AI Art is Inverted Patronage

I happen to know a painter. Imagine for a moment, that I just moved into a new house, and I decide that I want new art to decorate the place. I tell my artist friend that I’ll pay her to create twenty paintings to my specifications.

Now I’m edgy, and I’ve already painted the walls black, so I decide what I really want is a bunch of paintings that look like H. R. Geiger’s work, specifically the movie Alien. I tell my artist friend that I want a shadowy techno-biological spaceship bridge for the entryway, and a carapaced, eyeless monstrosity for the living room, and for the bedroom, three damp corridors that look like the inside of an esophagus.

She rolls her eyes, but agrees to the terms. She paints the paintings and presents them to me. I like them, mostly, but I want a few changes. She makes a few modifications, I pay her the agreed-upon sum, and the deal is complete.

Here’s the question: am I an artist? I clearly have an artistic vision for my house—a vision so singular and intense that nobody seems to want to come over anymore. But should I be credited in the act of creation?

The Inversion

We already have a term for arrangements like this. It’s been around for quite some time. This kind of arrangement is artistic patronage. I pay you, and you create art to my specifications.

The general concept has evolved, from nobility and the wealthy supporting individual artists, to platforms like Kickstarter and Patreon allowing fans to support their favorite artists, to the many and varied forms of modern contract-worker abuse, where artists are treated more and more like machines that turn money into art, and preferably at the highest possible rate of exchange.

The twist in our current moment is that AI has provided a new type of patronage—cheaper and faster and even more heavily mediated by Silicon Valley technology. Instead of the wealthy paying human artists, the AI companies are attempting to build an ecosystem where mostly less wealthy patrons pay LLMs, and indirectly, their wealthy investors.

Since the process of training LLMs divorces the training inputs (the work of human artists) from the outputs, it has so far been treated (from a legal perspective) as transformative of the original work, and therefore fair use. And since machines cannot be copyright holders yet, nobody owns the rights to the resulting output.

Expression and Skill

Proponents of LLM-generated art argue that gen AI is a tool like Photoshop, and prompting is simply a new artistic skill. They argue it can be equally expressive.

As an extreme comparison, let’s look at scanning or photocopying. Photocopying generates an artistic output, a nearly exact copy of an artwork, but has little expression or skill. The only skill is identifying art that you want to copy.

AI images are more than this, certainly, but how much more? They aren’t direct copying, but the popularity of prompts “in the style of X” show that this remains a strong element. Especially since most prompters do not bother to analyze the techniques that contribute to the desired style. Most users cannot explain why the Simpsons looks like the Simpsons, or Ghibli looks like Ghibli, they just know they want a profile pic that looks “like that.”

AI art does takes creative input from the user: a description of something imagined. In this, it is similar to traditional art. While some artists, especially abstract artists, may start with a technique or a set of colors or a mood, most will start with some idea of concrete subject.

Many non-artists assume the process of creating art is all about getting that imagined thing from brain to paper with as little deviation as possible. This, I think, is simply not true. The process of generating a piece of art can be broken down into hundreds or thousands of tiny micro-expressions.

Each line and brushstroke in a painting is an atomic particle of artistic expression. Each word in a novel is a choice the artist had to make. The canvas is ten thousand interconnected empty spaces, and the artist chooses how to fill each one, accounting for the spaces around it that have already been filled.

AI proponents will say an AI prompt is constructed of many tokens, and LLM users will iterate repeatedly, tweaking their prompt. But how do brushstrokes in a painting compare to tweaking words in a prompt?

Determinism and Intentionality

LLMs are non-deterministic. With the exception of some very tightly constrained outputs, the exact same prompt to an AI will generate different outputs on each attempt. The user’s input is only partially responsible for the output. The rest is dictated by the ineffable statistical noise of AI inference. Some elements of the resulting work are inherently external to the user’s prompt.

We could argue about whether the same brushstrokes by the same artist over multiple paintings can result in identical paintings, but if they do not, then it’s due to small differences in environment, in tools, or inconsistency of skill. The artist, in the process of making ten thousand micro-expressions of their art, responds to these tiny, incremental outputs and adjusts the rest of the piece.

Differences between outputs are an expression of the artist, an interplay between the intentional and the accidental. Differences between nondeterministic AI outputs are not an expression of the user-patron. They are a mindless side-effect of AI generation. They are noise, not signal.

Art is Process, Not Product

By being directly involved in every micro-expressive decision and adapting and adjusting to the results with every output, the process of “traditional art” is a conversation between the artist and the art in progress. Even if two processes result in nearly identical pieces, the traditional process provides many more opportunities for making decisions, and adapting to the work as it’s created. These are direct expressions of skill and artistic intent.

Even if we treat generative AI as an artist’s tool, it is a blunt and wildly inaccurate instrument. It allows for relatively little input, and that input affects the output in highly variable and nondeterministic ways. Despite allowing for much faster iteration on “fully completed” pieces, there is scant mechanism for interplay between artist and art within the process of creation. It remains a black box.

In short, you don’t create a piece of art in collaboration with gen AI. You ask as best you can, then evaluate a finished output and decide if you need to ask again, trying to come up with the magical incantation that provides something approximating the desired result.

