Enter the Stargate, if You Dare!

I watched the original Stargate movie in the theatre back in 1994. At the time, I characterized it as “Power Rangers for adults”…which is not to say that I thought it was bad, but that there is a certain flash to the effects, and a lack of grit to the story that reminded me of my son’s (then current) obsession with the Power Rangers. I dismissed it early, and never watched the television series, which I understand has a somewhat different continuity.

I rewatched it to create this blog post, and my opinions have changed somewhat. The plot is still lacking in grit. The protagonists have things far too easy in the film. The effects are far too clean…like prequel Star Wars compared to the grittier, used-universe feel of the original trilogy. And, time having passed, it looked very much like “John Denver’s clone travels to another world”.

On the other hand, there is a lot of potential here for gaming. Although much of what follows is based on the extended version of the Stargate film, I have delved a little into the spin-off series via Wikipedia and the Internet in general. Because I am not greatly familiar with the extended Stargate mythology, feel free to correct me, make changes for your own game, etc. – stuff you should feel free to do anyway!

(As a side note, since other things happened between re-watching and writing, I might still not be so great in this post, but it is an attempt!)

Stargates

These devices appear as large, circular rings of an unknown metal. Each requires seven tablets to be decoded in order to align properly (DC 18 Intelligence check per tablet; a retry is allowed each day for three days, then each week for three weeks, then each month for three months, and so on). When properly aligned, the symbols on the stargate allow a portal to open between the current stargate, and another stargate on another world. This second stargate opens only briefly, and must also be properly aligned to allow a return journey. Once a PC has decoded one series of tablets, it requires only a DC 10 Intelligence check to align the return stargate, as long as all tablets are available.

The Judge should not feel constrained to the locations used in the film, television, or novel series. A stargate can lead to any world or plane the Judge wishes. The stargate in the film led to an unnamed world ruled by Ra. Although there might have been more to it than seen in the film, it appeared to be a desert world with a definite Egyptian motif, which nonetheless managed to sustain a rather large population of human slaves. Ra took the ancestors of these slaves from Earth, so they are not native to Ra’s slave world.

The mere existence of the stargates suggests an obvious adventure possibility: One or more tablets must be recovered to open the stargate, either to pass through it initially or to return home thereafter. If this brings Perils of the Purple Planet to your mind, you’re not alone. I would not be surprised if Stargate was inspirational to some aspects of Harley Stroh’s masterpiece.

Domesticated Animal

The one creature we see which is, presumably, native to Ra’s slave world is a domesticated creature – strong, easily spooked, but apparently also reasonably friendly and loyal. It has a good sense of smell, apparently using it to find the sparse vegetation on the slave world, as well as the occasional chocolate bar travellers might be carrying.

This creature also gives us a good example of a really bad Luck check. When you burn too much Luck, ropes just kind of get wrapped around your ankle, and creatures sort of drag you through the sand for a while. Luckily, in this case, it was all subdual damage.

Domesticated animal from Ra’s slave world: Init +0; Atk bite +0 melee (1d4) or kick +1 melee (1d3); AC 12; HD 3d8+3; MV 40’; Act 1d20; SP strong sense of smell; SV Fort +5, Ref +1, Will +0; AL N.

Special Encounter: This creature is a stray, wearing a harness with a long, dangling rope. The first being who approaches it must succeed in a Luck check, or the creature is spooked, running away for 1d5+4 turns. Unless the approaching PC succeeds in a DC 10 Reflex save, the rope catches around his ankle, allowing the creature to drag him away. The sand causes 1d5 subdual damage for each turn of dragging. A PC rendered unconscious in this way awakes to the animal licking him in the face.

Troopers

Ra is protected and served by troopers wearing futuristic armour. Their animal-headed masks withdraw at will, disappearing completely into the body of the armour. Trooper armour has a +4 AC bonus, a –4 check penalty, and a d8 fumble die. This armour reduces movement by 5’.

