Suppositions on Tabletop RPG Time Tracking

Since Monday's post on time management, I've had four separate people ask me how keeping track of time would work in a game. This may not seem like much, but it's probably the most universal response I've received to a single post. Normally I don't even get that much feedback on a given day's writing, and when I do, it's pretty varied. So to have four people ask the same question is unusual, and warrants further attention. I thought I would use tonight's post to look into time management further. Specifically, to look at how it might be applied to a Pathfinder game. I would like to make clear before hand that I've never actually kept track of time in a game--at least not in the ways I'm about to delve into. This post is, at best, educated speculation. If nothing else, the following will be a solid outline for what I will be attempting in the future, and I can do another follow up post with what I learn.

Before I get started, lets go over some basic definitions. As mentioned yesterday, I think the best way to scale time tracking is to use the same definitions Pathfinder establishes for movement on pages 170-172 of the Pathfinder Core Rulebook. Tactical Time is something any Pathfinder player will be familiar with. It is built on the 6-second round, and is what we use to measure the passage of time in combat, or in other severely time-critical situations. Local Time is for exploration, such as when the players are delving into a dungeon. The six second round would be far too short for this, and slow down gameplay to a ridiculous degree, so for Local Time, we will use the 10 minute turn, which can also be divided into 1 minute fragments. Overland Time can be measured in days. If the party is simply traveling from point A to point B across a great distance, breaking things down into a unit smaller than a day would be tedious. Lastly, the Hour can be useful as a unit of measure for both Local, and Overland Time, when the situation warrants it.

With our basic units of measure established, we need to know how they fit into one another, and how they eventually build into a year. This may seem somewhat silly at first, but consider: the Gregorian Calendar (the calendar most westerners use) is as confusing as the endless layers of the abyss. Largely due to the fact that it is an imprecise attempt to force a variety of natural phenomena into logical time-measurement boxes. By taking advantage of the fact that we're playing a fantasy adventure game, we can easily redefine the way units of time fit into one another so that we can more easily keep track.

For most of the smaller measurements, it's simpler just to keep them consistent with the real world, to avoid the need to alter game rules. Casters need to rest 8 hours to recover their spells because 8 hours is 1/3 of the standard day, so changing the standard day would upset the balance of the game. However, larger units of measure can be toyed with at will.

6 Seconds = 1 Tactical Round
10 Tactical Rounds = 1 Minute
10 Minutes = 1 Local Turn
6 Local Turns = 1 Hour
24 Hours = 1 Day
7 Days = 1 Week
5 Weeks = 1 Month (35 Days)
10 Months = 1 Year (350 days)

Keeping a week at 7 days means that the few spells which have a 1 week cooldown are not unintentionally weakened or empowered. Making each month a consistent 5 weeks means you can avoid any confusion by having a single week bridging two months. And 10 months to a year keeps the everything close enough to our reality that the players won't feel detached. Everything is uniform, which will be helpful later on.

Now that we've established our definitions, lets talk about movement. A character's speed is already listed on their character sheet for use in combat. The speed which is listed on a character sheet is the distance, in feet, which a character can cover in a 6 second round. (The "move action" in combat is treated as a hustle, rather than a walk, which is why it takes less than the full round). This means that a character with a speed of 30 can move 30 feet in a round, 300 feet in a minute, and 3000 feet per 10 minute turn. This may seem ridiculous, but consider that the average human can walk a mile in 13 minutes. A mile is 5280 feet, which actually breaks down to a little over 406 feet per minute, so Pathfinder actually underestimates our movement speed.

Wouldn't this be easier if we were using metric?

Considering the size of most dungeons, players will likely be moving in 50-100 foot spurts, rather than moving in increments of 300 or 3000 at a time. So I think the simplest way to handle time tracking within a dungeon will be to mentally keep track of how far your players have moved. Your figure only needs to be a rough estimate. Every time the players have moved about 300 feet, make a tally mark on a piece of paper. Once you've got 10 tally marks, make note that a turn has past. Bear also in mind that often players will not be moving at walking speed. Sometimes they will be hustling (in which case, they can move 600ft per minute), and other times they will be tapping every cobblestone with their 10ft pole. (There is no official rule on this, so lets just say they'd be moving at 1/3rd their normal pace, at 100ft per minute).

This sounds like a huge pain, doesn't it? I know, I'm thinking the same thing. But think of how much depth you can add to your game by having your player's torches burn out, or having time sensitive events in your dungeons, such as secret meetings that begin 3 turns after your players enter the dungeon, and end 2 turns later. Maybe your players will find them and be able to listen in, or maybe they won't! That's part of the beauty of tracking time.

Overland Movement should be much simpler to track. A character with a speed of 30 can move 24 miles at walking speed in a given day. A day, in this case, being 8 hours, which is the maximum amount of time a character can travel without requiring a constitution check. This amounts to precisely four hexes, if you're using the standard six-mile hex. If you're not using a hex map (like me, in my current campaign, where I haven't yet converted the world map yet) you'll need to figure out how far 24 miles is in some other way. One thing you'll definitely want to keep in mind is how your player's traveling speed might be affected by obstacles such as mountainous terrain, swamps, etc. It would probably be beneficial to establish a baseline speed difference between traveling on roads and traveling through the wilderness as well. Perhaps road travelers can move and even 30 miles, or 5 hexes?

Movement isn't the only thing which takes time. Players don't simply walk from their home base to the dungeon any more than they walk from the dungeon entrance directly to the treasure room. There are things to explore, battles to fight, an traps to disarm. So how do we measure those in our time tracking system?

Combat is obviously going to be the most frequent interruption to movement--particularly if you're fond of random encounters. When working with Overland Time, their interruption can be largely ignored. Unless the party faced a large number of encounters in a given day, the amount of time a battle takes should be negligible. Whilst using Local Time, however, the length of combat is much more significant. Regardless of how long combat takes, you should probably round the time up to the next minute. Gygax even recommends that "they should rest a turn [LS: 10 minutes] after every time they engage in combat or any other strenuous activities."

Other activities can include any number of things. Dealing with a trap, discussing a strategy, negotiating with a monster, exploring a room, opening a locked door, bashing open a locked door, the list goes on. GMs will have to use their judgement on a case by case basis to determine whether an action should be considered negligible (such as glancing around a room), a minute long (such as opening a relatively simple lock, or busting down a door), or longer (negotiating a truce with a hostile creature, or thoroughly exploring a room). I would advise against trying to track increments of time smaller than a minute. Either put a tally mark down for a minute, or don't mark anything at all. It'll even out eventually. Chapter 4 of the Pathfinder Core Rulebook, "Skills," notes what type of action each skill requires. This can be helpful to determine how much time you want to mark down, though your players will probably hate you if you check the action-typeevery time they make a skill check. Some GM arbitration is called for here.

The number of events which consume enough time to be counted as relevant on an overland scale are few and far between. Sleeping tops the list, followed by crafting, and perhaps a few other activities which have their time requirements listed as hours. Overland time might also be consumed by switching to local time for a significant period. For example, if a party can travel 24 miles a day, then the party might travel 12 miles, discover a village, switch to local time, spend 10 10-minute turns in the village, then continue on their way. They could still make it the full 24 miles (since that distance is traveled in 8 hours of the day), while the time they spent in the village would be rounded up to 2 hours, leaving them with 6 hours of rest before needing to sleep for 8 hours.

