James Wallis levels with you

A fistful of updates

It has been pointed out to me that I’ve not followed up on a number of posts from earlier this year. So here’s what happened:

  • The 2013 Diana Jones Award, which I wrote about here, was won by Tabletop and Wil Wheaton. You can see Matt Forbeck’s presentation and Wil’s acceptance speech on Youtube here.
  • The CricketJam meetup, proposed here, was sparsely attended but was a fantastic day out. The match’s sponsors Davidstow had organised a village fete with various traditional English games and so I had the pleasure of demonstrating to games-people what a nasty, vicious game croquet really is. Drinks were drunk, talks were tunk, and Cleator CC from Cumbria beat Rockhampton CC of Gloucestershire in a fantastic nail-biter of a battle that went right down to the last wicket and the final few balls. Congratulations to both teams for a splendid match and some of the most entertaining cricket of the summer. There will be another CricketJam next year, and you would be a fool not to attend.
  • I have still not finished writing Alas Vegas.


The People’s Revolutionary Committee

The People's Revolution needs you, comrades!

The People’s Revolution needs you, comrades!


The People’s Revolutionary Committee is a large-scale sort-of-game, almost a larp, where everybody is gripped by a collective madness and spends a frantic session creating a new culture for the world of games, mostly by eradicating the old one. I created it almost twenty years ago, and have run it at games events and conventions around the world. It’s These rules describe how to run it: they’ve been on my hard-drive for more than a decade waiting for me to do something with them, and I finally realised that the right something is to release them onto the net.

The PRC isn’t exclusive to games events, obviously. It can be run at any kind of large gathering, but it tends to go better with people who know each other or who work in the same industry, and who have a playful spirit, so games is a natural home for it. The hands-down best session I ever ran was an industry-only gathering on the Saturday night of a Gen Con in the late 90s, when everybody was exhausted and full of piss and bile after a hard day on the show floor. It went on for hours, hundreds of people died in horrible ways (offstage there was a pit filled with grotesquely defiled corpses and, for some reason, badgers), and it remains one of the most cathartic and hilarious experiences of my life.

Anyway, comrades, here’s the rules for the People’s Revolutionary Committee, a sort-of game of public speaking, catharsis, and and making a better world by shooting people.


The People’s Revolutionary Committee

A convention event created by James Wallis

The Revolution has come, comrades! The old marching-order has been swept away by the owlbears of change, the lickspittle character-class traitors have been captured, and a glorious new dawn waits to rise over the world of gaming. You are hereby recruited to the People’s Revolutionary Committee Gaming Sub-Committee (being people, you are eligible; being gamers you are qualified; being at a games event you are probably guilty) and it is your job to put the villains of the games world on trial for their crimes against the People, give a fair hearing to the evidence for and against them, and shoot them.

The People’s Revolutionary Committee is the Moscow Show-Trials for games, or if you prefer the McCarthy Hearings for games (‘Are you now or have you ever been a Munchkin supplement?’). It is a 60-90-minute event requiring one moderator with a watch and an audience of participants. It was designed for games conventions but can be adapted to fit other types of event without trouble, and would probably work on a web forum or mailing list too. At events it works best in the late afternoon or evening, or whenever people have built up a head of spleen and want to vent it.

The tone and vocabulary are borrowed from any fringe political gathering. The audience should understand that nothing that happens in the PRC is to be taken seriously or personally, though the moderator should never say that out loud. Stating that something is ‘just a bit of fun’ is a good way of killing it dead.

The event runs according to a strict format, and doesn’t work if that format isn’t followed. Things go as follows:

1. People gather in a place, ideally where there is booze. Critical mass is about fifteen; more than that is great. The moderator, in the persona of the People’s Judge, briefly explains what the PRC is and how it works, and says ‘Comrades!’ (or ‘My fellow Americans!’) too much.

2. The moderator calls for suggestions for the first case to be tried. Anyone on the PRC (including the moderator) can nominate any aspect of gaming to be put on trial for its crimes against the Revolution. This can be a game or product, a company, a person, an event, a trend or tendency, a publication, a group, a hashtag, and so on. Nominations should be at least vaguely connected to the subject of the convention.

2a. The moderator can reject the nomination if they think doing so is valid, justified or funny (e.g. ‘We’ve already shot them three times this evening.’) Otherwise the nomination is accepted.

