Limitations & Rules

A dragon's breath weapon is one of the most deadly attacks in the game ... and so it should be, considering the game includes "dragons" in the title.  It's not Dungeons & Dryads, is it?

But instead of concentrating on the attack's strengths, for a moment let's consider ways in which we limit the breath weapon — and therefore, as a thought exercise, how it might be reduced further.

Obviously, we can have it cause less damage, which applies to a host of different creatures including smaller dragons, hell hounds, firenewts and so on.  We can reduce the number of times per day that it can be used.  We can reduce its area, enabling combatants to get closer.  We could deny the dragon any other attacks when using the breath weapon, and even deny it the freedom of movement while the breath is in play.

We could go a little further.  We could argue the dragon has to space its breath weapon, so that it can't breathe two rounds in a row.  Or that it has to wait until the third round, or the fourth round.  We use this sort of limitation with weapons that have to be loaded; we could insist the dragon has to "load" it's breath.  We could argue that a dragon has to have a certain element available in order to "charge" itself ... water for steam, heat for fire, bile for acid and so on, meaning that while it's charging, it has to eat or come into contact with that thing, thus limiting its mobility.  We could create a time of the day when the dragon is too tired to breathe.  Or a moral element that says some dragons can't breathe unless they're attacked first.  We could even say that if the dragon is struck hard enough just before it breathes, the damage from the breath is halved.

I said this was a thought experiment.  I have no intention of putting any change in place.  I'm writing this to get the reader thinking about how skills and abilities in the game are intentionally limited, so as to make them playable ... and how in making new rules, or making judgement calls, it's much less the power we're giving that encourages play, but the manner in which that power is limited.

Let's take a hand-held weapon — a sword for convenience — and view its role in the game.  We take the sword and we swing it ... over and over, until there's nothing left to swing it at.  In the standard combat system, we get to swing the sword every round, no matter what happens that round, so long as we're close enough to a target.  This makes the only "play" the question of our location and whether or not we hit ... and in a lot of games that throw out a tactical arrangement for placement of characters, or simplify it so much that it hardly matters, this leaves only the question of hit and miss — which is out of the player's hands.

Boring.  As players, we're left repeating, "I swing," over and over, until the battle is done.  That's not game play.  That's an assembly line.

Incorporating tactics — where I am, where I'm facing, how far am I from the enemy, along with combatants constantly moving — forces the player to think through a new problem: "Where do I want to be when I swing my sword?"  Though even if tactics are part of play, most players don't give this question much thought.  In fact, it's like playing snooker or billiards.  "I want to strike there, so if I hit I can turn here, move there and clear a path over here."  This plan can be changed every round, but the result is the same: the player is thinking three, even four turns ahead, eyeing the next target while fighting this one.  Tactics imposes a limitation.  "I can't be everywhere, and I have to be ready to move to the next place if I want to be in reach of the next target.  Otherwise, my attack will be wasted in the middle of a fight because I'm over here, when I should be over there."

We impose another limitation if we make it possible to drop the weapon — say, upon rolling a natural "1."  There are several angles with this.  Where does the weapon fall?  Does it break?  How hard is it to pick up?  Does it take less time to draw a different weapon?  What if the weapon lands in an adjacent, empty hex when we're fighting next to a cliff, or just as we're atop a siege ladder?  What if the enemy picks it up?  The various possibilities and solutions have to be worked out in advance, but once in place, the "drop" rule creates an alternate series of problems that breaks up the swing-swing-swing momentum of common play.  With a dozen combatants swinging every round, drops and their consequences accumulate in strange, unforeseeable ways.

The "critical" balances this detriment.  While I might drop my weapon, I have an equal chance of hitting the enemy twice as hard.

The structure and beauty of a combat system is not in its reflection of reality, but in the possibilities of adjustment, change, unexpected consequences, subtle and harsh increases in danger, each blended in such a fashion that the characters can continue to plan their next steps while suffering and readjusting their places to compensate for the enemy's movements and strengths.  Thus the mechanics of combat are further made complex by an remarkable host of natural abilities and immunities, the presence of spells, the influx of new combatants, good luck, bad luck, foresight and planning before the fight even begins and matters of whether the party is trapped or can run if need be.  The more elements we can pile into this system the better, so long as the players can rationally gauge their power against that of the enemy's with reasonable proficiency.

It would simply be impossible to describe all the ways in which battle is enabled and restrained ... but that's the substance of every rule that's put in place.  Enable too much and the battle is too easy to win; restrain too much and battle is impractical.  Either makes a bad game.

Okay, let's reach for a different example entirely ... and while we're at it, we might as well address the trope: a character wishes to jump the distance between two ledges.

Let's say that Bob is faced with a leap of 13 feet, 8 inches (3.56 m).  We'll keep this simple and state that this is not the actual distance between the two ledges, but rather the distance Bob has to jump with his last takeoff stride being as close to the edge as possible while reaching the point where he lands firmly enough on the other side that he doesn't slip and fall.  To get rid of the consequences of heat, we'll say the jump is over thin air.  The standard practice in D&D is to make a roll ... success/fail of course.  A roll seems right, as we usually make a roll when something in the game is uncertain.  That seems to apply here — emerging from the argument that we're restricting Bob's jump by making it uncertain.  

But the question is not, does Bob succeed, the question is, can Bob succeed.  Is there any reasonable expectation that this character, with these ability stats and these skills, of this level, has any chance of making a leap of this length without hitting the other side and falling forward, not backward.  Remember that in performing the long jump in competition, it's usually a landing onto sand, and most people when hitting the landing don't throw their body forward unless they've been taught to do so.  Has Bob been taught?  But then again, maybe a normal, untrained person can make a jump of 13 feet, 8 inches (3.56 m) fairly easily, if they have a run, and that if he falls backward he'll land on his ass safely, even if he falls backwards.

