In this class, we filled out an immunity map worksheet, which is basically a polite way of asking you to write down all the ways you sabotage yourself and then stare at the page… But don’t worry, it is really, really helpful. Believe me. Learning more about your shadow, dark points, and weak spots is hard but extremely useful. You know, to fix a problem, you should first diagnose it.

Then we got into hidden scripts, the faces we wear, hidden commitments, all the backstage machinery nobody puts on their CV. It’s uncomfortable in the way a good mirror is uncomfortable. You walk in thinking you’re going to learn how to read a negotiation room and you leave realizing the hardest room to read was always the one inside your own head.

He also shared his books with us, subtitled one of them is “Finding Clarity When Life Changes Tracks,” which I think is one of the most convenient train metaphors. Here’s the thing about trains nobody puts in the inspirational version: you don’t actually get a calm, well-lit platform announcement before your life switches tracks. Most of the time you’re already moving, the scenery starts looking unfamiliar, and you spend a solid twenty minutes insisting to yourself that this is still the same train and no, you’re not wrong, the conductor just took a weird route.

What made the class genuinely valuable is that none of this stayed abstract. Reading the negotiation room and reading yourself turned out to be the same skill pointed in two directions, and that’s a useful thing to walk into any classroom, internship, flat, or job interview already knowing.

For anyone getting this workshop in future semesters: come with a notebook and a willingness to be a little uncomfortable. The immunity map worksheet alone is worth revisiting every few months, not just after graduation but at any point where you sense you might be negotiating with the wrong version of yourself.

What’s next? was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The festival that once marked the arrival of spring had been banned in Pakistan for nearly two decades. You can read more about the history of Basant and its subsequent ban in Aiman Tahir Khan’s article for Dunya Digital. Watching this much-awaited festival from a distance, through a screen, I am filled with emotions beyond description. I am longing to be home — around loved ones, around laughter. I miss the intimacy and warmth of the breezy spring air, the colourful bougainvillaea whose petals resemble paper kites.

This yearning feels familiar. It echoes the feeling I had as a child, standing on the balcony of our apartment in Aram Bagh, watching boys and young men fly kites every Sunday in the park adjacent to the Aram Bagh mosque. The park wasn’t exactly green — it was sandy and poorly maintained — but that never stopped people (mostly men) from experiencing joy. The presence of the mosque also explained the largely male crowd. From my vantage point, I would watch their dust-covered feet as they ran to catch kites that had been cut loose. They didn’t care about getting dirty — only about the thrill, the carefree joy.

In contrast, I was a girl, and interaction with these children was impossible. The metal grills separating us were not only a physical barrier, but a metaphorical one too — marking how different our lives were destined to be. My father was extremely protective of us (me and my siblings), regardless of gender. The idea of interacting with awaara, melay larkay was unimaginable. Yet after much insistence, he eventually bought me a kite. One day, he took me to Aram Bagh and asked the boys to fly it for me. It remains one of my most cherished memories: the weight of the wind against my frail body, the pure joy — almost magical — as if I were witnessing something otherworldly.

Somehow, for my MA project, I’ve found myself recreating that experience — magic filtered through a nostalgic lens. If you know me personally, you’ll know how much of a romantic I am, often living in the past and, much to my own dismay, glamorising time gone by.

Growing up in Karachi, I don’t recall Basant being as prominent a celebration as it was in Lahore or Punjab. Karachi lacks a defined spring or autumn; it isn’t a particularly green city. Still, kite flying and Basant were very much part of the cultural fabric until the ban. With the ban — and later, our move to a much quieter neighbourhood — these memories slowly faded. The turn of the century, people becoming busier, and the prohibition itself left a noticeable void in our culture.

Much of my MA project, In Loving Memory: Aram Bagh or Aram Bagh Ki Yaad Mein, is born from this gap — this emptiness I carry. It emerges from a yearning for a time gone by, and from the grief we hold. As we mature, we tend to remember only the good. During my childhood in Aram Bagh, I have vivid memories of my father playing Lata Mangeshkar songs on the cassette player — part of his extensive collection of old Bollywood music. At the time, I was only six or seven and didn’t consciously retain these memories. Years later, while watching Vijay Anand’s Guide (1965) as part of my undergraduate coursework, I instantly recognised the songs. It was devastating to realise I couldn’t talk to my father about them — he was extremely unwell in the final years of his life.

Slowly, my project became about yearning: about grief, loss, growing up, and recreating a place I can now only access through memory. Sometimes I wonder what this grief is really about. Is it about losing my father? About childhood? Leaving Aram Bagh? Leaving Karachi? Or simply missing home — love and warmth?

If you know me personally, you’ll also know how deeply attached I am to my family. I am the youngest, still treated like the baby of the house. I grew up in an extremely protected environment and had never lived on my own until I moved to Cologne. I’ve barely travelled within Pakistan; there are still countless places in Karachi itself I’ve never seen — it’s that vast. Travel in Pakistan, especially as a woman, is rarely safe or uncomplicated. And restricted mobility in Karachi deserves an essay of its own: the way the city confines you, limits you, pushes you inward.

For most of my life, I assumed I was an introvert. It was only after moving to Cologne that I realised I wasn’t. It was always about access and mobility. Here, I rarely stay home; I am more social than I have ever been in my 32 years. Once, my program manager asked me what I liked about Karachi, and I distinctly remember saying, I have to be away from Karachi to be able to like it. It’s painfully true. Kamila Shamsie’s words begin to make sense only once you leave the city.

I think I am slowly becoming the insufferable diaspora I once despised. Life has a way of humbling you. That said, I am not sugar-coating Karachi’s problems — if anything, they’ve grown tenfold since I left. I’m reminded of them every time I speak to someone back home. My project, therefore, is not a sentimental retreat into the past; it also confronts uncomfortable and painful memories I often avoid speaking about.

Which brings me back to Basant, and the emotions it has stirred within me. Many criticise its revival as political mileage by the Punjab government. Experiencing it from afar — especially knowing that in Karachi the ban still holds and no celebrations took place — I feel a deeply personal loss. I miss the simple joy that has been snatched from us. From Karachi, but also from Pakistan more broadly.

