Capturing the PCs

Sometimes GMs post to social media asking for advice on how to capture their PCs.

GMs, we need to have a talk...

1. You don't get to force the PCs to be taken captive.
In most RPGs, the only (or at least primary) way your players have to tell their part of the story is through their characters' actions.  By forcing them to become captives, you take away that ability to tell the story.

Being imprisoned isn't the problem.  There are whole RPGs about being imprisoned (cf Dream Park, 1992).  The transition from free to imprisoned is the problem.  Just like you can't force the players to go into the dungeon, you can't force the players to travel to Paris, and you can't force the players to walk into the spooky haunted castle, you can't force the players to go into captivity.

2. You can get the players' buy-in, though
You can ask the players, out of character, if they agree to a situation where they get taken captive.  If they trust you, and you make it sound fun, they'll agree.  If they agree, be nice about logistical things like letting them getting their stuff back, or else they won't trust you as much in the future.

If they don't agree, find out why.  Maybe they want a fair shot at escape.  Maybe they believe their characters would rather die than be captured by the people you suggest they get captured by.  Ask them under what circumstances their characters would find themselves prisoners.  Allow them to tell a story about how they got captured that's comfortable to them.

Example:  "I would rather die than let myself be captured by vampires.  My character has a terrible fear of being bitten by a vampire.  But if they hit me with a high level Sleep spell of high enough level, they could tie me up and drag me off before I could resist."  

Don't think of it as "that player is trying to tell me what to do."  Think of it as "she just gave me a cool new henchman for the vampire queen -- a sneaky wizard!"

3. Foreseen stakes
Players will accept being captured as the consequences of a die roll they miss, but only with all of the following conditions:

• You presented the stakes before the roll
• The roll appears fair
• The failure stakes sound fun
• You have their trust

For instance, in a D&D game, the party is camping in the wilderness.  The Dragonborn Sorcerer is on watch.  You tell the players, "Some drow are coming to capture you four.  If they capture you, it'll be a cool escape quest.  If not, you'll have a drow warband to investigate from the outside.  Either way, I'm sure it'll be fun.  They're going to use their poison arrows on the Sorcerer, and put their drow poison in your mouths while you sleep.  Each of you gets to make either a DC 13 Constitution save or Perception check -- your choice.  Everyone has Disadvantage because they're sleeping, except the Sorcerer.  If two of you succeed, you fight off the drow, and they retreat.  If less than two of you succeed, you've been captured.  There are too many drow for just one of you to fight off.  OK?"

This example follows the rules:

• Everything was explained before the players rolled, so they know what happens if they fail
• The roll appears fair - more than fair, really.  If the sorcerer got hit with multiple arrows, she'd have to make multiple saving throws.  
• The GM explained how both success and failure on the group check would be fun.  This should always be true:  Never call for a roll where either success or failure is boring!
• We're assuming the players don't have a problem trusting this DM

4. If you don't talk to them about it ahead, it feels like railroading
Let's say you decide to capture the PCs by using a really powerful encounter where the NPCs use nonlethal attacks to capture the party; but you don't present the stakes before the combat, and you don't explain how being captured could be fun in this case.

This is going to seem like railroading, because while any encounter is technically winnable if the players' dice come up 20s every roll, in reality, that's not true.  Using overwhelming opponents and being a jerk about retreat/escape will cost you a lot of trust.  After you burn your players' trust, do you really think they're going to be excited about the "you've been captured" adventure?  Even your best friend will have their enthusiasm dulled a little by the forced capture.

Here's why it feels so bad:  The social contract of most RPG battles is that every battle is technically winnable unless you're attacking something you know is way too powerful for you.  Level 1 D&D characters can't take down a Lich, but the DM will tell them they can't take down a Lich before they try it.  They won't be ambushed by a Lich on the way to the castle.  While it's common to put overwhelmingly powerful monsters in your world, it's lame to put overwhelmingly powerful monsters in your world and then not tell the players they're overwhelmingly powerful.  And it's really crappy GM behavior to ambush the PCs with overwhelming monsters they can't escape from.

5. A truly skilled GM knows how to make them let themselves be captured
Why do all the work?  Why not make the PCs figure out how to get themselves captured?

James Bond always walks right in to his opponent's den, and he's almost always captured as a result.  And he always profits from it!

Why does he do this?  He could assault the enemy's fortification or try to sneak in. He's good at both approaches.  But both involve a lot of risks, including the risk of death. Letting himself get captured often reveals information -- not just "before I kill you, Mr. Bond," monologues, but the layout of the site, the location of things he needs, the relationship between the henchman and the villain, and so forth.  In addition, brazen moves that get him captured usually force the villain to make mistakes, panic, recall henchmen, postpone executions of people Bond wants to save, or abandon additional plans in favor of haste.

If you want your players to start thinking of getting captured as a victory, you just have to make getting captured the most expedient plan.  It helps if you tell the players that...

• ...if the enemy force gets them, they won't kill them, and there will be ample opportunities to escape.
• ...the villain will likely make specific mistakes if they put themselves in the villain's hands ("MI-6 is on to us?  We need to accelerate the timetable!").
• ...other approaches are very dangerous - give them reasons why stealth, assault, and disguise put them at more risk than getting captured.
• ...being captured is the best starting point for a stealth, assault, or disguise plan.  In fact, they can prepare for capture, smuggling in lockpicks and such.

Still, the protagonists letting themselves get captured is different from the protagonists being captured against their will, and you might want both sorts of scenes.

6. Use the system if you can

Only a few RPGs have a mechanic for bribing the PCs to let something bad happen to them.  Fate has compels.  The Cipher System has GM intrusions.  There aren't that many.  If you have access to this tool, use it!  In Fate, for instance, you can use a compel to offer the PCs a Fate Point (meta-game currency they can use for bonuses or doing their own compels) for getting captured.  The can refuse the compel, spending a Fate point instead, and describe how they escape.  It's not perfect, but it's a much smoother way to handle it than a die roll!

How to Run an RPG Campaign in 5 Easy Steps

If you want to run an RPG campaign, you ought to do it right.  Here's a simple five step process to run a game that your players will never forget.

Five Steps to a Memorable RPG Campaign

Step 1: The Pitch
Pitch a campaign idea with enough detail that everyone understands the vision (genre, tone, themes, setting, conflicts, main action). This is a conversation, not a dictum - it's their game, too. Make sure everyone is on the same page, you included. (Here's a really old article from this site on making a campaign pitch.)

Step 2: Character Creation
Accept characters that fit the table's shared vision (see #1), and can work together.  (It's probably best if they already know each other).  Make sure all the characters have things they're intensely passionate about - people, places, things, goals, groups - that fit the campaign vision.  Many RPGs have passions baked into character creation. GUMSHOE games ask you to list your sources of stability. 5th edition D&D asks you to describe your Ideal and a personal Bond, etc.  Work within this structure where you can, but make sure to push players to give you real good passions - not cop outs.

Step 3: World Building
Sketch the world roughly with lots of blanks. In it, create major antagonists that have goals that brutally conflict with the PCs' passions (see #2). Give your antagonists stuff: People (henchmen, goons), places (dungeons, cities, lairs, etc.), things (artifacts, rituals), groups (titles, influence, cults, factions), and knowledge (of the PCs, of the future, of the past, of how things work).

Step 4: Starting Setting
Fill in the space close to the PCs in much more detail. This is your "starting village" -- your Tatooine or Emond's Field. Even though I said "much more detail," you should still leave some blanks to fill in as you go. As you fill in, fill it with the stuff the PCs care about (see #2) and the antagonists' stuff (see #3) - especially at least one henchman.

Step 5: Inciting Event
Decide what the local henchmen are up to that will damage the nearby stuff the PCs care about (see #4) and what happens to tip the PCs off to what's going on in time to do something about it (inciting event). Drop the inciting event, then just respond to their actions.

If you followed these steps, the PCs should care intensely about what's going on, because what's going on directly conflicts with their passions. There's no need for railroad tracks - the game is more of a fox hunt than a railroad. The PCs will drive the story, because they told you what they cared about and you made them a game about it.

As they follow leads from the local henchmen to the other stuff your main antagonists have, you just introduce them to more and more henchmen and more and more locations and villain goals (that continue being toxic to the PCs' passions).  The villain goals might shift, too, and get even more personal.  Where "corrupt the church of Ilmater" was their goal before, "Torment [the PC] Jakiri the Cleric of Ilmater by kidnapping the ones he loves" is even more personal.