Consider ... approaches for a long jump in competition vary between 12 and 19 "strides" ... so Bob needs a good space to run.  The objective of the takeoff is to create a vertical impulse through Bob's center of gravity while maintaining balance and control.  That means there might be a roll, depending on how close it is between the distance and Bob's likelihood of making the jump.

It's virtually impossible to find statistics for non-competitive long jump distances; I couldn't do it.  An average high school competitive jump is 16-17 ft. (4.9-5.2 m); 18-20 ft. (5.5-6.1 m) is awesome.  Therefore, it's reasonable that Bob could make the jump so long as he (a) is a physical fighter or thief type; (b) is approximately the height of an average high school student; and (c) is making the jump wearing about as much as a competitive high school athlete.  So long as he meets those three criteria ... those limitations, he doesn't need a die roll.  On the other hand, if he doesn't meet those minimums, he could roll five hundred dice and they'll all be, "Bob falls and dies."  Unless Bob has some specific ability that makes him a better-than-average jumper.  If he does, then this moves the goal posts.  It does not mean that Bob gets +2 on a die roll.  A roll only happens if we're talking a difference of inches here.  If Bob is an above average jumper, then he makes the jump, period, regardless of any roll.

The rule's limitation, then, isn't founded on the same principles as combat.  It's founded instead by comparing Bob's physical existence against the believable physical feats he can perform given the real world.  We can make Bob's leap easier if we adjust the world's gravity ... but then that change has to equally alter all gravity-influenced actions.

Think of it this way.  We don't roll to see if we can swing the sword.  We know we can.  We've been trained to do it.  That's why we're a fighter, or a thief, or whatever can use a sword.  So it makes no sense to see if Bob can jump the distance.  Like swinging the sword, he's either trained to do it, or he isn't.  In combat, we don't actually roll to see if we "can" hit.  Rather, we roll to see if our combat ability vs. the opponent's combat ability enables us sufficient luck to hit.  As we advance in levels, that ability improves, so our chance improves, so we hit more often.  We get "two swings," which greatly increases our likelihood that round, but the functional effect is the same.

So when making a rule with limitations, the goal is not just to impose a series of ad hoc die adjustments, but to first make a distinction between what can be done and what might be done.  If I'm swinging the sword at a block of wood, and I'm trained, I'm going to hit it.  I don't make die rolls every time I cut a carrot with my knife.  The only thing that keeps me from hitting what I aim at is someone else who's able to dodge or parry my sword.  The carrots don't have a chance.

How we invent limitations in the game world's rules matters most dearly.  Every one deserves to be deeply and closely observed; changes must be applied, monitored, reconsidered, adjusted if need be or thrown out if they don't substantively improve play.  Familiar is better than strange, so unless the change is worth it, don't make a change.  Very, very slight adjustments that contribute to the restriction of a character's skills usually make the best changes.  When adding something that benefits the character, be sure to limit them according to how rarely they might be useful, or how truly little they actually change the game.

As an example of both, I added a sage ability called hereditary weapon; I've spoken of it here before.  Although it can be used all the time, and although it adds a +1 bonus to hit, this is no different than the elf's ability with sword and bow.  It helps the combatant only 1 time in 20 ... so although it can be used all the time, it actually only applies rarely.  As most fights run between 8 and 12 rounds, there's only a 50% chance in any fight that it will be helpful at all.

It also urges the character to perhaps use a weapon the player doesn't want, which is a limitation.  It makes a regional army with that weapon more dangerous.  And it lowers the combat balance of elves against other characters.  Anything that kicks an elf in the slats works in my book.

If the reader notices something in the game that seems to award the players with too much power, or makes their lives too simple, consider adding some moderate limitation on that power.  Present it as a change you're implementing; withstand the complaints and moaning.  Most likely, the players will chafe if it's cherished, but you should be able to explain that you want your game to be more "challenging" and that it asks the players to solve their problems with innovation, not abilities.  Most of all, tell them you're going to try it in the short term and that you'll discuss dropping the change after two runnings.  This is important.  Most people will agree to try something so long as it's term limited.  If the new rule is a good change, you might find the players might support leaving it in place, despite how it limits them.  If you can't get support for it, chances are your rule change went to far, or it changed the wrong aspect of the original rule.

Mnemonic

Recently, for anyone who might be reading the blog, I've introduced a host of rules.  In the last two months, I've introduced rules for burglary, half-elf and half-orc physiology, the paladin's warhorse, spellbooks, commoners & comrades, how to train non-levelled persons to be better combatants, how to teach proficiencies, character secondary skills, nutrition and the preparation of food, a few spells and a few demons.  Today, by request, I'll be working on rules for wear & tear on equipment.  This has not been an unusual month.

I know that for most, while the rules may be interesting and we might pick and choose what we like from among them, most readers (particularly not my die hard fans) look at all this and shake their heads.  "What is the point of all these new rules?" they ask.  "How are we supposed to memorize this?"

Listen carefully, because this may be the most important post I ever write that teaches the gentle reader how to DM.  I was thinking about this last night, sorting out an answer to the eternal complaint, "more rules just means more work and less time for real gaming."  All we need do is think about piles and piles of splatbooks and we have cause to shudder.  There is only so many rules we can keep in our heads at any one time ~ and if anything taught us that lesson, it has been trying to run the game based on too many splatbooks.

The remarkable convenience of splatbooks.

The largest problem with splatbooks is that they are books.  They're analog.  Their substance was released at random, without proper indexing.  To my knowledge, a mass index was never made for all the splatbooks, and if it had been, it would have still been a book.  It wouldn't have included a note to that one paragraph you remembered from somewhere, gawd knows where, that you'd like to use now that it's popped into your head.  But you could waste an hour trying to find it in as few as three different splatbooks, and yes, that does steal time from play.

