Tagline: Return of the Eight is pathetic. The first Greyhawk product since the line was canceled, it suffers from trying to fill the needs of two diametrically opposed extremes.

This is the first time I really ripped a product to shreds. As a reviewer, there really is something incredibly satisfying about flaying a terrible product. In fact, you can easily see that some reviewers get so addicted to the hit of ripping into stuff that this becomes all that they do.

Hopefully, I’ve managed to keep a more balanced head on my shoulders over the years. But I’m also clearly not one of those namby-pambies who think reviewers should adhere to the already dubious maxim that “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all”. If there is any profession where that maxim almost intrinsically does not apply, then it’s reviewing. I think you should be deeply suspicious of any reviewer who never has a bad thing to say.

Personally I looked forward with great anticipation to the return of the Greyhawk setting to the TSR line-up. When the line was canceled several years back I was among the protesters who thought this a bad idea. Greyhawk was your all-around “typical AD&D campaign world”, with good cause since it was one of the first. Its loss meant that you had very atypical settings (Ravenloft, Dark Sun, etc.), the super-powered Forgotten Realms, and the legend-oriented Dragonlance setting. Besides, there’s a lot of interesting stuff on Oerth – it may not have sold well in comparison to TSR’s other settings, but that might have had something to do with the fact that unlike the “three supplements a month” Forgotten Realms, Greyhawk was never adequately supported after Gygax’s departure from the company. Properly supported it would definitely, I thought (and continue to think), be a strong part of TSR’s line-up.

So when Peter Adkison and Wizards of the Coast announced that Greyhawk was to be brought back from the dead and properly supported I thought it was a great idea. When the product line was finally announced, I began looking forward eagerly to Return of the Eight, the first new Greyhawk product to be released since the line was canceled.

Having now read Return of the Eight I am bitterly disappointed, and have many unanswered questions, such as:

Why restart the Greyhawk setting with a module? Why use such terrible artwork? Why abandon all sensible lay-out? Why railroad the PCs? Why have caricatures for NPCs? Why abandon all logic in the final act? Why have an anticlimax? Why is there an elevator? But above all else…

What were they thinking?

WHAT YOU GET

Return of the Eight is a 64 page module written by Roger Moore. It begins in the city of Greyhawk a year after the end of the Greyhawk Wars. There’s a bunch of weird politics involved here, but you need a Greyhawk sourcebook which hasn’t been printed in half a decade in order to make sense of it all, so let’s cut to the chase: The Circle of Eight was a group of powerful wizards dedicated to fighting the good fight (these are the Good Guys). At the end of the Greyhawk Wars Ivid V (the Former Bad Guy) convinced one of the Eight (a bloke named Rary) to assassinate two other members of the Eight (Otiluke and Tenser). Simultaneously all of Tenser’s cloning material was destroyed, so he was really, really dead – there was no coming back this time. The really powerful wizard Mordenkainen even confirmed it through divination.

Which brings us to today when, naturally, Tenser is going to show up again. The Circle of Eight is attempting to reform itself and the PCs have the dubious pleasure of making acquaintances with one of them (a chick named Jallarzi). Now things get complicated again and you need that out-of-print sourcebook again. The demon Tuerny is involved in a plot with the witch Iggwilv and her son Iuz the Old (these are the Current Bad Guys). They corrupt Jallarzi and make it appear as if she has betrayed the Circle of Eight. Why they do this is never really explained, because the only thing it seems to accomplish is to lead the PCs and the Circle right to Tenser’s Castle – which is where these three hope to open a gate to one of Oerth’s moons and bring through their army within quick striking distance of the defenseless City of Greyhawk. Needless to say, the PCs go to Tenser’s Castle, go through the gate, and beat the bad guys.

Did I mention that for another unknown reason the Current Bad Guys activated Tenser’s cloning machinery on this moon of Oerth and cloned him, only to alter his clone into an extremely ugly, mute, blue-skinned midget? No? Well, I won’t. It’s too painful.

THE LAYOUT

The first odd thing that struck me about this product was the lay-out. The text is a nice, reasonably sized font and the margins aren’t too bad (the left, right, and bottom margins average less than an inch – but the top margin is about 3″ for no particular reason except that it allows them to interchange three repetitive sets of graphics over and over and over again).

