I’ve got this blanket or bedspread from Ikea. I’ve had it for 20 years now, and it’s my favorite one. The other day I found it in the trash, and I yanked it out and washed it. My girlfriend Susan rolls her eyes and tries to understand what the hell is so great about that blanket. The best I could do is it’s like an old shoe. It’s a very familiar thing and has been well-loved.

I find the same thing happens with RPGs. I’ve got some that are full of holes and have loose threads on them. I don’t play them that often, but when I do, it’s like playing that bass guitar I haven’t really picked up in a while, even though it used to be my main axe. It’s like Kraft macaroni and cheese. It might not be the best, but it’s very familiar and comfortable.

There are different character types that I like to play, variations on the same personality or skill set. It feels natural and effortless.

Does familiarity breed contempt in this case? No, I don’t think so, but I will say, from experience, that at least for me, it’s not good to stay stuck there.

There are so many great games out there that it’s a shame not to try a whole bunch, even if they feel very alien. Playing different types of characters has been very rewarding as well. You do those things long enough, and they become familiar themselves.

Right now, I have 15 bass guitars hanging on the wall, and I play them all. Every single one of them feels like coming home.

There are an increasing number of RPGs on my shelf that feel the same way now.

When you play an RPG, how far removed from your character do you feel? Can you identify with them at all, or is the distance between the two of you too great?

Some players prefer that clear boundary and don’t want to identify with the characters at all, and others, like myself, prefer to put themselves in the shoes and mindset of the character as much as possible.

However, how close can we get to inhabiting a character whose personality, mindset, and beliefs lie on the opposite end of the spectrum from our own?

As I said earlier in this series, our friend Scott AKA Disemvowel maintains that there’s always some of you in your character, and I don’t think he’s wrong. How much of you make it in is up for debate.

I like to play characters that are quite distant from who I am as an individual, but I always notice that something, some part of me, creeps in there.

I’ve noticed this with my friends as well. It’s not just their tone of voice or how they tend to role play. There is always something about their characters that feels very much like them, and I find that fascinating.

Perhaps we’re not as far off as we thought.

As my friend Anthony says, RPGs are about making decisions. The characters’ actions, reactions, and interactions with the world are the real essence of play. The game is quite literally an activity shared by a group of humans sitting around the table, except there is one other player…

Usually, but not always, there is some sort of element beyond our control. Traditionally, this takes the shape of dice, but there are lots of other methods.

This is what decides whether a staircase collapses in our Mythos Mythras game. This is what determines if Garibaldi executes a flawless leap and saves the day or simply gets hurt. This is what ruled that Dougal McAllister gets crushed by a giant Venusian dragon rather than returning home with his friends In the Sky Riders of Venus.

Life for our characters is just like life for us. They have desires, goals, objectives, and beliefs, and they interact with a bunch of people in the world that also have their own. However, there are so many other forces beyond anybody’s control. None of us knows what’s going to happen, and that’s what makes RPGs and life so exciting and interesting.

A cracked piece of wood that finally snaps after years of pressure ~ the flap of a butterfly’s wings a continent away that causes the gust of air that makes Mr. Garibaldi to slip at ~ a piece of dust that gets into Dougal’s eye at the wrong moment ~ these little things make all the difference.

Some people eschew the role of fortune in RPGs, wanting more control over the narrative or no chance to interfere with the expectations or image of the character. Fair Enough.

Personally, I embrace the magic that those little pieces of plastic provide. Our characters don’t know that they exist, but they’re certainly aware that life is unpredictable and they’re not in control of everything. From my perspective, that makes fortune very realistic, And dare I say, immersive.

The surface of LV-426 is nothing but grit: lots of it flying in the air. Grit, rocks, air that’s just breathable, and the occasional thing that wants to kill you and probably will. There’s some kind of edible fungus too, but I wouldn’t recommend eating it unless you’re stuck out there for four weeks. As it turns out, that’s exactly what happened.

In our alien campaign run by my friend Anthony, we ended up responding to the distressed signals sent out by the Sulaco and arrived 17 days later. As luck would have it, we ended up stranded on the surface of LV 426. Four weeks traversing the wastelands and finally making it off that desolate rock.

The entire campaign involved quite a bit of grit displayed by the characters as they were placed in what can only be described as horrific situations. Leo Baxter and company did pretty well, all things considered.

Despite all of the combats and scrapes with aliens and moments of danger, the most visceral memory of that campaign is being stuck out there for weeks, matching our grit with the planet’s, and wondering every day which one of us was going to win.

There’s nothing quite like a brown fungus sandwich mixed with tiny grains of grit to take the edge off one’s hunger.

My friend Eloy very often reminds us to listen charitably when we have discussions about RPGs or other subjects. I would implore you to read charitably as I discuss today’s topic.

Very often, we have characters who are charitable in some way, shape, or form. Some of them literally go on quests to save the world, whereas others are simply nice people and will gladly help those in need. Many years ago, I had a character who had an ulterior motive.

