A Lot to Be Learned

Yesterday I was advised by a reader that there was "a lot to be learned" from Kelsey Dionne's Shadowdark. So I looked further into it. Shown is a screenshot of page 9, demonstrating the depth, difficulty and text size of the Shadowdark product. By typing "Shadowdark pdf" into the Google search engine, it's possible for anyone to read the entire document with patience and a willingness to skip ads.

I'll begin by pointing out that this is quite obviously not an independently designed role-playing game. It depends heavily on D&D, which is a nice way of saying it outright stole D&D's mechanics, dumbed them down and removed everything of nuance. On a design level, this is more or less the equivalent of rewriting Shakespeare's plays as a book of short stories. It helps a LOT with creativity when the goal is, first, let someone else do the work, and second, dumb it down to a grade school level of comprehension.

Doesn't terribly impress me.

I was never a supporter of the Old School Renaissance. I want to make that perfectly clear. I wrote yesterday that "The Old School Renaissance emerged as a reaction to what many players saw as the increasing complexity of newer editions of D&D." My philosophy about gaming differs from this premise in two important ways.

First of all, I don't think newer editions of D&D are very fucking complex. In fact, I think they're extremely stupified in design and mechanics, infantile in their reward systems and egregiously "non-game" in structure. Without hesitation, I automatically rank people who think 3rd, 4th or 5th edition D&D is "complex" as people not ready to for a grown-up career. Compared with what university educated professionals do every day, the "complexity" of D&D fits the status of learning how to Halloween as a kid. That is, not complex. We're not removing game resistance, we're not removing density... when someone carps about the need for D&D to return to the simplification of "The OSR", they're talking about removing adulthood.

People talk about AD&D and later editions as though they're equivalent to climbing K2. I'll remind the reader that I learned how to play the game at fifteen. My daughter did at nine. What are we to do with a bunch of adults who whine that D&D is so hard, they can't manage on the level of a nine-year-old?

My other reason for disliking the OSR comes from my having been playing this whole time, albeit with dark periods. By the summer of 1980, nine months after learning the game, I was so dissatisfied with the simplicity of AD&D that I began rewriting parts of the game to make it more complex, not less.  And mind you, I'm no superbrain. I do not have a PhD, I'm not an engineer or a doctor, or a lawyer; I've never had a technical job (I don't count writing). I've never worked in research or design or manufacturing. As a writer, I comment on things. This is not a superbrain activity. So when I say, "AD&D wasn't complex enough," I'm not writing as Steven Hawkings. I'm saying, the game was so egregiously simple, it wasn't sufficient to provide what I needed my game system to provide. That is millions (plural) of miles away from Shadowdark, 43 years before the launch of the latter.

I have continued to make the game more complex in the years since. As such, I have very little reason to embrace the OSR's ideology, and even less reason to consider the dumbification of AD&D as something I can "learn" from. If AD&D felt insufficient for me in 1980, before internet discourse, before "narrative gaming," before Critical Role, before modern bloat, before corporate overproduction, long before the presence of another edition or even the simplistic splatbooks of original AD&D, then my point of view could not have been in 2010 that D&D had "lost its way" through excess complexity. I thought the idea ridiculous at the time and I continue to think it's ridiculous. Moreover, I don't want to play with people who think the OSR idea has any validity. If that's you, for the love of all things sacred, stop playing D&D and go get a real fucking job, one with consequences attached to your actions. You need more life experience, not a dumber game.

Let me see if I can explain where a simple system utterly fails my perceived structure of player agency and opportunity. If you don't know me, you might want to read this, this and then this post.

If you're following along with the Discord Campaign, then you know that my party has recently been offered logistical support from a group of ethnic Hungarians seeking to destabilise the Ottoman Regime from the inside... an idea the party has embraced because they see it as a way of enriching themselves. Parties are, after all, always parties.

But now that the players have decided to onboard themselves (they were not required to do so; if they had not, I'd have simply given them some other opportunity), then the system they play in has to be robust enough to answer their intentions honestly and intelligently. A simplified system cannot hope to sustain deep agency in a setting that lacks the procedural density needed to answer the player's meaningful questions. Before Ottoman logistics in Hungary can be destabilised, they have to be comprehended, they need a logic. The players will need to know, ahead of time, what the blockhouse ought to contain, fairly, without that being strictly an arbitrary number of gold. They need to know which trade routes matter and why, what support the blockhouse has from the immediate area, how authority functions both in the blockhouse and in the surrounding region under Ottoman control. To make decisions on how to attack the blockhouse, they must have information on residents in the area, the probable consequence of the attack, what the next target might logically be, what an end-point of their engagement might be, where they feel they have a right to draw the line before getting in deeper... all with a legitimate agency that says "the players are in charge of what the players do," not me, not a story, not a convenient "adventure midway ride," nothing whatsoever that forces them, beyond the pure logic of the setting, to keep going in a setting large enough that if they walk two hundred miles west, they can escape Ottoman influence entirely and set up shop elsewhere with a clean slate.

Shadowdark's mechanics simply aren't good enough to provide this.

This is the real divide between the D&D I'm teaching and the D&D being sold, under various cheap-minded rubrics. The OSR often talks about "player freedom," but what that usually means is freedom inside a vacuum. The players may choose any direction, but the world lacks enough internal structure for those directions to materially differ from the players' perspective in any meaningful way. They can choose the left door vs. the right one. They can choose whether to enter the dungeon or not. They can choose whether or not this is the right time to return to town and resupply. The decisions are isolated, trivial and ultimately meaningless in a broader context. Players can make a choice, but they cannot engage their strategic reasoning because there is no rule structure and no complex setting against which to test their understanding of potential consequences. They can't have agency because there's nothing to have agency about. Without a detailed framework, the setting simply cannot respond to player choice.

Thus, complexity in the mechanics and the world is the medium through which player agency becomes functional. Detailed systems allow players to make deliberate choices, anticipate outcomes and respond to evolving circumstances. Without that depth, what appears to be freedom is in fact constrained and superficial. The richness of the system and the world is what allows agency to exist in a functional sense. In essence, the world’s complexity and the rules' granularity are inseparable from the player's capacity to act deliberately and with impact.

But as I said in the attached posts, DMs don't want that. They want controlled, managed, contained players who do as they're told, so they can move from points A to B to C in succession in a curated, Candyland-like structured game setting, where cardboard baddies are knocked down with dice, or fudging, since if the baddie doesn't fall then it has to be pushed over. This is what OSR celebrates as the "ideal model" for D&D, and I think that's gawdawful.

Finally, with regard to yesterday's post, one thing I did not comment upon was the lack of actual game discussion among the participants. I did not learn anything about Shadowdark from Dionne's own mouth, the matter of "State of OSR in 2026" was not in fact discussed because, in fact, OSR itself was not discussed. What was discussed was an hour of "engagement" in the least valuable, socially awkward manner imaginable.

To which I'd like to respond, can the reader see me on this panel?

It's a two-part question. First, is there any universe in which these people could imaginatively look at this blog or my content or my work and want to have me present? I think not.

And secondly, since I would talk about the subject, the State of OSR in 2026, which would be to say, it will be exactly what it was in 2025. "Advancement" is not being made in any sort of science or game play manner. It is just people churning out more product of the exact same kind. I would not be welcome with my comments. I would make everyone at the table extremely uncomfortable because I would not be there to sell anything. And where it comes to table sales, the purpose of this kind of video is to make sure no one looks incompetent, since we're giving everyone lip service in order to sell themselves as "real, authentic people" while needing to do nothing to perform that model except to sit in chairs and speak in vaguely conversational patterns. The panel does not exist to investigate anything, or talk about anything, or present a viewpoint that might damage their potential sales.

That is why, for me, I'd as soon be a member of a panel of real estate agents talking about "the housing market in 2026"... since, obviously, for real estate agents, the only answer to that question is, "It's going to be amazeballs!"

Thank you, no.

Can you imagine the seller of an OSR product addressing the question, the State of the OSR in 2026 with the answer, "This design trend, actually, has reached a dead end in these last fifteen years. I think we need to reconsider whether or not this OSR thing has actually run its course."