But then it gets weird. If you’ve ever seen a GURPS manual you know exactly what this text in this module looks like – two columns, one narrow and the other wide. Except that in Return of the Eight that narrow column isn’t a sidebar – it’s just another column. Yes, that’s right – it’s two column text, but for no apparently good reason the columns are different widths. (What’s even more confusing is that after the first five pages the side on which the narrow column is located switches – I’m assuming this was just a lay-out error that nobody bothered to notice or fix.)

I initially thought someone had discovered that their word processing program could vary the widths of two-column text and thought, “Whoa! Cool!” and just hadn’t thought things through. What I learned later on was that all of the Greyhawk product line was to be laid out this way in order to give it a “distinctive look”.

This is even worse. There is nothing “distinctive” about this look – it looks just like a GURPS book. Except that in a GURPS book it actually serves a purpose!

(This plan has since been dropped because TSR’s customers pointed out that it was a really dumb layout technique. It will still infect the first few Greyhawk products, however.)

THE ART

The art in Return of the Eight is atrocious. The cover is not only downright ugly it is flat-out stupid – depicting the short, blue midget we will learn is actually Tenser inside grabbing onto the skirt of a buxom woman fighter (at least she isn’t wearing a chainmail bikini) and a male fighter with his shield and sword raised against this tiny, pathetic, blue midget. Meanwhile in the background about two feet away from the male fighter is a ten foot tall demon with four foot fangs. HELLO?! I don’t think the blue midget is the biggest problem you’re facing at this moment.

The interior art is no better. The poses are stiff and are helped little by the fact that the subject matter is so utterly boring and atrocious.

THE RAILROADING

The plot focuses on several key points:

1. The PCs must meet Jallarzi, her friend Marial, her pseudo-dragon Edwina, and another wizard named Warnes Starcoat all in the same evening in an amazingly contrived sequence.

2. One of the PCs must be hit on the head by Edwina falling out of the sky, which will lead to them discovering she was attacked, which will lead them to Jallarzi’s Tower.

3. The PCs must explore Jallarzi’s Tower.

4. The PCs must must go to Tenser’s Castle (not that anything they discovered in Jallarzi’s Tower will actually lead them to go there – they will be informed by Warnes that it is “obvious” they should go).

5. The PCs must must go through the gate to Oerth’s moon (not that they will have any clue why this is important).

6. The PCs must must defeat the Current Bad Guys and thwart their plans (not that there is any way for them to know who the Bad Guys are or what their plans were until after it’s all over).

As you may have gathered from all the “musts” above this is a fairly contrived plotline. It is made worse by the fact that Moore doesn’t even bother in many cases with pretexts to carry the PCs from one event to the next – they are either forced into the encounter (it just happens – for example, Edwina hits them on the head with no if’s, and’s, or but’s) or a handy NPC will say “go this way”.

Even odder to me is the transition between Act Two and Act Three – where the players leave Tenser’s Castle through a gate that takes them one of Oerth’s moons. Previously these PCs have been railroaded from one location and event to another, suddenly however there is no good explanation given for what happens. The gate in question is tucked in a back room of the keep and no particular importance is attached to it. In addition, Moore has gone out of his way to make it difficult to get through the gate – anyone entering the room is blown right back out again unless they really fight against it by the mysterious power of the gate. The problem here is that since the gate is not discussed as being important, no mention of dimension travel is made prior to this in the adventure, and the PCs are heartily discouraged from exploring that particular avenue. So why should they? My players said, “Right, Tenser the Mighty Magician doesn’t want us in there… let’s trust him.” After they had completely cleaned out Tenser’s Castle and were beyond irritation into downright frustration I eventually had to say, “Look, you’ve got to go through this gate so we can finish playtesting the adventure.” At which point we all commented how stupid it was to attach no importance to the gate and then make it nigh-to-impossible to get through, despite the fact that going through it is crucial to finishing the adventure.

It was initially pointed out to me that perhaps this was because the product line is being targeted towards “Old School” gamers who aren’t really interested in plots or character motivations, but just in dungeon-delving. I considered this awhile and then realized two things.

First, the “dungeons” (a Tower and a Keep) are pathetic for dungeon-delving – although there are several creature encounters that make no sense whatsoever. (How Tenser or Jallarzi live or lived in the places that are supposedly their homes is beyond me.)

Second, the plot revolves around highly complicated political intrigue that you need footnotes to figure out (particularly since the PCs will never be informed of what the hell is going on until it’s all over).

