Sound Design at Edinburgh Napier University

Author: iainmcgregor

  • Can Sound Quality Be Measured? David Bowen on Psychoacoustics, Product Design, and Human Perception

    David Bowen

    Can sound quality be measured?

    For engineers, the question seems perfectly reasonable. Modern acoustic analysis can measure sound pressure levels, frequency content, vibration, loudness, roughness, sharpness, tonal components, and countless other characteristics. Faced with such an abundance of data, it is tempting to assume that product sound quality can ultimately be reduced to a collection of numbers. If we can measure a sound accurately enough, surely we can determine whether it is good or bad.

    During his online guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, David Bowen spent much of his time explaining why the answer is not nearly so simple. Across more than three decades working in acoustics, vibration, psychoacoustics, and product sound quality, Bowen has helped organisations understand how people respond to the sounds products make. Throughout a career spanning industrial research, consultancy, and product development, he has worked at the intersection of acoustics, psychoacoustics, engineering, and product design. Again and again, his examples pointed towards the same conclusion. Sound can be measured. Sound quality cannot.

    This distinction formed the foundation of the lecture. Sound quality, Bowen argued, is not a property of a product. It is a response of people. A microphone does not experience annoyance. A sound level meter does not perceive quality. Only listeners do. Understanding product sound quality therefore requires understanding both the physical sound and the human beings who hear it. Difficulties emerge as soon as engineers attempt to connect measurements to human responses. Bowen illustrated this challenge through examples in which sounds with similar measured levels produced dramatically different subjective reactions. A pure tone, broadband noise, an organ note, or a piece of industrial machinery may all produce similar sound levels, yet listeners often describe them in very different ways. Some sounds are judged pleasant. Others are irritating. Some feel powerful. Others feel weak. Part of the difficulty lies in the way human hearing operates. Psychoacoustics has demonstrated repeatedly that listeners do not experience sound in a simple or linear fashion. Sensitivity varies across frequencies. Loudness does not increase proportionally with sound pressure. Perception depends not only upon what reaches the ears but also upon how the brain interprets it. Measuring the sound itself is only part of the problem.

    Bowen illustrated this point through several examples that challenge common assumptions about listening. Human memory for loudness is surprisingly limited. When listeners hear two sounds separated by even a relatively short interval, their ability to compare levels accurately begins to deteriorate. Judgements become influenced by expectation, context, and interpretation rather than purely acoustic characteristics. Even when measurements are reliable, the perceptual processes through which listeners experience those sounds remain considerably more complex.

    For decades, researchers attempted to bridge this gap through increasingly sophisticated metrics. If sound pressure level proved insufficient, perhaps loudness would provide a better predictor. If loudness proved inadequate, perhaps perceived noisiness, roughness, sharpness, or other psychoacoustic measures would help. Each new metric offered valuable insights, yet each also revealed new limitations. Bowen discussed how the arrival of jet aircraft exposed weaknesses in existing approaches to noise evaluation, prompting the development of measures intended to capture perceived noisiness more effectively. Those measures improved predictions in some contexts while proving less successful in others. Similar challenges emerged across industrial machinery, transportation systems, and consumer products. As soon as one perceptual factor appeared understood, another emerged. Listening proved stubbornly resistant to simple description.

    Bowen’s career spans a period during which acoustics increasingly recognised that physical measurements alone could not explain human responses. Successive generations of psychoacoustic metrics attempted to narrow the gap between measurable sound and perceived quality. Each represented an improvement upon what came before, though none provided a complete solution. Human perception remained influenced by context, expectation, memory, meaning, and experience. The history of product sound quality therefore became, in part, a history of increasingly sophisticated attempts to understand how people listen. Similar problems emerge elsewhere. A piano recording played backwards retains many of its measurable characteristics, yet listeners immediately perceive something fundamentally different. What sounds like a piano becomes something closer to an organ. Human listeners detect meaningful changes that conventional measurements often struggle to explain. Again and again, perception proves more complicated than measurement.

    If measurements alone cannot fully predict how people will respond, a difficult question follows. How should products be designed?

    For Bowen, the answer lies in listening. Much of the lecture focused on sound quality jury testing, a methodology that places human listeners at the centre of the evaluation process. Rather than asking which sound measures best, researchers ask which sound people prefer, which sound communicates particular qualities, and which sound supports the intended experience of a product.

    This creates an interesting tension. Engineers naturally seek measurements. Manufacturers want targets that can be specified, monitored, and improved. Product development processes favour quantities that can be compared and optimised. Yet listeners remain the ultimate judges of quality. No matter how sophisticated a measurement becomes, a product succeeds or fails according to how people experience it. Jury testing therefore emerged not as a rejection of engineering but as a recognition that engineering alone could not answer every question.

    Carefully designed listening tests provide information that measurements alone cannot. This approach complements rather than replaces traditional acoustic analysis. Measurements help researchers understand what a product is doing acoustically. Listening tests help them understand how people respond. Product sound quality emerges through the relationship between these two perspectives. Designing listening tests of this kind is far from straightforward. Participants must be selected carefully. Stimuli need to be prepared consistently. Presentation order can influence responses. Questions must be designed in ways that avoid leading participants towards particular conclusions. Statistical analysis becomes essential if meaningful patterns are to emerge from the resulting data. Throughout the lecture, Bowen emphasised that listening tests require as much methodological care as any engineering measurement.

    One particularly interesting aspect of this work involves the creation of what Bowen described as virtual products. Rather than constructing numerous physical prototypes, researchers can isolate individual sound components and manipulate them independently. Motor noise, airflow noise, pump sounds, valve sounds, and other elements can be adjusted before being recombined into new versions of the product. Listeners can then evaluate these alternatives, allowing researchers to explore how specific design decisions influence perceived quality without repeatedly redesigning the product itself.

    One of the lecture’s most illuminating examples involved front-loading washing machines. Modern washing machines generate a wide range of sounds, including motor noise, water movement, pumping systems, valves, and the movement of clothes within the drum. Traditional noise control might focus simply on reducing these sounds wherever possible. Bowen’s research adopted a different approach. Rather than treating the machine as a single noise source, the different sounds produced during filling, washing, draining, and spinning were analysed separately. Each stage introduced its own acoustic characteristics and potential design challenges. Water movement, pump operation, motor behaviour, valve activity, and the interaction between clothes and the drum all contributed differently to listener perceptions. Individual sound components were isolated and manipulated. Participants evaluated these variations through listening tests, allowing researchers to identify which sounds influenced acceptability most strongly.

    The resulting data could then be analysed using statistical models that linked changes in specific sound components to listener ratings. One of the most interesting aspects of this work involved the creation of response-surface models that allowed engineers to visualise how perceived quality changed as different sound characteristics were adjusted. Rather than producing a simple pass-or-fail result, the models created maps of possible design outcomes. Engineers could explore how increasing one characteristic while reducing another might influence listener responses. Product sound quality rarely involves finding a single perfect solution. Designers must balance acoustic quality against manufacturing constraints, performance requirements, reliability considerations, and cost limitations. Statistical modelling provides a way of navigating these trade-offs while retaining a clear understanding of how design decisions influence perception.

    Similar principles appeared in Bowen’s work on vacuum cleaners. Consumers often claim that they want quieter products, yet a vacuum cleaner that becomes almost silent introduces a different problem. Users may begin to question whether it is working properly. Certain sounds communicate power, airflow, and cleaning effectiveness. Eliminating every sound is not necessarily desirable. In this case, the challenge is not simply reducing noise but preserving those aspects of the sound that contribute positively to the user’s perception of performance. What emerges from Bowen’s examples is a view of product sound that differs significantly from traditional approaches to noise control. Sounds are not merely by-products of mechanical systems. They communicate information about performance, condition, reliability, quality, and identity. A washing machine, a vacuum cleaner, a refrigerator, and an aircraft each occupy different places in people’s lives. Listeners bring different expectations to each. A refrigerator should not sound like a lawnmower. Equally, a lawnmower should not sound like a refrigerator. The challenge is therefore not simply reducing sound, but designing sounds that make sense within a particular context.

    Seen in this light, product sound quality becomes a remarkably human problem. Engineers can measure sound with extraordinary precision. Researchers can develop increasingly sophisticated psychoacoustic models. Statistical techniques can reveal relationships between acoustic characteristics and listener preferences. Yet none of these tools removes the need to understand people. Sound quality emerges not from products alone but from the relationship between products and listeners. What emerged from the lecture was a challenge to a familiar engineering instinct. Faced with a difficult problem, engineers naturally seek better measurements. Bowen’s work suggests that measurements remain essential, though they are not enough on their own. Product sound quality exists at the point where physical acoustics meets human perception. This creates an unusual situation. Few areas of engineering depend so heavily upon subjective judgement while simultaneously demanding rigorous measurement. Product sound quality requires microphones, analysers, statistical models, listening tests, psychoacoustic theory, and human listeners. Remove any one of these elements and the picture becomes incomplete.

    Perhaps this is why the question that opened the lecture remains so difficult to answer. Can sound quality be measured? David Bowen’s career suggests that the answer is both yes and no. Sounds can be measured with extraordinary precision. Human responses can be studied, modelled, and predicted. Yet quality itself ultimately emerges through experience. The most successful products are not necessarily the quietest products, nor the products with the best acoustic measurements. They are the products whose sounds make sense to the people who use them. In the end, product sound quality is not really about sound at all. It is about understanding listeners.

  • How Do You Make an Orchestra Fit Inside a Television Show? Phil McGowan on Recording, Mixing, and the Sound of Star Trek: Picard

    Phil McGowan

    How do you make an orchestra fit inside a television show?

    At first glance, the answer appears straightforward. Musicians gather in a studio, microphones are placed around the room, a conductor raises a baton, and the music is recorded. Yet during his online guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, recording and mixing engineer Phil McGowan revealed a process that is considerably more complex. Drawing upon his work on Star Trek: Picard, McGowan described a world of orchestral recording that combines musical performance, engineering, editing, production management, and problem-solving. By the end of the lecture, it became clear that recording an orchestra is only one small part of a much larger process. Throughout the lecture, McGowan repeatedly returned to the importance of preparation, organisation, and communication. Although microphones, software, and recording techniques played important roles, many of the challenges he described ultimately concerned coordinating people, decisions, and workflows across an unusually complex production process.

    McGowan began by introducing the recording sessions for the third season of Star Trek: Picard. Across ten episodes, the score was recorded using large orchestral forces, with most episodes featuring a sixty-five-piece ensemble recorded at Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank. For the majority of the season, the orchestra was divided across separate recording sessions. Strings and woodwinds were recorded together, while brass was recorded later. Only the final episode brought the entire eighty-piece orchestra into the room simultaneously. Although audiences often imagine a film score as a single orchestra performing together, McGowan explained that modern production frequently relies upon these layered recording approaches. Recording sections separately provides greater flexibility during mixing while allowing music editors and dubbing mixers more control later in the production process.

    Yet even before a note is recorded, a surprising number of decisions have already been made. The placement of every section within the room affects both the recording and the eventual mix. Strings, woodwinds, brass, piano, harp, and other instruments each occupy carefully chosen positions. Microphone placement becomes equally important. Looking at the recording diagrams shown during the lecture, it was difficult not to be struck by the sheer number of microphones involved. Individual sections receive dedicated spot microphones, larger groups receive overhead microphones, and the entire orchestra is captured by an array of room microphones positioned high above the ensemble.