Not all RPGs work the same way, though.  Here are some important caveats...

RPGs with Structured Adventures 
Many RPGs have internal structures that get in the way of this basic process.  These are RPGs where the game creates a conflict that the game designer or GM pushes on the PCs, rather than one the PCs investigate on their own initiative.  There's nothing wrong with that -- these are fun games. But because the structure is somewhat set ahead of time, we have to add another step.

For instance, in Monster of the Week, you're creating one-off threats for most sessions.  (It's literally in the title.)  In Night's Black Agents, the PCs are burned spies uncovering a conspiracy of vampires.  In Shadowrun, you're often doing black ops jobs for corporations through cutouts called Mr. Johnsons, rather than deciding what passions to pursue, yourselves. These conflicts come baked into their respective games. 

Here's how you deal with that:

First, be honest with your players in step #1.  Explain that they'll be playing Shadowrun (or whatever), and the structure of the game involves getting hired for covert black ops corporate espionage and sabotage jobs (or whatever). 

After that, make sure that you still get a lot of passions in step #2.  Step #3 and #4 are the same. 

Next, step #5 is a little different.  In step #5, you follow the game's baked in structure for an adventure.  You have a werewolf attack the suburban high school; have Mr. Johnson hire the team to steal a briefcase from some corporate scientist; or have the agents investigate a spy that was murdered outside a Bucharest blood bank. Whatever.  You do the thing that the game wants you to do.  But make sure the bad guys know who hurt them.  That's crucial for step #6.

Step 6 (for Structured Adventure RPGs): Now it's Personal!
The first time the PCs win a victory against the antagonists, the antagonists strike back.  They take their revenge on the PCs' passions.  The werewolf moot burns down the Chosen's family's home.  The corp that lost their briefcase sends security goons to "question" the Street Samurai's favorite bartender (he didn't talk, but it cost him three teeth and an eye). The vampires frame the agents for the murder of one of their own beloved contacts.

As you're running the game, continue to use the PCs' passions as stakes whenever you can.  Offer them opportunities to achieve or protect or improve things they care about, and set threats against them.  Make everything as personal as you can.


Character Death and New PCs
If a PC dies in your campaign, their passions die with them.  When the player makes a new character, they come in with all new passions.  How should you handle that?

First of all, reserve character death for only the most extreme circumstances. Because you know the PCs all have strong passions, there are literally fates worse than death in your game.  Use those before you get to character death. 

But even if nobody dies, there are still times new characters appear in your campaigns.  What if someone new joins the group halfway in? 

When you get a new PC, treat it like they're playing a module -- see below.  Tell them all the conflicts going on already and ask them to make a character that feels passionately about one or more of the things at stake in the existing conflicts.  The new PC can have other passions as well, of course.  Work up a new villain plan and new villain stuff (henchmen, prophecies, etc.) that targets those.


An Additional Note on Modules
When you're running a campaign from a module, step #1 is very important.  You need to "all but spoil" a lot of the campaign for your players, so that they can make characters that care about things in it. 

If you're running Curse of Strahd, you need to read the whole thing and help the players make characters that care about the themes and goals they'll eventually have in there.  One should be a vampire hunter.  One should have a sister or wife who looks like the twin to Ireena.  Another should be a priest of Lathander, the Morninglord (in a setting where the sun never shines).  And so forth.

(Here's another really old article from this site on a technique for sowing plot hooks among the PCs.)

Players Self-Assigning Rolls

Get your players to stop making die rolls you didn't call for.  

It does more harm than you think.

I get most of my inspiration for blog posts from RPG forums, where I read and help answer questions from DMs.  When a problem comes up a lot, I see a lot of good solutions from talented DMs.  I also get to refine my answer by writing it out for different people with the same problem.  Eventually, I write a post about it here so I can link back to it for them.  In this article, I'm using 5th edition D&D for my examples, because the most recent iteration of this question I saw was in a 5e D&D group on Facebook, but the problem happens in just about every RPG out there.

The problem I see all the time on that Facebook group is players self-assigning die rolls.  Self-assigning die rolls is trouble for reasons I'll explain below.  It happens when you describe the situation, and then the players describe their actions, assign themselves die rolls, and then roll them, all without the GM's involvement.  It looks like this:

"The mural depicts sorcerers of ancient Netheril forging some powerful magic rod, consisting of seven segments each four to six inches long."
"Arcana 19.  What do I know about the sorcerers of Netheril?"

"The hallway ends in a twelve foot square room with candelabras mounted on the walls, a carpet in the center, and no other features.
"Perception 24 - are there any traps or secret doors in this room?"

"Pleased to meet you, master Underhill. Rooms here are one gold piece per night each, double occupancy, and that includes all your meals. Ale, too. Wine and spirits are extra."
"Insight - I got a 17 - is the innkeeper planning to betray us?"

The player jumps in and rolls the dice, then you, as the GM, simply react as if you had framed the challenge and assigned the die roll.  Only, you didn't.

It may seem like the players are doing you a favor and handling some of the system for you, quickly getting it out of the way so you can get on with the roleplaying.  It's not.  Self-assigning causes a lot of problems.

First Problem: Bias
Players will consciously or unconsciously choose to frame the die roll in the most favorable way for their character.  Even players who have no intention of gaming the system are more likely to remember the skills and sub-systems they invested in for their character before ones that they didn't.  The Warlock knows all about the Arcana skill, so she rolls Arcana.  Netheril is ancient history, and the mural depicts an historic event; so this should have been a History check.  Similarly, the Perception check maybe should be Investigation.

The GM calls for the roll, not the player.  However, players might suggest a skill.  For instance, if the GM calls for a History check to understand the mural and the player fails, the player might say "I failed the History check.  Can I discern anything about the magic rod using Arcana?"  The GM still gets to decide, and the GM should still frame the check.

Second Problem: Framing
Players don't frame the die roll stakes -- you do.  Take a look at the Perception example, above.  This has to be the #1 most common way players self-assign die rolls.  They take it upon themselves to roll Perception checks without the DM telling them to.  The reason they feel so comfortable throwing Perception checks around is that even DMs rarely assign failure stakes to Perception checks, and when there are no failure stakes, the rest of the party can try the check if the first player fails.  But remember GM 101:  Every die roll should have interesting stakes for both success and failure!

The Perception check in the example above is poorly framed - the player needs to say what they're doing -- how they're looking for traps and secret doors.  If that action happens to come across a trap or secret door, the DM can call for the appropriate skill check at that point. You can't just stand outside the door and look around the room and see all the traps and secret doors.  They're better hidden than that!  Failing to find a trap should always cause a problem (usually the problem is triggering the trap).  More on trap framing, below.

Every roll should have both success and failure stakes.  It's the GM's job to make the world react to the PCs' actions.  When a GM says, "nothing happens," the GM is derelict in their duty, in my opinion.

Third Problem:  The Inevitable Success Shuffle
When there are no failure stakes, or nothing happens on failure, the players do the inevitable success shuffle.  That's what happens when player 1 fails the check, and player 2 says "OK, I try too."  If player 2 fails, player 3 tries.  Repeat ad nauseum.  It's a huge waste of table time.  Player-assigned die rolls almost never have failure stakes.  That means there's no cost or risk to them.  That's why players are so quick to throw the die and call for their own checks.  They can't fail!  Literally!  Rolling a 2 just preserves the status quo.  To actually fail, something bad would have to happen.

But it's worse than that.  The inevitable success shuffle makes success almost inevitable.  See, even if every PC has a 0 in their skill, odds are one of the die rolls will come up lucky.  I'm dropping some science here:  If five people roll 1d20 each, there's a 98% chance one of them will roll a 10+, there's an 83% chance one of them will roll a 15+, and there's a whopping 23% chance one of them will roll a natural 20.  Put another way, if the chances are only 30% that any individual party member will pass the check, if all five roll, the chances are 83% that one of them will succeed.  The players aren't trying to cheat, and none of this is illegal according to the rules; but it's an "exploit" to use a video game term. 

Not only does this effectively "game the system," it's a huge waste of table time.  After going through the work of evaluating and responding to the first die roll, the second player announces that they're going to try.  And so on.

Fourth Problem: Too Many Rolls
If they're doing them at all, the players are probably making self-assigned skill checks as a sort of "minesweeper" in your game.  They're making Perception checks to avoid landmine traps or missing out on treasure and secrets.  They're making Insight checks to avoid being tricked or set up.  They're making Intelligence checks to avoid missing critical information.  They're making Stealth checks to avoid being caught by sentries.  The problem is, they're doing it preemptively.

