Xi & Xi

BREAKING NEWS

Doot, doo-doot, doot, doot, doo-doot…

It looks like Wizards of the Coast (WotC) might be peddling the D&D intellectual property (IP) to potential buyers like Tencent, a company owned by an authoritarian country that happens to rhyme with the intimate parts of the female anatomy.

I couldn't resist!

This is bad enough, but it’s par for the course in our modern, global economy.  These IPs are valuable assets and companies are hungry for them or eager to offload them when they need cash.  Case closed.

*nom...nom...nom* (AI Image courtesy of Bing Image Creator)

What I’m most worried about though, is what will happen to not so much whatever the current version of D&D is (or will be,) but D&D Classics.  

If you have any classic, D&D print-on-demand or PDFs titles on your wish list, you might want to grab those ASAP, and place them in your (real or digital) vault of treasures, because regardless of how this sale goes (or not.)  It’s clear that major changes are coming to D&D.  

I experienced this circa 2008 when WotC pulled their classic PDFs from RPGNow.  While DrivethruRPG (to their credit) honored most of these when they came back online years later, not everything has been offered, and not in the same format.  For example, my PDF of the Mentzer Expert Set no longer includes the Isle of Dread adventure (which it should!)  The lesson: be proactive when change is in the air.  Don’t be caught with your studded leather breeches down!

What a way to celebrate D&D’s 50th anniversary huh?

 

Update: It seems the issue may be more complicated, where the sale IP in question might just be the rights to video game versions (could it include the upcoming virtual table as well?)  That's what I get for getting into the "news" game.  Anyway, my point still applies.  It's best to be prudent about these things.

Lessons from the OSR Part IV: Rules, Resolution Systems, and Skills (or Lack Thereof)

 "The secret we should never let the game masters know is that they don't need any rules"

-Gary Gygax

 

Rules.  Love em or hate em, they’re part of every game.  Even this game we call Life.

You’re drowning in college debt, your wife just divorced you, and your job has been outsourced to AI.  Your turn, son.

In the first post of this series, I talked about my keys to better understanding old school rulesets.  One of these was the understanding that old school (A)D&D doesn’t need so many rules as much as a skilled GM with resolution systems to adjudicate the game effectively.

But what exactly does that mean in practice?

 

Rules vs. Resolution Systems

I’m going to tread carefully into the Land of Personal Conjecture here, but I want to try and define what I think is the difference between (game) rules and resolution systems for the reader, in the hopes they can understand what I’m trying to convey.

The Land of Personal Conjecture (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

To me, rules are the hard to semi-solid boundaries the game imposes to run effectively as such: magic-users can’t wear armor, fighters need 2,000 XP to reach Level 2, monsters and characters have Armor Class, Hit Points, etc., if you do not pass “Go,” you do not collect 200 gp.

This is apparently a thing.  Also, no thank you.

Resolution systems on the other hand, are a little more nebulous.  It’s how one does things and simulates the “reality” of the game, whether players roll d20 to hit, or a GM rolls a d6 to see whether a player triggered a trap.  In some cases, they intersect with the rules (especially in combat,) but more importantly, these are the tools by which a game master (GM) is able to adjudicate the game, and since reality, even a fictional one, can often be unpredictable, the GM needs a way to randomize results.

Enter…the dice.

“Oh boy! Time to earn some liquor money!”  No, Mr. Hobo.  That’s not what we’re talking about.

 

Dice: the GM’s tools

In the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (AD&D) 1st Edition Dungeon Master Guide, author Gary Gygax spends a page or so talking about dice and probabilities.  Why?  Did he have some weird numbers fetish?  (I mean, he did work in insurance for a time.)  Did he step on a d4 and contract polyhedral lycanthropy, to become a cursed, many-sided horror by the light of the full moon?

Are those little dice its young, or its droppings?  You decide!  (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

Of course not!  He’s essentially giving you (A)D&D’s resolution system in a nutshell.  The tools by which you can easily referee any situation that comes up in play.

I’m not going to reprint that stuff here (since I don’t want to get sued, ) and I’m not going to go into a lengthy math lesson, (since I’m not a mathematician and would  just embarrass myself.)  Still, I think I should summarize things so we can get on the same page.

A single die provides a linear percentage chance (which add up to 100%, natch,) depending on the number of sides:

• d4: 25% increments (25%, 50%, 75%...)
• d6: ~16.67% increments (16.67%, 33.33%...)
• d8: 12.5% increments (12.5%, 25%...)
• d10: 10% increments (10%, 20%, 30%,…)
• d12: ~8.33% increments (8.33%, 16.67%, etc.)
• d20: 5% increments (5%, 10%, 15%...)

The d100 (combining two d10s and counting one as the tens and the other as the ones digit) has 1% increments.  

Obviously…

Fun Fact: at the dawn of the hobby, d20s apparently had only the 0-9 digits, so they could be used as d20s by marking one set of digits to indicate 11-20, but could also used as d10s to roll d100.

