Limitations & Rules

A dragon's breath weapon is one of the most deadly attacks in the game ... and so it should be, considering the game includes "dragons" in the title.  It's not Dungeons & Dryads, is it?

But instead of concentrating on the attack's strengths, for a moment let's consider ways in which we limit the breath weapon — and therefore, as a thought exercise, how it might be reduced further.

Obviously, we can have it cause less damage, which applies to a host of different creatures including smaller dragons, hell hounds, firenewts and so on.  We can reduce the number of times per day that it can be used.  We can reduce its area, enabling combatants to get closer.  We could deny the dragon any other attacks when using the breath weapon, and even deny it the freedom of movement while the breath is in play.

We could go a little further.  We could argue the dragon has to space its breath weapon, so that it can't breathe two rounds in a row.  Or that it has to wait until the third round, or the fourth round.  We use this sort of limitation with weapons that have to be loaded; we could insist the dragon has to "load" it's breath.  We could argue that a dragon has to have a certain element available in order to "charge" itself ... water for steam, heat for fire, bile for acid and so on, meaning that while it's charging, it has to eat or come into contact with that thing, thus limiting its mobility.  We could create a time of the day when the dragon is too tired to breathe.  Or a moral element that says some dragons can't breathe unless they're attacked first.  We could even say that if the dragon is struck hard enough just before it breathes, the damage from the breath is halved.

I said this was a thought experiment.  I have no intention of putting any change in place.  I'm writing this to get the reader thinking about how skills and abilities in the game are intentionally limited, so as to make them playable ... and how in making new rules, or making judgement calls, it's much less the power we're giving that encourages play, but the manner in which that power is limited.

Let's take a hand-held weapon — a sword for convenience — and view its role in the game.  We take the sword and we swing it ... over and over, until there's nothing left to swing it at.  In the standard combat system, we get to swing the sword every round, no matter what happens that round, so long as we're close enough to a target.  This makes the only "play" the question of our location and whether or not we hit ... and in a lot of games that throw out a tactical arrangement for placement of characters, or simplify it so much that it hardly matters, this leaves only the question of hit and miss — which is out of the player's hands.

Boring.  As players, we're left repeating, "I swing," over and over, until the battle is done.  That's not game play.  That's an assembly line.

Incorporating tactics — where I am, where I'm facing, how far am I from the enemy, along with combatants constantly moving — forces the player to think through a new problem: "Where do I want to be when I swing my sword?"  Though even if tactics are part of play, most players don't give this question much thought.  In fact, it's like playing snooker or billiards.  "I want to strike there, so if I hit I can turn here, move there and clear a path over here."  This plan can be changed every round, but the result is the same: the player is thinking three, even four turns ahead, eyeing the next target while fighting this one.  Tactics imposes a limitation.  "I can't be everywhere, and I have to be ready to move to the next place if I want to be in reach of the next target.  Otherwise, my attack will be wasted in the middle of a fight because I'm over here, when I should be over there."

We impose another limitation if we make it possible to drop the weapon — say, upon rolling a natural "1."  There are several angles with this.  Where does the weapon fall?  Does it break?  How hard is it to pick up?  Does it take less time to draw a different weapon?  What if the weapon lands in an adjacent, empty hex when we're fighting next to a cliff, or just as we're atop a siege ladder?  What if the enemy picks it up?  The various possibilities and solutions have to be worked out in advance, but once in place, the "drop" rule creates an alternate series of problems that breaks up the swing-swing-swing momentum of common play.  With a dozen combatants swinging every round, drops and their consequences accumulate in strange, unforeseeable ways.

The "critical" balances this detriment.  While I might drop my weapon, I have an equal chance of hitting the enemy twice as hard.

The structure and beauty of a combat system is not in its reflection of reality, but in the possibilities of adjustment, change, unexpected consequences, subtle and harsh increases in danger, each blended in such a fashion that the characters can continue to plan their next steps while suffering and readjusting their places to compensate for the enemy's movements and strengths.  Thus the mechanics of combat are further made complex by an remarkable host of natural abilities and immunities, the presence of spells, the influx of new combatants, good luck, bad luck, foresight and planning before the fight even begins and matters of whether the party is trapped or can run if need be.  The more elements we can pile into this system the better, so long as the players can rationally gauge their power against that of the enemy's with reasonable proficiency.

It would simply be impossible to describe all the ways in which battle is enabled and restrained ... but that's the substance of every rule that's put in place.  Enable too much and the battle is too easy to win; restrain too much and battle is impractical.  Either makes a bad game.

Okay, let's reach for a different example entirely ... and while we're at it, we might as well address the trope: a character wishes to jump the distance between two ledges.

Let's say that Bob is faced with a leap of 13 feet, 8 inches (3.56 m).  We'll keep this simple and state that this is not the actual distance between the two ledges, but rather the distance Bob has to jump with his last takeoff stride being as close to the edge as possible while reaching the point where he lands firmly enough on the other side that he doesn't slip and fall.  To get rid of the consequences of heat, we'll say the jump is over thin air.  The standard practice in D&D is to make a roll ... success/fail of course.  A roll seems right, as we usually make a roll when something in the game is uncertain.  That seems to apply here — emerging from the argument that we're restricting Bob's jump by making it uncertain.  

