Writing Every Day 05: Inspiration

Reading the fantastic Complete KOBOLD Guide to Game Design, I ran across a line that stuck with me. You'll have to forgive me not quoting it, as I've left my copy at work. Go pick it up, it's worth the read. You'll run across it in no time.

The line said, in essence, to draw inspiration for things like game mechanics outside the medium you're working in—in this specific case, tabletop roleplaying games. It went on to say that taking something from another kind of game is inspiration, while taking clever mechanics from within your medium is closer to theft. I can respect the author's position, though I feel like there's a case to be made for spotting what you like in another game and adapting it to your own setting, aesthetics, and so forth. Look no further than the game The Bloody Forks of the Ohio for a great example.

Largely, though, I agree with the author. Looking at ways other kinds of games handle the issue of mechanics can provide the needed spark for you to develop your own system. Earlier today I was talking with one of the game designers at work about how certain mechanics could work, and our conversation included numerous references to different video games. "[GAME TITLE]'s method of handling [SPECIFIC SITUATION] could work for [CHARACTER ISSUE]," that kind of thing.

We weren't talking about stealing the mechanics whole cloth, because that would be impossible. The capabilities and needs of video games differ from those of an RPG or board game. In order to make the idea fit within the game we were discussing, we'd have to take the general concept and pull it apart to fit within our own rules.

The same is true of books, movies, and so forth. As an example, I am a big fan of China Mieville's book The Scar. In it, a character has a unique sword that manipulates probability, allowing the wielder to bend reality during an attack to make strike he could have made affect the target as if he did make it.

I loved that idea, and that nature of item worked well in the game I was running, so I took it. In the system I was running there existed critical hits, critical failures, success, and failure on attack and skill rolls, so I simply had the player make multiple attack rolls with his probability sword. Each attack was resolved simultaneously, and all results were treated as true. He could, in one flurry of potential reality, hit his target twice, critically hit it once, and critically fail, losing control of the weapon. There were other mechanisms in play due to the system, but that's the short version. It worked well enough like the weapon in the novel, and was memorable enough for me to write about years later.

So, cast a wide net when looking for inspiration. Try to puzzle out how the things that work in other games could work in your own. Halo's regenerating shield. Skyrim's skill system. Fear as a health mechanic from Fear Effect. The weapon degradation from Fallout. Figure out a way to plug it into your own game.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to fire up Steam and get inspired.

Writing Every Day 04: The Danger of Author Voice

When I'm writing essays, I worry how the reader interprets what I'm writing. Often I feel like the reader will misinterpret my intent and think I believe what I've written is an absolute. That's not the case. You can almost always add an unspoken "in my opinion" appended to a statement I make, particularly when I talk about roleplaying games.

In my opinion (there, I'm front-loading it this time), roleplaying games are pretty personal things. Not things that need to be kept private, but something that works for you when it works for you, and how it works for you. Some Game Masters are comfortable only when running a game within clear bounds, while others prefer a more freeform experience. Some of us do funny voices, others despise it. We gravitate to the style of play we enjoy and are comfortable with, and a GM's style of running a game can be as individual as the stories he or she chooses to tell.

What does this have to do with the author voice? Great question! Some players take what the GM tells them with the same degree of absolutism I'm concerned people think my writing suggests. This goes beyond Rule Zero, the idea that the GM is the ultimate authority when running a game and his or her word is law. I don't have an issue with that. What concerns me is when that perspective restricts how players interact with the world.

When a GM describes a situation, they are laying down the rules of that scene. Is it dark, is it bright, indoors or out, and so forth. Once those statements are out in the open, all the players have points of common knowledge about the scene. I've encountered players who then treat the situation as if those are the only things about the scene. If something hasn't been described at the outset, these players go through a quick session of twenty questions trying to figure out what other options they have in the scene. "Is there a big rock here, is it large enough for me to take cover behind, can I reach it this round," and on and on.

Once in a while, I run across a player who takes a different approach. Rather than waiting for absolutes to come down from the GM, they simply state the kind of action they want to perform, like, "I run to the nearest boulder or tree large enough to take cover behind." Sometimes the GM needs to clarify the situation further, such as telling the player that there aren't any such pieces of cover near enough to reach this round but close enough to reach by next round, in order to preserve the intent of the scene. If it doesn't interfere with the scene, I suggest just rolling with the punches. If it doesn't break anything, letting a player walk to a street side noodle vendor to blend in while he cases a building not only helps build the scene for everyone else, it takes some of the pressure off you.

