Tuning

I'm breaking up with Vancian magic. We're still friends, but I've realized monogamy isn't for me. Which is to say, I've realized I no longer like the idea of having a default magic system baked into a game that isn't tied directly into a specific setting. The way magic works in a given world should be deeply tied into the particular theming and feel of that world, it should say something about what power looks like and where it comes from in that world. Vancian magic works great for the Dying Earth, and it's very gameable, but I no longer think OSR games that purport to be setting-neutral should present it as the standard. I think creating a magic system should be part of setting-building, not part of choosing a base ruleset.

With that in mind, I've gone and rebuilt the magic system for my own setting from the ground up.

This isn't really all that relevant, but it's some sick art.

Tuning

Tuning is the art of manipulating Dust to perform wondrous feats. Its secrets are hoarded jealously by the ruling class of Halas; most commonfolk understand little or nothing of it, referring to it simply as magic, sorcery, or the power of the gods. Practitioners are properly called tuners, although even among those in the know, those who devote their lives to mastering the art are often called sorcerers or wizards as a term of respect.

To manipulate Dust, a tuner must first ingest it somehow. Swallowing it works, but inhaling it through a specially designed mask is preferred; injecting it directly into the bloodstream is even more effective, but can be more dangerous. Once the Dust is ingested, the tuner uses precise movements, incantations, and mental exercises to stimulate specific nerve impulses that transmit a desired command to it—the tuning process for which the art is named. The Dust is then released, or “cast,” to work the desired effect on the tuner’s body or the world around them.

The nerve impulses necessary to produce a useful effect from Dust are so specific that quick improvisation is all but impossible; tuners rely on set patterns, known as spells, developed through careful research and found to produce a consistent effect. While the tuners of Halas have developed some common knowledge and language over generations, every tuner’s nervous system is different, and each tunes in slightly different ways; furthermore, many similar effects can be achieved by wildly different tuning methods. As a result, no two tuners’ spells are exactly alike. While every tuner seeks to learn from others (often by stealing their competitors’ closely guarded secrets), it is never a simple matter of copying what another tuner does, as every spell must be adapted to the learner’s own personal methods.

Spells are grouped into “circles” of increasing complexity and power, from first to fifth. Higher spells are harder to learn, take more Dust to cast, and are more difficult to cast properly. Trying to cast spells beyond one’s skill level can have disastrous consequences. If not cast properly, excess Dust lingers in the body, causing a potentially fatal necrotic sickness called Dustburn and sometimes strange mutations. Even if the Dust is purged from the body successfully, errors in tuning can dramatically change a spell’s effects, with unpredictable and often disastrous results. Many reckless apprentices destroy themselves or others in pursuit of power.

(Note on mechanics: the basic rolling system in my newest rules is d6 dicepool take-the-highest, 4+ unopposed or highest opposed roll succeeds. Pools are based on skill level: 1d6 for unskilled, 2d6 for skilled, 3d6 for an expert, 4d6 for a master.)

Becoming a Tuner

To become a tuner, a character must first undergo the Assimilation, the process of introducing Dust into their body for the first time. This is a dangerous affair. Most aspiring tuners prepare for years under an experienced master, often beginning as children, conditioning their bodies, developing control of their nervous systems, and eating small amounts of Dust as part of their diets to build tolerance. Such training allows a character to become skilled in tuning before attempting the Assimilation, though they can’t progress any further without completing the process.

Whether skilled or not, a character can attempt the Assimilation by ingesting at least 10 Đ. Roll 3d6 secretly on the following table to determine whether the process succeeds.

Roll	Assimilation Result
3	Severe rejection. The Assimilation fails. The character rolls on the Dustburn damage table at -3 for this attempt. Any future Assimilation attempts will kill them; they will never become a tuner.
4-5	Rejection. The Assimilation fails. The character rolls on the Dustburn damage table at -1 for this attempt. Any future attempts are -1 on this table.
6-8	Failure. The Assimilation fails.
9-14	Success. The Assimilation succeeds.
15-17	Acceptance. The character’s body takes the Dust well. The Assimilation succeeds, and the character rolls on the Dustburn damage table at +1 and the mutation table at +2.
18	Wild talent. The character is a born tuner. The Assimilation succeeds, and they roll on the Dustburn damage table at +3 and the mutation table at +2. The next time they’re under stress, they will spontaneously manifest a random but useful spell, which they gain knowledge of immediately.

The character then makes a tuning skill roll on each of the following tables to determine the side effects.

Roll	Dustburn Damage
1	1d6
2-3	1d3
4-5	1
6	0

Roll	Mutations Gained
1-2	1
3+	0

No matter how successful, the Assimilation is always intensely painful. Assuming the character survives, they don’t know automatically whether their Assimilation succeeded. To find out, they can have a tuner cast Sense the Divine Gift or a similar spell on them. Masters normally do this for their apprentices; those who are found to have failed are usually dismissed, as there’s no way to know if they experienced a severe rejection of the Dust and are certain to die if they try again. Failing the Assimilation is a source of shame among the nobility, a sign of the gods’ disapproval; scions who suffer this fate are sometimes disowned, especially if they suffered mutations. Even among those who succeed, mutation is disgraceful. Those who can hide it are expected to for the sake of their family’s reputation and their own; where this is impossible, some families will go so far as to fake the new tuner’s death while keeping them around in secret, as few are willing to discard a tuner entirely.

In the absence of a master or another tuner who can determine the Assimilation’s success, the character can simply try to learn a spell and see if they’re able to cast it.

Dust Pool, Exposure, and Tolerance

Once a character becomes a tuner, they gain a Dust Tolerance, or ÐT, according to their tuning skill. This is the amount of Dust they can safely take in a day to power their spells.

