Cory Barlog, creative director at Sony Santa Monica Studio, and Neil Druckmann, studio head and head of creative of the video game developer Naughty Dog, had a remarkable unscripted conversation at the Dice Summit about their approaches to creativity.
They’re among the most success creators in the game industry, and so it was worth listening to their hour-long talk before hundreds of their peers.
Barlog was creative director on God of War, which won the Game of the Year Award in 2018 at The Game Awards and the Dice Awards. He also produced the sequel God of War: Ragnarök in 2022. He worked on numerous God of War games from 2005 and also worked on Tomb Raider.
Druckmann is known for his work on the Uncharted series and The Last of Us and The Last of Us: Part 2 and The Last of Us: Left Behind. He’s also working on the new Sony game Interstellar, and also worked on the Jak series. He adapted The Last of Us with Craig Mazin for TV on HBO. And he has won many awards.
In the conversation, Druckmann said Naughty Dog has a process and by following it, the result has usually been success. That means he has let go of more and more of the creative work and embraced the talents of his team. Barlog’s approach seemed more chaotic and when creation wasn’t going well he could feel it as a kind of “physical” reaction — a kind of gut instinct. He has a voice inside his head that expresses doubt, and that he “sucks.” He works to make that doubt go away. Barlog relies on his instinct to tell him when he has the right answer.
Druckmann said he envies that, as more often than not his instinct leads him astray. In casting Laura Bailey for The Last of Us: Part 2, he almost went with his gut feeling of choosing a different actor. But he methodically reviewed the auditions and found Bailey’s emotional performance was perfect.
And Druckmann said the key is to “trust the process.” The team will work on it, put all of the ideas on the board and iterate on it. Then Druckmann has to decide on the direction for the team to follow. It’s a process that is unpredictable, but it has paid off over and over again. Barlog asked if it was sustainable.
Druckmann acknowledged that schedules and budgets affect the creative process. He noted that Naughty Dog works faster when it has an external deadline, like the need to complete a trailer for a show. The schedule forces the team to make decisions on the best work they can do in a given time. When there are internal deadlines, it’s more likely that a schedule slip can happen as the team iterates on its ideas.
“I need the schedule. I don’t really like the schedule. I hate the schedule. But I need it. The team needs it as well, because–it’s not unique to me. It’s just Naughty Dog. We’re perfectionists. Without it we would just keep iterating,” Druckmann said.
If there’s ever a way to inspire anyone about the magic of game design creativity, this was the session.
Here’s an edited transcript of the conversation.
Cory Barlog: We’re going to chat about game direction, creative direction, budgets, industry secrets, where the bodies are buried, anything we can. We have a little thing here where we asked a bunch of people to submit questions. We put these questions into a fishbowl so that if I ever get bored with Neil, I’m going to grab a question to spice up the conversation. He will do the same. You can judge us when we grab a question.
But first, I want to kick something off. Most of this is generally going to be a therapy session for me, talking to another creative director to find out if I’m crazy in how I do things. I thought an appropriate beginning to all of this would be to talk about doubt, because it’s something I think we all feel. I’ve been feeling it in the lead up to getting up here and talking. How do you process that? Do you have a voice in your head that tells you you suck like I do?
Neil Druckmann: I don’t know how you do this stuff and not have doubt. There’s so much in running a studio and making a game, all these endeavors. There are so many people involved, such a big budget. There’s all this pressure. Sometimes you make a sequel to a big IP. There are all these expectations. There’s no formula for how to succeed. You can never guarantee success. All you can do is follow your instincts, follow the advice the team gives you, trust the process.
What we have at Naughty Dog is we have a process. Every time we follow it, it has led us to success. I am, and we are, very protective of that process.
Barlog: The process is kind of a formula.
Druckmann: It’s a way that we work together. It’s a way that we vet ideas. One of our values is iteration. We know that our first idea is never the best one. We have to get to the seventh one to get something interesting, something unique. The first few, you’ve heard of it. It’s something you’ve seen before. That’s how you start to dig deeper. We know we’ll have to throw work away. That’s part of our process. At times that can be frustrating for people, members of the team, ourselves. But going through it over and over again, that’s how you get past your doubts. Doubt will always be there.
The only project I was ever confident in, that I was in charge of, was Uncharted 2. Every other project where I was at the head of it, I was sure at many points that we were not going to succeed. You just have to power past that feeling.
Barlog: Do you ignore it? Do you internalize it? Does it keep you up at night?
