High Level PCs Are an Affront to God

Why are there angels in the D&D monster manual? 

In modern D&D – 5E and its third-party cousins – Great Wheel Cosmology necessitates a mirror to fiends, so angels appear for taxonomic thoroughness. Mechanically, I presume the game's designers view the angels in the 5E.14 Monster Manual as summoning spell targets and NPC allies for the (presumably good) PCs.

Fashioning a combat encounter between these holy dudes and those putatively good PCs requires some contortions. D&D 5E makes its angels fluent in all languages, and telepathic as well, edging out the possibility of even a misunderstanding when these creatures descend from the heavens. A footnote in the manual indicates that fallen angels exist, but they don’t get any interesting mechanical implementation (for that, try the Chained Angel from Kobold Press’s Tome of Beasts).

D&D in its earliest forms didn’t have them, and many throwback systems still eschew them. The Old School Essentials bestiary, for example, lacks an entry for angels. 

When angels do appear in like-minded products, like Skerples’ beautiful new book The Monster Overhaul, they are decidedly old testament, plausibly dangerous, or decidedly unknowable. In keeping with the book’s focus on table-readiness and applicability to adventures, Skerples’ angels are loaded with danger, friction, and implicit conflict.

This Far You May Come and No Farther 

So imagine an angel confronting the PCs. Clearly it can happen because of something they have done in the game. Some action that made sense to them or solved a material plane-concern, but angered those on high. I’ve done that one myself.

But what else? What if the angels confront high-level PCs because they are high level?

It may not feel like an obvious conflict, but it’s firmly rooted in myth. From Prometheus to Babel, gods have punished mortals for attempting to rival them in power and glory. And PCs get harder and harder to distinguish from gods as they reach high levels.

Applying this mechanically can be quite simple. In a leveling system that goes from level 1 to 20, adventurers might begin to attract the attention of gods around 10th level (5E clerics gain the divine intervention ability around this time; a convenient demarcation point).

The gods might be merely watchful when PCs hit 10th level. I assume tier 3 adventurers are quite rare, unless a setting specifically says otherwise; and many adventurers who do reach that level retire or die before getting much further. But for every additional level the PCs attain, the gods become more wary, suspicious, jealous, and eventually angry.

By the time characters reach level 20, some sort of confrontation – violent or otherwise – is inevitable.

O Come At Me Bro, All Ye Faithful

All well and good for the wizards, thieves, and fighters out there. But what about clerics, paladins, and warlocks? Their adventuring life has been defined by the divine.

Warlock is easiest. Unlike most of 5E’s classes, Warlock has tension built in it at the ground level. A 20th level warlock is strong enough to directly confront the compromising nature of the pact with their patron. Even if they simply want their freedom, the patron may see them as too powerful and dangerous to just let loose. And the PC may even decide to take the patron’s place and begin issuing their own pacts.

For paladins and clerics, there’s always the option to say that at the end of the day, their arrangements with their gods were just warlock pacts with better optics. Maybe the conflict plays out in a similar fashion to warlocks. But it can go other ways.

A good-aligned god might stand aside for a worthy paladin or cleric to replace them – that actually happened in the 5E game I ran past level 20. But even if the god in question is fine with ceding the stage to their protégé, there’s no guarantee other gods will be OK with it. Most mythological gods in the real world do not tend to their portfolios in cool isolation, but instead are highly social creatures, fostering alliance and rivalries within a contentious pantheon. And there could be many reasons for those rivals to see the PC’s ascension as an affront to the gods.

Loose Canons

Canon. What was and was not canon in fiction was once the domain of a humble few, limited to the letters sections of comic books, the back pages of fanzines, and late-night arguments in the earliest fan conventions. The internet changed that, turning ordinary fans of movies, comics, television, and games into lore experts willing to argue as passionately (or vehemently) as the most hard-nosed academic. Nerd culture then fused with pop culture, and a thousand fandom wikis later, we live in a world obsessed with canon.

But before canon, there was... loose canon? Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft created stories in which shared gods lurked in the background, manifesting in different ways. An unfulfilled backdoor pilot in the original Star Trek show became a weird element of lore 60 years later. Elminster visited modern day earth! The loose mythologies of the worlds of Stephen King and Michael Moorcock are also fine examples.

A player in one game I ran created a character that was, in part, a callback to the nickname of an adventuring party from a previous game. The two games were completely unrelated; they were run in different systems. It would not be possible to “travel” from one world to the other. They are certainly not part of some kind of “multiverse” (a term I find progressively less and less interesting as more and more intellectual properties adopt it).

