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Dragna's Blog: Inverting the Polarity (of the Dramatic Question)
🕑 Added 2024-08-20 21:36:07 +0000 UTCRecently, I played Call of Cthulhu for the first time.
The first session, aside from an assortment of introductions to NPCs and other PCs, largely consisted of exploring rooms in a mostly empty mansion, trying to uncover secrets and identify any clues that might trigger further developments in the (only somewhat unfolded) narrative.
Even though there wasn't really a clear dramatic question yet (something Bad had happened, or at least appeared to, but posed no immediate threat to us), there was nonetheless a real sort of intrigue that came from exploring the manor in the hopes of uncovering “the plot.” The tension was low, if abstractly real, but we nevertheless pursued the catharsis of revelation like a dog chasing a bone, poking about trapdoors, books, and attics with delight.
Why?
Inverting the Narrative
By sheer coincidence, on the very night after I played Call of Cthulhu, I ran a (D&D) session for my home group in which the players, investigating a mysterious silhouette they had seen the previous night, explored an evidently abandoned manor at the head of an evidently abandoned village. The tension was low, and there was no clear reason to explore the mansion (their actual mission had sent them to the nearby mine, rather than the village itself), but their curiosity drove them onward nevertheless.
Why?
It would be easy - too easy - to write this off as simple human psychology at work. “Players are curious, and are going to want to investigate things that make them curious.” Yes, but why? And, more importantly, how can we integrate this deeper understanding into our paradigm of game and narrative design in order to build better adventures?
Let's start from the beginning. As with Call of Cthulhu, my players were expecting a Revelation catharsis - the joy of discovery - despite the fact that they didn't yet know what they might discover, and despite the fact that there were no clear stakes for investigating the manor. That meant there was no real dramatic question, right?
But wasn't there? They were choosing to pursue an optional path in the (reasonable) hopes that the rewards of doing so would outweigh any risk of danger or post time. That's an action choice, isn't it?
Frequently, this kind of action choice takes the form of some kind of inciting incident - we see, say, a mysterious trapdoor, and immediately think, “Man, I wonder what's on the other side of that.” Unlike a normal inciting incident, this kind of occurrence doesn't immediately convey the stakes of pursuing the goal (i.e., investigating the trapdoor), since we didn't yet even know whether anything interesting lay on the other side, let alone what it might be. Instead, this strange inciting incident promises stakes in the future - kind of like a weird sort of obfuscated futures contract that invites players to invest their time now into a mysterious, unknown venture with the promise of potential payoff in the future.
We might call this mechanism an inverted dramatic question - a dramatic question where the stakes aren't revealed until after the players have already achieved the goal, but where the inciting incident clearly promises that such stakes will eventually exist.
Significantly, an inverted dramatic question must be the byproduct of an action choice; the entire gameplay of it lies in whether the players choose to pursue it or not in order to achieve its undisclosed stakes. Absent such agency, it's merely a false choice - and (should the players ignore it) a potentially frustrating one.
So how can we sell our narrative “futures contract” to our players? Well, we need to make our buyers (the players) believe that it will contain something worthwhile in the future. We do that by creating curiosity - a keen personal interest in seeing the dramatic question’s stakes unveiled. But how do we do that?
Focusing the Eye
There's a particular encounter in Curse of Strahd that's infamous for being a surprise player deathtrap - an area that, with minimal foreshadowing, fiercely punishes players who dare to explore it.
I'm talking, of course, about the Darklord's Shrine in Death House.
Let's take a brief moment to review this area's description:
This room is festooned with moldy skeletons that hang from rusty shackles against the walls. A wide alcove in the south wall contains a painted wooden statue carved in the likeness of a gaunt, pale-faced man wearing a voluminous black cloak, his pale left hand resting on the head of a wolf that stands next to him. In his right hand, he holds a smoky-gray crystal orb.
It's indisputable, both theoretically and experimentally, that this room's description funnels and focuses the players' attention toward the statue of Strahd—specifically, the orb that it holds in its hand. Time after time, parties decide that the orb is enchanted, or valuable, or otherwise worth snagging - and immediately wind up with a near-worthless liability and a fight with some of the deadliest CR ½ monsters in the game.
How does this happen? Let's take a moment to think about the players' psychology as they enter this scene: They enter a new room, and immediately (and unambiguously) see their attention focused, evidently intentionally, on a strange, but otherwise unremarkable object (the orb) positioned at a focal point in the room. The object, the game is telling them, is clearly important - but the players don't yet know why. This creates dissonance, driving the players to investigate the orb in order to resolve that dissonance.
In other words - the Darklord's Shrine is an inverted dramatic question: a dramatic question which, as described above, promises a beneficial outcome if the players pursue its goal (investigation), but refuses to clarify the nature of that outcome until after the goal is achieved. Of course, the shrine fails to deliver on that promise - either accidentally (because the writers didn't understand what they were doing) or purposefully (because the writers wanted to teach the players that exploration is bad and inverted dramatic questions in this campaign will almost always be lies).
