Lie To Me

Today we’re going to talk about little white lies, and whether they can enhance your game.

A lot of this will depend heavily on what type of game you’re running, the attitudes of your players, and the investment of everyone involved. I have heard a lot of people talk about cheating to allow player survival in environments which would be narratively unsatisfying to allow them to die. If you begin a dramatic chase scene and a player critically fails his jump check and tumbles off the back of the airship to his death at the very beginning, that’s not the thrilling and climactic scene anyone had envisioned. A DM is well within their rights to fudge the numbers there a bit, or make up a save, to keep the game running and to allow the player to continue with their story. I wouldn’t, and I prefer games that don’t, but that’s a matter of person opinion. I’m the DM who has allowed chickens to murder or cripple a number of PCs over the years, because if they hadn’t started it it wouldn’t have happened, and I fully believe in luck and consequence. But I respect that that is a matter of personal opinion, and I can have another post later about lethality in campaigns.

I should also specify that for the purposes of this article, lieing to the players constitutes any action by the DM that they can and should pretend they were planning all along, but was in fact made up on the spot. Anything from from the PC from the earlier example landing in a support gondola, taking him out of the chase but leaving him alive, to the throwaway NPC maid having the key to the vault at the base of the Inn because the players have gone completely off track and you don’t have an adventure otherwise. Even a villian swooping in at the last minute to snatch victory from the heroes or the one room they didn’t check being loaded with guards counts, but those are not my favorite examples.

The first question we need to answer about lieing, is WHEN it is acceptable to lie to your players. The only universal answer to that question is that lieing is OK when something happens in the game that the DM didn’t expect and that isn’t fun for the players. If the players are traipsing through a carefully crafted mystery, but they’ve somehow missed every clue and decided that they need to travel hundreds of miles away to consult a sage, and you know logically all the mystery will be done by the time they finish, then have the sage be in town for their daughter’s wedding and you’re back on track. The classic example of this is sending thugs hired by a villian to fight the players, and having them have a clue back to the villain on there person. And when I says ending thugs, I should clarify You, the DM, are sending the thugs. A gang of hired killers after the players and a group of muggers out looking for easy marks both point the players at the local crimelord, and the Players will likely care much more about the dungeon you spent all that time designing if orcs keep coming out of it and trying to take their stuff. Personally, I like to have a few floating encounters planned out that I can toss at players when they’re getting disastrously off track, and I just insert them wherever is thematically appropriate.

If you aren’t too worried about the sanctity of your game world as you designed it, you can even lie about big things. If the players interpreted the clues wrong and they’re looking for the ancient temple in the swamp instead of on the mountain? That’s fine, it’s in the swamp now. Did they bypass that dungeon you laid out for them at level three but they’re board at level eight? Upscale every encounter and now it’s the local dungeon of a new town. It was always there, and they won’t know that it wasn’t. Again, I prefer games where it’s possible to end up grid searching a forest for clues because I’m too thick to figure things out on my own, because I feel a lot more accomplished when I do figure it out, but I’m a little weird.

Even in very narrative driven campaigns, though, this can go too far in the direction of catering to the players. Resist the urge to let them have everything, because never having the chance to fail doesn’t create drama. Don’t take away things they won through accident or skillful play, because they deserve their achievements. Remember that it’s a shared story, and resist the urge to exert absolute control. The balance is going to be different for every player and every table, but that’s OK.

