Why do I play role-playing games?

This started as a response to a question raised by an American game designer of my acquaintance and evolved into a rather long-winded essay-like text. Then I figured, I could just as well post it here as well. So here follows an unedited version of the text...

Why do I play role-playing games? The answer boils down to two things, basically.

First, I consider the RPG format a wonderful and largely unexplored outlet for storytelling. I have loved telling stories from since I was a child, whether by means of comic strips, simple text-based computer games, musical libretti or even attempts at novels. It took very little to spark my imagination and get the creative juices flowing. As a kid, I was a voracious reader and my attention always jumped from one exciting thing to the next, so I actually finished very little of my ‘projects’.

I had been a role-player since before I realized it (I intentionally do not use the word ‘gamer’, although I was that too, as any kid I loved playing all kinds of games, a trait which I have managed to, fortunately, carry on through to my adulthood). In my time in elementary school, while the other kids used to fool around with balls or, you know, beat each other with sticks… (trying to remember what is a proper way of conduct for an average eight year-old, my mind suddenly went blank), me and a couple of my chaps used to scuttle to a quiet corner of the classroom and play our game of make believe.

It had next to nothing in terms of rules and the only limit of the game was our imagination (I doubt we even thought of it as of a ‘game’, actually). Each of us was a captain of his own spaceship in our shared syncretistic universe, inspired by some of the series, which used to air on Slovak TV channels in the middle to late 90’s, such as Star Trek: TNG or Babylon 5.

"Captain! There seems to be a... thingie, just up ahead!"

In these games, I was the one who presented the dilemmas, the plot hooks, propelling the story ever forward, as influenced by the actions of the participants, adjudicating their actions and coming up with an exciting, but rational outcome these actions could lead to, stealing shamelessly from all manner of fiction and media (as any aspiring storyteller should), putting incongruous things into one big pot of shared fun. If you roll your eyes and think that I, pretty much, just gave you a common definition of a game master’s job, you are right, of course, but I, myself, did not realize I was any such thing. In fact, I did not even know that such thing as a ‘game master’ existed.

Without being taught any rules or principles, role-playing came naturally to the members of our little group. We had no inclination to act out the scenes we were creating in our heads in real life, as opposed to how children usually use to play. In our imagination, we had unlimited budget for special effects, which no manner of toy or prop could even come close to (in fact, not many Hollywood blockbusters could). You could say that, while most kids played LARP, we played RPG.

In time, through one of my older brother’s classmates, I got to experience my first real pen-and-paper role-playing game. I had been already acquainted with some computer game renditions of this medium, and had also read articles about this intriguing game called Dungeons & Dragons, that in my eyes acquired almost mythic proportions and was said to exist in the far-away lands beyond the ocean. But it was not until around fifth grade that I actually got to play a real RPG.

The game was called ‘Dračí doupě’ (Dragon’s Lair), basically a Czech AD&D 1^st edition rip-off made because the authors’ plea to let them translate Dungeons & Dragons into Czech was ignored by the TSR at the time. So they made DrD (this is the acronym used for the game) in 1990, which then went on to become the most popular tabletop role-playing game in both the Czech Republic and Slovakia.

"Kolik směn mi vydrží hořet tahle louč?"

This was the rule-set, under which my first dungeon-crawling and various heroic (and also not very heroic) deeds took place. Although a little unsophisticated and limited compared to some modern and world-class RPGs, it has earned wide acclaim and has become immensely popular, especially with kids around the age of  junior high as a part of their extra-curricular activities. It appealed to them with the unique features specific to RPGs, its arcane obscurity, as well as its high fantasy atmosphere.

The great degree of penetration of this game in schools was astounding, in my opinion, when we compare it to D&D in America of the 80’s, where role-playing games, I suspect, were more of a college thing. Now, another conspicuous difference is, while D&D players use to persevere through college and beyond, Dračí doupě is usually dropped by high school, when the player leaves his circle and goes on to play other games or, in an overwhelming majority of cases, stops playing altogether and his gaming past remains just these few odd episodes of his school years. This is at least my impression, although, I have no hard data to fall back on, and so it should be taken with a grain of salt.

I, as well, had grown to crave more ‘advanced’ systems, which would better facilitate my more and more ambitious needs as a player and as a storyteller. Because at the time none of the Slovak hobby stores carried D&D (and the Internet was still by and large considered to be a funny nerdy gadget instead of a life necessity, as we know it now) I had to go to Prague to buy it. I wanted to become one of the chosen, who had the privilege of owning the fabled Advanced Dungeons & Dragons game, the mere mention of which mesmerized all the gamers and fantasy enthusiasts in our part of the world.

