Before scientific experimentation disproved
it, most people believed in the spontaneous
generation of life (also known as equivocal
generation). For example, it was believed the maggots
spontaneously generated out of rotting meat. That places of darkness
spontaneously generated all manner of crawling things (as could be seen
upon lifting up a rock). Worms arose from dirt and even frogs were once
thought to come from the mud.
This was a universe literally teeming with
life energy.
For the purposes of fantasy, I find it
particularly fascinating how many of these theories revolved around
places of filth, putrescence, and decay giving rise to vermin: Maggots
from rotting flesh, rats from excrement, and so forth.
So when we look around our fantasy milieus
and see monstrous forms of vermin -- dire rats, giant spiders, and the
like -- could we use such theories of creation as their basis? I think
we can. In the vile places of the earth -- the places were the very
form of the world itself has begun to decay -- such creatures are given
form out of the darkness. And thus our dungeons teem with life.
Another interesting facet of the theory of
the spontaneous generation of life is that, like many pre-scientific
beliefs, it was not extinguished by scientific thought -- rather, it retreated before
it. Once it was proven that maggots are the larvae of flies, for
example, the theory simply moved to become the spontaneous generation
of bacteria out of the "life force" of the air. It wasn't until Louis
Pasteur rooted out the last of its hiding places that the theory
finally died.
I bring this up to suggest that we can just
as easily turn the dial in the opposite direction. We can even add a
metaphorical (or perhaps metaphysical) component to the theory.
For example, John Wick's Orkworld postulates
that orcs are actually photosynthetic. But we could just as easily say
that the orcs spontaneously arise wherever civilization is not: When
empires fall, tribes of orcs appear in the ruins.
And we could elaborate upon further upon the
themes of this theory: Mice were known to physically reproduce, but
they were also thought to spontaneously generate out of moldy grain.
Ergo, our orcs can both spontaneously generate out of the lack of
civilization, but also reproduce.
Further, we could build upon this by
considering the ideas of Lamarckian
evolution -- that life, once spontaneously generated, strives
to become more and more complex. Thus we could postulate that all
humanoid life has its origins in the primordial generation of orcish
life from the absence of civilization -- orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, and
beastmen of all sorts appear spontaneously, but then some among them
will breed and improve.
This doesn't even necessarily need to be
true, but it would certainly be an interesting religious belief. For
example, your dark elves might believe that orcs, humans, elves, and
dark elves all exist along a continuum of improvement. (It might be
even more shocking if you made this a secret belief among the elves:
They look at humans the same way that humans look at orcs... they're
just too polite to say it.)
You could root all of this cosmology in the apeironic
weave of creation. Where that weave becomes weakened,
spontaneous generation occurs. When weakened by decay, filth and vermin
appear. When weakened by the loss of civilization, orcs appear. When
weakened by vile death, undead appear.
Such a cosmology could have interesting
implications for how summoning rituals or the creation of undead work.
For example, Jean Baptista von Helmont had a receipe for mice: "Place a
dirty shirt or some rags in an open pot or barrel containing a few
grains of wheat or some wheat bran, and in 21 days, mice will appear."
Magical spells like create
undead could directly manipulate the apeironic weave in
order to cause undead to appear; but you could also open things up by
allowing non-magical manipulation of that weave (through ritualistic
murder, for example).
You could also flip the whole conceit of
"weakening the weave" on its head. Perhaps clerics and living saints
appear in those places where the weave has been strengthened. Perhaps
the gods themselves are nothing more than those places where the weave
has been unnaturally strengthened through the power of belief or
sacrifice or chance.
One of the things that tends to happen with
long series of
speculative fiction novels is that, at some point, the author will
stop, look around, and begin thinking about how the world around their
main character really works. They'll begin asking questions like:
What
is it really like to live as a near-immortal in this semi-feudal,
caste-based, Fate-bound Empire I've created? How long does a
near-immortal remain a
child or a young adult? What types of jobs do the common people do? How
does the economy function?
