The (L)awful (Good) Truth, Part 2

The Hows and Whys of Choice

 

Choice is an extremely important element of morality and ethics. How the Lawful Good character approaches the quandaries of each dilemma, then, becomes an important part of how such a character conducts himself. A strict interpretation of the alignment holds that by being Lawful, a character will never willingly violate a law. But are such people able to choose whose laws to follow? Why are they allowed such leeway, if at all? It’s an important question with no clear-cut answer, as this section will illustrate.

Here’s the premise: a Lawful Good character is born and raised in a culture where the enslavement and torture of nonhumans is not only the accepted practice, but also failing to do so when such creatures get out of hand is construed as treasonous. A lot of questions beg to be answered, not least of which is how would a Lawful Good individual know any different.

So, how can a person of this alignment exist in such a society? It seems a position that’s tenuous at best. If he was holding to the alignment as it is usually interpreted, it doesn’t seem as if this is possible without some sort of deception on the character’s part. The two likely options that spring to mind are either keeping a low profile or hiding one’s beliefs. Keeping a low profile would include the need to remain quiet, which means the character must turn a blind eye to the acts of others, which is essentially being complicit with the acts. Lawful Good people would have to hide their views to avoid persecution. This would also include deception in the form of denial. As a dishonest practice, something seems off with a strict interpretation of the alignment in such a culture.

Now, it is easy for us to view such a place as being anything but good. Perhaps it is difficult because the only sentient species on Earth capable of propagating any evil against humanity is ourselves. If any human can be the victim of torture, then the possibility (no matter how remote) exists that it could happen to you. Consciously or otherwise, it’s a thought that terrifies us. Science fiction and fantasy can reframe the debate by adding other species to the equation. One can see a level of cruelty in Robert Heinlein’s The Puppet Masters. Humanity has to take a drastic step of eschewing clothing and accessories of all types to prevent the insidious aliens from taking over the planet via symbiotic enslavement. The only way to save the human race is to shed any notions of decency that informed the past. In Alien, Ripley jettisons her inhuman opponent out of an airlock. The orcs in Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings are also treated without mercy.

Before condemning this theoretically society, we should consider what could possibly lead to such draconian rules against nonhuman entities. The history of the society is important in making the determination for whether the situation in question is what it seems to be on the surface. Consider the possibility that a war for survival was waged some time in the past where the only solution that preserved the species on all sides of the war was complete domination of one group over another. Those who lost were hell bent on annihilating the humans. Given their general tenets, the powers that be decided to enact harsh measures near the war’s end when it became clear that no other solution would suffice. The Americans’ decision to drop atomic weapons on Japan was rationalized in a similar manner, minus any enslavement as in the society under examination. What sounds less distasteful, having to drive an opponent into extinction, or saving their progeny even if it means harsh treatment?

The above scenario presents a damning position for anyone forced to take it. For someone born after the fact and taught about the terrible price paid to make the decision and the two choices presented, this doesn’t sound as heinous as it could be. Knowing the choices and seeing the resultant peace doesn’t strike one as being necessarily evil. If the churches of the Lawful Good persuasion also support the government’s position, then it is even harder for a character to deny the oppression of another species. Either the gods agree with the treatment, or something ghastly is going on. Or, perhaps the individual of the Lawful Good alignment in the society is ignorant. In either case, there is a history that backs up a morally and ethically justified position that looks gruesome to anyone looking in from the outside.

Let’s change the scenario a bit. Say there is a state religion where the truth of the teachings is hidden behind a code that appeals to a Lawful Good sense of propriety. All other faiths would likely be outlawed in order to bolster state power. As such, the conditions within the nation’s borders would be reinforced and glorified by the churches granted official status. A Lawful Evil deity could fill the role by masquerading as a militant figure. The harshness of his teachings and promotion of obedience to his teachings as the pathways to the greatest good would make an excellent cover for the continued treatment of nonhumans as necessary so that they, too, can achieve paradise.

