Category: Santa Vaca

Did I get hit or didn’t I?

When Dave Arneson first introduced hit points and armor class into D&D, the system was based on another game: a naval combat game. Armor class represented the difficulty of piercing the hull and hit points represented the real damage inflicted.

Well, that works fine for naval combat—and possibly even for armored knights—but when we’re dealing with a wide variety of characters—armored and otherwise—the system begins to crumble. Let me show you what I mean.

Armor class represents how hard it is for opponents to land a solid, damaging blow on you. If someone fails to beat your armor class, that failed roll represents a near miss, a glancing blow, an inconsequential flesh wound, a good hit reflected by armor or a dandy dodge. That’s armor class.

When your armor class fails, your hit points go down. Now, unless your hit points reach zero, the hit you took doesn’t really cause any kind of real damage. A loss of hit points represents a near miss, a glancing blow, an inconsequential flesh wound, a good hit reflected by armor or a dandy dodge. That’s your hit points.

… wait a second.

If these two systems sound redundant, it’s because they are. Ported over from a naval game, they don’t make sense when you apply them to human beings. Armor doesn’t prevent you from taking damage: it prevents you from taking more damage. Anyone who’s taken a real hit in armor knows this. Flak jackets are a good modern example. Yes, they stop the bullet (most of the time), but you’ve still got a serious injury that hurts like getting kicked in the chest by Bruce Lee. It hurts. And that’s injury.

I guess that’s my biggest problem with armor class/hit points. They don’t hurt. When it comes to the injured character in question, there’s really no difference between 1 hit point and 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 hit points. Granted, a knife can take out the character with 1 hit point, but then again, with the right kind of bonuses, a knife can take out the other fellow, too. But not without some serious bonuses and not before that other fellow makes enough saving throws to fill a bag of holding.

Like I said, with hit points, you don’t feel the hurt. Now, most game systems address this by throwing death spirals into the works. Yeah, I’ve been guilty of this myself (see Legend of the Five Rings), but you should have seen the original system I wanted for L5R… in fact, why don’t I just show it to you.

The original version of wounds/injury in L5R was rather complicated, I admit, but I feel it more accurately represented the samurai literature we were trying to emulate. A lot of folks around the office were highly dubious of the system, claiming it would turn people off right away. I was in my punk rock phase and I really didn’t care if “the fans” liked it or hated it. “They’ll change it anyway!” I said, because that’s what I did with game systems I wrote. I just changed what I didn’t like. But the AEG folks made me change things around and we got the system that ended up in the first edition book. A system I did not like, but I compromised. Had I not compromised, you would have seen something I felt was much more in tune with movies like Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, and Heaven and Earth.

To be brief, in the original system, if you got hit with a katana, you died.

Actually, that’s not brief at all. That was the system. I had an out: if you spend a Void Point, you don’t die, but you lose a limb. Your opponent picks. (Head doesn’t count.)

That was the system. It reflected the literature and made sword fighting something you only did if you really had to. It discouraged violence. It made you consider every duel you accepted. And it put you four feet away from death every second of your life. Just like Musashi wrote.

Yeah, the guys at AEG didn’t like that, so we went with the other system.

But that system really put on the hurt. You felt every hit. If you got hit by a katana, your character was out of it. He needed healing. (I also tried to put the kibosh on magical healing, but the veto came down on that, too.) Unfortunately, death spiral systems—like the one in L5R—make my buddy Matt cringe. For good reason, too.

Now, for those not in the know, a “death spiral” is a wound system that slowly applies penalties to a character’s actions based on his level of injury. The more hurt you get, the more penalties you accrue.

Matt and I were talking about hit points and why I hate them. He explained to me that he didn’t like spirals because “just when I need to be heroic, I can’t.” His point was both valid and strong—assuming we’re talking about a heroic game. That conversation stuck to my brain like a fly in amber, buzzing around my game designer brain. When it came time to design the Houses violence system, I found a way to whack it.

