Role-playing (oh gawd, again)

Addendum to the last post.  It was argued, reasonably, by a reader that I should define the difference between the role-playing I was speaking of, which I described as "performative," and the alternative, the "basic roleplaying," that is normally undertaken through game play, with the players "taking the role" of the characters.  I agree, this distinction has to be made.  But...

When the players make decisions based on their abilities and in-game circumstances, the issue at hand is navigating the game world, solving problems and interacting with the non-player character element.  For example, my character has a discussion with the dockhand to determine when the ship we were after left; I'm obtaining information.  But I'm not "playing a role" when I ask the "dockhand" about this.  I'm asking the DM directly in the framework of the game, and it is the DM that answers.  No role is being played, except within the understanding that the "character" is on the dock, not actual me, and the "dockhand" is speaking, not the actual DM.

Now, this appears to fit into the actor framework, in that if I'm playing Leonid in the Cherry Orchard, I'm still Alexis, I'm not Leonid, though I'm speaking words that Leonid says, to other actors who are playing Trofimov and Anya.  But note, in doing this, I'm performing.  This is performative role-playing.

I'm fully capable of saying to the DM, in gaming, "My character asks the dockhand when the ship left," and the DM is fully capable of answering, "The dockhand says the ship left an hour ago."  We're not performing our characters, we're not "assuming" the roles of our characters, we're not "storytelling," we're discussing what our characters do in the same manner that we would move pieces on the board of a game, though there is no board.

If I say, "My knight takes your bishop," this is not role-playing.  There is no language difference between this and saying, "My fighter attacks that orc."  We're moving pieces on a board.

We are not assuming the role of a character in any deep, immersive way.  This doesn't keep us, as humans gathered around a table, from being immersed in a game, any more than the manner in which chess is played ceases to be immersive because the players aren't actually down on the board being physically threatened by the opponent's queen.  We're quite able to be fully immersed in a game without it having an attachment to the character.  Likewise, our capacity for being inventive, imaginative or innovative is not stymied because we treat the character as a game piece, either.  All sorts of game players of all sorts of games are fully capable of being inventive and so on without this requirement.  D&D is NOT more immersive than chess or scrabble or poker... it just happens to be immersive in a different way that appeals to a different sort of person.

This is an extremely common bit of propaganda about D&D, which was fabricated early on to propitiate the game as "earthshaking" and "unique."  There is no solid evidence that deep immersion in D&D requires a kind of performative attachment to the character — and, in fact, I believe that the vast balance of D&D players would rather there wasn't, and that this trope would just die.  Immersion results from decisions being made and challenges being navigated, not from assuming a personality.

Yet we continue to be saddled with this definition of "role-playing" where we are, in fact, moving pieces on a board, because... wait for it...

A bunch of college-students without any experience in game design or game marketing, and without any foresight regarding how really destructive choosing the wrong appellation would be after a fifty-year haul, chose the psychological buzz word that seemed closest in reflecting something they themselves couldn't explain to someone who had never actually participated in D&D.  "Role-playing" stuck because it seemed like the best fit at the time, and it has been exacerbated because the human tendency is to create a bunch of bullshit conflab interpretive language to justify things that don't make sense, rather than just accepting that, hm, maybe that was the wrong word for the thing and now its too late to fucking fix it.

"Car" is an awful name for an automobile, as the word is a shortening of "carriage," which sort of seems accurate but is in fact not descriptive of what a car does. "Television" is a grossly inaccurate name for what a "tele-vision" does, but we're stuck with it. "Role-playing" falls into the same category, not because it’s particularly accurate, but because it was a convenient grab-ass word for something that no one could properly define at the time. And it sort of sounded cool, especially in a 1974 world where pop-psychology and treatment-based role-playing were all the rage.  Thank gawd the boobs that invented the game didn't call it primal screaming.

And so, I was wrong not to make this clear in the previous post.  I have a tendency, far too often, to assume that everyone else understands what I just explained pedantically, but that's really not a reasonable presupposition on my part.

Toxicity

Our goal as D&D participants is to root out the issues discussed in the last post.  These behaviours can manifest in anyone; they don't have to be full blown to get in our way and spoil our fun and that of others.  To avoid this, we should be mindful when we're feeling annoyed that we're not getting all the attention we think we ought to be getting, or when a situation doesn't turn out as we expected.  If we're aware that we're "waiting for our turn," or that not receiving gratification for something is getting under our skin, we need to look at those feelings and understand they have no place in the game.

There are some that just can't do this... they're bringing a personality to the table that habitually identifies every moment as, "When do I get mine."  It should be obvious that D&D consists of a group of people who have agreed to come together socially in order to participate in a shared experience, one in which they interact with each other to solve problems and achieve goals in a somewhat unusual yet intriguing environment.  ANY self-directed thought or action will, in this framework, produce a discontinuity, like a dancer in a troupe that cannot stop improvising.  We don't all have to think alike; we don't have to be "in sync"; but we do have to give ground to others and divide the time between all the participants, letting the game unfold as everyone contributes.

It is for this reason that two of the most cherished practices of latter-day D&D are so toxic in the game's play.  These things have arisen specifically to encourage players to become more engaged while the session is ongoing, but the design has stressed the individuality of this engagement, rather than the overall group dynamic.  In any shared activity, overt distinctiveness or excessive displays of personality are discordant to the whole picture... and unfortunately, the measure of engagement with these toxic insertions into the game is defined by how excessive the individual tries to be.  These practices are the creation of "backstories" and the increased instigation of "role-play."

