Thinking of Gary

Gary Gygax, 1969

As most of my readers are no doubt aware, today is date of Gary Gygax's death. I'm not sure there's anything I can say about him that others have not said before and better. The one thing I do feel I can say is that Gygax is among a handful of people whom I never met but who nevertheless exercised a profound – and profoundly positive – influence on me and my life. 

Dungeons & Dragons introduced me to roleplaying, a hobby I have enjoyed for more than four decades now and that continues to provide me with immense enjoyment. Through this hobby I have made many friends, who in turn have enriched my life immeasurably. Likewise, Gygax's prose, with its delightfully archaic vocabulary and addresses to his "gentle" readers, has no doubt influenced my own writing in ways big and small. Further, his palpable love of reading and of games of all sorts was contagious. encouraging me to pursue both with vigor. I was already an avid reader and game player before encountering Gary Gygax through his writings, but afterwards I was even more devoted to these activities. 

For these reasons, I couldn't let this day pass without comment. The world – my world, at the very least – is better for your having been in it.

House of Worms, Session 215

The bulk of the House of Worms clan and their companions found themselves in a strange, darkened space. It was premature to call it a room, as there was no indication of any walls, though the characters did somehow feel as if there were a ceiling above them, enclosing them within the area they now occupied. Dim blue illumination could be seen in a few places, some yards distant. In one such area, the blue light cast long shadows of a multi-legged thing moving about, but, try as they might, they were unable to see the source of the shadows. Znayáshu soon suggested that, wherever they were, the characters had been brought here on purpose. a possibility that worried him. He attempted to make use of several spells to gather information about his present locale but was unable to do so, perhaps because of unusual laws that governed it. 

Undaunted, he suggested moving forward in the direction of the shadows. He believed that their source was probably demons and, if so, they were intelligent and thus might know more about this strange place. He further theorized that perhaps they were the Weavers of the Gaps with whom they'd dealt amicably before. As he approached cautiously, followed by his clan mates and companions, the shadows receded, revealing a fairly ordinary looking door, which no one had seen previously. The door opened easily; beyond it was an impossibly bright light that briefly blinded all the characters. When their eyes became acclimated to the light, the characters found themselves on a landing set between multiple white staircases going up, down, and in other directions too – a dizzying sight that appeared to obey no clear pattern.

Rather than be deterred, Keléno and Znayáshu began to ponder the best way to proceed, with Keléno suggesting that they use charcoal to mark their path, lest they become lost. Just as he was about to make use of it, he heard a voice from a landing above say, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." He looked up to see a handsome, youthful man with a calm expression standing on a platform above. He was dressed in old fashioned attire at once familiar and yet odd, vaguely reminiscent of the kinds of garb one might see on a statue of a Bednallján nobleman. "Why not?" Keléno replied. The youth smiled, "Too many people have come through here trusting in their tools rather than their senses. Tools can betray; trust only your senses." More boldly, Znayáshu asked, "Who are you?" The youth said his name was Vyér and declared himself "guide of the white staircase." This meant nothing to anyone present.

Over the course of the next few minutes – though it could have been longer – the characters queried Vyér on all manner of subjects. In most cases, he was evasive and smile and laughed throughout their exchanges. Eventually, the subject of leaving this place and rejoining their companions was broached, to which Vyér replied, "Oh, no. I don't think it'd be wise to send you back to them. You do realize you were brought here on purpose? Brought by the Blue Lord?" This raised some concern, as it suggested that the god Ksárul himself had some hand in their being separated from their comrades. When asked why Ksárul had done this, Vyér smiled again, "I think you know quite well why the Blue Lord did this. You would spoil things by your actions and he cannot allow that."

