Uninspired Coattails
Thoughts on art, novelty, and iteration.
I Guess It Doesn’t Matter Any way
I first heard “Destination Unknown” in the mid-90s—a Missing Persons track via a Smashing Pumpkins cover on their box set The Aeroplane Flies High. While the 1982 original maps the expanse of an uncertain future, one stanza serves as an inquiry into human utility:
You ask yourself / When will my time come? / Has it all been said and done? / I know I’ll leave when it’s my time to go / ‘Til then I’ll carry on with what I know
The unknown destination protocol: a cycle of repetition that prompts a systemic audit. If existence is merely a redundant iteration, the purpose of the individual becomes a farce. Nothing but dust left behind, absorbed by the earth, as if they were never here.1
The answer is not found in the external search for legacy, but in the subjective articulation of the experience. Walt Whitman identified this recurring question in 1867 with his poem “O me, O life.” His answer:
That you are here—That life exists and identity / That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.2
John Koenig later labeled the emotional dread of this redundancy as vemödalen—the fear that every frontier has already been traced by others:
“In the end, we find ourselves with nothing left to say… idly tracing outlines left by others long ago… as if we were never here at all.”3
“Destination Unknown” charts a course through this existential tempest: from vague unease, to acute personal doubt, to resignation, and finally nihilistic surrender:
Life is so strange when you don’t know… How can you tell where you’re going to?… I don’t know what to do… I guess it doesn’t matter anyway
This surrender often manifests as a retreat into the mechanical utility of the present. Existence as a marginal unit of production. This mode treats human experience as a monetary resource to be extracted: a larger mortgage or fancy car, a more efficient or desirable widget, or a modestly higher quarterly return for an employer. A unique individual accepts the calcification of the soul in exchange for the perceived stability of the predetermined societal box that defines their legacy.4 Just like every other individual who is unique like every other individual.
But it is a choice to accelerate entropic churn of consumerism. If the pursuit of capital is merely the optimization of a closed system and its resource extraction, then there must be another pursuit that introduces negentropy. Novelty lies beyond individual utility, the sacred, the legal. It pushes the boundary of individual meaning, the profane, the taboo.5 Deliberate boundary-work that challenges the terminal specifications of the perfect institution. The only rational counter-agent is art, which pushes against this boundary, and succeeds.
Ars gratia artis
Art is more than aesthetic indulgence for observers; it is functional boundary-work by the artist. To exist in the liminal space between is to perform a necessary stress test on reality. By shifting these boundaries, the artist prevents the stagnation of the soul.
No, Everything is not Said and Done
Seemingly groundbreaking innovations often trace their lineage back to earlier attempts, failed experiments, or simply different applications of established principles. It’s thermodynamically inevitable. Energy isn’t created or destroyed; ideas aren’t born ex nihilo. They transform.
Art is the exception. Not all art: the sheer volume of content produced guarantees noise alongside the signal. Occasionally, a signal emerges that doesn’t feel like a rearrangement of noise. It feels new. Genuine novelty in emotional resonance or conceptual framework, not simply different or clever. Not necessarily tied to passion, technical prowess, inspiration, or anything else related to talent or skill. It is the idea and its process: a child’s drawing can possess an originality that eludes a technically perfect painting by a master.6 Human imagination is the antidote to a world where all has been said and done because it prioritizes the why over the what.
What’s in Wakdjunkaga’s Box?
This time, Mr. Pitt, it’s human imagination.
The conduit for new ideas, images, or concepts, drawn from within. Creation of the previously unknown, or something familiar not present to the senses. It can be driven from past experiences or inspiration to create entirely new realities. However, this describes the process—what it does, not what it feels like.
Consider imagination as an emotion. Unregistered on familiar spectra of joy, sadness, anger, fear. An anticipatory vertigo, subtle disorientation, a pull forward towards possibility. Towards the final moment of silence just before recognition of it. Lethologica, but for ideas—and more so—ideas that did not exist until crossing the void between abstract thought and working memory; and then from working memory to the articulable.
It carries a distinct loneliness. The initial spark of nascence exists solely within. A world unfolding only for senses, untethered from external validation or shared experience. There’s a vulnerability in that isolation, a fragile hope that this internal landscape might somehow resonate with others.
Unlike anxiety or anticipation rooted in future outcomes, imagination’s emotional core about the act of going. The pleasure isn’t in possessing the imagined creation; it’s in the continuous unfolding of its details, the constant refinement and re-evaluation as it takes shape within. A restless state, never fully satisfied because completion implies an ending to the process itself.7
Vulnerability falls away without conscious thought. What likely began as a vapid whim now revealed through inductive and deductive reasoning. Filtering out the entropic noise, eliminating the redundant, and enhancing the signal. Intellectual sandpapering to distill and encode abstract thought into a malleable solid.
