Best Guess

In building emotional depth into the game's campaign, we are fascinated by the manner in which a single action we take reverberates through the responses and actions of others... and how this escalates conflict. Our first efforts to reproduce this effect are difficult, because we don't fully grasp the layering complexity of how this believably occurs; but after studying film, literature or history, we see constructed or real narratives unfold in a way that feels interconnected, complex and inevitable.

It's an educator's role to help us elucidate narratives in this manner, teaching us what to look for in the development of layered cause-and-effect structures. Hopefully, this helps us understand complex narratives in a way that isn't obvious at first glance. A useful example for this would be the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. For many, this seemed to be a spontaneous occurrence; the protests and public gatherings escalated quickly in the weeks leading up to that November. The media were caught with their pants down, focused largely on the immediate visual spectacle and weren't ready to explain in detail why it was happening. When the first stories emerged that tried to explain it, the influence of Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms received tremendous attention, such that he ended up receiving a Nobel Peace Prize... but this was hype. The Soviet Union was broke; the war in Afghanistan had been a disaster and 30 years of intense cold war spending had emptied the nation's coffers. It could no longer maintain control over its satellite states, and as a result, the power vacuum was sensed by those in East Berlin who, not spontaneously, but because they were no longer being held back, acted as they were now able. The suddenness of the fall was more about the long-suppressed pressures finally finding release rather than an unplanned outburst.

This is, of course, a gross oversimplification; hundreds of factors are at play which, if unraveled, lends insight to what happened. Through the investigation of these factors, particularly under the guidance of someone who may have been there while also deeply involved in the event's political background, can lead us to comprehending more fully what happened. Steadily, we acquire a certainty that things happen for a reason, even the most spontaneous of things. By reverse engineering these things, we gain understanding of how to set up the factors, and where they ought to lead a fictional narrative that we construct for our own purpose.

Continued on the Higher Path

Atmosphere

A common weakness in many dungeon masters is to focus on the immediate needs of their campaign, to find a module that can be quickly adapted before the next session, to produce an NPC's "backstory" in the hopes of producing a quick, short-term motivation for the party, or the ideal of a throw-it-at-them encounter that will distract the players long enough to give enough time to come up with something else. As a result, DMs often rush from instant solution to instant solution, always at the edge of feeling like if they don't come up with something in the last few hours before game time, they're sunk.

This mindset largely emerges from a failure to grasp the influence of artistic design, atmosphere and emotional depth... which in turn reflects the tendency to see these things as "non-applicable" precisely because they don't address the immediate problems of the DM. On the whole, these elements seem like luxuries when the DM's immediate concern is keeping the game running and the players engaged. They are intangible and difficult to quantify. A combat encounter or puzzle has clear, actionable components, whereas "atmosphere" is an elusive quality that defies definition.

This is largely because of the form of education we obtain; in general, our grade school teachers themselves were unable to explain exactly why we were directed to study Shakespearean plays or deconstruct poetry. Art, for most people, feels unproductive, useless and unnecessary; it expends time attempting to duplicate work that plainly others, who have spent more time at it, will always be more proficient than we are. The answer received, in turn, usually consists of a poorly-experienced teacher saying that art is a way of unwinding, relaxing, that it provides an escape and helps us forget about things, momentarily, that are actually important.

Continued on the Higher Path

Education

We come now to the most difficult part of this series, where we have to set aside what "resources" are and how to use them, and take up the unholy, unwanted subject of "education." This disaster of a field, that has induced nearly every conscious person to equate with their frustrating, provably irrelevant school experience. Where, as teenagers, we used to say to our teachers, "Why are we learning this? I'm never going to use it," only to be chastened to warned not to question the importance of school, we can look back now in our late adulthood and say with surety, "I was right. I never did use that crap I was taught."

