A quick walk through the history of the saving throw mechanic:

(1) OD&D offered an incomplete, source/type-based array of saving throws. This created a couple of problems, one of which was that many effects would actually fall into multiple categories. Did the DM simply make a ruling for which applied? Did a character always use the best-applicable saving throw? Or should they always use the worst-applicable saving throw?

(2) AD&D eliminated that problem by establishing a fairly clear hierarchy of which saving throw category should be applied first. But it didn’t fix the other problem, which is that many effects which required saving throws didn’t conveniently fall into any particular category. There were two possible solutions: Create a new category every time you needed one or simply arbitrarily assign one of the existing saving throw categories. In general, designers and DMs did the latter. This assignation was often based on a rough approximation of “method of avoidance” (you avoid dragon breath by ducking out of the the way, this effect could be avoided by ducking out of the way, so let’s make it a save vs. dragon breath) or “similarity of effect” (dragon breath is a big blast of fire, this trap is creating a big blast of fire, so let’s make it a save vs. dragon breath). (These methods often overlapped.)

(3) D&D3 eliminated that problem by swapping to a universal system based on method-of-avoidance. In some corner-case situations, this system actually reintroduces the lack-of-hierarchy problems from OD&D (“do I duck out of the way or do I tough it out?”), but most of the time there is a clear and obvious saving throw for any given effect.

(4) 4E, of course, took the term “saving throw” and applied it to a completely different mechanic. But if you look at the mechanic which actually derives from pre-2008’s saving throws, 4E did two things with it: First, it inverted the facing of the mechanic. Instead of the defender making the saving throw roll, it’s the attacker rolling against the save.

This is an interesting choice. And to understand why, let’s consider the fact that they could have done the exact opposite with AC: Instead of the attacker rolling vs. AC, they could have swapped AC so that it works like old school saving throws (with the defender rolling against the attacker’s static score).

It’s important to understand that, in terms of mathematics and game balance, this change is completely irrelevant. It has no effect whatsoever.

In my (admittedly anecdotal) experience, however, the psychological effect of this mechanic is to make the person initiating the action feel passive: They announce the action their character is taking in the game world, but they take no “action” in the real world. Instead, the target takes the real world action.

Or, to put it another way: If you roll for an attack, the emphasis of the game becomes trying to hit people with your sword. If you roll for defense, the emphasis of the game becomes trying to dodge or deflect the blows of others. (If you roll for both, no such emphasis occurs. But this becomes too swingy with D&D’s d20-based mechanics.)

As a result, in 4E, you are always active on your turn and always passive on every other character’s turn. In 3E, on the other hand, the differentiation between the facing of attack rolls and the facing of saving throws mixes the experience up: Spellcasters generally feel more “passive” than fighters on their turn. Meanwhile, players frequently become “active” on other characters’ turns because saving throws will be called for.

Here, as with many of its design choices, 4E is flattening the game experience into something more “consistent”, but also blander and less varied. No player will ever feel as if they “didn’t do anything” on their turn, but the trade-off is that they literally do nothing while everyone else is taking their turn. (Theoretically this is then balanced out with the plethora of immediate actions that 4E adds. BID.)

The second major change 4E implemented, however, was to basically eradicate any clear connection between the action in the game world and the save/defense being used. (For example, a cleric can use his weapon vs. AC, vs. Fort, and vs. Will. Why? Because the mechanics say so.) They embrace this dissociation of the mechanics because it allows them to give every character class the ability to target different defenses without having them actually take different types of actions.

Laying aside the general effects of dissociated mechanics for the moment, this second change has the practical effect of watering down the actual meaning of the various defense scores. When Radiant Brilliance lets you charge your weapon with divine energy and trigger an explosion by hitting your target with a vs. Reflex attack and Holy Spark lets you do basically the same thing with a vs. Will attack… what’s the difference between Reflex and Will defenses? Absolutely nothing, of course. They’re just arbitrary categories that we drop various powers into for an “interesting” mechanical mix.

GM rulings and GM fiat rest at two ends of a single spectrum.

On one end of the spectrum you have GM decisions that are completely disconnected from the existing rules. These are examples of clear GM fiat and the same decision would be made regardless of what rule system the GM was using or even if there were no rules at all.

On the other end of the spectrum you have a very simple and straightforward ruling: The players want to do X. There is a rule for X. We will use the rule to determine X.

In between you have a broad spectrum of gray.

For example, let’s consider the case of jumping across a crevasse. At one end of the scale you have pure fiat: The GM says “yes, you can” or “no, you can’t” based on his desire for them to do so, his whim, or somesuch. At the other end of the scale you have the simple application of 3E’s jumping rule: The GM simply picks up the rule, applies it, and determines whether or not the action is a success.

