Games play (heh) an important part in my life.
I blame my big brother. He introduced me to Dungeons & Dragons at the impressionable age of, ooh, about 13. It was new and exciting, a fun game in those days, before the news media and fundamentalist Christians had heard of it; a friendly, co-operative game, bringing socially inept geeks together in their common love of fantasy and fairy tales.
D&D has come a long way in the 30 years since then (mostly backwards, at least for the players, although obviously it's kept the publishers in business). But it's also given rise to an entirely new genre: the computer FRPG.
It's not widely appreciated, even by players of both, how different the computer FRPG is from the version with pencils and paper and polyhedral dice. Some people think that writing the perfect computer FRPG is just a matter of coding a big enough world, and faithfully and meticulously translating enough of the rules. But this thinking ignores the most important rule of all, which is the core of the difference.
Put simply: the pencil-and-paper game is a social event - a bunch of people get together to have fun. The computer version is a storytelling medium - the "author" draws up a plot, and the player's job is to find a way through it. There may be many different ways, some arriving at slightly different endpoints, but the basic framework and goal are not negotiable. (True, most human DMs start out with a similar "plot" in mind. But good ones will change it as they go along; only bad DMs will try to force their players to stick to a framework they planned from the start. A well-run game is not so much a story as a symposium.)
And that's why the computer FRPG is a form of art, no matter what Roger Ebert says on the subject; because it's not like the social game that is played between friends. Rather than spending so much time defining "art", I think Ebert should give more thought to his idea of a "game". Games like Neverwinter Nights, the Zelda family, Morrowind, Jade Empire - these are not about winning or losing, or even playing. They are about experiencing a story.
Some of them allow more latitude than others. Resident Evil imposes a fixed path, set out by constant short-term motivators. Neverwinter Nights - the most faithful translation of pen-and-paper rules I've seen - forces you to jump through the hoops laid out in the order required, because there's simply not much else to do. Oblivion, by contrast, gives you near-complete freedom - but there's still a single, central storyline to be completed.
The 2008 version of Prince of Persia is an extreme example. Not only do you have to follow the plot (with virtually no latitude about what order you do things in or what skills your character develops), but when you screw it up, you're immediately returned ("restored") to the point just before you did. This mechanism caused a lot of controversy at the time - some people thought it was taking the risk and the skill out of the game.
But, in truth, none of these games is about risk or skill, any more than watching a whodunnit is about your ability to outguess the fictional detective. They are about the experience.
And that, dear Mr Ebert, is art. Some of it is even, I would claim, good art.
I recently replayed Jade Empire, and I would say that, in script, acting, cinematography and (most importantly) storyline, it stands comparison with decent Hollywood action movies. Zelda: Twilight Princess is by turns engrossing, thrilling and touching, as well as beautifully visualised. Oblivion, while scriptwise a pale shadow of Morrowind, tries to make up for it with technical execution (I recall the first time, stealing through some tunnel, I saw an ogre ahead of me - I almost wet myself).
There's also, of course, plenty of bad art in the genre. Assassin's Creed has a confused and cliched storyline, with little latitude to explore and no attempt to reconcile the inconsistencies. Ditto Freelancer, and Neverwinter Nights 2. Bad writers keep you on the story railroad by putting in arbitrary, unexplained restrictions to what you can do. Whereas the better games either trap you in a storyline where there is always an obvious, immediate short-term goal (Zelda, Resident Evil), or continually nudge you towards the plot with internally consistent motivators (Morrowind).
But even bad art is still art. Good art shows what it can aspire to.
If the computer FRPG were really just a digital version of the tabletop game, then Ebert would have a point. As it is - well, he should try playing through some of these games. Then let's see if he can still maintain that he hasn't experienced some kind of art.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Monday, November 16, 2009
Agrizoophobia
I never used to worry about cows. Even when, aged twelve or so, I was charged - rather half-heartedly, it must be admitted - by a bull, I was more amused than scared. But now they're preying on my mind. Maybe it's my conscience, reminding me of all the steaks I've eaten and the leather shoes I'm wearing.
Or maybe the cows are getting more dangerous.
I've spent the past week driving my dear sainted grey-haired old mother about the island. It's her first visit to New Zealand, and I wanted to show her as much as possible of what I love about this country. Her admiration for the scenery is perfectly satisfying; she goes into unsolicited raptures about the trees; she enjoys the geology and the flowers.