When the players get to self-assign minesweeper checks, they'll always self-assign minesweeper checks.  There's no cost to doing so (see the second problem), the best PC always uses their best skill (see the first problem), and they almost can't fail (see the third problem).  If you're not giving them hints when there might be a trap, they only fall in a trap when they fail to make minesweeper checks.  All that adds up to a huge incentive to keep doing it. 

Fifth Problem:  Perverse Incentive
What's more, odds are you've rewarded the players for doing it or punished them for failing to.

"The hallway is 10' wide and 50' long with a thick wooden door at the end."
"I check for traps.  Perception 24."
"You spot a pit trap with spikes five feet into the hallway."

You just rewarded self-assigned minesweeper checks.

"The hallway is 10' wide and 50' long with a thick wooden door at the end."
"I walk up to the door."
"Five feet into the hallway, you fall into a pit trap with spikes.  Make a Dexterity save, DC 20 to avoid falling and taking 21 points of piercing and bludgeoning damage."

You just punished the players for failing to self-assign a minesweeper check by hiding a landmine and blowing them up with it.

Now, let's work on fixing the problem.

Fixing the Problem 1:  Fixing Traps

"But Jon!" You protest, "how do I use landmine traps if I don't conceal them from the players!?"

Landmine traps are the worst.

Don't use landmine traps.  I could go on a big rant about landmine traps in D&D, why we use them, where they came from, and why they suck...  But I already did.  Read it here if you're interested. They're only potentially interesting in combat.

"But realistically monsters would hide their traps!"

Sure!  Monsters lay landmine traps all the time, but they're boring and stupid unless there's also some opportunity to spot and avoid them.  Realistically, monsters aren't perfect.  There's always some clue. 

If you use landmine traps with no hints, a trap is just a random HP tax, and the only mistake the players made was not self-assigning enough Perception checks.  Yuck.  I guarantee if you use landmine traps with no hints, your players will become paranoid minesweepers, and your fun dungeon exploration will become a grinding slog full of mechanical crunch and little else.

Real quick, here's how you do that hallway trap:

"The hallway is 10' wide and 50' long with a thick wooden door at the end.  You spot a few kobold tracks in the dirt and grime."

If the player doesn't use a minesweeper at all:

"I walk up to the door."
"As you walk down the hallway, something catches your eye.  Roll Perception."
"24."
"You see lots of concealed kobold tracks on the floor.  Through their obfuscation, you can see that the creatures' tracks veer sharply off to the right side of the hallway for no apparent reason, then stray back to the middle.  What do you do?"

See?  This is how to use Perception well.  It's best to call for Perception checks only when success spots the danger in time and failure triggers the danger.  Only call for a Perception check when the player declares an action that takes them through the relevant area.  And by "through" I mean where the trap would be triggered, or away from the hidden treasure, or past the secret door (not getting treasure or not getting a tactical advantage - those are great failure stakes).

What if the player fails their Perception check?  That's when the landmine goes off.  But you gave them a hint.  They missed it.  Then you gave them a Perception roll.  They failed that.  Now they get a saving throw.  How much more generous can you be?  Right?

Fixing the Problem 2:  Assume Competency, Build Trust

What we're doing here is assuming competency.  You build trust in your players when you show them that you assume that their characters are competent.  That way they don't feel like the base assumption is that they're bumbling idiots who forget to tie their shoes unless a player says so.  When you assume that the PC would open their eyes and look around before stepping on a trap, the player doesn't feel the need to call for their own Perception check once every five feet of hallway.  The player knows you know that their character isn't a rube who's never been in a dangerous situation before.  The player can trust you.

"Oops.  9."
"You see some kobold tracks on the floor.  By the time you realize the tracks veer sharply of to the right, it's too late, and you've already stepped on the false floor.  Make a Dexterity save, DC 20."

What if the player becomes suspicious (f'ing kobolds) and takes a minesweeper action?

"Does the pattern of tracks hint at a trap or something?" (Alternately, "I follow the tracks in case there's a trap they're avoiding.")
"They've made some attempt to conceal their tracks.  Roll Investigation, DC 15."  (or Survival DC 15, for the tracking version)
"18.  Success."
"You deduce that there's a spiked pit trap five feet into the hallway.  There's a safe path to the right, which you deduce from their tracks.  Though they've tried to conceal it, they always avoid that one section of hallway.  Once you know exactly where to look, you have no trouble spotting the plaster-covered wood of the trap door, prying it open, and seeing the nasty spikes 20 feet below." (The Survival version would just take them safely past the trap, without revealing it; but that's usually good enough)

And if the minesweeper action fails?  None of that "nothing happens" crap.

"13.  Failure."
"Though they've tried to hide their tracks, you notice that they avoid one area of the hallway.  There's something there.  You prod at the suspicious section of floor, and there's a loud crack, crash, crunch! as you dislodge the trapdoor, dropping it 20 feet into a pit full of spikes.  Whatever's behind that wood door up ahead heard the sound.  What do you do?"

I used a different failure condition than the obvious one in this example.  See this post for more ideas on advanced failure stakes.  For the obvious "you fall in the trap" failure stakes, see the failed Perception check example, above.

If you run it right, where there is no trap, the players won't feel any need to make a minesweeper check.  Where there is a trap, you drop a hint that they'll probably catch on to.  If the players are smart, and they are, they'll investigate.  In the unlikely event that they miss the hint, see above - they might fall for the trap.  But here's the key:  If they fall for the trap, it's not because of the failed die roll.  It's because they missed your hint (and then failed a die roll).  In other words, it's a fun game, not a landmine.  

Fixing the Problem 3:  Fixing Insight

This "assume competency, drop hints, make it a fun game" strategy applies to every kind of hidden information and hidden danger!  Consider the shifty innkeeper situation. 

Let's use a strategy of assumed competency to correct a player's misinterpretation: 

"Pleased to meet you, master Underhill. Rooms here are one gold piece per night each, double occupancy, and that includes all your meals. Ale, too. Wine and spirits are extra."
"I think the innkeeper might be working for the Zhentarim and plans to betray us. I want to know if he recognizes us or knows we're Harpers."
"Based on his innocent look and jovial greeting, the innkeeper doesn't recognize or suspect you. He's honest."
"OK."

The player misinterpreted your description, seeing something sinister where you didn't intend it.  No roll is needed. You can treat the player's request as an automatic success. 

But if you want to, you can make them roll. 

"I think the innkeeper might be working for the Zhentarim and plans to betray us. I want to know if he recognizes us or knows we're Harpers."
"OK, let's see how subtle you are in your suspicion.  Make an Insight check, DC 15."
"12.  Shoot."
"The innkeeper looks like he was going to say something else, but when he sees your steel-eyed look, he shuts up and won't make eye contact.  You're pretty sure you have nothing to worry about from the innkeeper, but now the innkeeper is worried about you."

I'm applying stakes other than "you learn nothing" again.  By being suspicious and then mishandling the situation (with the bad roll), the PC has added a little color to the situation.  Maybe nothing will come of it, or maybe we'll improvise this into a real conflict later.  A successful Insight roll represents a much less impulsive approach.

"I got a 22."
"You're real subtle, leading the innkeeper through some seemingly innocent small talk that would make a Zhentarim spy sweat, but he doesn't pick up on any of it, and seems to enjoy shooting the breeze with you.  It's getting close to dinner time.  What do you do?"

But that's about a player being paranoid, seeing a hint of treason where there was none intended. 

What if the innkeeper really is a threat?  What if you really did drop a hint?

If there's no difference between your shady Zhentarim innkeeper and your upright innocent innkeeper, the players have to be paranoid -- especially if you once used a shady innkeeper to betray the PCs once and didn't telegraph it. One bad innkeeper, and they're going to suspect every innkeeper from then on, forever.

Always give them hints when they should be suspicious, and then make the challenge figuring out what they should be suspicious of.  That's a tricky concept, but I can explain better it if you've ever heard of this series of movies called Star Wars. 

One of the most famous "betrayal by a host" scenes in media history is the Cloud City sequence on Bespin in Empire Strikes Back.  Han, Leia, Chewbacca, and C-3PO flee to Cloud City to stay with Lando Calrissian, Han's old partner in crime.  Lando has betrayed them, and they all get suspicious pretty quickly.  If this were an RPG, what happened is that they got to Cloud City and met Lando, and the GM dropped some hints that Lando had an ulterior motive, but not what the motive is.

