Upgrading the Common Orc...

The common (some might say lowly) orc is ubiquitous in fantasy gaming, and while clearly dangerous in numbers, they can become stale with repeated use, especially to the seasoned group. Fortunately, it shouldn't take much to keep them interesting. Tribal politics alone can invigorate these pig-faced humanoids. They're more than just a pretty face, and the inventive can always find ways to spice up the individual encounters where these beasties frequently appear, using the following as inspiration. The key lies in defying convention:   

1. Orc berserkers who fight on for 3 rounds after death.

2. Orcish cavalry, ritually burned, riding firedrakes.

3. Orc devotees of a dark god so foul other orcs shudder.

4. Orcish engineers equipped with high explosives.

5. Orc flagellants so pious they turn their whips on heretics.

6. Orcish minstrels who sing to summon deadly spiders.

7. Orc pacifists who eschew violence and might help the party.

8. Orcish regulars outfitted with razor-sharp boomerangs.

9. Orc shamans (magic-users) carried in baskets on an ogre's back.

Once again, they key is to defy convention, but also to challenge. Giving orcs unique, often powerful allies and servitors, equipping them with unconventional weapons, and granting them unexpected and effective strategies collectively ensures not only cinematic encounters replete with spectacle, but challenging ones to test the toughest of parties. Of course, this operates best when coupled with campaign lore. Who is the dark god feared by the foulest of foes? And why do orcs have engineers? The game alone knows the final answer...

Beating the Planetary Blues...

World building is a central tenet of tabletop gaming, and it certainly illuminates the sheer immensity involved in a living planet. Vast continents spanning climates and cultures await those willing to explore, and one need look no further than our real-world example for an education. Worlds are impressively large. Tropical islands concealing pirates, frozen tundra home to deadly, cold-adapted wildlife; inhabited worlds have a bit of everything. Physical geography is just the beginning of an endless mosaic of possibilities.

An eastern religion storms westward, brought by the sword. Rats from their ships bring a deadly plague to foreign ports, a perfect storm depending on where someone just happens to be standing when it happens. Worlds are massive, and airplanes haven't done enough to shorten the distance. Now contemplate the vast universe in a spacefaring scenario complete with occupied planets as big as our own. Individual worlds become a pitstop for wandering spacecraft, reduced to mere blips on some rock's vast surface... 

It's a matter of shifting scale, where the void of space becomes a new world and individual planets its towns and far-flung villages. An unavoidable accommodation, although not outrageous or unsound as spacefaring types can only experience the specific locations their vessels happen to land upon. Laziness is a potential risk, however, with simple one-world governments and geographies that defy latitude and spheres. For referees and writers, this is a time-saving mechanism that actively serves to diminish these worlds.

The best way to avoid this trap is to formulate some idea of a planet's situation even as the spacefarers only experience their small portion. Perhaps open (and bloody) war rages between continents, with impacts to the tiny spaceport the characters encounter, uncovered when the party converses with the locals. A few scribbled notes are normally enough for narrative purposes, although it helps to have a system. Our Planetary Worksheets designed for the Blood of Pangea: Retrospace RPG are free for the curious... 

Sketch a quick surface reference, identify its major regions complete with climate, resources, and relevant heads of state, plus whatever additional details, including catastrophic wars, perhaps driven by plagues or natural disasters, define the place. Establish a checklist, using our planetary worksheets when not a better homebrew alternative to flesh out convincing worlds on nothing larger than a regular index card. Even the smallest of planets is enormous and deserves to be treated as such, and the briefest of sojourns will benefit.

Galloway vs. Gaming Gonzo...

Devotees of D&D in the early 1980s were lucky to encounter Bruce Galloway's master treatise: The Highest Level of All Fantasy Wargaming. The title was a bold claim, clickbait in the days before clickbait, intriguing to those of us with a bottomless appetite for whatever gaming we could get our hands on. And it was certainly ubiquitous. As I recall, my 14-year-old self found his copy on Winn-Dixie's magazine rack. Mom didn't approve of its occult artwork, but knowing her offspring, she acquiesced with little argument... 

Between the casual, unexamined sexism (obvious even to a teenage boy) and overly dense rules keen on subverting the players' agency, a fine collection of essays spanning fantasy literature's greatest themes got the reader thinking, and its medieval reference materials may have been its ultimate triumph. And in all fairness to Galloway, his obvious distaste for Gor tempered some of its generational misogyny. His remains a seminal offering, but my younger self rejected what was clearly his leading argument, summarized below: 

"In many ways, however, D&D is unsatisfactory...The party of adventurers will usually be an oddball assortment of warriors wearing armor and bearing weapons from a wide variety of cultures and historical periods; Black and White magicians; thieves, clerics...Apart from the sheer unlikelihood of such a motley crew being able to agree on any course of action without coming to blows, why should they associate together in the first place...Motive is the key word. D&D scenarios exist in a vacuum, and that is why we call them unsatisfactory...a fantasy scenario must contain its own consistent and intrinsic logic."

