Lines of Questioning: Playtesting Change to Lawyer Tiles

Sometimes your game surprises you. When I started testing leaving the lawyer’s tiles on the board in Lines of Questioning, I thought I was fixing some problems while incidentally making the game harder. It increasingly appears, however, that this change is making the game easier instead. To be honest, I’m kind of pleased by that result; it emphasizes just how tricky and interesting game design really is.

Relatively early on in Lines of Questioning’s design, I started treating the lawyer’s tiles differently from the witness’. The witness’ tiles stayed on the board when the witness’ line ended. By contrast, when the lawyer’s line ended the lawyer’s tiles were removed. I liked this for thematic reasons, and also because it created sudden changes in the board state that a savvy player could use to advantage.

Yet, there were two issues with that rule. One I saw coming: the game was more difficult to learn. Players tended to want to the two kinds of tiles, which are similar in many respects, to work the same way in this area as well. Removing one kind of tile but not the other was confusing.

Playtesters confirmed that that was a problem, but they brought a second issue to my attention as well. Seeing tiles disappear just plain felt bad. They felt like their effort had gone to waste.

Since my suspicions about increased difficulty had been confirmed and an additional problem with the rule had been raised, I decided to try testing Lines of Questioning without special treatment for lawyer tiles. They would stay on the board after the lawyer’s lines ended, building up just like the witness’. No more would effort be wasted, and there would be one consistent rule to learn.

Having played Lines of Questioning many times, I thought I knew exactly what this would do to the game’s difficulty. Strategies that revolved around keeping the lawyer’s and witness’ lines separate would get weaker, since the buildup of lawyer tiles would push the lawyer’s line closer to the witness’. Other strategies would be unaffected.

After some testing, however, it appears that I may have been completely wrong. Keeping the lawyer’s and witness’ lines separate is still pretty easy; the board, even at four spaces by four spaces, provides enough real estate to keep the lawyer and witness apart. Using the lines together, on the other hand, has become even easier. The lawyer’s line can be directed into corners with impunity, putting lawyer tiles in place for later with the confidence that they’ll remain even if the lawyer’s line comes to a halt.

The fact that this change isn’t having the effects I expected doesn’t mean it’s bad. It solves the issues it was meant to solve, and might therefore remain in place. I’m just struck by the reminder that game design always has surprises in store.

Theory: Focusing on Characters’ Methods in Superhero Games

I have a full-to-bursting shelf of my favorite comic books: Superman: Peace on Earth, Christopher Priest’s run on Black Panther, some Walt Simonson Thor, several Captain America storylines. My collection of great superhero games is, to my dismay, much smaller. I try new ones out whenever I can, but few make the grade. Most miss the fundamental rule of a great superhero game: simulate, not just what the character does, but how the character does it.

Lots of games simulate what superheroes do. In fact, most of these games don’t even involve superheroes! From classic side-scrolling beat-’em-ups like Streets of Rage to the most recent Mario game, one can readily find protagonists who protect people by punching and throwing fireballs.

Hence, to make a recognizable superhero game one can’t simply focus on what comic book characters do. Instead, one has to bring out a particular character’s methods. Batman and Street Fighter’s Ryu are both martial artists, but Batman is differentiated by his detective work and his reliance on fear and surprise to overcome enemies. Captain America and Paragon Shepard from Mass Effect are both . . . well, paragons, but only Cap fights with a shield while giving inspiring speeches.

Really capturing that superhero feeling, then, requires designers to look to the methods. A Batman game that’s just walking from the left side of the screen to the right while hitting people will feel generic no matter how many references and in-jokes are packed in. By contrast, a Batman game where the player emerges from the shadows to terrify “superstitious and cowardly” villains will drip with Batman flavor.

There are a few superhero games that I feel really bring this out. First, take a look at Captain America and the Avengers, an early-’90s arcade game.

