Lessons from the Literary Process

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I’ve commented a number of times on the insights that can be achieved by looking at behind-the-scenes specials and DVD commentaries. There’s a documentary series that has just started a week or two ago on TVS, a public-service broadcaster here in Australia, called “The Art Of Story and the Narrative Game” and the interest in the program is pretty self-explanatory. (For those that may be interested, the series has a Facebook page.)
In the course of the very first episode of the 13-part series, there was an interview with a writer, Christine Balint, author of The Salt Letters and Ophelia’s Fan, about the writing process. I found the interview especially stimulating in terms of the differences and similarities between her approach to the craft relative to that of writing for an RPG, and what lessons could be applied from the first to the second (It probably helped that her process sounded very similar to my own).
What follows in this article, then, is a series of selected quotations from the interview (and one or two from the segment on workshopping that followed it), and my responses regarding the applicability and nature of the relevance – and note that I am deliberately cherry-picking the ones that have something interesting to say in that respect.
Public Perception Of The Literary Process
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Q: “Do you think that the general public feel that just putting words on paper, in itself somehow, with enough time, will form a story?”
A: “I certainly think that there is a bit of romanticization [of the process] … that everyone has a book in them and if you just sit down and do it, then that will be… [inaudible]”.
A lot of people do romanticize the process, I have to agree – but very few gamers are amongst them. In fact, exactly the opposite problem seems more prevalent – people thinking that it’s a lot harder than it really is, because they are sensitive to the difficulties involved in writing fiction, and of GMing well, and aren’t sure where the lines can and should be drawn between written word, game prep, GM Improv, and literary equivalence. As I explained in The Challenge Of Writing Adventures for RPGs, there a vast differences between the two, and of the two, I think that literary writing is easier.
At least one GM posed the comment in response to me that they had never found it particularly difficult, and to be honest, neither have I, and there are two reasons for that. First of all, there is some good news to go with all the bad, and that is that RPG writing is not prey to many of the more difficult requirements of literary fiction, and even the standards by which success (and even completion) are different; and secondly, it’s because my natural abilities and mindset mitigate, alleviate, or simply “fit” into the RPG requirements.
The Difficulties of Writing
All types of writing are not alike; poetry uses a different set of mental “muscles” to dramatic fiction, which is different from romantic fiction, which is different from stage and screen scripts, and so on. However, there are overlaps in skill, in requirements, and in the processes that can be applied. Any writer can do any of these things to at least some degree – but some will do them far more effortlessly and commendably than others. Nor does that imply that the writers who struggle are either better or worse at writing.
There is an intersection point between every possible story, every creator, and every medium/format, where the author is the most comfortable, productive, and satisfying. With some stories, the natural format and milieu in which it operates most comfortably is well outside the creative “pocket” of the writer who conceived of it. Some stories, in whole or in part, actually need to be handed over to a completely separate creator in order to bring the project to fruition.
So some writers have to sweat bullets to achieve something in a particular corner of literary creativity, while others throw words at the metaphoric typewriter as fast as their fingers can move. Sometimes, when you’re “in the zone”, the words just flow out naturally, and sometimes they have to be squeezed out as though from an almost-empty tube of toothpaste, one at a time. In the same way, writing adventures for RPGs may – in general – come easier to some writers than to others; but that’s no guarantee that everything will always run that smoothly, or be of superior quality – it won’t.
Valuing the struggle
In many ways, it can be argued that the work that we struggle over is ultimately our best, because the struggle has forced us to pay closer attention to it. Or, if we declare ourselves satisfied prematurely, the signs of the struggle may still show. So literary writers write, and rewrite, and revise, and rewrite, and edit, and rewrite, and polish, and rewrite, and rewrite again, until they have slain the dragon of difficulty and achieved satisfaction.
And that, right there, is the biggest single difference between literary creativity in general and writing for an RPG: you don’t have time to polish and restructure and rewrite to any huge extent. Comes game time, the adventure has to be ready to go, no matter what the quality of the product is at that point in time.
