I Ran: Brackish (Using Mothership)
Watery graves, inspiration from an iconic indie videogame *and* an accurate representation of water pumps? Read on to find out what I thought of this investigative Mothership module.
What is this thing?
Brackish is a third party module for Mothership, written, edited, illustrated and laid out by Norgad with co-writing and editing credit to C. Bell. The PCs are given a job by Di-Nobra Investigative Services to determine the status and location of every member of a coastal observation laboratory… which sent out an automatic distress signal three weeks ago and has since been silent.
There are some very specific requirements for obtaining the relevant information to your employer’s satisfaction, which I’ll get to later. Needless to say, heavy spoilers from this point onwards.
I backed Brackish on Backerkit (try saying that out loud) as a pdf after a positive experience running Norgad’s previous mothership module Dead Weight, which I had discovered via Idle Cartulary’s Bathtub Review (Nova has also covered Brackish here). Dead Weight is a great one-shot and played well at my table, leaning heavily on just how hazardous outer space is in a way that surprisingly few Mothership modules do. Consequently, I was excited to run Brackish for two sessions of 3-4 hours each (including some character generation in both sessions, because we had 3 players for session 1 and 4 for session 2). This was a campaign opener, so aside from some slight changes to the equipment loadout generation, it wasn’t really impacted by any of the house rules I wrote about last month - although we were playing with a voidborn and a biologic.
The Setup
Brackish makes it clear that you are here to investigate and obtain a complete set of information — there’s no single murderer or creature to identify, no root cause to determine, you must instead find out what happened to every single member of the 11-strong crew of Lab 46B. Failure to ID even one of them imposes a 25% pay cut, and in practice the deductive puzzle-solving meant my players jumped from 6/11 to 10/11 pretty rapidly. This did then spark a conversation about whether it was better to cut and run, so I was pleased to see a bonus included in the job description to keep the crew interested.
The module further underlines this premise by giving you… a digital camera. Specifically tamper-proof and waterproof, with a long focus/exposure time of 10 seconds (aka one combat round) this deliberately awkward artifact is a perfect piece of retro Mothership clunky tech. There’s also a printable handout for the players to fill in, representing them tagging the photos they are contractually obligated to take of the evidence to support their claims.
I think this succeeds on theme and engagement more than it does emergent gameplay — although I appreciate that if the camera holder dies there’s potentially some interesting manoeuvres to recover what is essentially your paycheck. But that’s not really a criticism, because that flavour and physicality? It keeps your players focused. A literal list of evidence to fill in (alongside some basic map and crew info to aid deductions from the start) really helps the players avoid distractions and feel like they’re making progress.
Now, you may be thinking you’ve seen the concept of applying logic and observation to deduce the fate of a list of people in a watery environment before…
The Inspiration and the Mystery
I won’t be spoiling Return of the Obra Dinn (go play it if you haven’t already) other than to reassure readers that while the premise is the same, Brackish isn’t copying it. If you’ve played it, you will still very much enjoy Brackish — you’ll simply have sharpened your deductive skills to use at the table. One notable difference is youu don’t get any “special tools” to help you, and all the information is (mostly) apparent with some basic interaction — but there’s some good use of ‘bonus knowledge’ tagged to individual skills to make it easier for Wardens to rule on.
In play, this creates a need for the crew to visit almost every room in the complex (14 in total). I think you could do it with only 11, but surely every crew is going to want to explore (loot) closed storage rooms? The clues are a good mixture of obvious and obscure — and all the while dead bodies drive saves/stress and information about the threat (see below) while others imply relationships and locations that will need to be reinforced with further investigation. Moreover, they all make this place feel real and lived in — the diverse flotsam (narrator: hey that’s the name of the monster) of isolated peoples’ lives.
This is still NSR gameplay, so the more long-winded clues (a letter from an NPC to their parents for example) can be handwaved a little by Warden who wants to keep the pace moving. That means it all hangs together, justifying the complexity and two session length without overwhelming the players (a risk if the location or mystery were any larger).
One criticism I have is that the sole survivor (who my players were monstrously unsympathetic to) could do with some more guidelines. We’re told Cedric “is glad to offer any information he can” — but the Warden has to perform their own deduction to infer what he knows. Similarly, my players got somewhat distracted by the fact that one of the NPCs was receiving offsite medical treatment when all of this went down — surely, they reasoned, their employer would know about that? Or they would have emerged in the last 3 weeks in-game? Thus, I had to invent it being unapproved time spent in a medpod following an injury that could imperil various other peoples’ bonuses.
