Positioning The Work

Twice in the last 24 hours I've bumped into someone making the argument that people are more willing to believe something when it is presented authoritatively, in the sense that THIS IS WRONG and THIS IS RIGHT.

The more notable example (the second was a CBC podcast about risk-taking) was put forth by Bill Bryson in his recent book, At Home ... which is an spectacular resource for D&D that I started into a few days ago.

For those who don't know, and who haven't read him, Bryson is a genius.  In this case, I'm defining 'genius' in the sense that if you don't agree with what he says and the research he does, you're a fucking idiot.  I understand some people define genius in a completely different way.

Bryson was discussing the book published in 1861 by Isabella Beeton (actually, published by her husband) which became THE standard for homes for the next 75 years or so, Beeton's Book of Household Management.  I read it years ago, as my university had a copy of it in the library and if you've done any extensive research into pre-twentieth century life, it's impossible to overlook.  I would strongly recommend having a careful look into the many, many pages of cookery and other subjects.

What is interesting about the book is how truly, remarkably wrong it is in SO many ways, and the manner in which it refutes itself constantly - which Bryson discusses at length over many pages.  As I worked as a chef and cook for many years during my theatre days (between work), its impossible not to notice that many of the recipes would be thoroughly unpalatable as written.  And still, Beeton was to the home as Dana was to geology, as Groves was to music and as the World Almanac is to statistics.

There is something to the very sad fact that where it came to a quintessential text about womens' home lives, half the material is sadly wrong, plagiarised (whole passages are lifted from Florence Nightingale, word for word) or even incomprehensible (seriously, read the book).  Still, as Bryson says, the book is written with such a firm, definite, There's No Possible Way I'm Wrong About This air, it was embraced en masse by the culture of the time ... even though it wasn't the first book of it's kind (Eliza Acton had famously produced an earlier book, which Beeton also stole from).  The sheer arrogance of Beeton clings to the pages like rancid lard, in a way that even this blog has not been able to achieve.  It is truly awe-inspiring.

So the question arises, as I get set to write a book on How To DM, and the community is so firm on no one having any right to say "this is the right way to play D&D" ... should I, or should I not, take the stand that there is a RIGHT way to play D&D.

Because I really think there is one.  What's more, from various places (not just the two examples from the last day), I'm getting the message that if I want to be taken seriously, I have to say there's a RIGHT way.  Because being wishy-washy about a subject doesn't get it done.

Which might explain why everything that comes out of WOTC is such unmitigated shit.

...And The DM Is Pushed Aside

Something that I have been saying since playing D&D in the early 80s is that a DM must take his or her self 'out of the loop.'  That is to say, the less immediate influence you have over your own world, the better.  That influence should be moved towards the rules, towards the dice and towards the setting of your world.  Specifically, how should things be if the setting of your world, and not your own feelings about it, makes the final ruling?

This, however, is mostly impossible.  There are too many circumstances, too many ad hoc decisions which must be made, too many times when the 'last word' of the DM is the only word there is.  And still, I am tickled pink when my world 'over-rules' me.

This happened to me last night, while making a determination about a player's horse, and I felt I had to write about it.

One default position I tend to take is to reduce virtually all vague characteristics about a thing to its lowest common form.  If the party finds a sword, it will probably be a short sword.  If a player character has failed to note on their character sheet whether the crossbow is light or heavy, I will definitely rule that is light.  Ill-defined chests will always be small, as will quivers, saddle-bags, shields and holy symbols.  And most of the time, horses will be riding horses before they are warhorses, and they'll be light warhorses before they'll be heavy ones.

Perhaps, after a fashion, it's my way of being a dick.  I prefer to think that the smaller or lighter version of anything is bound to be far more common than the larger or heavier version, so unless there are some specific circumstances regarding the size of something, I will tend towards the least rather than the most.

So, it was determined from the character's background that the character's father had been an outrider, and that the character had inherited a warhorse upon leaving home.  I hadn't specified the size of the horse, so when the character asked, I was inclined to say, "light."

However, I had also generated the character's place of birth, so it seemed logical to first find out what sort of horses came from that area.  The locale was Andria, in the modern province of Barletta, in the historical region of Apulia, which at the time of my world was under the authority of the King of Naples, himself subject to the Emperor of Spain.

The most common sort of horse that originates in southern Italy is by far the Neapolitan breed, so it only followed that I would supply that horse.  The appearance is very definitely "Roman" in the sense of statuary from the ancient period, and the horse is somewhat short, just above 14 hands ... as you can make out from this image.

