Free Play 1 – The Sources

As promised a couple of weeks ago, I’m taking a look at Stephen Nachmanovitch’s Free Play: Improvisation in Life and Art to see how it integrates with my current understanding of creativity, spontaneity and collaboration. It was one of my first encounters with the subject a decade ago, and I want to see how I relate to it now and deepen my understanding and practice.

Section 1: “The Sources” talks about creativity, what it “is” and where it “comes from.” He describes the goal of the improviser as “moment-to-moment nonstop flow.” The process looks something like: allow yourself to be in the moment, relax and let one moment flow into the next, sculpting your art in real time, daring to express your inmost nature. In that way you can free yourself to create for the sheer joy of the act itself, and ultimately “disappear” in the absolute immersion of the work.

Sure, sounds simple enough, but how, right? Well, there are lots of techniques and practices that aim toward this. But there’s no easy “spontaneous creativity” switch inside a person that they can throw and let it out. It’s a process, a wax-on, wax-off journey that develops the skill by practicing it until it becomes as natural as breathing.

There are two ways, in my experience, to develop this skill. The first is the “deep end of the pool” approach, where you cannonball into the water with the courageous, vulnerable expectation of creative input RIGHT NOW, with no chance to plan or prepare. I was part of an improvisational songwriting collective called Ink Brethren for about a year, where we did just that–writing as much as a dozen songs on the spot in one take, then listening to them played back to see what we’d done. This shows the participants that they really do have something to share that emerges when they let go of expectations, and emphasizes the immediate nature of improvisation: the art happens in real time, with no takebacks or revisions. As Nachmanovitch puts it, time becomes a sculpting medium for the work, as much as space is for the stonecutter. It’s exciting to do, and gratifying to see the results. The big pitfall is that the shock can be too much for some participants, bringing out anxiety or causing them to turtle up and contribute a cautious minimum, or nothing at all.

The other method is what I’ll call the “toe in the water” approach. In this scenario the creator is led step by step into the ritual space of spontaneous art-making. What’s needed is an icebreaker for the creative mind–exercises that get you over the shock of “be creative now!” and lead everyone to a complimentary creative wavelength. Free Play references an improv warmup by Keith Johnstone where the players stride around the room, point to objects and loudly call them by the wrong name (“car!” to a coatrack, “octopus!” to a chair), thus clearing people’s heads of conventional associations so they can create something new. Willem Larsen developed warmups for the roleplaying game Polaris, and he and I have since had extensive conversations developing this concept of Fluency for broader application. This process gets us eventually to the same place as Ink Brethren, but serves to guide everyone into a space where they are ready to make art, spontaneously, together, as well as “get the sillies out” so we can focus our energy. But it does require more effort and discipline to facilitate and participate.

Both of these approaches require bucket-loads of trust! Todd Fadel, the founder/facilitator of Ink Brethren, made it work by making it absolutely clear that it was a safe place free of judgment, that any input you gave would be accepted and celebrated.  You have to feel safe to get dangerous. And the Fluency model requires all participants to enter in with a deep respect for the process and each other, to trust that this path will lead to intimate creativity, and commit to not disturbing that intimacy with “just anything.” In fact, Nachmanovitch makes it plain that improvisation is NOT doing “just anything,” but rather expressing what is in our inmost self by clearing away distractions, static and fear.

A final thought: it strikes me that storyjamming is a medium uniquely suited to bringing out the vulnerable expression of improvisation. Because we play through a fictional mask, we can arrive at meaningful and authentic statements without aiming at them, simply through playing characters within a certain structure. And we can voice things that might otherwise be choked back from doubt and fear, because “our characters” can become a Muse (another Free Play technique) to enable fearless speaking of the truth inside us. That excites me quite a bit.

