Enter Tonekron

It's time to introduce another one of the settings I've created. Last time I covered Fronteira, the Elemental Borderlands, a fairly standard fantasy setting; now, it's time to get a little weirder.

Imagine a world immersed in death. Where once the sun shone bright in the sky and life flourished all around, now the sky is black and death is but a day's journey away. At the edges of their lands, creatures of Death itself make forays into their realm, spreading their master's influence. Those who scratch out an existence in these far places often become tainted by deathly energy, turning into ghoulish creatures who feast upon their uncorrupted kin.

How does something like this happen? How can such a place exist?

Origin Story

Long ago, there were two gods, each the master of a unique domain. Vafi, the god of Death, ruled over the realm of Nevma, domain of the soul. Zoj, the goddess of Life, ruled over Soma, home of the physical. These two domains were distinct and separate, and thus they remained stagnant.

Over time, Vafi and Zoj fell in love. In a night of passion between the two, the realms of body and of soul mixed and gave rise to life. Thus was Tondyo created.

The two remained fascinated with what they had created, for a time. Eventually, however, Vafi's attention drifted back to his lover, and he grew jealous of the world for drawing all of her time.

He began to court her, showering her with many wondrous gifts from Nevma. She would examine each in turn, treasuring it for a time before gifting it to her children, the living creatures of Tondyo. The world became increasingly diverse, and it became ever more difficult for Vafi to draw Zoj's attention away from it.

Realizing that he could not compete with his rivals, Vafi formulated a new plan; if nothing from Nevma could hold Zoj's interest, he would give her Tondyo itself. He reached down into the world and withdrew a section of it, carving it into a jewel for his lover. It would be the capstone of his courtship.

Yet when Vafi presented this gem to his lover, she recoiled in horror at his callous disregard for life. Far from winning her affection, his act instead caused Zoj to flee crying back to Soma to mourn for the loss of so many lives.

Crestfallen, Vafi cast the gem away; it landed in Nevma, near the border with Tondyo yet ever out of reach. This jewel, a slice of life forced to dwell in death, became Tonekron, abandoned by the gods. Its remaining inhabitants were left to fend for themselves in a hostile environment, and the experience would change them forever.

Overview of the World

Tonekron is a small continent adrift in a sea of souls; a traveler on horseback can cross from one side of the realm to the other in just under a week. Crossing the borders of Tonekron in any direction results in the traveler entering Nevma, the realm of dead souls. This is a hostile environment, for the dead are an envious lot and seek to steal the spark of life from those who possess it.

Yet the dead cannot easily encroach upon the territory of Tonekron. When Vafi carved it into a jewel for his lover, his magic preserved it in stasis; the spark of life it had when it was a part of Tondyo remains inviolate, though severely weakened. Creatures of Nevma can cross into Tonekron for a time, but they cannot remain and are inevitably forced back to their own domain.

What little light shines upon Tonekron is filtered through the veil between Nevma and Tondyo; the sun itself never appears in the sky above Tonekron. Between Vafi's preserving magic and this small amount of filtered light, the hardy plants of Tonekron can just cling to life. This is enough to keep the humans and animals of the realm from starving, provided their population remains small.

At the center of Tonekron, where Nevma's influence is weakest, lies the largest settlement: Ochiro. It is here where the bulk of humans live, sheltering behind their large stone walls. In the smaller villages which lie closer to the outskirts of Tonekron, it is up to their strongest men and women to fight off the occasional incursion from the dead.

The centuries have squeezed the hope out of most citizens of Tonekron, yet some dream of a better life. Every decade or so, a group of adventurers attempt to cross the expanse of Nevma which lies between them and Tondyo; nobody knows if any ever make it, for none return. But then, would you return to death if you managed to escape it?

Ever-Present Danger

The most obvious expression of Nevma in Tonekron is the abundance of ghosts. When someone dies, their soul is drawn into Nevma to rejoin its kin. In Tonekron, where Nevma engufls the realm, this pull is significantly weaker; therefore, most deaths result in a ghost.

The inhabitants of Tonekron long ago learned a form of burial rite which can lay the soul to rest, sending it back to Nevma where it belongs. Not everyone who dies is in a position to be buried properly, however. The ghosts of the dead which did not receive a proper burial linger; in time, they grow strong enough to become a danger to the living. Only the ghost hunters, a militaristic organization with a chapter in most large villages, stand between the living and the dead.

The ghosts of Tonekron are among its least threatening dangers, however. At the outer edge of the realm, horrific creatures of death occasionally cross into the realm of the living and rampage through the small villages that dot the region. Many are too strong to fight; the people of Tonekron have learned to hide and wait for theses monsters to be drawn back to their native realm.

The most pervasive threat to the living of Tonekron is the ever-present risk of famine. With so little light, few plants can survive the hostile environment; fewer still animals can make it. What little food can be cultivated must be carefully rationed.

In lean times, some people become desperate enough to hunt the creatures of Nevma itself. Though it is fairly easy to bring down one of the smaller beasts that haunt the realm of the dead, this is still a risky move. Eating the flesh of dead souls does provide nourishment, for reasons unknown, yet carries a great curse. Those who eat dead flesh are twisted into monsters half-living and half-dead: ghouls. Driven by an inhuman hunger, they attack and eat anything they can, including humans. The only thing a ghoul will not eat is another ghoul. Entire villages, given in to desperate hunger, have been known to fall prey to this curse and become villages of ghouls.

Passing On

This has been a brief overview of Tonekron: its history and the threats faced by those who dwell within. Next week, I'll cover the tools these hardy citizens use to protect themselves, including the magic they wield.

Catch you next time.

Handling Social Skills

There is a debate that rages eternally in the gaming community. Well, actually, there are several. In fact, most debates rage eternally, and not just in the gaming community. It's kind of become one of the things the internet is known for. "Welcome to the internet, home of cat videos and endless arguments!"

