The History of Warhamster

Welcome to Volume 2 of the Game Designer's Journal. I've made a few changes (you'll notice the couch now faces the west wall) that I hope you'll be happy with. However, I have to let you know, this one is a renter. I'm only staying for a short while (ten episodes at the most). This time around, I'm a designer-for-hire for one of the greatest Ips in the industry. A legend. A game so great, most of you have never heard of it before.

Quick story.

I was at a game convention (out of CA), running demos of L5R RPG when I got approached by a fellow with a spiral bound book (you know, like the ones they have at Kinkos). Shadis was still a going concern at the time, and he wanted me to review an RPG for the magazine. He put the book in front of me. I still remember the title, but I won't divulge it here. That would be rude. You'll see why in a moment.

"My game is revolutionary," he told me. "It's different from any other RPG I've ever seen."

"Tell me why," I said.

"I don't limit the character classes," he said.

There be dark waters ahead.

"Magic-users can use swords," he said.

And dark clouds, as well. Batten down the hatches! (Did you know you can't actually "batten down" a hatch? Never mind.)

He went on to tell me all about how his game was so different from any other game I could buy. He had seven kinds of magic, and magic-users could "specialize." He was very proud of that last one. He also told me that his alignments were "realistic," not the phony baloney alignments that everyone else used. He showed me how the character sheet actually came in the back of the book, you didn't have to spend more money on a character sheet package. Finally, he showed me how a spiral bound book was easier to use, because when you opened it to a page, it stayed open.

"That's great," I told him. "Ever hear of Ars Magica?"

"What?" he said.

"Ars Magica."

"Nope. Is that some computer game? I don't play computer games. They're not real roleplaying games."

I gave up right there. I asked him for a review copy. "Nope," he said. "You gotta pay for it like everybody else."

That memory still warms my heart.

But this story has a point: even if you've heard of Ars Magica or Unknown Armies or Over the Edge or even Orkworld, you are not the majority.

One more story.

When The Wife and I went to her best-friend's wedding, I met her husband and hung out with him all weekend. The only games he and his buddies play is D&D and a great science fiction game called Battlelords of the 23rd Century. That's it. Nothing else.

I brought a copy of L5R RPG for them to take a look at. They loved it. I signed a copy and left it behind as an amendment to our wedding gift.

Now, they play three RPGs.

There are games out there you've never heard of. Great games. Maybe The Best games. Keep that in mind.

Today, we embark on a dangerous path. Not a path of game design, but of re-design. But before we begin, a history lesson is in order.

Because you're about to learn about one of those great games. A great game you've probably never heard of. But, I promise you, by the end, you'll know it well. And hopefully, it'll mean as much to you as it has to me.

* * *

Warhamster was originally designed in the Spring of 1976 by Joseph P. Cottonworthy. Cottonworthy (or, "JPC" as his fans like to call him) designed the game between classes at the University of Minesotta. Inspired by Dungeons & Dragons and Tunnels & Trolls, JPC decided to try his own hand at roleplaying game design. Thus, Warhamster was born.

He managed to scramble together enough funds to print five hundred copies of the game, which came in a small box with only three 24-page pamphlets. The first book, Heroes & Hamsters detailed the rules for character creation. The second book, Sorcery & Sledgehammers covered both magic and combat. The last book, The Hamstermaster Companion covered advice for the HM as well as a sketch of the world of Warhamster. The books were not only written by JPC, but illustrated by him as well. A student of graphic design, the illustrated borders and hand-written calligraphy was amazing, even by contemporary RPG production standards.

Unfortunately, the night after his books were printed, packed and ready to ship, disaster struck. A freak fire destroyed nearly every box, leaving JPC only twenty-five units. He was devastated. He'd spent nearly his entire savings on the project, hoping his profits would allow him to continue at the U of M. Now, all those dreams were ruined.

Or, so it seemed&

Enter Joshua Jerimiah Jax. Otherwise known as J. Jery Jax.