Peace,

-Joel

Free Play: a Flute and a Prologue

10 years or so ago I picked up a little book called Free Play: Improvisation in Life and Art by Stephen Nachmanovitch.  It lit up my whole switchboard and gave me a philosophy and direction for creative living. Its subtitle even found its way unconsciously into Story by the Throat’s tagline. This book was one of the first sources to talk about something I had a thirst for. I read it over and over, soaking up Stephen’s exciting ideas.

But now a decade later I find I’m barely closer to realizing these principles in my own life. So I’m going to take a closer look, step by step, and see how Free Play’s concepts connect with the other things I’ve learned and experienced with creativity, spontaneity and collaboration.

I’ll begin delving into it in the next few days. Meanwhile, I present the Japanese folk tale from the book’s prologue. It speaks volumes all by itself:

A new flute was invented in China. A Japanese master musician discovered the subtle beauties of its tone and brought it back home, where he gave concerts all around the country. One evening he played with a community of musicians and music lovers who lived in a certain town. At the end of the concert, his name was called. He took out the new flute and played one piece. When he was finished, there was silence in the room for a long moment. Then the voice of the oldest man was heard from the back of the room: “Like a god!”

The next day, as this master was packing to leave, the musicians approached him and asked how long it would take a skilled player to learn the new flute. “Years,” he said. They asked if he would take a pupil, and agreed. After he left, they decided among themselves to send a young man, a brilliantly talented flautist, sensitive to beauty, diligent and trustworthy. They gave him money for his living expenses and for the master’s tuition, and sent him on his way to the capital, where the master lived.

The student arrived and was accepted by his teacher, who assigned him a single, simple tune. At first he received systematic instruction, but he easily mastered all the technical problems. Now he arrived for his daily lesson, sat down, and played his tune – and all the master could say was, “Something lacking.” The student exerted himself in every possible way; h he practiced for endless hours; yet day after day, week after week, all the master said was, ” Something lacking.” He begged the master to change the tune, but the master said no. The daily playing, the daily “something lacking” continued for months on end. The student’s hope of success and fear of failure became ever magnified, and swung from agitation to despondency.

Finally the frustration became too much for him. One night he packed his bag and slinked out. He continued to live in the capital city for some time longer, until his money ran dry. He began drinking. Finally, impoverished, he drifted back to his own part of the country. Ashamed to show his face to former colleagues, he found a hut far out in the countryside. He still possessed his flutes, still played but found no new inspiration in music. Passing farmers heard him play and sent their children to him for beginner’s lessons. He lived this way for years.

One morning there was a knock at his door. It was the oldest past-master from his town, along with the youngest student. They told him that tonight they were going to have a concert, and they had all decided it would not take place without him. With some effort they overcame his feelings of fear and shame, and almost in a trance he picked up a flute and went with them. The concert began. As he waited behind the stage, no one intruded on his inner silence. Finally, at the end of the concert, his name was called. He stepped out onto the stage in his rags. He looked down at his hands, and realized that he had chosen the new flute.

Now he realized that he had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. He sat down and played the same tune he had played so many times for his teacher in the past. When he finished, there was silence for a long moment. Then the voice of the oldest man was heard, speaking softly from the back of the room: “Like a god!”

Peace,

-Joel

Breaking tradition, mending souls

My family decided to postpone celebrating Christmas this year. See, my brother’s in the National Guard currently serving in Iraq, and he doesn’t get home on leave until the middle of January. So we thought, it’d be better to just wait a few weeks, then we can all celebrate together.

This made the actual day of Christmas and the week leading up to it strangely empty. Because I knew our “real” Christmas would come later, the atmosphere of anticipation passed me by, and Christmas day felt flat. My wife and I did join on her family’s celebration,  but for me there was no zest, no family warmth or misty sentiment. I had spiritually drained the life out of the day.

This struck me as a mild example of how breaking with tradition can disrupt your whole being, to say nothing of those around you. traditions are a means of forming identity, and it’s no light thing to reinvent “who you are,” especially if the rest of your culture still adheres to the path you’ve left behind.

