Gaming is 100% mental. I mean, we aren't really swinging our swords, and rolling dice or reaching for a drink is probably as physical as it gets. This means that the best way to participate is either through role play or strategy and tactics. Now good role play is a must, and I can't emphasize enough the joys of using funny voices and making stunningly bad decisions in deference to a low wisdom (I have stories).
Strategy and problem solving is another. Gaming is dangerous for the characters, although maybe not so much for the players (I did get a cramp in my dice hand once, and there's always the Onion Dip Incident of which we never speak). Good strategy is what keeps our characters alive and lets us be a badass Conan style; and while we sometimes have to depend upon the cleverness of others, it's nice to be the hero sometimes.
Sure, we can get there by rolling a natural 20, but that's mere luck, not heroics, and actual participation demands that we think and act. And so here's the rub...
How do we contribute solutions when our character has a 3 intelligence? I mean, this is an accident of birth that unfairly shuts folks out of full participation. Sure, we can spend the session doing Lennie Small from Of Mice and Men, all the while hoping that the dice manage to make us look good - but that's not enough. And I'm not sure it could ever be.
Now one reader suggested that we could treat it as acting. A low intelligence means we withhold ideas even if we have them because our character is slow (OD&D suggests this in the core rulebooks). And by contrast, having a brilliant character when we're otherwise decidedly average entitles us to a roll, with success delivering just the right strategy on a silver platter. I won't go that far, but my friend was still on to something...
So the best answer is to rethink intelligence. Someone (I think Gygax in an early issue of Dragon) suggested that INTx10 =IQ, meaning a 3 intelligence is an IQ of 30! And just to be clear, a 30 IQ is severely mentally disabled and incapable of even basic self care, which makes adventuring out of the question. And the Monster Manual II says an intelligence of 3-4 counts as semi-intelligent (probably below dogs). Sorry, no way.
Instead, imagine character (and humanoid) intelligence on a scale as follows:
3-7 (Slow). The character is dim-witted or maybe just an incurious person. They're capable of self care and understand how the world works enough to get by, although maybe not without some misadventures. And while they won't contribute brilliant or complex strategies, they're more than capable of simple, direct solutions, especially when all the required information is right there in front of them. This is superior to just "playing dumb" because it calls for a fusion of thoughtful role play with due deference to the numbers.
Think of this character as a Forrest Gump. Maybe not the brightest bulb, but capable of understanding simple things extremely well. Combined with a low wisdom, the character is impulsive and id-driven or maybe naive and easily taken by scams. There are plenty of foibles. But paired with a higher wisdom, they possess a clear, simple insight.
8-14 (Average). This is us. And most characters, really. Nothing to add.
15-18 (Brilliant). This character knows a lot. But maybe they lack common sense (low wisdom) or simply lack the practical experience to make good decisions in a given situation, especially if outside of their experience. An 18-intelligence magic user should always be outclassed by a 7-intelligence fighter in combat situations. Really, don't think for one minute that a high intelligence is a golden ticket to all the best strategies. No, the real value of a higher score is languages and spells known. And rolling under for knowledge...
Does your character know something about the campaign setting? Maybe. If their background allows, and if they roll under their intelligence on a d20 in true B/X style, which makes having a higher score meaningful while (appropriately) penalizing those who lack intellectual prowess. And it does so by granting clues, which must still be interpreted by the player (no free lunch here, not even for geniuses). This is quite reasonable.
So Dorn the Dim (of the 5 intelligence) will never exploit the temporal flow of dimensional energies to disrupt an evil wizard's trap. But he can think to ignite the oil at their feet, meaning that the challenge of "playing dumb" isn't withholding solutions, but devising simple and effective answers consistent with a simple and direct personality. And while Bran the Brilliant very well could exploit their knowledge of extra-dimensional physics and maybe think to ignite the oil, they'll still have to think it up themselves. It's the smart thing to do...
Level matters in role-playing games. It speaks to how powerful a character is, how much damage they can suffer, and how many spells they may cast. Ditto for monsters. If you want a side-by-side power ranking, level gets you where you need to go and helps the GM build challenging but fair adventures and assign rewards appropriately...
