Monte Cook's Blog, page 133

Designing Sometimes Means Listening

Designing Sometimes Means Listening

Not too long ago, I wrote an article called We Want What We Want. In it, I talked about how in all games, what the player wants is more important than what the game's designer wants to give him. A game designer can create the best game in the world, with the most elegant mechanics, but if it isn't what player wants to play, it's little more than an interesting curiosity. 

One of the best things about tabletop rpgs is the ability for a GM and the players to change the way the game is played, tailoring it to their needs. I started mucking around with the rules for D&D at a very early age myself, changing bits that I didn't like, grafting on parts of other games, and wholesale rewriting portions. (Not surprisingly, this quickly led to my writing of entirely new games on my own, but that's another story.) I think that's integral to the hobby.

Which means, ultimately, that a good game's design starts with an examination of what players want. When I started designing games professionally 25 years ago, that information was difficult to get. Now, it's much easier. (I hesitate to say that it's easy, but the challenges of doing so are probably best left to another post as well). Designers come up with interesting ideas for mechanics all the time, but if they don't address the needs of the players, what's the point?

Designers do players a huge favor by giving them a game that comes out of a knowledge of what the players want. But there's more. Knowing that players are going to tinker anyway, why not provide them with a game that is easily customizable? If the designer learns that some gamers like a game that does something one way, and others like it a different way, why not give them a game that can do both? The thing about roleplaying games is that whatever way you want to play is the right way. As soon as an rpg game designer says, "this is the way to play this game," or even, "this is the best way to play this game," my advice would be to run and hide.

Listening to players is key. Playtesting and truly using the feedback provided ensures that gamers get the game they want, and not just something that designers want to give them. That doesn't mean, however, that players design the game. That's the part where the designer really has to be a good listener. There's an interesting story about the game designers who designed the computer/console game Borderlands. Playtester feedback for the game was used extensively (which shows--it's a great game). But sometimes the playtesters gave bad feedback. Or at least, feedback that called for changes that would have been bad for the game. For example, playtesters said that when a character's gun needed to be reloaded that it needed to go a lot faster. The game's designers knew that the reload was already really fast. Speeding it up would not only hurt realism, but gameplay as well. But they didn't dismiss the issue. Instead, they looked at the reason for why the testers said what the did. Reloading wasn't actually too slow. It was just too boring. So rather than speed it up, the designers added a lot more to the animation of the action. They made it look and feel (and sound) more interesting. Subsequent playtests showed that players loved it, and the complaints on reloading went away.

The point is, the designers didn't just allow playtesters to design the game for them, but they still listened and learned from them. The playtesters called for a change that wasn't a good idea, but in so doing they still pointed out a problem. And the designers listened. The game players got what they wanted.

EDIT: This post is one of many I'll be posting about my game design philosophy (a sort of informal "series" I started many weeks ago) and is not meant to be an indictment on anyone else's approach, philosophy, or plans. It's also not a secret revelation of any kind of behind the scenes drama or whatever. (For those looking for such, there is none to find, I'm afraid.) It's just my own thoughts.

Terminator and T2 at the Seattle Sci Fi Film Fest

Terminator and T2 at the Seattle Sci Fi Film Fest

Spoilers for very old movies ahead.

I went to a double feature of The Terminator and Terminator 2 at the brand new Seattle Science Fiction Film Fest last night. It was great seeing both movies on the big screen, back to back, and the Cinerama is a fabulous theater. The print of Terminator was very good, and I really enjoyed it. Unfortunately, the print for T2 was quite bad. There were a lot of skips and splices in it, flaws in the image, and the film actually broke twice.

There was also an interesting difference in the audience for both films. The average age of the moviegoers in the theater from the first film to the second probably went down about as much as the time difference between the two movies (about 10 years). The audience for the second was notably louder and less polite. And now, before you think this is a "hey you kids, get off my lawn," moment, realize that the average age for the second movie was still about 30. I'm not talking about teenagers here.

