#tabletop thoughts

I have a certain fascination with the ideology underpinning demonic cults in fantasy worlds. I won’t claim there’s any terribly profound reason - I don’t think imagining a cult of Juiblex really says something meaningful about the darkness in our souls or the underpinning psychology of real-life cults or anything like that. But I find it a very fun exercise, in the pure sense of fantasy imagination, to consider what circumstances, ideas, or experiences would drive someone to embrace values usually seen as perfectly evil.

It’s also just good game design. To illustrate why, I’m reminded of a campaign I played in sometime ago, running Out of the Abyss. We entered a city, and we were warned of The Pudding King - a gnomish acolyte of Juiblex who was threatening the city. I was playing a manipulative, cunning, and incredibly physically fragile (I had specifically taken lower Con than was usually allowed) Warlock. For several sessions after learning about our upcoming enemy, I worked to learn more about the man who became The Pudding King - his motives, his past, and his possible weaknesses. I was excited to take advantage of planning and manipulation to get the better of the enemy, where sheer force might put me in danger. But the Pudding King had no past. 

Now I don’t blame the GM for this really, it was their first campaign, and they simply ran it according to the book. And the book gave absolutely no reason behind The King’s turn to worship of ooze. He is simply insane (even listed as a feature in his statblock) and so he worships demons. My problem here is not that a demon worshipper needs complex, sympathetic, richly-realised motivations - it could be as simple as wanting power, or revenge, or wealth. But if you don’t give them something, then you totally cut off the potential for player interaction. If a cultist wants bloodshed, that informs what distractions, persuasive tactics or threats will or will not work against them. If a cultist wants nothing, then the cultist can only be overcome with bloodshed. To put it simply - this is boring.

Reading Against the Cult of the Reptile God, I was struck with how deep back this goes into D&D’s history. In this adventure, the Reptile God (a Spirit Naga named Explictica Defilus, which to be fair does rule as a name) is charming villagers into joining her cult. Through the device of supernatural charm, no other motive is necessary. This serves to keep the situation nice and tidy, more Invasion of the Body Snatchers than The Wicker Man - there are Good Villagers, and Evil Cultists. The former must be protected, and the latter must be defeated. This keeps the focus of the scenario straightforward, and avoids getting bogged down in the history of Orlane, the faith of Merikka, or any of the other things I’d probably spend far too many sessions on.

Still, I found throughout the whole module the only character who caught my attention in any real way was the one willing cultist: Derek Desleigh. He’s not the deepest character; he is evil, he is scarred, and he very much enjoys killing people. Despite this the very fact that he has chosen to work with the cultists makes him fascinating to me. His motive seems to just be hoarding embezzled funds from the town while he can, and getting out when the going gets tough. But it raises so many interesting possibilities - is he disgusted by Explictica? Respectful? Dismissive? Do any of the other cultists suspect his dubious motives? Could he be persuaded to aid the PCs, if convinced it was the safer bet? Even the sliver of a motive and a background adds so much potential intrigue. Its not about moral nuance - Desleigh is probably the most personally evil character in the village - but it provides texture, and I believe texture is the essence of good scenario design.

hey everyone i made a public twt for writing tabletop rpgs

You know, I like thinking about the implications of TTRPG mechanics (often poorly).

Like: Let’s say your game is resolved with a simple dice roll of 1d10. However, each time a character fails on a roll, they gain a permanent +1 bonus to rolls of that type or theme.

This has interesting implications on the tone and progression of the game:

For one, everyone starts out as equally bumbling incompetents barely capable of even the most basic of tasks.

Based on how the players choose to solve problems, they will slowly become better and give their character shape.

You are rewarded for trying out new paths and failing at them; conversely, you have a disincentive to becoming reliant on a single mode of solving problems.

This really creates two broad archetypes for characters- those who choose to focus on being very good at a single task, and thus need to turn every activity into an application of that task,

and those who choose to become passably good a number of activities, and strive to find the most applicable skill for that task.

Depending on how you set your benchmarks for difficulty, this mechanic can be expanded from its original “bumbling incompetence” up to a fairly high degree. However, it will remain a game where you are more characterized by your failures than by your successes.

Because of the mechanics, you are encouraged to find more and more difficult tasks to further advance your skills.

This could be applied to some kind of weird heroes journey, if desired- you could shift things by making the advancement only on “important” or otherwise paradigmatic rolls rather than on any roll.

In that sort of style of game, the character is rewarded for failing and learning something from it. They are presented with challenges, and if they fail they get a chance to say what they did wrong, and thus improve.

IF they succeed, they are rewarded with progression along the story, with allies or items such that they can wield to pass later tasks, alongside their innate talents.

This means that all paths do lead inevitably towards success, it’s just either internalized or externalized. Either they grow, or they get swag.

[Glass Shell] (1fp) Reaction. Cannot take more than 3 physical damage from a single Attack.

Was an ability belonging to the first boss I ever designed, who had absurd FP economy and had this ability as one of it’s only outlets--

“I want to make a challenging encounter that my players will nevertheless overcome”

and