Cooking an Egg

Whatever one may hope for, there's a difficulty in writing thoroughly on the subject, "How to Play D&D," that manifests on various levels.  And no, it's not that there is more than one edition.  Were there only one edition, the core problems are the same.

On the one hand, we can write a book for those who have never played the game before, which is usually done.  The standard model is to (a) increase the reader's excitement to play the game by stressing its uniqueness and creative components; and (b) make a passing effort to explain each component of play, including those that have only come into vogue in the last fifteen years of a 50-year-old game; and (c) fail utterly to present a gestalt of these elements, as it's impossible to comprehend this without actually playing ... and after multiple sessions.

D&D and other RPGs defy deconstruction in this manner.  As a game, it requires practical experience.  Using another field as an example, chef training is done in a kitchen environment, where the participants perform actions that produce visual results that cannot be explained in a text.  One cannot write a textbook that fully explains cooking.  It must be understood in a hands-on manner.

D&D is the same.  I cannot explain nor tell a non-player how to play without confusing them utterly ... or, as in the case of many early D&D basic manuals, screwing up their perception of game play for the rest of their lives by presenting an "example of play."  Such examples cannot possibly capture the whole conception of the game that's possible, but they can seriously bias unknowing persons who — like good monkeys — pick over the one example exhaustively, falling into the trap of believing that ALL game play has to conform to the one example they have.  In the long run, the example of play does more harm than good.

It is as though that once we're given the example of how to cook an egg, it's assumed we're ready to cook everything else.  "Ah!" we exclaim, and rush forward to fry everything in a pan, waiting for it to turn white — only to wonder why it won't.  Only, this doesn't happen because we've had other people cook all kinds of food for us before we reach the age of 7, so that we start out well versed in food coming in a great many forms.  D&D, not so much.

The practice of playing and learning D&D happens mostly in isolation ... either with us isolated as individuals, or else isolated in small groups possessing tight, specific value systems.  Generally, if we play with only one group early on, with a limited number of players in that group, then the conformity imposed by play within that group reduces our game experience.  It befalls on us to seek out other groups and other forms of play, and other games, to provide ourselves with a useful education that can be applied to our role-playing.  If, however, our knowledge of games is limited, and our experience with different groups is equally limited, than our vision of play will be limited also.  And for the most part, once we become used to a restrictive routine of play, however tedious it might be, we're obstructed or frustrated in pursuing other directions.  In fact, we may be driven to decry other forms of play as foolish or absurd, specifically because they are not our forms of play.

This general attitude thwarts the other alternative to writing a book about how to play D&D: one for those who already have played, who already understand the gestalt, who understand the game's components, and are already excited to play.  This being that my philosophy of play, the experiential composite of all that I've learned in my years of D&D, cannot be appreciated because it does not conform to your style.  Recently, I read this post written by a DM who had invested himself into a 5th edition campaign, only to find many months later that it wasn't his cup of tea.  His takeaway?

"I don't want rules. I don't want confusion. I don't want to have to think about it much. I just want to play with my friends, tell a good story and have a good time, and roll some dice."

Ugh.

I have zero experiential overlap with this individual.  Games have rules ... and the rolling of dice assumes its done according to those rules.  The dynamic of role-playing requires that a group of people sit around a table and think.  It's the nature of humanity that when multiple people share ideas, confusion results.  Telling a story is not a game, it's a performance to which others listen passively.

Translated, it might read,

"I cooked the breakfast cereal, and it did not turn white."

Thus, in deciding to write a book on how to play D&D, we must acknowledge first that our audience is skewed, and often hopelessly.  We can hope to write a book for noobs, thinking that we're going to introduce people to "our version" of the game, but without also giving them extensive practical experience in cooking the game, our efforts can only produce oblique attitudes dependent on how the work is interpreted within the narrow framework of the reader.  If we were able to establish ourselves within an institution of learning, and if we were able to systematically introduce persons to the game through text and practical experience, and if we sustained that experience through the eyes of multiple instructors who together perceived a single, unified, effective means of turning individuals into good dungeon masters and players, we might ultimately turn out generations of players who might, through better play and perception of the game, obliterate those weaker, crippled game philosophies that exist presently.  But all that takes money.  It takes organisation.  It takes effort to locate individuals who can be brought up to the level of instructors in their understanding of the game and its potential.

If I had, say, $40,000,000, I might make the attempt.  I might establish a "school" in a central location, perhaps Wisconsin, since the state already has a halo effect resulting from the game's past history.  Though, for myself, even though I've seen quite a lot of Wisconsin now, and found the people there very friendly and open, as well as having a friend there, I still feel no urge to live in America.  Perhaps I could start a school in Sault St. Marie.  The location could be an abandoned elementary school (I saw many of these), with effort given to a small part at first while some of the interior space could be rebuilt into modest dorm rooms.

I could then offer an absurd wage to "come and learn how to be a professor" to a half-dozen individuals ... say, $6,000 a month for six months.  This coin would be an incentive for my students to learn, especially if they understood that successfully reproducing my practical methods might land them a teaching position in the long term.  "Students" could be obtained by establishing a "tuition" of, say, $700 a month, with room and board included ... so that individuals could come play for the cost of rent, while having time to work in the area at jobs, with the benefit of playing D&D with the "professors" whenever they made themselves available.  Students failing to attend at least 20 hours of games would be ousted; students who resisted the game's philosophy would be ousted ("failed"); and further dismissal could be imposed on the usual human weaknesses related to vice, emotional abuse and so on.  Though I'd be getting no government assistance for my "school," there'd have to be considerable legal matters to address to assure that if someone needed to be let go, there'd be grounds to do so.

Then, see what happens.

But write a book on how to play D&D, even for my own aggrandisement, whether or not it had an effect on the general culture?  Thank you, no.  I find it far more practical to address small issues, one at a time, for those ready to listen, and let the gestalt eventually overwhelm the listener until their increased experience points produces a change in their thinking.