Part 2b: Setting Player BoundariesMost sources describe dungeon mastering as a highly complex and difficult process, given that there are so many things to keep track of and be prepared for. However, as described in yesterday's post, many of these things are actually "add ons," non-game elements dumped by either the company or game culture on the DM — such as how long a particular game process is taking (because we must worry about player boredom) or the enjoyment state of the players (as something we're supposed to monitor and provide). Many systems stress the importance of "timekeeping," which does matter a great deal in combat, with regard to whose round it is, how long a spell lasts, or when we expect reinforcements to arrive. But the hour of the day, or how long exactly the players have been in a dungeon, are things we can account for at our convenience. We don't need to know such details down to the minute.
In the RPG 201 class, we discussed automatic processing, as contrasted with "controlled" processing. Briefly, that class explained that as dungeon masters move from "novice" to "beginner" status, they cease concentrating on word choices or the perceived mental process of the players. Where before they might have needed to reference game details not yet committed to memory, this information now comes instantly to mind upon thinking about it. Further, the DM begins to predict the players as a group instead of individuals, as well as their probable behaviour in certain repeatable situations, such as readying themselves for battle or arriving at a village. In effect, the DM's cognitive load is lightened with regard to basic facts such as rules, setting details, the process of combat and so on... because we become proficient in these things.
Further, when we cease to question the "logic" of things, particularly rules, simply accepting that no, room is not given for the players to interpret the use of the rules during game time, but to accept them as written; and that the rules are explanatory for the purpose of game play, not for the purpose of personal simulated experiential action, a great deal of time is saved. If the player suggests, for example, that sharpening their sword should make it hit better, we must answer, first, "It is assumed already that you do that, that everyone does that, and therefore that does not change the in-game reality," and second, "The game rules clearly state how the game is played, and how you are expected to play it," and finally, if need be, "The time to discuss the rules is not during the game but after it." In this, we should imagine ourselves as an umpire facing a player who is arguing that the player was "safe" and not, as we called it, "out." Even if this argument was brought by a loving parent, and the player was a five-year-old, our answer would be the same: "You're out of order, sit down, or you will be ejected from this game and made to leave immediately." Because this is how the real world deals with those who won't obey the rules, or who won't see the rules as deserving of being obeyed.
Once we comprehend that we are here to uphold the integrity of the game and not as a judge whose role is to entertain rule changes during play, our confidence rapidly improves. Once we see the rules as "methods of process" and not "subjects of query," we cease to assign mental cognition to moments when we use a spell, or cause damage to a character, or kill one. Those are the rules. We're just playing the rules. Later, after the game, we can and SHOULD entertain interpretation, coming to a consensus, always remembering that we need to hold our ground on what works, not on what the player wants. Every baseball player who perceives their skill-set to be lower than their companions wants four strikes, not three; and many want the "four-strike" rule applied to them personally, alone — not to the other players and certainly not to the other team. But that is not how rules work. Rules are meant to be impersonal; they're meant to compel all persons, regardless of skill or mindset, to measure themselves equally against the same rules that everyone else does. This is what "levelling the playing field" means.
When a rule has been in place for decades, that rule in particular must be firmly enforced. And many rules from many role-playing games have exactly this degree of cachet. There are cases where rules in place that functioned perfectly for 25 or more years, only to be absurdly changed to suit some fashionable notion. But we need not and should not give way to such; the very idea that we should toss out a rule that's demonstrated its sustainability and effectiveness, simply because it is "old," is almost certain to be the death of something that once functioned well, and now doesn't. Moreover, by preserving the functionality of the rule over its "sensibility," we ease our cognitive load during game play, not only because we're very familiar with the rule, but because our players are as well — whether they agree with it or not. Everyone knows how the rule works; this alone lightens the mental load on everyone at the table, not only the DM, and keeps the game moving.
Further, reapplying the same rules over and over without change builds cognitive memory, allowing their memorisation through use. This applies not only to those we know by heart, but also those whose location in a book, or in a computer file, makes them easier to fetch within a space of 15 to 20 seconds, when needed. In time, rule use becomes a part of our reflexive memory, and not a task we need account for at all, any more than we need to remember which die is the 12-sided or what to do first when running a combat.
