The concept of “genre” can be a fairly slippery one, but allow me to propose that genres of fiction can be broken down into four categories:

(1) Setting
(2) Plot
(3) Tone
(4) Target Audience

Which can roughly be explained like this:

(1) If a book is set in the 14th century, its historical fiction. If a book is set on Mars, its science fiction. If a book is set in a magical fairy kingdom, its fantasy. And so forth.

(2) If a book’s plot is significantly based around solving a crime or puzzle, then it’s a mystery. If a book’s plot is significantly based around two people falling in love, then it’s a romance. And so forth.

(3) If a book is supposed to make people laugh, it’s a comedy. And so forth. (This one is a bit harder to get your thumb on.)

(4) If a book is meant to be read by children, it’s a children’s book. If it’s meant to be read by teens, it’s a young adult novel. If it’s not meant to be read by people younger than 18ish, then it’s a mature novel.

You can freely mix-and-match between the different types of genres (a historical children’s mystery comedy). Mix-and-matching with another genre of the same type is bit trickier. I think the only genre which is truly exclusive is setting.

In Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud carefully constructs a very detailed and specific definition of what the term “comics” really means. With that definition in hand, he goes on to explore the incredible depth and breadth of the art form without any preconceptions or biases.

I first read Understanding Comics when I was fourteen years old. This approach to critical analysis had a profound effect on me. Forever after I understood the importance (and power) of having precise definitions.

Which brings me to the definitions for the various genres of speculative fiction which I devised and then perfected over several years of participating in discussions of science fiction in the rec.arts.sf.written newsgroup and at various other places face-to-face and around the ‘net. If you, like me, are heartily dissatisfied every time you read someone quoting Damon Knight’s definition of the genre (“science fiction means what we point to when we say it”), then this should be right up your alley.

SPECULATIVE FICTION: A form of fiction in which the story takes place in an imaginary world which exists as a result of one or more “what if?” questions.

SCIENCE FICTION: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on science and/or technology. Usually this setting is an imagined future, but this is not always the case.

FANTASY: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on the existence of magic. Usually this setting is an alternate reality or an imaginary epoch in Earth’s ancient past, but this is not always the case.

MAGIC: The term “magic” can be applied to any ability, effect, phenomenon, or creature which cannot be explained through the rules of science as they exist in this universe. This does not include theoretical future revolutions in scientific theory, the technology which those revolutions make possible, or authorial mistakes. If a work explicitly refers to an ability, effect, phenomenon, or creature as ‘magic’ (or synonymous term), then the ability, effect, phenomenon, or creature should be considered magic, regardless of its other characteristics.

SCIENCE FANTASY: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on magic and speculative science and/or technology. In other words, any work which meets the definitions of both science fiction and fantasy.

ALTERNATE HISTORY: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on hypothetical changes in the way that history actually played out.

And a couple of clarifications:

First, certain technologies (like non-relativistic FTL and most time travel) are grandfathered into the SF genre. By this, I mean that they have become so traditional within the genre that it is no longer necessary to actually invoke the speculative science necessary to justify them. Thus, if you have someone using a jumpgate, stepping through a time portal, or using psionic powers, it’s not necessary to launch into an explanation of the speculative scientific revolution which made them possible: The reader will simply assume that such an explanation is lurking under the covers.

Second, there are a few works in which characters will describe something as “magic” even though the author’s intention is for the reader to recognize that the “magic” in question is actually science or technology that the characters don’t recognize as such. Even though the definition of “magic” might lead one to classify such a work as fantasy, they are more properly classified as science fiction: The characters may be referring to it as “magic”; but the work is not.

This, of course, is all my opinion. But, in my opinion, these definitions do a better job of matching “science fiction” and “fantasy” to the stuff which is actually labelled as such on the shelf than any other objective definition I’ve seen.