Tracking time in towns is tricky. As best I can tell, most GMs don't even bother with it. However, I think there could be some real value to it if you pulled it off. Often, as a GM, one of my players will want to do something in town, while the rest are content merely to wait. This, to me, seems silly. If the player who has something they need done takes 3 hours, then what is the rest of the party really doing? Sitting at a bench next to the town gate waiting? It strikes me that if I actually turned to them and said "What would you like to do during your 1 hour turn," that might encourage players to engage with the world around them.

Lastly, I'd like to touch on long-term time tracking, which is actually what I've found the most information on. The common wisdom seems to be to print out calendar sheets using whatever number of days you have in a month. Many GMs seem to simply mark days off as they pass, which would work fine. However, I think the calendar is a good opportunity to enhance your campaign record keeping. Simple notes such as meeting an important NPC, engaging in a major battle, or recovering a valuable treasure could be notated on the calendar. And, if you're like me and want to create a living world around your players, you can make notes for things the players didn't witness, such as the day two nations went to war, or the day your villain recovers the Big Evil Thingamaboo which will allow them to summon demonic servants. You could also use the calendar to plan future events--keeping in mind that you may need to erase them if your players avert those events from happening.

Once again, these are just my musings on how I think I'll try to track time in my upcoming game sessions. I haven't done it before, and I've found a remarkable lack of information on the Internet about how to do it well. So if any more experienced GMs out there would like to set me straight on something, please comment!

Either way, I'll be gathering notes on my success and failure, and will revisit this topic once I have a little more experience.

Time Management

Allow me to be clear; I play modern tabletop games. Pathfinder is my game of choice, and I believe Paizo is a company with the potential to be a driving force of innovation within the gaming industry. I love rulebooks which are heavy enough to break your toe if you drop them, I love having mountains of build options for my characters, and I love a game which has functional rules for making detailed monster builds. Sure it's a waste of time if you're doing it for every monster in every game, but who says you need to? And no, modern rules are not perfect. I think I've made that clear with posts like The Problem with Feats, and Stuff Which Never Works. I'd like to see some serious revisions to the way modern game developers look at games.

I also believe in the importance of learning from history. Whether you are trying to run a nation, a classroom, or just a game table, history can be your greatest teacher. Our forebears were, believe it or not, just as smart as we are. They didn't have all the tools we have today, which is why we sometimes forget just how clever they were. But if anything, lack of tools only made them more ingenious, until one of them was so ingenious that they made a tool so that the given task would never be quite so difficult ever again.

Now, do not mistake me: I do not look into the past with rose colored glasses, as some do. Anytime I hear someone rambling about how things were 'better' in the 'old days,' I have to roll my eyes a little.* More often than not the speaker in question is just allowing nostalgia to cloud their perceptions. However, the fact that things have, overall, improved, does not mean that our very clever forebears didn't have amazing ideas which never reached us. And the best part about those clever people being in the past is that we can look around and see for ourselves how their ideas worked out. So even though I do consider myself a modern gamer, I frequently look to the works of Gygax, Arneson, and others who worked on games in the early days.

And in reading these early works, I've frequently come across the concept of time management. Specifically, that it is important to track time not only in combat, but out of it as well. It is necessary, according to Gygax, for a Dungeon Master to keep track of in-game time throughout the entire session. This is mentioned a number of time throughout the numerous iterations of D&D's first edition, but nowhere is it more clear than in the original Dungeon Master's Guide--universally regarded among the most authoritative works on the subject of role playing games.

TIME IN THE CAMPAIGN
"Game time is of utmost importance. Failure to keep careful track of time expenditure by player characters will result in many anomalies in the game. The stricture of time is what makes recovery of hit points meaningful. Likewise, the time spent adventuring in wilderness areas removes concerned characters from their base of operation--be they rented chambers or battlemented strongholds. Certainly the most important time stricture pertains to the manufacturing of magic items, for during the period of such activity no adventuring can be done. Time is also considered in gaining levels and learning new languages and more. All of these demands upon game time force choices upon player characters, and likewise number their days of game life.

One of the things stress ed in the original game of D&D was the importance of recording game time with respect to each and every player character in a campaign. In AD&D it is emphasized even more: YOU CAN NOT HAVE A MEANINGFUL CAMPAIGN IF STRICT TIME RECORDS ARE NOT KEPT."

-Gary Gygax, Dungeon Master's Guide

The emphasis, by the way, is not mine. That's Gary Gygax throwing up caps, because this is that important to him.

When I first read about how important Gary considered time management, I was taken aback. On the one hand, I couldn't understand how time management was even supposed to work. And on the other hand, I was offended by the thought that every campaign I had run in the past was not "meaningful," simply because we didn't keep track of time. I've run some damn good games in my years as a GM. Why does the fact that I've never even attempted to keep track of time invalidate that?

Then I took a deep breath, remembered that I pride myself on being rational, and tried to stop throwing an internal hissy fit before anyone caught me in the act.

The fact that I've never attempted time management before doesn't invalidate all the good games I've run. They were good games, everybody had fun, and nothing will change that. The question is whether those games were good because of, independent from, or despite my lack of time management. And if I'm being honest with myself, I can think of a lot of things which would improve if I was better at tracking in-game time. And even though I can't think of an easy way to manage in-game time, the fact of the matter is that Gygax did it, and many other game masters do it, so it must be possible. I am simply ignorant of the methodology, and that can remedied with learning.

So I did some more reading. First through Gygax's Dungeon Master's Guide, then through the OSRIC manual, since clarity was not always a strong point of Gary's writing. I also refreshed myself on the movement rules as stated on pages 170-172, 192-194 of the Pathfinder Core Rulebook, since movement is one of the core elements time management affects. Pathfinder divides movement into Tactical, Local, and Overland, which I think functions as a good basis for a modern system of time management.

Tactical Time is managed in the basic units which we're all familiar with. A tactical (or 'combat') round is six seconds long. In these six seconds, every combatant gets a turn. Ten rounds make a minute, sixty minutes make an hour, etc. Local Time is what you might use if you're delving into a dungeon, or exploring a town. Taking a page from OSRIC, it seems like the best unit of time for Local Time is 10 minutes. That's long enough that it shouldn't significantly slow down the players as they try to get things accomplished in game time, but short enough that it shouldn't need to be divided further for players to complete small actions. Overland Time is tricky. I'm not sure whether it should be measured in hours, or in days. I think the best solution is to use days and hours both as units of measure, depending on what the players want to do. If they're just traveling in to a destination, days will work fine, but if they'd like to spend part of their day exploring the area they're already at, and the rest of the day traveling, then breaking things down into hours could be helpful.

I haven't tried this yet, so I have no idea how it will play out in a game, but the more I think about it, the more it seems like time management is actually an awesome idea. Casters will actually have to be careful with their spells if the party doesn't want to stop to rest simply because they ran out of spells within the first few hours of the day. And if a caster does run out of spells, this could give non-caster classes a real opportunity to shine. Potion durations and non-magical hit point recovery become relevant! The players could actually be forced to make decisions based on how much time something will take, or be faced with time-sensitive goals! The very notion that I've never done this before begins to seem ludicrous.

I have no idea why modern games stopped emphasizing time management, and why they never developed better systems for implementing it. It seems to be the same problem I discussed a few months ago in my "Why Hex Maps Need to Come Back" post. For some reason, modern gaming developers decided to arbitrarily throw something away without coming up with a replacement for it. And us poor kids who were raised on D&D 3.5 or Pathfinder are stuck with an incomplete picture of how role playings games can best be played, until we start looking back through gaming's history for guides.