Book indexes are nice, but they are so last century.  Books serve the publisher.  They do not serve the user.

But this post is not about why you should computerize your game play.  This post is about the moment I just described: something you read, or you knew about, has popped into your head and, just like that, you remember it exists.

There is a way to force rules to pop into your head.  It is a process I have been employing since I was a teenager, without a moment's thought.  And, as I realize it now, it comes from a peculiar linear way I have of picturing game play.

Our brain is a memory device, a retrieval system which will store far more information than it takes to manage a role-playing game.  You remember the beach you played on when you were eight.  You remember how the motel you and your parents stayed in for that one night, whenever it was, when you were nine.  You remember the name of the first girl or boy you kissed, even though that was 35 years ago (or less, for some).  You remember when your parents were so big, they loomed above you.  But you didn't have any reason to remember any of those things, until I mentioned them just now.  And though some of you, perhaps, can't remember these specific things, the mnemonic I just used caused a host of memories that you haven't thought of in a long time to come tripping out of you.  That information has been there all this time, ignored for years at a stretch ... but you happen to hear someone mention the beach, or you physically see the motel, or you hear a name that sounds close to that first girl you kissed ... and there it is.

I'm only saying the capacity is there.  You're fully capable of tapping into a wealth of detail, if you approach the unlocking process just so.

Suppose we take the example of the food rules I've added.  To use them, we'll need to discard "daily rations" and replace them with specific items on the equipment table.  Then we'll need to organize those items according to the quality of food they fit.  They'll need to be priced accordingly.  The players will have to be informed of the rules.  Which means we'll have to know them and be able to explain them.  And then we'll need to remember to use the rules, every day of the campaign.

And this last is the kicker.  We'll need to remind our players to make food, then to cross it off their character lists, then we'll have to remind them to make checks, which will result, most likely very soon, in vomiting and diarrhea, which the players will carp and moan about, and say, "These rules are shitty," while complaining about them every time we mention them in our game.  Pretty soon, the players will train us not to bring up the rules, by making us feel ashamed to have ever installed them, so that we'll kowtow to their demands, forcing us to ...

What?  You don't think this happens?

First and foremost, as DM, we're the ones doing the training.  The players do not shame us into dropping rules, we shame them into not having the strength of will to overcome them.  So when they vomit and whatever, we shake our heads and observe, "Well, if you're going to eat this garbage you chose to buy ... if you're not going to hire a cook ..."

But still, there's that problem, how are we going to remember to fit the rules into the campaign?

I would guess that most readers go about the game like I did many years ago.  The players decide they're going to go out to a dungeon, and we say, "Okay, three days later, after travelling over some rough country, you arrive at the dungeon."

We can find this approach used everywhere ~ on episodes of Critical Role, in game modules, encouraged by youtube pundits, wherever.  We didn't just forget to eat, we forgot to live for three days.  Why don't we just put the dungeon entrance across the street from the tavern?  It amounts to the same thing.

Hey, we have monkey brains, okay?  When the DM says, "After three days, you get there," you may be able to puzzle that out intellectually, but your monkey brain interprets this emotionally as, "Oh, it's across the street."  And that's why we don't care where the dungeon is.  We didn't have to pay anything to get there, so it doesn't feel like it cost.  It doesn't feel like we're three days from home.  It doesn't feel like we've got out asses hanging out here and we're in serious trouble if something goes wrong.  It doesn't feel like it really would if I popped you 60 miles from anywhere and said, "Okay, we're three days walk from food, medicine, help, a telephone, everything."  There's no emotion at all.  And as such, your monkey brain is bored.

As I got better as a DM, I began to fit in more detail.  I was still far short of the mark, but follow me on this.  I would say, "Okay, this is Tuesday.  You're a day out of town, I'll see if there's a wandering monster; nope, nothing.  You get about twenty miles towards the dungeon, climbing up into some hills and walking your horses much of the way."

The players would say a few things and I would begin again, "Okay, this is Wednesday ..."  And so on.  Until we got to the dungeon.

Now, a lot of online pundits will shrug at this and pooh-pooh it, saying don't waste your player's time, don't waste game time, etcetera.  And it will sound right to most of us, because we hate having to commute to work and work would be way better if we could just get there and have done with it, and not have to commute home.  So why shouldn't the journey to the dungeon work the same way?  And even if there is a wandering monster, it's so booooorrring, because it doesn't mean anything to the adventure and there's hardly any experience and certainly very little treasure, so why do we have to waste our time fighting this thing?

Well, the pundits are wrong, because the fact is, I was half-assing my way through the "commute."  Yes, given the way I was doing it, discarding it seems rational, but the fact is that the longer I took to elaborate on the days, the more the players would fill up the intervening time with their thoughts.

When Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island, he didn't just write, "After Jim got the map after Billy Bones died, the ship arrived at the island."  Why?  There's no action.  We just meet some people, travel about, get a clue or two ... but heck, why wait?  The stuff that happens on the island is waaaaay more interesting.  Why don't we just jump ahead?

Because we've got to get used to the idea.  The longer it takes to get someplace, the bigger the idea grows in our monkey brains.  We don't have to account for every twig and stone along the roads, but we've got to give a sense that we're walking along, we're thinking about what's coming, we're doing things, we're meeting people who might have something to say, we're growing the idea in our minds as we're going.

Early morning, the last sight of civilization.

