This story may be apocryphal; I may have the names wrong; it may prove for some to be more trouble than it’s worth.  Yet I think there is an important thought encapsulated here that’s worth a moment to consider, discuss, and grasp.

  It is said that composer George Gershwin sent a letter to composer Maurice Ravel.  You’ll know Gershwin from Porgy and Bess, and perhaps Rhapsody in Blue, the musicals he created with his brother Ira, An American in Paris, and maybe some other material.  Ravel is best known for his Bolero, for which he was probably well known even before the movie Ten gave it new, er, meaning.  Ravel was older, and successful first; but Gershwin was already known by this time.  The impetus of Gershwin’s letter was to ask the senior musician to instruct him in composition.

  Ravel’s reply was not exactly to decline, but it had the same effect.  “Why,” he asked, “do you wish to become a second-rate Ravel, when you are already a first-rate Gershwin?”

  We could take Ravel to task for this on many counts.  The desire to learn from someone whom we admire is a noble aspiration; the recognition that someone knows things from which we could benefit is commendable.  Personally, I have heard few works by Gershwin which appeal to me as much as most of what I’ve heard by Ravel (admittedly a personal preference, but I am surprised when I enjoy Gershwin and when I don’t enjoy Ravel, so it is a strong preference).  I wonder if Ravel just didn’t want to be bothered with a student, particularly one whom he could not so easily mold (all teachers have a wish to impact their students in memorable ways).  I wonder if he lacked confidence to teach, or thought that a student as capable as Gershwin would perceive that he did not so much know what he was doing.  All of that is worth considering; but it is not the point to which I would get.  There is something in Ravel’s advice for all of us.  Why do you wish to be a second-rate Ravel when you are already a first-rate Gershwin?  That is, why are you going to copy someone else, when you have it within yourself to be great by being yourself?

  Obviously I see the value in learning from others.  I’ve actually had the audacity to write a weekly column in which I presume to believe that others can actually learn something of value from me.  Apparently at least some of you have learned enough that you’re still reading them (definitely an encouragement).  At the same time, I am no one’s clone, and I expect that cloning me through you would be a bad idea–futile as a goal, worthless as an outcome.  There are those who think me a good referee and a good designer; there are those who praise my abilities as a player.  Part of that can be learned; but part of it is the application of who I am to what I do.

  That is where this really strikes home:  to be truly great at something, you must come to the point where you are applying who you are to what you do.  You must find your strengths, work around or overcome your weaknesses, and hit your stride.  Only when you do that, only when you become the best you that you can be, will you find that you have greatness within you.

  It is then that all the lessons offered by others truly have their value.  You can’t become a great referee by copying me.  You can only be creative by tapping something inside you.  Yet once you’ve realized that you have it within you to do this, you can learn from others how they do it, and compare that with what you do, and so learn to improve what you’re doing.

  Years ago I ran Dungeons & Dragons.  This was before I had ever heard of Multiverser, before I knew E. R. Jones.  I ran games, and I got to be pretty good at it.  I was known as the fairest and most by-the-book Dungeon Master around.  It was known that my scenarios were put to paper months, sometimes years, before the players saw them; that nothing was targeted at the players or their characters, all was designed strictly with a view to its own internal coherence, and whatever happened, it was never personal.  If the book required spell effects to be tracked in great detail over a long period of time, they were so tracked.  I knew what I was doing, and I did it well.

  E. R. Jones did not run games this way.  He played fast and loose with everything.  He invented his encounters, his in-game events, even his maps, pretty much as he revealed them to us.  Spells did what he wanted them to do; adversaries appeared if they were needed to enliven the action, and fled when they had served their purpose.  He was a master of illusion, making us feel like it was all real and well considered when it was all invented to achieve his objectives at this moment.  He manipulated his players into having an exciting game, and we enjoyed it.

  Most of what I know about illusionist techniques I learned by watching him.  Most of what I know about rolling with the punches, improvising on the fly, shooting from the hip, came from him.  I learned a lot.  Multiverser would not be near the same game, would not exist as a viable game, were it not for those lessons.

  Yet I do not run games the way he does.  I am not a second rate Jones; I’m a first rate Young.  I have learned from him, many things that have greatly expanded my horizons on the possible.  I have not become him.  I did not become a good referee by copying him.  I became a good referee by doing what worked for me, and then became better by comparing what I did with what he did, and finding ways to improve my efforts.

  Once in a while I have the privilege of watching or even playing a game run by someone who learned from me; once in a while I get to see how someone else runs Multiverser.  Almost always they do things that I would not have done.  Almost always that’s a good thing.  The good referees are not the ones who do what I do; they’re the ones who find themselves, become good by expressing themselves through what they do, and then use my example to hone what they already know.

  So as much as I hope these columns have impacted your games, ultimately I hope that you are finding your way of doing things, becoming the best you can be by expressing yourself, and not trying to copy me too closely.  Copies are rarely so good as the original, but homages are often better.

  Next week, something different.

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M. Joseph Young is co-author of Multiverser and Vice President for Development at Valdron Inc.  His many contributions to online literature are indexed for convenience, and he looks forward to discussing these things by e-mail or on our Gaming Outpost forums.