Jax was a graduate student at the U of M who was fascinated by roleplaying games. He bumped into JPC at a bar in Dinkeytown (those wise in the ways of the U of M know what I'm talking about), and listened to the designer drown his woes in vodka martinis. In a matter of hours, the two made a deal. There was a handshake, a contract on a napkin and the exchange of five hundred dollars. That's all it took for Warhamster to belong to J. Jery Jax.

Hook, line and sinker.

No less than a year later, Warhamster was back on the printers. What was originally a 72 page game turned into a single 124 page book in a box that read: "J. Jery Jax Presents: Warhamster."

Not once does the name Joseph P. Cottonworthy appear in that book. Not once.

The box also included an innovation that made Jax a household name (at least, in my household): the d1000.

The Thousand-Sided Die (also known as "The Golf Ball of Death") is one of the rarest items in gaming; only eighty-seven of them exist (your faithful Author has two of them). It is a huge thing, complete with the promised number of sides& and completely unusable.

It simply never stops rolling.

But that didn't stop gamers from rolling it.

The game was an instant cult success. In college campuses across America, students were playing Warhamster. However, Jax had a problem. The d1000 was the most expensive component of the game, pushing production costs far too high to his liking. A young (and anonymous) game designer from Austin, Texas made a suggestion: Why not have players roll three ten-sided dice instead? Jax knew genius when he saw it, and the next printing (Revised Warhamster) included three ten-sided dice instead of the monstrous, cumbersome (did I mention unusable?) d1000.

The anonymous game designer's suggestion made Warhamster even more popular. New players showed up out of the woodwork, pushing the game even further into mainstream American culture.

But Warhamster proved to be too popular for its own good. In 1980, three teenage boys from Ames, Iowa crawled into a corn silo to play the game. The father of one of the boys, Mr. Jonas Clay, turned the silo on, killing all three boys.

All three families sued Jax (who failed to incorporate his publishing company, thus making him directly responsible for the deaths). Jax's lawyer argued it was the father who was responsible for the boys' deaths. The families' attorneys argued the game was to blame. The judge found in favor of Jax, but the legal fees had driven him into the poorhouse.

With bankruptcy looming on the horizon, Jax suddenly disappeared. A twelve-page, single-spaced, type-written letter was found in his home. It had no signature. St. Paul police have never revealed the contents of that letter, and the case of the missing game publisher faded out of everyone's memory. Jax's estate went on auction and the rights to Warhamster were purchased by a Mr. Jonas Clay (remember him?) for exactly one hundred and twenty-five dollars.

Jump ahead nearly fifteen years.

A young artist by the name of John Kovalic is drawing comics for his college newspaper. One early Sunday morning, instead of turning to the funny pages, he is inexplicably drawn to the Classifieds. There, staring him in the face, is a notification that the estate of J. Jery Jax is up for auction. He checks the date. He panics. He runs downstairs, puts on his pants, throws on some shoes, grabs his keys, runs out the door, jumps into his car and drives to the address listed in the paper.

When he arrives, the man at the door informs John that the auction is a shirt and tie affair.

That's when John realizes he isn't wearing a shirt.

A quick stop at Sears takes care of that, and John sits patiently as the items in the estate of J. Jery Jax are auctioned off& one by one. Finally, Lot 242: the rights to Warhamster, previously owned by Mr. Jonas Clay of Ames, Iowa (discredited in what would later be known as "The Infamous Pig Snorkeling Accident") are brought up for bid.

John makes a bid.

A man in front of him makes another.

John raises. The man ahead of him raises.

The price goes up. Up. Up. John checks his wallet. He double-checks his check book. Yes, he can afford it.

John raises the stakes to five hundred and seventy-five dollars.

Going.

Going.

Gone to the man in the shirt from Sears.

At the end of the auction, John goes over to the man who bid against him to offer his condolences. He explains that he's sorry, but Warhamster is an old favorite of his, and he just had to own it.

"It's best it goes to a fan," the man told him. John shook his hand again and looked at his name badge.