Druckmann: Yeah, it’s hard to turn it off. Our families and partners have at times suffered for this, because it’s hard for this thing to fully turn off when you leave the office. But no, I don’t think it’s good to ignore it either. Sometimes there’s something there telling you that this thing is wrong. This thing might be wrong. You don’t want that. There’s a term I’ve heard recently, “toxic positivity.” You don’t want that either. We don’t want to assume that whatever we’re doing is correct. There’s often stuff that’s going to be wrong. None of us are perfect. No matter how long you’ve been doing this, you’re going to make mistakes.
Barlog: There’s a voice telling you that something is not right. I imagine we all have that. What’s the process inside of you? I have a thing of my own, where there’s the sea of ideas. For individual teams, whether it’s casting, whether it’s a specific line, whether it’s a mechanic or anything, a concept piece. You have all these options, but there’s a singular idea. Is there anything, process-wise or internally, that happens to you that indicates that it’s right? Is it a physical feeling? A voice?
Druckmann: I’m actually curious to hear from you. At different phases of production, it’s a different kind of voice or instinct. When it’s a blank slate, all you really have is your instincts. There’s not much else to draw from. When we’re making a new IP – we’re in that now with Intergalactic – you’re trying to find the thing that’s exciting and new for us. Maybe it has a bit of risk associated with it, but that’s the artistic side of it. You have to imagine, is this going to be exciting two, three, four years from now when I’m still working on this? Or is this something that’s exciting at the moment, but a month from now it’ll start to get boring?
Barlog: Is it sustainable?
Druckmann: Right. You got it in. But once you have that–that can take a while to find. Then you have something to draw from in other decisions. Then, when five people come to you with five amazing ideas, how do you choose between them? Do you pick the coolest one? Sometimes that might be the correct thing, but more often, which one of these ideas gets us closer to our vision, what this thing is about? The thing that got us excited in the beginning, what are the choices that will get us closer to that?
Sometimes you might see that you keep veering away from this thing, so you should reassess your assumptions. What we thought this thing was about, now it turns out that it’s about this other thing. It’s shifted and evolved. Is that how you–
Barlog: Fuck no. Yours feels sort of unstructured in its plans, measured against so many other teams. Mine is a physical feeling. It’s a physical, auditory, visual kind of thing. It’s a feeling in my stomach. If three ideas are pitched, if none of them are right, they sort of move and harmonize out of tune. I don’t feel anything. Or I just feel a general numb feeling. If there are five ideas, or even a singular idea, and it’s right, I feel like I’m on a roller coaster, like my stomach is dropping. But then also, I visually see the idea, which is super weird. More than likely it marks me as crazy. But it physicalizes in space as this sort of sine wave vibration.
Druckmann: Do you ever get that feeling for more than one idea? Then what do you do?
Barlog: Yeah. As if it is harmonizing better. That’s it. There’s the idea. It’s kind of moving in harmony with all the other things around it that are somewhat solidified. They’re in sync. It feels right. It feels physically right. Then if something elevates beyond that idea, if something is better, it feels as if that is locked in a lot easier. I never understood what that feeling was for the longest time. Then I noticed or recognized it. Maybe it’s my body telling me what’s right. Or I’m crazy.
Druckmann: What’s your hit ratio? How often do you have that feeling, and later it turns out to be incorrect?
Barlog: Fortunately I have the worst memory. I don’t know. I think on larger ideas, maybe that is right, like the one-cut camera thing. That felt right. It felt more right than anything. I felt like I had to do this. It was there. But even smaller decisions, like when you’re casting someone. Seeing all these different actors and they’re all brilliant. How do you choose somebody, when the majority of these people are just fantastic? But the person who’s right makes you stand up. You feel it. There it is. This thing locks into place and that feels good.
Druckmann: I’m envious of that, because for me, sometimes there’s this gut instinct, and sometimes it’s very loud, but more often it’s not that clear. I have to almost–what are all the possible solutions? I need to see all of them. Then we try each one and see which one is more correct for the vision we have. That’s true for casting as well. When we were making Last of Us II, when we were casting for Abby, in the moment, on the stage, I was sure it was going to be a different actor.
Later, when I went back to the office and watched each video and studied them frame by frame, I came back to the office and talked to a few people. I said, “It’s Laura Bailey.” They said, “No way.” “Watch this video. Look what she’s doing. Look at this one moment. You have to study it carefully. Look at the vulnerability she’s introducing right there. No one else has that.” All the people I talked to came back and said that was right. It was Laura Bailey. But it took a lot of examination. I had to go past the instinct, because my instinct in that moment was incorrect. I don’t know how to articulate this combination of instinct and almost engineering, studying like that.
Barlog: Does your instinct feel like something, sound like something?
