I mentioned earlier in this series of reactions that, while I respect and admire Gary Gygax for many reasons, that doesn’t change one simple truth:

He should never have been allowed to organize a rulebook.

Write? Sure. Like James Maliszewski (although perhaps not to quite the same fervent degree) I’m actually a fan of his prose and I find his style to be very evocative. But once he’s done writing, it’s time to call in the professional editors to clean up the mess.

Let me give you just two examples. First, from page 19 of Volume 1: Men & Magic, is the section “Level Above Those Listed”, which comes immediately on the heels of the various class progression tables:

Levels Above those Listed: Progressions of Dice for Accumulative Hits, Fighting Capability, and Spells & Levels may not be evident. An 11th level Lord would get 10 +3 dice and fight as he did at the 10th level; but at 12th level, he could get 11 + 1 dice and fight at Superhero + 2. At 13th level dice would be 11 + 3 with Fighting Capability at Superhero + 2. A 17th level Wizard would get 9 + 3 dice and fight as a 16th level, just as an 18th level Wizard would get dice of 10 + 1 with no change in Fighting Capabilities — the change coming at the 19th level, fighting then being done at Wizard + 3. An 11th level Patriarch would get dice of 7 + 3 with Fighting Capability unchanged; at 12th level dice would be 8 + 1 with no change in fighting; and at 13th level the Patriarch would get 8 + 2 and fight as a Superhero – the next change in Fighting Capability coming at the 17th level.

Spell progression for Magic-Users is: 17th level Wizard — 6, 6, 6, 5, 5, 5; 18th level Wizard — sizes across the board; and so on. Spell progression for Clerics is: 11th level Patriarch – 4, 4, 4, 3, 3; 12th level Patriarch — fours across the board; 13th level Patriarch — 5, 5, 5, 4, 4; and so on.

Umm… couldn’t you have just put that info on the actual class tables? I mean, you still didn’t bother to actually explain the methodology behind the progressions, so all you’ve accomplished is to take a big chunk of information and arbitrarily convey it through a different (and much more confusing) method.

The second example is the “chapter” dedicated to spell descriptions. And like every edition of the game except for 3rd Edition, the spells are grouped together according to their level.

Was there ever a less useful method of organizing that material? The only way to find the spell you’re looking for is if you’ve memorized the level of the spell. So you’re basically demanding people to achieve system mastery just to find information in the rulebook.

And then it stuck around for the next 25+ years as some sort of horrible “legacy”.

Admittedly, part of my objection here is philosophical. In organizing a rulebook you have to look at how that rulebook will be used. When it comes to roleplaying manuals, there are three uses:

(1) Learning the game
(2) Character creation
(3) Playing the game

Problems arise because these uses are not always compatible with each other. For example, organizing spells by spell level is useful for character creation because you want to quickly know which spells you can use to fill your available spell slots. On the other hand, it’s completely frakkin’ useless when you’re actually playing the game and trying to figure out how a particular spell works.

I believe that there are usually ways to structure the manual so that all three uses can be satisfied simultaneously. It can be difficult and sometimes it might mean repeating information, but it can almost always be done. And if push really does come to shove, then I think it’s better to favor utility in playing the game.

(Why? Because you spend more time playing the game than you do creating a character.)

As an example of how to do it right, you can look at 3rd Edition’s method for handling spells. There are spell lists which groups the spells together according to level (which provides the necessary utility for character creation), but then the spell descriptions themselves are completely alphabetical (which makes it easy to find the specific spell that you’re looking for). So you get the best of both worlds and full utility out of your rulebook.

(4th Edition, of course, promptly went back to doing it the stupid way. It doesn’t have spells, but they arranged all the powers by level.)

Back to Reactions to OD&D

The Levitz Paradigm was created by Paul Levitz, who has worked as a writer and editor at DC Comics since the 1970’s. The Paradigm itself is a rather straight-forward method for handling multiple ongoing plots in serialized storytelling (although the link I’m providing here would lead you to believe that it’s as complicated as neurosurgery).

I bring it up here because most roleplaying campaigns are, in fact, serialized stories with ongoing plot threads being carried from one session to the next. And I think the basic structure of the Levitz Paradigm can be usefully incorporated into the GM’s toolkit.

The Levitz Paradigm basically works like this:

(1) Plot A is your main plot. It will be the primary focus of attention during the current session.

(2) Plot B is your secondary plot. It functions as a subplot, getting some attention but not as much as Plot A.

(3) Other plots (C, D, and so forth) are given little or no attention.

(4) Once Plot A has been resolved, the other plots get promoted. Plot B becomes your new Plot A, Plot C becomes the new Plot B, and so forth.