Feeling slightly bummed about a late Christmas is, as I said, a pretty mild example, and I don’t doubt for a second that it was the right choice for my family this year. But this happens to us all the time in more serious ways as well. In the era of personal reinvention  I’d even posit that it’s happening at an exponentially increasing rate.

For instance, when I set out in college to examine my beliefs and discover my own personal values, I ended up rejecting the religion and politics of my parents, and finding my own. I don’t regret it one bit. Figuring out who I am, and continuing to evolve that understanding, has shaped nearly 15 years of experience. But it’s caused no end of grief in my family. I had bitter, tear-filled arguments with my parents, which were left unresolved when my dad unexpectedly died a few years ago. The strain of breaking free of established beliefs and practices hangs over us to this day.

And even then this isn’t the most extreme example possible. I didn’t even reject Christianity, I just revised my understanding and practice of it. If my life change had been to come out as homosexual, or profess to be Wiccan, would the strain be too much? Or if I lived in a more closed and isolated society, where to turn my back on a belief is to be shunned from a community? I shudder to think.

Story games like Dogs in the Vineyard examine this issue: bucking a tradition disrupts a community and causes pain. It’s not even about whether a tradition is right or wrong, just or unjust…just the mere fact of disrupting the social fabric causes pain, and it becomes not a question of whether it’s right to do so, but whether it’s worth it.

Traditions are tricky beasts. They often seem arbitrary (especially when they aren’t your own!), but nothing in human culture happens without a reason. Traditions, customs and rituals are ways that we organize our lives so we can cope and function in the world around us. They give us (hopefully!) healthy patterns of thinking and acting that enable us to live. They tell us a story about our existence so we can make sense of it.

So if you outgrow a tradition, what then? How will you cast off what those around you bear without thinking? What will you replace it with? And how will you handle the strain on your relationship to the world around you?

In this episode of Radiolab on the topic of “Choice”, the hosts talk with psychologist Barry Schwartz about coping with a world where “there are no defaults” and “every imaginable lifestyle is available” and examine Baba Shiv’s studies in how overwhelming information interferes with our ability to make healthy choices.

But most telling to me in the second segment (about 20 minutes in) was the story of a man “Elliot,” who following the removal of a brain tumor, became neurologically disengaged from his emotional center. Without the emotional component of decision-making, Elliot became analytically paralyzed by the most trivial of choices. It is not reason alone, but the interpretive lens of “illogical,” “arbitrary” emotion that enables us to function and navigate our world. In other words, tradition.

But in a world of infinite choice, how do we choose traditions that enrich our lives? And how do we evaluate whether it’s worth the disruption in our lives, our family’s lives, our society’s lives?

I have no easy answers. I suspect it starts with conviction–know what you value in life, and how far you’re willing to push to get it. But while simple, putting that into practice is anything but easy. I wish you strength in your journey.

Peace,

-Joel

Advocacy by the Throat

Juilan Michels, creator of the Open Circle Story method for storyjamming, asked me to write about my thoughts on “character advocacy and suspense,” following a conversation we were having in person. Julian’s said in the past, “I don’t advocate for the character, I advocate for the story.” I’d like to dig into how I feel about that. And what does it have to do with suspense, anyway?

The basics: Character Advocacy is discussed by Jesse Burneko on his blog Play Passionately, and is about a player representing the fictional interests of a particular protagonist, where another player (“Gamemaster,” usually) is responsible for creating adversity and challenging those interests. In a sense this is merely the central and often unexamined tenet of roleplaying for decades–”the GM plays the world, the players control what their characters do and say.”

But for Story Now play there must be a particular focus: a player who advocates for a Protagonist must be free and willing to address problematic human issues through the lens of that character. It’s that player’s job to show us who that character is under pressure.

So why is Character Advocacy so important? Can’t you, as Julian says, “advocate for the story?” It’s collaborative storytelling; surely we’re all mature and sophisticated enough to shed these archaic character-ownership notions and just make story together…right?

