ars ludi

Next weekend is Fabricated Realities (the “I’m sorry, did you say gaming inside of artwork?” con) and the awesome folks putting it together asked me to say a few words for the zine. They’d heard tall tales of the welcome spiel from our Story Games Seattle open game nights, cunningly crafted to help people shake off the work day, get in the mood and bring their game.

I was supposed to keep it short. Oops. What can I say, some things were just too important to leave out. Take a peek.

Welcome to the Game

The time has come to game. Are you excited? Maybe a little anxious to see what the weekend will hold? Me too.

But hold on a minute. There are a few things you probably already know, but you may forget in your white-hot excitement to sit down and game. Just like I know not to lock my keys in the car, and yet there I am, standing in the parking lot, pounding on the window, screaming why god why. So let’s take a moment and chat.

Gaming With Strangers

First things first. Look around you. Probably a lot of unfamiliar faces. Guess what? You’re going to game with those people, a lot of whom are total strangers.

What we’re here to do–gaming–is actually kind of amazing. You’re going to try to make something creative, but instead of just making something you like, you’re going to collaborate with a bunch of other people and try to make something cool together. Now add in that you have no clue what those other people like and dislike, and they know as little about you.

It’s crazy. Even making conversation with someone you just met can be challenging. But forget that, you’re going to try to build and share something fascinating and exciting. You’re going to go way out on a limb, creatively, and hope–hope!–that these total strangers are on the same page as you. It’s really not a trivial thing. It’s actually insanely brave of you. Kudos, right off the bat.

There’s a flip-side too. Remember that everyone else at the table is going out on a limb just as much as you. Give them a hand. Try, really try, to understand what they’re trying to contribute. Making stuff up on the fly in a way that is clear and concise is really, really hard, so when someone is fumbling around trying to describe something and it isn’t making sense to you, or you don’t get why they’re bringing it up, don’t just shrug and move on. Stop and ask them to clarify. Help them get their idea across. Be genuinely interested in what they’re trying to do.

When other players say things, no matter how random it seems, they probably have a reason. They’re trying to get a point across or introduce some idea. Listen. Ask questions. You’re all in it together. If you understand where they’re coming from, your game will be infinitely better.

Say Hello & Name Your Games

Want to know a really simple thing that will help a ton, but you’re going to forget to do? Introduce yourself. Yep. Everyone’s going to be excited to start playing, but do yourselves a huge favor and take five minutes to introduce yourselves and (even more critically) list the games you’ve played before. Knowing what kind of games everyone’s played will make it much easier to get what they’re thinking (or not understanding) about the game you’re playing right now. And nothing will improve your game, nothing in the world, like understanding the other players better.

Oh, and if this is your very first time playing a role-playing game? Don’t hang your head in shame–that’s awesome! Every player at the table will be _stoked_ to have you there. Seriously, wait and see.

The Veil

And that brings us to that most mysterious and crucial part of hardcore gaming, The Veil. Games about real and serious things can delve into some real and serious issues. It may be more than you bargained for. You may be confronted with subject matter you just aren’t comfortable with.

Here’s the thing: no matter what the issue is, or why you aren’t comfortable, you don’t have to explain or justify. Just tell the other people that you’d like to “draw a veil” over that issue and >boom< we'll skip it.

Particularly with strangers, everyone at the table should know they have the right to draw the Veil, whenever and however they want. Explain it at the start of every game, without fail. You don't have to go into specifics of what issues may come up, because frankly you never know what will come up or what will offend particular people, but make it very, very clear that the Veil is always welcome, never questioned.

If you see someone else at the table making weird faces and you think they are having a bad reaction to the content but they don't feel comfortable speaking up, don't put that person on the spot. Ask the other players if the material should be Veiled, like you just thought it up. Once it's on the table you may get the weak nod that means "oh yes please for the love of god let's not do that part anymore." You may also find that the person you thought was in distress isn't bothered by what you thought at all. It costs nothing to find out this way.

