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| Back in the OSR, when we used to really rock the game. |
Part 3: Cognitive Load & Information Filtering
Part 2c: Governing the GamePart 1: Introduction to Session Management
As a dungeon master presenting the game, we're asked to provide an experience that makes players want to engage: this means a setting with immersive atmosphere, individual personalities, threats — and the imparting of a keen interest to either succeed or accumulate for themselves within the game. It need not be "real," but it must connect with the players on a level that interests them, holding their attention while circumventing confusion or hesitation, which would let them become bored. Importantly, it is our personality that matters most; we must pull attention, compelling engagement. This is done through our passion and competence; but most of all, through our personal magnetism, which demands the players' participation in ways even they don't consciously understand.
Personal magnetism is an expression of our internal stability when communicating with others. Those with a high magnetism are well able to modulate and manage their emotions, focusing their attention on the task at hand, while maintaining a sense of purpose beyond the immediate moment. Earlier, we discussed the value of mindfulness, of consciously being self-aware of our setting and ourselves — magnetism takes this same internal alignment and projects it outwards to the players, so that we're not only invested in our setting for ourselves, but for the communication of that setting for others. It is our belief in that setting, our passion for it, and for the game itself, that supplies a believability in others; not out of obedience, but in the sense that as we convey our excitement about a thing, it is natural for others to be swept into excitement for that thing also.
It's a mistake to think that DMing is a question of "authority," which would stipulate giving orders — a thing most of us are uncomfortable with doing. In fact, this expectation impels us to hesitate before speaking, to comprehend too keenly that because we're expected to be "in command," we're going to utterly fail in that effort. We seek approval too hard; rather than order our players this way or that, what we want is to match our posture to theirs, to be one of them, to feel safe in their number. This isn't weakness, it is a natural instinct, borne of human social mirroring, where being a part of others' engagement is what we want. Pushed into dungeon mastering, we conceive that we're forced into a place of our own, where we're subject to being judged, held accountable and ultimately dissected for our failings. It is precisely the sense of having to be a "commander" that destroys our capacity to understand that DMing isn't "separating ourselves from the players," but having a vision that pulls them along, so that we're all together in that vision.
Those who embrace authority as dungeon masters are monsters: telling players what to do, how to play, what module they'll be playing today, what rules can be freely ignored as the DM prefers arbitrary rule-making and a host of other frankly abusive behaviours associated with a position the DM sees as "ruling over the players." There's no hesitation among this sort to claim it as such, in plain terms, as though they've come to the gaming table through divine right. This species of DM are merely those who have bought into the fallacy of the DM-God King, jumping in with both feet because they love the idea.
Some believe this authority is just so long as it's covert. They choose the module but they explain "it's all we have," skipping over the time the DM has had to prepare an alternative. They curate the experience of their players by removing or adding opponents surreptitiously, believing that so long as they act like gods behind the curtain, where they can't be seen, it's fine. They fudge dice, assuming it's their part to constantly regulate the players' experience without the players' awareness. Such persons have even succeeded in creating a widespread philosophy that all DMs should act this way, that it's "expected" and that there's no reason not to lie, cheat or swindle their players however they wish.
The larger difficulty that upends this ideology, however, remains confusion. We need an approach for governing the players without ordering them about, for inspiring their interest in our setting and our game. No such approach, so far as we know, exists. The absence of a clear method or model, for having standing as a dungeon master without slipping into domination, permits a terrain of abuse, coercion and power-grabbing.
We assume that when we struggle as a DM, that the problem is in the gifts that have been granted to us. We perceive that we're not charismatic enough, or that we lack a strong voice, or that we're not possessed of the thinking process that would let us succeed. We see others we respect and assume that they have a natural instinct for the role: they seem so confident, so in control, so comfortably poised. And we imagine, understandably, that whatever we have, it isn't sufficient for what a dungeon master needs.
But to quote Cassius, the fault is not in our stars, but ourselves; we simply don't understand what works, or how practical is to acquire the necessary set of skills that would get us past the imposter syndrome that possesses us. Note that here I have no intention of suggesting a group of self-help tricks or "exercises" that, if followed, will magically produce a result. Rather, the goal here is to outline why we react viscerally to certain behaviours, so that we may understand why those behaviours affect us so. This awareness, presumably, should allow us to first comprehend the behaviour when we see it, knowing now what it is; and then, knowing what it is, have a path towards emulating it.