As I stated in the opening of this post, I have a lot of faith in Paizo's ability to be an important force for innovation in RPGs. They should start by bringing back some of these senselessly abandoned concepts.

*To clarify: this is not always the case. Occasionally people will have well reasoned arguments for why they prefer something old over something new. For example, members of the Old School Roleplaying/Renaissance community have some very solid reasons for preferring 1980s style tabletop RPGs over more modern games. Likewise, I like to think that I have some very solid reasons for feeling that recent expansions of World of Warcraft have reduced the game's quality in many ways.

Vecna Reborn

I recently read the 2nd edition AD&D module Vecna Reborn, written by Monte Cook during the end-days of TSR. Long-time Comma, Blank_ readers may recall that one of my earliest posts detailed my thoughts on another AD&D module themed around my favorite villain: Vecna Lives!. Vecna Reborn is a kind of loose sequel to Vecna Lives!, insofar as it doesn't contradict its predecessor. There's little continuity between the two, aside from the appearance of Citadel Cavitius, and Vecna himself. But, given that the last adventure ended with Vecna being pushed through a portal into another world--which turns out to be Ravenloft--it's understandable that there's not much to connect this to the previous quest. There is a third module which I haven't read yet, entitled Die Vecna, Die!, which ties these two together. I very much look forward to reading it, but that's for another day.

Vecna Reborn is only about half the length of Vecna Lives!, at 63 pages. But that's still twice the length of a standard adventure module, so there's no lack of peril to explore. And the adventure is exciting! I was so engaged I actually put down the novel I've been reading for a week. And, as with any well written module, there's a lot to be learned about game mastery by dissecting the author's work. The author of an adventure module, after all, essentially a professional game master. Who better to try and learn from? Take what works about the adventure, figure out how it was accomplished, and steal it.

The most memorable element of this adventure is the constant sense that the PCs are in danger. And not just from wandering monsters and surprise encounters. In fact there are very few of either to be found here. Vecna Reborn is set between two oppressive autocracies, one ruled by Vecna, and one ruled by Kas the Destroyer (Vecna's former lieutenant, and current mortal foe). Neither civilization requires the players to necessarily keep themselves hidden, but nor do they want the authorities to notice them. The "Daggers" of Kas' domain will arrest, interrogate, and imprison people on a whim. And the "Reavers" of Vecna's domain are undead sentinels who would sooner kill a mortal than deal with any unrest within their lord's domain. Even the relatively few times when the players will likely find themselves outside of either city, wandering patrols, invisible stalkers, virulent plagues, and a life-draining desert serve to keep the players on edge.

And that's something I've never been good at. Creating atmosphere in general terms is a struggle for me, but I think I do alright. This adventure, though, would have me actually looking over my shoulder and clasping my hands. I would love to be able to achieve that level of tension and immersion with my players, and I think Vecna Reborn comes with a good toolkit. Kas' city of Tor Gorak is ruled with a hauntingly chronic injustice, which breeds obsequiousness in its populace. People stay off the streets for fear of getting picked up by the Daggers. The boldest act of defiance in the entire town is the madhouse founded by an old man, where he keeps the insane safe from execution for being 'worthless.' There's only small handful of people there who wouldn't turn on the players instantly to save themselves from the attention of the authorities, and the players are shown early on that they don't want that kind of attention. Shortly after the players arrive in the city, they're (likely) picked up by the Daggers, and taken to their headquarters for interrogation. The players are only released when some good fortune falls into their lap, and if they do anything to warrant getting picked up again, they know they won't be so lucky.

Vecna's Citadel Cavitius is less overtly totalitarian, but is somehow even more demeaning and oppressive. Horrifying undead guard every entrance to the citadel, allowing any individual to enter, but allowing no one to leave. Vecna, the undead god, rules the city, his undead lords and ladies handle its various affairs, and undead Reavers maintain order. The unholy citizenry ignore the affairs of mortals the same way one might ignore a dog walking through the streets. So while the PCs can go about their business unmolested, their lives are less than meaningless to those around them. It's just as likely that they'll complete their quest as it is for a vampire to pick them off the streets for a gory meal.

Imminent danger can take many forms. As I mentioned above, later in the adventure there is a virulent plague killing everyone around the players, leaving them to wonder whether they might catch it themselves. And even on the road, two invisible demons follow the players and cause mischief, letting them know that an unknown danger still lurks somewhere about them. Vecna Reborn is a litany of very visible, very deadly dangers which the players can do nothing about. Their only hope is to keep their heads down and try to stop Vecna's plot to be reborn without drawing any attention.

Another element of the game which caught my attention is The Shadowed Room. During the course of the adventure, the party must travel there to learn how to thwart Vecna's plans. When they find it, they discover that the shadowed room is, in fact, a library. I. Love. Fantasy Libraries. As a bibliophile and a lover of fantasy, they're a combination of two locations which excite and comfort me. I often design such libraries just for the fun of it, and The Shadowed Room is a good one.

During the height of Vecna's empire in the realm of Oerth, he ruled over a massive city. And in one of the city's many spires, he filled a library with secret both arcane and powerful. The knowledge gathered in this room was so profound, and so remarkable, that the library left a permanent imprint on the multiverse. When the city was destroyed, millennia ago, this imprint remained, as a memory of creation itself. Vecna learned that he could access this memory, and constructed a magical portal to allow himself to access this "Shadowed Room." The knowledge which was once gathered there, knowledge which has otherwise been lost, can be read here. But nothing can be taken from the room, for it is only a shadow of something which once was.

Lastly, I want to make note of the fantastic hooks this adventure leaves you with. In my opinion, the best adventure modules leave a group wanting to do more. With the most pressing goal accomplished, a myriad of other possibilities should call to the players, giving the game master a number of avenues to pursue for further games in the same local. And that's precisely what Vecna Reborn does. Immediately upon reaching the period at the end of the last sentence, I instinctively started constructing follow up adventures in my mind. There's so much more the players could accomplish! Freeing Tor Gorak of Kas' rule could last sessions! The headquarters of the Daggers and Kas's own castle would both make excellent settings for dungeon crawls, and after the way the adventure encourages the players to engage with the town's populace, I think they'll feel enough sympathy for them to want to help. Perhaps even form a rebellion for an extended campaign against Kas.

Oh! By the way, this is the 100th RPG post on Comma, Blank_. Yay.

Creating an Evil Campaign Featuring the Undead

Note: This Friday's Magical Marvels is written and ready to go up. However, my ladyfriend is busy with coursework, and has not been able to create the art for it. Both of us have really enjoyed what her art has added to this series of posts, so I'll be holding off on posting it until sometime Sunday, after she completes the image. Thanks for your patience!

A month or two back, I typed a bunch of tabletop RPG keywords into twitter, found some random accounts, and followed them. I'm quite active on twitter, but most of my twitter friends are not tabletop role players, so I was hoping to expand my circle of friends a little more. By and large the endeavor has been a failure. Most of the accounts I followed have since been unfollowed either for being inactive, or being boring. Recently, though, one of those accounts posted this:

Tips on an evil campaign? Why, Evil is my middle name! It's also my first and last name. Legally, I am Evil E. Eviltan. The original family name is actually "Evilsatan," but it got anglicized when my grandparents arrived on Ellis island. Anyway, I quickly sent DMfemme a response.

