Dungeons & Dragons White Box 08

Before getting into another one of these posts, let me take a moment and explain my agenda. From the beginning it has been my desire to be as positive as possible with these books. To acknowledge that something phenomenal was conceived here, that it was brave to publish it to an unknowing world, that the work itself awoke a gigantic wave of reconsidered game development and to provide some explanation of how or why D&D's gestation matters in the grand scheme of things.

That said, it would be dishonest to grant more value to these works than they actually deserve. I do not feel that Gygax and Arneson were "geniuses," or that they knew thing one about game design, or even that they had the foresight to seek out people — editors, game designers, persons with some publishing experience or even a credible outsider who could read this content and simply say, "what are you trying to say here?" It's more than clear they did not consider any of that to be needful. It is equally clear that they were confused about what the game they were designing was supposed to be. While plainly designing aspects of a tabletop wargame of organised units opposing one another, they confusedly and repeatedly depart from the model to talk about "character roles" without delineating what these are, how they're supposed to be employed in game, how the characteristics of these roles apply to game play and so on. Thus the content that sparks what I consider to be "the greatest game ever" is a disastrous misdirected hodge-podge of hastily collected half-described rules and, in many cases, complete nonsense, masquerading as a "game product." It's clear the idea itself was so brilliant that it was able to overcome these shortcomings... but these same shortcomings continue to saddle this brilliant idea with detritus that has, now in 2025, practically made the game unplayable for most people, even as they're trying to play it.

No, these guys were not geniuses. They were people of above-average intelligence, around 12, whom fortune favoured.

This not true because I say it is. This is true because any educated adult who does not self identify as a "game lover," who had never heard of D&D, who was asked to judge the practical value of this writing on its merits alone, would throw it in the trash before getting as far as we have with this post. And that is something that is not only true, but such a sore point with the "community" that they refuse to acknowledge the reality of it.

I'm not, however, trying to burn this text down. I am a "game lover" and I have heard of D&D, and as the tag line of this blog says, I love it. So I'm able to keep going. But I am not blind, I'm not a fool, I'm not ignorant, I am educated, and I've worked in the publishing industry for a long, long time. The writing of this material is bad. Not marginally bad, not sort of bad, not bad-but-fine, but just plain excrementally bad.

So let's talk some over.

What's funny is that I actually remember this table. I did play this version of this game for about 6 weeks, perhaps a little more, as I can't remember when exactly in the Fall that Shane moved us to AD&D. It looks cluttered but it's actually pretty simple; there's really only two lines that are likely to count for most players: that constitution gives you +1 per hit die, and a dex about 12 gives you +1 to hit. Those aren't really clear in the text, but my DM explained them to me so I never really needed the above. It's funny that strength isn't here; or that the bonuses are assigned for lower numbers than AD&D.

I'll be honest, I don't have a clue what "adversity" or "survival" means here. I don't remember it coming up in game; it's not described here. A search of all three books (I have a pdf copy) shows that the word "adversity" appears no where else in any book other than here. "Survival" is explained on page 6 of the third book, under "Tricks and Traps," where it functions as a saving throw. All other references to survival occur in relationship to the Outdoor Survival game and board, which we can leave aside for the present.

LANGUAGES: The "common tongue" spoken throughout the "continent" is known by most humans. All other creatures and monsters which can speak have their own language, although some (20%) also know the common one. Law, Chaos and Neutrality also have common languages spoken by each respectively. One can attempt to communicate through the common tongue, language particular to a creature class, or one of the divisional languages (law, etc.). While not understanding the language, creatures who speak a divisional tongue will recognize a hostile one and attack. Characters with an Intelligence above 10 may learn additional languages, one language for every point above 10 intelligence factors. Thus, a man with an intelligence level of 15 could speak 7 languages, i.e. the common tongue, his divisional language, and 5 creature languages. Of course, Magic-Users' spells and some magic items will enable the speaking and understanding of languages.

A fairly decent rundown on the languages that are used, can be used and can be had by members of the party. The use of language has been a central part of D&D rulemaking since, usually managed through credible tables that give the characters plenty of options, while provides a worldbuilding structure that addresses the probability that not everyone in the game world would speak the same language.