Fun Fact 2: You’ll notice that a +1 bonus (or penalty) means something very different depending on which die it’s applied to.  Keep that in mind when GMing.

But what happens when you roll two or more dice and add the results?  You get what is (arguably) the most accurate simulator of statistical reality: the bell curve.

What?!  No!  Not that crap!  You wanna get me cancelled?!!!

Multi-die rolls have results where the averages at the height of the curve occur most often, and the extreme outliers at both ends of the curve occur less often.  Here’s an example of the probabilities of a 2d6 roll and a 3d6 roll respectively.  You may know 3d6 from its previous work in Ability Scores: The Disappointening and Ability Scores 2: You Didn’t Really Roll those 18s! 

Need to adjudicate a “swingy” situation with mostly equal chances?  Roll a single die or a d100.  Have a situation where a character’s competency matters more, or need the numbers to skew more towards the average?  Use more dice.  If you think old school is brutal?  Try attack rolls and saving throws with 3d6.

I'll ruin more than your Christmas... (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

Falling asleep?  I know, just bear with me.  At the end of his essay, Gygax mentions that he had a d6 with poker suit faces (Hearts, Diamonds, etc.,) and presents a situation in which he used them.  He then ends with this:

“…keep in mind that the dice are your tools. Learn to use them properly, and they will serve you well.”

What I believe Gygax is saying is that it is up to YOU, the GM, to create your own resolution systems for your (A)D&D campaigns, which is exactly in the spirit of the free Kriegsspiel games it was based on.  This is why he takes the time to explain dice probabilities.  He’s both inviting you to do this and arming you with the skills to do so.  He even liberates the GM to try fun ways of resolving things (like in the poker dice example.)

Now, newer versions of the game (from Third Edition onwards,) made things easier on the GM by using a linear, d20 system as the standard for everything.  The upside of this is that yes, it is simpler and easier to grasp (especially for new and inexperienced players and GMs.)  The downside is that it constrains the GM to only one way of resolving things, which could result in weird outcomes during play.  For example, take a Basic/Expert style reaction roll (2d6) versus a player rolling a “Diplomacy” skill (linear d20 +/- bonuses.)  Both get the job done, but only one takes into account the most likely reactions of the NPCs, while the d20 example can have results that function weirdly like a charm person spell just because the player invested heavily in that skill.

Here’s an example of how a GM can adjust the rules and probability for such a situation in their old school games.  Say the local Queen is a surly type, especially when it comes to unwashed murder-hobos making demands of her.  You (as the GM) could decide your reaction roll table for her (or NPCs like her) looks like this instead of the standard table in the book:

2    “Guards!”
3-5    Gets visibly angry; guards grip their halberds
6-8    Indifferent to the character’s plight
9-11    Needs further convincing
12    Reluctantly agrees to requests

It takes into account the Queen’s default demeanor, while leaving room for high/low Charisma characters to either excel or fail miserably.  You could just tack on a hefty penalty in the d20 example, but I think this example is a little more elegant (and fun!)  I hope the reader agrees.

One might still prefer (or find it more efficient) to just do things simply with one type of resolution system (most modern games do,) but the point I’m trying to make is that the old school way of playing (A)D&D empowers the GM to be a true master of the game by enabling them to adjust even the probability of their campaign’s “reality.”  That’s pretty heady stuff, and with that great power, comes great responsibility.

Player Skill, Resolution System Obfuscation, and GM Responsibility

So far, I’ve talked about how old schools GMs resolve things on the “back end” (to borrow a programming term.)  What about the players?  What can they do?  I believe there’s a paradox in regards to old school versus new school games:

The more stuff a player has on their character sheet, the less they can actually do in the game.

In A Quick Primer to Old School Gaming, author Matt Finch discusses the topic of “player skill.”  In old school games, players tend to use their own knowledge, intellect, and ingenuity to face the challenges laid forth by the GM, rather than just rolling a die to solve everything.  This is similar to an escape room, where players work together and use their personal skills and abilities to figure out the solutions to the puzzles.

Tip: Don’t play escape rooms like you play D&D, unless you want to spend some time lying low in a foreign country with no extradition treaty.  My court date is next Tuesday (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

This seems to be firmly in the “game” part of “roleplaying game” (RPG.)  Or is it?  A common complaint I’ve seen of the old school “rulings over rules” is that some players don’t like having to play a game of Mother-May-I  with the GM to do things.  It might seem player-empowering to dictate what your character can do (to the GM) via the rules, but I’ve found that it just means both the players AND the GM end up playing Mother-May-I with the rulebook.