Druckmann: Yes, but I don’t know if it’s a physical thing. Something will just feel correct. That just feels like the right choice.
Barlog: How do you feel when another thing supersedes that?
Druckmann: It feels more correct. It’s more right.
Barlog: That’s a positive spin on that one. Because I think, “Maybe I’m an idiot.” I go back and question my decisions. I have terrible control over–I just blurt it out sometimes. There’s that audition for Henry Thomas, I think, for E.T.? He’s doing the audition and at the end of it, on the recording, you hear Spielberg say, “You got the job, kid.” He couldn’t control it. It’s the same when we were auditioning Danielle for Freya. We’d seen so many people. After every audition, the writers were all sitting there saying, “She was great. That was great.” Nothing felt like that was it. Then Danielle auditioned, and I think it was her first take. You can hear me on the tape saying, “Fuck!” Because that was it. It was completely right. I was transfixed. It was in that moment of believability, but also that weird–metaphysically it all vibrated correctly. There’s a feeling you have when you hit amongst the sea of ideas.
Is it the same when you know something is done? An individual aspect, not the whole game, because it’s never done. But these individual things. I can move on, or we can move on.
Druckmann: I struggle with that. I have a perfectionist mind. I’ve never looked at anything that felt truly done. Even down to tasks. They never quite feel done. That’s where a schedule is so important for me. That’s what’s telling me that it needs to be done pretty soon. Without that I’ll keep working on it forever.
Barlog: So you like the schedule.
Druckmann: I need the schedule. I don’t really like the schedule. I hate the schedule. But I need it. The team needs it as well, because–it’s not unique to me. It’s just Naughty Dog. We’re perfectionists. Without it we would just keep iterating. Every time we iterate it gets better. There are diminishing returns, for sure, and that’s where you have to–when you have enough experience doing it, you can see that the stuff you’re changing and fixing, it’s just for us at this point. The player will never notice these things. You can say that it’s good enough and move on. Look at the schedule. We have all these other things we have to get to. It’s good enough here. Time permitting, we’ll come back and do one more round.
I’m curious to hear how your studio works. If it’s an outward-facing deadline, it’s much easier to get everybody on board and polish it to a really good state. Internal deadlines? Not so much. We’ve gotten better over the years, but there’s still a quite significant delta there, and it’s because–we have more time. We don’t have to tie ourselves to these decisions. Let’s explore more options. Once it’s public-facing, no, a decision has to be made now. We can’t iterate on this anymore. This is what the character looks like. This is the move set. This is the story. Whatever that choice is, you have to commit. I really enjoy those moments. The same way the schedule forces our decisions, those demos or trailers force us to make certain decisions. We can’t iterate past that point.
Barlog: I remember you telling me about that before. Demos as a reinforcing conscience for the team. I totally stole that from you. I agree. They’re good. They force you to accept certain things. I’ve had many moments where I thought, “That’s it.” Early, I was able to do that and believe that. It saved me for a while.
Druckmann: Can I follow up on that instinct harmonizing thing? You have this physical sensation. Something is right. I get how that feels very true to you. I assume it doesn’t feel true to everybody on the team.
Barlog: Oh God no.
Druckmann: Then what do you do? Cory has a feeling, so we trust that? Or do you have to reverse engineer something and explain why this is, why you’re having this feeling? How do you explain it to the team to get them on board?
Barlog: The team is amazing, and they’re all insanely smarter than I am. They see things in a way that I often overlook and don’t get a clear picture on. But then there are times where I think, “This is absolutely it.” Then it’s sales mode. That sense of, trust me, this is going to be good. This is why it’s good. This is actually being built up six hours before, and when we get to this moment, it’s going to be absolutely amazing. At a certain point if they don’t believe me, well, shiny object. Distract them with another problem. “I’m sorry! What about this other thing?” And then everyone thinks, “What is he talking about?”
It’s very hard to convey that. That feeling sometimes isn’t backed up, like you’re saying. Sometimes it’s this flying leap. We’re painting a piece of the picture that has a giant blank space around it, and we’ve painted this other piece of the picture, but I’m certain of this one part, but there’s nothing to anchor it to everybody else and say, “This is why this works.” You try to explain it and you sound like a crazy person. Then you set it aside if there are serious concerns. There’s a phrase that perhaps is popular in all creative endeavors, but I notice it a lot in games: “I’m concerned about…” It’s usually the lead-in to a subject on a Monday morning when someone has processed over the weekend and realized they said something insane. “I’m really concerned about this because it sounds like it’s going to be way too big or too complicated or doesn’t make any sense.” Then trying to figure out where we can get on the same page.