(5) In order to avoid predictability, mix things up: Story X might remain Plot B for several sessions, while various other stories 1, 2, and 3 are all promoted to Plot A and resolved in the spotlight. Sometimes you might have two stories in the Plot B position. Or you can demote a plot from A to C, leaving it to simmer for a bit before moving it back into the spotlight. Or maybe in one session you have plots 1, 2, and 3 in the A, B, and C positions; but then in the next session you have plots 3, 4, and 6 in your A, B, and C positions.

USING THE PARADIGM

Basically, the use of the Levitz Paradigm gives you a simple organizational principle that you can use to keep track of multiple complex plots simultaneously. To do that, you just need to focus on doing two things:

(1) Keep a master list of all your active plot threads.

(2) For each session, know which plots are going to be your Plots A, B, and C (and so forth).

It’s dead simple in practice

Denny O’Neil (another DC editor) explains the appeal of the Levitz Paradigm: “Having three-plus stories running simultaneously is a small insurance policy against boring reads.” In a comic, this means that you’re basically upping your chances of any given reader being interested in at least one of the plots you’re currently developing.

The other appeal of the Levitz Paradigm is that it allows the writer to offer meaningful closure (by resolving their Plot A) without offering a convenient “jumping off” point from the title (because there’s always some sort of unresolved plot thread dangling out there).

The appeal of a similar paradigm in gaming is clear: The players are the audience and by simultaneously offering them several different ongoing plot threads, you make it possible to cater to each of them in different ways. And avoiding a “jumping off” point isn’t just about keeping people engaged (although that’s just as important in gaming as it is in serialized fiction), it’s also about maintaining a sense of pace and momentum.

THE PARADIGM WITHOUT PLOT

O’Neil goes onto say: “Another reason to employ the Levitz Paradigm requires us to step, gingerly from the practical to the philosophical. It seems to me that this storytelling method is the best imitation of life possible in a work of fiction. Life, you may have noticed, does not happen in parcels, but as a continuum.”

I’ve been using the word “plot” because that’s the terminology that comes baggaged with the Paradigm. But I think it’s important to note, given the important interactive nature of roleplaying games, that this method works just as well for managing scenario in non-plotted campaigns: The choice of focus does not need to rest solely with the GM. While the players choose where to focus their attention, the GM can use the method to make sure that other important events, threads, and backdrops are kept in play.

Shamus Young has posted his proposal for an interesting Learning Mechanic at Twenty Sided. Here’s how he describes the goal of the mechanic:

Most gameplay mechanics are set up so that characters learn and grow from success. The more success, the more XP. I wanted a mechanic that would simulate an activity that was inherently driven by trial-and-error, and where (this is the important part) the character got gradually better at the activity as time went on. Learning would be fast at first, but progress would be slow. Later on, learning would slower, but success would be more frequent.

He recommends the mechanic for tasks like translating a tome written in an archaic language; finding the cure for a zombie plague; breeding animals; and the like.

Here’s how he describes the mechanic:

The player writes down all the numbers from 1 to 20 on a notecard. Every time they roll a number, that number will be crossed out on the card. If they roll a 15, then they cross out 15.

Each attempt needs to simulate a stretch of in-game time. Hours of labwork, meditation, tinkering, writing on the chalkboard, or whatever is required.

When they make an attempt, they roll the d20. If the resulting number is already crossed out, then the action was a success and they get their reward. If not, they still get to cross out the number they rolled, which will improve their chances next time around. Using a d20, they have no chance of success on their first attempt, and a 5% chance on their next attempt. Every failure improves their chances by 5%, and every success moves them closer to their goal. You decide ahead of time how many successes it will take to reach their overall goal. (For our game, I had the book broken into 13 sections. So the character finished the translation after 13 successes.)

I like the basic concept of this mechanic a lot. It’s similar to a complex skill check, but offers the specific benefits Shamus describes: At first, learning happens fast but progress is slow. Later, learning is slow but progress is fast.

STREAMLINING THE MECHANIC

The idea of keeping a notecard and crossing off number is a nifty gimmick, but if you want to streamline things then you can simplify this mechanic:

Roll 1d20. If the result is equal to or lower than the number of failed attempts you’ve made, you score a success. When you achieve the requisite number of successes, you succeed at the task.

I recommend checking out Shamus’ article directly, as he includes a probability chart useful for determining how many successes a task should require.

It should be noted that, by default, the problems handled by this mechanic are always soluble — given enough time, you will eventually solve them. There is no possiblity of absolute failure. In addition, the mechanic doesn’t account for skill. For some problems these may be seen as features. For other problems they’re bugs. Let’s take a look at how the mechanic might be made more flexible and robust.

EXTENDING THE MECHANIC

PROGRESSIVE SUCCESS: Each success can yield additional information or some other tangible benefit. (A cure that works against the bite of a specific zombie; several pages of translated text; a slightly improved animal.) The mechanic is specifically designed to model tasks which don’t feature all-or-nothing successes.