I only wish to cover one of these gaming debates here though: When a player character talks to another character, should the player roll his social skill or act it out?

The reason the debate is never over is because, as is typically the case, people tend to pick answers that lie at the far extremes. "Yes, always roll the social skills! It's all that matters." or "No, this is a role-playing game, so you should play your character's role!"

Extremes are rarely the right answer. Then again, a perfect middle-ground compromise rarely satisfies anyone, either.

In this article I present two options that lie closer to the middle than the extremes. In each case, both the game mechanics and the words spoken by the player matter.

Neither of these ideas are my own. I am not writing this article to declare "Look how clever I am!" so much as to present the two options in the same place, and examine the advantages and disadvantages of using them.

Option 1: Know Your Target

The first option I present is a moderate version of the "always act it out" side of the debate. It is an idea I heard on Happy Jacks RPG podcast; particularly, season 2 episode 15, about an hour in.

Rather than have skills like Persuasion or Deception, a character would have a skill such as Empathy. This skill allows your character to read his opponent and learn what motivates him; it is then up to you, the player, to role-play a conversation that manipulates the opponent using what you know about him. For example:

GM: The secretary stops you at the front desk, saying "You can't just barge in and expect to meet the CEO!" What do you do?

Player: I'm going to try to convince her that I have information that the CEO must hear.

GM: Okay, roll your Empathy.

Player: I got a 17.

GM: You can tell that she's nervous. It seems like the CEO is a pretty harsh boss, and she's afraid of making him angry.

Player: Got it. "I'm really sorry, miss. I don't want to get you in trouble, but if I don't get this information to the CEO in time, this company could lose millions. If you let me in to see him, I won't mention your name; if he asks, I'll say I snuck in."

GM: She considers for a second. "You promise you won't mention me?"

Your character says exactly what you say, how you say it. This increases immersion; you and your character are entirely in sync. Nonetheless, you can play a character who is better or worse than you are at manipulating people by putting an appropriate amount of points in Empathy; no matter how suave the player is, if his character has no points in Empathy he's going to constantly say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

Another advantage is that a social character only has to put points in one skill, which eases the problem of requiring several disparate skills to talk at things. You can wield your words with the same ease you wield a sword; your points aren't divided based on how you go about manipulating people.

It also breathes life into the NPCs of the game world. Rather than allowing a generic Persuasion to convince anybody in the party's path, provided the roll is high enough, now a social character has to tailor his manipulations to the current quarry, based on her personality. Since each NPC, in theory, requires different methods of manipulation, they each feel more like unique individuals.

This system obviously works best in a game like Fate, where characters are defined in part by descriptions rather than just numbers. A successful Empathy roll could yield one or more of a character's Aspects; in theory, the GM should know these Aspects in advance, so that she won't have to be making up motivations on the fly. Fortunately, more games (including D&D 5e) are including systems similar to Aspects, which allows this system to be used with little effort.

The disadvantage is that every character focused on social manipulation begins to feel pretty similar. Of course, this is a problem best solved through application of role-playing, rather than hard-coding a solution into the rules. If you're playing a fast-talking weasel, then you should attempt to convince most NPCs through fast-talking; a mostly-honest inspirational speaker would instead try to sway people with the conviction of her words.

It also doesn't help if a player isn't good at thinking on his feet. After all, just because the player learns that he can manipulate the secretary by using her fear, doesn't mean he'll necessarily think of a convincing way to use that knowledge. Still, it's a far cry better for such a player than just throwing him into the deep end with an open-ended "Now role-play!"

Option 2: Roll with the Punches

The second option comes from the Angry GM. He asks why you have to treat a social action differently from any other action in the game.

Before you roll a skill check in a game, you need to know what you're trying to accomplish and how you're trying to accomplish it. Often this is fairly simple; "I jump across the ravine!" You're trying to get to the other side of the ravine, and you're doing so by jumping. "I swing my sword at the orc's head!" You're trying to kill the orc, and you're doing so by swinging a sword.

Things get trickier when your method involves social manipulation, but the same principle stands. "I try to convince the secretary to let me pass!" isn't a valid action; it declares what you want to accomplish, but now how. In social interaction, the how is derived from what exactly you have your character say; without acting out the conversation, you're missing half of the necessary details required for a skill check to be made.

Let's return to the example above.

GM: The secretary stops you at the front desk, saying "You can't just barge in and expect to meet the CEO!" What do you do?

Player: I'm going to try to convince her that I have information that the CEO must hear.

GM: How?

Player: By rolling Persuasion?

GM: No. What do you say to her?

Player: Oh. "Look. I know you're just doing your job, but if I don't get in to see the CEO within the next couple of minutes, this company is going to lose millions. Heads will roll, and yours very well might be among those that do. But if you just let me pass, I can help save this company. Help me to help you."

GM: Wow. That sounds like you're trying to intimidate her.

Player: I guess you're right. All right, I got a 17 on the Intimidation.

GM: She's visibly trembling, biting her lip. "Fine. Just go."

The GM doesn't allow the player to roll his social skill without first acting out the conversation, because the GM doesn't have enough context to determine what skill the player should roll. She asks him to act things out, and when she has enough information she calls for the roll.

This method doesn't require a player to act out the conversation, if he's not comfortable doing so. Instead, it could go something like this:

GM: The secretary stops you at the front desk, saying "You can't just barge in and expect to meet the CEO!" What do you do?

Player: I'm going to try to convince her that I have information that the CEO must hear.

GM: How?

Player: I'll point out that the company could lose millions if I don't get in to see him soon.

GM: Sounds like you're trying to intimidate her. Roll it.