Still, despite these shortcomings, it was great to see Cameron's visionary films back to back. I must admit, I'm still a bit torn on his choice to make the two films follow such a similar structure, right down to: "here's the part of the movie where we realize that the time traveler we thought was bad is really good," "here's the point in the movie where the villain commandeers a surprising vehicle to chase the heroes into the climax and says 'get out' to the driver," and "here's the real finale in an industrial plant after the fake finale." Part of me thinks that parallelism is elegant and perfect. Part of me says that it ruins some of the tension of the second.

I remember having really low expectations, for very different reasons, for both films when I first saw them. The Terminator, when I saw it, had had very little advance promotion (remember, it was a low-budget film by a fairly unknown director) and my experience with Arnold prior to it was simply films along the lines of Commando. And then with T2, my expectations were low because sequels to great films have such a history of stinking up the joint (I'm looking at you Highlander 2 and Ghostbusters 2, just for starters). Both films, then, really bowled me over in my original theatrical viewings of them. I do wish that my original viewing of T2, way back when, hadn't been ruined by advance marketing, "this time Arnie's a good guy!" Every time I watch it I wonder what it would have been like to have been surprised by that.

In the end, despite T2's still wow-worthy, innovative special effects, I think The Terminator is still the superior of the two. I can think of no action or chase movie with better pacing and scripting, the (cheap, practical) effects are still decent, and the time travel plot is great.

One last note to the Cinerama, though. I already bought my tickets to see Wrath of Khan and Dune at the festival, but after the quality of the print of T2, I decided to change my plans to go see probably at least 2 more of the festival's offerings. I'll need some kind of reassurance from you that you've actually checked the print quality of the films before you show them before I make plans for the film fest next year as well. You can do better than that.

Praise and Criticism

Praise and Criticism

Praise for one person is not criticism for another. Singling out one does not automatically imply exclusion of another. 

To be certain, I enjoyed much of my time working with everyone who's been involved with the new edition of D&D: Mike Mearls, Jeremy Crawford, Bruce Cordell, Rob Schwalb, Miranda Horner, Tom LaPille, Rodney Thomson, Greg Bilsland, Matt Sernett, Rich Baker, James Wyatt, and everyone else. The WotC RPG R&D department is full of talent.

Bruce and Rob were the guys I spent each and every day with, though. They were my team. I'll miss the daily doses of their creativity and friendship.

Change of Plans

Change of Plans

Last week I decided that I would leave my contract position with Wizards of the Coast. I am no longer working on Dungeons & Dragons, although I may provide occasional consultation in the future. My decision is one based on differences of opinion with the company. However, I want to take this time to stress that my differences were not with my fellow designers, Rob Schwalb and Bruce Cordell. I enjoyed every moment of working with them over the past year. I have faith that they'll create a fun game. I'm rooting for them.

Due to my non-disclosure agreement, as well as a desire to keep things on a professional level, I have no intention of going into further detail at this time. (Mostly, I just hate drama, and would rather talk about more interesting things.)

As for what I'll be turning to next, I hope you'll stay tuned. I plan on having an interesting announcement in that regard in the near future.

Crunch v. Fluff

Crunch v. Fluff

At Norwescon last weekend, I was in a panel called Crunch Vs. Fluff: FIGHT! The point of the panel was for the panelists--all game industry professionals--to take one side or the other and debate or argue. When it came my turn to declare which "side" I was on, I said that Crunch and Fluff formed a false dichotomy that actually hurts game design rather than informs it. But that wasn't fun in the spirit of the panel, so I said I'd just take the opposite postion of whatever fellow panelist Jonathan Tweet said (Jonathan and I have a long history of fun arguments).

