Posts
The Adventure So Far
14 years ago
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
When Bad Things Happen to Good Characters
I’ve recently had a run of really bad luck with my die rolls while gaming. By bad luck I mean a disturbing number of fumbles. Six fumbles in a single battle with gargoyles was only a small part of my dice-related woes. What could I do but laugh about it? Sometimes even bad rolls can be fun.
You can’t really look at an RPG as a game in the conventional sense. Since there are no set conditions for final victory, the game can go on indefinitely. Characters may die, but they are replaced my others who are hopefully as original and inspired as the ones that were lost. Things like fumbling, character death or, worst of all, losing levels, can be depressing. Losing a character who’s concept your really liked, or one who you’ve kept alive for a long time can be sort of traumatic, but it can also be part of the fun.
The bad things that happen during an RPG session ad to the drama, and therefore to the fun. ‘Winning’ an RPG is kind of impossible. This fact is often responsible for novice gamers abandoning the hobby because most people think of a game as being something to be won or lost, while the object of RPGs aren’t as easily define. Risk is won when your fictional army dominates the world. Monopoly is won when every other players is bankrupt. When can you declare an RPG as being won. Victory is often measured by having your character survive to be used in the next adventure.
The characters themselves are abstract. A set of statistics and possibly a drawing being maneuvered in an imaginary world confronting imaginary threats. This world is detailed to a degree that those most people find virtually incomprehensible. So when someone who is experimenting with RPGs for the first time gets a character killed, or has some other setback befall them, they give up.
Those players that stick with gaming still can get upset when a character is killed. I’ve seen quite a bit of moping, (some of it mine) and even a few temper tantrums after an adventure went badly for the players. Having played RPGs for over two decades now, I’ve learned to laugh at setbacks; even when my favorite character fumbles every other time she attacks. Setbacks and character death are what makes the good things that happen more satisfying. RPGs are built around adventure, without the possibility of setbacks, there can be no adventure.
You can’t really look at an RPG as a game in the conventional sense. Since there are no set conditions for final victory, the game can go on indefinitely. Characters may die, but they are replaced my others who are hopefully as original and inspired as the ones that were lost. Things like fumbling, character death or, worst of all, losing levels, can be depressing. Losing a character who’s concept your really liked, or one who you’ve kept alive for a long time can be sort of traumatic, but it can also be part of the fun.
The bad things that happen during an RPG session ad to the drama, and therefore to the fun. ‘Winning’ an RPG is kind of impossible. This fact is often responsible for novice gamers abandoning the hobby because most people think of a game as being something to be won or lost, while the object of RPGs aren’t as easily define. Risk is won when your fictional army dominates the world. Monopoly is won when every other players is bankrupt. When can you declare an RPG as being won. Victory is often measured by having your character survive to be used in the next adventure.
The characters themselves are abstract. A set of statistics and possibly a drawing being maneuvered in an imaginary world confronting imaginary threats. This world is detailed to a degree that those most people find virtually incomprehensible. So when someone who is experimenting with RPGs for the first time gets a character killed, or has some other setback befall them, they give up.
Those players that stick with gaming still can get upset when a character is killed. I’ve seen quite a bit of moping, (some of it mine) and even a few temper tantrums after an adventure went badly for the players. Having played RPGs for over two decades now, I’ve learned to laugh at setbacks; even when my favorite character fumbles every other time she attacks. Setbacks and character death are what makes the good things that happen more satisfying. RPGs are built around adventure, without the possibility of setbacks, there can be no adventure.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Let Bad Guys be Bad.
I remember when Drow Elves were just one of many entries in the old first edition Fiend Folio. They were simple, strait forward bad guys. They tried to kill your characters, and you killed them. Then came the option in the Unearthed Arcana supplement to have Drow as player characters.
A very good friend of mine, who had a habit of playing characters that were a bit outside the norm, diced up a female Drow cleric/fighter/magic user and it was one of many great characters that sprang from his slightly erratic but brilliant mind. To this day, after twenty years or so, that characters is still my favorite of all his characters. I, to my mild shame, even rolled up a character or two that were essentially poor copies.
Then came RA Salvatore’s Drizzt Do'urden. You need to understand, my gaming buddy had played his Drow for years before the scimitar wielding Drow ranger stepped out of the Underdark to make the Drow trendy. Now good Drow are becoming more and more common place from player characters in campaigns, to novels, and the newer game supplements. Drow are no longer mysterious or exotic, the allure is gone.
