Friday, March 23, 2018

Chaosless Theory (GNS, Narrativism, and the Morality of Stories)

4th and last in a series on the old essays that defined GNS Theory--the theory of games that dominates what theoretical RPG discourse there is despite the fact that almost no-one claims to believe it any more.

1st one
-about Ron Edwards essay on GNS in general
2nd one-about his simulationism essay
3rd one-about his gamism essay

This one is on narrativism and the analysis will be a little different.

I need to start with:

Kurt Vonnegut, from his novel Breakfast of Champions...

...with the author (whose museum is a short walk from GenCon) offering an opinion on a bad novelist character in the book:
I thought Beatrice Keedsler had joined hands with other old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life had leading characters, minor characters, significant details, insignificant details, that it had lessons to be learned, tests to be passed, and a beginning, a middle, and an end. 
As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I had become more and more enraged and mystified by the idiot decisions made by my countrymen. And then I had come suddenly to pity them, for I understood how innocent and natural it was for them to behave so abominably, and with such abominable results: They were doing their best to live like people invented in story books. This was the reason Americans shot each other so often: It was a convenient literary device for ending short stories and books. 
Why were so many Americans treated by their government as though their lives were as disposable as paper facial tissues? Because that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in their made-up tales. 
And so on. 
Once I understood what was making America such a dangerous, unhappy nation of people who had nothing to do with real life, I resolved to shun storytelling. I would write about life. Every person would be exactly as important as any other. All facts would also be given equal weightiness. Nothing would be left out. Let others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I think I have done. 
If all writers would do that, then perhaps citizens not in the literary trades will understand that there is no order in the world around us, that we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead. 
It is hard to adapt to chaos, but it can be done. I am living proof of that: It can be done.

I would not second-guess Edwards’ definition of narrativism... I have second, third, fourth-guessed his attempts to redefine challenge as “gamism” and to redefine everything else that could happen in a game as “simulationism”—just like I would not drive to Kool Moe Dee's house and explain hip hop to him. Ron helped invent narrativism, he is essential to its development and, frankly, his own indie narrativist spawn are doing a better job of tearing down the fences he built around it than I ever could simply by making games that don’t match this early definition but appeal basically to the same people.

What I do want to talk about is what that definition implies and where it came from and what I think it did or said about all those successors and--by extension--all the parts of gaming they touched.

Edwards spends a massive amount of the essay defining what Narrativism isn’t—that is: it isn’t games that just have stories that the people playing are into but don’t “address premise”—and frankly I got no comment on any of it: he’s saying what he’s into, essentially.

I do want to pick out a few interesting appetizers before getting into the meat though.

Narrativism: Story Now

by Ron Edwards 

Speaking of Champions, Edwards addresses a really interesting passage in it in terms of what he sees as frustrated wannabe narrativism in older games:

One thing that each Champions GM needs to learn to do is to spot, carefully nurture, and eventually play out the "Character Story." 
Each player-character has a Story above and beyond the ordinary adventures encountered during the course of the campaign. This Character Story usually involves the resolution of the most important desires of the character. 
Phosphene - Discovery of and Acceptance by Family. Raised by a single parent and knowing of no other relatives, Phos started his career cynical and alone. Learning that he had a family, the enigmatic Brood, he discovered that he had a tremendous need to become one of them. Eventually he met all his surviving relatives and earned the affection of most of them. Now married and a family man himself, his personal story is resolved.
Lorelei - Growth into Womanhood. In the course of her years of playing, Lorelei grew from a 15-year-old innocent into a mature woman and team leader; the most important elements of transition (other than the years involved) were her romance with Commodore and her eventual rescue of and reunion with her father. 
Take a look at your own character - or at all the PCs if you're the GM - and try to root out the Character Story of each one. [examples follow - RE]
 In short, try to figure out what element of the character's background, relations, or psychology make him interesting but will eventually make him (or his player) frustrated and unhappy if not ultimately resolved. That's the Character Story.
An interesting qualifier shows up in the final paragraph of this section: 
Of course, no campaign lasts long enough for every Character Story to be discovered and exploited ... 
... which I think is a bizarre statement, possibly related to the idea (which I remember all too well) that Champions players should all cooperate to preserve the group regardless of their differing goals during play.
It's only bizarre if you don't think of how Champions is a superhero game and therefore is deeply tied to a form of serial fiction where problems and ideas baked into a character literally never get resolved or: if they do get resolved, get unresolved again, because the story never ends in a human lifetime (or it hasn't yet: I mean even Blue Beetle is still around.)

This is an unusually crystal-pure example of  Edwards showing that (even in a superhero context) his cultural lens for "story" is always classic drama and never serial fiction or picaresque. He references this structure later:

Classically, a story has the following structure: (a) introduce character and situation, (b) introduce conflict, (c) rising conflict, (d) climax, and (e) resolution, of which (a, b, d) are the key pieces. Most stories indeed follow this model regardless of their chronological presentation, point-of-view, or any other details. There's usually no particular worry that Narrativist play will fail to produce 
(That's called 3-Act Drama in some places.)

I hasten to add: that's fine as an expression of where his goals are as a player and his definition of narrativism. But it has implications later.

This section is interesting in terms of where Edwards' head is at on the value of this kind of play and what he expects it to produce:

Procedural diversity: thematic content 
Given that theme arises during Narrativist play, what does it look like, and how limited or well-defined is it? This breaks down into three independent issues, all of which are pretty subtle and deserve more discussion.
  1. The potential for personal risk and disclosure among the real people involved.
    • High risk play is best represented by playing Sorcerer, Le Mon Mouri, InSpectres, Zero, or Violence Future. You're putting your ego on the line with this stuff, as genre conventions cannot help you; the other people in play are going to learn a lot about who you are.
    • Low risk play is best represented by playing Castle Falkenstein, Wuthering Heights, The Dying Earth, or Prince Valiant. These games are, for lack of a better word, "lighter" or perhaps more whimsical - they do raise issues and may include extreme content, but play-decisions tend to be less self-revealing.
  2. The depth and profundity of the resulting themes. Counter to my lousy phrasing in GNS and related matters of role-playing theory (, "literary merit" of a theme is irrelevant. Themes are indeed important, and I suggest that two broad categories are available: cathartic vs. deconstructive, with the former splitting up into happy-ending, sad-ending, and ambiguous. A related point concerns the range of the possible themes for a given play-instance, from narrow to broad. I'll forego providing game examples as the depth and range of theme rely very greatly on the given play-group's use of the game.
  3. The humorous content. This is, in many ways, a red herring. I consider "funny" always to be a secondary phenomenon, perhaps modifying theme, or modifying something else entirely. For GNS or other theory purposes, you have to look at the something else and discuss that first. Still, there are a couple of points worth mentioning for role-playing.
    • Is play itself funny, or is the topic of play funny? This is a very complex issue, fully analogous to the endless discussions of fear and suspense in horror role-playing.
    • Is the humor acting to bring participants' emotions closer to the Premise, or to distance them?

Ok. Interesting.

