Lawful or Evil Stupid?

The Nature of Man:

Are you Lawful Stupid or Stupid Evil?

I’ve complained about the Dungeons and Dragons alignment system in the past. It is a mechanic which I abhor and one that I’ve spent arguing with Derek over for far too many hours. For those unaware, part of your character creation in D&D involves choosing your hero’s nature. This has been conveniently distilled into the cross section of two diametrically opposed axises: Law vs Chaos and Good vs Evil. Figuring where your character stands in relation to these extremes is meant to create a simple two point summary which summarizes the individuals moral and personal beliefs and attitudes. Thus, we have the classic combinations taking on certain mythological archetypes. Lawful Good individuals value order and charity and are typified by the knight in shining armour motif of the selfless crusader out championing the virtues of his lord and god while raining down benevolence and charity to the unkempt, destitute peasants ravaged by dragons, goblins and an curiously high tax rate for medieval societies. The Chaotic Evil individual, by comparison, is that wicked warlock who spends his evenings in fogged choked graveyards practicing debased necromancy so as to raise an army of filthy and plague bearing undead to march upon the same destitute peasants in the hope of getting his own share of their exorbitant property costs.

It’s all very clean. It’s all very orderly. And it’s all so very useless.

As I mentioned, I hate the alignment system. I hate everything it tries to represent. I hate everything for which it stands. Above all else, I hate how it operates as a classic trap, luring unsuspecting new players and dungeon masters into shallow, derivative cliches that halts the game as everyone bickers over the finer details of law and chaos.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/alenza/satire.html

Satire on Romantic Suicide by Leonardo Alenza Y Nieto (1807-1845).

You see, the prime flaw of the alignment system is positing that there exists within the D&D framework a standard, objective truth concerning Good and Evil. Certain behaviour is, as alignment is so classically defined, intrinsically right or wrong. Sure, defenders will wring their hands and assuage that these are merely guidelines used to better categorize and assist in forming a character’s decision making. And they’ll maintain this stance as the party casts Detect Evil and sees the party’s rogue light up like a Christmas tree in Times Square. Alignment is a mechanical tool within the D&D universe itself. It is not a moral or philosophical debate–it exists as a real, tangible thing which is affected by both magic and gods in ways wholly beyond our understanding. Thus, as a true core element of a being’s identity, there must be actions and behaviour which is intrinsically connected to this alignment. If a paladin can detect evil then evil must exist to detect. You can’t have a fiend who gives to the poor and helps the needy for that would be indistinguishable from the paladin himself.

This seems obvious enough. Surely the only difficulty with the system would be hammering out the finer details of what constitutes evil and what does not.

And that statement alone should make obvious how futile an endeavour that would be. We can not agree on what is moral in our own society even without throwing in magic and fantasy into the mix. Take, for instance, the simplest example of murder. Surely murder is an evil action. And yet, every single D&D campaign is rife with heroes going through wholesale slaughter of goblins, gnolls, orcs, kobolds and whatever. “Ah,” says the alignment purist, “but these creatures are inherently evil thus their destruction is a good action!”

So murder in-of-itself isn’t bad but who you murder is. And yet, any campaign worth its salt will have helpful orcs, drow who have turned from their oppressive society or kobolds more interested in friendly exchange than kidnapping babies and worshiping dragons. Would it be just, moral or good to slay Drizzt on sight? He is a subtype of elf who were chased underground for their worship of the malevolent deity Lloth who delights in slaughter and torture. Of course not, for Drizzt has cast aside his society and its bloodlust-filled ways and walks a more charitable path. Well, what of Deekin the merchant? Should I stumble across him on the streets of Neverwinter would I be within my right to run him through with my sword and steal all of his merchandise? No? Because he is simply not situated in a dungeon awaiting eager adventurers to kick down his door and cut of his head on their way to the fabled dragon horde?

The alignment system is quick to tell us that animals lack the necessary intelligence for placement on the alignment system. They are what has become the Unaligned. They have not the self-awareness to judge their actions in a greater moral scope and players don’t have a free pass to slay every cow which they encounter on their way to the city. And yet, possessing the intelligence required to hold an alignment also gives the being the capacity to change their ways. Would not then the good path be to try and rehabilitate these societies instead of murdering them? And yet, paladins have been the quintessential figurehead for Lawful Good and their sole duty is to act as the judging blade to slice down all those that disagree with them. “But they wouldn’t” isn’t a valid excuse as examples demonstrate that they would.

It’s a simplistic black and white system trying to describe a game that encourages, promotes and pushes its players to explore shades of grey. I think anyone that has played the game can see the fruits of this broken system as well. Poll a player base and I’ll be surprised if you don’t find a great proportion who have had their share of moments of their DMs telling them “You can’t do that. It’s against your alignment.” Most experienced players would scoff at such actions but how quick are people to jump to calling for paladins to lose their abilities for betraying the sacred mantra of the ever undefined Lawful Good code? Or how frequent are there denunciations of DMs not dropping player alignment when they stray into territory someone else deems unworthy of their moniker? Should players be held at the whimsy of the DM’s personal moral code and definition of what a real Neutral Good alignment means? Why must these conversations come up for a system that was always only meant to assist beginning players with stepping out of their own skin and inhabiting the mind of someone else? It’s a tool for policing and it is far too rare that one is rewarded for their alignment compared to the numerous punishments for betraying it.

Well, I was thinking of this dilemma in the shower, as one is wont to think of random things while under running water. Personally, I think the biggest problem is that baggage which the system carries. Good and Evil are more than just words. They’re personal ideals that change from person to person and situation to situation. To try and create some absolute yard stick used for measuring them is an impossible task. Law and Chaos aren’t any better and lead to their own set of troubles. I mean, we’ve all know that one Chaotic Neutral character.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/amerling/franz_1.html

Emperor Franz I of Austria in his Coronation Robes by Friedrich von Amerling (1832).

Really, I think if we were to break down a sort of guidepost for character behaviour, it would have to be one that is less restrictive. An alignment should be just that: a guidebook and not a rigid code. It should give a suggestion to a character’s natural response but not dictate their reactions to every situation. Good and Evil is too encompassing. It’s too mutually exclusive. I think it is prone to cognitive dissonance. My character is good thus he can not do evil. But unlike in the real-world where we reshape our belief to compensate for the dissonance, in D&D we can bar an action from being performed to preserve our belief. However, part of the complexity of real people is being faced with the consequences of actions which we didn’t have the full benefit of considering or weighing against our morals. The system should be amiable to these issues, not ready to punish them.

Thus, I think renaming the axises would go a long way to fixing the alignment system. Instead of Good and Evil, we need something that is less oppressive. Altruism vs Selfishness are two concepts that encapsulate the original premise but have a lot more wiggle room. For example, if I were a Good character, I would be more inclined to assist the oppressed out of the goodness of my heart. However, to maintain my purity, I’d extend this charity to near all circumstances even if it were against the desires of my party. Hell, if we were about to be rewarded by an evil character, a good one would have a moral opposition to receiving anything from them. However, an altruistic person could be more negotiable. Now they aren’t constrained by the full encompassing weight of Goodness. They could be open to accepting payment from an able body especially if the party promised that some of their gains were donated to the needy. Now we needn’t completely turn down the quest given by the bandit chief because the paladin can’t abide aiding such criminal scum. We could accept his ill-gotten coin and altruistically turn around and give it to the church to feed the poor and hungry. The paladin is appeased, the party is appeased and the game can continue without coming to a screeching halt as an ultimatum is drawn in the sand.

Likewise, Law and Chaos could be commissioned into Conformity and Individualism. I especially like this pairing because both carry as many positives as negatives in their connotation. More than that, however, we get away from the cartoony depictions of the extremes of the spectrum. The Lawful Good was just as insipid and disruptive as the Chaotic Evil. Every child would need a hug from the LG just as every puppy would need be kicked by the CE. But a conformist doesn’t necessarily need such extreme reaction. Describing your character as a Conforming Altruist communicates readily far more what Lawful Good was meant to without needing to quibble whether the paladin needs to uphold all laws or when does he earn the right to judge whether a law has betrayed the idealisms of Goodness too much. Furthermore, our Selfish Individualist needn’t be as moustache twirling as they are now in D&D. They can be. Our Warlock can still sit in his graveyard unconcerned with his societies ethics over honouring the dead and raise his little skeleton army to steal in his name all he wants. But you can have rulers who are also Selfish Individualists, running their kingdoms without a care for the well-being of their nobles or peasants but without need to sacrifice every virginal daughter to a devil in order to fulfill the requirements of his alignment.

More than anything, these titles leave a lot of room for differences amongst the alignments themselves. They don’t immediately conjure any stereotypes or stock tropes. A Selfish Conformist does not have the baggage which a Lawful Evil name would suggest. It allows both heroes and villains to occupy the same alignment space without any question. And, more than anything, it means that people can drop the constraints of the alignments and focus on the core aspect in the first place: playing their character.

Locked on Lies

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The Lies of Locke Lamora comes as frequently recommended as Name of the Wind – perhaps even more often. The lengthy first novel by Scott Lynch is an epic thief adventure in the tough and gritty streets of Camorr. It follows the colour life of Locke Lamora and his talented band of Gentleman Bastards as they rob from the rich and save the city. Or something like that.

It could have been something fun and interesting and light to read. Instead it was bog down by excruciatingly inconsequential world building that bloated the story to over 500 pages of text. While I appreciate the author’s desire to explain how the rag-tag band of thieves met and learned the exceptional skills of their evil trade, too much time spent on things that ultimately didn’t matter. The story suffered from a lack of clear direction and solid writing. It was a rookie mistake that gives The Lies of Locke Lamora a rating of passable. It was not actively offensive, but it certainly was not good.

