Well, it’s the start of the last third of Century. 333 days remain until the last game. that’s bit over 30 game sessions left. 51 players and a couple of more new ones lined up, so I’m expecting a total of around 55 by the time I close the possibility for new players to join up in March. And it means I’ve had a perfect opportunity to play a nice game of “hide things in plain sight” with my players for over six and half hundred days. And I still am, pretty much.

The Century Logo is one of these things that I’ve been storing in plain sight from day one. One of those that aren’t hard to figure out if you just take a look. And a lot of the players have paid the attention, so it’s been a nice detail here and there. It has been serving as a roadmap of the three big things that have been central themes of the game.  That thing above there is the original version. With everything still intact.

It took quite  a while to get it right. Even if I knew beforehand what elements I wanted in the picture, getting them to look just right was a daunting task. The idea was to make the logo look inconspicuous. Sort of “ok, there’s a C with some clock hands and mystic mumbo jumbo in it” so that the individual elements would get ignored beforehand. The only thing that was more or less random was the font used for the C (which ended up being some font I found on dafont.com and then edited it a lot to fit the spherical shape I needed for the design). But the symbols on the background hold a specific meaning in the game and the clock hands are something I’ve used in old illustrations, creating a reference link to those in the process.

The next thing about it is the fact that it’s meant to evolve over the course of the campaign to reflect what’s happening. The variation stems from the way the player characters mess up with the given premise. And since Century is a semi-historical game, with the first game getting set at the Titanic, the first thing that was doomed to get messed with was the timeline. Creating an alternate history for the campaign (ok, to be exact, the alternate history spans a lot backwards, but that’s something the players had no clue of, yet). It took them some 15 games to really mess up historical facts for the first time. They saved Lenin’s life by mystic means, killed Stalin the same night. Made a nice ripple effect that still continues to the present day of the game’s timeline. The logo was updated to reflect this.

And, for a good long while, the focus was on the timeline-aspect of the whole thing, changing history etc. Logo looked so that things were bleeding out. Time was fluid, so to speak. And the players were enjoying doing this. Farking up with history while serving a corporation that was clearly evil. At least that’s what everything kept spelling out. There were people like “Mammon” or “Lucifer” working for the corporation. And the enemies had names like The Choir. And it was all getting very creepy.

But what’s in a name or two? And what’s this thing about there not being any languages in the world anyway? How can we mess our employers up? Why are we called Operatives? Why is there something called The Board there that dictates the actions of Gogam? And Gogam is Magog, spelled backwards, clearly evil corporation if you’ve ever seen one!

Player characters mess up their employer. First by shooting a couple of the big bosses in the head. And then just really ruining everything for them. And in the process destroying the thing that’s been making the world odd – lack of languages. A tower falls, suddenly there’s different languages in the world. (and from everyone’s perspective except the Operatives, this has always been the situation)

So, focus shifts again. This was a bit more an abstract one. Focusing on languages and the utter lack of meaning behind the words that you’ve assumed to hold so much relevance. (The Board, Gogam, Operatives, Seven, Choir, all that) Sort of a deconstruction happening left and right. Structures falling apart (if I had had more foresight, I would have made a tower part of the century logo beforehand and have it shattered as well at this point.), the realization of a greater universe where the stuff you’ve been doing is quite harmless. In comparison to what could have been. And now is turning out to be. The letter C, shattered in the logo, the end of things spelling out what they are.

And now we’re moving towards the final era. Focus shifts towards the third item on the logo. And without explaining further, I’ll just end this post with a picture of it. You’ll figure it out.

Of all the visual snapshots that get etched in my mind during my days, I think this is the one I will remember the best. A lone, solemn birch guarding the crops. A straight, white tree, standing on a rocky island amidst the golden sea of wheat. A sentinel swaying with the winds instead of breaking from them or ignoring their power. Clear blue skies above and behind as a painting-like backdrop. Quite majestic a sight. And approaching really really fast. Well, from my perspective.

They tell us that the people of days gone by thought that the birch represents a connection between the land of the dead and our world. That old birches get their white bark from the bones of the deceased. And that this belief still holds true in the modern age of rationality. The story goes so that when the first sailors who crossed the Great Divide and reached the New World, had seen the wall of white trees, had thought their lives had ended on the way through the great storm. And that they had reached afterlife.

The things that stick to your mind from classes.

In my defense I have state that I’m not a slacker. I just don’t always agree with the methodical way of teaching we’re presented with. I like books, adore all sorts of stories. But can’t just get my head around the whole “magic can be presented in formulas and calculations” thing and can’t be bothered to memorize the mathematics. And that’s probably why this huge snake made out of granite, with eyes of fire and a temper to match, managed to fling me across the wheat field and at that the only birch standing there.

