Posts Tagged ‘Theory’

Low permanency and remixing

Wednesday, September 13th, 2006

One of the great things about relying on memory to contain the primary record of play is that it allows for some amount of subtle editing.  This is due to the fact that memories are imperfect.  We have this thing where we misremember what really happened, or where we unconsciously alter our records of play in order to assist some goal.

Let’s look at a hypothetical example.  A couple of sessions ago, let’s say about three weeks of real time, our hypothetical game had a character who agreed to go on some quest for some McGuffin.  None of us really remember the circumstances all that well because, at the time, it wasn’t all that important.  But now, at the point in the story where we are in the current session, it would be awesome if the character had originally been extremely reluctant to go on the quest, but had agreed anyway.  Since we’re relying on imperfect memory, we can just shift our memories slightly and discover that he really had been reluctant.

This isn’t quite a retroactive decision.  We’re not deciding right now to agree that he was reluctant three weeks ago.  We really are thinking that he was reluctant.  Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, but since our records are imperfect and somewhat malleable it doesn’t actually matter.  We can not only act as if he had been reluctant, we can actually believe that he was at the time (as opposed to saying, ‘guys, I know that he was enthusiastic way back when, but it’ll be cooler if he wasn’t').

This is one of the reasons that low-permanency mediums are so cool.  They permit a sort of editing that’s much harder to accomplish in something with more permanent records.  We can, within certain limits, change the history of play and have the new version of that history be the one accepted by the audience.

Low permanency and live performance

Tuesday, September 12th, 2006

One advantage that the low-permanency of roleplaying brings to the table is the same advantage that other low-permanence mediums have.  Consider anything that’s about live performance: ballet, live music, theater, etc.  Each of them have a sense of uniqueness.  A sense that this performance is special and never to be repeated.

There’s this interesting, for lack of a better word, ‘vigor’ to live performances.  There’s this interesting energy that comes with live performances.  I believe that this is, at least in part, due to the inability to edit.  There’s this interesting pressure to get it right the first time because there is no second time.

There’s also a certain intimacy to live performance.  No outsider will ever be able to have that experience.  This is not the case with recorded mediums like film and text, in which an outsider can come in later and get the same content as any of the participants (though, of course, the context will be different).  This is especially true of live creative acts like roleplaying, where it’s difficult to reproduce even a similar performance in terms of content (though, interestingly, the context is easier to recapture).

Low permanency mediums are risky

Monday, September 11th, 2006

You might remember that one of the things I talked about way back in that huge Medium Matters post was low vs. high permanency.  ‘Permanency’ is really just a poor term that roughly means how solid, accurate, and concrete your record of play is.

The vast majority of traditional table-top play (of all sorts of games: board, card, roleplaying, etc.) is very low permanency.  Records of play are purely mental, and suffer from selective editing and all the problems associated with having a single, interested viewpoint.  We often remember different things because different things strike us as important in play (this move, or that character, or drawing that one card).

On top of that, we often remember things that are contradictory.  I remember you winning because you played one thing, and you remember winning because you played something else.  You remember allowing something to happen reluctantly, while I remember you enthusiastically supporting it.  Memory is a tricky thing, and the fact that we rely on it for so much of our record-keeping in play is a big deal.

Of course with short-play, single-session games (most board and card games) this is no big deal.  We don’t really care all that much whether you won that game of chess with a knight’s fork or a bishop’s fork.  We remember that you won, and we could just sit down and play another game in an hour, which is way more interesting than arguing over what happened in the last game.

But in roleplaying games, which carry a tradition of linearity, we can’t go back, and we can’t replay things.  This can cause friction since what we do now is based on what we did before.  Suddenly it matters whether a character was reluctant or enthusiastic, the story may depend on it.

Today’s post is something of a warning.  I’m talking about risks.  But the rest of the week is going to be devoted to why these risks are worth it, and what amazingly cool things they bring to the table.

What is it that we design?

Tuesday, September 5th, 2006

The Forge philosophy of roleplaying game design resembles philosophies of board, card, and (traditional) video game design.  That is, the product is designed to be played as-written.  All rules-changes are intended to be front-loaded as a design consideration rather than a play consideration (rules variants, video game mods, etc.).

This is a very workable model.  It has resulted in some extremely tightly designed and very fun games.  However, as we are constantly reminded, gaming is really all about actual play.  And it turns out that designing games isn’t the only way to impact actual play.

It’s not like this is all that revolutionary: I know people who own libraries devoted to improving their chess and/or go play, and there’s always Robin’s Laws of Good Game Mastering (by Robin Laws).

But let us consider another potential model: the model of hobby crafts.  While there are many publications that are simply step-by-step instructions for hobby crafts, they tend to be written in a slightly different tone.  It is not expected that readers will duplicate your steps precisely because it is assumed that their needs are at least slightly different from the writer’s.  Thus it is expected that the reader will take your instructions, and tweak them to get what they want out of them.

Further, there are many publications in hobby crafting that are focused purely on techniques.  Articles about a cool new material, or about a neat way of accomplishing useful effects, or a cheap solution to a complex problem are extremely common.

I’m not advocating that we give up our games model of publishing roleplaying stuff, but I am suggesting that we consider interesting new ways of publishing.  Just because we have traditionally worked within the game design paradigm doesn’t mean that there aren’t other really cool things we could be doing.

Transparent mechanical purpose

Thursday, August 31st, 2006

All this talk of social hacking actually does have some application, and that is what we shall discuss today.

The Forge design philosophy is closely tied to its play philosophy which, over-simplified, is that you play by the rules precisely as they are written.  You do not tweak them, at least not without playing them as-written enough to understand what those rules do.

There is, however, an extremely common opposing philosophy which I shall call the ‘pick and choose’ model of play.  This model is built around the idea that every play-group is playing a game that is ultimately idiosyncratic.  They are constructing their own procedures of play by pulling useful tricks and techniques from myriad other games to support whatever the group’s play goals are.

In some ways, the Forge model is an interesting sort of shortcut for writing roleplaying games.  (Note that this is not a bad thing, merely the way things are.)  Specifically, writing for people who utilize the Forge model of play allows you, as a writer of games, not to explain yourself.  You can include a rule that is designed to (say) control pacing of the game, without explaining that that is the purpose of the rule in the text.  (Note also that this is the model of the vast majority of board games.)

This works because you may assume that the players will play the game as-written and thus learn, through play, the purpose of the rule in question.  They will experience the ways in which that particular mechanic impacts pacing, and with that experience will come some ability to modify the mechanic to alter its effects.  Also with experience comes evaluation: it may be decided that the group does not require a mechanic to regulate pacing, perhaps they can handle pacing better on their own using their own procedures.

This model teaches players and groups how the mechanics impact play based entirely upon using those mechanics in the real world, with little (if any) exposition within the game text.

Unfortunately, this is pretty incompatible with ‘pick and choose’ style play, in which players will be evaluating whether they wish to utilize certain mechanics before experiencing those mechanics in play.  This a priori (before experience) judgment of mechanics stems from a desire to maximize fun now.  The group does not want to have to test the mechanic over a couple of sessions only to find out that it actually is not as much fun to play with the mechanic.  (Note that this is partially, perhaps even significantly, a function of the staggering length that a unit of play has in roleplaying.  Properly testing a mechanic for group suitability could take anywhere from four to twenty hours.)

Writing for ‘pick and choose’ style players requires an explanation of mechanical purpose.  What does this mechanic do for play?  The group needs to know up-front, at least in outline, why they should bother with your mechanic.  What is it that this mechanic provides that their group would love to include in their play?

