Category Archives: Speculations

Balance & trade-offs

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Image from Wikipedia

Image from Wikipedia

Balance is really important to me when it comes to game design. What is that, you say? OSR heresy! It’s true though. The principle that I operate under is that nothing should be obviously optimal or suboptimal outside of specific circumstances. Everything should require meaningful and feasible trade-offs.

The common discourse about balance is about something different, though. It usually focuses on power balance between PCs in order to facilitate spotlight sharing. In general, I assume that characters of different levels may be adventuring together (based on either PC mortality and replacement, or from new players joining the campaign). Once you assume that different level characters will be working side by side, this kind of balance goes straight out the window (and good riddance, too).

Games where, practically speaking, 2 or 3 weapons are pretty much always the best choices, are a failure in my mind (at least in that dimension). The three dart per round AD&D magic user is a really good example of this (why would they use any other weapon?), as are weapon specialization rules in virtually every game that uses them (because such rules create a structure that destroys the possibility for interesting trade-offs). (For an example of weapon specialization rules that don’t suck structurally, consider something like weapon tricks that require setup time but have interesting side effects, like entanglement or stunning.) The whole AD&D variable damage weapons system is something of a mess, because it requires so many other fiddly subsystems to be operating (weapon speed, weapon length, weapon versus armor type, damage type) in order for the whole thing to not collapse into two or three optimal choices (long sword, long bow, two-handed sword). Some people might criticize the traditional spell list in this manner too, but I believe they are misunderstanding the use of many spells.

This does lead to several interesting corollaries. First, it reinforces my desire for a logarithmic power curve. I want PCs to develop, both for interest and adventuring incentive, but broadly rather than deeply, and in a way where the top level characters don’t totally outstrip the beginning level characters. Higher level characters should have more options, and more staying power, but scary monsters should always be scary, tricks should always be tricky, and traps should always be devious. There have been good arguments made that medium and high level D&D play models a different kind of protagonist than low level play, but it seems to me that barring some cosmetic mechanical similarities, these different tiers are actually different games (or they are just smoke and mirrors using scaled difficulty mechanical illusionism). I was just in a FLAILSNAILS game where one of the PCs “outgrew” the setting because he advanced above some level. This seems like something of a flaw in the D&D level model, at least as commonly implemented.

Second, how is a great power not automatically better than a lesser power? For example, a +1 sword is in all dimensions always a better option than a mundane sword (barring something like a curse, or an angry previous owner). The answer is that a great power is not automatically better than a lesser power if it is not of unlimited use. Go ahead, give a party of first level characters a scroll of meteor swarm or time stop and watch them agonize over when to use it. Make using power cost something.

Rock, paper, scissors

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Image from Wikipedia

Image from Wikipedia

Read magic, as a spell, is often looked down upon. The primary criticism is that it seems like something that a magic-user should be able to do inherently. I don’t want to get into arguments about what a magic-user “should” be able to do, but I do want to talk a bit about why read magic is interesting to have as a spell that must be chosen and what this says about the design of the game.

First, what does read magic do? Here is the text (Men & Magic, page 23):

The means by which the incantations on an item or scroll are read. Without such a spell or similar device magic is unintelligible to even a Magic-User. The spell is of short duration (one or two readings being the usual limit).

So, read magic is the “key” that fits the “lock” of scrolls (most commonly) and even perhaps other magic items. I take that mention of “an item” to be a great suggestion to put instruction runes on all kinds of magic items (and even architectural features). As Talysman writes in his spell series post on read magic:

The Read Magic spell appears to have originally been a “gatekeeper”, blocking immediate access to something; in this case, magic scrolls or activation inscriptions on magic items. You can decipher magical inscriptions later, at great expense over several weeks, or you can cast Read Magic now — but that means devoting a spell slot you might prefer to use for something like Sleep. The intention, then, was that scrolls found in the dungeon would normally not be usable until much later, with Read Magic allowing you to bypass that rule.

That’s what makes read magic as a spell interesting. If you don’t have information about the dangers and obstacles that you will be facing, then picking your spells is much like rock, paper, scissors. Once you have done some reconnaissance of your target, you are then operating with more information, and can react appropriately, but that comes at the cost of time and perhaps alerting the denizens of the dungeon to your presence (an aside: this is also why the “15 minute adventuring day” is a feature, not a bug).

This is also an argument against including spells like magic missile, especially on the low-level spell lists. It’s not a strong argument, as the obvious rejoinder is that not all obstacles can be solved by combat (for example, read languages might be more useful if you need to figure out how to activate an ancient machine). But magic missile does lack some of the interesting trade-off inherent in a spell like sleep, which is incredibly powerful against enemies like orcs or low-level humans, but useless against undead. Magic missile is also less interesting because missiles are how fighters solve problems. Even fireball and lightning bolt don’t really have that issue within the structure of the game, as they attack enemies in novel ways (by area of effect and line of effect, respectively). [Edit: see also Talysman’s post on magic missile in response.]A number of other spells plug into other aspects of the game in ways that may not be immediately obvious. For example, read languages is not just about translation; it is the “key” that fits the “lock” of treasure maps (Men & Magic, page 23):

The means by which directions and the like are read, particularly on treasure maps.

