Theory: Provide Guidance during Organic Tutorials

As a game designer—and an avid game player as well—I love what I call “organic tutorials:” games that allow players to learn how to play by exploring in a safe space. However, I’ve found that the appeal of this sort of tutorial is not universal; some players find them confusing and frustrating. It’s important, therefore, to inject enough guidance into the organic mold to bring those players up to speed.

Many games use organic tutorials, but the first example I ran into—and, I feel, still one of the best examples period—is the first level of Flower. In Flower the player controls a gust of wind. The goal is to use the wind to collect flower petals. Collecting certain petals makes things happen—say, a wind turbine starts turning. Eventually the player achieves all the goals and moves on to the next level.

The trick is that the game doesn’t explicitly state that the player should collect petals, or that certain petals are special, or that finding all the special flowers causes the player to progress. Players figure those things out through observation and experiment. Even learning to move is a process of exploration: the game gives only brief and fragmentary guidance as to how the controls work.

I played Flower’s first level, which is effectively an extended organic tutorial, and was astonished. No, more than that: I was moved. It was such a pure, marvelous experience. I couldn’t wait to share it with others.

So, I handed the controller to a scientist. This is someone with experience programming supercomputers. Technology is a part of this person’s day-to-day life and work.

The scientist found Flower completely mystifying.

I’ve had that experience several times since, with Flower and with other games that use organic tutorials. The problem in every case is that while the technology is fine—the person is always conversant with the keyboard or controller—the approach an organic tutorial requires is completely alien. Most people have always learned games by getting step-by-step instructions, from a manual or another player or the game itself, before they begin. Dropped into a game without those instructions, their instinct is not to explore. It is to wait.

On reflection, that’s a completely predictable response. I approached Flower with the idea that I was going to see what the game was about. That’s a very game designer way to think about what was happening. People who engage with games in a different way will expect to know what the goals are and what tools are at hand to achieve them before they begin. By not providing those tools, organic tutorials send the signal that it is not yet time to start playing!

To be clear, players who don’t respond positively to organic tutorials are not bad at games. We’ve known for years that different classroom students learn best in different ways. None of those ways are necessarily better, and in the same way no approach to learning games is better. The question is, acknowledging that some players will learn effectively from an organic tutorial and others won’t, how does one get the immersive experience of an organic tutorial without leaving lots of players in the cold?

The key is to give just enough information to put players on the intended course. Even brief, minimal instructions are enough to signal that the player should start doing things. Once the player is over that initial hurdle, learning-through-exploration can kick in.

An excellent recent example can be found in Elegy for a Dead World. Elegy begins with the player floating in space. There’s a star field in the background, but otherwise there’s no clear statement as to what the player should be doing.

If the player likes organic tutorials, he or she might start pushing the arrow keys. Doing that will move the player around, and eventually one of the game’s “portals”—windows to the dead worlds in question—will come into view. Hitting the enter key (a natural enough way to try to interact) will bring up a menu of story options, and off the player goes.

If the player is uncertain how to proceed and waits for a few seconds, a message appears at the bottom of the screen indicating that the arrows or WASD keys can be used to move. Once the player reaches a portal, waiting will generate a prompt that the enter key will open the portal.

That’s all Elegy does, but it’s enough. Players who like exploring can do so without nudges that they might resent. Players who hold off until the instructions have been read will get enough information to proceed. Everyone ends up playing the game.

Good organic tutorials are interesting, get players involved right away, introduce concepts in a measured fashion, and allow players to learn at their own pace. However, they’re not for everyone any more than just studying from a textbook or just doing hands-on projects is best for every student. Teachers know that mixing approaches helps students learn; mixing some instruction into an organic tutorial will have the same effect for players.

Oh, Debugging

I know there are at least a few people with programming experience who read this blog, so I thought I would run something past them.

Earlier I ran into a problem while scripting in C#–the code compiled, but it didn’t produce the in-game effect I expected. (Specifically, an OnTriggerEnter2D method didn’t trigger, even though the code and all in-editor settings appeared to be correct.) I tracked the problem down to a single line, but couldn’t find any issues with that line. Finally, lacking any better ideas, I deleted the line and retyped it, character for character. Just like that, the problem was resolved.

Two questions:

1. What might have caused this issue? I suppose the most likely answer is “there was a typo in the line after all,” and that’s certainly possible–I had been staring at the code for a long time when I finally narrowed the problem down. Are there other possibilities?

2. Normally I want to treat situations where a problem came up and had to be solved as learning experiences. If we never figure out specifically what happened here, what lesson do you think I should take away?