Why is there such a perceived need to make villains into heroes? I suppose the darkly erotic overtones that are inherent with the fictional Drow society (and Mister Salvatore’s talent for writing) are to blame for the popularity of the Drow, but what about other villainous people or races throughout sci-fi and fantasy?
In Star Trek there were the Borg. The Borg were implacable, merciless, unfeeling enemies that simply could not be reasoned with. They were the perfect foil for the Federation, and they were also wonderfully creepy. Then, a few seasons later, nice, friendly, even cute Borg were introduced. The whole thing was ruined. There were still bad Borg out there, but you just knew that the good Borg would win over the other Borg and everyone would just get along. The coolest Trek bad guys lost their edge.
There are other examples that I won’t go into for the sake of brevity, but my question is: why can’t bad guys stay bad? A hero is not heroic unless the villains are equally villainous. So why water down the bad guys?
My buddy has pretty much retired his Drow, and that is a shame. But I can see his point. The Drow have had what made them unique and mysterious taken away. One good Drow trying to live down the evil reputation of the race is intriguing. Hundreds or thousands of Drow making nice is passé. Bad guys are as much a part of any hero’s story as the hero.
A very good friend of mine, who had a habit of playing characters that were a bit outside the norm, diced up a female Drow cleric/fighter/magic user and it was one of many great characters that sprang from his slightly erratic but brilliant mind. To this day, after twenty years or so, that characters is still my favorite of all his characters. I, to my mild shame, even rolled up a character or two that were essentially poor copies.
Then came RA Salvatore’s Drizzt Do'urden. You need to understand, my gaming buddy had played his Drow for years before the scimitar wielding Drow ranger stepped out of the Underdark to make the Drow trendy. Now good Drow are becoming more and more common place from player characters in campaigns, to novels, and the newer game supplements. Drow are no longer mysterious or exotic, the allure is gone.
Why is there such a perceived need to make villains into heroes? I suppose the darkly erotic overtones that are inherent with the fictional Drow society (and Mister Salvatore’s talent for writing) are to blame for the popularity of the Drow, but what about other villainous people or races throughout sci-fi and fantasy?
In Star Trek there were the Borg. The Borg were implacable, merciless, unfeeling enemies that simply could not be reasoned with. They were the perfect foil for the Federation, and they were also wonderfully creepy. Then, a few seasons later, nice, friendly, even cute Borg were introduced. The whole thing was ruined. There were still bad Borg out there, but you just knew that the good Borg would win over the other Borg and everyone would just get along. The coolest Trek bad guys lost their edge.
There are other examples that I won’t go into for the sake of brevity, but my question is: why can’t bad guys stay bad? A hero is not heroic unless the villains are equally villainous. So why water down the bad guys?
My buddy has pretty much retired his Drow, and that is a shame. But I can see his point. The Drow have had what made them unique and mysterious taken away. One good Drow trying to live down the evil reputation of the race is intriguing. Hundreds or thousands of Drow making nice is passé. Bad guys are as much a part of any hero’s story as the hero.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Alignment:Optional
If you have gamed for any length of time, you have probably had to explain the concept of a role playing to a new gamer. Sometimes that is difficult when the only table-top games they were familiar with were probably things like Monopoly, or Risk. When I was fist introduced to the RPG concept, I caught on fairly quickly. I was already a sci-fi nerd and had been making up my own characters and mentally injecting them into my favorite comic books, novels, and TV shows for years. But there was one concept that gave me pause: alignments. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the concept; I disputed the very idea of alignments as being contradictory to the general concept of role playing.
My first gaming experience was with Traveler, which had no alignment system. So, when I rolled my first AD&D character, I asked more than one question about alignments. It seemed contradictory to tell a player to assume a roll, and then tell that player how he must play that role. Locking him into a given behavior pattern, before he had time to develop a concept of how that character should act, and thereby forcing him onto a path he may not otherwise have taken.
I understand the need for structure in a game; that is what the rules are for, but alignments (with the exceptions the cleric and paladin classes) actually play a very small role once the game begins. There may be a magic item that will only work for a particular alignment, and there are some alignment restrictions on certain spells, but the game could go on just fine without them.