I’m in charge now, biotch!  Penalties for everyone!  PENALTIES  (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

An interesting feature of the AD&D 1st Edition rulebooks is that the majority of the rules (including combat) are in the Dungeon Master Guide rather than in the Player’s Handbook.  Now, this might seem harsh (and quickly fell out of favor,) but it implies that the GM is the one that should do the heavy lifting in regards to the rules (and resolution systems.)  In other words, system mastery is for the GM, not necessarily the players.  By leaving said heavy lifting to the GM, it truly frees and empowers the players to think creatively about the play environment rather than looking to the constraints of their character sheet.  That, to me, seems to fit quite nicely into the “roleplaying” part of “RPG.”  Furthermore, it makes things easier overall for players:

• Character creation tends to be quick, so players can get to playing right away (I personally abhor the concept of Session Zero.  It’s like: let’s play a game, but also not play a game!  *snore*)
• New players can understand the game quickly, without having to read copious amounts of rules.
• World peace is achieved.  (Ok, that one isn’t true, but I forgot what my third point was.)

The other side of this coin is that the proficient GM has a responsibility to be open to possibilities and come up with reasonable ways for players to accomplish things within the consensual “reality” of the game.  This is known colloquially as "say yes," "yes, and," or "yes, but."  The players should trust the GM, but this trust must also build over time with fair and consistent rulings.  Sore losers and unsporting, immature players need not apply, and no amount of rules can protect players from “bad” GMs (or vice versa.)

There's a reason the GM needs to wear a Viking helmet sometimes.

“But Weregrog,” you say: “how can I do anything if I don’t know what my character can do?  Don’t I need some indication of my character’s background and associated abilities?”  Let’s talk about that.

Skill vs. Ability

Most modern games, including modern D&D, have skill lists as part of the rules for characters (and often NPCs.)  These tend to be tied to the character’s personal attributes (Strength, Intelligence, etc.,) and are in essence, extensions of these attributes that indicate the character’s areas of expertise with a higher degree of granularity.

Word.

Old school (A)D&D characters tend to not have lists of skills (I’ll get to secondary skills and proficiencies in a moment,) which seems like a major oversight, until you realize that characters in D&D don’t have “attributes,” they have “ability scores.” 

The American Heritage® Dictionary defines ability as: “1. The quality of being able to do something…,” and “2. A skill, talent, or capacity.”  

What can we conclude from this?  (A)D&D ability scores encompass both personal attributes AND skills!

I find it ironic that D&D started with no skills, then later editions flirted with the concept, from “secondary skills” in early AD&D 1st Edition, and “proficiencies” in late 1st and 2nd Edition, slowly increasing their number, then reducing them for the most part in the post-2000 editions of the game, as the designers probably realized that most were redundant or unnecessary save for what characters actually do in-game.

*From the Wilderness Survival Guide and Dungeoneer's Survival Guide.
**2e also has the 1e secondary skills as an option, but defaulted to proficiencies in their products (which added more!)
***The 3e Knowledge skill includes multiple areas of knowledge, which renders the list feasibly infinite.

****I know 5e Tool Proficiencies technically add more, but you get the point.

I’m not the only one to come to the conclusion that ability scores include character skill.  Castles & Crusades bases the entirety of their resolution system (which they call the SIEGE Engine) on character ability scores, using a d20+Level against a difficulty number based on whether the ability score tested is “Prime” or not.  Players determine which ability scores are their character’s best (“Primes”) to determine their areas of specialty beyond character class.

I can’t speak to all RPGs, but I posit that old school (A)D&D doesn’t really need skill lists so much when one can just default to a character’s ability scores.  I feel this easily simulates fantasy fiction or film, such as Star Wars, where characters like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker tend to be pretty versatile. They can do many things appropriate to their “class” or profession and then some!

Yes, I’m familiar with West End Games’ Star Wars RPG, the D6 System, and their use of skills.  It’s also one of my favorites, so just cut me some slack, ok?

In this spirit, old school (A)D&D characters can pretty much do anything it makes  sense for them to do, within reason.  First and foremost, old school (A)D&D characters are adventurers.  They are not expert cattle ranchers, tailors, blacksmiths, or gong farmers.  They may have started life as such, but abandoned those professions when they became adventurers.  In my opinion, (A)D&D characters have two, general areas of expertise:

• Those that are implicit and explicit based on their class.
• Any other “skill” the player can imagine (or imagine their character having,) but not necessarily any specialized, professional, or deep knowledge.  That is the purview of hired, NPC specialists (who have neither time nor wherewithal to adventure in dank holes underground.)

For example, fighters (titled “Veterans” in most games at first level) likely know military matters: how to march in formation, make camp, care for their arms and armor, and build simple fortifications (trenches, berms, etc.)  Clerics might know both military and ecclesiastical matters related to their own religion and mythos (rituals, etc.) as well as basic matters of magic (how their spells work) and even how the known types of undead relate to each other in power (based on the turn undead table.)  A magic-user might know the practical nature of magic, their spells, and have a rough conception of more powerful magic (via the spell lists,) but not necessarily how to use this power…yet (that’s why they adventure.) 

“But what about backgrounds?!  I decided my fighter was an apprentice blacksmith so he should be able to forge a masterwork sword!”

