Too old for this Sh**?

 These days every time I boot up a new game, I feel like Murtaugh in the ol’ Lethal Weapon movies. I hear him whisper his catch phrase weeks away from his retirement. “I’m getting too old for this shit.."

Its not that I consider the new generation of games to be childish, on the contrary. I find them more challenging than my ACTUAL LIFE. I just know that when the company logos are all done its going to be either a thick-ass plot line to go through; or a learning curve not seen since my days at graduate school.

Whatever happened to the simplicity? Has our society gotten so complex that we just can’t turn on a game and start akilling? No, you have to part of a global conspiracy, or indoctrinated into a story, or educated in the ways of a secret cult. Gone are the days of hit the reset and you are blasting within moments. Given those were in the days of dot versus dot. But still I don’t have time for all the meringue, I want CAKE!

Further, once the game is happening and I’m psyched. I’m hit with so many ERRANDS. Get this, bring me that, take this for this purpose. I think that is the reason why I so adore ‘open world’ games, the ones where you just float in a reality without any agendas. 

Sure, when I was younger the prizes are more than worth it. Satisfying. But now, on the darker side of a mid-life crisis, they just don’t seem to matter. If I want that sniper rifle, if I want that thing, damn it I just hit the cheat code without hesitation. 

It reminds me of the constant battle that I had years ago with Chuk Barber; my mentor of video (carnage) games. He was the one that introduced me to Quake, Halo, Rune, and the entire FPS genre. Chuk was twenty years my senior and the minute he got a game he immediately searched for the cheat codes.

“But Chuk,” I protested. “What about the challenge, the game wasn’t made for you to cheat, complete it first man!"

“Bro,” he shot back. “I have a stressful job, and Im way too old to do things over and over to a checkpoint, I need to get to some blood and gore now!” 

TILDE ACTIVATED, CARNAGE ACHIEVED!

I no longer bicker or whine about the loss of plot line or gameplay. We no longer live at a time like Zork where we had one game and it had to last us for centuries. Gone are the days of milk a game for all its worth. I am shamed to say I have over 100 games on my Steam account and I've only burned through 10 of them lately. 

There is a mid-life impatience that i feel. I feel nothing but rebuke (like Burl Ives did when he said "Mendacity" in cat on a hit roof) when I find myself carrying rabbit food or a part for a machine or the ingredient for a potion to get the experience or a better weapon. Sorry, I’m just too old for that shit!

I think that today's games are made to replace rather than supplement our reality. Reality replacement is exactly what young players want. But older players seem to only have time/energy/memory or patience for a supplementary reality. 

After all, its all we got its all we can. 

So load up another game Riggs. I'm just going to sit here and wait until we get mobbed. Then I'll crack my neck and start blasting with this Smith & Wesson. Until then let me just close my eyes and...

What? No I dont want to save those people for a better gun. Just hit control tilde and type KILLALL! 

There we go...

Rogue in the Crypt Session Two

Here are two questions that I may have answered with but one button of the rpgsolo.com:

1. Murk is hurt, perhaps critically, he will use his alchemy to cure or something of the sort. 
2. There is a corridor underneath, it is 10' wide and heads north, for now.

I am posting this to illustrate a point. What you are about to read was inspired by just one result of rpgsolo:

NPC Action.

Which turned into:

   The mercenary gripped his wounded handed, fortunately only slashed and bloody. His reflexes saving him, Murkstav cursed himself for being a novice fool. From below a strange luminous glow emerged, almost inviting, that did not seem like firelight at all but something conjured. The rogue did not enjoy conjured things, they never turned out right in the end. 

     Obsessing over his hand, or hypnotized by the glow below, the way it danced on the broken steel of the trap-blade, the sounds behind him did not register in his brain. There the sound of metal and stone moving. It was then that Murk realized he had overlooked the central crypt, the giant sarcophogus centered on it all. Why had he ignored it? Feeling the chills running up his spine, Murkstav turned. Turned to see a giant hand grip the lid of the stone copher (not even sure if that is a word). 

     The witch spoke of her son, her giant son, a thing unknown by men. Remembering the tales of woe, the tales circulated from tavern to tavern, Murkstav realized why Obar sounded so familiar. Years ago there was a creature stalking the swamps around Rivermoon, slain by men from the Black Spear tavern. The men, huddled years ago about mugs of ale and meal, spoke most of the things hands, the giant hands that gripped men and squeezed. The losses had been heavy until the beast was finally put down. 

     Surely those were the hands gripping those men that now gripped the lid, letting out a dull undead moan that Murkstav learned so often was never good news. 

     "Damn me for a fool," Murk hissed, looking at the entrance. "Always keep your exit and back guarded" he repeated to himself echoing C'ang's greatest sentiment, speaking it every time they walked into a tomb. Now there was one that the young mercenary would enjoy, gravely to fight beside. 