Tuning Skill	Dust Tolerance
Unskilled	10 Đ
Skilled	50 Đ
Expert	100 Đ
Master	200 Đ

When a tuner consumes Dust, it goes into their Dust pool. Every mote of Dust a tuner takes in a day also adds to their Dust exposure for that day. When a tuner’s Dust pool or Dust exposure exceeds their ÐT, they suffer Dustburn.

When a tuner takes Dust that brings their pool over their ÐT, they immediately take Dustburn according to the number of steps their pool exceeds their ÐT (1 step per skill level above theirs).

Excess Dust	Dustburn Damage
1 step	1
2 steps	1d3
3 steps	1d6

When a tuner’s Dust exposure exceeds their ÐT, they take 1 Dustburn damage per multiple of their ÐT they exceed their ÐT by, rounding up.

Dust in a tuner’s pool doesn’t leave until they spend it to cast spells. When a tuner starts a day with more Dust in their pool than their ÐT, they take 1 Dustburn damage per multiple of their ÐT they exceed their ÐT by, rounding up.

A full night’s sleep with a safe amount of Dust in their pool resets a tuner’s Dust exposure to 0 plus their current pool.

Dustburn

Wounds from Dustburn take the form of necrosis, causing flesh to blacken and rot and organs to fail. It feels different for every tuner, but most describe it as like fire burning from within, hence the name. Though it kills slowly at all but the most severe levels, it is also extremely difficult to treat.

Normal medicine can’t do anything for Dustburn wounds. Light Dustburn wounds heal normally. Moderate wounds heal at the normal rate without requiring treatment first, but have a 1-in-6 chance to cause a random mutation in the process. Serious Dustburn incapacitates a tuner immediately and has a 50% chance to kill them in 10 minutes. If it doesn’t, it begins to heal as if it were treated, but has a 50% chance of causing a random mutation, otherwise leaving scars like any serious wound (Dustburn scars resemble burn scars from fire, but following the paths of blood vessels).

Most healing magic does nothing for Dustburn. However, certain rare and powerful spells may heal it.

Learning Spells

Tuners can learn spells from other tuners, spellbooks, and items called vessels that are enchanted to store the effect of a spell for a single casting. Learning from a teacher is the easiest way, taking 1 week of uninterrupted instruction per circle of the spell. Few tuners will share their arts without a heavy price.

Learning a spell from a spellbook requires a number of successful tuning rolls equal to the circle of the spell, with each roll taking 1 week of uninterrupted study. (Breaks can be taken between each roll.) Learning from a vessel first requires a successful tuning roll to identify the stored spell, then works like learning from a spellbook, but with any failed roll destroying the vessel.

Casting Spells

A tuner can cast any spell they know by expending Dust equal to its cost and making a successful tuning roll. The cost of a spell is based on its circle.

Spell Circle	Dust Cost
1st	10 Đ
2nd	25 Đ
3rd	50 Đ
4th	100 Đ
5th	200 Đ

Casting spells requires a free hand and the ability to talk. Any damage taken or other significant disruption during the casting ruins the attempt.

A roll of 1 when casting a spell is a miscast. Roll 1d6 on the miscast table below.

Roll	Miscast Effect
1-2	Wrong target; the spell affects a random target within range.
3-4	Wrong effect; a random spell of the same circle is cast on the same target.
5	The caster takes 1 Dustburn damage per circle of the spell.
6	The caster suffers a random mutation.

Tuners can also cast spells from vessels they’ve identified with a successful tuning roll. This depletes the spell from the vessel, but casts it automatically, with no casting roll required and no Dust cost.

Developing New Spells

Skilled tuners can develop their own spells with time and intensive research. If a character wants to develop a spell, work with them to determine the details of what it should do and what circle it should be, using existing spells as guidelines. The tuner must then make a number of successful tuning rolls equal to the circle of the new spell, with each roll taking a month of uninterrupted study and costing 10 Ð times the spell’s casting cost.

Spells as Attacks

Most spells that inflict harm or debility can be evaded with a suitable roll, if it makes sense that the target could evade the effect in the way described. For some spells, especially those that deal damage, a successful evasion only halves the damage instead of avoiding it completely, unless the target has some special defense that allows them to totally ignore the effect.

Sample Spells

Cure Light Wounds

1st Circle

Casting Time: 1 Round

Duration: Instant

Heals a touched lightly wounded creature instantly.

Magic Missile

1st Circle

Casting Time: 1 Combat Action

Duration: Instant

Launches a bolt of harmful energy at a target within throwing distance, striking unerringly for 1d6 damage.

Sense the Divine Gift

1st Circle

Casting Time: 1 Round

Duration: 10 Minutes

Allows you to sense whether any creature you can see has tuning abilities and, if so, roughly how much Dust it has in its pool.

Invisibility

2nd Circle

Casting Time: 1 Round

Duration: 10 Minutes

Makes a creature or object you can see of up to human size invisible by wrapping them in an optical glamour. If cast on a creature, anything they’re wearing or holding is also hidden. The illusion is fragile; any sudden motion, like attacking, sprinting, or casting a spell, ends the effect.

Dispel Magic

3rd Circle

Casting Time: 1 Round

Duration: Instant

Ends active spell effects in an area up to the size of a small room, centered on a point you can see. This spell can’t fail or miscast, but for each effect to be dispelled, its original caster can oppose your casting roll; if they win, the effect persists.

Pyrokinesis

4th Circle

Casting Time: 1 Round

Duration: Concentration

Allows you to conjure, manipulate, and douse flames anywhere you can see, up to the area of a large room. You can ignite flammable material, cause existing flames to surge and billow as if in a strong wind, or snuff an already burning blaze. Burnt creatures take up to 3d6 damage at the center of an inferno, halved with a successful evasion. If your concentration is broken, you lose control over the flames; they keep burning normally if they have sufficient fuel.