*SCREEECH* (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

Hold on there, sparky!  That may be true, but how did said fighter become a "Veteran?"  He probably got called up to serve by his liege-lord, somehow survived, and perhaps developed a taste for plunder (that starting gold, you see,) and thus his previous life ended.  He may be able to do some basic things (help around a forge, make simple metal items, judge basic quality,) but that’s about it.  A magic-user might have started as a shoemaker’s apprentice, but once he heard the siren’s song of: “You’re a Wizard, Harry!” and followed his teacher to a life of arcane wonder and mystery, that moment became the proverbial nail on the coffin for the Versace life.

Your fashion-conscious PC may not be able to make these, but they’ll be able to buy plenty of them one day; even have the shoemaker on retainer!  (Image from versace.com)

So how does a GM judge all this in play.  This might be an in-depth topic for a future post, but if you’ve been paying attention, you know that all it takes is some common sense.  When that is not enough, use some dice, and a probability appropriate to the situation and referenced with the character’s ability scores.  Old school products do tend to present a few options and ideas:

• Simple, statistical analysis and comparison: hmm...I think only someone with Strength of 15 or better could feasibly move that large rock.  No need to roll anything.  It just happens (or not.)
• The ability check (described in Basic/Expert): roll a d20 and get equal or below the ability score to succeed.  This is a simple, percentage mechanic (in 5% increments.)  You could also roll 3d6 instead, to get more painful, but realistic results, like in Steve Jackson Games' GURPS, or even multiply an ability score by five to get the percentage chance of success and then roll d100 (Chaosium games such as Runequest and Call of Cthulhu do this, but also expand with skill lists.)
• *Sigh* I guess you could also use secondary skills, proficiencies, make/use skill lists, or any other method of your devising.  Hey!  Golden Rule!  You do you, boo!  You have the power!  That’s old school.

 

Conclusion

In old school (A)D&D, the GMs have the power and responsibility to determine how situations are resolved.  The GM has myriad ways to judge situations by deciding probability, using dice, and relying on the characters’ ability scores or other statistics to determine competency and success.  This is generally done on the “back end” or behind the screen, so that players are empowered to think creatively and immerse themselves in what their character is doing, without the constraints imposed by data on a character sheet or metagame thinking.  In the end, that requires trust from the players and both fairness and consistency in rulings from the GM.

Lessons from the OSR Part III: Adventures, Sessions, Modules, and Campaigns (Oh My!)

In our last episode, I talked about the three classic game modes of old school (A)D&D: the Dungeon, the Wilderness, and the Domain.  In discussing these, I use words like “adventure” or “module.”  It’s worth taking some time to talk about these terms, because I’ve found their meaning has changed a bit over time.

Well, you could have mentioned that earlier!

Adventures and Modules

Many modern RPG “adventures” (i.e the mass-produced, published type,) tend to follow a narrative structure, with encounters or set pieces being presented to the players in three (or more) acts, usually in a sequential manner.  While they may include (small) dungeon and/or wilderness maps, these seem to exist largely to serve the linear narrative.

If you remember what I said about the three game modes, you know that the Dungeon (and later the Wilderness,) are where “adventures” take place.  What does this mean in the old school sense?  Simply put: 

One adventure = one session of game play

Every time you, your buddies, and the hobo get together to explore the Temple of the Snake Cult, (and hopefully make it back to town,) that is one adventure.  Later on, getting an expedition together to follow the treasure map to the heroine Serpica’s resting place somewhere in the Northern Marklands, (and getting lost,) that’s another adventure (of the Wilderness type.)

In modern rulesets, these tend to be called “location-based” adventures.  Therefore, you could say that old school adventures are, in general, location-based.  As I mentioned in my last post, it doesn’t mean that there are no stories in old school (A)D&D, but these come to be as the players interact with the adventure locations in play, rather than being presented to them and/or enforced.  That, dear reader, is what is colloquially called a railroad, and I have crashed a few in my time.

Choo!  Choo!

This marketing quote from Goodman Games’ original Dungeon Crawl Classics adventure modules (for Third Edition) describes what old school adventures are succinctly, even if tongue-in-cheek: 

"Remember the good old days, when adventures were underground, NPCs were there to be killed, and the finale of every dungeon was the dragon on the 20th level? Those days are back. Dungeon Crawl Classics don't waste your time with long-winded speeches, weird campaign settings, or NPCs who aren't meant to be killed. Each adventure is 100% good, solid dungeon crawl, with the monsters you know, the traps you fear, and the secret doors you know are there somewhere."

Much like in Game of Thrones, no one has plot protection in old school games - not the player characters, and certainly not the NPCs.  Did the players one-shot the big baddie you planned to be their long-time nemesis?  Too bad.  Create another one (“…you killed my father, prepare to die.”)  Did Suki Lyewalker the cleric of Law fail to fulfill her destiny?  Tragic.  Little Timmy needs to roll up another character or fork over the gold to get raised and maybe try again.

The campaign world is meant to be "rekt" by the player characters, but they in turn can get "rekt” by the campaign world.  That is the “story” of an old school (A)D&D campaign.  Sometimes epic, often comical, and certainly fun (otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.)  

