Two Types

You can split feedback into two groups, based on when it is received:

Feedback received before release and after release.

Pre-release Feedback (generally speaking):

1. Directly affects the end product.
2. Is from the creator’s point of view.
3. Not only attempts to solve existing issues, but future problems as well.
4. Aims to arrive at a solution, a final destination.
5. Sourced from trusted friends, family and colleagues.
6. Too little of it leads to low or distasteful standards.
7. Too much of it leads to hesitation and development hell.
8. Is difficult to swallow.

Post-release Feedback:

1. Cannot directly affect the end product. But it can affect others’ view of the end product.
2. Is from the consumers’ point of view.
3. Attempts to diagnose what went wrong, and may prescribe how to do it better next time.
4. Aims for the ideal version of the end product.
5. Sourced from the general public.
6. Too little of it leads to low motivation.
7. Too much of it leads to…well you can never have too much attention.
8. Can be scarfed down by the truck-load.

There are many ways to slice it, but I find this particular dichotomy to be useful.

The “Better” Type

You may be asking yourself which type is better for the creative process?
The go-to answer would the first type: Pre-release feedback.

Makes complete sense. Having others provide feedback on your current project can be helpful. Other people can identify more problems and give you more solutions to work with.

But I wouldn’t count out the value of post-release comments and reviews. After all, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. And when eaters tell you your pudding tastes good or bad, psychologically, it heavily informs your next pudding.

I have a tendency to avoid pre-release feedback. I like to retain ownership of my projects. If there is an improvement or problem, I want to be the one that finds out. Not always, but often.

It sounds selfish, but that is where I am with my art. Still exploring. Don’t you dare give me a treasure map. That’s not my map, and it won’t lead me to my treasure!

The Best Type

This type of feedback technically falls under “post” release, but it is a very particular type of feedback that I love (and hate) the most. If pre = before, and post = after, then live feedback would be right in the middle: during. Live premieres and first impressions (reaction videos) would fall under this category.

In live feedback, the viewers is showing you their thoughts and feelings about the work as they are viewing it. It is my favorite thing to see a live reaction, because it comes from a place of brutal honesty. Even if someone is hamming up their reaction, you can tell how they really feel. And that feedback can be either blissfully positive or tortuously negative. Having your work exposed to that kind of feedback is electrifying.

Art-wise, I won’t share my most positive experience with live feedback. But I will share my most negative one!

Virginia Tech, Senior-year. Game Development Capstone. A joint course between the Art and CS departments. Our 7-8 person team is showcasing our capstone project. A 3D-action platformer titled “Grim”, featuring a cute grim reaper with scythe-slashing ninja skills. Quality-wise, I knew we were in trouble because I’m pretty sure only half of our own team-members could beat the first level. The controls were that poorly coded. Throw in an overly ambitious level design, low-commitment, and crunch time, we had ourselves a Grade-A piece of buggy crap on display.

It was set up like an indie fair, and locals were invited. Standing at my booth, I looked at the competition. I saw games that worked pretty well. Some players were even having fun. A team managed to get a goddamn Oculus Rift working. Players were virtually walking on water. Our team, on the other hand, was trying our hardest to stand with dignity, as if “Grim” were anything more than a 3D flappy bird clone.

An unfortunate soul found our vacant display. A lady who didn’t know better about the game she poorly chose. But it turned out she brought her son to the game fair, and this cruel punishment of a video game experience was for him instead.

He proceeded to get stuck in a pit, failing to execute our contrived wall-jump combo for a minute straight. The futile little character just kept hopping. A minute is a long time to watch a poor kid try to have fun, but can’t. We couldn’t even help him if we wanted to, because we knew that pit was nigh impossible to escape. We didn’t care to fix it.

The team just smiled out of embarrassment, as did the mother.

But the child had no such expression.

His eyes were wide open, teeth slightly clenched. He’d mash harder on the controller in hope of finding a way out. All while being well-behaved, and suppressing his annoyance. I could tell he was genuinely frustrated.

He finally gave up and slowly walked away, defeated. He probably felt like he wasn’t good enough.

But I knew..

DEEP…DOWN…

IT. WAS. *I…. *

WHO. FAILED. *HIM.*

fin

Ok, slightly dramatized, I admit.

But one facial expression can cut deeper than the most thoughtful piece of critique.

(On a side note, that project was a hell of a lot of fun to work on. A dozen weeks of pure procrastination followed by pure crunch, Team Grim was the hardest working group of lazy people I’ve ever been with.)

