The Blog
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.
[Soul-searching post edited and replaced with decision-making post.]
Alright, on this, the 15th of June, I’ve verified my desire to keep blogging. Thanks for the comments, Willem & Joe & d7.
I’ve also restored all of my previous posts. Though, I scrapped their previous categories and tags, and rebuilt those components from scratch. Because if I’m on board, I’m manic and obsessive.
I’m hoping to get back to what I’m good at: talking about communication and experience and what games mean to us.
Stay tuned, y’all. I’ll be writing more.
This Saturday, I ran a game design panel with Brad Murray, one of the authors of Diaspora. We were surprised and delighted to fill every chair in the room. Granted, there were 15 chairs in the room. I’d like to share my outline and discuss how the conversation unfolded, because I think it worked really well. The text in italics is the stuff on the outline we handed out, and the plain-face text is my post-panel thoughts.
1.) Designs Should Have A Guiding Vision (2 minutes)
The plan: In general, discuss the idea of designing a game to deliver a certain set of goals. What does your game do, in terms of… stories, characters, setting, situation, mechanics, play experience?
After opening with some introductions, we dived into the idea that a game should have a guiding vision, that it should seek to deliver something specific. Although this might be a Forge-centric idea, we didn’t discuss it in a Forge-centric way – Vampire: the Requiem has a guiding vision, and that is a major boon to the game. Introducing this idea not as revolutionary, but as something intrinsic to all design work, was helpful in unifying our audience.
2.) Take An Audience Game Pitch, Answer “The Big 3″ (7 minutes)
Audience Pitch: What is your game about? Now, what is it really about?
What is your game about? What do the characters do? What do the players do?
We asked the audience members to share a game idea that someone was working on, that we could workshop throughout the discussion. One guy put forward an idea that he said “wasn’t really a roleplaying game, but more of a baseball simulation exercise”. We took that and ran with it. The guy’s game was a two-player game: pitcher vs batting line-up.
We asked him what his game was about (baseball simulation), then dove into what interested him about baseball simulation to get at what the game was really about (the tension and the psychological mind games at work between the batter and pitcher). We presented the “big three” (what is your game about? what do the characters do? what do the players do?), and learned that both character & player are locked in the mind game component. We probed to find out what else the players do, and learned that they managed resources (batting line-ups, fan support, mechanical resources).
3.) Mechanics Should Support What The Game Is About (10 minutes)
Discuss the notion that mechanics support what the game is about, and structure an intended experience. Talk about things that the designer could do to facilitate their goals. Be sure to question the necessity of given mechanics: Do you need a GM? How about stats? Do you need dice? If so, why? Audience Pitch: What system/mechanics will support this design?
Here, we had about a 15-minute round-table, exploring mechanics that would supporting the evolving game. The discussion came around to the use of decks of playing cards, with suits representing different tactics and the number representing effectiveness. We introduced the idea that the players would take the deck of cards and from it build a deck of ~30 cards (so that if I want to throw lots of curveballs, I take all the clubs and widdle down on the other suits) – this would be part of the resource management aspect.
We had a boon in this game in that we were STARTING OUT with a GMless design, built for only two players. We were miles ahead of the curve to begin with. However, that let us focus on even more interesting questions: do you need a random element in your game to simulate how random the situation in the fiction is? In the end, we ditched the necessity for dice in determining whether batting was successful, though we integrated a secret card-bidding element.
At the tail end of this conversation, I tossed out a question: would there be a “you can’t focus because your wife is having an affair” card? The audience cheered that idea on, and the idea that hearts would correspond to out-of-game dramas was introduced.
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“I got a hundred years of down home running through my blood.”
