Experience points are one of the most ubiquitous features of the roleplaying genre, so much so that the concept has spread to other formats of play and life. But what is this abstract concept being measured? Or to paraphrase an old expression, what is the measure of a man’s worth? In modern terms, this is the difference between a seasoned professional and an apprentice. But the number of years in an industry does not denote true mastery of a trade. Where one works and the intensity of the work performed makes the difference. So, the reality is that how long a trade is practiced is not necessarily as important as how often. Experience points serve to make the distinction between a dabbler and a true practitioner.
In game terms, when does a character transition from novice to journeyman to expert to master of his profession? In a level-based game, is this second level, third? How many points for a point-buy system to mark these stages: 20%, 30%? In the real world, the boundary between amateur and professional is effectively 10,000 hours, excluding hobbies this is mostly achieved with a Bachelors degree. Different games take different approaches to reach this point, but most gamers refer to it as the “sweet spot.” This is the point in the game where the challenges and the characters’ abilities are essentially equal. The characters are not so powerful that they can defeat the biggest monsters/threats around, but they also do not fear the weaker opponents that serve as cannon fodder. Some systems have tried to cut out all of the rigmarole it takes to get to that point. Doing so misses the reason this spot exists.
A back story only informs the motivation for why a character chose the path to become an adventurer. The lowest tier of play is the origin story for the character’s development of his skills and powers. As most systems provide leeway in what abilities can improve over time, the development of the base powers of a character has huge implications future choices. A trend in some game lines has been to bypass these levels as if they are just a tedium best avoided. The goal here is to cut to what makes characters “cool” and mark that as the point of entry into the game. While this is injurious to all players, novices are hurt the most. What they lose is the association of character growth in fiction to that experienced by characters rising to the higher levels of power that have become associated with most film heroes.
Experience points serve as a way to measure how successful a character is in applying his various talents to ever-increasing pressures that refine and test his mettle. Players use these rewards, too. They are the boons for creativity. In fact, many games have guidelines for noncombat awards as well as for good roleplaying. This is where fiction meets the game. Readers are rewarded in fiction for sticking with a story mainly by getting to do something we all wished we could do at some point or another: know what someone else is thinking or feeling.
Here, then, is where the problem begins: cinematic styles of mechanics do not denote that a game must follow a film’s format, but neither do they discourage such lines of thinking. In fact, it is far better if such a game does not follow the format. To understand why this is, one needs to pull back the celluloid curtain on flim’s narrative structure. Like all forms of storytelling, the method often taken is to begin in media res. Film differs in that it establishes the character’s normal world so that an audience is given a sense of what skills he already possesses and what constitutes his normal world. Within the space of no more than fifteen minutes (films generally run 85-120 minutes), the film gets underway by thrusting the protagonist into the plot. Aided by dissolves, match cuts, sound cues and the like, time is compressed enough to move the story forward and preserve the narrative. Stage plays do the same thing in order to tell a story in two hours. Nearly all of the characters in these stories are experienced, however. For their relative situations, they know everything they need to in order to meet the challenges in their paths.
What these two forms of story have in common is their ability to raise in us the emotions of pity and fear. As Plato claims, they are essential to drama. These characters are experts who have not fully mastered themselves or their crafts. Any of this beginning to sound familiar? This is the coveted “sweet spot” in a game’s system. It is the place where characters become cool and possess the ability to become awesome, or die in a blaze of glory. That is the moment of catharsis in a stage or screen production. In literature and roleplaying games, there are often smaller resolutions until the final chapter or thereabouts (especially in a protracted campaign).
So, what are those lower tiers of play all about then? They provide a player with the unique opportunity to really get to know the character and the direction he or she wants to develop that character. Not much unlike how an actor works to envision a role. The players are learning as much as their characters of what their future expertise will be. This is a salient point as the genre measures a character’s potency and regulates how (and possibly when) it grows. All of this leads to the next point: the fallacy of the classic narrative.
There is a persistent myth of the self-made man that pervades our culture. It is not that such a feat is impossible, but rather that it is highly improbable. No one develops in a vacuum. Games that establish this as the threshold perpetuate this fallacy. There is a political component to this myth which makes it so appealing: greatness is inborn, not made. This lie robs players of storytelling potential which would benefit them immeasurably. To fully debunk this myth would require an entire book. For instance, Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers: the Story of Success. What these lower levels do goes beyond shaping the character or a player’s envisioned direction for the character. They expose the heinous crime of how greatness develops.
Now how do experience points accomplish this? That depends on the system. The games that impose levels do so to maintain a mathematical model. The d20/OGL games do this as some abilities and powers rely on levels to scale numeric values to represent increases in mastery. While the player can choose to improve some aspects of his character independently, some items are hardwired into the levels themselves. As such, the player’s choice to gain a level in one class over another affects what is gained and how much control the player has in customizing the nuances. In other systems, especially point-buy, each ability is improved separately (which can be more costly) and has a level or threshold point for power gains. This may give players greater control over a character’s abilities, but it still uses the level mechanic to make the math work. Regardless of the method, the points mark and limit the transition points.
The next problem to address in this work is how do characters acquire the points that help fuel the changes over time? This question seems more controversial amongst gamers than most other issues as it represents and affects styles of play. For instance in games that have experience rewards for individual creatures, the question is whether the total is for killing the opponent or defeating it in other ways. The rule books are not always clear on this and can be as fuzzy as how much noncombat successes should be valued. Computer games make this a moot question as there is only one way to handle monsters: kill them. But does defeat mean death? Does a chess player kill his rival after getting him in checkmate? Would this mean Batman would be stuck at first level in an RPG for his refusal to kill? This last point is just as valid as superhero games exist and the epic levels of OGL play represent the same thing in the fantasy genre. So, there must be a way to reward play that does not involve combat, such as solving the combat problem like a puzzle.
Batman, Superman, and Oliver Twist have several things in common, then. All three learn to survive in their respective environments in order to rise to meet their challenges without having to necessarily maim or kill to get there. Oliver learns how to survive the orphanage system and later the underworld Fagin inhabits. Bruce Wayne has to become an orphan and overcome the loss of family to gratuitous violence he witnesses and the subsequent emotional trauma it causes. Clark Kent goes through the awkward stages of life in a world of the mundane as he grows to realize he is an orphan as he discovers his powers set him apart. With the exception of Superman, these characters develop their abilities based on their environment. Oliver rises above evil partially because of his tenacity to confront what he feels is unjust (he slips from time to time, which makes him a heroic figure). Bruce Wayne conquers his inner demons and turns to spirituality and martial arts to keep is rage in check (heal the mind, heal the body). Clark Kent learns to control his powers and adapt to the culture rather than subvert it (with great power comes great responsibility). All are challenges. All three characters are rewarded. What makes them heroic is not where they come from, but what they become through their experiences. It’s safe to assume in at least two of the three cases the 10,000-hour rule was at work. And, if they were RPG characters, they didn’t skip the levels that are not “cool.”
Previous:
Anatomy of Game Design: The Case for Subsystems
Next:
Anatomy of Game Design: Precision Games