Doing Research

The next step in addressing practical advice for DMing would be to tell the reader, "Do you due diligence; read, research, study the material of the game world's time period.  Understand weapons and siege engines, underground environments, town planning, rural and urban social life, the organisation of authority, the church ... anything that helps install context and therefore ideas of how to describe things the players see.

Making a world requires understanding how the bits and pieces of the game world fit together, so that we can establish a fine, complex structure that may withstand the effort of some players to kick it to pieces.  Players are going to study, too, and they're going to use what they've learned to insinuate that they're allowed to do this, or that, which we're not ready for.  Knowledge is power.  If the players have it, and we don't, we're not running the table.  It's running us.

There are a couple of caveats here.  First, yes, studying isn't always a good time.  The written works about history and the things described above can be dry, and at the point where we start to get a handle on this stuff, much of it can be incomprehensible.  If you can, do it as a group.  When I first stumbled across D&D, the crowd of people I ran with got very much into books about feudalism and weapons, such that we went to libraries as a crowd to dig into those shelves.  We passed the books around as we read, making notes and discussing passages.  Nowadays, this can more easily be done by finding videos on the net and sending them to your players, while encouraging your players to send material to you.  Factual videos about factual content are far more valuable to a DM than all the videos about "D&D" put together.  A group approach can reduce the overall dryness of the effort, as can finding presenters online that are better a relaying information both usefully and with interest.

Secondly, try to remember that D&D is not an academic pursuit.  While the source material is largely factual, D&D doesn't have to be.  We can break the rules of what's physically practical in real life, by supposing whatever we want ... though there are fall-downs to this that may or may not be giving too much power to the players.

Let me give an example.  The movie Ladyhawke came out in 1984, not long after I began playing D&D.  The effort and research that went into the movie was simply marvelous; Richard Donner, the director, created a tour de force as regards a fantasy film ... though of course no one respect it now.  But put that aside.  Let's take this scene:

That's a two-shot crossbow, the picture clipped from 0:24 of the clip.  It's used in the scene to unrealistic effect; one shot kills, of course.  See?  I'm trashing the film already.

Practically, it's a completely bogus weapon, primarily because there's no rational way to load the device, evident once one knows either of the two ways a crossbow might be loaded.  But this is D&D ... and if a DM wants to include a two-shot crossbow, and overlook the limitations on it's being loaded, that's completely fair.  It's fun, players will love them ... in fact, every player will insist on having one to love, once it's included.  Very quickly, the players will want to fight every combat from a distance, the weapon is just that good.  This is the reason I don't include one in my campaign, because it overpowers the combat system if everyone has one.

'Course, now, I could say you needed a set amount of knowledge in my sage system to use one, or load one, but that's not important here.  In the reader's campaign, it's up to the reader to decide if it exists.  Point in fact, that decision doesn't have to acknowledge the crossbow's factual legitimacy.  We can break that boundary.

The clip provides a reasonable depiction of an outdoor drinking garden; the film takes place in Italy, east of Rome and south of Ancona, from the place names, the terrain and the architecture (the film never states it explicitly), so the minimalist shelter is quite believable.  As are the vines.  The armour isn't; but, as Hollywood armour goes, it's not bad.  Making armour for extras and stunt people is expensive, especially as it gets damaged when done on tick, so dumbing down the armour is just good fiscal sense in movie making.  Real armour is brutally hard to act in, or stand around in on a hot day for hours while the camera gets positions and other various arrangements made.

The weapons aren't bad, if a little shiny and too obviously not forged.  The combat choreography was done by the same fellow, William Hobbs, who did the Duellists, the Three Musketeers (1973-74), The Meaning of Life ("The Crimson Permanent Assurance"), Willow, Dangerous Liaisons, Cyrano De Bergerac, Robin Hood (1991), Rob Roy, Man in the Iron Mask and many, many more.  So the fighting is good.  Note the punching, using found objects as weapons, cowardly soldiers, etcetera.  The costume design throughout the film is astoundingly believable for the 14th-15th century.

Details matter, so if we're going to describe them to the players, we have to know the climate, the materials available to make clothes, the limits on construction and so on ... which is why I started the Streetvendor's Guide.  It's good if we understand these things, and that's a lot of practical research and work, along with the capacity to apply that research in game, at a moment's notice, because we have the kind of mind that can recall a thing from a page/book we read or a vid/film we watched.  Being able to snap that information up on the fly and patch it into the game helps with both establishing the tenor and atmosphere of the scene and with answering the dozens of questions that players generally ask.

But ...

I can't expect the reader to actually do this research.  I've asked for it before, and that's all well and good, but I need do more than give a reason.  It's a fair expectation that I should cover details of things myself and show how they can be applied to a campaign.  I was going to do so with this post, but my introduction went on longer than I expected, so we'll kick that effort down the road to the next post.

Show, Don't Tell

"The DM, without telling anything like a story, describes a set of circumstances that the players see in the immediate here and now, that they're free to make a decision about ... The DM provides immediate context of what the player characters' senses tell them. The players make a MOVE. This produces a response from the DM, describing what has changed in the immediate context due to the players' move. Then the players move again...the ongoing description provided by the DM serves as the immediate backdrop for gameplay, providing the players with the information they need to make their moves and decisions. This description includes details about the environment, characters and events that are directly relevant to the current situation and the players' interactions."

 — Jargon, this blog

And so, what is this "description" that's provided?  That gets down to the bare bones of it, nyet?  As a DM, the above stipulates that we must be ready to provide a lot of description, on specifications and cue, in response to anything the players might say, to maintain the game's action.  If we can't do this, continously and fluidly, then no matter how much preparation we do, we're going to falter where it comes to the game's progress.

This is one of those things that as a DM, we tend to overlook.  We talk all around it, with phrases like, "I run on the fly" and "improvisation is an important tool for a dungeon master" ... but it comes down to communicating sufficient description for the party to be able to make sense of what they "see" and be able to make decisions about what they want to do.

Wikipedia defines description as any type of communication that aims to make vivid a place, object, person, group, or other physical entity.  And that's the crux of it also.  "Sufficient" description is not just to say what's what, but to describe in a spirited, animated, lively, full of life mannner, painting a clear and detailed picture in the reader's minds that appeals to their senses and emotions.  It aims to bring a scene, character or event to life through words, making it feel real and immersive.

Fail at this, and we fail as a dungeon master.

There are many, many practical approaches one can take to rhetoric, which has been a critical academic discipline that reaches well into pre-history.  Fundamentally, it isn't enough to be extroverted; we should want to talk, to tell stories, to explain things, to reach out and grab the imaginations of other people by speaking fluidly and persuasively to them.  Don't like to tell stories?  Don't like to explain things?  Then don't even try to be a DM.

Yet if we'd like to tell stories and we'd like to explain things, we're just not good at it, then studying rhetoric and practicing speaking day and night will help.  Like learning to play piano, however, it will take time before we can train our instrument of a voice to play the tunes that a DM needs.  It doesn't happen overnight.

I grew up in a house where talking was a constant thing.  My father loved to talk, and explain; my mother liked to talk and emote, and was a big fan of movies.  I grew up talking.  It was standard for the family to see a movie together, then talk about the movie afterwards.  When we went to church, my mother and father would talk about the ceremony just as if we'd left a movie. When we travelled, the journey was discussed in all its nuances — and during the journey, naturally, everything we saw was discussed and pulled apart, with everyone expressing their own opinion about it.

But this isn't a post about my childhood, this is a post about description.  What I said in the last post about leading players by the nose without revealing the big picture explains what to do, but it doesn't explain how.  We need to discuss providing the descriptions themselves, in a cold, practical manner, so that the technique can be duplicated by the reader.  Otherwise, we're just riffing here and wasting our time.

In cinema, a common rule that's given to convey information to the viewer is "show, don't tell."  This is a technique of filmmaking that uses visual and auditory cues such as imagery, actions, facial expressions and sound to engage and provide information to an audience instead of dialogue or narration.  It works because seeing a story unfold is more in tune with our daily experience of the world as humans, witnessing the events around us.  There is no narration in our heads, and even if we hear others speaking, usually what's overheard is so disjointed that, without asking, it's not usually clear.  This is how we're biologically pre-determined to interpret our world: to see, to gather details, to be puzzled by them and then investigate to comprehend what's going on.  In the film context, the "investigation" is provided to us by the film-maker, who first puzzles us and then clarifies our puzzlement over the space of a given time, according to a pace the filmmaker chooses.  When it's done this way, well, the film is enormously immersive.  When a narration is stacked over the events, telling us everything without our feeling any sense of puzzlement, we're rapidly bored because we already know everything.

A similar principle exists in D&D, though obviously a DM can't "show" the dungeon room that's being entered or the street scene going on around the players.  This information has to be "told," which is a huge obstacle for the DM who doesn't know how to tell it.  Yet the fundamental principle of show, don't tell has to be maintained because, like I said, we're biologically attuned to view the world this way.  We comprehend things through our senses.  Language has only been around for a tiny percentage of our biological footprint, and the sort of language that's necessary for D&D has only been around for a few hundred years.  We're constrained to respect how human beings interpret information, no matter what we might think or believe is the easiest way to convey information.

For example, it's common for a new DM to introduce a dungeon to the players with a simple phrase like, "You enter a dark cave."  While factual, it's not vivid.

Unfortunately, the usual solution we'll hear is that we should "paint a picture" of the environment, describing the cold, damp walls covered in glistening moss, the echo of water dripping from stalactites and the faint scent of earth and decay that permeates the air.  This, we're told, evokes sensory details, allowing the players to visualise the scene and feel more present in the game world.  I have given this advice myself, because I used to be stupider than I am now.

This doesn't work.  I've tried it, I've discussed it with people, and the truth is that the more words we throw at a description, the less sticks.  We don't "evoke" the senses, we convey to the listener that we're going to over-describe a bunch of details that are totally unnecessary to the campaign, and therefore doesn't need to be heard.  Players "turn off" when they hear this sort of thing.  The pundits may like it, because the "advice" sounds credible and fills up their youtube content length, but in fact its empty-headed nonsense.

