The Blog
This is an entry in the solitaire game design challenge. It is meant to be played alone. It qualifies for these challenges: the stuff in your domicile; The schehezerade challenge; the sharing challenge.
Teen Witch
This is a game about being a teenage girl who is a witch. It is played all alone. It will help you find strength and beauty, but it is dangerous.
To play the game, you need:
•A candle, with a few hours of burn time
•More candles, in the future
•Something to annoint with: blood, paint, mud, wine, honey, else
•Simple, potent things: ginger, garlic, dried sage, bay leaves, salt, coriander, various powders and perfumes, spices, potpourri, essential oils, else
•Something to mark the floor with: paint, chalk, ash, permanent marker, blood, else
•If you don’t want to mark the floor, something to cover it with: a sheet, mats, cardboard, else
•A few simple containers: a bowl, a small drawstring bag, a wine glass, a shoebox, else
On Truth
There is an important truth about the world that must be understood and trusted if this game is to work.
That something is a fiction doesn’t make it any less real.
The Secret Place
In order to play Teen Witch, you need a secret place. It needs to be a place where no one can see you, and no one can hear you as long as you only whisper. It needs to be somewhere where you can light candles, mark the floor, and whisper secrets.
Your bedroom will likely work, unless you share your room and the person is home. The forest will work. A bathroom or storage locker or attic might work, too.
Before Playing
In order to play this game, you must be a teenage girl who is a witch. If you are not these things already, you must become them before playing.
If that task seems impossible, go back and re-read “On Truth.” You need to create this fiction and explore it until it becomes real.
If there are things you don’t know, about being a teenager or a girl or a witch, then you make it up and you explore it until it feels real.
Convincing yourself that you are a teenage girl witch will be tricky. Perhaps begin by walking slowly about your secret space. Notice how you place your heel when you step. Place it more tentatively. Now, more confidentally. Which one left you feeling closer to your goal? Good. Walk like that. Explore changes in your breathing, how you carry your shoulders, how your arms sway. Try licking your lips as a teenage girl might. Try licking your lips as a witch might.
The fiction doesn’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to convince yourself absolutely. It doesn’t need to be 100% real. As long as there’s some part of you that’s convinced that you might be a teenage witch, you can move on to play.
On Witchcraft
Before we move on to describing play, a mention must be made. We know, perfectly well, that magic doesn’t exist. We aren’t stupid. But this is one of those things – just because it’s a fiction doesn’t mean it’s not real.
To Play
Sit in your secret place. Be still. When you are ready, light your candle.
At no stage should you feel rushed or pushed to do something you don’t want to do. If the game feels weird or uncomfortable, first be still. Think about that feeling; hold on to it. Perhaps the feeling will pass over and through you and you can continue.
Lighting your candle lets the magic in. It will be weak and tentative at first, and you will want to coax it.
Over time, you might develop little rituals and incantations that coax the magic. At first, though, the key is simply to become familiar with the tools and the feeling of witchcraft. Try pouring some of your annointing fluid into a container – a bowl or glass, perhaps. Swish it about. Smell it. Put two fingers in it. Spill some onto the floor, and leave it there. Crush a few bay leaves, draw a small circle on the floor in front of you, else.
This gentle play will coax the magic in, and at the same time it will allow you to build a relationship with your ingredients and your secret place.
Take as long as you would like to. If you never move beyond the stage of experiencing your ingredients, this is okay.
Eventually, you may be ready for a spell. Spells are taxing work, and under normal conditions, you’ll only want to do one or two per session. It is essential that you believe your own fiction, before moving onto spells. If you don’t, then you should retreat back to earlier steps and spend more time in them – until the whole experience becomes palpable and real. If you have to keep going back to the first stage, where you become a teenage girl, then do that.
When it feels real, and you are ready, begin your spell.
There is one spell included with this game, located at the end, called Secret Beauty. When first learning to be a witch, start with Secret Beauty. If it doesn’t work the first time, try again in your next session, and again, until it does work.
Once you’ve succeeded at Secret Beauty, you are ready to try new spells.
Spells are very personal. They rely on logics that are developed and contained within your secret place. Remember when you took the time to learn and experience your ingredients?Think about the inner truths that you learned about those things. Did cardamom feel impossibly old? When you draw a circle very slowly, what do you suppose that means? I’ve used honey and interlocking triangles to forgive the dead, but that probably won’t work for you – you’ll need to utilize your own secret logics and your own lived ingredients.
