Game Mechanics and Story Structure

board_games A guest post by Tom Buller

When was the last time you played Monopoly? I’m not asking if you’ve ever played, because most of us have endured that ubiquitous game. Chances are you didn’t want to touch it for years afterward. Dare I ask if you want to join me for a game of mostly random chance that drags on and on with only rare glimpses of entertainment—tiny bursts of enjoyable conflict amidst crushing boredom and steady, mild, unproductive stress?

I thought not. Thankfully, these days board games stomp all over Monopoly with its own pewter boot. The best games now play in less time and keep players engaged throughout, from first card drawn until the last roll of the dice.

The difference? Mechanics. Order. A well-constructed system. Monopoly presents a broad theme with very basic options that fail to drive the experience to its conclusion before half the players want to flee the table (or wander off looking for some wet paint they can watch dry). Modern games, like Settlers of Catan or Ticket to Ride, to name a couple of popular options, offer focused gameplay with play times well matched to their premise and structure.

The system and mechanics are to board games as story structure is to fiction.

One of the most compelling mechanics is the type that offers players multiple options but limits their choices. If you desperately want to do three different things on your turn but can only choose one, the tension will keep you always wanting just one more turn. Or three, or a dozen.

In fiction, we are guiding the players through the game. Outside of certain children’s books, readers aren’t making choices about the story’s direction. We choose for them. But can we create and maintain that tension and interest? Character development can blur the lines and get readers cheering for more than one character, even ones supposedly on opposing sides. Shades of gray give readers doubt and engage them in thoughts about competing motivations.

Speaking of what readers want, we can look to games like Ticket to Ride as reminders to hold off. Let the anticipation build. Two of Ticket to Ride’s game mechanics are card drafting and set collection. The former means choosing cards from a limited pool, and the latter is exactly what it sounds like. Players seek particular cards, but often miss out on them or simply don’t see them pop up on their turn, so when the moment finally arrives, it’s a big payoff. Delayed gratification. As writers, we of course want to give readers what they want, but it’s better for everyone if there’s a struggle toward the jackpot.

Then there’s the element of chance: rolling the dice. Many of the more successful games these days have stricter limits on randomness. A greater percentage of actions must be deliberate, chosen tactics part of a greater strategy. It’s a lesson for building plot—random chance can only act on your story so much before you begin to lose the audience. Coincidences happen more often in real life than they can in fiction. The author and the game designer are perfect analogs of each other. Sorry, author, you must carefully lay out the events in your story or risk writing a dice-laden game of Monopoly that drives readers away.

Remember your last game of Monopoly that just wouldn’t end, no matter how much money you pilfered from the bank so poorly guarded by Cousin Becky? If only Parker Brothers had designed the thing with a well-structured and timely end game. It’s no Settlers of Catan, which sets an exact winning bar and employs a system that allows exponential growth toward the goal, speeding progress as players vie for victory.

When crafting your story’s resolution, modern board games reiterate a message that always bears repeating: choose a specific end point and give plenty of thought to timing.

With board games, theme can take the experience to the next level, as with setting in fiction. The theme can support the mechanics, keeping players or readers engaged even despite elements of the underlying structure that aren’t quite dialed in. For example, if you love everything ancient Egyptian, you’ll probably stick with a lesser game that’s dripping in hieroglyphics and has a board festooned with miniature pyramids. Maybe you’d even play one more round of Monopoly: Sphinx Edition. But if The Great Pyramid is simply a title pasted over Park Place, you won’t be playing much longer. Systematic structure separates the games and books that sit on the shelf gathering dust from those we invite all our friends to enjoy.

Guest Writer Bio: Tom Buller Tom Buller writes corporate marketing copy by day and is a freelance editor by night, juggling a toddler somewhere in between. He stumbled upon board gaming a decade ago when a friend introduced him to Settlers of Catan, forever changing his conception of what a board game can be. Favorite fiction genres: thrillers, science fiction, and fantasy.

Baby Got Backstory

Dragon Warrior 4 CoverA guest post by Kim May

I still have nightmares about the time we battled a trio of Mystic Dolls. Those damn things multiplied faster than we could kill them. They killed Mara and Nara first, and Brey soon after. Christo destroyed one with a fire spell before a clone got him in return. Taloon was run through before he could summon the Merchant Army. Ragnar and Alena took down a doll and three clones before succumbing to their wounds. I had to defeat the last doll on my own, surrounded by the bodies of my friends. It may have been my imagination, but I swear I heard Ragnar’s spirit cheer me on as I ran my sword through that doll with a cry of anguish. In the nightmare the last doll doesn’t die, though I know it did because I remember the solitary two day journey back to town with everyone’s bodies piled in the wagon so each could be revived by the local healer.

Are these the opening paragraphs to my new novel? No. I was playing Dragon Warrior IV on the 8 bit NES.