One little thing. How exactly does a DM incorporate a language that the actual human players at the table don't speak, in such a manner that some of the players, say those who speak "elvish," are able to communicate and learn things from the DM, or each other, without those members of the party who do not speak elvish not also learning those things?

Perhaps some truly dedicated party actually has three or four players who can speak the elvish language that's available for learning online. That is, however, just one language. The DM can't really run conversations in the multiplicity of available languages the players have... which means, essentially, we have to say something like, "The orcs, speaking in orcish, convey such and such and tell you these things." Which, now, everyone at the game table knows, whether or not their characters can speak orcish. We just told them.

We can ask the players to leave the room who don't speak orcish, but then when they re-enter, unless members of the party are simply dicks, the first thing they'll say is, "The orcs told us this" and give an accurate account. Thus obliviating the need to have the other players leave. If they don't give an accurate account, then the value of the rule is to drive wedges between the party, which is really what the whole language-communication disability does for the real planet Earth, and not in a good way.

So the game rule here is either pointless or it institutes the very worst qualities of language, in that it contributes to disagreement and misunderstandings. Not great for a group-based activity.

The irony is that it's meant to be a worldbuilding tool. In reality, its best use is when none of the party speak orcish, which ensures no communication is possible at all, so there's every justification to kill them regardless. Which, again, was the historic rationalisation adopted by every adventurer that ventured to every continent or who became a stranger in a strange land. It's why in books, "enlightened people," such as the residents of Shangri-la, which is found in the high Himalayas, of course speak English... because there's no adventure if there's no communication. There's just enter, kill, leave. Because without a universal language, that's really all you can do.

In the present, we have a perception of language as a cultural identity; that existed in 1973-4 as well, for these writers. This was the age when Esperanto was a course in universities, when the U.N. experiment with hundreds and hundreds of translators between foreigners seemed a really cool thing. We have the perception that of course people should be allowed to retain their language, that other languages should be protected, that the manner in which we communicate in other languages is enlightening and therefore deserves to be protected. But D&D does not take place in this world. It takes place in the medieval world, one which these books hasn't hesitated to embrace. There are no translators, there's no respect for other cultures, and language is an impediment to civilisation. It's not a good thing, not for anybody's setting. It has never deserved the time spent on it for a game, which is what this is, not a seminar on the importance and sustaining of language independence.

That's going to make a lot of people angry and I'm sorry about that. But the only reason you can get angry is because either you already speak my language, or because we have tools that enable you to understand what I'm saying in a world where google translate is instantaneous. And that needs to be thought about before this concept is granted a seal of approval.

And consider this while you're at it. The ability to comprehend more languages demands there be many languages that can be known. Is that really the ideal here? Doesn't it make more sense just to handwave it all, not really care what language anyone in the game world is speaking, and just assume that the translations and misunderstandings and relay of knowledge between conversation participants can't just happen entirely "off stage," with no one needing to ever mention that in game play? Wouldn't that just make it simpler?

Game rules must do more than merely worldbuild. They must add a legitimate experiential moment of enjoyment for the game participant, heightening their sense of excitement, purpose, wonder or achievement. Language incorporation into D&D does none of these things. Yet that is ignored for the sake of... what, exactly? Respect for a bunch of made-up language concepts — orcish, alignment languages, thieves cants — that don't even celebrate existing social groups? It's not a challenge you overcome, since either you know the language or you don't. The defenders of the language system often speak as though the concept adds texture, but the texture is hollow — there's no wonder or achievement to be had by pretending to speak "dwarvish" when the language has to be boiled down as "Speaking in dwarvish, I say," and they speaking in the same language we'd be speaking anyway.

NON-PLAYER CHARACTERS:

In all probability the referee will find it beneficial to allow participants in the campaign to "hire into service" one or more characters. At times this may be nothing more than a band of mercenaries hired to participate in and share the profits from some adventure. However it is likely that players will be desirous of acquiring a regular entourage of various character types, monsters, and an army of some form.

A fair bit of space is used in the book to discuss NPCs, but only in terms of their being hired by the party to perform services as a concept — those actual services and how they would function in game terms are not discussed, nor is it acknowledge that the game world had persons moving about in it for purposes other than being hired. In essence, we've moved back to that part of the rules designed to contribute to set-piece battles, in this case bolstered by additional bodies that serve each side. Hirelings are combatants... no other proposed purpose for an "entourage" is discussed.

