In Pursuit of Narrative Truth
I read The Alexandrian’s series on Dissociated Rules in D&D 4th Edition with interest. Among the points discussed in the longish series, Justin Alexander speaks about the mechanics of storytelling vs. role-playing in the context of 4th Edition. As a counter-example to what Wizards of the Coast is doing with the D&D franchise, he points to a storytelling system called Wushu.
Having never heard of Wushu before this, I read its description carefully and felt my imagination beginning to spin. I, too, feel that D&D 4th is primarily a tactical miniatures game although perhaps unlike Mr. Alexander I don’t really take it as some affront to the D&D brand. I happen to like tactical miniatures games and grafting a light narrative mechanic on top of them isn’t directly offensive to me. However, I also appreciate the story-heavy mechanics of the kinds of role-playing he and other 4th Edition detractors crave and reading about the far-afield Wushu principles was exciting.
I won’t get too deep into Wushu here because I haven’t tried it—though I would love to—but what it really did was start my wheels turning about a sort of non-diceless role-playing game that was focused centrally on something akin to Wushu’s Principle of Narrative Truth but without the on-paper awkwardness of what amounts to lightly gamed improvisational collaborative storytelling. In other words, Wushu sounds delightful, but it doesn’t sound a lot like a game to me, more like a creative exercise. That’s not a bad thing, it’s just not what I as a gamer really crave.
One thing I’ve always despised—and yes, that’s the appropriate term—about role-playing games is that the kinds of brightly imagined scenes and scenarios are often muted by the mechanics of failure, specifically when applied to low-level characters or early campaign episodes. First level characters, for example, frequently don’t have enough raw statistical ability to perform the kinds of extraordinary feats that are hallmarks of typical RPG genres. The basic trade-off between mechanical intrigue (can such-and-such be successful) and narrative strength (is this something a hero would really fail at) is one that falls in favor of the game more frequently than the tale. This is, to my understanding, the guiding principle behind the changes made for D&D 4th Edition: Make a grand game, even if the threads that weave the plot between and amid strategic battle sessions don’t exactly form an artful tapestry.
Wushu clearly tips to the other edge, and what I’m now fixated on is the idea that there can be a game that admires and respects the concept of Narrative Truth without fumbling mechanically with uninteresting game elements. It would take a lot of work to really flesh out the ideas, but the basic principles I think that would start the process would be basically giving character creation a set of loose characteristics: Instead of, for example, Acrobatics as a skill that needs to be checked in order to be used but is frequently found in disparate members of an adventuring party, it is part of a broader set of characteristics called something like “Agile Movement” which allows a player to declare, at any time, an action like leaping through an open window and executing a safe rolling landing. Players without Agile Movement would have to find a different way to get out of the room in a hurry.
The mechanical element of this would be the GM Challenge, in which a GM could declare that a player declaration exceeds the bounds of their assumed proficiency. At that point only is any kind of dice roll made for action. As an example, a character with Agile Movement 1 says they want to tiptoe up a bamboo shoot like in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Agile Movement 1 covers things like basic tumbling, graceful leaping and other lithe motions but not superheroic and physics-bending actions like balancing on thin reeds which might be more like a Agile Movement 5 ability (these numbers are arbitrary lacking any playtesting or balancing). The challenge is then rolled to maintain Narrative Truth (let’s leave the dice rolling mechanics aside for the time being).
Assuming the player succeeds what ought to be a difficult dice test, they maintain Narrative Truth. Improbably, they actually do dance across a fragile bamboo shoot. On the other hand, if they fail, Narrative Truth is passed to the GM, who describes the result of the failed attempt. What you have here is a system where the childhood make-believe system of “I shoot you!” “Nuh-uh!” is actually worked into a game mechanic such that challenged actions are set in a construct to determine whose version of events is correct. As such, for the most part, players will move and interact with their environment unfettered by the GM. The GM exists only to describe things the players cannot intrinsically know: The environment for example. They also exist as the antagonists, the actor in the make-believe shouting “Nuh-uh!” whenever the player stretches credibility.