And so forth.
This
can either be a good thing or it can be a bad thing. It's a good thing
if it adds a richer depth to
the world and opens up stories which might otherwise never be told.
It's a bad thing if it leads to the author blandly info-dumping their
"research" (which, in this case, doesn't even have the advantage of
imparting actual facts).
In the case of Brust's Dragaera novels it is
a very good thing.
As with my discussion of non-traditional
narrative structures in Taltos,
this is another trend that actually started with Teckla,
but it's a tradition that carries strongly into Phoenix.
Brust
doesn't make the mistake of boring his readers by having his
protagonist (Vlad) lecture them on the finer details of Imperial
history, military tactics, or social engineering. Instead, the world
simply happens. Details are dropped when necessary for comprehension,
but the focus remains tightly fixed on the immediate story being told.
In the case of Phoenix,
it's a story made up of political assassinations; divine meddling;
foreign entanglements; social unrest; and (most importantly) personal
crises.
I think it says something about this novel
that, by page
5, Vlad is standing in front of a goddess... and proceeds to haggle
with her.
Let me say that again: Vlad stands in a
front of a goddess and haggles with her.
I'm not sure what it says to you, but to me
it said:
"WARNING: AWESOME ROLLERCOASTER RIDE COMING UP."
The other thing to note here is that what
really makes these Vlad Taltos novels click is not what happens
(although that's almost always entertaining in its own right), but how
those events affectthe
characters.
The only real criticism I can level at Phoenix
is that it never quite comes into its own -- it never quite seems to
figure out how to fire on all cylinders. The events of the novel are
all entertaining enough, but don't quite rise to a particularly
memorable level in their own right. The supporting cast is still varied
and well-drawn, but none of them are deeply affected by the events of
the novel. (Which should not be thought a flaw: There is no particular
reason why they should
be affected or transformed by these events.)
Which
means that the real engine of the novel is, essentially, the character
arc of Vlad Taltos himself. But even here, the developments of Phoenix are
essentially a coda to the turning point reached during Teckla. In many
ways, in fact, Phoenix
ends up feeling like an extended (although not over-extended) epilogue
to that novel.
Which is fine. It's probably even a
necessary step in the development of Vlad's character. But it does mean
that Phoenix is
(a) the first novel in the series that doesn't stand by itself; and (b)
pleasant enough, but nothing to get particularly excited about.
Actually,
maybe "epilogue" isn't quite the right description. In a lot of ways,
this book feels like the second part of the trilogy -- having neither
the advantage of an explosive beginning (Teckla) nor the
satisfaction of a well-earned conclusion (wherever Vlad's going).
One
final note: I was utterly unsurprised when I reached the end of the
novel, read Brust's biographical blurb, and discovered that he had
joined a band. I'm not sure what it is about SF authors who join bands,
but they seem incapable of realizing that what they think are "pithy"
observations about how "crazy" the music biz is are (a) not that
interesting and (b) usually bone-jarringly anachronistic.
It
kinda reminds me of certain military SF written by actual combat
veterans in which the tactics, jargon, and culture of 33rd century
warfare all look and sound exactly like whatever war the author was
fighting in (even when that doesn't make the slightest lick of sense).
I
think it must have something to do with the experience being personally
transforming, while also being so incredibly personal and specific that
they have difficulty using
the material to enrich their writing instead of letting
the material use them. (For a counter-example, consider J.R.R.
Tolkien's personal experiences in World War I. The
battles
described in The Lord of the Rings
don't look anything like trench warfare (and would be horribly
anachronistic if they did). But I feel that Tolkien was still able to
use his personal experiences to enrich his fictional depictions of what
being in a war feels like.)
Shamus Young has posted his proposal for an
interesting Learning
Mechanic at Twenty Sided. Here's how he describes the goal of
the mechanic:
Most gameplay mechanics are set up so
that
characters learn and grow from success. The more success, the more XP.
