Minimalist Character Sheet for an Undefined Game

Here’s a really simple design for an issue I’ve been looking at a lot: Character sheets can be frightening things. Looking at a single sheet of very-small-sized type and its associated blanks that must be filled in is not a terribly accessible or inviting activity. So, after being called out by Derek Guder, as a design challenge to myself, I thought about a way to make a character sheet that’s easy to read and lets a player know at a glance what the game experience will offer. I’ve been thinking about this a while, so it was a chance to turn doodles into something actionable.


I think this would work really well for narrative- or setting-focused games like Vampire (especially one-shots), Call of Cthulhu, or GUMSHOE, or maybe even power something like a tabletop trip through The Legend of Zelda or Shadow of the Colossus.

It begins with the following single premise to simplify game interaction that reduces the volume of information on the sheet itself.

A character’s abilities and vitality are a function of each other

That is, a character has a number of health units and each unit of health carries with it a special ability of the character. So, as the character loses health, the character also loses the ability to affect the game world and other entities in it.

So, for example, the following character has three health levels, and the abilities of Vanish from the Mind’s Eye, Command, and Poisonous Blood. When the character has suffered no damage, she can use any of those abilities.


When the character does suffer damage, the player marks off health units from the top, and loses any abilities for which that health level has been marked off.

So, back to the example, the character has suffered one health level of damage, and has also therefore lost the ability to use Vanish from the Mind’s Eye.


That’s it. The sheet and a suggestion of the game in just a few geometric shapes and text keywords.


Calling the health units health suggests physical conflict or wellness, but that doesn’t even have to be true, especially in settings that don’t rely on combat, or where physical combat is simply one facet of a more holistic system of conflict resolution.


From Death Comes to Pemberley

This could just as easily be set at Pemberley, with units and ability loss themed as exhaustion rather than physical violence. It may represent the court of Kublai Khan, where running out of status results in disgrace and exile rather than explicit death. Perhaps the game is set in a shipwreck survival environment, where an abstracted amalgam of physical damage, exposure, starvation, and mental anguish are all part of the individual character’s well-being and represented by the health units. The entities players portray need not even be characters — a player may portray a starship, a society, or a super-intelligent shade of the color blue.

Heck, it doesn’t even require one sheet per player. What if the sheet represented a pirate vessel regardless of the number of players representing the crew? Perhaps the crew collectively makes decisions and the sheet simply records the capacities of the ship. A game like that would see the group dynamic inform the decision-making, and it wouldn’t even matter if the exact same player group made it to a weekly session, so long as one or more players were there to give the orders.


As the character attains progression, whatever that means in the game’s terms, the player simply adds another ability to the queue. As such, character prowess increases in tandem with durability.

That’s not always the intent, though. For durable characters who aren’t necessarily exceptionally competent, an “empty” health unit could simply have no ability tied to it.


And a more fragile character could have a pair or more abilities associated with a single health unit.



Hey, this doesn’t even have to be a character sheet. These could just as easily be ordered cards, colored beads, or whatever translates best to the game format.


Obviously, a character sheet represents the visual point of access for a player’s interaction with the game world. Even though this is a very simple design, it implies other systems. Without an actual game here, the below are impossible questions to answer at this state, but would be worthy of thought.

Ability functions: In order for using and losing abilities to be important, abilities need to be defined. As well, they may or may not need a resource to be expended in order to vary their frequency of use or scope of effect. Or, you know, maybe not. Maybe they just work.

Conflict resolution: What causes a player to lose those health/ exhaustion/ disgrace units, and their attached abilities? Do only ability inflict unity-ability damage? Or is there a fundamental action that operates free from those restrictions?

Attrition: Does player elimination occur? If not, when does the player return to play after the character loses all her health-ability units? Are there any associated penalties? How many of the player’s original capacities return, if any, and if not, what new capacities does she have? What other consequences occur?

Progression: By what method does the player acquire new ability-units? How are they selected or awarded?

Opportunities for Action

Description, detail, and lore are widely considered cornerstones of the roleplaying games medium. They tell only part of the tale, however. Certainly, description  detail and lore all have their place in the verbal-literary tradition on which roleplaying games draw. What ultimately defines a game, however, is the opportunity for players to make choices and affect the outcomes of the game environment. Without interaction, these details are simply words, diorama designs that assume no life of their own. The players’ interaction with these descriptors is what defines a roleplaying game as a game.

To this end, players inherently seek opportunities for action, inputs by which their choices determine, define, or react to the game’s events at any given time.

As a GM, it’s part of your job to draw attention to the opportunities available. You don’t have to — in fact, you probably shouldn’t — exhaustively list what the players can do, but suggesting a course of action has a variety of values. It lets the players know that the game state is waiting on them to interact with it, that it’s time to declare an action and “play.” It engenders in players a state of creative thought. And it provides a frame of reference, or an anchor with which to compare their own actions.

