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.

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.

4.) Design Is More Than Mechanics (5 minutes)

Design involves more than mechanics – play culture, negotiation, group set-up. Discuss the idea that expectations of campaign length, of social dynamics, and of creative agendas is part of game design.

At this stage, we looked at the play culture and play expectations going on with the game. We came up with something pretty cool – that each game would play out in 45-60 minutes (just like magic or a short board-game), and that the game would promote the idea of tournaments… two people play, and each then find new partners and play against them. A quick, two-player game would support a culture of meeting up to play out “just one game”. We also introduced the idea of playing at a “per batter” level and a “per inning” level – ie, to have a flexible enough scope that you could play quick games or in-depth games.

The idea of collectible cards was introduced around this point, and became a crowd favorite. This totally reinforced the game’s content (trading baseball cards? yeah!), and also the game’s play culture (meeting up for short games, playing tournaments, rotating player base).

5.) Fleshing Out The Idea (10 minutes)

Tying this all together (the big 3, mechanics that support a vision, “soft mechanics” and social expectations), discuss the audience-pitched game and what the finished game might be like.

At this point, we just ran through everything once more – the vision, what players & characters do, how the mechanics structure that, how the “soft system” and play culture around them fits in with that. We talked about appropriate branding & expression of the game, and quickly discussed titles (one idea was Baseball Staredown, though moments after leaving the con I realized that I’d have suggested Curveball).

6.) Playtesting (7 minutes)

When is a good time to start testing a game? (From Playstorming to complete drafts)
Test the game you’re actually writing: play what’s written, stay consistent, check play against the rules
How to invite critique: accept criticism, ask specific questions, discuss goals vs. experience
Taking steps back: having others run your game, blind playtests, post-play discussions

We just burned through this quickly, and discussed our own playtesting experiences.

Post-Mortem

This outline is by no means unique. It draws on similar panels that I’ve been to or heard about, especially those championed by Luke Crane & Jared Sorensen. We had a great time with it, and we tried to empower our audience to become active contributors as much as possible. With around 15 people in the room, we were able to hear thoughts from most everyone. We took the guy’s game in a radically different direction, and we were greatful that he humored the process. It’s vital for this workshop/panel that you choose someone who’ll be flexible enough to do that.

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?”

And coincidentally, I have been drifting away from punk and toward some pretty surprising alternatives. Bluegrass, folk, alt.country, accoustic indie rock, folk-punk. Bands like Twilight Hotel, songs like Santa Fe by June Madrona… these captivate me, because they speak directly to the questions that I find myself fixated on. And at first I told myself, “Well, I can like folk without admitting to liking country”. And then it was, “Well, I can like the fiddle because Ghost Mice and other folk-punk bands use it, so it’s clearly still punk. But the evidence was mounting, mounting, constantly mounting. I was beginning to like country (of course, not the Garth Brooks, Dolly Parton kind of country, but certainly I found something beautiful in Cash, in hearing a fiddle, in every singer/songrwriter with a crooner’s voice and a story about finding himself in his travels). And I was almost ashamed of this, I felt like I was betraying my values and coming to resemble the home town I’d convinced myself I would forever hate.

When  I started to think less about the things that genres represented (punk = social activism, country = conservative rednecks) and more about the questions that genres asked, this transition clicked and made sense. Further, it informed me of the ways in which I could best explore these questions I had.

To take this idea of pervasive questions a step further, different genres are busy holding different conversations. If I look at all the folk and bluegrass that I listen to, I see a dialogue taking place about finding comfort. There are stories about finding it on the open road, stories about finding it at home, in the arms of a loved one, in times of peace, in times of conflict. I get to be a part of that conversation,  I get to feel situated in a culture.