If you’ve lived in Pakistan, you know how fleeting joy and pleasure can be. The early 2000s were among the most violent years in Karachi’s history. The city’s face changed irrevocably, and the repercussions remain. So when I see videos of people — especially older women and young girls — experiencing laughter and freedom after two decades, watching colourful kites rise into Lahore’s skies (for now), I feel an extension of that joy within myself.

It reminds me how essential joy is. How necessary it is to tell our stories — laced with nostalgia, with yearning, with grief, and with everything we call home.

Yearning for Basant (And Joy), Miles Away was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We’re delighted to invite prospective students to two upcoming online information sessions for the international Master’s programme in Digital Narratives, offered by the Internationale Filmschule Köln (ifs). These sessions are a great opportunity to learn more about the programme, meet the team, and ask any questions you might have.

Applications are now open and will be accepted until 20 January, 2026. To help you get an inside look at the curriculum, the learning environment, and creative opportunities, we’re hosting the following Zoom sessions:

• 8 December 2025, 2:00–3:00 p.m. (CET)
• 10 January 2026, 8:00–9:00 p.m. (CET)

During both events, members of the department — including Prof. Frédéric Dubois — and current students will be present to share first-hand insights and answer your questions.

We look forward to welcoming interested applicants from around the world and introducing you to what makes the Digital Narratives programme at the Internationale Filmschule Köln so distinctive.

Mark Your Calendars: Upcoming Online Info Sessions for the Master’s in Digital Narratives was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

From October 22nd to 27th, students from the Digital Narratives (DN) cohort D travelled to Prague, Czech Republic, to take part in the Zip-Scene Conference and the Art*VR Festival. During the trip, they presented their MA research-creation projects, explored a wide range of VR experiences, and met scholars and creators from across Europe working in the XR field.

Zip-Scene Conference

The 7th edition of Zip-Scene Conference was held under the theme “Hunting for Attention: Interactive Digital Storytelling in Fragmented Attention Landscapes.” The conference explored how today’s interactive and immersive stories can capture and hold people’s attention, helping them engage deeply with ideas, in a world full of constant information, notifications, and digital noise.

Researchers, artists, and professionals from fields such as performing arts, VR, AR, and interactive storytelling came together to share ideas and projects. The program featured presentations on VR accessibility, sound design, interactive cinema, site-specific XR, and collaborative storytelling, among many others, as well as pitch sessions for new VR projects and discussions with artists exhibiting at the Art*VR Festival.

Presentation by Prof. Frédéric Dubois

Dr. Frédéric Dubois, Professor of Digital Narratives at the ifs, gave a talk on production strategies for fragmented audiences. Drawing from his experience as an author and producer of web-based narratives, he outlined three key phases of production — sandboxing, production, and campaigning — and shared tactics for reaching niche audiences.

He spoke about the importance of building balanced creative teams, where members support one another through different roles. He also underlined that it’s important not only to campaign relentlessly, get the word out, but also make sure you get the word in, and bring the right people close to your project.

Student Poster Presentations

The Digtial Narratives students also took part in a poster session, where they presented their MA research-creation projects and discussed their ideas with conference visitors. Their projects combine theory and creative practice through formats such as VR, games, web narratives, and immersive theatre.

• Deniz Akyol explores how a web-based interactive story can present the body as a museum of memory, where emotion and interaction bring the past into the present.
• Haydar Tastan studies how gesture-based audience input can shape the dramaturgy of ethical conflicts in immersive theatre.
• Thanussayan Karunakaran examines how collective emotional responses, measured through EEG signals, can be used for narrative negotiation in interactive cinema on sociopolitical themes.
• Moheman Iqbal, who joined the conference online, studies how the game mechanic of memory retention can strengthen emotional connection and character immersion in a 2.5D Metroidvania game.

• Dojiang Wang is creating a cozy-adventure narrative game that supports dying people and their loved ones share their life stories through play and connection
• Amna Tariq explores how immersive VR storytelling can evoke empathy and cross-cultural reflection on grief, translating a personal experience into a symbolic digital space.
• Kritika Singh Bisen researches how VR narratives about people with ADHD can be created in an inclusive way that deepens understanding of neurodivergent perspectives.
• Plamena Dimitrova explores how co-design methods can help create a web-based interactive story that expresses the lived experience of burnout.

Art*VR Festival

Running alongside the conference, the Art*VR Festival is the largest curated XR showcase in Central and Eastern Europe. This year’s theme, “More-than-Human Perspectives,” invited audiences to experience the world through non-human points of view, including plants, animals and synthetic forms of life.

Students explored more than 50 VR works and fulldome screenings at the Prague Planetarium and had the chance to meet and exchange ideas with the artists behind them.

The field trip was filled with inspiring talks, new experiences, and many creative exchanges. It gave students a chance to reflect on their own projects, connect with others working in the field, and spend time together as they move through their final year in the Digital Narratives program.

Field Trip to Prague: MA Digital Narratives at Zip-Scene and ArtVR Festival was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The Master’s Programme Digital Narratives at the Internationale Filmschule Köln is now open for applications!

Throughout the four-semester programme, students conceptualise, design, and develop digital narrative projects and become part of a diverse and international network of professionals working on immersive and interactive media. Students’ projects include: transmedia theatre productions, mobile games, VR experiences, AI conversations, interactive web series, films, and interactive installations, among others.

The application deadline is January 20th, 2026.

Online info sessions will be held on December 8th, 2025 and January 12th, 2026.

MA Digital Narratives welcomes applicants with diverse professional, cultural and disciplinary backgrounds, with experience in the fields of art, journalism, media production, humanities, software development and other related fields.

It is a full-time program, with classes primarily in person, with online components. Students are encouraged to experiment, think critically and produce their own digital narratives. The central elements of the curriculum include:

• Critical analysis and research of media projects and ecosystems, and the social changes brought on by digital technologies
• The conceptualisation, dramaturgy, design, and production of digital narrative projects
• Exploring storytelling with new media (for example VR, AR, AI-powered experiences, interactive media, immersive installations)
• Experimenting and iterating as a way of learning, and working through a research-creation approach

You can find full information on the application process, requirements and the programme itself at the ifs website.

Follow this blog to find out more about the programme from the students’ perspectives, and the MA Digital Narratives LinkedIn page for the latest news and discussions.

