The Gaming Outpost

A quick word from our sponsor…

Before we get back to the show, I’ve got to take care of two small details.

1) I’ve got a new e-mail address. Any mail you send me regarding ORKWORLD should be sent to “orkboss@orkworld.com”. That should clean up my mailbox right quick.

2) My words in last week’s article could be read as saying: “Neo pagans are a bunch of people who don’t know what they’re doing.”

If that’s how my column came off to you, I owe you a very sincere apology. Attacking other people’s faith is not an activity I participate in. In fact, I myself am an Omnitheist. I believe in all the gods, all the time. To quote Harry d’Amour, “You can’t have too many saviors.”

Another religious scholar, Crash Davis, also has an opinion on the topic. I’ve tried to follow for most of my life, but we’ll talk about Crash’s point-of-view on religion at the end of the column.

* * *

Last week I talked about shamanism, magical realism (a term I hate as much as I hate “genre”), and I eluded to a fellow named Hermes Thrice-Great. Let’s talk about him for a while.

Hermes Thrice-Great was a fellow who lived quite a long time ago. Exactly when he lived is up for debate, as well as just about every fact we know about him. You see, just like Plato, folks are pretty certain that Ol’ Triple-Plus Great wasn’t a single person, but a bunch of people, writing under a single name. But that’s besides the point. What we’re here to talk about is how he “single-handedly” changed magic forever.

Hermes was one of the first folks to suggest that magic was an observable phenomenon, one that could be duplicated if you got the ingredients right. In other words, he treated “magic” like science. This little sentiment has done more harm to magic than any other in the history of mankind. After all, the magic we discussed last week isn’t observable at all, it’s an implicit understanding of spontaneous events and the emotions they bring to the surface.

To make all that clear, let me give you one more example. One that illustrates exactly what I’m talking about:

Disneyland.

I’m standing with five or six friends (out of a thirty person group) in line for the Pinocchio ride. Across the way is Snow White’s Scary Adventures. High in the tower above us is a window. I’ve got nothing better to do, so I’m watching the window.

Then, the curtains of the window part and the Evil Queen is standing there, looking down at me.

She’s beautiful. She’s cunning. She’s crafty. She’s evil. She’s everything every gamer desires in a woman.

I laugh. Everyone turns to see what I’m looking at. They all feel the exact same emotion I’m feeling.

And, together, all five of us sing a quick stanza of God Save the Queen. Spontaneously. Without rehearsal. Without even verbally making the suggestion. All together, at once.

Then, as the last word fades from our lips, the curtains close and she’s gone.

Later, all thirty of us are leaving. We stop by the window. My five friends and I have told them what happened earlier in the day. When she opens the curtains, we all sing the song, but it’s not the same. It doesn’t have the magic of the previous moment.

Why?

Because the first moment was candid. The second moment was contrived.

Magic isn’t about spells and potions and cauldrons and familiars, its about being able to recognize a special event when it occurs. It’s about “sight”. It’s also about learning from those experiences and using the knowledge you gain later in your life. Just because you witness an auspicious event doesn’t make you a “wise woman”.

“Well,” you say, “that’s all fine and dandy, but how do I throw fireballs with it?”

Glad you asked.

* * *

See that tree over there? That’s where Grimshlee the Half-Blind fought off fifteen elves. He died under that tree. His blood oozed from his body down into its roots. That tree is magic.

Now, how do we make it magic in the game? Easy. We give the tree a Trait.

The tree is a story of great courage. Therefore, the tree has the Courage Trait. If an Ork fights under that tree, he will gain one extra die. If he fights against elves, he gains another die. If he fights against a whole lot of elves, he gains another die.

You see where we’re going here?

Everything in the world has the capacity for magic. When auspicious events occur and someone is there to tell the tale, as long as someone remembers, that tree will be magic. As soon as the story dies, the magic dies. That’s why bards are so powerful in Ork culture. They know all the stories. They know all the magic places.

Now, there can be an argument made that if you fight under that tree, you’ll defeat all the elves, but there’s also a good chance you’ll die there… but that’s what great stories are about, right? They’re about circles.

Look at Star Wars. Lots of circles.

