I’m having a complex reaction to John Stavropoulos’ model, because I agree with the base ideas, but see it differently.

User Interface, not Tools

What John calls tools I see as the user interface, the things that the players directly contact with. But it’s not just character sheets, dice, etc. It’s also the text, post-layout. Not only because pages can be printed out in order to to be ad hoc cheat sheets, but also because layout is the tool by which a book cements certain key ideas into the minds of readers.

Which is to say that if rules are the (or an) implementation of intent, and text is the implementation of rules, then user interface is the implementation of text. Although that’s someone strange, because much of user interface is developed in concert with rules, and text is a product of merging the two.

Intent and Play Culture

Here’s where I have a really weird reaction. Intent is treated as a separate thing, and to me, intent is all over that chart, like jam on toast. What I would put in its place is play culture, or reaction to play culture. And our interface axioms start from there.

I’ve been big about discussing play culture over the years. The indie scene in its early days (and sometimes still today) was pretty bad at creating books that required an understanding of the designer’s play culture in order to successfully execute. Or, as my good friend Paul Tevis said about one indie game[1] back in 2007, “The game isn’t in the book. It’s an oral tradition that happens to also have a book.”

Minimalism makes the assumption that the reader either is in or understands the play culture intended by the designer. That understanding is a context channel. It’s easy to unintentionally be deficient in explaining how your game works beyond it’s mechanics if you’re not used to explaining your play culture.

However, when your game is the result of your reactions to a play culture — usually when there’s something you really don’t like or doesn’t work for you in a certain mode — it becomes prudent to go beyond minimalism and explain said play culture. Which, to go back to John’s model, carry your intent all the way through the rules, text, and tools. I’ve had this experience working on Mythender, because the way the GM is suppose to act is a reaction to what people have called “epic” games in my play experience.

This is why I see intent not as the bottom rung but as a separate input to rules & text. Intent as expressed by mechanics & rules isn’t the same as intent as expressed by advice, which is in the realm of text. Which leads us to…

A Place for Advice

There is no clear place where advice or best practices hooks it. It doesn’t really hook directly into text, because it’s parallel to rules. It’s developed along the same time as rules, even if not yet clearly explained until a first draft[2] is written. Some instances of advice live in the intent/play culture layer, yes, but not all of it. And because of the language used in the chart, rules are prioritized far over the idea of advice & best practices.

Unless you consider advice to be “rules” along with mechanics. Then cool. But many people don’t see that definition of rules. (I do, but I tend to have to explain such things assuming that a good portion of my audience doesn’t, thus this entire section.)

To phrase another way: the when & why of rules is as important to the interface as the how.

John Is In No Way Wrong

It may sound like I’m criticizing John, but that isn’t my intent (hah). John has gotten me to think about my own model, and in blogging about it, made some of those thoughts concrete. I invite you to do the same — I know some folks have around the internet.

John Stavropoulos is one of the sharpest guys I have ever had the pleasure of chatting and dining with. He could write papers on RPG scholarship, GM practices, group dynamics, all sorts of things. he’s achieved something pretty cool here (which Daniel has then turned into something somewhat larger, by applying a visual tool to John’s text[3]).

So, what has it made you think about?

- Ryan

[1] Remember, I never talk about a product publicly unless I think there’s some merit to it, however flawed.

[2] Tomorrow’s blog post (which was actually written before this one was).

[3] Which is a great illustration of the top tiers of John’s model.

Wait, you need more? Heh. I did as well years ago, before I crossed into the Fog of Achievement.

I saw some stuff lately that’s caused me to write about this. First, the image to the left, reading “i do not fail, i succeed in finding out what does not work.” Now, sure, that’s funny and gets a snort. But here’s the thing: if you actually do that last part, you’re on the path to success.

Back in January, I wrote this when I wrote about Luck and Wisdom:

If I am at all wise, it is because I neither ignore nor obsess over the mountain of failure I have created in my years.

Since then, I’ve had some more failures that I’ve learned from — professional, creative, personal. Nothing that’s disheartening, because the point of experimenting it to see what works, what doesn’t, and to move on. Because you can’t really predict success in the creative landscape, experimenting is what you gotta do. Each failure is just more concrete in your creative foundation. (Also, a good place to hide the corpses of past projects.)

Now, I’ve become a fan of Nice Peter and his Epic Rap Battles of History. He does some other weekly shows that are neat (though he lives up to his moniker of “Nice Peter”, so if you’re expecting disses like the raps, you’ll be disappointed. I am not). One from earlier this October, he crossed the threshold of having one million YouTube subscribers. He talked about that a bit on this video:

He starts talking about how it took him twelve years to get to this point, and he didn’t expect to get to this point by being an Internet rapper. Start at 1:02, for around 30 seconds. Or watch the whole 6:41 of it, because he’s upbeat, chill, nice. And if you’re looking at the Internet, chances are you need a dose of that. :)

If there’s one thing I learned from this experience [of getting one million subscribers on YouTube and being an Internet hit], it’s don’t ever give up on what you’re doing! But, remember it’s not going to end up exactly how you thought it was.

- Nice Peter

I totally understand that. When I started as a RPG design podcaster, I didn’t expect I would be a multiple award-winning game editor/developer. I didn’t know that was in me.

And when I think of unexpected successes, I think about one of the people that I…fuck, I hate saying “look up to” because honestly uncomfortable when people say that to me. It implies some sort of distance between a creator and the person saying it that isn’t there, some sort of status bullshit. But it’s a useful phrase, so sure…look up to, Wil Wheaton. Did he expect to become the cornerstone of geek culture that he is today? Not really. But that’s the thing about success — if you keep at something, examine your successes and failures, adapt, and be patient, it’ll happen. Just not how you expect. Wil adapted and became the dude he is today.

Now, when I say “be patient” I don’t at all mean “be still,” which is how I used to hear it when people said that to me. Success is like baking a cake. The cake is constantly becoming the thing you want it to be, not just sitting around unchanging. But if you rush it or open the oven too early, you’re going to fuck it up. Patience is constantly acting knowing the big payoff is years away, and not letting that deter you.

But patience isn’t never throwing in the towel, saying “fuck it” and going off to drink or play video games. That happens to all of us. We all need breaks. We’re not emotionless, tireless robots.

Patience is knowing you’re going to pick the damned towel back up in a moment and keep pushing. Patience is when that towel never leaves you for long.

Success is the long game. It’s unpredictable, it takes time, and it’s fucking exciting. Go grab some.

- Ryan

“Clever” cynics snarking about Netflix/Qwikster — Ability to change direction to course-correct quickly is an ASSET in a company, dumbass.

