Roll Play, THEN Role Play!

Before we dive in to this, beware: I'm a harsh kind of DM. I'm a hardcore Dwarf Fortress fanatic who takes the saying "Losing Is Fun" to heart. I believe in PVP, deadly campaigns, evil PCs, split parties, dungeon crawls, hex crawls, and wargaming. To begin with, I am very much outside of the mainstream when it comes to gaming philosophy. So take my words with a grain of salt, but please take the time to consider what I have to say.

There exists in the gaming hobby a philosophical saying which states, "Roleplay, not roll play!". It is a rebellion against the old-school, "Gygaxian" competitive format of play. It is championed by narrativists who believe story integrity should come first. It is sang by softies who can't have fun the hard way, who get deeply hurt any time they "lose", who think no character should die unless the group agrees on it. The saying is closely related to the sentiment in the Gamer's Manifesto of Whitewolf fame. ("Rules written on paper not stone tablets [...] when dice conflict with the story the story always wins [etc.]")

And yet, as far as I can tell, it is nothing more than an eloquent expression of the Stormwind Fallacy.

This is perfect, except that Superman is a piss-poor character.

Why, pray tell, do these things need to be mutually exclusive at all? Just as it is entirely possible to minmax a PC and still have a great time roleplaying them as a character, I posit it is entirely possible to follow the rules of the game to the letter and still have excellent roleplay- and even a coherent narrative! There is nothing about any game's system which is inherently anathema to roleplay.

An RPG system is (generally speaking) designed to facilitate roleplay. If it wasn't, it wouldn't be an RPG! Now, some admittedly do a better job of that than others, but that's beside the point: they all got into this for the roleplay.

Here's something that might surprise you: between the system and the roleplay, it's the system that is the most fragile. An RPG system cannot really exist in a functional sense without some degree of roleplay, it just becomes a boring process. Without fair play, the game system becomes a meaningless waste of time. Roleplay, on the other hand, can exist without any system at all. It is independent, and inherently as sturdy as the social bond between the role players at the table.

As an example, let's talk about some other games: Life, Magic the Gathering, and Checkers.

Did you know that the game of Life is a type of RPG? I didn't, at least not until I played it with a bunch of kids.

When you play Life with adults, it's a lot like silent D&D: you roll dice and move pieces and eventually the game is over. It's random, arbitrary, and pointless. A process with no purpose.

When you play Life with kids though, it's a completely different game. The kids make choices with details. They'll say things like, "I get the red car because it goes faster!!" and "my person has blond hair!" They make jokes about players who accidentally grab the same gender as their person for a spouse, then run with it anyways. They talk about the hows and whys of the things that happen to each other. They make decisions based on the kind of person they're playing, rather than based on what they think will win. They tell a story.

It's a ridiculous story, with some questionable commentary on modern values, but it is a story nonetheless. At the end of the game, it doesn't matter that the winner was mostly random, it doesn't even really matter who won. What they'll talk about later on, what they'll remember, is all the silly stuff they made up on the way. That's the game of Life. And they do it all without houserules, or homebrew cards, or fudging spinner results.

(Although the homebrew cards sounds like a fun project to try... Keep an eye out for that article. Give me a few years. It'll be a slow day item.)

MTG was originally designed as a convention game, and initially attracted primarily players of Dungeons & Dragons. While most people assume it was because D&D was also a fantasy themed convention game, but I think there's something a little more fundamental to it than that. Here's a question:

Would MTG be as popular today if the cards were nothing more than abstract game pieces with no thematic element, narrative, or artwork?

I highly doubt it.

If people didn't play MTG for the narrative component, there wouldn't be one. There wouldn't be books, or comics, or card art, or flavor text, or the Plane Shift supplements for 5e D&D. To a certain extent, the theme that you are roleplaying as a powerful planehopping sorcerer locked in mortal combat with other powerful magi, is the point of the game. Without it, it's just ink on cardboard and whiny man-children squabbling over petty minutiae.

The structure of the game inherently builds it's own narrative every time the game is played, even when the players don't notice or keep track of it. The composition of the decks involved describe the nature of the characters who are engaged in the wizard's duel.