One thing I pretty much take for granted in my own thinking is that we construct the world around us through our interests and our activities. My world is one where people are engaged in social creativity (story games, poetry slams, constant arts & crafts, teaching one another) and where people think about how communication works (story games theorism, exploring nonviolent communication, creating programming for our interest groups). In going back to school this month, and being exposed to a population of first-year students, I see that most people roughly my age aren’t living in that world at all. Entertainment is disseminated, that video games are the most participatory that people get. Communication isn’t an intentional and explored element of their lives (in Interpersonal Communications, we actually had a whole lecture devoted to explaining the idea that communication skills could be workshopped. WTF). I see regular evidence, and an abundance of evidence recently, that we live in worlds that we construct out of our interests and immediate situations.

But thinking about this idea that genres of music present us with pervasive questions, I am now reaching a new concept: we construct our worlds in order to challenge us in meaningful ways. Punk music asks “Are you willing to fight back?” Back when I was a firm supporter of punk, my world was shaped somewhat by this question. And I started to see forces that needed to be fought against - oppression, inequity, injustice, corporate monopolization, privatization, the exercise of priviledge. These were dominant challenges that populated my world with alarming frequency. In framing my world around certain questions (like those that punk asks), and engaging in certain dialogues (like those punk explores), I constructed a world plagued by certain dilemmas.

While I don’t discount those forces/challenges now, they aren’t the things that haunt me. I’m now framing my world around different questions (like “How shall we live?”), and engaging in different dialogues (like ones of self-reliance, rural living, being close to the earth), and as a result constructing the world in terms of different challenges (like urban expansionism, environmental decimation, feeling socially disconnected, sustainability and existential confusion). This is reflected, mirrored and at times propelled by the music I’m listening to.

I’m finally starting to listen for the questions, not the answers. And I’m pretty surprised by what I find myself nodding along to.

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.

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).

Hearing no at a character level

“You don’t find what you’re looking for.” or “It doesn’t work.”

You have a brilliant idea for how to address the story situation that presents itself. You share your plan, expecting it to go through. Someone else playing the story game (or, telling the story) says that your plan fails. They don’t offer a dramatic twist, they don’t offer conflict (in the form of some force with conflicting goals interrupting your character’s efforts), they just say no. You’re left looking at a still-locked-door, or an empty desk drawer, or some other impasse.

This is another player in the group looking at a situation and seeing a way to make it more pregnant and dramatic. If your character failed to pick the door lock and get into the office that way, maybe they need to smash a window. Maybe they need to take the night guard hostage and force him around by the scruff of his neck. This can be interpreted as a preference that the character should exasperate resources, burn bridges, get desperate or escalate the situation in order to get what they want. Try to hear this as, “No, because… I want you to have to earn this one.” It’s delaying the payoff to make it greater.

Now, this no can quickly lead to dysfunction. Maybe they’ve given you no clear indicate how to push or escalate. Maybe they’re actually saying “No, that’s dumb” (ie, saying no to you, not your character), and they’re choosing to mask that in fictional terms. Maybe they’re delaying your fun. Maybe you hate riddles. I’m not advocating the use of this no, I’m merely suggesting that there are constructive interpretations of it.

“No, you can’t do that.” (without the opportunity for conflict)

This is the same as “I don’t see it”, but wrongly targeted at the character and not the player. Interpret it as a no at the player level.

“No, someone else is going to try to stop you.”

There is a conflict of interest. This is the no that we, as story gamers (especially of the indie, Forge-inspired tradition), codify and work with pretty regularly. Try to hear this as “No, unless… you earn it from me.” And then try to earn it, probably through the game mechanics.

* * * * *

There are other ways that we hear no in story games: “Not yet”, “Perhaps we should make this a conflict” and “Why do you want to introduce that?” all carry with them a different no.  I’m not sure how to interpret them productively (that, or I’m just uninterested in talking about them).

I’m not sure how useful saying no is. But I’m pretty confident that learning how to hear no is one of the most useful things that a collaborator of any type, especially a story gamer, can do.

But maybe that’s just dumb, and you can’t see it, and I don’t find the answer, and someone on the internet wants to stop me.

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).