Now, as my field of vision is more and more filled with the impending birchness, there are two surprisingly clear thoughts on my mind. First is that I might be a total sucker when it comes to playing the knight in shining armor to girls who aren’t exactly damsels in distress, and how I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t spent the better half of this semester ogling the fair Alissa (she’s one of the popular ones) instead of paying attention at classes. And the second thing… for a soulless elemental entity, that thing has a really good aim.

Ouch.

Where do we go from there? What got us there? What’s really important, anyways?

Been looking up the old College of War stuff on my computer. Character sheets, mechanics, themes, names. Lots of things to look and consider before going to work on the next one. Really.

The campaign started out as a simple d20 variant fantasy homebrew with IOU flavoring. A silly world, with a strange College, where the player characters were studying to become magicians. This was years before Harry Potter, mind you. A College with the idea “what would a school be like if the world was epic and magic was commonplace.” And boy, did it turn out weird. Parodies after parodies, week after week, for a good year or two. The first campaign ended. But we returned to the world several times. After a few ends of the world, the setting has changed a lot. Toned down on the funny, explored the underlying ideas. The school hasn’t been the focus in a long while.

The definitive College of War campaign was a long one about a group of young Fieon (France expy) nobles finding their place in the world and eventually reshaping it by returning one of the moons to the sky. Lot of the imagery and feeling came from the movie Le pacte des loups (as well as half the family names). And as you can expect, it didn’t have anything to do with the school from the title (it did make a cameo appearance by the end of the game, but that was it), and was really something else than a light-hearted comedy romp. And it’s been going to directions from there.

The latest campaign of CoW I ran got cut mid-way because of a player leaving the country. It is pretty much the thing I’m basing my future work on – There’s a New Continent on the other side of the world. The three major kingdoms have established colonies there. There is a new College of War there, that pretty much mimics and mirrors the one in the Old World. It’s one part colonial America (frontier in the west / foothold in the east), one part Finland from the Swedish rule era, one part <insert baltic country here> under Russian rule. There’s armies, conspiracies, cults. The unease with the natives. There’s themes of obedience, independence, duty and devotion to be found. With everything like this in the air, the atmosphere could be very dark. But the truth is, life goes on as usual and for most part it’s quite light-hearted.

One of the defining things still is high magic, to the point of “sufficiently advanced magic can be viewed as technology”. There’s emergent magical transhumanism going on – magic used to build constructs, such as golems, is getting “commonplace” and the idea of moving one’s soul to a non-human body is out there, even if no-one’s been successful with it yet. Combat has moved from knights in armor to the more agile combatant (if a beginner mage can propel an enchanted rock at the speed of a bullet, then a plate mail armor is more a burden than a blessing on the field against one). Leaps have been taken in areas such as medicine. And there is a lot of flair in everything.

The west is still unexplored. The colonies are not at full peace with each other. The noble families don’t really find each other the best of friends. Lots of fertile ground for teen/tween drama. Yeah. I’m one of those people who love a good romance (gone wrong, just think of Romeo+Juliet). University life the way it should be in a fantasy setting. Whatever that means. Want to go hunt for the legendary beast of the Ash Hills? There’s extra credit waiting to happen right there. And it would make a hell of an impression to that girl you’ve been pining over.

And when the characters walk out there, it should feel like it feels when I walk into the woods here. There should be something mystical there, a deeper connection with life and nature, that just can’t be put into science, no matter how you try. Something out there. Something about that birch tree standing there. Seasons doing their thing. That sort of reflection of where I come from. And of course there’s the giant intelligent elemental snakes who just want to use you for a baseball.

In a way, it’s come a full circle. Taking account from everything that has happened so-far, but putting it back into the original milieu of University environment. Back where we started, without forgetting any of the stuff that happened on the way here.

(The next run of CoW will start December 12th, 2012)

Alissa, the girl mentioned in the fluff. An elf-blooded student at the College. Possible iconic example character for the game text. Of the privileged, wealthy, magical nobility type.

Some mood text for a campaign I’d love to run one day. Cthulhutech-y enhanced humans -thingy.

The Slow Game

The dust has cleared. I approach the officer in charge.

“What just happened? Captain Adams? Sir?”

“We won. That’s what.”

“But that’s a dozen of our men down, two seriously injured!”

“Son, have you ever encountered a precog before? Dozen scratched soldiers is a small price to pay to catch something that can see possible futures.”

I look at the old guy. Seen him from afar before, but never actually spoke to him. Trimmed goatee, old army greatcoat, some high-tech mesh armor underneath. He’s probably in his 40s, but something in his eyes make him look much, much older. I clear my throat and reply as firmly as I can.