To get around this, we use all sorts of shortcuts that would be unforgivable in a piece of literary fiction. The process of writing has to change just to accommodate the “medium” in which we are creating. More on that as we proceed.
The Expectations of Words
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Q: “But there is an assumption… that just by the [process of] writing [the words] that, somehow, the structure of it will take place, and the characters will emerge.”
A: “Yes, certainly, and I think partly it’s because also the words on are very measurable, and its quite nice… [to] get to the end of the day and [be able to] say I wrote 2000 words today, now my manuscript is 80,000 words… whereas if you just sat down and… worked out the plot… and I had spent a couple of years in between abandoning one draft and starting the new one, and during that time I just wrote notes about characters and plot.”
Q: “So you’re doing a lot of what we would call research, [agreement] but it’s not library-driven research…”
A: “No, and that is not so measurable, you don’t get to the end of the day and feel a sense of satisfaction because know you nutted out the intrinsic motivation of one of your characters.”
In an RPG, the story is far more of an emergent property of the interaction of setting, system, genre, character and stimulus. Unlike traditional writing, our stories don’t naturally come to an end, and don’t have to get straight to the point, and in many other ways, we can (and do) break the rules of good writing all the time. Our writing is usually better when we don’t know the end-point of the plot, and the outcome, because we shouldn’t know those things; that part of our writing is part of the game that results at the game-table.
GMs don’t insert plot developments because they will lead to a particular outcome, but because it will pose an interesting challenge to be overcome. Any plot-related objective on the part of the GM has to be achieved by the very existence of the plot development, regardless of its outcome.
For example, in the Zenith-3 campaign, the leading TV Evangelist has just delivered a sermon critical of the PCs, who he (and the church he represents) consider to be devils and demons, telling his followers to consider “what good is it to save your life if the saving puts your soul in peril of damnation? Resist rescue, no matter how dire the circumstance, at the hands of these spawns of the pit”. Now, I don’t know what the outcome of that particular confrontation will be – though I have suspicions about how it will play out – my plot objectives were achieved by the very fact of this challenge to the moral and civil authority of the heroes. They have been accustomed to expectations of enlightened self-interest in the face of a threat; from now on, some of the people they encounter will be uncooperative, and that lack of cooperation will make the challenges they face more difficult to overcome.
It’s as though the GM and players are exploring the story of the literary process itself, and the story of the characters is a secondary byproduct of that exploration.
GMs don’t write for the characters, we write for the players. We don’t challenge the characters, we challenge the players who operate those characters. The moment we challenge the characters and not the players, the problem can and will be resolved using game mechanics in a, well, mechanical fashion. That may satisfy the combat monsters, who simply want to put the prowess of their character-creation skills on display – but it doesn’t satisfy anyone else. Always remember who you are writing for, or you risk missing the target!
Outcomes, Literary structure, characterization, tight plot development – that’s at least half of the literary process that simply doesn’t apply to the RPG adventure. Our writing is more analogous to writing for an Improv Theater Production than it is a TV Drama, in many respects, never mind a novel. And that removes a huge burden from the task of writing for RPGs, and might be the only thing that makes them possible. And the players are akin to audience participation as much as they are active collaborators.
That’s the ultimate reason that Johnn advised GMs to ‘Say Yes‘ back in 2009. Imagine for a moment that you were a fan approaching the head writer of a TV show to say, “I love your show, why don’t you…” only to be told by that writer “you have no taste and are completely wrong”. That’s what a “no” response is. Say “Yes, but” or “Yes, and” instead. And mean it.
The Structure Of Process
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Q: “….is that a societal issue, that we… don’t value thinking enough… [as] a work process”.
A: “That’s true. It’s not a measurable sign of productivity, I think, and therefore it’s [dismissed].”
Q: “And does that form a lot of guilt for writers, in their pajamas and messy hair?”