Environment and Layout
The layout is neat, with each floor of the lab given its own two page spread based on the room order in the map. As seen in the photo above, it worked especially well with my own preferred way of running home printed modules.
Paired with some solid writing on the room descriptions (especially the brief ‘first impressions’ italics), this is easy to communicate to your players. A little more information on the properties of the various barriers would have been useful — doors are presumably watertight (but does the backup power affect their ability to open/close?), each ladder presumably has a hatch (but only some of the rooms mention them) and the security turnstile should emphasise that it blocks entry rather than simply being described as full-height. The module start is also somewhat linear with only one entrance and then three rooms in a row, but I’m much more willing to forgive that in a horror game than a more traditional dungeoncrawler.
There’s some nice environmental interaction here too, with security monitors near the start giving clues about future rooms, and a flooding/emptying cycle with a pump and sensor that made this former boiler feed water system designer very happy. What really elevates them is the thematic link with the supernatural elements at play. The pumping mimics the heart-like pulse of seawater from the mysterious heart in the chest, while the cameras and screens evoke the mirrors and reflections by which Flotsam traverses the facility.
I found the effect of the flooding is more to confuse and disorient the players rather than put characters in serious danger, however it does have an entertaining interaction with the only monster in play here…
The Threat
Flotsam is built gameplay first. And that’s a good thing. This transformed diver (complete with tattered wetsuit and a visor that turns out to be polished skin, leading my players to use the unfortunate term ‘flesh helmet’ to describe its head) is designed for stalking and pressure while the crew complete their investigation. As such, Wardens are given plenty to work with, to the point that you can derive a checklist of good Mothership creature design:
A melee attack that does something damaging AND horrific
A weaker ranged attack that wears you down and has a good chance to shred armour
Armour that improves as it takes damage
A list of tactics and behaviour (based partly on response to damage)
A movement mechanism (it can watch from reflective surfaces, and enter/exit them if they’re a larger surface area than itself)
This last one could do with a bit more detail, perhaps a list of common reflective surfaces and whether they are/aren’t suitable for movement. The hints that the doors of data servers are “mirror-like” are useful, but a simple clarification on whether water must be undisturbed to move through might be handy. Likewise, some ‘creepy places to watch from’ (I was quite proud of coming up with the screen of the camera itself).
There’s also a heart in a box that Flotsam, and potentially anyone that sees the heart, has to protect, with a key elsewhere. I would suggest having Flotsam actively want to recover the key and open the box to look upon the heart, as this made for a good climax in play; both exposing the players to the heart’s effect and giving them a chance of damaging it with the box open.
All of this doesn’t have a huge amount of connection or straightforward theming — and the players have no real means to deduce what Flotsam can do or wants except for its two types of attack. But as written, it really does work in play, and the unknown/inexplicable… well it is a horror game after all. Not everything needs to have a logical explanation. And you need the fear and pressure for what could otherwise be a slow, methodical investigation.
Conclusions
You’ll note I’ve spoken about layout and not art, and that’s because aside from a single image of Flotsam this module is essentially art free. A couple of images, maybe covering one of the first two rooms and then one of the ‘bloodbaths’ later on with transformed bodies could have provided something to show the players. Ultimately, it’s a credit to the writing and design that they’re a nice to have, rather than a necessity.
This is the best investigation-based Mothership module I’ve read or run, and one of the best two-shots overall. The authors know what they’re doing, and I’m keen to see any forthcoming Mothership month projects. If you have a table who can do two sessions with not too much of a time gap between them, and they want something a little more cerebral, you’ll have a great time with this.
Tumbling Down the Rabbit Hole: The Case for Pitcher Plant Dungeon Entrances
Back in February, a call went out via Prismatic Wasteland for hole blogs: blogs about holes. This post is one that I’ve had in the back of my mind for a while, and it felt like a natural fit.
Has this ever happened to you?
Ahem, let me make sure the intonation is correct:
[Infomercial Voiceover] Has *this* ever happened to *you*?
GM: You are deep within the bowels of The Dark Keep, loaded with stolen treasures. The blood of the kobolds is soaking into your clothing and the very structure shakes in response to your intrusion.
Player 1: Yeah I think that’s it for this delve.
Player 2: Definitely, luck has been on our side so far, let’s not push it.
Player 3: Oh also that means I might make the 9:30 bus! We turn back.
GM: Well, you cut most of the trip wires, the kobolds are dead, your rope is still in place at the cliff and you found the door that bypasses the red beam emanating from The Statue of Despair so… we can probably just reduce this down to a couple of rolls or even handwave it.