In toto, the substance of the above is to establish a demarcation between ongoing awareness and everything else that can be disregarded; this reduces the load to a place where it can be managed, despite its complexity. In like fashion, a far more complex operation is managed daily by a surgeon, who during the operation is not concerned with the patient's long-term health diagnosis, hospital politics, the emotional state of the patient's family, nor anything not directly applicable to the specifics of surgery. These, in turn, are not arbitrary or improvised. Each step is codified, in order of action: preparation, incision, exposure, intervention, closure and post-operative management. Every step has a name, every name an exact meaning, every meaning is intensively communicated to the surgeon and the team so that every person at the operating table has perfect coherence with one another — no individual speaks with language that compromises this understanding, because life and death are at stake.
Role-playing obviously is not so dire. Yet clarity — in vocabulary, exposition, explanation, rule use, phrasing and so on — reduces cognitive load, as does comprehending exactly what is asked of us as a dungeon master from moment to moment, not in squidgy uncertain flowered language like "imagination" or "storytelling," but in precise language that permits instant comprehension, both in ourselves and in others.
Combat is the most rigid part of an RPG. Time slows to permit exact descriptions of what each character does, in the immediate present. The consequences of their actions then leave a wake of effect — defeated creatures, frustration and anger of those still engaged, desperation, items lost, abilities and benefits expended — which round by round alters the contest in some degree that requires re-evaluation and tactics that must be applied on the fly. This also includes the sound of the battle, should this trigger an alarm, as well as other effects of this kind. Ahead of the combat is that which hasn't happened yet: an enemy with a withheld weapon, that as DM we've decided is going to be used when these preconditions are met; reinforcements that are due to arrive in such and such a turn; anything we know, which the players don't, but which will come into play at some point. All of these must remain in our mind when DMing to some degree; concentrating on those things at the fore from moment to moment, while the rest remains in the back of our mind.
We should think of those things as "queued," so that while we're running the combat in our RAM, the CPU cycles are regularly checking against those deferred elements sitting in memory, each with their condition for execution. They're not being actively processed, but they’re part of the loop. Our DM's CPU polls those queues every round, briefly: how many rounds left before the effect of the sound carrying brings someone, is the defender with the power weapon sufficiently desperate enough, has a change in the players' movements enabled one of them to see the homunculus hidden behind the pillar? Everything has a flag, an "if-then" condition, which we're waiting for, remaining situationally aware of the moment to bring that detail into play, once again changing the balance of the combat.
In a larger sense, we're doing this all the time, where the setting is concerned. In the immediate moment, wherever the party happens to be, we track the shape of the space, those in it, their agendas, the players' stated agenda, access into the space... and the CPU flags of those we imagine would logically enter at some point: a member of the guard, several members if the party or someone else has put the guard on alert, a chance entry by a friend or foe of the party, anything we might think of that takes place in the next five or ten minutes of game time while the party is planning, chatting about out-of-game things, asking questions of us and so on.
Wherever the party has been to this point, like with combat, they've left changes in their wake: enemies that are searching for them, a growing reputation, an NPC who has joined the party as a servant and is now becoming disgruntled because no one has mentioned his or her name in four runnings and so on. Generally, when a boat moves through water, creating the "wake," the water just folds back into place without much consequence, so for the most part, we can see a lot of what the party does the same way. But when we can see a usable consequence of their actions, something that can be posited into the present campaign's action, the players can be imbued with a sense of accomplishment (which can make their buttons burst in response) or a sense of foreboding or regret ("I knew we shouldn't have done that," says one party member. Either help deepen the campaign experience, while allowing our DMing to appear better considered and significant. This is accomplished simply by considering what the players have done, considering what good or bad things might happen as a result, and then imposing that result into the next campaign session.
And again like with combat, there are those things the players have not yet encountered, but which are "out there and part of the setting" nonetheless. There are always dungeons, castles and other sites we haven't made yet, and we might imagine important figures in the game world ready to become a part of the party's experience once they reach a certain level, or become interested in establishing themselves in a location, such as powerful spellcasters, monarchs, organised cabals, banking consortiums, guilds or whatnot. Most of these aren't at all part of the moment-to-moment, but we should still be functionally ready for something the players say, or a plan they make, to "unlock" one of these elements so that they're now ready to confront the party.
Comprehending how we do these things forms the substance of much that follows in the next ten classes or so.
In the RPG 201 class, we discussed automatic processing, as contrasted with "controlled" processing. Briefly, that class explained that as dungeon masters move from "novice" to "beginner" status, they cease concentrating on word choices or the perceived mental process of the players. Where before they might have needed to reference game details not yet committed to memory, this information now comes instantly to mind upon thinking about it. Further, the DM begins to predict the players as a group instead of individuals, as well as their probable behaviour in certain repeatable situations, such as readying themselves for battle or arriving at a village. In effect, the DM's cognitive load is lightened with regard to basic facts such as rules, setting details, the process of combat and so on... because we become proficient in these things.