Either way, the exact words spoken by the player aren't important; it's the intent behind them that matters. No matter how suave the player is, if his character's Intimidate skill isn't that high, he won't be able to convince the secretary that way. If, instead, the player isn't as socially adept as his character, it doesn't matter how unconvincing his words are; the result of the roll determines how convincing the character's attempt was.

The greatest advantage to this system is that it requires no changes to how the rules work in your game of choice; the majority of games are already set up to handle skills in this way. The only change is in how you, as a GM, adjudicate these rules. Rather than allowing a player to declare which skill he's using, you instead get him to act out his character's approach and determine from that information which skill is appropriate.

Further, unlike the first option, it allows a player who's not comfortable role-playing to instead declare his actions as he would any other. If he doesn't want to talk in-character, this system allows him to boil down his character's words to an action declaration; as long as he declares how he's trying to Persuade, or Intimidate, or Deceive, he doesn't have to get into the fine details.

The disadvantage is that this method relies more on the GM to read her players' intents. If the player suddenly starts screaming, in-character, at an NPC, he doesn't always let the GM know in advance why, what he's trying to accomplish by doing so. It might break immersion to ask, but sometimes it's necessary.

Walking the Middle Ground

Of course, the beauty of these two options is that they're not mutually exclusive. If you wish, you can combine the two into one beautiful, socially manipulative whole.

Before a player begins talking to an NPC, he can roll Empathy to get a read on her. Then, using the result of that roll, he acts out the conversation until such a time as the GM decides she knows what he's trying to accomplish and how; then, she asks him to roll his appropriate social skill and adjudicates the result.

Combining them in this way mitigates the disadvantages of both methods, while still keeping their strengths. By having the player declare his action in advance, before making the Empathy roll, the GM gets a valuable nugget of information: what does the player want to accomplish. Then, rather than require the player to role-play a full conversation, if he doesn't wish to he can instead declare the gist of how he's going to try the persuasion, and make a roll to determine how persuasive his character is. Unlike in the purest form of option 1, the method of convincing matters as it determines the skill used in the follow-up roll.

And, of course, the GM may choose to give a hefty bonus to the follow-up roll if the player's approach matches particularly well to the NPC's motivations, learned from the first Empathy roll. A character clever enough to use what he knows about the NPC to manipulate her is much more likely to succeed than one who doesn't.

I Roll to Convince You

So what do you think? Would you like it if your GM used one or both of these options in a game?

I know they don't need a plug from me, as they are both far more popular than I, but if somehow you haven't checked out Happy Jacks or the Angry GM, do so. Their advice is informative and entertaining both.

Catch you next time.

Races of the Elemental Borderlands

Last week, I wrote a general overview of the setting of Fronteira, the Elemental Borderlands. This week, I will discuss the five dominant sapiens of the setting.

There are five major races in Fronteira: halflings, humans, elves, orcs, and dwarves. In addition, in those regions on the edge of the material realm, proximity to the elemental energy of the borderlands occasionally causes a child to be born as a genasi.

Halflings

The halflings of Fronteira are a nomadic people. The majority of them make their home in the frozen tundra of the north, closest to the borderland of Air. A smaller number live in the cliffs of the Godscar Canyon that marks the southern border of the tundra.

The tundra nomads are a hardy people, Not only do they make their home in one of the harshest regions of the world, they do so with lightweight and portable shelter: tents made of animal hides, or more elaborate structures with lightweight wooden frames and paper walls. If it can't be packed up and carried with them, the halflings won't bother.

On the plains south of the tundra, where a warmer climate allows, the halflings raise horses. A halfling destrier is unmatched. The larger races often remark on the irony that the smallest folk raise the largest horses.

Those halflings who dwell in the canyon are, by necessity, less nomadic than their taiga-dwelling cousins. This sedentary lifestyle doesn't mean they stay in one place for their whole lives; it is common practice for a cliff-dweller to spend a few years traveling with a nomadic tribe.

The primary religion practiced by the halflings is the worship of Mother Sky. They believe that the world is the child of Father Sun and Mother Sky. While the Sun's light makes life possible, for a people who live in a world of ice too much direct sunlight can lead to slushy terrain or, worse, avalanches. As such, Mother Sky shields her children from Father Sun's direct gaze.

Humans

The humans of Fronteira are sailors and explorers. They live along the coast to the east, or among the islands of the Hinansho archipelago. However, as explorers, they are the most widespread race; it is not uncommon to find a human living among the elves or orcs.

Much of the world's trade is made possible by the humans' mastery of ship-building. Many of the river barges that carry goods long distances are crewed by humans. As such, humans make natural diplomats as well.

The ancient stories of human myth tell of a time of turmoil, before the world was settled by the sapient races. It was a time of war between two groups of gods, the Hitogami and the Jakugami. The Jakugami sought to subjugate all mortals and rule the world, as was their right. The Hitogami fought them, defending the freedom of mortals to live their own life. Eventually, light won out over darkness and the Jakugami were banished from the material realm, deep into the elemental borderlands where they plot their inevitable return.

The average human, however, is not overly religious. Of the five races, they are the least spiritual. Their priests wield as much power as those of the other races, and are respected and well-loved, but most humans view gods and faith as a distant parallel to their lives, rather than an integral part of it.

Elves

In the southeast of Fronteira lie the primordial forests, influenced by proximity to the elemental borderland of Wood. Here, the elves make their home.

Elves, as in most settings, build their homes among the trees of the forest. They seek to have as little impact on the natural world as possible; where humans colonize and adapt their surroundings to suit their lifestyles, elves do the opposite. They build their houses in the forest canopy, sculpting living wood into buildings.

To elves, the world is alive. Everything, from trees to grass to rocks, has a spirit, called shen. This divine energy permeates everything, even manufactured items such as buildings or weapons. By coaching a shen to grow in strength, the elves can channel this divine energy to assist them in their daily lives.

