The Fall of the King of Sota: Chapter Fourteen

 

I warned Jack, Pierre's player, that I was about to take the gloves off. And I did. It ain't gonna slow down till the end of the Book. I am making good on my word.

October 19th through 24th

Newport

Lillian and Silvy finished growing the lean-to that Abbadon had let them have into a full on mansion, more than big enough for the elves they had brought back. It's located outside of town (I will be updating the Setting Bible to include its location on the map)

Pierre La Forge attempted to whip up the people against the elves, but Lady Marie was able to squash his propaganda with her own. The attitude against the elves, especially after "Maurice" had been put captured, has begun to reverse.

Montport

King Lucian was said to have found forbidden magics under the city of Montport, and destroyed anything connected to it. There's also rumors that King Lucian almost ate someone? The majority of the army denies any such allegations, citing the king's upstanding morals and his bravery. There was hardly a time when he *wasn't* running right at the front of his men, and the rest had to struggle to keep up.

October 25th-29th

On October 25th, hundreds of humans begin to die of what appears to be a plague. Doctors swear it isn’t

If you do not spend Fate Points, you will get a level 6 Ceaseless Vomiting Condition. It's a Mortal Condition. Seren, King Julian, Cato, and Abbadon are not affected. Everyone else is either coughing up the Fate Points to lessen or lower the Condition or you literally die. On October 27th, there’s a rumble, and a bunch of ground under Newport collapses in on itself, destroying houses and the walls. A spiderweb of destroyed earth goes away from Newport. Taxes on the elven buildings goes up. ADDITIONAL PROBLEM: the people who have survived have fallen into rancor, attacking each other or falling into despair. On October 29th, late at night an army of minotaurs appears, from Cleft Mountain in the west, claiming to be serving The King of Sota. Surrender or die.

October 30th, Chapter Fourteen

This was the first time I tried out my new session flow, which I had just written about. And it did exactly what I thought it would do. I started focusing on pushing forward the threads given to me during the interludes above. I don't think I did a good job, but I think part of that is conceptualizing what a Weaver is supposed to actually do in the first place. I'm not sure how to do that, yet.

But the question is now in my mind: what am I actually trying to do by being a Weaver? What is it I'm looking for?

It's a question I am going to spend a good deal of time working out.

Crescendo Design Journal: The Weaver Has to Play

 

An introduction

Should be made for people who have never seen my weird little game. You need to know two different mechanics in order to appreciate the post: Hitting the Books and Beliefs

Hitting the Books

The big unique thing  about Crescendo is its usage of journals. Everyone has either a notebook or a word processing program where they can randomly search whatever they write.

To Hit the Books, everyone opens up their journals to where they know there's writing, closes their eyes, and randomly select a passage from the page. Everyone reads their random selections out loud, and the Weaver (think GM) free associates what he hears into a piece of infromation, like a plot twist or an answer to a question he didn't expect. Everyone then writes down what their character would think of that plot twist or piece of information.

Example:

Alex, playing Warlord Bastien, and Danny, playing Sir Mal, are fighting a troll, and one of them scores a hit on the troll via rolling dice. That requires Hitting the Books, to see what weird plot twist comes up. Paul the Weaver tells everyone to Hit the Books. They randomly search their journals.

Alex: "Without a horde, you're nothing"

Paul: "Everyone dies alone."

Danny: "And when I saw Genevieve, everything changed."

Paul, based off of those readings, decides that a small woman comes running to the defense of the troll: "Leave Stravlkin alone! He wasn't hurting anyone!"

There's a young woman who thinks the troll that was roaring at Alex and Danny is lovable. Is she right?

Notice how it was just what Paul felt like doing in the moment. He could have come up wit ha totally different answer to those prompts, and it would have been fine. That's what he wanted in the moment. That and he was keeping the Beliefs of the players in mind, see the next section.

Beliefs

The core of your character are three Beliefs, statements your Hero is willing to burn the rest of the world down for. If you act in accordance with your Beliefs, you usually succeed in your actions during the game. You gain power from acting upon your Beliefs.

The Weaver normally tries to make situations that challenge Beliefs, pitting them against each other. If the Weaver does his job right, a lot of the game is centered around trolley problems pulled from the players' Beliefs.

Warlord Bastien

1. The Horde has always been my home. I will never be at home without them.

2. We used to beat our women and children, to our harm, and I put a stop to it. I owe my ability to hope to this.

3. Our Horde is constantly fighting. My rage (and purpose) are fed because of it.

Sir Mal

1. King Julian knighted me as he lay injured on the battlefield. I don’t owe him anything I think important.

2. The queen Madeline took me as her toy. I owe her many a good time.

3. One day a knight, Sir Alain, came into the slums where I picked pockets, and told me that he was my father. He taught me what kindness looks like.

The above example 

is actually a pretty good poke at both the Heroes. The young woman is dedicated to the troll, something that both Sir Mal and Warlord Bastien respect. But it also rubs against the fact that they're facing the troll in combat. Sir Mal is fighting because he is a knight, that's a troll over there, and it's threatening people. Warlord Bastien very much conflates rage and purpose, so if he stops what he started it's not going to go well for him.

They're going to have to pick a way forward, and it's probably not going to be clean.

That's the heart of what makes Crescendo.

I have made

 a ton of changes to Crescendo over the years. It's a criticism leveled at me that I have no choice but to own. I like to tinker, what can I say? Game design is a hobby. It ain't my job. A lot of the changes are also what I think of as "periphery": stuff that goes around the core of Crescendo.

Here's the old formula for a single Chapter Session:

• A random event happens, drawn from the journals
• Players, one at a time, respond to this random event, using their Beliefs and the Setting's Myth to succeed at their actions. This is a verbal puzzle. You have to solve the metaphysical and material aspects of the problem in order to win.
• Players can roll dice to challenge what's going on. It always randomly resets the situation after rolling, whether you win or lose.
• The randomness is determined by everyone's journals, when they Hit the Books. This means that the randomness begins to converge after a long, long long time.

And, so long

as Crescendo was a 1-3 player game, without 1:1 time, this setup worked. A smaller game meant the story sorta meandered but was deeply meaningful. As the Weaver, I somewhat focused on Beliefs, but it was a small enough social environment that I didn't have to really focus on Beliefs. We could essentially run the Epic as a series of one-shots that have indeterminate time skips. Which was a really fun setup, and I loved doing it.

But the goal has always been 

to emulate the kinds of stories Gene Wolfe, Christopher Ruocchio, and C.S. Lewis tell. And something was  missing in the above set up. It was close, but this is my hobby and I don't have a deadline, and therefore I can turn on the 'tism all the way up, and say "No, not yet." Wolfe isn't about characters who are only tangentially connected to each other, but who are connected even when they aren't in the same room, and they may not know it. This is shown the best in Book of the Long Sun and The Wizard Knight, where Wolfe puts his philosophy right up on his sleeve.