For this reason, when most of us hear, "education," we equate it at once with the traditional system — hours of rote memorisation, irrelevant topics, boredom, long wasted hours and the absence of practical benefit. This is made worse in that most assume that if there's anything to be gained from education as a DM, it must come from a formally named subject-specific class, "How to be a Dungeon Master 201" — which, in fact, the reason why this collection of posts is called "RPG 201." The title mimics the academic naming convention because if we do not say what a thing is right on the tin, they won't trust what they're buying. This puts me the position of having to lift that boat out from the water and scraping the barnacles off it's bottom.

Education differs from research in that learning from others is part of the process, either because we undertake to teach a subject or learn one. As a student, we do not hold the teacher accountable with every statement made to prove that the knowledge being given is worth knowing. As a teacher, we don't waste the student's time, discarding conventions and assumptions about what education ought to include. The weak point in the education system was not us, the students, and it was not our teachers; it was the vast panoply of interveners who were not in the classroom with us, but yet forced us ALL to obey a ridiculous set of protocols that continue to get in the way of everything. Education can be meaningful when it's focused and practical, and free from unnecessary distractions. This has to be understood first before any good can come of what's written here next.


Continued on the Higher Path

Chemical Reactions

Continuing with the effects of resources upon things, consider the manner in which a book, film or an experience can serve to fuel creative thinking, like a chemical reaction that accelerates or enhances the mind. This sort of catalyst has no definite outcome; it rushes at us without expectation, but when it hits, our creative process feels a flash of insight, inspiration and excitement at the possibilities with which the idea fills us.

But though we want catalysts to occur on a regular basis, we don't know when they will, or even IF they will. There’s no method, no sign, no clear way to predict when a moment of insight will, or won't, come. No matter how much we’ve read, learned and experienced, we can never tell if an outcome will come, or what that outcome will be. From our perspective, it seems to just happen—it appears out of nowhere, with no pattern to follow. This is what makes it puzzling, because even with all the knowledge and tools at our disposal, we can’t predict it or force it.

This is a substantive characteristic of creativity that forces would-be painters, musicians, film-makers and writers into becoming shop clerks, insurance salespeople, resource managers and electricians. Creativity is, and will always be, something that is beyond our control; it depends upon inspiration, which is a miserable, taciturn, rotten little zeitgeist that has a tendency to stay as a guest too long when our relatives are visiting from Schenectady and is never around when we've taken two weeks off for a holiday.

Continued on the Higher Path

Barbara Stanwyck

For fun.

The Wiki is Active

The Authentic Wiki is up again, at last, two days late, but life goes like that sometimes.  Naturally, when it's down, that's when I finally feel like starting to do some kind of work on it.

AND... it isn't.

There were log in problems, so it was up for the public, but I couldn't get into it. Problem's being worked on.

AND... it is.

Only, there's something wrong with the log-in feature, so that even us administrators can't log in.  The wiki is accessible but for the present, it can't be adjusted until it's moved to a highly upgraded server... and given the recent move, that isn't happening any time soon.

Three Measly Bucks

I am continuing the series on the Higher Path, which can be obtained by anyone for just $3 a month. It's up to the reader to decide if they already know everything they want to know about D&D.

Here's a snippet of today's post:

... When the players respond to such unusual motifs and in-depth situations, stolen blatantly from real history, they nevertheless respond in reflection of the complex, believable situation we've woven. It's believable, we know, because it really happened.

The more resources we engage with, not only in one small field, but across a large spectrum of ideas, the more situations and ideas we can add to our overall arsenal. This makes us not only more complicated at grand, complex schemes, but simple, momentary situations as well. Our source material should also include small, tactile little moments, dredged up from stories, personal accounts and even letters home. This last, which is plentiful enough a resource in later time periods, expresses the exact same sentiments that existed a thousand years ago than they did in the last war. We haven't changed... so any bit or piece of knowledge...

It's no skin off my nose if you miss what I've said because you can't raise three measly bucks. 

We are Experiencing Technical Difficulties

So sorry, the wiki still isn't up.  I'm informed that "unsettling" occurred during the move; there are service people working on the issue presently.

