Olde House Rules: It's an OSR Thing...

I love the OSR and Robyn appreciates fantasy period.  That's why we dabble in game design.  But in six years of publishing (has it really been that long), we've never tackled that which is my personal favorite: old-school Dungeons & Dragons.  Of course we love what we've published so far.  Can a parent truly hate their child?  But it's also been plenty of work - and work that feels like work and not like fun.  I'm ready for this to be fun again.

At my heart I'm a Dungeon Master, writing adventures like I did in the 1980s.  D&D was my medium, and it provided the raw materials needed to create entire worlds of fantasy, complete with interesting people, places, and things.  Rules are great; but I'm a little weary of writing raw materials for others to enjoy (although we love everyone), and thus our newest child was conceived:

It's an OSR Thing is a line of published adventures designed (very broadly) for games in the OSR and meant to be inserted into an existing campaign.  Our first release is scheduled for sometime in early 2020, the first of many more.  In the meantime, here's a look at the introductory pages that will be part of each release.  We're pretty excited about what we're making here, precisely because it's fun, not to mention narratively challenging.  But we're also becoming more comfortable with our tools, with consequences for our other titles, although that's still a ways off.  We're taking the holidays off and won't be back until after the new year.  Be safe; enjoy the season.  We'll return in full force because, hey - it's an OSR thing...

Barsoom, OD&D, and Story Games...

Robyn and I love stories, but neither of us are what might be called a story gamer.  As a crusty old grognard I prefer the traditional model, with a clear division of labor between the referee and the players.  Everyone stays in their lane; and if players want to influence the story they do so through the actions of their characters.  Robyn, a computer RPG enthusiast, is more inclined to consider what the players want from a game, whether getting an animal companion or possessing some unique piece of equipment.  Between the two of us we steer a middle course, although we both tend towards making desired opportunities available within the context of a game and leaving the characters to seek these out on their own…

So we’re talking about old-school gaming as we know it, as opposed to so-called story gaming, where some degree of collaboration takes place.  Depending on the system, a group might work together to determine the nature of the setting and even the powers of its villains.  Slaying a dragon isn’t just something that might happen during play, but something specifically negotiated beforehand.  Robyn and I draw the line here because it feels less heroic.  We have little power over who pulls up next to us at the stoplight.  We’re acted upon by any number of external forces beyond our control, and success depends largely upon our ability to deal with this.  Of course, we can set personal goals and take steps to achieve them; but at no time is success, much less the opportunity, guaranteed.  This is the only way true heroism is possible.

       

Story gaming seems anathema to the old-school way, although Robyn and I subscribe to a different strokes/folks mindset.  Certain rather outspoken personalities have referred to story gamers as swine.  Ouch.   I think (and fervently hope) they’re being hyperbolic.  Gaming is just too trivial to say anything about one’s character.  Even so, old-school enthusiasts know why they like the way they play and feel like they can defend their preferences.  The feelings run deep, and we’ve grown accustomed to thinking it’s been that way from the start.  Sorry, but it hasn’t.  Some collaboration between the players and their referee has always been there, and the social nature of the experience was well understood from the beginning.  Don’t believe us?  Check out this direct quote from OD&D’s Monsters & Treasure… 

         

“If the referee is not personally familiar with the various monsters included in this category the participants of the campaign can be polled to decide all characteristics.”

In short, the players and the referee can work together to write the specific abilities (read: statistics) of the monsters they encounter, which is not unlike deciding the characteristics of the campaign’s primary villain in true story-gaming style.  This grievous sin is enshrined in old-school’s Holy Scriptures and by the one person who should have opposed it!  Now this referred to miscellaneous large insects or animals, but included (potentially) Banths and similar pulpy creations not formally covered in the rules.  Gygax clearly understood that the campaign, any campaign, really, would be a social contract between its participants.  He could have left this to the referee alone (which ultimately happened), but he didn’t at this early juncture in the hobby’s history.  Collaborative, story-gaming elements were there, albeit in small ways, and I contend that they continue even in the most traditional fare.

  

But the rulebook isn’t the game; and as early as 1980 I was working one-on-one with my players to establish what their characters wanted and took care to make these opportunities available.  Was this story gaming?  Aside from introducing whatever opportunities they wanted for their characters, my players were at the mercy of a world they couldn’t anticipate and could only influence through their personal choices.  And this was assuming they even survived their expeditions into the underworld!  When Jarl the Red said he wanted to eventually procure a griffin mount, I expected him to make queries and do the legwork.  But I also threw out offhand references to the griffin breeding grounds in the context of a local complaining about attacks on their livestock.  The rest was up to Jarl, which is to say that in forty years of gaming I’ve determined that there’s no hard line between the different modes of play, just a sliding grey scale.  Old-school thrives on a strict division of labor between the players and the referee.  Even so, the line between this and story gaming’s more collaborative approach is broad and fuzzy, with plenty of room to stretch.  We bring this up only to point out that Gygax seemed to know this from the very beginning; but also because a good GM knows their options and the fundamentally social nature of the hobby...

