Make a Perception Check

I think the readability series I wrote over a year ago is still one of my favourite pieces on the site. I think the connectedness has an advantage over the more reactive, "here's what I'm thinking this week" writing I tend to do. So it's time to roll out another, this time about "perception." The connections may be a little more tenuous than the readability series, but I'm hoping to keep the focus on how different methods of constructing elements of a game (or even wholly different forms of games) can significantly affect how players act.

Out of the gate we're going to talk about one of the fundamental actions in tabletop RPGs: "Make a Perception check."

For those unfamiliar with tabletop RPGs, a Perception check is the mechanical representation of your character's senses. Different systems have different parlance, but the basic action is nearly universal in some form or another. It determines whether or not you sense something intentionally concealed or merely notice small details. Most systems allow eagle-eyed characters to improve their sensory skills. And therein lies the complication.

Tabletop RPGs almost always involve a group of players. The GM will ask for a Perception check and then every player rolls. But in the vast majority of situations, only a single player needs to succeed. The result is conveyed to the group as a whole, no matter how much effort is made to rein in metagaming. This dampens that limelight moment for the keen-eyed player. And it feels very game-y when the group always sees with the best set of eyes. Possible alternatives, like passing notes to those that succeed their check, can work but are logistically infeasible to be frequent.

This also ties into the other major issue with Perception mechanics in tabletop games, namely that Perception checks without interesting outcomes for both success and failure are probably not worth having. Asking for a Perception check and then responding with "You don't see anything" immediately sets the players to sniffing out what they missed. In the worst case, they'll begin scouring every square foot of an area, probably ignoring whatever situation was previously demanding their attention. Making checks for the players in secret is a possibility, but it somewhat robs them of their ability to make interesting decisions. Or at least know the consequences of prior decisions made, like whether or not they chose to improve their Perception skill.

I'm becoming more and more convinced that Perception mechanics are strongest when they have immediate, readable outcomes. If everyone in the group is rolling, the consequences should apply for everyone. E.g. failing a check means being surprised by the ambush and losing a turn. Calling for individual Perception checks is almost far more interesting (does the character walking ahead of everyone else notice the old rotting floorboards before he steps on them?) when there are immediate outcomes. I haven't really pushed on this methodology enough to say if it has any unfortunate consequences (like always making the most Perceptive character take point), but I'm going to be more rigorous about it in the next game I run and see what happens.

Digital games often reverse the presentation of player information, with very little perceptual information being shared between players. Naturally this only applies to networked multiplayer games, as local multiplayer games naturally share their information, since everyone is looking at the same screen.

Any avatar-based game will naturally facilitate each player having a different perception of the game world. Usually the degree of sharing is driven by function, e.g. can I see my teammates' position on a map, know their statistics, etc. The perceptive skills of each player are symmetrical and their ability to share information is limited to meta-game tools (i.e. text and voice chat).

A few games have really experimented with the idea of offering different perceptive abilities. Chromehounds, a mech combat game released in 2006, featured a fascinating commander role. The commander player had a very lightly armoured mech with limited combat abilities. However, their perception abilities outstripped every other player. They could see further, have better radio control, affect the minimap, etc.

Other games have attempted the same, notably the commander role in the Battlefield series and more recently, in Sony's MAG. Savage, released in 2003, took a somewhat different tack and attempted to blend RTS and FPS gameplay. One player was given RTS-like control of the base, build tree, etc. while the rest of the players served as soliders on the ground. In actuality, I'd say none of these were as successful as Chromehounds in creating a role where differences in perception abilities are meaningful and rewarding. I think they largely fall down because the games are simply too big.

It seems the thinking behind commander roles in games like Battlefield is to simulate real-world coordinated military action. However, they lack what makes a commander on a real battlefield work- a chain of command. With games like MAG supporting 128 players per team, you're guaranteed to be playing primarily with strangers. Strangers who have no interest or incentive to listen to the commander. Without actual threat to life, or even just court martial, coordinating 127 strangers is basically impossible.

Chromehounds supported only 6 players per team, meaning there was a good chance you'd be playing with five friends. Even if you weren't, convincing five people to work together is possible where having over 100 do so is unthinkable. Given that co-op gameplay (along with motion controls, seemingly) are what's vogue these days, I'd love to see further exploration of the path Chromehounds started. A pure co-op experience where significant differences in perceptive abilities were built into gameplay from the ground up could be striking. Left 4 Dead demonstrated expertly that players, even strangers, will work together well if the mechanics ask them to.

And of course, this is only in a cooperative context. The interplay between shared information and hidden information is at the core of a great many competitive games (everything from texas hold 'em on up). That's a whole other post (or series even) that I may not delve into. But it's clear there's a lot of space to experiment with just what players can see without even needing to dive into what the players can do.

Now what happens when what I see informs what you do? I'd hazard it would be something very interesting indeed.