The rules governing what alignments can associate with others really serve no useful purpose. What they do is taint any campaign from the start, by effectively telling the players what characters they can create in order not to conflict with the alignments of other characters in the group. So you wind up with players that are playing their second choices for characters and perhaps becoming disillusioned with the game from the beginning.
Clerics and paladins derive their abilities from a patron deity. If you know the code and doctrines of that deity, then you know the code cleric and paladin characters must abide by. That makes alignment sort of a moot point. Both classes are essentially warrior-priests. They fight to defend their church and the interests of their deities while trying to spread their faiths. Alignments really aren’t needed.
A friend of mine and I were talking about this issue, and came to the conclusion that the paladin class was superfluous. Simply remove the edged weapon restriction from the cleric class, play a cleric character with a more militaristic attitude, and you effectively have a paladin for the purpose of role-playing. What differentiates paladins from other classes is religious zeal, not the type of dice used to determine hit points, or the charts used in combat, The dedicated paladin class (which I am actually very fond of, and have played extensively) is governed by his alignment to the point that he can become disruptive to a group. So entrenched in their particular concept of right and wrong and what is, and is not lawful (in light of the lawful good alignment), they tend to insist the rest of the group adhere to the same standard. This can lead to squabbling among players, and stall the game while the DM tries to play peacemaker. This really can’t be blamed on the player handling the paladin, because he is interpreting what it says about the lawful good alignment in the game rules.
Eliminate alignment from the equation and the player has some room to play the paladin as being more reasonable and practical. I know some hard core purists out there will balk at the idea of eliminating alignments, and that’s fine. It’s your game. But, if you have players who know what they’re doing, you might want to consider making alignments optional.
My first gaming experience was with Traveler, which had no alignment system. So, when I rolled my first AD&D character, I asked more than one question about alignments. It seemed contradictory to tell a player to assume a roll, and then tell that player how he must play that role. Locking him into a given behavior pattern, before he had time to develop a concept of how that character should act, and thereby forcing him onto a path he may not otherwise have taken.
I understand the need for structure in a game; that is what the rules are for, but alignments (with the exceptions the cleric and paladin classes) actually play a very small role once the game begins. There may be a magic item that will only work for a particular alignment, and there are some alignment restrictions on certain spells, but the game could go on just fine without them.
The rules governing what alignments can associate with others really serve no useful purpose. What they do is taint any campaign from the start, by effectively telling the players what characters they can create in order not to conflict with the alignments of other characters in the group. So you wind up with players that are playing their second choices for characters and perhaps becoming disillusioned with the game from the beginning.
Clerics and paladins derive their abilities from a patron deity. If you know the code and doctrines of that deity, then you know the code cleric and paladin characters must abide by. That makes alignment sort of a moot point. Both classes are essentially warrior-priests. They fight to defend their church and the interests of their deities while trying to spread their faiths. Alignments really aren’t needed.
A friend of mine and I were talking about this issue, and came to the conclusion that the paladin class was superfluous. Simply remove the edged weapon restriction from the cleric class, play a cleric character with a more militaristic attitude, and you effectively have a paladin for the purpose of role-playing. What differentiates paladins from other classes is religious zeal, not the type of dice used to determine hit points, or the charts used in combat, The dedicated paladin class (which I am actually very fond of, and have played extensively) is governed by his alignment to the point that he can become disruptive to a group. So entrenched in their particular concept of right and wrong and what is, and is not lawful (in light of the lawful good alignment), they tend to insist the rest of the group adhere to the same standard. This can lead to squabbling among players, and stall the game while the DM tries to play peacemaker. This really can’t be blamed on the player handling the paladin, because he is interpreting what it says about the lawful good alignment in the game rules.
Eliminate alignment from the equation and the player has some room to play the paladin as being more reasonable and practical. I know some hard core purists out there will balk at the idea of eliminating alignments, and that’s fine. It’s your game. But, if you have players who know what they’re doing, you might want to consider making alignments optional.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Just Imagine
Imagination is a word that you would think would go hand-in hand with table-top RPGs. I mean the idea behind such games is to imagine adventures within the parameters of given set of rules. Like a good novel, an RPG gaming session should paint a mental picture of a fictional setting and allow the players and game master to walk a mile or two in the shoes of a fictional character that is larger than life, fantastically heroic or despicably villainous. RPG settings and rules were not designed to hinder imagination. They were designed to help develop it.
