• I will endeavor to find a better job or a second job.
• I will endeavor to get my manuscripts (both old and new) published (after a hiatus of too many years).
• I will preregister for Origins, BASHCon, and U-Con, and run events at all three conventions.
• I will attend Miniature War Gaming Day at Fort Meigs.
• I will participate in a weekly board game club in my city of employment.
• I will play at least one board game, card game, role-playing game, or war game per week in my city of residence.

One wouldn’t think it would take resolutions to encourage one to participate in a voluntary hobby, but this hobby requires planning and the coöperation of others, so it’s a wee bit more challenging to manage. Running events at conventions (and even just attending conventions) presents a variety of other difficulties, many of which involve money. And then there are the distractions. Despite all the distractions that compete against gaming, though, the single greatest obstacle is an insufficiency of funds. ‘Tis time to remedy that.

In Deliberate Obfuscation in Gaming, I touched upon the undesired effects of gamer jargon on gaming itself as I see it. Fudge is, I believe, the exemplar of how role-playing ought to be introduced to prospective players. In Fudge, all traits are spelled out, values are described with adjectives rather than numbers, and most terms use plain language rather than arcane terminology. There are very few exceptions, the primary one being the convention of using dice notation, which in the case of Fudge means referring to 4dF for example (where 4 is the number of dice rolled and dF is the type of dice rolled, i.e. “roll 4 Fudge dice”).

If I have any misgivings about the way Fudge deals with jargon, it is that it failed to go further. Admittedly, anyone who has ever played a role-playing game knows what is meant by GM, PC, and NPC (that’s game master, player character, and non-player character to those who haven’t), but it would have been nice if those terms could have been discarded along with all the other unnecessary trappings.

“GM” or “game master” is the non-trademarked descendant of “DM” or “Dungeon Master” (of Dungeons & Dragons fame). As such, it is burdened with some of the same negative connotations that have been associated with Dungeons & Dragons (rightly or wrongly) over the years, e.g. the GM as infallible expert; the GM as the opponent of the players; the GM as liar (E. Gary Gygax’s famous advice to DMs about ignoring unfavorable dice rolls made behind the DM screen or rolling dice for the sake of creating suspense come to mind); and, of course, the GM as omnipotent god, or rather, megalomaniac. The abuses by some game participants with the ostentatious title of “game master” have inevitably led to the flight of some players from gaming altogether, and the defection of others to computer “role-playing” games and story games. Consider how different things might be if “GM” had never meant “game master,” but rather “game moderator.” “Moderator” far more accurately conveys the duties involved — preparing (and sometimes writing) the scenario, organizing the event or session, setting the scenes and describing situations, applying (and being aware of) relevant rules, arbitrating conflicts, ensuring participation opportunities for all players, and faithfully playing the roles of the characters encountered by those of the players. There is nothing in the term “moderator” to encourage or even suggest the despotic behavior adopted by some GMs. As far as newcomers to role-playing are concerned, “moderator” is a more accessible and self-explanatory term, and perhaps a wee bit more mature, too. It promotes not only clarity in gaming, but better playing as well.

“PC” is far more widely associated with “personal computer” and “political correctness” than the gaming term “player character.” For the sake of clarity, might it not be better simply to use the term “player character” and dispense with the initialism? Otherwise, if something is supposed to apply equally to PCs and NPCs alike, does one then refer to Cs? In most cases, it is sufficient merely to refer to “characters.” Too Much Character, an article from the Authors’ Guidelines of Steve Jackson Games recommends avoiding even the term “character” as much as possible, suggesting the use of terms such as “adventurer” or “explorer” or others more appropriate to the genre. This is advice well taken, although I think “character” and even “player character” have usefulness especially in the writing of generic rules. One must take care, however, to distinguish between “player character” and “player,” as many role-players are aware.

“NPC” carries neither gaming nor non-gaming baggage. It is purely functional. “NPC” means “non-player character” and there can be nothing confusing about that. Or can there? Is the GM not a player? Or is the GM merely a referee? (It depends on one’s style of gaming, I suppose.) Is “GM character” preferable and does it make a difference if it stands for “game master character” or “game moderator character”? Is “moderator character” acceptable? Those are all poor alternatives. If we wish to promote clarity, what is the best way to express the term even to newcomers? If we accept the use of plain language as the best means of promoting clarity, then perhaps we can co-opt terms outside the hobby (just as “role-playing” was, incidentally). Perhaps “supporting character” might be used, or “extra” in the case of characters of minimal importance, or “antagonist” in the case of hostile characters. We already use terms such as “patron,” “contact,” and “dependent” in many role-playing games, and Dungeons & Dragons made frequent mention of “henchman” and “hireling.” None of these terms, however, seem to convey quite the same meaning as “non-player character,” which may, in the end, be the least bad generic term for characters not played by the moderator.

I usually avoid the PC/NPC problem by referring to “characters” when a rule affects both types equally, and, when it does not, to terms specific to the genre or situation. As a last resort, I use “player character” or “non-player character” rather than “PC” or “NPC.” Regrettably, “GM” may be too firmly entrenched to be dislodged in the near future, and I continue to use it in my Fudge writing since it is prevalent in the original rules, but in my own usage it shall always stand for “game moderator” and I would like to see “GM” eventually replaced by “moderator” throughout the gaming hobby and industry.

