Critical Hits

The Journal of Gamer Culture

Articles by David Wright

Dixon Trimline is a halfling that occasionally (and reluctantly) plays a 40-something human who likes to write, dream, and travel around inside the cobwebby darkness of his own mind. This human grew up with role playing games, but his first love and his first choice was always Dungeons & Dragons.

Roleplaying Resurrection

This past weekend (10/8 – 10/9), my bestest friend, Dave Cohen, actually agreed to come all the way down from RI to participate in the wild extravaganza that is DC Game Day. On Saturday and Sunday, we found ourselves navigating the shadowy incompetence of the Metro system, marching all over the northwest corner of DC, and occasionally rolling dice and playing games. DC Game Day has the feel of a mini-con, several games spread over two days of four sessions, friendly and intimate where strangers fall into easy conversation with one another. Dave and I spent the first session trundling down from BWI, and we played Savage Worlds Saturday evening, Gamma World Sunday morning, and Fiasco Sunday evening.

Savage Worlds is a hoot, a game that somehow manages to be both light and nimble while also being crunchy and numbery. I get that the primary–ONLY?–rule is: you need a four. “I want to shoot the 35′ Nazi bear.” “Roll the dice, you need a four.” “Do I see the trolls approaching?” “Roll the dice, you need a four.” “Can I blow up the barracks with my mortar?” “Roll the dice, you need a four.” Of course, it appeared there were lots and lots of conditional modifiers: there’s fog rolling in, so you’re at -2, but you’re using a scope, so you’re at +2, but it’s long range, so it’s -3, but you have “the drop,” so you get +4, and so on forever and ever, bang-boom.

For me, the real revelation of the weekend was Fiasco, a game I’ve heard many people rave about so passionately that you feel like edging away from them before the drooling and screaming begins. This game tends to elicit appreciation, in the same way that brainwashing encourages cooperation. Well, now I’ve played it, and… hold on, I’ve started drooling, which means the screaming comes next…

It’s been a little while since I’ve been any good at roleplaying. Despite being Vulnerable 15 to peer pressure, I used to have no trouble at all acting up a storm at the gaming table, because I knew that I would be hopeless at strategy and planning. When it came to my turn, I could kill it with the shuddery lip and the welling tears, the heartfelt speeches, the utter consumption and apprehension of my character. I would most often play clerics of some sort, because everybody loves a devoted holy man who won’t shut up about his god, right?

Of course, this was a long time ago, and I’ve grown considerably (in several directions), and I’ve come to realize that I just don’t have that piece of myself anymore. It’s tough figuring out the mentality and motivation of a pretend person, and then having to stick to that for hours at a time. Can’t I just roll a dice and tell you my result? That’s a whole lot easier.

And so, Fiasco. In Fiasco, there’s not really dice rolling, except for the start and middle bits, and trust me, those don’t count. It’s all decisions, decisions and storytelling, decisions and storytelling and improvisational roleplaying. Uh oh, there’s that word. Roleplaying. I’m going to have to sit at a table with other people and write a story out loud in the voice of a character that I just met, all while those other people are staring at me and judging me and hating me. This kind of thrown-in-the-deep-end roleplaying is a little daunting. No, wait, that’s not the right term. It’s gonad-shrinkingly terrifying. [Read the rest of this article]

The One-Page Character Sheet

I offer no apologies for my appreciation of D&D 4E, as it gives me everything I look for in a heroic roleplaying game. For me, it’s not enough to act like someone different, or take on unbeatable foes, or tick off numbers on papers. Don’t misunderstand, I love all these bits, but I also love the cooperative side of the game, how a goal can only be achieved if the party works together. So here is a game that I really do enjoy, and yet, there is this scar on my beloved which prevents me from embracing it completely.

The character sheets are <hyperbole>8000 pages long</hyperbole>.

