Judging the Game

Composer of the interactive symphony of imagination that is a role-playing game, its Judge performs several duties necessary for play to proceed. A Judge codifies the scenario in which the game will occur, acts out the role of every character as they appear, aside from those controlled by the other players, and serves as a referee when actions are required while the game is afoot.

Players wishing to serve as Judge require a willingness to entertain their fellows. Sure, the other players' characters get center stage, but someone has to adjudicate what happens when they act, describing the results in vivid detail. These are the masterminds that set events in motion, move the plot forward based on the actions of other players, and provide the very personality of the unfolding adventure.

While every game requires a Judge, it is vital to note that the Judge is not the most important person at the table. Everyone playing the game is participating for the express purpose of having fun, not necessarily to stroke someone else's ego. Furthermore, most of what one needs to serve as Judge is available elsewhere in the rules, as they are presented such that anyone who wishes to can know precisely how everything works.

Thus, all the material presented in Judging the Game can be considered recommendations, not guidelines. The rest of the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine covers all of its mechanics, so the goal of Judging the Game is to provide enough information for aspiring Judges to plan an adventure for their fellow players - and then to enjoy it with them once play begins!

Judging the Game may be read by all of the CASE's players. Sure, it's primarily useful for those who wish to take on the role of Judge, and some players may not get a lot out of it, but there's nothing 'secret' included that would prompt Judges to forbid non-Judges from peeking. If anything, it might help players understand the effort a Judge must exert to help make their game night go!

On The Structure of Reality

A CASE Judge's first job is to determine the scenario he or she is staging for their fellows' costumed adventurers to play through. The CASE is designed such that its players can engage in adventure literally anywhere in existence, given enough thought and preparation. Narrowing down exactly when, where, and how it will occur, though, requires a basic understanding of the structure of reality the CASE recognizes.

An Infinity of Infinities

... or Even More Than Anyone Can Imagine

Characters in the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine experience reality in the same basic fashion as the players behind them. They typically perceive the universe around them as one comprised of three spatial dimensions and one temporal dimension. This is generally more than enough to quantify one's basic, continuing existence, not to mention that of everyone and everything they interact with.

However, there are more facets to our actuality than most can readily account for in their day-to-day life. This primarily comes into play when one considers the nature of causality, which is comprised of an infinitely large probability field that represents every possible outcome of every possible event. This boundless field forms an impossibly complex matrix of possibilities that sums up the here and now.

This infinitely large collection of previous results, present states, and future probabilities are what comprise a timeline. And for every possible outcome of every possible event at every given moment of time, a divergent timeline buds off from this first sequence, where one or more of those events transpired differently. In other words, an infinite number of variant timelines are generated every single moment.

Over billions and billions of years, this process has continued unabated, generating a transfinite array of universes both hauntingly familiar and frighteningly alien. Known to ancient philosophers as the Aperion, this 'absolute everything' is a ceaseless divergence of timelines that occurs in a second temporal dimension, what we would consider the fifth.

This would suffice for our purposes, save for links forming between different timelines as a result of transit between them. This occurs in a third temporal dimension, an axis where the probability fields of two or more timelines can interact and become inextricably linked to one another. But this axis also provides a structure for additional universes to exist coincident with the one we know.

These coincident universes are often adjacent to our reality, but have their own crosstime variations just as we do. Every timeline where people find themselves worshiping the Aesir will have an associated Asgard, for example. And this can lead to numerous instances where the only difference between two timelines is how events transpire in one of these earth-adjacent planes.

Finally, there is an even further dimension we experience - or, more accurately, countless more - that defy classification by mere human logic. Consider this (these) to be the seventh dimension, a coordinate of concept whose vast reaches overlap with all others in one way or another. This is where 'locations' such as the astral plane and the mindscape occur, and events there can touch all times and spaces.

Genre

... or What To Do With All Of That

The grand tapestry of existence as described above offers a truly boundless playground within which to adventure. After all, an infinite number of timelines branching off an already infinite number of timelines upon the elapsing of each temporal Planck unit means one can set up stakes and act out scenarios literally anywhere or anywhen they can imagine!

But for the most part, players aren't going to visit literally everywhere possible, and Judges shouldn't have to plan for a countless number of possibilities. They literally can't! So, when pondering their use of the CASE, prospective Judges need to figure out what it is they intend to do with it. Once this is determined, the when and where one's scenario will play out typically falls into place by itself.

This starts by determining the genre of the game the Judge wishes to indulge in. Genres are categories of performance, literature, or other art that primarily conform to a series of conventions that define it in comparison to its counterparts. In other words, genres are a sort of big tent within which one's adventures will take place, a few of which are vastly more popular than others to roleplay within.

