The Right To Roll

You play poker by placing bets and assembling a hand. You play Monopoly by rolling dice, moving around the board, buying property, and collecting rent. You play a videogame by pressing buttons in certain sequences at the right moments.

This might be called the "interface", the way in which your actions as a player are translated into actions in the game.

RPGs have two main interfaces in general: the dice, and your own decisions. These are the two ways to determine what happens in the world: either you decide something happens, or you roll to see if it happens. Some RPG’s favor the rolling, some RPG’s favor the deciding, but most contain at least a bit of both in some measure.

Where a game decides to employ these two points of interface can have a massive effect on how well the game meets the goals the players have for it. It boils down to a core psychological concept: the idea of control.

Inalienable Liberty

Broadly speaking, we’ve all got free will. Except for the strict determinists in the audience, this should be fairly obvious. If you played D&D last weekend, it wasn’t me who made you do it. It also wasn’t anyone else. Even if someone was standing next to you with a gun to your head forcing you pretend to be a mightily-thewed barbarian, you still have a choice in that scenario (you can choose to get shot, at least).

That doesn’t mean the outside world exerts no force, of course. The fun you have playing D&D, your lack of other activities, the fact that you don’t want to get shot…all of these influence the decision you make. They provide context. The decision, however, cannot be anyone else’s. You must make the choice to play or not, and all the rest of the world can do is try to influence that choice.

This is, in part, is what is meant when the US Constitution declares that Liberty is an “inalienable” right, given to us upon our creation. You can’t separate a person from their ability to make a choice: having that free will is part of what defines us as people. Without it, we are mere automatons. Even in prison, in shackles, a person can make a choice about their actions. Indeed, robbing a person of that ability is considered one of the hallmarks of villainy, no better than murder and in some ways decidedly worse. Even if the person is alive, you’ve destroyed what makes them a person: their ability to make their own choices.

It's an assumption grounded in philosophical observation: we as players have free will.

Presumably, our characters do as well. They are meant to be characters, not automatons, not props, so as people (imaginary people), they also have this inalienable liberty. So when your barbarian chopped up that goblin in last night’s game, it was because your barbarian, as a character, chose to do that. You as the barbarian’s player also chose to have your character do that. Your choice in this instance was the same as the barbarian’s choice. We say then that you made an in-character choice: a choice you made as a player that was also a choice your character made. Your decision reinforced the character of the barbarian as a dude who hacks up goblins.

Making in-character decisions is the root of playing a role. It is first interface of RPG’s: decision-making.

I A Perfect Body, I Want A Perfect Soul

When we make decisions in-character, we have intimate control over our characters. We also make out-of-character decisions about our characters on a regular basis. For instance, your character last weekend may have been a barbarian. If you were playing 3e or 4e, that was probably a choice very made out-of-character: you intentionally created that character with that class. Your barbarian didn’t make the choice during play to become a barbarian, you didn’t make an in-character decision, you opted to apply the barbarian class to the character purely as a player. You opted to give them the stats and race and class they have.

You can create a barbarian in-character, of course. But if you’re trying to do this with in-character decision making, you’ll run up against some things that make no sense that the game still requires. People don’t generally determine how strong or intelligent they are, nor do they determine what species they belong to. You didn’t choose to be human, and you didn’t choose to have allergies, either. You may have decided to work out or study hard, but even then, you know things outside of your control influence it. Having ADHD might not make you dumb, but it can make it harder to be certain kinds of book smart, and there’s not a very big chance of you becoming the next rock star theoretical physicist with it. Your character is going to need stats, a race, a class, things that your character probably didn't choose for herself.

We run up against the first limit of that first interface here: there are things that a character cannot control that a player can. This experience of making out-of-character choices about your character rather than in-character choices as your character is something we’re going to call “dissociation:” doing things as a player that aren’t associated with the actions of your character.

Because most people aren’t fundamentalists, most gameplay is going to involve some dissociation. The level of dissociation of a given game, or even a given table, can vary. If you play 1e D&D, your character creation is less dissociated than if you play 3e (though there is still dissociation in 1e: you choose your race, and you choose your class from among those that you qualify for). It’s possible, though, to play 1e as more dissociated (choose your class from ANY class!), or 3e as less dissociated (ability requirements for classes!). The more often a player makes out-of-character choices, the more dissociation occurs in that player’s game.