The following is probably the most eyebrow-raising in terms of contradicting my and other peoples' lived RPG experience:

Ouija-board role-playing
Here's another outcome for the faulty Simulationist-makes-Narrativism approach. Actually, it's the same phenomenon as Simulationism-makes-Gamism, which I discussed in "Gamism: Step On Up" ( as "the bitterest role-player in the world." I consider the Narrativist version to be the "most deluded role-player in the world." 
How do Ouija boards work? People sit around a board with letters and numbers on it, all touching a legged planchette that can slide around on the board. They pretend that spectral forces are moving the planchette around to spell messages. What's happening is that, at any given moment, someone is guiding the planchette, and the point is to make sure that the planchette always appears to everyone else to be moving under its own power. 
Taking this idea to role-playing, the deluded notion is that Simulationist play will yield Story Now [that is: narrativist -z] play without any specific attention on anyone's part to do so. The primary issue is to maintain the facade that "No one guides the planchette!" The participants must be devoted to the notion that stories don't need authors; they emerge from some ineffable confluence of Exploration per se. It's kind of a weird Illusionism perpetrated on one another, with everyone putting enormous value on maintaining the Black Curtain between them and everyone else. Typically, groups who play this way have been together for a very long time. 
Oh no!
My call is, you get what you play for. Can you address Premise this way? Sure, on the monkeys-might-fly-out-my-butt principle. But the key to un-premeditated artistry of this sort (cutup fiction, splatter painting, cinema verite) is to know what to throw out, and role-playing does not include that option, at least not very easily. Participants in Ouija-board play do so through selective remembering. I have observed many such role-players to refer to hours of unequivocally bored and contentious play as "awesome!" given a week or two for mental editing. 
See the first essay for notes on the eccentric character of Ron's observations.
What I see from such groups is the following: 
-They use a highly customized house-version of a given rules-set, usually AD&D, BRP, or an early edition of Champions; many of the customized details are unrecorded.
Clearly they are monsters

-They employ a personalized set of subtle cues and expectations that arise out of their long-term friendships and habits of play.

The satisfaction-moments are rare to the extent of being perhaps a yearly event. "Nothing happened tonight" is typical, but the group believes that you don't legitimately get the cherished moments any other way. Such moments are treasured and carefully repeated among them. 
Or maybe they just didn't tell you because you're kinnnnnd of a pill?
Rarely, another person participates and (horrors!) actually overtly moves the planchette, or discusses how it's being moved. That person is instantly ejected, with cries of "powergamer!" and "pushy bastard!" 
I have never seen this happen ever but I live where its warm and drugs are legal so
They're socially isolated from other role-players,
Have you met other roleplayers?

as their play is so arcane and impenetrable that no one else can easily participate.
If they go to cons, they go together, stay together, and leave together.
They stay together and leave together? Maybe they live in the same city Ron? And are therefore getting on the same plane?
One of them buys a new game that "looks good," and they rarely if ever try it, always rejecting it when they do. 
I bought Mouse Guard once for Connie because she liked D&D and cute mice and wanted to GM her own game but then she read it and kept falling asleep because there were all these narrativist mechanics.  So guilty af I guess.
They're socially isolated not only from gamers, but from everyone, insofar as their hobby is concerned. Forget social context; it's just these guys, aging, playing their tweaked versions of the game they discovered in high school, reminiscing about that one awesome time when character X did that awesome thing.
Who. Hurt. You?
Ouija-board groups vary in terms of how much fun they have, and I'll leave further discussion of the phenomenon to the forums.

So we have to look at this oddly detailed lament when we deal with Ron's ideas about the role of improvisation, randomness, chance and chaos in creating "story".

Now The Meat

What is narrativism, and what does it want from us?

How is this done, actually, in play? It relies on the concept of something called Premise and its relationship to an emergent theme.
I already snuck Premise past you: it's that "problematic issue" I mentioned. I've taken the term from The Art of Dramatic Writing by Lajos Egri. In reading what follows, bear in mind that he is discussing the process of writing, not an existing playscript or a performance:
... every good premise is composed of three parts, each of which is essential to a good play. Let us examine "frugality equals waste." The first part of this premise suggest character - a frugal character. The second part, "leads to," suggests conflict, and the third part, "waste," suggests the end of the play. ...
A good premise is a thumbnail synopsis of your play. [examples follow, including "Egotism leads to loss of friends." - RE]
This is worth backing up on.

Edwards' idea of story is based on this old dead realist playwright's (any doubts about the extent of that will be dispelled if you keep readng--he says as much). What are some other things Egri consider "premises"?

Check it out:

Here are a few other premises:
Bitterness leads to false gaiety.
Foolish generosity leads to poverty.
Honesty defeats duplicity.
Heedlessness destroys friendship.
Ill-temper leads to isolation.
Materialism conquers mysticism.
Prudishness leads to frustration.
Bragging leads to humiliation.
Confusion leads to frustration.
Craftiness digs its own grave.
Dishonesty leads to exposure.
Dissipation leads to self-destruction.
Egotism leads to loss of friends.
Extravagance leads to destitution.
Fickleness leads to loss of self-esteem. 
And what do you do with these premises? Egri goes on:
Although these are only flat statements, they contain all that is required of a well-constructed premise: character, conflict, and conclusion. What is wrong, then? What is missing?
The author's conviction is missing. Until he takes sides, there is no play. Only when he champions one side of the issue does the premise spring to life. Does egotism lead to loss of friends? Which side will you take? We, the readers or spectators of your play, do not necessarily agree with your conviction. Through your play you must therefore prove to us the validity of your contention.
 Let's be clear: The word "premises" is unnecessarily vague in Egri's text. These are morals. And Egri unequivocally says that you must prove the validity of the moral you pick with your story. The moral guides the story.

If you've got your "cherry-picking" alarm going off, hang on, back to Edwards next line after quoting Egri:
A protagonist is not "some guy," but rather "the guy who thinks THIS, and does something accordingly when he encounters adversity." Stories are not created by running some kind of linear-cause program, but rather are brutally judgmental statements upon the THIS, as an idea or a way of being. That judgment is enacted or exemplified in the resolution of the conflict, and a conviction that is proved to us (as Egri says),constitutes theme. Even if we (the audience) disagree with it, we at least must have been moved to do so at an emotional level.
Where do these judgmental statements come from? Egri:

It is idiotic to go about hunting for a premise, since, as we have pointed out, it should be a conviction of yours. You know what your own convictions are. Look them over. Perhaps you are interested in man and his idiosyncrasies. Take just one of those peculiarities, and you have material for several premises.
Remember the fable about the elusive bluebird? A man searched all over the world for the bluebird of happiness, and when he returned home he found it had been there all the time. It is unnecessary to torture your brain, to weary yourself by searching for a premise, when there are so many ready to hand. Anyone who has a few strong convictions is a mine of premises.
Suppose you do find a premise in your wanderings. At best it is alien to you. It did not grow from you; it is not part of you. A good premise represents the author.
We are taking it for granted that you want to write a fine play, something which will endure. The strange thing is that all plays, including farces, are better when the author feels he has something important to say.
And in case you missed it:

You, however, should not write anything you do not believe. The premise should be a conviction of your own, so that you may prove it wholeheartedly. Perhaps it is a preposterous premise to me -- it must not be so to you. 
Although you should never mention your premise in the dialogue of your play, the audience must know what the message is. And whatever it is, you must prove it.