ROADBLOCK: After a certain number of successes, progress in the task may only be possible when some other prerequisite is met (additional biological samples, a different type of natural resource, etc.). In many cases, the nature of the roadblock may not be known until the roadblock is reached.

VARIABLE DIE TYPES: For tasks of greater or lesser difficulty, you could vary the die type. (With a 1d4 you learn everything about the project rapidly and then gather successes rapidly. On the other hand, with a 1d100 your learning curve takes considerably longer.)

INTRACTABLE PROBLEMS: For problems that could prove intractable for a character, simply set the maximum number of possible attempts. If the character has not achieved success after X attempts, then they’ve exhausted their insight into the problem. (Having multiple people working on a problem like this is useful not only because it speeds up resolution, but also because it gives greater insight into the problem — as represented by more potential checks.)

FACTORING SKILL, METHOD 1: You can factor the character’s skill into the attempt by limiting the number of possible attempts based on their skill. In D&D, off-the-cuff, I’d recommend something along the lines of 10 + skill modifier attempts.

FACTORING SKILL, METHOD 2: You can also make character skill a factor by simply setting a minimum skill requirement. A particular problem, for example, might require a minimum Knowledge (history) bonus of +10. (The drawback of this method is that it still doesn’t allow for any variation in completion time based on character skill. A character with a +10 bonus is just as capable of solving the problem as a character with a +50 bonus.)

FACTORING SKILL, METHOD 3: Set a DC for the task. Each d20 roll becomes an actual skill check. If the character succeeds on the check, the roll counts double. In other words, depending on the die roll, it either counts as two successes or as two failed attempts. (If you’re combining this method with an intractable problem, however, each die roll still only counts as one attempt against the maximum number of possible attempts.)

DISCLAIMER

I’m just spitballing some ideas here. I have not actually run any kind of mathematical analysis on this mechanic (although, as I noted, Shamus Young did provide useful charts for the core mechanic).

One of the things that tends to happen with long series of speculative fiction novels is that, at some point, the author will stop, look around, and begin thinking about how the world around their main character really works. They’ll begin asking questions like:

What is it really like to live as a near-immortal in this semi-feudal, caste-based, Fate-bound Empire I’ve created? How long does a near-immortal remain a child or a young adult? What types of jobs do the common people do? How does the economy function?

And so forth.

This can either be a good thing or it can be a bad thing. It’s a good thing if it adds a richer depth to the world and opens up stories which might otherwise never be told. It’s a bad thing if it leads to the author blandly info-dumping their “research” (which, in this case, doesn’t even have the advantage of imparting actual facts).

In the case of Brust’s Dragaera novels it is a very good thing.

As with my discussion of non-traditional narrative structures in Taltos, this is another trend that actually started with Teckla, but it’s a tradition that carries strongly into Phoenix.

Brust doesn’t make the mistake of boring his readers by having his protagonist (Vlad) lecture them on the finer details of Imperial history, military tactics, or social engineering. Instead, the world simply happens. Details are dropped when necessary for comprehension, but the focus remains tightly fixed on the immediate story being told.

In the case of Phoenix, it’s a story made up of political assassinations; divine meddling; foreign entanglements; social unrest; and (most importantly) personal crises.

I think it says something about this novel that, by page 5, Vlad is standing in front of a goddess… and proceeds to haggle with her.

Let me say that again: Vlad stands in a front of a goddess and haggles with her.

I’m not sure what it says to you, but to me it said: “WARNING: AWESOME ROLLERCOASTER RIDE COMING UP.”

The other thing to note here is that what really makes these Vlad Taltos novels click is not what happens (although that’s almost always entertaining in its own right), but how those events affect the characters.

The only real criticism I can level at Phoenix is that it never quite comes into its own — it never quite seems to figure out how to fire on all cylinders. The events of the novel are all entertaining enough, but don’t quite rise to a particularly memorable level in their own right. The supporting cast is still varied and well-drawn, but none of them are deeply affected by the events of the novel. (Which should not be thought a flaw: There is no particular reason why they should be affected or transformed by these events.)

Which means that the real engine of the novel is, essentially, the character arc of Vlad Taltos himself. But even here, the developments of Phoenix are essentially a coda to the turning point reached during Teckla. In many ways, in fact, Phoenix ends up feeling like an extended (although not over-extended) epilogue to that novel.

Which is fine. It’s probably even a necessary step in the development of Vlad’s character. But it does mean that Phoenix is (a) the first novel in the series that doesn’t stand by itself; and (b) pleasant enough, but nothing to get particularly excited about.