Teleport

5th Circle

Casting Time: 1 Round

Duration: Instant

Transports you and 1 passenger per additional successful casting check to any place you know and can visualize clearly, by folding space to bring the destination only a step away. Miscasts affect each traveler separately. On a “wrong target” result, the traveler arrives 1d6×10 miles off-target in a random direction. On a “wrong effect” result, the traveler takes 1d6 damage from spatial compression.

These are, of course, mostly your typical B/X-style spells. The five circles correspond to spell levels 1 through 5. If and when I run some of this stuff, I expect to use the standard spells as a base, but you should be able to throw in pretty much whatever fairly easily.

The Pillars of the OSR, Part III: Social Play

I'm going through this process of trying to break down what I see as the "pillars" of OSR, the big gameplay modes that show up in just about every campaign (or that I want to do so). By identifying the core activities that make up these modes and the factors, in the fiction and at the table, that can play into how they resolve, I hope to gain a better understanding of what a good OSR game should have rules and procedures for and how they should work.

In my last two posts, I broke down journeys (a.k.a. wilderness exploration, overland travel, etc.) and dungeons. Today, I want to talk about what I'm gonna call...

Social Play

Rather than go straight into my breakdown of the main activities in social play, this time, I want to talk about some more general stuff first.

Of all the play modes I'd identify in OSR, social play almost always gets the least mechanical and procedural attention. This seems to be by design, which I think makes sense, because social play is the only mode that's less abstracted than dungeon play. When you're talking with an NPC, not only do you have all the same information as your character about what's going on and everything you need to make informed decisions from their perspective without relying on abstracted mechanics, you're actually doing the exact same thing your character is doing.

Well, that's not always the case--not all players or all groups actually roleplay conversations word-for-word, I suppose. Sometimes you'll just describe the general gist of what your character says rather than fully acting it out. But still, it seems like the pretty clear consensus that talking is the easiest thing to simulate in a game.

This can raise the question, does it need to have any rules attached to it at all? Some OSR folks take a pretty hardline stance against Charisma being used mechanically in conversations, suggesting that everything should just be roleplayed out. The opposition, mostly from non-OSR people in my experience, is usually that lots of gamers are socially awkward and that shouldn't stop them from playing charismatic characters, and that a player with higher "real-life Charisma" will, if not stopped by mechanics, basically be able to take over the whole game by convincing the ref to let them do whatever they want. (These takes, in my experience, largely seem to come from the sort of people who view social competence as some sort of superpower in real life, but that's neither here nor there.)

I personally love to act in character and will usually speak in my character's voice at the table given the chance, and I'll always encourage my players to do so when I ref, but I do think Charisma checks, or something similar like reaction rolls, have an important place in social play. I'm going to make what I suspect might be a slightly controversial statement, though maybe not: I don't think player charisma should be among the player faculties that are required to succeed in OSR games.

There's an important distinction, I feel, between what a character says or does in a social interaction, and how they say or do it. Both of these matter. You can tell someone exactly what they want to hear, but if you come across as shifty or unpleasant, they'll probably react a whole lot differently than if you seem charming and trustworthy; and you can be the slickest motherfucker around, but if you tell someone they look like a goat, they still probably won't be too happy (although you'll probably have a much easier time playing it off). The way things play out at the table, these involve fundamentally different skills. Even among the most dedicated roleplay groups I've played in, I've never encountered a group that expected everyone to play out social scenes in strictly real time; everyone's always been very open to a player taking a pause to think about how their character would respond before jumping back in with more in-voice acting. This seems to reflect an understanding that we as players aren't required to completely represent our characters' social ability.

Playing a character more--or less!--charming and witty than yourself is fun in the same way as playing a mighty warrior while you work a desk job. I think the game should let people do that. That doesn't mean our social mechanics should elide the player skills we do want the game to require, though. Much like how we accept combat mechanics abstracting martial arts skill but not tactics, I like the idea of social mechanics abstracting raw charm to some extent, but not social judgment. It's a very fuzzy distinction, but I think it matters.

That in mind, I see social play breaking down into two main activities.

Negotiation

This is what I think most of us imagine as social play in OSR, and not for nothing--I think it describes most social situations that come up in most games. This is where the PCs are talking with an NPC and trying to convince the NPC to give them something or do something for them. This process, I think, is where we're best off skipping the mechanics and asking the players to just make their own arguments. After all, as refs, we should have some understanding of our NPCs' motivations, what they want and what they're prepared to do to get it. There's no reason we can't expect the players to learn what they can about NPCs and their motivations and offer them the things they want in exchange for what the PCs want from them.

None of this requires in-voice roleplaying, though I enjoy seeing it. The player can just say something like, "I offer the guard a 20-sp bribe to let me pass." 20 sp is a concrete thing; the ref can make a judgment about whether the guard thinks the bribe is worth the risk based on that figure.

Emotional Appeal

This is the other social play use case I see: the situation where the PCs aren't trying to persuade NPCs logically with reasoned arguments about their best interests, but to provoke an emotional response, whether that's affection, fear, anger, whatever. Pulling off a convincing bluff, endearing themselves through flattery, intimidating someone into compliance, inspiring subordinates with a rousing speech. Here, I think, is where character charisma can more appropriately be invoked. Sure, I want to hear my players deliver the rousing pre-battle speech to their men-at-arms, and I'll encourage them to at least try it, but hell, I don't have that much faith in my own ability to improv something like that, and if the player wants to play an inspiring leader, I don't want to take that away from them. At minimum, I want to hear a general description from my player of what their character says, but in the end I'm okay with them rolling to see how effective their delivery is.

Funnily enough, although I feel like negotiation is the more common social play situation in most games, the most common hard social mechanic--the reaction roll--is an emotional appeal case. It's about how monsters feel about the party instinctively based on first impressions. It sets the initial tone for negotiations to follow, if any.

