[This article by Ryan Henson Creighton is re-posted from the Untold Entertainment blog, which is awesome.]
If i had a dime for everyone who suggested i set up a Kickstarter campaign for Spellirium, our upcoming graphic adventure/word puzzle mash-up game, i wouldn't need to start a Kickstarter campaign. Because i'd have a lot of dimes. Dimes from those people i just mentioned.
Anyone remember THIS? Eh? ... no? Okay.
But aside from the relative inconvenience of starting a Kickstarter campaign when you're Canadian (the process involves befriending and placing your complete trust in an American. What is this - Fantasyland??), i am very wary of crowdsourcing funding for my games. To understand why, i have to take you aaaaall the way back to 1985. Codpieces were the height of fashion, Gorbachev was in the White House, and an eight-year-old Ryan Terence Creighton (née Bagley ... honestly) was wearing a bank teller's visor.
Awwww yeah. Time for some muhfuggin' BIDNESS.
i was wearing the visor because that's what people wear when they handle money (and they live in the 1920's). And i was about to handle a lot of money.
i got it in my head that i would write a book - an adventure story about two kids who discover a mysterious egg that hatches into a baby dragon, which they have to care for and keep hidden from their parents. i was so positive that this was a Great Idea™ that i decided to raise money for the endeavour through pre-sales. So i put on my green visor and loaded some scrap paper into my clipboard, because clipboards also have something to do with collecting money. But i wasn't sure what, exactly.
i began canvassing the neighbourhood, pitching my prospective product to neighbours i'd never met. i explained that i'd be selling the book piecemeal for 25 cents a chapter, and that there would be around 30 chapters. Those neighbours who were quick with math figured out that the book would cost over seven dollars, which in 1985 money was, like, a thousand bucks, based on their reactions. So some neighbours bought one chapter, some bought three chapters, and one or two folks went all-in for the whole book.
i collected the loose change in a large plastic bag, being very careful to record the relevant details of the transaction. i knew it had something to do with writing down who gave me money, but i hadn't quite figured out how street addresses worked, so i think i wrote down stuff like "Smith. 1 Chapter. Green Fence." and "Jenkins. 2 Chapters. Has a dog."
When i arrived home i was hot and tired and sweaty, but i considered the day a success. My single-parent mother came through the front door and, beaming, i held up an enormous plastic bag filled with coins.
"Where did you get all that MONEY, Ryan??" she demanded. i told her all about my brilliant pre-sales plan, and showed her how successful i'd been. She took a look at my clipboard and gasped in horror. "How are you going to give people a book if you don't know where they live??" i ... i didn't know.
She demanded to see the actual book i was selling. "But ... there's no book, Mom" i said. "i collected all this money on the promise of writing a book." That's when Mom confiscated my hard-earned coins, sat me down at the kitchen table, and though i wouldn't be able to get the product to most of the people on the list (it's possible she knew how to find "Thompson. 1 chapter. Black sports car in driveway"), she made damn sure that i knuckled down and wrote the first chapter of that book.
Angry moms: nature's perfect bonerkillers.
So i did. i worked for, like, a whole half hour, until my hand cramped. The first chapter ended with the kids discovering the egg. i clearly remember the amazing dialogue i had written for the characters as they gazed on in wonder at the mysterious orb:
"What is it, Jenny?" asked Clark.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know."
This was all in the Days Before Mom Could Afford a Computer, so i wrote and illustrated the thing by hand using pencil crayons. i finished the first chapter - two whole pages - pleased as punch with myself, and presented it to my mom with an "i told you so" air. "Great work," she said flatly. "Now how are you going to do 27 more copies?"
This was also in the Days Before Colour Photocopies Were Available to Regular Human Beings. My hand was sore, my pencil crayons were worn to nubs, and my money had been confiscated. Tomorrow was a new day, and i had to face it with a product i could not deliver to people whose money i had already collected.
Flash forward to now. Codpieces are still in fashion (i find them quite fetching, anyway), and everyone i know is urging me to venture back out into the streets with my bank visor and my clipboard, knocking on the doors of unknown neighbours and asking them for money for an as-yet incomplete project. The sting of letting those people down, my mother's consternation, and the abject guilt of collecting money and not delivering linger with me, and i can't yet bring myself to do it. i'm not saying i won't ever start a Kickstarter campaign, but it might take a few hours talking to a bearded man while lying on a couch to work up the courage to try pre-sales again.
Tell me about your mother ... flipping shit when you tried to pre-sell that non-existent chapter book.
And for those of you would-be backers: beware of little kids in visors asking you for money for products that may never materialize. Sure, the clipboards they hold may lull you into a false sense of security (because clipboards, after all, all the hallmark of a pro). But whatever you do, just make sure they're writing down your address correctly.