But here was the real kicker.  Wikipedia, it should be noted, says this about the breed:

"Between the 16th to 19th centuries, Naples and the surrounding regions were known for their high-quality Neapolitan horses. The best horses were bred by nobles for transportation and cavalry. At the beginning of this time period, the horses were likely small, coarse and heavy, suitable for carrying heavily-armored warriors. However, as elsewhere, the use of firearms brought on the desire for a more attractive, agile horse."

And of course, because I don't have fire arms, I had to accept - quite happily, I might add, because as I said I love when my world pushes me out of the way - that the player character's free horse - one which the player would have known since it was foaled - was a heavy warhorse, and not a light one.

The player was understandably happy about this.

Learning

I have to appreciate the description, "Half the time that guy's a genius" for its sheer lack of insight.  Naturally, the other part goes that the rest of the time the guy's out to lunch, he's a babbling fool, he's an old man yelling at kids on his lawn, he doesn't get it and so on.

Of course, the accurate phrasing of this particular statement is, "Half the time I agree with that guy, and half the time I don't."  Which is to say, when I agree, the guy's a genius; which makes me a genius, too, since obviously he's smart enough to know what I'm thinking.

Ah, how rarely the statement goes, "Half the time the things that guy says go right over my head.  I guess I'm not smart enough to know what he's trying to say."  I wouldn't say 'never' ... because where it comes to some expertise, people are willing to accept their ignorance.  When the doctor launches into a discussion of liver chemistry, and you're scratching your head between hearing the occasional familiar word, you don't say, "Wow, when he's not making sense, he's really an idiot."  No, you accept that you're out of your depth, that you don't know what he's on about, and that its a good time to ask questions before making a judgement.

I think it must be understood that if I'm a genius "half the time," I'm either not a genius at all, except when I happen to get lucky and agree with someone, or I'm a genius all the time, and they just don't fucking get it.  I think the likelihood is that I'm NOT a genius.  I'm well read.  I'm ambitious in my thought processes.  I'm experienced in the game, and in other things.  If I were a genius, however, I'd be able to change someone's mind about something.

I have been thinking at length lately about the process of changing minds, and particularly how the matter is taken up in the artistic design of literature and film.  I have very rarely experienced another person changing their mind about something they firmly believe.  I have done so myself, and often, but I'm always with me so I have the benefit of catching these moments when they happen.  Another person, on the other hand - particularly a person who has passed the age of 30 - is rare.  Oh, I don't mean changing their mind about having chicken vs. pork for dinner, or even changing their mind about dating a particular fellow or what movie to see ... though these things can be huge decisions for people.  No, I mean changing some belief - not even a core belief - so as to view the world differently.

I think writers must find themselves frustrated where it comes to changing a reader's mind, and so they are obsessed with it.  In A Clockwork Orange, the writer posits the effect of forcing the change of Alex's mind.  In Les Miserables, one of the central themes is Police Inspector Javert's bloody mindedness in refusing to change his perspective on Jean Valjean.  Frankenstein's crime is less that he made the monster, than that upon its creation, he grows sick and changes his mind about the whole idea of conception, stupidly driving the monster away and beginning a series of events that ends in tragedy.

My favorite in film must be that moment in The Graduate, where Ben is pounding on the glass, desperately, and Elaine stands amid her mother, father and fiancee; she knows what her mother and Ben have done, she's disgusted by it ... but as she looks at the angry faces around her, she has a moment of clarity; she realizes what the real crime is, and she turns and screams "BEN!"

Changing one's mind is empowering; it is clarifying; it is what has made the difference between comprehending the forces of the universe and blind, stupid ignorance.  The difference between being "well-read" and being "ignorant" is not in how many books one has read, but in how often one has consciously changed their mind about what they've heard.

My particular annoying capacity to bring argument after argument against people who post comments on this blog comes from my deliberate habit of seeking arguments ... and learning from them.  There isn't a day that goes by that I don't struggle to find someone or something that disgrees with me, or who has written or presented a position I'm not 100% clear about - and when faced with the argument, I am less concerned with deliberating on the genius of the presenter than I am on two things - what do I know about this, and am I wrong?

I want to be wrong.  I want to have this other person bring up the argument I've never considered or never heard, to hammer that argument home brutally and inconsiderately, and make me change my mind ... because the fallout from that will be that once I've heard the argument, and accepted it, I will beat the living shit out of everyone else with it.

