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!)
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.
