It’s bulls$&% time again!

Supplemental bulls$&% time!

What’s that mean? First, it means you’re in for a lot of rambly, pontificating crap. And second, the rambling and pontificating are all to do with defending something I recently said or did. Or refused to say or do. Basically, it’s me explaining the whys and wherefores behind some stupid s$&% I said. And defending my points.

Except f$&% defending my points. I waste a lot of time defending my points. Responding to arguments. Or sometimes hitting arguments back first. And lots of you have said you’re just tired of that s$&%. I am too.

Today, I’m going to try the radical approach of just stating my argument without telling all of y’all why you’re wrong to disagree.

Curated Character Generation:
The Second Best Way to Handle Character Generation

Last article — which continued my Let’s Start a Simple Homebrew Campaign series — I described a crazy-a$&% way to handle the whole character generation thing. Curated Character Generation, I called it. Even though Curated Character Creation would have been way more alliterative. And I love my alliteration. But what can you do?

If you haven’t read that last article, go read it. Now. First, because this s$&% won’t make sense without that context. And second, because CCG is pretty much the second-best way to handle character generation that exists. Even if you’re not running a Simple Homebrew Campaign. Even if you’re not running D&D.

Even though you’ve now read that article, let me sum up the key points. The key things that make CCG what it is.

• • The GM provides a list of available character options before play
  • Each player comes up with two different character ideas by selecting from the listed options
  • The GM approves one of each player’s two character ideas for play
  • The GM withholds all information about character generation including approved options until it is time to generate characters
  • The GM oversees character generation
  • Character generation is purely mechanical; it entails filling out character sheets and nothing more
  • The players are not given the opportunity to develop their characters further before the first play session

It’s those things that make CCG work. At least, that’s the ideal. You might not be able to pull off every bullet on the list because of your personal gaming situation, but you do the best you can. Maybe you can’t keep the players from accessing their characters before the first session. Maybe you can’t oversee character generation. Maybe the dumb-a$& system you’re using gives points for character flaws or some s$&% like that and a certain amount of personality development’s necessary. You do the best you can.

Aside from that, you can do whatever you want. Change whatever you want. For example, you’ve got to decide what comprises a character concept. For a simple homebrew campaign, it’s a race, class, background, and motivation. But if your campaign’s about five PCs stuck on a stolen prison transport trying to escape the Evil Empire while pursuing their own goals, each PC needs a goal. So minimal details might include a short, simple goal. Like get home, or reclaim throne, or rescue son, or find inner peace.

The key’s to minimize the work the players put into their characters before session one. And especially to ax any work on s$%& like backstory, personality, and character development.

The key’s also to minimize the players’ investment in and attachment to their characters.

See, I made the f$&%ing insane claim that if you do so — if you minimize front-end work and character development and investment — you’re much more likely to end up with a bunch of engaged, invested players. And they’re likely to interact with the world. They’re also likely to end up really happy with their characters. In the long run.

How can that possibly be true? Well, Ricky, let me e’splain.

Better Roleplay Through Detachment

It’s obvious that this whole Curated Character Generation thing’s about shoving a bunch of obstacles in front of the players. Keep them from investing in their characters. From developing them. From even talking to each other about their characters outside the game. How does that lead to invested, engaged players and deep, interactive roleplay?

Well, if you’re a GM, you already know the answer.

Without Double Standards, RPGs Wouldn’t Have Any Standards At All

You’re a GM, right? So, how many times have you read that start small and build aphorism? Hundreds? Of course you have. Start small. Keep it simple. Build the minimum. Don’t plan too far ahead. Don’t plot everything. Leave blanks. Leave openings. Leave room. Blah, blah, blahdy f$&%ing blah.

It’s good advice. Damned good. It’s central to all the s$&% I’ve been saying recently about Quick-and-Dirty Dungeons and Open-World Games and Simple Homebrew Campaigns.

Every GM — every good GM — knows that if you start simple and leave a lot of room to grow, you’ll end up with a better, deeper game. And one you’re more passionately connected to. And you’ll have the freedom to react. To react to what the players and their characters do. To react to your own whims. To incorporate exciting, new ideas as they pop into your skull.

