Holding it All Together

Matthew McFarland

One of the major pitfalls of role-playing occurs when the players’ characters find themselves at odds too frequently. While some game systems encourage a bit of infighting (or at least for each character to have her own agenda), if the characters don’t have any common ground, the game is going to devolve into an evening’s worth of cross-cutting. That gets old really quickly.

In this essay, I’m going to present some reasons for a cohesive group and some ways that the Storyteller and the players can keep the characters together and happy with each other ¾ and then present a counter-point and explain why dissonance is a very good thing.

“I’ll go sit with those obvious player-character types.”

First of all, how do you get the characters to notice each other? This is covered to some degree in my essay Developing A Story, but let’s go into a bit more detail here. In that essay, I presented a number of different ways to shove a bunch of disparate weirdos (and their characters) together, but those can be grouped into two categories: Pre-Ordained and Common Cause.

Pre-Ordained groups happen for one of two reasons; the group is either assumed as part of the game’s structure, or some high-and-mighty force tells the characters to work together. Some games, like Werewolf and Chill have this “pack mentality” built in; in Werewolf, the characters usually begin as part of a pack and have a spiritual bond in the form of a totem. In Chill, the characters all work for the same organization and don’t necessarily have any contact outside of that organization. If you’re running a game in which this kind of cohesion is built in, fantastic. In fact, it’s a good idea for newer Storytellers to run such games, as it removes a burden from your mind. However, the group needs to receive focus as well. Is there a group leader? Do all of the characters follow the leader, or is there some dissention? If the characters work for an organization, how much of it have they seen? Do they know only what they’re told, or do they have some insight into the real motives of their superiors? (The Mage sourcebook Player’s Guide to the Technocracy presents material for this kind of theme to a story).

Any game can use the “voice from on high” approach. The vampiric prince of a city might command a bunch of young bloodsuckers to investigate a problem in Vampire. A deity might command a group of adventurers in Dungeons & Dragons. The “voice from on high” becomes literal in In Nomine, as the characters are either angels or demons in service to God or Satan. As long as the “voice” is sufficiently awe-inspiring (and the characters have reason to obey), this is an acceptable method of getting a group to work together.

Two problems with the “voice” approach, however, make more experienced Storytellers shy away from it. First of all, it’s cliché. Second, and more importantly, it robs the players of free will. That doesn’t mean they’ll rebel (which might make for interesting stories), because often, the players feel that they’d be breaking the rules by doing so. Instead, their displeasure will surface in the game in the form of apathy: if someone’s making them do it, they won’t care as much. This is true even if the order is “Stick together”. If the only reason the group has to be a group is “Prince Banana told us so,” that group won’t last.

Common Cause-based groups are much more rewarding, but just like everything else, reaching those rewards takes work (what, you thought this would be easy?). This approach assumes that the characters have a common frame of reference that holds them together, and that it develops over the course of the story. It’s helpful to the Storyteller if at least some of the characters know one another before the actual game begins, of course. For example, I ran a game set around a university (a lot of my games incorporate them, in fact) and told the players that having some connection with the school would be helpful. Most of them created characters who were students (at various points in their lives) but one decided to be an alumnus who had taken a job nearby and was dating a student. The characters first noticed each other at a protest at the alumnus’ place of employment, and the group of them slowly began to realize that they all had common concerns (the game was World of Darkness, but it was so much a homebrew that I don’t wish to inflict the particulars on my readers). In any event, a few weeks into the chronicle, the characters had begun hanging out together, and I ran several successful sessions with no more planning than “Philip’s having a party tonight.”

Not all Common Causes are so benign, of course. If each character is angered at or in debt to the same being, the characters probably have enough ground to sympathize with each other. Likewise, as Shakespeare says, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.” Some games, typically of the horror genre, lend themselves to creating groups of mutually terrified people. For example, White Wolf’s Hunter: The Reckoning provides no basic framework for its characters other than the fact that they know monsters are real and that they feed (in various ways) on the living. The characters also have no easy way to identify each other. However, the “moment of clarity” that all Hunters share (called the Imbuing, in the game’s jargon) often encompasses more than one person, and the Storyteller should see the possibility here.

Imagine, after all, that you and four other people simultaneously realize that the woman dancing in a club is a vampire. You don’t know why you know that, only that she is dead and evil and must be stopped. After the dust settles, you and the other four people are the only ones who agree on what happened. Others forget or ignore the terror at seeing an inhuman monster in blind frenzy, but you (and them) remember. That terror might well form the only bond the group needs.

