Letting Go of the Wheel

Our break with D&D's standard format arises as we become jaded with isolated adventures, which progressively provide less satisfaction year after year. For most participants, there seems nowhere to go except to continue the pattern. Like any other table game, it's assumed that this is all the game is, and that it would be no more rational to perceive a "higher" form of D&D than for Settlers of Catan or Battleship. A more comprehensive "campaign," in which adventures take place as a continual process of a larger narrative arc, would assume some kind of setting in which the players would be free to move about freely, obtaining a certain agency for themselves that would let them explore which adventure they'd like to play... and more to the point, if they'd like to investigate alternate forms of engagement with the game setting. Such forms would include interactions, investigations and the building or defence of things to which the characters were free to commit themselves.

This shifting of the players' relationship with the setting, however, calls for the dungeon master's comprehensive understanding of a game setting that traditional adventure building fails to offer. To allow the players to move about, there must be an established geography. For the players to feel secure and capable of interacting with the setting's people, there must be a clearly defined culture which the players can predict, so they can trust the word of non-player characters. There must be a political structure that permits freedom of movement and offers a believable reward system for players who aspire to power over the setting. Items of course must be available for purchase, but some rationale must also exist for where these things come from, how they are processed and sold, where they are available and how wealth is distributed. There must be some sort of deeper history filled with past grievances, the movements of people and standing treaties that explains where this setting has come from, and where it is going. All of these things are necessary for us to provide a real sense of place and time, which the players must have if they're going to reliably act and make decisions within this milieu.

Without this physical and moral context, players will continue to treat the setting like a game, an abstract object with which they won't allow themselves to engage. They will distrust every shred of evidence, assuming it exists, like in a one-off adventure, to expressly affect their actions. They won't commit to a project, expecting that for the sake of adventure that it'll be taken away from them at the DM's whim. They won't listen or invest in the political or historical framework for this same reason — perceiving that it's a ruse, a sham, intended to misdirect them and threaten. We may be interested in running such a world, but if our players don't understand it or aren't ready for it, then our efforts will be in vain.


Continued on The Higher Path

Basic Reliable Habits

Running a session as an advanced beginner, we steadily amass a collection of procedures in which we begin to rely upon practiced responses; examples of these procedures include managing a combat, relaying a description of the player's surroundings for hour after hour without becoming tired, using exchanges with NPCs to relay exposition, awarding treasure, giving advice to players on game rules and so on. Massimiliano Cappuccio (Dreyfus is Right: Knowledge-That Limits Your Skill, 2023), describes our acquisition of these as "pre-reflective dispositions," in which we're predisposed "to intelligently perceive, interpret, decide and act in familiar 'ways or modes,' when facing familiar situations or tasks." With time, about 200 to 500 hours of in-session dungeon mastering, these procedures become ingrained, allowing us to handing these tasks reflexively, without needing to analyse each step. These emerge as automatic processing (Sweller); in essence, NPC-to-player speaking becomes so commonplace in our thoughts that we're able to engage in it without concern.

These, Cappuccio explains, enable us "to complete a task, produce some transformative effects, solicit certain reactions in the bystanders, or preserve an existing condition" as basic reliable habits, making us ready to cope with unfamiliar scenarios with a developed heightened awareness and preference for certain types of actions, cues or information relevant to the arisen problem. In essence, these form a toolkit that simplifies our decision-making, lifting us towards competency, even if we're unaware that this is what's going on.

As before, rather than explain what competency is, we're better off discussing how we get there. Basic reliable habits are merely a first step; they represent a break from what Cappuccio calls "instrumental" actions, which consist in bringing about a desired outcome regardless of the means employed to do it. To use Cappuccio's example, if I'm filling out governmental or medical forms, I'm supplying answers which have no skilful component, as the answers simply exist.