So why the hell do you tell the players to do the opposite? Seriously. Before I go any further, just stop and think about how obviously f%&$ed up that is. Or at least how suspicious it is. In business, we call this a smell test. Does something seem weird or wrong even before you start thinking and analyzing?

Of course, you might assume the reason’s that players and GMs are different. They’re doing different things and playing different games. So let’s analyze that.

It’s Called Interaction for a Reason

Let me ask you something: what is roleplaying? Yeah, yeah, I know there’s lots of ways to define it and it can be anything to anyone and there’s no wrong way to do it.

Except that’s a steaming pile of horses$&%. Words mean things. No matter what you learned from The Matrix or your Marxist college professors. Roleplaying’s a word. It means something.

Roleplaying’s not just a thing you do in roleplaying games. It was an education, training, and therapy tool for a long time before Gary and Dave jotted down their first ampersand. In a roleplaying scenario, someone presents you with a situation and then you decide how you would react in that situation. You play out your reaction. And then someone plays out the response. And you react in kind. And back and forth it goes.

Does that s$&% sound familiar?

Roleplaying’s an interactive process. You react to a situation, someone else reacts to you, you react to them, and so on. In so doing, you get to explore the consequences of your actions. Or you learn to see things from different perspectives. Which is why it’s useful in therapy and training.

Every time you — as a player — make a decision in an RPG, the situation changes. And you’ve got to react. Or the other players do. Or they react to your decisions. The reason that start small and build advice works so well is that it keeps the game reactive. The game’s world and story react to the players’ choices. They evolve. And they also evolve based on the GM’s changing perspectives and new ideas and deepening understanding.

But this s$&% ain’t a one-way street. When you — as a human — make a choice and experience the consequences, you change in response. You learn. You grow. You evolve. The world affects you as you affect it. Which is why it’s equally important for the players to leave room for change.

Toxic Creations

If you — as a player — start with the idea that your job’s to build the character you want to play and then the game’s about playing that character, you’re effectively building a wall between your character and the world. Or, at least, a piece of one-way glass. You expect to act on the world. Or, at least, act in the world. But you won’t let the world — which includes the other players at the table — act on you.

On an unconscious level, the more invested you are in the character you’ve built — the character you want to be — the more you’ll insulate that character from change. You won’t let the world act on the character. Because you’ve already built the character you want to play. If the character changes, it might not be the character you want to play anymore.

Worse yet, if the world can’t act on you — and the world includes the other PCs — you don’t have to give much of a s$&% about the world. People don’t care much about things that can’t affect them. Unconsciously. Players don’t realize this s$&% happens. Neither do most GMs. But it does.

I’ve said that the create-and-portray mindset leads to selfish roleplaying. And this is why. It’s not because the players are inherently selfish. Though some are. It’s because the create-and-portray approach establishes a one-way dynamic. The PC acts on the world and not vice versa. And therefore, the game’s not about interaction but action.

The simple fact is that if you always know exactly where you stand, you never have to look around and assess where you are. But that act of looking around and assessing — taking stuff into you — is the line that divides roleplaying from playacting.

Locked in Stasis

It gets worse. Playing the character you — as a player — want to play and insulating it from change also drastically increases the chance you’ll get bored with your character. That you’ll stop caring about it. Seriously.

It’s down to something writers called static and dynamic characters. Static characters are characters who stay the same throughout the story. They undergo no substantial growth or change. Instead, they just keep doing the same s$&% for the same reasons over and over.

And they’re a no-no.

Why? Because the audience gets bored with them. And because the audience doesn’t give a s$&% about them. See, it’s hard to feel much sympathy with a character who keeps landing in the same messes over and over for the same reasons. Eventually, you just figure they’re getting what they deserve. And if you ain’t sympathetic to a character — if you don’t want to see things work out for them — they don’t hold your interest as a protagonist.

Worse yet, such characters eventually come off as damaged. Inhuman even. You see someone who refuses to change despite everything that happens, eventually, you say, “what is wrong with that person? Is their brain not working?” Humans change continuously. They’re shaped by the environment. A thing that doesn’t change isn’t human.