Back and forth the questions went, with little knowledge gained. Frustrated, Znayáshu approached Vyér. coming nearly face to face with the youth. He barked in his face and threatened him, if he did not speak more plainly about what was going on. At this, Vyér drew himself up and seemed to grow in height, his face contorting into cold anger. "Step back, mortal. You do not know with whom you treat, for I am the Servitor Who Seeks the Countenance of His Lord, the Black Sword of Doom, the Reader of the Incantations of the Dark." Rather than be cowed by this, Znayáshu said, "I thought so. You are Grugánu, cohort of Ksárul, and we would still like answers from you."

Vyér smiled, as if impressed, and spoke more plainly. He explained that the characters were interfering in matters they should not. They were plucked from Dórmoron Plain to prevent their becoming involved further in the affairs of Ksárul's temple. He further told them that they should not close the nexus point between the branches of the Tree of Time or there would be dire consequences for them. When pressed, he would not elaborate. Vyér added that the characters had been duped by the sorcerer Ketém. He was not who or what he claimed he was and that they would be wise to oppose him. Znayáshu quickly guessed that he must be another version of Getúkmetek, a Naqsái sorcerer with whom they'd tangled in the past (and who had turned Znayáshu to stone in their previous encounter). He further told Vyér that, if he wanted them to slay Ketém in exchange for being returned to Dórmoron Plain, they would do so. Vyér agreed and, in an instant, they found themselves outside the wall of fungus surrounding the nexus point through which they journeyed. Beyond the wall were their companions.

By means of both magic and a well-used eye of Krá the Mighty, the characters burst through the wall, only to find the sorcerers, led by Mitsárka hiWashára, in the process of sealing the nexus point, as planned. Ketém was alone, away from the group, which Znayáshu took as a sign to attack. He ordered the characters to bring to bear all their powers to kill him before he did whatever it was that he might be planning. Grujúng, Aíthfo, and others attacked him with swords, to little avail, while Znayáshu, Keléno, and Chiyé used spells and eyes. Ketém returned their attacks, petrifying Znayáshu once again. It was at this point that Keléno was unsure of what to do. Without Znayáshu's certainty, he was no longer convinced that Ketém was a threat and worried that perhaps Vyér had tricked them – he was, after all, an aspect of Grugánu, servant of Lord Ksárul himself. He then prayed to Sárku for guidance, sacrificing multiple magical items to gain the Worm Lord's favor.

Keléno's prayers were answered. A coppery mist descended on Mitsárka and the sorcerers closing the nexus point, protecting them from harm. While this happened, Kirktá found an opening and smacked Ketém solidly with his staff, seemingly killing him. From out of the mist, a skeletal arm extended and touched Znayáshu's petrified body, restoring him to flesh. Not longer afterward, the nexus point was sealed for good. Mitsárka turned to the characters and announced, "It is done. The nexus point is closed and we are no trapped here forever."

Retrospective: Citybook I: Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker

When I look back on my own early years in the hobby, I recognized that, by and large, I avoided "generic" roleplaying game supplements, preferring instead to purchase "official" ones. There are exceptions here and there. I regret such brand-based snobbery now, because, among other things, it missed out on a number of genuinely excellent RPG books, such a the Citybook series published by Flying Buffalo. 

Years later, I had the chance to see copies of the series and was quite surprised by how good most of them were, starting with Citybook I: Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker. Edited by Larry DiTillio (of Masks of Nyarlathotep fame, among other things), the first volume appeared in 1982 and features twenty-five different places of business – "business" being very broadly defined – to drop into a fantasy city of your choice. The entries are written by a variety of authors, such as DiTillio himself, Liz Danforth, Michael Stackpole, and Steven S. Crompton, and several others unknown to me. Consequently, the entries have varied tone and content, which contributes greatly to its utility, I think, since the referee has plenty of options to suit his own tastes.