But I liked this idea that there was some tenuous, unspecified, non-actionable connection between these different fictional realities. Those characters will never see each other’s worlds or interact directly. But there are common themes, ideas, and aesthetics that the PCs (in their capacity as both participants and audience) can enjoy, and that’s what loose canon is all about.

Snagging Adventurers With Better Hooks

Bad hooks are a common complaint in Ten Foot Pole's reviews of published adventures. Adventure writers obviously struggle with transitioning users into the adventure, with efforts ranging from the flimsy (“um, the mayor will pay 50 gold for you to, uh, look into his orc problem?”) to the nakedly non-diegetic (“get in loser, we’re going adventuring”).

But I get it. Hooks are hard to write well in a published product, because PCs might enter a given scenario from any number of directions; and unless the product is written for a very specific setting, the writer may not even know the fundamental, baseline assumptions of the game world. 

But even when they are hard, hooks are still important, because the transition into a new scenario or location is an area where the DM could most use help from the writer. By comparison, it’s much easier for the DM to adjudicate uncertainty when the PCs are in the middle of a scenario already in motion. Getting started is the hardest part.

Hooks are usually presented as a best-guess at what the party is doing and what the PCs want, with the assumption that the DM will choose the closest one and tailor as needed. Can we make them any better? Get them any closer to what the DM needs? Perhaps by categorizing common ways adventuring PCs might enter an adventure scenario? 

What would these categories look like? 

• If the PCs are returning to civilization after visiting the dungeon…
• If the PCs are in transit as part of a longer journey…
• If the PCs are lost in the wilderness…
• If the PCs are looking for something that might be found in a town or city…
• If the PCs are searching for something that might be found in a dungeon…
• If the PCs are in search of a particular person or a type of NPC… 
• If the PCs are fleeing or retreating from someone or something…
• If the PCs are recruiting henchmen, hirelings, or replacement adventurers…

Some of these could be combined or better defined… but it might be worth a try to think of the hooks in terms of where the PCs are coming from, rather than where we hope those hooks will take them in the ensuing scenario. 

Adverb-Forward Skill Resolution in RPGs

Ability plus skill (henceforth, “A+S”) has been one of the most common TTRPG resolution methods for over 20 years. Roll the dice, add the ability modifier, add the skill modifier (if any). It allows some complexity and interplay between natural aptitude and trained proficiency, without ever getting too complicated. Nice little system.

But in some RPG systems, A+S gets a little too predictable. In my experience, in D&D 5E, most A+S pairing are almost hard-paired with each other. The Athletics skill is coupled with the Strength ability 99% of the time. Perhaps the DM occasionally calls for an unusual roll that breaks up the pairing, like Wisdom (Athletics), but in practice, the system has a lot less flexibility and depth than its structure implies. Digital tools and platforms for online play exacerbate this problem – the standard A+S rolls are usually tied to convenient buttons on character sheets, while non-standard rolls must be executed manually. 

Someone on the Alexandrian Discord recently pointed out a different X+Y system that caught my attention. Modiphius Entertainment’s Dishonored RPG combines six skills with six "styles." The skills are character actions you might see in a lot of RPGs: Fight, Move, Study, Survive, Talk, and Tinker. But the styles are something different, and what really caught my eye: Boldly, Carefully, Cleverly, Forcefully, Quietly, Swiftly.

I haven’t played the Dishonored video games, and prior to reading this, had no particular interest in the RPG either. But this skills and styles approach caught my interest, because those styles are, of course, adverbs.

Evaluating the A+S problem from a grammatical light provides an interesting perspective. If someone is described as a “strong, athletic fighter,” those two adjectives are perhaps reinforcing each other, but also in danger of blurring together. A parsimonious editor might say, “can’t we just write ‘athletic fighter’ and convey basically the same idea?” That helps explain why A+S sometimes feels one-dimensional instead of two-dimensional.

By contrast, an adverb can stake a stronger claim to its role in the sentence than an additional adjective can. Forcefully tinkering is quite different from quietly tinkering. Swiftly moving says something different than boldly moving. And so on. As I said, I haven’t tried this system; I would love to hear from those who have). I suspect it would feel more dynamic than some of the A+S systems I'm more familiar with.

Who knows, maybe I’ll get a chance to check out the Dishonored system. Or try hacking that resolution mechanic into a one-shot in another game. Frankly, you could say I am extremely interested, and that I eagerly look forward to a very exciting gaming experience.

The Prestige of Character Classes

I played in a few D&D 3.5 games back before I had developed any kind of distinct preferences about complexity and game feel within the TTRPG space. D&D 3.5 was simply the game other people I knew played; I was years away from learning about the then-nascent PBTA, OSR, and sundry indie movements.

Knowing games like I know them now – knowing my own preferences – I have little interest in playing, running, or designing for 3.5 or its descendants. But aspects of its design do stick with me, interest me, and provoke thoughts about our games.