One big thing that explaining your mechanics does that can be seen as a negative is that it makes subversion difficult (if not impossible).  If you (for instance) have a game designed explicitly to make people question their beliefs, and you feel questioning beliefs is something that everyone should do (especially people who don’t want to do so), then explaining your purpose will cut out that critical target audience.  You can’t ‘trick’ your audience into learning something that they would not have sought out on their own, which is unfortunate.

I really want some discussion on this topic.  I’d love to hear from both sides of this issue about why one system is better than the other, or even just a list of advantages to be had from one or the other.  I’ve gotten us started above, what else have you got?

Who needs mechanical resolution?

Tuesday, August 29th, 2006

I’m making a terrible habit of late posts.  Ugh.  I need to get on top of this.

One of the games I got to play at Gen Con this year was a three-person playtest of Jonathan Walton’s very interesting take on Avatar: the Last Airbender.  The three players involved were Jon, Shreyas, and myself.  All three of us are pretty big fans of the show, and had spent part of the trip to the con discussing it.

This is to say, we were all pretty much on the same page in terms of interpretation of what the show is about and how it works.  We did not need a game text (either flavor text, atmospheric text, or even mechanics) to make sure we were all working with roughly the same imaginative content.

When we sat down, we pretty much just had Jon’s character sheets and his Dharma Paths (which are pretty dang cool).  No real mechanics established yet, other than some sketchy ideas about how the sheet changes and how Dharma Paths progress.

We spent the first half-hour or so tossing around mechanical ideas, trying to figure out enough procedure to sit down and play.  We got some really sketchy ideas down based on the four elements (a fairly central concept to the show), and set to playing.

There was a lot of fun stuff going on in the game, but the one thing I wanted to highlight because it’s what I’m talking about today: we didn’t have any mechanics to determine success or failure.  Not at the task level, not at the conflict level, not at any level.

This is significant because, as I see it, the vast majority of games coming out of the Forge design philosophy have, historically, been primarily focused on resolution mechanics.  (It should be noted that reward mechanics are likely more central to the Forge philosophy, but that they are predominantly tied into resolution.)  There has been a shift in recent years toward pacing mechanics (Primetime Adventures) and front-loaded situation generation (Dogs in the Vineyard, Shock:, etc.).

Even with those recent shifts, though, there’s a strong focus on resolution mechanics, especially with tying them into thematic ideas.  Shock: utilizes praxis scales, which are highly thematic, Dogs in the Vineyard utilizes things that describe individual characters, as does Primetime Adventures.

I bring all this up to suggest this: resolution mechanics are not a necessary aspect of design.  They are an option, and can be a powerful one, but since mechanics necessarily reduce flexibility those mechanics reduce the options available to players.  This focusing can be purposeful and powerful, but it isn’t something that your game has to use.

So the question for you, gentle reader, is this: if we dump resolution as a primary focus of mechanics, what else might we pick as a mechanical focus?  In Jon’s Avatar game, mechanics are primarily a pacing thing.  They are designed to maintain a fast-paced game, and to provide some interestingly varied narration.  What else could our mechanics be about?

Thomas

It’s all socially mediated

Thursday, August 24th, 2006

Let this serve as a warning: today’s post is high-theory, and application is unlikely to be deeply discussed.

Last week I talked about tabletop game design as interface design.  I suggested that social interfaces are inherenly flexible because they do not require specialized knowledge to hack (or rather, that socialized people already have that knowledge).  This was contrasted with video games, which are more rigid and require less widely available resources (both knowledge and tools) to hack, thus making them less flexible.

Today I am going to examine things from a slightly different angle.  Today I am going to discuss why all multiplayer games are socially mediated.  Yes, this turns out to be pretty much a ‘no duh’ issue.  Games involving social interaction are socially mediated?  Shocking!

Still, maybe there is something to learn here.

Remember last week how I was talking about the fact that no game is able to completely convey all of the necessary interface to a social group and that groups are thus required to fill in the gaps on their own?  There is a similar phenomenon going on with non-roleplaying games of all sorts, only it is not as visible.  Speicifically, this filling-in process is harder to notice because there is an entire class of things that must be filled in, and thus the class itself is often overlooked.

That class of things is what I am calling (here, for the first time) ‘utlimate rewards’.  Many roleplaying games have a ‘what is roleplaying’ section in them somewhere (though this section is not always labeled as such).  This is the section of the game that explains at least some of the final rewards you get from play: social interaction, telling cool stories, making hard choices.  This is the section that tells you how play rewards you.

Compare this with most board and video games.  Their reward structures are primarily internal (you score points in Galaga, or you do damage to your opponent’s life-guage in Street Fighter 2).  There is not meta-consideration here.  There is no explanation of why you should care about points or life-guages.

I do not think that many people are going to suggest that scoring lots of points is fun in and of itself, while I do think that plenty of people are willing to buy into the idea that telling stories or interacting socially are.

So, while roleplaying games tell you what sort of ultimate fun the activity is supposed to provide, other forms of games rarely do.  Of course, for most games it is rather easy to analyze them and see that they are clearly designed to have social competition plugged into them.  That is what high scores are all about, after all: being the best.

But social competition is a high level bit of social interface, and it does not have to be employed.  That is, the reason for playing these games can be hacked (since that reason is not integrated into the interface).  Maybe you play a game like Galaga cooperatively, switching off between levels to see how well you can do together, for instance.

This suggests that the fixed interface elements are simply tools employed within a social interface structure.  Perhaps Galaga is especially well-suited for use in competative interfaces, but it is simply a tool that can be creatively employed in other sorts of interfaces too.

I could continue rambling about this for a while, and at some point it is possible that I will discuss smallest-unit interface elements, but I am pretty sure that you have heard enough for now.

Social hacking – how tabletop games empower players as creators

Thursday, August 17th, 2006

My apologies for dropping off the radar last Thursday and this Monday. I had big plans to continue updating throughout the Gen Con thing, but those fell through in the light of the unabating awesomeness. Then I returned home to find that the draft of today’s article had mysteriously disappeared. This is constructed from memory, and as such is not nearly as polished as I might have liked.

Following my explanation of how I see games as interface, I believe that this article will be pretty obvious. One of the primary advantages of the roleplaying medium is its socially-mediated nature. Roleplaying can be ‘hacked’ using purely intuitive tools in real-time, which makes it extremely flexible.

Games are socially-mediated as opposed to being mediated through some other structure. A common mediation structure for games is computers. Console gaming and computer-based gaming are mediated through the structure of the computer’s hardware and software. Hacking games through this structure can require significant amounts of work. You need to have significant familiarity with hardware and software in question to even know where to begin your hacking. You must also have access to hacking tools and expertise in their use.

While writing a mod for a game like Half-life is not precisely an obscure process, not just anyone can do so. You need a team of programmers and artists and sound people, all of whom have specialized training in their field.

Contrast this with hacking socially-mediated acticities. Part of the process of socialization, which everyone undergoes, is learning about social interaction structures and at least some ways of modifying them. You are taught a set of authority structures (such as teaccher-student, parent-child, older sibling-younger sibling, and best friend-best friend), and are also easily able to swap between them. You are able to take the role of student in class, but then take on the role of teacher when helping a friend with their homework.

Further, you learn to pick up new power-structures, and how to modify existing ones. You might, for instance, learn to take a more friendly position with relation to favority teachers, or to mix a sibling relationship with elements of a friend relationship.

All of this is fairly intutive. It is likely not less complex than the set of skills required to make a computer game, but it is a set of skills that you learn in order to survive in society, and so it does not require ‘special’ training. In a sense, everyone is already well-trained to do this sort of hacking.