Chief among the disparate shen are the five great spirits, the Daishen. Where a rock may have a fairly weak spirit, a mountain's is mighty. The strongest spirits are groupings of many weaker, related ones. The Rising Stone is the spirit of the earth itself. The Great Sea is the soul of all water, whether in the ocean, the rivers and lakes, or even just small woodland streams. The Thousand Trees is the spirit of all wildgrowth, not just forests. The Surging Flame is the spirit of fire, from the mightiest shen of the sun to the souls of volcanoes and underground magma. The Roaring Wind is the spirit of the sky, of wind and clouds.

Elves build their homes around shrines to these spirits. Ancient trees are the most common, as most elves live in forests, but some elves build villages around large boulders or hills. A few elves, far from home, may build shrines atop a mountain.

Orcs

In most settings, orcs are merely monsters to be slain. Not so, the orcs of Fronteira. A proud culture of warriors, orcs call the most infertile lands home: the deserts and scrublands of the southwest.

The orc mindset is one of power and progress. Even moreso than humans, orcs seek to conquer the land they call home, to bend it to their will. This is a necessity, as the lands in which they dwell are not habitable in their native state. Many technological advancements have been brought to the world by the orcs, such as irrigation or the use of gunpowder.

Strangely, orcs are also the most spiritual of the five races. Rather than connect to the spirit of the land around them, as elves would, orcs look within. Their faith teaches that each orc houses divinity, the spark that gives them an intelligence greater than the beasts of the world. How they reconcile this with the existence of the other races varies: one orcish nation teaches that all races house divinity, and thus encourages cooperation with their brethren. The other nation sees non-orcs as impostors, beings forged from the souls of evil gods rather than the good gods who have granted the orcs their souls.

Orcs view their emotions as an expression of this divine spark. Each of the five primary emotions - Fear, Grief, Joy, Lust, and Rage - is a gift from another deity, one to be cherished. By experiencing a powerful expression of one of these emotions, an orc remembers the long-dead god that made such power possible. Some orcs strive to balance these emotions, doing what they can to experience each in roughly equal amounts; others pick a favorite and dedicate their lives to honoring the memory of the associated deity.

Recently, one of the orcish nations raised a massive army and invaded inland, seeking to expand their territory. This was driven as much by a need for more fertile lands as it was by the orcs' sense of superiority. Understandably, this has led the other races to distrust orcs. Unfortunately, this includes even the orcs who did not partake in the invasion; even those orcs who fought to oppose their invading kin aren't fully trusted.

Dwarves

The dwarves of Fronteira are an isolationist, even xenophobic, people. Whether this is a consequence of making their homes in remote mountains to the west, or a natural circumstance of their religious beliefs, non-dwarves can only guess.

Dwarves do occasionally trade with the other races. Some dwarves even choose to leave their mountain strongholds and dwell within the borders of foreign nations. These dwarves are the exception rather than the rule; the dwarves didn't even come to the aid of the humans, elves and halflings in the war against the orcs.

Dwarven religion encourages this xenophobia. They believe that only by achieving balance can a soul transcend this world and reach the paradise that awaits beyond. The other races simply lack the capacity for balance: only a dwarf can truly understand zakon.

Dwarves are death worshipers. Svet, their unknowable god, is lord of the afterlife and has the job of judging the souls of the dead, to determine whether they are worthy of joining the host of honored ancestors. The only way a living dwarf may know Svet's will is through one of the intermediaries, the souls of ancestors who have passed through the veil into death. To commune with one of these ancestors, a dwarf must allow her to possess him; this is achieved during great parties which celebrate every aspect of life.

At the head of the dwarven nation is a council of three leaders: one living, two dead. Whenever a living king dies, his body is mummified and then reanimated through use of a sacred ritual. Upon achieving his second life, he replaces the oldest previous dead king, and a new living king takes his place in turn.

Genasi

Finally, much rarer than the five races listed above, are the genasi. These are mortals who have been imbued, by proximity to the borderlands, with elemental energy. Each borderland produces genasi of a different type: the Verdant Borderland turns elves into green- or brown-skinned genasi with the power of the woods in their veins, while the Zephyreal Borderland turns halflings into white- or icy-blue-skinned genasi touched by a chill wind.

At the far reaches of the world, where the elemental borderlands meet the material realm, the genasi are cautiously accepted. Further inland, however, they are misunderstood and thus shunned. Few genasi, therefore, live far from the elemental borderlands.

Genasi have no culture of their own; there just isn't a large enough population. A genasi coupling is not guaranteed to produce a genasi child: only exposure to the raw elemental energy of one of the borderlands has a chance to do that. Most genasi are born to non-genasi parents, and are therefore raised in the culture of those parents.

Race to the Finish

That is, in brief, a look at the races of Fronteira: their faiths, culture, and the lands they call home.

Join me next week, when we'll get away from Fronteira and its Elemental Borderlands.

Enter the Elemental Borderlands

My favorite aspect of GMing is worldbuilding. Whether it's a new idea for a magic system, a new fantasy race, or an entire setting, I enjoy the act of creation.

So I'm going to share one of my fantasy settings: the world of the Elemental Borderlands.

This world was created for use with D&D. As such, it is more generic than most of my creations: it's got elves, dwarves, standard wizards, and the like. In other words, it is relatively familiar, and thus a great starting place for sharing some of my ideas.

The Elemental Borderlands

It is a world in the midst of elemental chaos, where one is capable of physically traveling into the elemental planes just by heading in the right direction for a while. In the material realm, at the center, the five races (humans, elves, orcs, dwarves, and halflings) rule; further out, the world descends into raw elemental energy that is unfit for mortal habitation. At the borders between material and elemental, occasional incursions from the denizens of the elemental realms cross into the material realm and seek to spread their influence ever-inward.