I still remember getting to the store, asking for AD&D, not realizing a shift to the 3^rd edition had taken place recently, and the feeling of puzzled disappointment when, being handed the draconically priced Player’s Handbook with the words ‘Dungeons & Dragons’ on it, I thought “What is this? Where did the ‘Advanced’ bit go? I want my advanced rules!” But I had grown to love the game none the less and, taking advantage of the Lord of the Rings movie craze of the time, I managed to get together a group of my friends in high school and pull of a regular D&D campaign, which started in a world of my own design and later moved on to the Eberron campaign setting.

Before continuing recounting the history of me as a gamer, let me briefly return to the basic question behind the story. I have mentioned that I consider role-playing games a great way for channeling creativity and, in a way, realizing one’s imagination. This is, in my opinion, the basis on which thousands of gamers world-wide are having fun playing RPGs – it’s a multi-faceted, engaging form of interactive entertainment. The conclusion most people settle on, I imagine, is that D&D and similar games are a great way to spend fun time with a group of friends. But I would go beyond that, and to the heart of the reason why I love role-playing games, and that is - they have the potential of being art (or, more precisely, of being something I perceive as an art form).

At the risk of stating the obvious, let me recount my reasons for this claim. I think that RPGs combine the making AND experiencing of art in one nifty package. First there are the writers and artists, who make the rulebooks and the campaign settings, who capture the imagination of the audience, invite the players to play in their worlds. On another level, a given group’s game master / dungeon master / storyteller uses this materials as an inspiration for creating his own amateur stories, makes the game fit the needs of his players in order to entertain them, taking on the roles of a writer, an actor and a game referee, all at once. Then, he and the players engage in a unique activity, a shared experience of free-form, impromptu theater, tactical wargaming and social interaction, all the while creating a unique story, which then becomes a little part of the bigger picture, the shared meta-narrative of all RPG players around the world. With RPGs, anyone can become a storyteller.

The trouble when explaining the use of polyhedral dice in RPGs to non-gamers is that Czech and Slovak languages do not distinguish between the words 'die' and 'cube', thus resulting in me saying things like "Hoďte si osemstennou kockou!"

While literary production has been driven by sales and tastes of its audience since times long before remembering, role-playing games push boundaries of the dialogue between the author and the audience to an unprecedented level. The audience’s taste is shaped by the games they play, the experience they are provided, and, in return, they shape the industry. They buy the products, the art, they give the authors feedback (which has been made wonderfully simple by the recent onset of the Internet age), participate in evolution of the game with their own house-rules, additions, storylines, fan fiction and even full-blown worlds. Some of them go and become professional authors and game designers themselves, but that is beside the point.

This dialogue that takes place in the RPG world (i.e. the real world where RPGs are played), even if we consider the most basic level of a group of people playing out the fiction provided to them by both the distant professional designers AND their friends, is quite unprecedented with regards to any known art form, barring perhaps post-modern theatre. It could well enough be the current next big step in shared storytelling, a step that may have been awaited by some people since the age of stone tablets, the ones who thought that by transcribing words on a page, some of that immediacy of sitting around a campfire telling each other tales might have been lost.

The second important reason, for which I treasure RPGs and fantasy role-playing in particular, is its ability to transport an individual into the world of imagination and a limitless number of stories that, I believe, lie dormant, hidden deep inside all of us since the time in our childhood, when we first heard the tale of the entrepreneuring young boy set out to make a fortune in the world, the fair princes and princesses or the little girl and the big bad wolf. RPGs are very much concerned with myth; they tie into something fundamental in our culture and transform it to a different shape and form, while, ideally, still maintaining the ability which good fiction has – i.e. striking some deeply embedded imaginative chord in human subconscious.

Going back to my story, the next big break in my role-playing and dungeon-mastering career came with the discovery of the Eberron campaign setting, conceived and co-created by author and game designer Keith Baker. The book was an unexpected Christmas gift from my brother and I had no previous knowledge about the setting or its creator. I found out that it was a deep, captivating, well thought-out world that brought a breath of fresh air into the stale waters of fantasy role-playing. Instead of done-to-death fantasy tropes of Tolkienesque narratives, it introduced intrigue of the film noir, Lovecraftian horror and pulp action in the vein of The Riders of the Lost Ark all in one consistent package. It was brimming with inspiring material and it is difficult to praise any one of its draws above the others.