Vibe Check

Many of the most vocal advocates of prompting as artistic expression were not making art before widespread availability of LLMs. Most professional and long-practicing artists are disdainful of AI art. Yes, this is a broad generalization, and admittedly anecdotal to my own personal experience. But all I’ve seen from those in the pro-AI camp is equally anecdotal, so I figure my personal experience is as valid as someone else’s.

Why are artists not embracing AI wholesale? I believe it is because practicing artists are already used to exercising their creativity and skill constantly. They tend to recognize that prompting an AI is a fundamentally different thing from painting or drawing or writing fiction, even if painting is mediated through technological tools like touchscreens and tablets, and writing is done in a word-processor will spelling and grammar check.

Artists recognize that prompting doesn’t allow for the depth of creativity that they need and expect. They feel the way it takes away granular control and intimate feedback.

Gatekeeping

There is an argument, frequently deployed by the pro-AI crowd, that artists are gatekeeping art and resisting its democratization. A parallel argument is that AI is an artistic accessibility tool for the disabled and, weirdly, the unskilled.

This argument seems easily debunked by the many incredibly accomplished disabled artists in the world, many of whom have developed remarkable skills despite the challenges they face. Again anecdotally, it also seems like it’s rarely disabled artists actually making this argument, and much more frequently someone making it on their behalf.

There are examples of artists suffering disease or injury that made it impossible to continue creating art in the same way. Some are able to work around this. For some, using AI is an opportunity to gain some expressive ability back. But it is of a substantially different kind.

However, the frequent discussion of “lack of artistic skill” in these contexts is absurd to me. It implies that skill is inherent and not learned. It suggests that lack of effort or determination is on par with real disability, and that we should have pity on the would-be painter who hasn’t picked up a brush since grade-school and is offended that artists would dare deny them the tools to express themselves.

What these would-be artists fail to understand is that they are cheating themselves. They have not experienced the complex interplay between artist and art that is fundamental to the act of practiced creation. They believe that their AI-prompted art is giving them the same sensation, the same creative outlet, that the practiced artist gets from drawing or painting by hand. But it is only a shallow facsimile.

The artists are not trying to keep these people out of the walled garden of art. They are trying to get the prompters to understand that they are depriving themselves of a far richer experience by choosing the tool that seems more approachable.

Making Art

The sudden advent of tools that allow us to speak a few words and generate a painting is interesting and worrying and weird; embedded in complex and often problematic cultural and technological contexts. It’s that shocking sensation of science fiction suddenly become real.

Prompting AI clearly allows for some creative expression that influences the output, and that output can look quite competently rendered. But it is a fundamentally different and less expressive activity than traditional, “manual” forms of creation. It is less human. It should not be classed as the same thing as making art.

It also reveals broad cultural misconceptions about the artistic process, where only the final output is valued, and the process is not. That may sound cliché, but it is a meaningful cliché nonetheless. The process is valuable, and ignoring it is crass materialism and commodification of art; indifference to the meaning and mysticism of human creation.

Art can be sold, so corporations care about the output. They see artists and process only as a cost center. They have trained us on their viewpoint, to care only about the product (and it is purely a product to them). They call it “content,” so indifferent to the actual thing that it’s given this bland, meaningless label. The plain cardboard box of art.

I think I will have more to say on this subject, but I’ll stop here for now. I’d love to hear what other creatives think. Am I misrepresenting you? Do you see value in gen AI as a tool for artists? How much of the value of art is in the output vs. the process of creation? Let me know in the comments.

State of the Blog — November 2025

My “State of the Blog” posts are something I’ve been doing since the start of Words Deferred. Back when I was posting more frequently, I’d write these every six months. In 2024, I decided to switch to a yearly cadence—and now I dropped the ball and I’m two months late.

Previous Posts

Metrics

  • Years Blogging: 5
  • Total Posts: ~550
  • WordPress Subscribers: 159
  • Monthly Views: 760 (avg. over last 3 months)

Noteworthy numbers in the past year include the all-time view count hitting 20,000, and highest daily views hitting 213.

The 2024 Slump

Words Deferred has never been “big,” but the stats showed steady growth from 2020-2023. During that first couple years I posted quite a lot, aided by projects like Razor Mountain and journaling through NaNoWriMo, where my fiction writing time and blogging were tightly intertwined. I was also trying a lot of different ideas, still figuring out what exactly I wanted this website to be.

In 2024, I embarked on my Year of Short Stories, where I focused on writing, editing, and submitting short stories. That was a great experience, radically increasing my comfort level with all aspects of writing and submitting work, and I also got some of my work published, which is nice.

That project set me up for one weekly post documenting my progress and submissions. My other posts were less frequent, and ultimately the blog was quieter than previous years. The Year of Short Stories was a project that took most of my writing time and energy, and since I was planning to submit the stories I was writing, I couldn’t use those as content. I also suspect that my weekly updates were less likely to draw in readers from week to week in the same way that something like Razor Mountain’s ongoing story might.

Whatever factors contributed, 2024 was the first year since the start of the blog where I saw the metrics go down—a roughly 30% drop from 2023. I generally try not to pay too much attention to the numbers (outside of these retrospective posts), but I’ll admit that a drop like that is a little disheartening. It begs the question, “have I already peaked?” It’s a lot easier to ignore the relatively low view counts when they’re at least going up every year.