The early MCU heroes were all wonderfully dynamic. Tony Stark grew past his flaws, his values changed, he suffered and then overcame PTSD, and so on. Captain America’s wide-eyed idealism was challenged a few too many times. He had to adopt a more practical viewpoint. By the time the US government was trying to lock down the supers, Stark and Steve were not only on different sides of the argument from each other, but they were also on different sides from their past selves. And that s$&% kept those characters interesting for a decade. Unlike some of the newer MCU characters who just can’t seem to find any traction with audiences.

If you — as a player — play a static character, there’s a very good chance you’re eventually gonna get bored with it. Or stop caring about it. Problem is, you won’t know why. You’ll just feel disconnected or disinterested after a few months. Or six months. Or a year. You won’t realize it’s because you broke the character’s humanity or your emotional connection or both by trying to keep them static.

That’s why the players who put the most work into character building are also the ones who change characters the most.

Teaching Players Not to Play Wrong and Other Fantasies

Start small and build. It’s good for GMs and it’s good for players. Leads to deep, long-lasting connections and plenty of interactions. Fine. Why not just explain this s$&% to players? After all, someone explained it to you.

Problem is that people are stupid. Generally speaking, the s$&% that leads to long, satisfying, meaningful experiences aren’t always obvious or intuitive. Hell, they almost never are. And they’re also almost never easy.

Making a perfect character and then just playing it out? That feels exciting and interesting and easy. Especially compared to starting with a vague pile of mechanics and waiting for it to assert a character of its own. And no amount of explanation and instruction’s going to convince people otherwise.

Tricksy Game Designers

Game designers — especially video game designers — know all about players. Specifically, they know players suck at making good play choices. Hell, they’ve got a crap-ton of adages warning them about how stupid players are. “Players,” they say, “will optimize the fun out of everything if you let them.” That’s why first-order optimal strategies are so dangerous. But that’s another story.

Players will almost always do whatever’s easiest and whatever wins quickest. Even if it’s not particularly fun. And it’s not because players are stupid. It’s because humans are stupid. At least, they’re badly wired.

See, human brains make almost all their decisions without any thought at all. There’s this quick, ancient, powerful thing in your brain that evaluates situations and makes snap judgments. Should I do this or that? Is this good or bad? Whatever. Then, there’s this new, slow, wimpy part of your brain that tries to figure out why the f$&% the ancient, fast part of your brain did what it did.

You make snap decisions and snap judgments without thought and then try to rationalize those decisions later. Don’t get mad at me. That’s just how brains work. Very smart people figured all this s$&% out. And they’ve got the receipts from the fMRI machines. Go read some Kahneman or something. Or everything in his bibliography if he’s not good enough himself.

Point is game designers know this s$&%. Consequently, they’re a bunch of tricksters and liars and con-artists. If they discover a quick, easy way to play or win the game they’re designing, they sabotage it. Or they install psychological tricks to make it hurt. Half of game design’s about tricking people into not f$%&ing up their own good time.

But what’s that got to do with you and your players?

It’s Tough to Be a Console

Playing the part of game designer in tonight’s production of D&D is you. You — as a GM — are a game designer. Or, at least, you’re acting on behalf of a game designer. Even if you’re not writing your own game material, you’re still a game designer by proxy. You’re the spirit of the game designer.

When you’re running a game, you’re basically a Playstation console. You present the game’s world and the gameplay situations — like the thingy in the Playstation that renders graphics — and you parse the players’ inputs — like the thingy in the Playstation that reads button presses from the controllers — and you determine what happens — like the thingy in the Playstation we call a game engine. The only difference is that you can adjust the game on the fly. Which means, you can overwrite the game the designer put on the disc and replace it with something else.

And why would you do that? Because you — like the game designer — want to present a game to the players so they have fun and keep playing. And, assuming you’re an aspirational game master, present a game to the players so they have the most fun and keep playing it more than any other game.

If that ain’t your goal, you’re in the wrong place.

