I didn’t relish the thought of writing this one, because I’ve reached these conclusions many years ago, decided the matter is settled, and let myself forget the reasoning behind the conclusions in the first place, and now going back to retrace it feels like a fairly pointless exercise. Nevertheless, I feel that some readers might benefit from a more comprehensive look at the history of the Obsidian team’s persistent writing problems. Much of this will be about how they treat women as characters, since that’s what has bothered me the most deeply over the years, but there are also other, more or less related points to be made about the ideological content of many of their games.
(content warning: this article contains some discussion of violence against women, gaslighting and rape)
The issue predates the company; what I call “the Obsidian team” started in Black Isle, a division of Interplay, most notably responsible for Fallout 2 and Planescape: Torment. Other titles worth considering under this banner include Obsidian’s own Neverwinter Nights 2 (and especially the expansion Mask of the Betrayer), Fallout: New Vegas, Alpha Protocol, Pillars of Eternity and Knights of the Old Republic 2: The Sith Lords. Of tangential relevance here is Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines made by Troika, a studio formed by former Black Isle employees. I would like it to be clear here that I neither know nor especially care which particular writers are responsible for which parts of the texts under consideration; that so many games developed by former Black Isle writers share very similar problems suggests that they stem from a shared culture and set of values and preoccupations.
Let’s start with the big one: Torment, on which I’ve touched briefly before in my hatchet job on Tides of Numenera (a game that credits Obsidian superstar Chris Avellone as one of its writers). As I mentioned there, there are four major women characters in the game: Annah, Fall-from-Grace, Ravel Puzzlewell and Deionarra. Every single one of them is madly, hopelessly smitten by the main character, The Nameless One. Grace and Annah, the party-joinable NPCs, are transparently a Madonna/whore duo, by which I mean a common literary trope of juxtaposing a chaste, demure, dignified and positively angelic woman with a loose, immoral, vulgar and overtly sexual one. The reason this is objectionable is because such pairs are, ultimately, not really people; traditionally, they are meant to represent a choice the male protagonist makes between base, sinful sensuality and loftier, more spiritual pursuits, and as characters, ultimately exist only for his benefit. This dynamic both demonstrates the present social understanding of the role of women as handmaids, helpmeets and conquests, and reinforces it. The only “progressive” thing Torment can be accused of doing on this front (if we are speaking of progress relative to the opinions of St. Augustine of Hippo in the 4th century) is that the lustful and feisty Annah does not represent downfall or moral degradation for Nameless any more than Grace does; she’s just one of the two equally valid, and equally slavishly devoted to him, options.
Annah and Grace waste absolutely no time before getting into catfights over the protagonist’s attention if you bring them both along – which you almost definitely will, because they’re your thief and your cleric, almost as if to ensure that the player wouldn’t miss this entire sordid affair of two hot pixel girls fighting over their avatar.
Ravel is a hag, which is not just a weirdly dated slur, but an actual entry in the Dungeons and Dragons bestiary: an ancient, powerful and usually malevolent witch modeled on Baba Yaga. Everyone in the city of Sigil seems absolutely terrified of her, and you can hear countless rumours about her vague but definitely nefarious schemes, one of which has left her locked up in some kind of magical prison for challenging the authority of Sigil’s equally mysterious ruler, the Lady of Pain. From this description you might assume she’d be a prime mover of the plot, and in a sense she is. When we finally meet her, we learn that, in a previous and forgotten life, Nameless came to her and demanded that she make him immortal – which she sort of did, except dying makes him lose his memories, and also the ritual involved him dying, so that’s kind of a bummer. (The immortality was either supposed to give him time to atone for whatever literally unspeakable atrocity he’d committed and regretted, or just to act as a cheat code to keep him out of Planescape’s profoundly goofy equivalent of Christian hell – there’s some room for interpretation there.) Anyway, Ravel apparently fell in love with him back then, solely because he was nice to her, which just goes to show that even ancient witches of unimaginable power can get really lonely sometimes.
