2022 XYZZY Awards now open for nomination

A computer monitor and keyboard underwater.

The 2022 XYZZY Awards for interactive fiction is now accepting nominations.

The XYZZY Awards is one of the oldest video game award on the books. It first started in 1997 and has been held yearly since. It’s often called the Oscars for interactive fiction. If you’ve played even one interactive fiction game first released in 2022, you can nominate a title and vote on the final outcome.

As mentioned, if you played even one outstanding interactive fiction in 2022—parser, choice-based, any story-based game at all, really—you can vote. I encourage you to head over to the XYZZY Awards site and nominate your favorites for the next round of voting. The deadline is December 16th.

The coming revolution in audiobooks

In November, Amazon opened a beta program for Kindle Direct Publishing authors called Virtual Voice. It may be the biggest upheaval to independent publishing since Amazon launched KDP over a decade ago.

Virtual Voice uses synthetic (i.e., computer) voice technology to produce audiobooks. On first blush, that sounds like a pretty crappy experience—who wants to listen to a robot narrate a book? Know that automated voice technology has advanced tremendously in recent years, to the point that people have trouble distinguishing between it and a human voice.

The AI software that’s in the news so often these days is much of the reason for the improvement. In 2018, Google demonstrated an AI that could order food and make reservations over the phone without the person on the other end knowing it was not a human speaking. More recently, a study shows that 78% of people think they can tell the difference between an AI voice and a human, but only 2% were accurate. (If you’re skeptical, this Google Forms test gives you the chance to listen to recordings of celebrities and AI impersonations and see how well you can tell the difference. You’ll have to admit it’s not easy.)

It’s tempting to go into my thought process over the pros and cons of synthetic voice audiobooks. At this moment, I’ll just say I find the possibility alluring.

I’ve done audio in the past. I recorded Everywhere Man at Fantasy Studios, a dreamy, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that was quite expensive and exhausting. A few years ago, I made a concerted effort to hire a voice actor to record Bridge Daughter. I was put off by the terms dictated by every actor who responded to my call for bids. Both experiences impressed on me the risks of producing my own audiobooks, risks of both cost and rights.

Synthetic voice audiobooks eliminate a lot of the question marks. If I’m reading the Amazon announcement correctly, a KDP author chooses a voice from a catalog of voices, previews a sample, and names a sale price. My guess is, the final audiobook will be ready in a few hours. Audiobooks created with synthetic voices are labeled as such on the Amazon market and may be previewed, so the buyer knows what they’re getting.

It sounds like a no-cost, risk-free offer for independent authors. I’m more than curious. Unless Amazon botches the roll-out—a possibility, they’ve botched things before—I predict we’re going to see a Cambrian explosion of audiobooks on the Amazon market soon enough.

Everything old is new again

“Woman in brown coat,” Devon Rodriguez

Ben Davis of artnet news reports a story that sounds all-too-familiar these days:

A little more than a week ago, I wrote a review of an art show by the artist and TikTok sensation Devon Rodriguez, best known for live drawing subway riders. He is, by some measures, the most famous artist in the world, with many millions of social media followers. He did not like the review.

It went up on a Friday. On Saturday morning, I woke up to a tidal wave of anger from Rodriguez on Instagram, tagging me across scores of posts. Hundreds of his followers went on the attack.

Davis gives a more nuanced and thoughtful analysis of his hellish situation than should be expected from someone who received death threats over, of all things, a review of an art show. He reasons

the only way I can understand Rodriguez’s incredibly thin-skinned reaction to my article is that he has managed to rise to this status of apex visibility without any kind of critical writing about him at all. It’s all just been feel-good profiles, so that the first critical word feels like a huge crisis. That’s a relatively new kind of situation for an artist to be in…

In the past, artists had to pass through the gatekeepers of museums and art galleries before becoming well-known to the public. Even Basquiat had to break through the establishment before securing his place in the art world. In today’s digital world, it’s possible, even desirable, to hurdle over the gatekeepers and go straight to the masses with one’s output.

A similar dynamic is at play in the world of publishing, as I’ve written about a few times. This desire to stand above criticism is, in my mind, the root motivation for dysfunctional narratives. The tenor of the attacks Ben Davis withstood sounds much like the way dysfunctional narratives are defended, such as the Rodriguez fan who snapped at Davis, “What if he was your son??”

Davis links this reaction to the notion of “parasocial relationships,” that is, “the imaginary, one-sided friendships people develop with celebrities and influencers in their heads.” This cuts to the “transitive logic” I wrote in 2019 about an all-too-similar event involving Sarah Dessen and her followers when they attacked a college student who posted a relatively innocuous criticism of Dessen’s work: “The logic magnified an innocuous criticism of a single YA author to an attack on all YA fiction and its readers. Thus, the logic went, if you’re a reader of YA fiction, it’s a personal attack on you.”