See, it's still telling the players, not showing.  We have to do more than just replace the simple word "dark" with a lot of other words that still just means "dark."  As an approach, "You enter a dark cave" is better, because at least it's clear and takes only four seconds to say, meaning that it's too short a time for the players to get bored.

The solution originates from a completely different place, having nothing to do with language.  All language is telling, and we want to do more than tell.

When puzzled, biologically, this creates a feeling of concern.  The setting in which we developed as humans tended to remain much the same from hour to hour, with nearly everything around us being fairly predictable.  We knew when the trees would fruit and when the stream would bear fish, what these clouds or that wind meant for the weather and we told time by how low the sun was getting in the sky.  Things that puzzled were nearly always things that didn't fit into this framework, which in turn nearly always meant that we were probably in some kind of danger.  An odd smell or sound, for instance, was usually a hint that there were predators nearby, or that some other tribe like us had made their way into our backyard.  This argues the sentiment, anything different is bad.

This is no longer true, obviously, but in terms of our hormonal and sensory responses to things, the messages are still the old messages ... and thus we're naturally hesitant to address anything that can't be explained instantly upon seeing it.  If there's a big black spot in the bottom of the tub, for instance, even if we can't tell what it is, we ready ourselves for it being a spider ... and our blood comes up a little.  It's our nature.

So when we describe something, we want to do what film does; we want to "show" it, but we don't want to "clarify" it.  The drawback of it being a dark cave isn't the nature of the cave, but that it's only a cave.  The cave isn't going to rise up and bite us.  It's not scary in itself, no matter how gooey the walls of it are.  The cave is potentially scary because of what might be down there ... like the maybe-spider in the tub.  What we want, when we describe the cave, is a maybe-spider there.

The art of suspense asks for more information, not less.  Alfred Hitchcock, the director, argued that it was indispensible that his audience be made perfectly aware of all the facts involved for suspense to get its grip into us.  Note that the word "perfectly" in this context is key.  We might also say "explicitly."  If we're shown a bomb a bomb being put into the car, we don't have a furtive individual put something into the trunk and hope the audience guesses what that is.  We show the bomb, explicitly, taking up the entire screen with it; then we show the bomb in someone's hand, then we see that someone cross to the car, and we see them put the BOMB in the car.  There's no question whatsoever about what we're seeing.  This is, as Hitchcock points out, absolutely necessary.

Therefore, with our maybe-spider, we need to go the next step.  Consider; we're getting ready to have a bath; we take off our glasses; we pull the shower curtain aside; there's the black spot; it's as big as our thumbnail.  It's not moving.  We turn around, put on our glasses ... and that is the moment that counts for everything.  We hope its not a spider.  We feel a bit of a hitch in our throat, but we're pretty sure it's not a spider because we haven't got our glasses on and anyway, spiders are never that big.  So just having a "maybe"-spider does concern us, but it doesn't concern us enough.

If we put our glasses on, and it IS a spider, then the little hitch we felt before is nothing.  We have a problem, even if we're not especially frightened of spiders.  Although, to be honest, if we live in the tropics, a spider the size of our thumb is nothing.  My first fiancee, whom I never did marry, lived on the 22nd floor of an apartment in Singapore for five years; she knocked spiders as big as my palm out of her shoes every morning.  One day she woke and found a 25 ft. python in her living room.  Concern finds a whole new gear in such parts of the world.

This is D&D, so there are no maybes about it.  We want the spider.  But ... "You walk towards the dark cave and there's a spider" is still pretty much just telling.  We're not there yet.

Our goal is to reveal as many facts and details as we can, laying the groundwork for suspenseful moments to unfold, while reserving enough clarity for those details that the party feels concerned.  We want to do more than hint that there's a spider.  "There's an unusual web that half-covers the cave with strands that are rope-like in thickness," is definitely better, but still we're not there yet.  That suggests only one spider and I don't know any party who thinks they can't handle one spider.

See, before the party can be concerned, they have to feel an impending threat.  If they're here, safe, looking at the cave entrance before entering, concern is something they'll only feel if they decide to go ahead.  They're still safe if they're right here.  Our building a comprehensive outline of the stakes, or obstacles, along with the fearful outcomes of a situation, has to start way before the party gets anywhere near the cave.  We have to start from the premise of deciding where, in the game world, the party is entitled to be safe, and work outward from there.

I believe in a safe space.  It's called "home."  Home isn't always safe, but for the most part it should be.  In the last post I wrote, about the film Conan, home was "safe" for the first ten or so years of Conan's life ... and then it wasn't.  For our game party, if home is a bar they return to at the end of every adventure, then they're entitled to count on that home being safe for several years before we bring the encounter to them.  It's only fair.

But once the party leaves home, and long before they arrive at the cave, we need to have done our due diligence to set up this cave entrance.  Not by "telling" the party what the cave is, but by letting the party witness others describing the cave, and learning that the spiders there are pretty dangerous.  The party needs to stumble across the carcasses of dogs, bulls and maybe an owlbear sucked dry by the spiders before they come to the cave.  They need to see these things, in the manner of a proof-given of what the spiders have done.  We may have told the party that there's the carcass of an owlbear lying there, but the players see the dead owlbear in their minds and then see themselves being put into the owlbear's position.

We set up these things to give the players more and more information about what they're coming up against.  It's bad technique to assume that if it's a mystery, this is more effective at stoking a player's imagination.  Players don't have imaginations.  If they did, they'd be dungeon masters.  They're players, because they don't like to tell stories, and they don't like to explain things, and they have to have things explained for them.  And when we set out to explain things, we want to make it perfectly clear that they're not safe, they're not just entering a dark cave, that the rope-like webbing does nothing more than tell them that they've got the right cave ... and that standing here, between the cave and the owlbear corpse that they passed earlier, makes is perfectly clear than this is not a safe place to stand.

Do not tell the party that there's a mysterious castle in the wilderness and no one returns from there.  That's bad pulp fiction writing from the 19th century.  Reveal that there's a vampire there, that many people have seen the vampire, that dogs and people have been found with their throats cut out ... and then show the party the town with all the doors locked and braced tight, just as the sun is starting to set.  Make the sun go down very, very slowly.  Take out your watch and make them hammer on the braced inn door for three or four minutes of real time as you count down how long it will be before the sun sets.  Show them what it feels like to be on a street, as it gets darker, when there's a vampire who might show up in 2 minutes and 37 seconds.

36 seconds ... 35 seconds ...

Saturday Q&A (apr 6)

Nigel in Hamburg writes,

We’re playing a small group with two monks, both with high (16+) Dex, with pretty much unchanged 1st Ed PHB rules for attacks with two weapons. The question came up as to whether a first level monk could have multiple attacks, using the ‘off hand’ (or ‘off foot’) as a second ‘weapon’. If/when it gets that far, I intend that the additional attacks that come with higher level will not suffer the second weapon penalty.

I couldn’t see any reasons why not. Have you come across this or considered this before?

The further question came up of then combining open hand attacks with weapons. Again, I have don’t see a problem with this, as long as the weapon is light, which means for us club, hand-axe, dagger, hammer, short sword, open hand.

Answer: These are my rules for attacking with two weapons. There is a clear reference to using a fist as a secondary weapon, so that makes the monk's open hand an inherent option. The fist is the offhand weapon because it's lighter. My sage abilities include options for using the feet as an attack rather than the open hand, though at present those are not written out, only referenced, because I have no characters with those specific abilities at this time.

I've been using these detailed two weapon rules for about 10 or 12 years now. I've used the players handbook rules since starting as a dungeon master. Apparently, we're thinking alike along these lines.

 

Chris writes,

We DMs of the lamb lot — innocent creatives, if you will — desire a page of opposition to those rascals who have such derringdo and hidden plans.

Ah, but you are prepared: tables composed in solitude, rules memorized as deity with double dozen spell slots, and historical mien to lawyer inconsistencies.

I think it is good for a DM to have at least some of those enterprising players. A group of them, conniving outside the world, to plot what chaos to bring into the fantastic one. I think it is maybe rare, even among friends, but the idea — you didn't have personal details in this one — could only have come out of the perfect symphony of a single mind, no?

Or we could encourage the players in session zero and one to think of things to do. They would need to make sure to mark down their rations or other consumables. Find lodging or keep traveling. Encounter some tussle with corrupt lawfolk, maybe.

Answer: Do players with too much "derringdo and hidden plans" upset the apple cart, as it were? Yes, they do. But if the world is seen in the right light by the DM, it doesn't matter.

If the players have a habit of murdering the wizened old man whose going to deliver all the pertinent exposition about the adventure, then we can always say, "If you can't play the game like serious adults, the door is over there." If the player rules lawyer starts to take up too much of our time, we don't need to win the argument, we can always say, "If you don't like the rules of this campaign, the door is over there." And if they connive together to create chaos, chaos has its consequences, doesn't it? Too much chaos is a bad thing for players; what's desired is controlled chaos, not a remapping of The Purge, right?

I think as a DM we can invent rational, reasonable things to happen to grab the players attention better than just making sure they eat, sleep and avoid tussles with the law. A few well-placed victims or bad guys, intruding on the players' comfort, is more than enough to get them to decide whether or not to get involved, if they haven't some idea of their own. The point is to make sure they understand we're not going to go out of our way building a whole structured adventure for them, unless we want. It's not actually our responsibility. But then, I have the benefit of already having a party I've weaned onto my style of DMing. In this day and age, with everyone eyeballs deep in the jargon, it might be a little harder to get a party to realise that they can just "do for themselves." That's sure to take a bit of practice for them.