The Factors

I don't think this reveals anything new about what fictional or real-life factors matter in social play. We're all familiar with the tension between mechanics based on player charisma and simulation through conversation at the table. The factors at play, that character charisma or charm and player social judgment, can be invoked in some combination or one to the exclusion of the other. My personal taste-based argument is for a balance along the line I've drawn, but I know a lot of people feel otherwise.

Hoping to talk about combat next.

Kingsgrave: Level 1

 

Previous post here.

Level 1: Crypt of the Squires

Old stonework tunnels, rough by today's standards. Un-mortared blocks, green in places with moss, damp everywhere. Dark, quiet.

This is sort of a "fake" level. There's very little treasure, the place already being mostly looted, but also very little danger. The purposes of this level are: 1) to introduce people totally new to D&D to some of the basic concepts (exploring rooms, navigating, mapping), in case anyone like that is playing; 2) to hint at some of the dangers lying further in (the dead Stone Guardian in 7, the sprung trap in 11); and 3) to build atmosphere and tension. Even though the players are mostly safe on this level (at least during the day), they should never feel safe. This is at least partly a horror game, so play it that way; cultivate a spooky atmosphere, build a sense of dread, lean on the omens in the encounter table to keep the players on edge and let them know that they're not alone here, even if nothing is jumping out at them just yet.

1: Small Tomb

A boxy stone sepulcher against the back wall, open with the lid propped against the side. Old bones within. A shelf set into the wall above holds remains of broken earthen vessels and melted candles. Empty.

2: Small Tomb

Stone sepulcher against the back wall, open, bones inside. Broken pottery on a shelf above. Empty.

In the east wall, a crack has been widened into a narrow squeeze; a few broken and rusted hammers and chisels are scattered on the floor. Anyone wishing to pass through the opening must take off their pack and pass it through separately.

3: Legend Chamber

Wooden door with iron fittings, broken open from without. Inside, a spacious chamber, cold braziers in the corners.

The walls opposite the door bear ancient carvings. In the first (south/left), a youth kneels at the feet of a crowned king, offering up a sword. In the second (middle), the youth is stabbed by a menacing armored warrior while the king stands behind him. In the third (north/right), knights kneel in vigil over the youth's body while the king looks on, head bowed. Learned PCs will recognize the story of Taran, a squire who once saved the life of Tancred I and was rewarded with hero's burial.

Beneath each carving rests a stone altar, all cleared of offerings, covered in melted candle wax.

4: Heir's Tomb

Sepulcher along the south wall, cracked open, bones within. The west wall is a fresco of a young man in a crown presiding over a court of heraldic animals—lions, wolves, bears, and the like.

The fresco is a false wall, plaster a few inches thick. It can be broken through with tools and a turn's work. Behind, stone shelves hold earthen jars full of food and drink (long spoiled), 720 sp, a gold goblet worth 500 sp, and a set of silver armbands adorned with garnets worth 100 sp.

5: Tomb of Taran

Iron door from the south passageway shows evidence of attempts to break it down, scores and dents. Its lock has been damaged from within; it no longer closes properly.

Sepulcher in the center carved with rampant stags, lid pried off, bones within. Cold braziers in the corners. Stone altar on the north wall covered in melted candle wax, more on shelves set into the walls. Earthen vessels fill much of the remaining space, cracked open and emptied.

Narrow squeeze in the west wall leads to 2. It looks to have been made by tools. Packs must be removed and passed through separately.

6: Broken Icon

Statue on the west wall of a robed figure, head broken off, nowhere in sight. Bare stone altar at its feet covered in candle wax. Empty.

Wooden door with iron fittings to the north, broken open from outside. Wooden door with iron fittings to the east, broken open from this side.

7: Fallen Guardian

The southeast corner of this chamber has collapsed, filled with rubble and dirt. Half buried beneath is an old Stone Guardian, one forelimb and part of its head broken off, hindquarters crushed in the collapse. It is dead and inert.

Two skeletons, stripped of possessions, lie nearby, many smashed bones showing injuries. Broken swords and spears lie strewn about the room, long rusted.

Remnants of a wooden door with iron fittings to the north, smashed to splinters from without. Deep claw-marks in the stone floor match the Guardian's remaining visible paw.

8: Grave Goods

Earthen vessels fill this room. Half are smashed open and empty. The rest are emptied less destructively, or hold long-spoiled vittles.

A turn of searching reveals one forgotten treasure in a small, still-intact jar: 32 sp and a silver bowl engraved with roses, worth 50 sp.

Wooden doors with iron fittings north and east, closed, unlocked. Another to the south, smashed to splinters from this side.

9: Small Tomb

Open sepulcher, bones within, skull missing. Broken pottery and melted candles on a shelf above.

2 giant centipedes hunt for rodents.

Giant Centipede: HD 0, AC unarmored, bite 1d4 and save vs. poison or be incapacitated with pain and nausea for 1d4 hours, morale 5.

10: Squire's Tomb

Stone sepulcher on the west wall, open, bones within. Earthen vessels fill most of the space, many broken, most empty, some holding long-spoiled food and drink. A turn's searching reveals one small jar holding well-aged mead, still good, enough for 3 draughts.

11: Relic Vault

Iron door, once locked but no longer. Inside, earthen vessels and iron chests fill most of the room, all emptied; this place has been thoroughly looted.

In the center, upon a low dais, a stone altar holds a rack that looks like it once held a sword, scepter, or some such thing, now nowhere to be seen. In front of the altar, an old skeleton in rotted gambeson stands impaled from below on a rusted spear emerging from a hole in the floor. Examining the altar and rack will reveal that the rack rests on a pressure plate, which has been lifted.

12: Small Tomb

Wooden door with iron fittings, broken open from the outside. Open sepulcher holding bones. Empty.