But I have been thinking about the issue since the panel. And I really do think it's a false dichotomy. I think that, for whatever reason having to do with human nature, people like to take parts of a whole and declare favorites, or rank importance. But the dichotomy is often false. To declare that the chips in chocolate chip cookies are more important than the cookie is to ignore the beautiful synthesis of chocolate and cookie. A handful of chocolate chips is okay, but all melty inside a freshly baked, still warm cookie? That's much better.

The dichotomy of crunch versus fluff is similar. Crunch is usually (broadly) defined as the mechanical element of a role-playing game. Fluff is the story elements of the game--characters, setting, plot, flavor, etc. To pit these two aspects of the game against each other is to misunderstand what an rpg is on a fundamental level. The mechanics and the story don't conflict, they complement. If they conflict, it's the warning sign that something is wrong as sure as when black smoke is pouring out from under the hood of your car. You normally wouldn't say, "cars are machines that sometimes emit black smoke from the engine," you'd more properly say, "a malfunctioning car is a machine that sometimes emits black smoke." Likewise, fluff and crunch aren't supposed to conflict, they're supposed to work together. That is, in fact, a simple and straightforward definition of an rpg: an activity where story and game meet.

Like with so many things, it's interesting to take rpgs apart and look at their parts, but it's incorrect to then try to say that one part is superior to another. A cookie without chocolate chips is just a plain cookie. Chips without a cookie are just a handful of chocolate chips. Only together do you have a chocolate chip cookie. An rpg without story is a board game (at best). An rpg without mechanics is an anecdote. 

It's far more useful to look at how the two can work together than it is to look at the two separately. Mechanics should fit the story. But they can also inform the story. In the former case, if you're designing a modern day game set in a small Midwestern town, characters should probably be assumed to be able to drive cars. In the latter, if your character generation system has a common result of granting characters the ability to burst into flames, the setting very likely should be one where people aren't too surprised to see fiery folk walking around.

Crunch and fluff (honestly, I don't even like the terms, let alone the implied dichotomy) aren't enemies. They aren't even feuding siblings. They're close partners that work in harmony, creating together what neither could do apart.

Simulation

Simulation

Simulation is an important aspect of much (but not all) of roleplaying game design. That is to say, the rules of the game are simulating something. In some cases it's reality, but in others it's comic books, a specific novel, a genre's tropes, or even a very particular way of looking at life. The idea here is that at some point, a player can say "this feels right." (As opposed to "this feels real," which can be something different entirely.)

A pitfall a lot of designers fall into is the difference between simulation and justification. Justification is when you create an interesting game rule (interesting because it's fun, simple, or just flashy) and then try to argue that the rule you're enamored of is also realistic or fitting in some way. You can usually tell the difference if someone starts saying things like, "well, if you think about it..." or "actually, it makes sense because..."

Good simulation doesn't need a lot of explanation. It just feels right. Some simulation, however, is based on uncommon knowledge. If you're creating a game that attempts a fairly rigorous simulation of ancient Rome and you want to express the difference between a gladius (a short bladed sword) and a dagger (a long bladed knife), the distinctions are going to be lost on most non-scholars or weapons experts. The typical player won't possess the background to know how it should feel. And more importantly, he probably doesn't care. The trick then, is to make sure that it just doesn't feel wrong. Even if all your research says that a dagger should be ten times as deadly as a gladius, that's probably not going to feel right to anyone playing the game. (And of course, it's most likely actually wrong, but that's not the point.) If you just make the better weapon somewhat better in an interesting way, however, scholars and non-scholars alike will probably be satisfied. 

In other words, simulation should be there to make the people who care about it happy, and it shouldn't get in the way of the rest of the people. Forcing simulation on those that don't want it is as bad an idea as denying it to those who are invested in it. But there's a problem with even this approach. A half-hearted attempt at simulation can end up making everyone unhappy. It can be cumbersome to those that don't care and unsatisfying for those that do.

So it's a tricky business.

About the only true rule of thumb you have is that whatever level of simulation you choose, you should stay consistent throughout the design. A hyperrealistic wound/damage system with all sorts of penalties for torn tendons and whatnot coupled with a very fast-and-loose attack resolution system that ignores protective coverings and the target's ability to dodge out of the way isn't going to ring true to anyone.