Trooper weapons are treated as polearms with slashing blades (1d10), but they can also fire an energy beam up to 500’ (3d6). Once fired, these weapons need time to recharge – there is a 1 in 5 chance per round that the weapon is ready to fire again (i.e., 1 in 5 on the first round, 2 in 5 on the second round, etc.). If an attempt to fire the weapon is made before the recharge cycle is complete on the 5^th round, and the weapon is not recharged, nothing is accomplished apart from looking menacing.

NOTE: PCs may spend Luck to move the recharge die roll in their favour. For example, if John Denver fires a trooper weapon one round, and then tries to fire it again on the subsequent round, he rolls a die to see if it can fire. It comes up a “3”. By spending two points of Luck (3 – 2 = 1), he can shift that to a successful recharge.

Trooper: Init +0; Atk polearm +1 melee (1d10) or energy beam +3 ranged (3d6); AC 14; HD 1d6; MV 25’; Act 1d20; SP weapon recharge; SV Fort +3, Ref +1, Will +0; AL L.

It should be noted that Ra’s troopers are human. They are simply the most privileged slaves on a slave world. Both armour and weapons are powered by a unique, unnamed metal that has the ability to store and amplify power.

Air Support

Some of the troopers also fly cool-looking fighters, which are presumably capable of travelling in space as well as in the atmosphere. A half-way descent tactician would use these far more effectively than Ra. Ra uses them for the occasional strafing run and little else. Perhaps this is due to a limitation on Ra’s unique metal’s storage capacities…the Crawljammer stats below assume that this is the case.

Ra’s fighter: Init +3; Atk energy beams +3 ranged (2d6); AC 15; HD 5d10; MV 90’; Act 1d20; SV Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +2; Crit d8; Fumble d4; Composition: metal; Luck pool: 0.

Strafing Run: The sky is split by the scream of alien ships. They pulse beams of blue fire toward the people massed below, followed by panic, screams, and explosions.

Somehow, for all their destructiveness, the strafing runs seldom injure important characters. Each PC (and significant NPC) make a Luck check. On a failure, they take 2d6 damage from incidental shrapnel, trampling, etc. If an NPC has no Luck score, assume success 50% of the time. Background NPCs are not so fortunate – 3d8 of them are killed. The judge may modify the number killed depending upon circumstances.

Miracles and Wonders

Teleporters: Ra has mastered the use of teleporting machines. Each of these machines must have a terminal at both ends to function.

Resurrection: Ra has a machine that can resurrect the fallen. If recently slain (within 48 hours), the machine is 100% effective, and the subject suffers no ability score loss. Every day thereafter, there is a 5% reduction in the chance of a successful resurrection, and a +5% chance that a point is lost from a random ability score (not including Luck). If an ability point is lost, there is chance that another point is lost (base chance –10%). If that is lost, there is another chance (10% less than the previous) that another point is lost, and so on, until the chance reaches 0 or it is rolled without ability point loss.

Non-human characters have a –25% chance of resurrection, and a +25% chance of ability point loss if resurrection succeeds. Something about humans makes them easier for Ra’s machines to repair.

Nameless Metal: In its pure form, this may be used as a special material component in spells which capture or release energy. The caster gains a +1 bonus to the spell check for every ½ pound of the metal sacrificed for this purpose. Extracting this metal to a usable form for spellcasting requires an Intelligence-based DC 20 Skill check related to smelting, metallurgy, or smithcraft. Failure by 5 or more causes an explosion for 1d6 damage per ½ pound of metal, with a radius of 30’. Failure by 10 or more doubles both damage and radius. A natural “1” on a failed check triples the damage and radius.

Ra

Long ago, an alien from an unnamed species was dying, and searched the universe for the means to stave off death. Eventually, it came to Earth, where it became known to the Egyptians as the god, Ra. By possessing a human host, the alien was able to prolong life indefinitely. Although Ra now appears as a rather androgynous adolescent boy, when he is angry flashes of the possessing alien become visible – a dark-eyed creature similar in many ways to the classic “Close Encounters”-type aliens.

When Ra strikes a creature, there is a 1 in 3 chance that an energy discharge will cause an additional 1d6 damage and fling the creature back 3d6 feet. Any creature subject to this attack must roll a DC 10 Fort save or drop any held items, and a DC 15 Reflex save or be knocked prone.

