The Underdog Story: Designing Comeback Mechanics

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Get it? Because, “comeback”, and, like a comeback is a type of insult, and…nevermind

Everybody hates the blue shell. It’s become a common memory in the canon of being a modern video game fan: you’re in the lead in a game of Mario Kart, only for a winged blue shell to sail out of nowhere and home in on you, knocking you out for just the brief moment the person behind you needs to sail out from under you and steal your well-earned first place. You, we, have been the victim of a classic comeback mechanic: a game mechanic designed to favor the losing player, in an attempt to shorten skill gaps and prevent a player from being dishearteningly stomped by superior players.

The essentials of designing a comeback mechanic are fairly simple: add some feature that can be triggered by a losing player, or is more likely to be given to a losing player, or is more powerful based on conditions typically associated with losing. This feature grants the player who wields it some sort of unique advantage, designed to allow them to close the gap with the winning player. The most frequently mentioned comeback mechanic in games is Mario Kart‘s blue shell, but they’re out there in the dozens.

The key to comeback mechanics is that they’re very commonly used in games where a tight control of competitive balance is required. However, what this means varies a lot from game to game. Mario Kart, for example, uses blue shells, in conjunction with other items dropped for low-skill players, as a way to leash the higher-skilled players, and prevent them from gaining too indomitable a lead over the lower-skilled players. In this case, the blue shell can be seen as lowering the efficacy of high skill.

However, “maintaining tight control of competitive balance” means something totally different in Ultimate Marvel vs. Capcom 3, which has a comeback mechanic called X-Factor. X-Factor is a one-time use mechanic which increases the player’s damage and speed, by a factor of 10%, plus an additional 10% for each of your downed characters (UMvC3 is a 3-on-3 game, capping your bonuses at +30%). This mechanic is not about limiting skilled players. After all, any player can trigger X-Factor no matter how good they’re doing. Instead, the idea of X-Factor is more directly to prevent snowballing.

You see, a player with multiple characters left is at a competitive advantage to one who only has one, fairly intuitively. With multiple characters, the moveset at your disposal increases by an order of magnitude, you can call in assists, chain your Hyper Combos or perform them simultaneously, in essence your options at any given moment are much wider than someone with a single character. By itself, this fact means that a game of Marvel would be won with the first character down, barring incredible skill. Get one character down, and it’s a 3v2. Ride that advantage, and now it’s a 3v1, and the game is on lock. However, the existence of X-Factor gives a player who is behind a chance to stop their opponent’s momentum on a dime: it can be triggered instantly, including in the middle of combos, meaning that you can take a single hit and turn it into a downed character with moderate skill, preventing your opponent from snowballing into a W.

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Sometimes, a comeback mechanic simply needs to give the losing player some time to catch up to the winner. For this, I turn to a comeback mechanic so subtle most people don’t even know it exists, unless they’re playing this game, in which case I usually obnoxiously mention it after about the third cocktail. This game, of course, is pool.

Pool has less of a comeback mechanic and more of a comeback mechanical interaction, which in my opinion is a better choice when possible, because it leaves players with a sense that that’s just how the game “is”, instead of that the designers slapped a mechanic on to babysit bad players (which is not what I think of comeback mechanics, but it’s certainly what some people do). In pool, if you’re just running the table on somebody, you’ll find yourself with a problem, quick: you only have so many shots left available to you, and the other player’s balls spread all over the table, each of them serving as an impediment. If you’re the player who’s down, though, you have a ton of different shots to choose from, and your opponent so handily cleared the table of most of the obstacles in your way. In this way, the player currently losing has a competitive edge.

So, how should you build a comeback mechanic? Well, the first thing you need to think about is exactly what a “comeback” means, and what kind of comeback leads to the most enjoyable gameplay. Do you want your down-and-out players to have a moment of glory to level the playing field, like that provided by X-Factor, or do you want to simply slow the winner’s progress to give the loser a chance to catch up, like in pool? Do you want to make the winner perform a bit worse, like the blue shell, or do you want the loser to perform better, like the Bullet Bills also found in Mario Kart.

Another important consideration is that you don’t want winning players to per se feel like they’re being punished for being good, nor do you want people to feel like the optimal strategy is to lose (unless you do. If the strategy your game is trying to teach is “lay low until your time to shine”, a comeback mechanic might be a way to reinforce that). Generally, comeback mechanics aim not to create a route for victory, but simply to prevent getting absolutely facerolled. A comeback mechanic has still done its job if the loser still loses, but by much less than they would have without it. Better players should still beat worse players in the most common case, no matter how you slice it, but the comeback mechanic ensures that those worse players still have a chance to win at all.

I have a rough rule of thumb when it comes to comeback mechanics: the comeback mechanic should not, in itself, close the gap between a winner and a loser. After all, Mario Kart‘s Bullet Bill doesn’t take you all the way to first, and pool doesn’t let you just grab three of your balls and drop them in pockets if you’re behind. Instead, a comeback mechanic should be such that the comeback mechanic, plus some combination of player skill, opponent misplays, and luck can close the gap. That way, when a skilled player looks up to see that the opponent they were beating is now the winner, they know that, despite the comeback mechanic’s presence in the game, they still could have won, and when the losing player triggers the comeback mechanic, they have the challenge in front of them of using this opportunity to succeed.