Beware the Gorgnard

There's a grognard in all of us, or at least the seed of one. "Grognard" comes from the French grogner, which means "to grumble." Originally it referred to old guard soldiers in Napoleon's army, and now it's used to refer to old guard gamers that are generally, well, grumblers. (Sometimes it may refer to wargamers in general, but that's not what I'm talking about here. You guys are great ... if a little obsessed with tape measures.)

If you've played games for any length of time, you've probably run into a grognard at least once. They're characterized by griping about how good things used to be and how poor they are now. There's a nearly tangible cloud of cynicism about them. Conversation is mined with sarcasm and bitterness. The Internet has served a vast breeding ground for the grognard.

While the lack of perspective is a bit silly, the grognard isn't particularly harmful in isolation. But the grognard is poisonous to gaming with others. Between the dismissive attitude and the emphasis placed exclusively on "winning," the grognard can easily torpedo an otherwise excellent game (either digital or tabletop).

In digital games, the grognard is the person screaming through their headset about where to go and what to do. Rather that encourage exploration of a suite of abilities, they point to the optimal configuration and mock any deviations. In tabletop games, they're the person that sees the tentacled monster and instead of recoiling in horror, they declare with great boredom, "It's a mind flayer. You two have the best Will defenses, get up front."

This contrast became especially pronounced for me when a friend of mind started playing D&D for the very first time. He played with some of his own friends and with my weekly group a bit as well. Having never played a tabletop RPG of any sort, they came into 4E fresh. The interaction with the rules wasn't particularly noticeable (although how quickly they picked it up was a bit of a testament to 4E), but their attitude at the table was night to day compared to some folks I've played with.

The grognard wants to "win." They have a seen-it-before attitude that reduces nearly every moment of interaction to its most ludic qualities. They tend to be unnecessarily paranoid and suspicious to the point of absurdity. Metagaming is very likely. There is no sense of wonder and little excitement.

My friend new to the game was excited, scared, curious, etc. at all the right moments. It was honestly quite refresh and I think it inspired the rest of us to get a little more invested. I actually think my current group is pretty good at staving off the grognard-ness, but previous assemblages most certainly have not been. I ended up talking to some of the veteran players about the fresh eyes they were seeing the experience though and I think we were all a little envious.

There's a little bit of grognard in nearly all of us, but I think we should do everything we can to silence it. Try to approach the games we play, digital or tabletop, with a fresh eye and attempt at being excited. When experiencing feelings of sameness, and this is definitely something that can be observed about 2009's digital games, perhaps it's time to look elsewhere. I've actually been pretty content with '09 being a bit quieter, as I've had great opportunity to experience fantastic indie games, older games I missed on the first go. And I've been genuinely surprised by a few things that might have been passed by at another time.

I play games because I love them and I imagine most of you do as well. I try to approach new gaming experiences with as few biases and preconceptions as possible. Hell, I might even try to be excited. If disappointed, I'll accept that such is occasionally inevitable and try to find something more rewarding.

Rather that succumb to cynicism and dismissiveness, I know I'll be looking for other ways to deal with those grognard feelings and I challenge you to do the same. Those that play games and talk about games with you will certainly thank you for it.

Gaming Made Me Also

If you've been missing it, Rock, Paper, Shotgun has been running a great series called Gaming Made Me as of late. It began with J, J, K & A discussing what games had a profound impact on them (which is not necessarily the same as favourites or anything of that nature). The discussion then expanded to other contributors, industry notables and others. Some blogger types have joined the fun, and I couldn't resist tossing my own into the ring.



Cosmic Osmo and The Worlds Beyond Mackerel

Cosmic Osmo wasn't the first computer game I played (I think that "game" was the Logo turtle graphics shell), it's the first one I infiltrated the computer lab after school to play. That may be hyperbole; I'm not sure anyone noticed or cared that I stayed in the lab after 3 PM. But stay after school I did. I'd actually forgotten the game's title for a long time (thanks AskMeFi!), but I hadn't forgotten the sense of wonder I had playing the game.

Created by Rand and Robyn Miller (who went on to create Myst), Cosmic Osmo didn't have an end or goals of any sort. You were merely present in a strange, humourous world and encouraged to explore. It left me completely transfixed. It created a love of exploring interesting environments that persists to this day.



Monkey Island

I upgraded my 486 to play The Curse of Monkey Island. I upgraded my rig again to play Escape From Monkey Island. The former was far more satisfying than the latter (although I still, to this day, have the Escape fridge magnets). A friend introduced me to The Secret of Monkey Island and opened the door to the magic of LucasArts graphic adventures. Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis, The Dig, Day of the Tentacle, Grim Fandango; for a long time, graphic adventures were my preferred milieu. But none surpassed Monkey Island's charm or personality (although Sam & Max: Hit the Road was a close second). Seeing Monkey Island return as Tales of Monkey Island is most enlivening, and being able to contribute to the series' spiritual successor is still kind of surreal.



