The Truth About Fun

From p. 7-8 of 4th Edition's chapter, How to be a DM:

"The last essential component of a D&D game is fun. It’s not the DM’s job to entertain the players and make sure they have fun. Every person playing the game is responsible for the fun of the game. Everyone speeds the game along, heightens the drama, helps set how much roleplaying the group is comfortable with, and brings the game world to life with their imaginations. Everyone should treat each other with respect and consideration, too—personal squabbles and fights among the characters get in the way of the fun.

"Different people have different ideas of what’s fun about D&D. Remember that the 'right way' to play D&D is the way that you and your players agree on and enjoy. If everyone comes to the table prepared to contribute to the game, everyone has fun.

"Everybody plays D&D to have fun, but different people get their enjoyment from different aspects of the game. If you’re preparing and running a game for a group of players, understanding player motivations—what they enjoy about the game and what makes them happiest when they play—helps you build a harmonious group of players and a fun game for all."

Rating:  true

This is a little bit of therapy, though perhaps some folks need that.  In a larger sense, however, we're not talking about fun.  We're talking about maturity.

Break down the above without using "fun" as the carrot, which is the message.  Be responsible for yourself.  Focus on the game.  Treat others with respect.  Don't be selfish.  Cooperate.  Basic virtues that smooth the road for yourself and for other people.  When someone isn't cooperating, and is being selfish, deriding others, derailing the game or acting unconcerned; or demanding that other people need to act in a certain way ... not only do we not have fun (which is a reward people understand), we also build memories of gaming that discourage us from wanting to play in the future.

I imagine my regular readers expected I'd disparage this section on fun but I must tell you, this is the first group of sentences that all make sense and all need to be there.  On the surface, this may seem like the usual drivel, but it targets every problem you'll have as a DM.  Problems that you're bound to ignore, because it's uncomfortable confronting others—especially your friends, about their poor behaviour.  Most of the time you'll let it pass, for reasons you won't think about.  Let's break that down:

1.  You want to please them.  They're your friends.  Even before the running starts, your thoughts will be full of, "I hope they like this adventure" and "I had better do it this way, or they won't have any fun."  Chances are, you spend most of your life fine-tuning your personality and your choices for the sake of other people—and you believe that you have to do that or other people won't like you.  If this gets to be a constant habit—and I notice that it is with most people—then after a time you'll be seen as a "go along, get along" sort of person, and others around you will make assumptions about your willingness to tag along with them to the bar they like or take part in the activities they like.  If you occasionally find yourself in situations where you're not having a good time, while others around you seem to be, you have probably become this sort of person.

Being concerned about ensuring the happiness of others and "respecting them" is not the same thing.  We're responsible for our behaviour towards other people.  We should speak considerately, help when they're in distress, ensure their welfare, give them a leg up when they need it and act like a good host, so that they have comfort and feel safe while they're in our homes.  There are things we should do towards seeing that they have a good time.  We lay out snacks, we clean the bathroom and the play space, we shower, we have our books ready, we maintain a positive attitude about the game and we ask them how they are and show we're listening to them.

We do not, however, change ourselves to suit their needs.  If we don't want to see a hockey game, we say so, and expect them to take our opinion into account without judging us.  Maybe we'll see that hockey game, but we want some recognition that it isn't our first choice and that if we go, we won't be expected to act like we're as excited about it as the next person.  With D&D, as a DM, this adventure is the best we have today.  If the players don't like it, oh well; I wasn't able to do better and they ought to understand that.  If I feel the adventure needs this, then it does; fun has nothing to do with it.  A DM has to take risks, see what works, do their best, judge how to do it better in the future and try things out, even if that means a faceplant now and then.  A DM has to be bold.  A DM cannot spend all their time obsequiously trying to ensure that others have fun.  If the players feel respected, they shouldn't need to be ingratiated.

Chances are, however, if you have this urge to please others, that probably runs pretty deep and you're not going to rid yourself of it without a lot of work and undoubtedly therapy.  The need to ingratiate will be a crippling element of your DMing and your players will walk all over you, because that's the signal beeping atop your head.  If you can't draw the line, you can't DM.

