D&D: Anatomy of a Slow Reveal

Last week’s article on sea stories seemed to be popular, but judging by some of the comments, I got the impression that folks maybe would have preferred to know less about planning adventure stories and more about making stories that pay off in play the way they feel in the GM’s head.  To put it another way: How do we surprise our players with an ending that they probably should have seen coming?  This, to me, comes in the form of a twist ending, often as part of a slow reveal.

Outline Structure via Feedback from "Anatomy of a Sea Story"

Anchorite Gamer wrote:

Great write-up.

Which brings me to an idea: do you ahve or know of any tools for 'storyboarding' adventure or fiction design? I'm thinking an easy way to plot out major plot points, identify the critical path, as well as side quests/stories, etc.

I'm thinking of something like starting with a mindmap, then organizing into a \"PERT" type diagramming, and applying critical path analyses to keep major connections sound.

My answer went so long that I decided to make it a new post:

D&D: Monomyth Structure & Campaign Design

Even if you’ve never heard the term “monomyth,” you are in all likelihood already familiar with at least some of its aspects.  Also called “The Hero’s Journey,” the monomyth is the story structure that underlies most ancient mythology and which has more recently served as the foundation for more than a few of pop culture’s most enduring and iconic stories.  The most famous and explicit of these is the original Star Wars trilogy, but the form can also be found underpinning the structures of various books and films, including The Matrix, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Alice in Wonderland, the “Smallville” version of Superman, Captain America, The Hunger Games, and pretty much every other story in which the hero’s mentor dies tragically somewhere around half to three-quarters of the way through the story.  

The story of Heracles is one of the earliest
examples of the monomyth structure.

The monomyth works as because it’s part of our shared cultural language.  We’ve been brought up on it since the Greeks first started telling stories about Heracles around their shared camp fires some three thousand years ago.  It’s ingrained; it’s part of what makes us who we are.  As such—and because of its inherently mythological structure—the monomyth seems like a natural fit for a Dungeons and Dragons campaign.

A Look at Blog Traffic and the Overall State of the Blog

Readership is up.  I'm not sure exactly how much, and I have no way of knowing who exactly is reading, but I do know that folks are coming by and checking out the blog.  If that's you, welcome!

Let me just say, I'd love for you to drop a comment or two if you have the time, and you see something you like.  First, because--as I said--I've no way of knowing who's here.  Second, because if you don't let me know why you came, I don't know what to do more often.  Third, because I think a blog works best when there's a sense of community amongst readers, and though I've tried to foster that here, we're not there yet.  And finally, because although I have a few metrics that hint at what my total readership is, the reality is that they're crude tools.

Writer's Frustration

I've got a confession to make.  I was more than a little disappointed at the lack of comments on Tuesday's installment from “Sketch in My Notebook.”

Writing Update

The good news is that I'm a little more than 17,000 words into "Sneakatara Boatman and the Quest for the Lost Lumberjacks."  That's the short novella I'm writing for my kids for Christmas.  That word-count puts me at the start of Chapter 9, maybe two-thirds of the way through what I'm hoping will be a slightly less than 30,000-word story. 

Centurion Six—Issue #1, Part 2

First a quick note: I’ve been struggling with what to call this book for a while now.  And yes, I still think of it as a comic book.  Anyway, it finally occurred to me that I’m getting too wrapped up in the concept of this being a team book that’s named after The Team.  That is totally unnecessary.

I am therefore changing the name from E.F.D., which was terrible, to Centurion Six, which I think is both a stronger name and far more indicative of what the thing actually is.  I also created a Centurion Six tag, which will allow you to read the story from the beginning.

So, without further ado…

Our Story So Far:

Captains Blaine “Centurion Six” Winters and Jacob “Zulu” Mbeke have been called out by the NYPD to help investigate what appears to be a routine but grisly gang-related multiple homicide in the south Bronx.  Their expertise is needed because they are ultra-human members of the New York State National Guard’s Enhanced Forced Division (EFD), and the victims in the case were skrags, i.e. mundane humans attempting to gain ultra-human abilities through illegal drug and mutational gene therapies. 

Unfortunately for our heroes, however, their presence makes the local cops almost as nervous as do the bodies of the dead skrags.

Issue #1, Part 2

Rebecca lay in bed with her sheets and blanket pulled carefully over her.  She was fully dressed.  Her makeup was, she hoped, artfully applied.

Her phone beeped softly.  “Where the Hell are you?” it asked.

Rebecca whispered softly into the screen.  “I had to wait ‘til the guard dogs fell to sleep.  I’ll be there in a minute.”  She hit the SEND button, and the message sped off.