-Alabama
Let’s pretend, for a second, that every type/genre of music can be reduced to a question about life, the universe and intentionality. For the moment, we’ll just treat this as a game, an exercise. I think rap music could be paraphrased as “How do we emerge from hardship?” You see a lot of songs about enduring and surviving (Talib Kweli’s Gotta Get By, Eminem’s Lose Yourself), a lot of songs about conflict, and then an explosion of songs about having made it. Maybe it’s more complicated than a single question, but certainly the culture of rap music could be well described in a few short questions: “how do we deal with hardship?”, “how do we overcome hardship?”, “what will we do with our power, once we gain it?” These questions are ultra-prevalent in rap, but to try to ground the body of pop music, or indie rock, in them would be a difficult exercise.
Ask me four years ago what I listened to, and I would have answered: punk. I might have then added “ska and indie rock”, but my answer was that I was a firm proponent of punk. Let’s give the unifying-question treatment to punk. “Are you willing to fight back?” “Who is to blame?” “How should we die?” Correct me if I’m wrong.
I’ve recently rejected the importance of those questions. I don’t see fighting a system as the best way to affect a system, and I don’t see confrontation as the best means for deep-rooted change. Thus, “Are you willing to fight back?” is like asking “Are you willing to break the hammer on the screw?” for me. I don’t see blame as a necessary or useful component of problem solving or conflict resolution, so “Who is to blame?” is problematic and unhelpful to me. And finally, I’ve moved away from the hometown I despised, and in doing so abandoned a lot of the fatalism that I carried with me, leaving the “How should we die?” question one that could only be answered prematurely and rashly.
Punk’s burning questions are no longer burning. They sit as nice signposts to remind me of my adolescence, but my mind has turned to new ones: “Where do we find beauty?” “How shall we live?” “Where do we go from here?” “What can we learn from the past as we explore new ground?”
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I’m back!
Summer has been going well. Ribbon Drive is nearing publication. My garden is doing fairly well. And I got back from Go Play alright. Go Play helped me realize something about my play preferences – a shift I’ve made in the past two years.
We sometimes talk about this mode of play that is goal-focused, situation-driven, poweful, assertive, emotionally aggressive, testing and meaningful. It’s a subset of Story Now play, and I’ve heard it described as “playing passionately,” “story by the throat,” and the less flattering “face stabby play.” And I used to be all about this. Yeah! Let’s play close to home, and let’s be really INTENSE about it! So there’s this spectrum that runs from easy/safe/light play to demanding/vulnerable/intense play. Basically, “light-hearted play” vs “intense play”.
There’s a second axis that I find doesn’t get much attention. It’s that of quiet/subtle/downbeat play to loud/obvious/gonzo play. Basically, “soft play” versus “thunderous play”.
Most of the time, when “intense play” gets discussed, it’s assumed we’re also talking about “thunderous play.” A lot of newer games support emotional violence, pushing really hard on character/player goals, centralizing conflicts (the phrase “push to conflict” being a common one) and rewarding powerful and tense moments. Stabbing your mother to protect your forbidden love = awesome.
The shift in my play preferences is that I no longer like this combination. I’m cool with combining “light-hearted play” and “thunderous play”. In this combination, there’s a focus on getting the most fun out of a moment of play, of having actions sound cool, and of building upon any and all suggestions (ie, not filtering). This kind of play works well with Dungeons and Dragons or Danger Patrol or Inspectres. Firing your rocket gun while jumping out of a flaming zepplin = awesome.
I’m fine with “light-hearted play” and “soft play”. This kind of play focuses on appreciating little character quirks, working together, figuring out what you want, and having fun. Breaking the Ice does this really well; the endgame mechanics are: look at the relationship you’ve created. Decide whether or not you want it to last. A thoughtful end to a feelgood game about trying to make something nice work out. Playing out the simple dialogue of two quirky people in a supermarket = awesome. Maybe. Perhaps this cross-section is a straw man – I don’t really know this type of play well at all.
I’m most interested in mixing intense play and soft play. This is the kind of play where things hit home, but they do so slowly. There’s room for subtlety. There”s also room for abrupt, sudden violence. The difference between this abrupt violence and that of “thunderous play” is that when play is soft, we watch the violence shake itself out. We see repercussions, we follow the downbeats after the action. Play utlizes pregnant pauses, focuses on difficult decisions and transitional moments, and makes us think about what our characters really want.
