What’s in an Attack?

Zimdall yanked his deathsister Ysha from her sheath and batted away the charging cultist's attack with a furious swing. He whipped around and ran two steps up the wooden wall, then reversed for a broad, downward chop at his enemy's head. The largekin had to dive aside to keep from losing an ear. Even then, Ysha still left a nasty cut along the man's scalp that sent him reeling.

Before Zim could move in to finish him, though, two of the man's friends ran out of the old shack hefting clubs. It took them only a second to spot the gnomish swordsman, and they gave angry shouts and came at him swinging. He had to roll out of the way to avoid the first attack. That put the first attacker between Zim and his fellow, though, so the gnome had a second to regroup.

Well. He would have. Instead, the man pressed his attack by transitioning smoothly into a vertical swing. Zim stepped aside and then slashed at his arm. That got close. His opponent jerked back a few steps and stopped to tear off the dangling strips that remained of his right sleeve.

But now the second clubman came around the first, and the other man with the long knife and the new scar was back in the fight. Zimdall was going to have to rethink his strategy. He ran through the open door. Inside were three men and a woman, who were standing at four corners around a circle and chanting. They didn't even flinch when Zim burst in on them.

Only one of the men attacking him could get to him through the door--which was the point, of course--so the wily gnome made his stand there and hoped the people performing the ritual were too busy to stop what they were doing.

The guy with the knife was the first one in. He tried to rush past Zimdall to get around behind him, but Zim leveled a fierce cut at him, and he had to dance back to avoid getting his belly opened. Zim immediately stepped in and followed his slash with a backswing that caught the cultist off-guard. Ysha sliced far enough into flesh to nick against the bone. The man screamed, dropped his knife, and clutched the limp, bloodied arm to his chest.

Impatient to have his own go at the gnome, the clubman in front kicked his screaming ally out of the way, stepped halfway in the door, and swept his cudgel in a high sideways arc at Zim's head. The fighter ducked, but not quite fast enough this time. Heavy oak clipped his ear for a ringing blow that left stars in his vision and a loud buzzing in his ear. Zim could only stagger backward as the man bore after him with two more wild attacks.

Something squelched under his foot. Candle wax! Zim dropped to the ground, then scooped up the candle in his off hand and tossed the hot wax up at his dogged pursuer. The man was leaning into a two-handed blow, and the melted candle wax went right into his face.

His screams were enough to interrupt the chanting. A sudden stench of brimstone and an odd, oily sensation flooded the air in the small chamber.

Zim bolted. The sleeveless club wielder loomed over him in the doorway, but Zim charged right at him and slid underneath his legs.

Behind him, a howling wail shattered the uneasy silence of the woods. There was a strange popping sound. Zimdall spun around, no idea what to expect.

There was nothing behind him. No shack. No cultists. Nothing but a patch of bare dirt and some very unhappy earthworms.

"Hells' bells," Zimdall complained to no one in particular. "There goes that bounty."

When we remember or relate our exploits at the gaming table, we speak in terms of narrative, like the time I snuck up behind a troll and took him down with one good pistol shot to the back of the neck, or the time my player jumped off a cliff to stab a black dragon in mid-flight. All too often, though, that's not how we experience the events at the gaming table, and the moment we remember fondly as an exploit of sheer thrill and terror is, in reality, much more several minutes of dice rolling and math than several seconds of excitement.

That doesn't have to be the case, though--I mean, we tell our stories using the random element that dice add and the convenient abstraction that Hit Points (or some similar mechanic) represent, and we're not going to get away from those elements in tabletop roleplaying. However, our focus at the table doesn't have to be about ability scores and damage bonuses, and never is that truth more important than the middle of combat.

Let's go over a roleplaying attack roll, from declaration to resolution, and explore what it takes to roleplay an attack.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

What do you call what you're doing when you declare your action in combat? Here's a hint: if it involves the word "attack", then it's probably wrong. Lol ;)

In tactical and video games, we look down on your pieces and move them around the battlefield. We can attack, defend, use an item, or retreat. Those are the options that are defined in the game, and we can't do anything else.

Roleplaying games are different, though. In a roleplaying game, we're cast in the role of the character fighting a battle. We're in the field, fighting for our lives. And as for options? You can basically do whatever you want.