Most players just leave it all as-is, but the narrative element is there automatically. Anyone could take advantage of it if they wished.

I don't know about you, but I roll with the kinds of people who DO take advantage of that narrative element. All it takes is for both players to attach the how and why descriptive element to game events. That's it. A little bit of first-person in-character banter never hurts either! Magic the Gathering can be as much of a roleplaying game as D&D- players can even roleplay the personalities of the creatures they summon if they wished!

And again, all of this works fine without having to sacrifice any of the integrity of the game's system or its components. (Although I have found that ignoring all the official card restriction rules makes for a better game as long as you aren't playing with jerks.)

I bet you see where I'm going with this now. I bet most of you probably even see how! But yes, even Checkers can function as an RPG system.

For anyone who hasn't noticed, Checkers is nothing more than an extremely simple, very abstract wargame. War is one of the most fundamental narrative devices in history.

The board represents a borderline. A large region over which there is conflict. The pieces represent military strength by mass. The players are the military leaders. Taking pieces also takes territory, pushing into enemy land.

Roleplaying this game takes a bit more effort. You need more than just how and why, you also need to fill in what. What lands are these? What types of soldiers make up the units? What is the conflict over? These kinds of questions are minor though, it only takes a second or two to make it all up.

Really, pretty much any kind of game, (with the possible exception of most sports, which tell the narrative of their reality) can be a roleplaying game.

The truth is that you don't even need a game system at all in order to roleplay.

Collaborative fiction can be created through a character based roleplaying process. It's commonplace on roleplaying forums, and individuals can do the same in person as well. I've run plenty of pure roleplays online, and I was a roleplayer long before I was a game designer.

Improvisational theater is another format in which roleplay can take center stage- this is basically what a kid's game of "Let's pretend" really is!

So I ask, if you aren't even going to actually use the game system in your roleplay, why have a game system at all? If you're just going to ignore it and create whatever story you want, why bother with the hassle of dice and character sheets and books? What's the point? What value is gained by including encumbrance rules that are ignored and lose conditions that never come into play? If all you care about is roleplay, and the game is an unnecessary thing tacked on to the side to be ignored whenever inconvenient, why bother with the game?

But there might be some out there, especially younger role players, who don't see how to roleplay without a system to guide them, or who don't understand how to tell a story when the dice seem to call the shots. So let's take a look at how things fun at my table. This is what actual roll play looks like when you don't sacrifice roleplay to do it.

1. The DM describes the SIS. Setting and situation explained.
2. Players ask for clarifying details to inform their decisions.
3. After the SIS is sufficiently understood, players describe the actions their characters attempt, with their desired results.
4. The DM determines the success/failure, then calls for rolls on anything uncertain.
5. The DM narrates the actual consequences of the attempted actions, possibly working with the players to construct the consequences.

For example:

1. DM: "You are all standing in a stone room. Exits to the North, East, and South. The room is empty aside from a stone table at the center of the room."
2. Player: "Are there doors on the exits? Do I remember how I got here?" DM: "Yes, theya re made of wood, no you do not."
3. Player: I go to the North door and check to see if it's locked."
4. *DM looks at the PC's passive perception score, compares it to the trap detection DC for the trapped door.*
5. DM: "Your character has found a spring-loaded trap mechanism. Describe to me how that looks." Player: "Guys! There's a bunch of clockwork stuff on the door hinges here! This door is trapped. Be careful, this place is dangerous!"

In the above method, there is an important distinction: The players consult the system FIRST, then use that system to inform the roleplay. Instead of giving your roleplay monologue and rolling the dice to see if you convinced the king to give support, you state your intention, roll the dice, and then deliver a monologue that matches the result you were given. In this philosophy, the game is a prompt. It is the foundation for a narrative that does not yet exist. It is schrodinger's story.

This method validates the game as a game. The system is understood, utilized, and followed- and the players still get to roleplay. It isn't a matter of one conflicting with the other, it's simply a matter of priorities.

To a certain extent, this is part of appropriate check calling. The DM should never call for a check to see the effect of roleplay. The DM should call a check and then ask the players to play out the consequences. Think of it as Matt Mercer's "how do you want to do this?" extended to every single check result.