That is not to say that people could not be more-well-trained, for it seems evident that they could, and that is definitely a goal worth pursuing. But everyone who is socialized already has a significant amount of this training right now.

The point of all this is that games which are socially-mediated are subject to social hacking. This allows participants to be creative not just in the content of play, but in its very structure. Consider how many people play Monopoly with house rules like getting money when you land on the ‘free parking’ space, or not auctioning off property if it is not bought.

Players of socially-mediated games are able to, in some sense, create the game they are playing as they play. They can compensate for poor interface (with respect to their specific circumstances) on the fly, and may choose to use a process of trial-and-error to improve their overall gaming experience.

The flexibility that this imparts to socially-mediated games is enormous and important, and it forces us to look at game design from a slightly different perspective.  We are designing interfaces that may be less-than-optimal for any given group, and we must expect them to change what they need to change.  I plan to discuss (at least) two major implications all this has in the coming weeks: 1) All games are really socially-mediated, they just use complex tools, 2) We need to present games in a different, more transparent, way if we want to utilize games as teaching tools (that is, if we want people to use the existing interface structures in an effort to teach something).

Games as interface

Monday, August 7th, 2006

I realized the other day that my specific take on roleplaying, especially roleplaying design, stems from a somewhat odd outlook on interaction in general. I see games as social interfaces. Literally, not metaphorically.

The game\’s mechanics are the points of fixed interface. In \’Monopoly\’ the rules tell you that you gain money in certain situations and lose them in certain other situations. This is a point of interface. It shapes the sorts of interactions you have with your fellow players. They must pay you in some situations, and these payments hurt them and help you.

This is important stuff, and it explains precisely why system does matter. Interfaces shape interaction. A \’good\’ interface is one that shapes actions in a positive way for whatever purpose you have. In the same way, a good system is one that shapes play toward whatever it is you play for.

It is important to realize that games can only fill in part of the necessary interface for social interaction. They do not provide all the necessary tools. Games don\’t teach you to talk, or use non-verbal stuff. Instead games provide a part of the interface needed for interaction. They provide some mechanics and some goals, but are not sufficient for interaction on their own.

This is where things get interesting. Since any given game can only provide part of the social interface necessary for interaction, the game has to plug in to the existing social interface of the group playing it. This is where you can run into trouble: the game-interface that works great among people with certain types of existing social interfaces can crash and burn in social interfaces that are even slightly different as long as that difference is in the \’right\’ place.

Of course people can develop new pieces for their core social interface such that they can successfully utilize the game-interface in question.  In fact, this is one of the important functions of games: they provide new methods of interaction and enforce them.  This creates a forced learning environment in which the players use and absorb the new methods and are able to evaluate from experience whether those methods are worth incoporating into more general interactions.

So, I see games as interfaces for social interaction.  And it struck me that not everyone else does, and that I might make more sense if it was understood that I\’ve got an odd view of things.

Thomas

Audience as author – uncertainty in roleplaying narratives

Thursday, August 3rd, 2006

This post has been in the works for a while, but Neel Krishnaswami articulated much of what I was going to say extremely well in a comment in the 20 by 20 Room discussion A Little Bit About Context:

o the setting description in the rulebook
o the rules of the rpg
o the GM’s notes about the game setting
o each player’s writeups of their PCs
o each player’s logs or journals about the game
o the improvisations and rulings accumulated during play

Usually, none of these will be consistent with any of the others! (Eg, the setting material in the rulebook includes references to wizards doing things that cannot be supported according to the game rules.) So a critical activity in game *play* is resolving inconsistencies between the different texts — that is, how the participants choose a normative interpretation out of all of the stuff created to date. IMO, a lot of what we call a “style of roleplaying” is just having different priorities about which are the master texts of the roleplaying game, and also when each takes priority.

Emotionally, I don’t come out of an rpg session with the idea that I understood what was going on at a deep level, in the same way as all the other players. Back in Boston, for one of my groups I was the writeup guy who put stuff on the web. Doing this pretty much cured me of the notion that I saw pretty much the same game, because the act of writing up a game helped jog my memory of the things that the players did while writing, and while doing every single writeup I found that way more significant dramatic action had taken place than I consciously remembered as significant. (Signficicant, as in, “Oh cr-p, she IS being mind-controlled by vampires!”)

So after having my nose rubbed in this fact 150 times or so, I was finally convinced that we won’t all be on the same page about a game, any more than we’ll be on the same page about a movie we all saw. That’s okay though, because yammering about our differing interpretations is hella fun.

Neel is pointing to something extremely important here: the narrative generated in a roleplaying session is much like the narrative generated in any other medium.  That is, they are open to interpretation.  This is due to the fact that it is simply not possible for a narrative to include all the relevant facts.  Things are just too complex for that.  So, instead, the narrative leaves holes for you to fill in.

In roleplaying this is complicated by the fact that the audience is in the position of the author as well.  This means that each player has a sort of authorial authority that lends itself to their specific filling in of those holes.  The ability to say ‘When I said X, I intended it to be in support of idea Y’ is an important one.  The social power dynamics of author-audience are rather confused in roleplaying because everyone is an author and everyone is the audience.

But this turns out to be a good thing!  Uncertainty of this sort is what allows us to enjoy stories in different ways, and what allows us to enjoy the same stories despite our different backgrounds.  And as Neel says at the end of his comment: it can be tons of fun comparing our interpretations.  I mean, I love explaining how I thought a character was being a jerk because I interpreted his actions in one way, while someone else thought the character was being heroic because they interpreted his actions totally differently.

The point of all this is that all authority distribution is about who’s version of the filled-in story we are going to use at any given time.  In ‘traditional’ play, this authority is divided up at the beginning of the game, and then locked.  One person has authorial authority over each aspect of the game.  No element is authored by two players.  Whenever any question about what a character’s motivations ‘really were’ arises, every player knows to turn to a single person for the ‘official’ or ‘canonical’ answer.

A lot of more recent games have played with distributing this authority in a different way.  Specifically, authority over any given element varies based on a number of different factors, intead of being fixed at the beginning of play.  In Universalis authority belongs to whoever has most recently paid for it.  In Polaris authority is based on who is currently the Heart/Mistaken/New Moon/Full Moon as well as which ritual phrases have been recently employed.

I know I am not saying anything new or revolutionary here.  But I do think that, as much as we talk about authority distribution, we rarely think about what it really means.  The authority we are distributing is that of the author.  What we are divvying up is who gets to say what ‘officially’ happens in disputes.

One thing that is important to remember is that just because you have the authority to fill in a hole, does not mean that it will happen.  It may never get brought to anyone’s attention that there is a dispute.  While you may have been given the authority to decide motivations for a specific character, that does not prevent me from ascribing my own motivations to them if you do not make yours explicit.

Which leads me to an interesting question: how often in play do we specifically not seek clarification on an issue, how often do we fail to ask the authority what the official position is because we don’t want it clarified?  How much of our play involves skirting around official pronouncements because we are completely happy with our own private interpretations?

Learning to immerse

Thursday, July 27th, 2006

It turns out that I have something of a vested interest in my understanding of immersion (beyond the fact that I suggested it).  The reason for this is that if immersion is, funadmentally, interaction that is not consciously mediated then incompatible play-styles are not necessarily incompatible.

What I am suggesting is that by gaining familiarity with a given procedure one can learn to engage in that procedure without conscious intent.  The implications of this are that all those mechanics that people complain ‘break immersion’ do not do so necessarily.  It seems clear that they do break immersion for certain players, but at the same time players can learn the mechanics well enough that they will no longer be disruptive.

This also means that players can learn new types of immersion.  The types that they can engage in are not hard-wired or anything like that.