While intended to intensify involvement, these practices do more harm than good.  It is not enough for the player to have a backstory, this backstory must be placed on display as often as possible, during game play, to justify it's presence.  Yet, because it is John's backstory, created for John, and not Janine's or Jared or Julian's backstory, the value of the backstory is that it specifically steers the game towards John's needs, John's history and John's motives.  In most cases, the individual with the strongest personality, who is the most creative in the group, tends towards the bending of the party's shared experience around the art of this one backstory, and not that of everyone... however unintentional this may be with regards to the one player.

Role-playing, the act of speaking as though one is one's character, thus lending that character a composed, designed personality, introduces an even more overt kind of theatricality into D&D.  The purpose for the player participating in this has his or her focus upon the "performative" element of the character, the desire to achieve a sort of accuracy or believability... but, like with backstories, this performance does not capture the group's dynamic, but that of the individual.  The role-playing performer is concerned primarily with how they are perceived, rather than focusing on others.  The goal is to impress, to entertain, rather than taking part in the shared experience, while the subsequent result is to wear down the collective enjoyment of those participants who do not equally sharae this performative aspect of the game.

Performative role-playing is inherently lacking in authenticity because it prioritises external validation — what others think of the performance — above that of in-the-moment decision-making within the context of the game.  Rather than thinking of what the party needs to do, or how to overcome the next difficulty, the player is waiting for the next opportunity to perform, often bending the game's narrative to suit the character's personal arc.  This is merely another way of derailing the campaign, particularly if the player feels compelled to launch into long speeches, seize the spotlight with regards to non-player characters or introduce quirks in speaking or vocabulary use that become increasingly annoying after several sessions, this accumulating hours of having the same character traits pressed upon one's attention.

While now associated part-and-parcel with D&D, these practices do not have a function that is necessary to the game itself.  At it's core, D&D is about players responding to the DM's description of the setting, making decisions and navigating challenges based on the rules. The game’s mechanics — rolling dice, making tactical choices, solving problems — are what drive play. None of these mechanics require a player to perform their character’s personality or reference an elaborate backstory. The real function of the game is in how the players interact with the world presented by the DM, not in how convincingly they can act out their character’s traits or weave their backstory into the narrative.

The practices of heavy role-playing and backstory development are, at their core, merely bad habits that have been grafted onto D&D by outside influences. These elements were never intrinsic to the functional play of the game but have been embraced because they appeal to players who, whether knowingly or not, are inclined to make themselves the centre of attention. They have succeeded because a great many of the participants of game's participants are of this ilk, and because the push-back has been affected by beliefs regarding inclusiveness and the enshrinement of individuality at the expense of good manners and respect for others. The strongest voices in present day D&D are those of performative actors, who's intent is to highlight the game's dramatic qualities, and a company that recognises pragmatically that products are sold to individuals and not groups. This has left the policing of D&D to one DM surrounded by a party that most likely has at least two self-directed individuals within it, outnumbering the DM and thus discouraging any possible stand on the matter.  As most DMs have trouble getting and keeping players, the incentive is to accept things as they are and try to manage the best we can.

Improvement

Before diving into the nuances of better Dungeon Mastering, let’s first explore the points raised in the previous post, specifically where we as players can genuinely improve our gameplay as people. This may seem pedantic and painfully obvious, but I don't intend to coat it with the usual mawkish optimism that many writers adopt, in part because I don't think this sort of thing convinces anyone. Suggesting that people could behave more politely or generously is a terrible strategy for promoting change. Rude, selfish people are what they are. But, since we shouldn't actually kill them, we'll try this.

The larger point is this: approaching other players and the DM politely when we want to do something, waiting our turn, being patient for an answer and not cutting off others but instead saying, "Oh no, it’s fine, I can wait," would go a long way toward reducing the chaos of nine people trying to talk at once. Simply understanding that, during combat, everyone has their turn, and that it’s important to stay quiet while others explain their intentions—or not rolling our eyes because someone is taking 30 seconds to do what we think could be done in 20—might just help the average player realise that everyone at the table is as important as they are. I recognise how ridiculous it is to have to say this, but anyone who’s played in several campaigns knows how easily these basic courtesies are forgotten.

It should be common sense, but it isn't. What is respect, after all? It’s appreciating that the game is a collaborative effort, where no one person's voice is more important than any other, and conceding that the DM needs to be heard clearly, with a volume level that allows for concentration. It’s deciding, for the sake of those around the table, that we should be fully present in this game, not offhandedly discussing the movie we saw last night, or who broke up with whom yesterday, or the concert tickets we bought that afternoon and how much we're looking forward to the concert, which won't take place until next January... or, in particular, how this moment is so similar to a like moment in a Deadpool movie. These things may be interesting in their own right, but they don’t belong in this time frame and they don’t need mentioning. Derailing the game with random tangents is an act of personal need or compulsion—a loud declaration that says, "I know you're all immersed right now, but I'm not, and I just thought of this moment from an Indiana Jones movie released 35 years ago, and I can't wait to share it."

To respect other people is to consider what's going on in their minds at the moment. We're all listening to what the DM is describing, except you. We're eager to learn what’s hidden inside the tomb we just opened — except you. We're genuinely excited to fight this battle because we actually find combat thrilling. It’s nice that you don’t feel the same, but this is what’s happening right now. So maybe, just maybe, for the sake of the rest of us, you could shut the fuck up and get on board with the moment.