(The problem with the latter approach, of course, is that players are stubborn and difficult to Pavlov - and once they've been Pavlov'd, they often wind up with maladaptive behaviors that persist in other, less suitable campaigns long after the present campaign has ended.)
Nevertheless, this new information allows us to easily define the gameplay of exploration itself: Exploration is an inverted dramatic question that creates curiosity by focusing player attention on a detail without clear importance, thereby encouraging the players to investigate that detail to resolve any resulting dissonance. The greater the dissonance, the more likely the players will choose to investigate.
This property also allows us to create a form of path challenge for our players—players who don’t notice the dissonance don’t get to take the action choice of investigating the detail. (For example, in my last home session, I described an area where a rug had evidently been removed; if the players investigated the rug in a room nearby, they would’ve found a secret trapdoor hidden beneath it. Yet they didn’t - alas.) We can, in other words, create inverted dramatic questions with moderate dissonance in order to reward perceptive and curious players for noticing and investigating details.
This is all well and good, but how do we help players distinguish between mere aesthetic details and actual dissonance-creating details? Consider the following description from E4. Burgomaster’s Mansion in Curse of Strahd:
A weary-looking mansion squats behind a rusting iron fence. The iron gates are twisted and torn. The right gate lies cast aside, while the left swings lazily in the wind. The stuttering squeal and clang of the gate repeats with mindless precision. Weeds choke the grounds and press with menace upon the house itself. Yet, against the walls, the growth has been tramped down to create a path all about the domain. Heavy claw markings have stripped the once-beautiful finish of the walls. Great black marks tell of the fires that have assailed the mansion. Not a pane nor a shard of glass stands in any window. All the windows are barred with planks, each one marked with stains of evil omen.
There’s a lot of detail here, but nothing meaningful to uncover. There’s technically one thing for the players to investigate - players who survey the grounds can find “scores of wolf paw prints and human footprints” - but it’s lost amidst the deluge of detail that clutters the remainder of the description (the “twisted and torn” iron gates with their “stuttering squeal”; the “heavy claw markings”; the “great black marks”; etc.).
The key to help our players distinguish between aesthetic and important details is to focus their mind’s eye on the things that matter. How can we do that? I asked ChatGPT for some suggestions, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. It suggested I use:
Repetition. Repeat or refer to the detail multiple times.
Precision. Describe the precise nature (e.g., dimensions, appearance, location) of the detail.
Placement. Describe the detail at the beginning or end of the description (so that players are more likely to notice and remember it).
Sensory Depth. Describe the detail in greater depth than its surroundings.
Contrast. Give the detail contrast with its surroundings.
Character Association. Tie the detail to a character (e.g., have an NPC holding it).
Symbolism. Give the detail some symbolic connection to the narrative’s current themes
Sentence Structure. Vary your sentence and paragraph structure such that the sentence introducing the detail is distinct (e.g., in length or placement) from the rest.
I asked ChatGPT to apply these principles to analyze the description of the Darklord’s Shrine. Here’s what it said:
Placement in the Paragraph and Sentence: The paragraph first introduces the setting with moldy skeletons and then transitions to the description of the wooden statue, placing it centrally in the paragraph. This central placement suggests importance.
Unusual Adjectives and Detailed Description: The statue is described with a vivid array of details: "painted wooden statue carved in the likeness of a gaunt, pale-faced man wearing a voluminous black cloak." The specificity of "gaunt, pale-faced" and "voluminous black cloak" are unusual and evocative adjectives that draw the reader's attention.
Association with Characters: The statue depicts a man and a wolf, elements often associated with mystery or supernatural themes in literature. This association could be intended to provoke curiosity and speculation, thereby attracting the reader's focus.
Contrast and Comparisons: The statue stands out against the backdrop of "moldy skeletons that hang from rusty shackles," providing a stark contrast between the decayed and the deliberately crafted. This contrast naturally draws the reader's eye to the statue as a point of interest in the otherwise bleak environment.
Symbolic Use: The "smoky-gray crystal orb" in the statue's hand might symbolize something mystical or powerful, suggesting hidden significance. The symbolic potential of the orb, combined with the statue, invites focused attention.
Integration into Action and Setting: While the room's exits and the source of chanting are mentioned, these are given less detailed treatment compared to the statue. The detail devoted to the statue embeds it more deeply into the fabric of the scene, suggesting its importance either as a focal point of the room or as a key element in the story.
Sensory Details: Although more subtle in this example, the sensory involvement is present in the texture and appearance of the statue and the orb, which are described in a way that evokes visual imagery more strongly than the other elements in the room.