Look at Lord of the Rings. Tons of circles.

Look at (let’s see if they let me get away with this one!) Legend of the Five Rings. Circles galore.

Remember last week? Remember my mug? The one that has all those stories in it? How much magic is that thing carrying around in it? How about the Darkest of the Hillside Thickets shirt? It’s got the Friendship Trait, the Camaraderie Trait and the Endurance Trait. Any and/or all of them. That’s up to the GM.

Magic Traits give bonus dice, but those bonus dice only count if the circumstance is right. My Thickets shirt isn’t magic when I’m all alone, it’s magic when I’m with friends. Maybe the tree isn’t magic unless you’re fighting elves. I think you see what I’m after.

Now, let’s talk about making magic.

How many stories do you know that go something like this:

There’s a guy driving in a car with his best girl. He’s got an engagement ring in his pocket. He’s taking his loved one up to the same hill where his father asked his mother to marry him. Why? Because that hill is magic. It’s got the Love Trait (or, the Marriage Trait, or the Devotion Trait, or whatever you want to call it). If he asks her to marry him and she says “Yes” (of course she’s gonna say “Yes!”; this is a magic hill we’re talking about!), then they’ll carry the Devotion Trait with them for the rest of their lives.

You see, magic is contagious.

Born under a good star? You get a Magic Trait.

Born in the same place a great hero was born? You get a Magic Trait.

Soon, you start getting more and more Magic Traits. You become more legendary with each adventure.

And before you know it, people are getting Magic Traits from you. They’ve got a Sam Magic Trait or a Donna Magic Trait because they drank from your cup or they danced with you in the rain to the sound of The Thickets or something equally sentimental.

The best part is that bard characters can make Magic Traits. Check it out:

Three players and a GM. The three players go through a death-defying adventure and return to tell the tale. One of them is a bard. The player (and thus, the character) tells the story. Thus, he gives Magic Points to his players.

(Or maybe “Story Points”? Hm. There’s something there. Don’t know what it is, yet. I’ll have to think about it and let you know next week.)

“Okay, John,” you say. “What happens if I go back to the same place and do the same thing over and over again? Do I get multiple bonus dice?”

If you’re asking yourself this, then you’re missing the point.

It’s about spontaneous sentiment. Not repetition. Here’s another quick example.

* * *

You know ‘bout Percival? You know, the guy who heals the Fisher King?

Well, in case you don’t, here’s a very quick version.

Percival isn’t a real knight; he’s a faker. He’s a farmboy dressed up in armor pretending to be a knight. He’s been quickly trained by a rogue knight, but he’s still very unsure about how he’s supposed to act and all that stuff.

So. With that in mind, let’s head over to ol’ Fisher King’s house.

The Fisher King is in charge of guarding the Grail. But, he’s lost it. He even got injured in the process of losing it. Now, he’s got a festering wound that won’t heal. All that has to happen is a knight come into his court, see that he’s hurt and ask, “What ails you my brother?”

A spontaneous act of sympathy. That’s what he needs.

Here comes Percival. He sits at the table, sees the King is in pain, and wants to ask him if there’s anything he can do…

BUT!

He’s a knight. He doesn’t speak unless he’s spoken to. That’s the rules. That’s what he was taught.

Farmboy Percival wants to ask what’s wrong, but Sir Percival won’t let him. So, he fails the quest. What’s worse, he can’t go back and try again because he knows the answer. If you know what you’re supposed to do, it isn’t a spontaneous act of sympathy, now is it? The Fisher King is still wounded and Percival wanders around for another twenty years hating God for putting him into such a predicament.

Wanna know how it ends? Go read it! And when you do, rent The Phantom Menace and tell me that Anakin ain’t Percival.

* * *

The point of the Percival story is this: magic happens. It doesn’t happen on purpose. The guy taking his sweetheart up to the hill is a good example. If he’s truly in love, if he truly wants this woman as his wife, the magic will be there. If he’s relying on the Bonus Die, he’s in trouble. He’s assuming, and you know what that does.

Bad mojo.