Jokes aside, what it actually shows is that since he’s the central character, and the game’s universe all but revolves around him, so must the life of every woman he meets. When Nameless meets her again, the game does give you the option of showering her with incredibly insincere compliments, and if you do it enough, she’ll give you some items or stat points or something because you’ve melted her icy heart. You do still have to fight and murder her afterwards either way, though, being as she is a thinly veiled metaphor for a clingy ex-girlfriend who just can’t let Nameless go, even after he’s gotten what he wants from her and thanked her very nicely and given nothing in return. Despite being spoken of as one of the most powerful entities in the multiverse, who seemingly only consented to being imprisoned because it was convenient for her anyway, her role in the story does not go any further than her usefulness to the actual important character.
Then there’s Deionarra. Oh boy, Deionarra.
The first thing you might have noticed is that her name is a reference to Heracles’ wife Deianira (Wikipedia seems to think her name translates to “man-destroyer”, which I’ve been unable to verify with a more reputable source since my Greek sucks, but which is amusing in the context of this discussion at the very least). Deianira is famously credited with Heracles’ death via the absurd means of a poisoned shirt, as told by Sophocles in Women of Trachis. The reference doesn’t feel hugely relevant to my interpretation of Torment, although it might go some way towards explaining why Nameless is constantly shirtless – it’s a precaution. In the game, it’s Nameless’s previous, unbelievably shitty incarnation who leads Deionarra to her death, thoroughly and callously using her for some kind of special magical ability she possesses. She sticks around as a spooky ghost, still unaware she’d been manipulated and still there to help you carry out your mission.
What’s so disturbing about Deionarra as a character is that for the most part, she’s there to impress upon you how callous and evil Nameless’s previous incarnation was. To that effect, you even get to relive a scene from your previous life as a passenger in your own head, watching yourself lie to her face and listening to your own contemptuous thoughts about her, futilely trying to change the outcome or get through to her. For a long time I thought it was the best bit of writing in the game, because of how effective it was at making me uncomfortable and disgusted. The trouble is, it still revolves around your own character, his previous life and his regrets. Deionarra is only there to be the very picture of vulnerable innocence, to fawn over you and adore you no matter how much you hurt her.
This is the basis on which I’d like to build my argument. It’s not that Black Isle/Obsidian games solely present women negatively, or excuse cruelty towards them, or anything similarly crass. In fact, cruelty towards women is instrumental to many of these games’ narratives as a signifier of evil. The issue is that, first of all, this necessitates the presence of many characters like Deionarra – perfect, innocent, passive victims who are only there to suffer, and do not fight back in any way, because them doing so would undermine the primacy of the player’s agency, and deprive you of the opportunity to swoop in and save them. Second, these grandiose displays of evil often exist alongside characters like Morte and Atton, who constantly and casually objectify women, but are generally meant to be read as sympathetic and funny, and an impression is created that there exists some significant difference between “just jokes” and deliberate cruelty, rather than these things existing at different points on the same spectrum of misogyny. Third, and this is the argument I understand many will struggle with, but which I consider very important, is that these constant depictions of harm, even when clearly and wholly presented as negative, create game worlds that are hostile to women as a matter of fact, because instead of identifying with the main character-white knight figure, they are forced into the position of identifying with the victimized character.
If we divert into New Vegas for a second, and specifically its first DLC, Dead Money, we find not one but two examples of women’s suffering being instrumentalized for the purpose of communicating how shitty another character is. Christine Royce, a member of the Brotherhood of Steel, a chivalry-themed paramilitary techno-cult, has a long history of horrible things happening to her, culminating with you finding her locked up in a futuristic medical device that the shitty character in question, Dean Domino, has set up to operate on her vocal cords in order to give her the voice of his long-lost lover. If you were made uncomfortable by that description, rest assured it’s much, much worse experiencing it in the actual game. Very much the Deionarra situation again, except dialed up from psychological manipulation to physical torture.
The second example is Dean’s lover herself, Vera, now long dead, but for our benefit, her story is still preserved in the usual medium of audio logs and journal entries. Vera’s life was likewise a cavalcade of misery – a washed-up Hollywood actress and the trophy wife of a casino mogul, she was blackmailed by Dean Domino to aid him in his planned heist, and his leverage is her drug use – but unbeknownst to him, she was not actually a Bad Addict, which would be Bad, but suffering from chronic pain. Trapped in a cage her husband constructed for her, and wracked with guilt over betraying him, she took her own life. Once again I get the impression that the narrative takes great pains to paint her as an almost Dickensian, nobly suffering innocent solely for the purpose of making it clear how evil Dean is – and the suspicion arises that the writers might think that a less passive, less pitiable victim might not be a victim at all. That might sound cynical, but considering how victim-blaming is not so much popular in our culture as constitutive of it, I don’t find it unreasonable.