Describing the Call to Action

Given the verbal-literary tradition of roleplaying games, word choice when drawing attention to these opportunities is significant. Consider the differences in the calls to action in the following examples:




Each are viable prompts to act, but each frames the potential opportunities for action differently. Some leave the full breadth of action available to the players, informing them only that the gamemaster seeks their input. Others suggest possible courses of action, and might even be interpreted as subtle clues.

As the GM, your presentation of the game world by definition limits how the players can react to it. After all, they can’t know what you don’t tell them. Each of your words and phrases discloses the presence of a “moving part” that players may attempt to exert control over or otherwise interact with. Choose your words carefully, as they tell the players not only what they experience, but potentially what actions might  be relevant to those events in response.

Importantly, as a GM, you don’t want to mislead your players. Avoid prompting them with opportunities for action that would have negative outcomes (or at least suggest that their outcomes might be negative, as with a quandary in which the players much choose between lesser evils). A GM who bait-and-switches her players with misleading negative suggestions soon loses the trust of those players.

Read Player Cues


Illustration by Steve Prescott

The gameplay experience shouldn’t be a one-way flow from gamemaster to players. A good GM reads his players’ responses and adjusts the game to be a better balance of challenges and player desires. That’s not to say a good GM hands the players everything they desire on their terms. Rather, customizing a pre-written adventure or scratch-building one to offer the sorts of opportunities for action the players want to undertake results in more engaged players.

Much of this involves reading your players. For example, when a player asks, “Can we sail around the cliffs?” he may simply be trying to solve a given encounter with the available information. But it’s possible that he’s also saying, “I would like more sailing-oriented opportunities for action in the game.” Reviewing character sheets and skill specializations can provide more insight here. A character who has five dots in boat piloting and who’s asking “Can we sail around it?” is telling you, in the language of the game structures, that he wants to do some goddamned sailing. Satisfying this desire may be as simple as reskinning a travel interlude or as substantial as retooling entire encounters to involve sailing instead of, say, overland wilderness survival.

This is one of the toughest parts of GMing, because it involves not only reading these verbal and nonverbal cues, but also challenge design and balancing the results of that challenge design to a degree that the player ensemble finds engaging. If your players’ eyes are glazing over, you’ve got some work to do, but as the example above illustrates, you may have some work to do even if they haven’t checked out. In the latter case, you’re focused on increasing engagement. (If they’re zoning out entirely, you’re not engaging them at all.)

Spotlighting Relatedness

In campaign or chronicle play, the players’ actions in previous session often open new avenues to them. A hostage rescued in session three becomes a valuable contact in session seven. A sensitive document recovered from the antagonists later turns those antagonists into surprise allies. A trivial favor granted to a powerful vampire later becomes the boon that ensures the coterie’s invitation to Elysium. The barkeep buys the PCs a round and tells them, “Thanks for keeping us safe, dragonslayers.”

All of these examples are chances for players to relive their success moments from earlier in the campaign. Not only are they rewarding in this sense, but they’re empowering going forward — success paves the way toward more success.

Indeed, relatedness need not only spotlight success. Narrative progression may turn a past failure into a new opportunity for justice — or vengeance. One of the keen properties of narrative is that a “failure” in the terms of the story might actually be beneficial in terms of game systems, by opening new plot threads to explore or motivations to entertain. Destroying the wizard’s tower in session one only to be dealt a drubbing by the wizard in session three sets the stage for a showdown in session five.


Illustration by Moebius

Call these accomplishments out. Give the players time to exult in them. Let their characters cheer each other (or commiserate with each other), and in so doing, grant the players a moment to reflect on the social activity they shared at the time. These moments provide valuable narrative context, and they renew players’ engagement in their current courses of action.

Destination: Pagan Lands


I’ve been “working on” the Pagan Lands for years. By “working on,” I mean that I’ve been wrestling with my ideas for what to actually do with it. It was originally my home campaign, but then I got a wild hair to retool it as a retroclone, and then I set that aside to do it as a setting-agnostic pick-up supplement, then it returned to stasis as my Belluna and Tarsemine games became active, but it has always remained vital as a work-in-progress labor of love, and it’ll probably be the next extended campaign I run.

While I was straightening the home office this weekend, I went through my notes folders and found myself doodling in the rough regional map that’s grown over the course of the project. The map is intentionally ugly (the better to make quick changes without invalidating a bunch of art) and I’m not a gifted cartographer anyway, but it serves its purpose as a sort of geographical flowchart by which the players can move from one cluster of encounters to another.

Each of these regions represents a different opportunity for action, the “what is happening here?” in which players can involve themselves  — or to leave unmolested if it doesn’t suit their tastes. Think of these regions somewhat like the Ravenloft domains or the territories of the Wilderlands of High Fantasy, a themed experience that the players’ choices can directly affect. Most importantly, knowing a region’s theme doesn’t rule out events can occur there, it only suggests the sorts of events the players are most likely to encounter. As with one of the core Magic precepts, if the theme isn’t accessible and discernible from the most common interactions with it, it won’t emerge as a theme.