After 40 years of pursuing this practice, since the age of 8, I have a lot of clubs now.  Probably more than the gentle reader has.  If that seems to make me a bit frenzied; if I seem extraordinarily self-involved; it is only because I am a frankenstein's monster of ideas and arguments, and I am less concerned with being rated on a scale of my intelligence than I am with being heard.  Often, this makes me critical, inconsiderate and comparatively lacking in empathy.

Am I a genius half the time?  Would it matter if it were 55% of the time or 63% of the time?  No.  All that matters is, am I right, right now.  And if I'm not right, spare me the assessments of my rightness ... explain, clearly, directly, and in a way that I will understand, just how wrong I am, so that tomorrow, when I wake up, I won't ever be wrong about that thing, in that way, again.

The Blissful Innocence of Spellcasting

So last week, writing about following the player's instructions to the letter, there was a side point I'd meant to make but failed to get to it, in light of writing other things.  This would be, what do I do when it's clear the player doesn't really understand what's going on, but would if they were actually there.

My favorite example - which might clarify the above paragraph - would be the casting of spells.  Ages ago, when I started my online campaign on this blog, a character playing a mage (never mind who), standing in front of a guard, did not like how the conversation was going and started casting a spell to tip the matter in his favor.

I may have written about this at the time.  I wish it was a unique event.  It is not ... and since it has happened many times in my campaign, I demand the privilege of writing about it twice - if I am, in fact, doing so.

Long ago, I made the decision to remove spell components from my spellcasting.  All spells, one must argue, would require some kind of movement ... and in a world where magic was common enough that the children of fishermen, farmers and bakers can grow up to be clerics and mages, OBVIOUSLY the non-magic folk are going to be able to tell when someone is casting a spell.

But try to convince a player.

I don't know, perhaps it is bad television that gives the impression that one flicks one's finger, and people die.  It is patently stupid for a roleplaying game, given that the fighter must get in there and swing his or her damn sword and spurt blood for their experience, while the spellcasters are flicking their fingers here and there.  The gathering of power necessary to cast a spell, to rework matter and energy into something the mind can control, cannot be done with tiny, silly movements!  It must take a lot of freaking work!  The spellcaster must be expected to sweat and suffer while it is done, and the evidence of this action must be clearly visible to everyone on a battlefield.  To play the casting process any other way is to ENSURE that the casters in your world overshadow the fighters ... which is probably a thorn in your side as DM you've been thinking you have to live with.

No, no, no my gentle readers.  Concentration to cast a spell means the caster cannot be thinking of anything else, seeing anything else, hearing anything else!  If means that the caster must be as deaf, dumb and blind to the ongoing chaos surround him and her as an expert diffusing a bomb on a battlefield.  Arguably, at the moment of casting, the mage or cleric ought to be considered AC 10 ... without any power to dodge whatsoever.  I don't play it that way ... I don't want all my casters to die.  But I do wish my casters would understand that throwing a spell is akin to holding your hands over your eyes, dancing a jig and saying nya nya nya over and over.

I may start forcing my players to get out of their seats when casting spells, just so they can get it in their ruddy heads.

The very second any of these fellows starts casting a spell, they need to recognize that for creatures of greater than LOW intelligence that they have effectively painted a target on their chests.  Consider.  I'm not a magic user.  I have no idea what movements or words apply to what spells - but I can damn well see that the fellow jiggling around in the middle of the battle is casting something, and it is very likely to kill me and all my fellows.  What am I going to assume?  That it's a nice, considerate heal spell?  That the fellow wants to grow some flowers or talk to the rocks?  No.  I'm going to assume the absolute worst, and so are all of my fellows.  And if it means risking being hit by the mere fighter in front of me to pull an axe and throw it at that mage, for the love of heaven yes that's what I'm going to do.

I've designed my combat system so that a caster can, if they arrange it, stand behind something and create the spell, then step out and discharge it.  Do they?  No.  Do they pick out some hireling that's taller and wider than they are, to stand in front of them and hide the hands over the eyes and the jigging feet?  No.  Do mages even back up a few hexes before casting their spells?  Um, no.

Over and over, they insist on standing within arm's reach of the enemy, as if NOT actually swinging a sword makes one automatically exempt from attack ... as in, "Don't worry about me over here mumbling, I'm not going to fry you and your buddies in 12 seconds - look at that scary guy with a sword!"

Now, as a DM ... should I just kill my casters, or should I point out that, "Hey, you might not realize that everyone in sight knows exactly what you're doing when you begin to cast a spell ..."

Which?

Arcade Games

Recently, I've seen a number of posts that - as a game design - propose exchanging experience points for things, such as character prestige, stats, girlfriends, magic items and so on.  I understand the value of this; experience points are gainable with reasonable ease, thus trading them away is not too damaging to the player's character, and at any rate if I'm seventh and I drop a few thousand on something, its not as though I've gone down a level or anything.