But I digress.  Let’s talk about early adventure modules.  Keep on the Borderlands, Tomb of Horrors, The Village of Hommlet.  You know:  the classics.

Today, on OSR Theatre...

These were called modules because they were...well, modular.  You can grab any one these and place them anywhere in your “sandbox,” or wilderness map.  As such, you’ll note they are pretty much all location-based.

Many of these started as one-shot, tournament modules for conventions, which were later adapted as published products for the home consumer, so they might come with pre-generated characters and even scoring systems in some cases.  Most, like Tomb of Horrors, or Ghost Tower of Inverness, have a more competitive level of difficulty because of these tournament origins.  They were not for the so-called ”filthy casuals” of the time.

Keep on the Borderlands, and Village of Hommlet (both by D&D co-creator Gary Gygax,) are interesting exceptions.  They are both starter modules meant to show a new GM the ropes, and present alternatives to the typical megadungeon, while still sitting firmly in the Dungeon mode of play.

Keep has the Caves of Chaos, which is a series of progressively more difficult monster lairs, that the players can enter in any order (at their own risk!)  The eponymous Keep is an example of a home base for the players, keyed much like a dungeon, so the players could feasibly adventure in it.  I’ve heard the Keep described as the “murder-hobo” dungeon for anti-heroic players to rampage through. 

The Jewel Merchant was having a going-out-of-business sale...yeah...

 

 In addition to the Keep, there is a small portion of the wilderness between it and the Caves, with a few keyed locations as well.  This includes a Cave of the Unknown, which could become the entrance of a starting GM’s megadungeon.

Village of Hommlet follows the same format, with Hommlet as a home base (and murder-hobo dungeon,) and the addition of Rufus and Burne, two retired adventurers building their own love nest stronghold, that represents law an order for the Village, and serves as an example of the Domain mode that players can aspire to.

 

And here, Rufus, is where we'll plant the eldritch rose garden!

Finally, it has a nearby bandit lair, the Moathouse, which turns out to be something more insidious, and foreshadows the dungeon Temple of Elemental Evil  (later completed by Frank Mentzer.)  

I believe both Keep on the Borderlands and Village of Hommlet are unique (and excellent) examples for the novice because they present small tastes of the three classic modes of play combined.

 

The Campaign

I didn’t talk much about the campaign as a whole in the last installment.  Many modern RPGs refer to a campaign as the player characters' adventures strung together as an overarching narrative, like a TV, novel, or movie series.

In the old school sense, a campaign is made up of the three modes of play combined into an ongoing, living world.  Blackmoor and Greyhawk were essentially the OG, massively multiplayer roleplaying games (MMORPGs.)  The players “logged in” by showing up at the place of play and decided in that session what they were going to do: “raid” the Dungeon, trek the Wilderness, or perhaps make war among their Domains, Clash of Clans style.  It was the GMs job to be the “server,” slowly creating the world (and adventure locations) one piece at a time as needed.  Like my state-of-the-art, 2000’s Pentium struggling to run Everquest.

Do you want to know what the Matrix is, or are you looking at the Keith Parkinson cheesecake in the blue dress?

This kind of play is what is today called a West Marches  campaign, and it probably grew out of style as game groups changed from interest clubs of many players (such as in colleges) to just a few friends getting together every weekend.

As a side tale, I’ve had multiple RPG campaigns over the years with different players as I’ve moved around a lot over my life (military service can do that.)  Alas, I’m not one of those lucky few that has enjoyed decades-long campaign sagas with mostly the same group of players.

Not really.  That’s pretty awesome for you!

Learning about West Marches-style campaigns set off that light bulb in my head:  if you run your campaign in this style, you can have a consistent world that grows over time, albeit with different groups of players.  The antics of these different groups can then shape your world’s history.  Neat!

Conclusion

Learning what these terms mean in an old school context helped me understand how old school campaigns are structured.  In the past, starting an (A)D&D campaign was often creatively difficult because I thought I had to come up with some sort of narrative, in media res situation to “hook” the players and start things off, not to mention some overarching plot for them to follow.  These days, I find it much easier.  I create an interesting adventure location (Dungeon,) a bit of the surrounding Wilderness, a rumor table to entice the players into checking them out, and let things grow from there via gameplay.

Next time, we’re going to talk about rules, resolution systems, and whether (A)D&D needs “skills.”  (Spoiler: the answer is a suprising, and resounding "maybe.")

See you then!

Lessons from the OSR – Part II: The Classic Modes of Old School Play

 In my first installment, I provided the reader with two keys to better understanding old school rules.  In the second key, I named what I consider to be the three, classic modes of play for these games: the Dungeon, the Wilderness, and the Domain.

While roleplaying games (RPGs) like (A)D&D are considered to be freeform in general, they do have some structure, and not just in the form of rules, but also these modes of play.

