Lessons from the OSR Part VII – More Combat!

 In our last installment, we discussed how old school (A)D&D combat needs to be paradoxically both abstract and concrete depending on the situation, with armor class (AC) and hit points (HP) as the prime examples of abstraction, and called shots or critical hits as examples of more concrete rulings that are sometimes necessary.

In this installment, we are going to talk about how these concepts apply to player character (PC) parties, especially at the tender, Basic levels of about 1-3.  Another paradox of PCs in (A)D&D combat (to me) is this:

While the PCs act as individuals, they must fight as a unit to survive.

This might be evident to those who have served in the military, first responders, or have played in team sports.  Heck!  Even veteran raiders in massively-multiplayer online (MMO) RPGs know this: you never go full Leeroy Jenkins.

 This was likely evident to the wargamers that were the creators and early players of the game as well.  Starting characters are very fragile, would-be heroes and generals, (but not yet,) and have to be protected, much like the king in Chess. 

Therefore, old school (A)D&D parties tended to be big, with either many players (i.e. more than 3-5,) and/or a number of non-player character (NPC) hirelings or henchmen to boost their numbers, sort of like a modern-day platoon. 

A possible account of Grandpa Grog’s first, total party kill (TPK.)

 They didn’t just play characters like Conan, Robin Hood, and Gandalf.  They were Robin Hood AND his Merry Men, Conan AND his Barachan Pirates/Zuagirs/Kozaki/Aquilonian Knights, Gandalf AND his…err…hobbits.

 

They work for food and fit into TSA-approved carry-on luggage.  What’s not to love?

But what does it mean to fight as a unit in old-school (A)D&D?  Well, dungeons tend to be cramped spaces, with approximately 10 foot-wide corridors as the standard (but not always) between rooms.  That means the party typically fights very close together.  This is one of the reasons marching order is important in the game.  It is not just to determine where each character is during exploration (a topic we will cover later,) but also their main mode of fighting.

Despite (A)D&D being medieval-ish in theme, we should look further back in time to the ancients for our cramped, formation-fighting model: the Greek (and later Roman) phalanx. 

Fighting naked, with sharp objects dangerously close to one's pee-pee place, is not recommended.

 I mentioned before that I’m not a mathematician.  It should come as no surprise that I’m not a historian, either.  In fact, the things I'm an expert about can probably be counted in one hand, even one that has suffered the potentially dangerous effects of playing with fireworks as a child.  I just like to read interesting sh*t, especially if I can apply it to my gaming (I’m sure I’m not alone in this.)  We’re dipping our toes into some military history here "for entertainment purposes only," so the history buffs or influencers among you can just chill.

 One such piece of interesting sh*t is the book De Re Militari  (aka The Military Institution of the Romans) by Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus.  (I suspect that if you repeat his name three times, a ghostly, Roman patrician in a toga will appear behind your reflection in the bathroom mirror.)  This book detailed the training, organization, strategies, and tactics of the Roman military.  (Note: I thought this was available on Project Gutenberg, but I can’t seem to find it, so you’ll have to procure a copy on your own.  Ye must have barnacles in yer head if ye thinks I’ll hang fer piracy, arr.)

Fun Fact: this book was used by medieval and Renaissance armies well into the 16th century and beyond, so it’s still applicable to our fantastic medieval campaigns.  However, the text should be taken with a grain of salt, since it was written during the late (read: declining) Roman Empire and it may have had a bit of MRGA (Make Rome Great Again) propaganda.  But regardless of one’s personal, political stance on the good ol’ S.P.Q.R., what is of interest to us here is Vegetius’ descriptions of how Roman armies fought.  We’re not going to get deep into the weeds, but here are a few, summarized points that could apply to dungeon-fighting parties:

• Roman soldiers fought in tight formation, rather than as a “raw and untrained horde” (which kinda sounds like orcs.)
• Each soldier had armor, a shield, and a thrusting weapon, rather than hacking or slashing all over the place, unnecessarily exposing themselves to harm.
• Each soldier also carried hurled weapons, either the javelins called pila, or five, “loaded javelins,” which I believe is referring to the lead-weighted darts called plumbatae.  I find it hilarious that some great victories have been won by the ancient equivalent of lawn darts.
  

The idea here is that you don’t want every character in your party to do whatever they want in combat like the aforementioned “untrained horde” of Leeroy Jenkinses.  Instead, they should fight together in disciplined ranks, with a strong, layered outer defense and offense; something like a mutant war-beast that is a cross between a turtle with a shell made of shields (testudo) and a porcupine with spears for quills.  If you were looking to start a retro, heavy metal tribute band, these could inspire your band name.  No need to thank me.

We’re playing at the local dive this Thursday.  Come check us out and buy a CD, because we’d like to eat sometime this week.

 Need a better visual example?  Check out this sequence from the HBO series, Rome below.  Note how the centurion in charge (the character of Vorenus) signals with a whistle at about the 00:35 mark, so that soldiers from the rear ranks can relieve wounded, exhausted, or fallen soldiers in the front ranks.  This could be a lifesaver for characters that have lost too many hit points (esp. at one hit die!)  Unfortunately, one soldier (the character of Pulo) then demonstrates the Leeroy Jenkins strategy at about the 2:30 mark, but it still serves as a good example of what not to do.

 “Ok, Weregrog, but my party isn’t made up if a bunch of Roman legionaries!  What is this supposed to look like for an (A)D&D party, with medieval fantastic knights, elves, dwarves, wizards, and clerics?”  Don’t worry, Little Johnny (can I call you Little Johnny?)  I will show you.