Of course this is not to say that anyone should learn these things.  Just because it is possible to learn to immerse while using any mechanic (and I do literally mean ‘any’ here) it is not necessarily worth doing.  Some people are perfectly happy just not using the mechanic in question.

Because while you are learning to immerse with a mechanic, it does disrupt immersion.  There is always going to be a transitional period between the introduction of a new mechanic and the ability to use it without consciously thinking about it.  Further, this transtional period can be extremely long depending on how unfamiliar the mechanic is.  I think it would be rather silly to recommend that players spend six months learning to immerse while using an extremely disruptive mechanic, not enjoying their play as much as they could throughout the familiarization process, unless there is a compelling reason to do so.

That said, sometimes there will be a compelling reason.  For instance, sometimes there is someone that you very strongly desire to play with (a best friend or spouse perhaps), but who prefers a style of play that is currently incompatible with your own.  Of course you could just do some other activity together, but sometimes you just really want to share a specific one.

Another thing to remember is that not all mechanics will take six months to familiarize.  It might be worth having less-than-maximum fun for two or three sessions in order to maximize everyone’s fun over the course of a year-long campaign.

The point of all this is not that everyone should learn to immerse using disruptive mechanics.  Rather, I am trying to highlight that this is one option, and one well worth considering, when a group is trying to work toward more fun play.

And now, at the end, I shall provide some examples of what I consider to be proof that this happens (The examples probably should have been placed earlier in the article, but…)

  • I have seen players using homebrews involving rolling dice who do not really notice when the dice are rolled, or even consciously interpret them, but none the less utilize the results in their interactions.
  • I have seen players who are able to stay immersed when the GM tells them how their character is feeling (i.e. ‘you are really getting pissed off’).  Of course I have also seen players for whom this is totally disruptive.
  • Most table-top immersives learn to filter out their surroundings.  They can, to some extent, ignore background noise and interruptions.
  • Many people who play online games consider themselves immersives, but they are able to filter out an incredible amount of extraneous information.

The question to people who immerse is: Does this strike you as accurate?  Have you ever done this, or noticed other people doing it?

Immersion: potential dysfunction

Tuesday, July 25th, 2006

Unlike last week, where I could blame my host for the lack of posting, this week I have no such excuse. The reason I didn’t have this posted yesterday is because… well… I forgot that it was Monday. Which is bizarre, but true. Apologies. Hopefully I’ll manage to finish up the month on-schedule.

There is, I believe, an often unvoiced discomfort that many people who are not deeply into immersion have with the idea of immersion. (Special thanks to Shreyas Sampat for being the first person to articulate this to me clearly.) This discomfort is caused by a fundamentally different understanding of how the activity of roleplaying is supposed to be undertaken. First I’m going to lay out the objection, and then I will attempt to explain why it isn’t as bad as it might first appear.

The objection is pretty simple, and can be simplified as ‘immersion is a selfish goal, and as such is likely to cause dysfunction’. I use the term ‘selfish’ because, I believe, that while it doesn’t get said, a lot of us (and I include myself) see immersion as a fundamentally selfish activity. At least while it is being undertaken. Let’s look at why.

Since immersion is a purely internal activity* it is not concerned with the other players.  When you are immersing you are not thinking about whether your fellow players are having fun, you are not checking to make sure that you are not crossing any thematic lines which will ruin play for them.  Further, to some degree, any breaks in immersion to discuss these sorts of things ‘ruin’ the fun of the immersionist.

This perception of how immersion works is not without foundation.  In fact, I believe that it is generally accurate, though it is only one way of understanding what’s going on.  Still, when looked at from this angle I think that it is pretty clear why people who approach roleplaying as an activity in which one of your primary goals is to make sure everyone else is having fun have a negative reaction to immersion.

All that said, I do believe that this view of immersion overlooks two very important factors.

First, selfish activities can be meaningfully undertaken in social settings.  One example of this is eating.  At least when you’re eating something you like to eat.  Eating is a fundamentally selfish activity.  You eating can not provide me with any direct pleasure (though I might feel pleasure because you are enjoying yourself).  Yet we still eat together.  We can all enjoy a selfish activity together, and that’s a completely functional mode of interaction.  I think that immersion can work in similar ways (though it does not always do so).

Second, the dysfunctional understanding of immersion is built upon the premise that immersion is the entirety of play.  In one sense, for serious immersionists, this is the case.  If you’re not immersing, you’re not really playing.  However, there is a certain amount of preparatory work that happens outside of play proper that is still part of the game.  I’m going to illustrate this point with sports.

I really like playing ultimate frisbee.  It’s an incredibly fun game, and I’m going to draw some examples from it, but I think most of the points will stand if applied to other sports.

The thing to understand is that ultimate frisbee is a fundamentally selfish activity, at least for some people.  Enjoyment is derived from playing as hard as you can, from pushing yourself, and from exercising your skills.  You don’t worry about whether other people are having fun, you just go out there and you do what you’re going to do, and you have your own fun.

Despite the self-absorption, ultimate frisbee does a remarkable job of making sure everyone is having fun.  This is accomplished in two ways: 1) The activity itself is structured so that people achieve their fun by providing an environment in which everyone else has the best chance of achieving fun as well.  2) There is negotiation of the structure of play that is done outside of play proper.

That first thing is important.  The fun to be had by playing hard is easiest to achieve when everyone else is playing hard too.  The challenge goes up and there’s a sort of synergistic increase in energy among all the players as everyone does well.  The fun is, in a sense, infectious and builds upon itself in a sort of feedback loop.

I had an interesting discussion with a player who really enjoys immersion the other day, and she suggested to me that one of the things the supports her immersion best is when other players are immersed.  Or at least when they seem to be.  She explained that there’s a certain ‘life’ to the characters played by immersed players and that that ‘life’ really helped her stay immersed herself.

The second thing is also important.  A game of ultimate frisbee functions most smoothly when you agree before play begins where the field boundaries are and where the goals are.  Once play begins it is assumed that, except in special circumstances, those things are fixed.  By having an explicity, but closed, period of negotiation players are able to ensure that the structure of play will support their goals, but also ensure that they do not have to constantly renegotiate those boundaries play, which would be distracting.

All that said, I do believe that immersion can be dysfunctional.  While I think it is clear that immersion is not necessarily dysfunctional, there are some conditions that must be met to keep it that way.  Just as with ultimate frisbee, functional immersion requires that play be structured in a way that players support each other in attaining their goals and that all negotiation be handled outside of play proper.  And neither of these conditions is guaranteed.

So, immersion people, do you agree with the need for these two things?  If so, how do you make sure they happen in your own games?  Are there other things that are necessary for functional immersive play that I missed?

*: I say immersion is a purely internal activity, but this is misleading.  Part of immersion is responding to outside stimulous.  It’s not just an internal activity, but an activity of interaction.

Immersion and mechanics

Saturday, July 22nd, 2006

Ugh. Missing my Monday update threw me off, and then I had a crazy school project to work on. Apologies to everyone for not having this up Thursday.

One of the important implications of the way I understand immersion to work is that immersion as a process can not be engaged in simultaneously with thinking about it. That is, thinking about immersion, abstracting it, and considering it are forms of conscious mediation.

This is possibly one of the reasons that people who seek immersion as a primary goal in roleplaying tend to be disinterested in new mechanics and new games, and often tend to ignore new mechanics in new games they do play. New mechanics require abstraction and consideration because they are unfamiliar. Players must think about implications carefully or risk ineffectiveness.

But that very consideration is disrupting to immerstion. No matter how clever the mechanics are, or what cool things they facilitate, when they are unfamiliar they make it more difficult to immerse. And when immersion is a primary (or even the pirmary) goal of play, new mechanics, no matter how clever, tend to make play less fun.