Leia: "Something's wrong here - no one has seen or knows anything about 3PO. He's been gone too long to have gotten lost! ...I don't trust Lando."
Han:  "I don't trust him either, but he is my friend." 

Immediately after that bit of expository dialog, Chewbacca finds C-3PO in pieces, waiting to be recycled, brings the parts back to Han, and then they get really worried. The stakes get higher and the tension rises. Lando arrives and invites them for drinks; and unaware exactly what is going on, Leia, Han, and Chewy go with him and walk right into the trap.

That's an example of how it works: "We saw the clues, we got suspicious, but we didn't realize the nature of the trap." Cite that sequence to players who don't understand that alert, suspicious people can still be surprised.  It's the difference between being suspicious and knowing what to be suspicious of.

Here's how you signal to them that they need to use Insight.  If the innkeeper was shady, you'd make that clear with your dialog:

"Pleased to meet you, master... Underhill you said? Is that right... Hmm... Anyway... Rooms here are one gold piece per night each, double occupancy, and that includes all your meals. Ale, too. Wine and spirits are extra. You, uh, look tired. You'll be wanting to get out of that armor. Can I take your things up to your rooms while my daughter gets you something to drink?"

See, there are enough clues in there to make the players suspicious, and even if they miss them, you can point back to them later.  But let's assume your players pick up on your hints.

"Good sir, we'll keep the armor on for a while. Why are you so eager to take our bags?"

"'I... I just saw you were weary and was offering to save you the effort, sir... I meant no harm.' Go ahead and make a group Insight check. DC 12. If more than half of you fail, you'll be caught when the trap springs."

[Most of them succeed.]

"You're sure the innkeeper has something planned, so you watch his eyes while you challenge him. They keep darting to the door - the only exit from the inn that you can see. He's waiting for reinforcements, and they're probably going to be here soon. What do you do?"

Now let's look under the hood of that example.

GM Hints - Player Investigates - GM Frames a Check
The GM calls for the Insight check as soon as the player challenges the NPC or takes any action to investigate. This is just another minesweeper check, but the player had a hint, so it's not just routine.  But it's the GM who frames the check. Not the player!

The Heart of the Problem: It's Just No Fun

The difference between "Hint - Investigation - Check" and routine minesweeper checks has a massive, practical impact on your game.  Review the fun formula for RPGs before we get into it.

If minesweeper checks are routine, then there's no tension.  You make an Insight check with every single NPC you meet, or at least anyone who could legitimately pose a direct or indirect threat.  Sometimes the NPC is a traitor.  Sometimes they're honest.  Sometimes you succeed at the minesweeper check.  Sometimes you fail.  None of the outcomes are caused by your decision as a player.  All of the outcomes are caused by the GM and the dice.

So back to the fun formula.

Story -> Problems -> Tension -> Excitement -> Fun

When you don't hint at a problem in the fiction, there's no story, no story problem, no tension, no excitement, no fun.  It's just a routine check, and it has one of four outcomes (see the diagram below).  Only one of those outcomes introduces a story problem -- the yellow circle.  Everything else is either no problem or no problem detected.*  

The "we failed a check to detect trouble" outcome (marked *) represents dramatic irony:  The players know there might be trouble but the players have to pretend they don't know about it.  With mature players, dramatic irony can create tension (excitement, fun), but because they self-assigned the check, they don't know for sure (OOC) if there is trouble.  That weakens the dramatic irony tension, so it's not as fun.

* dramatic irony

On the other hand, when you drop a hint, you've created a story:  The innkeeper is acting fishy.  When your fishy innkeeper could spell trouble for the PCs, it's a story problem.  When that story problem's outcome is uncertain, there's tension.  Tension is exciting.  Getting excited over an RPG is fun.

Failure Stakes
The example Insight group check is framed with failure stakes. The success stakes are the implied inverse of the failure stakes. "Go ahead and make a group Insight check. DC 12. If more than half of you fail, you'll be caught when the trap springs." See how the player doesn't know exactly what the trap is or what the Insight check will reveal?

The players have to trust that a good roll will have a good outcome and a bad roll will have a bad outcome and they will be treated fairly by the GM. Trust is a big deal in player/GM relationships.  If you don't have that, stop reading and go be more generous to your players until you fix the trust problem.

No Self-Assigning Means no Inevitable Success Shuffle
The GM framed it as a group check instead of a single check.  If the player had self-assigned an Insight check and failed, without any failure stakes, nothing happens, right? Then what? You know what!  Inevitable success shuffle. 

There's a reason group checks exist. In fiction, if your friends all trust the innkeeper, they're going to think you're just being paranoid when you're like "Guys! He's trying to ambush us!" "No, man, he just sees we've been on the road all day. Why would an innkeeper be ambushing us? We've got magic great-swords and he's got a rolling pin. You need a drink, dude."

Tactical Advantage
The roll stakes set up a tactical advantage that's relevant in every kind of RPG from Pathfinder to Fate Accelerated.  If the PCs are prepared for the reinforcements, they can choose where the conflict takes place.  They can take the fight out in public, where the reinforcements are likely to hesitate; they can barricade themselves in; they can run away before the reinforcements arrive; they can lay an ambush; etc.

Failing the check starts the encounter. The players can't even object: They had their chance to spot the ambush, and they failed the roll. Their characters may have been suspicious, but suspicious is not the same as informed and prepared. Like Han and Leia, they knew something was up, but they didn't know what it was.  They missed that telltale glance at the door.

By the way, if your innkeeper's trap is more distant, frame it this way:

"Make a group Insight check, DC 12. Either way, you're suspicious. On a failed check, you are eating dinner in armor, weapons at the ready, when the attack comes. On a success, I'll tell you the nature of the attack before dinner."

See?  I'm setting up an Empire Strikes Back situation where the players might know to be suspicious, but without getting more information, they will still fall for the trap.  Let's assume the group check fails.  Now we have tension coming from two directions:  The hints the GM dropped about the innkeeper add tension, but now the dramatic irony of the players knowing they failed the group check.  They know that there's an attack coming at dinnertime and they don't know its nature!

"OK, so things go fine all afternoon. There's a fire and the innkeeper tells some good jokes, though you keep your armor on and guard up. Dinner is beef stew with bread and ale. You're all worried about an attack, so I assume you're not getting drunk. Where are you in the room while eating dinner?"

"I'm eating by the door, standing up, pacing. I pretend to drink the ale, but just nurse it slowly. Maybe pouring it out in a potted plant or something to look like I'm drinking more than I really am."

"I'm back by the hearth, away from the window. Acting casual.  I have hot tea with my dinner, in case I need to throw it in someone's face."

"I'm eating at the table in the middle where I can see anyone approaching through the window.  Is that right?"

"Right. You've got a good view, but anyone approaching can see you, too."

"That's fine.  I try to act casual." 

"I'm eating at the bar, on my third helping of stew, fourth helping of ale."

"Stay sharp Ragnar!"

"Sure, sure, I can handle my ale! (Nope! My Flaw is I like to drink to excess. So I do!)"

"Cool.  Take Inspiration for acting out your flaw."

"Sweet."

"OK, everyone make a DC 20 Con save vs poison or fall unconscious. Ragnar, you have Disadvantage on the check."

"Aw $%i#!"

Other Self-Assigned Rolls

Though information checks like Perception and Insight are the most common rolls players self-assign, there are other situations players self-assign rolls.  This article is already pretty long, but I would be remiss if I didn't at least touch on them.

Sometimes they roll initiative before the GM calls for it, assuming the GM is going to use the tactical combat system to resolve a fight (hint: you don't have to use the combat system for every fight).  That's easy to deal with.  Just say "hold your horses!"

Sometimes they self-assign Stealth checks to hide, which can actually be helpful in a D&D or Pathfinder combat if they're playing characters who need to hide in combat a lot.  Outside of combat, and outside those RPGs, make the player back up and then frame the check before they roll.  Stealth failure stakes are some of the most fun situations in any RPG.

Sometimes players make assumptions about how you want to handle something and just throw some dice, thinking they're saving you time.  They'll walk up to a locked door and make a Dexterity (Thieves' Tools) check or leap over a chasm and roll Athletics before you call for the roll.  These players are often over-eager.  Maybe they've got a little bit of the rules lawyer in them.  Ask them "don't you want to know what the DC and stakes for failing that check are before you tell me your roll?"