MA Digital Narratives 26–28 is now open for applications was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

As the months went by, we began narrowing our focus. I found myself most drawn to depression — it was my most recent and defining experience, one that had consumed the past few years of my life. I began researching it seriously, though I also continued exploring the other two themes.

I noticed that grief toolkits already existed in abundance online, so I realised I would need to approach that topic differently. Then, during our October 2025 field trip to Dok Leipzig, one project in particular left a deep impression: Finally Me, a VR story about self-acceptance by Márcio Sal. It made me realise the power of a personal story to move people.

I decided to share my own experience with depression. But as I researched, I found myself triggered. It was my first winter in Germany — the kind of cold I had never known. The sky stayed grey and heavy, the sun set around 4:00 pm, and homesickness pressed in. I felt unsafe navigating the city after dark as a woman, carrying fears from thirty years of living in Karachi. Even in the midst of classes, surrounded by people and work, I felt the colours draining. Symptoms began to reappear. I was terrified that I might fall back into depression, after having fought so hard to come out of it.

I didn’t know if it was seasonal depression. Friends suggested Vitamin D supplements — given my history of Vitamin D and B12 deficiency, which can mimic depression. I started taking them, and they helped. But still, diving deep into the subject felt dangerous. For the sake of my well-being, I decided to drop depression as my project focus.

Instead, I returned to a fictional story I had once written for a screenwriting class: about a child longing to fly a kite in Karachi’s Aram Bagh, and their relationship with their overprotective father. Back then it felt flat in a linear script, but I sensed it could evolve into something richer for the MA project.

My first pitch was:

Aram Bagh Diaries is an environmental game set in late 1990s Karachi, exploring themes of father-daughter relationship, protectiveness, grief, and the longing for freedom. Players observe life in the park across the street from the family’s apartment, where boys gather to fly kites. Each day the child’s yearning grows, until finally she and her father step into the park to fly a kite together — an act symbolising freedom, healing, and letting go.

I described how the child, watching from behind the ornamental iron grills of her apartment window (a common security feature in Pakistan), sees the contrast: boys flying kites barefoot in dusty clothes, while she sits inside, neatly dressed, caged by expectation and protection. Inside vs. outside. Girls vs. boys. Confinement vs. freedom.

At the time, I dismissed Plamena’s comment that depression often stems from grief, and that working on grief might be easier than depression. I insisted the project was fictional — though I see now it was never only that.

After a spring break visit to Karachi, I returned with a renewed sense of how caged women often feel in that city. This deepened my project. I envisioned it as an environmental game, inspired by Gone Home, where objects carry narrative weight. I wanted international audiences to feel the texture of the space. Frédéric questioned whether it should really be a game — Lena suggested VR, since “the feeling of being caged” is an affordance of VR. Strategically, I had no intention of pursuing the gaming industry, and VR intimidated me. Perhaps a web interactive with WebVR would be achievable. The project continued evolving.

By the Development Sprint, I felt ready to write. At first, I tried drafting from the father’s perspective to foster empathy. But I quickly realised I couldn’t inhabit that viewpoint authentically. Watching Emperor (another father-daughter story) reinforced this: while compelling, I couldn’t connect deeply with the father’s voice. I decided my story must come from the daughter’s perspective, her experiences, and her contradictions.

Still, I hit a block. Objects could only carry the story so far. What was the real conflict? Then I remembered Paul Tyler’s workshop. He had told me: “Your story has a beautiful paradox, an emotional seesaw.” The father cannot let go of the daughter, yet the daughter also clings to him.

Recalling his words felt like a floodgate opening. Until then, I had only looked at the father’s overprotectiveness. But in that moment, I realised: the daughter, too, was holding on, unable to release him. That was the heart of the story, the tension I had been circling around without naming.

I realised I was not just writing fiction. I was confronting my own grief over losing my father. Writing the script felt like picking at a scab. At times, the pain was sharp, forcing me to step away — tea breaks, prayer breaks, letting the mind wander. But I always returned. You can’t leave a scab half-peeled; it will sting at the slightest brush.

Some people rip it off like a wax strip. I go slowly, because it hurts too much, and because I fear damaging the new skin underneath. That, too, is control — my instinct to contain everything. But my project is teaching me otherwise: you cannot control grief. You cannot predetermine its rhythm. You must sit with it, make it a companion.

The wound will leave its mark — scarred, red, undeniable. Like grief, it reshapes you. It becomes part of what others see. And yet, in its permanence, it tells a quiet story: you endured, and somehow, you made it through.

Writing Into the Wound/Picking at a Scab was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When we first received the invitation to participate in the workshop, we were told it would be taking place in the ‘aquarium’, which led to all sorts of speculation about this mysterious venue. Some wondered, are we going to attend classes at the Cologne Zoo? Others joked that there might be a hidden aquarium on campus that nobody had seen before. After writing some letters (emails) with a quill (typing), we discovered that this mysterious place was simply a classroom at CGL. It earned its name because of the clear glass doors and walls surrounding it, meaning we would be the fish in this aquarium. What better way to set the tone for a transmedia storyworld workshop!

In the document we received, there was a description of our workshop titled Narrative Design for Building Your Transmedia Storyworld in 3 Steps. Something caught my eye immediately. The last part of the description said: “On Thursday, we will have the chance to pitch each project and vote collectively based on different criteria. (This is fun!)” I paid little attention to the competition part (wait until you read how that went), but I was intimidated by the pitching. Pitching a project idea usually means knowing your project well and having a strong concept in place. How was that even possible to achieve in just four days? To my surprise, our captain was prepared for a smooth sail.

On the first day, we all arrived at the Aquarium, ready for our first time studying alongside students from CGL. We were warmly welcomed, and we dived headfirst into the world of transmedia storytelling. We began with theory, basics, and definitions, exploring what transmedia storytelling actually means. We learnt through popular examples like The Matrix, Star Wars, and The Lord of the Rings. We also looked at the work of João, also known as our beloved Pedro, to gain a deeper understanding of transmedia storytelling.

After covering theory and case studies, we moved on to practical work. Pedro divided our classroom into three small groups and gave us a prompt for the ideation of our transmedia projects. The prompt was: “Take a historical event and add some imaginary twist to it.” This got us all thinking, and soon we had three ideas on the table, which later became known as MIL E3-M15, Green Side of the Moon, and The Hand of England. Each of these projects was carefully thought out.