2025: The Year of…Nothing in Particular?

As 2025 rolled around, I found myself once again at the crossroads where I’d finished another writing/blogging project, and I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do next. Over the years, I’ve learned that I work most effectively when I have some big project like this to focus on. I think it also makes for good bloggery when there’s a big project to talk about week after week. Documenting those writing projects helps me get through them, and hopefully provides something interesting to post. When I don’t have a long-term focus, I tend to flail around and procrastinate.

Going into this year, I was burned out on short stories. For lack of a better idea, I decided to try tackling a different project each month. What were those projects going to be? I didn’t really know.

For January, I picked an easy one: write a page per day. No problem. I’ve probably done ten NaNoWriMos, at least half of them successful, and this was a much easier version of that. I finished first drafts of two short stories, and even wrote some goofy fan-fiction for a game I was playing at the time, something I’ve never done before.

Then February hit, and I stalled out hard. I had several completed drafts sitting around, and I’d been struggling to find the motivation to revise them. I figured that would be a good goal, but I never really picked out a particular metric to hold myself to.

Then I was sick for a few days. The kids were sick for a few days. School activities started and I ended up being a mentor/coach. We had some family medical issues. Before I knew it, my plans were long-abandoned. I ended up having more than one month in 2025 where I didn’t post anything, and I wasn’t writing much outside the blog either.

It’s never been hard for me to find reasons not to write—hence the name of the site—but the first half of 2025 was chock full of them. Without a big, clear, overarching project to keep me going, I dropped off the map for a while.

Second Wind

Looking back, I didn’t really get my feet under me, writing-wise, until summer. The kids finished school for the year, activities were over, and the medical issues were mostly resolved.

I spiffed up the blog layout ever so slightly, added Recommendations and Support Me pages, and took stock of my recurring post formats. Now that I’m into year five of Words Deferred, I’ve found a few formats that I enjoy writing and can keep coming back to:

The articles I most enjoy writing are still those that dig into the art and craft of writing, from brainstorming to revision to publishing trends. And while I enjoy having a big project to work on throughout the year, I found that I can lean on these recurring series to have something interesting to write about at least once a week, and keep my pen to the paper.

Oddly enough, my number of posts published in 2025 will probably work out similarly to 2024, maybe even a little less, thanks to how little I was writing through June. However, my views have been rising steadily ever since then, and I’m already getting way more eyeballs than 2024. Will I hit beat the 2023 peak? I don’t think so, but it’s looking more possible.

SEO for Dummies

Are there some sort of lessons to be learned about search engines and keywords and maximizing internet points in all this? Probably. The only reason I noticed my views were going up again was because WordPress sent me a little notice to say “Hey, we were surprised to see some people are reading what you wrote.” So I looked at the “Insights” tab on my dashboard, and that only confused me more.

The only app I automatically share posts on is Bluesky. In previous years, I used to share on TwiXter, back before the bots and assholes took over and they shut down the socialist blog-posting APIs in favor of their glorious, free-market, All-American blue checkmarks. So of course it makes sense that WordPress tells me I got about 6,000 shares each on Facebook, X, Reddit and Tumblr, where I never post anything.

I don’t know how this is possible. If you’re sharing my posts on Facebook and Tumblr, please reach out and clear this up for me.

And what exactly is a “share?” Clearly not the same as a “view.” Maybe a “glance?” But then, when people read my articles through the email subscription, that doesn’t count as a view either. Google also sends me monthly search statistics that appear to wildly overestimate just how much traffic they’re sending my way. They use the even more vague term “impressions.” I can only assume an “impression” according to Google means that my website was on page 10 of the search results when someone skimmed the AI overview.

I checked the WP and Google search insights. I seem to be coming up in roughly the same searches as I have been for years. I found out that I’m cited in the Wikipedia article for “Mystery Box.” That’s kind of fun, and apparently counted for 3 whole clicks. Who is clicking that? ChatGPT helpfully sent seven people my way. Why? Maybe they asked it why people hate LOST so much.

In conclusion, the internet is a unfathomable beast. It giveth and it taketh away. None can know its true heart, and those who claim to do so are false prophets.

What’s Next?

I’m itching for another big project. But when I say “big,” that might just mean The Year of Even More Short Stories. Whatever it is, it’ll be intermingled with the usual things, the Read Reports and Story Idea Vaults and random game and TTRPG musings, and maybe even another poem.

Let’s all just try to make it to the end of the year, and then we’ll see where 2026 takes us.

Reblog: The Anthropic Class Action Settlement — Writer Beware

As usual, Victoria Strauss at Writer Beware has some of the best coverage of the Anthropic settlement. If you haven’t been watching this lawsuit, the court determined that Anthropic’s AI training falls under fair use, but its illegal downloading of millions of books from pirating websites does not.

Anthropic apparently felt it was too risky and expensive to see the case to completion, with the real possibility of a judgement that falls close to the maximum statutory penalty of $150,000 per pirated work. That payout for even a fraction of the millions of books starts to look like the GDP of a small country. So they settled.

The settlement in this class action will likely grant a payout of roughly $3,000 per claimed work, but with a number of caveats. It only applies to works with proper copyright registration, currently estimated at around 500,000 books. The lawyers will get paid, and for books with a publisher who still holds rights, the publisher will also typically get about half.