Thief in the Night: Annotated Edition

I feel badly for the little decisions in game design, the ones that edge a game from OK to good, or from good to great. Usually they don’t warrant a blog post or designer diary entry in and of themselves, but they have a significant impact on the final product. There needs to be a format where we can bring these small-but-important design choices to light.

Below is my attempt at creating that format: an annotated version of Thief in the Night’s rules. It includes some behind-the-scenes discussion of how the game came to be and thoughts on why specific rules are the way they are. Here’s hoping you find it enjoyable and informative.

Thief in the Night – 2-20-15 (Annotated)

Thief In the Night

After a few weeks of Unity work, I started to feel like I hadn’t flexed my game design muscles in a while. So I set myself a two-hour deadline to come up with a game.

Here’s the result: Thief in the Night. It’s a simple game for two players that you can set up with stuff lying around. This isn’t a polished product; make any changes you think are good, and let me know what you think!

Recent Innovative Board Games?

Elegy for a Dead World is a fascinating game, one that mixes creative writing with some fundamentals of CRPG play. It’s challenging, not in the game sense of “it’s hard to get to the ending” but in the artistic sense of making one think. By doing something completely different from what most video games do it engaged a part of my brain that I don’t expect video games to interact with.

It also made me reflect on how long it’s been since I played a board game with that kind of power. Over the past year or so I’ve played many excellent board games, but none since Concept have pushed the boundaries of my thinking about how board games work and what they can do.

Are these games out there, and I’ve just missed them? If you have suggestions leave them in the comments, or drop me a line at @lawofgamedesign. The weirder the better!

Lines of Questioning: Update

First and foremost, Jake Thornton is back to posting at Quirkworthy! If you haven’t taken a look at Mr. Thornton’s blog yet, I would urge you to give it a try. It’s a mix of theory posts informed by his decades of experience and behind-the-scenes discussion of his games, all of it fascinating.

With regard to what I’m working on: an excellent Unity meetup led me to a whole new way to build Lines of Questioning’s PC version, one that largely frees rules enforcement from relying on Unity’s physics system. This will put an end to some unpredictable, difficult-to-replicate bugs that arose from fractional irregularities that could crop up in tile positioning.

Figuring out this new approach reminded me of the importance of bouncing one’s ideas off of others. I was dead set on how I was doing things, and was spending a lot of time ironing out my method’s flaws. Talking with the rest of the meetup group got me out of a mindset where I had to bash through the walls in front of me, and showed me that I could sidestep them entirely.

Of course, the first thing that happened was that I ran into an entirely new wall. 😉 That’s all right, though; fresh challenges are always interesting. Time to open a new scene . . . .

Theory: Advice for Writing Rules

One of the best ways to find and resolve weaknesses in a design is to write the rules early–but what should those rules actually look like? Ryan Macklin’s recent post answers that question brilliantly. It inspired me to go back through Lines of Questioning’s rulebook, making sure I used the second person and the active voice.

If you haven’t read it previously, I also recommend Jay Treat’s post on making good rules. It is perhaps more about overall game design than the specific topic of how the sentences in the rulebook should read, but as the comments point out, those two issues overlap a great deal.

For my own part, I would just add that it’s critically important to explain how the game starts. Experienced boardgamers know to begin playing by starting the turn sequence; that’s not necessarily intuitive for those new to the field.

Theory: Drawbacks of Rotating Metagames

A rotating metagame—the situation where every pre-game choice a player might make can be countered by another pre-game choice, so that none of the choices become dominant—is a commonly-cited tool for balancing games with lots of moving parts. However, it is not a panacea. Implementing a rotating metagame creates some new problems, and puts certain pressures on the game’s overall design.

“Rotating metagame” is a term of art, and like all terms of art it might sound opaque. However, it’s simple enough in practice. Think of Magic: the Gathering, with its many cards and decks. Each card has a counter, something that destroys it or negates its effectiveness, and through these individual counters whole decks can be countered. If one card or deck starts to become prominent in the competitive scene, people will play the relevant counters and that card or deck will be taken down a few notches. Then as the counter becomes strong people will start to counter it, and so on and so forth. Through this process tournament play begins to look like a wheel: cards and decks move to the top and then get pushed to the bottom, at which point their counters lose popularity and they start to rise again. Hence, the strategic situation rotates.

A rotating metagame creates game balance in the sense that there is no dominant, unbeatable strategy. However, it is not necessarily desirable for every game, or even for many games. The technique has serious limitations.

