Writing Every Day 22: Why am I doing this?

Man, on its own that heading looks like a cry for help.

Now that I'm twenty-two (plus extra) entries into this experiment, I thought I'd take a moment to explore why I'm doing this and what I hope to get out of it.

I wish I could say that there was some inspirational inciting incident that made me choose to put up a steady stream of posts on the blog, but there really wasn't. I suppose it is more like how certain sedatives work; the substance builds up in your system until it reaches a critical amount and boom, you're unconscious.

The reason the drug was in my system in the first place harkens back to my college days. Back when I was in art school, I had an incredible teacher who assigned all of his students a high number of life drawing sketches to execute each week. I forget the specific number now, but it was something like fifty pages full of hand studies, fifty pages of face studies, and so on. He told us that these sketches were like an athlete performing short sprints. It was steady exercise that we performed to drill our skills and increase our endurance.

Those assignments have always held the ring of truth to me. Sketches are important to the visual artist. Words are important to the writer. While I don't feel comfortable calling myself a "writer," I do have to respect that writing is what I do for a living. There are people gracious enough to give me a salary to do so. I feel like I owe it to them to practice as much as possible, to run those short sprints.

I could do so in private, building up a massive catalogue of words that won't ever see the light of day. In the past, that's exactly what I have done. The reason I choose to do so in such a public way is because I hope someone out there reads what I'm saying. I do it because having someone like you read this stuff keeps me accountable. At that point I'm not doing it just for me. I'm also doing it for you guys.

There are a small handful of people out there who take a moment of their own day to look over what I'm saying. That holds similar value to me as the people who decide to pay me to write. Your time is valuable. You only have so much of it to go around, and that you'd spend a minute or two to look at the rudderless, rambling text I'm putting out is so, so appreciated.

Presently, the solitary means I have to show my appreciation is to keep writing, both here and at work. So that's what I'll do. I'll keep running my short sprints each (let's be honest, work) day for as long as I can. I hope that at some point, doing so will provide for me the same kind of benefit that those pages of life drawing studies were meant to back in the day.

Again, thank you for the time you've spent on me. A special thanks goes out to the teacher who showed me the value of persistence in pursuing your craft.

This one's for you, Scott.

Writing Every Day 21: Death

When should characters die?

It's a complicated question without a good answer. Some games treat character death as a common occurrence. Of particular note are early editions of D&D and more modern games that try to emulate that old school feeling. There death is frequent and can occur as the result of a single action. "Save or die" effects, nefarious traps with no (or a hyper-specific and unintuitive) method of escape, and ravenous monsters claim countless lives in those games. The tone of the game is to keep the characters constantly under the threat of death, always on their toes.

Other games almost treat death as a cardinal sin. In order to die, actually truly die, the character has to suffer some pretty incredible amounts of damage or roll very poorly on an injury table. Or the game treats death like a minor speedbump, with plenty of room to bring once-dead characters back to life through magic, science, divine intervention, or some combination of the three. Interestingly, there is a bit of overlap between games that kill characters at the drop of a hat and those that allow this kind of freely-distributed resurrection.

When deciding if it's time for a character to kick the bucket, first consider the assumptions of your game. You can be much looser with these rules in a setting that allows for resurrection, cheap or otherwise, but in general I try to keep some of the following things in mind when a character is about to bite it. As the Game Master you're the ultimate authority of your own game world and only you can arbitrate when the time is right.

Did the Player Screw Up?

And I mean really screw up. This can mean ignoring the ticking clock on a massive bomb the character is using as a chaise lounge, picking a fight with a greater demon right out of character creation, or running head-first into the path of an oncoming mag-lev train and thinking that it will break first.

Sometimes the only logical outcome for such a screwup is the character's death. I advocate full disclosure in events like these (e.g., "You can certainly try to jump from the top of the Burj Khalifa onto a passing hovercar, but if you miss you're probably going to die."), but if the player wants to take the action anyway, let 'em. Let the dice fall as they may.

Is it Fair?

Character death should always be fair.

Time for a personal anecdote. I played in a game once where the game master killed every character in the game. It happens. See my post on Dread for a game where it's damn near supposed to happen.

The difference being, in this case, the deaths weren't fair. We were not provided any information about what was leading to our deaths. If I recall it was a colorless, odorless gas that had been pumped into the entire facility we were exploring. The reason it wasn't fair is that it was random, none of our inquiries provided us with insight as to how to avoid it, and it killed us stone dead without a chance to avoid it.

