We should take care when examining this particular characteristic of games, in regard to roleplaying games, because the hobby as a whole has . . . a bit of a reputation.
It’s one of the defining characteristics of RPGs, one of the things that people mention almost immediately when describing the game to an outsider: a role-playing is game is like This Other Thing* but you get to decide what sort of character you play; you choose which actions to take; you direct the course of the game; and if you’re the Game Master, you get to design your own world.
(* This Other Thing, more often than not, is “like a movie/book/story” or “like this game with heavy role-play elements,” but the overall consensus remains the same: RPGs offer more freedom, which we can view as a form of customization.)
Characteristics of Games starts this (relatively short) section by noting:
We have mostly been thinking of players as choosing a game that meets their needs, or even adapting themselves to the needs of the game. Often, however, players adapt a game to their own needs, by customizing that game in some way. (p.226)
The most immediate and obvious example, for those who grew up with this game, is Monopoly, specifically the “Free Parking” rule. It works like this: whenever a player would pay certain fees, fines or taxes to the bank, instead the money goes to the center of the board. The next player to land on the “Free Parking” space is entitled to keep that stack of cash. This “rule” is so ubiquitous that most players don’t even realize it’s not part of the official rules.
As an aside, part of the reason this rule persists is that the game Monopoly is nearly always taught to new players. No one actually reads the rules; and indeed, this is a very common practice among gamers. Think back to when you were a kid, learning how to play chess or checkers, or football and baseball. Were you ever given a copy of the game’s rules and asked to read them? And even after you’d been shown or told how to play, and had played the game many times, did you ever seek out the written rules for yourself? (Granted, at some point, many of us have done exactly that ~ and I suspect that’s why we’re engaged in topics like this).
COG cites Monopoly as an example of “house rules,” one of four distinct forms of game customization. The other three are “built-in customization,” “personal style” and “handicaps.”
Handicaps
Starting from the bottom, we may think of handicaps as a variant rule (like a house rule) but with a particular purpose behind them, such that they’re worthy of being viewed separately. “[T]he purpose of the handicap is to give both players a chance to win,” which in a strictly competitive game, is sometimes necessary where the individual skill of each player is wildly different. In this sense, the goal of this particular house rule is to make the game more evenly matched, by putting the strong player at a disadvantage.
The two best examples of this are golf and go. In golf, a high handicap correlates with a weak (i.e. less skilled) player. The handicap is a modifier to the player’s score for each hole. While there are a variety of systems for calculating a player’s handicap, the basic idea remains the same throughout the game: a less skilled player will take more strokes to get the ball into the hole. If we want to compare two unevenly matched players, we need to modify their scores in an effort to equalize or normalize them.
Go uses a different handicap system. Rather than adjusting the players’ final scores, the weaker player is given a chance to place stones before the stronger player. As with golf, there are different ways to decide an appropriate handicap, but the general concept is to give the less skilled player the advantage by giving them greater control over the board.
Initially, my thinking on handicaps went toward the simple conclusion that RPGs are not competitive, therefore there is no need for a handicap. And yes, it’s true that I view RPGs as a generally cooperative game; but I don’t want to remain mired in that thinking. If we’re being honest, a fair number of role-players approach the game from the perspective that PvP is just fine, actually (although it requires a certain level of maturity and openness about the players’ intention for the game).
Yet even if we adopt this perspective, I struggle to view handicaps as anything more than a joke:
I also recognize that this is my personal bias and experiences clouding my thoughts. See, we typically view RPGs ~ particularly those with a GM, as those without are a distinctly different breed, which we’ll discuss below ~ as investing a tremendous amount of power into the role of the GM. And in a way, that’s what a handicap is about: equalizing an imbalance of power.
Granted, this requires viewing the GM as a player or participant in the game, of an equal role with the players. Yet earlier in this series, I made it clear that the GM is not a player; and while she’s obviously a participant, it’s not exactly appropriate to view her role as being equal to the players. The function the GM fills, and the amount of authority (or power) invested in her role, places her in an entirely different place.