Now, I know most old-schoolers don’t care for the artist Terry Dykstra, who illustrated a few of the 1990s’ D&D products (the “Challenger Series”) that I began with, but he’s just as psychologically imprinted in my D&D head-canon as Erol Otus is to an old grog’s.  He had a pretty good depiction of dungeon-fighting in the Rules Cyclopedia, so the old grogs are just going to have to suck it up this time.

We can meet in the middle on Elmore, Easley, and Caldwell.

 Note the composition of the party.  You have two fighters with swords and shields in the front, a fighter behind them with a polearm, and an archer looking for an opportunity shot, while remaining under the protection of the first rank.   The pedantic, would-be YouTube medieval weapons “expert” in me would say he should have a crossbow, or at least a short bow instead of a long bow in a dungeon, but we can chalk that one up to artistic license and move on.  My point is made, and I’ve likely angered both the old grognards AND the YouTube weapons experts in doing so.  These are the lengths I will go to for my readers.

Here lies The Weregrognard, who bravely perished on OSR Hill fighting the combined forces of The Dungeon Delver, Shadiversity, and others.

Before we get into specific party formations and fighting tactics, I want to discuss two rules which I believe complement fighting as a unit: group initiative and a phased combat sequence.  (Note: surprise will be covered in a separate post.)

Group Initiative

Most older editions of (A)D&D used group or party initiative, but individual initiative soon became an optional rule, which then became the modern-day standard.  This is a shame, because it encourages the members of a party to split up and perform their actions individually during combat in what is literally a random order, without care for synchronicity between fellow players.  If you’ve experienced a number of near, or full TPK’s (regardless of edition,) this is probably the underlying cause.

My personal suggestion is to use group initiative.  This way, the party can act as a team, preferably with a carefully-thought strategy beforehand, but even if the proverbial battle plan doesn’t survive the first swing of a sword, this allows them to coordinate effectively in the heat of battle.

 

Phased Combat Sequence

The other factor that I believe helps with group fighting is a combat sequence composed of phases, like in many wargames.  Essentially, each phase in the sequence suggest an initiative order for different types of maneuvers or attacks.  This is the example from the Moldvay Basic Set:

 Movement comes first, followed by missile (or hurled) weapon attacks, which are then followed by spells (these can be thought of as kind of artillery that needs more set-up in the form of magic words and gestures.)  The phases then culminate in the ringing clash of melee, with some options like polearms or set spears (against a charge) attacking first regardless of initiative.

Of course, this is all dependent on how your play group and GM does things, but using group initiative, with the option of phased combat, helps the party feel and act more like a team.  Even with individual initiative (*sigh*) players could still coordinate to fight as a group, using delaying actions to act in concert.  Do this, and soon enough the party will come to function much like crack, special operators.

Clear!  Ramirez, check for traps and treasure.  Grognar, Brodo, you’re on door spike and watch duty.  Go!

Suggested Party Formations

Here are some suggested marching order strategies, as demonstrated by Mr. Murder Hobo and his unwashed, inebriated pals.  Again, these are dependent on how the GM does things, but could still provide a framework for your party’s fighting strategy.  Most of these can, and should be mixed, matched, or adapted for specific situations.  Feel free to share your own, tried and true strategies in the comments.

These are demonstrated in grids with one square/inch equaling three and one-third (3.33) feet, rather than a new school, ones-size-fits-all abstraction like the five-foot square.  This is in accordance with Gygax's description of marching order in the Advanced game, where a party can march three abreast down the standard, 10-foot-wide corridor.  Some adjustments may be necessary in play for different-sized corridors and rooms.  Even if the GM uses “theater of the mind” combat, these formations can be demonstrated with miniatures, tokens, or a drawing in the style of one of those confusing, football play diagrams.

While Original and B/X versions of the game don’t typically deal with weapon space and reach like in the Advanced game, I am going to go by the following assumptions and standards, which I hope the dear reader finds reasonable.  (You'll find that as an old school GM, you'll have to make many decisions and rulings like this as you solidify your campaign's "reality"):

• Type A Weapons – These are thrusting weapons that do not require significant space between fellow combatants: daggers, short swords, spears, and thrusting polearms, like pikes or speta.
• Type B Weapons – These are one-handed slashing or bludgeoning weapons that require some space between combatants to swing around (about 3 feet or so): clubs, hand-axes, long (normal) swords, maces, and war-hammers.  A benevolent GM can consider a long (normal) sword that can cut and thrust to be a Type A weapon if used to thrust only, though a less benevolent one (like yours truly) could impose a small penalty to hit due to the lack of a full range of maneuvers with the weapon.
• Type C Weapons – These are big, two-handed weapons that require lots of room to swing around, specifically more than 3 feet in both the front arc and flanks: battle-axes, two-handed swords, and slashing, or bludgeoning polearms, like halberds, pole-axes, or bec de corbin (war-hammer-on-a-stick.)

Most weapons only have enough reach to attack from the first rank only.  Spears have enough reach to attack from the first or second ranks.  Type A polearms can reach over and/or between combatants in the first and second ranks to attack from the third rank, but are useless once an opponent closes in.