A few of the major genres explored in role-playing games include the following:

Adventure: "Professor Zaccardi had emphatically assured you that she had disarmed all the traps in the room, but she was an unrepentant drunk while afield, today more so than usual. Assuming her sullen indifference to your personal safety was at play, you cautiously poked the chest with your walking stick, narrowly avoiding a rusty dart trap as a result. Who says you don't pay attention to your peers?"

It doesn't matter if the protagonists have special abilities, equipment, or even knowledge. What matters is the journey, whatever manner of such is being undertaken, and how those undertaking it avoid the many pitfalls eager to waylay them along the way. And such pitfalls are always ready to strike, because those who adventure for a living tempt fate as a general matter of course!

Fantasy: "As awareness of the world slowly returned, you felt the stinging burns from the explosion that unhorsed you. Before long, the blunt force trauma caused by your fall from Old Bitey faded enough to reveal the bruised ribs and cracked teeth. Getting back on your feet, you eyed the source of that ruinous blast, the mad wizard cackling in the middle of her firenado, and pulled a knife."

Fantasy tales hinge on magical elements, whether they be enchanted objects, fantastic creatures, and/or literal sorcery. They can occur on present-day earth or at any moment in the past, or perhaps on different worlds (or universes) entirely! These mystic elements shape the larger than life adventures of the larger than life characters trafficking in one or more larger than life matters.

Heroics: "Having failed to step out of the way, you saw stars as the hulking brute uppercut you several stories into the air, barely getting a handle on the situation before your ascent finally ceased. Falling face-first towards your assailant, you smiled while charging up your own attack, hoping to take her with you when your electrified body eventually collides with her."

Performing flashy deeds with flashy super powers while wearing flashy ensembles, the life of a hero usually seems great from the outside. Whether doing so as legally authorized operatives, marginally tolerated crime fighters, or even distrusted vigilante outlaws, heroes fight to their fullest to support their cause, whether that be justice, vengeance, or anything else!

Horror: "The zombies skulked about the warehouse floor, scattering at random in seeming disdain. Hiding in the rafters above the shelves was the right idea, considering the sheer number of the monstrosities that invaded the store after you pried the door open, but now there were thirty of them between you and what you came for: the last pallet of Slim Jims ™ on earth!"

The best way to describe horror is humans having an encounter with a malevolent something or other that comfortably rests above them on the food chain. Unlike heroics, these stories showcase the frailty of humanity in the face of overwhelming terror, and such tales rarely have a happy ending. The ultimate reward of horror stories is survival, often on the backs of one's fellows.

Science Fiction: "Steadily stalking up the pitted starboard hull of the smugglers' craft, your magnetized boots keep you from spinning off into the inky black void of space. Intent on breaching the criminals' mobile base of operations, you fail to notice it making the leap into hyperspace until it's too late, and barely avoid being peeled off its pock-marked surface and forever lost across countless dimensions."

Forward-looking in nature, science fiction tends to speculate about one or more concepts of the future, taking place anywhere between the current day and age to the end of time. Its characters invariably have to deal with conceptual innovations to come, most often involving technology and the changes wrought by it, whether it has been freshly introduced to their world or has shaped society for countless eons.

War: "Corporal Jackson silently signaled back to us with his hands, the point man indicating that he had seen the enemy. As we all crouched in place, his body was riddled with bullets from seemingly everywhere. Though he bought it, and bought it hard, Jackson saved all our lives. Raising our poodle shooters in response, we returned fire to avenge the poor slob - and save ourselves!"

Everyone has known someone with their fair share of war stories. Games taking place in this genre thrust its characters into such conflicts, whether they are organized or otherwise. When telling the tales of either those fighting such wars or those touched by their consequences, war stories are often brutally realistic and typically feature a high character body count.

Subgenre

... or Narrowing It Down Further

Some games take place entirely within one genre, often one of those described previously. Fantasy in particular holds a massive chunk of mindshare amongst gamers, and actually counting how many role-playing games are completely devoted to fantasy is likely a fool's errand. But fantasy isn't the only game in town, and sometimes even fantasy writers get tired of playing their genre straight.

This is where subgenres come in. A subgenre is a subset of a larger genre, which varies from what folks consider the 'standard' by dint of when or where it takes place, how much it overlaps with another genre, or by the tone of the setting it is used within. Sometimes, the only thing holding a genre together is all the subgenres used to explore its 'parent' themes.

