Hillfolk includes some brief notes on how to decouple the DramaSystem and use the entire thing as a cap system, using a traditional roleplaying game of your choice to resolve procedural scenes while using the DramaSystem as a storytelling game for resolving dramatic scenes. I haven’t had a chance to try that yet myself, although it sounds potentially interesting. One of the things that caught my interest when reading through the DramaSystem, however, was the way in which its character creation procedure was capable of creating a group of PCs rich with dramatic potential, relationships, and tension.

And I also noted how easy it would be to strip that process down and streamline it into a generic core that you could use with any RPG (and most STGs) without using anything else from the DramaSystem. So even if the DramaSystem holds absolutely no interest for you, I think you’ll find this potentially very useful.

STEP 1: ROLE IN THE GROUP

Each player defines a role for their PC in the group. Some roles will be defined by their responsibilities; others may be defined in their relationship (familial or otherwise) to the characters holding those roles. Don’t shy away from setting a clear chain of command: Roleplayers often avoid doing that, but the tensions within a well-defined chain of command is a rich source for dramatic play. (Bear in mind that chains of command don’t necessarily need to be linear: Different characters can have ultimate power over different spheres of influence. For the excitement that can generate, study the history of the USSR’s Politburo.)

STEP 2: DEFINE RELATIONSHIPS

In reverse order, each player defines the relationship between their PC and another PC.

When you define your relationship to another PC, you establish a crucial fact about both characters. You can make it any kind of relationship, so long as it’s an important one. Family relationships are the easiest to think of and may prove richest in play. Close friendships also work. By choosing a friendship, you’re establishing that the relationship is strong enough to create a powerful emotional bond between the two of you. Bonds of romantic love, past or present, may be strongest of all.

As in any strong drama, your most important relationships happen to be fraught with unresolved tension. These are the people your character looks to for emotional fulfillment. The struggle for this fulfillment drives your ongoing story.

Defining one relationship also determines others, based on what has already been decided.

Players may raise objections to relationship choices of other players that turn their PC into people they don’t want to play. When this occurs, the proposing player makes an alternate suggestion, negotiating with the other player until both are satisfied. If needed, the GM assists them in finding a choice that is interesting to the proposing player without imposing unduly on the other.

Keep track of relationships as they are established during character creation with a Relationship Map. Represent each character as a name with a box or circle around it. As relationships are defined, draw lines between the characters and label it with the nature of the relationship.

Repeat this process until each character has a relationship with every other character.

STEP 3: STATE DESIRE

A PC’s desire is the broadly stated, strong motivation driving their actions during dramatic scenes. The desire moves them to pursue an inner, emotional goal, which can only be achieved by engaging with other members of the main cast, and, to a lesser degree, with recurring characters run by the GM. Your desire might be seen as your character’s weakness: it makes them vulnerable to others, placing their happiness in their hands. Because this is a dramatic story, conflict with these central characters prevents them from easily or permanently satisfying their desire. Think of the desire as an emotional reward that your character seeks from others. The most powerful choices are generally the simplest:

• approval
• acceptance
• forgiveness
• respect
• love
• subservience
• reassurance
• power
• to punish
• to be punished

Note that these are emotional, not practical goals. If you find yourself drawn to a practical goal, delve past it to find the emotional need behind it. Veruca Salt, for example, craves material things in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but it’s because she’s desperately trying to elicit true affection from her father.

STEP 4: DEFINE DRAMATIC POLES

Driving any compelling dramatic character in any story form is an internal contradiction. The character is torn between two opposed dramatic poles. Each pole suggests a choice of identities for the character, each at war with the other. Events in the story pull the character from one pole to the next.

You’ll want to make both the poles and the conflict between them as clear as possible: In most dramatic scenes featuring your character, you, the GM, and the other players will want to play into this conflict, thus creating dramatic interest.

• Mark Thackeray (To Sir With Love): anger or civilisation?
• George Bailey (It’s a Wonderful Life): ambition or responsibility?
• Hamlet (Hamlet): justice or revenge?
• Joseph Cooper (Interstellar): adventure or family?
• Brian O’Conner (The Fast and the Furious): law or friendship?

STEP 5: WHAT YOU WANT FROM OTHERS

Finally, bring your dramatic poles into focus by declaring what they lead you to seek from particular other PCs.

In an order determined by the GM, each player declares what they want from another specific PC. Examples could include:

• love from the object of your affection
• approval from a mentor
• to punish your mother

The player of that character then defines why they can’t get it:

• “I could never love one of a lower caste.”
• “If I give you approval, you would stop trying.”
• “I will not punished when I am blameless.”