Enter the BROSR 

and their discoveries in 1:1 time and interlude scheming. Immediately I knew this would fulfill the core conceit of Wolfe: everyone is the tip of an iceberg. Everyone is connected, and their actions affect each other all the time, they just don't know it. And this game tech would allow me fulfill that core conceit.

So I committed to testing another two years after putting in 1:1 time and entirely player-driven scheming into Crescendo. I'm here to make a good game that emulates Wolfe faithfully.

And it works!!!  It requires some more work from the players, but it more than pays back what they put into it. Players could take a great deal of effort and care and get amazing results out of Crescendo.  The rules support the players as close to perfectly as one can get. This has been proven, over and over and over again. The players are really happy! Each session is part of a continuum of story that's going on around it, an iceberg of drama.

That, right there, is Wolfe in a nutshell. Disagree with me at your peril.

And yet, as we get 

to the end of the first Book of The Fall of the King of Sota, I know, intuitively, that something is off. I have learned when to trust this feeling, and to know when to put it aside. I have the time to look at it, so I decided to let it through the gates.

And boy, did I get a mainline of intuition that was pretty self-damning.

Crescendo is based

very openly upon merging storygame and oldschool principles, especially the BROSR. I've never been quiet about that. And it works like it should: oldschoolers find the game focused on story in a way they appreciate, while storygamers like the structure and how it helps generate unexpected outcomes. The logic of Crescendo is extremely old school. The results are pure story.

And nowhere is this more obvious than the role of the Weaver. When I first named the role, I thought of it as an old-school judge with a slight twist: it was his job to interpret all the journal entries read out loud during Hitting the Books. His primary job was to weave the random journal entries from everyone into something coherent. The general shape of the story was not the Weaver's business. So long as we were at this more intimate scale, that was fine.

But then

I added in 1:1 time, interlude play, and I opened the game up to twelve different people. I am currently running the game for nine. Which is absolutely crazy! I've never done anything like this for a storygame! Crescendo scales the additional players really nicely, and the interlude play sings with 5+ people. Some of the best gameplay I've ever had in my life has been in that in between PBP stuff. It's amazing to see how people cook up these situations, and it's been a real genuine pleasure to be the Weaver for these moments.

As it turns out,

scale matters. Crescendo's Hitting the Books mechanics, which create manageable chaos at 1-3 players, absolutely balloons at anything higher than three. Which means that what was originally a somewhat meandering story goes completely chaotic. The players are doing what they're supposed to be doing. The story should cohere, and the thematics, I found, were lacking in a specific way that I knew was not the player's fault. They have been going at 11 the whole freaking time, and it's been beautiful.

The fault should

be obvious: The role of the Weaver has not adapted to the new ludological environment. The players are not going to naturally cohere at the scale that Crescendo now operates in. The Weaver does not live up to his name, now. The Weaver originally was meant to be much more similar to an oldschool Judge.

With the increased scale and the addition of between session play, the Weaver has more material to work with. And it is his job to do so.

And it can all be fixed very simply.

Here's the new formula for the Chapter Session:

• The Weaver picks a player and uses the consequences of their actions during interlude play to challenge their Beliefs.
• The player uses their Beliefs and the Setting's Myth to respond to the Weaver. It's a verbal puzzle. You have to solve the metaphysical and material aspects of the problem presented by the Weaver.
• Once the player is done responding, the Weaver uses the consequences of their actions to challenge another player's Beliefs, possibly using SEEN and GOSS.
• Players can roll dice to challenge what's going on. It always randomly resets the situation after rolling, whether you win or lose.
• The randomness is determined by everyone's journals, when they Hit the Books. This means that the randomness begins to converge after a long, long long time.

• Once the session is done, it is wrapped up by Hitting the Books, to see how the actions of the session have created unexpected consequences.

The benefits

of this are powerful. The players' actions from between sessions are validated because they are directly addressed. This creates a loop between interlude play and its chapter session. You now have a unified story going on, across the weeks. And then... the journal pull creates consequences none of us could have seen coming, forcing the players to go address the fallout in the next week of interlude play. The players have to go address the consequences of their actions in the next week of interlude play. Which then blows up in the next chapter session.

This will make the Weaver inherently start drawing the threads together, before the game explodes it back out again, twisting the story into unexpected directions... which are based upon the players' journalings!

By making

the Weaver the active bridge between Interlude scheming and Chapter friction, Crescendo doesn't lose its old-school logic or its storygame heart. It finally lets nine people sit at a table, spin their own threads, and watch as the tapestry builds into something totally unexpected, new, and hauntingly beautiful.

RE: Why 4e Failed

This a rant. 

I'm not necessarily going to be reasonable. I'll try to remain charitable.

I have been accused of being one of the most unique defenders of 4e. It's a unique little badge of honor, I suppose.

Here was my defense: on page 42 of the DMG is a table that lets you make up any bespoke action you like, adjudicate the damage and DCs for actions, and just.. go ham. This creates a uniquely creative tactical game. I ran this. It's not a question. I'm not guessing. The games went from stodgy pickings of powers to "Well, here's the crazy thing I'm going to try." And then you roll. And you'll probably get it. And then you roll damage, and get this cool little bespoke effect that y'all made up on the spot. If you didn't know what you wanted to do... surprise!  You have powers to fall back on! 

This was me running it from the text! Page 42 was one page, sure, but once you made the simple decision to make that primary... man the fun you had!

Now, the question was always whether or not WOTC meant to do this. I mean, it's in the book, plain as day, and examples are given as to how to adjudicate it.

I really wish I hadn't found Mike Mearl's YoutTube channel. He just released this cluster... just watch it.

I think the thing I find so offensive isn't his honesty. He gives his it straight. I appreciate that.

But it's obvious that literally nobody in WOTC knew what they were doing. Nobody. Not Mearls, not Heinsoo, not Wyatt, not a single damn one of 'em. They essentially threw a whole bunch of stuff into a blender and presto! Out came an engine that had some good bones, a whole lot of flaws, and just enough luck.

Because apparently that's all it was.

I have also been occasionally accused of finding meaning where there is none. It's actually a rather common thing I hear. I usually laugh it off, simply because the number of times I actually do that is terrifyingly small. But I suspected, the more I heard Mike Mearls and the other DnD team talk, that this was one of those times.

Boooy I hate it when it happens.