Regarding the perfect symphony of a single mind, sure enough. I was definitely the idea-source for the parties I ran with. I would take my fellow players aside, away from the DM and propose what they ought to say or how they ought to act, and why this would be great for them and for us. And naturally, I would set it up so my fellow party members succeeded in picking up a magic items or some other bit of bling, which I could have stepped in and gotten for myself, but I enjoyed being the ringmaster. Part of being a ringmaster includes keeping one's fellow players motivated in following directions.

_____

Sorry about the lateness of this post.  I forgot it was Saturday.  How irresponsible of me.

Thank you for your contributions.  If readers would like to reply to the above, or wish to ask a question or submit observations like those above, please submit  to my email, alexiss1@telus.net.  If you could, please give the region where you're located (state, province, department, county, whatever) as it humanises your comment.

Feel free to address material on the authentic wiki, my books or any subject related to dungeons & dragons.  I encourage you to initiate subject material of your own, and to address your comment to others writing in this space.    

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Simmering the Adventure

The last post notwithstanding, players are going to fail to invent an adventure of their own more than half the time.  After all, they don't generally get a lot of practice.  Therefore, though we haven't as much time, this is a burden that will befall us as DMs and if we want the world to run, we have to step up.

Let's say that we have an adventure in mind, of the standard kind.  I'll define that as a hook, a series of obstacles, some eventually difficult obstacle that's sure to produce a close call and inevitable, an ending that semi-resolves the original hook.  I've said a lot about hooks in the past, but it's worth reviewing a few basic points about them.

Back with the post, Hook, Tale and Sting, I called Dungeon Mastering a confidence game.  I discussed baiting the hook and getting the player to grab it, pointing out that they want to grab the hook because for them, getting started on the game is the point.  A hook has to be subtle; the players have to sense that the hook is there, but the less they actually understand about it, and the less they recognise where the hook is taking them, the better.

For an example of that, let's take a fairly common film that's withstood the test of time.  With 1982's Conan the Barbarian, the film begins with the following short speech:

"Between the time when the oceans drank Atlantis and the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, Conan, destined to wear the jeweled crown of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow. It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga.  Let me tell you of the days of high adventure!"  

From thence, we see the forging of a sword, step by step, as the credits run.  A man is shown making the sword, but we're told nothing about him or given any reason to think he's relevant to the story at hand.  As far as we know, if we haven't seen the film, this is Conan making the sword.  After all, while most of us knew who Conan was long before seeing the film, there are many who know nothing about him ... and the film strives to keep them in the dark as much as possible.

And this is a theme we ought to embrace as a DM.  There's plenty already to grab our attention, especially if we're tuned into this sort of swords and sandles concept (which was the name of the genre up to when Conan was released; "fantasy" was just getting started as a label).  As the film progresses, we see the swordmaker talking to a boy about the god Crom.  From the tone and the revealing that the boy's name is Conan, we understand this is Conan's father.  The story is brief; enigmatic, and similar to any story that tells about the beginning of things.  But we're introduced to this concept, "the secret of steel" ... while Conan is counselled not to trust anything except steel.

Consider all that it NOT said.  The hints about Conan's future said at the start never materialise in the film.  He doesn't become king of Aquilonia.  We're not told what the plotline is going to be, or why any of this about steel is important, except that we're in a film and we're pretty sure that the filmmaker has a reason for putting it here.  This is the sort of faith that your players need to have in us as we DM them.  Whatever we tell them, it ought to be relevant, even as it's concealed behind veil after veil of as yet hidden detail.  The story doesn't leap to Conan the boy, and then Conan the man asking everyone everywhere, "What's the secret of steel," like a goof from the Barbie movie.  This theme is revealed patiently.  In the fullness of time.

In the present, for the characters, there's no time right now to puzzle this out ... because in the very next cut, a group of ornately, ominously clad warriors are seen breasting the crest of a hill in the dead of winter.  From 5:37 to 9:40, four minutes, we see a marvelous slaughter fest set to the song "Anvil of Crom," where the villagers helplessly try to fight off this group of marauders, who burn their village and ultimately kill all the adults, including at the end, Conan's father.  There follows an absolutely brilliant, gut-wrenching scene immediately after, done without dialogue (most of the film's actors did not speak English and John Milius went with it).    With hardly anything moving on the screen, it takes the leading marauder more than two and a half minutes to kill Conan's mother ... gawd, what a scene ... and the film has reached 13:30 before we see the young children, including Conan, dragged away in chains.

By the time we see the young enslaved Conan chained to the mill, while we're told by the narrator that Conan's people are all dead, and the resulting transformation of young Conan into the adult male played by Schwarzeneggar, the film has reached 16:08.  We've forgotten entirely about the "riddle of steel," while we're deeply engaged in the scenes at hand.  We've been told that somehow this incredibly muscular young man is going to usurp a throne, but nothing whatsoever has been suggested about how he's going to get there, or what's going to happen for the rest of the film.

And this is the point I'm making here.  When "hooking" the player, start with the rule that you're going to say absolutely as little as possible about what this could mean for the future, or why any of the things you're saying are relevant and should be attended to.  This is going to go against all the advice we encounter elsewhere, who are going to tell us that "whetting the players' appetites" is absolutely necessary if they're going to care about any of this.  If we just throw out a bunch of information, we're told, the players are going to ignore it and not act upon it.  Good.  That is exactly what we want.  We don't want the players to act upon it!  We don't want them having a precise direction to follow!  What we want is to achieve is to make the information at least memorable, so that later, when the players stumble across the next part of the adventure we're going to set up, their eyes open up and they say out loud, "Oh, hey, this is like the time my father told me about the riddle of steel!  Who knew that was ever going to be important?"

I apologise here, but I'm going to have to talk about "story" and the reason why it doesn't work.  If our player character is Conan at the moment he's still pushing the mill around, all of the story so far is going to be told in the past.  And because it's already happened, it's going to lay there as dead as a coffin nail for want of something to apply it to.  The only reason why it "fleshes out" Conan's character for us, the audience, is because we were there while it happened.  We saw the village destroyed.  We lived the death of Conan's mother.  We're not being told a story; we're experiencing a series of events that are happening in real time.  None of this story actually works for a player character in D&D.  Conan the boy doesn't DO anything.  He flees, he hides behind his mother, he stumbles along as a slave and then he's shackled to a mill.  It's awful, but all the actual decision-making happens with the other characters.  Thulsa Doom, the lead marauder, could be a player character.  As him, we could decide to kill Conan's mother and sell the boy into slavery.  For us, then, we'd be making the decisions ourselves.  But as Conan the boy, and for the first 25 minutes of the film, Conan has no agency at all.

At the moment that Conan becomes a "player character," that is someone with agency, he's unarmed, still wearing the chains of his master after being freed, being chased by a pack of dogs on the open plain, by himself.  He's not fully clothed in adventurer's gear with a full kit, he's not in some comfortable town knocking on a door to ask what the "secret of steel" is ... hell, the events that surrounded that conversation with his father were 12-15 years ago.  He barely remembers his father.  Yet his father told him two things and the ensuing two scenes of the movie, with Conan as a little better than a 1st level character (he's won lots of battles), addresses those two things.

To escape the dogs, Conan climbs some rocks and falls down a concealed passage into a tomb.  There, from the skeleton of a warrior-king posed on his throne, Conan obtains a pretty decent two-handed sword.  Does the film have a voice over from Conan's father muttering with Spielbergian anvilism, "The secret of steel ..."?  No.  We are not told anything about this; only one word is spoken during the scene, and it happens when the king's skeleton collapses, the sword removed, changing from an aspect of might and glory to one of defeat and decrepitude.  The moment is stunning, the set design Oscar-worthy (though, obviously ignored) and the message for those paying attention is this: steel is strength, steel is power.  Even in death, the possession of steel is evidence of glory.  But when the hand is dead, and the steel taken away, there's nothing.

Forgive me for going down the garden path, but this moment is reflected later in the film when Thulsa Doom tells Conan, "Steel isn't strong, boy; flesh is stronger!  What is steel compared to the hand that wields it?  Look at the strength in your body, the desire in your heart."  When the dead skeleton's king's flesh declines, the steel sustains him only until Conan comes and takes it away.  But getting to the point here, and the Spielbergian crack.

As a DM, shut up.  When you set the scene, when you put the contents into it, when the players encounter the moment and live through it, don't explain it to them.  Don't be Spielberg, Gerwig, Scorsese or any of these hacks.  Shut the fuck up.  Let the players work out what it means for themselves.  And if they figure it out wrong, and you figure you need to sort them out so they'll actually understand what it's supposed to mean, clarifying the adventure for them and helping them understand ... Don't do it.  Just don't.  I catch myself doing this all the gawddamned time and it's a stupid, stubborn, bad habit of mine to explain things.  But it's really not what we should be doing.

The next scene is the witch.  What's the other thing that Conan's father told him?  I'm not going to remind you.  The witch lets him into her tent and does he ask about the secret of steel?  No, he asks about the two snakes coming together over the moon.  Having had 10 years to think while pushing a wheel, he's lost the sense of philosophy and what his father tried to teach him and has become lost in the revenge he has planned.  Which is perfectly fine.  Player characters are free to do what they think is necessary for gaming; if they want to go after their father's killer, let them.  But it doesn't keep us from re-inserting the deeper underlying theme again and again into the story.  Conan's story arc and glory does not result from the destruction of Thulsa Doom, though it's nice that it happens along the way (oh, spoilers!).  No, his arc is given by the positively awesome Sandahl Bergman at the moment she saves his life, until it happens, just prior to Conan putting it all together at the very end.  She asks him, "Do you want to live forever?"

There's Conan at the end, steel in hand, aware of his power, aware of Thulsa's emptiness, hearing Thulsa say, "For who now is your father if it is not me? I am the well spring, from which you flow.  When I am gone, you will have never been.  What would your world be, without me?  My son."

But he's not his father, is he?  He's not the one that understood the secret of steel.  Conan's father is his father, and has ever been his father, not Thulsa Doom.