Dungeon Mastering: Calling For Checks

The following is my guide to how to call for checks, saves, contests, and other types of die throws from your players. This is written from the perspective of check-based RPGs like D&D or Traveller. Non-traditional resolution mechanics are a different creature entirely.

Calling for Throws

Ideally, the DM decides when to call for a roll from the players. Players who call for rolls for themselves are trying to usurp authority over the nature of the setting. I cannot stress this enough: the person who controls the physics of the setting decides what is possible, what is impossible, and what the odds of success are. The players control their characters, you decide the consequences. You are the master of the game.

To determine whether a roll should be called for, consider the following question: Is the outcome uncertain? If a player describes doing something that is guaranteed to succeed or fail, there is no reason to call for a roll. Instead, the guaranteed results of their actions should be either described immediately, or the player's description of their actions simply left to stand as being true.

For example, most player characters can speak effortlessly. Unless something is interfering with their ability to speak, the DM can generally just allow the player's declaration of character speech to stand without interference. However, if a player says "I jump to the moon and karate chop it in half with my bare hands" the DM should then interrupt and describe how their character jumps only a few feet in the air and cannot reach the moon. When a player describes an action, but the DM isn't sure what the outcome should be, then a roll should be called. Once you have determined a roll is called for, simply consider what is being done, and decide on an appropriate roll type, modifier source, and set a DC.

A second way to guide your selection to call for a roll, is to consider how hard you think the task should be on a DC, compared to the statistics of the character doing the task. On a d20, if the character’s ability score matches the DC you would choose, that means they have a ~64% chance of succeeding. If their score exceeds it by 5 or more, then they have a 79+% chance of succeeding. It can speed play if you simply dictate success for rolls with a very low chance of failure- especially rolls where the player’s score exceeds the DC by 5 or more. In particular, characters with a total modifier exceeding a benchmark are guaranteed to pass any check at that benchmark- no check required. Likewise, if their maximum roll with modifiers is beneath a benchmark, they will automatically fail any check over that benchmark. An otherwise uncertain action is then certain for that character in particular.

Before a check is called, also consider what the ramifications of success and failure are. Don’t just call a check out of indecisiveness. If a failure would stall the game, or leave everyone stuck, then don’t bother inviting the opportunity. Narrate them out of it. If a check would produce ludicrous results on either a pass or a fail, again, don’t bother calling, simply narrate the only result that makes sense. The best checks lead to interesting choices, surprises, and adventure. The worst checks lead to empty rooms, blank faces, and confusion. Do not gate the progression of the adventure with a check.

Another problem frequently encountered in older editions was the issue of players attempting a check over and over again, or each party member taking a crack at it until they succeeded. This happened because people thought the check only described the effort the character put in on a single attempt. A check actually describes all factors applying to a situation, including the nature of the obstacle, the circumstances of coincidence, the time spent doing it, and character effectiveness. So, for instance, if a barbarian fails to kick down a door, that doesn’t just mean he didn’t put in enough effort- it also means the door was beyond his effort as well in the first place. Think of it as a sort of Schrodinger’s door: it wasn’t either weak or strong until the fighter kicked it; you used the dice to find out. In general, call checks once and let their results stand forever. If the thief can’t pick a lock, nobody in the party can. Furthermore, a party taking turns at a door could be considered as a group check or the help action, both of which already have rules to cover how they work in most check-based games. Even if the game you're running doesn't have group checks, a modified check mechanic is stupidly easy to houserule within moments. Instead of running multiple separate checks for the same task, run a single group check or add an advantage die to the original check for the help action.

The Point Of It

Because what is/isn't possible varies between DMs and settings, it should not be assumed that there will be any meaningful consistency from one game to another. One DM may decide running on water is possible with a very high DC in a wuxia style game, but then decide it is not possible in a medieval fantasy game. Two DMs running the same published setting might disagree on whether it is possible to swim across a particular river, or what the DCs for certain common tasks should be. This is to be expected, and is perfectly fine.