The main New Vegas game is actually a fair bit better about all of this (although I welcome disagreement on that point, as it’s a pretty big game and I’ve by no means seen everything in it). There’s Veronica, a potential follower NPC and Christine’s girlfriend until the Brotherhood, in the grand tradition of chivalry, forced them to split up because it’s committed to reproductive heteronormativity. Her entire personal plot revolves around her relationship with the militaristic cult she was raised in, and doesn’t have a happy conclusion either way, but feels very much like her own story and not subordinate to anyone else’s development. There’s Rose of Sharon Cassidy, a hard-drinking, shit-talking gunslinger out for revenge, although her penchant for bawdy jokes signals another worrisome tendency that I’ll get to later. There’s Mother Pearl, the kindly leader of the Boomers, yet another militaristic gun-worshipper faction (hey, it is America), and Alice McLafferty, the enterprising and ruthlessly Thatcherite manager of the Crimson Caravan company, and Julie Farkas, chief doctor of the vaguely anarcho-pacifist and wholly benevolent Followers of the Apocalypse. Generally, all of them are secondary characters in the main plot, but they appear as people with their own interests and agendas.
Some attention must be given at this point to Caesar’s Legion, a fascist society devoted to militarism and misogyny and one of the main players in the game’s central conflict over the Hoover Dam. An early and memorable scene in the game has the player happen upon the site of a massacre perpetrated by the Legion in the town of Nipton, and the Legion’s commanding officer, eager to use your eyewitness account as a means of spreading fear among their enemies, explains their motivations in tellingly gendered terms: Nipton deserved it, he says, because “it was a town of whores.” It’s hard to be against this portrayal, exactly, which is what makes it elude criticism so much. But in the context of every other instance of violence against women being instrumentalized as a signifier of evil in the games I’m discussing (something that also happens in real life whenever racists want to convince you they’re just so concerned about the women of Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran and countless other places), it suggests a frustrating willingness to use misogyny as world- and character-building simply to designate who the baddies are, and it is rarely paired with any actual concern for the victims and their trauma – their role is rhetorical and philosophical, and when the baddies are defeated, there is no need anymore to think about what it will be like to live in the aftermath of their actions.
Also, to veer off the main topic for a second here, since I don’t see it brought up a lot, I just want to say real quick that the Honest Hearts DLC is breathtakingly racist, a story of post-nuclear wasteland dwellers who have “devolved” to the “uncivilized” state of being some kind of fantasy image of noble savages, and the two Mormon missionaries on a benevolent and paternalistic civilizing mission, who try to save them from Caesar’s Legion and deliver them unto Christ. “Tribals” were extensively played for laughs in Fallout 2, and the less said about that, the better; the fact that the tribes of Honest Hearts are presented more as helpless children than comedy idiots does not do much to alter the contemptuous thrust of the overarching story.
Things get much grimmer and darker in Pillars of Eternity, the hugely successful gritty reboot of Baldur’s Gate-style Infinity Engine RPGs. Before I get to any individual characters, I want to spend some time on the central premise: doom has come to the idyllic fantasy land of Wherever-the-Fuck, in the form of a reproductive catastrophe. Children all over the land are being born “without souls,” which amounts to them being severely developmentally disabled, although the way we hear it told is put in terms of likening them to either zombies or wild animals – incidentally, the exact same kind of rhetoric as that deployed by anti-vaccine types who like to blame children with autism for absolutely every single thing wrong with society. The only good thing about this notion, which puts the player in the shoes of an eugenicist trying to safeguard the future of the race, is that the game frontloads it, so that it’s not possible to have any illusions about what you’re getting into. Regardless, I kept going for a good while after having it made clear to me that I just do not care about this world at all, mostly for the sake of finding out if it gets better. It never seemed to.
Demographic scaremongering and handwringing about birth rates is, of course, one of the fronts of the right-wing anti-feminist, anti-migrant and anti-queer onslaught that, by now, it’s impossible not to be aware of. On this subject I find it difficult to maintain any sense of detachment or presumption of good faith, simply because the entire discourse of conservative reproductive politics and gender normativity is so ethically repulsive. A failure to take this context into account should, charitably, be read as an instant and devastating counterargument to claims of Obsidian being “great storytellers,” because a storyteller who has no awareness of or interest in the world around them is more properly called a bullshitter; less charitably, it constitutes some degree of tacit support to such “concerns,” which many mainstream publications will not stop assuring us are “legitimate.”
