Scribbles and Horrors

This post is a response to Markus M’s Human Centric Game Design, which aims to provide a groundwork for making non-electronic RPGs with “human centered” design rather than something like “computer centered” design. I have some objections to the notions presented in this manifesto, which I’ll lay out here. I’ll address each of it’s 5 points.

1. Minimise Arithmetic
Computers are much faster (and mor accurate) than humans at performing mathematical operations. Why not leave it to the machines and spend our time on something else?

Objectionable here is the idea that we should cede arithmetic to the computers because they supposedly can do it faster and more accurately. When approaching the idea of a human playing a game, why should I care one way or the other whether a computer could do it faster? Cars drive faster than people, and bikes are more efficient, but neither of these has much bearing on whether going for a pleasant walk in the park is a good idea. In fact, prioritizing cars for locomotion because they’re faster than walking directly leads to environments which are less human friendly.

Mathematics is one of the most beautiful human activities–the idea that it might be “not human centered” for a game to have people doing math is fairly ridiculous.

Of course, I understand that lots of number crunching can be frustrating in many sorts of games. It can be a slog to keep track of many modifiers. Arithmetic in one’s head isn’t easy for everyone (me included), and doing math on paper can slow down the dynamic moments in some games. But this doesn’t mean that games with lots of math in them aren’t human-centered; it just means that they cater to particular kinds of playing styles.

Now, you can say that you don’t like those kinds of play styles. You can say that it’s frustrating that the primary assumption for making moves in most RPGs is that you roll dice and add numbers. (I personally think it’s quite frustrating for lots of reasons!) But to claim that it isn’t human centered design to have a game with a lot of math ignores a big part of how people play games.

2. Minimise Exact Variable Tracking and Triggers
Again, computers do not forget unless you ask them to, of if they are feeling very bad. Conserve human memory and processing power for the things that really matter.

An extension of 1. above. I’ll reiterate that taking the time to precisely track the game your playing can be a very worthwhile activity. Stop to smell the roses, that sort of thing.

I’ll also point out that in the rules for Monopoly if a landlord forgets to ask for rent before the moving player’s turn is over, the player doesn’t have to pay! Human forgetfulness can be a really excellent piece of a game.

3. Lean Into Improvisation and Open-ended Problems
Computers cannot be creative. Humans can. Leave space for this. Design your games to make use of this. Humans can react to open-ended structures, and improvise solutions to problems. Humans can fill the blanks you leave them.

This is mostly true and I like it.

4. Embrace Malleability, Reject Rigidity
Humans can adapt in the moment. Not everything needs to be predefined, why not make use of this? You can change things whenever it makes sense. Make a ruling to bend a rule, change your plans to take player decisions into account.

Here’s where I fall off again. Human beings are very adaptable, this is true. Making new rules is fun, this is also true. But, like, the whole thing about a game is that it’s a bubble of rigid processes within a social situation. Rules govern behavior in games, that’s what they’re there for!

Again, there are lots of different ways to approach rules. Some are better for certain situations than others, or are better for some people or playstyles than others. But, often rigidity is what you need! Frequently rigid rules force players to come up with creative solutions to problems, such as those advocated by 3. above.

Nomic is one of the best games ever invented, and it would be very difficult for a computer to play. It is almost infinitely malleable, and yet its rules are some of the most rigid and unbendable anywhere.

5. Tactility is Fun
You know what’s great? Touching stuff! Whether it’s moving minis around, drawing a map, or just rolling dice. Do something with your hands!

This is true and I won’t argue with it except to point out that it’s also fun to imagine stuff, draw stuff, and say stuff.

I guess my thoughts about this post can be summed by saying that I feel like it takes a fairly narrow view of what games are, what they’re for, and what is possible in them. Painting these really nuanced and interesting topics with such a broad brush misses a great deal. I don’t think the post is especially bad or anything, it’s not harmful to The Discourse or whatever. I just disagree with much of it.

I have discarded two notions about what dungeon maps are or ought to be, and would like to share them here. I’m speaking only for myself, and only about the kinds of dungeon maps I most often interact with: massive, sprawling underworlds. This blog post has been written hastily and badly so I apologize.