2.  You won't adjudicate.  That is, you're incapable of taking sides when a squabble or fight starts.  It can be hard when you're put in a position of having two friends fight.  You don't want to pick one over the other; you don't want to be seen as favouring anybody; and you worry that if you support Fred, George will hate you.  So you sit, helplessly, while the fight goes on, eating up the game, muttering out stupid sooky phrases like, "Can't we get along," or acting the self-righteous tyrant and shouting, "No one will fight at my game table!"  Both tactics will only prove you don't care about what the players obviously care about—they're fighting over it, after all—you only care how you will be perceived.  You only want others to behave as you expect them to.  Your lack of investment in the squabble is a sign of your selfishness.

Most likely, this is how you are all the time; and chances are it arose from a conflict-heavy childhood, in which your parents argued constantly, causing you to adapt to that by hating argument and automatically retreating from it.  You didn't know this defense mechanism would also force you to see those conflicts only in how they affect you, since there was no one around to explain the conflict, why it was happening or give you a chance to engage with the subject matter as opposed to the irrational shouting.  As a result, you hate shouting, or even voice tones that suggest shouting will start soon.  When that conflict-detector kicks in, you stop listening.  Out of habit, you shut down, the words cease getting through and you just want everyone to stop it.  So that you will be more comfortable.

Other people care about things.  Other people care enough that they will fight to defend their positions on what they care about.  Peacemaking is not accomplished by telling everyone to be peaceful.  Instead, we resolve the matter.  We step in, impose a formality to the argument, giving each person to state their side, and then WE pick one of the two sides and give our position.  As a DM, we do that with the weight of being the person in charge of the game.  And yes, that's what we are.  We are not just "another player."  We're running this show; and we do so legitimately because we listen, we consider both sides, we render our judgement and then we turn to the loser and explain, "Here's why I didn't take your side."  Then, if we see the winner gloating, we turn and we say, "What the hell are you smiling at?  I agreed with your position but you could have been more polite in making it.  Shake your friend's hand"—or words to that effect.

If you can't settle arguments, and the players can't settle them either, those arguments will fester and grow and consume your campaign and both friendships.

Chances are, if you're unable to handle conflicts as I've described, you won't be able to change that behaviour easily.  Once again, problems handling conflicts is an issue for you and your therapist.  There are many roles and professions that involve regular, difficult conflict resolution: police officer, doctor, call center operator, sales manager, restaurant server.  Another one of those roles is dungeon master.  If you can't resolve conflicts, you can't be a DM.

3. You think the game is about you.  The DM has the most power at the table and is the least important person as regards the game.  This makes very little sense to some people.  During a game, I invent the description, I invent the non-player characters and I invent the speech coming out of their mouths; I run the fights; as I've already explained, I am the table's croupier.

However, I do not lay bets.  I do not win anything.  I do not coordinate a plan.  I do not have an ambition that needs achievement.  Oh, yes, I want an adventure to sort itself out and reach a climax, but I'm a very good DM and I know well in advance, months, sometimes years in advance, that eventually the players will open the door or discover the chest or meet the guy that sorts out the mystery.  This is a done deal for me the minute I concoct the adventure in my head.  The "ambition" is to concoct the mystery; running the mystery merely involves methodical attention to the details.

Most DMs, I think, don't get this.  Even after I explain it, the numbers don't add up.  My description above seems ... lacking.  "What?  I'm supposed to just 'run' the game?  Where's the fun in that?"  Exactly.  It isn't fun.  The players run around, fighting monsters, feeling the fear of failure and the triumph of victory, twisting their brains to figure out the mystery or deciding what they want to do from thousands of interesting possibilities ... and I just sit there, asking, "What do you want to do next?"

I am amused at what players decide to do.  I feel tremendous satisfaction when something I've described gets the players really going: fuddling around trying to figure out how to get in the castle; turning pale when some really horrific monster is only mentioned as possibly being in the neighbourhood; or rubbing their hands with glee as I pour out treasure at their feet.  I'm disappointed when a monster I expected to give the party real trouble fizzles out and dies in a few rounds.  Not because I loved the monster, but because I've just realized I should have thrown three of them.  I'm disappointed in myself; I don't give a damn about the monster.  I don't love any of my monsters.  They serve a purpose and that is all they're good for.  I hate it when I listen to DMs wax on about how much they love some NPC who's just been killed by a player.

