Alas Vegas, and The Iron Screen

Designed to be played in only a few sessions, Alas Vegas is structured like an HBO miniseries, focusing on the strange surreal uncertainties that await each player. Afflicted with amnesia at the start of the game, they don’t know exactly who they are, where they are, or why they’re there. The players choose which skills they gain through narrative flashbacks, giving the characters shape both narratively and mechanically as the game continues.

I did the same thing for a game, once. It was a sci-fi GURPS game where everyone got out of cryo-stasis pods without their memories. As the game progressed, shards of memories popped up from time to time and their character sheets got slowly filled in. I’ve often thought about doing a game like that again, but now here’s Alas Vegas and I kinda don’t have to anymore.

I can’t say much more about the game because of spoilers, but there is one more wrinkle Alas Vegas throws into the mix. The GM role is rotating; you may play one session as GM and the next as a character.

Why rotate GMs? Doesn’t this make the game a bit more risky? People have different styles and skill-sets — you might get a GM with a knack for narrative twist and comedic timing one session, a master of slow tension the next, and someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing the next.

The main goal of the rotating GM role is not necessarily to make the game surreal and disjointed in tone, but rather to ensure that no one, not even the GM, knows what is really going on until the dramatically appropriate moment. As the story progresses, each GM reads only the chapters of the rulebook that the previous GMs have read, plus the next one. It ensures the world exists only in the framework of what is known, rather than what is there to be discovered.

Secrets are a significant part of RPGs; they have been there since the beginning. The GM’s maps, notes, and rolls all hid carefully behind the great GM Screen. If a character walks down an empty hallway the GM knows what traps lie in their path, what foes lurk behind the closed doors, and what glittering treasure sits patiently in the chests, drawers, and space-lockers.

But it goes further than that. When you are playing an RPG, you will come across obstacles in your journey. Whether it is a tree to be climbed, a door to be opened, or a dragon to be felled, you will eventually reach a moment where forward motion through the story is uncertain. At this point the GM has a choice. They can either tell you how difficult the obstacle is, or…not.

The idea that this is an option might confuse people. “You don’t tell your players how hard the lock is to pick, you don’t tell them what the monster’s armor-class is or how many hit points they have; you tell them whether they succeed or fail and that’s that!”

So what does that do to the game? Well, first off, it keeps players in the dark about their relative power-level. If you know you need to roll a 10 or better, you know how likely that is given your dice and stats. You can game out the probabilities, and the uncertainty of “will I or won’t I” is moved. Not removed entirely, just shifted from “will I roll a 13 or better,” to “does this 14 succeed or not?” It moves the suspense from after the roll to before it.

Think about that. A common situation in RPGs is for the moment of resolution of a die roll to be contingent on the GM revealing the result, rather than the die deciding the result.

And — here’s an important thing to remember — characters can look.

A zombie shambles along, barely upright. Are they hard to hit? Do they have high mental stats? Are they susceptible to flame? You already know those answers, without even knowing what system we’re playing in. Despite (and sometimes due to) our best efforts, tropes pervade RPGs and their gameworlds. We know instinctively that an monster made of ice will be less susceptible to cold attacks, and that tiny scuttling bug-aliens are harder to hit than hulking lizard-alien bouncers.

Combat can be a puzzle, but what kind? If you don’t know an enemy’s dodge ability, it is a puzzle of trial and error. Can I hit the enemy? After I roll a very high number and still miss, then no, I probably can’t. It is a puzzle of gaming out probabilities and sunk-cost falicies, guessing at what actions will make you more or less effective.

If you know an enemy’s defenses, then the puzzle immediately shifts into more informed tactical decisions. How can we increase my chances to reach the target number? If I’m less likely to succeed than my allies, can I be more helpful drawing the enemy’s attacks? Is there some better method of circumventing this obstacle that I can handle that other’s can’t?

It goes beyond dice rolls. What about NPC motivations? What about character secrets? What about everything in the whole game? Secrets aren’t there to ensure the game is a challenge, because challenge is not required to be predicated on ignorance. If it were, anyone who had memorized a monster’s statblock couldn’t play D&D.

So why are so much of RPGs centered around keeping secrets?

Well, obviously, because we want that moment. You know the one. The moment when you describe what the players see, and their jaws drop. That moment they figure out your puzzle to the ancient ruin, and the doors open. The moment when the villain looks down at the dagger in their chest, and laughs. That moment of discovery. That moment of awe when everyone is simply amazed at how clever you are, and how screwed they are.

No, that’s mean of me. It’s not all about showing off your clever chops. It’s because the reveal is a valuable moment in any story, the moment of released tension, when everything falls into place. The beat of recognition and relaxation. Cathartic revelation; you want to share that moment, and that’s fine. Those are great moments.

Besides, consider the alternative: a game where there are no secrets. The players ask how to kill the Foozle or find the McGuffin, and the GM just tells them? They ask if there are any secret doors, and they just know? That sounds like a diceless game, and that may not be the kind of game you want.

But consider this: Is the reveal something to aim for?

It’s an alluring siren call. Whether its a reversal of fortune, an unflinching walk, a “eureka!” moment, or any other trope; we writers, GMs, and players may find ourselves drifting ever closer to the reveal. It’s our catnip. If we’re not careful, it becomes our white whale, or worst of all, the point of playing RPGs in the first place.

I think Alas Vegas is the perfect exception to prove the rule, where secrets are effectively used to enhance the game. In other games — most, in my opinion — a GM can easily become enamored with the Iron Screen; the idea that the other players walk in shadows with secrets all around them, revealed in drops and dribbles as the GM fights to keep them in the dark for as long as possible.

What’s the alternative? Well, you could experiment with telling your fellow players all the secret numbers freely. They can see a foe’s armor and weapons, they can see wounds and judge distances — why not outright tell them the difficulty numbers of any task before they even bother rolling?

There are games which urge this: FATE encourages letting the players know what numbers they need to reach to succeed at any given task, and many games such as Mörk Borg, or systems that are Powered by the Apocalypse or Forged in the Dark, have immutable number-results. Everyone knows if you succeed or fail as soon as the dice stop rolling.

Another option is to embrace the design that games like Rainworld: R2 have; no observation or investigation skills. Instead, tell the players what they see in a “wide” establishing shot, and then if they say they poke around a specific corner or under a specific rug, tell them what a “deep” investigation reveals. Hide information behind in-game action, not skill-rolls or ability-checks.

In a game crafted for it, secrets can be a blessing, but its a powerful drug. I’ve ruined games I’ve run in the past, succumbing to the idea that I was some sort of secret-keeper, doing everything in my power to keep the players weak and ignorant for as long as possible. I wonder if these moments are a genre-trope as much as dragons or lasers. Perhaps forcing these moments into every game is akin to putting a musical number in every game you play, no matter the genre.

As always, the method that works best for your group may not work best for another. I think it’s definitely worth exploring.