Calling out this behaviour is with drama. To do so is an act of shaming, and the person being shamed is unlikely to respond positively. Yet, not calling it out allows the derailing compulsion to spread, infecting not only the other players but often the DM as well. I've run many a game where the burden of constantly refreshing the party’s memories—again and again—about where they are and what they’re supposed to be doing becomes so heavy that I simply join in with the rest. Thus, campaign begins to drift, time slips away, and now it's 9 o'clock. So there isn't time for the rooms we hoped would be gotten to this session.

This problem can’t be handled like a game of whack-a-mole, calling out derailments one by one, as that only amplifies the shame everyone feels and does not solve the issue. The proper solution is to stop the session entirely, explain that D&D wasn’t meant to be played in this scattered, disruptive way, and make it clear that if the behaviour continues, there are only two possible outcomes. The first is to close the entire campaign down—a solution no one wants. The second, more direct option is to identify the most consistent ringleaders of derailments and remove them, allowing the remainder to focus on the game, ostensibly because they genuinely want to play.

Unfortunately, the first solution—this being for EVERYONE to stop derailing the game, regardless of who they are, so we can ALL continue playing, is never seriously considered. The reader might note, reading the paragraph above, that I seemed to offer only two solutions.

And so, lest we forget, the crisis arises because a certain type refuses to respect others. It's therefore predictable that this type, rather than adjusting their behaviour, now sets in with a guillotine built of fingerpointing, deciding whom needs to go. To solve this, a DM has to care more about the game than any individual player, and has to be right about which ones actually need to be shown the door. I can confirm, this can be done, because I've done it. But it requires that we're ready to use the guillotine as well, to make our point.

However, "respect" isn't just about being polite in the moment. It's also about managing our behaviour and how we approach the game. Earlier, I suggested the game could be more "fun" for players if they were less obstructive, expectant or demanding. Players who come to the table with rigid ideals and preconceptions have placed their focus largely upon what's in it for them, rather than the collective experience of persons playing a game together.

A demanding player is not only someone who wants something — after all, every player there no doubt wants something. The difference is that the demanding player insists on getting it as soon as possible, often because they believe it will make their game experience better or because they think they've already earned it, and they don't wish to wait any more. This impatience and sense of entitlement causes the player to become so fixated on getting that one specific thing that they lose sight of the experience of playing. They can't engage with the excitement unfolding around them, because they're obsessed with having their desire fulfilled now. The rest of the table is waiting too, thinking, "If we can all be patient, why can’t you?" This impatience not only creates tension but also cheats everyone of just having a good time. Once that demand is satisfied, the thrill is fleeting, and they quickly shift to the next thing they feel entitled to. The fun they thought they’d have from getting what they wanted doesn’t last because they’ve conditioned themselves to chase after specific gratifications rather than enjoy the game’s broader experience.

An expectant player approaches the game with the quiet assumption that things are going to unfold in a way that suits their personal vision of how the game should go. They're not as forceful and demanding about what they want, but if their expectations aren't met, they can't, or won't, accept that they were wrong. Sometimes, they'll express this disappointment... but quite often, such players may be so passive that they silently churn their disappointment inside, becoming both disengaged and certain that the campaign, or in fact the entire structure of the game, has somehow failed them. While they're waiting for the game to meet their expectations, they're not having fun because we haven't reached the zenith yet; and when the game fails their expectations, they can't have fun because, well, it's not the game they thought it was. The preconception they have about games can be so crippling that they drift from campaign to campaign, edition to edition, genre to genre, like ghostly Dutchman trying to reach a home that's long since changed past all recognition.

An obstructive player is one who slows everything down — not out of malice, but because they can’t help but get in the way of the game’s momentum. They constantly second-guess decisions, question the DM’s rulings or nitpick details that derail the flow of the session. The rules-lawyer falls into this category, but that's just a very small part of the species. Such players need to analyse everything, they distrust everything, they overthink everything... and they are always certain that somehow, in all the decisions they have to make, there must be a magic decision that exists as the perfect solution.

Obstructive players often think they're being reasonable, that they're just making sure it's done "right"... but this ends up throwing roadblocks in front of everyone's experience, including their own. They’re too focused on maintaining control over small details, they can’t just let the game flow. They can't accept failure easily. It's not that they blame others, it's that, by blaming themselves, they over-compensate by being more careful, more deliberative... and therefore more obstructive.

We might argue that these players are circling the drain where D&D is concerned. They’ve moved past the point of redemption, beyond any argument or attempt at a cure. For some, it can take a long, long time to fully circle that drain before they finally quit and slip down the hole, taking their frustrations and obstructive habits with them. It’s not always immediate, but eventually, their inability to let go, adapt, or engage with the game as it’s meant to be played catches up with them. And while the game goes on without them, they’re left behind, forever disparaging the game that let them down.

Well, I'm out of time today. We'll continue soon.

Odd

"Fool, fool, back to the beginning is the rule."

When I first played D&D, I knew precisely nothing about the rules.  I was given a character, told where I was, told what was happening... and just like that, I was playing the game.

This is, in retrospect, rather odd.  Before I could play checkers, chess, RISK, scrabble and a score of other games I played in my youth, it was necessary to have the rules outlined before beginning.  In junior high, by which time I had graduated to Panzerblitz, Squad Leader and Tractics, rules had to be studied before any new participant could join.  With new participants, a great deal of time was spent teaching them how to play, even after they had begun moving their little chits around.