So now we know when, but how do you lie to your players? The answer is “seamlessly”. I have always been a proponent of DM screens, because I think the flexibility of being able to keep information hidden is important. Even more important is to make a show of carefully selecting some dice, rolling them, and then telling the players whatever should have happened. It may have been a while since I’ve been surprised at the table, but even the most predictable player can throw you a curveball, and then you need something to buy yourself time. Players should always feel like what is happening to them is a cohesive part of the story. If you tell them they did something unexpected, that you didn’t plan for, then the immersion these games create is compromised, and they know you’re off the rails. Characters can be surprised, villains can be surprised, but you should be prepared. Whether it’s extremely clever or catastrophically stupid, if you’re allowing it as a choice then it’s a part of the game world. And anything that has been allowed as a choice should be able to be integrated into the world without too much trouble. If you let them hurl a handaxe at extreme range and they managed the three needed crits and dropped the campaign archenemy five levels too early, then the world needs to cough up a conceivable replacement, not an excuse for why it didn’t work. She had a son who is following in her footsteps, or her organization, which appeared to be a cult of personality, is following her ideals. As long as the players trust that the world is built on logic and is larger than their characters, you can make this happen.

So lie to your players when it would hurt their enjoyment and you don’t have a plan, and don’t let them know you’re lieing.

And, as an added tip, every time you have to lie to the players, figure out what happened and make sure you have something prepared for that in the future.


Parallel Paths: Or, Why Dishonored Needed A Club

This week we’re going to talk about player choice, and making sure that you’re prepared for the ones they make.

For starters, I want to clarify that I’m not talking about choice as it pertains to letting the players do whatever they want. If you’re running a D&D campaign and the players decide they want to open a ladder re-purposing Ten Foot Pole Emporium rather than actually play out that cool story with the dragon and the intrigue and the world ending terror you have prepared, then you may as well just ignore them, because they clearly did not show up to play the same game you did.

What I’m talking about is making sure that your game, be it a video game, tabletop RPG, or board game, supports a reasonable number of parallel paths to victory. These are all fairly straightforwards, so I’m going to touch on each of them in turn. I’m also going to focus largely on single player or cooperative games, as with multiplayer games this strays more into a discussion of game balance.

So, to finally get to what could easily have been the opening line of this post, the most important part of presenting a game in which parallel paths are implied is to make sure they are all supported. They don’t have to be equally difficult, but they have to function.

Let’s talk about Dishonored for a moment, if only because I put it in the title. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Dishonored is a first person stealth and action video game about betrayal, revenge, and absentee parenting. The core choices of the game, the ones presented during every moment of game-play and not just during the major moral choices towards the end of each level, are whether you are playing a stealth game or an action game, and whether you are a big murdery murderer or not. Overall, at least in the experience I had, the game does a good job of making both of these choices a great deal of fun, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t let itself down in a few key areas, notably by rather limiting to player to being an action murderer or a nonlethal sneaker. By and large most of the choices the player will make in the game, from the use of either normal crossbow bolts or more limited sleep arrows to the decision of whether to stab a major villain in his neck meat or decipher a fairly elaborate puzzle to send them to a nonlethal fate worse than death, the dual focus design rewards more murder prone players with a quick and easy solution while providing nonlethal players with a more complex but perhaps more rewarding alternative. There are two notable exceptions to this ethos, however. When presented with an unaware enemy, one has the option of loudly and messily stabbing them to death while simultaneously alerting all nearby enemies or quietly strangling them into a restful sleep. While the murder option is quick to reward the player with more murder, something the player may or may not be thankful for, it is something of an issue when the nonlethal option’s only downside is a minor increase in the time it takes. So you have the potential to be spotted, which is a moot point with the other option is to always be spotted. Simply allowing the stealth kill to actually be stealthy would have solved this discrepancy, although combining that with making the strangling somewhat alarming to nearby guards would be more in keeping with the game-play philosophy, if not as balanced.

And then there’s the club I teased you with. Or, rather, there isn’t the club. There is no nonlethal melee weapon in Dishonored. This seems like a severe oversight when every other piece of game-play has a lethal and nonlethal option (for the sake of this argument, the sleep darts from the crossbow are also an alternative to the pistol). It seems like a rather easy fix, simply giving the player a nonlethal melee weapon usable in the same manner of their sword, possibly with a reduced reach and definitely with requiring them to land a few extra blows, and thus not completely removing the nonlethal gamer from the action half of an action stealth game. It could even be upgraded, as with all the other equipment in the game, perhaps adding taser like stun charges and such.