She pulled the sheet and the blanket away and stood up, checked herself in the mirror.  Neither the pink top nor the skirt looked rumpled, but she wondered again if maybe the top wasn’t a bit much.  It showed a lot of skin, and it was tight.  Her nipples stood out sharply against the fabric. 

Maybe I should wear a bra? she thought.  Then, Fuck it.  This is New York.  I want people to see me.

Rebecca stood for a moment and listened, first with her ears and then with her mind.  Nothing, neither sound nor stray thought.  She grabbed the heels she’d stolen from Shelby and turned, opening the door to her patio slowly.  The lights of the City blazed below; traffic sounds called out an invitation.  She slid into the heels and stepped out onto her balcony.  At this height, the wind was a caress, cool and energetic.  Possibility hung in the air.  She drew a breath and enjoyed the moment.

When she closed her door, though, she heard the lock click shut.

“Dammit!”  She’d forgotten to block the auto-lock.  Sneaking out this way might be easy, but getting back in was going to be a serious pain in the ass.  She shook her head.  “This had better be worth it.”

In the end, though, she couldn’t make herself worry.  The night was young, and so was she.  She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling the breeze and the pulse of the City.  Her Power came up, and she was aware that she was glowing.  Her balcony fell away, and she was out, hanging over Manhattan like a goddess.

All hail Rebecca Rodriguez, the Queen of New York City.

* * *

“So what’d’you think, Zee?” 

Blaine held the flashlight, let it play over the bodies.  One in particular caught his attention.  Like the others, it had been slashed open.  But on this one several of the ribs were snapped, their ends protruding outward from the upper abdomen.  And there, where the body’s meat had been tougher to cut through, Blaine could see four individual claw marks leading to the general ruin of the thing’s lower half.  The sight made him shiver, and not just because of the gore.

“It looks like a drug lab.”  Zulu shrugged.  “A bunch of dumbass skrags couldn’t handle their high.  The mutation itself was probably unstable, and God knows what all they mixed with the mutagen.  It’s the usual story.”

“Yeah?”  Blaine let the light play over the body with the snapped ribs.  “See anything else?”

“Like what?  Some skrag grew claws.  Nothing weird about that.  Nothing at all.”

“The attacker made this wound with four claws—all four fingers on his right hand.  And he didn’t just rip this guy up, he actually tore through the bone.”  Blaine looked at Zulu.  “You seen a lot of skrags who could tear through bone before?”

“So… what?  You’re thinking this was Jason now?”

“I don’t know what to think.  But it’s possible.  Last I heard, he was knocking over convenience stores down in Jersey.”

The cop looked annoyed.  “You two mind tellin’ me what you’re talkin’ about?”

“Yeah.  The boss thinks this might’ve been the work of a friend of his.  A guy who washed out of the E.F.D. back in the day.”  Zulu looked meaningfully at Blaine.  “But he’d just being paranoid because he got promoted to Team Leader.

“Listen, Blaine, with all due respect, this was a skrag meth lab.  These guys get hopped up, who knows what they’re capable of?  There is no reason to suspect that Jason King was anywhere near this.”

“I hope you’re right,” Blaine said.  Then: “Mainframe?  Begin recording.”

The computer answered through the link woven into Blaine’s uniform blouse.  MAINFRAME ONLINE.  RECORDING.

“Take atmospheric samples.  Can you determine what these guys were processing?”

ANALYZING.  PLEASE STAND BY.

The filters in Blaine’s uniform inhaled inaudibly.  A mass of complex data was transferred wirelessly back to Blaine’s office, and somewhere, a very large computer began doing calculations.

“If this comes back as crack cocaine or crystal-meth, can we please agree that you are over-reacting?” Zulu asked.

“Fine.”

ANALYSIS COMPLETE.  SUBSTANCE IS AMPHETAMINE METHYL-PHENCYCLIDINE. 

And just like that, the skeptical look on Zulu’s face fell away.  “Oh shit…”

WARNING.  SUBSTANCE IS A CLASS 1 REPORTABLE.  INITIATING AUTO-REPORTING PROCEDURES.

The cop looked confused.  “What the Hell does that mean?”

Blaine wasn’t surprised, but he couldn’t have explained exactly why not.  “A.M.P. is a Chinese Battle Drug, sergeant.  Turns regular infantry conscripts into steely-eyed berserkers.  And it’s not that hard to make, but you need a stabilizing protein that, quite frankly, I can’t believe even well-connected gangbangers would be able to lay hands on.  Not in this neighborhood, anyway.” He looked at Zulu.  “You still think I’m over-reacting, Zee?”