And with its coalescence and actualization comes a loosening. A letting go of the tether to what already exists, allowing a current to flow unimpeded through channels previously constricted by reality. A quiet exhale into the boundless possibility of what hasn’t been thought, hasn’t been felt. A primal hum resonating from untouched precedent or expectation.
And there’s a peculiar ache to it, a recognition that every imagined world is also a shadow cast by the limitations of reality. A yearning for something beyond, even while grasped, as you hold it vividly within your grasp. It isn’t longing for a specific thing; it’s longing for the capacity to bring anything into being without constraint. A fundamental dissatisfaction with what is, fueled by an unwavering belief in what could be.
A brief moment to package the preceding: incorporation by reference, a linguistic macro, semantic compression… anything but “term of art.” Fake word of convenience for this emotion: imagimotion8
What does externalizing imagimotion look like? The artist constructs a vessel that captures the very moment the abstract crosses the threshold into existence. The art is a forensic record of a shameless dance in the space between. To step through the final layer of abstraction is to create art that functions as a gift.9 Experiential, not consumable. By externalizing imagimotion, the artist proves that the powerful play is not a closed loop of iteration, but an open system where genuine novelty remains possible. The verse contributed is not a repetition of the past, but a victory over the tempest of an iterative existence.
Intro to Outro
Anthony Gonzalez wrote a song around 2011 or so. This song is the last track on the double album HurryUp,We’reDreaming. (stylized as so). Anthony is a founding member of the French group M83 (named after Messier 83 - the Southern Pinwheel Galaxy). The song is Outro, and it has four lines:
I’m the king of my own land
Facing tempest of dust, I’ll fight until the end
Creatures of my dreams raise up and dance with me
Now and forever, I’m your king
Before we go any further, one thing—I bolded each “the” for a reason. Anthony’s pronunciation of each is, in my opinion, the most beautiful I have ever heard. The word fails to capture the sound, but his “shhzhhee” is chilling. I recommend giving the song a listen before proceeding.
Of course, interpretation of art is completely subjective. Absent a creator’s explicit statement of meaning, there is no correct interpretation. However, even with one, the beauty of art is that no person is wrong in interpreting their own meaning. And sometimes, that’s the point: meaning is indeterminate by design.
“I just think it’s unnecessary because it’s personal. Songs are songs and to reduce them is to waste them. If I wanted to make something about something I would write an essay.”
- James Murphy10
It is fair to disagree with others, understanding that subjective interpretation in this context can never be wrong. However, reasoning is an underappreciated art. So, what is Outro about? To me? Imagimotion.
Why?
Here’s why.
Everything is deliberate. Consider a sculpture. We see the form, the grace, the finished piece. An analysis that stops there is incomplete. It ignores the mountain of stone removed to reveal that shape. Every chip of the chisel was a decision. To use one chisel over another, or a different tool. To leave inadvertent imperfections, or create them with purpose. To start hammering at 10:00 AM instead of 6:00 AM; coffee and cigarettes for lunch, or a bagel? Breakthroughs often appear as lucky (or happy) accidents, but instead are the result of consistent, structured work, managing energy, and focusing inputs to generate subjectively brilliant ideas on demand.
A song isn’t just the notes or lyrics you hear; it’s all the space between them: the instruments not chosen, all the melodies discarded along the way, word substitutions. It could even be silence allowing the listener to focus on their surroundings—with earbuds on a bus, a car’s radio during a first date, or listening to the breathing of fellow symphony attendees.11
The final arrangement isn’t discovery; it’s construction. And construction implies intent. Both of the object itself, and the context (or circumstances) surrounding its creation. To pretend otherwise—to claim something simply happened by accident—is to diminish the creator’s role entirely.
So. What is Outro?
A single brass note begins a build up of strings while an subtle, lone voice adds texture and brightness. A sort of ambient wash, with distinct orchestral inflections that provide a sense of attempting to overcome. Each attempt: stronger, louder. Culminating with a drop into a rhythmic void. A void that exposes the listener to unidentified noise, which offers vulnerability, exposure, nothingness. Unfamiliarity between harmony and melody, among an unnamed silence.
As the third voidic wave grows, strings return in pronouncement. This time, with percussion implying something new, an intrinsic knowing of success or progress. What follows is the same orchestral inflections as before, with the first three culminating equally in strength. Each growth accompanied by the first three lines of the song.
I’m the king of my own land
From a literal and logical perspective, redundant. Kings reign over kingdoms, over land. And I, as king, by definition, reign over my land. Likewise, both “my” and “my own” imply possession. However, the line tells more. The phrase “my own” asserts the land is not shared, managed for someone else, or subject to any external authority. Likewise, it purposely avoids implying rule or possession over denizens. It underscores the privacy and personal achievement of possession, where I am the king, the absolute sovereign. A metaphor more about possession of identity than avarice or status, or external validation.