Further, when we cease to question the "logic" of things, particularly rules, simply accepting that no, room is not given for the players to interpret the use of the rules during game time, but to accept them as written; and that the rules are explanatory for the purpose of game play, not for the purpose of personal simulated experiential action, a great deal of time is saved. If the player suggests, for example, that sharpening their sword should make it hit better, we must answer, first, "It is assumed already that you do that, that everyone does that, and therefore that does not change the in-game reality," and second, "The game rules clearly state how the game is played, and how you are expected to play it," and finally, if need be, "The time to discuss the rules is not during the game but after it." In this, we should imagine ourselves as an umpire facing a player who is arguing that the player was "safe" and not, as we called it, "out." Even if this argument was brought by a loving parent, and the player was a five-year-old, our answer would be the same: "You're out of order, sit down, or you will be ejected from this game and made to leave immediately." Because this is how the real world deals with those who won't obey the rules, or who won't see the rules as deserving of being obeyed.
Once we comprehend that we are here to uphold the integrity of the game and not as a judge whose role is to entertain rule changes during play, our confidence rapidly improves. Once we see the rules as "methods of process" and not "subjects of query," we cease to assign mental cognition to moments when we use a spell, or cause damage to a character, or kill one. Those are the rules. We're just playing the rules. Later, after the game, we can and SHOULD entertain interpretation, coming to a consensus, always remembering that we need to hold our ground on what works, not on what the player wants. Every baseball player who perceives their skill-set to be lower than their companions wants four strikes, not three; and many want the "four-strike" rule applied to them personally, alone — not to the other players and certainly not to the other team. But that is not how rules work. Rules are meant to be impersonal; they're meant to compel all persons, regardless of skill or mindset, to measure themselves equally against the same rules that everyone else does. This is what "levelling the playing field" means.
When a rule has been in place for decades, that rule in particular must be firmly enforced. And many rules from many role-playing games have exactly this degree of cachet. There are cases where rules in place that functioned perfectly for 25 or more years, only to be absurdly changed to suit some fashionable notion. But we need not and should not give way to such; the very idea that we should toss out a rule that's demonstrated its sustainability and effectiveness, simply because it is "old," is almost certain to be the death of something that once functioned well, and now doesn't. Moreover, by preserving the functionality of the rule over its "sensibility," we ease our cognitive load during game play, not only because we're very familiar with the rule, but because our players are as well — whether they agree with it or not. Everyone knows how the rule works; this alone lightens the mental load on everyone at the table, not only the DM, and keeps the game moving.
Further, reapplying the same rules over and over without change builds cognitive memory, allowing their memorisation through use. This applies not only to those we know by heart, but also those whose location in a book, or in a computer file, makes them easier to fetch within a space of 15 to 20 seconds, when needed. In time, rule use becomes a part of our reflexive memory, and not a task we need account for at all, any more than we need to remember which die is the 12-sided or what to do first when running a combat.
In toto, the substance of the above is to establish a demarcation between ongoing awareness and everything else that can be disregarded; this reduces the load to a place where it can be managed, despite its complexity. In like fashion, a far more complex operation is managed daily by a surgeon, who during the operation is not concerned with the patient's long-term health diagnosis, hospital politics, the emotional state of the patient's family, nor anything not directly applicable to the specifics of surgery. These, in turn, are not arbitrary or improvised. Each step is codified, in order of action: preparation, incision, exposure, intervention, closure and post-operative management. Every step has a name, every name an exact meaning, every meaning is intensively communicated to the surgeon and the team so that every person at the operating table has perfect coherence with one another — no individual speaks with language that compromises this understanding, because life and death are at stake.
Role-playing obviously is not so dire. Yet clarity — in vocabulary, exposition, explanation, rule use, phrasing and so on — reduces cognitive load, as does comprehending exactly what is asked of us as a dungeon master from moment to moment, not in squidgy uncertain flowered language like "imagination" or "storytelling," but in precise language that permits instant comprehension, both in ourselves and in others.
