-1 unarmed, no formal combat training
+0 unarmed, formal combat training
+0 small weapon
+1 medium weapon
+2 large weapon
+1 sharpness
+1 two-handed

So, if a character enters combat, you ask yourself these questions:

If the character is unarmed, is he formally or informally trained in unarmed combat? (Apply 0 if the former or -1 if the latter.)

If the character is armed, is the weapon small, medium, or large? (Apply 0, +1, or +2 respectively.) If it is sharp, add +1. If it is wielded with two hands, add +1.

Example: A rock is a small blunt weapon (ODF +0). A shillelagh is a medium blunt weapon (+1 medium = ODF +1). A knife is a small sharp weapon (+1 sharpness = ODF +1). A gladius is a medium sharp weapon (+1 medium +1 sharpness = ODF +2). A longsword is a large sharp weapon (+2 large +1 sharpness = ODF +3). A claymore is a large, sharp, two-handed weapon (+2 large +1 sharpness +1 two-handed = ODF +4).

This can easily be used to extrapolate the damage factors of everyday items such as a bowling ball (medium blunt object; ODF +1), a brick (small blunt object; ODF +0), a spade (large, blunt, two-handed tool; ODF +3), or a sickle (medium sharp tool; ODF +2).

This presents a quandary. Why would anyone choose to learn a specific weapon skill if Brawling can give one the ability to use just about anything as effectively? We know that household objects are not as effective as actual weapons, but how can this fact be reflected without complicating the simple formula of which we are so fond? Since the ordinary object is inferior to the weapon possessing similar qualities by virtue of its different design purposes, I think the best way to reflect this is to impose an initiative penalty to the wielder of the ordinary object whenever the two are matched. This would only work if alternating combat turns are being used. If simultaneous combat rounds are being used, one could rule that the wielder of the actual weapon gains a +1 mêlée modifier when engaged against a brawler attacking with a chair or a walking stick or any other object.

I was thinking about this as I was adding the description to the Brawling skill in Optimum Skills for Fudge. The unarmed combat skills are the only skills for which I have not yet written descriptions, and Brawling, being the most basic of all fighting techniques, is the first I have undertaken. On the table above, Brawling qualifies as unarmed, no formal combat training, and thus provides a -1 offensive damage factor. Any other form of unarmed combat requires some amount of formal training (having a default level of Nonexistent) and provides a 0 offensive damage factor. Special attack techniques will bestow a +1 offensive damage factor. To keep things simple, I think the difference between most of the martial arts will be style rather than effect, leaving the description of specific techniques to players if they so desire (and providing some examples in the skill descriptions). Certain skills may have exceptions, such as Aikido, Judo, Jujutsu, and Wrestling, which are more focused on disabling opponents than injuring or killing them (depending on the style and the individual practitioner, of course).

The strength and weakness of Doctor Who as a role-playing game is that it is best suited for small groups, preferably of one to four players plus the GM. If the Doctor ever had more than three Companions at once I would be surprised, and more often he had only one. This is not to say that more Companions would be impossible, but it would certainly be a challenge to maintain the atmosphere of the show with so many main characters (and it must be stated here, if it was not already obvious, that one of the major goals of this game is to convey the atmosphere of the original show, regardless of whether the players are portraying characters from the show or characters they have created).

For those who have difficulty finding or starting a gaming group (or coördinating the schedules of the members when a group is found or started), playing a game that offers the richest rewards for smaller groups is a blessing. Doctor Who thrives best when there are only a handful of characters. Violent solutions to problems should always be a last resort (except in the case of rare characters like Leela), and smaller groups will be less tempted to use force unless necessary. By the same token, if there are fewer player characters, each will have more opportunity to interact socially with the non-player characters. In general, the greater the number of Companions a Time Lord has, the more all of them will be overshadowed by the Time Lord. Fewer Companions will have more opportunities to participate, and each will be likelier to shine in a particular area of expertise or natural advantage, e.g. Zoë with her super high intelligence or Jamie with his bravery and decisiveness.