In my opinion, silence can be used as a powerful tool. The list above is by no means comprehensive of its possibilities (and I’d urge readers to suggest additional ways that it can be used as a tool, in the comments section). Why isn’t it used more often, explored in a wider variety of contexts? The reason that feels most true to my experience is that silence is both difficult and often misread. It’s difficult because it is less direct than voiced communication, meaning that we have to work to be as clear and as expressive as we would normally be. It’s often misread because, again, it is less direct, and also less explicit. We run the possibility of expressing the very opposite of our intent (see how closely linked the dangers are to the possibilities). It is also difficult because it requires a lot of trust to work effectively.

Its strengths? It is non-intrusive communication. Many people can communicate silently at once, without disrupting each other. On top of being non-intrusive, non-disruptive and simultaneous, silence can be used in tandem with voiced communication, meaning that it also offers us contrast. So, considering the dangerous pitfalls of silence (appearing unconfident, unengaged, uncertain or unempowered; being unclear and misread), how do we utilize its strengths? Certainly it offers too many possibilities to discard as being unsafe.

The dual keys to using silence effectively seem to be establishing both trust and some meta-definitions about what silence means in a given social space. Establishing trust is a difficult and tenuous thing when we’re talking about silence, because the ultimate concern is that you might be mistreated by a more powerful, more intrusive, more obvious medium (namely, talking). Establishing meta-definitions about silence means having a clear understanding in a given group about what silence means in that context, and how it can be used, and what signals seperate engaged silence from disengaged silence.

The opening to Ribbon Drive, it works because it establishes trust through shared silence (thus eliminating the threat, in that moment, of being overruled/stomped on by voiced communication) and clear meta-definition (you are being silent in order to consider this song). It also introduces into the social space the notion that silence is something that we’re going to be handling directly. Throughout play, silence is given a different definition, through the Obstacles rule: if you are the last person to join/speak in a scene, you have the option to (at any point during the scene), introduce an Obstacle. This gives an assurance (similar to trust) of being heard (in a unique role, this time). Its handling of definition is a bit more open (you might be silent in order to gain a certain narrative advantage, or, you might be appreciative and prioritizing someone else’s spotlight over your own). This rule has the really nice feature of giving new space to players who are naturally quiet (but have good ideas to share), as well as educating loud, yippy players (like myself) about the weight that your words can gain if you simply stop using so many of them.

If you manage to build trust around and definitions for silence within a group, you can begin to use it as an additional layer and mode of communication. It’s quite a powerful thing, when you know what it means.

Note: I’m preparing a Skills Workshop on effectively using silence in story games. Ask me about it at Go Play NW.

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.”

In addition to prioritizing release (over meaning and other goals), ilinx offers us instability of perception. How is this a useful tool? Instability of perception gives us two things: a moment without our preconceived notions running on autopilot; and, a chance to form new notions about how the world operates.

Moshing disrupts my notions of violence. The people slamming into me, shoving me, pulling me over, these people suddenly become my friends in addition to my assailants. A movie by David Lynch disrupts my notions of character and sequence. Suddenly we cannot use an actor as a marker for consistent character. We cannot use time as an indicator of chronology. We are forced to work to tie together the movie ourselves. When I play a game that favours ilinx, my sense of story and identity are often jumbled.

This forces me to do one of two things: adapt, as rapidly as possible, to an experience that is fundamentally alien to my sensibilities; deduce, as rapidly as possibly, the underlying reality of the situation. One forces me to react without my preconceived notions as a safetly blanket. One forces me to construct new notions, accurate to a new situation. Both of these things are vital in training us for survival, as well as reminding us that the stories we tell ourselves are only stories. They are not the moon; the moon is unreachable.

When you spin around a room really quickly, the result is that you get dizzy, you feel sick, you can’t tell how the room is supposed to level out, and you can’t walk. Why is this an almost universal mode of play for children? Perhaps because at some point, we knew that not all interactions were founded on meaning. And we still knew what the meaningless ones could provide us.