In other news, I'm afraid I've removed 26 names from having access to my higher path blog.  To all such persons, I thank you gratefully for all that you've donated in the past; I have written on that blog since 2022, but as I'll be putting the continuing series there, the time has come to clean house.  If I have accidentally removed anyone that shouldn't have been removed, then please write me immediately at patreon, here in the comments, or on my email at alexiss1@telus.net, tell me the correct name of your account on patreon and I'll get that repaired.

A Move

The 17th post of this series that I've been writing, which is well over 16,000 words thus far, has been posted on The Higher Path.  I'm going to continue posting this series there, not here.  Access to the Higher Path can be obtained through my Patreon page.

I assume that some here have been enjoying it; and that most, not seeing it appear on some RSS feed, will just assume I'm not writing it any more.  But I assure the reader that I am.  

Game Imbalance

I am sorry to say that the Authentic Wiki still isn't active, though it should be. I have no idea why. At present, the service company is overwhelmed with their move so there's nothing to do now but wait. I'm assured it should be restored some time tomorrow, if not later today.

Yesterday I received a missive that was grateful that I was establishing a taxonomy for D&D game preparation. It might be good at this point to briefly explain that I haven't invented this — it's the basic design taxonomy that applies to everything that built or prepared for in the world.

Research, to start, involves gathering the necessary tools and understanding the mechanics, methods, and world elements available for the game. This is the foundation, like identifying the raw materials and technologies available to you. I've defined this as understanding the rules and anticipating the player's actions as a form of discovery, to determine what parts of our game we should expand and focus upon.

Estimation is about calculating what is needed in terms of resources and costs to successfully execute the creation of a given thing. This step involves weighing costs, both literal and metaphorical, such as how much detail to include or how long a session will last. I've described this as including preparing ahead of time specifically for sessions and the specification of what's really essential for our needs. This is like buying only those things we need to get the thing built.

Planning is the architectural phase, where you organize the components of what the project needs, bringing them to the site or storing them on the premises, whether we're talking about building a house or readying a kitchen for the food it needs to cook that day. I've been describing these things as laying out the setting, fixing the combat system and explaining how intrigue works. With this post, we're going to discuss the party's accumulation of resources, wealth, powerful items and overall status.

Running the actual game is, therefore, the "manufacturing process", where everything that's been researched, estimated and planned is put into practice. This is where all the design phases come to life, where the interaction between players and the dungeon master happens. Our earlier discussions of how players can be better players fits into this overall process as well, as everything we've discussed so far contributes to a smoothly running team that's capable of making a fine product that's in high demand.

To continue...

Wealth and resources serve as a key driver of the party's decisions because they represent opportunity and power. Wealth opens doors to greater influence, better equipment and the ability to overcome more significant challenges, as does the accumulation of experience and personal abilities. It is these things that compel the players to take greater risks, exploring dangerous parts of the setting or involving themselves in wide-reaching conflicts. If players don't feel pushed to acquire these things, it's because they're already so overpowered they don't feel especially threatened by the game's structure. If they deliberately avoid situations of danger, because these are always presented as a choice, then this is a clear indication that the players are content with what they have and don't feel any strong need to threaten or adjust their status quo.

"Comfort" is an undesirable quality in a player. There is an adage about the removing of limpets from rocks; limpets are incredibly tough, resilient sea creatures that, once fixed to a stone surface, are nearly impossible to remove, even with the blunt force of a hammer. However, if the rock is lifted out of the water and set in the open air, the limpet will move of its own accord, to a different rock that is submerged. In essence, we have removed its food supply; we have made the limpet uncomfortable. This is what must be done with players who are unmotivated by the accumulation of wealth and other things.

Therefore, we must do more than "award" things; we must also continuously plan to remove the players from their "food supply," making them feel that they NEED to act in order to survive or thrive, which invigorates their engagement with D&D. This requires more than merely having their stack of coins dwindle or their food supplies sour; it isn't enough to tax or gouge them at the market. We must physically, like the limpet, place the characters in situations where getting themselves out of the trouble they've landed in requires that they actively move in the direction of safety.

