This post about first acts continues a discussion of dramatic structure in games. The introductory post in this series is called I, II, III.
In my last post, I targeted my discussion of division into acts pretty specifically to the orbit of acts around a dramatic question. That is, that the first act asks one, the second act answers it, and the third act riffs on it at a greater level of magnitude.
But while working on this post and thinking it through over the course of a couple of different drafts, it’s become clear how problematic it is to cling too tenaciously to the specifics of dramatic structure as it’s done in other media.
That said, relating a three-act structure to the asking/answering/re-mixing of a dramatic question is hella useful in RPGs, both traditional or computer-based. Among games, they’re most like traditional stories. But frankly, it’s only so worthwhile for me to continue bloviating about it, because it’s an obvious point, and because Matt Colville already commented the lion’s share of what needs to be said on the subject.
So I’ve been thinking a lot about how best to put an understanding of the division into three acts to use in card and board games, because that’s where the money is right now (leaving computer games aside), and because those are the formats where there’s the greatest potential for a new understanding of dramatic structure to be a real game-changer (har!) in theory and design.
Unfortunately, the more I think about applying a rigid “dramatic question” approach to dividing board and card games into three acts, the more the whole thing completely falls down.
The chief reason is this: In a card or board game, it’s hard to argue that the chief “dramatic” question being asked is something other than “Who will win?” Smaller chunks of question, taken outside the context of a particular game, always seem, when considered, to be beside the point. Moments of awesomeness and magnificent applications of themey chrome aside, a card or board games is still a contest much more than a story.
So then it becomes tempting to say is that the process of setup is somehow a first act, and that main gameplay is the second act, and that the… um… putting away of the game…?
See? It all falls right to shit.
(Be that as it may, it’s not ridiculous to suggest that setup can be a dramatic and significant element of play, or even that it might constitute a first act in some circumstances. Risk 2210 and company (Godstorm, etc.) are the example that springs most obviously to mind, because there’s significant drama — and huge victory ramifications — in claiming territories during setup in those games. However, even there, setup doesn’t define the nature of the second act struggle, which means that it falls down according to a strict “dramatic question” understanding of the division into acts.)
Ok, so what if scenario determination is somehow a/the feature of a board or card game’s first act. That would be more in keeping with a theoretical understanding whereby the first act defines the scope of the second. In Last Night on Earth, for example, what if no scenario were defined when play began? What if, instead, the hero players had to guess, from the zombie players’ actions, what it was that they needed to do? Or, reverse it: What if the hero players defined their victory condition based on the heroes who were randomly selected, or on the first few items that they found, or on the first few things that happened?
That’s a start, but it’s not the whole solution.
It’s tempting to say that a “first act” for a collectible or customizable game could, at least, exist in the meta-game. In those games, players can and do spend quite a lot of time preparing to play: collecting cards, building decks, painting figures. You can even extend the customization-as-first-act theory as far as the act of car design in my beloved Car Wars.
And to some extent, those activities actually do define the scope of a second act consisting of the play of the game. If I decide to play space marines and you decide to play space orcs — or whatever factions GW is pushing these days (and no doubt individual GW figs run about twenty bucks by now) — the scope of the second act is going to be related to who prevails among marines and orcs.
Allow me one RPG-related blovation, after all, to throw out a first-act GM trick: When running a single-shot RPG (at conventions, and so on), ask the players to introduce their characters to each other by narrating a short scene featuring that character. This creates an impression much more memorable than a recitation of irrelevant physical characteristics.
In the end, though, I think that all of the ideas I’ve come up with so far amount to outs that are too easy, or that just nibble around the edges of what’s possible.
Although I think there needs to be a different understanding of the division between acts in board and card games on one hand, and in RPGs of either type on the other, I also think there’s a great big region to explore in the realm of “act structure + board and card games,” far past analyzing the semi-dramatic structure of such games that as they happen to exist at the moment.