Photo Nov 08, 12 39 50 PM

Naturally, a separate collection of random encounters also helps to populate the Pagan Lands. Not every event that transpires in a given region needs to touch upon that region’s theme or central event. Most do, however: Each wandering encounter table consists of events or creatures that could easily have connections to the theme. Demihumans encountered in the dead city are probably there plundering the linnorm’s hoard. Pilgrims encountered near Vulcan’s Cliffs are likely deranged cultists of the Sea God. Encounters near the Starfall have probably been exposed to the celestial body’s residual energies.

So it looks like I’ll be headed back into the Pagan Lands soon, and I’m looking forward to it. Although it’s a weird place, it’s like coming home.

Home Base: PC Property

Early D&D assumes that the players were eventually trying to clear an area in which to construct a stronghold. Classic Traveller assumes that the players owned some percentage of shares in a ship that could be used to travel the stars. Vampire often concerns itself with the ever-upscaling struggle to claim domain and then protect domain once claimed. Regardless of genre, the concept of an earned “home” is common to many RPGs.

Property makes for a strong reward in roleplaying games because doing so opens a host of additional endogenous rewards to the players who own it. That is, property is its own reward, and it can create more opportunities for encounters involving that property. Used wisely, property can bring an adventure to the players instead of requiring that players go to the adventure.

Illustration by DudQuitter

An Investment in a Place

Many settings assume that the characters have some personal stake in the wellbeing of a community, whether it’s Chicago or Sandpoint, and one good way to impart this to the players is to have the characters own property and be responsible for it in that community. In game terms, having the property confer a benefit is a good way to do this, as it invests the players in being able to call upon that benefit. In game terms, the property can be expressed in a variety of forms, and in fact multiple forms, and in so doing, the property acquires meaning to the players.

Property provides context for other rewards, as well. Land ownership can carry with it titles, incomes, or other benefits, as described below. Many fantasy games’ default medieval feudal arrangements are the obvious setting assumptions here, but
different campaigns can impart land with different titles and benefits. For example, the property is question may be a bridge allowing access to an isolated area, and the title may grant the players the right to charge a toll at the bridge. The property may be privateer vessel, and the charter for operating it may allow the players to claim territory in the name of their patron in exchange for a share of whatever incomes or resources the territory generates. A claim of Domain in Vampire, say, might allow the claimants to exact a “tithe” on all vitae claimed in the domain.

Note that the property need not be a static location. A pirate frigate, starship, or floating island are all examples of property that aren’t tied to a specific place, but that expand on the characteristics of places.

Currency Benefits

The property may generate money or other valuables that the players can use to acquire gear, consumables, or other goods. Currency can obviously be exchanged for character needs, whether in terms of satisfying basic upkeep (like D&D 5e’s Lifestyle Expenses or the nightly Blood Point cost for Vampire) or allowing improvements to starting gear.

A steady flow of currency doesn’t have to be large, especially at low levels of play, but it does provide a convenient way to incrementally improve character competency. As well, having an early currency stream can help strengthen the players’ connection to the home community that likewise increases over time. Players won’t necessarily care if their default starting location is threatened, but they will care if some amount of their livelihood is at stake. Across multiple game
sessions, this steady stream of income can build the sense of “home” that property intends to communicate. Even if the income value never increases, and that value becomes ever more negligible in terms of the power scope of the campaign, it will have contributed in the past, and that can create a powerful foundation with which the players can identify through the sense of campaign history it creates.

Examples: A copper mine, a store or business, a recognized region or domain, a title, stock in a for-hire vehicle, a Werewolf caern or a Mage node.

Systemic Benefits

The property grants a special ability or other benefit. This is some sort of mechanical boon or rules-based perk that allows the characters to exercise greater prowess when taking advantage of it. According to your game and group’s style, this can be a soft or a hard benefit — that is, something that relies on GM fiat to provide the details of the benefit, or something that has a specific, codified effect that the players can depend on every time. Tastes vary, but the latter, because they are by design reliable, generally cultivate more valuation in players’ regard.

A systemic benefit shouldn’t break the game or allow players to negate challenges, but it should create enough initial advantage that the players cultivate their own sense of valued relationship to “home.”

Again, over time, this historical value creates a sense of emotional attachment, and “home” can be imperiled, seasonal events or festivals at “home” become more meaningful, etc. Players may eventually acquire enough significance to steer the policy of “home,” and if so, more’s the better — there are the mastery, relatedness, and autonomy needs that all players have, being addressed directly.

