Character Studies

— Henry Justice Ford, early 20th century

Over at the RPG Cauldron, Martin asked for blog posts on writing NPCs. I began to gather some recommendations, and I thought about what my advice for writing characters would be. Then I started to write a reply, which I decided to turn into this blog post.

I haven’t published any adventures, but I think I have a knack for recognizing when something is done well and working out why. I also learned a little about character from studying fiction writing and screenwriting in college, and some of that translates to writing for games.

Let’s examine how three designers take different approaches to writing characters in three very different adventures.

Kidnap the Archpriest by Skerples

This module presents a heist with a looming deadline. The players will be focused on developing and executing a plan. Faced with a ticking clock, the players will likely keep conversations with NPCs brief. For this scenario, the referee needs to know what each NPC wants, how they will react to the player characters, and how they might prove useful.

Each character entry begins with a name and a series of terse bullet points with the following labels: appearance, voice, wants, morality, intelligence, and stats. This enables the referee to easily scan an entry for pertinent info and roleplaying notes as the characters rush desperately around the city.

Skerples typically keeps each bullet point to a line or two. Cardinal Gomstead’s appearance is “Jolly. Face like a boiled ham. Scarlet robes.” His voice: “Booming. Shouts questions.” Excellent—eleven words are enough to conjure an image of this guy in my head. He wants “To be the Archpriest one day. Not picky about the method. A rising star with everything to lose.”

Characters more relevant to the heist get an additional write-up afterwards. On Thormund: “He will grovel and panic if caught, offer to help the PCs if interrogated, lie about his experience, and fail at any task assigned to him. […] He is also Cardinal Delver’s illegitimate son, and resembles Cardinal Delver so closely that the two could be exchanged without anyone noticing.” Generally, these notes inform the referee how the person might be useful to the characters and how they react to specific actions.

For a module concerned primarily with logistics and practicalities—and in which players won’t spend a great deal of time with any given NPC—these economical, easily-scanned entries do exactly what they need to.

Kidnap the Archpriest expects that players will actively gather information about its key NPCs, but what if the referee wants players to gain actionable information about an NPC the moment they meet?

Lorn Song of the Bachelor by Zedeck Siew

Let’s take a look at Vartu Si Vartu, Chief of the Gleaming Fins: “Body completely coated in silver paint. He has a servant follow him everywhere, to make sure his makeup is immaculate; it rubs off on everything.” Then we learn he’s missing an arm.

This brief visual description already offers a great deal of information to astute players. Vartu Si Vartu thinks highly of himself, but there’s also a degree of vulnerability to him. Perhaps he has something to prove? He confirms this suspicion when he opens his mouth; Zedeck has included a snippet of sample dialogue: “‘You think you can kill the monster, huh? You think you are better than me? Huh?’” There’s also a line about his manner: “proud warrior. Every newcomer is a rival; every gesture a challenge to his authority.”

Then, we learn what Vartu Si Vartu wants, and the whole picture comes into sharp focus: “Wants: proof the crocodile is a god. Then there is no shame; he lost to a divine being. Fears you succeeding where he failed.”

On the page, this may seem a bit heavy-handed or one-dimensional. The players won’t see it that way, though. And that’s because the referee won’t tell the players, “Vartu Si Vartu is a proud warrior who wants proof that the crocodile is a god to alleviate his shame.” No—the referee will describe what the chief looks like, portray his manner, and the players will infer that information. This is what people mean when they advise to “show, don’t tell,” and Zedeck does so deftly here. He provides the players with the information they need to navigate their conversation with the chief through strong characterizations, and players will feel clever when they put the pieces together.

Witchburner by Luka Rejec

Witchburner isn’t meant to be run off-the-cuff, and I’m daunted by the prospect of running it at all. Luka expects the referee to do their homework, and the text is all the richer for it. In Witchburner, Luka presents an entire community with such pathos and depth that I almost wish it were a novel.

The character entries in this module are unlike any other I’ve seen. Each character gets about a half-dozen words for their physical description, followed by a piece of microfiction. Luka doesn’t spell things out for the referee; he expects them to show enough care to read each entry, make inferences, and absorb who these people are. Let’s consider the woodcutter and his wife as an example. Please go read those entries (pages 55-56).