No one could deny that there’s a lot of Avengers-ness packed in there. The player controls Iron Man, who’s helped out by Wasp and Quicksilver, fighting Crossbones and the Red Skull, while the Grim Reaper (in his distinctive Marvel Comics horned helmet) jeers on a screen in the background. After defeating the Red Skull Wonderman arrives in a Quinjet to whisk the player away to safety. There are more Avengers references in less than 10 minutes of play than there are in some issues of the Avengers!

Yet, the gameplay here is completely generic. The first sequence is a classic side-scrolling shooter, with Iron Man in place of Gradius’ space ship. What follows is a beat-’em-up that owes much to classics like Double Dragon.

Compare that with Batman: Arkham Asylum. Arkham Asylum puts its players in Batman’s shoes, and asks them to use Batman’s tools. Players must sneak around gun-toting thugs to take them by surprise, lay traps, and win fistfights with perfectly-timed blocks and counters. At every step players feel like Batman–not because the character is on the screen or his name is heard, but because the player is thinking the way Batman would think and solving problems the way Batman would solve them.

I have a lot of affection for both of these games, but only one scratches the superhero itch. Arkham Asylum says “you are Batman.” It’s just about the closest one can come to being in a comic book.

With Captain America and the Avengers, on the other hand, my affection is born of nostalgia for types of gaming rarely seen since the decline in arcades in the U.S. It reminds me of playing NES games with friends. Its skin-deep superhero-ness just isn’t much of a draw; when I’m looking for a comic book experience I look elsewhere.

There are more superhero games that follow Captain America and the Avengers’ example than there are in Arkham Asylum’s mold–and many of them are a lot of fun. Only those that follow Arkham Asylum in simulating the character’s methods, though, really have a comic book feel. Designers going for that feel should keep its example in mind.

Something Completely Different: Alternate Mana in Magic

I was going to put up a discussion about how Rock Band succeeds in being fun even when the players are losing, but then I saw the #AlternateMana posts on Twitter and got inspired. Changing the way players get mana–the resource required to play cards–in Magic: the Gathering messes with the fundamental building blocks of the game. Pushing that to an extreme could end one up with a game that still has cards and mana costs and timing rules and all the other elements of Magic, but that’s nevertheless a very different experience.

How about some of these:

Mana is acquired by building a house of cards. The different colors of mana each have a different size and shape of card associated with them, which make some combinations easier and some more difficult (e.g., the red cards and the blue cards are shaped such that they’re stable when used separately, but do a poor job of reinforcing each other). Getting more mana requires building the house higher.

Mana is produced by the overall amount of Magic in the area. The more Magic is being played, the more total mana is available. Some cards’ costs can only be paid at large events; PTQs and GPs aren’t just noteworthy because of the players and the prizes, but because they’re big enough to allow Griselbrand Unleashed to hit the table.

Mana is allocated by a group, which may or may not be made up of people playing in the same game. At the start of each turn, players explain what they want to do and what they need to achieve it. The group then divides the mana up according to whose speech impressed them more. (Imagine how different Commander would be if you had to get people to give you mana by explaining why your deck’s gameplan is fun for the whole table.)

Mana comes from real-world locations. Traveling to a new place and playing Magic there permanently gives the player access to that location’s mana. Get more by further “attuning” to that location: sightsee, become proficient in the local language, etc.

Mana is captured in wargame fashion; it comes from spaces on a board, and players gain mana by taking and holding those spaces.

Mana is a flow, represented by flowing water on the table. Players gain mana by using their cards to divert the flow. (Sleeving cards suddenly becomes very important.)

Mana is acquired through a music equalizer, with sound in different ranges generating different kinds of mana. Players get the mana they need by finding (or playing?) a song that quite literally hits the right notes.

Mana is generated by emotion; to get a certain color of mana, a player must find evidence of a specific emotion in the world via news stories. To get more mana, the player needs to get better at searching up information. Bonus mana comes from finding it in other languages, from different countries, etc. The metagame is influenced, not just by the card pool, but also by the state of the real world.