"Story"

I'd like to start with around and about the time the Internet first jumped into mass-interactive format, when it stepped beyond Dalnet, chat rooms and email, into webpages and search engines. In searching to self-educate about dungeon mastering and player management, I stumbled into a number of link-heavy pages dedicated to explaining real business management — self governance, attention management, stress techiques, task assignment and planning, information tools and systems, agile management, change, conflict, constraint... it's a massive, massive field. And while I rarely address those subjects in a post now, the process of understanding management on that level did correct and retrain my thinking process toward better explaining how to manage a game of D&D... but, I want to say, in an abstract way. Management as an academic approach, I'm afraid I have to say, is thick with magical thinking. Where what you want becomes true, not because it is true, but through the tautology of wanting it.

It was at that time, 25 years ago, that I first bumped into the word "story."  Beginning in the 1990s, motivational speakers like Stanley Finkelstein and later Barbara DeAngelis were preaching to large audiences paying hundreds of dollars each to be in the presence of such gurus that individuals, would-be business-people and others coudl change their lives by reframing their identities as "stories," which would make them more accessible to other people. Essentially, if you were at my seminar, I would tell you, "If you want to make it in business you're going to need others to get on board with you; you're going to need investors, you're going to need buyers, you're going to need people who can put their faith in you — and the way you can make that happen is by telling them a story about yourself. Not just any story, no, but a story about yourself that stresses why you want to succeed, and why they should believe in you, and why they want to get on board your train."

Understand: this wasn't "story" as a narrative craft they were preaching, no. I sat through a lot of these lectures on personal websites, before the invention of youtube, and it was perfectly clear they were not talking about meaning-making, but about story as a lever. As a way to influence the thought processes of others, to persuade them, to basically invent your "story" as a means of transforming their doubt into their belief. This is very much in line with Seth Godin's 2005 book, All Marketers are Liars, a huge bestseller, where he stresses that anyone trying to influence needs to tell authentic, compelling stories that resonate with an audience. The key is to create a narrative that feels true to the audience's beliefs, desires, and values. He argues that these stories aren't just about spinning facts; they're about creating a connection, something that captures attention and motivates action.

Why the word "story"... that's the question that needs to be asked here. Why that particular word, what did that word carry that made it effective and, essentially, created a massive wave in re-interpreting a quest for success? Well, the word story carries deep, culturally loaded associations. "Story" is a word that taps into something primal and universal. It connects to childhood, because we grow up on stories — whether through fairy tales, fables or family anecdotes. From an early age, stories shape our understanding of the world, teaching us values, norms and emotions. They're how we come to understand our own lives and the lives of others. So when people in business and leadership talk about "story," they’re not just talking about a narrative structure — they’re tapping into a deep, shared human experience.

But here's what we have to remember: the "story" itself that was told by those motivational speakers was NOT created to actually help anyone. It was employed to make people paying to see the speaker feel they were getting their money's work. The speaker didn't tell them what story to tell; the speaker did not provide details on how to get started with this story, or what the story ought to include, or the process of either finding it in oneself or inventing it. NO, none of that was part of the sell. The sell was to confound the listener and send them off with the idea that they knew what to do... only to convince hundreds of thousands that if they failed to do it, that wasn't because the "story strategy didn't work," but to convince them they merely didn't know how to invent the story they needed. Therefore, a great scam, as it sells a snake oil the user continues to believe in, even after it doesn't work.

Thus, long before "story" became a watchword in D&D, the word was already being used in hundreds of small amphitheatres all over the world every weekend to sell shit to morons. Thus the word "story" became this vague, magical solution that’s somehow both unattainable and completely within reach—if only they could figure it out. It's a kind of psychological trap that preys on the desire for personal success, without actually delivering anything of substance. And yet, because the idea is dressed in the familiar, comforting language of "story," it has a unique kind of power, allowing the scam to persist, even as it remains frustratingly out of reach.

The use of the word  as a central concept in D&D really ramped up around the time of the fourth edition, which was released in 2008. Around 2007, after numerous bestsellers were on shelves telling would-be self-styled business owners how to use "story" as a marketing tool, Wizards of the Coast began using the word as a marketing tool. Prior to this, while D&D had always been about collaborative narrative-building and improvisation, the language of "story" was never quite as prominent in the branding or system discussions. With 4e, though, storytelling was positioned as a key pillar of the experience. The company shouted that role-playing "was a great tool to tell great stories."  Thereafter, and to this day, the idea of "story" was woven throughout the promotional materials, discussions of campaign settings, even the rules themselves.

The timing is important. As self-help books and seminars were teaching people how to craft personal narratives to sell themselves or their businesses, D&D began to follow suit, placing storytelling at the forefront of its appeal. It worked... at least for the company. The "shared story" model permeates every discourse about the game in the present day, with the framing leaning heavily into "unfolding story archetypes" and "character-driven plots." Note these plots are driven specifically by the "character," not the player, who has next to no real agency in game play. Moreover, while the word story is used constantly, the process by which this story plays out, the manner in which the DM runs this story in-game, is never part of the dialogue. It "just happens," as it's "meant to," and those who ask too many questions are pretty much told just to go with the flow and let things happen.

It's even argued that this character-based (as opposed to player-based) model is "simpler." By shifting the focus away from the player's agency (while simultaneously protecting the character with effective plot-armour in the narrative), it promises the players that whatever happens, they are made more important by the narrative BEING important. Because the character's roles within the broader narrative are constructed by the DM, and because the players are free to "act out" the character's roles however the players want, it gives a sense of "agency" in the sense that they seem to be running the character, but since the character's success is pre-ordained, the agency is really just kabuki theatre.

Let's say my character is destined to be the character who steals the Jewel of Arimoor.  And now we're in the Temple of Arimoor... but I don't know what to do.  No problem. I have the "agency" to go to that room, pull my weapon, attack whom I wish... but in the end, the only thing that really matters is that, eventually, whatever dumbshow I put on until then, that I steal the Jewel. Even if I forget to do so, I'll find the Jewel in my pocket when we leave, because the DM needs only to create some premise for it being there. My agency doesn't matter, so long as the arc of the story is fulfilled.

This "simplifies" the game because, for the DM, it doesn't matter what you do. Sure, of course you can kill the Mratll!  Absolutely, you can leap from that pillar to the ground twenty feet below.  No problem, you can make that leap.  Nothing needs to have a consequence, because the only consequence that matters is settled. Q.E.D.

This approach removes the pressure from the DM to maintain a complex, dynamic world where player choices can truly influence outcomes. It reduces the need for deep world-building or careful management of player actions, since everything funnels toward the predetermined narrative. The characters, and by extension the players, are free to do whatever they want, but as long as the key plot points are hit, the story will resolve as planned. In a sense, it’s an experience more akin to a guided tour through a pre-arranged spectacle than a collaborative storytelling venture. And because the players don't know what they're characters are destined to do, until it happens, they get the JOY of finding out after the fact. Fun all around!

This makes the multitude of splatbooks comprehensible. The DM doesn't really need to know all the "rules," because in fact none of them are rules designed to dictate game play. They're really just sourcebooks for DMs to use in designing character/story arcs, where the players choose what "skin" to put on overtop their characters, like an avatar they wear that fits a particular pre-determined story model. My DM's story needs someone to do something that a dragonborne can. So someone in the party has to wear the dragonborne skin.  It's just that easy.

Thus is created the curated experience of modern D&D. It clearly works. It's very popular. Story is preserved as a warm, fuzzy word to describe the process, while all the other words like "collaborative" tend toward a group dynamic that conveys belonging, acceptance, friendliness and social engagement.  "I'm the dragonborne" describes that player's clear, comprehensible and most of all very important role, among persons whose "importance" is always in question outside the game community space.

The language itself does all the heavy lifting. By creating an atmosphere where people can feel valued for being themselves, where everyone is a part of a story unfolding with all of them having their parts in it, the social dynamic becomes a source of personal validation and connection. Who wouldn't want that? Who doesn't want to feel a part of a thing, whatever we call that thing... especially in what we might identify as a safe space, where we're recognised and made to feel significant?

Arguing against that, or fighting it, or disparaging it, is a losing effort. One might as well tell a group of Seahawk fans that they should just cut out that nonsense.

Honesty

I'll talk about something personal today.

This morning I was asked to define honesty, or more to the point, how do we know when we're being honest. This is something I've thought about a lot and goes a long way to explaining who and what I am. Because I believe that, upon hearing what someone else says, or in responding to something they write, if we don't say the first thing that comes into our mind, we're lying.

And I know that no one else believes this. By and large, people believe their first thought is "unfiltered" and therefore, for that reason, not "thought out," or rather most likely irrational... which is why they'd rather take a beat or two to suss out their answer, rather than "go with their gut," which is what speaking off the cuff is judged to be.