* * *

So, we got ourselves a magic system. Well, the beginnings of it, anyway. At least, that’s how Ork magic works. We’ll have to spend some time talking about elf magic and human magic (if they even have any), but for right now, I’m pretty happy with the way m’boys’ magic is working out.

Which brings us to Crash Davis.

If you don’t recognize the name, it’s from the movie Bull Durham. One of my favorites.

There’s a moment in that film where Crash goes into a little speech about “respecting the hitting streak”. Essentially, it boils down to this:

If you believe you’re on a streak because you’re wearing women’s underwear under your uniform or it’s because you spit three times before you go up to bat or because your girlfriend kissed you before you left for the stadium, then by god, that’s why you’re on a hitting streak!

A lot of people call ballplayers superstitious. I prefer to call them “reverent”. Like Annie says at the beginning of the film, baseball is like a religion. And if another player thinks he’s on a hitting streak because he wears his t-shirt inside-out, nobody laughs at him. Nobody. Because they respect the streak.

I remember watching the Twins the first time they won the World Series. I remember watching them all sitting on the bench with their hats off, trembling those hats down low to the ground.

Does it work?

You’re damn right it works.

And you can say the same thing for every religion on this planet.

If your faith keeps you from bein’ bad, then it works and nobody’s got any right to mess with you about it. Nobody.

* * *

So, this week, I’m telling you all to go watch Bull Durham. Also, check out The Sandbox. It’s another baseball movie, but it’s got a lot of what I’m talking about here. And read or watch The Natural. More goodies, more magic.

Next week, we’re going to talk about how this little magic system of mine changes the game system. Until then, keep your chin clean.

And remember:

Respect the streak.

You are in a dark room. You aren’t alone. There are others there with you, seated at tables, much like yourself. There is a slight glow coming from the lamp in the center of your table, just enough to cast shadows, but not enough to chase them away.

A disembodied voice cries out: “Ladies and Gentlemen. Presenting. The Magic. Of. John. Wick!”

Suddenly, there is a spot light and a stage. A man steps on that stage. The audience’s reaction is mixed. Some boo him. Some cheer him. Some… wait and watch.

The man is wearing a t-shirt that declares Darkest of the Hillside Thickets: “Cthulhu Takes Parts of North America!”, khaki shorts and no shoes. His hair is tied in a braid that falls down to the middle of his back. On the ring finger of his left hand is a golden band. On the table beside him is a tall mug filled with root beer.

He looks out at you from a small pair of rimmed glasses and smiles.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces. “Tonight, you and I are going to take a small journey. A journey into the land… of Magic!”

He waves his hands in the air… but nothing appears. No smoke. No fire. No nothing.

“No,” he says. “We’re not going to talk about prestidigitation or illusion. No card tricks. No coin tricks. We’re going to talk about something different. We’re going to talk about ‘real magic’.”

The crowd’s reaction is subtle. Some of them moan, some of them sit up in their chairs, waiting to hear more. Others just sit… and wait.

“But before I begin, I must make an announcement.” He pauses, letting the drama settle in.

“I don’t believe in magic. Not in modern magic, anyway. Not neo-pagan rituals, not angels, not miracles, not Hermetic thought or any of the hocus-pocus that’s been thrown around the neo-pagan crowd either. Not an ounce of it.”

He pauses. “On the other hand, I do believe in Santa Claus.” The audience chuckles. He continues. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He steps across the stage, looking out at the crowd. “Tonight, I’d like to talk a little bit about magic and its role in our little sub-culture. I’d like to talk about how ‘magic’ began, how it changed, the people who changed it and how those changes found their way into gaming and how gaming changed magic yet again.

“Then, lastly, I’d like to show you what I’m going to do with magic. And I think we’ll all be the richer for it.”

He stops in the center of the stage.

“And if you’re ready… it’s time to begin.”

What We Know Now

Think of magic in roleplaying games. What’s your first thought?

A spellbook, perhaps. Maybe its a vision of Gandalf? How about Merlin? Maybe it’s that fireball that your friend miscast that burned everyone in the party because you didn’t accommodate for the right spatial factors and the backlash was so bad you had to run back home because you forgot to bring a cleric?

And that’s where we begin.

Clerics and magic-users.