Taking all this, then, let's return to the premise I made at the start.  We don't know any of this is going to happen at the start.  Each step along the path is revealed only as much as it needs to be revealed.  As a DM, presenting the adventure to the players, there's no need for them to learn what it's like around the temple of Thulsa Doom until they're actually there.  There's no need for them to know about the temple they're going to break into as thieves, until it actually presents itself when the party arrives in the town.  There's no need to tell them about the jewel ahead of time, or about the snake, or drop any hints whatsoever about any part of the journey UNTIL IT HAPPENS.  The party is always willing to take the tour; they're always willing to start along the road, and whatever happens along the way, or whomever they meet, that can provide it's own flavour and dimension to the overall proceedings.

Consider the usual complaint about random encounters:  "These don't have anything to do with the adventure," claims the player.  "They just waste time!  They're not needed!"  This speaks volumes about the way a DM runs the adventure.  The party knows way ahead of time where they're supposed to be and what they're supposed to do.  They know enough about the proceedings, even when they haven't happened yet, to feel justified in saying that extra encounters are stupid.  They know this, because the DM has told them this, before rolling a die and producing the random encounter.  But if the DM plays the game closer to the chest, how is the party to know whether or not this IS a wandering monster, hm?  How are they to know this isn't the start of the adventure they're sort of feeling their way towards, wondering what's going to happen next that proves itself relevant to what they know so far?  Obviously, they aren't.  Which ups the stakes for every encounter, doesn't it?

Don't slam the party into the quest, ease them into it, like frogs into cool, clear water.  Don't spin the heat up to high, raise the heat very, very gently;  don't let the frogs know the trouble they're in.  Let the various encounters seem to happen organically, as though unplanned, unforeseen, as though we're making it up on the spot.  Don't tell them what's relevant.  Don't explain how things come to be.  When the players insist on knowing, tell them to get comfortable being ignorant.  If they're meant to know, they'll know when the time is right, and not because they want it right now.

Remember, and this applies to both D&D and fishing ... the best hooks are the ones that don't look like hooks.

Chat Room

Having demonstrated that it works, especially as I'm in a light conversation on the side as I write this, I'm ready to post here that patreon has incorporated a chat option into their system.  Oh, I know that chatting online is sooooooo 2005, but as a creator on patreon it seemed appropriate to engage with it.

The chat is available to anyone donating $3 or more ... thus, an exclusive group.  Based not upon me, I should hope, but upon our having a mutual appreciation for D&D being played in a particular way, for which I'm a voice.  From my perspective, whether or not it lends the possibility of "deep" conversations taking place there, communication is not in itself a bad thing.

I launched the "room" last night and woke up pleasantly this morning to find that a few people had engaged with one another while I slept.  So, in fact, I don't have to be there.  I think that's a fine element for something like this.

Obviously, the biggest problems with chat come from their tendency towards cyberbullying, the use of oppressive moderation, a tendency to misinformation, childishness, etcetera.  I don't think any of those things are going to be an issue, since one has to join to play.  'Course, someone could decide to buy in and  stir things up, but I'm not so fond of money that I'd whore myself or my associates for three dollars.  Still, I know that's going to keep some from partaking in the chat room and trust me, I understand.

I met my partner Tamara on a chat room back in 2001, with our first major conversation taking place on July 19th (I have no idea why I have a head for dates like this).  That led to us meeting, spending a lot of money on phone cards and later getting together permanently.  So we could say I have a soft spot for chatrooms.

Anyway, it's there.  To keep it from becoming an ungawdly time sink, I'll have to excuse myself from it from time to time, and on some days completely — especially in June and every three months thereafter, which are my busy times at work.

Messing with the DM's Head

In the film Mr. & Mrs. Smith, the latter character delivers the line, "Happy endings are stories that haven't finished yet."  Consider the application of this within an ongoing D&D campaign and a dungeon master's description of the immediate circumstances and interactions which the players might experience.  As things take place for the players in real time, the campaign has no predefined ending with an expected conclusion.  Instead, the campaign is an ever-evolving story shaped by the actions and decisions of the players, whose choices in the here and now defines whatever's going to happen next.

The players therefore have no expectations thrust upon them.  They're free to do whatever they like, presently, according to their whim.  There are no guaranteed successes, no situations in which they must succeed in order to fulfill the next part of the adventure's expectation, no need to vie for a "happy ending" or indeed any kind of ending at all.

So long, of course, that the DM can continue to improvise a game that occurs in front of the players, that maintains a sentiment of fun, excitement, threat, opportunity, novelty and so on.  Such a game would require a setting capable of constantly inspiring the DM, so that the events that circled the players had little chance of getting stale with repetition.

That's a big ask.  Yet there's an inherent quality here that is wholly overlooked by the need to always make the game bigger and better in order to please the players:  it shoves the responsibility for what happens off the DM's shoulders and onto the players ... where it ought to be.

This is the D&D that I played when I started the game, that in fact everyone played.  This what the game that I fell in love with as a player, since I was totally free to take responsibility for my own actions and the DM was responsible only for answering my questions and deciding if what I wanted to do was practical.  Since I'm a sharp-minded fellow, I could usually figure out a series of steps that would build one upon the other, all believable, that would force the DM to comply with my plans.

For example, let's say that my player wants to start a riot in the city, preferably a big one, to produce a lot of chaos, violence, buildings on fire and so on, for the purpose of seizing the daughter of an important official, keeping her as a prisoner in a dungeon where she could be reprogrammed in the manner of Patty Hearst, whose public exploits occurred just four years before I began playing D&D.  Clearly, these steps are completely out of the realm of a typical DM's imagination, and while utterly evil in scope, "evil" is an alignment and thus fully and freely available to the player in the original game.  So how is it done?

Well, in the first place, we do not tell the DM that we plan to start a riot.  Our plans are none of the DM's business; it's not for the DM to have a say in what we're going to do, because the more in the dark the DM is, the better our chances of encouraging the DM to think that the "riot" is an original idea the DM is having.  Don't you see?  The idea is to inspire NPCs to respond in a manner of the DM's choosing, which fits the DM's expectations, by deliberately taking steps as a player that makes the DM think the way we want him or her to think.  That way, when the riot happens, it's the DM that foments it; and while fomenting it, the DM thinks the riot is an obstacle for us, the player, which encourages the DM to make it a big riot.

Whereupon, the girl we've already subtly identified is, without the DM expecting it, found and snatched in the ensuing panic, which the DM has started and cannot now claim isn't affecting the whole city.  When we tell the DM, surely the girl's father is busy with the riot, the DM sits there, stunned, trying to speak, trying to figure out some way to fuck us over, but it's too late for that now.  In short order, we kick in the door of the house, slaughter the servants and seize the girl.  The DM is so shocked by our willingness to brutality that he or she has trouble recovering from moment to moment, while we have quick answers for every inquiry.  We seize curtains, quickly tie the girl up like a rug (we've read G.B. Shaw's Caesar and Cleopatra, while the DM hasn't) and in no time we've seized horses, killed a few more "citizens" the DM has thrown at us as an obstacle and ridden out of town, the girl across our saddle.

Now, the DM thinks we're going to ransom her, because it would never occur to most people that we're going the Patty Hearst route.  But with those events, there were books published about what the Symbionese party did and how and with what resources, and we're fully prepared now to run that playbook ...

Playing is a mind game, where the DM is gotten around by making the DM think he or she is in control.  I don't think this is understood by most people, since all the trappings of control seem to be in the DM's possession.  It seems for nearly all players that the way to obtain those trappings is to wheedle them out from the DM.  But the truth is that the DM is a person, and one person at that, and not necessarily the smartest person in the room.  There are multiple players, and if willing, and given the chance to enjoy the game's intended freedom, without the bullshit of stories and all else that I spoke of in the previous post, the DM can be gaslighted, derailed and gish galloped all over the place, while the player provides sufficient circular reasoning, moves enough goalposts, loads questions to the maximum and so on to have the DM chasing his or her tail into next week.

Is that fair.  Of course it is!  This is a game, a mind game, a game that is succeeded at not by having the best background or spewing forth language in the best thespian fashion, but by players getting what they want, how they want it, in as large an amount as they desire.  And technically, there's no rule in the game that says that as players, we're somehow required to reveal out intentions or plans to the DM, or act in accordance with the DM's wishes, or be nice to the NPCs, or respect the game world's authority, or anything else that might fit with the expectations of "polite society" but don't in fact mean a gawddamned thing with regards to actual game play.

I want to raid the dungeon and take everything it has, with a minimum of risk and to the best of my ability.  There are no rules that say I have to do this in the "standardised" way of walking into the place, single file, like pigs to the slaughter, except a lack of imagination for it being done any other way.

We keep getting told that it's a game of imagination, but apparently none of the players are allowed to have any.

None of this threatens me as a DM ... because, for the most part, I'd find it hilariously funny if the players in my game world kidnapped the daughter of a rich powerful man and turned her into Patty Hearst.  I'd lose nothing, the game would be interesting, I'd wonder what weird damn thing they were going to do next and it would be fun.  I don't give a fuck how the players want to enter a dungeon.  That is not my responsibility.  I provide a game world where the players are responsible for what they do, and responsible for the consequences they receive ... and that's all.  It is in no way my responsibility to make the game "fun" for them, or help them "shine," or any other damned thing that the jargon ministers think ought to be included in my behaviour.

I run a world.  It's quite a task, coming up with new stuff to throw every week, managing massive amounts of detail and keeping a running description of said world at the pace the players need it.  I'm already busy.  Game culture can take it's manufactured expectations of me and shove them, I don't have time for all that crap.  I'm running a game here, not a nursery for pampered players.  They're free to invent shit to do for themselves.  If they want a "great campaign" to be a part of, what's wrong with their imaginations?  Why can't they do it?  They've got one hell of a lot more time on their hands than I have, don't they?

