2b: Setting Player Boundaries

Part 2a: The DM's Mental Toolbox
Part 1: Introduction to Session Management

In any organised game structure, there exists a "governing body" whose role is to define the rules of participation that sets out the manner in which the game is played. The purpose of this body is to regulate activity by defining, maintaining and enforcing the conditions under which participation takes place. This includes rule-making, boundary-setting, eligibility and scope. Every organised competitive activity incorporates in some manner a governing body to retain the identity of the activity, ensuring it remains integral and functional. Otherwise, the activity collapses into improvisation, conversation or performance... things that would not be acceptable in a tennis match, a board game, a corporate training exercise... or a table-top role-playing game. Theoretically.

In the absence of a responsible, centralised and external authority, integrity and functionality can easily be discarded in favour of improvisation and performance. It falls to each individual DM to be the governing body of the campaign. This puts us in a position where we must construct a framework that provides boundaries whose purpose is to overrule, redirect or silence attempts that oppose the game's intended purpose and organised manner of play. For this, then, we have to decide, for ourselves, what that intended purpose is, and what defines "organised," while maintaining the game's honesty, coherence, purpose and operation as we, "the governing body," expressed as "dungeon master," define how the game is meant to be played. Our judgement in this is incontrovertible, just as the governing body would be for any official activity.

This principle has to be explained to the players. And will be, at a later time. But before that's possible, we must explain it to ourselves.

Our role surpasses the immediate demands of play, but also exists as an institutional safeguard of the game's function, purpose and internal reality. That authority is a structural necessity; until a dungeon master is able to comprehend this part of their role, then they are bound to face chaos, inconsistency and circumvention at the table. Yet while we might pause here and choose to discuss what that function ought to be, as well as the rest, we must instead acknowledge that this cannot be the same for everyone. Therefore, when we speak of defending this "institution," we mean a body of one table. And only one table. The immediate demands of play at my table would not and could not be imposed by another DM at another table, because any other DM cannot — by virtue of the game never having been properly defined — understand how any given role-playing game should function as I would understand it.

There is no higher authority that can be rationally appealed to, and that includes the rulebooks, because the rulebooks are in toto conflicting, ill-defined and insufficient for play. We are the highest authority that can exist at THIS table. The only reason our game doesn't collapse is because our definition is enforced. In effect, we are a jurist of a private domain.

Doing so is also part of our mental toolkit, as something we must cognitively invent prior to play. We must have a clear idea, before the players sit, of what we think governance of the game ought to be. It is a frame that we can test through play, by imagining that our governance will hold up in this or that situation, only to learn that we're wrong. This can be corrected in the future, if need be. But the frame has to be imposed first.

To have that frame we must begin somewhere. To begin with, we can reason that because we are the dungeon master, and it is our vision of the setting that contrives the players' location and actions, that this is our table to govern. The role demands it. We possess knowledge within the game's structure the players cannot have, by definition. And further, we're not playing the game; like the dealer of a blackjack table, we're turning cards according to a fixed and pre-designated rule-set, whether or not we wish to do so. The players, on the other hand, are choosing whether or not to press their luck or to walk away — presumably in this metaphor to retreat from the task at hand, regroup and reapply themselves at a better time, rather than actually quitting the game. Because our role is fixed — give information, interpret player action — we're not coherently invested in success or failure.

This is where our detachment, gained through practice, is put in place. Like the dealer, we're not here to compel, coach or shield the player. Our role is neutral; indifferent in game play, though occasionally empathic where the player's failure occurs. But this does not mean we can avoid laying the ace on top of the king which then takes the players' money. Where game play is concerned, we must be detached, we must be indifferent. Otherwise, the players are not playing the game as a game; and we are not enacting the role as it's plainly defined. We have far too much power as a dungeon master to be allowed to impose our will, either for or against the players. If that power is used in kindness, it bends the game into a theatre of partiality, where it ceases to be a game. Instead, it becomes caretaking, performance, wish fulfillment; and the moment that shift occurs, the players are no longer participating in something that tests their ability or reveals their limitations; they're being exploited as puppets.

