"Because everything is worth
examining, and if you don't examine your view of the world, you are
still subject to it, and you will find yourself doing things that--
Never mind."
Everything we’ve been discussing here are
basic, systematic designs. But there’s no reason you need to be
symmetrical. Maybe node A has two clues pointing to node B while node C
is clue-happy for node A.
On a larger scale, you’ll probably find yourself mashing together
lop-sided conglomerations of disparate structures.
For example, a good-sized chunk of my
current campaign is based around a general layer cake approach: An
interconnected web of criminal organizations allow the PCs to generally
make their way up the “chain of command”. But this layer cake naturally
funnels towards various sub-conclusions, and I’ve also included loops
designed to carry the PCs back to points prior to the various funnels.
That approach may seem jargon-filled, but
it’s really just a matter of embracing the fundamentally flexible
principles of node-based design, strewing clues liberally, and
spot-checking to avoid problem areas.
Looking over my notes for this campaign,
I’ve come to think of this as the “cloud”: Dozens of nodes all
containing clues and linked to by clues. Even if we discount all the
different ways in which the PCs can approach each of these nodes, the
complex relationships which emerge from the node structure make
literally hundreds
of potential outcomes possible.
But I didn’t have to think about that
emergent complexity as I was designing the campaign-scale scenario: All
I needed to do was design the criminal organization, break it into
node-sized chunks, and then lay down the clues necessary to navigate to
and from each node.
As I write this, my players are about
mid-way through this section of the campaign. It’s been filled with
countless surprises for all of us, and these surprises lead me to a
final point regarding the strengths of node-based design: It’s flexible
in play.
Because each node is, effectively, a modular
chunk of material, it becomes very easy to rearrange the nodes
on-the-fly. For example, when the PCs raided an enemy compound and
wiped out half of their personnel before being forced to pull back, it
was very easy for me to look around, grab a different node full of bad
guys, and plug them in as reinforcements.
In other words, it was as easy for me to
call in the reinforcements as it was for the NPCs to pick up the phone.
Node-based design gives you, by default, the scenario-based toolkit I
talked about in “Don’t
Prep Plots”. And the underlying structural function of that
node hadn’t changed: The NPCs still had the same clues to provide that
they’d been designed to provide at their previous location.
Up to this point I’ve been fairly vague
about exactly what I mean by a “node”. This is largely because there
isn’t really a hard-and-fast definition of the term.
In generic terms, you can think of each node
as a “point of interest”. It’s the place (either literally or
metaphorically) where something interesting can happen and (in most
cases) information about other interesting things can be found.
In my experience, nodes are most useful when
they’re modular and self-contained. I think of each node as a tool that
I can pick up and use to solve a problem. Sometimes the appropriate
node is self-evident. (“The PCs are canvassing for information on
recent gang activity. And I have a Gather Information table about
recent gang activity. Done.”) Sometimes a choice of tool needs to be
made. (“The PCs have pissed off Mr. Tyrell. Does he send a goon squad
or an assassin?”) But when I look at an adventure, I tend to break it
down into discrete, useful chunks.
Chunks that become too large or complex are
generally more useful if broken into several smaller nodes. Chunks that
are too small or fiddly are generally more useful if grouped together
into larger nodes. The “sweet spot” is about identifying the most
utilitarian middle-ground.
(To take an extreme example: “All the
forestland in the Kingdom of Numbia” is probably too large for a single
node. On the other hand, 86,213 separate nodes each labeled “a tree in
the Forest of Arden” are almost certainly too fiddly. Is the
appropriate node the “Forest of Arden”? Or is it twelve different nodes
each depicting a different location in the Forest of Arden? I don’t
know. It depends on how you’re using the Forest of Arden.)
Let’s get more specific. Here are the sorts
of things I think of as “nodes”:
LOCATIONS:
A place that the PCs can physically go. If you think of
a clue as being anything that “tells you where to go next”, telling the
PCs about a specific place that they’re supposed to go is the most
literal interpretation of the concept. Once PCs arrive at the location,
they’ll generally find more clues by searching the place.