Final thought for the day: It can be argued that there is a continuum between fantasy and science fiction, and the line between “speculations with magic” and “speculations with science” is a fuzzy one. But for the sake of argument, let us call this division the Clarke Line, in honor of Arthur C. Clarke’s famous Third Law.

Go to On the Definition of Genre

In OD&D time is measured in turns (10 minutes) and rounds (1 minute), with 10 rounds per turn. You check for wandering monsters at the end of every turn, with an encounter being indicated on the role of a 6 on 1d6. Hence, the probability of a random encounter is:

Hanging around in the dungeon obviously isn’t conducive to a long or healthy life. (Not that this should come as any sort of surprise.)

However, it should be noted that — if the PCs are in a position where the wandering monster would not necessarily be aware of them — surprise is achieved 33% of the time (1 or 2 on 1d6). There’s really no way to calculate this into the numbers above (because too much depends on circumstance), but certainly in practice I found that this gave the PCs a not infrequent ability to avoid the wandering monsters. (Particularly once they realized what was going on and made certain preparations — like shutting the doors to a room while searching it — which would make it possible.)

What the 16% chance of an encounter every 10 minutes really boils down to, however, is a very active dungeon complex: The monsters are not just sitting in their rooms waiting for the PCs to kick down the door. (This is a topic I’ll probably be re-visiting in later essay.)

Working out the probabilities for wandering monster mechanics can tell you a lot about the nature of the setting. (And, conversely, when you’re designing a setting you should work out the probabilities to make sure you’re doing what you think you’re doing.)

For example, I’ve been homebrewing a structure for 3rd Edition wilderness exploratory adventures. The strucutre is based around a 4 hour watch (with 6 watches per day). The length of the watch was chosen because it’s convenient for the hex scales I’m using for my wilderness map.

Since I’ll be setting up random encounters for the various wilderness regions, I whipped up this quick cheat sheet for the probabilities involved:

(I may eventually end up standardizing these checks to X in 1d20 — 2 in 1d20 is identical to 1 in 1d10 and 3 in 1d20 is fairly equivalent to 1 in 1d6 — but I wanted to start off with a more traditional approach.)

Obviously, the higher the probability the more likely the PCs’ journey will be interrupted. If I set the probability very high (2 in 1d6), then I’m virtually guaranteeing that their progress will be slowed to a crawl. If I set the probability very low (1 in 1d20), then I’m allowing them to potentially move through an entire region without ever meaningfully interacting with its contents.

Back to Reactions to OD&D

Interesting fact about the basic rules for experience point awards in OD&D: They don’t actually exist.

Instead you have to intuit them out of an example on pg. 18 of Volume 1: Men & Magic, which states that you would get 7,700 XP for killing a troll with 7,000 gp of treasure: 7,000 XP for the 7,000 GP + 700 for killing the troll (which is a 7th level monster).

From this example you are forced to intuit that PCs receive 1 XP per gold piece of treasure and 100 XP per level of a defeated monster. (A monster’s level is basically determined by its Hit Dice.)

The one hard-and-fast rule regarding XP is that: “Gains in experience points will be relative; thus an 8th level Magic-User operating on the 5th dungeon level would be awarded 5/8 experience. […] Experience points are never awarded above a 1 for 1 basis, so even if a character defeats a higher level monster he will not receive experience points above the total of treasure combined with the monster’s kill value.” But even this rule is somewhat vague, because in places it refers to “dungeon level” and in other places it refers to the “level of the monster”.

(It should be noted that the level of the dungeon was assumed to be correlated to its difficulty — with the first level of the dungeon appropriate for 1st level characters and so forth. But even in these early days it was acknowledged that harder foes could sometimes be found on upper levels and less powerful foes on lower levels, so there remains a real and meaningful difference.)

(This entire concept of adjusted XP would disappear from the game for awhile, before returning in 3rd Edition… where for reasons I’ve never quite been able to understand they mucked around with the math until it made no sense and required a chart look-up.)