    What was particularly interesting, however, was McGowan’s repeated emphasis that the most important microphones are often not the closest ones. In a well-designed scoring stage, much of the orchestra’s character emerges from a relatively small number of carefully positioned room microphones. Spot microphones provide detail, definition, and control, though the overall impression of the orchestra often comes from the way the ensemble interacts with the acoustic space itself. Rather than constructing an orchestral sound entirely from individual instruments, the recording process begins with capturing the orchestra as a unified musical body.

    This relationship between detail and cohesion appeared repeatedly throughout the lecture. Modern recording technology allows engineers to place microphones extremely close to instruments. Individual players can be isolated with remarkable precision. Yet McGowan’s approach demonstrates considerable restraint. Spot microphones are available when needed, though many remain relatively low in the final mix. The objective is not to maximise separation. Instead, it is to preserve the sense that listeners are hearing a single orchestra performing together within a shared acoustic environment.

    Recording the orchestra is only the beginning. Once the sessions finish, the material enters a complex process of editing and mixing. Here, McGowan’s role becomes particularly interesting. The raw recordings arrive alongside extensive collections of programmed material supplied by the composer. Modern television scores often combine live orchestral recordings with sampled instruments, synthesizers, percussion libraries, pads, textures, and electronic elements. One of the mixer’s responsibilities is deciding how these different layers should coexist.

    What emerged from the lecture was a strong preference for using the live recordings whenever possible. Sampled instruments often provide useful support, additional weight, or subtle reinforcement, though McGowan repeatedly emphasised that the live orchestra remains the foundation of the sound. The samples are rarely intended to replace the musicians. Instead, they are carefully blended into the mix where appropriate.

    Organisation becomes essential at this stage. Large orchestral sessions generate enormous numbers of tracks. Strings, brass, woodwinds, percussion, piano, harp, synthesizers, effects, and auxiliary elements all require separate management. McGowan demonstrated how sessions are organised into stems, allowing different components of the score to be adjusted independently later in the production process. These stems become particularly important when the music eventually reaches the dubbing stage, where it must coexist with dialogue, sound effects, Foley, ambience, and every other element of the soundtrack.

    This relationship between music and the rest of the soundtrack formed one of the most revealing parts of the discussion. Audiences often imagine that a score reaches the screen in essentially the same form in which it leaves the recording studio. McGowan demonstrated that the reality is considerably more complicated. The music mixer occupies a position between composition and final dubbing, shaping material that must eventually coexist with dialogue, Foley, ambience, sound effects, and every other component of the soundtrack.

    This creates an unusual challenge. During the mixing process, the final soundtrack often does not yet exist. Dialogue may still be evolving. Effects tracks may be incomplete. Editorial changes may continue arriving. The mixer therefore works partly with the present version of the programme and partly with an anticipated future version. Decisions must account not only for what is currently on screen but also for what will eventually happen when the material reaches the dubbing stage.

    In this sense, music mixing becomes an act of translation. The composer’s intentions need to remain intact, though they must also survive the practical realities of television production. A passage that sounds spectacular in isolation may compete with dialogue once the final soundtrack is assembled. A delicate orchestral texture may disappear beneath effects. A dramatic crescendo may need flexibility if the editorial structure changes. The mixer therefore balances musical priorities with narrative requirements, ensuring that the score remains expressive while still serving the larger needs of the programme.

    McGowan described the importance of communication throughout this process. Conversations with composers, music editors, producers, and re-recording mixers help establish how the material will ultimately be used. Stem structures become especially valuable here. By separating different orchestral and electronic elements into organised groups, later stages of production retain the flexibility needed to support storytelling decisions. What appears to be a purely technical workflow is therefore deeply connected to narrative concerns.

    Seen in this light, the music mixer occupies a remarkably important position within the production chain. The role involves much more than balancing levels or applying plug-ins. It requires understanding composition, orchestration, recording, editing, post-production, and storytelling simultaneously. The objective is not simply to make the music sound good. The objective is to ensure that the music can fulfil its dramatic function once every other element of the soundtrack is finally assembled.

    Questions of storytelling therefore remain central throughout the process. Although the lecture contained detailed discussions of microphones, reverbs, routing structures, and plug-ins, these technical topics were rarely presented as ends in themselves. Instead, they were framed as tools supporting dramatic communication. Reverb is not merely an acoustic effect. It helps create scale, atmosphere, and emotional character. Stem structures are not simply organisational devices. They provide flexibility for storytelling. Even microphone choices ultimately serve narrative goals.

    A particularly striking example emerged in McGowan’s discussion of reverberation. For Star Trek: Picard, the production deliberately embraced a more expansive orchestral sound inspired by earlier generations of science-fiction scoring. Rather than pursuing absolute clarity or dryness, the score was allowed to inhabit larger acoustic spaces. The resulting sound connects contemporary production practices with earlier traditions of science-fiction scoring associated with composers such as Jerry Goldsmith and James Horner. Listening to McGowan describe these decisions, it became clear that technical choices often carry historical and aesthetic significance as well.

    The lecture also offered a fascinating glimpse into the practical realities of large-scale media production. Television schedules are rarely generous. Recording sessions must fit within union regulations, musicians’ availability, studio bookings, editorial deadlines, and dubbing schedules. Scores are often recorded while other parts of the production remain unfinished. Picture edits may continue evolving. Visual effects may still be in development. Deadlines continue approaching regardless.

    Under such conditions, consistency becomes invaluable. McGowan described how recording setups, templates, routing structures, and mixing approaches are designed to remain stable across multiple episodes. Establishing reliable systems allows creative decisions to happen more efficiently. Rather than reinventing workflows repeatedly, engineers can focus their attention on the musical and dramatic needs of each project.

    Another recurring theme throughout the lecture was collaboration. Large orchestral productions depend upon extensive networks of expertise. Composers, orchestrators, contractors, recording engineers, Pro Tools operators, music editors, re-recording mixers, musicians, producers, and showrunners all contribute to the final result. No individual controls every aspect of the process. Instead, successful productions emerge through coordination between specialists whose work overlaps at crucial moments.

    Listening to McGowan describe recording sessions, one gains a strong sense of the trust involved. Musicians are trusted to perform complex scores with remarkable efficiency. Engineers are trusted to capture those performances accurately. Music editors are trusted to manage revisions and conforming. Dubbing mixers are trusted to integrate the score into the larger soundtrack. The finished music reflects not only technical skill but also a highly collaborative production culture.

    Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the lecture was the way it challenged romantic ideas about orchestral recording. Popular accounts often focus on dramatic moments: the orchestra enters the room, the conductor raises a baton, and the music comes to life. Those moments certainly exist. Yet McGowan’s account suggests that the real craft often lies elsewhere. It lies in preparation, organisation, consistency, communication, editing, and the countless small decisions that allow large productions to function successfully.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is not simply a story about recording orchestras. It is a story about connecting different stages of a creative process. Recording sessions, editing workflows, stem preparation, music mixing, and final dubbing all form part of a chain in which every decision influences what follows. Managing that chain requires technical expertise, though it also requires communication, anticipation, and an understanding of how music functions within narrative storytelling. Every stage of the process involves balancing competing demands. Technical precision must coexist with musical expression. Flexibility must coexist with consistency. Individual details must support larger dramatic goals. The orchestra must sound impressive in its own right while still serving the needs of the programme.

    For students interested in recording, mixing, or film music production, this may be the lecture’s most valuable lesson. Technology remains important. Microphones matter. Software matters. Recording techniques matter. Yet none of these elements exist in isolation. They are part of a larger system whose purpose is ultimately narrative. The audience does not hear microphone placements, stem structures, or routing templates. They hear music supporting a story.

    For Phil McGowan, the challenge is not simply recording an orchestra. The challenge is shaping hundreds of performances, thousands of audio tracks, and countless technical decisions into something that helps bring a fictional world to life. By the time audiences sit down to watch Star Trek: Picard, most of that work has become invisible. The orchestra feels as though it simply belongs there. Achieving that illusion, however, requires an extraordinary amount of craft.

  • Who Are We Designing For? Professor Bruce Walker on Sound, Accessibility, and Human-Centred Design

    Bruce Walker

    Who are we designing for?

    At first glance, the answer appears obvious. Designers create products for users. Engineers build systems to help people accomplish tasks. Technology exists to solve problems. Yet during his online guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, Professor Bruce Walker repeatedly returned to examples suggesting that the answer is often more complicated than it first appears. Again and again, he described situations in which technically impressive systems failed to account for the realities of the people expected to use them. A solution might work perfectly according to engineering specifications while proving frustrating, distracting, or simply undesirable in practice. Across projects involving navigation, education, museums, accessibility, sonification, and auditory interfaces, Walker argued that successful design begins not with technology but with understanding human needs.

    Sound provided the central thread running through the lecture. Many people associate auditory interfaces with simple alerts and alarms. Computers beep. Phones ring. Vehicles issue warning tones. Yet Walker demonstrated that sound can serve far more sophisticated purposes. It can guide navigation, communicate data, support education, enable accessibility, assist decision-making, and provide entirely new ways of interacting with technology. These possibilities emerge not from adding sounds indiscriminately but from carefully considering what information people need, when they need it, and how they can use it effectively.

    This emphasis on understanding users before designing solutions appeared throughout the lecture. These broader questions became particularly visible in Walker’s discussion of the SWAN project, the System for Wearable Audio Navigation. The goal was deceptively simple. Could sound help people navigate when they could not rely on vision? Blind users are an obvious example, though Walker deliberately framed the problem more broadly. Firefighters moving through smoke-filled buildings, soldiers operating at night, divers underwater, and workers engaged in visually demanding tasks may all find themselves unable to look or unable to see. Rather than designing exclusively for a particular group, the project focused on a shared perceptual challenge.

    Approaching the problem in this way immediately changed the nature of the design process. Navigation might seem like a familiar activity, something most people perform every day without conscious thought. Yet once the team began analysing the task carefully, they discovered layers of complexity hidden beneath the surface. People need to know where to go, though they also need information about obstacles, changes in terrain, landmarks, hazards, and points of interest. Navigation is not simply a matter of moving from one location to another. It involves understanding an environment while continuously making decisions within it.

    The resulting system employed spatialised audio beacons that users could follow through space. Walker compared them to a virtual carrot suspended ahead of the listener. Rather than receiving a sequence of verbal instructions, users simply moved towards a sound source. When a turn became necessary, the sound shifted position accordingly. The concept appears elegant partly because it exploits abilities listeners already possess. Humans are remarkably good at locating sounds. Rather than teaching an entirely new interaction technique, the system builds upon existing perceptual skills.

    What makes the project particularly revealing, however, is the extent to which users shaped its development. Early assumptions frequently proved incorrect. Designers initially believed they should describe surface transitions in detail, informing users when they were moving from pavement to grass or from one surface to another. Users quickly pointed out that such information was often redundant. They already knew where they were standing. What mattered was knowing what was coming next. By listening carefully to users rather than insisting upon their original assumptions, the team produced a more efficient and less intrusive system.

    This pattern appeared repeatedly throughout the lecture. Successful auditory interfaces emerge through collaboration, observation, and evaluation rather than through technological enthusiasm alone. Walker repeatedly emphasised the importance of testing systems with real users performing real tasks. Maps of navigation paths, performance data, error rates, and subjective feedback all played important roles in understanding whether a design genuinely worked. The question was never whether a system could be built. The question was whether it improved people’s ability to accomplish what they were trying to do.

