I was hoping to use my 4-day weekend to finish and post the (hopefully) long-awaited next draft of the Cinemechanix rules to the playtest group, but unfortunately that didn’t happen. Partly it was because I ended up having to work Saturday, but since I knew that ahead of time I probably should have gotten right to work on Thursday. Instead, I watch almost all 9 hours (I did take a break to eat some turkey) of Mystery Science Theater’s Turkey Day marathon. I’d only meant to watch a couple of movies, but the movies were bad and my will was weakened by a couple of weeks trying to re-integrate into society. As long as you ignore the fact that I could have easily chosen not to spend 9 hours watching bad movies, it really couldn’t be avoided.
I did get some work done, I just didn’t end up with as much to show for it as I’d hoped. The amount I added to the word count (which we’ll talk more about later) was embarrassingly small. This isn’t because I’ve got writer’s block or don’t know how to say what I need to say: I basically know what the unwritten sections are going to say, and even some of the exact wording. The problem is finding the best way to organize the section. Every time I get started on it, I end up changing my mind about how it needs to be arranged so that it flows well and makes sense. If all that meant was some cutting and pasting, that wouldn’t be a problem. The really time-consuming part comes from having to go back and re-read the surrounding sections to confirm that the new organization works, that I’m not referencing concepts before they’ve been introduced, and generally making sure that moving things around doesn’t introduce a whole new set of problems. I could wait until later to do it, but organizational problems tend to get harder to fix the longer they hang around, so I always try to make sure any move is a good move right away.
Organization is always a problem with game books. I’ve talked before about how most first-time adventure writers get confused about the nature their audience and try to keep the GM in suspense rather than telling her what she needs to know to run the adventure. Even if you’re not writing something with a plot and/or have accepted that you’re not writing a novel, though, organization is tricky. Do you start with character creation rules, since that’s the first thing a lot of players are going to want? Do you try to introduce the world first? If you introduce the world, do you start small with the things that are immediately relevant to the character (the organization they work for or the area they live in) and work your way up, or do you start with the big picture and work your way down? If you start with the rules, do put them all in one place or save the rules that only the GM needs for later in the book, possibly with a big section of background or other world material in between? Is this section that kind of breaks up the flow tangential enough to make an appendix or sidebar, or should you really try to work it into the main text?
Unfortunately, there’s not really a consistent “right way” to organize a game book. What goes where depends on what kind of game book you’re writing (setting, adventure, rules supplement, core rulebook), the intended audience, the length of the book, and even the author’s writing style. What works for one book doesn’t necessarily work for another book, even if they both contain the same kind of information. For example, when I suggested that Ian move some chapters around in And One For All, he pointed out that he was mirroring the organization of another QAGS book (I don’t remember which one off the top of my head). He was right, but for some reason what worked for that book didn’t work for this one.
Part of the difficulty is that game books have to be organized to serve at least three different functions. First and most importantly, it has to teach the reader how to play the game, so it has to work like a textbook, with each chapter building on the ideas from earlier in the book. You can get away with a certain amount of “we’ll talk about this in more detail later” and “see Chapter XX,” but too many references to things that haven’t been explained can create confusion and annoy the reader. Secondly, the book has to keep the reader reading. If they get bored and give up halfway through, they’re probably never going to play the game. This is why we often save “listy” sections like spell descriptions or monster stats for appendices even when they make sense organizationally elsewhere in the book. Reading the same format over and over again gets tedious, and some people are more likely to put the book down than just skip ahead to the stuff that won’t shut down their brain. Last but not least, the book has to be organized in a way that makes it useful as a reference so players can find the things they need when they’re making characters or need to look up something during play. Making sure a book checks off all three boxes can be challenging.