Now I really want to design games that involve building houses of cards and redirecting water. If only there was a 25th hour in the day . . . .

Theory: Rules for a Toddler-Proof Game

Identifying an issue–creating a board game that works even when a toddler messes with the pieces–is just the first step. The next and more difficult phase is finding rules that will guide the work.

Since most board games don’t (and, to be fair, were never meant to) account for the possibility of a two-year-old moving things around, I haven’t come up with many helpful examples to learn from. As a result, this will be a largely theoretical exercise. I’m interested to hear your views on what I’ve come up with, what should be included here that I missed, and on games that I should be thinking about.

Without further ado:

The game must be safe: this is perhaps obvious, but obvious things can be overlooked when they’re not made an explicit part of the process. Any game that’s meant to be resilient when kids interact with it also has to be safe for the kids. “This game is proof against children–because it’s MADE OF LAVA!!!!!” is not OK.

Damage should be irrelevant to the design: very small children play rough; it’s inevitable when they’re still learning fine motor control. Any game designed with the expectation that toddlers will interact with it needs to be able to handle having its components knocked around. This might be accomplished through making the components sturdy enough not to be damaged, or it might involve designing the game to take battered components into account.

Position cannot be required to remain constant: many if not most turn-based games assume that pieces will remain in place from round to round. (How many rulebooks specifically say “don’t pick up your pieces?”) That assumption doesn’t hold when there’s a toddler present. For a game to work while within arm’s reach of a small child, it has to be able to continue after the pieces are jostled.

Every piece is optional: kids are natural collectors; toddlers will gather whatever pieces the adults are playing a board game with so that they can play, too. Since they aren’t actually playing the game (or at least, are playing a different game–“gather these interesting things”), this tends to lead to an ever-growing number of pieces being taken out of circulation. Our hypothetical game therefore can’t rely on its components being available. The rules have to allow the players to keep going with an unpredictable set of the game’s pieces missing.

These rules present some really fascinating challenges. What kind of board game doesn’t need its components? What should the pieces be made of? I won’t be stopping development of Over the Next Dune or Lines of Questioning to work on this, but I’ll be coming back to it from time to time. Problems this interesting shouldn’t be left by the wayside!

Theory: Games for Parents . . . and Their Toddler

I’m accustomed to thinking about game design projects in terms of goals I set for myself: I want to make a game that’s about this, or works like that. As an attorney, though, my “projects”–cases–were driven by the client’s needs rather than what I was interested in. This past weekend I was reminded that that’s a valid approach to game design as well, and I saw some clients that I really want to help out. I want to build a game that works for people with toddlers.

Here are the facts of the case. I visited some friends of many years. They’re board gamers–the engineer and one of the law students from this story, as it happens. In addition, they have a two-year-old.

(Parents who are reading this already see the problem.)

It turns out that playing board games while taking care of a toddler is a challenge. Now, their child is very well-behaved. Two-year-olds, though, can’t resist colorful game pieces–and my friends’ daughter is no exception. They tend to pile up around her as she collects people’s cards and meeples.

This is just about the cutest thing in the world, but it makes playing Galaxy Trucker, or even a party game like Apples to Apples, tricky. Secret information gets revealed and pieces get moved when a toddler is around. The game state is constantly subject to change.

Watching my friends balance letting their child participate against keeping the game going made me realize how badly we need board games that work with new parents rather than against them. The vast majority of board games only function if small children are kept at a distance. That’s fine so far as it goes, but it means that most games can’t reach the table when there’s a toddler in the house. It would be great if we could design more board games that are suitable for play in the presence of small children; games that are interesting for the adults at the table, but that are resilient and can handle the child taking an interest in them.