You see self-assigning all the time with social skills.  it's a special case of the "players make assumptions" situation, above.  The PC will walk up to an NPC, tell a lie, and then the player will announce "22 Deception!" or whatever system equivalent your game uses.  In my experience, this impertinence causes PCs way more trouble than it's worth, because in social scenes, GMs hate being interrupted by system unless they're the one doing the interruption.  And GMs are happy to push the situation and call for yet another check. Once the Rogue with +10 Deception has committed to a bluff, the NPC will turn to the +0 Deception Fighter and say "the guard looks at Ragnar and says, 'are you here to deliver something, too?'  Your reaction might give you away.  Give me Deception, DC 10 or else the guard gets suspicious."  I think GMs generally have good instincts to push back on players who thrust their stats into conversational scenes before they're called on.

Exception: Player Character Special Abilities

There's one situation where the player knows more about the framing of a die roll than the GM does, and that's exceptions to the rules caused by player character special abilities.  PC special abilities often frame the stakes of the die rolls they require very specifically, to limit how broadly they can be used.  Because the die roll is already framed up, the player can usually use the ability and throw the dice without the GM prompting them without causing any trouble.  The GM isn't really free to frame up the die roll in many cases.  It doesn't really matter, then, if the GM called for the roll or not - the system says the roll is required, the system says what to roll, and the system says the stakes are. 

Player Agency

The last thing I want to talk about is the concern some readers might have that denying players the opportunity to self-assign die rolls takes away their player agency.

Player agency is the ability of the players to control the shared imagined space of the game.  When we deny players the ability to have their characters take an action or have that action be meaningful, we deny their agency.  

Putting a stop to self-assigned checks does not deny the characters' actions, and it only makes their actions more meaningful by giving them more opportunities to make meaningful decisions.  

When a player becomes suspicious about a 5' square of dungeon tile and rolls a Perception check, there is no action - just system access.  The action would have been "I lean over and look closely at the tile, prodding and prying at it with the tip of my dagger.  I'm worried that it's a pressure plate."  The GM isn't stopping the player from taking that action.  The GM is simply insisting on making the system decisions related to that action. 

Further, because a lot of self-assigned checks come up around hidden information, a GM who follows my advice and gives a lot of hints is giving the players more agency by pointing out opportunities where their actions can make a big difference in the events of the game world.  Without hints, hidden information is more likely to be like a landmine (whether it's a treasonous NPC or a hidden trap).  It's almost entirely out of the players' control other than choosing to sweep for mines or not with no reason other than an abundance of caution.  That's not a lot of player agency.

Railroads and Fox Hunts

The term "railroad" (often used as an adjective or verb) has strong connotations in RPGs.  It means a linear story with little or no opportunity for departing from the linear path of the plot.  It has negative connotations:  GMs who punish player creativity are railroading them, GMs who reject player ideas to keep them on the path are running railroad campaigns, and GMs who kill off parties for daring to pursue some other objective than the one they laid before them are punishing them for "going off the rails."

But a linear campaign can work extremely well, when run right.  Linear games have all kinds of advantages.  They're fast-paced, focused, have clear themes, and resemble epic fantasy stories in the vein of Lord of the Rings and other favorites.

Good linear campaigns tend to have a few key features:

1. There is one main goal that the PCs are trying to achieve, though there could be occasional side quests.
2. Though the central conflict remains the same, the campaign shifts dramatically in response to the PCs' decisions.  This is because the entire campaign is based around one main conflict, so if the players force the antagonists to change, it ripples through the entire campaign, not just a part of it.
3. The players' characters all have personal reasons to unify around the central conflict.  Because there is just one central conflict, all the characters agree that it's important, and all the characters feel passionately about it for their own personal reasons.
4. There is a consistent feeling of momentum.  Sometimes the PCs are racing against the clock.  Others, they're searching for leads or amassing resources while looking for the next opportunity to advance their goal.  Linear campaigns focus on one central conflict, so every adventure moves toward resolving the same conflict.  No quest is ever "put on hold" so another quest can advance.  
5. The story builds toward a single dramatic climax where the PCs confront the antagonists and resolve the central conflict, which is the only conflict, all at once.  In a "sandbox" game, there are multiple threads that resolve over time. 

A railroad is weak on most of these characteristics.  It has one main goal, but it fails to shift in response to the PCs' actions.  It's built to tell the GM's story, not the PCs' story, so it's usually first and foremost about saving the world, rather than achieving the goals the players want for their characters.  Though there might be a constant feeling of momentum, it's driven by outside threats, not the PCs' internal drives.  It builds to a dramatic climax, but is it a climax the players dreamed of when they made their characters?

We should continue to use "railroad" to describe bad linear stories.

I propose we also adopt "fox hunt" to describe good linear stories.

A fox hunt is a metaphor that describes a linear RPG done well.  The hunters are the players.  The hounds are their characters.  The fox represents the object of the central conflict:  Fox vs. hounds, antagonists vs. protagonists, villains vs. PCs.  Here's what makes a fox hunt a good linear campaign:

Motivation
A locomotive travels forward along the tracks because it can only travel forward along the tracks.  The hounds could go anywhere they like, but they won't.  The hounds are chasing the fox because they want to chase the fox.  That's no coincidence:  The hunters trained the hounds to be fox hunters; just like the players should create characters who have personal reasons to care about the central conflict.  And the hunters set their hounds to chase a fox, not a bear.  The GM should make sure the campaign is about the things the players and their characters care about.

Hooks
It doesn't matter what train is on the track.  It could be an old steam locomotive or a modern diesel - the track is the same either way.  The GM should take note of how the players constructed their characters' motives around the central conflict and hook the campaign's story elements into the details of PCs' motives.  That requires the GM to look at the people, places, and things involved in the characters' goals, fears, and histories.  Who killed Ragnar's father?  The fox killed Ragnar's father.  Get that fox, Ragnar!

Adaptability
A locomotive goes forward according to a timetable, and even though the conductor can sometimes choose between two stations at a junction, the track doesn't really adapt to the train.  That's the opposite of the relationship the fox has with the hounds.  The hounds chase the fox, and if they try to cut it off at the brook, it has to swim across and hide in the hills.  If the hounds try to corner it in the hills, it has to make a run for the forest.  The train goes where the track goes.  The fox goes where the hounds aren't.  Every step of the way, the hunters can tell the fox is fleeing the baying of the hounds.  The GM should adapt to the players.  The antagonists should be sly like a fox.  Antagonists can also strike back at the PCs, like the fox can fight the hounds.

Pacing
The locomotive's pace is as fast as safety allows.  A train only hurries to make its stops on time.  When a train is delayed, it's an annoyance.  When the hounds are delayed, the hunt is in peril.  The crafty fox slipped the chase.  The hounds find themselves at the brook, sniffing both banks while the hunters fret.  Then a hound barks.  She's caught the scent again, and they're off!  Suddenly, they're bolting heedless through the brush, panting with exertion and exhilaration.  No train has ever felt such passion.  The pace varies throughout, mixing slow sweeps across the dell looking for a scent with heedless sprints through the woods.  It helps that, when the pace slows, the PCs are genuinely concerned.  They want to be off on the hunt, but they've lost the scene.  They're desperate to get back to it because they care.

Duration
A railroad's length is determined by its geography, not its value as entertainment.  A train ride takes as long as it takes to get from A to B.  A long trip is supposed to take a long time.  But a fox hunt's duration is paced for excitement.  It can't be over too soon, and it can't go on too long, either.  The timing and pace are as important as claiming the trophy at the end.

Sense of Danger
Though the chances that a hunter will die are very low, a fox hunt is designed to feel like a risky adventure.  Fox hunts were an opportunity for aristocrats to feel a thrill, even if the real danger was fairly low.  Similarly, one of the core competencies of running an RPG is to inflate the players' feeling of danger.

Mode of Play

Adam Lee wrote a fun piece for the D&D website called "DM and Player Experience" that describes two modes of play:  Cinematic Mode and DM-as-Nature Mode.  These are very good observations, and I think they can be applied more broadly.  In my experience, what differentiates these modes is how tension is built, and where it comes from.  More, I think there are more modes.  And each mode represents a cluster of GM skills.