Well, Character Advocacy isn’t the only way to make story together, to be sure. But the reasons I find it so powerful are:

1) It’s dead simple. That may seem trivial, but actually having procedures that are intuitive and obvious is very helpful for creative flow. I don’t have to guess what I should be doing at any given point in the storyjam. I don’t have to address a nebulous concept like “what’s good for the story?” with all the attendant self-doubt and hesitation. I can just advocate for my character, with the person across the table providing adversity, and trust that from this a “good story” will emerge. Because we’re sure of our roles, we can each devote ourselves to performing them well and gracefully.

2) It maintains tension. Yes, I am perfectly capable of imagining a character and deciding what happens to her, good and bad. It might even make for a great story; writers of all media and genres do this every day. But the primary strength of roleplaying/storyjamming as an artform, is collaborative story creation. And that means we have a powerful tool for maintaining tension around our circle, by surrendering some control over our characters’ fates to another player. “There once was a girl, and she was an orphan, but she was adopted by a king and queen, but a monster menaced the kingdom, but she defeated it, the end.” Spoken by one person, it may or not be a great story, but it’s not a conversation. There’s where “suspense” comes in–when we enter a back-and-forth of action and reaction, then we have a chance to enter into a realm of spine-tingling anticipation over what happens to the girl: what challenges she’ll face, how she’ll respond to them, and what it will cost her.

3) It fosters emotional investment. Character Advocacy requires you to care about a particular character in a unique way. Not to insist that they are always victorious or have a happy ending, not even to necessarily like them. But to care enough to advocate for their goals, to provide something for an adversary to push against. Enough to be unwilling to “throw” the match, to say “you know what? This guy’s a bastard, hell YEAH you cut his head off and violate the corpse.” Because the character is fictional, he needs a real person who’s going to represent him in the proceedings, to give him a fair shake, even at being a bastard and getting away with it. And because we all emotionally invest this way, we have a chance at being truly moved by the results.

So Character Advocacy isn’t the only widget in the Story Now toolbox, and various games will use it to varying degrees and in various ways. I sat in on an Open Circle Story, which doesn’t formally use the technique at all, and was quite pleased with the results. But Advocacy is a powerful technique for dynamic, emotionally invested group  storytelling. I won’t be abandoning it anytime soon.

Peace,

-Joel

Free, Affirmed, Expressive, Consequential

Awhile back “Doctor Professor” of the blog Pixel Poppers wrote some interesting stuff about interactive storytelling in video games. In the first half, he discusses how video games have failed at storytelling, by imitating other media (film, mostly) instead of playing to their own medium’s strengths: interactivity and dynamism. In the second half, he takes a look at what successful and innovative videogame storytelling might look like.

Doctor Professor’s points resonate with me. I’ve come to love the newest generations of VG technology (Playstation-onwards) for their ability to convey a story through cinematic presentation, and I’ve favored the kinds of games that present fully-realized characters with emotions and personalities (Metal Gear Solid, Final Fantasy) over games that provide blank protagonists to imprint your own emotions and thoughts onto (Deus Ex, Elder Scrolls). I’ve found that the latter tend to fall short of actually feeling like a story, while the former at least provide story in a meaningful way, even if it’s spoon-fed to you and beyond your ability to impact.

But Dr. Prof is right; these stories are wasting the medium’s artistic potential. They’re showing movies with intermissions for gymnastics and target practice. They’re often pretty movies,  sometimes with characters and themes that speak to me. And the gameplaying segments that alternate with cinematics can often be rewarding and fun in their own right. These are not failures as games.

But as an art form, they can be more. Some games are pioneering this change, such as Metal Gear Solid (known for its interminable cutscenes but also for making gameplay decisions matter in new ways) and Mass Effect (which will allow pivotal choices made in the first game to load into the next one). Pioneering new ground doesn’t run smoothly, of course. Both the above gamers have severe limitations on the player’s ability to affect the story. But hopefully as this trend continues we’ll see a radical shift as, like Doctor Professor says, the video game medium comes into its own.