My first thought, inspired by the cheerful destruction at the table, was a game about cleaning up after a natural disaster, with the child taking the role of the disaster. One of my friends suggested a game centered around a mobile that the child could spin and play with. I still like both of those ideas, but I feel like there’s so much more that could be done here. Kids don’t just whack game pieces; they move them, gather them, and even walk away from the table to play games of their own devising with them. It would be amazing if a game could take advantage of that creativity.

I haven’t had the chance to think too much about this over the week to date, but I think it’s a fascinating topic and I aim to explore it further. You have, as part of your game, a completely unpredictable player who is not subject to any rules. How does that game work?

Theory: Rules for Tile Art

While trying to decide what Lines of Questioning’s tiles should look like, I realized that I was breaking my own cardinal rule: approach questions as though they were legal problems, and solve them using the tools provided by legal analysis. I’m not accustomed to doing that with graphic design issues, but there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work. So, let’s do the background research by looking at some cases–successful tile-laying games–and finding the rules that emerge from them.

Tsuro

Tsuro is a personal favorite of mine, and its path-building gameplay was an inspiration for Lines of Questioning. It’s an elegant design: players put a tile down in front of their pieces, and then move forward along the path they’ve created. Whoever can stay on the board longest, extending her path without running off its edge, wins.

Image from Boardgamegeek
Image from Boardgamegeek

I don’t have an artist’s trained eye, but Tsuro’s tiles strike me as both attractive and functional. The paths are easy to see, but there’s still some color, and the mottled backgrounds lend visual interest. Although the brown color scheme might seem drab in other games, here it feels–at least to me–relaxing. Tsuro bills itself as “beautiful and beautifully simple,” and I think these tiles capture that.

Image from Boardgamegeek
Image from Boardgamegeek

In addition, the tiles mesh well with the board. Their color scheme is consistent with what the board’s doing, but it’s still easy to tell where a tile has been placed.

Carcassonne

A tile-laying classic, Carcassonne is an area-control game in which players create the areas to be controlled on the fly. There’s no board, and the other game pieces (at least when playing without expansions) are simple meeples, so the tiles have to do a lot of heavy lifting. Both the aesthetics and the gameplay ride on them.

Image from Boardgamegeek
Image from Boardgamegeek

Carcassonne’s tiles are more cheerful than Tsuro’s, but they have the same clarity. One is never confused about a road’s path or which sides of the tile are part of a castle. They also have something going on in the background; farmland and castle both have some texture, rather than simply being “green space” and “brown space.”

Everything is also consistent with what one might expect of a medieval city. There are monasteries, walled fortresses, roads, farms. Expansions add things like rivers. At the end of the game, the tableau looks appropriate for the period.

Suburbia

Like Carcassonne, Suburbia has players lay tiles to build a city. Absolutely everything else about the games is completely different. 😉 Nevertheless, some similar principles underlie the design of their tiles.

Image from Boardgamegeek
Image from Boardgamegeek

Both games have thematically appropriate artwork, although in Suburbia’s case this means modern buildings rather than medieval ones. They also share an emphasis on ease of reading during play; Suburbia’s tiles are more complex than Carcassonne’s, but the use of bright colors and easily-recognized icons still allows them to be taken in at a glance. Finally, Suburbia follows Carcassonne’s lead in avoiding dead space on the tiles, filling the center area with art and minimizing the swathes of plain color.

There are many more excellent tile-laying games, but I think the rules are becoming clear. Part of being a good legal researcher is knowing when to stop.

1. A tile’s gameplay implications must be clear. Tsuro, Carcassonne, and Suburbia all put gameplay first in their tiles. There is never any ambiguity about whether this connects to that, or which tiles do what. When tiles are central to the game, as they are in these cases, the tile needs to support the game’s play and foremost.

2. Tile art should connect to the theme of the game. Carcassonne and Suburbia both reinforce their city-building themes with tiles that look like parts of a city. Tsuro’s art is simpler, but appropriate for an abstract.