Continued on The Higher Path

How a 16th Century Explorer's Sailing Ship Works

Here is an unquestionably valuable source for anyone wishing to get into waterborne adventures:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pYqXrFx6S8&t=1306s

Advanced Beginners

Steadily, as we've described, as a dungeon master we acquire familiarity with the metrics of D&D and shifts towards automatic processing when running the game. Within the adjusted canonical frames that we acquire, we come to a place where we better understand what the players are apt to do when presented with a description, a situation or a combat. We're better prepared regarding the rules we know, and have a better idea of where to seek for rules we don't know. We grow comfortable with the expectation that we'll be sitting in the DM's chair within a few hours, as evidence of our growing confidence. This assumes, of course, that we've been resilient in our efforts to maintain a group of players and to live up to their expectations.

We have arrived at a stage where we are an "advanced beginner." Some chafe at this appellation. There exists an assumption that once an individual becomes able to run a game with confidence, this stipulates that we have attained "master" status, as we are a dungeon or a game master. We've discussed this already, and the pitfalls that arise from it, but now we may elaborate further on this phenomenon. Being consistent in player engagement, and gaining the ability to run more easily, with less hiccups or rule-checking, does give a sense of mastery. We better understand player tendencies now, we can offer more nuanced responses when queried, our ability to craft a narrative is measurably improved and it would seem the players are engaged with the game we're running. All this would seem that we've arrived, and that we're certainly not a "beginner," even an advanced one.

Yet, while these accomplishments signal improvement, they don't necessarily signify mastery. Feeling certainty in our grasp of the game, we may settle into a style that works but lacks depth, especially in situations that deviate from familiar scenarios. In fact, we may use our adaptive understanding to gently manoeuvre the players away from everything and anything that's unfamiliar, simply because we wish to remain in our comfort zone. Understanding the power we possess, we can easily slip into habits of fudging dice or carefully rescinding the dangers that certain monsters possess — for example, having the monster hesitate or wait to use it's primary power, until it no longer can. And as we disincline to seek new challenges, largely because the players don't seem to mind, we drift into a comfortable, self-imposed stagnation that lasts until the arrival of some new disruptive player or a change in the lives of our players, who suddenly seem to have less interest in our game.

Continued on The Higher Path

Novice vs. Advanced Beginner

Posted this on my patreon, but what the heck.  It's an add-on.

I've been writing about the difference between a novice DM and an advanced beginner. I thought it might be interesting to present a short script between a novice DM and a player, to give an idea of the DM's uncertainty and fragmented approach.

DM: [flipping through notes] "Uh, okay, so... you’re in this room. It’s, um, dark. There’s, like, a... stone floor and some... barrels, maybe? And... a door on the other side.”

Player: “Alright, cool. I go check out the barrels.”

DM: [pauses, looking uncertain] “Oh, okay. Uh, the barrels... they look... wooden. Old, I think. Not sure what's inside. Do you... do you want to open one?”

Player: “Yeah, sure. I open the nearest one.”

DM: [fumbles through notes] “Uh, okay... let me check... I think... yeah, alright. You open it, and... I guess it’s empty? Or maybe it’s... dusty? Yeah, let’s say it’s... dusty.”

Player: “Okay. Well... I’ll check the door.”

DM: “The door? Right. Okay, so... it’s, uh, wood. Old, too. Um, I think... maybe you can try to open it?”

Player: “I’ll try the handle.”

DM: [relieved] “Alright, yeah. It opens... I think it opens... into another room.”

This might be overdone, but the goal here is to capture the DM's uncertainty, hesitation and lack of cohesion, to express the disjointed, step-by-step experience of the player. Each element feels isolated and the DM is clearly struggling to keep up with the flow.

Let's try the same scene using an advanced beginner DM:

DM: [confidently setting the scene] “Alright, you step into a dimly lit stone room. The floor is rough and scattered with old, wooden barrels along the walls. Across the room, there’s a heavy wooden door with iron bands—looks like it hasn’t been opened in years.”

Player: “I go over to the barrels to check them out.”

DM: “Sure. As you get closer, you notice a layer of dust on them. Most of them are sealed, but one is slightly cracked open, and you can see some kind of dried-out residue inside. It doesn’t look like anyone’s touched these in ages.”

Player: “Interesting. Alright, I’ll go check out the door.”