You can feel the tension evaporating when moments like this happen, and it can easily spiral to “cut to: the town square”. There is no concern of becoming trapped, lost, or overcome because, well, you probably won’t be.
One thing I want to make clear — my proposal in this post is not something that every dungeon, nor every session, should aim to do. In the example above, the players are being rewarded (perhaps with an earlier bus ride home) for their interaction, risk-taking and problem-solving. That’s a good thing! Moreover, a well-developed wilderness can present some risk, even if the dungeon is easy to get out of.
But I’d like to make this scenario less automatic and less common. To ratchet up the tension and especially to give one shots a bit of drama at the end. To create situations that may, entirely organically, swing the session or even the campaign in a different direction.
Consider the Pitcher Plant
For anyone that doesn’t know, a pitcher plant covers a wide range of species that attract insects (via nectar, scent, pigmentation etc), trap them in a bowl-shaped leaf (via a slippery surface, downward pointing hairs etc) and then drown and digest them in an enzyme-rich liquid at the bottom of the bowl.
Thus, the lure is any OSR dungeon with its treasure and magic, but the trap is that once inside it will require the usual risk/time/a smart plan to extricate yourself. And all the while, the dungeon is digesting you (probably a metaphor. Probably.) because you’re lower on resources/HP, burdened with loot and have attracted unwanted attention.
What Defines this Kind of Dungeon Entrance?
A pitcher plant dungeon entrance is simply one that takes more resources to exit than enter. Resources in this context are a broad spectrum — it might mean more time, more equipment… it might be a greater risk of harm/combat (or more severe consequences of that risk). It might even mean you need to find a magic key in the dungeon to get out at all!
Good practice is to telegraph your pitcher plants. Competent adventurers would note the risk of a descent into a dark mineshaft after all. For more obscure/magical pitcher plants, build it into the rumours around the location. What did the sole survivor of the last expedition whisper in their dying breath?
You’ll also need to define your pitcher plants because we anticipate an experienced group of players will want to interrogate them to some degree. Approaching one with a plan and specific equipment isn’t a bad thing, and the GM can still threaten this approach. Are an intelligent group of wandering monsters smart enough to remove door wedge? Would the rope be taken some inhabitants who lack the ability to make it themselves?
Some Examples
Roll 1d10 on the table below:
The hole is incredibly deep, although you do at least fall slowly. The section with the floating clocks is strange, and reminds you that it will be time consuming to climb back up.
A sleeping, chained sentinel. When you pass them, they awaken and remember your face.
The goblin town charges a low price for entry into the caverns beneath, and a much steeper toll on anyone seeking to leave.
This mud pit is slippery, really slippery. Hopefully just with water and not saliva.
Just a big heavy door that swings shut behind you. Maybe there’s a key, a lever, or a big strong guy somewhere inside.
The bridge just bears your weight if you go one at a time. If you return laden with treasure and in a hurry that might no longer be true.
The cave entrance on the beach isn’t a problem if you enter it at low tide. High tide is a different story.
The forest animals are small and harmless this close to town. That is of course unless you’ve been inside the forbidden temple. The squirrels will be waiting when you emerge.
The darkness of the maze can be burned away by a bonfire set at the entrance. On your way back you will need to keep hold of some torches.
The door is tiny, but a nearby potion renders you a suitable size to enter. Of course, once it wears off, you’ll need to find some more to get back through.
But Why?
When making a case like this, it is useful to consider the opposite approach and play the Devil’s Advocate. The image above is the videogame Diablo’s Scroll of Town Portal — the ultimate “we are not interested in the return journey” development decision that conjures a teleport back to the safety of the town.
Why does it exist? I would posit that it’s because the meat of Diablo is in the hack and slash of combat, and you’re aiming to clear a lot of levels of their inhabitants. You still want some sort of player decision making/inventory management, because you are still a hero venturing forth (a Diablo tower defence game where the monsters come to you would not be as exciting). But, all these things are not what we play OSR for – dungeons are typically not cleared, expeditions are carefully organised and magic seldom offers such convenient shortcuts (or if it does, it comes at a price).
But there is something else pitcher plants aim to encourage, in addition to maintaining tension…
The Only Way Out is Through
For all that the Mines of Moria might be considered the Ur-Dungeoncrawl, we actually see remarkably little of the tension that drives that section of the novel in play. The Fellowship are using Moria as a route to get somewhere and thus their exploration is driven by a need to get through and out, but the Watcher in the Water means they can’t turn back even as they wanted to. This in turn adds extra drama from the Balrog’s pursuit of them — they know The Bridge of Khazad-Dum is ahead, but they do not know its condition, only that they must use it.