“No sir. I was just transferred from Winterhampton unit. Never been in combat with anything beyond clearance seven. Precogs are a bit above what they’re willing to tell me, sir. But we didn’t catch him. He ran and our men got injured by freak accidents.”

The man looks at me with a crooked, mischievous smile on his face.

“You do know how they work, right? The basics?”

“Well, I’ve heard the stories. They can see the consequences of their actions and choose the one route that brings them the best outcome. That’s why we can’t catch them. That’s the whole point.”

“I’ve caught nine. This one makes it an even ten.”

“So, are you a future-glimpser as well, or how on Earth do you do it? Takes one to know one?”

“Boy, do I look like a twitchy freak who spends his every moment considering the consequence of his every action. I’m a human just like you and me and him and him and … ok, honestly, I think she’s a clearance two with those legs of her, they just can’t be human. Damn. But, to answer your question. Human. No powers.”

“Then how?”

“The basic thing to remember with any clearance four or higher is that their anomalies cause them to be pretty fried in the brain department. The need to survive and stay alive, the paranoia, those things take over when they’re threatened. With a temporal-causality enhanced perspective, the freak can see the multitude of paths their actions cause. And go through them, one by one, until they find one that leads them to safety. Just like it did today. It knew it had to come here to pick up the ransom money, but it also knew it was a trap. It’s known for hours before it ever came here. The really powerful ones can see their actions’ consequences to up to two days into the future, but with a punk like this, and judging from the results, I’m thinking some seven to ten hours.”

“The results?”

“He came in knowing the flaw in our trap. He was in and out just the way I wanted. If he had been a more powerful precog who could have seen twelve hours or further into the future, he wouldn’t have come. Or would have taken a different corridor, even if it had meant going into actual battle with my men.”

“How so?”

“It was filled with nice little cloud of nanites. They’ll flood his body with sleep-inducing chemicals in twelve hours that’ll keep him under for good full day. And start sending a homing signal while he’s dreaming away. We’ll have a good 4 hour window of picking him up and locking him away for good. It’s a slow game that works so well against these buggers, even if it means a few sacrifices along the way. Of course, my men know nothing of how the plan works so that they just follow orders.”

I smile and return from the scenario in my mind to the present day.

So the thing is a double-trap.

Sometimes it pays to play it safe and secure. Take it nice and slow. Think out side the box. Considering to return back after the theft, disguising myself as a trooper and asking questions, was very much worth it. I’ll have to re-think my course of action.

—

It’s been two weeks since the ransom drop incident. Killed a man there. Thought it would be easier after running through the scenario in my head a few times. Wasn’t. Haven’t been able to sleep without pills since. Going to bed at a warehouse hideout. Checking the morning just in case.

Can’t see anything in my future. Just the feeling of being restrained and hearing some unfamiliar voice telling me that “Sometimes it’s worth waiting for a very long time before taking action. The longer we wait, the harder it becomes for you to form a link between what you did and what effects it causes. And the harder that becomes, the more unlikely it is that you can precog it. And that’s where I come in. I design the next level of the trap, the level that works even if Captain Adams’ plan fails. Now just relax and get ready to be transported back into a holding facility…”

To take a mental breather from all the Century that comes with the game reaching its halfway point of 500 days, I’ve been entertaining myself by running a very focused mini-campaign (5 games, short game sessions) to three of my friends. A story of two brothers and their cousin escaping from their lives at Casa Grande. Running away from everything, leaving it all behind, finding freedom. Simple game, great fun, I’ll probably write more about the actual game later, but I’m making use of a lot of GMing techniques I’ve come across (from various sources, so basically stealing them) over the years when I was preparing for the game. These are nice simple things that seem to work with this kind of a game, so I’m sharing.

0. Have a session just for creating the characters and the campaign.

Get together just to talk about what you will be wanting from the game before you run it. Create characters, create everything. Just spend time talking about what you’re doing without hurrying to play on the same evening you’re planning. It will be worth it to a) take the time to plan properly and b) have that time between character creation and the first game.

1. Speak your mind and hear what they’re saying

The first rule of Fight Club is that you do not talk about Fight Club. But when it comes to tabletop gaming, being honest about your vision and communicating it to the players, doesn’t necessarily hurt. At base level this is stuff like saying “I’m running a scifi campaign so no elves”. But being specific about what you’re thinking of and why is a great way to go about. Even if you go down to gritty details with “well, I’m thinking that in this game you’ll start off as the trusted men of the king, but somewhere, maybe about halfway through the campaign you will betray him or he will betray you and you’ll end up on the opposite sides. And the end will be focused on that” it won’t hurt. Just as long as if you leave enough space for people to maneuver in. Knowing the road that will be ahead will prepare everyone for the journey, even if it means giving up some of the twists. If the players know that it will eventually be a game about a zombie apocalypse, they’ll know to set up relationships with NPCs in ways that are fruitful for the sudden but inevitable twist in the genre.