The premise of accumulation must be that the more we have, the safer we are — or, at least, the better chance we have of securing a foothold in some part of the setting where we control most of the ways where we might be accessed by a potential enemy. This ought to be the real reason why players are eventually driven to the construction of a castle... not for the sake of their vanity or prestige, but because this is the safest of possible places into which they might retreat.

But a castle is a long, long way off for any common group of adventurers at the start of a campaign. To possess such a place would mean hundreds of treasures that would need to be fought over and gathered. To succeed in this would undoubtedly require many precious, treasured objects of power that would break the backs of our enemies and expose their hoards to our greedy fingers. The overall process demands risk, which requires players with courage who are prepared to gamble their characters like chips on a craps table... a vast, complicated version of that game with many kinds of dice and points that need to be made at exact moments and in exact ways.

This, however, is the players' perspective. The dungeon master has a separate difficulty at hand; how to establish the pace at which this acquisition of treasure is accumulated. We know that it cannot be too much, else our limpets will settle and cease to engage. This, however, doesn't tell us anything about what the amount of "encouragement" is appropriate.

There is a common sense that players, if given too little treasure, are liable to become discouraged or disengaged from the game; this might be true, if the full experience of play is designed almost entirely upon hack, kill and take the treasure. There are other considerable angles of the game, such as the aforementioned intrigue that we can invest the players in, as well as participation in achieving their hopes and dreams, which we'll discuss in the next post. It's entirely possible to run a game of D&D where the players are so impoverished as to be hardly peasants, without this disengagement taking place. Therefore, we should not overly measure the importance of "giving the players what they want" as something that need concern us.

What we're looking for is the "sweet spot" of treasure giving. This is, unfortunately, always framed in the usual discussion of "too much" or "too little," which may properly describe some of what we've just said here. In terms of knowing the right amount to give, however, this comparison is a dead end because it fails to address the real problem, which is how to make treasure consequential in a meaningful way. The right amount cannot be measured by what it is NOT... we'll chase our tails unto eternity pursuing that solution.

Instead, we must use our good sense to calibrate the impact of treasure, whatever it's form, for this includes the conveyance of status upon the party as well, in terms of how we see it, moment to moment, affecting the party in REAL TIME. This requires that we see treasure as more than a thing that adds to the party's pile. It is a catalyst for change within the game's ongoing function, having ripple effects in numerous ways. For example, if a player's character has just acquired a specific powerful tool, their desire is to apply it like a hammer to every "nail" in sight. This can be fun for a while — but if this habit persists, we can easily see we've given the player something too BIG for his or her britches as a game participant.

This doesn't mean we can rush in and take it away; we've given the thing and within certain boundaries, we must blame ourselves and chalk it up to experience, learning not to do this again. In the meantime, we can concoct events in the game where the "hammer" is less effective, or not at all, and wait for the day when the player's character gets into some corner that they fail to get out of. Then we can, with a clear conscience, quietly remove the object from our campaign. I do not say we should engineer this corner; if the game we run is dangerous enough, and the player overly secure with their toy, that won't be necessary. Though problematic, such issues must be solved over time in a manner that is both practical and respectful of player agency. After all, we gave the item; it is on us to suffer the consequences.

It can be seen from this example that what's wanted is a positive, progressive experience for all the players at the same time. We want them to do well, and towards that end, we give them a goodly amount of treasure and nice items that simultaneously empower them, just enough that those "ripples" through the game don't excessively shape the game's structure to the players' benefit. On our side, we can always merely double the number of dangers the players meet; there are always enough enemies to place before the players, because we literally conjure them out of thin air. Therefore, in considering what is "enough treasure," we may equally consider this against the question, what is "too much monster?"