He’s totally right. Being a publisher in a fast-moving world (thank you, Internet, for that) means having to experiment and adapt. Business models that worked ten years ago suffer today, due to shifting prices, consumer habits, changing technology, and a thousand little things. Prices from ten years ago don’t hold up today, not if you want to keep the same margin to help your growth. So we have to play around with ideas, experiment with new models and methods.

Sometimes, they work. People are finding great successes with Kickstarter, for instance. But sometimes they don’t. And here’s where we can look at the Netflix/Qwikster debacle.

I’m sure you know the story, but if you don’t, you can google for the news. In short:

• Netflix increased its prices, causing a backlash as they rarely do this and the hike was felt as a considerable amount.
• Along with that, Netflix changed its billing scheme, causing confusion.
• People were loud about their displeasure and many vocally considered canceling the service.
• Reed Hastings offered a (rather awkward) apology, and introduced Qwikster.
• Then in response to customers, they killed Qwikster before it even started.

Which is to say, by introducing Qwikster, Netflix decided to experiment rather than accept the situation. That is, in general, a good thing. Companies that don’t experiment & try to adapt will be overtaken by those that do. To bring this back around to RPG Publishing land, we can look at some examples of experimenting:

• Wizards of the Coast doing the Open Gaming License for D&D 3/e & d20.
• Posthuman Studios releasing Eclipse Phase as Creative Commons and supporting torrenting their books.
• The early indie publishers doing things purely digitally, notably Ron Edwards’ Sorcerer (back before PDFs were even a thing).
• Fred Hicks’ dedication to transparency with what Evil Hat Productions is doing.
• Greg Stolze‘s Ransom model, the godfather of microfunding in RPGland.
• Folks that put out free versions of their games, from Steve Jackson Games’ GURPS Lite to John Harper’s Lady Blackbird.
• The Bits & Mortar initiative, where publishers offer their PDFs alongside their physical books, and allow participating retailers to provide those PDFs when they sell the physical books.
• And on and on…

Sometimes these experiments work. Sometimes they don’t. Some experiments will work for certain people or companies and fail for others. Many have shorter lifespans than initially hoped. Here’s the thing: when you see that an experiment isn’t working, you need to pull out. The Sunk Cost Fallacy will fuck you[1]. And that’s what happened with Netflix. It got so much backlash from the Qwikster thing that it responded by killing the experiment.

The market is the ultimate Darwinian model. If you don’t adapt, you don’t survive. That’s what Netflix is trying. Will they succeed? I don’t know; there are many doomsayers who talk about Netflix because it’s so visible. But you can’t succeed if you don’t try, and you can’t succeed if you hold on to bad business ideas.[2]

The other thing we can learn from this debacle? How not to do PR. Adapting to survive only works if you can convince people that you should survive. It helps if you can bring people into the conversation than just make seemingly arbitrary decisions. But that’s easier to do on our small scale than it is with a large company like Netflix.

- Ryan

[1] Which is a topic for design at some point.

[2] This isn’t to say you’ll entirely die off, but you’ll only be supported by diehards. I see this from the publishers who do extremely shitty jobs of self-fulfillment and generate enmity against them by customers they keep disservicing. If that’s “success” to you, well, meh. (And something else that can be learned from Netflix: how to promptly fucking ship.)

We met and talked at Gen Con, as one does, and I was intrigued by his idea enough to, as the kids used to say, subscribe to his newsletter. But the title feels very off to me, and he wanted me to talk about why.

The Job of a Title

The job of a title is to excite and inspire — to get people interested in your idea just by the a few words, enough to sell the book to someone looking at the spine, or for someone to sell their friends on hearing about a game they just picked up. And I have seen a lot of sad titles — titles that inspire the creator, but do little to inspire those outside of him or her. Here are some strong titles:

• Dungeons & Dragons
• Spirit of the Century
• Apocalypse World

If a title doesn’t inspire, then it can at least be iconic. Some word or two-word bit that strikes a chord in the minds of those who begin to get contact with the book or game. Like:

• Fiasco
• Pathfinder
• Delta Green
• Unknown Armies

(Some of these iconic ones inspire after the fact. And that’s fucking awesome. Because that means it’s actually iconic — words that, once context surronds them, inspire by mere mention.)

Sometimes, you get a sense of curiosity or mystery in a title that draws you in, like Dogs in the Vineyard. What exactly is going on under the hood there?

Titles start doing the trick when people keep talking about them, in person or on the Internet. Thus, you want a title that strongly relates to your idea while also being something that feels hard to ignore.

The Rule

Your title should be about one of two things: who you are playing or where you are playing. These are signposts for readers, hangers where people can put context, and ways in which people relate and compare ideas. It worked very well for TSR and White Wolf.

Once you understand how titles work in the minds of people, treat this like any other rule — break it when you understand how to break it well. Tracy’s “Sand and Steam” doesn’t do it for me because it’s bland. Passionless. It doesn’t make me feel like I should play his game. Which is unfortunate, because after talking with him, I totally want to play this game. His ideas excite me.

Now, at this point, it could be considered a lost cause, because he’s now got strong SEO for “Sand and Steam“. But what I see as a bad title is something I see as a good subtitle. So it’s still usable. It’s nothing to throw away. To him I say: Where are you playing? What’s the name of this setting? Let that name be something that sounds inspiring, and call your game “THAT NAME: Sand and Steam.” Because then when people refer to your game, the main title will be something the listened remembers.

Incidentally, his city’s name is Kage. I might go with “City of Kage” for a title rather than just “Kage” — it’s a little Mortal Kombat-y on its own.

The Danger of Generic Titles

The problem with a title that’s just something like “Sand and Steam” is that the title might inspire something before context is discovered that is far different than what you’re going to get. Granted, that can (and will) happen with any title, but I have a gut sense that it happens more often with titles like these.

I had seen mention of Tracy’s game before, which made me think not of a fantasy setting with bound gods and mages and dangerous undercities, etc. What hit my mind could be titled “The Caliphate: Sand and Steam” — a setting where, say, the Umayyad Caliphate expanded far and discovered the power of steam early, thus creating an Islamic steampunk empire in the desert…thus, Sand and Steam.[1]

Titles that inspire ideas contrary to yours can create awkward contexts when reading you book. So be wary of them. Again, it’s going to happen, so there’s not much you can do about it (especially with the more generic the title you use), but it’s something to be aware of.

You can get over this hump once you get plenty of people talking about your idea, thus peppering mentions of your title with your context.