And as well as you being honest with them, you should be open to their suggestions and ideas – let them bring to the table what they think is cool and support that. Let the players share with you what they would like from the game and work towards a consensus that you can all sign on. If there are some parts of your game that you absolutely want to have in it, tell that to them. But give them the same right – if one of them is adamant on having some medical drama in your zombie game, let him. It’s not that much to ask, is it?

We did this. My original vision was a game set in the present about criminals with cool cars and motorbikes running away from something. It ended up being set in the 80s (the era wasn’t crucial to my vision) and the players being less criminals and more just people ending up in the bad situation. But it was still about running away in cool cars. The reason for all this is that because we’re talking about a few sessions, each being only a couple of hours of gaming, there is just no time to include everything. If everyone knows what’s up, everyone can play along.

And of course, when starting the game you won’t know everything. But tell them what you know and let them tell you what you want, and then start running the game like you were originally talking.

The idea of being open about the game was first introduced to me by the Jeep guys, so credit for this goes there.

2. Set a theme and a mood

Sort of related to the previous one as this is things that you should really talk about openly. One of the first things I said about the game was that “this game will be about running away and freedom” – it’s a simple enough concept that translates well to different sort of things, offering something to focus on without limiting things too much. Sure, it means this won’t be the game where the focus will on a happy, ever-lasting marriage. (Unless you’re running away from something and ending up there in the end). When running a focused game, having a strong central theme to work with is quite important and enjoyable.

And again, bouncing the ball back to the players, “How will your character fit in this theme? How will he explore it?” And we end up with three interesting stories that are different. We have an undercover cop stuck between the two worlds, constricted by both, a woman in a loveless marriage with a cartel sub-boss and a guy who is just doing what people expect without really knowing what he wants to do. From there it’s easy to move forward.

Then there’s another important question: Mood. Are we talking Film Noir? Romantic Comedy? Also a lot of related questions arise from thinking about what the game should feel like… What’s the level of violence/sexuality people are comfortable with? How gritty should it be? How realistic? Are we talking about a Hollywood action movie when it comes to a gunfight or more what would happen if you drew a gun in downtown L.A.? Will everything feel desperate or is there hope? Is the metal in the world more chrome or rust? Again, it’s a good thing for everyone to know what sort of a thing they’re playing.

Think theme and mood were first introduced to me in White Wolf’s Vampire: The Masquerade. Even if I never used them to good effect when playing that game. To be honest, that’s one game that is full of great ideas that no-one ever used.

3. Set the pace and keep running

This is something I learned from Primetime Adventures and have been using for a good while with success every time. Know beforehand how many games you will be playing and where the focus of each game session will be.

For this game it meant that one of the questions we answered on our character creation session was “how many games will we be playing this thing for?” My suggestion was really either seven or five. With three players, seven sessions would have meant four that were focused on the “plot” and three that were spotlight sessions (will get back on that in a moment), with five, it meant two plot, three spotlights. We went for the latter option, with the plot games serving as “bookends”, being the first and the last game, and each of the middle three would be focusing on one of the characters.

I use the spotlight system without a shame these days in pretty much most of the mini-campaigns I run, be they D&D or freeform. Quickly summarized it means that you, as a player, get one game session in the campaign where it is all about your character and his central issue. It will pretty much be the focal point of his story. Everyone knows who is on the spotlight, and for that session will be playing to enforce that part of the story. It does not mean that if it’s not your spotlight, you won’t get screen time. Just that the focus will be on the question of the spotlight. “Am I a good cop or a bad cop?”, for example.

In the game I’m running we’re using a three-tiered spotlight system. Each player has one game where their character is at priority (rating 3), the spotlight game. They also have two games where their plot is at “secondary” level (rating 2), and two where their character’s issues is put on a back burner (rating 1).

This translates to an individual pace for each of the stories of the game. A pattern of “2 1 1 2 3″ for example means that the character’s issue will be there at the beginning, then go on hibernation for a couple of games and then make its way back into the last game, climaxing in the very last one. “1 2 3 2 1″ on the other hand means something that will be directly in focus on the 3rd game, but will be set up during the previous one, and the fallout from the climax will be seen in the fourth. And so on.

In one game session one player might have a game with a rating of 3, one with rating of 2 and one with a 1, which means that the first player will be on the focus, but the issues of the second player’s character should show through a bit. Bit of foreshadowing or something. And the third player will play his character maybe as a foil or to support some decisions or make the choices tougher for the other two. Whatever suits the story.