Due to this role, they are only likely to exercise a GM Challenge when the players overstep their control over the narrative in ways that are perhaps inconsistent with their character or—pivotally—when they attempt to influence something that is resisted. Obviously the GM Challenge to basic characteristic-defined Narratives should be rare assuming the player is operating within the shared vision of the world. However, there will be plenty of times when the player wishes to influence something beyond their PC and the GM must intervene to represent the opposing forces. A player with Firearms Training 2 might be reasonably proficient with common weapons such that when he says “I fire four shots in rapid succession, swinging my arm downward and spraying the bullets diagonally across the mercenary’s body” he is not rolling to see whether he can move his arm and pull the trigger in this fashion. However, he can’t dictate what the mercenary will do as a response, so the GM institutes an NPC Challenge to the action, declaring, “Sgt. Dekker catches the glint of candlelight off the barrel of the gun a moment before it swings to bear on his chest, and dives to the ground in an effort to avoid the bullets.” A test is made at that point to determine whose attempted action seizes Narrative Truth, and that participant (GM or player) then proceeds with the description of the outcome.
The fundamental element straddles the middle ground between Wushu’s concept of narrative as certainty and your standard RPG’s conceit that narrative is largely retroactive after the mechanical elements have been determined. The basic concern is a matter of timing: A GURPS player might indicate that she is attempting to thrust her sword into a foe’s abdomen; a Wushu player says definitively she impales the foe and the difference is that the GURPS player may not actually succeed in thrusting her sword or may in fact succeed and yet inflict no harm while the Wushu player most certainly executes the attack but the outcome is uncertain until the mechanics have been resolved. In my vision, the player may never assume the outcome or even declare a Narrative beyond their direct influence. At best the player may say, “I thrust my sword at waist level with all my strength.” They may strike the abdomen, they may strike a parrying arm, the result will depend on the responding action and the mechanical outcome.
Clearly there is a level here at which these principles could be applied to any standard role-playing game. The problem I would be addressing is mostly one of play style, but I think the construction of most role-playing rules is built such that combat is foremost in the rules as “defined scenarios” and everything else is, essentially, a metagamed skill check. Part of this is the specificity of the skills and abilities. Giving someone a 40% chance at Detecting Traps means they basically walk into a room and roll dice, saying, “I’m checking for traps.” The roll comes up successful and they ask the GM, “Did I find any traps?” Here is the alternative scenario I’m envisioning:
- GM
- “You stand in the doorway of a cramped room with stone floors and rickety wooden-paneled walls. A single unlit torch is barely visible on the far wall from the light of your gas lantern and in the furthest Eastern corner there is a sagging bookcase covered in assorted nick-knacks like partial bones, bits of parchment and copious dust and cobwebs. You have Narrative Control, Dave.”
- Player
- “I creep silently into the room and check for traps.”
- GM
- “There are no obvious traps in the room.”
- Player
- “Obvious traps? I’m looking for non-obvious traps. Hidden traps.”
- GM
- “Challenge. You have no way of knowing what might be hidden here.”
- Player
- “Okay fair enough. I peer carefully at the floor, looking for something unusual—”
- GM
- “Having never been in this room before, you can’t know what is usual.”
- Player
- “Good point. I’m checking the floor for something noticeably dissimilar from its surroundings; recessions, discoloration, carvings, that kind of thing. Also as I go, I’ll run my fingers lightly over the nearest walls looking for latches, triggers, mechanisms or signs of wear while being very cautious to avoid placing atypical pressure on anything.”
Should every trap-potential scenario be detailed this way? Most would probably argue it shouldn’t. But then again, wouldn’t “checking for traps” in each and every room the way it is done in most fantasy adventure scenarios be just as taxing and tedious? Narrative-wise, it makes more sense to detail the search for traps where they are most likely to occur rather than to slog through tedium for the sake of statistical protection.
And this is really the thing that has stimulated my mind: Role-playing games present a framework for compelling story but often abstract the elements that could go into such a story into game mechanics that thwart the tale. It’s easy to drift too far the other direction and create something that is barely a game and more of a setting. Somewhere in the middle lies roleplaying nirvana, and I’d love to find it.