But how a subgenre is explicitly defined doesn't really matter. What makes subgenres great is that they often provide a fresh take on their parent genre, whether for a single foray into the unusual or as an overall facet of one's story. A given genre can house any number of subgenres, some of which hew closer to their base genre than others, only a few examples of which are showcased here:

Crime Wave: "Jimmy Jamboree bypassed the hotel room's door lock, allowing Frankie Five Toes to slip in with the sniper rifle. Frankie didn't have to kill anyone today, but it was his job to pin down the casino guards with indirect fire long enough to let the boys take care of business inside. And they wouldn't see it coming, because usually people try to rob casinos - not blow them up!"

This subgenre (or others like it) turn the typical adventure on its head, by allowing players to serve as the villains in the story. Their aim is to engage in some illicit activity that only they can perform, founding or maintaining a criminal conspiracy or organization, or merely the acquisition of vast amounts of wealth. These player character criminals can be ordinary folks or have fantastic capabilities.

Cyberpunk: "Howling as her foe's robotic fist smashed her ribcage, Alana's Black Heart implant activated, sending megavolts through the offending appendage on contact. As the first thug flew backwards amidst a blinding electrical discharge, she glared at the other three while collecting herself and clenched her vibroblade, daring the hired goons to come get more of the same."

Set in a nebulous, near-future era, cyberpunk explores the blurring between man and machine as society evolves past respecting either. Both are only as useful as the power and influence they can earn for the powers-that-be, and cyberpunk tales can involve its protagonists navigating the awful realities of such a world, or alternately their efforts to escape its many, many constraints.

Post-Apocalyptica: "Though it filled his mouth with the unique flavor of diesel, Oil Can Ollie managed to coax about a quart of fuel from the abandoned tractor trailer. And just in time, too, because the Fleshrenders were out in force, seeking new leather to cover their war chariots' upholstery. Collecting his prize, Ollie hopped into his house bus and raced down the cratered Interstate highway."

The kind of horror that happens when the world ends, post-apocalyptic tales explore the aftermath of whatever it is that ended society as we know it. The cause of the world's demise need not be especially unusual, or even out of the ordinary, because other people are invariably the greatest threat the players will encounter. Everything else is usually just window dressing, whether animate or otherwise.

Space Opera: "Turning on a dime as he passed the tumbling rock, Marvin matched its trajectory and powered his ship down. Watching the royal police race past as he drifted through space next to his cover, Marvin saw them warp away upon losing his trail. Thus, the space cops again returned to their system precinct without having captured him, letting him live to seek out his home another day."

Space opera is science fiction that generally plays fast and loose with the 'how' of futuristic gear, emphasizing other elements over the nuts and bolts of their settings' equipment. By avoiding a need to explain every development in exhaustive detail, space opera can focus on a narrative that features the familiar trappings of science fiction, but often emphasizes adventure or war story tropes.

Urban Fantasy: "Jackhammer scowled as he hotwired the lousy elf's box truck. The foolish git lost his keys in that Goblintown warehouse when they were jumped by security, and he didn't have a spare. As a dwarf, he preferred his people's works to this janky human technology, but in a pinch he was happy to run the guards over on his way to safety if they hadn't already got the hint."

Sliding the typical time scale of fantasy to the here and now, one can add the trappings of that genre to tales taking place in the present. It can be fun to play an elf with a gun, after all, especially if they get to use it against similarly armed orcs. This style of story takes place in a near-future time just as often, adding assorted sci-fi tropes to the mix as well as magical beings and spellcasters.

The War on Terror: "Cow Catcher absentmindedly polished his new nametag, having just earned his place in Anti-Terrorist Group Omega, colloquially known as the Bullet Sponges. It was his first mission, and though he'd been fully briefed about the occult terrorists of ABBREVIATION, seeing their half-golems in person gave him pause. Nonetheless ready to prove his mettle, Cow Catcher charged right at them."

A subgenre of war stories popularized in the 1980s, the war on terror features heroic soldiers (or venal mercenaries) mobilizing in a conventional manner against decidedly unconventional foes. And 'unconventional' can mean any number of things, from asymmetric warfare against traitorous revolutionaries to a struggle against cult-like organizations determined to rule the world.

House Rules

... or making it your way.

As written, the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine is designed with customization in mind. There are optional rules for the handling of numerous situations in the game, which means that one group of players using the CASE may not be playing the exact same game as others. And that's fine, because it stands to reason that differing timelines might function under somewhat different physics.

For instance, everyone should know whether their characters only use primary abilities or if they may split those abilities into secondary scores, which fatigue system if any is in use, whether damage is rolled on each attack or assumed to always be the same, and whether or not one or more power paths are not to be allowed when generating characters. You know, all the rules through which their characters' timeline functions.