There is a moderate conflict between the words above, the proposition that an "army" could be devised in some form, and the rules regarding the maximum number of hirelings in our last post. An average 3d6 die roll gives a result of 9 or 10 charisma, which allows the hiring of either 3 or 4 persons. A 17 charisma only allows six persons while an 18 allows 12. This means that if five persons in the party all possessed an 18 charisma rolled on 3d6 (a 1 in 216 chance each, so the odds against five such rolls would be astronomical), they could still hire at best only 60 persons. There's no explanation for how the "army of some form" could be hired, while the rules that are written would seem to make this impossible — unless hirelings can hire hirelings. In any case, armies at that time weren't "hired" by leaders but by third parties working as national officials, paying fees out of a treasure. There are no rules for raising mass numbers of persons, nor for what hirelings do before they're hired. But a wargame doesn't have to solve those problems because it's a wargame. And there's no need for "non-player characters" at all, except as units on a battlefield, a thing for which they could be assigned by the rules rather than imposing a ritual of hiring.

Non-player characters can be hired as follows:

Only the lowest level of character types can be hired. The player wishing to hire a non-player character "advertises" by posting notices at inns and taverns, frequents public places seeking the desired hireling, or sends messengers to whatever place the desired character type would be found (elf-land, dwarf-land, etc.). This costs money and takes time, and the referee must determine expenditures. Once some response has been obtained, the player must make an offer to tempt the desired character type into his service. As a rule of thumb, a minimum offer of 100 Gold Pieces would be required to tempt a human into service, dwarves are more interested in gold, Magic-Users and elves desire magical items, and Clerics want some assurance of having a place of worship in which to house themselves.

Forgive me, I can't help it. Note that "elf" and "dwarf" aren't capitalised here, as they have been, but we're still capitalising "Magic-User" and "Cleric."

While a price is given, a time-frame is not. How much time do I get for this 100 g.p.? Is it for life? When does the hireling have time to spend this money? It's quite obviously a cost to the player as a part of the game structure, which is perfectly fine... if we're speaking of a player in a non-realistic setting spending such-and-such an amount as a game penalty to possess such-and-such, balancing whether the amount of money spent calculates to an effective game strategy when the battle commences. But then, why the pantomime of "posting notices"? How much do these notices cost? How much time does it take to post them? How long do I have to wait to receive an answer, and are there always enough replies, regardless of the location, that my only limit is my charisma? Those aren't really questions about the game, they're what I find myself asking because a completely unnecessary hurdle — for a wargame model — have been imposed without structure, to achieve an esoteric effect that in no way serves as a game function. Just exactly what game is being played here? Is it a wargame, or is it a role-playing game? And if the latter, why is it repeatedly assumed that next to no context is all that need be included?

It's an odd sort of schizophrenia. One gets the sense that they're on the verge of creating a lived experience, with flavour, but then they quit before attaching any mechanics. There's no timeframe, no economy of labour, no scarcity of responders; it's the gesture of narrative design in a structure that can't support a narrative.

Each time we find ourselves with a passage directly attributed to lining up two sides on a battlefield, asthe essential structure of the Chainmail system, the impulse to simulate realism intrudes. But then they quit shy of providing any structure for the realism they can't keep themselves from dancing upon the edge of. It's quite frustrating.

Monsters can be lured into service if they are of the same basic alignment as the player-character, or they can be Charmed and thus ordered to serve. Note, however, that the term “monster” includes men found in the dungeons, so in this way some high-level characters can be brought into a character's service, charisma allowing or through a Charm spell. Some reward must be offered to a monster in order to induce it into service (not just sparing its life, for example). The monster will react, with appropriate pluses (sic) or minuses, according to the offer, the referee rolling two six-sided dice and adjusting for charisma.