What happens if the Lawful Good person discovers he has been lied to and that everything he’s been taught is a violation of his ethos? The character would be in a bind. Obviously, the Lawful Evil deity would no longer be suitable for worship. Issues on how to survive without openly breaking the laws and violating his beliefs have to be resolved. Would the character pay lip service to the official deity will illegally worshipping someone more appropriate? Does church law supersede state law? Would such a person risk such a threat to personal safety treasonous actions impose when it is easier to just follow social dictates? Is there justification for a national good rather than a universal one? The answers may be as unappealing as the questions.

Let’s return to the Lilliputian leaders called upon in the previous section. Again, the two sides were concerned with the preservation of their cultures. From our vantage point, the reasons appear quite childish. But how does one suppose they felt? The cultural aspect stems as much from the geographical as it does preference. As such, we see it as national pride that fuels the argument. To accept the claim of the other nation as legitimate would be an admittance to its right to exist, and due to its own nationalistic feelings, belittles the embittered acceptor. This is true even if it is a subconscious affair for the view engaged in such a long-term rivalry.

In a government with multiple political parties, each can work for similar ends by approaching issues from different philosophies. Things get murkier, however. The charter that delineates the governmental power may be the basis of authority, but it doesn’t necessarily describe how to perform and execute the duties of office. The lack of guidance on how to govern beyond the procedures and limits on power create obstacles in the form of philosophical roadblocks where rhetorical detritus litters the road to a nation’s future. The choices may strike a political opponent as nationalistically destructive, but it’s a strategy evolved to enact what is believed to be the best way to achieve national goals. Like previous examples, it is the choice and reasoning behind it that colors one’s view of the other.

Religions are no stranger to sectarianism. Monotheistic faiths are not monolithic. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all have sects; so too Buddhism. If the real world works this way, wouldn’t various chapters of a deity also have discrete doctrinal differences? Add to this the heroes of a church or sect. What if the hero was also a patriot? Who selects which figures are enshrined as heroes? If the faith is the state religion, chances are pretty good that national heroes will be portrayed as icons embodying the faith’s (and nation’s) highest tenets, such as Romulus as the founder of Rome. If our own real-world religions have saints and martyrs who struggled with the question of choice, why shouldn’t the faiths in your own campaign have the same?

You should think about how the people of your campaign world come to their decisions and why they act the way they do. After all, it is the basis for their Lawful Good tenets. Somewhere, a choice and its justification were made, and they continue to be made with each successive situation and/or generation.

The (L)awful (Good) Truth, Part 1

What does it mean to be Lawful Good?

This question is not as easy to answer in OGL games as it may appear initially. Two things interfere with the clarity one should be able to give: the abstract nature of the alignment system and the value judgment inherently implied in determining what are good and lawful behaviors. Since the system allows one to be good while scoffing at laws, the two elements are mutually exclusive. To conflate the two would necessitate that they are complimentary and coincidental traits. This is the case for Fourth Edition Dungeons and Dragons games. The effective claim is that one who is good adheres to the law because it promotes the greatest amount of good. However, an unjust law, if followed, violates the concept of promoting what is best for all. Thus, it does not work to claim that a Lawful Good individual does what is decent and follows the rules since both the law and good can conflict with one another.

In Western cultures, there is a tendency to conflate law and goodness. Whether social, cultural, or religious in nature, the tendency is to equate these two values. Perhaps it is because it creates a strong social glue that states the laws and cultural scripts are fair for everyone. Given the tendency for humans to place a high value on objects and concepts perceived as scarce, rare, precious, or unique (amongst other descriptors), this shouldn’t come as a surprise. We see material objects of these kinds as priceless. For ideals such as morals and codes of conduct, we use terms like “pinnacles” and “hallmarks” of greatness towards our fellow beings. Deep within our hearts, even if we are unwilling to admit to others (let alone ourselves), we know we can aspire to meet these standards, but we cannot hold to them forever. Such is the flaw of the human condition and desire to equate concepts deemed the best we can achieve in relationships that we thus create the lionized heroes of stories and legends.