Ask any gamer the difference between a magic-user and a cleric, and you’ll get an answer that sounds something like this:

“Well, clerics are holy men. They get their spells from their god; they have to pray for them. Magic-users study their spells from books. Their spells are formulas that use components like a frog’s eye or a small red ruby.”

And that red ruby has to be at least 100 gp value.

That little distinction has a profound effect on the rest of gaming. Think of all the D&D clones that go by that distinction. Think of all the games that consider clerics “magic-users who pray for their spells”.

Clerics cast spells.

How much of a jump is it to call those spells “miracles”?

It’s a jump, isn’t it?

That’s kind of funny to these ears, because that’s exactly what all magic is.

It’s all miracles.

Think about this for a second:

The world’s first magic-users… were clerics.

Stone-age man didn’t read spells out of books. He didn’t have magical components and throw fireballs at his tribe’s enemies.

He was a shaman. He had secret knowledge that let him see things ordinary people couldn’t see. He could see omens and portents, read the stars and know what it meant when a black bird hopped across your path.

He knew how to cure illnesses. He knew how to banish evil spirits. He was a holy man.

For thousands of years, “magic” was religion. It was signals from the gods. It was recognizing an important event and telling the tribe of its significance. It was remembering that important event ten years later and telling the story to the village children so they would tell their children and they would tell their children and on and on and on.

What was magic to these people? Well, let me give you some examples.

Right now, as I type these words, I’ve got three magic items within reach: my ring, my cup and my t-shirt.

The t-shirt is magic because this shirt was with me when I danced to the music of The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets at Gen-Con ‘98. It rained that night. We weren’t certain if The Thickets were going to play or not. But I stood there in the rain with people like Greg Stolze and John Tynes and Peter Atkinson, and we waited.

We waited for The Thickets.

Sure enough, the clouds settled down and our boys came on the stage, dressed in their Cthulhu costumes: Three Bugs and a Gug.

Together, we all danced and moshed and bounced and screamed ‘till our lungs bled and our feet were turned to pudding and our legs were rubber. We gave The Thickets our love and they gave us theirs. There was something powerful that night; something… something… poetic. Something that can’t be explained with words. If you weren’t there, you just can’t understand the great bonding ritual that occurred that night.

It was Us and The Thickets.

And I have that shirt. The shirt I wore as I stood in the rain. The shirt I wore as I danced and screamed. My sweat is in this shirt. That night is in this shirt.

I’m wearing that shirt right now.

And it’s magic.

* * *

Just in front of me is a tall, pewter mug.

Let me tell you something about that mug.

When I was younger, I worked one of them Renaissance Faires.

Yeah. I was a Faire geek. (Just watch who you call black, Mr. Kettle.)

At the Faire, I had a job. I told stories. I also taught stories. That is, I had a storytelling workshop. It was also at that time that I earned my first dollar bill for telling stories. It was a great and terrible time for me. Lots of drama. Lots of romance. Lots of tragedy. All self-inflicted, of course, but that’s the way of Renaissance Faires. Lots of self-inflicted tragedy.

Anyway, I have this mug.

Everywhere I went, before I told a story, I’d take that mug off my belt and hold it out. “This here mug,” I’d say, “is my grandfather’s mug. You see, my grandfather was a bard and he knew every story in the world. And he kept those stories in here, in his mug.” I’d hold out the empty mug to the group. “And the only way to get to them is to fill up the mug… so they float to the top.”

I got a lot of drinks that way.

But not one of them was “free”. I traded each one for a story.

You have no idea how many stories that mug is carrying around. Stories I’d practiced a thousand times, stories I had to make up on the spot, stories I told on demand.

Strapped to that mug is a leather pouch. Inside that leather pouch are four very important things: the first dollar I ever earned for telling a story, the first dollar I ever earned for teaching other people stories and the first dollar I earned for writing a story. And at the beginning of every Faire, I’d put a sprig of rosemary in that pouch, so I wouldn’t forget how I earned them. “Rosemary is for remembering”, after all.

I’m drinking out of that mug right now.

And it’s magic.

* * *

Lastly, there’s my ring. The ring sitting on the ring finger of my left hand. The hand closest to my heart.

