The trouble of being a linguistics student is that you can never escape your work. Language is all around us, and you never know when some tiny pronunciation change, speech error, or other bit of language is going to stop you in your tracks and put you back into Linguist mode. Mind you, I really don’t mind being in linguist mode, so it’s really only troublesome when you have to explain your sudden linguistic elation to your friends who have no clue what you’re talking about.

I’ve been slowly making my way through the several-thousand-page series of Star Wars: New Jedi Order books. They’re certainly an entertaining read, and a great way to relax after analyzing language for a decent part of the day. The other day, I was reading Star by Star, one of the books in the New Jedi Order, and had one of those “linguist moments”.

Throughout the Star Wars extended universe, there is frequent mention of the Ysalamiri lizard. This lizard is unique in that, in the Star Wars galaxy, it can completely negate the effects of the Force in a small bubble around it. Its presence is frequently used as a plot device, but they never once show up in the movies.

My problem was that I couldn’t figure out how to pronounce their name, and none of my usual sources had a pronunciation guide. There are two options, based on the spelling and my particular reading of the word:

1) yi-sal-a-mee-ree (IPA below)

2) i-sal-a-mee-ree (IPA below)

Because the letter “Y” can be either a vowel sound (”fishy”) or a consonant/semivowel (”yet”), we can’t be sure just from looking at the word which one we’re talking about.

However, as I was reading through the book, I had a sudden “Aha!” moment and all became clear.

I’ve talked about the alternation between “a” and “an” before, and it’s a very cool phonological quirk of English (a quirk caused by rules governing the sound system). The rule states that “a” becomes “an” before a spoken vowel. So you have “a key”, “an object”, and, because it starts with a glide, not a vowel, “a university“.

I stumbled across this passage in “Star by Star”:

… Jaina glimpsed a lizardlike shape clinging to the back of the tree… “An ysalamiri,” Jaina said loudly.

“An ysalamiri”! Because this rule is pretty consistent throughout the language (and adding an “N” isn’t a typo likely to survive editing), we can now safely assume that “ysalamiri” is pronounced with a vowel at the beginning of the word (option two, i-sal-a-mee-ree). We can’t be sure whether that vowel is the same as in “beat” or in “bit”, but hey, every little bit helps.

So, much like the Force, Linguistics is everywhere, in all endeavors, academic and recreational, big and small. Now, I just need to learn to use Linguistics to lift an X-Wing. Maybe I could turn a lightsaber hilt into a voice recorder…

So, as many of you might have already guessed, I’m a bit of a nerd from time to time. Well, that’s a slight understatement, but regardless, as a nerd, I’m a fan of video gaming in general. So, for today, I figured I’d talk a little bit about the different ways that different languages are used in video games.

Right now, in-Game languages are usually rather disappointing to a Linguist.

For instance, in Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, the main character interacts with a variety of different human and alien species on a variety of planets. Although most interaction with humans (and a few specific non-human characters) takes place in English with actors reading lines, when an alien speaks, a soundbite of their “language” is played and a subtitle is shown on the screen. Now, this is cool, and the fact that every species that speaks has a different and recognizable sound and sound system in those soundbite is a really cool thing. However, it’s literally just two or three soundbites. So, every time your garden variety Twi’Lek speaks, one of the two or three twi’lek soundbites is played, no matter what’s being said and who’s saying it. So, although the Twi’Lek language in KOTOR has a sound system, there’s no actual grammar.

In game languages can get more complex, though. In Ambrosia Software’s Escape Velocity: Nova, they have a slightly different philosophy. Although all communication is through text, they’ve managed to work some interesting language use in. There are several species living in the same galaxy, and the naming of both the planets and the ports on them is usually reflective of the language of the species. Looking at a Galactic map, one can pretty easily distinguish the different governmental regions of control just by the planet name. For example, The Polaris (in purple) generally have names with a single syllable, an ” ‘ “, and a cluster of syllables, whereas the Wraith (grey, at the top of the map) name their planets with a syllable, a ” ‘ “, a capitalized orthographic vowel, ” ‘ “, and a syllable cluster.

However, the really interesting stuff happens when you look more closely at the Polaris planets and personal names in EV Nova. In the game, they are explained as having Five Castes. If you learn the different castes and the naming system, then just by looking at the map, you can tell instantly which of the castes controls a given system, which offers a huge gameplay advantage. Say, for instance, you needed to purchase an armor upgrade. Knowing that military hardware is sold by the Warrior caste (the Nil’Kemoria), you could look at the map for the nearest system prefixed with “Nil’” indicating warrior caste control, and go there. Similarly, it’s easy to determine where to go for cheap medical supplies (at the Healer caste planets, with “P’”). So, learning elements of the Polaris language in EV Nova is a boon to the gamer, and I applaud the folks at Ambrosia for taking the time to actually make something (no matter how small) out of the language, rather than just leaving it as creative gibberish.

