Design Thoughts: Ability Scores

Role-playing games have been many things throughout the years. People spend countless tweets, forum posts, and emails debating what it means to play a role-playing game or not. A common feature of many role-playing games is the presence of some sort of ability scores (or attributes) that define a character. However, every game defines characters in different ways, stressing different features that are important for a particular context and leaving out those that are not. What role attributes or ability scores can serve in a role-playing game is important to the design of RPGs.

Generally, the design approach seems to come from the perspective of attempting to summarize a character's actual attributes in a sort of quasi-realistic manner.Dungeons & Dragons uses the classic six: Strength, Constitution, Dexterity, Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma. GURPS uses only four: Strength, Dexterity, Intelligence, and Health. Savage Worlds uses Agility, Smarts, Spirit, Strength, and Vigor. The Palladium role-playing games (Rifts, Robotech, et al) use a rather arcane set of abbreviations as abillity scores: M.E., M.A., I.Q., Spd., P.B., and so forth. Although the details are different, they all attempt to summarize your character's ... attributes.

Rolling stats, but not with an eight-sided die...

Different games approach the assignment of these attributes differently. Original Dungeons & Dragons made it a random affair, with nothing more than a roll of 3d6 for each ability score. A lot of games, especially later RPGs, began to use point assignment systems to create a certain measure of balance. Even Dungeons & Dragons would eventually use the point buy model for official play, resulting in characters who had a relatively stable range of ability scores. Games like Savage Worlds and GURPS have used a point buy method since their inception in an effort to create balanced characters but also to allow the player to craft the character that they want to play.

Since the announcement of the new Dungeons & Dragons, I have found myself thinking a lot more about what makes for good role-playing games. Granted, this is an almost purely intellectual exercise because so much about role-playing games is subjective to the player. Furthermore, the people you play with can often be more important than the rules themselves. However, since design has become such an important point of discussion, especially with the rise of so many new RPGs and, in the alternative, story gaming, I thought it would be relevant to put my experiences into written form.

Ability Scores as Role-Playing

One important thing that attributes or ability scores do is give you a basis for role-playing a character. This seems most relevant to games such as the original Dungeons & Dragons where you randomly roll ability scores (and, thus, randomly generate a character). Is your character smart or clever? Charming but dumb? Looking to your ability scores can be a great way to determine how you might role-play a character that you are otherwise unfamiliar with.

Now, with that being said, I generally think of a character before I ever sit down to "make a character." I suspect that a lot of people (but not all) do it this way. Although I may try to match ability scores to the idea of the pre-conceived character, I rarely let game mechanics get in the way of what I want to do. Unfortunately, I sometimes find that the mechanics do not always comport with what I want to do with my character, resulting in a certain disconnect between my character and his or her written ability scores. My character may require a high ability score in one area simply for mechanical purposes, but I do not let that interfere with my notion of how the character may act in play. My perfect example of this is the peculiar requirement in AD&D2 that a Paladin have a 17 or higher Charisma score.

Nothing about this screams "Charisma ≥ 17."

Somehow, it was decided at the great TSR game laboratory that Paladins (essentially, holy knights) are charming, beautiful, compelling people and must be so prior to entry into the Fancy Order of Paladins. Yet, I can remember at least one time when my particular notion of a Paladin character, or even an iconic imagining of the role, was anything but that. Where they all just pretty people? Or was it a measure of their force of will? Where they all just very charming? Would turning less pretty get you expelled from the Fancy Order of Paladins? The idea of the extremely unpleasant Paladin seemed completely believable (and even expected, at times) but mechanically impossible in the AD&D2 framework. It felt like the Charisma restriction was just a peculiar way to limit the number of Paladins out there as very few people would roll a 17 or 18 and then choose to stick it in Charisma. To that end, it had nothing to do with role-playing. So, if that's the case, what does it matter whether my Paladin was a handsome and charming warrior or anything but that?

Tracking What is Important

How and what is represented through ability scores is important in that it says something about what is or is not important in the game. Sometimes, the way different games treat different characteristics is fascinating and impacts its relevance in the game. GURPS treats physical appearance and charisma as advantages to be chosen independent of the numerical attributes (similar to how having one eye would be chosen) while Dungeons & Dragons (typically) groups them together as a single ability score (Charisma) that is generated along with the other five ability scores. What a game chooses to represent as an ability score and how that representation is implemented is important.