The Professor names four strengths of video games that are vital for exploring their storytelling potential. 1) choices must be free, 2) choices must be affirmed, 3) choices must be expressive, and 4) choices must be consequential. When a player’s input is not channeled or forced into a predetermined path, AND receives feedback that validates the choice (characters thank you,  get mad, etc), AND allows for emotional expression and thematic statement, AND has a meaningful effect on the world and its inhabitants, THEN the player can truly be said to shape the outcome of the story. The user is a collaborator rather than a consumer.

Which is one of the strengths of face-to-face roleplaying, presumably–with human imaginations on tap for content, rather than computer algorithms, the potential for free, affirmed, expressive and consequential choice, for all participants, is vast. Collaborative story should pulse through a roleplaying session. And yet I’ve had many roleplaying experiences that have shut down each one of those attributes of choices, often several at once. Just as video games, in emulating movies, aren’t realizing their unique artistic potential, so “pen and paper” games fall short of their calling when they merely emulate the pre-written novel or the pre-programmed video game.

My friend Christian of Berengad Games also recently explored ways of achieving dynamic and interactive story in video games. He had a specific theoretical implementation in mind and I contributed my own. But whatever the specific implementation–and there’s room for multitudes–I think the key lies in Dr. Professor’s 4 elements: free, affirmed, expressive and consequential.

And if computer programmers are breaking new ground here, can interactive group storytelling in the real world do any less? For myself, I can’t go back. Those four criteria are my minimum bar for participation. At the very least, if any of those elements aren’t on the table, DON’T LEAD ME ON–tell me up front, so that I can make the mental shift and NOT approach the game as group storytelling. But when I’m seizing story, I’ll stay in the company of the innovators and explorers, and keep my eye on the horizon.

Peace,

-Joel

The Green Man of Portland

So I’m out with some of my churchmates last week with fresh-baked ham, corn and potatoes to help feed the homeless.

Except we don’t call them “the homeless,” we call them “our friends without houses” or “our friends who live outside.” It’s more humanizing and personal, as opposed to “othering” these real human beings with a handy sociological label. But anyway:

So I’m helping share food with my friends who live outside, and as always I’m enjoying being there face to face, looking people in the eye and handing them something they need and can enjoy, fresh cooked from my oven, making human connections. And I’m thinking about the sign I received a month ago, the three-fold omen whose significance I’m still pondering.

I wore a mask of the Green Man of medieval myth for Halloween. Then I found a beautiful leaf on the street downtown, sporting beautiful colors and seeming to leap into my path. Then I passed a sidewalk art fixture that spoke of the “Green Man of Portland.”

Turns out the fixture was created by comics artist Daniel Duford as part of a series about the Green Man and his mystical, perception-altering  influence over the city’s inhabitants. What stood out for me at the time was the artwork’s closing line of poetry: “Even the shunned are held in the arms of the Green Man of Portland.”

While I’m hardly a seasoned veteran at interpreting signs and portents, I’ve generally found them to occur at pivotal times, when I’m feeling blocked about a particular problem or when I’m entering a new season of my life.

So I took it in and mulled it over. “Even the shunned are held in the arms of the Green Man of Portland.” For a long time I’ve been drawn to the “shunned” in all aspects of life, from the invisibles of the street to the passionate, the dissident, the radical. These are in so many ways “my people,” so it was no surprise to read those words. But what to do with them?

“Even the shunned are held in the arms of the Green Man of Portland.” I do long to reach out to people. To hold them in my arms, to awaken them to a way of life–of health, of freedom, of joy–that even I only dimly grasp. But do I have the right to push my way of thinking onto others? And even if I do “have” that “right”, do I really want to exercise it?