That is because DMs like this want the game to be about them.  They think the game is about them.  They think because they do all the talking and designing; because they have the last word; because they call out the bets and rake in the house's take; that somehow, this whole game revolves around them.

This is called primacy.  We all have it to some degree.  It starts in us when we're babies and we don't know what the world is all about—but we do figure out fast that it is about us.  We cry and we get fed.  We're uncomfortable and we get changed.  Life is pretty straightforward; and it's obvious these massive giants in our universe are here to please us.  Slowly, we learn the truth.  That truth is hard and unpleasant.  We're not the center of the universe.  We're not here to be served.  We're expected to do for ourselves, and care about other people and act appropriately in ways that do not involve bawling for the things we want.  It's awful.  It is a huge step down from being a pampered baby.

A certain number of people are raised by parents who believe that the child's happiness is the ultimate goal, and that every other emotion or expectation is subservient to that goal.  They think the child should be happy all the time, and if they're not, then something is wrong and it has to be corrected.  The result is that many of these children grow up to be people who are not at peace with their other emotions.  This hurts them and it hurts their relationships; and when they drift into a role where it appears that everyone else gathers in a circle at their feet, and hangs on their every word, making responses that appear to confirm that they are the most important person in the room, they fail to recognize the actual parameters of their role and end up acting like an enormous douchebag.

This happens all over this culture, from low-level managers who don't see that their role is to facilitate sales and productivity, to minor officials who see themselves as supernumerary gatekeepers who are designated to preserve society by keeping out the hordes ... to dungeon masters who think that because they've built the game and its their table, that they are the most important player and that, obviously, it is their job to cheat the dice, railroad the players and make sure that everyone has a good time, THEIR WAY.  So they can feel good about themselves, as the person who knows what's best for other people!

If you are this person, then either you stopped reading five paragraphs ago, or you absolutely do not think that you are this person and you're already self-explaining the seven reasons you're not like this—and anyway, I don't know what I'm talking about, that's obvious.  There is nothing that can be done about these people, except to stay away from them until they're hit accidentally by a truck or something.  You know, a bad thing that's an act of god, so none of us feel bad or responsible or anything.

It never happens soon enough.

Honest.  There ought to be a policy of ensuring that everyone gets therapy, just to effectively locate these people and weed them out of positions of authority.  They will never, ever, willingly put themselves in a place where others have the power to judge them.  So most of the time, unless they get caught committing a crime, none of these monsters ever get therapy.

Last remarks.

"Fun" is easy.  It happens when the people around us are not actively behaving in weak, selfish, abusive or otherwise self-aggrandising fashion.  Clean up your gaming group, clean up yourself, and fun will come naturally.  People online often say, "A good game needs good players."  Truth is, we can teach people how to be good players.  It is much harder to teach players how to be good people.

This series continues with Acting!

Play

Have you thought about the way children play? There is a conception among adults—an irrational conception—that “play” is somehow frivolous, that children are blissfully leaping about the flowered landscape waving bubble makers, without a care in the world.

This could not be farther from the truth.

Children, when they play, are deadly serious about what they’re doing. They don’t see it as frivolous at all, but as vitally important. You don’t think so? Watch a group of children discuss the rules of a game, and count the number of seconds before fists start flying.

This “childish” behavior is more or less dismissed by adults as evidence of an undeveloped emotional maturity. What it actually shows is the extent to which children care about what they’re doing. They have not yet developed the cultured apathy so prevalent in adults, you see.

Consider a typical situation. John and Mark have spent about four hours carefully building two cities out of Lego, at opposite ends of a basement. The crowning effort has been to “post” one hundred army men on each city, with the stipulation that the army men MUST be placed on top of buildings, and not on the “ground” (children would never refer to it as a floor…the distinction is relevant and steadfastly adhered to). Children make up such rules without being told to invent them—the reason for the rule being there is as follows.