Examples: A fashionable estate that offers a bonus to social challenges while entertaining there, a healing spring, a magical nexus conferring oracular powers, a site offering more efficient travel than is normal for the setting

Narrative Progression
Illustration by Nicolas Ferrand

The property has significance to the characters’ story. This is the stronghold that the warlord character builds as a testament to his own greatness, the hideout that the characters renovate to store their loot, or even the humble hearth where the character settles down with her significant other or kids. Narrative rewards work best with personal, character-driven ambitions behind them.

You can’t simply tell a player, “You care about VillageTown” and have that statement carry any weight, but many published settings or adventures assume that they will. Players will either care about VillageTown or they won’t, and it’ll be on their terms. Players’ emotional attachment to property grows, however, over time and at their pace. Pairing narrative rewards with one of the other reward types or having the emotional resonance grow out of those benefits will cultivate a natural attachment. If the players have (and, even better, can improve) those other benefits of property, they’ll be demonstrably satisfying the universal set of player needs in relatedness, autonomy, and mastery, and their emotional attachment to that property will grow in tandem.

Examples: A humble homestead, a craggy castle overlooking the village below, a renovated wing of the space station, a penthouse haven just outside the Rack

Reactive Encounters

Illustration by Dylan ColeCharacters’ investment in property makes for opportunities to bring the adventure to them, as opposed to seeking it out. This may work well with certain groups’ playstyles, but it can also provide a change of pace from more proactive groups’ standard methodologies. Some players prefer setting their own agendas while others wait for a challenge to come their way.

A good action vocabulary can frame these sorts of conflicts with appropriate drama: Defend the ship’s gangway. Retake the keep. Turn back the boarders. Liberate the village. These are all scenarios that bring the action directly to the players.

Loss Aversion

Players, being human, are prone to loss aversion, and one expression of this is that people more greatly feel the exigencies of loss than they do the benefits of gain. It’s great to acquire the deed to the old mine outside of town, but once it starts producing, it’s downright terrible when the mine is threatened by bandits, collapsed by sappers, or overrun by bat-faced devil-horned fire-spiders. This doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t use the players’ property as a dramatic focal point, only that you should do it wisely and sparingly. The “lone wolf” stereotype, the character who’s an orphan and has no social connections and practices sunrise to sundown with his katana is an expression of loss aversion: Without any emotional connections for a GM to hold against him, he retains much more control of his own fate. The same is true of property. If “home” is threatened in every game session, it won’t belong before the players pack up and move away from home, if only to have more control over their own destinies.

GM Quickies

VasilisaGamemastering is a combination of art and science, and like any skill, is improved by doing more of it. As you run RPG sessions, you’ll pick up your own style, voice, and tricks of the trade. Here a few that I use on occasion when I run games — I hope they serve you well.

Open with a Conflict

When kicking off a campaign or chronicle, open the proceedings with some sort of conflict. Deliver a few lines of scene-setting and then let all hell break loose. A fight, naturally, works great for a combat-focused game, giving the players a chance at the beginning to see which of their abilities complement one another and any team tactics or combos that can arise. But opening conflicts can also help set the stage in more cerebral or social games, in which players can learn things about the world through experiencing them firsthand — especially if dubious loyalties are part of the game’s theme. Opening with a conflict allows the game to begin with everyone participating, as opposed to a lore dump that begins with the players’ eyes glazed and hands tied.

It’s Dangerous to Go Alone! Take This

Sometimes, an NPC wants the PCs to thrive, no strings attached. No bargaining for favors or information. No desperate pleas to save the village or stop the dread doom. No “I’ll give you this if you do that.” Just a minor boon or item from a person who genuinely wants to see the PCs succeed.

One Down, the Rest to Go

Before entering a combat sequence, describe the heroes’ effortless dispatching of one of the enemies. Minion types work great for this, but feel free to take out a pernicious named underling. Very often, we see “the big bad gets away” or other acts of GM fiat that seem to work against the characters’ interest. This technique reminds them that occasionally, GM fiat works in their favor as well. And it hypes them up for the combat to come.

Loot Drop

lootWithin the first session, the players find a trove of cash, contraband, or beyond-their-level items that pose a dilemma. Do they return the discovered loot to its (perceived) rightful owner? Or do they keep it for its initial advantage and risk being found out and earning the ire of the (rightful?) owner? This initial choice has a meaningful effect on the session/ campaign/ chronicle, kicking it off in high gear with an immediate emphasis on player communication and decision-making.

Blow up the Death Star

Construct an early session so that the players can enjoy a seemingly outsized victory that would normally be out of their league. The players will appreciate the sense of accomplishment, and you can design follow-up stories to take advantage of the initial event. For example, the player could destroy a very powerful vampire in the first session… which paves the way for her lieutenant to become a more powerful, recurring antagonist in the campaign. The entire campaign need not revolve around the initial outsized event, either: a future encounter or three can “call back” or refer to the initial victory can generate a strong sense of relatedness for the players.