Making the Arts Dark Again...

Sorcery.  The Dark Arts.  These words conjure up images of occult knowledge wrestled from forgotten old tomes and worked in guilty secrecy.  Magic is sinister.  Evil.  It comes with a whiff of brimstone at great personal cost; but such is its price.  Magic is a deal with the devil, a Faustian bargain that underscores the sometimes corrupting force of ambition.  But D&D has turned magic into a neutral energy to be manipulated, an undiscovered science exploited by studious and charming magicians to fight evil.  Quasi-Christian clerics work cheerily alongside wizened spell casters despite the adversarial nature of their occupations, and there’s nothing wrong with this except that magic loses some of its edge and, shall we say, much of its danger.  It loses its luster and differs from the common sword only in the particulars of what it can do.  And this just might be too bad because…

Magic is dangerous.  It’s a violation of the laws of nature and an existential threat.  Casting even the simplest spell erodes the fabric of reality, with dire consequences.  It’s like thermodynamics – the power has to come from somewhere, and each spell cast robs the universe of something.  Or perhaps the magician draws upon their own essence, becoming a corrupted, distended shadow of their former self to fuel ambition until they fade into shadowy dark.  The latter has primarily personal implications until they start targeting others to restore their vigor or channel their essence into a magic ring or some similar artifact.  Magic has a price.  And magic gets paid; there's no exception to the rule.

But magic is also diabolical.  Depending on the tradition, humans aren’t naturally adapted to its use and must bind or bargain with demons.  The spirit world is neutral at best.  At worst it’s the stuff of Hell, demonic to the core.  Good and neutral practitioners do this stuff at great risk, while the evil enter into pacts to secure ever greater power – for a time at least.  There’s something undeniably tragic about all this, especially when that kindly old wizard or village healing woman is basically damned, destined to roast in the pit of Hell for all eternity.  Cthulhu dethroned Satan in the scary department, although fandom has steadily neutered Lovecraft’s dark god, so maybe it’s the devil’s turn again.  It’s the same old song; magic has a price.  Magic gets paid.  This is dark stuff, and good stuff easily incorporated into an existing game, whatever the system.  D&D’s magic doesn’t have to be a neutral force.  It could be diabolically granted.   Let’s say the character racks up CORRUPTION points equal to a spell’s level when used, accumulating over time and erased only through good deeds or ritual purification.  Once a certain threshold is crossed, the devil (or whoever) comes to collect their soul!  Hell (so to speak), magic-users might even be allowed to cast any spell of any level, but at increasingly greater risk to their personal salvation.  Rules, remember?  There's no getting around 'em.  

Of course there’s a long tradition of so-called white magic, and many gamers won’t like the idea of their cherished spell casters getting their hands dirty.  They like being the party’s artillery and intelligence wing and prefer to see magic as an undiscovered science.  There’s nothing wrong with this, and astute readers will notice that our Pits & Perils game basically takes this approach.  At any rate, an overtly diabolical magic system would have validated the Satanic Panic, and since gaming is an industry with every right to make a buck, it’s not hard to see why this approach hasn’t exactly penetrated its mainstream wing.  But for those comfortable with a darker, edgier version of alternative reality, magic as a dark and diabolical art might be just what the (witch) doctor ordered.  I'm pretty sure most of what I've suggested is already being used somewhere; but here's a little reminder that it can be used anywhere, and with little additional preparation.  Go ahead, make that deal with the the devil or – better still, make your players do it.  Assuming your group is willing and their character concepts don't suffer, maybe give 'em a little Hell... 

Of Hobbits and High Fashion...

Older guys like me tend to wax nostalgic about plump little hobbits with hairy toes who adventure despite their fear of it; and we like our gear to be historically accurate straight from the pages of Prince Valiant.  Forget modern fashion; we like our characters medieval.  But like it or not, we're all products of our time and see ourselves through the prism of whatever generation we happened to grow up in, with a fashion sense to match... 

Gaming, with its rulebooks and miniatures, is a surprisingly visual medium, especially for theater of the mind stuff.  That said, it's always depicted personal grooming by the standards of the day because that's how we see ourselves and, more importantly, how the customer sees their most idealized self.  Paradoxically, depictions of armor and equipment have moved steadily away from historical accuracy towards the increasingly fantastical because these things have no contemporary parallel.  Let's call it fantasy fashion.