In between you might have OD&D, which lacks a clear rule for jumping. So the GM says, “He has a Dex of 15. He could probably make this jump easily, so yes.” That seems to still clearly be a ruling; the GM is simply figuring out how to apply the mechanics in a situation for which a clear rule does not exist.

Heading further into the gray we have thinking like: “His character background says that he was an Olympic track athlete, so it makes sense that he should be able to make this jump.” or “Last week he wasn’t able to jump over that pit and this crevasse is even wider, so it makes sense that he won’t be able to make this jump.” Are those rulings or fiat? It’s getting a little harder to judge. (Is the latter a ruling based on a previous fiat? Or just more fiat?)

Another way you can draw the distinction is that it is very easy for rulings to become rules; it is difficult or impossible for fiat to do so.

For example, in a case of pure fiat (where I say “yes, he can jump that crevasse because I say so”) it is very difficult to then make an informed ruling based on that fiat. At the purely local level it probably means I’ll decide that the character can make that same jump again, but whether or not that will have any wider applicability will probably still depend on some arbitrary decision-making.

On the other hand, the more concrete the ruling the easier it is to begin applying it as a rule. For example, if I say “he has a Dex of 15, so he can make the jump”, then it’s relatively easy to apply that as a rule and decide that, yes, the character with a Dex of 16 can also easily make the jump.

If I go even further and base the ruling on something like “I’ll say that you can jump 2 feet for every point of Dex”, then it’s very easy to simply treat that as a rule going forward.

A third way of looking at this is through the lens of consistency: The easier it is to reapply the same decision in a consistent fashion across multiple situations (because it’s based on some sort of meaningful criteria), the more likely it is that the decision is a ruling. The more difficult it is to do so, the more likely it is that the decision is fiat.

Which is one of the reasons why I say that a properly structured rule facilitates rulings.

My next PC:

Taciturn the Dwarf.

So old that he claims the word comes from his name.

(I think he might be a little grumpy.)

Tom Bissell says that “Superman games are legendarily bad” and asks the question:

What comprises interesting gameplay for a character that is essentially immortal?

What Bissell is inadvertently touching on here is the fact that — with the exception of puzzle games and sports simulators — virtually every video game in existence is fundamentally rooted in either D&D, Space Invaders, or both. And what both D&D and Spacer Invaders have in common (and thus virtually every video game ever made has in common) is that they define success as “killing the bad guy” and they define failure as “you die”.

(Technically, it would be more accurate to say Spacewar! instead of Space Invaders, but everybody knows what Space Invaders is and almost no one knows what Spacewar! is. And, of course, there are endless variations on the “kill” and “die” conditions. But I digress…)

So, yes, as long as you intrinsically define gameplay as “either you die or the bad guy dies”, designing a Superman game that doesn’t suck is going to be pretty much impossible. And, unfortunately, Superman doesn’t seem to easily lend himself to blended puzzle or sim gameplay. (For example, the original Prince of Persia: Sands of Time largely eliminated the kill-or-die mechanics, but it did so by introducing puzzle-style gameplay.)

Another option might be making the goals of the game exterior to Superman as a character. (In other words, you can still fail at your goals even if there’s never any real chance that your avatar in the game will die.) What probably won’t work well, however, would be simply pushing the kill-or-die mechanics onto secondary characters. (An entire game of escort quests featuring Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen? Kill me now.)

I’m not going to pretend to have the magical solution. But open question: What alternative forms of gameplay could a Superman game use that would be fun to play?

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

Meanwhile, not everyone was happy with the loss of open hearths. Many people missed the drifting smoke and were convinced they had been healthier when kept “well kippered in smoke”, as one observer put it… Above all, people complained that they weren’t nearly as warm as before, which was true. Because fireplaces were so inefficient, they were constantly enlarged. Some became so enormous that they were built with benches in them, letting people sit inside the fireplace, almost the only place in the house where they could be really warm.

Not much to add here except to say that the idea of a fireplace so large that it has benches inside of it sounds like exactly the sort of thing that I would add to a fantasy campaign in order to give it a touch of the “unworldly”. (Or just flat-out gonzo-ness if I’m not feeling pretentious.)

But apparently history has beaten me to the punch.

So let’s punch it up a notch: We’ll put the same architecture into a giant’s castle, resulting in a fireplace so large that entire trees are rooted up and thrown in whole. Often the leaves are left right on the trees, creating thick smokes. But the giants don’t seem to mind, and even ascribe various medicinal or hallucinogenic qualities to the leaves of various tree-stocks. (And perhaps there’s truth for it as far as the giants are concerned.)