If you think your work might be included, check the links from the article. There is an easy search function to see if your work was identified as pirated.

Writer Beware — The Anthropic Class Action Settlement

Unfortunately, many authors will be excluded due to the copyright registration requirement. Many self-published works, and even those with lazy “professional” publishers who never bothered to register their copyright cannot participate. For those who can, it will be months (and maybe longer) before any money sees the light of day.

Victoria also notes that this potentially record-breaking settlement is attracting the scavengers and parasites of the legal world.

Writer Beware — Predatory Opt Outs: The Speculators Come for the Anthropic Copyright Settlement

At least one law firm has targeted authors in the settlement class, trying to convince them to give up their right to participate in exchange for potential future lawsuits and the vague hope of a payout closer to the $150,000 maximum. Participants in the current lawsuit are already complaining that these advertisements and the website backing them amount to outright fraud.

Of course, the current settlement is just about guaranteed to pay something if you’re a qualifying author, and there is absolutely no guarantee that anyone opting out will get a better deal. This is a prime example of trading a bird in the hand for two in the bush.

That said, the current settlement terms are a lot less than many authors were hoping for. Part of the class-action structure gives legal right to any qualifying authors to opt out of the settlement if they have reason to think they can somehow get a better deal.

There are at least 50 other lawsuits pending against the big AI companies over copyright issues, and it’s quite possible that we haven’t heard the last word on the fair use issue, even if it’s not looking good so far for authors’ and publishers’ rights. Judging by the haphazard and questionable ways many of these companies have scraped the internet for training data, there may still be more big payouts yet to come.

Tips for Thousand Year Old Vampire

If you saw my previous post, you know I’ve been playing the solo RPG “Thousand Year Old Vampire” recently. I enjoy the game, but like so many TTRPGs, the source book is heavy on rules and light on examples. With a few rounds completed, I thought I’d offer some tips for new players, to make the game more fun and easier to run.

One Easy Trick They Don’t Want You to Know

The included “character sheet” consists of two paperback-sized pages with six headings (memories, diary, skills, resources, characters, and marks). If you abuse the book’s spine, you can probably scan this onto a single sheet of standard paper, but anyone who has played the game will know that you’ll need the world’s tiniest handwriting to fit everything on that single page. And even if you do, you’ll be carefully erasing half of it as you play.

I’ve tried playing by writing everything in pencil on 4-6 sheets of paper. It’s manageable, but not great, especially for your first run. Luckily, we have the perfect technology to improve this situation: sticky notes. They come in a rainbow of colors, and they’re the perfect size for a one-sentence blurb, which is the format of just about everything in TYOV.

I really enjoy the tactile aspect of pen on paper, so I’ve been using color-coded Post-It notes that I can stick on 3-4 standard-sized sheets of heavy tagboard. You could also use a larger sheet of paper or poster board, or just array the notes across a table, but it’s nice to have something you can pick up and put away if you have to pack up an incomplete session.

The game doesn’t specifically tell you to, but I also like to track the age of my vampire (whether they know their own age or not), the current year, and all the prompts I’ve hit in the current game. This makes it much easier to pick up a game from a previous session.

Virtual vs. Physical

In our post-pandemic world, many of us are now used to playing our tabletop games on virtual tabletops. Since TYOV involves a significant amount of adding, deleting, and copy/pasting; tracking everything on a laptop can make all that easier.

However, the typical TTRPG virtual tabletops cater (by necessity) to Dungeons and Dragons, Pathfinder, and a lot of similar games. TYOV has only a little bit of die rolling, and none of the minifigures, maps and crunchy bits that these platforms put a lot of effort into. So virtual tabletops strike me as ineffective overkill. All TYOV really wants is a big whiteboard and some sticky notes.

As luck would have it, I know from my day job that a lot of professional project management and software development jobs happen to have similar requirements. Trello, Miro, and the dozens of similar apps are perfect for TYOV, and while they may be catering to big business, they all generally have free tiers that are more than adequate here.

Min/Maxing?

It’s clear from the very light-touch mechanics that TYOV is a story-centric game. However, there are still mechanics in the form of skills and resources. These are the currency that keeps the game going.

Before beginning a game, it’s worth thinking about what your goal is. If you want to let the story develop however it may, then there’s no need to worry too much about your resources. After my first vampire met a relatively early demise by running out of skills and resources, I decided I wanted to see a game all the way through to the “end”—reaching one of the last nine prompts. In that case, you’ll want to play with an eye toward the mechanics, and staying alive.

Many prompts offer choices. Characters and memories are ephemeral. Marks can impact the story. But none of them matter toward your vampire’s continued survival compared to skills and resources. So long as you pick options that maximize those, and you don’t roll too terribly, you’re likely to reach the final prompts.

Memory Miscellany

The TYOV rules as written place a hard cap on the length of an experience: one sentence. If you stick to this, you’ll quickly find yourself writing convoluted run-on sentences full of commas, colons, semicolons, em-dashes and parentheticals. Even the few examples in the book do it.

I appreciate the purpose of the rule: to keep the game tight and quick. But sometimes it’s just faster and more fun to write a couple of sentences, rather than heaping abuse on the English language. As far as I’m concerned, a short paragraph of two or three sentences is just fine, and if you use sticky notes, each experience will still have a natural built-in size limit.