I’m working on two games right now. Ribbon Drive and Perfect. Ribbon Drive is a game about everyday people on road trips, learning to let go (and sometimes giving up on their dreams). Perfect is a game about committing crimes in a Victorian Dystopia, and facing the punishment and brainwashing that follows if you get caught. I started working on them both in earnest months ago. Ribbon Drive is ready to print, whereas Perfect has a lot of writing left. Part of the reason is that Ribbon Drive is a simpler game. A bigger part is that Perfect is intense/thunderous, whereas Ribbon Drive is intense/soft; my interests have shifted and its hard to bring them back.
I don’t see a lot of support for intense/soft games. The techniques are less explored – utilizing pauses and silence; mechanically codifying ambiguity or indecision (how would this work?), or even signalling it for that matter; delaying important decisions without escalating them; using character avoidance without it being a form of player blocking; asking hard questions; reincorporation over time; downbeats; de-escalation; backing down (this is explored in some games, like Dogs in the Vineyard, but still fairly virgin territory for most); and compromise.
I’ve seen some games that do this – Breaking the Ice can do intense/soft as well as light-hearted/soft. Roleplaying poems and stuff written by Jackson Tegu are often really meaningful and powerful but also really quiet and introspective. But there’s something of a void still existing. I’m excited to be nearing completion on Ribbon Drive – I think I’ve done a really good job of exploring some techniques for play that’s both intense and quiet. But I’m still searching for other games that do this well.
There’s a common adage in the world of story games, introduced through the text of Vincent Baker’s Dogs in the Vineyard: Say yes or roll the dice. Follow the link to read his words on the subject, and then meet me back here.
Vincent’s writing assumes two things: that conflict produces meaningful story, and that saying no gets in the way of producing meaningful story. It’s the second of these two assumptions that I want to draw into question for a moment. Does saying no to a player or a character block meaningful story?
It definitely does some of the time. Let’s say that we’re telling a story about a pistol-wielding archeologist adventurer, and I say that he leaps from the cliff and lands in front of a cluster of evil henchmen, ready for a fight. I’ve got a great idea for where to take this scene, and it’s pregnant with action and struggle. And you say, “well, let’s discuss whether you’d actually be able to survive that kind of fall.” That’s blocking (what my example self considers to be) exciting conflict and meaningful story. It doesn’t add anything to the story, it doesn’t prompt my character to make decisions under duress and it doesn’t change our options. It limits, and it replaces a zinger of a story conflict (will I be able to fight down these sinister henchmen?) with what is at best a crappy story conflict (will I get the chance to face off against these henchmen, like I want to?) and at worst a crappy social conflict (why won’t you just let me do this cool thing?).
So, I’m going to agree that saying no can be detrimental to creating meaningful stories. That’s nearing on unarguable. However, is there also space for blocking/denying/saying no/delaying to be a useful tool in stories? I would say yes. I’m going to reverse my argument before making it, though. There are ways to hear no which are useful to producing good stories, regardless of whether saying it was a good idea. I’m going to walk through a few of the ways I’ve heard “no” surface in story games, and how to make use of them.
Hearing no at a player level
“I don’t see it.”
Willem Larsen introduced me to this phrase. It’s something he uses in group character creation, so that you can have an entire group participating in the creation of a character, but still allow that character’s owner agency and control. This phrase says “I can’t envision what you said plausibly and organically building upon what has already been said / my vision”. It’s elegant in that the speaker assumes responsibility for the disconnect, and it doesn’t necessarily end communication. Try to hear this as “No, but… show me what you’re envisioning.”
The two things that you can do in the face of “I don’t see it” are to acknowledge that there is a gap in the shared imagined space, and work to bridge that gap. The bridging might take the place of differently articulating your contributions (if the gap is one of undestanding), or retreating a narration that breaks someone else’s immersion/belief/investment/plausibility (if the gap is one of expectation).
“No. That’s dumb.”