Ra: Init +3; Atk unarmed strike +3 melee (1d5) or by weapon +5 melee; AC 13; HD 8d6; hp 30; MV 30’; Act 2d20; SP energy discharge, regenerate 3 hp/round, damage reduction 5; SV Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +10; AL L.

Goa'uld System Lords and Anubis Prime

In the movie, Ra was the last of a humanoid alien species, but in the television series he was one of the “Goa’uld System Lords” – a species of eel-like parasites from planet P3X-888, which could infest and possess humanoid hosts. Remorseless creatures bent on dominating others, the Goa’uld parasites could be encountered on many worlds. The most powerful of these creatures was known as Anubis. Anubis was so dangerous that even the other Goa'uld System Lords didn’t want him around.

I don’t have enough knowledge of the Stargate universe to even attempt to stat out the Goa’uld System Lords or Anubis. Anyone more knowledgeable than myself, who cares to take a crack at it in the comments section, is more than welcome to do so!

Reaction Rolls Made Simple

Thanks to the thread about Jim Wampler's Mutant Crawl Classics, I learned about this man who makes specialty dice.  That die pictured? That's one of his emoticon dice. The picture is from his website.

I just asked about ordering several of them. Here's why:

In Dungeon Crawl Classics, normal ability modifiers range from -3 to +3. If you have an encounter where you need a reaction roll, and no Personality modifier is involved, roll one of these dice. If there is a Personality modifier involved, roll one die per point of modifier. If the modifier is a penalty, select the worst result. If the modifier is a bonus, select the best result. Instant reaction rolls!

If you need a reaction for the party as a whole, determine the total modifier and then roll that many dice (or one die, if the total modifier is +/-0.

Plus, the emoticons are easy to read. The images here are also from the dice webpage.

It is pretty easy to see how you can make modifiers by adding or subtracting dice to determine reaction as well.

(Of course, this is really all about wanting cool new dice.)

Meaningless Encounters

Imagine, if you would, an encounter occurring which has no relevance to the scenario in which it occurs. It adds no verisimilitude, adds no flavour to the game milieu, and has no impact or potential for impact on future events. Moreover, the encounter is neither fun nor challenging in and of itself. It is a complete waste of time.

Game systems can encourage elements of this kind of encounter. For instance, in games where resources are intended to “reset” after each encounter, it is easy enough to remove the potential for impact on future events. 

A hypothetical game system that takes two hours to resolve a chance glimpse of a deer in the woods would make what is otherwise five seconds of description a chore that removes all fun. If a system “balanced” encounters so that the PCs were expected to win, and turned encounters into formula combats that took hours to resolve, a chance encounter with an ogre (for example) could easily be removed of its potential fun and challenge.

An adventure writer can also encourage elements of this type of encounter. “No matter what the PCs do, X will occur….” and “If the PCs kill X, assume that an identical X takes its place….” certainly reduce the potential for impact, if the GM actually follows those suggestions.

Yet, few and far between are those encounters which are completely meaningless, unless the system or the GM makes a clear distinction between “relevant” and “irrelevant” encounters. If this is the case, yes, you can make any encounter irrelevant. Doing so does not improve game play IMHO and IME. Forcing the players to determine the relevance of encounters to their own goals – or allowing them to create that relevance themselves! – is, to me, an important aspect of game play.

Crappy encounters do exist. If we take the elements of verisimilitude, flavour, potential for impact, challenge, and intrinsic fun, we can see that the more of these elements an encounter has, the better an encounter it will be. Consequently, the fewer it has, the crappier it will be.

IMHO and IME, adhering to an encounter template or a “plot” to which all encounters must conform is the most common way to create crappy encounters. YMMY, and if it does, party on! Never throw away something that works for you because some jackhole on the internet has a different idea, or different experiences. “Even if that jackhole is you?” Friend, especially if that jackhole is me. What works for me might not work for you. And vice versa.

Here’s the second biggest source of crappy encounters (IMHO & IME): Lack of planning. In order to have meaning, an encounter must both have impact on the setting and be able to allow the players to have impact. That means that there has to be some structure to hang the encounter on, and that there has to be enough leeway in that structure that the PCs can change it through their actions.

