Most gaming sites have names like "Dungeon Monkeys" or "Narrative Pomposity" or something, so you may have wondered where the name "Death Cookie" came from. You also may not have wondered this, but you're about to find out anyway. Although we didn't actually buy the domain name until something like 2000, the name goes all the way back to the late 90s, when both the Death Cookie and the Hex Games website were subdirectories of my Mindspring account. There was a little squiggle in the URL and everything. Like most early websites, they were both terrible, but we found them amusing.
Since there are adults today who don't remember dial-up, it's important to understand that in the early days of widespread internet access, things worked differently than they do today. We didn't have social media, share buttons, Wikipedia, or even Google. In those days, if we wanted information we had to type a search string into Yahoo or Alta Vista or ArkJeeves and click links until we found something useful. Most of the time you didn't find what you were looking for (either nobody had made website for it yet, the site hadn't been indexed by the search engines, or you got a dead link because whoever had made the link had left their school or job and the account it was hosted on had been deleted), but you often found some really weird shit.
When you found something you wanted to share, how it got shared depended in part on the nature of the content and who you wanted to share it with. For "so-and-so might like this" sites or sites you wanted to send to someone in another town, you shot the link to the person (or people) in an email or posted it on a message board. So, for example, the first person in our gaming group to stumble across RPG.net probably sent out group email or posted it to one of the 7,000 message boards my friends and I ran on our college's mainframe system.
For the really good stuff, you saved it to share face to face. Back in those days, most social gatherings with a computer handy eventually turned into a game of "let me show you this site." Everyone crowded around our comically gigantic monitors with tiny screens and we'd read an "Ate My Balls" page or watch the hamster dance or keep punching movies names into the Oracle of Bacon trying to find someone with a (non-infinite) number higher than 4 (we finally succeeded after about 4 hours with Tetsuo II: Body Hammer). Even electronic memes were transmitted through person-to-person contact rather than electronically because the internet was still new and we didn't know how to use it yet.
Somewhere around this time, Leighton and I (and sometimes Dale) started writing QAGS. While we often worked diligently on the text, we also got distracted a lot. Part of this was because we worked in my apartment, which was right next to our college campus and people would randomly drop by when they were bored or visiting our friends Ray and Stacy downstairs. This often led to us looking at dumb web pages. Also, sometimes we just got burnt out and slaphappy from writing and started searching for dumb web pages. Since most pages were static, they provided limited enjoyment--"Mr. T Ate My Balls" is really only funny once--so you only went back to them if they came up in conversation and someone had never seen them, but at some point someone found the glorious exception: The Chick Publications website.
As anyone who's read Waxman's Warriors or my review of the Dark Dungeons movie knows, I have what is probably an unhealthy fascination with Jack Chick and his work, so I was especially happy to discover that the Chick website had many of his tracts available in HTML format. This led to a new web-based activity that happened more times than I would be entirely comfortable admitting: dramatic readings of Jack Chick tracts (the snooty little angel who said "His name's not in the book, Lord" had a Monty Python voice). Dark Dungeons was mandatory, but other favorites included DOOM TOWN and Hi There! Even though those got read multiple times, I'm pretty sure we made it through everything they had available (this was before every tract was online) at least once.
Once we'd finished with QAGS, we decided that we should use our website (such as it was) to do one of those fancy "E-zines," which is what we called blogs back then. Even though we had no plans of getting a domain name (or even any idea how to get a domain name), we decided we needed a name for the magazine. We went through lots of terrible, terrible names that I don't remember, then got bored and started reading Jack Chick tracts. One of them was called "The Death Cookie." In Chick-land, the title refers to the communion wafer eaten by the filthy Papists during their pagan rituals, but we thought it would be a good name for a gaming site. I remember a discussion about how that had nothing to do with gaming and probably was just a funny combination of words and in fact not a good name for a gaming site. I don't remember what was said during that discussion (I'm reasonably sure I was pro-Death Cookie), but the URL of this page makes it clear that we somehow convinced ourselves that "The Death Cookie" was a perfectly reasonable name for a gaming site. Alcohol may have been involved.
As most of you have probably guessed, this post was inspired by the death of Chick Publications founder Jack Chick last weekend. While the world is probably a better place without him around to spread his amoral and bigoted ideology, I'm thankful to Mr. Chick for the endless hours of entertainment that he's unintentionally provided me and my friends with. Maybe that will count for something when he gets judged by that giant glowing faceless Jesus.
