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Ptolus: Running the Campaign – Magic in the Set Dressing

August 9th, 2019

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

In front of the windows, Rehobath sat behind an enormous desk of godwood – the pale, almost pearlescent wood glowing faintly with a white light in the presence of divine magic.

When describing a game world, I try to make a point of integrating the magical, supernatural, or otherworldly aspects of the setting – the stuff that makes the setting unique and different from the world as we know it – in to the setting as a whole: Magic in D&D, for example, shouldn’t only show up in the loot piles or as the central McGuffin of the current scenario.

This is how you make the fictional world come alive. You can see a great example of this in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels, in which the environments are filled to the brim with magical effects, even when that magic isn’t centrally relevant to character or plot. It’s why the Wizarding World is this vibrant, living place which fans find so inviting as a place to imagine living in despite the fact that none of that worldbuilding really “makes sense” if you think about it logically for any amount of time whatsoever.

This isn’t limited to fantasy, either. When I ran Eclipse Phase, for Eclipse Phase (2nd Edition) - Posthuman Studios example, I looked at the transhuman technology available and then very specifically think about how that technology would be realized in fashion. So when I’m describing characters they have prehensile hair, color-changing colors, nictating membranes on their eyes, holographic “make-up” projectors that turn their face into a living art project, and so forth. When it came time to write the Infinity core rulebook, I made sure we included a whole section on this type of stuff for the GM to riff around.

A few partially overlapping categories to think about:

Furniture
Fashion
Building materials
Common conveniences or appliances
Trinkets

Also think about garbage, trash, and detritus. When we think about the cool things that some speculative conceit would make possible, I think we often default to thinking of those things as being new or shiny. But the thing that will make the future feel fundamentally real to someone from 1895 is not the automobile: It’s the rusted Chevy on cinderblocks in the front yard. It’s the patch of leaked coolant slicking the parking lot asphalt. It’s the busted hubcap laying askew in the gutter.

Numenera is basically a whole game based around this conceit (with the titular numenera being mostly the broken or discarded technological remnants of past civilizations), and also takes it to the ultimate extreme by postulating that the very dirt of the Ninth World is, in fact, made up of particles of plastic and metal and biotechnical growths that have been eroded by incomprehensible aeons.

Similar principles can also apply even without speculative fiction, however: What makes a ‘70s police precinct different from the world that the players are familiar with? (Check out the original Life on Mars television series to see this particular example realized in detail.) Or just life as a police officer in general? Or the environment of a squad of soldiers in Afghanistan? Or just daily life in Paris?

(This assumes, of course, that the players are not currently on tour in Afghanistan or living in the 9^th Arrondissement.)

The past is a foreign country. Foreign countries are also foreign countries.

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In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 20B: Tee and the Silver Fatar

August 9th, 2019

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

SESSION 20B: TEE AND THE SILVER FATAR

April 27th, 2008
The 8th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

When they had a moment alone, Dominic asked Tee if she would go on his behalf to see Rehobath, the Silver Fatar of Athor. The note they had found at the Foundry regarding the “Chosen of Vehthyl” had left him deeply concerned about the meeting he had scheduled the next day at the Temple of the Clockwork God. Were they setting him up for something? Were they planning to do something to him?

Dominic felt that he was in desperate need of guidance. But he also didn’t want to walk into the lion’s mouth if it turned out that the Imperial Church was as interested in him as the Reformists.

Tee was more than willing to help. After leaving Dominic at the Ghostly Minstrel, she headed to the Outer Cathedral of Athor.

Athor's Cross

Athor’s Cross

The cathedral was ancient, its presence in Ptolus a testament to one of the three Merchant Princes who had gone to the Novarch in Seyrun and begun the Great Conversion. It was designed around Athor’s traditional cross and layered with intricate iconography and complex ornamentation. Graven images of saints and figures of pantheistic significance covered almost every surface, including the ornately carved pews in the sanctuary. Holy knights of the Order of the Dawn could be seen guarding every entrance.

Order of the Dawn

Order of the Dawn

Tee had suspected it would be more than a little difficult to get an audience with Rehobath, but she had – if anything – underestimated how impossible it truly was. She was shuffled constantly from one priest to another without ever seeming to get any closer to the fatar, but just as she was about to give up a prelate who happened to be passing by stopped in his tracks.

“Excuse me, would you be Tithenmamiwen?” he asked.