One ripe area lies in considering that perhaps, for board and card games, “act change” = “emotional changing of gears.” Act breaks in board and card games may come down to points in the game where everything changes. “Sure, it seemed earlier like Spike had everything locked up because he deployed three massive warships in Critical Space #3, but when it became clear that the economic game would play a critical role, everything changed.” That’s what I mean by “gear change,” and I’ll definitely be thinking about it a lot more in the future.
I think the lessons that can be applied to game design from story structure are more in terms of pacing and tension than in terms of actual story.
For example, in Blokus, about as storyless a game as I can think of, you can argue that “Act I” is the first few moves; there is no significant interaction yet, because the players start too far apart to truly affect each other. However, they are laying the groundwork for what will come.
At some point, players come into direct contact and start trying to block each other, move through each other, foil each other, etc. Now we’re into “Act II”, the direct confrontation, where we will spend the majority of the game.
And then, at some point, everyone starts realizing that space is at a premium. Suddenly every move counts. Some people will run out of space early, some later. Will someone squeak through to place every piece? The tension is at it’s highest, and we’re into “Act III”.
There’s a beginning, middle, and end, and a very satisfying play experience, without any conventional story at all.
It seems to me, looking at this, that perhaps one should take the approach of defining the three Acts in relation to your interactions with your opponent. Games are, after all, about interactivity, and an what are your fellow players other than your antagonists?
On a separate tack, I note the difference between games with story (Shadows Over Camelot, Betrayal at House on the Hill) versus games without (Blokus, Checkers). The direct applications of story work (or can work) well for the former type. The question is how to (or, indeed, *CAN* you) apply it to the latter.
I think you’re drawing closer to something invaluable near the end of this one, Jeff. Using the three-Act structure as one (of many) analytical tools for a board game is one thing, but trying to make a board-game play experience actually wear the structure seems more trouble than it’s worth. That suit was tailored for someone else — someone with a different number of arms and heads.
I say YOU decide what an Act is in a board game experience, and how many there should be, and why that’s good. Then you tell us.
If the Act structure is dependent on audience reaction (more and more, I’m not sure it is — if an Act change happens and nobody heard it, did it still do whatever?), then let us consider the difference between a film audience and a game audience. A film has one kind of audience: The one that watches the film and hopefully feels what the filmmakers want it to feel.
A board game has, let’s say, for this argument, three: winners, losers, and the folks in between. The Act breaks for a winner are different for those of the loser. In fact, this shines a light on something that bugs me in a lot of CCGs: the point when one person has lost (that is, of course, me) but the game is not yet over. For me, the game is effectively over, but for the winner the sweet exercise of formal victory (the third Act?) is still to be played.
I’m just spitballing here.
It’s kind of an apples and oranges problem, but there is some wiggle-room if you want to say things like “they’re both fruit”.
A movie or theatrical performance has only one story to tell because of the two parties involved, one is active and the other is passive. You can divide the story up lots of ways, but essentially only one side is speaking didactically.
With a game or competition, you have two sides, and they are engaged in a dialectic rather than didactic process, a back-and-forth, and at minimum you’ve got two stories competing against each other, and they can be boiled down to “How I won” and “How I lost”.
Chess and Settlers of Catan are good examples of board games that could be easily divided into three acts. You’ve got three fairly identifiable gameplay phases: Opening, Midgame, and Endgame.
It all starts to fall apart after that, as there are lots of board games and even more card games that don’t fit that structure. Which leads me to believe that maybe only strategy games can be divided into Opening/Midgame/Endgame, and there are enough games outside of that category to give you more than a few migraines.
I think Jeremy and Darrin are right which means I think you’re wrong to give up on the model for games, Jeff.
Virtually every game I can think of breaks down, or can be broken down, into the three act structure.
I’m going to non-randomly pick a random game. Merchant of Venus. Great game.
Act 1: Exploration. The players are exploring the galaxy, trying to figure out where all the races are, what they want, and how to maximize their path of exploration.
During this act, the players aren’t really in direct competition yet, and furthermore they’re not really able to win yet. They’re still learning how this permutation of the game is going to be different than every other game.
I think that’s true of Act One in most games. Players can interact, but rarely is that interaction critical.
