What's In a Name?

This one's about etymology and game design/worldbuilding. I suppose it's a devblog.

I have this hack that I've been working on. The iteration of it I released publicly is quite generic. It's the document I put together to test with my friends, to see if we liked the mashup of things a bunch of different games do, but all under one roof. The broadness of it was a strength, because it let me pick up any Odd-like adventure, taking a couple seconds to convert stat blocks on the fly. 

So my friends and I played it. We had fun! I put the pdf online (cover art courtesy of Perplexing Ruins' patreon) as a response to a Prismatic Wasteland challenge. I made a couple changes to the game. Then we played it some more, and I thought, "okay, great... now what?"

There was still work to be done. As it states on the itch.io page, and you can see first-hand in the game, there is no GM section. There are no enemy stat blocks. There's no treasure or adventures. Those things still don't exist today. But if I made them now, they'd be written for a generic fantasy game. That doesn't sound fun. So it's time to get specific.

There are many ways I could do that, but the way that always stuck out to me in the games I love are backgrounds. I'm talking Troika, Bastionland (Electric and Mythic), and Cairne 2e. Those games may leave a lot of blanks for you to fill in, but there is nothing generic about the fantasies they present. The random tables in the Bastionland and Cairn 2e backgrounds are an especially potent tool in this regard, so I said to myself, "after all, why shouldn't I? and got to work. 

The Etymology Sandbox

Sandboxes are great. There's a reason why they're such a popular campaign style in ttrpgs. You can do anything and go anywhere! So long as you stay in the confines of the box, of course. The sand is for the players, the box is for the GM. The freedom and creativity exist because it is manageable in scale. 

Game design and worldbuilding are sandboxes we get to play in as designers and GMs. Making backgrounds a la Bastionland and Cairn is doing both of these things at once. I needed to build myself a box, so I turned to my one true love: etymology.

I've long been fascinated with the way words evolve over time, but it wasn't until I heard Matt Colville talk about his problem with fantasy names* that I started applying that affection to ttrpgs. To summarize his view on the matter (and hopefully I'm not butchering it): a lot of names in fantasy novels and ttrpgs are bad because they don't sound like a language. Humans brains are wired to understand language, it's why it's possible for babies to pick them up and eventually start talking. Even if you only know English, if you hear another language your brain will recognize that it is a language being spoken because despite differences in words, grammar, etc. there is something about all languages that is... well, human. 

If fantasy names don't sound like language, that results in them sounding silly instead. I can't tell you how many years I spent coming up with NPCs and then regretting their names when I had to say them out loud. And I don't just mean the time when I accidentally named someone "urine." But even the other names didn't feel right, they were all piss-poor. (Sorry, I had to. Okay, I didn't have to, I just really really wanted to.).  

So I started using actual names for my NPCs. If I want that "fantasy feeling," I use names from 500-1000 years ago. That way they sound unfamiliar and fantastical, but they also sound "right" because our brains recognizes them as language. When I started working on the backgrounds for my game, I took the same approach. 

Gravelhack is very much an "elfgame minus the elves." A post-elfgame, if you will. I want it to feel medieval-ish, fantastical, and familiar. So I'm drawing from languages that shaped modern English: Old and Middle English, Anglo-Norman, the Celtic languages of the British Isles, you get the idea.  I want the backgrounds themselves to call on familiar archetypes, but their names would be the sandbox in which I have the freedom to reimagine these tropes. 

Here are some examples.

Vaillant d'Armes

I had recently read about the pas d'armes hastilude. I also came upon the phrase vadlet d'armes when looking for entries related to "knight" in an Anglo-Norman dictionary. I stumbled upon vaillant as the etymological root of valor. 

Once I had the name, I thought it sounded like someone who went around challenging knights to pas d'armes to prove their valor. Wait, maybe that's how people become knights in Gravelhack! Oh yeah, that's some specific fantasy right there. 