Book cover – from the internet. Clearly the cover is based on St Marco’s square.

The main antagonist of the tale, the dastardly and mysterious Grey King, is not introduced until we have read 1/3 of nothing. Eventually it becomes apparent that the Grey King is the evil Lamora must stop in order to save his life. The stranger in grey is described at several points as being vaguely familiar. This led to speculation on my part. Was this man Lamora’s long lost father? (Because of course he is an orphan.) Was he actually the man responsible for shaping Lamora, a man we thought was dead but had no actual evidence? While I am glad Scott Lynch avoided the father cliché, I was a little sad to discover the Grey King was absolutely no one we could have predicted. Written the manner he had, I expected the reviel to tie things together better. Instead, it is yet another thing about this questionable world I simply had to accept.

About the same time the Grey King is introduced, or a little later, the author suddenly realizes he needs wizards – so bam! We now have Bondmages. They come out of nowhere and serve only a questionable importance. A great deal of time is spent explaining why Bondmages can do anything and yet do not overrun the city. It brings to the forefront a common problem with magic in fantasy land, and that is the lack of boundaries. Magic can and literally does anything. Yet the vast majority of people cannot perform nor do they have access to this power – which if it actually existed would be world changing. So, instead we have all powerful Bondmages being tied to a very exclusive and greedy guild. The price of their service is an active deterrent. The power of the guild is supposedly protection against their murder. How does our clever thief circumvent this last problem? Well he violently maims the Bondmage working for the Grey King. And somehow, since Lamora did not outright kill the Bondmage, he will not face the retribution of the possessive guild. I am a little suspect of their logic.

From the very beginning the narrative flips back and forth in time. This is not an inherently bad idea. Its use however, left much to be desired. As far as I can gather the flipping back and forth between present and past serves no purpose other than to swollen narrative. Really, do you need to fall back in time a few hours to explain everything in detail? For example: our intrepid protagonist sneaks his way into a heavily protected building of a wealthy Don for a private discourse with the owner. Great, I can get behind a thief setting up a complex con. So, why do you need to destroy the mystic of the thief by rewinding and explaining in painful minutia the steps Lamora took to get there? It added nothing but another chapter I had to slog through. And again, it made Lamora look stupid – or the world look stupid. If he had that easy of a time getting into the building, why wouldn’t someone else find it equally as simple?

There were some serious structural issues with the world itself. From rumour and cover I was led to believe this novel took place in Venice. Now, I have actually been to that marvellous Italian location. I have walked the narrow twisting streets, strolled over the bridges that link the tiny island and ridden down the canals that form the major thoroughfares. Venice is a fascinating testament to human engineer. To visit now is to see a world caught in time with the crumbling facades of bygone glory next to the modern attempts to cling to life. No doubt Venice, or some fantasy version, would make for an excellent setting. However, if that was the inspiration, then Scott Lynch has never seen a postcard of Venice let alone been to visit. The world of Camorr is an illogical mess of mountainous islands, rivers, wide lakes, perhaps a lagoon, and deep underground caverns. I could not for the life of me understand the geography. I was personally affronted by the lack of understanding for the natural world – you cannot have underground caverns if you live in the middle of a lagoon. And where did the mountains come from? And why on this green earth are horses cluttering the streets? You talk at great length of boats and barges; there would be no land for the wide streets and stables needed for animals of such size. It is a confusing mash of discrete ideas. Sure there are interesting fantastical elements, but the number of which in this city alone breaks my emersion in his world. It simply doesn’t make any sense, in any way.

Yup, this makes you think Camorr is based on Venice. That is until you read the story and realize this is not what was written. (Image from the internet)

Finally, the language – a major means of storytelling – lacked a streamline understanding for the narrative the author wished to communicate. It felt like Scott Lynch wanted to accomplish two things, the creation and exploration of a gritty world of crime; a look into the very depths of human civilization. At the same time he was desperately trying to build witty rakes who could charm their way out of the most dangerous situations. The language of the story reflected these to discordant ideas of dark despair and light con. We would go from unnecessarily crass language to banter filled with endless quips. It didn’t fit. It was grating to read and often the moments of humour fell flat. There was no proper build up for what were supposed to be funnier moments. And the constant quips, the lack of serious motivation of Lamora and his gang, failed to build up the darker elements.

In the end the greatest crime of the book was simply that it was boring. I couldn’t care about a thief, who largely didn’t seem to care about what he was doing either. I couldn’t find the motivation to feel sorry for Lamora when at any point he could have (and probably should have) walked away. No one was really invested in the thief – except the Grey King and that didn’t make much sense. Ultimately, the Lies of Locke Lamora was a lengthy, banal story that was a job to read. It was not the worst I have read, it was not that offensive. It was not also the best I have read. The Spirt Thief was a far more successful story about a rogue thief and his misfit gang.

So, any more recommendations you want to suggest?

A Party at the Red Pony – A Tale of Drinking in Sigil

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Perhaps it was the dim lighting, the heady scent of the seventh stained mug of potent but unidentifiable alcohol or maybe it was the fact that the small tavern was crammed full of all manner of creatures bizarre and unimaginable but never had that woman looked any more beautiful to Kaliban as she did now.

Kaliban could not take his eyes off her—save for the brief moments when upending his mug and slurring an order for another. There she sat, also eagerly knocking back drink after drink so that a mountainous pile grew between them beneath the raucous cheers of onlookers penning them on all sides. It was a contest of spirits which built the great divide between them and—as Kaliban’s vision began to blur—it was the determination that he would see his consciousness across those wet and sticky vessels to the oasis of her lavish green eyes awaiting on the other side that motivated him.

To be certain, he knew very little of the fair Thia Nailo despite having spent a great deal of time sharing mortal peril with her. Albeit, half that peril was illusory and contained with the safe and impenetrable walls of the Nursery but had he not died in her arms? Had he not suffered both sling and arrows by her side? His heart had thumped with red-bloodedness and adrenaline. Could there exist a more perfect recipe for romance? Kaliban knew no others and he was well versed in recipes and concoctions.

Perhaps she would take great interest in that knowledge? He paused in his chugging to perceive the slight swoon of her head, the bright veins which glimmered within her pupils. She looked at him with eyes barely clear and a dozen sobering tinctures and inebriation remedies sprung to his mind. Surely even a place as strange and incomprehensible as this carried enough meadowsweet herb, fennel seed, gentian root and black horehound to stave off the disabling effects of their drinking contest.

Wait. Was it black horehound? Or was it chiretta herb? Or was that used in Widow’s Bliss? No, that was certainly strychnine which is incredibly time consuming and an enormous pain in the ass to extract from the plant’s damn seeds.

Have you any idea how hard it is to pulp a dozen tiny seeds with bleeding fingers while your mind begins to fill with their maddening juice while your matron screams profanities for how the Lord of Worms will use your corpse should you succumb to their delusive properties?

Kaliban briefly considered that as an opening to pleasant conversation but the barest scraps of sobriety still nestled in his mind cautioned against its effectiveness.

“The zombie falls behind! Is this the end?”

“I still have vim left in me, devil!” Kaliban shouted. At least, that was his intended response. Instead, he barely craned a drooping head in the direction of the grinning tiefling, his lips forming a long series of half-formed syllables which sounded more like, “shuv off yuus stoop-edd edded orn devl laidee…”

This prompted riotous cheers and laughter from the crowd. Certainly the party’s merriment was not that rare of a sport but even though their uncreative method for relaxing was likely seen day after day within the establishment, there were still those who worked the crowd in gathering bets over who would win between the tattooed man and beast bedecked half-elf.

Kaliban found another mug in his hand and muscles lifted it automatically to compliant lips with his fogged mind hardly perceptive of the entire procession. In fact, he couldn’t help but notice a strange pattern of extra mugs appearing at his elbow compared to the fine and beautiful Thia. Kaliban turned to Araven—the chief amongst the bookmakers—to contest this issue when he caught the telltale slump of his opponent’s shoulders.

Her fingers were barely able to wrap about the wood handle of her next drink and handsome Bill leaned in to whisper in her ear. Thia attempted to wave him off, her fingers tapping his chest as she fixed her eyes on Kaliban with determination.

He swooned. But Kaliban had seen enough people slip into peaceful unconsciousness to know that the woman’s constitution would not hold for longer. He looked down at the rolling green froth in his hands.

He knew what he had to do.

Kaliban leaned back on his chair, the legs creaking as the seat drew half to the air. He raised the drink to his mouth. He felt the warm liquid brush his lips. He closed his eyes and pushed off the flagged stone with his toes.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

His chair collapsed against the ground in a thundering crash that broke over the cheering. His face grew warm and sticky with the fermented drink as it rushed from the skyward flagon’s bottom to bathe his face. He sputtered just enough from his nostrils to breath as he let brief emptiness wash over him.

But his shadows were not empty.

For a moment, the tavern vanished. The onlookers disappeared. Darkness consumed all, leaving nought but the tattooed man in a gaping nothingness.

Kaliban sensed their presence before he saw it. It was all over his skin, crawling across his face where once pleasant mead had stuck. They writhed, thousands upon thousands of small putrid worms. They clung to his flesh and clothes. They bubbled up from the darkness around his body, writhing their way into the folds of his clothes. Nothing could protect and nowhere was spared as the little creatures bore into flesh and muscle and tissue.

He opened eyes which were immediately besieged by the pestilent creatures. They blinded him just as quickly as they numbed him to all sensation but their burrowing mouths. They wrapped about his lobes and dug into his ears and he was filled with the sounds of their chewing.

Within that cacophony rose a terrible voice.

“You forget yourself, my son.”