But the cows worry her. There are too many of them, she insists. Not in absolute numbers, but each field that contains them, contains too many of them for the size of field.
You might say they're overcowded. But let's not.
Admittedly she's not a farmer, but she has lived a large part of her life in the country. She knows what a field full of cows is supposed to look like. And it may be just the power of suggestion, but I think she's right...
On Sunday, as we drove from Coromandel to Whitianga, I was privileged to see one of these bovines relieving its bladder. It was a horrific sight: not to mince words, it looked as if this particular cow had been bred more for firefighting than milking. Suddenly I became aware that I'd had a lot of coffee for breakfast, and my own bladder would be needing relief before I was much older. Which was vexing, as we were not, so to speak, conveniently located.
For the next half hour, I tried to take my mind off the spectacle. As we drove through the rolling agricultural pastures of the Coromandel peninsula, I tried not to think about cows. As we stopped at the beach, I studiously ignored the waves gently lapping the shore twenty metres from my left ear. A house across the road had what looked like an outhouse. On these occasions, one can't help looking at these things a little more speculatively than one has any strict right to.
Sometimes the scenery just won't give you a break.
By the time we reached the sanctuary of Whitianga and a civilised cafe, I was wondering: how hard can it be to drive with one's legs crossed?
But now Deadlyjelly's report has my mind going in an even more sinister direction. What if the cows themselves sense that they are being packed too tightly? What if it's affecting their (and you'll have to pardon me here, contact with my immediate family often has this effect on me) mood? What if modern farming is turning these legendarily placid animals into barely-containable barrels of raw bovine vengeance?
What if New Zealand is heading for its own Orwellian nightmare? The irony would be rich indeed.
Or maybe the cows are getting more dangerous.
I've spent the past week driving my dear sainted grey-haired old mother about the island. It's her first visit to New Zealand, and I wanted to show her as much as possible of what I love about this country. Her admiration for the scenery is perfectly satisfying; she goes into unsolicited raptures about the trees; she enjoys the geology and the flowers.
But the cows worry her. There are too many of them, she insists. Not in absolute numbers, but each field that contains them, contains too many of them for the size of field.
You might say they're overcowded. But let's not.
Admittedly she's not a farmer, but she has lived a large part of her life in the country. She knows what a field full of cows is supposed to look like. And it may be just the power of suggestion, but I think she's right...
On Sunday, as we drove from Coromandel to Whitianga, I was privileged to see one of these bovines relieving its bladder. It was a horrific sight: not to mince words, it looked as if this particular cow had been bred more for firefighting than milking. Suddenly I became aware that I'd had a lot of coffee for breakfast, and my own bladder would be needing relief before I was much older. Which was vexing, as we were not, so to speak, conveniently located.
For the next half hour, I tried to take my mind off the spectacle. As we drove through the rolling agricultural pastures of the Coromandel peninsula, I tried not to think about cows. As we stopped at the beach, I studiously ignored the waves gently lapping the shore twenty metres from my left ear. A house across the road had what looked like an outhouse. On these occasions, one can't help looking at these things a little more speculatively than one has any strict right to.
Sometimes the scenery just won't give you a break.
By the time we reached the sanctuary of Whitianga and a civilised cafe, I was wondering: how hard can it be to drive with one's legs crossed?
But now Deadlyjelly's report has my mind going in an even more sinister direction. What if the cows themselves sense that they are being packed too tightly? What if it's affecting their (and you'll have to pardon me here, contact with my immediate family often has this effect on me) mood? What if modern farming is turning these legendarily placid animals into barely-containable barrels of raw bovine vengeance?
What if New Zealand is heading for its own Orwellian nightmare? The irony would be rich indeed.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Home improvements
Our garage is not the most practical of spaces.
It's narrow - if you drive the car into it, you'd best be going straight. And it's short - if you fit the car inside and shut the door behind, there's no room to walk around the front. The door to the inside of the house is a rickety sliding thing that is, quite literally, hanging off its track by two barely-attached castors. And the door you drive in through is broken - it takes a good deal of dexterity, strength and, not least, raw courage to open and shut it.