    Perhaps nowhere was this philosophy more apparent than in the team’s work with bone-conduction audio. Navigation systems often rely upon stereo or spatial audio, which typically requires headphones. Yet many users rejected conventional headphones immediately. Blind people rely heavily upon environmental sounds. Firefighters need to hear what is happening around them. Covering the ears solved one problem while creating another. Rather than treating this as an unavoidable limitation, the researchers reconsidered the entire system. Bone-conduction devices allowed spatial audio to be delivered without blocking environmental awareness. Once again, the solution emerged not from pursuing technology for its own sake but from understanding the realities of users’ lives.

    Walker extended these ideas beyond navigation into the design of auditory menus and interfaces. Modern computer systems contain large amounts of information organised visually through menus, icons, scroll bars, and navigation structures. Translating these elements into sound presents significant challenges. Simply reading everything aloud through text-to-speech quickly becomes inefficient and frustrating. Long contact lists, extensive music libraries, and complex software systems require more sophisticated approaches.

    Many of the solutions developed by Walker and his collaborators demonstrate an intriguing combination of technical ingenuity and psychological insight. Spearcons, for example, compress spoken words into highly abbreviated auditory cues that users rapidly learn to recognise. Spindex systems provide indexing sounds that help listeners move efficiently through large collections without hearing every item in sequence. Whispered speech can indicate unavailable menu items while preserving the overall structure of an interface. These innovations are clever, though their importance lies less in their novelty than in their effectiveness. Each emerged through extensive experimentation designed to determine what users actually understood and preferred. What makes this work particularly interesting is that it was never simply about making visual interfaces audible. Instead, it explored how auditory interfaces might exploit the strengths of listening itself. Users do not experience sound in the same way they experience vision, and successful interfaces acknowledge that difference rather than treating audio as a substitute for a screen.

    The lecture repeatedly highlighted a distinction between engineering and design. Engineering can produce systems that function correctly. Design concerns whether people will actually want to use them. Walker discussed several examples of technically impressive systems that failed precisely because they neglected this distinction. Some provided too much information. Others demanded excessive attention. Many ignored the broader contexts within which people operate. A system may be capable of delivering enormous amounts of information, though that does not necessarily mean people want to receive it.

    Questions of accessibility broadened these concerns further. Much of Walker’s work focuses on enabling participation rather than merely providing access. He described projects supporting education for blind students, making scientific information more accessible, and improving experiences within museums and aquariums. These examples revealed another recurring theme. Accessibility is not simply about removing barriers. It is about ensuring that people can engage meaningfully with experiences, opportunities, and ideas.

    His work within museums and aquariums illustrates this particularly well. Modern cultural institutions often provide physical access while leaving informational and emotional access largely unresolved. A blind visitor may be able to enter an aquarium, though the experience remains fundamentally visual. Standing before an enormous tank filled with whale sharks and rays offers little if the most important aspects of the exhibit remain inaccessible. Walker’s team explored ways of using tracking systems, sonification, narration, and auditory displays to communicate not only what was present but what was happening. The objective was not merely to describe the environment. It was to create opportunities for engagement, curiosity, and wonder.

    Educational projects revealed similar concerns. Throughout the lecture, Walker repeatedly returned to the distinction between access and participation. Providing information is only one part of inclusion. Students also need opportunities to explore, question, discover, and develop understanding independently. Whether working with scientific data, classroom materials, museum exhibits, or public spaces, the challenge remained remarkably consistent. How can information be presented in ways that support meaningful engagement rather than passive reception? Accessibility, in this sense, becomes a question of design quality rather than a specialised feature introduced at the end of a project.

    Underlying many of these projects is the field of sonification, the practice of representing information through sound. Walker described sonification as both a design challenge and a research problem. Any attempt to translate data into sound requires decisions about mapping, scaling, timing, context, and interpretation. Should temperature be represented through pitch, loudness, or tempo? How should complex information be organised so that listeners can understand it? These questions have no universal answers. Effective solutions depend upon understanding both the data and the people expected to interpret it.

    One reason sonification remains challenging is that many listeners have relatively little experience interpreting information through sound. Graphs, charts, and maps are familiar cultural forms. Auditory representations are far less common. Designers therefore need to balance learnability with expressiveness. A system may communicate information accurately while remaining difficult to interpret. Conversely, a system may sound appealing while conveying very little. Walker’s research repeatedly demonstrated that effective sonification emerges through iterative testing with users rather than through theoretical assumptions alone.

    Such challenges reveal why Walker remains sceptical of simplistic approaches to auditory design. Throughout the lecture, he criticised the tendency to reduce audio interfaces to collections of arbitrary beeps and alerts. Sound possesses enormous communicative potential, though realising that potential requires careful thought. Designers must consider attention, context, usability, aesthetics, cultural expectations, and human behaviour. A sound that performs well in a laboratory may fail completely in everyday life. A technically accurate representation may prove ineffective if users cannot interpret it.

    The phrase “beeps and bops” became a useful shorthand for this problem. Many technologies employ sound only at the most superficial level, relying upon alerts, warnings, and notifications while overlooking the richer possibilities of auditory interaction. Walker’s work points towards a broader conception of sound, one capable of supporting navigation, exploration, learning, communication, and discovery. The challenge is not simply adding sound to technology. It is designing meaningful auditory experiences.

    Towards the end of the discussion, Walker reflected on what he described as a “failure of imagination” in technology design. Sometimes designers struggle to imagine how people actually live with technologies. At other times, users struggle to imagine possibilities that do not yet exist. Successful innovation requires navigating both challenges simultaneously. Revolutionary technologies rarely emerge through user requests alone. Yet genuinely useful technologies also cannot emerge through engineering in isolation. Design becomes a process of bridging these perspectives.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is not a story about auditory interfaces but a broader philosophy of design. Sound happens to be the medium through which Professor Walker explores these questions, though the underlying principles extend much further. Navigation systems, auditory menus, museum exhibits, educational technologies, sonification projects, and accessibility tools all reveal the same challenge. Technologies succeed not when they demonstrate technical sophistication but when they become meaningful parts of human activity.

    Perhaps this is why Walker repeatedly resisted framing accessibility as a specialised concern. The challenges faced by blind users, firefighters, drivers, students, museum visitors, and countless others often reveal broader truths about human interaction with technology. Designing for specific needs frequently produces insights that benefit everyone. When designers stop asking what a system can do and start asking what people need, entirely new possibilities begin to emerge.

    Throughout the lecture, examples ranging from spatial navigation to aquarium exhibits pointed towards the same conclusion. Successful technologies rarely begin with devices, software, algorithms, or interfaces. They begin with people. Understanding how people listen, learn, move, explore, communicate, and make decisions provides the foundation upon which everything else is built.

    For Professor Bruce Walker, the future of auditory interfaces does not lie in adding more sounds to the world. It lies in understanding how sound can help people navigate, learn, communicate, discover, and participate more fully in the experiences around them. The technology matters. The research matters. The engineering matters. Yet each ultimately serves a more fundamental question, one that quietly shaped the entire lecture from beginning to end: who are we designing for?

  • What Did They Say? Gary Bourgeois on Dialogue, Attention, and the Art of Film Mixing

    Gary Bourgeois

    What happens when an audience misses a line of dialogue?

    At first glance, the consequences seem relatively minor. A viewer leans towards a friend. Someone quietly asks for clarification. A sentence is repeated. Yet during his online guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, veteran re-recording mixer Gary Bourgeois suggested that this moment reveals something important about the relationship between sound and storytelling. The audience has stopped following the narrative and started thinking about the soundtrack. For Bourgeois, whose career spans more than five decades across film, television, music, and streaming media, preventing that moment has remained one of the central responsibilities of a mixer.

    This might appear surprising. Popular discussions of film sound often focus on spectacle. We talk about explosive action sequences, immersive surround sound systems, powerful musical scores, and increasingly sophisticated technologies. Yet Bourgeois repeatedly returned to a much simpler idea. Sound exists to support communication. Every creative and technical decision ultimately serves the story. If audiences cannot understand what matters at the moment it matters, even the most technically impressive soundtrack has failed in its primary task.

    Throughout the lecture, Bourgeois described film mixing as a process of guiding attention. A finished soundtrack may contain dialogue, Foley, ambience, music, effects, backgrounds, transitions, and countless other elements. These sounds do not all demand equal attention simultaneously. Their relationships are constantly shifting. During a conversation, dialogue may occupy the foreground while music retreats slightly into the background. During a dramatic reveal, music may briefly become the dominant element. An action sequence may allow effects to take centre stage before returning attention to character and narrative. Mixing therefore involves much more than balancing levels. It involves shaping the audience’s experience of a story.

    This perspective helps explain why Bourgeois places such importance on dialogue. Writers spend months or years developing scripts. Actors devote enormous effort to performance. Directors construct scenes around the communication of information, emotion, and character. If a crucial line becomes unintelligible, the audience loses access to part of that work. More importantly, they momentarily leave the fictional world. Instead of thinking about the characters, they begin thinking about the soundtrack. The illusion is interrupted.

    One of the most interesting aspects of the lecture concerned the relationship between film mixing and human perception. During the discussion, we explored the idea that many mixing decisions effectively replicate forms of selective attention that listeners perform naturally. In everyday life, people can focus on a particular voice within a crowded room, follow a conversation in a noisy taxi, or attend to one sound source while ignoring dozens of others. The auditory system constantly prioritises information. Bourgeois agreed that much of professional mixing involves recreating these perceptual priorities for audiences. The mixer helps listeners focus on what matters without drawing attention to the process itself.

    Seen in this light, many familiar audio tools acquire a different significance. Equalisation is not simply a way of adjusting frequencies. Compression is not merely a method of controlling dynamics. Reverb is not only about creating a sense of space. These processes become valuable insofar as they help establish relationships between sounds. A dialogue track may require subtle equalisation to distinguish it from surrounding ambience. A sound effect may need certain frequencies reduced so that speech remains intelligible. A reverberant environment may need careful shaping to preserve clarity. The technical operations matter, though their ultimate purpose remains perceptual. Ultimately, they help prevent the audience from asking the question that opened the lecture. What did they say?

    Several examples from Bourgeois’ career illustrated this philosophy particularly well. Large-scale productions such as Transformers are often associated with spectacle, scale, and sonic intensity. Audiences remember giant robots, enormous impacts, and dense layers of sound. Yet Bourgeois described how even the most elaborate action sequences depend upon careful control of attention. One memorable example involved introducing a single frame of silence immediately before an explosion. The audience never consciously notices this interruption. Nevertheless, the brief absence of sound creates a perceptual contrast that makes the subsequent impact feel considerably larger. The effect depends not on additional volume but on the way listeners perceive change.

    Examples such as this reveal a recurring principle running throughout the lecture. Effective sound design often depends less upon adding material than upon managing relationships between existing elements. A soundtrack filled continuously with dramatic gestures eventually loses its ability to surprise. Contrast becomes difficult. Emphasis becomes impossible. Restraint therefore plays an important role within the mixer’s craft. Sometimes the most effective decision is deciding what not to hear.

    This concern with attention also shapes Bourgeois’ attitude towards immersive audio formats such as Dolby Atmos. The technology provides extraordinary creative possibilities. Sounds can move through three-dimensional space with remarkable precision. Environments can become more detailed and immersive than ever before. Yet Bourgeois consistently framed these capabilities in relation to storytelling rather than technology. An Atmos mix succeeds when it helps audiences engage more deeply with a scene. It fails when the technology becomes the focus of attention itself. More speakers do not automatically produce better storytelling. The same principles still apply. Audiences need to understand what matters and why it matters.

