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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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