I’ve talked about how “actor” and “director” perspectives can change the way a game is played, and these correspond roughly to a level of tolerance for dissociation: “actors” want to make their decisions in-character wherever possible, and “directors” have a higher tolerance for dissociated decision-making (and thus they employ it more often when it is a useful tool). This also features into a player’s emotional goals for the game: players interested in experiencing their character’s emotions are going to want fewer dissociated mechanics, and players interested in achieving a particular emotional response are going to be more tolerant of them as a method to get at that response. Again, the importance of both is reinforced: RPGs need gamemasters, so someone is going to have to be at least marginally more director-focused than actor-focused.

Now that we’ve introduced dissociated decision making, we have a game not unlike Amber Diceless, a game that is played entirely by making decisions. In that game, you build your core character stats with an auction between the players. Clearly, this is dissociated: a character in Amber with a higher Endurance hasn’t actually bid against other characters to become the toughest, but the player has.

You can clearly run a perfectly entertaining game with only those two types of decision-making as the interface. RPGs generally add one more interface, though. If in-character decision-making is the role-playing of an RPG, then rolling dice is the game of an RPG.

Roll Your Own

So there are points at which that our characters and our players can make a choice, and points at which only the players make choices, but in either case, there is the option of replacing a choice with a random roll, if you want. Frequently enough, we want.

All dice rolling may seem rather inherently dissociated (your character never rolls dice), but the truth is that it can also be intimately tethered to an in-character action, with the dice performing the role of “all external factors not already taken into account.” The dice can be seen rather than as a simple game mechanic, as a way of simplifying and representing the chaos of any given action. The dice, then, have a role to play in in-character action, too: they are the element of chance, the chaos in life, and the unpredictability of the moment. While none of us choose the species of our birth, we can represent this lack of choice by abdicating the decision to the dice, preserving our “actor” perspective and our sense of in-character action without violation. We as a player might roll some dice, but this isn’t so different from simply determining which of the already-existing potential characters our character may be. In areas where our characters cannot simply make choices, we roll dice to represent that loss of control.

All of this ties into an important issue regarding player freedom. If your perspective is that of an “actor,” then a roll of the dice represents something that your character has no direct control over. But, if your perspective is that of a “director,” the roll of the dice can represent much, much more.

With that in mind, we’re going to take a close look at one particular point of controversy in the D&D game: the 4e version of fireball. We’re going to unpack one of the ways in which it is controversial, one of the ways in which it splits the player base, and we’ll see how this thought process plays out at the table.

Ball of Fire, or Disco Inferno?

So, aside from its “cube” shape and fairly mediocre damage, fireball has not been one of the poster children for what 4e does differently than other e’s. The issue we’re looking at here is not its damage or its conformity to the grid, but rather how the decision gets made as to who gets hit and who doesn’t.

Ultimately, the effects of a 4e fireball and any other e’s fireball are fairly similar. There’s an explosion of fire, and some critters get burned. Depending on your e and your DM, maybe some objects in the area get burned, too. Agile creatures can avoid getting burned marginally better than others.

However, at the table, the process of using a fireball on a group of PC’s looks very different. In 4e, when a player has a character cast fireball, that player rolls the dice to see who is affected. In previous e's, when a player has a character cast fireball, the players of the affected characters roll the dice to see if their characters are affected.

It’s on this little difference that the notion of independent action can hang.

See, for those with an immersive “actor” perspective, it’s obvious that their characters would try to avoid the damage, and so they would make an in-character decision to dodge the damage. But in having the active character roll all the dice, 4e removes that decision point. Instead, the attacker’s attack roll dictates if the characters in the area dodge the fireball or not, and that puts everyone in the area of a fireball rather automatically into "director" perspective.