Let's take a look at a couple entries from the first table:

Why do you seek glory and honor?

1.  To expiate a misspent youth. You got a good, hard look down a path your life may have tread. Now you go another way. You have a set of lockpicks that you still remember how to use. 

2. To earn the respect of a parent. You are the illegitimate child of a noble and a commoner. You know that, should the need arise, you can seek begrudging aid from your noble relations.   

Clamber

One thing I've always liked about the old-school Thief is their ability to climb sheer surfaces. Clamber is a pretty old word that most likely comes from Middle-English. Naturally, I thought of this description for the background:

You are brave enough to scale the cliffs thievpies make their homes atop. The climb may be dangerous, but it is much safer to steal jewelry from a bird than a person. They may peck you, but it sure beats what the town guard does to thieves. 

And a couple entries from a table:

What helps you deal with the thievpies?

1.  A wooden bird-whistle that can lure or repel birds depending on how you play it.

2. Glass pebbles that catch the light, and the eye of any creature interested in shiny objects. 

There we have it. Gravelhack exists in a world where knighthood is earned—not through family or service as a squire, but by besting enough of them in one-on-one melee that they simply have to give it to you. Also, there are these magpies that nest atop cliffs to protect the shiny objects they steal from humans. And if you can believe it, there are some SOBs that are crazy enough to climb the freaking cliffs to steal from the birds! 

I don't think I would have ever come up with either of those backgrounds if I hadn't given myself etymology sandboxes to play in. I'm excited to keep playing in this sand and see what happens next. I haven't even started working on the talents the backgrounds will get as they progress in level. Those should be fun!

*I tried to find a video where Colville talked about this, but came up short. Maybe it was from a livestream? Alas. 

"For the Princess? ...To the death?"

"I accept!" 

This one's about verisimilitude, combat procedures, and fixing morale (if you think it's broken).

Why We Fight
(One of my favorite albums, by the way.) 

I've played elfgames for over two decades, and have been on both sides of the screen for plenty of combats where neither side seemed to have a reason to fight besides "we're all here, so let's hack and slash one another." It sucks. Few things break verisimilitude for me like pointless fights.  

So why would any NPC, person or creature, choose violence? There are a multitude of reasons, to be sure. Defending a lair, protecting or reclaiming a treasured macguffin, holding the heroes at bay until the ritual is complete—you get the idea. Violence is one way to get something, to accomplish a goal.

If you're playing an OSR game, reaction rolls are a big thing. When an NPC's reaction to the party isn't obvious, roll on a table. Sometimes that can clarify things, sometimes you're left struggling to come up with the why. It's why my hack has the GM pick three possible reactions from a potential five—I'm never left going, "well I'll roll for it but I really hope I don't get one of these because it doesn't make sense to me." 

As a quick aside, d4 Caltrops has a great spark table that gives possible reasons why an NPC might be friendly. I think it'd be fun to make a dungeon that gives hostile/friendly spark tables for its denizens, tailored to the person/faction/creature. Hmmm...

Anyway! I think NPC combat goals matter  They should be things the PCs can potentially figure out, whether before, during, or after the combat has ended. Having internally consistent logic as to why someone is choosing violence not only makes the world more believable, but it gives the players the ability to make informed decisions in game. You know, a cornerstone of survival in OSR play. 

Speaking of verisimilitude surrounding combat...

I Don't Like Morale

Okay, that's not entirely true. I just don't care for how morale rules are implemented in most OSR games. 

Has this ever happened to you? The party is facing off against a group of enemies, and you check morale after the first one drops. The enemies pass. The battle continues on, and you check again when half the enemies are felled. You even give them a -2 modifier because they're clearly losing. They pass again, and now they're in it until death. And you sit there wondering things like, "how long is the rest of this fight going to take?" and "really? now there's just one stirge left and it's just gonna keep attacking until it's dead?" 

Call my sense of immersion a song featuring Amy Lee the way it's broken.  