Even with a persistent external threat, however, all is not well among the mortal races. The xenophobic dwarves isolate themselves in their mountain strongholds, their religion claiming that foreigners are unclean and thus to be avoided. The orcs, sick of scratching out an existence in the resource-poor desert and scrubland, dream of the day when they can expand their territory, all the while licking their wounds from their recent failed attempt to do exactly that. Humans struggle against the spirit of exploration which tempts them to make increasingly dangerous incursions into the elemental realms.

And the elementals watch, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Welcome to Fronteira, the realm of the Elemental Borderlands.

The Five Elements

The elemental realms are divided into five regions of roughly equal size. Each region is in a fixed direction with relation to the material realm, but once a traveler crosses into the elemental realms all bets are off. A group of halfling nomads may track their prey into the frozen realm of Air in the north, only to turn around and find themselves in the realm of Fire south of the material world. More dangerous than the chance of getting lost, otherworldly creatures born of pure elemental energy stalk the realms, defending against incursions from the mortal races.

Most dangerous of all, the very essence of these elemental regions is anathema to mortal kind; traveling too deeply into the realm of Water, for example, causes the surface to vanish, leaving only crushing depths with miles of water overhead. Even the locations relatively close to the material realm are dangerous, though livable.

Air

To the north, beyond the frozen tundra, lies the Zephyreal Borderland, commonly called the elemental plane of Air. At first, the only indication that one has crossed into this realm is the starkness of the landscape; everything is flat and white, an endless expanse of snow and ice unbroken by any noteworthy landmarks. Traveling deeper, the wind picks up into an eternal storm of snow and ice; at the same time, the ground begins to soften, hard-packed snow melting away into solid cloudstuff.

The farthest reaches accessible to the mortal races is this floating world of clouds. Beyond that, even the clouds drop off in a great cliff and only creatures capable of flight may continue. At this point, the raging whirlwinds are so harsh that even if a mortal were able to obtain the gift of flight, only natives to the realm of Air (who are immune to even the harshest winds of their region) may continue.

Water

Continuing clockwise, the Littoral Borderland lies to the east. Commonly called the elemental plane of Water, it is reached only by sailing across the mundane ocean of the material realm. In fact, it is almost impossible to notice when one has crossed from physical to elemental; the first clue is a misty fog that clings permanently to the water's surface.

Deeper in the realm of Water, the fog thickens and the air becomes so saturated with water that it feels more like breathing liquid than air. Eventually, further travel becomes impossible without some magical means of breathing underwater, as the fog thickens to such an extent that it becomes water, and the surface vanishes entirely. In the great depths of the realm of Water, the weight of endless water overhead crushes any living thing other than the native denizens of Water.

Wood

To the southeast lies the Verdant Borderland, sometimes called the Choking Jungle but most commonly known as the elemental plane of Wood. It is impossible to miss the border between physical and elemental, as it is marked by a thick hedge of vines and thorns, brambles and bushes. Pushing through this barrier, a traveler finds herself in a vibrant jungle full of life, both animal and vegetable.

At first, the plants and beasts are recognizable; most are obvious relatives to their counterparts in the material realm. Eventually, however, the chaotic nature of the elemental realms makes itself known as the creatures and vegetation become increasingly alien and hostile. Additionally, trees and vines grow ever-closer together until deeper travel becomes impossible; even before reaching this point, however, most explorers are picked off by the variety of ferocious predators native to this hostile realm.

Fire

Southwest of the material plane, beyond the scorching desert, lies the Calescent Borderland. Better known as the elemental plane of Fire, this is widely considered to be the most dangerous of the five elemental regions. Crossing from material to elemental, the temperatures surge even higher than those found in the bordering desert; worse, there is no respite as the temperature remains high even at night.

The landscape is marked by pools of molten rock and twisted mockeries of trees wreathed in eternal flames. The pools of molten rock grow more common the deeper one travels into the realm, and the temperatures continue to soar. Eventually, the land itself falls away into an endless lake of molten lava and the temperatures become high enough that most materials begin to spontaneously combust; travel beyond this point is impossible for any other than the native denizens of this realm.

Earth

Finally, to the west of the material realm and directly counter-clockwise from the realm of Air, lies the Hypogeal Borderland. Sometimes called the Underworld or the Underdark, more often simply called the elemental plane of Earth, this is a realm that exists entirely underground; attempting to climb over the mountains at the edge of the material realm quickly becomes impossible as they continue to stretch ever-higher into the sky.

A maze of pitch-black caverns, tunnels and caves, the realm of Earth is dangerous more out of risk of getting lost than of any inhospitable nature of the terrain. As the caverns are ever-changing, it is impossible to map this realm and thus every incursion carries of risk of being unable to find a way out. At the deepest reaches of the realm of Earth, the caverns thin out and eventually vanish entirely; only the natives, capable of swimming through solid rock as if it were water, can continue beyond this point.

Next Week

Join me next week to continue exploring the world of the Elemental Borderlands. We will discuss the five races: an overview of their cultures, religious beliefs, and homelands. Xenophobic dwarves, nomadic halflings, and more await!

Linear Design Is Not Railroading

It is undeniable that words change over time. A word once meant as a compliment can, over centuries, come to be an insult. This is a side effect of language being a living, breathing thing.

On occasion, a word takes on too much meaning and effectively becomes meaningless. This is the poor fate of the term "railroading". It's not uncommon for a player to declare that his GM is railroading when all she is guilty of is maintaining the verisimilitude of the setting, or telling a linear story.

It is time to reclaim the meaning of railroading.

What is Railroading?

Railroading is the act of negating the choices a player makes. Nothing more, nothing less.

This can occur in a variety of situations, and takes several different forms. Sometimes, it's done outside of the game; a GM says "no, you can't do that". Other times, it is baked into the game; invisible walls spring up, trapping the players within the path that the GM wishes them to take. On occasion, it's done without the players being any wiser; if, regardless of whether they take the left path or the right at the fork in the road, the players will wind up at Dangerville, the GM is railroading to some extent.