Kaliban opened a mouth to scream but it was filled with the multitude of green creatures.

“You think you can hide from me?”

He tried to struggle—to free himself from the crush of the endless bodies. The more his limbs thrashed, the more the shadows spewed forth the crawling tide.

“You think your profane worship of the flesh will cloak you?”

Above blazed two great orbs burning with a vermillion flame of such hatred that its heat burned through the creatures engorging themselves on Kaliban’s pupils. The darkness folded so as to form the hood of that ancient head. It leered upon him, pressing close so that its child-worms became singing. The screams of his children assaulted Kaliban. It was that hideous chorus once more. He could smell the burning of their flesh as their voices rose in piteous pleas.

His mind convulsed in the memories. Visions of that dreaded fissure returned and the children thrown screaming one by one into the pits before being joined by their frenzied parents in an orgasmic slaughter of captive and believer alike. The air was thick with their blood, sweat and excrement. It was an assault upon one’s very sanity with the unbridled violence enacted against detestable flesh at every turn. Skin and muscle was flayed, leaving behind nought but the blessed bones which—so fuelled by the blasphemous rites—took to their tattered feet to assist with the massacre.

Presiding over it all was the Bonemaster himself. The Worm that Walks.

Black sleeves raised heavenward as screams drowned out whatever words escape that black hood.

“Remember,” echoed that voice in his ears. “Remember and obey.”

Kaliban stood over the pits, looking down on the mound of bodies filling the unending earth maw which swallowed them. A dagger was in one hand and an initiate in the other. The poor creature was bathed in the blood of the child which he had just slain and pushed upon the mound. His eyes were unblinking as he stared naked over the carnage, chest heaving in its disgusting need to consume the stench of death surrounding him.

It was Kaliban’s duty. He raised the blade to the child’s throat. Even as his muscles tensed beneath the knowledge that he would be next, his mind had seemingly all but left the proceedings and only the will of the Wormgod remained, urging him on to completion.

He would have too. But he was interrupted. A hand stayed his.

The blade was plucked from his young fingers as his victim was raised from his grasp. Kaliban blinked in incomprehension. He vaguely recognized his shadow matron—that woman which had filled him with just as many toxins as she had forced him create—as she raised his brother to her arms. She fled, tears streaming her cheeks and was swallowed by the darkness.

And some deeply buried thought wiggled in Kaliban’s mind. At the time he was filled with only his thoughts of failing the great Bonemaster—of his inability to save his brother of shadows from the curse of life. But now, he recognized that the matron had always favoured the other boy. While she tormented Kaliban and the others beneath her care, that one child could do no wrong.

In this brief drunken recollection, Kaliban could not help but note how similar they looked.

Dumbly, Kaliban stood upon the precipice before hands came and claimed him as well. Hooded individuals, elder members of the cult, carried him from the fissure with eyes downcast and refusing to look upon the slaughter. He hardly knew them as they wept, whispering apologies as he was born away from the master. When at last Kaliban realized their intentions, he struggled until a sting along his arm burn hot with the welling of his own blood mixing with the sedative. But as darkness fell upon him, he felt their arms hold him tighter and tighter.

He could feel those hands now, starkly warm upon his cold flesh. Kaliban’s eyes broke open as his body jerked madly. But there were no worms covering him now. There was no hood bearing upon him.

There was just sweet, beautiful Thia blinking with bleary eyes riddled with what Kaliban can only assume was concern.

“Are you alright?”

Without thought, Kaliban rose lips to connect lips in an impromptu embrace. In that moment, time slowed as his mind drank deep every precious sensation. The warmth of her mouth drove away those dark shadows of his recollections. The moisture of the spilt beer singed the lasting sensations of the endless worms. The scent of her newly acquired bestial adornments drowned out the hooded master and his traitorous whispers.

Then her hands were on his bare chest, pressing him off and away. Kaliban collapsed against the floor, relishing the pain of his pounding head, weariness of his inebriated limbs and, yes, the feelings of the lingering kiss.

“We… should buy some… silver. In case of ravens…”

Thia stood and Araven was at her side, quick to pronounce her winner and collecting the scrip from those foolish berks stupid enough to bet on Kaliban. A few patrons tripped over him as they dispersed back to their own indulgences but even as boots left fresh bruises, Kaliban did not move until a reluctant Bill arrived to pick up his lethargic body and bear him back to the Whole Note.

Roleplay or Foreplay?

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I have sung the praises of Bethesda and their Elder Scrolls games before but as I work through the DLC for Skyrim, I feel a public service announcement is in order.

Never buy a Bethesda game at launch.

Not ever. I dutifully picked up Skyrim when it first came out in 2011 since I enjoyed Daggerfall and Oblivion as well as being generally excited for the game from its pre-release information. Fast forward three years and I finally purchased the Game of the Year edition because their stupid DLC never went on a decent sale. I could get the full game again with all the bells and whistles for less than two of their downloadable content. That’s simply inexcusable given that I even supported the developer at launch when those first sales are the greatest price and most important.

So never again. I’ll wait the year and a half to get your completed version on discount.

Images captured from Bethesda’s Skyrim and taken by me. Also, Serana has the worst plans in the world.

Anyway, this is beside the point. I still enjoy Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls series. It’s one of my personal preeminent roleplaying game series. As I’ve said before, there is no matching the sense of being dropped in a fantastical world and the wonder or exploration you can feel while exploring its farthest corners on your own, personal adventures.

There is an ugly side, however. Whereas most my roleplaying games will sink or float based on their narrative, I spend most of my time in the Elder Scrolls trying ever so politely to ignore the writing. For the most part, I can do a decent job. The series is full of minor side quests which can eat an astonishing amount of time as you crawl through dank caverns and pull yourself up to astonishing vistas. Who cares if the woman sending you half across the province in search of her husband’s amulet has neither character nor charm? I’m on top of the world battling dragons, trolls and brigands!

Unless, of course, you’re doing a DLC adventure. No one would ever argue that the main questline of an Elder Scrolls game was ever noteworthy. In fact, the best I can say about the writing in Oblivion was that the Dark Brotherhood storyline was “not bad.” That’s truly the greatest praise you can offer. Unfortunately, the DLC seems to only offer main quest line content.

Well, it’s all side questing to be fair. And Hearthfire is, perhaps, the more excusable content. Hearthfire gives you the lovely option to build a house instead of purchasing the prefabricated ones that launched in the game. Granted, you could do that with some very clever mods, but there was also the ability to adopt children included which is what truly made the game. So, I really like Hearthfire and it’s sob story orphans which are sprinkled across all the holds in Ice Age Tamriel.

Classic example where meta-knowledge dictates that there are no negative outcomes to a suggestion which has no good rationale behind it

Dawnguard, unfortunately, went a more narrative approach. There is no other way to say it–it is awful. When the developers moved the focus to their writing, the product truly struggles. Lengthy, involved questlines were never the series strong points and Dawnguard follows the tangential struggle of the titular organization as they attempt to rally support and resources to confront a rising vampire menace. The player is thrust into the middle of the conflict, initially through constant waylaying of devious vampires dressed in their adversaries garb (though always conspicuously standing over dead, stripped bodies making their ruse near immediately foiled) waiting along roadsides at random intervals. If the player wishes to end these random encounters, they’re encouraged by town guard to head towards Fort Dawnguard and seek out its leader, Isran.

When done, the player finds a cliched, grissled and wizened man who has lost near his family and friends due to his single-minded pursuit in ridding the world of all vampires. A noble aspiration, to be sure, but one that would have sounded pretty cracked urned had the player not been tripping over vampire corpses on the way to the fort. But the very first mission Isran tasks you with reveals why the Elder Scrolls is so bad at doing any sort of real narrative.

When tasked with discovering what happened to the Hall of the Vigilant (the original vampire hunters before Dawnguard was delivered), the player discovers an ancient ruin with a cadre of vampires searching it for… something. Of course, the player murders them all and discovers the secret box in the centre and I was legitimately surprised to see that it held a woman.

Intimate. Like those three times I bumped into vampires on the road and they accidentally infected me while I was cutting off their heads.

I was less surprised when this woman turned out to be a nagging clinger who was required to hook on to all of your quests as it followed whatever frustratingly boring family issues she had. Any time Serana opens her mouth, it’s like I’m being transported into a modern BioWare game dripping with cliches and shallow writing. The girl immediately requests you escort her home because it’s late and she’s out well beyond curfew. When you arrive to the soaring Gothic stronghold, no one is surprised to learn Serana’s father is the epitomous Lord Harkon and the villain of the DLC storyline. The man spends about one minute extolling the virtues of being a giant vampire jerk and offers to induct you into his court as a new vampire lackey.

So, immediately, whatever pretense of a story is shattered as the very first mission reward is the game blatantly asking you “Do you want to be a badass vampire or a badass vampire hunter?” I went with hunter because the thought of having to bomb around at night looking for pointless victims to suck their blood in order to keep myself from looking like I’m not some mythical monster that needs immediate execution the moment I look towards a town did not appeal. Course, stupid Serana immediately whisks after me to Fort Dawnguard to stop her father from twirling his mustachio over whatever silly “dark and emo” plan he’s hatched.

I’m just going to say it: vampires are stupid. I’ve only ever seen them handled well once and that was in Vampire the Masquerade. But VtM does something different with vampires that most people forget or ignore: they treat it like a curse. Sure, you get badass powers and immortality but the game’s core mechanics run around how much being a vampire truly sucks as you’re caught now in an intricate web of vampire politics and the ever growing sense that everything that kept you humane and moral is being slowly eroded away in the very act of simply surviving. No, most people prefer to lean on the “dark and sexy” motif of vampire culture and anytime they appear I feel like I’m stuck hanging out with the goth kids in high school again who want to sit around in their black fishnets writing bad poetry about how much the world misunderstands them.