A: “I think absolutely it can. I mean, it makes a big difference to me, I often feel like I’ve done nothing for large amounts of time, unless I’ve got the word-count happening. [But] it’s nice to have your list; at the moment I’m at a point where I’ve got my draft, and I’ve gone back through and I’ve worked out [the] scenes that I need in order to make sure these characters
undergo the appropriate development, and so I’ve listed those scenes now, which is good because when you have a break [and resume writing] you go, ‘okay, what do I have to do?’ and [there] it is, tick it off.”
The Literary Process
You can think of writing as a task that can be divided into acts, each of which achieves a specific purpose in terms of the whole narrative, each of which can be further subdivided, again and again, until the outline becomes an outline in nested bullet-point form. If a scene isn’t working in one place, if the mood doesn’t transition properly, or a character’s reaction doesn’t ring true or isn’t justified by prior experiences that the reader knows about, or whatever, you either insert an appropriate scene, or move the scene to elsewhere in the sequence of presentation to the reader, or whatever. You tinker with the story structure and the flow of the story until all these problems are gone.
And if it really is inappropriate for the character to react in the way that the plot now demands of them, you have to go back and change the character, and rewrite every scene in which they have appeared, and identify and rewrite every scene in which they should now logically appear but that they were not involved in before. But that’s all in service of the basic plot outline and reaching the resolution of that plot.
The RPG Difference
In an RPG, we don’t know what the resolution is going to be, and we have only a limited facility to change the characters once they have been established (and have no control at all over the most important of them). Instead of definitive answers, we construct trends and situations that are likely to lead the plot in a basic direction that will lead to a satisfactory resolution, and rely on our improv skills to introduce new stimuli and trends to correct any drift away from a satisfactory resolution. If the major villain gets defeated too soon, he suddenly becomes an underling to a bigger threat, and possibly even was merely masquerading as the major villain who is still out there, and can’t be judged by the same standards. Or, if the premature defeat of the underling was sufficient cause for player satisfaction, we take stock of the moving pieces in the game world and ask who would react to that defeat in a manner that will be stimulating to a new adventure.
Each adventure is both an organic product of the history within the campaign, and something to be pruned and shaped like a bonsai tree. We arrange our NPC chessmen and plot their moves in advance, with contingencies against the unexpected, then sit back, press the ‘start’ button, and see what unfolds.
Plots in an RPG
There have been times when my high-level campaign plotting consists of “I need someone to cause this effect, I’ll create an NPC to do that job. I need to establish who this NPC is prior to that encounter, so I’ll drop another encounter with him or her into the master plotline some distance earlier. That encounter needs to be resolved, but inconclusively, so I’ll set it up accordingly. But if that NPC is still around when this other NPC starts performing the metagame function that he is there to achieve, the new character will get in the way. Can I adjust the plot so that the new character becomes an enabling factor in that subsequent plotline? Can I cope with the complication? Or should I insert another encounter to resolve his presence in the campaign, once and for all, after he’s fulfilled his purpose?”
In other words, I work backwards from a desired plot development to put the pieces in place, then forwards to remove anything that will get in the way.
Campaign Structure
Once I have these basic building blocks, I can move them around to achieve the overall flow within the campaign that seems most desirable – sharing the spotlight evenly, keeping things fresh and exciting, balancing everyday life and cosmos-threatening calamities, and so on. With the basic structure defined, I can write each individual adventure according to the specifications determined. You can even seem to remove a piece from the playing board only to bring it back in a surprise twist that – in hindsight – seems inevitable.
The big difference therefore is that we define our characters in different ways – the literary approach uses words, while the campaign approach uses game mechanics and character sheets. And sometimes, we can define them in words and make up the contents of the character sheet as and when we need them, synthesizing a hybrid approach that has the benefits of both and the drawbacks of neither.
Evolution In Action
Plans like these are not static – that’s a mistake that a lot of GMs make, especially when just starting out. That leads them to plot trains and trying to ensure specific outcomes. Instead, by knowing what the metagame purpose of each NPC is, if the outcomes make it impossible for them to fulfill the required purpose, I write them out and write in a new character who will – or who will change the NPC in such a way that the problem is overcome.