“Even the shunned are held in the arms of the Green Man of Portland.” Maybe I can find a way to hold people in my arms without smothering them, without trying to “fix” them, without “knowing what’s best” for them,” loving without any strings attached?

So I’m helping share food with my friends who live outside, and I believe that I can.

There are still a lot of unknowns. What about my life will change as I assimilate this new focus? Will I adopt some kind of persona and mission, or just keep doing stuff informally, as plain ol’ me? Will I continue to reach out piecemeal, doing little things here and there, or will I take up a dedicated mission and cause? I don’t know. I just know that I have a renewed focus to love people, and if there’s any kind of valuable lifestyle I can impart to help them, it will be by doing, by living in such a way that it invites them to do the same.

This isn’t a scientific process. Nor is it some esoteric mysticism requiring saint-like patience, fanatical devotion, or elite, hidden knowledge. it’s just a matter of looking and listening. Consider everything potentially significant. Be alert for connections in all things, even, ESPECIALLY, the unconscious. When you look and listen, story finds you.

Peace,

-Joel

Remembrance in the Thin Time

This month I participated in a holiday that commemorates the blessings one has received in life. No, not Thanksgiving. I’m talking about Samhain.

I had the privilege of attending a Samhain festival at Portland’s St. Peter & Paul Episcopal Church. I’ve long been fascinated with ancient Celtic culture, but never had the opportunity to attend a traditional (reconstructed) celebration before. It was wonderful, and full of surprises.

The first surprise was that an Episcopal church was drawing from a deep well of Celtic Spirituality.  I don’t know much about the Episcopalian tradition, but I had always assumed that as a branch of the Anglican church, their focus would be, well, English and not so much Irish. I had no idea where in Portland I could encounter Celtic Christianity, and now it had found me.

The second surprise was that the service, held in a church, was connected with deep roots that go beyond doctrine or dogma. The ceremony was rooted in two concepts: a circle where all are welcome and all are equal, and the empowerment of everyone present to tell their story.

That was it. No exclusion, no pressure toward religious belief, no attempt at “managing” input beyond invitation and facilitation. Everyone from 10-year-olds to the middle aged was able to don the storyteller’s cloak and tell both of legends dear to them and of their own experiences dearer still. I was blessed, and I’m not just mouthing a ritual word to say that.

The third surprise was an unexpected encounter with my own past.  The Rector, Kurt, explained that Samhain (“Sow-in” or “Sav-an”) is the “Thin Time,” the beginning of Winter where resources strain and life hangs by a thread–but also when the veil between flesh and spirit thins, allowing us greater closeness with those who have gone on, but are still in our hearts.  Like my Dad.

I didn’t attend the Circle expecting to encounter my father. I only knew that I had been invited. But as others shared their memories of departed loved ones, I realized that the window was open for a connection with him. I donned the cloak and told the tale of my father and me: of the heritage and roots he instilled, of the bitter differences we had, of the death that left us unresolved, and of the gifts of love that I carry even through the pain. And I felt his presence for the first time in years.

What happened here? First, I came open to having a meaningful experience, but with no particular expectations. Second, the hospitality of that Circle made a safe space where I could unburden my heart. And third, a context of ritual and tradition was provided that could draw me into a mindframe that I wouldn’t have arrived at on my own.

That’s how community looks. That’s how ritual looks. And that’s how telling stories together looks, whether at bardic circle, church service, or game table. And it’s beautiful.

Peace,

-Joel

Putting Omens on hold

On All Hallows Eve and the following morning, I wore a dyed leather eyemask of green leaves and antlers, with an accompanying outfit–the Green man of medieval art and myth. Days later just after describing my costume to a friend I encountered another pair of symbols: a remarkable leaf colored bright green and yellow, with rich crimson veins, and a sidewalk art fixture making reference to “the Green man of Portland. I felt in my bones that these three signs were some sort of portent for my life.