In Houses, instead of your injuries deducting dice from your pool, your injuries give your enemies additional dice. In other words, your injuries do not penalize your own actions, they benefit your opponent’s actions. Also, in order to take advantage of that bonus, your opponent has to spend Style Points: the engine of the game that make all other mechanics works. The opposite of a death spiral. (I don’t have a name for it yet. I’m awful at naming things like game systems. “Roll & Keep” was the best I could come up with for L5R/7th Sea.)

So, keeping with the theme of the last few santa vaca episodes, I put myself to the task of making a new system that keeps as many of the terms as possible. Something I feel fits better while still fitting in the main system.

In this case, let’s keep armor class. I think the term is a bit misleading—it actually has less to do with armor than “defense”—but, like I said, we’re trying an experiment here. Armor class works exactly the same way it did before: this is how hard it is to hit you. Not a glancing blow, not an inconsequential flesh wound. Did the other guy hit you or didn’t he?

If you beat someone’s armor class, you scored a hit. If you don’t beat the armor class, you don’t.

Now, if you do get hit, you get hurt. Specifically, you get disabled. You know, when you have zero hit points disabled? Yeah, that kind of disabled.

Disabled… unless you spend a hit point.

Now, a hit point in this context means deducting one point from one of your saving throws: your fort save, reflex save and will save. Now, saving throws are no longer saving throws. That is, you don’t roll dice for them. You spend them, like points. So, instead of saving throw, we’re just using the term save. Your fort save, reflex save, will save.

Use the appropriate save for the appropriate injury. You wanna tough out the hit? Spend a fort save. Want to dodge it? Spend a reflex save. Want to overcome the pain? Spend a will save. The rules already qualify what you can save against, so there you have that.

To be clear, a “hit point” is now a point form any of  your “saves.” A hit point is any point you spend from one of your saves.

Now, if you don’t have any points to spend or you don’t want to spend them, you become disabled by a successful hit. That means you start the countdown to negative ten. You have ten rounds to get treatment. If you have a negative save, you start at that number instead of at one. For example, if you get hit with something you could have used for your reflex save and your reflex save is -1, you start at -1 rather than zero.

I’m sure this muddles up all kinds of mechanics… but I’d fix those in playtesting anyway.

Inspired by an off-hand comment in another journal, I put some serious thought to why I really don’t like alignment in any iteration of D&D. What I came across was one snippy comment and a well-thought out critique.

First, the snippy comment.

Can anyone give me the real difference between chaotic good vs. neutral good and chaotic evil vs. neutral evil?

I mean, is there a real difference between these two? I’ll give you the text from both alignments–from the OGL Wiki–without identifying either. And tell me, what is the real difference between these alignments?

A [beleted] villain does whatever she can get away with…
vs
A [beleted] character does whatever his greed, hatred, and lust for destruction drive him to do…

I mean, both pretty much do whatever they want to do. Both are psychopaths. Chronic amoral behavior without regard to anyone’s safety. They do what they can get away with.

Meanwhile, we have the other side of the equation.

A [beleted] character does the best that a good person can do. He is devoted to helping others. He works with kings and magistrates but does not feel beholden to them.
vs
A [beleted] character acts as his conscience directs him with little regard for what others expect of him. He makes his own way, but he’s kind and benevolent. He believes in goodness and right but has little use for laws and regulations.

 
Again, we’ve got two distinct alignments that pretty much say the same thing. In fact, the good alignments seem even more identical than the evil alignments.

Now, I anticipate 90% of the answers to this question. They all begin or contain the phrase: "Well, the way I see alignment…"

But see, that’s the chief problem. Alignment is a rule, but it isn’t a rule. Not like hit points or armor class or spells per day. Alignment is a rule, but it’s a rule the players are meant to interpret. Losing your alignment has a severe punishment, but it’s a judgment call without any real rules to fall back on. It’s a rule, but it isn’t a rule.

Nobody can argue that when a d10 rolls a 7 it really rolled an 8 because that’s the way you interpret it. Nobody can argue that a critical hit isn’t a critical because they don’t see the 20 (and the sucky confirm roll) differently than everybody else.