So long as those conditions exist, no encounter is truly meaningless. And your chance of having a crappy encounter go down considerably.

IMHO. IME. YMMV.

The Creator and Final Arbiter

"It is the spirit of the game, not the letter of the rules, which is important. Never hold to the letter written, nor allow some barracks room lawyer to force quotations from the rule book upon you, if it goes against the obvious intent of the game. As you hew the line with respect to conformity to major systems and uniformity of play in general, also be certain that the game is mastered by you and not by your players...you are the creator and final arbiter." 

- Gary Gygax, Afterword from the 1st edition DMG

These words hold true for (nearly?) all role-playing games, not just Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. Rest well, Gary. You are missed.

Balanced Encounters

When people talk about “balanced encounters”, they may mean one of several things – anything from creating encounters that are generally appropriate for a dungeon level (as with early D&D) to ensuring that the PCs can win every fight with an “appropriate” risk and expenditure of resources (as with the base assumptions of 3e and 4e).

What underlies this, of course, is a simple question: If the PCs fail, who is responsible?

Look back through forums focused on 3e, and you will discover all sorts of complaints about the CR system.  I have not been an aficionado of 4e, but I imagine that similar observations related to that system’s encounter budgets also occurred. The books, essentially, offer a way for encounters to be “balanced”; if the PCs fail it is either because the books failed, or the DM didn’t follow the guidelines.

The first time I encountered this was in 2e, where the DM was encouraged to fudge in order to save the PCs. In 1e, there was certainly language that suggested that the DM was allowed to do so; in 2e the suggestion was that the DM should do so. 1e’s “balance” was focused around campaign-length play and mechanisms that allowed the players to estimate their risk. A prime example of this is that, in general, the deeper one delves, the greater the treasures and the risks. This, of course, was not absolute – PCs may encounter “Monster Level” 3 monsters on the 1^st level of the dungeon.

Moreover, while these tools were available, reading the advice to players in the 1e Player’s Handbook, it is clear that players should expect the DM to try to trick them into undertaking more risk than expected. Long sloping passages that lead down to another level without being noticed, chutes that do the same (but obviously!), and traps that cut off retreat are to be expected.

In 1e, not only is managing risk the player’s job, but the DM is expected to make this difficult. Not impossibly so – the DM is not supposed to be a jerkwad – but difficult enough to push the players into upping their game.

The modern obsession with balanced encounters starts with the idea that it is the GM, not the players, who must find the balance point. In a game where the GM forces the players to dance to his tune (and thus forces encounters upon the players, ala 3e, 4e, or most “adventure paths”), it makes sense that the GM has an increased responsibility to make those encounters “fair”. Applied to all gaming, though, the idea is a nightmare. Every time you hear that the GM has “made a mistake” and has to “correct an encounter” as the reason for fudging, the idea that the GM should balance encounters is at its heart.

I do not like games where the book, or the GM, is supposed to balance the encounters. I like games in which the GM is supposed to allow enough context to exist (which does not, by the way, mean that the context simply appears without being sought out by the PCs) to allow the players to generally balance the encounters. And which allows the players to be wrong. 

Some players will "play it safe", while others will take great risks, courting disaster in order to have a chance for great rewards. That is, to me, part of the interest of the game.

Tough Love

Here is a little bit of GMing philosophy - when you play in my game, I am on your side. I really hope that you do well. I just won't do anything to ensure that you do well. Want to attempt something unusual? I will entertain what seem to be reasonable arguments. I will assign what seems like a fair chance, to me. The odds are good that, if I make a ruling, that ruling is skewed in the players' favour.

But the dice still fall where they may, and I will fudge neither rolls nor statistics nor monster behaviour to ensure either your success or your survival. I want you to succeed - I really do - but I want you to succeed in a meaningful way. That means giving your opponents the brains that they should have, and it means allowing bad things to happen as well as good. That means allowing a TPK to happen. And happen again. And happen again after that. Unless you do something to make it not happen.

