If Dungeons & Dragons, Choose Your Own Adventure books, and Tolkien were my early fantasy genre influences, my science fiction side was tempered in those early years by Star Wars and Robotech. And while Star Wars finally got a good ship to ship miniatures combat game thanks to Fantasy Flight Games, I relied on FASA’s Battletech to scratch my mecha combat itch. But I knew it wasn’t Robotech, and Robotech was what I wanted. After decades of waiting, Palladium Books is working with Ninja Division to bring me… well, us, I suppose, Robotech RPG Tactics. Continue reading
Wizards of the Coast has teamed up with my favorite folks over at DriveThruRPG.com and RPGNow.com to make a great deal of “old school” Dungeons and Dragons products available in PDF form. And I should point out that although I’m excited about the old school D&D releases, the PDF format books cover the range from Basic/Expert all the way up to 4th Edition material. So go find your favorites, even you weirdo’s who have this strange attachment to Second Edition D&D.
Behold! DnDClassics.com! (And your DriveThruRPG/RPGNow login and account are linked to this sister site already.)
I’ve been exceedingly remiss in tending my blog of late, and even worse about keeping up to date with some really great Kickstarter projects. Now that I’m caught up on some of the work that pays the bills, I can take a moment to point you towards two Kickstarters that caught my eye. One, Maelorum, gives me flashbacks to my youth, and the other, The Littlest Shoggoth, reminds me that I want the next generation of kids to grow up with a whole new set of “children’s stories.” Both are worthy of your attention. Continue reading
So it’s been nearly a month since I told you how you should spend your money. Well, other than buying my stuff, anyhow. Here’s a diverse selection of interesting and noteworthy projects in the works. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s also Sangria Friday.
I was talking to someone after my appearance at the York Emporium about some of the “lost treasures” of the early days of D&D. Several artists have set out to recreate some of the artwork from those days (apparently, there was a “purge” conducted at certain corporate offices when space was at a premium). Jeff Dee is tackling the old Rogue’s Gallery and those images tweak my sense of nostalgia just a little. Now’s your chance to get some signed copies of those iconic images.
I’m all for games where my angry physical exertion creates a game effect! Don’t get me wrong, my first love is still the steady trigger pull on a perfectly executed rifle shot in a solid FPS. But there are times when my rage must be given form and motion. Hopefully Clang will make that a reality. Plus, I like Neal Stephenson. And the video made me laugh.
Yup, they hit some stretch goals already so they don’t need your support. But you still might want to get in on this action. I have to say I’m pretty impressed with it, and that has a lot to do with the fact that they aren’t trying to do too much. Instead, it’s giving me the tools to create what I need without shoving me into a box with predefined actions. It’s lean and functional, and I actually like that it’s a part of Google+. (If you think Google+ is stupid, please keep thinking that. I want it to stay as nice as it is…)
I prefer science fiction. There, I’ve said it. I can provide no account of why, at least no more than I can explain my love of lobster. It would appear I’m just wired that way. I read far more science fiction than fantasy and I certainly prefer science fiction to fantasy in the few movies I go to see. I draw the line at television, however, where neither genre ever succeeds in engaging me enough to hold my attention for more than an episode or two.
On the heels of that confession, however, I should continue by saying that when it comes to roleplaying games I settle in most comfortably with fantasy. Dungeons & Dragons has remained my touchstone game since I first started playing RPG’s. When I think of gaming in general, I revert to a fantasy mindset. It might be rooted in the fact that D&D was my introduction to RPG’s and thus I’m a creature of habit. It could just as easily be as inexplicable as my love of science fiction stories.