But is an ability score or a feature? This guy doesn't care.

In thinking about the different handling of Charisma by games like GURPS and Dungeons & Dragons, an important question presents itself. What is essential enough to be represented by ability scored? What is the purpose of representing something as an ability score? Does this specific role-playing game even concern concepts represented by that ability score? Should every game use similar scores or do certain types or styles of game require different ability scores? At the end of the day, what's the point?

As a serious board game player, I actually find that the adventure/role-playing board games are an important thing to look at when thinking about the role-playing game. I am reminded of Flying Frog Games' A Touch Of Evil; The Supernatural Game and Fortune & Glory: The Cliffhanger Game. Both of these games flirt in the "adventure/role-playing" realm. Characters in those games have ability scores that are keyed to things that happen in the game. In A Touch of Evil, a game about fighting horrible monsters in 18th century America, each character has ability scores for Spirit, Cunning, Combat, and Honor. In Fortune and Glory, a pulp adventure game in the style of Indiana Jones, each character has ability scores for Combat, Agility, Cunning, and Lore.

A potential character on a 4"x6" card.

What I liked about the presentation of those games was that you had a character with functional mechanical ability scores that were tailored for the kind of adventures the game was intended for. Never, while playing those games, did I stop and think that there wasn't enough explained or accounted for. Granted, this was a relatively basic adventure-board game, but it definitely got me thinking about what is relevant when designing a ruleset.

Fantasy Flight Games, another noted American board game publisher, produces a number of adventure board games that dip their toe into the realm of role-playing. Games like Descent: Journeys in The Dark or Mansions of Madness present characters with certain ability scores like Marksmanship, Intellect, or Luck that have specific use in the context of the game. What is important with these games is that each ability score has some specific function in the game. You only have a Luck score because it matters. Same with Strength or Marksmanship.

In the end, it seems that ability scores are important for tracking concepts that are important to playing the game. A certain ability score should only be there if it is something that would come up in play and matter to the outcome of events. Sometimes, it may be worthwhile to track certain things in certain different ways because of how important that thing may be or how frequently it will be an issue in play.

Games without Ability Scores

All that being said, not every role-playing game uses ability scores. Spirit of the Century has you generate characters in a most interesting manner that involves creating the pulp novel that character appeared in, determining what other characters were guest stars in that novel, and assigning the character ability at a certain number of relevant skills. The character you are role-playing is defined not by a number of ability scores but instead by a handful of skill assignments, these particular story elements, and a set of ten "aspects" that relate to those story elements. Although it ends up feeling less "gamey" than a game like Dungeons & Dragons, a great deal of thought was still put into how a player's character would interact with the world while being fundamentally distinct from his adventuring peers.

This guy feels no need to track his attributes.
Just bananas and jetpack fuel.

The new Marvel Heroic Roleplay game has a very different notion of what defines characters. Here, iconic heroes are defined not by a series of fixed attributes but by their super powers and a number of iconic characteristics (distinctions). For example, Captain America is defined by his two powers (Super Soldier Program and Vibranium-Alloy Shield), iconic distinctions (Lead By Example, Man Out of Time, and Sentinel of Liberty), and a handful of skill-like specialities reflecting his combat and physical training.

That's right. Captain America does not have a
Strength stat except as it relates to his powers.

In comparison, Iron Man has powers more suited to his character (Powered Armor and Weapons Platform), more identifiably Tony Stark distinctions (Billionaire Playboy, Cutting Edge Tech, and Hardheaded Futurist), and a set of specialities that reflect his expertise in science and business. In addition, every character in the Marvel role-playing game are rated on their ability to function in a group, with a buddy, and on their own. All of these different characteristics and features come together during play, giving the player an opportunity to do things that fall in line with what would be expected of the character.

There are a lot more examples of games that do not use "ability scores" to represent a character. These are only a few examples. What is important to realize is that these games are completely functional role-playing games that accomplish the essential elements of role-playing without requiring the use of ability scores. Thus, despite what generations of Dungeons & Dragons games have taught us, measuring a character's attributes such as strength or intelligence is not necessarily essential to making a good role-playing game.

Potential Perils of Ability Scores

This Dwarf is a Shaman.
Strength is his dump stat.
Couldn't you tell?