The new section is also creating some book-level organizational concerns (or, more accurately, adding to the ones that already existed). My initial plan for the Cinemechanix core rulebook was for it to contain the rules and 10 sample games, called “Elevator Pitches,” describing specific game set-ups. The idea was to provide examples of how you could adapt the game to different fictons. I also wanted to show examples of getting away from the “one-size-fits-all” idea behind generic game systems by including completely different rules for the same story element in different Elevator Pitches. For example, a Hobomancer Elevator Pitch with the Cinemechanix version of the ritual magic rules from the original game, but also a “Wizard School” game with rules that allow more Rowlingsesque magic. Or a Star Wars-style setting and a Star Trek-style setting with completely different spaceship combat rules. At the time, the core rules were around 100 pages (based on our average manuscript words-to-finished product pages ratio) and I expected the sample games to run about 10 pages each. While a 200 page book is larger than any we’ve done (except for possibly the first edition of M-Force, which had a font so large it could be seen from space), it’s not ridiculously massive by RPG standards.
When I actually started writing some Elevator Pitches, it turned out they required a lot more ink than I’d expected. The average page count of the first few were in the 20-25 page range, which took the book’s page count up to the 300-350 range. Still not gargantuan by RPG standards, but due to business reasons you’re probably not interested in and old fart sticker shock (most of the Hex crew hasn’t bought games regularly since $30 was expensive for a 200-page hardcover), it’s a little bigger than we’re really comfortable with. Since we’d already talked about using the Elevator Pitch format for standalone products (doing so would allows us to get particularly off-the-wall ideas out in a cheap, bare-bones format so we could test the waters and decide whether a full supplement was worth developing) we decided to cut the number in the core book in half, which should still get the point across and keep the page count in the under-250 range.
With the new section, the core rulebook is up to somewhere in the 180-page range, which puts us back at a 300+ page book with 5 Elevator Pitches. That’s got me thinking about breaking the new section out into a separate book. If you’re playing fairly basic, low-crunch games that don’t need a lot of special rules or you’re only using a Cinemechanix supplement that provide the necessary special rules, you can live without the section about adapting games even though it’s kind of central to distinguishing “adaptive” from “generic.” If I decide to do that, the next hurdle becomes how to sell a book that’s essentially a crash course in game design for a specific game system. But that falls under marketing, not organization. Since I suck at marketing, I probably won’t be blogging about it any time soon.
Maybe if I sucked less at marketing more people would support me on Patreon.
I’ve spent the last week adjusting to the new job (and normal people hours), so I haven’t had any time to work on Cinemechanix this week (though hopefully I’ll get a few hours of work done after I finish this post), which means I don’t have any news to report or observations to share on that front. Every now and then, I’ll respond to a reddit post with a long answer that isn’t paraphrasing the Hex party line or one of our regular con panels. If it seems like it might be a good blog topic, I paste it into a file in my idea folder for when I don’t have any ideas. Since I didn’t have any ideas on that front, I dug through the folder and found something I wrote a few years ago about naming characters in your game. After a little expanding and cleaning up, I came up with this post.
When you’re coming up with character names, a good place to start is to look at characters from pop culture who are similar to the type of character you’re creating. You can even borrow part of the name of your favorite character, just don’t borrow all of it (Jake Magnum is a fine name for a detective; Thomas Magnum is already taken). Just don’t borrow a name that’s so strongly associated with a single character that the name will overshadow your character. No cops named McClane, zombie hunters named Ash, or mad scientist named brown. Below are a few naming conventions I’ve noticed for modern-day settings.
Action hero names radiate strength and often border on being porn names. First names are usually monosyllabic and often have one or more hard consonants: Jack, Bruce, Mike, Rex that kind of thing. Action hero women often get two syllables (Becky, Lucy), but sometimes one will do (Kate, Trish). Last names usually refer to something strong, tough, or action-oriented: Steel, Magnum, Force, etc. If you want a less over-the-top surname, Italian and Irish surnames are popular for some reason, especially for cop types. I’m not sure if that’s a historical thing or just ethnic stereotyping.