So, on the one hand, it means I'm not really tied to 4e as a concept. I found what I found, which is really in the text, but got a usage out of it that truly couldn't be intended, because it was always corporate slop. Made by people who either couldn't be bothered to have a real vision, or who simply couldn't have the time for it.

I really hope it's just the former. I really want it to be.

I am starting to wonder if it's not the latter.

Phooey.

 

Clandestine Turns: Initial Pitch

This is the Leadup

So while I was running 4e-

SIT DOWN. I'm going somewhere with this.

Anyway.

While I was running my last campaign of the 4th edition of Dungeons and Dragons, back in 2011, I started doing something on reflex: giving each player private time to do one private scene. No other players in the room. Wasn't really thinking about it. I just liked stirring the pot.

And it worked. Word spread. It was so entertaining I had people coming in to watch my 4e sessions, as a spectator thing. No, I didn't know about actual plays at the time. If you're wondering if I recorded the sessions.. no? Not really something I was thinking about at 22. I was actually more annoyed by the spectators than anything, because they wouldn't shut up and I wanted to.. oh I dunno... play the game.

But this one change was apparently very entertaining for others. And it was definitely fun! And, once I found the BROSR, I went, "Oh, that's kind what I was doing back in 2011." But when I looked around, I couldn't find anyone doing it. So I forgot about it like an idiot.

Well,  I remembered.

So here I am, writing about it. Better late than never.

And then I needed to come up with a name: the Clandestine Turn. It probably sucks. Oh, and other people have probably done it, but I don't know about them, so. Obviously if someone else came up with this, I don't deserve the credit for founding it.

Get on With It!

FINE

This is intended to be used with DnD, something like it, or whatever you got that builds downtime into the game. I did it during "long" rests during 4e, when everyone bedded down for the night.

During a rest, each player gets a number of Clandestine Turns with the GM. Everyone else goes and takes a break, after y'all figure out how much HP and whatnot is recorded.

If it's a "short" rest (aka 6-8 hours or whatever your version of bedding down for the night) you get 1 turn. 

If it's a "long" rest (weeks) you get a turn a day.

During this point in time, the player can come to the GM with any idea they have, and then negotiate it loosey-goosey. Anything. 

Well, sorta. 

If a roll is needed or whatever, do it, but it can't break the terms of "resting" in your rules. It actually has to be pretty light. You get about five minutes max with the GM, alone, to resolve something. 

The key is this alone time is not optional. Every rest, everyone must take this alone time with the GM. And unless someone else has set up a surveillance method on you, nobody knows what you’re doing. So even if you just sit and do nothing, nobody can verify it.

The knock on effects of this are hilarious, especially if you have a game with alignments or another way to publicly signal the moral outlook of characters. What’s a Lawful Good Paladin gonna do with their five minutes? That Chaotic Neutral Rogue? 

The answer may be nothing. 

Or it may be everything.

You don’t know. 

And that moment when two people volunteer to take a turn together? Oh forget about it. Coalitions will form. And suddenly the GM doesn’t really need to prep, because players are doing stuff behind each other’s backs, openly. Actions havre consequences. All the GM has to do is visit hilariously cruel consequences on everyone, and the game suddenly gets cutthroat. If everyone pays the price for one man’s folly, they’re going to start squabbling.

All from a few minutes of silence.

Example of Play: The Clandestine Turn in Adventurer Conqueror King Imperial Imprint

Setting the Scene: The party—consisting of Sir Gareth (a Lawful Paladin), Vesper (a Chaotic Assassin), and Brother Thaddeus (a Neutral Cleric)—has just cleared the first level of a subterranean temple. They are bedding down for a standard 8-hour camp rest.

The GM calls for tracking HP and resource updates, and then announces: “Right, camp is set. Everyone step away from the table for your Clandestine Turns. Vesper, you’re up first. The rest of you, take a ten-minute break.”

Turn 1: Vesper the Assassin

The Setup: Vesper pulls the GM aside. She wants to use her 5 minutes of clandestine camp time to quietly rifle through Sir Gareth’s saddlebags while he sleeps, looking for the ruby they found earlier that Gareth claimed responsibility for safeguarding.

In ACKS, sleight of hand or stealth tasks during rest depend on movement, noise, and surprise. Since Gareth is asleep, the GM calls for a standard proficiency or dexterity check, or a quick roll against Vesper's Thievery proficiency. She passes easily.

The GM whispers: “You successfully slip your fingers into the velvet pouch. You don’t find the ruby, but you do find a strange, sealed parchment bearing the wax seal of a known local heretical cult. You pocket it."

Turn 2: Sir Gareth the Paladin

The Setup: Vesper steps away, and Sir Gareth takes his turn at the GM's station. Gareth says, “I spent my rest keeping a quiet, watchful eye on our camp perimeter, specifically looking for any signs of foul play or nocturnal trickery from Vesper. I don’t trust her.”

Normally, the GM would say that this would interrupt the rest, but Vesper's player has no idea Gareth is watching her, so it's not exactly a difficult roll. The GM rolls a secret Wisdom or perception check for Gareth to see if he catches Vesper in the act. He does.

The GM says: “From the shadow of your bedroll, you didn't just watch the perimeter—you saw Vesper’s silhouette creeping near your gear. You didn't stop her, but you saw her hand slip away from your pack. You now know she’s up to something, but you have no proof to show the others yet.”

Turn 3: Brother Thaddeus the Cleric

Thaddeus takes his turn. "I want to spend my clandestine time praying quietly to my deity for insight, but wait... can I approach Vesper and ask to spend my turn with her?”

The GM grins. “You volunteer to take your turn together? Done.” He calls Vesper in. Gareth's player, of course, sees this happening and gets absolutely no explanation for it.

Thaddeus corners Vesper during their shared 5-minute block. “Vesper, I saw you cleaning your blade earlier with dried blood that wasn’t from a goblin. If you’re planning something that brings the wrath of the Law down on this party, my god will know. Cut me in, or I start asking louder questions.” Vesper’s player has to negotiate on the spot. Does she share information, lie, or threaten him? Vesper decides to offer a partial truth to keep him quiet, creating an uneasy alliance right under the Paladin's nose.

The Aftermath

The break ends, and everyone returns to the main table.

Sir Gareth looks coldly at Vesper, his Lawful suspicions heightened, though he says nothing publicly yet. The player knows something is up, but can't put his finger on it. Not yet.

Vesper acts completely innocent, but has no idea that Sir Gareth knows a bit more than he's letting on to. She's got a weird document she lifted off the Paladin and a secret... pact with the Cleric.

Brother Thaddeus sits quietly, now tied to the rogue's schemes. He knows Sir Gareth is only going to sit on that forever, so he preps a few more offensive spells than he normally would. When that dude comes swinging, Brother Thaddeus will be ready.