This was doubtless a marketing ploy. Why buy the book? Here's why. Galloway must have understood that the rules weren't imposing a setting so much as providing raw materials, drawn from history's abundant source, to fashion the campaign. Want history? Referees can make it happen. But most campaigns don't even occupy our universe, redrawing the lines beyond all reproach. Dwarves invented Renaissance plate armor, elves the English longbow to their specifications and on their timeline. This, alone, negates any argument...    

But there's more. There's gonzo. Take the game as offered and you do get a collection of armor and weaponry. You absolutely achieve that motley assemblage. Chaotic wizards, respectable, law-abiding heroes. And so what? There's this thing called fun, and an eldritch logic can still prevail in this environment. The introduction of dragons and wizards, alone, violates realism, and the same logic which allows this can exert its own consequences when some rule gets broken. In Wonderland, this intrinsic logic can be different.

These objections percolated within my adolescent brain, and to his substantial credit, Galloway appeared to anticipate as much, beseeching his D&D-oriented readers to see the power of his point despite such disagreements. Galloway's greatest achievement was a medieval reference manual complete with essays on everything from fantasy literature to the art (indeed, the necessity) of world building. And it taught this 14-year-old the value of his personal intuitions and how best to turn disagreements into something worthwhile...

Note: I still disagree on many counts, but find things to praise in this historic publication, including, most especially, its astrology, angels, demons, and solid essays.

The Player's Handbook Pulse...

Dungeons & Dragons has gone through many iterations, and its cover artwork has always encapsulated the state of the hobby at any given time. But it was the various Player's Handbooks, being dedicated to the ultimate act of adventuring, that spoke to how the game saw itself and the players (and characters) in its charge. Without a doubt, these evolving covers documented big changes over time, especially the first three, which straddled years of evolutionary changes while broadcasting exactly what experience was offered... 

OD&D MEN & MAGIC (1974). Arguably the first Player's Handbook, this sported a simple, line-copy illustration of a medieval-inspired fighting man. No action-packed heroics. No background save the card stock it was printed on. This was amateur production from an as-of-yet amateur industry, one suggestive of its quasi-historical influences, complete with a disposable fighter emblematic of its wargaming premise. Basically, a skirmish-type wargame where players identified with a revolving door of replaceable characters.

AD&D PLAYER'S HANDBOOK (1978). The first handbook by name, this one began D&D's transformation towards something more professional. Trampier's hardcover was at once amateur and accomplished, with its dungeon setting leaving no doubt as to where the action was supposed to be. Its fighters were medieval authentic, its magic-user straight from the storybooks that inspired them. Dungeon expeditions, captained by enduring character types, marked the transition from traditional wargame to more story-centric adventures...

AD&D 2E PLAYER'S HANDBOOK (1989). The evolution from amateur press to professional property was finally complete, although this doubtless occurred in the mid 1980s with the mainstreaming of the D&D product. Jeff Easley, part of the next generation of gaming artists, rendered OD&D's lone fighter as a mounted hero, which might have suggested a growing slant towards individual characters, but probably not since the original OD&D boxed set took a similar approach. Mostly, the cover speaks to D&D's commercial status.  

Of course, it's easy enough to retroactively assign meaning. The above is no exception, although D&D's transition from amateur to professional is obvious enough when comparing cover artwork alone. But OD&D's interchangeable hero and quasi-historical pretensions absolutely suggested a 1970s wargame as opposed to Second Edition's modern superhero style, with AD&D showcasing the hobby's golden balance. If anything, these first Player's Handbooks had one finger squarely on the pulse of a game that remains diagnostic...

AD&D's Demi-Foot Forward...

AD&D's demi-humans are primarily known for their multiclassing abilities. After all, what adventurer doesn't occasionally dream of casting spells from the iron fortress of plate mail armor? In an imaginary game where class defines a lion's share of one's abilities, these characters bring real versatility, albeit at a price of much slower advancement and the level limits Gygax and company thought necessary. It might come as a surprise, therefore, to suggest that single-classed thieves are the demi-human's best foot forward... 

If single-classed thieves are good enough for humans, they're good enough for non-human characters, especially since the latter are objectively superior in aggregate, at least with respect to the thieving profession. But first, the elephant in the room: infravision. The ability to see in total darkness (with some conditions) alone constitutes an awesome advantage for those preferring the cover of shadow. But demi-humans come equipped with special abilities particularly well suited to their ancestries without the usual level limits.

DWARVES, customarily seen as miniature Vikings, become engineers and sappers in line with their mining civilization. Their superior constitution and saving throws allow them to better survive triggering certain deadly traps, and they enjoy generous (10-15%) bonuses to opening locks and finding/removing traps, offset by minor (5-10%) penalties where walls, stubbornly resistant to their limbs, and reading languages are concerned. Finally, their skills with mining and construction compliment this stealthy package most effectively.

ELVES, traditionally seen as archers extraordinaire, lose nothing and gain everything by choosing the thieving profession. Their high dexterities, already a prime requisite, guarantee some great missile bonuses with the short bow per Unearthed Arcana (slings otherwise), supplemented by a +1 racial bonus that includes the small swords allowed in any iteration of the rules. Backstabbing benefits accordingly. Add some solid (5-10%) bonuses to most functions and scant penalties, plus a knack for secret doors, to top it off...  