One of the most interesting spells in the Lamentations of the Flame Princess game is the first-level spell “summoning”. Without going into all the details, you can essentially summon a horrific entity from beyond into our world and attempt to get it to do your bidding. Your chances are not good if you just cast a spell and try to strike up a conversation. That will predictably end in your death ~ if you are lucky.

However, one can spend a ridiculous amount of money to purchase all sorts of precious materials to stack the odds in your favor, or…you can go the cheap route and sacrifice several creatures when casting the spell. Of course, human sacrifices carry the most weight. The only problem is it still requires a large amount of helpless victims, so where in the world are you gonna get 40 sacrifices, or however many it was that you needed?

I did the math. I knew precisely how many victims I was going to require, and this magic user was not a nice fellow by any stretch of the imagination, so it was very in character as a long-term plan. He did the only thing that made sense.

Outside the money he needed for spellbook and safehouse maintenance, he gave all of the money he made to the local orphanages. The goal was to become a trusted benefactor of these institutions so he could come and go at will without raising any suspicions.

Fortunately or unfortunately, that plan never came to fruition, as he met his untimely death, as characters often do in that game. The world was spared the horror of his machinations, but it just goes to show you sometimes you should look a gift horse in the mouth. You never know what’s in there.

Our characters start with so much promise. Except for Cadmus. Cadmus was dying. Cadmus was Anthony’s character in The Veil RPG, and that was the playbook he chose. If you want to know more about that, you can find it on Casting Shadows blog Or on the YouTube RuneSlinger channel. It’sworth the investigation. I promise.

Some of our characters live up to that promise. Some of them don’t, but usually that promise is just premature imagination because we have no idea what’s really going to happen once play starts.

Some of our characters have promises to keep that they’ve made to themselves or others. In our All for One: Régime Diabolique game, Sebastian’s character Jean-Marie was able to keep his promise to himself and avenge his son’s death.

Speaking of all, for one, I have failed in my promise to keep the game going. It technically is still my turn to run a session for everybody, and it’s been years since I made that promise, so somebody hold me accountable!

That is the neat thing about RPGs: we can put them down for an extended period of time and start them right back up. Having our sessions up on YouTube means that we can actually refresh ourselves on what we already are and what happened, so technically it makes it much easier for me to keep my promise. I should get on that.

we all have things that we want, don’t we? In fact, pretty much everything we do is based upon what we want and, just as important, what we don’t want. Which is the roundabout way of saying that we want that not to happen.

RPGs like Leagues of Cthulhu have formalized motivations that have both role play and mechanical effects. It’s a nice reminder to take some time to figure out what your character is all about.

I’ve played purely reactive characters, and I’ve played characters that had strong motivations, and I vastly prefer the latter.

Now, to be sure, motivations and desires of some sort tend to emerge during play anyhow, but when the character enters play as something other than a blank slate, it makes them feel much more real and much easier to play. You don’t have to guess what they would do. It becomes very instinctive.

So next time you make a character, don’t just determine what they can do. Figure out what the hell it is that they want.

As I confessed earlier, many of my characters are not the most tactful. In fact, you might call them very direct. What’s not to like about that?

I mean, come on, it’s very efficient. I’m not a big fan of subterfuge and wheels within wheels, and most of my characters tend to follow suit.

Does it get them in lots of trouble? Absolutely, but then again, does’t being in trouble make RPGs a lot more fun?

It certainly keeps them interesting.

I’ve seen a lot of intense characters in my day, but I can’t lie. Whenever I see the word intensity, all I can think of is Ted Nugent and the album Intensity In Ten Cities.

Because of that unbidden and unconscious association, I’m reminded that while we can have a lot of fun staying in one location for the entire campaign, I always get a kick out of characters that go see the world.

In our The Sky Is No Limit campaign of Leagues of Adventure, we’ve traveled across the ocean, discovered strange villages of natives, and even recuperated in the city hospital (well, at least Mr. Garibaldi did). Where we left off, we are actually in what might be another world entirely as we search for yet another city.

I think this kind of travel in RPGs has gotten a bad rap in later years. You might say “murder hobo”; I say “world traveler.”

The composure of our character is something that we tend to place a good deal of emphasis on: what are their stats, what are their skills, what are their motivations, their personality? We get a picture of who this person is in our heads, and then all hell breaks loose.

Sure, maybe those stats don’t change, and maybe their skills don’t. Often, a good practice is to have the players of a new system evaluate how their character felt after the first session and change a few things if they really need to, if the composure of their character didn’t line up with the actual activities in terms of their abilities and focus.

However, this carefully crafted idea of who the character is tends not to survive unscathed with actual play. Time and again, I have found that the actual personality of the character emerges without any conscious thought of mine. I had no idea that Terrence McSweeney was going to be such a jerk. I had no idea that Philippe Moreau was going to be such a hopeless romantic.

I’ve had characters hesitate who I thought were brave, and other characters rush headlong into danger in order to protect their friends. I’ve had characters display altruism or cruelty that I didn’t know was in them when I came up with the concept. It’s actually a very cool thing. I find that, regardless of our idea, the composure of our character Isn’t fully complete until play is over, and even then they can always evolve next session if we ever pick the game back up again.