Now that we are done with these preliminaries, here are the formations:

 

 Squishy-in-the-Middle

This first example is not so much a formation strategy as a general, best-practice.  Low hit die types like magic-users, and thieves, or severely wounded characters (20% HP or less) should never, ever fight in the front ranks.  If the battle is at that point, the party should have likely retreated several rounds ago.  The magic-user especially is the party’s nuclear, ace-in-the hole.  Don’t waste their chance to shine for the party’s benefit by submitting them to the horror of the front ranks!
 

Squishy-in-the-Middle

 

The Turtle-Porcupine (with launching quills)

I would consider this the standard model for most old school parties.  You want the characters with the best AC (armor AND shield,) as well  as the highest HP (if possible) in a tight formation in the front rank, armed with a hurling weapon ready, such as a spear, javelin, or even throwing axe for a deadly, first strike.  This was the tactic of the Dark Ages' Franks back when these proto-Frenchmen could chew the enemy like baguettes and sh*t them out like fromage.  Each fighter in front rank should also have a Type A side arm ready to draw for when the enemy closes in.

At least one character in the second rank is armed with spear, armor, and shield, so they can attack from that rank, or relieve a character in the front rank if necessary.  At least one character in the third rank is armed with a thrusting (Type A) polearm to attack from there.  If using Original, or B/X rules, this could be one of the party’s thieves, which can use any weapon, but doesn’t typically have the AC or HP for front rank fighting.

 

The Turtle-Porcupine

As shown, the party should also have enough numbers to duplicate this model at the rear of the party, in case of attacks from that direction.  If the third rank happens to be the central rank, then those characters with polearms may turn to attack, depending on which end the greatest threat is.

 

The Fellowship

This is applicable to diverse parties with multiple dwarves or halflings.  Following the Turtle-Porcupine model above, place the dwarves or halfling (fighters) with high AC (again, armor and shield) in the front rank.  These characters also have hurled weapons for that first missile volley, which halflings get a +1 bonus to.   Behind them are fighters or clerics (elf or human) that can use missile weapons or spells (but not magic-users!  They’re squishy!)  The characters in the second rank should also have spears, if possible, for any enemies that survive and close in to melee.

The Fellowship

 

The Gnashing Murder-Hole (aka Vagina Dentata)

A few players may balk at using an average, 1d6 damage side arm (assuming variable damage,) trying to hold on to the extra two points of damage of a long (normal) sword like a security blanket.  That’s fine.  In this case, leave the center of the first rank open to make room for those hacks, slashes, and bludgeons.  The center character in the second rank can then employ a missile weapon or even hurled, flaming oil, to punish enemies while remaining under the protection of the first rank.  

 

The Gnashing Murder-Hole

The Barbarian Horde    

Similarly, some players just love big, two-handed weapons.   I don’t recommend these at Basic levels, but what can you do?  If some players just want to live their best, barbarian lives, then they could form their party like so.

The Barbarian Horde

 Grognar gets to swing his manhood compensation all around while the other characters can attack with missile weapons first, then polearms from the safety of the second rank.  If and when the berserking barbarian has fallen (and the player has learned their lesson, like I had to in a previous campaign,) the rest of the party can step over their beefy corpse and continue to fight in tight formation as Mars and Jupiter intended.

R.I.P. my nameless, barbarian fighter.  A skeleton’s spear took you from us too soon.  You are gone, but not forgotten.

The Vampire Hunters

This is a specialized formation for dealing with the undead, especially the energy-draining kind which you really don’t want to get too close to (or at all!)

Following the model of the Turtle-Porcupine, place the cleric in the center of the first rank, with armor, shield, and holy symbol to turn away the unholy minions of Orcus.  The rest of the front rank can then pelt the fleeing terror(s) with hurled or missile weapons (holy water, flaming oil, or silver work great here.)  The cleric has enough AC to handle any that resist the turning attempt and close in, while the other fighters can engage them in melee.

The Vampire Hunters

 

Conclusion

A hard-learned lesson in getting back into old school play was that characters, especially, fragile low-level ones, need to fight as a combined, small force to survive.  Old school (A)D&D parties need to have more than 3-5 characters.  This is where hirelings and henchmen come in.  Players should learn to fight as a team in formation (marching order) with a phalanx model like the Greeks and Romans.  They should employ the best AC and HP as an outer defense, hurled weapons for a first attack, then switch to layers of thrusting weapons like spears and polearms for melee.  This allows for fresh fighters to relieve the wounded and killed, and protects specialists like thieves and magic-users.  Group initiative and phased combat helps players and GMs get into this formation-fighting concept.

Next time, we'll explore some individual combat strategies for characters.  See you soon!

Lessons from the OSR Part VI – Combat!

 If you’re been patiently waiting for the return of this series while my attention flitted elsewhere, welcome back!  If this is as confusing (not to mention uncomfortable now) as Leonard Part 6, then check out the first post of this ongoing series, and welcome as well!

I’ve had some time to collect my thoughts on this series, which has kind of been all over the place, so I wanted to return with a “POW!”, “BIFF!”, and whatever the hell “ZLOTT!” is (my money is on a magic missile or lightning bolt.)  Therefore, we will cover what I’ve learned about old school combat and how to better understand it as a game master (GM.) 

Fun tip: make cue cards of these and show them at random to the players when they roll a natural 20.

The first thing you need to know about old school combat is that the Original game didn’t have any rules for combat per se.  At this point in its infancy, the game was essentially a supplement to enrich your freeform (free kriegsspiel,) fantasy wargames, specifically ones using the Chainmail rules.

