Tom Bissell has an interesting piece on Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim over here. He’s trying to figure out why everything is wonderful about Skyrim… except the NPC dialogue.

He talks about a lot of things: That the game becomes cinematically boring (due to a fixed camera angle and a lack of action) during the dialogue. That the actual dialogue is terrible, forced, and false. That the voice acting, hampered by the poor writing and lack of context, is bland and weak. That there’s a lack of creatively-directed animation, which means every NPC is just a plastic, flapping mouth animation.

Based on my previous experience with Bethesda games, I’m guessing that this is all 100% true.

But I think most of this is just a symptom of a problem that Bissell struggles to put his finger on. A quick excerpt:

It surely says something that even my most fervent Skyrim-loving friends cop to skipping through the expository narrative sequences. They laugh when they admit this, and it’s a nervous, uncomfortable laugh — a laugh that suggests they’re wondering why they do this. I’ll tell them: Because the stuff they’re skipping is so bad that it makes the rest of the game seem like a waste of time, which it’s not. When many of a game’s biggest fans are unable to endure large parts of that game, it may be time to reexamine the vitality of certain aspects of the experience. Just for starters, not every merchant in Skyrim needs a dialogue tree concerning his or her personal history. Not every Jarl needs to offer you the chance to learn about his town’s ostensibly fascinating history. Why make every character a walking lore dump when lore can be more effectively embodied in the world and environments? After all, the world and environments are already there in Skyrim; they’re quite literally everywhere you look, gushing all manner of wonderfully implied lore. And they’re beautiful. Like most who play Skyrim, I’m greatly drawn to these incredible environments because the act of exploring them becomes uniquely my experience. When I’m listening to and watching Skyrim’s interminable characters, I’m skipping through the same dumb cartoon everyone else is.

I think what Bissell is trying to identify, under all of this, is a pretty simple principle: The lack of interactivity in video game dialogue.

Everything else about the Elder Scroll games positively bristles with interactivity: You can go anywhere. You can do practically anything.

But as soon as you start talking to an NPC, the game locks down and your interaction with the game world goes away. Oh, sure, you’ve got dialogue options to choose from. But at least 95% of these boil down to you simply selecting the next topic the NPC is going to lecture you about. It never feels like the NPCs are actually talking to you; it always feels like they’re just talking at you.

The old Ultima games used to have a dialogue system in which you could type in keywords to provoke responses from NPCs. Within the limitations of the technology at the time, this was extremely interactive. But then the entire industry (including the later Ultima games) took a step backwards and simply generated the applicable list of keywords so that you could select between them.

And the industry really hasn’t done anything to update dialogue interaction since then.

I’m not saying that we need to go back to keyword input. (That’s marginally more interactive, but not by much. You’re still just topic-selecting.)

The marginal exception to this is Bioware, who have consistently pushed for deeper and more meaningful choices within their dialogue systems. The industry needs to look at their games and then push even farther. The industry needs to make dialogue interactions just as fun; just as interesting; and just as exciting as the rest of the game. And they can do that by abandoning the concepts of “topic selection” and “exposition pumping”, and instead focus on how actual conversations operate.

Speaking of the virtues of strategic gaming, the Humble Bundle program is offering up a suite of Introversion games including Uplink, which is one of the most immersive computer games ever made (and which achieves that immersion by anachronistically eliminating save games and enforcing real-time strategy-based play).

For those unfamiliar with the Humble Bundle program, they put together packages of indie games which you can then buy by naming your own price. Not only can you name your own price, but a chunk of the money you pay is donated to charity. (And you get to specify exactly how much goes to charity and how much goes to the game designers.)

For those unfamiliar with Uplink, you assume the role of a computer hacker accepting jobs from anonymous clients to break into data systems around the globe. And when I say “assume the role”, I really mean it: The game takes the form of a client interface. The actual hacking is takes the form of fictional “awesome hacking”, but everything about the experience makes it feel like something you’re really doing and not just playing.

In addition to the extraordinary Uplink, the bundle also includes Defcon, Darwinia, Multiwinia, Crayon Physics, and Aquaria. (The last two games are bonuses and were not designed by Introversion.) Really, you can’t go wrong here. (Particularly since you can name your own price.)

Check it out.

I am going to quote something at length from the CRPG Addict because I think it’s important:

The problem [in The Bard’s Tale] is, it costs a lot to resurrect a dead character, especially a high-level dead character. Resurrecting six dead characters cost way more than I had at this point. I had to create a dummy character just to exit the Guild. I was able to resurrect one character immediately, but to get the other five, I had to build up my savings. It took a good three hours before they were all happy and healthy again.

It sounds horrible, especially to modern gamers, but I actually really, really like this aspect of The Bard’s Tale. Death isn’t a game-killer the way it is in Wizardry, but boy does it have consequences. Since you can only save in the Guild of Adventurers, every dungeon foray is a risk, creating a palpable tension as you wander your way through the passages. And every once in a while, you stumble into an encounter like this one (there were actually two more on this same level, with a dragon and a high-powered wizard) that makes your stomach drop and an expletive escape your lips.