WARNING.  ANOMALOUS PROXIMITY READINGS DETECTED.  EVASIVE ACTIONS RECOMMENDED.

Blaine looked around, but of course, there was nothing to see.  He heard the metallic whine of a capacitor charging.

And then the world blew up.

E.F.D. #1 (Part 1)

As promised, here's the first part of my prose "webcomic" experiment.  Notice that when I envisioned this story  it was as a set of comic issues, and although I think the story works better as prose--hopefully you'll see why in a minute--I decided to leave the issue breaks in place instead of trying to break the story into more traditional prose chapters.  What that means long-term, I have no idea.

Anyway, this first part was the first three pages of sequential art when in script form.  It's about the same length in prose but broken out a little differently.  Enjoy!

Our Story So Far:

In the near future, tailored genetic mutations become the new weapons of mass destruction.  Easier to hide, cheaper to control, and with far less long-term clean-up costs than so-called “dirty” bombs, non-persistent chemical agents, or even conventional munitions, soon every tin-pot dictator, cult-leader, and nefarious non-state actor on the planet is developing some kind of “ultra-human” capability to push its agenda or just keep its people in line.  Against this, the United States initially deploys small numbers of home-grown uniformed ultra-human soldiers, augmented by an array of costumed vigilante “superheroes” with whom it has a close but unofficial working relationship.  Unfortunately, the mid-21^st Century is a litigious place, and in time, this unofficial relationship becomes untenable.  Costumed ultra-human battles create massive property damage as well as frequent civilian injuries or even losses of life.  Moreover, vigilante superheroes are themselves little better than non-state actors once they become involved in international affairs. 

All concerned soon realize that a better strategy is needed.

The Enhanced Forces Division (E.F.D.) is a pilot program that seeks to answer America’s ultra-human security needs.  In exchange for scholarships in the Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC), a handful of the country’s best and brightest ultra-humans—many the sons and daughters of well-known costumed superheroes of yesteryear—are recruited into the New York State National Guard where they are trained, commissioned, and placed on assignment in New York City. These young officers represent America’s first, best line of defense against the genetic monstrosities the outside world now has on offer.

 For the officers themselves, however, the E.F.D. is more than just their job.  This is their story.

E.F.D. #1 (Part 1)

The moon was full overhead, but the lights of the City below outshone the stars in the sky.  In a thirty-third floor penthouse, Captain Blaine Winters lay quietly, trying not to think. 

When his phone rang, it was almost a relief.

“Pick up.  Audio only.”  He sat up.  “Centurion Six.  Go.”

“Hey Blaine, sorry to wake you.  But you said to call if—“

“It’s alright.  I wasn’t asleep.  What’s up?”

“NYPD called for a consult.  Some skrag gangbangers got torn up in the Bronx.  Down around 149^th Street.  Looks drug related.”

“What time is it?”

“About midnight.  Listen, I can take this solo if you want.  It’s only a consult.  No big deal.”

Blaine sighed, hoped the sound didn’t make it through the phone’s mike.  “Nah,” he said, swinging his legs around.  His feet hit the floor.  “I’m already up.  You there yet?”

“En route now.  Trying to figure out which exit to take off the freaking Sheridan.”

Blaine walked to his closet, pulled a uniform blouse down off a hanger.  “Alright Zee.  I’ll be there in twenty.  Tell those asshole cops they better have some coffee for me when I get there.

“Will do, boss.  Zulu out.”

* * *

Blaine wasn’t exactly happy about being out on the streets of New York at half-past-midnight on a Thursday.  But it wasn’t all bad.  The streets were empty—a legitimate rarity in the City.  He was able to get the Ducati up to a hundred and ten. 

All too soon, Mainframe was beeping in his ear, telling him to get off the Expressway.  A minute later, he was pulling up to the flashing lights of a south Bronx crime scene. 

The scene was at a rundown row house, one of many in the neighborhood.  Most of the houses in the row had boarded up windows behind black iron bars that were, in many cases, missing some of the bolts that secured them to the sides of the houses.  One on the top left of the crime scene swung free, hanging down below its window by a single attachment.  The entire neighborhood was then embellished with graffiti tags and empty fast food wrappers.  All around, folks sat out on their porches, watching the excitement of local police activity.  Blaine saw bottles passed, cigarettes burning.  He got the feeling that these folks would be out, police or no.  As it was, NYPD was just the night’s entertainment.

The police themselves had come in three cars.  Most were standing around.  A couple were stringing crime tape across the scene’s front door. 

