Drawing the Map as You Go

I’ve been at this for a number of years now, publishing games. Enough time to have learned that publishing can involve lots of missed steps and bumbling moments. And so when I launched the IndieGoGo preorder campaign for The Quiet Year, I had a simple principle: expect at least one thing to go wrong at every single stage of production.

I definitely feel like I met my problem quota. I want to share a couple of the stories from this project, to capture some of the publishing experience (or, at least, my experience). And then at the end, I’ll share a link to the new Charted Areas (quickstart maps for your Quiet Year games, drawn by the super cool Tony Dowler).

I live in Canada, but the bulk of my audience/market is in the states (and scattered across the globe). The same is true of the manufacturers that I want to work with. Shipping components back and forth across the Canada-US border is pricey and slow, and so I’ve learned through previous projects: ship everything to a US address (like, a friend’s house), travel down to see them, do a big mail-out party, forward the remaining stock to a US warehouser/fulfiller.

a bag set, photo by Jamie Fristrom

The bag sets had a lot of components, and making this a feasible project on my scale meant months of hunting for affordable bits (books, card decks, reference cards, plastic baggies, dice, tokens, burlap bags, bubble mailers). While I’d done all that hunting well in advance of launching the project, I recognized that contingency plans might be necessary, and that problems with the components might arise. Yep! The bead supplier didn’t have 7000 red skull beads, though thankfully they had 7000 if I split between red and cream. (And as a result, your bag set will contain one or the other of those two colours, both of which look totally rad.) The reference card printer failed to deliver and stopped responding to communications of any sort. At the last minute, I asked Pinball Publishing to create the reference cards on rush order. The result was pricey (double the cost of the originals), but looks really good and fits cohesively with the book. Pinball Publishing/ScoutBooks is a great company to work with, if ever you get the chance. Crisis averted! Then, a few days before I showed up in Portland to do my big assembly party, I am chatting with Joel.

Me: The cards finally arrived? That’s such good news. Open up a deck, let me know how they look.
Joel: Tuckboxes look great. Cards look great too, though they were a little tight in their box.
Me: Super tight? That’s unfortunate. But the 54th card is an advert, so at least people can toss that, which will make it easier to slide them back into the box, hey?
Joel: Oh. Well… I don’t actually see an advertisement card here.
Me: [with a sense of niggling dread] Oh? Is it just the 52 cards, or… ?
Joel: Well, 52 cards, plus the jokers.
Me: [sinking into pit of despair] Jokers? Wait: describe the main deck to me quickly.
Joel: …Oh. Shit.

It’s then that I learn that I don’t have 500 decks of Quiet Year cards, but instead 500 decks of standard poker cards. The whole December mail-out plan collapses. I’m really fortunate that the manufacturer was amicable and quick to begin work on a replacement order, but it still meant that my travel plans were thrown.

I plan another trip to Portland. My arrival is delayed by wicked snowstorms. While it turns out pleasant enough (cuddled up with friends watching Cruel Intentions in a sketchy motel room in Umatilla), it delays my production schedule again. Which makes Joel’s house now unavailable for a work party. Which puts me in a bind, needing to find a location but staying at a place that has no internet connectivity. Finally it’s all sorted out, and we’re going to collect the supplies on January 2nd and take them to Meg’s house. It’s all there! Folks in the house are helping me count out and bag tokens! And then I get hit with a wicked stomach flu (or maybe food poisoning), and spend the whole day throwing up and feeling dizzy.

And so now I’ve got more work than time left on my trip. My would-be helpers get back into their car and return to Canada, from whence they came. It’s just me now, endlessly counting dice and trimming loose threads on burlap bags and doing product assembly and stuffing envelopes. I go to print out the several hundred shipping labels, using a fancy postage-buying program, and find out that the credit card linked to my account won’t work for some reason. With this many packages, you can’t just manually address and take them into the post office to buy postage. Postal workers will often turn you away if you’ve got too many packages under arm, and the process takes forever anyway. I really needed access to this program in order to complete this process. So I scurry about Portland, and thank the stars for such helpful and lovely souls as Jake Richmond and Nick Smith, of Atarashi Games. They have such an account, and let me use theirs. Three hours and eight hundred dollars later, I’ve got all my sticky-paper-postage-labels printed out. I bus back to Meg’s house, and return to assembling product.