3. Tiles must be visually interesting. None of the tiles here have plain backgrounds. Whether it’s Carcassonne’s grassy fields, Suburbia’s colorful expanses, or Tsuro’s muted earth, variation and texture are used to keep the entire tile engaging.

4. If the tiles will be played on top of something, their art must mesh attractively with that surface. Tsuro looks as good as it does, not just because it has great tiles (though it does), but because the tiles and the board work together to give the game an appealing overall look.

Applying those rules to Lines of Questioning, it instantly becomes clear that the very simple tiles are out. They’re clear, yes, but they’re athematic and boring to look at. More attractive tiles will benefit the game a great deal. I’ll have some ready for next time.

Theory: Implement Hit Points Thematically

I have a confession to make: I like hit points as a mechanic. They’re quick to explain, easy to understand, tracking them is effortless, and–since there’s generally no negative consequence to losing hit points until they run out–there’s no death spiral as the player gets hit. Hit points even provide an easy way to pace combat; with knowledge of how quickly the player can remove them, designers can give the opponent just enough hit points to make the fight a satisfying length without turning it into a grind. Designers looking for simple, readily tunable combat systems can find hit points to be just what they need.

There is, however, a right way and a wrong way to implement them. Ironically, the Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic series has done both.

Hit points done right: hit points working in tandem with the fiction

Two important things happen in this clip. Keep one eye on the lightsabers, and the other on Juhani’s health bar.

One of the fundamental rules of Star Wars combat, as it’s demonstrated in the films, is that getting cut by a lightsaber is incredibly bad. Just by nicking Darth Vader’s arm, Luke made the Dark Lord of the Sith cry out; whenever someone really got chopped, the fight ended right then and there. Being struck by a lightsaber is devastating.

That creates a problem for game designers trying to fit Star Wars combat into the hit point mold. If any hit from a lightsaber instantly reduces the opponent to zero hit points, fights will be brief and potentially anticlimactic. On the other hand, making lightsaber blows less serious detracts from the game’s immersiveness.

(At this point one might conclude that the solution is “use a combat system not based on hit points.” That would be a reasonable road to go down. Let’s assume, however, that the game’s design is such that the benefits of a hit point system outweigh its flaws.)

KOTOR’s designers escaped their dilemma by making the game’s hit points more about endurance than about health, and then matching the animations to that understanding. Juhani loses hit points in the video as she parries the player’s attacks, but she doesn’t get hit; the player never lands the big chop that every Star Wars fan knows would be instantly fatal. The hit point system is deployed in a way that makes sense within the game’s fiction.

In fact, KOTOR’s designers went beyond merely solving problems with hit points; they used the hit point system enhance the story. Juhani concedes the duel with some hit points left. Since KOTOR players learn early on that zero hit points equals death, stopping the fight before that point clearly signals that this battle has reached an unexpected non-lethal conclusion. The player blinks and has to reorient just like the player’s character has to check his or her lightsaber swing.

This, then, is how hit points are done right. Implemented in accordance with the game’s theme, and used imaginatively to get emotional responses from the player, hit points become a seamless part of KOTOR’s overall Star Wars experience.

Hit points done wrong: a mechanism in a vacuum

Compare the previous clip to this one:

This fight is nothing but big chops, with the occasional tremendous lunge thrown in. Each and every move should instantly fell the opponent . . . but instead the battle goes on and on, the players shrugging off lightsaber blows as though they were hitting each other with foam swords.

Hit points, implemented in this way, are nothing but a technical measure of progress. They add nothing to the immersion; to the contrary, they undermine it by allowing the players to keep fighting long after the rules of the fictional universe would permit. In a role-playing game that’s all about losing oneself in a story, that is a cardinal sin.

Don’t catch yourself on your double-bladed lightsaber

In the end, hit points are like a hammer: useful when employed thoughtfully, damaging when applied incorrectly. When incorporating them into a game, give due consideration to how they can be implemented so that they are both mechanically effective and thematically appropriate. KOTOR proves that it can be done . . . and that it’s important to get it right.