When it comes to memories—the headings that experiences must be filed under—it pays to pick something that will be easy to fill with a full roster of three memories. To this end, I find that single-word concepts work well, especially emotions and vampire-related things.

Love, hate, hope, fear, loneliness, determination.

Blood, feeding, pain, death.

Many new experiences will be able to fit under several of these memories, which means you can pick and choose to better max out your fifteen possible slots for experiences.

Alternately, if you want a highly forgetful vampire, you can try the opposite: very specific memory headings will make it harder to slot in experiences. This will force your vampire to offload to diaries and forget things sooner. This may be fun if you want to play with a monster who has forgotten his own origin, or increase the likelihood of repeatedly running across a nemesis or lover that your vampire has forgotten.

Thousand Year Old Vampire — A Solo RPG

Thousand Year Old Vampire is a lonely solo role-playing game in which you chronicle the unlife of a vampire over the many centuries of their existence, beginning with the loss of mortality and ending with their inevitable destruction.

I happened across this little hardcover book at a games store in a mall near my house. I was there to have the failing battery in my phone replaced, and I had some time to browse and meander. Since most TTRPG books are oversized tomes, a novel-sized book stands out on the shelf.

I don’t have an active gaming group these days, and most game books don’t come cheap, so I don’t buy random game books as much as I once did. But a solo RPG sounded appealing, and my kids had been asking if there was something I might want for Father’s Day. So I texted a pic of the cover to my wife with a note about where I had seen it. Lo and behold, a week or two later I was unwrapping it.

Becoming a Vampire

The rules of TYOV are simple. Your character is defined by their memories, and you can only keep a limited number over your long (un)life. Each memory is a collection of experiences, defined by some particular theme or topic. Each experience is a single sentence that describes something that happened in a turn of the game. You can have up to 5 memories (topics) with three experiences attached to each.

Although this gives you enough space to retain up to fifteen experiences, those experiences need to fit under the existing memories, which can sometimes be tricky. Additionally, you can “offload” up to four memories into a diary—a physical object that could be anything from a book to a cuneiform tablet—they’ll no longer take up space in your head, but they can be lost forever if something happens to that diary.

Along with memories, your vampire has skills. Skills are one of the two mechanically important resources that your vampire can use to survive when things go wrong (and they will go wrong a lot). Skills typically relate to an experience, and can only be used once, usually to get out of a jam. However, skills that have been used (or “checked”) can sometimes become relevant again in later prompts.

Your vampire can also accumulate physical “resources.” These mechanically important (and personally significant) items can be anything from a trinket to a castle, and are differentiated from mere possessions that you may accumulate over the centuries.

The other aspects of the game are marks and characters. Marks can be any sign of your immortality, such as the classic vampire tells: nasty teeth, failure to show up in a mirror, and sparkles. You could also choose to go big with bat wings, glowing eyes, or something more extreme.

Characters are the mortals and immortals you meet, meat, and perhaps re-meet along the way. Mortals will typically only be relevant for a few turns of your long life. Immortals may become allies or enemies, and be lost and found again across the centuries.

Play

To play, you move through a series of eighty numbered prompts. Each turn, you roll d10 – d6. This means you can move forward and backward, although statistics ensures you’ll eventually progress forward. If you land on the same prompt more than once, there are additional prompts for the second and third go round (and even more options in the appendixes).

Prompts will present a new situation, and you’ll have to decide what happens as a result. Each prompt may change your story mechanically, by granting or using up skills, resources and NPC characters. Prompts also add story context. You make choices, if instructed. And you always create a new experience that must be added to one of your memories. If no relevant memory has an open slot, you must give something up: forgetting a memory or moving it to your diary.

The last eight prompts end the game, providing a natural limit. It is also possible to use up your skills or resources. In a pinch, you can substitute one for another, creating some fiction to explain how you escaped a sticky situation. If you have no skills or resources left and the game demands one, then your vampire dies. My first game ended at prompt 25, having completed seventeen experiences. The endings at the high end of the prompts are a goal to aim for, but you aren’t guaranteed to make it there. There are a few ways the game can end: death and destruction, being trapped forever, or losing yourself in the throes of madness.

Variations

The game suggests two modes of play: quick game, where you simply track the state of your vampire with the minimum necessary information, or a journalling game, where you write vampiric journal entries for each prompt in addition to tracking experiences, memories, skills, resources, and characters.

A scant three pages in the back of the book are dedicated to suggestions for group play, suggesting that “journalling games” be treated as a long-form game of letter writing between participants that may last days or weeks, and “quick games” can be done in-person over the course of a few hours.

In multiplayer, the book suggests sharing non-player characters and creating stories that link the players’ vampires. It also outlines a mechanic for sharing or stealing resources.

This section seemed like an afterthought to me. There were minimal examples to help understand what this kind of game might look like in action. I don’t expect really crunchy rules from a game like this, but at least a little bit of rigor seems necessary, so the players actually know how to interact.

The Fun

The last time I played a solo TTRPG was A Visit to San Sibilia. That game was extremely mechanically light, and felt almost like a series of slightly randomized short story prompts (which I found very enjoyable, but might not satisfy someone who is more interested in the “gamier” aspects of TTRPGs.)