“Just trust me” does not work for very long. Obviously it’s incumbent on us to be able to explain the vision, but really it’s some weird form of black magic that is hard to properly explain. “Just trust me. I have this feeling.” The one-cut camera thing–various groups were not wrong. They were 100% right. It was a lot of work. Is this really going to mean anything? Is it going to pay off?
Druckmann: That goes back to your initial thing about doubt. There is a version of that game that doesn’t have the one-cut camera. There’s a version of that game that’s amazing. But you have to make certain choices, certain commitments. Often people come and pitch me very different ideas than what we’re making. I won’t tell them that they’re wrong, because they’re not. I just don’t see that version. I have to lead this project. I have to believe in these choices. If I don’t believe in them, I can’t sell them. I can’t tell if it’s working or not.
Barlog: That’s another thing. Our influence, the vision of what you want to do–this is what I want. This is what I see. What I see when I close my eyes. This is the whole picture. Then there’s the team, what the team sees, what the team views and processes out of everything that’s there. Then there’s the audience. How do you take all that information in? What are the ratios of influence that you have? Your own influence, the vision, but then the team’s influence. “That’s totally a different direction. I love that.” Or, “Nope, that’s not the game we’re making.” And the expectation of the audience. They haven’t seen it, but there’s an expectation built up, what they want or what they think it should be.
We take it in from ourselves. We take it in from the team. We take it in from the audience. How much weight do you give each of these groups?
Druckmann: The further you get away from people I work closely with, the less I give it attention. There’s a core group of creatives I work with. They get a lot of my attention. Most of the ideas in the game are not mine. I prefer that. For me it’s defining what is the emotional truth, the emotional core of this thing. Then as best as I can explaining that, pitching it to the team, getting them aligned with that. If they’re not aligned, then I should do a better job convincing them, or I should reconsider it. I need them on board. It’s not a one-man show. It’s made by hundreds of people.
Once you get outside the studio, to players–they don’t know what it takes to make it. If you’re making a sequel, there’s a lot of value to seeing what they liked previously. What are the things they got attached to? As a fan of this thing, do I feel similar things? There are takeaways there. But beyond that, especially when you’re making it, they don’t know all the choices you’re making. They might see a trailer or a screenshot or a bunch of leaked cinematics if you’re unlucky. And it’s infinite. There’s so much feedback that at some point you have to shut it off.
Barlog: How does that impact risk-taking? I know this is a leap. Kratos has a kid. This is a big leap. Are people going to like that?
Druckmann: Were you scared about that?
Barlog: Hell yeah. But I was too stupid to really be scared. At the time–
Druckmann: This is where process maybe–I don’t consider risks in the same way as some other people, maybe, because I’ve always taken risks, and I’ve always been successful. That, to me, is now part of the process. If there’s no risk in the project, if it feels safe–to me there’s a balance between art and business. Often they’re in conflict with each other. Business often wants you to mitigate risk, take very calculated risks, and look at market research. Art wants to do something unique and fresh, that will have an impact. You have to protect both, but if I have to pick one, I lean toward the art, because when we have, that has led us to more and more success. Why would I give that up?
It’s also the thing that drives us. People constantly ask me, “Oh, so are you going to go do TV or movies?” And I say, “No, probably not.” There’s something so thrilling to me about games. There are way more unknowns, way more risks. Since we’re talking about TV, one time I gave some direction to Pedro Pascal. Dropping names. I think he was frustrated by my direction. He started joking. He said, “Do you like art?” I got a little defensive. “Yeah, do you like art?” And he said, without missing a beat, “It’s the reason I wake up in the morning. It’s why I live and breathe.”
To me, that’s why we do it. It’s hard to describe. I’m going on so many tangents. When I was starting out I was an intern at Naughty Dog. I remember watching my boss, Evan Wells, who was the game director on Jak III at the time–he’s walking around, playing the game, giving a bit of feedback on how we should change it. I was thinking, “I agree with that feedback. That’s the easiest job in the world. I could do that.” The thing that you don’t know is the amount of stress that goes with those choices.
I’m curious how you deal with it. At times it’s overbearing. At times I’ve had panic attacks. It’s so much stress. But you do it because you love it so much. I love games so much. I love the stories we tell in games so much. It’s the reason we wake up in the morning. It’s why we do what we do. Despite all the negatives that come with it, the death threats and all the negativity and all those things, you just dismiss those things and say, “But I get to make games with the most talented people. How lucky are we?” That was a weird tangent. I don’t even remember your question.