The Note Passing

Combine this practice with passing notes instead of answering questions out loud, and you will find that the tension is almost palpable. Make sure that it's stuff that other characters wouldn't see or whatnot.

For instance, Sir Gareth is alone in a room, and when he searches said room, the GM rolls his search for him, like normal. He then writes something down on a piece of paper, and hands it down to Sir Gareth.

The paper reads:

You didn't find anything, what a relief!

Sir Gareth smiles a bit ruefully, and doesn't say anything. Everyone else wants to know what it is. He ain't talking.

But One Thing Should Be Known!

At least, in theory. This I haven't tested out all that much to prove veracity, but in theory everyone should have a good idea of all the characters' alignments. This allows people to make general guesses that they think are accurate enough... But anyone with half a brain knows the alignments are pretty broad, and don't stop all that much if it comes down to brass tacks. It sets up enough of an expectation that it actually confuses a lot more than it helps.

And yes, we want that.

In Summary

What makes the Clandestine Turn, along with passing notes, so lethal is that it turns inaction into a weapon. By making the private turn mandatory—even if a character does absolutely nothing—you strip the rest of the table of certainty. The paladin sitting quietly in his bedroll is suddenly just as suspicious as the assassin skulking in the shadows, because no one can verify the silence.

You give players an unmonitored sanctuary, hand them five minutes of the GM’s undivided attention, and watch as alliances, betrayals, and unspoken truces form out of thin air. All it takes is five minutes, a closed door, and a piece of paper that says nothing at all.

This Is All Kyle's Fault

 

The Incidents

2012 and 2013 rewrote what I thought roleplaying games could be, suddenly and violently, and I've been trying to catch up ever since. In those two years I was in the two campaigns that changed everything: I ran Revenge of the Countess of Fire in Burning Wheel and played in Kyle's undocumented Torchbearer campaign. Both of these campaigns completely rewrote how I approached life, nevermind RPGs.

Revenge of the Countess of Fire

Revenge of the Countess of Fire was my second Burning Wheel campaign. It came during a particularly harsh time of my life. I was at the tail end of my time in Atchison. The dreams of and visitations from the black-haired girl had just come to an end, and I was a nervous wreck. I started running the game, and my brain just... couldn't handle it. Maria told me end the campaign. I listened, and told everyone we had three sessions left. And I decided to put in literally everything I possibly could to those last three. I anticipated not running anything for a long time after that, or even thinking about RPGs, as I was utterly fried.

Those last three sessions were some of the best of my life. I had never, not even once, encountered anything like them before that. They were the first three of many. I had no idea what I was doing, but these were sessions that ended with everyone sitting quietly together in a circle, talking about important stuff. It's been 14 years, so the specifics are fuzzy now, but I remember the feeling, clear as a bell. It was this quiet joy, the kind of thing you remember from your childhood. Except we were adults. And we could really talk.

The last session was... revolutionary. It was everything. It was so good that the session ended in total silence. You could literally hear a pin drop. Someone whispered, after a few minutes: "That was something out of Tolkien."

It was a feeling that I had felt before, but in the dark of night, before my icons as I wept, when Silence overcame the turmoil in my soul. But there we were, looking at each other, and realizing that we were all feeling it, together.

I didn't understand what happened. I didn't know if it was on purpose. But there were echoes throughout my years of gaming that told me that this could be done on purpose.

Could.

Kyle's Torchbearer Campaign

Back in 2013, I was part of my brother-in-law Kyle's last great campaign. Not good. Not excellent. Great.

It was like a symphony. The sessions kept building, one upon another. Each challenge felt like it was part of a cohesive whole that was just beyond my ability to ascertain. It's hard to define it, 13 years later, but this wasn't a "Wow, this is something special" that I thought about years later. Right then and there I knew it was special. Knew it. So did the other players.

But the memory of Countess of Fire was still strong in me, and I realized that it was beginning to line up. But, like usual, what I had done by accident, he was doing on purpose. Fully. Kyle knew exactly what he was doing. I couldn't track how he was doing it, but I could tell that he was.

And then the moments starting rolling in. It's hard to define them now, and anyone who has had a real "moment" happen in an RPG knows exactly what I am talking about: the exposure over time builds to things that are far greater than your ability to communicate to anyone else.

When the end came, it brought Ragnorrak in a spectacular manner, one that was incredibly meaningful. And suddenly it clicked. I don't know how, but suddenly I saw Kyle. And I said the only truth I could hold onto: "You just showed us... you."

I heard Kyle's sad smile over the phone. It's not too often that happens.

The Building That Followed

Once that piece fell into place, I knew what I needed to do. What Kyle did by intuition, I could teach myself to do.

Over the years, two places came out of this process: Heranyt and Kalvano.

Heranyt

Heranyt is the place that I find, deep within me. It houses all the intellectual questions I have, put into a world: my feelings about theodicy, concerns of totalitarianism, eugenics and secularism (they're linked!), astrology, and the enchantment of the world. It isn't so much a place of light as a place of the socratic. Heranyt is a place I can ask questions and feel perfectly safe to do so... as well as show some of the answers I have experienced.

At the center of Heranyt shines Elpida, the Flame Reborn, the Presence Imperishable, the one that will eventually spread from Heranyt to the rest of the fallen universe, restoring it and elevating it into Seitsemann, restoring it to the Seven-Storied Mountains. The people of Heranyt, aboard the Apocalypse Ship, will range ahead to help find those who also want to heal what's broken.

I can close my eyes, hold out my hand, and point to the golden Ring of Tears encircling Herany, seeable by day, even. I can tell you exactly what phases the moons are: Tuntameton, the wise blue moon, is at full. Eous, the foul imprisoned moon, is almost invisible. The night sky had a red tinge, but that’s now turning a teal. I can just… close my eyes. I see it.

The Process

I took two years, just to myself, to journal the setting. All the while I listened to BA55, by Switchfoot, which is one of my favorite songs.

Heranyt was arrived at by listening to me, and the things that I cared about, intently. I know of no other way to put it. I found a basis in two basic things I love: Western Europe and its cultural degradation around World War 1, the Desert Fathers, eldritch horror, and the Byzantine Empire. I read and studied about those things, and just... listened to how those things affected me. Not how I thought about them, but how I felt about them.

While Heranyt started as a Burning Wheel setting, it's at is best in Crescendo. It is the place I feel most comfortable. It just... came from within. All of it.

Kalvano

Calling Kalvano the dark twin of Heranyt is not correct. Kalvano has at her center Nalkalapsi, the Star Eater, the Wyrm That Devours, who will be released from the confines of Kalvano to ravage those who will refuse to embrace Elpida when She is released to heal the universe. 