In my own experience running FASA’s Doctor Who, sessions with two players were ideal, but sessions with just a single player were quite playable and enjoyable. Entire stories (which in Doctor Who typically consisted of four episodes) could be run in a single session with no sense of being rushed. This would be perfect for convention events, were it not for the fact that convention organizers usually prefer role-playing events to accommodate at least six players. True, there are times when only one or two players will turn up at an event. The first time I ever ran an event at a convention (GenCon XVIII), two players showed up for the first time slot for my satirical take on the World of Greyhawk for Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, 1st Edition. I could have cancelled it, but I decided to run it, and a fun time was had by all despite the fact that I had designed it for four to six players. For the second time slot, six players reported in, plus two more. Being too much of a softy, I allowed the two extra players in (I had had the foresight to bring additional pregenerated characters), but a combination of factors (including the length of the table, the loudness of the game room, and the unwieldy number of participants) made the experience less satisfying (especially for the unfortunates at the opposite end of the table at whom my descriptions often had to be yelled to be heard). As a result, the maximum number of players I will now accept at my events is six, and the number I prefer is four. With regard to this game, however, I think it might be best to run it as a free Fudge demo amongst one to four interested parties at a time. [Edit: To clarify, when I used the word "parties" I meant "individuals," not "parties of adventurers." That would be a challenge.] I’m not sure of any other way to run it effectively at a convention.

In summary, this game will be aimed at maintaining the dynamics of small groups consisting of at least one Time Lord and one to three Companions (one of whom may also be a Time Lord) to better promote playability and preserve the atmosphere of the original Doctor Who.

As far as more functional applications go (in line with the article), it occurs to me that the musical cues for police procedurals Laws describes would be perfect for games such as Stalking the Night Fantastic or Bureau 13 by Tri Tac Games, Strange World by Carnivore Games, or any other paranormal/supernatural/cryptozoölogical investigative role-playing games (or GURPS Cops, come to think of it). I’ll certainly be considering it for my own gaming in this genre.

The problem of how to plunge characters into adventure was addressed in FASA’s Doctor Who with the invention of the renegade Celestial Intervention Agency, which kept an eye on Temporal Nexus Point Earth and sent field agents there in stolen TARDIS units to halt the activities of temporal marauders. The idea of an agency of Time Lords who share the Doctor’s ethics and guide the players from one adventure to another is a good one, although I have a different view of the form it would take and I don’t think it ought to be the only method of introducing a scenario. The following is an excerpt of a work in progress:

THE EXCUSE FOR ADVENTURE

Why do characters do what they do? Specifically, how do they manage to
find themselves entangled in difficult situations that may involve the
fate of nations, planets, or even the universe as we know it? In Doctor
Who, the answer is typically a TARDIS misjump due to a faulty mechanism,
a miscalculation, or the effect of a temporal phenomenon. Sometimes the
TARDIS is drawn off course intentionally by a friend or foe intent on
thwarting the Doctor or enlisting his aid. Often the excuse for adventure
is pure coincidence. The Doctor and his Companion are off to this time or
that planet to enjoy its rare attractions when they are unexpectedly
thrust into the middle of one of the Master’s evil plots or an attempt by
the Daleks to enslave or exterminate another species. Although it works
well enough for a television programme, the premise may wear thin for
players when every adventure begins with a holiday outing interrupted by
interstellar conspiracy.

To provide a framework for continuing adventures without straining
credibility too much, an element has been added to the Classic Doctor Who
Universe (thus making it part of the Expanded Classic Doctor Who
Universe): the Temporal Integrity Preservation Society.