13: Small Tomb

Open sepulcher holding bones. On the west wall, a half-life-size statue of a knight standing vigil, sword pointed down, set in a niche. If his head is tipped forward, carving and niche slide down into the floor, opening the narrow portal into 14.

Squeaking and skittering, as if of rodents, audible to the east.

14: Student's Tomb

Child-size stone sepulcher, closed. Inside, the bones of a youth. On a shelf above, two ivory cases worth 10 sp each hold 1st-level spell scrolls (determine randomly).

A statue of a dragon emerges from the west wall, wings spread and mouth open, overlooking the grave. The scroll cases rest on a pressure plate; if either is moved, the flame trap in the carving activates. On 5-in-6, the ignition mechanism fails from lack of maintenance, and the dragon merely spits a gout of black oil. On 1-in-6, it blasts flames; all in the room take 2d8 damage, save vs. dragon breath for half.

15: Small Tomb

Open sepulcher, bones within. On a shelf above, an open iron lockbox. Empty.

16: Small Tomb

Open sepulcher, bones within. Empty.

Squeaking and skittering audible to the east.

17: Grave Goods

Earthen vessels, broken or holding spoiled vittles, emptied wooden and iron chests. 5 R.O.U.S.es gnaw on spoiled meat from a large upended jar.

Rodents of Unusual Size: HD 0, AC unarmored, bite 1d4, morale 6.

Wooden door with iron fittings south, closed, unlocked.

18: Chamber of Names

Torch brackets ring this circular chamber, empty. The walls are carved with hundreds of names. A character learned in noble lineages who spends a turn studying them will realize they are all of highborn youths taken before their time—scions who died in infancy or childhood, squires who fell serving their lieges before they could earn their own honors.

Wooden doors with iron fittings north and south. Spiral stairs lead down into darkness.

Encounters - Day

1-in-3 every turn:

1. Voices from ahead, murmuring in conversation/laughing/singing/weeping. No one there....
2. The door behind you creaks/slams shut/swings open.
3. A chill wind blows, extinguishing candles automatically and torches on 50%.
4. Eyes in the dark beyond your light, shining catlike. They vanish around a corner before you get a good look....
5. Rodents of unusual size, 2d4. HD 0, AC unarmored, bite 1d4, morale 6.
6. Giant centipedes, 1d4. HD 0, AC unarmored, bite 1d4 and save vs. poison or be incapacitated with pain and nausea for 1d4 hours, morale 5.

Encounters - Night

1-in-6 every turn:

1. Goblins, 2d4. HD 1-1, AC leather, big knife 1d6, morale 4.
2. Kobolds, 2d4. HD 1-1, AC leather, spear 1d6, morale 5.
3. Rodents of unusual size, 2d4. HD 0, AC unarmored, bite 1d4, morale 6.
4. Giant centipedes, 1d4. HD 0, AC unarmored, bite 1d4 and save vs. poison or be incapacitated with pain and nausea for 1d4 hours, morale 5.
5. Skeletal knights, 1d4. HD 1†, AC leather and shield, spear 1d6 or sword 1d8, morale 7.
6. Shadow beasts, 1d3. HD 3, AC unarmored, lifedrain 1d6, immune to normal weapons, eat lights, morale 12.

Kingsgrave: Level 0

 

Kingsgrave

a megadungeon adventure

credit to Luke Gearing for monsters and treasures

The Pillars of the OSR, Part II: Dungeons

In my last post, I started a project of breaking down what I see as the "pillars," the fundamental gameplay modes, of your typical OSR game, like how 5e claims its three pillars are exploration, socialization, and combat while only providing mechanical support for the last one. My goal is to identify:

• What are or should be the most common pillars of OSR?
• What core activities is each pillar founded on?
• What factors, in the fiction and at the table, usually do or should play into how these activities are resolved?

By breaking all this down, I hope to develop a clearer understanding of what a good OSR game should model through its mechanics and how different activities should function in the rules.

Last time, I talked about the first of my five pillars (or six, I'll get to that): journeys, a.k.a. overland travel, wilderness exploration, whatever. Today I'm talking about the next pillar:

Dungeons

Obviously.

I think 5e makes a big mistake in folding journey play and dungeon play under the same umbrella of "exploration." They're completely different. Where journey play is heavily abstracted, with days of travel often glossed over in a minute or two of play time, dungeon play is extremely concrete. With rare exception, every room is described in detail, every object in it is accounted for, and that level of detail is often critical to how the players will engage with the dungeon environment. Time can be somewhat abstracted--I've never been a fan of tracking turns by real time--but when minutes are glossed over, it's generally still pretty clear where exactly every character is and what they're doing during those minutes. All of this, I think, makes for huge differences in how activities should be resolved.

So what are we doing in here? I suspect this list will be very unsurprising.

Navigation and Mapping

When I broke down journey play, the first core activity I identified was hiking and riding, the most basic process of traversing the environment. In dungeon play, I don't think that same activity presents a meaningful challenge in the same way. A miles-long cross-country trek with a heavy pack is a difficult, dramatic process, something that'll grind you down and deplete your resources; the same can't be said of walking down a hallway. I know some games go hard on tracking exact movement speeds per dungeon turn, but I've never found that added anything to my games; I'm a lot more comfortable just estimating when the characters have been exploring for about ten minutes, however many rooms and corridors they get through in that time. So, for me, the basic process of moving through a dungeon, assuming no specific obstacles, doesn't really need an established procedure. Your taste, as always, might vary.

However, navigating a dungeon and remembering the way out is far more complicated. Every group needs a mapper. Here, we start to see the massive difference in how resolution can work between journey and dungeon play: because dungeons are described in such concrete detail, with the players aware of every room, exit, and passage, they can easily be expected to navigate using their own player situational awareness. They have all the same information as their characters; there's no need for character competence to matter here. Of course, that's assuming the characters have the equipment to make maps and are doing so. I generally assume whichever player is drawing the map, their character is doing the same, and I communicate that expectation to my players from the start.