 

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How I Build A Playtest Session

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So, I’ve been lucky enough to be able to playtest a couple of my tabletop RPGs with my gaming group, and while those two games have been wildly different in mechanical fidelity, each seems to have gone fairly well, and were extremely informative. I thought it might be an interesting read to share how I build these playtest sessions, seeing as I’m currently working on my second playtest adventure for my dark fantasy game, Blackmarked. (You can read more about Blackmarked here, here, here, and here).

So, the very first thing I do is I set out with a list of questions I have about my design. “Is it good” is not one of them. When you set out to playtest, you should have real, concrete things that you want to figure out about your design. Ideally, these questions should be specific, because specific questions will hopefully yield specific action items for you to take going forward. If you ask “Is it fun?” the answer you get might be “No”, and “No” tells you nothing about what you should do next. If you ask “Were you able to build the character concept you envisioned with the character creation rules?” and the answer is even still “No”, you know what needs to be done: increase the variance of character creation.

It’s also worth remembering when you write these questions, and later when you hear answers to them, that your design is not the only thing that will influence the answers. Your playtesters and the GM’s style will have at least equal weight on your playtesters’ opinions of the game. Your player might say they were able to build any character they want, but they might only want to build obvious, tropey characters. Your players might say the game seemed hard, but the GM might have just been remorseless, or maybe even they just got unlucky. Knowing your GM and your playtesters’ preferences helps balance this out but, as with all things, a big sample size helps eliminate individual bias.

Now that you know what truths you’re trying to wring out of your players, it’s time to actually build the session contents. At this point, you’re in familiar territory: you’re just planning a session, just like GMing anything else. I’m not going to tell you how to do this, if only because GM prep is a process that’s very different and personalized for every GM.

Here’s what I will say though: you have a couple extra things you need to consider as you prep. The first is fairly intuitive, and that’s that you need to build your game in such a way as to let your players answer your questions. If you’re curious how lethal your game is, you should plan your session with a range of difficulty in the combat, so you can try to isolate where exactly the PCs start falling. If you’re trying to figure out how the Hacking mechanic works, you better put some computers in that session.

Another thing you need to consider is that there’s a much greater-than-average chance that the game will just crumble to bits in the hands of your players. Maybe they’ll stumble across a combination of rules that turns them into unbeatable death machines. Maybe a stray goblin will murder the entire party thanks to a poorly thought-out rule or an unbalanced string of dice rolls. Maybe a player will accidentally roll a useless character, or maybe the whole party will just ignore a rule that you think is pivotal. More so than ever, you need to build a session that is resilient to the most whiplash-inducing swings of luck, focus, and player strategy.

Also consider a general piece of advice for any one-shot, one that goes doubly-so for unfamiliar systems: players have no idea what their characters do in this world you’ve created, so define some clear goals for them. Don’t give them the chance to piss around and mistake their own lack of guidance for a lack of game focus. If your game is about hunting monsters, start your session with all your party in a room with a guy who says “Go hunt this monster, dummies”.

The last big thing you need to consider is that this is the players’ first interaction with your rules. Even if you’ve playtested with this group before, chances are you changed some subset of the rules between then and now, and even if not much is different, your players are still going to feel as though stuff has changed. So, if at all possible, try to structure your adventure in such a way that the complexity of the situation escalates. Think of a video game tutorial: first you jump, then you shoot, then you jump and shoot. Similar theory here.

If you’re still not sure how to build an adventure for this purpose, a solid recommendation is to simply pilfer what you can from other published adventures that are designed to introduce players to a game and see how they do it. Many systems have an introductory adventure in the back of the book, designed to integrate players with the game. Others yet have published adventures that are perfect intros for new players. Feel free to read some of these, study their pacing, their structure, the way they introduce mechanics, and pilfer as need be. Here are some adventures, and their corresponding systems, that I found useful:

  • The Sword for Burning Wheel
  • Sailors of the Starless Sea for Dungeon Crawl Classics
  • Any of the Beginner Games for Fantasy Flight Game’s Star Wars RPG
  • Tower of the Stargazer for Lamentations of the Flame Princess

Now, let’s say you’ve finished up your adventure up and are ready to run it. Dope! Most people don’t even make it this far. Now you have the complex part: finding a group to run it with. Just like with writing the adventure, you have all of the normal problems of finding a tabletop RPG group, but with some new problems too! How fun!

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First off, you need a group of people who are okay with the fact that the game they’ll be playing is both incomplete and possibly bad. Your players need to be aware of the fact that there might be things in your game that just don’t work. Stuff might be busted, and need to be hotfixed by you on the fly with some off-the-cuff ruling changes. You might have just not thought of a mechanic that the players expect or want to use, and have to whip something up on the spot. You need to be upfront with that, and you need to be OK with that.