Note, however, that the passage is clear that the adjustment is on a per character basis. The 8th level Magic-User has their experience adjusted, but if they were adventuring with a 4th level Fighter the fighter would not have their rewards so adjusted.

Writing this up now, I also just realized that there is also no provision given for dividing the experience award. If a party of 16 characters defeats a troll, they should all get the full XP award for it apparently. The players in my Caverns of Thracia one-shot are going to be pissed.

There’s also a recommendation that “no more experience points be awarded for any single adventure than will suffice to move the character upwards one level”, with an associated example suggesting that the character should max out 1 XP shy of gaining a second level from the same adventure.

XP FOR TREASURE

The practice of giving XP is much maligned. I criticized it myself when I was young. The logic usually goes something like this:

(1) “How does earning money improve your skills?”

(2) “Treasure itself is a reward. Why should you be rewarded for getting a reward?”

The answer is simple: Treasure was seen as an analog for accomplishment. The goal of the game was not, in fact, to go into a dungeon and fight with monsters. Fighting with monsters was, in fact, a really bad idea. Fighting monsters could get you killed. What you wanted to do was get the treasure without fighting the monsters.

By rewarding the bulk of XP for treasure, the game encouraged smart, strategic play instead of hack ‘n slash play. Combat was implicitly a means to an end, not the end itself. (I know that in the BECMI Basic Set, at least, it was explicitly made so. Whenever someone tries to tell you that D&D is a game about “killing things and taking their stuff”, keep that in mind.)

And this was intentional. Upon discovering that 100 XP per HD was encouraging players to treat monsters as a source of walking XP (instead of fearing them as deadly dangers), Gygax promptly revised the XP rules in Supplement 1: Greyhawk. Low level awards were drastically reduced (1 and 2 HD monsters, for example, were reduced to just 1/10th of their former reward) and experience awards were now explicitly divided among all party members. Hirelings and retainers were also given a full share (although they only benefited from half their portion).

Depending on how you read the rules, if you were in a group with a total of 10 characters (PCs and hirelings both) you could actually see your XP rewards for killing a 1 HD monster reduced to 1/100th its former level upon adopting the rules in Supplement 1: Greyhawk!

THE GENERAL PHILOSOPHY OF XP

This still leaves the objection that there’s no innate connection between finding a pot of gold and improving your sword-swinging ability. But this is almost utterly irrelevant because experience points — like virtually all character creation mechanics — are abstracted to the point of being virutally indistinguishable from a completely dissociated mechanic. Experience point awards are simply not any kind of meaningful model of actual learning or self-improvement in the real world — it doesn’t matter whether you give them for treasure, killing monsters, roleplaying, or just time served.

A few games (most notably RuneQuest) abandons them entirely and attempt to adopt associated mechanics that more meaningfully model the learning process. (For example, by improving skills that are used or trained.)

But if you choose to keep XP awards (and, like other dissociated character creation mechanics, I find nothing particularly problematic about them), then I think it’s important to acknowledge their role:

(1) They’re an efficient way of saying this is important. They can be an important part of the formal or informal social contract that says, “This is one of our primary goals.” If the primary source of XP is killing things, then you’re saying, “Killing things is going to be a focus of the game.”

(2) They’re a concrete way of setting and rewarding specific goals.

Of course, it’s also possible to over-emphasize the importance of these things. XP awards may feature an important part of the risk-vs-reward dynamic at the game table, but there are other rewards to be had — both in-character and out-of-character.

Back to Reactions to OD&D

COLLECTED EDITION OF AN ESSAY BY JUSTIN ALEXANDER

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’s Trinity 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.)

#3. MAKE IT TREASURE

Let me clue you into the Golden Rule of Gaming, by way of Ben Robbins:

Players pay attention when you describe treasure.

(See, it’s the Golden Rule because gold is treasure. Get it? Get it? … Okay, never mind.)

The one time you’re guaranteed to have everyone’s undivided attention at the gaming table is the moment when you’re opening the goody bag and getting ready to distribute the goodies.

