The earliest extant alphabetic texts, the earliest extant geographical maps, and the earliest extant map of the human brain date back to the same general period: around 3,000 B.C. While no one can say for certain when the first writing and mapping occurred, the reasons for recording who we are, where we are, what is, and what might be haven’t changed much over time. The earliest maps are thought to have been created to help people find their way and to reduce their fear of the unknown. We want to know the location of what we deem life-sustaining (hunting grounds and sources of fresh water, then; now, utility lines and grocery stores) and life-threatening (another people’s lands; the toxic runoff from a landfill). Now as then, we record great conflicts and meaningful discoveries. We organize information on maps in order to see our knowledge in a new way. As a result, maps suggest explanations; and while explanations reassure us, they also inspire us to ask more questions, consider other possibilities.
To ask for a map is to say, “Tell me a story.”
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Writing is often discussed as two separate acts-though in practice they overlap, intermingle, and impersonate each other. They differ in emphasis, but are by no means merely sequential. If we do them well, both result in discovery. One is the act of exploration: some combination of premeditated searching and undisciplined, perhaps only partly conscious rambling. This includes scribbling notes, considering potential scenes, lines, or images, inventing characters, even writing drafts. History tells us that exploration is assertive action in the face of uncertain assumptions, often involving false starts, missteps, and surprises -all familiar parts of the writer’s work. If we persist, we discover our story (or poem, or novel) within the world of that story. The other act of writing we might call presentation. Applying knowledge, skill, and talent, we create a document meant to communicate with, and have an effect on, others. The purpose of a story or poem, unlike that of a diary, is not to record our experience but to create a context for, and to lead the reader on, a journey.
That is to say, at some point we turn from the role of Explorer to take on that of Guide.
-rpg
Many people think of pure exploration as science. But in this book, Turchi explains how writing - art's stuntman - enacts the various activities of exploration and mapmaking, which themselves are intertwined. -rpg
Now, writers might be called ["armchair explorers" http:/www.pch.gc.caspecialaffiche-posterjeux-games/15_e.cfm] in contrast to "real" explorers that risk life and limb on the Amazon or the mountains of Antarctica... Each type of explorer tends to scoff at the other, likely due to equivalent levels of insecurity. There are similar battles between theoretical. Although you don't see many software people returning from the Himalayas, I believe similar explorer patterns exist. Some refuse to go anywhere without a map. Some are rapid-prototyping as they speak to users for the first time. Some spend great amounts of time studying and analysing before touching a keyboard or mouse. Some assert that code is king while others refuse to ever launch a development environment: "that's an implementation detail."
There is benefit in understanding, characterizing, and broadcasting this notion. While most would agree about the importance of exploration in developing software, confusion reigns in the definitions of success and productivity in software. What good is an expedition that does not produce a map, or gold, or spice? What if there is a map but it is terribly flawed or out of date? What's the best way to measure productivity in software development, given the requirement for exploration and its many different styles of manifestation? What about notions of failure: the project was cancelled, or it was completely unusable and had to be scrapped, or it brought some seemingly unrelated systems down and threw things into chaos, or...