Because of Nalkalapsi, the planet is corrupted from the core, outwards. The Star Eater has an uncanny knowledge of the peoples of his and other planets, using their own unspoken desires, fears, and internal vices against them. Where Heranyt invites Socratic questioning to restore the soul, Kalvano turns those same questions into wedges of doubt and self-destruction. Even the dead do not stay so: they return, fully cognizant and malicious.

Nalkalapsi would have destroyed the people of Kalvano, but they cried for help, and The Outsider intervened. He created the Shadow Hands, and they grabbed the last portion of the planet that wasn't totally corrupted, forced the survivors onto it, and then held it aloft. Forever. This is called The Elevated Plateau. The people of Kalvano had a respite.

But, even with the Elevated Plateau, Nalkalapsi's power was too great. He snaked up around the Shadow Hands, and burrowed into the Elevated Plateau. The dead began to rise, and forgotten places in the world began to be converted to evil. Once again, the people cried for aid. And this time the Immortals of Sota heard them. They, in turn, implored the stars for aid... and they came down themselves, burrowing into the Elevated Plateau. Sanctifying it. Driving back the corruption of Nalkalapsi. Not a lot of stars have this done this, so the Elevated Plateau hasn't been totally recovered, but it has begun. People can at least live, especially the land of Rikuma, where the most stars have fallen.

Orbiting Kalvano is Sota, the Moon of the Immortals. It shines so brightly that its red light can be seen in the daytime. Battles the size of continents have been witnessed ranging acrost its surface. The Immortals train for when they will be needed, but some of them, usually the lower ones, come to Kalvano and help as they can.

And yet, when the time comes, and Nalkalapsi emerges from the wreckage of Kalvano, the centuries will have forged the peoples of Kalvano and Sota into a force capable of of protecting the worthy from the Star Eater.

The Process

I first discovered Kalvano while on deployment in 2016, in a Burning Wheel game I ran. I loved the setting immediately, but didn't quite understand what I do about the place now. The game was a lot of fun, but it ended sooner than I would have liked.

Before I could really argue the point with the players, I had a mental breakdown while on deployment. 

They shipped me home. And it took another two horrifyingly difficult years before I was able to run another game: The Giggling Dark, which ran for two years, and then Autarchy, which unfortunately never finished.

And then all the events in the Elephant in the Room happened.

The point is. I've been busy.

I haven't really been able to focus like I used to, until... well... now? I suppose? And, when I finally focus like I used to, I find a living world. I find a place eerily similar to the pre-Imperial Romans. As in, Plutarch's Lives. Because, yes, I read that for school. A proud people, filled with pride in their res publica, the people. The idea of races being a real dividing issue beyond simple biology is nonsense. Biology can go so wrong that what's important is what someone can give you, not what they are. The dead can rise, corrupted. Who cares if not all the living can procreate with me?

I don't find wisdom when I look into Kalvano. I don't find the yearning for a higher truth, I don't find the surprise from wandering into a wider world. I find exhaustion. I find stoicism. And I find that nobody can get away with not fighting. I find a pragmatism and exhaustion that either leads to heroism or death. There isn't room for true corruption. 

There's the war. 

Sure, there's vultures who pick the battlefields and graves, but that's not the same thing as "becoming an evil creature" like in Heranyt. You either cower behind the people who hold the shields, hold the shield, or pick the corpses.

Oh, that's just Torchbearer.

Literally: the Grind makes time a threatening blade, advancement can only be gained with failure and making mistakes, and recovery is a key part of the game. But it's not mudcore: the game gives plenty of opportunities for amazing bursts of awesomeness. It's just that those moments of awesome are weighted down a bit by whether you have any water in your canteen, or if you lost your temper at the door you were trying to unlock.

Go ahead, be a hero. Just remember that you literally have to put your pants on like everyone else: one leg at a time.

The thing is: I'm terrible at this kind of thing in real life. If Heranyt is something that naturally comes out of me, Kalvano is talking about something I'm weak at: simply living.

Or, at least I think so. I have no idea what's going to come out of this process.

Normally, 

I try and find a way to conclude these things. It's what a good writers does, after all, and I'm not a terrible one. But here, after everything I just wrote... I'm done. For now, at least. I don't know why, but this is where I'm supposed to stop.

So I am.

For now?

Nails and Naps

One of my friends 

went to a monastery on Mount Olympus for a litlte while. Yes, there's Orthodox monasteries on Mount Olympus. And my friend went there. He had an elder, who helped him on the way to salvation. Part of this meant helping my friend deal with "bad" thoughts. Think a psychologist, but... well honestly a lot better. This dude lives with you, has seen it all, and knows your bullshit better than you do. There's a level of "Yeah been there done that do this" these elders have that most laymen simply can't comprehend.

So my friend was having really dark thoughts. And he brought them forward to his elder, knowing the man wouldn't judge or take advantage of him. His elder looked at him, and then said with a bit of a wry smile: "Go take a nap. Take the afternoon off." 

If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

And sometimes, you just need a nap.

In a recent, widely circulated video essay, 

Vindicta RPGs delivered a poetic eulogy for the burnt-out Game Master, diagnosing our collective fatigue through Nietzsche's Three Metamorphoses. It’s a compelling piece of mythmaking. But it harbors a critical, unstated error: the assumption that GM burnout is primarily an attitude problem.

It isn't. 

The causal arrow runs in the opposite direction. You cannot simply "will" yourself into the mindset of a child at play while operating a mechanical beast that demands the bandwidth of an air-traffic controller. The tools you bring to the table actively dictate the posture you take.

This entire video is exactly the problem with conventional play. You can't deny that. He describes conventional play with an exactitude that only the utterly stupid or brainwashed could disagree with. The GM pours his heart and soul into something literally nobody can take the time for, using a bad rule system, with methods that are way too intensive for what they provide. The problem is that Vindicta is way too poetic, and goes into some really pretty verbiage for what's in reality a series of bad design and social decisions.

Bad rules systems

do exist. There are objective standards you can measure a bad game by, and they're pretty simple:

Given your goal, the design requires more work than you feel it gives back.

You can't just

ask if something works. You have to ask what the goal of the design is and what its parameters are. A random encounter table is going to be terrible if your goal is to resolve whether you hit someone or not. It's a lot of work for "yes" or "no".

If your goal is beyond "Yes" or "No", that changes how you evaluate it.

You need to ask what the goal is. If you can't answer that question, from examining the text, you got an objective problem on your hands.

