Where is Middle-Earth?

   John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born in a country that, even though it no longer exists today, provided much inspiration for the “genesis” of Middle-Earth. Founded in 1854, that mysterious country was called the Orange Free State, and it was one of seven independent states in what is now South Africa. The westernmost of these entities was also the biggest: Cape Colony. The “middle” land was OFS (Orange Free State). To the northeast was the Transvaal Republic. To the east was the Colony of Natal, along with three Native Lands: Swaziland, Zululand, and Basutoland.

   The Boer War technically began in Tolkien’s own town: the dramatic breakdown of the Bloemfontein Conference, where President Kruger of Transvaal and High Commissioner Sir Alfred Milner of Cape Colony rejected any sort of compromise in regards to land claims.

   The Tolkiens almost certainly talked a lot about that war, which ended when young J.R.R. was nine years old. So he grew up in a political maelstrom, hearing countless stories about the Great Trek and the battles of Modder River and Magersfontein – with the big climax being the Boer defeat, ultimately triggering the fall and dissolution of both OFS and Transvaal.

   Cecil Rhodes was a British aristocrat who dreamed of grandiose accomplishments in Africa, but he was way too ambitious, passive aggressive, megalomaniac and insufferable – that’s Fëanor for you.

   Kruger was the grizzled and grumpy ruler sitting unmoveable and resolute in the shuttered circle of his forbidden veld – that’s Thingol, yes, and the Transvaal Republic is the Kingdom of Doriath.

   In those days, the deepest mine shaft on the planet was in Kimberley, right on the Orange Free State border. That one’s easy: the Moria.

   The “Great Trek” was the celebrated long march of the Boer people towards the northeastern veld, but it also became the name of the Elves’ long march west from Cuiviénen to Beleriand.

   The inhabitants of the Native Lands became the infamous “Easterlings”. In retrospect, that one wasn’t such a good idea, but what can you do – this was the general sentiment among the Boers back in 1900. These guys were proud, clever, courageous, but not very educated. Many Boer farmers used to think that the Englishmen could “see England from Cape Town”. When you read about this, you can’t help but being reminded of the whole Tol Eressëa situation: is it within sight of Valinor, or not?

   Cape Town is the only great port from which seafaring vessels sail to England – it serves the same allegorical purpose as the Grey Havens. And there is another port, Durban (Umbar), but it is much more exotic and no ships from there sail directly to Valinor...

   My point is this: I don’t have any beef with New Zealand but, once in a while, I’d like to hear: “South Africa is Middle-Earth”. Two different countries can “be” Middle-Earth at the same time, don’t they?

   South African geeks, where are you? Apart from one medieval rock band, nobody says anything. Speak up, guys. Make some noise! You live in Gondor and Rohan, after all...

Cthulhu Wars

   The idea of open warfare in the Cthulhu Mythos feels totally odd because it is “un-lovecraftian” on so many levels... “Nyarlathotep sweeps across western Europe with his hunting horrors and drives back Hastur’s byakhees, but then Cthulhu himself arrives with hordes of star-spawns, and those hunting horrors scatter like flies.”

   Pardon me, what?

   The entire Cthulhu Wars game looks like a crowded cotton candy LSD nightmare: too many colors, both on the game board and miniatures; if you squint just enough and peek at the table, it could very well be My Little Pony: the board game, or Gargamel & The Smurfs. Instead of pure azure blue / bright red / cheerful lemon yellow, why not gray, purple, forest green, and a sickly dark yellow for Hastur’s boys? I don’t know... Okay, technically, we’re supposed to paint these minis – but what if you’re no good at it?

   Figurines are both trending and profitable, and fans must be hungry for them I guess, because Petersen raised something like 4000% of what he originally aimed for; to think that this sum total is hundreds of times more than everything Lovecraft ever earned in his entire life is mind-boggling, to say the least.

