Talk Shop

D&D last night was hilarious, as usual. We’re playing through the Red Hand of Doom adventure Wizards of the Coast published a couple of years ago. It’s a satisfyingly thorough module by Rich Baker and James Jacobs, skilled pros both, doing an uncommonly good job of adventure writing, a task so difficult and arcane and niche, I think it can probably only be done out of love, like building a ship in a bottle.

Despite all this craftsmanship, the players spent probably the first 90 minutes of the session walking their characters around town, visiting different merchants, selling stuff they found, or trading up for better stuff.

A dwarf smith, a human cleric, a halfling wizard. In every case, I put on a different funny voice and acted like the halfling or smith or town official. Ninety minutes of this. Every player taking his turn talking to the same person (me), saying things like, “Will you lower the price if I throw in a second masterwork scimitar?”

They asked with a post-modern, self-conscious veneer, but underneath it, barely hidden, was a genuine desire to get a pretend magic sword for 300 pretend gold pieces cheaper.

Later that night, it seemed faintly ridiculous—it’s just my friends talking to me in a funny voice. (My wife readily agreed.)

But it was still hella fun. It still held the attention of a room full of savvy entertainment consumers for much longer than I would have bet money on.

When I worked at Wizards, I was playing with a group of friends once, and was derided for trying to talk through a haggling session with the DM playing a merchant. Not the friendly razzing you get sometimes for inadvertent failure, but an angry, passive-aggressive disdain for wasting time dickering for 1 or 2 gold pieces, which only one person can do at a time, and which does not involve any actual “adventuring.”

“This is boring and slows down the game. That’s why we didn’t write rules for that,” was the message. It might even be a direct quote.

That was a bunch of years ago, and everyone is probably wiser. I, specifically, am wiser because I’ve learned that talking to your friend who’s adopted a funny voice, trying to tease out knowledge of an item that makes your character a little better, or saves you a few gold pieces, is the game just as much as trying to kill a hydra in a swamp. In console game terminology, it would be called a mini-game. Not a major part of the experience, certainly not the reason you drive half an hour out of your way. But it is clear fun, and as a designer, you succeed when you remember to account for this way of having fun.

I wonder if the pros remember that? I wonder if some of them have ever really known it? Rich and James provided for it, by taking the time to craft one-adjective personalities and one-sentence back stories for a dozen townsfolk. The players did not spend 90 minutes in town despite craftsmanship, but because of it.

Reviewing the material beforehand, I thought it was a designers' conceit, an extravagant use of creative resources. After last night I’ve decided it’s actually part of the job done well.