Unfortunately, some (perhaps even most) RPG players focus on the rules, detailed campaign settings, and the dice and never bother to imagine the action the settings, rules, and die-rolling are supposed to represent. They roll initiative, attacks, and saving throws and never develop a mental image of the drama that the GM (if he is doing it right) is trying to describe. The GM and the players should be collaborating on telling a good story. The drama and fun come from the unpredictability of people with different talents, interests, and personalities as they compliment or conflict with one another. Throw in the unpredictability of the dice bouncing across the table, and you have a fun, challenging session that can be strung together with other such sessions to make a campaign that can be a source of entertainment and camaraderie that can last for years. Some call this “fluff,” but what it really is imagination and creativity.
For example, in one of our sessions from a long-running campaign, a paladin of mine slew a green dragon. That one sentence tells you what happened. But, if that were the way my DM and I had described the encounter at the time, we would have forgotten about it. I would have the experience points, and some treasure that was found afterward, but that was all. But we didn’t stop at stating what happened, we described how it happened in glorious ‘fluffy’ detail.
The adventuring party had just fought its way through dozens of dragon cultists only to find ourselves faced with a dragon with several of members of our band unconscious or dead and the others critically short on hit points. We were in no shape to fight a dragon. To top it all off, of the characters that were still on their feet, only my paladin made his saving throw against dragon fear. He stood there, his bloody two-handed sword in hand, facing a pissed off mass of scales, claws and teeth.
The situation was grim. My DM described the scene. (This was years ago, so the exact words escape me) “The dragon circles angrily above. Half of your friends lie wounded or dead on the ground. The others are paralyzed with fear. Rungalor (the strongest and most dangerous member of our group) pisses himself in terror. They can only stare at the circling wyrm as if hypnotized by the scaled death that awaits them.”
Thoroughly engrossed in the unfolding narrative, I tried to keep the spirit of the moment going. "Andared (my paladin) leaps to the attack, yelling a plea for Tyr ( his patron deity) to aid him.”
Andared had discovered a pair of boots of leaping and springing earlier in the adventure but, at that moment, I had forgotten that. So, when I said that he “leaps to the attack,” I underestimated the enormity of my leaping assault. I won the initiative roll, and bounced my most trusted twenty-sided die across clipboard that lay on the carpet where we were playing. It landed on a twenty!
As a house rule, we used a critical hit table that my DM had composed himself. It had twelve possible outcomes. The DM rolled a d-twelve and it landed on a twelve which, on that table, was an automatic kill. Here, he could have said simply "you killed it". The adventure would have been over, experience points and treasure would have been divided, and the night would have ended on less that memorable note. But, thus was my tried and true DM.
“Your leap propels you many man-heights into the air. You feel the hand of Tyr (remember, Andared evoked Tyr’s aid earlier) guiding your sword arm as your blade descends unerringly towards the wyrm’s neck! Your sword slices through the neck, spraying you with gore and silencing the beast’s anguished cries of rage and agony. You land lightly; leaving the two twitching parts of the dragon behind you, it’s blood thickly coating the floor.”
Honestly, as imaginative and eloquent as the DM is, I doubt he was that poetic in his descriptions ad-libbed on the fly that night, but he did do a damn good of painting a fantastic mental image of the action. Instead of remembering a few die-rolls and some marks on my character sheet, I have an epic battle to remember and recount time and time again. Taking the time to get beyond the physical trappings of the game, we created a great moment in our gaming history (and our friendship).
I suppose it’s natural to get distracted by the artwork in the books, the intricate rules, the fantastically detailed settings, and (my favorites) the shinny, multi-colored dice. But I think the fun is in the imagination and mutual story telling that all of those things facilitate and support. It’s about imagination, not dice.
Unfortunately, some (perhaps even most) RPG players focus on the rules, detailed campaign settings, and the dice and never bother to imagine the action the settings, rules, and die-rolling are supposed to represent. They roll initiative, attacks, and saving throws and never develop a mental image of the drama that the GM (if he is doing it right) is trying to describe. The GM and the players should be collaborating on telling a good story. The drama and fun come from the unpredictability of people with different talents, interests, and personalities as they compliment or conflict with one another. Throw in the unpredictability of the dice bouncing across the table, and you have a fun, challenging session that can be strung together with other such sessions to make a campaign that can be a source of entertainment and camaraderie that can last for years. Some call this “fluff,” but what it really is imagination and creativity.