The Challenge of Pretending

The Challenge of Pretending

A weird thing happens around age 12 or 13 to most kids. They stop pretending. In fact, it's like a switch has been flipped. One day, nothing could be easier than to say, "I'm Luke Skywalker!" and then run around like you've got a lightsaber or are flying an X-Wing. The next day, nothing could be more terrifying than to have to pretend to be someone else.

As someone who's taught a lot of people to play roleplaying games, I've seen that look of terror over and over again when you tell people that the point of the game is to take on the role of someone other than their own. It's sometimes mitigated by saying, "Look, you probably did this kind of thing as a kid all the time," but it's sometimes not.

It's honestly one of the biggest barriers to more people playing the game, but it's something we seem to talk about only occasionally. We talk about making the rules simpler, the game more fun, or the books more accessible, but we probably don't spend a lot of time talking about how most people (again, over the age of about 12) don't know how to pretend.

Once that switch flips, the idea of roleplaying is akin to public speaking in terms of desirability. The spotlight, it seems, is on you and that's a bad thing. It's as though at that point, we have a moment of self-realization, and we realize that it's difficult and complicated to imagine being someone else. That, in and of itself, isn't a bad thing. I'd argue it's a good thing. It's good to realize that others are different and have different perspectives, assumptions, and backgrounds. But we allow that realization to put space between us. It creates a barrier to taking on the challenge of understanding others enough to pretend to be someone else. Which of course is a shame, because that kind of understanding can lead to a truly mature and well-rounded outlook. The ability to "walk in another's shoes" and all that.

Arguably, roleplaying itself is probably not even the biggest draw for most people to play roleplaying games. For many, it's probably little more than a necessary evil. Others hold it at arm's length, not really "getting into character" unless it's to do something funny, get to the next encounter, or to just make the game work. For these people, the draw is usually one of three things:

1. A mild diversion with a fantasy (or other genre) veneer. For these people, playing a tabletop rpg is about the same as reading a good fantasy novel or playing a computer game. That they get to do it with their friends and eat junk food is simply a plus.

2. A bit of cooperative fun with their friends. The key word is cooperative. It's a way to play a game without having to worry about who's winning. For these people, a tabletop rpg is just another sort of game with its own variations on problem solving and challenges to overcome. Different but not too different than Magic: The Gathering, or Talisman.

3. A way to tinker with something. These people enjoy playing with the rules rather than the result of the rules. By that, I mean they care about how much damage they can do, not that they're doing it with a sword forged in the heart of a volcano on the moon by undead raven-people. (Arguably, many of these people don't see the game as cooperative, either, but that's a point for another essay.)

But for those not in those three groups, it's the immersion. It's the ability to--for a few hours a week--become someone else. For these people, it's not just a diversion, it's an escape into another world, where the worries of work and family and daily life subside and give way to epic quests and titanic struggles. Struggles without real consequences. Decisions without real risks. The very thing which others find so intimidating, they find safe. Should I trust the regent, and give him the magic amulet, or should I run off with it, fighting my way through ranks and ranks of the Royal Guard? Either way, the fate of the kingdom hangs in the balance. That's the kind of thing that makes for a great roleplaying experience, but ultimately, whatever you choose, it's not going to really affect you or the real world in any way. It's a way to be bold in a very safe space. 

The immersion isn't just safe, it's broadening. In your life as a dentist you very likely won't ever have to choose which spell to prepare when you have to take on a coven of hags, nor will your mettle ever be tested as you stare a chimera in one of its six eyes. During the week you might be a grocery checker but on Friday nights you're a warlord with a hundred soldiers who obey your every word. Roleplaying grants us access to experiences that we'll otherwise never have. Even if they are fictional. Which of course is what separates it from watching movies or even reading. Because while we're pretending to be someone else, it's still happening--on some level--to us. At least in our imaginations.