So, according to Egri, and GNS: a story is constructed by thinking of a moral lesson that you, the author, believe, and then using the play to "prove" it.

How do you prove something with a play, dude? Egri describes a playwright who is interested in using his actual Aunt Clara as a subject:

The author who wants to write this play still has no premise. No matter. The story of Aunt Clara's life slowly takes shape nevertheless. There are still many loose ends to which the playwright can return later, when he has found his premise. The question to ask right now is: what will be the end of this woman? Can she go on the rest of her life interfering with and actually crippling people's lives? Of course not. But since Aunt Clara is still alive and going strong on her self-appointed crusade, the author has to determine what will be the end of her, not in reality, but in the play.
Actually, Aunt Clara might live to be a hundred and die in an accident or in bed, peacefully. Will that help the play? Positively not. Accident would be an outside factor which is not inherent in the play. Sickness and peaceful death, ditto. Her death -- if death it will be -- must spring from her actions. A man or woman whose life she wrecked might take vengeance on her and send her back to her Maker. In her overzealousness she might overstep all bounds, go against the Church itself, and be excommunicated. Or she might find herself in such compromising circumstances that only suicide could extricate her.
Whichever of these three possible ends is chosen, the premise will suggest itself: "Extremity (whichever it is) leads to destruction." Now you know the beginning and the end of your play. She was promiscuous to start with, this promiscuity caused a suicide, and she lost the one person she ever really loved. This tragedy brought about her slow but persistent transformation into a religious fanatic. Her fanaticism wrecked lives, and in turn her life was taken. 
So what you do to tell a story is take a moral you already believe and rig up the plot so that it reinforces the belief you already have. Ok, fine I guess, but maybe Edwards isn't full-on recommending this, right? Back to Edwards' next paragraph:
 I think that any reliable means of story-writing, in any medium, conforms to Egri's principles.
They may seem simplistic:
A little?
...the burning passion of the protagonist directly expresses a burning passion of the author's, who uses the plot as a polemic to demonstrate it. However, "Why Johnny shouldn't smoke dope" is only the starting point.
Oh thank god!
More nuanced, ambiguous, and insightful applications arise insofar as more nuanced, ambiguous, and insightful authors and audiences are involved.
 (No details given.)
I said earlier that any role-playing can produce a story, and that's so. But Narrativist role-playing is defined by the people involved placing their direct creative attention toward Premise and toward birthing its child, theme. It sounds simple, and in many ways it is. The real variable is the emotional connection that everyone at the table makes when a player-character does something. If that emotional connection is identifiable as a Premise [a moral], and if that connection is nurtured and developed through the real-people interactions, then Narrativist play is under way. Some nuances:
"Character does something" can mean foreshadowing, flashback, and anything in between. It can mean the character is just thinkin' about it, or it can mean the character flat-out does it. As long as the fictional character is brought into the perceptions and possible emotional responses of the other people at the table, then it counts.
It doesn't matter whether the character fictionally "meant" to do the action, premeditated it, or acted on-the-spot.
In stories (unlike real life), the character's immediate environment is kind of a weird sidekick, who sometimes acts in the character's favor and sometimes against him or her. "Character does something" often includes this sidekick's behavior.
"Identifiable" means assessing how the players treat one another during the process, socially.
From my essay "GNS and related matters of role-playing theory" (
Narrativist Premises focus on producing Theme via events during play. Theme is defined as a value-judgment or point that may be inferred from the in-game events. My thoughts on Narrativist Premise are derived from the book The Art of Dramatic Writing by Lajos Egri, specifically his emphasis on the questions that arise from human conundrums and passions of all sorts.
Is the life of a friend worth the safety of a community?
Does love and marriage override one's loyalty to a political cause?
And many, many more - the full range of literature, myth, and stories of all sorts.
The full range of myth? Here's a myth:
What's the moral of that, Ron?

(Footnote: the story's called "Old Age" so it's likely the "she" and "her" in the final sentence refer to the old woman, but if they refer to the daughter it suddenly becomes a story with a moral. Is it now better? Is it now more of a story?)
Narrativist Premises vary regarding their origins: character-driven Premise vs. setting-driven Premise, for instance. They also vary a great deal in terms of unpredictable "shifts" of events during play. The key to Narrativist Premises is that they are moral or ethical questions that engage the players' interest. The "answer" to this Premise (Theme) is produced via play and the decisions of the participants, not by pre-planning.
A possible Narrativist development of the "vampire" initial Premise, with a strong character emphasis, might be, Is it right to sustain one's immortality by killing others? When might the justification break down?
Another, with a strong setting emphasis, might be, Vampires are divided between ruthlessly exploiting and lovingly nurturing living people, and which side are you on?
I'm still saying the same thing. But now, I've returned to my earlier usage; it's the only meaning for the term "Premise" in my model.
That bit about moral and ethical content is merely one of those personalized clincher-phrasings that some people find helpful. It helps to distinguish a Premise from "my guy fought a dragon, so that's a conflict, so that's a Premise" thinking. However, if these terms bug you, then say, "problematic human issue" instead.
Edwards gets to an interesting technical detail which helps drive narrative play:
Egri presents his Premises as flat statements, and I state them as questions. Using the question form isn't changing anything about what Egri is saying. Premise must pose a question to the real people, creator and audience alike. The fictional character's belief in something like "Freedom is worth any price" is already an implicit question: "Is it really? Even when [insert Situation]?"
A key part of Edwards' vision of narrativism is something like: the GM drops a moral question in front of PCs and they use their part of the game to give an answer. This is pretty much straight up the formula for Dogs In The Vineyard.

Why do this?
Otherwise it will fail to engage anyone.
Egri's statement-construction is very useful for the single author faced with a blank sheet of paper, with the goal at hand being a finished script. The audience will see the play, not the process of creation. However, in the role-playing medium, not only are there multiple authors, but the audience is also composed of these same authors, and their appreciation of the material occurs simultaneously with the significant creative decisions. Therefore, the Premise's imaginary resolution is up for grabs among the group in role-playing, just as it is up for grabs within the author's own head before the play reaches final draft. In the latter case, the jump to "the point" is swift and hopefully certain; in the former case, the new medium, it is anything but. I phrase it as a question for role-playing, to indicate that everyone involved has his or her fair crack at it as one of the authors.
Egri gives some examples of how stories come from premises:

Let us examine a few plays and see whether they have premises.

