Last year, after writing Node-Based Scenario Design, I received several e-mails from people interested in how node-based scenario design could be translated into a published product. This was an extended pitch I put together for a publisher who then, regrettably, disappeared off the face of the planet and stopped responding to my e-mails. I don’t think I’m going to be doing anything with it, so I thought y’all might find it interesting and/or useful.

The basic concept was a “ripped from the headlines” spy campaign in the vein of James Bond. This proposal doesn’t focus on the detailed node interactions, but instead looks at the “layer cake” structure of the whole campaign.

THE TALIBAN PROXY

START: The PCs are part of a task force investigating increased gang violence in a major American city. (I’m leaning towards San Francisco. But a gunfight in the Seattle Space Needle also sounds like a nice set piece.)

FIRST ESCALATION: They discover that they’re actually investigating a proxy gang war, like the ones fought between Pakistan’s ISI and Indian CBI in the streets of Bombay. In this case, the gangs are being supported by the Al-Shibh terrorist organization and the CIA. (Al-Shibh is derived from the Arabic word شبح, meaning literally “the ghost”.)

SECOND ESCALATION: There may be a bit of a thematic cul-de-sac involving the illegal CIA operation (with a wider consideration of fighting symptoms instead of causes), but the overall thrust is discovering Al-Shibh’s connection to a resurgent Taliban in Afghanistan. This investigation, backdropped by the ongoing war, lead the operatives to a massive Taliban operation hidden within previously undiscovered mammoth caves. (I’d like to tie the discovery of these caves into the “ripped from the headlines” element of the massive mineral wealth recently discovered by a geologic survey in the country. At least part of the structure can take the form of “cockroach tracking” — blowing a base and then tracking the survivors to the next base.)

THIRD ESCALATION: Breaching the Taliban complex, however, reveals that the Taliban isn’t the ultimate source of the money used to fund the proxy war. The Taliban itself was being used as a proxy. These leads take them to the blistering heat of Dubai where they have to unravel their way through the emirate’s massive money-laundering industry. Crazed architecture and mind-searing opulence provide the backdrop for an investigation harried by ever more active opposition.

FOURTH ESCALATION: The leads in Dubai take the investigators into the heart of the Biggest Bank Heist of All Time — the looting of $1 billion from the Central Bank of Iraq in March 2003. (The Central Bank was recently attacked again. This could be fodder for a “trying to destroy the evidence” sequence.)

BIG CONCLUSION: All the evidence now points to Qusay Hussein, the son of Saddam Hussein who was responsible for robbing the Central Bank of Iraq. Qusay, now in disguise, is apparently running the small Eastern European country of Nistrulia (which will be based on the real-life mafia state of Transnistria). But that’s not possible… Qusay was killed by American soldiers in July 2003. Or was he?

In any case, the PCs are now forced to fight the leader of a sovereign nation on his own turf — pitting their infiltration skills against a highly sophisticated police state.

In the beginning there was the Word.

And the Word had Power.

Many laypersons believe that arcane sigils are a language which describe power. But true wizards know that the symbols are the power. Wizards know full well the dangers of unleashing such runes in the open tablets of their minds, but they also know the great advantage of it and are willing to wrestle with the words for possession of their own sanity.

This is the great art of the scroll-writers: To trap primeval energy, ethereal spirits, and astral constructs in the ancient bonds of ink and parchment. If one were to carelessly copy such writings — to treat them like any scribbling to be trivially transcribed — one would be fortunate to merely waste their time. Far worse would be to mimic rites without perfecting them; to attract spirits without binding them.

Photo by Henrik Sendelbach.

For the first couple decades after D&D, virtually all roleplaying games looked fundamentally similar: There was a GM who controlled the game world, there were players who each controlled a single character (or occasionally a small stable of characters which all “belonged” to them), and actions were resolved using diced mechanics.