I earned that ring with another ring that I gave Jennifer on my birthday with the words, “This is the day of my re-birth. The day of new beginnings. And I don’t want to go another step without knowing that you’re coming with me.”

That’s what started a fifteen month ordeal the romantics like to call “marriage”.

Actually…

… before I get to that, let me tell about something else. Something else that’s got its own magic.

Oo. Boy. This one’s a doosey.

* * *

A slight interlude.

I just got done writing Way of Scorpion for AEG. In that book, a character named Yojiro meets with another character named Kachiko. Now, while many folks know who Bayushi Kachiko is, not a whole lot of folks know who Yojiro is.

He’s the character I used during the playtest of L5R RPG. So, in a way, he’s me. The authorial intrusion. The quiet joke. Richard Blake. Peter Frigate. Oh, never mind.

So, at the end of the story, Kachiko rewards Yojiro with a lock of her hair in the most erotic scene ever written for any Five Rings product. There’s no sex in the story. But there’s a lot of… suggestion.

That’s the set-up. What you need to know to proceed. Let’s do so.

* * *

So, anyway, I’m getting married.

Marcelo Figueora is running it. He asks me if I want a stripper at my bachelor party. I say, “No.” My bachelor party is about me and my friends. That’s it. Me and my friends. Having a stranger show up to my bachelor party didn’t feel right. This was a secret time for Us. No outsiders.

Little did I know what Marcelo had in mind.

He called a friend of mine. Told him his plan. He got together with my wife and made sure it was cool. Not only did my wife think it was cool, she even paid for my friend to fly in. This is why I tell everyone I meet that I have the coolest wife in the world. You’ll see why in a couple of moments.

So, it’s my bachelor party.

In the middle of the party, he takes me to a small room. Places me in the center in a chair. Tells me to hold tight…

… and Kachiko walks in.

She smiles. Wishes me well. Asks me if I love the girl I’m about to marry. I say “Yes.”

She says, “Too bad.”

And she gives me a lock of her hair.

That’s all I’m gonna say about that night.

Some things only remain sacred as long as they remain secret.

I still have that lock of hair.

And it’s magic.

* * *

Jennifer and I were married on New Year’s Eve. The ending of the old and the beginning of the new. Our wedding rings are simple gold bands with oak leaves and acorns. Go look up the symbolism for yourself.

The bands are two of a kind. Nothing else like them in the world.

This little ring means more to me than anything else in the world.

It’s a promise. A promise to love and cherish and honor. It has no beginning and it has no end. And it was put on my finger on New Year’s Eve. The ending of the old and the beginning of the new.

Lots of people ask me and Jenny how we always get along so well. We have different answers. Mine goes something like this:

“Because a marriage isn’t about bliss. It’s about giving up. Surrender. I’m not John anymore. I’m not my own person. Everything I do affects someone else now, in one way or another. And that someone else really isn’t a someone else, it’s really me. I’m not John. I’m John-and-Jennifer.”

That promise, that night, those words. All magic.

It’s right there, on the ring finger of the hand closest to my heart.

And it’s magic.

* * *

Magic.

For hundreds of thousands of years, that’s what magic meant to people. It was events and places and days. It had nothing to do with fireballs and portable holes and toe’s eyes and praying for spells. Nothing at all.

The question is: “How do you make a game system that reflects magic like that?”

It’s tough. But I think I have a way to do it. In fact, I think I can do it with ORKWORLD.

But first, we have to talk about something else. We have to talk about how the magic changed. How the nature of magic shifted from the power of sentiment to the mixing sediments. I hold one man responsible for this atrocity. One man alone.

And his name is Hermes Thrice Great.

But we’ll talk about him next week.

In the meantime, go read Alice Hoffman’s book Practical Magic. Forget the film. It’s cute, but it’s got a whole bunch of neo-pagan stuff in it that ain’t in Ms. Hoffman’s book.

So, go read the book. Keep in mind the things I’ve told you here. Think of all the little trinkets of events long ago that you hold on to, and whenever anyone asks you why, you’re not quite sure.

I’ll tell you why.

They’re magic.