The Hand of England, a mini-series, tells the story of Elizabeth secretly extending her life with a chemical serum to prevent Charles from taking the throne.

MIL E3-M15, a narrative action-adventure game, follows the emotional and thought-provoking journey of E3-M15, a lab mouse, during the development of the COVID-19 vaccine.

The Green Side of the Moon, a feature-length mockumentary, tells the story of what happens when Apollo 11 lands on the moon. A teenage alien named Pesto, descended from Karl Marx and a band of revolutionaries who secretly built a utopian society on the lunar surface, records the encounter. Forbidden to contact Earth but driven by curiosity, she leaks the footage to the Blue Planet, sparking conspiracy theories and government cover-ups. Told through a playful mockumentary lens, the film unravels hidden histories, political bargains, and one alien’s rebellious quest to connect two worlds.

We now had two days to turn these simple ideas into transmedia projects and prepare to pitch them in front of the class. We briefly reviewed the concept of the ‘hero’s journey’ and applied this narrative method to our transmedia stories. In the following days, we defined the mothership of the project, the genre, and the platform. We then developed the story, the backstory, a synopsis, the target audience, plot points, character lists, and transmedia possibilities. Under transmedia possibilities, we described several different media platforms and what would happen in those spaces, too.

On the last day of the workshop, we were welcomed by Pedro dressed as a pirate named Tom. Tom had many stories to tell. He had lived through many different experiences and arrived at the Aquarium with a treasure of stories and gifts for the winners. We presented our ideas to everyone, followed by a voting round. We scored from 1 to 5 (1 being the lowest and 5 the highest). The criteria were: 1) Narrative Strength and Depth, 2) Worldbuilding Consistency, 3) Transmedia Potential, 4) Audience Participation, 5) Real-World Pervasiveness, 6) Gaming Elements, and 7) Fandom Community Mobilisation.

After the voting round, a clear winner emerged. And the winner was… drumroll… The Green Side of the Moon (small flex, that was my team).

The circle was complete: from feeling intimidated about creating a concept to watching time fly by as the journey unfolded smoothly. How did we transition so seamlessly from day one to day four? To answer the questions brewing in my head, I had to ask Pedro Mota for an exclusive interview. You can read the interview below and take a deep dive into the world of transmedia storytelling.

Q&A with Pedro Mota

Kritika (Me): We had a lot of fun at your workshop. What first inspired you to work in transmedia storytelling?

Pedro: I was inspired from the very first time I came into contact with stories. It did not only happen through films, but since childhood, I was already in love with cinema. The first film that really marked me was Jurassic Park. I remember watching it both in the cinema and on television. Later, I was absolutely amazed by The Matrix. The Matrix was the transmedia storyworld that inspired me the most because the Wachowski sisters did incredible work. They not only created the original film but also developed a whole complex transmedia universe to complement it. They expanded the story into comics, books, webcomics, video games, and several films.

The case of The Matrix is quoted in Convergence Culture (2006) by Henry Jenkins, a very important author from MIT. That book really marked me and shaped my academic career. So yes, The Matrix was the transmedia storyworld that influenced me the most.

I am not a hardcore fan of Star Wars, but I can say I am a fan. I am also a big fan of The Lord of the Rings. Interestingly, my supervisor, Professor Dr. Gundolf Freyermuth, the founder of the Cologne Game Lab, has a name that is very similar to one of the most important characters in the saga, Gandalf. I am also a fan of Harry Potter, The Blair Witch Project, which I showed during our workshop, and many other transmedia productions.

So what led me to work in transmedia storytelling was being exposed to so many interesting and creative storyworlds, and my desire to study them, analyse them, and eventually create them.

Kritika (Me): Thank you for sharing that with me. It sounds like an interesting journey, almost as if it were meant to be. Are there any main takeaways you hoped we would walk away with from the workshop?

Pedro: My main objective for the workshop was to provide a general understanding of transmedia storytelling, which is quite difficult to cover in such a short amount of time. I wanted to give students some basic transmedia tools and concepts to help them think about developing their own projects.

More specifically, I aimed to allow the students to experiment with ideas and to create freely. I wanted them to begin imagining storyworlds that could be interesting to tell and equally engaging to watch, listen to, or read.

So yes, my main goal was to provide the students with the chance to create their own transmedia storyworlds. And that is quite a challenge.

Kritika (Me): We certainly gained a lot of perspective on transmedia storytelling through your workshop, especially because of the practical work. You are currently creating your own transmedia project. In your experience, what is the biggest challenge when building a transmedia storyworld?

Pedro: I am not creating a transmedia project in the sense of a film, book, game, comic, or television series. What we are developing is a tool to analyse and create transmedia storyworlds. Project Plot is a research project within the Cologne Game Lab. It started with my PhD as the practical development of my research, and we are now working on it with a team of ten students. More students are joining to focus on narrative design during the winter semester.

The tool, called Project Plot Play a Story Network, aims to create a multi-user environment where fans can analyse complex transmedia storytelling worlds and find meaningful connections between characters and story arcs. In academic terms, Project Plot is a tool to visualise semantic networks of transmedia storytelling narratives. These are the words of Professor Dr Jonas Zimmer, professor of programming and computer games at the Cologne Game Lab, with whom we recently had an excellent meeting. He came up with this designation for our project. So, Project Plot is not a transmedia storyworld in itself but a tool to create and analyse them.

The biggest challenges when building a transmedia storyworld are consistency, coherence, and maintaining the canonical representation. This is very difficult. For example, when adapting a book into a film, the language and medium are different, so the translation of events has to be handled carefully. When developing a game based on The Lord of the Rings, you need to keep the events consistent with the books and not create contradictions. This is not easy because each medium has its own constraints and limitations, and there is usually no single author leading everything.

Often, the distributor controls the overall production, as Disney now does with Star Wars. In theory, they are responsible for guaranteeing the canon remains intact, but this rarely happens. As a result, many long-time Star Wars fans are very critical of Disney’s new transmedia adaptations. In my opinion, this illustrates one of the biggest challenges in creating a transmedia storyworld.

Kritika (Me): Thank you for talking about the project. I am excited to see it once it is finished. We spoke about different kinds of audiences in your workshop. How do you see the role of audience participation evolving in transmedia storytelling?