Lee's DM-as-Nature Mode has become a common way to play RPGs.  It reflects the "everyone plays by the same rules, and you have to out-think your opponent" ethos of the wargames that D&D originated from.  3rd and 4th edition D&D and Pathfinder are the ultimate examples of it.  John Wick stirred up a lot of controversy by claiming this mode of play is not roleplaying.  Though most of us disagreed with him, it caused us to re-examine what the different tools in our GM toolbox really are for, and how we can use them better.  The essence of DM-as-Nature is that it requires the GM to generate tension by designing "chess" challenges, where the players and GM play by essentially the same rules, the players are set up with advantages that will lead to their success, but the tactics they use to achieve that success are not easy and not immediately apparent.  DM-as-Nature mode relies on the tactical situation (in combat or not) as a sort of puzzle for the players to solve, either as a chess match (active opposition -- fighting an invisible stalker) or a chess puzzle (passive opposition -- circumventing out a complex trap).

I'm going to re-name it Tactical Mode for its reliance on the adversarial tactical relationship between the GM and players in a scene where both play by essentially the same rules.

According to his own description, Lee's Cinematic Mode clearly covers two different styles of play, so let's break it up.

First, Lee describes cinematic mode in terms of actual cinema.  "Sometimes everyone has just rewatched the Lord of the Rings extended editions and all the players are pumped to have an experience where they’re the heroes of the story, fighting supreme evil. They want to do amazing stuff, swinging from chandeliers to land in a silver punchbowl while severing orc heads. They want to live the fantasy dream. In this mode, I put on a movie director hat."  This version of Cinematic Mode uses genre emulation (Lookee!  I wrote an article about genre emulation on Critical Hits!) to activate the players' emotional equity invested in genre tropes, along with a host of other techniques to build tension outside the game system.  Then it uses the game system to resolve them, often with some permissive GMing to let the players better emulate the protagonists of the game's genre.  The chandelier swinging style Lee describes works for D&D's sword-and-sorcery fantasy, but this mode isn't always so over-the-top:  When you're emulating gothic horror, you're not going to be leaping into any punchbowls.  I'm calling it Theatrical Mode.

Then Lee describes a style of play he runs that's pretty goofy:  "Cinematic is also the mode in which to goof around. You can let players make up the craziest characters possible, then do outrageous things to shock and horrify each other."  But I've seen other GMs run this mode of play more seriously, simply setting the player characters up in situations where they'll be like a bull in a china shop, then letting the natural chaos drive the story.  They're likely to screw things up, make bad decisions (in character), and fail checks (generating complications).  I'll call this Improvisational Mode.  It's not always as goofy as Lee describes it.  Back to gothic horror, Trail of Cthulhu was designed to be run as an improvisational, investigative gothic horror RPG.  I'll give it to Lee, though:  The more improvisational you get, the more silly situations arise.

In fact, Theatrical Mode and Improvisational Mode reside on a sliding scale.  At the extreme theatrical end, everything that happens is somehow connected to existing dramatic conflicts in the story.  At the extreme improvisational end, events sort of careen off one another, and the players feel like balls in a pachinko machine, bouncing from one complication to the next until they reach an unpredictable end, which is pretty much what a game of Paranoia feels like.

This particular R&D device is cleared for Blue level troubleshooters only.
Photo by Michael Maggs, Wikimedia Commons

Mode describes what game you're playing - the interaction between the GM (if any), players, play environment, table dynamics, social contract, and rules that determines how the table generates tension.  You might be playing D&D or Fate or Shadowrun, but the actual game you're playing, as humans around a table, is generated socially.

Let me illustrate with an example.  If you've played under multiple GMs, you may have noticed that each GM runs most games they run in a particular way.  Their style is more than just a little flavor on top of a common game.

In every game Anna runs, there is no black and white morality: What really matters is who you care about and the love and loyalty you have for them.  When we feel tension in Anna's games, it's because she jacked up the threats to the people we care about.  She loves the 5th edition D&D Ideals and Bonds, and a lot of encounters with monsters are run by narration or skill checks instead of combat, because they're often about something bigger than just "a monster attacks!"  Anna runs in Theatrical Mode.

In every game Barry runs, we know there's going to be a group of important NPCs who are totally mishandling a crisis, and we're going to have to pick up the pieces.  We'll have to go into some kind of dangerous situation they caused, and figure out how to fix it - and the tension comes from having to figure out Barry's tricky encounters, traps, and puzzles.  He's a die-hard Pathfinder fan, but sometimes he runs Shadowrun or GURPS.  Barry runs in Tactical Mode.

In every game Candace runs, we start off with a lofty goal, but we lose track of it real quick because we wind up screwing things up and spending all our time running away from or fixing the problems we caused.  Candace generates tension by surprising us with awkward situations and unexpected consequences and complications, then making us scramble to pick up the pieces.  She's been running a lot of old World of Darkness, because she loves riffing off our characters' Flaws; and she's very excited about the new edition of Apocalypse World coming out.  She's thinking of demoing FFG's Star Wars games at cons.

In every game Dave runs, he lets us come up with, and sometimes even play the important NPCs in some scenes.  He used to run Adventure! a lot, and now he runs Dresden Files and Atomic Robo because he's really into Fate.  We sit around at "session zero" talking about what the big problems in the world should be.  He takes a lot of suggestions about the events of the game and things in the world.  It's almost like we're his co-GMs.  Because we're really invested in the world, it can be really tense when his nasty bad guys throw everything we created into disarray.  And ironically, he runs the best mysteries.  Dave runs in Author Mode.

A Taxonomy of Modes

Lee's modes resemble the RPG theory concept of Stance (Recap: Actor, Author, Director), which elsewhere I describe in terms of bleed and sphere of influence.   But they're a lot bigger than that.  Still, the ideas of bleed and sphere of influence will be useful in understanding these modes and the clusters of GM skills that go into them.  Another defining factor is how chaotic/random the GM's style is vs. how much everything is generated by the game's plots.

Tactical Mode

Create a puzzle that's hard to solve; that difficulty creates tension.
Tension from:  System Wagers
Bleed:  Lots of bleed-in as players are constantly using their real-life problem-solving skills.  Actor, Author, and Pawn stance are common.
Sphere of Influence:  The players have very limited sphere of influence, but so does the GM.  The GM also has to follow the rules in order to make the world a mechanical place that the players can interface with using the player-facing system, at least "on screen."  Once a dragon shows up, the dragon is limited to what Dragons can do in the rule book, so that the players can figure out how to beat it.  If the dragon differs from the Monster Manual version, the Tactical GM will still use the rules, maybe applying Templates or giving it a spell from the Player's Handbook.
Tension source:  The puzzle has to be hard to solve, but not impossible.  The challenge of solving it generates tension.
System Note:  More complicated systems facilitate tactical mode play, but only to a limited extent.  The GM and players have to be familiar with the system to use it, and that can be troublesome with highly complex systems.  Pathfinder, Shadowrun, Burning Wheel, and D&D are good for Tactical Mode play.
Sub-Modes (Colloquial Terms):  A Tactical Mode game that's high on plot where the GM doesn't improvise much off the main course of events is often called a "linear" or "railroad" game.  A Tactical Mode game that's low on plot can be a "sandbox," and if it's really, really chaotic, it's a "beer and pretzels" game.  I remember the random dungeon generators in 2nd and 3rd edition D&D.  If the DM canceled on you, you could just roll up a random character, enter a random dungeon, and collect random treasure.  It was basically a board game, it got pretty goofy, and it was often really fun.
Skills:  See: illusionism, system mastery, game balance, time pressure, GM-as-toymaker

Improvisational Mode

(AKA Chaos Mode) Put the players in an interesting situation and let the players' decisions and die roll results generate complications; add chaos if necessary. 
Tension from:  The Unexpected
Bleed:  Rarely is there much bleed-out in Chaos Mode, unless it's played very seriously.  I've seen it played very seriously, with bleed-out starting fights between players, even.  Improvisational Mode is strongest when taken lightly.  It's baked into the dice mechanic for FFG's Star Wars RPGs, because Star Wars is best played as lighthearted space opera.
Sphere of Influence:  The GM doesn't run as mechanical a world as in Tactical Mode, so the GM's sphere of influence tends to be broader.  The players are open to surprise more, so the GM isn't as limited by the system.  The players sometimes suggest chaotic action, and they can signal the directions they want the improvised events to move with their characters and their actions, giving them more influence as well.
Tension source:  The system generates problems partly (or totally) at random, which the players resolve just like in Tactical Mode, but the tension doesn't come from the challenge of solving the problem - it comes from the unexpected appearance of the problem to begin with.  Instead of creating the problems careuflly as puzzles, the GM lets them arise organically either from events (story improvisation) or mechanics (system-facilitated improvisation).  The GM doesn't try to make things hard for the players.  Instead, the GM lets the system and situation spin out challenging externalities that the PCs have to chase down and resolve.
System Note: Systems that have skill niches are great for Improvisational Mode, so Shadowrun, World of Darkness, and those sorts of games are great for it.  Fate Core is also great for it (Fate Accelerated is closer to Theater or Author mode).  The Powered by the Apocalypse series of games and FFG's Star Wars games have Improvisational Mode baked into the core dice mechanics.  The idea of "fail forward" is a powerful improvisational mode tool.  Games with character Flaws, like the World of Darkness games and Fate (your "Trouble" aspect) tend to be great for Improvisational Mode.  5e D&D's Bonds and Flaws also help run this style.
Skills:  See "yes, and", fail forward, mystery design, complicated NPCs, sense of humor