Bring The Fun

Last but not least, bring the fun. Don’t wait to be entertained. Gaming is not passive media, it’s a team sport. Bringing your best game will make the game fun for you and everyone else. The other players will do the same for you. Or to put it another way, “Ask not what the game can do for you. Ask what you can do for the game…”

See you in Olympia…

“Several times I have attempted to talk about music with you. It would have interested me to know your thoughts and opinions, whether they contradicted mine or not, but you have disdained to make me even the barest reply.”

He gave me a most amiable smile and this time a reply was accorded to me.

“Well,” he said with equanimity, “you see, in my opinion there is no point at all in talking about music. I never talk about music. What reply, then, was I to make to your very able and just remarks? You were perfectly right in all you said. But, you see, I am a musician, not a professor, and I don’t believe that, as regards music, there is the least point in being right. Music does not depend on being right, on having good taste and education and all that.”

“Indeed. Then what does it depend on?”

“On making music, Herr Haller, on making music as well and as much as possible and with all the intensity of which one is capable. That is the point, Monsieur.”

– Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse

Find and replace: gaming.

We did the Pickup Donut for just about every slot of Go Play NW 2010. But for one slot, we tried something even more experimental…

Unlike the Pickup Donut, which had been part of our plan to handle the large volume of pickup games for months, the Lottery was a last minute idea. Literally, the night before the event. I’m not sure anyone has done anything like it before in the history of role-playing game events. Someone holler if they know.

The idea is simple: instead of making an intelligent, careful, decision about what you play and who you play with, throw caution to the wind and let the fates decide for you.

The procedure is exactly what it sounds like. Everybody gets together and throws their event badges into a basket. We randomly draw four at a time, read the names (and return the badges) and those people go off and game. What they play is totally up to them.

You may play with people you would have never otherwise gamed with. All the normal social pressures that affect who you decide to play with go straight out the window. And you may try games you would never have otherwise tried, because you happen to be in a group with other people who know about and want to play that game. Or even if you play something familiar, maybe someone else in your group is being exposed to something they would never have considered playing. It’s all in the hands of fate.

We did the Lottery in a Saturday afternoon slot (rather than a Sunday slot) so that people would meet new people early enough in the weekend that they could play with them again if they wanted to. Making a bunch of new friends right when the con ends isn’t as jolly.

Because it’s totally up to chance, I suspect people are a lot less critical about the games they wind up in. Much like Run Club, everyone recognizes that it’s an experiment from the start, a lark. I think that puts people in a more receptive, open frame of mind. You certainly can’t kick yourself for picking the wrong group to play with, because you didn’t choose at all. You’re off the hook, so you can just relax and see what happens. Even disasters can be entertaining when you don’t feel like they’re your fault.

The Lottery is not without its risks. Because it’s completely random, you could wind up with a group where no one felt comfortable facilitating a game. You could adjust the system somehow to stack the deck and make sure there was a facilitator in each group, but personally I like it this way. There were cases at Go Play NW 2010 where people who wouldn’t have otherwise facilitated stepped up because there was no one else in the group who would. On the other hand, I know there was at least one group that didn’t: they all decided to play a board game instead. Which I think is a perfect snapshot of the entire Go Play NW “bring the fun” ethos.

Like I said, I’m not sure any other role-playing game event has done a Lottery, but I think every single one should, at least for one slot. It’s an excellent change of pace.

(and no, I’m not a Go Play NW organizer this year, but fear not, it’s in good hands. Come to think of it you should probably register soon if you want to go)

One of the big challenges of running events like Go Play NW (or even small events like the weekly Story Games Seattle) is actually getting people sitting down and playing.

It’s not that people don’t want to play. Quite the opposite. They’re there to play. But everybody is a little picky. They actually want to play in good games. Games they’ll enjoy. Crazy, I know.