Pedro: There are different types of transmedia consumers, spectators, users, interactors, or players. We could call them transmedia experiencers, since transmedia is ultimately a narrative experience, a social experience, and also a technological experience. Interdisciplinary teams collaborate to create different types of narrative development across media formats, and each medium has its own best way to represent a story.

Take The Lord of the Rings, for example. This is one of the transmedia storyworlds I refer to often. Recently, the series The Rings of Power was released. It is essentially a prequel to the Lord of the Rings trilogy of books and Peter Jackson’s films from 2001 to 2003. In this series, the directors chose to represent the development of Sauron as a character. We do not actually see Sauron in the original trilogy, yet he is one of the most important figures. After all, the title is The Lord of the Rings, and Sauron is the Lord of the Rings.

I think the role of audience participation in transmedia storytelling today is strongly connected to interaction, exchange, and communication, most of which happens on the internet. After you watch a film, you might discuss it with your friends or family. After you play a Lord of the Rings game, you might share your experience with other players. The internet, however, provides a platform where audiences can exchange views on the same storyworld with a much wider community.

This is also what our project, Project Plot Play a Story Network, proposes: to provide a multi-user environment where different audiences can map the complexity of transmedia storyworlds in visual and audiovisual terms.

Kritika (Me): We got a glimpse of your perspective on audiences in the workshop, and your answer still resonates with that. We were encouraged to create some really creative and out-of-the-box storyworlds during your workshop. If you could give one piece of advice to emerging creators who want to build strong storyworlds, what would it be?

Pedro: I think the most important thing is passion for what you are doing. If you truly dedicate yourself to what you love, that is the answer to everything. If you have love for the art you are creating, then you can build a storyworld that you genuinely envision and that has the potential to expand into transmedia.

Whether the story develops into a game, a film, a book, a television series, comics, or web apps, if you approach it with love, this will show in the work. That is the one piece of advice I would give to any emerging creator.

Kritika (Me): That is some great advice. You divided the class into smaller groups and asked each of us to develop a storyworld by the end of the seminar. At first, this felt like quite an intimidating task, but as the workshop progressed, the process became more natural and manageable. How did you approach the organisation and structure of the workshop to achieve that?

Pedro: I divided the class into smaller groups and asked each to develop a storyworld by the end of the seminar. First of all, I believe in love, dedication, and passion for what I do. Teaching, researching, and sharing knowledge with others is something I truly enjoy, and I am always happy to talk about it.

The intimidating aspect of the task eased over time because I tried to create an environment where everyone could connect with their team members. Forming groups and developing an idea together in such a short time is always a challenge, but kindness was my guiding principle. I wanted to build an atmosphere where everyone felt comfortable and open to listening to each other’s ideas.

Supporting one another was also essential. In my opinion, constructive criticism is a key ingredient in developing any project. So, kindness, love, and support were the three elements that shaped my approach to the workshop.

I also wanted to provide a comfortable space. I brought coffee, food, and tea, and soon I noticed that in the following days, others did the same. This created a shared environment of kindness and generosity. Everyone began to support each other’s ideas, see the best in what their peers created, and feel inspired to love what they were developing.

Kritika (Me): You mentioned bringing food, snacks, and beverages to the workshop, and that is true; your sessions were always full of them. What inspired you to add that element? Was there a story or thought process behind making food part of the experience?

Pedro: Food and drinks were part of creating an informal environment where everyone could share the moment, apart from the lecture itself, and connect to build a stronger social network before diving into the work. Ideally, if I could, I would start every lecture with meditation, but apart from that, food and drinks, and having time to chat, are part of the process.

Some people may look at this as a waste of time, but it is not. It is deeply integrated into the methodology of creating an environment of kindness, support, and love. It allows students to connect on a deeper level and to establish at least a minimal social network among themselves. With that social time, everyone becomes more open to working together.

Working, thinking, and creating together is always a challenge. I have worked on films and audiovisual projects in Brazil, and I saw how critical it is to establish this deeper level of connection between team members. It allows the working process to flow. This is important not only on a film set but also in a classroom.

Creation can only happen if there is a certain openness towards others. If you are connected to the people you are working with, then you can create together. Without that connection, the other person remains a stranger, and it is less likely that you will be open to hearing their ideas, and vice versa. So yes, food and drinks were part of this element of building openness and connection.

Kritika (Me): We fully enjoyed all the snacks and beverages that you kindly brought for us. As this was your first time teaching IFS students, and given that our approach often differs from a strictly gaming-oriented perspective, how would you describe your experience working with us? Did any aspects of our methods or perspectives particularly surprise you?

Pedro: I think the teaching methodology in Germany and Brazil is different in some important ways. In Brazil, the lecturing style is very strong and descriptive. Professors usually spend a long time explaining concepts, ideas, and theories, with less direct interaction with students.

In Germany, and especially at the Cologne Game Lab, and I suppose also at IFS, the approach is much more interactive. The lecturer provides a bit of content, and then the students are invited to respond and build on it. So here, the focus of the class is not the professor but the students. In Brazil, the professors are more central. They provide the knowledge, and then the students absorb and critically engage with it.

Both systems stimulate critical thinking, but the German approach surprised me with its greater interactivity. I learned a lot from offering this workshop to you and your teams.

Kritika (Me): Although your workshop was a success, if you ran the same workshop again, would you change anything about the flow or structure?

Pedro: I would definitely do everything the same way again, but I would add a bit more organisation to the structure and steps. I am self-critical about the development of the transmedia bible, which could have been more objective and organised.

I think having more feedback from students during the course would also help me improve it. Creation always involves a degree of improvisation. You work with the resources you have and adapt to changes as they come, even unexpected ones. Sometimes those changes are so significant that they alter the entire project. This is also true in film production, where budgets can suddenly be cut, as happened with Apocalypse Now, one of the most expensive films in American cinema.

So yes, I would keep almost everything the same but would add a clearer step-by-step structure and establish a schedule from the very first day, so everyone would know what to expect.

Kritika (Me): It is an important quality to be able to accept criticism and improve. Is there anything else you would like to add, something that I did not ask you about?

