This is an essay about things I like and things I don’t, and how being friends with certain people such as Donald Harris are rewarding even though sometimes we annoy each other.
(Donald and I are good friends, in truth. He’s been asking me consistently to write for the ATXGM newsletter or blog site and I’ve always had excuses. I’ll come back to that.)
Remember when ATX Game Makers had an event during SXSW in 2022? The pandemic hadn’t officially ended, but SXSW Gaming Expo was officially Not Coming Back even though it wasn’t competing directly with GDC, at least not that year?
Well, Donald went and did it. At a location at 711 Red River Street, three whole blocks from the Austin Convention Center and the Downtown Metrorail station, in a space that had been occupied by Beerland until someone decided to heavily renovate what was a dive bar into what might have been considered a more upscale lounge with a black and grasshopper-green interior, called The Green Jay.
From 3 to 6 p.m. On March 12, which was a Tuesday.
There were reasons for all of this, I’m sure, but I wasn’t part of the planning. There was free gourmet Indian food that everyone got to eat out of little plastic containers. There was a live DJ set interspersed with people going on stage to tell personal career stories. But, as I recall, the place was so jammed with people generally talking to each other, it was alternately hard to pay attention to what was being said and then hard not to be distracted from any connections being made.
And you know what the whole show was called?
Best I can tell, the core idea for the show was going to be the part where people went on stage to tell stories about their early come-ups. That’s what the announcement page for the event expected would happen.
I don’t remember any of the story particulars, mainly because the PA system made it hard to hear or focus on anyone while in the crowd, but I’m pretty sure no one went on stage to admit that they were being fake as a prelude to their eventual success. To be fair, I don’t believe anyone associated with the event expected that to happen.
But Donald had to call the event something.
Hate is a strong word. I hated the title of that event. I am glad that it was never used to describe another ATXGM event since.
Because Donald and I are friends, I don’t think I gave him much of a hard time about it. But I never forgot about it, and back in February 2025, a mental challenge came to mind: What if “fake it until you make it” could be considered good advice?
I never want to advise anyone to be “fake.” Authenticity is essential to accountability, and being authentic means being tolerable to me personally. I’m immensely skeptical about the character of others, especially as it relates to aspirational states such as “video game developer.” Anyone trying to be fake as a means to greater ends was not going to get what they wanted.
But then I realized: feeling fake was still part of the process that could lead to achieving a goal, and battling imposter syndrome, i.e., irrationally feeling fake or undeserving, is a common thing among many professional creative and/or technical people. That might be the answer.
I pitched this idea to Donald, as I often do, over Discord. He immediately told me I should write an essay about it.
Instead of doing that, I kept ruminating on the idea, until I got the opportunity to moderate a panel at the Gaming Summit in San Antonio, back in October. I wasn’t that good a moderator, but I ran my mouth a lot, and among the things I said, included the following:
“Fake it until you make it” does not mean that anyone should expect to be allowed into an organization and enabled to do anything they don’t know how to do. That does not happen.
Rather, “fake it until you make it” means that if you’re trying to enter a space where people already exist, you’re going to feel fake the first time you enter, either one-on-one or in a group of those you mean to consider your peers.
It will feel like you don’t belong. That you don’t deserve to be there. That’s the part you have to be brave enough to work past, even if it means fooling your brain into acknowledging that yes, I am a fake, but this is where I need to be.
It went something like that. It got a lot of strong reactions at the time. I’ve since learned that it’s similar to advice in the book “Crucial Conversations: Tools For Talking When Stakes Are High.” Thanks, Cody Fraser. I’ll give the authors credit, though I’m sure I’m not the only one to come up with a similar notion independently, in the whole history of organizational discourse.
One of the “Crucial Conversations” authors, Joseph Grenny, related a phrase in his website’s advice column that I’ve certainly heard before in some form: “Sometimes we resent most the things we resemble most.”
That speaks to me, because as many of my friends have heard me say, I have learned that I have a great capacity for resentment, and I’m actively seeking the grace to avoid it.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Writing this essay, the way Donald wanted me to do nine months ago, it occurs that my strong reaction to him using some version of what I consider bad advice as the title of an important event during which I had fun and got to talk to lots of interesting people years ago, wasn’t really hate. Maybe instead, it’s a reflection of my own resentment that I have yet to resolve.
- The kind of resentment that suggests I’ve made too many mistakes and I can’t escape or make amends for them.
- That my worry about Donald Harris being pulled in so many directions at once is really about my own aversion and avoidance of overcommitting myself.
- That my version of what many call a mid-life crisis is about examining my professional development, my interpersonal skills and ability to speak with authority, and finding them all lacking.
- That if the time came for me to land in financial ruin similar to so many of my friends in the past few years, I wouldn’t be able to seek out advice I’d be prepared to follow, and I could only expect the level of help I can offer anyone else — anemic at best.
Maybe none of that is worth worrying about. But maybe there’s something in there that I have yet to learn.
Back to 2022. The event with the title I hated, or merely just resented, that I stewed on for three years after, was in fact the “first annual” event during SXSW. Even if SXSW has events related to video games and development going forward, it’s not going to be any better about recognizing efforts coming out of Austin, much less Texas. So having an event within walking distance of downtown, still makes sense.
Maybe it makes too much sense. Maybe it’s a reflection of how much Austin has had, that we don’t anymore. Maybe we all could use more grace to appreciate what we still have that’s good, before we lose some other dear thing.
Onward to 2026. The 40th anniversary of the disaster at Chernobyl. The year when I turn 50 years old, and when I mark 15 years of being a host of Austin Game Developer Beer Night, after Blake Rebouche moved out of town for business and Jon Jones didn’t want to do it alone. Wish I could tell you what date that was, for history’s sake.
Beyond that, I wish I could tell you what’s coming. The future is a history we have yet to experience. As such it’s always going to be hard to perceive, but maybe we all need to take the possibilities more seriously, especially the ones within our reach.
To all those who have heard me give good advice, know that what you did mattered most. I might have held the door open, but it was someone else’s role to walk through it. My hope is that I’m not done, yet. Too much fun left to have. This is where I belong and hope I get to stay.
I wish everyone could have friends like I have. Thanks, Donald. This one’s for you.
Henderson out.
12/2025