Your Dudley Do-Right types tend to follow action hero naming conventions, but sometimes they also include religious references. First names like Luke or Paul (or Sarah or Rachel, for Girl Scouts), last names like Pope or Cross. Non-religious surnames that suggest power or benevolence, like Knight or King, can also work.
If Danger is your character’s middle name, is first name will probably be a name that most people associate with youth. The list changes slightly from generation to generation, but diminutives like Bobby and Jimmy (or Suzie and Jenny) are pretty evergreen. Last names should tend to be kinetic-sounding words like Blaze, Chase, or Speed. Nicknames are also popular, especially ones like “Flash” that sound like they were given to the character when he was a high school sports star.
Criminals and Scumbags
Small-time crooks usually have diminutive names, nicknames, or both: Fast Eddie, Lucky, Fingers, Paulie, that kind of thing. Female criminals has stripper names like Trixie and Jade. Last names need to sound appropriately suspicious or skeevy when combined with first name. Ethnic surnames--again especially Irish and Italian--are extremely common in fiction, but white trashy-sounding names like Bodine or Puckett can also work well. Shady-sounding surnames like Black or Hood can work for some settings, but for others they’re a little too on-the-nose.
Men (and Women) of Means
High-falutin’ types always have appropriately WASPy names. Personal names can be surnames (Walton or Pritchard), references to great men, especially when combined with a middle name (Alexander or Thomas Jefferson), or douchey-sounding nicknames like Trip or Chip. Fancy women are often named after mythical or legendary characters like Guinevere or Circe. Surnames are usually multi-syllabic and appropriately upper-crust. Names of powerful political figures, Gilded Age businessmen, and Mayflower families tend to work best. If you want to seal the deal, add a number to the end of the name.
Eccentrics (mad scientists, conspiracy theorists, local crazies), not surprisingly, have weird names. First names are often the names of famous learned men and women like Aristotle or Athena or names that are at least 100 years out of date like Jebidiah or Gertrude. Last names are either unusual surnames or just random (often compound) words that are strange as surnames and/or are just kind of funny for some reason--things like Perriwinkle, Watchwinder, and Bottlefly.
Wizards, fortune tellers, and other mystics are a brand of eccentric, so the rules above can work for them, too. Since most of them use a fake name rather than their given one, you don’t have to worry about names that are a little too perfect, even if that normally doesn’t work for the genre. Biblical and mythical names like Merlin, Azrael, or Diana or common, as are unusual or archaic names like Zelda or Porthos. Surnames can be stolen from great wizards of the past (Crowley, Faustus), shamelessly fake (Nightshade, Blood), or scrapped in favor of an epithet like “the Mysterious” or “Speaker of Spirits.”
Nerdy names tend to be outdated or unusual. Male nerds have names like Irving and Milton, female nerds have names like Thessaly and Bernadette. Last names are usually multi-syllabic and are often vaguely Jewish-sounding or have an “le” somewhere in the middle (“Finklestein” does both, for example). If the name rhymes with a body part or embarrassing bodily function or can otherwise be easily made insulting even by someone with limited mental capacity, so much the better.
When using naming convention, the biggest danger is that the name will be so perfectly descriptive that it will sound made-up. This can be especially hazardous when it comes to ethnic names (don’t name your Native American character Hiawatha Running Bear or your Scottsman Kilty McBagpipes) because an overly stereotypical name, especially when combined with overly stereotypical characterization, is going to come across as kind of racists. Made-up names aren’t a problem for some settings. In fact, it’s practically required for some genres (like pulp or super-hero). In other settings a name that’s to on-the-nose won’t work as well, but in a lot of cases it’s really about presentation. If you don’t draw attention to the dumbness of the name, the other players probably won’t notice unless it’s especially dumb.
In case you’re wondering why the blog is late this week, I’ve re-joined the ranks of wage slavery, so new posts will probably be Monday instead of Friday from now on.