Tee nodded.

“I couldn’t help overhearing that you wished to see the Silver Fatar. He had mentioned meeting you at Castle Shard. If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’m sure we can find you a few minutes to speak with him.”

The prelate shooed the other priest away and led Tee to a luxuriously furnished waiting room – a place of crimson satins and velvet cushions. Tee was still left waiting for more than an hour, but eventually a priest came in and escorted her to Rehobath’s personal office.

The office was at the apex of the cathedral’s tower. A huge, vaulted ceiling left Tee feeling particularly small as she was led down the long length of the hall. A fire burned in a mantle of marble to her left; to her right statues of Athor in each of his aspects flanked the wall to the right. At the far end of the chamber curtains of crimson silk hung before tall windows looking south across the Temple District and across the lower length of the city.

In front of the windows, Rehobath sat behind an enormous desk of godwood – the pale, almost pearlescent wood glowing faintly with a white light in the presence of divine magic.

Rehobath rose at Tee’s approach and smiled broadly. Tee bowed slightly and then sat down.

“Mistress Tithenmamiwen,” Rehobath said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Prelate Adlam tells me that you had some matter to discuss with me.”

“Yes,” Tee said. “I have a friend who I think might be in trouble. I recently… umm… found a note that I think is talking about him. I think its very disturbing.”

Tee produced the note and gave it to Rehobath. As he read the note, the look of concern – which seemed like more of a polite façade than anything else – was replaced by one of genuine shock.

“Maeda thinks she’s found the Chosen of Vehthyl?”

“I guess so,” Tee said. “I’m sorry… but what does that mean, exactly?”

“Yes, of course. Let me explain.” Rehobath settled back into his chair. “The Chosen are living saints. The gods themselves have chosen them as direct conduits of their will within the mortal world.”

“You mean the Chosen can talk to the gods?”

“In a way. It would be more accurate to say that they are the living will of the gods made manifest.” Rehobath’s eyes danced over the note again. “Is it true that your friend has the Mark of Vehthyl?”

“I don’t even know what the mark would look like.”

“There are many possible marks, but the Mark of Vehthyl is most often described as eyes which glow with a silver light.”

Tee shifted nervously. “Yes. I’ve seen that.”

Rehobath could barely contain his excitement. “Then your friend has been honored. Would it be possible for me to speak with him?”

“Possibly,” Tee said. “The letter has frightened him. But I’ll talk to him about coming to you.”

“Thank you.” Rehobath paused for a moment and then looked at her significantly. “Your friend Dominic is an itinerant priest, isn’t he?”

Tee quickly denied that Dominic was the friend she had been talking about… and then realized that she’d probably just confirmed Rehobath’s suspicions. Flustered and angry with herself, she made her excuses and farewells.

Rehobath rose and walked her to the door himself, asking her once again – on the way – to have her friend come and talk to him as soon as possible.

NEXT CAMPAIGN JOURNAL

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Ptolus: Running the Campaign – Opportunistic Foreshadowing

June 30th, 2019

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 20A: Funeral for a Python Viper

The Necropolis had been built upon a low bulging hill that lay just along the Cliffs of Lost Wishes at the eastern edge of the city. As they moved a little further into the Necropolis, therefore, they were able to look over the top of the mausoleums and see seemingly endless rows of gravestones dotted with crypts of various sizes running up the hill. In the farthest distance, an the edge of the cliffs themselves, they could see an enormous, castle-like building.

I’ve talked about foreshadowing here on the Alexandrian before.

In Random GM Tip: Foreshadowing in RPGs, for example, I talk about the difficulties of foreshadowing in a non-linear, improvised medium (and three techniques you can use to work around that).

Random GM Tip: Adaptation & Reincorporation discusses how meaning is built over time through the repetition and reincorporation of creative elements. I also discuss the fact the foreshadowing can be thought of as the repetition or reincorporation of material at a point in time before the moment you actually created the material for.

For example, I know that certain features of the Necropolis are likely to become important later in the campaign, and so when the PCs arranged a funeral for Elestra’s python viper, I made a point of including some of those features (like the Dark Reliquary) into my description of the Necropolis.

This is also an example of opportunistic foreshadowing.

I didn’t plan for Elestra’s python viper to die. And I didn’t plan for her to arrange an expensive funeral for it. So I didn’t plan this bit of foreshadowing. I simply seized the opportunity while improvising the scene.