We take our time.  And as long as we're taking our time, we envision ourselves being there.  Now, think about it, as DM.  It's morning, you're getting out of bed, you've got three days walk ahead of you.  Get the picture in your head.  You really are there.  You can feel the splinters and the feather ticking of the bed in your ass.  You yawn, you stretch ... and what is the first thing you do?

You eat, of course.  This is the last decent meal you'll have before you have to eat what's cooked over a campfire.  Bingo.  Right there, you remember the food rules.

Okay, what's next.  Well, you're need to get your gear together, but before you can get fully dressed, what are you going to do?  That's right, you're going to look outside and see what the weather is like.  There, you've remembered to use your weather rules.

So, you get your gear ... the gear you're going to be relying upon for your life in three days.  Is it new?  Is worn?  How long have you had that rope?  Okay.  Now you're ready to invoke the wear & tear rules I'm planning to write.  Anybody want to spend half a day shopping, to replace something they've forgotten?  No?  Good.

Get your animals, get your equipment loaded up.  Some is going to go on the animals, and some of it is going to go on you.  That wakes up your mind to the encumbrance rules.

You haven't even left town yet.  But you've remembered all the pertinent rules, so you're good as a DM.  The players have quibbled and hawed at these details, but you're going to say very adroitly, "I sure hope you're ready for this dungeon.  It isn't going to be an easy dungeon."

That's going to put some spark in these rules.  Speed of movement is going to matter.  The quality of that rope is going to matter.  Is the rope going to kill me?  Jeez, it's warm now, but the DM said it rained last night.  What if it's raining hard when we get there?  And when we get out on the road, on our first day, on Tuesday, and we all have to make rolls for food effects, jeez.  Sure was easy, given we ate that fresh pork roast for breakfast.  Did anyone bring something other than salt pork and beans to eat on this journey?

We're five miles from town and one of the players is saying, "Maybe I should have picked up a new rope."

And someone else says, "Don't worry, I've got one."

Followed by the reply, "Is one enough?"

And now I'm not running the Tuesday journey, the players are.  They're not bored.  They're painting a picture from the details we're giving them and they're building up the dungeon in ways we could not hope to manage.  This is how rules expand game play.  And we remember the rules by playing the game ourselves.

When a man-at-arms joins the party, we're meant to think, if it were our man-at-arms, what would we do?  And if we were the man-at-arms, how would we view this party?  We don't do this in terms of story, but in terms of fitting ourselves into that position.  "Look at this group of louts I'm working for now.  Well, the druid seems pretty decent.  Wouldn't want to tussle with that fighter though.  And what is the cleric's problem, anyway?"  This gives us a frame when the party asks their man-at-arms to do something.  It makes us think of morale rules, and how we look at cooking rules, and what it must have been like for us before we became a man-at-arms.  That reminds us of the secondary skills rules, which then takes us in a hundred directions.  Taking our time to figure this man-at-arms out reminds us that he has aspirations, too.  He probably wonders about the day when we'll ditch this bunch of losers and get proper training as a fighter.  Maybe its something he'll tell the druid during a shared watch, perhaps on Wednesday, as we're still making our way to this dungeon.  Tell a nice, hopeful story, and the players' monkey brains will feel it when "Bob" dies.  "Damn it," says the cleric.  "I really liked Bob."

There really aren't so many rules they can't be remembered, if you're in the right frame of mind.  If you're thinking a step or two ahead of the players, you'll have a moment to look up detailed rules on a paladin's warhorse while the party is discussing the merits of a good rope, so that when they stumble across such a horse on Thursday morning, while still wending their way to the dungeon, they'll have reason to puzzle why there's no paladin on it.  You'll have the rules fresh in your mind, because you'll have found them on a computer, and will not have to have gone through five splatbooks to find the right passage about paladin's warhorses.  Why were you thinking about warhorses just then?  Maybe because some part of the dungeon has a religious bent, and there's no paladin in the party.  Or maybe because ol' Alexis wrote about it earlier this month.  Or maybe because you dream about warhorses nightly.  The point is, you have time to look up rules on the fly because the players have something to argue about.  You didn't skip them ahead three days to the dungeon, wrecking all this interesting opportunity to get to know Bob or puzzle about riderless warhorses or double-check the number of daggers that can be carried and still maintain a 4 movement rate.  These things make the party busy ... whereas skipping ahead, and making it easy for the party, only encourages idle hands.

The game itself, and the ebb and flow of events, from place to place, and from monster to monster, is a mnemonic.  But you have to live the game play as the DM first, as much as the players do.  If you're ready to jump forward through time, then no wonder you haven't time to ready yourself, or your players, for the task at hand.  No wonder everything in your game feels tawdry and cheap.  You're cheapening it by hurrying, by simplifying, by snuffing out the life of the thing in order to speed up the commute to the "good stuff."

Take your time and it is easy to remember all the rules you'll need.

Nerfing

The original brandname Nerf  was used to describe the soft foam material used to make indoor sports toys, a product that became available in my lifetime and in my memory.  Objects such as baseball bats, volleyballs, footballs and such were marketed as toys that could not harm children, even babies, or old people ... and became a slang term that meant "harmless."  But nerf objects were not sold TO children ... they were sold to parents, who bought them for toddlers.  Nerf balls could be fun ... for a few minutes.  What we really wanted, growing up, were real footballs and real baseball bats.  Nerf things were for kiddies ... we wanted things we associated with adults.  Nerf meant "not real."  Not grown-up.  We used it as a pejorative.

Nerfing, on the other hand, is a somewhat nerfed term for that pejorative.  Wikipedia says, "A change to a game that reduces the desirability or effectiveness of a particular game part."  Why not just call it, "Making the game harmless?"  Or even, cheesy as shit and designed for infant children?  Why soft-soap the original definition of the term?