In looking for premises for what boundaries and permissions we should impose, facets we must consider include tempo; the encouragement of action; player risk; appropriate behaviour; individual player experience; the creation of new rules; and attendance. Briefly, let's discuss these subjects. Tempo sets the rhythm of interaction — how quickly the game moves, how long players are allowed to think, how much time is permitted for planning and purchasing. Individuals who hold up the game by consistently requiring more time to perform actions are made to pay a price for that. Players are encouraged to act either by imposed adventures or on their own, whichever seems most effective where player engagement is concerned. Players must act, and in an appropriate matter with regards to the purpose of the role-playing game at hand. Ineffectual, performative or derailing actions must be addressed according to the benefits or depreciations they impose. Something must be risked, sufficient to produce an emotional response. Players who avoid risk to the point where action does not occur need our attendance.

Behaviour at the table must be in accordance with a group activity; it must focus upon the game; it must not be condescending or abusive. It must encourage the agency of all participants. Every individual is entitled to a positive game experience. New rules should be introduced with the understanding that if they don't improve player experience, in the player's view, they must be discarded after testing. Players who don't attend games, or who attend by don't prioritise play over personal need, must also be addressed.

In each case, we should use our own perception of "correct" as a guideline. And this is a mental exercise that we deliberately employ, step by step, making decisions about each answer we give ourselves, before ever sitting down to run. We ask ourselves, "If I were a player, how much time would I want to make a decision? How long might it take if I were in a real conundrum? How long would I be willing to wait for another player who was not as decisive as me? As the perpetrator of a very difficult dilemma, should I create one, how much longer should I grant myself, were I personally faced with that dilemma? How often in the course of a running do real dilemmas occur? And how often is it that I would resist making a decision not because the decision wasn't obvious, but because I didn't like the decision itself?"

We ask ourselves, "If I were a player, would I resist engaging with a dungeon master's assigned adventure product? Would I have problems with the structure of a module? Would I prefer to decide my own course of action (a) never, (b) rarely, (c) now and then or (d) exclusively? Would it be all right for me to drag my feet if the rest of the players were keen on the adventure? Would I argue my right to take actions which were physically unlikely or impossible, for the sake of their unusualness? Do I have a problem with the way combat works? Do I enjoy combat? Is combat acceptable as a way to obstruct player intentions? Do I believe in role-playing as an alternative to direct action-driven play? Do I want to role-play? Do I find puzzle-solving an activity that I want to pursue? Or is it that I just like imposing puzzles I don't have to personally solve?"

We ask ourselves, "What is the purpose of dice in my game? How much importance should they have? Am I all right with my character failing and suffering the loss of (a) all my wealth; (b) some of my abilities; (c) my life? Is it okay that this might mean a permanent death of some kind? Is it okay if I enter a combat and lose that combat, so long as I don't die? Do I see the acquisition of power and wealth as something that should only occur with risk, or is it sometimes acceptable to get either without having to take a risk? Should a die roll ever be the sole arbiter of a character receiving either a good or bad result? Do I expect bad things to happen to me? Am I allowed to avoid risk altogether if I feel the potential loss is too much?"

We ask ourselves, "How do I expect others to speak to me? Am I responsible for the game experience that my fellow players have? Do I want to share? Am I prepared to sacrifice myself for them? Do I expect them to sacrifice themselves for me? Do I have things I don't want them to say or refer to, or things I don't want their characters to do in game? What things, exactly? Do I think it's okay to fight my fellow players? How would I feel about a non-player vs. player rule? Do I think that so long as I get mine, others must get on as they can?"

We ask ourselves, "Am I fundamentally opposed to new rules? Am I willing to test them. If a new rule adds to the game's culture or experience, but reduces my advantage, is that acceptable? How do I feel about rules? What do I think their intended purpose is? Do I accept that rules, when imposed, should rightly stop me from doing things outside those rules, or not?"

