ImagiNation: Over the Water

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 Dear Mum,

It’s hard to describe what it’s like on the mainland to someone who hasn’t been there. All the old landmarks are there, the ground and it’s layout are mostly familiar but they’ve been rewritten, scribbled over and the space between them is distorted.

The scientists at Osbourne say it’s something to do with collective memory and emotional investment. People expect to see the Houses of Parliament in London and so they do. Weird thing is that you can almost always see it, and the wheel, and the Gherkin, no matter where in the city you are.

That’s the blank slate upon which the weirdness has settled. The shadows filled with people’s nightmares, the tube overrun with black spiders whose bite is deadly and who whisper shameful events from some poor guy’s childhood.

Castles sit next to victorian housing blocks. Beanstalks rise up into the clouds and disappear. Bears lurk by the battered remnants of pedestrianised areas waiting for someone to step on a crack in the pavement.

They send us into this madness because we’re immune. We can go in, we can find people, we can bring them out and we do all this by conjuring and shifting the world around us through our imaginations. We can imprint what we want, what we imagine, onto this landscape and we’re the only ones that can.

I don’t see how it helps, but it is better than nothing.

ImagiNation: Letter From the Island

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Dear Mum,

Writing.

It isn’t something I thought I’d do much by hand ever again, but power’s short and they like to restrict it to key areas and key times. It’s handwriting or it’s one of the awful mechanical typewriters the military had put aside still for some reason. So I’ll write. Even though it’s as illegible as the handwriting of a drunken doctor and there’s no spelling or grammar check.

They’ve moved me, with some others, down to Ventnor. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. From the south of the Island you, at least, can’t see the strange colours and shapes over the mainland or hear the distant noises the oddities are making. From this side we’re looking the other way, to France and potential freedom. Not that the international flotilla is going to let any of us out into the world in case we’re ‘contagious’.

This place used to be a hotel, ‘The Admiral’ apparently. Little more than a jumped-up B&B back in the day and now the only person not calling it a barracks is the old dear who nominally owns the place.

I’m off my meds and under observation. They stop me wanting to hurt or kill myself but they blunt my mind, my insight and that’s what they need when they send me ashore. They need me to be able to think and to imagine. Funny that I’m recording these thoughts, writing, when it’s the thing that’s both preserved me and condemned me to these sorties at the same time.

My therapist used to tell me to visualise my problems so that I could attack them. That doesn’t work out so well on the mainland as it turns out. If you visualise your mental issues as a big black dog you soon find yourself being stalked and hunted by a genuine barghest and since it’s part of you… well, let’s just say things didn’t go so well last trip.

I found out something though. You can bring back fragments of things from the other side of the water. Bits and pieces of dreamstuff that don’t contaminate, but which continue to work, somehow. Science doesn’t work to understand them, but my pet theory is that physical laws have broken down on the mainland. It works fine everywhere else, just not on England’s green and pleasant land.

That’s how I’ve come to have a jar of rocking-horse shit on my desk.

Going back over tomorrow. This time they’ll want something ‘useful’ but I still think a laugh is a useful thing to have.

Gives you hope.

Love,

D

Camelot Cosmos: Open Consultation – Logo

Camelot Cosmos is a game written by Daniel Jupp and produced by Postmortem Studios which will be out imminently. It takes the Arthurian mythos and transfers them into a future society with shades of both Pendragon and Deathstalker, driven by an intensely modified version of FATE.

The art is in, the book is in layout at the moment, but we need a Logo.

Please examine the below and vote for your favourite, offering comments below. The art – including covers – will all be black and white but a little colour on the title couldn’t hurt… or could it?

Means to an End or just a Mean End?

Given that I’m writing about Mass Effect lately, and given that I’ve been sick as a dog lately and thus have been distracting myself with my playthroughs of Mass Effect (1 and now 2) before I play ME3, it’s probably worth talking about the ‘controversy’ over the end of ME3.

A lot of what’s going on is being dismissed as ridiculous gamer ‘entitlement’ or ‘first world problems’ and there’s an element of truth to that. I haven’t played ME3 yet – obviously – so I have a bit of a remove from it, but it’s been impossible to avoid the furore.

From the perspective of an RPG gamer and designer the problems that BioWare are having don’t seem like anything new, but for the CRPG world I think the crisis represents the sheer fact of their success, rather than their failure.

Spoilers are impossible to avoid online, but I’ll do my best to skirt around it as much as possible to spare others.

Most CRPGs (computer RPGs) that we play are pretty two dimensional. You’re lucky if you can be good or evil and you might get two different possible outcomes to the adventure at the end. They’re not really roleplaying games, they’re a story in which we have a limited amount of participation, a series of puzzles and tactical encounters that we solve. We just get to enjoy a story along the way.