I think the standard morale rules are a good simplification of the morale procedures from Chainmail. Those rules for medieval miniatures are for clashes between units of trained combatants following orders issued by authority figures. Wargames don't care about the individual soldier that breaks the first time an arrow goes whizzing past their head, or the one that defies orders to carry his injured brother to a medic. I believe elfgames should.

I know that morale is often an optional rule, I could just do all of this without it. But I like procedures, and I think morale is a good idea—I just wish it was different. You might be thinking...

What's Your Solution, Smarty-Pants?

For me, it comes down to two things: goals and checking morale more. 

The goal supersedes procedures. What is the goal, and are they willing to die for it? The title of this post is a quote from the iconic battle of wits scene in The Princess Bride, wherein Vizzini and The Man in Black agree to the terms of their duel. No morale check needed, they're both in it til the bitter end. 

If they aren't willing to die for it, then they will flee or surrender when faced with their own mortality—let's say when 25% of their HP remains—or whenever it is clear their goal is no longer attainable. 

Those not willing to die will also check morale before the points listed above. Individuals comprising groups and solo creatures will check it the first time they are hit (adjust up to +/-2 for especially high or low damage), and again at 50% HP. Groups will check when the first amongst them falls, and again when only half remain. 

It might seem like a lot to check morale that much, and maybe it is, but I think it's a way to still use the procedures while lending to the verisimilitude of small-scale combat. It makes it easier for me, as the referee, to play as these adversaries. The first time I might rethink a fight is the first hit I take, followed by when I feel like I'm halfway to being dropped. As a group, I might turn tail at the first casualty or once things start to look bad. No matter what, if I'm not willing to lay my life down to see my objective through, I will try to live to fight another day. 

 

 

Incentivizing Death

This one does what it says on the tin.

I have been told I'm a contrarian. That I have a strong aversion to authority. I am rather infamous in my friend group for having the highest reactance—the quickest way to ensure I never do something is by telling me to do it. If you think that sounds annoying, I can assure you my friends agree. Thankfully, they have found plenty of other reasons to love me anyway. 

I'm sure it's not difficult to see how my personality can put me at odds with something like, say, a book that says, "here are rules for playing a game. Follow them." Which is why I love when a book presents them as suggestions. Oh, I can use whichever ones I want? Cool! I'll try them all out, at least for a while, and then change to taste. 

On top of that, I also headbutt with prevalent attitudes held by ttrpg communities. Nothing makes me want to make a PbtA dungeon crawler more than seeing people say it wouldn't work. Same goes for skill systems in OSR games. But sometimes it goes deeper than that. 

For example, sometimes I see people in OSR spheres discussing character death, and I think, "what if we incentivized death? What if we rewarded it? What would that look like?" Well, if we used the lingua franca of OSE/BX, maybe it would look like this.

Death, Advancement & The Mythic Underworld  

The deadly dungeons and strange subterranean places adventurers delve into is a different world, a universe unto itself. The player characters are interlopers into the Mythic Underworld, which rejects them—even in death.

Rule 1. Don't be a weasel. This first rule is taken straight from Blades in the Dark. No getting into combat and refusing to fight, that sort of thing. You're still playing a character who wants to live, because dying still kind of sucks. Surviving a fight is probably a step toward a larger goal, and dying puts you further from accomplishing that. Plus, it now it changes you. More on that shortly.

Rule 2. There is no XP. Gold for XP naturally leads to the question, "why does my character need all this gold? Why are they willing to risk their life to get it?" Those questions are still in play. You've made a little freak and are sending them off into freaky places, figure out why they're doing that.

Rule 3. When you hit 0 HP, you're taken out of action. You're dead, but the Mythic Underground won't accept you. Once the battle is over, the trap is overcome, etc. you come back. Hopefully your party members brought your body along. If your body was destroyed, it materializes where you were last out of harm's way.  