As gamers, it becomes easy to see why we place such stringent rules on the champions of the Lawful Good alignment. We want them to be the acme of the best our species and our culture have to offer. Note the use of the singular and not “cultures,” more on that later. But, is it not presumptuous to impose such standards? Yes … and no. Yes, because it is unrealistic and making such demands magnifies all flaws grossly out of proportion. No, because this is a game, and fiction, as an art form, lets us create anything we want to explore conceptually, no matter how impossible it seems.

This begs the question of whether or not we should throw out any notions of paladins who abstain from alcohol and romantic trysts while donating most of their gains to charity and their holy orders. By all means, no. However, this image does contribute to the problem in some ways. This character has a legitimate place in fantasy, if not being an outright staple of the genre. The problem here is that the image is a reflection of and plays to the sacred institutions many hold dear as the moral anchors of our society.

What’s at the heart of this is one of the things which may go unnoticed by gamers: metagaming. Unlike the fiction that informs roleplaying games, our play sessions do not necessarily contain the restrictions of conventional storytelling. It is quite likely we forget this barrier and that a lack of insight into a person’s intent and motive can lead people to mistrust, undisclosed hatred, or even outright war. We seem to focus on defining what is evil while ignoring what is good beyond its absence of and opposition to evil. What does it mean to be good? If two leaders declare war on each other due to a cultural or ideological bias in relation to a resource squabble, who is good and who is evil? Clearly, in the domain of war, some laws are about to be violated and some people are going to suffer, perhaps even needlessly.

One can fight a war by following a code of conduct, but if there is a legal system that says causing injury and death is wrong, then something unlawful is about to take place. Specters of all sorts of questions get raised, such as if it is a form of cheating to ambush or otherwise use strategic leverage against a foe. Other than to ask if a Lawful Good character would avail himself to these tactics or if warfare supersedes civil laws, this is a line of questioning beyond the scope of this piece and would probably require several philosophy books, but it serves to illustrate the ambiguity available to you.

Another question in regards to this line of thinking is whether two Lawful Good kings can hate each other. At first glance, this seems like an impossibility. They share the same tenets if you follow the alignment’s description. The problem with this is that it ignores the role culture plays in shaping a person’s worldview. Further complications that can result in miscues involve language, which can range from regional intonations, sayings and the like all the way to distinct languages. Imagine the types of gross misunderstandings or dislikes of a culture this can cause! Another possibility is a quibble over how a shared deity should be worshipped. The Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels fought a war because of a similar type of cultural problem. Was either side truly evil in the story? No. While the reason to fight was poor, both rulers believed they were serving to protect their citizens.

Think of it from the standpoint of politics. A lot of hyperbole is used to diminish an opponent’s position. Historically speaking, the Republican and Democrat parties often don’t see eye to eye. Add to this the multiple divisions within a party’s ranks on any given issue. Both sides make the claim that they know what’s best for the country and want to implement such policies they believe are beneficial to everyone. Setting aside rhetoric and personal bias, virtually no one in office believes they are destroying their own society – or so one hopes. Shortsighted, maybe; actively destructive, not really. While party members may view their rivals as evil, this is most likely a result of the excessive hyperbole and working at cross-purposes on a frequent basis.

Religion plays a huge role in the lives of many people, and it likely holds true of a fantasy society modeled on our own species, perhaps even more so if clerics can heal the sick and perform other miracles. As a result, an example from a real world faith is in order. At the risk of appearing biased, I make the disclaimer here that I am only using the religious text with which I am most familiar: the Bible. Taking the tack that paladins are Lawful Good, then the Christian god must follow suit, since the concept of the character class is taken from a historical source. So, let’s look at a not-so-pacifistic episode where a Lawful Good individual becomes violent. According to the Bible, Jesus never harmed anyone (based on a lack of writing to the contrary). Rather he went out of his way to help others in need. Up until a specific point, that is. There is a scene where Jesus blows up in a temple because of the business conducted by the moneychangers for effectively providing commodified absolution. He flips tables, yells, opens animal cages, and then makes a whip and beats everyone out of the building. The commotion alone marks this as a chaotic episode. Paladins in fantasy are modeled after their real world counterparts and this is the deity they served? If this is who adherents of the faith are to emulate, then Lawful Good can wreak all sorts of havoc in the name of their tenets.