Alignment is a rule that isn’t a rule. A rule with consequences and bonuses and penalties that’s completely up in the air, vague, ambiguous and undefined.

That’s why I don’t like alignment. As a rule, it doesn’t make any sense. And, when you really start to look at it, the alignments really don’t mean anything anyway.

When I play D&D, I play an evil character all the time. A chaotic evil character. I do it to prove a point. I play a chaotic evil character, but only the DM knows it. I tell him not to worry. He’ll understand why by the end of the first session. Because, by the end of the first adventure, all the neutral good and chaotic good and lawful good characters have comitted acts far more evil than anything I could do.

The default alignment in D&D is chaotic neutral: I’ll do what I need to do to win the game.

With this thought in mind, I approached the whole concept of alignment.

Supernatural vs. Natural
The first problem rests with the presumptive idea most people have about issues like alignment and magic in D&D. They use the term "supernatural" when describing them.

This is wrong. There is nothing "supernatural" about alignment in any D&D world. Alignment is a tangible force. Observable and reproducable. Alignment is like gravity, electromagnitism and the strong and weak force: it is a necessary element of the world. Without it, the world falls apart. We even have planes of alignment: primal elements of the universe. They can’t be removed without fucking everything up.

In D&D, alignment is not a supernatural agency, it is a force of nature.

If that’s true, then why don’t we treat it like a primal agency. Treat it like gravity. Make it a part of the world you can’t ignore. It powers spells and other effects… why isn’t it just as real and tangible as gravity? Or the weak force? It makes the world work. Essential. Neccessary.

This also ditches the problem of alignment being a non-rule. Turns it into something like hit points or armor class or attack bonus. It’s real.

This also means alignment is no longer up for debate. "What does neutral evil mean?" No. It’s a real and tangible force. We know exactly what it means.

But how do we use it?

Alignment in the Game
The Alignments are Primal Powers now, looming over everything–men and gods alike.

Men and gods align themselves to a particular Power. Law, Chaos, Evil, Good. (We’ll get to Neutral in a moment.)

Law wants Obedience. Structure. Order.
Chaos wants Freedom, Liberty, Self-Reliance.
Good wants Virtue, Altruism, Comfort.
Evil wants Pain, Hatred, Suffering.

All of these are very "western." I mean, they are ideas that spring from Western philosophies. And then there’s Neutrality…

Neutrality is not "balance." Neutrality is nothingness. The world is an illusion. The Powers are not real. At least, they are not any more real than anything else. The Neutral character does not subscribe to the authority of the Powers. Of course, this philosophy is a direct consequence of introducing "the monk" into the system. Not at all Western, he brought with him a different Power. The Power that is not a Power.

Nothingness. Neutral. (That’s for you, Jess.)

Characters have points in each Power. You are no longer "lawful evil" or "lawful good." You have points in each power. Law 2, Chaos 1, Good, 3, Evil 1. You start the game with 3 points–which will quickly change. Allocate your points to your chosen Powers.

When you roll dice for an action aligned to the Powers, you gain a point. But here’s the catch. You can only have 7 points in the Powers. Whenever one rank goes up, another goes down.

This is specific: you gain points when you roll dice. Not just any action, but actions that cause a throw of the dice. Significant actions. Not petty evils or petty generosities. Significant actions.

Any time you roll dice, check your intention. Is your intention to serve evil? Cause pain, misery and sorrow? You add your alignment bonus to your roll. Is your intention to serve others, to ease suffering, to sacrifice yourself for another’s welfare? Add your Good points to your roll.

And don’t forget: any roll that serves a Power increases your rank in that Power… but you must also remove one rank from another Power. Also, any spells directly aligned to a power (the heal and harm spells come to mind) gain double the bonus.

If your rank in a Power is zero, you have no bonus. You aren’t Neutral (that’s different; see below), you just have no alignment to that Power.