When I brought this up on DragonsFoot, I was told that this was smoke and mirrors - the GM cannot both be on the players' side and act as an impartial referee. Let me rephrase that, because what I am saying is that the GM can be on the players' side and still understand the importance of refereeing impartially. Just as a player can advocate for his character fairly, without cheating. Hoping for a good outcome does not mean you screw the game in order to ensure it occurs.

If I was acting against the players, or even creating a completely impartial scenario, it would be all too easy to create situations where TPKs were inescapable. I would have a thick folder filled with the dead, and no players at the table, because, really, what would be the point? Even a "killer" dungeon like Death Frost Doom or The Tomb of Horrors is more player-friendly than a similar situation would "realistically" be.

And I play games with people I like. I feel for them when they lose a beloved character. I am happy for them when they succeed beyond hope.

I am on their side.

But I won't do anything to make them win. And the dice may not be.

And it is not always obvious to the players that I am on their side, either. It's fun when the going gets tough, and I am grinning like a hyena waiting for a wildebeest to fall. Even though I hope they find a way out, I relish the tight spot for what it is. 

These are not contradictory positions to take. Any player worth his salt relishes the dangerous moments as well. Although she might not be able to focus on her enjoyment of those moments at the time (being busy with trying to find a way to survive, or mourning the loss of a character), but those are the moments that are relived through gamer chatter days, months, and years later. 

A good GM is on the side of the players, and wants them to do well and have fun, but is not on the side of the characters. A good GM knows that pulling punches removes the value of choice from the players, just as a good GM ensures that context is available for choices, but doesn't force context on the players if they choose to ignore it/not look for it. A good GM allows the players to make choices, and allows the characters to live or die by the quality of those choices.


A GM who punishes characters when the players make good choices, or coddles the characters when the players make poor choices, is undesirable. Both remove the greatest value that the tabletop game offers over other forms of entertainment.

Some players may think they want easy victories, or even guaranteed victories, but handing crap like that out is not what someone on your side does.

Call it tough love.

O is for Objectives (Part 2)

If one problem with Adventure Path play is that the Game Master may block the players in setting objectives for their characters, the reverse problem can occur in sandbox play.  The players are left struggling to find an objective, with little or no input from the Game Master.  Both of these two extremes are to be avoided.

Within a sandbox campaign, the Game Master should be guiding the players toward potential objectives, without actually choosing objectives for them.   This is actually far easier than it might sound.

Within a game like Dungeons & Dragons or Pathfinder, for example, players tend to be motivated by a few common things:  A big treasure, a powerful item, an intriguing puzzle, some prize to gain, some ally to help, some enemy to thwart. 

Assuming a reasonably developed campaign area, it is fairly easy to place rumours about all of these things.  There’s a ruby the size of a man’s heart, it is said, in the Tower of the Elephant.  Danger abounds in the ruins under Zenopus’ tower, although some have come out with bright gold and gems for their troubles.  Mercenary companies looking for plunder and titles flock to the banners of Robb Stark and Tywin Lannister in these troubled times.

Implied threats raise potential objectives as well.  The wildlings have come over the Wall, and are raiding the North.  Evil humanoids spew forth from the Caves of Chaos to threaten the nearby Keep.  Folk bar their doors at night in fear of a creature that stalks the city streets. 

If these things happen one at a time, then the Game Master is choosing the objectives for the players.  If they happen all at once, the players must choose.  Do we explore the ruins, or do we deal with the wildlings?  Both choices have potential consequences, which will change the context of the campaign area.  Perhaps while the PCs explore Zenopus’ dungeons, another group stops the wildling raids, and gains glory for themselves.  Or, perhaps, no one does, and the wildlings become a larger threat.

What’s the most important thing right now?  The players must decide.  How are we going to deal with it?  Again, the players must decide.  An objective is set.

The objectives of an initial adventure/play session are especially important.  Even in a sandbox game, the Game Master must provide the players with a strong initial objective.  If they discard it, and pursue an objective of their own, that’s great.  If they don’t have one of their own, though, providing an objective gives the players an interesting game while providing the Game Master ample opportunity to seed each session with hooks and rumours to allow the players to choose their own goals. 