Alright, so that was video games, but what about tabletop RPGs, I hear you ask. Well, the good news, is that I’m not going to ask you to completely rewrite all of your favorite systems in order to cater to as many potential player actions as possible. That way lies madness, and as such has already largely been done. I’m also not going to sit here and tell you that if you were planning a game of courtly intrigue, you have to let Krod the loin-clothed barbarian swing from the rafters and throw axes at the punch bowl. The object isn’t to cater to the players, but to create a story with them. If you’re playing a game of courtly intrigue, and the viscount is holding a piece of important information, make sure that it’s not kept in a mental chest with a single lock. It makes no sense if a character would spill their darkest secrets for five gold, but will resist weeks of torture or the threat of a scary man standing over them with a knife in the middle of the night. If the players want to get into the ancient tomb of a long dead king, and the front is guarded by living statues who ask you three questions about your deepest fears, it’s understandable that they might want to just figure out around where the tomb is laid out and start some exploratory strip mining. Remember, the important thing is not that the players follow your story, no matter how cool you think it is. If you build a world and it reacts to the players actions appropriately, you will find all manner of fun and exciting role-playing opportunities crop up over the course of game-play. Maybe Krod wasn’t a good fit for courtly intrigue, but if he’s allowed in as an amusing oddity, he might just overhear some interesting rumors from folk who don’t believe he can understand them.

In conclusion, make sure that when the player has a choice of paths, each one is worthwhile to walk.

On a Role

I’m going to talk about the division of player roles in games, and how they affect game play.

Let’s start this at the most basic possible level, which everyone is probably familiar. Almost every game that includes either multiple players or players controlling multiple characters generally divides the character into a couple of different roles. Most generally these roles fall under the triad of offense, defense, and support. Most of the time, if you’re playing a game that requires these roles, and you don’t have one, you’re going to be handicapped in one way or another.

Let’s define a role, before we go any further. A role is a specific set of actions a character preforms to benefit the party has a whole. A healer heals, a tank defends, a face talks to people, and so on. A character can have multiple roles, and a NPC is perfectly capable of filling a role, although it’s probably best if they do so off camera. Roles can be almost infinitely specific (i.e. backstabs orcs who look crosswise at the party wizard) and can be combined together up to the point where one character can do everything. A good role has a specific mechanic associated with it, although it doesn’t have to be incredibly different and unique. The rogue can roll the same dice to open a door that the fighter rolls to stab an orc, but the rules have to be there for both of those things.

So, first off, you have to figure out what roles are relevant and important to your game. Let’s use D&D as a test case, because it provides a great deal of diversity in both game structure and player options. The standard D&D dungeoneering group is four players characters, the warrior, thief, mage, and healer. Any party that tries to go into a dungeon without one of those  is going to be in a lot of trouble, whether the squishy members get slaughtered because they don’t have a warrior, the group gets overwhelmed without a mage, they get killed by devious traps with no thief, or they have to rest in every room because they don’t have a healer.

But maybe you don’t want any healers, or thieves, or warriors, so you change the game. A D&D game without healers is a game where healing comes from some other source. Maybe the game is set in a city with easy access to clerics, maybe the heal skill can be used to restore actual hp, or maybe the adventurers are tough as nails and recover quickly naturally, so they only need a few minutes of rest before they can fight again, no matter how bad they’re hurt. Without thieves, the game also needs to do away with traps and treachery almost entirely, and focus more on straightforward combat and adventure. It’s important to make sure that your players aren’t punished for playing the game the way they want to.

So remember, make sure you have a game that suits the characters in it. Next, I’m going to talk about getting the players into their roles.

Getting your hooks in

This week, we’re talking about making the player care about story conflict.