Religious texts are filled with many such examples, regardless if they are allegories or no, of righteous people defending the faith in some capacity or other. (The Bible mentions sexual trickery, adultery, and promiscuity by the erstwhile faithful.) There is no reason why the same cannot be said for your game’s myths and legends of the Lawful Good alignment. We’ll explore this more through the above examples in later sections. For now, it is enough to raise the question of what it means to be Lawful Good and to challenge the biases of our society.

Anatomy of Game Design: Skills

Roleplaying games have come a long way from their roots in 1974. Far from sticking to its wargaming roots, the RPG genre has embraced its literary potential in several key areas. One of the easiest to spot in this regard is skill systems. When Gygax and Arneson created the first RPG, it was only slightly removed from the wargames that birthed the rules. The three classes were the only real distinguishing traits outside of ability scores.

Skills became a way to individualize characters and proved them with noncombat capabilities. This proved fortuitous as it vastly expanded on not only the storytelling potential, but also the types of puzzles and challenges. Regardless of one’s position on which edition is the best, one has to admit that skills went a long way in encouraging players to see roleplaying games as interactive fiction. It also did not hurt that the phrase “fantastic medieval wargames campaigns” no longer appeared in the subtitle in the “advanced” edition of Dungeons & Dragons that came out in the late 70s.

Note that skills were and still are predominantly not combat orientated. This isn’t to say they do not have any application in a fight. Skills are versatile enough to work in combat because the character’s knowledge is being utilized in an ancillary, but beneficial way. Take for example a skill for rope use. The ability to tie knots does not confer a combat bonus, but if the character has enough time to prepare the area he can set some sort of trap, albeit one where pulling on a rope would spring the surprise. If the system has a separate skill for traps the victim has to trigger, the character still needs the time to prepare, but he only needs to maneuver his opponent into the trap.

The time spent rigging the area is outside of combat. However, the payoff is in the fight as the opponent suffers some hardship or another. When skills are used in combat, it is under duress that a character performs such actions. Penalties are often applied to the chance of success, which not only means there is a greater likelihood of failure, but also that the results may be less than optimal. Now, if skills were designed to express greater nuance in one’s combat techniques, why would a penalty be assessed to use them in a fight? This is additional proof that the skills are not a further refinement of a game’s combat rules.

So, as skills are a way to personify a character outside of hostilities, they give players a way to limit their characters to a more believable level. This is not a bad idea no matter how cinematic of a style of play you are aiming for. Limiting a character’s noncombat abilities means other members of the group receive equal play time as the center of attention. Like combat, the members of the adventuring party continue to complement each other, just in other areas of the game. The goal is to have fun in the interactive environment by sharing in the story’s telling.

One final point to cover in the use of skills: how realistic should they be? This question includes not just the number of skills, but also the divisions between neophyte and expert practitioners. The fewer the number of skills, the less realism the stories through that game system will contain. Both of these can be combined to create a game that comes awfully close to reality. The problem that can arise is one rooted in the definition of what each gradient confers on the practitioner and the list of skills needed to cover all of the relevant divisions, the larger the lists not only in the rules, but also on the character sheet. The key is to find how much realism or cinematics the game supports and the types of stories one wishes to tell.

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Anatomy of Game Design: Changing Values

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Anatomy of Game Design: Tricks of the Trade

Anatomy of Game Design: Changing Values

Like any good story or historical era, things change in a roleplaying game over the lives of the characters and the campaign. Because virtually all games are based on mathematical formulae, some values are going to change over time to simulate the growth of the characters. Depending on the system and situation this is represented by gaining levels, equipped items, number of skills, improved efficiency/potency of abilities, and so on. All of these have a numerical equivalent that works with the core mechanic and/or a subsystem and reflects the story’s progression and explanation of the character’s powers.