We form our standards of beauty and style growing up, although I won't pretend the 70s or 80s had a clue about some things.  And as D&D and its imitators became products marketed to others, it only made sense that buyers see themselves.  Hence, the piercings and body tattoos that started popping up in the 90s in time with contemporary fashion.  But armor and equipment changes in response to stylistic shifts, which are far more subjective.
  
Anyway, we can see this trend play out across the decades of the hobby:

1970s: The Tolkien Calendars offered a gorgeous look at Middle Earth, courtesy of the Brothers Hildebrandt.  Nice, but their depictions were definitely a child of the times.  Aragorn had a serious pornstache and everything had a 70s vibe.  Fantasy wasn't mainstream yet, meaning no need for mass marketing.  The clothing mostly followed a historical template or cinematic precedent with Robin Hood tights and storybook tassels.  D&D did the same, owing to its identity as a pseudo-medieval wargame, with an emphasis on accurate armor and weaponry.  I have a soft spot for this, especially the 19th century storybook look.

1980s: Fantasy had gone mainstream, and it all converged on D&D.  Larry Elmore was a dominant force here, and the 80s slant was undeniable.  I've always felt like his artwork channelled He-Man just a little too much; but that's obviously a personal bias and in no way reflective of his great talent.  Let's be clear: I couldn't draw my way out of a bucket, so no poisoned pens, please.  But Elmore was also a child of his time, and demographic changes were increasingly on display; especially in the women's hair, which looked suitably blow dried.  Snarfquest absolutely nailed the 80s in terms of personal grooming.

1990s: This decade saw big changes.  The mainstreaming of fantasy, begun in the 80s, propelled its fashion far from any historical blueprint.  Starting with 2nd edition's apocalyptic Dark Sun through D&D's third re-imagining, the humans sported body tattoos and various piercings as the non-humans became exotically alien, especially the (almost insectoid) elves and (muscular) halflings.  Armor and weapons also got the extreme treatment, with heroic, sometimes ridiculous, proportions to match characters who were increasingly superheroes in an Iron Age Star Trek setting.  Looks-wise, it was the MTV generation slaying orcs.

2000s: The rise of self-publishing changed everything.  The hobby was less of a monolith, and independent voices had more of a say.  The art, and its implied fashion, was quite literally all over the place.  Of course, the rise of the OSR saw a return to the hobby's more traditional leanings.  Peasants looked like peasants, and the halflings were fat with hairy toes after a decade of channeling Adam Ant.  But this conservative pivot stood alongside some great modern fare, proving it's not a zero-sum game; and while I prefer the pseudo-historical approach, there's no wrong way to do this.  It's called fantasy for a reason.

Art imitates life; and if we somehow get to 10th edition D&D, we can be damned sure its characters will look suspiciously like what the kids are wearing.  This isn't new.  Conan the Barbarian looked like a silent movie hunk on the covers of Weird Tales.  But fantasy is a convention-busting genre.  There's always some new creative vision; and just like art deco once ruled the popular fashion, kids will find new ways to see everything from warrior kings to the weapons they carry into battle.  After all, what always changes can never die...

Dumb Luck and Ten-Foot Poles...

Last week's foray into politics (which I'm not repeating any time soon) generated some interesting and thoughtful discussions, with a few suggesting that true conservatives might not like games with excessive dice rolling because it would demonstrate the role of luck, shattering their worldviews.  I respectfully disagree.  This is a misreading of how people see luck vs. personal action, and it goes to the very heart of old-school.  

We oldsters, conservative or otherwise, rolled lots and lots of dice.  And we absolutely understood the role of dumb luck.  It would be damn near impossible not to.  Good decisions and prior planning don't make it impossible to roll a "1".  Don't worry, we figured this out almost immediately.  But these things do ensure that luck isn't the only thing influencing the outcome.  Do nothing and it comes down to luck; act, and players have a say.

Giant spiders are dangerous.  And poisonous.  Once engaged, dumb luck could get a character bitten; and the same blind chance could easily cause the victim to roll "1" on their saving throw and die a terrible (and instant) death.  But due diligence might ensure those oversized arachnids never get within melee distance, so fire missiles; throw oil; do whatever it takes to avoid getting too close for comfort lest dumb luck rule the day.

In other words, strategy reduces the need for saving throws and therefore, the chance of rolling low.  Make no mistake; there'll still be plenty of dumb luck in a universe where adversaries lurk in every dark corner.  But old-fashioned planning goes a long way towards stacking the deck and allowing the players to manage risk.  Thrusting your arm into that jumble of garbage invites an attack from the centipedes hiding within, which in turn invites a save vs. poison.  Both are reducible to luck, so use your ten-foot pole instead...

Of course, those centipedes might come scrambling out of the trash heap to attack the nearest exposed foot.  There's always that risk.  But with a little distance and the whole party waiting to stomp 'em flat, it doesn't look good for the bugs.  At this point we're reduced to maybe a single roll and perhaps not even that much.  A clever party might encircle the heap with oil and drop a lit torch at the first sign of trouble coming out to play.