DM: [without hesitation] “You make your way to the door. The handle’s rusted, and it feels heavy in your hand, but you manage to turn it with a bit of effort. The door creaks open, and beyond it, you can see another room... shadows flickering along the walls.”

Not only does the DM more fluidly communicate the scene, but the overall moves faster, giving the player a stronger sense of the setting. The description flows, the player sees the space more easily and the scene feels more immersive.

Join my $3 Patreon tier to see why this is so. For DMs who are interested, gain insight on what to look for in yourself should you wish to improve your style.

Automatic Processing

 It falls upon us at this point to quantify the improvement of the novice to the second stage in Dreyfus's stage analysis, that of the "advanced beginner." We should note that the advancement spoken of here fails to denote either expertise of even competence... the adjustment is only from "novice" to "beginner." Therefore, we must assume a set of moderate but recognisable changes taking place between what a novice observe while playing the game and what a beginner's advancement allows. To explain that, we must explain how a novice sees the game. Understand here that the pattern of thinking described here is what defines the novice, NOT the amount of time the novice has spent playing. A particularly insightful DM who succeeds well out of the gate may, through other skill-sets and professional knowledge, intuitively leap past the novice stage and directly into that of the beginner. It's how the individual sees the game that defines a novice. This reinforces the idea that improvement is a matter of perspective and understanding, not just experience.

The novice's perception is rooted in the observation of "surface features". Largely due to the novelty of the novice dungeon master's perspective and the density of expectations that are thrust upon the position, novices rarely have enough time to do more than see elements of the game as distinct, isolated components, taking them at face value, in terms of their most visible and immediate details. Character abilities are mere numbers, as are hit points, while monster stats exist for the purpose of engaging in combat and little else. Surface descriptions are purely representational, therefore carrying a stigma of two-dimensionality. The approach to the game is much like a checklist to be followed without deviation, particularly in the case of a purchased game module, which is followed as written. It's not so much that the novice finds it difficult to see how these elements interact, it's more that the novice sees no particular reason to think that they do. Many elements of the game — like the description of a spell — are fragmented and challenging even to interpret, much less actually apply to the game, since the phrasing and assumptions used in the writing demand a complete grasp of many mechanics that take time to accumulate.

For example, when the novice reads about armour class, it's understood as a number, a stat to beat on a die roll: if the player rolls high enough, they "succeed" in hitting, and if they don't, they "fail." While there might be an understanding of the metric's importance regarding what's happening within the game's setting, the novice is still struggling to equate one to the other while managing the immediate complexities and unfamiliarity of the combat system.

Continued on The Higher Path

Measurable Improvement

This example of the novice highlights an inaccuracy in the designation, "dungeon master." As Danielle Osterman notes in the book, 2d6 Taoists, (Dungeon Apprentices: How Players become Dungeon Masters), the word "master" cannot apply to many who run the game, because the word implies a level of expertise or control that fails to match that of the person. This misnomer carries into the common alterative, "game master," or GM, which does not reconcile the problem as the wrong word is changed in the title.

From this, and from the description of the novice's shortcomings in the previous post, we can see that experience and ability are qualities that develop gradually through knowledge, learning and practice. The novice may nominally possess the authority of the DM, and the title, but this does not in itself ascribe that he or she has earned this position. Many have not. Many perceive that the mere act of adopting the title is sufficient — and as such tend not to accumulate expertise over time, through an inability to admit wrongdoing. Still others assume that the division between "novice" and "not-a-novice" is something that can be expressed in black-and-white terms, believing that having run the game for a few years, they're now an "expert," though there remains an entirely subjective measure.

Still others argue there can only BE subjective measures — that the game is so complex and, more importantly, personal, that distinctions of "good" and "bad" can be explained away by arguing, "I simply run differently," or "My priorities are different." These are convenient appellations, by necessity poorly defined and of course dismissive of any possibility that the speaker might yet have something to learn.