It really depends on whether Unearthed Arcana is used, because this option gets Legolas, although the Player's Handbook still delivers the woodland guerillas most elves are.     

HALFLINGS, small and defined by the fact, make natural thieves, enjoying constitutional boons similar to dwarves with the superior dexterity of elves. Alone among the demi-human practitioners, they enjoy broad bonuses (5-15%) to most functions, with penalties (mostly) similar to their dwarven counterparts. They also enjoy a sense of grade and direction, being appropriate to a race of burrowers, and an uncanny ability to surprise that facilitates what sneak attacks may follow. Fans of Tolkien will recognize these keen burglars.   

There are others, of course, and more to say about each. But the point is clear. Single-class thievery comes naturally to demi-human characters, bestowing unlimited advancement augmented by racial abilities humans can't match barring magical intervention, ensuring the racial identities players aspire to. No streetwise thugs (not necessarily), these smaller folk leverage their natural condition towards survival in a setting of larger peoples and dangerous foes, which is something to consider before rolling yet another multiclass adventurer...  

The Myth of Death as Stakes...

It's been said, especially in old-school circles, that character death is essential to the pulse-pounding stakes good adventures depend upon. Combat means nothing without danger, which means nothing if not the threat of death and dismemberment. Victory is all the sweeter if we can delay the inevitable end. Normally, this truth bears no further explanation except that imaginary death lacks the same sting, undermining the whole death-as-stakes paradigm essential to the experience. Reincarnation is a fresh character away...

Roll 3d6, in order, and we're back in the game. Unless, of course, we grow attached to our characters and inevitably struggle with the demise of a beloved persona. The game just isn't the same starting from scratch, especially when so much of our enjoyment stems from one particular character. In this sense, the loss is palpable. It's the same friends playing the same game but approached from an altogether different perspective it takes time to acclimate to, especially in a longer campaign. In this sense, the stakes are absolutely there. 

But it's still imaginary death, and I suspect most of us would welcome a reroll every 75 years or whenever the end inevitably comes. Short of euthanizing a player when their character succumbs to death (not a serious suggestion), the threat is pretty much toothless in any real sense, caveats notwithstanding. Lethal, old-school settings trivialize death, preventing the narrative attachments needed for high-stakes violence, whereas story-driven games prone to 19-page backstories skew towards survival, blunting death's influence...

All of which means that death as stakes is sort of a myth. Or put another way, it only works where roleplaying elements are the strongest and survivability (to the point of genuine attachment developed over continuous sessions) is allowed to happen. Things are valuable when they're rare, and death the most impactful when cherished characters face danger, however imaginary. Not surprisingly, it's the strategic players able to cheat death the longest who raise their own stakes, with survival casting mortality's unwelcome shadow.

Dungeons: Bottom-Up Balance...

Balancing encounters is an ever-present concern for GMs not wishing to slaughter the party before gameplay even gets started. Danger abounds, whether at the hands (or claws) of monsters and/or poorly avoided traps in the dark, assuring that someone will eventually die in the course of their adventures. Old-school campaigns are famously life-taking, and to hear people talk, you'd think its progenitors were wholly unconcerned with the calculated fairness characterizing modern gameplay. Challenge demands an unfair universe.

But is this actually true? In a word, of course not. Make no mistake, old-school games were unforgiving even to otherwise powerful and well-prepared adventurers, especially given random chance's unsteady hand. The answer was a deliberate paranoia and making sure to avoid even a fair fight to escape an unfortunate "1" on the dice. And really, isn't this more realistic? Why exactly would (or should) every wilderness encounter coincidentally match the wandering party's current abilities? Avoidance is a fair strategy...

Which is to say, the players were expected to bring balance upon themselves by treading cautiously while picking their battles. But gaming's creators built a way to apply some much-needed balance into their creation with the concept of level(s). This is self-explanatory to a point, with higher character/monster/spell levels denoting correspondingly greater proficiency around which to assess and assign risk. But so-called dungeon levels remain the singular brilliance of the hobby's creators, for they safeguard that sense of balance.

While dungeons may have dotted the campaign map, these early games envisioned a single underground, descending many levels and under constant renovation, where adventurers sought their fortunes. Castle Blackmoor. Or Greyhawk. These were continuous subterranean destinations, self-contained and ever-changing. And each level corresponded to the levels, where applicable, of its inhabitants, allowing players to assess the risks and balance desired rewards in a sprawling place with endless interconnected strata...

A third-level party could explore the 3rd level of the dungeon for a balanced experience or delve deeper, facing ever-increasing dangers for greater rewards in a perilous lottery, gambling everything in heroic style. Alternately, they could stick to shallower depths, living easy for sure but getting far less for their troubles. The game rewarded the former while penalizing the latter, encouraging balanced encounters but leaving this strategic option open to parties having different priorities and access to many interconnected levels.

Vertical cross sections weren't just visually cool. They laid out access to different levels for just this purpose. Maybe a secret staircase connects the first level to the third, bypassing the second and allowing a different (and undoubtably critical) order of events. Imagine finding that flaming sword before those hobgoblins. This applied horizontally as well, and good GMs avoided railroading. In any event, the dungeon formed a bounded sandbox allowing heroic adventures in a carefully balanced setting that felt completely natural...

