Immortals is a game I developed in reaction to games that were, I felt, more mechanical and war-game focused. I wanted to create a game where the players didn’t chase ability points or modifiers to die rolls. So, I didn’t use dice or other random number generators, and most of the rules were hidden from the players, so that they had to discover them.
When I first started, I found that the players were forced to think about what they were doing and, more importantly, the way they were doing it. In a game like AD&D, a fighter merely has to say ‘I hit it’, and roll their D20. Then, if they hit their opponent, they assign damage.
However, since I wasn’t using dice in this game, it became important to know what sort of thing a character had done to try and deal someone a blow. At first, there were only a few results that were possible.
- Clean miss.
- Glancing blow, no serious injury.
- Solid blow, inflicting an injury.
To determine whether or not a character had successfully hit, the player would have to tell me what sort of thing they were doing, for example, whether they were going to try for an overhand strike with a broadsword, or bash them with their shield, or whatever.
I would match the player’s action choice against the NPC’s action choice and try to work out what the most logical result would be. It created a kind of paper/scissors/rock effect, where a given defence could be penetrated by one attack, but not another, etc.
Resolving the results of the kind of injury was easy, as well. Once I knew what the result of the attack and the defence was, it was usually completely obvious what sort of wound would follow, if any. Secondary damage like bruising and fatigue, I kept track of, but didn’t worry too much about. If the character seemed to be taking a pasting, I’d look at their character sheet, and try to decide if they were a tough sort of person, or a bit of a wimp. If they were on the tough side, then they became a bit of a wimp until they recovered. If they were on they wimpy side to start with, then I made them clumsy and less effective in general.
The effect of not having a pile of hit points and obvious stats meant that the players only had an impression of how well they were, rather than knowing to the exact mil how much blood remained in their body. At the same time, those people that were graphic in the description of their action choice were more effective. Because they gave a clear description of what they were doing, it contributed to visual impact of the game.
Players stopped counting their hit points, and started telling me what they were doing, which meant that the action had a distinct sense of flow. Players grabbed the bad guys hand and tried to wrest the remote control detonator from them and things like that. The game became more and more cinematic.
I had not expected the game to move with this kind of elan. I had expected the game to let me tell stories that were a little different to other kinds of fantasy roleplaying, perhaps with more focus on politics and intrigue. Instead, I found myself looking down the barrel of a certified four colour action adventure.
To stay ahead of my players, I started introducing story elements from the fantasy novels that I most liked. I had always been fond of Nine Princes in Amber, and I wanted to create something in that vein. However, to make something like that happen, I needed vivid characters to capture the players attention. Unfortunately, as much as I liked Nine Princes in Amber, I wasn’t alone. My players also read the books, and I found that if I used material like this too much, I could be predicted. I was in a bind. I had introduced story elements that the players could identify, and then to sustain their suspension of disbelief, I had to maintain them honestly.
Ultimately, I was forced to toss most of my material. So, I planned to destroy my universe, and start again.
At the moment of destruction, however, I had a moment of doubt, but couldn’t think of a way to improvise a solution that didn’t leave me lumbered with a cast that I found limiting. I carried through the destruction of the universe, but I remembered my moment of hesitation.
When the new world rose from the ashes, I had other NPCs, ones that I had created. I thought of about seven or eight different kinds of magic that I didn’t want my players to be able to cast, and the other four or five I chose as an example of the sorts of things that a player might have.
As I started to flesh out the characters, it occurred to me that not all of the NPCs needed to be very tough. In fact, if there were different levels of toughness within the game, it would create staged areas of difficulty.
The players might expect to be able to deal with an NPC like the Lord of Iron, but be way out of their league when it came to confronting the Lady of the Abyss.
However, it created a different kind of effect in the game. Often, a weaker NPC wouldn’t be able to support some of the stories I wanted to tell, purely because they couldn’t sustain the effort. So, I was forced to consider my NPCs forming alliances.
This created an interesting effect, because then players started to form alliances. The problem with alliances was that they dragged more and more Immortal characters into the world, and it seemed to me that the world was overcrowded with incredibly powerful entities. Suspension of disbelief was threatened.
I was faced with three solutions. I could ditch the alliances, or I could ditch the growing horde of Immortals, or I could destroy the universe again. I decided to do all three things at once.
I was saved from having to execute all or any of these plans, however, because I suddenly realised that there was another way out.
In the first incarnation of the world, players had access to different planets. It occurred to me that I could use the idea of different planes, instead of planets, and spread the alliances over different worlds, reducing the Lebensraum problem.
I created six different worlds, connected by stone bridges that arched across a great Abyss. Players could move their characters to different worlds and encounter different kinds of stories.
The worlds needed to be different, or else they ran the risk of running into each other, so I defined them in different ways. Malkuth was a post-holocaust world, Feralie was a fantasy environment, and so on. Different kinds of games suggested themselves for each plane, and again, I had an environment where the game could be played in many different ways.
As each of these basic elements of the game came into being, the NPCs evolved. Tlactla and Serifan became more and more identifiable, while the Lady of the Blood Tide, for example, became less and less well formed. So, I pruned Immortals that didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and soon, I had a firmer, tighter cast.
And, that’s about it, really. The game is still evolving, often in directions that I never predicted, and that’s what I like about it. It’s open, malleable and focused on story telling more than it is on numbers.