Remember prestige classes? These were classes in 3.5 (and its offshoots, like Pathfinder) that PCs could access through multiclassing. They were different from ordinary classes in a number of ways, principally that they required various prerequisites (skill ranks, feats, and so forth) before the players could take them. Because of the prerequisites, prestige classes weren’t available from level one; but through careful planning, players could steer their characters toward a prestige class that would deliver a particularly specific character concept. 

Prestige classes were emblematic of 3.5’s emphasis on mechanically complex characters. Much of the online discussion of 3.5 was consumed with character builds and optimization guides, where prestige classes figured prominently. More power to players who enjoyed (and still enjoy) this style of play, but the mechanical implementation of these prestige classes was not for me. It required too much planning ahead, and it felt too removed from the in-game events that might organically shape a character.

But the fiction of many of those prestige classes was still evocative. Many characters in fiction are defined more by drastic changes in their abilities – transforming or changing into something different – rather than just becoming incrementally better at each level, as where a 13th level fighter becomes marginally more effective at, well, fighting when they hit level 14. Is there some way to capture that energy, without the heavy-duty mechanical implementation?

Back to the Backgrounds

Backgrounds are one of 5E’s best (and least-appreciated) features. They’re flexible but flavorful, and can make a character three-dimensional in a way that ancestry-plus-class can’t do by itself.

But they’re often forgotten in 5E games. A few proficiencies, languages, and a narrow-use-case special ability fade into the background (sorry) as characters gain flashier class powers. How could we put more focus on those backgrounds?

Let’s start our characters at level zero. A level zero character simply uses the commoner stat block from the Monster Manual, plus a single background of their choice. These people are ordinary; we’re talking about an adventuring party that starts out with 10s across the board for ability scores. (This doesn’t mean their ability scores suddenly and mysteriously jump up when they hit first level; they simply have not yet been able to leverage or express their natural abilities just yet.)

After an introductory adventure or two – a funnel, if possible, so the players aren’t too precious with these fragile characters – they can qualify for classes. D&D 5E assumes no particular link between backgrounds and classes, which certainly has its merits; less-obvious background/class combinations like “criminal paladin” or “entertainer monk” certainly can make for interesting character concepts. But for this exercise – drawing from prestige class ideas – we’ll constrain ourselves to binary choices.

Acolyte. You grew up in or around a religious institution; one day, you had to make a choice. When you reach first level, choose devotee (cleric) or heretic (warlock).

Charlatan. You could never fit in with the rules and structure of a “normal” life. When you reach first level, choose trickster (rogue) or wanderer (bard).

Criminal. You have always lived outside the law. When you reach first level, choose deceiver (rogue) or thug (fighter).

Entertainer. You’re most at home in the spotlight. When you reach first level, choose musician (bard) or magician (sorcerer).

Folk Hero. You stood up for the little guy. When you reach first level, choose pugilist (monk) or paragon (paladin).

Guild Artisan. You were a craftsperson before your training took you in an unusual direction. When you reach first level, choose journeyman (wizard) or fortune-seeker (rogue).

Hermit. You were always on your own, until you joined an adventuring party. When you reach first level, choose loner (ranger) or ascetic (druid).

Noble. You were part of the aristocracy. When you reach first level, choose knight (fighter) or priest (cleric).

Outlander. You were most at home in wild places that would test even the bravest. When you reach first level, choose warden (ranger) or nomad (barbarian).

Sage. Your search for knowledge was what led you to a life of adventure. When you reach first level, choose savant (wizard) or bedlamite (warlock).

Sailor. Even sailing the seas wasn’t excitement enough for you. When you reach first level, choose pirate (rogue) or explorer (ranger). 

Soldier. You fought in wars before you delved into dungeons. When you reach first level, choose veteran (fighter) or scout (ranger).

Urchin. You grew up in the streets with no one to look out for you but yourself. When you reach first level, choose mendicant (rogue) or scrapper (fighter).

And there we have it! Yes, this is quite unbalanced; some classes appear many times, while others appear only once. But that could be a feature, not a bug. In this example, fighters, rogues, and rangers would make up half of the class options, implying a considerably less-magical world. 

With a few changes to the choices above, it would be easy enough to create an entirely different menu of options. What prestigious choices would characters make in your game?

Defacing the Party Face

Skill-based games struggle with resolving action organically when PCs are hyper-aware of which character is best at what. A player will outline an entire elaborate plan for solving a problem; the DM will call for a roll; and the player will immediately switch gears and start proposing reasons why another PC (who was silent throughout the aforementioned process) should execute the action (because their character has a 5-10% better chance of succeeding).