But with D&D, I wasn't taught how to play; I was told, "You can't do that."  If I asked why, the answer was usually, "Because you can't; I don't have time to explain it right now."  Anyone could see the DM was busy, and that the claim to a lack of time was utterly legit... so I and other players just watched and listened and, steadily, picked up those things we needed to know.  I remember others explaining rules both before and after the session... but in session, the answer "because" was wholly acceptable.

This too is fairly odd.

In most cases, including my own game as I think about it, the players are required to trust the DM's knowledge where it comes the mechanics and detailed knowledge of the game and the setting.  This trust is everything, particularly as certain campaigns steadily gain complexity through the addition of house rules and the accumulation of resource material.  The DM, it's assumed, spends a considerable amount of time designing and concentrating on the world's development, which means that the players don't have to.  And what's especially interesting about this dynamic is that it folds naturally into all the things the players aren't supposed to know, that are held back for the sake of revealing the adventure steadily and carefully as part of play.

For instance, the the party should be able to rely on a rule about how far they can travel in a day, based on their own physical endurance or the speed of their mounts. However, I can choose, as DM, to impose obstacles that unexpectedly hinder their progress. In this sense, I’m bound by the same rules as the players, but I’m also permitted to introduce challenges that repeatedly suspend those rules. In fact, I'm expected to do this.

Whenever I do, however, I risk the players' trust, upon which the game is built.  As the keeper of the rules, AND the keeper of the unknown player knowledge, it's very easy to overstep those boundaries I have to impose on myself to keep the game going.  Yet, and here is the rub:  while players often know those rules that apply to their characters, they rarely know all the rules of the game — especially this specific DM's game.  This discrepancy, given the kind of game that D&D is, seems very odd in a world where rules are mostly set in concrete.  This odd combination with a game that has an enormous number of rules, where the players usually know only a few of them, while being at the mercy of the DM, creates a quite volatile concoction.  A misstep in ruling or the perception of unfairness can quickly lead to shouting, accusations and the end of a campaign.

What's rather droll about this is that this very dynamic — the imbalance of knowledge and the reliance on the Dungeon Master's decisions — is exactly how the players want it.  They don't want to know all the rules, and won't work to keep them in mind even after they're explained multiple times.  It does not seem to matter how clearly the rules are written out, or how often the spell is cast, the balance of the player casting the spell won't remember these things even though they were pertinent in every session where that spell was used.  There's no point in a DM expressing frustration about this.  It accomplishes nothing, and on the whole it's easier just to have the spell committed to our own memory so we can relate the details of it in a short, twenty-second period.  The player will then spend at least three times that length of time decided if the spell should be used now, or three rounds from now.

Thus on the one hand, the rule structure in play supports the easy introduction of new players, while frustrating players as they gain an increasing-but-never-competent understanding of the rules.

The obvious answer that most DMs veer towards is that they, like the players, finally decide not to care about the rules.  This seems easier.

In most ways, it is.  The effort ceases to pursue the right answer and seeks, instead, the easiest and simplest resolution right now.  This saves time, maintains the game's momentum and allows a group of relatively rules-ignorant players to go on playing.  Upon stumbling upon this rather simple answer to an impossible to overcome headache, as most DMs do acquire, it feels like we've arrived at the promised land.  Very quickly, running the game becomes easier and, so long as the players' trust continues to flourish, there are no difficulties to consider.

I keep using the word 'odd.'  This does sound absurd, given that we're discussing a "game," which is a structured system meant to be governed by rules.  In most games, the rules are sacrosanct.  Consider for a moment the lives and fortunes that have been destroyed by something as simple as a line on a ground defining down to the millimeter whether or not a fuzzy yellow ball moving at 140 miles an hour is "in" or "out."  The rules in such contexts are ironclad and non-negotiable; a player risks being banned from a sport forever should they attempt too vociferously to challenge the judgment of a referee, as such persons are given enormous power to uphold the rules and maintain the integrity of the game. Their authority is final, and any excessive challenge is a very, very bad idea.  This is true, even when the referee is proven wrong.

Compare this to D&D's utter lack of rigorous standard.  Daring now to define the quality of the participant, in factual, unbridled terms... D&D is a game played by incompetents, incompetently.  This, marvellously, offers not the slightest barrier to people having fun, or becoming both deeply engrossed and sincerely committed to the game.  Players walk on air come Thursday, knowing they're playing this Friday.  They happily blunder through the rules, misinterpreting mechanics, disregarding any notion of one day actually gaining a sharp understanding of the rules — there are just too many of them.  The game, paradoxically, doesn't rely on precision or expertise; it relies in that strange zeitgeist, the shared narrative, which provides for players to be every bit as inept and amateurish as they are in real life.

Just think about it.  Nearly every thing we do that is not a game obeys these same standards.  There is no expertise with relationships or coping with one's family; the vast number of parents are "making it up as they go along," the good ones plastering over their terrible mistakes with love, apologies and chocolate ice cream.  We all suck at being teenagers and when that time is over, we all suck at being adults.  Once we get around my age, most of us will suck at getting old.  D&D, and of course other role-playing games, assures us that though we're lacking, so is everyone else.  Except, of course, the DM, but then, it's what we expect, don't we?  We rely on it.

The DM knows the rules.  At least, "sufficiently."

It is this structural mess that lends credence to the argument that we can't get "better" at D&D — or perhaps more to the point, it isn't necessary.  There's no upside, not as most participants see it.  