But life isn't fair, I can almost hear some people saying. I agree. Who can say how many people suffocated by spelunking in toxic environments under remarkably similar circumstances? The chief difference is, life isn't a roleplaying game. Roleplaying games are something we do to have fun, and arbitrary twists of fate like that, while a sometimes accurate simulation of the real world, feel petty and a whole lot like bullshit to the players who endure them.

Does it Matter?

This is a big one for me. You see, when we play a character we tend to get invested in them. When our character's die a meaningless death, it stings. When that death is for some greater good, though, we can remember it with a bit of fondness.

Character death can be a potent tool for the story of a campaign. A character nobly sacrificing him or herself to save the life of another, or to provide an opening for the rest of the party to destroy the ultimate villain gives that death dramatic weight. It's why you see it in so many books and movies, from Darth Vader sacrificing his life to save Luke in Return of the Jedi to Ian Malcolm sacrificing his life in Jurassic Park to protect Lex and Tim. (Ian's example is interesting, because it shows how a Game Master can take what is by all rights character death, and keep the character in the story afterward. I suspect the theoretical Game Master liked the way Ian's player portrayed the character and worked out a way to keep him around).

These noble deaths have one important element that cheaper deaths lack: character choice. Letting the player choose when a character punches his or her ticket keeps the character squarely in the player's control. It doesn't rob the player of anything, because the player is the one who decides when and how it happens.

Do We Need Death?

One last thought before I sign off. It may sound like I avoid killing characters like the plague. That's not entirely true. While I try to make sure that it fits within the above parameters as much as possible, I think character death is important. Peril is one of the strongest tools a Game Master has to motivate the players and their characters. There are few greater perils than death. Death isn't the only peril in our toolbox, but it is the big one.

When we're running games, I believe it's important that everyone plays by the same rules. If the characters are willing to pick up weapons that are capable of killing off the NPCs, it follows that the reverse should be true as well. A gun in the villain's hand should be as potentially lethal as one in that of a player's character. 

Writing Every Day 20: Food

This one will be shorter than previous installments, because there's a whole lot of cooking to be done tonight. Before I jump away for a bit, I wanted to take a moment and talk about food, fiction, and RPGs.

Food occupies an interesting place in genre fiction. Pick up any Brian Jacques or George R.R. Martin book and you'll find passages dedicated to describing the elaborate meals in which the characters partake. Science Fiction and Cyberpunk talk about food as well, though they tend to use it to illustrate the bleak future of synthetic foods or disgusting ingredients that go into the food substitutes of the future.

Food is an effective touchstone. Everyone eats, so everyone has a sense of the experience of what these meals could be like. For the Game Master, food can give you another tool to manipulate the players and their experiences. While I don't advocate devoting a whole session to describing a single meal, I think the occasional reference to cuisine can go a long way.

Are your players exploring a foreign city for the first time? Dress it up with streetside vendors offering unusual local delicacies. You don't have to look far for inspiration* Are they returning home after a long campaign abroad? Then offering them some familiar comfort foods can help cement the fact that they're finally home.** If the game is a dystopian cyberpunk, having a session that takes them to a high-quality restaurant that uses real ingredients, rather than vat-grown meats and processed kelp bars, can illustrate the luxury of their surroundings.

Foods can also add authenticity to a location. Places with a strong coastal population often fish and gather sea life for their standard cuisine, while inland you'll see more red meats and crop vegetables or tubers. Religious food restrictions can also be interesting, from temporary ones like the prohibition on red meat during Lent to broader restrictions against pork in Jewish and Islamic traditions, or the avoidance of beef in parts of India.

You get the idea. Food is a simple but powerful way to manipulate the sensation the players have during the session. I'm not one of those "event" Game Masters who prepares appropriate meals for the current game—in general I've got too many things to worry about to go to that effort—but I've heard of others who've done so and had a great time.

Okay! That's it for now. Think about how you can use something as simple as a meal to give your players a more vibrant and authentic experience in the game. Until next time, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die.

Hey, maybe next time I'll talk about death in RPGs.

*This was the first Google result, and I'm in a hurry. I am not a fan for the way this author treats these local delicacies. Everything is weird to someone else.

** Feel free to take items from this list to sub them in for the previous one. As I said, everything is weird to somebody.