And this is the challenge of old-school.  This is what you come for when you want the authentic old-school experience.  It's not better or worse, just different - and it's something worth preserving, especially if you want to be properly challenged.  And here the hobby imitates life because; really, aren't we all doing this?  We lock our doors at night, buckle up on the highway, and avoid smoking crystal meth because these choices mitigate risk.

Old-school gaming was never unfair.  Character classes are carefully balanced and the dungeons survivable with effort - and a little luck.  It just so happens that many of its challenges require active engagement, which shouldn't be too much to ask of its intelligent participants.  Rules don't make a game fair - people do.  No amount of rules can ever defend against an asshole, and it takes little effort for friends to treat each other decently and recognize good ideas when they come.  Nothing is more old-school than that.

I firmly believe that anyone, regardless of age and/or politics, can appreciate old-school gaming as a unique experience with their respective worldviews intact.  In my five decades on planet Earth I've observed that everyone is a person with a fundamental drive to act, improving their lives one decision at a time.  It just so happens that old-school gaming, with its emphasis on personal choice, taps into that human urge to shape our destinies... 

On Gaming Conservative...

Today Venger Satanis posted about why the OSR veers conservative.  He admits it’s a generalization (a good call on his part); and I see his point.  In short, he proposes that OSR fans prefer a laissez-faire game where the players are left to succeed or fail in a largely indifferent world, whereas modern (read: younger) players prefer a more secure, balanced, and fair experience where they’ll eventually get what they want.  Fair enough, although I suspect this has more to do with the average age of each faction and the fact that modern gaming is an industry with every reason to write more rules so they can sell ‘em…

And it occurs to me that games shouldn’t necessarily say anything about how we approach our real lives, which remain stubbornly devoid of elves.  That said, Venger's post reminds me that I’m a centrist (in gaming and real-life) and definitely a capitalistic GM.

So first off, I'm a retired military officer.  To some, that means I'm a stodgy conservative who thinks The Constitution was hand-written by Jesus himself, who then used it to clean his modified AR-15 while wearing a DON'T TREAD ON ME t-shirt.  Um, not quite.  I'm an active secular humanist (although I avoid the subject here), with at least some of the political leanings to go with it.  I’m also a retired meteorologist who accepts that anthropomorphic climate change is happening and bears attention.  Rush Limbaugh would disagree.

    

I strongly believe in capitalism (a great invention), but don’t for a minute think that the oligarchs wouldn’t happily poison the well if they could get away with it.  I think we need to advocate for the change we want, but also need to see the world for what it is right now, which means lots of hard work and personal sacrifice to achieve our goals, assuming we ever do, because life in itself owes us nothing.  Call me your basic political centrist.

But gaming is different.  The stakes certainly are; and the experiences we want in our games are (and probably should be) far removed from our best political path forward.  In the very least, gaming demands a level of abstraction nowhere present in reality, and the idea that the old school was devoid of balance and a sense of fair play is only half right.  No one would force a first-level party through Tomb of Horrors.  It’s meant for a stronger group.  Moreover, TSR’s packaged modules were highlighting party size and level requirements as early as the 80s, a clear nod to fairness.  Gygax warned against Monty Haul and killer dungeons early and often in the name of fairness and game balance because these things matter...

Hell, OD&D suggested that dungeon levels should correspond to the strength of their occupants, such that players could gauge the risk and act accordingly.  Stick to the upper levels and you’ll most likely survive, but with less to show for it.  Brave the depths and violent death awaits; but if played well, glory is yours!  On the surface this sounds like the laissez-faire, life-isn’t-fair approach the OSR allegedly endorses.  But there’s also a sense of balance and fairness written into the rules.  Real life sucks, our play shouldn't have to.

Me, I’m a capitalistic GM.  I supply the product (an adventure) and the players provide the characters (the demand side of things).  They direct this market with their actions and preferences.  Sure, I make it clear what kind of game I’m running and lose players in the process; but I also take the time to ask them what their characters hope to achieve and make an effort to insert opportunities into the campaign if they’re willing to work for them.  This is decidedly centrist, and quite possibly more conservative than what most think when they contemplate the OSR.  If the goal of gaming isn’t to have fun then I don’t know what it could possibly be - and fun absolutely demands a departure from the coarseness of reality...

Boo! Gaming As Trick or Treat...

I remember growing up and leaving behind the stuff of childhood with a little reluctance, especially the imaginary play part.  Toys were out, and so was Halloween, especially since I didn't want to be that old guy at the door with his sack out sheepishly.  Tabletop gaming allowed me (and later, Robyn) to translate childhood play into an adult context, noting that everyone's favorite RPG bears a striking resemblance to trick or treating...

