Pixel Art Quotes

The ability to find pixilation amid the pixelation is at the essence of the gift of celestial Grace.

Here’s an alternative theory: every single video game is made under abnormal circumstances. Video games straddle the border between art and technology in a way that was barely possible just a few decades ago.

What did I want? What was I looking for? What was I doing there, hour after hour?Contradictory things. I wanted to know what was going on. I wanted to be stimulated. I wanted to be in contact and I wanted to retain my privacy, my private space. I wanted to click and click and click until my synapses exploded, until I was flooded by superfluity. I wanted to hypnotise myself with data, with coloured pixels, to become vacant, to overwhelm any creeping anxious sense of who I actually was, to annihilate my feelings. At the same time I wanted to wake up, to be politically and socially engaged. And then again I wanted to declare my presence, to list my interests and objections, to notify the world that I was still there, thinking with my fingers, even if I’d almost lost the art of speech. I wanted to look and I wanted to be seen, and somehow it was easier to do both via the mediating screen.

By reading pixel art theory and watching guides on YouTube, Barone figured out how to compose each sprite by drawing individual pixels. He knew nothing about complicated video game lighting techniques, but he learned how to fake them, drawing semitransparent white circles that he’d place behind torches and candles to evoke the illusion that they were brightening rooms.

I wanted to click and click and click until my synapses exploded, until I was flooded by superfluity. I wanted to hypnotise myself with data, with coloured pixels, to become vacant, to overwhelm any creeping anxious sense of who I actually was, to annihilate my feelings.

New York had pushed and bent and bullied, driving me underground to sort out the madness and sculpt my Being with my own hands in self-discovery on its cold pottery wheel and in the white heat of its kiln. The City enabled me to learn who I really was, as a pixelated man and member of Humanity.

And then I. Felt. Like. The. Biggest. Jerk. I mean, I’m an artist working way too hard at a deeply uninteresting job to pay way too much in rent so I can stay in this place—so that I can remain immersed in one of the most creative and influential cultures on earth. Here in the middle of the sidewalk is a piece of art that was a massive undertaking, an installation that the artist worked on, possibly for years, to make people stop and look and consider. And here I am, hardened by big-city life and mentally drained by hours of pixel pushing, not even giving something so magnificent a second glance.

What is it about the pain of others? Easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist. Easier to refuse to make the effort of empathy, to believe instead that the stranger’s body on the sidewalk is simply a render ghost, an accumulation of coloured pixels, which winks out of existence when we turn our head, changing the channel of our gaze.

Most video games are built by teams of dozens of people, each of whom specializes in fields like art, programming, design, or music. Some games, like Uncharted 4, employ staffs in the hundreds and use work from outsourced artists across the world. Even small independent developers usually rely on contractors and third-party game engines.

There were things that burned away at me, not only as a private individual, but also as a citizen of our century, our pixelated age. What does it mean to be lonely? How do we live, if we’re not intimately engaged with another human being? How do we connect with other people, particularly if we don’t find speaking easy? Is sex a cure for loneliness, and if it is, what happens if our body or sexuality is considered deviant or damaged, if we are ill or unblessed with beauty? And is technology helping with these things? Does it draw us closer together, or trap us behind screens?

The “pale blue dot” image and Carl’s prose meditation on it have been beloved the world over ever since. It exemplifies just the kind of breakthrough that I think of as a fulfillment of Einstein’s hope for science. We have gotten clever enough to dispatch a spacecraft four billion miles away and command it to send us back an image of Earth. Seeing our world as a single pixel in the immense darkness is in itself a statement about our true circumstances in the cosmos, and one that every single human can grasp instantly. No advanced degree required. In that photo, the inner meaning of four centuries of astronomical research is suddenly available to all of us at a glance. It is scientific data and art equally, because it has the power to reach into our souls and alter our consciousness. It is like a great book or movie, or any major work of art. It can pierce our denial and allow us to feel something of reality—even a reality that some of us have long resisted. A world that tiny cannot possibly be the center of a cosmos of all that is, let alone the sole focus of its creator. The pale blue dot is a silent rebuke to the fundamentalist, the nationalist, the militarist, the polluter—to anyone who does not put above all other things the protection of our little planet and the life that it sustains in the vast cold darkness. There is no running away from the inner meaning of this scientific achievement.

Blood, Sweat, and Pixels: The Triumphant, Turbulent Stories Behind How Video Games Are Made, by Jason Schreier; Masters of Doom: How Two Guys Created an Empire and Transformed Pop Culture, by David Kushner; Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution (specifically the section on Sierra On-Line), by Steven Levy; A Mind Forever Voyaging: A History of Storytelling in Video Games, by Dylan Holmes; Extra Lives: Why Video Games Matter, by Tom Bissell; All Your Base Are Belong to Us: How Fifty Years of Video Games Conquered Pop Culture, by Harold Goldberg; and the documentaries Indie Game: The Movie, directed by James Swirsky and Lisanne Pajot, and GTFO, directed by Shannon Sun-Higginson. I read Indie Games by Bounthavy Suvilay after I finished writing, and it’s a beautiful book for those looking to see how artful games can be.

