Game Imbalance

I am sorry to say that the Authentic Wiki still isn't active, though it should be. I have no idea why. At present, the service company is overwhelmed with their move so there's nothing to do now but wait. I'm assured it should be restored some time tomorrow, if not later today.

Yesterday I received a missive that was grateful that I was establishing a taxonomy for D&D game preparation. It might be good at this point to briefly explain that I haven't invented this — it's the basic design taxonomy that applies to everything that built or prepared for in the world.

Research, to start, involves gathering the necessary tools and understanding the mechanics, methods, and world elements available for the game. This is the foundation, like identifying the raw materials and technologies available to you. I've defined this as understanding the rules and anticipating the player's actions as a form of discovery, to determine what parts of our game we should expand and focus upon.

Estimation is about calculating what is needed in terms of resources and costs to successfully execute the creation of a given thing. This step involves weighing costs, both literal and metaphorical, such as how much detail to include or how long a session will last. I've described this as including preparing ahead of time specifically for sessions and the specification of what's really essential for our needs. This is like buying only those things we need to get the thing built.

Planning is the architectural phase, where you organize the components of what the project needs, bringing them to the site or storing them on the premises, whether we're talking about building a house or readying a kitchen for the food it needs to cook that day. I've been describing these things as laying out the setting, fixing the combat system and explaining how intrigue works. With this post, we're going to discuss the party's accumulation of resources, wealth, powerful items and overall status.

Running the actual game is, therefore, the "manufacturing process", where everything that's been researched, estimated and planned is put into practice. This is where all the design phases come to life, where the interaction between players and the dungeon master happens. Our earlier discussions of how players can be better players fits into this overall process as well, as everything we've discussed so far contributes to a smoothly running team that's capable of making a fine product that's in high demand.

To continue...

Wealth and resources serve as a key driver of the party's decisions because they represent opportunity and power. Wealth opens doors to greater influence, better equipment and the ability to overcome more significant challenges, as does the accumulation of experience and personal abilities. It is these things that compel the players to take greater risks, exploring dangerous parts of the setting or involving themselves in wide-reaching conflicts. If players don't feel pushed to acquire these things, it's because they're already so overpowered they don't feel especially threatened by the game's structure. If they deliberately avoid situations of danger, because these are always presented as a choice, then this is a clear indication that the players are content with what they have and don't feel any strong need to threaten or adjust their status quo.

"Comfort" is an undesirable quality in a player. There is an adage about the removing of limpets from rocks; limpets are incredibly tough, resilient sea creatures that, once fixed to a stone surface, are nearly impossible to remove, even with the blunt force of a hammer. However, if the rock is lifted out of the water and set in the open air, the limpet will move of its own accord, to a different rock that is submerged. In essence, we have removed its food supply; we have made the limpet uncomfortable. This is what must be done with players who are unmotivated by the accumulation of wealth and other things.

Therefore, we must do more than "award" things; we must also continuously plan to remove the players from their "food supply," making them feel that they NEED to act in order to survive or thrive, which invigorates their engagement with D&D. This requires more than merely having their stack of coins dwindle or their food supplies sour; it isn't enough to tax or gouge them at the market. We must physically, like the limpet, place the characters in situations where getting themselves out of the trouble they've landed in requires that they actively move in the direction of safety.

The premise of accumulation must be that the more we have, the safer we are — or, at least, the better chance we have of securing a foothold in some part of the setting where we control most of the ways where we might be accessed by a potential enemy. This ought to be the real reason why players are eventually driven to the construction of a castle... not for the sake of their vanity or prestige, but because this is the safest of possible places into which they might retreat.

But a castle is a long, long way off for any common group of adventurers at the start of a campaign. To possess such a place would mean hundreds of treasures that would need to be fought over and gathered. To succeed in this would undoubtedly require many precious, treasured objects of power that would break the backs of our enemies and expose their hoards to our greedy fingers. The overall process demands risk, which requires players with courage who are prepared to gamble their characters like chips on a craps table... a vast, complicated version of that game with many kinds of dice and points that need to be made at exact moments and in exact ways.

This, however, is the players' perspective. The dungeon master has a separate difficulty at hand; how to establish the pace at which this acquisition of treasure is accumulated. We know that it cannot be too much, else our limpets will settle and cease to engage. This, however, doesn't tell us anything about what the amount of "encouragement" is appropriate.

There is a common sense that players, if given too little treasure, are liable to become discouraged or disengaged from the game; this might be true, if the full experience of play is designed almost entirely upon hack, kill and take the treasure. There are other considerable angles of the game, such as the aforementioned intrigue that we can invest the players in, as well as participation in achieving their hopes and dreams, which we'll discuss in the next post. It's entirely possible to run a game of D&D where the players are so impoverished as to be hardly peasants, without this disengagement taking place. Therefore, we should not overly measure the importance of "giving the players what they want" as something that need concern us.

What we're looking for is the "sweet spot" of treasure giving. This is, unfortunately, always framed in the usual discussion of "too much" or "too little," which may properly describe some of what we've just said here. In terms of knowing the right amount to give, however, this comparison is a dead end because it fails to address the real problem, which is how to make treasure consequential in a meaningful way. The right amount cannot be measured by what it is NOT... we'll chase our tails unto eternity pursuing that solution.