Facing tempest of dust, I’ll fight until the end
Here, the focus is the first person singular. A sense of agency, responsibility, perspective, and scope. The possible opposition a tempest of dust. Using tempest immediately elevates the force beyond a simple wind storm. Comparatively, tempest implies violence, chaos, upheaval. Further, “dust” provides composition. The tempest is made of dust, its very substance, arguably supplanting wind instead of being its victim. Otherwise, maelstrom is likely a better word choice. This calls back to the prior rhythmic void, possible insight into Anthony’s impression of the void of the liminal, a figurative dust storm to be braved in the pursuit of manifestation.
Specificity, precision, word choice, and tense matter. Dust isn’t neutral. It represents breakdown and decay, insignificance, obscurity, ubiquity. Inescapable noise. Here I am, sovereign of my identity, facing a tempest of dust. But, what do I fight? More accurately, what will I fight? There is a certain absurdity in confronting dust, more so a tempest of it. However, the line doesn’t explicitly state the fight is against the tempest, or a direct confrontation with dust. It is faced (in the present progressive), and the fight is now and into the future.
“Until” implies a sort of stoicism and resilience in the conflict. And what is the end? Bitter defeat, glorious martyrdom, a perceived end, an endless battle, or something else entirely? Layers of complexity. The open-endedness forces me to confront my own assumptions of a meaningless battle. If there is no inherent meaning in overcoming, then the act of fighting becomes meaningful—it is integral to who I am regardless of outcome, it is part of my identity. A connection to the void and the fight, where there is no victory, only habituation. Filter the void, and find meaning beyond it.
Creatures of my dreams raise up and dance with me
I have distinguished my identity from some creature, or have I? The choice “creature” is interesting, in that there are several divergent meanings. Most common being a sort of living being, whether animal, something unknown, mysterious, or monstrous. However, the etymology roots itself in creation—to make or create something into being. This adds a sense of subservience or dependence on a creator, which is another use of the word. Without my dreams, there are no creatures.
But what are “creatures of my dreams.” The phrase establishes an origin—the subconscious or dream state. These aren’t external entities; they are borne from within. The possessive emphasizes ownership and intimacy; additionally, a statement of control, or lack thereof.
This is where “raise up” and “dance” comes in. The former implies agency on the part of the creatures—lack of autonomic control. They aren’t simply appearing; they are actively summoned by my subconscious, but I must command them from a one state to another. With no control over what the creature is, I must attune or deepen my familiarity to understand it.
The “dance,” a process of mutual understanding and harmony: a shared experience requiring connection and trust; movement not strictly governed by logic or reason, a surrender to rhythm. Not the control over, but the acceptance of these manifestations. Acceptance that my subconscious creations are part of my identity, where we each surrender our individual agency to a shared, calculated, and fluid intention. Creatures is plural, and the previous line implies a never-ending fight. This lends to the dance being cyclical or simultaneous; individually with a singular creature, multiple, or all.
Now and forever, I’m your king
I establish sovereignty over my identity and accept the futility of conflict, but vow to oppose until some undefined end. I accept and surrender to manifestations of my subconscious, and eliminate any dependency between us to form a single, coordinated system. Then, rather than surrendering my sovereignty, I redefine it.
My identity is a vessel for these integrated subconscious manifestations. Sovereignty isn’t absolute, but is defined by those who inhabit my inner world. I call to them, guide them, and in turn, a forever promise. But being their king doesn’t mean becoming subservient; it means becoming a representative—a steward—of these internal forces. The king still reigns, but my authority additionally derives from creatures within my mind. A symbiotic relationship where both are necessary for wholeness.
Moving back about one minute in song: the percussion. During each line, there are several left-right mastered strikes of a timpani, which gives the sense of disparity: the conscious sovereign and unconscious manifestations. Just prior the fourth line, we hear additional coordinated percussion—snare, hi-hat, and bass drum. Followed by a guitar rhythm on the right, as if disconnected from the left. But the climax… this is where our dance happens. Timpani, snare, hi-hat, bass drum, (right) guitar, and at the apex, the second center-mastered guitar. As Anthony’s final word fades, we have acceptance. A formed relationship into something new, with the king’s identity preserved.
The final section of the song contrasts with the beginning. There is the same ebb and flow of the orchestral inflections, but now, each is split with a drum fill. Each fill represents a manifestation from imagination. Whether that idea leads somewhere—success or failure, or fades to obscurity never manifested, is irrelevant. Just before the fourth fill, the song cascades to an end, and soft piano play fades in the remaining 30 seconds or so. There is no loop: brass beginning the song, piano fading ending it.
