If I were asked to list the most important quality of a role playing game I might not think of the freedom to make your own choices right away, but I sure as heck would get to it somewhere in the top 10. Choice is an integral part of role playing and is implicit in nearly every interaction a player has with the game master. The GM tells you much of what you see, hear, smell, and so forth and follows up with the single most common (and most important) question: "What do you do?"
Often there isn't much real choice available. Do you hit the orc with your sword or do you shoot an arrow at him with your longbow? Do you hurl mystic fire or mystic ice at the troll? "Fire, duh. Trolls regenerate ice damage." But either way, it's a tactical decision more than an actual choice. In this context, any choice is constrained and generally 'safe.' Which is to say, it is unlikely to derail the game master's plans for the evening. Nor is it going to seriously endanger your character's existence or the party's overall success... At least not any more than any other roll of the polyhedral.
But there are other kinds of choices. Do we kick in the front door of the dungeon or sneak around and try to find a back way? Sometimes these choices don't have a huge effect, if the dungeon already features a back way in on the map, the GM is pretty well-prepared. Likewise, everything is peachy if it absolutely doesn't have a back door. But there are occasions where it can cause problems. What if there is a back way in, but the GM had counted on the players learning something key in the first few rooms? Some bit of plot that either relates to the larger story or a key secret that will allow them to defeat the hideous undead lord they are destined to meet at the very bottom of the dungeon? Now the GM has to scramble. Is there a way to duplicate that important bit elsewhere? Should the GM utter that infamous phrase, "No. You can't do that?" Should the GM let the dice fall where they may and allow the possibility for players to make mistakes, or even fail entirely because of what seemed like a reasonable choice at the time?
There's no single right or wrong answer to these questions. Every group can find its own way through these thorny issues. But if the players and the GM never discuss these things, no decision will be made consciously. Communication is hugely important. As a GM, I don't want my players to be frustrated because they failed due to a circumstance beyond their control. At the same time, I'm proud of my adventures, my stories, and my schmaltzy jokes. I want the players to see as much of my grand tapestry as possible. I want as much of the hard work I put into the game to show as possible. Selfish? Heck, yeah, I am.
In my experience, players tend to be very risk-averse in a game. They always want the maximum return for the minimum risk. And they plain hate to lose, let alone suffer the ignominy of character death. Losing happens and so does character death, but players will almost always move heaven, earth, and various elemental planes to avoid it. This leads to a lot of careful planning whenever the players think their characters are heading into a dangerous situation. Which is pretty much all of the time in an adventure game, right? So that means a lot of time is going to be spent on things that would never be explored in a novel, movie, or comic book.
There's a reason why editors cut that stuff out or boil it down to a quick-cut montage set to 80's music: it's boring. It isn't any less boring when it's hashed out at the table. Even worse, it can lead to players arguing with each other - there's nothing wrong with characters arguing with each other - but I hate it when my friends fight for real. I think these arguments are based on the fear that there is a Right Decision and a Wrong Decision. And if the players make the Wrong Decision, the GM will Punish Them with loss or even death. Did I mention that most players hate losing and/or dying?
The other night I ran a game of D&D 4th Edition and I wanted the players to have a real say in where the campaign went. We were at a turning point and the plan would play a large part in determining the stories we tell together for the rest of the campaign. So it was an important choice and it was a wide-open free choice. I literally didn't care which way the game went, because I hadn't written it yet. In this case, there was no wrong choice. I had nothing prepared that would be wasted if the players never saw it. I had no serious preconception of how the campaign would play out. Whatever decision the group came to was pretty much by definition the Right Decision.
But neither the players nor their characters knew any of that. And I think that's a good thing, but it has consequences. In this case, the consequence was the conversation spinning down into frustration and discord. The decision was SO IMPORTANT that the players didn't dare make the wrong choice. In game disagreements were on the verge of becoming real life frustrations and tempers were fraying.
So I stepped out from behind the GM screen (metaphorically-speaking, I didn't actually get out of my chair) and told them pretty much everything I just wrote down in this here blog post. There was a sort of a pause while it all sunk in and then everyone immediately agreed on the option that sounded like the most enjoyable, exciting, and adventurous choice. The entire argument was over in less than a minute and everyone seemed pretty happy with the conclusion.