Still . . . I don’t think this means we should reject the attempt to discuss handicaps in RPGs. It we adjust our perspective on the concept, I think we’ll find there’s a lot of handicapping taking place in the community.
I’m speaking of two general approaches to . . . massaging . . . manipulating . . . applying a handicap in an RPG: prior to the scene and during the scene.
In all cases, the GM can adjust the relative power level of a given scene (or encounter, interaction, fight, etc.) up or down, as befits her purpose, by making participants more (or less) powerful; adding (or removing) participants; giving the players an advantage (or disadvantage) in the form of information, allies, tactical positioning, strategic maneuvering, and so on (or, in the obverse, denying these things to the players or giving them to the opposition). This is, by definition, part of the GM’s role for the game: to define a scene and present it to the players. What matters for this discussion is whether the GM does this before the scene or during it.
The latter is the form of handicapping we see in the RPG community at large, though it goes by a different name: fudging. It is the GM adjusting the specifics of a scene or the results of a die roll, while the scene is ongoing, in an effort to correct a perceived flaw, i.e. the imbalance of power resulting in an undesirable outcome. Of course, as discussed previously, this is nearly impossible to do without running afoul of the players’ agency.
The former, by contrast, is not only something that the GM can do, it is something that she should do. It’s expected that the GM will make necessary adjustments to the power of a given scene, so that it fits within the limitations of the game she’s presenting to the players. Of course, in a game where the GM makes up everything, drawing no inspiration from outside sources, it’s debatable whether we could rightly call “encounter design” a form of handicapping; yet most GMs don’t run their games this way. In practice, it’s far more common for the GM to rely upon outside materials, such as campaign books or adventure modules, adapting them to fit with her particular world and her players’ situation. In that context, I think we can make the argument that the GM is applying a handicap principle.
All that said, I find the comparison to be more than a bit unsatisfying. It feels more like a semantic game; simple wordplay that doesn’t offer any insight into the game itself . . . besides being another excuse for GMs to cheat and not feel bad about it.
Personal Style
Almost any reasonably complex game allows players to develop some kind of personal style. In chess a player might be more or less aggressive; in go a player might choose to emphasize territory or power. . . . If a player makes only light use of these kinds of options [i.e. choices within the game] - perhaps attacking aggressively when he sees an opening, but playing a very positional game otherwise - it may not be clear where personal style ends and simply trying to play well begins. With heavy use - say the player always plays a medic no matter what - it starts to look like the kind of built-in customization an RPG might have. (p.227)
This most clearly describes the sort of personalization described above: that a primary selling point for RPGs is the player’s ability to “be themselves.” And chances are good that, if the reader has been playing RPGs for any length of time, you’ve seen this in your fellow players. You’ve probably seen it in the various GMs you’ve played under. Most of us have a tendency to play certain types of characters, to adopt certain playstyles, to favor certain games or worlds, etc. Basically, it’s just another part of being human.
What stands out to me about this characteristic is that, like handicaps, we can see it manifested in certain games, as though it’s a driving force behind their design and creation.
For example, consider the Apocalypse World (AW) game (or, more accurately, the Powered by the Apocalypse (PbtA) game engine). In PbtA games ~ of which there are at least two dozen published, with several more in various states of production or design ~ players declare their actions as Moves. These are predefined, structured gameplay options, and include things like “go aggro” (an aggressive action outside of combat, intended to force your target to do something you want them to do); “read a sitch” (getting a read on a situation, such that if successful, the GM must give you information about what to do next); or “help” (a catchall for attempting to help another person perform some task). There are similar Moves for combat (“battle moves”) and each character archetype gets a small list of Moves to choose from (as part of character creation and advancement).