The people who programmed Elden Ring have it a lot easier than you. They wrote the game’s code, pressed that s$&% onto a disk or turned it into a cloud of ones and zeroes, and they just sold that s$&%. It’s up to the Playstations of the world to make the games happen. Same’s true when WotC publishes a module. And when you write an adventure for yourself to run. Or rather, when the adventure writer part of your GMing brain writes an adventure module for the game runner part of your GMing brain to run.

Problem is you — as the game runner part of your GMing brain — you have to sit in front of your players and actually run the game. You’ve got to take all the responsibility for it. And you’ve got to look them in the eye when you do this s$&%. Some of you even — stupidly — consider your players friends. So, where Miyazaki and Crawford and The Angry GM can just impose all these stupid rules and tricks to sabotage the players’ instant-gratification-seeking monkey brains, you’re where the buck stops. And that’s hard.

It’s hard to do the things a game designer has to do when the players are sitting across the table making sad, puppy-dog eyes at you and asking to play a goliath. That’s why I don’t care about my players. I care about running great games. Which is why my players love my games and never invite me to their birthday parties.

Now, what happens when there’s an easy way to do something that feels good and a hard way that feels bad? Right. The quick monkey brain picks the easy way that feels good. And the rest of the brain finds a way to rationalize that s$&%. Even though the easy way that feels good is almost always the worst way to get lasting results.

Which is why I included myself on the list of a$&holes who can just play mind games with their audience. I know it’s hard to be a game-designer game-master. It’s hard to say no to your players. And no matter how much I tell you it’s important, you still won’t. And you’ll rationalize that s$&% by telling me that what I say might be true, but your players prefer… blah blah blah.

That’s why I had to f$&% with you.

FOOLED YOU!

Remember that s$&% when I told you that you had to cull the options in your game? When I said your players must have fewer options than the PHB allows? And when I said that the best number of races and classes and backgrounds was four, eight, and eight?

I was totally f$&%ing with you.

Sort of.

Truth is, it doesn’t matter how many options the players have. I mean, it does. That is, the number of options you present does impact how the players engage with the game. And I could write a whole article about that s$&% and the game design and psychology behind it. But, come on, there’s no actual, precise best number of options. Or even a minimum number. I ain’t going to say I picked four, eight, and eight arbitrarily. I had some damned good reasons for saying what I said. But it ain’t that important.

I told you to eliminate at least one thing from each list of options because the best way to run a game is by carefully curating options. But that’s hard. Because it involves taking things away from your players. Instead of trying to explain that it was best to provide a carefully curated list of options and to establish yourself as the only source for approved options in the eyes of your players, I wrote an arbitrary game rule. Cut at least one thing.

And you should keep doing it. Even though you know it was an arbitrary rule, keep it up. Because the lesson’s sound and it needs reinforcing. That’s why I always cull at least one thing. Even though I know that’s an arbitrary rule designed to reinforce the importance of curating and culling and inserting yourself between the players and the game’s rulebooks.

But the real trick I pulled was the wishy-washy way I slipped that four-eight-and-eight thing in there. I didn’t just force you to cull, I tricked you into culling more than you otherwise would have. I s$&% you not. It’s a trick called anchoring. And it’s the same trick that gets you to buy too much soup.

Let’s say you’re in the store. You planned to buy one or maybe two cans of soup. But when you get to the soup aisle, you see there’s a sale on soup. There’s a great price for soup. But there’s a limit on the offer. “Limit 10 Cans,” the sign says. And thus you walk out with four or five cans of soup instead of the one or two you actually needed.

What happens is that your stupid, fast monkey brain — who is really bad at math and restraint — grabs the first number it sees. And then, your slow, rational brain spends all its energy arguing the monkey down.

Monkey Brain: “Soups on sale! We wanted soup! Now we can save money by buying more soup! Oh! Limit ten! Let’s get ten!”
Actual Brain: “Ten is way too much soup. We only need one can of soup. We don’t eat that much soup.”
Monkey Brain: “But ten! The limit is ten and ten is a good number because I was just reminded ten is a number that exists! Get ten!”
Actual Brain: “Two is a number. A good number. Let’s buy just two cans. We don’t need more.”
Monkey Brain: “Two isn’t ten! Get ten!”
Actual Brain: “We could maybe get three…”
Monkey Brain: “Three is closer to ten! But it really isn’t ten!”
Actual Brain: “Will you settle for five!”
Monkey Brain: “Yes! Fine! Five! Get five! Five is great!”