Start Ugly

The early drafts of a game you’re designing probably won’t resemble the final game. You’ll be testing rules, ideas, even the essential experience itself, and changing them repeatedly. You’ll test version 0.8, then 0.9, then 1.0, then 1.2 (1.1 didn’t stand up to scrutiny), and you’ll change a little here and a little there each time. The Space Marines will become the Border Rangers. The +6 modifier will become the ALPHA STRIKE trait. You’ll add a texture for the back of the printed playtest materials because players can see the information on the other side that’s supposed to be hidden.

Everything will be in flux, and that’s good. During prototyping, you owe it to your game to critically consider every facet if you want to improve quality and playability. It’s like writing a novel: Your goal for the first draft should be to get the words down on paper, and you’ll rewrite it over time. In game design, get the basics of your game out there and playable, and then focus on improving it.

Visually, that means you’ll want to keep things cheap and ugly. Don’t spend a lot of time or money finding or buying art to use for those Space Marines until you know damn well for the production version of the game that they’re going to be Space Marines and not Border Rangers. Given that so many things will change during prototyping and playtesting, you should minimize the time and money devoted to making it look pretty. In fact, your prototype shouldn’t look pretty. It should look cheap — because you want it to be cheap. You want to minimize the loss each time you commit some element of a given draft to the trash.

Here’s a screenshot of some of the version-one prototype materials for the Prince’s Gambit:


UGLY. So ugly. A throwaway layout with some non-optimized graphics that I reused from other projects. Laid out in an AV presentation program. But:

  • It’ll be inexpensive to print, and for playtesters to print (don’t impose on your playtesters more than you have to; they’re doing you a huge favor),
  • All the materials need to do is convery the important information, and
  • The game will receive a complete art and graphic design treatment when it’s closer to final state

When to Pretty It Up

If your game is final or suitably close to being so, you can start thinking about final production assets like art, logos, and even demo materials. All those Kickstarter videos you see that have nice materials — those are games that are done or almost done and are looking at kickstarting their print run and delivery costs, they’re not games still in full-throttle prototyping or playtesting.

If you’re trying to sell your game to a publisher, you might want to invest in some amount of visual presentation. This is a gamble, though, because a publisher likely has a production team, and if you sell them the game, their visual desires for it might not match yours. Sometimes a publisher buys a game from a designer because it looks good and they run from there. But more often, a publisher buys a game from a designer because of its play value, and they let their own team of professionals handle the trade dress. (In fact, most times, a publisher buys a game from a designer and sends it to a developer for further cultivation into a saleable product, which would potentially change thos visual elements further.)

Eventually, all your ugly prototyping should result in a beautiful game.


What is the Prince’s Gambit?

You are a vampire; you own the night. And you’re not alone. There are others of you out there, the Kindred as you call yourselves, and your world is one of secret sects and hidden agendas. Some of you belong to the Camarilla, the aristocracy of the undead, holding yourselves above the mortal world in an ivory tower. Others of you belong to the Sabbat, a medieval death cult that believes the living are little more than animal to be fed from.

But who can you trust? You’re all blood-drinking monsters, after all. Your loyalty to your sect is a secret, and those who make a grand show of fidelity may be hiding ambitions of their own.


Vampire: Prince’s Gambit is a social deduction game in which a number of players seek to bolster the Prince’s claim to praxis, the right to rule her domain. That’s no mean task, though, as traitors lurk among these Kindred. The city’s Camarilla has been infiltrated by the Sabbat, who aim to topple the Prince and claim the city for their own.

Inspired by games like the Prisoner’s Dilemma, Diplomacy, Mafia, and the Resistance, Vampire: Prince’s Gambit hides a number of betrayers among a number of vampires loyal to the Prince’s cause. The hitch is that the traitors know who each other are while the loyal Kindred must trust their wits and instinct in order to discern who’s acting in their same interest and who’s trying to subvert the Prince’s will.

In Vampire: Prince’s Gambit, you might encounter situations like these:

Draft one is done and playable, which I’m going to make available via Open Development after a few loose ends are tied up. Development commentary will be collected at the Onyx Path website, as well, so keep an eye on that if you don’t already.

The game is built for 5-10 players, and while it’s not a “roleplaying” game per se, I think it’ll provide great opportunties to indulge in as much or as little characterization as individual players prefer. If you like, go all the way: Speak in character, wear a costume, and really dig into the role. Or you can simply play to your hidden loyalty and let your actions in-game speak for you.

Vampire: Prince’s Gambit is designed for sessions of 30 minutes to an hour, and to offer just a taste of the high politics and low treachery of the world of the Kindred. It’s a great game to play before a traditional RPG session starts, or at a convention or party with new or old friends.

Money Problems

The dragon’s hoard is a mountain of gold pieces. Who doesn’t want a mountain of gold pieces? It’s a fairly safe assumption that almost every player wants a mountain of gold pieces. Given that the hobby grew out of fantasy stories, and that piles of money are a staple of the genre in both fiction and visual arts, money is a very common element of games, for better or for worse.