I wanted a mechanic that would simulate an activity that was inherently
driven by trial-and-error, and where (this is the important part) the
character got gradually better at the activity as time went on.
Learning would be fast at first, but progress would be slow. Later on,
learning would slower, but success would be more frequent.
He
recommends the mechanic for tasks like translating a tome written in an
archaic language; finding the cure for a zombie plague; breeding
animals; and the like.
Here's how he describes the mechanic:
The player writes down all the numbers
from 1 to 20 on a notecard.
Every time they roll a number, that number will be crossed out on the
card. If they roll a 15, then they cross out 15.
Each attempt needs to simulate a
stretch of in-game time. Hours of
labwork, meditation, tinkering, writing on the chalkboard, or whatever
is required.
When they make an attempt, they roll
the d20. If the resulting
number is already crossed out, then the action was a success and they
get their reward. If not, they still get to cross out the number they
rolled, which will improve their chances next time around. Using a d20,
they have no chance of success on their first attempt, and a 5% chance
on their next attempt. Every failure improves their chances by 5%, and
every success moves them closer to their goal. You decide ahead of time
how many successes it will take to reach their overall goal. (For our
game, I had the
book broken into 13 sections. So the character finished the
translation after 13 successes.)
I
like the basic concept of this mechanic a lot. It's similar to a
complex skill check, but offers the specific benefits Shamus describes:
At first, learning happens fast but progress is slow. Later, learning
is slow but progress is fast.
STREAMLINING
THE MECHANIC
The
idea of keeping a notecard and crossing off number is a nifty gimmick,
but if you want to streamline things then you can simplify this
mechanic:
Roll
1d20. If the result is equal to or lower than the number of failed
attempts you've made, you score a success. When you achieve the
requisite number of successes, you succeed at the task.
I recommend checking out Shamus' article
directly, as he includes a probability chart useful for determining how
many successes a task should require.
It
should be noted that, by default, the problems handled by this mechanic
are always soluble -- given enough time, you will eventually solve
them. There is no possiblity of absolute failure. In addition, the
mechanic doesn't account for skill. For some problems these may be seen
as features. For other problems they're bugs. Let's take a look at how
the mechanic might be made more flexible and robust.
EXTENDING
THE MECHANIC
PROGRESSIVE
SUCCESS: Each
success can yield additional information or some other tangible
benefit. (A cure that works against the bite of a specific zombie;
several pages of translated text; a slightly improved animal.) The
mechanic is specifically designed to model tasks which don't feature
all-or-nothing successes.
ROADBLOCK:
After a certain number of successes, progress in the task may only be
possible when some other prerequisite is met (additional biological
samples, a different type of natural resource, etc.). In many cases,
the nature of the roadblock may not be known until the roadblock is
reached.
VARIABLE
DIE TYPES:
For tasks of greater or lesser difficulty, you could vary the die type.
(With a 1d4 you learn everything about the project rapidly and then
gather successes rapidly. On the other hand, with a 1d100 your learning
curve takes considerably longer.)
INTRACTABLE
PROBLEMS:
For problems that could prove intractable for a character, simply set
the maximum number of possible attempts. If the character has not
achieved success after X attempts, then they've exhausted their insight
into the problem. (Having multiple people working on a problem like
this is useful not only because it speeds up resolution, but also
because it gives greater insight into the problem -- as represented by
more potential checks.)
FACTORING
SKILL, METHOD 1:
You can factor the character's skill into the attempt by limiting the
number of possible attempts based on their skill. In D&D,
off-the-cuff, I'd recommend something along the lines of 10 + skill
modifier attempts.
FACTORING
SKILL, METHOD 2:
You can also make character skill a factor by simply setting a minimum
skill requirement. A particular problem, for example, might require a
minimum Knowledge (history) bonus of +10. (The drawback of this method
is that it still doesn't allow for any variation in completion time
based on character skill. A character with a +10 bonus is just as
capable of solving the problem as a character with a +50 bonus.)
