Paths in Tabletop Games

 (this is the second element in the Cognitive Mapping for Tabletop Games series. The other posts are Intro, Landmarks, Nodes, Districts, Edges)

Element 2: PATHS

    In life, and video games, paths are useful for mapping in a few ways, all fairly obvious.

• They are the simplest way to mentally connect two spaces. (Think about the difference between following a highway between New York and Philadelphia, and following the moon and tides to make the same trip.) As a result, a direct path between two places is the fastest, most effective way to add that space to travelers' Cognitive Maps. 

• Also, paths are usually labeled (or distinguished in a clear way), which lets them serve to catch lost folks wandering in the wrong direction. I can't count the times a street sign made me realize I was pointing the wrong way!

• A quality that makes paths handy is a process called path integration, when someone guesstimates the distances between path landmarks and path directions to guess how far/in what direction the starting point was.

    However, paths also have interesting qualities which limit their value. 

• Weirdly, they are unidirectional! That is to say, when you walk a trail, turn around and return, your brain thinks of that one trail as two paths: one for each direction. Any hikers know the quandary of getting lost while staying on the paths, and this is why?

• Secondly, paths are temporal in nature, meaning the amount of time you spend on them is tied to their identity in your mind. Anyone who walks a road they usually drive or bike is familiar with feeling confusion at seeing many more landmarks on their trip than usual, not to mention how crazy slow it is.

    This series of landmarks is often the key that lets people remember the paths! 

    As an example of all these ideas, let's look at my daily walk to school as a child! I knew my trip rather simply: First, the short trip to Happy Bodega on the first corner, then the long long walk to the red trashcan across the avenue, then passing the pigeon-poop tree immediately after the trashcan, and finally a short walk with school in sight. I remember the walk back separately. The first leg of the journey on my walk home was to the old junky car next to the hair salon, then to the same red trashcan, Happy Bodega, and finally to my building's green front door. The trip always felt longer going home, and as you can see, I didn't use all the same landmarks. However, because I was so familiar, if you asked me to tell you which direction home was from any one of those landmarks, I could point, and guess how many blocks away!

Paths for tabletop

    I don't think we need to match all the qualities of Cognitive Map paths for the table! For one, I can't imagine how we could model path integration without gridded or hexed paper. Not only that, but designing paths as unidirectional seems difficult to achieve, and unnecessary! We're trying to improve the players' understanding of their region--not confuse them.

    So, what does that leave us with? 

1. If it's very important to have the players get from one spot to another, put a direct path there. (It's much easier to remember the stone road between the Iron Door Saloon and Witchville than it would be to remember 4 leagues northeast, then turn southeast and walk 1 league. If the road is labeled Saloon-Witch Rd., even better--now the players can stumble upon it and know exactly what's on either end.) 
2. If it's important the players have a lifeline when they get lost, put a path there. (For instance, the old elven road in Mirkwood.)
3. When describing the path, describe it as a series of steps, from one little landmark to the next.
4. When the players travel slower, describe more landmarks. When they travel faster, describe fewer.

Other posts in the series:

1. Intro
2. Landmarks
4. Nodes
5. Districts
6. Edges

Landmarks for Tabletop Games

 (this is the first element in the Cognitive Mapping for Tabletop Games series. The other posts are Intro, Paths, Nodes, Districts, Edges)

Element 1: LANDMARKS

    The first, and simplest Cognitive Mapping element is the landmark. Anything we use as a reference point when we navigate is a landmark--anything at all. For me, the landmarks that identify the end of my street are a big track next to a high school. and the empty shell of a building that is labeled Braddock Cafe. However, my partner remembers the bike rental station, and the restaurant on the other corner. These landmarks were burned into our Cognitive Maps through many, many references, and they tell us where we are from a distance.

    Landmarks are...

1. ...Recognizable from a distance, usually because they are distinct from their surroundings, or simply huge.
2. ...Asymmetric at their best, since that allows you to tell not only how far you are from them, but which direction you are. For example, if you saw a familiar, red, round spire from a distance, all you would know is roughly how far you were from it. However, if the red spire had a billboard on it that said "CHEESE?", you could also figure out where you were based on the direction the billboard faced. 
3. ...Reference many times, before your mind integrates them into a Cognitive Map.

