Sometimes a little issue reminds one of a bigger issue. In this case, the little issue is that of the occasional difficulty of interpreting a role-playing game's attributes so I can include them in my List of Attributes by Game. Sometimes the only access I have to a game is its character sheet, which is often available as a free download on the publisher's Web site. This is problematic if the names of the attributes are abbreviated. Normally, they can be understood easily enough. STR is commonly taken to mean Strength, DEX is Dexterity, etc., but some are not quite as obvious. INT, for instance, is usually Intelligence, but it could also mean Intellect or Intuition. In the case of a game such as Aftermath, WT could be Wit or Weight and WL could be Will or Willpower. This is inconvenient for me, but how does it affect those who are curious about role-playing and are researching it themselves?
The big issue, of course, is the traditional barrier to newcomers entering the hobby. I started role-playing in the early 1980s when the role-playing hobby was entering the zenith of its popularity. At that time, there were several factors that made the hobby very attractive to me. First, I was fascinated by the concept of playing a game that was essentially a regulated and cerebral form of my favorite activity as a child: playing make-believe. The second factor that attracted me to role-playing, once I became exposed to it, was its arcane terminology. If one could refer to a creature's AC and HD, or cite a spell's requirements for somatic components, or mention alignment or level, it made one feel clever. I was suddenly no longer just a miserable adolescent misfit, but an enlightened member of a secret brotherhood privy to obscure knowledge. It was satisfying to know a code that was incomprehensible to others.
As much as I initially enjoyed that aspect of the hobby, I must confess that its existence delayed my enjoyment of it. Before I knew what role-playing was, my brother had begged our parents to buy him the Monster Manual because he liked the pictures. For my brother in particular, this book was a dream come true: page after page of illustrations of one exotic creature after another. We could understand most of the descriptions, of course, but the list of statistics beneath each heading was a mystery indeed. I would read them with no comprehension at all of AC: 6 or Treasure Type: D or Damage: 2-12. What on earth? These things mean nothing whatsoever to an ordinary person.
After I had started playing Dungeons & Dragons, I would see articles about Traveller in White Dwarf and puzzle over streams of numbers that accompanied character names, such as 759C6B. Although I consider the hexadecimalization of character attributes interesting now, at the time it was nothing but a deterrent even to investigating the possibility of playing Traveller, especially since it was only available in shrink-wrapped little black books and box sets at the time, thus preventing any elucidation.
For a subculture in search of self-identification and the presentation of an aura of high intellect and obscure knowledge, gamer jargon seemed to serve a purpose. In reality, it further isolated gamers from the mainstream, made them objects of ridicule, made it more difficult to comprehend for newcomers who might wish to learn more about role-playing, and generally served no useful purpose.
I think the new wave of role-playing games ought to embrace an aesthetic and moral principle long promoted by the Fudge role-playing game: Make things easily understandable in plain language. Where jargon cannot be eliminated, minimize it. The emphasis, after all, ought to be role-playing, not drafting legal documents. Deliberate obfuscation in gaming only hinders the hobby.
[Originally posted in Fudgery.net/fudgerylog on 2 October 2007.]
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