Now all of this is doubtless "no-shit" territory for many, but it's worth noting that while game balance, ultimately the province of the GM, remains a largely top-down affair, old-school conceptions of the singular dungeon and its far-flung levels made for a bottom-up approach that was realistic, empowering, and ultimately fair. Traditional megadungeons weren't for spectacle's sake alone but serviced a complex and interconnected system made to provide a fair and balanced experience with endless options tied up in a concise package.

Epoch and the Mother of Invention...

In a prehistoric game like Epoch, it's inevitable that players will want to invent certain things, whether domesticating animals for mounts or inventing the wheel, among other historical innovations. And it's not at all hard to see why. Aside from the prestige of reinventing history's vital advancements, modern players understand plenty, hard-won knowledge that forever shaped the arc of human history. From simple gardening (which changed everything) to the idea of riding tamed animals, contemporary people know their stuff...

Which presents a challenge. How to balance fun and innovative gameplay with the risk of breaking the immersion of a prehistoric milieu. This is subjective, of course. Maybe inventing a primitive black-powder cannon (Star Trek: Arena springs immediately to mind) works in a game's best interest. Even so, the following INVENTION RULES can help by enabling these innovations while preserving a suitably prehistoric atmosphere:

1) The (player) character must first witness some inspirational event, such as a boulder tumbling downhill to suggest the wheel or something equally comparative...

2) Next, the player must roll 18+ for Crafting to turn this inspiration into an idea, noting that failed results can be rerolled once per game month up to six months.

3) Successful characters can fashion a prototype, which might include implementing a useful idea, by rolling for whatever skill applies per conditions and/or the referee...

Now it's just a matter of using the new invention, subject to circumstance and/or whatever governing rules the referee imposes. It's old-fashioned roleplay now.

These rules are simple and conservative. Ideas flow naturally from in-game events and only manifest if the player thinks to try and good luck prevails. Of course, characters can learn from others, be it helpful time travelers or Clan-tooth tribesman providing the example of their specialized beasts. Using these simple rules, it's possible to allow creativity while keeping things primitive in the spirit of Epoch's universe. Any changes are small and incremental, but no less consequential if roleplayed well, much like our own history's advancement...

Mainstreaming's Trade-Off World...

There's never been a better time to be a gamer. It's our golden age. The mainstreaming of the hobby means we're no longer dismissed as nerds (not a pejorative in these better enlightened, media-saturated times), while the Satanic Panic, safely relegated to the dustbin of cringe history, is an amusing footnote to better days. If we want a new game, we can probably find what we're looking for, sometimes free. No niche is overlooked; and should we seek to publish original stuff, there's no keeping a good creative down...

But it's a trade-off world, and we pay for this abundance with other concessions, although it's entirely subjective. It probably depends on when someone was born, their influences, and whatever cryptic reasoning drew them to the pastime. Regular readers probably know where this is going, but stick around. The earliest hobby was an obscure subculture with an air of exclusivity, very much like a secret club; and with fewer games, its variety was largely down to individual campaigns, fostering an amateur, more player-focused atmosphere.

The scene today is vastly more crowded. Anything new is a needle tossed into an Olympic sized swimming pool filled to the top with still more needles. This is great for consumers, presumably, who can only benefit from the maximum possible choices, and perhaps even for a certain (amateur) breed of creative who delights in their process and is content to share, never asking for more than that. But the sheer volume of new stuff tends to obscure that not immediately rising to the top, becoming commercial and product-driven...

Is this Good? Bad? Neutral? Options are always good, and those who only want to flex their creative muscles and get their stuff out there benefit from doing so, which is their absolute prerogative. But mainstreaming also means too many choices to easily absorb by those with lives beyond roleplaying. And there's a tendency to approach these things as some higher authority, although this is far from a universal. Even the so-called GM is subject to a product's formal dictates because today's rules are complete, leaving less to interpretation.         

Alternately, while exclusive clubs promising endless potential offer fun, exclusive clubs can also be self-isolating. And ultimately self-limiting. And it's not like there aren't still endless horizons to seek and explore. New releases, once an exciting rarity, are regular occurrences in these abundant times, allowing us to pick and choose. We can play the way we prefer, ignoring any unwanted current trends. The old days were imposed by circumstance, but now we can choose our experience, be it mechanics, approach, or anything else...

Exclusive communities, including the OSR and assorted forums, still exist within the hobby; and with so many looking for new games, it's likely everything gets its share of attention, especially from appreciative players boosting a signal. There's literally nothing that can't be had, meaning we're wrong about the trade-off conundrum. This dichotomy only happens when we allow it. The earliest gaming scene was accidentally intimate, imposed by its early environmental conditions. Now it's a conscious choice, which is the ultimate outcome. 

Toys on the (Gaming) Table...