A Single Experiment

I asked a dear friend of mine about the title. Here’s the transcription:

Me: So, here’s a title. What do you think: “Sand and Steam”
Her: Pretty sexy.
Me: Okay. So…what’s it about?
Her: Um. Uh. Steampunk in the desert. Like, Lawrence of Arabia. Oh! Steampunk genies!
Me: I need to write all that down.
Her: Oh. I’m about to be disappointed, aren’t I?

Unfortunately she was, because her thoughts & contexts around her expression of “steampunk genies” excited her, and this idea wasn’t it. Her further comments are…unfit for publication. Even for me.

Granted, this is just one person. But it’s an interesting test to make on generic titles. Not so much what idea they come up with, but more of the “how do they react when they discover your context.” Do they react with “fuck yeah!” or  ”that sounds cool, too” or with something negative?

Obscure Titles

Sometimes writers fall in love with obscure words. I know I’m in love with “apotheosis” and “deicide.” (I’m moving to Washington because I can’t marry them in California.) I tend to expect people know what these mean, though I often find I have to explain them. Thus, if I were to name a game something like “Apotheosis” as something iconic, I’m making a title that some, but not all, of my audience will get.

Again, subtitles are good. “Apotheosis: Endless Power. Endless Corruption” or whatever. That’ll get over the hump of “what the fuck does that word mean?”

I’m thinking about two books in particular here. The first is Amaranthine. Amaranthine is the title of a game by David Hill & Filamena Young. And on its own, it’s not a good title. I’m sure some of my readers know what an amaranth is and what the word “amaranthine” means in the real world, but those words didn’t call out to me when I heard of this title. I thought it was just made up, and it had no traction for me. The ideas they talked about did, but the title was a blank.

Over Twitter a few months ago, there was a discussion about subtitling it so that it’d better communicated to people what the game was about to folks who didn’t get the title. Now, you see Amaranthine: Romance * Vendetta * Eternity. That’s some jazz. The title gets to stay iconic, while the subtitle carries more context.

The other book I get to mention doesn’t exist yet, but it’s my own Mythender. Now Mythender is a totally made-up word. Sometimes people don’t parse it right, and instead of seeing “Myth” and “ender” they see something else. (There’ll be a joke in the book of a monster called a Thender, because one French-speaking woman read it as “My Thender” initially.)

Beyond that, what the hell does “Mythender” mean? Well, I know, but that’s useless to a casual browser or reader. I know that I’m using “Myth” to mean “gods and monsters”[2]. More than one reader has been confused by the “Myth” => “gods & monsters” language choice, which is something I need to deal with in the text. Still, that leaves a giant question mark over my chosen title. So I need a subtitle. Right now, I’m going with “Gods Need Killing”, and I’m going to have it above the title, like so:

Final Word

Creators, I know you’ve got some working title you’ve fallen in love with. And you might think you’re trapped in because you get search results on something. But you’re really not. The Internet is malleable, and you will do yourself a favor in the long run by publishing with a strong title than the one you happened to have come up with first.

This applies to “Mythender”. Don’t think I have treated that name as a sacred cow. It might be ditched before publication, even though I have five years of people knowing of the game by that name. I will do what’s right for my game. Sure, it’s a cool title. But “cool title” doesn’t inherently mean “right title.”

- Ryan

[1] Which would be a COOL setting. One I couldn’t do justice writing. But Craig Neumeier did a fantastic job some time ago, with the Rightly Guided Stellar Caliphate. (Thank you, Ken, for the correction.)

[2] Original end of that paragraph: because, uh, fuck it, the game was “secretly” about the culture-destruction in Scandinavia by Catholic crusaders & missionaries, as well as exploring weaponized Existentialism & Nihilism. (It still is if you want it to be, but I’m far less gung-ho about focusing that part of the game these days. It really can just be about kicking Thor’s ass.)

Here are the blurbs for my Celesticon games:

Name: Operation Atomic Wichita
Game: Leverage/Cortex+
GM Provides Characters: Yes, with quick character creation
Power Level: Competent Commandos
Rules Knowledge: Beginners Welcome

World War II is heating up! The Axis powers recently capturing Paris and, with it, France. And it looks like the war’s about to get worse, if what’s rumored is true. A motley crew of Allied commandos are tasked with making their way to an ruined castle where the Nazi occultists known as the Thule Society are working on some sinister project. Maybe they’re deluded, but Command is taking no chances. Get it, deal with the problem, and get out. Salute!

This Leverage game will be drifted to fit WWII commando characters, and with a touch of occult horror added to the mix!

Name: Emerging Threats Unit
Game: Fate 3.0 Horror
GM Provides Characters: Yes, with quick character creation
Power Level: Competent Agents
Rules Knowledge: Beginners Welcome

You’re the elite, secret unit in the Centers for Disease Control known as the Emerging Threats Unit. You’re Earth’s second line of defense against supernatural incursions. You’re who get called in when the local authorities die of mysterious, monstrous entities. And now such an outbreak has happened in the tunnels and alleys of San Francisco. Get to the bottom of this and exterminate the hostiles, before FEMA’s team comes in to trigger an earthquake the “pacifies” the city.

This highly customed Fate game streamlines skill & stunt choices, and adds a layer of investigation & horror to the mix!

And for Big Bad Con:

System: Mythender
Power Level: You’re going to kill a god
Experience Required: no
Maturity Rating: R-18
Number of Players: 4
Game Length: 4 hours
Characters Provided: Will be quickly created

Do you want to stab Thor in the face? Do you want to be a living, breathing incarnation of wrath that will bring the gods of Mythic Scandinavia to their knees? Do you want to remake the world in your image, and burn all those who stand in your way? Then you are a Mythender, destroyer of gods, unmaker of ideas. Come and END THOR with us.

GM: Ryan Macklin
System: Unknown Armies
Power Level: Street
Experience Required: No
Maturity Rating: R-18
Number of Players: 4
Game Length: 4 hours
Characters Provided: Yes

You know Rhianna? That gal that works over at the diner, busting her as for seven-five and crap tips? Yeah, her. So, last night she starts speaking in tongues and the diner bursts into flames. Plenty of bodies…but not hers. Now gents & lasses, we have ourselves a serious situation. A normal got herself immense power & blew up a building. That needs to be dealt with, so I hired you freelancers. You know the Weird, you’ve seen things that crack minds. Go fix this, or you might be next.

First of all, know that I’m writing all this advice after having made those blurbs above. So in writing this, I’m already seeing where I could have done far better.