PEOPLE:
A specific individual that the PCs should pay attention to. It may be
someone they’ve already met or it may be someone they’ll have to track
down. PCs will generally get clues from people by either observing them
or interrogating them.
ORGANIZATIONS:
Organizations can often be thought of as a collection of locations and
people (see Nodes
Within Nodes, below), but it’s not unusual for a
particular organization to come collectively within the PCs’ sights.
Organizations can be both formal and informal; acknowledged and
unacknowledged.
EVENTS:
Something that happens at a specific time and (generally) a specific
place. Although PCs will often be tasked with preventing a particular
event from happening, when events are used as nodes (i.e., something
from which clues can be gathered), it’s actually more typical for the
PCs to actually attend the event. (On the other hand, learning about
the plans for an event may lead the PCs to the location it’s supposed
to be held; the organization responsible for holding it; or the people
attending it.)
ACTIVITY:
Something that the PCs are supposed to do. If the PCs are supposed to
learn about a cult’s plan to perform a binding ritual, that’s an event.
But if the PCs are supposed to perform
a magical binding ritual, then that’s an activity. The clues pointing
to an activity may tell the PCs exactly what they’re
supposed to be doing; or they may tell the PCs that they need to do
something; or both.
NODES
WITHIN NODES
In other words, at its most basic level a
node is a person, a place, or a thing.
As suggested above, however, nodes can
actually be fairly complex in their own right. For example, the entire
Temple of Elemental Evil (with hundreds of keyed locations) could be
thought of as a single node: Clues from the village of Hommlet and the
surrounding countryside lead the PCs there, and then they’re free to
explore that node/dungeon in any way that they wish.
Similarly, once the PCs start looking at the
Tyrell Corporation they might become aware of CEO James Tyrell, the
corporate headquarters, their shipping facility, the server farm they
rent, and the annual Christmas party being thrown at Tyrell’s house --
all of which can be thought of as “sub-nodes”. Whether all of these
“sub-nodes” are immediately apparent to anyone looking at the Tyrell
Corporation or if they have to be discovered through their own
sub-network of clues is largely a question of design.
In short, you can have nodes within nodes.
You can plan your campaign at a macro-level (Tyrell Corporation,
Project MK-ALTER, the Chicago Sub-City, and the Kronos Detective
Agency), look at how those macro-nodes relate to each other, and then
develop each node as a separate node-based structure in its own right.
Spread a few clues leading to other macro-nodes within each network of
sub-nodes and you can achieve highly complex intrigues from simple,
easy-to-use building blocks.
As virtually everyone in the world knows,
there's a massive oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. I'm not going to
spend a lot of time harping on details (since they're well-known and
you can Google 'em if you're curious), but I have two thoughts on the
matter I'd like share.
First, blame.
Second, solutions.
THE
BLAME
Figuring out who, exactly, is to blame for this
catastrophe is going to play out over several months. Possibly years.
But there are a couple things which are abundantly clear:
(1) There's something rotten with BP. When you've
racked up 700+ safety violations at your deepwater drilling platforms
and every other oil company has less than a dozen... well, it doesn't
take a genius to figure out that BP was doing something wrong.
(2) Under President Bush, the Minerals
Management Service somehow managed to devolve into the sort
of cocaine-snorting, sex-addled, graft-ridden machine of corruption one
really only expects to see in Hollywood action blockbusters. This was
part of the Bush Administration's wider failure to maintain the robust
regulatory agencies required by law. (See also No One Would Listen: A True
Financial Thriller.) And the election of Obama
didn't magically fix these problems.
Since the Deepwater Horizon rig exploded, the MMS
has approved 27 new offshore drilling projects. All but one of these
were granted the same exemptions from environmental review as the
Deepwater Horizon platform. Incredibly, the reason these exemptions
were granted is because of the implausibility of a spill resulting from
deep water drilling.