I work until 2am (making it a 16-hour work day). I lay down on the floor and try to sleep, but fail. At 6:30am my alarm goes off, and I stand back up, immediately launching back into work. I finish assembling the bags literal minutes before my ride to the post office shows up. We drop off a couple hundred packages (which, using pre-paid postage, is thankfully a seemless process that takes but a few minutes). We go out for breakfast. And then I get on a Greyhound bus and return to Canada.

So! What’s done, and what’s ongoing?

  • All of the bag sets are assembled.
  • All of the bag sets are in the mail. Many have arrived.
  • All of the remaining orders have been entrusted to my new fulfillment hero/partner, Nick.
  • Nick is resolved to put all “A History, Bound” and “Makeshift Library” orders in the mail tomorrow.
  • All of the other games from “Everything We’ve Ever Owned” are in the mail (I believe).
  • I’ll be sending out the other “Everything We’ve Ever Owned” PDF library today.
  • The Charted Areas stretch goal is complete.
  • I’m making the game available for general purchase some time in the next day or two.

In short: it’s nearly finished. Experience tells me I’ve only got a few more problems to deal with. *shakes head in exhausted, bemused half-humour*

And now! I present to you, unlocked through the magnificent success of this campaign, Tony Dowler’s Charted Areas.

 

Charted Areas

(click to download)

The Quiet Year – Preordering

There’s a project that I’ve been working on since January of 2011. Maybe it existed as a scrap idea in my journals before that, but it’s January 2011 that I really began working and thinking about it in earnest.

January is always a hard month for me. I experience a lot of sadness and self-doubt in Winter. My approach to managing those feelings that year was to spend the time traveling, ensuring that I was surrounded by a varied cast of friends and didn’t have the space to feel lonely. So community and place and seasons were all in the forefront of my mind.

The game that was born then is called The Quiet Year. It’s a game about the struggles of a community, after the collapse of civilization. Play revolves around a map that gets more detailed through play. There’s a deck of cards that represent the weeks in a year, and playing the game involves moving through that year. It’s a game with strained communication and hard choices. I think it’s really fun and beautiful.

Someone once said that ‘indie publishers’ often design games to work through issues or ideas in their heads. This is certainly true of me. The Quiet Year is a reflection on what’s beautiful about communities, how communities can destroy themselves, how we are limited by seasons but never lose our agency to them, and how we are intrinsically tied to our surroundings. It incorporates both the good and the bad with regards to my experiences working with nonprofits and other organizations.

If you’re looking for a post-apocalyptic game that’s not about war or violence, but is instead about community and recovery, then I strongly urge you to check it out. There’s a preorder campaign up on IndieGoGo for it, which ends at the end of October.

  

Kickstarter: Managing Expectations and Evaluating Goals

Kickstarter. I’m crazy excited about this platform (and IndieGoGo, a similar service that allows people to start a project from anywhere in the world, not just the US). I’m excited partially because of how this transforms the DIY community, and partially how this opens up new possibilities for publishing and enterprise. Crowd-funding is neat.

It’s also riddled with risks and potential problems. I say that as someone who’s backed five projects and created two of my own (one poorly structured and unsuccessful, the other better structured and quite successful). I’ve discerned a list of what I considered to be best practices and potential pitfalls for both project creators and project backers. Feel free to debate and deconstruct! I’m not an expert. I am just a person analyzing the ride that he’s on, and wanting to improve a community I’m excited about.

Before I launch in, Daniel Solis (art director, game designer, good person) wrote a blog post last week about the “meta-economy” of Kickstarter, and the risks and opportunities it affords to those involved. It’s worth a read.

I’m going to talk about Kickstarter here, but in almost every instance I mean “Kickstarter, IndieGoGo, and similar platforms.”

 

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[Co-Design!] Subject Matter and Game Prep

Flashback -

It all started with my desire to build a structured-freeform miniatures game, something that combined the spatial/visual tactics of miniatures with the fluidity and fiction-first feel of structured freeform. I invited people to join me in co-designing this game, using this blog to progress through each design decision together. We decided that we wanted a game about horror-exploration, maybe with scavenging elements thrown in. Combat wasn’t to be the focus of the game, but we haven’t yet stricken it from the design palette altogether. Last time, we brainstormed ideas for the game’s subject matter.