In Cinemechanix, every character has a set of character concept traits that allows him to roll a d20 instead of a d12 as his free die. The core concept traits are Role (Job in QAGS terms) and Backstory (which describes the character’s past). Fatal Flaw is also included in the concept section, but usually doesn’t give a player bonuses to rolls. The core rules section also includes the possibility of adding other traits that are specific to the game, so that’s something I needed to go into more detail about in the section about adapting your game.
To help explain what sorts of game-specific traits you might use, I came up with some broad categories to use as examples: Heritage Traits (things like race or species in a fantasy or sci-fi game), Factions (your Hogwart’s house or vampire clan), Secondary Roles (an M-Forcer’s Day Job or a super-hero’s secret identity), Specialization (for games where the core skillset for PCs is relatively uniform, like a game where everyone’s a cop or soldier), and Gimmick (basically a catch-all category for anything else: a super-hero’s power theme, a fantasy character’s weapon of choice, or whatever). The most basic game-specific traits just bump up your default die like Role and Backstory do, but you could also hang one or more special rules on them. For instance, a character might get an extra bonus when using a Specialization or a whole list of advantages and disadvantages that go along with a character race.
One category I went back and forth on and eventually decided to include was Class. It occurred to me that for some kinds of games, you might want a Role-type trait that’s more structured and not quite so open-ended. The best example is probably a wrestling game, where you would have a Class like High Flyer, Bruiser, Luchadore, Technical Wrestler, etc. (with Role describing your ring persona). Classifying super-heroes as Bricks, Energy Blasters, Acrobats, etc. would also fit the Class idea. The problem is that Class and Role (and sometimes some of the other categories) have a lot of overlap and I wasn’t entirely sure that the addition was useful enough to justify the added confusion.
Oddly enough, it was a video game that made me realize the distinction that would clarify things. I’d been playing a city builder game (Clash of Kings, I think) for a few weeks when my tablet broke down, but the emulator I’d downloaded as a temporary replacement wouldn’t run that game, so I downloaded The Walking Dead: No Man’s Land*, which is basically Clash of Whatever with zombies instead of elves and shit. You build up your survivor camp and send your people out to fight zombies so they can collect weapons and food and, strangely, gold. Each character has a class like “Shooter” or “Hunter” or “Scout” that basically describes how they fight: how many hit points they have, what kind of weapons they use, etc. I think there are five classes in all, and they’re purely about how the character works in the game system. If I were running a Cinemechanix game based on the Walking Dead where character did things other than fight, the classes would be way too limited and non-descriptive to work as Roles, and would only tangentially related to how the character fits into the story, but they still might be useful.
The realization about game design that came out of this is that there’s a difference between how the character fits into the story and how he fits into the game. In most games with a class-type character trait, it tries to represent both, which often leads to weirdness. In early versions of D&D (especially Basic), classes were kind of mostly a rules construct--you could describe your fighter as a viking or a knight or whatever you wanted--but even then there was some overlap. Kits in 2nd Edition kind of worked as the version of class that describe the character in story terms, but since the core classes were so structured it sometimes got kind of weird when the core class abilities didn’t make much sense for the kit.
Anyway, the distinction I ended up making for the class trait is that the class trait is purely a game construct that doesn’t necessarily have any explicit meaning within the game world. Rick Grimes might refer to himself a Shooter, but probably not because it would use up valuable time that he could spend moping and making terrible decisions. Class is purely a game mechanics side thing, and one way to use it is to give players access to those “special snowflake” type rules that I mentioned last week. Just create a class and connect them with special rules or bonuses for specific things that you know are going to happen in the game. For example, and M-Force game may have classes like “Monster Expert,” “Investigator,” “Tactician,” “Medic,” “Marksman,” and “Monster Rassler,” each with special abilities nobody else gets. Since the player can still describe how the character fits into the story using Role, you break the characters up into game-based types without limiting them by trying to squeeze the game stuff and the story stuff into a single trait.
*If you happen to play, my (currently one-man) Guild is called the Red Rock** Regulars. If you’re looking for a Guild, join it!