I'm curious as to how this works out logically, however.  Not that I feel the game has to be 'logical,' but since experience points represent, well, experience, how exactly does one become LESS experienced in the process of gaining a better strength or a nice new gnoll knee knocker?  Um, sorry, that's a halfling club +2, gnoll slayer.

Is it required for one to take one's shoe off, or one's hard metal helmet, and beat oneself in the head long enough to gain the attention of the local lord, which one can trade for by piecing out a set amount of experience?  How stupid - or rather, suddenly forgetful - do you have to actually become if you want to be the 8th Lord of the Limbic Lands of Ladswashall?  Because this is all the experience really is ... memory.  I remember having wiped out those three orcs near the village of Gagsdoodle, which was when I learned to use the mace a lot better, which then I used later on in fighting the Seven Krights of Needing.  I know how to use this mace.  I remember swinging it just so to mash heads ... oh, wait, I've forgotten which is the fat end.

As I say, mechanically this experience exchange thing is a good idea.  I guess.  On the whole it reminds me of the way many people view their house equity ... as a sort of money storage pit which they pull from in order to go off on vacation or throw a nice wedding for their fourth daughter.  Now this is all fine and all for equity - I think people should be issued a credit card with their mortgage that has a picture of their house on it, for quicker ease of never paying the mortgage off - but its a little silly where it comes to something your character is supposed to have learned.  No?

The real reason why experience is reached for is that it just seems so darn convenient.  There are all those built up points, like tickets at a Chuck E. Cheese, not actually doing anything.  My, that seems like an awful waste.  We ought to put those tickets to use, so players can buy really neat stuff from the inventory kiosk we've conveniently located at the front.  And it is nice to trade things for things ... so here's a thing we can trade!  No matter what it's purpose was or what it means literally or even the lack of sense in how trading this for that actually works.

I urge game designers to think about the transmutation of experience as a "measure of effort" into a pecuniary value that can be traded for 'stuff.'  It is a somewhat exhausted game methodology; it cheapens the climb to level, which is very substantial to the game ... and on the whole it presses Dungeon Masters to award more experience to players in order to be traded for more stuff, rather than simply awarding players the stuff upon successfully completing a given task that logically could grant them whatever they'd trade for.

In short, it's a game short cut.  Rather that actually having to work for the item in the good old real world, its only another way for players to circumvent all the inconvience of adventuring and roleplaying and thinking and designing plans by jumping straight to the Kiosk of Happy Having.  Worse, its a way for DMs to circumvent all the bother of DESIGNING adventures and presenting a GAME in exchange for mollifying players with a lot of cheap, shiny objects.  What fun.

I'll step aside and let Chuck E. sing the song now.

Cleric Introduction & Spells

Been holidayin' ... but I must write something for this blog, mustn't I?  Thus I am offering this past two months work on the cleric.  I trust it will be of some use to someone.  Take note ... much of it is lifted, and does not appear on the subscription data that serves as my own work.  That is why I am not charging for this.  If WOTC wants to find me and give me trouble, I'll have to take this down.

 

There.  Plenty of content.



Trash

Screwing around with some treasure tables, I stumbled across that old, old table from the DM's Guide, from Appendix I: Dungeon Dressing, 'General,' page 217.  It's all just general trash, but I applied it to my trading system and came up with the following prices (and table), as they would be in Bozen, South Tyrol (where the online party is at, presently):

There are other things in the Appendix, naturally ... and most of them have been added to my equipment tables.  But I thought it was interesting to point out that most of these things are worth the value of a small pouch full of copper pieces ... gather enough of this trash together and you could keep yourself fed.  You could use it to pay off your hirelings.

Correct Entertainment

"Inclusion of stories dealing with evil shall be used or shall be published only where the intent is to illustrate a moral issue and in no case shall evil be presented alluringly, nor so as to injure the sensibilities of the reader."

As stated by the Comics Code Authority, 1954

Recently, I wrote that D&D was widely played in a self-imposed sort of infancy.  I meant that for many, the playing of the game carries with it an insistence on childish plots, with childish themes, suitable for childish people.  Above is an example of how censorship in the 1950s whitewashed comics, eliminating elements of storytelling that removed the grey in criminal activities, imposing a black-and-white absolutism.  If you want to see the whole list, you can read it here.  The Comics Code was the thing that destroyed adult interest in graphic art, that had been rising through the 1940s - and made comics something only children would read.

