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rolanniI just found out that Silas Warner died in February, of kidney disease, leaving a wife -- Kari Ann Owen -- a dog, and something of a puzzle.
Way back in 1984, down in Baltimore, I was writing ad copy for Torierri and Myers as a day job, and the agency had just acquired a new client, Muse Software. Muse marketed software for Apple Computers, including "The Voice," a program that would make your computer "speak" -- and two games. One game was called "RobotWars" and the other "Castle Wolfenstein." The agency's creative director assigned me to the case in the belief that, since I wrote sci-fi, that new-fangled computer stuff would make sense to me. So I made an appointment and walked a couple blocks over to see the computers and the games, and to talk with Muse's owner.
While I was there, I met the game designer, a large socially inept man named Silas Warner, who was surly and over-enthusiastic by turns -- and extremely frustrated by silly girl copywriters who didn't Immediately Grasp All the Ramifications of his games. I didn't like him much, but, dim as I was, I could still see that "Castle Wolfenstein" was solar systems beyond the arcade video games I knew.
Silas had also built another game, called "Firebug," which he showed me when the boss was called away to answer the phone. It was a more straightforward game -- guide the firebug through the apartment house, touching all the matches at each level. Touch all the matches and poof! the apartment house caught fire.
"Err, that needs some editing before we can market it," the boss said, hurrying back into the room, and glaring at Silas, who shrugged his massive shoulders and continued playing.
I worked on the Muse account until Torrieri-Myers merged with an agency in Hunt Valley and I got busted back to secretary.
A couple years later, I was working for MicroProse Software, in that same Hunt Valley, as secretary to the marketing vp. MicroProse's claim to fame was flight simulation programs, but they also built games, the creative team headed by the legendary Sid Myers. Silas was also part of the game design team, surlier and considerably less enthusiastic -- even intractable. He would come in about the time I was leaving for lunch, and work into the small hours. I didn't like him any better than I had previously, and Silas didn't seem to like anything or anyone.
Silas was a member of BSFS for a while, wrote and saw published at least one SF story -- under a pseudonym, and the title is long gone from my memory. The plot turned on a trolley car from Argentina and the ghost of a woman, and it was a competently written, thoughtful, story. He could easily have written more -- and for all I know, he did.
A little while after my stint at MicroPose, we moved to Maine. There was no particular reason to remember Silas, brilliant and unpleasant as he was. And now today, having thought of him, himself -- as opposed to his games -- for the first time in likely 15 years, I find him months dead. Curiosity drove me to Google for more information on what he'd been doing for those last years. I expected, I'll admit -- not great things, but reasonable success. Comfort. For, you know, Silas was brilliant and the original "Castle Wolfenstein" had revolutionized and redefined the gaming industry.
I find that Silas and his wife moved to California, following a job to Silicon Valley. When the job went bust, they were homeless for some time before settling into a modest apartment and acquiring modest, non-tech jobs. And then Silas lost the long fight with kidney disease -- and we're come full circle.
Google does let me know that Silas was rich in people who remembered him, and who know how to value his considerable accomplishments. I suppose that's the coin we count at the last, but I could have wished the rest of his life would have more nearly reflected the brilliance of his thought.
Way back in 1984, down in Baltimore, I was writing ad copy for Torierri and Myers as a day job, and the agency had just acquired a new client, Muse Software. Muse marketed software for Apple Computers, including "The Voice," a program that would make your computer "speak" -- and two games. One game was called "RobotWars" and the other "Castle Wolfenstein." The agency's creative director assigned me to the case in the belief that, since I wrote sci-fi, that new-fangled computer stuff would make sense to me. So I made an appointment and walked a couple blocks over to see the computers and the games, and to talk with Muse's owner.
While I was there, I met the game designer, a large socially inept man named Silas Warner, who was surly and over-enthusiastic by turns -- and extremely frustrated by silly girl copywriters who didn't Immediately Grasp All the Ramifications of his games. I didn't like him much, but, dim as I was, I could still see that "Castle Wolfenstein" was solar systems beyond the arcade video games I knew.
Silas had also built another game, called "Firebug," which he showed me when the boss was called away to answer the phone. It was a more straightforward game -- guide the firebug through the apartment house, touching all the matches at each level. Touch all the matches and poof! the apartment house caught fire.
"Err, that needs some editing before we can market it," the boss said, hurrying back into the room, and glaring at Silas, who shrugged his massive shoulders and continued playing.
I worked on the Muse account until Torrieri-Myers merged with an agency in Hunt Valley and I got busted back to secretary.
A couple years later, I was working for MicroProse Software, in that same Hunt Valley, as secretary to the marketing vp. MicroProse's claim to fame was flight simulation programs, but they also built games, the creative team headed by the legendary Sid Myers. Silas was also part of the game design team, surlier and considerably less enthusiastic -- even intractable. He would come in about the time I was leaving for lunch, and work into the small hours. I didn't like him any better than I had previously, and Silas didn't seem to like anything or anyone.
Silas was a member of BSFS for a while, wrote and saw published at least one SF story -- under a pseudonym, and the title is long gone from my memory. The plot turned on a trolley car from Argentina and the ghost of a woman, and it was a competently written, thoughtful, story. He could easily have written more -- and for all I know, he did.
A little while after my stint at MicroPose, we moved to Maine. There was no particular reason to remember Silas, brilliant and unpleasant as he was. And now today, having thought of him, himself -- as opposed to his games -- for the first time in likely 15 years, I find him months dead. Curiosity drove me to Google for more information on what he'd been doing for those last years. I expected, I'll admit -- not great things, but reasonable success. Comfort. For, you know, Silas was brilliant and the original "Castle Wolfenstein" had revolutionized and redefined the gaming industry.
I find that Silas and his wife moved to California, following a job to Silicon Valley. When the job went bust, they were homeless for some time before settling into a modest apartment and acquiring modest, non-tech jobs. And then Silas lost the long fight with kidney disease -- and we're come full circle.
Google does let me know that Silas was rich in people who remembered him, and who know how to value his considerable accomplishments. I suppose that's the coin we count at the last, but I could have wished the rest of his life would have more nearly reflected the brilliance of his thought.