Perhaps it suffers from trying to be both — a story-oriented adventure, but with all the trappings of classic dungeon-delving. Whatever the case, it is among the worst examples of either I have ever seen.

THE MAPS

Now we come to another design flaw of the product – the location of the maps (as well as the occasional absence of maps).

First there is a map of the first floor of Jallarzi’s Tower inside the front cover, and a map of the second and third floors inside the back cover. These are very nicely done – detailed and highlighted in a style reminiscent of watercolors. On page 10 we have an exterior view of Jallarzi’s Tower, showing us what it looks like and how it all fits together – this little illustration tells us that the tower has six floors. We can only hope that the PCs never attempt to venture beyond the third floor because not only are no details of these floors provided, but no maps are either.

Moving onto Tenser’s Castle is where we begin to encounter serious problems. The castle and the approach to the castle are detailed in 8 maps scattered throughout the text describing various locations in the castle. This would be really handy… if whoever had placed the maps had done so with some relation to the text. Indeed, the order of the maps proceeds very naturally (1st through 7th floor, than the lower levels in order).

LOOK FOR THEM WHERE?

My other favorite trick with Return of the Eight is the manner in which they reference OOP products as if everyone had them. This feature of TSR’s modules (telling you where to find the complete write-ups for the monsters and NPCs they provide iterative stats for) is usually quite handy, allowing you to find out more information. I found it quite infuriating, however, when no useful information is given to me (requiring me to look it up if I am to use the creature or NPC in question) and the references point me towards:

Greyhawk Adventures. A 1st edition product that has been out of print for at least a decade.

The guide from the 1983 World of Greyhawk boxed set.

The Rogue’s Gallery. A 1980 product that no one has ever heard of.

Monster Manual II. A first edition product that has been out of print since 1989.

The oddest reference was to either The Dancing Hut of Baba Yaga (1995) or “The Dancing Hut”, from Dragon issue #83 (March 1984). Not only is it an odd reference, but it’s completely outside of Greyhawk.

The worst reference? D&D Original Set Supplement III, Eldritch Wizardry. Although you could also look that one up in the first edition DMG as well.

There are other examples as well, but they usually aren’t so bad – pointing to products which were still produced just before Greyhawk went defunct, or which discussed the monster or NPC in enough detail that I did not actually need the reference. What puzzled me most was that the more likely it was that the reader would actually own the material in question, the more detail was given in the text. The more obscure the reference, the less information given.

LOOK UP AT THE SKY STUPID!

Act III, as already noted, takes place on one Oerth’s moons. The DM is cautioned multiple times and in great severity to not let the players in on this secret – do not tell them explicitly that they are no longer on Oerth, and only “let them slowly discover they are not” there.

My first reaction to this was: “If someone dropped me on a moon the first thing I’m going to notice is looking up into the sky and saying, ‘Hmmm… I wonder why there’s a big planet hanging up there instead of the moon I’m used to.’”

AN ELEVATOR?!

In Tenser’s castle there is an elevator. It is referred to as “The Great Lift”, but it is operated by pushing a button and it even has a chime. About the only thing that is missing is a set of bombs to take out the cables, and another set to take out the breaks if someone doesn’t pay a million dollar ransom.

Maybe the sequel to Return of the Eight will feature Teurny, Iggwilv, and Iuz planting a magical bomb on a chariot. If the chariot drops below 10 mph…

An elevator.

In a fantasy setting.

What were they thinking?

CONCLUSION

About the best thing you can say about Return of the Eight is that they were attempting to appeal to two very dichotomous groups of gamers – the role-oriented gamers and the hack-oriented gamers (and the latter should not be taken as an insult) – and they failed.

The worst thing you can say about Return of the Eight is…

What were they thinking?

This is an abysmal way to re-introduce the Greyhawk line (about the only thing I can figure out is that they though it would be “cool” to have product with the word “return” in the title to signal the “return of Greyhawk”). I have much higher hopes for future products in the line, but this is not a good start.

Stay away from this product. You’ll do nothing but waste $14 that could have been spent on something far more worth your while.