However, within this reasonable degree of variation, every DM should consider the experience of the players at the table first and foremost. Maintaining an internally consistent emulation of some form of "reality" is only valuable to the extent that it sustains the willing suspension of disbelief in the players. Slavishly emulating some dice-driven alternate reality for the benefit of the characters is a waste of time, because the characters cannot care- they are just numbers and paper. Player enjoyment should be considered overall in the long term.

While an individual success may be superficially enjoyable in the moment, it brings little enduring joy. Rather, when success is found where previously there was naught but failure, that is where meaningful enjoyment can be derived from the game. Overcoming legitimate obstacles is what drives engagement with the system. Furthermore, problems that can be overcome by the players' direct input and influence, rather than the random result of the die, provide meaningful depth and drive engagement with the scenario. If you fail to provide obstacles of meaningful difficulty and depth, your game will be flat and boring.

One final note on the subject of secrecy. Often, for the purposes of keeping players engaged with the game through suspense, and to sustain some degree of tension, it is necessary to keep certain information away from the players. For instance, a detailed map of the dungeon they are exploring would suck the fun out of exploring it, because everything has already been revealed, so such a thing should not be shown to the players.

Likewise, because the DM adjudicates the result of all rolls anyways, the DM should choose to keep their die rolls and DCs secret. The purpose of keeping mechanical statistics "behind the screen" is not to prevent metagaming, but rather, to keep the focus on the scenario, rather than the systems the DM is using to adjudicate it. Some DMs may employ a literal barrier of some sort, often a standing screen, to protect their notes and hidden die rolls from prying eyes.

This can lead to a certain degree of suspicion. If the DM has absolute authority over the setting, then the DM also has theoretical authority over all things. There is no reason why a DM couldn’t roll dice and decide the result without looking at them. However, one might ask: why roll dice at all if you're just going to ignore them? If you are going to call for a check, then actually run the check. Play it out, even if the results are not quite what you anticipated. Calling for rolls invites uncertainty into your game, and overcoming the gamble is as much a part of the challenge for the DM as it is for the players. In other words: playing fair is difficult but rewarding, and cheating is a waste of time.

My Table's Social Contract

The following is the social contract I have my table adhere by. Written up as a literal contract. Anyone who wants to join my table must agree to follow these tenets. This includes me, hence the section on Rule 0 and Rule Yes.

Rule 0.

The answer is no. DM veto. DM fiat. DM is director and god. Rule 0 is extremely powerful, and has equally extreme consequences. Used incorrectly, it can ruin jobs, friendships, and even marriages. It comes with the incredibly high responsibility of using it as rarely as possible- never, if possible. Remember: “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword.” and “Though a gentleman carries a sword, a true gentleman need never use it.” These people are your friends. Treat them like it.

The Rule of Yes.

Nothing grinds a game to a halt faster than a no ruling. Nothing frustrates more than being told a brilliant idea is no good. Nothing creates animosity between participants more than a closed door policy on new ideas or rule interpretations. A no ruling usually results in someone pulling out the source material looking for clarification. It slows things down, it's a distraction, and it’s no fun. Saying no is lazy. Learn to say yes, challenge yourself and your players to be more creative. You'll become a better DM, your adventures will appear more compelling, and players will come back each week craving more. Unless the idea is clearly absurd, say yes. If you don't care, say yes. If it makes sense, say yes. If you don't know, say yes. It will change your gaming life. Your players will love you for it.

The Rule of Cool.

The limits of the “willing suspension of disbelief” for a given idea are directly proportional to its coolness. Remember Bellisario's Maxim: "Don't look at this too closely..." also remember the gamer's version of the MST3K Mantra: "It's just a game; I should really just relax." Whenever a DM botches things in a weird or quirky way, assume "A Wizard Did It". The best way to use the RoC, is to watch player reactions. If a sudden shift happens where everyone's mood changes for the worse, or if people are suddenly disinterested or distracted, then something very uncool has happened, or something very cool has failed to happen. Simply claim Rule of Cool, and then correct the situation using Rule 0.

The Rule of Uncool.

Games are never worth anger. If it sucks, then FUCKING stop. And I cannot stress the cursing enough. Seriously, bad play is worse than no play at all. If people are mad, sad, bored, confused, frustrated, upset, arguing, leaving, distracted, or otherwise just not into the game and having fun, then for the love of yourself and your friends, stop the stupid game, and TALK IT OUT.