Generally, annointing yourself will bring the spell inside of you in some way. Annointing the floor will bring the spell inside of the floor, else. Marking the floor will generally make some piece of the puzzle more tangible and manipulable. Playing with potent ingredients generally alters the substance and tone of a spell.
When you make a new spell, it’s a mixture of interpreting and deciding. You’re like a raft captain.
To do more than one spell under a single candle will strain the candle. Be careful about this – figure out how to keep the magic strong and the candle peaceful. If I plan to do more than one spell under a single candle, I take time to coax the magic between spells. I sprinkle cinnamon on the ground around me, and taste just a pinch of it. Cinnamon is used for appeasement and seduction, in my secret place. You’ll want to figure out your own logics for this sort of thing.
When you are finished whatever spells you are doing, thank your secret place. Don’t just whisper the word – touch the bowl you annointed yourself from, trace your fingers across any markings on the floor, experience your ingredients once more, chant, breathe deeply, be still, kiss your own wrists, else.
Then pack up and hide your tools.
More Candles
At the start of each new session, you may grant yourself a new candle. You don’t have to, but you may.
You may also bring with you new ingredients, new annointing fluids, new containers. You will, of course, need to learn to communicate with these things. When I got seriously into magic, I often found myself browsing the spice aisle in strange specialty grocers, buying things I’d never heard of. Don’t buy ingredients from magic shops, though. You’ll find them to be strained and bound, censored even. It’s like bringing an impertinent professor into your place of private study.
Back to candles, though. You may add one to your collection each session, if you wish. Don’t feel like you must, though – that is greed, and it will weaken your connection to the candles.
During play, you may light additional candles in order to welcome more magic into the room.
You may light additional candles for bravery.
You may light additional candles in order to do additional spells.
You may light additional candles in order to trap a spell or a thing inside of them. If you wish to bless a person, perhaps with Secret Beauty or with something else, then place the spell within the candle and blow it out. Give the candle to the person. If they light it, they will release the spell – if it works.
Sharing Witchcraft
There are two ways to learn to be a teen witch. The first is to read this book. The second is to have someone teach you.
If you want to teach someone to be a Teen Witch, the process is straightforward but hard. You must both be teenage girls. She must create a secret place and invite you into it. These steps are very hard! Remember this, and be patient. Perhaps wait outside the space while your friend becomes settled in their fiction – she can invite you in when she is ready.
You must present her with her first candle, and introduce her to her first ingredients. The process of becoming comfortable with her space and her ingredients will be doubly hard with you present. You will have to lead gently, at every step of the way. Be obvious in your demonstration – use elongated motions when you move, breathe deeply when you smell a spice, else. Make sure that she joins in, and does more than simply imitating you.
You will teach her the first spell – it can be Secret Beauty, or something you have discovered. Don’t try to impress your friend with fancy or dangerous spells – no conjuration or spirit channeling, else. Start with something comfortable, and trust that she’ll learn the rest in her own time.
Be especially sure to thank the space when you are done, for you were a trespasser upon it. Say blessings, be still, dust cinnamon, kiss the wrists of your host, else.
Future Sharing
You may feel the desire to do witchcraft with someone again, after teaching them. This is good, and allowed. Both of you should still gave sessions of Teen Witch on your own, at least from time to time. It’s important that your magic never be contingent on the will and whim of another.
On Attire
You might wonder what clothing is best suited to witchcraft. The first priority is that you feel comfortable and safe. To this end, sweatpants and a t-shirt are a good starting option. The second priority is that you feel like a beautiful teenage girl. To this end, fabrics which feel smooth and delicate can be good. Items which feel sexy to wear can be good also, so long as you feel safe and comfortable in them. If you are not actually a teenage girl, make sure that your attire makes the fiction seem more real and not less.
The third priority is that you wear what helps you do your magic and be a witch. To this end, you might want to explore little baubles and trinkets, items of black and purple, whatever you think adept witches wear.
If you are brave, maybe you will perform your magic in bare flesh. Only do this if it makes you feel comfortable and safe. Only do this if it makes you feel like a beautiful teenage girl. If you try it, you will likely find your magic to be quite potent and sexy. Personally, I felt a little startled and overloaded by the experience, and went back to clothes within two sessions.
Attire, like everything else, ultimately depends upon your secret logics and lived experiences. Experiment, session to session.
On Malicious Intent
You might wonder if magic can be used to do harm. Yes, it can.
However, listen closely to your ingredients. Pay attention to what your annointing fluid wants, when you place it upon your brow. You will quickly realize that most ingredients do not want to do harm. You could always force them to, but it would only distance you from them.