     It began to emerge, its head crowning over the lip of the tomb, giant and grey, with strands of slick- slimey hair sticking to a decomposing head and skull. Was that a gag, Murk felt in his throat? 

     Somehow, the strangely lit corridor below the broken trap seemed almost inviting. The smell coming from the tomb hit the man, and it only resolved his decision. Whatever that light was, it was better than the thing coming out of that crypt. With a deep breath, Murkstav dove into the hole made by the blade, hoping there was not another as a back-up. The last thing he saw, at the corner of his eye, was a massive shape moving to his right. 

Followed by: 

Is there another blade?

(Very Unlikely | 6_[d10]) Yes, but...

 

     Falling into the corridor Murkstav heard another catch release. He closed eyes, knowing that he would emerge into the land of shadows, the afterlife, without a head.

Which brings us to a point. If one word, one picture, brings a world of inspiration, what do we need dice and buttons for?

Methodology: What the hell am I doing?

Combat in a solo rpg is not the easiest thing in the world. Nor is the building of a dungeon as you go. Sure you can click a button and have a full-fledged dungeon but to have done progressively, as your character moves, is something else entirely.

For combat, I have combined four elements that shined in my experience with solo role-playing.

NOTE: Nothing gets in the way of the writing, nothing. When confronted with any of these rules, or any of the rules of an RPG and/or oracle I will choose the write, the creative flow of the words destroys any and all rules and numbers. RPG is to be used as an AID not to replace writing. 

1. The incredible GM Emulator at RPGsolo.com. This is my solo rp desk, and many times my writing desk for that matter. Most, most if not all sessions, will happen on this site. I will use primarily the Mythic buttons but the muse can point me to any button at all. Of particular interest is the Random Dungeon generation. I plan to use those custom buttons and perhaps other random dungeon generators or simply a word.

2. The descriptive rather than mathematical focus of FUDGE RPG's attributes, traits and/or characteristics. These I will use to describe my character and use him against others. He will begin with one great, two goods, three fairs and four so-so. Anything beyond that becomes mediocre or abysmal. For every plus I must provide a reason  for him being at that level. This is the scale I plan to use:

Superb Sure Thing +4

Great  Very Likely +3

Good Likely +2

Fair Slightly Likely +1

So-So +0 50/50

Poor Slightly Unlikely -1

Mediocre Unlikely -2

Terrible Very Unlikely -3

Abysmal Almost Impossible -4 

3. You will note beside the fudge-like descriptions are the Mythic descriptions. I will use those buttons on RPGsolo.com to match how my hero is performing. For example, if I ask “How does he make out in combat, I would follow the following procedure. He is a great dungeon-fighter (and I have three reasons for that) if he is up against a fair orc, I would hit the Good ‘likely’ button. If he is up against two or three, I think it would be so so if not slightly unlikely. 

4. This will give me Yes, and- Yes- No- or No, but. Here is where the inspiration begins. 

5. No inspiration I give myself license to hit a button on rpgsolo.com, use a story image, grab a rune, grab a card, look out beyond the window until something grabs me. Again, RPG as fuel for writing, not visa versa!

6. I have not crossed the bridge of hit points or magic saves or anything of that nature. Why? Quite frankly it seems to get in the way of the writing. But if things change I will let me patient readers know. 

Next up: The character, Murkstav, an old dungeoneer from my play-by-post days!

An Inspired Dungeon Crawl

     The dungeon to come, the scrawled map on leather, scrawled upon by blood more than ink; had come to Ingabod in one of his maddened magical infusions. The rooms spilled out like tentacles about the eye, and when he woke, sliding beakers, decanters, books and scrolls to the side, he had absolutely no idea what he was looking at. Yet the woman who had the disgrace of sharing his bedchamber, and his loins, knew precisely what she was looking at. 
     She was looking at a purse of gold.
     So with delight, and to Ingabod’s surprise, she accepted his foot on her flank as he kicked her out of bed. But with a swoop and a yelp, she also took what the magic-addict had scared on the fine lamb’s skin (a piece had been torn to wrap about his member (just enough to keep his essence out of her, for fear of gaining more power than Ingabod) that place, that unknown place, that dwelled more in the madman’s mind than in the treasure-laden realms of the continent.
     Taking the leather, the strumpet followed the twisting paths away from that dragon’s lair, off to a tavern, or a plaza, to sell to a random cast of characters, enough to pay for another chamber, another night another meal, until another called for her to warm his bed.
     So there it was before Jester, the lambskin, promising riches more than he had heard in the thrones of kings. For surely if these manner of men could do it, he could as well...