Barlog: I agree with you. I had the exact same moment, where I looked at somebody in charge, making the decisions, and thought, “What an easy job. So cushy.” But it’s because sitting on the outside you see the surface level of observing something and saying, “Here are two things. I’m going to pick one.” It’s super easy. That’s all it is. But the crucible that decision is created in is a fiery hot pit of fuckin’ hell, man. It’s neverending during the process, because you’re taking in all this stuff, stressing over it, second-guessing everything, and hoping that you get that feeling in each one of those moments to make sure the decision you just made was right.
Invariably–you make thousands of decisions a day, and you know that there’s a bunch where you just had to move on. You had to make that decision. But I definitely had a big wakeup call. “It’s so easy! I could do that!”
Druckmann: There are times where we haven’t nailed it. This is not correct. And I have to move on. Those are the hardest moments for me. I know there’s a better version here and we haven’t found it, but it’s just time to move on.
Barlog: Those are painful. Those are soul-crushing. But I have to imagine–you guys were six months out of finishing Last of Us. Ellie wasn’t working.
Druckmann: A lot was not working. The game was not finished.
Barlog: With any game, it’s always a giant mess. But something so massive like that, the way you were approaching it wasn’t working. You had it that close to where you wanted to release. That kind of decision, where you have to tell people – not only the team, but the people above who write the checks – hey, we’re going to make this gigantic pivot on this thing. That has to be hard.
Druckmann: Yes. It is really hard. You do your best to compartmentalize it, but it sits somewhere in your body for a while. You make the best call–sometimes it might be too hard a call to make on my own. I bring in people I trust and I say, “Here is the problem. Here are the only solutions I can see. Do you see any other solutions?” They might introduce a few other things. Then we just say, “With the time we have left, the resources we have left, what’s the best solution?” And you pick that and you roll the dice and hope that was the correct one.
Barlog: It usually proves to be the correct one.
Druckmann: Again, the process has led us time and time again–when we follow our instincts, and when we’re being thoughtful, the combination of those two has led us to success.
Barlog: I want to trust the process on so many occasions, but a lot of times…
Druckmann: How do you know what niche, what type of games you’re good at? Do you ever restrict yourself to one niche, or do you find that you have a passion to keep exploring specific types of games?
Barlog: The straight up honest answer is that I don’t really think I’m good at any of them. But I have–not even a niche. More like there’s just something that’s interesting to me. It becomes a little bit more of an obsession, I guess. My son is like that as well. He’s super obsessed with trains. Now he’s super obsessed with planes. Prior to that it was volcanoes and sharks. He just dives in and learns so much about that. For me, there’s that sense of the core fantasy, the core idea, the concept of the human experience that’s interesting to explore. I want to dive into that. Which is a product of some severe OCD and autism that makes me hyper-fixate, hyper-focus on these things. And somehow I can convince other people that my obsession–we should all go along with this.
Genre-wise, the action-adventure genre is the most readily approachable game type for me. I want to like strategy games, but I’m stupid. I do not have the intellectual capacity to be in EVE Online participating in grand political war. I’m not saying anything bad about that game. I’m just too stupid.
Druckmann: You’re talking about games that you play. Is that the same as games you want to make?
Barlog: Oh, yeah. I’ve heard it said a lot, “I make something that I want to play,” but it is 100% that. I have to want to play it, throughout the process, until I reach the end. Then I hate it and I need to step away from it. When it releases, when it goes out, you’re so fed up with it. You believe it, you love it, it’s your child that you’ve worked on with this massive group of people, but I have to step away from it. I can’t be in the same room with it. It’s sucked out so much life from me.
But yeah, action-adventure games. It’s an immediate thing. It’s the opportunity to feel like I can be this character for a period of time. I want to be that character. I find it engaging. Sometimes people say, “You should branch out and try something risky,” but I feel like there’s plenty of risk every single day. I don’t need it. Maybe I should make a kart racing game?
Druckmann: God of War kart racing game.
Barlog: God of War X: Racing.
Druckmann: How dare you.
Barlog: The apex of your career. I’m waiting for the sequel. Do you want to answer that question? Or do you even remember it? How do you choose that? Do you feel like you’re good at a specific type of game?
Druckmann: Making it or playing it? I actually sometimes struggle playing games that are very similar to the games that I make. Because then I can’t turn my work brain off. I play it and think, “I would have done this differently. I would have changed this. The scripting here is not quite right.” I struggle to turn that off. I’ll play 1,000 hours of Balatro instead. I could never make Balatro. There are games that I play where I don’t know how I could ever make those games.
I grew up playing point and click adventure games. Those were some of my favorite games. Second to that was platformers. Now I feel like I’ve landed–that’s why I was so drawn to Naughty Dog. I’ve landed somewhere where they value both of those genres and have weirdly combined them. I’m working on my dream games, even though sometimes I struggle to play them when other people make them.