   Sure I’m gonna buy a hunting horror and a couple shoggoths when they show up on Hoard O’ Bits, but I am NOT coughing $190 for a boxed set. Miniatures are not downloadable (yet), and that’s why they’re such a goldmine these days. If you are a board game designer, create whatever you want – but load it with minis. Anything else can and will be scanned / reproduced / modded.

   This post is not an “informed” critique. It is just an opinion. I didn’t give Cthulhu Wars a try, but I suppose I don’t really need to because I’ve played eight or ten games of Chaos in the Old World, which basically operates on the same principle: Khorne, Slaanesh, Nurgle and Tzeentch battle each other over the different countries of the Old World. Each player controls a bunch of miniatures – cultists (lots of them), medium-sized creatures, and one gigantic godling that is quite hard to summon up. Each of the four “gods” have a specific path to follow in order to achieve victory.

   Don’t get me wrong: I love Sandy Petersen. His 1988 Field Guide to Cthulhu Monsters remains one of my all-time favorite RPG supplements. I continuously used it for the past 25 years. Without Petersen’s Call of Cthulhu and RuneQuest, a big fat chunk of my life would have been a boring wasteland of nothingness. Great movie directors do crap once in a while (Scott, Polanski, Allen, etc), and game designers are not immune to that possibility. Don’t worry though, the man will bounce back – his next project will be memorable.

   Who wants a prismatic orgy of Cthulhu when you can relish playing the original ugly monster slugathon: Avalon Hill’s Titan!

Apples and Oranges

   Azathoth, Yog-Sothoth, Shub-Niggurath and Nyarlathotep are Outer Gods, not Great Old Ones: there’s a very important difference between the two. Valar and Maiar. Gods and Angels... Sauron won’t attack Oromë or Yavanna. Medusa wouldn’t dare fight Zeus in a hundred years. Same thing goes for the Cthulhu Mythos: it would be guaranteed suicide for Shudde M’ell or Hastur to jump Yog-Sothoth. Don’t mess with Tawil at’Umr!

   Hastur seems to be “in” these days, and I don’t know exactly why. Maybe because the “King In Yellow” was referenced in True Detective – or is it something else? Anyway, Hastur’s “coolness” resulted in his miniature being the biggest of that Cthulhu Wars lot. Bigger than Shub-Niggurath. Bigger than Yog-Sothoth... Still, any Outer God could rip Hastur in two without breaking a sweat. Come on. Nyarlathotep’s ultimate destiny is to (eventually) destroy the world; the only thing Hastur can eventually destroy is Lost Carcosa.

The Arneson Files

   A lot of what we know about the beginnings of role-playing games is a muddled mess. Like most of the world’s great mythologies, the very first chapter of RPGs is shrouded in mystery. I’ve been wondering about this for years, dissecting whatever fragment of information I could get my hands on. Sometimes I understand what those biblical scholars must feel like: “According to Matthew, Jesus said that and then did this, but according to Luke, Jesus said this and then did that – which one is it?” Frustrating indeed. Maybe more frustrating than Blackmoor and Arneson... but not by much.

   The year is 1971. The place is Saint Paul, Minnesota. The day is Saturday. The exact date, I honestly don’t know. The usual suspects arrive at Arneson’s house, say hello, get to the basement, and instead of seeing the miniature wargaming replica of Leipzig or Waterloo on the ping pong table, they see bits and pieces of a plastic castle. “What is that?” they ask. “This is the ruined castle of the Barony of Blackmoor,” says Arneson, “and today, you are going to explore it.”

   First DM commentary ever.

   Those lucky original Blackmoor players were David R. Megarry, David Wesely, Greg Svenson, Bill Hoyt, Duane Jenkins, Pete Gaylord, Ken Fletcher, Cliff Ollila and Richard L. Snider.

   Question #1. Did they all attend that first session, or did some of them join in at a later time? Also: is that list of mine missing any names?

   Question #2. Is there a picture of that very first dungeon, and if so, who has it? Who inherited Arneson’s papers and stuff? His daughter? Any surviving proto-character record sheets in there?