**Red Rock was the name of the comic store where I worked with Robert Kirkman before he became the Zombie King, so it seemed appropriate.
I have a day job now, but I'll still happily accept your money on Patreon.
As those of you who are following the Cinemechnix design know, I'm currently working on an entirely new section about adapting the game rules to specific game settings. Tweaking game rules is nothing new to me. I've been doing it for nearly as long as I've been gaming, and almost every QAGS supplement I've worked on has at least a few special rules to help make the game mechanics work better for the genre, style, or setting the supplement deals with. Even though I've spent countless hours fiddling around with rules, writing a section that boils down to "how to fiddle with the rules" has forced me to think about why you'd want to create special rules in the first place.
When I've introduced special rules to games I've run or written, it's usually been a gut-level decision. I'd add a new rule because it seemed like a good idea. When I did have more specific reasons, they were usually grounded in the mechanical aspect of game design: how the math worked, the need for added detail to better model the genre, or because quirks of the core system made it confusing, counter-intuitive, or just plain impossible to model something using the basic rules. One thing I've never really thought about very much (at least not consciously) but have come to realize is just as important as the mechanical aspect of game design is what I guess you'd call the "psychological" component of game design. Sometimes the way the rules "feel" is as important as what they accomplish mechanically.
Imagine a system where players roll d10 and add a skill bonus between 1 and 3. If you treat super-powers as regular skills, Spider-Man's radioactive spider-induced climbing ability at 3 is no different from some extreme sports dudebro's wall climbing ability at 3. Both characters roll d10 and add 3. If you add a rule that characters using super-powers get to roll 3d4 instead of d10 the math doesn't change very much (Spidey's minimum and maximum rolls are 2 higher than Dudebro's), but the variant mechanic makes super-power rolls seem like something special since you're using a die mechanic that's different from the standard roll. I think the idea of having a character who gets to use special rules is one of the reasons that even players who don't really enjoy the sort of "deck-building" approach to character creation (finding abilities that are more powerful when combined in specific ways) still enjoy things like class abilities and feats and other mechanics that allow characters to break the normal rules. Getting to use special rules that aren't available to other players activates the "special snowflake" circuit in the player's brain or something.
For the first some-odd number of years that RPGs were around, nearly everything had a special rule. In addition to leading to all sorts of game-breaking rules and making games more confusing, and therefore less accessible to new players, it also decreased the "specialness" or rules that worked differently. If every skill, ability, and action has its own variant rule, variant rules kind of lose their value as conversation pieces.
More recently, the trend seems to be toward systems that separate the game mechanics (effect) from the story (description). It doesn't matter if you're hitting your opponent with a sword or calling down fire from the heavens, it still causes 2d6 damage. Since these sorts of systems allow more uniform rules and cut down on exceptions, they make perfect sense mechanically, but they eliminate that psychological component. If the only difference between one character and the next is the point or dice distribution, it can lead to gameplay where there's so little differentiation between different characters that you might as well skip the character sheets and flip a coin.
I think the ideal system is somewhere between the two extremes. Debates about more or less rules complexity are a red herring, kind of like debates about big versus small government. Most people want an effective government. Likewise, the right level of rules complexity is the level that results in rules that improve the players' enjoyment of the game without introducing complexity that doesn't add to the experience. The right level of complexity varies from game to game and player group to player group, which is why I'm trying to make Cinemechanix a game that you can adapt to the level of complexity you need instead of the level of complexity I personally prefer.
Most gaming sites have names like "Dungeon Monkeys" or "Narrative Pomposity" or something, so you may have wondered where the name "Death Cookie" came from. You also may not have wondered this, but you're about to find out anyway. Although we didn't actually buy the domain name until something like 2000, the name goes all the way back to the late 90s, when both the Death Cookie and the Hex Games website were subdirectories of my Mindspring account. There was a little squiggle in the URL and everything. Like most early websites, they were both terrible, but we found them amusing.