The entries are divided into categories, namely lodging and entertainment, personal services, hardware, food services, community services, spiritual services, and security services. Each category includes at least two entries, though some, like personal services, contain quite a few more. The entries all follow a similar format, providing first an overview of the establishment, its important NPCs (starting with its proprietor), its layout (complete with map), and some scenario suggestions. Since the text is nearly 120 pages in length, most entries are three or four pages in length, with some being even longer – more than enough detail to get the referee started in imagining the place in question. In addition to the aforementioned maps, the entries are illustrated (by Danforth, Crompton, and Stephan Peregrine), depicting not just NPCs but also other aspects of the businesses, such as the goods they offer for sale. 

The entries are consistently quite good, in part, I think, because none of them feel truly generic. For example, the Diamond Spider Tavern is quite different from the Grey Minstrel Inn, reflecting not just the personalities of their owners but also their histories (the Grey Minstrel Inn being haunted, for example). Likewise, Bron Arvo's Armory is quite distinct from Blades by Tor, despite the fact that they're both weapons outfitters of the sort adventurers usually visit. It's a testament to the writers' imaginations that they can make even mundane businesses feel unique and, in many cases, compelling enough to serve as more than places for characters to drop a few coin. As someone who's often struggled with this in my own forays into urban adventuring, I was quite impressed.

Citybook I is still available in electronic form from Flying Buffalo, along with the other entries in the series, of which there were ultimately seven installments. Not having seen any of the others, I can't offer any comments about their quality, but, if they're anywhere near as well done and creative as the ones in Citybook I, that's money well spent. The first entry in the series surprised me with its excellence and made me re-evaluate my opinion of many third party supplements produced during the heyday of the hobby. In future entries in this series, I'll take a greater look at some of them.

General Rules for Dungeon Designers

Jon Salway recently pointed out Ken St. Andre's "general rules for dungeon designers" from the first edition of Tunnels & Trolls (1975), which I reproduce below.

For the benefit of those, like myself, whose eyesight isn't as good as it used to be, these general rules are, as follows:

1. Let your imagination run wild. You can do anything you want to.
2. Put in a lot of stuff. Nobody wants to mess around in a dull dungeon.
3. Use as much humor as you can, but don’t be silly or juvenile.
4. The deeper the dungeon, the more dangerous it should be.
5. Every trap or spell should have some way of being avoided, nullified, or overcome. You need not tell people how to save themselves, but there should be a way. It is definitely not fair to teleport everybody who enters your solar room into the heart of the sun.

There's nothing here that I think is controversial, with the possible exception of point 3. Many people, myself included, are wary of overt humor in RPG material (with certain exceptions, obviously) and not unreasonably. On the other hand, I don't think I've ever participated in a game session that wasn't regularly punctuated by laughter, puns, in-game jokes, and other tomfoolery – nor would I wish to do so. At the same time, one of my longstanding objections to T&T is that it veers a little too close to the "silly or juvenile" that St. Andre wisely warns against (take a look at the spell names, for example). 

Point 2 is where I think St. Andre is really on to something. In a dungeon-centric campaign, it's vital that there be "a lot of stuff" in the dungeon in order to hold the players' attention and encourage them to spend more time in the place. Of course, "stuff" isn't just limited to monsters, treasures, and traps. I imagine things like factions and long-term mysteries. Frankly, those are two elements I'd consider important for any type of campaign, but they're especially important in dungeons, I believe, in order to avoid the inevitable boredom that might otherwise creep in after kicking open the doors of untold rooms on multiple levels over many weeks or months. 

Can anyone recall similar sorts of dungeon design rules from other RPGs? I enjoy reading advice like this, doubly so if it reflects the thoughts of someone who had a reputation for being a good referee (and Ken St. Andre is one such person).

Different Worlds: Issue #4

Issue #4 (August/September 1979) begins with an editorial by Tadashi Ehara in which he declares – remember: this is just five and a half years after the release of OD&D – "The RPG state of the art is dull. You can count on your hands the number of innovative systems. And our hobby still plays second fiddle to historical board wargaming." If nothing else, it's a reminder that the past is a foreign country. That Ehara is bemoaning the lack of innovation in RPGs is hardly surprising; it's an eternal complaint, one that continues to echo into the 21st century and I think it's no more true today than it was then. More interesting, I think, is his assertion that board wargaming was more dominant than RPGs, based in part on the fact that "board game designers out-number RPG designers five to one." Amazing what a difference half a century can make.

