There appears to have been rather a bit of controversy on the Twitters about yesterday’s post regarding a Bethesda PR rep referring to the press build of Skyrim as “pre-alpha code”. I’m going to do my best to clear that up.

I’m not arguing whether or not Crecente or any of the other journos who got a hands-on with the game were playing unfinished code. Of course he played unfinished code. The idea that he’d be playing the release candidate is preposterous, even this close to release.

That was never the point I was trying to make, and if that’s what you took away from my post then I apologize for the confusion. Admittedly, the wording I used wasn’t great. I don’t feel I got my point across properly.

The key point of contention was the use of the term “pre-alpha” by Bethesda’s PR people. Y’see, there is literally no way Bethesda would bring pre-alpha code to a press release. Why? Because a pre-alpha build is barely even the beginnings of a game.

I asked programmer and friend Case Wagner to do his best to explain what “pre-alpha” actually means from a programming perspective. He sent me this colorful bit of text:

Pre-alpha: The magical land between the designer’s pillow and a product worth getting the world excited about. You might have concepts, middleware tech and a vast collection of ideas scribbled on post-its while a team of ninjas practices Agile Development by beating their keyboards against the faces of baby seals while discussing their progress each day, but you’ve only got your toes in the water yet. Things can change. Redefining character direction or genre, the discovery that “making games is hard”, or poor planning, can significantly alter the early trajectory of a game. And you haven’t even written the first line of code yet…

The pre-alpha stage is usually the absolute start of software development, and often involves figuring out exactly what the program is going to do, and figuring out what the team is going to need to do to make those ideas a reality.

Once you know that, you know there’s no way the build of Skyrim that Bethesda showed to the press was “pre-alpha”. It was playable. There were graphics. There were NPC interactions. (9.5 out of 10, Editor’s Choice - Ed.)

The build provided some indication of what the final product would be like - enough for Bethesda to merit booking a handful of hotel rooms for a day or two and inviting members of the press to come over and give it a go.

It’s been suggested that Bethesda may use different terms for development stages internally. Not only would this make any ICT professor worth his salt weep into his pillow for 40 days and 40 nights, but even if it were the case that internal terminology would be exactly that - internal. Unless you’re using it in front of people you don’t expect to know any better, of course.

The problem I have is with PR reps using the term “pre-alpha” to brush off any complaints about glitches in the code. So what if there are glitches? You don’t need to justify the current flaws of an unfinished game by reappropriating a term that effectively means development hasn’t actually started yet.

I was surprised and disappointed that Crecente, who has worked in game journalism for some years now, didn’t spot this misuse of the term, but the focus of my rage was on the PR folks who use the term incorrectly.

I’ll leave you with a bit of roleplay. Don’t worry, you don’t have to dress up if you don’t want to.

Imagine you’re a food critic. You’ve been taken to a private suite in a restaurant to enjoy a world-renowned chef’s brand new concoction. You’ve heard good things - by all accounts it should be flavorful, aromatic and well-presented.

The waiter brings out your meal on a plate. It looks superb - finely cooked, and garnished with just a hint of parsley.

Unfortunately the appealing look is rather offset by the smell of the thing. It’s not bad by any measure, but it certainly isn’t pleasing. Fortunately it tastes much better - the flavors set off fireworks in your head, though the impact is dampened by a bizarre aftertaste, not to mention the aroma still wafting from the plate and into your nostrils.

You call over the waiter and ask him to bring out the head chef. He leaves the room, reentering a moment later with a man in a white chef’s uniform.

“I trust everything is to your liking,” says the chef, smiling confidently

“Kind of,” you reply. “It tastes great, but it smells a bit weird and there’s a funky aftertaste.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry about that,” says the chef. “I haven’t started cooking it yet.”