The former owners didn't use it as a garage. The male half of the sketch, whom we'll call Malcolm, claimed it was an office - there was a computer and a phone in there - but I've since discovered that the phone point wasn't actually wired up, so I have my doubts that he did a great deal of productive work. More likely it was just a space to hide from the kids and play Age of Empires.
And he stored his kayak in there.
That's not as noteworthy here as it would be back home. Remember, here in NZ every able-bodied male between 15 and 30 is pretty much required by law to take part in some kind of strenuous physical sport on a regular basis. (Well, there is no actual law, but since most other activities are either illegal, financially impracticable or socially ostracised, it's near enough.)
This particular kayak lived a pampered life, roosting contentedly in an elaborate mostly-wooden frame constructed around the ceiling of the garage. The former owner, who described himself as "a carpenter", built this structure himself. I hadn't given it much thought, until the garage door salesman - a gentleman named Trevor - told me that the huge chipboard platform on which the kayak used to rest, would have to go.
Easy enough, I thought, and budgeted Saturday morning for the job.
Saturday afternoon, then, found me in the garage armed only with a stepladder, a stout steel hammer, and some ill-assorted gardening tools, admiring Malcolm's handiwork.
I have had occasion before to worry about Macolm's finesse as a carpenter. It has seemed to me that he subscribes to the school of workmanship that holds that strength derives not from engineering or design, but from the sheer mass of timber. Hammer enough nails into enough wood, holds this school, and you can make pretty much anything stand up. And indeed, in the kayak's nest, Malcolm had outdone himself. The structure I now found myself contemplating involved at least 12 separate pieces of stout timber and a huge platform of chipboard, the whole nailed firmly together and covered with a coat of glossy white paint. According to Trevor's instructions, about half of this structure had to come down.
With ease and grace, I removed the two and a half metres of cushioned steel pipe that the kayak's prow had rested on, standing my trophy to the back of the garage. Then it was time to attack the frame proper.
Initial skirmishes established that it was possible, with patience and strength, to remove a three-inch nail using nothing but the trusty hammer, plus some leverage that was best applied by abusing the hedging shears. I learned from experience that there is an angle, in prying nails, at which when the hammer inevitably slips, the handle will connect sharply with one's nose. With an unaccustomed burst of fellow-feeling for Oliver Hardy, I resolved to eschew this angle in future.
After about 40 minutes, I had removed all the nails holding the chipboard platform in place, and was ready to take it down. But how, precisely, does one safely move 30 kilos of MDF, in the approximate size and shape of a queen-sized bed, from above-head-height to ground level?
My first plan was to pull it out of its far resting place, and let the far end drop as the gentle dew from heaven upon the floor beneath. That plan was thwarted by the garage's sliding door, which perversely persisted in holding up one corner of the damn' thing. By now it's wedged between other pieces of timber, and it won't be budged sideways. Not by me, anyway.
Then I thought of standing below, and dislodging it using the steel pipe. I trusted I would have enough time to leap nimbly out of the way. But once again, the stubbornly supportive sliding door baffled my every attempt to move it. In some frustration I pounded on the bottom of the platform, to be rewarded with small, pipe-shaped indentations appearing. I left the pipe propping up the far side of the platform, reasoning that anything that changed the equilibrium could only be to the good.
I re-mounted the stepladder. The platform and I glared resentfully at one another.
After a few more minutes of this uffish thought business, it seemed to me that there was, indeed, a direction in which it might be possible to move the damn' thing. With huffing and puffing, seeing and sawing, straining and cursing, I manoeuvred it out of its stuck configuration and slid it back, further towards the far end, until suddenly the near end was loose of its support.
At the far end, the makeshift pole swivelled and tilted alarmingly towards the garage's huge window.
At this moment, it dawned on me that this was a two-person job.
Here was I, standing atop a stepladder and reaching over an eight-inch wooden beam to support half my own body weight in solid MDF. Releasing it now would, I suspected, result in complications to the tune of a two-metre radius of shattered plate glass. Going back was impossible; the only way was down. And that involved climbing down, while holding up the platform...
"Darling!", I bleated plaintively for the helpmeet. She, I realised, was in the back garden, well out of earshot.
"Help!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.
I dug my mobile phone out of its holster, and texted her: "Help!" From near at hand, I heard her phone beep.