But my passion for the two genres in equal measure in separate directions would seem to lend itself to mashups of style. It doesn’t. A player in one of my groups is perpetually trying to sell me on bizarre settings. The exchange is a typically quick and brutal: 1) he accosts me with an absurd notion such as dragons in space or cowboys casting spells, 2) I roll my eyes and declare his words an abomination. (Despite the frequency of these exchanges, we remain friends.) I explain that when I was in the tiny, poorly stocked hobby shop in my old home town I saw the Spelljammer boxed set and grew physically ill at the very notion it conveyed. I want to scream with a certainty only my imagination can provide, “Magic is terrestrial!”
Of course, I am a complete and utter hypocrite. Second to D&D, Shadowrun is one of my favorite settings. And even it won me over after a glowing recommendation from someone else. Prior to that, I saw a troll carrying a gun, rolled my eyes and, per usual, declared “abomination.” Now two of my bookshelves actually bow under the weight of Shadowrun material. (In my defense, I will point out that magic remains terrestrial.)
Still, Dragonstar and Spelljammer hold no appeal for me (to my friend’s continued disappointment). And its nothing against the quality of the material. I’ve read it. I’ve genuinely enjoyed it. I just don’t want to adventure there. And, finally, I think I can offer an explanation for this particular personal taste. It goes back to Expedition to the Barrier Peaks. Be warned: there are (30 year old) spoilers ahead.
When I read S3 in preparation for running it, my mind was blown. I was young, relatively new to D&D, and had barely scratched the surface of what was possible. The idea that I could present the characters with something entirely unfamiliar to them, while simultaneously being tropes that are utterly familiar to the players, astounded me. It proved to be an incredible adventure. But the replay value suffered. Once you know you’re on a spaceship, know that you’re collecting keycards, and know you’re toting a laser gun the excitement fades a little. Still, we frequently played it, often as people decided it was time to forcibly retire a character.
More importantly, though, Expedition to the Barrier Peaks offered itself as the exception. Greyhawk wasn’t littered with spaceships (well, not too excessively anyway). I knew I could continue to explore a fantasy setting after that weird, (literally) experimental weekend in the Barrier Peaks. Eventually, the science fiction equipment would lose power and turn into curious metal junk and my character would go back to worrying about lost caverns and whatever the drow where up to hanging out with the giants of the Crystalmist Mountains…
My hypocrisy made landing my recent contribution to D&DI, Dungeon #201 on DTRPG that much more important to me. Nods to Expedition to the Barrier Peaks were important to me, but I wanted the integration of the adventure to function as the exception that the old AD&D module was. I loved the old adventure but I didn’t want to deliberately “corrupt” a fantasy setting with space ships and blasters in my ode to it. Instead, I wanted it to be a bizarre backdrop for the continued machinations of the existing fantasy villains.
If the setting speaks to the players, they can continue to pursue that version of the world. The other Dungeon and Dragon articles of the month all support that idea of integrating and exploring that strange new world. And they present it piecemeal so the DM can approach it from a variety of directions and set hooks that the PCs either bite for or pass up. I recommend giving all of them a read, because whether they fit your setting or not, they are all incredibly well done:
- “Unearthed Arcana: The Truth is Out There” by Randall Walker
- “Bazaar of the Bizarre: Thingamajigs of the Barrier Peaks” by Dave Chalker
- “The Ecology of the Vegepygmy” by Teos Abadia (You may or may not understand initially why this is part of the recommended reading…)
- And even if you think AD&D is for beardy old-timers who are “too bound by nostalgia to appreciate 4th Edition,” if you see battered copy of Expedition to the Barrier Peaks at your local game shop or used bookstore, you owe it to yourself to pick it up…
For me, the gradual approach is also the best approach. I like exploration in my fantasy games, but I like charting my own course. If I don’t want to begin a five year mission to explore strange new worlds, I don’t have to. I can take the fight to the illithids in the Underdark (where they belong) but, after a few too many rounds in the tavern, maybe I’ll mention how I’m pretty sure I fought their ilk on the moon. Patrons will laugh nervously and excuse themselves. But who knows? Maybe I’ll start to wonder what else is out there…
In the earliest days of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, my gaming group relied on the descriptions of the DM and the players to track positions in combat. During intense moments, a character sheet would be flipped over and rough sketches would outline positions (and, over time, provide a record of battles gone by). You knew where you were, and where your allies were, or you paid the price for it. If you snoozed through the fighter and the ranger charging into hand to hand combat and decided to throw a fireball at the orc patrol, you’d better be sure you killed the fighter and ranger as well because there was going to be hell to pay if they lived… Put another way, there were no “take-backs.” You were responsible for knowing what was going on.