We ask ourselves, "If I fail to appear at a game as a player, is that acceptable? Do I see my attendance as optional? How many games would be inappropriate for me to miss? Would I automatically supply an excuse, or an explanation, or do I not think this is necessary? What are my feelings when I 'commit' myself to a campaign — how do I fundamentally interpret that?"

There are these and many other questions besides that we should ask ourselves, and in each and every case, without exception, we need to have a clear, defensible answer, one that we can express in depth for players who either adhere to those things we expect of ourselves, or do not. Because we are the governing body, we have every right to impose the same restrictions we might upon tennis players arriving for a match, the behaviour of members in an audience or the right of a chess player to touch an opponent's clock. Major League Baseball has rules that define exactly where the pitcher's feet must be placed when the ball is thrown; comparatively, it is obviously acceptable for a DM to decide how dice must be thrown, and what counts as a "land." Every human activity that is taken serious has long lists of expectations for the participants, which the participants must adhere to if they wish to continue their involvement. We have every right as dungeon masters to expect the same.

But the way in which we answer these questions, the positions we take, will have their effect on would-be participants. In those cases where our choices veer towards condoning selfishness, personal over group achievement, casual over responsible engagement, arbitrary vs. fixed results, dependency over independency, we risk driving away persons of integrity, education, generosity, patience, a sense of duty and an expectation of fairness. In return, we'll find our table populated by cutthroats, liars, cheats, bullies and chronic obstructors, whose behaviour will hinge upon resistance and a willingness to shift blame onto others. Such persons, given licence, won't hesitate to use that licence to enrich themselves; and if at any time we think they may have gone too far, further than we ourselves would, they won't appreciate the nuance of this, but will instead vilify us and quit our game. Seek to reward selfishness and loyalty won't result as a consequence, even if those people are just like us. There is no honour among thieves.

We may imagine that as players, we'd prefer a little permissiveness; that some permissiveness is even necessary to good play. But permissiveness always ends in wanting more... it's not a boundary, but an invitation. So when answering the questions above, and deciding what we'd do vs. what a DM should allow, don't be surprised if some of the things we won't allow as a DM are the same things we wouldn't have hesitated to do ourselves.

The consequences of those opportunistic things we did as a player lacked punch; we might have annoyed another player, we might have incurred the DM's scolding — but because the degree of responsibility a player carries is negligible, it feels acceptable to keep pushing that envelope for all it offers. But once we change our seat at the table and set up as a DM, the role carries a lot of responsibility. Now, if we want the game to continue, we always want the support of the largest number of participants possible. Preferably all the participants, or at least a changing set of them so that everyone is happy some of the time, if not always. To achieve this, our noses have to be a little more clean; and considerably less indulgent, given all the yards the players can take in exchange for the inches we give. That would overwhelm us, and make DMing impossible.

Therefore, we must be careful not to be too glib in our answers. Really consider why some things look good coming from a single player, but not from the lot of them. Nor should we jump to the conclusion that we're a "hypocrite" because we run the game differently than we play it. No one makes a more honest police officer than a former thief, who can see both sides of the question and judge the right side correctly.

Better that we examine and suss out these issues before the fact, rather than be surprised by them in game. It's why governance of the players starts with governing our former bad habits first; who better than we to know what they are, and the damage they might cause? Who better than we to have the jump on those who might feel they're able to pull the wool over the silly ol' DM's eyes? And since we have the time to consider each of these things — really consider them, rather than just believe we have the right answers — we can feel far more confident as we face the players and say honestly, "There won't be any of doing this. I know this is something I myself did once, which is exactly why I'm in a position to know that I should have been stopped from doing that. I'm a DM now, I have responsibilities now I didn't have yesterday, and I lacked problems yesterday that I do have now. So no, this is out. Let's move on. Regarding such-and-such..."

It is in this way that we manage the players going forward: fairly, admitting our own faults, confessing them without seeking forgiveness, and expecting the same of others who may also have formerly had those ideas. It helps them change and adapt to our rules, and helps establish the understanding that because this is our table, our rules, firmly considered and not arbitrary, are going to stand because they are. Because we have a good reason why they should, and later, after the game, we'll be happy to explain.