   Question #3. What happened during that historic first game? Why don’t we have a blow-by-blow account of it? There is mention of “magical monsters”, but what were those monsters exactly? What was the first monster ever killed by a party of player characters? Black pudding? Ought to be quite simple, because there were absolutely NO monster miniatures available back then... Did Arneson patiently wrap up a Napoleonic figurine in white sewing thread and say: “You see a mummy.” Did he glue together three lead soldiers, melting just the bottom half of them in a hot pan, thus creating a blob with six jutting arms plus three heads, and then painted the whole thing an eerie shade of mauve, and called this abomination a vorghthock? I’m just speculating – but I’d really, really like to know.

   Imagine having an exact and thorough account...

   “First room, 30′ x 40′, with two 15-foot pits in the middle. PCs retrieved a golden effigy from the bottom of one pit. Room otherwise empty. Second room, 20′ x 30′, tripwire trap, five crossbow bolts shoot from southern wall, two characters were hit, but survived. First aid a success. Then, corridor leading up to old rusty double doors. Third room, behind double doors, 30′ x 50′, lit by a lone brasero, 3 monsters: 1 vorghthock, 2 mummies...”

   Six full pages like that. Wouldn’t that be fucking great?

   Physicists would be excited to have a precise account of the Big Bang? I’d be excited to get an account of the first ever RPG sesh!

   What I’m really waiting for right now is John Kentner’s completed documentary, Dragons in the Basement, supposed to come out later this year, with interviews of Arneson and his original Blackmoor crew. It’s finally happening, y’all.

   The truth is out there.

Barrier Peaks Board Game

   Most of my dreams are surprisingly weird. On December 10, 2014, I had one that involved a Rubik’s Cube and a single tile from a D&D board game. Rubik’s Cube wasn’t solved – only the yellow side, and a voice in the dream said: “That’s the least important side...” As for the tile, it was neither from Ravenloft, nor Ashardalon, nor Drizzt – and suddenly I “recognized” a letter on it, which prompted me to shout: “It’s from Barrier Peaks!!!”

   Woke up shortly after. As I said: weird.

   But I kept thinking about that damned tile. Thought about it a lot. What a cool idea! Expedition to the fucking Barrier Peaks!

   After a few days, I recreated the tile I saw in my dream, but it didn’t end there. I became obsessed with that silly game idea, jotting down notes and compiling various lists of potential monsters / miniatures for the game. Of course, vegepygmies, robots, and the awesome froghemoth have to be there, but what else? The average WotC board game packs about 25 regular monsters, 4 villains, 2 bigger beasts, and 1 huge creature. Let’s say we have 9 vegepygmies and 9 robots, we’re still 7 “regular” monsters short. Froghemoth could be one of those bigger beasts (not unlike the otyugh), but what’s the second one? Why not a giant of some kind? Giants are iconic D&D monsters and we want one. The Barrier range is a perfect setting for a cloud or fire or stone giant. Let’s not forget that there was no dracolich in the original Ravenloft module – so I guess improvisation is allowed...

   I say we should get a goddamned purple worm as our huge “Ashardalon-size” creature. Purple worms are iconic D&D also. Imagine the fun!

   This is my definitive list of creatures:

   Biggest creature: purple worm.

   Large monsters: froghemoth, umber hulk.

   Villains: mind flayer, karate android, 2 vegepygmy chieftains.

   Monsters: 3 police robots, 3 worker robots, 3 androids, 3 vegepygmy lancers, 3 vegepygmy axemen, 3 vegepygmy smashers, 2 dopplegangers, 2 ropers, 2 green slimes, 2 shambling mounds.

   As for the heroes, let’s have all the 1E classes still unaccounted for: druid, illusionist, monk, and bard. Add another fighter or paladin to that group, because they lack one real tank – although monks and bards know how to kick ass in style, I won’t deny that.

   There should also be some sort of new clever approach to the tech items. Change the design of everything so that we don’t recognize rifles and pistols at first glance, and put them all in a separate deck of cards. That should do the trick.