Barlog: Adventure games, that was the thing that drew me into gaming. It was losing tons of sleep playing games on my Amiga 500. That was awesome. I’m going to grab a question here, but also, Neil, are you in fact a control freak?
Druckmann: Uh…I’m laughing because when we were first walking on stage, we were arguing about who was going to sit in which chair. I am, but I think I’ve gotten better about that. The most control freak I was was on Last of Us, the first one. Over time I’ve been able to let go and trust the team more. Even sometimes I hear a pitch and think, “I would do it differently, but this person is so passionate about this. Does it work with what we’re trying to make? It does, even though maybe I might be more drawn to this other thing. They’re going to own this for so long, I’m going to go with their idea.”
Barlog: You’re a recovering control freak. That’s good. I am a control freak and I don’t have a recovery plan. But I’m aware of it and trying to figure it out. You end up in the positions we end up in because of that. That’s the defining feature. I feel like all of us in the creative business are.
Druckmann: I spend a lot of time mentoring directors, seeing them rise up. I probably had this as well, but I see pretty consistently in new directors–they feel like the ideas have to come from them, and they have to be the smartest person in the room. I tell them to let go of those two things as quickly as you can and it will make you a better director. Your job is not to come up with the best ideas. Your job is to recognize the best ideas, the most correct ideas, and make sure they’re locked into place. Don’t be the smartest person in the room. There are going to be people who are way smarter than you. Let them argue and pitch ideas while you pay attention and try to visualize all of them and slot them into the game. Are they working? Are they not?
Once you see the board, then speak. Until then, just be quiet. What that also does is create a safe space for other people to pitch ideas. You want them to generate as many ideas as possible. You’re trying to find the best ones. If that always comes from you, they’re going to be scared to pitch ideas.
Barlog: Don’t be the smartest person in the room. I got that. Check. That’s the secret to my success. It’s interesting, because that segues into something else I want to ask about. In this industry we have creative directors and we have game directors. What the hell does each job mean? What is a creative director? What is a game director?
Druckmann: It’s complicated, because it’s different from studio to studio. It’s even more different from industry to industry. Even if you go within the studio, the roles, especially when you get pretty high up, mold themselves to different people. I became creative director after Amy Hennig. We work pretty differently. What creative director meant for us became very different in some ways.
Generally, a game director is more concerned about the moment to moment gameplay. A creative director, at Naughty Dog, is more concerned about story and tone and music. But it is very fuzzy. That’s by design. Sometimes when roles are too delineated, people aren’t talking to each other. You have to create some overlap so there’s some creative tension between ideas and who has final say, so people can work that out.
Barlog: Creative director, you’re working with other people–this is just my take on it, so it’s probably wrong. I’m not saying this is how it is. But it’s this sense of–the game director is doing it. They’re making it. The creative director is helping–it’s like the coaching aspect of it. My vision of what the creative director is, which is why I continue to question whether I’m any good at it or not–I would not want somebody, while I’m trying to figure something out, questioning every decision. Telling me, “No, do it like this, do it like that.” I don’t want to be that person.
Everybody is different. Everybody has a different perspective, a different vision, a different life experience that takes them to that specific point, where they’re making individual decisions as well as what the vision of their game is. I’m doing it completely differently. But in no way does it mean that what they’re doing is wrong. It means I would have gone in a different direction. I can say, “I sense dragons ahead. Be aware of that. But go for it if you feel that way.” The control freak, earlier on I realized–that’s just not helping anybody. I wouldn’t want that.
When I directed God of War 2 back in the 1800s, David Jaffe was kind of chill about it as well. He gave me the space to fuck up and fail and make some bad decisions until all the decisions were completely made. Then he was playing a very near final version of the game and saying, “Do you really need this section of the game at all?” “It’s three hours long. It’s really good. What do you mean I don’t need it?” I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that person who’s saying everything you’re doing is wrong. It’s more like figuring out how to help them have the confidence in what they’re doing, because that’s what I would want. As director you’re kind of out there on a ledge and slings and arrows are firing at you. It’s a constant war. What you want is that calm voice that’s saying, “This is not what I would want, but I can see you see this picture.”