Continued on The Higher Path

Novices

Acting as a dungeon master is not something that we learn to do in a structured environment. As we've said, there are no instructors, no formal education for players who decide to run their own games — and certainly not for those who, lacking a model to go buy, purchase the books hoping that these works will provide enough insight to let an individual take control. Those who leap into DMing must nearly always do so out of passion and desire, for there is no one to hold their hand. As a result, those who succeed define a "trial by fire" model, often adopting an attitude the dungeon mastering OUGHT to be learned this way, and that those who would seek to learn it otherwise would not, in the end, make good DMs.

This point of pride among those who succeed damages the game's value. As an initiation, it's quite useless if ensuring that "good" can be applied to the result — that appellation is largely ascribed by the individuals themselves, NOT because it's accurate, but because there are so few around that can dispute it. The reason why there are so few DMs is this very reason — because there is no instructor to provide knowledge or guidance; because there is no standard by which a novice can readied for any part of the game. The rules, disastrous hodgepodge that they are, fail to provide the structure that "quality" requires. The would-be DM has no step-by-step path to follow, and therefore no way to judge well between the options of behaviour, speech, explanation or management of the players that potentially exist.

The manner in which self-created DMs crown themselves as "good" is accomplished with, at best, the external validation of the players, who must needs be sycophantic... since the players need to appease the DM, lest the DM quit running and thus leave the players without a game to play. This creates an unearned assuredness in DMs who survive their "trial by fire," who desperately cling to such appeasements, since any objective measure, from some observer NOT dependent upon the game, does not exist. The result is a mutual-admiration dynamic, where the players preen DMs for the sake of the game, and DMs preen themselves out of the desperate belief that all their preparation and session efforts have not been done in vain.


Continued on The Higher Path

Camaraderie

 Before every session, there's typically a natural, unstructured conversation where players and dungeon masters chat about the game. These informal discussions include a wide range of subjects, as participants find in this an opportunity to share recent events in their lives, be social and otherwise unload stress through the support group that a game-group provides. These moments are socially important, contributing to the process of setting aside the real world prior to immersing ourselves in an imaginary endeavour. By sharing personal experiences, we bond as a game group, which connects us together so that should some form of anxiety or resistance between participants arise during the game, the camaraderie established at the beginning sustains the group's desire to maintain our social circle.

This is important in fostering the same resilience and flexibility seein in children's friendships. Just as children can fight passionately and remain friends, the pre-game socialising helps players engage deeply, sometimes even fight or disagree, without jeapardising their relationships within the party or the game itself. By creating a supportive space, the interaction is more than a filler before the game starts; it helps in their ability to view in-game disputes as affairs within the game's play, and not as personal attacks upon one another.

However, this relies upon participants who have developed conflict resolution skills as children, through proper play and trust-building experiences. A dungeon master faced with such a person as an adult is liable to encounter an unnatural amount of defensiveness, aggression or avoidance from the participant. Such adults, struggling with unresolved childhood issues, may potentially view any conflict as a personal attack rather than as an opportunity for growth; this can result in game disruptions and campaign-ending incidents where one or more participants permanently withdraw from the campaign, through what appears to be a very minor slight or misunderstanding.

Continued on The Higher Path

Workbench

 Nearly all persons who have read to this point have spent many hours either playing or running... and no doubt, their engagement with the game has encouraged them to seek out things to read and perhaps to study, for their personal edification. Most have received some guidance from other dungeon masters; through formal education, they've experienced the process of learning. Many can see, easily, how education in one field can be directly applied to role-playing games. Yet while absorbing a collection of resources, and seeking out direction from others, there's yet another strategy we haven't employed, a thing we can do on our own, apart from running a campaign.

A fitting metaphor for this could be called a workbench. This is a place where craftsfolk and hobbyists tinker with materials and tools in an unpressured, exploratory way. Unlike preparing for a game, this isn't about building something specific to a purpose, but about familiarising ourselves the tools, experimenting with elements of the game and playing with ideas. It's a place for trial and error, where the actual game rules receive application to things we make for ourselves, that might fail, or might end in adding vitality to our campaign.