My brain is old and dusty, and has lost any ability to retain information, and this game of mine has lots and lots of things you really do have to remember. There are triggers and immediate actions and opportunity actions and conditional powers and situational feats, and this is all spread across a half-dozen or more pages in no detectable order, resulting in the following popular phrase at the gaming table: “Wait, wait, wait, I think I can do something now,” following by shuffling paper. This is running neck-and-neck with the phrase, “Wait, wait, wait, I could have done something last round / last battle / last week.” [Read the rest of this article]

Killing Characters

“O death, where is thy sting?…” — 1 Corinthians 15:55a (KJV)

One common complaint about Dungeons & Dragons 4th Edition, aside from incoherent rants about it being a video card miniatures game that wants to punch grandmothers, is that the characters are so darned hard to kill. What happened to the good old days when the average fighter would have 10 hit points and the average magic-user, bless his fragile heart, would have 3 hit points, and could be felled by a particularly deep splinter?

Across our current battle maps, there are:

  • Defenders: Blocks of hyper-magnetized steel who not only lock down the biggest bads, but also are invulnerable to most attacks with their high AC, oceans of temporary hit points, self-healing, and resistances out their heavily armored wahoos.
  • Strikers: Highly mobile death-dealers who eviscerate solos in a tornado of blades and blasts, often causing so much damage on a single turn that the player requires a calculator, an abacus, and a team of accountants.
  • Controllers: Comparatively delicate, these minion-erasers and battlefield grand masters lay down zones of pain and sadness on the enemies, stripping defenses,  amplifying agonies, all while cowering behind their unyielding allies.
  • Leaders: Semi-toughs with ouchie weapons and scorching rays whose real strength lies in the bubble of healing and support with which they surround the party, closing wounds, augmenting defenses, and guiding attacks, bettering all party members.

Typically, each of the characters in the party has a single brain running it, choosing an optimized course of action that is unimpeded by complexity or distraction, while the DM juggles settings and environments, traps and hazards, motivations and strategies for dozens of enemies, all while managing the blizzard of chirpy questions from the players: Can I move here? How do runes work? Why don’t I have line of sight? Can I use History to find secret doors? Are you sure I already used my action point? My second wind? My daily power? [Read the rest of this article]

Nonplayer Conundrum

DM: The duke shakes his head sadly, and says, “The gargoyles came out of nowhere, slaughtering my guards and stealing my daughter. Please, I’m asking for your help to get her back.”
Swordslash Bladekill: How many guards do you have left? If you send along 20 or 30, we’d be willing to go.
Steamrat Cutpurse: And what about you, duke? You must have some ability. What are you, a paladin? Grab your sword and you can lead the way.
Myrrellin Explodeyboom: Don’t forget about the duke’s adviser. She’s probably a wizard. She should come along too.
Brother Holyheal: I saw a few churches in this town of yours. They should be able to give us a dozen or so clerics.

Because the population of a typical game world runs more than four to six, there will be a vast and diverse representation of nonplayer characters in every game, and not just the ones that want to strangle the characters with their own intestines. No, this would also include the slithery shopkeepers and the blustering barkeepers, the drinking buddies and back-alley allies who might just know a thing or two about the Cliffs of Insanity, the mysterious uncle who keeps popping up with advice or healing or a pursuing horde of death lizards. [Read the rest of this article]

Numbiz iz Numbiz

Once again, it’s time to create a new 4E character, and once again, I’m paralyzed by indecision. Believe it or not, this isn’t because I’m overwhelmed with options. I’m okay with having bunches and piles and oodles of options. Pathetically, I’m currently frozen by the crushing terror that I’m going to make the wrong choice and wind up with a lousy, useless, despised character, which reflects badly on me as a player, a man, and an American. And possibly a human being.

Here I am, looking at thousands of classes and races and powers and feats and skills and alignments, and I’m trying not to get hung up in the webwork of mathematics and optimization, and I’m mostly failing, because if I’m going to be this class, I should probably be this race, which means I’ll definitely need this feat, which synchronizes nicely with this power, so I should definitely make sure… that… I… Pardon me, my brain just cracked. Let me go get some glue. [Read the rest of this article]

Aspectfully Speaking

In a recent blog post, Wil Wheaton writes about how he learns lines for his scenes, figuring out what the character wants and needs to get him as an actor to the right place. He goes on to identify three recent characters and their motivations:

As I said on Twitter recently, I realized that Doctor Parrish’s favorite thing in the world is “I told you so.” Evil Wil Wheaton’s favorite thing in the world is, “Ha! Gotcha, Sheldon Cooper.” Cha0s’ favorite thing in the world is, “I know something you don’t know, and never will know, because I am so much smarter than you.”