FACTORING
SKILL, METHOD 3:
Set a DC for the task. Each d20 roll becomes an actual skill check. If
the character succeeds on the check, the roll counts double. In other
words, depending on the die roll, it either counts as two successes or
as two failed attempts. (If you're combining this method with an
intractable problem, however, each die roll still only counts as one
attempt against the maximum number of possible attempts.)
DISCLAIMER
I'm just spitballing some ideas here. I have
not actually run any kind of mathematical analysis on this mechanic
(although, as I noted, Shamus Young did provide useful charts for the
core mechanic).
The Levitz
Paradigm was created by Paul Levitz,
who has worked as a writer and editor at DC Comics since the 1970's.
The Paradigm itself is a rather straight-forward method for handling
multiple ongoing plots in serialized storytelling (although the link
I'm providing here would lead you to believe that it's as complicated
as neurosurgery).
I bring it up here because most roleplaying
campaigns are, in fact, serialized stories with ongoing plot threads
being carried from one session to the next. And I think the basic
structure of the Levitz Paradigm can be usefully incorporated into the
GM's toolkit.
The Levitz Paradigm basically works like
this:
(1) Plot A is your main plot. It will be the
primary focus of attention during the current session.
(2) Plot B is your secondary plot. It
functions as a subplot, getting some attention but not as much as Plot
A.
(3) Other plots (C, D, and so forth) are
given little or no attention.
(4)
Once Plot A has been resolved, the other plots get promoted. Plot B
becomes your new Plot A, Plot C becomes the new Plot B, and so forth.
(5)
In order to avoid predictability, mix things up: Story X might remain
Plot B for several sessions, while various other stories 1, 2, and 3
are all promoted to Plot A and resolved in the spotlight. Sometimes you
might have two stories in the Plot B position. Or you can
demote a
plot from A to C, leaving it to simmer for a bit before moving it back
into the spotlight. Or maybe in one session you have plots 1,
2,
and 3 in the A, B, and C positions; but then in the next session you
have plots 3, 4, and 6 in your A, B, and C positions.
USING THE PARADIGM
Basically,
the use of the Levitz Paradigm gives you a simple organizational
principle that you can use to keep track of multiple complex plots
simultaneously. To do that, you just need to focus on doing two things:
(1) Keep a master list of all your active
plot threads.
(2) For each session, know which plots are
going to be your Plots A, B, and C (and so forth).
It's dead simple in practice
Denny
O'Neil
(another DC editor) explains the appeal of the Levitz Paradigm: "Having
three-plus stories running simultaneously is a small insurance policy
against boring reads." In a comic, this means that you're basically
upping your chances of any given reader being interested in at
least one
of the plots you're currently developing.
The
other appeal of the Levitz Paradigm is that it allows the writer to
offer meaningful closure (by resolving their Plot A) without offering a
convenient "jumping off" point from the title (because there's always
some sort of unresolved plot thread dangling out there).
The
appeal of a similar paradigm in gaming is clear: The players are the
audience and by simultaneously offering them several different ongoing
plot threads, you make it possible to cater to each of them in
different ways. And avoiding a "jumping off" point isn't just about
keeping people engaged (although that's just as important in gaming as
it is in serialized fiction), it's also about maintaining a sense of
pace and momentum.
THE
PARADIGM WITHOUT PLOT
O'Neil
goes onto say: "Another reason to employ the Levitz Paradigm requires
us to step, gingerly from the practical to the philosophical. It seems
to me that this storytelling method is the best imitation of life
possible in a work of fiction. Life, you may have noticed, does not
happen in parcels, but as a continuum."
I've been using the word
"plot" because that's the terminology that comes baggaged with the
Paradigm. But I think it's important to note, given the important
interactive nature of roleplaying games, that this method works just as
well for managing scenario in non-plotted campaigns: The choice of
focus does not need to rest solely with the GM. While the players
choose where to focus their attention, the GM can use the method to
make sure that other important events, threads, and backdrops are kept
in play.