All of this has tremendous scope for application to larger dungeons, leaving aside the obvious “the only way to bypass impassable terrain above is via the dungeon beneath”. A pitcher plant dungeon can push you towards an alternative exit with potential for interesting gameplay:
Interrogating inhabitants for other routes out, or trying to interpret clues like maps and keys.
Applying OSR problem solving by following underground rivers or fresh air.
Weighing up the daylight in the distance (destination unknown) vs. the known danger behind.
Seeing more dungeon rooms because you know you can’t go back and must push on or perish.
Finding yourself in an unknown wilderness hex, loaded with treasure but trying to use landmarks to determine your location and route to safety.
So go forth and set up your pitcher plants — your players will remember them or the journey they provoke.
Mothership Campaign Framework: The Anti-Carousing Table
I have many pamphlets but I must campaign: A Mothership table story
Problem Statement
Mothership one-shots are a lot of fun! (enough to make me write a blog post about running them)
…but certain game mechanics (stress, conditions, skill improvements) only play out over multiple modules.
…and people want their characters (including some new classes I’m playtesting) to have arcs that emerge and develop over multiple evenings and a range of scenarios.
…but Mothership doesn’t fit with a typical zero to hero journey. It is a downward curve (or some sort of… Gradient Descent) that may very well end in death.
Most Mothership modules cover one or two sessions and are framed as a job taken on by the PCs. There are of course exceptions — if your campaign is based around larger works like Desert Moon of Karth, Gradient Descent etc then you don’t need this blogpost. Likewise, if you’re carefully building a world of custom content and letting your player’s choices take you in interesting directions then you won’t benefit from any shortcuts.
But if, like me, you have a drawer stuffed full of tri-folds and don’t have the time to write a module every week then you’ll have noticed that the crew are typically either:
a) working a mundane job when something unexpected occurs
b) employed to perform a task telegraphed as dangerous
We can list some example modules for these categories:
a) Ypsilon 14, Screaming on the Alexis, Decagone, Dead Weight, Terminal Delays
b) Another Bug Hunt, Year of the Rat, Iron Tomb, Piece by Piece, Brackish
This is in no way a dig at the system — these two categories are
after all the premise of Alien and Aliens respectively! But it does
present difficulties for constructing a campaign; surviving characters
may struggle to find a motivation to take on another dangerous job,
while a string of unfortunate encounters starts to feel
implausible.
User Requirement Specification
We want a structure that allows characters the chance to improve and even win but more often leaves them desperate.
Characters should have in-game time to lick their wounds, buy equipment and at least slightly improve their skills/saves.
Trends towards keeping/leaving them in poverty, rather than letting them accumulate capital.
Has a chance to cause them more problems. Or at least spark some narrative discussion at the table.
A movie poster with a group of men AI-generated content may be incorrect.
What do the Rules say?
Tucked away on P.53 of the Warden’s Operation Manual, is a suggestion to take 1d10 months between modules, something I missed on my first campaign. This matches well with the rules for skill advancement (2-6 years), especially if we give players the option to go longer until their next module if they’re flush with cash and not (yet) desperate. The section on shore leave (P.39 of the PSG) also includes a handy example of play wherein the Warden is free to offer it at a range of price points in a single location if they think it’s reasonable.
In other words, there’s already a gameplay loop in the published material. Module > Spend Money Recovering/Improving > Module. Everything in between modules could reasonably be considered a Downtime Action and hence narratively flexible. So let’s see what we can add to this:
Addition 1 — Retirement Goal
Drawing from the tables on P.39 of the PSG and P.51 of the WOM we add the downtime action:
Bank Credits. Any port of B-Class or greater typically allows you to upload your credits to a retirement fund. This makes them safe from most forms of theft, taxation, loss etc but also makes them less efficient to liquidate — take a 50% cut on any credits you remove from the bank.
If you reach your retirement goal (minimum of 1mcr) you have the option to leave the freelancer life behind and start a new character. Congratulations! You have won Mothership™, at least until another player beats your high score/retirement lifestyle…
This gives the players a simple end goal, but one that is very hard to reach. And it’s made more difficult by the next new element.