Starting in the early ’90s, however, we started to see some creative experimentation with the form. And in the last decade this experimentation has exploded: GM-less game. Diceless games. Players taking control of the game world beyond their characters. (And so forth.) But as this experimentation began carrying games farther and farther from the “traditional” model of a roleplaying game, there began to be some recognition that these games needed to be distinguished from their progenitors: On the one hand, lots of people found that these new games didn’t scratch the same itch that roleplaying games did and some responded vituperatively to them as a result. On the other hand, even those enthusiastic about the new games began searching for a new term to describe their mechanics — “story game”, “interactive drama”, “mutual storytelling”, and the like.

In some cases, this “search for a label” has been about raising a fence so that people can tack up crude “KEEP OUT” signs. I don’t find that particularly useful. But as an aficionado of Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics, I also understand the power of proper definitions: They allow us to focus our discussion and achieve a better understanding of the topic. But by giving us a firm foundation, they also set us free to experiment fully within the form.

For example, people got tired of referring to “games that are a lot like Dungeons & Dragons“, so they coined the term “roleplaying game” and it suddenly became a lot easier to talk about them (and also market them). It also allowed RPGs to become conceptually distinct from “wargames”, which not only eliminated quite a bit of confusion (as people were able to separate “good practices from wargames” from “good practices for roleplaying games”), but also allowed the creators of RPGs to explore a lot of new options.

Before we begin looking at how games like Shock: Social Science Fiction, Dread, Wushu, and Microscope are different from roleplaying games, however, I think we first need to perfect our understanding of what a roleplaying game is and how it’s distinguished from other types of games.

WHAT IS A ROLEPLAYING GAME?

Roleplaying games are defined by mechanics which are associated with the game world.

Let me break that down: Roleplaying games are self-evidently about playing a role. Playing a role is about making choices as if you were the character. Therefore, in order for a game to be a roleplaying game (and not just a game where you happen to play a role), the mechanics of the game have to be about making and resolving choices as if you were the character. If the mechanics of the game require you to make choices which aren’t associated to the choices made by the character, then the mechanics of the game aren’t about roleplaying and it’s not a roleplaying game.

To look at it from the opposite side, I’m going to make a provocative statement: When you are using dissociated mechanics you are not roleplaying. Which is not to say that you can’t roleplay while playing a game featuring dissociated mechanics, but simply to say that in the moment when you are using those mechanics you are not roleplaying.

I say this is a provocative statement because I’m sure it’s going to provoke strong responses. But, frankly, it just looks like common sense to me: If you are manipulating mechanics which are dissociated from your character — which have no meaning to your character — then you are not engaged in the process of playing a role. In that moment, you are doing something else. (It’s practically tautological.) You may be multi-tasking or rapidly switching back-and-forth between roleplaying and not-roleplaying. You may even be using the output from the dissociated mechanics to inform your roleplaying. But when you’re actually engaged in the task of using those dissociated mechanics you are not playing a role; you are not roleplaying.

I think this distinction is important because, in my opinion, it lies at the heart of what defines a roleplaying game: What’s the difference between the boardgame Arkham Horror and the roleplaying game Call of Cthulhu? In Arkham Horror, after all, each player takes on the role of a specific character; those characters are defined mechanically; the characters have detailed backgrounds; and plenty of people have played sessions of Arkham Horror where people have talked extensively in character.

I pick Arkham Horror for this example because it exists right on the cusp between being an RPG and a not-RPG. So when people start roleplaying during the game (which they indisputably do when they start talking in character), it raises the provocative question: Does it become a roleplaying game in that moment?

On the other hand, I’ve had the same sort of moment happen while playing Monopoly. For example, there was a game where somebody said, “I’m buying Boardwalk because I’m a shoe. And I like walking.” Goofy? Sure. Bizarre? Sure. Roleplaying? Yup.