As Christmas approaches, toys spring immediately to mind. Yours truly has talked (ad nauseum) about getting Holmes Basic for Christmas, but never that much about the other toys that informed his imagination, and that of the earliest hobby. Many toys are fantasy adjacent and undeniably cool; but we're talking about non-gaming products easily insertable into gameplay. These aren't mere inspiration (not to denigrate this most vital element), but goodies easily repurposed as bona fide playing aids on par with anything:

(1) First off, we've got the so-called Chinasaurs. At the dawn of D&D, before commercial fantasy miniatures were available, these not-so-authentic plastic (quasi-) dinosaurs of Asian manufacture not only became various monsters but directly modelled the now-legendary bulette and rust monster, among others. These things are iconic.

(2) But we also have plastic cowboys (and Indians), which were used for more than the occasional session of Boot Hill. The horses were handy, and some of these playsets came with always-useful plastic terrain where an adventure called for such additions...

(3) Of course, actual dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals were good not only to represent themselves, but alternately, similar mythological monsters. Brontosaurs might be dragons, minus the wings, but nonetheless serviceable. Really, any four-legged reptile makes a great reptilian horror, whether basilisk or wyvern, without straining credulity.

Oh, and these sometimes came with cavemen and even better terrain than those wild west playsets, especially when an encounter called for steaming jungles or mountains...

(4) And (not so) finally, we've got farm (and wild) animals of various kinds. Lions, tigers, and bears are frequent adversaries, and might sometimes pass for things magical, including African lions for chimeras or sphinxes, among other combinations. But these things in their conventional (read: natural) guises remain respectably deadly enemies.

It's a start. Some groups have been known to incorporate model terrain. Yours truly once participated in a game where an Aurora snap-together allosaurus became a demonic enemy all the more terrifying for the scale involved. There's no end to the great accessories now available, and who doesn't like them? But the amateur origins of our pastime shine through when we improvise and make the experience our own, something repurposing toys can accomplish. Anyway, it's something to consider this Christmas and all year, really...

Five Fixed Encounters for Epoch...

Our latest, Epoch, is a prehistoric game emphasizing wilderness hexcrawls. Even so, fixed encounters are essential to an overarching game narrative. Stories matter, and prepared events provide this. Of course, these work best when embedded within a random wilderness, and in that spirit, we offer the following suggested encounters:

1.) An old cave houses a settlement of CANNIBALS (either tribe) twisted by their strange appetites. These see intruders as a potential feast.

2.) A mysterious DARK MONOLITH has appeared in a forest clearing, instantly teleporting anyone touching it to another location within the campaign setting...

3.) Some ROGUE TIME TRAVELER, enjoying free movement across time (and access to futuristic technologies), dominates a tribe of violent fanatics. 

4.) Narcotic flowers fill a valley, releasing SPORES in a 120' radius acting as a stealer's serum against those who disturb them. Local animals are naturally immune...

5.) A solitary WICKED SHAMAN (10th level) inhabits a forgotten cave haunted by a taboo spirit who defends their disciple through possessed animals.  

This list isn't comprehensive, of course. Or the best. But it shows the variety of options available in Epoch's prehistoric (and magical) backdrop. And the roleplaying opportunities are abundantly clear. These encounters are winnable through clever strategy and wise interractions, all of which should guide creative referees in making even more...

Image courtesy of the incomparable Frazetta by way of Creepy.     

Tombs: Fantasy Made Mortal...

So Gregorius 21778 has released The Tomb of Ferkhat the Dreaded for Blood of Pangea, complete with an excursion into an Egyptian-inspired burial. We love tombs, the pastime adores them (even while heroes perish therein), and with Halloween, a celebration of ghosts and dancing skeletons, it's a great time to list the reasons why:

1. DEATH. It's the bitterest fact of life. We mourn our loved ones and recognize, in a largely supressed way, our own inevitable demise. It's scary to contemplate.

2. THE UNDEAD. Death is bad enough without the insult of rotting corpses (or worse) to ensnare the living with gruesome aplomb. Not content to wait for time, these fearsome  abominations, reminders of mortality made terrible flesh, hasten to speed death, and in the worst way possible. Death, and the dead, are the ultimate foes...

3. TRAPS (AND CURSES). Setting necromancy aside, fantasy crypts come equipped with dangerous traps and sometimes (working) curses to defend against plunderers.   

4. TREASURE. You can't take it with you; but boy, people try. Crypts are filled with worldly goods, glittering treasures enough to entice avaricious adventurers. Fantasy interments represent our mortal conundrum. Undead are the fear of death, clerical miracles the denial thereof, and vast riches our need to live on despite a certain demise...

Which is to say: the best gaming, even the gonzo variety, speaks to something essentially and irrevocably human. And heroic. A psychologist's plaything, since facing death made terrifyingly real and snatching a temporary respite from the inevitable so nicely encapsulates our situation. It's why we love Halloween. And tombs. They're fantasy made mortal.

Red Ochre & Ruins: The OSL Returns...

Well, there's an Open Supplement License for Epoch, allowing those so inclined to publish original content for the game. Interested parties can visit our website for all the details, discovering a whole new medium and joining the many excellent publishers doing exactly that with our favorite roleplaying products. We can't overstate how much we love seeing what everyone's doing with our stuff. Next to designing, it's probably our favorite part of publishing, and the great people at Ethereal Games came through in short order...