Another example: charm person is not just about getting your way with some NPCs, it is also a way to obtain a retainer while bypassing the negotiation step and the reaction roll social mechanics. From Men & Magic, page 12:

Monsters can be lured into service if they are of the same basic alignment as the player-character, or they can be Charmed and thus ordered to serve. Note, however, that the term “monster” includes men found in the dungeons, so in this way some high-level characters can be brought into a character’s service, charisma allowing or through a Charm spell.

Thus, charm person is more properly understood (in terms of its place in the game) as a more reliable replacement for a high charisma. Almost every single magic-user spell in the 3 LBBs has this quality of being scissors to some situational paper.

This principle almost immediately starts to break down with later versions of the game, however. For example, Supplement I: Greyhawk includes the first level spell ventriloquism. Now, it’s true that use of ventriloquism could lead to some creative problem solving, but it is not clear to me how it fits into the structure of the game in the way that most of the original spells do, and thus also unclear why a magic-user might want to make the trade-off of preparing ventriloquism rather than some other spell.

Just like the equipment list, the spell list is potentially a valuable source of information regarding the types of problems that will be present and thus what the game is about.

In Praise of Modules

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Hating on modules seems to be a common thing. Not just specific modules, but the abstract idea of them. I agree that many modules have problems. Many modules are so poorly laid out for actual use that it almost makes more sense to build something from scratch than to try using them at the table. Many classic AD&D modules fall into this category for me, with their huge wall-of-text room descriptions. However, even hard to use modules can also be read like literature and mined for ideas. Additionally, there is the benefit of getting out of your own head, at least to some degree:

Anybody can make maps and stock them with monsters and treasure. You can even do it randomly. Off-the-cuff refereeing is a skill that indeed requires no outside support, be it commercial or free. But I know when I buy an adventure, I am seeking in-depth descriptions that make the map and the contents of the location come alive, and hopefully in a way that I would never have done on my own. When I run someone else’s adventure, it’s because I want the challenge of running something different, to present my group with something different. Changed names to integrate a work into my setting aside, I don’t want to make an adventure “my own.” The whole point is to escape that for a bit and to charge my own creative batteries by basking in someone else’s creative light.

(From the introduction to Hammers of the God)

I would add a few more practical considerations that favor modules. The first is that it’s almost always easier to learn from examples than it is to learn from manuals. Any programmer will vouch for that insight. The second is that modules provide communal shared experiences. The third is that time is limited. It’s not hard to bake bread, but I still often defer to the baker.

Relative power levels

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I think it is widely accepted that there has been some degree of power inflation through the march of D&D editions, with hit points and many other stats increasing. Ability use limitations have also decreased or gone away. For example, the humble TSR D&D magic-user or wizard got to prepare one first level spell per day, and after it was used no more spells could be cast until the next day. Compare that with the at-will magic missiles D&D Next and at-will Pathfinder cantrips.

In any case, I’m not saying that any of these power curves are objectively better or anything like that (though I do personally prefer lower power games in most cases), but I thought that a graphical visualization might make it easier to communicate the ideas. Yes, in reality the power levels do not increase so linearly (for example, see how access to certain spells changes the nature of the game). But I think the general idea of the graph above, if approached abstractly, is more or less correct.

Some other notable changes are how TSR D&D has a phase shift around ninth (“name”) level, after which power accumulates more slowly (other than for magic-users, who continue to amass large numbers of spell slots). Third Edition largely did away with the phase shift, allowing hit dice and other abilities to progress until the end. Fourth Edition, chasing the “sweet spot” of levels 5 through 10 in traditional D&D, starts out much more powerful, but ends up weaker (by some comparisons).

Just as a thought, perhaps something like a logarithmic power curve would be interesting? In other words, a way to accumulate power indefinitely (this is an important motivator in the game), but at a slower and slower pace. E6 comes closest to this, but the resolution of power accumulation above sixth level is rather crude (one feat every 5000 XP), and feats also don’t model many kinds of advancement very well.

Mythical ideal power curve? (Plotted with Google)

Constraint & Creativity

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As anyone who has engaged in creative endeavors probably knows, boundless freedom is often not an aid to creativity. Instead, limits and strictures seem to help channel ideas from chaos into some semblance of meaning and potential newness. Paradoxically, censorship is even a form of constraint which can foster creativity (especially clever ways of communicating that which is prohibited). This expands on my previous post about persistent settings, where I touched on the idea of constraint briefly.