And yet the first (and arguably the best) games might not have been all that concerned with level even when they otherwise embraced the concept.
Now I'm talking about OD&D here because for all it might have gotten wrong (errors of omission more than anything else), its approach to characters and levels was pretty much spot on - even if it wasn't expressly highlighted in the rules. Level, for all its undeniable importance, was always secondary to what old-school enthusiasts often frame as player skill vs. character skill. And its implications go far beyond simple gameplay...
More than anything, OD&D saw characters as a mind capable of asking questions, solving problems, and working together as part of a team. Class, with all its necessary power, seasoned the soup and gave everyone both the practical skills to survive and a specialty to further distinguish themselves. But ultimately, it was the cleverness and strategy of the players that overcame the odds and led their characters to victory.
When a 5th-level character died, a 1st-level hero took their place. A neophyte walking alongside more powerful companions. A novice character among seasoned professionals going up against objectively more powerful adversaries. How on earth was this even supposed to work? Or be fair? Or survivable for that matter? The answer lies in the fact that the party was never expected to fight everything, and when they did enter into hostilities, clever strategy was just as important as high marks in the level department.
Superior parties always tried to set the conditions of battle. And they never, ever took on a fair fight. Hell, if they could get riches without fighting, they'd do it.
None of this had much to do with level. At best, in encouraged strategy, especially when working around limited power. The earliest games took this as a given. As long as you had a mind capable of solving problems and contributing ideas, you had at least half of what you needed to succeed. Level was just another resource in the party's toolkit...
And, of course, there were hirelings. Even an oaf with a 3 charisma got one, making the typical party more of an expedition complete with porters and men-at-arms. This approach put lower-level adventurers in charge of a fighting force, which was in keeping with the hobby's early self-identification as wargaming. And think of the power a low-level character had with even one armed fighter under their command. Seriously.
Note: OD&D made men-at-arms expensive to find but cheaper to maintain. By way of example, a heavy footman could be had for 100-ish GP and maintained for a mere 3 GP per month in upkeep. But in a game where the rules are just a guide, locating one might be simpler and less expensive. At any rate, a relative inheriting their kin's wealth could easily afford to take on some hired help depending on the circumstances involved.
Oh, and relatives inheriting equipment and/or magic items already enjoyed substantial advantages from the go, greatly improving their chances of survival.
Relatively low-powered (and interdependent) characters leading an expeditionary force underground, avoiding danger, and setting the conditions for battle? Sounds like old-school gaming to me - and sounds like challenging fun! The earliest games assumed a mode of play that allowed anyone to get involved. Bring your brains and your hirelings. Challenging adventures await those willing to put cleverness and strategy ahead of level alone...
So yesterday I found my old house on Google Maps*. I lived there four and a half years, seemingly the totality of my childhood right up to my dawning adolescence, and it never left me even though I was forced to leave it behind (but then, children seldom have that much control over their early destinies). I was reminded of how happy I was, and how badly time ravages even our most cherished memories. But some things abide...
We were never especially wealthy, and sometimes outright poor. Or homes were never the biggest or the best on any given street. But to see the old place now in such ill repair detonates a nuclear bomb somewhere inside of me. The roof is ugly patchwork seemingly incapable of enduring the hard southern rains, and it looks for all the world like no one's painted since we moved out in 1979. Is it a meth house now? Not a charitable thought, but the other houses on the street are just as pristine as they were decades ago.
Of course, I can't expect others to care the way I did, and I have no knowledge of the current resident's circumstances. It's really just me bemoaning my distant past...
I discovered I was a geek there - years before it was fashionable. Star Wars was this new thing, and I think we were all scrambling to adjust. And back then, most all of our geeky entertainments were home brew. My brother and I drew weekly comic books for each other, ambitious affairs set in the fictional town of Creepville, Ohio. These were loosely based on the Aurora Movie Monster kits we obsessively assembled through much of the decade, rendered in Pedigree colored pencil on notebook paper. Amazingly, we kept it up for three years (an eternity for children) through numerous issues and several spin-offs...