Dawnguard falls directly in that category, in case you’re wondering.

Is that romance in the air? Or the lingering stench of a portal to hell and the decade old rot of failed necromantic experiments?

Seriously, Serana’s whole storyline is about how much her parents “don’t get her” and spend all their time telling her what to do and not letting her do what she wants to do. I hate her, her teenage angst and the fact that she’s awful at holding enemy aggression while I’m playing on Legendary difficulty because all she does is sparkle the villains with her stupid red glitter.

I also hate how the game very blatantly writes in a romance option for her and that I mindlessly click on it every time.

I can thank BioWare for that instinct but, truly, it’s a problem with modern game design in general. From Persona to Dragon Age, players are encouraged to whisper honeyed words into the ears of their companions until they have a veritable harem tripping at their feet. Weirdly, as our technology gets better, our ability to simulate interactions get worse. Moral decisions have devolved into basic “good” vs “evil” binary choices. If you’re given a choice at all, of course. Skyrim doesn’t offer any true decisions beyond whether you want to do a quest or not. If you get a choice, however, there’s no functional difference between them. Say, I tell a woman I’ll find her cat out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll be rewarded just as well as if I blackmailed her with embarrassing photos of her kitty in sweaters prior to locating the animal.

Thus, I would be surprised if the vast, vast majority of people didn’t always take the “good” option when given a choice. There’s no negative so why not be heroic and paid for it? Furthermore, when given the option, why not be nice to your companions when given the opportunity? If it is a BioWare game, I’ll likely be able to level up their stats, get better equipment or some other tangible result by telling them what they want to hear. I don’t know what will happen if I keep flirting with Serana but I heavily suspect that I’ll be able to convince her to cure herself of her vampirism if I keep it up.

I’ll probably get a sweet bow too.

And this brings me to the reason I wrote this post in the first place. I’ve just met Serana’s mom (because yes, we’re that far along in our relationship) and had probably the most eye rolling moment ever in my 200 hours of puttering around in Skyrim. Serana’s mom decided to give me a lecture on the value of my word because I’m a vampire hunter and she can’t truly trust me that I have Serana’s best interests at heart because I make a living hunting vampires.

Coming from a woman who feeds off the blood of defenceless rabble and locks her doors with their still warm intestines, I don’t think you know what noble means.

I wish I were joke. A vampire was trying to frame the moral narrative as though I were the oppressor and she some poor, innocent minority just trying to make her way in life beneath my brutality and wickedness. A VAMPIRE. That’s how lazy we’ve become in our narrative writing. The writers seem to be simply on auto-pilot here, feeling as though they need some perspective twist or raising of the stakes. It’s so bizarre and tone-ignorant of their own work as the character had literally just finished telling me about how she chose to be a vampire after dedicating her life to a demon prince that extols the virtues of murder and slavery. I just came from your house, woman, where you decided entrails and viscera made lovely floor decor! Oh, how tragic that some uppity human would consider the mindless, uncaring slaughter of their kind as an offense which needs to be curbed and stamped out. In fact, I don’t even need to murder you since getting vampirism cured in the Elder Scrolls is generally as easy as walking up to a statue and rubbing your face against it!

And of course, throughout this discourse I chose the options wherein I assuaged her concerns over my intentions for her daughter and promised I’d free her of her imprisonment and vanquish her murderous husband so she can return to her quiet life of necromancy and trying to sell innocent souls to otherworldly masters in exchange for power. Had this been anyone else at the helm, this script would be satirical and subversive of genre tropes. But it’s not and it makes its quality all the more painful. At least with the awful main quest, I intersperse it with twenty hours of murdering cave elves.

How could I ever misconstrue you offering the souls of tons of innocent people to a bunch of floating, life sucking crystals in a plane of endless darkness and bone as evil? How judgmental of me!

While I’d love for sweeping changes to how narratives are valued and viewed across the industry, I think the easiest first step would be to address simple interactions. Look, if we’re going to have mindless “good response/bad response” then at least have our NPCs react to them differently. If I live in a world and someone offers to go find me the loveliest mammoth tusk in the steppes, why am I going to turn around and pay them as much gold as it would cost to get the damn thing from the shop two feet from where I spend my hour lunch? No, if my adventurers are stupid enough to not negotiate a reward, then NPCs should undervalue their service. You want to be appropriately reimbursed for your work then you’re not a hero: you’re a mercenary. And if you’re going to sweet talk every girl that walks by, you’re not a charmer: you’re a womanizing creep.

It’s high time that the game started treating us as the monsters we are. Maybe then developers will be forced to make their actual monsters terrifying in order to compete.

Building Character

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Well, I’ve been on such a roll with generic writing advice, it’s time for another post about it! Yes, this also means I don’t have anything else to talk about! How astute!

Derek has been experiencing the joys of labour unions and during his civil duties he’s bemoaned of how tiring and exhausting he finds them. I don’t really have anywhere to go from this statement other than I wanted to record for posterity the minute struggles with plague my reticent co-contributor. Now the Internet shall forever know your day to day struggles. Also, you’re getting destroyed by Adam in Terra Mystica. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed.

Of course, in my desperate attempt to perform the perfunctory requirements of social empathy, I encouraged Derek that his struggles build character. And, in literature, no truer statement can be made. I know this is pretty beginner advice but it’s remarkable how often this tiny detail crops up during the creation or editing phase of writing. We readers are malicious sorts. We expect, nay, demand stress and ill-will towards our most cherished characters. Imagine how dreadful The Lord of the Rings would have been if Frodo had decided to stay home and simply attend his garden with nary a trouble to shadow his door outside of a tobacco addled old man too easily shooed from the porch. I mean, Samwise waxes for five pages over rabbit stew, I really don’t think the audience would have the attention to outlast five hundred pages of rusty hoes and spreading manure.

No, it’s the mental and physical anguish which makes the story. It’s the building jealousy and paranoia towards his best friend–fueled by the dire whispers of the demented Smeagol–that keep us glued to the pages and turning each one. Conflict drives narrative. This is perhaps as basic a tenant one could get for writing. But not all conflict is created equal. An unruly garden certainly produces conflict. I’ve seen my sister attempt her green thumb during the summer. There’s lots of reticence to be overcome through dry weather, scavenging pests and determined plants who refuse to sprout in their optimal time. And yet, I’d wager that audiences would be grabbing for the story about a midget driven mad by a gold ring every time.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/d/duyster/cardplay.html

Card-Playing Soldiers by Willem Cornelisz Duyster (1625-1630).

I’ve spoken at length about how self-insertion into one’s own work can be ruinous and I think part of the problem stems from the selfish desire to portray oneself in as positive a light as possible. In this way, the Mary Sue character takes on ubermensch-esque proportions where everything about them is perfect and their only struggle is against a world which does not appreciate or actively undermines through immeasurable jealousy the simple hopes and aspirations of this perfected self. The problem is that literature is not a job interview and there is no prize for portraying yourself in as perfect a light as possible. In fact, it mostly drives people away with how ludicrous the narrative becomes.

And it’s because the trials the Mary Sue faces are so… impersonal. I don’t mean to say that their rivals are unknown to the character but that there’s so little actually involved of the protagonist in these tales. Truly, the best conflict strikes deep at our main character and plays upon the most buried and repressed aspects of our protagonist. It’s when conflict aligns to the core flaws of our heroes that stories carry the greatest weight. Literature studies are drowning in such examples. Hamlet isn’t about the usurping Claudius as it is about the ineffectual and maddeningly indecisive titular character. Albeit, this shift from pure plot to character is no doubt a product of a modern shift to the unconscious drives and aspects of our psyche (sorry, I’ll try to keep psychology out of these discussions as best I can).

Recently, I’ve been reading the Lies of Locke Lamora which I’ve been reluctant to comment on until I’ve finished. However, the one aspect that really stands out to me for the novel is how rather unmotivating the whole affair really is for the main character. The book follows the roguish Locke who is a master thief in a city of thieves. The tale mostly revolves around his major caper of conning a wealthy nobleman of his money over some fabricated brewery dispute. Things then happen. It’s been taking me forever to finish the book because I’m simply disinterested in the tale. I can’t get into it because Locke himself is so not into it. I’m halfway through the story and Locke’s coterie of rogues keep asking him why he doesn’t bother running from the trouble and, truly, the reasons Locke produces for remaining involved are as unconvincing to me as they are to the character himself. Locke is, essentially, flawless and the story has no pulls into his flaws. He isn’t driven by a self destructing avarice or pride that forces him to remain in continually disadvantageous positions out of a desperate need to satiate his ego’s needs. Instead, he lingers in the building conflict of the city… because… well, he simply has nothing better to do. It’s much like the whole reason he keeps at his crimes–it’s not for a want of money as the author went to great pains to detail how stupidly wealthy the character is. He’s there because if he weren’t, there would be no story. It’s as simple as that.

I’m bored because Locke’s bored. There’s an earnestness to the tale which strives so hard to intrigue through political maneuvers and wondrous site-seeing but it fails on the core aspect of tales: character. And character is, perhaps, the universal constant in the stories which hold our interests. Its what keeps workers at the water cooler, gossiping about their colleagues weekends. And if you keep an ear to people’s gossip, no one ever focuses in on the perfect, unassailable qualities of an individual. No, it’s those dirty, dark actions, attitudes or behaviours which keep us engaged. We want to see failure since it’s the only way that success is ever rewarding. In a sense, the only difference between comedy and tragedy is that when the protagonist falls on his sword in a comedy, he rolls over to simply reveal it for an embarrassing flesh wound.