The players know when their issues are on the focus, so they don’t have to worry about not getting their say in the matters. Everyone has their moment to shine and everyone knows what to support and which questions to raise when needed.

…

Looks like I will have to write a second blog post somewhere in the near future about the actual things we do in the game that work, this one is quite long on its own with just the preliminary stuff in.

It wasn’t any random roll of the die or sheer stupidity of the player, trying to see if their character can fly by having him jump off a tall building. It was the beginning of the latest Century game.

There was Sean, the player character. One of the longest-surviving characters in the game at the venerable 59 years of age. A cult leader, a king of an African tribe, physicist, mystic. And there was Edward, the non-player character responsible for handling the Operatives and sending them off to missions. Basically the quest-giver. Who also, for certain reasons, held Sean responsible for the death of his beloved sister.

The game begins. I inform Sean’s player that her character is in mortal danger. There is a short conversation.

Edward: “So, do you remember anything of what just happened?”
Sean: “No, and I want out. I hate this place. I hate these missions. I’m no use to the firm, why the hell do you keep dragging me back to work for you. I’m useless!”
Edward: “Agreed”

And Edward pulls a gun and shoots Sean, there and then. Bang. The character is dead.

The shock the players had on their faces when this happened was what you can expect. There was a stunning moment of silence. And Sean’s player managed to let out a “That’s not what I was aiming for …” while staring at me and the situation in disbelief. After 50 games of Century, there was a moment’s pause. Something like that could happen. That the “your character is in mortal danger” stated at the beginning of the game actually meant something. Like I always had been saying. “If I tell you you’re in mortal danger, you really are.”

Sean’s player of course made a new character there and then, and we continued with the game. With a very different mood.

I might have killed a Player Character yesterday.

And I think it was the best thing I’ve done as a GM in a while.

There have been over 50 games of Century now. We haven’t yet reached the midway point, daywise (Welcome Frank. There are 532 days remaining), but because of some developments, we’re reached that respectable number. (Previous post like this is here)

First things first. Where are we on Century, statistics-wise? The player pool consists of 42 players. This is people who have actually made it to the games – there are a couple who have wanted to come, but have missed it because of some real-life issues. Of those 42 that have played the game, only about 15 are part of my old gaming groups (ie. people who I’ve played RPGs with before Century). And of the 42, ten or so are people I really didn’t even know before running a Century game to them. Somewhere around the Second World War (in game world time), people started telling other people at parties that there was this campaign where you could come play in. Mass invasion of new players happened.

Over 25 player characters have died. Spikey, my co-blog-host holds the record with 6 deaths. Beyond the deaths, at least two have been possessed by otherwordly entities. One is suffering from a lethal radiation poisoning from a Russian nuclear test. One is permanently unstuck in time whilst on a vision quest of sorts. Etc. That means there have been something like 60ish or so different player characters in the game. And, as said, we haven’t reached the half-point yet. The game is lethal. Sometimes to the point where there just isn’t a matter of luck that can save a dying character’s life. Sometimes, on the other hand, miracles happen.

Oh yeah, and we’ve reached stage two of fragmentation. Or “Level Two” as two players have been told. More or less, a step forward in the structure of the game.

A clear tell-tale marker of “stage two” is that the game is no-longer run just by me. We have a pool of 5 Game Masters. Four of us have ran games, one is still planning on what to run. This is also the reason we’ve reached the respectable number of 50 games way before halfway on the clock. A byproduct of having multiple GMs is that I have actually managed to play a character in my own campaign just like a normal player. Adrian (my own character) has survived two game sessions so-far with incredible luck and skill, once stealing the Olympic flame from Helsinki in ’52 and the second time was exorcising a ghost in Japan in ’59 . I’m still of course the primus motor of the campaign, running a gaming session every 10 days. The other GMs can run games when they want, I’m sort of in charge of setting the constant pace.

The players have managed to completely screw up history already. There is a third superpower in the Cold War thanks to them. A superpower that’s leading the space race, I might add. The Greater Austrian-Hungarian Empire, led by The Undying Emperor von Üdel, hero of the nations and a father of few. Von Üdel is a player character. Yeah. This is one of those games where player characters might actually gain some power sometimes. They also managed to screw up a mission to kill Hitler so bad that the Führer actually got saved from his bunker by the magics the player characters were attempting to kill him with. And Big H is currently living somewhere in Argentinean jungles, waiting to return as a major bad guy later in the campaign. Because, I mean, there are few things as awesome as having Hitler as a recurring villain in an alternate-history campaign. There have been other wonderful things like that have have happened over the years. Usually because of the incompetence of the player characters.