    A particularly revealing section of the lecture explored Bourgeois’ lifelong curiosity about listening. Long before spatial audio became a major industry topic, he was conducting informal experiments with binaural recording, environmental acoustics, and perceptual phenomena. Rather than treating recording purely as a professional necessity, he approached it as an opportunity to investigate how sound behaves.

    One story involved recording a stream in rural Canada. Expecting to capture clear differences between close, medium, and distant perspectives, he recorded the same source from multiple locations. When he returned to the studio, however, the recordings sounded remarkably similar. What initially appeared disappointing became an important lesson. Distance is often communicated less by direct sound than by reflections, environmental interactions, and contextual cues. The stream itself had changed very little. The surrounding environment had provided most of the information listeners normally use to judge distance. Stories such as this reveal another dimension of Bourgeois’ approach. Technical expertise emerges not only from formal training but also from observation. Throughout the lecture, he repeatedly emphasised the importance of listening carefully to the world. Many of the insights that shaped his professional practice originated in moments of curiosity rather than commercial necessity. A recording experiment, an unusual acoustic environment, or an unexpected perceptual effect could become the foundation for future creative decisions.

    His reflections on Canada extended this theme further. Bourgeois noted that a surprisingly large number of Hollywood film mixers originate from Canada. While partly humorous, the observation led into a broader discussion about listening environments. Growing up in quieter surroundings encouraged attention to subtle acoustic details, spatial relationships, and environmental sounds. Whether or not this fully explains the phenomenon, the anecdote reinforced a larger point. Listening is not a passive activity. It is a skill developed through experience, practice, and sustained attention.

    The conversation eventually turned towards emerging technologies, particularly artificial intelligence. Here again, Bourgeois adopted a perspective shaped by decades of professional experience. Throughout his career he has witnessed repeated technological transformations. Analogue workflows gave way to digital systems. New recording formats emerged. Distribution platforms changed. Entire production processes evolved. Each transition created uncertainty alongside opportunity.

    Rather than treating AI as fundamentally different from earlier technological developments, Bourgeois viewed it as another stage within a continuing process of change. New tools will inevitably alter professional practice. Some tasks may become easier. Others may disappear entirely. Yet the underlying challenge remains remarkably consistent. Practitioners must learn how new technologies work, understand their limitations, and identify meaningful ways of applying them. Avoiding change rarely proves productive. Understanding it usually does.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is a conception of mixing rooted in attention. Compressors, equalisers, reverbs, Atmos systems, loudness standards, recording technologies, and AI tools all matter. Yet they matter only insofar as they help audiences remain connected to a story. Bourgeois repeatedly returned to the same fundamental question. Can the audience understand what matters at the moment it matters?

    Many discussions of sound focus primarily on technology. Gary Bourgeois offered a useful reminder that technology is ultimately a means rather than an end. The purpose of a soundtrack is not to demonstrate technical sophistication. Its purpose is to support communication, emotion, and narrative understanding. The most successful mixes often pass unnoticed precisely because they allow audiences to remain fully absorbed in the world unfolding before them.

    Perhaps that is why the simple question that opened the lecture remains so revealing. What happens when an audience misses a line of dialogue? For Bourgeois, the answer extends far beyond a few misunderstood words. It represents a brief fracture in the relationship between story and listener. Much of the mixer’s craft is devoted to preventing that fracture from occurring. Every adjustment, every balance decision, every technical process ultimately serves the same goal: helping audiences hear not merely the sounds of a film, but the story those sounds are trying to tell.

  • How Do You Create a Sound That Does Not Exist? Charles Maynes on Problem-Solving, Experimentation, and Film Sound Design

    Charles Maynes

    What does a tornado sound like?

    At first glance, the answer appears simple. Tornadoes exist in the real world. Surely the task is simply to record one. Yet as supervising sound editor and sound designer Charles Maynes explained during his guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, film sound rarely works that way. A real tornado may produce a particular collection of sounds, though a cinematic tornado must also communicate scale, danger, movement, drama, and narrative significance. Audiences do not simply need to hear it. They need to believe in it.

    Across a career spanning films including Twister, U-571, Spider-Man, Constantine, Flags of Our Fathers, Letters from Iwo Jima, After Earth, and Total Recall, Maynes has repeatedly confronted variations of the same challenge. Many of the most important sounds in cinema either cannot be recorded directly, no longer exist, or have never existed at all. Sound design therefore becomes an exercise in invention. The sound designer is not merely documenting reality. The sound designer is building believable realities from fragments of observation, experimentation, technology, and imagination.

    What emerged most clearly from the lecture was the extent to which sound design resembles problem-solving. Every project arrives with its own collection of constraints. A tornado needs to feel enormous. A submarine needs to feel claustrophobic. A superhero requires a sonic identity unlike anything in everyday life. An alien creature must feel both unfamiliar and emotionally expressive. None of these challenges possesses an obvious solution. Instead, the work begins with questions.

    Twister provided one of the lecture’s most revealing examples. The production arrived at a moment when visual effects technology was evolving rapidly, creating situations in which sound teams often found themselves designing for imagery that did not yet exist. Early visual effects sequences were frequently little more than rough placeholders. Yet audiences would eventually expect the tornadoes to feel immense, terrifying, and believable. Sound therefore had to help establish qualities that the unfinished visuals could not yet communicate.

    Meeting this challenge required considerably more than recording wind. Field recording sessions captured useful source material, though the team quickly discovered that realism alone was insufficient. Various devices were constructed to generate unusual airflow sounds. Large materials were stretched across frames mounted to moving vehicles. Traditional wind machines inspired by classic Hollywood techniques were revisited. Recordings were distorted, layered, filtered, and manipulated. The objective was not documentary accuracy. The objective was creating an experience capable of convincing audiences that they were witnessing forces of extraordinary scale.

    One particularly interesting aspect of Maynes’ discussion concerned distortion. Students are often taught to avoid it. Distortion is typically framed as a technical problem, something introduced by poor recording practice or overloaded equipment. Maynes described how sound designers frequently use distortion deliberately. When applied carefully, it can create the impression that a sound exceeds the limits of the playback system itself. Explosions become larger. Engines become more aggressive. Tornadoes become more violent. Distortion therefore functions not simply as an acoustic phenomenon but as a perceptual tool.

    This concern with perception rather than literal accuracy appeared repeatedly throughout the lecture. Again and again, Maynes returned to situations in which audience expectations mattered more than objective realism. A real submarine may sound relatively quiet. A realistic recording of a futuristic vehicle may not exist. A supernatural creature offers no authentic reference point whatsoever. In each case, sound design becomes less about reproducing reality and more about creating experiences that feel believable within a particular cinematic world.

    His discussion of U-571 illustrated this particularly well. Submarines present a curious challenge. The audience needs to understand pressure, confinement, machinery, vulnerability, and danger. Simply recording mechanical systems would not necessarily communicate these ideas effectively. Instead, designers searched for sounds capable of conveying psychological experience. One memorable example involved the Waterphone, an unusual instrument whose unstable resonances proved remarkably effective when combined with more conventional recordings. The resulting sounds were not literally part of a submarine environment, yet they contributed powerfully to the emotional reality of the space.

    A similar philosophy guided work on Spider-Man. The web shooters presented a problem that sounds almost absurd when stated directly. What does it sound like when organic webbing launches from a superhero’s wrist, travels rapidly through the air, and attaches itself to a distant object? No real-world recording could provide an answer. The design process therefore began by breaking the action into components. The sound needed propulsion, movement, texture, speed, and impact. Recordings of water, stretched materials, vegetation, animal vocalisations, and numerous other sources were manipulated extensively before being combined into a coherent whole. By the time audiences encountered the finished film, the sound felt completely natural. Yet its construction depended upon materials that had little obvious connection to spiders.

    Throughout the lecture, Maynes repeatedly emphasised the value of field recording. Recording is not merely a method of collecting sounds. It is a way of discovering them. Unexpected opportunities arise constantly. A recording gathered for one project may become essential years later in an entirely different context. Environmental sounds, machinery, wildlife, crowds, and accidents all contribute to an expanding library of possibilities.

    One particularly memorable story involved recording outdoors when an unexpected gathering of crows appeared. Their wing sounds were captured largely out of curiosity. Years later, those recordings helped shape supernatural creatures in Constantine. The connection was impossible to predict at the time. Yet examples such as this appeared repeatedly throughout the lecture. Sounds gathered for one reason often acquire entirely different purposes later. Creative practice depends upon recognising possibilities that may not become useful until years afterwards.

    Perhaps the most striking aspect of Maynes’ career is the way these experiences accumulate. Techniques developed during one project often resurface elsewhere. A solution discovered while designing underwater sounds may later contribute to science fiction. An approach developed for machinery may prove useful for creatures. A distortion technique explored for a tornado may influence a futuristic vehicle. Sound designers gradually build libraries of methods, habits, and ways of thinking alongside their libraries of recordings.

    This process becomes particularly important when working on projects involving entirely fictional technologies or environments. Films such as After Earth and Total Recall required audiences to accept worlds that had never existed. Every sound contributed to that act of persuasion. Vehicles, interfaces, weapons, machinery, and environments all required sonic identities capable of supporting the visual design. Sound therefore becomes part of world-building itself. The audience may never consciously analyse these details, though they contribute significantly to whether a fictional world feels convincing.

    Collaboration occupied an equally important place throughout the lecture. Modern film sound emerges from the combined efforts of editors, designers, Foley artists, mixers, composers, directors, and numerous other specialists. Some of the films discussed involved enormous teams working across extended production schedules. Success depended not only upon technical skill but also upon communication. Sound design remains a creative discipline, though it is also a collaborative one.

    Different directors engage with sound in different ways. Some respond primarily to emotional impact. Others focus on specific details. Some use music as the primary storytelling tool. Others give sound effects greater prominence. Sound designers therefore spend much of their careers adapting not only to technical challenges but also to different creative personalities. Building a soundtrack involves understanding people as well as understanding sound.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is a conception of sound design rooted in curiosity. Technology matters. Recording equipment matters. Software matters. Yet none of these things generates solutions independently. Every project introduces new questions. Every creative challenge requires experimentation. Every soundtrack becomes an exercise in balancing realism, perception, narrative, and imagination.

    For students entering the field, this may be the lecture’s most valuable lesson. Sound design is often imagined as a search for the perfect sound. Charles Maynes’ career suggests something rather different. More often, the task is finding a convincing solution to a problem that nobody has solved before. Tornadoes, submarines, superheroes, alien worlds, supernatural creatures, and futuristic technologies may appear unrelated, though each ultimately presents the same creative challenge. The audience must be persuaded to believe in something beyond everyday experience.

    Throughout the lecture, Maynes repeatedly demonstrated that such persuasion rarely emerges from a single recording, a particular piece of software, or a clever technical trick. It emerges from observation, experimentation, collaboration, and an ongoing willingness to explore unexpected possibilities. A recording captured years earlier may suddenly solve a new problem. An accidental discovery may become the defining feature of a sequence. A sound that initially appears unusable may eventually find its place within an entirely different project. The work progresses through a continual process of asking questions, testing ideas, and remaining open to surprise.