If necessary, both players adjust the statement as needed to reflect the first character’s understanding of the situation. (Note that it is crucial that the PC cannot get what they want at the beginning of play. If the other player feels that their character would readily grant what the first PC is asking, then the stakes must be raised or changed.)

Repeat this process until all characters are named as the objects of at least two other characters’ wants. (Additional, unaddressed relationships may be defined or developed during play.

This material is covered under the Open Gaming License.

Many GMs – possibly most of them – are bad at prepping.

This is true even of GMs who run good games. You’ll frequently hear the mantra that if everyone’s enjoying your game, then you’re doing it right! There are a number of problems with this belief (starting with the fact that enjoyment is not a binary property), but bad prep habits are a really important counterexample: If you’re spending fifteen hours prepping to get the same results that you could be getting with only an hour of prep, think about what you could be doing with those fourteen hours you’ve saved. (And not just in the rest of your life; think about the things you could be doing with that time that would make the experience of you and your players even better.)

LOW-VALUE PREP

Which brings us to probably the most common prep problem: GMs who burn themselves out with low-value (or no-value) prep. They either spend inordinate amounts of time prepping material which is never experienced at the table and/or they prep material which doesn’t actually enhance what’s experienced at the table.

One of the leading causes of low-value prep seems to be published scenarios. Most RPGs don’t include any meaningful advice on scenario prep, and the RPGs that do include such advice are generally inadequate or misguided (often being written by designers who are, themselves, engaged in bad prep; the problem is, after all, endemic to the hobby). It makes sense, therefore, that lots of GMs instead turn to published scenarios as an example of what they should be doing.

Unfortunately, published scenarios are a terrible example of what a GM should be prepping. And I’m including all of my professionally published scenarios in this condemnation.

First, even in an ideal case, what I need to write in order to clearly communicate the ideas in my head to someone I’ve never met is VERY different from the notes I need to run a scenario for myself. Here’s an actual quote from a homebrew scenario someone sent me for critique:

“There are eighteen goblins living in this rocky cavern, which is largely similar to the other caverns in this area. If it’s morning, the men will be asleep and the women will be cooking breakfast. If it’s afternoon, the men will have left, leaving only the women behind. In the evening, however, all of the goblins will be here. You should also carefully consider whether the PCs’ actions elsewhere in the dungeon have alerted the goblins to danger, in which case the men will either leave 1-2 of their number to protect the women during the day; or all may remain at home if the danger is seen as particularly acute.”

Leaving aside the profligate verbiage, who is the “you” in this text? If this is how you’re prepping your scenarios for your personal use, who are you talking to? You don’t need to explain your intentions to yourself.

Second, most published scenarios are bad. This isn’t really a surprising revelation (Sturgeon’s Law: 90% of everything is crap), but they’re often systemically bad in a way which collectively lead GMs to believe that scenarios are “supposed” to be prepped in a way which will also result in their scenarios being systemically bad.

Railroading is perhaps the most common example of this. But in terms of bad prep, the even more damaging example is Choose Your Own Adventure design, encouraging GMs to waste their time prepping elaborate flow charts filled with an ever-increasing amount of material that they know will never be used because it’s literally designed to NOT be used in its entirety.

Third, these problems have become increasingly exacerbated by the fact that a sizable portion of the audience reads published scenarios as a form of storybook pulp fiction instead of surveying them as a tool for creating memorable experiences at the gaming table. More importantly, the RPG companies know this and are writing their scenarios to satisfy this audience.

Here’s James Jacobs, the Creative Director at Paizo responsible for their Adventure Paths, on the subject:

Paizo more or less exists as a game company today (and not merely as an online RPG store) because adventures sell. If they’re done right. And by “right,” I mean “fun to read.”

Because I suspect the majority of adventures published by game companies are never actually played by most of those who read the adventures. (…)

And adventures, which tell stories, ARE fun to read. (If they’re built to be read.)

To be clear, I understand the meta-fictional appeal of reading an RPG scenario. There is a creative act of closure that takes place when reading a scenario and imagining how the situations it describes might play out that’s a fairly unique (and enjoyable) experience. And I understand the commercial need to appeal to as broad an audience as possible in order to make your products profitable, particularly in an industry like RPGs where your sales will be anemic even at the best of times.

The problem is that there are a number of things you can do as a writer to enhance the enjoyment of the reader that are actually inimical to the runner. And I’m increasingly seeing these elements in published adventures: Bloated descriptions. Material sequenced so that the reader is given a Shocking Reveal!™ instead of being sequenced for easy reference by the GM at the table. Narrative discourses and background information for which there is no clear vector for the players to ever learn of them.