When I read this, I had myself a genuine AH HA! moment (earning many glares at the library), because I finally understood what all those insufferable, infuriating, brilliant FATE nerds have been yammering about for the last year or so. It’s the character through-line, the how, the why, the what for. Oh yes, it’s the Aspects. Now, for those out there who figured this out from the very first moment, please grant me a little grace, because I can be a real moron when I put my mind to it.

All this time, all these articles, all this peripheral material (notice I’m not saying, ‘All these games,’ since I have yet to actually play one of those FATE games, but that’s not as important as you might think), and with Wil Wheaton’s post, the clouds finally parted and the sun didst shine down and lo, it didst alight on my brow. Previously, I got it, but I didn’t really GET it. I understood it, but I didn’t really understand it. [Read the rest of this article]

Syn-Duh-Con: A Review, A Takeaway, A Lengthy Blather

I wasn’t supposed to go to SynDCon this year, as I had already attended my annual gaming convention, TempleCon, had a great pile of fun, and didn’t want to push my luck or spend piles of money I didn’t technically have. However, two weeks before it started, a DM I know from Meetup.com sent out a global alert/invite/threat saying he’d be going and would love to see everyone in his address book there. I thought about it for approximately 11 seconds and then fired off a text message to my best friend Dave in Rhode Island and said, “Gaming? Convention? Rockville? Maryland? Yes?” He was supposed to say, “Don’t be an idiot,” and then list hundreds of reasons why it’s a terrible idea. Instead, he agreed to be an idiot with me, and even bring along his son Mason, and suddenly the three of us were signed up for SynDCon.

For reasons that never became clear, everybody–attendees, organizers, mystified muggle hotel guest, and lunatic drivers killing pedestrians on Rockville Pike–pronounce SynDCon with an extra syllable, as in Syn-Duh-Con. I’m not really sure why, just as I’m not sure I have much advice or insight into the particular convention, except to say that if you find yourself sharing a hotel room with a professional grade snorer, your best bet is to smother him with a pillow on the first night. Unless it’s me. If it’s me, please leave me alone, because I’ve finally gotten to sleep (despite the world’s noisiest air conditioning unit), and I have a game the next morning at 8 AM. What was I thinking?

I am by no means a convention veteran, though I have been to enough to figure out what I like and what I don’t like, and SynDCon is one I like. Quite a lot. It could probably be described as modest, cozy, focused, and other not-so-flattering words for small, but this doesn’t matter to me, since I had more than enough time to play me some games and roll me some dice. I have found that the true tragedy of convention is there is a finite amount of time to actually play, and once I factor in sleeping, eating, washing, and staring off into space, I might have about a half-dozen games you can attend. And I’m rootin’-tootin’ okay with that. Sure, the glue-damaged part of my brain might think, “I’m going to this fancy hotel and I will play 152 games,” but the reality is, I will play in a handful and I will be happy.

So, what specifically did I like about SynDCon? A fair question. Here, have some bullets: [Read the rest of this article]

Depression & Dungeons & Dragons

If you’ve never been down in the dark, wretched pit of depression, there are simply no words to explain what it’s like.  This isn’t a matter of, “I can’t believe we’re out of my favorite cereal,” or, “My car broke down on the interstate,” or even, “I just lost my job and I can’t support my kids.”  It’s also isn’t, God help me, a matter of, “Hey, why don’t you just cheer up?”  When it comes to depression, real, actual, honest, sky-is-falling-and-life-is-ending depression, it’s a matter of bits of your brain actually missing.  It’s a physical, medical, miserable condition, where life around you stays exactly the same way, but you have lost your ability to perceive it correctly.

I’ve struggled with it for my entire conscious life, way back to when I was just a little stupid kid who would fly into rages or slip into near-catatonia.  Somebody would say something to me that a week ago would have been hilarious, but now was a trigger for a tidal wave of murderous hate, or something would happen to me that a week ago would have been an inconvenience, but now made me stare longingly at a bed or a bottle or a blade.