Sarah Dessen
Author Sarah Dessen

“Parasocial relationships” is the best term I’ve seen to describe how Dessen’s followers rose up and hounded the college student offline. Much of the outrage seemed rooted in the feeling that Dessen was not merely a YA author, but their friend. Any why not? These new, online super-authors are

not merely authors, they’re brands. Many of these YA authors have crafted an online persona of a confidant and sympathizing mentor. You don’t merely read their books, you hear from them everyday. You see their vacation photos and learn about their pets. You share their ups and downs in the real world.

Wikipedia says that the term parasocial interactions was first coined in 1956, no doubt in part inspired by the rise of television in the United States. The researchers described them existing prior to mass media, such as people emotionally bonding to gods, supernatural spirits, or saints. They are telling examples.

It requires much divination to predict these social media brouhahas will continue so long as artists and writers can organically grow their followings. Certainly I don’t see these kerfuffles as justification for returning to the pre-digital way, where editors and publishers decided over Negroni lunches who got published and who got to languish. But being thin-skinned to criticism, and using one’s followers to “cancel” the critic, is a bad choice no matter how you look at it.

As Davis predicts:

If there’s no criticism of [Rodriguez’s art], here’s what I think will happen: All the marketing companies and PR people looking to piggyback on Rodriguez’s popularity will stuff his feed with more and more cringe celebrity content and half-baked promo ideas until his social-media presence is bled dry of whatever charm it has.

What’s going on in my world?

The Bridge Daughter Cycle

It’s been awhile. Although the web site has been mostly quiet, I’ve actually been juggling a few projects and staying busy.

First, I am working on a new novel, which I hope to have mostly finished before the end of the year. It’s a bit of curveball compared to my past work—an absurdist caper comedy shot through with gallows humor. I’ll share more details when the manuscript shapes up and the final book comes together.

Second, I’m developing another interactive fiction video game. I’ve filed my intention to submit it for the Interactive Fiction Competition this fall, although having it ready and debugged in time for the comp will be tight. This one will be a bit different than my prior title (According to Cain), in that this new game more like a detective story, where interviewing people and gathering clues is vital to finishing the game. Again, more details will be coming as development finalizes.

My presentation at NarraScope went well. I had a great time in Pittsburgh, meeting a variety of people in the interactive fiction space from academics to seasoned game developers. A casual and positive conference. If you’re interested in my presentation, a PDF of the slides are here. (I’m told a video of the presentation will be available later; I’ll post here when that happens.)

Finally, I have a few blog posts in the hopper. Keeping busy with the above means I’ve neglected the blog. I do plan on paying a little more attention to it in the coming months.

As always, if you’re looking around for your next read, please consider my latest (A Man Named Baskerville), my Bridge Daughter series if you’ve not picked it up yet, or any of my other books. If you’re not on my mailing list, sign up and you can download a preview of A Man Named Baskerville.

Stay tuned!

2022 IFDB Award polling closing soon

A computer monitor and keyboard underwater.

Quick note: If you’re an aficionado of interactive fiction, and you played at least one interactive fiction game released in 2022, head on over to the Interactive Fiction Database and vote for the IFDB Award. There’s a lot of categories, but no fear, you can vote in as many or as few of them as you like.

(With one proviso: You can only vote in the “Author’s Choice” categories if you’ve authored an interactive fiction game and it’s listed on IFDB.)

Read over the voting rules, create an account if you’ve not already, browse the IFDB for games you’ve played, and then vote! Polls close Feburary 17th.

(In case you’re asking: Both of my recent interactive fiction games, According to Cain and Past Present, are eligible for the award.)

Sherlock Holmes, footloose and copyright-free

[Disclaimer: I’m not a lawyer or an expert on copyright law. If you have legal questions, go talk to a pro.]

You may have heard that the United States copyright on Sherlock Holmes expired with the arrival of the New Year.

You may have also heard something similar ten or so years ago (such as this 2013 news story). Why are we going through this again in 2023?

You may also wonder how a character created in 1887—136 years ago—could have been copyrighted up until a few days back. Did all those recent Sherlock Holmes adaptations (Sherlock, Elementary, Mr. Holmes, Enola Holmes, etc.) pay a license fee to someone? Who was collecting the money?

And did I pay a license fee to publish my Sherlock Holmes book, A Man Named Baskerville?