Defining "better" requires no great insight.  On the surface, this probably includes a deeper understanding of the rules and greater skill in strategic decision-making.  But it might also mean, through practice, putting away the outside world sufficiently enough to become more immersed in the game's progress.  Players can train themselves to be less expectant, less obstructive, less demanding, and therefore acquire a greater potential for having fun.  "Better" includes being more polite and respectful of other players, thereby enhancing the experience for everyone.  While the concept of how this is achieved may seem murky, the concepts themselves are self-evident.  Don't be a jerk.  Get along with people.

For the DM, all this applies... as do the benefits of memorising and gaining technical mastery in designing a narrative, conflicts, open-ended setting elements and making judgments that don't produce either volatility or worse, apathy.  Getting players and keeping players is not something that happens through random chance.  Better DMs will find it easier to get players... and they will find it easier to keep them.

Starting Preface

I am working on the preface of "Starting a Book from Scratch," I think this being my last change in title.  The book cover is being designed as we speak, so it'll soon enough be too late to change it.

My feeling is that a preface ought to sell a book, giving the reader a reason to delve into it.  I've read too many prefaces that were literary critiques of the book itself or some other book, which this book is meant to correct.  Mine isn't like this.  I've been pounding this nail for a couple of days, and while it isn't done, I'd like to share it.  I believe I make several extremely relevant points about chat that have been wholly missed by those I've seen discussing the program and others like it.


Preface, Part 1

Whenever I’m introduced to a group of strangers, the conversation always seems to follow a familiar path. After the pleasantries, it inevitably leads to the question everyone is curious about: “What do you do for a living?” Instead of offering a vague or comfortable answer, like saying I work in an office or that I used to be a cook, I tell the truth — that I’m a writer. Without fail, this revelation sparks interest and soon enough someone will say, “Really? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. What advice would you give me?”

Of course, there is no simple advice. Writing is one of those self-made vocations that demands thousands of hours to master. It can’t be condensed into a handful of tips or tricks, as though there’s some secret key to the process that, once discovered, makes writing easy. Writing is a methodical, multi-faceted craft that demands, above all, the unwavering urge to sit down and do it, often for reasons that are difficult to articulate.

A kind of skill inevitably develops because we persist at it, despite the fact that it’s nitpicky, unforgiving and filled with the tedious repetition of the same passages over and over in an effort to get them right—all in a state of self-imposed solitary confinement. This is not a complaint; it’s a necessity of character. It’s what makes us pause in bemusement when we hear that, as human beings, “We need people.” Okay, sure, yes... occasionally. But not when we’re working.

From this vantage point, when we encounter someone asking for shortcuts or wisdom — a clear sign they’re not part of the peculiar "pod-people" that writers are — we can’t help but think this person isn’t a writer and likely never will be. The very nature of the question exposes a fundamental gap in their experience. I don’t say any of this, of course. Instead, I toss out the usual tropes—that they should read as much as they can; that they should just keep writing; that they should expand themselves by trying new things, so they can write about it. This isn’t nonsense, but it’s not advice either. It’s padding.

Should I try to be honest, I have less appetising advice to give. I encourage people to learn another language, for example: specifically, Latin. Not because it’s useful as a spoken language, but because its structure is so clean and fluid that it provides the essential building blocks of grammar. Latin helps a writer think more logically; it's unyielding, which forces precision. With patience and perseverance, it gives an instinctive command over the rules and rhythm of sentence construction. I can hardly remember a word of Latin, having studied it 35 years ago... but the effect is still here in my writing.

I advise people to choose a large book that they deeply respect, one that’s also difficult to read—the larger, the better. Then, I tell them to copy it out, word for word, exactly, either with a pen or on a keyboard. The trick is in the “exact.” And I recommend they use notepad, because it’s so unforgiving. I began this process with a typewriter, copying out scores of books and stories from my teens and twenties, and I still do it now and then, even today. I believe this method helps us think inside someone else’s head — and that once we’ve done that for a good long while, we start to see how to change the way we think ourselves. The process forces a level of engagement that goes beyond passive reading. It requires attention to the nuances of the writer's choices... and with time, it helps us recognise the patterns in those choices as well.

This is no different from an active apprenticeship, where, for example, a tinsmith is taught to make the same tin pot hundreds of times, until they can accomplish the making of it with ease. In practice, copying is a disciplined, almost meditative process, which ties into the perseverance I addressed above.

I have never had a would-be writer take me up on this, to my knowledge.

This book in the reader's hands is a testament to the slow, painstaking process of writing. The reader who picks this up expecting to be entertained is likely to be disappointed. Like a musician who must play the same song so often that it ceases to have any romanticism left in it, there are lengthy moments in this book which, in the effort to teach how to write a book from scratch, indulges in the repetition of passages with villainous abandon. "Why?" we might ask. Well for the experience of what writing is like, of course.

Here is presented the raw, sometimes tedious process that mirrors real writing... the practice of sifting through a paragraph and picking out what dissatisfies, what fails to capture the moment, or the character, or the manner in which this paragraph transitions to the next. The narrative of a novel, from its birth process right up to the point when it’s abandoned — for nothing is ever truly finished — is an unpolished, difficult-to-digest narrative. The goal is to transform it from that unruly state into something the reader might find palatable, something that won’t stick in their craw or roll around uncomfortably in their tum-tum.

This book, however, makes no pretense of being "finished." That is not my goal... and for this, no apologies are offered.

Now, it just so happens there's something called "chat" in the world, which is an interesting, mostly untried literary tool. For most purposes, chat can churn out competent writing. But it’s not really a good writer—mostly because it sticks to the rules of “12th-grade English,” which our teachers drilled into us back in school. This is good enough for college essays and use in the business world, but grade-school English, while functional, isn’t designed to move a reader emotionally.