The amount of work,

given your goal, is absolutely a part of the equation. RPGs are by nature an improv activity, and improv requires processes that can be used with very little effort... because you're going to be doing a lot of them. 

The output

must be more than what you put in. You have to feel rewarded! You have to feel like something that took so little to get so much back is like cheating. At that point you're actually able to enjoy the results, because you actually have the brain space.

Yeah that's a lot of subjective

reactions, but look at what we're looking for: does the process itself yield a pretty consistent subject response? The objective part isn't how the person reacts it's how the mechanics cooperate with the person to create that subjective experience. Objective evaluation means looking at the things not a part of you to see how easy it is to interact with, given your goal. 

There's a very easy metric

one can use for figuring out if a design is objectively good , given you know what the goal is. I use this rule when designing. I have footage showing this works. It ain't about my opinion at that point. You can go look at what I'm doing.

If you can't easily handle the rule consistently while drunk or tired, it's bad design.

 That's not saying you can't make a rules-heavy game. I don't make lite games. I just don't. I'm simply saying that if you're having a bad day and are tired, there's no actual difference between that and being drunk. If you're having a bad day, and therefore aren't really thinking clearly, the game should not be compromised.

If your game doesn't assume a flawed user, what's the point of playing it? Because I don't know about you, but I almost never at fully optimal when playing my games. 

Notice how that completely bypasses

most of what Vindicta is saying? And that's before we get to the quiet part that Vindicta isn't saying ,but I'm in the habit of saying such things loudly.

System mattering isn't

necessarily part of his "camel-lion-child" setup. Going "hardcore OSR" isn't the only answer to realizing that modern DnD sucks absolute balls. Sometimes you go in a different reaction: realizing that mechanics can help an attitude problem. People show up tired, and if they find the experience lacking, they're not going to invest anything in it. Games are supposed to help you get energy back, not lose you more!

If a common theme of modern DnD is scheduling... guess what that means.

The system doesn't give back more than what it takes.

Which means it sucks.

And we know Vindicta knows this

because he's designing his own system! I'm not poo-pooing that, for the record. I too am designing my own stuff, and I think there's plenty of room for differing systems. So I am not just nitpicking here. If he didn't think system mattered, if he thought it was merely a question of accepting the inner child and producing questions for the players to respond to.. he wouldn't be using rules. Or making his own.

On some intuitive level, Vindicta knows that. Poetry won't fix a engine that burns more fuel than it produces. If a game system expects its GM to be a heroic martyr just to keep the gears turning, the system is broken, no matter how elevated your mindset is.

I know Vindicta is addressing a central attitude problem on the part of the GM, but the unstated "Your tools determines you mindset" is a critical error.

So the next time 

you feel that familiar dread settling in over a canceled session or a bloated prep folder, don't default to self-flagellation. Don't look for a grand spiritual transformation to endure the weight of an unyielding campaign.

Look at your tools instead.

Ask if the engine you're feeding is actually returning the energy you pour into it. If it demands that you be a hero, a martyr, or an air-traffic controller just to get through a Tuesday night, set it down. You don't need a new philosophy of the soul. You need a system that assumes you’re human, tired, and just trying to play a good game—and maybe, before anything else, a good afternoon nap.

The Fall of the King of Sota: Chapter Thirteen

October 18th

It is amazing how this game still throws me, years in. Two players show up, in totally different places, and manage to still produce gold. 

A thanks to Abbadon for showing up and trying! Traveling is a bitch!

The ending of this session had me and Kredo speculating as to what may have actually happened. I started drawing in my journal because I produced three different creatures in the space of an hour, and I wanted to know what they looked like.

Golden, you're getting to me.

Even this late in the Book, there's still that's gonna throw me. The butterfly at the end... what the heck is that? I've got some ideas now, but at the time? That's just what the tea leaves said, and that's what I ran with. We think it's a thematic closing of the loop; all sorts of crazy stuff has dropped out of the sky these last few months, and it's the first time something dropped out of the sky that The Outsider literally noped out of existence.

What was it?

And what was it doing that made God Himself say "Absolutely not"?

I shudder to think. And then chuckle evilly. We're going to find out.

Crescendo Demo for a Bunch of Friends!

 

The Fall of the King of Sota: Chapter Twelve

 

I Wrote the Following Before the Chapter Session

I'm generally a pretty laidback GM. I run the procedures, and wait. And wait. And wait.  I just let the players through down whatever track they like, and then when I think thinigs are wrapping up, I start pulling on their threads and snapping them. Hard.

I started doing that. Crescendo is organized into "Books": (at least) three Storysteins, with a Capstone to force things to close out, and then you're done. I could push for a fourth Storystein, but I don't think I will. So we're in the last bit of this Book. I'm really good at ending things. And it's time to start doing that.

October 5th through October 10th

With King Lucien returned, he wastes no time: scouts are sent from @Lady Marie 's forces to Montport.

Seren finds a young girl who was being used terribly by someone in the cathedral; she was being chained up and used. The culprit turns out to be the quartermaster of the cathedral: Fr. Elliot, who had total command of the whole place.

Silvanus and Abbadon take over the new elves, and begin to train them. The elves keep to themselves, but there's still something about them that the townsfolk find disturbing.

October 11th through October 15th

On October 11th, King Lucien left for Montport with three platoons.

Lady Marie and Pierre La Forge instigated a movement against the newly arrived elves, preventing them from trading, gambling, or really doing anything other than lying down in a gutter.

Don't think this makes them allies: La Forge increased the price of all forged items for all New Sota City refugees by 100% to make up for the imposition they had made upon his city. Tension  begins to build within Newport.

October 16th- Chapter Twelve

The ending is a direct reference to Chapter Two, and the journaling of Lillian's player, Golden. What he thought was a ghost haunting him was an agent of Telvra. He was human. He had messed himself up past recognition, but human. 

That means there's a human civilization so magically advanced that the long-lived elves, who are natively good at magic, couldn't even detect them.

What the players should have heard was the trap snapping shut. I don't know if they did, but there's an inference they should have drawn.

I'M TELLING THEM TO DRAW IT!

Do you know how much work I put into that twist? Almost nothing. I had a general idea of what was going on in the area, I made a Setting Bible, and as time went on, I just naturally went "Okay, this is what's actually going on". I didn't write anything down. I just noted the shape.

And the players filled in everything else.

Fuckit, I'm Going Back to Torchbearer

Some things just stick with you.

Torchbearer and I have had a contentious relationship, as recorded previously. At the time I logged my issues with the super-focus on dungeoncrawling, the advancement system, and the Grind. Ironically enough, these are the reasons I'm going back. After trying some old school stuff and spending some years learning a bit more about why I play games, I'm going back.