(3) President Obama isn't to blame for the current
spill. Nor is it clear to me what action he could reasonably be taking
at this point to speed the progress of disaster efforts in the Gulf. (Getting
angry or wearing a
less-fancy shirt won't actually accomplish anything, no
matter what the brain-dead, narrative-addicted media tries to tell you.)
But where Obama does deserve to be smacked around
is the fact that he decided to reverse
course on his campaign promise not to allow off-shore drilling.
Of course, there was no way for Obama to know that the Deepwater
Horizon disaster was coming (and that, as a result, he was irreparably
shooting himself in the foot and wasting what could have been amazing
political capital and a complete vindication of his policies).
But what Obama should have known is what everyone
who supported his opposition to off-shore drilling knew years ago:
Off-shore drilling platforms are not some form of magical technology
which is completely impervious to bad luck, bad design, or bad
maintenance. Like everything else ever built by man, this technology is
fallible. And, as we're seeing, the environmental impact when something
goes wrong can be huge.
THE
SOLUTION
All that being said, I have the solution for
stopping the oil spill.
This isn't because I'm a genius. It's because everyone involved already knows
what the solution is: Drilling relief wells which can be
used to repressurize the pipe.
Everything else going on in the Gulf of Mexico
right now is a sideshow of bread and circuses designed to keep people
mildly appeased and distracted until the relief wells finally reach the
right
depth. (Which isn't anticipated to happen until August.) Relief wells
are the only
way we know to stop spills from blowouts.
We know this because all of this has happened
before: On June 3rd, 1979, the Ixtoc oil well suffered a blowout. All
of the same techniques being attempted at Deepwater Horizon were
attempted at the Ixtoc: Garbage was dumped into the hole. Mud was
pumped into it. Chemical dispersants were used. A massive Top Hat-like
cap was unsuccessfully lowered into place. (It was called -- and I wish
I was kidding as I said this -- SOMBRERO.)
And the only thing that finally stopped the Ixtoc
blowout were the relief wells that were finally drilled to relieve the
pressure. The Ixtoc well was not successfully capped until March 1980.
So here's the hard, bitter truth: There is
absolutely nothing that can be done about this spill until the relief
wells currently being drilled are completed.
But here's what needs to happen in the future:
Instead of waiting for disaster to strike before beginning the relief
wells (which will then take months to reach the necessary depth), oil
companies should be REQUIRED to maintain two relief wells in addition
to their main well at ALL of their ocean oil rigs.
The next time disaster strikes, these pre-drilled
relief wells can be quickly connected to the main well, pressure can be
rapidly alleviated, and the scope of the disaster can be rapidly
contained.
Over
the past 20 years there has been a fascinating trend in vampire
fiction. Ever since Anne Rice's Vampire
Chronicles crystallized the
sub-genre, there has been a steady and seemingly inexorable trend
towards systematically stripping vampires of their traditional
weaknesses: Garlic and running water were the first to vanish, but holy
symbols were quick to follow. It wasn't long before they were able to
cast reflections and even sunlight was downgraded from an instant
sentence of death to a minor inconvenience before eventually being
phased out entirely. Murderous, bloodthirsty beasts? Not so much. I
mean, sure, they might get peckish once in awhile, but even that hunger
is easily sated by a visit to the local blood bank or sucking a few
rats dry.
The root for the trend was obvious: Vampires
are
alluring. They have the handsome, civilized polish of Mr. Darcy with a
dark edge of bad boy danger. And this appeal moved them steadily from
them villains to
anti-heroes to heroes and, from there, to romantic leads. The
result
may be a rather bland creation with only the faintest glimmerings of
moral and ethical complexity that was once inherent to the vampire
mythos (the typical vampire these days has all the moral conflict of
Superman eating a Big Mac), but the motivation was also crystal clear.
What's interesting in reading Stephanie
Meyer's Twilight is
seeing what is, in retrospect, the perfectly logical progression of
the trend: Having systematically stripped vampires of their weaknesses,
the genre had no choice but to start giving them new bling.
