Leveling Up is an important part of RPGs. Really, it’s an important part of gaming in general; whether increasing your character’s options, adding troops to your army, or personally getting better at “the game.” While I certainly appreciate the latter form of improvement, I do want to add a more concrete mechanical form of “leveling up.”

In the 0.1 version of the ruleset, this was handled with the total of a Manifestation’s Tier and Bond. A “first level” Manifestation would only have 1 Tier and 1 Bond, while a higher level Manifestation might have 3 Tier and 2 Bond.

In the 0.2 version of the ruleset, the Tier/Bond system has been replaced with a single Emotional-stat mechanic, with Tier representing a Manifestation’s “Level.” This is much simpler and easier to manage, but what does a higher Tier actually do?

As things turned out, the man was finished and standing by the ash of the fire when Vic returned. She tossed him a waterskin and hoisted her bag over her back. “Let’s go.”

“Towards the mountains?” The man coughed. “I thought we were headed east. What’s over there?”

“Me, before nightfall. Quit your whining.”

“What about the…the body?”

“Doesn’t keep good, let the vultures take care of it,” Vic sighed. “Come on, move it! We’re losing light.”

As they walked, Vic took out her father’s map and compass. They were heading northeast, now. If she had read the map properly, they should be about here, but if she saw what she thought she saw, they needed to be about here…

Vic cursed her father again. Then, out of misplaced frustration, she swore at her mother. Neither of them had bothered to write a proper map, and now it was her job to wander around the Borderlands, searching for the bullets that they should have picked up years ago.

Vic opened her eyes.

The icy chill of morning fought to keep her still, poking at her aching muscles and urging her to sleep longer, to wait until the day was warmer. Vic would hear none of it; she sat up, brushing the frost off her cheeks and hair and streching her cramping limbs.

The man was still there, sleeping as best he could while wrapped in what was left of his blanket. Vic took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Damn it all. Kicking dirt on the smoking remains of his fire, Vic walked past the man and snatched up her pack and rifle. “Come on,” she shouted. “Up you get. Time for us to get a move on.”

The man sputtered, jerking upright and casting about. When he realized where he was, he stifled a yawn and slowly crawled upright. “What are you…where are we going?”

Damn, damn, damn fool woman. “If I let you wander off, you won’t make it past sundown. I’m going to take you east a ways until I’m sure you can make it home on your own. This is taking time out of my Hunt, you ken? So I don’t want to hear any complaining about how hungry you are or how much your feet hurt. We’re heading east and we’re going as fast as we can. Got it?”

“I…I got it,” the man rubbed his face. “I suppose asking for breakfast is out?”

Originally, Tier was a kind of “level” mechanic. It evolved into a counterbalance to Bond, so that you could either have a controlled, stable, and crafty Manifestation, or a high-Tier rampaging monster, uncontrolled and high-damaging. It was a nod to the basic trope of “strong or smart.”

That’s been simplified with the single-number stat mechanic we have now, so what use is Tier? Well, “level” wasn’t the only way all the monster-collector games ranked their different mons. A lot of them also had “evolutions.”

Time to bring that back, I think.

The locals called it Old Man Hollow. Vic Duncan called it warm and dry, and in the Borderlands, especially during the cold times of the year, that weren’t nothing to sneeze at.

That said, it wouldn’t remain warm and dry much longer. The sound of rain and thunder was rolling across the distant plains; if Vic wanted to beat the rain, she figured, she’d have to start moving soon.

When she was younger — back when she had first became a hunter — part of her would have wanted to remain surrounded by the gnarled hangman-trees that cradled her small camp. These small moments of warmth and security were rare in the Borderlands, and she used to take all she could get. That part of her had died a long time ago; there was no comfort to be had here, surrounded by ancient woods and dark shadows. Ever since Old Splitfoot came to the Borderlands, there was little comfort to be had anywhere, least of all for Hunters.