As an example.

GM: You pass the first few cottages on the fringe of Dangerville, and people stop their work to stare at you. If the rumors are to be believed, this town is not as safe and secure as the name would lead you to believe.

Player A: I stop to talk to one of the villagers. "Hail, and well met. Is there a place where a thirsty stranger can find an ale?"

GM: Uh... The villager just stares at you and says "You should go talk to the Dollmaker."

Player B: Dollmaker? Sounds boring. Is there a pretty woman nearby? I want to try my Seduction skill.

GM: All of the other villagers ignore you. (To Player A) The man gives you directions to the Dollmaker's shop.

Player A: I ask him directions to the tavern. The Dollmaker can wait.

GM: He walks away.

Player A: Fine. I'll look for the tavern myself.

Player B: Yeah. I'm sure one of the barmaids will be interested in my charms.

GM: The town doesn't have a tavern. But you do come across the Dollmaker's shop...

Clearly, the GM is railroading. The players are trying to do their own thing, and the GM keeps shutting them down and pointing them back to his plot. By disallowing, ignoring, or rendering impossible any other path, the GM anchors his players to a set of rails from which there is no escape.

Other times, railroading can be more subtle.

GM: The Dollmaker's Clockwork Complex on the edge of Dangerville looms ahead of you.

Player A: I'm going to try to sneak in close and get a good look at what we're dealing with.

GM: Uh... roll your Sneakiness skill.

Player A: (rolls) Alright! That's a result of 29!

GM: Wow. Uh... unfortunately, that's not good enough; you needed a 30. The Dollmaker's Clockwork Cavalier sentry spots you and sounds the alarm. Roll initiative!

The GM allows the player to try a different approach than the one he'd planned, but the result is predetermined. Since the GM counted on them fighting their way into the Clockwork Complex on the outskirts of Dangerville, the player's attempt to sneak into the complex is destined to fail.

Now let's step away from railroading for a minute and discuss something else.

Linear Story Design

Imagine you're planning a short campaign in which the players will end up saving the world. You create the following outline.

A: The players hear rumors about a Dollmaker in Dangerville who is building an army of Clockwork Cavaliers.

B: The players track down the Dollmaker in his Clockwork Complex.

C: The players destroy the army of automatons and confront the Dollmaker. They discover that he was working for the Jealous Bard.

D: The players track down the Jealous Bard, atop the Spine of the World.

E: The players stop the Jealous Bard from singing the final verse of the Worldsong and destroying all of creation.

This is a linear story. From any given point, there is a clear path along which the story continues, ending at a predetermined conclusion. So is it railroading to run this story?

No.

Linear Storytelling is not Railroading

Many of you are probably vehemently disagreeing with me right now. "Of course that's railroading! The characters have no choice in where they take the story!"

But I'm here to tell you: it's not the same thing.

That's not to say that a linear story never coincides with railroading. I'm not even going to deny that there is a strong correlation: most railroading occurs within the context of linear stories. Yet it is entirely possible to run a game with a linear story without once railroading your players.

Take our above example. In order for the story to work, the player characters must travel to Dangerville, somehow stop the Dollmaker and his Clockwork Cavaliers, and then travel to the Spine of the World to stop the Jealous Bard. Yet, within that framework, the players have many choices.

When invading the Clockwork Complex, do they favor a frontal assault or a more sneaky approach? Do they go in alone, or rally the townsfolk to storm the place with them? Do they try to lure the Dollmaker out, or maybe wait for him to leave the Complex before striking?

When confronting the Dollmaker, do the players try to negotiate or simply attack? Do they destroy the Clockwork Cavaliers, or try to somehow turn them against their creator? Do they capture the Dollmaker, or kill him? Turn him over to the authorities? Let him go free? Forge an alliance? Try to enlist his aid against the Jealous Bard?

Before pursuing the Jealous Bard to the Spine of the World, do the players seek out more information? Potential allies? When climbing the tower, do they move quickly and destroy any opposition, or do they attempt to infiltrate it in disguise? Maybe they even try to scale the outside of the Spine, rather than taking the winding staircase within.

Before confronting the Jealous Bard, did they manage to discover his motivation? Do they know that he seeks to end the world in a fit of rage, angry that its denizens have for decades considered him useless just because he is a bard?

And, of course, how they handle the encounter with the Bard can go a lot of different ways.

Within the linear story, the players have a lot of wiggle room. Even something as simple as a "travel from point A to point B" story allows for several choices along the way, with each having some impact on how the events of the story unfold.

Why This is Important

A lot of voices in the gaming community are all too quick to jump on a GM for "railroading". "Anything less than a pure sandbox is railroading! The only correct way to run games is to allow the players total freedom, adapting to their choices on the fly!"

This is problematic for two reasons. One, not all GMs are comfortable with the level of improvisation required to run a game in that manner. Particularly when it comes to newer GMs, it's demoralizing being told that they're doing something wrong by not allowing the players to do literally anything they want.

Second, linear stories are a powerful tool in a GM's toolbox. Linear stories often have much stronger themes and plots, and can be more consistently entertaining than a sandbox style of gaming. By lumping linear storytelling in with railroading, we're throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

So don't be afraid to design a linear story. Just make sure that, within the context of the story, the players still have a variety of options.

Is Character Death Necessary?

It is a rare roleplaying game that does not include rules for character death. In the majority, death is not only possible but assumed to be the default failure state. Did you lose the combat against the dragon? Death; roll a new character.

At this point, it's so common that most people don't even question it. Of course the game allows for a character to be killed in combat; that's how combat works. It's realistic! It adds a sense of risk that heightens achievement! While this may be true, it's worth noting that most other storytelling mediums do not have regular character death.