There are examples that nearly every long-term DM fiddles with at some point, usually without achieving our goal. Nonetheless, what's important here isn't success, but familiarity, which contributes to our deeper engagement with the game itself. In bumping up against the game's limitations, however we might strive to put a harness on things to make them work for us, we yet create a profound connection between ourselves and the game, which filters into every other game-related action we take.

Continued on The Higher Path

Book Jacket

For those willing to give it, I'm interested in criticism regarding the text layout of the book shown, BEFORE I use it. I cannot and do not wish to change the image, it fits excellently with the content, but I would like to know anything anyone would like to tell me about spacing. Obviously, the title is fixed.

Go ahead and be harsh, I have no feelings to hurt. I won't necessarily take your advice.  Give me a good slapping around.

Instructors

The process of teaching, whether as formal as a classroom or as personable as a parent teaching a child, begins with a desire to instill confidence into the student... not only with the material at hand, but with the very idea of learning. If I teach my daughter the principles of chess, yes of course I wish her to grasp the movements of the pieces and the general idea of the game — but more importantly, I wish her to feel bold and trust in her ability to make moves without fear of losing. When we are taught our letters in school, we benefit greatly from tactile and hands-on learning, tracing the letters in sand or the air, even molding the letters out of playdough... because as we physically engage with the letters, we become more sure of ourselves when speaking the name of each letter and the sound it makes.

If we don't put the acquisition of confidence at the forefront of our teaching effort, then we risk creating students who may understand the material, but will become hesitant before repeating what they've learned. We must also take care not to cause students to second-guess themselves, or avoid taking the risk of speaking up in class — which, in my early 1970s education, was barely a concern to teachers who considered our "learning" the material as more important than our "relationship" with it. Thus we were educated "at" rather than "with"... and my fellow students, as a result, did not put up their hands nor give their opinions, for fear that they'd be humiliated in front of their peers for not "understanding" the material exactly as the teachers thought we should.

We'd like to believe that things have changed, but the very fact that we continue to test upon the cold, non-interactive nature of the taught material, and not the children's interaction with it, belies that assumption. We are concerned with absorption, not application, because no grade that appears on a report card speaks to the latter. A good teacher tries to make up for this shortcoming by writing on the report card, "Jennie responds positively in class and enjoys the material," but when these words are said to parents who have little understanding of what goes on in a classroom, this recognition of Jennie's confidence and willingness to plunge forward is lost. If "enjoys the material" is matched with an "A," all it well and good... but if it's matched with a "C," because Jennie is interested but has a less than perfect memory, the only thing anyone cares about is the grade.

Continued on The Higher Path.

2d6 Taoists

I'm pleased to share that a group of writers who contributed to the book, 2d6 Taoists... Maxwell Joslyn, editor, Danielle Osterman, Shelby Maddox and Jonathan Becker, are now putting that book up for sale on Lulu. The link is here.

While yes, my name and contributions to the game are part of the work, I think it's more important to acknowledge that these writers have worked diligently and well to create works that deserve recognition in their own right.  Becker's discussion of Dungeons and Dragons as a calling, Maddox's encouragement of a coherent order through the understanding of taxonomy, Joslyn's breakdown of the computer as a driving force behind the future game and Osterman's sociological breakdown of game advice found on youtube are well worth the read... I feel overwhelmed at the prospect of examining their work here, as I don't believe that I can do it the justice that it deserves.

I give it my full endorsement; if my work is worth reading, then so too is the work that these designers and writers have done.  Trust the effort, trust the value it offers; it is a small but meaningful tome that is worth reading more than once.

Best Guess

In building emotional depth into the game's campaign, we are fascinated by the manner in which a single action we take reverberates through the responses and actions of others... and how this escalates conflict. Our first efforts to reproduce this effect are difficult, because we don't fully grasp the layering complexity of how this believably occurs; but after studying film, literature or history, we see constructed or real narratives unfold in a way that feels interconnected, complex and inevitable.