Well, for one thing, the Kings of Nerfing are unquestionably the Wizards of the Coast, who have been systematically nerfing succeeding generations of players out of Magic: the Gathering since the game was spawned.  Virtually no one I knew five years ago who played the game seriously still does.  Game-breaking cards are brought out every few months, with a lack of foresight that makes Editions of D&D look like a kid in a pedal car trying out for NASCAR status.  Basically, the game that made the WOTC survives on art fetish, power lords with their parent's money and the steady passage of time that makes 5-year-olds into 9-year-olds.

Wizards of the Coast is a subsidiary of Hasbro ... which, coincidentally, also owns the Nerf brand of products.  Coincidence?

Setting this rant aside, the long and the short describes issues I've had with nerfing D&D for decades ... which began as elements of empowering players at the expense of rules in the early 1980s, with the addition of new classes and new abilities, that were never properly balanced in game play (the barbarian and the cavalier were meant to be "balanced" by role-playing rules that were impossible to enforce and ultimately not a detriment).  As time has progressed, every element of the game has been under siege at one time or another, to make it softer, less harmful, less inhibiting to the player's personal wishes or self-projection as heroes, less measured by die rolls and ultimately less disappointing, particularly in the very inconvenient way that players had of dying when the game called for it.

From a business point of view, the whole "dying part" just didn't work as a marketing strategy.  Come and play our game, buy our game, create your character ... and then lose your character at some random moment when a chance die roll happens.  I mean, from the perspective of sales, that just sucks.  It's like opening a newspaper and seeing that someone was beaten to death with a baseball bat that your company made.

As an aside, here's an article about young baseball players being killed with metal bats.  And here's the line that the Easton Baseball & Softball Equipment company uses to describe their product: "the most efficient energy transfer from handle to barrel for maximum 'whip' for a quicker bat and more power though the hitting zone."  Note how that sounds if we picture a kid in Compton using the bat to end the life of another kid in Compton.  But it's okay, because all these deaths in the article are accidental.  We're not talking about anyone using a bat for any other reason than baseball.  We're definitely not talking about it.

Which is why you won't find any references or quotes about death associated with D&D in any of the puff pieces you read, or any of the pages on the WOTC's website, or any of the vlogs that will tell you how to run the game or how to play the game.  If you go looking, you'll be very hard put to find anyone saying anything like, "... and there's a chance your character will be killed."  Being killed is something that happens to NPCs and monsters.  Or, at least, that's the only time it's mentioned.

Except, of course, for the long-running flame war that continues to ask the question, 44 years after Chainmail, is it okay to kill a player character?

"When PC death is permanent, whether due to play style or your RPG/setting of choice, it can be a huge blow to the player who’s impacted. Why should this happen as a result of what’s supposed to be a leisure activity?"

Yeah, hey man, this is supposed to be fun.  I mean, just look at baseball.  When one team loses it can be a huge blow to the way they feel.  Why should this happen?  Or in chess, when one player loses ... that must feel awful.  Why are we making people feel awful when they just want to play a game?  The rules of chess should be changed so that players just move pieces around on the board and talk to one another, pretending to be bishops and kings.  Why does there have to be all this killing?  Role-playing the pieces would be WAY more fun.

In many ways, this nerfing makes it very, very hard to talk about D&D seriously. I was thinking earlier today about writing some post that would describe game strategies for each class, targeted towards using their singular abilities in combat and role-play situations.  Basically, what should the fighter be doing or saying when the charismatic druid or bard is doing the talking?  Or what strategies ought a thief or a druid employ in a fight, to produce the best results.  I think I could work up such a post and it would be useful to a lot of players.

If this was 1983.  And it was actually hard to make arrangements in order to negotiate with minor functionaries to get an audience with a mayor or such, as opposed to modules that start with the mayor introducing the players to the local king.  Or when it was hard to survive an attack by 20 goblins, when basically the players are encountering and foiling super-wizards almost immediately, with magic items bought at the magic shop.  Or when the healer, not a cleric, wasn't there to flood the room with healing ability anyway.  Or if the classes were actually defined as having specific abilities that weren't endlessly nerfed by perception rolls and such.  It's difficult to write a "strategy" post about a modern game that doesn't require any strategy at all to play ... because the system has been rebuilt to the point where even death isn't on the line.  We keep saying that it's "role-playing" and not "roll-playing," but we keep giving the players more and more dice to roll to ensure their survival, while removing more and more of the boundaries against what the players are free to do.

It's a joke.  We replaced a strategy and tactical game with ... foam.

I don't think it's a coincidence.

Today, this is the emotional and "fun" level of a typical D&D game, complete with the bickering fight that occurs at the end:

How to Write a Rule: Framing the Solution

My reader kimbo is right when he says that a principal decision in climbing a mountain is time and risk ~ with the logical association that rush makes danger, whereas patience should reduce the probability of an accident.  When looking at a mountain, its natural for the players to consider the lay-out and decide whether or not they want to risk the more dangerous routes, or head around "the long way" in order to find safer, albeit more time consuming alternatives.  This is what I meant when I wrote "time and space."

We have a few considerations to apply to this, however: the first being that the whole mountain is not evident to the players, when the decision must be made.  For a full measure of the mountain, the whole mountain would have to be viewed, and from good, clear vantage points, trusting the weather holds.  It can take a couple of days to march around a good-sized mountain ~ assuming it can be marched around, as it might be part of a range, which might make the far side of the mountain very difficult to assess.  Secondly, the mountain needs to be assessed by someone who knows how; an experienced mountain climber can "see" more in the falls and curves of the landscape that most of us can.  It wouldn't do any good to send the flying mage on a tour around the mountain, unless the mountaineer (more likely a ranger) can go along.