Here we are again. Monsters can't be hired, but it would be "rule of cool" to have them, so we're going just far enough to say, "Yes, you can have monsters in your game army." But, again, it's all non-specific. They can be charmed (we'll talk about that when we get to the spell) or they can be "lured"... which is done by rolling on a table shown. Not unexpectedly, the "adjustments" addressed do not appear on the table that started this post, giving plusses and minuses for other ability stats. No such adjustments are included for charisma. I assume we can use the "loyalty base" adjustments found on the earlier charisma table, but this is supposed to be a "reaction" roll not a "loyalty" one. Nonetheless, its all we have.

Looking at the numbers for the reaction adjustment, the negative/positive is the same. There's a 10 in 36 chance of the monsters accepting the offer or being enthusiastic for persons with no charisma. For a character with a 13 to 15 charisma (+1 loyalty), this climbs to 15 in 36; with a 16 or 17 (+2), to 21 in 36... and finally, with an 18 charisma (+4), a 30 in 36 chance. With this kind of imbalance, the optimal play is absurd: stop dungeon-crawling, go hire ogres. The math rewards charisma not as a social quality but as a recruitment multiplier — a warlord stat. Yet nothing in the text prepares the DM for the social or logistical implications of a party that suddenly commands an army of giants. There’s no economy, no upkeep, no morale system beyond the shallow loyalty adjustment. It’s all scaffolding for a fantasy of command that the rules can’t structurally support.

It introduces how the use of charisma grew into a device for problem-solving any design hole that role-play designers found themselves facing where role-playing is concerned. What began as reaction adjustments for hiring monsters mutated into a die roll that every charismatic player wanted to make the moment they encountered anyone, as an instant get-into-whatever-venue card they wanted, while mocking characters who unwisely chose to be fighters, clerics and mages without a high charisma. The problem was immediately evident with the later-invented paladin, who could treat anyone like garbage due to the requested charisma, which then required an arbitrarily-imposed limit to stop the good character from being a self-entitled asshole. It's they reason why we used to call charisma the "dick-stat" in the 1980s.

In all honesty, from a game setting perspective, there's no rational reason for monsters to become player hirelings, ever. People present themselves as hirelings because they need money, to support themselves, their families, their expectations of a future. A medieval version of me might sign up to be a member of the ship's crew, but I do it because we're going to come home again, I'm going to be paid and I won't need to worry about money for some time due to the year or two's wages that I've piled up, while getting free room and board. If I were to join a fighting company, I expect not only to receive a wage, but to gain plunder rights, which is where the real money is. No one in the real world is going to pay a huge pile of gold for anyone up front, because NO ONE whose just been hired feels an instant kinship with their boss, no matter how nice, pretty or just darn decent they are. It's just too easy to take the money and disappear into a world without the apparatus needed to find me. We're also too jaded to believe that anyone who seems to be nice might not just be putting it on. There's no way for one human being to judge another with such instant certainty that they'll agree to be instantly loyal like the game pretends.

Since "monsters" don't pay rent, and they don't need civilisation, and aren't generally appreciated at the local grocer's — "Sorry, ma'am, this ogre is ahead of you... yes sir?" — there's very little they can be practically offered... and coin, least of all. It doesn't make a good bed, it can't be used to buy a nice cottage somewhere and it's not food. Food would be a better offer, but for a monster, you're food, so you better have at least your own body weight to offer.

Monsters, by their own definitions, live within an ecosystem of violence, territory or appetite. The offer of 100 gold pieces to a troll isn’t tempting; it’s incomprehensible. Further, why would any characteristic a human, elf, dwarf or halfling possess be in any way affecting to a monster? We don't look like them, we talk in sort of supercilious self-conscious "effete" manner... and for all we know they find our skin rather nasty and our breath repulsive? What is it with this human exceptionalism that assumes that while we'd certainly find an ogre repulsive, they think we're beautiful? It's not just unrealistic; it’s the ideological residue of the colonial fantasy — the notion that anything alien must secretly crave human approval, culture and commerce.

Finally, why the complete obliteration of the premise that the game pretends to be founded upon? If this is fantasy medieval culture, then pray tell the mythological narrative where King Arthur, Siegfried or Parsifal hired a bunch of monsters to help out with the fighting. Beowulf gets into a mess with a monster and look how bad that went. Why are we, on the one hand, preaching the romanticism of that literature while subverting it with 20th century American hiring practices? It's a text that wants the legend, but only to recreate it as an office org chart.

That's enough.