I resist the use of the term "game balance" as an ill-defined concept that is vague and overused. Instead, let's merely stress that both sides of the equation — treasure and challenges — must be something we weigh constantly in the back of our minds as we plan every part of the game. Importantly, BOTH are fluid and easily adapted to each moment during game play, so that as one increases, the other must be managed in a like fashion, though not necessarily in a "balanced" fashion. Balance describes a situation where different elements are equal or in correct proportions to one another. This is NOT what we want! At times, we definitely want power tipped in the players favour, so that occasionally they'll experience the thrill of wasting their enemies and carrying piles of treasure and other goodies away, shouting with glee as they go. At other times, we should tip that power the other way, where the monsters are so threatening and perversely dangerous that the players exist in a state of abject dispair, wondering how they shall ever emerge from this hellscape. So it is with a game that, unlike a story, has no "act structure" because it is perpetual. Sometimes, the game's litany is that of a dangerous climax; at other times, we are in the midst of a new adventure's onset or some sort of denouement. The uncertainty of the player's accumulation of goods vs. the world's danger ebbs and flows like the deck of a ship — where perfect "balance" only occurs when no wind is blowing.

Therefore, there is no such thing as a "sweet spot" where the giving of treasure is concerned... which is no great comfort to those who began this post thinking they might at last be granted the answer to this long-debated question. The right "spot" is as changeable as an empty bucket rolling about on our metaphorical deck. We must, as the DM, decide in the moment where that bucket is, and fill it precisely to where it can either cease to move or rather scatter its contents as it rolls. Like the challenges that the players face, treasure must be fluid and adaptable. At one moment, a large haul of treasure might be exactly what the players need to feel a sense of accomplishment after a grueling battle. In another moment, that same amount could tip the scales too far and make future challenges feel trivial. With too little experience, we're always going to wind up giving too much or too little. The best we can do is try to make up for our shortcomings when we've done misestimated — and comfort ourselves with knowing that sometimes, the players need to feel flush with wealth. At other times, they need to be struggling. For good or ill, if we've goofed, and made them feel either at the wrong time, we can take comfort in the knowledge that next time, if it seems the right time, we'll make up for it.

Intrigue

Embarking upon a more esoteric form of game play, one often studiously avoided because of its difficulty for both the players and dungeon master, is what we may call strategic decision-making. This means something different in D&D than it does in war-based board gaming; here, it is the problem of decoding layers of uncertainty that arise from a world where intrigue and subtle currents of power affect the setting, whether this is an untrustworthy ally, a dangerous political swamp, or some non-player character's hidden agenda. Players will, in a full, rich world, bump against any of these, and many other like situations. The difficulty has two parts: the DM must be able to conceive of such plots and mechinations, to a degree that they can be presented as both understated and believable, and the players must be capable of realising that such a game is afoot, and be capable of piecing together clues in order to understand it.

If either of these necessities does not exist, then this sort of game play is next to impossible. For players to interpret clues, there must BE clues; which requires a DM to invent clues... and these must be of a type that can be interpreted, but not so easily that they're less clue-like than obvious facts. It also requires participants for whom deviousness and ruthlessness aren't wholly alien to their personal experience. Like the film detective who has become indoctrinated through experience in the darker sides of human nature, the players too must have some taste for this sort of fare. If not, if they are upset by it, or cannot conceive that someone would seize illegitimate power by hook or by crook, regardless of the necessary means, then such babes in the wood won't enjoy the raw seriousness such doings portend.

For those wishing to dive in, however, this aspect of gaming requires every bit as much design as the making of maps or preparing a working combat system. First, we must know the setting's inhabitants, as well as we know the characters from a pantheon of films and books that have depicted those who work outside the law for the last two hundred years. Intrigue and the quest for easy power can be defined as a personal shortcut for those who aren't willing to work and wait for their reward. They want the reward now, as quickly as they can achieve it... and normally, there are so many such persons in a life-like setting that they are competing with each other to get a bite of the apple, as they are getting a hold of the apple itself.

This multi-person set up produces a multi-layered engagement, made more complex by the simple fact that there are also good people pretending to be bad people in order to stop the bad people. Thus, a villain might surprisingly turn out to be an ally; an apparent ally, a backstabbing bastard. The players themselves may choose to play either side of the field, for there are no rules except what we impose autocratically to stop players from being the "bad guys" themselves. The mess and mayhem of all this, even though we have only gotten this far, already feels like it's up to our chest and ready to overwhelm us. We might ask, how in hell is this to be sorted, if we don't already know how to do so?