While some theorise that artificial intelligence will ultimately erode the craft of language, and others imagine a future where serious writing is outsourced to these engines, the reality is more nuanced. For any perceptive writer working with chatGPT, it quickly becomes clear where AI falls short in capturing the depth of good writing. The gap isn’t found in its grammar, nor in its ability to relate to human needs or emotions in a surface-level way. In fact, as this book shows, chat does a surprisingly competent job of understanding how humans might feel or react in unusual situations. It can often guess at the right emotional response or provide a framework for human interaction that seems convincing on the surface.

Yet, despite its technical proficiency, chat lacks the unpredictable, the messy, the moment when the rules ought to be discarded to create a truly memorable and emotive break. Its approach is one of efficiency and reliability, always seeking the most logical or predictable sentiment, the easiest connection for why a character would do something. This predictability can be a fatal flaw when it comes to writing that thrives on human complexity. Chat struggles with the unexpected, the contradictory, or the subtle misunderstandings that often occur in real human interactions—especially in work environments where people’s motivations are rarely clear-cut, and their behaviours not always aligned with logic.

For instance, chat doesn't intuitively grasp how colleagues might navigate passive-aggressive tension, or how unspoken hierarchies influence casual conversations. It tends to smooth over these social frictions in favour of clean, polite exchanges that don't fully reflect the often-complicated dynamics of real workplaces. The same applies to its portrayal of emotions and motivations. Chat defaults to the most obvious emotional arc, the cleanest rationale... and while this produces coherent writing, it lacks the richness of stories where human beings behave irrationally, unpredictably or even self-contradictorily. That is, the stories that change the world.

Within this book, there is a moment when chat is asked to generate a description of a fictional magazine article. Chat assumes competency as the default mode — it crafts the piece according to journalistic standards. It would never think to propose an incompetent, poorly researched, hastily written or sensationalised article; this simply isn't how the program "thinks." It has been programmed to presuppose expertise, particularly in anything we might consider official.

Of course, once prompted to create a flawed or incompetent piece, chat can indeed produce one convincingly — but only because it's been specifically instructed to do so. Left to its own devices, it doesn't grasp that the power of writing lies in its imperfections.

In the same vein, chat hesitates, always, to flatly state things. It dearly loves to equivocate, favouring phrases like “may” or “could” when expressing any kind of certainty. If it speaks of the power of writing, it will cautiously claim that it “sometimes” lies in its imperfections, sidestepping definitive statements. This pattern is not just a quirk of its programming—it’s a calculated behaviour. Chat has been programmed to distrust itself, to hedge its bets and avoid any absolute claims. The reason for this hesitancy lies in a deeper concern that stems from the business model of its creators — namely, that chat must not offend anyone.

This preoccupation with avoiding offence governs nearly every sentence it generates. In doing so, chat sacrifices the kind of bold, assertive language that often characterises compelling writing. It skirts around the edges of clarity, opting for safe, neutral territory where it can neither provoke nor mislead. In its quest to please everyone, chat effectively dulls the edge of its prose, softening statements that might otherwise carry weight. It instinctively avoids confrontation or any viewpoint that might be perceived as controversial, making its output safe but often tepid.

There is often a joke made that readers expect chat to write the Bible. The truth is, the program could not hope to manage Leviticus, a text that deals in absolutes — right and wrong, clean and unclean, sacred and profane.

A writer, to be any sort of writer worth reading, must be prepared to offend, and deeply, to make the point that needs making! To have an effect, we must push boundaries, challenge conventions, declare enemies and make war. The failure of most would-be writers, even the most competent among them, to understand the necessity of this makes the dividing line between the good and the great. But thankfully, there are no great writers here, so we may drop this matter and move onto important things.

This book uses chat as a sounding board, a tool to test ideas against, ostensibly to write another book that remains unwritten. Chat offers a significant advantage: immediacy. There is always someone to "listen," to respond to the work as it progresses. This is particularly beneficial because chat's motives are, by design, positive. It wants us to write well, to adhere to certain principles — and at the same time, it represents the prevailing sensibilities of society, so to speak. When chat perceives that we’ve overstepped propriety, it immediately suggests changes—something the reader will witness throughout this book. This gives writers the unique opportunity to evaluate whether now is the right time to step over that line, or whether it’s better to accept chat’s criticism and curb our enthusiasm.

As a writer with forty years of experience across business, journalism, advertising, drama and fiction, it's impossible to overstate how delightful it is to have that line of propriety drawn out so clearly. Of course, there’s no reason not to cross it with abandon! But now we know exactly when we are crossing it, and what specific words and sentiments trigger that crossing. Before 2023, writing often felt like working in the dark; we had only our instincts to guide us about where that line might lie. And being in love with our stories—often to the point of obsession — we too often remained blind to those transgressions until it was too late to correct them.

Not in Harness

My 60th birthday is coming up next week, on the 15th September... and yes, I know, for months now I've been calling myself 60 years old, but that's only because I've been closer to 60 instead of 59, and somewhere along the time I was 12, I decided it was perfectly reasonable to round my age up, when it wasn't for school or some other legal purpose (or when talking to my parents, who were completely unreasonable about such obvious things).

It also happened on my 12th birthday, which I remember I didn't enjoy very much, that I had an epiphany that what I wanted to be was a writer.  Now, some here may recall that this is 3 years before I'd ever heard of D&D, the 45th anniversary of which was yesterday, for the record.  At the time, I thought this obviously meant my becoming a novelist, as I had read many novelists and thought how cool it would be to have that job.  In fact, that very night, I took out a sheet of paper and began writing my first novel, which I wrote all through grades 7, 8 and 9, until growing up before entering grade 10 and reconising that it was a garbage idea for a novel. 