    Perhaps this is why sound design remains such a distinctive creative discipline. Unlike many areas of production, it frequently begins where direct representation becomes impossible. No one can record the sound of Spider-Man’s web shooters. No one can capture the sound of a fictional technology that has never existed. No one can simply point a microphone at an imagined world. Instead, sound designers build these experiences from fragments of reality, shaping them into something audiences can recognise, understand, and believe. The challenge is not merely creating sounds. The challenge is creating possibilities for imagination.

    For Charles Maynes, that challenge appears not as a limitation but as the reason the work remains endlessly fascinating.

  • How Does a Whisky Glass Become an Orchestra? Trevor Wishart on Transformation, Imagination, and Sound

    Trevor Wishart

    How much can a sound become?

    Most of us think of sounds as belonging to identifiable sources. A glass sounds like a glass. A bell sounds like a bell. A voice sounds like a voice. Recording technology allows sounds to be edited, layered, stretched, filtered, and transformed, though we often assume that their essential identity remains tied to the object that created them. During his online guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, composer, author, and software developer Trevor Wishart challenged this assumption repeatedly. Drawing on examples from his electroacoustic composition Imago, he explored how a single recorded sound can evolve into something entirely different, revealing possibilities hidden within the material itself.

    The lecture centred on a piece whose title provides an important clue to Wishart’s thinking. Imago refers to the final stage of insect metamorphosis, the moment when an apparently unremarkable pupa becomes a butterfly. For Wishart, this process offered more than a title. It provided the conceptual foundation for the composition itself. The piece begins with an extremely modest source: two whisky glasses gently clinking together. From that brief event, lasting only fractions of a second, an entire musical world gradually emerges. Bells, birds, voices, gamelan-like textures, immense resonant structures, and oceanic soundscapes all grow from the same source material. The lecture therefore became an exploration of how transformation occurs, not only within music but within listening itself.

    Wishart explained that his compositions often begin with two parallel motivations. One is technical. He wants a problem to investigate, a process to develop, or a question that requires experimentation. The other is poetic. There needs to be a broader reason for making the piece beyond demonstrating a particular technique. Neither is sufficient on its own. Technical ingenuity without expressive purpose quickly becomes sterile, while expressive intentions without any technical challenge provide little opportunity for discovery. Much of his work emerges from the interaction between these two impulses. The technical challenge creates opportunities. The artistic idea provides direction.

    This relationship also helps explain why software occupies such an important place in his practice. During the lecture, Wishart reflected on the period when electronic composers often relied upon specialised hardware systems. Such equipment could be expensive, inflexible, and frequently superseded. Learning to program offered a different possibility. Rather than adapting ideas to the limitations of existing tools, it became possible to create processes tailored to specific creative questions. More importantly, software allowed entirely new forms of transformation to be explored. If a process did not already exist, it might be possible to invent it.

    Yet what emerges most clearly from Wishart’s account is that invention is rarely the final objective. Again and again, he described composition as a process of exploration. Sounds are transformed not simply to produce novel effects but to discover possibilities hidden within them. Certain experiments fail. Others reveal unexpected directions. Some transformations produce results that could never have been predicted in advance. Listening becomes as important as designing. The composer is not merely constructing sounds. The composer is searching for relationships, behaviours, and opportunities that emerge through experimentation.

    The opening of Imago illustrates this approach particularly clearly. The piece begins with isolated whisky-glass impacts separated by substantial periods of silence. The pace is deliberately restrained. Contemporary listeners, accustomed to rapid development, may initially wonder where the material is heading. Yet this simplicity serves an important purpose. If the work concerns metamorphosis, the listener needs to encounter the pupa before encountering the butterfly. The source material remains visible, or rather audible, long enough for its later transformations to carry meaning.

    What makes the whisky glass such productive material is the complexity concealed within an apparently simple sound. Strike a glass and a resonance emerges. Listen more carefully and the sound reveals an intricate internal structure. The attack contains numerous frequencies that appear and disappear extremely rapidly. Ordinarily these details pass unnoticed. The event ends too quickly for individual components to be heard. By stretching the sound in time, however, hidden layers become accessible. Frequencies separate. Tiny fluctuations become audible. A sound that initially appeared straightforward begins to reveal unexpected richness.

    One of the most memorable moments in the lecture emerged from a story about washing glasses. Wishart described noticing that repeated impacts between two heavy whisky glasses produced an unusual perceptual effect. As the impacts accelerated, there came a point at which they ceased to be heard as individual events. Instead, they fused into a continuous rising pitch. What began as a mundane domestic observation suddenly revealed a remarkable musical possibility. A sequence of impacts had become a tone. More importantly, it suggested a route through which one kind of sound might transform into another.

    Experiences such as this appear repeatedly throughout Wishart’s creative process. New ideas often emerge from moments that initially seem insignificant. A process behaves differently than expected. A sound reveals an unanticipated quality. An experiment generates an unexpected result. The challenge is recognising which discoveries deserve further attention. Throughout the lecture, curiosity appeared less as a personality trait than as a working method. Creative progress depends upon noticing what others might ignore. As Imago unfolds, the whisky glasses gradually begin producing sounds that seem increasingly distant from their origin. Resonances expand into bell-like structures. Repeated transformations generate textures that suggest birdsong. Elsewhere, spectral manipulations create sounds with distinctly vocal qualities, as though fragments of speech are beginning to emerge from within the glass itself. None of these transformations completely abandons the original material. Traces of the source remain present, even as new identities begin to appear.

    This ambiguity plays an important role within the work. Wishart is rarely concerned with creating perfect imitations. The objective is not to convince listeners that a whisky glass has literally become a bird or a human voice. Instead, he creates sounds that occupy a space between recognition and uncertainty. Listeners hear associations rather than direct representations. A transformed sound may suggest several different identities simultaneously. That tension between familiarity and strangeness gives many of the transformations their expressive character.

    The lecture contained numerous examples of this process. Through synchronised transpositions, simple resonances begin forming complex harmonic structures. Spectral blurring allows sounds to emerge gradually from dense textures, creating the impression of material coming into focus. Distortions generate new timbral characteristics that feel organic rather than mechanical. Spatial movement contributes to the sense of evolution, allowing listeners to follow streams of sound as they separate, merge, and transform across the listening space. Each process extends the possibilities contained within the original material.

    One particularly striking example involved a large gamelan-like passage that emerges later in the composition. Wishart was careful to explain that he had not set out with the intention of creating a gamelan ensemble from whisky glasses. The possibility emerged through experimentation. Once discovered, however, it became a major structural feature of the work. Earlier sections began functioning as anticipations. Later sections reflected upon what had been revealed. Relationships between different materials gradually became apparent. The composition developed not through the execution of a predetermined blueprint but through recognising patterns that emerged during the process itself.

    A similar principle governs some of the work’s largest sonic landscapes. Through extensive transformation, the original material eventually produces textures that evoke oceans and breaking waves. These sounds are not realistic recordings of the sea, nor are they intended to be. Their effectiveness lies in the way they balance abstraction and association. Listeners recognise qualities that resemble waves while remaining aware that they are hearing something more complex. The illusion never becomes complete, and that incompleteness is part of its fascination.

    Throughout the lecture, Wishart repeatedly returned to the importance of structure. Transformations alone are not enough. A composition requires relationships between events, phrases, sections, and larger formal shapes. To manage this complexity, he described working hierarchically. Individual sounds become events. Events become phrases. Phrases become sections. Sections become complete works. This approach allows material to remain flexible throughout development. Elements can be revised, expanded, condensed, or reorganised without losing their connection to the broader structure.

    An equally revealing observation concerned sounds that might initially appear unsuccessful. Students often assume that every sound within a composition must be remarkable. Wishart suggested otherwise. Certain sounds function primarily as connections. They establish continuity, provide context, or prepare the listener for future developments. Their significance lies not in their individual impact but in their contribution to larger processes. The value of a sound cannot always be judged in isolation.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is not a philosophy of technology but a philosophy of listening. Software matters. Technical processes matter. Spectral transformations, distortions, interpolations, filters, and spatial manipulations all play important roles. Yet they ultimately serve a larger purpose. They create opportunities to discover possibilities hidden within sounds themselves.

    For students of sound design, composition, and audio production, this may be the lecture’s most valuable lesson. Creativity is often imagined as the ability to invent entirely new ideas. Wishart’s work suggests something slightly different. New ideas may emerge through paying closer attention to existing ones. A familiar sound may contain far more than it initially reveals. The challenge is learning how to listen deeply enough, experiment patiently enough, and remain curious enough to discover what it might become.

    In that sense, Imago is more than a composition about metamorphosis. It demonstrates a way of thinking about sound itself. Every sound contains unrealised possibilities. Given enough imagination, patience, and exploration, even the simplest of sources can become an entire world.

  • When Sound Becomes the Camera: Karim Beidoun on Audio Drama and Sonic Storytelling

    Karim Beidoun

    How do you tell a visual story when the audience cannot see anything?

    The question sits at the centre of audio drama. Characters move through spaces. Doors open and close. Crowds gather. Vehicles arrive. Relationships develop. Entire worlds emerge. Yet none of these things can be shown directly. There is no camera to establish a location, no lighting to direct attention, and no visual performance to reveal emotion. Everything must be communicated through sound.

    During an online guest lecture for Edinburgh Napier University, alumnus Karim Beidoun explored this challenge through examples drawn from a career that has spanned radio, podcasting, and large-scale audio drama production. Having worked on more than 150 episodes of drama for BBC Arabic before becoming CEO and Head of Content at Hakawati, one of the leading podcast networks in the Middle East and North Africa, Beidoun offered a detailed account of how narrative worlds can be built entirely through listening. What emerged throughout the lecture was a striking observation. Audio drama is not simply theatre without pictures. It requires its own way of thinking about storytelling.

    Many of the creative teams involved in the BBC Arabic productions initially approached drama through habits developed in film and television. Writers imagined scenes visually. Directors thought in terms of camera positions and visual composition. Actors relied upon physical performance. Yet audio drama quickly exposed the limitations of these assumptions. A listener cannot see a gesture. A facial expression disappears completely. Costumes, scenery, lighting, and visual spectacle cease to exist. Techniques that appear essential in visual media suddenly become irrelevant. New solutions have to be found.

    This challenge became particularly significant during the development of the BBC Arabic drama project. Producing more than 150 episodes created practical pressures that demanded efficient workflows and consistent creative decisions. According to Beidoun, around eighty-five percent of each episode was effectively performed live during recording. Rather than constructing every scene through extensive post-production, actors, directors, and sound teams worked together to create performances that already contained much of the final dramatic shape. The result was a process that often resembled theatre, though with an important difference. The microphone became the audience.

    This apparently simple observation transforms almost every aspect of performance. In film, an actor’s relationship with the camera determines how a scene is perceived. In audio drama, that role is occupied by the microphone. Distance matters. Position matters. Movement matters. A character speaking directly into a microphone creates a very different impression from a character speaking several metres away. Walking towards a microphone changes the perceived relationship between characters. Turning away alters emotional emphasis. Physical movement becomes part of the storytelling process. Beidoun described how actors gradually learned to think about microphones not merely as recording devices but as narrative tools. A performer might physically move around the recording space to create the illusion of travelling through an environment. Multiple actors could position themselves carefully to establish relationships within a scene. Changes in distance could suggest intimacy, conflict, uncertainty, or power. Listeners never see these movements taking place, though they experience their consequences. The result is a form of performance that remains deeply physical despite the absence of images.