First, a rotating metagame offers a good environment, not good individual games. In a rotating metagame one accepts that blowouts can occur when someone is caught on the wrong side of the rotation. When viewed as a whole and over time the tournament scene will look healthy, but the zoomed-in experience of the individual player might be very poor.

This problem is exacerbated by the fact that bad games will be concentrated among new and casual players. Players with little experience or who are less informed about the game are the most likely to be rolled over by rotation’s wheel, because they often will not realize that they need to learn about the current state of the metagame. Deeply committed competitive players, by contrast, will know exactly what they should be playing.

Unfortunately, this distribution puts unfun games in exactly the wrong place. Casual players might quit after an unfun game or two, and new players are especially likely to pass on a game after a single bad experience. These are the groups who should be getting protection from blowouts, but a rotating metagame instead makes them grist for the mill.

A further challenge for rotating metagames is that everything hinges on the ability to rotate. Rotating metagames work when they are in a state of dynamic imbalance; something is always on top, but that something changes frequently. If the changes stop, all that’s left is a game with a dominant strategy.

Ensuring that the wheel of the metagame keeps rotating, then, becomes extremely important—and that imposes several design requirements. First, the resources for rotation must always be available. No strategy can be without its counter, and those counters must appear in a reasonable percentage of players’ toolboxes so that they can do their work.

An interesting example of what happens when this isn’t the case can be found in the NBA. Without getting into the minutiae of basketball’s rules for defensive play, it used to be the case that defenders had to set themselves up against specific offensive players and follow them around the court, rather than staying in “zones” and defending against anyone who came near. As a result, the game began to trend toward a dominant offensive strategy of passing the ball to a single unstoppable player—the gigantic Shaquille O’Neal, the too-quick Allen Iverson, or someone else with an enormous physical advantage—and then having all the other offensive players just get out of the way. Defenders were required to follow the irrelevant players to irrelevant places, and then the hard-to-stop player would beat the lone defender permitted to be anywhere near him and score. Since the resources required to stop the unstoppable player weren’t available—there just aren’t many people Shaquille O’Neal’s size—the game could not rotate away from this lone wolf approach, and basketball strategy began to stagnate. Ultimately the league had to change the rules to allow zone defenses in order to break the deadlock.

Additionally, rotating metagames only work when the barriers to change are relatively low. Shifts in Magic’s metagame are painless because those who are keeping up with tournament play probably have all the cards they need for the change and emotional investment in any given deck is relatively low. By contrast, a game where changing strategies means a massive new investment (e.g., miniatures games where starting a new army involves a great deal of money and time spent at the modeling table) can’t rely on players keeping up with a changing strategic environment. Similarly, games where players have reasons to stick a single deck/army/team through thick and thin will find that the metagame doesn’t rotate. Fans of the Philadelphia Eagles who want to see the Dallas Cowboys defeated can’t transfer their loyalty to another team with a better chance of taking the Cowboys down.

Thus, implementing a rotating metagame means designing and marketing in ways that keep those barriers low. Important counter-cards can’t be at too high a rarity in Magic, even if limited play would benefit thereby, because they have to be broadly available. Team loyalty can’t be too big a part of how the game is sold, lest it stop players from shifting gears when they necessary. Every aspect of the game has to be looked at with an eye toward, not just how it impacts strategy, but whether it could have an ossifying effect on players looking to change strategies.

Finally, rotating metagames are a major design challenge. It isn’t easy to maintain a web of counters and counters-to-counters, all good enough to dethrone a dominant strategy but not so good as to make the countered strategy unplayable. Fine judgment about how strong each strategy is going to be and how effective to make the related counters is vital. Attaining that judgment requires enormous amounts of quality playtest data, which is not always easy to come by.

Given all of these weaknesses, when is a rotating metagame appropriate? The short answer is “when there are too many things happening to balance all of them at once.” Magic has a functionally infinite number of possible decks giving rise to a tremendous wealth of strategies; it’s impossible to arrange for each to have an even game against all of the others, so the rotating metagame serves as a safety valve that gives as many of them as possible a chance to shine. The many benefits Magic gains from its diversity of options outweigh the drawbacks of the rotating metagame they necessitate.

In the end, a rotating metagame is a tool. Like all tools, it places certain demands on its user and can be harmful if employed thoughtlessly or in the wrong situation. Don’t just assume that it’s right for other games because it’s been used successfully in the past; instead, think critically about what it will accomplish, what it will cost, and whether the former is worth the latter.