Now add to this that parts of the mountain can't be seen at all from the ground, making themselves evident only once the players are actually in the act of climbing.  A good looking route can have a surprise along the way, where a cleft only 12 feet wide ~ virtually invisible from most places on the ground ~ suddenly makes the route impassable.  The same can be said for overhangs and surfaces that turn out to be less than solid.  Ice and snow are additional variables that are largely impossible to predict.

The only real surety about choosing a route comes from having climbed the mountain before ~ either personally or in the form of a guide.  Nearly all the difficult mountains that were climbed in a rush of ardor with the rise of 18th & 19th century Romanticism were attempted before a climb was successful, often many times.  Like a ship exploring a coastline in the new world, mountain climbers would attempt different routes and make copious notes or drawings, seeking the measure of the task before surrendering, returning to the valley.

It became evident that there were summer routes and winter routes; routes that risked fog; routes that were dangerous due to crosswinds that would create sheets of ice or made balance difficult (changeable winds that could be deadly for a flying mage trying to land on a rocky and uncertain ledge); routes of all kinds.

Still, we want a rule set that encapsulates at least some of this.  I don't think any of it can be limited to a set formula of time vs. space.  Rather, I see a series of "wagers" that the players face.  They can, initially, choose the slower path, which might get them closer to the goal before having to take serious risks, but nothing with a dangerous mountain can be certain.

So the first task is to determine how dangerous is this particular mountain?  Right off, I find myself seeking an established system of some kind.  Growing up near the mountains, I'm familiar with a rating system that's used for ski trails: a green circle for easy slopes, a blue square for intermediate slopes, a black diamond for advanced slopes and a double black diamond for expert only slopes.  In Europe, the system is different, with pistes described as green, blue, red and black, with double or triple black diamonds, orange (extremely difficult) or yellow (ungroomed and unpatrolled).

Obviously, much of a mountain can't be skied at all, but I see no reason not to employ the spirit of the system.  Rather than trying to specify a whole mountain as "difficult" or "easy", individual routes along the same mountain can be described as a string: green, green, blue, green, black, blue, green, black, black. We can then produce simplified versions of "piste maps," such as the one shown below:

Click HERE for full size

We don't have to get anywhere near this complicated.  With a little imagination, we can apply a string of "dangers" to, say, Wildstrubel in the upper left hand corner, with those evident cliffs, uncertain snow fields and glaciers.  We can then see how forks in the string would allow a choice to go left or right, because this way looks "blue" rather than "black" ... even though it might end in a triple-black diamond climb another hundred meters above, where we can't see.

This leaves us with a meaningful resolution for the wagers the players would try: I would suggest that, in terms of success, we see the scale as a series of descriptions, that could be employed by the DM to the player, without actually describing the actual roll that would be needed for success (we do want the wager to have an uncertain quality, though the rule must be rigorously adhered to by the DM ~ no fudging!).  Slopes can be "safe," "easy," "chancy," "tense," "tricky," "risky," "hazardous," "improbable" and "impossible."  This gives us two wagers for each of four types (North American system) or eight wagers among eight types (European system).

In each case, we inform the players ahead of time that the way ahead "looks tricky" suggesting that there is a very reasonable probability that they won't succeed ~ perhaps guaranteeing failure unless someone with experience attempts it.  I should think "tricky" would be the most dangerous an amateur should probably attempt - anything above that is bound to mean a serious fall or accident.

Now, this is the sort of thinking that I'm encouraging where it comes to making rules for anything.  Start by describing how the players might solve the problem (assessing the mountain before climbing); then, defining the structure of the problem (dangers mountains possess, nature of mountain routes).  If possible, use established ideas from professionals dealing with those problems in the real world.  Then, figure out a way to map it (pattern string based on danger code) and then to communicate that map to the players in a way that enables them to make multiple decisions over the course of the adventure.

Then, having established this framework, we can go ahead and add other details, events, monsters, problems and obstacles, in keeping with the motivation-adventure path I described last month.

What's missing from the above are the multiple results that might arise out of failure - and success too, which might increase the character's ability to climb and assess other mountains, as well as perhaps an experience adjustment for characters making mistakes and taking damage.  I'm going to forego this, as I'm starting to get involved in another project.  I don't know if I'll come back to this making a rule series ~ right now, I don't see much else to say about it.  I am open to questions, however, and as readers know, questions tend to inspire me to go deeper into subjects (the adventure path link was the result of a reader's question, nyet?).

How to Write a Rule: Theoretical Frameworks

I went looking for a video that would explain theoretical frameworks with wonderful images and conceptual relationships, like this video explaining changing education paradigms ... unfortunately, theoretical frameworks are not sexy.  In fact, they're mostly explained by very, very dull sociology PhDs trying to encourage graduate students to use them.  I watched three of these torture-scapes.  I would not recommend sitting through the whole of that last link, nor any link associated with it.

Basically, a theoretical framework is what our grade 4 teacher tried to make us understand about writing essays: that the point is not to just give information, but to research in order to determine what part of the content is yet uncertain.  Why, for instance, did the Roman Empire collapse?  The essay is an attempt to answer that question.  Part of the essay should explain why the answer is feasible, or possible, and how precisely that it makes a contribution to existing arguments that have already been made.

No one expects a 4th grader to produce a contribution: but we do expect graduate students to do so, even if it is a very, very small contribution to a very, very negligible part of the discipline.  At least it's a contribution. If we're not making a contribution, there's no point.  It would only prove that we know what others know; and that's what your undergraduate degree was for.  We expect more if you're going to keep studying.

Okay, putting this in the context of games.  You're settling down to make a new rule, or set of rules, for a game or a new game you're designing.  The principles are the same.  We want to know, what problem is this rule meant to solve?  How will it fit into an existing framework, so that it works with other rules?  Why is your approach to the rule feasible, or practical?  And, finally, how does your rule make a contribution to the game itself?