And what does this all mean? Imagimotion. The emotion that emerges after the dance between my conscious and subconscious, after an idea. The essence of the creation of art. But what can I do with it? Provide an example, using this very song.
Imagimotion
There is a video game. A game about little green creatures called kerbals. Kerbals are launched into space aboard player-designed rockets—space that simulates the physics of a real solar system (although scaled down). How Squad (a small marketing firm in Mexico City) came to make the game, spawned from the dreams Felipe Falanghe, is an incredible story own its own.12
The point of Kerbal Space Program is that there is no point. Yes, there are missions, a career mode for progression, and other structured content. But at the fundamental level, it is a sandbox with tools to conquer gravity. How does a player, without knowledge of astrodynamics, orbital mechanics, rocket science, and all else involved in space exploration, get a Kerbal into orbit?
They use their imagination.
Then what?
Shaun Esau likes to edit videos (just for fun).13 In April 2013, a little less than two years after the first pieces of the game were introduced in online forums, he published his fan-made trailer for the game. And paired it with Outro. An arguably niche and unknown game, an M83 song, and an imagination: create something that captures the point of no point.
What does Shaun and his creature come up with? Build, fly, dream.
The trailer is an extension of Outro’s core themes, the song is not a soundtrack to fill silence. Song and footage explore the emotions, challenges, and process of creation; the struggle for self-definition; and the power of imagination. Attempting to articulate this connection solely through words feels inadequate. The emotional resonance is often found in the spaces between literal descriptions—in the subtle interplay of image and sound.
Advice as you continue to read? I recommend following along: KSP Build Fly Dream Trailer
A Single Brass Note
Outro immediately starts as the video fades in. Fades in to darkness. The star Kerbol (Sun) is occulted by planet Kerbin (Earth). Light emerges over the horizon just as the first wave of strings emerges. As if a small flare of inspiration. The camera cuts, the second wave of strings has us with our back to the star, as if the light pushes us outward into the black. The frame has a kerbal-made satellite orbiting Minmus, the smaller moon of Kerbin. But not to observe the moon, but to look beyond—surveying the gas giant Jool (Jupiter) with its moons, one being the satellite Laythe.
With the second cut, we are now just above the surface of Duna (Mars), looking over the horizon. As the strings intensify, we watch an eclipse of Kerbol by Duna’s moon Ike. And just after the last starlight fades behind Ike, the camera cuts to the surface of Laythe, a moon with an atmosphere—a blue hued sky. With the fourth wave of strings, the camera zooms out on a kerbal-made rover, making its way across Laythe’s surface, until it is just a dark speck on an otherwise bright surface. The blue atmosphere complements the awe of Jool above the horizon: it looms at a bit more than one-half, dominating the sky.
Fade to the blackness of the rhythmic tempest of dust. Shaun has taken us from Kerbin to Jool, and within the framework of Outro, through an idea, a goal. Beginning with the emptiness of space and existential wonder, following kerbal-made machines gazing into the beyond with curiosity, then the awe of a giant leap for kerbal-kind onto another body’s surface. The collective exhilaration of a landing on a far-away Kerbol system body with only machine—no kerbals.
With that, an immediate fade in to a time lapse of building a rocket, implying previous scenes were ideas, inspiration, and dreams. Rockets is what will get kerbals—or the player—to the black and beyond. The dust storm of trial and error, perfection and failure, the battle to be braved in the pursuit of something beyond.
Kings Reign over Kingdoms
As strings return, we are greeted by a fade-in of our first kerbal: a kerbalnaut on a spacewalk. As the camera pans, we see the dark side of planet Kerbin appearing from the left, then the star Kerbol. The scene ends by revealing our kerbalnaut is in orbit around the Mun (the larger of Kerbin’s two moons). Exposed, vulnerable, observing. No longer a machine observing the beyond, a denizen in the beyond.
Percussion begins as we see our first launch: a rudimentary rocket, leaving the launchpad. The first rocket of imagination, the first step. Just as we hear “… my own land,” Kerbol enters the shot, the master of the planetary system, and the camera rises with the rocket. By pulling the camera away from the surface of Kerbin, Shaun contrasts the literal meaning of “land” against his own interpretation of the domain he reigns over.
A Sense of Agency
With our first idea in action, the next shot has the rocket rising from above, solid rocket boosters fall away; then the command vehicle separates from the liquid fuel tanks, firing the last engine to enter stable lower-Kerbin orbit. A fight against gravity, with an inch gained. With the first step into the unknown, we cut to our kerbalnaut. The scene analogizes the battle against gravity to the fight among the tempest of dust. Each impossible to defeat, where the meaning is the battle itself.