This argument assumes that thinking is like a draft that we clean up, making it suitable for the consumption of others. But I think all of this framing, the choice of words like filter and thinking out, are a form of being disingenuous with others, to be sure they don't think ill of us... because we are more concerned with what others think of us than we are with stating what we have just now thought of their last statement.

Filtering isn't clarity, it's plainspoken an effort to make sure we curate our outward selves not to resemble our inner selves... and I believe that most people have become so habitual in their need to curate, that they lose the ability to ever be ingenuous about what they think, or what they believe... and thus spend all their lives speaking and even acting according to what others will think of them, rather than what they themselves think, period.

And moreover, I believe, those who counsel us to curate our thoughts, to not speak our sincerest opinions, are those most frightened of doing so themselves. It is as if to say, "I have taken all this effort to shut down my thoughts, I think it's unfair that you're not doing the same with yours." It is resentment.

More strangely, having been this way for many decades now, unremittingly, I've also experienced something else most people never do: that of having strangers come to me and say, "It's amazing how you're able to bravely speak your mind; I'm jealous," or words that extent.

Of course I have dabbled with the curation of my speech. I have worked, of course, and learned to frame my answers to persons in authority, especially those who have paid me money, in a filtered manner. I would have been a fool not to. Most people would term this approach a matter of "respect." Those especially likely to term it so would be those who want respect from subordinates, who appreciate the arrangement that if I pay you money for a job done, I expect a level of respect from you, that I'm not going to give in return, because I'm the one with the money.

It's always been a bit strange to me that in an arrangement or reciprocity, the person with the money deserves a respect that the person performing the task isn't owed. But we can shelve that for another day.

What such persons want is not "respect," which is earned, but "deference," which my dictionary defines as submission or yielding to the judgment, opinion, will, etcetera, of another. They may call it respect, because that's a nicer word, but deference better defines what's actually expected. Everyone with a bad boss in this world already knows this, though rarely have they thought it through.

Showing deference to a boss is a question of survival... but when I am showing deference, I know I am lying to them. Most of the time they don't seem to know it. I'm not sure why. Perhaps they don't care. But I don't pretend that when I'm suspending my first thought in preference for a curated answer, that I'm in any way speaking the truth to them. Others, I've noticed, seem not to make this distinction.

Interesting to me is how there are so many people that expect this deference from me when (a) we do not have a shared contract, (b) they don't know who I am; (c) they don't in any visible way seem to respect me, though they demand deference in return; and (d) believe, with all their hearts, that somehow an implied "social contract" exists between all persons on principle, because someone somewhere once coined that term as a means of enforcing deference from persons who were dumb enough to give it for free.

For example, nearly every other voice on the internet.

A recent case in point when I was behaving as a complete asshole on JB's Blackrazor blog, reacting to something I sincerely did not like, while voicing my honest opinion. Which, anyone who has read this blog at length, is want to do. I'm not ashamed of it — in fact, I'll link the post here, stipulating from the start that this certainly isn't about JB. The post is this:

https://bxblackrazor.blogspot.com/2025/11/talking-turkey.html

The post describes the presence of a network graph, or link-graph, which visualises relationships between D&D blogs. I have numerous problems with such representations, beginning with the fact that I dislike this blog being associated with other D&D blogs, which I would rather not count myself among. If someone wants to limit those blogs that actually create content from those that essentially piggyback upon the work of other persons, I would likely be more on board with that. But I deeply, deeply resent being shoved into a crowd of people I do not relate to, do not respect, do not want to have anything to do with, and then also be measured in where I stand in comparison to those people. To my mind, this is like happening to wear a red cap, then being shoved into a crowd of people wearing a MAGA red cap, and then being told I'm ranked such and such among them. The degree to which this rankles me cannot be fully expressed. For that reason, here, I've chosen to curate my opinion about it. Not out of deference, but out of the limitation of words to express my position on this.

My first response, when I gladly believed I wasn't included, was to quote Groucho Marx, which can be read on the link. JB, ever anxious to please, informed me that I was and gave me directions... which caused my second response, which was in essence a channelling of the character John Bender from The Breakfast Club. And though yes, insulting, no question about that, it also expressed my honest opinion about those blogs, and Grognardia in particular, chosen as the biggest bloated circle on the graph.

This response didn't bother JB, who moderates his blog, and willingly posted my response. But JB aims to please, and thus also okay'd this response from Jacob72:

"Tut. I believe that it's unnecessary for you to share a negative view of James' blog in that way. It is possible for me to enjoy JB's, James' and your blogs without trading them off one another in the same way that it is possible for me to enjoy different artists or musical genres. The work and effort that the three of you put into producing posts and maintaining your blogs is to be respected."

Full of all the deference that's expected of me, without the acknowledgement that my answer wouldn't be there if JB hadn't added his seal of approval. As such, I had, in JB's eyes at least, ever right to make my case.

But honesty in the minds of a great many people is not the best policy, because they treat it as a slap in the face. "Necessary?" No. Doesn't serve at all the first tier of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, true enough. My expression, however, it not limited to what's necessary, and certainly not to what other people think is necessary. "In that way..." i.e., not filtered. What Jacob does with his enjoyment is, again, not my responsibility, but bang, deference-expectation again. Grognardia, an "artist?" If at all, certainly a bad one... and remind me, in this culture of the internet, how precisely do we treat "bad artists"?  I've forgotten. Then, finally, the real kicker: we are all equal. That's right. That's why Grognardia shared his big gasbag of being the central massive circle in the circle jerk of the link-graph, to show his "equality," while the effort I put into the writing and making of a point in my posts is no different than Grognardia gushing over... oh, let's see, today... #93 of the Dragon magazine from 30 years ago, and how he enjoyed making sentences in school, adored Frank Mentzer's article, really enjoyed the article, and how he's mellowed over the years. Gosh, golly gee whiz, we're just like different musical genres!

I'm going to barf now.

Here's where we get to the point of this. Four days ago I decided to lie. In answer to Jacob72, I posted a link to Jo Dee Messina, then promptly tried to forget how really pissed off I was. And it didn't work. The lie didn't work. It went around and around in my head, until finally it became this post, because I really couldn't let it rest. My "give-a-damn" for Jacob72's feelings really is busted, but I really resent being dragged into someone else's product modelling, then being counselled that I should "shut up and like it," because it's "unnecessary" for me to express just how really, really, really angry it makes me.

So I decided to give an honest answer about it.

From a D&D Influencer

It's wonderful when I get emails like this:

Gosh.  I'm thrilled to have risen so high in the esteem of my colleagues.  'Course, this rings with all the flair of writing to Haing S. Ngor to tell him they're about to make The Killing Fields into a musical.

But then, having spent decades writing about the game in a meaningful way, as a rich, immersive experience, perhaps I shouldn't see this as a little shallow... or insulting.  After all, why not be proud of the vague "D&D Influencer" moniker, even though in this case it hasn't quite shown enough influence to encourage these improve actors to read a single post from my blog.

After all, they're only trying to co-opt the D&D brand without respecting the first thing about it, that brand having become significant enough to justify its blatant exploitation.  Why would that bother me?

More importantly, why should it bother any of you, dear readers?  Most of you aren't invested in this game all that much, yes?  I mean, you don't care if they shit all over your last Friday night by putting a paycheque in their pockets.  Just imagine the blast you'd have seeing this... if you lived anywhere near Walnut Creek, California, that is.  Damn near the centre of the universe.  On the other hand, if you happen to live in Basingstoke, Timmins or Chongju, at least you can feel a warm, fuzzy feeling knowing that scores of people are laughing themselves silly between shouting "orc!" or "burn down the tavern!" 

Entertainment at its finest.

So sure, c'mon, listen to your influencer here.  Clap your hands loud enough to make yourself heard in Gralnut Wove, it's the least you can do.

When We Were Alone

Last Saturday, JB wrote,

"For the most part, I've approached my entire role-playing hobby in this way...and why not, when my introduction to the hobby was the D&D game?...even with game systems that are clearly not conducive to this style of play. Or rather, I did...up until the early 2000s when I started reading RPG theory over at the Forge and recognizing how different systems facilitate different types of play."

 

Okay, so ...

There's absolutely nothing I'd like less than to write a history about how this shit with the early 2000s and GNS theory came about, since I had no conscious part of it at the time and only had to deal with the aftermath.  At no time was I asked, "Do you want the critical elements of the game you love utterly reworked and massacred by an early internet-savvy self-publishing game designer ready to take advantage of an existing ennui perpetrated by a company that didn't actually give a shit about those playing it's RPG game?"