During Halloween, we go house to house dressed as ghosts and goblins.  In gaming, we go room to room (or hex to hex outdoors) fighting ghosts and goblins.

And during Halloween we collect tasty treats.  In gaming, we amass treasure. 

Finally, during Halloween we become someone (or something) else, something fantastical and decidedly fun.  In gaming we do the same, only its a costume of the mind when we aren't doing LARP or going cosplay at conventions.  It's Halloween for grownups, and for kids too, obviously.  Short of actual candy, gaming preserves this sense of play.

It's essential that adults be grownups.  Neither Robyn or I have much patience for the perpetual manchild.  We need to meet adult responsibilities and care for our families first and foremost.  But when the work's done, we still need play, and neither Robyn or I have much patience for the sourpuss who defines adulthood as giving it up.  Tabletop gaming translates childhood play into an adult context; and looking at Halloween it's easy to see how...

Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

Play enough computer-type games and you'll find that death is brief - at best.  You either revert to a saved game or re-spawn where you fell.  Not very lethal, but that's okay because the challenge lies in mashing buttons like mad and defeating a foe after several (doubtless frustrating) attempts.  Tabletop games are a different breed.  Here death is more permanent, barring divine intervention, because it has to be.  A sense of risk is essential...

But what is risk, exactly?  Let's start by suggesting that job one of a game is to make people care.  Job two is threatening all they care about, and herein lies the risk.

What can we possibly care about more than life itself. barring family, obviously?  And in a tabletop game, our imaginary "life" counts for a lot.  Heroes stake life and limb in a vast underworld and have a vested interest in staying alive.  You know, risk.  But what does death mean in a game where you just roll up another character and rejoin the adventure almost immediately?  Especially when they inherit money and/or powerful magic items.     

I once played no less than six dwarven brothers who picked up where their dead relatives left off, inheriting most of their stuff in the process.  It was a brazen exploitation of the rulebook and something close to "immortality" in a game everyone calls lethal.  No, what players really care about is the preservation of their cherished in-game personality figure...

And there's lots of ways to threaten these.  Lots.  Que maniacal laughter.  Luvar the Shining gets turned into a slimy toad.  Thingol the Foe Smasher loses his Dwarven Hammer.  The diabolical possibilities are endless, and players will vigorously avoid them all.  Herein lies yet another way to threaten the characters.  Don't kill 'em.  Let 'em live and force the players to struggle with an uncomfortable blow to the identity they've struggled to preserve.

With this in mind, is it possible to reduce in-game death while simultaneously raising the stakes and building greater dramatic tension?  Ironically, letting characters live longer could actually make death more effective when it finally happens because the players have had time to grow attached.  Talk about cold.  Could it be that old-school dungeons might actually go easier on the players by killing off their heroes before attachments form?   

That being said, here's an outline for an alternate deathless D&D where characters live longer but possibly suffer more.  The latter is debatable; but the players will feel like all they hold dear is threatened, which feels a lot like death.  Take it as the suggestion it is... 

(1) When a character falls in battle, they go unconscious instead.  Should at least one companion survive or manage to drag their friend to safety, that character revives and even recovers up to 10 lost hit points.  It takes a total party kill to produce true death.

(2) Death magic, poison, and/or traps are still fatal, as is death from one-on-one fights with no backup.  There's safety in numbers, and splitting the party or going alone is a bad idea.

(3) Cheating death incurs an experience debt equal to the opponent's level x 1,000, with earned experience applied to the deficit first. The player must pay off the debt before further advancement is possible, and since levels are everything, this one hits home! 

(4) If advancement is capped, the character loses 1d3 levels instead.  Alternately, they could sacrifice one or more magic items with a total experience value equal to the experience deficit incurred under rule #1, above.  Higher-level characters have more options and more opportunities to recover, so the cost is firm (but fair) given that life itself is at stake.

Once again, these are just suggestions, and admittedly not fully formed ones!

Death is a clear and present danger, which in turn motivates careful planning to avoid the possibility.  At the same time, too much death lessens the impact, which in turn saps its motivational power.  It could be that improving survival while dishing out harsher, albeit non-lethal, consequences for defeat might actually feel riskier.  Ultimately, this depends on the system and the desired ends of the group; but when story matters, so does survival.

Miracles (Spells, by God)...

Gaming is rife with abstraction.  Game balance demands it.  No matter how detailed a simulation is, everything gets reduced to metaphorical ones and zeros sooner or later, and that’s okay.  There something charming about games and their machinations, especially when we take them on their own terms.  All fantasy works better this way.  Elves and wizards are ridiculous otherwise, and where's the fun in that?  But not all abstractions are created equal, which leads us to this week's rant: so-called clerical spells...