In my family, this was THE game to play. Everyone in the house had a quest in progress and a set amount of time every day in which to play. We had all the maps and stat sheets so we could plan our expeditions. All of us gave my sister a bad time for spending more time doubling down in the casino than leveling up. Mom and I would debate the wisdom of risking life and limb to progress further in the quest versus patiently waiting another ten levels so we could easily slaughter every beastie in our path.

So why did we play this one game over all others, including the previous installments in the Dragon Warrior franchise? This game made us care about the characters.
Dragon Warrior was like many fantasy RPGs in that you had to level up and acquire the necessary items and armors in order to defeat the villain. Where IV differed from the standard RPGs of the day was that not only could you choose the hero’s name, you could choose their gender. For the first time I could be a girl and still win the day without being penalized because heroines in this game had the same HP, magic, and strength of their male counterpart.

Another big deviation from the norm, and what I feel was the game’s best asset, was that you had to play the quests for each of the companions before you could even start the hero/heroine’s quest. At first this may sound annoying but the prologue for each of the four companion quests established who the POV character was and why they had to venture into dangerous places because of the villain’s wrongdoings. It was clear why Ragnar had to rescue the kidnapped children, why Princess Alena didn’t fit in at court, why Taloon could get better prices for weaponry, and why sweet Mara and Nara wanted vengeance.

When the hero/heroine encountered each of the companions in the final quest, each still possessed the XP, weapons, and armor that they had at the end of their individual quests. I could take pride in _________ being an asset to the party because of all the effort I put into their individual quest. It also made their enlistment a happy reunion rather than a burden since I didn’t have to spend half my time healing them in the middle of a battle.

Conversely, when one or more of the companions died it magnified the failure. It became personal. Which of course meant that the next six days were spent leveling up and getting better armor so the next time I encountered that monster I could put its head on a spike.

This is the power of backstory. Whether it’s a video game, a novel, or a bedtime story that you pull out of the aether, backstory is important. Not only does a backstory make characters more realistic, it makes their actions more powerful because the reader knows why they acted a particular way. Mara and Nara’s oath to kill the villain may be noble but it’s the fact that the villain killed their father that makes players silently root for them on their journey. If Ragnar, happened to die in battle during the final quest, the feelings of sadness and anger aren’t simply the product of a bruised ego. It’s the product of the indebtedness players felt because Ragnar was responsible for saving the juvenile hero/heroine’s life in the first companion quest. And as players, we had a front row seat for all of it.

So the next time you create a story, take some time to think about what happened before page one. Your readers/players/listeners will thank you for the effort.

Guest Writer Bio: Kim PicKim May writes sci-fi and fantasy but has been known to pen a gothic poem or two. She works at an independent bookstore and dog/house sits on the side. A native Oregonian, she lives with her geriatric cat, Spud, and spends as much of her free time as she can with family and friends. She recently won The Named Lands Poetry Contest. If you would like to find out what she’s working on, please visit her blog.

Where the Rules Come From

My love affair with board games began when I was a small child. Every once in a blue moon, our family would gather around the dining room table and play a board game. When I say “blue moon,” I mean it. It hardly ever happened, and I think the scarcity of these occasions was part of the draw. I was also fiercely competitive, which hasn’t changed much.

Back in the late 1980s, as I was coming of age, the first Nintendo console was brand new. Hot off the assembly lines. I thought Duck Hunt was fun, but oh my God was I bad at it. I always blamed it on poor hand-eye coordination, the same excuse I gave for being so dismal at baseball, football, soccer… well, any sport really, right down to miniature golf. (Turns out I’m not terrible at curling, only middling, but that’s a whole other post, which sadly will most likely never appear on this blog due to being so wildly off-topic as to be side-splittingly hilarious.)

So where was I?

Oh yeah. Nintendo. I was bad at it. I was one of those guys who struggled to get through the first world of the original Super Mario Bros. Those damned killer flower vines always crawled up at the worst moments, and don’t even mention the bottomless chasms. No matter how narrow the holes, I sent Mario and Luigi careening straight into them every time. It’s like riding a bike and trying to avoid hitting a tree while you’re staring right at it—harder than it sounds, trust me.

As I got older, gaming platforms got more advanced, but my aforementioned hand-eye coordination didn’t. I sat back while at my friends’ houses and watched Goldeneye tournaments drag on for hours. When they asked me if I wanted a turn, I politely declined, saying that really, no, I preferred to spectate.

What a crock.

So it was board games for me, but it was hard to find anyone willing to play them. And the selection wasn’t particularly sophisticated; on the top shelf of our hallway closet was a collection of ramshackle Monopoly and Payday boxes, the edges torn and the playing pieces scattered.

