Deconstructing the image, I'm first struck by the method, which is fully on display. Dyson repeats the map formula over and over, no differently than I do with my earthly depictions; and like those, should I wish to acquire the ability to reproduce the work shown, it's a matter of tracing and absorbing the detail one line at a time ... although this is by no means easy to do.
Next on display is the artist's manner. Each layout is planned with precision, to provide not only the appearance of the dungeon's halls and corners, but a clear aesthetic effect, most often lost to the viewer. The exact placement of the empty spaces is as important to the eye as those that are filled, as otherwise the presentation is a dreadful mess. One could reproduce the skill shown above, but the understanding of the skill's application — that requires a special perspective, one that many who are unable to deconstruct work would also be unable to reproduce.
Finally, we have motivation. Dyson is deeply immersed in the project of producing like maps, though perhaps not specifically with any one representation. The method and manner aside, the proliferation of maps on the site linked is many, many, many. So many that, should one desire a map like this, with some specific need in mind, one would only need to scan through the examples that exist until finding what's needed. There's a host of choice available.
For myself, I've grown dissatisfied with any form of map not of a real place. Like most, I too was once enamoured with maps of Middle Earth and elsewhere, attempting to create my own such examples — some of which I sold to other would-be DMs at exhorbitant prices. In today's money, $365 apiece, because at the time it was definitely a seller's market. It's a wonder I didn't keep at it, except that I foolishly thought of myself as a writer and not an artist, and so I left off.
Should I have another kick at the can, however, I think I'd definitely give over a goodly number of years to physical artistry. I'm aware of what I said in an earlier post: that if it's something I'd be ready to do in the past, why don't I just do it in the present? Why not become an artist now? Granted, I'm nearly 60, but there's still plenty of time to invest in copious amounts of hand-drawing and other techniques.
There are things to consider there, however. First and foremost, I'm not done writing all the things I want to write, which would all have to be put on hold to become an artist. If Da Vinci had dedicated himself to actually building a flying machine, instead of drawing one and perhaps — as depicted in the occasional story or film — doing a few tests, we wouldn't have the Mona Lisa or The Last Supper. On the other hand, perhaps the 15th century might have acquired a flying machine, or perhaps sufficient prototypes to make that happen in the 16th or 17th. In which case, would a few paintings really matter so much?
Either way, it's robbing Peter to pay Paul, which is a reality that every artist faces once time begins to run out. On the other hand, were I transported back to being 9 y.o., I'd have fifty additional years before getting back to where I am now. I'd certainly be willing to dedicate at least a third of those towards the ability to draw like Dyson.
In addition, I grew up among a family of painters. My grandfather had achieved a slight fame as a painter of birds in western Canada, while my father and brother both invested many hundreds of hours in their painting between my being 9 and 18. Eventually, my father would win several city-wide competitions with his landscape paintings, and once in a field that included much of North America, when his work won first prize at the Calgary Stampede Exhibition. His talent was unquestionably real, at least for his audience. He'd have been a marvelous resource if I'd wanted to take that route, once upon a time.
The Wales map I spoke of creating would be an artwork. Using the Michelin map as a guideline, and pursuing books about Wales for images and descriptions, and finally essaying a trip to the University of Calgary to get a good look at contour maps, I'd be able to acquire a decent premise for presenting elevational characteristics in my final work. It's all rather funny, of course ... since in 2005, Google Earth is going to make all that research and presentation redundant — not that it matters. A human-made map is more than merely the image it presents. It's a physical artifact, drawn upon a physical surface, expressing something that most persons can't imagine themselves expressing.
This is a screen shot from a 1962 film; bonus points if the reader can recall which one:
It clearly shows a time when maps were painted onto a paper surface; the thickness of the paper is evident from the paper edges shown — which, additionally, gives a sense of the way in which maps were built piecemeal. In context, what's depicted is a military map; the hand belongs to a soldier. This means the rendering has to be sufficiently accurate to campaign with, understanding that a sufficient error might result in the deaths of hundreds of men.
My imagination is belittled by the idea that I'd ever produce work of this quality, in a way that it never can be by Dyson's work. Given time and motive and practice, I'm quite certain I could reproduce Dyson's technique and appearance in a year or two — given that I've already overcome many troubles that artists encounter in that I know how to work towards a goal. I could never manage Dyson's output; I'd grow bored of the procedure long before then, but only because the maps represent nothing. I'm able to keep working at my maps of the world because of the source they depict. I could, if I wished, go there.
But the painted map above — I am simply in awe. I recognise that, had my mapmaking interest as a boy led me to mapmaking as a career, I would have ended in some semblance of creating the above ... but I would have needed help getting there. I can see in the example shown, how someone has drawn the topography, creating a three-dimensional effect that astounds me. I can see the painter is clearly doing only a part of the work, adding the shading over the sea and the land (blue and yellow water colours shown) ... but my my my, there's so much going on here that I'd be honestly fearful to try.
There could be much here, however, that I'd want to incorporate into my map of Wales. A run of accurately drawn three-D hills and low mountains, river courses and that delicious shading along the coast. I learned how to reproduce the colour with the use of high-quality pencil crayons, held at a 30 degree angle above the page and gently moved back and forth over the area like a brush, maintaining a high consciousness of when to shift the crayon and when to sharpen it — which was again done with a quality sharpener used in draughting.
I can recall numerous rules that applied in the practice of making those maps I'd make in my mid-20s. The table was washed and hand-dried before the evening's work. My hands were washed too, and dried, and then allowed to air dry. Paper, over a long period, is notoriously susceptible to human oils ... though a very tiny amount of human oil is a good thing, as it lends a certain shine to 60-weight paper that produces a positive glow. I couldn't drink or eat while working, nor allow anyone else near, since a single spot of liquid or grime could ruin the long single page being worked upon. And at the time I had a daughter aged 1 to 3 around, so I needed my wife to manage the darling thing while I worked. I had no separate room to work in, so I worked on the dining room table we owned, getting started after supper.