2b. ‘Crimes against the Revolution’ is deliberately left nebulous, as is the nature of the Revolution itself. Things may be tried for being bad, unpopular, too popular, too successful, too expensive, over-productive, under-productive, too complex, not complex enough, too intelligent, too stupid, out of date, smug, pretentious, not knowing what ‘pretentious’ means, behaving in a reprehensible manner, or being generally objectionable. Go with it. The PRC is all about letting people get things out of their system.

3. The accuser comes to the front of the room and makes a speech no longer than two minutes explaining why their nomination is guilty of crimes against the People and the Revolution. The moderator watches the time and cuts them off if they exceed it.

4. The moderator asks if anyone wishes to defend the nomination, and picks a volunteer from the audience to do this. If the nomination is someone who is present, or that has representatives in the audience, they should be the moderator’s first choice. If there is no defendant, move straight to a vote (see 8 below) because it’s usually a sign that people aren’t interested and you need to get to the next topic fast.

5. The defendant comes to the front of the room and makes a two-minute speech in defence of the nomination.

6. If things are going well and the nomination is a contentious or controversial one, the moderator can repeat 3–5 with new accusers and defendants.

7. The moderator takes points of information and points of order from members of the audience, preferably ones who have not already spoken.

7a. A point of information is a short and pithy statement about the nomination, or possibly about the accuser or the defendant. The moderator should be careful not to let this turn into a speech for the accusation or the defence.

7b. A point of order is a procedural matter concerning the running of the meeting. Often this will be that the Committee should move straight to a vote on this matter. Others may try to have members of the meeting banned from speaking on the grounds that they are biased, have undeclared interests, or were shot earlier. The moderator should judge each of these on their merits and how they’re likely to affect the tone and pace of the meeting.

8. Once there are no more points of information or order, the moderator calls for a vote on the guilt or innocence of the nomination. This is decided on a show of hands. Try to avoid counts or recounts if you can.

8a. If the nomination is found innocent, it cannot be tried again this session.

8b. If the nomination is found guilty, it is declared to have been taken out and shot. No further action is taken against them: no ridicule, and absolutely nothing physical. Some moderators choose to ban any persons shot from speaking in the rest of the session, but that is generally considered bad form and also cuts off many potential sources of humour. Some groups choose to make up imaginative punishments for their victims; this can be very funny or deeply tedious, so be careful.

8c. Each of the cases should last around five minutes.

8d. The PRC event as a whole should be fast-moving and ruthless. You should be aiming for a kill-rate around 85–90%. Clemency is a type of tangerine, not something that has anything to do with revolutionary committees.

9. At some point the moderator will find themselves on trial. This is inevitable. Don’t sweat it. It doesn’t mean they hate you. If the moderator is found guilty of crimes against the Revolution, it’s their call whether they should stand down and let someone else take over – but any replacement should know the rules of the PRC before taking the chair.

10. Once the PRC’s allotted time is over, the moderator thanks the audience for their good work in the name of the Revolution and declares that they will meet again in a month or a year. The Committee then disbands and, if not already there, goes to the bar.

The moderator has various important jobs: to make sure that all members of the audience get a fair crack of the whip, to make sure that debates don’t drag on or become hideously one-sided, to make sure that anyone shot is not the victim of any kind of retaliation and doesn’t get upset; not to hog the limelight; and to address all speakers as ‘Comrade [name]’.

Most importantly they should never forget their main job is to make the audience laugh and have a good time. The Committee should never get bogged down in bureaucracy, to-and-fro arguments over tedious or minor points, or personal score-settling. If it does, declare them all shot for slowing down the pace of the glorious Revolution and move on to the next case.

That’s it. Have fun. Long live the People’s Revolution!

Sticky Wickets: Cricket Jam at Lords

Autumn, the season of mellow teas and fruitiness, the time when the sublime meridian of the English summer, Test Match Special, gives way to the braying of Match of the Day. There is still a little cricket to be played, a few un-wasped plums left on the tree. It is time to make some jam.

I love cricket, as you may know. I love the game, I love its atmosphere, its culture, its history, its love of statistics and trivia, its rituals, and the fact that at cricket matches the bars are open at ten in the morning and everyone thinks that’s okay.