Project Updates

Lines of Questioning’s PC implementation is coming along well. This week’s work has been split between getting the GUI in place and finalizing the basics of rules enforcement: checking whether tiles connect appropriately to their respective lines, making sure they aren’t stacking atop other tiles of the same type, etc. Of course, nailing down the basics of rules enforcement means that the really complicated parts are yet to come. 😉

In other news, I’ve made a bit of progress on Over the Next Dune’s new look, and have continued trying things out in the Flying Drone Toolkit. There’s nothing to report yet on those fronts, but they’re not forgotten.

I expect to spend at least some time next week building more physical prototypes of Lines of Questioning; devoting lots of time to coding has slowed playtesting considerably, so I’d like to get some more copies in circulation in hopes of speeding things back up. Boardgamegeek’s print-and-play competitions are also in full swing, and I’d like to put something forward for at least one of them. Always, always I need that 25th hour . . . .

Theory: Theme By Doing

One of the most thematic games I’ve ever played is also one of the simplest. Utopia Engine is a print-and-play game that uses a greyscale map, a pencil, and some dice to simulate an artificer trying to rebuild an ancient machine. The game accomplishes that by transmitting, not the mental experience of building a singular work of mechanical brilliance, but the physical experience of fiddling with knobs trying to get the darn thing to work. In doing so it reminds me that a game’s theme can be implemented, not just at an intellectual level, but also through the actions players physically take during the game.

When we think about a game’s thematic power we usually take a bird’s-eye perspective. Is the artwork compelling? Do the mechanics produce the same incentives that a similarly-situated person in the real world would encounter? Are the rules of the real world enforced in a sensible way?

By contrast, we rarely worry about the more grounded issue of what the players are physically doing. If a board game about World War II aerial dogfighting has realistic art for the planes, mechanics that encourage players to use strategies real pilots used, and limits on maneuverability appropriate to the era, it’s a thematic game. We forgive the abstraction wherein players fly by moving pieces on a map rather than using a joystick and throttle.

We shouldn’t assume, however, that the players’ physical actions must necessarily be abstract. To the contrary, getting players to do something that feels like the activity being simulated can be very powerful. It’s like food that both tastes good and smells good; just the former is great, but having both is amazing.

That’s where Utopia Engine comes in.

Utopia Engine is about putting together a half-understood device using scavenged parts and incomplete blueprints. It could have simulated the painstaking work of getting old and weathered pieces of a machine to work, and work together, in many ways: completing sets of cards, perhaps, or drawing specific chips from a cup.

Instead, the game has players roll dice and choose boxes in which to put the results, trying to set up arithmetic equations that produce desired answers. It feels exacting, unpredictable, and even math-y. It feels, in other words, just like we imagine the work of a semi-mystical artificer trying to rebuild an ancient and complex artifact would feel!

Utopia Engine has nice art and sensible mechanics, but it’s the feel that really brings the theme home. Playing the game by taking notes and doing math—the very sorts of things an artificer might do at the workbench—puts the player in the game in a very immediate way. By asking the player to do thematic things, Utopia Engine creates an unusually compelling experience.

Other games have also taken this approach to good effect. In Thebes, a game about excavating archaeological sites, players “dig” by reaching into a bag full of cardboard chits–some representing treasure, others with simple dirt–and pulling one out. Thebes’ designers could have achieved the same technical result by having players draw cards from a deck, but actually digging for the valuable pieces adds immeasurably to the atmosphere.

Board games are not the only type of game that can deploy this approach. Flight simulators, car racing games, and rhythm games all have spawned whole cottage industries devoted to providing specialized controllers that closely mirror real-world equipment. Those controllers are not necessary for good play; one could very well succeed at Rock Band or Guitar Hero using a QWERTY keyboard. Rather, they are popular because flying a video game plane using a joystick, or driving a video game car with a wheel, makes the experience more convincing and real. The special controllers allow the theme to extend beyond the TV screen and into the player’s hands.

There’s nothing wrong a game whose theme works on an entirely intellectual level. My own Lines of Questioning is exactly that sort of game, one where the theme is in the thinking and player’s actions have no real-world parallels. (“Your Honor, I move to . . . play this tile!”) However, it’s worth remembering that theme can also be expressed through what the player does to interact with the game—and that bringing a game’s theme out in that way can be exceptionally powerful. Keep an eye out for opportunities, like Utopia Engine’s die-rolling-as-machine-maintenance and Thebes’ bags of dirt and treasure, to take advantage of that possibility.