I had conversations with Eric Williams. He made several decisions where I would have gone in a different direction. When I stepped away from it, I thought, “I totally see that.” I put the pieces together, what he thought there. It made me feel like I got a bit smarter. But also that made me think, “Am I even doing a job? Is he doing all of it?” To me that’s the creative director. You’re empowering. You’re helping them be their best self. I hate it. I want to be the person doing it. I feel like that obsession–
Druckmann: You can demote yourself right now. I don’t think you really want that, though. I think you like being the creative director. I get that, because there are times when I’m there. I miss it. I miss being a programmer, when you had a task and you knew when you were done. It was very clear. Is the function working? Then I’m done. I can move on. When it’s a creative endeavor, you don’t ever fully know. I think it’s good? I don’t know. When you have so many of those, that’s when the stress starts piling on. There’s a million things that I think are good, that I think are close to being done, but I never really know.
Barlog: That uncertainty. We live in a state of almost complete uncertainty.
Druckmann: That’s also what makes it exciting. That’s what makes it worth doing. If you could guarantee success, everyone would do it.
Barlog: Yeah, you’re right. It’s exciting. All right, I’ll keep my job. I’m going to read my question now. How do you and your teams approach character development over multiple games? Being able to show growth while maintaining what makes them compelling.
Druckmann: That’s a very easy question for me to answer, because I never think about multiple games. The game in front of us is so all-consuming–you’re jinxing yourself if you start to think about a sequel while you’re working on the first game. Every once in a while it might cross your might, where you might go if you get the chance to do another one. But I just approach it as, what if I never get to do another one? I want this to be able to stand on its own. Every project I’ve directed, I’ve approached it that way.
It’s different now with the TV show, because now we’re working with a story that takes multiple seasons. But except for that, everything I’ve done, it has to all be in here. I’m not saving an idea for the future. If there’s a cool idea, I’m doing my best to get it in here.
Barlog: You’re building something that may have sequel–
Druckmann: Potentially. But that happens organically. I’m not planning a three-game arc. I can look in hindsight and ask, “What have we done? What are things that are unresolved? Where else can these characters go?” If the answer is that they can’t go anywhere, then we’ll just kill them off. I’m half joking. But we just find the next game. When we made Uncharted, we had no idea we were going to do the train sequence in Uncharted 2. We figured that when we made Uncharted 2. Same with Uncharted 3 and Uncharted 4. We looked back to ask, “How can we not repeat ourselves? Where else can this character go? What can get him back into the adventure?” If we don’t have a new answer, we should ask ourselves if this is the right character, if this is the right game for us to work on. Or is it time to move on to something new?
Barlog: That’s a very healthy way to do it. I do not do it that way. In the beginning I tried to start out that way, but very quickly, and still now, I have way too much of the Charlie Day crazy conspiracy board, trying to connect and plan all these pieces. I love when the stars align and you realize you put something in 10 years ago that’s going to come to fruition. You’re going to see this journey for not only a character, but for this moment–it’s so magical. But it is absolutely, unequivocally the most unhealthy thing ever, because it’s insanely stressful to try to fold and connect each of these pieces.
Games take five years. There are hundreds of people involved. Then a whole new group of people often moves in on the next project. That’s a bunch of different opinions and perspectives and likes and dislikes that are going to impact you setting up something that early. “Let’s talk about this, because that was kind of dumb. I don’t know if I want to do that.”
Druckmann: I guess I also find that when we work on the game, it changes so much in the course of production. What we thought we were making in the beginning is often quite different from where we end up. At the very beginning, if we’re planning sequels and transmedia things, and we have some commitment to them, it’s going to feel more restrictive to organically go with the project from there. “We can’t make this change because we made this commitment.” I want that flexibility while we’re working on it.
Barlog: It never negatively impacts the storytelling. The contained nature of the individual experience is still there. But the desire to seed these things–probably it’s just to try to feel smarter. I totally thought of this early on! That’s awesome! But there is a part of me that appreciates–
Druckmann: I think for me that requires a level of confidence that I just don’t have. “This is going to be so successful that I know where it’s going next”? I just want to focus on the next five days in front of me, let alone 10 years down the line.
Barlog: It’s weird, because I definitely feel like I’m getting fired after every game, so it’s not a confidence thing. It’s a weird obsession. I want to try to put all these pieces in. But it’s definitely not the smartest thing. Again, it takes so long. Things change. People’s opinions and tastes change. We can’t even agree on core issues sometimes. Then we ship a game, and I think, “I thought we all agreed on this?” “No, none of us agreed with that.” That’s not the headcanon that everybody else carried. Why am I seeding all these other things? It’s unhealthy, man.
Druckmann: I have a question. You’ve done several games now that have been extremely successful. You’re about to work on this TV show. You’ve had some interest in movies and stuff. When is it enough? Our friend Ted Price is retiring. When is the compulsion enough? When have you proven yourself enough? I’m asking for a friend.
Barlog: Wow.