I s$&% you not. That’s the reason why they put ridiculous limits on most sales. And it’s the reason why I said, “I’m not going to tell you that you should limit your game to four races, eight classes, and eight backgrounds, but… those are really nice numbers. Aren’t they brain monkey?”

If I’d said, “cut one thing,” you’d each cut one thing grudgingly and move on. And you’d get no value from the lesson. By saying, “cut at least one thing, but I’d cut down to exactly these specific numbers,” I probably got you to actually think about cutting more than one thing. And even if you were inclined to argue that cutting any number of options was a bad idea, you were too distracted trying to argue why four, eight, and eight were the wrong numbers. That they were too small.

I’m sorry a did a Game Design on you. And I hope you don’t stop trusting me. Anything I say — within reasonable tolerances and allowing for hilarious hyperbole — anything I actually say is true. Four, eight, and eight are good numbers. Are they the best numbers? Yes. For D&D, they actually are. But I wasn’t enforcing them on you. So the only reason to mention them was to get you to work at culling a little harder by enlisting your monkey brain to screw with you.

The Power… is Yours

Now, don’t misunderstand this s$&%. I’m not telling you you’ve got to master human psychology, behavioral economics, and game design just to run your pretend elf game. Hell, I’m not a master of any of that s$&%. Just a self-educated, tremendously interested layperson who’s spent a decade building the best possible arsenal of game design tools he could stockpile. And I don’t weaponize that s$%& often or consciously or lightly. It’s just that the more understand about more things, the more that s$&% works its way into what you do.

I’m just trying to show you that, no matter how much you respect your players, they’re inclined to ruin games for themselves. The things they like, that s$&%’s like Big Macs. Big Macs are tasty. They’re perfectly fine now and again. As a treat. But a diet that’s nothing but Big Macs? It’ll kill you. And it’ll make you miserable long before it does. And most human people — players included — just aren’t willful or self-aware enough to admit the problem’s that they keep picking Big Macs.

You’ve got to use every weapon in your arsenal to run the best possible game for your players. Which isn’t the same as giving them what they want. Or making them happy. Or ensuring they all have fun. It’s not even f$&%ing close. There’s more to a great game than just fun. There’s depth, meaning, emotional connection, satisfaction, growth, wonder, excitement, catharsis, fear, relief, and so on and so on et cetera ad infinitum et ultra.

But players are people. And most people choose Big Macs. That’s why you’ve got to just refuse to take them to McDonalds. And they can either eat what you put on their plates — and eventually discover they love it — or they can go sulk in their bedroom without dinner.

Curated Character Generation Under the Hood

Having said all that, I want you to understand there’s more to this Curated Character Generation thing than just stopping your players from f$&%ing up their gaming diet with Big Macs. CCG also does a little mental programming. Or reprogramming. It primes your players’ mental pumps and yours.

So, to wrap this s$&% up, let me run through those key features I listed and give you a glimpse of what each is doing to your players’ heads. And yours.

The List of Character Options

Handing your players a list of curated options is actually a really powerful act. And I ain’t just saying that because it primes your GMing brain to run a better game by saying no. Nor am I saying that because it forces you actually f$%&ing think about everything you’re letting into your game. Not that those aren’t important things. They are. Keep culling.

The list — the mere existence of the list — sneaks a few quiet thoughts into your players’ brains. Because there’s a list — either a physical list or a computer document — and that list took effort, players will assume there’s a reason for it. They’ll assign it some weight. Why else would you bother typing that s$&% out? You’ve got to have a reason.

And that gets you a couple of things. First, some players who might otherwise ask for exceptions — ask to play to things that ain’t on the list — just won’t. Because the list is a thing. Second, the players who still ask for exceptions are more inclined to take no for answer. After all, there’s a reason for the list. So there’s a reason to refuse any exceptions.

The list makes it easier for you — the GM — to say no. And funnily enough, that effect extends well past character generation. Because the brain’s a wacky thing.