By the time the initial objective has been met, the players should know enough about the setting to be eager to pursue at least two or three other objectives of their own.  They know of ruins they may wish to explore, prizes they may wish to obtain, and threats they may either deal with or avoid.

Throw into this mix two important types of NPCs:  The Ally and the Enemy.

The Ally is a character that the players actually like.  The Ally provides backup, council, discounted merchandise, spell support, etc.  The Ally doesn’t travel with the players; the players must come to her.  In some cases, the Ally is not available, because she has a life of her own.  In some cases, the Ally asks the PCs for aid….But, generally speaking, the Ally is of benefit to the PCs, giving them more than she asks in return.  An Ally is an asset.

Elrond and Beorn in The Hobbit are good examples of Ally characters.  Simply reaching them can be an objective.  Likewise, the Eagles of the Misty Mountains are Allies of Gandalf, repaying him for an earlier kindness.  Inclusion of Ally characters is important, because it gives players a motive for such a kindness…and it prevents players from treating every NPC like an Enemy.

The flip side of the Ally is the Enemy.  The Enemy is not necessarily the Big Bad Evil Guy of the campaign setting, and he is not necessarily someone that the players can deal with by means of combat.  Properly used, the Enemy can last for many campaign sessions, with many reversals where the PCs sometimes defeat the Enemy, and the Enemy sometimes defeats them.  An Enemy can be an officious little man with political power – like a tax collector or a customs inspector.  An Enemy can be a rival adventurer who is friendly to the PCs, but tries to beat them to every prize.  An Enemy can be an individual or an organization.

In my current game, a clan of vampires controls the organized crime in the city of Ravenglass.  One of the PCs, in an attempt to glean information about an unrelated manner, started beating up members of the vampires’ organization.  So, the vampires took notice, becoming an Enemy.  Since then, the PCs have defeated them in combat, been jailed as a result of a vampire charming a city watchman, had their home infiltrated (and a staff that could cast daylight stolen), met one of the vampires at a social function honouring two of the PCs, had dinner with a vampire, considered eradicating them, and considered converting them to Allies.

No player ever hates a creature that is truly dealt with when first encountered the way that the player will hate a creature who dances a long dance of many encounters before its final defeat.  Nor does any player ever offer a “one shot” creature the grudging respect that eventually is accorded a long-term adversary.

As another example, I once played a swashbuckler character in a 2^nd Edition AD&D campaign.  The DM at the time, Jesse, included an encounter with another swashbuckler.  We dueled, and I lost.  Rather than have the NPC kill me, the DM had the NPC take pity on me, relieve me of my blade, and leave me alive.  Needless to say, I had a great desire to meet that NPC again, defeat him, and leave him alive with my pity.

It is the back-and-forth of repeated encounters, that fail to resolve a rivalry, that gives added emphasis to an Enemy.  This is one of the major reasons why Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan was so effective, while Star Trek: Nemesis falls so flat.  I have seen players shift their course 180 degrees if a chance to deal with an effective long-term Enemy presented itself.

These things together:  Allies, Enemies, Prizes to be won, Threats to counter….mix them well, salt the game setting with them, and it is easy for players to have objectives.  What becomes difficult (and interesting) is choosing which among them are the most important to deal with right now.

As mentioned in an earlier blog post, a persistent location where adventuring is known to be had – such as a megadungeon – supplies an option when nothing else “feels right”.   Obviously, this could also be a stretch of wilderness, a bad part of town, an arena, or anything else that is “always in play” when the players want to take their characters there.

Taken together – along with a healthy dose of encouraging & empowering your players to set objectives – these things ensure that your players will be winnowing through their options instead of seeking desperately for “the plot”. 

And if you do hear “Now what are we supposed to do?”, it’ll be because the PCs are in a jam and haven’t found a way out, rather than because they are sitting at an inn and haven’t found a way into the campaign milieu.

Good gaming!

O is for Objectives (Part 1)

“Now what are we supposed to do?” they ask.  And then they sit there, staring across the table, waiting for you to give them some quest, some purpose.  Or perhaps they say, “If we sit here long enough, something’s bound to happen.  The plot will come to us.”