Druckmann: Is it ever enough?
Barlog: The short answer, no. It’s never enough. It’s a voice in your head driving you more and more. The guy who plays Reacher, Alan Ritchson, in the TV show, he did this interview I saw where he talked about these awakening moments that he had. You struggle and you work. It feels thankless. You’re not being heard. The thing you’re doing doesn’t resonate. Then you reach that point where it’s inevitable. You’ve been looking at it and been dreaming about it and aspiring to it. Finally you reach the summit, and it’s the most amazing and horrible thing all at the exact same time, because when you get to the top, this demon obsession inside of your head doesn’t shut up, unless you appreciate the moment, the smell of the air, the sound of this successful silence that you persevered and struggled and worked so hard to get to. So many people came together and used this collective creative space to give birth to something that was only an idea or a concept. And you enjoy and revel and see that you’ve accomplished this thing, that you’re at the top of the mountain.
The demon just looks and says, “There’s another mountain over there, and it’s a lot taller.” Well, what next? You don’t even often take that time. I don’t want to believe that it is intentional. It’s this weird silent or not so silent part of your individual makeup. The reason you’re in this is because you can’t stop. You’re driving yourself forward, and to your detriment, to everyone else giving you the advice to stop and pace. You don’t.
Druckmann: Because you find it somewhat self-destructive.
Barlog: It’s totally self-destructive. It’s 100% purely stupid. And rationalizing it to yourself over and over again, you think that when you get there, it’ll be right. It’ll finally quiet the voice. “Okay, it’s good.” It’s not achievement. It’s not anything like that. There’s this thing stuck in your brain.
Druckmann: A compulsion.
Barlog: Yeah. You have to get at it. You think that when it’s over you’ll be able to relax, but you can’t relax, because look at that thing over there. Or just the experience around it doesn’t feel like you imagined. It never, ever feels like you imagined. Not in one way does it feel like you imagined, because you’re constantly negatively self-evaluating. You wake up at three in the morning and remember that stupid thing you said in the meeting 15 years ago and embarrassing it was that you said that. “Well, this is a good time to think about that. Let’s go through all these things. I worked really hard on this project and now I feel that a lot of the stuff I did negatively impacted other people. I had this idea and it was kind of dumb. They did this other thing and it was really cool. I let them down.”
That’s a long answer to say that it’s never enough. It needs to be, it has to be, so that next step that you take is out of passion, out of love. Not compulsion. Trust the process. I can just keep saying that to myself. Maybe it’ll be true one day. But is it ever enough for you? You were asking for a friend. Is it ever enough for you? You’ve done it. You’ve directed multiple episodes. I don’t understand in any way how you have the time to do that.
Druckmann: I don’t, and there’s a self-destructive part of that. Sometimes you end up mentally and often physically exhausted. But you feel like–again, it goes back to why I wake up in the morning. These days what helps me get more perspective are my kids, which is what we were talking about the other day. I’m sitting there with my son watching Stranger Things and thinking, “This is all I need. I don’t need much more than this.” But again, that compulsion kicks in.
I definitely think more about the end. We’re in this space and I’m reminded that I was a volunteer here at DICE. I was talking with Jason Rubin, who got me my first job at Naughty Dog. He said to me, “I’m leaving Naughty Dog. That will create a space for everyone to rise up.” I think about those opportunities. Eventually, when I’m done doing this, it will create a bunch of opportunities for people. I’m slowly rising up. I’m getting less involved in the day to day stuff. In this project I’m on, it’s at a very high level. Eventually I think I’ll be able to remove myself. I don’t know how long that will take, but I think about it, and I think about the opportunities that will create for the next people to take on the stress and take on their ideas and be vulnerable and do all these things that I find we’re very lucky to be able to do.
Barlog: Video games and all forms of media and entertainment are these things–I don’t mean this in a negative way, but they’re a way for us to escape, to find and embrace and comfort a part of ourselves, to lose ourselves in something amazing. We’ve been part of this industry, this industry that was born out of telling these great stories, getting these great experiences, challenging players, but also elevating not only the art, but the players themselves.
I know somewhere along the way we’ve lost a bit of that. We’ve focused on some of the wrong things. But I know that there are people in this industry that have within them the desire to bring back the concept of giving the player these experiences that holistically, whole-heartedly, are going to carry you off to someplace that makes your day just a tiny bit fucking better, your life just a tiny bit better. You can’t ask for anything more than that. I’m so in awe of being part of an industry where people are able to create these experiences. Thank you to everybody that creates.
The post The remarkable banter of Cory Barlog and Neil Druckmann on the creative process appeared first on Venture Beat.