So I snapped pics of the fixture on my cellphone, came home and shoved the leaf in the fridge with a damp paper towel, and promptly forgot about the whole thing for almost a month.

Today I pulled out the Omens to contemplate them, and I wondered–what culture do I live in, what manner of man have I become, that I would treat such signs and wonders as bottled inspiration–a spiritual snack to be put on ice until it’s convenient to enjoy it?

I think we’ve become a society with both the means and the necessity of storing and organizing information to be processed in the cracks around our busy and rigid schedules. But paradocixally, we actually have preposterous amounts of free time, even among the working classes, but so much of that is taken up by processing an incessant and overwhelming information feed, often of trivial matters. After all, when I arrived home with those omens in hand, it was late, I had work early next morning–and I still needed to check my updates on Facebook!

Now, it sort of worked.  Using technology to preserve the imagery helped me to recall that experience weeks later, and process it with some semblance of authenticity. But would I want to make a habit of that? If the Infinite has something to say to me, do I really want to dispatch some weasely Personal Assistant to take a memo for me and present it to me at next morning’s daily briefing? I want to be–I PRESENT myself as–a person who’s in tune with the spiritual dimensions around me. Doesn’t that mean living in the holy moment, taking the time to gratefully and courteously accept that which enriches life as it comes to me?

In all likelihood I’m going to continue to check Facebook, work for the man, and multitask my mental and spiritual attention for some time to come. But I’d like to remember not to treat numinous gifts with such cavalier presumption.

Peace,

-Joel

Tell your story, ask a question, interpret generously

The response from visitors to my blog has for the most part been cordial, affirming and enriching. But a couple of recent incidents have told me it’s time to make clear how I endeavor to conduct myself here and what I expect from guests in return.

My friend Willem Larsen of the College of Mythic Cartography has developed a set of guidelines for some forums he moderates. The way I hear it, he got so fed up with the choice between pages of nitpicky rules and nebulous “commonsense” standards of niceness, that he boiled down the behavior he was looking for to three simple directives. I find they sum up beautifully how I’d like to interact with people here or anywhere:

Tell your story. Relate your experience, describe your feelings, share your personal knowledge. Instead of responding to others off the cuff with whatever instinctive reaction or opinion comes to mind, dig deep into your own experience that causes you to think or feel that way. Share that. Your story is valuable, and so is everyone else’s. When we share on that level, we can empathize more fully and discover each other’s value.

Ask a Question. If there’s something you don’t understand about someone else’s story, if there’s some detail you think might be relevant, if you think you might have some experience in common…ask. Don’t assume you know what someone “really” meant unless they’ve said it directly. This dovetails nicely with the first guideline–if you can’t understand where someone is coming from, you can always ask, “what experience have you had that led you to that conclusion?” We want to hear each other’s stories, and questions are great for teasing those out and finding common ground.

Interpret Generously. If someone’s statement sounds ridiculous to you, or someone seems to be advocating a reprehensible position, assume for a moment that they’re not. Assume that what they’re saying makes sense, is reasonable, and has value. Try to imagine how that could be. Ask questions to clarify, until you are sure you understand where the person is coming from. ANd if you still find you have differences, you can part ways politely, without anyone being compared to Hitler.

I find this way of communicating to be more human and life-affirming than a lot of modes I’ve tried in person or online. And while it’s a challenge to to break out of old patterns, there’s something freeing in following a simple set of principles instead of having to guess, by gut feeling, whether you’re being “nice,” or “a dick,” or whatever.

Is there room for disagreement under this philosophy? Absolutely, we can disagree quite freely. The only thing we lose is the ability to argue or “debate” in a juvenile, “uh-HUH!” “Nuh-UH!” fashion. Our disagreement is expressed through our experiences and we can be certain that even in our differences we can be truly heard.

