In Three Genres: The Writing of Poetry, Fiction and Drama, Stephen Minot emphasizes orientation in the creation of effective fiction. He argues:
Orientation is the sense of being somewhere specific….Stories vary in the degree to which they stress orientation and in which aspects are emphasized, but even the most dreamlike of fantasies provide, as do dreams themselves, details that help readers to place themselves. Without such details the characters tend to remain detached and unconvincing. And the story itself may not provide the sense of authenticity readers need if they are to become absorbed in the work. . (211) [emphasis mine]
Nowhere is this sense of orientation more malleable than in the MOO (Multi-User Domain, Object Oriented); an environment almost entirely dependent on textual description for its existence. The opening message for LinguaMOO, a self-described "archi/Textural community" and the site used for the creation of this experimental fiction, welcomes visitors and residents alike with the explanation that it is an environment "where language, image, and people are woven together like fine lace...where writing IS the landscape."
In fact, a total lack of stimuli in the MOO breeds a dependence on textual interaction and description. Players cannot interact without the text. The emote function of LinguaMOO allows players to supplement their concrete statements with virtual gestures similar to the non-verbal communication relied upon in face-to-face interaction. The more aggressively a player provides these types of cues, the more it is possible to gauge that effective communication has taken place.
But these textually-rich clues cannot be limited only to the actual interaction between players. Nothing as organic as a work of fiction can flourish in a void. A sense of space must also be provided. In Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft Janet Burroway goes so far as to say that fiction must have an "atmosphere." Without it, characters will be "unable to breathe" (194). According to Burroway, setting and tone combine to create this necessary aspect. And the MOO provides a unique opportunity to develop just such an atmosphere.
The MOO mimics a physical environment. Virtual rooms are created in which players may gather and exits and entrances are created to link these rooms. Care is often exercised to name these passages with words that reflect a true geography. In larger MOO "structures" or virtual outdoor settings, compass directions such as North, South, East and West are often used to give a player a sense of space. And these constructs must be named intuitively. As Jorge R. Barrios and Deanna Wilkes-Gibbs explain their essay "A Guide to Virtual Communities Known as MOOs", participants "draw on their experience in with real world spaces to navigate the MOO. They expect to be able to go back the way they came, simply reversing their course" (71).
In the Loft created for our fiction, players leave an empty parking lot and enter a building foyer to find an elevator. Players may either type UP or click the link marked upstairs foyer to continue. Both the exit command and the room name were carefully chosen to instill a three dimensional, multi-level conception of the space; to encourage the reader/player to envision the MOO loft as a "real" environment. Burroway reports that tapping into a reader's biological response to time and space may be a critical building block for successful fiction: "Some linguists posit the theory that language itself originates in prepositions — that is, that spatial relationships are the primary function of the mind, and our perceptions of above, below, toward, beyond, and so on precede any other element in the structure of logical expression" (197).
And in that respect, the MOO offers many advantages. Almost every element is malleable. Settings and props can be compared and juxtaposed like never before in the craft of fiction. Unlike codex fiction where brief descriptions of location or appearance are often separated by intermediate dialogue and narrative, the textual description of a room, object or player is available at any time by typing look. Additionally, these descriptions recur any time a player enters a room or re-encounters an object; a repetitive force at once helpful and less obtrusive than standard print techniques.
The Loft itself is deliberately void of any notice that it is a "fictional" space as opposed the "real" constructs used for education and socializing throughout the rest of LinguaMOO. Although most readers will begin to understand the fictional nature of the Loft through conTextual descriptions, it's purpose for existence is not immediately evident (unless entering via the class "hallway" known as the Road to Hell where a broad synopsis is included). It is my hope that the possibility that this space is, in fact, a "real" one may encourage reader-players to "buy into it" more; that they will become more emotionally invested at the beginning. How much easier is it then to encourage these visitors to further suspend disbelief and immerse themselves in the story?
And the story is still of paramount importance. Although the MOO provides a new venue for fiction, it cannot replace the quality of the writing itself. A MOO fiction author must still struggle to produce vivid images. Burroway explains:
In some rooms you are always trapped; you enter them with grim purpose and escape as soon as you can. Others invite you to settle in, to nestle or carouse. Some landscapes lift your spirits, others depress you. Cold weather gives you energy and bounce, or else it clogs your head and makes you huddle, struggling. You describe yourself as a "night person" or a "morning person." The house you loved as a child now makes you, precisely because you were once happy there, think of loss and death. All such emotion can be used or heightened (or invented) to dramatic effect in fiction. Just as significant detail calls up a sense impression and also an abstraction, so the setting of a story imparts both information and emotion. (195-196)
For these reasons, our planning and creation of the Loft included not only technical consultations but also extensive planning sessions determining what rooms would be needed, how they would be furnished and how they related to each other. Descriptions were intended to be rich in detail yet ambiguous enough to be accessible by any one from any town. The text would create ambiance and hint that, just maybe, this story could unfold right down the street from the reader-player.
But the MOO is ideally suited for narrative utilization exactly because it is a MUD, Object-Oriented. Each room serves as a starting point for some element of the narrative. A floor plan graphic loaded as a player stands in the doorway of the Loft provides boundaries to the reading experience — an element hyperlinked web pages often lack. A reader surfing the internet or accessing a hypertext fiction often does not know the limits of his or her "world." This visual cue allows a visitor to infer that his or her experience will take place solely within the confines of the Loft space. But beyond these initial clues, the ability to add individual objects within the rooms (characters, books, shelves, photographs, etc.) adds layer upon layer of meaning to the whole work. Minot explains that a firm sense of space and rich sensory input play a significant role in providing a comfortable experience for the reader (212).
For example, an umbrella by the door of the Loft seems innocuous. But if it is extended, it advises the reader not only that it's bad luck to open an umbrella inside but also that bad luck already seems to be in residence in the Loft.What is more, elements like the umbrella can be manipulated and changed during the player's interaction in ways that are impossible with codex fiction. A reader-player can move objects from one part of the room to another, or to another location entirely purely for the purposes of comparison, clarification and comprehension. These visitors assume the role of author in ways that not even a web-based hypertext can. Short of copying an entire web site to one's personal hard drive for manipulation, a reader cannot rearrange web pages and place portions of those pages in close proximity for analysis.
In the MOO, each (w)reader constructs his or her own personal narrative and may then choose to leave aspects of that revised version behind for others to share or return the elements to their "original" locations (which may actually be locations attributable to previous "revisions" and not the initial authors' intent!). In this light, we find MOO space able to function hypertextually as described by George P. Landow (via Foucault and Barthes) in the introduction of Hypertext 2.0. Thus far, the discussion does not even consider the possibility that a reader-player may choose to add to the fiction. While certain ownership limitations inherent in the server prevent visitors from adding rooms or entrances and exits without permission, these players may still build objects of their own to leave behind for future readers thus contributing another layer of meaning and interpretation. These contributions allow the fiction to grow beyond the original conception of the story and deepen in detail.
In fact, this evolution has already begun. One of our beta-testers, Collin Brooke, brought a house-warming present: a MOO magnifying glass programmed with its own verb (peer glass). This object was placed, just outside the Loft, in the parking lot partially because it was a gift and partially because it contributed to the whole. The textual description and the verb lend a humorous tone (which dovetails nicely with the sarcasm, irony and terrible puns already built in to the space) while tipping off the reader that he or she should be looking for clues.
But is there ever enough detail? Can a setting alone (or a setting with minimal input from a scripted character) drive the plot of a novel? Our goal was to utilize the MOO to accomplish just that; to create a rich virtual setting capable of generating a coherent and enjoyable mystery fiction.