But then, the statement was only based upon the Hays Code from 1930:

"The treatment of low, disgusting, unpleasant, though not necessarily evil, subjects should always be subject to the dictates of good taste and a regard for the sensibilities of the audience."

I don't begin here to argue that censorship is a bad thing.  Obviously, it's a bad thing.  Nor am I here to write that in the long run, after 40 years of hard censorship in the movies (affecting your parents and your grandparents), and an even longer time in the television industry, you and I and everyone we know are polluted with a sense of decency that has been imposed upon us.  It's in the blood of the culture, like a disease ... and it remains ever-present with the "solution" the Hays Code that was imposed in the 1970s: the MPAA rating system.

No, I am here to argue that if you want to enliven your D&D campaign; if you are a writer and you ever want to do serious work; if you are human being who wants to comprehend the difference between shit and art ... you must set yourself to work breaking these codes, which have been written to make you think like a child.

These are 'uncomfortable' subjects like brutality, addiction, slavery, sexuality, vulgarity, religion, race, politics, cruelty and so on ... the very aspects that make us uncomfortable, but also define what we are willing to do and what we are willing to fight against.  These are the guts of culture ... which the film industry and others decided that you were not grown up to see.  And note the argument they used:

"Reasons supporting the Preamble of the Code:  I.  Theatrical motion pictures, that is, pictures intended for the theatre as distinct from pictures intended for churches, schools, lecture halls, educational movements, social reform movements, etc., are primarily to be regarded as ENTERTAINMENT."

The reader can investigate and see that in the portion of the Hays Code quoted above, the capitalization was not mine.

How often has it been argued in blog after blog that this shouldn't be tolerated or that shouldn't be mentioned or what shouldn't be done because D&D is supposed to be FUN?  Where is the difference?  It is just another set of voices in the world defining for you what is "fun" and what shouldn't be.  Not what isn't, mind you, but what "shouldn't be."  As the Hays Code puts it,

"Mankind ... has always recognized that entertainment can be a character either HELPFUL or HARMFUL to the human race, and in consequence has clearly distinguished between a) Entertainment which tends to improve the race, or at least to re-create and rebuild human beings exhausted with the reality of life; and b) Entertainment which tends to degrade human beings, or to lower their standards of life and living.  Hence the MORAL IMPORTANCE of entertainment is something which has been universally recognized.  It enters intimately into the lives of men and women and affects them closely; it occupies their minds and affections during leisure hours; and ultimately touches the whole of their lives.  A man may be judged by his standard of entertainment as easily as by the standard of his work.  So correct entertainment raises the whole standard of a nation."

There it is.  Correct entertainment.  D&D is about having fun.  When D&D is played correctly, it is fun.  When it is played incorrectly - that is, according to the standards of people who define 'correct' - it cannot be fun.

Just as all the art in the world that has been created in defiance to codes were, by definition, destructive to the goodness of mankind.  It's all bullshit.  It's all a control mechanism purported by people who want to demand that this game never changes, so that their campaigns are never touched by anything that they're uncomfortable with.  They never want to find themselves out of their depth, so they keep that depth no more than a foot or so, just enough to wade in.  These people never, ever want to swim.

Break all the codes.  Play all the elements of human experience, not just the ones set for the wading pool.  It's time for D&D to reach adulthood.

Conscience To Play With

It's Christmas end and I'm not feeling well, which is typical for this time of year and is also one of my least favorite things.  Thankfully, I'm not trying to work sick, at least.  Instead, I can spend my holidays coughing up a lung.

So, briefly, this conversation came up before Christmas, as a bunch of us were sitting around and talking about D&D.  I advanced the question, how far should I go towards giving advice to players, given that it is a game that is a) played for fun; and b) played for its challenge.

The first stance is the hard line:

No matter what the player says, that's what the player does.  The DM says nothing.  Nothing whatsoever.  Give no hints, no warnings, no suggestions, etc.  Do not even argue that the player's intelligence or wisdom would suggest that the mage, cleric, monk and so on would know better.  If the character dies, it dies.  Tough luck.

I've never been comfortable with this.  I know for a lot of people, this is the heart of the game; the brutal, unrestricted challenge of live or die based on nothing but your instincts and insight.  If the player wants to win, he or she must play WELL ... or else what's the sense anyway?

Fair enough - that is, if you're a good player.  If you've been at this a long time; if you're very aware of all the rules and angles and options you can play.  If you're not that good, well, too bad.  Lose fifty or sixty characters, and you'll get your mind right, eh?  "That's how I did it ... these young noobs today, they expect the first character they run to live, can you believe it?"