What’s not so safe an assumption is why each player might want them or what each character might do with them.

Most often, money is used as a type of progression currency. It’s the stuff with which players buy more “features” for their characters. Whether weapons, magic items, starships, armor, or what have you, money represents a sort of wild-card approach to improvement in the game. The problem with money is that where the player spends it doesn’t necessarily translate into what’s happening in the game. Money is a sort of carte blanche for general improvement of one’s character. What does your character want to do with the money he collects? Adventure to get money to upgrade your gear so you can undertake more perilous adventures to get more money to upgrade your gear….

But once your character has all the stuff that’s in the book… what then? When your character doesn’t need another sword or blaster or cyberdeck or armored SUV, what do you do with the money that’s accumulating in her various accounts? Video games see this problem frequently. Without finely balanced economies, the money inputs outpace the money sinks, and characters simply sit on wealth because there’s not enough for them to spend money on. And player retention in video games drops once the player feels there’s no more “content” to consume. Once the player has the best available gear, what’s left for her to do? Players almost always migrate to a different game when the game offers nothing more to “get,” because the player has been trained to see acquisition itself as the metric of success.

In a tabletop RPG, a good GM can account for this. A player spending money is very much like a player taking a feat or increasing a skill — it’s a way for a player to say, “I want to do this, GM, so please notice what I’m buying.” In most cases, though, other game mechanics exist for bringing those abilities to that character. Leveling systems, experience points, magical items, access to new equipment and the like all serve for a more focused increase in player character competencies. Such being the case, money is a less effective way to acquire a magic sword, say, than going on an adventure in which the reward is a magic sword.

Most roleplaying games handwave away or bundle the less-glamorous aspects of everyday life. Things like rent or mortgage costs (assuming the PCs aren’t murderhobos), access to food, and general living amenities and utilities are absent or abstracted in most games. And for good reason: They’re not good vehicles for representing the elements of adventuring, heroism, or many of the themes that provide the essential experience of a good game. But many games still dangle cash as a material reward because it speaks to our modern mentalities.

(By contrast, Fantasy Flight Games’ Midnight setting inverted this assumption, and suggested making food and subsistence survival goods potential rewards for certain encounters. The idea was that survival itself was an act of rebellion, and the game’s themes revolved around the supposition that a great evil had enslaved the land and that standing against it was the core conflict.)

This is why the earliest versions of D&D assumed you wanted to build a stronghold. Traveller often started the players out in debt, with a share of a ship that hadn’t been paid off. These aspirational sinks were built into play from the beginning, proposing a goal that would almost always underlie the player’s decisions. Other games, like Victory Games’ James Bond 007 and most of the World of Darkness titles, don’t bother with money outside of the theoretical. Specific amounts of money just aren’t important to the themes the game proposes.


Nickels and Dimes

Some games require the players to keep a close watch over resources consumed while on adventures. In games where resource consumption is a key component of the game — old-school fantasy dungeon crawls are a great example of such — every arrow and foot of rope is a critical asset that may make the difference between being overrun by orcs or having to leave the cleric at the bottom of the pit. In practice, though, these sorts of small-scale purchases, especially for things like supplies and sundries, often serve only to create minor bookkeeping tasks that aren’t really very engaging. While minding these resources can certainly provide mounting tension, the gameplay becomes more provisioning than roleplaying, and much of it is guesswork.

The Panacea Problem

Many games also assume an availability of problem-solving effects that runs counter to the dramatic presentation of the game.

This recently came up in my Belluna Pathfinder campaign. On the party’s way back to the city at the foot of the mountain megadungeon, werewolves ambushed the them and the bard found himself afflicted by the curse of lycanthropy. However might the players overcome this heinous turn?

By spending 375 gp. After all, Pathfinder assumes a ready availability of magical items, especially consumable ones, and the reward structures for the challenge ratings of encounters are built to offer a quantity  of either those magical items or money (or its equivalent). So the dread horror of lycanthropy is a non-issue. Once the players make it back to the city, they just find a cleric, pay his fees, and forget the whole thing ever happened. The same thing happened when the party’s cleric had been turned to stone during the previous session. Pathfinder makes no illusions about this. It plainly positions itself as a game of managing resources.

For the GM’s part, sure, it’s possible to say, “There’s no one in the nearby metropolis who can scribe that scroll for you.” It’s more effective to make addressing the troubling issue part of gameplay itself, however. Thinking endogenously, going on a quest to remove the curse creates more play. From a purely selfish point of view, creating a game session in which the players address the problem likely yields more progression of various types. All the GM accomplishes by assessing a fee-to-solve money sink is to take away some of the very reward the players earned previously — and some of it likely came from the encounter that generated the curse anyway, making for a dissatisfying sunk cost.