Romeo and Juliet
The play starts with a deadly feud between two families, the Capulets and the Montagues. The Montagues have a son, Romeo, and the Capulets a daughter, Juliet. 
The youngsters' love for each other is so great that they forget the traditional hate between their two families. Juliet's parents try to force her to marry Count Paris, and, unwilling to do this, she goes to the good friar, her friend, for advice. He tells her to take a strong sleeping draught on the eve of her wedding which will make her seemingly dead for forty-two hours. Juliet follows his advice. Everyone thinks her dead. This starts the onrushing tragedy for the two lovers. Romeo, believing Juliet really dead, drinks poison and dies beside her. When Juliet awakens and finds Romeo dead, without hesitation she decides to unite with him in death. 
This play obviously deals with love. But there are many kinds of love. No doubt this was a great love, since the two lovers not only defied family tradition and hate, but threw away life to unite in death. The premise, then, as we see it is: "Great love defies even death."

I thought the takeaway was "don't take weird herbals from 16th century friars" but ok.

Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, in their ruthless ambition to achieve their goal, decide to kill King Duncan. Then, to strengthen himself in his position, Macbeth hires assassins to kill Banquo, whom he fears. Later, he is forced to commit still more murders in order to entrench himself more securely in the position he has reached through murder. Finally, the nobles and his own subjects become so aroused that they rise against him, and Macbeth perishes as he lived -- by the sword. Lady Macbeth dies of haunting fear.
What can be the premise of this play? The question is, what is the motivating force? No doubt it is ambition. What kind of ambition? Ruthless, since it is drenched in blood. Macbeth's downfall was foreshadowed in the very method by which he achieved his ambition. So, as we see, the premise for Macbeth is: "Ruthless ambition leads to its own destruction."
Or maybe: "Witch prophesies should be interpreted literally"?

My turn:

There once was a man confronted by a great conflict between space aliens, brain-damaged vampires and his friends about stories. He cogitated for years, and then spoke about his beliefs: to the space aliens and vampires he said "I get what you're trying to do, it's just you're doing it wrong". They told him to fuck right off.

To his friends, he said: "Let's tell moralizing stories". They did: either because he convinced them to or because the had always wanted to and he helped them find each other. They moralized hard and they moralized long. They moralized against the space aliens, they moralized against the vampires, they moralized about the trees and sky, they moralized against each other, they moralized against people of color, they moralized against The Perceived Other,  they moralized in ways that appalled him, they moralized against queer people, they moralized against women for taking off their clothes, they moralized against women for making imaginary bad women, they moralized a trans woman right out of games, they moralized on the ceiling and on trains, they moralized against people for calling them insane, they moralized while paying to defend rapists, they moralized while hiring sexual abusers, they moralized on behalf of people of color while ignoring people of color,  they moralized while paying people 5 cents a word.

They moralized longer and harder and with less self-awareness than anyone outside the Republican party has since before World War 2. And though the man distanced himself very much from them and he felt now his legacy was decidedly mixed and increasingly eclipsed. And whenever they were asked to stop they said "But stories are what we DO!"

What's the moral of that?

Here Are Some Ideas About Stories...

...from authors:

Novelist George Saunders, winner of the Booker Prize: “Fiction is a kind of compassion-generating machine that saves us from sloth. Is life kind or cruel? Yes, Literature answers. Are people good or bad? You bet, says Literature. But unlike other systems of knowing, Literature declines to eradicate one truth in favor of another; rather, it teaches us to abide with the fact that, in their own way, all things are true, and helps us, in the face of this terrifying knowledge, continually push ourselves in the direction of Open the Hell Up.” 

Writer/activist Sarah Schulman, : "Without the intervention that most people are afraid to commit to, this escalation cannot be interrupted. In other words, because we won’t change our stories to integrate other people’s known reasons and illuminate their unknown ones, we cannot resolve conflict in a way that is productive, equitable, and fair."

The eminent Zadie Smith: "There are times when reading Wallace feels unbearable, and the weight of things stacked against the reader insurmountable: missing context, rhetorical complication, awful people, grotesque or absurd subject matter, language that is-at the same time!-childishly scatological and annoyingly obscure. And if one is used to the consolation of 'character,' well then Wallace is truly a dead end. His stories simply don’t investigate character; they don’t intend to. Instead they’re turned outward, toward us. It’s our character that’s being investigated."

Neil Gaiman, being less avant-garde but more direct: "Once upon a time is code for ‘I’m lying to you.’"

...and of course there's that one at the top from Kurt Vonnegut.

Here Are Some Other Ideas About Stories...

...from prominent RPG people influenced by GNS and the scene it created:

-"But make-believe is how most cultures, including mine, teach morality to youth. Stories about what to do and not to do and how doing good things gets you good results."

-"If someone tells you that your fucking around with stories they consider sacred hurts them, you can't call them a liar."(Someone defending the idea that the use of the golem in D&D is offensive to Jewish culture.)

-"Stories like this amplify what is often invisible in other games, the smaller stories, the ones you haven't heard before. The ones that focus on the people who maybe don't get the the spotlight, the popularity, their voices and stories heard. The stories that maybe aren't about violence, colonialism, and all that nonsense that is the basic language of tabletop games."

-"I would love to tell stories that make the people who agree with them feel strong and proud ... and which set the ground strategically such that any strong counter-story has to make the people who agree with it feel oppressed and shamed, even as they support the narrative itself."

-"It really does amaze me how many 'epic rpg stories' are only the result of a natural 1 or natural 20 (or the equivalent in another system) and not any inherent creativity from the players or GM. If you get a long chain of 1s or 20s, or the dice explode to a ridiculous degree, or something like that it's amusing, but "I rolled a [1 or 20] and the DM [said I shit myself/said my speech was so beautiful everyone stood up and clapped]" is pretty commonplace."

-"Any story-telling experience can contribute, constructively, to healing, because PTSD sufferers need to be able to tell our own stories to the world and, more importantly, to ourselves. As an accessible storytelling medium, RPGs can't be beat."

Some Fact Claims

GNS Theory had three undeniable effects:

1. It helped people who were into what would be called indie narrativism find their joy and develop games that appealed to them

2. It caused many gamers to shift their critique of other game styles from “You want to kill ogres? Gross” to “Well I can see from this design you’re clearly interested in gamism, but you haven’t really explored what kind of play your game incentivizes or what it’s about”. (1)

3. It created an online network of indie game designers and online game gadflies (they appear in each others’ credits, Patreon each others’ projects and talk about hanging out at cons together) that has been, at least compared to analogous communities, unusually publicly critical of people and products outside of it and unusually publicly uncritical of people and products inside it.  (2)

Hypothesis (that is, an educated guess that I am not sure about): 

Despite GNS's obvious origins in the typical early Internet-Creative stew of left-leaning politics and activism and despite the fact that neither Ron Edwards nor many other successful narrative designers approved of- or could have anticipated it-, the way GNS stereotyped the “necessities” of play, and especially fetishized certain techniques as essential to drama and “story” and moralisty both originated in- and contributed to- a certain nerdy, militantly middlebrow brand risk-prioritized-over-benefit brand of interpersonal and cultural conservatism, which made that scene vulnerable to the kinds of half-thought-out or outright bad-faith weaponized cultural and game criticism that characterize it now, especially in its relationship to “problematic content”.

I realize this is a stretch and that the argument for this hypothesis better be good. I also realize the data to prove this isn’t available to me yet and that it would be irresponsible to claim it as anything other than an educated guess that requires more investigation if anyone cares. This is a suspicion, not an accusation.