I dialled the house's landline number. Surely, I thought, she'd hear that thing ringing even from the garden. That hope buoyed me through another three minutes.
Theoretically I could stand here and wait until she came back for the shears or the pruning saw; but she's grown very keen on the garden, and is quite capable of spending the entire afternoon doing nothing but grubbing out suspected weeds. Waiting doesn't appeal.
I could call our friend Matt, there's a good chance he's at home right now, he could be here in ten minutes. But even if he were available, that would entail a certain amount of good-natured ribbing. Besides, he said he was working this afternoon.
No, I'd started this thing on my own, and that was how I would have to finish it.
With the last reserves of my strength, I hefted the platform back up and shoved it back across the top of the amazingly supportive sliding door. The pipe-pole teetered.
Then I clambered down the stepladder, straining to hold up the unsupported corner as I did so. At any moment I expected the platform to twist and lunge for its revenge. To my gratified surprise, I achieved the ground without that happening.
I secured the pole, then gave the gentlest of tugs on the free corner. The platform, gracious in defeat, crashed harmlessly to the floor.
The rest of the structure, by comparison, came quietly. A determined attack with the pruning saw reduced the proud, stout beam to two easily-twisted cantilevers. It was the work of minutes to demolish the rest of Malcolm's handiwork, and consign the wreckage to the garden shed.
And our garage is one step closer to being used for its designed purpose.
It's narrow - if you drive the car into it, you'd best be going straight. And it's short - if you fit the car inside and shut the door behind, there's no room to walk around the front. The door to the inside of the house is a rickety sliding thing that is, quite literally, hanging off its track by two barely-attached castors. And the door you drive in through is broken - it takes a good deal of dexterity, strength and, not least, raw courage to open and shut it.
The former owners didn't use it as a garage. The male half of the sketch, whom we'll call Malcolm, claimed it was an office - there was a computer and a phone in there - but I've since discovered that the phone point wasn't actually wired up, so I have my doubts that he did a great deal of productive work. More likely it was just a space to hide from the kids and play Age of Empires.
And he stored his kayak in there.
That's not as noteworthy here as it would be back home. Remember, here in NZ every able-bodied male between 15 and 30 is pretty much required by law to take part in some kind of strenuous physical sport on a regular basis. (Well, there is no actual law, but since most other activities are either illegal, financially impracticable or socially ostracised, it's near enough.)
This particular kayak lived a pampered life, roosting contentedly in an elaborate mostly-wooden frame constructed around the ceiling of the garage. The former owner, who described himself as "a carpenter", built this structure himself. I hadn't given it much thought, until the garage door salesman - a gentleman named Trevor - told me that the huge chipboard platform on which the kayak used to rest, would have to go.
Easy enough, I thought, and budgeted Saturday morning for the job.
Saturday afternoon, then, found me in the garage armed only with a stepladder, a stout steel hammer, and some ill-assorted gardening tools, admiring Malcolm's handiwork.
I have had occasion before to worry about Macolm's finesse as a carpenter. It has seemed to me that he subscribes to the school of workmanship that holds that strength derives not from engineering or design, but from the sheer mass of timber. Hammer enough nails into enough wood, holds this school, and you can make pretty much anything stand up. And indeed, in the kayak's nest, Malcolm had outdone himself. The structure I now found myself contemplating involved at least 12 separate pieces of stout timber and a huge platform of chipboard, the whole nailed firmly together and covered with a coat of glossy white paint. According to Trevor's instructions, about half of this structure had to come down.
With ease and grace, I removed the two and a half metres of cushioned steel pipe that the kayak's prow had rested on, standing my trophy to the back of the garage. Then it was time to attack the frame proper.
Initial skirmishes established that it was possible, with patience and strength, to remove a three-inch nail using nothing but the trusty hammer, plus some leverage that was best applied by abusing the hedging shears. I learned from experience that there is an angle, in prying nails, at which when the hammer inevitably slips, the handle will connect sharply with one's nose. With an unaccustomed burst of fellow-feeling for Oliver Hardy, I resolved to eschew this angle in future.
After about 40 minutes, I had removed all the nails holding the chipboard platform in place, and was ready to take it down. But how, precisely, does one safely move 30 kilos of MDF, in the approximate size and shape of a queen-sized bed, from above-head-height to ground level?