Thousand Year Old Vampire is more mechanical, and gives you more opportunities to choose whether you’ll make decisions for story reasons (do I save a favorite character?) or mechanical ones (do I save my skills and resources?). These mechanical aspects also mean that there is more stuff to keep track of over the course of a game.

Despite following the life of a single vampire from start to finish, this is less of a storytelling game. With San Sibilia, the natural result of playing the game is a short story. The artifacts that come out of a game of TYOV are more fragmented. Until I got into it, I didn’t realize how much erasing or crossing-out I’d be doing. Characters, skills, and resources all come and go. Even memories are liable to be erased eventually, and diaries can be destroyed.

It’s easy to end the game with a sheaf of scribbly, messy papers. While it’s possible to carefully document your vampire’s life in a journaling game, I think it may be a stronger experience if you lean into the ephemeral nature of the experience.  One of the more interesting things that can happen in the game is your vampire living so long that they no longer remember their origin.

It’s probably good to treat your first game of TYOV as a test run, just as you’d expect to need a few sessions to get comfortable with the rules for a “big book” group TTRPG like D&D or Shadowrun.

Delving Through History

Something that was not obvious to me at first is that this game is at least as much about history as vampires. If you begin in Spain in the 1300s, you won’t get through many prompts before you’ll need to know some things about what life is like in that time and place. And your vampire will likely travel the world as they pass the centuries, so you may soon need to learn about 14th century Africa or the New World in the 15th century.

A good general background in history helps, but isn’t necessary so long as you’re willing to go down some Wikipedia rabbit holes. However, learning about history ends up being a significant part of the game. If that sounds boring, this may be a tough game to get through.

Of course, you could always make up some alternate history, or start your vampire in the modern day and let them travel into the far-flung sci-fi future…

The Corporate Cold War Gets Hot — The Story Idea Vault

It’s a common misconception that a great idea makes a great story. The truth is that most great stories come down to execution. A great idea with poor execution rarely works, but a great writer can breathe new life into even the most tired tropes.

Like any writer, I have my own treasure trove of ideas that might end up in a story…someday. But why horde them? Instead, I’m opening the vault and setting them free.

Use these ideas as a writing prompt, or come up with your own twist and reply in the comments.

The Corporate Cold War

When the history books were written, the story started with an exodus of intellectuals and policymakers from the United States and Britain. Their failure to effectively change the festering kleptocracies of their native lands only galvanized them to fight even harder for the more favorable battleground of the EU.

The opening salvo was the unexpected passage of laws that set hard limits on the size of corporations by employee count, profit, and revenue. Any company too large would have to split up. These limits would tighten over time, and any uncompliant company could do no business within the economic block.

The first front of the war was political, with multinational corporations spending billions to influence elections and run ad campaigns. They threatened to abandon Europe, an empty threat, knowing how much it would cost them. They claimed prices would skyrocket. But they underestimated the public vitriol against them.

When political wrangling failed make the problem go away, a legal arms race began. The corps found a hundred ways to split one company into many while maintaining total control and channeling profits to the same shareholders. Regulators updated the rules, and the corporations changed structure again. It took decades of closing loopholes to see the laws really go into effect.

Some of the corps followed through on their warnings, leaving the EU altogether and eating the loss. Others divested themselves of their European branches. But some of the biggest, loudest corporations gave in and broke up in a sudden cascade of shocking announcements. The continent celebrated.

However, the elite shareholder class had been busy consolidating their power in America, Britain, and parts of Asia. As their influence waned in the EU, elsewhere the lines between corporate and political power blurred and fell away.

This, the history books said, was what led to the worldwide split into two socioeconomic blocs: a new cold war. And if there was one thing the gleeful intellectuals of the EU underestimated, it was the amount of bloodshed the rich would embrace to keep their wealth and power. The rhetoric became increasingly violent, demanding that the “continent of socialists” accept “true capitalism” into their borders, no matter the cost.

Armies rallied along the borders. Fingers hovered over the controls that would launch fleets of missiles and drones. And the doomsday clock ticked forward: five seconds to midnight…

Xenocide — Read Report

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Xenocide is the third book in the Ender series, after Ender’s Game (link) and Speaker for the Dead (link). I read the book decades ago, and remembered almost nothing about it. I’m now reading it again with my daughter.

The plot is split between two worlds and sets of characters. On the planet Lusitania, the story of Speaker for the Dead continues, with Andrew “Ender” Wiggin, his AI companion Jane, and the Ribeira family that he has now joined through his marriage to their matriarch, Novinha. Soon, Ender’s sister Valentine and her family arrive as well.

The Lusitanians, including the native Pequeninos and imported Buggers, live under the looming threat of an approaching fleet armed with the planet-destroying MD device, as well as the constantly shifting threat of the descolada virus that is integral to the Pequenino life cycle, but eventually deadly to all non-native species. The fleet is held back temporarily by Jane, who disables all their communications at the risk of revealing herself to the universe at large.

On the planet Path, we’re introduced to Han Fei-tzu, an important official, and his genius daughter, Han Qing-jao. They are members of the planet’s high caste, the godspoken, whose intelligence is linked to OCD-like compulsions that the populace believe to be the way the gods speak to mortals.