This can be thought of as a part of the Rule of Yes, a position that states the GM should affirm suggestions the players offer up. There are more involved discussions about this rule, like the Rule of Yes, And/Yes But where the GM takes the player's inclusion and uses it to raise the stakes. ("Yes, you run behind the boulder and the security guards fan out into cover of their own," or, "Yes, you step up to the noodle counter but one of the mayor's bodyguards is sitting at the counter.")

Interestingly, the players I encounter who are most willing to treat my games this way are kids. I've been lucky enough to run games for younger players at conventions on multiple occasions, and by far they are the most willing to add details to the scene. I like it when a player treats an encounter's details as a starting point, not the end all, be all, of the world.

Writing Every Day 03: Visual Texture

So, what do I mean by visual texture?

It's a term that I think of to describe the kinds of complex environments you can see in some films and TV shows. It's a complex, layered sort of look that feels authentic, particularly in modern slums and futuristic environments. The sorts of sets on display in Blade Runner, Ghost in the Shell and Akira's fantastic backgrounds, and even oddly the Super Mario Brothers movie.

My favorite settings for RPGs tend to be dense urban environments, and my preferred genre skews to science fiction, gritty modern, and cyberpunk. The backgrounds in most of the media set in those genres have these brilliant, textural environments that lend all sorts of interesting set pieces for action scenes, chases, and tense negotiations.

In my daily life, I drive through an industrial district on my way to work, over a thick-sided concrete canal bridge that spans a shipping lane. To either side I have crumbling shipping cranes, graffitied warehouses made of corrugated aluminum, railroads, massive cargo cranes, and generations of old advertising plastered on the street posts. It's a highly-textured, messy, organic scene. When I'm describing a scene to my players, in my head the environment probably looks something like that, mixed with the genre conventions of whatever setting the game takes place in—cracked screens playing advertising for a massive corporation's new product, that kind of thing.

Getting the players to have that same sense of a complex environment can prove to be a challenge, though. If you ramble on about the setting for too long, you run into the danger of losing the interest of the audience. They won't care about the massive scaffolding that fills the back of the alley unless it can be used to their advantage or has some sort of relevance to their goals or current situation.

What I try to do is give a concise description of the environment that includes references to the kind of visual texture in the environment. Something like the description of my commute above. Enough for the player to get a sense of how filled out the area is without burdening them with too many specifics. Then, as the scene unfolds, I look for things that fit within the texture of the scene to exploit and force their relevance.

Back to the example of the alley and its scaffolding. That's probably not something I'd include in the initial description unless I had a player skulking around looking for an alternate method of entry into a building. It's a perfect bit of terrain to mix up a foot chase, though, so I may have the player's quarry sprint down that alley and into the scaffolding in an attempt to reach an adjacent rooftop. Not only does it break up the chase and offer a different series of challenges to the players to surmount, but it also helps to fill out the texture of the background and make the environment seem more fleshed out and lived in.

When keeping track of a complex encounter, particularly when running a theater of the mind game, I sometimes find myself losing the level of environmental complexity that I picture when I start the scene. Finding ways to make those details a part of the challenges of the scene help me to keep the bigger picture in mind, and give me a touchstone to return to when the setting begins to feel too sparse again.

Sorry if this post rambles a bit. I'm getting to it a bit later than I'd hoped to and didn't spend as much time preparing as I'd hoped to. It is a topic that interests me, so I may try to revisit it in the future.

Writing Every Day 02: Dread Wrong

I recently had the chance to play the Dread RPG. I was allowed to step out of the GM's shoes for a night and enjoy the other side of the table as a player. Our GM ran us through one of the prepared scenarios in the rulebook, and everyone had a good time. And I did it all wrong.

That's not to say that I failed to fulfill my obligations as a player (a subject that I might return to at another time), but in the playing of Dread the way it should be played. For those unfamiliar with the game, allow me to provide a bit of context: Dread is a horror RPG that tries to instill a sense of, well, dread in the players.

Fear and tension are hard things to preserve at the table. After all, most groups are composed of friends who know each other well, people who enjoy cracking wise with one another. It's hard to maintain horror when there are snacks and adult beverages at the table. Dread manages to keep players on edge thanks to its innovative resolution mechanic: Jenga.

When a player attempts an action that has a dramatic consequence for failure, that player pulls one or more pieces from the Jenga set. If the set falls, that player's character is dead. A player can opt to fail a pull, thus failing the attempted action.

So, how did I play Dread wrong? Part-way through the game, after my character had achieved the critical task he was best suited for, I intentionally knocked over the tower. On my pull I felt how precarious the setup was and figured I'd jump on the proverbial grenade so the other players could work forward from a better position.