Creatures of Dreams
A dance, a success. A lone kerbalnaut balanced in a stable orbit—an orchestration of gravity and imagination in the vacuum of spacetime: falling, but missing Kerbin, while watching Kerbol-rise over the horizon. However, this time, our scene begins not in the black, but with the star shining. The universe has tested the limits of imagination, followed with the player’s first genuine accomplishment. A cut now shows the command module in retrograde, heat shield to the front, no propulsion, vulnerable, and surrendered. The freefall downward: gravity forces a fight against the atmosphere, which is the only option. Return home, and look further into the deep: leap into the expanse from the safety of the gravity’s leash above Kerbin. Raise up and dance one again.
I’m Your King
A circling crane shot, a reveal of an exquisitely designed rocket—an iteration of the first’s design, built withe knowledge of the strengths and limitations of the first. Imagination pushed the bounds of creation forward. Just before launch, for the first time, we see two kerbals outside of their spacesuits. Two of the original four released with the game, each recognized by their distinctive orange jumpsuits. A callback to the conscious king, surrendering and joining the unconscious manifestations. Two entities in the command module, sitting on hundreds of tons of rockets and fuel.
One kerbal nods and mouths, “go.”
Anthony’s voice towers. A powerful perspective on the launch pad, just above the engine nozzles, as the engines fire and lift kerbalnauts on the next venture. At the song’s climax, rocket staging explodes above the surface. Failure.
Ebb and Flow
We begin the familiar waves of strings, now with percussion. The first shot, from the inside of a command module, looks out the window during a maneuver, and reveals it’s safety in orbit above Kerbin. Success.
As each beat strikes, the camera cuts: a space station transiting Kerbol; a firing rocket, on the border between Kerbin and space; a command module with drogue chute open, returning home. Next, a rapid pan of space debris—above Duna with its moon in the background, and behind, darkness scattered with stars and galaxies as Dune and Ike pan out of view. A final shot of a rocket and space station in rendezvous range.
At the first drum fill, rapids cuts of successes and failures. Each success one step closer to the outer system. We see a spacewalk on the Mun, kerbal standing before an Arthur C. Clarke black monolith; a rocket docked at a space station, pushing into the unknown; a station over Duna; a spacewalk on Ike and the kerbal looking back at Kerbol, just over the horizon.
With a cut back to the space over Kerbin, a large space station; and a final cut—for a fraction of a second: Jool with Laythe focused in the center of the shot. No rocket, no station, simply the goal of imagination’s endeavor.
A black screen with “BUILD” flashes on the final drum fill strike.
Cut to Duna, a massive space station in orbit. Two cuts show a now-docked rocket. The camera perspective has it placed between Duna and Ike, ready to venture to the next destination. The second drum fill begins—success, failure, success, failure.
FLY.
Now we see a command module docking with a massive rocket, more fuel than anything, necessary to push the dream forward. Just before the ports mate, a cut to the joined vessel, rocketing away from Kerbin with Mun in the background. Next shot, Jool in view, but the venture far from over. Final shot before the third drum fill is the rocket even closer. Success, failure, success, failure. Views of Jool, Laythe, Kerbin reentry. Try again.
DREAM.
The three drum fills are complete. A final rocket above Kerbin, pushing to Jool. Cut. In orbit above Laythe, Jool again towering over the moon’s horizon. Atmospheric entry in retrograde, rockets firing, the heat shield ablating with flames announcing its vaporization. A cut to a vertical-oriented lander with a fleeting flame, chutes open: a controlled fall to Laythe’s surface.
Cascade
Strings, brass, drums fade. Soft piano plays with the camera shot, following the lander on terminal descent with delicate thrust. Landing struts extend, dust from the surfaces spreads, the camera slowly zooms in and captures the ground and firing rocket: the lander softly touches down with a piano chord. Two circling crane shots announce a successful landing then capture a kerbal descend a ladder from the command module to the surface. A second kerbal awaiting their crewmate on the surface, and Jool on the horizon.
Kerbol-rise on Laythe’s surface; a blue hue as the light diffracts on the atmosphere. A third kerbal—waddling only as kerbals can do—joins two gazing away from the camera at the gas giant. The final cut: the camera rapidly zooms out with the kerbals motionless, shrinking as the camera rises from the surface. Just before the final piano chord, an eclipsed Kerbol appears from behind Jool, and the trailer’s last transition is to the game’s splash screen. Jebediah Kerman, Bill Kerman, and Bob Kerman—pilot, engineer, scientist—over “Kerbal Space Program.”
As the piano faded into silence, a residue remained—a faint hum in the periphery of perception. It was the feeling of witnessing something previously impossible having occurred, and yet inevitable all along. A strange dissonance settled in—a pull between exhilaration at accomplishment and a quiet dread at what that accomplishment implied: now what? The image lingered as a question mark etched against the blackness. In just under four minutes, Shaun showed us what Kerbal Space Program means to him; and I interpreted what his creation means to me.