As for the characters, they’re a spectrum from alright to “who thought this was alright?” Sagani, the no-nonsense fantasy Inuit lady (who, while probably not written in collaboration with a Native person and therefore kind of sketchy, at least does not come off as a caricature), and Pallegina, the hotheaded fantasy Italian paladin (who got into her knightly order on a technicality of bird-people not being considered “women” and thus not barred from joining, in case you didn’t catch on that this is a Very Realistic Medieval Setting with Real-Life Realistic Sexism), are fine, and would be much better if they had a better story to call home. I might be persuaded to give a pass to Aloth, the neurotic wizard boy of noble birth with a foul-mouthed commoner lady hitching a ride inside his head because souls and previous lives or whatever; the best I can say about that concept is it could’ve gone somewhere good in the right hands. There’s a cleric called Durance whose entire character seems to be composed of misogyny, and I’m not sure why anyone thought that’d be a fun companion to have along, but he’s easy enough to murder and throw in a ditch by the wayside; I’m sure he’s got some very profound and dramatic personal arc, but I sure as hell didn’t keep him around to find out. His presence does very much speak to the writers’ idea of what might be engaging or worth putting up with, though.
Then there’s Grieving Mother, who doesn’t get a proper name, presumably because those are for people, not women. As you may have guessed, her entire backstory relates to motherhood and reproduction: she was a midwife with magic mind powers, which, when the “hollow children” calamity struck, she used to mind-control the entire village into thinking the children are Normal so they wouldn’t get murdered. The way the narrative casually makes this leap of logic, as if it was just the most natural thing in the world to assume that someone might want to kill their disabled child, and how it embeds it in a notion of, essentially, Grieving Mother being too pro-life for her own good, are galling enough, but there’s more. Now, I didn’t get to this last part in the game, but the game’s wiki informs me that for this terrible crime, she was punished by Durance with what very much sounds like rape.
Seriously, who the fuck okayed any of this? This goes well beyond contriving scenarios where violence against women is a surefire signifier of evil; this is a scenario contrived for the sole purpose of finding a fantasy hypothetical where violence against women is some kind of ambiguous and murky territory where of course it’s bad, but maybe, just maybe, both sides are at fault? Doesn’t it make you think?
There’s another rape subplot in Pillars, and this one you can’t miss, because they put it fairly early on in the main story. It goes like this: colonial settlers and the indigenous population have a war. Rape is used as a weapon of war (in this case specifically by the indigenous warriors, because of course). A boy is born with a “split” soul, half settler and half native, the metaphorical weight of historical trauma causing him terrible pain. He becomes a wizard and goes Mad and Evil. You show up and kill him. The end, you own his house now.
I struggle to marshal an eloquent expression, any expression at all, for how thoughtless, insensitive and exploitative this wartime rape episode is, how transparently put there just to give the appearance of Dealing With Serious Topics and then instantly drop the subject once the makeyouthinkery payload had been delivered, in favour of some interminable bullshit about gods and souls. The “soul” in this case, incidentally, doubles as an idea of genetically transmitted racial essence, which apparently drives a person mad with the metaphysical stain of violent miscegenation, rather than – as it has fucking happened in reality, ideas of nationhood, gender, honour, social cohesion, women’s virtue violently being imposed upon the bodies and minds of victims of such atrocities. This subject deserved a good treatment; it got Pillars of Eternity.
Another fairly recent Obsidian RPG is Tyranny, which was marketed mostly on the strength of their reputation of writing about evil. Knowing what we already know about how that shakes out in the other games, I was apprehensive about this one, but it was actually neither the worst nor the most interesting aspect of it. The overall narrative of how power justifies itself as an inevitable, inescapable force of nature and obscures its own historical origin and vulnerable physical existence, was compelling. Also, as strange as it is to speak of this as a step forward, the notion of “evil” is not communicated solely through harm done to women, but to an occupied civilian population in general, which goes some way towards actually representing atrocities for what they are, rather than framing them in some discourse of violations upon feminine innocence and purity.
