During years of playing RPGs, reading various rules, and meeting other players and narrators, I have gathered certain insights into game mastering—albeit in an unorganized form—which I would like to publish here in response to repeated requests from the site’s readers.
These notes on game mastering could serve as a tool and advice for players who have visited these pages and would like to learn something about RPGs in general, not just about the specific world of Sirania and the Clans. Every Game Master and player has their own experiences, and everyone could certainly contribute with their observations. I welcome any insights. It is also certain that everyone’s experience is different and that some points I discuss here may seem too primitive, obvious, or conversely, remote and irrelevant to some. On the other hand, some might find that they do not find answers to their most burning questions regarding game mastering here. I am aware of these possibilities, and based on your reactions via email or in the guestbook on the site, I will gradually enrich and expand the content of this page. However, I am saving longer and deeper analyses of game mastering for the upcoming Guide to Game Mastering, which might one day be published, either as part of a Sirania module or independently.
One final important note: Every Game Master’s temperament is different, and therefore a certain style of play will not suit everyone. Some cannot lead a game without many pages of preparation, while others, above all, enjoy improvisation, in which they discover for themselves what the story is actually about, and so on. My notes, therefore, stem from my own experience and are certainly not universally applicable.
HOW TO START?
I advise starting from the known, the small, the weak, the tiny, and the insignificant. One of the things that brings pleasure to players, GMs, moviegoers, readers, etc., is the magic of gradation (i.e., the gradual emergence of more terrifying monsters, more complex plots, more important nobles, etc.). The lower the level at which one begins, the longer one can escalate without the story turning into megalomania. However, one thing everyone who plays a game for more than a single evening will have to accept is that the joy of gradation will eventually end, and the Game Master must be able to base the story on something else from the very beginning—gradation is a good spice, but not the “ground” (foundation) of the plot.
HOW TO DESCRIBE?
A nice Czech word is “líčit” (which means both to depict and to set a snare). A Narrator is a narrator precisely because they “depict” like a hunter setting a snare for the players’ attention, with the task of catching it in their nets and drawing it into another world. The greatest “lure” is the flowing plot driven by the players themselves; however, its prerequisite is the “lure,” i.e., a good description of the surroundings, environment, and surrounding events that the players will bite onto and engage with. For descriptions, I recommend automating the mantra “colors-scents-sound,” which, even when followed mechanically, brings good results. A Game Master should not describe in generalities, but specifically, to capture the imagination. And imagination cannot be caught by general terms like “enemy,” “house,” or “road,” but by specific things that, during the description, seem to dance before one’s eyes.
A good tool is describing things, places, and people whose parts or whole the GM has seen in reality, in a movie, or in a painting, and can recall in vivid detail, which they can then highlight to bring the whole scene to life. Everything good also has its proper measure, and this applies to description especially—even the most pictorial and dynamic description bores if it lasts too long. The characters are already longing to step into that image and act, and instead, they must keep listening to more rhetorical outpourings. Those who cannot stop the flow of their eloquence should again memorize the mantra “whole + notable feature” and stick to a two-sentence summary during descriptions.
One thing that might seem secondary, but is in fact very serious for directing the plot, is the difference in describing things the GM has prepared as important for the plot and things unimportant for the plot. Ideally, the difference should not be noticeable, and the GM should learn a very subtle, even invisible, manipulation of the players, created by small emphases when describing things and people. Real subtlety in emphasis is important, because any emphasis larger than “very small” feels awkward, and especially more sensitive and intelligent players rightfully react allergically to it, while duller or subservient players take the bait, and the game becomes a farce.
LEADING THE GAME
Every Game Master has a different “hand,” and every player has slightly different needs; however, generally, the following applies: The Game Master must give the players the impression that they are presenting a world of which they are merely the narrator, not a god. Players must feel that they have influence over the plot and history, that they are moving within something relatively solid, not in a masquerade whose goal is to push the GM’s idea of what a “dramatic story” should look like. The trick is that a story is only truly dramatic—even a completely primitive one—if the players have a real influence on changing the plot; and a story is only truly boring—even a perfectly mythical and brilliant one—if the players are merely observers of how perfectly it all fits together for the GM as they make “their” story. The true goal, after all, is not the entertainment of the GM, but of the players. One of the GM’s greatest mistakes is trying to be Fate. They can be cruel, they can be kind, they can be simple, they can be complicated, but they must not be Fate.
CHARACTER DEATH
Death is a part of life. It depends heavily on the type of game, but death should definitely be a threat and should visit the characters occasionally so that fear does not blunt its edge. The fear of death should not be one’s daily bread, for then it loses its meaning; both the players and their characters will simply get used to the constant threat (and that is not their fault). The basic working environment should be relative safety.