Theory: Using Dice as a Design Tool

As players, we sometimes feel like we’re at the mercy of the dice–but as designers, dice work for us. They make what’s going on under a game’s hood explicit, and in doing so enable us to see and work with the often-obscure probabilities underlying the game experience. When used correctly, dice can let us tune a player’s experience to the Goldilocks standard: not too little of anything, not too much, just right.

The great merit of dice is that they give the designer direct access to the player’s chance of succeeding in doing something. A bullet has pretty good odds of harming a soldier, but only a very small chance of disabling a tank. Bullets fired by a modern rifle are more effective at both of those things than a weapon from the Napoleonic era. Using dice, a designer can reach into a game and set those percentages: if history demonstrates that the odds of a bullet stopping a tank are a little less than 3%, requiring players to roll a 12 on two dice will model historical events accurately. If playtesting then demonstrates that bullets need to stop a tank about 15% of the time or else tanks are too strong, requiring a roll of 7 solves the problem.

Managing the odds of success in this fashion does more than just let designers model armor penetration; it provides a way to establish the feel of a game. When something is more likely to happen, players will naturally trend toward strategies that favor doing it. Conversely, actions that are unlikely to work will be a minor part of the overall experience.

Take Warmachine as an example. In Warmachine attacks are made by rolling two dice, adding an attack stat, and trying to equal or exceed the target’s defense. An average Warmachine soldier has a ranged attack skill of 5, and a defense of 12. Thus, on average dice the soldier will hit her target (ranged attack skill 5 + roll of 7 = defense of 12).

Since the average roll is a hit, Warmachine skews toward offensive play. Players are aggressive because they know attacking is likely to be rewarded. The game as a whole ends up feeling very active; attacks are frequent, models are steadly removed from the table, and the game constantly progresses.

Yet, making aggression good on average wasn’t enough for Warmachine’s designers. They added a mechanism by which players could roll three dice to hit instead of two. With three dice even bad rolls are enough to make contact, which lends the game even more energy; attacking isn’t just favored, it’s much better than hanging back.

Of course, too much offense would be a problem–Goldilocks’ lesson is just as applicable here as it was to heat in soup–and the precision with which dice odds can be manipulated enables Warmachine’s designers to add just the right amount of defense back in. The (arguably) best defensive spell in the game adds 2 to a soldier’s defense. That’s enough to warrant going to the trouble of getting that third die, but not so much as to make hitting impossible.

Imagine what Warmachine would be like if the average defense was 13. Now players generally need an 8 to hit–or, looking at it conversely, the average roll misses. With the best defensive spell defenses push up to 15, which can only be hit with any reliability when using the third die. It’s hard to envision that game being a high-energy affair. More likely it would mimic trench warfare, with players waiting to attack until they had a dominant position.

Going beyond the overall feel of the game, dice can also be used for subtler applications. The average defense is 12, but Warmachine’s important leader figures often have defenses in the 15-16 range. As a result, they’re hard to hit. Players are thus incentivized to push their leaders forward and get them involved in the action, which focuses attention on these thematically important pieces. The designers have used dice math to support the narrative of the game.

Subtler still. Not every soldier can add that third die. The ones that can have a much better chance of hitting a defense of 15 or 16. Hence, the soldiers who can “boost” their to-hit rolls are well-suited to knocking out enemy leaders, while those who can’t are usually sent against line troops or relatively immobile heavy targets. By setting where soldiers’ attacks fall on the probability curve, Warmachine’s designers establish their tactical functions.

Subtler still. Rolling a handful of dice is fun. People tend to like picking up and throwing more of them; it’s exciting to see if a big pile of dice will spike to a huge total, or collapse stupendously. By giving the ability to “boost” to thematically important soldiers, the designers link those soldiers with the excitement of the big pile of dice. That encourages people to play them, further reinforcing the game’s narrative and intended theme.