"What about video games?" you ask. Or, "What about Boromir?" "There are countless examples of characters dying," you point out and, since this is the internet, you probably add "and you're an idiot for saying otherwise."

With the exception of video games, which are a unique circumstance that I'll tackle in more detail later, it is hard to name a story where the primary protagonist dies before the end. It's just as hard to name a story where a protagonist dies in a meaningless, random way. Death, in most stories, is used not as a failure but as a way to heighten drama and add to the story.

Yet in tabletop roleplaying games it's comparatively common and often random. Why is that?

The Reasons for Death

When you break it down, most games include death for two reasons: realism, and sense of risk.

Death for Realism

If you get into a sword fight with a rival or enemy, there is a very good chance one or both of you will be seriously injured or killed. If someone is shooting at you, and you decide to stick around and shoot back rather than fleeing, it's entirely possible you'll catch a bullet and perish. Death as a consequence for combat is just realistic.

Outside of combat, death could still be a very real threat. Traveling through a hostile environment without proper provisions could lead to death to exposure or starvation. Attempting to climb a cliff, tree, or building without a safety net or, worse yet, without proper training could mean falling to your death. Again, this is a logical consequence given what we know of the real world.

Often a player character is made to be more resilient than the average person, is given a large buffer of hit points or plot immunity. Yet, when that buffer inevitably runs out, death is still on the line; you can only push your luck so far. The harsh reality is that everyone dies, eventually.

Death for Risk

Accomplishments without risk of failure are meaningless. If students had unlimited chances to take exams, final scores become useless measurements as everyone will, eventually, achieve perfection through trial and error.

Additionally, greater risk carries greater reward. This is why gambling is so insidious: putting more money on the line means greater potential earnings, but it also means a greater rush when you beat the odds. The disparity between the worst that can happen and the best that can happen directly impacts the excitement achieved in success.

The logical conclusion is that when your player characters risk death, which in turn means the players risk losing all of their investment in those characters, victories are that much sweeter. When another character dies, the fact that yours did not makes you all the happier.

Death in Video Games

These two reasons for death are both used in another medium as well: video games. Particularly "death as risk" is a common part of most video games, from Mario to Call of Duty. By examining how video games handle death, therefore, we can learn to apply those same lessons to the tabletop.

Death is often used as a failure state in video games. If you miss the jump you fall into a bottomless pit and die. If you fail to kill the enemies in time they will eventually kill you. If you don't escape from the collapsing building quickly enough, you're caught in the explosion (or implosion) and die. At a glance, this seems to be identical to how death is handled in tabletop games.

On closer examination, however, death in video games is different in one key way. Death in video games does not mean the end of that character.

When a player character dies in a video game, the player is presented with a game over screen. Then, he or she is taken back to a previous point, prior to the death, and allowed to keep playing. This earlier point could be the last checkpoint, a previous save file, or even the start of the game; however, in the game's story the death is erased, the character is alive again, and the events continue to unfold from that point on.

No matter how many times you get your player character killed in a video game, when you eventually reach the ending the canon is that the character did not, in fact, die at all. Death is a temporary state, quickly erased in favor of allowing the player to continue the game.

There are exceptions, of course. In games with large casts of playable characters, sometimes the game will allow one or more of those characters to be killed off for good without forcing the player to restart from an earlier point. In other games, a save file (or even the entire game) may be erased if the character dies, resulting in a death that is more or less permanent.

But these exceptions are just that: exceptions. Most video games will waive realism in favor of player entertainment.

Yet in tabletop roleplaying games, death is almost always permanent. Even in settings where resurrection is possible the character still died; he just "got better". More often than not, the death of a player characters means the player is done telling that character's story and must begin anew with a fresh character. If all player characters die, often that means the end of the campaign itself.

Of course, it is far more jarring to introduce "save game" features to a roleplaying game, or to allow characters to respawn. The takeaway from video games, then, is to instead substitute the consequence of death for something less permanent: capture, injury, humiliation or the like.

Why is Death the Default?

In some games, it makes sense for death to be on the table. In a horror game, characters can and should die, in order to add to the sense of despair and inevitability. In a survival game, never having a chance of dying seriously undermines the theme and tone.

Yet death is not always appropriate. In a heroic action-adventure game, the protagonists are supposed to be larger than life; how can you be larger than life without also being larger than death? In a game about characters' stories, death means a sudden and unsatisfying severance of one or more major plot threads.

So why is death almost always assumed to be a possibility?

My argument is that it shouldn't be. Or, more accurately, in certain games it should only be possible at dramatically appropriate times.

In the Lord of the Rings, Boromir doesn't die to a random encounter with a bunch of goblins. No, he dies in a heroic sacrifice to buy his friends time to escape. In The Princess Bride, when Westley and Inigo duel, Westley doesn't end the fight by taking Inigo's life; Iniqo still has more story to tell. In Star Wars, when Luke and Darth Vader finally meet, Vader could have easily ended Luke's life. Instead, Luke only loses a hand and the plot is deepened.

So the next time you're running a game about heroes doing heroic things, and that random kobold rolls well enough to kill one of the player characters, ask yourself: would this character's death at this moment be appropriate to the type of game we're playing and the type of story we're telling? If the answer is no, consider an alternative.

All Things Must End

Does a story have meaning without an ending?

In this hobby of ours, it is all too often the case that a game never reaches its conclusion. Real life gets in the way, or the GM or players lose interest, or a new shiny comes to the group's attention. Other times, the game gets stretched out, whether because the players latch on to every red herring the GM throws their way, or because the GM doesn't want to stop running her game just yet.

Sometimes the game does end, but not in a satisfactory way. Maybe everyone decides to quickly wrap it up so they can start the next game, or maybe the game was only going to last for so many sessions and the player characters didn't move through it quickly enough.