A few weeks ago, I talked about some of the things that game-specific rules adaptations can accomplish, like clarifying how story concepts fit into the game rules or allowing for customization. The next section covers actually deciding whether or not to implement special rules for a specific story element. If you think of the first part as the theory, this section is about the practical application. The previous post helps you understand how different chemicals react with each other, this one helps you decide whether you really want to poor the blue vial into the red beaker.
One you’ve decided which story elements may need rules, it’s time to take a close look at how those rules will improve the game. If you’ve played other RPGs, you’ll probably assume that certain game elements need special rules simply because many games include rules for them. In reality, many of these common rules are holdovers from role-playing’s wargaming roots. They’re essential in a strategy game, but have few if any parallels in fictional sources. In fact, sometimes they lead to outcomes that contradict or violate the spirit of the source material. If the main reason you think you need a rule is that other games have similar rules, give extra consideration whether the rule is really necessary. Below are three things to take into account when deciding whether you need to go through the effort of creating game-specific rules for a particular story element.
There are tons of story elements in every game world that theoretically need rules, but you only have to worry about the rules that you’ll need for your game. For example, if your world includes dragons, those dragons presumably have game stats that describe their power and abilities. If the players are going to encounter those dragons, you’ll need to define those stats. If nobody’s seen a dragon in 500 years (and you have no immediate plan for the “mythical creatures return” cliche), you’re not going to need those stats. At most, you’ll need some story rules about what people in the game world believe about dragons. You don’t have to decide how accurate those beliefs are until Kitiara Targaryen shows up riding Smaug.
Is the thing that you’re considering creating a rule for important to the story, or merely a matter of description? If the absence of whatever the rule describes would only change the story cosmetically without altering the plot, you probably don’t need a rule for it. For example, would a character in the kind of story you’re telling actually get injured less often if he was wearing armor, or would the description merely change to reflect that he’s dodging attacks rather than just letting them bounce off of his plate mail? If the knight in shining armor and his half-naked barbarian friend suffer about the same number of injuries during a typical story, you don’t really need armor rules.
Sometimes story elements aren’t significant or immediately relevant, but are necessary to make the game flow smoothly and keep the story interesting, often by placing limits on player authorship or providing a way to settle differences of opinion about the direction of the story. For example, most fantasy stories don’t include any scenes of the wizard deciding what spells he’s going to learn, but it’s often helpful to establish which spells a PC wizard has at his disposal (or at least the general limits of the character’s magical ability) so the player doesn’t try to solve every problem that comes up with Marysueomancy. This will involve brainstorming and possibly even defining the details for spells that the player may not pick and coming up with guidelines for a spell selection process that doesn’t happen in the source material, but it’s unlikely that work will go to waste since most GMs will find a way to use it before the campaign wraps up. The necessity of gameplay rules is often a function of player group dynamics. Players who know one another and have similar storytelling sensibilities can usually get by with fewer and less detailed gameplay rules than groups who don’t.
Gameplay rules can also include variations that change the “feel” of the rules in order to underscore differences in the game world or assist the players in interpreting the results of dice rolls. For example, a world with monsters may include pixies, who are hard to hit because they’re really small and fast and agile, as well as trolls, who are slow and easy to hit but who have such thick skin that most weapons just bounce off without causing much damage. Both of these defensive advantages could be modeled with a Boost on defense rolls, but using the same mechanic leaves communicating how the monster avoided damage and deciding whether the player missed troll or just didn’t hit it hard enough up to the GM. Taking away the troll’s Boost and giving him an armor or soak rating that decreases any damage he takes (effectively giving the attacker an Effect Penalty) lets the rules underscore the difference. If the either creature wins the combat roll when defending, they dodge. If the troll loses the combat roll but its soak rating reduces the damage to 0, the player landed a blow, but the troll didn’t feel it.
Here's my essay from the third round of Thought Eater (you can click here for the post from D&D With Pornstars with the topic/rules for that round). I was eliminated this round, but there's still one more round where the two remaining writers will battle it out. Keep an eye on Zak's blog in the coming months for the two final essays.
Making Your Character A Character
You’ve just bought a new RPG for your group to try out, and if it’s organized like most RPG rulebooks there’s a players’ section and a GM’s section. If the game is at all well-designed, the GM’s section has tons of useful information to help you figure out what you’re supposed to do both before and during the game. There will be rules you need to know, tips on using the built-in conflicts of the game world as hooks for adventures and campaigns, formulas for coming up with the right level of challenge, ideas to help you set the tone and mood during the game (horror games in particular like to talk about music and lighting), tricks for making action resolution easier, advice on creating memorable NPCs, and lots of other stuff. In the players’ section, you’ll find--well--setting background and basic game mechanics.