   Tiles: 70% spacecraft and 30% vegetation sounds about right.

   Two weeks ago I googled Wizards of the Coast for the first time ever, and didn’t find their email address anywhere on the website – no way to send them a message. There is probably a reason for that: way too many dudes like me with seemingly “good” ideas. Anyway, I am putting this up here on my blog, and Wizards, if you ever see it, please make that game! I’ll be first in line to buy it. Hell, I’m gonna buy two of them, just to have lots of vegepygmies!

   Such a rehash of ol’ S3 would be pretty OSR.

Rhetorical Combat

   The pen is mightier than the sword. That’s what they always say. But it’s just a saying – because who’d want a pen-wielding character in a game, that’s lame.

   “Merchants say there’s a dragon up north, somewhere in the mountains.”

   “Okay, I’ll write a pamphlet against it.”

   That is not a good adventure-starter.

   Still, fighting an opponent with words instead of swords has been around for thousands of years. Ancient Greek philosophers did it all the time. Courtiers did it during the reigns of Kings Louis XV and XVI. Mandarins did it in ancient China. Rivals did it in tribal Madagascar. Rhetorical combat is a very old thing indeed, and it’s a shame we can’t get a real taste of it in tabletop role-playing.

   When your character fights, technical attention to detail is at its peak, but when your character talks, there are zero technical details. It’s not at all balanced. Some Dungeon Masters told me: “If you wanna talk, talk. Use your tongue. Talk for real.” PCs have to do that, do they? My character gets an audience with the High Priest, and that High Priest decides to disagree with the way I plan to go about my next quest. So, I have to argue for real. But if the Temple Champion then attacks my character with his flaming mace +4, I don’t have to fight for real against a mace swinging brute... Why do rhetorical devices have to be “for real” in the game, and not physical combat? Your character is a level 12 Knight in the king’s court, but maybe you are not physically fit: that’s okay. Your character is a level 12 Mandarin in the emperor’s court, but maybe you are not good with words: that should also be okay. This is why I designed the following system; now, anyone can bash their opponent verbally.

   This “Mandarin System” is very loosely based on the many rich Rules of Rhetorics established by the Greeks. First off, you have to roll up the rhetorics section of your character’s skills – a section that can be added to almost any character record sheet. It goes like this:

Logôs (Proposition)	Base score: 1d10 (%)	+5% per point of INT
Apologôs (Refutation)	Base score: 1d12 (%)	+4% per point of WIS
Apophasis (Irony)	Base score: 2d8   (%)	+2% per point of CHA

   You can adapt it into White Wolf with “dots” and Willpower and Wits. The basic idea stays the same: a To Hit skill (Logôs), a Parry skill (Apologôs), and a full Dodge skill (Apophasis). Dodging an argument is less formal than parrying it. Apophasis is more of a jest: you are not really debating the topic – you’re just fooling around. Apologôs is a real counter-argument.

   “Men of faith only endorse reform when it is not anathema to their beliefs.”

   “Or when it doesn’t impede the anatomy of their relief...”

·        That’s an Apophasis. Dodge.

   “Men of faith only endorse reform when it is not anathema to their beliefs.”

   “It is not up to the clergy to caution reform – which is, in truth, a different faith.”

·        That’s an Apologôs. Parry.

   Your character also have Rhetorical Hit Points, or RHP, and a Renown score that can either go up or down, depending on the number of arguments / debates he or she won or lost. Rhetorical Hit Points are usually restored after any reasonable amount of time spent away from argumentation and debating. Lost Renown, on the other hand, can only be restored by “coming back” and winning new arguments, be it against the same previous adversary, or against another contender. The assumption is that these “arguments” always take place in public, with lots of witnesses – like in the days of Greek philosophers, or at the court of King Louis XVI, et cetera. It was considered fruitless to win arguments in private.