It’s always tough to make a player emotionally invested in a fantasy world, but that’s a enough material for a whole series of posts, so today the focus is on making threats the players will care about. A villain is no good if the goal of their dastardly plan is to destroy something the player doesn’t even like in the first place, or overthrow a far away kingdom, or raise the price of space beets. The logical solution to this is to threaten something the player likes, but this is not as easy as it seems.

First, you have to actually figure out what the player likes, and is willing to sacrifice for in your game world. A helpful NPC, a kindly old lady, the town the player grew up in, or a relative selected at random are always good choices, but they are also the obvious choices. Players will fight tooth and nail to keep their favorite bar in business, to protect their alma mater from being overrun by demons, or to stop the murder of a government official they actually care about. Make a clear threat on one of these and you’ll have the players up in arms in no time.

Second, you can’t overdo it. Sooner or later, players will stop caring about something if it turns into a constant source of grief. A relative who is always in trouble tends to get ignored rather quickly, kindly old ladies are only worth so much trouble, and that school never washed it’s toilets properly anyways. And then there are the things you can only do once. Only once can you threaten the place the players feel safe, or the NPC the players are truly attached to. This may seem like a hamstringing rule, as what could the players care about more than what is most important to them, but if the players secret stronghold is ransacked twice, or the sweet little girl they take turns babysitting turns out to be a demon and a werewolf, they will never let their guard down again. Which might be what you want, but otherwise is to be avoided.

Remember, threaten the things players care about, but don’t go overboard.

The one you love to hate

This week we’re talking about sympathetic villains.

Making the players emotionally invested in the villain is a tough task. It’s easy to say “Hey, this is the lord God-King of Chaos-Death, and he is nasty and you should hate him”, but nobody wants to punch cardboard cutouts with dastardly mustaches all day, so it’s essential your villains have some depth. One fairly standard trick is to make your villain’s motives and past something the players can relate to.

This is, admittedly, a fairly standard ploy, but at the same time it can be a remarkably effective one. The Necromancer who overthrew a corrupt governor through the only means at his disposal because they were trying to take his daughter away to work in the coal mines is significantly harder to axe than the Necromancer who thought he could make an all skeleton (and one human head) production of Hamlet if he just had a few more helpless villager shaped bodies.

The trick, however, is not to overdo the sob story attached to the bad guy. Preferably, the villain will have been someone whose position your players could see themselves in, and was pushed to the edge and had to make a choice. The absolute best uses of this are the genuinely good villains who were simple men or women caught up in a bad situation, such as the above necromancer. The plot of basically any action movie revolving around someone out for revenge works well for this.

The problem with sympathetic villains is that they are a gun pointed at your player’s psyche, and you need to figure out what you want them to do before you commit one to your campaign. Are they secretly the hero and you want the player to side with them against the evil king? Are they double secretly actually just a villain tugging at the hero’s heartstrings? Are both sides good people but someone is still going to die and it’s up to the PCs to decide who? That’s all up to you, but you better pick one before you throw something like this into a game.

Remember, sympathetic villains are dangerous, but effective. Handle with care and make sure you know why they’re there.

All’s fair in love and game.

Today we’re talking about logic in game progression.

Have you ever been in a game and found you just couldn’t proceed? You hadn’t found the secret code that told you in which order to ignite the thirteen pyres, or you didn’t know you had to use the ball of yarn to pacify the three headed lion, or maybe you just never bothered picking up a silver sword back at the market and now werewolves are eating your face? There’s very few situations more frustrating and less immersive than having to run through your entire inventory twice, before carefully re-exploring the entirety of the game looking for the single item capable of advancing the plot. This is not a situation that can ever be entirely planned for, but there are a few simple things that make it much less likely your player is going to end up running a fine tooth comb over the entirety of your carefully crafted world trying to find the last seal to defeat the god-king.