"Joe Cottonworthy," it said.

John didn't know at the time. He'd find out five years later.

* * *

It's five years later.

I'm writing a column for Pyramid magazine. John's drawing a comic for Pyramid magazine. We get to chatting through e-mail. I read in his comic how the kids are playing Warhamster. I tell him it's great he's paying tribute to one of the great games of all time. He sends me a quick thanks and tells me I'm the meanest GM he's ever read about. We both laugh and that's pretty much that.

Later, at the '99 GAMA Trade Show in Los Vegas, John and I are sitting around with James Wallis. James also mentions to Mr. Kovalic how cool it is he's keeping Warhamster alive in the pages of Dork Tower.

"Yeah," John says. "Jax's game design was brilliant. Years ahead of its time."

I spit up my drink (don't worry, it's only a Coke). James is much more subtle.

"What f@#wit told you J. Jery Jax had anything to do with that game?!?"

I'd say something about now, but I'm still choking on my Coke.

"I've got a copy of first edition Warhamster," John says. "And it says, 'Designed by J. Jery Jax."

"Cottonworthy," I manage to stammer out between coughing. "It was Cottonworthy."

While I recover, James explains to Mr. Kovalic the sorted and depressing history of Joe Cottonworthy and the fate of Warhamster. He listens attentively for about a minute& then all the color runs out of his face. He turns to me.

"What did you say his name was?" he asks.

"Cottonworthy," I say again between sips of water. "Joe P. Cottonworthy."

John suddenly puts one and one together.

"Oh my God," he whispers. "I stole Warhamster from him."

James and I share a dumbfounded look. John hurriedly explains.

That's when we all start shaking.

* * *

Jump ahead three days.

John Kovalic is on the phone with seventeen different agencies, all trying to locate Joseph P. Cottonworthy. It takes a week.

Soon thereafter, I receive an e-mail from John, urging me to call him. I do. Our conversation goes something like this.

JK: "John?"

JW: "Hi. Who's this?"

JK: "This is John Kovalic."

JW: "Oh. Hi, John. How's it going?"

JK: "Look, I don't want to sound rushed or anything, but&"

JW: "Is there something wrong?"

JK: "No. Everything's& everything's& John, he wants us to do it."

JW: "Who wants us to do what?"

JK: "Cottonworthy. He wants us to do Warhamster."

Hear that sound? That's the sound of a phone hitting the floor.

Apparently, John met with Mr. Cottonworthy about Warhamster. In fact, he offered back to him. Cottonworthy balked for a moment. Refused. John offered it again. He refused a second time. Finally, John said the magic word, and Mr. Cottonworthy accepted& on one condition. John agreed.

There was a handshake, a contract written on a napkin and a single dollar bill was exchanged.

After more than twenty years, Warhamster is back where it belongs.

Now, where do I come into all of this? Well, I'm that one condition.

Apparently, Mr. Cottonworthy would like a new edition of Warhamster. And he wants me to design it for him.

Looks like the "rock star of the game industry" gets to do a cover song.

I talked with JPC on the phone. He's a soft-spoken man with a very distinct Minnesota accent. He sounds an awful lot like my Uncle Tom. When he says my name, he says, "Jahn." The way he says it rhymes with "bahn." You know, the place they keep cows.

He said some very complimentary things, offered me the job and I told him I'd have to talk to The Wife. He said he understood and he'd wait for my reply. I talked to Jenny about it and called back in five minutes.

"I'll do it," I said.

"Great. I'll get a schedule ready."

And that's all it took.

* * *

And so, faithful readers, you are in for a treat. In this Second Volume of the Game Designer Journal, I will show you three roleplaying games. First, we'll take a look at 1st Edition Warhamster Then, we'll peer into what I'm calling "2nd Edition" and how the d1000 changed Cottonworthy's original design. Finally, I'll show you how I'm updating the game (with JPC's guidance, of course) for a modern audience.

It's bound to be a bumpy ride, but if you can hold on, I hear the final drop is worth it.

See you next week!