To solve the problem, we must think like a detective novel. This does not mean setting up all the events that are to take place well in advance, so that the players are reduced to characters in a book. What the characters do, what they say to others who are engaged in such affairs, must matter as much as their choosing which enemies to fight on a battle field or which places they want to go. However, in our engaging with the players, our goal as a dungeon master is to both dispense information and hoard it, just as any product of film noir or pulp fiction does.

For example, the players are told to meet with an individual, Salif. In this encounter, we must decide first, what does Salif actually know? Then, what is Salif willing to say at this time... and this we divide into what he'll say if only asked, and what he'll say if threatened? Then, finally, more tricky still, what things does Salif think that he knows, but in fact knows inaccurately. This last is all important, since we must always remember that the NPCs the players interact with are themselves operating within the same framework as the players. They only know what they've been able to learn; no one knows everything; and everyone's perspective is riddled with falsehoods and mistaken beliefs.

Again, for example, let us say that someone out there in the maelstrom intends to kill Salif. How do we play this? We can have Salif killed off "camera," as it were, which the party then learns about. Or we can have Salif killed in front of them, where the party can witness it. Or we can have an attempt on Salif's life that the party can either prevent, or fail to prevent. The way we present this information, or design the scene, allows opportunities for the players to interrogate the message bearer, or pursue the murderer, or save the victim. The information, over all, is dispensed out to the party in a way that empowers them a little further, while whetting their appetite for the next piece. If they save him, then Salif has all the more reason to dump everything he knows; if they don't save them, then we decide how much Salif can say before he dies.

This natural consequence based on the character's actions permits legitimate adventuring with the players retaining their agency. They decide whom to search for; they decide what questions to ask; they decide what apparently clues matter, and which are true. They decide if they want to go into dangerous places to learn what they're informed exists there. They have to trade for their lives, giving information they know to those who threaten them. They have to know when to gamble on the humanity of someone who appears to be an enemy; and when not to trust a friend who isn't. We may design the fabric of the conspiracy, but how the players interact with it is entirely up to them.

It is so easy, since we have all the information, to disregard the necessity of an adventure like this to be legitimately player-driven. This is especially made hard by the players themselves, who often fail to see certain obvious clues that we've put right in front of them, which would lead them out of the mess... a misconception which can cause a party to give up hope, to assume that every step they can take is the wrong one. Even that they might as well just quit the adventure and even the game, merely by making themselves blind to some important detail or through they're absolute mistrust of someone who has done everything they can to indicate that they can be trusted. It is the players who are the first to argue that we've rigged the series of events, even when we haven't. This is because most players don't THINK like a detective; they think like those who have never had to face something like this before, and as such, they automatically distrust everyone, on principle.

An intrigue-designed adventure cannot be played with paranoia. It must be played with the confidence that no matter how difficult the immediate situation, there's a way out; there's an ally ready to help; there's something we know that is of value to someone, who won't kill us because we know this thing. It requires players to trust that the DM hasn't rigged the game against them; that, in fact, we HAVE NO REASON TO DO THAT. Players who cannot adopt these perspectives, who possess an automatic, almost reflexive doubt to anything they're told, have no business playing on the dark side of the waterfront. In running these adventures, we want to give the players plenty of information that helps them make thoughtful decisions; but if all the player thinks is that we're giving them rope to hang themselves with, then we might as well not run these sorts of adventures.

We can, here and there, fiddle with small ideas. A single informant where all else is plainly obvious. A pantomime-like villain whose footprints might as well be cast in the white paint he stepped in before entering in his nefarious activities. The occasional uncertain bit of detail that can be thrown into the mix of a clear, upfront adventure. Perhaps, with one player in the party who is better versed in the genre, they might help the others understand how to play it. Otherwise, and until such time as players mature into those who can handle this kind of play, it's best to treat these elements of game play as decorative rather than as the session's foundation.