Combat rules sold separately

The combat rules that are now so well-known (roll d20 to hit armor class) were an alternative to the rules in Chainmail, which were included as a simple backup if the consumer didn’t own a copy (which often became the case.)

Now, I’m not saying that you need to dump the alternative-turned-official combat rules to be a true, old school Scotsman.  Besides, the ”mad lad” known as the Basic Expert already made a what-if type of retroclone using Chainmail rules for combat with the Original game, for those interested in that kooky, but creative option.

However, I feel even a cursory look at the Chainmail rules can inform your understanding old school combat rules and methodology.  I know that money’s tight these days, so I’m going to summarize a couple of salient points here so you can just check out Chainmail on your own time and as funds allow.

First, Chainmail has multiple game modes; about 2-3: a medieval army wargame, a jousting game, and a “man-to-man” skirmish game.  Note how these loosely connect with the game modes of old school (A)D&D: Dungeons are pretty much “man-to-man” (or monster-to-man!)  The Wilderness can use both the army or “man-to-man” game rules depending on the encounter, plus the jousting game in the corner case of encountering a fighter’s castle in the wilds (where they might challenge the players for their stuff.)  Of course, the Domain game is pretty much all clashing armies and sieges.

CRY HAVOC!!!

Second, Chainmail helps fill in the blanks of the alternative combat system; perhaps not specific rules outright, but concepts at the very least.  Many of these wargame concepts found their way to other editions of the game in some form or another.  Prime examples are morale (because most people and animals do not fight to the death,) and the weapon vs. armor table, which is cribbed from the “man-to-man” matrix, and if you remember, was likely gonked from the beginning.   

It is worth mentioning again that the Original game was a niche product for hardcore wargamers, so the creators likely assumed the reader would just know or be familiar with wargame concepts and be able to referee them effectively.
    

The “Alternative” Combat System, Abstraction, and Role-Playing

Before we get into the mud, blood and havoc cries of combat, I want to point out something that occurred to me about (A)D&D combat; a kind of paradox, if you will

(A)D&D combat has an identity crisis.  It tries to be both abstract and concrete; both a whole-unit and singular-figure skirmish game.

What do I mean by this?  Well, certain things in (A)D&D combat must be dealt with in the abstract while others require drilling down to more concrete rulings by the GM.  The foremost examples of the abstract parts of (A)D&D combat are hit points (HP) and armor class (AC.)

Hit Points

If I had a dollar for every heated discussion I’ve seen online in the past about hit points being “meat”  (i.e. physical damage,) or luck, I would be a wealthy man sipping mai tais and snorting happy powder from a shapely, bronzed bottom that has been tanning on my fancy yacht twelve nautical miles from giving a figgly-fugg about the world, but instead I’m writing a blog…about old nerd games.  Thing is, that argument was settled a long, long time ago (on this planet, even!)

Yes, Gina!  Hit points are both of (or all) the things.  In the First Edition, AD&D Player’s Handbook, author Gary Gygax put the argument to bed (or so he thought):

“…A certain amount of these hit points represent the actual physical punishment which can be sustained. The remainder, a significant portion of hit points at higher levels, stands for skill, luck, and/or magical
factors…

…Thus, the majority of hit points are symbolic of combat skill, luck (bestowed by supernatural powers), and magical forces”

Therefore, a first-level Cyneric the Veteran fighter is mostly made up of beefy “meat” insofar as hit points, but Cyneric the Hero or Superhero fighter’s hit points are largely made up of skill, luck, and/or the better side of destiny.  The “damage” he takes isn’t really physical damage, but flesh-wounds, dodges, parries, near-misses, feints, etc.  That 50-foot fall that would kill an ordinary person?  Nothing but Hollywood magic for higher-level characters.  The fall still hurts (a lot,) but maybe the character bumped into some things that slowed their fall to some bumps and bruises, a sprain, or whatever.  It doesn’t matter!  It’s abstract!  Yes, I may have fibbed a little when I said (A)D&D characters don’t have plot protection.  They do, and it’s called hit points, but when those are gone, so is your character’s plot protection.  Buh-bye!

Being that my dear readers are likely possessed of above-average Intelligence scores (you rolled 4d6 and dropped the lowest, huh?), I bet the gears and lights in your head are going off about the abstraction of “hits” in general: is weapon damage abstract too?  Are hit rolls really one attack, or a series of attacks, or either?  Yes, yes, and yes!  Give yourself a gold star!  Go you!

A “to hit” roll is an abstraction of the effectiveness of attacks that round rather than the results of one particular slash of a sword or thrust of a spear (but it still could be, with missile weapons and cases like called shots, see below.)  Concurrently, variable weapon damage (as of the Greyhawk supplement and later) may or may not correlate to how big or scary a weapon is.  Other factors may come into play, such as the perceived skill or effectiveness of the “unit” using it.  Since AD&D, for example, the crossbow has been considered woefully under-powered in comparison to the longbow, but consider that the lower damage may be because crossbowmen are a cheaper, lower value unit than longbowmen, which require more time train, and have an appropriate, higher point unit cost in Chainmail; food for thought.  

So the key takeaway here is that in old school (A)D&D, a “hit” is not necessarily a hit, and “damage” is not necessarily damage.  Capiche?

This leads me to my first tip for GMs concerning “to hit” rolls: don’t feel the need to describe what happens with every roll.  I used to do this, but it would just kill suspension of disbelief as I attempted to rationalize the difference between  one hit point of damage and six, plus it just slows down play.  Again, it doesn’t matter.  What happens when a character reaches zero hit points or less is probably more important for those that are interested in the role-playing aspects of the game.  