    This idea extends beyond acting. One of the most interesting themes running throughout the lecture concerned the relationship between sound and space. Audio drama constantly faces a problem that visual media solves almost instantly. How does the audience know where they are? A film can establish a location through a single shot. Audio drama has no such luxury. Environments must be communicated indirectly through acoustics, ambience, movement, and carefully selected details. A refugee camp, for example, cannot simply be shown. Instead, listeners encounter fragments that encourage them to construct the space themselves. Distant voices. Wind moving through temporary structures. Children playing nearby. Footsteps crossing uneven ground. Vehicles arriving and departing. None of these sounds individually explains the location. Together, however, they create an impression of place. The listener begins assembling an environment from acoustic evidence.

    Throughout the lecture, Beidoun repeatedly returned to the importance of this imaginative participation. Audio drama succeeds partly because listeners become active collaborators in the storytelling process. Images are not delivered fully formed. They are constructed internally. A scene therefore exists simultaneously in two places: within the production itself and within the imagination of the audience. Different listeners may visualise the same environment differently, though all are guided by the same sonic information.

    This collaborative relationship helps explain why realism in audio drama can be surprisingly complicated. Beidoun discussed examples where literal accuracy did not always produce the most convincing dramatic result. A gunshot recorded exactly as it sounds in reality may fail to meet audience expectations shaped by decades of cinema and television. Real environments may contain details that distract rather than support narrative clarity. Sound designers therefore find themselves navigating a space between documentary realism and dramatic communication. The objective is not necessarily to reproduce reality exactly. The objective is to create experiences that audiences recognise and understand. Authenticity remains important, though authenticity is often perceptual rather than literal. A sound may require adjustment, enhancement, or simplification in order to communicate effectively within a narrative context. Audio drama constantly balances realism against intelligibility.

    Questions of storytelling also influenced Beidoun’s discussion of directing. Directors working in visual media often focus heavily on what appears within the frame. Audio drama requires a different form of attention. Rather than asking what the audience sees, directors must ask what the audience hears and, perhaps more importantly, what they imagine. Beidoun described situations in which directors were encouraged to close their eyes and listen rather than relying upon visual assumptions. Decisions that appeared obvious on paper often changed once they were evaluated as purely auditory experiences.

    This shift in perspective gradually leads towards a different understanding of sound design itself. Throughout the lecture, Beidoun repeatedly suggested that audio drama sound designers occupy a role remarkably similar to cinematographers. Cinematographers guide attention through framing, movement, focus, and composition. Audio drama practitioners achieve comparable objectives through sound. Ambiences establish environments. Movement reveals relationships. Perspective shapes understanding. Distance communicates emotional meaning. Although the tools differ, the underlying objective remains surprisingly similar. Both disciplines guide audiences through narrative worlds.

    One consequence of this approach is that audio drama demands particularly careful listening. Small details often carry significant narrative weight. A door opening in the background may reveal the presence of a new character. Changes in room acoustics may indicate movement between locations. A subtle environmental sound may establish context more effectively than direct exposition. Listeners become sensitive to information that might pass unnoticed in visual media. Sound is no longer supporting the story. Sound becomes the primary vehicle through which the story exists.

    Seen in this light, many of the practical challenges discussed throughout the lecture begin to look different. Microphone technique is not simply a recording concern. Blocking actors around a studio is not merely a logistical necessity. Ambiences do more than create atmosphere. Decisions about movement, distance, performance, and acoustics all contribute to a single objective: helping listeners construct a coherent mental image of a world they cannot see.

    This helps explain why Beidoun repeatedly described audio drama as requiring a different way of thinking. Writers learn to write for ears rather than eyes. Directors learn to listen rather than watch. Actors learn to perform for microphones rather than cameras. Sound designers become responsible for many of the functions that visual media normally assign to cinematography, production design, and editing. The challenge is not reproducing techniques borrowed from film or television. The challenge is understanding what audio can do on its own terms.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is that audio drama succeeds when listeners become active participants in the storytelling process. Environments are suggested rather than shown. Characters are heard rather than seen. Spaces emerge from collections of sonic details rather than visual images. The audience completes the process, assembling those fragments into people, places, and events.

    Audio drama does not show listeners a world.

    It gives them the materials to imagine one.

  • How Do We Know What Sounds Good? Dr Geoff Martin on Loudspeaker Design and Human Hearing

    Geoff Martin

    What does a good loudspeaker actually do?

    At first glance, the answer seems obvious. A loudspeaker should reproduce sound accurately. It should introduce as little distortion as possible, deliver a flat frequency response, and remain faithful to the original recording. These ideas are deeply embedded within audio culture. Specifications are compared, measurements are analysed, and products are often judged according to how closely they approach technical ideals. Yet Dr Geoff Martin’s guest lecture at Edinburgh Napier University suggested that the question is considerably more complicated than it first appears. Dr Martin, Principal Tonmeister at Bang & Olufsen, spends much of his professional life developing loudspeakers and television audio systems. Throughout the lecture he discussed cabinet volumes, amplifier power, driver behaviour, diffraction, directivity, prototype development, and measurement techniques. Beneath these technical details, however, lay a much broader question. If loudspeakers are ultimately designed for listeners, then how should engineers balance what can be measured against what people actually hear?

    That question has shaped Dr Martin’s career from the beginning. Before joining Bang & Olufsen, his doctoral work explored what he described as a phenomenological model for acoustic simulation. Rather than attempting to recreate every physical characteristic of a real concert hall, the objective was to create something listeners would perceive as convincing. A simulation could differ from reality in measurable ways while still producing an experience that sounded authentic. This distinction between physical accuracy and perceptual accuracy quietly reappeared throughout the lecture, surfacing in discussions of room acoustics, loudspeaker behaviour, directivity, and listening tests. Although the presentation focused on loudspeaker development, the deeper theme concerned a problem that extends across audio engineering as a whole. Sound is a physical phenomenon that can be measured with extraordinary precision. Listening is a human experience that cannot be reduced quite so easily.

    Much of the lecture examined how a loudspeaker is actually developed. Popular discussions of audio technology often imply that engineers begin with a clear target before gradually refining a design until it reaches perfection. Dr Martin described something rather different. Loudspeaker development begins not with solutions but with constraints. How much will the product cost? How large can it be? How loudly should it play? How low should it reproduce bass frequencies? How much internal volume is available? How much amplifier power can be accommodated? Such questions emerge long before the final product exists. Acoustic engineers, industrial designers, product managers, manufacturers, and marketers all contribute to the process. Every decision influences every other decision. A larger cabinet may improve low-frequency performance while creating industrial design challenges. A smaller enclosure may look elegant while limiting acoustic capability. Additional amplifier power may improve output levels while increasing cost and heat. Loudspeaker design therefore becomes a process of balancing competing priorities rather than pursuing a single ideal.

    For this reason, development proceeds through a series of prototypes. Early versions frequently employ off-the-shelf drivers mounted within simple enclosures that approximate the intended cabinet volume. At this stage, nobody is trying to create the finished product. Engineers are asking questions. Does the concept possess sufficient acoustic potential to justify further development? Is the enclosure volume realistic? Can the desired frequency range be achieved? Dr Martin compared this process to testing an engine outside a vehicle. Nobody is concerned with comfort, aesthetics, or handling characteristics. The objective is to establish whether enough performance exists to make further investment worthwhile. As development continues, the questions become increasingly specific. Drivers are modified. Internal structures change. Cabinet geometry evolves. Diffraction effects emerge. Resonances are identified and controlled. Measurements reveal new problems while prototypes reveal new possibilities. Progress rarely follows a straight line. Instead, the process resembles a conversation between engineering decisions and acoustic consequences, with each iteration producing a slightly deeper understanding of the system being developed.

    What makes this process particularly interesting is that measurements alone never provide all the answers. Loudspeaker development relies heavily upon objective data. Engineers measure frequency response, distortion, directivity, impedance, output capability, and countless other parameters. Without such measurements, development would quickly descend into guesswork. Yet Dr Martin repeatedly returned to a simple observation that changes how these measurements should be interpreted. Real listeners do not experience loudspeakers in anechoic chambers. They experience them in rooms.

    That observation may sound almost trivial, though its implications are profound. When a listener sits in a living room, only part of what reaches the ears comes directly from the loudspeaker. Sound also reflects from walls, ceilings, floors, windows, furniture, and countless other surfaces. Every room participates in the listening experience. A loudspeaker therefore does not simply radiate sound forwards towards a listener. It radiates sound into an environment. Once those reflections begin interacting with direct sound, the listening experience becomes considerably more complicated than a single frequency response measurement might suggest.

    This is why Dr Martin devoted considerable attention to directivity. Many audio discussions focus almost exclusively on what happens directly in front of a loudspeaker. Place a microphone on axis, measure the response, and examine the resulting graph. Such measurements remain important, though they tell only part of the story. Engineers also need to understand how sound is distributed throughout space. How much energy radiates to the sides? How much travels upwards and downwards? How does this behaviour change with frequency? To answer these questions, loudspeakers are measured repeatedly while being rotated through hundreds of positions, producing detailed maps of acoustic radiation. The resulting data reveals how a loudspeaker interacts not only with listeners but also with rooms.

    This shift in perspective transforms the problem entirely. Two loudspeakers may produce remarkably similar measurements directly in front of the listener while sounding quite different in real environments. The reason often lies in what happens away from the central listening position. A loudspeaker that distributes energy broadly throughout a room creates a different pattern of reflections from one that concentrates energy more narrowly. Those reflections influence spaciousness, localisation, tonal balance, and listener perception. Suddenly, the loudspeaker is no longer just a source of sound. It becomes part of a larger acoustic system that includes the room itself.

    At this point the lecture moved beyond engineering and into psychoacoustics. Dr Martin argued that directivity influences more than tonal characteristics. It also shapes how listeners perceive space. Human beings routinely use reflections to estimate the distance of sound sources. Outdoors, where reflections are relatively limited, sounds often appear perceptually closer than equivalent sounds heard indoors. Rooms provide information about scale, distance, and location through the reflections they generate. Loudspeakers participate in these same perceptual processes. A design that radiates energy widely into a room can produce a different impression of distance from one that concentrates energy more narrowly, even when other measurements remain similar.

    One particularly memorable example involved speech reproduction. Under certain circumstances, different frequency components within a voice can appear to occupy slightly different perceptual distances. The recording itself remains unchanged. The effect emerges from the loudspeaker’s changing directivity across the frequency spectrum. Some elements of the voice radiate broadly while others become increasingly directional. Listeners may not consciously identify the source of the discrepancy, though they often perceive something unusual. Once noticed, the effect can become difficult to ignore. Examples such as these reveal why loudspeaker design cannot be reduced to frequency response curves alone. Human hearing does not experience isolated measurements. It experiences integrated perceptual events in which distance, localisation, spaciousness, timbre, and context continuously interact.

    Seen in this light, many of the lecture’s apparently technical discussions acquire a different significance. Cabinet diffraction is not merely a measurement problem. Driver placement is not simply a mechanical decision. Directivity is not just another engineering specification. Each ultimately influences how listeners interpret acoustic information. A loudspeaker cannot be understood solely by examining what happens directly in front of it. It must also be understood in terms of how it interacts with a room and how listeners interpret the resulting acoustic information. Directivity, reflections, diffraction, frequency response, and cabinet design are not independent concerns. They are different parts of the same perceptual problem.