(You may note that this is not exactly hardcore foreshadowing, either. It’s literally just describing something that the characters happen to see. Which is fine. The point is to pre-establish elements so that when they later become the primary focus, they’ve already become an established part of the players’ understanding of the world.)

Session 20 is actually filled with examples of opportunistic foreshadowing.

When the PCs head to the Cathedral to seek advice from Silver Fatar Rehobath, that’s actually an example of how foreshadowing can build on itself: I had included Rehobath on the guest list for the Harvesttime party at Castle Shard because I wanted to establish his presence for later in the campaign. That’s an example of planned foreshadowing. It also put Rehobath on the PCs’ radar, though, and helped prompt them to seek his counsel here.

The inclusion of Prelate Adlam as the priest who recognizes Tee and gets her an audience with Rehobath, on the other hand, is an example of opportunistic foreshadowing. (He has his own significant role to play in future events.)

There’s also the White House: A gambling house that I know will become the center of attention later in the campaign. I’d already put together a planned bit of foreshadowing for the White House at this point (you’ll get to see that play out starting in Session 34; the actual pay-off starts in Session 91), but that’s no reason to forego the opportunistic foreshadowing here when Tee goes looking for a place to gamble.

The mrathrach game she sees being installed is also opportunistic foreshadowing, as is the strangely garbed knight she sees later in the Dreaming. (Tee’s training in the Dreaming Arts will frequently offer incredibly rich opportunities for both planned and opportunistic foreshadowing.)

If you want another example of planned foreshadowing, check out Running the Campaign: Foreshadowing Encounters.

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In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 20A: Funeral for a Python Viper

June 30th, 2019

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

SESSION 20A: FUNERAL FOR A PYTHON VIPER

April 27th, 2008
The 8th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

It was only a few all-too-short hours later before they were rousing themselves out of bed once again.

Ranthir was one of the first to wake up. For several days he had been eagerly looking forward to reading the sealed letter that the Iron Mage had given to them at Castle Shard during the Harvesttime party. He had placed the letter on his bedside table the night before, and the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was the letter lying open.

IRON MAGE’S LETTER

My dear friends—

I am sorry that I could not deliver these instructions to you in person so that I might answer all of your questions. But, sadly, necessities of another nature will make that impossible by the time all of the particulars are known.

By the time this letter opens – which shall be no later than the ninth day of Kadal, if all goes well – the particulars will be known, and thus I have ensorcelled this parchment to reveal them to you.

On the twenty-first day of Kadal, the Freeport’s Sword – a privateer vessel from the Teeth of Light – shall arrive in the Docks of Ptolus. It carries a crate bearing my seal – a plated visor beneath crossed wands.

I ask that you report to Captain Bartholomew upon the arrival of the vessel, collect the crate, and keep it safe. I shall return for it no later than Nocturdei.

I stress that all of this is of the utmost importance. Many lives could be placed in great danger if the crate is not kept safe from the others who seek it.

THE IRON MAGE

(more…)

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Ptolus: Running the Campaign – Meta-Knowledge & Meta-Skill

June 21st, 2019

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 19C: Shilukar’s End

Last week we talked about players creating a firewall between player knowledge and character knowledge. This week I want to talk about some of the pitfalls in doing that.

Think back to when you first started playing D&D. If you’re lucky, then you’ll remember the time that your DM described a huge, hulking, green-skinned humanoid. You chopped at it with your sword! A mighty blow! But the wound begins closing up right in front of your eyes! Nothing will slay the thing! Run away!

AD&D 1st Edition - Troll The creature was, of course, a troll. And you eventually figured out that the only way to permanently injure it (and eventually kill it) was by dealing damage with fire. Think about how exciting it was to figure that out!

There are countless other examples of this hard-won knowledge that you have probably accumulated over the years. And not all of it is as clear-cut or specific as this. It includes stuff like “always bring a 10-foot-pole” and even “put the squishy wizard in the back.”

Now, here’s the question: Having learned all that stuff, you’re starting a new campaign with a brand new 1^st level character.

Should your 1^st level character know that trolls are vulnerable to fire?

It turns out that what seems like a simple question isn’t.

Let’s start by acknowledging the elephant in the room: You can’t actually put the genie back in the bottle. Once you know that trolls can’t regenerate from fire damage, you can’t “unlearn” that and truly play as if you don’t know it in order to rediscover it.