Some games solve this through various mechanical details or table rules. But can we help the ones that don’t?

Everyone Has Something to Say

While watching the last Guardians of the Galaxy movie, I was struck by how frequently the members of the titular adventuring party undermined their own plans because one or more of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Sure, social interaction is easy when the bard does the talking, and everyone else stands mutely behind them. It’s a little more challenging if the barbarian feels the need to interject with unhelpful or overly revealing commentary.

What if there was a game rule that the scene doesn’t end until every character speaks? Or, for larger adventuring parties, at least two characters (besides the charismatic “face”) speak?

The goal is to get some friction into the dialogue. Some PCs will be tempted to just say “yeah, what he said.” PBTA systems and other games that provide a mechanical payoff for the player failing, acting suboptimally to advance the narrative, or otherwise indulging a flaw can do this most easily. But it can work in any kind of game where the players buy into the idea and trust the DM to encourage them to cause interesting problems without responding punitively. 

Actions Speak Louder Than Words 

Let’s take another page from fiction. Movies, TV shows, and books are good at moving the spotlight from one character to another to make sure the story gives each of them something to do. Many of the same tricks work in a TTRPG.

How to move the spotlight after the face makes their case? It’s easy:

• The chieftain respects strength and strength alone; an arm-wrestling contest with the warrior would bring him around.
• The security system is unmoved by guile; it wants the cyborg to explain why you need to get in, using reason and logic.
• The fence agrees to find the missing artifact, but only if another member of the brotherhood of scoundrels (like, say, the party criminal) personally vouches for the deal.
• The elemental only speaks primordial, the language the dwarf PC got at level one and promptly forgot about. The elemental can’t make sense of the nattering, flighty language of man; say it  again, in words of stone and fire.

No More Talk

Implicit in some of the examples above is that a good rule for handling social situations is to know when and how to end the dialogue.

In listening to some actual play podcasts recently, I’ve been driven up the wall by GMs who will let players cajole, wheedle, beg, hector, and berate NPCs long after the interesting part of the conversation has ended. This is doubly bad in a podcast, where the session has to be entertainment for an audience, in addition to the players. But it should still be avoided in games where the players themselves are the only audience.

A terribly underrated tool is to simply say “they don’t buy your arguments and are no longer listening to you. It looks like you’ll have to explore some other way to get what you want, or come back to them after the situation has changed in some way and there’s a new argument to make.” Phrase it as narration  rather than in-voice dialogue, so it’s clear that you’re moving on to something else. This can be a little frustrating in the short term to players who want to “win” every interaction and scene they participate in, but it pays dividends in the medium to long term, with tighter, more interesting sessions.

Revenge of the Rejects

Players love to roll up new characters. The randomness and uncertainty is thrilling, and the process encourages players to discover their characters through creation rather than fulfilling a pre-decided ideal. But since the early days of the RPG hobby, people have debated the best way to do this. 

Today, I settle this debate. I have detailed below the best system for D&D-style 3-to-18 base statistics (OK, I have not tested this yet, so it may not in fact be the best system).

Players roll their character’s abilities straight down the line. No point buy, no standard array, no 4d6 drop-the-lowest. Maybe allow a single swap of any two stats (ala Knave 1.0), but that’s it. We want very quick, straightforward characters.

Here’s the trick: Players can reroll any number of times. What, you might reasonably ask, is preventing them from simply rerolling endlessly, until they get a character with exclusively good-to-great stats?

Option 1: They’re Going to Hold This Against You

The answer is simple. The DM keeps each character that the players reject. Each of those rejected characters becomes an NPC in the game. Each rejected character is an antagonist or rival to the group as a whole, or -- better yet -- to the player who passed on them. 

The intensity of their enmity goes up incrementally the more characters a player rejects. The first one they turn down might be a schoolyard rival or nosey neighbor. The tenth one is going to be a major world power or potential campaign antagonist.

Option 2: Group Draft

Each player rolls the first of six stats, writes it down, and then decides to either hold onto the sheet or pass it clockwise. Players opting to pass circulate their sheets amongst the other passing players. A player who passes their sheet and doesn't accept someone else's can start a new sheet. If all players reject a particular sheet, the DM gets that character sheet. This process continues until all players settle on a completed character sheet.

The DM keeps all the sheets that weren't claimed and uses them to collectively build an antagonist, villain, or organization integral to the scenario. This person or organization's strength in the world is proportional to the number of sheets the DM received (for example, the number of sheets could equal HD for a monster, or number of hexes controlled by an enemy army). If the DM chooses to make them an NPC or monster, the DM can pick and choose the best statistics from among the sheets they received. If they choose to make them an organization, faction, or something more abstract, the numbers can still inform how the resulting antagonistic force works.