The short summary is this:

The character of Sherlock Holmes, and most of his stories, have been in the public domain since the late 1990’s. However, Arthur Conan Doyle’s literary estate—which represents a few distant descendants—continued to insist that the character remained in copyright, and so authors and filmmakers kept paying a license fee to produce derivative works. The final batch of Holmes stories entered the public domain in 2023, but it remains to be seen if the estate will cease to claim it holds rights to depictions of him.

And, no, I did not purchase a license to publish my book last year. Here’s why.


Of the books I’ve written, A Man Named Baskerville required the most research. I studied Victorian idioms and writing patterns, the history of the Empire of Brazil, the British peerage, dog breeding and training, and the ecosystem of the Dartmoor bogs. I read and reread (and reread) the source story, The Hound of the Baskervilles. None of this was a chore.

A Man Named Baskerville by Jim Nelson

However, I also spent a frustrating amount of time researching whether I needed to pay a license fee to publish my book. That research drew out to a confounding and depressing study in modern greed.

This is what I learned:

In the United States, the characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson have been in the public domain for decades now. The earliest Holmes stories fell out of copyright in 1998, when U.S. legislation declared works published prior to 1923 were automatically in the public domain. That magic year—1923—was “frozen” until 2019, when the public-domain clock began moving forward. Today, the magic public domain cut-off date is 1927.

(This is an important distinction: The characters of Holmes, Watson, Moriarty, etc. were placed in the public domain in 1998, even though some of the later stories remained under copyright. As you’ll see, the Doyle literary estate played up this confusion for their own ends.)

The first Sherlock Holmes stories were published in 1887. The bulk of them were published prior to 1923. You’d think authors and filmmakers have been free for decades now to produce new Sherlock Holmes works. You would be wrong, in a way.

The complication stems from Doyle’s writing history. Although he killed off Holmes in 1893’s “The Final Problem,” he returned to the character in The Hound of the Baskervilles (serialized in 1901–1902) and brought the detective back to life in 1903’s “The Adventure of the Empty House.” Doyle continued producing Holmes stories and novels until 1927—meaning he produced four years’ worth of work that remained copyrighted though the end of 2022.

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

Astoundingly, the Doyle literary estate did not stop insisting after 1998 that depictions of Sherlock Holmes required a license. Their logic was that since some of the Sherlock Holmes stories remained copyrighted, the estate still held rights to the character. What’s more, they asserted any depiction of a “rounded” Sherlock Holmes—that is, a Sherlock Holmes with feelings—was also copyrighted. (It’s preposterous, and I won’t go into their reasoning here.)

These specious claims crashed into a wall of common sense thanks to author Leslie S. Klinger suing the estate in 2013. Klinger had previously paid a $5,000 licensing fee to publish his first Sherlock Holmes book. He refused to pay for his second book; the Doyle estate threatened to prevent the book’s distribution. Judge Richard Posner recounted the estate’s threats in his findings:

[The estate] did not mince words … “If you proceed … to bring out [the sequel] unlicensed, do not expect to see it offered for sale by Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and similar retailers. We work with those compan[ies] routinely to weed out unlicensed uses of Sherlock Holmes from their offerings, and will not hesitate to do so with your book as well.”

Posner excoriated Doyle’s estate, calling their actions “a form of extortion”:

The Doyle estate’s business strategy is plain: charge a modest license fee for which there is no legal basis, in the hope that the “rational” writer or publisher asked for the fee will pay it rather than incur a greater cost, in legal expenses, in challenging the legality of the demand.

Posner also tossed out the estate’s attempt to extend their copyright via the last remaining stories, as well as their “Sherlock Holmes with feeling” claim. He said their appeal “bordered on the quixotic.”

This is why, when the suit was settled, news sources in 2013—ten years ago—were printing headlines like “Finally, Sherlock Holmes Is Now in the Public Domain.” Considering Posner’s scathing dressing-down of the estate, you’d think the matter was settled. Again, you would be wrong.

Unabated and shameless, the Doyle literary estate continued to squeeze payments from authors and filmmakers. One victim of this bogus “Sherlock Holmes with feeling” copyright was the 2015 film Mr. Holmes, starring Ian McKellan. Another was the Netflix production of Enola Holmes. The final 2020 settlement details are undisclosed, but I wager Netflix paid the Doyle estate rather than continue with a protracted lawsuit—exactly the shakedown Posner described in his Klinger decision.


With the passing of 2022, articles blossom again with proclamations that the master detective is finally in the public domain—“Now anybody can write a Sherlock Holmes story.” Actually, anybody could have written a Holmes story since 1998—it’s only due to an insufferable and insatiable literary estate that anyone would think otherwise.

Mr. Holmes, starring Ian McKellan
Mr. Holmes movie poster

With the entire Sherlock Holmes corpus now in the public domain, this must close the door on the estate’s claims, right? I’m dubious. The Doyle estate has been told at least twice in the past (in 1998, again in 2013) they do not hold a copyright on the detective. That did not stop them from abusing their namesake’s prestige to squeeze money out of creators.