You also need a group of people whose biases, tastes, and experiences you are aware of. Sometimes these will be relevant to your core questions (if one of your questions is “Can players new to RPGs pick these rules up fast?”, you should probably find people new to RPGs), but knowing this for anyone will help you understand the context of their opinions and criticisms. If you’re building a story game full of narrative mechanics, and you get a player who’s a 3.5 munchkin, that’ll affect what they think. Don’t necessarily use this as a mechanism to exclude people from your playtests (let’s be honest, the pool of RPG playtesters is not big enough for you to be excluding people), but do use it as a mechanism to determine your game’s strengths, weaknesses, and audience.

Finally, keep in mind that your playtesters are ultimately doing you a favor, even though they do get to play a game. Playing an RPG is a decent time investment, even for a single session, and your playtesters have allowed you to spend that time of theirs on your pet project. At the bare minimum, get them snacks, drinks, maybe a name in the book. If your project is such that you can swing it, offer to give them copies of the completed rules when you’re done (this also serves selfish purposes: by offering someone a completed game, you’ve now got people who’ll ride your ass about completing your game who will help motivate you).

You can also scrounge up playtesters in the form of other designers. If you’re extremely lucky, you can compose a group out of hobbyist designers, taking turns playing each others’ games. This is a fan-fuckin’-tastic way to play a lot of cool games and to also keep your passion for game design lit, but remember that every designer has their opinions about the way games “should” be, and while their advice is useful, it’s ultimately no more inherently useful than any other playtester’s.

So, go out there, and get some people playing your homemade RPG, even if you don’t plan on publishing it or even finishing it. Best case scenario, they love it and and you get the incomparable high of having people play and like your game. Worst case scenario, they hate it, and you learn a ton of stuff about game design that you get to carry into the future (this won’t happen if their feedback isn’t specific, but that’s why we build questions beforehand, remember?). So, really, worst case scenario is just a different best case scenario! You have no excuse.

 

Collaborative Mystery Games

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Running a mystery in a tabletop RPG is pretty hard, as it turns out. An RPG traditionally has a single source of truth, the GM, and thus, all information required to solve a mystery must pour forth from the GM’s mouth. Unfortunately, players have a tendency to assume the converse, that everything the GM says must be essential, simply by the merit of having been said. Combine this with the normal problems constraining a mystery (clues being too obvious or too baroque, unclear motivations, easily sidetracked audiences, etc.) and the whole endeavor is pretty hard.

There have certainly been great leaps in portraying a mystery in an RPG. Gumshoe is a fantastic system for running mysteries, as it makes the fantastic observation that the useful part of a game is not finding clues, but rather understanding their role in the mystery at large. However, it’s still victim to a fairly fundamental psychological problem: sometimes, players just get locked into a train of thought that isn’t right, and end up frustrating themselves as they chase loose ends.

I’m experiencing this right now, in fact, as my current Dungeons and Dragons game is centered around a mystery. I can feel the frustration as my group, myself included, get stuck in our preconceived, false notions about the mystery, both angry enough at the dead ends to know we’re barking up the wrong tree, and too rooted to our current assumptions to be able to create alternative hypotheses.

This got me thinking: player agency with regards to the story of an RPG is sort of the new hotness right now. Plenty of games offer mechanics by which players can create truths about the world around them, and plenty of GMs nowadays are OK with, or even very into, the idea that players should get an amount of say with the game world.

What if players got to dictate truths about a mystery game, defining a mystery as they solved it?

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So, the immediate problem with this idea is that it, well, fundamentally destroys the concept of mystery. If the players can just point at a guy and go “He did it”, and actually warp the fabric of reality itself such that he most definitely did it, there’s no mystery. They’re no longer the audience, but the writer, and a writer is not surprised by their own mystery.

With this in mind, such a system should not give the players complete control over the path of the mystery. Instead, players should have a more granular control over the clues, and be given some say as to what matters and what does not. The greater mystery as a whole is still left in the darkness, under the watch of the GM, but the players can find some fact in the world, some detail or clue, and say that, yes, this is indeed a piece of the puzzle, and here’s why. It’s then up to the GM to determine how that known piece of information bridges into the unknown mystery.

Here’s a really rough implementation idea. Let’s say that every character has some sort of knowledge domain, just like how Gumshoe does it. The rough-and-tumble street thug knows all about the underworld and crime and thievery. The posh noblewoman knows all about courtly traditions and noble bloodlines and gossip. The coroner knows all about wounds and blood spatters and poisons and bodily decomposition. Along with these domains of knowledge, the players are given some sort of metacurrency. Let’s call it Deductions.

When a character comes across a clue in their particular intellectual domain, maybe a splash of dried blood on a couch cushion, maybe a broken lockpick beneath the window, maybe the knowledge that Lady Verisimilitude or whatever left on the day of the murder to go to the the royal banquet at Bangers-and-Mash-upon-Thames, that character may burn a Deduction to make a conclusion about that clue, a conclusion that is, of course, completely pulled out of their ass.

“Real blood will dry brown if left to stain for that long. This is still red, and thus must be fake”

“This particular kind of break is most common if one attempts to pick a lock with strength instead of finesse, a common mistake for an amateur to make.”