Rule 4. When you return to action, you level up. That's right, you heard me. It's probably a good idea to start leveling your character up as soon as you're taken out of action, that way you're ready to go once your surviving party members finish up with what killed you in the first place. 

Rule 5. When you return to action, you've changed. When the Mythic Underground bludgeons your soul back into your body, it leaves a little bit of itself with you. Roll on the following d84 table and note the way your character is different now.

1. You grow vistigial... 
    1. Wings 
    2. Tail
    3. Tusks
    4. Antlers/horns

2. Another 1d4 eyes appear on your...
    1. Head
    2. Arm
    3. Torso
    4. Leg

3. Your hand becomes...
    1. A crustacean claw
    2. Tentacle-fingered
    3. A snake's head
    4. A bird's foot

4. Your legs become that of a...
    1. Sheep
    2. Feline
    3. Lizard
    4. Aphid

5. You grow another...
    1. Arm    
    2. Leg
    3. Mouth
    4. Row of teeth

6. Your head becomes that of a...
    1. Mantis
    2. Wolf
    3. Bat
    4. Frog

7. You have...
    1. A tongue that forks like a serpent's
    2. A third eyelid that blinks horizontally
    3. Translucent skin
    4. A second, discordant voice

8. Your...
    1. Mouth(s) become a beak
    2. Hair is replaced by feathers
    3. Shadow moves slower than you    
    4. Ears grow fingers

Rule 6. When you have changed a number of times equal to your maximum class level plus one, hand your character sheet over to the referee. The transformation is complete. Your character is a part of the Mythic Underworld now. The referee should play them as they would any other powerful underground-dwelling NPC. Like most other denizens of the Mythic Underworld, they now stay dead when killed. 

 

Well, there it is! I have not tried it. I may never try it. But it was fun to come up with. I like the idea of this otherworldly place rejecting you until it transforms you into something it will accept. I like the potential roleplaying consequences of adventurers delving over and over, returning to the World Above more alien the more powerful they become. I like that if I do end up using this, my players would undoubtedly engage with more of the danger I telegraph. 

If you have or do come up with a way to incentivize character death, let me know about it here or on Bluesky.

Rites of Castage

This one's about clerics, and going all-in.

Who am I to resist a Prismatic Wasteland prompt? Religion is usually given as little attention as possible at my tables. I am on-record as saying my inevitable OD&D hack will not feature clerics, but instead a secret third thing. So yes, I have all the usual misgivings about religion and clerics in elfgames.

Perhaps my biggest problem with clerics is they tend to show up in Generic Fantasy Games. I think out of the core three (or four) classes, clerics suffer the most from generality.  We can't fill in the blanks like we can with a fighter or wizard because there are no cultural touchstones for the strange Templar-cum-vampire hunter set before us.

So when do they work for me? When a game doesn't water them down. The first one that springs to mind is the Priest supplemental class in Outcast Silver Raiders, there's some nice specificity about a deity revoking spells in there. And it got me thinking, what would my specific cleric look like? How would I go all-in?

Let's Get Clerical, Clerical

Why do clerics just get their spells? The answer in most OSR games is, "magic-users must learn them, clerics must earn them." They seem to do that most often by simply... reaching level 2. How boring! If clerics are the righteous vessels through which a deific entity enacts its will upon the world, then faith should be something they do.

Prismatic Wasteland's blog about clerics states, "Magic must always be dangerous, whether arcane or divine." What if that danger was front-loaded? What if a cleric had to face personal risk or responsibility to get each and every spell their deity granted them?

Well, if we used first level OSE spells, maybe it'd look like this:

Cure (Cause) Light Wounds
Seek no aid for a grievous wound, having only faith that it will heal. 

Detect Evil
Raise not your hand when an evil act befalls you, and witness fully a hate-filled heart unbound.

Detect Magic
Allow the arcane to wash over you, unresisted, and may you know it well. 

Light (Darkness)
Let faith be your light in the dark, blindfold yourself from all other sources.

Protection From Evil
Stride into danger armored only in your faith.