    This helps explain why loudspeaker development remains such an iterative process. Engineers measure, build, listen, modify, and measure again. Each prototype reveals something about the relationship between the physical behaviour of the loudspeaker and the way that behaviour is ultimately perceived. Better measurements improve understanding, though they do not eliminate the need for listening. Listening remains the reason the measurements exist in the first place.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is not a story about loudspeakers but a story about the limits of measurement. Measurements remain indispensable. Without them modern loudspeaker design would be impossible. Yet measurements alone cannot answer the question that matters most. They can describe what a loudspeaker does. They cannot completely describe what it is like to hear it.

    That gap between measurement and perception is where much of loudspeaker design actually happens.

  • Getting Closer: Watson Wu on Field Recording, Curiosity, and the Search for Authentic Sound

    Watson Wu

    What makes a great field recording?

    Many aspiring sound designers assume the answer begins with equipment. Better microphones, more expensive recorders, larger collections of accessories, or the latest recording technologies all seem like obvious places to start. Watson Wu has spent decades recording race cars, helicopters, weapons, sports crowds, military vehicles, steam trains, wilderness ambiences, and countless other sound sources for games, film, and television. Yet throughout his guest lecture at Edinburgh Napier University, he repeatedly returned to a very different conclusion. Great recordings rarely emerge from equipment alone. More often, they emerge from access, preparation, curiosity, and a willingness to get closer to the source than most people are prepared to go.

    Wu’s own journey into field recording began almost accidentally. Having studied music and worked extensively with recording equipment, he was asked by a client whether he could also provide sound effects for a project. The results proved successful enough to encourage him to continue. Looking back, what is striking is how quickly his attention shifted away from commercially available sound libraries and towards the sounds themselves. Existing libraries could certainly provide useful material, though they rarely offered complete creative control. If a designer records a skateboard personally, they can decide exactly where the microphone should be placed, which aspects of the sound should be emphasised, and which should be excluded. Rather than accepting someone else’s interpretation of an event, they can create their own. Recording therefore becomes more than acquisition. It becomes a way of understanding sound.

    That desire for direct engagement appears throughout Wu’s career. Again and again, he described situations in which recording personally provided opportunities that would have been impossible through library material alone. A Ferrari owner can be asked to accelerate, brake, idle, or corner in specific ways. A helicopter pilot can perform particular manoeuvres. A stadium crowd can be approached from multiple positions and perspectives. Rather than documenting a sound, the recordist begins exploring it. Questions emerge. What does the source sound like from the front? What changes when the microphone moves closer? Which details become audible when recording from inside rather than outside? The process becomes investigative. Recording is no longer merely collecting sounds. It becomes a way of learning how sounds behave.

    Perhaps surprisingly, this emphasis on source recording has also shaped Wu’s attitude towards technology. Early in his career, he assumed that only the most expensive microphones could produce professional results. Like many newcomers, he viewed prestigious manufacturers as essential components of successful recording practice. Experience gradually challenged this assumption. Expensive microphones certainly have their place, though many recording situations depend far more upon positioning, environment, and technique than upon cost alone. A moderately priced microphone placed correctly will often outperform a far more expensive microphone placed badly. Recording a gunshot, a racing vehicle, or a helicopter frequently requires practical decisions about durability, placement, weather resistance, and safety. In some situations, the most valuable microphone is not the most expensive one. It is the one that survives the session.

    This pragmatic attitude runs throughout Wu’s work. Rather than searching for a single perfect microphone, he has assembled a collection of tools suited to different purposes. Shotgun microphones provide focus and directionality. Ambisonic microphones capture complete acoustic environments. Lavalier microphones can be hidden inside vehicles and machinery. Dynamic microphones tolerate extreme sound pressure levels. Each offers a different perspective on the same event. Rather than asking which microphone is best, Wu encourages a different question: what exactly are you trying to hear?

    That question becomes particularly important when considering the different forms that field recording can take. Throughout the lecture, Wu repeatedly distinguished between focused recordings, environmental recordings, and combinations of both. A shotgun microphone pointed at a specific source allows unwanted sounds to be rejected. An ambisonic microphone captures the entire acoustic environment surrounding it. Many of the most useful recordings involve collecting both simultaneously. A racing vehicle, for example, may be recorded with a fixed stereo setup capturing the overall pass-by while another microphone actively follows the vehicle as it moves. Together, these perspectives provide far greater creative flexibility than either recording alone. The objective is not simply to obtain a sound. The objective is to gather options.

    This philosophy of collecting more than is immediately required appeared repeatedly throughout the lecture. If a client requests four recordings, Wu aims to deliver eight. If access is granted to a vehicle, he looks for every useful perspective that can be captured while the opportunity exists. The reasoning is practical. Recording opportunities are fragile. Weather changes. Locations become unavailable. Machines break down. Owners move away. Access disappears. A steam train hired for a day may never be available again. A military vehicle may only be accessible under tightly controlled conditions. A helicopter flight involves substantial planning, expense, and coordination. Throughout the lecture, Wu repeatedly encouraged students to think beyond the immediate request. Record the obvious sound, certainly, though record the unexpected sound as well. Capture the startup, the shutdown, the rattles, the controls, the mechanical details, and the surrounding environment. Future projects often benefit from recordings that initially appeared irrelevant. One of the advantages of personal recording is that it allows designers to build libraries that grow richer with every session.

    Several stories from the lecture illustrated this mindset particularly well. One involved the recording of a Huey helicopter, the distinctive aircraft familiar from countless war films and television programmes. For Wu, this represented a long-held ambition. Capturing the sound successfully required far more than simply arriving with a recorder. Multiple lavalier microphones were mounted inside the aircraft. Additional protection was added to cope with extreme airflow. Recorders were secured carefully to the airframe. Ground-based ambisonic and mid-side recording systems captured external perspectives. Wind protection had to be considered constantly. Safety procedures had to be followed. Every aspect of the session involved planning, experimentation, and adaptation. Yet what emerges most strongly from the story is not the equipment but the preparation. The quality of the recording depended upon decisions made long before the helicopter ever left the ground.

    A similarly revealing example involved the recording of a historic steam train. Rather than arriving, capturing a handful of pass-bys, and leaving, Wu approached the session as a rare opportunity to document an entire acoustic ecosystem. Exterior perspectives were recorded alongside onboard perspectives. Mechanical details were captured alongside broader environmental sounds. The objective was not simply to obtain a steam train recording. The objective was to understand how the train sounded from as many perspectives as possible. Such sessions reveal an important distinction between collecting sounds and collecting experiences. A library may contain a steam train. Spending a day with a steam train reveals how the machine breathes, rattles, resonates, and interacts with the world around it. Those observations often prove just as valuable as the recordings themselves.

    One of the more thought-provoking moments in the lecture concerned realism. Beginners often assume that accurate recording should be the ultimate goal. Professional practice is frequently more complicated. A racing car recorded exactly as it sounds may not feel sufficiently exciting inside a game. A weapon may require enhancement. An engine may need additional weight and aggression. Distortion, saturation, and other forms of processing are often introduced deliberately. Wu’s point was not that realism is unimportant. Rather, realism and believability are not always the same thing. The audience’s memory of an event may differ considerably from the event itself. Sound designers frequently work within that gap, creating experiences that feel authentic even when they depart from strict documentary accuracy. The objective is often emotional truth rather than literal accuracy.

    This willingness to adapt appears throughout Wu’s approach to problem-solving. Some of the lecture’s most memorable stories involved situations that failed to unfold as planned. During one recording session involving historic artillery, environmental conditions introduced an unexpected complication. Peacocks repeatedly vocalised at exactly the wrong moment, intruding into recordings that had required considerable effort to arrange. The story generated laughter, though it also illustrated an important reality of field recording. The world rarely cooperates completely. Animals, weather, traffic, aircraft, and countless other factors have a habit of appearing precisely when silence is required. Successful field recordists learn to work with uncertainty rather than imagining it can be eliminated entirely.

    What is perhaps most striking across all these examples is the extent to which recording depends upon people. Throughout the lecture, Wu repeatedly emphasised the importance of trust, professionalism, and respect. Vehicle owners are not simply providing sound sources. They are sharing something valuable. Pilots are not merely operating machinery. They are helping create recordings. Mechanics, assistants, safety personnel, and operators all contribute to the final outcome. Access depends upon relationships. Relationships depend upon how people are treated.

    This human dimension emerged repeatedly throughout the lecture. When discussing vehicle recording sessions, Wu described asking owners to tell him if a vehicle needs a break. During military recording sessions, he relies on guidance from experienced personnel regarding safe practice. Mechanics advise on microphone placement around engines and exhaust systems. Aircraft operators explain how equipment can be secured safely. Again and again, the quality of the recording depends upon collaboration rather than individual expertise alone.

    Such observations help explain why Wu devoted considerable attention to assistants and colleagues. Technical ability matters enormously, though professional success often depends just as much upon reliability, patience, and kindness. One assistant was praised for consistently anticipating what needed to be done before being asked. Equipment was packed away efficiently. Problems were solved calmly. Tasks were completed without drama. Such qualities may appear unrelated to sound design, though Wu clearly regards them as fundamental. People prefer working with those who make difficult jobs easier. Careers are often built as much through trust as through talent.

    Learning itself occupies a similarly important position within his philosophy. Throughout the lecture, Wu repeatedly described himself as a lifelong learner. New recording technologies are welcomed. New microphones are tested. New techniques are explored. Even after decades of professional work, he continues searching for improved approaches. The emergence of 32-bit float recording technology provided one example. Although enthusiastic about its possibilities, he discussed both its advantages and its limitations. Increased dynamic range solves certain problems, though it does not eliminate the need for careful microphone placement, thoughtful listening, or critical judgement. Technology changes. Core recording principles remain remarkably consistent.

    Listening, in fact, may be the most important skill of all. Wu frequently described removing one side of his headphones while recording in order to compare the microphone feed with the surrounding environment. The goal is not merely to record sounds. The goal is to understand what the microphones are actually capturing relative to lived experience. A recording may appear technically impressive while still failing to communicate what made the original event interesting. Conversely, unusual microphone positions or unconventional techniques sometimes reveal aspects of a sound that would otherwise remain hidden.

    This curiosity about sound extends well beyond the vehicles and weapons for which Wu is perhaps best known. Some of the lecture’s most engaging stories involved wilderness ambiences, rain, wind, and environmental soundscapes. While working on the television series The Underground Railroad, he travelled deep into remote areas of Florida in search of locations free from contemporary noise pollution. During a separate project in Iceland, he spent long periods experimenting with wind recordings around the Arctic Henge, exploring how subtle changes in microphone orientation transformed the resulting sound. Such examples reveal a practitioner who remains fascinated by listening itself. The technology matters. The environments matter. Yet underlying everything is a persistent curiosity about how the world sounds.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is a conception of field recording rooted in curiosity. Microphones matter. Recorders matter. Ambisonics, 32-bit float recording, microphone placement, and technical expertise all matter. Yet none of these things create opportunities by themselves. Opportunities emerge through relationships, preparation, persistence, and a willingness to go where interesting sounds can be found. A helicopter recording begins with access to a helicopter. A vehicle recording begins with the trust of its owner. A remote ambience recording begins with a journey into an environment where that ambience still exists.

