Chapter 1: Exporter Hell
Indulge my tirade, if you would.
What the fuck is this webcomic?
My friend Rick and I went to college together for a handful of years. I didn’t really make friends the first half of college, and the nerds in my class all grouped together, so it was great for them, but I couldn’t even fit in with a group of nerds. Go figure.
We studied – in vain – video game design. Have either of us worked in the field? Nope. Do we know the mechanics or logistics of actually creating a video game? Sorta.
For some reason, we got amped about the idea of collaborating on this comic. Rick would write and I would “draw.” We came up with this idea in 2009. That’s 12 years ago. The way that video games are made has fundamentally not changed so much, but there have been a number of technical advances (I’m assuming).
A bulk of the writing was done in 2009, and more between 2009 and 2011.
I have started this fucking comic over and over again at least a dozen times. I’ve drawn, redrawn, and restarted everything over and over again. It’s a sick joke. I’m a sick person. My delusions and aspirations toward perfection have led me nowhere.
In 2011 I got about 20-30 comics in. I made progress. I don’t think the URL is up anymore, actually, so all that shit’s gone.
Between 2009 and now I’ve gone to underground warehouse parties, got married, moved to Central America, watched my wife push a playset into a pool for giggles, moved 5 times, bought a house, had a kid – the list goes on.
I’m not redrawing anymore. This is the last hurrah for Development. If this doesn’t work out then fuck it all.
This plotline hinges on the idea that moving 3D models between programs and into a game engine is not easy. If you’ve ever used a computer, you know that computers will make the simplest task into a face-punching, glass snorting beast of a difficult time. This arc introduces our 2 main characters Terrence and Ivan (based on yours truly and Rick, of course), as well as a reoccurring character – the Tools Guy.
This is what the culmination of a decade of anxiety, self deprecation, and fear of failure look like infused into marker and pen lines. If you don’t like it, definitely blame Rick.