Jargon

Role-playing game culture is insidious about muddying the meaning of game play. The past 40+ years have seen a shift in emphasis from purely mechanical gameplay to a more holistic approach that values narrative, engagement and collaborative storytelling, none of which are actually required for the immediate game play that takes place at the table between the dungeon master and the players. There are several so-called "factors" within the games industry that have contributed to this evolution and the increased focus on elements such as engagement, motivation, agency and collaboration; listing them off, these include diversification of player preferences, the influence of narrative-focused games, the rise of indie and story games, the need for accessibility and inclusivity ... and, of course, "market demand."

Yes, that's correct. The success of RPGs depends on their ability to attract and retain players. By focusing on elements that enhance the overall gaming experience, such as engaging narratives, meaningful player choices and collaborative storytelling, game designers and publishers can create games that stand out in a crowded marketplace and appeal to a diverse range of players.

If that sounds like bullshit, you're not wrong. Business-speak, or "corporate jargon," involves crafting persuasive messaging that highlights the product's features, benefits and unique selling points in a way that appeals to the target audience and encourages them to make a purchase. It may also involve employing various marketing strategies, such as creating catchy slogans, leveraging social proof and using persuasive language to influence consumer behavior. If there are no easily sold "features," we'll invent them. Jargon like "player preference", "narrative-focused," "story" and "lore" are all invented nonsense that sounds easier to sell than the distinctive, confusing actual terms used within D&D game play. "Dungeon master," for example, is deliberately vague, conjuring no known image in the mind's eye of the totally ignorant rubes that have never heard of D&D and don't know to buy it for their children. On the other hand, stating that "immersive storytelling and character-driven narratives" are in the offing sounds much friendlier and easy to like. Saying that RPGs of today provide "creative innovations" to game play neatly ignores that nothing has been actually created or innovated. Which works great for the marketing department.

If you ask what "story" does for actual gameplay, you may find yourself in a conversation with someone fervently explaining that story provides "a structured overarching narrative or series of interconnected scenarios and encounters that serves to facilitate gameplay by providing the context and information necessary for players to make informed decisions and take meaningful actions within the game world." Except that it doesn't. The DM, without telling anything like a story, describes a set of circumstances that the players see in the immediate here and now, that they're free to make a decision about. No "overarching narrative" is in anyway necessary to this; in fact, it's detrimental the player's freedom to make immediate choices, as they've been primed in advance to acknowledge and prostrate themselves to a narrative that the DM invented, or the company invented, or some writer invented, but certainly not that the players themselves invented.

Game play works in a specific manner. The DM provides immediate context of what the player characters' senses tell them. The players make a MOVE. This produces a response from the DM, describing what has changed in the immediate context due to the players' move. Then the players move again. This goes on indefinitely.

The reasons why a player moves, or what motivates them, or the fact that the may collaborate first before moving, is irrelevant to the ACTION of the game. The notion that players need a "story" to captivate their interest, or draw them into the game world, because it provides context for their actions, is SALES JARGON. The argument that the story gives the players clear goals, objectives and challenges to pursue, motivating them as a driving force for game play, is SALES JARGON. These phrases sound terrific and encouraging, but since no definition is ever provided that explains how these things motivate or engage the players, it's just so much blubblesput.

Jargon is used to evoke specific emotions and these words do that in spades. They tap into the would-be aspirations and desires of non-serious gamers who fall into a rapture when told that a game promises to provide a sense of excitement and anticipation. As a jargon term, "inclusiveness" is all the rage right now, so you can see it ploughed into just about every paragraph discussing where D&D is going to go in the future.

When we're forced to wade through all this jargon bullshit, there's really no way left to talk in concrete terms about most parts of the game. Attempting to do so, we're sure to stumble straight into some true-believer who cries, "But what about story? Your description of the game and how to make an adventure, doesn't say anything about how to build a great story! How can I possibly help my players shine if I don't have a great story to tell them?

Thus the problem with any book we may want to write about actual game play. A book sounds like a great idea. At present, while the promise of "appealing gameplay" is everywhere, the actual community does nothing except talk about how impossible it is to make this happen. Youtube and Reddit are full of people constantly asking, "How do I make my game better?" only to be told the same content I've just described above. "Have a great story" is repeated endlessly, but whenever anyone proposes an idea on these lines, it sounds like the same old dreck that's been around since the days of the Dragon magazine.

That would seem to suggest that a book is desperately wanted by a large segment of the population. Even ten years after it's publication, my How to Run still sells fairly well. But in general, the soil that's been churned up by company jargon expects the writer to come forward on certain promises that the company has made, not the DM. We are to "foster collaboration," without being told what this actually is, and that we should adapt to player preferences, except that a dangerous, compelling game requires that the player tailor his or herself to the situation, not the reverse. The more you cater to the player, the less reason the player has to "shine." Eventually, it's a bunch of sad, pathetic people with nothing better to do on a Saturday night showing up to go through the motions ... which is what everyone complains about. Those who are not sad and not pathetic have quit the game to go do something else.

I don't have this problem because not only do I not actively adapt my game to what the players would prefer, I actively set out to push the players into situations that are hard to solve and utterly new and unexpected. I make a player's life miserable and hard at every opportunity; and after 40+ years of play, my table is thick with players, whereas I'm always asked to make room for one more, which I can no longer do. In my opinion, players want to be abused; they just don't know they want to be abused, until they've experienced it.

But for the next post, let's set aside all discussion about overarching game principles and theoretical jargon concepts and pretend that none of this shit exists. Let's assume that within the specific definition I've provided for gameplay, which focuses on the immediate circumstances and interactions within the game world, that we're correct that the exact circumstances of what the players see and experience in the present moment are paramount. In this light, the ongoing description provided by the DM serves as the immediate backdrop for gameplay, providing the players with the information they need to make their moves and decisions. This description includes details about the environment, characters and events that are directly relevant to the current situation and the players' interactions.

The essence of gameplay lies in the dynamic exchange between players making moves and the DM responding. Extraneous detail beyond the immediate circumstances is not essential to gameplay itself. That should be the premise that we start from.

Rolling Characters

What benefit did I get from rolling up and making literally hundreds of characters in the early 80s, a lot of them for my own use in my own private self-play game, that I ran afternoons when I wasn't planning and running my actual game for real life players?  I can say without question that the process gave me varying skills, and perspective as well.  For one thing, I didn't need the books after a while.  I knew what minimums were needed for every class, then better than I do now, and because of that I could set about making a character more quickly, as fast as I could roll and write.

Now, a lot of people can say that, but I need to stress that this was the case for every character class, not just for those I particularly favoured.  Most of my players tended to stay within a group of two or three classes, so they became astute at rolling up druids or mages or fighters.  And in this, there's a distinction I feel needs making.  Because most players preferred certain classes, that always left other, unfamiliar classes at the fringe of their imaginations.  If they liked mages and druids, they tended to think of thieves or rangers as different, even strange, because to their experience, those classes were.  And this could be said of any player, since rarely does a player have any reason to roll up dozens or scores of what would be, for them, unusable PCs.

Most DMs that I knew were also players a lot of the time, and many of them did roll up a lot of characters.  It was expected, and I still read about or hear from DMs who see preparing for an adventure as a time to roll a mess of NPCs.  Anecdotally, however, I've noticed that DMs, like players, also tend to have preferred NPC classes they like to run.  Since they haven't got a specific adventure planned that requires thirty illusionists, for example, there's no need to roll these up in any great number. Usually, an adventure needs a lot of fighters.  There may be a need for a bunch of thieves, or possibly a small group of assassins, but after that the demand goes down.  Who writes an adventure that requires a score of paladins or druids?  Usually, it's 20 fighters, two rangers, a paladin, maybe two mages, probably no illusionists and maybe four thieves.  Monks aren't included at all, because a lot of people dislike monks, whereas clerics are ... well, even the class was discontinued, right?

My experience at rolling up NPCs didn't come from prepping for an adventure.  I had four miniatures that were monks, nine miniatures that were clerics, five that were illusionists, ten mages, nineteen fighters, six rangers, three paladins ... well, those aren't accurate numbers, but grant me the fact that I'm thinking about the collection of miniatures I had 42 years ago.  I had 80 or 90, not as many as most, but enough to fill a battlefield.  And when one died, I could either resurrect that character with the same stats or decide to roll up a new one, because I had the miniature.  The miniature picked the class, not me.

At first, there were many thoughts in my mind about which classes would normally prevail on a battlefield.  After all, the fighters were all hacky and the mages were all soft, so surely the mages would all go down quickly.  But in fact, no; a spellcaster could unleash a lot of power if getting the chance to do so, whereas the fighters tended to get bogged down fighting each other.  After running a lot of combats, I got less and less interested about relating class to power.  In some way or other, they were all rather well balanced; oh sure, thieves died easily, but they jumped to second level pretty fast and quickly tripled their hit points in less time than a paladin took to be second.  A lucky thief with a good constitution could rack up 20-24 hit points while a paladin, wasting a good stat in charisma, was still trying to get above 10-12.  Maybe not a critical example in actual game play ... but the process of rolling characters and watching them level taught me a great deal about how circumstances and not stats made successes.

This is a lesson that virtually the entire game-building industry of D&D seems oblivious of.  A new class means absolutely nothing in game play.  There are so many existant classes at this point that a person could spend a month making ONE character of every class, essentially learning nothing from the procedure except that there are too many fucking classes.  It's a fairly self-evident reason not to indulge time in 5e.

Apart from the fairly indulgent details that a given class offers, a thoughtful player ought to succeed at the game regardless of which class they choose.  This isn't to say that players shouldn't be choosy ... and hell, who's going to stop them anyway?  No, it's to say that when looking at parts of the game that should be advanced and better designed, adding new classes is a totally irrelevant effort.  Moreso in that with the masses of classes that exist, the distinctions are entirely cosmetic, to what's become a somewhat masturbatory extent.