Movement and range was expressed in inches, a holdover from the game’s roots as a tabletop wargame, but these became 10’s of feet or yards, depending on whether the party was indoors or outside. As I recall, we eventually did away with the yards, treating everything as feet. After all, nothing really changed mechanically because you were supposed to keep spell effects in feet whether you were inside or out. I’m getting mad just thinking about the math so, rest assured, I’m glad we were all about feet.
At some point, though, we opted for more complexity in combat. While intended to do away with the occasional dispute over who was standing where, it also ushered in a new layer of tactical thinking in combat. (And my early D&D group was extremely tactically minded.) I believe the solution came in the form of a grid drawn on a wooden board with a sheet of Plexiglas or clear plastic placed over it for using colored markers on. This, combined with a handful of lead figures and a box of wooden “barrels” became the foundation of our combats.
The wooden barrels were available, cheaply, from a local craft store and were sized perfectly to fit in the gridlines of our battle board. They represented everything from kobolds to hell hounds. A few of them were stained a different color to represent leaders, NPCs, and other exceptional troops. Despite the proxy-like nature of the barrels, I don’t recall ever being unable to imagine my foes’ appearances in my head. I never felt like I was fighting barrels and when I pointed to one I’d say, “I’m attacking this gnoll” without any sort of disconnect occurring. As a tool, they worked exceedingly well.
Some foes, however, got the royal treatment. The worst villains and most dangerous foes often got a special figure. It was an important moment when a particular miniature was placed on the battle board because it signified a turning point or even the climax of an adventure. One could argue that it was meta-gaming to see a special figure and know that the ensuing fight would likely call for the majority of your resources. But I would add that every fight was potentially life-threatening and every single one received the party’s full effort. Casualties were high enough before the special figures came out.
By the time later editions made tactical movement part of the rules, I had unfortunately moved away from my original group. Other than during all-too-infrequent visits, I never got to see later iterations of the rules put into play there. But, in my own experience, the mechanics played out in a very similar fashion to what we had been doing all along. While there were no attacks of opportunity, we ruled that disengaging from melee allowed your foe a “free hack” against you. If an ally was adjacent to you, he could cover your retreat, preventing the parting shot, if you spent your full round moving away from your opponent.
There’s a part of me that considers tactical movement a fundamental aspect of the game, but as one that developed through house rules. The battle board was a tool to play a game, not the game itself. It was a means to continuously and collectively agree on positions as the rounds progressed but the action still took place in my imagination. If someone removed the board from the table, I could still carry on with combat as if nothing had changed and, to a point, could picture the battle even clearer in my mind (even if what I imagined wasn’t precisely the same as the players around me).
I recently had the opportunity to return home and play some D&D with my old group. They’re playing Pathfinder these days and tactical movement is as important as ever. The battle board has been taken to a new level with a ring of numbers surrounding the grid for tracking initiatives and spell durations. There’s a box on hand filled with the D&D figures put out by WotC over the years. But when there aren’t enough of a particular creature in the box (or when there’s just too much digging going on to find the right monster) out come the barrels. I never realized how much I missed them.
After my frenzied, youthful foray into my D&D Boxed sets it was time to get serious. Through the proverbial “friend of a friend,” I garnered an invitation to a D&D group. Now obviously I’d been playing with other people before this point, but they were friends. I knew we already had common interests and we’d been hanging out long before D&D came along.