Style: 2
Substance: 1

Title: Greyhawk: Return of the Eight
Writers: Roger Moore
Publisher: TSR/Wizards of the Coast
Price: $13.95
Page Count: 64
ISBN: 0-7869-1247-2
Originally Published: 1998/07/29

I actually don’t mind a little science fantasy in my D&D fantasy. I’ve always been a fan of Tekumel and S3 Expedition to the Barrier Peaks currently appears in my OD&D hexcrawl campaign, for example. But I do tend to like it to possess a strong fantasy flavor (like Monte Cook’s chaositech, for example). And that elevator from Return of the Eight still sticks in my craw. I think the problem is that it’s such a wholehearted anachronism. I don’t have any problem with the idea of Tenser having a floating platform in the middle of his citadel — he is, after all, the creator of Tenser’s floating disc — but for it to literally be a modern elevator just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

For an explanation of where these reviews came from and why you can no longer find them at RPGNet, click here.

Awhile back I wrote “Treasure Maps & The Unknown: Goals in the Megadungeon“. This post is just a simple streamlining of an idea that was running throughout that essay:

If an RPG rewards you for a specific tactical method, that method will be preferred and sought out. For example, if the game rewards you only for combat, that provides a strong motivation to seek out combat. There will still be some strategic thought employed (as one differentiates between “challenges that can be overcome” and “shit that’s too tough for us”), but the tactical method being rewarded will be strong pre-selected.

If you shift the game’s reward to a strategic goal, on the other hand, then players are free to pursue any tactical method for achieving that goal. As a result, you game will be more flexible and, in my opinion, more interesting.

Actually, as I write this, I realize this principle probably applies beyond RPGs. For example, Chess provides only one reward (winning the game) and it only awards it when a strategic goal has been achieved (achieving checkmate). Imagine if Chess instead rewarded points based on capturing pieces. The entire focus of the game would be narrowed. And what if the game preferentially rewarded capturing pieces with your Rook instead of your Bishop? The focus of the game would become even more limited.

In a similar fashion,victory in Twilight Imperium is achieved when a player reaches 10 victory points. Virtually every reward in the game is a strategic one (which can be achieved using a variety of tactics depending on the circumstances of the game). The exception? One of the strategy cards gives the player picking it 2 victory points. This specific reward for a tactical method (“pick the Imperial Strategy card”) warps the game by “forcing” everyone to pursue that tactical method. The problem was so significant that Fantasy Flight Games completely revised the strategy cards in order to eliminate it in the first expansion pack for the game.

Technoir uses a simple core mechanic in which verbs are used to push adjectives onto characters. (For example, you might use your character’s Hack verb to push the adjective “exploited” onto a gunrunner’s security system.) That may look a little gimmicky, but it actually seems like a really slick little system.

What I find particularly notable about this is that it mechanically articulates and reinforces a procedure that I use almost constantly when I’m refereeing in virtually any system: When a player proposes an action with an uncertain outcome, the action is mechanically resolved using the rules of the game. Then I consider how that outcome has shifted the status quo and carry that knowledge forward as additional actions are proposed and resolved. I’m intrigued to see how a system that feeds directly into this process will perform in play: Will it piggyback it? Reinforce it? Interfere with it? Enhance it?

I’ll probably have more to say about Technoir once I’ve had a chance to actually play it, but my read-thru of the rulebook actually got me thinking about something completely different that I want to touch on today: Skill challenges in 4th Edition.

Technoir structures its core mechanic into Sequences using a very simple system of turn-taking. The trick to resolving sequences is pretty simple: Because adjectives are meaningful, the GM can use his common sense to know when a sequence ends (because the adjectives that have been applied will either result in the players being successful or unsuccessful in achieving their goal). This works because you can’t just slap adjectives on willy-nilly; you need to establish the proper vector by which the adjective can be applied. (In other words, you need to explain what actions you’re taking to achieve the objective.)

The result is that adjectives both arise naturally from the game world and also strictly describe the game world. As a result, sequences build organically and logically to unforeseen conclusions.

The system is, as far as I can tell, incredibly flexible and can be applied to almost any conflict (or what Technoir refers to as a “contention”): Hacking, seduction, combat, interrogation, tracking, chases, etc.