The basics are pretty easy. You need a name of a game & a description, and to communicate your initial expectations — things like maturity rating, power level, experience needed, game length, character pre-gens/expectations, etc. The latter’s pretty easy, but making that blurb is a real pain.

First of all, the truth: Your blurbs rarely mean shit.

Really. People don’t always read them. They don’t remember them when they get to the table. Next time you run a convention game, ask how many chose your game based on the blurbs. I’ve had people in my games that just showed up “because it was open,” others because the game system seemed neat, or the GM is known to be good. And in indieland, we’ve more or less eschewed blurbs entirely, instead just saying “I’m running Danger Patrol.” So, your blurb isn’t as important as you might think. Part of this is because the skill of blurb writing and of GMing are totally different, thus there’s no guarnatee that the blurb has any meaning. Long-time convention gamers know this.

Still, having one is good, because most convention organizers expect one. And because while a blurb isn’t something to base a game on, there are ways that casual glances at it can trigger sign-ups (even if they have forgotten what the blurb is between sign-up and play).

How long should a blurb be?

65 to 100 characters. Usually, just one paragraph. I violated that second bit above, but I also imagine that’ll get edited down. But don’t go over 100 — that’s a waste of your time and of that one person who will actually read your blurb. Don’t go under 65, because that looks anemic, and while people don’t seem to care much about blurbs to pick a game from, they will see and over- or under-written one at a quick glance.

What is the point of a blurb?

Blurbs aren’t about information. They’re about emotion. You need to convey the feeling your game is going to give. Horror? Let’s see some horror in your blurb. Fantasy? Let’s see that. Action? Mystery? Intrigue? Bring it the fuck on. There’s an idea in journalism and fiction writing called “show, don’t tell.” Show us what you plan on the game being about. But that’s “be” advice. Let’s see some things you can do to make that happen.

Start with an exclamation or question

Exclamations get us excited. Questions engage us. While not perfect, they tend to be far better than simple statements. That might turn a simple glance into an actual read.

Start with “you”

If you aren’t going to start with an exclamation or question (because that doesn’t necessarily fit the vibe you’re going for), at least start with “You.” Make the reader feel like they’re the center of that blurb’s universe. Because, frankly, they are. And again, that might turn a simple glance into an actual read.

Tell the Important Three

There are three things that make up the start of a convention game:

• Who the characters are
• What situation they’re about to step into
• What the mood of the game will be

These are the Important Three: the things that matter most to your description and the game. Who the characters are is important because people want to know what they’re going to play. A Call of Cthulhu game where we’re civilian passengers on the Oriental Express isn’t the same as the one where we’re a squad on that same train.

The situation in brief that the players can expect is important. It tells us the intersection between character and plan. That Call of Cthulhu game will be different taking place on a train in the 20s than in the sewers of modern-day Chicago. Situation sets up expectations as much, if not more than, characters do.

The mood is also key. That Call of Cthulhu game in the Chicago sewers could be a high-action game, or a high-horror game, or something else. Mood will make or break a game, either when you get a mix of people who don’t want the mood you’re trying to sell or the players actively want different moods. Now, here you might not want to be explicit about the mood; instead, make sure the text reads like it’s soaked in it. That will also help keep your text from being boring.

End with Purpose

If someone reads your blurb in full, the last thing will stick in their mind. So make sure you end with purpose — call back to the emotions & mood you’re working to convey. That will keep your game in someone’s mind as they skim other blurbs.

Finally: It’s Okay To Lie About The Little Things

Yes. Lie. Again, people don’t remember your blurb, and don’t expect your game to hold up 100% to what’s in the program. The first time I ran the Unknown Armies game above, I didn’t have the speaking in tongues part. And asking the initial question didn’t make sense in the game. But what I did have was a group of people, who were part of a secret organization, dealing with some weird shit in a small town. And there was a gal that blew up.

The little details don’t matter. The Important Three and the emotion you’re trying to convey do. So when you’re making up the little details, don’t feel bound to them. It’s better to run a good game that doesn’t happen to involve a minor detail you mentioned in a blurb than to shoehorn one in.

There you have it. And you can apply these ideas to the blurbs I made above, and see how they’re weak. But let’s turn this around: What are some good blurbs you’ve seen? Have any drawn you to a game? Tell us what’s worked — and what hasn’t — for you.

- Ryan

My day job is as a software developer, and while I never talk about my work, I find parallels between software development processes & good writing processes often. Which is only natural, since that’s my paradigm[2]. I’m in front of the keyboard between seven & eight hours a day, roughly, coding. But I’m not only thinking about work at those times. I’d say that around two hours beyond that, my mind’s chewing through work — during my commute[3], while grabbing lunch, taking a pipe break, etc.

So, on the top end, that’s ten hours that I’m chewing on work. My mind can’t not think about something, and since I’m partly geared as a puzzle-solver, I chew on things. It turns out that that time I’m away from the keyboard but still thinking is vital — that’s when I end up getting a different form of work done, where I’m reviewing in my head what I’ve just been doing because I am physically incapable of just rolling on. I have walked away from my desk for a few minutes of starring out into the bay, only to come back to a smart idea that I wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t given myself space to revisit mentally.

How does that relate to writing? Two points:

• My ratio of “thinking about writing code”-”actually writing code” is roughly 1:4.
• The fruitful time is when I’m reflecting on what I’ve done and how to proceed, not when I’m starting with a blank file.

Applying that to writing:

• How much time am I spending before I’m writing? Am I doing serious, productive thinking? Or am I really just expecting magical writing fairies to deliver me the goods before the pen hits the paper?
• What’s my ratio of time thinking versus time writing? When it hits around 1:1 or worse, I start considering “Well, guess I’m not really a writer if I’m not actually, you know, writing.”

The sharpest people I know in writerland seem to hit around what I do in softwareland above. They write, they take breaks — sometimes forced thanks to biology & life — and reflect on what they just did and what’s coming next, and they get back to writing.

What are you doing? What’s your “thinking:actually doing” ratio? Do you feel like you’re honestly a writer when you look at that?

- Ryan

[1] Interesting-to-me side note: the original title was “Overthinking is Masturbation,” which is actually how I remember the post. Then I’m all “right, I sanitized that.”

[2] Admittedly, there’s a little Mage: the Ascension fanboyism whenever I think about the word “paradigm”.

[3] Which is where public transit is way handy. Plus, working in San Francisco and all. Traffic is nuts here.