A few days went by, and I forgot about the message. Twitter is more of a chat room than a message board. If it takes someone more than 15 minutes to respond, odds are they aren't going to. But lo and behold, a few days later:

Undead you say!? Why, I would say that undead was my middle name had I not already established that all of my names are permutations of 'evil!' That was, perhaps, shortsighted writing on my part. None the less, undead are my specialty. I don't think I've ever run a campaign which didn't include undead as a major element. Ever since my first game ham-fistedly throwing a mummy at my player, to my most recent cloak & dagger style game about the Cult of Vecna. When it comes to monsters, if it's decomposing and likes the taste of sweet sweet manflesh, I like to include it in my games.

The first thing you should do, if you're willing and able to spend a little money, is pick up a copy of Libris Mortis. It's a 3.5 supplement, so if you're running D&D 3.5 or Pathfinder the book is a must-have. But even if you're using another system, there's a lot of good fluff in here. More than I can cover in a single post, and it includes some of my favorite undead monsters. For this post, I'll focus on things I've learned through my own gaming experience, which are not found in Libris Mortis.

I can think of a few ways an evil campaign can be undead based. The players can control undead, the players can work with undead, the players can work for undead, or the players can be undead. And, of course, you can mix and match. All of these are fun, and all come with their specific quirks.

Players Control Undead
If the players control undead, then they are likely of the Wizardly or Clerical persuasion, or some type of magic user at least. Though there's no need to discount other possibilities. Perhaps the players find powerful artifacts early in the game which allow them to control undead--artifacts which grown in power as the characters level up. Or the characters could take the batman super villain route and fall into an open vat of negative energy, only to come out of it with the ability to control undead to some extent.

The thing about players who control undead, though, is that they become powerful quickly. Why explore a dungeon when you can simply send hoards of zombies into the dungeon as meat-shields. They'll set off any traps and defeat or weaken any monsters within. Once they've done the grunt work, the players can move in and gather up the treasure. Even if they go into the dungeon themselves, encounters need to be buffed up significantly to make up for all the extra attacks players get ("my character attacks, then Zombies 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 attack").

Still, one can't deny the feeling of power that controlling an undead hoard gives to players. It's an exhilarating feeling, and the GM should let them enjoy that. But that doesn't mean the GM should never take it away. Undead-controlling villains can come up against paladins or clerics, able to cause their undead to flee in terror. Or they might find themselves forced to fight on consecrated ground where their undead cannot tread. Worst of all, they might eventually face a more capable necromancer, able to steal their control of their undead away from them! (You could call him "LS," mwuahaha)!

Players Work With Undead
Lets say, for example, that rather than being necromancers, the players work for a necromancer. This gives the players a bit more freedom, since the GM doesn't need to shoe-horn the players into the position of controlling some undead. More freedom means the players have more control, and the players having more control means the players have Player Agency, and player agency is a good thing to foster in your games. This option also gives the players less power over how the undead interact with the game, since they don't control them directly. And as a third boon, this option gives the GM a convenient "quest giver" in the form of the player's necromatic master.

Consider, for example, a scenario where the players are in the service of the great Necromancer Alicia. Alicia wants the players to subdue a tribe of goblins living not far from her tower of Brooding Darkness. Perhaps she provides them with amulets to help them direct the undead, but she could just as easily send an NPC along to control the undead, or even just control the undead herself from the aforementioned tower. Or perhaps Alicia doesn't want the goblins killed, but just needs the players to throw some undead-powder into the goblin's bonfire, causing them all to choke on the fire's smoke and become zombies themselves.

Players Work For Undead
The players working for an undead has a lot of potential to play out exactly the same way that the players working for a necromancer does. After all, necromancers don't die, they just become liches. (...which, I guess, requires dying at some point, but you take my meaning.) However, there are a variety of intelligent undead with the potential to keep the players as their minions.

Vampires are a favorite of mine. I've always felt they're underused in the role of "overlord" style villain. Player quests could include finding humans for the vampire to feed on, help bring about eternal night, or even just work on traditional goals like conquering the world. Just because you don't have a pulse or show up in mirrors doesn't mean you don't still lust for power. Ghosts are another great example. Being incorporeal, ghosts are much less likely to pursue worldly goals, but they could easily have plots of their own. Perhaps they want to return to a corporeal body, or they want the players to enact a ritual which will allow them to pass on to a more pleasant afterlife than the one for which they are destined.

Players Are Undead
Players as undead offers some of the most interesting possibilities. There are plenty of undead types for players to pick from. The party's wizard could be a lich, the rogue could be a ghost, the fighter a vampire, and the cleric a mummy. Even normally unintelligent undead such as ghasts, ghouls, wights, etc can be "awakened," allowing them to have an Intelligence score. Players will be happy because their undead have fantastic special abilities. All of them will be immune to crits, most of them will gain special attacks, and massive bonuses to their stats.

The players will likely be so distracted by all their special bonuses that they'll completely forget all the power they're handing over to their game master. Yes, the vampire fighter now has +6 natural armor, but they also cannot enter private residences without first being invited in, nor can they go outside during the day. And don't forget that all undead can potentially be turned, or worse, dominated by a powerful necromancer. Which isn't to say that you should punish your players for being undead--simply that you should make use of their weaknesses. That's part of the fun of undead!

Other
There are a few other things I'd like to mention about running an undead-heavy campaign before ending this post.

Origin Many types of undead come with origin stories attached. Some are created when innocents are buried in a mass grave, others are spawned of unrepentant murderers, or children killed by their own family members. (The slaymate is one of my all time favorite undead.) Be aware of these origins, and if a type of undead doesn't have them, think about creating your own. The origin of an undead can give you a good baseline for that undead's personality. Or, if the players are out to create a specific type of undead, it can provide them with a gruesomely evil task.

Cliches Aren't Scary If you're running an undead-heavy campaign because you like the creepiness of undead, remember that something stops being creepy once you get used to it. If you've only got a few adjectives to describe a zombie--rotting, shambling, grotesque--then your players are going to get bored of them really quick. Be creative, pull out a thesaurus, and make sure you keep giving your players new types of undead to encounter. Your zombies should dribble black gore onto the ground as they shamble, your lich should have half of a nose and a jaw attached to his skull by a wire, and your skeletons should still have bits of shriveled organs piled at the bottom of their rib cage.

Don't Forget the Classics Often times, game masters get caught up in the big fancy undead, and forget about the little guys. Skeletons and Zombies can be incredibly creepy and threatening at any level. Don't forget that humans aren't the only ones who can be corpse-ified! One of my favorite monsters is the skeletal hill giant. And the dragon whose zombie-wings are too rotted to fly on any longer can be a terrifying foe. Even without using a high-CR foe as the base creature, these types of undead can be formidable. I recently threw my players up against a large number of skeletons which had Magic Missile inscribed on their index fingers. My players found it quite challenging to run back and forth across the battlefield taking out the skeletons one by one, getting hit by 1d4 + 1 unblockable damage from each skeleton each round.

And never forget: If you're running a game with undead, use a Corpse-Sewn Hekatonkheires at some point. It's just the right thing to do!