However, what I admire the most about it, is Keith’s modus operandi, his ability to re-imagine the well-known patterns and stories of role-playing games, to take the existing D&D mythology (which itself is a derivate), combine it with the most interesting aspects of contemporary pop-culture and make something new, yet strikingly familiar. It is the next re-interpretation of our fundamental mythological patterns, part of that ongoing process that takes place in RPGs as well as the entirety of the fantasy fiction genre. But, the thing with Eberron is, it could not have happened (or not have worked nearly as effectively) in any other medium, but a campaign setting for a role-playing game.

A campaign setting is, basically, an open-ended narrative, an interactive piece of fiction, a crossroads, from which an unlimited number of paths fork out for the willing traveler to trod on and bring him to the limits of his imagination. This is something that Salman Rushdie anticipated, when talking about the influence of videogames on literary fiction. And that, for me, is Eberron. It would not have worked as a movie, a stand-alone novel (although novels can complement it) or some other traditional form of art. It is not a derivation of a literary setting; it has been creating with the aim of interactive storytelling in mind. It is all-inclusive, and while having been created by Keith Baker and being a legal property of the Wizards of the Coast, it has no single owner, but many and every person has their own version of Eberron. Myself included.

The iconic Wayne Reynolds artwork from the original Eberron Campaign Setting.

This pretty much sums up my RPG growth and the important events and preferences that have facilitated it. I hope I have managed to explain my reasons clearly enough. Where do I go from here? Wherever the stories take me. I may abandon D&D as a role-playing system of choice, when I decide it has ceased to fulfill my needs as a narrator or as a player. I may continue playing it just for fun when I am able to. But what I know for sure is that the world of Eberron will remain a constant inspiration.

I plan to carry on playing and fiddling with role-playing games in the future, because I think they are one of the most exciting things that our age has to offer, and I feel that the bigger part of their heritage (and the influence they will have on our culture) still remains to be seen. I strongly believe it is worth seeing, and plan to be part of it.
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For, how Neil Gaiman puts it: “We owe it to each other to tell stories.”

Zúčastnil som sa čajového obradu

V pondelok nás jeden z učiteľov vzal v rámci mimoškolskej študijnej aktivity k majstrovi čajového obradu. Špeciálne objednaný autobus odviezol štrnástich študentov od školy až k majstrovmu domu, aby nám ten v tradičných japonských „kulisách“ porozprával čo to o tradičnej kultúre. Div sa svete, došlo aj na ten čaj.

Sám neviem prečo, dlho som žil s podvedomou predstavou, že čajový obrad je v skutočnosti nejaký chyták, kde vás niekoľko hodín naťahujú a nakoniec si na šálku lahodného zeleného čaju môžete nechať zájsť chuť. Teraz viem, že tomu tak nie je, hoci celá procedúra bola prispôsobená, aby bola záživnejšia pre našu čínsko-európsku skupinku, t. j. bola urýchlená. Viem si predstaviť, že v dobe Sen no Rikjúa (ach to skloňovanie), slávneho majstra čajového obradu, kedy toho ľudia nemali veľa na práci, len popíjať čajíčky a meditovať v zazene, to bolo iné kafe, resp. čaj.

Keď tradičná japonská domácnosť čaká hostí, podľa obyčaja dáva najavo určité signály, aby prichodivší vedeli ako na tom domáci sú. Zvyknú sa pootvoriť posuvné vstupné dvere (na jeden, dva palce), aby sa hostia cítili byť vítaní, takisto sa skalky na chodníčku oblejú vodou, aby hostia videli, že domáci robili poriadky a dokončili prípravy na ich príchod. V našom prípade to nebolo úplne ono, pretože celý deň snežilo/pršalo, takže prístupový chodníček bol beztak mokrý a čo sa týka pootvorených dverí, tie viedli len na malý dvor – domáci si očividne nechceli dovnútra púšťať zimu.

Ako stádočko oviec sme sa nahrnuli do domu, do ktorého niekto zjavne zabudol dať nábytok a zložili si veci. Kto bol v japonskom dome vie, že časť vstupnej izby má zníženú podlahu (v skutočnosti je to však tak, že podlaha zvyšku príbytku je zvýšená nad úroveň zeme), kde si môžete vyzuť topánky a kopnúť ich do rohu, či úhľadne uložiť na poličku. Pani manželka vystrojená v kimone nás zaviedla do miestnosti o veľkosti 14 džó, čo korešponduje s plochou štrnástich rozprestretých rohoží tatami (zodpovedá povrchu, na ktorom sa môže človek poležiačky vystrieť), ktoré slúžia ako defaultná podlaha namiesto koberca, parkiet, či linolea. Prechody medzi jednotlivými tatami-oddielmi boli dobre vidieť, takže miestnosť pôsobila dojmom skladačky (čo je pre japonskú architektúru charakteristické).