Pedro: Yes, I would like to add something. There was an amazing girl who came from India with a dream. She has a beautiful name that means both creation and critique. She was one of the winners of our pitch and prize event at the end of the workshop, and I think she received a wonderful golden youth potion from Tom, the pirate with so many stories and life experiences.

I am very happy to have met her. She seems very talented, and I believe she will be a very successful filmmaker. She already is, but she will grow even more. I would like to thank Kritika, as well as all the other students, for attending the course and staying committed until the end. We began with twelve students plus me, and everyone finished the course. Some missed a day or two, but overall, everyone stayed to the end, which was great.

I want to thank everyone for believing in the course and for engaging with the proposal. It was an amazing experience, and I would love to do it again.

Kritika (Me): Thank you so much for explaining the meaning of my name, haha, and for your kind words about me and all the other students. Thank you for bringing us together, and thanks to your workshop, we are all still well connected. Thank you for your time.

Read Pedro’s Master’s thesis here: https://www.teses.usp.br/teses/disponiveis/27/27161/tde-17112017-110614/en.php

Learn more about his ongoing project in this interview on Project Plot: https://www.linkedin.com/posts/cologne-university-of-applied-sciences_creating-a-prototype-for-an-educational-game-activity-7346453722115309568-EDJ6

If you made it so far, thank you so much for reading!

Inside the Aquarium: A Dive into Transmedia Storytelling with Pedro Mota (IFS x CGL) was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When we watched Be Kind Rewind during the BIP exchange program in Sweden, it didn’t just feel like a film screening; it felt like stumbling upon the missing piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was putting together. The movie’s delightfully absurd premise, ordinary people remaking blockbuster films with cardboard props, neighbourhood backdrops, and unfiltered imagination, suddenly became a mirror of our own days. We, too, were armed with scraps of cardboard, scissors, paper, and wild ideas. Creativity was spilling from every corner. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about the joy of making something together, however clumsy, however messy.

The term “Sweded,” coined by the film, means to re-create something with limited means, exaggeratedly and playfully. But sitting in that Swedish classroom, the word seemed to expand. I realised I was being “Sweded” myself, my routines, my assumptions, my ideas of how stories could or should be told. Everything I thought was fixed was being remade, stripped down and reassembled in ways I hadn’t considered before.

For me, to be Sweded was also to dip fully into the experience of Sweden. The exchange program wasn’t only about lectures, prototyping, and networking. It was about feeling creativity seep into the cracks of daily life, and noticing how culture, cinema, and coffee could shape learning just as much as formal sessions.

One of the most unforgettable moments was watching Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror. Not in a lecture hall or a cinema, but at the PlayLab, a high-tech performance space where researchers, artists, and game designers experiment together. We sat together in front of a large projector, and instead of silence (as the film was originally intended), live musicians filled the room with a haunting, improvised soundtrack. The familiar black-and-white shadows of Nosferatu suddenly felt alive, breathing through sound. That experience alone made the silent film ten times more fascinating.

Afterwards, we toured the PlayLab. Lars Kristensen spoke passionately about its vision, a creative hub where incompleteness is celebrated. Unlike most places that only showcase finished products, PlayLab welcomes projects in their raw, unfinished form. They believe in feedback loops, in nurturing an idea while it’s still new, in giving people the chance to refine rather than present perfection. For us, digital narratives students, this was especially helpful. We are strong believers in prototyping, and here we found a perfectly aligned space.

But exchange programs, as I came to realise, aren’t just defined by screenings, workshops, or tours. They exist in all the spaces between, in the hostel corridors, in the kitchens, in the laughter that carried us late into the night. One evening, this spirit took the form of a student party. We played beer pong, talked passionately about games and stories, and sang along to whatever music was playing in the background. It was silly, it was chaotic, and yet it was deeply bonding. Creativity doesn’t always need to look like a workshop; sometimes it looks like a messy table full of cups and friends yelling out-of-tune lyrics.

And, of course, there was fika. That untranslatable Swedish ritual of pausing for coffee and pastries, but also for connection. Fika was where we unwound, where we processed the day’s ideas, and where, in between bites of cinnamon buns, someone would casually say something that stuck with me far longer than a formal lecture. Just like sweding a film, fika is about using what you have, slowing down, and finding joy in the small rituals that sustain creativity.

Looking back now, “I got Sweded” feels like the most accurate way to describe the experience. Not because I remade any blockbuster with cardboard props (though I could be persuaded), but because I was re-made. My ways of seeing, thinking, and creating were taken apart and put back together, with a dose of humour and a lot of imagination.

Exchange programs teach you things inside the classroom, yes. But the real learning, the kind that lingers, often happens outside: in the gaps between hostel rooms and cinema screens, in laughter that echoes down the hallways, in cups of coffee shared across cultures, and in moments where you let yourself be unfinished.

And so, I carry this word with me now: Sweded. A reminder that creativity doesn’t need polish, only courage. A reminder that being unfinished is not failure, but possibility. And most of all, a reminder that sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones we perfect, but the ones we re-make together.

I Got Sweded was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The goal of the Sprint was to create a first clickable prototype of our master’s projects. Each of us works on a self-chosen topic and format, ranging from VR and interactive film to games and web-based experiences. Many of us tackle deeply personal themes: the death of a loved one, feminism, exclusion, immigration, or living with mental health conditions such as ADHD and burnout.

Before the Sprint:

The sprint builds on almost a year of work. In semester one, we focused on ideation: coming up with first concepts, exploring digital experiences similar to our topic or format, and grounding ourselves in academic literature. In semester two, our work shifted toward design: defining our audiences, clarifying our central themes, thinking about our narrative design, and what emotions we hope to evoke.

The sprint was where we needed to test what we were uncertain of and turn our ideas into something tangible. As our professor Dr. Frédéric Dubois shares: “Development is all about experimenting, sandboxing, and being loose and open when translating a vision into a prototype.”

During the Sprint:

Just before the Development Sprint, we had a preparatory day with our lecturer Timo Maier. Using Lego, we created rapid “pretotypes” to help us visualise, in a simple model, our projects and clarify what exactly we wanted to test during the sprint.

In addition to prototyping, the sprint also pushed us to think about project management: understanding which resources we might need, which aspects we could handle ourselves, and which would eventually require collaboration. Timo also introduced us to agile working methods, and each of us made a Kanban board to help plan our work. During the sprint, we held short, daily stand-ups with him to discuss our progress and the obstacles we were facing.