All of the old school (A)D&D rulesets describe the three modes in some fashion, but in my opinion, Moldvay/Cook’s Basic and Expert sets, as well as Frank Mentzer’s revisions and expansions of these, which adds Companion, Master, and Immortals sets (colloquially known as BECMI and later compiled in the Rules Cyclopedia,) probably did the best job at distilling them for the inexperienced newcomer.  I am aware the Original and Advanced games also do this, but they tend to not be as clear, in my opinion (but still worth reading.)

Even if the Basic/Expert+  rulesets are not your favorites, they make great reference points for not just the classic modes of play, but also for their general play procedures, which are outlined (also in simulacra like Old School Essentials.)  

I’ll cover each of the three game modes in depth in future installments, but for now I want to give them give them a basic overview for the reader.

 

The Dungeon

Thanks to modern media and video games, the concept of a fantasy dungeon is so well-known that I would be wasting words (and the reader’s time) describing it.

Therefore, it is better to describe what an old school dungeon is not.  A video game “dungeon,” with a semi-linear, haunted house-like structure and convenient exit right after a main boss battle (I’m looking at you, Skyrim,) is not really a proper dungeon in the old school sense.   Similarly, modern RPG adventures with relatively linear “dungeons” of a few rooms are not a good examples of these, either.  Lastly, a small location with few rooms and not much variety in monsters and situations is not an old school dungeon, (but it could be a lair.  See below.)

Old school dungeons (described in the Original game as the Underworld) are what are known today as megadungeons.  There is typically only one (at least at the beginning of a campaign,) and it is the main location where most adventures in the campaign are likely to take place.

The original dungeons, Blackmoor and Greyhawk, had that color-plus-noun nomenclature because they were considered variants on the freeform wargame campaign, Braunstein, which co-creator Dave Arneson was a player in.  Blackmoor’s dungeon existed under an active castle that dominates the player's home town, while Greyhawk existed under the ruins of a mad wizard’s castle some miles away from a city by the same name.  Of course, your old school dungeon could take any form and evocative name.  I named my Dungeon23 entry last year Temple of the Snake Cult, inspired by the Mountain of Power from the 1982 film Conan the Barbarian.

Castle Grayskull was already taken, unfortunately.

Given these details, and according to descriptions in the classic rulesets, an old school dungeon is typically (but not necessarily) an underground complex of sprawling rooms and passages.  These are mapped over one (or more!) pages of graph paper, which essentially forms a flow chart, as imagined by a mad genius (or mad wizard.)  It has a beginning entrance (and likely some hidden ones,) but not necessarily an end.  Each room or chamber may contain treasures (hidden or guarded,) monsters (with or without treasure,) traps, and basically anything the GM’s devious mind can imagine, but most will contain nothing more than some litter and the remains of unlucky adventurers.  Empty rooms are important too, as they provide pacing and spatial options for player (and monster) tactics.

In turn, each of these maps form individual, but connected levels of increasing difficulty that track roughly to the character’s level in sequential order.  Old school games tend to follow an organic, rather than absolute idea of balance; the deeper one goes, the tougher things tend to get.  To track the connections between each level, most of the classic rulesets recommend drawing a cross-section of the complex.

These maps are kept hidden from the players, and the GM has notes, or a “key” which detail the contents of each dungeon room.  The players make their own maps and notes as they explore the place with the aid of the GM’s verbal descriptions.

A rare peek at Gary Gygax running what is likely one of the OG dungeons (Greyhawk.)  Note how the map covers the whole of one page, while the key on the opposite page is made up of short, easy-to-reference notes.

It is worth noting that the dungeon is not a static location to be used once and thrown away (although you could do that, I guess.)  It is meant to be used multiple times and possibly with multiple play groups.  One group of players who "clear out" rooms may come back later (in game time) to find new, monstrous squatters, or evidence that other players have also been there.

Once characters have a) survived and b) become more powerful (generally at least 4th level) they can explore more difficult dungeon levels below, or decide to challenge the dangerous Wilderness.

The Wilderness

Today, this is typically known as a “hexcrawl” or “sandbox.”  Personally, I prefer the first term over the second, as I feel the term “sandbox” conflates both wilderness adventures and the campaign as a whole (a topic for a later time.)  It also evokes video game features that don’t necessarily apply to old school campaigns.  Specifically, a constrained world map with a narrative “main quest” and “side quests.”  This may confuse the newcomer, and could lead to frustration, disappointment, and even bitter, salty tears when campaign expectation doesn't meet reality at the table.  However, I grudgingly use the term because I acknowledge it is both recognizable and widely-used.   You win this time, internet!

So what is the wilderness?  Like a dungeon, it is a map on a page of hexed (or squared, or triangled, or whatever) paper with geographic terrain features and marked locations, including the main dungeon and home base settlement.  

A closeup of my Dungeon23 wilderness, the Northern Marklands.  The home base of Alkastra is on the middle right and the  main dungeon is to the west in hex 1614.  A location of interest (hex 1815) lies between them.