I believe that this sheds some light onto part of the ‘system does/doesn’t matter’ debate. It is not that the system does not matter to the immersion-seeking player, rather it is that, to date, all systems have been similarly unsuited to promoting immersion. System most clearly does matter, otherwise it would be unneccessary to ignore it when seeking immersion.

Does this mean that mechanics themselves are opposed to immersion? I think not. The problem is not mechanics in general, but rather the specific types of mechanics that have been focused on in design to-date. What we need to do, then, is to seek out the sorts of interactions that support immersion, and then attempt to design mechanics that promote those interactions.

One thing I believe is also worth mentioning is that familiarity with a mechanic can allow a player to engage with it without disrupting immersion. As you become familiar with a mechanic you are able to evaluate it unconsciously. Players can roll dice, add a small number, and report that to the GM without really considering those actions. This may account for the fact that many people stick with familiar systems, that very familiarity allows them to engage in the mechanics without disrupring their immersive goals.

Of course it would make sense that the simpler the mechanics, the more quickly a player can familiarize themselves to the point that engaging the mechanics is not disrupting to immersion.

To reiterate, if we want to develop mechanics that support immersion (with the caveat that immersion works in some way similar to how I have proposed it does), then we need to:

  1. Identify the sorts of player-to-player and environmental actions that support immersion.
  2. Develop games that utilize simple mechanics that support these interactions.

So, what are we waiting for?

Why immersion is a tar-baby

Tuesday, July 18th, 2006

This should have gone up yesterday, but my webhost was unfortunately down. That’s why you’re getting it today. Hopefully you’ll be able to forgive me.

In the ancient dawn of civilization, also known as the tail end of 2002, Emily Care had a post over on the Forge in which she tried to explain Why immersion is a tar baby. It’s a good post, and something to keep in mind as a serious influence behind this one here. Because, you see, I’m going to try to explain why I think immersion is a tar-baby.

I stated at the beginning of this month, when I kicked off the whole ‘immersion month’ thing, that I believe that almost everything that everyone calls immersion is, ultimately, the same thing at some level. The problem is finding that level, and then identifying that unifying similarity. This task is made terribly difficult by the fact that the term is used by so many different people to describe things that are so seemingly different. Figuring out what the actual similarities are is no simple task.

And the difficulty is only ratcheted up by the way that the topic is discussed. It is this mode of discussion that, as far as I can tell, lies at the heart of the tar-baby problem. The problem is that most people, when they discuss their own immersive experiences, tend to resort to a sort of mystical explanation.

To some degree this is fairly natural since it tends to be difficult to explain how the mind works from the inside. And this is further complicated by the fact that immersion seems to be, by its nature, opposed to abstraction. That is, immersion is what it is, in large part, because you aren’t thinking about it.

In a recent discussion online (on Adam Dray’s ‘Foundry’, if anyone is curious) on the topic of immersion, Mo pointed out that one of the problems when discussing immersion is that people who tend to immerse also tend to talk about it as a sort of mystical process. Phrases like, ‘it just happens’ and ‘I don’t think about it’ and sometimes ‘I become my character’ get tossed around, and then misinterpreted.

This is a very solid observation, I think. Part of the problem with discussions of immersion is that they try to capture a purely-internal idea, one that most people don’t try to study in other people they’re with, and explain that idea to someone who likely doesn’t have the context to know what you’re talking about.

All of this stuff seems to ‘lay the blame’ for the problem at the feet of the people who are doing immersion and trying to explain it, but it’s not all their fault. In fact, I think a significant amount of the blame lies at the feet of theorists, and I think I know why.

The Forge’s ‘Big Model’ is typical of most design-focused theoretical frameworks for roleplaying in that one of the major elements of analysis of actual play is reward cycles. Especially procedural reward cycles. This is intensely problematic when discussing immersion because immersion is an internal process and it is self-rewarding.

Since it is internal, immersion can only be self-evaluated, at least for most people. I can not turn to you and judge your level of immersion. While I may be able to infer, based on past experience playing with you, that you are immersing to some degree or another, I can’t tell just how much or how well.

Since it is self-rewarding, that is: immersion is an activity that you work toward because you enjoy it, not to get some dependent reward from it, most players don’t care to evaluate themselves for rewards since they are already being rewarded. Perhaps a bit more clearly: since immersion is an end goal of play, and as far as I know, no one has come up with a metagame resource that can be expended to help you immerse better, immersion does not fit into traditional understandings of reward mechanisms.

In some sense, from the viewpoint of those who are not immersionists, talking about ‘immersion’ is like talking about ‘fun’. There’s no way to productively understand it using the models that they are used to.

Immersion’s internal nature fits poorly with a reward-cycle understanding of roleplaying games, so how should we understand immersion? That’s a good question. I’m hoping some of you will have some good suggestions…

Thomas

Immersion as unfiltered mental activity redux

Thursday, July 13th, 2006

I had a piece on mechanics and immersion and how they interact lined up, but I feel that my post last week was actively confusing. So I’m pushing the mechanics piece back to next week, and trying to clarify what I mean by ‘unfiltered’ and why it is significant.

To refresh memories, my definition from last week was:

A participant is immersed in an activity when his or her participation is not consciously mediated or filtered.

To clarify, because later conversation suggests this was unclear, this does not mean that players are not conscious of their participation and it does not mean that players are unable to analyze what they are doing. In order to clear things up, I am going to expand on what I mean by ‘mediated or filtered’, and then I will explain what I mean when I say that immersed players do not consciously do that.

If someone were to ask me what car I would want if I could have any car I wanted at no cost, I would require some time to consider. To provide a serious answer I would need to consider it for quite a while. There are a lot of factors involved in answering that question, and they are not factors I often consider. This answer is consciously mediated. I have to analyze, consider, and abstract in order to provide a satisfactory answer. This is conscious mediation.
If someone were to ask me ‘does this dress make me look fat’, I would not need to think about the answer, or at least not in most cases. So this is not a case of a consciously mediated response. However, I would consider who it was that I was talking to. Is it appropriate for me to respond to this person with ‘no, but your huge butt does’? Should I say ‘a bit, but it really sets off your eyes so it’s all good’? I do not have to think to find an answer, but I do have to think about whether to give it or not. This is conscious filtering

If someone were to come up to me and ask me whether or not I like icecream, I would have a response ready (‘yes!’ if you are curious). I would not have to pause and consider it, I would not need to recall my past encounters with icecream and evaluate whether or not they were pleasurable. This is not a consciously mediated answer. I also do not feel that anyone should not hear my answer. I mean, I do not care if you know how much I like icecream; if you are curious, I am glad to answer that curiousity. This is not a consciously filtered answer.

It is important to note that one of the primary things that allows us to give answers that are not consciously mediated is familiarity. We do not consciously mediate walking or drinking or any number of other highly familiar physical activities. The same is true of mental activities. As we become more and more familiar with certain mental patterns we need less and less conscious guidance to do them.

The point of all this is that immersed players are interacting with the game without consciously mediating or consciously filtering. This is probably some sort of sliding scale rather than a real dichotemy, but we can probably talk about it as a dichotemy profitably as long as we do not forget that it is not really one.

The reason all this matters is that conscious mediation tends to reduce emotional reaction. When you think in abstracts, when you get the distance of consideration about a topic, you are less emotionally influenced by it. When you consciously filter your reactions, there is a tendency to shy away from dangerous topics. This is not always the case, some people actively seek dangerous and emotionally engaging topics, but I am currently thinking that filtering can not increase emotional engagement (but I might be wrong about that).