Žiaľ, nepodarilo sa mi obsadiť miesto vedľa „geniálního japonského přímotopu“ (t.j. elektrického ohrievača), ktorý predstavoval jediný kus moderného vybavenia izby. Pokiaľ ide o vybavenie premoderné, toho tam tiež bolo skromne, ďalší to charakteristický rys starého japonského interiérového dizajnu. Poetiku celého tohto prístupu nám vysvetlil sensei, domáci pán, ktorý po chvíli vstúpil do miestnosti... aby z nej za niekoľko minút vyšiel a predviedol, ako sa správne otvára FUSUMA, čiže typické posuvné dvere. Najprv si ich pravou rukou do polovice pootvoríte (tááák, to je ono...) a potom ich ľavou úplne odsuniete nabok.

Do miestnosti vstupujete kolenačky a takto by ste sa mali pohybovať po celom dome. Považuje sa za neslušné stáť či chodiť a mať tak oči v inej rovine ako vaši usadení hostia. Japonské domy mali oddávna (čiže asi od doby bronzovej, keď zavrhli zemľanky) zvýšené podlahy, aby im na ne zvonka neliezla zima. Žijú takpovediac na inej „úrovni“, ako Európania, hoci spravidla používajú nízke stolčeky, jedlo môžu klásť na zem, takisto matrace FUTONY, na ktorých spia, ich zdvihnú len o niekoľko centimetrov od zeme. Prosto a jednoducho, v japonskom dome sa nechodí, slovami senseia: „Vy by ste tiež vo svojom dome nechodili po stole či po posteli. “ Tento životný štýl si vyžaduje úzkostlivé dodržiavanie čistoty, preto by sa mali dnu nosiť biele TABI (ponožky s oddeleným palcom) ako indikátor, ktorý hneď ukáže každú smietku.

Utieranie prachu musí určite uľahčovať fakt, že japonská izba je viac menej prázdna. Futony sa dajú poskladať a napchať do neviditeľnej skrine zabudovanej v stene. Keďže sedíte na zemi, nábytok nepotrebujete a nikam by ste aj tak nedosiahli. Nemusím vám hovoriť, ako priestranne pôsobí taká miestnosť. Špecifickú atmosféru dotvára svetlo prenikajúce cez okná ŠÓDŽI, čo sú namiesto skla plnené priesvitným papierom, do ktorého si našinec zvykne baliť krémeše. Veľká časť steny je takisto tvorená odsúvateľnými fusumami, takže si človek môže vidieť na dvor (a áno, v dávnych dobách vám susedia a okoloidúci mohli vidieť dnu, čo nám všeličo napovedá o japonskej mentalite a chápaní komunity) a vychutnať si priame prepojenie s vonkajším priestorom. Takto si môže neustále uchovávať prepojenie s „prírodou“ a citlivo vnímať striedanie ročných období, čo je senzibilita predstavujúca ústredný pilier japonskej kultúry.

Narábanie s priestorom ako také je kľúčovým aspektom japonského interiérového dizajnu. Miestnosť je skonštruovaná tak, že správnym umiestnením pohyblivých fusúm sa dá rozdeliť na dve či viac menších miestností a – voilà, hneď máme viac súkromia.

Po tomto predĺženom úvode (po ktorom som začínal mať správny dojem, že som neprišiel ani tak na čajový obrad, ako na prednášku týkajúcu sa japonskej kultúry všeobecne) sensei poukázal na priestranný výklenok TOKONOMA v jednej zo stien, kde sa nachádzalo jediné vybavenie izby – zvitok na stene, váza s kvetmi a malý gong na modlitebné účely. Poeticky skromnej dokonalosti (Japoncami tradične milovanému estetickému atribútu) tohto priestoru chýbala len päťdesiatpalcová LCD obrazovka so zapojenou Playstation 3.

Nakoniec došlo aj na ten čajový obrad. Keďže som sedel na druhom konci miestnosti, nemohol som sledovať každý majstrov pohyb, ale v zásade šlo o ritualizované utieranie lyžičiek, čistenie misiek, drvenie čajových lístkov v mažiari apod., kde každá ruka má priradenú špecifickú kompetenciu a každý pohyb má symbolický význam. Počas toho v diere v zemi, kde je ohnisko / plynový varič, v kanvici vrie voda a neustále vytvára zvukové pozadie, ktoré japonským ušiam pripomína vietor v píniách, čiže MACUKAZE.

Zatiaľ čo majster pripravoval šestnásť čajíkov, pani manželka priniesla tácky s občerstvením – tradičnými (mám strach spočítať, koľkokrát v tomto texte používam výraz „tradičný“) sladkosťami v tvare valentínskych srdiečok, pripomínajúcich zeleno-červené sviečky. Namiesto tácky používame kúsok papiera a namiesto lyžičky zastrúhané drievko.