With all of that said, Warmachine’s approach to dice isn’t appropriate to all games. A game about World War I trench warfare probably should favor defense over offense! The take-away point is that dice, correctly implemented with an understanding of the probabilities involved, enable designers to build and modify games with substantial precision.

It’s often hard to judge exactly what effect an element of a game’s design will have. The beauty of dice is that the effect is right there to see: the probability of success is now X. Rather than fearing the randomness of dice, use the macro-level predictability they offer to shape the game they’re in.

Theory: Concession-Proofing Your Game

Although concessions are inevitable, we don’t have to throw up our hands and accept that some percentage of matches will be ruined. Games can be designed so that both the number of concessions and their impact are minimized. Below are some thoughts on how those objectives might be accomplished.

It’s important to recognize that not every technique I suggest here will fit every game. Sometimes page limits mean a legal brief can’t address every opposing argument; sometimes a game can’t include an elegant solution to the problem of concessions. My goal is not to say that all games must implement mechanisms that make them sturdy against players conceding, but simply to encourage designers to think about the issue and to offer some ideas on the topic to prove that it can–at least sometimes–be addressed.

First, we need to put aside some strategies that definitely won’t work:

Making the game shorter (or longer): Game length has no bearing on whether players concede. People surrender in six-minute games of Hearthstone and in weeks-long games of online Diplomacy. There is no “right” length that will prevent concessions.

Indeed, in my experience there’s no game length that even discourages them. If a player wants to concede, the game’s length can always be used as a justification–no matter what that length is. Players looking to get out of short games can take the view that the opponent(s) didn’t have time to get invested; those trying to escape a long game may feel that the investment they’re being asked to make is unreasonable.

Increasing (or decreasing) the number of players: I’ve seen people quit two-player games, seven-player games, and everything in between. Adding players does not necessarily create moral pressure to stay in the game. If anything, it can decrease the perceived need to keep playing–“there’s a lot going on, the game will still be interesting even if I leave.”

While those strategies don’t work, there are some that can. They can be broadly split into two groups: ways to make concessions less frequent, and ways to make them less impactful when they happen.

Making concessions less frequent:

Include one or more comeback mechanisms: Done right, comeback mechanisms discourage concessions by making players feel like the game is still meaningful. They know that if they make good decisions, they can position themselves for an upset victory. Hence, the game stays interesting and the players stay engaged.

Done wrong, of course, comeback mechanisms make the game feel meaningless from the outset. Be careful not to go too far by making the mechanism too strong. Concessions may be harmful to a game, but the game being just plain terrible is a lot worse.

Obscure the score: If it’s hard to tell who’s winning, players are less likely to feel themselves irrevocably behind and concede. The extreme form of this is games where scores are completely hidden during play, like Small World and Puerto Rico. (To be fair, the scores in these games can usually be determined by keeping running totals–but I’ve never seen anyone bother.) Lack of precise information allows players who think they’re losing to hope that they can close the gap.

It’s also possible to obscure just part of the score. Most often, in my experience, this is done with secret objectives that players reveal at the end of the game. The point swing that results when one player achieves her goal and another doesn’t can allow for come-from-behind wins, the promise of which helps keep everyone involved.

The most extreme form of this is something like Killer Bunnies, where the game’s result is always decided by a final roll of the dice. I’m not sure I would recommend that approach, but it certainly makes it harder to predict the winner!

Give players more capability over time: Even if a player is losing now, he or she might hang around if new powers/better stats/more items/etc. will help turn the tide. League of Legends matches against an all-attack damage team can be brutal . . . until your entire team buys Thornmail, and starts reflecting all that damage back at the opponents. Knowing that team-wide Thornmail is coming makes the heavily-slanted early game more bearable.