The 10 days of the sprint itself were intensive but productive. Frédéric shared his impressions of our progress:

“Some have a fleshed-out interactive story in front of them, others experimented with aesthetics in a way that we can already see and hear what the story could feel like. Others yet again have spent more time learning the ropes of a technical tool so that they have a first grey-boxed prototype to show. This helps reveal where most work is still needed and where one can feel confident already. This, in turn, reduces uncertainty.”

And yet uncertainty was what many of us struggled with most — pulling apart our original ideas and restitching them in different tools, trying to find the right mechanics or metaphors, and feeling like we were failing until something clicked. When I asked Frédéric about the most common challenges during the Sprint, his observations resonated strongly with our experience:

“When turning ideas and concepts into prototypes, I would say that most people, not just students, face our own little fears. We are often afraid of plunging, taking a risk by just jumping into what we’re less skilled in. Depending on skill level and experience, we can get better at taking risks, but we usually intuitively stand in our own way, by following those creative patterns we’re most familiar with.”

Student Projects:

Get a glimpse into some of the projects the latest cohort of Digital Narratives is working on and the prototypes developed during our Development Sprint.

In Loving Memory: Aram Bagh | Amna Tariq

A VR experience set in late 1990s Karachi, Pakistan. The story follows a woman revisiting her childhood home in Aram Bagh as a way to process the grief of losing her father. Through interactive memories, the experience offers a cathartic journey for anyone who has experienced the loss of a parent.

During the sprint, Amna focused on crafting and writing the story. She shares: “As a linear thinker, I felt stuck without a complete script for my VR experience, so I made that my priority and by the end of the sprint, I had it completed.” She also made a click dummy of the opening scene in Canva. You can find more insights from Amna’s sprint in her blogpost.

SERAP | Zeyd Taha Candan

A surreal narrative game asking the central question: “How close are we to becoming unwelcome?”

During the sprint, Zeyd focused on the integration of environmental feedback with identity-based storytelling using Unity. He wanted to test if alienation and systemic exclusion could be made experiential through spatial contraction, metaphorical signage, and dreamlike bureaucracy.

Mirror Mirror in the Hall | Deniz Akyol

A VR journey into the collective and individual experiences of women facing oppression, reclaiming voice, and sharing rebellion and joy. Users step into memories of women, guided by mirrors and symbolic objects of memory and identity.

During the sprint, Deniz built a first prototype in Figma, testing how users can click through objects, reveal hidden sub-meanings, and feel the emotional rhythm. Her priority was to focus on the emotional core of the project, find the right poetic atmosphere, and symbolic mechanics.

Why Not Play Until the End | Dojiang Wang

A gamified digital narrative to support hospice patients in the act of dying.

During the sprint, Dojiang focused on exploring possible game mechanics using paper prototyping techniques as well as a digital click dummy in Canva.

Atlas | Haydar Taştan

A VR project that explores memory, loss, and the fragile persistence of love. The viewer steps into a haunted temporal architecture where remembrance and imagination intertwine, seeking to collapse the boundaries between the past, present, and future.

During the sprint, Haydar experimented with layering 360° filmmaking, VHS footage, and 3D NeRF (Neural Radiance Field) objects.

Neural Nexus | Moheman Iqbal

A 2.5D Metroidvania game where players recover memory shards as a cybernetically augmented human who has lost their recent past. Instead of abilities, memories themselves unlock progression, gradually revealing who the protagonist is and how they came to be in this state, and reflecting themes of transhumanism, identity, and existential loss.

During the sprint, Moheman’s main priority was to test whether a data sequencer could be integrated as a mechanic that helps players track their collected memories and piece them together into a coherent, engaging story. You can test Moheman’s prototype here.

BurnOut | Plamena Dimitrova

A web-based interactive experience about the journey of burning out and the slow process of recovery. The player walks up a staircase that gradually transforms, each step triggering a note in an evolving melody. As burnout progresses, the speed and abilities deteriorate until the player can no longer move. Once you’re forced to stop, a slow recovery begins.

During the sprint, I focused on learning Unity and building a short scene to test whether the staircase metaphor and evolving melody worked as a foundation, and whether a first-person perspective best captured the experience.

Looking Ahead

The sprint marks just the beginning of the development stage of our digital narratives. Over the summer, we all continued refining our ideas: reflecting on our stories and mechanics, improving technical builds, and beginning to consider budgeting, project management, and eventual positioning in the market.

Frédéric shares his impressions of our projects and the next steps:

“In a nutshell, my impressions are outright optimistic. I really liked what I got to see. Our students are gifted with wit, creativity, and they have a story to tell. Beyond the diversity of projects — all totally different in shape, format, and story — what excites me most in the development stage is how close creators stick to their original vision and how open they are to changes along the way. I have seen meticulously planned projects being poured into prototypes methodically, others based on a whirlwind of ideas taking u-turns, scaling down and up again just to find equilibrium at a wild intersection… The beauty of it all is to observe how authorship and user agency dance together and, when the song ends, where the dancers stand.”

Time will show where our digital narratives will go in the next nine months until we have a functioning MVP by spring 2026. But just a few days before stepping into Semester 3, we have all built something tangible — foundations to build on, weak spots revealed, and new questions and possibilities to explore.

From Ideas to Development: Prototyping Digital Narratives was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

As someone who thrives at the intersection of storytelling and visual media, this felt like an ideal space to learn and grow. It pushed me to be creatively vulnerable, to trust people I had only just met, and to embrace new tools, methods, and perspectives with an open mind.

Meeting the Team and Finding Our Concept

The programme began with two online sessions, followed by a week in Skövde, and concluded with a final round-up session held online once again. During our very first virtual session, we were introduced to the theme that would guide the entire game jam: “Listening.” It was an open-ended theme, broad enough to be interpreted in countless ways, and it immediately sparked a wave of creative thinking within our group.

From that point on, our shared Google Doc turned into a flurry of brainstorms, scribbled outlines, and half-formed questions. I was placed in a team of four, and we represented four different countries. Despite our diverse backgrounds and having never met before, we clicked almost instantly and began refining ideas that felt exciting, strange, and full of potential.

