This isn't a writing game so much as a tool to use when you're trying to figure out how to fix something. It's shamelessly stolen from the programming and computer science arena, where it's also known as The Cardboard Cutout Dog. (it's an amusing read, summarised below).

It started out as the concept of Showing It To Someone Else - you take your work (in their case, a few hundred or thousand lines of code. In our case, a tangled outline, character arc or three chapters that don't work together). You sit down with them, tie them to the chair (because what follows is almost always painfully dull for your victim) and proceed to walk them through your code/writing. You explain everything to them, starting possibly at the beginning or pinballing from one notion to the next, whatever your brain type is.

They lose track of what you're saying within about two minutes, or thirty seconds if there are visual aids, because any student knows you can stare charts and diagrams deafly while giving the impression of concentrating, even to yourself. Telling you they've got no clue what you're on about would result in you starting all over again, and the whole process taking longer, so they sit, nod, murmur encouraging noises, and try to piece enough keywords together to ask something that sounds like an intelligent and useful question whenever you pause for breath. (Ever tried to explain something to someone and they sound like they're listening to another topic completely? Likely they were keyword-hopping).

In the process of explaining the entire thing to someone else, you'll uncover the assumption, logic hole or error that was causing the problem in the first place. This is similar to calling someone over to look at the weird error Windows is giving you when you do X, only to have it function perfectly when that person is looking. (Bonus points if it goes back to errors when the person walks away.) About half the time you'll realise it was because you were leaning on the keyboard or opening the wrong file, and quietly pretend that Windows is actually out to get you if anyone asks.

The key is, the other person's input wasn't actually necessary at all. Which is good, because most of their input is going to be asking confusing questions about where the prawns you mentioned at the start fit into all of this. And it's also good because routinely subjecting other people to your own creative ranting is not healthy for relationships (unless they're a fellow ranter and you take your own turns ubcomplaining on the Chair Of Incomprehension.) But what it really means is that they don't actually have to be there. You just have to explain the thing to something.

LIke the rubber ducky. Originally, they progressed from humans (fellow colleagues, managers, restroom attendants, the guy from another office who happened to be standing nearby in the lunch line) to a yellow labrador named Jake, on the basis that Jake was able to at least look like he was interested for far longer than any tested human. When Jake sadly passed on, they determined that, since they really only needed something that looked like it was paying attention, a cardboard cutout of a dog would do just as well. And it did. Possibly better, because it didn't need dog biscuits or ask if it could go yet.

The weird thing is, this does actually work - provided you're speaking aloud. The theory is that the act of vocalising and hearing the thoughts activates more areas of the brain than your internal monologue can. We don't have proof, but I have mountains of anecdotal evidence of the number of times I've discovered giant holes in my logic or research that had gone unnoticed for months of development, and leapt out whilst being explained to someone else who didn't have the background knowledge. I suspect that when we think to ourselves, we often think in a kind of shorthand, skipping over parts that we'd normally have to explain, if we spoke out loud.

As a programming teacher, I lost count of the number of times students would walk up to me, start explaining the problem and interrupt themselves with an "ooooohhh, I get it, thanks", all without me saying a word, and half the time without them even getting to what the problem actually was. I myself did that quite often to my brother and father (both developers) when wrangling something, and they'd look at me with amusement before turning back to whatever they were doing. It got to the point where I, having spent my journey to their room arranging in my head exactly what I needed to tell them to get their help on the problem, would start by saying "Sorry to interrupt but.... nevermind", having found the logic gap before even beginning the question.

So - get yourself something you can talk to. A potted plant, photograph of your foot. I have a red rubber ducky that I liberated from a hotel bathroom in Belfast (they provided a rubber ducky for my bath. How could I possibly leave him there?). Cats are not recommended, they have a tendency to wash themselves at you in disdain or attempt to lead you to the kitchen, and kittens have far too high a distraction to attention ratio. Pet rocks work well, and can be conveniently disguised as paperweights. Executive toys also work, if you can refrain from fiddling with them at the same time. If you work around other people, bluetooth headsets or handsfree kits are recommended if you don't want to look totally bonkers.

When you have a problem, or when you need to flesh out an idea, talk to the ducky. The ducky can help.