As such, avoid thinking or talking about moves as if you were picking from your hand in a card game. There's an orc the size of an ox cart standing before you, sword raised and fangs bared. What do you?

Are you attacking? Stab him with your sword. Cut him. Whack him with the pommel of your sword. Throw the sword at him. Check him with your shield. Kick him. Stomp forward as if you're about to stab him, then feint with a cut. Kick a rock up at him. Knock over a chair in front of him and then go after his buddy. Cut the pillow beside you and let loose a cloud of feathers to blind him.

Are you defending? Stand firm with your shield. Parry with your sword. Reposition for an advantage. Give ground for a moment's reprieve. Duck behind a corner to get some cover from his blows. Knock over a lantern or a torch to slow him down. Throw sand in his face to distract him.

The point is, it's our job as DMs to translate gameplay into rules options, not to talk about rules options during gameplay. There may be three basic moves in a system; but as a PC, your possibilities during combat should be endless. Reinforce this fact by encouraging your players to talk in terms of what their characters are doing. Avoid speaking in terms of the moves their characters are using. You can always ask about their exact intention if you're unsure what they're trying to accomplish.

The next time a player asks you, "What can I do?" during combat, tell hir, "The Tango".

ACTION, BY THE NUMBERS

While we're rolling the dice, numbers become very important. It's an artificial value, though, because the numbers only matter as they relate to the action. Try not to stick to numbers in your game.

Consider the anecdote at the beginning of this article. Zimdall's player rolled an 18 to hit for 8 damage, a 15 to hit for 5 damage, missed, then got a 21 and maxed his damage roll for 10 points. He got a wide margin of success on his off-handed attack roll with the candle wax. Then he made his Acrobatics check to maneuver through the enemy's square.

And what did that mean for the character? He made a shallow cut on one man's scalp. He tore a sleeve. His target dodged, but then he caught him on his second attack and cut him down to the bone.

Which version of events is more exciting? Which is more memorable?

Stories are made up of things that happen, not math. When we translate to-hit rolls and damage rolls into things that happen instead of numbers and hit point tallies, we elevate our games to the level of roleplaying. (Instead of 'roll-playing'... yeah. Sorry. Couldn't help myself.)

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

So, how do we translate numbers into actions? Good question!

Decide how the player's action is going to work in the rules. Tell the player what to roll. This may prompt some back-and-forth on which bonuses or penalties will apply, what the consequences of failure might be or fine-tuning what the character is trying to accomplish, whatnot. That's fine.

The player rolls. Sometimes this involves more than one roll, like an extended check, a confirmation check, or a damage roll.

After the roll, you determine the outcome of the check based on the result(s). This also may involve some negotiation. Some systems give the player a chance to reroll, or to allocate degrees of success. You may let the player choose between potential outcomes.

Now, based on the outcome, you translate the results into action: the character strikes a resounding blow, soars over the yawning chasm, ducks nimbly aside as the spear springs from the wall and grazes her cheek.

Everybody understands that this is, necessarily, improv, so you don't have to sweat over making your descriptions works of literary genius. It's okay to say "You missed" or "He dodges" sometimes. But even saying something incredibly generic like "You stab him in the arm" is more descriptive than "He takes 5 damage." (Personally, I often find it helpful to use a Hit Location chart to differentiate one attack from another, even in systems that don't have one. My favorite hit location chart is in Anima: Beyond Fantasy.)

Finally, use the ramifications of the action you've described, not the dice rolls, to drive the plot forward. Did the spear graze the rogue's cheek? Now she has a scratch on her face. Did the fighter's near-miss hammer loudly on the orc's metal armor? Maybe the orc stops to give him an admiring salute--or perhaps the noise alerts other orcs in the area of the fight. Always carry forward the descriptions you present to persist in your world, and always allow (read: encourage) your players to exploit the details you add for their advantage. That way, you'll draw your players into the narrative. It will feel like you're telling a story, rather than just moving pieces around a board.

Emphasizing narrative, even during rules-heavy activities like combat, promotes good roleplaying and makes for a fun session that will keep your players happy. It's also a lot of fun. If you're not doing it already, give it a try--you won't be disappointed!

Game well, my friends,

Jonathan Andrews