Except me.
Anytime I have to break the fourth wall and explain something directly to the players, I remind them all that this is "only a game." Everyone breaks character and the whole fantasy world that we're all working (playing) so hard to create gets a little less vibrant and feels a little less real. We never did get back into character that night. The conversation rapidly turned to Marvel's The Avengers and other non-game matters. I totaled up the experience points we had racked up for the evening, did all the necessary accounting, and the game wrapped on an up-note.
But I think I could have done better. I'm just not sure how. There's a certain amount of deception that any role-playing game must involve. There are some fights the characters are simply never going to lose - almost all of them, in fact. But I want the players to feel on some level that they could always lose. That's what makes winning so cool. To use a movie analogy, sometimes the choice is between cutting the
red versus the green wire in a bomb. Making the Wrong Choice is bad. But sometimes the choice is
who to date. That's a pretty big choice, but from the pool of legitimate
candidates, there may not actually be a wrong choice, just different
choices. If we are always frank and honest and open about everything, a lot of
dramatic tension goes right out the window, never to return. But if we
aren't all on the same page about which decisions are important but
safe, which ones are important and risky, and which ones are just color
text ... well, that's just no fun at all, is it?
I'm still working on it. Has your table hit on this problem? How'd you deal with it? I'd love to hear from game masters and players alike.
Wednesday, May 9th, 2012
Chelmsford, MA
Showing posts with label Adventure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adventure. Show all posts
Thursday, 10 May 2012
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Unexpectedly Harrowing and Accidentally Epic
Greetings Dear Reader and welcome to the second installment of an ongoing and poorly organized tour of my brain.
I had intended this to be an entertaining and informative recap of my weekend adventures in Hagerstown, MD where I was fortunate enough to participate in “Once Upon a Time in Tombstone,” a weekend-long live action roleplaying game set in the wild American West. However, to quote Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, “This is not the comedy we intended to do when the week began.”
No, that tale shall have to wait. Instead, I present the unexpectedly harrowing and accidentally epic story of how I and my boon companion and federal crime-fighter (hereafter referred to as Federal Crime-Fighter) traveled back and forth across the Eastern Seaboard in four different cars and countless different states. No human beings were harmed, injured, or oppressed during the making of this adventure. Sadly, the same cannot be said about cars.
The trip began innocently enough. My good friend the Federal Crime-Fighter suggested that we travel to the game together. She lives in Connecticut, which – I am reliably informed – is closer to Maryland than my own beloved Commonwealth of Massachusetts, so I piled myself and an inordinate amount of Western-style clothing into my faithful author-mobile and trucked on down to meet her at her Crime-Fighting Cave. We put my inordinate pile of Western-style clothing on top of her pile, clambered into her faithful crime-fighting-mobile and we were off. (Noted for the record, the faithful crime-fighting-mobile is her off duty car and not an Official Government Vehicle. Had an actual Official Government Vehicle been used, things might have been much, much more complicated.) For the first several hours of our trip, all went well. The conversation was agreeable and occasionally witty; the traffic was relatively light and so were our hearts and minds.
We decided to take a short rest break in Berndardsville, NJ. The town was chosen because my good friend the Federal Crime-Fighter (hereafter referred to as The Fed, because this is just getting way too long) has relatives nearby. It turns out that I do too, but that isn't relevant to the story, merely a point of trivial interest for the hard-core Andy Kirschbaum fans out there. We were cruising along Rte. 202 in Bernardsville at a comfortable clip when things went downhill rapidly. I shall not relate the details of The Incident; suffice to say that it was brief, highly impact-full, and turned the crime-fighting-mobile from a well-maintained, finely-tuned engine of cross-continental travel into a decoratively-crumpled Go-Kart inclined to fly apart in a stiff breeze or at the first indications of a sharp left turn. I hasten once again to assure you, Dear Reader, that no human beings were harmed, injured, or oppressed during The Incident. We were, however, mildly surprised to find ourselves standing on the side of Rte. 202 in Bernardsville, NJ awaiting the arrival of the local authorities. The nice lady driving what we shall call, for technical purposes, The Other Car was quite friendly and helpful as we exchanged pleasantries and vital statistics.