This, however, is hardly understood, and needs a history, one that isn't written by a salivating fan-boy like Maliszewski.  As such, let me piece together the nightmare as I understand it, from what I can find.

Before founding "The Forge," Ron Edwards was primarily known within the role-playing game (RPG) community as an independent game designer and a vocal critic of mainstream RPG design trends.  His early conclusions about the game was that a deep engagement existed between the player and the DM ... the interpretation of which provided him with the insights and experiences that fueled his critical perspectives on game design.  These perspectives had all the verification of a religious zealot ... and had he not possessed them until the present day, or at any time before the mid-1990s, they would have died away without ever being embraced.  But like so many things with which we contend with today, Edwards' particular brand of narcissism coincided with the newness of the internet, which enabled him to spread his ideas through The Forge, which we'll get to momentarily.

Edwards' most notable work was his game "Sorcerer," which he self-published in 1996. "Sorcerer" was distinctive for its focus on personal horror and moral dilemmas, as well as its innovative mechanics that emphasized narrative and thematic depth.  The game made no splash at all within the gaming community; it was just another piece of work, like hundreds and hundreds of others.

In 1999, he founded The Forge, an independent website with its own domain.  This site featured a custom-built online discussion forum specifically designed to facilitate in-depth conversations about role-playing game design and theory. The website was not associated with any of the major social media platforms; instead, it operated as a standalone forum dedicated solely to the RPG community.  While there wasn't a complete vacuum of RPG content at the time, the online resources were somewhat limited and fragmented. The founding of the Forge in 1999 provided a more focused and structured platform.  The alternative at that time were Usenet newsgroups, mailing lists, personal websites and blogs (before those became popular) and a few other forums, notably EN World (originally known as Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D Third Edition News).

Wizards of the Coast, White Wolf and Chaosium had their own websites, which included forums, but these tended to be clumsy, with basic and sometimes clunky designs, and they generally lacked the interactive features that modern websites offer. Most were built using simple HTML and often had rudimentary layouts and navigation.  Features such as forums, chat rooms, and content management systems were in their infancy. While some sites did have forums or message boards, these were often very basic.  They suffered from slow load times, static content and an absence of community engagement, largely because they had a staff of one person who fought mostly to keep the website from crashing.  Compared to these, The Forge, with its focus on community-driven discussion and content, provided a more engaging and specialized platform for RPG enthusiasts and designers.

As The Forge had a clear mission, to explore and develop RPG theory and support independent game design, and because it encouraged conversation rather than dictating a particular belief about gaming, it became a hotbed for new ideas and theories in a community that had become sterile and dissatisfied with D&D.  Many felt that the game, particularly its second edition, had grown stale and overly complex, with a plethora of supplements and rules expansions. The core mechanics and settings were seen as limiting for players seeking fresh and innovative gameplay experiences.  There was a growing interest in RPGs that focused more on narrative and character development rather than the traditional dungeon-crawling and combat-heavy style of D&D. Players wanted games that allowed for deeper storytelling and more meaningful character arcs.  This feeling had led to the proliferation of other games, like White Wolf's "Vampire: The Masquerade," which accentuated storytelling, personal horror and complex social dynamics.

The industry itself, throughout the 1990s, was experiencing fatigue from a flood of supplements, splatbooks and expansions that often felt more like cash grabs than meaningful content additions.  This commercialism left many players and GMs feeling disillusioned with the direction of mainstream RPGs.  This encouraged independent RPGs, which of course was the reason why Edwards tried to do so himself with Sorcerer.  The backdrop of all that was happening prior to 1999 made fertile ground for anyone ready to embrace the internet, see it for the opportunities it provided, and who posssessed a reasonably believable theory that could be espoused upon a dulled, thirsting audience wandering around in a desert.

It should come through this history that I don't have a lot of respect for Edwards.  I can't fault the man himself.  Probably, given what he knew, and the absence of ready game theory books written by educated persons who were unwilling to admit that role-playing games existed, much less to take time deconstructing them, GNS theory sounded plausible.  Unfortunately, like many, many other ideas presented by humans intended to explain things, like "ether" or "phlogiston," it's just fucking wrong.  This is painfully obvious to anyone whose ever done actual research into human behaviour or philosophy, because it bears so many of the characteristics of BAD IDEAS that have occurred in those fields, but to the uninitiated, typical human willing to engage with the internet between 1999 and 2003 (when virtually everyone was either young, a computer nerd or very horny and trying to get laid), it looks completely sensible.  So does Mormonism.  The RPG community was thirty, and willing to drink anything plausible, and Edwards, unknowingly, gave them sand.  And the community drank it up.

GNS Theory, briefly, is a framework developed to categorise and understand different styles of play and design goals in role-playing games (RPGs).  "GNS" stands for Gamist, Narrativist and Simulationist, the three primary types of play styles that the theory identifies.

The Gamist approach prioritises competition, challenge and strategic play, stressing the game aspect of RPGs.  Players in this style seek to overcome obstacles, achieve goals and often compete against each other or the game system itself.  Gamist play typically involves clear rules for conflict resolution, rewards for success and a focus on tactical decision-making, embodying the idea of "winning" within the game context.  Classic dungeon-crawling adventures in Dungeons & Dragons, where players face monsters and puzzles to gain treasure and experience points, are quintessential examples of Gamist play.

The Narrativist approach, on the other hand, prioritises storytelling, thematic depth and the creation of a coherent narrative.  It emphasizes the story aspect of RPGs, where players collaborate to tell meaningful and engaging stories.  Narrativist play often involves mechanics that support storytelling, such as narrative control, character development and thematic conflicts, focusing on creating a compelling and emotionally resonant narrative.  Games like "Dogs in the Vineyard" by Vincent Baker, which center around moral dilemmas and character-driven stories, exemplify Narrativist play.

The Simulationist approach prioritises the realistic or immersive simulation of a particular setting or experience, accentuating the world aspect of RPGs.  Players in this style aim to explore and interact with a detailed and consistent fictional environment.  Simulationist play often involves complex and detailed rules that simulate the physics, politics and social dynamics of the game world, aiming to provide a believable and immersive experience. Games like "GURPS" (Generic Universal RolePlaying System) by Steve Jackson Games, which aim to offer detailed rules for simulating a wide variety of settings and scenarios, are Simulationist in nature.

The theory includes the suggestion that  these three approaches are not mutually exclusive but represent different priorities and preferences that can influence game design and play. While a single game can incorporate elements of all three styles, often one will be more prominent. The theory helps designers and players understand their preferences and make informed choices about the games they create and play.  However, one major criticism is that GNS theory fails to account for the fluid and dynamic nature of player preferences. Players often shift their focus depending on the context of the game session, the story arc or their mood, which the rigid GNS categories do not adequately capture.  Additionally, the theory does not consider the social and psychological aspects of gaming, such as group dynamics, personal player goals and the impact of the game master’s style, which can significantly influence the play experience.

Another issue is the theory's limited applicability to a broader range of games. While it was developed with traditional tabletop RPGs in mind, the rise of diverse gaming formats, including live-action role-playing (LARP), digital RPGs and hybrid games, has shown that GNS theory does not comprehensively address the varied mechanics and experiences these formats offer.

Furthermore, the language and framework of GNS theory cannot be considered academic, but "pseudo-academic."  As Edwards was an amateur game designer, the terms "Gamist," "Narrativist," and "Simulationist" are not clearly defined and can be interpreted in various ways.  This imprecision leads to confusion and misapplication, as different people may have different understandings of what each term means.  Oversimplification, or reductionism, fails to capture the nuanced and overlapping aspects of actual gameplay experiences, making it less useful for practical analysis. Furthermore, much of GNS theory is based on anecdotal evidence and personal observations rather than systematic studies, which undermines its reliability and generalizability across different gaming groups and contexts. While GNS theory uses a formal and structured approach, it lacks the depth and rigor of genuine academic discourse.  This lack of interdisciplinary integration limits its explanatory power. Many professional game designers and scholars have criticized GNS theory for its simplistic approach and failure to account for the complexities of player motivations and game dynamics. These critiques highlight the theory's shortcomings and challenge its validity.

Over the years, more nuanced and flexible frameworks have emerged, such as the "Big Model" or the "Threefold Model," which offer more detailed and adaptable approaches to understanding RPG play styles. These newer models incorporate a broader range of factors, including player psychology and social interactions, providing a more holistic view of gaming experiences.