Some writers do this because they are intentionally aiming for the reader market. Some writers don’t actually run adventures themselves and are writing for their own preferences as people who only read adventures. (This is shockingly common, and often encouraged by publishers who respond to the word “playtest” as if you had grown a second head.) And some writers are just following the examples they see in print from others, and which they have come to think of as the “correct” way to write up a scenario.

A lot of GMs follow a similar impulse to this final category of writers: They’re looking for an example to learn from in prepping to run their games, and the examples they’re using aren’t even primarily designed to run a game from in the first place.

LOW PREP

There has, in fact, been a backlash against low-value prep.

One particularly common form of this backlash are “low prep” or “zero prep” philosophies. You’ll find these in games specifically designed for such play, like Technoir or Lady Blackbird (along with a metric shit ton of storytelling games like Ten Candles, Hillfolk, Fiasco, and so forth), but also presented as a more general philosophy about how traditional RPG scenarios can be prepared.

These low prep strategies can be very effective, and have a great deal of utility in specific circumstances. (I’ve talked often in the past about the usefulness of having RPG experiences that can be picked up and played as casually as many board games can be, for example. Low prep systems are one way of achieving that.) But what it reveals for many long-time GMs is that their prep is bloated and ineffective and wasted. For some, their low-value prep is so bad that it actually has a negative value. Literally doing nothing results in better sessions than what they were doing before.

This leads some to believe that all prep is a bad idea. But this is an overreaction, trapping some GMs in a stunted ideology that can be just as limiting as the low-value prep they were practicing before.

Even in less virulent extremism, low prep philosophies can seductively convince GMs that they’ve solved a problem when, in fact, they’re only masking it: They discover that the prep they’ve been doing doesn’t work, so they do less of it and their games improve! All better, right? Problem solved!

Except they haven’t actually stopped doing the sort of prep that doesn’t work… they’ve just dramatically reduced the amount of it they’re doing. Eating less cyanide is good, but what you should really be doing is not eating cyanide.

You can find an example of this in the first section of Michael E. Shea’s The Lazy Dungeon Master. The book preaches a good message about GMs wasting a lot of time on prep that doesn’t add value to their games, but the alternative structure it teaches is to prep four things, each on a 3×5 card:

1. A beginning scene.
2. Three paths your game might take.

These paths can either be a Choose Your Own Adventure (where, after the initial scene, the PCs can choose one of the other three paths or, alternatively, none of them), in which case you’ll prep four things of which at least half of them will never be used. Or it can revert to a linear, pre-plotted sequence. But because the GM didn’t spend as much time prepping this linear, pre-plotted sequence, Shea’s argument is that it will be more likely that the GM will be willing to just throw it all out as wasted prep.

Shea recognizes that plot-based prep doesn’t work, but in the absence of any other paradigm, the only advice he can offer is to just do less of it.

SMART PREP

Which, ultimately, leads us to smart prep – the way to focus your prep on stuff with a high utility value while avoiding prep which is either unnecessary or likely to be wasted during play.

Whereas the goal of a low prep philosophy is to reduce the amount of time you spend prepping, that’s not the primary goal of smart prep (although it might be a side effect). When you’re practicing smart prep, the goal is to make sure that every moment you’re spending prepping is maximizing the positive effect that prep has on your game sessions. You might even end up spending more time prepping. For example, I spent dozens of hours prepping the Eternal Lies campaign, but the result included hundreds of props and visual elements that created a unique and memorable experience for everyone involved.

Smart prep is all about thinking long and hard about your prep methods to see if there are ways in which you could be achieving the same results (or better results) with less prep. (Or using the same amount of prep to achieve more.)

So let’s talk about what that looks like.

Go to Part 2: The Principles of Smart Prep

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

SESSION 11C: A WEARY TWILIGHT

November 11th, 2007
The 30th Day of Amseyl in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

THE RAINBOW LAKE

In the sudden stillness which pervaded the cavern, things looked bleak. Without the stress of combat the torturous nausea diminished, but their wounds were grievous. Itarek had merely been knocked unconscious, but even after the soothing of Dominic’s divine ministrations he still oozed blood from countless wounds and moved with the stiff pain of torn muscles.

Itarek looked down at the body of his warrior which lay near by and with a weary voice asked, “Can you heal him?”

Dominic looked at the body — its skull caved in and its chest mangled — and shook his head. “No. There’s nothing we can do.”

Itarek nodded. “We must leave. Tend to our wounded.”

Tee, who had been prepared to argue for precisely that, quickly agreed. But Ranthir suggested that they should take a look — a cautious look! — further down this passage. They may be in poor condition, but knowing what lay ahead might better inform their decision.