First Notion: We Absolutely Must Know Who Built the Dungeon, Why, and What it was Used For

I first started D&D with 3.5e as a teenager, and following the instructions that those books laid out was fairly frustrating. Drawing maps has always been fun to me, but the advice in those books had me constantly trying to squeeze my interesting game-spaces into some form of setting-logic, a discipline which demanded far more knowledge of people and architecture than I had, and also one which wouldn’t have made playing D&D any better.

I thought that in order for a dungeon to be “good” it had to be “realistic”. To be meaningful, it had to have direct reasons for all of its attributes. Each room must have had a purpose and a history effected by the people who built it. This really stifled my creativity. I kept drawing maps which I thought were interesting, but then discovered on analysis that they were unrealistic. Nobody would ever build a thing like this. I would say to myself, sadly, What things could go in all of these rooms, which make sense? Nothing! Nothing at all!

AD&D was a little better in that the Dungeon Master’s Guide provided a lot of options. I spent a long time reading AD&D’s “Room types” table, and tried to match each room in my dungeons to one of these. Still, I was stuck trying to invent coherent things for my rooms which fit into the boxes of NPC activity. I thought that’s what a dungeon was supposed to be.

Philotomy’s “mythic underworld” opened my mind to an entirely new approach to dungeons. Dungeons as a sort of living entity one its own; a Thing which exists, a place, yes, but not in the sense of a house or a building, where there are distinct design choices. Instead the underworld is the expansion of the fairy-tale castle: it is immense. The “reasons” for things being the way they are can be attributed to a bizarre kind of mythic logic. Confusing, unclear, or “random” dungeon elements can be folded into the mythic underworld mystique.

Still, though I had lingering in the back of my head that a dungeon must have some reason or explanation for its existence. I was still stuck in a “reasons” mode of thinking, although the Mythic Underworld concept offered a “reasoning” which could include the kinds of maps I like.

After reading The Underworld and Wilderness Adventures more and more carefully, I have come to a new understanding of dungeon maps, one which pushes past even the Mythic Underworld: the Underworld is drawn by me, the referee.

I mean this more than in the sense that a dungeon is a game-space designed for player interaction. While this is vaguely true, player action is not the reason the underworld exists. It exists because putting pen on paper to draw a map creates a Space, and the space will flow outwards across the page if you let it. It will sprawl in all directions, unfolding and repeating, looping back upon itself and leaping out into the void. It will go off the edge of the paper, and tunnel downwards. Abstract and mesmerizing, the dungeon goes on and on.

The drawing is an activity all itself, is what I’m saying. It is constructed through my interaction with the paper, through my instincts about rhythm and shape. Who built the underworld? Well, me! Because I’m the referee and the rules told me to, and once I started drawing I found I couldn’t stop.

Second Notion: The Dungeon is Primarily a Visualized Imaginary Place, and the Dungeon Map Merely Represents That Place

The second notion was harder to set aside. The notion was this: the dungeon is an imaginary place, and we can draw maps and write keys to help us understand the place. But the map is not the dungeon, the key is not the dungeon, both of these are instructions for how to build the imagined space in our heads which we can then play within.

At the table, supposedly, the “true” place gets accessed through the words of the referee and the imagination of the players. Players take notes and make maps only to help them keep track of where they are.

The problem with this notion is that it does not match any at-the-table experience I’ve had involving dungeons. When players ask the referee what’s beyond a door, the referee looks at the map and describes what they see. The players–immediately–begin to mark their own map. They then stare at and add onto this drawing for the whole rest of the game. There is no intermediary imagined three-dimensional space; the dungeon exists on paper.

Literally, right there. The dungeon we’re talking about is marks on a page. The rules we use sort of treats navigating those marks as if it were a physical space–opening doors and so on–but the real, actually game we’re playing takes place on paper. It’s very tangible and literal. I have a drawing and I’m trying to get you to make a mostly similar drawing. If you use miniatures, it’s the same thing but with little pieces moving around. They’re not representational: they’re the thing.

This isn’t bad. Pen and paper games are fun. Moving pieces around is fun.

(I have had the idea of running a game entirely in a mind palace–no maps for any of the participants, no written notes of any kind, just spoken words and the imaginary. I think that some surprisingly complicated and beautiful spaces could be developed using this method. This would be a substantial departure from most RPG setups I’ve seen, though.)