There are some ingredients, however, that do wish harm and malice upon the world. Cayenne is one of them. I personally don’t touch these ingredients, because I don’t want to be poisoned by them. You must ultimately make your own choices in this matter.
Secret Beauty
To begin, draw a wavy and crooked circle around yourself, on the floor. Annoint the circle, and then yourself. This establishes, in a way, that you are the circle.
Take the harshest ingredient you have. Use your judgment in determining which ingredient is the harshest, or what that even means. Crush some of that ingredient up, and toss it on the floor in front of you. If you have hate for yourself, expunge it now, as best you can.
Draw the circle again, a little more evenly. You are becoming more even, more true, more centered. Take the next harshest ingredient you have, and crush a little bit up. Scatter it. If you still have hate for yourself, expunge it now, as best you can.
Continue this process, until you circle is true and your ingredients are soft. With your hatred expunged, you will realize your secret beauty.
If it doesn’t work the first time, do not worry. You will have become more familiar with your ingredients, and will have expunged some hate. It will be easier when you try again, in future sessions. Eventually, the spell always works.
This is a truth spell and a healing spell.
Let this post act as a primer, for anyone who’s interested in story games. Too few people know what story games are. There is a huge wealth of amazing, creative, social people in the world. People I’d love to play games and tell stories with.
This post is an attempt to paint a picture for those people. If you’re one of them, welcome. Here’s this thing I do:
Stories are vital. They’re the reasons our hearts beat. They’re how we make sense of emotions, and fortunes, and the days of our lives. When we don’t take time to honor and cherish stories, we fall back upon only the necessary ones. The ones that help us cope, that reinforce our pre-made choices. We fall back upon the belabored and uncontested stories.
When we step outside of ourselves, and seek stories out on purpose, we hit a great diversity. There are things we hate, and love, and things that change us. We change some things in return. Exploring a story can fill us with awe. It can also be tiring.
Games are vital. They are playful, and engaging. They give us a chance to succeed, but also the freedom not to fret over our success. If you don’t win at a game, your life is still OK afterwards. When something takes the form of a game, it becomes instantly lighter and more playful.
So, marrying these two things, that’s a pretty obvious first step, right?
Read More
Graham Walmsley recently hosted a game of Ribbon Drive and his group encountered an interesting situation – two characters were locked in intense struggle, and the players didn’t know how to resolve this tense situation. To really zoom in on the issue, although either of them could have just decided what happened, they wanted the game to support them by providing some kind of structure (whether concrete resolution, flags, choices or else). A game should indeed do this for its players. Ribbon Drive gives you those tools, but they aren’t very obvious. This how to post will explain what those tools are and how to use them, in the context of resolving intense, interpersonal situations between characters.
Specifically, Steve posted the following situation:
I played Rashid. My character’s futures were “I hope I find someone” and “I’m never going back”. Rashid was on the run from the gang from whom he’d stolen drugs. Basically he was an asshole, causing Jenni to clip a jackknifed lorry.
In the scene with the crash, Rashid pinned Jenni’s foot on the gas pedal. It was a good moment of tension but it didn’t have any clear method of resolution.
I think part of the problem might have been that there wasn’t any clear way of resolving issues between the travellers. They didn’t seem like obstacles. I mean, could I have made Jenni not leave the band by using my drugs trait to keep her happy? That didn’t seem right either.
The first thing to keep in mind is that Ribbon Drive differs from many games that you’ve played, in that it is not a game that cares very much about what happens. That sounds like a big statement, and indeed it is. What do I mean by it? Well, this: the system doesn’t offer “conflict resolution” tools, because even in the midst of the conflict, it has different priorities. Two of those priorities are music and Futures, and I’m going to unpack how to turn to them in such a situation:
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I swore that I would never do this. That I would never make a story games theory post.
But this feels different, and somehow allowable. I’m going to explore some theory, tie it directly into play techniques, and offer some diagnoses of play. This post aims to explore the idea of sockets, why we should pay attention to them during scene framing, and how game systems should support us in engaging sockets and framing scenes.
I’ve created a new category to place this post in: Practical Theory. If the conversation goes well, there might be additional Practical Theory posts in the future. If the conversation crashes and burns, I’ll destroy the category. Alright, enough preamble.