In other words, Technoir‘s sequences have the same mechanical goal as 4th Edition’s skill challenges (resolving discrete chunks of action in a structured format). But skill challenges are the polar opposite of Technoir‘s sequences:

First, whereas Technoir trusts the creativity and common sense of the players at the table to determine when a goal has been achieved (or thwarted), 4th Edition’s skill challenges hard-code a success-or-failure condition which is completely dissociated from the game world. Or, as Technoir puts it:

After any turn is taken and an action is performed, everyone at the table should look at what’s happening in the fiction. As I said before, there’s no score. You have to decide for yourselves when this ends. Each player should respect the adjectives that have been applied and removed and decide what her protagonist wants now — no matter what hse came into the scene wanting. You should do the same for your antagonists. You might find that one side got what they cam for and is done. Or that the two sides are now willing to compromise. Or that there are no good vectors for attacks any more. Look for new ways out of the situation. Maybe it’s time to stop rolling dice and cut to a new scene.

But if there is still something to contend over, go on to the next turn and play out the next action.

Technoir cares intimately and enthusiastically about what your characters have done, why they’ve done it, and what they’ve accomplished by doing it. 4th Edition’s skill challenges, on the other hand, don’t give a crap about any of that: If you haven’t rolled four successes yet, then your characters haven’t succeeded (no matter what they’ve achieved with those checks). And if you have rolled four successes, then your characters have totally succeeded (even if their actions haven’t actually achieved that yet).

Second, Technoir‘s system inherently gives freedom of choice to the players. They set their goals, determine their actions, and even demand their outcomes. (Of course, those demands may not always be satisfied.) Despite several years of constant errata and house rules attempting to soften 4th Edition skill challenge’s away from the rigid railroad presented in the original Dungeon Master’s Guide, the system is still inherently antithetical to player choice. For example, here’s a key quote from the presentation of skill challenges in D&D Essentials Rules Compendium:

Each skill challenge has skills associated with it that adventurers can use during the challenge. (…) Whatever skills the DM chooses for a skill challenge, he or she designates them as primary or secondary. A typical skill challenge has a number of associated skills equal to the number of adventurers plus two.

Incredibly, skills that players want to use that the DM hasn’t pre-approved can never be considered primary skills and are automatically considered inferior (they can count for no more than one success and may not count for successes at all). By default, 4th Edition tells you that ideas originating from the players are not to be treated with the same respect as ideas originating from the DM. It’s hard-coded right into the rules.

The two approaches really are night and day: Technoir trusts the creativity of the players. 4th Edition shackles the creativity of the players.

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.

The experience of writing something and turning it loose into the world is a fascinating one. Michael Suileabhain-Wilson, author of “Five Geek Social Fallacies“, puts it elegantly when he writes:

Thus, when I realized that 5GSF was striking a chord, I started following the referrers from my server logs, to see what the conversation was. That was transformative.

I have trouble coming to terms with the way people respond to the written word; the critical element, I think, is a powerful sense of detachment. Readers, more often than not, seem not to be invested in their relationship to the text. This is a different standard from the stage. Performance is, in some respects, harder than writing — if nothing else, you can’t revise away a misstep — but your audience is usually rooting for you. They came out to see the show; they have some personal investment in their own enjoyment. They want you to succeed, and as long as you don’t stink, you’ll probably be OK. Text, on the other hand, has distance built in. A reader needs to be wooed. If you fail to serve their needs, they have no mercy. (The exception here is if the reader is already a fan of yours, in which case they’ve made a personal investment which gives you some wiggle room.)

It’s difficult watching people respond to your work in that detached fashion, particularly when you have learned the first lesson of Internet criticism: never respond to a critique of your own work except to correct errors of fact, and sometimes not even then. Detached distaste is infuriating; detached approbation is unsatisfying.

The most popular thing I’ve ever written for The Alexandrian is, without a doubt, “D&D: Calibrating Your Expectations“. It was the first article on the site to attract widespread attention. (Looking at the server logs I can see it getting hot at Giant in the Playground, moving over to ENWorld, making the jump to WotC’s boards, and then exploding at StumbleUpon.) In fact, I think it’s fair to say that if I hadn’t written it the Alexandrian wouldn’t exist today. Tossing your words out into the empty void gets frustrating after awhile.

In short, “Calibrating Your Expectations” gave me an audience. And even now, several years later, it consistently remains the most popular page on the site. (Although the Three Clue Rule gives it a run for its money.)

But the interesting thing for me is that the article seems to have become popular for reasons that are almost completely inverted from the reasons that I wrote it.