The point of all the quotes is that GNS helped spawn a subculture singularly obsessed with the most obvious functions of the most obvious kinds of stories-escapism, identifying with the main character, who gets to be the main character, didacticism, therapy--while, here at the beginning of the 21st century (and honestly starting well before Lajos Egri wrote his book) our greatest authors have for the most part concluded that stories are fucking suspicious and simply rewriting formulaic dramas with a few nouns and verbs replaced with nouns and verbs that we feel more ideologically comfortable with isn't enough. The very structure of the classical story is part of the problem. 

This attitude in literature is consonant with what is often called postmodernism and now maybe even postpostmodernism. In literature, its avatars include: Nabokov, Pynchon, Donald Barthelme, Kathy Acker, William S Burroughs, M John Harrison, Alan Moore, Octavia Butler, Godard, Cormac McCarthy, Angela Carter, David Lynch, Grant Morrison, David Foster Wallace, JG Ballard, and the other authors above.

Its tools include multiple discordant voices, indeterminacy, shattered or experimental dramatic structures, unreliable narrators, intentionally distracting formats, wild violations of genre tropes, nested layers of narrative, improvisation, collage, meanings you have to think to get and which can change, irony, and intentionally breaking the 4th wall. Which are pretty D&D things if you think about it.

What does Ron think of that?
I think most postmodernism is arrant garbage, so I'll say that a story is a fictional series of events which present a conflict and a resolution, with the emergent/resulting audience experience of "theme." [a moral] I also think that stories concern a fairly limited range of possible conflicts, but the angles one might use for presentation, and the interactions among the range, make for quite a stunning array of individual examples or expressions of them. 
That was written 3 years after the original narrativism essay and Ron affirmed what he said there recently. He summarized his post in the following way:

"White Wolf games, and their spiritual children, produce behaviors in the people who play them that are not only socially dysfunctional, but downright harmful to people's ability to just tell a simple story."...I can quibble/clarify just a little, to point out that I think White Wolf games of the early-mid 1990s were the high-water mark of the damaging trend, not the originator. And that I'd say "enjoy and/or tell," not just "tell."

Why, in 2018 when the fate of the free world might depend on which news a Facebook robot decides to drop in front of us, or how many people voted because of a cartoon frog, or on Stormy fucking Daniels, would anyone want to tell a simple story? And why would the ones who did think of themselves as more story-savvy than other people?

If stories can contribute to our survival it is first and foremost in recognizing complication--especially the complication of storytelling itself.

Along with death and taxes, chaos is inevitable. You will spend your entire life in a struggle against chaos, especially in creation: "Anything you build on a large scale or with intense passion invites chaos." Francis Ford Coppola said that one.

And none of these the stories GNS exhorted people to tell (or the story about what stories were) prepared the small culty Indie RPG audience for chaos or complexity.

They did quite the opposite, encouraging a simplistic rhetoric about how STORIES MATTER which, with the pretension boiled away, were basically equivalent to "videogames cause violence" with a protective layer of vagueness and uncertainty inserted--incarnated in the Extremely Online use of "problematic" to hide a shifting multitude of unprovable concerns.

Edwards himself claims that White Wolf Games's rhetoric of "real roleplaying" did serious damage to the gaming community--but that's pre-internet so who knows? But with his own we can actually track the spread of gibberish memes from messageboard to messageboard and from gadfly to designer and what it reveals is: the more influential GNS is in any give subcommunity, the more likely it is to uncritically "Yes. This:" any idea smiling properly and carrying the right subcultural passport--up to and including advertising the work Forge game designers and the Forge-adjacent game designers harassing them on the same day, and decrying trolls whose products they themselves are pushing on their own sites.

This could be dismissed as the usual internet shitshow if it wasn't for the fact that nearly all these confusions begin with somebody reaching out to tell the internet that somebody else's Stories were morally bad--generally to a feeding frenzy of shares and Likes. And everyone else does it less.

Edwards, in the same series of posts:

A brief list of the specific features, or telltales, of the damaged story-capacity.
- The person cannot distinguish between "hopping over a fence" and conflict, between "this guy meets that guy" and a decisive plot event, or between "dramatic close-up" and character decision-making
- The person cannot summarize any story in simple four-point structure (conflict, rising action, climax, conclusion) - they typically hare off into philosophical or technical interpretations, or remain stuck in narrating the first ten minutes of the story in detail
- The person will devote many hours (and can talk for many hours) to commenting on the details of the story's presentation, either feverishly supportive or feverishly dismissive, but entirely uncritically
Leaving aside the issue that all of those sound like descriptions of early David Foster Wallace or Jon Barth stories about postmodern consciousness, let me try to match that not with "specific features, or telltales" but with a list of things post-GNS people disproportionately don't or can't do:

-Imagine wildly morally different scenarios that could all lead to the same event.

-Notice equivocation from a sympathetic narrator: that is, one word is being used in multiple ways or vaguely.

-Notice a double standard used by a sympathetic narrator.

-Avoid using received phrases uncritically.

-Acknowledge any parallel rhetoric being used by both a sympathetic and unsympathetic narrator.

-Notice and name most of the basic verbal propaganda techniques which standardized tests expect middle schoolers to recognize (bandwagon, testimonial, etc--except "emotional appeal") especially when used by a sympathetic narrator.

-Ignore tone.

-Acknowledge two narrators--both sympathetic and sympathetic to each other--have mutually-exclusive stories or philosophies.

-Spontaneously bring up a not-genre, not-assigned-regularly-in-high-school piece of fiction they read. Especially a hard one.


Believe it or not, this late in the essay: I have no ill will toward the games or the players of them. I have only a suspicion that this rhetoric about how stories were simple-acting moral forces, in the context of the angry angry early internet, added and validated and solidified a tendency to point fingers at any story the fingerpointer didn't want to hear.

I don't think it's a coincidence that the creators of the most Paladins & Princesses style wish-fulfillment game then went on to massively botch their relationship to-, and investigation of- a sexual abuser they hired (3). I don't think it's a coincidence that the author of the most bland and poorly-written of the popular Indie games, who lashed out at games for being allegedly rapey then hid in a hole for "mental health reasons", went on to plow their advertising money into supporting a site that decried rape culture while harboring rapists. I don't think it's a coincidence that the people who were repeatedly told what they had in common was stories and that stories mattered and that stories were simple things turned out to be consistently gullible and panic-stricken in the face of any reality more complicated than "The person you like did a good thing" or "The person you don't like did a bad thing".

Gamers who either expected no truth at all from the chaotic stories they were inventing or who decided the meaning, if any, was achieved rather than received, managed to not do any of this. They, like anyone, could be bad, but they didn't consistently couple badness with the destructive rhetoric of their own goodness.  Is there a GNS fan thinking "That's not me!"? Then do something about it.

The Original Sin of gaming: equating chaos with evil, happened with the publication of OD&D, just after Vonnegut had written:
 Let others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order, instead, which I think I have done. 
If all writers would do that, then perhaps citizens not in the literary trades will understand that there is no order in the world around us, that we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead. 