But that’s the long-term. What about temporary and persistent quantitative changes? Most of these are the results of issues like spells (especially curses), diseases, injuries, etc. While such conditions exist, the normal values of the relevant stats are assigned modifiers. While most spells do this, the ones in question for this piece are those which persist across multiple game sessions rather than the duration of combat. Persistent effects can follow a character through several weeks or more of game (story) time.

Generally speaking, the values most prone to such changes are derived values and adjustments. A character’s prime stats (ability/attribute scores) are not immune to adjusting up or down. Rather, they aren’t targeted by most effects given how many items can hinge on those statistics. Affecting a character’s strength score, for example, means a recalculation of so many other values that such changes are seen as major ones. Thus, they do happen, but they are shifts in how a character functions rather than a source of mild irritation.

The reason why long-term changes append adjustments and derived values more often is because these scores are not only specific instances, but they are much more useful in representing a character’s ability to affect the world. Skills and systems that represent an occupation are also included here because they further define what a character can do in the world. The changes are designed, therefore, to show the heightened or decreased nature of a character’s affect on his environment. After all, a character may be nimble, but that doesn’t mean he is a contortionist without having trained as a human pretzel. It helps explain why conditions do not normally change ability scores. A character with a high strength may be too fatigued to lift a heavy object, but his overall muscular build does not change. Losing muscle, however, would be a direct adjustment to strength.

Simulating ailments and boons, changes to the adjustments and derived values, are ways to modify the core mechanics’ and subsystems’ use of the ability scores. Some, like levels, are permanent changes (discounting level drains which don’t appear in all genres). The majority give a story the mathematical power to leverage changes for as long as is necessary to carry out the plot structure of the moment in an ongoing narrative for the campaign. With all the different story elements in play, it is easier to juggle persistent changes to derived values and adjustments than ability scores. It is also less stressful to suffer ill effects to a few specific features to one’s character over a few sessions until a plot line is resolved.

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Anatomy of Game Design: Cheating Death and Avoiding Injury

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Anatomy of Game Design: Skills

Stealing a Page from Screenwriters

We are often asked as gamemasters to create a scenario for players that we know is intended to allow their characters to carry the day and claim victory. To do this, we have to imagine the end goal of the adventure and then plan to have the challenges be just difficult enough that the characters when even if they have to struggle for that outcome. One of the tricks that we can use to make our lives easier comes from film and television, and many gamemasters are probably using it without realizing that it is exactly what they are doing.

 

In effect, this is an elevator pitch approach to adventure design known as a logline. The point of the log line is to sum up the main plot of the story in approximately 25 words or less. Loglines are not intended to capture the entire story; rather, they are useful devices that let us focus our intention on the most important elements the story is about. Consider the following example using Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings:

 

“From a place known as the Shire, a reluctant hero, a hobbit named Frodo Baggins, is tasked by the wizard Gandalf the Grey to undertake a journey with a companions on a quest to make it all the way to Mount Doom in Mordor and find a way to destroy the One Ring while avoiding an epic battle that engulfs all of Middle Earth and a host of beings intent on retrieving the ring for their evil master, Sauron, who will plunge the world into eternal darkness if he succeeds.”

 

Now consider this:

 

“The reluctant hero Bilbo Baggins is charged with the task of destroying the One Ring while avoiding fanatical pursuers and the war engulfing Middle Earth.”

 

If you have seen the movies you know there is obviously more detail than either of these two descriptions can encompass. But, which one feels more intense, the one that goes into detail, or the one that cuts to the heart of the story? This is where a logline can help you plot out your adventures.

 

The point here is not to cut out any contingencies, side quests, or wandering encounters. Rather, the purpose of the logline is to help you plan out the eventual goal of an adventure no matter how many distractions or subplots you can stuff in there to your players’ delight. While it takes more time to prepare for such adventures, the logline works for adventures of any length, meaning you can recycle the logline with a few small changes here and there to alter the plot enough to keep things fresh and interesting. Here’s an example:

 

“The adventurers look to rescue the local merchant’s son who has been kidnapped to force the man out of business and cripple the town’s economy.”