Supply Management

This is one dungeons have in common with journeys, though usually the resources that matter are different. I rarely run the kind of game where the party will be trapped within a dungeon for days or weeks at a time, so food and water usually aren't as much of an issue. The big one that matters is light--running out of torches or lantern oil is one of the main time pressure risks.

Regardless, like with supply management in journeys, this is mainly a function of player foresight. The limiting factor within the fiction will be how much equipment the party can afford and how much they can physically carry into the dungeon (while hopefully leaving room in their packs for treasure). Like in journey play, scavenging might be able to make up for some planning mistakes, but here, I think this is more likely to implicate player creativity than character knowledge or skill--again, because the players have much more concrete information about what's around them, they're better positioned to come up with clever ideas. Character knowledge might help sometimes, though ("hey, I know that fungus--if you pour water on it, it glows like a torch!").

Terrain Obstacles

Bottomless chasms, crumbled passages, things that make traversal a challenge where it wouldn't be otherwise. I see equipment as probably the main factor in most of these cases--did you bring rope to scale the wall? Shovels to dig out the rubble? Lacking the right tools, again, we go to player creativity: how can you improvise a solution from what's available? Here, though, I see character skill becoming more relevant again. If you don't have the right gear to safely scale that wall, maybe the thief can free solo it.

Doors

This is really just a type of terrain obstacle, but it's so common and gets so much procedural attention in so many games that I think it deserves some special analysis. Here's another one where I see equipment being the number one question: if it's locked, do you have picks? If it's barred or stuck, do you have a crowbar to pry it open or an axe or a pick to break it down? Player creativity matters too, for the same reasons as above. When it comes to locks in particular, character skill can become relevant again, but otherwise, I usually don't see much specialized character training being relevant in getting through a door.

Mechanisms, Locks, and Traps

Now this one's interesting. You start with the most basic: a lock, as above. How is this solved? Usually you need lockpicks, of course, so that's equipment, and unless the game establishes that all adventurers can pick locks, you also need character skill. Can player skill come into it? In most games, I don't think so, because locks are usually one of the places where dungeon play gets more abstract again. I barely know anything about how locks work in real life, I don't have the energy to describe a locking mechanism in detail in a game. But what if that's not the case? What if the ref actually gives the players detailed information about how the mechanism works, all its moving parts, everything they can manipulate? Then it becomes about player problem-solving again--the lock becomes basically a puzzle. You can apply this to all kinds of mechanisms, traps, whatever.

But go back to that lock: all that assumes the lock is of a kind that's known and understood by people in the game world. The way a conventional, mechanical lock works isn't actually that complicated, it's just a question of having taken the time to practice fucking with them. But in some settings, you have more esoteric tech--what about an electronic lock? How many people in your milieu even understand the principles of how that works? If that's the kind of tech you're working with, I think it becomes less about character skill and more about character knowledge (see my previous post for discussion about the key difference between those). To put it one way, a thief can pick a mechanical lock, but in my mind, to deal with an electronic lock, you probably need a wizard, someone who's studied the lost technology of the ancients. So that creates an important difference between what I'm gonna call conventional mechanisms, which bring in character skill, and esoteric mechanisms, which bring in character knowledge. Both can implicate player problem-solving instead, if they're given sufficient detail for the players to engage with themselves, but I see this as less common in either case.

Where player creativity really comes into play is especially with traps. Mechanisms that are like puzzles or barriers usually require engaging with them in anticipated ways--slide the tiles into place to unlock the door, etc.--but traps are there to be bypassed by whatever dirty tricks the players can come up with. Equipment will often be highly relevant for these innovations.

Interpreting Records

This is a pretty niche thing, but I think it deserves consideration. You crack open a dusty tomb and find an ancient inscription in a dead tongue--what does it say? Is it warning of a terrible curse ready to strike down robbers? You probably want someone in the party with the character knowledge to figure it out, in case it's important. This also applies to more directly magical writings, spell scrolls and stuff.

Stealth and Pursuit

Probably more often important here than in journey play, and for once in this comparison, similar in how it plays out. Player creativity can get a foot in the door, if the environment doesn't present an obvious way of hiding or deterring pursuit, but once that's established, character skill usually becomes the main issue. Equipment is relevant mainly in the negative, in that the more shit you're carrying around, the slower and more conspicuous you're likely to be--although certain tools might be helpful.

The Factors

So, putting all this together, we find that what matters consistently in dungeon play is:

• Player situational awareness. Skill at maintaining a mental map of the dungeon environment, tracking where things are and what's useful to them.
• Player problem-solving. Interacting with presented obstacles on the obstacles' terms, like when solving a puzzle in the way the puzzle is designed to be solved.
• Player creativity. Solving problems in unexpected ways--looking at the environment and what's available to use and coming up with innovative ways to apply those tools.
• Player foresight. Knowing what tools to bring based on provided information about the obstacles to be expected.
• Equipment. What tools and supplies the characters have available to them thanks to their players' foresight.
• Character skill. Important for those activities that are more abstracted than most dungeon play--picking locks, disabling traps, sneaking, and the like.
• Character knowledge. Probably the least often important in this breakdown--useful if the milieu includes esoteric tech that requires more knowledge than skill to interact with, important for translating old texts, and maybe a component in some supply management challenges.

Notably absent this time is character endurance. I see dungeon play, outside of combat, as much less physically draining on PCs most of the time; there will be exceptions, of course, but again, in a long journey, you're expending a ton of effort from a limited pool just to haul your ass to your destination, while that doesn't tend to be nearly as much the case in dungeon play. The main endurance drain in dungeons tends to be combat, but I see the game shifting into a whole different mode when a fight starts, just one that then has significant implications for dungeon play once the focus shifts back.