Depression is always destructive, exhibiting itself externally, as you drive away friends with erratic flare-ups, or internally, as you punish yourself physically or emotionally, and all the while, there’s this little piece of yourself, a tiny impotent voice of reason crying out for you to stop, please stop, you need to stop.  But that voice isn’t in control.  Not when you’re down in the pit.

Roleplaying games have always played a weirdly symbiotic/parasitic role in my depression, and to paraphrase Homer Simpson, was often the cause of, and solution to, my time in the darkness.  I could find comfort in gaming, both running and playing, as it could flood my system with endorphins, lifting me up into the light, at least for a few days, hours, or minutes.  Unfortunately, if I had my depression goggles on, I might see a successful game as a total failure, and plunge down, down, down, even deeper than I had been.

Because I’m a self-obsessed twerp who was convinced the whole world revolved around me, I was a little bit surprised to note the same sort of struggles from other gamers, and was particularly moved by Philippe-Antoine Menard (AKA Chatty DM), as he wrote about his severe depression that started during GenCon 2008.

I started wondering if there was a correlation between intelligence and creativity and gaming and depression, if maybe there were a lot of us sad-eyed tragi-bombs, creating worlds, running characters, rolling dice, and weeping quietly when no one else was looking.  I contacted Phil and asked if he’d be available for an e-mail interview, and he graciously agreed.   [Read the rest of this article]

Actual Plague

When you offer any sort of criticism, the reflexive response from the noisy void can be, “Well, that’s just your opinion!”  Whether it’s a TV critic observing that Glee is gaudy cynicism swaddled in pop tunes and references, or a movie critic decrying the impenetrability of the Mission Impossible plot, or a music critic describing Judas Priest’s Jugulator as gimmicky, flat, and juvenile, the audience that adores these products will dismiss the criticism as just the critic’s opinion.

And here’s the thing:  it’s true.  Criticism is opinion.  We can hope the opinion is informed, instead of being your standard, internet-based, “That sucks, it sucks, you suck, they suck.”  We can hope the critic has watched the show, seen the movie, listened to the music, and then rendered an opinion on it, based on some sort of semi-objective criteria.  The critic has analyzed the particular medium for an extended period of time, understanding elements of its architecture, such as pacing, characterization, construction, and depth.

I say all of that to say this:  actual play podcasts suck. [Read the rest of this article]

Gamma Wild: “Gamma World” Game Day Report

Gamma World CardsAt some point in my life, I came across a phrase like this:  “In every group, there’s at least one jerk, and if you can’t find the jerk in your group, then it’s you.”  This worries me, as I participated in the Gamma World Game Day on October 23, and every single person at that table was excellent, marvelous, intelligent, hilarious, brilliant, and wonderful.  Maybe this was the group exception that proves the rule.  Yeah, I’ll just keep telling myself that.

There was quite a lot to be nervous about with this game.  It was a soul-squishing experience of playing with semi- to total strangers, and knowing some of them through reputation, writing, or internet interaction only heightened my anxiety, since I really didn’t want to come across as a colossal doofus.

Also, it was hosted at a non-neutral setting, a game store, which meant some degree of audience, whose walk-by interest could range from casual to avid.  It was located in a strange and distant land, so I had to find it, park, and get in, all without dropping all my dice or throwing up on myself.

Finally, this was a game I’d never played before, Gamma World, and I don’t mean I hadn’t played it since way back in the days of Members Only jackets.  No, I’ve never played this game before.  You could argue, “Well, you’ve played 4e Dungeons & Dragons, and it’s just like that,” and it is, except for being completely different.  Sure, some of the bits are the same, like actions being icosahedron-based, and you’ll have a thousand powers and only use about two throughout the adventure, and the only way to really impress the other players at the table is to come up with a character name that is both silly and stupid.  Unfortunately, there was enough of a difference that I was never entirely confident on my turns.  Can I take an action point?  How much does my second wind get me?  Hold on, this overcharging, does that go on my credit card?