I knew a group once that mimicked that experience by randomizing the vulnerability of trolls at the beginning of each campaign. But even that isn’t truly a complete reset of your knowledge because you’re still carrying the knowledge that trolls can regenerate and you need to play “guess the element” to truly injure them. Even just the knowledge that some things in the game are immune to damage except from certain sources is knowledge that you had to learn as a player at some point!

The argument can be made that, since the character actually lives in a world with trolls, it might make sense that they know that trolls are vulnerable to fire even if they haven’t personally fought a troll before. Maybe you could make an Intelligence check to see if they know it or not.

… but if you do that, why didn’t the DM have you roll a Knowledge check for your first character?

The answer, of course, is that it’s fun to be surprised by the unknown, to recognize that there’s a problem that needs solving, and to figure out the solution. And it’s generally not fun to simply roll a Solve Puzzle skill and have the DM tell you the answer.

Nonetheless, there’s a good point here: Assuming that characters who have spent their entire lives within walking distance of the Troll Fens don’t know anything about trolls is, quite possibly, an even larger metagame conceit than “my peasant farmboy has memorized the Monster Manual.”

But for the sake argument, let’s say that “trolls are vulnerable to fire” is, in this particular D&D universe, not a well known fact.

Another argument that can be made, therefore, is that you simply need to roleplay the character not knowing the thing that you, as a player, know.

In my experience, however, this approach usually takes the form of indicating that the character doesn’t know it, which often does not actually look like someone who doesn’t actually know it.

You often see a similar example of this when players have metagame knowledge of what’s happening to other PCs and begin explaining, out of character, the thought process of their character so that the other players don’t think they’re cheating by using the metagame knowledge. This, too, often does not resemble actual decisions made by someone who doesn’t actually know the information: It, in fact, looks exactly like someone pretending that they don’t know the solution to a problem even when they do. Like a parent playing hide-and-seek with a toddler and pretending that they can’t find them even though their feet are poking out from behind the chair.

I once played in a game where some shit was going down in our hotel room and I said, “Okay, I finish my drink in the hotel bar and head back up to the room.” And the GM immediately pitched a fit because I was using metagame knowledge. I had to point out that, no, I had already established that I was going to finish my drink and head back up to the room before shit started going down. Nevertheless, there was an expectation that my character should instead NOT do what they had already been planning to do because there was an expectation that we should go through a charade or pantomime in which my character would do a bunch of other stuff in order to indicate what a good little player I was by not acting on the metagame knowledge.

WHAT IS FUN?

This is not to say, of course, that players should freely act on metagame knowledge. The issue is more complicated than that, and largely boils down to personal preference and a basic question of, What is fun?

Is it fun to pretend to re-learn the basic skills of dungeoncrawling? Generally not, IME. That’s the Gamist streak in me: That problem solving for the best dungeoncrawl techniques is fun because I’m figuring out how to overcome a challenge; it’s not fun for me to simply pretend to be challenged by that stuff. I’d rather focus on the next level of challenge. (And, if the GM is a good one, there’ll be a constantly fresh supply of new, non-arbitrary challenges as we move from one dungeon to the next.)

Is it fun for players to act on metagame knowledge and all rush towards where something interesting or dangerous is happening as if they were gifted with a sixth sense? Or to instantly know when another PC is lying or holding information back? Generally not. That’s the Dramatist streak in me, and if I’m GMing a group that’s having problems refraining from these actions OR roleplaying naturally despite possessing metagame knowledge, I’ll start pulling players into private side-sessions in order to resolve these moments. (Because if I don’t, valuable and cool moments of game play will be lost.)

(Over the years I’ve also come to recognize that the possession of certain types of metagame knowledge are, in fact, virtually impossible to roleplay naturally through. And I will use techniques — including private side sessions and non-simultaneous resolution — to control the flow of metagame information to best effect.)

These lines, however, are not set in stone. They’re very contextual. If we’re playing a typical dungeoncrawl I generally don’t think “let’s all pretend we don’t know that 10-foot poles would be useful” is fun. On the other hand, if I’m playing Call of Cthulhu I’m totally onboard with stuff like “let’s all pretend we don’t recognize the name Nyarlathotep” or “let’s all pretend that we don’t know what a Hound of Tindalos is.”

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