The Layoff

I’m working late again for the third straight month. Not that it matters. There’s nothing at home waiting for me.

No one there who loves me. Just my unmade bed. 

No pets in need of a meal or a cuddle.

Not even a plant. Not even a plastic plant. 

Not even a picture of a plastic plant.

That’s just the price you pay to achieve your dreams, they tell me. That’s what I tell other people too, now, since I’ve discovered that it’s true. Making video games means you give up everything else in your life for a little while. For me, I’ve been giving my life to this game development studio for five years. Most small companies don’t last that long anymore. I’m… lucky…

I look at the clock in the bottom right of the screen just in time to see the hour switch over from 12:59 to 1 AM, which means the coffee pot must be just about done with its pre-scheduled brew. I’ll go check on that right after I’m done checking on the latest code commit to the game’s database.

My team is working on the sequel to our hit indie game Roller Clones, a fast paced action game about roller skating that swept awards shows last year with its multiplayer puzzle battles. Sure we were all proud of Roller Clones, but we never expected to get signed for a sequel. This type of luck just doesn’t happen for games like this anymore.

Stretching my arms high above my head, fingers and shoulders crackling with loud consecutive pops, I look around the empty office. Most people are finishing up their work from home today, but I’ve committed to staying here and making sure everything runs perfectly for our big presentation tomorrow. Our publisher, the group of people who decided that we would get money to pay our staff while we develop the sequel, are going to be in the office in person to assess our progress. If they want to, they can decide to cancel the game at any time if they feel we aren't going fast enough, or making the game fun enough, or if they decide that they want to take their company in a different direction. Really it could be anything. That's just a typical way these agreements go, so we always have to be careful to stay in their good graces. 

I’ll get my coffee and send everyone to sleep while I check the new code against any in-game bugs. If I just sleep for a couple hours tonight that’s okay. As long as everything works correctly and still feels fun in the morning, our publisher should be happy.

Pa-ping! A red ping flashes on my work messenger.

“Hey Noa! Just having a little trouble uploading the final updated code to the repo. Looks like an account issue? You seeing anything?”

I log into the version control homepage. Nothing seems wrong at a glance, but I notice that there are in fact a few missing accounts from the authorized users list. That’s odd. Maybe their accounts need to be updated and re-added.

“Hm, I’m looking into it. Are you able to log in right now? Maybe try one more time?”

Three dots appear as they continue typing. Three dots disappear, and after a brief pause reappear. Pa-ping!

“Um, actually now I can’t log into my account at all. It’s telling me my account doesn’t even exist actually.”

“Weird... Let me see if I can fix it real quick!”

Since I’m one of the admins, I go into the accounts page and sure enough a few accounts seem to really be missing. That’s not good, especially so close to our deadline.

“Hey you know what, give me like five minutes. I don’t see your account either. I’m gonna grab some caffeine and see if I can reinstate your access. Hang tight!”

Heaps of sugar and a sturdy glug of cream go into the biggest damn mug I can find. It isn’t unusual for things to go wrong on short notice and I’m used to being the one to fix it all, but sometimes I do deserve a treat to keep my focus strong. This presentation HAS to go well. We have to prove that we’re on track to outperform the success of Roller Clones. Messing up this milestone could completely ruin us.

Steam spirals up and out of the stained mug I'm holding and for a moment I let my mind wander. Have my sacrifices been worth it? Has essentially living in this office been rewarding enough to see these games come to life? I sigh deeply and some of the steam wafts across the room with my breath.

Sometimes I’m not sure.

I reached my dreams. I’m helping run a highly successful game studio. People look to me when they need help. I’m the person responsible for making sure it’s all functioning as it should. My team is happy. The players love it.

So why do I feel so empty? Why do I feel that all the things I’ve been building towards have been underwhelming?

I shake the thought from my head like a wet dog and bring my drink back over to my desk. Amid the clutter of the past three or four days, I shove aside the other drinks and plates and chip bags to make room for my most recent cup. Plop into the chair, wiggle the mouse aaaaaand -

ACCESS DENIED

Well that’s not right. I refresh the page.

ACCESS DENIED

PLEASE CONTACT YOUR ADMINISTRATOR 

That can't be happening. I refresh the page.

ACCESS DENIED

PLEASE CONTACT YOUR ADMINISTRATOR

I AM the administrator. I refresh the page.

ACCESS DENIED

PLEASE CONTACT YOUR ADMINISTRATOR

Only one person can revoke my admin access and it should only happen if the game is being cancelled. But we aren't presenting until tomorrow. The game can't be cancelled. They haven't even seen it yet. They wouldn't cancel it yet. They wouldn't cancel the game. There's no reason to cancel it.

I sit silently and whisper the most potent curse word I can conjure. Nobody else is here to listen to it. Not even a plastic plant.