Dungeoncrawling

This is probably the most unexpected change, at least for me. As I stated in that previous post (it's linked above, go read it) I generally don't like being told what to run. At the time I wanted a more open and general system, within a genre.

Well, guess what?

I made Crescendo. I run it four times a month.

I don't particularly need a "general" game. And, having spent years looking into old school stuff and dungeon crawling, I've come to a different appreciation for dungeons, specifically. My appreciation has changed from "running Zelda puzzles" to "Oh cool, a mythic underworld that can do things that the overworld can't!". It's a shift in what I want, and it's the least rational of my reasons, but it's fundamentally the most important one.

Advancement System

Five years ago, the advancement system of Torchbearer really bothered me. A number of passes and fails that you have to take to advance? Why??? That's a lot of tracking. And it is, don't get me wrong. That's a lot to put on players. But, years later, I've learned these are the kinds of things you just have to trust people with. You help when you can, but you leave the systems at their fingertips, and they either play or they don't.

And if they don't, it's no skin off my nose.

I like the system. It leaves things completely under player control, and makes them need to learn the Trait system, so that they can leverage it fully. Is it clunky? Sure. Does it force engagement? Yes.

It's not my favorite part of the system, but it sure does ensure play that I care about more, as I get older.

Play or get out.

The Grind

This may be the biggest turnaround from the original post. I have done a total 180. At the time, I was very much in the school of “narrate till the GM calls for a roll”. In that framework, I came to hate what Torchbearer was doing: why have all these rules if narration was expected to be the primary method of play?

I have since come to disagree with this manner of playing, to a degree that almost excises me from storygaming. For awhile I thought it did, so I looked rather extensively into the oldschool. And I almost thought I was one of them.

Almost. But Not Quite.

See, the thing that I found was that, ultimately, the oldschool was too tactical for me. The oldschool, as a movement, are quite tactical. Which makes sense! The rules are derived from Chainmail, all told. ODnD calls itself a wargame. The goal of the rules is not to impart an emotion, but to create a tactical situation you have to navigate. You can create emotional connections to what you’re doing, but the OSR stories are (shockingly!) going to create the effect of a Tony Bath campaign, if you are if you are running the systems as written

The theme of the OSR is war.

And that realization came about because of seeing the OSR at its best: ACKSII. Macris’s magnum opus is a serious work, and pretending there’s any modern contender for its scale is silly. If there’s any modern example of Tony Bath personified, it’s ACKSII. And I played twelve glorious sessions of it… and then stopped.

But why?

The Need to Return to a Moment

At the time, I couldn’t have been able to say. My emotional impulses have been much harder for me to read post-2016, so I accepted this was where I was at, and moved on. 

And then this moment happened in The Fall of the King of Sota, where the Sword of Uriel was drawn and used.

This little moment set off some major fireworks in my mind and heart. It wasn’t the only moment this had happened, but this time the moment woke up something different within me.

See, over the last five years one moment from that last Torchbearer game had been living in my head.

Stephanie’s “Jedi” had been lowered down a rope to the top of an enormous stalagmite. She stood in a sea of black. She had no way of knowing how far it was to the bottom; her torch simply didn’t reach that far. They were on turn 2 of The Grind: not so far as to get worried, but far enough to where if something happened Stephanie was gonna feel it. 

So of course I dropped The Big Bad of the dungeon right on her head… and they had a talk. Turns out he hadn’t meant to cause all the problems that had occasioned the dungeon delve in the first place. He had woken up and started burrowing up. 

Oh, and he was a creature of plague and pestilence. 

And he liked Stephanie’s Jedi. 

What made this moment stick out, years later, 

was the history up to it and the ludonarrative coherence around it. Torchbearer’s language is one of exhaustion. If your narration is less than perfect, it costs. Hurts. Cripples. But it also is why advancement happens, why Fate and Persona points are handed out. You are constantly looking at the how limited your time is. You measure the world in time passing. Not even literal hours, the feeling that time has been pressing on you until you collapse.

So when something totally unknown comes out of the dark, the first thing that pops into your head is "Oh God, I'm so tired already". There was a dread. "If she gets hurt, her exhaustion may kill her before she ever gets back to us." Everyone knew exactly what was at stake, and they were absolutely terrified for Stephanie.

For the last five year I haven't been able to find that feeling anywhere else. Anywhere. And what I thought of as the annoying parts of that experience was the reason why I was able to have it in the first place.

I spent five years running away from Torchbearer's friction, only to realize the friction was the engine of the exact feeling I'd been searching for.

Oops.

"Over-Mechanizing" RPGs

 

This post is attempting to kill two birds with one stone. We'll see how it works.

Both Daniel from Driving and Dragons and Lex/aka Squid Lord have been in something of a conversation with me over the past few days. 

I posted Always Winter, Never Christmas, where I pissed and moaned about the lack of mechanical direction in RPG campaigns.

A conversation, however indirect, has spun out of this one post. Lex and I have been going back and forth (my replies and his original posts can be found here), and he posted a new response here. I have thoroughly enjoyed these correspondences, told Lex as such, and told him I would post a response as soon as I could. He told me to sit on it. And I did! I kinda had a way forward that was plotted out, and I was really excited to sit down and bang out my response.

And then Daniel posted the video below about some dumbass arguing with me on Twitter (for once, I wasn't the dumbass, sorry Lex). 

Daniel's musings before rightfully roasting my idiot of an interlocutor sparked off my plans, and I decided "to hell with it", and resolved to address them both, because my position on design doesn't seem entirely understood.

I'm not sure how that could be, I'm an absolutely clear and concise person! Ross from Mythic Mountain has never spent hours trying to decode my rantings and musings to see if I'm crazy or secretly brilliant! Somehow he got more out of what I was saying than I did. Figures.

I've never been called out for being unclear! Or grandiose! Or just downright weird in my views! The abovementioned Ross has never pointed this out to me!.. or my wife... or my brother... or anyone else.

Anyone who says this hasn't seen me debate about the Star Wars sequels with ten people, at once. No, really, that happened. That's on some random Discord. I can't remember which one, not anymore.

The first step to fixing a problem is admitting there's a problem? Hopefully?

The way to explain my view of design that most amuses me as of this moment is to show the following picture, and then explain it.

Why?

Because I like Medieval labyrinths, I like talking about menticide/brainwashing, and I love being absolutely clear in everything I write.

Assumptions Make an Ass...

First, we gotta get our assumptions out of the way. I'm pretty sure Daniel and I share more than a few assumptions, given that he's a Roman Catholic with seemingly tradional leanings, but Lex is a Randian Objectivist, best of my knowledge, and that means I gotta try and say the unsaid.