The point of all this is that immersion, by taking away conscious barriers between query for response and actual response, increases emotional engagement with play.

What does ‘immersion’ mean to you?

Monday, July 10th, 2006

If I’d been on top of my game, I would have opened up Immersion Month with this post rather than a definition.  Still, better late than never…

‘Immersion’ is, in the immortal words of Emily Care Boss, a tar-baby.  Discussions of the topic inevitably become extremely sticky, and the more effort you put into getting a good grip on it, the less productive your efforts become.  This is largely due to the fact that so many people mean so many different things by the term.

The first step to any solid and productive discussion, one which ends up producing interesting results rather than self-congratulatory back-patting, is to figure out who means what.  So, that’s what this post is for.

I want to hear from everyone.  If you are big into immersion, if you dabble, if you think it’s the worst thing to ever happen to roleplaying, I want to hear it.  So, what does the term mean for you?  And do you do it or know people who do?  And what do you think of that?

Even if someone says pretty much what you think, please chime in.  On this issue, the internet-standard ‘silent agreement’ is probably going to do more harm than good.

Also, for now at least, let’s not do any discussion.  Let’s just get some data, with no peanut gallery comments.  I say this, in part, so that everyone knows up-front that they won’t have to defend their statements.  Just say what you think and feel.  It’s a pretty low-risk proposition.

Thomas

Immersion: when you stop paying attention

Thursday, July 6th, 2006

It is with significant trepidation that I lay out what I think may be a comprehensive, if terribly general, definition of ‘immersion’. In all honesty I am willing to be convinced that I am wrong, so if you have comments please don’t hesitate to speak up. That said, as Emily Care Boss so rightly said, the topic is something of a tar baby. Let’s try to keep the discussion as civil as possible.

Let’s start things off with a definition, which I hope makes sense on its own, but which I plan to explain with the balance of the article:

A participant is immersed in an activity when his or her participation is not consciously mediated or filtered.

Utilizing this definition means that one can immerse in all sorts of experiences. I admit that this definition is, perhaps, dangerously broad as it permits one to immerse not only in things like books and films, but also to immerse in things like chess and basketball. Still, I do believe that this definition is accurate, and despite its generality, useful.

First, I think it may be necessary to demonstrate that the immersion that many people enjoy in roleplaying is fundamentally the same immersion that people experience with more passive forms of media such as film.

I believe that most of us are familiar with being so drawn into some passive media (like a book or television show) that we sort of lose track of time and our surroundings. We sit back and simply absorb whatever it is. I believe that one of the things that this sort of unfiltered engagement entails is that we, well, do not filter it. At least not actively.

I believe that this is relatively common in films viewed at the theater. There is social pressure to be silent, and this often results in a disengagement of the critical faculties. This is by no means a long-term disengagement. It has been my experience that post-viewing discussions are extremely common. You know the ones, where you stand (or sit) around and critically examine what you have just seen.

While this sort of experience seems to be rather common in passive media, roleplaying adds a twist. It is an active form of entertainment. It is not enough to simply sit back and absorb the media, one must be able to provide input. Immersion in these circumstances is a bit more difficult because it requires that the participant be able to provide input without engaging conscious mental filters.

This is not to say that participants must provide input that is unfiltered, but rather that the filters are not conscious. The question of, ‘How would the character react?’ or ‘What is the best direction to take the story?’ are never voiced, even within the participant’s head.

But the filtiers exist, and the questions are answered. It is simply done at the level of the subconscious, at some sort of intuitive level. I believe that in many ways immersive techniques act as muscle memory does for physical activities. You do not have to think ‘left foot, right foot’ in order to walk, you just do.

And this is where the divergence occurs. Since, for the most part, people do not consciously or actively train in immersive techniques, they are generally limited to those that they are already disposed toward based on previous experience.

It is worth noting that this would also explain a number of things that people bring up when they discuss immersion: The ability to immerse in different aspects of play is there. Some people have an intuitive grasp of character, and thus are easily able to immerse in it; some people have an intuitive grasp of plot or story, and thus immerse there. It also explains why people immerse better using mechanics that are familiar (whether due to the fact that they are used to the system, or the system is similar to one they are used to). People have had time to internalize the mechanics that they have been using, and thus do not have to think about the decisions involved.

One of the most interesting implications of all this is that one can learn to immerse better. One can learn to immerse in unfamiliar systems, or in aspects of play that they have not immersed in before. We should be able to develop methods of teaching immersion, and doing so systematically. And that makes me pretty excited.

Next week: are mechanics anti-immersive?

Mediums, trying to find application

Saturday, July 1st, 2006

I generally try not to break my Monday/Thursday post schedule all that often, but I want to talk about this, and my schedule for July is full-up.

Thursday I had a really long and highly abstract theoretical discussion of different mediums for roleplaying.  Real briefly, I want to point out where the application lies here, and possibly explain why it’s not explicit in the original post.

The problem with trying to design games for mediums other than face-to-face is that we are so deeply immersed in thoughts about face-to-face communication that it is difficult to see how other mediums differ.  Face-to-face mechanics tend to be significantly denser because they are utilized in a rich medium.  You can afford complex mechanics because they still don’t take that much time (or at least they take less time than they would elsewhere).

Another thing is that we simply do not consider how to utilize aspects of communication that we don’t tend to deal with.  Consider that Code of Unaris utilizes precisely one mechanic (the one that makes the game so good) that leverages the medium it is designed for: Hacking works as well as it does because online chat has such a high level of permanency.  It doesn’t work nearly as well as a formalized mechanic in face-to-face play.

The question that arises from this is: what do mechanics look like that leverage permanency and delineation?  I don’t have an answer to this question.  In fact, until about a month ago I didn’t even realize that this was the question to be asking.  But it is.

If we are going to design for other mediums, rather than consider how to make it as much like tabletop play as possible we must consider a number of aspects of play that are so constant in tabletop play that we simply didn’t notice them before.

What are these games going to look like?  I don’t know, but I know I’m excited to find out.

Thomas

Medium matters: an outline of medium differences

Thursday, June 29th, 2006

This post is long. It weighs in at nearly 3,000 words, and it barely scratches the surface of the topic. It is almost entirely theory, very little direct application has been included. That said, I do believe that it can act as a very good primer for people who are entirely familiar with only one or two mediums of play. It can explain why medium matters, and also show that no medium is better than any other for all applications.

As always, questions are encouraged. If you think I got something wrong feel free to tell me that. If you would like some expansion on a topic, or have a question that I didn’t address at all I want to hear from you. I do hope this ends up being helpful.

Introduction

This week the question comes at the front. I am going to be discussing the use of different media for roleplaying and how different mediums bring different advantages to be utilized and disadvantages to be worked around. Your homework is to think about these mediums, and ways to take advantage of them. It is an important thing to consider, because apart from Code of Unaris, I am not familiar with any published roleplaying game designed for any medium other than face-to-face play.

There are four major aspects for consideration when discussing mediums: richness, delineation, synchronicity, permanancy. Each of these is something of a continuum. Each gets its own section, in reverse order:

Permanency

Permanency is a measure of how accurate and permanent the record of play is. On the low end sits play that happens face to face with no recording whatsoever. No character sheets, no notes, nothing but human memory. On the high end sits video tapes. In between you have various degrees of audio recording and note-taking.

Traditional table-top play is pretty low on permanency. There are some character sheets, there may be someone taking notes, but for the most part play is simply remembered. Or not, as the case may be. While the technology certainly exists to do audio recordings, or even video recordings, of play, very few groups choose to do so. Further, the groups that do rarely refer back to those recordings during play.