Take Dungeons & Dragons. What’s the setting? “Fantasy dudes go into far-off places to kick ass and bring stuff back.” But there’s more to it. The classes and races tell you something about the world you’re playing in — that there are these high-elves from a culture of wisdom and beauty. That tieflings are from a cursed race. That humans and wood elves can interbreed, as can humans and half-orcs. And there are paladins and clerics that take power from a god, wizards and warlocks that wield magic, etc.

There’s a lot of setting there. Then look at the Monster Manual. That book is nothing but setting. What sort of world has kobolds or gelatinous cubes or, you know, dragons. Setting, setting, setting.

And because it’s mostly implied, you can change the dials on the setting. You can say “my world doesn’t have Clerics or Paladins” like the Midnight d20 game did some years ago. There’s a lot of mojo there. Apocalypse World does the same thing with the playbooks. Gamma World does with the character class combinations.

Mythender will as well, with the Hearts & Histories at character creation, and a chapter filled with myths rather than rules for making them. (I can also rely on some advice I constantly tell others: “Your readers are smart enough to hack this without you telling them how. And they’ll surprise you in ways you didn’t expect.”)

I played in a game recently where the GM spent roughly the first hour conveying the stated setting of a game — the timeline of events that lead up to the current day, material written by characters in the fiction, things like that. It was not a fun experience. Between that, explaining the mechanics of the game pre-play, and a very boring “let’s research stuff” scene between two characters, I didn’t actually start engaging in the game until around two hours in (and the game took four hours). Now, I can’t fault the game for how the GM presented it, but it did remind that that a game that relies more on implied setting gives the GM and players tools for engaging in a game sooner.

It occurs to me that one of the ways that implied setting works is if the past is not given primacy in the text. In D&D, there isn’t a lot of conversation about how the dungeons and dragons got there. In Apocalypse World, there’s a sentence devoted to the past. Gamma World is similar, and rather irreverent about it. That means the current moment is what needs to be fleshed out in the minds of players, and that’s easier to imply. It also gives you something to explore in the fiction.

Makes me think about how to present setting-rich games. I have some in the works — very distant works — and don’t want to run into the pitfalls of having games like the one I played happen. And how to give a stated setting some of the magic implied settings have, if that’s even possible (or the right thing for the product). No answers for that now, just questions and thoughts.

- Ryan

(Of course, then you have games where setting canon is really important, but there’s a difference between stated setting wholly invented and stated setting that people already have investment with. Very different topic.)

There are two “games” we can play as creative-types: The Short Game and The Long Game. And we always, always, always start out playing The Short Game. So I’ll start by talking about that.

The Short Game

When you were a child, you didn’t have the emotional context to understand that there would be a future and that your decisions impact that. So, when you’re hungry, you’ll just eat whatever’s easy and tasty. When you want attention, you’ll just throw a tantrum. You’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill a short-term need — which may or may not impact the future.

Fast forward to being a teenager. You have this intellectual understanding of the future, but no real emotional context for it. (All high school drama is about the moment and the about-to-happen social event.) Actually, that parenthetical (which I’ll leave as-is) points out where the emotional context lies: the future is weeks away. So planning takes place on that level. Yes, some people plan for college and the like, but that’s done with the accepted help of others who have a further sense of future.

If you’re in your mid-twenties or older, you probably see the vast difference between your emotional context for the future now and what it was back then, and how long you naturally plan ahead for. With the groundwork laid, here’s how it relates to being a writer, artist, or whatever that’s starting to get exposure: it’s pretty much the same thing.

As someone who is starting to get exposure, much like life is constantly new for the child, getting recognition for this thing you’re doing is new for you. That first short story sale or that first little RPG hit you have makes this thing you’re doing Real. And with that, another thing sets in:

Holy shit, this could go away at any moment.

Without the context I’ll get into later, the idea that this good feeling you have at accomplishing something you’ve been wanting could go away at any moment — it’s like being hungry. You want another cookie. You want to keep Doing This Thing, so you keep creating cookies for yourself, often far too many. Here are the mistakes people playing The Short Game make because they’re trying to take on too many cookies:

• They assume the short burst of passion they had is sustainable, and they can always work at that capacity. I call this “mental bandwidth,” and working at over 100% for a short period is possible. But if you treat yourself like that’s normal rather than peak, you’re playing The Short Game.
• They take on too many projects. This is partly because of New Project Energy, partly because of fear that saying “no” to a project means this magical thing we’re doing will suddenly dry up.
• They try cramming all of their self-perceived good ideas into one thing. (I used to say “fuck you, are you only going to make one game?” to people doing this.)
• They don’t say “no” enough, if at all. This is worth double-scoring. They don’t recognize their limits and they fear that saying “no” means they’ll be blacklisted from projects or push away interest or however they mentally justify “saying no is the worst thing I can do evar” to themselves.
• Every cool project they get offered must be taken because OMG COOL PROJECT!
• They take on too much, piss off people they’re working with or for by being overstretched, and otherwise fucking up their reputation and potentially also their love for this thing.
• They rush to produce, not taking their time to produce well.
• There are other hallmarks of The Short Game. This is not an exhaustive list.

(Yes, I’m talking about myself here.)

The reason we play The Short Game is actually simple: we don’t think The Long Game exists. At least, not emotionally. And we can’t play a game we don’t see.

The Long Game

At some point, the realization occurs that you can say “no” to something. Not only that, but that saying “no” is smarter that saying “yes.” This is based on a new emotional understanding: there is a long future, I’ll be doing this for years, and that’s okay.

I keep using “emotional context” and similar phrases for a reason. Intellectually we can get things, but many of our life decisions are based on what we understand not just intellectually. We make decisions based on what feels good, feels comfortable, and well, whatever other “feels” you want to say. It’s rare the person who “feels” intellectually. We’re meatbags of emotions, sometimes tempered by intellect (which is why we’re capable of, say, losing weight), but that’s effort. And for The Long Game to actually work, the effort has to lessen over time until it becomes negligible and later nil.

What people who play The Long Game know & do:

• They know the difference between running at peak bandwidth and normal bandwidth, and give themselves the space to run at their normal pace.
• They know that saying “no” to an opportunity (provided done gracefully) is an ally, not a threat to their creative existence. It makes it so the things you say “yes” to are given rightful attention. It also, as a side effect, turns you into a coveted commodity. (At least, for me it’s a side effect. For others, it make be an intentional play.)
• They know, emotionally, they’re going to do this for years, and make decisions accordingly.
• They make smarter business decisions because they’re playing The Long Game in other arenas in their lives.
• They know there’s another cool project around the corner. “Cool,” it turns out, is not a scarce resource.
• They shelve neat ideas for appropriate projects, and treat each project as something that shouldn’t be a grab bag of everything they’ve ever thought of.
• They read, watch TV & movies, hang out with friends, and other things that allow them to unwind so that they’re better at thing thing we’re all doing. That goes back to bandwidth above — bandwidth is something that needs recharging (which makes the bandwidth analogy go sideways, but whatevs).
• The see the value of taking a few more weeks on a project, and can better weigh the costs & benefits of taking that time without the emotional need to rush.
• They finish more projects.