Surviving the Spotlight

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Years ago, I wrote a brief piece on the cliché Mary Sue character that is epidemic in amateur writing and first stories. I touched briefly on my own perspective and philosophy concerning the Mary Sue and how I, ultimately, see it as a destructive component of an author’s work that detracts from all the constituent components in order to singularly highlight one, self-serving aspect. The Mary Sue was a problem because the Mary Sue made flat all her co-cast in order for her to shine.

Well, the other night, Derek–possessed by equal parts fever induced madness and frivolous need for a short respite from work–went poking around the recesses of the Internet in search of an old online game that both of us had once been participants. This was a play by email, homebrewed role-playing game that involved sending the owner and creator set moves for our characters to perform and then waiting the prerequisite time for those moves to complete before engaging in another activity. Hell, had the game master been savvy enough, he could have introduced a way to purchase “training boosts” and single handedly given rise to the free-to-play format that’s grabbed the modern video game industry in a choke hold. But that’s beside the point.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/arcimbol/4composi/7cook1.html

The Cook by Guiseppe Arcimboldo (1570).

The most interesting part of this game was a small contribution from the game master wherein he ran global events wherein anyone could participate and gain rewards while interacting with the other characters. Since this game was conducted in high school, favouritism and fanboyism were rampant in equal measure. However, the unexpected introduction of the game master’s shitty involvement was that it inevitably lead to the players splitting, interacting and forming their own factions within the game. In truth, the game master could have simply served as a neutral arbitrator and never once introduced a stupid narrative to the game and us players would have woven our own story complete with betrayal, heroism, mustache twirling villains and underdogs fighting against all odds. Some of the more… literally inclined also took to the forms to write far more words to explain “Learns Tri-Form” truly required.

Of course, I was one of those nerds but–thankfully–I was not alone. I remember a budding rivalry between myself and Dan as he squared off his fledgling army of soldiers in a Band of Brothers-esque tale of camaraderie as he took on the megalithic global corporation that was my character’s domain which had its sights on eliminating the super soldier threat from the face of the earth so that its super weapons would skyrocket in value and demand. Obviously, to demonstrate the power of my weapons I first had to go and murder a few upstart super soldiers which brought me into direct conflict with Derek and Rob’s characters who were trying to do… well, we never found out because I put them ten feet in the ground and had to listen to a week of Rob’s complaints about my traitorous ways. Course, if he’d just read my character introduction, he would have known better than to try and train in a remote monastery near my headquarters but, alas, literacy was not high on his priorities.

Okay, so where am I going with this? Well, Derek (for whatever impenetrable reason) wanted to see if there was an archive of our teenage foibles. What he found, instead, was a treasure trove of a very different sort.

As it turns out, the game lived on its creator’s mind as well who took it upon himself to start turning his game world into a series of novels of which I will leave Derek to reveal should he ever decide he wants to post on this site again. There was a tantalizing preview and suffice to say, Derek was eager to get a hold of a copy for himself. Alas, if only he showed this much enthusiasm for my writing.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/b/beaux/birds.html

Charles Sumner Bird and His Sister Edith Bird Bass by Cecilia Beaux (1907).

So what does this have to do with character creation? Well, the preview with which I was entreated had a rather entertaining meeting between the protagonist and… someone who seems important but was impossible to parse their exact role in the narrative from the short section. This section, once again, reminded me of the Mary Sue problem. The author seemed to struggle with the vexing problem of conveying threat and weight of this meeting with some supposedly intimidating character while also demonstrating just how awesome his main character was at the same time. Thus, we lengthy description of how the protagonist was both flippant and anxious, struck dumb by the sheer presence of his contemporary and immediately dismissing him and his work as irrelevant. It was a baffling series of contradictions that failed to either establish one character’s legitimate threat to the world or the character whilst simultaneously failing to make the protagonist any more likable, sympathetic or engaging in any manner.

Given the circumstances, I am loathe to denounce the story as being a true Mary Sue–I have not read it and to outright condemn it on such a short preview would be unjust. However, it did make me pause and consider my own work as these circumstances always do. Once again, I feel as though I don’t stumble into that very common pitfall but I did recall my sister’s concerns that she was ill-equipped to avoid such widespread mistakes in her own writing. So, what method do I employ to ensure that my characters are not flat and self-serving?

Truly, I feel my interest and experience in both theatre and psychology were some of the best preparatory measures I could take. Theatre you learn to remove yourself from your stage persona. I was taught techniques to search within my own experiences for some common ground which I shared with the character I was portraying and, from there, extrapolate new mannerisms, thoughts and reactions. Psychology further boosted this method as I was educated on the way people think and the various differences in cognitive biases and perceptions which shape the different reactions people will have to the same stimuli. Ultimately, I developed an interest in how people think and this interest naturally leads to characters that are less enslaved by the narrative requirements of the story and are capable of exerting more engaging, developed and well-rounded behaviours.

In short, all the characters I write are characters which are intrinsically interesting to me as an author. I never put a character in to solely serve a narrative purpose–whether that would be to make my character look more courageous, more clever or more fit than his compatriots. In fact, I tend to focus on ensemble pieces which lets me explore many different personalities. Lots of my conflict arises not from story needed elements but by the clash of strong personalities with goals at odds to their fellows. I never have that one character who I obviously adore above all others and lavish more attention and heroism upon. All the creations in my stories are my children and I do my damnedest to not play favourites.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/aachen/j_couple.html

Joking Couple by Hans van Aachen (1552-1615).

Which isn’t to say that I don’t like some characters more than others. To say otherwise would be a lie. In my first novel–of the main cast–I was most fond of the wealthy but infinitely bored Theodosius and Isabella. Theo’s antics were always more enjoyable to write than the plodding and melancholic self-turmoil of Jarret. And the selfishness of Theo and Isabella was perhaps the greatest when the two were together–each seeing in the other a worthy competitor for their own whimsical obsessions but both woefully blind to how irrelevant their petty desires truly were. And, by the end, Theodosius faded into the background as he slowly began to realize that the story wasn’t truly about him. There was an almost humbling moment when at last he confronted just how unnecessary he was to the troubles surrounding him right before he bowed off the stage.

But how was I capable of avoiding making Theo the star of the story and everyone else a shade there to colour the background of his adventures? I think one of the best tools a beginning author can do is force themselves to write sections or chapters from their other characters. I did this a lot with my early work and most of this writing was either irrelevant to the story or ultimately cut altogether. However, I always enjoyed these exercises. It brought the characters to life in my mind so that, even when I wasn’t writing from a pseudo-omniscient perspective right outside their head, I knew how they’d react when the principle characters interacted with them. When you read interviews with authors, many will often comment on how they get surprised by the actions of their characters–seemingly behaving in ways they had not anticipated and taking the story in new avenues it was never meant to explore. I think this is only possible when you make your characters truly alive and able to free themselves from the puppet strings you–as the author–invariably hold over them. When you stop picturing scenes as “this is the moment the villain is going to threaten my hero and raise the stakes” and start thinking “Padma isn’t going to tell Ed anything and only entertains this interview because she’s required by law and she’s going to make certain that the erstwhile detective knows that” then you’ll start having curious conversations about classic patriotic paintings instead of dead bodies. Conversations become duels instead of set pieces with your participants giving and taking in ways neither you and, consequently, your readers will ever anticipate.

And when you give time for all your characters to shine then your work feels so much more alive. More than anything, I think that’s what theatre taught me. No production is truly a singular work and it’s important to let every actor have his time to shine in the limelight.

So, if you’re a starting writer and are worried that your main character is too “you” and that the rest of your world is flat then do this. Open a new document, take your latest character introduced and write the scene you just wrote from their perspective. Why did they say those things to your character? What are they thinking about? What do they think of this character in front of them? Are they engaged with this moment? Do they have other characters in their life that are more pressing to them? Do a quick short where they are the star and the world revolves around them. Figure out what makes them tick. Figure out what motivates them. Figure out if, maybe, they they don’t truly think what you thought they did about your main character.

Then go back and see if maybe, just maybe, they would say things differently now that they have a new perspective on your character.

All the King’s Horses

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Let’s discuss Samuel L Jackson.

I’m a big fan of his work. He’s entertaining, affable and features in movies that are generally interesting if not wholly within genres which I adore. And, really, all it takes is for one to watch Snakes on a Plane to just realize how amazing he is. However, he’s highly prolific with a resume which includes such diversity as Patriot Games, Pulp Fiction, The Star Wars Prequels, Unbreakable, Die Hard with a Vengeance, Captain America: Winter Soldier, Jurassic Park and Jackie Brown.

I mean, that’s an impressive list of a handful from the 100 films in which he’s credited. And, of course, do people even remember that he was also in Jumper or Inglorious Basterds? And yet, despite his proclivity, you never really hear him considered one of the greatest actors. Has he even achieved an Academy Award? I can’t think of him being nominated but perhaps he got some recognition for Pulp Fiction? That movie got a lot of recognition, I think. But while he’s not considered a truly talented actor, he’s neither considered terrible either. He’s no Nicky Cage (and really, who is?). So what happened? How does this man–who delivers pretty solid performances near in and out whenever he’s cast and is clearly held in high regard both by fans and producers given how much work he gets–get so little accolades?

Who knew Colin Firth would make such a charming action hero?

Well, looking over the large number of roles he does, Samuel L Jackson appears to have a tendency for being typecasted. I know I had this conversation with Derek after watching a movie–I can’t remember which but choose one of his many 100 appearances–where we felt that Samuel L Jackson was just not utilized as best he could. Looking at the Star Wars prequels and you can see perhaps his blandest performance (which isn’t a knock against the guy, no one comes out looking good from the Prequels). I remember Derek commenting that Samuel L Jackson just isn’t achieving his greatest potential if he isn’t being angry and swearing. And there really isn’t any reason for you to watch Snakes on a Plane than that reason alone.