For example, in one of our sessions from a long-running campaign, a paladin of mine slew a green dragon. That one sentence tells you what happened. But, if that were the way my DM and I had described the encounter at the time, we would have forgotten about it. I would have the experience points, and some treasure that was found afterward, but that was all. But we didn’t stop at stating what happened, we described how it happened in glorious ‘fluffy’ detail.
The adventuring party had just fought its way through dozens of dragon cultists only to find ourselves faced with a dragon with several of members of our band unconscious or dead and the others critically short on hit points. We were in no shape to fight a dragon. To top it all off, of the characters that were still on their feet, only my paladin made his saving throw against dragon fear. He stood there, his bloody two-handed sword in hand, facing a pissed off mass of scales, claws and teeth.
The situation was grim. My DM described the scene. (This was years ago, so the exact words escape me) “The dragon circles angrily above. Half of your friends lie wounded or dead on the ground. The others are paralyzed with fear. Rungalor (the strongest and most dangerous member of our group) pisses himself in terror. They can only stare at the circling wyrm as if hypnotized by the scaled death that awaits them.”
Thoroughly engrossed in the unfolding narrative, I tried to keep the spirit of the moment going. "Andared (my paladin) leaps to the attack, yelling a plea for Tyr ( his patron deity) to aid him.”
Andared had discovered a pair of boots of leaping and springing earlier in the adventure but, at that moment, I had forgotten that. So, when I said that he “leaps to the attack,” I underestimated the enormity of my leaping assault. I won the initiative roll, and bounced my most trusted twenty-sided die across clipboard that lay on the carpet where we were playing. It landed on a twenty!
As a house rule, we used a critical hit table that my DM had composed himself. It had twelve possible outcomes. The DM rolled a d-twelve and it landed on a twelve which, on that table, was an automatic kill. Here, he could have said simply "you killed it". The adventure would have been over, experience points and treasure would have been divided, and the night would have ended on less that memorable note. But, thus was my tried and true DM.
“Your leap propels you many man-heights into the air. You feel the hand of Tyr (remember, Andared evoked Tyr’s aid earlier) guiding your sword arm as your blade descends unerringly towards the wyrm’s neck! Your sword slices through the neck, spraying you with gore and silencing the beast’s anguished cries of rage and agony. You land lightly; leaving the two twitching parts of the dragon behind you, it’s blood thickly coating the floor.”
Honestly, as imaginative and eloquent as the DM is, I doubt he was that poetic in his descriptions ad-libbed on the fly that night, but he did do a damn good of painting a fantastic mental image of the action. Instead of remembering a few die-rolls and some marks on my character sheet, I have an epic battle to remember and recount time and time again. Taking the time to get beyond the physical trappings of the game, we created a great moment in our gaming history (and our friendship).
I suppose it’s natural to get distracted by the artwork in the books, the intricate rules, the fantastically detailed settings, and (my favorites) the shinny, multi-colored dice. But I think the fun is in the imagination and mutual story telling that all of those things facilitate and support. It’s about imagination, not dice.
You're a Nerd Too
The Definition of Nerd : an unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept person ; especially : one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits
http://www.merriam-webster.com/
Hello, my name is Ray, and I am a nerd. I fit the above definition in every way. I am quite proud of being a nerd. It means that I read books that don’t have any pictures in them, I can find tiny little nations like Russia on a map, and that I am blissfully unaware of the transient and increasingly expensive pop-culture fads.
I was the kid who could be found under the dining room table with a good sci-fi novel or a stack of comic books when other kids were playing all the various games that can be played with a ball. (Has it ever occurred to you that all such games are essentially slightly more complicated versions of “fetch” which even the most mentally deficient dog can be taught to play in a fairly short time?) I was the kid who woke up my entire household with a gleeful shriek upon seeing the commercial for Star Wars back in 1977. I was the kid who got up at five in the morning to watch Battle of the Planets and Star Blazers before going to school. I was, and am, a nerd’s nerd.