Still other games are designed to never end. A "monster of the week" style game often just keeps going until everyone loses interest, with no real conclusion beyond one game being the last one ever played. Some are episodic for other reasons, such as inconsistent player attendance or rotating GMs.

Today I'll be discussing railroading and...

Just kidding. Obviously, this article is about endings.

What Value is an Ending?

With few exceptions, all stories should work towards an ending. In order for a storyteller to pull this off it is reasonable to expect that he must have, at the least, a rough idea of the ending before he starts the story. This can be as detailed as a fully-choreographed scene, or as vague as "the story ends when the characters find some way to deal with the crime boss".

Knowing how the story ends allows the storyteller to hone his story, to eliminate the chaff that doesn't work towards that conclusion. It produces a more consistent and focused story. The storyteller can pose questions confident in the knowledge that the conclusion will provide satisfactory answers. Further, it allows for foreshadowing: if the author envisions his conclusion as a climactic battle atop the rooftops of the city, he can throw in a scene where a near-fall causes his character to develop a mild fear of heights.

Knowing where you story goes allows you to eliminate dangling threads, or at least curtail them. If you know your story is building towards a courtroom debate, you can rethink whether it's a good idea to introduce a character with a violent grudge towards one or more protagonists; alternately, you could change that "bloodthirsty brawler" into a "cutthroat lawyer" to bring the grudge into line with the planned story.

Even more importantly, knowing where your story ends allows you to end it. This sounds obvious, but it's much harder than it seems. All too often, a story limps along well past the perfect conclusion, overstaying its welcome. Or it ends before the central question of the plot is actually answered.

If your campaign is about the destruction of a powerful, evil artifact, the game should end shortly after it winds up in the volcano. If, however, the story was instead about the cost of that quest and the impact it had on the lives of those who took part, then the story doesn't end until we've seen the aftermath in everyone's life, whether it be a return to their old lives or an inability to do so.

In the first example, trying to carry on past that climactic moment when the ring sinks into the lava will result in a limping, slow series of scenes. However, in the second example where the story is more about the impact the quest had, ending before seeing Frodo's departure is just as unsatisfactory.

Knowing the ultimate goal of your story allows you to recognize the appropriate time to wrap things up for good.

What Happens if I Don't Have an Ending in Mind?

Madness. Cats and dogs living together. Sunrise at midnight. A million voices cry out and are suddenly silenced.

Without knowing your ending in advance, things becomes much harder. The storyteller might throw in a hint about a dark and shadowy figure lurking outside a protagonist's house, without knowing what she wants to do with it. If she remembers, she might discover an opening to further develop that opportunity later on in the story; however, it is just as likely that no such opening will appear, or that she will forget to do anything with it. Each time this happens, someone in the audience will be left wanting at the end, wondering what ever happened with Shadowy Figure anyway.

You run the risk of stretching things out too long, of including a plethora of scenes that have no real place in the story. What starts out as a tight story about a group of friends taking their first steps into the wider world winds up, by book ten, being about a hundred different bit players each reacting to the events that took place in the last three days of the previous book. A battle which takes place on a planet fated to explode in a handful of minutes is still carrying on over a dozen episodes later.

By the end of your story, even if you managed to make it to a decent conclusion, the lack of coherency in leading up to it may leave the audience asking "That's it?"

The exception to all of this is episodic stories. When each episode, novel, or game session is a self-contained story with very little carry-over into the next, it is safe to carry on without an ending in mind.

That's All Well and Good, but How Does This Relate to Gaming?

The problem is exacerbated when it comes to tabletop roleplaying games. Not only does the GM not know how characters in her story will act at any given moment, she can't even guarantee they will latch on to the story at all.

This does not mean that a GM shouldn't give some thought in advance to how her game will end. What it does mean is that she shouldn't plan the ending in great detail. As a GM, you should think of your ending as a question, rather than a specific scene.

In a game where the characters must defeat an ancient evil, the ending would occur when the group has answered the question "how will the heroes stop the deadly king from overthrowing the benevolent lich?" She shouldn't plan an epic battle between the heroes and the king, occuring in the throne room where the king has begun a ritual to seal the kindly lich away in the same prison that once held him; the players might decide they want to try a political approach, or attempt some more subtle sabotage, in which case that ending would not fit. However, knowing that the game ends when the evil king is dealt with, the GM can react to anything the players do and adapt her story to fit it perfectly.

For the tabletop, a vague question is better. You could build the game around "will the heroes discover that the dragon is only tearing up the country because he's searching for his stuffed lamb that he loved as a hatchling?", but that forcess one path upon the players. Instead, you could ask "will the heroes find a way to pacify the poor dragon before he accidentally destroys all the nearby farms?" They may still discover the key lies in the lost little stuffed lamb, and go on an epic quest to find it, but now you've left open other options. Including, if the heroes are sufficiently heartless, killing the poor dragon in cold blood.

Another problem is that, even with an ending in mind, it can be difficult to "trim the fat". Just because the GM knows where things are headed, the players don't necessarily. They may take actions that don't lead anywhere, effectively spinning their wheels in frustration; maybe they even enjoy taking advantage of several unrelated plot threads.

Tabletop roleplaying is a strange medium in this regard. It is perfectly acceptable to let your players do as they wish, regardless of its impact on the eventual conclusion; as long as they are having fun, the game is working as intended. Of course, eventually it is best to find a way to continue the story, whether you do so by nudging the players back onto the path, changing the path to fit where they've decided to go, or even changing the ending entirely and building towards a new, more fitting conclusion.

This Article Must End Too

Have you ever successfully ended a campaign? Did you have the end in sight the whole time, or allow the story to find its own ending over time? If you've done both, which have you found works better? Feel free to leave your answers in the comments.