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Timing is apparently not my strong suit. A few days ago, someone mentioned how much they loved the graveyard scene in the Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves. Watch the scene here before it disappears.

I wasn’t as big a fan of the scene. Sure, it was funny, but it exemplifies the difference between legacy and modern gamers. Okay, I mean old people and young people. Whatever. As D&D players, we all want this movie to emulate the game, so our different approaches to the game affect our reactions to the movie or individual scenes. In the old days, failure was a thing in RPGs. If a magic user (that’s a wizard for the young’uns) wanted to learn a new spell, the player rolled percentile dice with a target number dependent on the character’s intelligence. If the roll failed, the wizard not only didn’t learn the spell, but could never learn it. Ever. That’s failure. The dice giveth, and the dice taketh away.

Nowadays, failure has fallen out of favor, granted to different degrees depending on the individual. Today, if a player were told that they could never learn the fireball spell, they’d be furious. If they couldn’t deduce a password from a riddle, it’s possible they’d quit your game. As I’ve discussed before (see the section, Another Example: The Puzzle Encounter), I once had players get angry at me because they couldn’t solve a puzzle trap, and as a result, the trap went off doing zero (0) points of damage to them.

Yeah, you read that right, but read it again if you don’t think you did.

Play whatever game you want — that’s the name of this blog — but I find this approach boring. I don’t try to solve easy sudoku puzzles; I go for the hard ones. I want the chance of failure because that’s how I improve. But even from a purely entertainment perspective, what’s the point of rolling the dice or even showing up to the game if you know the outcome? The players should instead tell the DM how they want the session to go, and the DM respond, “Sure, that’s what happened. Congratulations. You won D&D. Now get out of here and play some miniature golf or something.” Where’s the excitement in that? I really don’t get it, and it’s why I’m not involved in organized play anymore. Most tables just hand the players the victories.

This is not to say that I enjoy the notion of a character dying during character creation as in Traveler. There should be a chance of success, and the chances should tilt in favor of the players, but when the players don’t start enjoying my game until I remove all the challenge from it, I think the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction.

Nowadays, players don’t accept near enough failure in their games for them to be of interest to me, and the graveyard scene demonstrates this point. The point of the scene was to do something funny, and it succeeded, at least at first. I have no problem with that. However, after they failed, they simply tried again. And again. And again. The resource allowing them to speak with the dead was apparently unlimited, which means they couldn’t fail. Not only did that remove all consequences, and thus appear non-heroic, but it also detracted from the joke itself. Repeating a joke too many times is one way to ruin it. Why is the screw up funny if this is an unlimited trial-and-error.

I would have written the scene in one of two alternative ways, and this is how my game would play out. First, they fail, so they have to be clever and come up with a different way to learn the information they need. Because this is a movie, that may not work. The movie could get really long, and no one really wants to watch a movie about people studying at a library. Second, they fail, but they get only one more bite at the apple. This time, they plan it out, come up with the five questions, assign one person to ask them, and everyone else shuts their annoying mouths (that’s another issue altogether).

That’s funny and heroic because the characters still had to rise to the occasion. But I really don’t think people want true heroes anymore, which is also demonstrated by this scene. They want to see idiots . . . .

. . . win the day despite having none of the tools, including the personality and strength of character, to succeed. The only reason he succeeds is because the script says so. There’s nothing about him, even in a world of magic and monsters, that justifies his success logically. Even within that world, he’s a screw up, but he suddenly succeeds, because the screenwriters know that’s what the modern gamer wants to see, and they’re the foundation of the audience for this movie. After his success, he returns to being the same idiot that shouldn’t have succeeded in the first place. He didn’t improve; he was just handed success by the writers. This reminds me of another example.

None of us are perfect; some of us just can’t handle being reminded of that.

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