Pretending on this level isn't for everyone, clearly, but I have seen people who never thought they would like it get swept up in all the imaginative wonder. It's an interesting transformation to watch. That switch that flipped when they were young flips back, if only for an evening. Or perhaps more accurately, the person discovers that the switch actually has more than two settings. If you ever get a chance to watch the episode of the sadly unrated television series Freaks and Geeks where they play D&D, you get to see that transformation happen in one of the characters in a fairly realistic way. And of course, it's the character that you'd least expect--he's of average intelligence, an underachiever, and more concerned with being cool than much else. But once the idea of roleplaying sinks in, once he overcomes the barrier of how "difficult" it is to pretend to be someone else, and once he can look past the fact that it's unfamiliar (because pretending or putting one's self into the head of another is just something we're never asked to do), he finds it exciting and liberating. I've seen it happen many, many times, and not just on a television program. 

Maybe there's a fearsome dwarf barbarian or crafty elven mage lurking within more of us than one might think.

We Want What We Want

We Want What We Want

Since I got my iPhone a year and a half ago, I've been playing this fun little game called UltraDeep where you're this little falling stickman trying to avoid obstacles and gather jewels while you fall. Like so many games of its ilk, it starts out slow and simple, and then speeds up.

About 30-60 seconds into it, the speed is such that it's really fun. 

About 30-60 seconds after that, it's so fast that it's really, really hard. Not so hard that I can't do it (for a while), but so fast that it's nerve wracking and relies as much on luck as skill.

In other words, it's a game that is fun for about 30-60 seconds. 

And that bugs me. I mean, I get it. They want you to give them money to buy upgrades and whatnot. But as a game it would be so much more fun if that medium-speed part of the game lasted much, much longer. I wish there was a way for me to customize the gameplay so that it was more to my liking. If I could, I'd play the game a LOT more. (And I'd pay for the ability to do so.)

It's become clear to me over the last few years that game players should be able to play the game they want to play, not the game a game designer wants them to play. (That there are game players who disagree with this shows me that there are game designers who are also persuasive marketers, or who work alongside persuasive marketers.) This is particularly true with tabletop roleplaying games, in my mind, because so much of rpgs involves players customizing characters, game options, and creating their own material. (And, even if a player chooses not to do any of those things, they're still choosing not to, so they're still playing the game they want to play.)

Games are for fun. Playing a game that someone else has inadvertently made unfun (or has made some portion of it unfun) shouldn't be a part of gaming. Gamers shouldn't have to put up with "necessary evils." I can't reach into my iPhone and change the speed at which UltraDeep plays, but I can monkey around with an rpg to make it the way I want it. Maybe that's why I like rpgs so much. And if it's in my power to make an rpg that's easier to monkey with, should monkeying be desired, then I will.

Debate

Debate

If you know me, I suspect it will not surprise you at all to learn that I was a debater in high school. In fact, I was really focused on it, as were all my close friends (many of which I still remain in contact with--and in one case work closely with--today). Almost all of us went on to the national tournament as seniors. Our little school was (and still is) nationally recognized as one that has traditionally been a debate powerhouse.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about when I say "debate," Wired recently posted a great article on high school policy debate. Team policy debate was the main focus of our attention, although we also excelled at various individual events such as Extemporaneous Speaking, Oratory, Student Congress, and so on. Unlike the debaters discussed in the article, however, our focus remained more on speaking persuasively than simply fast. (If you could do both, however, you were really set.)

In my high school years, the topics weren't as cool as this year's (space exploration). They involved arms sales, criminal courts, employment, and water quality. Still, I learned a lot of fascinating facts that have stuck with me to today. More importantly, I learned potent skills critical in life--reading comprehension, constructing a convincing argument, deconstructing the arguments of others, and effective public speaking techniques, just to name a few.

Legos

Legos

I want a house made out of Legos!