This phrase doesn’t need much unpacking. Sometimes an idea is not a good idea, and it’s not about a failure of vision. I’ve heard this kind of no over several of my ideas in the past: having the teen gang ride hover-bikes, having my character attempt to assassinate another character in the first scene. I’ve watched people shoot down ideas in the stage before play (the planning/prep stage) several times. Sometimes, this shuts a player down. Sometimes, it forces a player to take a step back, re-evaluate where the group is at, and try to match up their own expectations. Try to hear this as ”No, and… you should take a moment and check your expectations.”
Ultimately, this is someone attempting to protect the artistic integrity of something they’re involved in, and that’s important. The way they’re going about it is problematic, in that they might damage the social integrity, but there are still ways to take this feedback and use it. Hear this as a concern about the final product. They are saying that they don’t want to have to build upon a suggestion they don’t like, and as artists, that is their perogative.
In a sustained, real-time, improvised artistic medium like story gaming, it is assumed that some of the things we introduce will sound dumb. This is natural, realistic and totally fine. To an extent, we must work with the contributions of others even when they aren’t radiant and brilliant, but to an extent we also have the right to exert our standards. If someone deems a contribution subpar, accept that maybe it is. And accept that as being natural, realistic and totally fine. Kill your darling. Listen to the group, hear that there is a difference in expectation, try to find the page that others are on and occupy it, and see if you can infer preference from the block you’ve just received.
“That crosses a line.” or “I’m not comfortable with that.”
There are times when no communicates a comfort differential. Sometimes a member of the group won’t have the established tust necessary to take the story in a certain direction. Sometimes they worry that a certain direction would be triggering, upsetting or too similar to their real lives. No can communicate that someone is not comfortable with I Will Not Abandon You play. Check with yourself about whether this is because the person feels unsafe with the group (something to work on) or unsafe with the subject (something to respect).
I’m currently working on a story game called Ribbon Drive. It’s taken my heart by storm, and I’m really excited about its upcoming release. Ribbon Drive is a game where you tell a story about a road trip, and all the meaning and contemplation that pours out of it. It’s a game about letting go on the open road. The game uses mix CDs as a driving force to shape play.
One of the most successful parts of play, I’ve found, is the opening. We shuffle the mix CDs. We draw one at random, put it in the machine, and press play. We listen to to the first song in silence. Afterwards, we pause the CD and interpret how that first song lends to a road trip premise. We use it as a foundation point for our story. Why has this stage been successful? Well, all we’re asking is that you listen to a song (which had an equal opportunity of being your song, and might well be) and think about it. Participation seems to require very little.
But here’s what I’ve noticed: being both present and silent is very hard for some people, myself included. There’ve been games of Ribbon Drive where I’ve put down the lyrics to the song while it played; people who felt most comfortable tracking the words would do so. In games where I didn’t offer this thing to do, where your options were to either close your eyes or look around the room, the vibe I got was significantly different. It was a bit anxious, in that people seemed a little less comfortable in their own skin. There was reservation about sharing their opinions afterwards.
Being both present and silent is hard. Experiment: try to meet and hold someone’s gaze for fifteen seconds, without either of you saying anything. You can repeat this experiment as many times a day as you like. See how many people break this gaze. See how often you break this gaze. Does it feel comfortable and natural? My answers are, pretty invariably: almost everyone; almost every time someone else doesn’t; no.
Silence, as a form of communication, is underexplored, because it is difficult and often misread. I’m not talking about shutting up, nor am I talking about the silent treatment(ie, using silence to communicate how you are unengaged), but rather silence as a tool for active, engaged participation. Before I get farther into why this might be difficult for us, let’s look at how silence could be used as a tool.
Silence Can Demonstrate Agreement. Silence can demonstrate the absence of objections, the support of the speaker. It can demonstrate your belief that their argument is without necessary additions or revisions. Danger: this silence can also be a sign that a communicator lacks confidence that they and their concerns will be met fairly.