But AD&D had that rectified by '77. Hell, even England had that figured out by '77. What happened to you?

(1) (Factual detail: I don’t know whether it contributed to 4e D&D’s hyperfocus on system-specific-tactical play but it undeniably contributed to the popular defense of that design as “objectively good gamism”.)

(2) (Factual detail: Well-known game designers and community organizers in the indie scene declaim responsibility for it even to the point of repeatedly claiming there is no “scene” or “community” despite the fact they have easily-demonstrable economic and social ties going back almost twenty years and if one of them says something big and controversial online, the others inevitably know about it within 48 hours.)

(3) (Barely coherent samples of said chaos here)

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

“The Gamists have a lot to teach the rest of the hobby about self-esteem.“


Ron Edwards said that in the essay we're about to go through--which is the third in his series about GNS Theory: the tabletop RPG theory that's sat in the hollow space where a better one should be for 18 years.

First one (GNS in general).
Second one (Simulationism).

This essay is about what GNS--and too many other people--call "gamism".

There's Good News and Bad News

Bad news first:

Edwards' gamism essay is the least interesting for three reasons:

1. His idea of “gamism"-- inherited from somebody else's previous 3fold model--has a definition most similar to a kind of genuine gaming goal/motivation recognized outside GNS in pop and academic usage: Challenge-based play. Calling it “Gamism” muddles this issue (these are all games) but whatever--it might be said that in some way all kinds of game-interactions involve a challenge (can I think up a story in time?) too so whatever. Point is: Edwards isn't trying to describe a thing he helped invent and solidify (narrativism) or trying to describe a thing that isn't really there (simulationism) but rather pointing to a known and familiar concept: People who wanna do good at a contest.

2. Edwards attempts to define some things here that have, as of 2018, been defined way better in pop video game usage and in tabletop RPGs by, mostly, DIY-RPG and OSR people and also by fans of the kinds of challenge emphasized in 4e D&D. So this essay is largely just a checklist of which of those things Edwards and his influences had and had not figured out by 2003.

3. Beyond that, he only introduces one new concept: the social reward.

Now the good news:

That means this one will be short.

Gamism: Step On Up
by Ron Edwards

The intro provides a lot of social context for internet RPG theory circa 2003: acknowledgements include one more known harasser, one known pretty cool guy, and says input came from "
Gaming Outpost,, and the Forge."

Then it gets to:

Gamism was originally identified in the RFGA Threefold Model of role-playing styles, and I think from its first mention, nearly everyone has said, "Oh, yeah, Gamism," with little debate about its qualities...With respect to the members of the RFGA discussion group, I think they categorized Gamist play mainly in order to sweep it out of the realm of further dialogue, in order to concentrate on issues that I would now primarily identify within Simulationist play. I also think that most, although not all, subsequent discussion has been similar. Yet that exceptional bit, here and there over several forums, indicates far less consensus out there than might have been expected or assumed.  

I'm going for a real look at the category for its own sake. In some ways I'm kind of a case study of the problem, but I hope also part of the solution as well; my own views have changed immensely since I referred to Gamist players as "space aliens" years ago on the Gaming Outpost. 
So that's where these guys are coming from. Now repeating a lot of GNS from the first two essays (though now the three modes of play have "creative agendas" instead of premises) and then on to...

Exploration is composed of five elements, no sweat: Character, Setting, Situation, System, and Color ... but it's not a hydra with five equal heads. These things have creative and specific dependencies among one another, and now's the time to reveal a filthy secret about them.  
It's this: Situation is the center. Situation is the imaginative-thing we experience during play. Character and Setting are components that produce it, System is what Situation does, and Color can hardly be done without all this in place to, well, to color. Situation is the 400-lb gorilla of the five elements, or, if you will, the central node. It's central regardless of how much attention it's receiving relative to the other components.  
Gamist play, more than any other mode, demands that Situation be not only central, but also the primary focus of attention. You want to play Gamist? Then don't piss about with Character and/or Setting without Situation happening, or about to. 

This doesn't seem like so much a filthy little secret as a successful rendering of common sense into jargon. Yes: in order to have challenge-play the game must include contests (which are a kind of situation).

Edwards then introduces the idea of social reinforcement as key (emphasis mine):
The definition at last  
A few paragraphs back, I promised a definition for Gamism and here it is. It operates at two levels: the real, social people and the imaginative, in-game situation.  
1. The players, armed with their understanding of the game and their strategic acumen, have to Step On Up. Step On Up requires strategizing, guts, and performance from the real people in the real world. This is the inherent "meaning" or agenda of Gamist play (analogous to the Dream in Simulationist play).  
Gamist play, socially speaking, demands performance with risk, conducted and perceived by the people at the table. What's actually at risk can vary - for this level, though, it must be a social, real-people thing, usually a minor amount of recognition or esteem. The commitment to, or willingness to accept this risk is the key - it's analogous to committing to the sincerity of The Dream for Simulationist play. This is the whole core of the essay, that such a commitment is fun and perfectly viable for role-playing, just as it's viable for nearly any other sphere of human activity. 
Aside from the weirdly Broadway imagery of "step on up" the strangest idea here is that contestant-style play requires a social risk of recognition or esteem. Anyone who has sat home alone playing, well, nearly-any video game will tell you that social reinforcement's not essential to challenge.

Why does he miss this? Two reasons I can see:

Although he uses a basketball analogy below Edwards, like Robin Laws, consistently forgets about leisure's role as exercise. I say "forgets" because he intermittently refers to it, then leaves it out of theoretical frameworks. Just as parts of some peoples' brains are wired to go "You got the ball in the hoop, you are developing survival skills, have some happy" (or whatever) many peoples' brains are wired to see the process of thinking through (hell, not necessarily even winning) a tactical challenge as fun because part of the brain (often correctly) perceives thinking as helping you get better at thinking.

The second reason is that by walling off (rhetorically if not technically deep down in the theory's heart) the person who enjoys challenge from the other things that happen in games that the same contestant-minded player might also enjoy (socializing, dialogue-swapping, relationships, collaboration, "simulational" effects of employing a given tactic that only work in tabletop, teamwork as a tactical complexity, etc) Edwards is left wondering why this person would want to compete in a group instead of alone at home with a video game. So he devises social reinforcement as a patch to explain it.

This is the biggest problem with GNS: even if it technically allows for connections and hybridizations between various goals (creative agendas) its emphasis on designing around one or the other means its practitioners constantly forget that they're designing/critiquing a complete unique playscape for people with complex personalities, moods, and interactions who take in media as a more or less successful juggling of various priorities--not machines obsessed with Mostly Story or Mostly Punching.