Faced with a world of choices, and with more opportunities lurking in every corner, hesitation becomes an optimum strategy. The excited gamer thinks “but if I decide to play in this game, maybe another game will pop up in five minutes that I’d rather play in!”

The easy solution is just to schedule all games in advance. Put up a big grid and have everyone sign up before they even set foot in the door. The downside is that you lose the opportunity to make connections and experience unexpected things. If you’ve got every slot scheduled, you can’t decide to play that game that someone just told you about which sounds really awesome, or play with those cool folks you just met at the Friday Night Feast. You can’t go with your own personal flow, because you’re booked.

Last year, Go Play NW swung a lot more towards pickup instead of scheduling, both by popular demand and as an intentional policy to encourage people to mix it up and embrace the unknown. But that also meant a lot more people milling around, so we came up with some new and experimental methods to get folks into games quickly.

When it gets down to pickup games, you’ve got basically two sets of people: people who want to play in something but don’t know what, and people who want to run/facilitate particular games and are looking for people to play (you could add to that a third category, people who want someone else to facilitate a particular game they want to play, but for our purposes that doesn’t make a difference).

At Go Play NW 2009, during the pickup huddle (aka the group hug) each person who wanted to facilitate a game pitched it to everyone who was free. With a small group that works, but for some slots at Go Play NW 2010 there would easily be 50+ people looking for games. With the old huddle, that’s chaos in the making.

The idea of the Pickup Donut (né Power Donut) is pretty simple: divide one large group into several smaller groups so it’s easier for people to pick a game. The trick is that you want to make sure that the ratio of facilitators to players stays about even. If you don’t, if you just divide your 60 would-be gamers into four groups of 15, you have no guarantee there will be enough facilitators.

The method is fast and simple. Assemble the entire mob in one room, everybody who wants to play or facilitate. Everybody forms a rough circle around the organizer, who stands in the center of the room.

Next, the organizer asks everyone who wants to facilitate a game to step forward toward the middle, forming a second circle inside the first. Now you’ve got your donut, players as the outer ring, facilitators as the inner ring. The organizer is still in the center. The people in each ring should make sure they’re evenly distributed (i.e. no part of a ring has people bunched up or spread out). Organizer, you should spin around once or twice to double-check.

Now you slice the donut. Organizer, close your eyes. Rotate a bit so you don’t know where you’re facing, then point your arms straight out left and right. Where you’re pointing cuts the donut in half. Open your eyes and rotate another 90 degrees, then slice the donut again. Now it’s in quarters.

You’ve now got four separate groups, each with roughly the same number of players of facilitators. Each group huddles, makes pitches and decides how they want to break up into groups and play. By drastically reducing the number of pitches and the number of people, it’s much easier for people to get settled into games.

Slicing into quarters is usually good, but with 30 or less you might only cut in half. With a lot more people, you might slice even more. You want about 10-15 people in each resulting group.

If you want to really mix things up, after you close your eyes have the ring of facilitators rotate a bit before you slice. That means no one can predict what facilitators they’ll be paired up with.

Oh, and organizer, don’t forget to leave room for yourself. Pick a spot in whichever ring you want and tell someone to leave a phantom space that you’ll jump in. Otherwise you’ll wind up standing in the middle looking like an idiot. True story. I said these things were experimental.

The general complaint against the Pickup Donut is that someone only has the games in group A to choose from, but the game they _really_ wanted was in group C. In fact, that has nothing to do with the donut, it’s true of all gaming events, everywhere: You will miss that really cool game.

next: we up the ante even more with The Lottery

People are clever. We can do two, three, four things at once. We can wear a lot of hats and take care of a lot of different things all at the same time.

But there’s a price. It is pretty much guaranteed that the more you try to do at once, the harder each of those things becomes. And sometimes we don’t even realize all the different things we’re doing at once. We forget to look up and count just how many hats we’re wearing. And then we wonder why we’re so worn out.

