What makes a group of players agree upon a mutually perceived reality? How is that reality established and by what or whom? What happens if we disagree or someone breaks immersion, acting outside of these mutually agreed upon constraints and boundaries?
I have a hypothesis: In every tabletop roleplaying game there is (or should be) a mutually agreed upon contract between players and GM that not only defines how the game is played, but also how the game world is perceived and interacted with.
Depending on what game we’re playing, the outcome of an anvil falling on somebody’s head might vary wildly: In a gritty, high-stakes fantasy world the character might instantly die or suffer severe consequences, whereas they might not even show a scratch in an epic superhero-inspired setting. And in a comical, ACME-inspired world they might crash through the floor leaving behind a character-shaped hole, but then be fine in the next scene.
In order to be able to act in accordance with the game world and to avoid frustration, misunderstandings or even conflict, the potential outcome or consequences of an action should be clear to everyone at the table.
To achieve this the game system’s rules usually provide one fundamental component, while other parts are defined by the game’s lore as well as the players‘ mutual understanding of the game world.
This last and most crucial part is usually negotiated and established in a campaign’s Session Zero by all players, and unlike the rules and the lore, will be subject to change during the course of a campaign.
So, what happens, when players or GM’s willingly and actively act outside these agreed upon constraints, breaking that mutual contract?
I had a scene a while ago in one of my D&D homebrew campaings in which the players were attacked by a group of assassin’s while resting in their favourite inn.
While defending themselves, they pretty much wrecked the place and also left some very unsightly corpses. The inn proprietor, an old lady that we had established as a lovely, rough around the edges grandma type, came in and lamented the damage and cost for cleaning up that mess, requesting compensation.
In an attempt to avoid consequences one of the players tried to turn the tables, replying „Good lady, it is you who should be compensating us, as we were attacked in the supposed safety of your inn!“
The remaining players chimed in, agreeing to her claim and establishing a reality in which, yes, the motherly and lovely old lady who runs a tiny bed and breakfast should either have security or insurance to cover for potential assassin attacks, and if she didn’t, she should at least compensate the at this point stinking rich adventurer party for being attacked while staying in her inn.
In improv terms the whole group „No, and…“-ed the scene, forcing me to either accept their new, established reality or continue to argue against it.
To my players the whole scene probably felt like a fun, chaotic bit, sticking it to the man and cleverly avoiding consequences for their actions. To me it felt like they broke the agreement of our mutually perceived reality, by bullying an old lady they all loved five minutes ago, for no other reason than to avoid minor consequences.
Scenes in which players or GM’s basically reestablish a scene’s reality by rejecting someone’s offer and imposing their own version happen all the time: „No, and…“ I reject your offer and raise the stakes or inflict consequences. GM’s often resort to this behaviour in order to ensure that actions have consequences or even to keep their story on rails, for example when a player-inspired action is driving the story into uncharted territory and they’re reeling to regain control. Players on the other hand might just want to add something fun, clever or even chaotic and weird to a scene, like Deadpool breaking the fourth wall or introducing the concept of accidental death and dismemberment (AD&D) insurance into a medieval fantasy world. That’s almost always fair and square, unless it becomes the modus operandi. If everything’s a joke, what does that mean for the game’s stakes? Still, the same behaviour hits differently, when players and GMs are doing it to gain an in-game advantage.
And while the GM might have the benefit of authority, the other players will always have the numbers.
So, back to the scene… what should I have done? I could have introduced consequences. A lot of GMs, mostly old school ones, would argue for consequences. Enforce GM authority, an escalation of „No, and…“. The party is banned from the inn and every other venue in the city. Word gets around, that they’re unreliable, maybe even dangerous, customers. They’re forced to sleep in the streets or camp outside of town. Their renown is diminished.
To me, as a people pleaser that’s no fun. It escalates a conflict that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Contrary to popular belief, as a GM, I’m not the players‘ antagonist. I am also a player, trying to have fun at the table. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, people forget that, and it’s okay to remind them.
But as a GM, I also have to ask myself: Why am I not having fun? Is it the players disagreeing with me, undercutting my authority? Is it the fact that their ridiculing my established reality which I worked very hard for (looking at you Matt Mercer’s Purvan Suul)?
Since I’m not running an Actual Play with millions of viewers, I could have just stopped the scene, explaining to my players, why this bothered me and that while they were having fun, I didn’t.
We could have then negotiated whether they thought that this interaction should be possible in our game world and what consequences that would have for the party. Based on the outcome we could have reestablished a commom perceived reality and continued.
Because, let’s be honest, Session Zero never ends! In collaborative storytelling and worldbuilding every sentence can be a new offer to renegotiate our established reality.
One final piece of advice: It’s also okay to part ways. This part’s important to bear in mind.
If you’re not having fun playing a game, stop playing. Find other players, find out why you’re not having fun and what you need in order to enjoy playing at a table.
Our hobby used to be so extremely niche, that we were just happy to find four people who shared the same interest and we’re willing to play. Luckily those days are over.
Go find people who enjoy you’re style of play: narrative, crunchy, long, short, immersive or min-max… whatever floats your boat. Your kink is not my kink, but it’s okay. As long as everyone at the table is having a good time and are excited to come back!