The articles kick off with Rudy Kraft's "Games to Gold," in which he talks about the ins and outs of selling one's roleplaying game. The article focuses on what the author considers the major publishers at the time, namely Avalon Hill, Chaosium, Excalibre, FGU, Flying Buffalo, GDW, Gamescience, Heritage Miniatures, Judges Guild, Legacy Press, Metagaming, Simulations Canada, SPI, and TSR. The list is intriguing, because, while most of the names are recognizable and indeed notable, several (e.g. Legacy Press) are not and more likely reflect the magazine's editorial biases toward the companies of friends and contributors. Kraft offers an overview of each publisher, including their openness to submissions, pay rates, etc. Appended to the article is an anonymous note by "someone who has been bit," offering advice to would-be designers. The advice amounts to: never sell all your rights, get yourself a lawyer, and shop around for the best deal. I can't help but wonder if the author was Dave Arneson, given both his then-current lawsuits against TSR and his association with Different Worlds.

Charlie Krank's next installment of "Beginner's Brew" tackles the subject of "Mastering Your First Adventure." The article contains fine, if basic, information for a novice referee, the kind of thing most RPGs typically contain but that, in 1979, might not have been common knowledge. Emmet F. Milestone's "Kirk on Karit 2" is a report of the Star Trek scenario he ran at DunDraCon IV. Milestone incorporated elements of the miniatures game Starguard!, such as the alien Dreenoi (something J. Eric Holmes too mentions in various contexts). Milestone also presents some basic "romance" rules for use with the game, to simulate the tendency of Star Trek officers to fall in love with newly introduced characters.

John T. Sapienza offers up "Enchanted Weapons Table," a huge, 14-page article consisting of many, many tables for randomly generating magic weapons for use with "fantasy gaming," though it's clear from the text that D&D is what he has in mind. It's a bit much in my opinion, but I have known many referees who would have loved random tables as extensive as these. Stephen L. Lortz returns (yet again) with "A Perspective on Role-Play," in which he outlines the history of roleplaying – not roleplaying games but the activity itself. The article is filled with much of the pseudo-intellectual blather I've come to expect from Lortz articles – he namedrops Whitehead, Aristotle, and Einstein, as well as quoting from The Tao of Physics – but his perspective is interesting nonetheless. He gives the Viennese psychiatrist J.L. Moreno credit for inventing "roleplaying," for example, and does not, as is fashionable nowadays in some quarters, credit David A. Wesely as the "true" inventor of roleplaying games. Lortz is an odd fellow and I'm not entirely sure why Different Worlds provided him with a regular soapbox.

"Waha's Quest" by Greg Stafford is a sneak peek of the upcoming companion game to RuneQuest, HeroQuest. As fans of RQ know well, HeroQuest was never released, at least not in its originally intended form, though a later game, bearing the same name, was published by Stafford's Issaries Inc. From the little presented in this article, it seems Stafford imagined HeroQuest to be a more freeform and explicitly "mythic" version of RuneQuest, using many of the same mechanics. It's hard to say what the game's impact would have been had it ever been completed. 

"Different Views" contains numerous letters to the editor, including one by Greg Costikyan, in which he lambastes David Feldt's Legacy (reviewed in issue #2) in which he calls the game "an extrusion of horror." So humorously strident is Costikyan's letter that I reproduce it here for all to enjoy.

The issue ends with Gigi D'Arn's latest gossip column, which is surprisingly tame compared to previous installments. It's filled mostly with bite-sized reviews/announcements of new products, along with details of marriages, births, and new jobs among game designers and publishers. Here's hoping future columns include a little more red meat.