Moreover, the list establishes you — the GM — as the source to consult about what’s in the world and how the game works. When you hand the players a list, you’re trumping the books from the first f$&%ing word. “Want to know what’s in the game? Forget the rules; I’m the one you’ve got to see.”

This ain’t just about waving your GM gonads around. It’s not a power trip. Not that it doesn’t help to wave your ‘nads around the table now and then. See, the list implies that this world — your world — is unique. It’s special. Different. This game’s not just another boilerplate D&D affair. You’ve got fancy plans and pants to match. That tends to get the players excited. Or at least curious. Interested. Your players will want to know what it is that makes your world different enough to deserve a list. Which’ll make them attentive. More likely to interact. More engaged.

Keep in mind, though, that this s$&%’s unconscious. And it’s all just nudges. Seeds. It’s not going to overtly change any of your players observable behaviors. Not outright. You’re just softening your players’ already soft brains. Making them malleable. Open. Interested. Curious. And more respectful.

Secretly Submit Two Character Concepts for Approval

Obvious benefits are obvious again. When you make players come up with two playable characters, it’s harder for them to get too involved in character development or too invested in either choice. Not with their attention split. Will some players just build out both characters? Sure. But lots of players just won’t bother.

Likewise, with everyone submitting two characters and no one knowing what they’re actually playing, this also makes it really hard to collaborate. Will some players try to collaborate? Sure. But lots of players won’t bother. And lots of players who don’t want to collaborate won’t feel like they have to. Because there’s always that one player who’s like, “let’s all talk for hours about who’s playing what!”

Thing is though, that even though players can get around this, all these rules imply it’s the wrong way to play. It’s cheating. If it were the right way to play, it’d be easier. Remember, people want the easiest ways to play. An implied stigma of cheating keeps a lot of players from doing things you don’t want them to.

By extension, that implied cheater thing also suggests the only important stuff — the only stuff that counts — is the stuff that happens at the table. If you — as a player — want to develop your character or build a relationship, you do it in the game and at the table.

The collaboration blockade also helps wreck the idea that there’s some right combination of skills and abilities and roles. Like, the party needs to cover the right mix of s$&% to make the game playable. At worst, the players might assume you’re going to work behind the GMing Screen to ensure a viable party. But, at best, you might actually help a few monkey brains realize there’s more to the game than just rolling the right skill at the right time.

Finally, the pick-two-characters-and-make-the-one-I-tell-you-to thing helps break the idea that the players have absolute, total control over their characters. You — the GM — can’t — and won’t — tell the players what to play. What they have to play. But you have veto power over what they do play. Thus, character creation’s a collaborative process between player and GM. And by extension, character and world.

And if that’s how character generation works, maybe that’s how character development works too. Eh?

Withholding Rules and Approval

Of course, the reason you don’t tell the players what character generation rules you’re using and who’s playing which characters is so they can’t do any forward work. That much is obvious. And it’s probably also clear now that it reinforces the collaborative nature of character development and your role as the final arbiter of everything in the game. But wait, there’s more.

By blindsiding the players — by making them make a character they were only a little prepared to make — you’re training them to think on their feet. To recognize this whole game’s basically just a string of blindsides and a$&pull solutions. “Here’s the situation,” you say over and over and over, “what do you do?” That’s a roleplaying game. Why should character generation work differently?

The blindsiding also suggests that there’s no best answers. Only a bunch of good-enough answers that’ll all lead somewhere playable. After all, if there really was an optimal character build and the game was about figuring it out, you — as GM — would give the players more advance warning before you threw a blank character sheet in front of them.

That helps reinforce the idea that what’s on the sheet just isn’t actually that important.

Rushing Through Mechanical Generation

Finally, there’s the whole “look alive maggots, I want this character sheet filled out and I want it filled out now, do you get me?!” approach to the character generation session. When you tell the players to just sit down and fill out their damned sheets already, you’re telling them in clear — unconsciously, psychologically clear — terms that this s&$% ain’t the game. It’s the prep work. It’s an obstacle. The game doesn’t start until the first session and this math and paperwork are in the way.

But the real benefit is that character generation sessions suck. And you — as a GM — just want to get through that s$&% as quickly as possible.