In tabletop RPGs we’re used to a lot more freedom, we get to create the story, almost whole cloth, the only moderation upon our story is that we have a social contract with the other players and the Games Master. I won’t say TTRPG (tabletop RPG) players are necessarily more invested in their games (current fuss over ME showing that’s not true) but I think we’re more likely to get invested in our shared worlds, characters and stories. They’re responsive and that’s the expectation in a tabletop game, that you can do anything and the game will react. That emotional investment also leads to things like edition wars and arguments over games, it’s the price we pay for that passion.

Where BioWare succeeded so brilliantly with ME was in creating that TTRPG expectation of responsiveness and adaptation in a CRPG audience. The ME series is probably the closest yet that a CRPG has gotten to a tabletop experience, and I’m including MMORPGs and open games like Skyrim in that.

ME players came to expect a responsive universe. They came to expect that what you did in the gamemattered and would continue to impact throughout the game. They made you care about your allies, the planets, the world, the fleets. These people weren’t just allies they were friends, enemies, lovers. What you did, did matter. Sometimes even the smallest thing. As Shepard you inspired others to change their lives, to attempt the impossible.

It was a reasonable expectation, then, that the climax that the game was building to would reflect all that interaction, all those allies, all those friendships, every decision you had made. It was even more reasonable as an expectation given the hype and boasts being made for the game as it was approaching release.

That’s not how it works. You get a choice of three endings and nothing you’ve done makes a particular difference to it.

That’s the root of the disappointment and the upset. They were so successful creating that expectation that they shot themselves in the foot. Expectations were so high they couldn’t be met (well they could, but it would be a huge effort). BioWare have found out what TTRPG designers have had to grapple with for a long time…

Once it’s out there, it’s no longer your story.

For me, it’s a love story as much as anything else (I’m a wuss) so I’ve illustrated with the love interests from the game.

A Positive Piracy Story

My piracy policy is, basically, a more long-winded version of the following:

Look, I know you’re going to pirate my stuff and I’ve made peace with that. Seriously though, I’m just a small self-publisher and don’t have a lot of money. So if you’ve blagged this off a torrent or something, please think about buying something else I’ve made to make up for it.

This seems to work out pretty well for me.

Just the other day I got a mail from someone who had downloaded one of my 100 Seeds books from a torrent site and, despite not having used the book yet he was so pleased with it that he bought ALL of 100 Seeds books on PDF from RPGNOW in a bundle.

This is pretty typical. People find my stuff on a filesharing or torrent site, check it out (if they’re a user rather than a collector) , then discover all my reasonably priced game books and material and end up paying me money.

They wouldn’t find my stuff, most likely, if it wasn’t for piracy and sharing. In many ways it’s the ultimate word of mouth.

Piracy is definitely a net positive for me and for my business. Not being an arsehole about things goes a long way.

Fiction: The Problem of (Being) Evil

“MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Count Du Schna’Zel’s booming – and well practised – evil laugh echoed out from his chamber. He stared into his crystal ball as his clairvoyant gaze swept over his creation, an enormous dungeon, filled with the deadliest traps, the worst monsters and the most mind-bending puzzles his cruel and devious mind could devise.

“Vomit!” He called, sweeping one great sleeve back towards the archway that gave access to his chamber.

Vomit, the goblin, lurched in – which isn’t easy when you’re only three feet tall. “Yes your wapacious woyalness?”

“Wrong speech impediment Vomit.”

“Thorry. Yeth mathter?”

“That’s better. Now, take a message.” The Count swept his robes around dramatically and sat down upon his granite throne.

Vomit scrambled for parchment and paper. He couldn’t actually read or write, but the Master didn’t need to know that, so long as he could remember.

“Let the word go forth, Vomit. The Deadly Dungeon of Du Schna’Zel is open for business. Heroes are invited from the four corners of the far realms to test their mettle, their bravery and their ability. Should they survive the dungeon they will be rewarded with riches beyond their wildest dreams.”

“not. so. fast”

The Count turned his head, frowning. A voice that – if written down – would defy conventional rules of punctuation and capitalisation generally indicated a supernatural being, a presence, an incarnation.

He was not wrong. Even here in his inner sanctum, beings from the other realms could intrude should they wish. Nowhere was safe. Still, it was an affront to his dignity. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, with what amounted to an LD50 dose of sarcasm to most creatures.

The being that stood there was grey, thin, its arms were like tentacles, seeming to be able to reach everywhere at once. It was covered in eyes, unblinking and staring and an aura of judgemental certitude hung about it like a cheap perfume.