In short order, Officer Friendly of the Bernardsville, NJ police department showed up. Now, I will admit that I have been known to apply the occasional sarcastic nickname to the people I encounter in my travels, but absolutely no sarcasm is intended in this case. Officer Friendly of the Bernardsville, NJ police department was efficient, polite, helpful, and – yes, friendly. Based on the reactions, attitudes, and sudden swooning from every female in the immediate vicinity, I also gathered that Officer Friendly was quite the hunk. I often miss small details like this. As an author and literary specialist, it is possible that my mind is too keenly focused to notice such things. Another small detail that had escaped my keen literary notice was pointed out by Officer Friendly when he examined my ID. Apparently, my license to operate a motor vehicle had expired slightly over a month ago. Yes, Dear Reader, it was shaping up to be One of Those Trips.
After everything was as sorted out as it was likely to get, Officer Friendly bid us and the lady in The Other Car a fond farewell and we GPSed up the location of the nearest Insurance-Approved body shop. We found one that was supposedly a mere 11 miles away, as the crow flies. How, we wondered, did people do this before Smart Phones and GPS devices? We limped the poor wounded crime-fighting-mobile to the aforementioned Insurance-Approved body shop. And believe me when I tell you this was a harrowing and hazard-light filled trip. The supposedly mere 11 mile trip turned out to include a stint on the highway and far more than 11 miles on twisty back roads. Both of us held our breath and sat quite still, fearing any excess movement might cause our vehicle to explode apart into chrome and tinsel. It didn't. After turning around and backtracking once or twice (the GPS may well have known where it was going, but we didn't) we safely arrived at the body shop.
Paperwork was filled out and heels were cooled while we waited for the nice people from the not-so-nearby rental car company to come and get us. We were instructed, warned, and admonished not to forget anything in the car when we left. We politely tolerated these thoughtful words. Surely we would not be so foolish as to leave anything behind? Surely not. (Note for the record, this confidence will come back to bite us in a future episode of this very blog.) Eventually, the nice people from the not-so-nearby rental car company arrive with our car. They assure us, that this was the only available car and if we truly wanted to make it to Maryland tonight, this was our only way.
Believe me Dear Reader when I tell you that this 'car' was one good meal away from being a school bus. If we could have lifted it, we could have easily tucked the original crime-fighting-mobile inside and still had room for both passengers, all of our piles of inordinate Western-style clothing and perhaps a mid-sized nuclear family in the back seat. I'm saying this car was big. But it was also the only car available. Also, because of my embarrassing license situation, the Fed was the only driver available. Given our options, we took the car and returned to our journey. And so it came to pass, a mere 4 hours after we stopped off the road for a quick rest stop and sanitary break, we finally made it back onto the road and continued our trip, somewhat worse for the wear.
A few blessedly uneventful hours later, we approach our destination. The Fed asks me to call a soon-to-be local costume shop to see if they will be open tomorrow (Saturday) morning so she can pick up a wig for her costume. She knows the name of the store she's looking for and with a little bit of Web-Fu, I manage to track down a phone number. We once again wonder how these things were done in the days before Smart Phones and GPS devices. I call the number and a pleasant-sounding gentleman answers the phone, but not with the name of the costume store I thought I was calling. I ask if I have reached the number to whom I am speaking. I am informed that I have. I ask about their Saturday morning hours. I am informed that the costume store has gone out of business. I am sympathetic, but ask if there is another local store where I might be able to get a wig tomorrow morning. The gentleman asks me if I am looking for a wig for my wife. I respond that the wig is for a lady. This is, apparently insufficient information, so the gentleman once again asks – as if, perhaps, he had misheard me – “Is this wig for your wife?” I glance over at my good friend the Federal Crime-Fighter and decide that some battles are simply not worth fighting over the phone. “Yes,” I reply. “Yes, it is.”