John and Mark intend to throw wooden blocks at each other’s city, as a war to destroy the other person’s army. Thus, the men must be on top of a building. A man not on top of a building will be considered “dead” unless they fall and somehow remain standing.

Remember, it is has taken four hours to arrange this combat. The combat itself will require about ten minutes. At no time, all afternoon, will the two boys remotely consider the effort-to-payoff ratio as anything but worthwhile.

Now, introduce Jeremy, who has shown up just before the battle is ready. Jeremy, who won’t have his own city, might just decide he’s going to muck about with the army men or maybe with some of the Lego…quite probably out of boredom.

Watch John and Mark’s response to Jeremy touching anything. Watch the two boys run towards him, screaming, fists out—you will not see any evidence of “fun” in the boy’s behavior. Their faces will be twisted, menacing, furious…their play has been spoiled by Jeremy’s failure to understand the IMPORTANCE of what is happening.

This is not restricted to boys. Girls have rules like this too. At the tea party, the stuffed animal named “Bonita” ALWAYS serves, and “Clarisse” ALWAYS gets the first cup. This blouse belongs to Malibu Barbie and is NOT worn by Staci. EVER. Friendships will end over things like this.

Which brings us at last to D&D. I know there are many Jeremys in the world who see the game as cheesy, who feel the need to mock and laugh because they don’t understand the importance of the rules as they’re played by others. I don’t quite want to make the argument that the game can’t be played by adults because of their tendency to filter everything through their cynicism, but to a certain degree, that IS the problem.

Children do become adults, and they are made to feel silly as they get older for playing games that many adults feel they should not be playing. The game I describe above between John and Mark really was something I used to play at 8 years of age…and at ten, and at fourteen.

As we got older, the rules got more extreme. From the Lego we built “ships” which had specific designs intended to bear the brunt of a hit; each ship demanded a certain minimum of pieces, and the design was up to the player…but there were designs that were tougher than others.

We ascended from throwing wooden blocks to golf balls in the back yard. And from that to darts, which produced very interesting patterns as we fired them at ships placed in the grass (and there were rules about how you could not dig them in). From darts we expanded to lawn darts, played on a school field on the weekend – hurling the darts thirty, forty feet at Lego ships we could barely see, and still hitting with accuracy.

But as we got to be fourteen and fifteen, and interested in girls and gadgets and so on…we began to feel pretty dumb building things of Lego and blowing them to pieces. For some reason we became conscious of the houses around us, and the people in those houses, watching grown boys with Lego. Somehow we began to feel shame about what we were doing.

Shame is the great destroyer of childhood. It is shame that encourages us, as we get older, not to get too interested or excited about anything. We are all supposed to remain detached, remote from feelings of passion, so that we no longer feel the need to beat up Jeremy for being such a fuckwit and not understanding. This is how we descend towards tolerance, where the rules are less important than appearing “cool” or self-assured.

By our twenties we're expected to limit our concern for games with rules to acceptable sports. This is why the thirty-year-old who spends his weekends playing Halo doesn’t talk about it much. This is why, if you’re a rock star, you don’t mention too often that you enjoy a good session of D&D when you can get one. Because the Jeremys of the world will descend on you and do their best to make you feel as much shame as they can muster.

Building a serious campaign, and making people take it seriously, requires one inward philosophy and one outward philosophy. Inwardly, the DM must find again the attitude he or she had as a child—that the rules are important and that they are not cheesy…except to those who don’t get it.

Outwardly, the DM must quash any and all frivolous behavior in a campaign, immediately and without qualm. It doesn’t matter if this means being rude or inconsiderate—if you want players who can take a campaign seriously, they must be made to understand that they WILL take it seriously or they can take their fuckwit selves to another venue. It may take time, but a DM prepared to have standards like these will eventually draw people who LOVE these standards…who will enjoy being able to play the game without shame, at least within the confines of the campaign on weekend evenings.

They may not be able to talk about it with outsiders; but the other insiders who are with them will back them 100%…and the campaign will develop and do what its supposed to do.