Am I correct?
Does it matter?
No, it doesn’t matter…
Uninspired Coattails
Again: there is no shortage of passion, creativity, and talent in art. Likewise, there is no shortage of critics, misinterpretations, over-analysis, or passive consumption of it. That is the nature of art’s spectrum—noise to signal, contrivance to allegory, iterative to novel. There is no objective answer to art’s quality or meaning; subjectivity, especially of art’s appreciation, is the point. I write the previous to qualify the following thoughts. Art—and its creators—fall victim to the systemic nihilism of capitalism: there is a distinction between critique of an artist’s contribution to a product and criticism of the product itself. The following is the latter.
Shaun packaged a meaning only as he could. It was not a simple rearrangement of a popular song with a video game he enjoyed. It was something new.
Relativity provides groundwork for comparison. Some paintings are subjectively better than others. The same for music, sculpture, movies, and any other artistic medium. Opinions create debate, preference of one piece over another diversifies art itself. That the powerful play goes on, and art may contribute a verse, whether by iteration or genuine novelty.
What happens when imagination—in an attempt at imagimotion—manufactures art instead of creating it? Kerbal Space Program again helps in an analysis…
Unfortunately for the game, but fortunately for its visionary, Felipe Falanghe left Squad in 2016 to pursue his own interests. However, the void left was not the primary concern for fans around that time. In 2017, the corporate giant Take Two Interactive purchased the Kerbal Space Program intellectual property—prompting immediate caution: whether the independent artist (Squad, less Felipe) and their spirit would be lost in capitalism. Rightly so.
Gamescom (a gaming festival in Germany) provided the platform for the sequel’s announcement in 2019, with Star Theory Games contracted for development. A transaction for the iteration on a piece of art. Capitalism pushed forward again. Squad would be involved at a superficial level (technical and advisory), as their focus was finishing the final update of the first game, as sustained development would end in mid-2021.
During the sequel’s development, Take Two attempted to purchase Star Theory to replace the contractual relationship. When that failed, the contract was cancelled and development was handed over to a newly-created internal studio (Intercept Games). One third of Star Theory employees were poached. Capitalism continued as art’s catalyst.
After years of delays, in 2023, the sequel launched on a gaming platform known for its “early access” model, a way for developers to launch unfinished games. Though in this model, “unfinished” is the benefit. Generally, it provided financial stability for developers, welcomed interaction with the community, and fostered a common goal: a 1.0 release of the best game possible.
Ironically, the original Kerbal Space Program was one of the first 12 titles of the early access model’s launch in 2013. The game became a beacon of success later games strove to emulate under the model. However, the sequel’s launch was a disaster. First, with the backing of the billions-of-dollars-giant Take Two, Intercept Games didn’t need consumer-provided financial stability. Further, its price point of $50 realized the community’s fear of aggressive monetization. Finally, its state of development at release insulted spirit of early access’s “unfinished” concept: the game wasn’t even moderately playable, it was un-unfinished.
Intercept died as many internal studios of corporate giants do: five percent of employees were laid off in April 2024, the last update to the game was that June, and the studio was shut down. As a final “fuck you” to the dream, an insult to supporters, and a trap for suckers, the game remains available for $50. Still under the early access model. No one is working on it and it will likely never be finished.
What happens when corporatism’s poison mixes with its antithesis—art—to create a commercial amalgam? The contrivance that is the sequel’s launch trailer. Shaun’s fan-made trailer of the original was a culmination of what the game meant to its fans. Take Two and Intercept knew this; and with a nod to Shaun (“thanks to Shaun Esau,” hashtag BUILDFLYDREAM), the sequel’s trailer announced the game using Outro. A foreshadowing of the disaster that was the sequel.
Why?
No Single Brass Note
Outro immediately starts as the video fades in…
Actually, no, it doesn’t.
The first minute of the song was cut. Shaun imagined this minute as the dream—the goal. Pictures of Kerbin, then beyond, then Laythe. Inflections as ideas, peaks and troughs, dreams of success: conquering gravity and getting a rocket three-quarters through the Kerbol system for three kerbals to step on a gas giant’s moon.
Instead, this trailer faded in with Outro’s rhythmic void—the tempest of dust—and used it as an ambient sound effect. For space. A sort of literal—or at most, surface-level—interpretation that contradicts Anthony Gonzalez’s and Shaun Esau’s novelty. Star Theory and Private Division (the game’s publisher) pasted their logos on screen, and lawyers made sure a “NOT ACTUAL GAMEPLAY” disclaimer minimized liability for misinterpreted promises. No organic gameplay: full-motion video instead. So, it looks great, announces a much-anticipated game, and iterates on a fan-made trailer. In place of novelty, the sycophant’s attempt to capitalize on the emotional impact of Shaun’s trailer… a ballyhoo in search of money.