“Bangers-and-Mash-upon-Thames cancelled its banquet this year after the local Baron fell ill, so Lady Verisimilitude must have gone elsewhere.”

The important thing is that these are facts from this point forward. That splash of blood must be fake, that thief must not be that good a lockpick, and Lady Verisimilitude must have lied about her whereabouts. The key here is that no conclusion is drawn here that cannot be pulled directly from domain knowledge. The player is not allowed to assert where Lady Verisimilitude was, merely that she was not where she said. This would have to be enforced as a rule.

In this way, I guess it would be more accurate to say that the players are not actually providing any answers to the mystery, but are instead being given the power to say what questions have answers that are important. It’s still up to the GM to say why there’s fake blood on the sofa, who in the town is a crap lockpicker, and where Lady V was, but the players can rest assured that those details have been codified as important, and thus, time and mental energy spent pursuing answers will not be wasted.

Because that’s ultimately the death knell for a good mystery, is if a lot of time and energy is spent by the players, and they feel like they gain little out of it, most likely because what they’re pursuing is simply not important to the mystery that the GM has laid out. By giving the players a sort of mechanical reassurance that what they’re doing is important (because they have enforced that it is, no less), they can be assured that they’re moving forward.

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Speaking of the mystery the GM has laid out, they’ll have to do so somewhat differently now that the players have the ability to assert facts. Generally speaking, you’ll have to make sure that your mystery is solid enough that the players aren’t completely dictating the story, yet flexible enough that it can incorporate all of the things that they believe to be true. Furthermore, since Deductions are a limited resource, you need to ensure that every clue you scatter through the game has both a place where you expect it to fall in your web of mystery (in case no one uses a Deduction on that clue), but also is general enough that players can slot them in a variety of places as they see fit.

Perhaps you just meant that broken lockpick to signify that the intruder was not invited in during the Grand Ball, and had to break in, but the concept of the lockpick being broken in an amateurish fashion gives you an extra wrinkle to work with. Maybe the thief’s bookshelf has a dog-eared copy of “Lockpicking For Dummies” stashed on one of the shelves, or their garage has padlocks lying on the workbench, clearly for practice. The detail the player created hasn’t changed who the thief is, but rather acted as a piece of bait that the players bit on to, that you can use to reel them towards the revelations.

I think such a system could be incorporated into any game already capable of running mysteries. Just, at any point where the GM would describe a detail of a clue, instead turn to the player and say “What do you notice?”. I think a certain key would be to give players a finite amount of ability to do this: too much and they’ll end up convoluting the plot beyond the GM’s ability to improvise, or they’ll line up facts in such a way that it basically forces a certain conclusion to be true, ending back up at the point where they are both writing and reading the mystery.

So, where does this get you? Well, your players will be given facts that are 100% guaranteed to be both correct and useful, and since they’re dictating them, they’ll never have to worry about being stuck down a train of thought that’s wrong, because they’ll be able to demand that their focus is, at least to a degree, relevant. This eliminates the guessing game of “Is this a red herring, or is this useful?” that tends to suck the fun out of mystery games.

Here’s the really bloody secret, though: you should already be doing this. If, as a GM, you have dictated from the very beginning how each and every clue relates to your mystery, even if you’re not concealing those clues behind skill checks, you’re running the risk of players getting stuck in those logical dead-ends where they’re focusing on the wrong thing, interpreting a clue the wrong way, or trying to kludge every detail into the incorrect hypothesis they already have. Frankly, the more players are confident in their wrong answer, the less fun you’re going to have.

I’m not saying “the players should always be right”, but instead “the players should always be half right”. Don’t give them the entire mystery, but instead give them just enough that the twists and turns of the mystery come from the parts they do have set in stone, instead of coming out of left field because the players were dead wrong in the first place.

One Goal, Two Executions: Mario Odyssey and Breath of the Wild

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I liked Breath of the Wild quite a bit. I had somewhere in the realm of 45 hours played when I finally reached the peak of Hyrule Castle and destroyed Ganon, and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have some moments where I had a lot of fun. But, that whole time, I couldn’t help shake the feeling like, in this beautiful, wonderful game, there were some things that just weren’t working.

Then, the day after I beat Zelda, I strolled over to my mailbox and grabbed my copy of Super Mario Odyssey, and I was blown away, for a variety of reasons. But, maybe one of the most surprising things for me was how similar the core design ethos of The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild and the ethos of Super Mario Odyssey are, and how, in my opinion, Odyssey got it so much more right in a way Breath of the Wild did not.

For starters, let’s talk about that shared design philosophy, because I do not think that I’m stretching by saying that both of these games attempt to achieve the same design goals. Those goals, in my opinion, are as follows:

  • Grant the player a constant stream of rewards as they explore
  • Create interesting puzzles by configuring known mechanics in interesting ways
  • Encourage players to pay attention to the world around them

Let’s talk about that first goal: granting players a constant stream of rewards. Both Breath of the Wild and Odyssey are jam packed with rewards, from Odyssey‘s 880+ Moons, to Breath of the Wild‘s litany of Shrines, Korok Seeds, and weapons. For both games, if you notice something that looks like it should lead to something, 99.99% of the time it does.