And
thus we end up with vampires who literally sparkle in sunlight while
being gifted with various assortments of psychic powers.
FIRST
IMPRESSIONS
Okay,
quick concept summary for the three people who have no idea what the
Twilight Saga is: Isabella Feyfucker moves from the sunny world of
Phoenix, AZ to the cold, rainy climes of a small town in the Pacific
Northwest. Once there, she becomes the romantic center of attraction
for every paranormal male in a 500-mile radius. Particularly Edward
Cullen (a vegetarian vampire) and Jacob (a werewolf).
Stephanie
Meyer makes it very easy to dismiss her work as that of a talent-less
hack. Her prose is crude. Her plotting is uneven and often nonsensical.
Her world-building is simplistic and inconsistent. In short,her books
simply exude a sense of either carelessness or incompetence or both.
For example, in New Moon
Meyer very specifically establishes that it's the latter half of
February (within one or two weeks of Valentine's Day). Bella wants to
sneak out of the house to go hiking and she's excited when she
discovers that her father is planning to go ice-fishing on the river.
So far, everything tracks. But when she reaches the woods:
The
forest was full of life today, all the little creatures enjoying the
momentary dryness. Somehow, though, even with the birds chirping and
cawing, the insects buzzing noisily around my head, and the occasional
scurry of the field mice through the shrubs, the forest seemed creepier
today...
Well, of course it seems creepier!
You've left your father ice-fishing in the middle of winter and entered
some sort of Twilight Zone Narnia featuring eternal summer!
A few
paragraphs later Meyer has added "chest-high ferns" (a well-known
winter growth) and a "bubbling stream" (which has inexplicably failed
to join the river in freezing over) just to maximize the surrealism of
the scene.
In the big picture, this continuity gaffe is
of relatively minor
importance. But Meyer strews this stuff all over her
apparently unrevised, unedited, and unread manuscript. And it's not
just the minor stuff, either. Major plot points often fall prey to the
same traps.
It was particularly interesting to watch the
Twilight movie
after reading the books: Meyer's fanbase screamed bloody murder about a
number of minor changes which had "ruined the movie", but ironically
these changes almost universally fixed the fundamental flaws in Meyer's
novel.
For example, in the novel Meyer gets about
four-fifths of
the way through the book before suddenly realizing that she doesn't
have an ending. To "solve" this problem she has three vampires show up
out of nowhere. One of them decides to harass Bella just 'cause he can,
Edward kills him, and... that's it. End of novel. These vampires have
no connection to the rest of the narrative, but apparently because
there's a fight the story can be over.
The film doesn't change much: It just adds a
couple of extra scenes in the first three-quarters of the movie to
establish these evil vampires as a persistent background threat. But
the result is a narrative which actually holds together instead of
falling apart.
The film is also remarkably successful in
turning
Bella's classmates -- who are uniformly bland, forgettable cardboard in
Meyer's novels (to the degree that they quietly fade away in the
sequels) -- into quirky, memorable characters.
I bring this up
only to demonstrate how little effort (or skill) it would take on
Meyer's part to fix many of the most egregious flaws in these novels.
THE
SILVER LINING
So if these books are so painfully flawed,
why did I keep reading them?
Because
Meyer is not, in fact, a talent-less hack. To the contrary: She has one
particularly exceptional talent that I feel fairly safe in saying is
the reason she's now a multi-millionaire and her books have become
cultural icons.
While Meyer's secondary characters are nothing more
than interchangeable cardboard, Meyer's handling of her central cast of
characters is adept. I would even describe it as gifted. Bella, Edward,
and Jacob leap
off the page. They breathe. They live.
Are they foolish? Unstable?
Irrational?
Absolutely.
And it's easy to make fun of them for that. But there are plenty of
foolish, unstable, and irrational people in the real world. Meyer
simply captures them in narrative form and then, through the
application of the supernatural, she adoitly elevates these
all-too-human characters into a mythical plane.