Luka does not write that the woodcutter’s wife loves him in part due to his passion for writing. He writes that, “Jesus writes his journals every day in a sinuous script that coils across the pages like ash-black vines and brambles. He makes the paper himself from birch bark and hemp.” Of the woodcutter’s wife, Luka writes, “The oil lamp was running low as the girl finished copying the Histories of the Mountain War by Franziska Longmarch. She spent a few more minutes adding her commentaries.” Later: “Her secret dream is to start a public library in the town. Anya and Jesus write poetry to one another in the evenings in their humble home.” In the face of Luka’s writing, the mere reporting of facts feels inadequate, inelegant, perhaps even crude.

Through these pieces of microfiction, the referee gains an understanding of these characters that could not be conferred any other way. And this knowledge does not abandon the referee as easily as a handful of words in a bulleted list. Luka recognizes that stories are more powerful and more enduring than mere facts. If the referee takes the time to read each entry carefully, then the characters of Witchburner will live inside their mind. Does this approach make the adventure easier to absorb and use at the table? No. But I can’t imagine Witchburner any other way.

Best Practices

This is just like, my opinion, man. The best version of a character entry will differ depending on the scenario, its intended use, and what the author expects from the referee. I’ll propose some best practices, though:

• If a character matters enough to have a name, they should want something.
• Keep physical descriptions short and focus on what matters. I don’t give a damn about most characters’ hair color. Joffrey Baratheon, on the other hand…
• Either write character entries that the referee can scan and absorb at the table during the session, or write entries that make the characters unforgettable. I cannot overstate how much easier it is to do the former.
• Use memorable names! Words are better than random sounds, especially if they convey something about the character or create irony. One name plus a title is better than two names. Repeated sounds help (alliteration, consonance, rhyme). Lady Lambgutter is more memorable than Ophelia Lambgutter—and much more memorable than Omphale Lambogarria.
• Tell the referee about the character using clear language, but also provide them with characterizations they can use to show the players who that character is.
• A snippet of example dialogue can do a lot of heavy lifting if it’s distinct and carefully chosen. Consider, for example, how differently—and distinctly—Mr. Milchick and Dylan G. speak in Severance.
• If your module has a main thing, just about every character should have an opinion on it, and these opinions should be as different as is reasonable. Writing a mystery scenario? Every character should have a theory about who did it and why. Is your adventure centered around a necromancer? Someone might deny the necromancer’s existence, while another might speculate about how undead labor might increase their profits.
• Include information about how characters are related and what they think of each other. Again, variety is helpful; include many different relationship dynamics.
• Avoid shitty tropes. Is the one disabled character a cowardly schemer? Is the character desparately in need of aid a young, attractive woman? Is every woman described in terms of her attractiveness? Is the mayor corrupt, greedy, and fat? Do better than this.

Conversational Modes

I wrote a draft a while ago on NPCs as conversational modes. The gist of it is this: each character finds a specific mode of conversation—bragging, complaining, bartering, scolding, flirting—irresistible. Playing into this tendency is the key to engaging with the character. This serves three purposes:

• It adds a fun layer of challenge to conversations with NPCs. Players engage in a minigame to figure out how a character wants to engage with them and then play in that mode.
• It distinguishes characters from each other—”Oh, the captain of the guard is the guy who loves weird hypotheticals.”
• It helps keep conversations with NPCs from falling into a familiar pattern of who are you, what do you want, how can we help?

Here’s a quick example:

The Advisor

“I wouldn’t go into that ruin if I were you. And if I did, I’d bring a ten-foot pole. Best get yerself one o’ those pronto. Better hold that lantern higher, too, so’s to see the ceiling.”

Openers: asks if the party is lost, offers to adjust an uneven pack, suggests an alternative marching order, speculates that the party is unprepared for the impending weather, etc.

Engage by: outlining an obviously foolhardy plan, presenting a problem or dilemma, asking their opinion on something specific, lamenting your own obliviousness, etc.