Fei-tzu is tasked by the congress of the hundred worlds to solve the riddle of the fleet near Lusitania, which seems to have suddenly disappeared. He assigns this important task to his daughter. Soon they are joined by one more character—Si Wang-mu, a servant girl who is not godspoken, but also turns out to be highly intelligent.

** More Planets, More Problems

Ender’s Game was clearly intended as a single novel that stands on its own. Speaker for the Dead was decidedly more complicated, and left a pile of unresolved plot points to pick up in Xenocide.

Despite this “head start,” the first half of Xenocide feels plodding, and it mostly involves setting up a large number of major problems that the characters are going to have to solve, along with a web of reasons why absolutely every character is going to be at odds with every other character.

Conflict can be an engine of story, but Xenocide proves to me that it can go too far. I couldn’t help feeling that the constant animosity between characters was exhausting, and when certain characters finally gave in and decided to work with others near the end of the book, it felt abrupt and somewhat unearned.

** Thinking Fast and Slow

The first half of the book is slow, and it would be easy to blame this entirely on the setup required by the huge cast of characters and the many interconnected conflicts. That is absolutely a factor, and I think this book was trying to do a few too many things at once. However, I think a lot of this is actually just Card being long-winded and having too much editorial clout at this point in his career.

There are pages of internal narration where characters muse on their feelings. These deep thoughts are sometimes interrupted by one or two lines of dialogue, only to immediately drop back into more pages of their thoughts! If there was ever an argument against a third-person omniscient perspective, this is it. A first-person narrator or even a tight third-person would have limited these long and winding detours and perhaps forced Card to show how characters feel more through their actions and words.

By contrast, the latter half of the book ramps into a much faster pace. All of those problems set up in the first half have to get resolved. Unfortunately, this leads to another problem of pacing, where everything feels like it’s happening overly fast. Again it feels like there was simply too much going on, and some plot points inevitably got short shrift.

To me, some of the resolutions felt like an abrupt tonal shift. This is a far-future series with advanced technology, but felt like hard sci-fi grounded in reality. Near the end of Xenocide, ideas are introduced that are decidedly further afield. There is a brand new kind of magical physics. When the whole plot hinges on these ideas, there’s a whiff of deus ex machina—even if they would feel perfectly reasonable in a story that plays a little looser with its sci-fi extrapolations.

It’s been long enough since I read this series that I no longer remember anything about the fourth book, Children of the Mind. Without spoiling Xenocide, I’ll say that the final bit of sci-fi magic also brings a pair of characters more or less back from the dead, further complicating an already over-complicated book, and I suspect they’ll be heavily involved in the conclusion.

This may be the first inkling of Card’s eventual obsession with rehashing his old stories. It would continue with his “Shadow Saga,” where he spends another six books rehashing plots and characters from the Ender books. I see from Wikipedia that there are at least 19 books in this same world.

** New Perspective

When I originally read these books, I was a teen. Those memories are fuzzy now, but as far as I recall, I found them to be a powerful vision of a distant future.

Re-reading now, I think that’s true of Ender’s Game. But Xenocide feels far less grounded and almost metaphorical. The conflicts, from interpersonal to intergalactic, largely boil down to people talking at cross-purposes, unable or unwilling to understand each other’s viewpoint. It’s ultimately a depressing view of the world that suggests real empathy and compromise is almost a super power, and most conflict is inevitable. It’s depressingly resonant here in 2025.

If there is a central theme across Xenocide’s many plotlines, it’s that people and cultures tend to act in ways that make them dangerous to themselves and each other. Humans are easily controlled or manipulated, and often give in to their most base instincts, even when it’s obviously bad for them.

We see evidence of that on the nightly news, but it’s far more depressing to imagine that we’ll still be so barbaric and unenlightened in three thousand years.

** Final Thoughts

In an appropriate twist, Xenocide leaves me conflicted. It does a number of things that irritate me. I’m still of the opinion that Ender’s Game was the best book in the series. But Xenocide incorporates a lot of strange and provocative ideas, and it has made me think. It comes from an era when the genre conventions of sci-fi expected intricate plotting and…less intricate characterization. So the complexities of the plot can perhaps be forgiven, and the characterization, as heavy-handed as it sometimes is, should perhaps be praised.

Once upon a time, I would likely have considered these books among my favorites. I don’t think they still hold that place. They’re by no means bad, but I do think the state of literature has changed significantly in the past 25 years, as have my own personal tastes. I’m enjoying my foray through the series, even if I do have the old man tendency to complain the whole way. And there has to be merit to any book that you find yourself thinking about well after you’re done reading it.

Bad Music — The Story Idea Vault

It’s a common misconception that a great idea makes a great story. The truth is that most great stories come down to execution. A great idea with poor execution rarely works, but a great writer can breathe new life into even the most tired tropes.

Like any writer, I have my own treasure trove of ideas that might end up in a story…someday. But why horde them? Instead, I’m opening the vault and setting them free.

Use these ideas as a writing prompt, or come up with your own twist and reply in the comments.

Bad Music

There was a long-running debate among fans of the band Bad Music. Were they the most punk of the “neo-unda” punk bands, or were they marketing geniuses who truly understood how much people wanted something that was impossible to get?