The village square teemed with life, swirling with vibrant colors and boisterous chatter. The entire village had gathered, celebrating the return of their ancestral spirit. Laughter and music filled the air, carrying with it an energy that made Kitsune smile. Paper lanterns of all colors floated lazily above, their delicate glow reflecting on the smiling faces below. Cherry blossoms caught in the playful breeze, their sweet, earthy scent settling over the scene. At the center, villagers danced with unbridled joy, the rhythm of the taiko drums and the melody of flutes guiding their steps. To the side, a large table groaned under the weight of a feast. Sticky rice balls, steamed dumplings, seaweed soup, sushi, and more filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. As she approached the table, she was greeted warmly by the villagers, who offered her food, their smiles genuine and welcoming. She filled a plate and sat at a table with Goro and Sota, overlooking the celebration. The event brought back a flood of memories of a similar celebration from her childhood—a time when everything was much simpler and she could easily answer the question who are you? The memory filled her heart with a sweet sadness, a reminder of what she lost and what had carved the road to where she was now. Her gaze fell on the dancing villagers, but she wasn’t watching them. Not really. Her attention was fully embedded in her heart ache, longing for the past, for the life that was so cruelly ripped away from her. “I think... I think I might know how to answer your question,” she finally said, her voice soft and steady, barely audible over the cacophony of festivity around them. “Oh?” Goro responded, his face alight with intrigue. “I would have to tell you my story.” Kitsune’s eyes reflected the somber clouds of her past. Goro swallowed his bite of food before nodding. “Let us retire to the dojo, and you can tell me.” They retreated from the bustling square, leaving behind the chaos of the celebration. The sounds of laughter and chatter and drums carried away by distance. The dojo, with its bamboo and sturdy jungle planks, was bathed in the soft luminescence of the moonlight, the surface of its wooden architecture glistening faintly under the glow. They stepped into the silent tranquility of the building, and Kitsune made her way to the center, the smooth, cool touch of the polished wooden floor beneath her providing a sense of peace. Assuming the lotus position, she calmed herself, ready to speak of memories she hadn’t confronted in a long time. Not in any meaningful way at least. Across from her, Goro settled, his gaze intense yet patient, encouraging her with a gentle smile like he somehow already understood her story was hard to verbalize.

The internal transition that leads us to the type of universal trust where we are happy and content regardless of external factors doesn't ever come from external pursuits; the rat race is a treadmill. Deep and lasting peace comes from a deep experience of being at one with all. By that, I mean a knowing that you are fundamentally a part of nature, a pixel in the art of the universe.

La verdadera calidad de la fotografía no se mide por cantidad de píxeles y resolución, se mide por el nivel de estética en la mirada implicada, porque cualquier artista brinda lo que en su interior habita.

So... you wish to know the prophecy?” Goro, the village elder of the tiny village, turned a shrewd gaze upon the fox girl

before him, assessing her with an intense stare. His scrutinizing gaze suggested he wanted to know the girl's true nature—her strengths, her weaknesses, the yin and yang coiled within. “And why,” he asked, his voice gravelly from age yet full of unyielding determination, “should I entrust you with that information?” Kitsune, the fox-girl, tilted her head, letting out a soft chuckle. “Did I not just help you retrieve your ancestral spirit?” she replied with a slight edge to her tone, impatient with the village elder's skepticism. She gestured at the floating ancestral spirit patrolling the village. It wandered around, a translucent man from the waist up, a plume of smoke from the waist down. The spirits

guarded villages from nighttime oni and yokai that tried to cause harm. Goro's stern face transformed into a frown. He turned to the pillager next to him, Sota, silently seeking the defender's opinion. The pillager had been the one to defend the village while the ancestral spirit was missing. Sota returned the look, eyes flickering back and forth between Goro and Kitsune. The judgment they exchanged felt like an invisible tug of war. Refusing to be intimidated, Kitsune stood her ground, meeting their gazes unflinchingly. Even if she did feel twitchy. At least a little. Goro gave a dismissive shrug, eyeing the girl carefully, like she might spontaneously combust. “Are you a ninja? Like that

boy, Jack?” he asked, the look on his face unreadable. Jack was the boy who’d helped restore the spirit orb which powered the ancestral spirit. “Yes,” Kitsune admitted, her expression faltering slightly. A pang of sadness washed over her at the reminder of Jack, Bruce, and Ricardo's departure. Despite her stoic exterior, she couldn't help but miss them. Together they'd adventured and fought and braved dangers, and now they were gone, just like that, leaving her in a world she still struggled to understand. As if reading her thoughts, Goro shared a pointed glance with Sota. There was a silent conversation there, an unspoken agreement. Sota nodded, and Goro turned his attention back to Kitsune. “You say you

are a ninja, but you do not make us kowtow.” He lifted an eyebrow at the girl. Kitsune sneered. “I’m not like those ninjas. People don’t need to bow and scrape simply because I'm a ninja. I’ll never be like them. Everyone deserves to live their lives, not cower in fear.” Goro looked at her again with that penetrating gaze before giving a nod and a bow from the waist. “Welcome then, Kitsune, ninja of the...” “Fox clan,” Kitsune finished. Goro frowned, then shook his head, as if ridding himself of the look of disdain, replacing it with a smile. “Of course. Welcome, Kitsune of the Fox clan. You helped Jack retrieve the spirit orb and thus have

in her mind, her body never stopped moving, never stopped practicing. Martial arts anchored her in the storm of uncertainty, the one thing that remained constant. Hours passed in her solitary practice until Goro's voice sliced through her concentration, calling her to the feast. With a final deep breath, she straightened, shook off her thoughts, and followed the elder's voice, hoping that with time, the answers would eventually reveal themselves.