This may be something of a leap: much of our originating consciousness as humans developed through our capacity to get rid of those clan members who acted against the clan's well-being by decisively getting rid of them. The result was, over many thousands of years, a more definitively egalitarian relationship between the survivors, who were ready to share meat, oppose bullies and act cooperatively in large-game hunting parties. As put by Christopher Boehm in Moral Origins,
"As a result of this very likely conflict, those powerful individuals who were better able to restrain their potential aggressions would have had better reproductive success than those who didn't — and got themselves killed. Thus, the evolution of more effective personal self-control could have been selected strongly. This can be taken as the beginning phase of moral origins, because it would have led to the internalisation of rules and the development of a self-judgmental sense of right and wrong."
As such, those individuals possessed certain characteristics that acted as cues indicating competence, confidence and a capacity as a threat: not a bully, but an individual supremely capable of acting efficiently violent in moments of necessity. Such persons earned the respect of the clan, both because they proved to be effective hunters (still in possession of their aggressive instincts), but also in that challenging such persons would more likely result in punishment than in success.
This is not to equate the "alpha" — a poor term, but recognisable so we'll use it — and that capacity as a threat with the dungeon master, but merely to discuss those as-yet undefined traits with respect to ourselves, where they still linger. And where they still, anthropologically, produce an instinctive reaction in us, carrying with it our perception of competence and an urge to both cooperate and join with the source. The alpha archetype, as defined presently by anthropology, is not the "dominant," but rather the individual most concerned with the well-being of others, and best possessed of skillset that allows this. Alphas who act as "dominant" in a pre-developed culture are culled, because they are bullies, because they hog all the meat and they don't share. This distinction is visibly lost in a culture where bullies rush to buy t-shirts that define themselves as the "alpha" — a classic example of behaviour a true alpha wouldn't betray.
The first of these traits is stillness. Stillness is a necessary trait in skilled hunters, expressing their capacity to wait, to remain fearlessly within a certain distance of dangerous prey without feeling the compulsion to flee. Moreover, stillness is readiness. In a fight, the one who rushes forward is, using the primitive tools of combat, the most exposed. We see this in cultural adaptations of battle-ready protagonists all the time; the one in control is the one depicted as ready, waiting... unmoving... then able to dispatch the enemy with a minimum of movement. The practice is expressed through martial arts from multiple geographic sources; the one who is fearless, who do not give in to fear, is the more dangerous. Those who desire to fight, who feel the pressure rising, who cannot restrain themselves, rush forward.
When we are afraid and not in control of ourselves, our posture and outward behaviour expresses this. We pace, we prowl, we waver as we stand, we move our feet, we shift our posture, we scan the environment; we feel pressure that we're being perceived by others, and our lack of self-control betrays itself through movement. Other humans, selected through countless generations, recognise these signals intuitively as fear, without realising it — just as we experience stillness in others as something to be afraid of. Some of this stems from large animals, particularly cats, who hunt through slow approach and moments of stillness: but it's actually more at home in our associations with each other, where older, more self-aware persons in our past learned to acquire stillness — in classrooms, as ministers, as police officers and other authorities — as a strong, practical posture.
Which means, it's achievable. By anyone. Any number of activities can train this into us, particularly martial arts, but also time spent in theatre, sports and other activities where we're engaged with something larger than ourselves. We learn to focus and not move; to be self-aware and mindful of our bodies. To stop leaking our emotional state into movement. It takes time, but anyone committed can do it.
With stillness, we also convey our readiness through eye contact — not only with other persons, but otherwise also. While a direct, provocative gaze functions as a challenge or a test of rank, when we focus with intensity upon something, our facial expression conveys importance. Looking over our notes during a game, motionless, intent on the numbers or details there, we present a physical message that something significant is in the works, that it has been prepared... and thus, it's about to be unleashed from a place of apparent competence and readiness. The more intense the stare, the more intuitive the awareness becomes of those around us.
We can easily imagine a still, efficient clan leader freezing and then concentrating upon some physical space: a patch of green, a bit of sky, a cliff-face. Seeing them absorbed in something to the point of immobility produces an immediate response: we brace, anticipating. In readiness ourselves, watching the other, our adrenaline jumps, our expectation as well, and we feel the power of suggestive game-management in precisely the way that we want it. The power of these moments, which we can create simply by pausing, holding a die so tightly in our hand that the whiteness of our knuckles is picked up intuitively by the party, scales upwards as we're able to unleash portions of our setting with force and power to match the intuitive build-up just described.
