Solo role-playing has steadily become a genre in its own right, and is no longer a niche within a niche. Ironsworn, released free by Shawn Tomkin in 2018, now has an active community. Thousand Year Old Vampire, Tim Hutchings's journaling game, has players writing out a vampire's centuries of memories alone at the kitchen table. The Mythic Game Master Emulator, available since 2003, is being discovered by many players who spent two years of the pandemic without a gaming group.
Games that tell stories have long been an area of interest for us. A game played alone, however, raises an unusual design question: who runs the game when no one is in that role?
For several years, we have been developing the concept of a solo narrative game built around one soldier's 365-day tour of duty in Vietnam. At this stage it consists of notes rather than a game. Several principles nonetheless recur each time the project is revisited, and we have documented them below.
Where should game design begin: with the rules or with the experience?
With the experience. Most people who set out to design a game begin with mechanics: dice, statistics, a combat system. The appeal is understandable, since rules are satisfying to write and give a sense of progress.
The first question, however, should be what the player ought to feel at the end of an evening: tense, exhausted, fortunate to be alive, or guilty about a choice made three sessions earlier. Once this is defined, the rules have a clear purpose. Each mechanic either helps build that feeling or stands in its way.
The one-year tour illustrates this well. The US Army sent most soldiers to Vietnam for twelve months, and they knew their date of return. They counted down the days; some kept short-timer calendars and crossed off each one. That countdown is already a game structure. It produces rising stakes as the number decreases, along with a very human form of apprehension. The rules need only make the player feel each day pass.
This matters even more in a solo game, because there is no other player to generate drama. The structure must carry it.
Why does historical research matter in a narrative game?
Because it provides both credibility and emotion. A game set in a real war may be played by people who lived through it, or by their children. This is a responsibility, and it is also what gives the setting its weight. Inaccurate details reduce the entire experience to a film set.
Research serves two purposes. First, it builds credibility: the correct equipment, the correct slang, the rhythm of patrols, heat and boredom, followed by sudden violence. Second, it builds emotion, because real details have more impact than invented ones. A specific place name, an authentic piece of equipment or a single true fact about daily life accomplishes more than a page of dramatic description.
The risk is presenting all of it to the player. No one wants a history lecture between dice rolls. We view research as the hull of a boat: the player feels it providing support without needing to see it.
What we look for in sources
- First-hand accounts rather than summaries.
- Everyday life, not only the battles.
- Small practical details a player can picture.
- Anything that contradicts the film version.
The last criterion is particularly useful. Films depicted many aspects accurately, but they minimized the boredom, which is a significant part of the story.
How should randomness be used in a solo game?
To create stories rather than noise. Solo games depend on randomness, whether through dice, cards or tables. Without a game master, something must provide surprise.
The difference between a good solo game and a weak one often lies in the meaning of the random result. A table entry stating "you meet an enemy" is noise. An entry stating "you meet an enemy, and it is clear they have been following you for some time" is a story. The second raises a question, and answering it is what engages the player's imagination.
When the dice are rolled, the result should move the story forward, make a choice more difficult or cost the player something of value. In our view, a roll that changes nothing does not belong in the game.
Randomness must also be fair in a specific way. Players accept bad luck. What they do not accept is the impression that none of their choices mattered. Choices must shift the odds, even slightly, and the player must be able to see that they did.
What makes a narrative game memorable?
Choices that carry real weight. This is the core principle. The most memorable moments in any story game are those in which the player hesitates, knowing that both options have a cost, then chooses one and carries its consequences for the rest of the game.
This is achieved by building every other element correctly. The countdown makes time valuable. The research makes the world real enough for consequences to matter. The random events repeatedly place the player in situations with no clear answer.
One question remains open. We have spent considerable time experimenting with GPT-3, and it occasionally produces text resembling a competent game master improvising. Whether a language model could actually run a solo game, keep track of past events and present meaningful choices has not yet been established, and we intend to explore it.
What does game design have in common with websites?
More than it appears. A good website begins the same way as a good game: with what the visitor should feel and do, rather than with a list of features. Should visitors feel reassured, curious, or ready to call?
When we plan a custom WordPress website, we address this question before any discussion of plugins or page layouts. Features come afterwards, and each one has a defined purpose. A feature that does not help visitors reach their goal is noise, in the same way as a dice roll that changes nothing.