Term: Sockets
We engage stories, and especially story games, in different ways. Some of us latch onto the characters involved in the fiction, and their decisions and viewpoints are paramount. For others, the story and the plot are most important. For others, the descriptions of setting and surrounding are most important. Some of us care most about the other people at the table, and the social element of play. These different modalities of engagement are known as sockets: they’re how we “plug into” the game and our enjoyment of it. To quote directly from Mo (linked in the last sentence), sockets are where people “give and take their focus and energy to and from“.
Term: Aggressive Scene Framing
To quote, scene framing is “the technique of skimming through time in the game to a particular time and place of interest. ” Scene framing is when you cut from the previous scene and move into a new scene, establishing details of setting and situation that unfold and develop through play. Aggressive scene framing is when your use of scene framing is intentional, purposeful and focused – framing to moments of high engagement and involvement (in other worlds, moments that demand immediate and meaningful participation). Note that I intentionally avoided saying “frame to the moment of conflict”, and I’ll talk about why in a minute.
Drive Toward Meaningful Engagement (Sockets & Scene Framing)
It’s a common misconception that the way you do aggressive scene framing well is to frame to the moment of pregnant conflict, that you open with an opposed situation that must be diffused. I’m going to take a step back from this idea and offer a suggestion: scene framing should work to engage our sockets in a meaningful way, skipping that which doesn’t satisfy our engagement and energy. In other words, if we all have Conflict/Plot/Choice sockets, then and only then is it appropriate to frame to moments of intense conflict. If we all have Setting/Aesthetic sockets, then we should be framing with interesting and evocative images, and use scene framing to move us to those images.
Example A: The Spelunkers. Imagine a group of D&D players whose primary sockets are Tactical, System and Choice. Good scene framing will meaningfully engage these sockets above others. The GM uses aggressive scene framing by saying, “Alright, your trip back out of the Cavern of Doom is uneventful. When you return to the hamlet you last stayed at, you see several buildings in flames. Two pairs of guards patrol the perimeter of the hamlet, sticking to lit paths. I’ve got a map of the village here. Note that it’ll take a skill roll of 20 to put out a torch from afar, and a skill roll of 15 to sneak up on the guards.” This immediately engages their tactical socket (by asking them to choose the best and most effecient entry point), and their Choice socket (by framing the moment of planning). It would be bad scene framing to fast forward past this point, because it is here that tactics and choice have the highest level of engagement.
Example B: The Crazy Folk. Imagine a group of Don’t Rest Your Head players whose primary sockets are Aesthetic (“not necessarily caring if a narrative is created or if character development makes sense, as long as play creates something beautiful / interesting”) and Character. The GM uses aggressive scene framing by saying, “So, you’ve got the soldiers cornered. Great! With some prodding, they’ll agree to lead you to the Wax King. You are led through rank, disgusting sewer line. Along the walls of the sewer, you start to notice… wax. Hot wax seems to be bubbling out of every possible crack in the wall. One of the soldiers turns to you and asks if you’ve ever met an immortal before.” Note that there is no conflict inherent in this scene, no decision that needs to be made. There is a description/scene that the GM thinks is evocative and interesting, and there is a conversation for the characters to join into. The players are given a chance to narrate their characters’ thoughts and interactions. The GM skipped over negotiations/conflict to get to meaningful engagement – in this case, aesthetic and character.
Term: System
One compelling summary of system: System (including but not limited to ‘the rules’) is defined as the means by which the group agrees to imagined events during play (Lumpley Principle). I’m not going to extrapolate on this idea much: system is the wedding of hard rules (like when you roll dice) and soft procedures (like who has the authority to introduce setting descriptions).
At its best, system makes your participation more meaningful. These next two sections will explore that.
The Right Game Will Support Your Engagement (Sockets & Game System)
One of the reasons that RIFTS is not a good game for me is because the system doesn’t support shifting character priorities, and it doesn’t mechanically reward beautiful or interesting description. I’d be “plugging in” to stuff that is irrelevant to the mechanics/system of the game. When looking to a game, see where and how your sockets are supported and integrated in. If you have a choice socket, ask “does the game make choices meaningful”?
Why does it matter if your sockets are supported by the system? Because sockets are where you put your energy in and expect to get your energy out of. If the system doesn’t support your sockets (and your sockets don’t support the system), then you’re dividing your energy and forced to choose between two reward sets (mechanical/system, and personal).
Example C: The Spelunkers. Having decided to ambush the patrolling guards and slip into the shadows afterwards, this group of D&D players looks to the system. Does their game support and reward making tactically advantageous decisions that are based on system knowledge? If so, their sockets are integrated and supported well by their chosen system. If not, they should probably switch games. In this case, I’d say “yes”.