If we're looking for a concrete way to improve your sense of the game, and the point of view of your players, then sit down and start making as many example characters as you can stand, of each different class that exists in your particular version of the game.  And as you roll your eyes right now, as some of you are, ask yourself, "What is the value of a series of game rules where the application of those rules is so BORING?"

We know how this happened, and how we got to this point.  Players wanted more, this seemed like a solution, it was, except that "more" was always the next word.  Where it comes to choice, "more" is never a solution.  Siddhartha taught us that.  Wanting is not the same as having, as the latter never seems to contain the happiness we so thought it would.

Happiness is in not wanting, but doing.  The pleasure is in being, going, overcoming, even in sometimes losing.  And any class can do any of those things.

The First Concrete Step to Being a Dungeon Master

When I wrote How to Run, one subject I was able to dodge was that of becoming a dungeon master. Because I was interested in writing and "advanced" guide, I undertook the premise that the reader already knew how to DM, and was therefore adept at doing it. This allowed me to skip past the subject that ought to be included in many books that give advice on how a person might become a DM in the first place. There were lots of books like that on the market, though I feel they're all dreck, while no one had bothered to assume an audience that didn't need to be taught the basics.

A hurdle to overcome in addressing this issue is the expectations of the non-DM. Next to nothing concrete is written about what makes a person a "DM." I myself have argued that being a DM is a state of mind, based on my anecdotal evidence that most who perform the art want to do it enough that they didn't let ignorance or inability stop them. I've argued that to be a good DM, one has to do it, a lot, gathering pattern-recognition and skills along the way.

This is a simplification, obviously. I didn't succeed at being a DM because I "wanted it," as a self-help book would say. That post clarified my thinking, leading to this post. I didn't keep climbing and I didn't become a better DM because I kept learning. Moreover, I didn't "check my ego" either, because if there's anything a DM really needs, it's a bigger ego. 'Course, the goal is to have a lot of self-esteem and not to be a monster. There are egos and there are egos.

Here's a quick list of things I did in the three years after encountering D&D that improved my abilities as a dungeon master.

1.  I read the books.  I don't mean this facetiously, I mean that I read the books fervently and all the time, over and over, like a hard-core smoker digging in public ashtrays looking for butts.  I read the books so thoroughly that the bindings creased and the page corners were bent.  The pages didn't come out because, thank gawd and elvis, the DMG and the Players Handbook were made well ... but a lesser book would have come apart in those three years from all the use I gave them.

Many of the better passages became second nature to me, while anything that someone might say about the books would either ring a bell or it wouldn't ... and a lot of times, some player would "claim" a thing was in the books while I had the confidence to say, "It damn well isn't," and throw the book at the player (well-made) and say, "Find it!"  Which failed, because I'd read those books too often to be caught in a trick like that.

2. I practiced the game.  I mean, all the time, and not just when there were players.  All the time.  I was 15 and I had lots and lots of time to roll up piles of characters and assign them to miniatures and devise random tables to dictate who fought who, so I could play out combats and then assign treasure and update the characters to higher levels and have them fight again, and again and again.  I played in my room on my desk with three books open on my bed, at my elbow on one side, a nest of papers in front of me upon which I took notes, and repurposed game boards from other games to serve as templates for moving characters upon.  Ever play D&D on the "Life" boardgame and reassign the notes on the squares to have D&D meanings?  I have.  Ever played mass combats on a scrabble board where the coloured squares were either traps or treasure?   I have.

I didn't play just when I had players.  The players weren't there all the time, were they?  I couldn't wait for players.  I was obsessed.  I wanted to play.  I was like the would-be piano student whose parents are getting worried because he won't stop practicing.  I didn't need encouragement to practice.  I was busy finding new ways to practice.  I loved practicing.  I crammed 30, 40 hours of D&D play into each week, after school and on the weekends, and when I sat in class I sketched ideas out to myself in class.

There is a reality we all learn where it comes to reading, though most of us forget all about it by the time we're 10.  There is a time when we can't read; when we don't even know the letters.  There is a time when, after we're taught how, most of the things in the world that have been written are still incomprehensible to us.  At this point, a sort of self-selecting principle divides one sort of reader from the next — the willingness to read something we don't understand.  Most children shy away from that.  Quite a few are weaned onto it by being read to by their parents and others, which gives encouragement to try again, because it sounds so interesting when Grandma reads the words.  The rest of us just want to read so bad, we keep trying.  The world does its level best to put words in front of us.  Sure, there's video and music and games and all sorts of things to distract us, but even then, such things include words we don't know and ideas we want to look into further.

But to learn to read well, we have to read even when it means we're not getting the whole of it.  Even when we misunderstand.  Even when we're going over the same passage a dozen times and it still doesn't make sense.  Because that's how we learn.  We practice.  We practice even when it sucks to practice, even when it's boring, even when our fingers ache from trying to go from G to C to D.  Even when the webs of our fingers burn from doing scales.  Even when we sound like shit.

And this means, running the game when we can't run the game.  It means precisely that.  It means wasting a lot of time looking for things in books because we need to have the answer, while everyone sits around and moans or complains that the game is so boring.  For a while, we're going to bore or upset our players.  For a while, we're going to be unfair and accuse them of things.  For a while, we're going to mess up on some rule and have to retcon everything.  For a long, long while, we're just going to fuck up.

And when someone says, "Hey, the rules don't have to be this complicated ..."

... we should be thinking of how a statement like that might apply to learning guitar, for instance, and how that statement might fit into our conception of what really talented guitarists say, or how we feel about a particular guitar solo.  Do we really want Stevie Ray Vaughn or Jimi Hendrix to have taken a "less complicated" route?  Is that what we want?  Does that even make sense?

And when someone says, "Hey, make the rules up instead of looking the rules up ..."

... we should be thinking about our boss at work taking that approach to our jobs, or our spouses taking that approach to our marriage, or anybody in authority taking that approach to their authority.  And when they say that they're doing this for our own good, are they?  Is that how it feels?  Do we get a sense of feeling ... good about them doing that?

And when someone says, "Hey, give the players as many chances as possible to succeed ..."

... we should be thinking how much this sounds like giving everyone a participation ribbon in school, and how much this lowers the standard of our success, and how much it cheapens our experience at work when the co-worker who fucks up the most, all the time, gets promoted to a better paying position because "skill" is less important than "pull."  How many chances at success do you think a baseball player should get, or an actor putting on a performance for a play we paid $95 to see, or the doctor that's going to remove our gall bladder?  And how much "fun" is a player's guaranteed success?

Nearly all the advice about DMing and running role-playing games isn't just bad, it's two-faced and backhanded.  It's there to serve the speaker, not the listener, for the speaker's goal is to sound fine and encouraging, while not giving a rat fuck if the advice is useful or not.  Worse, most of this advice clearly sets out to undermine the would-be DM's capacity to ever get better at the task.  "Choose the easiest path; don't expect things of yourself; don't have a standard for anyone; ignore the rules."

In what field, in what thing we respect in this world, does this advice ever apply?  In what experience of ours have we ever learned that doing things the easiest way, by ignoring the greatest number of rules, ever served us well long-term?

And they are giving this advice to children, for fuck's sake.  And making money at it.

_____

Just for shits and giggles, I took a title from the list provided in this post of JB's, "Making Players Shine," and suggested that chatGPT write an essay for D&D with that title.  Here it is, without a single edit:

Title:

Making Players Shine: The Art of Dungeon Mastering in Dungeons and Dragons

Dungeons and Dragons (D&D) is not just a game; it's an immersive experience where players embark on epic adventures, conquer challenges, and weave tales of heroism. At the heart of every successful D&D campaign lies the Dungeon Master (DM), the storyteller who crafts the world, sets the stage, and facilitates the players' journey. One of the most rewarding aspects of being a DM is creating opportunities for players to shine. In this essay, we will explore the art of dungeon mastering with a focus on empowering players and allowing their characters to become the heroes of their own stories.

Central to the concept of making players shine is understanding and embracing player agency. Player agency refers to the freedom and ability of players to make meaningful choices that impact the game world. As a DM, it's crucial to provide opportunities for players to exercise their agency, whether it's deciding how to approach a problem, choosing their allies, or determining the direction of the story. By giving players a sense of ownership over their characters and their actions, DMs empower them to truly shine.

Another key aspect of making players shine is designing dynamic challenges that cater to their strengths and weaknesses. Every player brings a unique set of skills, abilities, and preferences to the table, and it's the DM's responsibility to create encounters that allow each player to showcase their talents. This might involve designing combat encounters that play to the strengths of certain classes or providing puzzles and role-playing opportunities that allow players to utilize their character's abilities in creative ways. By tailoring challenges to the individual strengths of each player, DMs can ensure that everyone has a chance to shine.

While D&D is ultimately a collaborative game, it's important to recognize that each player's character is the hero of their own story. DMs can make players shine by creating opportunities for each character to take center stage and showcase their unique personalities, motivations, and backstories. This might involve weaving character-driven plotlines into the overarching narrative, introducing NPCs that have personal connections to the players' characters, or allowing players to make meaningful decisions that shape the world around them. By fostering a collaborative yet individualized experience, DMs can ensure that every player has their moment to shine.

In D&D, some of the most memorable moments occur when players think outside the box and come up with creative solutions to problems. As a DM, it's important to reward players for their creativity and ingenuity, even if it means deviating from the original plan. Whether it's awarding bonus experience points for clever tactics in combat or granting inspiration for inventive role-playing, DMs can encourage players to shine by recognizing and celebrating their creativity. By embracing the unexpected and allowing players the freedom to explore and experiment, DMs can create a truly immersive and memorable gaming experience.

In the world of Dungeons and Dragons, the true magic lies in the stories that unfold around the gaming table. As a DM, one of the greatest joys is watching players step into the spotlight and become the heroes of their own adventures. By understanding and embracing player agency, creating dynamic challenges, fostering collaboration and role-playing, and rewarding creativity and ingenuity, DMs can create an environment where every player has the opportunity to shine. In doing so, they not only enhance the gaming experience but also cultivate a sense of camaraderie, creativity, and empowerment that will keep players coming back for more adventures. So, let us raise our dice and embark on a journey where every player has the chance to shine bright like a supernova in the vast cosmos of Dungeons and Dragons.