It's an educator's role to help us elucidate narratives in this manner, teaching us what to look for in the development of layered cause-and-effect structures. Hopefully, this helps us understand complex narratives in a way that isn't obvious at first glance. A useful example for this would be the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. For many, this seemed to be a spontaneous occurrence; the protests and public gatherings escalated quickly in the weeks leading up to that November. The media were caught with their pants down, focused largely on the immediate visual spectacle and weren't ready to explain in detail why it was happening. When the first stories emerged that tried to explain it, the influence of Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms received tremendous attention, such that he ended up receiving a Nobel Peace Prize... but this was hype. The Soviet Union was broke; the war in Afghanistan had been a disaster and 30 years of intense cold war spending had emptied the nation's coffers. It could no longer maintain control over its satellite states, and as a result, the power vacuum was sensed by those in East Berlin who, not spontaneously, but because they were no longer being held back, acted as they were now able. The suddenness of the fall was more about the long-suppressed pressures finally finding release rather than an unplanned outburst.

This is, of course, a gross oversimplification; hundreds of factors are at play which, if unraveled, lends insight to what happened. Through the investigation of these factors, particularly under the guidance of someone who may have been there while also deeply involved in the event's political background, can lead us to comprehending more fully what happened. Steadily, we acquire a certainty that things happen for a reason, even the most spontaneous of things. By reverse engineering these things, we gain understanding of how to set up the factors, and where they ought to lead a fictional narrative that we construct for our own purpose.

Continued on the Higher Path

Atmosphere

A common weakness in many dungeon masters is to focus on the immediate needs of their campaign, to find a module that can be quickly adapted before the next session, to produce an NPC's "backstory" in the hopes of producing a quick, short-term motivation for the party, or the ideal of a throw-it-at-them encounter that will distract the players long enough to give enough time to come up with something else. As a result, DMs often rush from instant solution to instant solution, always at the edge of feeling like if they don't come up with something in the last few hours before game time, they're sunk.

This mindset largely emerges from a failure to grasp the influence of artistic design, atmosphere and emotional depth... which in turn reflects the tendency to see these things as "non-applicable" precisely because they don't address the immediate problems of the DM. On the whole, these elements seem like luxuries when the DM's immediate concern is keeping the game running and the players engaged. They are intangible and difficult to quantify. A combat encounter or puzzle has clear, actionable components, whereas "atmosphere" is an elusive quality that defies definition.

This is largely because of the form of education we obtain; in general, our grade school teachers themselves were unable to explain exactly why we were directed to study Shakespearean plays or deconstruct poetry. Art, for most people, feels unproductive, useless and unnecessary; it expends time attempting to duplicate work that plainly others, who have spent more time at it, will always be more proficient than we are. The answer received, in turn, usually consists of a poorly-experienced teacher saying that art is a way of unwinding, relaxing, that it provides an escape and helps us forget about things, momentarily, that are actually important.

Continued on the Higher Path

Education

We come now to the most difficult part of this series, where we have to set aside what "resources" are and how to use them, and take up the unholy, unwanted subject of "education." This disaster of a field, that has induced nearly every conscious person to equate with their frustrating, provably irrelevant school experience. Where, as teenagers, we used to say to our teachers, "Why are we learning this? I'm never going to use it," only to be chastened to warned not to question the importance of school, we can look back now in our late adulthood and say with surety, "I was right. I never did use that crap I was taught."

For this reason, when most of us hear, "education," we equate it at once with the traditional system — hours of rote memorisation, irrelevant topics, boredom, long wasted hours and the absence of practical benefit. This is made worse in that most assume that if there's anything to be gained from education as a DM, it must come from a formally named subject-specific class, "How to be a Dungeon Master 201" — which, in fact, the reason why this collection of posts is called "RPG 201." The title mimics the academic naming convention because if we do not say what a thing is right on the tin, they won't trust what they're buying. This puts me the position of having to lift that boat out from the water and scraping the barnacles off it's bottom.

Education differs from research in that learning from others is part of the process, either because we undertake to teach a subject or learn one. As a student, we do not hold the teacher accountable with every statement made to prove that the knowledge being given is worth knowing. As a teacher, we don't waste the student's time, discarding conventions and assumptions about what education ought to include. The weak point in the education system was not us, the students, and it was not our teachers; it was the vast panoply of interveners who were not in the classroom with us, but yet forced us ALL to obey a ridiculous set of protocols that continue to get in the way of everything. Education can be meaningful when it's focused and practical, and free from unnecessary distractions. This has to be understood first before any good can come of what's written here next.