I have a proposal.

Lords, the home of cricket, lies north-west of Regents Park, close by the Jubilee Line. On Sunday 8th September (yes, this Sunday) it will host the final of the Davidstow National Village Cup final, between Rockhampton of Gloucestershire and Cleator of Cumbria.

I do not care that you have never heard of Rockhampton of Gloucestershire and Cleator of Cumbria. Neither have I, and that is the point. This is the zenith of the non-professional season. No egos; no names or faces you’d recognise. Just the game at its most beautiful.

The village cricket final is always ridiculously under-attended, and it’s twelve pounds to get in. Twelve pounds for a day of cricket at Lords, with money back if it’s rained off. It would be churlish to refuse. And—here’s the plan—not just with other people who love cricket, but with people who love games. And cricket. And games people who are intrigued by cricket but have never had a chance to experience it properly.

I’m calling a Cricket Jam. Let us descend upon Lords, bringing picnics and portable games (small ones), and sit and chat and play and eat and drink and watch the cream of British amateur cricket battle for once-in-a-lifetime-glory on the fabled sward. And listen to the England–Australia ODI at Old Trafford via TMS.

If you think that sounds like a perfect way to spend a lazy late-summer Sunday, click on this which will subscribe you to a mailing list so we can count numbers and arrange where to meet.

Gates open at ten, play starts at eleven, and with forty overs a side it should be done by six. You don’t have to be there at the start, or the end. You can buy tickets on the day, or preorder them by calling 020 7432 1000.

Hope to see you there, and please spread the word.

And the winner of the 2013 Diana Jones Award is…

By the time you read this, you’ll probably know what or who has won the 2013 Diana Jones Award for Excellence in Gaming. I know already, in fact I’ve known for a few weeks because I’m the guy who counts the votes. And while I’m not going to give anything away in case someone sneaks a last-minute bet with some gullible friend, I will say that there were only a couple of votes between the winner and second-place; and the DJA has a long track record of not giving the award to the favourite.

I think this year’s DJA shortlist is one of the strongest we’ve ever had. It’s marvellously diverse—a small-press RPG that tackles some serious subjects, a genre-creating card-game, a history of the game that created the RPG hobby, a unique convention for games designers and enthusiasts, and a web-video series that has brought tabletop gaming to a whole new audience—and this is exactly the kind of diversity that the DJA was created to celebrate. I had a very hard time deciding how to cast my ballot (we use the Single Transferable Vote system, as the original bespoke voting system proved too easy to game, which is a bad idea when games designers are present).

Contains genuine Nazi (tm)

The Diana Jones Award trophy.

There is one Diana Jones Award awarded each year, and we give it to the single best thing we can find in gaming. Some years it’s like chasing a needle in a haystack. Other years, like this one, you can’t see the hay for the needles. Back in 2000 I set up the Diana Jones Award because I was fed up of the Origins Awards, which at the time was the major award for the games industry but had become a relentless, myopic, product-driven popularity contest. There were no surprises: winning was as simple as motivating your company’s fans to stuff the ballot boxes in sufficient quantities. I felt there was room for an award that championed what was great about gaming, wherever it came from, and whether it sold five hundred copies or five million.

Setting up an award, it turns out, is ridiculously easy. Work out what the award is for and how it’s going to operate, ask a few friends to help out, get some kind of logo or trophy that looks neat, send out a press release and you’re away. The administration infrastructure of the DJA boils down to an invitation-only mailing list, a website, and an annual party the night before Gen Con opens. The inestimable Matt Forbeck has organised all the parties since the very first on a sticky evening in Milwaukee, and has arranged the sponsorship for them too. That is pretty much the full extent of the organisation. The biggest problem we have each year is me remembering when to ask people to send in their nominations.

This is the fourteenth year that we’ve presented the Diana Jones Award. The original ‘we’ in the year 2000 was a substantially different group of people to the ‘we’ of 2013: there’s a hardcore of members but others have come and gone, and we periodically invite new folk to our group of what I once described as ‘games industry alumni and illuminati’. I can’t tell you who is on the committee because we agree to keep each other’s identities secret, but it is a pleasure to share a mailing list with them, and occasionally I look at the list of other DJA members and wonder what the hell I’m doing among these amazing and talented people.