But the question is not, does Bob succeed, the question is, can Bob succeed.  Is there any reasonable expectation that this character, with these ability stats and these skills, of this level, has any chance of making a leap of this length without hitting the other side and falling forward, not backward.  Remember that in performing the long jump in competition, it's usually a landing onto sand, and most people when hitting the landing don't throw their body forward unless they've been taught to do so.  Has Bob been taught?  But then again, maybe a normal, untrained person can make a jump of 13 feet, 8 inches (3.56 m) fairly easily, if they have a run, and that if he falls backward he'll land on his ass safely, even if he falls backwards.

Consider ... approaches for a long jump in competition vary between 12 and 19 "strides" ... so Bob needs a good space to run.  The objective of the takeoff is to create a vertical impulse through Bob's center of gravity while maintaining balance and control.  That means there might be a roll, depending on how close it is between the distance and Bob's likelihood of making the jump.

It's virtually impossible to find statistics for non-competitive long jump distances; I couldn't do it.  An average high school competitive jump is 16-17 ft. (4.9-5.2 m); 18-20 ft. (5.5-6.1 m) is awesome.  Therefore, it's reasonable that Bob could make the jump so long as he (a) is a physical fighter or thief type; (b) is approximately the height of an average high school student; and (c) is making the jump wearing about as much as a competitive high school athlete.  So long as he meets those three criteria ... those limitations, he doesn't need a die roll.  On the other hand, if he doesn't meet those minimums, he could roll five hundred dice and they'll all be, "Bob falls and dies."  Unless Bob has some specific ability that makes him a better-than-average jumper.  If he does, then this moves the goal posts.  It does not mean that Bob gets +2 on a die roll.  A roll only happens if we're talking a difference of inches here.  If Bob is an above average jumper, then he makes the jump, period, regardless of any roll.

The rule's limitation, then, isn't founded on the same principles as combat.  It's founded instead by comparing Bob's physical existence against the believable physical feats he can perform given the real world.  We can make Bob's leap easier if we adjust the world's gravity ... but then that change has to equally alter all gravity-influenced actions.

Think of it this way.  We don't roll to see if we can swing the sword.  We know we can.  We've been trained to do it.  That's why we're a fighter, or a thief, or whatever can use a sword.  So it makes no sense to see if Bob can jump the distance.  Like swinging the sword, he's either trained to do it, or he isn't.  In combat, we don't actually roll to see if we "can" hit.  Rather, we roll to see if our combat ability vs. the opponent's combat ability enables us sufficient luck to hit.  As we advance in levels, that ability improves, so our chance improves, so we hit more often.  We get "two swings," which greatly increases our likelihood that round, but the functional effect is the same.

So when making a rule with limitations, the goal is not just to impose a series of ad hoc die adjustments, but to first make a distinction between what can be done and what might be done.  If I'm swinging the sword at a block of wood, and I'm trained, I'm going to hit it.  I don't make die rolls every time I cut a carrot with my knife.  The only thing that keeps me from hitting what I aim at is someone else who's able to dodge or parry my sword.  The carrots don't have a chance.

How we invent limitations in the game world's rules matters most dearly.  Every one deserves to be deeply and closely observed; changes must be applied, monitored, reconsidered, adjusted if need be or thrown out if they don't substantively improve play.  Familiar is better than strange, so unless the change is worth it, don't make a change.  Very, very slight adjustments that contribute to the restriction of a character's skills usually make the best changes.  When adding something that benefits the character, be sure to limit them according to how rarely they might be useful, or how truly little they actually change the game.

As an example of both, I added a sage ability called hereditary weapon; I've spoken of it here before.  Although it can be used all the time, and although it adds a +1 bonus to hit, this is no different than the elf's ability with sword and bow.  It helps the combatant only 1 time in 20 ... so although it can be used all the time, it actually only applies rarely.  As most fights run between 8 and 12 rounds, there's only a 50% chance in any fight that it will be helpful at all.

It also urges the character to perhaps use a weapon the player doesn't want, which is a limitation.  It makes a regional army with that weapon more dangerous.  And it lowers the combat balance of elves against other characters.  Anything that kicks an elf in the slats works in my book.

If the reader notices something in the game that seems to award the players with too much power, or makes their lives too simple, consider adding some moderate limitation on that power.  Present it as a change you're implementing; withstand the complaints and moaning.  Most likely, the players will chafe if it's cherished, but you should be able to explain that you want your game to be more "challenging" and that it asks the players to solve their problems with innovation, not abilities.  Most of all, tell them you're going to try it in the short term and that you'll discuss dropping the change after two runnings.  This is important.  Most people will agree to try something so long as it's term limited.  If the new rule is a good change, you might find the players might support leaving it in place, despite how it limits them.  If you can't get support for it, chances are your rule change went to far, or it changed the wrong aspect of the original rule.