 

Now, with a few changes and several levels later, the logline can be recycled with the following tweaks:

 

“The adventurers track down the mysterious group that kidnapped the head of the all-powerful merchant’s guild, bringing the starving city to its knees.”

 

Notice that there really is not that much of a difference in the plot the loglines. The challenges are greater in the latter, but it is all just a matter of scale. Both are stories of struggle for survival and the key role the characters play in saving the day. What makes them different is how they are dressed and all the trappings that go with those implications, which includes subplots and side quests.

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Don’t Tell Me About Your Character

One of the techniques that writing instructors stress time and again is “show, don’t tell.” Yet, no such piece of advice exists for gamers. In fact, more often than not players tell the gamemaster what their characters are doing while the gamemaster tells the players about the world their characters inhabit. It seems weird that something that would bore an audience to tears in a written format is how many players derive satisfaction in the heat of the moment.

Something that strikes me as being just as strange is that when people talk about their most memorable sessions, they show almost as much as they tell. The characters are more alive with details of what they were doing compared to the actual game session. In many ways, their descriptions are like stories of true events. But, again, this is not the most exciting way to tell a story.

What can gamers learn from this? There are ways to interject showing into the descriptions of the events that occur in a game without taking away anyone’s agency. This is why players are able to describe events as a story rather than a report after the fact. But there should be a way we can draw from this to move beyond a report style of gaming.

If you are unfamiliar with the difference between showing and telling, consider the following descriptions of events:

 

“My character walks up to the door and I want to check for traps. I rolled a 16.”

“I walk up to the door and examine it for traps with a result of 16.”

 

The differences are subtle, but one is more active than the other. The first example is a play-by-play report of what the character is going to do and the second is a smoother rendition of the same event that shows. There is nothing inherently wrong with the first method, and this is often the way most game sessions go as there is a need to pause to let people know what is going on in any particular game.

If you trust your players or gamemaster enough, you can show these actions and trust that neither side is trying to circumvent any of the rules. After all, if there are any adjustments due to situational circumstances, there should be little reason to believe the gamemaster is cheating. This also requires the gamemaster shows rather than tells what the world looks like.

In this instance, it requires the gamemaster does not just provide a list of details for what the room, town, or dungeon looks like. A 10’ wide corridor with moss is boring after a while, but if you say that the moss is growing or creeping up the walls, you give a description that feels alive and more active. One of the techniques that keeps descriptions from moving from a showing to a telling is the verbs used. Do the objects interact with one another, or are they just present? If they interact, then you are showing.

Telling is often passive and does not come across as vividly. Veteran gamemasters are often great at doing this, but when players make the transition to the other side of the screen they often tell as that is the mode they have learned to operate from when playing a roleplaying game. Showing is a skill that people have to develop as we are used to reporting what has happened in the past. This is as much caused by how we learn to receive news as it is the way our brains process stimuli and weed out the information it doesn’t think is important, like how things interact with each other unless the event affects the observer.

Another area where showing and not telling comes in handy is in interior dialogues with a character. We might not be able to show the interior of a character’s thoughts, but we can show how he acts as a result of them. Even if the process is mostly in the character’s head, there are a few tricks to help make these moments dramatic and active. Most of these tricks are the same as those outlined above. What is important to remember is that the events have to be actions if you want to retain the excitement.

To make it more mysterious, you can limit who gets the information for what goes on in the character’s head. However, that can lead to other problems with players being left out of some of the action. That is where letting the players see the results without seeing the cause comes in handy. It is just like the movies, only better because it is unfolding in real time.

So, when someone gives a dry description, you can tell them “Don’t tell me about your character, show me.”

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Shadings in the Boxes: Playing it Slant

Since its introduction in the late 70s in Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, Gary Gygax’s two-axis alignment system has been a staple of that game line for more than thirty years, culminating in its continued use in the d20/OGL third-party products still in print.  Despite this longevity, the concept of nine alignments with their strict interpretations as described in the rulebooks seems to be the only way in which characters can be played.  The rules aren’t immutable.  They are termed guidelines by the games’ authors.  If the rules are considered as such, doesn’t that mean one should consider that the same applies to the alignment definitions?  Most gamers don’t seem to take this view if one looks at the number of complaints and arguments across the Internet on this subject.  How does one account for the venerable seventeen-plane Great Ring cosmology that accompanied Gygax’s introduction of this system?  As such, there must be shadings within the alignments if that cosmology is any indication.  These questions are the impetus of this inquiry and whether or not it is possible to interpret what alignments truly describe.