I
mentioned earlier in this series of reactions that, while I respect and
admire Gary Gygax for many reasons, that doesn't change one simple
truth:
He should never have been allowed to
organize a rulebook.
Write? Sure. Like James
Maliszewski
(although perhaps not to quite the same fervent degree) I'm actually a fan of his
prose and I find his style to be very evocative. But once he's done
writing, it's time to call in the professional editors to clean up the
mess.
Let me give you just two examples. First,
from page 19 of Volume
1: Men & Magic, is the section "Level Above Those
Listed", which comes immediately on the heels of the various class
progression tables:
Levels
Above those Listed:
Progressions of Dice for Accumulative Hits, Fighting Capability, and
Spells & Levels may not be evident. An 11th level Lord would
get 10
+3 dice and fight as he did at the 10th level; but at 12th level, he
could get 11 + 1 dice and fight at Superhero + 2. At 13th level dice
would be 11 + 3 with Fighting Capability at Superhero + 2. A 17th level
Wizard would get 9 + 3 dice and fight as a 16th level, just as an 18th
level Wizard would get dice of 10 + 1 with no change in Fighting
Capabilities — the change coming at the 19th level, fighting then being
done at Wizard + 3. An 11th level Patriarch would get dice of 7 + 3
with Fighting Capability unchanged; at 12th level dice would be 8 + 1
with no change in fighting; and at 13th level the Patriarch would get 8
+ 2 and fight as a Superhero - the next change in Fighting Capability
coming at the 17th level.
Spell progression for Magic-Users is:
17th level Wizard — 6, 6, 6, 5, 5, 5; 18th level Wizard — sizes across
the board; and so on. Spell progression for Clerics is: 11th level
Patriarch - 4, 4, 4, 3, 3; 12th level Patriarch — fours across the
board; 13th level Patriarch — 5, 5, 5, 4, 4; and so on.
Umm...
couldn't you have just put that info on the actual class tables? I
mean, you still didn't bother to actually explain the methodology
behind the progressions, so all you've accomplished is to take a big
chunk of information and arbitrarily convey it through a different (and
much more confusing) method.
The second example is the "chapter"
dedicated to spell descriptions. And like every edition of the game
except for 3rd Edition, the spells are grouped together according to
their level.
Was there ever a less useful method of
organizing
that material? The only way to find the spell you're looking for is if
you've memorized the level of the spell. So you're basically demanding
people to achieve system mastery just
to find information in the rulebook.
And then it stuck around for the next 25+
years as some sort of horrible "legacy".
Admittedly,
part of my objective here is philosophical. In organizing a rulebook
you have to look at how that rulebook will be used. When it comes to
roleplaying manuals, there are three uses:
(1) Learning the game
(2) Character creation
(3) Playing the game
Problems
arise because these uses are not always compatible with each other.
For example, organizing spells by spell level is useful for character
creation because you want to quickly know which spells you can use to
fill your available spell slots. On the other hand, it's completely
frakkin' useless when you're actually playing the game and trying to
figure out how a particular spell works.
I believe that there are
usually ways to structure the manual so that all three uses can be
satisfied simultaneously. It can be difficult and sometimes it might
mean repeating information, but it can almost always be done. And if
push really does come to shove, then I think it's better to favor
utility in playing the game.
(Why? Because you spend more time playing
the game than you do creating a character.)
As
an example of how to do it right, you can look at 3rd Edition's method
for handling spells. There are spell lists which groups the spells
together according to level (which provides the necessary utility for
character creation), but then the spell descriptions themselves are
completely alphabetical (which makes it easy to find the specific spell
that you're looking for). So you get the best of both worlds and full
utility out of your rulebook.
(4th Edition, of course, promptly
went back to doing it the stupid way. It doesn't have spells, but they arranged all the powers by level.)