And now -

Now it’s time to look at our ideas about subject matter, and decide what the game will be about. We’ve got a genre and a design philosophy in place, now we need the story and the setup. To oversimplify, we’re going to determine what would be written on the “back of the box.” One thing I noticed about each idea proposed in the last post was that each idea implied/demanded a number of things about game prep (who owns minis, who designs scenarios, what gets drafted in advance, what gets drafted at the table, what do people bring with them). So, as a result, each “what the game is about” answer is also a “how do players prep for play” answer.

I’ll summarize the ideas below, synthesizing and filling in blanks were necessary. Then a poll will follow, where you get to vote for your favourite idea(s). Then, you’re invited to post a comment and build on the ideas that you voted for, if you see a gap and have a cool idea on how to fill it.

Scouts in a Hostile Alien World


One person plays a team of scouts (scientists, scavengers, military escorts, surveyors, thrill-seeking explorers, etc) and the other plays an alien community (hostile terrain, weird floating-eye scouts, breeder-drones, hive queens, ooze pits, etc). Players create their teams in advance, before getting together to play. When they get together, they appraise their forces and decide upon a mission. Alternately, the alien player designs the mission in advance as part of prep. Missions can be things like: “Since we’ve got this science officer, maybe we want to steal one of your alien eggs. Victory looks like a successful capture with no casualties.” Combat is always possible, but always a terrible idea. Maybe mission creation includes determining why the sides (or at least one side) don’t want to escalate to violence.

The movie Alien serves as a touchstone here. Daniel Solis created the pitch “It’s like Euro Starcraft,” and I think that pitch applies to this idea.

Surreal Monsters of the Id


One person plays a squad of human explorers, trespassing on spooky terrain. The other person plays a team of surreal monsters and phantasms born from the id of the trespassers. Maybe the human explorers have a leader, and the remaining members of the squad each embody different characteristics of that leader. The monsters are all reflections of the hopes, fears, and darkest secrets of the squad.

One player brings the human squad already assembled. The other player crafts the surreal id monsters on the fly, riffing off the squad composition. Maybe the monsters are built of lego or some other mix-and-match material.

The movie Resident Evil serves as a touchstone here. I’d also argue that The Cell and any haunted house movie ever would qualify. Existing minis games we could raid minis from: Dreamblade.

Alien Scavengers and Human Colonizers


There’s an alien race that’s physiologically, technologically, and intellectually superior to humans. But this race has recently experiences some apocalyptic event that’s all but wiped them out. That’s when the humans show up.

The humans start with an assembled force, and the aliens start in disarray. The humans might have a number of objectives (scavenging for abandoned tech, scouting an area, building an outpost, kidnapping a new alien species). Regardless of what else the aliens are trying to do in a given mission, they’re also trying to rebuild, reassert their control, and defend their homeland. Over time, the humans encounter more resistance and the aliens grow stronger. The human squad is dealing with a fixed set of resources, whereas the aliens have open-ended growth opportunities.

In this idea, it seems like the human squad would be assembled before a game session, but the alien force would mostly be assembled during play. Maybe the alien player determines their initial, in-disarray forces.

 

The Unfurling Television Show


Everyone is responsible for bringing a sampling of miniatures stuff to the table: some good guys, some bad guys, some terrain, some non-tangible ideas to be written on card tents. The game is like a television show, and each scenario is like a new episode. One person “directs” each episode, which means setting up the scenario and determining which minis are in play. The director also serves as referee for any disputes on fictional efficacy (ie, “you think your monsters invade, but I think that I hold them at bay with these flashing lights, so who’s right?”)

Between episodes, people can prep more miniatures stuff to add to the mix. It’s like being a producer, and deciding how budget increases get spent. Each episode should seek to reincorporate old elements while also introducing new ones.

Note that this idea is the least specific on subject matter. If this one emerges triumphant, we’ll have a follow-up poll where we vote on what this “television show” idea is about, in terms of colour and situation. It’s possible to recycle the fictional content of one of the other pitches.

 

3… 2… 1… Judgement!
You can vote for up to two of these ideas. What grabs your fancy?

Which idea should we move forward with?

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Grace and Learning (and The Devil’s Reach)

I really like learning the craft of graphic design. I set out to teach myself a few years ago, largely so that I could develop more autonomy in game publishing. I’ve had spots of mentorship here and there (thanks, Brad Murray, for sending me that book and walking me through my early crises), but I’ve also spent lots of time clumping through the wilderness.