The takeaway with the PbtA system is that game limits the number of meaningful actions a player can take. I say “meaningful” because, while it’s true that the player can declare any action for their character, that doesn’t necessarily result in a significant modification to the scene unless the player accepts the risk that the action will fail. A player might be engaged in a tense conversation with a reluctant NPC when he says, “I brush past him and leave the room.” The GM might interpret that as “going aggro,” since the phrase “brush past” could be seen as an aggressive act. The GM would then clarify with the player, “Do you mean to Go Aggro on him?” If the player says “no” and amends his actions, he’s effectively saying, “I’m trying to do this thing without the risk of failure.”
Where this system crosses the line from “here’s a set of rules for telling a collective story” to “here’s a way to show off your personal style” is in how it presents character archetypes. Each version of the game has a set number of character types (which should be considered the same as class, profession, race and background, all rolled into one); and each type (known as Playbooks) has a handful of unique Moves. (It’s also generally assumed ~ though it isn’t a rule ~ that, within a given party, no two characters will take the same archetype.) Further, this “personalization through game design” is reflected in the more than two dozen different versions of AW.
Masks is AW for superheroes, particularly teen heroes, in the vein of Teen Titans, Young Avengers and Marvel’s Runaways. Sagas of the Icelanders seeks to recreate the feel of the Norse Poetic Edda. Tremulus is set in a Lovecraftian world where ancient and unfathomable horrors lurk just beneath the surface of reality. Each of these (and many, many more) exist primarily because the core game engine is designed around a simple premise: take character archetypes and themes that are common within the sort of story you’re trying to tell, and turn them into a set of rules that give players the option to personally identify with those characters.
. . . at least, that’s my crazy interpretation. To be completely honest, I’m not sold on it. It’s an interesting way of looking at game design, sure, but if we go back to the examples COG provides ~ emphasizing certain play styles to the exclusion of others, precisely because of a personal preference ~ it becomes clear that RPGs don’t really offer more options than any other game. We could argue, perhaps, that a game like World of Darkness (or anything from White Wolf) offers a ton of options for personalization because there’s a ton of options in terms of archetype, skills, background, “race” (i.e. monster), affiliations, etc. We could argue that . . . but there are two counter-arguments:
First, the examples we see of personal style in games, occur most noticeably in games with clear outcomes. A Starcraft player who focuses on aerial units to the exclusion of ground units ~ to the point where he’s making suboptimal choices during a match ~ is playing a particular style. A D&D player who always plays rangers or has a preference for halfling thieves appears to be playing a particular style; but as RPGs have a variety of player motivations and often don’t have the kind of structured endstate we find with other games, it’s nearly impossible to make the argument that the player’s choice is anything less than optimal. Without a baseline for success, without a clear goal or ending to the game, one player’s choice is as good as any other; which means RPGs are all about personal style . . . which is the same as saying the term is meaningless (in this context).
Second ~ and I think this makes the most sense, to be honest ~ “personal style” as explored above is really not much different from . . .
Built-in Customization
Some games are meant to be modified: informal games such as "playing house" or (fictionally) Calvinball, or more structured games such as Eleusis, Icehouse, Fluxx, or dealer's choice poker. . . . [These] games have built in the opportunity for players to customize their own individual experiences. (p.228-9)
Because I can see these concepts bleeding together, I want to take a moment to make the distinction between them as clear as possible:
- “House rules” (which we’ll discuss below) refers to a game rule that only applies when you’re playing with a particular set of players.
- “Personal style” is when a player adopts a certain way of playing, like making choices along a narrow path of options for the sole purpose of satisfying the player’s aesthetic preferences.
- “Built-in customization,” by contrast, is when the game directly expects the player to engage in making purely personal, aesthetic choices or in making new rules for all players.
The best example I can think of to describe this characteristic is the original Doom online community.