A Tékumel Dungeon Poem

A few weeks ago, my friend, Zzarchov Kowolski, creator of Neoclassical Geek Revival, pointed me toward this blog entry that put forward a challenge to create a "dungeon poem." The idea behind the "poem" is to take a specific map by Dyson Logos and key it using minimal text. Even though I have grown allergic to these kinds of online "challenges," I was initially quite excited by this one, since I thought it'd give me a chance to stretch myself a bit. Writing minimally is not easy for me, so paring down my text would take some serious effort – too much as it turned out, which is why I abandoned the idea.

Zzarchov, however, is both disciplined and persistent and convinced me, during one of our chats, to take up the challenge again, which I did yesterday morning. Over the course of about an hour I put together a terse (for me anyway) description of a small underworld beneath the Tsolyáni city of Jakálla, which I present below. It's certainly not as concise as possible, but I take some small pride in having limited myself to three sentences to describe each keyed area. The end result is satisfactory, though I readily admit that it's not my best work. On the other hand, its economy lends, I think, a certain degree of mystery to the underworld that might not have been achieved had I indulged my usual logorrhea.

The Bednallján practice of Ditlána, by which a city is ritually purified, razed, and then rebuilt every 500 years is a well-established one in the Five Empires, resulting in vast under-cities reputedly filled with rubble, wreckage, and riches. So, when poorly compensated workmen with even poorer skills inadvertently uncovered an ancient staircase on the lowest level of the Tower of the Red Dome in the Foreigners’ Quarter of Jakálla, its proprietor, Shúkoaz Vishshé, saw wealth – and danger. Rather than descending into the depths himself, he instead turned to the indigent foreigners and visitors of no status who formed his clientele, offering them a “fair” share of anything they discovered in the darkness beneath his establishment.

Miniature Memories

My relationship with miniatures is complex. I've always loved them in principle, but I've never managed to get much use out of them, despite trying. Nevertheless, when I was a kid, I used to spend far more time than I ought to have staring at glass cases in hobby stores where they displayed their individual miniatures for sale. Many of them were Ral Partha, including some of the ones pictured above. At the time, I was largely unfamiliar with Tékumel, so I have no idea what or where Mu'ugalavyá was, but I thought the minis were cool. 

I was reminded of this the other day when I was perusing issue #22 (February 1979) of Dragon and saw this advertisement. It's amazing the weird, disjointed memories one carries around in one's head after decades. Usually, they make little sense until a seemingly random image or sound or smell suddenly brings it all into focus again. Perhaps it's a bit pathetic that so many of my memories pertain to spending time in hobby shops and ogling products I'd never buy, but there it is. 

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Lamp of Alhazred

August Derleth is sometimes treated with disdain by devotees of H.P. Lovecraft and I can see why that is the case. His role in relation to HPL is not dissimilar to that of L. Sprague de Camp in relation to Robert E. Howard: instrumental in popularizing the work of his predecessor while fundamentally misunderstanding it. Unlike De Camp, who not only misunderstood Howard but also, on some level, disliked him, Derleth was one of Lovecraft's biggest fans and, like many a fanboy, he attempted to find ways to twist Lovecraft's conceptions to suit his own predilections. The results, as one might expect, bordered on fan fiction and, yet, for all that, I still think there's something of value to be gleaned from his efforts, however different they clearly are from Lovectaft's own.

One of Derleth's better efforts in my opinion is "The Lamp of Alhazred," which originally appeared in the October 1957 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. The short story focuses on thirty year-old Ward Phillips, who receives the titular lamp as a bequest from his grandfather, Whipple, who had died seven years earlier. The lamp, held by Whipple's lawyer until Ward "was mature enough to inherit his grandfather's 'most priceless treasure'," is a most peculiar object, unlike any he had ever seen.