First things first: when you sit down at the table to game, you’re wearing your player hat. If it’s a game with a GM, maybe you’re the GM instead, but either way you’re trying to play the game in some capacity. Ideally that’s all you’d be doing: playing the game. Done!

Because we’re talking about gaming, you’re pretty much always wearing your player hat. But sometimes you’ve got more on your plate beyond just playing the game. Or on your head, to stick to my metaphor.

If the other people at the table don’t know how to play this particular game, someone’s got to explain the rules. Guess who? So now in addition to playing, you’re the facilitator. Even after you’ve finished describing all the rules and the game is in motion, you’re still on duty, because you’re watching to make sure the other players got it. You’re ready to clear up confusion or point out when the game has unintentionally drifted away from the rules.

Maybe this isn’t even a finished game. Maybe you’re wearing your playtester hat and keeping an eye out for glitches, rough spots or anything you should give feedback about. You may even be the game designer, in which case some part of your brain is _always_ watching and analyzing how your creation works, even if it’s supposedly finished.

If your single game is part of a larger gathering, whether that’s a con, a mini-con, or even just a (ahem) weekly public meetup, and you’re responsible for the whole thing coming together, then you’re also wearing your organizer hat. Not only are you paying attention to what’s happening in your game, you’ve probably got one ear cocked to make sure the rest of the event is going smoothly as well. Even if it’s just a simple gathering of friends in a living room, if you’re the host you are probably spending a little thought to make sure everyone is comfortable and taken care of.

Yep, that’s a lot of different hats. And yes, you can wear them all at once. You can sit down at a table as a player + facilitator + playtester + designer + organizer. You can do all those things simultaneously (trust me, I know). But recognize that when you’re wearing multiple hats, it’s going to be harder. You’re doing more work.

So if you are stretched thin, what gives first? Play. Every time. Sure, you could be a terrible organizer and get so wrapped up in your game that you don’t notice the south wing of the hall is on fire, but I’m guessing it’s more likely you’ll be distracted by the demands of the event and pay less attention to the game you’re in.

Why does playing take the hit? I guess it’s because playing is a creative process that works best when you can immerse yourself in the moment, sans distractions. All the others are logistical or logical demands that can easily butt in and grab your attention, yanking you out of the deep game space. Interrupts trump zen, particularly when you’re actually trying to attend to those interrupts.

This explains some things we already knew, like that playtesting is never quite the same as just playing a game. You’re doing two things at once, being creative but also sitting back and analyzing (yes, criticizing) the experience so you can give useful feedback. Actually, if you’re the one explaining a playtest game to your group, they’re doing two things (play + playtest) and you’re doing at least three (play + playtest + facilitate).

Likewise when you’re organizing a game event, there’s a natural inclination to step up and run games for folks, which is awesome. But again, recognize all the different things you’re trying to do at once, particularly if you’re considering running that new game you’ve been working on all weekend (play + organize + facilitate + design + playtest). It may go great, but if you want to recharge your batteries, consider just sitting down and playing in a game someone else is putting together. That’s only two hats (organize + play) instead of five.

Bottom line: I’m not saying don’t do it. I’m saying know what you’re doing. If you’re aware of all the things you’re trying to do at once, it will be easier for you to keep it all under control. Recognize when you’re biting off a lot for yourself.

And while we’re at it, this should make it crystal clear that we should tip our hats to players everywhere who take on the duty of sitting down and teaching everyone else the rules. They’re working harder at the table so you can have fun and play.

Oh you facilitators, you are the gaming angels of mercy. No joke: most people don’t learn to play games from reading the rules. They learn by having someone else at the table explain to them how to play.

Facilitators, we love you.

Another instant name trick, this one for making up mythic titles on the fly while maintaining a strong cultural flavor. We just played a pre-Conquistador Aztec game (and by “pre” I mean, “hey, what’s that white sail on the horizon?”) so we got to whip it out. And now I share it with you.