Kingsman: The Secret Service belongs to Dave Gibbons and Mark Millar while the movie is credited to Matthew Vaughn, Marv Films and 20th Century Fox.

So where is this ramble leading? Well, I recently watched Kingsman: The Secret Service.

If you haven’t seen the advertisements, then you would not be aware that Jackson is casted as the titular villain Richmond Valentine. And here we see a side of Samuel L Jackson that has never been known: a haemophobic, eccentric, lispy cellular phone billionaire with a strong gag reflex whenever faced with excessive violence. It’s so not Samuel L Jackson and perhaps that’s what makes it so damn fun when you’re watching it. It’s hard not to like the stupidity of his character, especially during perhaps the best use of product placement in the last couple of years when villainous Valentine welcomes undercover Colin Firth to his opulent mansion in order to wheel out a smörgåsbord of McDonald’s happy meals resplendent in their fine silver accoutrements. His character is flippant and irrelevant which, perhaps, is the best way to describe the film over all.

Kingsman is fun but it is not without its flaws. What you may think is a spoof on the spy genre flirts too much with taking itself too seriously to be simple parody. It also dwells far too long on the personal development of young Eggsy Unwin as he’s recruited to the fantastically silly tailors turned independent spy agency. As much as young Taron Egerton tries to sell the part, no one is watching the film for him or his clichéd character arc. We are warming seats with our bums to see Colin Firth, Samuel L Jackson and Michael Caine chew the scenery as they play atypical roles that we’re used to the old timers adopt like a comfy pair of clothes. The fun of Kingsman is in the tongue-in-cheek use of these highly acclaimed performers living up the ludicrousness of the comic book world and clearly having a party while doing it.

And it’s this tonal inconsistency that really pulls people from it. There’s one word of warning I have for the film and that it is excessively violent. Part of the interest in the film is its Guy Ritchie-esque fight scenes that, while filmed in an interesting manner, are incredibly violent. Unfortunately, this hyper-violence isn’t used to any powerful end. It’s much like it’s headlining actors and there for simple amusement and nothing else. Which isn’t to say that movies can’t be stupid fun but then why detract from that with the overdrawn training plot for Egerton?

Ultimately, I think the greatest issues of the movie derive from its comic book origins. I haven’t read the comic but there’s no argument that the medium struggles with its high fantasy elements trying desperately to be grounded in a bizarre pseudo-reality that always comes across as disingenuous and jarring when adopted to anything that isn’t inked and coloured panels. We also have fairly flimsy characters espousing silly nonsense about knights of the round table all the while discussing the merits of free cellphone coverage that invariably leads to mustachio-twirling attempts to take over the world. You can’t take the story seriously, ever, even when its try its darnedest for you to feel concern over bug-eyed pugs.

And who knew that this image would be so common when looking up the film?

Furthermore, instead of ending the show on a happy note, I couldn’t help but worry that this was just the beginning in yet the unrelenting deluge of vapid comic book culture which has gripped our society. Kingsman is best as a one off–a sugary side dish that was silly and fun but not something you pull out every Friday when you’re desperate for a meal. However, it is almost a looming inevitability that there will be a sequel and, given the development of the movie’s plot, I can see no reason why I would want a Kingsman II or III. There’s very little direction I can see it going and all its best parts will be absent. For all the enjoyment I had for it, the movie is still shallow and fleeting. It’s a good pun which you grin at when your friend first makes it but as you do so you just know it’s going to be driven into the ground as your friend repeats it constantly for the next few weeks until he gets distracted by some other new meme.

Worst Writing Suggestion Ever

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It’s rant day! How excited are you? I can only assume “very.”

Today, I’m going to weigh in on something in which I actually have some qualifications and expertise. While normally I’m just shooting off my opinion, as half or full-baked as it may be, this time I’m going to address a common writing saying. Everyone’s heard it, even if no one really knows who first coined it. It’s the sort of writing advice which would paralyze beginners and be brought up to defend questionable output or design instead of offering any help in furthering or improving its craft.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/s/serov/index.html

Portrait of Princess Yusupova by Valentin Serov (1902).

I am, of course, talking about “Write what you know.”

It seems so simple and innocuous on the surface. Clearly, if you write what you know then you’ll produce detailed and accurate events and characters. We’ve all experienced writing on a topic clearly well beyond the author’s grasp. Anyone with any background in the sciences needs to have a very good sense of humour whenever a movie or television show covers something remotely scientific. Computers fare no better and Hollywood’s vision of hacking is as quaint as it is inaccurate. Thus, if ignorant writing produces inauthentic material, clearly knowledgeable writing produces the opposite.

And this line of thinking is a trap. Writing isn’t some vaguely masked autobiographical account. Writers are not constrained by their own backgrounds and upbringings. Would this be the case, the entire literary field would be near obliterated. Speculative fiction would not exist. Even more offensive is when this adage is trotted out to defend discriminatory products. I’ve probably seen this tired saying more often in discourses questioning the lack of diversity in a piece of fiction than in any other circumstance. The argument, as it goes, is generally raised as a way to silence critics. “Clearly the author must have a male protagonist because he is a male himself. He doesn’t know what it is like to be a woman. If we want more female protagonists then we need more female writers.” This line, of course, extends to just about any minority or individual who would raise questions against the status quo.

I think it’s most telling that you hardly ever see writers themselves say this. And understandably so–if I were to hear an author echo this sentiment then I would consider it a self-confession of their own inability to perform the basic requirements of their craft and to out themselves as the sub-par and talentless hack that they must surely be. It’s an illogical and downright offensive kind of argument. It belittles the efforts of people in the field and, truly, insults the intelligence of its readership. Only a moments consideration reveals this nonsense for the extreme absurdity that it is. I mean, can we truly imagine a world where artists were constrained in such a binding manner. All works would be mono-gendered. One couldn’t write about a parent without actually having a child themselves. Every character would be employed in the same business and pretty much every book would be covering the anguishes of the writer and the turmoils of writer’s block. Clearly, I will never know what it is like to be a mother so I must surely be unable to write a mother at all in my stories. I’ve never had a twin, so that option is off the docket. And you can forget about having any character who doesn’t have a father that’s an alcoholic.

Two Boys by Valentin Serov (1899).

Clearly, this isn’t the intention of the defence but no matter how hard you try to scale it back it never, ever makes a lick of sense. Why should I not be allowed to write about Judaism or have a character who’s a Tibetan in my story because I’ve not been one? The stalwart defenders of this position would have you believe that the core experience of people from other backgrounds is wholly intrinsic to those experiences. It is, in essence, that being Asian is the entirety of one’s being and something impossible and inscrutable to those who are not one. Surely, a white person can not know all the struggles and minutia of the difficulties of a black person in growing up under a system of institutionalized racism and thus it is a topic which they can never weigh in on. It’s the worst possible argument because it almost sounds like it’s reasonable despite being completely idiotic. The argument supports the insidious idea that there is a “standard” or “normal” experience and that all minorities are exempt from it and majorities are likewise locked into it. Being white isn’t particularly fundamental to the vast majority of western characters since that is just the natural way of life. It’s once you change the colour of their skin or what-have-you that now suddenly they are some mythical “other” whose voice can only, truly, be captured by one who has walked this unique path.

Yes, I’ve mostly seen the “write what you” cliché when it crops up in minority discussions. And, just as I prefaced this rant, it’s ludicrous when you take a moment to consider it in its entirety. We’re not looking for stories solely filled with carbon copy men who have all had the exact same upbringing. If my experiences as a son can allow me to infer what it was like for my mother to raise me and draw that as inspiration for a character, then surely I can apply my experiences as a white person and infer the differences and challenges which someone of a different skin colour would experience. Ultimately, this is the work of an author. In fact, self-insertion is considered probably the worst form of writing that one can do. The Mary-Sue is a derided concept for a reason. And the fact I must write a rant upon this subject is almost depressing. There’s as long a history as it is proud of authors writing well beyond what they could possibly know. There’s George Eliot’s Silas Marner, Murasaki Shikibu’s The Tale of Genji, Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales… I mean I could go on and on and it’s patently ridiculous to think that anyone would consider stories from a perspective not your own as unachievable.

Let’s face it, it’s an excuse and nothing more. It’s held up as some sort of codified artistic creed to forgive the fact that there is a lot of lazy writing floating throughout time. If an author truly felt that they could not cover an experience beyond their own because they so feared creating an offensive stereotype, then how are we to be assured that what they are writing now isn’t riddled with clichéd stereotypes?

Portrait of Princes Orlova by Valentin Serov (1911).

The true adage which a writer should hold is not “Write what you know” but “Know what you write.”

If you’re going to create a character that steps outside your own experience, you don’t throw up your hands and claim it’s an impossibility. You do that far worse word–research. If I want to explore the hardships of a minority living a life of oppression, I should investigate what that life would be like. I should read up about institutionalized discrimination. I should interview or find interviews with said people. We live in the Information Age–for crying out loud–getting a deeper understanding of experiences beyond our own has never been easier.

But more than that, an author should be aware of what their work is communicating. I know everyone’s probably tired of me ragging on Name of the Wind but like I said in my original piece, I don’t believe that Rothfuss is a misogynist. He simply fell into the trap of not being aware exactly the context of his words. I believe he didn’t include a well developed female character–not because he doesn’t believe that women can’t be equal or powerful–but simply because he didn’t think of it at all. He probably also failed to recognize that every single one of his female characters served singularly sexual needs for other male characters. He likely got trapped in his own perspective and wrote a little too much about what he knows.