As the only writer in the group, I naturally leaned into narrative development. I pitched an idea that took the theme of “listening” in an introspective direction. Rather than interpreting it as a literal or external act, I suggested we turn it inward. What if the player had to listen to their intrusive thoughts? The ones that appear uninvited, often inappropriate, and sometimes hilarious. To my surprise and joy, the group was enthusiastic and agreed to build the game around this concept.

It was a big moment of motivation for me. Being trusted with the core concept of the game gave me a real sense of belonging and set the tone for a genuinely collaborative experience.

Arriving in Skövde and Building the World of “Unhinged Temptation”

Once we arrived in Skövde and finally met in person, it was time to bring the idea to life. We used Miro boards and creative design methods to map the story structure, player choices, and scenarios. This is where things became even more fun. We decided to create a satirical comedy game called “Unhinged Temptation”, featuring a morally grey character navigating everyday life in absurd ways.

The main character is a lonely young adult working at a salon. They are underpaid, isolated, and morally conflicted. They have a cat, no close friends, and an internal monologue that constantly tempts them to make questionable choices. Throughout the game, the player is placed in mundane situations with morally ambiguous options. For example:

• Do you add salt instead of sugar to the coffee of an annoying customer?
• Do you break the cash machine to get money out faster?
• Do you interrupt a loud couple arguing in a restaurant?

Each of these scenarios lets the player “listen” to their intrusive thoughts and choose whether to act on them or not. The humour comes from the relatability of these thoughts and the slightly exaggerated reactions they provoke. The more the player gives in, the more interesting the character becomes.

Learning Through Collaboration

One of the best parts of this experience was the team itself. Each person brought a unique skill set that made the process rich and rewarding.

Martin, a programmer studying in Denmark, was our technical lead. He handled the structure and coding of the game and was incredibly patient while explaining the logic behind various interactions. Watching him work was like seeing live problem-solving in motion. His explanations made programming feel far less intimidating and much more accessible.

Oline, a service designer from Norway, brought a thoughtful and user-focused lens to our project. She made sure that our game remained playful but coherent, and that our decision-making process always considered the experience of the player. Her design thinking background influenced how we framed choices and crafted emotional touchpoints.

Kate, a computer science student from Ukraine, was also the artist for the game. She illustrated and animated all the characters and objects in the game with a brilliant hand. Her visual style gave the game a unique personality and brought our ideas to life. I still remember watching her draw the salon scene in real time and thinking, “Wow, this game finally feels real.”

Working with them was an education in itself. I learned about visual asset management, interaction design, team workflow and digital pipelines, all in a matter of days.

Trying My Hands on Godot Engine

For the first time in my life, I also worked with the Godot Engine, an open-source game engine that turned out to be a perfect platform for experimental prototyping. With help from my teammates, I learned how nodes work, how scenes are structured, and how animation trees and logic flow within the Godot system.

It was overwhelming at first, but I slowly began to understand how mechanics, assets, dialogue, and player input are tied together to create an interactive experience. It gave me a clearer understanding of the technical side of game design and made me much more confident in communicating ideas to programmers and artists in the future. Godot also made me appreciate how accessible game development can be when paired with the right team and mindset.

The mechanisms went from mysterious witchcraft to simple understanding!

From Paper Prototypes to Playable Games

Before diving fully into development, we first presented paper prototypes. These were physical sketches of gameplay scenarios, choice boxes, dialogue pop-ups and character interactions. We used paper cut-outs, markers, and dialogue bubbles to simulate how the game would work. We also managed to stick our character on a toothpick for easy mobility. It sounds simple, but it was incredibly effective.

At first, it felt a bit old-school, especially considering we were designing a digital experience. But very quickly, I saw the value of this step. It gave us a clear visual understanding of the player journey. We could test scenes without needing code, explore multiple narrative branches, and immediately see what was working and what wasn’t.

We invited other students and mentors to test our paper prototype, which was honestly a hilarious experience. Watching someone physically move a hand-drawn character through a sketchy salon and make chaotic decisions like “add salt to coffee” or “smash the cash machine” made us realise just how much of our humour and tone was landing — even without polished visuals or game mechanics. Their feedback also helped us identify small logic gaps, refine dialogue, and smooth transitions between scenes.

More than anything, this process reminded me that prototyping doesn’t need to be fancy to be effective. Sometimes, pen, paper, and a room full of curious people are all you need to test the strength of a concept.

Final Presentation: Intrusive Thoughts Go Public

On the last day in Skövde, all the teams came together to present their final game prototypes. Our group was nervous but excited. We had managed to build a functioning digital version of Unhinged Temptation in just a few days, complete with character animations, narrative choices, scene changes, and voice lines that hinted at the inner monologue of our delightfully corrupt protagonist.

We set up our laptops and prepared our short pitch. Then came the moment of truth. We walked the audience through the story, showcased the trailer of the game, and explained how we had interpreted the theme of “Listening” through the lens of intrusive thoughts. Our design decisions, humour, and characters sparked a lot of smiles and knowing glances from the audience.

What I loved the most was the response after the presentation. People genuinely loved it. From what I overheard, and I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping… on purpose, our game was being discussed across the university halls (maybe among the lectures and professors). Several students and mentors told us how refreshing they found our take on the theme and how relatable the inner monologue mechanic felt. Someone even said, “I’ve had that exact thought at a café before,” which was both comforting and slightly alarming.

There was a playful energy in the room, and I think we all felt proud that we had created something that made people laugh, think, and slightly squirm. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest and unexpected.

Final Reflections

Looking back, this game jam taught me far more than how to prototype a game. It taught me the power of collaboration across cultures and disciplines. It reminded me that ideas are only as strong as the people who help bring them to life. And it proved that vulnerability, both in creative ideas and in learning unfamiliar tools, can be deeply rewarding.

Most of all, it reinforced my belief in storytelling as a form of emotional and intellectual play. Whether it’s through film, poetry, or interactive games, storytelling allows us to speak the unspeakable, to laugh at what scares us, and to connect with others through shared experiences, no matter how strange or uncomfortable.

A massive thank you to IFS for supporting this journey. Skövde will always have a special place in my heart, not just as a town, but as the place where intrusive thoughts became playable and laughter became part of the design.

Listen to Your Intrusive Thoughts: My Game Jam Journey in Skövde was originally published in Digital Narratives on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.