Dungeons & Dragons, with its iconic six attributes, has slowly expanded the role of the ability scores over time. By the Third Edition, ability scores that had classicaly been "dump stats" suddenly starting gaining mechanical relevance. By the Fourth Edition, each ability score had relatively equal relevance in the game system, with a variety of classes utilizing previously forgotten scores such as Charisma or Wisdom for basic attacks. A sorcerer or a warlock must have high Charisma to do well with her powers while a Cleric uses Wisdom to do attacks. On its face, this seems like a great idea.

One of the peculiarities that began to happen in these later editions of Dungeons & Dragons is that many players disconnect the ability score from what it actually means. Charisma is less a reflection of how charming, attractive, or willful a character is and instead reflects a Sorcerer's ability to deal damage, a Paladin's ability to empower himself with divine strength, or a Bard's ability to heal. Since the game aspect is so dependent on an arrangement of ability scores in a certain way, players do not look to their ability scores to define who and what the character is and instead focus more on things like race, class, background, and theme to explain the character. The importance of the ability scores seems diminished when you start to look at it this way.

Of course, if the ability scores are just a representation of how effective a character is at his skills or powers and most players will select an arrangement of ability scores that follow a very specific distribution, the question arises: why even use ability scores? Why do we need to track Wisdom or Strength if every Cleric will have 18 or 20 Wisdom and every Fighter 18 or 20 Strength? Maybe it would be more convenient to say that every character has certain fighting abilities based on a more generic Combat ability score, akin to the the Flying Frog board games. Or, perhaps, eliminate them all together. Would it matter that a Fighter is as good at attacking with his sword as the Wizard is at striking with his magic? Do we need to ability scores to help represent that? It is hard to say.

Take Away in the End

When I first sat down to write about ability scores, I really thought that the best solution would be to get rid of them entirely from the role-playing game. After spending time playing through a few different games, I wonder if there is some value in keeping ability scores but either making them more abstract while cutting down the number of concepts represented by ability scores. As a big board gamer, I am excited by the simplicity of a game like Mansions of Madness or A Touch of Evil. As I continue to look over different role-playing games during this time of market upheaval and evolution, I will continue to think about what kind of ability score system, if any, would be best to properly describe the kinds of games I would want to play.

The Elements of a Classy RPG: Rifts

This post is part of a series concerning Class within the context of Role-Playing Games.  For an introduction to the series, see The Elements of a Classy RPG: Introduction.

Although it is not any sort of proper order at all, I want to start with the class system used in the Palladium system.  Palladium Books published a number of different role-playing games, including Heroes Unlimited, Rifts, Ninjas & Superspies, Beyond the Supernatural, After the Bomb, and Palladium Fantasy.  They also had licensed titles such as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Robotech.  All of them used the same (or similar) game mechanics.  Most of the games used a class system, referring to a character’s class as O.C.C., or Occupational Character Class.  In addition, some games utilized classes based on race instead of occupation, known as R.C.C., or Racial Character Class.  [A few games also utilized P.C.C., or Psychic Character Class, but that designation did not survive to Rifts.]  Eventually, all of this would come together within the Rifts setting, bringing the Palladium Megaverse together in a grim future.  Thus, I want to look at the system as it appeared in Rifts (and its many supplements) in order to get a sense of what the O.C.C. system entailed.

The Juicer, the result of
Nancy Reagan's failure.

The Rifts core rulebook had a wide variety of classes for players to choose from:  Rogue Scholar.  Wilderness Scout.  Cyber Knight.  Crazy.  You chose your class at character creation and that defined the character in mechanics, concept, and story.  It defined what kind of skills your character had, what kind of special features she might have, what kind of money and equipment she would start with, and how she advanced through play.  It also said a lot about where your character came from, how she got her start, and something about her place in the universe.  In a way, the Palladium O.C.C. or R.C.C. defined almost everything about your character (outside of race).  There were not a lot of details to change within any O.C.C. and once you chose it, your character was generally stuck with it.  Occasionally, a character class would allow for a type of major change or “out” from the confines of the class, but such a thing was mechanically rare (i.e., the Juicer O.C.C., a warrior hooked up to a sophisticated drug injection system, could try to break her addiction to the drug treatment, which would result in a longer life span but substantially fewer abilities, leading to a less functional character class).  However, with few exceptions, this type of transition was never explicitly presented within the ruleset.  A player who wanted his or her character to undergo a fundamental life change would likely have to discuss it with the Game Master.

