Nights spent in such an exotic city can be a little disconcerting; this is true. The late markets outside my window, with their curried scents and foreign tongues, kept me up the first few nights with nothing to occupy my mind but the heat and those tomes on my host’s shelves. From sunset to sunrise—by candlelight because I soon found the flickering fluorescent bulbs too much to bear—I’d run my fingers along the scribbles and hieroglyphs, at once enchanted by the alien script and embarrassed by my obsession over what was surely just a tawdry bodice ripper or clichéd detective story. Until that fifth night – the first night I began to understand.
In the beginning, there was only a word here and a phrase there. Slowly sentences began to form and take on meaning, but not in the traditional sense, not how English, Spanish, Japanese, or Swahili words have meaning. The words were the meaning, and the sentences weren’t so much sentences but things, actual things. Concepts, thoughts, yes, but sharp, hollow sounds; ancient, acrid odors; and objects and actions… hunts in wild jungles, eyes that bore down on islands from the oceans of the sky, rocks with memories older than themselves, windows, vistas unto worlds best left unseen, and That Which Steps Through.
Oh god, how I long for the days when words were mere words.
The host’s duties in the game are both the most imposing and perhaps most rewarding. As stated earlier, the job of the host is to narrate the story the player’s characters are involved in, to adjudicate conflicts that arise, create the environment and mood of the tale, play the roles of all the other characters in the story, keep the time and pace of the story, maintain the sense of tension and expectation, and act as the occasional nemesis to the players’ characters. All in all, an incredibly daunting list of tasks, but nobody should be intimidated by it. The job of a host is no more or less difficult than that of the other players—it is simply different. The other players, however, have the advantage of experience. Most everyone has pretended to be someone else at some point in their life. The host, however, in addition to pretending to be many different people, has quite a few other things to keep track of.
There are three primary parts to being a host: creating the story you and the other players will be telling; running the mechanical part of the game (mainly by keeping the pace, resolving the conflicts and challenges the characters encounter, and maintaining everyone’s involvement); and adopting the roles of the other characters. This chapter and the next will address all three as separate tasks, but this is not necessarily how they should be viewed. Nor should you think that the methods put forth in this chapter are the only way to be a host. In truth, there are as many different ways to host as there are hosts. This chapter is mainly for those new to the task who might be seeking a little structure. Eventually, all hosts develop their own style. Even more so than in the rest of this book, there are no rules in this chapter, only tips and guidelines.
If at any time in the game you find yourself at a loss, befuddled, or otherwise flustered, relax and remember you aren’t in this alone. Everyone playing the game is responsible for making the experience enjoyable for everyone else. This duty is not unique to the host. Although you will be providing the framework for the story, if the players don’t contribute and enhance it, there isn’t much reason to be playing in the first place. So, if anything you are about to read in this chapter doesn’t make any sense, don’t fret: either it will, or you won’t need it to. Soon, it will all be as easy as breathing.
Every host has their own style, which makes a chapter on hosting a rather difficult thing to write. There is no right way to do this, but there may be some wrong ways.
Don’t try to make your players jump while they are at the tower. That is not the sort of fear this game is about. Everyone will jump enough when the tower falls. While they are pulling their pieces, the players shouldn’t have to feel like they need to worry about the other players, including you, the host.
As each player takes their turn at the tower, how many pulls should you require? It is not as important to worry about the number of pulls as it is to worry about the structure of the tower. As the tower gets weaker, as the base gets wobblier, as the tilting gets greater, the more time it will take for each pull.
This is a wonderful thing. When the tower is rickety, it stops the action and demands everyone’s attention. It may sound counter intuitive, but it slows things down in order to speed things up. The tension rises with each pull. Breath is held during the pull. Once it is over, all that pent up energy rushes right back into the story. So any time the game hits a lull, you can give it a kick start by requiring a pull.
Of course, this pull must represent something happening in the game, and it certainly helps if the action in the game matches the tension brought by the tower. Always keep on the look out for opportunities to send players to the ower.
The natural flow of it should become apparent once you’ve hosted a few games, but to get you started, here is some advice. If you are hosting a game you suspect will take four hours, and you want the threat of at least one character leaving the game, then you want a player to pull roughly once every five minutes. You can increase it to two or even three pulls every five minutes for more lethal games, but it isn’t recommended to go below this frequency. Any game where there isn’t the chance of at least one character being removed isn’t all that scary.
Most of these pulls will occur early in the game, when the tower is stable. That is when players will be most willing to risk extra rewards by pulling more (see Adding the Factors, at right). Plus, each pull will not take nearly as long to accomplish.
Towards the endgame, each pull will have a lot more riding on it. That is when the players start risking failures and partial successes, just to limp along and keep as far away from the tower as possible.
So coax as many pulls as you can out of them at the beginning.
Consider first what you think the character should be able to accomplish with a single pull. Or even what the character can accomplish without a pull. Different characters can have vastly different results.