Each adventure thus forms the foundation of a later adventure until a climax is achieved – and that’s called a campaign.
The Confident Writer
The final quotation that I want to take from the program is during a completely different segment, where various authors are discussing writer’s workshops. One contributor, Antoinette, is discussing the impact that premature revelation can have on the writer.
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“I [once] made the mistake of talking about my novel, and sharing it, too early – a novel that I had started. And with the feedback that came, it put me off the novel altogether, and I had to put that aside. So when I started the last one, even though I trusted my writing group implicitly, I did not workshop it for the first six
months, because I felt that I needed to be secure in my story and secure in my voice beforehand… I didn’t want people asking me hundreds of questions that I couldn’t answer, because that would sap my confidence.”
One of the differences between writing fiction and writing for television – or for an RPG – is that fiction doesn’t have to be aired publicly until the writer is confident in the basics of the work that they have done. In TV, the cameras roll whether the script is being frantically rewritten to plug holes at the same time, or not; and GMs have an equally-inflexible deadline. Ready or not, the game starts when the players sit down at the table.
That makes confidence in their abilities one of a GM’s most-prized posessions. (It also means that there is little that is more satisfying than when you aren’t quite ready, and you forewarn the players of that and then absolutely nail it).
So let’s talk for a bit about confidence.
A lesson in confidence
You could be William Shakespeare reincarnated, but if you don’t have the confidence to ever show your work to a publisher, nothing is ever likely to come of it. Confidence in what you are doing is critical to a writer. But confidence in what they are doing is everything to a GM, even more than it is to a writer.
Why? Because we ARE going to get those hundred questions and have to supply answers – without the luxury of any six months. We’re usually lucky if we finished writing before the night prior to play!
There are four ways to achieve the necessary level of confidence.
Experience
First, you can draw on experience. That is the source of confidence – every success adds to it, every time a player tells you they had fun – or even just that they want to join your game.
But, if you don’t have experience yet, what do you do? Well, you start by choosing a sympathetic audience. I know some players who will go easy on a new GM, help out with alternatives when they seem to get stuck, point out both perceived mistakes and suggested solutions, and so on. I also know some players who smell blood in the water and react like sharks, players who no novice GM should take on without knowing exactly what they are letting themselves in for.
I did that when I was relatively inexperienced – the group was twice the size I was used to, the players had years of experience as both players and GMs, and I had been involved in the hobby for less than a year. I knew that I was going to lose control of the campaign within minutes of game start. So I told them to do their worst, that I couldn’t see and patch the cracks until I knew where they were – and by inviting them to totally trash the campaign, I insulated myself against any loss of confidence. The players that I would usually be up against were far less experienced than this group.
Within 10 minutes, I had lost total control of the campaign, and within 30, they were running wild all over the landscape, using vials of green slime fired by catapults to wipe entire armies off the face of the game world. At first level. Three hours later, I surrendered to the inevitable and ended play. Then we turned to discussing the campaign and the mistakes I had made. I got a number of harsh criticisms, but there were also positives – one commented, “interesting premise”. Another said that they’d had fun. And a third complimented me on not collapsing in a total heap as soon as things went pear-shaped (I’d had a squad of archers called up hastily from the rear lines of the army to try and break the vials while they were still in flight). Of course, the reason I had been able to keep swinging was the emotional insulation I had given myself with reasonable expectations; the compliments were a total and unexpected bonus.
When you dig into it, the major reason most players don’t get behind the GM’s chair is a lack of confidence. The requirements are daunting, and so is the scale of the task, and the level of responsibility – your friends are trusting you to entertain them, and you don’t want to let them down.
There’s nothing wrong with going into a situation expecting to fail – so long as you also expect to learn from it.
A Fun Resolution is a Good Resolution
Second, let go of the expectations that won’t be met. The players will do something you weren’t expecting – don’t expect to be able to predict their every move, never mind be prepared to deal with it. The players will ask you a question you can’t answer authoritatively – don’t expect to be able to. There’s nothing wrong with saying, “That’s a very good question and I’m not sure what the answer should be – let’s call a five minute break in play and talk about it.”