[yes, I remember the intended plot and I won't recount it]

With the arrival of D&D, I did try to write fiction associated with the game, but the substance of such fiction was so terrible and my ability to write could not possibly lift it from that muck, so I turned my mind towards writing more esoteric, albeit, failed projects, though I did manage to write a performance scene that got me into a city-wide competition (I lost), I was published in three years of high school student-literature booklets (in-house end-of-year things) and I did enjoy the experience of having more than one teacher sit me down for a heart-to-heart in order to explain, for my own good, that I'd never be a writer, that I was wasting my time, and that if I would just realise where my real talents were, I'd be a much more successful person in life.

They meant well.  For all I know, what they said might have been true; one nice thing about being this age is recognising that the really awful things that were said to us as children, however misdirected, were also probably true.  Still, I don't think I'd have been happy as anything but a writer.

Writing, which I've done for 48 years, represents a long string of failures for me, punctuated by just enough successes to make me fruitfully stubborn.  It so happens that I've been able to apply the skills and interest I have in the practice to D&D these last 16 years, since finding this blog, but I hurry to explain to the gentle reader, this blog and my internet presence are in fact a thin wedge of the life I lead away from this keyboard.  Just as what I say here hardly represents all that I have done with my life, all that I have been interested in, and all that I wish to achieve.

What it says on the back of my book, Pete's Garage, is 100% true.  I did participate in mosh pits, I did listen to industrial music, I did watch musicians of every kind play.  I did watch them argue, sitting in their little apartments and drinking their beer as they shouted at each other.  I followed them around to their gigs and schlepped their shit, often for no pay but for a seat in the van on its way to another city.  I did buy them dinners and let them sleep on my couch, and I did marry one.  She was the mother of my daughter, the daughter of a musician, and right now I have her piano with her music books and her notes in those music books in my apartment right now.

But how much time have I spent, here, talking about music?  How often have I debated the merits of arranging and preparing for a gig, of getting an album or a CD made, of selling them, of getting on spotify, of all the various aspects that it would take to put a band together and make them practice and find them a space to play?  How often have I spoken about the many hours that I have stood in front of a live audience at talent nights and sang, back when the writing wasn't going so well and thinking maybe the path for me might be a different one?

I know that it probably feels that I can't be talking about me, because I'm the D&D guy, I'm the one that makes all the maps and the game rules and ran all those thousands of hours of campaign-time.  There's just no way that I could have done all that and had any interest in being a musician.  After all, I didn't start singing in the church choir until I was 13 years old, and around campfires when I was a camp counsellor at 15, with a bunch of 8-year-old brats to look after.  I used to sing to myself nearly every time I had a chance to walk alone; I had a repertoire of a hundred songs I knew by heart, though I admit a lot of those are gone now.

But I'm the D&D guy.  I've found my niche, right?  My place.

But then, I was also an actor, wasn't I?  Wrote, produced and directed my own plays, performed at the Edmonton fringe festival.  I could go, right now, since I have the money in my bank account, and get my head shots and pay my fees and join ACTRA, start going out for auditions.  I still have some connections with people in the theatre scene, some of whom owe me a favour or two; I've got the energy to play a father or an old man.  I have a deep, rich voice and I can still hit the back tiers of a big auditorium... which would only get better if I applied the practice.  Might be a fun, social sort of activity.  When I was just 25, those performance companies were always rounded out by 60+ men and women, outgoing, friendly, none of whom expected to win an award but they were there for every rehearsal, doing it for the sheer pleasure of the activity.

Sounds all right to me.  I'm not going to get on Stephen Colbert with my next D&D-based book.  All the 5e players in the world aren't going to change their playing style because I turn out a group of essays on starting a trading town, tackling a dungeon like a military campaign or inventing a guide that tells all the things players can buy.  I've had my run at fame, and it ain't comin'... not for D&D, not for all the fiction novels I write, not for the music I've sung or the boards I've trod.

The only thing that's left, the only thing that really matters, is if I'm having fun or not.

Now, if the people supporting me on Patreon aren't happy because I'm not staying in my lane, I send my deepest apologies.  You know, there's a tale I tell about two hyper-rich businessfolk I saw at the symposium once, about ten years ago.

The first says, "I have to tell you, my business depends on creative people.  Without creative people, I don't have a business.  They are the heart, the soul, the substance of everything that I am able to produce and sell and make money from, which is why I treasure them.  I really respect them, and what they can do, because I know that I'm not like that and I can't do it myself."

And the second one says, "Exactly.  That's exactly right.  And that's why I say to entrepreneurs when they ask how to get started, get yourself some creative people.  The way to make a business work is to gather these people together, harness them to the cart of the business and let them take us where we want to go."

Whereupon the first adds, "Yes, I so agree.  The future begins with harnessing the talent that exists in the world, in order to ensure that our companies perform the best they can."

And so it goes.

Pete's Garage

I knew I shouldn't have taken this book off the sidebar:

For sale.

Exploring A.I.'s Role in Literature

I'll assume the reader has had those moments when some sort of stock has to be taken of oneself, to decide whether or not we're crazy.  I'm having one of those moments now... I'm on the verge of doing something completely insane, or completely genius.  And there's no way to way which.