I never grew out of my nerdiness. I graduated high school, and I was still a nerd. I became a police officer, and I was still a nerd. Now, I’m a forty year old college student, and I’m still a nerd. I still stay up to three in the morning to watch an old episode of the original (by that I mean the REAL) Star Trek. If given the chance, I will happily spend hours debating the minutest details of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, or the aesthetic appeal of the design of a Federation star ship. As I have already admitted, I’m a nerd. But you, no matter who you are, are a nerd too.
You may not fit into the narrow definition above, but if you think about it hard enough and you’re honest with yourself, you’ll find something you’re a nerd about. I’m focusing here the part of the definition about “one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits.” All you have to do is replace the words intellectual and academic with something like athletic or entertainment and you find your inner nerd.
If you can name and list the career statistics of every player on your favorite football team, is that really different from knowing the names of all the original twelve Constitution class starship from Star Trek? If you have a deep emotional attachment to a particular softball bat because you are certain it’s your lucky bat, is that so different from a Dungeons and Dragons player who wrecks his entire apartment looking for a misplaced twenty-sided dice that has delivered him from many and varied horrible monsters in two times a hundred imaginary adventures? Is watching a Packers’ game in the midst of sub-zero temperatures while not wearing a shirt or coat and having your body painted green and yellow less insane than a person who dresses as a Klingon warrior at a Star Trek convention? Answer those questions for yourself, but be honest.
Nerds are an anomaly only because the things they are passionate about tend to be out of line with more commonly engaged in activities or hobbies. They do tend to be more intellectually gifted than the average person and, because if this, the things they take an interest in tend to be complex and intricate. Most nerds aren’t snappy dressers because, as long as clothing performs its required functions, (keeping one warm and preserving public decency) it seems a waist of mental energy to think too much about color coordination, or rather or not a given garment is in style at the moment. A nerd, if worthy of the designation, has little or no knowledge of pop-culture unless it intersects with his perception of the universe like, for example, when The Lord of the Rings films were embraced by the general public and became, at least for a short time, part of pop-culture.
But is this gap of understanding between nerds and ‘regular people’ really so different from a married couple in which the wife spends every afternoon enthralled by the Byzantine and unlikely plots of her favorite soap operas, and the husband spends his weekends watching one sporting event after another, listening to endless commentaries about those events, and then arguing about the outcomes with other equally dedicated sports fans? Dedication to something you enjoy is a natural thing. Why is it that such dedication is generally acceptable for a Steelers fan waving his ‘terrible towel,’ but not for a Star Wars fan sporting a “May the Force be with you” T-shirt? The answer is simply that more people have the harmless obsession for sports that have the equally harmless obsession for science fiction, fantasy, or the depths of cosmology. It’s just a matter of scale. More people understand things like soap operas and sports, so those pastimes have no stigma attached to them.
Most generally, a nerd is thinking about things like what might happen if the universe stopped expanding, or the philosophical ramifications Steven Hawking’s information paradox, while at the same time planning new and inventive imaginary traps for the players in his next Dungeons and Dragons game session. They delve deeply into rich fantasy worlds like the Star Wars epics or The Lord of the Rings because the mundane day-to-day existence of modern life is, quite simply, boring. In fantasy and sci-fi realms (or in academic areas such as physics or philosophy) they find mental challenges that, simply put , keep them interested in living They ask questions like: why does the Enterprise need a navigational deflector when Klingon ships don’t? Would a clone have a soul? If reincarnation were real, should the current incarnation be responsible for the debts left by his last incarnation? Some would say such questions are frivolous, or even silly, but in truth , such questions have immense value. Nerds see beyond the here and now. They think about what could be and, perhaps even more importantly, what should be.
I ask those who read this essay to look at themselves and see if they don’t have a nerd in them that they suppress in order to conform to the social pigeonhole called normalcy. Ask yourself if you didn’t secretly admire the poorly dressed kid who was the only one in the school that new how to run the old reel-to-reel movie projector. Try to remember that you too once had a stash of comic books that you hid from your mother who thought that they would rot your brain. Maybe you can admit that you actually thought playing Dungeons and Dragons might be fun, but you never asked the nerds if you could play for fear of being branded a nerd yourself. If you look hard enough, you’ll find that nerd watching The Thing with Two Heads in some seldom used synapse of your brain. If you do, let him out and get to know him, you’ll probably have fun.
http://www.merriam-webster.com/
Hello, my name is Ray, and I am a nerd. I fit the above definition in every way. I am quite proud of being a nerd. It means that I read books that don’t have any pictures in them, I can find tiny little nations like Russia on a map, and that I am blissfully unaware of the transient and increasingly expensive pop-culture fads.