While I’m not really into the role-paying game (RPG) reality show Critical Role and GM Matt Mercer’s way of doing things (I get a bad taste in my mouth just thinking about it,) there is one thing he does that I approve of, which is letting a player describe that last kill-hit on an opponent or monster.  It throws a bone to players that want a little more role-play and is in keeping with the abstraction concept of hit points.

I think I’m gonna vomit…excuse me…

Armor Class

The other (somewhat) abstract concept in old school (A)D&D is armor class.  Even though it is expressed as a (descending) number, it is not a target number to roll in old school games like in newer editions, but really a category of the effectiveness of the armor worn (and/or shield carried.)  Third class armor (plate) is better than Seventh class armor (leather) like First Class is better than Business, Business is better than Coach, and you will never know because that’s all you can afford on your paltry salary, peasant!

Leave plate armor to your betters!  A flea-bitten, leather gambeson should be enough for the likes of you!

The system was apparently drawn from one of co-creator Dave Arneson’s warship games about ironclads in the Civil War going at each other in futility, which he then extrapolated to armored warriors beating each other into scrap; seems legit to me!

Knight 1: “Look, you stupid bastard, you’ve got no hit points left!” Knight 2: “Yes I have!  Look!” (*shows character sheet*)

Therefore, armor class is a measure of the chances that a “hit” on a character will be effective (as in grievous wounding or death,) and not necessarily how difficult a character is to strike.  "But Weregrog!"   I hear you say.  "Doesn’t Dexterity modify opponent's hit rolls or AC since at least the Greyahwk supplement?   Got you now, you poser!"

Well, look who knows so much!  Maybe I should let you write this so that I can go back to my imaginary yacht!  Yes, there is some element of agility that factors into AC, clearly, but this is a small aspect of its abstract nature.  The real factor of an agile, skilled, and/or lightly-armored fighter is not AC, but hit points.

Let me explain…actually, I’ll let Black Vulmea (the blogger, not Robert E. Howard’s pirate character) from the Really Bad Eggs blog explain, because he put it so succinctly back in 2012.  Check it out, and in the meantime, I’ll sip my drink and fantasize about that yacht.

I know the Cutty Sark Whisky ship is technically a clipper, and not a yacht, but that’s all I could imagine since I grew up on these 'booze n babes' commercials.   Maybe that’s why I’m so messed up.

 

Now that we understand each other about the abstractions of AC and HP, (as well as my possible alcoholism and misogynistic tendencies,) let’s move on to juicier fare.

Critical Hits, Called Shots, and Other GMing Bugaboos

The abstractions of hit points an armor class in (A)D&D will often run counter to the granularity necessary for creative players’ decisions in combat.  What’s a GM to do when a player wants to disarm an orc, or decides to “go for the eyes, Boo!  Go for the eyes!”?

“RRRAAASK”?!   (Being that Minsc and Boo are copyrighted characters, I opted for their “Great Value” knockoffs.)

Different editions have had different solutions for this problem, whereas you could argue that the creators if the Original game didn’t think it was a problem at all, since they likely trusted the GM to make rulings suitable for their tables.

The second Supplement for the Original game, Blackmoor, had hit location/critical hit tables, but these were kind of messy, and were abandoned by Basic and Expert+ versions of the game in addition to the Advanced game.  The First Edition of the same actively dissuades the GM from using hit location and critical tables, while the Second Edition places the decision back in the GM’s hands, with advice on what could happen either way (using critical hits or not) and introduces a “called shot” (specific attack maneuver) mechanic with a 20% penalty (-4) for characters attempting them.  The Third Edition later makes the misguided decision of making these attempts woefully punitive, with both the -4 penalty and a chance for the opponent to have a free “attack of opportunity,” unless the player pays the price for the appropriate “feat” for one, specific maneuver.  As I’ve mentioned before, the more a character has on their sheet, the less they can actually do.

Personally, I prefer the Second Edition way of doing called shots.  The -4 penalty makes things a little difficult for low-level characters, but is largely a nonissue for heroic-level characters (esp. fighters.)  There is an important caveat, however: I respect the abstract nature of (A)D&D combat.  In other words, nothing permanent or fatal happens unless hit points are at zero, since these also denote a character’s luck and skill at avoiding terrible injury.  No severed limbs, gouged eyes, plucked organs, or rolling heads;  i.e. no auto-kills.  I am all for that noble paladin employing the Obi-Wan Strategy to subdue a malefactor, but it just doesn’t happen as intended unless that HP has been depleted first.

Pictured: the Obi-Wan Strategy (don’t worry, Ponda Baba still has one hit point left…I think.)

For less-than-lethal called shots (disarms, trips, grapples, sand-in-the-face, Three Stooges antics, etc.,) I allow the victim a saving throw, since I feel it is reasonable for stronger, more experienced characters and monsters to not fall for these tactics as much or as often.  Players, being humans after all, tend to be creatures of habit, so they'll get lazy and spam the button of a tactic that works over and over until it doesn't work anymore.  This keep them on their toes.

When it comes to critical hits of any kind, I tend to leave the choice up to my players, with the understanding that what is good for the goose is good for the gander (their opponents can have critical hits too.)  This often dissuades them from using such mechanics; probably because fantastic medieval worlds don’t have much in the way of disability compensation for veteran dungeon delvers.