Spells.  Wizards get 'em.  But then, that's the point, isn't it?  Through study and maybe a demonic pact or two, magicians work their way to power with quasi-scientific elegance, meaning specific formulas performed under almost laboratory conditions.  A gesture here, a magic word there and lightning bolts shoot from their fingertips.  Wow, there's something ambitious (and quite possibly selfish), about seeking out such personal power. 

Clerics, on the other hand, are humble servants of their god(s).  Well, they may not be precisely humble; but they tow the line where it matters most and serve at the pleasure of the Powers That Be, who decide how, when, and definitely if they intervene.  Played by this paradigm, clerics are hobbled as a playable class because discrete spells are resources to be managed; and without them, their usefulness to a party wanes... 

I mean, who wants to hire, much less play, Brother Otto if he's just a glorified fighter who has to pass on that +1 sword and has a razor-thin chance of performing some useful miracle should disaster strike?  No, it's better to say he has x-number of "spells" he can perform per game day and leave it to the player to use them wisely.  The gods deliver a formulaic and precise effect more or less by the numbers.  Just what the doctor ordered and just when they (and their friends) need it most.  How else can they reliably contribute to a party?  

But is something lost when we succumb to this necessity?  The gods become cosmic bureaucrats rubber-stamping cookie-cutter interventions pretty much on demand.  Useful in practice, but also a missed opportunity.  So how do we engineer spontaneous miracles delivered at the pleasure of the gods while preserving some measure of predictability and resource management?  No easy answers here, but we offer the following:

#1 CUSTOM EFFECTS

Clerical spells are treated more like an appeal for a specific kind of aid.  Control Weather is basically a cry for help when the weather is bad or a certain type is called for in a given situation.  The DM (GM, referee) can then tailor the effect to the situation so it feels more like the spontaneous whims of a deity.  In other words, the chosen spell is just a guide.  

#2 CUSTOM SPELL LISTS

This has been tried in various ways, and it works.  Different deities have different spheres of interest and specific powers they're willing (and able) to grant their servants.

#3 HOLY SACRAMENTS

Clerical spells aren't spells at all; they're sacraments, scriptures, or psalms.  Saying "Lord, thou hast dominion over all things" can be invoked to do anything from turning sticks to snakes to the aforementioned weather control.  This is a narrative justification; but the best parts of a campaign are narrative, and it's a worthwhile effort to incorporate them.*

#4 MAKE A CUSTOM SYSTEM

This is a lot of work, but usually worth it.  Ideally, clerics have a decent chance of working minor miracles and a slight chance of doing something dramatic, perhaps with a requirement that the priest tithe or make sacrifice afterwards.  I played a game once where the Powers dispatched servitors (a sort of guardian angel) to intervene within the limits of their ability and sphere of interest.  The possibilities are endless and, shall we say, divine...

Clerics and magicians are two sides of the same coin.  Magicians seek power through their own effort, imposing their will upon the universe.  Clerics submit to the gods and trust in them to deliver (or withhold) aid as they so desire.  The Judaeo-Christianity tradition is strongly opposed to magic in its many forms at least in part because it seems like an appropriation of power that rightly belongs to God.  Wizards have no such qualms and, depending on the setting involved, may be at odds with the Church and overzealous witch hunters!

Put another way, clerics have but one spell: Almighty __________, this, your servant, needs your aid!  Anything else is blasphemous and/or a distressing lack of faith!

If the rules were ever in need of tailoring, clerical "spells" are just one example why; but by incorporating some combination of the above, the servants of God (or the gods, however many there may be) become humble petitioners, and the miracles they invoke all the mightier (and wondrous) because of it.  This benefits the cleric, but also the true spell casters, who can better occupy their magical niche.  But story matters too, and a campaign benefits most of all because the gods, and their mortal servants, become divine.  Can I get an amen?

*Robyn and I suspect that this assumption underlies many campaigns, especially those with a quasi-medieval/Christian religion.  There's just so much to draw from here... 

D&D's False Choice...

There's been a lot of talk lately about D&D's founders and the evolution of that which is arguably the two men's greatest creation: Dungeons & Dragons.  The thinking seems to be that Arneson emphasized a fluid, story-centric approach while Gygax leaned heavily on miniatures wargaming and ambitious marketing.  Strictly speaking, this is true; but like so many things, the truth is complicated and the waters muddied by facts...

So first, Arneson imagined a simple game without wargaming's complexity; a game where story mattered more.  Sounds good, right?  And he did favor something like this.  But anything he eventually made and marketed would inevitably spawn additional rules and become more complex, if only to codify new content.  One need only look at his Adventures in Fantasy RPG to see a system as clunky and complex as any. 