A King Reigns over Mun
The trailer continues. There’s been no indication of what game the trailer is for. However, a dedicated fan of kerbal-culture would recognize the space-Outro combination immediately. The first line begins, but is more narrating a scene rather than evoking emotion. We see an unrecognizable astronaut, in a opaque-reflective helmet, in a command module, orbiting Mun. Looking out the window: king over moon. Again, more literal than anything, setting aside the song’s allegory. Its soul commoditized instead.
A Proscription of Agency
The cut to Anthony’s next line does convey exploration’s progress, but we’re presented with a lander in a suicide burn. Which blows the moon’s dust. Again, literal with lost meaning; or rather, an explicit and forced statement of literal meaning.
Kerbals Are Creatures of Dreams
Now, kerbals are creatures. There is a reasonable argument that Shaun’s trailer implied the same; however, the sequel’s trailer hadn’t revealed a kerbal until this line. While Shaun’s showed a lone kerbal on a space walk looking towards the stars; here, we see a spaceboot slip on a ladder as Anthony’s “dance with me…” comes across.
Another way: Shaun’s trailer didn’t conceal kerbals until one appeared on screen; but the sequel’s did. The astronaut then tumbles down, a viewers see a kerbal’s face—the first overt indicator of what the game is. A purposeful juxtaposition of the little green man with the word “creature.” Once more, literal: more physical creatures than creations of dreams. An embarrassing bathos.
A King Reigns over Kerbin
The original Kerbal Space Program possessed a certain whimsicality, a playful disregard for polish, that felt authentic. Its humor wasn’t intended to be funny; it emerged organically from the inherent absurdity of launching ragdolls into space on poorly constructed rockets. It was a byproduct of the sandbox, not its purpose. A never-ending battle against the Kraken.14
What the launch trailer did between the last two lines of the song, however, was show the lander topple over. In kerbal fashion, the first kerbal plunges out of view while a second gazes in awe past the camera. As the last line is heard, the camera follows behind two kerbals looking over the Mun’s horizon towards Kerbin. The last surface-level interpretation of the song’s concept of “king” is two kerbals looking home after conquering the first step of space exploration.
Flotsam and Jetsam
As the melisma reaches it peak, familiarity returns. Waves of strings with percussion. Various shots of rockets, stage separations, space stations, satellites. Drum fills with rapid cuts between successes and failures, progression across the Kerbol system, exciting shots, new game features revealed, megalophobic shots of interstellar rockets, colonies. However, this sequence is more for feature reveals to build excitement for a new game. It does not capture BUILD, FLY, DREAM. It’s a fancy video, not organic game play.
Cascade of Failure
As the song comes to a close, the next sequence shows a rocket orbiting a moon of a ringed planet in—what I believe to be—a new solar system. A lander detaches and descends to the moon below. We see a time-lapse of a colony being built, where a platform’s construction finishes just as the lander touches down. Soft piano plays as three kerbals look across the moon at the ringed planet over the horizon.
Then, the camera pans upward, leaving behind any chance of the emotional impact of a dream’s success while the song ends. Instead, the final piano keystrokes reveal the game’s name, not allegorical kerbals standing silent in awe, turning to specks as the camera zooms out. As the final chord strikes: “WITH THANKS TO SHAUN ESAU #BUILDFLYDREAM.”
I will not speak for Shaun, but I am comfortable claiming he appreciated the gesture. However, the social media hashtag gave me a sense of profound cultural dissonance. Take Two’s attempt to monetize Shaun’s trailer was an act of aggressive banality; the sort of marketing maneuver accountants would make by mistaking the muse for a target demographic. A foreshadowing of the Kerbal Space Program 2’s final “fuck you.”
The Kerbal in the Machine
The initial trailer for Kerbal Space Program 2 landed with a peculiar force. Careful calibration of an emotional payload. A surge of anticipation, a flicker of hope that the sandbox—the beautifully broken, endlessly fascinating playground of orbital mechanics—would be expanded, refined, improved. I succumbed to Stendhal syndrome, though my payload was the experience of the first game coupled with the promise of a kerbal future.15
The promise wasn’t just more space-parts, more planets, and introduction of interstellar travel; but of a deeper, more resonant experience. A return to the feeling of genuine discovery that defined the original. And, admittedly, it worked. A Pavlovian response, triggered by the familiar iconography and, crucially, the sonic architecture of Outro. A song inextricably linked to the first game’s spirit, a testament to Shaun Esau’s prescience in recognizing its thematic resonance.
But the emotional effect was tainted. Like a perfectly preserved specimen discovered riddled with microscopic parasites. The excitement wasn’t pure; it was shadowed by a creeping awareness of the compromised context. The promise of improved sandbox mechanics felt less like an organic evolution and more like a feature list dictated by market analysis. The initial elation receded, replaced by a low-grade anxiety.