With the honor of the wig business upheld, the gentleman gave me the address of another costume shop and we were able to arrive at the hotel without further comedy. Even though the game had already begun by the time we dragged ourselves down, several friends broke character to wish us well and greet us. I amiably explained, that my horse had broken down outside of town and we had to get a replacement rental horse. The Fed explained, to those who asked, that "there was a problem with the wagon," and that some complicated repairs were necessary outside of town, and that at least no one died of dysentery, and that hopefully, soon enough, all would be well to raft down the Dalles. The Fed it seems is a big fan of “Oregon Trail.” Eventually, the two of us got into costume and into character and managed to have a lovely evening in Tombstone of the 1880's. The next morning, while I got into a showdown with my coffee, the Fed went off to trade in our enormous rental bus for something smaller (and cheaper!) and purchase the aforementioned wig of honor. I am pleased to report that she was successful in both endeavors.
Stay tuned to this web page for the game report and the (much less exciting) story of our return trip (and my adventures at the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles...)
I had intended this to be an entertaining and informative recap of my weekend adventures in Hagerstown, MD where I was fortunate enough to participate in “Once Upon a Time in Tombstone,” a weekend-long live action roleplaying game set in the wild American West. However, to quote Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, “This is not the comedy we intended to do when the week began.”
No, that tale shall have to wait. Instead, I present the unexpectedly harrowing and accidentally epic story of how I and my boon companion and federal crime-fighter (hereafter referred to as Federal Crime-Fighter) traveled back and forth across the Eastern Seaboard in four different cars and countless different states. No human beings were harmed, injured, or oppressed during the making of this adventure. Sadly, the same cannot be said about cars.
The trip began innocently enough. My good friend the Federal Crime-Fighter suggested that we travel to the game together. She lives in Connecticut, which – I am reliably informed – is closer to Maryland than my own beloved Commonwealth of Massachusetts, so I piled myself and an inordinate amount of Western-style clothing into my faithful author-mobile and trucked on down to meet her at her Crime-Fighting Cave. We put my inordinate pile of Western-style clothing on top of her pile, clambered into her faithful crime-fighting-mobile and we were off. (Noted for the record, the faithful crime-fighting-mobile is her off duty car and not an Official Government Vehicle. Had an actual Official Government Vehicle been used, things might have been much, much more complicated.) For the first several hours of our trip, all went well. The conversation was agreeable and occasionally witty; the traffic was relatively light and so were our hearts and minds.
We decided to take a short rest break in Berndardsville, NJ. The town was chosen because my good friend the Federal Crime-Fighter (hereafter referred to as The Fed, because this is just getting way too long) has relatives nearby. It turns out that I do too, but that isn't relevant to the story, merely a point of trivial interest for the hard-core Andy Kirschbaum fans out there. We were cruising along Rte. 202 in Bernardsville at a comfortable clip when things went downhill rapidly. I shall not relate the details of The Incident; suffice to say that it was brief, highly impact-full, and turned the crime-fighting-mobile from a well-maintained, finely-tuned engine of cross-continental travel into a decoratively-crumpled Go-Kart inclined to fly apart in a stiff breeze or at the first indications of a sharp left turn. I hasten once again to assure you, Dear Reader, that no human beings were harmed, injured, or oppressed during The Incident. We were, however, mildly surprised to find ourselves standing on the side of Rte. 202 in Bernardsville, NJ awaiting the arrival of the local authorities. The nice lady driving what we shall call, for technical purposes, The Other Car was quite friendly and helpful as we exchanged pleasantries and vital statistics.
In short order, Officer Friendly of the Bernardsville, NJ police department showed up. Now, I will admit that I have been known to apply the occasional sarcastic nickname to the people I encounter in my travels, but absolutely no sarcasm is intended in this case. Officer Friendly of the Bernardsville, NJ police department was efficient, polite, helpful, and – yes, friendly. Based on the reactions, attitudes, and sudden swooning from every female in the immediate vicinity, I also gathered that Officer Friendly was quite the hunk. I often miss small details like this. As an author and literary specialist, it is possible that my mind is too keenly focused to notice such things. Another small detail that had escaped my keen literary notice was pointed out by Officer Friendly when he examined my ID. Apparently, my license to operate a motor vehicle had expired slightly over a month ago. Yes, Dear Reader, it was shaping up to be One of Those Trips.