The name of the band was designed to make it difficult for internet searches. Their shows were never announced more than one day in advance. Everyone entering the venue had to go through tech scanners and put their phones and smart glasses into the block of modular mini-lockers that seemed to travel with the band. They wore masks on stage and never revealed their names. And holy hell did they rock.

They had no label, and they claimed that they didn’t release records. Fans competed to post the highest quality bootleg tracks. There were eternal arguments over which songs were legit, and which were made by copycats and fakers.

At the height of their fame, debates raged over whether “unreleased” songs could win a Grammy while Bad Music topped the charts on every streaming platform. Then the band vanished. No more popup shows. No more cryptic announcements on the “cool” niche music sites.

New songs surfaced here and there, but they were widely regarded as fakes. An expose in The Guardian made tenuous connections, claiming to have tracked two of the anonymous band members to a suicide cult, and two more to a plane crash in Brazil.

The songs remained popular in the ensuing decades. The band’s disappearance only fueled their legend. Conspiracy theories abounded, and many fans were convinced that the band was still alive. Lookalike cover groups became popular, with some even insisting that they were the real deal, back from the dead.

Every year or two, someone claimed the band had reappeared for one last secret show in an unexpected place.

And maybe they did…

Artificial Condition (Murderbot Diaries #2) — Read Report

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I purchased this as The Murderbot Diaries Vol. 1 double feature—which contains the first two novellas in the series—so I immediately jumped into this story after completing All Systems Red.

While the first story in a series has to introduce characters, introduce a setting, and set the tone, this is really not very different from the requirements of a stand-alone story. The only additional thing a good series-starter needs is some dangling plot threads that can be used to pull the reader into subsequent entries. As a reader, my question for a series is always, “what’s my reason for reading the next story?”

All Systems Red did this setup well, ending with Murderbot sneaking away from the new friends that had just bought its freedom from the oppressive Company. It knows that its memory was wiped after an incident at a mining colony; an incident where many people died and it was first able to override the governor module that keeps all security bots under strict control. It feels compelled to return and learn the truth about what happened.

The ART of Security Consulting

This second installment begins to set up Murderbot as the travelling tough guy in the mold of classic ronin samurai stories and westerns. Murderbot is Jack Reacher with social anxiety, 50% artificial components, and (ironically) actual emotions.

As far as we can tell, Murderbot seems to be pretty good at its job. It knows how to hack the local security systems to avoid being spotted as it makes its way through space stations. It disguises itself as an augmented human, and tries to secure passage off-the-books by finding automated transports with no human passengers to be suspicious.

Unfortunately, a deep space research vessel that Murderbot uses for transportation turns out to have an advanced artificial brain, and once he’s aboard it immediately clocks him as suspicious and forces him to reveal who he really is. What follows is a strange and decidedly awkward relationship with the ship, who Murderbot eventually dubs ART—Asshole Research Transport.

ART eventually helps Murderbot develop a cover story as a security consultant and even helps modify Murderbot’s body in its emergency surgery bay to help it avoid detection. It also ends up acting much like the classic hacker in the protagonist’s earpiece for the ensuing heist.

Murderbot, seemingly unable to avoid human entanglements, ends up taking a security job for a group of out-of-their-depth researchers trying to get their intellectual property from a shady mining corporation. This serves as cover for Murderbot’s actual goal of finding information about the mining colony massacre.

A Lack of Loose Ends

After two volumes, my impression of the Murderbot Diaries is that it’s more comfort food than high-brow sci-fi pushing the boundaries of the genre. That’s not a critique. Now seems like a time when plenty of readers could use some lighter, comforting stories.

Martha Wells has assembled a number of recognizable tropes and familiar ideas in the story so far. But they’re put together in a way that feels fresh, and mixed in with the mild goofiness of a surprisingly effective security bot who prefers to avoid human contact and binge watch its favorite shows instead.

Unfortunately, I felt that the ending of Artificial Condition didn’t quite measure up to All Systems Red. There was a whiff of deus ex machina in the sudden appearance of a character that happens to neatly resolve the concerns of Murderbot’s scientist clients. Murderbot does eventually find some information about the mining colony massacre and its own origin, but nothing is fully explained, and there are no clues as to where it could learn more. I would have liked one or two obvious threads to draw me into the third novella.

Artificial Condition expands the world, introduces new characters, and lets us get further into the head of Murderbot. It also feels like a comfortable stopping point to me, at least for now. The ending doesn’t compel me to keep reading, and maybe that’s okay. I will probably jump back in when I feel the need for some cozy, lighthearted action-adventure.

For now, this volume goes on the bookshelf, and I’ll pick up something else from my TBR list.

Etchings on a Boulder

It was only a couple weeks ago that I posted a poem while claiming that I don’t write much poetry. And it’s true, honest! But it just so happens that I’ve written another one.

I recently went on vacation with my family to a national park. I really shouldn’t be, but I find myself perpetually shocked by the human propensity to deface the most beautiful places with little bits of graffiti. So here’s a poem about that.

Etchings on a Boulder

We cannot count ourselves enlightened
Until we outgrow this need
To carve our names
In every nook and cranny
Of beautiful wilderness

What vain hope
That initials in the rock
Will obtain immortality
Our frail bodies cannot

Petty little scratches
May outlive us
But they will fade
Wind and rain painting
A clean canvas

What meaning will those letters have?
Only this:
We were so afraid
Of being forgotten