First, give your players a small toolbox. This is significantly easier in video games, where you can just not give players the option to talk to people, or pick up objects, or attack, or any other action that you never want to be the solution to a problem. An FPS generally doesn’t have to deal with players trying to solve their problems through peer mediation, just like a puzzle game tends not to have players attempting to kill all of the other denizens. Unless it’s Gyromancer or something similar, of course. This can be accomplished similarly in pen and paper games by limiting the player’s access to extraordinary items and abilities. If there are multiple Bid Bads, it is entirely feasible that one super weapon will work for all of them. Likewise, the Space Ranger doesn’t need a gun that shoots fourteen different types of laser, when the only ones he needs are laser and improbable stun laser. The player’s are always going to either fight, talk to, avoid, or some combination thereof every encounter they face, so it’s easier on everyone involved if they don’t have to choose between a hundred variations of each.

Second, remind them how the tools work. If you have a game about shooting people in the face, and inviting others to candlelit dinners to hold urbane conversations, those two mechanics need to be introduced in the beginning of the game, and repeatedly established. If you focus on the candlelit dinner aspect, and it turns out the end boss was susceptible only to bullets applied liberally to the face, it’s going to take your player a few tries to remember gun violence is a viable solution to his problem. It’s important to keep no more than a 70/30, and preferably more of a 60/40 split between the time your player should devote to each mechanic. This is not saying that your combination brawler/egg painting sim should have you kill two people for every egg you boil, but rather the time spent painting your eggs should not greatly outweigh the amount of time spent smashing faces into the ground.

Third, and most important, make sure the answer makes sense to people who aren’t you. Sure, you know the dread lich has always secretly wanted a puppy, and that makes him incredibly susceptible to lies told about the fluffiness of puppies, but how would your players be expected figure that out? A good solution is often just to ask someone from outside your sphere of influence if they will come in and read through what you have. Chances are, someone without your encyclopedic knowledge of your own characters will find at least a few things that don’t make sense, and that’s what you have to look out for.

Remember, give them the tools, make them shiny, and don’t over-complicate things.

Put a little music on.

This week we’re talking about setting the mood. Awwww yeah.

It’s important to make sure players understand the mood of the game they are taking part in, and it’s your job to make sure they do. Tailor your portrayal of the game world to the type of mood you wish to project to your player. If a town is full of poor peasants, perhaps they are wearing ragged clothes and looking gaunt in a relatively bright world or maybe they are wasting away by the side of the road, rattling begging cups with the stubs of missing limbs while flies buzz around their filthy rags if the world is altogether darker. A fighter’s strike can cripple and enemy’s leg, sending it crashing to the ground and granting the warrior a great advantage, or maybe the blow sheared through the beast’s leg, spraying blood everywhere as the monster collapsed in a mewling pile in a puddle of it’s own blood, bearing it’s unprotected neck to the fighter. In both examples, the same situation is being described both to different extremes and with different tonal details. A thesaurus is your best friend in a situation like this, and I honestly suggest looking up a couple of words you might use (dirty, poor, wounded, broken) and finding the synonyms that best fit your tone.

The way you choose to describe or show scenery also affect the mood of the game. A building collapsing, spewing dust and debris everywhere as it topples to the ground, can be either majestic or terrifying. A building collapsing on a crowded street, with the still trapped people inside desperately banging on the glass is a gut wrenching idea. An audience with the king inside a regal, gilded hall full of retainers in fine clothes is much more uplifting then the same audience with a king in an ill-lit hall of fading tapestries, dirty fixtures, and sneering courtesans.

Out of character things can also be a major factor in the manufacture of mood. Most horror games are best played with the lights down low, with occasional segments of brightness, while a game of adventure on the deep desert might stay brightly lit as much as possible until the in-game night fall. Sounds are also important, with good background music greatly enhancing the power of the storytelling. A spooky, low track is perfect for exploring a haunted house, something fast paced and high simulates an epic battle quite well, and it’s even possible to get one’s hands on the sounds of crowds, forests, and similar settings should they be present in the game.

So remember, use words that reflect the mood, describe things that reflect the mood, install a dimmer switch, and get speakers for your iPod.