Some games have interesting language features that aren’t even meant to be interesting. In Star Wars: Jedi Knight, Jedi Academy they have the wonderful option to have all dialogue, interface features, and subtitles in English or Spanish. Being a language nerd, I usually leave it set to Spanish. The translations are very good in general, with only a few comical aspects. Notable among them is the fact that Jedi, pronounced “Jed-eye” in English, is pronounced “Yed-ee” in the Spanish version). It’s also quite funny to see a Rodian speaking Spanish, with the distinctive Rodian pitch and filter.

So, oftentimes, games (especially in Sci-Fi and fantasy) will give a nod to the existence of non-human language, but very seldom will they actually go through the trouble to make that language into more than just background noise. However, those games that do choose to utilize some variety of actual, meaningful created language create a unique experience for the gamer, and deserve commendation.

These are just a few salient examples from the vast world of gaming. If you’ve got another example, leave a comment or send me an email and I’ll give it mention, or, if you’re space-travel enabled, just stop by Ling’angma, home planet to the Linguist caste. You might not want to bring any grammarians, though.

Also: If you look at the sidebar on the main page, you’ll notice I’ve added a new feature, the Link of the Moment. This is just a random language, life, or computing link that I’ve found interesting and bookmarked here. It changes every time you refresh the page, so come back often. :)

Now, here at Linguistic Mystic, I pride myself on considering many different perspectives, not all within the accepted realm of Linguistic Academics. Today, I would like to continue this tradition by quoting what may well be my least authoritative source yet: Michael Stackpole’s Star Wars: Rogue Squadron (Book 1).

This book is a science-fiction work, taking place in the Exapnded Star Wars universe, following the adventures of Wedge Antilles, Corran Horn, and the elite pilots of Rogue Squadron. The squadron itself is composed of many different species, and today’s example comes from Ooryl Qyrgg, a Gand pilot, and is paraphrased below.

Corran nodded in what he hoped was a friendly manner. “Why do you speak of yourself in the third person?”

…

“On Gand it is held that names are important. Any Gand who has acheived nothing is called Gand. Before Ooryl was given Ooryl’s name, Ooryl was known as Gand. Once Ooryl had made a mark in the world, Ooryl was given the Qyrgg surname. Later, by mastering the difficulties of astronavigation and flight, Ooryl earned the right to be called Ooryl.”

“This still does not explain why you do not use pronouns to refer to yourself.”

“Qyrgg apologizes. On Gand only those who have achieved great things are permitted to use pronouns for self-designation. The use of such carries with it the presumption that all who hear the speech will know who the speaker is, and this assumption is only true in the case where the speaker is so great, the speaker’s name is known to all.”

…

“Then why do you sometimes refer to yourself by your family name, and sometimes by your own name?”

The Gand looked down for a moment and his mouth parts closed. “When a Gand has given offense, or is ashamed of actions, this diminishes the gains made in life. Name reduction is an act of contrition, an apology. Ooryl would like to think Ooryl will not often be called Qyrgg, but Qyrgg knows the likelihood of this is slender.”

I’ve discussed the power of names in the past, but this is taking the idea to a whole new level. I’ve never heard of a language, culture, or speech community where a name is not assigned to a person until they “earn” it, and would be fascinated to hear about it if anybody has. However, the idea of name changes with great accomplishments (or great demerits) is not uncommon. In some Native American cultures, a child changes names at the end of adolescence, once he or she has proven his or her worth and become an adult. In addition, a warrior winning a great battle may be given a new name to celebrate the accomplishment. However, to the best of my knowledge, there isn’t a system by which these names can be given and removed as frequently and non-chalantly as in Stackpole’s view of the Gand cutlure.

The idea of first-person pronoun use being presumptuous is also an interesting concept. Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with the first-person pronoun in American English, and using a Third-person form of address would likely be a barrier to communication in everyday life (I suspect that “Excuse me, Will has lost Will’s number, can Will have yours?” just wouldn’t go over as well). It is worth noting, however, that this subsitution does occur in some specialized sorts of writing, namely police incident reports and some journalistic reports.

Now, the question of “being known to all who hear the conversation” is a different matter. In most conversations in social situations where there are unknown people in a conversation, you are either introduced, or it’s perfectly acceptable to add in a casual “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?” without causing anybody to lose face. So, although using one’s full name instead of a pronoun might be useful every so often (as to reintroduce yourself to any new participants) or in some contexts (with a group of people, on a Walkie-Talkie system), the Gand strategy would likely result in a great deal more redundancy than usefulness in many of our human languages.

Although the Gand system of naming and self-reference is little more than a fascinating idea in our culture, it still serves as a great (albeit artificial) example of the necessary interaction between language and culture and the field of Sociolinguistics. However, if you do happen to stumble across a short, bug-eyed alien with a noticeable exoskeleton and a penchant for ammonia, you’d best remember this post, for the sake of interplanetary relations.