But the damage has already been done.  The negative imprint of GNS theory on the rhetoric and community think within the RPG community has been considerable. Despite its initial intention to provide a structured approach to understanding different play styles, the theory's flaws and limitations have led to several detrimental effects.  The ideas have contributed to a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction and division within the RPG community over the past two decades. Rather than unifying the community or providing a clear path forward, GNS theory has inadvertently led to a fracturing of concepts, beliefs, and ongoing arguments that have permeated the internet and RPG forums.

One significant issue is that GNS theory has exacerbated divisions within the community by creating rigid categories that encourage a "one size fits all" approach to play styles. This rigid categorization has often led to gatekeeping, where certain styles of play are deemed superior or more legitimate than others. Players and game designers who do not fit neatly into the Gamist, Narrativist, or Simulationist categories can feel marginalized or invalidated, resulting in a fragmented community where mutual respect and appreciation for diverse play styles are lacking.

The theory's imprecise terminology and lack of academic rigor have further fueled endless debates and misunderstandings. Discussions about game design and play preferences often devolve into semantic arguments about what each category truly means. This has led to a culture of pedantry and argumentation, where the focus is on defining and defending theoretical constructs rather than fostering a collaborative and inclusive environment. These debates can be alienating, driving people away from meaningful engagement and innovation in RPG design.

Moreover, the pseudo-academic nature of GNS theory has contributed to a sense of disillusionment. Many in the community initially embraced the theory as a way to bring clarity and improvement to RPG design, only to find that its simplistic and flawed framework did not hold up to scrutiny. This disillusionment has led to a broader skepticism about RPG theories in general, with some feeling that theoretical discussions are more about intellectual posturing than practical improvement.

The fracturing effect of GNS theory has also manifested in the proliferation of niche communities and subcultures within the broader RPG landscape. While diversity in gaming is generally positive, the sharp divisions and lack of common ground have led to isolated echo chambers rather than a cohesive and supportive community. This isolation can stifle cross-pollination of ideas and reduce opportunities for collaborative growth and innovation.

In essence, rather than leading the dissatisfied out of the desert, GNS theory has left a lingering impact on a culture where arguments about play styles often overshadow the joy and creativity that RPGs are meant to inspire. This persistent division underscores the need for more flexible, inclusive, and practical approaches to understanding and enhancing the role-playing game experience.

The state of RPG design over the past two decades has, in many ways, exacerbated the issues that were already problematic in the 1990s. Despite attempts at innovation, many contemporary games still reflect and even amplify the dissatisfactions that existed back then.  5th Edition, while popular, embodies many of the same issues that plagued earlier editions. The game often prioritises superficial storytelling that lacks thematic depth, relying heavily on the Dungeon Master to enforce narrative coherence. This results in a gaming experience that can feel unstructured and unsatisfying, with player whims often driving the story in directions that lack substantive engagement.  Moreover, many modern RPGs continue to stress combat and tactical elements, aspects that were criticized in the 1990s for overshadowing other forms of play. Even games that claim to focus on narrative often fall back on these familiar mechanics, leading to a lack of true innovation in how stories are told within RPGs. This reliance on old, combat-centric mechanics highlights a failure to appease those people who do not care for combat, who still insist on forcing the game away from it.

Indie games, which emerged from the Forge community, aimed to counteract these trends but often ended up creating niche experiences that did not appeal broadly. These games frequently focused on specific themes or narrative mechanics but failed to integrate a balanced approach that could satisfy a wider audience. This has left a gap between mainstream and indie games, with neither fully addressing the underlying dissatisfaction.

Additionally, the rise of corporate influence in game design has led to a proliferation of products that values marketability over genuine innovation. Games are often designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience, resulting in diluted mechanics and superficial storytelling. This commercial approach has further entrenched the issues that were present in the 1990s, making it harder for truly innovative designs to gain traction.  As a result, the promotional rhetoric from gaming companies drastically overstates the innovative aspects of their products. This creates a cycle of hype and disappointment, where games are marketed as revolutionary but fail to deliver meaningful advancements in play experience. Players are left feeling disillusioned, as the promised innovations rarely materialize in a way that addresses their core frustrations.

And the result of all this, the end lesson that cannot or will not be learned, is that the industry, the game designers, the publishers, those in power, and most of those who publish works for a buck and sit on panels discussing their nuanced inadequacy to change anything that's been going on for 30 years now, DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOU.  They don't give a fuck what kind of game you want to play, or what your needs are, or where the game is going in the future or anything having to do with your problems as a DM or what your gaming group wants.  They care about your money, about putting flashy, glitzy things in front of you that convince you to dump another pile of money in their pocket.  And so long as they can massage the language in order to make YOU think that they're going somewhere important with YOUR game, you'll keep bending over and letting them fuck your wallet for as long as you continue being part of this community.

Nobody out here is going to help you.  The internet won't, the voices won't, a general theory of gaming won't, a great community full of deep conversational analysis won't, a new module won't, a new game won't.  You're on your own.  You've always been on your own.  And pre-internet, when everyone fucking knew this, is when ALL the valuable stuff created for these games was written.

When We Were Alone.

So get the internet out of your head.  You want your game to be a good game, do it yourself.

What is never understood about the culture we're all a part of — that disconsolation and ennui associated with the game in the 1990s, that people thought needed to be solved ... that people today still think needs to be solved ... represents the voice of those who aren't involved with the game's creation.  In short, the voice of those who don't matter.  We should not care about people who "don't like the game as it is."  They don't count.  The game wasn't made for them.  Okay.  Let them go and find another game.  We need to stop thinking that our game needs to change so it can be their game.  Fuck them.  They're not part of us.  They never have been.  Like Edwards, who did not like the game that existed, who thought it needed to be some other game, they aren't interested in what we do, or what we like.  They just want to be catered to.

And we need to stop doing that.

Jon

During my travels out west, Tamara and I determined that part of our trip would include a drive through Washington State, including our passing through Seattle.  In fact, this was deliberately arranged so that JB of B/X Blackrazor and I could meet face-to-face, which we did Friday evening.  Finding a hotel within 20 minutes of his residence, Jon came and met me there, and we went out to find a simple bar so that I could, at last, "buy him a beer," as I had promised to do many times ... though he bought the first round himself.

Oddly, no doubt because of our age, we didn't think to take a selfie together; in fact, the subject wasn't brought up.  We played a couple of games of pool, stripes and solids, but our focus wasn't on the game and while he won the first, he blew the cue ball off the eight and lost the second.  The conversation engrossed us throughout, as we talked for four hours, apart from breaks for the bathroom and our spouses.

My impression of Jon is that he is, first, a family man.  I'd first considered the possibility of meeting his family, but is soon became clear to us both that this meeting had to include only ourselves.  Anyone else, my Tamara, his wife and children, would have been inconvenienced by our discussion.

Now, what did we talk about?  Well, much that we would talk about on our blogs, of course.  Jon and I have a long, long history of going around on various topics, some of which we no longer disagree about (player-vs.-player, alignment) and some of which we continue to spar over (rules as written, the use of modules).  We did not debate; there would be no point, since in a single meeting we're not likely to change each other's minds.  Rather, we presented our views, such as we would in writing, and I think came out a little clearer on the other's point of view.

Take rules as written.  Jon isn't fanatical about that, but he is very conscious that many participants of the game change the pre-existing rules of forty years ago without knowing the reason for which those rules exist.  I agree with this.  Much of the time, I believe, people have little understanding of what purpose in the game a rule serves, or how that purpose is compromised, leading to a less robust system, when that rule is casually tossed aside.  For me personally, whatever a DM may feel about the presence of experience or encumbrance, and the "inconveniences" they bring, casting those things aside does not improve the game.  The game is worse without them.

Yet this is hardly understood, and even less appreciated.  Of course we can still play D&D without those things.  Of course the players can still move from place to place, they can still fight, they can yet role-play and even accumulate status and influence upon the game world.  But these things — and this is almost impossible to explain to the average player — ARE NOT THE GAME.  They certainly seem to be; and most would argue with me on this point ... vehemently.  But they'd be wrong.

This is not something that Jon and I talked about, merely the extension of our discussion about rules as written.  It's a post for another time, but not now.

We talked about writing and publishing, about the process of getting work out to our readers that's paid for.  We talked about Lulu, we talked about other platforms, we talked about Patreon and we gave each other advice on those things.  We debated our relative importance with respect to the D&D community (not much) and we discussed this very thing that I'm doing now: writing about each other on our pespective blogs.  [checking as I write this, he hasn't done this yet].