Landmarks for tabletop

    Tabletop games are spoken games. That's no surprise to anyone, but it does change the nature of landmarks. In life, a landmark is drawn onto our Cognitive Maps like a sketch done in many short strokes. The first time we use it as reference, our mind blocks in its shape; the second, its texture. By the fifth or sixth time, it looks like a real drawing, and by the hundredth time, a photorealistic painting. It only takes a moment in life to recognize a familiar landmark and add a new detail to memory, but at the table, the narrator hefts this burden! 

So how do we reduce this process to something simple for the table?

    First, the narrative description of any landmark must be repeated from many locations in-game, since players cannot actually experience their characters' senses! Practically, a huge, region-wide landmark should be mentioned all over the place, while a local one should only be mentioned in a smaller area.

    This implies a scale of landmarks: (this will make more sense at the end of this series, so maybe return when you're done)

1. Regional, seen from anywhere in a region. Will tell you what district you're in,
2. District-scale, seen from anywhere within a district. Will tell you what familiar nodes you're likely near.
3. Node-scale, seen from paths connecting to the node, making the node distinct. Will tell which paths you're likely on.
4. Trail marker, inserted as part of a series of trail markers to define a path in the cognitive map.

    Additionally, since these big landmarks will be the key to players' navigation in unfamiliar areas, they need to be simple to picture in the mind's eye, and easy to describe 1000 times. Examples of easily-pictured, asymmetric landmarks include: 

• Huge statues of people in unique poses (that you can mimic), 
• big faces making expressions, 
• hands making gestures (rude or otherwise), 
• boats, 
• arrows, 
• billboards, 
• common animals, 
• a waterfall
• a huge key, etc...

Apparently you can buy these on Etsy for your garden. Very helpful for the chipmunks' navigation!

    It's more important that huge, regional landmarks be easy to than for trail markers! The more times you'll reference it, the clearer it needs to be.

Other posts in this series:

1. Intro
2. Paths
3. Nodes
4. Districts
5. Edges

Cognitive Mapping for Tabletop Games

From Image of the City by Kevin Lynch (1960)

Raise your hand if this has happened at a game of yours: 

    Partway through a game session, as the action comes to a close, the jokes and excitement begin to simmer down. The group knows what they're trying to do, but nobody says a word.

    "Okay, where to next?", the GM asks the table, but they may as well be asking a wall.
    "Well, the (goal) is still to the north, want to head there?", they prompt, and the response of half-hearted agreement and nods feels like a slap in the face, compared to the rousing excitement not 5 minutes prior.
    These players are lost in this game. Each scene is an island of clarity, but between it and the next, the group drifts through hazy game-space, latching onto the first option that gives some form of direction. This problem isn't anyone's fault, but it sure isn't fun.

    Every tabletop game I've played at (or run) has at some point stumbled through the same roadblocks when navigating the setting; either nobody knows where the party is in the world, or (more commonly) only a few players take interest in the navigation piece of the game, but they have contradictory understandings of the environment. Both these scenarios are common, and lead to big disconnects between the referee and the players, as well as between the players themselves! 

    Luckily, there's many ways people try to solve this player mapping problem, and I've seen most of them. The simplest way that comes to mind is to hand a map to the players for reference. Yet somehow, even this effective solution doesn't come close to the players and the referee all having a similar map in their head. The map built of familiarity and experience. A shared Cognitive Map. This series is about the pursuit of that goal.

Before I get ahead of myself, thanks are owed to Sigve for sharing the following video: Stop Getting Lost: Make Cognitive Maps, Not Levels - YouTube. (The presenter in the video does a superb job explaining the origin and theory behind cognitive mapping, but he is a video game designer, talking to other video game designers. Needless to say, tabletop games are a different animal.)

Cognitive Maps

    Back in the USA era of office structures connected directly to highways, and the building of the interstates through historical minority neighborhoods, some old guy named Kevin A. Lynch studied the ways that people navigate their neighborhoods. He came up with a neat abstraction that more-or-less matches our brains' method of mapping familiar physical spaces. It's called Cognitive Mapping. Effectively, we simplify our environment to a sketchy map composed of five basic pieces: landmarks, paths, nodes (path intersections), districts, and edges (the borders of districts). The cool takeaway from the video above is that environments which are already organized into clear and distinct elements allow people to learn them faster and more thoroughly! The results in video games and amusement parks are clear, so let's try to apply this idea to tabletop!