If your rule seems to solve a problem that other rules have already solved, and you can't explain to others why that's not the case, then you've failed.  If your rule wrecks other rules that work to solve their problems, then you've failed.  If the implementation of your rule is difficult and hard to understand, or so time consuming that players won't use it, you've failed.  Your rule has to contribute, not obscure, undermine or confuse.  If you're not clear on how your rule contributes, your thinking process is muddled.

Let's look at the creation of a rule as an example.  For this, I'll choose a rule that I haven't written; and is, in fact, a problem I haven't solved.

The problem:  As part of an adventure, the players are faced with climbing a mountain that will enable them to reach the lair or a creature, or the entrance of a dungeon.  The mountain, perhaps within a range of mountains, is steep and dangerous.  The characters have no specific mountain climbing abilities.

The proposed contribution:  The mountain-climbing experience will be interesting, immersive and ultimately a game in itself, providing the players with the some of the tension we would expect them to have if they had to actually climb the mountain.

The problem has not, to the best of my knowledge, been solved.  I have run into other mountain-climbing rules, but these are generally flat and lifeless and feature details focused on measuring distance, not providing a legitimate immersive experience.  Remember, what we're looking for is Bogost's procedural rhetoric. Furthermore, the rule has to fit into existing rules: so we can't change the character-design by adding extra pieces and logic that doesn't then fit into the rest of the system, nor can we change rules about falling, nor adjust varying rules applying to dexterity benefits and the thief's ability to climb walls (which, it must be noted, are very different from sheer rock surfaces).  To be immersive, the rule also has to fit the player's actual personal experience with rock climbing in the real world, at that experience is also a "rule" that has to be reflected in the rules we write.  Finally, the rules can't be excessively complicated or incompatible with the ideal of "tense, thrilling danger."  Too many rolls, too many calculations, too much problem solving will ruin the proposed contribution.

Ideally, I think it should be possible to resolve the mountain-climbing experience in about 30-45 minutes; if the rule-system is elaborate enough to allow creativity, and the procedure direct and easy-to-understand, something that would take as long to play a hard game of chess would fit our goal.

That's a high bar.  But if you're not willing to compete at this level, take your ball, go home, stop game designing.  You're not suited for this.

What structure is needed?  That's what I spoke about in the last Rule post:

• How do we incorporate time and space into the system, in order to let the players control the experience without relying upon random rolls that serve as a pass/fail result?  What sort of preparation can the players make regarding the mountain that will change the parameters of their experience? How will their control of time and space eventually lead to the wager they'll have to make on surviving the challenge?
• How many paths up the mountain can we provide?  Can we do this without having to map the entire mountain, which would only mean having to map the next mountain and the mountain after that.  What designs can we incorporate into the rules that will make the mountain's structure fit into the rule set as a random collection of possible surfaces/routes, so that: a) before the players climb, they can pick a route; and b) during the climb, they can learn about the environment well enough to strategize upon risking a different route?  How many times can this decision be incorporated into the rule system?
• Can we get along without a single death-save die roll?  Can we minimize the number of rolls, hinging them on the player's decisions, or increase the number of rolls with really ridiculously low chances of failure?  If the players are moving along a ledge, and are forced to make ten rolls to succeed, and each has only a 1 in 500 chance of failure, does that increase or decrease the immersive quality of each roll?  We can either start with a minimal number of rolls, increasing their frequency as the players make bad decisions, or we can start with an excessive number, decreasing rolls as the players make good decisions.
• How many effects can we include in the results?  There's more to lose than lives; there's equipment, loss of hit points, loss of body parts (if it is very cold, frostbite), the inability to act (forcing someone else to save the victim), a chance of being separated from others, unconsciousness, delusion, hunger, thirst, a loss of spirit to go on and whatever else we can include.
• What rewards can we provide apart from the success of reaching the obvious goal?  What else can be found or learned on the mountain?  What skills can be acquired from the ordeal?  What status can be gained, if there are others coming along or others who know of the party's intent?
• And for those who will perceive the problem can be solved with magic, what updrafts, steady winds and dangers might be present for those who believe they can simply fly or levitate their way to the top?  If a teleportation spell is used, are the players then trapped on the mountain top until the spell can be reused, unable to get down, because they don't know the best route?  Being D&D, we want to consider issues like this as well.

Always, the manner in which these questions can be answered best rests in solid, detailed research into actual mountain climbing.  Considerable research.  And a great deal of brainstorming.

Let's leave it here for the time being.  Give it some thought.

How to Write a Rule: Deconstruction

Deconstruction is the thing.  It makes sense to start with a rule that works, deconstruct that rule and see what we can learn from that.

Demonstrably, the most successful rule set in D&D has been the combat system, though many people argue that from the view that it is boring or that it fails to meet an imposed simulationist "standard."  Here I'm going to resist getting into the details of the various systems that have now resulted from multiple rule changes, concentrating on the rule system's fundamental precepts.  And let me just take a moment to add that these precepts do not just apply to D&D, but to most table-top role-playing games that seek to resolve a physical confrontation between combatants, regardless of the tech of weapon.  That is because the principles are universal: to hit something, there has to be a determination of hitting; once a hit has occurred, there has to be a determination of effect; because things are attempting to hit, or attempting to avoid being hit, there is movement, so there must be a determination of location and a comparison between these locations that awards opportunity; and because the world is cluttered, there must be a determination of obstacles, surfaces and physical restraints on movement, and therefore on the opportunity to hit, the chance of hitting and the effect of hitting.