Perhaps "Adventurer" or "Wanderer" would have
sounded more heroic than "Vagabond."

The interesting thing about the Palladium system was that there were a huge number of O.C.C. and R.C.C. choices available.  I even remember seeing Rifts sourcebooks advertising the number and variety of new O.C.C. selections available.  Consider a look at this purported class master list.  On it, you can find Bandit Highwayman, Bandit (Peasant Thug), Reaver Bandit/Raider, Bandit/Pecos Raider, and Vanguard Brawler Thug (a R.C.C.).  Although covering all sorts of Bandits and Thugs, I failed to mention thieves, represented by Gypsy Thief, Gypsy Wizard Thief, and Professional Thief.  In the Palladium universe, there was something different enough about these different types of characters to warrant different classes individual advancement tables and rules.  Sometimes, you would even find an O.C.C. that felt like it was there simply as a joke.  The Vagabond O.C.C., from the Rifts core rulebook, fits an important niche within the greater Rifts universe (that is, everybody who is not something fancy and special) but feels mechanically like half of a class, with less skills, equipment, and abilities than any other class in the book.

The Coalition: Better than you
simply because of the name.

Just by looking over the class system of the Palladium role-playing system, it seems obvious that class is less about mechanical features and more about filling a specified character concept within the greater universe.  It was less the game mechanics that mattered but the place within the overall world that mattered.  In Rifts, it was not enough to have a soldier of the sinister Coalition as a class in the game; the game had some six or seven in the base rulebook alone.  How a Borg differed from a Coalition Borg, or a Psi-Stalker differed from a Coalition Psi-Stalker, was obviously sufficient to warrant individual classes: one was a member of the Coalition military while the other was not.  Granted, there may be particular mechanical differences between the classes, but the fundamental difference rested in its origin.

No, as it ends up, Glitter Boys do
not have special parades every year.

The distinctions between classes sometimes feel almost cheap.  A Glitter Boy O.C.C. has but one identifying feature: it starts with a giant “pre-war” suit of power armor (called a Glitter Boy).  The power armor is its primary class feature.  A Coalition Grunt is not especially different than any other type of bounty hunter, grunt, or mercenary, but the Coalition Grunt is a unique O.C.C. because it represents a character who is (or once was) a member of the Coalition and retains his or her specialized body armor.  Since the classes were so specific in theme and representation, hundreds were available to fill each unique background, story, or character concept.

Considering all of this, Palladium represents a sort of extreme within the RPG system.  Hundreds of classes, each representing a specified niche within the universe.  To make a Coalition Grunt and then insist he was something other than a grunt of the all-mighty Coalition seemed to be missing the point.  You picked Coalition Grunt because your character was a basic soldier within the Coalition military (or, was recently such a soldier).  Although Rifts, like any RPG, promoted the use of your imagination, your character would generally fit within one of the pre-made character molds presented by the creators.  This somewhat unique class system presented a peculiar economic possibility because it allowed the creators to continue to publish new sourcebooks with new classes.  However, as the number of classes continued to soar, the distinctions between classes seemed to decline.  The proliferation of classes ended with very few being especially unique or interesting outside of the role it played within the greater Rifts narrative.

Rogue Scholar: Clearly these books
are full of old beer recipes.

All that being said, the Rifts system was interesting in that it gave you, as a player, a character to play.  It had a sort of “pick-up-and-play” aspect to it.  Pick a Rogue Scientist?  Well, you had a pretty good idea that you were a trained scientist, potentially on the run from the Coalition.  You likely had discovered or created something that the Coalition wanted or you were attempting to devise some technology that would work against the Coalition’s interests.  Rather than ask yourself how your character came to be in the world, Kevin Siembieda provided it in your character’s class description.  This is great for a first time player, but I feel that most players want a little bit more in the production of a character than merely slotting into a pre-existing archetype like Rifts provided.

I suspect very few people are interested in playing a game with a class system as presented in Rifts.  What it accomplishes in providing a character fixed into the greater story has been easily accomplished by other games, both more simply and more effectively.  Instead, the Rifts system ends up becoming nothing more than a horrifying example of bloat within the role-playing world, where the basic ideas of role-playing are pushed aside to get more books on the shelf.  Its few strengths are readily outmatched by the absurdity of its weakness, making a framework few should attempt to emulate.