Any form of computer-mediated play (such as IM, IRC, or forum/journal based play) has a significantly higher level of permanency. Computer systems are very good at recording, sorting, and storing information. This means that most play that takes place through comptuers generates logs, and those logs are of all play, and those logs are searchable. The last point is an important one. Searching through three or four hours of a (video or audio) recording of a game session to find what you are looking for can be a pain, using the computer to search for a memoral string of text is simple. This helps explain why even those who record their face to face play rarely refer to their records, it is just too much trouble.

Permanency matters for a number of reasons, and I think an exhaustive list is beyond the scope of this article. Still, a partial list is likely useful. Permanency can help arbitrate disputes over past events; memory is selective, and people often remember things differently, being able to point to a static record can help keep everyone on the same page. Permanency also permits you to remember, and utilize in play, previous fictional material with an extremely high degree of accuracy; quoting directly from previous play can be a powerful tool. Permanency also allows for new players (or even spectators) to gain a perspective and context of play that is incredibly rich, if they are willing to spend the necessary time.

Speaking of spectators and new players, one of the huge things permanency does is allow them to gain a firsthand impression of play, rather than a secondhand impression passed on by the players. That unfiltered view of what the game is all about can be a very powerful thing to bring to the table.

Synchronicity

Synchronicity is a measure of how much real time is expected to elapse between one contribution to play and the next. While this is actually a sliding scale, it can be productively considered to be a binary issue. Things can be thought of as either synchronous in which case players are actively waiting on your contribution, or asynchronous in which players may do other things while waiting for your contribution.

Most (all?) tabletop games are synchronous. In Polaris if the player of the Mistaken utilizes a key phrase like ‘But only if…’ then play stops until the Heart responds. Further, for most groups it would be considered extremely ill-mannered to wander off and play video games while the Heart frames just the right response.

Synchronous play tends to trade quality (which is enhanced by having more time to consider and edit a response) for speed, while asynchronous play tends to do the reverse. Though ‘quality’ here is likely a misnomer since it is not a case of faster contributions being worse, but rather that they are less considered. In fact, quicker responses are often less self-censored, less guarded, and thus have the potential to be more intimate, more ‘real’.

While treating synchronicity as a binary can be useful, it is important to remember that it really is a continuum. Delays between responses in face-to-face play tend to be on the order of seconds, delays in a lot of chat-based play (such as IRC) tend to be on the order of tens of seconds, delays in jounal-based online play tend to be on the order of minutes (with a number of relatively common exceptions), and delays in certain types of email-based play tend to be on the order of hours or even days.

There is an interesting correlation between time spent providing input and delay between inputs. If the game in question typically has player spend five seconds at a time formulating their input, then the delays between input tend to be significantly shorter than if the game tends toward half an hour of time spent on each input. Time spent on input is often, though not always, related to volume of input. If you are expected to toss in a sentence or two then it usually takes you less time than if you are expected to provide two paragraphs.

Synchronicity matters for a number of reasons, these include but are not limited to: Asynchronous games tend to remove the pressure to provide input, any input, rather than make the players wait on you. This allows players to shape their input with greater care in order to provide a more precise impact on play. Asyncrhonous play, because of the way that players tend to drop in and out of a mental playspace while they wait for responses, tends to be more broken and less continuous. Where in synchronous play you sit down and play until you are done, asynchronous play involves flipping in and out of play repeatedly.

Delineation

Delineation is the measure of how easy it is to divide various aspects of play from one another. This is most clear in the division between narrative input and social negotiation. In most face-to-face play these two aspects bleed together. What you as a player say and do has some extremely fuzzy borders with what your character says and does. When you say ‘I want to kill the king’, are you saying that you as a player think it would be cool for the game if your character wanted to kill the king, or are you saying that your character already does want to kill the king?

It should be noted that this is not something inherent to face-to-face play, but is something traditional to it. Ben Lehman’s Polaris tends to generate a pretty clear separation between negotiation and narrative contribution with its key phrases, and Shreyas Sampat’s Mrindangam (in the forthcoming PUSH) takes this even further by making everything narrative input unless it is expressly and clearly marked as something else. Since the markings in Mrindangam are physical gestures, rather than anything verbal, the delineation is marked in a separate channel which alleviates confusion.

Things are always less confusing when the various things communicated are communicated through different channels. Instead of having to parse signifiers out of a single channel, you are able to simply look to a channel that is dedicated to conveying specific information. It is relatively rare for tabletop games to be designed with this in mind (in fact, Mrindangam is the only one that springs to mind for me), but it is not all that uncommon for specific play groups to utilize multiple channels in the form of accents and verbal affectations. It is not something that all groups do, but some groups mark narrative contributions with affected accents or voice shifts.

In online play channels are extremely common. In fact, in my experience, they are the norm rather than the exception. Play in mediums like IRC often use different channels for narrative contribution and negotiation. Journal and forum play is very often supplemented with IM or email for negotiation, with all posts being pure narrative. (Sometimes there is simply a separate thread in the journal or forum for negotiation, but it is still strictly delineated.)

Even in online play which uses a single channel (as most MU* and some IRC play) there are clear and unambiguous ways to mark any given input as narrative or negotiating. While this may not be as clear a delineation as using different channels altogether, it is much clearer than most face-to-face play. It is similar to a game in which you migh have Polaris-like key phrases that you use to indicated when you are contributing narratively and when you are not.

Delineation matters for a number of reasons. It increases the clarity of your communication, reducing the number of misunderstandings about which contributions are narrative and which are not (note: this is not always a good thing, such miscommunications can result in amazing ideas coming forth that would not have happened if everyone had been on precisely the same page). It can, but does not always, help with immersion. It allows you to partition your thinking in such a way that whenever you are in one clearly delineated space you are in character, and when you are in a different space you are out of character. Having a clear arenas for each can be a useful tool.

Richness

Richness here is drawn from media richness theory (brief overview). Simply put, richness is a measure of the number of channels of information a given medium of communication has, combined with the amount of information that each channel can convey for any given unit of time. Face-to-face communication is extremely rich as it includes actual words said, tone, facial expression, body language, and all sorts of other stuff. Pure text (which most online play is) tends to be relatively poor, as it is mostly a single channel.

Where you might say something in a sarcastic manner with a wry smile on your face in a face-to-face interaction, in pure text you must actually mark which words are verbalized and also provide markers to signify that it is said in a sarcastic tone with a wry smile. It should be clear that this results in any given interaction requiring more time to convey in text, since you must provide each bit of information in a single channel sequentially rather than being able to convey the different parts simultaneously across multiple channels.

Voice-chat play (such as that conducted using Skype or Ventrilo) is in the middle. It allows you to convey across more channels than simply text. Verbal content, tonality, cadence, and accent can be conveyed simultaneously. However, it does not convey facial expression or body language. Video conferencing, which as far as I know is rarely used for roleplaying, is richer than voice-chat, but still poorer than face-to-face as it fails to convey subtle facial expressions and most body language.

Rich mediums have a number of advantages of poor mediums. Most people relate more strongly to some channels of communications than to others. Some people resonate strongly with accents or with body language, for instance. The richer the medium, the more channels it includes, and thus the more people you can resonate with effectively. If text is your only channel, and you do not find text very compelling, then play will not be nearly as good for you as if you were interacting in a channel you do find compelling.

Of course reducing the number of channels does not mean that no one will find what you have to say compelling, it simply reduces your audience pool. If everyone you play with finds text compelling, then you can get away with text as your only channel. If everyone you play with finds vocal stuff compelling, you can get away with voice-chat.

Rich mediums are also faster. Over any given unit of time you can convey significantly more information in a rich medium than in a poor medium. A rubric that I have found useful is that, given mostly synchronous play, that you will take approximately five times as long to convey the same information in pure text than face-to-face, and about twice as long to convey that information in pure voice than face to face.