“Can’t you just feel the love?”

The heart of Common Cause-based groups is emotion. Fear, love, loyalty, revenge ¾ whatever the specifics, something stronger than orders holds them to each other (in its way, the spiritual bond that a Werewolf pack shares is a Common Cause; I included it under Pre-Ordained groups because the group needs attention before the game actually begins). That means that players should keep in mind how their characters feel about each other. I’ve seen romance blossom between characters (and players, but that’s another mess altogether) and then seen it burn up. I’ve also met Storytellers who try to keep that sort of thing under wraps, as it complicates things if one character refuses to be around another because of their floundering love affair. Storytellers like that are probably missing the biggest opportunities they’ll ever get.

When characters develop feelings for (or about) one another, it means that you’ve got dynamic characters on your hands. That still makes me quiver in pleasure. Characters that change, that develop, that end the game significantly different than they began it (and still extant, as well) are dynamic characters. That’s exciting, because if the characters are reacting strongly to the events of a chronicle, it’s obvious that the players are, too.

(As a small aside here, a character who experiences trauma and/or temptation and remains true to his/her values and self is still a dynamic character. A player who uses “That wouldn’t be in character” as an excuse to ignore obvious temptations and damaging situations — even though her character might well feel otherwise — is not allowing the character to grow and change. There’s really nothing to be done about it, other than bask in the glow when players do bring dynamism to their characters.)

So, to bring this back to keeping the group together, how do you get a character to feel one way or another about the others? Here are some suggestions:

• Ask. The simplest method. Have each player jot down their initial impressions of the other characters after the first game session. Ask periodically how things have changed.

• Make them talk. Another way to encourage camaraderie (or at least interaction) is not to give them the choice. Remove NPCs from the equation. Get the group, or part of it, alone and face them with a problem or topic and then threaten to strip Willpower (or whatever) from anybody who talks out of character unless absolutely necessary. Some players will jump right in, and may even take in-character discussions out of the room while the Storyteller deals with other matters. Some players, shy in real life, remain so in character and have to be coaxed (which is where an NPC can come in handy ¾ draw the shy player out of his shell with a supporting character and then have the character melt into the background once the player starts talking).

A corollary to this is to bring the characters into a situation where they don’t know anyone, except perhaps an NPC host. Parties work well for this sort of thing. Most people will gravitate towards people they know in unfamiliar situations, so if you bring the characters into a strange place, they will probably chat with each other, at least initially.

• Pavlovian tactics: A very basic method of reinforcing the group’s role is by rewarding actions that strengthen it. Make life harder on characters that wander off alone. If someone comes up with a good idea that involves most or all of the group, give it a better chance of succeeding than a plan that involves all but two of the group standing around.

• Guilt by Association: You can discover how characters feel about each other really quickly if some more powerful (and antagonist) force decides that they’re all enemies because one of them is. If the characters get attacked by minions of said force and later track the motive for the attack back to “Aaron Darkshade once trampled Prince Banana’s flowers”, the other characters will have to decide if they want to Aaron’s side of the story, side with Aaron because he’s their friend and ally, or sell him out to Prince Banana and reap whatever rewards he might be offering. All make for potentially interesting stories, of course.

• Lead by Example: If the characters get out-performed by another team, simply because that team is using teamwork, they might decide to examine each other’s strengths a bit more. This does not mean that you should allow a well-trained group of commandos to mop the floor with them, but leave them alive. Instead, have the rival group challenge them to a game of ultimate Frisbee, or capture-the-flag, or even a board game. If the game you’re running is combat-oriented (like Werewolf) you might consider a sparring match or a paintball war. Of course, your “team” can use good tactics because they’re all being controlled by the same person, but that just makes it easier to drive the point home — all else being equal, the team that acts as a team wins.

“I quit! What’s SAVE gonna do, garnish my wages?”

It happens in real life, so it’s really unrealistic to assume that it won’t happen in a game: sooner or later, a character is going to go stomping off. Reasons for this vary; maybe that character’s player needs to quit playing for a while, or perhaps the player feels, for whatever reason, that s/he needs to stop playing that particular character. Maybe the reason is entirely in-character: the character is getting married and wishes to avoid the dangerous missions that his pals keep dragging him into, the character reaches a moral or spiritual crossroads and needs to think it out. What to do here depends largely on the reasons behind it.