So, when going over your words and considering the characters and situations you’ve created, it’s imperative that as a responsible writer you come at it with just as critical an eye as critic. You’re not being judged solely on your apparent knowledge of magic, science, social organization or espionage but on the prevalent themes and motifs you cover as well as how your work fits into the paradigm of your times. If you don’t know what you’re truly writing, then you are the writer that needs to hone your craft. And the first step is probably to start learning some of that stuff that you don’t know.

The Glorious Belt Bridge

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Well, I’m afraid there’s not much new to report to you, kind reader. We’ve all been busy and, well, I’m running desperately out of things to post. So, instead, I’ll just throw up one of the little things I’m working on. This isn’t one of the short stories, by the by, but a sneak peek at the big novel! Well… one of the big novels. Well… it’s a novel at the very least.

* * *

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/e/ender/thomas/ender03.html

The Pieniny Mountains with the Dunajec River by Thomas Ender (1860).

His hair was driven by the wind’s slaving hand, lashing his face with wide, blonde strands. That heavenly howl tore amongst a canyon so ripped into the red rock as to tear a great gash across the flesh of the earth. Scarlet soil spilt forth. It was the blood of the land and despite its age it continued to seep down its banks, drowning the scrub and sickle trees clutching to bare stones hanging over precipitous nothingness. The savages said it was cleaved in the formation of the world and forever would it bleed so long as man raised hand against his own.

Hopkins smiled at the thought.

If there was one constant amongst the savages, it was their damnable love for blood. It was an admirable quality in a peoples lacking just about everything else.

Beneath his legs, his steed gave a warning cry—slowing its pace as it drew up the dusty trail. Its nostrils flared with some foreign scent. He reigned her in, slowing to a gentle canter as eyes darted amongst the craggy stones. His hand fled to the pistol at his side while another raised to slow the entourage behind him. This would not be the first ambush from which he would walk away.

But no rifles cracked nor burnt powder stung the air as he rounded the crest. Hopkins continued, his eyes falling upon the great bridge spanning the chasm.

There she stood.

She was as still as the great canyon’s sides, unflinching and eternal. Her long coat caught about her, snapping like the jaws of a hungry dog. The great brim of her hat fluttered as though it were the wings of a bird seeking freedom in the crystal blue sky above. Her fingers held true to the cold steel of the trigger and polished wood of the longrifle’s simple stock. The hammer lay cocked and the trigger primed. A single long braid gathered behind her, catching in the wind like an old battle standard raised with weary arms for one last stand.

Was this all the impeded the tail end of his escape? Hopkins had been told the job would be easy. True to form, the cache offered little resistance and what few guards stood were easily overcome. And now, nary but a girl pretending at being some hard cut frontiersman was all that remained between him and precious freedom on the canyon’s opposite end.

Hopkins spent one quick glance at the men following. He knew none of them but there were grins or raised brows all-around at the sight of the lone girl. Hopkins raised his pistol, giving a great shout as he kicked his steed into a full charge. The others followed.

Still she stood like a feature of that expansive landmark with nothing but the wilds gathering about her. She sought no shelter from the worn ropes and weathered wood slowly giving over to burnished steel. Temporary towers stood unmanned, their simple cranes and suspenders groaned in the tossing breath of the canyon. The Glorious Belt Bridge was undergoing a remarkable transformation. For a bridge that had been near forgotten to the long decades since its construction, it was now half-cast in fresh iron with lines of new posts and beams running its sides like great sleeping worms. Someone had expensive interest in expanding it.

It was set to turn into the greatest of modern monuments. Unfortunately, it would not live to see its glory. Hopkins could hear the waggon rattling behind as it tried to keep up with the brigands. Beneath its roped cover banged and battered broad barrels filled to the brim with gunpowder. His orders were simple—see that this crossing would never be taken again.

There were no workers here today. It was the only arrangement from his boss that didn’t sit well with Hopkins. He relished the excitement of a good gunfight especially when it would be so easy to “lose” some of his men in the crossfire. Hopkins knew the fewer at the end of a job meant a greater payout for the survivors. And there were no better chaos for cutting unnecessary weight than a terminal bullet exchange.

Still she stood before their thunderous approach as though she were little more than one of them steel beams ready to stretch the gaping valley.

Hopkins’ cry came up louder than the hooves. Horses shook their heads as riders pulled hard upon their reigns. The group came to a stumbling halt as Hopkins grinned at the unshakeable darling who nary twitched despite half a dozen armed outlaws falling upon her.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Hopkins called.

The terrific mare of bright chestnut fur and proud dark eyes stepped forward and shook its head menacingly.

She fingered the trigger of her rifle. “Dirty Hopkins.”

The broad-shouldered ruffian twitched scraggly whiskers at the invocation. He poked the tip of his muddied Boss of the Plains perched upon an untamed mane of coal black. A single thread of faded yellow wound about it but whatever noble prospects it once bespoke were tarnished by the dark blood stains which it slapped. His arms—draped in buckskin—crossed and the tens of dangling trimmed fringe fibres waved like little cloth fingers in the breeze.

“Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Ain’t had the pleasure till now.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/b/bril/mountain.html

Mountain Scene by Paul Bril (1599).

He surveyed the bridge for foul intentions. But there wasn’t anything but the woman and a construction site in half repair. He led his horse to the side, looking over the edge.

Far beneath cut a trickling blue stream like a child’s forgotten ribbon at the bottom of the canyon. The great stone walls rose up on either flank. In both directions drew the exposed red and pink wound. Only the most distant of peaks were tinged white as they crawled towards the sky. And nothing else crossed its expanse save for this great metal and wood monstrosity. If there were others, they would be faint motes amongst the rocky shadows. Had they clung to the underside of the bridge, there was no expeditious way for them to scramble up its side.

Hopkins raised a hand to his hat, pressing the brim further up his face. He had seen misplaced courage before—even from the fairer sex when they felt pressed against the walls of their frontier farms.

“And what brings a fine specimen such as yourself so far into the wastes? Ain’t a proper place for a little thing like you. Ruffians about, I hear.”

“Surely, I hope.” The rifle faced the rider.

Hopkins smiled, turning back to his gang. A few had followed in drawing their weapons but the rest stood around until he barked his command. Immediately, four outlaws dismounted, pulled the canvas across the vehicle’s back and fetched large barrels from its end.

“You got gumption; I give you that.”

He leaned back in his saddle, wholly unperturbed by the weapon pointing dangerously at his chest. When she didn’t respond, he gave her a questioning nod of his head.

“You got a name to that face?”

“Ain’t one that matters. But if it’s required, you may address me as Felicity.”

And that appellation made him lean forward upon his seat.

“I’ve heard of you.” Lips curled back to reveal a row of rotted teeth. “One of them hunters and runners scratching a living on them ships between Empires.”

He turned in his saddle looking up and down the bridge.

“But I ain’t see no ship.”

“There’s two ways we play this. You come willing or you come roughly. Either way’s ending the same.”

“And where we be heading, my dear?”

“You gone and made some folk irate. Falls on me to bring you back to them.”

“Aiming for a bounty?” Hopkins smiled. “Well ain’t that a thing. And you going to do it all your lonesome?”

He regarded the cowled men as they dragged their payload towards the bridge’s supports. Felicity finally acknowledged them, her eyes lingering momentarily on the pistols by their sides.

“Only got business with you. They’re free so long they ain’t do nothing unlawful.”

And Hopkins laughed. He swung one leg over his saddle, dropping from his horse and taking a few testing steps towards her. His snakeskin boots thumped against the wood as he drew closer and closer without a single discharge loosing from the rifle’s barrel. He was aware of a few of his entourage cocking hammers and covering the side angles. Hopkins rested a callused hand on the rifle’s top, pressing the weapon’s lips earthward.

“I ain’t tell if you’re bold or just full of aethers,” he said. “I reckon you can turn your cute little hat around and walk away from this and I ain’t have to bloody your pretty little face.”

He could smell her at this distance. This was no perfumed lady or pioneering immigrant. She smelled of sweat and grease. There were smudges of gunpowder residue staining her cheeks. Though her olive skin was radiant it was scratched and marked, edges of scars creeping from her collar and cuffs. And her eyes were hard as she raised them to meet his. There was not a trace of youthful brashness within their dark pits. They were cold and they were empty.

Hopkins hadn’t removed his hand from her rifle and he gave a quick tug, trying to yank it from her hands. But her grip held and she pulled back, the barrel slipping through his fingers. Before she could raise it, however, Hopkins struck. The back of his hand connected her cheek fiercely, forcing her for the first time from her stance as she stumbled a few steps.

She looked up, raising the rifle but gun fire kept her from pulling the trigger. The outlaw gave a wide grin as he nodded in appreciation for his hired men not killing her on the spot.

“It’s a wonder folk like you still manage to scrape a living. There can only be so much coin running unregistered shipments off the schedules. You want my advice? You got to look elsewhere for a scratch.”

He jabbed the tip of his pistol hard into her chest, causing her to wince as he grasped her shoulder.

“Now I ain’t going to ask you again. You better drop that little smokemaker of yours.”

There was the briefest of hesitations. Enough pause to make her rebelliousness known. But the weapon dropped from her fingers nevertheless.

In one quick motion, Hopkins boot crashed against the weapon and it skittered across the boards, tumbling over the edge of the bridge into the great beyond.

Felicity cried out, making a useless grab. As she shifted her weight, Hopkins struck her hard against the back, sprawling her across the bridge as her hat tumbled loose. She coughed and groaned as he hunched over her.