Example D: The Minions. A group sits down to play My Life With Master. If the players have a strong aesthetic or setting socket, they will be richly supported by the system, which provides lots of meaningful interactions across those sockets. If they have a strong choice or tactical socket, they will be unsupported by the system. Their GM and group might work to provide meaningful engagement of their socket (ie, by engineering the fiction and situation to a place where choice is relevant), but these efforts will be unsupported by system.
The Right Game Will Engage Your Best Material (Scene Framing & System)
This steps away from sockets, and offers something similar to “The Right Game Will Support Your Engagement”.
When you play, you make decisions, create new situations and details and advance the story. This content/material will take creative energy to create, and some of it will be quite amazing. Seeing that material engaged, reincorporated or integrated into an ongoing story/game/plot arc/situation equates to seeing a return on investment.
You can manage that engagement, reincorporation and integration on your own, but it takes a lot of effort. A system is right for you to the degree that it re-integrates your best material easily and meaningfully.
The Disconnects
When there’s a disconnect between sockets & scene framing, you either skip the meaningful engagement or need to wade through unmeaningful content in order to reach it. In the first case, you’ll see decreased trust and people challenging where a scene starts (“no, my character wouldn’t have done that!”). Frustration will likely build over time, as people are being denied key chances to invest and see return on their creative energy. In the second case, you’ll see boredom and mixed participation levels. People may start engaging scenes in inauthentic ways (rushing to conflict, making uncharacteristic decisions, disrespecting genre) in an attempt to move more quickly to what excites them.
When there’s a disconnect between sockets & system, players will either pursue their sockets and drift play away from engagement with the mechanics, or they will engage the mechanics with disinterest, seeing little return for their energy. In the first case, you’ll have expectation clash and a deprioritization of system (which might have been the unifying factor of play interests). In the second case, you’ll see unenthusiastic participation.
When there’s a disconnect between scene framing & system, you’ll see great material that fails to become integral to your game, or at the very least, a lack of reincorporation of great material.
This is already 300 words over my self-imposed post limit, so now I’m signing off.
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).
As far as I can tell, there are two types of creative criticism. The first is preference. To look at a situation and say, “I would like this more if X.” The second is approval. To look at a situation and say, “I think this is good, because of Y.”
As far as I can tell, one is harmful to the artistic process. That one is approval, and the reason lies in the negative space it creates. Approval suggests the existence of disapproval. Even worse than that, approval suggests the legitimacy of seeking external validation for your contributions. To unpack both slightly…
Approval suggests the existence of disapproval. It says, “This is good, because of Y.” It also implies, “If you didn’t do Y, it might not have been good.” This can cause creative paralysis: if you do Y again, it will be good again. If you try something new, it runs the risk of not being good. It creates safety zones based on what we’ve already seen, and in doing so undermines the safety zone of the unknown. And the unknown is what we’re seeking, right?
Approval suggests the legitimacy of seeking external validation for your contributions. If you give someone approval, you suggest that approval is a useful thing. You also suggest that they didn’t begin with approval. You also suggest that the approval of their ideas is in your control. What do these three things work in tandem to create? A hierarchy.
But, don’t people really like approval? Yes. And if approval didn’t exist as a filter for what is good and what isn’t, wouldn’t our world be saturated by useless shit? Yes. So, doesn’t it stand to reason that approval should be part of the artistic process? No. Approval stunts creativity, creates hierarchies and embellishes fears. It creates a dependency which is not helpful to the artistic process.
Approval creates a dichotomy. Your contributions to our creative endeavour now have the potential to be good or bad. Those are your choices, and they are static. Preference is a language of improvement, of bridging the gap, of movement. It suggests that there is no black or white, just gray. It suggests that you are on the right track, and that there is room to grow, and that the expectation is on you to grow. It puts just as much pressure on you as approval does, but it gives you an avenue for achieving expectation (“how about adding a bit of X?” is constructive; “now do something else to earn my love” is alienating and scary).
Oh! Check this out: Approval builds safety zones around what has already happened, and undermines safety zones around what comes next. Preference builds safety zones around what comes next. It also suggests that, since no approval process is happening, you have intrinsic approval. It eliminates the concept of disapproval. There is only what you have done, what others hope to see next, and what you do next.