Writing Every Day 19: Simplification

Game design requires a tricky balance between simplification and complexity. In general you want to present a rule in the most straightforward manner possible so it is easy to remember and understand. I've mentioned before the workload a Game Master has while running the game. Simple and memorable rules mean the Game Master can keep more of them in his or her head at the same time, reduces confusion, and helps a game run smoothly.

On the other side of things, oversimplification doesn't provide as satisfying of an experience. A mechanic that strips things down to the barest of bones and doesn't allow for variation is dull and contributes to a less immersive experience. What's a designer to do?

One step I try to take when working on rules is to look at the number of component parts a single rule requires, often expressed by the number of rolls it requires a player to make. Almost always I'm of the opinion that a roll should only be required if failing that roll would have some kind of consequence for the character or characters attempting it. Sometimes the consequence is as simple as an inability to perform the desired action, other times the consequences can be much more dire.

If I spot a rule that has a bunch of different parts, I look for ones that can be combined or revised or handled with a prerequisite. Off the top of my head, I wouldn't ask a player who wants to read a book for a roll to see how well the PC comprehends the information within it. Unless it was some kind of Lovecraftian book that imperiled the character's health or sanity, I wouldn't ask for a roll at all. When a PC fires a pistol, I don't have the player make separate rolls for target acquisition, sighting the pistol, and firing. All of those steps are covered in the attack roll; a failure might indicate the PC fails at any one of those steps along the way, and tracking which one is rarely useful.

At their heart, all the rules in an RPG are abstractions that allow the players to work together under the same set of assumptions. They tell us that PCs with equivalent stats or skills are on roughly equal footing in regards to what those stats cover (barring rules that introduce exceptions, of course). If two PCs with perfectly matching Strength stats and appropriate skills attempt the same action, they should reasonably expect to have the same odds of success or failure. If that's true, the level of abstraction that apply to those rules are simply discovering the point at which the players are comfortable with the existing complexity. I feel that our goal should be to get as close to oversimplification as we can, without crossing that line.

Here's a good example of what I mean. There are numerous items in my home game that provide bonuses to particular types of rolls. In early versions of the game, each item's rules were developed independently of the others, creating a list of numerical benefits from +1 to +10, all based on how "good" we felt that item was. This drove me absolutely batty. I could never remember what benefit a particular item gave on its related rolls and couldn't present situations and challenges appropriately. After some deliberation, I decided to scrap these scattershot benefits and start again.

My first instinct took me deep into the territory of oversimplification. Every item provided the same bonus, differing only on the type of action they benefitted. It simplified things, but homogenized them as well and took some of the vibrancy out of the player's options. Fortunately I discovered this during the revision phase and it never saw a moment of playtesting. After some work, I landed on three broad bands of quality: Simple, Advanced, and Expert. Simple items provided +1 to related rolls, Advanced +3, and Expert +6. That wasn't all, though.

Breaking items into those three bands only made things three times more complex than the mono-benefit I'd decided was too dull. Fortunately this is a roleplaying game and not a board game, so I was free to introduce a different kind of complexity to the items: narrative and conditional benefits. I drop descriptions of how each item functions in addition to the static benefit it provides, as well as figuring out ways for items to circumvent other rules to give a richer, more immersive experience to the players who chose those items.

As an off the cuff example, let's look at two rifle scopes under this system, I'm making up the narrative portion of the rules as I go, so they're probably not what I would end up with after some revision, but it will give you a decent idea.

Scope, Digital Magnification (Simple)
Cost: Money
Description: This scope uses digital magnification to zoom in on distant objects, greatly magnifying their perceived size. A simple digital magnification scope can increase the size of an object by XXX times, allowing the user to spot objects at a far greater distance than normal.
While using this scope, a character gains a +1 bonus to aimed shots and ignores the penalty for shooting at targets beyond a weapon's effective range.

—versus—
Scope, Thermal (Simple)
Cost: Money
Description: This scope provides minor magnification and can detect and translate infrared radiation, allowing the user to see the relative temperature difference between objects. Warmer objects, like body heat or the heat produced by a vehicle's engine are brighter and warmer-colored, while cooler objects like concrete are cooler-colored.
While using this scope, a character gains a +1 bonus to aimed shots and living characters do not gain concealment against him.

That hastily-written example should give you an idea of the level of complexity I shoot for when we start testing out a new item in my home game. Some things will be added to answer the questions players bring up ("How far is a greater distance?" or "How sensitive is the thermal scope to temperature variation" come to mind).