The Temporal Integrity Preservation Society (or T.I.P.S.) is a “club” of
independently-minded Time Lords concerned with threats to the timestream.
Operating from a private headquarters on Gallifrey and numerous TARDIS units
throughout time and space, its members monitor the natural and proper flow
of time and actively correct any deviations that are detected. Each
member’s TARDIS is equipped with a special device that enables members to
communicate with and be located by T.I.P.S. Headquarters. In the event
that a temporal deviation is detected, any member’s TARDIS can be
contacted and given the proper coordinates for emergency action. Adventure
can then proceed. Once the deviation has been corrected, Headquarters is
informed and the member returns to standby status.

Occasionally, the players will be the first to detect a disturbance in the
temporal flow, either from the instruments on the TARDIS or from personal
observation whilst visiting a particular time and place. Under those
circumstances, the players would immediately contact T.I.P.S.
Headquarters, investigate the matter, and attempt to correct the situation
(not necessarily always in that order).

It should be noted that not all temporal disturbances are the result of
obvious tampering by time travellers. Temporal anomalies do occur, and
sometimes only the wisdom and conscience of a Tipsy (as T.I.P.S. members
are both fondly and derogatorily referred to) can determine whether
intervention is permissible. Whereas the Doctor may oppose interference
with the Aztec ritual of human sacrifice on the grounds that it would
destroy the timestream, he may actively participate in defending Earth
against a Rutan invasion that, according to his knowledge of Earth’s
history, should not have succeeded in the 1890s. Whether his actions were
the cause of his own knowledge of the events is immaterial. The fact that
he knew that the Rutans must be opposed is proof that their failure to
conquer Earth was the proper result in the time line. The fact that he knew
that the Aztecs practiced human sacrifice until their conquest by the
Spanish is proof that their continuance of the ritual was the proper
result in the time line. One could argue circles around the subject of time
travel indefinitely, but for the purposes of adventure gaming in a light
science fiction setting, it is enough to know that the players ought to
sense when it is right to intervene, and when it is wrong. If they know
something didn’t happen a certain way in history, then they know they
ought to preserve that outcome as members of the Temporal Integrity
Preservation Society. If they don’t know something didn’t happen a
certain way (such as an event in our distant future or on an alien
planet), then they ought to proceed as if it were proper for them to be
there and do the right thing (avert an epidemic, liberate an enslaved
people, rescue the survivors of a crashed spaceship, stop a cult of alien
vampires, etc.). This both captures the tone of Doctor Who and promotes
playability.

In general, I think the role of Time Lord ought to be assumed by a player, as it is in FASA’s Doctor Who, rather than the GM, as it is in Time Lord (which is an ironic title for a game where the players only get to be Companions). What fan of the show hasn’t yearned to have power over time and space and an extended lifespan in which to enjoy that power? It’s rather like creating a superhero game in which the players are only allowed to play characters like Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane, or Alfred the butler. I can see a mixed party having potential for open-minded role-players, but I am doubtful of the attraction of a game where all the players are mundane supporting characters of the non-player character “star” who has all the exotic skills, gadgets, and powers. The player characters, in effect, are the non-player character’s fault or disadvantage: Dependents (Player Character Companions).

The inevitable problem is that one’s gaming group will consist of more than one player who wishes to play a Time Lord. There are several possible solutions, and I am hoping I will be able to think of more. First, one can have a rotating Time Lord. For the first scenario, Player A will play the Time Lord and everyone else will play Companions. For the second scenario, Player B will get the honor, and so on until everyone has had a chance to play the Time Lord of the group, after which the privilege passes again to Player A, etc. The advantage is that the integrity of the show’s social dynamics are preserved. The disadvantage is that it may be a long time before some players ever get to be the star.

The second solution is to allow everyone to play whatever role they desire, which would probably lead to multiple Time Lords or even groups of nothing but Time Lords. This precedent can be found in the fourth Doctor’s Companion, Romana, who was herself a Time Lord (or Time Lady, depending on your term of preference). It can also be found in various Doctor Who specials that temporarily united multiple incarnations of the Doctor in a single story under highly unusual and rare circumstances. The advantage, of course, is that everyone gets to play a Time Lord without waiting for their turn. The disadvantage is that there may be multiple Time Lords, but there is usually only one TARDIS. Whose TARDIS is it? Whoever has the TARDIS has ultimate authority regardless of how many Time Lords are travelling in it. If everyone has their own TARDIS, how is group cohesion achieved?