And there have been a lot of stories there that have been on and about the human level of things. As said, The Undying Emperor von Üdel is a father of two. Quite many characters have offspring (some have puppies, but that’s another story). Some of the kids have matured enough to become player characters at the age of 20. There are powerful families that stem from these lineages. The biggest emotions have risen from things in the sidelines of the actual missions. To be honest, these days, the average game session deals more in things that don’t have anything to do with the mission than with the things that do. Family ties, new loves, old feuds.

Then there is the disturbing fact how some of the Operatives (a name given by the players to the player characters that has stuck in the game world) have started getting visions of Operatives who have died previously working in the business. Getting their memories in dreams and sudden bursts of insight. Gogam, the company that’s been hiring the Operatives has slowly become worried about what they’re actually dealing with. It’s clear these Operatives aren’t just anybody.

It’s also clear that they’re not alone. The Operatives share the world with countless factions that have their own agendas. There are The Unknown, always dressed in black and standing there in the corner of your eye, watching and opposing the Operatives. There was a metallic alien biomass called The Choir that nearly managed to invade Europe during the Second World War (but thanks to the actions of the Operatives, it was contained in a stable time loop and the world was saved). Russia was controlled by Baba Yaga and her monstrous children. And there is talk of other factions. The Eight, who are rumored to be controlling the States through careful manipulation. The Blue Kings. The Board. And no-one can be sure what all the internal factions of Gogam are up to.

But, to get back on the level of playing the game, there is room to make different choices than one would usually do in a game, even if this doesn’t seem apparent at first. There is room in it to move so that you don’t always have to follow the “typical adventure path” when it comes to solving things. To battle a drought, you can actually ship water in in large containers to alleviate the worst catastrophe instead of wandering around the coutryside trying figure out if there is an Indian curse somewhere that’s causing all this (pro tip: no, there isn’t). There is room to actually go and shoot the people you’re supposed to be working for. In the head. And they die. A lot. There’s room to say “no” in places where you wouldn’t think you could.

Also there’s a room. It’s in a building. You just woke up in it, and you don’t have any idea how you got there.

I was pretty inspired by the combination of Pathfinder GameMastery Guide and the discussions I had with Keith Baker at Ropecon 2010. This inspiration, combined with the fact that the only game I’m running at the moment is Century, made me think of a new D&D campaign.

The basic concept steals quite a lot from existing campaigng D&D material – Eberron, Planescape, even bits from Dark Sun. And some from Pathfinder as well.

The world was a very typical D&D world, probably the one described in the 4th edition core books, until something went horribly wrong and the local Death god died, her body crashing down from heavens into the middle of a wasteland. This caused some interesting things in the world:

First of all, souls have stopped flowing into the afterlife. The other gods are as mystified as the mortals – no-one knows what happens after death. It was the Death god’s job to sort out the dead souls into the Planes. This just doesn’t happen anymore. This means that resurrection is no-longer an option, and speaking with the dead doesn’t work.

The political ramifications from this amongst the mortals are massive – regular assassinations are suddenly an option again to overthrow the throne and those who had struck deals with darker powers that involved the destination for their soul found themselves renegotiating their contracts since they were no longer capable of holding up to their end of the bargain.

So, turmoil. Wars. New leaders. Churches trying to hold on to their power even if they can’t promise a life after death.

And second, from the corpse of the Death god, life begun to appear. First just a spring in the middle of the desert. Then an oasis. After that, the ruins of an old temple that might have stood there in the desert some thousands of years ago. Just slowly appearing from the waters. Followed by ruins from other parts of the world – things that had been long forgotten by man. Covered in moss, algae, plants, mold and other plantlife of decay. It didn’t take long for a whole city to spring up from nothing in the middle of the wasteland.

A city surrounded by a weird anti-magic field that pretty much nullifies the influence of gods and makes all normal magic a bit unpredictable. A city that draws celestial refugees from both sides to it like flies. A city that has a soft spot for the unwanted. A city that grows and changes every night. A city ruled by ruin, dominated by insects and moss. Rats and rust. Decay and memories. And filled with the things the world has forgotten. Treasure. Adventure. Danger!

So, fast forward some years and enter the player characters: ragatag team of .. private investigators, living in the City of Death. Looking for a quick buck tracking down lost people, items or artifacts, finding out if the succubus is cheating on the noble or solving the murder of a prominent political leader, who also happened to be a patch of sentient mold.

What?

So, because the previous entry actually provoked some sort of a reaction (even if it was just “I want to hear more about…” on IRC it was still more than I’d heard in ages) from my ever-vigilant co-writer Spikey, here’s the complete (except for the secret things that I cannot say) rules for the “between games” advancement in the Century game.