Theater Mode

(AKA Cinematic Mode, Stakes Mode) Manipulate the players into feeling tension, then use the system to resolve it.
Tension from:  Emotional Investment
Bleed:  Bleed-out is the goal here.  The GM is trying to make you care about what's going on in the world.  Players have to be willing and able to cooperate with the GM by choosing to have their characters vulnerable by caring about things that are outside their control.  The players choose what their characters care about, and then feel the fear, pride, sorrow, love, and occasional panic that comes from what the GM does to the stuff they care about.
Sphere of influence:  Like in Improvisational Mode, the players can signal the things they want to see arise in the story - this time by choosing what their characters care about.  Further, the more the story revolves around the PCs' motivations, the more the GM can use them to build tension.  Theater mode isn't just "the GM telling a story" but instead, the GM lets the PCs' motivations and connections drive the story.
Tension source:  Bleed-out provides all the excitement.  The GM uses social skills, the social contract, powerless mechanics, illusionism, and genre emulation to build tension to excite the players.  Then the GM turns on the procedural system to resolve it.
System Note:  Traditional game mechanics (attack rolls, damage, initiative, skill modifiers, etc.) exist to resolve tension.  Mechaincs that cannot resolve tension and only serve to heighten it include resource management (hit points, sanity, rations, blood points), bond mechanics (mechanics that invest your character in things outside your control), powerlessness mechanics (mechanics that take away your freedom to act effectively), and influence mechanics (mechanics that allow/force you to rely on NPCs).  Games that make players connect their characters to the world help by giving the GM levers to pull to motivate the PCs.  Games with mechanics that emulate their genre well also help, because they let you use resonance to generate tension.
Skills:  Tension building, stakes, illusionism, genre emulation, resonance, scene framing, EQ

Author Mode

Create a story together, using system to prevent one player from dominating.  Tension is in getting your way.
Tension from:  Authors' Will
Bleed:  As you're usually in author and director stance, there's significantly less bleed-out, but there can be quite a lot of bleed-in.
Sphere of influence:  Author Mode is defined by giving the players more influence than a traditional RPG does.  At the extreme end, the players have quite a lot of influence.  The breadth of the players' sphere of influence determines how "Author Mode" the game is.
Tension source:  The tension inside the game world is not felt by the players, though they may empathize with the charaters.  There's a meta-game tension between the players as they negotiate the story in directions they like best.  Tension between the players is actually bad.  The fun comes from the players inspiring and "riffing off" one another.
System Note:  Author mode has a gradient/continuum.  In Microscope, there is no GM, and the players tell stories, acting out scenes occasionally.  In Fiasco, there's no GM, and the players control almost everything that happens to their characters.  A game of Fate Core starts with the players and GM talking about what the setting is like and what the big problems of the campaign are going to be.  Throughout the game, they can place Aspects (descriptors) on characters and settings, Compel NPCs to behave in specific ways, and even narrate their own defeats if they concede a fight.  That's significantly more influence than players have in a D&D module, but not as much as a game of Microscope.
Skills:  When there is a GM, the key skills are utilizing player input, improv skills like "yes, and" and passing the ball ("what do you think she's doing here?"), and facilitator skills such as step up / step back

Quick Fantasy Background Generator

If you're stuck for ideas for how to make your fantasy RPG character interesting and tied to the DM's plots, simply roll up a loved one and a rival, flesh them out, and send them to the DM to tie to the story.

Loved One

The person I’m closest to is… (1d6)

1. Romantic Partner
2. Parent
3. Child
4. Mentor, Priest, or Teacher
5. Loyal Friend
6. Liege or Commander

I interact with them regularly by… (1d6)

• 1. They travel with me, but not into danger
• 2-4. I write them regular letters or reports
• 5-6. I return to them after every adventure

Their future is uncertain because… (1d6)

1. They’ve been cursed or suffer from a terminal condition, and I quest to save them
2. They may have been recruited by my enemies or made a deal with the devil
3. They have a position of power, and their rivals seek to usurp them
4. They have dangerous or risky goals that I have to help them achieve 
5. They’re hunted by enemies I have to protect them from
6. They have a troubling, prophesied destiny none of us understands

Once you've got your results, give the person a name (choose a name from the examples given for the character's race in the game book, if you're stuck, or use a fantasy name generator.  Then flesh them out a little.  What do they look like?  What quirks might they have?  What are their goals?  What's your current relationship like?  Sweet?  Rocky?  Affectionate?  Testy?  Cold?  Businesslike?  Recovering?  Generous?


Troublesome Rival
 
My troublesome rival is… (1d6)

1. Someone who seeks to usurp my position or outcompete me for a position I desire
2. Someone who took something important from me (either illegally or legitimately), that I want to get back
3. Someone who believes I harmed them or cost them something valuable, so I owe them a debt I can never repay
4. An ex-lover who believes me to be a shiftless villain who cannot be trusted
5. A former employer or commander who believes I betrayed them or shirked my responsibilities
6. Someone who desperately wants a unique item I have, that I would never part with

Their redeeming quality (the reason I can’t kill them) is… (1d6)

1. They help the poor and needy, and are respected by the common folk and other do-gooders like them
2. They serve a god of goodness and justice faithfully and loyally, and the god and their servants love and respect them
3. They are a loyal and valuable servant of the rightful ruler of the land, and the ruler depends on them and respects them
4. They are kind and nurturing to people I care about, and the people I care about would never forgive me for causing them serious harm
5. I owe them for saving my life or the life of the person I care most about, and people of my culture know this and expect me to show them respect and deference
6. Their destiny is tied to mine, and prophecy says I need them, though I don’t know why or how

Their power is… (1d6)

1. They are a powerful magic user
2. They have a position of power, such as Alderman, Baron, or Vizier
3. They have a network of loyal eyes and ears
4. They are allied with a powerful monster
5. They command an army
6. They have legitimate authority to deliver justice anywhere in the world

Once you've got your results, give the person a name (choose a name from the examples given for the character's race in the game book, if you're stuck, or use a fantasy name generator.  Then flesh them out a little.  What do they look like?  What derisive name do they call you?  Or worse - are they respectful toward you?  Do they have friends or henchmen you know about?

How to Start a Game

When you start a game, you need to gather players, find a place to play, read the system, buy some new dice (OK, not everyone does that...), and schedule the first session (or session zero, as it's called).  People run their games in different ways, sure; but this is the ideal way to start a typical adventure or campaign.  You might try variations on this basic structure just to play around with different ideas; but you should follow this structure as close as you can.

Here's how game pitches should start:

1. GM Dreams it up
The GM comes up with the concept for the game. The GM then distills this into a very descriptive, evocative game pitch. A game pitch that has no wizards in it, for instance, maybe about pirates (see the link above).

2. GM Pitches the Game
Next, the GM emails the pitch out or tells the players about it.

3. Players Give Feedback
The players read/hear the pitch and give feedback. The GM listens carefully - not only noting what the players ask for and what they seem to like most; but also what they don't really respond to.  Also, when players give feedback, the GM should assess whether it's feedback one player has, or whether the entire table agrees.  "We don't want to play a game without wizards" says one player.  The other players shrug.  Maybe they were OK with a game without wizards.  Maybe that one player wants to play a wizard.  What's a good compromise?

4. GM Incorporates Feedback
The GM incorporates some of the feedback, to please the majority of the players. If the feedback is really negative, the GM goes "back to the drawing board." But once the GM has made changes - that's the game you're playing. You had your chance to give input.  Note, the GM has to like the game they're running!  No GM should change their campaign concept to one they don't enjoy.  But the players also have to like it.  If the players and GM can't agree, it's time to go back to the drawing board.