But what about Gygax?  He's the guy who envisioned a 1:1 scale wargame where players ran a single character instead of an army but did all the same things.  But once people started making original characters, they'd begin identifying with them and making in-game decisions that would start looking a lot like role-play.  This was pretty much inevitable, and it's hard to imagine not role-playing Mocha the Magnificent under these conditions.

In short, Arneson's story-centric game was always going to become a more complex simulation while Gygax's Chainmail-inspired wargame was always fated to become the role-playing thing we know and love.  The two men, and their approaches, were always on a collision course.  Luckily for us, they joined forces, however briefly, to forge a unique version of what each would have inevitably become on its own, given enough time.

Now to be clear, this inevitability might not have happened in the hands of either man, although there's abundant evidence that it would have.  The aforementioned Adventures in Fantasy comes to mind, as does Gygax's not-so-subtle nods to story, be it the powerful Charm spell or his requirement that characters act out the hiring of henchmen.  Simulation and role-play were always gonna happen, and it's a false choice to think otherwise... 

More Diceless Than We Think...

The Olde House Rules gang is headed out of town, so this is our last post for a couple of weeks; but we'll leave you with a classic gaming topic: dice...  

Dice are ubiquitous in gaming; so much so that we think they had to be there from the beginning.  Now to be clear, they were (this should save some time in the comments section and is only right).  OD&D used dice from the very start because the war-games before it absolutely did and to great effect.  Battle is terrifying precisely because we don't know how things will turn out; and that's a hell of a lot when life itself is at stake...

Ditto for thievery.  Ditto for surviving a deadly poison.  Ditto for pulling off the heroic move that'll cement your fighter's badass reputation into eternity.   

Still, old-school gaming (specifically OD&D, pre-supplements) was largely dice-free where gameplay was concerned.  Seriously; while dice were there, it's entirely possible that the early version of D&D used them less than any time since, if for no other reason than because the referee had more power to enact rulings.  This is well-traveled territory.

Rulings not rules.  It's a mantra at this point.  Rules (I'll say usually) mean dice, whereas rulings often avoid them completely.  If you want to find that secret door, look.  And be sure to describe exactly how.  Spot checks are a rule that calls for dice.  It's been said a thousand different times in a thousand different ways (a thousand and one now).  We uphold this truth as fundamentally right; still, diceless remains controversial...  

Some love diceless play, others (seemingly) hate it.  It comes down to preference, and I confess to gravitating towards the traditional model myself, both as a player and a designer, although without the hate.  It's a practical thing.  Risk and uncertainly are useful states to trigger in others, a sort of adrenaline rush for the dice rolling set.  Making people care is job one - and threatening all the players care about just might be job two!

It's a confidence thing.  If you want to feel good, do something you didn't think possible, whether rolling a natural 20 that (maybe literally) brings the house down or just a successful attack that averts what should have been a bloody total party kill. 

Still, much of what happens (and much of what players engage with) is decision making, exploration, and role-playing through problems.  Often enough, just coming up with a clever solution is challenging; and watching the way in which choices build narratives can be as entertaining as any movie when the players care about what happens.  In short, old-school players want more than just blood.  They want to participate in experiences...

And experiences don't require dice, certainly not 90% of gaming ones!

I'll take it further.  In OD&D there was no roll-under mechanic.  Abilities granted just a few obvious bonuses (missiles come to mind), but beyond experience adjustments, existed primarily as an aid for the referee in adjudicating tasks.  For instance, intelligence was used to determine if certain actions would be taken (that's almost a direct quote).  Sorry Gordo, that clever strategy is beyond your 5 intelligence.  This tilts towards the diceless...

Gary Gygax once famously said (memes be believed) that referees roll dice because they like the sound it makes.  That's an exaggeration.  People like dice for the reasons cited above, but also because it seems to put a character's fate up to the ultimate objective third-party in the form of dumb chance, but there's nothing necessary about it.

In our own Diceless Dungeons, smashing open a door makes noise, which in turn alerts nearby monsters.  But what kind of monsters?  This is just as uncertain and seemingly random as what might happen if the party had decided to go around.  Moreover, while taking on that small pack of goblins is probably survivable, albeit with wounds, it's a tough choice without foreknowledge of the rest of the dungeon.  This is true dice or diceless.

But risk and uncertainly aren't the only way to create tension.  Being forced to make tough decisions is another, as real life will attest.  In Diceless Dungeons, engaging a basilisk in melee guarantees that someone has decided to get turned to stone (you'll just have to read the rules).  Who wants to make that decision?  And this isn't corporate shill either; these problems are universal regardless of what system (or dice) are involved. 

Remember, chess doesn't involve dice either, but remains very challenging.  A dungeon stocked with unknown things coupled with hard decisions adds up to a tense and engaging experience, especially if the players care about their characters.  This is surely how the hobby's founders saw things, at least before dice took over; and it remains good advice for anyone, including the majority who roll 'em because they like the way it sounds...