First things first – Century uses a variant of White Wolf’s WoD system – scale of things is 1-5. In stats, 1 means poor, 2 means average, 3 is good, 4 is great, 5 is as good as it gets. In skills, 1 is amateur, 2 is professional, 3 is great, 4 is an expert, 5 is one of the top names in the world. Instead of the typical WoD attributes, the ones in Century are a bit more ambiguous. Things like “control” and “sanity” and “coldness” And skills are more open, and decided by the players themselves. Some example skills include “spy”, “gentleman”, “British” and “poet”

Between games, time passes. A lot of time, in fact. Years. One of the big points of the campaign is that time passes and things happen. It’s spanning over a century, what do you expect?

So, in a typical game, you are playing your soldier type and go from one game session to the other and buying new shooting skills because that’s what soldier types do and it pays off to concentrate your skills to get bigger skills to shoot bigger things. But in Century, it’s a bit different.

First of all, the game sessions decide the direction your character is heading towards. Using the soldier example above. You start your character in 1943 game as a nice 20 year old British soldier, the game session theme being war and all that, and the GM saying that you need to have a character that can be in the battlefield. So you create your soldier type dude with skills like “killing and maiming” and “playing poker”

The next session you participate is the 1950 one that happens to be a social game where the characters are there to broker a deal with some industrial mogul. In a typical game this is the point where the guy who is playing the soldier type starts complaining that he will not have anything to do in the game because it’s a social session and he’s playing the shoot-em-up character.

But, in Century, he’s actually playing exactly the character that is useful for the game, since his character has changed enough over the 7 years to be the perfect fit. This means that you, as a player, will have to steer the character to become a diplomatic industrialist type during the 7 years that happen in between. Not complain about how your character doesn’t fit the theme.

Sounds strange and I admit that grasping the concept can be difficult, but in Century life, as it usually is in reality, is unpredictable. Looking back 7 years in my own life I couldn’t have pinpointed where I was, I most certainly am not where I was planning to be. This holds true for shorter periods of time as well, like last year. If someone had asked where I was going to be this summer, I would have never guessed that I was back working at that one company that I quit 3 years ago.

So “I used to be a sniper 7 years ago, but now I’m a successful businessman” isn’t really that huge a deal, once you think from the perspective of “I’ve heard stranger stories”. Life just sometimes gives you a different path than the one you were planning on taking.

The other part of life being unpredictable is the fact that for each year in between games, your character gains an experience, in form of drawing a Tarot card from the deck. This represents how that paritcular year has been for the character. So, you draw a card that represents wealth, you have had monetary luck (or something). Draw “Worry” and that has been the theme of your year.

Now, the system allows leeway in how you read these things. It’s more or less up to the player to interpret the card, but from what I’ve seen so-far, the people who “let go” of their character during this phase are the ones who have enjoyed it more than those who have clear “my character will be doing this” attitude.

Prime examples include a “I will never marry” type of a girl, who during her card-phase picked cards like “love”, “happiness” and such and found her party-girl type married to a loving man, who passed away just before the game session she participated next. And the bittered angsty type who couldn’t find his place in the world, until he by some odd chance found his place and purpose in the First World War, suddenly becoming quite stable and clear minded.

There are of course some players who want to keep their character the way they’ve been, and while I don’t mind it, I have a fear that they’re not getting as much out of the system as those who are actually just letting life take hold of their characters during the time when they’re not playing.

The reason I brought up character stats back there is that during the Tarot phase, your characters statistics change. If you draw a minor arcana, you can move one dot from one stat to another, or from one skill to another (but not from a stat to a skill or vice versa) and if you draw a major arcana, you get one additional “dot” to your skills. So, quickly you can see that your skills will increase over time, but your stats will only change.

Oh, almost forgot the rule that you can kill your character at any point of the Tarot drawing. No-one has yet used this option, but I can see it being a valid option at some points of some character arcs, so it’s there, in the rules.

And it should be mentioned once again that there are rules that I am not allowed to talk about, either because the players haven’t researched them yet (I’ll get to that in another blog post) or because I’m not allowed to talk about them.

Until next time

The first hundred days have passed. Welcome to the next nine hundred.

The following post is incoherent, but so am I.

The Century game (the site is in Finnish, sorry about that). Oh, The Century game. I am not allowed to talk about it in full because of some meta-rules that are in effect, that for example require me to answer any and all theories (with a few exceptions) the players come up with the phrase “that’s an interesting theory.” But, what I can talk about without the rules preventing are the general things about the system and such.

Doctor Alexander Smythe

The underlying idea of the Century game is about 15 years old. Well, the first bits of the idea that eventually molded into games like Rakennus, Snake Urn and others. Might be better to say that the underlying metaphysical groundwork has been done over a dozen years ago.. As one of my old friends/enemies commented last winter “It was funny to read the game website and notice all those familiar names.”