The Three Precious Rules.

Platinum: One should treat others as they would treat themselves.

Gold: One should treat others as one would like others to treat oneself.

Silver: One should not treat others in ways that one would not like to be treated.

Let's Talk About OD&D

Let's talk about the single most brutal game I've ever played. The original version of Dungeons & Dragons.

I've only ever played this game solo, and it's likely that is the reason for my impression of it. In the original games, anyone crawling Greyhawk castle alone was considered suicidal. I ran the game for myself to find out what it was actually like as part of my research on D&D's development through the editions when I was designing the SD&D system.

I used the little books, plus the greyhawk and blackmoor supplements as guidelines for designing a dungeons and dragons game, and I used the chainmail combat rules with the wilderness survival map, as per suggestions.

In addition, I read interviews with Gygax, Arneson, their players, and their coworkers. I read blogs about old school gaming and RPG history. I read the earliest modules written by the greats. I read the primer to old school gaming.

I discovered that D&D, in it's original form, was even more variable and diverse than any later incarnation. Dave and Gary ran unimaginably different games using essentially the same system- though the system was only similar by cosmetics. Even the actual rules of the game were in a constant state of flux for both authors. To create an authentic D&D experience, I couldn't try to run Gary's or Dave's D&D, I had to build and run MY D&D!

While I do feel my research lead to a fairly accurate approximation of the style of the game... nothing could have prepared me for my first actual delve into the ruinous towers of The Devil's Fork.

Begin playing the music now.

 

My character was a cleric of not especially great talent, but he made up for it by being quite wealthy. With the vision of starting a temple to one of the gods of law, he decides to deck himself out and kick down the devil's front door.

He was met by an ogre with a spear standing directly in the entryway. A wanderer who was on his way out for the errands, perhaps? It decided I was lunch.

12 terrifying minutes later, it was dead, and I was close to death. But on its body was a hoard of very lucky treasure! I cut my losses and scurried back to town to my niece. She was a beginning magic user, (and secretly chaotic) and a disappointment to my character's values. I got myself in order and hired a fighting man, a neutral mercenary, to join me in my endeavors. He didn't care about the church. He just wanted my money and would abandon if he got the chance.

We broke into the dungeon and cautiously made our way through it's dangerous, crumbling structure. Some passages would collapse on you, others out from under you. The ruin was once magically powered and ancient conveniences became modern hazards. The outer walls had long since fallen away, leaving sections of the towers open to the elements. You could climb the outside of the towers, but it was risky and less rewarding. Inside were countless monsters all drawn by some unknown force, feeding on one another in cruel barbarism.

We struggled for months. I kept hiring more mercenaries, paying my dues to the local lords, building my influence. I became ambitious. Sure, lots of fighting men had died, but I was too good for that!

Then the floor gave out on the 3rd story of the second tower. I landed on a square which was also weak and I fell another 10ft down to the first floor. There, a wall collapsed and finished me off.

The few mercenaries who made it back alive told of my pathetic death for nothing.

Now my niece inherited all of my wealth- and the small church I had built. She rededicated the church to her God, Orcus, chased off the faithful, and set to work capitalizing on her uncle's progress.

She hired servants to aid her in her goal:
Make the Devil's Fork her palace.

She was an enchantress who put enemies to sleep, robbing them, capturing them, and dragging them out. Those she could press into service became her loyal soldiers. Those she could not were butchered and fed to the loyal.

Where her uncle relied on luck, she relied on savagery.

She gained levels slowly, because she always worked with a large entourage of minions. But she made much more progress. Eventually though, her luck would too come to an end, but not in the Fork.

She had built a tower from the foundation of the church and was slowly building a small army of monsters. She would have made faster progress, but her efforts were constantly frustrated by an entity to the West known as the Ivorine Monolith. A 60ft tall solid pillar of ivory, the monolith was some sort of ancient being who somehow remained after the fall of the last great empires. It drew wildlife to itself from the wilderness, and subtly influenced their minds until they became its dedicated, brainwashed agents.