As an Orthodox  Christian, I don't think the natural state of man actually works that well. Humans need help to operate in a way that doesn't just naturally destroy them. You have to guide human behavior.

Not control it.

Not stifle it.

Guide.

The word is deliberate.

Human Nature Needs Help

Light correctives are to applied to most human behavior, so that way it doesn't do what it always does: degenerate. You can't stop degeneration, and you can't fix stupid, but you can help the willing, for a time. You either agree with this, or you don't. I'm not going to defend something I find obvious.  But I will state it so that way you don't have to ask what I'm up to.

Lex Wanted a Statement...

... in his latest reply. Lex wanted me to, and here's the quote:

In what way do you want to see storygaming philosophy concretized?

Sure! In Crescendo-

No, you don't get to turn this into an opportunity to talk about promoting your own work, because goddammit, every third post that people make in the TRPG hobby these days seems like it's about self-promotion and pushing their own work. It feels like an advertising seminar rather than a high-minded discussion of philosophies, opportunities, and methodologies.

Goddamnit, Lex! Fine. You're right. I take issue with the following statement you made, which Daniel indirectly agreed with in the above video:

... what I really mean is carrot-and-stick rewards, because I don't think those are legitimately part of storygaming, either as a philosophy or as a mechanical hook that you can hang a similarity between wargames and story game RPGs on.

That would be a bit of an anti-hook. Most of the mechanical manifestation of the storygaming philosophy is purely[10] carrot, not stick. When there are visible and deterministic negatives, they are generally carried in the form of resource management (a real element of both historical and modern wargaming), and not carrot-and-stick operations.

To be fair, Daniel called it an "attitude problem". I don't know if he meant what Lex meant, but I have a feeling if the two of them started talking they'd agree. If I'm wrong, they're both more than welcome to comment otherwise.

An Example

Let's go back to faerie tales. If we were to use the whole friction idea, there's a really obvious place to do it.

Whether or not humans listen when being told what to do. This is a central point of friction in enough faerie tales that making it a central mechanic wouldn't go amiss. 

So, let's say you have a Stat called Humility. We'll rate it from 1-5. When you must act upon information and/or advice that was given you, roll d6: if you roll equal to or under your Humility, you must choose something else to do. Something you know won't work. And then further complications are chosen for you by the table.

What's more, we can have it to where pleasant things (like sudden fortunes, accolades, or success in marriage) in the story have a chance to decrease your Humility, while unpleasant things (like losing your wife, being betrayed by your friend, or going to war) have a chance to increase it. 

And then, yes, pretty much stick to "we know how to make a faerie tale, we know what faerie tales are".  I would argue that one piece of friction will go a long way to making it feel authentic.

Humans Need Friction

My issue with your statement, Lex, is that human nature requires sticks so they think to look for (or return to) carrots. 

And, on top of that, stories require friction in order to work. Friction is at the heart of stories! And from just a basic knowledge of human nature, people don't like using sticks, even if they're necessary as a funnel. Asking people to be masochistic is wrong. Mechanics are necessary to help to supply the stick, so that way people aren't thinking of ways to hurt each other. Because, yes, people perseverating on how to hurt each other is a bad thing.

Stories need friction. Humans are bad at friction. Mechanics help take the burden of making friction off of humans.

Humans Need Nudging

Now, Daniel may be wondering why he's in this article, because so far, it's probably not terribly clear. See, in his commentary, Daniel said he wasn't sure there was a mechanical solution to an attitude problem.

Now, he's partly correct. You can't fix the unwilling, and you can't fix stupid. But you can help the willing and weak. Which, for the record, all of us are weak from time to time.

Remember that bit about the Medieval labyrinth, from earlier? We're back to it. The concept of a labyrinth in Christianity was a pilgrimage and/or meditative process. You go on a walk, in a predetermine way, and your experience the same labyrinth differently because you are different this time.  It's the same basic concept of the Rosary or the Jesus Prayer, just when it comes to walking. 

The structure frees you from your own exhaustion, carrying you just far enough to where you can get started. The repetition enables you to stop repeating yourself.

An Example

My favorite example is the game Misspent Youth. At the beginning of every session each player asks and answers a question from the standpoint of their characters. These short conversations are used during the session, in a pre-determined "flow":

1. What’s Up: Sets up the episode's initial conflict or threat. Establishes the setting, the daily life of the PCs, and how the Authority’s System of Control is currently encroaching on their world.

2. Fighting Back: The PCs take the initiative and push back against the Authority's threat.

3. Heating Up: the conflict is escalated. The Authority reacts to the PC's resistance, upping the stakes and forcing the clique to commit further.   

4. We Won:  A moment of tactical victory or good fortune for the PCs. The scene ends with a reveal or twist that sets up the downfall in the next scene.   

5. We’re Fucked: The floor falls out. The Reversal hits. The Authority strikes back with overwhelming force, complications multiply, and the PCs are pushed to their limit.

6. Who Wins: the climax of the episode.  The central Question posed in Scene 1 is answered. The final high-stakes conflict resolves whether the YOs triumph or suffer defeat.   

7. Dust Settles: The epilogue, the aftermath, emotional fallout, and how the world and the characters have changed after the dust has cleared.

This little structure is not a railroad, but a series of thematic links that let you plug in whatever you want, in an order that you  can rely upon. Things do not get old, but instead you can riff and trust that you're going to go somewhere good because you have the structure. Now, granted, that's a very specific structure, and it's going to limit what you can achieve, but what it takes away it gives a lot more, if that's what you're going for.

A more open example is the Trait Vote or Winter Sessions from the Burning Wheel and Mouse Guard/Torchbearer games. Every 6-12 sessions the story is paused for a session .Everyone tweaks their characters a little bit, talks about where things are going, and sets new leads down for the next few sessions. This simple reset does tons for the experience: characters are made more accurate to how they're being played, stuff that's no longer fun is wrapped up, and new plot threads can be thrown down. Nothing is dictated, other than taking a quick second to get your breath. This little momentary jolt goes stupidly far.

So when Daniel wonders 

if mechanics can fix an "attitude problem," my answer is: no, but they can support fragile intent. They give willing players a path to walk when their own creative willpower runs out. And everyone's runs out from time to time.

And when Lex argues 

that storygaming is purely about carrots and self-directed motivation, he's assuming human beings don't need external friction to generate genuine drama. But we do. We need the stick—not as a punishment, but as a lens. We need the labyrinth floor beneath our feet so we don't wander off into the mud.

Good mechanics 

don't force you to go anywhere you don't want to go. They simply ensure that when you take the walk, you don't have to reinvent the path every single step of the way.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go see if Ross has finished decoding this post yet.