I was the kid who could be found under the dining room table with a good sci-fi novel or a stack of comic books when other kids were playing all the various games that can be played with a ball. (Has it ever occurred to you that all such games are essentially slightly more complicated versions of “fetch” which even the most mentally deficient dog can be taught to play in a fairly short time?) I was the kid who woke up my entire household with a gleeful shriek upon seeing the commercial for Star Wars back in 1977. I was the kid who got up at five in the morning to watch Battle of the Planets and Star Blazers before going to school. I was, and am, a nerd’s nerd.
I never grew out of my nerdiness. I graduated high school, and I was still a nerd. I became a police officer, and I was still a nerd. Now, I’m a forty year old college student, and I’m still a nerd. I still stay up to three in the morning to watch an old episode of the original (by that I mean the REAL) Star Trek. If given the chance, I will happily spend hours debating the minutest details of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, or the aesthetic appeal of the design of a Federation star ship. As I have already admitted, I’m a nerd. But you, no matter who you are, are a nerd too.
You may not fit into the narrow definition above, but if you think about it hard enough and you’re honest with yourself, you’ll find something you’re a nerd about. I’m focusing here the part of the definition about “one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits.” All you have to do is replace the words intellectual and academic with something like athletic or entertainment and you find your inner nerd.
If you can name and list the career statistics of every player on your favorite football team, is that really different from knowing the names of all the original twelve Constitution class starship from Star Trek? If you have a deep emotional attachment to a particular softball bat because you are certain it’s your lucky bat, is that so different from a Dungeons and Dragons player who wrecks his entire apartment looking for a misplaced twenty-sided dice that has delivered him from many and varied horrible monsters in two times a hundred imaginary adventures? Is watching a Packers’ game in the midst of sub-zero temperatures while not wearing a shirt or coat and having your body painted green and yellow less insane than a person who dresses as a Klingon warrior at a Star Trek convention? Answer those questions for yourself, but be honest.
Nerds are an anomaly only because the things they are passionate about tend to be out of line with more commonly engaged in activities or hobbies. They do tend to be more intellectually gifted than the average person and, because if this, the things they take an interest in tend to be complex and intricate. Most nerds aren’t snappy dressers because, as long as clothing performs its required functions, (keeping one warm and preserving public decency) it seems a waist of mental energy to think too much about color coordination, or rather or not a given garment is in style at the moment. A nerd, if worthy of the designation, has little or no knowledge of pop-culture unless it intersects with his perception of the universe like, for example, when The Lord of the Rings films were embraced by the general public and became, at least for a short time, part of pop-culture.
But is this gap of understanding between nerds and ‘regular people’ really so different from a married couple in which the wife spends every afternoon enthralled by the Byzantine and unlikely plots of her favorite soap operas, and the husband spends his weekends watching one sporting event after another, listening to endless commentaries about those events, and then arguing about the outcomes with other equally dedicated sports fans? Dedication to something you enjoy is a natural thing. Why is it that such dedication is generally acceptable for a Steelers fan waving his ‘terrible towel,’ but not for a Star Wars fan sporting a “May the Force be with you” T-shirt? The answer is simply that more people have the harmless obsession for sports that have the equally harmless obsession for science fiction, fantasy, or the depths of cosmology. It’s just a matter of scale. More people understand things like soap operas and sports, so those pastimes have no stigma attached to them.
Most generally, a nerd is thinking about things like what might happen if the universe stopped expanding, or the philosophical ramifications Steven Hawking’s information paradox, while at the same time planning new and inventive imaginary traps for the players in his next Dungeons and Dragons game session. They delve deeply into rich fantasy worlds like the Star Wars epics or The Lord of the Rings because the mundane day-to-day existence of modern life is, quite simply, boring. In fantasy and sci-fi realms (or in academic areas such as physics or philosophy) they find mental challenges that, simply put , keep them interested in living They ask questions like: why does the Enterprise need a navigational deflector when Klingon ships don’t? Would a clone have a soul? If reincarnation were real, should the current incarnation be responsible for the debts left by his last incarnation? Some would say such questions are frivolous, or even silly, but in truth , such questions have immense value. Nerds see beyond the here and now. They think about what could be and, perhaps even more importantly, what should be.