First, think about the setting you’re going to be playing. Just imagine it. Now write down ten or a dozen words that come to mind. You’re looking for evocative words that really capture the flavor of the environment. Limp words should be cast out. If you’re GMing you may be doing this by yourself (particularly if you’re going to be the only one using it), but in a GMless game you can brainstorm your list together.

For our Aztec game, we had something like:

serpent, feather, obsidian, mirror, gold, blood, sun, smoke, jaguar, knife

Now any time during the game, when you need a cool title for a temple, a sacred place, or a god, just pick two random words from the list and combine them: obsidian serpent, feathered mirror, blood sun, smoke serpent, feather knife, and so on. Would you cross a warrior known as the Knife of the Sun? Dare you enter the Valley of the Golden Smoke?

These are names or titles, not necessarily the literal object (not everything in the world are mirrors, knives or jaguars). Pretty much any combination should come up with something fairly cool that also feels right for the setting. There’s a natural urge to divide your list into adjectives and nouns, but that isn’t necessary. If you’re feeling bold, number your list and get some dice ready.

Let’s try a different setting, something a little more Teutonic. Here’s a list off the top of my head:

iron, wolf, bone, grave, hammer, eye, storm, frost, axe, blood, rune

Just looking at that list, you probably have a good idea of the vibe I have in mind. It’s a recipe for the flavor of the setting all by itself.

Need a cool name for a warlord? Easy. Stormwolf, Bloodhammer, Wolf-axe, Bone-eye: they’re all good. Combine this with the one-letter name trick and you’ve got Lord Jharles Stormwolf, bearer of the dreaded sword Gravehammer.

For the past two and a half years, I’ve spent less time on ars ludi because I’ve been heads-down, nose-to-the-grindstone, designing and playtesting a game. A fairly ambitious game, you could argue.

Now, finally, I’m done: Microscope is finished, and I’ve unleashed it upon the unsuspecting world.

It’s not what you’d call a “normal” role-playing game. For most of my life, one of my favorite parts of gaming was the joy of building worlds. When I made Microscope, I took what used to be solo, pre-game prep and put it squarely on the table. As you play you make a world together — a fractal history you expand and explore — that you never would have conceived of alone. I am constantly surprised by what we create when we play.

Speaking as a career world-builder, it fucking rocks.

You may be thinking: but creativity-by-committee sucks! You just get watered-down gruel! And you might be quite right. But don’t worry, Microscope has that covered.

What else is unusual about Microscope? I’m describing it like it’s just a world-building game, but there’s also that small matter of completely defying chronological order: knowing the end and zooming in to explore the middle, jumping backward a thousand years to find out how the kingdom was founded — the description covers all that pretty well.

While it was in development, I kept the discussion over on the Lame Mage blog, but now that Microscope’s done I’ll be talking more here about some of the strange lessons making such an unusual game taught me about games in general.

But for now, it’s beer o’clock.

or, being the right kind of mean

“So, you’re trying to expose government corruption. Well, a car drives up, and a bunch of guys jump out. With guns! And… they shoot you! Uh, dead! Conflict!”
“Allll-right…”

We play a lot of story games where there’s no GM, and each character has an arc or agenda they’re pursuing,* rather than reacting to a plot being pushed on them like they would in a traditional game. In these games, the job of providing adversity — making getting what you want difficult and interesting — falls to different players at different times. It becomes a skill everyone needs to be good at, not just one person designated as the GM.

Being a good antagonist is a tricky business, because the players aren’t really enemies. You’re not trying to ruin the character’s life: you’re trying to threaten to ruin their life in a way the other player finds interesting. It’s really collaboration, through an adversarial lens. Good antagonism is a win for the victim.

Here’s a simple recipe for providing trouble in a way that improves the game. Antagonism 101, if you will:

Find out what the protagonist wants, then attach a price tag to it.