Want them to know about the ancient dwarven empire that ruled the surface world aeons ago before the Dragon War forced them to retreat into their mountain citadels? Then let them find a cache of ancient dwarven coins with the Imperial motto “All that the sun shines upon shall be shaped by our forge” written upon them. Place the forgemark of the Greatfall Armories on the next magic sword they find. Give them a treasure map leading to the ancient ruins of a dwarven palace.

Sometime knowledge itself can be the treasure: Lorebooks, diaries, and the like can all be looted.

And sometimes you can use knowledge to boost the value of the treasure. For example, they might find a very nice tapestry worth a few hundred gold pieces. With a successful History check, however, they might recognize the tapestry as being a famous depiction of the Battle of the Firebane. Find the right collector, and the value of the tapestry has quintupled. Now the Battle of the Firebane isn’t just a bit of fluff text — it’s the reason they’re earning the big bucks.

#4. MAKE IT MYSTERY

Take your lore, break it down into a series of specific revelations. Then use the Three Clue Rule to liberally sprinkle your campaign with the requisite clues necessary for figuring out each revelation.

If the players have to struggle to figure something out, then they’ll focus on it. And feel a sense of accomplishment when they finally piece together the truth. Of course, this usually means that you’ll need to find some way of motivating them to figure it out. (Unless you’re lucky and have players who motivate themselves at the sign of any enigma.)

In many ways, making it a mystery is really just a specific way of making it short (by parceling the information into separate revelations) and making it plot (by providing the players with a motivation to figure it out).

#5. MAKE IT PERSONAL

Let’s return for a moment to Lord Dartmouth’s destruction of the village of Cairwoth. The event can be made instantly memorable if Cairwoth was the home town for one of the PCs… and their parents were slaughtered by Dartmouth.

Of course, making it personal for the PCs doesn’t mean it needs to be traumatic. Let the PCs find documents suggesting that they might be a direct descendant of the Silver Duke of Amartain, for example, and you’ve got a fairly good chance that they’ll lap up whatever information you choose to dish out about the Silver Duke.

These personal ties can arise during actual gameplay, but they can also be established during character creation.

In my campaigns, character creation tends to be a collaborative process:

(1) I’ll provide the player with my standard handout describing the campaign setting.

(2) The player will pitch me their character concept. This concept can range from the barebones (“I want to play a human wizard”) to the brief (“I’d like to play a barbarian from somewhere up north. I think it might be cool if my village was attacked by slavers.”) to the elaborate (a detailed, three page biography).

(3) I’ll take the concept and, using my greater knowledge of the setting, begin to flesh out the details. (If they tell me they want to play a barbarian, I’ll give them a specific tribe and provide them appropriate cultural and historical detail, for example.) My goal here is generally not to change the concept. I’m just working to help them realize the concept.

Most of this work is done via e-mail, and it’s not unusual for the character concept to get passed back and forth several times as we polish it up. Sometimes my suggestions will be completely off-base, at which point we go back to the drawing board and try a different approach.

But I digress. My point here is that this collaborative process of character creation can be used to establish information regarding the world. Maybe it’s something that will become important during the course of the campaign. Or maybe it’s just something that you find cool and feel like sharing. But, in either case, you’ve put yourself in the position where (a) the player will care about those details and (b) they’ll do the heavy-lifting in terms of sharing those details with the other players.

(Another tangent: Things don’t always go like you plan, of course. In one campaign, I thought I had gotten things setup so that one of the PCs (whose central character trait was the desire to learn secrets) was in a position to receive various pieces of secret lore. I thought I could use the character’s passion for learning secrets to funnel information into the campaign. The only problem? It turned out that the character liked to learn secrets… so that she could keep them. The information funnelled into the PC… and stopped there, creating a very different dynamic than I had anticipated.)