My first plan was to pull it out of its far resting place, and let the far end drop as the gentle dew from heaven upon the floor beneath. That plan was thwarted by the garage's sliding door, which perversely persisted in holding up one corner of the damn' thing. By now it's wedged between other pieces of timber, and it won't be budged sideways. Not by me, anyway.
Then I thought of standing below, and dislodging it using the steel pipe. I trusted I would have enough time to leap nimbly out of the way. But once again, the stubbornly supportive sliding door baffled my every attempt to move it. In some frustration I pounded on the bottom of the platform, to be rewarded with small, pipe-shaped indentations appearing. I left the pipe propping up the far side of the platform, reasoning that anything that changed the equilibrium could only be to the good.
I re-mounted the stepladder. The platform and I glared resentfully at one another.
After a few more minutes of this uffish thought business, it seemed to me that there was, indeed, a direction in which it might be possible to move the damn' thing. With huffing and puffing, seeing and sawing, straining and cursing, I manoeuvred it out of its stuck configuration and slid it back, further towards the far end, until suddenly the near end was loose of its support.
At the far end, the makeshift pole swivelled and tilted alarmingly towards the garage's huge window.
At this moment, it dawned on me that this was a two-person job.
Here was I, standing atop a stepladder and reaching over an eight-inch wooden beam to support half my own body weight in solid MDF. Releasing it now would, I suspected, result in complications to the tune of a two-metre radius of shattered plate glass. Going back was impossible; the only way was down. And that involved climbing down, while holding up the platform...
"Darling!", I bleated plaintively for the helpmeet. She, I realised, was in the back garden, well out of earshot.
"Help!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.
I dug my mobile phone out of its holster, and texted her: "Help!" From near at hand, I heard her phone beep.
I dialled the house's landline number. Surely, I thought, she'd hear that thing ringing even from the garden. That hope buoyed me through another three minutes.
Theoretically I could stand here and wait until she came back for the shears or the pruning saw; but she's grown very keen on the garden, and is quite capable of spending the entire afternoon doing nothing but grubbing out suspected weeds. Waiting doesn't appeal.
I could call our friend Matt, there's a good chance he's at home right now, he could be here in ten minutes. But even if he were available, that would entail a certain amount of good-natured ribbing. Besides, he said he was working this afternoon.
No, I'd started this thing on my own, and that was how I would have to finish it.
With the last reserves of my strength, I hefted the platform back up and shoved it back across the top of the amazingly supportive sliding door. The pipe-pole teetered.
Then I clambered down the stepladder, straining to hold up the unsupported corner as I did so. At any moment I expected the platform to twist and lunge for its revenge. To my gratified surprise, I achieved the ground without that happening.
I secured the pole, then gave the gentlest of tugs on the free corner. The platform, gracious in defeat, crashed harmlessly to the floor.
The rest of the structure, by comparison, came quietly. A determined attack with the pruning saw reduced the proud, stout beam to two easily-twisted cantilevers. It was the work of minutes to demolish the rest of Malcolm's handiwork, and consign the wreckage to the garden shed.
And our garage is one step closer to being used for its designed purpose.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I find it kinda funny, and I find it kinda sad
I love April Fool's Day. One day a year, I can read the news and simply assume that if it's patently deranged, it's not for real.
"Anti-globalisation protesters at G20 summit"
How can anyone admit to being "anti-globalisation"? That's basically "pro-poverty". Oh wait, it's April Fool's - phew, for a moment I thought they might be serious.
"Miss Universe enjoys hospitality at Guantanamo Bay"
Oh, the irony. A, get this, Venezuelan beauty queen upholding "a longstanding relationship with the USO" by holidaying at the Caribbean's most notorious prison camp. How gullible do they think we are?
"Government steps in to limit power price rises"
In a world of global warming and frequent outages caused by transmission problems, how stupid do you have to be to encourage people to use more electricity? Because that's what the NZ government is doing. Thank goodness it's April Fool's.
"US Justice Dept moves to drop Ted Stevens's conviction"
So let's get this straight: the poster boy for Republican corruption was squeaky-clean all along? Good one. Can you just "toss out" a conviction?
Sadly, now it's 2 April, and I have to face the unpalatable fact that all of these stories were, apparently, true.