Modern games make it far too easy. In something like Baldur’s Gate, you would save every five or ten minutes. If you stumble on to a soul sucker, you might treat the first battle against him like a test run. If your characters die–or, heck, even just lose more hit points than you want to spare–no problem. Just reload and run the encounter again with the experience at your back…

Because of the frequent save points, modern games depend on the difficulty of individual battles to make the games challenging. In The Bard’s Tale, Wizardry, and other games of the era I’m playing, there are plenty of difficult individual battles, but it’s the totality of the expedition that brings the difficulty. You must constantly strategize. How much gold do I need to get from this encounter to make the “trap zap” spell worthwhile? What should I set as my bottom hit point threshold before I return to the surface? Do I want to expend 15 spell points on this group of wights, or take the risk that they’ll turn me into a crippling old man with one touch? I’ve only got 15 squares left to map on this level, but my characters only have 1/2 their hit points. Should I press on or go back?

Exhilarating. Fortunately, I have a lot of games like this left to play.

In computer games, this is a trend which extends beyond CRPGs. In FPS games, for example, Halo ushered in the era of rechargeable shields/stamina and ending an era in which players shepherded health packs and treated entire missions as strategic challenges (instead of a string of tactical encounters).

If this sounds familiar, it should. Tabletop RPGs have been embracing the same trends, starting with a My Precious Encounter(TM) design ethos for published adventures and then hard-coding that design ethos into the game system.

Allow me to emphasize this one last time with two key pull quotes:

Modern games depend on the difficulty of individual battles to make the games challenging.

In [older games] there are plenty of difficult individual battles, but it’s the totality of the expedition that brings the difficulty.

Obviously this is a design ethos which has been most strongly championed by WotC in the 4th Edition of D&D (and then pushed even farther in D&D Gamma World). But it can be seen cropping up in a lot of places.

The argument can, of course, be made that this tactical focus is “more fun”: You’ll never end up trapped in the lower levels of the dungeon (nor will you figure out a clever way to escape). You’ll never find yourself desperately low on health (nor feel the exhilaration of overcoming the cyber-demon between you and the next health pack). You’ll never need to make a tough choice about whether to use your spells now or later (nor experience the satisfaction of blowing away an opponent with your well-earned stockpile of powerful enchantments).

But, ultimately, I think there’s a reason why we refer to “strategy and tactics” as a matched pair: They go together hand-in-hand. They complement each other. They improve each other. Strategic decisions shape (and re-shape) the immediacy of tactical play, naturally resulting in varied and disparate tactical challenges that must be overcome.

Of course, there will still be a great deal of variance in My Precious Encounters(TM) scenario design. (That is, after all, the “precious” part of carefully crafting your “perfect” encounters.) But in my experience, the result still feels curiously bland. Maybe in this encounter you’re fighting a couple of big brutes and in the next encounter you’re surrounded by grunts. But the encounters still all seem to follow the same basic trajectory.

This is probably unsurprising, of course: By removing the strategic portion of the game, you’ve gutted a huge chunk of meaningful choice and consequence. In other words, you’ve crippled the gameplay.

From At Home: A Short History of Private Life by Bill Bryson:

Tallow [candles], made from rendered animal fat, had the great advantage that they could be made at home from the fat of any slaughtered animal. […] Because it melted so swiftly, the candle was constantly guttering and therefore needed trimming up to forty times an hour. Tallow also burned with an uneven light, and stank. And because tallow was really just a shaft of decomposing organic matter, the older a tallow got, the more malodorous it grew.

First thought: I need to do a better job of emphasizing quality of light when I’m describing scenes.

Second thought: Could tallow rendered from magical beasts be possessed of special properties? For example, dragon candles could counter darkness spells due to the potency of the light created. Would the tallow from a basilisk counter petrification, aid it, or even cause it?

For those who could afford it, oil lamps were the most efficient option, but oil was expensive and oil lamps were dirty and needed cleaning daily. Even over the course of an evening, a lamp might lose 40 percent of its illuminating power as its chimney accumulated soot. If not properly attended to, they could be terribly filthy. In At Home: The American Family, 1750-1870, Elisabeth Donaghy Garrett records how one girl who had attended a party in New England where the lamps smoked reported afterward, “Our noses were all black, & our clothes were perfectly gray and … quite ruined.”

In running an urban campaign, I make it a point to keep track of when the heroes have been trekking through sewers and getting sprayed with ichor. But it sounds like even their lamps can give them a rather thorough smirching.

Of course, eventually they start using continual light or continual flame spells, and these have every indication of being even cleaner and safer than a modern light bulb. After all, they don’t actually consume anything, so they can’t giving off great quantities of smoke, right?