I’ve come to a conclusion about learning. It’s a messy, sloppy process. Furthermore, it’s supposed to be a messy, sloppy process. And learning graphic design is a weird nut in particular, because you’re designing messy, sloppy products. That’s tricky, because people judge products on their degree of coordination and polish. Good products aren’t messy and sloppy, right? This is especially important when your goal is to create products that you intend to sell.

I suppose one solution is to start by designing things that never see the light of day, unlovable children that you keep hidden in the basement of your hard drive. I am not excited about that solution. I want a solution where knowledge and learning are badges of honour, things you can show people while giddily exclaiming, “Look what I can do!” Another solution is to accept your limits and release messy, sloppy products until your craft improves. But that doesn’t sound like an ideal solution either – the world is regrettably full of messy, sloppy products.

An ideal solution would let you proudly demonstrate your learning at every stage, while creating graceful and polished products throughout.

That’s why I’m so excited to be working with Josh Mannon on Within the Devil’s Reach, and the first installment of the Gears of the Worm God adventure series. See, it goes like this: Josh wants to release a series of slick, high-quality adventure books for Dungeon World. The first one is on Kickstarter right now (with 48 hours to go), and he’s angling for a mid-August release on the resulting book. He wants to develop his graphic design skills and practice them along the way, but also recognizes that taking on the layout for the entire Gears of the Worm God series might be overwhelming and not leave him enough of a timeline to develop his craft with confidence.

So, Within the Devil’s Reach will bear the credit line “Layout by Joe Mcdaldno.” I’ll be developing the visual stamp of the Worm God series, and doing all the layout for book number one. I’ll be documenting my process for Josh, creating a sort of play-by-play report of what I did and why I did it. With the second book, I’ll be mentoring Josh on parts of the layout process and asking him to take on some responsibilities. By book three, that credit line will read “Layout by Josh Mannon and Joe Mcdaldno.” By book five, it’s our goal to have the credit line read “Layout by Josh Mannon, with initial consulting by Joe Mcdaldno” or even a simple “Layout by Josh Mannon.”

With each subsequent book, Josh will have new things to point to and say, “See? I did that.” He’ll be able to proudly demonstrate his learning. And it’ll exist within a graceful and polished product. My goal will be to render myself unnecessary, while ensuring that the Gears of the Worm God series looks as awesome as possible at every step of the way.

[Co-Design!] Horror-Exploration Minis

So, in the previous installment, I unpacked a goal of mine. I want to work with you to design a structured-freeform miniatures “war game,” one that sheds all the mechanical crunch (measuring, dice, stats, hard-coded resolution procedures) but maintains the joy of visual/spatial tactics and “army building.” That’s a crazy goal! This is an experiment!

In that first thread, I asked two questions in poll form. The first was whether the game should focus on combat (a staple in miniatures gaming, and an easy starting place) or venture into an exploration of non-combat (something exciting, but potentially more difficult). The second was a follow-up question, asking what the game might be about if not combat. Both questions saw 29 responses, as well as an ensuing discussion of 13 comments. The results are in!

59% favour a game about something other than combat. 72% think horror-exploration would make for good subject matter, and 55% think scavenging would.

The discussion that ensued revealed a few important design decisions that we’ll have to make together:

  • What will the physical components of the game be? What will be used for minis?
  • What will the game’s social context be? Will people build their own units, or will there be a single “core player” who designs all the units?
  • What will be the players’ relationship to “winning”? Will this be a competitive game or a group endeavor?

I’d like to bookmark those concerns for the moment, with the promise of returning to them shortly. Feel free to discuss them more in the comments, but know that future posts will address them head-on.

For now, I want to talk about what happens in this game. We know that we’re designing a structured-freeform miniatures game that’s not about combat, but is instead about horror-exploration (and possibly scavenging as a secondary theme). But what does that mean?

I think it’s time to answer the big three:

  • What is this game about?
  • What do the characters do?
  • What do the players do?

For my own enthusiasm in this project, I’m hoping that “what do the players do” includes “in between game days, design units/teams to deploy during games (and prepare the minis for these units/teams).”

At this point, we’ve got a broad genre and a broad game-type. What comes next is a discussion session with all of us pitching ideas. Some of these ideas will be incomplete (“it should be about exploring/defending alien planets!”) and some will be much more complete. All are good.

The third post in this [Co-Design!] series will likely be one where we distill the conversation down into 3-5 distinct pitches, and then choose our guiding vision with which to move forward. (And then, social & material contexts? And then, gameplay specifics?)