The next posts:

1. Landmarks
2. Paths
3. Nodes
4. Districts
5. Edges

Skinned Knees and Faeries: Session 0

As I approach session zero for my newest game, Skinned Knees and Faeries, I find myself feeling a familiar nervousness. And with this return of my old friend, GM prep anxiety, also comes a reshuffling of my task priorities in ways that make no sense. Last week I put in three hours of work on a table of names, carefully catering to its diversity, but the week before I spent only two hours designing a neighborhood dungeon. How much work should be put where? Am I setting myself up for GM burnout? 

Fortunately for me, there's not much to do for my coming session other than ready my game pitch. That's what this post is going to be.

Goals for session zero:

•  Test functionality of videochat software
• headphones + mics?
• muting!
• how to pass the baton to a player
• hand raise?
• politeness?
  
•  Get myself and all players on the same page
• What is Skinned Knees & Faeries?
  
• Genre conventions in Kids Save the Suburbs
• Gameplay expectations
• The story is not pre-planned at all. PCs write the story through action.
• Heavily inspired by OSR play style, so expect challenges with no clear answer, widely varied levels of danger, and infinite possibility for cool player ideas. 
• Expected Gameplay loop:

1. Generate any new characters
   
2. School year focus? Chores, school, art, exploration, friendship etc...? 
3.  Roll for the school year and interpret the results! GM shares list of rumors, foreshadowing, etc...
   
4.  Summer Break starts! Open on the Kids hanging out, plan for the summer.
   
5.  Adventures! Each will end at the end of the session unless there's wild circumstances. (Between games, assumed a week has passed)
   
6.  Return to school and roll for Aging Out.
   

• Please tell the GM if you have a good idea! It'll wind up in the game.
• Open table! 
• Bring friends if you think they'd like it. 
• No obligation to play every session
• You will be responsible for keeping track of your own adventures, and planning new outings! The GM tracks the people and the town.
• Lines and Veils (Shared google doc anonymous)
• New players must review and add their own!
  
• Mine the Players' childhoods for monsters, magic, adventures, enemies etc... (Homework! Warn them ahead of time so they have time to ruminate)
• Game pitches to be sent out before next session!
• Collaborate on setting in bold strokes
• Schedule session 1! 

I’ve been waiting for this game for years now, so I need to be careful not to poison my own well with expectations. Dear reader, please share your ideas and thoughts if you have them!

-Hat

Learning from Professional Writers--The slow drip plot

Lessons from Charmed

I'd been watching the Netflix remake of Charmed with my partner for a week when I initially wrote down these thoughts; we were almost done with the first season. Going into the show, we were looking for a modern take on the well-beloved (if terribly realized) 90s show, and the remake provided exactly that. Woke drivel--it was monster of the week nonsense with pretty cool CGI, marginally better acting, and an honest, wholehearted love of the original. As someone who watched the original Charmed in the 2000s as a preteen, between episodes of Angel and Buffy, I appreciate how much respect the creators have for the original show, despite its flaws. Surprisingly, however, coming out at the end of season one, I was rapt. 

I found myself pressing play to watch the next episode when my partner stood for a stretch, so she had no chance to back out of another. At work, I was theorizing plot twists, character arcs, and predicting which tropes from the original they'd respect, and which they'd throw out. Shocking myself greatly, I was also engrossed in the setting--emotionally strung out over the characters, and excited to watch them learn about their powers and face their enemies! But wait, how did this even happen?

Well, for one, the writers actually know what they're doing; they target those of us with fond memories of Charmed as their audience. But more generally, the show is paced perfectly. It begins without any expectation that its viewers care about the characters or plot, and ropes us in with expertise. In perfect mimicry of the genre that spawned it, the show presents character drama and world details in plain, bite sized chunks, directly, and steadily.