And of all the things I’ve done in the games industry, the Diana Jones Award is the one I’m proudest of. Creating a business model that allowed British and European RPG publishers to compete with Americans for the first time, creating the story-games genre by accident, giving a first break to now-famous artists and writers—that’s all well and good. But I think the Diana Jones Award has made a difference in gaming, by setting a notional high-water mark and encouraging people to aim for it. Whatever you do in this industry or this hobby, the DJA says, if you do it well enough then you will be recognised for that.

How much of a difference the DJA has made, I really don’t know. But I’ve had lovely messages from people who were shortlisted, telling me how important this recognition was to them, and how much of a spur to their ambition it has been. Really, winning the DJA boils down to getting to have a silly trophy on your mantelpiece for a year, and knowing that a bunch of people whose identities you don’t know think you do awesome stuff. But in a few hours Matt Forbeck will pick up a microphone and tell someone who has worked incredibly hard to produce something truly excellent in gaming that their effort has been recognised by their peers, and that’s enough reason to justify the award’s existence.

I won’t be at the award ceremony. I’ve not been to Gen Con for over ten years. But I’ll be there in spirit. I think it’ll be a good one.

Alas Vegas major arcana complete

John Coulthart has completed all 22 cards of the major arcana of the Vegas Tarot, which he has been working on since the Kickstarter for my forthcoming RPG Alas Vegas finished at the start of March. What’s more he’s put them all up on his website, with descriptions of the inspirations and influences behind them. It’s a stunning piece of work.

The cards were commissioned to be the interior artwork of Alas Vegas, but the reaction to them has been so overwhelmingly positive that we are planning to run another Kickstarter to fund the production of a complete Tarot deck later this year. The plan is to recruit four more artists, each to handle one of the four suits. We’re undecided whether to leave the cards in black-and-white, or to colour them—colour would be the more commercial choice, but the hard-edged starkness of these images almost begs to be left alone. If anything this sharp would ever beg.

Kickstarter backers who pledged for an art print can expect a survey in the near future to ask which of the 22 images they’d like to receive. The rest of you will have to hold your breath for the game itself.

Agricola (other brands of cola are available)

I host a semi-regular games evening, in which we catch up on modern classics that we should have played years ago. Afterwards I usually send an email round to the group with a summary of what we’ve learned—the overview of Tales of the Arabian Nights 3e a few weeks back was one of them. Here’s another, and there may be more.

 * * *

So: Agricola. The #2-rated game on BoardGameGeek, the catalogue of all tabletop games ever. An eurogamic simulation of competitive farming in seventeenth-century Germany. Hundreds of cards, hundreds of little wooden bits, what feels like hundreds of rules. Intimidating.

Thankfully the rulebook is well structured, everything fell into place quickly and within a the first few minutes we made a key realization: this is the game that Lords of Waterdeep nicked its core mechanic from. On your turn you get a choice of actions, but once you’ve chosen one you put a counter on its space on the board and nobody else can choose it for the rest of that round. It makes more logical sense in Lords of Waterdeep, where each action is represented by a building that your faction takes control of, but even though it doesn’t really fit with farming (“what do you mean, nobody else can sow any crops this round?”) it works a lot better in Agricola.

The game quickly switches from a jolly romp of building pastures for sheep and bolting extensions onto your house to make room for your children into a bitter and increasingly tough fight to save your family from starvation, and trying to generate enough extra resources to maybe expand your farm just a little AUGH NO NOW WE MUST EAT MY DAUGHTER’S PET COW OR PERISH or at least pick up a ‘begging’ card with its whopping –3 score for each person you can’t feed.

And then suddenly it’s over and you have to add up your points, and that’s all a bit dissatisfying because it is completely not obvious while you were playing who was actually winning. A bit like Carcassonne, the gameplay is lovely involving clever fun and you can see exactly why people rate it so highly, and then there’s the abrupt shift of gears into working out numbers and adding them up. There’s a scoring pad in the box. It’s that kind of game.

Ben won, I think I’m right in saying. I scraped in second despite having basically starved my entire family to death at the end of round 2. Kevan misinterpreted one of the scoring rules and although he played a blinder and was set up to outbreed and outfarm us all, ended up third because he’d not built enough fields. That kind of game.