Let me try to make the distinction clear: When we say “roleplaying game”, do we just mean “a game where roleplaying can happen”? If so, then I think the term “roleplaying game” becomes so ridiculously broad that it loses all meaning. (Since it includes everything from Monopoly to Super Mario Brothers.)

Rather, I think the term “roleplaying game” only becomes meaningful when there is a direct connection between the game and the roleplaying. When roleplaying is the game.

It’s very tempting to see all of this in a purely negative light: As if to say, “Dissociated mechanics get in the way of roleplaying and associated mechanics don’t.” But it’s actually more meaningful than that: The act of using an associated mechanic is the act of playing a role.

As I wrote in the original essay on dissociated mechanics, all game mechanics are — to varying degrees — abstracted and metagamed. For example, the destructive power of a fireball is defined by the number of d6’s you roll for damage; and the number of d6’s you roll is determined by the caster level of the wizard casting the spell. If you asked a character about d6’s of damage or caster levels, they’d have no idea what you were talking about (that’s the abstraction and the metagaming). But they could tell you what a fireball was and they could tell you that casters of greater skill can create more intense flames during the casting of the spell (that’s the association).

So a fireball has a direct association to the game world. Which means that when, for example, you make a decision to cast a fireball spell you are making a decision as if you were your character — in making the mechanical decision you are required to roleplay (because that mechanical decision is directly associated to your character’s decision). You may not do it well. You’re not going to win a Tony Award for it. But in using the mechanics of a roleplaying game, you are inherently playing a role.

WHAT IS A STORYTELLING GAME?

So roleplaying games are defined by associated mechanics — mechanics which are associated with the game world, and thus require you to make decisions as if you were your character (because your decisions are associated with your character’s decisions).

Storytelling games (STGs), on the other hand, are defined by narrative control mechanics: The mechanics of the game are either about determining who controls a particular chunk of the narrative or they’re actually about determining the outcome of a particular narrative chunk.

Storytelling games may be built around players having characters that they’re proponents of, but the mechanical focus of the game is not on the choices made as if they were those characters. Instead, the mechanical focus is on controlling the narrative.

Wushu offers a pretty clear-cut example of this. The game basically has one mechanic: By describing a scene or action, you earn dice. If your dice pool generates more successes than everyone else’s dice pools, you control the narrative conclusion of the round.

Everyone in Wushu is playing a character. That character is the favored vehicle which they can use to deliver their descriptions, and that character’s traits will even influence what types of descriptions are mechanically superior for them to use. But the mechanics of the game are completely dissociated from the act of roleplaying the character. Vivid and interesting characters are certainly encouraged, but the act of making choices as if you were the character — the act of actually roleplaying — has absolutely nothing to do with the rules whatsoever.

That’s why Wushu is a storytelling game, not a roleplaying game.

More controversially, consider Dread. The gameplay here looks a lot like a roleplaying game: All the players are playing individual characters. There’s a GM controlling/presenting the game world. When players have their characters attempt actions, there’s even a resolution mechanic: Pull a Jenga block. If the tower doesn’t collapse, the action succeeds. If the tower does collapse, the character is eliminated from the story.

But I’d argue that Dread isn’t a roleplaying game: The mechanic may be triggered by characters taking action, but the actual mechanic isn’t associated with the game world. The mechanic is entirely about controlling the pace of the narrative and participation in the narrative.

I’d even argue that Dread wouldn’t be a roleplaying game if you introduced a character sheet with hard-coded skills that determined how many blocks you pull depending on the action being attempted and the character’s relevant skill. Why? Because the resolution mechanic is still dissociated and it’s still focused on narrative control and pacing. The mechanical decisions being made by the players (i.e., which block to pull and how to pull it) aren’t associated to decisions being made by their character. The fact that the characters have different characteristics in terms of their ability to be used to control that narrative is as significant as the differences between a rook and a bishop in a game of Chess.

GETTING FUZZY

Another way to look at this is to strip everything back to freeform roleplaying: Just people sitting around, pretending to be characters. This isn’t a roleplaying game because there’s no game — it’s just roleplaying.