The insertion of corporate branding—the logos meticulously placed, the “NOT ACTUAL GAMEPLAY” disclaimer strategically deployed—acted as a dissonant chord. A reminder that this wasn’t a labor of love, but a product to be monetized. The humor felt sanitized and focus-grouped. Failures staged for nostalgic effect. The original’s charm resided in its earnestness; the sequel’s trailer exuded a slick, self-aware cynicism.
The deliberate truncation of “Outro” itself was a telling sign. Cutting the song’s opening minute—the slow build, the ambient wash, the initial sense of wonder—felt like a symbolic severing of the connection to the original’s ethos. The trailer jumped directly into the song’s more dramatic, propulsive sections, mirroring the sequel’s focus on spectacle over substance. The dream was sacrificed for a faster, more visually arresting narrative. The song became a tool, a means to an end, rather than an integral part of the experience (“let’s skip all that boring stuff: start where Frodo gets his finger bit off”).
The game’s subsequent launch, and its widely documented failures, only served to confirm the initial suspicions. The game was fundamentally misaligned with the principles that made the original so compelling. A sterile showcase of corporate ambitions. The promised improvements felt hollow, mere cosmetic enhancements lacking the foundational depth and emergent gameplay that defined its predecessor.
And that is the key. The impulse to create pushes against the forces of entropy. It requires a singular focus, a willingness to embrace risk, and a fundamental belief in the power of imagination. But the moment that impulse is redirected, the moment it becomes subservient to external pressures, it loses its potency. Like joining entropy to paddle downstream instead, it devolves into mimicry, into the production of increasingly elaborate, yet ultimately meaningless, artifacts. In this case, incomplete artifacts: vaporware of grief.
There will always be novelty, but only when imagination’s sake is primary. If other purposes are prioritized—especially capitalistic—attempts at novelty create fungible and consumable widgets.
Outro shares this same fate: I agree with Christopher Rosen, but with one qualification: please never use this song again… to sell me crap.16
Citation, Et Al.
And we don’t know just where our bones will rest / To dust, I guess forgotten and absorbed to the Earth below. 1979, The Smashing Pumpkins (Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness). 1995. ↩︎
O Me! O life!, Walt Whitman. 1855.
O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. ↩︎
John Koenig, Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. 2021. ↩︎
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?” Once in a Lifetime, The Talking Heads (Remain in Light). 1980. ↩︎
Trickster Makes This World, Lewis Hyde. 1998. ↩︎
Det. Spooner: Can a robot write a symphony? Can a robot turn a canvas into a beautiful masterpiece? Sonny: Can you? I, Robot (movie). 2004. Based on the book by Isaac Asimov. 1950. ↩︎
Using a word like murder is a bit like carrying around a small, heavy box that, when opened by a qualified professional, reveals an entire library, several filing cabinets stored outside in a shipping container, and a surprisingly detailed map of the local judicial system. Most people prefer casual use when one person dies by another. A much lighter carry, but has the unfortunate side effect of being about as substantively useful as a carving fork in front of a Bagel-and-a-Schmear buffet. ↩︎
The Gift, Lewis Hyde. 1983. ↩︎
Interview: Beat Disconnection—James Murphy Says Goodbye To LCD, Dorian Lynskey. 2010. ↩︎
To the Mun and back: Kerbal Space Program, Charlie Hall. 2014. ↩︎
Shaun C Esau. Accessed January 2026. ↩︎
Kraken (noun), Latin: monstrum floatingpointus. As a localized emergent phenomenon within the game’s Unity-based physics engine, the Kraken serves as the de facto deity of systemic failure. It manifests primarily where floating-point precision errors—arising from the architectural friction between Newtonian physics and large-scale coordinate systems—result in the spontaneous, rapid, and violent disassembly of spacecraft through unintended harmonic resonance or spaghettification. Also identified by the lesser-known word explosion. The Kraken is not a bug but a theological constant; it is the logical why that punishes hubristic engineering by weaponizing the very math intended to govern the simulation. “There’s a community-made game modification to fix that,” says the no-fun-enjoying person who doesn’t enjoy fun. ↩︎
I was in a sort of ecstasy, from the idea of being in Florence, close to the great men whose tombs I had seen. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty / I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations / Everything spoke so vividly to my soul. Ah, if I could only forget. I had palpitations of the heart, what in Berlin they call “nerves.” Life was drained from me…. Chatzichristodoulou, Maria; Jefferies, Janis; Zerihan, Rachel, eds. Interfaces of Performance. (2009). ↩︎
Sorry, Everyone, It’s Time To Retire M83’s “Outro”, Christopher Rosen. 2014. ↩︎