Monster Descriptions of Yore

I’ve decided -- against my better judgment or business sense -- to move forward on developing the Basic Fantasy Heroes roleplaying game; it uses the original Oracle System for combat and task resolution to offer some retro-clone-style medieval fantasy action with a suitability for new players. Adequately developed drafts for character creation, combat, and some short adventures have already made the rounds with playtesters. The obligatory bestiary section remains among the few chapters yet unwritten, so I’m diving into it with a few monster descriptions and stats each day to maintain my enthusiasm for the project, explore possibilities within the game engine, and develop useful text for a final product.

Working on my own bestiary I’ve found myself referencing monsters in both the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual and the Basic Dungeons & Dragons rulebook not so much to replicate material but to make sure I can put a more original spin on the classic monsters I’m developing and avoid using proprietary D&D creations (much as I have an inexplicable nostalgic fondness for the owlbear…). While I’m finding some inspiration and direction, I’m also realizing the text of both those tomes remains a product of their time. Both rules assume readers have a familiarity with mythological and literary fantasy monsters, leaving the more thorough descriptions to the sometimes-gonzo original D&D monsters like the mimic, lurker above, beholder, rust monster, stirge, and owlbear. (I’ll freely admit in this instance the Basic D&D bestiary has more description than its advanced cousin, but not much more).

Many monster entries, particularly those for humanoids, focus less on describing a creature’s physical qualities, behavior, and preferred habitat and concentrate instead on rules: explaining special combat abilities, noting aversions to light and ability to see in darkness, percentage chance to wield various weapons, and outlining the percentages of group and lair composition. Paragraphs like this one seemed ubiquitous in humanoid descriptions:

For every 40 kobolds encountered there will be a leader and two guards who are equal to goblins, each having 4 hit points, armor class 6, and doing 1-6 points of damage. If 200 or more kobolds are encountered in their lair there will be the following additional creatures there: 5-20 guards (as bodyguards above), females equal to 50% of the total number, young equal to 10% of the total number, and 30-300 eggs. There will always be a chief and his bodyguard in the kobold lair. It is also probable (65%) that there will be from 2-5 wild boars (70%) or 1-4 giant weasels (30%) in a kobold lair; the animals will serve as guards.

This level of statistical detail seems offered in the same spirit as the random dungeon instructions included in the Dungeon Masters Guide appendices, which enable gamemasters to generate random dungeon layouts and populate them with the proper level of monsters, traps, treasure. This more rules-oriented text leaves little room for descriptive “flavor” text to provide a context for adventuring. The actual “description” portion of monster entries delves into sometimes tedious extreme visual detail, such as the one the Monster Manual offered for goblins:

Description: Goblins range from yellow through dull orange to brick red in skin color. Their eyes are reddish to lemon yellow. They dress in dark leather gear, and their garments tend toward dull, soiled-looking colors (brown drab, dirty gray, stained maroon). Goblins reach the age of 50 years or so.

I realize AD&D emerged from a wargaming tradition and thus attribute the attention paid to color details to that heritage where painting miniatures the correct uniform color remained a point of pride to many.

I suppose the lack of colorful description at this time (the “Golden Age of Roleplaying,” or the early 1980s) seems normal, with brief descriptions focusing more on a creature’s role in terms of game rules than in what some might call “flavor text” or “lore.” The lack of non-game-mechanic detail enabled a host of magazine authors to expound on their own vision of particular creatures in the numerous, popular “Ecology of…” articles in Dragon Magazine.

I’m often amazed re-reading old game books and finding my expectations of contented nostalgia fall short in the face of what, by today’s game publication standards, is somewhat less-than-polished quality. Perhaps designers and gamers became wrapped up in the exciting novelty of the new hobby and paid less attention to sketchy rules, inconsistent grammar, passive voice, and a near-ubiquitous use of the future tense in rulebooks and adventure modules describing any potential situation (something that still creeps into today’s game writing by “professionals” and “amateurs” alike). Such elements help define games of that era and serve as a milestone by which we can compare the nuances and quality that characterize today’s roleplaying entertainments. What the first AD&D and D&D products create is nothing less than what publishers produce today, just something of a different flavor and play style.

Perhaps my observations about original D&D’s monster descriptions in a way reflect my own personal preference and strength for narrative and setting over rules. In my own brief monster descriptions I focus on physical description, environment, and motivations, all broad guidelines for use in the game, while the actual monster statistics serve to describe it in the context of the game rules. I’m seeking to provide the briefest of descriptions to put the creature in a familiar context within the game, then give the relatively simple stats and specialties so they work within the rules framework. I hope to give players the basic setting context and rules framework for monsters to let them use them as they see fit in their own games; in its own way original D&D does this by presenting monsters with a different set of tools.

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The Gonzo Questing Journey

In debating which of many projects to develop in the near future I find myself drawn back to The Infinite Cathedral, a system-neutral, medieval fantasy setting consisting of a separate plane of existence with a vast landscape of endless cathedral naves and transepts, with cloisters nestled between them. Some unknown force dumps heroes from their own worlds onto this one with no apparent means of return. Much of it is ruined, though some portions still remain intact, with many far-off locations renovated and re-purposed by the region’s unwilling inhabitants.