A few things need to be deconstructed in order to not only establish the ground rules for the project as a whole, but also as a way to examine variations on alignments without being a complete departure from their core values.  Rather, these variations express something that is contrary to these very values on a superficial level.  This gives a sense of standing apart in an erstwhile sea of sameness without running completely outside the group.  Thus, these slight deviations are referred to as “shadings” given their take “colors” the perception of an alignment.

It is important to note that there is no attempt to undermine the system that exists, but rather to promote the idea that the good/evil and law/chaos axes are a system of coordinates within which there is room to maneuver.  The hope here is that players will take more leeway with interpreting alignments in their games, have a better understanding of someone’s interpretation, or shadings of what already exists.

The series is structured by examining what is written about each alignment and then following it up with a series of sample interpretations for each.  The examination of the alignments starts by questioning and deconstructing their descriptions and if they are fair assessments of adherents of the alignments they profess.  Through deconstructing the concepts in each, it becomes easier to identify what concepts must remain intact and which are negotiable.  From there, the variations in the shadings can be constructed and still remain true to their parent’s description.  Thus, good will remain good, even if its honor is shredded a bit.

In writing terms, this is known as playing it slant.  It’s the angle one takes to tell a story or portray a character.  Actors do this to find a character’s motivation for the behavior exhibited.  The entire point of this work, then, is to spur players to explore and mine their characters’ back stories for all they’re worth.  Or, in other words, how a character’s personality shapes his alignment.

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Anatomy of Game Design: Cheating Death and Avoiding Injury

Call them what you will: resistance rolls, saving throws, defenses, or what-have-you; they’re all the same.  This is the mechanic that games use to prevent the impartial nature of probability mechanics from killing characters through sheer dumb luck.  After all, a roleplaying game is not reality.  Happenstance is a great tool to keep the rules fair, but not when it would chill the fun.  This is what these rules are designed to curb.

Let’s face it, random character death is annoying as can be.  Players are likely to be much more upset if there is no meaning to a fatality in the ranks.  The attachment is greater the more experienced the character is and the longer it is played.  This is why games have a built-in system to stave off oblivion.  It isn’t just a technique for writers, after all.  Saving throws are an RPG’s safety net to protect it from its own math.

One of the salient features of roleplaying games is the storytelling element.  The gamemaster describes a situation and the players respond.  This call-and-response mechanism is the core of the interactive nature of the tale woven by a group of players.  The math behind the dice rolls is meant to provide an impartial judge so that arguments about who can do what are kept to a minimum.  But it is this same randomness and impartiality that can lead to character death in an otherwise nonlethal situation.

So, what the resistance roll allows is a way to temper the probability which could kill characters undramatically.  But that isn’t the sole reason for including them in a game.  They also fill a dramatic roll in a game’s rules.  Granted it is still a way to skew the math in the favor of the player characters, but there are times when players place their characters in harm’s way.  Often these instances are climaxes in adventures.  The heightened drama is rooted in how close to death heroes can get without crossing that threshold.

Regardless of whether story or probability motivates their inclusion, saving throws keep characters alive.  And in systems where the chances of success improve as the character gains ever higher levels of experience, the level of danger such individuals can face becomes more intense.  There is also the added benefit that the character won’t fall victim to a bad roll or two.  If you consider how much time and energy gets invested in high level characters, it makes more sense why the math works this way without recourse to the dramatic story elements of this form of gaming.

What’s to be taken from the above?  Chiefly that the safety net against probability’s cruel impartiality is also designed as a dramatic tool.  As such, systems can be used to mitigate probability from hijacking the story and hence lessening your fun.

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Anatomy of Game Design: Adjustments and Derived Values

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