That turns the game session into a bullring session, removing the fraying mantle of authority and permitting discussion on a level playing field. Or you could say, “I’m not sure. You’ve got 60 seconds to convince me.” And the player either does, or doesn’t – and if they don’t, it’s a good sign that the proposition was flawed to start with, even if you can’t identify the flaw.
You could also ask a non-participant to backstop your first session or two, leaving all the decisions and game-play to you, but interrupting when you make a decision that is either flawed or could have repercussions beyond what you appear to be seeing at the time. The big danger is then growing accustomed to that crutch – so have a defined cut-off date after which you are on your own.
It’s astonishing how quickly you can build confidence. Even from failure.
Draw on your expertise as a Player
This is especially true for veteran players. Being a veteran player means that you have years of seeing other players come up with wild and crazy schemes, and of seeing how other GMs handled them – and of what worked and what didn’t. Trust in that expertise. Put yourself (metaphorically) on the other side of the gaming table – what would you expect a past GM who you respected to do if someone offered up that proposal or asked that question? Not what would you, as a player, like them to do – what do you think they would do, and how?
Have Faith in your premise and characters and let the chips fall where they may
Every beginning GM makes mistakes. If you don’t know the answer to a question, make something up. And if you then get told, “that doesn’t make sense”, ask “why not?”
The reply you get will usually identify a premise upon which that response is based. From that point, you have two choices: #1: “You’re right, my mistake, so they wouldn’t do that, instead…” – something that you’re able to do because you’ve spent the time while listening coming up with a plan B, just in case; and #2: “You would be right if [state premise], but, what if…”
Early in what is now the Zenith-3 campaign, I had a mental blank and forgot when the Communist Revolution in China took place. So, in answer to a question to which I didn’t know the answer, I mentioned the Emperor Of China. “What happened to Chairman Mao? What happened to the Communists?” was the reply. “Mao was overthrown by the very supervillain you’re now confronting,” I answered, “who was in turn overthrown by the legendary hero Ullar” (whose presence in the backstory I had already made clear. “He wants his throne back,” I added. Mistake to countering the premise of the question with a moment of invention. When pressed for the details, I simply answered, “I’m still working on the research, I’ll get back to you” (this was in the pre-internet age). Everyone accepted it, and play moved on.
Mistakes don’t have to be fatal. And you use the same skills to get away with a mistake as you do to cope with unreasonable requests by players and unexpected questions: creativity, and thinking as quickly as you can, while stalling for enough time to complete that thought process.
And never be afraid to admit, “I didn’t think of that, give me a couple of minutes to work out what happens” when confronted with the unexpected. Tossing a minor XP reward in response sweetens the deal and gives the player his deserved moment of glory – while enhancing your reputation as a fair and honest GM.
And if none of that works…
Fake it.
That’s right, pretend to be confident even if you aren’t.
There are some strange neural responses to expressions of emotion that we don’t really feel – the brain assumes that the expressions are in response to real emotions, even if it can’t work out why, and alters your real mood accordingly.
Smile at people, they usually smile back – most of them can’t help it. And both of you find yourselves in a better mood a few minutes later – without really knowing why.
The same thing happens with doom and gloom, thought to a lesser degree – focus on that emotion, express that emotion, and you make others feel down, and that lowers your own mood even without you understanding the mechanism.
And the same thing happens with confidence, at least to some extent.
There are also some articles here at Campaign Mastery that can help.
- By The Seat Of Your Pants: Adventures On the Fly
- By The Seat Of Your Pants: Six Foundations Of Adventure
- By the seat of your pants: the 3 minute (or less) NPC
- A potpourri of quick solutions: Eight Lifeboats for GM Emergencies
So remember: whatever problems you encounter behind the GM screen are nothing that other GMs haven’t been confronting for years. They solved it, or found a way around it – you can too.
The process of writing for an RPG makes success inherently easier to achieve; you have no reason not to be confident in that.
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