Still, we can see that a system that handles dungeon play well should model the characters' relevant skills (picking locks and fucking with conventional technology, sneaking, traversing difficult terrain with minimal tools) and knowledge (ancient languages, esoteric tech, possibly edible or otherwise useful dungeon life).

Next time, I want to talk about social play.

The Pillars of the OSR, Part I: Journeys

 why am I doing this now I just completely rewrote my rules Goddammit fuck

D&D 5e talks a lot about its "three pillars" of exploration, socialization, and combat. A big part of the problem with 5e is that it only provides real mechanical support for one of those supposedly foundational gameplay modes, combat. The exploration and socialization are pretty much left to the DM to figure shit out.

I think 5e is a pretty shit game. But I've been thinking lately about the value of defining similar "pillars" when designing other RPGs. I think it's good, when making a game, to think about what kinds of things you want the players and PCs to be doing regularly and design around those activities. That probably sounds obvious, but a lot of games don't do this. The big problem with "core mechanic" systems in my experience, where everything is resolved with the same dice mechanic, is that they often start by thinking about their core mechanic in abstract, as dice and numbers without fictional context, and then try to bend it to apply to all sorts of different fictional situations. At the same time, I think a lot of OSR does the opposite. OSR tends to be very anti-core mechanic, we like having unique procedures for every activity that reflect how we want that specific activity to work. But sometimes, at least for me, it can feel like some of those procedures easily could work on a more consistent set of mechanics, but don't, largely out of respect for tradition (or just wanting to roll all the dice). I don't think that's always a good thing--I think having consistency in mechanics is useful, it helps make the game intuitive and rules easier to remember--just as long as the pursuit of mechanical consistency doesn't compromise the important distinctions between fictional activities.

So what are the core activities, the "pillars," of OSR? I think they're pretty consistent. I see the game usually breaking down into five main modes, which I'm going to call journeys, dungeons, socialization, combat, and magic. You could have downtime in place of magic; I'll talk about why I say this when I get there. Further, I think each pillar is usually supported by a pretty consistent set of core activities, stuff adventurers will end up doing regularly in the vast majority of games. I think by breaking these down, and by considering what factors--in the fiction and at the table--usually do or should play into how they turn out, we can make our procedures better.

It's also an important OSR principle that a game shouldn't substitute character competence for things that can be simulated well by player competence. We all hate the idea of players magicking their way through a negotiation with an NPC by rolling diplomacy when talking is perfectly practical; conversely, we're generally more okay with characters' fighting skills mattering in combat, because most of us aren't about to break out the boffer weapons whenever initiative happens. And even if we were, I personally like the idea of players being able to play character who are much better (or worse) martial artists than they are in real life. OSR should require players to be good at some things to do well, like memory and lateral thinking, but many things, I think, can and should be left to character competence--otherwise we'd LARP. I think one benefit of breaking down the core activities of the game this way, and what factors they should rely on, is that it can help us hone in on what properties of a player should matter to the game versus what properties of a character, and thus avoid having mechanics hanging awkwardly off our characters that either don't really do anything or require us to invent extraneous procedures to justify their presence.

Journeys

You might call this overland travel, wilderness exploration, or whatever. I like to think of it in terms of journeys because the main thing I want it to evoke is the long treks of Tolkien's fellowship. They were journeying toward a known goal, not exploring an unknown place, but it's all similar enough for our purposes.

Journey play is relatively abstracted. You can often cover one or more days of travel in a couple minutes of real time. Some games go so far as to basically ignore journeys--you say the party travels for X days and then they arrive where they want to be. I like journeys to be important. I usually see them as what adventurers spend most of their time doing, even if little of it is played out. Getting to the dungeon is usually just as big a part of the adventure as the dungeon itself--after all, if the dungeon were easy to reach, someone else probably would've gotten there first. If a game doesn't have good journey procedures, I think it's weaker for it.

The core activities I see as part of journeys are:

Hiking and Riding

The heart of it, move your ass from point A to point B. Usually pretty simple, but if you've ever backpacked anywhere, you know it's not easy. Fantasy heroes battling exhaustion during a harrowing trek is something I love to see, and I find it exciting to face in play. Things I think usually do or should matter to this include character endurance (asking a player to do jumping jacks every time their character has to hike somewhere feels awkward, and I don't think a player's own physical fitness should matter to the game anyway) and equipment (how much are you carrying? If you're scrambling across mountains, do you have suitable climbing gear? Do you need snowshoes? Machetes for hacking through a jungle? What about your mounts and vehicles, are they going to be an issue?).

Navigation

To move your ass to point B, you have to know where point B is. If you have a clear road to follow, I don't see any need to make this a challenge. Likewise f you know the area well, which, given the abstracted nature of journey play--we don't usually describe anything but the most important landmarks at the table, if that--I think is better left to character knowledge than player knowledge. Failing both, you're left to rely dangerously on your navigational skills (again, more of a character than a player thing, I think, for the same reasons as area knowledge) and your equipment (maps, compasses, and the like).

Supply Management

Do you have enough food to make it from point A to point B? Enough firewood if you need it? Portable shelter? This is easily resolved through player planning, since the players should be well aware of what their characters have with them, and whether they thought to bring the equipment they'd need. Mistakes can be corrected through hunting and foraging, which rely on character skill (how would you simulate that situation for the player to use their own competence?) and again equipment (bows, slings, and snares for hunting, fishing gear, etc.). Knowledge could also be a factor--do you know what plants are good to eat around here? Depending on how much detail the local flora gets, that could be player knowledge (if you're willing to describe specific plants and fungi to a player, they can learn what's safe and what isn't) or character knowledge (if you leave things more vague, the player can't make the call for themselves).