Instead, we must use our good sense to calibrate the impact of treasure, whatever it's form, for this includes the conveyance of status upon the party as well, in terms of how we see it, moment to moment, affecting the party in REAL TIME. This requires that we see treasure as more than a thing that adds to the party's pile. It is a catalyst for change within the game's ongoing function, having ripple effects in numerous ways. For example, if a player's character has just acquired a specific powerful tool, their desire is to apply it like a hammer to every "nail" in sight. This can be fun for a while — but if this habit persists, we can easily see we've given the player something too BIG for his or her britches as a game participant.

This doesn't mean we can rush in and take it away; we've given the thing and within certain boundaries, we must blame ourselves and chalk it up to experience, learning not to do this again. In the meantime, we can concoct events in the game where the "hammer" is less effective, or not at all, and wait for the day when the player's character gets into some corner that they fail to get out of. Then we can, with a clear conscience, quietly remove the object from our campaign. I do not say we should engineer this corner; if the game we run is dangerous enough, and the player overly secure with their toy, that won't be necessary. Though problematic, such issues must be solved over time in a manner that is both practical and respectful of player agency. After all, we gave the item; it is on us to suffer the consequences.

It can be seen from this example that what's wanted is a positive, progressive experience for all the players at the same time. We want them to do well, and towards that end, we give them a goodly amount of treasure and nice items that simultaneously empower them, just enough that those "ripples" through the game don't excessively shape the game's structure to the players' benefit. On our side, we can always merely double the number of dangers the players meet; there are always enough enemies to place before the players, because we literally conjure them out of thin air. Therefore, in considering what is "enough treasure," we may equally consider this against the question, what is "too much monster?"

I resist the use of the term "game balance" as an ill-defined concept that is vague and overused. Instead, let's merely stress that both sides of the equation — treasure and challenges — must be something we weigh constantly in the back of our minds as we plan every part of the game. Importantly, BOTH are fluid and easily adapted to each moment during game play, so that as one increases, the other must be managed in a like fashion, though not necessarily in a "balanced" fashion. Balance describes a situation where different elements are equal or in correct proportions to one another. This is NOT what we want! At times, we definitely want power tipped in the players favour, so that occasionally they'll experience the thrill of wasting their enemies and carrying piles of treasure and other goodies away, shouting with glee as they go. At other times, we should tip that power the other way, where the monsters are so threatening and perversely dangerous that the players exist in a state of abject dispair, wondering how they shall ever emerge from this hellscape. So it is with a game that, unlike a story, has no "act structure" because it is perpetual. Sometimes, the game's litany is that of a dangerous climax; at other times, we are in the midst of a new adventure's onset or some sort of denouement. The uncertainty of the player's accumulation of goods vs. the world's danger ebbs and flows like the deck of a ship — where perfect "balance" only occurs when no wind is blowing.

Therefore, there is no such thing as a "sweet spot" where the giving of treasure is concerned... which is no great comfort to those who began this post thinking they might at last be granted the answer to this long-debated question. The right "spot" is as changeable as an empty bucket rolling about on our metaphorical deck. We must, as the DM, decide in the moment where that bucket is, and fill it precisely to where it can either cease to move or rather scatter its contents as it rolls. Like the challenges that the players face, treasure must be fluid and adaptable. At one moment, a large haul of treasure might be exactly what the players need to feel a sense of accomplishment after a grueling battle. In another moment, that same amount could tip the scales too far and make future challenges feel trivial. With too little experience, we're always going to wind up giving too much or too little. The best we can do is try to make up for our shortcomings when we've done misestimated — and comfort ourselves with knowing that sometimes, the players need to feel flush with wealth. At other times, they need to be struggling. For good or ill, if we've goofed, and made them feel either at the wrong time, we can take comfort in the knowledge that next time, if it seems the right time, we'll make up for it.

Intrigue

Embarking upon a more esoteric form of game play, one often studiously avoided because of its difficulty for both the players and dungeon master, is what we may call strategic decision-making. This means something different in D&D than it does in war-based board gaming; here, it is the problem of decoding layers of uncertainty that arise from a world where intrigue and subtle currents of power affect the setting, whether this is an untrustworthy ally, a dangerous political swamp, or some non-player character's hidden agenda. Players will, in a full, rich world, bump against any of these, and many other like situations. The difficulty has two parts: the DM must be able to conceive of such plots and mechinations, to a degree that they can be presented as both understated and believable, and the players must be capable of realising that such a game is afoot, and be capable of piecing together clues in order to understand it.

If either of these necessities does not exist, then this sort of game play is next to impossible. For players to interpret clues, there must BE clues; which requires a DM to invent clues... and these must be of a type that can be interpreted, but not so easily that they're less clue-like than obvious facts. It also requires participants for whom deviousness and ruthlessness aren't wholly alien to their personal experience. Like the film detective who has become indoctrinated through experience in the darker sides of human nature, the players too must have some taste for this sort of fare. If not, if they are upset by it, or cannot conceive that someone would seize illegitimate power by hook or by crook, regardless of the necessary means, then such babes in the wood won't enjoy the raw seriousness such doings portend.