After everything was as sorted out as it was likely to get, Officer Friendly bid us and the lady in The Other Car a fond farewell and we GPSed up the location of the nearest Insurance-Approved body shop. We found one that was supposedly a mere 11 miles away, as the crow flies. How, we wondered, did people do this before Smart Phones and GPS devices? We limped the poor wounded crime-fighting-mobile to the aforementioned Insurance-Approved body shop. And believe me when I tell you this was a harrowing and hazard-light filled trip. The supposedly mere 11 mile trip turned out to include a stint on the highway and far more than 11 miles on twisty back roads. Both of us held our breath and sat quite still, fearing any excess movement might cause our vehicle to explode apart into chrome and tinsel. It didn't. After turning around and backtracking once or twice (the GPS may well have known where it was going, but we didn't) we safely arrived at the body shop.
Paperwork was filled out and heels were cooled while we waited for the nice people from the not-so-nearby rental car company to come and get us. We were instructed, warned, and admonished not to forget anything in the car when we left. We politely tolerated these thoughtful words. Surely we would not be so foolish as to leave anything behind? Surely not. (Note for the record, this confidence will come back to bite us in a future episode of this very blog.) Eventually, the nice people from the not-so-nearby rental car company arrive with our car. They assure us, that this was the only available car and if we truly wanted to make it to Maryland tonight, this was our only way.
Believe me Dear Reader when I tell you that this 'car' was one good meal away from being a school bus. If we could have lifted it, we could have easily tucked the original crime-fighting-mobile inside and still had room for both passengers, all of our piles of inordinate Western-style clothing and perhaps a mid-sized nuclear family in the back seat. I'm saying this car was big. But it was also the only car available. Also, because of my embarrassing license situation, the Fed was the only driver available. Given our options, we took the car and returned to our journey. And so it came to pass, a mere 4 hours after we stopped off the road for a quick rest stop and sanitary break, we finally made it back onto the road and continued our trip, somewhat worse for the wear.
A few blessedly uneventful hours later, we approach our destination. The Fed asks me to call a soon-to-be local costume shop to see if they will be open tomorrow (Saturday) morning so she can pick up a wig for her costume. She knows the name of the store she's looking for and with a little bit of Web-Fu, I manage to track down a phone number. We once again wonder how these things were done in the days before Smart Phones and GPS devices. I call the number and a pleasant-sounding gentleman answers the phone, but not with the name of the costume store I thought I was calling. I ask if I have reached the number to whom I am speaking. I am informed that I have. I ask about their Saturday morning hours. I am informed that the costume store has gone out of business. I am sympathetic, but ask if there is another local store where I might be able to get a wig tomorrow morning. The gentleman asks me if I am looking for a wig for my wife. I respond that the wig is for a lady. This is, apparently insufficient information, so the gentleman once again asks – as if, perhaps, he had misheard me – “Is this wig for your wife?” I glance over at my good friend the Federal Crime-Fighter and decide that some battles are simply not worth fighting over the phone. “Yes,” I reply. “Yes, it is.”
With the honor of the wig business upheld, the gentleman gave me the address of another costume shop and we were able to arrive at the hotel without further comedy. Even though the game had already begun by the time we dragged ourselves down, several friends broke character to wish us well and greet us. I amiably explained, that my horse had broken down outside of town and we had to get a replacement rental horse. The Fed explained, to those who asked, that "there was a problem with the wagon," and that some complicated repairs were necessary outside of town, and that at least no one died of dysentery, and that hopefully, soon enough, all would be well to raft down the Dalles. The Fed it seems is a big fan of “Oregon Trail.” Eventually, the two of us got into costume and into character and managed to have a lovely evening in Tombstone of the 1880's. The next morning, while I got into a showdown with my coffee, the Fed went off to trade in our enormous rental bus for something smaller (and cheaper!) and purchase the aforementioned wig of honor. I am pleased to report that she was successful in both endeavors.
Stay tuned to this web page for the game report and the (much less exciting) story of our return trip (and my adventures at the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles...)
October 13th, 2011
Chelmsford, MA (and various points South)
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