The big issue, of course, is the traditional barrier to newcomers entering the hobby. I started role-playing in the early 1980s when the role-playing hobby was entering the zenith of its popularity. At that time, there were several factors that made the hobby very attractive to me. First, I was fascinated by the concept of playing a game that was essentially a regulated and cerebral form of my favorite activity as a child: playing make-believe. The second factor that attracted me to role-playing, once I became exposed to it, was its arcane terminology. If one could refer to a creature’s AC and HD, or cite a spell’s requirements for somatic components, or mention alignment or level, it made one feel clever. I was suddenly no longer just a miserable adolescent misfit, but an enlightened member of a secret brotherhood privy to obscure knowledge. It was satisfying to know a code that was incomprehensible to others.

As much as I initially enjoyed that aspect of the hobby, I must confess that its existence delayed my enjoyment of it. Before I knew what role-playing was, my brother had begged our parents to buy him the Monster Manual because he liked the pictures. For my brother in particular, this book was a dream come true: page after page of illustrations of one exotic creature after another. We could understand most of the descriptions, of course, but the list of statistics beneath each heading was a mystery indeed. I would read them with no comprehension at all of AC: 6 or Treasure Type: D or Damage: 2-12. What on earth? These things mean nothing whatsoever to an ordinary person.

After I had started playing Dungeons & Dragons, I would see articles about Traveller in White Dwarf and puzzle over streams of numbers that accompanied character names, such as 759C6B. Although I consider the hexadecimalization of character attributes interesting now, at the time it was nothing but a deterrent even to investigating the possibility of playing Traveller, especially since it was only available in shrinkwrapped little black books and box sets at the time, thus preventing any elucidation.

For a subculture in search of self-identification and the presentation of an aura of high intellect and obscure knowledge, gamer jargon seemed to serve a purpose. In reality, it further isolated gamers from the mainstream, made them objects of ridicule, made it more difficult to comprehend for newcomers who might wish to learn more about role-playing, and generally served no useful purpose.

I think the new wave of role-playing games ought to embrace an aesthetic and moral principle long promoted by the Fudge role-playing game: Make things easily understandable in plain language. Where jargon cannot be eliminated, minimize it. The emphasis, after all, ought to be role-playing, not drafting legal documents. Deliberate obfuscation in gaming only hinders the hobby.

Why, you may ask, would I be interested in the fourth edition of a game that I started boycotting when its second edition was released? The only glimmer of interest it holds for me is the involvement of Mike Mearls, some of whose work was originally known to me in this incarnation. Mearls is a sharp game designer, original thinker, and a very funny satirist. I am happy he is making a living doing what he loves, but I lament the misuse of his considerable powers, which would be better served (as far as I am selfishly concerned, if not his finances) in creating unique games and supplements for those games. That being said, his involvement in the project lends it some potential validity, which is why I would like to learn a little more about it. When the new edition is released, I will take a closer look for curiosity’s sake.

Once upon a time, game designers were content to use one term, for the most part, to describe the harnessing of supernatural forces. It was called “magic.” There seemed to be an infinite number of ways to explain the source of magic or how it works (if one felt the necessity) ranging from innate psychic gifts to channeling the energy of the Positive Material Plane to tapping the ambient magical field of one’s immediate surroundings. Any of these are enough to spark the imagination and possibly inspire one to conjecture about the “physics” of magic in a particular setting, even possibly leading to ideas for new adventures and background stories.

Then someone decided to take a word, a very specific word with a very specific religious meaning belonging to a very specific culture, and reduce it to a generic rules term. That word is mana. Looking at a variety of online sources, I note that the term in general has been diluted over the years, so I am forced to admit that game designers and rules hackers are probably not solely responsible for the word’s overuse:

1 : the power of the elemental forces of nature embodied in an object or person
2 : moral authority : PRESTIGE
(Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)

or:

(in Polynesian, Melanesian, and Maori belief) pervasive supernatural or magical power.

— ORIGIN Maori.
(AskOxford)

or:

a generalized, supernatural force or power, which may be concentrated in objects or persons.
[Origin: 1835–45; < Polynesian]
(Dictionary.com)

At one time, mana meant the supernatural power present in a being or object that could be released from its containment and utilized by another by destroying said being or object. It was tied to a belief system held particularly by the Maori, and it was especially important to concepts of divine and tribal authority.

Why someone thought mana would be an excellent word to be applied generically to magic in a fantasy setting of predominantly Western European influence is baffling. Medieval Western Europeans did, in fact, have a concept of magic as a force that could be locked within beings or objects, and they had words for it, too: “quintessence” and “prima materia.”

Perhaps it was once considered a nifty idea to use the word “mana” instead of “magic.” Perhaps it was thought to be exotic. Perhaps, even, it was thought that it would be more believable to have in-character conversations about mana than magic in a medieval European fantasy world. Read that sentence again. Yes, as absurd as it sounds, I think it may have been part of the rationale.

To most people, the presence of mana in a text about mostly Western magic is probably not as jarring and unaesthetic as it is to me. For my serious games, I like to immerse myself in another world, much as I like to do when I am reading a good novel. To me, a wizened alchemist muttering something about mana is about as convincing as the Sheriff of Nottingham using the phrase “crime scene investigation” or Robin Hood discussing the merits of “wealth redistribution.” If it were a comical interpretation, sure, anything goes. For that matter, the party can greet strangers with “aloha” and have luaus every night of their journey to Mordor. For serious games, however, I think mana is best limited to traditional Polynesian or modern cosmopolitan settings.

Incidentally, I do think that a traditional Polynesian setting would make a rich environment for gaming. The possibilities are… fascinating.