Dangerous Terrain and Weather

This is when the landscape between point A and point B present a more concrete, active danger rather than just grinding you down through attrition. Deep chasms, crumbling cliffside paths, flash floods, blizzards. These are probably the moments when journey play zooms in to a less abstract perspective, maybe involving more concrete scene details for players to respond to--but I think in general, they should still be fairly abstracted, or else you're better off approaching them as a different play mode entirely. When a blizzard blows in, you probably ask "how are you gonna get through/survive the blizzard?" not "which exact cave are you taking shelter in?"

Depending on how foreseeable the hazards were, player planning might be relevant again. If the problem is a surprise, it's probably better left to character knowledge and skill--again, because of how abstract these scenes will probably be, it's harder for players to bring in what they know about actual wilderness survival, and even if a player knows how to build an igloo to hide from a snowstorm, their character might not. In either case, equipment matters again--you'll fare a lot better if you brought the stuff you need to deal with the situation.

Stealth and Pursuit

The Nazgûl are hunting you from Rivendell; can you evade them? Depends possibly on player creativity (what cunning ruses can you come up with to hide from, delay, or mislead your pursuers?), possibly character endurance (can you outlast them in a death march?), character skill (how good are you at covering ground unseen?), and maybe equipment (are your mounts faster than theirs? Do you have weapons or traps to deter pursuit?).

What Matters?

So, putting all this together, what factors of the player and of the character have we identified that matter consistently in journey play?

• Player foresight. The ability to predict what you'll face on your journey and prepare accordingly. This is definitely better determined by the players than the characters--they can easily be given all the information they need about the area and the obstacles that await them to make informed decisions about what to bring. The alternative would be some kind of "foresight roll" to see if the characters thought to bring cold-weather bedrolls, which is just unnecessary.
• Equipment. Your supplies and tools are gonna be relevant for pretty much every part of journey play. This, I predict, will be a running theme throughout much of this analysis.
• Character endurance. The heroes' ability to withstand the rigors of the journey will be a big limiting factor, potentially the main source of time/resource pressure. As discussed, this should definitely be a function of the characters more than the players.
• Character knowledge. Of the land they're traveling through, its dangers, its resources. Some functions of this seem like they could be served by player knowledge, which in theory I think is better, but in practice, at least for me, journey play is usually gonna be so abstract that players won't have much opportunity to apply their own knowledge concretely. Your taste might vary.
• Character skill. At navigating, hunting, dealing with various terrain and weather hazards, stealthy travel. Again, tasks that will be hard for players to apply their actual skills to, either because they're too abstracted, or because they just don't simulate well at the table.
• Player creativity. Generally hard to apply with situations being so abstracted, but might be important sometimes. This will definitely be much more important in other modes of play.

A thing I should probably talk about at this point is the important distinction I see between knowledge and skill. Knowledge is binary, you have it or you don't. If it's established in the fiction that your character has studied wolf ecology for years and knows everything there is to know about them, and then a situation comes up where you need to know how wolves hunt, it's bullshit to have to roll for that--there's nothing you can fuck up in that situation. Skill, meanwhile, is what counts when you can do something wrong. You can know, in theory, how a sword is used and still be a shitty swordsman, and you can be a great swordsman but get unlucky and fumble a strike. Wolf ecology is knowledge, swordsmanship is a skill. Taming a wild wolf would probably be a skill, and you might be able to glean something about a fighter from watching her technique if you're knowledgeable about swordplay.

Anyway, from all this, it looks to me like a game that handles journey play well should probably have some way of representing a character's endurance, applicable knowledge, and relevant skills. I think that's useful to know.

I wasn't sure how long this whole thing would be; it ended up being pretty long. I'll break it down by the pillars I've identified and go through them in subsequent posts.

Orcs

The beings known as elementals have long perplexed scholars. What drives soulless matter to rise in such imitation of life? Particularly baffling are those elementals that seem to defy the categories of matter discerned by the great sages. A being all of earth or fire may be strange to behold, but its nature is at least clear--but what of a creature of ice, or lightning, or salt?

For as long as humans have lived, they have fought with each other. Philosophers and poets have dreamed of worlds without war, yet no matter how many such dreams they spin, those worlds scarcely seem any closer. Jesters and jaded minds say that as earth and water are basic building blocks of matter, so is war a basic building block of humanity. If you need proof, they say, just look at an orc.

Sometimes, when a great battle has ended, the hatred, rage, and pain of the fallen does not pass from the world. From blood-soaked mud, mangled flesh, sundered arms and armor, it crafts new bodies. They have no eyes--they need none but their helmet-slits. They have no tongues--no words are left to them, only howls of hate for all that is not an orc. Their wrists end in blades, barbs, and bludgeons--they no longer have any other use for hands.

They know neither pain nor fear. They do not tire. Though they hunger, they never starve. The warband marches, unceasing, ever in search of the enemy--and to an orc, everything that isn't an orc is the enemy. Bloodthirsty army or defenseless village, it matters not as long as there is killing to do. Their bodies, though awful to behold, are ideal for the task, stronger than all but the mightiest warriors. With every "victory," they grow stronger, carnage and metal rising to replenish the ranks. Unchecked, the warband becomes a horde, villages becoming cities and empires.

The most terrifying thing about them, though, is that they can be used. Soldiers follow orders. With the proper magics, or sometimes just the charisma and bloodthirst of a sufficiently cruel warlord, they transform from an untamed force of destruction into a weapon of horrifying power. They become capable of scouting, retreat, ambush, and siege. Their hatred will not be checked, though, carrying out all orders in the most brutal way possible, sparing none unless commanded to take prisoners by name. A warlord who tries too hard to bring them to heel may suddenly find themselves the target of their own "loyal" troops.

They are best fought with a small, elite force. Attrition is ever on their side--the horde always hungers.