The difference is that Zelda has these rewards scattered across one massive world, while Mario opts to instead cluster them into small, but dense levels. Ultimately, neither of these approaches is right or wrong, but in the end I dislike Zelda‘s approach because it fails to capture that travel time well, in my opinion. This time spent moving between shiny things is ripe for exploitation and enjoyment, either by using enjoyable movement mechanics (a la Just Cause, or the Batman: Arkham games), excellent radiant story morsels to find (as Bethesda’s games like to use), or just by having the journey punctuated by the engaging, challenging combat (like a Souls game).

Zelda does none of these things, unfortunately. The movement in Zelda doesn’t feel terribly great, unfortunately. The limited stamina means you can only run paltry distances, especially in the early game, and horseback riding and climbing are both not terribly interesting. If you find any story tidbits on your journey, they won’t amount to much more than a meaningless side quest or the same Yiga Clan ambush that happens a hundred times. The combat, unfortunately, is also fairly cut and dry, and the game’s limited pool of enemies ensures that these fights get stale fast. Combine all of this, and getting from reward to reward is ultimately a chore. Your “steady stream of rewards” is cut up with these long sequences of boredom.

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Some might accuse me of simply being of short attention span, preferring the immediate, constant stream of rewards that Odyssey presents, which is true to an extent, but I also don’t think that I’m out of line by saying that if a game wants me to enjoy the journey, there should be something about the journey to enjoy.

Moving on to that second philosophical point, the idea that puzzles are to be created by configuring known elements in new ways. So, you’ve traveled that long distance and gotten to the shrine or the Korok seed or the Divine Beast, so what do you do to solve it? Well, while I haven’t completed every shrine in the game (I’m sitting at about 40 out of 120 right now), that sample size is big enough that I feel fairly confident in saying that most every puzzle utilizes a subset of the following components:

  • fighting
  • traversal mechanics (running, gliding, or climbing)
  • Stasis
  • Magnesis
  • Cryonis
  • bombs
  • electricity
  • fire
  • water
  • wind

There’s certainly plenty of clever puzzles one can construct out of these building blocks (especially the Shiekah Slate powers), but there’s a fairly simple problem: with few exceptions, each of these mechanics are introduced to you in the tutorial, with no expansion of their ability throughout the game. I understand why this is the case: since the game is open-ended and players can encounter any shrine at any time, they wanted the player to be able to tackle any of the puzzles contained therein.

Now, this is again a result of Zelda‘s open world design. Since Odyssey has a constrained set of levels, to be taken in a largely premeditated path, it can introduce puzzle mechanics (largely in the form of capture targets) right before you’re going to need that knowledge. Zelda does not have a predetermined player path, and thus does not have this luxury.

However, the trade-off is this: the puzzle variety gets extremely stale over time. Once you become fluent in the language of Breath of the Wild‘s puzzles, they become extremely rote and repetetive. There’s a metal thing, use Magnesis on it. There’s some water, use Cryonis on it. Since you’re introduced to all of the puzzle mechanics immediately, that gives you maximal time to get bored of each of them, instead of drip-feeding you new mechanics over time.

Contrast this with what we might call “traditional” Zelda design. While not open-world, it seemed like older Zelda games, especially A Link Between Worlds, had tried an alternate solution with great success. The world was littered with puzzles that, while featuring a common language, had solutions requiring components that the player might not have had at that time. As the player accrued items over the game, they eventually collected the abilities they needed to solve the puzzles they found. It certainly seems like having puzzles scattered about Breath of the Wild‘s world with solutions you didn’t have yet would both increase the sense of mystery and wonder the game tries so hard to cultivate, and offered another set of rewards to add to the other types: puzzle-solving abilities.

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Let’s move on to that third point: paying attention to the world in order to find puzzles and rewards. Before I get accused of jumping onto the bandwagon of just bashing the year’s popular games, I want to close with how Breath of the Wild does this particular component better than Odyssey.

Super Mario Odyssey is interested in having its players pay attention to the world, but not in a sense of mastering it, like something like a Prey, but instead with an analytical mind. I see these two walls are close together, so I can wall-jump up them. There’s a lady Goomba, so I’m going to go find a male Goomba to woo her. There’s no need to really master your environment, nor cleverness that can be performed with that knowledge.

Breath of the Wild, meanwhile, is a game all about learning about your environment and using that knowledge. Learning environments allows you to know what natural resources grow where, allowing you to craft the dishes you need. Learning your environments gives you new vectors to attack enemies from, as you glide down from cliffs or launch enemies into the briny depths. It gives you vantage points from which to shoot arrows from afar, or alternate routes to avoid enemies that are too tough. This is all compared to Mario, where mastery of a level just tells you where the stuff is.