That’s the call by which I invite yo all into the hospitality of my space. That’s the standard I’ll expect of you as guests. When there are hiccups and challenges, we’ll work it out through discussion and hopefully continue on in goodwill. If any of us (yes, me too!) stumble and someone points it out, it’s not a “punishment” or a label of “bad person.” Only in persisting in a disruptive behavior might a guest outgrow my hospitality. In the meantime, Welcome. Come and tell your story!

The lesson of the genial Vikings

Last time I talked about the idea that roleplaying or storyjamming can profoundly change your life by allowing you to rewrite your soul pathways into new (hopefully healthier) patterns. But how’s that look in actual play? I offer myself as example:

I’ve been playing for a few months in a game of Luke Crane’s Burning Wheel, set in Medieval Ireland in the era of Viking settlement. We’re playing three denizens of a small fishing village north of  Dubh Linn, caught in the creep up the coast of Norse settlement and rule. Matthew’s playing a prince, coming home after being fostered by Norsemen, who wants there to be peace between everyone. David’s playing a vengeful raid victim, seducing and killing her way through the clan who violated her and took her son. And I’m playing a young tough who fought the Norse over in Caledonia with his uncle, and comes home to find the same Viking dogs infesting his hometown!

Now, I made this character with the full-on expectation of rising up in bloody and righteous revolt against some oppressive foreign bastards. Period, the end. I might succeed, I might fail. But a brave stand against vile oppressors was pretty much my only thought.

But this is the Burning Wheel. Our characters are defined by their Beliefs and Instincts. But it’s then Jim’s job as Gamemaster to challenge those beliefs through the events of play, creating situations with no easy choices. And that’s what happened.

When young Gabhrán returned home he was shocked to find the Northerners ruling in place of the hereditary chieftan, but even more shocked to find everyone pretty OK with it. His Ma and Da as well as the slain chieftan’s son all insisted that they’ve been well and fairly treated, and the village is prosperous and content. There was a rebellious faction stirring, but as time went on it became clear that they and Gabhrán have little basis for revolt beyond sheer bloody-mindedness. And when Gabhrán undertook to champion the cause of a grievously wronged woman–sexually assaulted and accused of murder–in truth this was the aforementioned vengeful seductress, truly guilty of the murder and not assaulted at all. This culminated in Gabhrán fighting a duel in defense of her innocence which ended in the death of a guiltless Viking dupe.

It began to dawn on me that I entered the game with some unexamined assumptions. When I considered playing a righteous revolutionary, I was unconsciously equating “righteous” with “revolt.” In other words, “”ruler” and “oppressor” were synonymous in my mind, and I was assuming that all that was needed for a righteous cause was someone, especially someone foreign, in power. That told me something startling about my attitude toward the world, and just how much of it is based on unconscious bias. Am I really that reactionary and unthinkingly contrarian?

I’ve been forced to reevaluate how I view the world. I’m examining how my principles–love, peace, justice–actually work themselves out in my personal universe. Answers aren’t easy, but I’d say they’re worth the work.

I want to point out that this wasn’t a hiccup or defect in gameplay–”Whoops, sorry guys, my personal biases mucked up the story, won’t happen again!”–but rather the game’s purpose in action. I did exactly right in choosing Beliefs that I care about, and Jim and the other players did exactly right in providing meaningful friction to those Beliefs. You play Burning Wheel to be challenged, and challenged hard, on a personal level. But at the same time, we weren’t playing for personal life lessons, as a substitute for therapy or something. We were playing to create a story with courageous honesty, and in so doing, told ourselves some of our own story.

The game is still in progress. The ultimate fate of the village of Tiráth is undecided. Gabhrán certainly hasn’t become an enlightened paragon of tolerance and understanding. But his revolutionary forays have become more and more troubled, and his incitement of the people less and less in his control. He is confronted at every turn by the humanity of his opponents. Will he become a fanatical monster, or will his Beliefs be strained to the breaking point?

We play to find out. We play to tell our story.

Peace,

-Joel