But now I was headed into a situation where the game was the unifying force. Other than that, I’d be sitting in a roomful of strangers. More nerve-wracking still was the fact that I was the youngest by several years. These were high school kids! And they played Advanced Dungeons & Dragons! I got dropped off with my new Players Handbook and Dungeon Masters Guide along with a fresh set of dice (the fancy crystal kind with the razor-sharp edges). I wanted to make a good impression after all.
It was a “tossed in the deep end” experience. I was given the rundown on how they rolled characters and told once I was done I’d be inserted into the story. Play proceeded without me while I frantically scribbled numbers and filled my spellbook. When I was done, my character sheet was passed the length of the table to the DM (who had an official AD&D screen, rather than a barrier of early module covers paper-clipped together). He nodded and complimented the character sheet I was using. (I think it was an early Armory sheet, a descendent of countless photocopies and dittos, its lineage lost to time.)
After meeting the party in the wilderness with a minimum of exposition, we were shortly fighting for our lives against a swarm of humanoids. (I’ll say “goblins” and pretend my memory is what it used to be.) The party was coordinating their attacks, supporting one another, and I felt like the stereotypical private, fresh off the helo with the world exploding around him. It was a big group, at least seven players at the time, and it was easy to get lost in the noise.
I fired off a magic missile but it was met with groans of disappointment when I targeted a “fresh” goblin rather than one that was hovering near 0 hit points, meaning there would be one more attack against us on their round. One more attack against me, really. And it was only a miracle of poor damage rolls that I kept my feet. My 3 starting hit points (yes, you read that right) absorbed the two 1-point hits. The well-drilled party dispatched the surviving goblins in the following round.
With the fury of battle over, the cleric dispensed a couple of cure light wounds to the injured, starting with the fighters. One extra healing spell was held in reserve for a potential future encounter. It was deemed a waste to spend 1d8 points of healing on a magic-user who only needed 2 hit points to return to full. I was too embarrassed by my performance in combat to point out that those 2 points would be a 200% increase on my current state…
We tracked the goblins to a camp and waited for them to bed down before attacking in the hopes of making our attack easier. Unfortunately the thief’s lackluster move silently roll must have tipped them off because, when the party advanced, the goblins leapt from their bedrolls and attacked. Our ambush had been ambushed and the tide quickly turned against us. The cleric and fighters were injured early in the fight and the thief seemed to finally be succeeding at his hide in shadows rolls in an effort to be the sole survivor.
After several ineffective fusillades of darts, I was crouched behind a tree with the wounded cleric. One of the fighters went down, meaning the other would quickly be mobbed. Wearing heavy armor, there was no chance the cleric could cover the distance to the downed character and administer a cure light wounds before being cut down. I eyed my 1 remaining hit point. I assessed my 10 armor class. I had a pretty good idea of how this would end, but at least I had double the cleric’s movement rate.
I ran forward for the fallen fighter and tried to drag him back towards the cleric. What I didn’t take into account was my disappointingly average strength. His dead weight and gear meant I only made it halfway back with the bleeding warrior in tow. My heroism was rewarded with a half-dozen goblin spears in my back. But now both bodies were close enough to the cleric, both near death. The cleric sprinted forward and cast his final healing spell into the fighter. It was enough to turn the tide, although barely. I think one of our other fighters still ended up dying (along with me).
Two encounters in and I’d already managed to die. This would likely affect my first impression. I worried I might not even be asked back. But I ended up celebrated as a hero as I had managed to save (with the cleric’s help) the highest level character in the party. And it was only a first level magic-user who was lost, anyway… apparently, that was a job well done! As an added bonus, my corpse was propped up at the campsite to lure other unsuspecting goblins while the party concealed themselves nearby. Not exactly a hero’s send off.