The third solution is to use the same cast of characters, but switch roles at certain intervals, once per session, or once per scene, or once per dramatic conflict. Or it could be timed: once per hour, or once per 5 minutes. Depending on the frequency, it could make the session seem more or less like a party game, which might make for a welcome change of pace, or possibly a suitable prelude to an informal Doctor Who-viewing festival.

I think this is something I ought to address in the rules, at least in terms of suggesting options, if not recommendations.

One of the things I like most about Risus is the way it lends itself to the rapid creation of interesting and entertaining characters. There is no muss, no fuss, just the essence of a character that is understandable at a glance and easy and fun to role-play. That alone makes Risus a thing of beauty. The approach it encourages is one that is eminently suited to Fudge, too, and it might not be a bad idea to think of similar fun, quick, systematic approaches to character creation for that game as well, possibly even creating a gallery of such characters in the same manner. ‘Tis food for thought.

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 ship prefix most commonly heard in Star Trek is “USS” as in “USS Enterprise.” We know from the original series that USS stands for “United Spaceship,” which is conveniently close to its historical inspiration, “United States Ship.” The only other ship prefix heard is “SS” as in “SS Beagle” or “SS Columbia.” We can assume in this case that SS stands for “Spaceship,” pertaining to Federation ships in general, whereas USS denotes Star Fleet ships. (The historical meaning of SS, incidentally, is “Steamship.”)

The question is: Do other major spacefaring civilizations also use ship prefixes? I see no reason why they should. If the Germans and the Japanese during World War II perceived no purpose for ship prefixes, why should the Klingons and Romulans? Perhaps that is an unfair comparison, perhaps not, but it possesses an appealing symmetry. Besides, the logical choices are decidedly unappealing. For instance:

• “Imperial Romulan Ship”: IRS
• “Romulan Imperial Naval Ship”: RINS
• “Imperial Klingon Ship”: IKS
• “Klingon Imperial Naval Ship”: KINS
• “Klingon Imperial Spaceship”: KISS

I suppose one could simply resort to RSS for “Romulan Spaceship” and KSS for “Klingon Spaceship,” but both sound too Federation-like, too neighborly, too friendly. The Tholian Assembly is far too alien to have any use for something as quaint as ship prefixes, and I think the Gorn are likely to lack the sentimentality to give their ships names at all.

Therefore, in the Expanded Classic Star Trek Universe, USS and SS will be retained for Federation starships, Klingon and Romulan ships will have names sans ship prefixes, Gorn ships will use hull classification symbols combined with hull numbers exclusively for identification, and Tholian ships will use only hull numbers (a.k.a. registry).

Furthermore, Star Fleet vessel identification will consist of the following:

1. ship prefix (e.g. USS)
2. name (e.g. ENTERPRISE)
3. registry (e.g. NCC-1701)
4. hull classification symbol/hull number combinations (e.g. CA-2)

Hull classification symbol/hull number combinations are used to identify individual ships by their type (e.g. CA for Heavy Cruisers) and their production number (e.g. 2 for the second ship of that type to be commissioned). Ships of different classes within a type are numbered consecutively for their production within the type, not the class, i.e. Constitution class Heavy Cruisers CA-1 through CA-19 might be followed by the hypothetical Magna Carta class Heavy Cruisers CA-20 through CA-22, which might be followed in turn by the Fuji class Heavy Cruisers CA-23 through CA-25. A class that is too radically different from its predecessors might warrant reclassification as a separate type altogether, along with a new series of hull numbers, e.g. USS Dreadnought (NCC-whatever) (BB-1). Here BB stands for Battleship and 1 stands for the first ship of that class.