And hopefully they forgive the Short Gamers they work with for the mistakes of youth. Some do. Some don’t.

The Professional & The Mortgage

There’s a space where this changes, and that’s when you depend on this thing for your livelihood. Even so, the Long Game is played in order to secure that livelihood for years to come, rather than getting some money for a few months and burning out. There is a difference in how this is played when the money gained from this venture is important to your rent or mortgage, but I believe the points still stand.

After all, I’m pretty sure folks who play The Long Game have more desirable qualities from the perspective of folks actually worth working with.

I’m Not Actually Saying Play The Long Game

I’m not sure if this sucks or not, but as time goes on I grow convinced that you have to play The Short Game for a bit. You have to come to the emotional context yourself, though there are many ways to go about that — as many ways as there are individuals trying this thing. It’s a path of experience. So I can’t just say “play The Long Game,” no more than you can just tell a kid about planning for the future and expect it to stick.

That, and The Short Game is a hell of an education, school of hard knocks-style.

Instead, I offer this as a mantra to people who are in that transition period, like I am. I tell myself “it’s okay, Mack, you’re playing The Long Game.” I still need to tell myself that in order to keep myself from making stupid Short Game mistakes. And I’m still dealing with Short Game mistakes from yesteryear, lessons that sting. So to all of you who are starting to see The Long Game, keep that realization close to your heart.

Let’s not be awesome for just today. Let’s be awesome for motherfucking years to come.

- Ryan

P.S. There’s another class of people who play the Short Game: folks who do not believe themselves to have years — the elderly, the terminally ill, folks with mental degenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s, and suicidal people. People for whom the emotional context for “future” has eroded. It’s something I think about if I see a Long Gamer suddenly go Short Game. And I feel for them all.

Opportunities do not stop coming if you continue walking forward. No matter how slowly, forward is still forward.

It took me a few years to learn this. When I started out, I felt like I had to say yes to every opportunity that came up…which wasn’t many or often. A slow trickle. And really, I had little reason then to say no to something — Paul Tevis wanted me to edit his book, awesome. Fred Hicks wanted to work with me on Don’t Lose Your Mind, sweet. Jenn Brozek wanted me to write short stories for her, fuck yeah. These all trickled in, and I kept saying yes.

Then, as I started to become known as this dude what makes your words pretty[1], I started getting more in demand. And I was suddenly in a situation where I was afraid to say no, because I believed in the back of my mind that saying no would be like dispelling this amazing thing happening to me. One “no” and no one else would ever offer a sweet gig to me again.

Yeah, I know, it sounds stupid. That’s why I say “back of my mind.” So I pushed myself a bit too much during the last few months of Dresden and burned out a bit. People kept approaching me, but then I started to say no. (I’ve also started to say “maybe, but I can’t right now,” which is slightly different.) I was afraid still, yes, but I had to for my own sake and for the sake of my would-be clients, you know?[2]

I was prepared at this point for opportunities to cease. Turns out that I was full of shit in the back of my brain, because opportunities keep coming. The reason they keep coming is because I keep walking forward — sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly — but I keep making progress in this thing I’m doing in my life. And now that I’ve come this far[3], I now trust that saying no to opportunities will not screw me over for ever and ever. Intellectually, I could understand this from day 1, but now I trust that. And that means I can say no when I need to. (It helps that I avoid being a cockbite in saying no.)

So, when I see others struggling to try to make a sudden wave of opportunities all work, I want to sit them down and talk about how they should focus on fewer and to make those they take on badass, rather than stretch themselves too thin because they haven’t yet learned how to say no. And I want to help convey in them how to keep self-confidence after saying no that there is still a bright future ahead.

Opportunities do not stop coming if you continue walking forward. No matter how slowly, forward is still forward.

A corollary: taking on too many opportunities and burning out or failing on them is not walking forward, but backward. It’s a line in yourself that you probably won’t really learn until you hit it and screw up, so it’s hard to say where it is in each person. But be mindful, yo.

- Ryan

[1] Clearly, I could use such a dude right there.

[2] Another hard-learned lesson I still struggle with.

[3] Which with only a few years under my belt, frankly, isn’t that far.

Remember Doom? The original action horror video game[1]. I remember the first time I saw a cyberdemon. I was a little cocky taking out whatever was before it, and then there was a short pause in the game, not quite long enough to make me on edge, and then I triggered the baron’s appearance.

“OH MY FUCKING FUCK FUCK WHAT’S THAT GOD LET IT DIE WHY IS IT GOT A ROCKET LAUNCHER IT WON’T GO DOWN WHERE’S MY AMMO MOMMY!!!!!!”

I was scared out of my gourd. And it was awesome. But a good part of that was the medium — both in the visual & audio elements, and the immediacy of real-time play. It hits my lizard brain with fear, makes my breathing tense, makes me twitch and jump. Before I played Doom, I was only mildly interested in horror as a genre. Doom blew me away and showed me how the art of suspense can be wielded.

Contrast that to a horror novel. It relies on creating an imagined space between the author’s words and the reader’s mind. That’s a different part of the brain that’s interpreting language. And it’s not immediate, it’s at the reader’s pace. A tabletop RPG is more akin to a novel than a video game, with the difference being that you have agency in a RPG or video game and don’t in a novel.

RPGs that try to emulate Doom are fun action games, and I like playing them, but they don’t feel like the lizard-brain horror elements. When I’m this badass space marine walking around Hell with my shotgun, and suddenly I hear a cacodemon to my left[2], HOLY CRAP TURN LEFT FIRE FIRE FIRE. That feeling can’t really be captured in an RPG the same way.

First of all, there’s the Alertness roll to see if I notice the cacodemon — which gives away to me the player that I should be on edge about *something*. Doom didn’t do that. You either noticed or you didn’t.[3] It also slows down the play to something far from immediacy. Then there’s the GM describing the situation — which is either quick and incomplete, allowing for something closer to immediacy but lacking in rich details, or is detailed but removes the suspense that’s built around immediacy. Then there’s the to-hit roll, all of that. The farther you go, the more you drift away from the immediacy of an action horror video game or movie.