For example, a P-arrangement OLED screen has about 1/3 less pixels than an RGB-arrangement LCD screen of the same size. This reduces the effective ppi of OLED screens, which is the actual sharpness that you perceive. In other words, effective ppi \< logical ppi for OLED screens.

Let's do an experiment. Half a meter away from the screen, observe a lady's hand and a photo of the lady's hand through a mobile phone screen with 2K and 4K resolution respectively. We can feel a huge difference in the visualization of the three scenes, not only between 4K and the eye, but also between 2K and 4K. That is because in the microcosm (we imagine the lady's hand as a display), the smallest unit of the lady's hand is the skin cells, compared with the smallest unit of the screen display pixels, which differ by several orders of magnitude. This leads to the composition of the macrocosm being like a two-way street. That is to say, under the condition of not being affected by vision and distance factors, when the ppi is continuously increased to infinitely close to the smallest constituent unit of the surface of the object, its visual effect will continue to converge to the real object, but there will always be a certain difference from the real object.

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You should have seen your face!” Ninko exclaimed. “You were all ‘ahhh’ *crash* ‘ahhhh!’ *crash*! Over and over again!

Is there going to be dragons? We love dragons! Not sure they’ll show up in this series, but we do have a dragon series in mind…

Good UI design is like a good joke, it shouldn’t need an explanation.

Art is like a mirror, but with better lighting and a filter.

The Art of Honor by Tzun-Su.

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The trick to getting a good-looking pixel art game is to pay attention to the orthographic camera size with respect to the resolution, and make sure the artwork looks good at a certain PPU. In our game, we’re going to use a resolution of 1280 × 720 but we’ll use a trick to scale up the art a bit. We’re going to multiply the PPU by a scaling factor of 3. Our modified equation will look like this: (Vertical resolution / (PPU * Scaling factor)) * 0.5 = Camera Size Using a resolution of 1280 × 720 and a PPU of 32: (720 / (32 PPU * 3)) * 0.5 = 3.75 Camera Size This is why we set our camera size to be 3.75 earlier.

The director carries a huge responsibility here; if he or she thinks further, then the character designs travel further.

In the pixel promises of satellites it could be the Grand Canyon, its awesome chasms and spires, its photogenic strata, our great empty, where so many of us once stood feeling so compressed against all that vastness, so dense, wondering if there wasn’t a way to breathe some room between the bits of us, where we once stood feeling the expected smallness a little, but also a headache where our eyeballs scraped against the limits of our vision, or rather of our imagination, because it was a painting we were seeing though we stood at the sanctioned rim of the real deal. Instead we saw a photograph, blue mist hanging in the foreground, snow collars around the thick rusty trestles. Motel art, and it made us wonder finally how we could have been so cavalier with photography, how we managed a scoff when warned that the cloaked box would swallow a part of the soul. Although in this instance the trouble was not, strictly speaking, the filching of the subject’s soul, for while our souls are meager, nature has surplus. Yet something of the mechanism’s subject was indeed dissolved in that silver chloride, flattened then minted as those promiscuous postcards we saw now, which we could not now unsee, for we had accepted unawares a bit of the Canyon each time we saw a photograph of it, and those pieces, filtered and diluted, had accumulated in us, so that we never saw anything for the first time. Perhaps the ugliest of our impulses, to shove the sublime through a pinhole.

These are the ten steps Peg uses to promote a blog post: Write multiple interesting and click-worthy versions of the blog title. Create three images in Canva: 735 by 1102 pixels, 788 by 940 pixels, and 512 by 1024 pixels. Pin the 735-by-1102-pixel image on Pinterest with two links (one in the description field and one in the source field) back to the blog post. Embed the pin in your blog post with the Pinterest widget. Share the link to your post on LinkedIn with the 788-by-940-pixel image. Make sure the image name matches the title of your post, because LinkedIn shows the image name—for example, “image819809754.jpg” is awkward. Create a longer post on Google+ with the 735-by-1102-pixel image, a link to the blog, and a link to your Pinterest post. Share a short post on your Facebook profile and Page with the 788-by-940-pixel image. Add a question to start the conversation on Facebook, along with two links—one to the blog and one to the Pinterest post. Tweet the blog post with the 512-by-1024-pixel image. Schedule additional tweets with quotes from the post using the different titles. Share your article in relevant LinkedIn and Facebook groups and Google+ communities. Add relevant hashtags when you share your post so more people can find it.