I think constraints function in two main ways to help facilitate creativity. The first is that constraints often give you a place to start, helping to bypass the blank sheet problem. The second is that the task at hand is narrowed down to reconciliation of desired effect with particular limits. These properties should be familiar to people who have studied productivity techniques; methods to get started (getting past the blank page) and methods to break larger, complex tasks into smaller, simpler tasks.

Mixing results from random tables is thus a method of introducing constraints. How are these disparate results reconciled? How does it make sense that there are berserkers in the first room and goblins in the second room? Why is a dragon encountered only six miles from a town? Is it perhaps the hidden servant (or master) of the town mayor? Why is there a desert right next to the sea? How does the isolated town support itself? Matt Finch calls this process deep design in his Tome of Adventure Design (one of my favorite RPG books; I have not spent nearly enough time with it).

Some other ideas for limitations:

  1. Limit yourself to a core rulebook or boxed set. I’m leaning towards using the OD&D 3 LBBs (I already have a basic alignment-based taxonomy to use as an organizing principle).
  2. Only take monsters from one (non-standard) bestiary (there has been some blog discussion about this over the past few months regarding the Fiend Folio).
  3. Only use certain tools during creation. Scott Driver is doing this with his Dwarf-Land setting by using a typewriter. One could also hand-write everything.

Nomenclatura

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I have always considered naming things to be a hard and important task in tabletop RPGs, on both sides of the screen. Much of the flavor of a game setting is communicated via the names, especially for homebrew settings that don’t have extensive canonical literature with illustrations. Probably the largest effect of gaming on the non-gaming parts of my life has been the constant mining of everything I encounter for names. Novels, street signs, captcha forms, anything. Even when I was not actively gaming, I still kept lists of names. Dada’s little baby namer has also been a frequently used resource.

If you had any doubt about the power of naming in the real world, you need to look no further than our own little echo chamber.  Giving concepts like sandbox, megadungeon, agency, railroading, and tent-pole easily remembered names gives them power. Half of software engineering is probably built around managing complexity through abstraction and naming.

The power of the true name can also be the basis of magic in folklore and fantasy. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea is probably the most influential source of this trope in mainstream fantasy, but it also shows up in Cook’s The Black Company and Rothfuss’ recent The Name of the Wind.

Good naming for tabletop RPGs follows different principles from other media, mostly because the names are often communicated verbally rather than visually. Names that are too complicated will probably not stick. Also, players tend to have notoriously short attention spans for setting detail. One solution to this that can work with some groups is to allow players to name some things as they come into contact with them or if they are connected in some way with a PC’s background.

I just finished reading The Black Company, and I have to say I am quite taken with the simple naming style. Names include Croaker, Silent, Goblin, One-eye, and Elmo. I think this style would work wonderfully for D&D; it doesn’t take itself too seriously (if you try to make something sound self-consciously serious, I guarantee some other player will satirize it), and such names are easy to remember.

Despite all this, the name of one of my longest-played characters (an elf wizard in second edition) was lifted whole-cloth from one of R. A. Salvatore’s lesser-known non-D&D books (The Woods Out Back): Kelsenellenelvial Gil’Ravadry, or Kelsey for short. In my defence, I can only say that at least I didn’t name him Drizzt.

Magic item: Nomenmancer’s Wand

(2d4 charges)

The nomenmancer’s wand is a slender rod several hands long crafted of an unknown metal. If examined closely, it is clear that the wand’s form is like that of very elongated tetrahedron (a four-sided solid with triangular faces, one of which is the base). Tiny runes, symbols and characters cover the three long sides, fading into nothingness as they approach the tip.

The wand stores true names.

The wielder of the wand gains a +10 bonus to saving throws versus spells cast by any specific entities whose names are so stored.

The wand may also be used as a stylus to prepare a scroll of command. Such a scroll functions as the charm person spell, but only for the entity in question. No saving throw is allowed initially, though saves may be attempted later (based on intelligence) as per the charm person spell description. Creating such a scroll discharges the name. Command scrolls may be used by any class, much like protection scrolls.

Any entity that becomes aware their name is stored in a nomenmancer’s wand will stop at nothing to recover it.

Methods for recharging the wand have been lost to the mists of time.

Points of darkness

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If the traditional D&D wilderness is made up of small bastions of law floating in a sea of chaos (the points of light trope), then maybe games like Call of Cthulhu and World of Darkness are points of darkness in an otherwise mundane reality. Since present reality is manifestly mundane, it makes sense that fantastic games that use the present as their setting often use some variation of this pattern. The super hero genre is the only exception I can think of, and that works primarily because the bar for suspension of disbelief is so low for supers.

Perhaps points of darkness, rather than points of light, are needed for a weird horror game. This would be another reason for LotFP to move away from fantasy settings and into the historical world and away from the D&D level system (with all the power inflation it entails). This is often how horror movies work: some aspect of expected reality is upset, and then (usually) restored by the end of the story, providing an experience of catharsis.