It is brilliant, though. The game is beautifully balanced, and it quickly becomes apparent that where it’s balanced is on a knife-edge. The complexity is perfectly structured, the metaphors hold together so you feel you’re building a farm instead of juggling numbers and bits of wood, and although the only direct competition is for the unique resource spaces, it’s enough to stop the game ever feeling like everyone’s playing solo on the same board.

We were playing the introductory ‘family’ version, and we all came away with a suspicion that the more complex versions (its cards are included in the basic box) might actually be easier to play without everyone starving to death each turn, and there might be more variety in playing it with four or five people. It’s one of those games that will improve enormously when you’re au fait with the structure and the way it unfolds, or at least when you’re playing with people who are.

Ben had to shoot off after that, so Kevan and I played some two-handed Love Letter. I have played a lot of LL in the last week, and I think we can conclusively say it’s a 3-4-player game. It works for two but it’s not enormously satisfying, and the card-mix pretty much guarantees that you never get to the end of 16-card deck. Still clever, still fun, still massively in the lead for the game I play the most this year, but nowhere near as compelling—or as tactical. But that’s not going to break my habit of carrying it with me in my laptop bag, next to my hip-flask. That sort of game.

Hyper Camp: gaming is an island

Hudøy is a small island in the Oslo Fjord, about eighty kilometres south of Oslo itself. A five-minute boat-trip from the shore, it lies on the western side of the channel: a low rocky jigsaw-piece measuring about one kilometre by two, covered in light woodland and a collection of wooden buildings of various sizes: meeting-rooms, eating-halls, dormitories. It is owned by the City of Oslo, and for most of the summer it is used as a holiday camp for disadvantaged children from the capital.

For the last two years Hyperion, the federation of Norwegian gamers, has rented the island for a week in the summer to create Hyper Camp, an—actually I can’t think of a single word that covers what Hyper Camp is. A getaway for around a hundred games players, thinkers and designers aged 14–24, a training ground, a summer camp, a peer-bonding session, an away-week for the future loci and Lokis of the games world. Whatever it is, there should be more like it.

Approaching Hudoy

Hyperion arranges for experts and tutors to visit the camp: where they can’t source them locally they fly them in. Flying in for Hyper Camp 2013 were me and Dr Simon McCallum; we’d met at a DiGRA conference a couple of years before and had bonded over cricket. Cricket was about the only thing that Hyper Camp didn’t offer, though I’m sure if we’d proposed it we’d have got volunteers for a couple of teams.

I was there to run workshops on board-game design and RPG design. Other activities included larps and larp workshops ranging from equipment-making to prosthetic make-up, e-sports, plus miniature gaming, roleplay, and even how to run organisations like Hyperion. Simon had brought an Oculus Rift dev-kit which his students had rigged with a Kinect, a Wii balance board and a Wiimote to create a proper sense of embodiment in the virtual world: being able to move your arms and see them move in an immersive VR world brings a whole new dimension of being-there to the experience. In the evening there were larps.

Larp workshop

The students I had for my game-design workshops were excellent. Norway doesn’t have much of a home-grown tabletop games industry, and the people at the RPG workshop were only able to name three Norwegian-produced RPGs, at least one of them out of print, and most of the play seems to be big-name US games like D&D, Pathfinder, Shadowrun and Warhammer FRP (more second-edition than third, interestingly). But there were intelligent questions about crowd-funding and self-publishing. This is not an inward-looking scene. The questions I get most often in the UK and USA, about getting material published for existing games, didn’t come up.

The board-game workshop was particularly strong. Each of the three groups produced a game that was intelligent, tactical and not obviously based on anything I’d seen before. Admittedly my understanding of the design and play were compromised by the fact I don’t speak or read Norwegian (everyone at Hyper Camp spoke English to a remarkably high degree so I could lecture in my mother tongue—this is an incredible privilege for native English speakers visiting Scandinavia, and an indictment of the standard of foreign-language teaching in the UK) but people seemed to be having fun, and the critiques were positive and useful. I dont know if I’d have recommended any of them to a publisher, but if I spoke better Norwegian who knows?

