You can buy a very early version of Syphilisation on Steam or Itch. You can read about what Syphilisation is here and the manifesto for the game here.

Work Done

The big feature this week is tying the campaigns a little closer to the diplomacy. Now, campaigns are easier or harder depending on your relationship with the person communicated with. I also changed the set of campaigns that come up.

More importantly, I put in a second win-condition track that asks you to make friends with the other players in the game. I really wanted something a track that’s separate from the research and I really like the flavor of coming into a group project with the intention of making friends. I think it does a lot to make the point that I’m trying to get across with the game.

Interesting Fact

This week’s interesting fact is a little bit of poetry. This is an excerpt from Satan Absolved by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt:

“And they baptise them Christians. Cometh the trader next, His bible too in hand, its free-trade for his text. He teacheth them to buy. - ‘We nothing need.’ ‘Yet take. ‘The want will come anon and keep your wits awake. ‘Here are the goods we sell, cloth, firelocks, powder, rum, ‘Ye shall go clothed like lords, like kings of Christendom.’ ‘We live best naked.’ ‘Fie.’ - ‘We have no use for arms. ‘The fire drink is forbid.’ ‘The thing forbid hath charms. ‘Nay. We will make you men, soldiers to brawl and fight ‘As all good Christians use, and God defend the right. ‘The drink will give you courage. Take it. ‘Tis the sign ‘Of manhood orthodox, its sacramental wine, ‘Or how can you be worthy your new Christian creed? ‘Drink.’ And they drink to Jesus and are borne to bed. He teacheth them to sell. ‘We need coin for our draught. ‘How shall we bring the price, since ye give naught for naught? ‘We crave the fire drink now.’ - ‘Friends, let not that prevent. ‘We lend on all your harvests, take our cent. per cent.’ ‘Sirs, but the crop is gone.’ - ‘There is your land in lots.’ ‘The land? It was our fathers’.’ - ‘Curse ye for idle sots, ‘A rascal lazing pack. Have ye no hands to work? ‘Off to the mines and dig, and see it how ye shirk.’ - ‘As slaves?’ ‘No, not as slaves. Our principles forbid. ‘Free labourers, if you will. We use that word instead. ‘The ‘dignity of labour’ ye shall learn for hire. ‘No paltering. No excuse. The white man hates a liar, ‘And hates a grumbling hand. Enough if we provide ‘Tools with the drink and leave your backs with a whole hide. ‘These lands are ours by Charter. If you doubt it, bring ‘Your case before the Courts, which will expound the thing. ‘As for your women folk. Look, there are ways well known ‘All women have of living in a Christian town. ‘Moreover you do ill. One wife the law allows, ‘And you, you say, have four. Send three round to our house.’

  • Thus is Thy gospel preached. Its issue, Lord, behold In the five Continents, the new world and the old. The happier tribes of Man despoiled, enslaved, betrayed To the sole white Man’s lust, husband and wife and maid. Their laughter drowned in tears, their kindness in mad wrath, Their dignity of joy in a foul trance of death, Till at the last they turn and in their anguish rend. Then loud the cry goeth forth, the white man’s to each friend: ‘Help! Christians, to our help! These black fiends murder us.’ And the last scene is played in death’s red charnel house. The Saxon anger flames. His ships in armament Bear slaughter on their wings. The Earth with fire is rent, And the poor souls misused are wiped from the world’s face In one huge imprecation from the Saxon race, In one huge burst of prayer and insolent praise to Thee, Lord God, for Thy high help and proved complicity. Nay Lord, ‘tis not a lie, the thing I tell Thee thus. Their bishops in their Churches lead, incredulous, The public thanks profane. They sanctify the sword - ‘Te Deum laudamus. Give peace in our time, O Lord.’ Hast Thou not heard their chanting? Nay, Thou dost not hear, Or Thou hadst loosed Thy hand like lightning in the clear To smite their ribald lips with palsy, these false priests, These Lords who boast Thine aid at their high civic feasts, The ignoble shouting crowds, the prophets of their Press, Pouring their daily flood of bald self-righteousness, Their poets who write big of the ‘White Burden.’ Trash! The White Man’s Burden, Lord, is the burden of his cash.”