I ask those who read this essay to look at themselves and see if they don’t have a nerd in them that they suppress in order to conform to the social pigeonhole called normalcy. Ask yourself if you didn’t secretly admire the poorly dressed kid who was the only one in the school that new how to run the old reel-to-reel movie projector. Try to remember that you too once had a stash of comic books that you hid from your mother who thought that they would rot your brain. Maybe you can admit that you actually thought playing Dungeons and Dragons might be fun, but you never asked the nerds if you could play for fear of being branded a nerd yourself. If you look hard enough, you’ll find that nerd watching The Thing with Two Heads in some seldom used synapse of your brain. If you do, let him out and get to know him, you’ll probably have fun.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Fourth edition is for the weak
OK, so we're up to the fourth edition of Dungeons and Dragons. Truly, the 4th addition has almost nothing in common with the game I've been playing for two decades. Like most other things these days, it has been watered down until it is a pale shadow of what came before.
Looking at the 4th addition rules, there seems to be no way for a character to die. Oh, a character can be reduced to zero hit points, fall unconscious, and miss out on some experience points, but then the character can just come back to life at the end of an adventure! This rule is quite clearly to appease players who are whining, gutless wonders who have never heard the word "no" when it was addressed to them.
Yes characters can be resurrected in my beloved first addition game, but there are real, permanent consequences for the resurrected character, and my DM makes resurrection hard to come by (and then there is that system shock saving throw). In my gaming archives, I have the sheets for many characters that met thier doom in the course of the game. I really liked some of them. But they died, and circumstances prevented me from having them resurrected. I accepted that they were dead, and went on without whining to the DM, or bitching about the rules being unfair. My gaming buddies and I still tell the stories of how these characters died and laugh. They served their purpose, they provided us some fun and some good memories.
I ask you: what is the point of using dice and keeping track of hit points, if character death is meaningless? When you can come back to life and lose not so much as a point of constitution, then why not just get out the character's sheet, write down whatever treasure and magic items you want the character to have and be done with it? Without true risk for the character, the reward is meaningless because it has not been earned.
Are the latest crop of D&D players so spoiled, unimaginative and egotistically fragile that they can't stand to loose, or even suffer a minor setback in the course of the game? Are they really that pathetic? If so then they should stick to video games when you can just push a button and start over. Table top RPGs are meant to have an element of drama. Without true risk, that drama just isn't there. Without the drama, you may has well play Monopoly, because you're missing the point of RPGs.
Looking at the 4th addition rules, there seems to be no way for a character to die. Oh, a character can be reduced to zero hit points, fall unconscious, and miss out on some experience points, but then the character can just come back to life at the end of an adventure! This rule is quite clearly to appease players who are whining, gutless wonders who have never heard the word "no" when it was addressed to them.
Yes characters can be resurrected in my beloved first addition game, but there are real, permanent consequences for the resurrected character, and my DM makes resurrection hard to come by (and then there is that system shock saving throw). In my gaming archives, I have the sheets for many characters that met thier doom in the course of the game. I really liked some of them. But they died, and circumstances prevented me from having them resurrected. I accepted that they were dead, and went on without whining to the DM, or bitching about the rules being unfair. My gaming buddies and I still tell the stories of how these characters died and laugh. They served their purpose, they provided us some fun and some good memories.
I ask you: what is the point of using dice and keeping track of hit points, if character death is meaningless? When you can come back to life and lose not so much as a point of constitution, then why not just get out the character's sheet, write down whatever treasure and magic items you want the character to have and be done with it? Without true risk for the character, the reward is meaningless because it has not been earned.
Are the latest crop of D&D players so spoiled, unimaginative and egotistically fragile that they can't stand to loose, or even suffer a minor setback in the course of the game? Are they really that pathetic? If so then they should stick to video games when you can just push a button and start over. Table top RPGs are meant to have an element of drama. Without true risk, that drama just isn't there. Without the drama, you may has well play Monopoly, because you're missing the point of RPGs.
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