I debated another class but the party encouraged me to try a magic-user again. After all, they didn’t have one (due to the high mortality rate) but knew that one would pay off down the road at higher levels. This time when the random wizard showed up, the party schemed a little prior to the next fight and incorporated the new character into their tactics. I did a lot of dart throwing from cover and nursed my magic missile until I spied a foe on the brink of death before casting. In dungeons, my burning hands actually proved decisive at times. However, once I was “tapped” I was under strict orders to keep back in the hopes that I would survive to see level 3. Or even level 5!
Despite the initial movements towards acceptance, it was still a tense experience for a pre-teen eager for the approval of peers. In a very serious tone at the end of the session, the DM pulled me aside and said I really shouldn’t have my Dungeon Masters Guide with me at the table if I was a player. It wasn’t a huge deal, he said, just a house rule, but something to keep in mind for next week.
Next week… “So you want me back?” Of course, he said, you didn’t do anything wrong, you knew the rules just not the party’s tactics, but you’ll learn. And I did. And whenever I sit down at a new table, I still do.
I think I got my D&D Basic Set for my ninth birthday. Truthfully, I don’t think my parents even fully understood what they were buying me, only that I had learned to play a game from a friend at school and I was really excited about it. Upon opening the box, I was determined to play immediately and while my mother looked through the box for a game board and my father tried digesting the rulebook, I was already telling them how orcs had been pillaging the countryside and they were the heroes sent to deal with the raiders in their cavernous lair.
I can’t say I remember much of the game, really. But I’m certain I hardly looked at the rulebook and barely had a grasp of the mechanics. And I had a great time! (Meanwhile, my parents fell victim to the kobolds’ pit trip, just like countless “young” adventurers that delved there, before and since.) I finally had a way to tell all of the stories that sprung into my head after I put down A Wrinkle in Time or The Hobbit and turned off the light. And not only that, I could bring people with me into those stories. The Basic Set was, to me, the Never-Ending Gobstopper of toys!
Needless to say, the few written records that remain of those early adventures are cringe-worthy. But the same can be said for any writer’s work in the beginning. (I see countless parallels between writing and D&D but those are topics for another article.) Dragons made frequent, carnage-inflicting visits upon my friends but treasure hordes showered the heroes with gold and +8 swords. Yes, +8 swords. Because if it’s cool to find a +1 sword and way cooler to find a +2 sword… well, imagine how cool it is to find one that’s +8. (How cool is it? Ice cold!)
There was absolutely no balance there. There didn’t need to be. We were all telling our stories. A dragon overpowers the party and the one survivor lives on to tell the tale and seek revenge; the fallen are remembered even as the former players of those characters eagerly advance their replacements after punishing the dragon and forcing its hobgoblin minions to carry their newly won treasure back to town. In a capricious moment the king is beheaded by a +8 sword and a character takes the throne before a horrified audience of courtesans (and fellow players!) declaring the throne belongs to whoever can take it. A disintegrate spell (by now we had the Expert Boxed Set) brings a sudden and unfortunate end to his reign. Things were absurd. They were out of control. But we never noticed, never cared. We were too busy having fun.
Looking back fondly upon old editions of Dungeons & Dragons is frowned upon in some circles. For others it the only way to practice orthodox D&D. I’ve never owned a pair of rose-colored glasses so I’m not sure what all the fuss is about really. I remember very little from those early rulebooks. I would have to look before I could tell you what die to roll for a fighter’s hit points and I’ve long since forgotten the THACO charts I once had memorized.
But I can tell you where that pit trap is in the Caves of Chaos. I can tell you that the building contractor hired by Roghan the Fearless and Zelligar the Unknown probably made a lot of gold on change orders. I know that the king is never safe from a chaotic PC and that a dragon will show up whenever it wants.
I’ve never fallen in love with a particular set of rules. I fell in love with a game. If rose-colored glasses work anything like the x-ray specs sold in the backs of old comics, I could look inside my old boxed set and see what it really came with: six dice, a white crayon, and a 64-page permission slip that said we could do whatever we wanted.