Victoria stepped into meeting room seven and began to panic.

It was not an uncommon reaction. As a First-Responder trauma specialist, she was familiar with the learned instincts and reflexes colloquially dubbed ‘punctual-panic.’

As a byproduct of their training and experience in the field, First-Responders often showed increased anxiety over wasted time, both in themselves and others. Time was a valuable resource to the First-Responders; seconds meant deaths. Minutes separated a successful response from a catastrophe.

If the room was empty, Victoria might have gone to the wrong room. How many dead as a result? She would need to contact her coordinator or the base supervisor to find the right room. How many more would die?

Victoria forced herself to breathe easy; if time cost lives, so did panic. First step was to confirm her location. Tapping her watch, she pulled up her coordinator’s summons. Sure enough; Meeting Room Seven. She was in the right place.

Last time, I figured out a narrative lynchpin for my game: Monsters wander the earth, manifestations of powerful emotions. This time, I’d like to solidify the setting a bit more.

I’d also like to bite something in the bud right now: “My Game” is a dumb name for an RPG, so I have decided to give the game the working title of Manifest. The name centers on the fact that the core of this game is these Manifestations of emotion. The rest of the game could be anything, use any mechanics, be OSR, Narrative, be Powered by the Apocalypse or use d20 Modern, but the Manifestations are the unique aspect of the system that requires a concrete and cohesive system.

Hannah Klein licked her lips. She rarely did anymore; constant chapped lips provided her solid motivation for breaking the habit, but when she was nervous, the old behavior resurfaced.

It bothered her that she was nervous. Not just because it brought back her lip-licking, but because there was no good reason for it. Her entire career had been full of presentations to URC panels. It was part of the job. After weeks of study, she knew the proposal backwards and forwards, and any question the committee thought up that she didn’t immediately know the answer too would likely come from the team of aides seated behind her.

She’d even argued this exact proposal before. Granted, it was more than two decades ago, when she had just been appointed as an EU Liaison, and a lot had changed since then; but now she was an established figure at the URC. They knew her, and she knew her trade.

So why was she so nervous?

The Kolonie-Arche Projekt was what had first brought Michael and Antje together. Two decades prior, at a fancy EU party, the then-newly appointed EUSAA director had pinned a freshly elected German minister to the wall when she had inadvertently expressed an interest in space-exploration.

“It’s a common mistake,” Michael explained. “Everyone still assumes we’re planning on colonizing the solar system.” There were countless papers and projects to that effect. Deep in the EUSAA’s files, Mars, Venus, and even the moon were officially slated for colonization. Scientists had been talking about it for decades, and the programs and designs for doing so were dime a dozen.

“No?” Antje took a sip of her wine. “I am still new to the Bundestag; I am always learning about new projects. I assumed the EUSAA would have been working on something like colonization.”

“We are,” Michael licked his lips. “Or rather, I am; but not for our solar-system. Colonizing outside the solar system is the only project that makes any sense.”

Okay, so I’ve decided to make an RPG.

Now what?

First steps are always the hardest, because you have a blank sheet of paper with nothing on it. When you try to think of anything, nothing is always the first thing you think of.

Pearls need sand, trees need seeds, every journey starts with a single step.

A little less than an hour later, Michael Donnahill stepped off the mag-train at the New Bath Airport, carrying a single briefcase and dressed in his lightest clothing. He had been cursing himself the entire trip, thinking about the lonely umbrella that sat next to the door in his apartment.

He had always traveled light. He had to; a government salary didn’t give him the resources to bring extra shoes or changes of clothing. Travel was expensive, and every pound counted. When it was possible, he didn’t even bother to bring his briefcase, opting instead to slip his computer in his pocket and be done with it. Packing, for Michael, could take hours as he inspected each shirt, sock, and toiletry to decide if he really needed to bring it.

This trip, however, had inhabited that rare paradox of being impossible to pack for and therefore easy to pack for. Michael knew nothing about what Antje wanted, except it was for more than just a drink. Free from the knowledge of what to expect, he was able to forego agonizing what to bring. Instead, Michael threw on the lightest clothing he had and stuffed an old jacket and tie in a side-bag. He could remote-terminal into his office if he needed to access information back at the EUSAA.

Sometimes, it’s the little things.

For example: when Michael Donnahill was seven, he saw the 2090 eclipse as it blacked out the sky over the English Isles of the EU, what was once called Great Britain before the food riots. He sat on a grassy hill on what his grandfather still called the Isle of Wight, surrounded by thousands of onlookers as they all stared up into the sky, wearing their thin black glasses.

It was moderately cloudy that day, but everyone could still see the dim burning disk as it was eaten away, sliver by sliver, behind the thick fog of clouds. Michael watched as the world grew darker and darker still, his heart racing as night fell faster and faster, until 4:56 on the twenty-third of September was as dark as midnight in winter.

Well, I’ve done it. I’ve decided to put my theory to the practice.

Woe to all who step down this dark path.

There’s a longstanding cliche about the separation betweeen theory and practice. Some people think about things, other people do things. “Those who can’t do, teach.” The bigotry and condescention between the two groups is just as longstanding; get a chemist or mathemetician talking about the differences between the “theoretical” and “applied” branches of their field, and watch the sparks fly.

That’s right, I’m going to design my own RPG. It’s going to be a process, and certainly take more time to consider all the various issues that crop up. As such, I will be moving the design posts to Saturdays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I will begin posting another writing project, Noriama. As with most of my stories, the idea that struck me first was a retelling, in this case a futuristic look at the vanishing Roanoke colony.

Okay, let me first take a step back and say this unequivocally: I don’t think Errant Challenger is a bad game. This is a rhetorical device, yeah? Just go with it for a second.

Errant Challenger, by Fauix, is still in its Beta at time of writing. It’s a fairly straightforward system, easily graspable by most anyone familiar with RPGs.

It’s a bad RPG.

I mean, look at it! It’s not so much a rule-book as it is a word document exported to PDF. The cover is poorly structured AI mush. There’s no real setting, just a chunk of fantasy pablum. The system itself doesn’t do anything that hasn’t been done twenty time over in different systems.