I could publish that, as is, in any present-day D&D forum or book, and it wouldn't be the least out of place.  It is complete bullshit from end to end, but that doesn't matter, because people — kids — will pay for it, believe it, try to run their games according to it, and never fully understand that there's anything wrong with it.

I could use chatGPT to produce an essay for every one of the titles that JB listed on his blog, package it, put a cover on it and sell it as a book on the internet without probably having to make a single edit throughout.  And while it would sell, and I would make money (and the reader would too, since Chat is available to all), I wouldn't make enough money to make it worth the powers-that-be to go after me for copyright infringement.  Which also wouldn't help them because just and you and I, Dear Reader, can produce this book and have it on the market by Saturday, so can thousands and thousands of others, just as easily.

I made a comment on JB's post that Chat has made Michael Shea, of the Lazy Dungeon Master, obsolete.  And it has.  Though neither he nor most people know it yet.

But you know it now.  And though I choose not to be a monster, there's nothing stopping you, Dear Reader, from being one.  So go ahead, be one.  They're willing, and have been willing, to shove this crap out for decades, without hesitation or a hint of shame.  To children.  So why should you be any different?

Saturday Q&A (mar 30)

Sterling in Maine writes,

When we spoke face-to-face last summer I attempted to express to you my vision that an ideal RPG setting would react to the stimulus of player action like nature reacts to the stimulus of human activity. "Even if that meant the the PCs stepped into gopher holes a peculiarly large number of times in a row," as you may recall. What I meant to convey is that I, as referee (I know that we differ too on that role), wish to give my players the world as it is, even it is anti-climactic or redundant, because that is the world. The world exists as it exists whether or not I like it and whether or not it has dramatic value. The concept has pushed me toward looking at "closed" RPG systems as an ideal.

The group I run has been alternating between my low fantasy 1478, Sengoku-era-like-Ireland AD&D campaign and "Paris that never was" 1607 En Garde! game. It has been for me a fascinating experiment so far in terms both of the behavior of my players and my duties and role as a referee. I think that what I'd ultimately like to achieve is a system as closed as GDW's En Garde! that is simultaneously as open as AD&D. I can vaguely see a path, but it's complex and I'm unsteady. I doubt that this is a path that you are also interested in following, thought I hope it might be, but it is a path I believe I can walk better with your input regardless.

Answer: Perhaps this is a rehash of what I said on your porch, but the short version is that your game world is in danger of reproducing Skyrim. Beautiful, richly elegant, but deadly dull. 27 centuries of evident human linguistic creation, plus probably another 60,000 years of telling hunting stories around a campfire, has demonstrated that humans related to compressed event relation tactics. ASMR content on the internet aside, with streaming videos on twitch showing people asleep in their beds, or cleaning their houses (which is pretty much a solo watching activity, I should think), for nine hours, most of the time people just want a DM who will get to the point. I know I would. Of course, if your players will accept it, that's fine. But are you sure that's how they want it, or is it just that they'll take what they can get? I'd worry it was the latter.

Griffin writes,

I remember that in the past you have advocated for getting up and moving around (#2 here) so I wonder if this is a change over the years, or are they different aspects? Like moving around to see what people are rolling is fine, but stay still when presenting information?

Answer: Yes, that's more or less a good assessment. I do still advocate getting out of one's chair. I try to adopt the motionless stance when I'm standing and running the game. This happens most often when I've gotten up to get a drink or a little food, and I don't need to be at the computer screen because the party isn't in combat. An amusing part of this is, however, that if I have a cup of hot coffee, I'll stand there holding it in my hand, making small jerky motions that make my daughter — who sits nearest the kitchen — nervous about me slopping coffee into her tablet. She tells me, "Get away from me with your gesturing coffee." Which is fair. Holding the coffee like that while running is an absent-minded thing anyway.

_____

Sorry about the lateness of this post.  I forgot it was Saturday.  How irresponsible of me.

Thank you for your contributions, Sterling and Griffin.  If readers would like to reply to the above, or wish to ask a question or submit observations like those above, please submit  to my email, alexiss1@telus.net.  If you could, please give the region where you're located (state, province, department, county, whatever) as it humanises your comment.

Feel free to address material on the authentic wiki, my books or any subject related to dungeons & dragons.  I encourage you to initiate subject material of your own, and to address your comment to others writing in this space.    

For the sake of the RSS feeds that read this post and put it elsewhere, I need to post the full url of my Patreon with every post:  https://www.patreon.com/user?u=3015466.  Apparently, links are rendered dead on many feeds.  Please support my Patreon, it's an important part of my monthly income.

When the Writer is Ready ...

"Well, at this point I'm not very interested at being 'a great DM.' Somehow it's enough for me as it is. So now I'm not very interested in that kind of books."

— Redrick, an ordinary commentor

On the subject of writing books telling people "how to D&D," we can safely divide the game-playing population into two initial groups: (a) pat me on the head; and (b), like Redrick here, "meh."  It's quite common for people to adopt the excuse that since I don't want to be great, there's no reason I should be better.  Obviously that doesn't just apply to D&D.  We see it everyday in our jobs, exhibited by both the boss and one's co-workers.  "We're doing well enough; let's not make this more difficult by trying to do better."

As far as those wanting a pat on the head, there's plenty of sustainable energy from those who give brilliant advice like, "keep learning" — without, obviously, making any suggestion about what ought to be learned or where this knowledge is to be gotten.  If this is the sort of advice you want to get, try chatGPT.  It's wonderful for that.

Me: I want to write a book teaching people how to be a DM for Dungeons and Dragons.

Chat: That sounds like a fantastic project! Being a Dungeon Master (DM) for Dungeons and Dragons is both an art and a skill, and there's a lot to learn and share in a comprehensive guide. Here's a rough outline to get you started:

Title: "Mastering the Dungeon: A Comprehensive Guide to Becoming a Dungeon Master in Dungeons and Dragons"

Introduction:Welcome to the World of Dungeon Mastering

• What is Dungeons and Dragons?
• Why Become a Dungeon Master?
• What This Book Offers

Chapter 1: Getting Started

• Understanding the Role of the Dungeon Master
• Gathering Essential Materials
• Choosing an Edition: D&D 5th Edition Overview
• Setting Up Your First Adventure

Chapter 2: Building Worlds and Narratives

• Crafting a Compelling Setting
• Developing Engaging Storylines
• Creating Memorable Non-Player Characters (NPCs)

Chapter 3: Rules and Mechanics

• Understanding the Core Mechanics
• Combat: A Detailed Overview
• Handling Challenges and Skill Checks
• Incorporating House Rules

Chapter 4: Preparing and Running Sessions

• Session Zero: Character Creation and Expectations
• Structuring Your Sessions
• Improvisation Techniques
• Managing Player Choices and Agency

Chapter 5: Managing Players and Table Dynamics

• Fostering a Positive Gaming Environment
• Dealing with Player Conflict
• Balancing Player Engagement

Chapter 6: Creating and Balancing Encounters

• Designing Balanced Encounters
• Adjusting Difficulty on the Fly
• Using Terrain and Environmental Factors

Chapter 7: Building and Managing Campaigns

• Planning Long-Term Campaign Arcs
• Integrating Player Backstories
• Maintaining Campaign Consistency

Chapter 8: Enhancing Your Game

• Incorporating Props and Visual Aids
• Using Music and Sound Effects
• Experimenting with Alternative Game Styles (Theater of the Mind, Hexcrawl, etc.)

Chapter 9: Troubleshooting and Problem-Solving

• Addressing Common Issues at the Table
• Handling Player Disengagement
• Rebooting a Stalled Campaign

Chapter 10: Continuing Your Journey

• Resources for Further Learning
• Joining Online Communities and Forums
• Seeking Feedback and Improvement

Conclusion:Congratulations! You're a Dungeon Master

• Final Words of Encouragement
• Appendices:Sample NPCs and Monsters
• Sample Adventure Modules
• Glossary of Terms
• Character Sheets and Blank Maps

Remember to include examples, anecdotes, and tips from your own experiences as a DM to make the guide more relatable and engaging. Good luck with your book!

See?  No thinking necessary.  And if you want to wade into a world of garbage thinking, ask Chat to explain any of the above points.

The problem isn't that writers of game books choose not to be useful; it's that the actual philosophy of how to describe gaming, and what gaming is, and what matters, contributes to a culture of "proactivity" that is more concerned with organising the bullshit than discriminating between what is and what isn't helpful.

Me: Explain how to deal with player conflict, as a DM, within D&D, in paragraph format.

Chat: Dealing with player conflict as a Dungeon Master (DM) in Dungeons and Dragons requires a delicate balance of diplomacy, fairness, and assertiveness. The first step is to address the conflict openly and directly. Encourage players to voice their concerns in a respectful manner and ensure that everyone has an opportunity to speak without interruption. As the mediator, listen attentively to each side's perspective and strive to understand the underlying issues. Once the root cause of the conflict is identified, work with the players to find a compromise or solution that satisfies everyone involved. This may involve making adjustments to the game mechanics, revisiting previous rulings, or clarifying expectations for future interactions. It's crucial to remain impartial and avoid taking sides, focusing instead on fostering a collaborative and inclusive gaming environment. If necessary, remind players of the importance of respect, teamwork, and mutual enjoyment. Ultimately, the goal is to resolve the conflict constructively while preserving the integrity of the game and maintaining positive relationships among the players.

See?  Whatever the question, the result is a parade of subjective non-specific things you ought to do, without any possible comprehension between what's offered.  There's no point in asking how to be "diplomatic" or "fair" or "assertive" ... the answers are all equally subjective.  Not because Chat is designed to be subjective, but because the source material that Chat is pulling from is only more of this.  These are what all the source materials already existing on the internet, or in those piles that Chat was trained to comprehend, are designed to convey. They simply spew tons and tons of this kind of material ... because it fills pages.  Lots and lots of pages.  Pages that people are willing to pay for.