So, let’s talk about what the setting is, what horror-exploration means, how scavenging might play a role in the game, whether combat has a secondary/tertiary role in this game or none at all, what the characters do, what the players do, what specific game sessions look like (are there missions? are there scenarios?), and all of that. Pitch your ideas in the comments!

[Co-Design!] Tactical, Structured-Freeform Minis

My early forays into geekery included playing Warhammer and other miniatures war-games. I was really excited by it for a number of reasons:

  • I liked the visual and spatial tactics,
  • I liked coming up with cool army themes (my Mad Max-styled Orks, my converted-to-Slaanesh Sisters of Battle),
  • I liked the lonely fun of designing new army lists,
  • I liked the implied worlds that these games were set in.

An image of a WarMachine game in progress.

As I’ve grown up (ever so slightly), my tastes and expectations have  changed. Most tabletop minis games don’t work for me anymore, for the following reasons:

  • They require an incredible financial investment before you can start playing,
  • They require an incredible knowledge investment before you can start playing well,
  • They reward rules mastery and punish rules oversight,
  • They don’t allow you to easily/inexpensively change up your army roster between games,
  • Sometimes hard to make compelling situations emerge from such a fixed & closed mechanical loop,
  • They’re all about combat and slaughter.

So I had this idea. In short: to design a tactical miniatures game that  didn’t have numbers or dice or “hard mechanics”, but that still managed to deliver on the stuff I loved (visual and spatial tactics, developing cool army themes, the lonely fun of tweaking army lists). Bonus points if it managed to reward players tinkering with their army lists and scenarios between game days. Additional bonus points if it wasn’t about combat and slaughter.

I’ve been pondering over the past month what a structured-freeform tactical minis game could look like. I’ve come up with some compelling ideas that together form an incomplete picture. Here’s my current thinking, positing a bog-standard skirmish warfare thing for the moment:

There are different troop types. Each troop type has a description including a mention of: their strengths, their unique skills, and their weaknesses. You build squads of troops, and outfit them with special stuff like leadership and weapons. All of these troops & options have a write-up in a book (or on a website), but the writeup contains only descriptions and narrative tags. So the Hammerhead Bikers might have a write-up for their bikes: “Fast bikes with exceptional acceleration but shaky handling in rough terrain. Gas-fuelled. Handlebar-mounted sub-machine gun (unstable).”

Fictional positioning (as well as physical positioning) would govern how things went down. You’d slide your Hammerhead Bikers into position and say, “The Hammerheads are pulling around this rocky corner, laying down some scattered fire to make sure that no one feels safe taking a shot at them.” And then I’d respond by saying, “Well, I think that a couple of my Indigo Braves are going to suicide charge you, rushing out from behind their ledge with some live explosives.” And you’d pause in surprise, and say, “Shit. My bikes have shaky handling right now. What does it say about your explosives?” And then you’d read it out, right, and we’d judge how it went down. The play-style would demand that people play to find out what happens and carefully cultivate verisimilitude, even while acknowledging a desire to win. I think it’s possible to design in that space, but also acknowledge that it’s largely untapped and unexplored. Maybe a third player serves as impartial referee? I dunno.

So, there are a million unanswered questions, wrt this idea. I posted about it to Twitter, and got lots of feedback. This led me to an idea: to allow this to evolve via open design, giving anyone interested a chance to participate in the game’s development. I really liked following projects like Craft the Creature, so will borrow some of those ideas. This game is going to build itself up (theme, structure, presentation, material components, etc) right here, designed by committee. It’ll either be an awesome process or a disastrous failure. Each post will include a poll, a discussion topic, a number of responsibilities to delegate out, or something in a similar vein. Participate as much as you’d like to.

To start, a poll!

I think it’d be cool to have a minis game that wasn’t about combat and slaughter, but that was still sincerely a tactical minis game. But I’m worried that trying to juggle too many radical ideas at once can lead to an incoherent design that doesn’t have an audience. That’s my fear; I don’t know if it’s founded.

We’re going to design a structured-freeform minis game.

Should this game be about combat?

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If we design a non-combat game, what should it be about? I’m really wanting something that involves constructing “army lists” and relies upon spatial tactics. The options that I can think of are:

If not combat, what should this game be about?