Performing a routine task, such as making dinner, should not require a pull from a reasonably skilled person. However, if the person is new to cooking, or trying a complex recipe, you may require a pull just to make sure it tastes all right.
By that same token, even a skilled person will make mistakes from time to time. Dinner is one thing, but Thanksgiving dinner with the extended family is something else entirely. In this case, the skilled character may accomplish it with one pull, but the unskilled may require a pull for each dish beyond the canned cranberry sauce. On the other hand, a banquet chef might not have to pull at all.
The key is not to think of how many pulls a task will require, but how much of the task can be accomplished with one pull.
When a character attempts something, there is a nearly infinite supply of factors that can affect the situation. As the host, you do not have to take all of them into account, but you will want to consider the more obvious ones. Below is a list of several factors that may or may not be involved with a single task. There will be some that the character is equipped to handle without extra pulling. There will be some that the character simply cannot control no matter how many pulls are made. Some characters can overcome several of these factors with one pull, while others may require a pull for each. Use your imagination. In general, if the character is accomplished in what they are trying to do, most of these factors won’t matter. But you may still be able to tease a few pulls out the player by dangling an advantage, an epiphany, or a reduced cost in resources in front of them. As always, these are just a few examples to get your imagination moving. Be sure to change them up for different situations, to avoid being predictable.
You may have noticed that all of the factors listed to the right could fall into one of these three categories: conditions, consequences, and advantages. While the list has the advantage of offering a more detailed body of factors to explore, it could become unwieldy during the game. If you would prefer a more concise reminder of the factors involved in a pull, consider these three questions:
As you can see, there is some crossover even in these very basic questions. You don’t need a factor from each category, nor should you let the categories define how you use each factor.
Let’s take a look at time. It could fall into any of the three categories. When disarming a bomb, the stress caused by what little time you have left would certainly count as a condition. Not disarming the bomb in time can bring about drastic consequences. And you can even reward an extra pull by leaving time to spare. However, there is no need to include all of these. If you don’t want the action to take up too many pulls, combine a few. In this case, the pressure and time limit involved could be logically seen as one pull. The reward pull is always optional, so there is no need not to include it.
Don’t over-complicate things with too many factors. Just focus on making each pull interesting.
It will happen—there will be players that refuse to pull. This is the result of a misunderstanding of what the game is about. The goal of the game is not to have your character survive, but to tell a compelling story. The desire to protect one’s character is laudable and, in fact, necessary to the game. If the players didn’t care what happened to their characters, pulling from the tower wouldn’t be a threat. But this desire is ultimately secondary to the primary goal of the game.
Without the risk involved in pulling, there is nothing compelling in the character’s personal story.
When you have a player who seems to shy away from the tower, you will want to do something about it.
There are a number of ways to go about this, but we recommend that you gently encourage the player to make pulls. Perhaps remind them that the game is about risking their character’s life.
If gentle encouragement doesn’t work, you can be more forceful. If there is anything happening to the group, have it happen to this player’s character first. If a pack of wild dogs tear out of the undergrowth and try to viciously maul the characters, the first dog should pick this character, giving that player a very compelling reason to approach the tower.
Be careful–you do not want to be malicious about this. The game is never about the host versus the players. Instead, you are setting up a few situations where, even if the player doesn’t pull, their character still takes central stage. Even if it is for a few brief moments, it creates participation in the story. Hell, even if the player still refuses to pull, the character’s actions, or lack thereof, will still shape the course of the tale.
Usually, there is plenty of time when someone approaches the tower. They will poke and prod it, searching for that loose piece. The temptation is to sit and watch the drama unfold, but try to use this time well. Consider the consequences of the player refusing to pull. And consider the consequences if the tower falls.
These pauses in the narration give you a chance to shut your mouth and let your mind catch up.
But you don’t need a player at the tower to find a pause in the game. Ask questions like: “Where is everyone?” “What are you up to?” “What do people plan to do while they wait for the fog to pass?” “While he is investigating the sound in the other room, what is everyone else doing?” And so on and so forth.
Let the players discuss these things among themselves for a moment or two. It should give you another chance to collect your thoughts.
Sometimes it happens. Five minutes into the game, a particularly unsteady hand topples the tower, and as the host you are left wondering what you are going to do with this pile.
Most characters can be written off with the flimsiest of narratives. Just take a look at Ways for a Character to Leave the Game for examples. But there will still be that awkward occasion where it simply won’t work. What do you do?
One option available is to “ghost” the character. In the story, the character is exactly the same. Sure, they failed, but the character is otherwise unchanged by the events. The player is allowed to play the character normally, but is no longer allowed to pull from the tower. Consequently, the character will fail at any action that would require a pull. The character can still do anything the questionnaire allows him or her to do without extra effort. But not if some other factor is involved that makes a pull necessary.
The character is also on a doomsday clock. At any appropriate time, the host can remove the character from the game. The tower need not collapse (it already has). A clever host may allow other players to pull if their characters are performing actions to stave off the inevitable, but it is still inevitable. For all intents and purposes, the character is the walking dead.