4e’s logic in this seems to be that attackers should always roll to hit against a defender’s static defenses. There’s probably reasons for that logic (perhaps “elegance?”), but, because of it's dissociation, it's clearly not an in-character reason. From the perspective of an “actor” playing a target of that spell, they were just told they dodged an effect. They didn’t make the decision, they didn’t roll any dice, but their character avoided the effect all the same. This is suddenly a violation of that in-character perspective: the player who shot the fireball determined if you dodged. Someone else dictated your actions. It doesn't feel like you dodged, as a player. It feels like the spellcaster missed.

Someone with a higher tolerance for dissociation might not care, and might even consider it better because of the other things it brings to the table (perhaps "elegance?"). However, someone with a low tolerance for dissociation, who seeks their fun via their character, with an "actor" perspective, will have at least a minor problem with that. It might not ruin the night, or the game, but it's not a desirable effect: it's not getting at the goals that this player has for their night of gaming.

The 4e fireball feels, from an actor perspective, more like a barrage of individual flames, aimed at targets, that the caster is firing, rather than a single explosion that simply fills the room that the defenders must avoid. Less of a single ball of fire, and more of a fiery laser show.

The fix is mathematically and thematically fairly insignificant: simply change the 4e attack roll to a static number, turn the 4e static defense into a bonus, and you have, essentially, the 3e saving throw system back, so that potential victims of the spell can actively avoid the ball of fire.

This change seems minor to those who don't experience the problem, but that's often the case in game design. Game design is probably 90% psychology. Even if it doesn’t look like anything has really changed, that little fix (perhaps applied system-wide to area effects) could make a huge difference in the acceptance and feel of the game in play for many players. Simply swapping the die roll from the attacker to the defender makes the effect feel more like it's a ball of fire that the defenders are dodging, rather than a series of heat rays that the caster is targeting.

Clearly, this extends out to other effects (such as forced movement) and interfaces with a few other topics, which we will no doubt discuss at some future point. For now, I’m mostly interested in how you feel about when you want to make dice rolls: when you roll the dice, is there some intention or action associated with that chaos? Or are dice for you entirely abstract, entirely in the realm of dissocaited meta-game? In other words, does it matter to you if someone else rolls to determine if you dodge an attack, or would you like your "active" defenses to be something that you roll? Let me know in the comments!
 

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billd91 said:
The attacker is trying to put the grenade in a particular location and can miss

I wonder if that changes with the fluff of a typical fireball. I mean, the spell fills the area the caster intends it to fill, every time. That's part of the spell that is consistent across every edition. If that is the case, then the caster simply dictates that an effect occurs, and it's up to the defenders to doge.

If that's not the case -- if magic can be mis-aimed, like a grenade -- then it might be more immersive to have the opposed rolls, again. The attacker tries to hit a particular spot, and can miss.

At any rate, it clearly is something that's going to vary with the intended fluff.

Which just goes to show that it's a deep actor-perspective kind of thing: it matters who rolls the dice, because it shows who is at risk of failing their attempt.
 

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I wonder if that changes with the fluff of a typical fireball. I mean, the spell fills the area the caster intends it to fill, every time. That's part of the spell that is consistent across every edition.

This isn't actually so. In 2e it fills a set volume - which isn't always the area the caster intends to fill (notably if you're dropping a fireball in a tunnel complex). In 3e (or at least 3.5) the effect is a spread, which means the effects round corners are ... odd for an instantaneous effect especially as it can break through some cover without reducing its area. In 4e it's a burst meaning cover works against it. In all three editions mentioned it doesn't always quite do what the caster intended. That might be pedantic (I don't think so but you may see it as such) but the next point really isn't.

The very fact the save is made on reflex demonstrates that the fireball is patchy and full of eddies. Someone can literally be standing next to the epicentre of the fireball and save without leaving the area of effect. How are they doing it? Aligning their body to be edge on to the fireball and behind a shield? That's attack vs defence stuff. Inherent magical protection? Again attack vs defence.

In pre-3e this wasn't such a problem - with one minute combat rounds and no mechanism offered for the save, it could be setting up minor magical wards quite happily. And this was underlined by the defence difficulty being flat. In 3e this, of course, changed. The caster's stat and feats mattered and the mechanism became explicit (reflex rather than save vs spell). Caster skill matters independently of how powerful the fireball is. Which means the caster is doing something more than simple grid-placement.

