Success

Task resolution serves as the crux of most RPG designs. How do the PCs do things and how do you know if they succeed or fail? In answering that question, we think about whether the game mechanics attempt to simulate reality or emulate a certain sort of fiction. I almost always put in these articles some sort of statement about how there’s no right or wrong answers, but I’m going to deviate from that somewhat here. I’m going to put it in as plain language as I can:

Don’t attempt to simulate reality.

The reason why is simple: you can’t. Reality is complicated. So complicated, in fact, that there exist whole departments of various universities, filled with educated and intelligent people writing papers and books and teaching classes about how reality works. And they’re not done. Physicists, biologists, and other scientists serve as the game designers of reality, and it is very much still a work in progress. (Or perhaps they are the players trying to make sense out of this very complicated game we’re all playing and the designer is … some bearded fellow in the clouds? Is god the game designer or the GM? This analogy is getting out of hand.)

Seriously, though, I have talked to so many designers and would-be designers over the years who have bragged about how they’ve developed extremely “realistic” mechanics for something or other, and I just can’t find it in myself to even humor them anymore. I can’t even type the word “realistic” when describing game mechanics without putting quotation marks around it. My friends, your game mechanics are not “realistic.” They do not simulate reality.

Thankfully, I think the trends of game design have veered away from such pursuits. I don’t think many players out there even want “realistic” mechanics, so it’s a goal without a purpose. 

What many players want are believable mechanics (or rather, those that result in believable outcomes). And many want easy-to-understand and use mechanics. What almost everyone wants are fun mechanics. The crux of the whole thing, however, lies in the creation of mechanics that do all of those things at the same time. Because easy-to-understand mechanics aren’t always fun or believable, and believable mechanics aren’t always fun or easy to understand. 

So let’s come at this from an entirely different direction. 

When Do You Roll Dice? 

Rather than starting with what you want your mechanics to accomplish, what if we start with when your mechanics actually come into play at all? 

RPGs are conversations. The GM says something about the situation a character is in, and the player responds with an action (or maybe a question). Then the GM responds to the player with how that action changes the situation, and the player probably states another action or  question. And so on. 

Back and forth, just like a conversation. But the conversation becomes a game when you apply rules and, perhaps as a result, dice. 

When does the conversation stop and the mechanics begin? 

The answer is what the designer wants the people around the table to care about. This is really a somewhat more nuanced look at the heart of the game, which we discussed in part one of this series.  

In this case, caring about something can be an indicator of what’s important to the characters, like treasure or skill advancement, or it can be something that’s a real danger to the characters, like combat. Perhaps it’s both. Alternatively, it can be something important to the players and GM, like mood or narrative satisfaction (probably in scene/story resolution). 

Now, take the answer to the question of what’s important, and that’s what you tie your mechanics to. That’s what you roll for. In D&D, the mechanics mostly cover topics related to combat—attack rolls, damage rolls, hit points, saving throws, etc.—because in D&D, defeating monsters is what’s important. It is what allows players to achieve their goals and what allows characters to advance. 

In a superhero game, a character might have the ability to teleport—that’s their whole thing. From a certain design perspective, this would mean that the success/fail mechanics for this character should be centered around teleporting—how far they can go, how accurately they pinpoint the destination, how much they can carry with them, and so on. 

Or, it might be exactly the opposite. The things that are important might indicate what you don’t roll for. That teleporting superhero? Teleporting is the essence of their character. So that’s the one thing they shouldn’t have to leave to chance. 

In Robin Law’s Gumshoe system, the game is all about investigation, but you don’t roll to get the clues—it’s more or less automatic. In my own Stealing Stories for the Devil, the characters can alter reality by “lying” to it, and lying in that way always works. But there’s a cost involved. Even some editions of D&D have had special rules where PCs could choose to sidestep rolling for certain actions.

There is no right or wrong here. Instead, the whole issue suggests a completely different question: how much does it matter if the character fails?

The Price of Failure 

If a player rolls for stats or abilities when they create their character, and they roll poorly, how hindered will their play experience be? In some games, it won’t make that big a difference; in others, it will make things difficult and annoying to the point of being no fun. In still others, surviving against the harsh winds of fate and overcoming your weaknesses is the very essence of the fun. 

A good game guides the player through character creation to give them the desired experience, whatever that may be. 

Consider, too, gameplay. How important a factor should randomization be in tasks? The big, burly warrior walks up to the heavy door and fails to open it no matter how hard they try, and then a puny, bookish wizard walks up to the door and (because of a lucky die roll) whips it open. To many, that’s going to just feel wrong. 

The way to fix that is to make certain that whatever mechanical element the first character has to express their “big burly” nature carries more weight than the die roll. The modifier or mechanic related to the character’s strength needs to be so significant that the die roll is almost meaningless. A different, perhaps even better way is to eliminate the die roll entirely. The warrior can push open the door, but the wizard just can’t. 

That latter method certainly speeds up play and, more importantly, speaks to the choices the players have made for their characters. If the player created a big strong character, they wanted to be the one that throws open the door. But for some players and some games, rolling the dice is a big part of the fun, even if it means there’s a chance of failure. It’s worth the occasional bit of illogic for that gameplay aspect. That, for many players, is what makes it a roleplaying game and not just a storytelling exercise. 

And what about the GM? Can the GM be directed or overruled by the dice? In most games yes, at least occasionally, but in others the GM is entirely reliant on the dice, rolling for encounters, reactions, and other aspects of the game, allowing for the GM to be surprised by the outcome as much as the players. We’ll discuss this (and a lot of other specifics when it comes to dice rolling) in more detail in a future article.

For now, focus simply on the determination of success or failure in your game. Before you even begin to devise the mechanic that makes that possible, think about what you’re trying to achieve with it. What’s being portrayed, simulated, or emulated? What’s the point of task resolution, and where do the mechanics separate from the narrative? In other words, as the mechanics intrude (or not) into the conversation that every RPG represents, how do they reflect the heart of the game? If you can answer these kinds of questions, you’re well on your way to developing the understanding you need regarding the game’s goal and how you’re going to achieve it.

But of course, there’s more to it. There always is.

In the next part, we’re going to go even deeper into the issue and discuss player success versus character success. Which really gets to the question: what do you want the players to feel?