I added hills and mountains to those maps, but there was nothing accurate in the exact placement of a hill or mountain "symbol." Going round again, I'd want to shoot for that. Maybe later, take courses that would teach me how to sketch and paint the level of map shown in the film shot, but between 9 and 12 I'd at least like to give some approximate semblance to the features in Wales. I'd have my father show me, and I'd practice with drawing mountains and hills like Bob Ross filling in trees. It's something I've told myself I should do — but honestly, with online maps, it just so easy to make one mountain and then cut and paste it over and over.
In all this description, however, I've left out the point. Why go to this trouble? Why produce the map at all? How is D&D helped by a map of Wales that's floor to ceiling? It's just a map — and despite my last post, I'm sure I've changed no one's mind that D&D is a "game of imagination."
Consider the problem of players. I already know how to make a world, both in the old-fashioned style of the 1980s and 90s and in the modern style of graphic layout. I'm quite sure I can sufficiently construct the rule-system that I have now over time, at least in partial until I'm awarded to books once again starting after 1979. It's only five years. It's been a long time since I considered five years to be a long time.
At some point, as I've said, I'll want players. I may have some trouble relating to my peers when I'm entering grade seven and they're still just 12 y.o., while I'm past 60 ... but I get along with 12 y.o.'s right now so I don't think that's such an issue. I've got to convince them, though, that D&D is a game worth playing. That would be 1977. Somewhere in the world, there are people playing the basic game by then, but not in my part of the world, so far as I know. I'd seek it out to be sure, but probably I'd be disappointed.
Then as now, acquiring a player comes down to the same set of obstacles. For the most part, the game is one, but mostly in how well it's run and not so much in the "idea" of the game. I've always found the idea to be rather easy to sell — but the game has to be presented in a fashion that people have a concise, inherently practical viewpoint of their participation and the DM's expectations. This is something that we can talk for a long, long time about, and probably will, but here I'll concentrate on outlining the matter.
"Concise" game-play describes the players' understanding of what the game's about. In it's smallest terms, D&D is no different from a board game, with the caveat that the players work together, and not against each other. That point, however, is something that has to be explained and even dictated, in the manner of, "You're not allowed to attack each other. That's counted as losing the game and you'll either suspend efforts in that direction, or I'll deny you further opportunities to participate."
Note that includes a misnomer. Within the game's structure, there's no such thing as "losing." You know that, I know that. But for a player who has no previous experience with an RPG, it's easier to use terms that are familiar with them. There's an important distinction in RPGs between "losing" and "failing" — but most board games don't have that distinction. Monopoly, for instance, is about "failing" to succeed more than everyone else; but it's easier to call that "losing," because that's the acceptable nomenclature. If you turned to someone who had just lost at Monopoly and said, "You failed to succeed," though factually true, it's probable the response would not be positive. Most people, with respect to a board game, are more comfortable with the word "losing" than "failing." The latter is more accurate, however, when it comes to D&D, since there's no one to lose against, while dying is a failure that's awarded with a new character and a new attempt to succeed. From this the reader should take that when describing D&D to a new player, accuracy is less important than importing the correct mindset into the listener. Dying = losing is an easy equation. Use it, and clarify later.
So, I was saying that we need to define what the game's about. Or, if we prefer, what a successful and ongoing game is about. Simply put, D&D is about pursuing conflict and reward. Any other approach to the game, with new players, is certain to produce various degrees of one upmanship and "fucking around," where the player's imagination is given latitude to take the premise of the game and test it's boundaries. The effect is like putting our thumb on a gyroscope. The gyroscope continues to exist, but it ceases to be something that draws our attention.
Don't let it happen. It will anyway, because humans are humans, but if its clear the behaviour isn't condoned by the DM, it might manifest from time to time, but it won't thrive. Instead, the game will thrive. Which is the goal.
Thus, the "practical" game emerges. Discouraged from believing they can "get away with things," the players instead apply themselves to measuring the usefulness of their actual skills and abilities. These can then be applied to killing monsters and obtaining treasure. Though the game can be elaborated far, far past the singular model of hack and slash, players have to learn it before they can move on.
No, I haven't missed the obvious flaw in the proposed above. The question is, how does the DM make it clear that certain behaviour isn't condoned, without the players simply leaving the game? A failure to address this question is the reason why, O Reader, so many of us have such trouble keeping players, even when we can find them.
We have to be special. In being the DM, we have to make an impression on a level that encourages the player to swallow things they don't want to swallow, because they in turn want to impress us. If they're not coming to the table thinking, "I sure hope I don't humiliate myself at tonight's game; all I want is for the DM to approve of my play," then we don't have a chance. We can't DM. They've got to feel that they need to live up to our expectations — which means, (a) we've got to earn their approval ahead of time, and (b) we've got to have expectations.
All this content about mapmaking is about (a). As a DM, when we organise a table, we must be conscious of the need to really stun the players with our apparent capacity to run the game. An 8-foot tall map of Wales, which obviously took hundreds of hours to create, which in turn looks unbelievably fascinating, is one way — especially when the players are told they're going to be put in this little village right here, such-and-such distance from this hill and this craggy forest. This is taking hold of the player's consciousness with both hands and giving it a hard shake. We follow this by hefting up massive amounts of content which we place on the table next to us at the start of the running. I used to make a show of taking the old heavy rulebooks as a single mass and slamming them down on the table at the start of my games. Bang! — "All these rules ... this is what I play with. All of them. Don't fuck with me."
We'll get on with expectations with the next post.
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