Game design workshop at Hypercamp

I am thoroughly impressed with Norwegian gamers. In my earlier post I described how Hyperion is able to exist, but what I didn’t talk about is the effect this has on Nordic gaming culture. There’s a cohesion there, a community and a sense of communication that I’ve only found in a few other places—Ireland comes to mind, but in Ireland it’s been brute-forced through an extraordinary collection of conventions and local clubs and societies. In Norway the state seems to have gone out of its way to make this kind of networking arise organically from the needs of the group. I’m not sure if it’s cultural or political, but it’s wonderful.

Hudøy isn’t plush. The beds were small and a little spartan: the loos were earth-closets, the food was basic. Norway may have the third-largest sovereign wealth fund in the world but that doesn’t mean its inhabitants live like royalty. But it all adds to the sense that Hyper Camp is a removal from the ordinary world and from regular constraints: this is a place where new ideas can be thought, new projects can be planted, and new worlds can be shaped into existence.

Hudoy main buildings

I had a fanboy moment: I met Anita Myhre Andersen, the creator of the legendary larps 1942 and 1943—the last of which caused her to be banned from entering Belarus for life. 1942 is featured in the book Nordic Larp: it was a week-long recreation of a Norwegian village under the Nazi occupation, heavy not only on realism but also on resonance: some of the participants played their own parents and grandparents. Just reading about it is extraordinary; playing in it must have been life-changing. It’s the kind of experience I’d love to bring to the UK, and I have a few ideas about how. Fingers crossed.

tl;dr More of this sort of thing everywhere, please.

Sunset on Hudoy

Thanks to the organisers and volunteers of Hyper Camp for inviting me, Felix Vaager of Hyperion for being an excellent host, and particular thanks to amazing Hyperion volunteer Thomas for driving me at great speed to Oslo after I missed my train.

Fjord Escort: Hyperion and Hypercamp

I run a workshop on board-game design, paper-prototyping and the iterative process. It lasts between two and four hours, and involves small groups of people concepting and designing a game, watching others playtest it, listening as they critique it and—if there’s time—working through that criticism to create a revised version. I’ve run it three times already this year (once for a group of students, once at an academic conference, and once is under NDA—sadly, as it was a good one) and it always gets great feedback. Most importantly it’s always different: not just the type of games that people devise but their subjects and the ambition they bring to it.

At one university recently I watched a very talented group of student designers crash and burn because they couldn’t reconcile the game they wanted to make—an ambitious narrative card-game based around playing out a court case—with either the brief for the project or the amount of time they had: their prototype had literally nothing playable in it. I’ve seen the same thing happen several times and it drives one of the central messages of the exercise: if you don’t start with a core of good gameplay, a structure or a mechanic to act as your nucleus, then you’ve got nothing to hold it together and your parts will fly off in all directions.

And sometimes it produces a game that’s really interesting. When I was a lecturer on the BSc Computer Games Development course at the University of Westminster I’d make my students a standard offer: if I was sufficiently impressed with their board-game I would introduce them to a suitable publisher for it. It only happened once, and I couldn’t get a publisher to bite (I suspect the game was a bit component-heavy, to be honest) but still it was an exciting and fun result, and a very impressive day’s work.

Anyway, as you may have gathered from earlier blogposts and the fact that Nordic Larp won the Diana Jones Award last year I ‘m very excited by what’s going on in the Scandinavian games scene in the last few years. There are some really interesting schools of design (‘Jeepform’ is the one that everyone’s heard of but there are more), and their larps lead the world in terms of development and scope. Perhaps most interestingly, they’ve put a lot of time and work into making games a recognised and legitimate cultural form in their countries. Whether or not you believe games are art, you’ve got to see the potential benefits in making games companies and games events able to access government-backed cultural funding and resources.

There’s an organisation in Norway called Hyperion. It’s a federation of games clubs and players from all over the country, mostly covering tabletop games and larps. It has tens of thousands of members, and because of that it is able to receive around two million kroner (£220,000/US$340,000) in annual funding from central and local government to support its activities. It distributes these funds as well as organising activities that I can mostly describe as Way Cool.

The money mostly comes from taxes on gambling, and is given to gaming organisations in the same way that sports organisations are funded. Hyperion has offices and paid staff (though not many—it’s not a huge or rich organisation). And one of the things it does is to organise Hypercamp, an annual week-long summer camp for around a hundred young games designers and students, aged about 14-24, on Hudøy, an island in the Oslo Fjord about fifty miles south of the capital.