Ok, some games go a little farther than that. Sometimes the players’ section also gives you a few paragraphs about creating a character backstory or coming up with character goals and story hooks, but it firmly falls into the preparatory “character creation” step of role-playing. If the rules tell you anything at all about how to play your character once the game begins, it’s all very generic surface-level characterization stuff, like “use an accent” or “give the character a distinctive mannerism or nervous tick” or “masturbate vigorously when your character triumphs.” Most game books tell you how to create a character sketch, but offer very little information about how to tell a story with that character. They help you create an action figure, but don’t tell you how to play with it. If you’re mostly interested in the strategy game aspect of role-playing (hacking monsters, solving puzzles, that kind of thing), that’s probably all you need. If you want to focus more on storytelling, it might not cut it.
You might be inclined to think that game books don’t talk about how to tell your character’s story because people can figure that out on their own. After all, it’s not like you have to give a kid instructions on how to use an action figure. The problem is that an RPG is not the same as playing childhood imagination games, no matter how many cookie-cutter “What Is Role Playing?” sections claim otherwise. There are a enough similarities that a lot of people can make the jump, but there are also enough differences that not everyone can figure out how to make their character and that character’s story a real part of the game. How many players have you seen show up to a game with pages and pages of character background that never comes into play during the game? Or worse, extensively detailed characters that they try to shoehorn into a game they don’t fit into well at all?
To tell a story with a character, you need three things. The first is a character that the audience (in this case, the other players) can identify with in some way. This is the kind of “don’t just make a dead-eyed murderhobo” stuff that lots of game books (and thousands of gaming articles and blogs) have covered endlessly, so there’s no need to waste ink on it here. The second is the sense that the character fits into the group: giving the character a reason to be there, the group a reason to keep him around, and building relationships between the characters. This often happens naturally, and can be improved by making sure everyone knows the premise of the game and building connections between PCs from the start, either by working out more than just who has to be the cleric during character creation or by using something like Dungeon World’s Bonds mechanic. Most groups have no problem with players talking about the game before it starts, it’s talking about the game after the characters have left the tavern that some people have a problem with.
For some games, that’s all you need. A mission (the story provided by the GM, whether in the form of individual adventures or an over-arching plotline), some characterization, and a sense of group unity were the key ingredients for most TV shows and movies until around the turn of the century. The thing that’s missing is the character’s story. Without character-driven subplots, the character doesn’t really have a life of his own. The character only exists within the context of the group and the story that the GM has set up (and sometime he’s only involved in that story because he happens to be a PC). Especially in today’s world of seasonal (as opposed to episodic) television and cinematic universes where every major character has their own story that weaves in and out of the main plotline, more and more gamers want their characters to have arcs and subplots as well, and that’s the thing that most RPG books don’t really explain how to pull off (the lacuna, for those of you who have been wondering when I’d get to the point for the last five paragraphs).
Most game books give the GM all kinds of information about telling the main story. Many also give the players good information for providing set-up for the character’s story (those pages and pages of background that never become relevant), but very few touch on how to make the background stuff an actual part of the game. Since story is traditionally the GM’s territory, the few games that talk about character-driven subplots put the pressure on the GM, assuming that it’s her job to bring all the stuff from the character background into the game. I think this is unfair to the GM (she already has enough to do) and to the player (who shouldn’t be completely dependent on the GM to tell his character’s story). It also ignores the reality of how most games work. In my experience, the players with fully-realized characters were the players who actively worked to tell their character’s story by playing character goals and introducing supporting characters, character-driven subplots, and other character-centric stuff in a way that naturally fit into the larger game (just forcing your way onto center stage just annoys everyone). They also worked with the GM to make sure the player’s story got told.
The “working with the GM” part seems to be where most games drop the ball, in part because most game designers seem to be writing for an extreme (and mostly straw man) audience. For games aimed at the “let the dice fall where they may” crowd, who are nothing but power-gaming munchkins, any out-of-character discussion about the game is meta-gaming*, which is inherently evil, so talking about it would alienate the audience. On the other end of the spectrum are games aimed at the “drama club” crowd, where it’s taken for granted that every character is a special snowflake and the GM is not allowed to cause them any “agency”-destroying inconvenience without a drawn-out negotiation where everyone talks about their feelings. These games either talk about character subplots in vague terms or just assume that anyone playing them already knows what they’re doing.