Since there are adults today who don't remember dial-up, it's important to understand that in the early days of widespread internet access, things worked differently than they do today. We didn't have social media, share buttons, Wikipedia, or even Google. In those days, if we wanted information we had to type a search string into Yahoo or Alta Vista or ArkJeeves and click links until we found something useful. Most of the time you didn't find what you were looking for (either nobody had made website for it yet, the site hadn't been indexed by the search engines, or you got a dead link because whoever had made the link had left their school or job and the account it was hosted on had been deleted), but you often found some really weird shit.
When you found something you wanted to share, how it got shared depended in part on the nature of the content and who you wanted to share it with. For "so-and-so might like this" sites or sites you wanted to send to someone in another town, you shot the link to the person (or people) in an email or posted it on a message board. So, for example, the first person in our gaming group to stumble across RPG.net probably sent out group email or posted it to one of the 7,000 message boards my friends and I ran on our college's mainframe system.
For the really good stuff, you saved it to share face to face. Back in those days, most social gatherings with a computer handy eventually turned into a game of "let me show you this site." Everyone crowded around our comically gigantic monitors with tiny screens and we'd read an "Ate My Balls" page or watch the hamster dance or keep punching movies names into the Oracle of Bacon trying to find someone with a (non-infinite) number higher than 4 (we finally succeeded after about 4 hours with Tetsuo II: Body Hammer). Even electronic memes were transmitted through person-to-person contact rather than electronically because the internet was still new and we didn't know how to use it yet.
Somewhere around this time, Leighton and I (and sometimes Dale) started writing QAGS. While we often worked diligently on the text, we also got distracted a lot. Part of this was because we worked in my apartment, which was right next to our college campus and people would randomly drop by when they were bored or visiting our friends Ray and Stacy downstairs. This often led to us looking at dumb web pages. Also, sometimes we just got burnt out and slaphappy from writing and started searching for dumb web pages. Since most pages were static, they provided limited enjoyment--"Mr. T Ate My Balls" is really only funny once--so you only went back to them if they came up in conversation and someone had never seen them, but at some point someone found the glorious exception: The Chick Publications website.
As anyone who's read Waxman's Warriors or my review of the Dark Dungeons movie knows, I have what is probably an unhealthy fascination with Jack Chick and his work, so I was especially happy to discover that the Chick website had many of his tracts available in HTML format. This led to a new web-based activity that happened more times than I would be entirely comfortable admitting: dramatic readings of Jack Chick tracts (the snooty little angel who said "His name's not in the book, Lord" had a Monty Python voice). Dark Dungeons was mandatory, but other favorites included DOOM TOWN and Hi There! Even though those got read multiple times, I'm pretty sure we made it through everything they had available (this was before every tract was online) at least once.
Once we'd finished with QAGS, we decided that we should use our website (such as it was) to do one of those fancy "E-zines," which is what we called blogs back then. Even though we had no plans of getting a domain name (or even any idea how to get a domain name), we decided we needed a name for the magazine. We went through lots of terrible, terrible names that I don't remember, then got bored and started reading Jack Chick tracts. One of them was called "The Death Cookie." In Chick-land, the title refers to the communion wafer eaten by the filthy Papists during their pagan rituals, but we thought it would be a good name for a gaming site. I remember a discussion about how that had nothing to do with gaming and probably was just a funny combination of words and in fact not a good name for a gaming site. I don't remember what was said during that discussion (I'm reasonably sure I was pro-Death Cookie), but the URL of this page makes it clear that we somehow convinced ourselves that "The Death Cookie" was a perfectly reasonable name for a gaming site. Alcohol may have been involved.
As most of you have probably guessed, this post was inspired by the death of Chick Publications founder Jack Chick last weekend. While the world is probably a better place without him around to spread his amoral and bigoted ideology, I'm thankful to Mr. Chick for the endless hours of entertainment that he's unintentionally provided me and my friends with. Maybe that will count for something when he gets judged by that giant glowing faceless Jesus.