Tee nodded and, while the rest of the group quickly stripped the duskblade’s body of anything that looked remotely interesting or valuable (taking particular note of a finely crafted sword, steel shield, and chain shirt), she slipped quietly through the shadows ahead of them. Read more »

(click here for PDF)

Robin D. Laws’ DramaSystem is tucked away inside the Hillfolk roleplaying game. Hillfolk is kind of an odd duck of a book: There’s about 50 pages of generic rules describing the DramaSystem engine. There’s 15-20 pages of setting material pertaining specifically to Hillfolk: A Game of Iron Age Drama. And then there’s another 150 pages providing everything you need to play in 30 other settings. In other words, there’s 200+ pages of material for the DramaSystem and only 15-20 pages of Hillfolk in there. The entire book is really designed as a generic resource for the DramaSystem, but it’s not branded, presented, or sold as such.

The raison d’être for the DramaSystem lies with Laws’ breakdown of fiction into procedural scenes and dramatic scenes: “In procedural scenes, characters confront and overcome obstacles — “they fight opponents, conduct chases, investigate mysteries, explore unfamiliar environments, and so on. (…) In a dramatic scene, the main characters confront internal obstacles, seeking emotional reward from people they care deeply about, for good or ill.” The majority of RPGs focus almost exclusively on procedural content. Laws wanted to design a storytelling game which specifically focused on creating and playing through dramatic scenes.

Laws believes that one of the primary obstacles to effective dramatic scenes in traditional roleplaying games lies in the fact that players tend to default to no, convinced that their characters are all possessed of a steely, unbreakable resolve that will never buckle, and thus creating flat, repetitious scenes that never build, centered around boring characters who never grow or change. (He says this in like the most insulting way possible, claiming that anyone who refuses to play games in an authorial stance is in denial about what roleplaying games are really all about, and that anyone who refuses to come to Jesus after experiencing the true glories of the DramaSystem is basically a petulant man-child who should be kicked out of your group. But except for the couple of pages where he goes on that Bizarro World rampage, he’s not fundamentally wrong.)

The DramaSystem structurally works to overcome these impulses by (a) specifically focusing gameplay on the dramatic content, (b) redefining “success” in dramatic instead of personal terms, and (c) mechanically encouraging (and, in some cases, forcing) characters to yield in dramatic scenes. The central mechanic around which these structures are built is simply framing scenes in terms of petitioners (and the emotional need they want fulfilled) vs. granters (and why they won’t give it).

One interesting feature in this is that Laws seems to identify these mechanics as modeling the storytelling techniques used by creators in other mediums. But that’s not really accurate. What the mechanics actually model is a process of literary criticism. (It is, in fact, the same lit-crit that Laws uses in Hamlet’s Hit Points.) Intriguingly, that’s also what the game’s mechanics feel like in play: A literary critique of the narrative you’re spontaneously generating.

The result feels very unique in play, and it definitely succeeds in forcing a group to aggressively focus on a type of character interaction which is, in fact, rather rare in most tabletop roleplaying. Having played it only a handful of times, I’m not 100% sure it actually succeeds as a game. But it definitely succeeds at being a very interesting creative exercise, and if nothing else I honestly think most groups would benefit from playing a half dozen sessions of it or so. The lessons you’ll learn (both individually and collectively) will likely have a very positive impact as they feed back into your other games.

SYSTEM CHEAT SHEETS

I’ve designed system cheat sheets for a number of RPGs and STGs now. This one is designed to be used with any DramaSystem setting (the 30 from the Hillfolk corebook, the 25 from the Blood on the Snow supplement, or any which you create yourself). For those unfamiliar with them: These cheat sheets summarize all the rules for the game — from basic action resolution to advanced options. It’s a great way to get a grip on a new system and, of course, it also provides a valuable resource at the table for both the GM and the players. (For more information on the procedure I follow when prepping these cheat sheets, click here.)

HOW I USE THEM

I generally keep a copy of the system cheat sheet behind the GM screen for quick reference and also provide copies for all of the players. I also keep at least one copy of the rulebook available, of course, and the cheat sheet probably won’t make much sense to you if you haven’t read it yourself. But the goal of the cheat sheet is to consolidate all of the mechanical content of the game, eliminating book look-ups: Finding something in a handful of pages is a much faster process than paging through hundreds of pages in a rulebook.

The organization of information onto each page of the cheat sheet should, hopefully, be fairly intuitive:

Page 1: This page contains the broad, general principles of the system.

Page 2: This page contains virtually everything you need in order to frame and play through scenes (which is the heart of the system).

Page 3: Something of a miscellanea. This includes general principles and rules for the GM, but the rules for player v. player conflict also got bumped onto this page due to lack of space.

MAKING A GM SCREEN

These cheat sheets can also be used in conjunction with a modular, landscape-oriented GM screen (like the ones you can buy here or here).