   Damage is always 1d4 + Renown. Subtract from defender’s current RHP. When someone renowned makes a valid point or a good counter-argument (i.e. Obama’s “we also have fewer horses and bayonets”), it carries more weight than if a dude in Dudestown had made the exact same point. Note that Renown cannot drop into a negative score; you can’t have 1d4 -4 rhetorical damage. So, zero renown is the lowest, but you always have a chance to deal some sweet rhetorical damage anyway.

   Here is how a “combat” should go:

   Mandarin #1 has 71% Logôs, 66% Apologôs, and 65% Apophasis, with 14 Rhetorical Hit Points, and a Renown of 4.

   Mandarin #2 has 58% Logôs, 60% Apologôs, and 51% Apophasis, with 11 Rhetorical Hit Points, and a Renown of 1. (I didn’t want to research the Chinese equivalents for “Logôs” and “Apologôs” and “Apophasis”, so just bear with me here.)

   Mandarin #1 opens with a resounding Proposition, and rolls 22% on his 71% skill – it’s a “hit”. Mandarin #2 goes for a Refutation, but misses (rolled 89% on his 60% skill). Mandarin #1 rolls 1d4 “damage” and scores 2, plus 4 for his Renown. Mandarin #2 subtracts 6 from his 11 RHP, so he now has 5. It is then his turn to “attack”, and he rolls 40% on his 58% Logôs. Mandarin #1 tries irony, and rolls 74% on his 65% Apophasis – a miss! Mandarin #2 rolls damage and scores a big fat 4, plus 1 for his Renown. Mandarin #1 drops his RHP to 9 (from 14). Then he launches another Proposition and rolls 95% on his 71% skill. Miss. Mandarin #2 immediately follows with his own Proposition, rolling 33% on his 58% Logôs. Mandarin #1 attempts a Refutation and gets an excellent 07% on his 66% Apologôs. Successful “parry”. No damage.

   And so on, and so forth.

   When one of them hits 0 RHP, his opponent wins the argument. Applause and warm congratulatory cheers from the many witnesses all around. Loser drops 1 point of Renown, and cannot debate again in 2-5 days.

   You decide if you want to allow skills increase by XP, or not. (Mandarin #1 wants to raise his Logôs skill from 71% to 80% and how much experience does he has to spend in order to do so. Depends on which core system you play in.)

   You also decide if RHP can go up, and if so, are they linked to ordinary HP increase (when the character levels up), or can the additional Rhetorical Hit Points be “bought” separately with XP. All choices are acceptable.

   So, there you have it. Mandarin System. That’s my proposition.

   Now, try to refute me.

Blibdoolpoolp

   I have this idea of creating a real-life color picture of the Kuo-Toa goddess, using Sabrina Maree as a model; it has never been done before, because that result would of course show up whenever you google Blibdoolpoolp, and it doesn’t. I’ve seen nice homemade minis, but never a real image... All you really need are Hi Def pictures of lobsters and a signed letter from your good pal Holly Randall, authorizing you to use one of the amazing shots she took of Sabrina Maree (and I guess you’d need her green light too). Then it’s just Photoshop for a week – I’m not that good with Photoshop but not that bad either – and here comes the real Blibdoolpoolp!

   Oh, I forgot: you’d also need some sort of written permission from WotC, because the goddess of the Kuo-Toa is “Product Identity” and I don’t know what that is, but you shouldn’t mess with it.

   Wizards of the Coast lawyers are lawful good lawyers but porn industry lawyers are probably lawful evil lawyers, so that is where I have most of my doubts...

   And what about a Blibdoolpoolp RealDoll? Let Your Freak Flag Fly, right? But do you have to pay a fee to “use” the goddess?

   I really should go to law school.