The customization choices a group of players adopt can be made for numerous reasons. Most often this is for the sake of simplicity, as things like split ability scores and damage rolls do add to the complexity of the CASE, to be sure. But these options may be chosen to further a given atmosphere, such as imposing fatigue rules to maintain a 'street-level' vibe.

Perhaps the most important customization that may apply to the CASE is the power level ceiling of one's campaign. This is an upper limit of sorts that the Judge may apply to other players in the game, meaning that their adventurers cannot hold a rank that is higher than this level. And this power level ceiling may be utilized by the Judge in a number of creative fashions.

For one thing, it doesn't apply to their own characters. Non-player characters of all stripes are unbound by a power level ceiling, which allows the Judge to throttle the difficulty of their adventures based on how much challenge they wish to apply to their plots. If all your foes are of equal or greater prowess, that can make for a desperate struggle from start to finish!

Furthermore, a campaign's power level ceiling can be leveraged in several ways, depending on how much slack a Judge wants to give players. On the more stringent end, player characters can be limited such that they may only have one ability score or power rank at the ceiling, with everything else being lower. Conversely, players can be allowed to bypass their ceiling using limitations.

And all of this, this is just what is provided within the scope of the CASE corpus! The very existence of the CASE is proof positive that gamers will always tinker with the rules of whatever game they're playing, modifying them to better suit their purposes. Some of these changes are minor in scope, while others are so severe that it may feel as though one is playing a different game entirely.

No suggestions for such house rules are provided, as players will invariably find some changes to the CASE that increase their collective enjoyment of the game. And as long as everyone agrees with these changes and enjoys the CASE better with them in it than out, great! After all, the whole point of fiddling around with the CASE is to have fun, so lean into that as much as possible.

While it is recommended that all rule customizations be in place before the start of play, whether they come in the form of official options or home-brewed changes, this isn't always practical. Something might otherwise be missing or malfunctioning over the course of play, and an upgrade is required to keep things rolling. And if everyone is cool with this running change, go with it!

Genre Rules

... or Legislating Flavor

Perhaps the easiest way to emphasize the narrative style of a group's chosen setting is through the use of genre rules. Genre rules are additions to or mutations of the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine's mechanics that work to enforce the essential tenets of a milieu. Think of them as guardrails that keep players from veering too far out of character for the game they're in.

Designed as an open-ended role-playing system, the base state of the CASE lacks genre rules altogether. However, as the system readily welcomes modifications to itself, rules to induce narrative cohesion when desired are perfectly reasonable. One system option that can be repurposed into a genre rule involves Mental Health, which is described more fully in the Living and Dying portion of the rules.

As an aside, the game the CASE was based upon featured its own genre rule. Sure, it was removed as part of the process of making the CASE genre-neutral, but there's no reason one couldn't make use of it still, should a group appreciate that game's tropes. As such, should you wish to more closely emulate the experience of the old system, here is the Four Color Comics Code genre rules.

Sample Genre Rule: The Four Color Comics Code

To wit, the Four Color Comics Code assumes the protagonists fiercely support the greater good, while also harboring deep respect for the law. Such characters suffer the full Karma penalty for committing crimes, even when done to benefit the greater good, because Crime Doesn't Pay and all that. This when talking about people who beat up criminals while wearing long underwear.

More importantly, the Code includes a deep prohibition against killing. Any character operating under these rules that kills a person, for no matter the reason, immediately loses all of their Karma. While this doesn't apply to Karma given over to character advancement already, any other Karma the player has access to is eliminated. And yes, this extends to any Karma Pool the character happens to belong to.

On the other hand, deaths adjacent to the actions of a character operating under the Code 'only' suffer a fifty point Karma loss. These include instances of villains faking their own deaths, fellow heroes attempting noble sacrifices, or innocents mowed down right in front of the character. It's not a total loss, but facing death related to their direct actions is usually demoralizing.

On The Generation of Characters

While players generally only have to choose the setting for a given story once, weird changes of venue notwithstanding, they invariably have to make characters for said story more often. While the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine's character generation segments cover the mechanics of this process, a bit more context may help all players improve this basic process.

Starting Points

... or How Much Players Can Get Away With

No matter what kind of character a player is making for use in the story at hand, they'll generally begin with the same amount of points as everyone else. Some origins of power provide one or more bonuses to this base amount, ranging from positive Column Shifts applied to extant ranks to altogether free powers. Other than this 'flavor', though, players start out at approximately the same level.