The system used for the game is about 5 years or so old, with some fine-tuning happening over the years. Players have a spread of tarot cards in their hands that they play to deal with challenges that aren’t  with descriptive texts that they play – if the text on the card fits the situation, it’s a success. (or a dramatic failure if the player has really bad luck). If it doesn’t fit, then numbers come to play. Really simple and you have a sort of a feeling of foreboding. You know you’re going into a dangerous situation and the only cards you have in your hand are “The Fool” and “Death” … if you’re planning to survive, it’s going to be an extreme solution.

A lot of the things in the game are practical solutions to things I’ve done wrong over the years when running games. One of those things that are worth mentioning is the persistence of the game world. A big mistake (not the only one, but one of them) I remember making with my large-scale Vampire LARP campaigns was trying to keep the world persistent between the games. It drains you a lot as a GM when someone calls you on a weekend and asks if it’s okay for their character to go explore the dark mill on the hill between the games. In Century, the problem is solved with a certain level of asynchronism. To explain that, I probably need to get to the basic structure of things first.

There are currently around 15 players in the campaign. Each one of them is playing one character, until that character dies (or something Worse happens). Each character starts as a 20 year old. Each game session represents a year in the game world. So the first game session was set in 1912, the second one in 1913, and so on. In a single game session, there are 2 or 3 players present, so not every player is in every game session. This means that your character might be in the sessions of 1934 (as a 20 year old), 1940 (as a 26 year old), 1944 (as a 30 year old) and gets killed at the end of that one.  The next time you come play it might be the session of 1950, and you’ll be playing a new 20 year old character.

The players can interact directly with the world only during the game sessions they are playing on. There is no calling me on the weekend after someone has been playing in the 1944 game and telling you about it “Ooh, I heard interesting things about the game, I think my character will be doing this now.” I might be interested in hearing what you have planned, but the world won’t react to it until it’s your turn to play. This creates a certain asynchronism to the world – your characters’ actions during the years you have missed have to be retconned into reality when you come to play. And you are limited by what others have said before you (there is an interesting example of this with a married couple of characters with kids, who decide what happens to their marriage depending who happens to get to the game session first).

So basically, the game session begins with the character (and player) catching up the “lost years”, year by year. This is another neat use of the tarot system, basically drawing a tarot card, and interpreting the year through the card. It becomes impossible to plan what’s happening beforehand, which again eliminates the need to try and preplan.

And from preplanning, I think I need to get back to the “only 2 or 3 players are present on a game session” thing.

Meeting on a riverboat on the Nile

This part of the game design is a sort of a reaction to the utterly disastrous Changeling campaign I ran. Timetables were impossible to manage as everyone was busy with everything. The solution? Large enough player base with limited amount of people per game session and a fair system so people who haven’t been playing a lot/lately have priority over those who have been playing more. Each game session is a story, with a beginning, middle and an end, so there are no cliffhangers that continue from one session to another. You come when you have time, you play for a session and then you don’t have to worry until you feel like coming back. Also, the styles of the games vary a lot. From horror, to spies, to temporal paradoxes, to P.G. Wodehouse, to urban fantasy. So I won’t get bored running the same kind of thing for three years.

Which brings me to another thing worth mentioning (that I kind of touched on already). In Century, the game forces things on your character. You are not in total control of who you’re playing. If a game session you’re attending says that the characters are assassins sent to kill Rasputin, the Mad Monk, it means that your character has been chosen for the mission because he or she is the perfect match for it. By attending the game you’re basically saying “yes, I’d like my character to live such a life that in the year 1917 she would be perfect to send to Russia to kill Rasputin”, even if in 1913, the last game she was a pacifist noblewoman. Add to that the fact that the “themes” of the years in between games are decided by drawing cards from a tarot deck, and you’ll find out that life gets nice and unpredictable.

A lot of things still need to be explained, but…

90 games to go. 896 days, 11 hours and then some. I have plenty of time to explain more to you later.

(pictures used in post (c) 2010 Sebastian Pensasto, used with permission)

I am looking at my new wall calendar that I’ve filled up with my schedules for the upcoming year. At this point, I know for certain about 30 game sessions I’m going to run and the approximate dates for them. The first of these sessions is on the 27th March, when I start running a campaign I could consider a worthy finale to my gaming career, if I manage to run it through and if I would end my gaming career to that.

Century game. The basic idea is a  campaign that runs for a Century in the game-time. With the world moving at a fast pace between game sessions and games being individual one-shots from the lives of these people. First of the games is set in April of 1912, on a boat called Titanic, and things move on a steady pace from there on.

By the end of the year, we should be around World War II. I’m quite hyped about all this.