The lamp of Alhazred was unusual in its appearance. It was meant for burning oil, and seemed to be of gold. It had the shape of a small oblong pot, with a handle curved up from one side, and a spout for wick and flame on the other. Many curious drawings decorated it, together with letter and pictures arranged into words in a language unfamiliar to Phillips, who draw upon his knowledge for more than one Arabian dialect, and yet knew not the language of the inscription on the lamp. Nor was it Sancrit [sic] which was inscribed upon the metal, but a language older than that – one of letters and hieroglyphs, some of which were pictographs.

Phillips is entranced by the lamp and spends much time polishing it and then filling it with oil. One night, he lights the lamp and is "mildly astonished at the warmth of its glow, the steadiness of its flame, and the quality of its light." He then sets himself to writing verse in his library. After a time, though, finds that "wherever the light fell, there, superimposed upon the books on their serried shelves, were such scenes as Phillips could not have conjured up in the wildest recesses of his imagination." These scenes depicted events far in the past, when the Earth was young, as well as far-off places like fabled Irem, the Mountains of Madness, and Kadath in the Cold Waste. 

These visions inspire Phillips, who uses them as the basis for his fictions, which find not only a ready audience but become "parts of the lore of Phillips' innermost being." 

He brought Arkham into reality, and delineated the strange high house in the mist; he wrote of the shadow over Innsmouth and the whisperer in darkness and the fungi from Yuggoth and the horror at Dunwich; and in his prose and verse the light from the lamp of Alhazred shone brightly

If it weren't already apparent, it should now be quite clear that Ward Phillips is a stand-in for Lovecraft and Derleth is telling a fanciful version of HPL's life, albeit a somewhat happier one, devoid of the indignities and deprivations that marred much of the real Lovecraft's adulthood. This becomes even clearer if you're familiar with some of Lovecraft's letters, whose contents Derleth uses to describe Ward's rambles through rural Rhode Island. Unlike Derleth's other "posthumous collaborations" with Lovecraft, these borrowings add verisimilitude and poignancy to "The Lamp of Alhazred," which, at its base, is a work of hagiography. Derleth clearly admired and loved the elder author, with whom he began a correspondence in 1926, when he was only 17 years-old. Whatever else one may say about August Derleth, he was H.P. Lovecraft's friend and supporter (many of Lovecraft's stories only received publication because Derleth surreptitiously submitted them, for example) and "The Lamp of Alhazred" is a strangely affecting tribute to the Old Gent of Providence.

House of Worms, Session 214

The final preparations having been made, Aíthfo decided that their was one last thing he needed to do: pay a visit to Chánkoru hiKhánuma, his new wife's great-grandfather and, more importantly, the administrative and ritual high priest of the Temple of Ksárul in Linyaró. Unlike many other guests to Aíthfo's nuptials, Chánkoru had brought no gifts to the governor and his bride. Instead, he rather pointedly suggested that they "had much to talk about," going so far as to suggest that he and his temple could "offer assistance in your current endeavors." This piqued Aíthfo's interest – and perhaps his suspicion – as few people outside his immediate circle in the House of Worms clan knew what he was preparing to do, not even his wife, Ta'ána. If Chánkoru knew the mission that lay before him, it suggested that the wily old priest had spies within the colonial administration and well placed ones at that.

Aíthfo, along with a small retinue appropriate to his station, visited the Black Stone clanhouse and asked to speak with Chánkoru. The old man appeared quickly and ushered Aíthfo into a secluded room, where he offered him refreshments. He quickly got down to business, admitting that he knew that the governor and his compatriots were planning to travel via nexus point to one of the Planes Beyond where the apocalyptic Battle of Dórmoron Plaine still(?) raged. He added that he knew that, in the past, there had been some "misunderstandings" between his clan and his temple and the colonial administration. He apologized for those and explained that, until recently, he had no reason to trust the governor. Now that he had married his great-granddaughter, he looked on him more fondly and understood that Aíthfo ony had the best interests of the Tsolyáni colony in mind. To that end, Chánkoru offered the assistance of the Temple of Ksárul.