Now add mechanics: If the mechanics are designed in such a way that the mechanical choices you’re making are directly associated with the choices your character is making, then it’s probably a roleplaying game. If the mechanics are designed in such a way that the mechanical choices you’re making are about controlling or influencing the narrative, then it’s probably a storytelling game.

But this gets fuzzy for two reasons.

First, few games are actually that rigid in their focus. For example, if I add an action point mechanic to a roleplaying game it doesn’t suddenly cease to be a roleplaying game just because there are now some mechanical choices being made by players that aren’t associated to character decisions. When playing a roleplaying game, most of us have agendas beyond simply “playing a role”. (Telling a good story, for example. Or emulating a particular genre trope. Or exploring a fantasy world.) And dissociated mechanics have been put to all sorts of good use in accomplishing those goals.

Second, characters actually are narrative elements. This means that you can see a lot of narrative control mechanics which either act through, are influenced by, or act upon characters who may also be strongly associated with or exclusively associated with a particular player.

When you combine these two factors, you end up with a third: Because characters are narrative elements, players who prefer storytelling games tend to have a much higher tolerance for roleplaying mechanics in their storytelling games. Why? Because roleplaying mechanics allow you to control characters; characters are narrative elements; and, therefore, roleplaying mechanics can be enjoyed as just a very specific variety of narrative control.

On the other hand, people who are primarily interested in roleplaying games because they want to roleplay a character tend to have a much lower tolerance for narrative control mechanics in their roleplaying games. Why? Because when you’re using dissociated mechanics you’re not roleplaying. At best, dissociated mechanics are a distraction from what the roleplayer wants. At worst, the dissociated mechanics can actually interfere and disrupt what the roleplayer wants (when, for example, the dissociated mechanics begin affecting the behavior or actions of their character).

This is why many aficionados of storytelling games don’t understand why other people don’t consider their games roleplaying games. Because even traditional roleplaying games at least partially satisfy their interests in narrative control, they don’t see the dividing line.

Explaining this is made even more difficult because the dividing line is, in fact, fuzzy in multiple dimensions. Plus there’s plenty of historical confusion going the other way. (For example, the “Storyteller System” is, in fact, just a roleplaying game with no narrative control mechanics whatsoever.)

It should also be noted that while the distinction between RPGs and STGs is fairly clear-cut for players, it can be quite a bit fuzzier on the other side of the GM’s screen. (GMs are responsible for a lot more than just roleplaying a single character, which means that their decisions — both mechanical and non-mechanical — were never strictly focused on roleplaying in the first place.)

Personally, I enjoy both sorts of games: Chocolate (roleplaying), vanilla (storytelling), and swirled mixtures of both. But, with that being said, there are times when I just want some nice chocolate ice cream; and when I do, I generally find that dissociated mechanics screw up my fun.

2020 ADDENDUM: TABLETOP NARRATIVE GAMES

If we can move beyond arguing that vanilla ice cream is actually chocolate ice cream, we have the opportunity to step back and recognize that these are both different types of ice cream. I propose that both roleplaying games and storytelling games are tabletop narrative games.

Now, here’s the cool thing: Recognizing that these are different things within a broader paradigm will make it easier for us to explore that paradigm. Much like having a different word for different colors makes it easier to distinguish those colors, clearly seeing the distinctions between associated mechanics and narrative control mechanics will not only make it easier for us to develop better games of those types, it will also likely make it easier for us to discover completely new types of games.

Compare this to video games, for example. Grand Theft Auto started as a maze-chase game. When they iterated on that design, nobody launched a holy war insisting that this was the One True Way of making maze-chase games. They said, “Oh. Hey. Look at this cool new type of game.” Instead of spending twenty years arguing that Grand Theft Auto 3 was a maze-chase game just like Pac-Man (and how dare you suggest otherwise?!), they identified the new form as an open-world game and spent twenty years making lots and lots of open-world games (that were in no way still trying to be Pac-Man).