Mario Odyssey and Breath of the Wild both are interested in very similar player experiences, but thanks to fundamental differences in style of game, diverge upon their execution. With this in mind, I hope not to bash one game or another, but to emphasize a point that I emphasize frequently on this blog: game design is not mathematics. A problem does not possess only a single solution (I know this metaphor doesn’t map one-to-one for math, but go with me). You can pursue a single goal, and depending on the environment constructed by the other basic elements of your design, you can come up with answers to that same question as different as, well, Super Mario Odyssey and The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild.

 

Super Mario Odyssey And Clever Puzzle Design

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I only realized that I had accidentally played Super Mario Odyssey for five straight hours yesterday when I collected a moon and realized that the date stamp which appears when you do so had incremented by one. The game is truly charming and fun, but one thing it does amazingly is the way it handles puzzles.

You see, the thing Odyssey does that I love is that it takes time very early on to set up a consistent language of puzzles, one which the player quickly learns fluency in. For all of its amazingly unique enemies, levels, and mechanics, the game uses surprisingly few actual puzzle mechanics. Generally speaking, most of them can be batched into the following types of puzzles:

  • some sort of acrobatic or platforming challenge
  • getting to a specific place within a predetermined amount of time
  • collecting a set of things
  • bring a thing to a person who wants it

These are hardly revolutionary puzzle designs, but the variety comes from these base modes being mixed and matched. Some puzzles are just one of these elements, such as those where you have to collect 5 Moon badges in order to unlock the real Moon, which is thoroughly a puzzle of the third kind. Others are a blend, like the musical notes where you have to collect every note in a certain amount of time, which is a blend of the second and third puzzle types.

Then in comes the captures. In case you missed the memo, Mario Odyssey‘s hallmark mechanic is ability of Mario to throw his hat onto enemies (so long as they don’t have a hat on their own) in order to possess them, like some sort of couture ghost. When you capture a character in this sense, you gain access to a new set of moves. Bullet Bills can fly through the air. Chargin’ Chucks can charge forward, smashing obstacles. Hammer Bros can toss hammers.

The thing that makes these captures really jive well with the puzzle structure is that, while captures are definitely necessary to solve certain puzzles, the extent of the puzzle is very rarely “just be thing X and you win”. Instead, when you perform a capture, you’ll still be performing those same core puzzle types, just with a different bend.

Take the Gushens, for example. These fish-like enemies are surrounded by a ball of water, and can use jets of water to hurl themselves forward or upwards, but only have a limited supply of water to do this with. They need to touch a body of water to replenish themselves, or they’ll run out. The obvious puzzle to build with these guys is “hit this thing with water to unlock it”, but that’s not the norm. Instead, Gushens are usually at the center of challenges that are extremely reminiscent of regular platforming challenges. The difference is, instead of the challenge coming from the timing of moves, it instead moves to conserving water and ensuring you can make it from one body of water to the next. Same puzzle type, different focus.

Another great thing Odyssey will do is give you the same or similar puzzles with different captures as the focus, changing the way you have to approach it. For instance, one level early in the game has you racing down a roadway on a scooter, requiring you to get to the end before the timer expires and the roadway disappears. In the postgame, you’re presented with the same challenge, but with a twist: there’s no scooter, you gotta hoof it. What was once a challenge of controlling the slightly unwieldy scooter is now one of trying to maximize your on-foot movement to reach the speed you need.

The benefit of this common language of puzzles relates to the open-world design of Super Mario Odyssey. Some of these levels are big, or at least they feel really big for a Mario game. On top of that, many of the levels change over time, either with the addition of new characters, structural changes, or sometimes massive state changes (the Sand Kingdom early in the game transitions from frozen-over to a hot desert over the course of the time you spend there). These levels are all full of assorted puzzles and challenges, too, some have as many as 80 Moons to collect.

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There are two ways this could have gone hilariously wrong. Were these puzzles all just “lock and key” puzzles, where it was just a matter of bringing the right thing to a puzzle spot in order to solve it, repeating that task 999 times would have been really boring really fast. On the flip side, if each of these puzzles were hypercustomized with their own special solutions, having up to 80 of them side by side, with the components required for their selection all intermingled, would have been mentally overwhelming. Imagine 80 Myst puzzles, all within the same city block, with their solution components all spread about. Blech.

Instead, Odyssey finds this great middle ground. By teaching players the lingua franca of the game’s puzzles, the game is free to scatter all of these puzzle components around the game’s levels with reckless abandon, knowing that when a player comes across a solution component, like an enemy to capture, they’ll know the sorts of puzzles they’ll be able to solve with it, and when the player encounters a puzzle, they’ll know what they need to do or get to solve it.

Take the humble Goomba for example, throwaway enemy since Super Mario Bros. When the player encounters a Goomba, they know exactly the kinds of puzzles Goombas are good at solving. Goombas don’t slide on ice, making them ideal for getting across frozen platformers. Goombas can stack on top of each other, allowing them to either reach really high platforms or activate switches requiring a certain amount of Goombas to activate. Goombas can also be used to woo Lady Goombas, which always yields a Moon.

Thus, whenever a player encounters Goombas, they know to be on the lookout for puzzles of these nature in the vicinity. The reverse also holds true: when the player finds a high platform with nothing around it, a Goomba switch, or a Lady Goomba, they know they need to hunt down some Goombas.