Zulu was standing, talking to one of the cops.  He broke away and headed towards Blaine, carrying a cup that looked like coffee.

He handed Blaine the coffee.  “Damn boss.  You look like Hell.”

“Thanks Zee.”

“Seriously, Blaine.  Coffee is not sleep.  You didn’t need to come out here tonight.”

“I told you.  I was already up.”

“I mean it.  You’re letting this promotion thing get in your head.  Just because you are leading the team now doesn’t mean—“

“Enough Zee,” Blaine said.  He needed to cut that off before Zulu got lathered up.  “I get it, man.  But we’re here now, so let’s just do the job, okay?”

“You’re the boss, Blaine.”

Blaine let that go, walked up to the oldest of the cops.  “What’ve we got, sergeant?”

The sergeant took one look at Blaine, at the uniform, and shrugged.  “Drug lab.  Bunch’a cut-up skrags.”

Blaine thought, Yeah?  If it was that obvious, why’d you call us for the consult?

Zulu arched an eyebrow, let an edge of disbelief creep into his voice.  “Skrags?”

Suddenly the cop looked uncomfortable, realized what he’d said.  “Uh… no offense.”

Zulu let a beat pass before replying.  “None taken.”

Oh lord, here we go, Blaine thought.  He led the way into the scene with his flashlight out.

The scene was a horror show.  Blood spattered walls and the shit-smell of death.  There were several bodies, all looking like they’d been mauled by an angry grisly.  One had been eviscerated, its guts flung against a wall and left in a pile.  Beyond that, the place was an obvious drug lab.  Blaine could tell by the smell of acetone in the air—overpowering even with all the bodies—as well as by the sheer amount of glassware in the room.  There must’ve been twenty beakers, now all smashed along with the tables on which they’d sat, and at least a dozen Bunsen burners.

“As it happens, sergeant,” Blaine said, “I’m guessing that these really were skrags.”  Blaine shook his head, couldn’t quite resist adding, “I don’t know if you know this, but ‘skrag’ is actually our term.  For ordinary humans who try to acquire gifts through artificial means.  Usually leads to the kind of chemistry-shop set up we’re seeing now.”

Blaine couldn’t help feeling smug when he saw The Look flash across the sergeant’s face.  “Uh… ‘our’ term?”

“Sorry.  Guess we should’ve introduced ourselves.”  Blaine stuck out his hand, and the sergeant shook it.  “Captain Blaine Winters, Ultra-Human Enhanced Forces Division, New York State National Guard.  Callsign Centurion 6.  My associate is Captain Jacob Mbeke, on permanent assignment with the E.F.D. from the South African Army.”

Jacob smiled.  “Callsign Zulu.  And before you ask, sergeant, the answer is yes.  We are both legitimate ultra-humans.  Not ‘skrags,’ as you might say.”

Real Steel

This is the poster for a real movie that
made real money.

I watched the movie Real Steel last night, and while I liked it, I also think it's the final proof that story execution is more important than story concept.  I mean, in concept, Real Steel is idiotic.  A loser on bottom rungs of the independent fight circuit suddenly learns that he has a son, and together the two of them build and train a champion fighting robot.  On top of that, the movie leaves several plot threads hanging with little or no resolution.  And yet... a hit!

The movie works, I think, because the script is pretty good, because it's well-acted, and because it's well-produced.  Most important, to me, is the script.  This movie has A LOT going on, but the screenwriters manage to keep it balanced.  Yes, they leave a couple of plot threads hanging, but consider: this is a Sci Fi-Sports Movie-Romance.  All of those elements have to get screen time, and the characters have to have room to breath.  In the hands of lesser writers, this movie would have run three-and-a-half hours!

Of course, it help to have a good formula to work with, and this particular film has three.  At base, we have the Sports Movie Formula, in which a talented loser finds a reason to get his life together and become the champion that the people around him always believed that he could be.  Layered over that is the Romance--executed here as a budding Father-Son relationship--in which two people are made for each other, but something ridiculous keeps them apart.  Finally, there's the Sci Fi formula--here, a human boxer struggling to make it in a world where actual humans no longer box.  Of course, it's this last plot thread that gets left hanging.  It's implied that Hugh Jackman's character misses traditional boxing, but we never actually see that, and moreover, the guy seems to actively like playing with robots.  Yet, it's his skill as a boxer--a human boxer--that actually turns the plot, allowing our heroes to successfully resolve the primary plot thread.

Still, people like sports movies, and they like good romances, and this movie is both of those things.  You can see most of that in the clip below.  And that, I think, is what makes this movie work--good formula that's executed well.