 

Like dungeons, each hex represents a distance (in miles; anywhere from about one to twelve, with five being the Original standard.)  The map is also kept hidden from players as they explore (and possibly become lost) making their own map along the way.  Unlike a dungeon, there are no passages or rooms, and the players can pretty much go anywhere.  There are also no levels per se, so the players can encounter practically anything on their adventures via random encounters.  This is why they should have some levels of power and a small, military force behind them, funded with that gold they found in the dungeon, of course.  Wilderness adventures are for leveled and wealthy Chads and Chaddettes; not the faint of heart or dungeon poors.

 

The wilderness adventure is in my opinion, among the least understood (and therefore the most mysterious and enticing) of the classic game modes.  The authors of Original game recommended using the board from the obscure game, Outdoor Survival.  While they describe using this map for “off-hand” wilderness adventures, they indicate that “Exploratory journeys, such as expeditions to find land suitable for a castle or in search of some legendary treasure are handled in an entirely different manner.” Unfortunately, they don’t really go into detail as to how they are different.  So it goes.  Various recreations of this map are available online.  Here's one by Rob Conley from the Bat in the Attic blog - a master of the wilderness sandbox concept.

According to anecdote, and perhaps gaming legend, the wilderness adventure came about when Dave Arneson’s players, distracted by dungeoneering (which was understandably the “new hotness,”) failed to participate in a scenario to defend the castle and town of Blackmoor from invaders.  As a result, the town was taken by the “baddies,” and the players were subsequently exiled into the wilds south of the main map, which was represented by the Outdoor Survival map.   It is my understanding that the players also built their own domains (see below) on this map.  Perhaps Gygax’s campaign did things differently, but lacking information, I’ve decided to err on the idea that wilderness adventures and the “exploratory journeys” indicated above are so similar as to be nearly indistinguishable in the practical sense.

The Cook/Marsh Expert set sheds some light on how to create one’s own wilderness map, with the additional example of the adventure module, X1 Isle of Dread (included in the Expert set.)  While the island bears little similarity to the example of the Outdoor Survival map, it covers the general ideas behind wilderness adventures, and it’s a great adventure module; because dinosaurs.

It is worth noting that one of (if not the first) company that made supporting products for D&D early on, Judges Guild led the way on the wilderness adventure concept early on with their Wilderlands series of products (sadly unavailable at the moment due to controversy.)  Among other things, the Wilderlands products included maps with numbered hexes for easier reference, and a key that included the features described in the Original game’s wilderness example.  It also had randomized system for creating ruins that the players could discover, which could range from some burnt embers, to an ancient (and possibly functional) space ship!

Going off of the Original wilderness example, combined with the examples of the Wilderlands, and the Expert set/Isle of Dread, we can conclude that wilderness hexcrawls tend to include the following:

 Settlements 

These can be safe havens or “home bases” of various sizes for the characters to rest and resupply (as they do before and after dungeon adventures.)  Alas, the Original game’s authors mention, but give little guidance on urban adventures, save for encounter tables, which to be fair, could become adventures unto themselves.  Therefore, I feel it is safe to say that urban adventures are a component of the wilderness game mode.

Judges Guild took a successful crack at the concept with their first product, the City State of the Invincible Overlord, which is a city within their first Wilderlands map, mapped and keyed in a dungeon-like manner.  

Mentzer’s Expert set fleshes out a home base (the town of Threshold) and includes some adventure ideas “in town,” but not much additional guidance on running these.

For my Dungeon23 home base, the City of Alkastra, I took a combined approach with some keyed entries and adventure ideas sprinkled within, along with an encounter table.

Monster Lairs

These are essentially mini-dungeons or set-piece battles (remember, wargamers) featuring one kind of monster’s home plus any associated pets or allies, along with treasure, the details of which tend to be under each monster’s entry.  The authors of the Expert set recommend creating some of these lairs in advance to have on hand (and I concur.)  It is easy to find free maps online these days to use for lairs.  

It is also worth noting that the Original and Advanced games feature a percentage chance for each monster to be found “in lair” but this is for random encounters and not lairs the GM has deliberately placed on their wilderness map.

Castles

These are the strongholds of high-level adventurers, their hirelings, henchmen, and/or pets.  They function as both examples of what the players could accomplish themselves, or individual little “Blackmoors” players could invade.  Why pay to build a castle when you could just capture one and refurbish it?  Easier said than done, though.  The players are in somebody else’s turf now, and they don't have the home field advantage!

In the Original rules, these castles can become the source of adventures themselves.  Fighters may duel players for their stuff, and both wizards and clerics may send the players quests to find stuff (typically via magical coercion.)

Ruins

These could be the “upper works” above dungeons, or remnants of places and even objects, if you go by the Judges Guild Wilderlands tables.  They may also end up being monster lairs onto themselves.

 

These features are really only a starting point.  Like dungeons, the contents of a wilderness hexcrawl are only limited by the GM’s imagination. Another tip:  those treasure maps you rolled in the dungeon treasure?  The wilderness map is where you can place them, providing an incentive for players to explore.