Addition 2 — The Anti-Carousing Table
In the typical OSR gameplay loop, a carousing table represents the characters spending/wasting the vast sums of gold they’ve appropriated in their latest delve. Tasteless statues, drinking binges, donations to temples… d4caltrops has a good one here.
But that doesn’t quite fit with Mothership. This is setting that is about the grind, the corporate dystopia and the random events that can leave our once prosperous freelancer in a perilous situation.
If we assume that a PC who has survived a typical Mothership module is, at best, calculating the risk/reward of another one (and more likely avoiding it as long as possible) then there is no question of “wasting” credits. They will be easily spent on shore leave, retirement (see addition 1 above) and skills. We need to add some flavour to downtime and generate a risk of losing more money, but not a guarantee. Remember that not everything has to be strictly financial — stress, wounds and loss of equipment still have cost. Thus, I’ve written a d100 table where most of the results are credit loss or gaining stress. Example entries are given below.
Your typical week to week employment is enough to cover daily expenses, but will not add anything towards retirement or provide any savings. Whenever time (1d10 months) passes, roll d100 to determine what Life Event has happened to your character in this period of time.
04 — If you have a wound, it has healed naturally on its own. You assume this is just good luck and the passage of time, and choose not to check your rations.
16 — You help out a Contractor in a tight spot. Randomly generate them (P.41 PSG) and gain their services for free on the next module.
25 — Your last five packets of Astroids™ are all chocolate and have no crunchy caramel centres. This is the most interesting thing that has happened to you in this time.
33 — You are offered 1d10 x 10kcr for the data and rights to your complete genome.
42 — A random item in your possession is declared contraband and confiscated by the authorities.
57 — You are harassed by reporters and private investigators about a previous job. Increase minimum stress by 1.
61 — You find yourself at a high stakes’ poker game. Too high if you’re honest. Pass a Fear Save or lose 2d10kcr.
78 — Inevitable, unavoidable taxation. Lose 3d10kcr.
80 - The isolation and loneliness cause you to crack. Double your stress then gain 1 additional stress for each wound and/or condition you have.
99 — Following a crash landing, you are trapped for several days before being found. Gain 1 wound and 1d10 stress.
Note that if the crew has the resources, they can choose to let time pass multiple times to advance their skill training (or simply to push their luck on the above table).
But what happens if random costs like shore leave or those in the table above take characters into the red?
Addition 3 — Debt: The Ultimate Motivation
Mothership already has rules for debt (P.50 WOM) and plenty of people have worked on fleshing this out already (like this blogpost from Jack Shirai). This is just a simple adjustment to keep things moving in an interesting direction while minimising bookkeeping.
Debt is a constant, lurking fear in the world of Mothership. Unlike the other horrors of the rim, it cannot be contained by a steel bulkhead or decontamination protocol. Freelancers talk in whispers of the methods of payment — simple violence is one thing, but then there are the VR customer service roles where every shift lasts a year, live memory extraction for android personality construction, or hosting a portable research bio-reactor between your stomach and kidneys.
If your character ever drops below zero credits, do not record the negative balance. Instead, your character is now filled with purpose to clear the debt and avoid gaining more of it. The Warden will tell you whether a job offers enough to do either of those things, and whether there are any additional objectives that will earn more.
This may lead to situations where characters have secret objectives, benefit from the deaths of other player characters or generally take more extreme risks. As such, it should be discussed out of character via any safety tools/Session 0 being used at the table.
Wardens — remember you can always hand a player a blank scrap of paper with “Secret Objective” written on it if you don’t have any specific ideas. Suspicion from the other players will likely produce something interesting.
The Full Downtime Procedure
After a module has concluded, and assuming the crew can reach a place of relative safety, perform the following steps:
Restore HP to maximum and pay surviving crew members. The Warden may call for rolls and/or make rulings to cover unusual payouts. For example, an alien artifact may need an Intellect check to determine the time to sell and sale price achieved.
Perform any number of the following; Shore Leave (Warden determines what classes of Port are available), Buy/sell equipment (Warden determines if anything is hard to obtain), Medical Treatment (Warden can rule on procedures not covered by the PSG), Skill training (all costs are paid upfront).
Advance in-game time by 1d10 months. Each player rolls on the Life Event table.
Start a new module* or return to step 3 unless a character is in Debt. At the Warden’s discretion, some or all of the opportunities in step 2 may also be available.
Making Alternate Mothership Classes
Generating playtest material for an existing game can often simply involve deriving the designer’s framework and then iterating on it.