Lethal danger is an important dramatic element that needs to be handled appropriately and not let slip through one’s fingers to become a toothless annoyance lurking around every corner. Lethal danger should carry death within itself—i.e., if the characters behave “badly” from a plot perspective, death should truly be a threat and, given the magnitude of the threat, should actually occur in the case of a bad choice. Real life is unfair, and death often comes unexpectedly and completely undeservedly (from our human perspective). In an RPG, in my opinion, this approach makes no sense, even though it is realistic. Death should always come only after a warning, and depending on the situation, after the first, second, or third. Death that does not come after these warnings loses its credit, and therefore it should definitely come. If a player does not react to the warnings and lets death arrive, what then? If they truly asked for it, then let them die. In borderline cases, these tactics can be used:
Incomplete Death: everyone thinks they are dead, but a demon dragged them half-dead somewhere else, etc.
Death that makes sense: if a character sacrifices themselves for others, fulfills some heroic task, etc., their death is accepted as heroic.
It is very important to avoid the superficial pathos of death. Death should not be some ghostly, languid, romantic, and pathetic snapshot, but a cruel reality that is first and foremost real and “ordinary,” and only then, along with the realization that someone has just departed whom everyone thought would be with them for many years, is pathos and sadness born in the minds of those standing around. Not before.
PLAYER vs. CHARACTER
The old truth certainly holds: players are not characters. Whatever the players are, their characters should have nothing in common with them, and the game and reality should be two separate worlds. It must be said that this is an ideal toward which every player should strive, but which not everyone achieves. Some players simply have less talent for separating various internal processes, and to some extent, this applies to everyone anyway. It goes without saying that the atmosphere of the game is not helped by personal animosity between players and the like.
What I would stop at, however, is information that the players know but their characters are not supposed to know. Even though players are not characters, it is desirable for such information to be kept to a minimum. Even if an honest player does not abuse their knowledge and such information does not overtly influence their character’s behavior, it still influences it subtly (on a secondary level). Simply put, a thing known by neither player nor character is a real secret, whereas a thing known by the player but not the character is a virtual secret, which in the player’s experience is simply not a real secret.
THE SYSTEM OF CHANCE
Oftentimes in a game, a situation is reached where it is impossible to clearly decide the success or failure of an action because the matter is in the balance. That is when the “randomness factor” comes in. Looking beyond its primary function described above, we must consider how it affects the game secondarily.
First, it acts positively because it gives the players the impression that the die/card/coin is a kind of impartial participant in the game that can produce something surprising even for the GM themselves. Second, however, it sometimes acts somewhat disruptively, especially for gaming groups that pride themselves on a “candlelight atmosphere.” Everyone has likely experienced the disruption when a slightly hypnotic atmosphere of immersion in the story is suddenly broken by flipping through rulebooks and searching for runaway dice under the table. A very low-disruption system of chance is a card system—it is particularly pleasant if the GM develops their own sufficiently open “tarot” system, which is simultaneously an inspiration and advice.
GAME LENGTH AND NUMBER OF PLAYERS
Both are highly individual matters. Some players are very active and even in smaller numbers give the impression of a significant crowd, while others are passive and there can be more of them without penalty. I see the general optimum as 4-5 players EXCLUDING the Game Master. Why? One and two players do not yet “make a society,” but are either an individual in a fantasy world or a duo. The functioning of a duo differs from functioning in a larger group because it is dualistic. Only three people create a society; they have a shared public space, they can form opinionated factions, etc.
From many perspectives, a group of three is ideal. Its size is pleasantly intimate. They are, however, the minimum, and the optimum found by experience lies at four or five. Around six, the group starts to become too large; it tends to split, and quieter players do not get a chance to speak.
As for time, it is psychologically proven that a person can only focus on a certain thing for a limited time. It varies from case to case and person to person, but experience shows that after about 2.5 to 3 hours, attention flags for the first time (this is approximately the length of a Hollywood movie). That is why it is best at such a moment—which will arise naturally during the game—to take a break where people stretch, walk around, make new tea, etc. After about 15-20 minutes, you can continue with another “Hollywood movie.” Two movies per evening is just right. However, if there is a need to play longer, it is good to then adapt the breaks to the need. Breaks are also good in the sense that they discharge the natural tendency to drift away from the plot, and after a break, one can immerse themselves in the game more freshly than during “pseudo-breaks” forced by unstable game mastering or bathroom runs.
© 2004 Jan A. Kozák