What About Neutral?
Neutral characters are not aligned to any of the Powers. This means they gain no bonus… but they have an important benefit. Neutral characters do not serve the Powers… they are trying to transcend this limited existence to something else… a place not ruled by the Powers. A place where only one Power exists.

The Power of Will.

Neutral characters have ranks in "Neutral." Up to 7 points. When an aligned character rolls dice against the Neutral character, the Neutral character adds his alignment points to his defense. Armor class, saving throw, DC of the spell, whatever.

The Power of Will.

___

That’s it for now. I have more ideas, but I’ll let these settle for a while. A gift from me to you, my faithful D20 friends. 

Hope this helps.

1. The supposed production of offspring markedly different from either parent.

“A roleplaying game is a wargame where each player controls one mans (unit) rather than an army or a squad.”

When Matt told me that, I was knocked off balance. I didn’t know what to say.

We were talking about my previous D&D post (you can find it here) and my in-transit definition of roleplaying games. (I’m still not happy with the definition.) Matt’s reply was above. One player, one mans, wargame.

Took me a while to come up with an intelligent reply. You know, something other than, “That’s stupid!” or “You don’t know anything!” Well, here it is.

When we all first started playing RPGs, the tools we had were unsophisticated. They were crude. This reflected in the characters we made with them. The tools are crude, the craftsmanship can only go so far. The characters we first made were identified by “What can I do?” rather than “Who am I?”

I’m a big comics fan, and sometimes I have to demonstrate the differences between Marvel and DC characters. The early DC characters were identified by “What can I do?” Superman and Batman and Green Lantern really didn’t have personalities, they had powers. Big, smiling faces who fought for truth, justice and the American way. The only difference was their capabilities. That’s the fundamental flaw with most of the older DC characters. Identified by “What can I do?” rather than “Who am I?”

Stan Lee/Jack Kirby/Steve Ditko did a lot to change that. Spider-Man was one of the first characters to break that rule. The Fantastic Four, too. The stories in those early books were less about Spider-Man or the FF fighting bad guys (although, that was certainly the case), and more about the relationships those characters had. That’s what made the books dynamic. Relationships.

As we grew as gamers, our own needs grew as well. More complicated characters. Relationships. Consequences. Games that followed D&D (a wargame where each player controls one unit rather than a squad or an army) still involved hex paper and lead miniatures, but they were more sophisticated, taking into account the need to tell stories with the hex paper and miniatures. Games like RuneQuest and Traveller certainly did not fit the stereotype created by D&D.

But that raises a question. D&D is the first roleplaying game. Nobody can question that. But if D&D is a wargame where the players control one unit rather than a squad or an army, then what are the games that followed? They certainly don’t fit that definition; they are closer to the flawed definition I was working through in my previous essay: a game in which the players are rewarded for making choices that are consistent with the character’s motivations or further the plot of the story even if the choices are not strategic or tactically wise.

So, the games that followed D&D experienced Xenogensis. Offspring who do not resemble the parent.

Granted, D&D has matured, but it never quite caught up with its kids, seemingly content to remain what it is: a wargame. Players may not treat it like a wargame (remember: you can make any game a roleplaying game–even chess), but there it is. A wargame where each player controls one unit.

But if RuneQuest and Traveller and other first-generation games are not roleplaying games… then what are they? And, is D&D the only roleplaying game?

I’d say “No.” But that’s just a gut reaction. I don’t have anything to back it up. Not yet.

(Opened to the general public at jediwiker’s request)

Listening to people talk about the fourthcoming (intentional) edition of D&D, I hear a lot of the same thing: balancing out the classes. 

I hear the fighter will deal out the most amount of damage up close while the thief (I will not say “rogue”) deals the most amount of damage from behind while the magic-user deals out the most amount of damage from a distance and yadda yadda yadda.