I Still Hate It

Based on my previous FM3K blog post, you can tell I hated writing screenplays.

Based on the header of this section, you can tell, I still hate writing screenplays.

Stories are incredibly nebulous during the script-writing phase. It serves as an exploratory part of pre-production. And although many hands may touch the story throughout development, it is ultimately belongs to the director. Therefore, a story ought to be a reflection of an individual artist, not a committee.

So getting feedback from select friends and family was tricky. I read something about how Pixar’s “braintrust” (literally a committee) helps their directors improve their films without compromising the director’s vision.

Something that really stuck out to me was the idea that, generally, criticism should describe things that felt “wrong” or “fell flat”, but not prescribe solutions.*

1. “Jack needs to look angrier, because he isn’t actually mad there.”
2. “I was confused when Jack’s calm expression did not match his angry voice.”

#1 makes assumptions about the director’s vision. Perhaps you were trying to make Jack appear annoyed, not angry. Or maybe it’s the sound of Jack’s voice that needs to be changed, not his appearance. It poses a solution without seeing the big picture. It’s an opinion.

#2 is just a plain impression. It’s raw, honest data on how the viewer felt in that moment. It’s a way of simply stating: this part felt broken. It does not step on the director’s toes.

This seems counter-intuitive. Because when we ask for feedback, we are asking for people to help us!

It’s just that, sometimes, we don’t want them to help us too much.

I was getting frustrated with people giving me #1 type of feedback. Feedback not only differed from my vision, but it conflicted with other people’s feedback. So I had to sift through these opinions, and strip them of their “solutions” in order to reveal the underlying impressions motivating the feedback.

I love genuine impressions and reactions. I still hate the writing process though.

*Feel free to apply the advice suggested by others. Just know that if you’re frustrated about #1 type of feedback, it’s understandable, and you may find success soliciting #2 type of feedback.

Applying Feedback

Our creative projects can be immensely personal and sometimes it feels like no one else will truly understand what you’re going for. Despite that, some pieces of feedback will identify a problem that demands attention, even toward the end of production. This frequently happens with my game projects. After several months of development, (and even delaying the start date of my first job out of college), I finally submitted Slush Tile Rush to a sponsor portal called Flash Game License.

FGL had a pretty strict curation process, and one step of the process involved live reviews of every submitted game. This review was the first bit of unbiased feedback on my little passion project. Keep in mind that I believed this game was fully polished, fun to play, and release worthy. You only need to watch the first 2 minutes or so.

I was distraught. After meticulously designing out dozens of heroes, enemies, stages, and abilities, literally the first game play interaction (“match two tiles”) was confusing to this game reviewer. His note to me was:

“Instructions need to be better integrated into the game. (Players don’t read instructions.)”

Give me a break! You mean to tell me that players won’t read five words? “Every match is an attack!”. I bet he purposefully ignored the instructions!

I remember being pretty mad.

Maybe it was his uncaring, nonchalant attitude toward something I worked hard on.
Or maybe it was because he was another obstacle standing in the way between my game and its release.
Or…it was because he was right, and this was a problem players would run into.

I ended up integrating all of his feedback and the game went on the marketplace. But it never nabbed a sponsor, despite all the hoops they made me jump through.

In fact, Flash Game License never actually landed me a sponsor. Ever. Their tools are cute, but hardly worth the percentage cut they would take from deals I coordinated all by myself. It’s partly why I don’t trust YouTube talent networks. The bitter, resentful part of me is glad that the flash game market crashed, and FGL along with it.

This is how difficult it can be to receive feedback.

Final Thoughts

Based on this animator, American and Japanese animation studios have different approaches to film making. I’ve observed this as well from watching interviews too. Americans like to take a more collaborative route, soliciting feedback from all members of the studio, no matter their position. They have a “the best idea wins” approach that is akin to a creative marketplace. There are even stories of janitors and secretaries offering ideas that make it into the final film.

In contrast, Japanese studios entrust their films to one person, usually an industry veteran, who exerts heavy artistic control over the whole production. The studio becomes an extension of this director, and the team follows the creator’s vision all the way through heaven or hell.

It is a strength of indie creators to be able to emulate the auteur approach, while still having the freedom to get outside feedback. Game-devs and artists are often one-man-bands who get into the field out of passion for the medium, not necessarily to create marketable products. Therefore, the amount of feedback you utilize should depend on both your artistic and financial goals.

Making a product? You better get feedback. Making art? You better trust your gut.

Doing both? I wish you the best of luck.

(◙◙)