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Game Harmony
What follows is a summary of some thoughts I was mulling over today; it somewhat follows on from ideas presented earlier by Clint Hocking and others.
To be the player of a game is to take on a role, or to assume an identity. This identity may take on different forms depending on how the role is conveyed through the mechanics of the play experience and the visual/auditory presentation of the role itself.
A player's role and the presentation of this role may interact in subtle and complex ways. Certain roles suggest certain presentation styles; for a player to fill the boots of a space-marine, a first-person perspective is apt, whereas taking a third-person perspective may suggest more of a puppet-master persona, which may itself be suited towards exposition of the interactions between personalities or characters, as in the case of the Sims. These are by no means hard-and-fast rules, however.
Another kind of affordance exists between plot - or to frame things a little more generally, the ideas that a designer/designers wish to convey - and the play mechanics that constitute the game experience.
In order to provide a consistent game experience, the ideas a designer wishes to convey, and the play mechanics used to embody these ideas should complement eachother.
An example - from a game that I have done some of the programming for - of where this guideline has not been followed - and I contend suffers for - is Casebook.
This game uses as its narrative foundation the classic detective story. You, the player, take on the role of the assistant to Detective James Burton. The primary affordance of the classic detective/mystery narrative is the interpreter's (speaking generally - could be reader's, player's, or viewer's) ongoing struggle to get to the bottom of the case - taking the collected evidence, formulating hypotheses about what really happened, and continually refining these as new evidence comes to the fore. Classic scientific method stuff.
Where I believe Casebook falls down is the dissonance that divides its classic detective narrative and the tasks that you, the assistant, are presented with. While the player is comtemplating the game's numerous cut-scenes, pondering on the perpetrator, they are also... collecting evidence, and analysing it.
There is no doubt that collecting evidence and analysing it are imperative to solving any case. But they are not what people enjoy about detective stories - so why on earth design a game's main mechanics around it? Curiosity and hypothesising is the detective story's raison d'etre, it should be so with the detective game's mechanics. Evidence collection, at least the part of it unrelated to these dynamics, should be be treated on the sidelines, if at all.
A large part of a game designer's job is to proceduralise ideas. To visually and aurally convey one idea and procedurally present another distinct idea is to create disharmony.
I should note that there are some very good reasons for the design of the game the way it was; unfortunately that doesn't make it good design.
To be the player of a game is to take on a role, or to assume an identity. This identity may take on different forms depending on how the role is conveyed through the mechanics of the play experience and the visual/auditory presentation of the role itself.
A player's role and the presentation of this role may interact in subtle and complex ways. Certain roles suggest certain presentation styles; for a player to fill the boots of a space-marine, a first-person perspective is apt, whereas taking a third-person perspective may suggest more of a puppet-master persona, which may itself be suited towards exposition of the interactions between personalities or characters, as in the case of the Sims. These are by no means hard-and-fast rules, however.
Another kind of affordance exists between plot - or to frame things a little more generally, the ideas that a designer/designers wish to convey - and the play mechanics that constitute the game experience.
In order to provide a consistent game experience, the ideas a designer wishes to convey, and the play mechanics used to embody these ideas should complement eachother.
An example - from a game that I have done some of the programming for - of where this guideline has not been followed - and I contend suffers for - is Casebook.
This game uses as its narrative foundation the classic detective story. You, the player, take on the role of the assistant to Detective James Burton. The primary affordance of the classic detective/mystery narrative is the interpreter's (speaking generally - could be reader's, player's, or viewer's) ongoing struggle to get to the bottom of the case - taking the collected evidence, formulating hypotheses about what really happened, and continually refining these as new evidence comes to the fore. Classic scientific method stuff.
Where I believe Casebook falls down is the dissonance that divides its classic detective narrative and the tasks that you, the assistant, are presented with. While the player is comtemplating the game's numerous cut-scenes, pondering on the perpetrator, they are also... collecting evidence, and analysing it.
There is no doubt that collecting evidence and analysing it are imperative to solving any case. But they are not what people enjoy about detective stories - so why on earth design a game's main mechanics around it? Curiosity and hypothesising is the detective story's raison d'etre, it should be so with the detective game's mechanics. Evidence collection, at least the part of it unrelated to these dynamics, should be be treated on the sidelines, if at all.
A large part of a game designer's job is to proceduralise ideas. To visually and aurally convey one idea and procedurally present another distinct idea is to create disharmony.
I should note that there are some very good reasons for the design of the game the way it was; unfortunately that doesn't make it good design.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Gone Too Soon
If only the too solid flesh we inhabit was so strong as that invisible fabric connecting our hearts.
This is too hard. Fifty years. It all matters. Three children have lost a father, may they be supported. We have lost a friend, may our remembrance of him support us. I won't lose his inspiration.
Do you remember?