Handling Overpowered Player Characters

I spent most of today working on a project which will affect the future of Comma, Blank_. Once completed, I think it will be a huge improvement for this humble blog. Until that time, however, I'm afraid that working on it is consuming much of the time I would otherwise be using to play tabletop games, and write about them for your amusement. I've actually been working on it since early December, and only mention it now because I accidentally let it get far too late on a day which I'm supposed to post something. So my options are to stay up really late to finish today's post, or cop-out. And with work in the morning, I've decided to cop-out. So I hope you liked Gary Gygax's story of the Jeweled Man from last week, because it's time for another post based on The All-Father's column.

This time it's a tale of self-destructing PCs from Dragon #314, first published in December of 2003. Gygax reminisces about an overconfident player with a high leveled character he didn't earn, and gives advice on how to deal with such players. Advice I don't entirely agree with, in matter of fact. But we'll get to that later.

Once again, I will reprint Gygax's original words here, but I do so without permission. I'm doing this because this is from a seven-year-old issue of a magazine which has been out of print for almost 5 years (by Vecna's Eye, has it been that long? ;_;). To my knowledge, it's not currently possible to read this column unless you somehow manage to physically acquire an original copy of the issue. And once again, I will happily remove it if contacted by anyone from Hasbro, Wizards of the Coast, or the Gygax Estate.

Self Destructing PCs

Unearned levels are the PC's worst enemy

Many DMs have asked me how I handle characters that are obviously over-powered, "jumped-up" PCs that never really earned their high abilities and survive by massive hit-point total, super magic, and unearned ease in attacking with sword or spell. To such inquiries, I respond that in recognizing this sort of character I simply play the encounters a bit differently, mainly in the presentation of information, not in "fudging" of the dice rolls for monsters. Inept players will destroy their characters without having to resort to such methods. Allow me to illustrate this with the following account:

While at a regional convention in upstate New York, I was asked to run adventures in my campaign's Castle Greyhawk Dungeons. An assembly of players gathered for what was billed a moderate-level excursion. One aggressive young chap came to the table with a 13th-level ranger, supposedly his least powerful character. Although the others in the group had PCs of about half that level and were chary about including the lad with the ranger, I assured them all would work just fine, even with experience division given by shares according to level.

There followed some initial exploration and minor encounters as the team worked its way down into the dungeon maze. The first real test came when the party came into a large chamber with many pillars and several doors. As the main group discussed what strategy they would follow in this locale, a bold dwarf broke off and opened a nearby door. Rather than telling the player what he saw, I told the players this:

"The dwarf slams the door. He reels back and comes staggering towards the rest of you, stammering something that sounds like. 'G-ga-get back! W-wuh... Horrible! A bunch of them!' He is obviously fearful and thus incoherent.

The 13th-level ranger hesitated not a moment. Without consulting with his fellows, the character ran to the door that the dwarf had slammed closed and opened it without concern. The four wights that were preparing to exit their lair confronted him, won initiative, and two succeeded in hitting. In the ensuing melee, these undead monsters managed to strike the ranger twice more, so at the end of the battle, the ranger was of a level more commensurate with the others, 9th as it were.

Much disturbed by that turn of events, but clearly not chagrined by his rash behavior and the results, the ranger insisted on leading the way. Soon thereafter, they discovered a staircase down, and beside it lay an alcove wherein a great clay pot rested, radiating heat and billowing smoke. The other PCs advised leaving the strange vessel alone, but the ranger determined to attack it. As he did so, all the other characters fled the area. With a single blow the ranger shattered the pot, and thus a really angry fire elemental was freed. It didn't take long for that monster to finish off the ranger, and thereafter it departed.

I took the character sheet from the fellow, suggesting that he should be more careful with such potent characters in the future, for surely he had spent a long time gaining 13th level with his now dead ranger PC. He left the table without comment, and the rest of the group went on to several exciting hours of dungeon delving.

This shows that unearned levels don't translate to playing ability. To the contrary, the power gained often makes the player overconfident. Any able DM can craft adventures that weed out unwise and inept players who think to bulldoze their way through problems by use of undeserved power. That's possible only in computer games where saved games and cheat codes serve to reward such play.

Clearly, the culture surrounding the game in those days was significantly different than it is today. I can't imagine a GM taking a player's character sheet like that. But, then, neither can I really imagine arguing with Gary Gygax if he was my Dungeon Master.

This column struck a cord with me because my own character, Zalekios Gromar, is bursting with unearned power. Not only is he a Gestalt character with levels in both Warlock and Rogue, but a few years back my GM facetiously gave him a Ring of 100 Wishes, which rocketed his undeserved power level into the stratosphere. Of course, Zalekios is a very special case. He has no party--no companions to excel in the areas where he is weak. He's got to be able to handle everything by himself. That being said, though, he could still probably out-perform four characters of equivalent level. The character is overpowered. I won't argue that.

The way my GM and I have always handled it is simply to raise the difficulty of the challenges Zalekios must face. And, when we get it right, it works very well. A few sessions ago, Zalekios was very nearly killed when he was attacked by a level 16 gestalt Paladin/Barbarian character. My GM overruled the fact that Paladins must be lawful, and Barbarians must be Chaotic, because he's evil like that. The combination of rage and smite evil very nearly ended Zalekios career. If not for some clever tactics on my part, using Dimensional Door and Eldritch Blast to keep my foe at range, I would not have survived.

And if all the players are overpowered, that's a fine solution. But most often, that's not the case. Players being different levels than one another is not often a problem in modern games, but power disparity will always exist. Sometimes players pull min-maxed builds off of the Internet. Other times, you underestimate just how effective a certain magic item will be in the hands of your players. Or, occasionally, a player just gets really stupidly lucky with a Deck of Many Things. And in this, I think Gary's advice is eternal.

Let player skill determine whether your player deserves what he or she has. Give them opportunities to be overconfident, and pay for it. A player who has easily cut through challenges which the other players would have struggled with is going to come to expect it. So throw them a curve-ball. Drop a high leveled monster on them, and watch as they refuse to run away from a fight. Don't take their power from them, just put them into a position where foolish action will cause them to lose it.

Of course, this may not always work. If your player is just as skilled as they are powerful, then you may need to reassess. You don't want them to ruin the game for the other PCs who are left to stroll in their companion's wake. But neither do you want to punish the player if they've made no mistakes. At this point you might consider making a loss of their power part of an important quest. Perhaps the artifact they acquired is evil and needs to be destroyed, or perhaps it is the lost blade of a celestial general who needs it to continue the battle against evil. If the deck of many things granted the player millions of gold, let him learn that an equivalent amount of gold disappeared from the coffers of a small nation, which is now unable to feed its people during a famine. If all else fails, you can just buff up the rest of the party, and the encounter level along with it.

As a side note, is it just me, or does it seem really uncool to take control of a player's character? I know role playing games were different in those days, and the particular instance here is pretty mundane, but I can't imagine ever doing that. The control a player has over their character is sacrosanct in my mind. I would have at least allowed him a saving throw versus fear.

Gary Gygax, the Jeweled Man, and Letting Your Players Fail

I've always had a love for magazines. During my youth, one of the most exciting days of the month was when my issue of Star Wars Insider would arrive. Magazines are like proto-websites. Which perhaps explains why many magazines have made the successful transition out of print, and onto the web. Still, there's something about holding the monthly publication in your hand which feels a great deal more substantial than bookmarking a website does. It makes me sad that magazines are slowly dying off. Which might explain why I've occasionally been called a Luddite.

Of course, if we didn't have the Internet, then I'd be trying to get these blog posts into a magazine, and probably having most of them rejected. So you don't hear me complaining.