After a first run at a Mothership campaign last year (commencing with Lair of the Space Lamb) I’m gearing up for another one later this summer. As before, this will be a “semi-open table” based around pre-written modules (including a couple of my own, but the starter will be Norgad’s recently released Brackish).
Unlike last year, there will be some effort to create a loose narrative framework — but that’s a subject for another blog post. I’ve written some alternate Panic Tables, sketched out a couple of small modules and but today I’ve decided to broaden the character classes on offer.
But why?
It continues to surprise me that there’s relatively little hacking/expanding of the Mothership system itself, in contrast to the vast number of excellent, imaginative modules (both first and third party). There have been some examples of this sort of thing of course, such as Octopus Ink’s Rimward Classes (which I’ll likely also offer as an option to my players).
But more than that, I find this sort of exercise helps me understand why design decisions were made, which in turn sharpens my own abilities. This is why I use the word expanding rather than hacking — all of this is intended to work with, adding options to Mothership rather than replacing or changing parts of it.
Anyway, onto the classes!
Biologics
Clones and other flesh constructs. Rarer than Androids, there is nevertheless a demand for carefully grown and calibrated organic sentience. This might be for security reasons, an environment uniquely hostile to mechanical lifeforms or concerns related to [REDACTED – MONARCH PROTOCOL].
+10 to all stats // +1 Max Wounds
Trauma Response: Whenever you fail a body save or take a wound, all close friendly players make a sanity save.
Skills: 1 Expert Skill and a Trained Skill prerequisite. Bonus: 2 Trained Skills
Both Dune and Mickey 17 got me thinking about this, in addition to Gradient Descent. I wanted it to be more general than just “clone” and allow different players to put their own spin on it similar to the Android anti-canon approach. They benefit from increased toughness due to being ‘improved’ over random natural evolution… but that means their reactions (or suddenly visible innards) add a layer of visceral horror to anyone seeing them harmed.
They are deliberately kept as all-rounders (created for a specific purpose) with open skills and high stats… but low saves. We might assume they are naïve and inexperienced, or even expendable…
(Despite being cyberpunk, Netrunner is an overlooked source of potential Mothership inspiration)
Colonists
Some would describe these hardy folks as the true backbone of space. To them, often going years at a time between resupply ships, community is everything. They are farmers, explorers and settlers who are used to making the best of things.
+10 to 2 stats // +10 to 1 save // +1 Max Wounds
Trauma Response: Whenever a close friendly player panics, gain 2 stress.
Skills: Botany, Wilderness Survival. Bonus: 2 Trained Skills
If the teamster is focused around the industrialisation of space, then we have a gap both in the fiction and skill tree for those settling it. I suspect the focus towards the former was to emphasise the hunger for resources by megacorps — with the implication that there are billions of humans off-screen in crowded conditions, separate from the frontier of the Rim.
Hardiness and self-sufficiency gets them an extra wound, similar to Marines but without the combat focus. Everything else is kept fairly general as they won’t achieve the all-rounder stat/save heights of the Teamster, but can still specialise and rely on being tough. Since they’re relying on those around them, they get stressed out as panic spreads through the group. They’re one step away from a space peasant mob after all…
Doctor Who Project: The Krotons – Movement Point
(Variations on These Guys turn up in every other classic Dr Who story)
Dealer
While Teamsters are the actual labour force of space, there is a smaller group who trade, organise and handle logistics. These are the merchants, the negotiators and the information brokers. Their confidence and informal leadership is useful, until it fails.
+10 Intellect // +20 Fear Save // +10 to 1 Stat
Trauma Response: Whenever you critically fail a check or save, all close friendly players make a panic check.
Skills: Rimwise, Linguistics. Bonus: 1 Expert Skill OR 2 Trained Skills
I played around with various ideas for ‘Executive’ or ‘Officer’, since both feature in Aliens. Ultimately though, I decided that in a world of freelancer characters things should remain less formal (and you can still start with the Command skill by putting a specific flavour on the Scientist). As such, the Scientist is the closest comparison here – a boost to Fear Save is powerful, so I didn’t give them much else and held back on the skills.
The leadership aspect (in the absence of defined skills) then emerges by being more likely to be unafraid, but also trigger a response when they seem to be really struggling. This might need to be just stats or just saves — we’ll find out in playtesting!
Characters in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - Quark's Bar
(Still the best example even though it doesn’t work for a human only setting)
Voidborn
Those that have lived their whole lives on ships, stations and asteroids are already starting to diverge from the rest of humanity. This natural adaptation leaves them mentally resilient in the vast darkness, but lacking physical power.