I console myself with the knowledge that the new D&D design team is finally giving up the ghost. D&D isn’t a roleplaying game; it’s a very sophisticated board game. This is a bit of a paradox because D&D is the first roleplaying game. Yet, it isn’t a roleplaying game. Like being your own grandfather, this takes some explaining.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the “What is a roleplaying game?” question. Thinking in the same way Scott McCloud thought about “What is Comics?” in his absolutely brilliant Understanding Comics graphic novel. I’ve been thinking about it because something about the new D&D struck me sideways strange.

I think it’s important to note that any game can be turned into a roleplaying game. You can turn chess into a roleplaying game by naming your King and giving him an internal dialogue. You can turn Life into a roleplaying game the same way. In fact, you can turn any board game into a roleplaying game that way. But you have to add something to do it. You have add the character and his motivations.

I’d also argue you have to add another element. The “character” must make choices based on personal motivations rather than strategic or tactical advantage. This is the “My Character Wouldn’t Do That” factor. The correct move in chess may be Queen’s Pawn to Pawn 4, but if the King decides, “I want to protect my Queen more than I want to protect my Bishop, even though the smart move is to protect my Bishop,” then we have a roleplaying game.

It isn’t that you play dumb. You could make every smart move put before you. But if you actively consider your character’s desires and motivations first, then I think you’ve got what we’re talking about.

But a game like chess doesn’t reward you for making choices that don’t directly or indirectly lead to victory. In fact, no board game does. That’s what differentiates a board game from a roleplaying game, I think. A board game rewards players for making choices that lead to victory. A roleplaying game rewards the player for making choices that are consistent with his character.

Likewise, most board games don’t have a sense of narrative: a building story. Now, please note that I said “most.” Some board games certainly do. And I don’t mean a story in an abstract way that’s up to interpretation. I mean a real story complete with everything we expect from stories. Plot, narrative, exposition, the third act betrayal. The whole kit and caboodle.

Now, some board games have a sense of narrative, but players are not rewarded for moving the narrative forward. On the other hand, the whole point of a roleplaying game is to do just that: move the narrative forward. It has mechanics that assist the players in doing just that.

Therefore… “A roleplaying game is a game in which the players are rewarded for making choices that are consistent with the character’s motivations or further the plot of the story.”

(At this point, I predict Faithful Readers to point out that this is not the definition most people understand as a roleplaying game. I will pre-empt this retort by asking them how the majority of Americans misuse “I could(n’t) care less,” misunderstand evolution, and mispronounce the word “nuclear.” Including the man sitting in the White House who fucks up all three.)

This is a working definition. It is far from complete and I’m not entirely happy with it, but it’s a good starting point. Notice the distinct lack of miniatures or dice as necessary to playing a roleplaying game. Some roleplaying games use miniatures and some roleplaying games use dice. Not all. The chief question is: “Can you play a roleplaying game without dice and/or miniatures?” My answer is, “Yes. I have. And I’ve been doing it for at least twenty years.”

(It is at this point I reminded how a certain individual very important to the origin of the RPG told me–to my face–that I wasn’t playing a roleplaying game at all, but I was just a “wanna be community theater actor.” But we shall not speak ill of the dead.)

Dice and maps and miniatures are not neccessary to play roleplaying games. (Yes, Matt. I’m using the word in that sense.) Some players prefer them, but others do not. It is also not neccessary to play a game without them. Do they add to the experience? Yes, they can. They can also detract from the experience, inhibit the experience or limit the experience. But they are not necessary.

What I feel is essential for a roleplaying game–what defines a roleplaying game–is that players take the roles of characters in a game that has mechanics that enable and reward story and character choices. That is a roleplaying game.

And with that definition in mind, I look at what D&D 4 is going to look like and I’ve come to a conclusion: it will not be a roleplaying game.

You can make it a roleplaying game, but in order to do so, you’ll have to add elements that do not exist in the rules. If you play the game by the rules, it is not a roleplaying game.

D&D has mechanics for rewarding you for making the best strategic and tactical choices, but it does not have mechanics that help the players move the plot forward. It has mechanics for movement and damage and healing and everything else Talisman does, but it does not reward a character for making decisions that aren’t focused on winning the game.