Silence Can Demonstrate Engaged Listening. Silence can demonstrate that one is focused on listening and appreciating. If the speaker has paused or stopped, and the listener is still silent, this could be seen as a signal that the listener is interested in hearing more. Danger: this silence could also be seen as non-participatory listening, and might be used when the listener is incapable of meaningful engagement.
Silence Can Demonstrate Ongoing Consideration. Silence can demonstrate that one is taking time to mull over the idea and consider its applications before challenging it or moving on. Silence could signify that one is interested in this idea to the extent that they would prefer to stay with it, rather than keep advancing the conversation. Danger: this silence could also mean that the ideas aren’t worth engaging, or that the silent party is unsure how to engage a response.
Silence Can Demonstrate Your Priorities. Silence can carry the very powerful message that you care more about hearing another’s ideas than sharing your own. This is a form of permission-granting similar to Silence Can Demonstrate Agreement, but coupled with a statement of preference. Danger: this silence can also demonstrate that you feel your priorities are invalid, or that you won’t be given due spotlight (and so are resigned to another’s communicative priorities).
How do we utilize silence’s strengths while avoiding its pitfalls?
I go hurtling forward, and for a second there it must seem like I’m going to hit him, because in a flash he’s got both of his hands wrapped around my neck. Panic floods my vision; we make eye contact. His grip loosens and he slowly pulls his hands back. We communicate as much with our eyes and body language as we can, considering we’re in a dark room packed with people. “Sorry,” he yells, “I thought you were about to punch me.”
“No. I was only going to shove you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
We start dancing again, timidly at first. We’re back to moshing within a handful of moments.
I don’t think there’s a universally-established code of conduct for moshes. I certainly haven’t heard of one. Some people go in looking for a friendly, physical release; others go in looking for a fight. Some people will be really upset (in the “dude, wtf, that’s not cool” way) if you throw a punch at them. What’s even more disparate than the assumed conduct of a mosh is the assumed point. I’ve definitely collided with people who I could tell were going into it with something very different in mind. At a Mindless Self Indulgence concert two years ago, the guy next to me whispered to his friend, “next song, I’m totally going to hurt someone.” At the start of the next song, he ran, jumped into the air, and planted both of his feet squarely in the small of someone’s back. She hit the ground hard. I still have no idea what the hell was going through his head.
Moshing is a discourse that takes place with no meaning. It could be argued that there is some hidden language to moshing, some collective consciousness that we are exploring. I refute these arguments. What goes on when someone moshes? I’d argue that the only universal constant is release. Release does not equate meaning. There is no significance to the interactions that take place during moshing.
Evidence to support this claim, that these interactions take place without meaing:
1.) “I thought you were about to punch me.” “No. I was only going to shove you.” “Yeah, okay.”
2.) The same evening, there was a guy who I was moshing with. He’d hit me really hard, attempting to knock me off my feet, and then extend an arm to help me stabilize so I wouldn’t fall and get trampled. He was straight-up attempting to knock me over, but then was counter-balancing that by keeping me upright. Knocking me over solely for the sake of knocking me over.
I’d like to suggest that release can be a goal, and achieving meaning can be a goal, and that expressing meaning can be a goal. And I’d like to suggest that even when goals work in tandem, the more goals that you have, the less energy you are able to devote to each. In order to achieve the strongest release, you need to isolate and remove meaning (at least as a goal, preferably also as an in-the-moment side-effect).
Where do we see this happening? Moshing, as I’ve argued. As far as musical genres, breakcore and extreme noise. In movies, some avant-garde surrealist work. I’d argue Eraserhead. Certain drugs. What does these things have in common?
Discord.
Let’s use games as a lens for analyzing discord and the reduction of meaning. Sociologist Roger Caillois identifies, as one kind of play, ilinx. Ilinx is defined as play “…based on the pursuit of vertigo and which consist[s] of an attempt to momentarily destroy the stability of perception and inflict a kind of voluptuous panic upon an otherwise lucid mind. In all cases, it is a question of surrendering to a kind of spasm, seizure, or shock which destroys reality with sovereign brusqueness.”
What does ilinx provide for us?