So, there’s that factor. There’s another that feels true in a movie or video game but feels false to me in a novel or RPG about horror: hyper-competency. One of the themes of a horror story is hopelessness, and I find it hard to feel like that when The Gun is presented as being equivalent to The Threat. That turns the protagonists away from fighting for survival — fighting for their own hopes — and into people who can fight for others. As a character motivation, that’s great, but I want a horror game to constantly feel like one’s own hopes are at Threat, that they can be chewed up and spit out for entering the arena of a Threat.

Hyper-competency shoots that story element to hell. The macho “they have tentacles, we have shotguns. Bring it on!” sense of action turns the characters from Victims into Heroes. For something paced like a video game, taking the role of a Hero is great. You still have a lot of lizard brain-generated tension to play with. But for something paced like an RPG or novel, I am more interested in the Victims.

(Hypoer-competency also tends to destroy the mystery element of a game, when all you need to know is where to shoot it. The mystery still exists, but the drive to it is lessened dramatically.)

That isn’t to say you can’t run a fun action horror game. Who doesn’t want to shoot up some vampires? But that’s not engaging in the themes I look for when I think “horror” because of the limitations of the medium.

- Ryan

[1] At least, to me. If there’s one earlier, I’m all ears. It certainly is one of the iconic ones.

[2] Back then, I had a SoundSource, so I was all about plugging my headphones in to hear in stereo. Man alive that was awesome. Not the SoundSource, but needing to wear headphones turned into loving wearing headphones in horror video games.

[3] I like what Left 4 Dead does, where you get audio cues that something is about to happen. That’s anticipation-driving insanity. I only wish I liked playing console FPS games, but I haven’t gotten used to the controllers yet.

The problem is that I tricked myself into this toxic situation because I would see the number of hours I *could* work in a day and the number of things I needed to do both to keep a roof over my head and to achieve the dreams I had, and said “yes, I will work all those hours. how bad can that be?”

Ambition is a demon on your back that makes you feel guilty when you have to tell someone “I would love to work on your project…but I can’t.” It makes you feel guilty when you decide to watch TV for a couple hours instead of working. (It also robs the feeling of awesome from the achievements in your life, but that’s a topic for another time.) Ambition is the thing that told me I should work all those hours.

The other side of the coin is that we aren’t robots.[1] We can’t be on 24/7, even if there’s time in the day for us to do so. Because time is only one part of the equation. It took me until a few months back to realize more of the equation[2]:

Time + Mental Bandwidth = Productivity

Mental bandwidth[3], unlike, time, is not a constant. It’s your ability to focus on an idea, your energy to do something brain-based, like deal with customers, write, edit, produce audio, manage projects, whatever. Of course, mental bandwidth is also consumed by dealing with home maintenance, travel, relationship issues, business meetings, taxes, all that crap. And mental bandwidth isn’t something entirely under your control — both in that the world will throw you crap you have to deal with and that it’s linked as much to your physical condition as anything else.

To plan my life solely around the time I have is an amateur move. I also have to plan around my mental bandwidth. But since I don’t know what that’ll be tomorrow or next week or whatnot, that’s hard to plan for. So I’m starting to take an approach of figuring out how much I could work in a given stretch of time, and committing to only working 70% of that. If a day gives me ten hours of work time, I know I have to work seven. (That doesn’t count breaks and the like. No one pays me for those anymore. But I’m strangely comfortable with that.) That said, I’m planning more weekly than purely daily.

Right after GenCon, I tried to dive back into work at 100%, and crashed a bit. I didn’t really have that mental bandwidth back. Lesson learned and all, but it’s hammered home that I need to be more aware of my mental bandwidth both in the moment and how I can predict it in the near future. To that end, I’m (slowly) reading Getting Things Done (mentioned previously) and am trying to take better care of myself physically & mentally.

This is not an easy thing to do. I can’t tell which activity of all those I need to do in a day will cost more bandwidth at that moment. Sometimes, dealing with customer service is easy, and costs less than writing. Sometimes, the opposite. Shoot, sometimes writing makes me feel like I have more mental energy than before I sat down. It’s all strange and relative and a bit chaotic — enough to make planning difficult. Especially because they all need to be done. I can’t just say “meh, I won’t do X today,” at least not without drastic consequences.

Like many of my “Thoughts on” posts, I am not stating a solution to something. Just putting thoughts to virtual paper on this lovely Seattle day.[4]

- Ryan

[1] Close friends will know the tone of voice I’m using here. And that I’m wincing as I type it.

[2] Math & CompSci nerds will cringe at how basic that equation is. But you get what I mean, which is the point.

[3] A friend of mine calls this Emotional Bandwidth. I used to think of that as something different, but today I’m less sure. I prefer “Mental Bandwidth” as a label, though.

[4] I’m writing this while chilling outside. It’s drizzly. I’m enjoying my pipe & KMFDM. This is heavenly.

I was talking with Elizabeth Shoemaker recently, a quick chat about Blowback (which I mentioned previously that I’ll be editing). We were talking about hit points and why her game doesn’t have them, and the implications of what she does with character consequence and death and the like. Our talk turned, as it often will with me, to advice text.

See, I have this passion…

(No, that’s not strongly enough said. But those who know me well and those who are creative can fill in the proper–or improper?–expletives.)

…for advice text. Paul Tevis & I have talked about that at length, particularly on Master Plan episode 50 where we talk about our working together on A Penny For My Thoughts. In any case, Elizabeth said to me:[1]

Most of my GM advice boils down to “Don’t be a dick.”

There was a bit more to that, and a conversation, but to spare you, dear reader, from having to read a conversation you cannot take part in, the high points where thus:

Assume most people don’t want to be dicks. Thus, telling them “don’t be a dick” is as beneficial as reminding them to breathe.

Assume those who do want to be dicks don’t care about being chided. Thus, telling them “don’t be a dick” will fall on deaf ears. (If I may mix the text and vocal metaphors.)

For our assumed dickishless population, they only have two ways of knowing if going to cross a line and “be a dick”: though experience having crossed it before, or through forewarning. It’s cause-and-effect; wanting to avoid an effect means knowing, whether first-hand or by being told, the causes.

If your game gives them tools they are unfamiliar with[2] then without guidance they may not know where that line is until after they cross it. So, focus not on chiding the reader for being a potential dick, but on articulating an understanding of how your tools are used, how to cross and to keep from crossing various lines of dickishness.