Continued on the Higher Path

Chemical Reactions

Continuing with the effects of resources upon things, consider the manner in which a book, film or an experience can serve to fuel creative thinking, like a chemical reaction that accelerates or enhances the mind. This sort of catalyst has no definite outcome; it rushes at us without expectation, but when it hits, our creative process feels a flash of insight, inspiration and excitement at the possibilities with which the idea fills us.

But though we want catalysts to occur on a regular basis, we don't know when they will, or even IF they will. There’s no method, no sign, no clear way to predict when a moment of insight will, or won't, come. No matter how much we’ve read, learned and experienced, we can never tell if an outcome will come, or what that outcome will be. From our perspective, it seems to just happen—it appears out of nowhere, with no pattern to follow. This is what makes it puzzling, because even with all the knowledge and tools at our disposal, we can’t predict it or force it.

This is a substantive characteristic of creativity that forces would-be painters, musicians, film-makers and writers into becoming shop clerks, insurance salespeople, resource managers and electricians. Creativity is, and will always be, something that is beyond our control; it depends upon inspiration, which is a miserable, taciturn, rotten little zeitgeist that has a tendency to stay as a guest too long when our relatives are visiting from Schenectady and is never around when we've taken two weeks off for a holiday.

Continued on the Higher Path

Barbara Stanwyck

For fun.

The Wiki is Active

The Authentic Wiki is up again, at last, two days late, but life goes like that sometimes.  Naturally, when it's down, that's when I finally feel like starting to do some kind of work on it.

AND... it isn't.

There were log in problems, so it was up for the public, but I couldn't get into it. Problem's being worked on.

AND... it is.

Only, there's something wrong with the log-in feature, so that even us administrators can't log in.  The wiki is accessible but for the present, it can't be adjusted until it's moved to a highly upgraded server... and given the recent move, that isn't happening any time soon.

Three Measly Bucks

I am continuing the series on the Higher Path, which can be obtained by anyone for just $3 a month. It's up to the reader to decide if they already know everything they want to know about D&D.

Here's a snippet of today's post:

... When the players respond to such unusual motifs and in-depth situations, stolen blatantly from real history, they nevertheless respond in reflection of the complex, believable situation we've woven. It's believable, we know, because it really happened.

The more resources we engage with, not only in one small field, but across a large spectrum of ideas, the more situations and ideas we can add to our overall arsenal. This makes us not only more complicated at grand, complex schemes, but simple, momentary situations as well. Our source material should also include small, tactile little moments, dredged up from stories, personal accounts and even letters home. This last, which is plentiful enough a resource in later time periods, expresses the exact same sentiments that existed a thousand years ago than they did in the last war. We haven't changed... so any bit or piece of knowledge...

It's no skin off my nose if you miss what I've said because you can't raise three measly bucks. 

We are Experiencing Technical Difficulties

So sorry, the wiki still isn't up.  I'm informed that "unsettling" occurred during the move; there are service people working on the issue presently.

In other news, I'm afraid I've removed 26 names from having access to my higher path blog.  To all such persons, I thank you gratefully for all that you've donated in the past; I have written on that blog since 2022, but as I'll be putting the continuing series there, the time has come to clean house.  If I have accidentally removed anyone that shouldn't have been removed, then please write me immediately at patreon, here in the comments, or on my email at alexiss1@telus.net, tell me the correct name of your account on patreon and I'll get that repaired.

A Move

The 17th post of this series that I've been writing, which is well over 16,000 words thus far, has been posted on The Higher Path.  I'm going to continue posting this series there, not here.  Access to the Higher Path can be obtained through my Patreon page.

I assume that some here have been enjoying it; and that most, not seeing it appear on some RSS feed, will just assume I'm not writing it any more.  But I assure the reader that I am.  

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.