Anyway, then Edwards goes on to uncontroversially point out that in addition to Step On Up, the thing he calls gamism also includes the thing the rest of us call challenge:
2. The in-game characters, armed with their skills, priorities, and so on, have to face a Challenge, which is to say, a specific Situation in the imaginary game-world. Challenge is about the strategizing, guts, and performance of the characters in this imaginary game-world.  
For the characters, it's a risky situation in the game-world; in addition to that all-important risk, it can be as fabulous, elaborate, and thematic as any other sort of role-playing. Challenge is merely plain old Situation - it only gets a new name because of the necessary attention it must receive in Gamist play. Strategizing in and among the Challenge is the material, or arena, for whatever brand of Step On Up is operating.
 He hits the "social reinforcement" theme again:

So, I think more sensibly, it's good to look inside Gamism to see the game there - what is it? It's a recreational, social activity, in which one faces circumstances of risk - but neither life-threatening nor of any other great material consequence. All that's on the line is some esteem, probably fleeting, enough to enjoy risking and no more. Think of a poker game among friends with very minor stakes, or a neighborhood pickup basketball game. Taking away the small change or the score-counting would take away a lot of the fun, because they help to track or prompt the minor esteem ups-and-downs. 

I believe how Ron would describe Ron's error here is he's committing synechdoche--confusing the part (the kind of challenge where you trash talk your friends) with the whole (all challenge in groups).

Ironic from the guy who said “The Gamists have a lot to teach the rest of the hobby about self-esteem.“

He then goes into a typology of types of competition, which is noncontroversial and jargony and then some critiques of intro-to-roleplaying texts and how they talk about "winning". These critiques have the same kinds of problems as the ones in the last essay so not much new to report, for example:

The following is from Legendary Lives, second edition (1993, Marquee Press, authors are Joe Williams and Kathleen Williams): 
The players are impromptu actors within the scenes created by the referee ... The fun comes from interacting with the other characters and with the imaginary world created by the referee. For the duration of the game, try to immerse yourself in the role. [Sim so far - RE]  
The first goal of a player is survival. Yes your character can die during an adventure, and a dead character is completely gone. If your character is smart enough, bright enough, or lucky enough, he or she will survive to reap the benefits of becoming older, wiser, and more powerful. 
[Wowsies, eh? Then text follows which backpeddles rapidly and tries to explain why character death isn't losing. -RE]

Wowsies what, Ron? The barbarian wants to survive and the hat-check boy immersed in the role of being a barbarian also wants his barbarian to survive. These rhetorics don't conflict at all.

He talks about the light tone of gamist texts like Tunnels & Trolls and its ilke:

 In these games, the idea is to keep the Challenge whimsical enough that its occasionally-extreme consequences don't reflect proportionally on the player's emotional stakes of the moment. 

That's certainly one way to do it. Though honestly not one that's necessary.

Then this is just weird:

 The reason most Gamists play wizards over fighters lies not in avoiding conflict but in having choices. The fighter's choices are all front-loaded - which sword (the best one), which armor (the best one), etc - while the wizard's are more immediate: which spell at what time. 
The only other time I've seen an analysis remotely like this is the Something Awful hate-clique saying wizards are always overpowered in D&D because nerds identify with them.

If you're viewing the fighter's choices as all front-loaded, you suck at D&D and are going to die. At least in a genuinely challenge-driven game.

Then, shockingly amidst all this, a real observation:

Valid Gamist conflict and valid Gamist choice lead directly to strategy and tactics, which I like to think of in two ways. The first way is the interplay of resources, combined arms, either-or decisions, effectiveness, point-husbanding, and similar game-mechanics acumen...The second way is all about bending parameters, lateral thinking, and occasional banzai, which is to say, one's ability to shape the actual play, or the importance of its parts, through sheer interaction with it and with other people. 

Here he seems like he's kind of getting at the difference between system-mastery-based player skill (like Magic: the Gathering) and system-agnostic player skill (like in OSR-style challenges as exemplified by Max).

He then, curiously, immediately forgets this distinction:

The Gamble and the Crunch  
Challenge is the Situation faced by the player-characters with a strong implication of risk. It can be further focused into applications, which individually tend toward one of these two things:  
The Gamble occurs when the player's ability to manipulate the odds or clarify unknowns is seriously limited. "Hold your nose and jump!" is its battle-cry. Running a first-level character in all forms of D&D is a Gamble; all of Ninja Burger play is a Gamble. More locally, imagine a crucial charge made by a fighter character toward a dragon - his goal is to distract it from the other character's coordinated attack, and he's the only one whose hit points are sufficient to survive half its flame-blast. Will he make the saving roll? If he doesn't, he dies. Go!  
The Crunch occurs when system-based strategy makes a big difference, either because the Fortune methods involved are predictable (e.g. probabilities on a single-die roll), or because effects are reliably additive or cancelling (e.g. Feats, spells). Gamist-heavy Champions play with powerful characters is very much about the Crunch. The villain's move occurs early in Phase 3; if the speed-guy saves his action from Phase 2 into Phase 3 to pre-empt that action, and if the brick-guy's punch late on Phase 3 can be enhanced first by the psionic-guy's augmenting power if he Pushes the power, then we can double-team the villain before he can kill the hostage. 
So this "gamble" is bravely risking your character and this "crunch" is employing system-specific skill. Where did system-agnostic player skill go?
Oh shit, Perseus, good idea

(Incidentally, Ron does realize system-agnostic player skill exists--we've had that conversation. Ron's problem consistently isn't observing things--it's explaining them.)

He gets into kinds of competition, notably with the GM:

The Challenge adversity sets up all sorts of System demands and risks to the characters, which in turn can provide the motor for the Step On Up adversity to kick into action. That's a powerful phenomenon; arguably, it was the core of D&D play becoming a popular hobby at all in the mid-1970s, based on organized tournaments. 
But all the possible combinations are overwhelming - whose strategizing is opposed to whose? If a GM is the source of adversity, to what extent is he or she a potential competitor as well? What are the differences between GM as referee, as judge, and as player of opponents?

This deserves some attention only because the phrase "adversarial GMing" exists (often identified as a bad thing) and it's confusing to anyone remotely familiar with GMing. If the GM is an adversary, how could they ever lose? Only people who use the phrase "adversarial GMing" can answer that. Here they do in useful detail.

Ron then spends several paragraphs talking about differences between challenge-based systems that exist, then reward systems, then:

In taking this idea to design, my mind kind of balks at the tricky mix of Exploration and Competition, and how to keep them from being at cross-purposes. It is really hard to conceive of Gamist reward mechanisms that are both consistently satisfying across long-term play and meaningful at the Step On Up level. Abstract victory points are arguably quite weak; "you win" means nothing if it, well, doesn't do anything. The more-commonly seen metric of character survival is badly broken, in a variety of applications. If character death is temporary, it's not much of a loss condition, but if it's not, the game is often forced to abandon the loss condition such that people can continue to play. 

Um: you die, you make a new, unleveled PC and lose all that advancement and character development. Back to World 1-1.

Survival means you keep getting to play that PC. Survival with xp eventually results in interesting subgenre drift as PCs level.

Ron then goes into a section called the Joys of Gamism where he declares various things fun.

Paragraph 1 it's character optimization.

Paragraph 2  it's fun "to strategize one or more characters' actions such that their effect and timing delivers a phenomenal wallop, or more generally, has a distinctive and exciting effect on play"

Paragraph 3 it's using system-mastery-based skill.