Enter Red Ochre & Ruins, the first OSL release, and the first expansion period, for our prehistoric Epoch. Now Ethereal Games, the creators of Wyrdwarden for Mydwandr, really gets us and the spirit our games try to embrace, and this one's no exception, building on Epoch's premise in every way possible. This starts with the basics, adding new clans taken from history, including the primitive Upright Folk (homo erectus) and the Lost Ones, time travelers stranded (beyond all rescue) in Epoch's universe.

The implications are many, as lost moderns come with clothing and valuable technology, including, among others, dynamite and futuristic space suits (there's an astronaut option for those desiring an alternative experience). With an emphasis on narrative, this doubles as guidance for the referee regardless of where a campaign ends, and despite its slim 19 pages, still covers extensive territory. From shamanistic rituals grounded in anthropology to hungry carnivores (both real and imaginary), this is a tasty buffet of great ideas...

In total, Red Ochre & Ruins includes the following additions:

New clans and backgrounds, with new equipment and special crafting rules.

Atlatls, reptile hides, and shamanistic rituals granting power over death.

Historically grounded beasts and a new exceptional foe to challenge the party...

Plus rules for regressive future campaigns and a starting map of Scarra!

Exploiting a series of easy to read tables, Red Ochre & Ruins delivers some first-rate content ranging from the distant past to far-flung future, all in a single universe of prehistoric adventures. Whether planning a strictly historical simulation, the vanilla stone and spell offered by the core rules, or post apocalyptic gameplay, Ethereal Games delivers something busy referees, inspired by the game's potential, might readily enjoy. Anyway, we liked its approach and think that Epoch enthusiasts, players and referees alike, might agree...

A New Epoch: Stone and Spell...

Why does fantasy have to be medieval? It doesn't, and our hobby provides numerous examples (Call of Cthulhu comes immediately to mind). Great stuff; but why not shine that light backwards towards a prehistoric world complete with enormous dinosaurs and our ancient ancestors? Ridiculous, we know. They didn't coexist, and that's the epic fantasy part of this primal experiment. And keeping that going, let's add archaic shamans with genuine magical powers (and animal totems) waiting at their command... 

The result would be Epoch: A Game of Stone and Spell, inspired by actual history but suitably embellished with a combination of human misunderstanding, including the fanciful dinosaurs of B-movie fare, and the magic our progenitors almost certainly practiced for a game unlike any previous offerings. It's a system years in the making (but only very recently possible), and we're delighted. Readers can expect our customary d6 simplicity, although minus the mechanical safety net for the OSR's famously greater lethality.

Everything's dangerous. The characters are dangerous. Their enemies are dangerous. Even the earth below (and sky above) is dangerous, but have courage. Clever parties can work together to survive, leveraging their skills against dinosaurs and megafauna, cunning humans and powerful ravaging spirits. Advancement enables greater challenges, which sometimes includes intelligent saurian foes and/or advanced time travelers, although individual referees can decide for themselves the trajectory of their personal campaigns...

Anyway, there it is. A childhood assembling Aurora Prehistoric Scenes models and admiring the stop-motion artistry of the great Ray Harryhausen got us here. But so did roleplaying dragons and wizards. Fortunately, prehistory, with its evolving human lineages and enormous foes to challenge fantasy's deadliest, delivers similar, and arguably more heroic, results as humanity's first-ever struggle to survive. With a few creative liberties, Epoch, newly available from Drive-Thru RPG, has everything needed to make its world your prehistory.

A Twisted Tale of the Tongue...

nce upon a time, when yours truly was a much younger DM, I planned what was supposed to be your standard town-next-to-the-dungeon affair. Problem was, real-world time was running out. We were kids with curfews, after all, with less than an hour before the world froze in place until our next session. They’d gotten to the town in question, when someone decided to ask about the place. Fair enough, and it was just the sort of thing to fill half an hour. I put on my improv hat and got to work spinning a tale off the top of my head into the party's receptive ears...

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There was a country fair. With tents. Peddlers. And a menagerie of exotic monsters for the amusement of the townsfolk. Out front, there was a firedrake tied to a wooden stake, secured with a length of rope. Now understand, all of this was window dressing. Flavor text for the coming adventure. I didn’t expect the players to actually engage, which was a mistake of epic proportions from the perspective of my plans. Someone had the Untie cantrip, and the rope was history. I’d retroactively declare the latter as being enchanted to keep the monster docile, but the result was the same. Said firedrake ran riot in the town.

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Tents burned. People died. The menagerie was released upon the unsuspecting villagers. And the party? They quietly departed with their best it-wasn’t me nonchalance. What was supposed to be a bit of fluff to make the setting more interesting had become something all too real. My cause wasn’t lost, however. I recycled the dungeon, miraculously relocated to another village, and we all had a good laugh about it. But it was an object lesson in how anything said about the setting becomes a material reality, and ones your players will absolutely exploit. So ends my little tale of the tongue. 