As it happened, I did have a really good time, and became convinced that I needed to buy this Gamma World game immediately and inflict it on all my family and friends, assuming I have any family or friends.  There is a kind of brash funness about it, an in-your-face good time, sort of like a game of Strip Twister, only with dice and hit points and without the awkward apologies afterwards.  The loopy joy is built right into the rules of the game, which I can describe it with one simple word I just made up:  randomosity.

I’ve played a lot of roleplaying games in my life (maybe eight, which may not seem like a lot but shut up), and all of them incorporate some amount of randomness, but always with a nod and a wink, saying, “These parts you can choose, these parts you must roll, and if your rolls are really bad, why don’t you start again?”  In most games, I don’t know that I’d have much fun if my class/role/background/identity was given to me, or several of my ability scores were microscopically terrible, or I couldn’t even pick my gear.

Forrest Phyre

Forrest Phyre

In Gamma World, this is exactly what happened, and I loved it.  I rolled my two origins, which are really a combination of race and class, and wound up with a pyrokinetic plant.  I don’t know that I would have chosen that, as they seem to be descriptions that are at odds with each other, but some dusty part of my brain kicked on, and I suddenly saw that Ent at the beginning of Return of the King whose crown of branches were ablaze.  I knew the character instantly, and quickly wrote down, “Forrest Phyre.”  I thought this was a pretty clever name until I heard the name from someone else who had played a pyrotechnic plant:  ”Burning Bush.”  Now that’s genius.

After origins, it was time for scores, and I loved this part too.  Your first origin determines your primary ability score, and BAM!  You get an 18.  No, don’t fuss around with point buys and arrays, just write an 18 and move on.  Your second origin determines your secondary ability score, and that one gets a 16.  It’s just that simple!  Now you’re going to have four other ability scores, and here’s where it gets really fun:  three 6-sided dice, roll, add, score.  My first roll was a 17.  Can you believe it?  Ha ha!  I was jubilant.  Until my next roll was a 5.  And then an 11.  And then a 3.  On three 6-sided dice, I actually managed to roll three 1s.

Here’s the thing about Gamma World and ability scores:  this is the first RPG that I have ever played where I wanted to keep my terrible rolls.  And why?  Because I thought they were hysterical.  My great tree-man who was constantly on fire had a Dexterity of 5 and a Charisma of 3.  I thought that was excellent.

After determining scores, I selected weapons and armor, which seemed curious considering how much else is randomized.  Personally, I think it would be just as funny to roll up my battle equipment too.  That aside, I definitely prefer how the weapons and armor are abstracted into simple lists of light melee, heavy melee, light ranged, heavy ranged, and so on, which means you don’t have to wade through page after page of a hundred different types of swords, spears, plate mail, and shields.

Now you do get to roll on additional, non-combat gear, and I wound up with a canoe and a tent.  Maybe these would have proven useful in an extended adventure, but they seemed to me to be so much “what did you get” Halloween candy.  Maybe this gear is the equivalent of rituals, funny little trinkets that you’ll never use.

The game itself was pure bliss.  I got a little tangled up in the rules, made a habit of hitting the ground during our battles, and even completely died in the last combat (failing three consecutive death saves), but still came out of the experience all sorts of happy and pleased.  I loved the game.  I had a pile of fun.  And what was amazing is I was able to love it and have fun in a game with micro-scores and a terminal ending.  That says something about the game dynamic, doesn’t it?

Consider this if you want to risk a blown mind and popped eyeballs:  In exactly four hours, the DM oversaw 6 players with little to no experience as they created characters from scratch, wallowed through introductions, found the adventure, and drove through four encounters (three combat and one non-combat).  That’s a pretty lithe game.

I’ve read that Gamma World is a game built for one-shots, and if you’re taking a break from your ongoing Greybberlancesun campaign (now in its 11th year), it’d be good for a night of giggling.  Having now played it, I find myself leaning the other way.  I want to play it again longer term, I want to play it as a multi-session adventure to really get a handle on my character, to experience more that the setting has to offer and actually climb up through the levels.  Of course, Gamma World is spectacularly lethal (three of our six characters died), so maybe it doesn’t really lend itself to that sort of experience.

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