Part of my bigger problem is that I'm no noob myself, and I hold a lot more cards than the players.  I know there's a dangerous pair of 7th level, 18 dex gnomish bowman waiting behind that tree, and that if the party tries the obvious thing - crossing the bridge in broad daylight - I'm going to pick them off.  Is it fair?  What's fair.  That level and that dexterity are rare, and the party is more likely to think I'm lucky than that I'm hitting every time because these guys can really shoot.  Given the tendency of parties not to quit and seek shelter (run away), there's a really good chance I'm going to kill someone.  Was that because they made the 'wrong decision?'  Weren't they trained to make the wrong decision?  I mean, by playing up to that time where I've never actually put that kind of talent against them?

Note, I don't say "amount."  I say "kind."  As in, two humanoids are almost never especially dangerous.  Over and over, as you level, two humanoids are almost always more or less taken by a party of six or eight.  What I'm saying is, after a lifetime of being the sheriff of a shit-hole in Washington State, is it fair to throw Rambo against the party?  Or a pair of Rambos.

Sure, say some.  Whatever happens, happens.

Yes, but isn't it true that I decided on this?  I created the scenario, I set it up, and I duped the party into thinking it would all happen like it always does ... the party takes a few hits, crosses the bridge and kills the gnomes.  They miss the trap in the middle of the bridge that makes it fall apart, they miss the dimension door  nine tenths of the way across that plops them back into the center of the bridge, they miss the two hippogriffs that take flight and attack the party on the bridge, they miss the tiny glyph of warding that has a chance of paralyzing everyone, they miss that the ground that appears to be but thirty feet under the bridge is an illusion and that its actually a 500 foot gorge and they miss that the two gnomes are actually two titans who are in disguise.

All I'm saying is that IF the only chance the players have is that they correctly roll to check for traps and disbelief and saving throws and so on, sooner or later, no matter how good a players they are, bad luck is going to get them.  Chances are, a lot sooner than later.

But maybe that's not convincing enough.  Maybe there are players who know that and like it and heck, they're just trying to play the odds until they run out.  Okay, let's take that as a given.

Have I, as a DM, truly conveyed the right emotion here?

Look.  You're on this side of the bridge.  The center of the bridge is 30 feet above the ground, strung between two fifty foot cliffs.  The bottom appears to be a dry river bed.  There are some scrubby oak trees on the other side, about 150 feet away.  The bridge looks pretty rickety ... the party is going to move half speed while crossing it.

Okay, now some smart guys are going to figure, "half-speed."  Why would the DM say that?  "There's something wrong with this bridge, fellas," someone says.  Good enough.  I want them to be worried.  I want them thinking about their environment.  I want them picturing making their way across, the bridge shaking as they go.  If they do start across, I'll remember to mention that they probably shouldn't all go at the same time - or at least to stagger themselves, and not to march in step, since that tends to make a bridge rock more.  Most of all, I want them thinking, THIS IS DANGEROUS.

And still, at the same time, I can't let them know it is, can I?  Heck, any party that travels through a mountainous region is going to come across bridges like this all the time.  They can't see any danger, can they?  Of course not.  Does the thief see any problems?  No, not from here.  Does the party have detect magic?  Sure, but I knew that, so there is no actual magic on the bridge, or below the bridge (I was fooling with all that stuff about illusions and so on before).  Do they see anything special?  Of course not!  And naturally, my face is open, friendly, half-grinning as the party makes a bunch of ridiculous preparations.  "Okay," I say, again and again, as they fuel themselves up for this oh-so-dangerous bridge.

Now, are there two gnomes on the other side?  It's up to me, isn't it?  How many bridges do I have to describe before I catch this party failing to make preparations?  How long is it before having made preparations and blown their protective spells crossing bridges that I catch them with their pants down three hours later?

How long can I make them chase their shadows and prep for things for no good purpose, so they don't have those things available later on?  Forever.  And no matter how they prep, no matter how many hit points they have or spells they can throw, in every situation like this, I can have something step out from those trees ahead that they just won't be able to handle.

Either I am perpetually forced to show the party my hand, like a bad detective novel, where the description of everything is so obvious the party knows, yes, here is where I get my spells ready ... or I'm going to catch the party with their pants down just because I'm clever enough to do it.  Can the gentle reader understand what I am saying?  Either I am forced to play bad, cheesy situations which gives the party all the clues they need to not die, or I am forced to play guaranteed party-equal encounters where there's at least a 50/50 chance the party will live.  Both ways, its a pretty crummy game.