Which just goes to show that it's a deep actor-perspective kind of thing: it matters who rolls the dice, because it shows who is at risk of failing their attempt.

Except that if it's deep actor, and has an instantaneous effect (as it literally does in 3.X) reflexes shouldn't matter. Positioning should. "Can I read where they are about to be well enough to put the fireball in exactly the right place?"

That said, the fact a pit trap in 4e rolls an attack against reflex is weird. So even I have the odd tick here.
 

Which is why I've always had a problem with dodging fireball damage. At least, when using minis on a grid. In order to actually dodge the thing enough to lessen the damage (by half) the character has to move out of its area of effect. But they don't. So the whole point is moot as far as I'm concerned.

So don't assume the fireball literally fills every inch of its space. Picture it more like a firework.
Now you can imagine somebody dodging, but a skilled caster makes it more difficult to do so.
 

So don't assume the fireball literally fills every inch of its space. Picture it more like a firework.
Now you can imagine somebody dodging, but a skilled caster makes it more difficult to do so.

Could that skill on the caster's part be construed as an aimed attack?
 

Sure. I see both the attacker and the defender as doing something, so I don't necessarily think either one doing the rolling is any better than the other.
I prefer DnD 4E's or Mutants & Masterminds' methods of attacks just because it's more uniform (although, MnM can actually use a different rule for area attacks :hmm:).

Tell a new player how attacking works in DnD 3.5. Either you explain how the thing that is actually called an "attack" in game terms works, or you describe a whole list of ways to attack.
If you're using a weapon, you make a roll that represents your ability to hit and compare that to a static number that represents your foe's ability to avoid being hit. If you're using a spell or other special ability, you might do that. Or you might do that with different numbers--caster level check vs spell resistance. Or maybe the foe will make a roll representing her ability to avoid being hit and compare that to a static number that represents your ability to hit. Or all three. Or something else. Or none of them. It depends on the specific attack, you'll have to look it up to see how it works.
It's not difficult one you're used to it, but I think it's more complex than it needs to be without actually adding much of anything.
But I do get the OP's point about wanting to be the roller, even if it doesn't make much difference.
 

See, for those with an immersive “actor” perspective, it’s obvious that their characters would try to avoid the damage, and so they would make an in-character decision to dodge the damage. But in having the active character roll all the dice, 4e removes that decision point. Instead, the attacker’s attack roll dictates if the characters in the area dodge the fireball or not, and that puts everyone in the area of a fireball rather automatically into "director" perspective.

I guess it follows that, if someone tries to stab you with a sword, because they are making the attack roll you can't choose to dodge or parry it - you must, because they are making the attack roll and you're not rolling to dodge or parry. Which reminds me of Bard's Tale 2, but anyway...

I agree with the general thrust - the player making the roll feels more engaged in the fiction. I always felt so in Palladium when I was making Dodge and Parry rolls.
 

Right. A weapon attack. That is, an attack that is aimed at the defender. That's when the attacker gets to roll.

But a fireball isn't aimed, it's just filling a space with fire. There's no real component of accuracy in the event as it happens in the world. Explosions don't miss! :)

To me here there are two points. The "associated" one (to use what I think is your terminology) is "agency". If there's only one roll for an interaction between two beings, which one is acting and which one is reacting seems to be the key. If I apply that distinction to determine which of the two gets to roll, it would seem that while the one dodging does have a choice (sit there and take it), really what they are doing is reacting reflexively (pun half intended), not taking a conscious choice. Mechanically, the skill/abilites of the caster (in 3.x or 4e) has an impact on if it hits, so the caster isn't a passive component. Again, if there is but a single roll, it seems that it needs to go to the one acting - the caster of the fireball.

The second point is consistency. Good game mechanics get out of the way and let your in-character choices occur based on in-character logic. However, mechanics that are overly cumbersome or do not follow in-game logic require a "disassociative" decision. Having a common rule that an attacker always has the agency and rolls the attacks keeps things moving as well as avoiding needing to switch in-player between different rules types when attacking (weapon or magic) or defending (magic or weapon).
 

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