 
When I first look at it I envisioned it as a traditional medieval fantasy roleplaying setting with a basic thematic foundation and plenty of room for characters to explore, set out on epic quests, or find grand causes to support with sword and spell. But my recent nighttime fiction reading has helped me look at it from another angle and provided enthusiasm for embarking on a more dynamic course with it. (I read as often as my harried lifestyle allows; I’m lucky if I get half an hour of non-fiction reading at lunchtime and half an hour of fiction right before bed.)

 

I’m almost finished reading Michael Moorcock’s The History of the Runestaff omnibus edition published by White Wolf as Hawkmoon in the 1990s. It includes the four early novels of Dorian Hawkmoon (an aspect of Moorcock’s Eternal Champion): The Jewel In The Skull, The Mad God's Amulet, The Sword Of The Dawn, and The Runestaff. I’ve enjoyed reading Moorcock’s fiction over the years, starting with the Elric stories way back in high school followed by others as acquired over the years (including two great omnibus editions published by White Wolf). Now and then I pick up some Elric tales to re-read. On the surface I’m intrigued by the non-traditional elements of fantasy he creates, the underlying conflict between order and chaos, and the overall concept of an Eternal Champion. Such fare seems wonderfully episodic. In one chapter the hero encounters one adversary/location/ally and resolves that interaction; the next chapter brings new and quite different challenges related to the hero’s overall quest, though sometimes seemingly diverting him from it. One never knows what they’ll encounter next…something within the realm of their experience or something entirely outside of it and quite possibly not even grounded in the setting, including occasional appearances by inter-planar demonic beings and lost futuristic-science artifacts.

Like Moorcock’s other work, the tales of Hawkmoon include what many might call “gonzo” elements: watch towers filled with powerful weapons powered by lost technology; knights with “flame lances” riding flying giant flamingos; magic-tech enabling mind analysis and control; entire kingdoms removed to different dimensions. The folks over at the online Free Merriam-Webster Dictionary define gonzo as “freewheeling or unconventional especially to the point of outrageousness” as well as “bizarre.” Both describe a particular style of fantasy roleplaying campaign where disparate yet fantastic elements dominate the setting from one session to the next. I’m not terribly well-versed in the “gonzo” game genre, though I’ve heard of games and campaigns that might fall into that category (Lamentations of the Flame Princess comes to mind, as well as material on the fascinating Dungeon of Signs blog, but I’m sure there are others). On closer examination, however, this style of seemingly “gonzo” storytelling has its roots in classical and contemporary fiction in an approach that might serve to fuel my enthusiasm and inspiration for The Infinite Cathedral.

This style of storytelling hearkens back to that earliest piece of adventure fiction, Homer’s Odyssey, in which the hero and his faithful companions undertake an arduous ocean voyage filled with bizarre encounters, all while addressing an overarching story (Ulysses’ quest to return home). Each episode presents a new encounter intended as a challenge from some fantastic adversary or bizarre situation. A more modern example comes from the classic Star Trek television series. On its five-year exploration mission the U.S.S. Enterprise wanders across the galaxy encountering one challenge after the next. Each episode brings new worlds to explore, mysteries to solve, hazards to negotiate, and enemies to confront. Moorcock’s work embraces this potentially “gonzo” tradition: a setting where the heroes encounter disparate and often quite bizarre elements within their genre setting each episode.

The Infinite Cathedral offers a similar potential for a “gonzo” game campaign. It’s a place where anything can happen within the minimal medieval fantasy setting foundations. Several givens exist -- the medieval nature of society and technology, the mostly ruined cathedral/cloister architecture of the terrain, the absence of gods, and the struggle between seeking a means of escape or resigning oneself to their captive fate on this dimension. Everyone deposited on this godless plane of existence makes a choice: seek a means of returning home even though none seem to exist (despite many promising rumors; or relinquish the quest, settle down in an enclave, and make a name for oneself here. One adventure might focus on defending a small village against an overwhelming enemy while the next might send them on a quest for a pseudo-science magical device with hideously devastating powers.

I’ll freely admit elements of this style of campaigning make me uneasy. The “gonzo” aspects lend themselves to unpredictability and a seeming lack of setting continuity, although many might argue a world dominated by disparate gonzo elements constitutes setting continuity unto itself. I’m also a little intimidated by the exploration quest theme, what many call a “sandbox” campaign in which the overall direction depends on the players’ interest in wandering through the setting rather than the gamemaster’s emphasis on their involvement in a focused meta-plot. Like my historical game setting work in Pulp Egypt and Heroes of Rura-Tonga, much of The Infinite Cathedral setting initially looks fairly normal on the surface -- ruined cathedral, enclaves of survivors eking out a living, standard medieval fantasy monsters lurking in the subterranean crypts -- but as heroes explore they uncover subtle sinister elements: fellow travelers from other dimensions with disturbing objectives and unfathomable powers; enclaves with secret agendas; monsters that look familiar but function quite differently.

I don’t fancy myself a fan of either “sandbox” game campaigns or gonzo-style settings. I’m more a traditional medievalist when it comes to fantasy roleplaying games. But approaching The Infinite Cathedral with an eye toward a “gonzo sandbox” campaign -- within the defined parameters of the basic setting I’ve already devised -- might help fuel my enthusiasm and provide more diversified inspiration for the project. I think I need to step out of my stodgy old comfort zone and explore this….