Like many other viewers, at first, I groaned every time Harry, the magical guardian of the main sisters, presented some trivia about a demon or a spell. It seemed so trite. I laughed knowingly whenever a sisterly conflict played out and resolved in lock step to the pace of the episode. Feeling above the banality of the writing, I watched the episodes because of how little attention they required, and I enjoyed my own smugness. Yet, with each conflict resolved, I learned a bit about the characters involved, because the writing told me clearly: "Now Maggie has learned to be wary of accepting help," or "In this episode, Macy learns to embrace her origins." And with each demon or witch encountered, I learned setting details in the form of direct telling, not showing, despite my lack of interest. Every episode deliberately dripped information in such clear droplets, that I could not help but retain them. Meanwhile, the rinse-and-repeat pattern of writing of the original show was about to change in the modern version.

After more than a dozen episodes which followed the predictable pattern of character drama intertwined with adversity, the writers presented us with an Ember Island Players episode. (spoilers ahead!)

(For any reader who has not watched Avatar: the Last Airbender, I will explain. Near the finale of the entire show, the writers inserted an episode which mocked itself so thoroughly, and humorously, that their own knowledge of their creation's strengths and weaknesses becomes clear. Truly fabulous. Also, dear reader, do yourself a favor and watch the show. There's 61 episodes--short by modern standards--and it is the closest a TV series has ever come to flawless.)

Following the episode, the show kicked into gear and took off, yet, my partner and I weren't left in the dust. Rather, we were so engaged, that we were trying to clamber into the Writer's Seat.

At this point, the show structure changed from fully episodic stories, to immensely dramatic serial storytelling, like something out of an anime, or HBO. If the show had started this way, my partner and I could have easily been scared off, yet we were now invested. Apparently telling, not showing, can work in regular micro-doses!

The lesson for Tabletop Adventure Gaming is clear to me. At their best, the games we play are storytelling games. Yet, when a table meets for the first time, with new characters, in a new setting, nobody at the table knows or cares about the story yet. Game Masters that really love good storytelling can get incredibly antsy after the first few sessions. We think "why aren't any of the characters invested in their surroundings?", or "why are my Players just fooling around?" Left unchecked, this can lead to railroading, painful exposition dumps, or most commonly for me, a feeling of inadequacy. But there's no need to take a writing course, or beat ourselves up for being unable to hook your Players!

We should take a lesson from the Book of Shadows: keep the game light and fun as everyone learns their characters, relationships, and the setting. A GM should feel free to indulge the table with the most fun aspects of the game first! There's no need to worry about a greater plot until they learn the characters--all we should focus on at first is slipping setting information in clear, bite sized pieces in between the parts of the game. As the Charmed reboot proves, telling, not showing, can work, if done judiciously! Moreover, the Players should not worry about trying to invest in the setting or story. They should focus on the characters around them, and try to enjoy themselves. After enough happy, eventful sessions, Player investment will bring the plot in with it.

The Bay of Eden, and the Steel House

A few weeks ago I woke up from three interconnected dreams, and I quickly scribbled them down. I think they will make fantastic inspiration for a dungeon location.

The Bay of Eden, and the Steel House over Dolphin City

Partially submerged in a wide and very shallow bay teeming with life, there lay the stone ruins of a basalt fort and settlement, and a strange rusted spire piercing through it's belly. Some older residents of beach-side Craydown and Ementon remember when the area was a resort destination. Their neighbors would wade out  to the walls at low tide, and come back with pockets full of glittering coins and brightly colored crustaceans. They spoke of beautiful mer-people that sang and told stories, and of the laughing dolphins that showed them old treasures in the depths of the crystal clear waters between stone and shimmering sea stars. Some folks even claim to remember the first toxic anemone blooms--back then people dried them into exotic bouquets to hang from their stilted porches over the beach.

Times have changed. Only someone foolhardy or desperate would trek out to the dolphin city these days, though it still looks as beautiful as ever. The sandy floor of the bay is infested with neon anemones with venomous bristles, and the only songs you can hear from the ruins are the cries of pleasure and pain from entranced dolphins and mer-people in a never-ending bacchanal.  When the tide comes in, monstrous cousins of dolphins diffuse past the ruins, to the stilted homes where regular folk live. There they mock and cajole innocent people. All of these changes started sixty years ago, when a metal boat appeared at the mouth of the bay one morning, and its passengers began construction.