Dread has a mechanic to ensure that surviving players don't begin back at square one with a sturdy tower of blocks, which is great. But by choosing to knock over the tower, I feel like I went against the spirit of the game. To maintain the building horror, uncertainty and loss of control are important factors.

Many of my favorite horror stories depend on the characters not being in control. It is this lack of control and uncertainty about their fate that drives the audience's anticipation. Not knowing if or when a character will bite the big one is a part of the fun. For contrast, my wife had to pull the turn after my self-sacrifice. She approached the fresh Jenga tower with an aura of confidence, and was stunned for a moment when the whole array crashed down.

I robbed myself of that moment of panic. That adrenaline shock of realizing that I didn't want to die, but it didn't matter. I was dead. Seeing how she responded to the startling loss of her character made me realize how wrong I'd approached the game. I tried to think about it tactically, trying to figure out how to provide the group with the greatest mechanical advantage. In doing so, I betrayed the spirit of the genre.

What do you think? Am I right, or crazy? Let me know in comments.
Check back tomorrow, when I'll be ranting about visual texture in RPGs. It will make sense, I hope.

If you haven't checked out Dread, I highly suggest giving it a try. You can find the HERE, or read more about it HERE.

Writing Every Day 01: Success, Failure, Opportunity, and Complication

This post is meant to serve two purposes. The first is to get me writing daily. I'm not particular about the word count of what I'm writing or the particular subject matter of the post. I'll be writing whatever subject occurs to me around the time that I sit down to write. I might write an essay, a bit of fiction, or something I haven't even determined yet. You get the idea.

The second purpose is specific to this post, though I might choose to do more like it in the future. Anyone who knows me well knows how much I enjoy roleplaying games. My job and primary hobby are both RPG-centric, so it seemed like a natural thing to use as the foundation for my first outing. This time, I want to talk about success and failure in RPGs and how, as a GM, I like to approach them. Now, people who play in games where I'm at the helm know that I don't always manage to abide by my own advice, but this kind of thinking is how I intend to approach the outcome of any PCs' actions. That's enough preamble. Let's get started.

First, let's define terms. Broadly speaking, in an RPG I define success as a character doing what they set out to do, failure as when a character doesn't do what they set out to do, opportunity when a character fails in the attempt but circumstances change to favor that PC (or the PCs as a group), and complication as when a character is successful but at some cost or risk. Some games include these concepts as a part of the task resolution rules, while other games give them little—or no—attention. Many games treat success as a binary option; you either succeed in an attempt or you do not. This can get more complicated depending on the system. Sometimes success is part of a longer process, or an extended task/action. A character makes a number of rolls that either bring the character closer to success, or they don't. Generally speaking, those two outcomes are a core part of the game.

While almost all RPGs have rules for successes and failures, and some have critical (or magnified) successes and failures, opportunities and complications are a vibrant way for the GM to run the game. For instance, a PC that attacks his or her target may fail to hit, but by a narrow margin. Rather than only telling the player that he or she missed and moving on to the next player, the GM could say; "Your swing went wide of the target causing him to stagger back, off balance," then grant a bonus to the next attack targeting the character that round. That opportunity can be exploited by another PC, giving the player that failed the roll a sense that he or she still contributed to the overall effort. Similarly, a player that rolls well enough—but just well enough—to hit the target could land the blow, but have their weapon momentarily bound in the enemy's armor, or swing wide and leave themselves open to a counterattack. Such a complication can have consequences for that PC and encourage another player to alter his or her actions to cover the momentary weakness of their ally. Giving a wider range of outcomes for basic tasks gives the GM a more dynamic and immersive scene than treating every successful hit the same, or telling a player that missed an attack by a narrow margin that their turn was spent in vain.

There are countless systems out there with staggering variation, which means GMs will need to decide on their own what would count as close enough for an opportunity or a complication on any individual roll. In a dice pool system a single success under, or passing by a single success, might qualify. In a flat roll system, succeeding or failing by a single point might work. In general, it's up to the individual GM and the way they want to run their game that should determine how such nebulous concepts are adjudicated.

So, this leads to a second thought. I briefly discussed this idea with a coworker who told me that he wants a system where success and failure are clearly defined, and that giving those results shades of gray is the responsibility of the GM. I tend to agree with him; the rules should be clear and easy to understand. However, I think there is a place in any game to go into greater depth about what success and failure actually mean.

What do you think? I'd love to hear your comments.