I'm a music simpleton. Thankfully, sound transcends barriers; barriers of understanding, barriers of age. I first heard what was probably the Bad album - at about age six - somewhere in Australia, before I even knew who this singer was. Something inside changed then; whatever that song I heard was, I listened to it again. And again, and again.
I wouldn't find out who that singer was until about a decade later, with my introduction to a side of the city I was completely ignorant of; it's night life. Very shy, I slowly began to dance. For whatever reason, people started watching; most of them harassed – something I was used to from all my days in school – but a few seemed to like it, and I began hearing references to this revered figure, someone by the name of Michael Jackson.
The figure who had been shrouded in mystery during my childhood was now instantly revealed, and he couldn't just sing; boy, could he dance! He was electrifying; I wanted to do that. Being the pitiful geek that I was, I only saw this as an opportunity to 'increase my chances.' Every weekend, I would venture to the clubs, dancing all night. My vertical expression got continuously refined, but the horizontal intent was never fulfilled.
Fortunately, I slowly discovered that feeling that Michael had known at such a tender age; the thrill of dance and performance, not as a means to an end, but in the feelings it could conjure in an audience. The growth it can inspire in us all; this is the gift of entertainment.
The man in the mirror.
The lens through which we view life changes as we grow. I quickly wanted to know the man behind all the music. Despite the veil the media creates, it is not difficult to see light shining forth. Michael had a rare respect for life, all life, and has selflessly given hundreds of millions of dollars to numerous charities. It is fair enough to have large amounts of money, but using that money and influence to try to spread love, awareness and understanding, and to break down racial barriers, the way he has through numerous songs, is all too rare. Many critics consider this as 'sappiness' and a mark against his music, but the sincerity and consistency with which he pursues it is nothing short of inspirational.
Will you be there?
Witnessing death, one can not help but notice the immense fragility of the human body; despite the many protection systems that have evolved throughout history to conceal our mortality, its defences are so easy to pierce.
Death exposes celebrity's weakness – distance. Most will remember Michael as an enormously talented entertainer, and he no doubt joins the ranks of the twentieth century's most important figures of popular culture, but this is his least important legacy. The timeless human emotions of love and understanding are only passed on by those close enough to touch our hearts. Michael loved children. He was child-like, but not childish. We should never lose that child-like wonder, and through our conduct, pass it on.
This is too hard. Fifty years. It all matters. Three children have lost a father, may they be supported. We have lost a friend, may our remembrance of him support us. I won't lose his inspiration.
Do you remember?
I'm a music simpleton. Thankfully, sound transcends barriers; barriers of understanding, barriers of age. I first heard what was probably the Bad album - at about age six - somewhere in Australia, before I even knew who this singer was. Something inside changed then; whatever that song I heard was, I listened to it again. And again, and again.
I wouldn't find out who that singer was until about a decade later, with my introduction to a side of the city I was completely ignorant of; it's night life. Very shy, I slowly began to dance. For whatever reason, people started watching; most of them harassed – something I was used to from all my days in school – but a few seemed to like it, and I began hearing references to this revered figure, someone by the name of Michael Jackson.
The figure who had been shrouded in mystery during my childhood was now instantly revealed, and he couldn't just sing; boy, could he dance! He was electrifying; I wanted to do that. Being the pitiful geek that I was, I only saw this as an opportunity to 'increase my chances.' Every weekend, I would venture to the clubs, dancing all night. My vertical expression got continuously refined, but the horizontal intent was never fulfilled.
Fortunately, I slowly discovered that feeling that Michael had known at such a tender age; the thrill of dance and performance, not as a means to an end, but in the feelings it could conjure in an audience. The growth it can inspire in us all; this is the gift of entertainment.
The man in the mirror.
The lens through which we view life changes as we grow. I quickly wanted to know the man behind all the music. Despite the veil the media creates, it is not difficult to see light shining forth. Michael had a rare respect for life, all life, and has selflessly given hundreds of millions of dollars to numerous charities. It is fair enough to have large amounts of money, but using that money and influence to try to spread love, awareness and understanding, and to break down racial barriers, the way he has through numerous songs, is all too rare. Many critics consider this as 'sappiness' and a mark against his music, but the sincerity and consistency with which he pursues it is nothing short of inspirational.
Will you be there?
Witnessing death, one can not help but notice the immense fragility of the human body; despite the many protection systems that have evolved throughout history to conceal our mortality, its defences are so easy to pierce.
Death exposes celebrity's weakness – distance. Most will remember Michael as an enormously talented entertainer, and he no doubt joins the ranks of the twentieth century's most important figures of popular culture, but this is his least important legacy. The timeless human emotions of love and understanding are only passed on by those close enough to touch our hearts. Michael loved children. He was child-like, but not childish. We should never lose that child-like wonder, and through our conduct, pass it on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)