    Perhaps this is why Wu’s stories remain so memorable. They are never really stories about equipment. They are stories about people, places, and experiences. A helicopter with microphones attached to its frame. A steam train hired for an entire day. A military vehicle crossing rough terrain. A crowd erupting during a decisive sporting moment. Wind moving through an Icelandic landscape. Each recording represents a moment that had to be sought out deliberately.

    For aspiring sound designers, that may be the most valuable lesson of all. The next remarkable sound is unlikely to appear by accident inside a studio. It is probably waiting somewhere beyond the microphone case, attached to a person, a place, or an experience that has not yet been encountered.

    The challenge is getting close enough to hear it.

  • Why Game Sound Is Never Finished: Mariana Botero on Systems, Possibility, and Interactive Audio

    Mariana Botero

    What does a sound designer actually create?

    For much of the history of recorded media, the answer has seemed relatively straightforward. A sound designer creates sounds. Those sounds are edited, arranged, mixed, and eventually delivered to an audience in a finished form. Whether working in film, television, radio, or theatre, the result remains largely fixed. Every audience member encounters the same sequence of events in the same order. A soundtrack may be replayed thousands of times, though the sounds themselves do not change. Sound design, in this traditional sense, is largely concerned with creating and refining artefacts. The work may be extraordinarily complex, though the outcome is ultimately stable. Once completed, the audience receives the experience that the creators intended.

    Games operate according to a different logic. During her guest lecture at Edinburgh Napier University, Mariana Botero, Sound Designer at Criterion Games, repeatedly returned to a challenge that sits at the centre of interactive audio. Players are unpredictable. They may rush through environments that designers expected them to explore carefully. They may spend an hour in a location intended for a few minutes of gameplay. They may repeat actions endlessly, ignore carefully placed cues, or discover solutions that nobody anticipated. A sound designer may spend weeks refining a particular moment, only for players to experience it in a completely unexpected way. This unpredictability creates a fundamental difference between games and most other forms of media. Film sound designers can assume a degree of control over audience experience. A scene unfolds at a predetermined pace. Music enters at a precise moment. Dialogue arrives exactly when it is needed. Sound and image progress together through a carefully authored sequence. Games surrender much of that control. Designers can establish possibilities, though they cannot determine exactly how those possibilities will be experienced. Every player creates a slightly different path through the material.

    Botero illustrated this distinction through a deceptively simple analogy. Traditional sound design can resemble baking a cake. Once the ingredients have been combined and baked, they become a finished object. Individual components can no longer be separated. The audience receives the completed result exactly as intended. Interactive audio often works differently. The ingredients remain available. They can be rearranged, adjusted, recombined, and reshaped while the experience is unfolding. What players hear depends not only on what the designer created but also on what they choose to do. A player who rushes through an environment may hear one version of the experience. Another who explores every corner may encounter something quite different. Neither experience is incorrect. Both emerge from the same underlying system. At first glance, this may appear to be a technical distinction, though throughout the lecture it became clear that something more significant is taking place. Interactive audio challenges assumptions that have shaped sound practice for decades. Rather than creating a finished soundtrack, game audio designers increasingly create systems capable of generating many possible soundtracks. The question is no longer simply what a sound should be. The question becomes how a sound should behave.

    Implementation sits at the heart of this shift. Students often encounter implementation through software platforms such as Wwise and Unity, where attention naturally gravitates towards events, switches, parameters, states, and scripting. Botero encouraged a broader perspective. These tools are not merely technical requirements added after the creative work has been completed. They are part of the creative process itself. They provide mechanisms through which sound can respond to player actions, environmental conditions, narrative developments, and changing game states. Once audio becomes interactive, implementation ceases to be a final stage of production. It becomes one of the primary ways in which experiences are designed. Many of Botero’s examples reflected this movement from sounds to systems. Consider something as apparently mundane as footsteps. Few sounds occur more frequently in games. A footstep that appears a handful of times in a film may occur thousands of times during a single play session. What initially feels satisfying can quickly become repetitive. Players generate these sounds through their own behaviour, meaning designers cannot simply assume that repetition will remain unnoticed. Botero discussed several implementation strategies designed to address this issue. Different recordings can be selected randomly. Pitch and volume may vary subtly between repetitions. Heel and toe impacts can be separated and recombined dynamically. A relatively small collection of recordings suddenly produces a far wider range of perceived outcomes. Yet what makes these techniques interesting is not their technical sophistication. Their significance lies in how they reveal a different philosophy of authorship. Rather than crafting every individual event directly, designers create rules governing how events are generated. They design the behaviour of the system rather than the precise form of every outcome.

    Her observations about footsteps led naturally into a broader discussion about attention. Not every sound deserves equal prominence throughout an experience. Early in a game, clearly audible footsteps may help players understand movement and control. Later, those same sounds can begin to dominate the soundscape unnecessarily. As players become familiar with core mechanics, environmental details often become more valuable. A distant owl, subtle weather activity, a passing vehicle, or an unexpected environmental cue may contribute more to a sense of place than another clearly articulated footstep. This may seem like a relatively small design decision, though it reveals an important principle running throughout the lecture. Sound design is not simply about creating sounds. It is about shaping attention. Designers are constantly deciding what players should notice, what they should ignore, and how their awareness should be directed through an experience. Interactive audio therefore becomes inseparable from broader questions of perception.

    Several examples from Botero’s work on Star Wars Battlefront II illustrated this relationship particularly clearly. One challenge involved creating a convincing sensation of speed during space combat. Space provides surprisingly few visual reference points. Without roads, buildings, or passing landscapes, players can struggle to judge how fast they are moving. From a purely visual perspective, extraordinary speeds can sometimes feel unexpectedly slow. Audio therefore assumes a more active role. Changes in acceleration, orientation, proximity, and manoeuvring can all be reinforced through sound, encouraging players to feel faster than they actually are. Importantly, the objective is not deception. The objective is alignment between what players see, what they hear, and what they believe they are experiencing. Sound helps bridge the gap between game mechanics and player perception. A related challenge emerged around spatial awareness. Players navigating complex three-dimensional environments often need information that visual displays cannot always communicate efficiently. Botero described examples where reflections, pass-bys, and environmental responses helped players understand their relationship to surrounding structures. Those sounds functioned as navigational aids as much as sound effects. Players may never consciously notice them, though their absence would make environments feel less intelligible. Such examples reveal another important aspect of interactive audio. Sound is not simply representing the world. It is helping players interpret the world. A successful design often communicates information, directs attention, reinforces emotion, and supports decision-making simultaneously. The most effective implementation frequently becomes invisible. Players simply feel that the game responds naturally to their actions.

    The same principles appeared again in Botero’s discussion of interactive music. Traditional composition assumes a relatively stable structure. A beginning leads towards a middle before eventually reaching an ending. Although composers may create complex and highly sophisticated works, they generally retain control over the order in which events occur. Games rarely provide such certainty. Players may linger in one location, interrupt events unexpectedly, revisit spaces repeatedly, or trigger narrative developments in unusual orders. Music must therefore accommodate possibilities that cannot be fully predicted in advance. Rather than composing a single linear sequence, designers often create collections of musical elements capable of being reorganised dynamically while preserving coherence. Botero compared the process to building with Lego bricks. Individual pieces remain consistent, though their arrangement changes according to context. Introductory passages, transitions, loops, and endings can be connected in different ways while still feeling musically coherent. Once again, the designer is not creating a single outcome. The designer is creating a framework capable of supporting many outcomes. What matters is not only the material itself but also the relationships that determine how that material behaves under changing circumstances.

    This way of thinking extends beyond music. One particularly revealing example discussed during the lecture involved a student project built around a time-slowing mechanic. In a traditional medium, slowing time might simply involve applying predetermined processing at specific moments. Within an interactive environment, however, the relationship becomes dynamic. Real-time parameter controls allowed player actions to influence audio behaviour directly. As gameplay changed, the soundscape changed alongside it. The mechanic was not merely accompanied by sound. The mechanic became part of the sound design process itself. Audio no longer functioned as a layer added on top of gameplay. It became woven into the behaviour of the system. Examples such as these help explain why programming increasingly occupies an important place within contemporary game audio. Throughout the lecture, Botero described learning through experimentation, tutorials, practical projects, and professional experience. Programming was presented not as a replacement for creative thinking but as a means of expanding creative possibilities. The more deeply designers understand systems, the more effectively they can connect audio to player experience. Technical knowledge becomes valuable not for its own sake but for the opportunities it creates.

    One of the more interesting consequences of this shift is that game audio designers increasingly resemble system designers as much as traditional sound designers. Much of the language surrounding audio production still reflects assumptions inherited from film, television, and music. We often speak about creating sounds, mixing sounds, or arranging sounds. Botero’s examples repeatedly pointed towards a broader form of practice. Designers create relationships between sounds, player actions, environmental conditions, and game states. Their work involves determining how sounds respond, adapt, and evolve rather than simply deciding what those sounds should be. The resulting experience emerges through interaction between the player and the system. In this sense, implementation is not something that happens after sound design. Implementation is increasingly part of sound design itself.

    This spirit of exploration appeared throughout Botero’s account of her own development. Long before working professionally in games, she was already engaging deeply with sound through recording, listening, and experimentation. Growing up in Colombia, she developed a fascination with environmental sound that later evolved into a broader interest in audio design. Looking back across the lecture, one of the most striking aspects of her career trajectory is how consistently curiosity appears as a driving force. New tools, new techniques, and new technologies repeatedly emerge, though progress often begins with a simple willingness to investigate how things work. Throughout her account there was little sense of a fixed pathway into game audio. Instead, learning appeared as an ongoing process of exploration in which technical knowledge, creative practice, and experimentation continually informed one another.

    That same curiosity remains visible within professional practice. One of the most memorable examples came from Criterion’s “Sound Design Thursdays”. Team members temporarily step away from production work and undertake creative challenges built around unusual constraints. Designers exchange recordings, limit themselves to small collections of source material, or pass sounds between colleagues with each person applying a single transformation before handing them on. The outcomes can be surprising, humorous, and occasionally absurd. A camel recording may gradually evolve into something resembling a bird. Familiar sounds acquire entirely new identities. Yet beneath the humour lies a serious lesson about creativity. Unexpected results often emerge when designers deliberately create conditions that encourage experimentation. Limitations become opportunities. Constraints become creative tools. In many respects, these exercises mirror the philosophy underlying interactive audio itself. Both involve constructing systems, establishing rules, and allowing surprising outcomes to emerge from interactions between different elements. Neither depends upon complete control. Both depend upon creating environments in which interesting possibilities can arise.

    Looking back across the lecture, what emerges most clearly is a view of sound design that extends well beyond the creation of individual sounds. Footsteps, adaptive music, spatial cues, implementation systems, real-time parameters, and creative experiments all point towards the same conclusion. Interactive audio requires designers to think in terms of relationships rather than isolated assets. Sounds gain meaning through how they respond to players, environments, and changing circumstances. The challenge is no longer simply to create a soundtrack. The challenge is to create a framework capable of supporting many different soundtracks.

    Perhaps this is what makes game audio such a distinctive area of contemporary sound practice. Film sound designers craft experiences that audiences receive. Game sound designers craft possibilities that audiences help create. Every play session unfolds differently. Every player encounters a slightly different combination of events. Every interaction generates new relationships between sounds, systems, and behaviours. The sounds matter. What matters just as much are the rules that determine what those sounds might become.

    In game audio, the work is never truly finished. It simply waits for the player to decide what happens next.