The Ivorine Monolith saw itself as the center of the world, and (correctly) identified the witch as a threat to its power. It also coveted a mysterious ancient artifact supposedly held at the top floor of the center tine of the Devil's Fork, guarded by a monster named Cinderglint.

I used the rules of Risk to position units on the overworld between delves, the count representing total hit dice, and the hexes acting as countries. When battles occurred, I'd play it out with Chainmail. (I deliberately avoided large battles; Chainmail is not the greatest wargame ever made.)

I was on my way to the Fork for one more crack at the top floor, only to find Ivorine forces gathered around its base. They were trying to stop me! This was the biggest battle yet, and it would prove to be my last. I positioned myself as artillery and became surrounded without support. Even powerful magic users only get so many spells.

I rolled up a new character. A fighting man of law under the rule of the Ivorine Monolith.

The Monolith was deathless, ageless, timeless immortal. It had no need for material wealth beyond its influence on mortals. As such, the brainwashed minions it gathered would pool their treasure, which it would then pay out to individuals based on service. I and others from that initial assault squad were paid to assault the town where the witch had come from.

We plundered her tower and returned to the Monolith with vast treasures, scattering her servants to the wilds.

Now it was time to deal with the Devil's Fork.

Weeks went by, but without the constant expenses of an enduring war or local lords, I was able to progress almost unimpeded, except for the treacherous nature of the ruin itself.

Everything about the Devil's Fork is designed to hamper progress. It is constantly pushing you down, driving you back, flushing you out. A stark contrast to the attractive meat grinder of Greyhawk, the Devil's Fork was like walking uphill into the spray of a fire hose.

Eventually my character was able to conduct a combination of actions that revealed the true nature of the towers: the whole dungeon is a giant combination lock! Actions in one tower alter the layout in the other two. To get to the top of any one, you have to climb to a level, activate the machinery, leave, go to a different tower, climb to a particular level, activate the machinery there, etc.

I managed to fight my way to the 10th floor of the shortest tower, the top floor, where I gained access to a custom artifact: a single rifle.

My character did not have the intelligence necessary to divine how to load, aim, and fire it. (To prevent myself from metagaming too much, I incorporated passive check DCs from 5e into this game- it was up to my characters to find secrets and avoid traps, not me. I also generated the presence of hazards and secret treasure at random within my character's passive effectiveness. Even I didn't know where all the stuff was in my dungeons.)

With the rifle in hand, I sought out a mage tower to learn its secrets. In the meantime, a new enemy had appeared on the global stage. Squads of monsters were pouring out from the east, emanating from a distant forest on the edge of the world, called the Dread Garden.

My fighting man died in the ensuing battles while searching for a tower inhabited by a lawful magic user.

There was no inheritance for his wealth. He was a brainwashed minion to a questionable entity. My next project was a team of 3. A dwarven fighting man, a human thief, and an elven magic user. (Picture surprisingly close to accurate.) These 3 adventurers had heard the legends of the mysterious treasure of the Devil's Tongue and had come to take it.

They hunted wandering monsters in the wilderness to amass wealth, earning both the respect and enmity of the Monolith. (It was grateful that we were reducing its enemies. Annoyed we were killing its primary power supply.)

With a great deal of wealth, we gathered our men and challenged all 3 towers at once, a separate party in each. It was easy to identify the mechanism of the towers now.

Still, these things take time. You can't just walk around on the fifth floor like you own the place when you're a level 2 thief!

I never did finish the campaign. I got to the 23rd floor of the center tine before I got tired of it.

And so came to a close the story of the roughest game of D&D I've ever played or ran.

I learned a lot from this game, but it reminded me of something deeply important:

It is possible, and far more rewarding, to earn your fun the hard way, rather than to have it served easy on a silver platter.

OD&D is the Dwarf Fortress philosophy of gaming brought to the roleplaying table.

Losing is Fun!

(In the time since I wrote this, someone made a video that gets to the point about hard fun. They're talking about videogames, but really, it applies to all games. Here's the video.)

(Oh, for anyone who's curious about that top floor, Cinderglint is a custom dragon, called a Mercury Dragon. It generates a permanent poisonous cloud, survivors of which are stricken with permanent insanity. The artifact was the last flying car in existence.)