But to be honest, mostly, we simply enjoyed each other's company.  Jon is funny.  He's quickwitted, he's appropriately droll and sarcastic, he has a dry sense of humour ... and occasionally, there's a little blackness there.  He's not only nostalgic in his game ideals, he possesses this characteristic about a number of things.  We drank our beers, for example, in a near-empty dive in a dead mall, with carpets that hadn't been replaced since, um, the 1980s?  We played pool.  We discussed media and the internet and he expressed many thoughts that would be in keeping with the sort of straight-up white male who identifies as a pre-internet Democrat but not a supporter of Bill Clinton.  He respects those institutions the internet is killing and, guessing here, has the usual sentiments of someone who worries how the world is going to get on without those things.

So, yeah, if the reader has been a follower of JB these last ten years, then the man is exactly what his blog conveys him to be.  There were no surprises.

I think it's harder on those who meet me.  Like the statement I made above about what D&D is not, I'm difficult to predict.  I take a rigid line on things that make no sense.  Soon after meeting each other, Jon commented, in response to the radio program being turned off, on the demise of both local and national news as a meaningful source for people's understanding of the world.  I said, "good."  I have zero respect for newspapers.  I don't care if they all die.  And Jon, confronted with this, wisely dropped the subject.  I respect that.

See, four hours isn't enough for us to be friends.  I found this when I met Sterling and Ozymandias last year.  These are all people I got along with at once, whose company I immediately appreciated, whose discourse was vibrant and intelligent.  But it isn't enough time for those other things that make us friends.  Friendship is built of hardship, of labouring together, of bearing each other's sins, of having the time to break free of the need to impress and be polite, getting down to the brass tacks of meaning and disagreement and honest, tough-minded evaluation of one another.

This cannot be done when one is merely in Seattle overnight.

But, since I know Jon will be reading this, thank you.  Thank you Jon, for your smiles, for your generosity, for your understanding and your patience.  Thank you for the right place for us to talk, and thank you for your advice.  I'll try to follow as much of it as I can.

Refreshing Comments

I don't want this comment buried back in 2017.

Jim Davis has left a new comment on your post "A Rundown on What Advice Exists":

Alexis,

I appreciate the feedback, even though I'm only just now reading it. I've been an intermittent reader of your blog for a few years now and think How to Run is superb DM advice, so I take "not too bad" and "wouldn't be the worst DM I've had" as compliments. I'm genuinely curious about the times I've gone up my own asshole (you're not the first to observe that) but I understand if I'm a little late in soliciting that level of feedback.

Thank you for your honesty; it's refreshing to get anything resembling a genuine critique.

And yes, I was looking through your backlog to see if you'd watched any Web DM. I wanted to know what you thought of our videos. I'm very glad you didn't think they were terrible.

-Jim "punchable demeanor" Davis

Jim,

Your comment was refreshing also.

I kicked a lot of people that day.  I've reread my post; I confess the knife was just as sharp as I could grind it.  I don't take it back.  I will, however, be positive.  You've been either genuine or sarcastic.  Either would be understandable and I deserve the response you've given.  In return, I'm anxious to be genuine, and write in a manner that won't be understood as sarcasm.

By my count and the internet's, you and Pruitt are significantly popular.  You're long lived; your last video was yesterday.  You receive 100,000 or more views per video; I receive nothing like that kind of traffic.  You have 24,000 followers on twitter and by the looks of their comments, they genuinely love you.  You're interviewing Luke Gygax, you're in the heart of the community, your words are listened to and treasured.  That's not sarcasm.  That's what I see as an honest evaluation of how others feel towards you.

Which leaves me puzzled as to why you would comment on a blog post I wrote three years ago.  I am just as puzzled as to why you would be an intermittent reader of my blog at all.  I don't write the sort of content you produce, at all.  There isn't a glimmer in anything I've seen in any video you've produced -- though I admit, it's been a couple of years since I watched anything -- of the least influence I've had on your material.  You say that my How to Run is superb DM advice; but there's no evidence that you've taken it, and as far as I know, you've never told any of your viewers this.  If you had, no evidence of it has ever materialized as visitors to my site from yours.

My content is ... critical.  Sometimes viciously, sometimes academic ... but always deconstructive and always critical.  I was taught to be so and I embraced it with both arms.   The content of your programming is motivational.  Your method is to inspire your audience; to encourage them to believe in themselves.  You present the game as something that's fun, and you try to helpfully simplify the game processes, so that your listeners will feel confident.  Your advice devotes itself to reminding the players to "don't stress" and play the game however they want to play it.  That sentiment is uplifting, cheerful and fortifying.

If you do read me, and this spirit of incentivising promise is indeed your genuine feeling, then I can't imagine how frustrating it must be to see the brutal, negative hatchet job I commit against the game you support and believe in, day in and day out, mercilessly.  I should think it would be the kind of thing that would make you sigh, shake your head slowly, and mutter to yourself, "That poor guy.  He just doesn't get it.  He doesn't see how simple and how much fun this game could be.  He's so smart; he's so comprehensive about the game; but he just can't seem to take his hand off the downer stick.  Hopefully, someday, he'll see the light and come out of this dark place he's stuck in."

If I believed in what you say on your videos; if I wrote the kind of things you say; and if I stood by them as right and legitimate ... then that is what I would think about me.  I would feel sorry for me.

On the other hand, if you were to read this blog, and really believe that How to Run was a bit of superb DM advice, given how it guts the sentimentality of role-playing with a fish knife ... then, I don't know.  That book argues that good game play can't be brought into being through motivation and simplification.  It can't be brought into being by believing in yourself.  If that's what you think is "superb" ...

Then I am sorry for you, that you've chosen to spew pretentious bullshit for years on the internet in order to make a buck.

Understand.  I'm not saying this last is what you're doing.  But I am saying that if this last isn't what you're doing, then your praise of my book was a lie; and that probably, you've never read my book.

As a bit of genuine criticism.  It's the way you lift your chin as you're getting into character, knowing that you're about to speak.  In film making, it's a self-conscious tic that a good director would point out, and that an acting coach would address, spending a couple of afternoons to get you past the habit of doing that.  People in film-making, particularly in video journalism, take is as evidence of an amateur; which you're not, obviously, having done this for so long.  But it is, nevertheless, amateurish, at least in the eyes of anyone who's spent any time doing this sort of thing for a living.  The good news is that it's fixable.  Find a good acting coach; they're pretty much everywhere; if you talk to some community documentary filmmakers, you can fix that habit right up in no time.  Think of it like not quite having a good poker face.  Once you sort that out, your face will be far less punchable, and in general people with more money will find you more reassuring and fundable.  Good luck.

We are the Drifters

[You can read today's post on The Higher Path here]


Is there a point in arguing with stupid?  It's a good question.

At present, yes, I weep for D&D.  I loathe the company that has inspired this rhetoric, this fandom, this nerfed version of the game and the bleating of voices that have seized their opportunity to promote the company's stance for various reasons, most of them having to do with exploiting the game for money.

But.

I maintain that D&D will outlast the company.  One day, the fandom will subside in favor of other, glitzier things.  The wave of young children who lack imagination or intelligence with rush away in favor of some thing that is invented out of 2020s technology.  The company, which has no loyalty or love for the game, will abandon it once it has ceased to serve the bottom line.  Once it does, the products will dry up.  Game stores will dry up.  Game stores are suffering the same extinction as all brick-and-mortar business.  They're all going to die, no matter what happens with D&D.  Yes, that's sad.  I'm 56.  I've seen a lot of things die.  I'm sad about all of them.

The end of game stores and the company will be the end of the Adventurer's League.  That will be the end of children learning to play the game from a business-inclined authority.  Children, thenceforth, will learn direct from people who play the game from appreciation, and not from the pursuit of money.

The end of the Adventurer's League will be the end of corporate sponsorship of Let's Play videos.  I don't expect youtube to survive the 20s anyway.  If it does, it won't look the same as it does now.  Corporate youtube video creation is squeezing out everything that isn't funded already, with content that is just as staid, just as bland and just as politically correct as what youtube replaced in 2005.

If there isn't money in it, there won't be a media for it.

When all the smoke clears, and all the mirrors are broken, it will just be us, still playing the game.  If there still is an internet, people will still find us and read us.