In fact, consider striking “don’t be a dick” from your authorial vocabulary (unless you’re Wil Fucking Wheaton, of course). It doesn’t help, not in this arena. Just tell people how your tools might be used and might be abused, things to watch out for, a sense of “X action with my funky mechanic tends to make Y happen,” and you’ll go a long way to helping people avoid being unintentional dicks. Relying on “don’t be a dick” to explain yourself is a crutch, not an aide.

Finally, consider that that phrase is in fact poison. It’s a value judgement. Not everyone plays the same. What you consider dickish me and my play group may not. By helping us understand your game and where one can push, you’ll help those who play like you and those who play differently. But “don’t be a dick” can also make your reader turn against you, as for some that is attacking language. And, believe it or not, the reader has the last word in any conversation between you and your book. So if your language attacks, you lose. Every time. So share an understanding of your tools, not a judgment on play.

Anyway, those were my thoughts on the subject from earlier today, a bit expanded since this is a blog post and not IM.

- Ryan

[1] Repeated with permission.

[2] Hint to most indie designers: you probably are, since that’s one thing we pride ourselves on

Consider this post a “Dear self, here’s a reminder how to not fuck up.” Perhaps it will also be of use to some of y’all.

A good character creation text should consider a number of things (in no special order):

1. Inspire the players with thoughts of characters
2. Instruct players on how to make a character
3. Be usable as a reference while in the middle of the process
4. Help the GM/facilitator with his role in character creation

So, that said, and this is freakin’ key: I don’t have to get all of these right in the first draft. That’s been one source of paralysis lately, though now that I’ve realized that I’ve been able to move on.

Let’s specifically talk about the first bit, though, the “inspire” point. That is freakin’ key, more so the more specific your setting or your system is…like, say, a game where you’re a walking, talking force of nature that is still trying to remain human. If you don’t frontload with some ways of inspiring character, people may either have a hard time locking on to an idea or end up being inspired by something external to the game, thus making a character concept that doesn’t really work with your conceit. (A few dozen playtests of Mythender end up strongly corroborating this idea for me.)

Text I had last year said:

Question 1: What is your Heroic Concept?

Heroic Concepts take the form of:

[Adjective] [Noun]…[Prepositional Phrase]

These quickly generate ideas that, with the other four questions, kick-start ideas for the character. Examples:

• Determined Baroness…with a dying people
• Battle-scarred Knight…in need of a cause
• Scorned Scion…with a need to prove himself
• Wrathful Sea Captain…under pressure from his love

Pro tip: “Prepositional Phrase” is a good time to introduce a twist to the character concept, like “Villainous Prince…with a broken heart.” Alternatively, if you have a killer concept that doesn’t fit in that format, go with your concept and forget the format.

The flaw: wasn’t inspirational enough. Yes, it helped form an idea into something usable at the table, but did shit for coming up with that idea. So, I’ve thrown out this rubric for a new scheme. Character creation starts by picking two things: an Archetype and an Identity. Each thing is a general idea with some focusing questions, and only from there do we get into further character stuff. Here’s a (rather unedited) taste:

Archetypes

Mythenders have many different ways of achieving theirs goals, but each prefers a particular way of dealing with Mythic Norden. We call these Archetypes. Here are the six most seen in Mythenders:

Warrior

These Mythenders go by many names: swordsman, knight, master of arms, duelist, barbarian, even the common “warrior.” No matter the name, these men and women share certain traits—they all share a willingness (though not always the desire) to battle. They all prize skill over mere steel. Of all Mythender, it is the warrior that truly understands that they are the weapon, no what is in their hands.

• Why did you become a warrior?
• What skill do you value the most?

Crusader

Some crusaders champion a god. Others a king, a love, an ideal. But as much as crusaders struggle against one another, they have one thing in common: they do not wield sword or axe. They wield belief. Their passions are as sharp as any blade, strike as true as any arrow. No Mythender is more willing to accept his fate of falling than the crusader. If death or the loss of his soul is the price to pay for his ideal, so be it.

• What happened to turn you into a crusader?
• What do you believe in so strongly?

[Four more Archetypes are listed]

Identities

Fate takes mortals from all walks of life and turns them into Mythenders. There is no single background, single Identity, that they share. Still, some are more common than others.

Child

Of those chosen by fate, one could argue that the children who become Mythenders are the most tragic. With their innocence sundered, they make for fierce fighters—untempered by age or wisdom. But it takes more than a simple tragedy to turn a boy or girl into such a being. Seeing…no, enduring…the true cruelty of man, of armies, of nature, of Mythic Norden, that is how a child Mythender is made.

• What cruelties have you endured?
• What fuels your limitless rage?

Lost

Everyone loses something they care dearly about. Some lose much, much more than others. Some are unable to move on. And a very few are shown by fate how they can get back what they’ve lost. Those who’ve lost and become Mythenders have lost something so dear, so personal. They’ve lost in a way that’s broken them, that has them killing gods and risking their very souls to recover. The reason they do this to themselves goes beyond lost, though. They have grief and they have guilt, two forces as powerful as Norden itself.

• What did you lose?
• Why didn’t you prevent this loss?
• How has losing this changed you?

[Four more Identities are listed]

The bit of testing with this has told me that this is how I should be doing character creation, at least for this game: a number of choices that constrain (to focus characters to what a Mythender is, as it’s not just any fantasy hero), to inspire (as reading one of these count help spark a character idea), and to guide (with the questions that each section has to further character creation, Evil Hat-style). Of course, this is just one piece–albeit an important piece–of character creation, but it’s the one that’s taken me two years to finally understand.

Anyway, that’s it for now. We’ll see if I’m onto something or if I’m totally off my ass.

- Ryan

Footnote: In a bit of parallel thought, some people talk about character concept vs. creation on a Story-Games post.

• My job as an editor is to make your text match your intent
• My job as an editor is to call bullshit on your intent (or what I perceive your intent to be) when warranted

Grammar, spelling, all that copy editing stuff is there to make the text communicate well. Organization is there to make the act of processing and understanding the text to flow as smoothly as possible (among other uses). But none of that matters if you’re communicating something other that your intent. And your intent doesn’t matter if it’s off, or if I misunderstand your intent because of your text.

I think about that from a whole-book level, from a chapter level, a spread or page level, section level, paragraph & sentence level. I think that makes me a slower editor than I could be, and I know I don’t have that luxury on a larger book to be that critical and detailed, but right now that’s the editor I like being. Revealing a writer’s intent is rewarding.

(This probably bleeds into game development, which is why Paul credited me as both editor & developer on A Penny For My Thoughts.)

Anyway, back to work. I just wanted to share some (likely disorganized) thoughts. Feel free to call bullshit…on my text or intent.

- Ryan