But here’s another possibility: Perhaps continual flame spells operate by drawing their fuel from the Ethereal Plane — they are literally burning ether (pun intended). A sheen of scintillant silver marks the greasy reside they leave behind on nearby objects, but this is quite harmless (unless it is allowed to accumulate in great quantities, in which case the nearby casting of spells may cause the residue to ignite and produce unexpected wild magic effects). In addition, the small vortexes produced by continual flame spells on the Ethereal Plane (as they draw raw ether from one plane to the next) are quite easy to detect. Continual flames, therefore, are sometimes used to form navigational beacons on the Ethereal Plane, but they may also attract the attention of the ethereal marauders and the like.

Monte Cook recently posted “A Different Way to Slice the Pie” at WotC’s website. In this essay, he argues that system mastery is a bad idea and makes the game more difficult to learn.

… has everyone swallowed crazy pills around here?

From the essay:

The problem with a newly codified rule is that it becomes one more thing to remember. Moreover, it becomes a component of the game that you have to learn even though it might never come up in play. As unlikely as it seems, it’s possible in 3rd Edition for one to read and understand the “Attacks of Opportunity” section and then never actually have the rule come into play. Why? Because attacks of opportunity are triggered actions that don’t happen on the player’s turn. They’re also situational and easy to forget.

So imagine slicing the pie a different way. Rather than calling out attacks of opportunity as an element of D&D combat, you simply add the rules where and when they are needed. So it would say, as in 1st Edition, that if you move away from a foe, or use a missile weapon next to him, the foe gets a free attack.

With this approach, rules appear only when you need them. There’s less codification and fewer (potentially far fewer) rules to master before you can start playing. The rules are revealed on a need-to-know basis, as distinguished from rules that are “unpacked” and individually categorized and described in a large chapter of a rulebook.

Okay. Let’s break that argument down:

1. Take a rule which can be trivially memorized and referenced with needed.
2. Delete that rule.
3. Replace that rule with a bunch of new rules which are all similar to each other.
4. This will result in there being fewer rules for you to master before you start playing.

So, increasing the number of rules will somehow result in there being fewer rules?

That’s gotta be crazy pills talking, right?

To be clear here, what Cook is simultaneously talking about here is the idea of organizing the rulebook so that rules you don’t need at 1st level are segregated. That way new players don’t need to spend time learning rules that they won’t use until weeks or months later. That makes perfect sense. That’s exactly how the old BECMI boxed sets were organized, and although it made things a little more difficult to reference sometimes, if you do the separation correctly it can be a net gain for the game.

But what that has to do with taking one rule, turning it into 90 different rules, and then smearing them across the rulebook I’m somewhat at a loss to explain.

SYSTEM MASTERY

What I’m seeing here is yet another manifestation of the inherent hostility that has inexplicably grown up against the concept of “system mastery” over the past 5-6 years.

For example, we saw a similar bit of insanity 4 years ago from David Noonan when he claimed that giving every monster unique powers was much easier than referencing unified rules from the PHB because you can list the unique powers in the monster’s stat block (i.e., “the rules only appear where you need them” as Cook says). I pointed out that this was a false dilemma: You can both reference the unified rule and include it in the monster’s stat block (making it easy to use on-the-spot and also rewarding a player’s system mastery).

In other words, Cook’s thesis that rules should “only appear where you need them” is fundamentally flawed. For maximum utility, rules should appear where you need them AND they should be based on universal mechanics which are easier to learn and master.

Why?

Well, for example, let’s imagine that Monster A has a special attack. In order to use Monster A, I’ll need to read the rules for that special attack and understand how to use it. Ideally, I’d find these rules in the monster’s stat block (so that they can be easily referenced when I use the monster). But if I use Monster A several times, I’ll probably remember how the special attack works. I will have mastered those rules and no longer need to read them before using Monster A.

Why anyone would think that’s a bad thing, I dunno. I’m assuming they’re masochists.

But let’s take this farther: Now I want to run Monster B. It, too, has a special attack. And as with Monster A, I’ll need to read the rules for that special attack and understand how to use it.

Unless, of course, Monster B uses the same rules for its special attack that Monster A uses for its special attack. Then I can use my mastery of the rules from Monster A to run Monster B without reading its rules. (Even better would be if this special attack were referred to by a common, unique name so that I could tell at a glance that this was the same ability.)

Legends & Labyrinths leverages the principles of system mastery through its Sidebar Reference System (SRS). (As I’ve discussed before.) I’m not saying that’s a universal solution that everyone should adopt (although I know that, personally, I wish all my RPG rulebooks used it). But I don’t understand why any game designer would want to run away from the principles of system mastery or make their games harder to learn and use.

Because, in reality, the power of system mastery extends beyond merely “I know that rule”. Memorizing the rule is only the first step; learning how to use the rule (and use it effectively) is the next one. For example, a Chess player doesn’t just memorize the rules for how a rook moves. They combine that knowledge with how the other pieces move and, from that, learn how force is projected on the board. And then they grow from there.

And the same is true in D&D or any other roleplaying game.