A reflective conversation with composer Geoff Knorr
Some conversations feel useful.
Others feel necessary.
This one, with composer Geoff Knorr, belonged firmly in the second category.
We didn’t talk about productivity hacks or shortcuts. We didn’t talk about how to “break in.” Instead, we spent hours circling around something far more fundamental: what allows a creative person to last.
Not succeed.
Not win.
Not peak.
But last.
And the answer, in various forms, kept returning to the same place: honesty, humility, and a willingness to let go — of ego, of stories, and sometimes of the very music you worked hardest on.
Where Failure Has No Place to Hide
One of the earliest and most revealing threads in our conversation came from Geoff’s background in sports.
In baseball, failure isn’t abstract. It’s not debatable. You either caught the ball or you didn’t. You either got the hit or you struck out. Even the greatest players fail most of the time.
“Failure is just something you have to get used to dealing with.”
— Geoff Knorr
Music, by contrast, offers endless escape routes.
If something doesn’t work, you can blame taste. Context. Audience. Timing. You can convince yourself that they just didn’t get it. And while subjectivity is part of what makes art powerful, it also makes it dangerous — because it allows us to avoid confrontation with our own limitations.
I’ve thought about this a lot over the years, and I brought it up directly.
“I’m afraid the creative process gives you too many outs.”
— Markus Junnikkala
Sports force you to face reality.
Music lets you negotiate with it, unless you focus on the results.
The danger is not that musicians fail — it’s that they never learn how.
You Are Not the Center of the Musical Universe
As composers, it’s easy to live inside our own creative bubble. Our own narrative about what our music is trying to say. But that bubble doesn’t survive contact with history.
“You don’t have to go very far to find incredible composers.”
— Geoff Knorr
Stand next to Bach’s counterpoint.
Listen to the craftsmanship of great orchestral writing.
Pay attention to what musicians around you are doing right now.
The point isn’t comparison as punishment.
The point is learning. And that comes with humility.
“You’re not working in a vacuum.”
— Geoff Knorr
That realization does something important: it makes self-criticism possible without becoming self-destructive. You stop asking “Is this me?” and start asking “Is this working?”
That distinction matters.
The Courage to Kill Your Own Music
One of the most quietly devastating moments Geoff shared came from a composition lesson early in his career.
He had written a large section of a piece — recently, earnestly, with care. His teacher suggested removing it entirely.
Not polishing it.
Not revising it.
Letting it go.
“I had to let go of a lot of music that I had just written.”
— Geoff Knorr
Anyone who has composed seriously knows how hard this is. When you write music, you don’t just create sound — you build a story around it. This section means something. That harmony represents something. This transition has to stay, because it connects emotionally.
Until it doesn’t.
“Some of the things we’ve done — even things we like — aren’t the right decision.”
— Geoff Knorr
The piece became stronger because he let go.
This is one of the most difficult skills to learn as a composer: recognizing when your attachment is hurting the work. Not because the material is bad, but because it’s in the wrong place — or belongs to a different piece altogether.
When “Good” Is Still Wrong
Nowhere is this lesson more brutal — or more necessary — than in collaborative media.
Geoff shared a story from Civilization: Beyond Earth that perfectly illustrates this. He wrote a cue he genuinely believed in. Musically, it worked. Emotionally, it made sense to him.
It was still wrong.
“It was completely wrong.”
— Geoff Knorr
The developers weren’t looking for emotional release. They wanted space. Distance. The unknown.
The music needed to get out of the way.
“You can be the best composer in the world and still make the wrong call.”
— Markus Junnikkala
This is a crucial distinction that many creatives struggle with: rejection is not always a verdict on your ability. Often, it’s simply a mismatch between intention and context.
The professional skill is not avoiding that mismatch — it’s recovering from it without losing momentum.
Technology, Sensitivity, and Knowing When to Step Back
Our conversation eventually moved into technology, recording, and process — but not in the usual gear-focused way.
Geoff’s dual background in composition and recording arts has given him an unusual sensitivity to how music actually comes alive during the recording process. In some traditions, detailed notation and instructions is essential. In others, it’s a limitation.
One example stood out: removing a click track so a performer could breathe again.
“As soon as the click was gone, the music came back.”
— Geoff Knorr
This wasn’t a philosophical stance against technology. It was a reminder that tools should serve a function and enhance expression, not dominate it.
Knowing when to specify and when to leave space — when to control and when to trust — is part of musical maturity.
Writing After Yourself: Civilization VII vs Civilization VI
What made writing music for Civilization VII fundamentally different from Civilization VI wasn’t scale, scope, or even expectations — it was history.
By the time work began on Civ VII, Geoff had already helped define what Civilization sounds like for a modern audience. Civ VI established a strong musical identity built around cultural specificity, long-form evolution, and collaboration with musicians from diverse traditions. That success created a new challenge: how do you move forward without simply repeating yourself?
We talked about how Civ VII wasn’t about escalation. It wasn’t about writing bigger or more. Instead, it required refinement — a clearer sense of what the music should and shouldn’t do.
Having already explored many musical traditions extensively in Civ VI, Geoff approached Civ VII with more restraint. The question shifted from what can be added to what actually needs to be there. That affected everything from structure to orchestration to how much space was intentionally left open for performers.
One of the key differences was trust. In Civ VII, there’s an even greater emphasis on collaboration — on allowing musicians to shape the music through their own traditions rather than tightly prescribing every detail. In many cases, the strongest choice wasn’t to write more notes, but to step back and let the performers speak.
Another factor was time. After Civ VI, Geoff had firsthand experience with how this music lives with players over hundreds of hours. He had seen what holds up, what becomes fatiguing, and what quietly supports the experience without demanding attention. That long-view understanding shaped Civ VII in subtle but important ways.
The result isn’t music that tries to redefine the series, but music that understands its role more clearly. It’s less concerned with making a statement and more concerned with sustaining an atmosphere — something that can evolve alongside the player without ever getting in the way.
What stood out to me is that Civilization VII reflects a composer no longer proving a concept, but exercising judgment. Knowing what to repeat, what to leave behind, and where a lighter touch creates more depth.
In that sense, writing for Civ VII wasn’t about outdoing Civ VI.
It was about writing after it — and writing wisely.
Why Love Is Not Optional
As the conversation stretched on, everything slowly converged on a single truth.
Geoff talked about early piano lessons he hated. About falling in love with the cello. About small moments of encouragement that kept him going. About years where progress wasn’t obvious, but commitment was.
And eventually, he said the thing that framed the entire episode:
“Music is just too hard if you don’t love it.”
— Geoff Knorr
Not success.
Not validation.
Not outcomes.
The work itself has to be enough.
“There has to be something that keeps pulling you back.”
— Markus Junnikkala
Because without that pull, the setbacks accumulate. The revisions wear you down. The feedback starts to feel personal. And eventually, you walk away — not because you failed, but because you no longer care enough to continue.
Closing Reflection
This conversation wasn’t about how to win at music.
It was about how not to quit.
Longevity, we kept returning to, is not built on confidence alone. It’s built on humility, curiosity, and a willingness to dismantle your own work — sometimes repeatedly — in service of something larger than yourself.
Music doesn’t reward certainty.
It rewards commitment.
And commitment only survives if love is at the center.
Prefer To Listen or Watch?
🔴 Youtube: https://youtu.be/aAHg8RYaoz0
🟢 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/0V7v3Hp9yRJVum3wTsQ9kg?si=hY5d5jDlT3aOqy797Owrog
🟣 Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/why-music-is-too-hard-if-you-dont-love-it-geoff-knorr/id1528017679?i=1000743174130