Purify Food and Water
Spend all your riches and a week of your time feeding the poor.

Remove (Cause) Fear
Go where none would dare tread, alone.

Resist Cold
Provide shelter to one without, that they may know the warmth of body and spirit. 

 

The Woods Are Alive

This one's a random table of animals. I made it for personal use, but maybe you'll find a spot for it at your table. 

Want to breathe life into your forests? Talk about the animals. It doesn't have to be much, just a sentence or two. Do it whenever the mood strikes you, or when your players' eyes start to glaze over, or when there's not a random encounter. 

Here's a table of 20 animals, with descriptions of what they're up to. I bolded the animal so you can easily grab it and make up what they're doing on the fly. These are ones found in the coniferous forests where I live, and have seen in the wild (minus number 20). 

1. A pair of squirrels bound through the creaking tree branches in a high-stakes game of tag.
2. A hare bolts across your path, running from something that thought twice about approaching the party.
3. A white-tailed deer picks her head up from grazing and watches the party for a moment before gracefully bounding off, two clumsy fawns in tow.
4. A red fox swiftly digs a hole to bury its leftovers.
5. A remarkable number of bees drone around the party before deciding they don't contain nectar after all.
6. Ravenous mosquitoes descend on the party every time they enter shade.
7. Clouds of gnats hover along the trail, flying into unsuspecting noses, ears, and—gods forbid—mouths.
8. You catch glimpses of a marten in the underbrush as it hunts.
9. A porcupine waddles down the trail, untroubled.
10. You hear the staccato hammering of a woodpecker long before you see it up in a tree.
11. The quiet is shattered by the drumming of a ruffed grouse perched on a nearby log.
12. A cheerful choir of bluebirds flit between branches overhead.
13. A robin preens itself before taking flight.
14. A family of chickadees dart back-and-forth between the ground and a nearby tree.
15. A chipmunk scurries up a tree and begins to furiously chitter at the party.
16. Frogs croak and hop along the edge of a pond.
17. Butterflies lazily drift from bush to bush.
18. A black bear stands on its hind legs to get a better look at the party before meandering off.
19. A gray owl gazes imperiously down as the party passes under its tree.
20. A bobcat makes an impossible-looking jump up into a tree, a rodent dangling in its mouth.  

Tenacious Clocks

This one's about clocks. And to a certain extent, hit points. But mostly clocks.

You know, those things from Apocalypse World. Though nowadays most people probably associate them with Blades in the Dark, as linked above. Some games use countdowns instead—I tend to do this, especially in games that don't feature clocks already. Either way, some sort of progress tracker being a built-in game mechanic has been in vogue for quite some time.

And I love it. Especially when I crack open an OSR/NSR book and see them as a feature. I appreciate that they're not everyone's cup of tea, and it doesn't take much looking to find clock critics. "It's just hit points for consequences," is a common refrain I've come across, especially when it comes to the Harm Clock as seen in Apocalypse World.

The Harm Clock has 6 segments, and once all segments are filled you are taken out of action and possibly die. Which is a lot like having 6 hit points. Except, it's also a wounds/injury system. 

Here's a primer/refresher: Harm before 6pm (the first 2 segments) heals on its own. Harm from 6-9pm (3rd segment) doesn't get worse, but doesn't get better by itself. Harm after 9pm (segments 4-6) gets worse unless stabilized and won't heal without medical attention. It also states that harm should progress rapidly if the character is being active. 

That's some heavy lifting from a little circle with 6 segments. It's a visual representation of dramatic tension that doesn't just hit a payoff when the progress is complete, it happens along the way as well. One might even say that little circle is a...

Tenacious Clock

A tenacious clock is just what I decided to call a clock that has consequences before striking midnight. Most games don't use tenacious clocks, because most clocks don't need to be sticky like that. And yes, you could potentially use linked clocks instead of a single one, but where's the fun in that? 