The conversation between the two men was thoroughly polite and mannerly, each one employing the appropriate honorifics and observing the niceties expected of them. Nevertheless, Aíthfo remained suspicious and worried that he might be walking into a trap laid by Chánkoru. He was, after all, a priest of Ksárul, the Rebel of the Gods whose actions against his fellows had led to the Battle of Dórmoron Plain in the first place. Why would he wish to help and, even assuming he did, what did he hope to gain? As if sensing these concerns, Chánkoru admitted that his temple was, regrettably, riddled with factions and secret societies, some of whom, alas, were engaged in activities that might undermine the stability of not just the colony but Tsolyánu itself. For that reason, he felt an obligation to aid the governor in the only way he knew how: by offering a team of expert sorcerers steeped in the hidden lore of the temple.

Aíthfo was unsure how to respond to this offer. As a devotee of Lord Ksárul himself, he knew there were few who could compare to priests of Ksárul when it came to magical prowess. Yet, the idea of embracing these sorcerers, taking them with him onto another plane, far from Tékumel, did not sit well with him. Unfortunately, there was no easy way to avoid accepting Chánkoru's offer – not without offending him and perhaps making him an enemy. More to the point, Aíthfo had no idea how long he would be gone or if he would even return to Tékumel. The last thing he wanted to do was disappear just after having offended the high priest of the Temple of Ksárul. Who knows what sort of mischief he could wreak on the colony while he was gone, especially with his young protégé, Telék, being left as acting governor in his absence. 

Reluctantly, Aíthfo accepted Chánkoru's offer. The old man provided him with the names of the sorcerers and said that they would be at the governor's palace by sunset. Upon returning home, Aíthfo asked his wife if she recognized any of the names. She did: the leader of the sorcerers was her cousin, Lára hiKhánuma, a woman older than herself and reputed to be quite significant within the Temple of Ksárul. She was also one of her great-grandfather's favorites, news that strangely gladdened Aíthfo. If Lára were in fact one of Chánkoru's favored descendants, would he send her off on a mission he believed would end in failure? In any case, the governor spent one more night in Linyaró before marshalling his forces to depart early the next morning.

The wizard Ketém opened a nexus point to the ruined city of Pashkírigo and, once there, directed everyone to pass through another nexus point that he said would lead them to Dórmoron Plain. The group, consisting of Aíthfo and his companions, along with a large contingent of Shén mercenaries and human soldiers, made their way into the unknown. The experience was no different than previous jaunts through nexus points – a momentary sensation of cold, a brief flash of light – except that the group found itself divided. Aíthfo, Nebússa, Lady Srüna, Ketém, Mitsárka, the Ksárul sorcerers, and all the troops found themselves on a rocky, blasted plain surrounded by a large wall seemingly made of a bluish-white mold. The rest of the House of Worms clan were nowhere to be seen. Whether they made it through the nexus point to this plane or were spirited away somewhere else could not be determined. Mitsárka argued that it did not matter; they had come here to seal the nexus point from this side and they should proceed, regardless of what had happened to the others. Nebússa agreed and the rituals began.

The Emperor is Dead!

(Before your eyes glaze over: this post includes a fair bit of Tékumel talk, but it is not, strictly speaking, about Tékumel. Rather, Tékumel is being used as an example for my musings about a larger topic of interest, I hope, to players and referees of any RPG.)

Victor Raymond recently reminded me of an article that appeared in issue #6 of The Space Gamer (June/July 1976), approximately a year after the release of TSR's Empire of the Petal Throne – which is important, as you'll see. The issue contains an article written by Robert L. Large, Jr., in which he presents a report of a major event from his home EPT campaign, namely the death, at the age of 73, of the Seal Emperor of Tsolyánu, Hirkáne Tlakotáni. The report dwells not on the death of the God-Emperor but rather on the Kólumejàlim, "the Choosing of the Emperor," a ritual by which all the deceased emperor's children, both acknowledged and unacknowledged, contend with one another before the eyes of the Omnipotent Azure Legion to determine which of them will ascend the Petal Throne (while those who lose are ritually sacrificed to prevent the possibility of attempted usurpation and/or civil war). 