No, haven't got it yet?  If I want to have two deadly gnomes across the bridge for the party to fight, to play the "no suggestions" to player's action method of gaming, I have to leave trails of bread crumbs everywhere, to play "fair."  I have to have some old man warn the party about the two gnomes (gawd, the cliche!).  I have to dress the gnomes like Christmas Trees so the party knows they're dangerous (they can't be dressed like peasants, they'd be wearing expensive armor and hand crafted weapons, blah blah blah).  I have to go out of my way to give the party every chance of knowing that these two gnomes are NOT like any other gnomes they ever saw, right?  Or else, I'm doing nothing more than fucking the party, period.  I made the gnomes, I made them party killers, I created the situation, etc.; if I don't give clues, even if they wouldn't be there except that this is a game, then I'm a party-fucker.

Well, what's wrong with that?  It is a game, right?

Does it have to be this same crappy cliched bullshit that makes every adventure like a bad Republic Serial from the 30's?  I hope not.  Because that Rambo shit happens every day.  You're just beatin' up another bum you've found on your city streets.  It's just another couple of gnomes with short bows.  No big deal.  "No sweat, guys, I'll take these two by myself."

And after I've killed the cocky fighter this way, what do I say to the rest of the party?  "Oh well, fellas, no sweat.  We're all having fun, right?"

Sounds to me like I would be - if I were the sort of prickish DM that pounded my pud over things like this.

So what would I do?  When the cocky fighter said he was crossing the bridge, alone, I would say, "Are you sure?"

I think this is fair.  I think its part of my responsibility to point out that all may not be as it appears.  I also think it's my responsibility to add that the fighter might think of changing out of his plate mail, if he doesn't want to get across the bridge next week.  And to turn to the other party members and say, "Are you just going to let him go out by himself?"
Because I think that's how consciences work.  It's easy for four players sitting around a table to let a fifth player sitting around the same table to do something stupid.  It would be harder if they all really were on the edge of a cliff, by a rickety bridge, watching someone they'd been with for months start out on his own.  And I want it in the party's heads that their characters are doing this ... and so if, as DM, I can throw a little guilt into the mix, by jeezus and elvis I will.

And finally, I'm going to say a couple of times, "I don't know ... it sure is a looooong way across that bridge."  With facial expressions and so on to match, as if to say, "What, are you fuggin' nuts?"

This is my particular way of sitting an old man at the front of the bridge to tell the party about the bad gnomes.  I'm sorry if it doesn't seem better; or if it seems worse ... but it gives me one hell of a lot more play on playing the party's emotions, the situation, their impressions and in general their reactions to things.  Hell, the other way, the stuffy DM says nothing way, gives me jack shit nothing to play with.

That would just make me want to kill parties.

Control Weather

I've completed my spell descriptions for the cleric, all seven levels.  I personally judge that the spell 'ceremony' that appears in the Unearthed Arcana is the sort of thing that every cleric has, and so I do not consider it a 'spell,' but rather a reusable ability, like turning undead.  I'll be working on those next.  Sometime in the next month I'll post the entire book.  It's up to 39 pages at the moment.

In the meantime, I did a lot of work on another 7th level spell, that being control weather.  Once again, the description in the player's handbook is for shit.  I swear, it's like the writers figured no one would get up to being a sixteenth level cleric, so when it came to those spell descriptions for 7th level, they had the janitor out in the hall write them.

Now, I've put up a couple of weather posts on this blog, but recently I've been using one for my campaigns that's of my own design and is rather marvelous ... except for being too bulky and as yet too set up for a temperate climate.  I have to work on it more.  Sadly, its an excel file.  Still, I promise I'll get around to posting it's guts online sometime in the new year.

Spell Description

Range: self. Duration: 4-48 hours. Area of Effect: 4-16 square miles. Casting Time: 3 rounds. Saving Throw: none.

Allows the cleric to change the temperature, conditions and wind force of the surrounding area, depending upon the previous conditions.

Showing are the first two tables which the cleric must review in order to determine what changes may be made. Firstly, the temperature may be reduced or increased two grades from whatever it is at present. Thus, a cool day may be made brisk or chilly, or it may be made pleasant or warm.

The particular weather determines the conditions the cleric may choose—regardless of whatever they were previously. Thus, if the temperature is brisk, the cleric may choose a light fog or a drizzle; if the temperature were warm, the cleric may make threatening clouds or an actual thunderstorm. Only those conditions adjacent to those temperatures may be chosen. A blizzard cannot occur if the temperature is greater than icy; a drizzle cannot occur if the temperature is pleasant or higher.