There’s also a woman character who’s very, very good – Sirin, defiant teenage captive of the evil overlord Kyros, kept at arm’s length for her considerable magical power. Her story is one about surviving abuse and fighting back by any means necessary, in a world where she is both someone to be used, and something to be feared. Considering that this is also a prevalent social attitude towards teen girls in real life, regardless of the mystical powers they may or may not possess, and that Sirin comes off as a multidimensional person with interiority, goals and thoughts, I couldn’t help but like her.
The other party companions are… you know what, let’s just get right to Eb.
Eb is one of the leaders of the resistance movement in the fantasy land that’s all but completely fallen under Kyros’s control, a water mage, wife and mother – although her entire family has fallen in battle against the invading force. Based just on this, you’d expect her to be a sympathetic figure, probably the only person in the party with her priorities straight, and someone you want to have around. She’s not. She’s fucking intolerable.
With Eb, Obsidian took the haha-sex-joke aspect of Cassidy (or Hiravias in Pillars, or Morte in Torment) and dialed it up all the way to eleven. In one interaction, Eb, a woman at the very least pushing forty, hits on the teenage Sirin, who is understandably made incredibly uncomfortable; I get the impression the scene was meant to be funny, but it honestly feels more disturbing to behold than all the killing everyone’s constantly doing. In general, Eb just never shuts up about sex. I must assume they were going for “mature and liberated woman,” but she just appears as though she has absolutely no sense of other people’s boundaries, something that, in Atton in KotOR 2, is very clearly recognizable as simple creepiness. The bad part is not that this isn’t believable characterization – unless you’ve never met a person like this, in which case I envy you. It’s that the narrative seems completely unaware that she’s not coming off as goofy and likeable, but rather, as a way to have all the sexual harassment jokes someone wanted to have in there, but having a woman do them, so then criticizing this fictional person can be painted as being against Women Expressing Their Sexuality. I don’t want to draw conclusions that are too far-reaching, but this gives me a very bad feeling about the kind of work environment this must have been written in.
There’s also the beastwoman Kills-in-Shadow, who is basically Eb but with a smaller vocabulary, and Verse, a knife murderer who just really likes knife-murderin’. They feel like I’ve already met them 20 times in either Baldur’s Gate or any number of its imitators, and I don’t have a ton to say about them. Tyranny does seem to be reasonably thoughtful about war and occupation’s effects on people, in that it shows them off fairly luridly, both through your party NPCs as character studies, some of the quests you encounter, and the institutions that comprise the game’s world. The thing is, there’s very little to hang on to in this world for any kind of hope or ethical centre, since except for Sirin, everyone in your party is just a completely awful person. There’s a lot of tonal dissonance there, in that the game obviously to some extent knows this, but you’re still meant to have them along and at least listen to what they have to say; it also tries to evoke sympathy and a feeling of camaraderie with them, which seems like wanting to have the cake and eat it.
The vanilla Neverwinter Nights 2 game is an experience so deeply unmemorable that some have suggested that it’s best read as a parody of a dull by-the-numbers D&D campaign, which is the excuse people who want to be considered really smart use when they’ve enjoyed something that was blatantly very stupid. Mask of the Betrayer, on the other hand, is a return to the well-loved plane-hopping, cosmological grandeur and introspection of Planescape, and frankly, it’s almost but not quite very good. I bring it up mostly because of Kaelyn the Dove, one of Obsidian’s best characters, and how they’ve done her dirty.
Kaelyn is some kind of angel and a former follower of the god of death, Kelemvor, who has left the faith upon learning about one of the deeply fucked up conceits of the Forgotten Realms: the Wall of the Faithless, essentially an equivalent of Christian hell but only for people who didn’t pick a god in life. Anger at this unjust and frankly absurd contrivance spurs her on to raise an army and storm the gates of the underworld, and demand that Kelemvor, who I understand is someone’s actual pen-and-paper character later elevated to godhood in official rulebooks, tear down this wall. It’s difficult not to love her for the defiance of not only one of the ultimate in-setting authority figures, but also the real-life authors of the rulebooks. She doesn’t get to win, though. Kelemvor’s word, and that of Wizards of the Coast, is law, and Obsidian’s reluctance to alter the cosmology of the setting ends up turning Mask into a story about the futility of revolution – which, whether intentional or not, speaks volumes.