DM vs Video Game Level Designer

   I design very complicated chambers and rooms: it’s one of my flaws. For example, a few months ago I had this one room that was a huge natural cave full of stalactites and stalagmites, with a drider living high up on the ceiling, hidden among all the stalactites. He fired barbed arrows at the PCs below as soon as they entered his line of sight, but the PCs couldn’t spot him in the gloom, with all those rocky fissures and spider webs. Only way to retaliate was for the two magic-users to send their familiars – an owl and a crow – and have them fly up close to the drider, in order to see it through the eyes of the birds – and then use that knowledge to help the ranger aim and fire his bow in the right direction. But the closer the familiars got to that elusive drider, the more vulnerable they were themselves (an arrow can be lethal when you only have 4 Hit Points). I even made a little chart for it. One familiar @ medium range = low chances To Hit, need 17. One familiar @ long range = lousy chances To Hit, need natural 20. Two familiars @ close range = good chances To Hit, you only need 14. Etc, etc.

   What do you think happened? Players can’t figure out complex shit like that right in the middle of a stressful combat scene. In video games, sure, no problem: game release date is May 2, and on May 4 there is already a teen somewhere in Philadelphia who got to level 19 and figured out that “drider’s cave + familiars” thing and put a 35-minute walkthrough up on the Internet for everyone to see. But that’s video games. It’s different. It’s taken much more seriously, and players are generally alone in a basement, with ample time to think. But a bunch of forty-year-old guys around a table on a Saturday afternoon, with all the excitement and Doritos and beer and coffee and cigarettes? I don’t think so. Not a suitable environment. Waiting for one of the magic-users to say: “Hey, I’ll risk my familiar’s life and send it up the cavern to try and spot that damned archer! Stand by with your own bow, my ranger friend!”

   Not going to happen.

   I had another room which I called “The Ossuary”, and I didn’t even use it in a game. It was somewhat of an extreme affair. Basically, it’s a regular ossuary, in which thousands of skeletons are packed in tight niches and stacked on wooden shelves – the skulls up front, facing outward, and the bones / ribcages behind, in no particular order. When PCs enter that place, nothing happens. They can explore the entire room, and even get to the treasure cache at the far end. That’s when the monster awakens: twin skeletons, and they instantly attack the intruders. Now, when these two special skeletons withstand any damage (half the damage with edged weapons), they don’t crack or break, but instead, random ribs and femurs shatter here and there on the various shelves of the ossuary. Fact is, ALL THE BONES in there are actual Hit Points (or fractions of Hit Points) for those two “invulnerable” skeletons: the whole Ossuary is just one nasty monster with 180 Hit Points.

   The solution is for the fighters to tackle those physical skeletons, while all the other PCs run freely around the ossuary with their clubs and daggers and staves, and smash skulls + bones as quickly as they can. I thought they’d each roll 1d6, every round. On a roll of 1, no bones are smashed that round, and the PC takes 1d8 points of electrical damage: the room’s Ritual tries to “protect” itself. On a roll of 2 through 6, I’d substract that many Hit Points from the Ossuary’s 180 total.

   A group of 7 characters have something like 50 Hit Points between themselves (level 2 or 3, let’s say). So, it’s their 50 against the room’s 180...

   This picture shows how I playtested it all – twice! First playtest: I had the players find the “trick” on round 2, and at the end of the scene, the cleric was down, the Dwarf only had 1 Hit Point left, but the group survived. Second playtest: I only had the players find the trick on round 6, and the PCs all died in the end. Having “the idea” is definitely key here; figuring out that any character can start shattering bones in the niches and alcoves really makes the difference between Everyone Dies and Everyone Lives...

   Too risky for my own taste. Seven player characters die because no one had the right inspiration at the appropriate moment? That’s crazy.

   If you work at Blizzard, Rockstar, or whatever, do that: create complicated puzzles, have fun with space, distances, time windows, lines of sight, and all that. But if you’re a good old DM in a good old tabletop RPG, calm down: just design a room with a pile of gold at the far end, and monsters standing in the way; want the gold? fight the monsters! Puzzles are unwelcome in tabletop RPGs, except maybe in Cthulhu because that vibe is different and atmospheric. But in D&D, anything past a basic riddle is a total waste of time, slowing the game to a stall. Riven was very cool, but it was certainly no RPG. My word of advice is simple: keep it simple.