Ever read Fahrenheit 451?  It's our responsibility to withstand the stupidity; we don't have to win against it, because it will die in its own hubris.  But we do have to maintain standards and keep the public aware those standards exist, being true to the game we love, because we're responsible for this game's legacy.  We are responsible.  Because we want to be.

We don't need to argue with stupidity, no.  But we do need to confront it, condemn it and outlast it, if we want to be true to ourselves.

Being Smart

"If you believe that only stupid people make mistakes, you’re as wrong as I was. The truth is that everyone makes mistakes. Smart people admit that. Stupid people do not."

~ Darius Foroux, 5 Common Mistakes Smart People Make

Since I was a little boy, I have been making people feel stupid.  At least, I have been told this repeatedly since I was a little boy, by hundreds and hundreds of people, many of whom felt it necessary to physically assault me for this behaviour.  At some point in my teens, after many, many such incidents, I made up my mind that I just didn't care any more.  If uttering my opinions about things made people feel stupid, well, so be it.

Part of this conclusion arose from the total lack of intention on my part to make people feel stupid.  My actual goal, in explaining things, was to make people smarter.  I read books all the time written by people vastly smarter than me, since I was a little boy, and not one of those books ever made me feel stupid.  They assumed, and I assumed, that if I was reading the book, it was because I was smart enough to read the book.  "Stupid" didn't enter into it.

Moreover, I have never "felt" smart.  Smart isn't a feeling.  In all the many hundreds of times that I have been told that I'm smart by teachers, parents, friends, authority figures, bosses, co-workers, enemies, strangers and readers, it has been pretty clear that not only was I supposed to understand that they thought I knew stuff and possessed intelligence, but also that clearly I "felt" something in being smart that they didn't.

A favorite tactic of people who consider me smart is to label me, "superior," which fits such words as condescending, haughty, disdainful, pompous ... well, you get the idea.  Quite a few readers are picking apart the very precise language I'm using right now as I write this piece and definitely finding themselves filled with a very big "feeling" that I am elitist and immodest.

After a life time of being called "superior" as an insult, it is a little difficult not to identify as "elite."  Which really only means a select group.  And yes, oh yes, I am certainly a select group.  But I don't feel like one.

Earlier today, I was watching an online geological lecture about supervolcanoes, featuring none of the exciting sound effects of a Netflix documentary.  This featured an expert, Nick Zentner, a blackboard and some slides.  Zentner knows way, way more about geology and volcanoes than I ever will.  And several times in the video, he described things that I did not know.  Several times, I made an assumption about something he was about to say, only to find that I was wrong.

Now, why doesn't that make me feel stupid?

Also today, I came across this quote from Scott Anderson on JB's B/X Blackrazor blog, sarcastically condemning accreditation for Dungeon Masters:

"We definitely need to give more power to far-off elites who should be allowed to pass judgement on our otherwise private and personal gaming decisions. Definitely. How the hell would I know whether I’m enjoying myself or not without someone who has never met me and doesn’t share my values deciding for me?"

That is plainly aimed at people exactly like me, since I'm daily passing judgement on other people's private and personal gaming decisions, in an effort to force them to question their values.

So why doesn't this make me feel stupid?

Both of the above examples convince me that I'm pretty smart, actually.  Anderson is clearly threatened to the point of seeking abuse against anyone who judges him, even on JB's blog, written by someone clearly not judging him.  If I'm that under Anderson's skin, I'm clearly punching way, way above my weight.

And if I'm more versed on the patterns of supervolcanoes in the Pacific Northwest, to the point where I can now walk someone through a few rock formations with my limited geological experience, gained from a few university classes and a lifetime of fascination with geography, well that's damn cool.  Good on me.  I need to watch more of Zentner's lectures.  They may not make me feel smarter, but they make be feel prouder.

I'm sure I'm not missing a "stupid gene," but some days I wonder.  And though it could explain a great deal, the DSM doesn't define me as a sociopath, more's the pity.  That would be a great excuse.  Unfortunately, I miss the mark by an awful lot of symptoms, too many if I want to apply for government mental welfare checks.  sigh.

No, I think, with all my smartness, that people "feel" stupid around me because, well, they know they are.  And being around other stupid people, most of the time, this is something that they don't have to face ... much.

And then, stupidly, they go to my blog, and read me.  Gawd knows what compels them.

The first mistake that smart people make, says Foroux, whose quote leads this post, is that they chase money.  Not me.  Obviously.  When you chase money, you don't tell people flat out that they're stupid.  That's a big no-no.  If you want to chase money, you treat people like they're stupid, but you never say that.  Instead, you lie, and cater to their immediate stupid needs, while fluffing the hell out of them;  which, stupidly, they think is sincerity.

20 years ago I experimented with this contrary approach.  It works.  Stupid people, it turns out, are really amazingly stupid.  They all thought I was their friend and they were all willing to give me stuff and help me out in all sorts of ways.  It's really scary how well it works.

But it made me feel sick so I stopped.  See?  Not a sociopath.

Skipping all that, here's the point: I can't make anyone "feel" stupid.  It's not a superpower I have.  No one can make anyone feel stupid.  Feelings are something we get from ourselves, and come from the way we think about the world.  People feel threatened, they feel inadequate, they feel pressed and pushed and stressed and judged.  They feel all kinds of things, and they often feel that this should definitely be someone else's problem, and not their own.

I feel sorry that some people who open my blog and deliberately make their eyes scan back and forth across the page, interpreting the symbols written there, don't feel enlightened, empowered and motivated.  I'm sorry they don't grab a hammer and saw and make something more of their worlds.  I do the best I can.  I'm dredging up every symbol I have to give the tools you need to be better, and think smarter.

I can give you all the water I have.  But I can't carry it for you.

Rules Lawyers Ruin Everything

"I always understood ruling not rules to mean a simpler rule set that didn't attempt to cover every single situation."

- ruprecht

This reader got me thinking that I needed a definition of "rulings not rules," so I went looking for one.  Stack exchange is usually a good source for things like that, but it failed me.  Reddit was all over the map.  The Alexandrian tackled this in 2009 and, as usual, failed to show any clarity, while making about two dozen assumptions that break his own argument.

But a very popular link on my google was John Wick Presents, for reasons unknown.  But the link was broken.  Thankfully, the page was cached and that sent me to this post by Tim Kask.  Obviously, getting closer to the source.

In the post, Kask waffles about for awhile before getting to his first key observation, about the halcyon days of good old 1974:

"We played 6 or 7 times a month for at least six months before any of the dozen or so players felt like buying a [rule] set of their own.  It was two months before anyone else bought dice.  The point?  You do not need a bookbag full of books to play Old School."

I know that sounds like a definitive argument for a lot of people, particularly coming from Kask.  But you don't need a glove or a bat or even a ball to play baseball. You can play it with your bare hands and a rock, if you so desire.  I'm sure people have in some parts of the world and have been just as happy.  Doesn't mean baseball should be played that way.

After saying this, Kask goes off on a considerable Vision Quest for a great many paragraphs, really milking his early days and dropping names like a hammer used by two-fingered man building a fence.  He chats vaguely about attempts to rope in D&D by the supplements, regurgitates a host of old saws (this was written in 2016, but Kask still hasn't gotten over things) and finally swings around the barn with this:

"TSR came to the conclusion that it was time to actually codify D&D; thus was Advanced Dungeons & Dragonsborn, and the death knell of the loosey-goosey, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants OS style of play. There were so many things we did not see coming, the most reprehensible of which is the rules-lawyer."

Kask is perfectly clear.  THIS never happened before the launch of AD&D.

At this point I could easily write a post about the irrational dread of rules lawyers, who are incredibly easy to manage by plainly quoting the rules, and playing by them, but I won't.  We'll go on dragging our ass through Kask's post.

"AD&D was a tarted-up, codified version of OD&D that would now compel everyone to play the same. Worse, it was now a whole hell of a lot less engaging to the imagination; everything could be found on a chart or table. OS, or OD&D if you will, is more mentally engaging and more challenging than all the subsequent editions, not less. It is also tons simpler to play."

There's simply no way to get around this argument.  Because it isn't an argument.  It is the prejudice of an old man bitching that he did not like being the "mid-wife" to AD&D, because it was not his game.  For the next series of paragraphs, Kask begins making the same arguments we've all heard dozens of times for why Old School (which is definitely before AD&D) is better than any sort of New School that has existed since 1979, for what amounts to sweeping statements without any sort of clarification beyond "because."  For a lot of people, reading this rant, I suppose it strikes home ... but mostly in the way that most political speeches do, where the politician doesn't actually say anything but it is easy to interpret your way, especially if you already consider yourself a member of the politician's party.