Now, some of you are going to notice that approval and preference are just different ways of framing the same thing, and some of you are going to notice that preference has pitfalls as well. And the wisest of you are going to notice that the type of judgment you’re expressing matters less than your words and your attitude. Whatever. None of these are particularly interesting avenues of exploration to me, so perhaps we can just skip them.
And now to apply this to real world examples…
This post is an attempt to sketch why story games are significant to me.
Before I do that, a quick breakdown of the term: story games are tools we use to have fun, tell stories and roleplay. They use rules (many centered around chance) and structures to guide players to the same creative page, and to shake things up and provide the unexpected. Someone once described them as “instructions for using your imagination” (Nathanael Phillip Cole, though he was being ironic) and someone else once described them as “stories you play” (Matt Snyder). I like both of those descriptions.
Alright, for those of us who are invested in the definition of the term, let’s not get caught up on it right now.
There are a lot of different explanations about what story games do, and about why we care about them. Some people say they create stories, and that stories are really important to us, and that this is the utmost truth of the matter. Well, in truth, story games produce some pretty sub-par stories. We leave critical situations up to chance (we literally hardcode this into most games), we divide authority across the moving parts rather than across lines of movement (which helps keep things concrete, but does not help create meaningful stories). While we are definitely creating stories, this is not the most important thing. Games which generate almost no plot, but have plenty of minutae and dialogue, are often really rewarding. Some people say they inhabit roles, and that roleplaying is really important to us, and that this is the utmost truth of the matter. But, we distance ourselves from these roles almost intentionally. We ask people to stay seated while playing, much of the time. We use numbers and papers and resources to give ourselves a comfortable, protected distance. While we are definitely roleplaying, we have clearly put that second to something.
Here is something that I find a lot more accurate and resonant than either of those suggestions. Roleplaying games create experiences. Experiences that we haven’t had the opportunity to live through. They allow us to recontextualize our paradigms, challenge us to see things in a new light, explore the casaulity of something, regardless of how realistic that something might be.
This was put really well by a man named Malcolm Sheppard. I quote:
Memories are unkind. Even the sweetest ones are tinged by the fact that the experience has fled. A memory is a funeral for experience. Roleplaying games are designed to create those funerals. It’s the way they work.
Awesome. I’ve been using the moniker/label Buried Without Ceremony for various projects for a while. When I read that quote by Malcolm, I was suddenly filled with this sense of “yes!”. This is the very same sentiment I wanted to communicate.
Roleplaying games/story games create experiences. We live them for a moment, they die as we return to our actual selves, and we promptly bury them without ceremony. These are phantoms that have existed for us alone, and the joy of it all is two-fold. We owe them nothing. We can take from them what we want to.
Do we feel the need to draw something poignant out of our sessions of play? No. Could we? Yes. No matter what we choose to do with those experiences, we cannot be accused of being selfish. We created them in order to bury them. Everything else is what we want to make of it.
It’s a pretty heady feeling.
Now is a good time to start writing somewhere new. I want a place to explore a few things which have recently come to dominate a lot of my mental real estate. These things share a lot of common ground: they are all rooted in making the most of experience, they are all tied into shared narrative, they are all about living more intentionally, and they are all underused arts in our society.
The first is shared story creation. Predominantly, this takes the form of story games. Story games are, to me, about a structured exploration of experiences we’ve never had the opportunity for. I’m going to post again soon sharing some more ideas about the roots and the purposes of story games. This notion of shared story creation also takes other forms though. I’m interested in exploring Theatre of the Oppressed, Guerrilla Theatre, and other forms of participationist and activist theatre. Also, things like how we can use storytelling to re-interpret and re-imagine our everyday lives.
The next is still searching for a definitive tag, but I’m interested in rewilding and urban foraging and stepping out of the binding structures that come with civilization. Basically, how do I live in a city (where I want to be) and yet determine the events of my own life (as opposed to being driven by imposed needs, like money and job security, etc). This is tied into urban foraging, scavenging, gardening, guerrilla gardening, activism, working less, squatting and resourcefulness. It’s also tied into how alternate structures alter our understanding of society, and the narrative we collectively and individually form about our existence and our role in the world.
The third is intentional, narrative-grounded communication. I want to learn from my friends who practice/study Nonviolent Communication, I want to continue to explore Appreciative Inquiry facilitation, and I want to look at other methods and approaches to communication which prioritize sharing experience and finding common ground. I am interested in exploring consensus decision-making and other models of representation. I want to explore how different methods of communication can inform our daily activities.
The final thing that I want to explore in this blog is poetry (performance/slam poetry, mostly) and spoken word. Because I like it a lot.