Hypercamp offers sessions on larp design, costuming and cosplay, make-up, e-sports, miniatures gaming, stage make-up and more. In the evening people larp or play board-games or roleplay, or swim or chat or sing. And the camp also runs workshops on designing and prototyping board-games and RPGs. Enter stage left, clutching a boarding-pass, me.

That’s what I’m doing as I type this: I’m travelling to Hypercamp as a guest of Hyperion, to run my board-game workshop. I am hugely honoured to be asked, and wild pegasi couldn’t have kept me away. An island! In a fjord! With the descendants of Vikings!

I won’t be able to upload this post until I’m back in the UK, so by the time you read this I’ll be in the bosom of my family again. Expect a post-mortem with pictures. A figurative post-mortem, I hope.

How was your week?

A tale of Tales of the Arabian Nights

Tom Armitage tries to become un-lost in Tales of the Arabian Nights

Last night Tom, Martha, Ed, Kevan and I spent three hours exploring the world of Tales of the Arabian Nights (3rd edition, Z-Man Games 2009). It was memorable. TOTAN is not a great game, it’s certainly not a gamey game, but it’s an extraordinary thing: a colossal, intricate and beautiful story generator with a board. It is the work of a mad genius, who you will encounter on table B and you should probably choose to beat him soundly.

Stories were told: comedies, tragedies, and a great deal of laughter at the misfortune of others. At one point I had become scorned, so I opted to undertake a long pilgrimage to serve penance for my deeds (and remove the negative status and its equally negative modifiers). The very next turn—having not yet started the pilgrimage—I became scorned again. Tom spent most of the game imprisoned, and having finally got out of prison he immediately became lost. Ed was simultaneously respected and scorned, and crippled, and envious which meant he had to rob everyone he met. Martha attacked almost everything which got her outlawed, and then she became accursed and grief-stricken, possibly as a result. People became amazingly rich and then astoundingly poor, often in quick succession. By the end Kevan was an ape with a flying carpet and I was insane. You may understand why.

It’s not a game that rewards tactical play. I’m not sure there are any tactics at all, it’s more a matter of keeping track of all your various skills and statuses. TOTAN is basically a collection of really, really clever mechanics and a brilliantly written book of 2600 individual storylets, and a lot of gorgeous components, that just about hang together to make a game. The main problems with the first edition—the lack of a sense of competition, the lack of interaction between players—are actually worse in this version, and the fourteen reaction matrices, mind-boggling in their complexity twenty-five years ago, seem now to beg for a nice bit of Javascript to sort it all out. But in the thick of play it hardly seems to matter, and it’s still got the rule that if you are grief-stricken (a bad thing), have the Storytelling skill and are in the same space as another player then you can make them grief-stricken as well. That more or less sums up the game: it’s kind of a pointless rule, and it doesn’t come into play very often, but it makes me grin every time I think of it.

Kevan snuck in a crafty win just as we were about to break for the evening, despite or perhaps because he had been turned into an ape. If there are tactics then I suspect he was the person who found them. I also suspect he may be keeping them to himself.

Would play again in a heartbeat, but then it’s a game that could have been designed for me and I played my copy of the first edition to death in the late 80s. Unique, quite bonkers, and delirious fun.

Games on Business Cards, part 2

I just ran out of business cards.

This is hardly earth-shaking news, I know, but I have a tradition that whenever I print a new set of business cards I put something new on the back. It’s always a game, it’s always about business cards and—obviously—it has to be small enough to fit on the back of a standard 85 x 55 card.

This is the kind of thing I do for fun.

The new game is called ‘Fill My Position’ and it’s based on a variant of the core mechanic of the Book Game, better known these days as Apples to Apples. The key difference is that there’s no hidden cards in play, and I’ve also built in a role-playing element and a borrow from the classic TV show ‘Blind Date’. In 150 words. Here it is:A game on the back of a business card, by James Wallis

‘Fill My Position’ replaces ‘Here On Business’, the game on my last run of cards. HOB is an actual RPG stripped back to its bare essence, playable in half an hour, and you can see it here.

I’m always amazed that more games designers, writers, poets, artists and other creatives don’t do this, putting examples of their work on their business cards. It’s a portable portfolio, a piece of you in your potential client’s pocket, a literal calling card.

Go on. Have a go.