It wasn’t until college that I discovered board games could be awesome. My friend Tom invited me over to a games night one evening, and I learned about Settlers of Catan. I loved that game right from the start. I’ve played it probably a hundred times since—and only won twice, which is an ego bruiser, to be sure, but it never stopped me from coming back for more punishment. Today, I get together with my board-gaming buddies about once a month, and we’re always trying out new releases from overseas. It’s a bit pretentious and snobby, yes, and that’s how I like it. And sometimes I even win!

There’s a point to all this beyond a sprawling personal history, I swear.

For as long as I dabbled with games, I also dabbled with writing, but never did the two meet. They were unrelated activities. One had nothing to do with the other. After all, games had rules, and my gestational stories did not. It was years before I discovered structure. Half of the fun of writing was finding out what happened at the end. I suppose some writers still work this way, though at least they usually impose structure after the fact.

Well, games and stories had a lot more in common than I thought. If they’re not quite siblings, then at minimum they’re first cousins. They have beginnings, middles, and ends. They have characters (actual characters sometimes, at other times just players, though the two are analogous). They have probabilities, conflict, and suspense. They have surprises and twists.

Without gaming, I’m pretty sure I would have discovered the importance of narrative structure, eventually. But it would have taken me a lot longer. I’ve now been told that my handle on plot and structure is one of my greatest strengths as a writer, so maybe all those wasted hours watching my friends play first-person shooters weren’t quite as wasted as I initially thought!

In fact, I know they weren’t wasted. For me, games were a catalyst. They were the bridge carrying me from thinking of plot as just the things that happened in a story to seeing them as intentional machinations. The main difference between books and games is that as an author the rules aren’t imposed on me anymore. Now I get to make the rules, and it’s the sweetest revenge.

Can you imagine how good I would have been at baseball if the team with the most strike-outs won the game?

I can.

Sam Sykes and Japanese Role Playing Games

Final Fantasy 7A guest post by Sam Sykes

You know, for the longest time I was uber sensitive about being accused of writing D&D fiction. I mean, yes, I write about adventurers going into dark places, stabbing monsters and swiping loot, but god damn it I was serious about it god damn it (yes, I was so incensed, I used the same curse twice).

As I get on in years, I’m much more all right with the idea of that. It’s not true (seriously, I was so unpopular I couldn’t even get anyone to play D&D with me), but that’s fine if people reminisce through me. And it’s definitely no secret I take a lot of inspiration from video games. JRPGs were one of my very most fundamental understandings of a story. I grew out of it, as you can tell by the distinct lack of doe-eyed, spiky-haired men with colossal swords fighting sweaty women with oni masks for breasts for the affections of a magical maid who can turn into a cat, but I think it’s fair to say that a lot of the younger writers out there probably got one of their earlier understandings of how stories work from video games.

I think the first time I realized games could have stories was when I played FF7 for the first time. I literally had no idea what it was about except that there was a dude with a huge sword and let’s not dwell on what that might mean. But I scrimped and saved everything I had so I could buy a Playstation to play it on. Then I scrimped and saved a little more to buy it. Then I played it.

And holy shit.

Within the first few minutes, my mind was blown. What was this guy doing here? Fuck, we’re rebels? Awesome! Yeah, let’s fight some robots! Now guys with swords! Bringin’ down the man! We’re freedom fighters, busting a corrupt corporation that’s killing a planet. I’m wearing a purple turtleneck sweater, but that’s okay! I’ve got backstory! And angst! And swords ‘n shit! Fuck yeah! FUCK YES!

And so on.

I suppose you could cry that the world has failed us when our youth learn storytelling from video games, rather than books. And in truth, video games can only take you so far. But they can teach you how to think visually, how to paint things in prose, how to establish something vividly in the reader’s mind. And they can teach you how to think mechanically, how to display on the page how movement works, how to keep an idea of where everyone is and make it clear to the reader. And, most importantly, they can teach you to understand when someone’s bored and how to prevent it.

The trickier stuff (character depth, plot, motivation, etc.) comes from mostly reading books, but you absorb it anywhere. Creatives of all ages, but especially kids, are gluttons for creative input. And like any diet, diversity is healthy.

I guess it’s kind of gauche to suggest that one of your influences might have been Squaresoft (it wasn’t Square-Enix in my day!) instead of, say, Tolkien or another dead guy, but I’d be earnestly surprised if there weren’t more authors who had some of their earliest storytelling wonders come from video games.

A surefire way to tell? Ask them if they were interested in the love triangle between Cloud, Tifa and Aerith (Aeris, if you’re nasty). If they say no, they are definitely an FF7 fan because they are fucking lying.

author-pic[1]Guest Writer Bio: Sam Sykes currently lives in the United States with his two hounds and, at any given time, is probably yelling at something inanimate. Tome of the Undergates is his first book, but far from his last. At 25, Sam Sykes is in an excellent position to provide entertainment while other authors are dying from various infections and stress-related illnesses. Sam Sykes looks forward to being one of the sole providers of fantasy entertainment, assuming no other authors are actually discovered in the next forty years. You can find out more from his website.