Those questions will add back in complexity until testing reveals that an item is trying to do too much. Some things will be removed as rules and folded into the general description of the item. Others will persist as rules. Eventually the item will find that sweet spot between being simple, with just enough complexity to make it interesting.

Writing Every Day 18: Information flows both ways

Asking your Players Questions

I used to think of Game Mastering as a one-way flow of information. The players asked me questions and I filled in the details in my answers. In recent years, I've come to appreciate the results when you ask the players questions instead.

I listened to the One Shot podcast a bit at work this afternoon, and I was impressed by a technique the Game Master used. She very briefly set up the situation, telling the group the time of day, setting, and gave a bit of color, then turned to one of her players and asked him "Where are you?"

Question Choice

The Game Master's choice of question was smart. Often I hear Game Masters ask "What are you doing?" That's a fine question, but I don't think it's where you want to begin. That question can be too open-ended and leave a player struggling to come up with something interesting to say. By asking a narrower question, or a leading question, the player doesn't have to think as hard and the pace of the game flows smoothly.

When you set out to ask your player for information, you need to be ready to let them narrate. Choosing your questions wisely can keep them from over-narrating and placing you in an inextricable situation that derails your game. Even the above question could have led into some murky waters if the Game Master didn't first set up some parameters. (e.g., "You are all aboard the good ship Venus through the outer rim, travelling from planet Limerick to the Obscure Reference spaceport").

Even a carefully chosen question can lead you into trouble, so sometimes it is in your best interests to do the leading first.

Leading Questions

A leading question can force someone to respond in a narrowly defined way and restricts some of possible responses; probably the reason it isn't allowed in a court of law. For Game Masters, though, it has a lot of potential.

Asking a leading question forces the player to consider the question and respond within the boundaries of the narrative. It can be a heavy-handed technique that not all players are fond of, so I advise caution, but with the right group it can lead to some interesting roleplaying. An example of a leading question is something like, "Flames from the containment core burn through the corridor and a desperate maintenance crew struggles to fight them. Billy, you're close enough to feel the heat; why aren't you helping?" or "Captain Cousteau receives a verbal dressing down from the port authority. Billy, how does that make you feel?"

The first example is more extreme because it suggests player action. Maybe Billy wants his PC to assist in the firefighting effort, but your question tells him that he isn't. You might get a response that contradicts your question, or outright denial of your proposed scenario. The second is a bit more subtle and still leaves the player an out. Billy might decide that it doesn't make him feel anything, which is a fine response, but asking that leading question lets him know that you want him to consider the situation. It lets him know that you expect something from him, one way or another.

Questions as a Memory Tool

Okay. Last thing on this topic.

Often one of the PCs in my games will have a pet or sidekick or robot or something. While technically an NPC, I am terrible at remembering they are around and should be participating in the action, so I don't worry about it. During that PCs' turn, I'll simply ask them what their buddy is doing.

I like doing this because it allows me to worry about the dozens of other things a Game Master has to worry about during a game, but I also like it because it puts the control of that resource squarely in the player's hands. It's their sidekick/pet/whatever and the player probably has a cool mental image of how it interacts with the PC. Having the player decide when his or her hunting hound cowers and whines or begs for scraps by the table is totally fine. The most I'll do is add some color to the situation or ask for an Animal Handling roll for complex actions the PC wants the pet to perform, or what have you.

Giving the player control over this kind of incidental NPC frees me up and gives the player more control, both things that I wholeheartedly support.

Writing Every Day 17: Campaign Journals and Story Arcs

As I previously mentioned, a campaign journal is a useful tool for Game Masters who want to run games with connected events worked into the story.

A journal can take almost any form. The majority of mine amount to hastily sketched out crib notes in my binder of graph paper. Every session I prepare an initiative tracker with the names of all the participants and slots to check off as they take their turns which takes up about a third of the page. The remainder is given over to sloppy columns of NPC damage tracks, quick reminders about the specific items I've sold to PCs at what cost, and tons of quick notes on the names of people and place the PCs encounter during the session.

I didn't set out to create a journal at first; these notes just proved useful for me while I ran that night's game. Taken together though, they provide me with a clear map of where the game has gone over its course, the kinds of encounters the PCs have run into, and NPCs that have caught their attention enough to require names and traits.