If you think I’m being cynical, consider that the estate continues, in 2023, to solicit license fees from prospective Holmes authors. A separate agency solicits licenses for Sherlock Holmes memorabilia and merchandise—even though generic depictions of the detective are entirely in the public domain and do not require a license. The literary estate’s web site is polished and professionally-produced. You could not blame a naive author wandering onto it and concluding they must pay a license fee to publish a Sherlock Holmes book.

And if you think I was being paranoid or overly self-important worrying that the Doyle estate would come after me, recall that they were more than happy to take Leslie Klinger—an independent author you may not have heard of before—all the way to the 7th Circuit court of appeals. Remember what they told him: “Do not expect to see [your book] offered for sale by Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and similar retailers. We work with those companies routinely to weed out unlicensed uses of Sherlock Holmes.” Would Amazon’s algorithm automatically ban or blacklist my book because it did not carry a license from the Doyle estate?

And if that sounds farfetched, know that several years ago Amazon informed me that they would de-list my first novel because its description contained the phrase “Star Wars.” They didn’t care that my novel centers on the development of the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), dubbed “Star Wars” by its critics. I removed the phrase from my description, and the book continues to be sold online. I’m not happy about that, though.

With all that in mind, I decided to risk it. The strength of the Klinger decision convinced me the Doyle estate did not hold the copyright to Sherlock Holmes, that I didn’t need to obtain a license, that I didn’t need to wait until 2023 to publish A Man Named Baskerville—that I was entirely free to take the original Baskerville story and re-shape and re-imagine it from the perspective of the villain himself. That’s exactly what I did.

Flight of the Big Blue Bird

Twitter logo

I’ve been bird-watching. I’ve followed the events at Twitter this week with a morbid fascination: Elon Musk’s arrival at Twitter HQ bearing a sink; the outrage at a billionaire buying up a major cultural outlet (which overlooks all the other billionaires making similar purchases, and most of all, that Twitter itself help make founder Jack Dorsey one, but for some reason, this time is different); the questionable sagacity of predicting Twitter is doomed after a mere seven days of changing hands (this from the same media that told us the Twitter sale itself was doomed from the outset); the layoff of half of Twitter’s workforce; and a notable, but not mass, migration to Mastodon, a Twitter lookalike with a more distributed modus operandi (and no billionaire owner).

I’ve been on Mastodon since 2018. I’ve never liked the Pepsi-or-Coke situation with Twitter and Facebook, so I dipped my toe in the Mastodon waters four years ago in the hope of finding a better situation. I didn’t. My Mastodon feed was tumbleweeds, mostly cat photos and random musings on how much better Mastodon is than Twitter. The way to build your Mastodon feed is to follow more people, but I could find no one there I knew or cared to follow—and if I did, they were on Twitter too, so might as well follow them there.

My dusty Mastodon feed greened in the past week. It has more interesting content now, and my own messages (“toots” in Mastodon parlance) are getting some engagement as well.

With the growth comes growing pains. I’m already having a knee-jerk hipster reaction to the increased traffic there, similar to that sinking feeling one gets when your favorite cafe tucked away in a quiet neighborhood gets Yelped.

Mastodon logo
Mastodon

Worse, I’m already starting to see the kind of toots my Twitter feed was flooded with a few years ago: Smug, taunting, highly-politicized messages supposedly proving how people not-like-the-message’s-author are idiots. This was one of the reasons I wanted to find an alternative to Twitter in 2018.

(How did I halt the flow of those messages on Twitter? I stopped following people who retweeted those kinds of messages. Harsh, yes, but if you’re repeatedly propagating material I don’t want to read, I reserve the right to stop following you. The Twitter algorithm picked up on my change of reading habits, and pretty soon that kind of content disappeared from my feed.)

The real question is if this mild shift in traffic snowballs into the Mass Twitter Migration of 2022 that leads to its collapse.

I’m not holding my breath. Twitter has tremendous inertial energy behind it, no matter its ownership. The blue-checked accounts and users with six-digit-plus followers have a ton of investment in the system. Ten percent of Twitter users produce 90% of its content. Power users are a big draw, and I don’t see any of them packing their bags quite yet.

Mostly, I think those capable and willing to leave Twitter won’t. They’ll simply maintain one more social media account. Most people already juggle Twitter, Facebook, and Gmail. Adding one more to the mix might be annoying, but it’s hardly some massive additional investment of time. And if people are active on both Twitter and Mastodon, then—surprise!—Twitter lives.

My Mastodon account is here. More information on joining Mastodon is here.