Look closely at that first part. Before you can antagonize, the protagonist has to desire. That’s the natural order, and the literal definition of the words: the protagonist takes action and the antagonist opposes. If the protagonist doesn’t want anything, it’s really, really hard to antagonize. Making a “protagonist” with no motive or wants is a complete party foul: a Zen protagonist is not holding up their end of the game, because they’re not giving us anything to work worth. Why are we watching this person’s story? What’s interesting about this person? Who knows?

So step one of antagonism is really: watch and wait. Feel out the protagonist. See where they’re going. What do they want? What do they care about? Send out feelers, but don’t try to impose your own plot (not yet anyway). It’s the protagonist’s story, not yours.

Once you suss out what the protagonist wants, don’t just try to prevent it. That’s a rookie mistake. If you succeed, what happens? Nothing! We’re right back where we started. Same with attacking the protagonist. A guy comes at you with a knife! Who cares? A good protagonist has to be about more than self-preservation. There can be lots of danger to the protagonist, but it’s a means to an end not an end in itself. If you’re killed you can’t lead the revolution, or you won’t see your daughter again, or you won’t get to write your novel: that’s the real threat.

Instead, let the protagonist get what they want, but only if they’re willing to pay your price. Sure, you can lead the revolution that overthrows the government, but are you still willing to do it if your brother is killed in the fighting? Hmm? Okay, well are you willing to personally send him on a suicide mission to defeat the tyrant? Go ahead, take your time and think about it, and hey, let’s roleplay that discussion while we’re at it…

Choice is essential. The protagonist (or at least the protagonist’s player) must be able to see the alternatives and know what the risks are before deciding. Different games have different mechanics for resolving conflicts, but you absolutely want to put that dilemma squarely on the protagonist’s shoulders, preferably giving them a while to stew and angst about it. When it all goes down, they should have no one to blame but themselves.

What’s a good price? That’s the tricky part. You want to keep it tempting. Go too far, charge too much, and the protagonist player isn’t interested anymore. Charge too little, or attach a price tag that’s about something the protagonist doesn’t care about (even though you thought they did) and there’s no friction. You’re trying to create a difficult choice. If one answer is clearly the best, it’s too easy.

If you were paying attention during the “watch & wait” part, you should have a good idea of what the protagonist considers important. You’ve got two main avenues of attack:

Corruption: the protagonist gets what they want, but it doesn’t turn out the way they hoped

Consequences: the protagonist gets what they want, but something else bad happens too

Wanna free the slaves? Awesome! But instead of an enlightened new age, the freed slaves turn around and enslave or slaughter their former masters (Corruption). Wanna cure the plague? Sweet, populace saved! But slaving away for zillions of hours in the lab left your wife lonely. She’s leaving you and your damned test tubes! (Consequences)

Sometimes it’s a combination of the two: Wanna marry the princess? Of course she’ll do it, because she loves you too! But it throws her kingdom into war, because a hoped-for political marriage that would have stabilized relations with an ancient enemy is no longer possible (Consequences). And even though it was her decision, she’ll probably live to regret subjecting her people to misery just to make you happy (Corruption).

Be careful that you don’t corrupt something so much that it isn’t what the protagonist wants any more. In your minds-eye, strip down their goal to its core concept, and then mangle things surrounding that concept without stepping on the idea itself. You want to add a price, not change their goal.

How will you know you’re doing it right? There’s a face a player makes when they’re pushed into territory they don’t want, but they can’t deny is pretty awesome. There’s a moment of shock, followed by a fleeting urge to refute, immediately followed by the realization that wishing is just not going to make it go away. They’re going to love the situation later, after it sinks in, but right now they’re still pretty floored by it. You’ll know it when you see it.

if you didn’t pick a good price you’ll either get pleasant agreement or no reaction (price too low) or a look of discomfort, annoyance, or even a hint of revulsion (price too high buddy). If it’s too late to adjust, just file that info away for later and make your next move better.

This is the age-old protagonist question “How far are you willing to go to get what you want?” flipped around to the point of view of the antagonist. The practical application of theory.

* Shock, Polaris, Fiasco — games like that