Sunday Comics, Day 9. Bronx Angel: Born Leader (Page 8)

Bronx Angel: Born Leader--Page 8.
Click here to view page at full size.

As a storyteller, one of the best ways to convey information to your audience is to allow the reader to overhear characters giving an opinion on something.  For example, want to get across the idea that some female character is promiscuous?  Have a couple of the jocks call her a slut while they're changing in the locker room after football practice.

Here, I wanted to get the idea across that Angel's unit is taking heavy fire.  That's the purpose of this page.  In storytelling terms, it's Development.  Which is to say that this is the part where things get worse for the hero.

As always, click the Sunday Comics tab below to read the story from the beginning.

A New Hope

It’s been awhile, right?

Yeah, I know.  I got kind of bored with the old blog, which started out as an idea about DMing for online Play-by-Post (PbP) role-playing games but then gradually segued into a continual running commentary about my career as an amateur triathlete.  No real harm there, save that the name, Storyteller’s Playbook, was a little misleading.  Having already been through that with Proletariat Comics, I decided to do what I should have done the first time with PC LLC—just let the old idea go and re-brand myself. 

Yeah, I know.  You hate to give up that hard-earned branding, for whatever it’s worth.  I know I do.  I certainly did with PC LLC.  And at a certain point, Storyteller’s Playbook did actually have a few readers.  I can only imagine that some few of them—not the smarter few, certainly, but some—are still checking in over there every day, wondering what in the Hell ever happened to me. 

That image makes me smile.

But seriously.  Nobody’s reading this thing, right?  I mean, come on, there are stats.  I know that that’s true.  This is basically just my online diary.  And that works.  I mean, if anything, it’s better.  God knows that half of what I write tends to convince people that I’m a Communist, and the other half seems to make them wonder if I’m somehow coming unglued.  Like, whatever happened to that guy?  Didn’t his parents die?  Losing his faith, too?  Is he okay?  I mean, he used to be, y’know, sort’a normal.  Right?  Didn’t he?

And if that’s the way it’s gonna be, then maybe fewer readers is actually BETTER.  Right?

Eh.  Fuck that.  Who wants fewer readers?

Still, if you don’t know me personally—or maybe even if you do—I can see why it might seem like I’m the hardest guy in the world to understand.  I get it.  Sometimes I feel like I’m completely out of step witheveryone.  And I don’t know what to do about it.  I don’t particularly like it like that, but I also don’t particularly want to change.  For the most part, despite everything, life is good.  I’m mostly happy.  Why does it have to be me that’s out of step?  Why can’t the rest of the world just realize that they’re the ones who’re wrong?

*sigh*

Look, I don’t just think, I actually KNOW that John Huntsman was the best fucking candidate for the Republican nomination.  And if that doesn’t explain the problem, then I don’t know what else will.

Still, I get it.  Extroverted people think that introverted people lack self-esteem.  Partiers think that dedicated triathletes are insane prudes who don’t know how to have a good time.  And everyone thinks that dudes who play D&D are total nerds.  But. Y’know, sometimes being introverted means that when someone else has a problem with you, it’s their problem.  That can be off-putting to the outgoing but insecure, but it doesn’t change the essential fact that it’s still true.  And sometimes—most times—a triathlete is just a guy who happens to get off more on exercise than alcohol.  And, well, sometimes an arch-Dungeon Master is just a guy who used to write comic books but got frustrated with it, who then decided to take his writing itch out on the captive audience of his online gaming group.  ‘Course that doesn’t mean that I’m not still a big geek, but you know, I think it’s just all about context.

So anyway, here we are.  I’m winding up one of my games—it just wasn’t working for me—and looking for something new.  And somewhere along the way, I realized that, hey, I’m still getting between three and five requests for comic reviews every week.   So I thought about taking that and either going back to Paperback Reader or looking for some new review site and writing for them, but as a proud graduate Fordham University’s Graduate School of Business, I just can’t bring myself to give it away.  I just can’t write for somebody else’s site without getting paid at least something.  I can’t help thinking that at the end of the day, you’re better off working in total obscurity than you are writing for something like HuffPo, where Ariana Huffington makes millions but all the contributors who actually generated content for her site get left completely out in the cold.  That’s not at all what I want.  I mean, yeah, I know that sites like Paperback Reader and Major Spoilers don’t really generate much in the way of revenues after costs, but I don’t care.  I’m not a charity.  I’d still rather waste my time on a blog that’s totally obscure but wholly mine than get more readership but work towards an end in which I have no vested interest whatsoever.

I don’t know what else to say about it. 

This is my blog.  Welcome.  I hope you’ll come back.