+15 Speed // -10 Strength // +15 Sanity Save // +15 Fear Save
Trauma Response: Advantage on panic checks in spaceships. Disadvantage when on a planetary surface.
Skills: Zero-G. Bonus: 1 Trained Skill and 2 Expert Skills
The Expanse inspiration is pretty straightforward here. Leaning on the long-term effects of reduced gravity feels appropriate in Mothership’s hard sci-fi universe, while the implied evolution/change also fits the horror themes (even if they’re simply another route towards exploitation by those in power). Mechanically, none of the original classes get a speed boost, so that seemed a logical step, as did reducing strength. Boosting saves and skills is perhaps overpowered, but I like the idea of them being educated/experienced due to a hostile environment. The trauma response then fully leans into this idea of a glass cannon - depending on the twists and turns of a campaign, your character might be a penalised or gain a benefit from module to module. Note that space stations and asteroids are intended to give no advantage or disadvantage — a classic example of where you realise just how hard it is to frame rules with a succinct character sheet.
Stepping out of the Spotlight, and other Roleplaying Improv Tips
Only one of these is an actual acting tip, and even that is about making it less work for you.
Around 10-15 years ago I did improv once or twice a week for around 3-4 years. This taught me several things:
It’s about the right amount of time to be really invested in it.
The most accurate depictions of improv in wider media are, in order, a) Don’t Think Twice (dir. Mike Birbiglia, 2016) b) SE1E06 of Broad City c) the ‘improv as Scientology’ plotline in Season 2 of Bojack Horseman.
Most people will go on to use what they learn in things other than improv.
Notably, there is a lot of improv/tabletop roleplaying game crossover (even from performers who have made far more money on the West End than they ever will via improv or ttrpgs).
So here are three miscellaneous tips. This isn’t an exhaustive list by any means, but they are the things I use the most, and I was inspired by Prismatic Wasteland on Sharing the Spotlight to talk about the final tip in particular.
The OSR Lethality of Hamlet
Tell a group of beginner improvisers (or, horror of horrors, your colleagues at a team building exercise) the following “split into two teams and mime a tug of war between them”.
9 times out of 10, here’s what will happen; they will all pull on an imaginary rope… forever. Until prompted, no side will mime collapsing, stumbling over the line in the middle etc. This is because humans instinctively don’t want to lose, even when there are zero stakes and the ‘contest’ only exists because of a shared narrative.
This has a direct application to any ttrpg with high lethality, especially OSR games (horror games are easier because it’s an inherent feature of the genre).
So, here’s how to use this to pitch such a game to a player who is worried about character loss.
Actors fight over the role of Hamlet, even though Hamlet dies at the end (spoilers). Without accepting that a character may fail, may suffer a reversal of fortune and may, yes, die… there is a lack of contrast with their successes.
Moreover, just like a character may die at the end of a 30 second improv scene, the death of an rpg character is simply a reason to bring in another character from a literally infinite pool of potential PCs.
Thus, we can conclude that your character dying does not mean you are playing wrong. You are not letting down other players, and you are not failing to parse the rules. It is simply the fate of some characters.
Speaking styles, not accents
A decade of actual play streaming, videos and podcasts has put a lot of pressure on GMs to emulate professional voice actors or other performers. Now, even though I don’t play or run trad/OC 5e any more I haven’t stepped fully into ‘immersion is bullshit’ levels of indie-ness. I think there is absolutely a place for speaking in character, provided it’s something the table is comfortable with and you’re aware that invariably slows the pace of the narrative.
But what I am interested in is efficient acting. That is to say, how to get the most benefit from the least skill and effort. And that benefit isn’t just surrounding everyone in the room with a richer narrative environment, it’s practical things like differentiate NPCs from one another and making them memorable.
So, don’t worry about accents — think about the way people speak. Slow? Fast? Do they have a stutter or other verbal tic? Do they use simple language or flowery metaphors? Are they constantly referencing their faith or other beliefs? Are they snobbish or overly friendly?
What you’ll often find is that an accent of a sort develops naturally from these prompts, and it will help you memorise and build them as characters as well.
To quote a former improv teacher “every Coen brothers movie has at least half a dozen characters who speak in distinct, memorable ways and these are pretty easy to steal”
Stepping out of the Spotlight
This one is as simple as it sounds. GMs are (correctly) told to ‘share the spotlight’ between player characters, to make sure not only that the narrative doesn’t default to the most vocal player, but that the action economy doesn’t collapse in absence of a defined initiative roll or equivalent.