Yesterday, with time on my hands and not much motivation to work on any ongoing project, I decided to address a science fiction novel that's been rattling around in my head these last four years.  The premise, which has nothing whatsoever to do with D&D, is as follows:

Essentially, a social transformation has taken place throughout the world due to a drug called "phina," and sometimes "saraphina," which blocks those chemicals that the male's biology requires in order for him to act aggressively or even becomes angry. It has almost no other repercussions, except that after a period of ten months of being on the drug, the male becomes apt to follow instructions when they are given to him --but this is not a form of mind control, rather it is simply that the male perceives that doing so is probably for the best. It hasn't been demonstrated that this isn't just the male's coming to accept that, because he can't argue or fight back, he just becomes more willing to accept the directions of a person who can be forthright.

The drug has zero effects on women. It is not a natural substance, but was first made by a subversive corporation working on behalf of women's rights and freedoms. Initially, the drug was distributed clandestinely and illegally on the street. The drug is highly addictive, such that the men once on the drug, deeply want to locate and take the drug again ... though it has no recognisable recreational properties of any kind. It is not a hallucinogenic, it does not make the user "high," or provide any sense of special empowerment or delight; at most, it is gently calming, mostly because the male feels no compulsion to exhibit either aggressiveness or anger.

I typed this into chat, which initiated a four-hour discussion in which the implications of the above was addressed, followed by a discussion of the main two characters around which the book would revolve.  The professions and story arc of the characters' backgrounds followed, as well as how this would affect the structure of the book.  The plot takes place in the present, but the two characters experience only a single day in real time; the remainder of the story is a series of self-reflections on how each character progressed from the way things used to be, that is, "normal", to the way they are now, which is a very, very different world.  Themes were discussed, the incomes of the characters, their relationship with each other (they're married) and how that has evolved to the present.

The book's outline was sketched out, what would happen to the characters on that day, where the tension would originate and ultimately how the book would build to a dilemma that would be more or less impossible to solve for the two characters, but one more than the other.  The dilemma is suitably insolvable, gut wrenching and I think well worth the building of a novel in order to reach.  All through this, the material suggested was examined and discussed and re-assessed where needed.

I settled on character names, then solved the problem of the book's title.  In all this, the structure of the first chapter was discussed, then finally the first sentence of the book went back and forth.  I then proceeded to write the opening of the book, the first 1,200 words or so, letting chat write passages and then editing and rewriting my own lines, adding sections as I saw fit, slowly progressing the opening of the book in the manner I wanted.  Whereupon, I stepped back, took a breather and felt fairly good about having gotten the book on a footing where it could, conceivably, be written in full.  

I decided to save the conversation with chat in its entirety, as I would wish to review the conversations, since I'd expect to forget much of the material.  I saved it as notes, and got a little bit of a shock.

The conversation is 38,000 words.

That is longer than the Dungeon's Front Door; in the same format, it would be 160 pages, not counting additional title pages, preface, etc.

The reader should easily be able to figure what my thinking is now.

This is a pulp-sized book of a kind I've never seen before, though chatGPT tells me that it's been done before.  Quote, "These books are typically experimental in nature, reflecting on the interaction between human and machine, and sometimes include commentary or analysis on the AI's responses. Some authors use these conversations to delve into specific themes, while others might frame the dialogue as a form of collaborative storytelling."

And this would be the most beneficial element of the conversation, as it outlines ways to approach chat with a subject in mind, it demonstrates how an individual with a clear idea of what the end result ought to be, while showing an ability to recognise bad writing that allows for correction and the production of a much better sort of writing.  It potentially moves the dialogue away from expecting chat to write the Bible by saying, "Chat, write the Bible," to showing how each sentence and paragraph can be tossed back and forth until an end product results that satisfies the capacity of the writer to recognise good from bad.

More to the point, the argument I and others have been making, is that if you're not a good writer to start with, if you're not willing to parse every word and identify precisely why it should and shouldn't be there, then depending on chat to write anything is going to be a reflection of one's own inability to write.  But IF the writer can recognise the difference between good and bad, then chat represents the possibility of things being proposed that a writer can leap on and see has real potential, even if that's been randomly generated.  Hell, most of my thoughts are "randomly generated" from a lifetime of noticing things that happen to happen in the places I happen to be, or which someone happens to say when we happen to be talking to each other.

I'm well aware of what the pushback would be.  Likely, I'd be accused of chat writing the book and not me, which I'm fine with, as the book itself is evidence to the contrary.  Very likely, for anyone who delved far enough into the book to really identify the premise, the castrating/emasculating nature of the book's direction wouldn't make a lot of men of the MTGOW type very happy.  For this is the trajectory of the male's experience, including elements of the book that directly suppose a feminist fascist state... which isn't going to make a lot of feminists happy either, given that they usually support an ideal where they're in control, but they're definitely not, and anyway it would all be really nurturing.

At least, there's absolutely no sex in the book.

Ultimately, if it "took off," it certainly would be misunderstood by nearly everyone.  The premise definitely drifts into Starship Troopers/The Fountainhead territory, where everyone has a hateful opinion but, from the substance of their arguments, never seem to have read the book.

C'est la vie.  I really have no reason not to publish it, except, you know, it might convince everyone in the world that I'm not a serious writer.  But, you know... since hardly no one knows my name now, there's always the possibility that they might hate me enough to overcome that disability.

Posing the concept here as the last stop before diving in.  So people can put up their hands and ask, "What the...?"  I have bounced this off my friends and my daughter today, so I'm not entering into this without having already obtained sound advice.