Is it depression? Or just ennui?

Sitting in the swamp today. Squishing the icky green mud between my bare toes. Somehow I can’t quite summon up the enthusiasm to do anything whatever.

One advantage of writing interactive fiction is that it’s so absurd. So praeternaturally useless. You get to spend endless hours creating clever little routines that almost no one will ever see or care about.

Ten years ago I wrote a game called “Not Just an Ordinary Ballerina.” It got good reviews, although it was sort of retro, even at the time. The most inspiring thing I can think of to do today is work on a sequel to “Ballerina.”

It’s a huge project — so big that even finding testers dedicated enough to wring the bugs out of it will be almost impossible. So big that it’s doubtful anybody will ever play it all the way through.

But if nothing else is worth doing, then what’s the point in NOT working on the sequel?

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