Actually, maybe “epilogue” isn’t quite the right description. In a lot of ways, this book feels like the second part of the trilogy — having neither the advantage of an explosive beginning (Teckla) nor the satisfaction of a well-earned conclusion (wherever Vlad’s going).

One final note: I was utterly unsurprised when I reached the end of the novel, read Brust’s biographical blurb, and discovered that he had joined a band. I’m not sure what it is about SF authors who join bands, but they seem incapable of realizing that what they think are “pithy” observations about how “crazy” the music biz is are (a) not that interesting and (b) usually bone-jarringly anachronistic.

It kinda reminds me of certain military SF written by actual combat veterans in which the tactics, jargon, and culture of 33rd century warfare all look and sound exactly like whatever war the author was fighting in (even when that doesn’t make the slightest lick of sense).

I think it must have something to do with the experience being personally transforming, while also being so incredibly personal and specific that they have difficulty using the material to enrich their writing instead of letting the material use them. (For a counter-example, consider J.R.R. Tolkien’s personal experiences in World War I.  The battles described in The Lord of the Rings don’t look anything like trench warfare (and would be horribly anachronistic if they did). But I feel that Tolkien was still able to use his personal experiences to enrich his fictional depictions of what being in a war feels like.)

GRADE: B-

Steven Brust
Published: 1990
Publisher: Ace
Price: $7.99
ISBN: 0441662250
Buy Now!

Before scientific experimentation disproved it, most people believed in the spontaneous generation of life (also known as equivocal generation). For example, it was believed the maggots spontaneously generated out of rotting meat. That places of darkness spontaneously generated all manner of crawling things (as could be seen upon lifting up a rock). Worms arose from dirt and even frogs were once thought to come from the mud.

This was a universe literally teeming with life energy.

For the purposes of fantasy, I find it particularly fascinating how many of these theories revolved around places of filth, putrescence, and decay giving rise to vermin: Maggots from rotting flesh, rats from excrement, and so forth.

So when we look around our fantasy milieus and see monstrous forms of vermin — dire rats, giant spiders, and the like — could we use such theories of creation as their basis? I think we can. In the vile places of the earth — the places were the very form of the world itself has begun to decay — such creatures are given form out of the darkness. And thus our dungeons teem with life.

Another interesting facet of the theory of the spontaneous generation of life is that, like many pre-scientific beliefs, it was not extinguished by scientific thought — rather, it retreated before it. Once it was proven that maggots are the larvae of flies, for example, the theory simply moved to become the spontaneous generation of bacteria out of the “life force” of the air. It wasn’t until Louis Pasteur rooted out the last of its hiding places that the theory finally died.

I bring this up to suggest that we can just as easily turn the dial in the opposite direction. We can even add a metaphorical (or perhaps metaphysical) component to the theory.

For example, John Wick’s Orkworld postulates that orcs are actually photosynthetic. But we could just as easily say that the orcs spontaneously arise wherever civilization is not: When empires fall, tribes of orcs appear in the ruins.

And we could elaborate upon further upon the themes of this theory: Mice were known to physically reproduce, but they were also thought to spontaneously generate out of moldy grain. Ergo, our orcs can both spontaneously generate out of the lack of civilization, but also reproduce.

Further, we could build upon this by considering the ideas of Lamarckian evolution — that life, once spontaneously generated, strives to become more and more complex. Thus we could postulate that all humanoid life has its origins in the primordial generation of orcish life from the absence of civilization — orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, and beastmen of all sorts appear spontaneously, but then some among them will breed and improve.

This doesn’t even necessarily need to be true, but it would certainly be an interesting religious belief. For example, your dark elves might believe that orcs, humans, elves, and dark elves all exist along a continuum of improvement. (It might be even more shocking if you made this a secret belief among the elves: They look at humans the same way that humans look at orcs… they’re just too polite to say it.)

You could root all of this cosmology in the apeironic weave of creation. Where that weave becomes weakened, spontaneous generation occurs. When weakened by decay, filth and vermin appear. When weakened by the loss of civilization, orcs appear. When weakened by vile death, undead appear.

Such a cosmology could have interesting implications for how summoning rituals or the creation of undead work. For example, Jean Baptista von Helmont had a receipe for mice: “Place a dirty shirt or some rags in an open pot or barrel containing a few grains of wheat or some wheat bran, and in 21 days, mice will appear.” Magical spells like create undead could directly manipulate the apeironic weave in order to cause undead to appear; but you could also open things up by allowing non-magical manipulation of that weave (through ritualistic murder, for example).

You could also flip the whole conceit of “weakening the weave” on its head. Perhaps clerics and living saints appear in those places where the weave has been strengthened. Perhaps the gods themselves are nothing more than those places where the weave has been unnaturally strengthened through the power of belief or sacrifice or chance.