If the player is leaving the game, obviously you don’t have to worry about introducing a new character (though you might if you’ve got someone who wishes to take the exiting player’s place). You might ask if you should temporarily sideline the character, however. I admit to being somewhat spiteful towards players who tell me midway through a story that they can’t play anymore, and their characters occasionally meet gruesome fates. I advise against this, however — feelings mend, and the player may someday wish to return.

If the player wants to play a new character, let him, especially if it’s because the player is uncomfortable with his/her current character. It might disrupt group dynamics a bit, and you’ll certainly want to talk it out with the player and be sure there’s not a way to “tweak” the character to make him/her playable, but in the end, it’s about having fun (remember?).

But if the reason for the departure is in-character — an angry or betrayed character goes stomping off; a character joins the “other side”; a character leaves his friends to pursue ends that are too dangerous to involve them in — then you’ve got the start of a good story. The others in the group will be forced to figure out how important the absent character is to them, and whether or not they care enough to try to bring him back (or help him in whatever his quest is). The tricky bit can be what to do while the group is separated.

I’ve mentioned cross-cutting in other essays, but to recap, it means that the focus of the game is “cutting” across two or more focal points. If the group splits up, for example, you might cover one part of the group for the next hour of game time, and then switch to the other group and cover what they’re doing during that time. Cross-cutting is a perfectly acceptable means of handling splits (sometimes the only means, actually) but it has to be done skillfully. Learn to recognize good break points and switch back and forth fairly often, so that no one gets bored. Don’t try to keep everyone enthralled in what’s happening in their characters aren’t present — that’s not really fair (I played in a game where as much as two-thirds of the game was spent focused on other characters; fortunately the Storyteller had a Playstation set up in his room).

If the group is split only because one character went solo, cross-cutting is often unnecessary. You might consider running the lone character’s actions in a solo game, both to be fair to the other players and so it comes as more of surprise to them when they catch up with their compatriot. During the game with the main group, the player of the lone character can either not play (which is sometimes what sparked the solo game in the first place) or play a different character. This last approach is all right if you’ve got a character that will fill a niche in the group, at least temporarily, but beware of throwing someone extraneous in — it will disrupt the game’s flow.

Of course, if the main body of the group has a way to easily find the lone character, you don’t need to take any steps at all. Just enjoy the role-playing that follows. (“Damn it, I told you I don’t need your help!” “Yeah, that’s why you’re bleeding from a chest wound and missing your right ear.”)

“We just don’t have sticky anymore.”*

As chronicles develop, the group either gets closer or they don’t. If they grow closer, then the game gets easier to run (because you don’t have to worry about keeping them in the same state the whole time). If not, then you may have problems.

Groups that originally came together because of immediate causes: revenge, debt, orders, a specific problem, etc., may well splinter when their “task” is completed. If there isn’t any interaction between them during the course of the story, they may wish to never see each other again after their foe is vanquished (or quest is complete, or debt paid, or whatever). Some suggestions if this happens:

• Plan ahead: Oh, sure, it seemed so simple at first. They thought all they had to do was bring Prince Banana down and then the Rains of Monkeys would stop. But no — Prince Banana lies vanquished, and yet the Monkeys keep Raining! There must be a power behind the former prince controlling the strange simians, and until the group finds out what or who this power is, they’ll never know peace.

The idea here is that things aren’t as simple as they first seemed. Work in little clues during the story that there’s more going on than was originally presented. Have them discover connections between them beyond the problem that got them together. Introduce NPCs that know just enough to raise questions. Keep the details consistent and realistic (to whatever degree of realism the game allows, of course) — no soap opera clone-back-from-death-long-lost-mother’s-dog’s-roommate-dream-sequence kind of nonsense. Oh, and write down the little hints you drop. Otherwise, you will not remember them when it comes time to use them to full advantage.

• Opportunity knocks: Someone has been watching the group, and now that Prince Banana is gone and the Monkeys have stopped raining, that someone steps forward with a plea for help/sizable reward/offer the group can’t refuse. The danger here is repetition: don’t just substitute one “voice from on high” for another, or your players will become frustrated and stop showing up. However, this provides a way to stroke egos: if someone tells the group that they accomplished their last task gracefully and are therefore perfect for this new task, this may well provide the impetus they need to stay together.

• Let the players decide: If the players wish to continue playing the same characters but aren’t sure why they’d be hanging around with each other, ask them for ideas. If they come up with some good ones, run with them. If the original story was more plot-driven than character-driven, perhaps they’d be keen on finding out why Aaron Darkshade gets those weird flashbacks of working at Chuck E. Cheese, even though he swears he’s never been near one.