A few dozen men feverishly fused lengths of steel together for a week without stopping. Any boaters that came close were scared off by waved guns and knives; even the mer-people couldn't get a close look. Then, overnight all activity ceased, and the men disappeared. They left behind a strange structure, and an even stranger pair of people.

On a clear morning, way out at Plum Bluff you can see the metal spire they built, now rusted. It reaches out from a dark and choppy pool in the deepest part of the ruins, extending over a hundred feet high. And at its peak, there is a small steel house with many chimneys, multicolored windows, and a drain that leaks into the water below, staining it russet. Only one man ever leaves the house, though we know the Prince also lives there.

The Prince's man Jymor is tall and stooped, with bristling sideburns. On clear mornings from Plum Bluff you can watch him make the long and slow descent down the spire, fighting off vicious gulls with a cane. At the water he takes hold of a monstrous dolphin that pulls him to shore. In Craydown he shops for food and strange shaped glass bottles before wading back to his steed, who brings him to Ementon for a drink at the Far Harbor Taproom.

Those who know Jymor say he's polite and tight-lipped whilst sober, and impossibly sad while drunk. He won’t stand to hear a bad word said about his master, but won't say a good word about him either. The Prince allows him to have a guest anytime, but to date Jymor has brought only two people to visit: Francine the glassblower was seen falling to her death nearly a decade ago; and Edgar No-Nose, the simple fisherman has taken up Jymor's offer more than a few times.

_______________________________________________

(this is a dungeon I have been working on for a while. Hopefully I'll have version 1 ready soon.)

Skinned Knees and Faeries: Genre Conventions

I read through the Kids on Bikes core rule-book, and while I found myself inspired and nostalgic, I was also sadly disappointed. The book provided so much to whet my appetite, yet so little substance to sate it. I wanted to see a toolbox to play The Goonies, Stranger Things, or Super 8. Instead, I got a book full of gorgeous period artwork, and a hastily-slapped-together story game. To be fair, I am often in the mood to play a character in this kind of game, but if I wanted to actually run it at my table, I'd be left doing all the heavy lifting myself.

I won't be reviewing Kids on Bikes--other people have already done so.  Instead, I want to break down the genre rules that could let this concept flourish under the Player-driven sandbox style of OSR games. Maybe I'll do all the heavy lifting too.

Core Genre "Rules"

 

Let's peel this bandage right off.

DEATH is right off the table (as a consequence for failure). There are many other repercussions to choose from, and they can all be devastating in the right circumstance. Instead, try:

• Lose an item
• Lose a lead
• Lose an ally
• Lose a power
• Make an enemy
• Miss a crucial timing
• Gain a curse/wound/other lingering nasty nonsense

However, the finality of death also leads to strong player attachment to specific, beloved characters. Just ask anyone who plays Rogue-like video games to tell you how they felt when their longest-lived character died. (RIP: Gorkanator2)

This presents an issue for a game emulating the Kids Save the Suburb genre. However, I think we can make the aging of the characters a suitable substitute--or at least the aging out of imaginative play. (More on this in the next article, The Heavy Lifting)

VIOLENCE should be PG-13 at maximum, to respect the genre. If in Home Alone we watched Kevin pierce the internal organs, peel the skin, and destroy the bones of the dopey burglars Harry and Marv, it would have been branded a gore horror film. As the GM of a Kids Save the Suburbs game, we should only describe violence in detail for either comedic effect, or to intentionally give the Players tone whiplash (caution! TV Tropes). 

For many of us coming from the survival-horror background so common in the OSR, this can be a big challenge. I know it has been so far for me. I can't prescribe a solution for this, but what's helped me immensely has been to re-narrate scenes of TV violence in a campy, action-adventure style. For example, I recently re-watched The Raid, and paused after incredible action sequences (like this one) to describe them out loud and drastically lighten the tone. If you can describe even a single fight from this movie in a kid-friendly way, you're more than capable of describing a fist fight between a plucky preteen hero and the neighborhood bully.

Fights should be problem solving challenges at best (think luring the Monster through traps), or incredibly rapid at worst (does the Bully rattle you senseless or not?). This is not a genre about fighting, and it should really feel like a bunch of powerless kids trying to keep themselves whole.