I'd like to see more of these things in games. Hell, I'd like to make more of them myself. So on that note, here's a tenacious clock that I could easily stick into any dungeon crawler that I run.

Saint Aoife's Hounds

When the Relic of Saint Aoife is removed from her burial chamber, her Hounds awaken and the Hunt begins. This is an 8-segment clock. For every hour the characters remain in the cairn, a segment fills. Once they've left, a segment fills each day spent in the same location. After 4 segments, the Hounds start accosting anyone the characters come into contact with. After 6 segments, only crossing large bodies of water or equivalent magic or enchantment can get the Hounds off their trail. When the clock fills, the Hounds have found their Prey. May Saint Aoife have mercy on your souls, because they certainly won't.

Wait, I have an idea for another one. This one could fit into Blades in the Dark, or any game where a player character is a charlatan. I like this one because it involves two linked clocks, but they don't start at the end of the first.

The Scam 

Selling snake oil is a medium-length con, this is a 6-segment clock. Every time you run this con (make a significant sale, run advertising, etc), mark a segment. After 3 segments, the victims' loved ones take notice—make a new clock called "Vengeance." After 5 segments, the authorities have taken notice—make a new clock called "Wanted for Questioning." When the clock fills, the public has caught on to your scam and will no longer buy your elixir. 

Well that was fun! I think I've been ignoring how much drama a clock can hold. I'm excited to not make that mistake going forward. If you use clocks and either have or end up making some tenacious ones, I encourage you to share them with me either in the comments or on Bluesky.

Omino Spells

This one's about gamifying spell memorization.

I recently read The Dying Earth by Jack Vance for the first time. While it didn't change my opinions on Vancian magic in fantasy roleplaying games, I can appreciate why a bunch of people in the 70s and beyond were like, "yeah that book is cool, let's do it like that." In certain situations, I also want to do it like Jack did—just not every time I play a fantasy dungeon crawler. 

I hadn't given any of this much thought since finishing the book, until a question popped into my head today: how do they fit in there? The spells in Vance's world occupy wizards' minds until they are unleashed, taking up (meta)physical space. Marizian the Magician is so powerful he can memorize six normal spells, or four of the most powerful ones. What does it look like inside his head when he does that? 

Old school D&D cares a lot about replicating the feel of the spell-slingers that wander the Dying Earth. A level 1 Magic-User can memorize a single instance of a level 1 spell. It doesn't care much about how that arcane formula is stuffed into the aspiring wizard's mind, just that it is crammed in there. 

What if there was a game that did care? What would that look like? Well, maybe it'd look like Tetris. Or any video game with a grid-based inventory. Or Mausritter's inventory system. But this time, in your brain! Maybe a novice thaumaturgist starts with a mind hovel and grows in power until they have a mind palace to house their spells.

It just might look like this.

The Mind is a Fill-able Thing in Space

This is a proof of concept more than anything. I will reference various things from D&D, but this isn't a fleshed-out system designed to be used with a particular edition of any existing game.

Anyway, check this out: 

 

So you start with two boxes of space for spells. If you're playing a game with cantrips, maybe those would take up one box, allowing you to memorize two relatively weak, non-damage dealing spells. A level 1 spell like Sleep would take up two boxes. Maybe level 2 spells would take up 3 squares. From there, spells could start taking the shape of tetrominos, like the ones in Tetris.

By Anypodetos - Own work based on: Tetromino Tiling 5x8.svg by R. A. Nonenmacher., CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8663361

Even more advanced spells could take the form of pentominos, like this:

By R. A. Nonenmacher - Created by me, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4416149

The spell-caster finds or copies spells into their book, each spell has a shape, and every day the conjurer pours over their spellbook, rotating and arranging their spell choices to fit into the canvas of their mind. 

Is it practical? Hell no. Would it be fun? Highly subjective. Would the spells leave your brain once cast, like Vancian magic? Who knows! Has it been done before? Probably! But I'll be damned if I could find it.