At the end of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy gives up “treasure and glory” to heal the village. He surrenders the magic stone to the old man, completing that transformation from greedy, selfish bastard into the hero we knew from the first film. 

In D&D4, there is no advantage in the choice to give up that treasure. Hell, in D&D3 there’s no mechanical reason for him to do it, either. No strategic or tactical reason. He should take the magic stone, add it to his current stash of magical treasures, and go on to the next adventure. Likewise, he shouldn’t have turned over the Arc of the Covenant to the US Government and he shouldn’t have stopped to heal his dad. He should have run out of that temple as fast as his little feet could carry him and cash in on finding the cup of Christ. That’s the only way to get experience points. That’s the only way to “win.”

That’s how you win D&D. More treasure to kill bigger monsters to get bigger treasure.

Which brings me to the whole point of this post in the first place. Game balance.

D&D3 was obsessed with obtaining game balance. The fact that stats are randomly generated demonstrates what a Great and Massive Failure this is. (If we add up our stats and you have even one point more than me, our characters are unbalanced.) What kind of damage can a fighter do before he falls down, what kind of damage can a wizard do before he falls down, what kind of damage can a thief do before he falls down… all of these questions are missing the point. Especially in a roleplaying game. Addressing the symptoms, but not the disease. Hacking at the limbs rather than the roots.

“Game balance” in a roleplaying game doesn’t come down to hit points or armor class or damage or levels or feats or skills or any of that. Game balance in a roleplaying game comes down to a simple question: “Is each character fulfilling his role in the story?”

D&D addresses this issue in a small tactics mindset. The fighter fights, the theif steals, the cleric heals and the wizard is the artillery. Make sure each character’s role–as D&D sees it–is filled.

But what about motivation? What about personal stakes? Let me show you what I mean.

One of my adventures in the RPGA involved a first level thief. He was the son of a tavern keeper who had gambled himself into deep debt. My character learned how to be a theif because he was the bruiser at the tavern. He knew how to pick pockets because he had to look out for it. He knew how to hide in shadows to keep himself out of sight. And he knew how to backstab because he needed to move quietly up to a troublemaker and hit him hard enough to knock him out without starting a fight. That’s my thief.

(I should note that the game itself demands I do none of this. There is no rule or mechanic that requires it and there is no rule nor mechanic that rewards me for it.)

I went on the adventure with my little thief. As we walked, I chatted with the other characters. I was chatty. They chastised me for slowing down the adventure. Not my character, but me. They chastised me for roleplaying. Obviously, I was playing the wrong game.

We killed some kobold bandits, gathered some treasure. The other players were not playing as a group well (despite my suggestions) and argued and bickered the whole time.

Meanwhile, I stole as much of it as I could. When I found something in private, I kept it. I was going to save my father’s tavern and it didn’t matter who stood in my way. Again, acting in character but against the group goal of sharing the treasure. As far as Tav saw it (his name was Tav), these people hired him to do a job. They were rude to him and did not go out of their way to protect him.

At the end of the adventure, I had a large chunk of silver, gold and treasure. I even got a +1 short sword. The fighter didn’t want it. And when the adventure was done, I said, “I retire!”

They all looked at me with disbelief. I reminded them that the only reason I did this was to save my father’s tavern. I got a bunch of gold and a magic sword worth thousands of gold pieces. I was set for life. A peasant sees 1 gold piece per year and I got a few thousand. I was done. I filled my role.

Now, my story about Tav helps me illustrate a lot of things. Almost every choice I made with him was based on his backstory–right up to his retirement. All the choices were based on things that weren’t on my character sheet. The things that, as far as I can tell, are the most important things about a character.

Game balance isn’t about hit points or armor class or spells per day or any of that. Game balance is about helping the player tell his character’s story in such a way that he doesn’t eclipse the other characters. Mechanics that reward and assist players in doing just that.

At least, that’s how I see it.

And I’m still not entirely happy with the definition.