It's the same rhetoric the pervades the self-help phenomenon.  It's not possible for a person to just "be more assertive" or know what to do just because players have been encouraged to "voice their concerns."  Like a book that urges you that getting better isn't that hard, that you have to just keep climbing, that you have to believe in yourself and not give up, none of this actually tells us what we should be doing.  And worse than helping, self-help books prevail upon the reader to think more and more about the problem by promising a solution that never, in fact, materialises.  In effect, the book blames you, the reader.  If you, the reader, would just be make the right adjustments to the game mechanics, your game would be great.  If you, the reader, would just remind the players of the importance of teamwork, your game would be great.  But somehow, it never is.  And because of the source material you're reading, the answer to that, too, is obvious.  It's because you, the reader, didn't do it right.

I don't know how I can make this clearer.  You, dear reader, are the victim: and the self-help book industry is blaming you.  Because it empowers the self-help book industry.  Q.E.D.

However, the RPG industry has insidiously embraced this industry for a long time, so that they've successfully convinced the balance of would-be DMs that this is how advice ought to be given.  Many, many commentors habitually describe these phrases, such at those Chat above generated, as "concise" and "practical," though obviously they're not.  It's not ignorance; it's a belief that, in the absence of any concrete information being available, many convince themselves that they were helped by such books, although in fact it was little more than a pat on the head that effectively said, "just be yourself, you're a good person, everything's fine" or some other similar drivel.

For any book to be actually helpful in training a dungeon master to do any of the things generated above, in concrete terms (that is, existing in material or physical form, not abstract), there are specific things that it needs to do.  But to portray that, I'll have to use an example from a completely different
activity:

Me: How do I prepare a soft-boiled egg?

Chat: To prepare a soft-boiled egg, start by selecting fresh eggs from the store. Fresh eggs ensure a firmer egg white, which helps maintain the egg's structure during cooking. Next, fill a pot with enough water to cover the eggs and bring it to a rolling boil over high heat. Gently lower the eggs into the boiling water using a spoon or tongs, being careful not to crack them. Set a timer for about 4 to 6 minutes, depending on your desired level of doneness and the size of the egg. While the eggs are boiling, you can prepare an ice water bath to stop the cooking process and prevent overcooking. Once the timer goes off, use a slotted spoon to carefully remove the eggs from the boiling water and transfer them to the ice water bath to cool down. Let them sit for a few minutes before gently cracking the shell and peeling it away. Serve the soft-boiled eggs immediately with toast or incorporate them into salads or other dishes. Adjust the timing as needed based on altitude, egg size, and personal preference. With practice, you'll achieve perfectly soft-boiled eggs every time.

There.  Stores exist.  There are eggs there.  They have recognisably different properties that can be defined.  Do this.  Then do this.  Set this timer.  Recognise you may have specific tastes regarding how long the egg ought to be cooked to fit your personal needs.  Use these tools.  Let them cool.  Crack the shell and peel it away.  Practice the procedure.

Until the question, "How do I become a dungeon master" can be defined in this manner, the book you're reading is useless.

Naturally, the begged question is, can a book about DMing be written in this way?  Is that possible?  Quote, "Because it doesn't seem possible.  I've never seen such a book; no one has ever published such a book; the company hasn't even hinted that such a book could be written.  D&D seems so, um, subjective to me."  I find it hard to believe that a concrete book of this time is a believable possibility."

Yep.  See, this is why the self-help industry is very careful in targeting a particular kind of subject ... squidgy, imprecise subjects.  Little did I realise in the early 80s, with my first experiences of D&D, that the inability of people to be precise about the sort of game they wanted to play would open the door to the sort of writing that would make so much money from telling romantics how to get married, or would-be businessmen to become rich and famous, or youtubers how to make tons of money making their own videos, etcetera, etcetera.  But here we are.  Don't discount what I just said about the industry setting out to convince you, the reader, that you need the self-help industry.  It's your life-line.  After all, there's no other possible way you could start a successful business.  You have to believe in yourself.  You have to think your way to success.  You can't just do a simple thing well, keep doing it well, be polite to people, don't overspend, learn the industry you're in, pay attention to changes and work all the time, so as to be successful.  That's just crazy talk.

When a person on the internet says, "Stop playing 5th edition," we read that as "opinion," which can be instantly ignored.  But when that same person says, "foster a collaborative and inclusive gaming environment," that sounds very positive, and therefore obviously much better than "opinion."  Gosh, I'm going to keep playing 5th edition, only from now on I'm going to foster a collaborative and inclusive gaming environment.  That'll work.

There's a method of telling the difference between "opinion" and "knowledge."  The method hasn't been around very long.  Only 2,300 years and some.  The distinction addresses one of the most subjective subjects there is, human thought, yet somehow gets a lot further towards providing a concrete definition than a typical how-to D&D book. Here goes ...

According to Aristotle, knowledge is characterized by certainty and necessity, based on true and justified beliefs grounded in demonstrable evidence or logical reasoning. In contrast, opinion lacks the certainty and reliability of knowledge, as it is based on appearances, probabilities, or premises accepted as true but not necessarily universally valid. Knowledge involves understanding the causes and principles underlying phenomena, whereas opinion relies on perceptions and beliefs about the world that may be subject to error or revision.

If you want to dive into this — and trust me, you won't enjoy it — the works are Nichomachean Ethics and Prior Analytics.  But this is all I'm going to say about Aristotle today.  You think.

For a book to be helpful regarding D&D, is must be rooted in research; that is to say, the writer must have done more than play the game, and must be willing to go further than giving subjective advice without concrete examples of what is meant by the words used.  If the writer says, "D&D requires a delicate balance" of anything, then the following must be included: (a) several factual, concrete examples of this balance; (b) a specific step-by-step guide, equivalent to how to boil an egg, to explain how this balance is achieved by someone who has never done it before; and (c) a conclusive paragraph explaining how the results of this balance cannot be achieved in some other way, specifically because of what the balance concretely does.

If these three things are not written about this balance, then the passage is not merely opinion, it is BULLSHIT.  It's certainly not knowledge.  Aristotle says so.

No, two out of three is not enough.

For a book to be helpful regarding D&D, the advice given has to be universal. Let's see, what does that mean? It means it can't be contingent on specific circumstances, individuals, or subjective perspectives. Instead, universal knowledge is applicable across all instances of a given phenomenon and is independent of particular contexts or personal beliefs.  In essence, the knowledge claims must possess characteristics that are genuinely "knowable."

If the advice being given is, "do what feels right," or "you do you," these things are utterly subjective in their perspective.  In no way whatsoever is this advice objectively comprehensible.  It doesn't even help me know what feels "right" for me, much less the next person.  Something that's universal is often characterised by its necessity.  You NEED this if you want to boil an egg.  It can't be done at all if you don't have this specific thing, namely an egg, the water it has to float in or the heat needed to boil that water.

For a book to be helpful regarding D&D, the advice can't make false promises.  It cannot give assurances that something unrealistic will happen.  We can't say, "this book will make you a better DM," because we don't know who's reading it.  When you pick up a book about chemistry, you don't find in the introduction, "This book will make you a better chemist."  In fact, absolutely nothing whatsoever is said about the reader, because the book is about chemistry, not the reader.  A book on how to play D&D should not start with the question, "Why Become a Dungeon Master?" ... because my choosing to become one or not is none of the book's fucking business.  The book should shut the fuck up about why I'm reading it and get about the business of telling me what I want to know.  A high school chemistry book might have an introduction about why chemistry is a great subject, but that part's written by some educator, not the chemist!  The chemist doesn't care.  The chemist is concerned with chemistry, the reason the book is being written.

There is too much time spent in these books that have nothing to do with the subject at hand ... which is, without a doubt, evidence that the book's goal is not to teach us how to be a dungeon master, but how to appreciate the author's suffering and how to feel worse about ourselves.

And finally, for a book to be helpful regarding D&D, though I've already said this, it must provide real-world actions that I, the reader, can take.  And I, the reader, must in turn take those actions, experimenting with them to see if they ARE universal and not, in fact, about blowing smoke up my ass.  These actions should be crystal clear.  "Stop playing 5th Edition," for example.  Buy 3rd edition books, 2nd edition, 1st edition, for these reasons.  And we, as the reader of this book, like we would if we were reading a chemistry book, knowing very little ourselves about chemistry, should trust that the damned author understands the material being presented.

When the D&D book says, a DM must have these specific, point-by-point expectations of the players, for these reasons and these reasons, and must enforce these expectations, in this way and in this way, then we as the people who wish to become better DMs have to embrace that concept and walk the path laid out for us.  We can't suddenly decide, "Wait, my friend's feelings were hurt," and then choose not to enforce our expectations for that reason ... and suppose at the same time that we're going to somehow understand what's being said and why.  The book can explain, "Sometimes you'll have to hurt your friend's feelings," and "In the end, you'll discover why your friend will be grateful for that" ... but if we won't actually go through the actions in order to get the wisdom, then we deserve to be ignorant.  Because this is how knowledge works.  Sometimes, what we suppose is not knowledge, and conversely, knowledge is often what we don't suppose.  Part of the reason for that is because, according to Aristotle again, your suppositions are "opinions" and NOT KNOWLEDGE.  The book is here to provide knowledge.  It shouldn't be here to assuage your suppositions ...

... particularly because your suppositions aren't universal.

Would it be easy to write a book like this?  Fuck no.  Is a chemistry book easy to write?  Is a children's book ...?  All books are hard.  If you, dear reader, have no idea how a book like this would sound, or read, or have to say to you, then you're obviously not the person to write such a book.  And if you choose to base the probability of such a book based on your suppositions about it's purported existence?

Then you're a bloody moron.