Finally, the wind force may be stirred up as much as the cleric desires, within the range which the cleric has chosen. Thus, if the cleric has decided that there is a light fog, then the wind force chosen cannot be greater than 0 or 1.

(Now, for this I found this just marvelous image off a website that nails the Beaufort Scale to perfection, giving a clear vision regarding the effects of wind force)

The time necessary for the change in weather to take place is 10 to 40 rounds (10d4), or between 2 and 8 minutes. If the weather is significantly altered, such as producing or eliminating precipitation, or changing the wind more than three points of force, the effect is so powerful that creatures must make morale check if they are in combat, or else they will break and retreat until the full change of the weather has taken place.

Incidentally, the graphic for the Beaufort Scale comes from a children's online magazine, Howtoons.

UPDATE:

I should have added a note about hurricanes.

Hurricanes happen in only particular circumstances - in deep water, where both the ambient temperature and the water temperature are both high.  Arguably, if the cleric were in those particular places, the central Pacific, Indian or Atlantic, a hurricane ought to be possible.  It is debateable whether or not, once started, that the hurricane would dissapate with the end of the spell.  Once that environment is affected, whether or not the 'spell' hurricane was still active, a natural hurricane could have begun, gathering strength and following a random track that may not even hit landfall; or may hit any random shore.

Anyway, for those reasons the hurricane is not shown as an option on the temperature tables, but the wind speed of the hurricane is still shown (it appears in the graphic).

Birthplace

Funny thing.

About half the time - and particularly with players in my online campaign - I get a definite opinion about where they'd like to be born.  Egypt or Persia or something around the Baltic or the Western Mediterranean ... and there is a strong disappointment when it turns out they're born nowhere close to where they'd like to be.

Now, badmouth my use of the real Earth if you will, but when was the last time any of your characters cared where they were born?

Avatar

Up to 7th level cleric spells in my rewrite, I started with Astral Spell, and in short order realized what a lot of bunk it is.  I had already written the Plane Shift (5th level) so that you were able to travel to other planes of existence by shifting there.  How would it be better to actually have to travel there, silver thread and all?

Seemed pretty crappy for a 7th level spell.  So I wrote this one to replace it:

Spell Description
Range: self. Duration: see below. Area of Effect: self. Casting Time: 3 rounds. Saving Throw: none.

Creates an alternative, incorporeal body of the cleric which can be projected anywhere upon the prime material, astral or outer planes. Where ever this may be, through the avatar the cleric will be able to comprehend his or her surroundings, or communicate with creatures at that place, though the cleric’s body and possessions will remain behind.

To anyone else, the cleric on sight will appear to be completely human. The avatar cannot become invisible, though it may hide behind objects to avoid being seen, and may pass through objects freely. Still, the avatar is without physical substance—physical or magical attacks against the avatar will have no effect. In turn, the cleric will be unable to cast spells or take physical action through the avatar.

As an avatar, the cleric cannot hear or see through walls or other solid objects, any more than if the cleric were actually present at the location. Nor can the cleric fly, or perform any form of travel which the cleric could not perform. Magical spells which would affect the cleric cannot be cast upon the avatar.

There is no distance to which the avatar cannot be projected. The cleric must identify the name or condition of a place, or the name or condition of a creature to be found, but the cleric need not have ever seen or met the place or individual sought. Success will be unfailing, the cleric’s avatar appearing at a distance of the cleric’s choosing—thus, the cleric might specify, “One mile north of the largest pyramid in Egypt,” or “Five feet from the oldest man named Robert in England.” When not specified, the avatar will always appear to the north of the location.

When in sight, the cleric may visually ascertain the desired location of the avatar and it will appear there—such as, on the top of a wall, or at the far end of a street, etc.

Those who have a percentage chance to detect invisibility have an equal chance of identifying an avatar from a real being. If done, a thin silvery thread will lead back to the cleric’s physical body. Those who have the power to follow this thread have the potential to find and kill the cleric wherever he or she may be. While participating as an avatar, the cleric does not have any comprehension of what may be going on wherever his or her body may be—so it will be up to others to protect the true body from harm.

The cleric must cease to be an avatar in order to communicate any knowledge to others who are located with the cleric’s true body.

The cleric may continue to exist as an avatar indefinitely; however, once the avatar’s location has been determined, the spell must be broken before the avatar can be sent anywhere else. Until then, the avatar can only travel as the cleric might without aid of a horse or cart—only the physical earth under the cleric’s feet will support the avatar.