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What was supposed to be some throwaway lines to describe a village was too tempting for its own good. My tongue led me astray, and I followed because it was fun spinning such a colorful yarn on a weekday night. I mean, what could possibly go wrong in 30 minutes? Apparently, the destruction of an entire town for starters. In a spoken-word theater of the mind, words are divinely empowered. But was it really so wrong? We had fun. And we got one of those memories that sort of pays for itself. If gaming isn’t about that, I can’t imagine what it’s possibly for. Anyway, end of story. See everyone next month...

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Excavating My First Fantasy...

I've been a fantasy buff going way back; but my introduction to the genre came by way of a non-fantastical source: dinosaurs and prehistory. Not surprising. Kids gravitate towards dinosaurs because they're truly the stuff of wonder, the same reason they like superheroes and Saturday morning cartoons. But dinosaurs were actual things described by dry facts appealing only to those adults who research them. That said, while today's youngsters enjoy access to better information, a child of the 70s got something different...

We got fantasy dinosaurs. Humans and dinosaurs living together. Pteranodons with bat-like wings and iguanas masquerading as the real thing. We got men in obvious suits stalking astronauts on prehistoric planets and bikini-clad cavewomen, inexplicably shaven (talk about fantasy), sleeping in monstrous eggshells. It was the stuff of 1950s drive-ins and late-night screenings on black-and-white TV. In other words, a fantasized version of reality channeling all the excitement dinosaurs, in their terrifying glory, had coming.

Comic books reinforced the illusion, and the Aurora Prehistoric Scenes model kits popular at the time implied an intersection of fantasy and reality that resonates even now. And if you appreciated dinosaurs, you might also enjoy the dragons of mythology and radioactive kaiju, dragons by another name, threatening (and sometimes saving) humanity from calamities both alien and earthborn. In short, those dinosaurs were a gateway drug to an endless buffet of the fantastic. And there was no shortage of the stuff, as the following shows...   

The Lost World (movie, 1925). An early Willis O'Brien masterpiece.

King Kong (movie, 1933). More stop-motion by the incomparable O'Brien. 

One Million B.C. (movie, 1940). I don't approve of the animal cruelty.

King Dinosaur (movie, 1955). Iguanas and a surprisingly good wooly mammoth.

One Million Years B.C. (a sequel, 1966). Harryhausen's stop-motion ruled.

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth (movie, 1970). Excellent stop-motion here.

Aurora Prehistoric Scenes (model kits, 1971-1978). A great implied world.

Land of the Lost (television show, 1974-1976). The smartest children's show ever.

Tor (comic book, 1975 reissued from 1955). A caveman epic by Joe Kubert.

An incomplete list, but one that shows the variety. The lizards break immersion, and I can't approve the animal cruelty involved. Thankfully, stop-motion animation and the magic of comic-book cleverness brought these worlds to reputable life. And seriously, how much of a leap is it from dinosaurs to Sokurah's fire-breather to Tolkien's Smaug? Or from primitive cavemen to talking apes ruling a post-apocalyptic world? Without a doubt, dinosaurs were my first fantasy, and the creative liberties of media a gateway to endless adventures...

Image from One Million B.C., Hal Roach Studios/United Artists

Tripping the Death-Cult OSR...

So last month (I don't remember when) I read a bog post (I don't remember which, except that it wasn't previously familiar) explaining old-school D&D in terms of its lethality and general indifference to the fate of its protagonists. Inevitably, this led one reader to suggest that old-school gaming was (apparently) a grimdark country populated by psychopathic juveniles in service to a death-cult hobby. Their sentiment, my words. And while I took the time to reassure them (and will again), this reputation is somewhat earned...

Maybe. Stay with me. But first, the reassurances. I started playing in 1978; and while character death was absolutely a feature of the landscape, it was never the point and never emphasized or marketed that way. Bad luck (and/or poor decisions) had consequences, which counseled good strategy and motivated our actions. But mortality was never the point so much as a potential, if unwelcomed, outcome. No, the sales pitch, and core experience being offered, was fantastic adventures we'd (probably) live to see.

Never mind the Satanic Panic (which would have had a field day with Mork Borg); early D&D, however combat-oriented, wasn't marketed as some futile experience because, seriously, who would buy such a thing? I can fail in real life, thank you very much. Sure, this happened despite every precaution sometimes; but it wasn't the product's defining objective. And the campaigns which resulted were upbeat affairs and heroic. We laughed, joked, and generally lived to tell of our experiences, and never because we were doing it wrong...

Alright, so why the bad reputation? First off, because certain modern games are objectively more forgiving, being made for detailed backstories and cherished characters who return unscathed through continuing adventures. The mere fact that professional character portraits, some quite good, are even a thing suggests this implied longevity. Those only drawn to the pastime because of this aren't likely to enjoy dying at the hands of capricious fate because to them, the alternative is a senseless grind they'd never willingly choose.

In short, modern survivability makes it a different game. And modern OSR publishers, ever eager to differentiate their products, play up these distinctions, which is how we get the bloodied mascot of Lamentations and the Die! Die! Die! aesthetic of the aforementioned Mork Borg. Add a (not insignificant) network of grognards waxing nostalgic about TPKs, and it's obvious from whence this reputation proceeds. If you're a young person who would only ever play the modern interpretation, all of this can seem off-putting in the extreme...