Gods of Gaming, protect us from those players, spoon-fed from years of so-called “Adventure Paths”, who only know how to react to what the Game Master tells them is their quest, jumping through whatever hoops the GM may provide like so many trained seals.  I am reminded of an experiment where researchers put food beyond a fence.  There was a trick by which the subjects – wolves, coyotes, and domesticated dogs – could open the gate and get to the food.  By and large, the wild canines quickly parsed it out, and got their reward.  The domesticated dogs?  They whined at the gate and waited for Master to open it for them.

Now, some Game Masters prefer domesticated dogs.  They might have only the third adventure of War of the Burning Sky prepared, and, come hell or high water, that is what tonight’s game will be.  And that’s fine, sometimes, and,  for some, all of the time.  Others would like their players to be a little bit more proactive. 

The key to proactive players is to empower them to, and reward them for, setting objectives.

Such a little thing to do.  Such an obvious thing to do.  And, more and more often as the years go by, such an uncommon thing to do.

Empowering your players to set objectives means that, sometimes, you will not be able to rely on materials written by others.  To put it bluntly, it means that the players don’t have to follow a plot you lay down; they literally “choose their own adventure”.  It might mean that some materials you’ve prepared don’t get used right now.  Perhaps not ever.  It might mean that they choose not to pursue the BBEG, and his schemes – whatever they may be – come to fruition.  Meanwhile, you’re left trying to decide how to deal with your fighter’s romantic advances toward Lady Stark.

For example, imagine that you have decided to run Savage Tide.  But the players don’t “buy in”.  They simply are not interested in sailing toward the Isle of Dread.  They leave their patron’s service.  They would rather find out where the bullywugs came from, or visit Cauldron after hearing about the events which happened there.  The big problem with “The World Will End Unless the PCs Do X” is that the players might rather have their characters do Y.  This goes back to the “C is for Choices, Context, and Consequence” blogs in this series – a Game Master should never set a consequence of failure that he or she is unwilling to accept having to actually play out in-game.

On the other hand, we can have a sandbox game where players can do anything – but cannot think of anything worth doing.  Characters end up sitting in a taproom somewhere, waiting for something…anything…to happen.

One of the keys to running a good game is to allow the players to choose their own objectives.  If one is running an “Adventure Path”, this means either getting the players to buy into the objectives the path lays out for them.  If one is running a sandbox, this means ensuring that there are always obvious objectives that the players can make their own.

A is for Animals (or Lions, Tigers, & Bears, Oh My!)

When devising a setting for a role-playing game, some people might think considering local animals unimportant.

I do not.

I try to remember that the mundane is as important as the mysterious.  For instance, I will mention animal scat, deer tracks, flights of birds, bird calls, etc., while on a wilderness trek.  Why?  First off, I want to ensure that the world feels "alive" -- things are where they should be.  There are mice in the ruins, birds in the fields, and a fox in the henhouse.

Secondly, this allows for some quick action within the game.  On a riverboat, a stag is sighted on shore.  A quick bet is made on whose shot can bring it down, and there will be venison for dinner.  Hearing wolves howl in the distance need not presage an instant attack -- the PCs will travel this wild area again.  Without the foreshadowing, though, an encounter with wolves can seem rather "out of the blue".  Likewise, a partially-eaten deer carcass can indicate the presence of wolves to wilderness-minded sorts, like rangers and druids.

Finally, including animals on a regular basis prevents "ringers" from being obvious.  If you never mention ravens, then that raven is obviously a familiar or spy.  If you never mention rabbits, that you do so now means there's a wolf-in-sheep's-clothing lurking nearby.  That you never mention wolves is a sure sign that the one you are encountering now is more than half likely to be a werewolf.

Some games/Game Masters take this even farther.  Why have horse, when you can have firehooved scalehorses?  Why have bears when you can have hardgrapple biteybears?

The answers are the same -- unless there is something "normal" in the world (as the world defines "normal"), immersion is damaged.  If everything you encounter is monstrous, you will respond to everything as though it were a monster.

Sorry, but No Thank You.

My game still has room for lions, and tigers, and bears.  And songbirds.  And mice.