The players cannot help themselves; as before, anthropologically, their nervous systems are attuned to latch onto these signals without needing narration, through visual cues alone. This builds a physical atmosphere; a shared atmosphere, which everyone feels, not attained through role-playing or posturing, but through fundamental biological characteristics that as humans we can neither control nor ignore. If we have reason to feel threatened, or that something of great importance is about to happen, we become excited... because, once upon a time, this is how we survived in the wild.
If we can compel ourselves to invest more firmly into the game, disregarding perceived consequences or judgement, then as we engage with our own material, the players will also. Once our attention remains vividly fixed upon the miniatures, the next players' turn, the ongoing events — and if we can enforce the players' desire to disengage with their nervousness through derailing the game by speaking of second-hand accounts of things happening elsewhere (which relieves the tension of a player who is uncomfortable with tension), then we can effectively manage several one or two-minute "events" in a given session to start. Over time, these events can be extended as we grow in comfort, keeping our eye on the game (a skill learned in many sports opportunities), and multiplied, producing a "good game" that might even give the players the shakes over time, as their adrenaline rises.
This is possible when we realise it's our gaze, and not our speech, our costuming, even the actual game, that grants importance to things. It may not, conjecturally, seem evident... but this is a behaviour installed firmly into our biology long before speech or even intuitive thought began. It's an evolutionary lever evolved from our fundamental cognitive origin. And therefore a comprehension of ourselves and our anatomy, not a trick.
Yet, another characteristic of the alpha is speech — more likely a set of diphthonic expressions at first (the term used figuratively, not technically), but meant to express emotional-based communications conveying warning, instruction or uncertainty. The manner these were used more sincerely conveyed the emotion than the sounds themselves: in the way that the tone and expressiveness we can use with a single word, say a curse, provides a fantastic range of feeling or response. In a context where confusion might result in the death of individuals engaged in a hunt or a fight, or seeking aid for a clan member who had slipped and become injured, or trapped, the intensity and emotiveness of the sound is more important than the mix of vowels and conjunctions themselves.
Knowing this, we may comprehend that others do not hear the exact words of our descriptions nearly as precisely as we might imagine — but are, instead, seeking the urgency of those words. A long meandering passage lacks urgency, and therefore importance; short, grunted phrases are rude, threatening; rhythmic phrases convey beauty, without the need for long descriptions. Directions can be brief: "Neema, your turn." Urgency, expressed through clipped, minimalistic language, conveys tension. Long tedious stories delivered by shopkeepers, nobles or other expository characters are dull, trivial... and therefore not worthy of the player's time.
The alpha personality speaks in short, decisive statements, without filler or uncertainty. This is perceived as prepared and keeping one's own counsel; to others, it conveys a knowledge that is possessed but not shared. Such persons are automatically read as not needing to say much, because they don't "need." Speech is another way that persons have of leaking their emotions, their concerns, their shortcomings and the lack of preparation for what's coming. Nervous, uncomfortable players ask multiple questions intended to reassure them. Short, uncompromising answers provide little of this, so that such players are forced to accept fear as a template to action. Often, this can freeze some players, making them so uncomfortable they can't act at all. Which, point in fact, reduces demands on the DM's time. In a resource-allocation sense, where pressure on the DM is high, an intra-party discussion between those who want to enter and those that don't, as it wages back and forth, provides plenty of time for us to get up, stretch, get a coffee, visit the facilities or get whatever is coming next ready. Meanwhile, we've achieved what we've sought: the players are actively, emotionally, deeply engaged in the setting, without our need to keep poking that fire.
These behaviours — stillness, gaze, controlled speech and the concomitant emotional transparency — emerge as adaptive traits for dungeon masters who want to gain more control over their game table while providing a better experience. As we become the source for the players' fascination with the setting, their desire to hear what we have to say next eliminates our need to impose any authority; we become the most interesting voice by default, so that when we speak, with a mix of urgency and short phrasing, the desire is to listen because what we have to say matters more to them than it does to us.
It is interesting to note that these characteristics, employed, are not manipulative or challenging; they merely represent what human beings have become comfortable with, these past 800,000 years or so, as adaptations.