So what’s the point of wilderness adventures?  Like dungeons, the brutal (but lucrative) environment can prepare the characters for the next classic game mode: the Domain.

The Domain

So you’ve survived the dungeon, fielded a military force, battled your way through the wilds, and built (or captured) your very own castle.  What’s next?  Rulership!  Game of Thrones time, baby!

Dun, dun…Duh-duh-dun, dun…(c’mon, you know it!)

This is pretty much the end stage of the classic game, but it is worth noting that the original campaigns, being considered wargame variants, had features of this game mode from the beginning (see Blackmoor's wilderness anecdote above.)

At this point (about levels 9+, but really as early as they can afford to build strongholds,) characters enter a state of semi-retirement as play can slow down (in game time) to months and years, and the campaign takes on the character of a strategic wargame.  These settled adventurers may even become the patrons of new player characters, because clearing out a goblin lair is for Basic bitches.

In a nutshell, the character(s) clear an area (about 24-30 miles) of any monster lairs and other threats and build a castle or some other stronghold, like a wizard’s tower, fortified temple, craft beer hall, or whatever.  This causes settlers to flock to its safety (that wilderness is harsh, man!)  The happy or oppressed villagers (depending on the character’s alignment) then work the local resources and pay taxes to the character as their lord and liege.  The character in turn, needs to protect their new charges and domain from any new, encroaching monsters or other invading forces (which could include other players!)  Over time, and with many victories, a character could carve a vast kingdom of their own.

It’s almost as if the Original game's authors were fans of a certain literary character

The classic rulesets tend to cover a little more details, with costs for building the stronghold and hiring mercenary soldiers and professional staff, but little else.  I suspect that again, the authors of the Original game assumed the reader knew (and perhaps had rules for) handling such a wargame campaign.  Dave Arneson’s The First Fantasy Campaign (also by Judges Guild and also sadly unavailable,) does elucidate further on this game mode, including things only hinted at in the Original game, such as players having investments in the game world: trade, businesses, public works, and even tourism!

“…and here in this spot is where the Sir Deuces vanquished the Hobgoblin King Snarg and is said to have tea-bagged his corpse.” (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator)

In Mentzer’s Companion and Master sets (also the Rules Cyclopedia,) the author includes systems for this mode of play, including a mass combat and sieges, and expands the endgame further into potential apotheosis (“immortality”,) which goes beyond the scope of the Original game (and that Immortals set is more than a little whacky.) 

Another key feature of Domain play is events (random or otherwise) that occur during the course of the campaign year, which players may have to react to.   These typically involve anything from incursions, to full-blown invasions, but could also include natural disasters, rebellious peasants, plotting nobles, and other burdens of rulership.

Conclusion

These modes are not absolutes and you’ll find that there are nearly unlimited, creative avenues one can take for each, but it is worth learning their basic structures, just like one learns to walk before they can run (or crawl before that.)

Are the three game modes the only ways to play?  Far from it, but I've come to feel old school (A)D&D games work best when structured in this manner, even considering the games’ amazing level of flexibility.  Other RPGs have their own implied modes of play.  Traveller is about misfits-on-a-spaceship free-tradin’ and trouble-makin’ across a hexcrawl universe like the show Firefly, while Call of Cthulhu’s main game mode is investigation-based, with the player characters slowly discovering Lovecraftian things (often tentacled) that humankind was never meant to know (and go insane while doing it!)

Pretty much

There is nothing saying one can’t invent new ways to play these games.  You could argue that the entire, now 50-year history of D&D and RPGs has been experimental, and different editions of the game have taken it in various directions (some better than others.)  The casualty of this has been the old school play style, which like in a game of Telephone, its message has been distorted through the years.

If the reader will allow a self-indulgent rant, I feel newer versions of D&D, or at least as popular culture would depict them, favor amateurish acting, power fantasy fulfillment, and pre-ordained narratives over actual, emergent game play.  This is not necessarily a new thing.  Even in my youth, there were arguments about ROLE-playing versus ROLL-playing, with the "ROLE” part being considered superior to “ROLL” in the way wine snobs like to poo-poo on boxed wine, (which is obviously the frugal, practical, and just-as-delicious choice.)

In this economy, I’m not paying more than $3-5 per bottle of Jesus juice!  (Adapted from AI images courtesy of Bing Image creator.)

 In my opinion, it takes both of these in balance, like Yin and Yang, to have a good game.  “Role” without “roll” is just playing simple make-believe and “roll” without “role” is a board game.  (Not that there is anything wrong with board games.  Mrs. Weregrognard and I love board games!)  But you know, Golden Rule and all that.  Playing soap opera with miniatures is just not for me anymore.  Been there, done that.

 

This is not to say that epic stories don’t happen in old school (A)D&D, but the difference is that these stories emerge organically through play, and are not pre-determined or imposed by either the GM, players, or a published adventure.  Understanding the basic modes of old school play can get you there, but you’ll also need to understand the difference between the terms adventure, session, module, and campaign in the old school sense, which is coincidentally my next post in this series.

See you next week!