What I thought people would take away from the article was a fresh appreciation of high-level play in D&D. I felt that people were struggling with a dissonance between what they thought high-level D&D was supposed to be like (Conan or Lord of the Rings) and what high-level D&D was actually delivering (mythological demigods). I thought that if people became conscious of the dissonance then they would be able to enjoy high-level play for what it was. (And this wasn’t even just about people who were unhappy with high-level play. I felt like even people who were having fun with high-level play were frequently underestimating just how awesome their characters were.)

Nor was this meant to be some sort of One-True-Wayism. I wasn’t trying to say, “High-level play is the only way to go!” But when I wrote that “Aragorn is about 5th level”, for example, what I was trying to say is, “And that means 5th level is pretty amazing. Which means that 15th level is really amazing. Let’s embrace the epic quality of our high level characters. Let’s tell stories worthy of Hercules!”

What actually happened (and, in retrospect, this should have been obvious to me) was that people who were experiencing dissonance with high-level play did, in fact, find their answers in the article. “Calibrating Your Expectations” was succesfully delivering its message that, “5th level is pretty amazing!” But most readers took that premise in a completely different direction than I did, instead grabbing hold of this passage from the article:

What frustrates some people is that D&D assumes that you’re going to move from one level of power to an extremely different level of power. So they spend a lot of time tweaking the system and trying to get it to perform at a more uniform level from 1^st to 20^th level.

I think this is the hard way of doing it. Instead of fighting the system, I’d rather try to work with it: Target the precise range of levels which form the “sweet spot” for whatever campaign concept I’m working on, and then tinker with the character creation and advancement rules to keep the campaign focused in that sweet spot. Those changes can be as simple as “XP awards will be 1/10^th the normal size and everyone should create a 5^th level character”, but more complicated variants are more than possible.

The point is that you find that “sweet spot” and then you tinker with one aspect of the system, rather than trying to redo the whole thing.

And the conclusion they reached was, “Let’s stick to low-level play.”

Which makes perfect sense. Heck, I’d even written it. But what I thought had been a secondary conclusion was, in fact, the primary conclusion for most people.

(What I find really interesting is the add-on effects from this. People who argue that D&D should stick to the gritty fantasy of low level play will cite the article to help explain their position. People who disagree with them will follow the link and read the article with eyes biased by the guy giving them the link. And then I get angry e-mails from people who think I hate high-level play because I argue that Aragorn is a 5th-level character. Take a moment to think about what that has to say about how ideas are transmitted and what the implications are when you apply it to things more important than discussions about game mechanics.)

E6

One of the really interesting things to come out of this gestalt was E6: The Game Inside the World’s Most Popular RPG. Designed by Ryan Stoughton, E6 is a system mod for D&D that allows PCs to reach 6th level and then puts character advancement into a cryogenic freeze: Characters can still advance, but only through feats (slowing the rate of that advance considerably). The philosophy of E6 was influenced by Ryan Dancey’s statement that D&D “by design changes roughly every 5 levels”, resulting in four distinct quartiles of play:

Levels 1-5: Gritty fantasy
Levels 6-10: Heroic fantasy
Levels 11-15: Wuxia
Levels 16-20: Superheroes

And in E6, basically, PCs are allowed to reach the Heroic Fantasy “quartile” and then things are slowed down so that they never leave it. This could be partly mimicked, of course, by simply reducing XP awards. But E6 improves on that model in two ways: First, by dripping the advancement in the form of feats, E6 allows for a constant pace of rewards in the form of character advancement. Second, beyond a certain point feat-based advancement no longer allows the PCs to simply become better at what they already do. The PCs are forced to diversify their abilities instead of increasing them. This allows the system to side-step a hard cap: The PCs can continue developing virtually forever.

E(X)

E6 works. It dials in a desired result and locks it into place. But what I find particularly interesting about the E6 system is that it works for any level, not just 6th. Want your PCs to stay as mere mortals? Play E1. Want to crank it up a notch so that your PCs are slipping through dimensions and polymorphing into strange creatures? Welcome to E8. Looking for some plane-hopping demigods? E15, at your service. Want the full D&D experience but think the Epic Level Handbook is a load of bollocks? E20 is your ticket.

It’s also trivial, of course, to skip the initial leveling up phase. Just dial in your desired E-level for the campaign and away you go.