Act II: This is where players now understand the specific challenges of this permutation of play, as dictated by board set-up, seating order, etc, and can begin planning and reacting to that. Before this, it’s not really possible to work toward victory. In Bang! for instance, the Outlaw on his own can’t do a whole lot. He’s just trying to suss out the rest of the players. Once he knows who the other Outlaws are, he can begin the process of trying to win. No one can meaningfully be said to be “winning” or “ahead” yet.
Act III: Engineering Victory/Managing Failure. We enter this act once it’s clear to everyone who’s winning, how to win, and which strategies are succeeding. If we’re losing at this point, we can see why and can try to prevent it. The strategies from Act II have been proven for good or ill and now if someone walks by and asks “Who’s winning?” Everyone at the table can answer.
This act may take a long time. In the Dune boardgame you can go through several permutations of Act III and you never really know “Is this going to be the last round, or are we going to start Act III all over again?” from round to round.
And I submit that this doesn’t just mirror a narrative structure, it IS a narrative structure. It’s the story of this playthrough.
Matt, that’s fascinating.
I think it’s especially interesting to suggest that you might get lots of different third acts before the game actually ends. If you diagramed this, it might wind up looking a lot like Will’s gameplay web graphic.
Here’s something else this perspective suggests: That it might be possible to improve your skill at playing board and card game by using this analysis tool as you play, to see how the game will change or is changing in advance of your opponents, and reacting accordingly.
I *certainly* think an understanding of that model helps me as a gamer. In Act One, your job is not to win or even try to win and often doing so is counterproductive. Your job is to figure out what’s going on. In the Starcraft Boardgame, the board is different each time, with each board layout you have to test strength and weakness, see who’s agressing against who.
Then you enact a strategy. Any strategy you had before this was probably useless. “No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” This is the point at which you can legitimately start trying to win.
Then you look and see who’s strategy is paying off, and try to exploit that knowledge to continue to win, or stop losing.
I often watch as one version of Act II plays out in a game and everyone thinks “this is it!” along with all the dramatic tension that entails, only to find out that’s not in and, in fact, the process of going through one permutation of Act III without the game ending has set everyone back to the beginning of Act II and the process plays out again.
In a movie, this would be awful. In a game, it’s *your* story, so you don’t necessarily mind. Unless you’re just “about to lose” over and over. 🙂
I just wanted to point this out to you:
http://www.cbc.ca/arts/media/protagonize.html
Jeff,
To continue the trend of posts requesting that you not give up the three act structure with regard to game design, I thought I’d add the following.
I can’t remember who said it, so I’ll attribute it to Reiner Knizia (he has said a lot of neat things about gaming and he — or Faidutti — is the most likely in my opinion to have said it). “I don’t play games to win. I play them to fulfill the goal of the game, which is usually to win.”
The quote comes from a piece about sportsmanship, but I think it applies to the narrative structure of games as well. In fact, I would posit that those games with solid narrative elements perform better, in the long run, than those who have weaker narrative elements.
Take Candyland vs. Chess. Candyland has a “story” overlay to a traditional track/race game, a completely strategy free one I might add, but the narrative lacks depth because their is no “direct” conflict in the mid-game. The players know they are playing against chance, and not each other. Thus the narrative is which candy man will arrive at the house first with some possible narrative drama if one gets the shortcut or is forced to go back spaces, but such dramatic elements are minimal.
Chess, on the other hand, has the narrative of conflict between the players. It is a “solvable” game, though no one has solved it yet, so it will have limited competitive play in the centuries to come. But it is so complex that all but a few will be far removed from the “solution” thus the narrative element among most players will be strong. The more “amateur” the two players are, the more room for drama (the comeback, the mistake, etc.). Thus the abstract story drives the game.
In SHADOWS OF CAMELOT there is a backstory and the use of the traitor adds a perpetual moment of drama, thus there is always tension in a CAMELOT game. HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL, too, has the traitor element which adds to narrative.
Games like LORD OF THE RINGS and ARKHAM ASYLUM use teamwork vs a goal as the driving force for the narrative. Do you, as a team, win or lose and more importantly “what was your individual role in that failure or success.”