I expect most of my readers already know this, but for those who are younger, who are perhaps less inclined to read, who just have not taken the time to explore the issue, I'll make the point that the combat system came before the role-playing idea.  Gygax, Perrin and others developed a set of rules they called Chainmail, enabling them to play a strategy game involving armor and medieval weapons.  Long before they published, they had hundreds of hours of experience with their own combats, with representing cardboard chits as game units.  Despite this low-level immersive quality, they could not help noticing themselves that when certain chits managed to survive battles with unusual frequency, they began to do something very human: they anthropomophized those chits.  The "survival" was nothing more than the argument I made a couple of weeks ago: that an audience full of standing people flipping coins, sitting down when they roll a tails, will eventually produce a phenomenon where one random audience member will remain standing, flipping head after head with astounding consistency.  This is called a statistical anomaly and happens with terrific frequency when a really large number of variables collects.

The combat system of Chainmail produced enough variables that it seemed unlikely to the participants that one particular combatant could survive so many battles, when random numbers seemed to indicate a more likely death.  The participants began giving these chits names and of course personalities ... and this in turn led to the creation of rules that would enhance the legitimacy of those personalities, a process that culminated in the crude, simple rule systems that produced the first role-playing games.

This is why I say that the rules surrounding the combat rules are demonstrably the best rule concept in the game, as no other rules that have come since then have succeeded in producing a similarly independent, wide-spread game culture out of the RPG phenomenon.  Some might argue "role-playing" itself, except that this is a result of the combat system and remains dependent on the combat system to support the consequences of in-game conflicts.

Why, then does the combat idea work?  It is sometimes argued that combat is based on a negative/positive result: one either wins or loses, based on the die roll, and that is a weak rule idea.  I have argued as much myself, on many occasions.  However, this is a gross simplification of the combat system as it stands.  Success does not rely on "a" negative/positive result, but upon scores of said results, as many as 20 to 50 results per round, depending on the size of the combat and the complexity of the given system.  This multiplicity of negative/positive results produces a statistical normality, in which anomalies occur that themselves produce unlikely and therefore exciting effects.

Let's look at the four points about all combat systems that I touched briefly:

• Combatants are located in time and space; this location offers opportunities for strategy in the way they are free to shift, approach, collect into groups in order to improve their tactical superiority, back away, and play with how much time they have to prepare before actual combat occurs.  Since preparation of equipment and powers is an important feature in how combat is resolved, more time, won through careful movement strategy, greatly increases survivability.
• Combatants must obtain an opportunity to attack defenders, whether through closing quickly and enabling the cut off of preparation by opponents, or using weapons that can be employed at a distance, so that defenders or would-be attackers can be eliminated at a safe distance.  Opportunity is mitigated by the ease of movement over the battlescape, or obfuscated by solid features or movable debris, so that the actual problem of obtaining opportunity when it is wanted is a strategic goal.
• Once opportunity is obtained, combatants are forced to resolve the "wager" of attempting combat by actually rolling dice, a matter that can be modified by preparation and opportunity, but which is ultimately subject to the statistical probability and anomaly of random numbers.  Wagers are paid off by successful hits, while losses are applied to the reduction of further opportunity and the fact of giving the opponent a chance to determine if their wager to hit might pay off.
• The effects of winning wagers, where a hit occurs, are then widespread and extraordinarily varied, challenging the struck combatant to survive the hit, have the opportunity to return the hit again and make the decision if "breaking off" from the combat isn't the better strategy.  Scattered along a line of a dozen combatants, each particular combatant's response to the effect of being hit has great potential for creating emotional immersion [as does the winning of successful wagers to hit].

To these we can add a fifth effect, those who will take this collection of combat results and choose to react immersively to these results, shouting that "I'm going to kill him!" or "Fuck, one more like that and I'm dead!"

This is the combination of rule-creation that we're vying to achieve ~ but not to worry, no one expects this sort of success, not even the original makers, who more or less stumbled into this because they had access to a number of technological improvements in the late '60s that enabled this breakthrough.  The combat game mechanic from D&D worked because a) it was logical in its use; b) it returned an emotional/visceral effect; and c) it was easy to adjust and expand, as desired.  It still is.

If we want to learn from it, what are the takeaway lessons?

• Incorporate time and space into the rule structure, in a manner than enables the player to control these factors to some effect, without this being a random roll.  Ensure that the players have an opportunity to prepare in some meaningful way, that will promise an adjustment to the wager they will eventually have to roll in order to see if they succeed in what they're doing.
• Where possible, produce more than one possible path towards success.  Just as combat includes elements such as missile weapons, spells, the use of animals, the structure in which groups interact together and so on, in addition to stepping forward and swinging, ensure that the rule system you're creating enables the player to create a strategy that doesn't rely on one single obvious course of action.
• Minimize the effects of die rolls while maximizing the number of rolls, so that life/death or success/failure depends upon a statistical collection of results, rather than a single flat roll.  Obviously, in many cases, there should be a natural limitation to how many rolls are practical (or how many details can be meaningfully be rolled for); the goal is to find just enough rolls, with mitigating wagers, that make the activity interesting.
• Make the effects of winning and losing wagers interesting.  Just as varying forms of combat has the chance of reducing hit points, ability scores, potential for movement, consciousness and location, seek to remove points from various stockpiles in the player's possession, including wealth, status, health and associates.
• Produce a reward that encourages the players to return for the promise of that reward again and again.  The rewards of combat are varied and drive the entire game.  Even if your rewards are that phenomenal, try to make them as meaningful as possible for the player's experience.
• Always direct your rule systems towards immersion.  If the player does not feel like they are actually experiencing the effects of the system as if they were real, to at least some degree, then your rule system needs more work.

To do this, you will need to construct a theoretical framework.  This is where we will begin with the next post.

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.