Dear Adventurer, a review of your disability claim by the Department of Dungeoneers’ Affairs (DA) has concluded that since only one of your testicles was torn off by the owlbear during your tour of duty in the Caves of Chaos, you are only entitled to a 10% disability rating.  Thank you for your service.

 

Conclusion

In order to get back into old school (A)D&D combat, I felt I had to understand its origins as a multi-mode wargame and reconcile the abstract and concrete aspects of the "alternative" combat system, so that that I could rule on these as a GM more effectively.  I have come to terms with the idea that (A)D&D combat has an identity crisis, but I’ve found it can be a feature rather than a bug as long as one understands its limitations and can work with them instead of against them.

In our next installment, we’ll continue to talk about combat and how it applies to player characters, along with some tips, and tactics, such as how effective, old school adventuring parties should fight as a unit rather than individuals.

See you then!

Just when you thought Mr. Murder Hobo wasn’t making an appearance this post…you get an entire party!

Lessons from the OSR Part IV: Rules, Resolution Systems, and Skills (or Lack Thereof)

 "The secret we should never let the game masters know is that they don't need any rules"

-Gary Gygax

 

Rules.  Love em or hate em, they’re part of every game.  Even this game we call Life.

You’re drowning in college debt, your wife just divorced you, and your job has been outsourced to AI.  Your turn, son.

In the first post of this series, I talked about my keys to better understanding old school rulesets.  One of these was the understanding that old school (A)D&D doesn’t need so many rules as much as a skilled GM with resolution systems to adjudicate the game effectively.

But what exactly does that mean in practice?

 

Rules vs. Resolution Systems

I’m going to tread carefully into the Land of Personal Conjecture here, but I want to try and define what I think is the difference between (game) rules and resolution systems for the reader, in the hopes they can understand what I’m trying to convey.

The Land of Personal Conjecture (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

To me, rules are the hard to semi-solid boundaries the game imposes to run effectively as such: magic-users can’t wear armor, fighters need 2,000 XP to reach Level 2, monsters and characters have Armor Class, Hit Points, etc., if you do not pass “Go,” you do not collect 200 gp.

This is apparently a thing.  Also, no thank you.

Resolution systems on the other hand, are a little more nebulous.  It’s how one does things and simulates the “reality” of the game, whether players roll d20 to hit, or a GM rolls a d6 to see whether a player triggered a trap.  In some cases, they intersect with the rules (especially in combat,) but more importantly, these are the tools by which a game master (GM) is able to adjudicate the game, and since reality, even a fictional one, can often be unpredictable, the GM needs a way to randomize results.

Enter…the dice.

“Oh boy! Time to earn some liquor money!”  No, Mr. Hobo.  That’s not what we’re talking about.

 

Dice: the GM’s tools

In the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (AD&D) 1st Edition Dungeon Master Guide, author Gary Gygax spends a page or so talking about dice and probabilities.  Why?  Did he have some weird numbers fetish?  (I mean, he did work in insurance for a time.)  Did he step on a d4 and contract polyhedral lycanthropy, to become a cursed, many-sided horror by the light of the full moon?

Are those little dice its young, or its droppings?  You decide!  (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

Of course not!  He’s essentially giving you (A)D&D’s resolution system in a nutshell.  The tools by which you can easily referee any situation that comes up in play.

I’m not going to reprint that stuff here (since I don’t want to get sued, ) and I’m not going to go into a lengthy math lesson, (since I’m not a mathematician and would  just embarrass myself.)  Still, I think I should summarize things so we can get on the same page.

A single die provides a linear percentage chance (which add up to 100%, natch,) depending on the number of sides:

• d4: 25% increments (25%, 50%, 75%...)
• d6: ~16.67% increments (16.67%, 33.33%...)
• d8: 12.5% increments (12.5%, 25%...)
• d10: 10% increments (10%, 20%, 30%,…)
• d12: ~8.33% increments (8.33%, 16.67%, etc.)
• d20: 5% increments (5%, 10%, 15%...)

The d100 (combining two d10s and counting one as the tens and the other as the ones digit) has 1% increments.  

Obviously…

Fun Fact: at the dawn of the hobby, d20s apparently had only the 0-9 digits, so they could be used as d20s by marking one set of digits to indicate 11-20, but could also used as d10s to roll d100.

Fun Fact 2: You’ll notice that a +1 bonus (or penalty) means something very different depending on which die it’s applied to.  Keep that in mind when GMing.

But what happens when you roll two or more dice and add the results?  You get what is (arguably) the most accurate simulator of statistical reality: the bell curve.

What?!  No!  Not that crap!  You wanna get me cancelled?!!!

Multi-die rolls have results where the averages at the height of the curve occur most often, and the extreme outliers at both ends of the curve occur less often.  Here’s an example of the probabilities of a 2d6 roll and a 3d6 roll respectively.  You may know 3d6 from its previous work in Ability Scores: The Disappointening and Ability Scores 2: You Didn’t Really Roll those 18s! 

Need to adjudicate a “swingy” situation with mostly equal chances?  Roll a single die or a d100.  Have a situation where a character’s competency matters more, or need the numbers to skew more towards the average?  Use more dice.  If you think old school is brutal?  Try attack rolls and saving throws with 3d6.

I'll ruin more than your Christmas... (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

Falling asleep?  I know, just bear with me.  At the end of his essay, Gygax mentions that he had a d6 with poker suit faces (Hearts, Diamonds, etc.,) and presents a situation in which he used them.  He then ends with this:

“…keep in mind that the dice are your tools. Learn to use them properly, and they will serve you well.”