“You see, life out on the frontier ain’t a simple thing. Some men got to do what they got to do. You take some jobs other folk ain’t. You get a name that some ain’t like. But I tell you, you live. And that’s all that matters.”

He grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet with a yelp.

“And sometimes you get some blood on your hands. But this land ain’t for the weak. Take a look on them hills. They’ve been bathed in the stuff. Always been since them savages learned two stones smashed against each other could create an edge that could paint red. You either fight and live or you get put into the ground to pay the earth her due.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/c/caillebo/03pont.html

On the Pont de l’Europe by Gustave Caillebotte (1876-1877).

He pulled her to the edge of the bridge, forcing her towards its razor side. Her arms flailed, fingertips clutching for the ribbed steel on either side. He held her tight by her knot, her head pulled uncomfortably back. Her eyes could only see the tops of the canyon, its dark line winding out as far as the eye could grasped.

“You can hear the groans of all them stiffs stuffed into the earth. First was them savages with their constant fighting and hollering. Then them kuli’s in those junks they sailed across the waters with their long nails and shaved tails like rats fleeing a sunk ship. Got them cities digging right into the coast all the way up to the mountains and been sitting there like they’ve been under siege for generations.

“This land is a harsh one.”

He pulled her back, throwing her roughly to the bridge’s planks. He stood over her, like a rancher looking over a lame calf. He half-smiled, watching her fingers tighten around the boards. But she did not move as he crouched.

She coughed and he turned his head, losing her words in the distant cry of an eagle.

“Hunter’s on the wing,” he smiled, reaching down and grasping her chin. He turned her face to look at him, noting with amusement the fierce glare she shot. “So what were them pretty last words you wanted?”

“Should have taken the willing way.”

He raised a hand to strike her impertinence but thunder cracked against the canyon walls. Hopkins turned to the sky, searching for the phantom storm but a clatter off his shoulder pulled his attention. One of the barrels landed heavily upon its side, rolling along the wood and bouncing against the discarded tools. Hopkins spun to his feet, taking a step towards the wayward vessel while hollering at its clumsy carrier.

Just as unexpectedly as the barrel’s descent, the ruffian fell to the ground. Unlike his parcel, he didn’t move as a crimson pool began to stain the back of his shirt.

His half strangled criticism was drowned in a second sharp clap.

“Sharp shooter!”

Talisman

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Talisman. Talisman. Talisman.

Talisman.

Talisman: The Magical Quest Game belongs to Games Workshop and Fantasy Flight Games. Images are not mine and are theirs and whatnot.

So, apparently I’m a repository for people’s unwanted goods. Recently, this included a digital copy of the 1983 cult classic board game, Talisman. What, you’ve never heard of Talisman? How can you call yourself a child of the eighties–the yuppie years!–and not know what the cultural cornerstone is? For shame, I tell you. For shame!

Alright, I had no idea what the damn thing was before Derek discovered he had an extra copy in his inventory and threw it at me. The game languished in our backlogs until we discovered we were depressingly short on multiplayer games to spend our meager breaks in idle distraction. Of course, Derek has the deluxe version with all the bells and whistles and pay to win mechanics while I have the poor man’s “stop whining and give us more money” version. Both of us were surprised to discover the game is old, and we drew this realization long before looking for its history on the Internet.

The lovable minstrel with that charming animal can beguile animals and get them to assist him… if the dice cooperate.

When you download Talisman, my first reaction is how quickly it is done. The game is small–in the data sense. Loading it up explains everything. This is very literally a digital board game. There are no fancy graphics or moving pieces or anything. We’ve got just the necessities and stripped it of everything that could distract you from the fact that, yes, you are playing a digital board game. This, of course, extends to functional multiplayer support and online options. So, I’ll give the bad upfront: You can not save the game. You can not reconnect to the game. You can not voice chat in the game. And, if you’re playing with Derek, you can’t even swear in the game because he keeps the damn chat filter on.

It’s… not pretty and for more reasons than you’re looking at hilariously bad 80s art of medieval fantasy tropes. There isn’t even a tutorial for us poor souls who have never heard of this monstrosity. In a way, this probably turned out to be a good thing as it made our first attempts at playing Talisman hilarious–if not necessarily for the reasons the designers intended.

But first, an explanation of what the game is. Do note that what I’m telling you now is far more information than either of us received when we loaded our pieces onto the board. Talisman is a four person game where players choose between a varied number of fantasy “classes” reminiscent of Dungeons and Dragons and spend the game roaming around a three tiered board going on wild adventures looking for epic loot and stat improvements so that they may brave the dangers and guardians of the coveted Crown of Command. Once a player has crossed the Plains of Peril (you can’t make these names up), they then seize control of the crown by unlocking its chamber using a titular talisman–a MacGuffin generally obtained by fulfilling a request of some mysterious Warlock which usually requires some paltry action like slaying a monster or being a generic jerk. Once possession of the crown has been made, the commanding player then casts a spell to order his fellows to… from what I can tell attempt suicide repeatedly until the dolts succeed. Lots of dice are cast in this misadventure and good luck trying to come up with any sort of sane strategy which doesn’t involve “roll the dice and pray for the best.”

This is probably where the inspiration for Mario Party arose.

Alright, the game isn’t that random but it is pretty random. All challenges are resolved through usually a single d6 roll. Your adventures and rewards are typically determined by drawing a card from a deck with very little ability to affect the draw. That said, obtaining the required stats for braving the plains of peril, I don’t think, are nearly as onerous as our misguided four hour slog of our first game suggests. Beating monster challenges awards trophies which can be turned in for stat increases in a similar vein to Elder Signs. There are also shops around the map which you can purchase set items that always perform the same function and weapons are included in these purchases meaning you have two routes to reliably improve yourself. There is also the bold face robbery which, judging by the frequency the AI engages in such behaviour, is standard fare for a game of Talisman. Should you, by chance, get a hold of one of the necessary talismans early, expect pious monks to come around and beat you senseless for it. If anyone starts to drag behind the rest, they become the schoolyard victim, constantly ambushed and robbed of their lunch money whenever a bully catches them.

That said, at any moment an errant roll can change things drastically. I suppose part of the enjoyment of games like Mario Party is the unpredictability. Should your highway robbery go awry, your would-be victim can instead mug you. Getting into the Plains of Peril, even when adequately prepared, has a decent chance to launch you–catapult style–half across the board, opening a trailing rival to take the lead. Even gaining possession of the crown does not guarantee victory as someone can ascend behind you and wrestle, Gollum style, for the precious artifact. Also, there are quite a few situations where you’re asked to roll with a 50 percent chance ending in disaster. Much like Derek losing all his craft to an errant tribal woman. Also, you can’t predict when someone may just offhandedly draw the rune sword or war horse and then start on a snowball of murder through the countryside, racking up tons of trophies and beating down the doors to the inner realm through sheer number of severed goblin skulls.

There is a slight mechanic to lessen the fickleness of dice–insomuch as such a feat is possible. Each class has a different number of “fate” points which they can spend to re-roll a die. Of course, our first game we didn’t know why were were allowed so many rerolls nor how infrequent replenishing fate truly was so Derek and I squandered ours on pointless journeys to the tavern. A poor choice of which our pious monk took quick advantage. Have I mentioned the AI are complete jerks?

There is a dizzying array of expansions for the game which adds more, more, more. Some slap curious expansions to the boards which neither of us bothered to truly explore (I found a library which apparently contained a ton of good reads but other than that, I abandoned the scholarly pursuits). Most simply add additional classes, encounters and spells. As I mentioned, I don’t have any access to classes beyond the twelve or so that comes in the main game but I can’t help but be slightly leery with some of them appearing stronger than others. I suppose there is also the Reaper mechanic introduced (another random element where anyone who rolls a 1 on their movement can move death in an attempt to chase the hooded spectre after their foes in the attempts to enact petty annoyances upon), a few alternative endings and variants offered. Given our disastrously long initial foray, Derek and I have yet to explore these other options fully.

Did I mention that our first match went four hours?

Course, if you haven’t guessed, I’m not as huge a fan of all the random elements. It’s no secret that fate and chance have a long standing hatred of me. Anything that has the potentiality for luck coming in and screwing up will always befall me. It’s why Xcom and I are not on speaking terms. RNG and I square off in an age old struggle of spite and stubbornness. For example, in our first full game, I managed to get ahold of the crown and it took around 12 turns for me to off my erstwhile opponents. This is nearly 1.5x longer than statistics would suggest.

The monk is pious and can pray real good. He’ll also slap you around and steal your stuff at any given opportunity. Apparently, piety doesn’t account for much.

Even more nefarious, however, are the bold pay-to-win elements involved in Talisman. I don’t just mean the greater selection of classes to those who shell out money. The game also includes a “rune system” which grants a person who equips them tangible benefits over those who do not. The first rune I unlocked as a simple “+1 life” which applies to all classes which I equip it upon. You can purchase all the runes from the start or frustratingly grind them out through the game’s impenetrable experience system at the end of a match. The only–and I stress only–positive of this system is that there’s an option to turn runes off at the start of the game and I would urge any person to do so. Pay for win mechanics are a blight and should not be promoted anywhere.

Anyway, at the end of the day, Talisman is a faithful reproduction of a board game experience to the online space. It’s rife with problems big and small, from the pay-to-win, poor netcoding and lack of basic functionality like voice chat. The game relies heavily on chance and randomness which makes strategic planning a rather pointless endeavour. All that said, it is mindlessly fun if you can cut out some time to play it. Now, I don’t mean to suggest all games will take four hours. Derek and I are neophytes when it comes to the game itself and as we get better I suspect the matches will get shorter. Talisman is cute if not flawed. Besides, it has such amazing art as the minstrel and monk, so how could you say no to that?