Paragraph 4 it's the above-mentioned gamble and crunch.

Paragraph 5 it's " see the legitimately avoidable twist be avoided, or fail to be avoided."


He then gets into The Hard Core--which is when the challenge-obsessed player is a jerk in various ways to other people in the game. Basically it's just a list of "don't"s but, again, there are weird hiccups of attention:

To prevent Powergaming, many game designers identify the GM as the ultimate and final rules-interpreter. It's no solution at all, though: (1) there's no way to enforce the enforcement, and (2), even if the group does buy into the "GM is always right" decree, the GM is now empowered to Powergame over everyone else. 

Again: how can the GM "powergame"? What does that even mean, Ron? GMs don't have stats, Ron? I mean they do in Marvel Heroic, Ron? But that game came after this essay, Ron? And it's mostly GNS' fault that game exists, Ron?

He eventually moves on to Breaking The Game, which he defines well:

Theoretically, any and all games are breakable: one can always sweep the pieces off the board. But I'm talking about doing so in the context of identifying internal inconsistencies or vulnerable points in the design, breaking the game by playing it and rendering the Exploration nonsensical. Here's the key giveaway in terms of system design: it is Broken (i.e. Breaking consistently works) if repetitive, unchanging behavior garners benefit.

Though it needs a few caveats: it would have to be repetitive unchanging play of the kind the people attracted to that game would actually engage in. Like I don't think this legitimately means AW is broken, just not a good game for fans of system-mastery-based player-skill solutions.

(Incidentally: I notice that a lot of forum-trash declarations that games are "broken" only make sense with extremely dull challenge-parameter assumptions. Like we're supposed to care about the lives of people who actually use owlbears.)

Ron then lists a lot of games and analyzes them in some way that might be helpful if you were really drunk at a party and needed to sound smart to storygamers "Tunnels & Trolls - Exploration medium, role of Fortune high, emphasis on Gamble, "go" length = level, units of local loss = PC death or diminishment of abilities, degree of metagame is low except for some whimsy " then addresses the super boring question of whether D20 is gamist then moves on to:

How is Gamist design distributed across games throughout the hobby's history?

This section is damaged by Edwards mistaking rules supporting complex multivector challenge, maintenance simulation, and emergent anecdote for “Simulationism” and is just basically more of him inexplicably categorizing games because of it.
Oh right, they have legs so that makes sense

He moves on to point out how once gamism gets into a game with another focus it tends to take over and gives some examples of other kinds of game drifted toward gamism:

Gamist-Drifted Vampire consists of extensive breakpoint exploitation. The metric is Champions-like character effectiveness, specifically who can ignore as well as deliver the most damage. More subtly, it's also coolness, whoever gets to be perceived as the most real-Goth of the bunch. Many Vampire LARPs tend in this direction as well, with the added benefits of singles-bar interactions.

This introduces an idea that potentially annihilate GNS all on its own, though from a different direction than we've been tackling it: if whoever is the coolest can be considered a gamey challenge then why not...whoever makes up the most compelling story? Whoever addresses Theme hard enough?

The point: Straight challenge (Gamist) play in RPGs definitely fits the normal definition of "game" (basketball, chess, Halo, etc).  The gamelike qualities of improvised conversation (Sim) and collaborative storytelling (Narrativism) are a little further from what people usually think of as a "game" the reason people create stories in this format rather than alone on a Mac because part of the appeal is some kind of competitiveness? Or, at least, the idea that you all, together, are collaborating to cleverly improvise plot twists and so defeat (in a short amount of time) plotlessness, meaninglessness, bored staring? That is: is it done in this format because it's basically just a different kind of challenge? Is challenge, after all, actually essential to anything called an RPG? Probably not. But with many Narrative designs the fact that making this creativity a game essentially means making it social and giving it time constraints so an element of implied contest--at least as much as the Vampire players' imagined "cool contest".

Edwards  describes a lot of problems he's seen which I have't which I'm sure exist somewhere, then moves on to possible hybrids, then addresses game balance:

The assumption that Gamist play is uniquely or definitively concerned with "balance" is very, very mistaken. 


  1. Compare "balance" with the notion of parity, or equality of performance or resources. If a game includes enforced parity, is it is balanced? Is it that simple? And if not, then what?
  1. Bear in mind that Fairness and Parity are not synonymous. One or the other might be the real priority regardless of which word is being used. Also, "Fair" generally means, "What I want."
  1. Are we discussing the totality of a character (Effectiveness, Resource, Metagame), or are we discussing Effectiveness only, or Effectiveness + Resource only?
  1. Are we discussing "screen time" for characters at all, which has nothing to do with their abilities/oomph?
  1. Are we discussing anything to do at all with players, or rather, with the people at the table? Can we talk about balance in regard to attention, respect, and input among them? Does it have anything to do with Balance of Power, referring to how "the buck" (where it stops) is distributed among the members of the group?
They can't all be balance at once. 

Fair enough then he gets on to Pitfalls of Gamist design. These are predictably a mix of nuts-and-bolts and myopic:

Defend against Breaking through elegance, not through patch rules. Eliminate, from the ground up, all recursiveness, nonfunctional layers, and mathematical ratios. 
Fortune should be present for a Gamist reason, for instance, to introduce uncertainty at specific points, for specific impacts on the goals of play. It can be very rare to absent, or wildly and constantly present, but whatever it is, it needs to "spike" the play-experience rather than dilute it. Using Fortune to model the statistical vagaries of in-game physical effects should be a secondary concern, if present at all. 

He doesn't get that the more fortune (dice-rolling) models the statistical vagaries of in-game effects (for whatever subgenre the players expect), the easier it is to have non-system-mastery-based challenges. If chickens are about as flammable as you think they are, your tactical estimations will be meaningfully related to outcomes when you devise a burning-chicken-based plan.

Then some more problems Ron's seen or expects will confront the gamist designer and Ron finishes with...

The Hard Question  
Each of these three essays concludes with a challenge to the role-player who prefers the mode under discussion. For the Gamist, the question is, why is role-playing your chosen venue as a social hobby? There are lots and lots of them that unequivocally fit Step On Up with far less potential for encountering conflicting priorities: volleyball, chess, or pool, if you like the Crunch; horse races or Las Vegas if you like the Gamble; hell, even organized amateur sports like competitive martial arts or sport fishing 
Do you play Gamist in role-playing because it doesn't hurt your ego as much as other venues might? Is role-playing safer in some way, in terms of the loss factor of Step On Up? Even more severely, are you sticking to role-playing because many fellow players subscribe to the "no one wins in role-playing" idea? Do you lurk like Grendel among a group of tolerant, perhaps discomfited Simulationists, secure that they are disinclined to Step On Up toward you? In which case, you can win against them or the game all the time, but they will never win against you?  
I accuse no one of affirmative answers to these questions; that's the reader's business. But I do think answering them should be a high priority

Because we never run into "conflicting priorities" and trying to win makes stories Ron.

Or, rather, anecdotes. I wouldn't want to step on your toes.

Next and last: the Narrativism essay: "Story Now".

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