For those wishing to dive in, however, this aspect of gaming requires every bit as much design as the making of maps or preparing a working combat system. First, we must know the setting's inhabitants, as well as we know the characters from a pantheon of films and books that have depicted those who work outside the law for the last two hundred years. Intrigue and the quest for easy power can be defined as a personal shortcut for those who aren't willing to work and wait for their reward. They want the reward now, as quickly as they can achieve it... and normally, there are so many such persons in a life-like setting that they are competing with each other to get a bite of the apple, as they are getting a hold of the apple itself.

This multi-person set up produces a multi-layered engagement, made more complex by the simple fact that there are also good people pretending to be bad people in order to stop the bad people. Thus, a villain might surprisingly turn out to be an ally; an apparent ally, a backstabbing bastard. The players themselves may choose to play either side of the field, for there are no rules except what we impose autocratically to stop players from being the "bad guys" themselves. The mess and mayhem of all this, even though we have only gotten this far, already feels like it's up to our chest and ready to overwhelm us. We might ask, how in hell is this to be sorted, if we don't already know how to do so?

To solve the problem, we must think like a detective novel. This does not mean setting up all the events that are to take place well in advance, so that the players are reduced to characters in a book. What the characters do, what they say to others who are engaged in such affairs, must matter as much as their choosing which enemies to fight on a battle field or which places they want to go. However, in our engaging with the players, our goal as a dungeon master is to both dispense information and hoard it, just as any product of film noir or pulp fiction does.

For example, the players are told to meet with an individual, Salif. In this encounter, we must decide first, what does Salif actually know? Then, what is Salif willing to say at this time... and this we divide into what he'll say if only asked, and what he'll say if threatened? Then, finally, more tricky still, what things does Salif think that he knows, but in fact knows inaccurately. This last is all important, since we must always remember that the NPCs the players interact with are themselves operating within the same framework as the players. They only know what they've been able to learn; no one knows everything; and everyone's perspective is riddled with falsehoods and mistaken beliefs.

Again, for example, let us say that someone out there in the maelstrom intends to kill Salif. How do we play this? We can have Salif killed off "camera," as it were, which the party then learns about. Or we can have Salif killed in front of them, where the party can witness it. Or we can have an attempt on Salif's life that the party can either prevent, or fail to prevent. The way we present this information, or design the scene, allows opportunities for the players to interrogate the message bearer, or pursue the murderer, or save the victim. The information, over all, is dispensed out to the party in a way that empowers them a little further, while whetting their appetite for the next piece. If they save him, then Salif has all the more reason to dump everything he knows; if they don't save them, then we decide how much Salif can say before he dies.

This natural consequence based on the character's actions permits legitimate adventuring with the players retaining their agency. They decide whom to search for; they decide what questions to ask; they decide what apparently clues matter, and which are true. They decide if they want to go into dangerous places to learn what they're informed exists there. They have to trade for their lives, giving information they know to those who threaten them. They have to know when to gamble on the humanity of someone who appears to be an enemy; and when not to trust a friend who isn't. We may design the fabric of the conspiracy, but how the players interact with it is entirely up to them.

It is so easy, since we have all the information, to disregard the necessity of an adventure like this to be legitimately player-driven. This is especially made hard by the players themselves, who often fail to see certain obvious clues that we've put right in front of them, which would lead them out of the mess... a misconception which can cause a party to give up hope, to assume that every step they can take is the wrong one. Even that they might as well just quit the adventure and even the game, merely by making themselves blind to some important detail or through they're absolute mistrust of someone who has done everything they can to indicate that they can be trusted. It is the players who are the first to argue that we've rigged the series of events, even when we haven't. This is because most players don't THINK like a detective; they think like those who have never had to face something like this before, and as such, they automatically distrust everyone, on principle.

An intrigue-designed adventure cannot be played with paranoia. It must be played with the confidence that no matter how difficult the immediate situation, there's a way out; there's an ally ready to help; there's something we know that is of value to someone, who won't kill us because we know this thing. It requires players to trust that the DM hasn't rigged the game against them; that, in fact, we HAVE NO REASON TO DO THAT. Players who cannot adopt these perspectives, who possess an automatic, almost reflexive doubt to anything they're told, have no business playing on the dark side of the waterfront. In running these adventures, we want to give the players plenty of information that helps them make thoughtful decisions; but if all the player thinks is that we're giving them rope to hang themselves with, then we might as well not run these sorts of adventures.

We can, here and there, fiddle with small ideas. A single informant where all else is plainly obvious. A pantomime-like villain whose footprints might as well be cast in the white paint he stepped in before entering in his nefarious activities. The occasional uncertain bit of detail that can be thrown into the mix of a clear, upfront adventure. Perhaps, with one player in the party who is better versed in the genre, they might help the others understand how to play it. Otherwise, and until such time as players mature into those who can handle this kind of play, it's best to treat these elements of game play as decorative rather than as the session's foundation.