What I believe Gygax is saying is that it is up to YOU, the GM, to create your own resolution systems for your (A)D&D campaigns, which is exactly in the spirit of the free Kriegsspiel games it was based on.  This is why he takes the time to explain dice probabilities.  He’s both inviting you to do this and arming you with the skills to do so.  He even liberates the GM to try fun ways of resolving things (like in the poker dice example.)

Now, newer versions of the game (from Third Edition onwards,) made things easier on the GM by using a linear, d20 system as the standard for everything.  The upside of this is that yes, it is simpler and easier to grasp (especially for new and inexperienced players and GMs.)  The downside is that it constrains the GM to only one way of resolving things, which could result in weird outcomes during play.  For example, take a Basic/Expert style reaction roll (2d6) versus a player rolling a “Diplomacy” skill (linear d20 +/- bonuses.)  Both get the job done, but only one takes into account the most likely reactions of the NPCs, while the d20 example can have results that function weirdly like a charm person spell just because the player invested heavily in that skill.

Here’s an example of how a GM can adjust the rules and probability for such a situation in their old school games.  Say the local Queen is a surly type, especially when it comes to unwashed murder-hobos making demands of her.  You (as the GM) could decide your reaction roll table for her (or NPCs like her) looks like this instead of the standard table in the book:

2    “Guards!”
3-5    Gets visibly angry; guards grip their halberds
6-8    Indifferent to the character’s plight
9-11    Needs further convincing
12    Reluctantly agrees to requests

It takes into account the Queen’s default demeanor, while leaving room for high/low Charisma characters to either excel or fail miserably.  You could just tack on a hefty penalty in the d20 example, but I think this example is a little more elegant (and fun!)  I hope the reader agrees.

One might still prefer (or find it more efficient) to just do things simply with one type of resolution system (most modern games do,) but the point I’m trying to make is that the old school way of playing (A)D&D empowers the GM to be a true master of the game by enabling them to adjust even the probability of their campaign’s “reality.”  That’s pretty heady stuff, and with that great power, comes great responsibility.

Player Skill, Resolution System Obfuscation, and GM Responsibility

So far, I’ve talked about how old schools GMs resolve things on the “back end” (to borrow a programming term.)  What about the players?  What can they do?  I believe there’s a paradox in regards to old school versus new school games:

The more stuff a player has on their character sheet, the less they can actually do in the game.

In A Quick Primer to Old School Gaming, author Matt Finch discusses the topic of “player skill.”  In old school games, players tend to use their own knowledge, intellect, and ingenuity to face the challenges laid forth by the GM, rather than just rolling a die to solve everything.  This is similar to an escape room, where players work together and use their personal skills and abilities to figure out the solutions to the puzzles.

Tip: Don’t play escape rooms like you play D&D, unless you want to spend some time lying low in a foreign country with no extradition treaty.  My court date is next Tuesday (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

This seems to be firmly in the “game” part of “roleplaying game” (RPG.)  Or is it?  A common complaint I’ve seen of the old school “rulings over rules” is that some players don’t like having to play a game of Mother-May-I  with the GM to do things.  It might seem player-empowering to dictate what your character can do (to the GM) via the rules, but I’ve found that it just means both the players AND the GM end up playing Mother-May-I with the rulebook.

I’m in charge now, biotch!  Penalties for everyone!  PENALTIES  (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

An interesting feature of the AD&D 1st Edition rulebooks is that the majority of the rules (including combat) are in the Dungeon Master Guide rather than in the Player’s Handbook.  Now, this might seem harsh (and quickly fell out of favor,) but it implies that the GM is the one that should do the heavy lifting in regards to the rules (and resolution systems.)  In other words, system mastery is for the GM, not necessarily the players.  By leaving said heavy lifting to the GM, it truly frees and empowers the players to think creatively about the play environment rather than looking to the constraints of their character sheet.  That, to me, seems to fit quite nicely into the “roleplaying” part of “RPG.”  Furthermore, it makes things easier overall for players:

• Character creation tends to be quick, so players can get to playing right away (I personally abhor the concept of Session Zero.  It’s like: let’s play a game, but also not play a game!  *snore*)
• New players can understand the game quickly, without having to read copious amounts of rules.
• World peace is achieved.  (Ok, that one isn’t true, but I forgot what my third point was.)

The other side of this coin is that the proficient GM has a responsibility to be open to possibilities and come up with reasonable ways for players to accomplish things within the consensual “reality” of the game.  This is known colloquially as "say yes," "yes, and," or "yes, but."  The players should trust the GM, but this trust must also build over time with fair and consistent rulings.  Sore losers and unsporting, immature players need not apply, and no amount of rules can protect players from “bad” GMs (or vice versa.)

There's a reason the GM needs to wear a Viking helmet sometimes.

“But Weregrog,” you say: “how can I do anything if I don’t know what my character can do?  Don’t I need some indication of my character’s background and associated abilities?”  Let’s talk about that.

Skill vs. Ability

Most modern games, including modern D&D, have skill lists as part of the rules for characters (and often NPCs.)  These tend to be tied to the character’s personal attributes (Strength, Intelligence, etc.,) and are in essence, extensions of these attributes that indicate the character’s areas of expertise with a higher degree of granularity.

Word.

Old school (A)D&D characters tend to not have lists of skills (I’ll get to secondary skills and proficiencies in a moment,) which seems like a major oversight, until you realize that characters in D&D don’t have “attributes,” they have “ability scores.” 