Addendum: Since posting this, the BBC has completely ripped off my idea. Thanks guys. Makes me feel like a real journalist again.
"Anti-globalisation protesters at G20 summit"
How can anyone admit to being "anti-globalisation"? That's basically "pro-poverty". Oh wait, it's April Fool's - phew, for a moment I thought they might be serious.
"Miss Universe enjoys hospitality at Guantanamo Bay"
Oh, the irony. A, get this, Venezuelan beauty queen upholding "a longstanding relationship with the USO" by holidaying at the Caribbean's most notorious prison camp. How gullible do they think we are?
"Government steps in to limit power price rises"
In a world of global warming and frequent outages caused by transmission problems, how stupid do you have to be to encourage people to use more electricity? Because that's what the NZ government is doing. Thank goodness it's April Fool's.
"US Justice Dept moves to drop Ted Stevens's conviction"
So let's get this straight: the poster boy for Republican corruption was squeaky-clean all along? Good one. Can you just "toss out" a conviction?
Sadly, now it's 2 April, and I have to face the unpalatable fact that all of these stories were, apparently, true.
Addendum: Since posting this, the BBC has completely ripped off my idea. Thanks guys. Makes me feel like a real journalist again.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Rags to rags
So all the buzz now is about Slumdog Millionaire. I haven't seen it yet, and I'm not entirely sure I want to.
It's always nice to see a non-Hollywood movie getting this kind of hype. It'd be even nicer if the movie itself were a bit less Hollywood in plot. Unregarded lowly schmoe comes into incredible good fortune? Pur-leeze. It's a story that was old when Charles Dickens was cranking it out.
Another way of putting it would be to say that it's an updated version of a timeless classic story. As, let's face it, what isn't? We've all heard the argument that there are only N basic plotlines, where N is anything from three to sixty-something. But the lowly-guy-makes-good story is ancient by anyone's standards. It's embedded very deeply in our culture.
And, I've decided I don't like it there.
Rags-to-riches stories make us feel good. They're inspiring. But they're also oppressive: they preach the value that it's okay for billions of people to live in abject misery, because a vanishingly tiny fraction of them will escape it... and if they can do it, anyone can do it.
And to a point, that's true. Anyone can do it, with sufficient luck. But not everyone can get that lucky. There just aren't enough winning lottery tickets to go round. And for every slumdog millionaire who gets to have a movie made of their life, there are tens of thousands who live and die in the same misery they were born in.
I think that's why I like Thomas Hardy. Jude the Obscure is a tale of wasted potential; our hero constantly tries and fails to better himself, living out a life of high drama and deep tragedy without ever making a ripple in the world. That's a hero I can relate to.
But this "rags to riches" myth is endorsing poverty. And it's so unnecessary.
It's always nice to see a non-Hollywood movie getting this kind of hype. It'd be even nicer if the movie itself were a bit less Hollywood in plot. Unregarded lowly schmoe comes into incredible good fortune? Pur-leeze. It's a story that was old when Charles Dickens was cranking it out.
Another way of putting it would be to say that it's an updated version of a timeless classic story. As, let's face it, what isn't? We've all heard the argument that there are only N basic plotlines, where N is anything from three to sixty-something. But the lowly-guy-makes-good story is ancient by anyone's standards. It's embedded very deeply in our culture.
And, I've decided I don't like it there.
Rags-to-riches stories make us feel good. They're inspiring. But they're also oppressive: they preach the value that it's okay for billions of people to live in abject misery, because a vanishingly tiny fraction of them will escape it... and if they can do it, anyone can do it.
And to a point, that's true. Anyone can do it, with sufficient luck. But not everyone can get that lucky. There just aren't enough winning lottery tickets to go round. And for every slumdog millionaire who gets to have a movie made of their life, there are tens of thousands who live and die in the same misery they were born in.
"Stories are not, on the whole, interested in swineherds who remain swineherds, and poor and humble shoemakers whose destiny is to die slightly poorer and much humbler." -- Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad.
I think that's why I like Thomas Hardy. Jude the Obscure is a tale of wasted potential; our hero constantly tries and fails to better himself, living out a life of high drama and deep tragedy without ever making a ripple in the world. That's a hero I can relate to.
But this "rags to riches" myth is endorsing poverty. And it's so unnecessary.
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