On Gaming's (Flawed) Makers...

Disclaimer: This posting is about real people with complex feelings, hopes, dreams and desires; and perhaps some reading this actually knew them.  To be clear, I think the loss of friendship was tragic and frankly depressing.  With that out of the way...    

The growing popularity of D&D (and the recent Secrets of Blackmoor film) have piqued the interest of a new generation.  How did our hobby begin?  For the newcomers, many of whom weren't even alive in the last century (Jesus, how old does that make me), these facts are buried in the myth-shrouded past, when cell phones didn't exist yet and if you forgot to grab (insert grocery item here), your spouse couldn't call or even text.

Those were dark times when we couldn't answer every nagging trivia question by pulling a phone out of our pocket, but we got by somehow.  And given just how much information is at our fingertips (or resting in our pockets and irradiating our vitals), it's all too easy to dismiss the youngster's lack of understanding.  But we were all newcomers once...

That said, there's been a trickle of new articles by young journalists shedding light on the mysteries of our hobby's past.  One Kotaku article in particular reads like a Watergate-esque expose of what the evil industry has long hidden.  You mean Gary Gygax wasn't the sole creator of D&D?  Some guy named Dave Arneson was also involved?  Yeah, it's all too easy for us greybeards to snort at this, but we shouldn't.  We were all young once and should applaud (and stoke) the interest of the hobby's next generation.

Truth be told, a certain mythos has emerged, one where Gygax became the central personality behind a certified cultural phenomenon.  But if you played the original game back when it came in digest form, you'd have to work hard not to know that it was a joint affair forged by a creative duo, especially if you owned the Blackmoor supplement.  Indeed, you could buy the B/X version as late as 1982 and see Gygax and Arneson credited.

But AD&D was attributed to Gygax alone, the result of that timeless money changes everything and not for the better shtick that ended an era.  By second edition, Arneson was a fading memory, and third was the nail in the coffin.  I won't speculate on the motives of Hasbro and Wizards in perpetuating this; but by 1986, money changes everything forced Gygax out of the picture as well.  Anyway, if you're a 15 year old who started with 5th edition purchased through Amazon, you can easily be forgiven for not knowing.

So much for the kids.  What about the grognards?  I've heard the Kotaku article variably described as an anti-Gary hit piece or long-overdue justice depending on who you happen to ask.  Those who actually knew the pertinent parties have taken sides; for instance, Robert Kunz's Dave Arneson's True Genius.  As for this blogger, I began playing in 1978 and never once met either of the hobby's leading lights, although I've been fortunate enough to know David Wesely (Braunstein's maker) later in life, so my take is suitably nuanced... 

Here goes: Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson were imperfect human beings.  

That's right folks, the founders of the hobby we love don't have to be these perfect, semi-divine figures with pure intentions. That's nonsense, and the imperfections of these two men were probably vital to the hobby's cultural advancement.  The ugly stuff matters...
                          
Dave Arneson, who forged the first fantasy campaign and reshaped the culture, was undoubtedly a visionary of the highest order.  That's to his credit.  But he clearly lacked the businessman's motivation.  This reality may (or may not) also be to his credit, although it guaranteed that he wouldn't be the one to successfully market his creation.

Gary Gygax had marketing savvy as well as creative ideas of his own, although often borrowed from others.  This was to his credit.  But he was clearly also a hard-nosed businessman, which may (or may not) also be to his credit.  His efforts are why I have the OD&D rulebooks framed and hanging over my desk, which speaks to his legacy.

We don't live in Candyland.  People are greedy, selfish, and sure to act in their own best interests whenever a cash cow stumbles into view.  Now I'm not suggesting that either man was personally awful.  I can't (and won't) presume to know.  But if I can be a card-carrying asshole from time to time we all can, including the hobby's founding fathers...

And this joining of flawed personalities was probably the only reason our hobby exists as anything more than a quaint local phenomenon.  Chemistry is messy.  It often involves explosions and sudden trips to the eye wash station.  But amid the fire and chaos discoveries are made.  If we like being able to role-play, we can thank Arneson; and if we like actually owning nice commercial products made by people who can justify the effort in creating them, we owe Gygax big.  Pulling this off meant serving two masters, which is challenging.  

Arneson needed Gary's discipline and focus as much as Gary needed Arneson (and other's) creative input.  And the hobby insisted that both men suffer greatly in childbirth...  

Still (and redemptively) time and loss are humbling, and Gygax and Arneson reconciled eventually.  Fame and especially, money, are corrupting influences, and while we'd all prefer to think of the hobby's founders as laid-back gamers, this clearly wasn't always the case, especially once sales surged.  In the end, we can appreciate the contributions of both flawed humans, even if we're occasionally disappointed by them.  Their chemistry was real.