“there has been a change in the rules,” the thing spoke without a mouth, quiet but with a sense of absolute authority.

“There has?” The Count narrowed his eyes and preened his long, thin, moustache and beard. This did not bode well, the creature must be a thing of law, adjusting the rules of the universe. “How does this affect me? Why do you care? Why should I care about the hidden probabilities and secrets of the universe?”

“oh no. it goes beyond that this time.”

“What in the thousand hells do you mean?” The Count leapt up angrily from his seat and kicked Vomit out of the archway in frustration, sending the unfortunate goblin sailing some distance and out of sight.

“well, that, for example. you should not mistreat your minions in such a way.”

“Why not?” The Count leant over his crystal ball and glared at the creature, agent of the universe or not, it was getting on his tits.

“it creates a bad impression and encourages violence.”

“And?”

The being ignored him and carried on speaking. “your minions, are they all goblins?”

“My family has a proud tradition of employing goblins. My minions are, indeed, all goblins, save the monsters in the dungeon.” The Count folded his arms challengingly and arched one eyebrow sceptically, a look that had caused his previous page, Scabies, to literally shit himself to death. It had no effect on this being.

“unacceptable. from now on you must employ a range of creatures, goblinoid and otherwise at all levels of your organisation.”

“Why?”

“to do otherwise would be racist.”

The Count almost choked to death on his own beard, chewing on it in an attempt to control his rage. “Is that all?” He somehow managed to choke out, spitting beard hairs.

“no. are any of your employees disabled?”

“You mean cripples?” The Count asked, incredulously. The creature reacted to that, recoiling slightly as though the very word hurt it.

“that term is not… politic, but yes.”

“What bloody use is a crippled goblin?” The Count stared at the creature, wondering if he was in the right universe any more, “If the wound is too severe I feed the poor creature to the Pit Beast, otherwise a Priest of Fognarr heals it.”

“unacceptable.”

The Count was curious now, his eyes boggling out of his head with rage and incomprehension, but he needed to know how far this stupidity was going to go. “What else?”

“how many of your employees are female?”

“Outside of the whore-dome? None. The goblins have ‘family’ in the breeding pens of course…”

“unacceptable. you must allow these females to work for you as well.”

“But the attrition rate! If they’re not busy making more goblins they’ll die out. You know how adventurers are…”

“we do not care. you will make these changes or else.”

“Or else what…” The Count narrowed his eyes, fingers twitched a dance in front of him.

“or else you will be edited.”

“ZORNIT’S GALVANIC BOLT!” Cried the count, his patience at an end, unleashing the raw power of magic against this strange fiend.

“AURA OF SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS!” The bolt ricocheted off the creature and blasted a fist sized hole in the ceiling. “if you’re quite done, the whore dome is another matter. it must be shut. it’s sexist and is creating unrealistic expectations amongst the local village girls.”

The Count was now practically vibrating with rage, but it was useless, nothing could touch this creature, it was part of the universe itself. “They’re succubi… shaped by the infernal powers themselves to tempt men beyond reason. Why by Glocknarr’s hairy balls would a village peasant girl think she could, or would measure up to the erotic imaginings of the Hell Prince of Erotica?”

“as part of the change he will become the hell prince of hugs and kittens.”

“Give me strength,” the Count hissed to himself, leaning heavily on his table. “I suppose you want me to replace all the winding stairways with ramps and make sure all the riddles are in goblinoid as well as common, maybe braille as well? Should I flood the whole dungeon so that acquatic beings can swim through it as well?”

“that would be wonderful.”

“You do understand that I am evil. Yes? I have constructed this dungeon specifically to kill people. The whore-dome is for my amusement. I enjoy torturing and dominating goblins and the only reason I care about the villagers is that they pay taxes?”

“your actions reflect on your creator. see that you fix things.” With that, it was gone.

The Count slumped back into his chair and slapped his hands against his face, shoulders heaving in a deep, deep sigh. After a moment he straightened his back and yelled out. “VOMIT!”

The goblin scurried back in, rubbing its bruised arse with one bony green hand. “Y-y-y-yes m-m-master?”

“Wrong speech impediment Vomit…”

“Thorry mathter.”

“Scratch the previous note. We’re going to need another one. Make a list. I need to call the builders, get burkas for the whore-dome, oh, no, the ‘sex worker half-spheroid’, fatten some of them up, oh and send the lamia from inhuman resources up…”

It was going to be a long, long day.

***

With thanks to Kris Hansen for the inspiration.

The Deadly Dungeon of Du Schna’Zel is intended as a future ‘choose your own adventure’ charity project.