As the player runs around a level of Super Mario Odyssey, they’ll be seeing and trying to remember a lot of significant details around the world. Instead of having a pile of disparate elements bouncing around in their head which the player is constantly trying to fit together in a logical way, like an old school adventure game, Odyssey makes it so the player always has some prototype in their head of how to solve a puzzle, instead of randomly trying to fit puzzle pieces together, which is a much more satisfying way to fill a world with puzzles, and to make the player feel smart for putting them together.

Dark Souls Is Not A Role-Playing Game (And Some Stuff That Isn’t Pointless Too)

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HOT TAKES! GETCHA HOT TAKES HERE! PIPIN’ HOT!

//The following article contains some general spoilers for Doki Doki Literature Club, for some reason

I know, I knowDark Souls? Arbitrary definitions of genre? Axiomatic declarations of truth? Man, I’m about to call out Pretentious Game Design Blog Bingo here. The reason I think this blog is worth writing is not that whether or not the Soulsborne games’ genre really matters, but rather, the thought put into to deciding it does. That is to say, the conclusion of the argument matters much less than understanding the argument to get there.

Allow me to make my case. Say I walk into a physical game store, and I go up to the dude behind the counter. I say “Hey man, do you have any recommendations? I’m looking for something new to play, something super different.”

After some deliberation, the guy snaps his fingers. “Oh man, I know the perfect game for you. It’s a game with a super heavy focus on its combat mechanics, to the point where you’ll feel like you’re absolutely getting your ass kicked early on, but as you progress you’ll feel amazing as you start to get used to it. You really have to learn about your enemy’s attack patterns and respond to them, instead of just mashing buttons.”

“There’s not really a heavy focus on dialogue or traditional narrative,” he continues. “And all the characters that are there are kind of bizarre. You have inventory management, both in the form of items and consumables, and have some stats that you can upgrade over time. Ultimately, though, none of that matters, because of you’re good enough you can go through the whole game with trash weapons and no stat increases. There’s a bunch of secrets to find, and also, it has a bunch of crazy boss battles and this insane Gothic aesthetic that’s just dripping from every room.”

“Dope!” I respond. “I’ll take that.”

With that, the clerk goes over to the shelf and grabs me a copy of Bayonetta.

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I know, I can hear your arguments screaming through the computer. Bayonetta doesn’t really have that many skills to upgrade, just Health and Witch Time. Dark Souls has a veritable Excel spreadsheet of stats to manage, and tons of items to collect and equip and use. Bayonetta just has melee weapons, that’s all. And Dark Souls has this rich, immersive lore-filled world full of deep characters and interesting motives, and you get to make choices! Bayonetta just has a linear story about punching God into the sun or something.

Herein lies my critical point: while Dark Souls has a bunch of gameplay features that we traditionally associate with role-playing games, what it actually does with them puts it much closer to the character action games that Platinum puts out, like Bayonetta, than an actual role-playing game.

I think the biggest point at which to start here is the stats, that omnipresent table of numbers that define who you are in a role-playing game. Dark Souls‘s stat screen is certainly intimidating.

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Here’s the thing, though. Literally none of the numbers on this screen affect who your character is, and they provide no wider a suite of options to the player as a selection of gun in a first-person shooter. To compare, let’s look at the “stats screen” of a true-blue role-playing game, Dungeons and Dragons.

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There are numbers on this sheet that describe how well a D&D character hits things, of course, but these numbers have a much greater sweeping effect on your character than that. The column of attributes down the left side inform the specifics of how your character behaves, what kind of person they are. Are they funny? Are they smart? How’s their critical thinking ability? Are they kinda shifty? Or big and brutish?

Go back and look at the Dark Souls stat screen. How faithful is a Dark Souls character? How much does that change when you increase your Faith stat? Turns out, you have no idea, and not much at all, respectively. Similarly, it’s not like your character has such better ideas when you increase Intelligence, merely the weapons that arbitrarily do more damage based on Intelligence will…do even more damage.

This is because of one simple truth: a mechanic does not make a game what it is, it’s what you do with that mechanic that matters. Dungeons and Dragons (and Planescape Torment and Pillars of Eternity and what have you) have numerical stats and use them as a way to precisely describe the distinct characteristics of a character in quantifiable terms. Mechanics are a way to represent what makes characters unique, what makes them, y’know, people. They are there to reinforce the idea that you are now this character, by giving you a better idea of who that character is.

Mechanics in Dark Souls do absolutely none of that. The numbers on a stat screen do not exist to help you get a better idea of who your character is, but rather they are variables to fit into the game’s mechanical calculus, elements to introduce to your strategies and tactics. They’re used as a way to fine-tune your combat strategy, to shore up parts of the combat where you’re weak, and make your preferred tactics more viable. In this way, they actual bear more resemblance to a scope in Call of Duty than they do D&D’s Intelligence stat. While a role-playing game’s stats push you closer to the character you’re inhabiting, stats in Dark Souls are merely modifiers to your combat aptitude.