Cornered

Our next step is to question whether or not combat is an inevitable part of D&D. Traditionally, it has been, as players in various circumstances carry weapons and wear armour for a reason, and not for show. However, with later badly structured combat systems in place, there are many DMs who eschew combat, preferring to focus on other aspects of gameplay, because the mechanics of combat can be sluggish, dragging down the pace of the game and making it boring for both the players and the dungeon master.

It seems obvious, given the failure of the official community to rationally address this problem, that we must address it ourselves. Some advocate that we should twist ourselves into pretzels, adopting time-saving strategies meant to compress moments in combat down to their bare minimum, strategising the way that die modifiers are added up in advance, or demanding players respond with their actions near-instantaneously, to compensate for the rules being radically diverse and complex.

A better answer, it would seem, would be to adopt a top-down approach to fixing the problem. If an automobile becomes so complex that the driver must adopt so many strategies to cope with it that it ends in back problems and a headache at the end of a three hour drive, the solution is not to find a better position in which to sit in order to drive the car. The solution is to sell the damn thing and buy one that drives more easily. In a way, this describes the choice taken by many DMs, who do feel that if the combat system doesn't perform well, get rid of it. But while I suggest getting a better system, they prefer to get rid of the system entirely and replace it by resolving conflicts through social interactions, clever solutions or careful navigation of the world's dangers... treating combat in the game like the addage, "whomsoever throws the first punch loses the argument."

D&D is not a social dispute, however; it's a game, not a moral high ground promoting the idea that violence is the last resort. Violence in D&D is an intentional aspect of the game, with an expansive rule set intended to moderate it, reward for it and frankly encourage it. Combat isn't a fallback or a failure of diplomacy, it's a key part of the adventuring experience.

The real challenge, then, isn't in avoiding combat, but in making combat work. This demands that it be interesting, fluid, easy to play and integral to the players' actions. Our first step is to accept that yes, we have the right to rethink those parts of the combat system that we don't want to be part of our game, going forward. There's a common belief, especially among some DMs, that the rules as written (RAW) are sacrosanct, that to change them is somehow betraying the integrity of the game. But it’s essential that we challenge this notion, because the rules are just tools created by ordinary designers — people who may not have anticipated every style of play, and who certainly aren't sitting next to us as we try to use the contraption they've designed.

The functionality of D&D must continually be questioned if we are to understand our control and mastery of the game, though the experience that we require. We need our game, including the combat system, to be effective and as easy to manage as possible, given that so many aspects of having to control the players, the narrative and the overall demands of the game are already very, very complex. Like anything else that needs to be designed, it's our privilege to look at a part of the game and think, "How can this be done better." In this manner, human beings have improved everything, from flint axes to rocket ships. Our privilege in this process is absolute. It is our game. No designer or official representative of the game takes precedence over our will or that of our players. We have to run this thing; it's our right to fix it, just like we would anything that we buy and which we must use every day, to meet our standard. Empowerment is key here: we are in control, our judgment about what works and what doesn't is valid, and thus we should go about slashing and burning parts of the system as we see fit. Damn those who are not at our table who think otherwise.

But where to start? We must, after all, identify those parts of the combat system that are dragging down the experience and see why. First, let's consider elements of complexity that are bogging down the game's flow. This includes issues such as the initiative system and its aggravating turn order, which must be rescheduled with every round. This process creates dead time where players lose focus and become disengaged, while the changing order creates a confusion about whose turn it is. Why not just establish a set order based upon, say, dexterity, or intelligence, and have it stay that way in perpetuity. Then Oliver knows he always follows Janine, who always follows Dave, so that the person who follows Oliver knows precisely how much time there's left before it time to declare his or her own actions.

We can minimise spellcasting complexity, and at the same time undercut how powerful the spells are by limiting their scope and effectiveness. Force players to find some other way to innovate than by allowing them to invent forty ways each spell might be made useful in some odd and unique situation, which only creates a long-lasting dialogue around, "What if I do this, or that, or this other thing, or possibly this..." and so on endlessly, as the non-spellcasters sit around and wait, wait, wait.