In the past year or so, I've started keeping an unobtrusive tablet at the table next to my notebook. It serves as a handy resource for looking up information on the fly, generating random loot or ship names, and a host of other tasks. But it also serves as a secondary campaign journal for me. I try to sit down in the aftermath of a session and write out a handful of quick topics that came up during the game in a Word doc.

I clean these notes up and post it to all the players in our shared Facebook group. That way, players who missed a game can get up to speed before the next session, players who participated get a reminder of where the game left off, and I don't forget details that seemed to be important during the session.

I have to admit that I use both sides of my hybrid campaign journal in a sneaky, secondary way. See, I like it when a campaign has a satisfying arc to it, like the story arcs of traditional entertainment like books and movies. I'll use my campaign journal as a way of tracking where the campaign would be in a traditional arc and use that when planning what comes next. See my post about callbacks for a more specific example of this.

I don't force myself to adhere strictly to the three act structure with its pinch-points and such, but figuring out where in the arc our game stands lets me know when it would be satisfying for the main antagonist to escalate his scheme, or for there to be a major setback the players have to overcome. I do my best to not let this structure dictate the options the players have in the game. Instead, I use it to guide myself on how the world around them needs to change. Done right, it lends a dramatic and familiar sense to the story. Done wrong, it comes across as forceful and trite. If you want to explore this technique I suggest taking a light hand at first. If the players are into it, they'll let you know. They'll also let you know if they're not.

Writing Every Day 16: A Failure to Communicate

I have a love/hate relationship with languages in RPGs.

On one hand, I like the depth that languages imply for a game world. Having distinct languages and regional dialects helps make the world feel more real. It provides interesting talents for PCs to invest in. Our world has tons of distinct and often unique languages, so it stands to reason that the game world should too, right?

On the other hand, I loathe languages in an RPG because of the obstacles they can impose. Now, I'm not thinking about obstacles that I put in place for the PCs to overcome. I'm fine with those. Trying to interrogate someone when there's no shared language can result in some innovative action by the PCs, finding a manuscript written in a language the PCs don't speak can encourage them to visit a new location I want to showcase in search of a translator, and on and on.

The obstacles I'm thinking of are the unintended ones that I haven't prepared for and that don't do the game any good. A PC without a shared language with the rest of the party is fun for almost no time at all. It can prevent coordination and cohesion and either excludes that PCs character or pushes the PC into the spotlight far too often. It makes the job of the Game Master and other players harder than it needs to be.

One workaround many games use is the universal language. Some language that every PC is assumed to know regardless of their background. This sort of irks me too. I like the idea of a world where communication is not guaranteed, where, like in our own world, critical negotiations can falter because of a mistranslation of key terms. A world where linguistic complications can arise exactly when and where I need them to.

The way I've handled this situation in my own games is the idea of trade languages. A trade language isn't universal by default. Instead, it's usually known only by characters, be they PCs or NPCs, who would have a reason to learn them. In addition, a trade language is only as good as the ties between cultures. So, for instance, if I have the game start in Citystate A it will have a trade language that it shares with its closest neighbors Citystates B and C, as well as its trade partner across the sea Citystate D. Any PC or NPC with a decent excuse for why they would possess the language have it gratis. The reason I do this is so PCs have a reasonable expectation that they can communicate with characters in the surrounding area while they find their footing in game, with a few additional far-flung regions if I decide the game needs a change of scenery.

I also make the trade languages of my games pidgins or creoles of the languages that make up the trade partners. In my mind the languages have basic constructions with easy to parse rules. My reason for doing so is that even if a character doesn't speak the trade language, he or she can pick out a handful of keywords in any exchange because they're spoken in a language the character is familiar with. If the conversation is trivial, I'll often let the player know what's been said and tell him or her that they only get the general gist of what was said. If the conversation is more important, and misunderstanding could result in consequences or interesting encounters later on, I'll have that player make a roll to determine how successfully he or she follows the dialogue.

There's an important bit of info that's buried in the above regarding the spread of these trade languages: they only go as far as the trade does. When the PCs travel into the great unknown such languages still exist, but they have no assumption of knowing them and have to actually invest advancement in learning them. But if trade spans the globe in the game world some version of a trade language is widespread, either chosen from the language of a primary economic power or a nightmarish hybrid of multiple different tongues.

To send you out, one of my favorite world-building moments from one of my favorite films, relevant to this topic.