Basic Fantasy isn't doing this. And while, in fairness to Lamentations and Mork Borg, these products are tapping a certain niche, they're nonetheless a sharp deviation from OD&D's self-image even in its most wargamish moods. Sadly, the internet's bred a certain type of moral philosopher convinced (I'm not sure this isn't hyperbole) that one's choice in games indicates their character as a person. Danger is the only acceptable way to play, the only experience capable of delivering fun, and the only choice of any right-minded person.

Again, this is (I hope) hyperbolic. But it reinforces the notion that old-school gaming (name the system) was a death-worshipping cult. All jokes aside, the heightened probability of death inherent to old-school games feels like masochism to those who only began playing for the collaborative storytelling approach on offer. But the extreme element of the OSR is marketing to a (totally legitimate) subgenre, while the earliest hobby wasn't grimdark, but heroic, with danger and the threat of death punctuating fun adventures we lived to experience...

A Surprising Look at Murderhobos...

So I asked a question on Facebook this week. What did people do with the humanoid women and children in the Caves of Chaos, among similar adventures, persumably? This was a controversial question, given that killing non-combatants is genocide and a war crime in the civilized world, and that (hopefully) players have a functioning moral compass precluding even simulated atrocities, at least not without certain disclaimers...

The answers ran the gamut, although some were obviously tongue-in-cheek: 

40% chose to treat such non-combatants humanely in various ways.

30% modified the encounter(s) to remove the very presence of said innocents.

20% chose slaughter, some citing variations of the Nuremberg Defense.

10% enslaved these helpless survivors, marching them to the Keep in chains. 

This data is current as of this morning, and I filtered out the nonsense replies and Full Metal Jacket references (humerous as they might otherwise be) to get the meat...

And the meat, consistent with my own experience (starting in 1978), is that most players choose a humane response, likely in deference to their personal morality, opting for Lawful or Good characters for similar reasons. Those who chose attrocities were generally younger, meaning less mature, or older and able to skillfully roleplay. Regardless, it's a compelling look into old-schoolers, proving that people are still people, age or edition be damned.

Nine Questions: A Retrospective...

So there's not much to offer this month. Real life is intruding, as it often does, and we haven't found the time to do much of anything worth reading. And since we've had better months, overflowing with interesting and insightful content, maybe it's time to look backwards at better days. Call it a refresher course for longtime readers and a quick primer for our newcomers, presented as Nine Questions Gamers Want to Ask, awaiting your attention...

(1) Are character levels as important as we think they are?

(2) Exactly how many classes are needed, and can we have too many?

(3) Is sophistication good or bad for the roleplaying hobby?

(4) How did gaming's early rivalries impact the hobby's development?

(5) Rolling dice is a big deal; but just how important are they? 

(6) How have current fashions affected how characters are depicted? 

(7) Nostalgia gets a bad reputation; but could it be important?

(8) Are inherently evil orcs always racist? Or is there more to the story?

(9) When did D&D's amateur age end, and where was its last stand?

Thanks for reading. These posts ran from 2018 through 2020 and represent the obscure questions we sometimes contemplate. Our hobby is a bottomless well of lore, and because it offers a vast universe of ideas and approaches, gaming might just be the most interesting conversation we can have (an exaggeration, but I like the comparison). Here's wishing us all a lifetime of conversations worth having and endless hours of games worth playing...

The Three Prongs of Art's Dilemma...

Okay, so the title's a bit misleading. There's lots of great artwork in the gaming hobby, with something good for everyone, whether old school's amateur simplicity (a personal favorite) to the modern era's many excellent offerings. You can't go wrong. But the best our hobby can offer, regardless of visual style, lands on three prongs. Now much of this is subjective, being ultimately the province of personal tastes, which wander far afield. But setting this aside, a truly universal thread runs through the legendary art like veins...

First, there's the characters, the ones going on the adventure. The best art, especially cover artwork, captures these heroes at work, just before, during, and after their struggles with fearsome foes. Whether the original Dungeon Master's Guide, with its battle in the fabled City of Brass, or the first Player's Handbook (my favorite) in the aftermath of hostilities against endless hordes of demon-worshipping lizard men, nothing communicates the game's focus and ultimate intent quite like these icons of adventure plying their trade.

Next, we have the adversaries, the monsters. Shown alive or dead, these are the flip side of gaming art's metaphorical coinage, for what would the aforementioned D&D rulebooks be, really, without their flaming-red efreeti or recently slain lizard men? It's heroes against deadly opponents, so the best artwork, the stuff we call exemplars, has to include these terrifying foes. Now this isn't always possible, especially with interior illustrations; but if possible, these complete an all-encompasing picture of what our hobby's about...

Finally, there's the treasure (or reward, system dependant). What else would motivate the characters to tackle those deadliest of adversaries? Risk needs reward, making treasure, in all its many forms, an essential ingredient of iconic gaming artwork, giving AD&D's classic Player's Handbook, with its enormous gemstone eye, a definite edge. Holmes Basic checks the same boxes, among others. That said, your mileage will doubtless vary; but the above trifecta can certainly help to navigate the prongs of iconic artwork's non-dilemma.