Excessive adjustments to die rolls create enormous problems with combat flow, with nearly every throw being modified in some odd way; deciding which way to modify a throw, additionally, creates a decision paralysis that frequently holds up the game, while the need to be accurate about the totalling of modifiers does also. This constant math in the middle of what should be a fast-paced, exciting part of the game reduces the process to an ugly mathematical problem that, in reality, adds very, very little to the emotional benefit the characters gain. By simply eliminating dozens of adjustments that applies to most players, this has the effect of reducing the number of modifiers without actually changing the power levels of the combatants in respect to one another. And without the time spent on players who make a fetish of stacking modifiers, they, too, have to apply themselves to other solutions in order to improve their combat effectiveness.

We could also consider issues having to do with hit point tracking, specifically the escalation of numbers for damage and hit points. The reason for this shift appears to have been an attempt by game designers to create a more epic and powerful feel for the combat, especially at higher levels. Imaginably, when characters deal out numbers like 40 damage, this is supposed to be significant. Similarly, having creatures with hundreds of hit points also feel more "epic" when a party is facing something massive, like a dragon. The increase in hit points also allows for longer, more drawn-out fights, which can work for some playstyles but ends up bogging down the game for many.

How is it actually a better design to do 40 damage against a creature with 200 hit points than it was to do 5 damage against something with 25 hit points? The experience of the players is the same. The higher numbers adds mental arithmetic and make combat feel longer without increasing the tactical complexity, with a psychological impact that is short-lived, and negligible in any case. Human beings quickly adapt to the change, making the higher numbers appear meaninglessly elevated, while sacrificing the immediacy of combat resolution. When the numbers were smaller, the effect of an attack could be seen at once; with the DM having to constantly adjust totals in the hundreds, it creates a drag on the game.

This said, fixing this problem is an enormous undertaking. It would require a DM to go through a dozen books, page by page, and personally scale down the numbers, which is a time-consuming and complex process. And since all official materials promote these same inflated numbers, every time a new purchase is made, it means more of the same painstaking work... followed by the necessity of teaching one's players to re-adopt numbers that make sense, but which aren't in line with their memories and habits. The problem, then, is virtually insolvable for anyone without a mad sense of righting things, which does not describe the typical dungeon master. In a fashion, then, everyone is forced to deal with this same absolutely unnecessary change to the rules, more or less with our being made into the company's bitch. We are more or less helpless in having to manage the new game's bloated numbers, even when we recognise that they're bloated for no good reason.

This is the reason why many DMs simply accept the system and try to bend themselves to it, rather than fix the system. The car in this case has been deliberately built to be undrivable... and to some degree, the car has cornered the market so that all the cars we might want to buy are undrivable. The way out of this mess and mayhem is long and tedious and without an easy end in sight... but anyone who styles themself as a dungeon master who intends to still be doing this in ten years time must recognise the necessity of addressing these issues as something that CAN'T BE FIXED EASILY. Rationally, it is better to return to an earlier game version of D&D, prior to these changes being made, and add things that we like from later editions. Then, rather than a long period spent tearing down, we are renovating and building up instead, taking a game with less troubles to start with and building it into a game with some later characteristics, but not necessarily all of them.

As stated already, the goal here is empowerment. As a DM, we shall always do better when the game is what we want it to be. This, obviously, isn't simple, and there's no getting around that. There are few drivers who decide that the best way to get the car they want is to build one themself in their garage, over the space of years... but here I am advocating exactly this mentality if what's wanted is a smooth, practical, immersive game. IF car companies the world over were dedicated to making undrivable cars, then more drivers WOULD be making their own car in their own basement — this would become, unquestionably, a world-wide phenomenon, until the car makers changed their ways and adopted a more sensible product. This author did not invent this problem; it merely exists, of it's own accord, and the solution is not one that can be gotten around in some other way.