But if you’re the player — you can give the spotlight away.
Looking for ways to do so is a great way to help players that are unfamiliar, anxious or unengaged (within reason — don’t pile on the pressure!). And it works both in and out of combat. You can:
Rule yourself out of scenes — ‘my barbarian will play dice in the tavern while the rest of them go to the library’
Ask for help — ‘Can Grommir help distract the ogre so I can smack it in the head?’
Prompt someone to lead — ‘As a druid, I know nothing of the city streets, can Blackwing guide me to the correct alley for the deal?’
Offer help to others — ‘If I make myself big and imposing to distract them, someone else can take advantage of that’
Take a passive action — ‘I stand guard while the rest of the party examines the corpse’
Quantum Languages for Basic D&D
Or, testing your character’s skill as an ambassador only when there is something at stake.
As my Mothership boxset goes into cyrosleep for a few months while I work on some modules and supplementary pamphlets, it’s time to look ahead to what I’ll be running in the new year — a first playtest of a Black Wyrm/Ragged Hollow town sandbox using Old School Essentials. I absolutely should be fleshing out the treasure tables, writing some small dungeons and giving the NPCs more than Priest (Nervous).
But instead, I got distracted by languages.
More specifically, some recent Discord conversations reminded me of Prismatic Wastelands Quantum Languages (which itself references several other posts) and made me aware of Dungeonfruit’s Thirteen Tongues (Making Languages Interesting). These are both great, and I’ve previously playtested a less developed version of Prismatic’s rules in my own system.
However, we’re dealing with the strict retroclone here, the B/X, the Red Box — so how do we work something simple into that framework?
The Goal
We want something that’s easy for the players to understand and leads to interesting outcomes. Taking a little time to resolve any procedure isn’t too much of an issue, because these rules won’t be coming into play all that often. Overall, choosing to use this should be beneficial much more often than not, because we want players to both take risks and try to interact with spoken or written languages to generate a richer experience.
For example, my B in GCSE German means I have crossed the country via snorkelling, mountain biking and windsurfing.
So we need:
Multiple degrees of “language success” and “language difficulty”
A resolution system that provides that level of variation in outcome
Terms and conditions for when you can deploy the procedure
The Development
Interesting levels of success in languages are pretty easy to imagine; fluency grants a bonus, and lets you explain complex ideas (no need for rules around that — it’s implicit by the use of the word fluent). At the other end of the scale, miscommunication naturally gives rise to all sorts of farcical situations — even when traps are involved.
In between those two extremes, we can offer various bargains such as being able to read a language but not speak a word. And the more widely spoken or accessible a language is, the easier it is to pick up.
For resolution, we could look at a roll under ability score, but I think adapting the Reaction Roll itself (or at least the 2d6 bell curve) gives us a better representation of typical languages. You’re seldom terrible or brilliant — mostly it’s just how much effort you need to put in and how articulate your vocabulary is.
Then, the whole purpose of this procedure is that you only apply when something is actually at stake. Again, both the Reaction Roll and a classic Saving Throw are our guides here. If you hear about the Temple of the Goblin King, do our adventurers research the local Goblin dialect and customs? Of course not — they aren’t some sort of nerd, they want treasure and they don’t want anyone else to get there first.
The Procedure
Caveat: These rules assume Alignment Languages are not being used, because having essentially four languages (Common + 3 alignments) in the world renders this exercise a little pointless.
All player characters begin play knowing The Common Tongue. They also have language slots equal to 2 + their Intelligence Modifier.
Non-human races must fill a language slot with the tongue of their kin on character creation. They are automatically fluent in this language.
Characters with other languages available (e.g. Gnome for Dwarves) may fill slots with these during character creation. These are also considered fluent.
In play, a character may declare they are filling an empty language slot if:
This character has not encountered this language before.
The language is present and can be interacted with. E.g. it is available in its written or spoken form, be it via an NPC, a book, a magical recording etc.
Roll 2d6 + Charisma Modifier on the following table, also applying a further modifier for the difficulty of the language:
Easy (+1) this language is simple and widely used.
Standard (+0) used only by specific groups day to day, but follows typical structure.
Difficult (-1) obscure, unusual ways of speaking by small populations
Extremely difficult (-2) dead languages with no native speakers, the secret tongues of cults and spies.
Note: Referees may apply some discretion to both “has never encountered this language before” and the difficulty of the language. For example, if a character declares that they wish to use some downtime to study a previously encountered language, this should allow them to make a roll when they encounter it again.