THE CORE RULE: Level advancement is capped at Level X. Upon attaining Level X, characters earn a new epic feat every time they earn an amount of XP equal to the amount of XP they needed to advance to Level X from the previous level. (For example, advancing from 7th level at 21,000 XP to 8th level at 28,000 XP requires 7,000 XP. Therefore, if you’re playing E8, you get an additional feat every 7,000 XP.)

BUILDING ENCOUNTERS: When calculating Average Party Level (APL), treat every 5 epic feats as a +1 adjustment to a character’s level to a maximum of 20 feats. After that point, treat every 10 epic feats as a +1 adjustment to a character’s level.

In general, you still shouldn’t use opponents with CRs higher than Level X + 4. You should either use a larger number of lower CR creatures or you can advance monsters by giving them epic feats (using the same guideline as for PCs to determine their adjusted CR).

EPIC FEATS: In general, any feat can be selected as an epic feat (assuming prerequisites are met). The following feats can also be selected–

Ability Training: You spend time honing your abilities. Pick one ability score. You qualify for the Ability Advancement feat for that ability. (You can gain this feat multiple times, but its effects do not stack. Each time you take this feat it applies to a different ability.)

Ability Advancement: Your training pays off. Pick one ability score for which you have the Ability Training epic feat. You gain a permanent +2 bonus to that ability. (You can gain this feat multiple times, but its effects do not stack. Each time you take this feat it applies to a different ability.)

Expanded Spell Knowledge: You learn new spell(s) whose level equals half your caster level (round down, and treat a new 0th-level spell as 1/2). (Thus, a sixth level Sorcerer could learn one 3rd level spell, one 1st and one 2nd level spell, three 1st level spells, or six 0th-level spells.)

Expanded Caster Stamina: You gain 1 or more new spell slots, with spell levels totaling to half of your caster level. Treat 0th level spells as 1/2. (Thus, a sixth level Wizard could gain one 3rd level slot, one 1st and one 2nd level slot, three 1st level slots, or six 0th-level slots.) This feat cannot provide spell slots higher than you can already cast.

EPIC SPELL FEATS: Certain spells that have effects which are necessary to avoid “no-win scenarios” (like raise dead or stone to flesh) may have a level which is too high to cast in a particular E(X) campaign. The following epic feats duplicate the effects of these spells. However, the DM should feel free to eliminate them if they feel that the particular spell doesn’t fit the power level or atmosphere they’re trying to achieve. (If you do eliminate some of these, consider including artifact-level powers that can be sought out from remote oracles, completing holy quests, or the like as part of the campaign.)

Atonement: You can use atonement, as the spell.

Break Enchantment: You can use break enchantment, as the spell with a 250 gp material component.

Dispel Magic: You can use dispel magic, as the spell with a 100 gp material component.

Gentle Repose: You can use gentle repose, as the spell with a 100 gp material component.

Raise Dead: You can use raise dead, as the spell (paying the material component cost). (Losing a level, in the context of epic levels, means losing a feat and the associated XP. You may want to add resurrection and true resurrection as part of a feat chain.)

Regenerate: You can use regenerate, as per the spell with a 1,000 gp material component and a casting time of 1 hour.

Remove Blindness/Deafness: You can use remove blindness/deafness, as the spell with a 100 gp material component and a casting time of 1 hour.

Remove Disease: You can use remove disease, as the spell with a 100 gp material component and a casting time of 1 hour.

Restoration: You can use restoration, as the spell (paying the material component), with a casting time of 1 hour. (Note: You might include lesser restoration and greater restoration and turn this into a feat chain.)

Stone to Flesh: You can use stone to flesh, as the spell with a 1,000 gp material component, with a casting time of 1 hour.

TIP: A lot of class abilities would work just fine as feats. Even more class abilities would be appropriate as epic feats (or as part of an epic feat chain). The DM is encouraged to be flexible in helping players achieve the effects they want, as long as they would normally be achievable for the level range that the DM is shooting for.

WHAT E(X) IS RIGHT FOR YOU? If you’ve got a general sense of what level you like “best” or beyond which you feel the game no longer “feels right”, aim roughly 2-4 levels below that in setting your Level X. (The acquisition of epic feats will push the power level up into the range you’re looking for.)

Another way to think about it is to look at the most powerful monsters you imagine the PCs fighting on equal terms. Again, aim 2-4 levels below that when setting your Level X.

This material is covered under the Open Game License.