Are
those supernatural elements nothing more than a cliched reworking of
the vampire-and-werewolf cultural gestalt created by White Wolf's World
of Darkness? Sure. But it doesn't matter. The mythic elements of
Meyer's milieu don't need to be particularly original in order to
heighten the reality of her characters.
So, basically, you have
the powerful alchemy of teen romance with the dial cranked up to 11.
That, by itself, is basically paint-by-numbers. What can't be trivially
duplicated is the potent reality of Meyer's characters. With that added
to the mix, the result is explosive.
It's
a pity that this gemstone is mired in the muck of Meyer's weakness as a
writer, but the jewel itself glitters no less brightly. And it's not
surprising to me that these books were able to capture the imagination
of a generation of teenage girls.
THE DEEPER PROBLEMS
There
has always been something vaguely disturbing in the sub-genre of
vampire romances: Holding up the "dangerous man that I can change
through the power of love" as some sort of romantic ideal is certainly
a popular trope, but not a healthy one. On the other hand, while Meyer
doesn't precisely deal with these issues, she does manage to avoid some
of the thornier patches of the sub-genre.
But where the series gets particularly
creepy are
the sequels. In New Moon,
Edward suddenly embraces hardcore emotional abuse as his modus operandi. And
then, in Eclipse
-- as if Meyer were checking off abusive relationships on a To Do list
-- Edward goes for full-on stalker. Whether it's literally disabling
Bella's car so that she can't go where she wants to go or the constant
variants of "I only hurt you because I love you, baby" that he mouths,
the warning sirens were screaming.
As if to emphasize Edward as a
co-dependent, abusive stalker, Meyer simultaneously establishes a
second love interest in the werewolf Jacob. Jacob is everything Edward
isn't: Emotionally available. Stable. Supportive. And, thus, completely
rejected by Bella as anything more than a good friend (who she can't
see because her jealous boyfriend forbids it).
In Breaking Dawn,
the abusive nature of the relationship drains away. But while it made
for a more enjoyable reading experience, in retrospect it's equally
creepy: The subtext appears to be that marriage is a magical cure-all.
Having problems with an abusive boyfriend? Get married and he'll start
treating you better!
Ironically,
Meyer's strengths as an author only serve to make the Edward-Bella
relationship even creepier. She writes Bella with an absolute
truthfulness, detail, and depth that seems to fully capture the
psychological mire of someone caught in an abusive relationship. In
other circumstances, one could hold this up as a literary triumph. But
the narrative never presents itself as a the gut-wrenching tale of a
girl trapped in a co-dependent tragedy. Meyer is writing a
self-destructive horror story, but she thinks she's writing about
exemplary True Love. It's sad, disturbing, and rather disgusting.
In the spirit of the recent
facelifting I've been doing to some badly outdated portions
of the site, I've re-designed the Bibliography
page to be a little bit snazzier and a little bit more useful. Perhaps
most notable, however, are the cover shots for all of the books I've
written or contributed to:
There will probably be another revision of
the Bibliography coming at some point down the road: The links to the
Pyramid articles no longer work since Steve Jackson Games stopped
hosting the old weekly version of the magazine; and at some point I
really do need to get around to hosting my old RPGNet reviews on the Reviews
page.
But I honestly have no idea when any of that
will be resolved.
As I reviewed some of the older material
while prepping this revision, I realized that some of it feels like a
bit of a tease. For example, I wish that the adventures I wrote for
Fantasy Flight's Legends & Lairs were still available. But they
are apparently almost impossible to track down. I've received several
e-mails in the past asking me if I had any extra copies, and
unfortunately, no, I don't.
These were among my earliest published work,
and although I still cringe occasionally when I read some of the prose
in them, I'm still quite proud of them. The only one I really regret is
The
Wreyland Serpent, on which I blew my word count by
producing something like 150% of the maximum content, which
subsequently resulted in most of the really nice detail work I'd
included being (rightfully) cut. Basically a complete meltdown by a
neophyte freelancer. I frequently feel the urge to call Greg Benage (my
editor on the project) and apologize all over again for the mess.