I
think every GM probably has a story about the time that they spent
hours carefully detailing some piece of lore or a particularly
intricate conspiracy... only to discover that their players didn't
really care. Or you complete a dramatic and powerful series of
adventures featuring the unraveling of a conspiracy wrought by the Dark
Gods of Keht... but three months later you mention the name "Keht" and
are met by blank stares from the players.
But often -- even as
you're meeting with this kind of frustration -- the players are still
having a great time. They'll tell all sorts of tales about the time
that their characters did X... and do you remember that time that Y did
Z?
In discussing this problem with other GMs,
I've
seen many of
them come to the conclusion that players just don't care that much
about the game world. And that they never will. So don't waste your
time with all that world-building stuff -- focus on statting up the
next combat encounter.
Well, there's a grain of truth in that.
But I think it's an over-reaction. While there may be players out there
who really don't care about that sort of thing, I don't think that's
the general rule. I think if there's a failure in processing,
understanding, appreciating, and remembering these types of details,
then the failure lies as much on the GM as it does the players (if not
moreso).
#0.
STOP PLAYING POKER
Are you sure you actually want
the players to know what's going on? Or are you subconsciously playing
poker with them -- keeping your cards hidden behind an implacable poker
face reinforced with a GM's screen?
This should almost go without
saying, but based on what I've seen it needs to be said: If you want
your players to know something, you have to make sure that you actually
tell it to them.
I think we often slip into the trap, while
plotting out conspiracies and mysteries, of forgetting that the PCs are
actually supposed to figure
it out
eventually. GMs often wonder why their players don't remember all the
wonderful details they had worked out... when, in point of fact, the
only way they could have learned those details was by secretly
mastering the
art of telepathy.
Hand-in-hand
with this is a basic principle: Details which the PCs can never learn
of or interact with aren't worth wasting time on.
There may occasionally be times when you
need
to work up some sort of background detail to make the foreground
details hang together. But whenever you find yourself designing a
detail like that, I'd like you to ask yourself a few questions: Is
there any reason why the PCs shouldn't
be able to learn this detail? And if they shouldn't learn it, why are
you designing it? It can't be information necessary for the scenario to
make sense (because if it was actually necessary, then the PCs should be learning
it). And if it isn't necessary and no one will ever know about it, why
are you spending time on it?
For example, I was recently re-reading the Darkness Revealed
adventure trilogy for White Wolf'sTrinity
roleplaying game. I like the potential of these adventures a great
deal, but large swaths of them are given over to
describing the detailed activities and personal dramas of the NPCs. The
PCs rarely have any way of learning about these dramas, which means
that
their experience while playing through this campaign is a little like
the captain of the Titanic
observing an iceberg -- he's only seeing the top 10% and the rest of
it's a wreck.
The
other example I always think of when talking about this wrong-headed
design approach is the Ravenloft adventure Touch of Death.
I found this module in
the public library when I was twelve or thirteen years old. I remember
reading through it and thinking that it had a pretty amazing story...
and then I realized that there was absolutely no way that the PCs
playing through the adventure would ever see it. The entire thing dealt
with an immense and ancient power struggle between legendary
NPCs.
The PCs had no way of learning the history of the conflict or even, in
many respects, knowing that there was
a
struggle going on. If you played the adventure as written, it would
consist of the PCs stumbling from one incomprehensible sequence of
events to
another.
These are extreme examples, but they impart
an
important
lesson: If the players never see it, then it might as well have never
happened.
And look at it from the opposite point of
view: If
you've got this really interesting bit of history or lore or back story
that you're developing... well, don't you want the players to
see it? Wouldn't it be nice to share what you've created?
#1.
MAKE IT SHORT
Okay,
so you've developed the character background for Lord Dartmouth. This
conniving fellow has a long history of Machiavellian murder and mayhem
to his credit and you want the PCs to learn of his villainy (either
because you want to motivate them to oppose him or it's necessary
information for stopping him or just because it's interesting).