It should be noted that, at the time this article appeared, no such event had occurred on "Tékumel Prime," the version of Tékumel that Professor Barker presented to his players. (Hirkáne did eventually die in Barker's campaign but much later and under very different circumstances.) It's also worth noting that there were only three Tékumel sources available when Large's article appeared: Empire of the Petal Throne, War of Wizards, and a single article in the pages of The Strategic Review. Despite this, it's clear that Large had not only made Tékumel his own by extrapolating based on what he had read about the setting in those limited sources but also by introducing elements that made sense to him. He didn't hesitate or worry that he might do something differently than Professor Barker did. In short, he behaved as any good referee ought.

Large's account of the Kólumejàlim suggests that he actually played it out, allowing his players to take the roles of the various claimants to the Petal Throne. For example, the first part of the trials involved an arena duel, which Large notes was handled by means of FGU's Gladiators. Likewise, magical duels were handled by means of War of Wizards. Reading the article, two things struck me. The first is that Large involved his players in determining the outcome of this important campaign event, not as their player characters but as Imperial princes. The second is that the outcome itself was an unexpected one, owing no doubt to a combination of player action and dice rolls. 

Upon completing the article, I knew that, when the time comes for similar events to occur in my House of Worms campaign, I will involve the players too. A big reason why is the possibility of an unexpected result, one I'd never choose on my own. In Large's campaign, the ultimate winner of the contest between heirs was Princess Ma'ín, who has been described as spoiled and whimsical – hardly likely to emerge victorious in a real power struggle. And yet, in Large's campaign, she did and he describes how it came to pass. It's terrific stuff, all the more so because it seems as if the outcome was not predetermined or based on his own wishes. That's how it should be, in my opinion.

As a referee, I have certain predilections and tics that, absent other ideas, tend to impel me toward certain things. I love over-complicated intrigue, with factions fighting in the shadows. I also love magic, mystery, and secrets, which is why so many of my campaigns feature these elements, sometimes to their detriment. Left purely to my own devices, I will almost always develop my campaign in ways that highlight these things. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, especially if the players enjoy it. But, as I get older, I have become more and more convinced that, if one's goal is a long lasting campaign, it's vital that there be surprises and turns that no one, not even the referee, can predict. 

This is part of my renewed interest in wargames and conflict simulations. I remember, back in high school, being obsessed with learning more about "the Game" that GDW used to create the future history that connected Twilight: 2000 and Traveller: 2300. The notion that a game company had conducted a giant, free-form wargame/simulation to help them establish three hundred years of history was so incredibly compelling to me, not least because that future wasn't an obviously predictable one. Whatever flaws Traveller: 2300 had, I appreciated the way that its setting didn't fully embrace expectations, with its diminished USA and Russia and ascendant French Empire, for example. That's precisely the kind of unexpected turns I want in my campaigns too.

I have heard that the war between Tsolyánu and Yán Kór on Tékumel was intended, at least in part, as a way for miniatures gamers to get involved with the setting. Professor Barker was himself an avid player of miniatures wargaming and he fought many battles of this war against his players. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to have allowed the results of those battles to have become canonical in his campaign, opting instead merely to take those elements of them he most liked. I can certainly understand why he might have done this, but, for me, the whole point of gaming out a crucial battle in the context of a campaign is to take its outcome somewhat out of my hands. I know I harp in this a lot but that's only because it's true: the referee is also a player and, as a player, he's as entitled to surprises as his players.

This is why I continue to seek new ways to "automate" campaign events or at least lessen the amount of impact my own preferences have on their outcome. I want my campaign worlds to live and grow somewhat of their own accord and much of the joy I get as a referee is in watching the players interact with the situations and NPCs I've created in unexpected ways. Few people enjoy knowing the ending of a story before they read it. Why should RPG campaigns be any different?