Given my love of magazines, I doubt anybody will be surprised to learn that I've gathered a decent collection of Dragon magazines over the years. (Funny Story: most of them are from the personal collection of Jeff Grub). They're all piled into a cardboard box underneath my sourcebook shelves. I haven't had the time to read even a tenth of the issues I already have, which is kinda nice, because I can always just pull a random issue from the pile and flip through the pages to find something new.

One of my favorite features of many of the issues of Dragon is a regular article called "Up on a Soapbox, All I Need to Know I Learned from D&D." These articles were written by the Gary Gygax himself, and were often retellings of his earliest campaigns. It's always fun to read about what he was thinking, and what he experienced, which shaped Dungeons and Dragons in those early years.

Today I opened up Dragon issue 290, from December 2001. In it is a story by Gygax entitled "Lesson #4: The One That Got Away. It tells the story of a golden man, encrusted with jewels and gems, which his players encountered in Castle Greyhawk. Back in those days, experience points were primarily earned through the acquisition of treasure, so a man made of gold was quite a find. Unfortunately for Gygax's players, the man always ran away, and they were never able to catch him, though many attempts were made over the years.

I have some things to say about this story, but first, I think it would be nice if people had an opportunity to actually read it. Unfortunately, I can't find it replicated anywhere online. And, unfortunately, issues of defunct magazines from over a decade ago aren't something most people can easily find. So, after some consideration, I've decided to type up the article and include it in this post. I will happily remove it on request from anyone at Hasbro, or Wizards of the Coast. Hell, if the Gygax estate wants me to take it down, I will.

The Jeweled Man

When reminiscing about the "old days," players in the original Greyhawk campaign still bring up the Jeweled Man. Although there were victories aplenty for those who adventured through the ruins of Castle Greyhawk, those veterans are still trying to discover who and what this figure was. That's because nary a PC managed to catch this incredible thing, the Jeweled Man. All such speculation is to no avail, of course. Until some player's character manages to discover the truth about him, the mystery will never be revealed. That's a secret, and mystery is part and parcel of a good campaign.

Once the teams of PCs delving into the dungeons of Castle Greyhawk had made their way down to a moderate depth, all were after greater treasures. That was the natural way of things; in the original D&D and AD&D games, experience point awards were primarily based on the value of a defeated monster's treasure hoard, not on the power of the monster. Of course, XPs were given for slaying foul creatures, successful use of spells, and other heroic acts. Even the most rigorous use of sword and spell, however, was insufficient to gain the large amounts of experience points needed to gain a level. In short order, the players learned that copper was dross, silver meaningless, and even gold a middling reward at best. Platinum? A bare cut above gold. Gems, jewelry, and magic items, those were the goal of every party's explorations, the wherewithal to become more than one's class.

It was around the dungeon's 8th level that the first bold adventurers came upon something they had theretofore only dreamed of. Tenser, Robilar, and Terik were delighted when, upon entering a large chamber, they saw a figure apparently made entirely of gold. This sight was all the more wondrous not because the man-like thing was animate, but rather because the glitteringt yellow metal of the figure's body was encrusted with faceted gems of all sizes and shapes. Even from a distance, it was plain that thousands of carats of diamonds, emerals, sapphires, and rubies--the whole spectrum of precious stones--were embedded in the thing's golden body. Surely, the strange golden automaton represented millions and millions of gold pieces worth of wealth--and enough experience points to advance a large, high-level party to the next level of power.

Even as a spell was cast to keep the Jeweled Man from acting, warriors were rushing to come to grips with this marvel. Alas for the adventurers, the spell had no effect, and before the eager fighters were near, the figure was off and away, running so quickly that even boots of speed could not keep pace. Down a passageway went the glittering form, the party in pursuit. In all too brief a time, however, the Jeweled Man was lost, vanished into the labyrinth of the surrounding passages. Swearing to return, the adventurers went away empty handed, settling eventually for far less precious items taken from likely more fearsome opponents.

The players of course, embarked on a series of expeditions comprised of both the original team and other characters--even lone PCs. Most of the groups managed to make their way to the location, and of those finding the great chamber, the majority encountered the Jeweled Man therein. Each successive encounter saw the would-be captors become more and more frustrated, more aggressive, and more mystified at their lack of success. Their reason for failing to capture the prize might well have been the close-lipped nature of the would-be plunderers.

Almost everyone knew that it seemed impossible to take the creature by surprise, but teams and individual characters kept their own counsel concerning the success of other actions. Clearly the incalculable worth of the treasure and the repute to be had from gaining it worked to diminish cooperation, the one thing that makes success in adventuring most likely.

This effect was not foreseen, but the actions of the players made it easily recognizable. To reflect the attitudes of the PCs, it was natural to use innuendo to suggest one or another character was planning to capture the Jeweled Man alone. Solo adventures among the most able players were rare thereafter, as their peers were loathe to allow one of their number a chance to catch the Jeweled man alone.

To this day the begemmed thing--and I use that term advisedly, as no one has discovered exactly what it is--haunts the great chamber in the mid-levels of the dungeons of Castle Greyhawk. it has been years since any determined effort to capture the creature has been made, but the veterans of the storied times when exploration and derring-do were meat and drink to a large company still speak of it. Suggestions that it was an illusion fall flat because several different groups launched failed attempts to prove it unreal. there are growls about "DM cheating" too, but these complaints are half-hearted. Simply put, the players concerned know deep down that they never made a truly concerted effort, and each suspects they just might one day succeed.

Perhaps they will, and then the tale of that triumph will be told and retold. As it is, however, only sad stories of the one that got away are related.

Of course, I now realize that this was a terrible idea. Juxtaposing Gary Gygax's thoughts on role playing with my own is not likely to create a favorable comparison. But what's done is done. I can only hope Wizards of the Coast demands I take the post down.

Among the number of lessons to be learned here, I think the most important and the most clear is that it's important for players to be able to fail. Gary certainly thought so, because as best as I can determine, he took the secrets of The Jeweled Man to his grave. I managed to find a forum post, apparently written by Gygax, which was written just about two years before his untimely death. In the post, he says he'll discuss the concept in general terms in some then-upcoming modules, but that he does not intend to reveal how the encounter operated in his original campaign.

That's dedication to the craft.

Personally, I don't know how he did it. When I GM, and I make something cool, I want to tell people about it. Of course I want my players to figure it out on their own, so I don't drop any undue hints. And if they fail to solve a mystery I've crafted, I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from giving it away to them right then and there. Then I have to bite my tongue again at the end of the adventure to avoid letting it slip during the post-adventure chatting. It's difficult. I think I'm missing a few pieces of tongue at this point.

The best solution I've come up with is to tell people not involved in the game in question all about my brilliant game mastering. That's not always advisable, though, because sometimes those people later want to join the games I've told them the secrets for. That has happened to me, and it's a pain in the ass. But I've meandered off topic.

I feel that the importance of player failure is undersold by most of the modern sourcebooks I've read. Many people will agree that one of the best parts of role playing games are the stories you get to tell about your adventures. And the best stories always contain an element of failure or sacrifice. Like the time you were ambushed on the way to the dungeon, and killed in a single blow. Or the time your paladin died to foil the villain. Or, in this case, the way the Jeweled Man always managed to get away.

Players can always roll new characters. And if you let your players fail, then they'll know that their successes are their own. Not just fudged dice.