When Doom was released in 1993, the primary means of distribution was a marketing technique called “shareware.” To acquire a copy of the game, all one had to do was log onto a server (usually hosted by a university or a private organization, as the internet then wasn’t as thoroughly connected as we are today), locate the file and download a copy. Alternately, you could get the game by signing up for a magazine subscription or by contacting the publisher directly (who would send you a free copy). As was the case with all shareware software, the initial copy was a limited offering (just the first episode), with the understanding that players who wanted the rest of the game could contact the company and pay for the full version.
Where this is significant, is that the exact same distribution technique was adopted with Doom II, along with the software to modify the game. In other words, the publisher released the game’s code to the community and said, “Have at it!” without the standard expectations of involved with copyright laws. Thus, the modding community was born ~ and continues to this day, as players have learned how to hack into just about any game, no matter what publishers do to prevent it ~ but rather than existing because players “broke into” the game, it exists because the publisher made the game that way on purpose.
Where RPGs are concerned, the question is: Did the game’s designers intend for the players to customize their game?
In some ways, the answer is an obvious “yes, they did.” You see this primarily with setting-neutral or system-agnostic products. The former refers to RPG rules that assume the GM is going to create everything about the setting. West End Games’ Master System and Big Eyes, Small Mouth are two examples of this, where the game’s core books provide the GM and players with the rules they need to run a game, but the GM has to create the setting on her own (or steal one from an established intellectual property). The latter offering is most commonly found in something like an adventure module, where the author focuses on characters, setting and plot, expecting that the GM will select the most appropriate game system.
We might also argue, as many have before, that the absence of clear rules for a given situation is a feature and not a bug. This is one of the core tenets to the OSR (according to one source), summarized in the axiom “rulings, not rules.” We might argue this . . . but I think we can just as easily argue that this is a post hoc response to a problem within the industry; it’s basically, “I meant to do that,” after falling flat on your face.
Which is why, as a community, role-players rely heavily on . . .
House Rules
Of course, we don’t need a formal definition here, having exhausted the concept in the text above. Put simply, role-playing games are among a handful of games ~ and are arguably the only type of game ~ that rely heavily on players applying their own interpretation of the rules, for their own tables, in a way that best suits their own purposes.
Which makes the whole concept of discussing RPGs from a technical or academic perspective so incredibly infuriating.
That said, I think it’s best to think of house rules as applying in an RPG where the players are, for the most part, following the game as written. “If the variants are different enough, the new “homebrew” is essentially a new game built from the parts of the old game.” (p.228) What’s worth examining, then, is the question of when your game goes from having a few house rules to being a homebrew version, to being something entirely new.
The best example I can provide for this is my own game. I run AD&D, primarily, in the sense that I use it as the basis for deciding what rules to keep and which ones to replace. I have the standard classes and races, along with a couple adopted to my world; I use the proficiency system for weapons and armor; and I’m using the standard Vancian magic system, for wizards and bards. From there, however, my game deviates from the source material quite significantly. I borrow from the Tao of D&D for the combat and skill systems. I’m using a different set of rules for clerical magic. And I’ve written my own rules for social interaction and wilderness exploration.
Is this a different role-playing game? Am I still playing AD&D? I honestly don’t know the answers to these questions. On the one hand, as summarized above, it appears that I’m running something that isn’t D&D. Even if we argue that the core of the game is the combat and character systems ~ a fair assessment ~ I’m not using the combat system from AD&D. I’m also using my own systems for things that AD&D doesn’t handle very well. Then again, Tao’s combat system isn’t that far off from the rules of 3rd and 4th Editions (in basic structure and assumptions, that is) . . . so it’s hard to say.
Ultimately, when thinking of house rules for RPGs, the critical element be the ability to recognize when we need a house rule and when we don’t. Most RPGs function just fine, on their own, as written ~ in the sense that they accomplish the thing their designers meant for them to do. Where most RPGs fall down, is when players try to push their boundaries.
Which isn’t all that surprising, really, given that RPGs have always had very abstract boundaries.
Crossing the 'Verse 