Video games and board games do this all the time. And we have better and more varied video games and board games as a result. Wouldn’t it be great if tabletop narrative games could reap the same benefits?

The malero (meaning “the taking of sin”) is a religious ritual of cleansing.

Its origins lie in the auto da fes performed during the Years of Heresy by the Imperial Church. In these public processions, those found guilty of heretical crimes would be marched through the streets of a city before being led to a place of judgment where many would be tortured or executed.

The first bearer of the malero was Saint Alesia of Malthusta, who received a holy vision to lift the burden of sin from her town and bear it herself before performing a mighty geas to cleanse her own soul of its weight. Similar maleros were performed throughout the Years of Heresy, allowing those accused of heretical crimes to instead go free.

The practice of malero continues today in a lessened form: Holy warriors and knights are given tasks by the church in order to periodically cleanse their communities of the “vestige sin” which accumulates wherever men gather in great numbers.

More rarely, a malero be assumed in an effort to lift a curse or blight from a particular region.

THE MALERO IN YOUR CAMPAIGN

A malero can serve as a convenient scenario hook. Knights, paladins, and clerics associated with the church may be called on directly to perform them. In other cases, churches may put out a general call for anyone willing to undertake a malero. (This is particularly true for smaller churches with more limited resources.)

Notably, maleros are often called for in the wake of great tragedies. Have the PCs just captured a serial killer? We’ll need a malero to cleanse the community of such weight sin. Did they just save the village from some natural calamity? The gods must be cursing us with such times of trouble because of our sins; must be time for a malero.

A failed malero is a particularly weighty manner. If Sir Godric has taken on the community’s sin and has fallen before it could be cleansed, that means that the sin has merely been concentrated and is now free to roam once more. Who knows what mischief such sin might get up to? Once the players are familiar with the concept of the malero, you can use a failed malero to crank up the stakes for them.

You shouldn’t forget to play up the ritualistic component of the malero, either. Functionally it may not be much different from a guy hiring them at the local tavern; but the devil is in the details, and you can imbue the malero with a lot more unique flavor than that: Anoint them with oils. Make them swear a holy oath. Let them receive a proper blessing.

Make the malero significant.

I’ve been spending quite a bit of time delving through the 1st Edition Dungeon Master’s Guide recently. Which means I’ve spent more than my fair share of time staring at the cover… which I have always hated.

The poses are stiff. The composition boring. The anatomy problematic. It is, in short, a disappointing and amateurish piece of work.

And this is particular true when you compare it to the back cover of the same book, which depicts a glorious, panoramic shot of the City of Brass which seems to invite you to a world of adventure in a dozen different ways.

The interesting thing, of course, is that these are both the same piece of art. It’s a panoramic cover that wraps around the spine. Because of its composition, however, this can be rather difficult to appreciate unless you can look at the whole thing all at once:

I really like the framing effect which the fully visible arch has on the City of Brass. That half of the painting is great.

Sadly, seeing the full piece in context only makes the other half of the painting look even worse. I mean, the composition of the efreeti and the adventurers was already suffering from some internal problems with its perspective. But once you put them into the context of the larger scene, where exactly are they supposed to be standing?

Look at what happens when you draw in the perspective lines of the wall:

As far as I can tell, the efreeti is standing in the wall.

I’m as much a fan of non-Euclidean geometry as the next guy. But this just looks sloppy to me. And it actively repulses my eye.

EDIT: Those of you suggesting in the comments that the efreeti and possibly the adventurers have actually been painted on the wall have an interesting theory. But if that were actually the case, we would expect the cover to look something like this:

Which, of course, it doesn’t.

I suppose one could argue that this is a painting of another painting which has been painted in order to appear 3D from the position which the meta-painter has placed his easel… But, honestly, there comes a point when you’re just making excuses for sub-standard art.