Try not to use this option too often. If players are regularly allowed to play their characters beyond a collapse, the tower loses its threat.
Occasionally, you will find that you have painted the players’ characters into a corner. The bomb is ticking, and if they don’t defuse it in time, everyone within a thousand feet will be incinerated. The former bomb squad member sits there with their wire cutters, sweat rolling into their eyes. Red or blue wire? Red or blue? And their player refuses to pull. What do you do now?
The easy answer is this: you should try your best to avoid setting these situations up. But, even the best host will be blindsided from time to time. In these sorts of situations, you will have to take a little more control over the story. Normally, the players determine what their characters do, or intend to do. However, if they refuse to pull, you have license to take control, but only when necessary.
In the ticking bomb situation, an unpulled block does not have to mean the wrong wire was snipped. Instead, the bomb expert might lose his nerve and run screaming. It can be assumed that most intelligent, self-preserving characters would follow his lead. Sure, a thousand feet is a long way to dash, but convenient shelter can be found, and anyone not willing to pull will suffer harsh burns and other wounds from the shrapnel. Not only will you have prevented a simple failure to pull from becoming a character-removing incident, but you will have generated pulls for several other players.
In addition to all that has been mentioned previously, the host also needs to play all of the other characters in the story. This is both a more difficult and an easier task than the one before your players. The players only need to concentrate on one character. This means they are free to delve into this character and understand it far more intimately than you are allowed to for your characters. This is because yours are not nearly so important to the story.
Have your players create some of your characters for you. If you want all of the characters to know one of your characters, in each questionnaire ask for something about that character. This gives the players a chance to build the story to their liking, and it relieves you of some of the burden.
Of course, too much conflicting information may muddle matters. If you fear that may happen, only ask a few of the players directly about the character and ask the rest about their characters’ reactions to that character.
You can also do this on the sly. When creating a love interest, ask what was so special about their last great love. When creating a nemesis, ask what once almost drove the character to kill someone. Or, ask the same question when creating a red herring.
Let the other players do some of the footwork and you’ll find they will take to the character much more smoothly.
Your characters have the advantage of not needing to pull from the tower to accomplish things. But this is a double-edged sword. It also means they will never be able to rise above their capabilities the way the players’ characters can. It also means they live and die at your whim.
The world itself is also your character. Use it well. Weather, lighting, ambient noise, crowds, traffic, empty fields, dark forests, political on-goings, animal cries, heat waves shimmering off of pavement, smells where they shouldn’t be, strange echoes, dilapidated buildings, etc. Mirror your themes in the characters’ surroundings. It is easy to forget to describe the world around the characters at times. But a word here and there about where and when they are can do wonders to set the mood. Take a concrete detail from the world you are imagining and share it with them every time they move from one spot to another.
There is no need to overdo the descriptions. A few solid and interesting details will bring this world into focus. From there, the player’s own imagination can take over.
An easy way to remember this is to write taste/smell, touch, hearing, and sight down on a piece of paper in front of you. When you find yourself describing a new situation or location, mention something specific from at least two of these senses. Then put a tally mark next to them. This way, you have an idea of which senses you may have been neglecting.
Don’t use it to restrict what you describe, but to inspire new details.
While your characters will obviously not have as much thought put into them as the players’ characters have, you will want to create the illusion that they do. There are a number of tricks you can use to accomplish this. Try thinking of the characters as specific friends, relations, and acquaintances of yours. You have probably internalized the mannerisms and personalities of the people you know, so that you can reproduce them in front of your players with much less effort than a wholly fictional character. By that same token, try envisioning how a particular actor would portray the character in film or TV show. This, combined with a decent understanding of the characters, should provide you with enough to produce believable results.
However, you must be careful to disguise your inspiration. If your players can guess the person or persons you are using as a basis for your character, the game may devolve into humorous impressions. Avoid this by either avoiding people familiar to the other players, or giving the characters an additional habit, mannerism, or quirk to hide behind. It doesn’t require anything too drastic; just mentioning that a character nods too much when the players are talking to him (or tends not to look them directly in the eyes, or speaks with a much different voice to his friends than to strangers, etc.) will disguise your inspirations.
In fact, whether or not you decide to base your characters on folks you are familiar with, it is a good idea to give each character something unique and identifiable for the players to hang on to. A redhead is one thing, but a redhead that is always chewing on the ends of her hair is something that will stick in their memories for a while. There are plenty of tattooed men out there, but a man with a Natasha Fatale tattooed on his biceps is recognizable.
Each character that needs to be memorable should have at least one detail like this, just to keep them in the players’ minds.
Ready to get into the thick of things? Why not skip the next few chapters? At the end of this book there are three story frameworks all set for you to host them. Simply read through one of them, invite your friends over, hand out the questionnaires, and set up the tower. That’s all there is to it—you’re ready to go!
The following chapters focus on how to create your own story framework and how to host certain archetypal stories in the genre. They are by no means necessary to play. If we have done our job properly, you should have all the tools you need right now. So, why not jump in headfirst?