And one summer we published homemade horror magazines in the style of Famous Monsters of Filmland. These were "professionally" published on our venerable Underwood typewriter, complete with photocopied stills from our favorite magazines, copied and re-copied by our indulgent mother and stapled along one side. I swear it was easily the most formative creative experience of my life. There's really something to be said for living before everything was available. No cable, no internet. We made our own fun, and things were better for it. There's just no beating the purity or deep sense of ownership.
Long story short, I discovered this thing called D&D, and it spoke to my home brew sensibilities. Every one of them. We moved eight months later, and by 1980 I was playing Holmes Basic in another house - in another town with other friends. I grew up, met and married the love of my life, and discovered whole new ways to be fulfilled. These days we publish small press games on the side, most in a manual type font. We're Olde House Rules, and now you know where this all comes from - and what the "olde house" really is...
*Sorry, no picture. People live there now, and we want to respect their privacy.
Wishes, those reality bending rewards; they come in bottles and on rings of power. But beware always the capricious and trigger-shy game master...
Some GMs are understandably fearful of the game-breaking power of wishes, and this frequently results in them becoming non-existent or guaranteed bummers no player wants to touch. And that's a pity, because wishes add an element of wonder and the possibility of reversing unfortunate events. Yes, much mischief can be done as well, perhaps leading to memorable adventures (in retrospect of course). But if the players somehow manage to find a magic lamp (or whatever), it should at least potentially have value.
Wishes alter reality, but thermodynamics insists that nothing can be truly created or destroyed, only moved around; and herein lies a guide for managing wishes in a campaign where they're desperately needed. We'll begin with categories:
RESTORATIVE wishes affect the user (or a chosen target) to restore or reverse some personal misfortune. If Bjorn was somehow reincarnated as a badger, he should be able to wish himself back to his former self, and denying this or imposing penalties to avoid breaking the game probably looks and feels like meanness. Of course, the player must still wish responsibly. Asking to be human again is not the same as wishing to be restored to their former (read: previous) identity. But even then, the GM can respect intent...
ENHANCEMENT wishes improve appearance, abilities, etc. This is a mixed bag because some desired enhancements are potentially more game-breaking than others. When wishing to change gender and/or modify appearance, it's pretty much doing a hard reset of the character concept. This can be done with few consequence beyond the campaign narrative and may be interesting. On the other hand, wishing to improve abilities has more serious implications. Maybe each wish only raises an attribute by one point, and upon reaching the racial maximum, only by 1/10th of a point. AD&D took this approach.
Of course, wishing to fly or shoot lightning bolts out of your eyes can significantly alter the fabric of reality. In this case, the added powers absolutely should come at a price. I suggest transforming the aviation enthusiast into a sentient pigeon or striking the lightning-bolt lover blind as their new power (forever theirs) blasts the eyes out of their head...
Now we've entered bummer territory. Tread cautiously here you would-be wishers!
EVENT REVERSAL wishes involve any reversal that extends beyond an individual to the entire party (or even larger groups). This requires seismic shifts to the fabric of reality because it literally reverses events for several people. If half the party died in a terrifying pit trap - poof! - they're restored. But every subsequent benefit, including magic items and levels gained by any survivors, are lost because the events never really happened.
As a rule, restoration/reversal for individuals is fine. Restoration for groups requested by survivors actually with that group results in the loss of any and all subsequent gains because that much reality can only be altered by reconfiguring the "mass" of prior events.
GRANDIOSE wishes involve any fabulous (and external) acquisitions that can potentially unravel the campaign. These always involve a trade-off. Ask for infinite riches and you'll be teleported (quite alone) into Tiamat's lair. Wish for the Wand of Orcus and enjoy an all-expense paid trip to the demon lord's throne room in Hell. Requests of this magnitude can only be realized with great effort, and taking the wisher to the goal is typically easier in a cosmic sense than bringing said riches to the waiting character on a silver platter.
Ultimately, the idea here is that (1) wishes involve a sort of conservation of energy, a thermodynamics of reality. Nothing new is added, just moved around, and (2) smaller and more reasonable requests involve far less effort and should be granted in the spirit of compensation for treasure justly earned. Do this, and the players will know to exercise due discretion, which rewards them and keeps the game intact. We can only wish...