Combat is the most rigid part of an RPG. Time slows to permit exact descriptions of what each character does, in the immediate present. The consequences of their actions then leave a wake of effect — defeated creatures, frustration and anger of those still engaged, desperation, items lost, abilities and benefits expended — which round by round alters the contest in some degree that requires re-evaluation and tactics that must be applied on the fly. This also includes the sound of the battle, should this trigger an alarm, as well as other effects of this kind. Ahead of the combat is that which hasn't happened yet: an enemy with a withheld weapon, that as DM we've decided is going to be used when these preconditions are met; reinforcements that are due to arrive in such and such a turn; anything we know, which the players don't, but which will come into play at some point. All of these must remain in our mind when DMing to some degree; concentrating on those things at the fore from moment to moment, while the rest remains in the back of our mind.
We should think of those things as "queued," so that while we're running the combat in our RAM, the CPU cycles are regularly checking against those deferred elements sitting in memory, each with their condition for execution. They're not being actively processed, but they’re part of the loop. Our DM's CPU polls those queues every round, briefly: how many rounds left before the effect of the sound carrying brings someone, is the defender with the power weapon sufficiently desperate enough, has a change in the players' movements enabled one of them to see the homunculus hidden behind the pillar? Everything has a flag, an "if-then" condition, which we're waiting for, remaining situationally aware of the moment to bring that detail into play, once again changing the balance of the combat.
In a larger sense, we're doing this all the time, where the setting is concerned. In the immediate moment, wherever the party happens to be, we track the shape of the space, those in it, their agendas, the players' stated agenda, access into the space... and the CPU flags of those we imagine would logically enter at some point: a member of the guard, several members if the party or someone else has put the guard on alert, a chance entry by a friend or foe of the party, anything we might think of that takes place in the next five or ten minutes of game time while the party is planning, chatting about out-of-game things, asking questions of us and so on.
Wherever the party has been to this point, like with combat, they've left changes in their wake: enemies that are searching for them, a growing reputation, an NPC who has joined the party as a servant and is now becoming disgruntled because no one has mentioned his or her name in four runnings and so on. Generally, when a boat moves through water, creating the "wake," the water just folds back into place without much consequence, so for the most part, we can see a lot of what the party does the same way. But when we can see a usable consequence of their actions, something that can be posited into the present campaign's action, the players can be imbued with a sense of accomplishment (which can make their buttons burst in response) or a sense of foreboding or regret ("I knew we shouldn't have done that," says one party member. Either help deepen the campaign experience, while allowing our DMing to appear better considered and significant. This is accomplished simply by considering what the players have done, considering what good or bad things might happen as a result, and then imposing that result into the next campaign session.
And again like with combat, there are those things the players have not yet encountered, but which are "out there and part of the setting" nonetheless. There are always dungeons, castles and other sites we haven't made yet, and we might imagine important figures in the game world ready to become a part of the party's experience once they reach a certain level, or become interested in establishing themselves in a location, such as powerful spellcasters, monarchs, organised cabals, banking consortiums, guilds or whatnot. Most of these aren't at all part of the moment-to-moment, but we should still be functionally ready for something the players say, or a plan they make, to "unlock" one of these elements so that they're now ready to confront the party.
Comprehending how we do these things forms the substance of much that follows in the next ten classes or so.
THANK YOU for putting words to precisely what I had trouble with at my running last weekend. The players scouted out a goblin hamlet, made a plan to assault it and we played out 2/3 of the combat. I was proud of my players for being so clever with their tactics (I won't get into it.)
ReplyDeleteBut I although think I did well overall, I was unable to keep that "CPU queue" going for anything beyond the ordinary demands of combat and player management. I'd planned out some tactics for the goblins, including a crucial one where they made good use of a HP-draining/bestowing plant, making the fight harder while also revealing information to the players that they might themselves exploit -- and damn if it didn't just completely slip my mind to have them act that way, until near the end of the session. I'd written it down on a worksheet, to use your term. I had everything ready to go. But in the bustle, I just didn't consult it sufficiently nor keep the information in my head.
I'm not kicking myself too hard over it by now, but it has me wondering how to enlarge my working memory. I expect I will find myself trying hard to think of myself as the computer visiting the queue on each combat turn. Maybe that will at least help me organize my information better on paper, and then if I just try to instill a practice of returning to it at the top of each combat round...
You wrote it down, but did you put an hour or two at other times, before the running, just thinking about it? Running it over in your head, being mindful as I explained, like soldiers do half a dozen times before going into an operation?
ReplyDelete*Some* time, yes, but clearly not enough. And it occurred to me a couple days ago that what really would have helped would have been to mock-run the combat!
ReplyDelete