The army of the caffeinated marches, cups in hand.
They make long strides in sneakers and flip-flops beneath their business casuals.
They march together, apart, to the beat of their own stylish white earbuds.
My daughter, Thing One, needs to work on her math over the summer.
I need to get her into tabletop gaming.
I think you see where I’m going with this.
To help celebrate the release of The Bones, the new book from Gameplaywright about gamers and their dice, I’m firing up the calliope music and joining in their blog carnival.
Ever since discovering tabletop RPGs in junior high, I’ve been in awe of the amazing powers that dice can have, not only in determining the outcome of the story, but in the actual creation of the story’s world. I’m speaking here largely of random charts and their power to not only inspire, but to create reality on the fly.
In eighth grade, I created a solo dungeon-crawling game consisting of a sheet of graph paper, a fistful of dice, a pencil, and a half-dozen index cards with random charts on them. You enter the dungeon: roll to see if there’s a room or a hallway. If it’s a room, roll for number of exits and roll for contents. Is it is monster? Roll it. A trap? Roll it.
There was a system for combat and damage, of course, but the meat of the game was exploration. Only it wasn’t really exploration, it was creation. The world was created with every roll of the dice.
(During this time, one of my gaming friends made his own exceptionally-random system that perhaps took it a step too far. A classic line that lives to this day is, “You are attacked by a [clatter of dice] snake! It attacks you with its [clatter of dice] hooves!” That sort of old-school gonzo gaming would be a lot of fun today, but I was far too mature for it at the time.)
In college, I ran a year-long campaign of NightLife, which — since the players were running vampires and werewolves and other monsters with an insatiable appetite for disposable NPCs — inspired me to whip up another random table. With ten seconds and a single roll of a handful of dice, I could create a living, breathing person — at least, that person’s general appearance and personality. Before the players turned down that alley, that person didn’t exist — not even as a note on my Game Master’s idea pad. Most of them didn’t survive the encounter (“My, what bit teeth you have — oh no!”), but some had such a spark of life that they went on to become allies and recurring NPCs — a spark of life given them, like Frankenstein’s lightning, by the dice.
As I’ve grown older and my gaming time more limited, I find myself using dice to create the world before the game rather than on the fly. I made a number of charts myself (what’s that magic level? Roll it! The core theology? Roll it!) though I’ve found Animalball’s fantastic Instant Game provides far more exhaustive charts than I ever had the patience to put together.
While I might up just writing about these worlds rather than actually playing in them, the thrill from eighth grade is still there: I’m creating worlds, people, and stories with nothing more than a pencil, a chart… and a handful of dice.
Slight change in plans, folks. I’ve decided to dedicate this space to promoting my new self-help book, If it’s Not Bleeding, Quitcher Crying, available this fall at a bookstore near you.
That’s a joke, son.
I’m actually altering the timing of when things are posted here. The Worth a Thousand features, which have been a Friday staple for the past few weeks (can you achieve “staple” status in a few weeks? Let’s assume you can), are now moving to Mondays. It works better for me and, though you don’t know it yet, it works better for you as well. You’ll thank me later.
Does that mean we’ve got a new entry today? Why yes, it does. This week’s story is Moon Woman, about a woman who is also a moon. Or possibly inside the moon. It’s been a while since I wrote; the details are foggy, but I assure you it’s a fun read. So please, go read it.
Our living room floor was originally covered in a corpse-gray carpet the exact color of day 16 in solitary confinement. For the past year, the idea of replacing that carpet has been gnawing, like some sort of cranial termite, at the brain of my beautiful decorator wife.
“We could put in tile,” she said. “Or laminate. You like laminate, don’t you?”
I pointed out that, if we weren’t careful, tile could make our living room look like an oversized, under-plumbed bathroom. But it was true that I did like laminate.
And so we found ourselves at Home Depot at 9:00 PM, awkwardly hoisting long, dense boxes of wooden flooring into a shopping cart while the kids skipped up and down the aisle playing “How sharp is this tool?” to keep themselves occupied. Good news: no hernias. Other good news: Neither child needed stitches.
So how’s your week so far?
I have been reading Jeff Smith’s BONE with my daughter.
She’s five; the subtle interplays of word and image are wasted on her. The dramatic contrast of black and white — especially across tense, multi-page sequences — goes completely over her head.
But she likes that I do the voices. The rat creatures all sound like Peter Lorre, which makes their squabbling about quiche all the more amusing… to me, at least.
“I waaant to eeeat the leeetle one in a keeeesh.”
