The purple fog rolled in like a flood. It curled up the side of the mountain, falling over itself in a crawling tide. The dark bruised color of the mists blanketed the river in shadows, until the entire river was hidden from view.

Ild gave a sharp sniff as she looked out the window. “Tough one coming in,” she muttered to the small squeaker on her shoulder. “Lost something, I’ll warrant. May not even know what. You think he’ll stop by?”

The tiny mouse nuzzled Ild’s withered cheek, jiggling her loose jowls with a gentle squeak. The tiny whiskers tickled and caught her own as Ild gave a gentle sigh. “Well, I’d better put the kettle on.”

[It contains] a total want of literary attractiveness ~ review of Sir Rodrick Murchison’s ‘Siluria’

There is a common question bandied about literary circles, when the band of brothers spend their restful hours in smoking rooms, and tongues have been well loosened with free-flowing brandy. It should be no surprise to anyone that when a group of seasoned men get together that questions of a potentially offensive nature get asked.

It is a ribald cliche of men that they are either ‘Sans or Serifs’ men, and focus their attentions on words or lettering that ascribes to this basic quality. I cannot deny that the distinction is a significant one, and I have several friends who will spend hours on the seemingly innocuous topic of Sans font, and the beautiful curves and long lines of a good Ariel typeset. I admit, I have always found myself drawn to Serifs.

Ratqueen, was created by transcribing the narrative created by playing the solo RPG: Rattenkönigin, by Abbax. What follows are the rolls I made during the first successful game I played.

Darkness scratching, the squeal of young, gnawing and ravenous, the HUNGER grows. Instincts many, a need to scurry, fnd the places safe and dark. Nowhere truly safe, nowhere to escape the clawing need for food.

We are many, and the many are safe. Smell of fur and flesh, air filled wit foul rot and dirt. A nest of castoffs, trash and refuse that hides our coveted treasure, our food, our young, our selves. They hunt us, but they do not find us.

Instinct. No time to think or plan, no time to prepare or horde. Survival. Bite. Claw Feed. Then scurry away to live another day.

We survive.

We dream.

I’ve avoided writing this post for some time. Ever since my first post on the X-card.

Immersion, as I said in my last few posts, is fragile. I blew past several opportunities to discuss how immersion is affected by safety tools, but I always thought it was too big a subject to just slot in. The few times I even tried, it always came across like I was suggesting Safety Tools weren’t mandatory, and should be weighed against the corresponding loss in immersion.

That’s nonsense. You should always feel safe.

But I can’t avoid it any longer; safety tools are necessary, but they’re not inert. Adding safety tools to your game affects it, and we need to explore how. Much like Patriarchy and Toxic Masculinity, we only make our job harder if we do not understand precisely what we are asking others to sacrifice, even if it appears ridiculous to us.

The game Lighthouse at the End of the World uses the Wretched and Alone SRD, a system designed to tell stories of horror, sadness, and hopelessness. You’re not supposed to “win” these games often, and this play reflects that, I feel. What follows are the die-rolls, card-draws, and tower-pulls that created the events that I turned into my short-story.

Thomas stared up at the lighthouse.

When he had first arrived, it had looked like a beacon of hope, a place to hide and live out the rest of his days; a stone tomb he had interred himself in to rest at last. Now, it looked like a jail, a prison of intangible cell-mates who tormented him every day with their absent lives.

He used to try to ignore them. He spent his days struggling to do his work without acknowledging their presence, and it hadn’t worked. They had only begun to shout louder, manifesting as horrible images of suffering and half-eaten corpses.

He began to talk to them under his breath. Now he muttered to them without always realizing he was. He even muttered in his sleep; he had woken himself up several times with his own frantic gibbering.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a prisoner or the jailor.

You may have noticed, either while reading Manyfold or my posts, that it starts to get a little clumsy talking about these individual types of fun and distinct methods of support. It’s hard to separate Improvisation from Performance; they seem to fit quite well together. Rules, Achievement, and Risk are all of a kind too, as they all relate to the game itself, rather than the narrative.

Levi realized that talking about agon or kenosis is all well and good in an academic theory kind of way, but it’s not that helpful when trying to figure out what your friends want to actually play. So, they created Playstyle Clusters, a “body of mechanics and techniques a group uses to pursue a particular bundle of good things.” Does your table constantly do the voices? Do they spend hours talking over strategy and character builds? Do they love coming up with plot twists and dramatic arcs? That’s their playstyle.

Levi notes that playstyles are unique to each group, can change over time, and can even by dysfunctional, if trying to serve multiple and contradictory types of fun. This is the moment when the player who really wanted to win the game gets dirty looks from their fellow players because “your character wouldn’t do that.”

In the last couple posts, we explored some different terms for different kinds of fun people can have with RPGs, and the different mindsets they can engage with while playing.

So what?

Sure, we can have an interesting conversation using the same terminology, but the rubber has to meet the road sometime, right? Being a Better Socrates is all about using new frameworks to become better RPGers.

This is where the third section of Manyfold comes in. The Designed Support section goes through the first list of types-of-enjoyment and discusses different ways of supporting these types in games, and I’d like to take a look at them now.

The weeks were long in the lighthouse. Time passed slowly for Thomas as he muttered his way up and down the lighthouse steps. He cursed the chills and the heat, he spat on the creaking wood and sneered at the fragrence of rotting seaweed that permiated the stacks of flotsam that lined the walls.

“Ten,” he muttered, after counting. “Ten of you, eh? No matter. I’m ready for you. Got my own, see? Got my own.”

Tending the lighthouse was a simple enough job. He changed out the oil every day, adjusted the valves and chimney as required, and that was that. All he had left to do was explore the detritus of the sea and avoid any ghosts.