I then asked whether the description suggested that the orb had some kind of importance—and, if so, whether that importance had been revealed yet. It replied:
Yes, the description does suggest that the orb held by the statue has some kind of importance. This inference can be drawn from several elements in the prose:
Excellent - this description is doing exactly what the writers want it to do: funnel the players’ attention toward the orb. But wait - do we really want the players to do that? I went back and asked ChatGPT: “How would you feel as a player if investigating that orb provided no rewards and merely caused six shadows to appear and attack you?” It replied:
As a player, encountering a scenario where investigating an intriguing object like the orb results in a sudden attack with no apparent reward could evoke a mix of feelings:
Surprise and Challenge: Initially, the unexpected emergence of enemies like shadows could add an element of surprise and challenge to the gameplay. This could be exciting as it tests the player's skills and adaptability in combat situations.
Frustration: However, if the orb's investigation leads only to a negative outcome with no discernible rewards or furthering of the storyline, it might lead to frustration. Players often expect their exploration and curiosity to be rewarded, or at least to advance the narrative in a meaningful way.
Disappointment: A sense of disappointment could also arise, particularly if the orb was built up as significant. If the narrative or game mechanics do not eventually reveal any importance or utility of the orb beyond triggering a combat encounter, players might feel that their expectations were misled.
Motivation for Further Exploration: Depending on the player's perspective and the context within the game, this situation could also motivate further investigation. Some players might think that the challenge must surely lead to something more significant later on, prompting them to delve deeper into the mystery or revisit the orb after gaining new abilities or information.
Questioning Game Design: From a critical standpoint, players might question the game design and narrative choices. They could ponder whether this was an intentional misdirection, a poorly designed element, or a setup for future developments. This could affect their overall impression of the game and influence their engagement moving forward.
Exactly what we expected. Just for fun, I asked it for its thoughts on the description of the Burgomaster’s Mansion above. It concluded:
Unlike the previous example with the orb, this description does not focus on a single object but rather on creating a thorough impression of the mansion’s eerie and forsaken atmosphere. The description is designed to immerse the reader in the setting, painting a vivid picture of neglect and suggesting layers of story behind the visible decay.
The clear focus of this description is on setting an atmospheric tone rather than on a particular object. The detailed, immersive depiction of the mansion and its surroundings serves to engage the reader's senses and emotions, preparing them for a narrative steeped in mystery and perhaps horror. The focus is on the environment as a character in its own right, setting the stage for the events or stories that might unfold within this foreboding backdrop.
Very cool, and makes sense - we don’t necessarily want to create dissonance through focus when there’s nothing meaningful to investigate. Nice work, GPT.
So! In totality, this theory of inverted dramatic questions seemed to tie together. But I still felt like there was something missing.
Do or Don’t?
You're on watch late at night in an abandoned ruin. In the distance, just past the tree line, you see a flickering light waving to you, like a lantern.
Do you follow it?
That was the scenario my players faced on a recent game at my table. The light was, of course, a will-o-wisp (it always is), but the players didn't know that. Having come to the ruin to search, at least in part, for missing persons, they weren't sure whether it might be someone - or something - else.
This is also a kind of action choice - a dilemma. It doesn't have clear stakes - and might in fact have bad stakes (i.e., if you achieve the goal, bad things will happen) - but you can't know until you achieve the goal (e.g., “investigate the mysterious light”).
Call this an ambiguous dramatic question - a dramatic question that is clearly promising that it has some kind of clear good stakes, but which might be lying about it.
Here's one clear important thing that distinguishes ambiguous dramatic questions from inverted: The ambiguous dramatic question communicates clear stakes, but might be lying. (Consider a voice crying out from an unseen prison cell beneath the floor, begging to be set free - are they really an innocent, or are they an evil wizard?) Meanwhile, the inverted dramatic question promises to eventually communicate clear stakes, but won't do so until you reach the goal.
That's not to say that you can't combine them! The will-o-wisp example above is arguably an ambiguous and inverted dramatic question: it promises to deliver stakes if followed, but it might be lying about whether those stakes are good or bad. But it's best to conceptualize ambiguous dramatic questions as sleazy salesmen (they share information freely, but you're convinced they might be trying to pull the wool over your eyes) and inverted dramatic questions as a dog that's trying to drag you toward something it found (you don't know what you'll find there, but you know that there's something interesting there).
One interesting byproduct is that suspicious players might frequently assume that inverted dramatic questions are also ambiguous, especially if there are any sort of suspicious circumstances surrounding them. (For example, when I described a “dark, unmoving shape in the underbrush off the side of the road” in a recent session, my players fiercely debated whether it was safe to investigate. They eventually did so, and found it was just a wolf corpse, albeit with some interesting clues.)
One other realization this paradigm brings - the skeletal rider. In Reloaded, players that encounter the skeletal rider at the Ivlis River Crossroads occasionally decide to follow the rider into the woods, despite having no reason to believe that it's going anywhere in particular. But there is dissonance here - the DM is focusing on something interesting and unusual (the rider walking off into the woods) but refusing to explain its significance. That creates curiosity, and an accidental inverted dramatic question.
How to solve this? Well, I've got two options - remove the rider entirely . . . or turn that accidental inverted dramatic question into a real one with a satisfying conclusion.
When you put it that way, the answer sounds obvious, doesn't it?