#6. MAKE IT PHYSICAL

Handouts are a great way of conveying information for two reasons:

(1) Players love them. Give them a handout and they will sit up and take notice.

(2) Handouts are tangible and persistent.

If you tell the players something, it can go in one ear and out the other. Or be forgotten by the next session.

But if it’s a handout, then they have a constant reminder that the information exists. And if they forget a detail, they can just look at the handout again.

Although elaborate and detailed handouts will be more interesting and attract greater focus and attention, don’t get so wrapped up in the production values that you become reluctant to include the handouts. For example, I’ll rarely take the time to write out a letter by hand on a authentic-looking parchment…. but I’ll almost always type up the letter and hand it to them on a separate sheet of paper.

#7. MAKE IT REPETITIVE

We learn through repetition of information: Mention something once, we might remember it. Mention it again, the odds go up. Mention it several times, and our brains will generally identify it as notable information and file it away.

The problem with repetition is that it can also be very boring. Getting the same chunk of information dumped in their laps over and over again is not very interesting for the playerrs, and will eventually prompt a frustrated response: “Yes. All right. We get it already. Give it a rest.”

Now they know, but they still don’t care.

The trick is to figure out how to make each repetition of the information interesting in its own right. This is actually relatively easy to achieve by varying the type and content of the information.

For example, imagine that Bairwin Wildarson — a famous half-elven hero — has been placed in a stasis chamber somewhere deep beneath the surface of the earth. When the PCs find this stasis chamber you want it to be a major WOW! moment — as if they had just discovered Robin Hood. Obviously, for that to happen, the players need to appreciate just how famous and important Bairwin Wildarson is.

First, you might have the PCs start their adventures in the town of Bairwin — which was, of course, named after the legendary hero (Make It Personal). Perhaps, just to reinforce the point, some annual festival might be held by the village in the hero’s honor. The festival could even be disrupted by an attack by the Dark Fey (Make It Plot).

Second, after defeating the Ogre Crones in the Western Hills, the PCs might recover from their treasure horde the sword that Bairwin famously lost early in his adventuring career (Make It Treasure).

Third, after raiding the Tower of Magentine Hues, the PCs might find an antique copy of The Adventures of Bairwin Wildarson — summarized by way of a handout (Make It Physical).

In many ways, this is just another variation of the Three Clue Rule, and it naturally works quite well with the Make It Mystery technique. In many cases you won’t even need to make the mystery explicit: As the players pick up various bits of information regarding Bairwin Wildarson, they’ll start trying to piece it together for themselves.

#8. BREAK THE RULES FOR EFFECT

If you heed this advice, then your campaign will start operating under a new paradigm. At this point, something interesting happens: Because you’ve eliminated the common occurence of McLecture the Scottish Elf, the players will suddenly be very interested when McLecture does show up. (If you handle it correctly, of course.)

For example, not that long ago I had an NPC in my Ptolus campaign deliver a page-long lecture regarding the history and lore of the Banewarrens. Rather than serving as a chance for my players to tune out, the event actually served as the dramatic culmination of an entire session. It was a taut and exciting cliffhanger.

What made it work?

(1) The Banewarrens were not an unknown quantity at this point. I had been dropping various hints regarding their existence and their importance over the course of the entire campaign. Because of this, the players had been looking for more information.

(2) Because I had been following the “rules” outlined above, the players weren’t used to getting more than little snippets of information. So when they suddenly got inundated with information they (a) drank it up like thirsty men at a desert oasis and (b) they knew it was a portentous and important event.

(3) I also laid the groundwork for that portentous atmosphere. The NPC delivering the lecture had been known to the PCs for a long time, but when she came on the scene to deliver the lesson in lore, she seemed like a very different person. They weren’t just hanging out in a bar and having a good time any more. This was important to her. And because she had become important to them, the fact that she considered it important carried weight.

So, like most rules, you need to know when to use them and you need to know when to break them. But it’s also important to realize that what makes breaking the rules so effective is the fact that you were using them before.