Predávanie misiek s čajom prebieha tiež veľmi formálne, pani domáca donesie šálku, obaja sa vzájomne ukloníte, vy sa ešte musíte ukloniť prísediacemu po vašej ľavici a ospravedlniť sa, že začnete piť skôr. Po celý čas sedíte v typickom sede, t. j. vaše pozadie spočíva na vašich pätách a lýtkach s kolenami zloženými vpred. Málokto z nás gaidžinov tak vydrží sedieť dlhšiu dobu bez bolestivých následkov. Sensei nám význam tejto polohy objasnil bližšie: „Bolí to, však? To je dobre. Viete prečo to bolí? Lebo vaše lýtka teraz nesú váhu vášho života. Cítite váhu celého svojho tela a viete, že žijete. Keby ste nič necítili, znamenalo by to, že ste mŕtvi.“

Potom som dostal do ruky šálku s jedným z najlahodnejších nápojov svojho života. Hoci som bol skeptický a domnieval sa, že všetok ten teáter slúži najmä ako zásterka toho, že tu v podstate ide len o „nejaký blbý čaj“, teraz už viem, že obrad nie je len samoúčelnou ritualizáciou triviálnej činnosti, ale má slúžiť na podtrhnutie a doplnenie samotného prežitku z pitia čaju, ktorý by za iných okolností, podávaný vo väčšom množstve alebo v iných miskách stratil mnoho zo svojich pôsobivých účinkov na ľudského ducha. Prostredie, atmosféra formálnosti, zmyslové vnemy – týmito prostriedkami vytvorili dávni Japonci žijúce umenie. Slovami básnika - čajový obrad, to je hlas vetra v píniách na maliarovom plátne.

On Conquering the Toilet Monster

Tak som sa prehrabával vo svojom japonskom archíve (t.j. zatiaľ nezverejnených zápiskoch o mojich prvých dňoch v Ucunomiji) a napadlo ma, že by som mohol zvýšiť povedomie Európanov o tunajších toaletných zariadeniach, resp. zariadeniach toaliet. Tak teda:

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Ako iste viete, japonský záchod bol zaradený na zoznam pamiatok UNESCO World Cultural Heritage. V zásade rozlišujeme štyri typy:

1.  Ultratradičný záchod z dôb, keď domy boli ešte z dreva. Pred vojnou o ňom Junichirou Tanizaki napísal knihu (no dobre, tá kniha bola aj o iných veciach, ale nebazírujme na podrobnostiach). Je mimo obydlia, vystlaný čečinou, nikdy som ho nevidel a asi ani neuvidím. Tanizaki o ňom síce obdivne písal, ale už v tej dobe si sám nechal nainštalovať porcelánovú misu ...EPIC FAIL!!!  (ehm....)

2.  Nudný záchod, podobný ako u nás. Jediná odlišnosť je možno dvojaké splachovanie a využitie splachovacej vody na umytie rúk.  Teda najprv si tou vodou umyjete ruky a tá sa potom použije na spláchnutie (nie naopak, čo si to myslíte...).

3.  Porcelánom osadený otvor v zemi, nad ktorý si musíte čupnúť. Od jeho ruského ekvivalentu ho odlišuje najmä jeho komfortný vzhľad. And now, make way for the...

4.  Nazývaný tiež "Čo by sa stalo, keby Optimus Prime po príchode na Zem ako prvú vec nevidel nákladný truck, ale záchodovú misu" či ľudovejšie "Stroj na klystír." Má to vyhrievanú dosku, ktorá spolu so sklápaním dosky a splachovaním funguje na fotobunku. Zabudovaný bidet má množstvo (hrôzostrašných) funkcií a ešte je tam množstvo tlačidiel, ktoré som sa neodvažoval stlačiť, ale určite sú zárukou hodín a hodín kvalitnej zábavy.
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Toľko archív. Doplním ešte jedno moje pozorovanie - hoci sa záchod po japonsky označuje výrazom toire (od toilet), či fajnovejším otearai (miesto umývania rúk), nemohlo mojej pozornosti uniknúť označenie, ktoré je zdá sa veľmi obľúbené na rôznych verejných miestach, a síce kešóšicu (化粧室), čiže miestnosť pre make-up. Tento výraz dostáva celkom zábavné kontúry, keď pri ňom stojí prívlastok "pre mužov". Hmmm.
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EDIT: Nakoniec je to trochu inak komplikovanejšie, viď. komentáre.