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The Joy of Hacking

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In days past, I didn’t really “get” the appeal of hacking existing games. (A tentative definition of hacking, for anyone who doesn’t already know the term: taking an existing game system and modifying it until it’s a new game.) I thought that it was lazy design that produced incoherent results.

While I still believe that hacking has some big wide pitfalls to avoid, I have seen the light. Hacking is a liberating and accessible design process. It allows people to create based upon their strengths instead of their needs. It lets designers dialogue with one another, and stand on one another’s shoulders. It creates diy communities instead of diy lighthouses. I’m going to unpack each of those statements, and then relate it back to Monsterhearts, my hack of Apocalypse World that tells teen monster drama stories. The post is going to end with a preview of Monsterhearts, if you want to skip the big unpacking.

Hacking Has Some Big Wide Pitfalls to Avoid

Games are designed to accomplish certain things – to create a specific type of story, to have a specific impact on players, to support specific tactics or approaches. And the tricky thing is that not all of those goals are going to be listed on the outside of the tin. When you hack a game, you risk removing the critical element that makes the game fun and magical. The best practice here is that if you’re going to hack, you must do so in a critical and self-examined way. When designing systems from scratch, you need to spend lots of energy making the system do what you want it to do. When designing systems by hacking, you need to spend lots of energy learning why a system does things the way it does them.

I think that it’s only in the past 10 years that people have really wrapped their head around how to make good hacks. It isn’t about creating new weapon lists and character classes, it is about learning how and why a game works, and then getting up to your elbows in that structure so you change it and make it into something new. Simply replicating a system for a new setting or media property is going to lead to either a drab game or an incoherent game.

Now, with the words of warning out of the way, here’s what I’ve learned about the joys of hacking!

Hacking is a Liberating and Accessible Design Process

Glancing up at my menu bar, you can see that I’ve designed a number of games. When you start a game from scratch, you need to make a thousand interrelated decisions. Those decisions are contingent upon one another, meaning that it can be hard to isolate what works and what doesn’t work throughout the design process. If part of the game falls flat in playtesting, you need to ask yourself so many questions: are my design goals valid and appropriate? Do the mechanics I’ve designed here actually uphold my design goals? Is this specific mechanic too complicated or too simple? Do I need to fix the problem at the specific and immediate level, or by overhauling the whole system? Should this game actually be diceless? Because that’s how designing a new game system works, you need to ask yourself all these questions simultaneously.

When you hack a game, you don’t need to ask yourself all of those questions. You’re starting with a complete set of answers, and you’re only changing the ones that matter to you and to your game concept. You’re liberated from having to weigh important decisions that you don’t particularly care about.

Monsterhearts is a hack of Apocalypse World. Anything I didn’t really care about answering for myself, Vincent Baker had already provided me an answer for. I really cared about how relationships were represented and changed via the mechanics, so I spent a lot of time developing those answers for myself. I didn’t really care about how success/failure worked – just that I wanted characters to sometimes get their way and sometimes land themselves in a sticky mess – so I leaned upon Apocalypse World’s existing answers, here. “Roll 2d6 + a stat, with 6- being a failure, 7-9 being a mixed result or hard bargain, and 10+ being a clean success” is simple and fun, and crafting my own mechanics from scratch here would have been arduous and uninteresting to me. Hacking Apocalypse World liberated me from having to craft my own answers when I didn’t have strong feelings one way or another. Though, pleasantly enough, as I continued to work on the design, I found myself continually getting invested in more of the questions. But that process was never forced at gunpoint, the same way it is when you design from scratch.

It Allows People To Create Based on Their Strengths, Not Their Needs

This point is pretty similar to the first one. A game needs a lot of things in order to work and to achieve all of your design goals. As a designer, you have a set of design strengths. Your strengths and your needs aren’t always going to overlap, even if you’re designing a project that’s “just right for you.” There’s a couple different ways to respond to that a-synchronicity. First, you can just work really hard and design through your weaknesses. Sometimes you overcome them and design something brilliant, sometimes your design is generally brilliant but held back in ways. Second, you can outsource the parts of the design process that you don’t excel at. Many of us already do this with editing, layout, and art. You can partner your creative wellspring mind with a big-picture analytical mind, or vice versa, in order to lift one another up. And finally, you can hack an existing game, one that is already successful and strong in the design areas that your strengths aren’t situated.