One of the big reasons for this delay is that the vast majority of human turn-taking dynamics are handled non-verbally. Turn-taking is how you know it is your turn to contribute. In face-to-face interaction you can see somone draw breath in preparation, or you note in their stance and the way that they are looking that they are preparing to contribute and that you should allow them to. There is also a tendency to simply look expectantly at someone when you expect them to contribute. Without these cues you run significant risks of squelching other people in your communication. (This is why groups that use a lot of voice-only communication, like the military, evolve elaborate rules for signifying who’s turn it is to talk.)

This is further complicated by the fact that most people do not handle turn-taking on a conscious level. This means that we often fail to recognize the need to indicate when we are speaking, or that we are expecting a response from someone else, because we do not realize that we send such signals in regular interactions.

Note that turn-taking grows exponentially more complicated as you add participants. The result of this is that most text-only play takes place between only two participants, where turn-taking becomes simple: when one person finishes talking it becomes the other person’s turn. This is generally measured in single-contributions. One player will post some text, then the other player; and back and forth it goes.

All that said, rich mediums do have at least one major disadvantage to poor mediums: the more channels you have to deal with, the more difficult it becomes to precisely control the information you are conveying. For instance, you may be trying to convey something extremely sad or depressing in the narrative, but you are personally excited by how cool the narrative is. This can result in you conveying one message on some channels, and another message on other channels which can be confusing, and may actively undermine your purpose.

As you reduce the number of channels of communication it becomes easier and easier to control each one. In voice-chat, you only need to master your verbal and tonal channels to keep from sending mixed signals, and in most online play you only need to master a single channel: text.

This is made all the more powerful by our tendency to, when we reduce channels, reduce to the ones that convey the most information (or at least are the most flexible), and also to reduce to the channels we have the most conscious control over. Most people are better at manipulating their tone than they are their body language, and most people are better at manipulating text than their voice. This means that as we get to poorer and poorer mediums of communication we also tend to have more and more control over the information we are conveying.

Richness matters for a number of reasons. Not only does it impact how much information we can convey at any given time, but it also impacts how much control we have over the information we convey. It takes more and more varied skills to control more and more varied channels with a high degree of accuracy.

To make a long story short (too late!)

Each of the four elements is intimately connected with the others. Richness has an impact on delineation (the number of channels and the clear marking of channels for specific uses), richness and permanency are related (some channels are easier to store than others), syncrhonicity and delineation are tied together (it is easier to interact asynchronously when you have clear markings for when you are playing and when you are not).

The important thing to rembember in all this is that different mediums have advantages. They are not absolute advantages, but rather they are advantages for a very specific set of applications. We, as designers, theorists, and players need to be considering what it is we want to accomplish, and then picking the medium that best supports those goals. By using a medium that is sub-optimal for the goals we are pursuing, we handicap ourselves unneccessarily.

Tactile feedback and interfaces

Monday, June 26th, 2006

I’ve been meaning to talk about this for a while now, but I keep putting it off in favor of shorter fare.  This is going to be a bit rambly since it’s actually two topics in one post.  The first topic isn’t strictly necessary for the second, but I do think it’s relevant and interesting.

The first thing I want to talk about is interfaces.  Board, card, and roleplaying games of the table-top variety have rules and mechanics.  These are really just the procedures of play: they’re the things you do to interact with the game.  Video games actually have the exact same thing: procedures you use to interact with the game.  But there’s an important difference, and it’s pretty obvious.

Video games have their interfaces hard-coded, table-top games do not.  If I’m playing a video game in which I must press the ‘A’ button to jump, well, there’s not much I can do about that because the interface is enforced by coded software.  I can’t get inside and change that software.  Further, even if I could change the interface, there would likely be cascade effects which would require further changes.

If, for instance, I made the ‘A’ button into a kick attack instead of jump, what would I do when I needed to jump later?  I’d have to change things back, or figure out some other way to handle it.

The same thing is not at all true for table-top games because the procedures are social, and as social creatures we are extremely adept at social hacking.  This, combined with the fact that you are not stuck with a fixed interface device in social interaction (such as a controller, which only allows for so many different actions), means that you can actually add new interface options pretty much at will.

Further, since we’re so good at social hacking, we can add and change interface options with ease.  This allows us to make changes without fully anticipating the cascade effects because we can always make further changes later on to deal with them as they come up.

Credit where credit is due, most of my thinking on interface has been heavily influenced by Danc of Lost Garden.  What I’m calling ‘interface options’ he calls ‘verbs’.

So there’s a fundamental difference between traditional video games and table-top games, and it lies in the ease of hacking.  Every so often we get together and play a game of Castle Risk.  I won’t explain it for those who haven’t played before other than to say that the game is like Risk except that most of your armies come not from controlling territories, but from controlling banners.  Each player starts with one banner which is kept in one of his territories.  If you take that territory from the player then you get their banner (and thus a big boost in armies per turn) and move the banner to your own banner-territory (thus making it a more tempting target for others).

Now, I don’t actually like the moving of the banners thing.  I prefer to play by a house-rule in which the banners stay where they are.  This means that each time you conquer someone you have to cover yet another critical territory, and it’s likely that your new resource base is inconveniently located to your original one.  I like this dynamic.  And it’s easy to hack in a sit-down game of Castle Risk, we just agree to do it.

I think you can see what I’m getting at here, so I’ll stop belaboring the point.   One of the important things to note is that the un-hackability of video games isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  The same inflexibility that makes it difficult for players to hack things to fit their idiosyncratic desires also makes it easy to force players into certain behaviors.  This can be a good thing, as I shall demonstrate in the discussion on tactile feedback!

One of the things I had serious plans on getting to in my abortive series of articles on props (which one day I hope to rewrite) is the fact that physical objects and motions are intimately tied to memories and can be used to call up those associated memories.

This is running long, so I’m just going to provide a quick example from my own gaming.  I encourage you to provide similar stuff, and even analyze.

I got Guitar Hero for my birthday last month.  Since the guitar controller it comes with is incredibly intuitive, I felt no need to read the manual or play through the tutorial.  I mean, it’s basically as intuitive as a DDR pad, it just makes sense.

While playing I accidentally pushed a button and discovered that the ‘select’ button activates your Star Power, which is a point-boosting thing accompanied by some pretty nifty visuals.  Timing your Star Power use to the heaviest parts of the songs is how you score big points, so it adds a bit of strategy to the game.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling bored and figured I might as well play the tutorial (until you play through it, the system starts the menu selected on it, not a huge deal, but inconvenient enough for me to devote ten minutes to going through it).  And in that tutorial, I learned something important: there’s another way to activate Star Power, and it makes a huge difference.

Located deep inside the plasticy circuits of the guitar, there lies a level sensor.  It detects the angle the guitar is being held at.  While you can simply push ‘select’ to activate Star Power, the game is designed for it to be activated when the guitar is vertical (perpendicular to the floor).

It doesn’t sound like much, but since you want to activate it fast in order to avoid throwing off your rythm, the best way to activate Star Power is to swing the guitar up and lean back and then whip it back down.  When I do this, I always get a little rush of adrenaline, I feel like a rockstar.  Every.  Single.  TIme.

There’s this mental and physical association that really adds to the game.  It just wasn’t as fun or as cool when I was just pushing a button, but throwing your weight back and rockin’ out! is something else altogether.  Since the game forces you to interface with it in a specific way, it is able to call up associations with that interface.

This is one (of many) reason(s) that Shreyas needs to get off his butt and finish Torchbearer.