Most games ignore the vast majority of gamers who fall in the middle and want character-driven stories and surprises, but don’t really grasp how to accomplish it. That’s unfortunate, because RPG players are both audience and authors, so their connection to the story doesn’t fit the author/reader relationship, or even the co-author/co-author relationship. A lot of people, even game designers, have trouble grasping that. My third criticism of first-time adventure writers (after passive verbs and misplaced modifiers) is almost always that they’re trying to tell the GM a story rather than give the GM the tools to tell the story. If the stable boy is a vampire, the adventure writer needs to tell the GM about that when the stable boy is introduced, not when players are supposed to figure it out. On the player/GM side of things, if you want your character to settle his score with Jabba, you need to let the GM know that your character wants his debt to Jabba to be a subplot sometime during the game, and probably give her some background about Jabba and his resources. She’s got this whole “galactic civil war” plotline to deal with, so she’s not going to have a lot of time to fully detail the Hutt crime syndicate. At the same time though, you don’t get to stage manage your character’s encounter with Jabba or decide how it turns out. That takes away the uncertainty that makes the story fun. If you get some bad rolls and end up getting frozen in carbonite, you and the rest of the party have to deal with the consequences. It’s the risk you take when you decide you want your character to have his own story.
Giving players the tools to work with the GM to tell their characters’ stories requires accepting the idea that not all meta-gaming is bad (just like most spoilers don’t actually make a movie less fun to watch), recognizing that playing an RPG isn’t the same as either creating or consuming fiction, figuring out what division of authorship between players and GM allows the players to enjoy the story both as a co-creators and as audience members, and providing advice about how to talk about it so players can figure out what works for their group. On the most basic level, this missing section is something like “How to Compromise,” but it’s a little more complicated than that and requires breaking down some long-standing gamer fallacies about how fiction, gaming, and adult social interaction work. Some of this involves theory and process that’s kind of hard to pin down, some of it involves basic interpersonal communication stuff that’s obvious to most people and potentially deeply upsetting to the people who need it most. I think I’m starting to see why most game designers just skip it.
*While talking about the game does meet the dictionary definition of meta-gaming (if it were in the dictionary, at least), when I first encountered the word (probably in the early 90s, when people added “meta” to everything), it specifically referred to using player knowledge to give the character an unfair advantage. I’m not sure where or when the usage drifted to include any and all out-of-character discussion of the game, but I’ve run into it online and with a few flesh-and-blood gamers. Depending on which definition you’re going with, meta-gaming is either absolutely essential (actually talking about the game) or cheating (reading the module), but the negative connotation of the most obvious term for the kind of thing I’m talking about is kind of annoying.
Different kinds of games reward different abilities. Pictionary rewards players' ability to draw recognizable clues and to guess the right answer from the clues other people draw. Poker rewards understanding the likelihood of winning with a particular hand, strategic betting, and bluffing. Candyland rewards the player with the best luck. I've talked before about the difference between strategy-oriented games that primarily reward understanding how the game rules work and other types of games where the rules are secondary to some other ability or talent (like trivia knowledge or throwing a ball through a hoop), usually in the context of my preference for role-playing games that reward creativity and storytelling ability rather than understanding of the rules.
While I tend to prefer to keep strategy gaming and story gaming mostly separate (I enjoy strategy games, but want something different out or role-playing), I can at least understand why some players prefer strategy-oriented RPGs or games that provide a mixture of strategy gaming and storytelling. It's a matter of personal preference, and most of the wrong ways to have fun are already illegal. But the way role-playing games work leads to another kind of play that doesn't really reward "rules mastery" so much as "rules fuckery." This kind of gaming often uses the language strategy gaming, but it's really something different.
Rules mastery, unlike rules fuckery, rewards actual gameplay. No matter how much time you spend memorizing chess strategies, that knowledge is only as useful as your ability to adapt them to the moves that your opponent makes. In a well-designed strategy game, it's impossible to create an "unbeatable" strategy. Some strategies are harder to beat than others, but there's always a chance of he killer strategy losing, either through the actions of other players or (in a game with random elements) through bad luck. Your chess gambit only works if your opponent falls for it and you can't buy Boardwalk and Park Place if you never land on them. A strategy game that allows players to create a strategy that can't be countered through gameplay is a flawed game design, and more rules tends to lead to more flaws. That's why the best strategy games are the ones with very simple rules that provide a wide range of possible outcomes.
Rules fuckery turns flawed game design into a feature rather than a bug and (conveniently enough for game companies) is usually based on introducing new rules or playing pieces with the potential (and sometimes the explicit intent) to change how the game works. In order to maintain rules mastery, you have to buy the new books or game pieces and figure out how the new elements change the game. Its' the "Mr. Suitcase" strategy of Magic deck building or the Games Workshop business model. At some point, "winning" the game becomes less about about how well you play the game or understand the rules than how much disposable cash you have lying around to buy new rulebooks and new miniatures and new expansion packs.