Then there’s Safiya, a Red Wizard with a heart of gold and literally a clone of her own mother. Well, not really clone – she’s a trial run for the “souls” bullshit of Pillars, and is made out of a fragment of her mother’s soul? In order to rescue her long-lost lover from the Hell Wall? Or something? One thing is clear – even if she as a character tried to escape it, which she doesn’t especially, the reason for her existence is very much subordinate to this guy, and his soul got mixed up with your character’s through some plot device, so it ends up being an incredibly convoluted way to center the Beloved Man as the object of the plot again, even if you specifically chose not to be one. There is no escape.
Also there’s a party NPC who enters women’s dreams and “seduces” them in a situation of, at best, dubious consent. He’s a handsome charming rogue though so it’s fine. Don’t think too much about how this is a recurring theme, okay? It’s just for fun, except for when it’s suddenly Grappling With Serious Issues, and it’s not up to us to decide which is which.
Finally we get to Knights of the Old Republic 2, which is, as everyone knows, a bit of a trainwreck. It has two fantastic women antagonists in Kreia and Atris, although with the latter, there’s still a similar kind of situation as with Ravel: a strong suggestion that everything she does is because of some kind of unrequited pining or hero-worship for the main character, and I believe her lines reflect this even more strongly if you’re playing as a man, because even with games with a gender toggle, both “male main character” and “male player” are very much the default assumption, both back when this was released and today.
Kreia herself is also an old and powerful witch-type character, and presages Kaelyn in that her motivation is also to literally undo the ideological underpinnings of the Star Wars franchise. To that end, she resorts to a wide array of both lies and manipulations, as well as honest and convincing arguments, clearly having realized the plain fact that it’s enough to pull lightly at one conceptual strand of the setting to have the whole thing unravel into a contradictory and faintly disconcerting mess. Sadly, that puts you, the main character, in the ultimate position of the defender of all this Jedi and Force garbage, but when you finally walk away from it, there’s a good chance Kreia will have swayed you, the player, to her cause. Honestly, I can’t in good conscience recommend this game anymore, as it has aged terribly and just isn’t fun to go through at all, but I hope this summary goes some way towards explaining why many people found it to be formative.
KotOR 2 also features a lot of the Obsidian problems I’ve already discussed: the personal-introspective narrative that centers you and makes everyone’s lives revolve around you (featuring, once again, two party NPC women getting into jealous fights over a male main character, although this time the same is true if you play as a woman as well – which does the opposite of solving the problem), the extensive focus on abuse and harm done to women as signifier of evil (in the case of Visas, who comes to kill you at her master’s behest and immediately switches sides when you beat her, clearly terrified that you’ll treat her like he did), the curiously nameless female characters, identified only by their function.
Atton, your off-brand Han Solo, is a profoundly horrible man who starts out with eyebrow-waggling remarks about female player characters and how Kreia must’ve been a looker back in the day, and later on it turns out that he has a tragic backstory of how he killed a woman once and it changed his life and he’s super sad about it and also maybe fell in love with her as he was murdering her? Once again, it doesn’t seem like the text really understands the weight of this character’s repulsiveness, and you’re meant to treat him as your goofy wisecracking comic relief buddy regardless.
I hope all of this is starting to cohere into a picture. Over many years and many titles, many instances of “oops we wrote this wrong” and “oops we didn’t think of that” in texts that aren’t generally, on the whole, for the most part, odious or objectionable can form a pattern of systematic neglect and disregard for treating women as people rather than rhetorical devices and philosophical props, as I believe is the case with Obsidian’s games. I’ve ended up omitting Alpha Protocol from the discussion, because this has already gone on more than long enough, and many things can be said about VtM: Bloodlines in a similar vein as well.
Before I finish, though, I want to bring up one last Obsidian game that I neglected to mention before. One based on a franchise whose entire premise is holier-than-thou apathy, vicious dehumanizing bigotry under the guise of jokes, and using and discarding Big Issues for cheap laughs and attention while perpetuating the most reactionary cultural narratives possible. Obsidian made South Park: The Stick of Truth.
I hope they have a lot of fucking trouble sleeping at night.
EDIT: Chris Avellone has responded to some of the charges I’ve made here in a forum thread on Waypoint. Feel free to check it out.