Vic began to pack up: her father’s old map and compass, her mother’s traveling pan, her roll and flask, her last few bits of food…it all went into her saddlebags. When was the last time she had seen a horse? There were still a few back in the corelands, but not many hunters ever rode horseback. Horses were too unpredicatble when it came to the Hunt. If they weren’t prepared they’d never survive, and there was nothing that could prepare you for your first time in the Borderlands. Too many horses died or caused trouble to be worth the risk.

The Calculator crawled along the many surfaces, gently poking its way through and around the different detritus surrounding the floor. There were ancient rusted urns and tarnished pots, scraps of withered parchment and dry leather. Some spots held tiny jewels or metallic chains, or small rings made of silver alloy and porcelain.

The Calculator studied each one, noting the size and shape, as well as any other pertinent details. As time passed and its inner clockwork continued to churn, it realized a question was beginning to develop. The pieces were all old, and certainly significant — for why else would they be on display like this? — but none of them were the sort of things that were usually put in a museum or collection.

The more the Calculator looked, the more certain it became: an unsigned letter, a shard of a broken pendent, an unremarkable cup, a fired clay statue of a bird…these things had all belonged to one person.

The Calculator admonished its heretical sense of certainty; the collection could be an entire family’s belongings, or perhaps everything from a single rubbish pile.

One of the big questions raised by this restructuring is: how to handle LP?

Hit points drastically effect how a game plays: how abundant they are, how easy they are to lose or regain, and any other uses for them all have a significant impact on an RPG. Are Manifestations fragile or robust? How many turns, on average, will it take for a Manifestation to kill another Manifestation of the same Tier? A higher Tier? Lower?

Can LP be used for other purposes? Are some special abilities fueled by LP? Can any Manifestation spend LP to boost their POWER or CONTROL, or only ones with a specific passive? Can Manifestations heal their own LP? Other’s LP? Is it only the Agent’s job?

I can answer that last one: for Manifest v0.2, I want to keep healing as an exclusive Agent ability. I also want Manifestations to be fragiler than not, thereby giving weight to the decision of healing a Manifestation vs re-summoning it later. I also don’t want the game to drag, and fragile units can help speed things up. None of that gives solid numbers, though — a 100 HP wizard is pretty fragile if a dagger does 500 damage — so how do I decide how much LP to give Manifestations?

For the first time in perhaps sixty years, the Cat and the Calculator agreed on something.

“It’s here,” the Cat muttered again. “I’m sure of it.”

The Calculator sniffed in mild derision. Who knew, in the whole of the Myriad Worlds why the Cat was sure of anything. It hadn’t even bothered to look properly. It had just sat there, seeming pleased with itself, while the Calculator had done all the work.

It didn’t blame the Cat, of course. It had at first; almost sixty years ago, the Cat had confused the Calculator terribly. It was an ordained priest of the Linear Church, and had certain expectations about the world. It didn’t expect perfection — only high deacons, like the calculator, knew all thirty-six of the divine senses — but the mangy beast didn’t even seem to use the four or five they did know about.

Now, some three-score years later, they had come to an understanding.

Hey there everyone! Just to keep you all in the loop, I got a new job recently. A lot is going through my head about this job. It’s part time work at a library, very neurodivergent friendly, and my supervisor seems incredibly kind, patient, and supportive. I haven’t been out of the apartment in any regular capacity since before the Pandemic; at least 2017, probably earlier if we’re talking daily work.

Let me start by saying, I am not a “fan” of Warhammer 40k.

I know nothing about the different editions, which codexes worked and which ones didn’t, I don’t know the meta of the game, nor the many myriad social and political intricacies that go into being a devoted fan. I don’t want to come in here like “I spent a few months reading the comment section in Tabletop Tactics videos, so now let me tell you something about Warhammer.”

But I do want to comment on Warhammer 40k, because I have seen a few interesting aspects in “the discourse.” I can’t comment how important or significant any of this discourse is, but it does relate to RPGs — specifically the hobby aspect of it — so I’d like to discuss.

Specifically, I’d like to discuss the Space Marines.