Earthbound

I played Final Fantasy II & III (properly IV and VI), and a handful of other JRPGs, before Earthbound. But it and Secret of Mana were the only SNES RPGs that I owned (although I later purchased the excellent Super Mario RPG out of nostalgia off of eBay). The rest were all rented from our local Albertson's.

Everything about Earthbound is still vivid. The iconic clay figures in the Player's Guide that came with the game. The sting of still never having earned a Gutsy Bat from that damned Kraken. The awful smell of the scratch 'n' sniff stickers from Nintendo Power. Only one of my high school friends shared my fondness for Earthbound, but we made up for everyone else. While in Japan in 2006, I purchased a GBA copy of Mother 3 for both of us, even though I hadn't seen him in at least two years. Finally playing the fan translation of Mother 3, with the excellent fan created handbook, is sublime.

Simply, Earthbound had heart. It was sophisticated enough to be able to take itself less seriously at times without compromising its more resonant moments. Final Fantasy seemed to be a significant narrative to me at the time, but in retrospect it's enjoyable but on par with Star Wars (intentionally in the case of FF3). But playing Mother 3, it's almost as if the series grew up with me. Mother 3 is at times dark and melancholy, but still holds some of Earthbound's lightheartedness.



Dungeons & Dragons

While some titles made me appreciate games, it was Dungeons & Dragons that instilled a desire to make games. I started playing in grade 9, in a setting a good friend made up. I still have my first character sheet in a folder. Next time I'm down in our storage locker, I have to pull it out and scan it. Gladius Sylva, half-elf Ranger was the first step on the path that led to my career and passion. I've since played a number of tabletop RPGs, a la Mage: The Awakening, Call of Cthulhu (my current pursuit), West End Games' Star Wars, Shadowrun (giving one of the players nightmares after a particular session is still one of my favourite GM moments).

But the Dark Sun and Planescape settings were what really hooked me. Planescape for its richness, diversity, DiTerlizzi's amazing iconic art, and sincere dedication to creating something wholly new. And, of course, for Planescape:Torment, which is still one of my favourite digital games. Dark Sun was splendorous in its brutality, the ubiquitous reversal of tropes and, personally, for an opportunity to spend years working on the 3rd Edition setting conversion at Athas.org. I learned a lot about the mechanics of games, how rules can convey aesthetics and how to work in a creative space with others.

More gamers, and especially game designers, should play tabletop RPGs. We've managed to get about 1/3 of the office at Hothead in on a few-times-a-month 4E game, which is a good start. If you haven't, I suggest you correct this. You'll be surprised at what you see.




Super Smash Bros./Perfect Dark

Like everyone else in the late 90s, we played GoldenEye 64 quite a bit. But it was Super Smash Bros. and then Perfect Dark that my circle spent far, far too many late nights playing. This isn't a unique experience, and perhaps it's more appealing because it is shared by so many. Had I been a few years younger, I'm sure this would have been Halo. The thick miasma of nerd funk may take on different tones in different basements. It may have been Cheetos and Jolt instead of Doritos and Mountain Dew amongst individual clans. The details differ, but what so many cadres shared is the same.

The basement console co-op was practically a coming of age ritual for a decade of young men (and some women), and I'm a little dejected that it's disappeared a bit in the days of X-Box Live. Rock Band carries this torch well though. My fiancée and I formed Sheep Thievery with another couple and many nights and beers have been spent touring the world. As much as the rise of networked gaming is fantastic, this kind of co-op gameplay is something I hope never fully disappears.





Braid

The choice of Braid isn't actually a "Gaming Made Me," but rather a "Gaming Made Her (See)." I've related the story of my fiancée and Braid on a few places in the wild, wild interwebs, but I don't think I've ever done so here. If I have already and I forgot, well, it's my blog and I can be repetitious.

Braid is the game that allowed my fiancée to see why I care about these things as much as I do. She's not unfamiliar with games, but more of the Mario Kart or The Sims variety. She was watching me play the beginning of the second world of Braid, and the combination of the storybooks at the beginning, the music, the art, the symbolism of wanting to do things over and get things right, she started crying. I was a little surprised, but she does cry at movies sometimes, so it wasn't completely uncharacteristic.

But then she turned to me and said, "I get it now. I get why you want to make games." She saw that it wasn't the guns and explosion that drove me, it was the desire to create experiences like that. It really was one of the more profound moments of my adult life. Having someone, let alone the person you're closest to and love most dearly, truly understand what drives you is almost beyond words. I owe Jon for facilitating this, but Hothead did port Braid ... that's probably the closest I'll get to thanking him.

And that's how gaming made me. Thanks for tolerating this absurdly long introspection. Now the tables are turned. How has gaming made you, reader?