I could go on with other aspects of the game, but I feel as though my argument is the same. The use of equipment and items in Dark Souls is merely used to modify and enhance combat strategies, and in no way is a reflection of the character’s identity (weapons as a reflection of identity in D&D can be seen in class restrictions in usable weapons. Since only certain classes can use certain weapons, using a weapon is an expression of that class).

The amount of story and narrative in Dark Souls also doesn’t make it a role-playing game, obviously. Plenty of games that aren’t role-playing games have deep stories. Metal Gear has a deep story. Touhou games have a deep story.

Now, some of you might be asking, what is my definition of a role-playing game? And my answer is that it doesn’t really matter. I’m just using this genre discussion as a vehicle, a sort of Trojan Horse of clickbait through which I want to make my real point: when it comes to identifying the soul of a game, intent shines through much greater than the actual mechanical building blocks themselves. It’s how Dark Souls takes all of the mechanics of role-playing games to build a solid action game, how Thomas Was Alone uses the mechanics of a platformer to build a character drama, how Doki Doki Literature Club builds a horror game out of a visual novel.

This can also be seen in less homogeneous mixtures. Borderlands points role-playing game mechanics in the same direction as FPS mechanics, creating a single harmonious thing. The same thing happens when Brutal Legend points open-world action-adventure mechanics to run parallel with a strategy game.

Of course, saying that mechanics “belong” to a genre at all is stupid. Mechanics are just mechanics, and a good designer can make any mechanic feed into the central philosophy of any game, with proper tweaking. A stat block can be used to enhance combat, a gun can be used to solve puzzles (Portal), a player’s movement can be used to cast judgement upon them (The Stanley Parable), and so much more. So unshackle mechanics from their context and really run wild with them, and see what you can make.

 

10 Good Ideas: The Darkness and … Darkness

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Starbreeze’s The Darkness remains one of my favorite games no one’s ever heard of. The game puts players in the shoes of Jackie Estacado, a mafia hitman who also happens to be the human host of the titular Darkness, a timeless, immortal god-being which basically lives to kill everything it sees. Jackie is on a quest for vengeance against the mob which betrayed him, a quest which is much easier when you can harness the power of a hateful god.

On your quest to murder every mobster in New York City, as well as potentially a couple dozen innocent passersby, the game hinges on this idea of darkness, lowercase d. You see, as one might expect, the Darkness, uppercase d, doesn’t really care for light, so whenever you’re in light, your powers are unavailable to you, making you just a regular dude, and regular dudes are pretty easy to kill.

When you get in the cover of shadow, however, things change. You become much more resistant to damage and can heal damage you take, you can summon imp-like minions, or you can just have your Darkness tentacles rip someone in half and eat their heart. You go from Jackie Estacado, regular dude with a gun, to Jackie Estacado, Death Incarnate.

This mechanic is complemented by a relatively simple addition to the game: you can shoot out most lights.

The reason I think this mechanic is great is turns fights into microcosms of player progression. When you play a normal FPS, sure there’s usually some sort of player power progression over the course of the game, but within a single encounter the player usually remains at a constant power level. The Darkness goes against this trend with an extremely engaging loop. The player enters an area filled with bad guys, and that area is usually pretty well lit, meaning odds begin against the player, since it’s gonna be harder for them to use their powers. As a conflict goes on, the player will shoot out more and more lights in the arena, turning the fight into a sort of horror movie when you’re the encroaching monster. The symbolism alone is fantastic, as the lights above your enemies fizzle out, and you approach them, literally covered in monstrous, dark tentacles.

A series that operates on a very similar loop are Rocksteady’s Batman games. In those, players will be tossed into arenas full of armed goons where, initially, their odds are pretty bad. However, as time goes on and they take out more and more goons, player confidence builds and enemy confidence shrinks. Survivors start freaking out and getting audibly paranoid, as you all of a sudden have an easier and easier time picking the leftovers off.

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That loop is present in The Darkness as well: enter an area facing overwhelming odds and, through good play, turn the tides until you end up feeling like an unstoppable monster. On its face, this doesn’t seem too revolutionary. Your odds get easier the more enemies you beat, so what? Mathematically speaking, every video game that puts you against groups of enemies does that.

The thing that The Darkness and Batman do so well is that, on top of good play just naturally making encounters easier, good play also makes the player feel cool. Imagine a gunfight in a Call of Duty campaign. The tone of that gunfight doesn’t really vary over the fight, you’re just sort of shooting dudes until you’re not. The last enemy puts up the same amount of a fight as the first, and you probably feel like as much of a cool soldier person at the end of the fight as the beginning, if not a little more accomplished.

In The Darkness, a fight brings about an environmental change in the player’s favor in the form of encroaching darkness. It responds to the player’s success in the form of enemies freaking out and screaming. Success isn’t just good, but it feels good, it compounds the feeling of being this monster of darkness. I’d actually say it’s the same kind of feeling evoked when the lyrics kick in during a boss fight of Metal Gear Rising: Revengeance. You’re using non-mechanical tools to make players feel badass. And that’s a Good Idea.