5. Players Make Characters
Now the players make characters appropriate for the game described in the (revised) pitch. Their character represents how they want to interact with the pitch. The players also create character hooks (aka backstory, ideals/bonds/flaws, background, known NPCs, and other sorts of things GMs ask for or players write unsolicited).  Those hooks describe what stories they are interested in being involved in.

6. GM Creates Content for the Player Characters
Next, the GM builds some antagonists and settings (or revises and fleshes out the sketched ones he or she already made) based around the players' characters. E.g. if a PC is a Paladin, a holy order needs to be added. If a PC is looking for her lost husband, the NPC husband needs to be written into the setting, and the disappearance needs to be attributed to one of the antagonists.

7. The GM Starts the Adventure or Campaign

Source: Wikimedia Commons

The GM hooks the PCs into the first session using their personal agendas.

You're a Paladin. Your holy order sends you on a mission to a ruined city to find out what mysterious force destroyed it. This woman (other PC) wants to tag along - says she's looking for clues to the whereabouts of her missing husband there.  She's concerned he became mixed up in unlawful magicks.  This mysterious man arranged it so he was assigned to help the Paladin investigate.  The orders are clear:  He will help investigate, and if he finds anything that looks like a book or scroll with strange glyphs, only he is allowed to touch it.  He looks like a wizard.  But no... that can't be.  The wizarding traditions were purged by the holy order a thousand years ago...

Death Omens

Today's post is the second part of Reinhart's guest post on character death.  See part 1 here.  Also, take a look at his blog, Chaos Engineering.

Last time, I explained the appeal of both random character death and dramatic character death, and how to handle both. Before you read this, you owe it to yourself to read that if you haven’t already. I mentioned then that this isn’t a zero-sum game. In fact, you can actually have both random character death and dramatic character death in the same game if your players are willing to make some interesting compromises.

For that purpose, I’m going to give you a system-agnostic mechanic that I use in many of my own roleplaying games: Death Omens. Death Omens help you mitigate the senselessness of random character death while still giving the dice the power to decide some of the when and how of a character’s death. Plus, they’re also really easy to port into most systems.

All you really need are some index cards and a writing utensil. (What good GM doesn’t have have those?) The idea is to directly telegraph when you’re introducing deadly stakes. You see this sort of game mechanic lately in video games like Destiny.

Adapting a mechanic from a video game doesn’t make your RPG into a video game any more than adapting a character from Game of Thrones makes your RPG into an HBO T&A drama.

A Death Omen is a game-world event that signals to the players that their characters might die here.  It’s a note on an index card labeled DEATH OMEN that describes why the scene is potentially deadly.  It makes it clear in black-and-white that death is on the line.

Now and then the dice might create a situation that would permanently remove a player character from the game. When that happens, if no Death Omen is in play for that player, then the consequences are assigned instead to the stakes for that scene.

You’re presenting clear stakes for your conflict scenes, right?  

Stakes and Deadly Stakes

Every time there’s a conflict, both parties want something, and the two goals are in opposition to some degree.  

• The ghouls want to eat, and the PCs want to explore the tomb.  Being eaten would certainly stop them from exploring the tomb!  
• The forest fire wants to burn everything, and the PCs want to escape the forest alive.  Being burned alive would certainly stop them from escaping!
• The orcs want to protect their camp, and the PCs want to sneak in to rescue some captives.  If the PCs get in, the orcs have failed to protect the camp.
• The Duke wants to preserve his power, and the PCs want him to arrest the nobleman who killed their mentor.  If the Duke arrests the nobleman at the request of some common adventurers, he undermines his power base.

“Stakes” is a common term in all kinds of games.  In essence, it means “the thing that happens if you screw up.”  In a dramatic conflict between PCs and the opposition in a tabletop RPG, stakes always means something that happens when the PCs fail to achieve their goal, or fail to prevent the opposition from achieving theirs.

Sometimes the stakes are deadly:  The ghouls’ hunger and the forest fire are imminent threats to life.  But the orcs might not want to kill intruders so much as keep them away.  They might be content with a blustery show of force, or a cruel and savage beating that drives intruders off.  Sure, orcs are big strong monsters with huge swords.  They’re deadly; but then so are Dukes.  If the PCs screw up with the Duke, he could just have them hanged for trumped up charges.  The scene’s stakes are only “life or death” when the opposition wants to kill the PCs, first and foremost -- if killing the PCs is the opposition’s goal.

Of the two deadly stakes examples, one is necessarily deadly, and the other is possibly deadly.  In both, the opposition wants to kill the PCs; but in the ghoul scene, there are more ways for the PCs to fail than just getting killed.

Ghouls

• PC Goal: Get into the tomb
• Opposition Goal: Eat living flesh

Forest Fire

• PC Goal: Not get burned to ashes
• Opposition Goal: Burn everything to ashes

In the ghoul scene, there are three possible “failure” conditions:

1. Opposition goal succeeds:  The ghouls eat the one or more of the PCs
2. Opposition goal succeeds:  The ghouls eat some innocent villager or some innocent villager’s cattle
3. PC goal fails:  The PCs are driven off by the ghouls and cannot get into the tomb

In the forest fire scene, there is only one possible failure condition:

1. Opposition goal succeeds; PC goal fails:  One or more PCs are burned to ashes

Death Omens that Communicate Stakes

When we talk about Death Omens, we’re talking about something that signals to the PCs that the stakes of the scene have become necessarily deadly.

The forest fire scene will start with a Death Omen.  It will say “You could be burned to death in this fire.”

While that card is in play, PC death can happen any time.  It’s a sword of Damocles.

So... were you, like, born with that?

The ghoul scene might not start with a Death Omen.  But once the PCs get closer to the ghouls than any other edible flesh, the GM will probably hand out a card that says “These ghouls want to kill you and eat your flesh.”  If the PCs try luring them into a pit trap with some cattle, or sacrificing an annoying villager to them, the Death Omen might not come out.

Are Death Omens “plot armor”?  No.  They’re a descriptive tool, not a proscriptive tool.  A scene where the GM didn’t want to use character death as stakes anyway doesn’t get a Death Omen.  There’s a social contract that says “nobody’s PC dies unless there’s a Death Omen on the table.”  But as soon as the GM sees death in the offing, out comes an Omen.

This is the most basic application of Death Omens.  They communicate what the stakes of the scene are in the most basic sense.  In theory, you could use an index card to describe the stakes of every scene, but character death as stakes is unique.  In most tabletop RPGs, a player’s ability to play the game at all ceases if his or her character dies.  That’s a big deal.  That’s worth a special omen.

But there is another way to use Death Omens.  It helps make the game more cinematic, and gives the players more control over their characters’ story arcs.

Shape of Your Doom:  Author Stance Death Omens

If you’re a very narrative group, you might want to use Death Omens in an entirely different way.  This is a distinct variation of the above system.  

During Session Zero (or Character Creation for those who don’t know that term), the GM announces the campaign is going to use Death Omens, and the player gets to choose the conditions in which their character may die.  It lets a player choose something thematic about their character, a type of situation that will always spotlight their character, and how rare life-threatening scenes will be.

They have to pick something as their Death Omen, and whatever that thing is, they can’t be killed unless the scene involves that Omen.  They can even choose something rare or seemingly harmless.  

SEEMINGLY harmless.

Each player writes their character name on a card along with their Death Omen and hands it to the GM.  Whatever it is, the GM will serve up life threatening scenes for the party with this characteristic.  When those scenes happen, the GM will place the appropriate Death Omen card(s) on the table.

For example, if you choose “Fire” as your Death Omen, then you can’t die except in scenes where the GM takes out your “Fire” Death Omen card and puts it on the table.  And the GM will not do that unless fire plays a major role in that scene.  You might be crossing a bridge over lava, fighting a red dragon, fleeing a forest fire, battling a mutant pyrokineticist, or running into a burning building to save a loved one.  

Make sure to foreshadow your Death Omen by having your character talk about his or her fears/enemies/weakness all the time.  Make it a shtick.

If your card isn’t out, you’re not in danger of dying.  But you can still suffer major losses.  Here’s where the challenge comes in.  The GM will need to think of alternative stakes for every scene, other than death.  If just one PC has Fire as a Death Omen, a burning building can’t kill most of the PCs.  But they can be injured, disfigured, poisoned with toxic gasses, knocked unconscious, rescued by and indebted to questionable people, have valuable equipment destroyed, etc.

That should be plenty of food for thought. I appreciate feedback, so please give Death Omens a shot in your games, and tell me how they worked for you.