The storytelling element of role-playing makes RPGs ripe for rules expansions since it's easy to bring things that were previously "off-screen" into the game, introduce new sub-systems that provide more depth than the core rules, or just add some new monsters or character classes or magic items. RPG expansions are also cheaper than expansions for most other games since you just need text and maybe some artwork. You don't have to change the board, cast new miniatures, or create new playing pieces or cards. While not all rules expansions are intended to encourage rules fuckery, many of them do it unintentionally and a few companies have figured out that a half-assed supplement with a few well-placed game-breakers often sells just as well as (or better than) a well-crafted sourcebook that takes a lot more time and energy to create.
Before we start the blog, the essays for the latest round of Thought Eater are up at Playing D&D With Porn Stars. The entries are anonymous until voting is finished, so I can only tell you that I wrote one of them, but not which one. Vote for the ones you like best.
So, if you've been following along, you know that I've come to the realization that the "how to adapt the rules to the game you want to run section," which was originally a single chapter with some general advice, has turned into a whole section because it's kind of the central idea that makes the game adaptable instead of generic. The first chapter of that section is largely an overview of how to decide what aspects of the game need special rules and some very general guidelines. Subsequent chapters will describe how to actually construct different kinds of rules for your game.
Even though the introduction of the book already goes into considerable detail about the role that rules play in an RPG (I previously posted an earlier version of that particular manifesto here), part of deciding whether new rules are worth creating is asking "what do these rules accomplish." Since (hopefully) the core rules cover all the rules functions from the introduction, any new rule you add needs to add something to the gaming experience that's missing when you just use the basic rules. Since these considerations may be useful for other game designers, rules tinkerers, and DIY-types, I'm going to cut and paste them here. Just ignore the reference to Chapter XX.
To Clarify How The Ficton Works
A lot of special rules are really just clarifications of how ambiguous story elements work in the fictons of the game. Established ficton typically need less clarification than original ones unless you’re adding something new or exploring a part of the world that doesn’t get much (or any) screen time. If you’re playing a Supernatural game, everyone already knows how vampires work from watching the show. If you’re running a generic monster-hunting game, you’ll have to decide which version of vampires exists in your game. Are they disgusting rotting corpses, stylish European nobles, or moody goth kids?
To Clarify The Game Rules
Sometimes you know how something works in the world, but need to decide how to model it with game mechanics. For example, maybe you’ve decided that vampires can be killed by a stake through the heart. Since the basic combat rules don’t specify where an attack lands, you’ll have to figure out what kind of roll a player needs to make in order to stake a vamp. A lot of rules clarifications involve deciding what kind of trait describes unusual character abilities. For example, is “Psychic” a Role, a Trademark, a Special Effect, or a Plot Device in your game?
To Provide Detail
Different genres and story styles focus on different character activities. In a typical cop show, some guy in a lab coat tells the protagonist “we found the suspect’s prints on the murder weapon.” In CSI or Bones, the protagonists are the guys in the lab coats, so at least some of the work involved in finding the print and linking it to the suspect happens on screen. Since some of these sorts of character activities require knowledge that players don’t (and shouldn’t be expected to) have, rules can fill in the details with information, structure, complications, and decision points to help players create the scene. The process outlined by the rules may only be tangentially related to how the activity works in the real world, but it gives the players a starting point for the scene and hopefully promotes dramatic, interesting, or entertaining developments.
To Simplify Through Abstraction
Sometimes rules work in the opposite direction, providing abstract methods for handling things that would normally require tedious detail. In most games, the amount of food the characters have at home isn’t important because they can just go to the store and buy more whenever they run out. In a game set shortly after the apocalypse, on the other hand, the amount of food the players have available may be extremely important to the story. Rather than make the players keep an inventory of how many cans of beans or ears of corn they’ve got in stock, you can just define a standard unit of food (maybe 1 unit is enough to feed 1 person for a day), decide how many units of food the characters start with, and make a rule for how their scavenging, hunting, and other food-gathering rolls translate into food units.
Just like some games may require more detailed handling of equipment (as discussed in Chapter XX: Auxiliary Rules), sometimes other story elements need more detail than the basic rules provide. Customization is often required for unusual character traits like supernatural abilities or robotic bodies where each character with the trait has slightly different characteristics or abilities. For instance, in some stories wizards just use magic in the same way a scientist uses his knowledge or a warrior uses his fighting skills. In a lot of fantasy fictons, though, wizards must learn specific spells and every wizard has a slightly different arsenal of magic at his disposal so you need a way of deciding which spells a wizard has when the game begins and what he has to do to learn new ones.
Fund me on Patreon and I'll be able to afford chapter numbers.