A Greater Goal

When I run games, I encourage players to imagine a bigger picture objective for what they want to do with adventuring proceeds. I’m generally moderate to stingy with cash rewards, but tailor frequent’ feature progression rewards to the individual characters. Encouraging the players to express their characters’ greater goals goes a long way toward making those characters memorable, as well as helping me to understand their motivations.

I’ve talked before about intrinsic rewards, that gameplay is its own reward, and that other rewards point back into the game. Money works well as a sort of low-intensity reward that can be collected at a variable pace without risking the players’ investment in the game itself. Particularly with games that rely more on proactive players, setting one’s own goals can be extremely satisfying, allowing players to determine how important monetary rewards are to them, if at all, which generates both relatedness and autonomy. If the monk doesn’t care about money, that means a greater share for the fighter and wizard, who want to build a ludus and a laboratory, respectively, but no one misses out on any of the game rewards they deem primary (whether narrative or feature). In games with more abstracted monetary rewards, like Vampire, the general idea of money is supported by the system more than any specific amounts. The Resources Background, should one player choose to cultivate it, represents a more general access to money, and the focus of the game shifts to the resource more important to the vampires: blood. Of course, that’s a whole separate input-and-sink economy, and it comes with a built-in morality cost….

Player’s Toolbox: The Three-Sentence Character

I’ve spent many years of my career expanding characters into prose-length works, establishing elaborate backgrounds for them and giving them extensive histories. Because those books are intended for commercial sale, those characters are designed to have broad appeal. Somewhere in those 2,500-4,000 words is a hook almost anyone can use in a chronicle. Whether your setting involves attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion or a vampire coup in Chicago, you should be able to grab a character published for your game of choice, find an engaging hook, and fit it into your campaign. It might require a little fine-tuning, but that’s okay – fine-tuning is less cumbersome than whole-cloth world- and character-building, and that’s what published source material is all about. You trade a couple bucks and save several hours of campaign engineering. As well, hobby games draw on a variety of loquacious literary traditions, so it’s often appropriate to the genre to run off a bit at the pen in published material. (Dirty secret: Writers are paid by the word, so there’s some “enlightened self-interest” in effect.)


It’s different at the table, though. When you’re a player in a specific gamemaster’s campaign, you want gameplay and your GM wants a way to engage you. As fulfilling as it can be to write an 8,000-word biography of your character, that’s an endeavor entirely separate from playing the game. A lengthy character background doesn’t guarantee a playable character.

Instead, summarize your character for the GM in three sentences. They can be whatever you want, but a) seriously, keep it to three sentences and b) present them in terms of the game’s subject matter. You’ll find them most fruitful, too, if c) they’re related to a character’s goals or history. These can be ambitions or dreams, or they can be biographical elements that add color and resonance to an encounter. They can be tragic, comic, or dramatic – whatever you want. Just create them with the intent to be used in the game, and set them up so that there’s creative wiggle room for the GM to do something interesting with them.

When you do this, what you’re really doing is giving your GM a short list of things you’d like to see happen to or involve your character. These background sentence are like skills in that mechanical regard. You’re telling your gamemaster, “I’d like to do this.” Your three background sentences also convey the added benefit of shaping the character’s personality or history. Eventually, you’ll accomplish by starting with those three sentences and involving the other players what the 8,000-word bio attempts to do by itself, which is telling the story of the character. You’ll be doing it as the core activity of the game with others rather than the solitary metagame activity that lies on top of it, however.


Check out some examples:

“My character comes from a merchant family that traveled the three kingdoms and never settled.”

This speaks to a broad understanding of cultures and their artifacts. You recognize the brooch in the treasure hoard as valuable. Your family used to deal in jewelry like this occasionally. But this isn’t three kingdoms workmanship, it’s from the city-states past the Golden Peaks. How did this brooch make it all the way down here and end up among the refuse in this particular troll cave?

“My character belonged to a faith persecuted for heresy.”

That must have been harsh, but growing up, you learned the location of the secret tunnels beneath the Cathedral of St. Venetus. It also suggests a desire to be an underdog or perhaps antihero, lining up some antagonists – Inquisitors, for example, or secret police – who can show up and add drama to an encounter.

“My character has a dark secret.”

Very bold! You’re giving the GM carte blanche to summon that skeleton from your closet whenever she finds it most appropriate? Fantastic. Over in her campaign notes, she has a betrayer/ double agent/ chaos cultist who needs a compelling way to enter the story. Years ago, you heard a knock at your door and a scream in the darkness….

“My character occasionally doesn’t know that what she’s doing really matters, and she’s looking for a sign.”

This indicates a player wanting to make an impact on the world, which speaks to Relatedness. Since the town’s only temple to the Redeemer burned and the burghers have denied all new construction, the faithful have been seeking one who could hold a candle against the darkness encroaching from the Frozen Wastes. The handwritten journals your party found beneath the temple’s ruin spoke of just such a bleak time before the coming of the Redeemer, and how He brought solace to a wicked folk. You are a vessel for His Word.