Designing a Village in Detail

Not too long ago, Zalekios conquered a small village. It's something I've wanted the character to do for some time. And, in our last game, my GM was gracious enough to include an opportunity for conquest. To be honest, I have no grand and evil scheme to further overpower my character through corrupt governance. Certainly, I have plans on how I'll make use of my subjects, but the ways in which the town will benefit Zalekios are much less interesting to me than the challenges and opportunities ruling over a town will provide. The need to fortify it, defend it, and ensure that my subjects are unable to oust me while I'm out adventuring, all sound like interesting and entertaining challenges to me.

So once I had the town under my thumb, I asked my GM if it would be alright for me to make a detailed map of the village. He agreed, and we spent some time going over what my limitations were. Geographically, the village is located in a large area of plains, with no major shifts in elevation or terrain type for several miles around. Neither are there any significant bodies of water, or forested areas nearby. Honestly, I think he just made the environment as simple as possible because he's afraid of my ingenuity. But that's okay with me. I like a challenge.

I was also told that I had a total of 377 villagers, 27 of which could be level 1 experts, adepts, warriors, or aristocrats. The rest are level 1 commoners. Other than that, he left everything up to me. I've checked in with him periodically throughout the town creation process, but he hasn't vetoed any of my decisions yet. Of course, I've kept everything in line with what one would find in a dirt-poor town, so he hasn't had much to say "no" to. He and I have been playing games together long enough that we have a pretty good sense of what the limits are in each other's games.

Now, even as a GM, I don't often have the opportunity to truly build a thoroughly detailed community. Normally it's simply not an efficient use of time. It's much easier and faster to simply plot out the most basic outline of what the town is like: what kind of government it has, what its economy is based on, whether it has any unusual traditions or culture, and whether it has any noteworthy landmarks or NPCs. Everything else can be generated on the fly. Even with more detailed cities which my players return to often, I rarely do more than sketch out general "districts," and identify the location of the main roads through the town. The port city of Niston, which the players in my Ascendant Crusade game have visited in between adventures for several years now, is still just a rough collection of squares marked "Affluent Area," "Merchant Section," "Slum," "Docks," and so on.

As a player preparing to govern this town, however, I find the idea of exacting detail appealing. Knowing precisely how many warriors are in the town guard will help me plan my defenses. And since the character in question is Zalekios, knowing just how many commoners I can eat before my breeding stock gets too low is important! Additionally, a large part of my plans involve modifying the town, in the form of watch towers, walls, work camps, etc, so I want to know precisely what I have to work with.

I decided to start by figuring out what kind of population I have. I broke my population into three age based groups. First would be children, defined by Pathfinder as anyone under 15 years old. Last there's the elderly, which I defined as anyone over 55. In between those two groups are the adults. So out of my 377 total population, I needed to figure out how many people fell into the three groups. I decided to use a population pyramid to work out a basic percentage. I spent some time looking for one which applied specifically to medieval villages, but didn't have any luck finding one. So I just stuck with the closest to average I could find. What I wound up with, using some very rough estimation, is 91 children, 260 adults, and 26 elderly. I figure that, to keep things simple, I would split the genders evenly. Since my population is an odd number, I flipped a coin, and determined that the odd person out is a woman named Old Ms. Dyterran, by far the oldest person in the village at 84 years. Her children are dead of old age, but she lives with her grandson and his family. She likes to tell scary stories to children.

Outliers such as old Ms. Dyterran aside, I find these numbers to be telling of the type of community this is. With a max population of 377, it's a very small community. People's lives will be interconnected. But I would estimate that the community is still too large for everyone to know everyone else. Even acquaintance level relationships are difficult to maintain when there's several hundred of them. However, when you break things down by age, the numbers get remarkably smaller. If there are only 91 children under the age of 15, then how few must there be between the ages of 8 and 12? If there's only ten or twenty kids your age in town, you probably know all of them. That goes doubly so for the old folks, who probably all know each other quite well by now.

Moving on, I estimated that there would be 89 households, based on the adult population. That's assuming that every household is centered around an adult couple. Children and elderly would live with said couples, as would a number of dependent adults who are over the age of 15, but have not yet struck out on their own. This would mean that there are 2.9 adults per household, 1.02 children per household, and 0.29 elderly per household. So if you walk into one of these 89 homes at random, the odds are that there are two wedded adults there, who live with one young child and one adult child. And there is a roughly one-in-three chance that one of the couple's parents is still alive, and also living in the house. So most homes contain 4-5 people.

Once I had some ideas on what the population numbers looked like, I moved on to economics. Fun fact, if you google "Plains People," all you really come up with are the Plains Indians, and they were nomads, so information on them was no help in this project. However, Wikipedia has a great deal of information on plains which I found extremely useful in this endeavor. While it may not be an ideal source if you're looking for facts you can rely on, Wikipedia more than accurate enough if you're just looking to inject a little realism into your role playing games. Turns out "plains" is an exceptionally broad category, which covers dozens of terrain types.

I decided that my GM's goal in providing me with an endless flatland of plains was probably closest to the American prairie. Which, I learned, is excellent for farming. However, farming there required more advanced farming equipment than was available when it was first settled. Apparently, up until that point, farmers used wooden plows, but steel plows needed to be developed to handle the tougher earth. I decided one of my experts would need to be a dedicated toolmaker. Animal husbandry is also an option for people living in an area like the American prairie. Using that information, I decided that farming would be the main source of food and income for this village, with pigs and chickens providing them with some dietary variety.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

The only major landmarks of note are the homes of the mayor and wizard, both of whom Zalekios killed in his secret coup. Since Zalekios is impersonating the mayor, he's taken up that residence, and billeted his small army of 33 goblins in the Wizard's home. I mocked up this "Town Character Sheet" in open office writer.



From there, it was time to draw the map. As with the previous steps, I decided to do some research first. I dug through a number of sources for maps, including my own books, the Cartographer's Guild, and just plain old google image search. I saved a few dozen samples to reference as I went to make my own map, and used elements from several of them. However, this map, from the Warhammer Fantasy RPG, was my biggest aide. It is at the same time both extremely simple, and extremely detailed. If you step back and look at the whole map, you see what appears to be a birds eye view of a large city. Each building and side street is distinct, and you get a sense of what the town is like from a street view. There are clearly affluent areas near the parks, with larger houses, etc, along with poorer areas of much smaller buildings clustered together. Yet for all its detail, the map is drawn quite simply. Each individual building is little more than a brown shape with either an "X" or an "I" drawn on top of it to indicate the slant of the roof.

To start with, I sketched out a "districts" map, like the ones I mentioned above. It looked like a series of circles, like a bulls-eye. The small, center circle was designated for important buildings, like the mayor's residence. It's also the location of the town square, where meetings would be held. Around that is the residential area. This was a much larger section, which would contain most of the town's buildings, arranged around the center of town roughly evenly. The largest circle, by a significant margin, is the farmland, which surrounds the entire town.

Here's what I've come up with so far:

The areas of brown within the town indicate pig pens, whilst I imagine many homes have chicken coops next to them. The small circles in the center of the two ancillary "town squares" represent wells. The two white buildings are the Mayor's residence and the Wizard's home. The crosshatch patterns surrounding the town represent farmland.

There are still a number of problems with this map. My scale is way off, for one thing. The more important buildings near the center of town should be much larger, while the residential buildings can be relatively small. The farmland was also truncated due to the limited size of the paper. Normally I'd remake the map before posting it, but at this point I'm not sure I'll bother remaking this map. Even though it's not "to scale," it effectively demonstrates the layout of the town.