POWER FANTASY: this game ain't about it. Luckily, this is a familiar concept for anyone who plays an OSR TTRPG. As the Kids adventure, they probably won't be gaining super strength, telekinesis, or mastery over shadows (unless you like that stuff). Instead, they will be gaining resources in the form of age, friends, knowledge, and particularly cool bikes. A grizzled Kid of 4 or 5 seasons of adventure might be 16 years old, with a car, a romantic interest, a full knowledge of the maze-like passages behind the DYNAGAMES Arcade, and a friendship with the garden gnomes that live around town.

 It should be easy to see how every obstacle might require cool problem solving. Just spitballing ideas, now:

•  Lucas and Jenny need to find a way into the office of Principal Lardy of Avettown High before school opens tomorrow morning, so they can keep the photo evidence of their favorite teacher's weird behavior out of the hands of the authorities. (Wouldn't the FBI just love to probe his alien anatomy?) Jenny bribes a Sophomore in the A/V club to keep the cafeteria window open when he leaves after the janitors, and Lucas conducts an elaborate distraction from detention to enable Jenny to steal the master key. Then, just after dark the two sneak in, grab the photos and run! But wait, these aren't the right photos! They show Principal Lardy and Secretary Rose shaking hands with some men in black suits, and their hands have too many knuckles...
• The Bleak House sits atop Red Ridge, overlooking the town forest. Even though nobody has seen the old lady inside since '76, rumors say her mastiffs are still well fed behind the wrought iron fence. Pauline's dad is the mailman, so she crushes some sleeping pills she snatched from her parents' medicine cabinet into his bag of dog treats before he leaves in the morning. When the Gnomes tell her the dogs are sleeping, the gang bikes out through the forest to the Bleak Gate. Using bungie cords, a pool cleaner, and some duct tape, they climb the gate, and sneak through a garden overgrown with thorns...
  
  
  

THE ROLE OF ADULTS is mostly to stay out of the way. I can't remember who said it first, but a core element of this genre is that friendly adults are absentee, and unfriendly adults always have an alibi that keeps the Kids' guardians from being concerned. 

 What keeps the friendly adults from helping out? Often it's Dark Shit™, like addiction, abuse, poverty, schizophrenia, overwhelming work/home responsibilities, or any combination. The guardians are so busy with their own life, and the Kids are just being kids--they just don't have the time to deal with this silliness. 

 In TTRPG, how deep you dive into this darkness in the lives of the friendly adults is a personal choice. Personally, I deal with this mundane darkness too often, so I just hint at it enough to satisfy my players' perception of verisimilitude. That being said, keep these fucked-up guardians within reach of the Kids' adventures just in case. Should your game take a nasty turn towards scary, mature themes, (content warning) like kidnappings, enslavement, true violence, etc... it's time for them to show up with the police and a soccer van, in Bear-Mama mode, ready to do what it takes to get their children back safe

 Unfriendly adults, however, are important and antagonistic organizations. I use them heavily to enforce travel and setting constraints. For instance, during the day any well-to-do neighborhood will be infested with straight-laced NIMBYs, eager to call the truancy officer on unaccompanied children or teens. Similarly, certain areas are effectively gated from the players by conspicuous unmarked vans (Warning: TV Tropes), the dreaded Home-Owners' Associations, or territorial gangs.

In the case of active opposition in the form of Unfriendly Adults, it is crucial that they have a "perfect alibi" to prevent exposure. This can be serious or comical, as long as all friendly adults believe it by default. For example, the government-hired paramilitary organization that infiltrated Springville as a new milk delivery service--complete with company vans with giant satellite dishes on their roofs. With a strong disguise, insidious Unfriendly Adult organizations can only be dealt with or exposed by the Kids, who aren't fooled. (More on this in the next article, The Heavy Lifting)

THE BAD GUY is the final piece of this genre-puzzle. However, since I've exceeded my own attention span in the course of this piece, I'll be jamming that into my next post!

Next: The Heavy Lifting

Now that these genre-conventions are clear, I'll be putting together the basic setting details of my own Suburban Town in need of saving, Lichfield.