The
first thing you have to remember is that the players have a short
attention span. If you try to give them the entire history of Lord
Dartmouth in a single sitting, they will tune out.
They'll partly
tune out because they don't want to listen to a three minute monologue
about some esoteric piece of lore that doesn't mean anything to them.
But they'll also tune out because it's actually not that easy to
process and remember all of that information. Maybe if they were taking
notes... but taking notes isn't particularly fun for most people.
We'll
be delving into more specific methods for actually delivering the
information. But regardless of the method you end up using, you need to
focus on giving out small bursts of detailed information. This doesn't
mean that everything in the game needs to be simplistic -- it just
means that the players are more likely to process, remember, and care
about complex ideas if they're delivered in smaller and more
comprehensible pieces.
In many ways this is also a more effective
technique from a dramatic standpoint. Slowly revealing the big picture
piece by piece is usually far more interesting than having McLecture
the Scottish Elf explaining it all in a big lump.
#2.
MAKE IT PLOT
Option
1: McLecture the Scottish Elf spends three minutes explaining that Lord
Dartmouth was responsible for destroying the village of Cairwoth,
explaining in detail exactly how the horrific destruction was carried
out.
Option 2: The PCs go to Cairwoth and
discover the
tale of destruction for themselves -- the scorch marks from the fireballs; the
decapitated heads jutting from spikes; the mass grave; the diabolical
laboratory of blood.
Players are more likely to remember things
that
they have done
than things that they are told. Quests
or missions can be particularly straight-forward ways to incorporate
setting detail.
But
please note that I said "plot" not "background". The distinction
between the two is subtle, but important. If the PCs get sent on a
quest to deliver the Starfury Blade to the Elven Tribune of the
Silverwood that doesn't mean that McLecture the Scottish Elf's five
minute oration on the background and history of the Starfury Blade has
suddenly become part of the plot.
In fact, about the only thing
you can really hope for in that scenario is that the players will
remember that there is something called a "Starfury Blade". And even
that might be hoping for too much because what they probably heard was,
"Deliver the McGuffin to McGuffin Land." Everyone loves a good McGuffin,
but, much like McLecture, nobody really processes the content of one.
On
the other hand, if during their escort mission the PCs are put in a
position where the secret powers of the Starfury Blade were to manifest
themselves and, thus, force them to engage in a conspiracy of bribes
and cover-up to keep the details of that event secret from the Elven
Tribune (who would be furious that outsiders have learned the secret of
the blade)... well, now you've made the details part of the
plot.
The PCs will remember the powers of the blade and they'll remember that
the Elven Tribune wants to keep those powers secret.
Making
something a part of the plot, however, doesn't always mean making it a
huge and convuluted affair. Here's another example, this one drawn from
my current campaign:
The
PCs are seeking information that can be
found in Alchestrin's Tomb. As part of this scenario I want to
establish some lore and history around the character of Alchestrin. One
piece of information is that Alchestrin was the Third Lord of Castle
Shard.
"Third
Lord of Castle Shard." That's a title. Nothing is more likely to go in
one ear and out the other than a title. (This isn't just about RPG
players, it's pretty true in real life, too. For example, take a look
at the full list
of titles and honours belonging to Queen Elizabeth II. Did
your eyes glaze over half way through? I thought so.)
But I can make that info part of the plot
pretty
easily.
Player 1: We need to find the
location of
Alchestrin's Tomb.
Player 2: What do we know about him? I make a Knowledge (history) check.
DM: He was the Third Lord of Castle Shard.
Player 1: Let's go to Castle Shard and see if they know.
Honestly,
they probably still won't remember that Alchestrin was the "Third
Lord of Castle Shard". But it's very likely that they will, at the very
least, remember that there was a connection between Alchestrin and
Castle Shard.
(In reality, the PCs actually blew up my
clever
little scheme by independently involving Castle Shard in this sequence
of events before they'd even heard the name Alchestrin. Ah well.)