This approach is tricky to implement, because if the losers are getting new stuff the leader probably does as well. New capabilities only offer hope to those who have fallen behind if they’re numerically superior to what the leader gets (in which case they’re a comeback mechanism, with all the challenges those entail) or they allow one to progress along a totally different axis from what the leader is doing. Giving both leader and loser a sword doesn’t help, but if the leader gets a sword and the loser gets extra points for holding key scenario locations the loser is apt to be tempted by the possibilities.

End the game at the climactic move: If a game is going to be unwinnable for one player after X condition obtains, stop the game at that point. Forcing players to go through a denouement will be frustrating and will likely produce concessions. Warmachine and Hordes are good examples to follow here: those games are essentially over from a tactical perspective once one player loses his or her leader, so defeating the enemy leader is a victory condition that ends the game on the spot.

Note that this doesn’t mean ending the game unpredictably, or prematurely. “Climactic” includes elements of buildup and drama; there should be time enough for both. The goal with this approach is simply to avoid dragging out the endgame to the point where there’s no game left.

Establish objectives other than winning: This goes back to the idea that “building” games can be satisfying even if one loses. I’ve never seen anyone concede a game of Agricola, even though the game can be long and it would be possible to do so with a minimum of disruption; creating one’s farm is reason enough to keep going. MMOs do a lot of this, too, with professions to improve in, things to collect, and stories to experience even if one can’t beat the raid bosses.

Make each match part of a larger whole: Drawing on the car-racing example from last time, players are more likely to keep going if finishing the game is worth points in an overall competition. There’s a limit to this, of course–players might simply concede the entire event! Nevertheless, the possibility of making up a poor performance today with a better one tomorrow is a strong incentive to keep going and minimize the amount of scrabbling back to be done.

Reducing the impact of concessions:

Make the players independent: It’s not hard to keep Race for the Galaxy going after a concession , because the players don’t (generally) interact directly. The loss of a player takes some cards out of the game, and might occasionally result in a phase not being chosen when it otherwise would have, but that’s about it. Everyone remaining can still play a perfectly good RtFG match.

Unfortunately, it’s easy to take this idea too far. Games that can edit a player out cleanly often fall into the trap of “multiplayer solitaire,” with opponents who are so irrelevant that one may as well not have had them in the first place. Use with caution!

Replace departed players: Substitutions are common in professional sports, and their example suggests that this is a fertile area for tabletop and video games as well. We have seen a little of this in video games, with AIs taking over for disconnected players in online games, and tabletop games may also be able to sub in an AI–or another person–for a player who has to leave. Rather than just leaving the conceded position in Race for the Galaxy alone, why not have the solo-play “bot” from the first expansion take over?

Keep the conceded position in play: There are many games which handle player concessions by removing all of his or her stuff from the game. That can be rough in multiplayer games where preying on a weaker player is a valid way to maintain a lead–or to catch up. If the game involves taking things from other players, try to keep the conceded player’s territories/artifacts/etc. available for the remaining players to grab. If this can be combined with a replacement AI that makes realistic efforts to defend those things, so much the better!

Change the objective: This is the flip-side of creating alternative goals for those who are losing: give the winner who’s now without an opponent something else to aim for. John Doe leaving might deny Jane Doe the full satisfaction of beating him, but the frustration will be lessened if she can still compete for the high score or unlock an achievement.

Offer goals along the way: If all of the game’s satisfaction comes in one big lump with the win, anything that seems to cheapen the win will be a major problem. If, however, there are points of satisfaction before that a concession won’t be so bad. This ties back to the question of how to make losing fun; although the positions are reversed–we’re now talking about the winner–the fundamental issue of “keeping a player engaged without the satisfaction of a big win” is related.

Again, I don’t propose that some or all of these need to be in every game. Nor do I mean to say that this is a comprehensive list of ways to deal with concessions. Rather, I hope that these ideas inspire others to take up conceding as a design issue in their own games, and that the approaches here are useful starting points in that process.