If you like Old School, however you define it, then I'm sure you do believe that other versions can't possibly have imagination, or that too many tables preclude "fun," or that your version was either simpler or more difficult [Kask calls O.S. both], or more nuanced or tons simpler [Kask calls O.S. both], or that other versions killed off O.S. or whatever.  Amazing that this man who was around in 1974, who is now writing this 42 years later, can still describe later versions of D&D "killing" O.S. gaming.  I don't think that word means what he thinks it means.

Sadly and unfortunately, Kask never actually gets around to his subject heading that D&D was about rulings, not rules.  I suppose we're supposed to see the truth through the text, like one of those puzzles where you look hard at the image until a whale pops out.  I was somewhat disheartened when I had to go back to the defunct John Wick website to discover out of what well he drew a sense of "rulings, not rules" from this piece.

Wick says,

"In summation, the author—a kindly gentleman named Tim Kask—talks about the earliest days of Dungeons & Dragons, and how the rulebook wasn’t a rulebook at all, but a list of example rulings. The difference, he argued, was that rulings gave the Dungeon Master freedom to improvise creatively while rules limited the DM’s ability to run the game. He lamented that later editions went to the side of rules vs rulings and the game has suffered ever since."

That is pretty generous.  Kask makes a lot of arguments about rules and boundaries, but I didn't find anything nearly as clear as the above statement.  Wick is the Kask whisperer.

Still, this is a pretty solid definition for what most people seem to think about rulings over rules.  We still don't have an argument, but we do have some profound hypotheses, that people seem to take on faith without any need to question.  And if we follow Wick's discussion further in the post (there's not much meat here but there's some), we can find the condemnation I made earlier this afternoon being touted as the most important feature of rulings ~ at least, the only one that Wick actually exposits.  Rulings are fast.  They save time.  They're fair, and they save time.  And that's all you'll ever need if you want to improvise and have fun ... followed by the usual yada yada.

Well, I beat on this earlier today so I'll forego it.  Let's talk about the two points Wick hypothesizes but doesn't feel inclined to support.

1.  Rulings give the DM freedom to improvise.

2.  Rules limit the DM's ability to run the game.

I see these all the time.  I've yet to see a single argument that attempts to prove either are true.  I do see the sort of waffling that Kask does on his post, which we're expected to accept as it comes from "on high," but I'm the sort of guy who would have argued vehemently with Einstein about that God playing dice with the universe crack, something which Einstein himself discredited before he died.  Authority cuts no ice with me ... which is a very good reason why I should never, ever, find myself in a room with the Queen of England.

Anyway, with the first point, I agree.  Rulings give the DM freedom to improvise.  But improvise what, exactly?  Sounds like it's an excellent opportunity to improvise bullshit out of a DM's ass.

A ruling is an authoritative decision or pronouncement.  The word originates specifically from a "determination by a judge or court on a point arising in the course of a trial or hearing."  It is not, as Kask says, "a loosey goosey thing," which is how he describes the era of D&D before the invocation of the 1st Edition.  Rulings are fixed impositions of rules, which is supposed to mean that once the judge has made a ruling, that ruling is now law.  It is the substance of precedent, in which once a ruling is made, the situation then becomes a case that may be taken as a rule in other cases.

If we take the above #1 statement literally, then the more rulings the DM makes, the less freedom the DM has to improvise as the campaign moves on.  I think that is how it should be.  When something new comes up, the DM should make a ruling.  And then, that rule should be recorded, by player and DM, as a standard by which all things that progress along that same line should be maintained.  And if another ruling is called for, that relates to an earlier ruling, then the earlier ruling should absolutely apply to the later ruling.  All rulings should function that way ~ and in everything other than D&D, they do.

But D&D is a special case, because in this case the word "ruling" does not mean what the English language says it means.  In fact, the word "ruling" in D&D means, "Whatever the fuck I think I want to do right now."  We do have a word in English for this.  We have quite a few words, actually: arbitrary, capricious, random, erratic, unpredictable, haphazard, unreasoned, unsupported, illogical, irrational, unjustifiable, wanton, descretionary, despotic, tyrannical, peremptory, autocratic, draconian and oppressive, just to name a few.

So let's quote #1 again, and this time let's use the right word.

1. Unrestrained power gives the DM freedom to improvise.

Excellent.  I'm glad we've cleared that up.

Looking at #2, I must admit that I agree with this one also.  Rules do limit the DM's ability to run the game.  But, which game?

Judging from a correct interpretation of #1, I would say that #2 definitely limits the DM's unrestrained power.  This is the purpose of rules.

A rule is a set of explicit or understood regulations or principles governing conduct within a particular activity or sphere.  The word originates from c. 1200, meant to describe a "principle or maxim governing conduct," a "formula to which conduct must be conformed."  Within such things as D&D, since the 1690s the word has come to mean a "regulation governing play of a game, etc."

Shamelessly stolen from TV Tropes.

Now, I realize that good old kindly gentleman Tim Kask fondly remembers a time when a dozen people would spew the game like so much shit in a pile, but unfortunately the real world rather interfeared when TSR decided to be a business, which required reorganizing all that manure into a rational system that people who weren't Kask's personal friends could get behind.  I was one of those non-personal friends of Kask, who notwithstanding the kindly gentleman's attitude towards the game I loved, found it extraordinarily Fantastic that the game included tons of tables, teaching me how to invent and improvise new tables, and tons of Wonderful details, enabling me to invent and improvise new details, etcetera, etcetera, as opposed to sitting around with my thumb up my ass for 42 years and still complaining that they changed my game and now I hate it.

But before I forget, let me stipulate again that these rules surrounding the tables and details I make up restrain my conduct as a DM.  Every regulation I invent further governs my play of the game, so that I don't do ridiculously autocratic, unreasoned, illogical, unjustifiable and arbitrary things while I play my game.  Because I think those things are Bad.  Call me silly, but ...

When I find myself playing any sort of a game with people who disparage the rules, whatever their role happens to be in that game, I get, well, uncomfortable.  Uncomfortable in a way that rings alarm bells in my head.  And where D&D is concerned, I begin to wonder just what is meant by running the game, if we're talking about running it without rules.

I don't think we're talking about the DM's ability to "run the game."  Run is a term meaning "manage," which in turn has an extended sense of "control or direct by administrative ability."  As such, managing anything without rules, or controlling or directing things without rules, is not really running a "game" in any sense that I want to take part in.

I think we mean something other than "run" the game.  I think we're really talking about guiding, steering, commanding, dominating, calling the tune, pulling the strings ~ or to put it in words my thesaurus won't, bending the players over the table and fucking them hard with a broom handle.

When someone talks about getting rid of the rules, they only ever mean one thing.  "I don't want to play by the rules.  I want to be the rules."  With that understanding, let's rewrite #2 in the way that people who argue this game style really mean it.

2.  Rules get in the way of MY ability to freely jack the players.

Ah, good.  Now we know what we stand for.

Of course, none of this seems to be the case when we use the nice, friendly language that Wick uses, or that most people use when they talk about this subject.  Nice, friendly language is harmless, isn't it?  I mean, if we describe raping and pillaging the country by calling it a "tax cut" for the "middle class," that's certainly harmless.  We especially want to use the word "separating" when we describe families at the border, not "imprisoning illegally," or "incarcerating innocent people," do we?  NO.  We want to use nice, friendly language.  We want to call things, "solutions."  Solutions are good things.  Everyone likes a solution.  We need to have more solutions.  Right?

So if we casually say that "rules" are bad, and "rulings" are perfectly fine, despite the fact that both are from the same root word and that neither mean in the sentence what the user actually intends, everyone is just fine with that.  Because we want to "improvise," right?  Improvise is a good, non-specific, non-defined word that sounds like we really need it and that wow, we sure want to do whatever lets us do more of that, right?  And at the same time, we all hate "rules," don't we?  My, yes.  Rules suck.  Just so long as we're talking about meaningless, unimportant game rules that get in the way of fun, because fun is a really great word.

Yes, by golly gee whiz, fun is the best.  And rules suck.  All that having to do stuff just because it's a game and stuff.  Fuck, fun and games doesn't need rules, does it?  Jeez, if all those rules lawyers would just stop complaining about the DM acting autocratically and abusively while participating in a social pastime, everyone would sure have a lot more fun, wouldn't they?

Those stupid rules lawyers, always expecting people to act fairly.  They ruin everything.