The American Heritage® Dictionary defines ability as: “1. The quality of being able to do something…,” and “2. A skill, talent, or capacity.”  

What can we conclude from this?  (A)D&D ability scores encompass both personal attributes AND skills!

I find it ironic that D&D started with no skills, then later editions flirted with the concept, from “secondary skills” in early AD&D 1st Edition, and “proficiencies” in late 1st and 2nd Edition, slowly increasing their number, then reducing them for the most part in the post-2000 editions of the game, as the designers probably realized that most were redundant or unnecessary save for what characters actually do in-game.

*From the Wilderness Survival Guide and Dungeoneer's Survival Guide.
**2e also has the 1e secondary skills as an option, but defaulted to proficiencies in their products (which added more!)
***The 3e Knowledge skill includes multiple areas of knowledge, which renders the list feasibly infinite.

****I know 5e Tool Proficiencies technically add more, but you get the point.

I’m not the only one to come to the conclusion that ability scores include character skill.  Castles & Crusades bases the entirety of their resolution system (which they call the SIEGE Engine) on character ability scores, using a d20+Level against a difficulty number based on whether the ability score tested is “Prime” or not.  Players determine which ability scores are their character’s best (“Primes”) to determine their areas of specialty beyond character class.

I can’t speak to all RPGs, but I posit that old school (A)D&D doesn’t really need skill lists so much when one can just default to a character’s ability scores.  I feel this easily simulates fantasy fiction or film, such as Star Wars, where characters like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker tend to be pretty versatile. They can do many things appropriate to their “class” or profession and then some!

Yes, I’m familiar with West End Games’ Star Wars RPG, the D6 System, and their use of skills.  It’s also one of my favorites, so just cut me some slack, ok?

In this spirit, old school (A)D&D characters can pretty much do anything it makes  sense for them to do, within reason.  First and foremost, old school (A)D&D characters are adventurers.  They are not expert cattle ranchers, tailors, blacksmiths, or gong farmers.  They may have started life as such, but abandoned those professions when they became adventurers.  In my opinion, (A)D&D characters have two, general areas of expertise:

• Those that are implicit and explicit based on their class.
• Any other “skill” the player can imagine (or imagine their character having,) but not necessarily any specialized, professional, or deep knowledge.  That is the purview of hired, NPC specialists (who have neither time nor wherewithal to adventure in dank holes underground.)

For example, fighters (titled “Veterans” in most games at first level) likely know military matters: how to march in formation, make camp, care for their arms and armor, and build simple fortifications (trenches, berms, etc.)  Clerics might know both military and ecclesiastical matters related to their own religion and mythos (rituals, etc.) as well as basic matters of magic (how their spells work) and even how the known types of undead relate to each other in power (based on the turn undead table.)  A magic-user might know the practical nature of magic, their spells, and have a rough conception of more powerful magic (via the spell lists,) but not necessarily how to use this power…yet (that’s why they adventure.) 

“But what about backgrounds?!  I decided my fighter was an apprentice blacksmith so he should be able to forge a masterwork sword!”

*SCREEECH* (AI image courtesy of Bing Image Creator.)

Hold on there, sparky!  That may be true, but how did said fighter become a "Veteran?"  He probably got called up to serve by his liege-lord, somehow survived, and perhaps developed a taste for plunder (that starting gold, you see,) and thus his previous life ended.  He may be able to do some basic things (help around a forge, make simple metal items, judge basic quality,) but that’s about it.  A magic-user might have started as a shoemaker’s apprentice, but once he heard the siren’s song of: “You’re a Wizard, Harry!” and followed his teacher to a life of arcane wonder and mystery, that moment became the proverbial nail on the coffin for the Versace life.

Your fashion-conscious PC may not be able to make these, but they’ll be able to buy plenty of them one day; even have the shoemaker on retainer!  (Image from versace.com)

So how does a GM judge all this in play.  This might be an in-depth topic for a future post, but if you’ve been paying attention, you know that all it takes is some common sense.  When that is not enough, use some dice, and a probability appropriate to the situation and referenced with the character’s ability scores.  Old school products do tend to present a few options and ideas:

• Simple, statistical analysis and comparison: hmm...I think only someone with Strength of 15 or better could feasibly move that large rock.  No need to roll anything.  It just happens (or not.)
• The ability check (described in Basic/Expert): roll a d20 and get equal or below the ability score to succeed.  This is a simple, percentage mechanic (in 5% increments.)  You could also roll 3d6 instead, to get more painful, but realistic results, like in Steve Jackson Games' GURPS, or even multiply an ability score by five to get the percentage chance of success and then roll d100 (Chaosium games such as Runequest and Call of Cthulhu do this, but also expand with skill lists.)
• *Sigh* I guess you could also use secondary skills, proficiencies, make/use skill lists, or any other method of your devising.  Hey!  Golden Rule!  You do you, boo!  You have the power!  That’s old school.

 

Conclusion

In old school (A)D&D, the GMs have the power and responsibility to determine how situations are resolved.  The GM has myriad ways to judge situations by deciding probability, using dice, and relying on the characters’ ability scores or other statistics to determine competency and success.  This is generally done on the “back end” or behind the screen, so that players are empowered to think creatively and immerse themselves in what their character is doing, without the constraints imposed by data on a character sheet or metagame thinking.  In the end, that requires trust from the players and both fairness and consistency in rulings from the GM.