It Lets Designers Dialogue with One Another, and Stand On One Another’s Shoulders

A hack is more than just a method for producing a game. It’s also a method for interacting with a game you really like (or, in some cases, a game you really want to like but identify problems with). It’s a dialogue between designers. Whether it’s your goal or not, you’re creating a community of exploration, each of you proving new applications to a core set of ideas. They show you a cool idea, you respond with your own cool idea that builds on it. Yes, And.

What I like about Apocalypse World is the sense of desperation and the messy and transitory relationship webs. I like that the only constant is a lack of constancy. When I look at those things, my mind leaps to a different place than post-apocalyptica, though. It leaps to the volatile emotional journey that is adolescence. Monsterhearts is a big “Yes, and” statement to Apocalypse World. It’s a way for me to do more than just buy Vincent’s art, but to instead engage it and reply to it.

It Creates DIY Communities Instead of DIY Lighthouses

Let me tell you about a really motivating force that I had behind me while I was publishing Monsterhearts: I was not alone. This design path that I was walking, it wasn’t lonely. I was walking a path that Vincent had carved, and there were other pilgrims sharing the road with me. I might be doing things that didn’t apply to those other pilgrims – like designing the Strings mechanic or Darkest Selves – but I still felt the symbolic support of a community.

Hacking creates diy communities, whereas independent from-scratch design often creates diy lighthouses.

So, Monsterhearts

It started as a joke (most of my games do). I was playing around with the idea of using Apocalypse World to run Twilight, and then I sort of realized that I’d struck gold. Melodramatic teenage monster drama makes for fantastic storytelling, because it has a strong genre formula to lean upon as well as rewarding us for playing volatile characters involved in intense-and-immediate situations.

This is the first hack that I’ve seen through to publication, and it was a really rewarding design experience. Being able to stand upon the shoulders of a giant helped me reach the mountaintop in one piece. Having a hyper-focused design community around me gave me support and critical eyes whenever I needed it.

The game’s currently available for preorder on IndieGoGo. To give people a taste of the game, and to thank those who have backed the game so far, I’m releasing a little excerpt from the game: the long play example that will be located in the back of the book. As the final text is still with the editor, this is a draft version that might be changed or revised before printing.

Click Here For a Monsterhearts Preview

Feral

I’m writing the new draft of Monsterhearts right now. I just finished sketching out a skeleton for the document, in Scrivener. I’m now working on the introduction.

I’ve decided that I want a “what is a story game” section at the front. So I put a few sentences to paper, without thinking very critically about what I was writing. And then, looking back, I was really happy with this one gem that I saw nestled in there.

And so, the opening paragraph of Monsterhearts, at current:

This is a story game. To play, we invent characters and roleplay as them. We say things, and in response to some of those things we roll dice and interact with rules. The rules are there to keep the story feral – no matter how gorgeous and perfect we imagine our characters to be, they are never given the luxury of domesticating their fate. They are always in the lurch, which means they are always interesting. The rules are there to make sure that it isn’t my story, and it isn’t your story. Instead, it’s something emergent and raw and spellbinding.

“The rules are there to keep the story feral.”
I feel really good about that line.

Setbacks

So, the print version of Perfect Unrevised has been 99% complete for the last month. Or, at least, at any given moment, I’ve been under the impression that it was 99% done. But then as I round the final hump, I encounter a frustrating setback, and it puts yet another hump between me and finally ordering this print run.

Here’s where I’m at now: I’ve received the proof, and with a friend gone and checked it page-by-page, line-by-line. I noticed some typos, as well as some sentences that would be clearer with revision. The border graphics for Chapter 5 looked really muddy, and I decided they should be replaced with something similar.

I made all those changes, and then the file I was working in corrupted. I had made a back-up shortly before ordering the proof, thankfully… but I still lost several hours of tedious work. I’m on the road right now, still, and so made a new plan: when I arrived at my next destination, where my friend owned a computer with ID CS4, I’d re-do my work there. But, his computer was a Windows machine, and the fonts that I’m using are Mac formatted… so it’s not possible here. So, when I move on to my next city (Olympia, once more), THEN I’ll be able to re-do those edits and send in updated files and order my print run.

So, I guess this is just a status update, to say: in a week, I’m going to be able to make all the edits that I made half a week ago. And then I’ll be able to order the print run. And then I’ll be able to ship them out. And then I’ll be able to hold a book in my hands, smiling, and say, “I made this.”

Soon!

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