• Call it quits: You know how when a sequel gets advertised and you find yourself saying, “God, why did they bother? The first one was cool, it ended well, there’s no need for another go-round”? Well here’s your chance to show that you’re better than those morons who made Highlander 2. Let the game end. Maybe one or more of the characters show up for cameos in other games, maybe you can even revisit the same characters for a one-shot down the line somewhere. But if you can’t find good story ideas for the group, it’s time for a new chronicle.

“What keeps a man alive? He lives on others…” — Bertolt Brecht

So, hopefully you now have some ideas on how to keep the group together. But really, what fun is that? What if you want to encourage backstabbing and paranoia? What if you don’t intend to portray any character they meet as a true “enemy”? What if you plan to run Vampire?

In such a game, making sure you know where the characters stand in regards to each other and their overall motivations is vital. If one character doesn’t feel one way or another about the others, but has a driving goal to become the world’s greatest bocce player, that’s important to know. If one of the characters is only joining the group to wound (or protect!) one of the other characters, she might well act against the others if she feels they are proving detrimental to her mission. In situations like this, much of what the players say to each other is going to be half-true at the very best. That means that you must keep yourself updated on how the characters actually feel. Take each player aside every two games or so and ask, or have them keep you up to date via email. Just because the game starts out with everyone working at cross-purposes doesn’t mean that real regard won’t develop between them, but if that begins to happen, it’s good to know.

So what if you’ve got three players who create characters that seem to complement each other well, and are forming a cohesive, well-rounded, friendly group and one player who wants to create a spy for the enemy or some other such disaster waiting to happen? Well, I for one encourage it — under the following conditions:

• Can the player handle it? If the player wishes to play a member of an enemy group (such as the Sabbat in Vampire), has that player read any appropriate books? Is the player a strong enough role-player to carry off the deception? This isn’t just a test of acting, either. It also goes back to Initiative, one of the traits of a Beautiful Player. If the player takes the time to learn all about the kind of character she’s impersonating and the kind of character she actually is, that’s worthy of consideration. An example:

In the Vampire game I’m finishing up, two of the players decided at the outset to play vampires of one clan, but pretend to be another. This was fine, I approved the concept, and all seemed well. However, the clan to which the characters actually belonged is known for using a special mental power that allows its members to drive others insane. One of the players, while her character had an aptitude for this power, never wrote down the system and never really read and understood the power, with the result that she’d actually have to ask me during games. This made the deception hard to maintain.

• Does it help the story? Some players want to play a troublesome concept or a unique (or even homebrewed) character because they feel it makes them special. Some just want to hog the spotlight from the other players. In general, if it doesn’t add an interesting and provocative (both, not one or the other) element to the story, veto it. If the player is having trouble creating a character within the boundaries you’ve set, have him/her read the essays on the subject (Breaking the Character Rut and McFarland’s Principle of Powerful Cardboard).

• Is the character otherwise solid? The “otherness” aspect of the character should not be its only defining characteristic. If the character has life and traits beyond the fact that it’s a spy for the Swiss Army, that’s a good sign. If not, chances are the player is just trying to be sneaky or contrary, and that motivation can backfire in a number of ways.

All of this in mind, however, consider every character concept presented to you. Don’t veto someone out of hand just because they wish to play something different. For example, I played in a Vampire game once where the Storyteller did not give us any real restrictions on what kinds of characters to create. I came up with a concept for a vampire who deluded himself into thinking that he was a direct servant of Death itself, rather than just a fledging vampire. Other vampires were a threat to this delusion (since most of them were older and more powerful), so he had a blistering and almost completely subconscious hatred of them. I was planning to play this in increasing intensity, have it come out in small ways, little outbursts…it would have been fun.

Except the Storyteller vetoed it because he wanted the group to work together. Hmmph.

While I understand the need for unity — it’s what stops the game from consisting of six solo games taking place on the same night — I mentioned earlier to not be heavy-handed when trying to create it. If you need the characters to work together and to enjoy each other’s company, then make that clear during character generation. As Storyteller, you are completely within your rights to require that the characters know and even like each other prior to the first session. Understand, though, that groups of characters develop feelings for (and about) each other and that those feelings may go in any number of directions. It is your job to work within this ever-changing morass of group dynamics and create stories that include the characters and challenge the players. As I’ve been saying all along, the key to this is to pay attention to the desires and attitudes of the players and let them guide you in your Storytelling.

*This phrase, which simply refers to characters not having common concerns after months of game play, comes from the Revenge of the Gamer Chick lexicon of gaming terms.

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