Anybody else have experience detailing small towns? Any tips on how to improve my process?

Star Wars: Periods for Play

I thought I'd round out Star Wars week with a summary of the classic time periods available to Game Masters. The political and social landscape of the galaxy changes drastically as time progresses in the Star Wars Universe. Each provides unique opportunities for adventure. And while you may want to stick to what you're already familiar with (either from the films, or from books you've read) this list can help foster ideas about where you'd like to take your games as time progresses in your own little version of the Star Wars Universe. Or, perhaps, even give you an idea of which periods you'd like to look into further.

As with all Star Wars posts, this list focuses on the classic Star Wars trilogy and the fiction based on it, rather than anything based on the prequel films, which were bad. For those unaware, the Battle of Yavin (where the first Death Star is destroyed) is used as year zero. Dates are measured as either Before the Battle of Yavin (BBY) or After the Battle of Yavin (ABY).

Pre-Rebellion Imperial Era
From the establishment of Palpatine's New Order in 19 BBY, to the signing of the Corellian Treaty in 2 BBY

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Most of the truly iconic imperial technology had not yet been deployed during this period. The Death Star was, obviously, still being designed and built. And ship types such as the Imperial Star Destroyer, and the Executor Class Star Destroyer (or "Super" Star Destroyer) were likewise still on the drawing table. Though some would have been under construction in secret shipyards owned by Kuat. The Emperor also humors the Imperial Senate, providing the illusion of representative government.

There is no organized resistance to the Empire. There are many dissident groups, but they are independent from one another, and easily crushed by the Empire. It isn't until two years prior to the Battle of Yavin that a group of Imperial Senators, in an act of treason, sign The Corellian Treaty, bringing the disparate rebel groups together to form The Rebel Alliance.

Rebellion Era
From the signing of the Corellian Treaty in 2 BBY, to the Battle of Endor in 4 ABY

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Also known as the First Galactic Civil War, this period is probably the most well known, as it takes place primarily during the original trilogy of films. The Rebel Alliance and Empire engage in a brutal conflict. Many of the Empire's most notable atrocities and most terrifying weapons occur during this period: the destruction of Alderaan by the Death Star, and the creation of the Executor class Star Destroyer among them.

Early New Republic Era
From the Battle of Endor in 4 ABY, to the Conquest of Coruscant in 7 ABY

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After the death of both Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader at the Battle of Endor, the Galactic Empire is thrown into chaos. A whirlwind of successors hold the reigns of power for a short time, only to be assassinated or otherwise removed from power. Sometimes a single leader dominates, other times a small group will declare itself a ruling council of some kind. Meanwhile, more and more powerful Imperial leaders simply split off from the Empire, becoming Warlords.

In the days after the Battle of Endor, an interim government is formed by the Rebel Alliance, calling itself the Alliance of Free Planets. And one month after the battle of Endor, the Declaration of a New Republic is issued. Planets begin breaking off from the Empire immediately, joining the New Republic. Imperial responses to these "secessionists" is sporadic at best. Most of the New Republic still relies on secret bases, but the government makes itself visible. The New Republic continues to be viewed as a feeble government, in its infancy, until the conquest of Coruscant three years after the death of Palpatine.

New Republic Era
From the Conquest of Coruscant in 7 ABY, to the signing of the Pellaeon-Gavrisom Treaty in 19 ABY

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The New Republic consistently grows in power, whilst the Empire becomes continually weaker. There are some brief periods of upheaval, in which the Empire surges and becomes a serious threat to the stability of the New Republic, such as the dreaded Thrawn Crisis, or the brief rule of the Reborn Emperor.

This is simultaneously one of the most and least varied periods in Star Wars history. On the one hand, the number of major events which occurred during this period are numerous and interesting. Yet when all is said and done, everything returned to more or less the status quo.

The Empire's territories steadily shrink during this period, until Fleet Admiral Gilad Pellaeon, as supreme commander of the Empire, with the backing of the Moff Council, signs the Pellaeon-Gavrisom treaty, ending the 21 year Galactic Civil War.

One other major event occurs during this period which will shape the fate of the galaxy through the future: Luke Skywalker establishes his Jedi Praxeum on Yavi IV in the year 11 ABY, officially beginning the training of a new generation of Jedi Knights.

Late New Republic Era
From the signing of the Pellaeon Gavrisom Treaty in 19 ABY to the start of the Yuuzhan Vong War in 25 ABY

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Remarkably little has ever been written about this period. Primarily just the children's books and young adult novels written about the youthful adventures of Han and Leia's children and their friends. So aside from those relatively minor threats to galactic peace, these few years are a time of relative tranquility in the galaxy.

New Jedi Order Era
From the start of the Yuuzhan Vong War in 25 ABY with the First Battle of Helska, to the end of said war in 29 ABY with the Liberation of Coruscant.

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The Yuuzhan Vong invade the galaxy, initiating one of the most brutal and bloody wars in galactic history. The Yuuzhan Vong's organic technology is, at first, completely invulnerable to any attempts to attack it. Thousands of worlds are conquered by this technology-hating species, and completely reformed to fit the needs of the Yuuzhan Vong. Trillions upon Trillions of beings are killed, and many completely loose hope that anyone can stand against the onslaught.

The New Republic has grown complacent and weak in the years since the treaty with the Empire, and is ill prepared to handle the invasion. It consistently makes major blunders, and eventually loses control of Coruscant to the invading Yuzzhan Vong hordes. After the death of Chief of State Borsk Fey'lya, along with much of the senate, Cal Omas was elected leader of the New Republic. And shortly after the New Republic victory at the Battle of Ebaq 9, it was decided that a new, more united government would be required if the war was to be won.

And so the New Republic was dissolved, and reformed as The Galactic Alliance, which also included the Imperial Remnant, as well as the Hapes Consortium. And, with the cooperation of the Chiss Ascendancy and the Jedi Order, the Galactic Alliance was able to push back the Yuuzhan Vong, defeat their war machine, and make peace with those who remained.

Galactic Alliance Era
From the Liberation of Coruscant in 29 ABY, to the blundered Operation Roundabout in 40 ABY, sparking the Second Galactic Civil War.

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This is yet another period of relative calm, like the late New Republic era. The damage done during the Yuuzhan Vong war is never fully undone, but much effort is invested by the Galactic Alliance in trying to soothe the wounds of the war. Finding new homes for a planet's worth of refugees, and so forth.

Second Galactic Civil War Era
From Operation Roundabout in 40 ABY, to the Battle of Shedu Maad in 41 ABY

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The planet Corellia begins to express a lack of satisfaction with Galactic Alliance rule, and talks of succession. The two governments posture at one another, until a series of blunders leads to an all out war between Corellia and the Galactic Alliance. Neither side has the moral high ground in this conflict. More than any war prior to it, the Second Galactic Civil War pits family members against one another.

Guided by Sith teachings, the grandson of Darth Vader, Jacen Solo, gradually assumes power over the Galactic Alliance, and takes the name Darth Caedus for himself. Under his leadership, the Galactic Alliance becomes as loathsome as Palpatine's empire before it. The Hapes Consortium withdraws from the Galactic Alliance, and the Jedi Order abandons it.

Darth Caedus is killed at the Battle of Shedu Maad by his sister. Natasi Daala is named Chief of State of the Galactic Alliance.