How does
something like that happen? Basically you let your eyes get bigger than
your stomach. You start with a nifty (but probably too complicated)
concept:
The
legendary exploits of the
Wreyland Serpent have long passed from mouth to mouth, the stories
finding their way from one mountain village to the next before finally
filtering from there into the lowlands beyond. The dragon described in
these legends, however, possesses a double-edge: In many accounts, the
Serpent is vindicative, petty, and tyrannical – a terror to those who
encounter him. In others, the Serpent is kind, helpful, and forgiving –
a boon to those who cross his path.
In truth, the apparent duality of the Wreyland Serpent is due to the
confused conflation of two separate dragons – Sul’tara’ha’berthur (the
Serpent of Terror) and Al’aereyan’serul’il’taran (the Serpent of Peace)
– into a single dragon.
Sul’tara’ha’berthur is a black dragon, born among the foothills of the
Tuggorth Mountains five hundred years ago. His parents ruled their
domain with an iron fist, and as Sul’tara grew older he also grew
jealous of their power. When he was little more than a young adult, he
attempted to overthrow and murder them. As a reward for his failure, he
was nearly hunted down himself by his parents minions before fleeing
west to the Wreyland Mountains a century ago.
Al’aereyan’serul’il’taran, on the other hand, is a gold dragon from the
lands of the Talundin Estuary. Nearly three centuries ago, Al’aereyan
earned the enmity of a Dragon Witch through actions which have been
forgotten by all but the oldest of creatures. As a punishment, the
Witch placed a curse upon him – causing his golden scales to tarnish.
(Although the result does not make Al’aereyan appear as a true black
dragon, the result is close enough that the two dragons can easily be
confused for each by those with little experience in the manner.)
Shortly after receiving the curse, Al’aereyan left Talundin, and
journeyed to the western mountains – where he has spent the past three
hundred years atoning for whatever misdeeds he may have committed in
his untempered youth.
And then you try to flesh it out with
details on the local protectorate; a princess in distress; warring
colonies of living silver and gold; details on a mining village; and
two separate dungeon complexes...
Which is right around the time that you
remember that you can't actually do
all of that in 15 pages, no matter how much you might
pride yourself on squeezing a maximum amount of content into a minimum
amount of space. But it's too late now because everything you've
written depends on all the other parts of the adventure's structure,
and there's probably a way to cut it and rewrite it, but your deadline
is looming and--
Kaboom.
Freelance writing: Sometimes it's fun.
Sometimes its a car crash. Not infrequently, it's both.
THE DRAGON'S WISH Fantasy Flight Games
Feb. 2001
THE FIFTH SEPULCHER
Fantasy Flight Games
Feb. 2001
DARKWOODS' SECERT Fantasy Flight Games
Feb. 2001
LOST HUNT
Fantasy Flight Games
May 2001
THE WREYLAND SERPENT Fantasy Flight Games
May 2001
I was running an OD&D version of Keep on the Shadowfell
on Thursday night and discovered that I made a mistake while compiling
the PDF cheat sheet
for the adventure. Specifically, two relatively important paragraphs
got dropped:
The kobold tribe is known as the Clan
of the Withered Arm. Once in every generation a child of the clan is
born with a withered arm, marking them as the future leader of the
clan. The clan's history in the area around Winterhaven actually dates
back more than 25 years to a time period when they were driven from
their ancestral lands by Necross the Black Mage. The villagers in
Winterhaven, however, were largely unaware of their presence: They
survived by hunting wild game and generally shunned contact with the
civilized races (who they had learned to fear).
Kalarel's arrival in the area changed
all that. He sent one of his goblin lackeys -- a brutish oaf named
Irontooth -- with a band of thugs to take control of the kobolds. They
took the kobolds by surprise, overpowered their leader (a kobold named
Issitik), and chopped off his arm. Irontooth now wears the withered arm
on a chain about his neck.