“My character wants to join the Friends of the Night.”

Players very often want their characters to belong to established and significant organizations within the game world. In this case, you’ve actually come to the attention of the Amici Noctis, and they’d like to have someone of your caliber as well, but they want to test your mettle first. How committed are you? Committed enough to risk the favor of your sire, who it turns out betrayed the Amici Noctis long ago? Committed enough to trust the Friends of the Night over your sire’s sire and Mentor? Committed enough to endanger your coterie? Committed enough to risk your Humanity? All you have to do is deliver this mortal vessel — this bound, gagged, and blindfolded mortal vessel — into the cellars beneath your Mentor’s estate. If you’re capable enough, your Mentor never even has to know….

“My character is a lone badass. His family was killed and he’s practiced with his katana relentlessly for every waking hour since their death.”

Okay, fine. Tonight, though, the party is digging up dirt on the dragonborn sorcerer and — what’s that on the villain’s desk? It’s the title to the house your parents were living in the year you left home. What does it have to do with him, and why does it look like he’s doing something with it now?

Those are just single statements or sentences. Putting together a three-sentence character creates connections between those statements, and potentially those of other players (which is important, since you’re going to spend four-hour blocks of time working together with those other players). Those sentences also suggest details that can be discovered, described, or created during play. Thus, the three-sentence character becomes more than the simple sum of her three sentences.

Away from the game table, go ahead and indulge that 8,000-word character vignette. Just know that you may not be able to use it in the game as such. Manage your expectations and respect your GM’s time and that of the other players. If they want to read that bio because of its entertainment value alone, that’s great. Just remember that reading is separate from playing, and the game is that which is played.

GM’s Toolbox: Blow Up the Death Star

Narrative progression is the advancement of the story as a result of the player’s actions. Whether a sandbox or a theme park, whether events advance at the pace of the players’ activity or whether time moves forward even while the players discuss their next course of action, narrative progression provides an answer to “and then what happens?” during the course of play. By its nature, narrative progression exhibits the fruits of player autonomy (since the players decided on the course of action that will affect the game world) and should result in relatedness as well (as the game world changes to account for their actions, and other PCs and NPCs can be affected by their deeds, which may color their interactions with them).

Narrative progression follows an identifiable or at least understandable pattern of cause and effect. Your game doesn’t have to have a conventionally defined plot to have narrative progression. All it needs to do is present the outcomes of the players’ actions, to let them see the results of what they did.

For almost every player, some sort of story reward helps frame the experience, because without some amount of narrative framing, the game is just an abstract comparison of values or states. While it may seem like a “soft” reward, especially to more systems-minded players, narrative progression packs a punch when used in tandem with the mechanics. (Remember the essential experience: The game is the story its players tell by using the rules within the construct of the game world.)


Some examples of narrative progression:

  • The party defeats the marauding dragon and saves the kingdom.
  • The coterie finds the Sabbat spy and brings him before the Prince.
  • The bard takes the bones of his father to their ancestral lands and lays him to rest.

Elevating Tension via Narrative Progression

One good GMing technique is to build on the players’ successes and use those to introduce the troupe to the next challenge. Stories rarely depict only a single point of conflict, and instead bring their tension from a simmer to a boil across multiple points of conflict and resolution. A progressive series of narrative “checkpoints” can build dramatic tension by escalating the stakes of the story. For example:

  • The heroes destroy a key enemy stronghold, discovering later that the enemy has regrouped at the stronghold and rebuilt it to be even more perilous.
  • The party “disappears” the crime boss, only to see the boss’ lieutenant assume control of the operation and begin a reign of terror.
  • The players help fortify their community against a harrowing storm, but in doing so, they anger the denizens of the nearby forest…
  • …and in placating the forest tribes, earn the ire of the unhallowed lord who considers the forest his domain.

Escalation shouldn’t always be the outcome, however. Allow your players the chance to genuinely enjoy success. If the players feel that every victory comes with a greater punishment attached, or believe that their accomplishments only pave the way for worse misfortune, they’ll disengage. Think of narrative progression in terms of story: Every story has an end, and a satisfying conclusion should accompany every major conflict. Sometimes an exploding Death Star is just an exploding Death Star.

A Satisfying End

deathNarrative progression doesn’t always have to be tied to victory. “Accomplishment” isn’t always a “win.” Remember that the players are the main characters of the story. Even if they don’t survive to the campaign’s conclusion, a dramatic end can be its own memorable narrative reward. Examples of particularly satisfying ends:

  • The paladin sacrifices herself holding the Gravemaker at bay so that the rest of the party can escape with the Book of Lost Saints.
  • The Toreador uses Celerity to sprint through the fire, revealing the treasonous elders’ identities to the pack as the flames consume him.
  • The engineer opens the airlock, taking the launch codes with him into the cold depths of space as he explosively decompresses.