Throughout the CASE's character generation guides, the recommended point allotment for players is listed at fifty (50). This allows players to create truly heroic characters, giving them a wide berth while crafting the folks they'd like to explore in the Judge's story. Within the declared power level ceiling, this can allow for characters who generalize all-around or excel in one or two specialties.

As are most things of this type, the listed point allotment is a recommendation that encourages a certain style of play over others. If a group of players are looking for a more 'cosmic' style of game, this can be increased accordingly. At the same time, action with more of a 'street' vibe can be fostered by allowing players less starting points when they generate their characters.

Another important consideration is that some power sources are inappropriate for a given genre. For instance, a campaign utilizing cyberpunk themes would likely feature high technology protagonists for the most part, perhaps allowing for some transnormal folks in a few special circumstances. However, such a milieu wouldn't see wizards, psis, or immortals as a general matter of course.

Finally, the Judge may declare one or more abilities to be completely off-limits to other players. These most often include those that are loosely balanced by giving them a high point cost per rank, such as opposition, learned invulnerability, roulette, or whatever. Powers a Judge simply feels uncomfortable adjudicating fairly might fall into this category, precognition in particular fitting this description.

Characters that players concoct which fall within whatever mechanical limitations a table has agreed upon beforehand, at least on paper, should be allowed into play. As long as a player's math adds up in the end, and the agreed upon rules haven't been stretched beyond recognition, there shouldn't be any reason not to. Assuming, that is, the player's new character meshes with the others.

Those characters built by the Judge, of course, can cheerfully ignore all of the previous. He or she is setting the stage for play, after all, and those characters they create will have a vast array of differing capabilities, depending on their role. Perhaps a dependent is built on a net total of zero (0) points, while the lead villain is afforded twice (or more!) the point values everyone else starts out with.

Personality

... or How Characters Behave

Characters in a role-playing game aren't just a collection of statistics. Oh sure, those statistics are what allow characters to function within the game, but what brings them to life is the player behind them. Whether they're a player character or someone controlled by the Judge, their role is what makes them more memorable than a mere collection of quasi-random benchmarks.

And a role can be as simple or as complicated as it is required to be. Need a fussy bureaucrat to mildly slow down the protagonists? That's enough of a short-hand to run with in a pinch, even if you hadn't plotted anything else in advance about, say, the accountant the player characters need information from. And if said accountant leaves an impression, they can always appear again!

In games where their characters suffer a high mortality rate, players may stick with an equally sparse level of initial characterization. War and horror stories often see players cycling through characters as they are killed in action or become that which they struggle against. After all, if you know your avatar in the game will be gone within hours, you don't produce a detailed psychological profile.

Those characters who appear regularly, however, ought to be developed into more than a basic stereotype or punchline. Whether they be player characters or members of the supporting cast, recurring folks should have more to them than a boilerplate summation of powers and items. This isn't at all difficult, however, especially where player characters are concerned - even when they actively resist the process.

This is because, as their stories unfold, characters receive numerous opportunities to reveal who they really are. Their interactions with others prompt various choices which help to proclaim their, well, character. This is relatively straightforward with characters that are well-defined in advance, their behavior primarily consistent with what has been previously established about their personas.

When the actions of poorly defined characters are improvised, the Judge should take note of what they do and why, should it become important later on. That accountant mentioned earlier may become a recurring support character or even a hero's contact down the line, for example, so tracking how decent or awful a person they happen to be helps the Judge make their tale more consistent over time.

Players can define whatever characters they bear responsibility for as broadly or as specifically as they initially deem necessary. Sometimes a lightly delineated personality allows a character room to grow into whatever a group needs. Or maybe the player behind those characters doesn't focus on their psychological profile as much as, say, their backstory. Which is fine, as the two are intertwined.

Backstory

... or What's My Motivation?

A given character might be an ill-tempered brute, ready to pounce upon and bludgeon senseless anyone that irks them. Another might be a veritable saint, seemingly compelled to spend every waking moment making the lives of those around them better. A third might care for nothing other than pursuing whatever obsession drives them, eschewing all else of import in their lives.

These capsule descriptions of random individuals' personalities do a great job of describing their potential behavior. But what it doesn't do is explain how they came to be the way they are, why they behave the way they do. That's where a character's backstory comes into play, a summation of their life that consists of equal parts background and history.

A character's background is basically the point at which their tale began, both when and where fate brought them into being. It sets the stage for who the character will ultimately become, showcasing the various hindrances and advantages they were subject to in their formative years. Sometimes, components of one's background can be encapsulated or enhanced by background talents.

History, on the other hand, details what a character did with the hand that causality dealt them. Did they take full advantage of the opportunities afforded them, or were they waylaid by the disadvantages arrayed against them? Did they grow in the face of their life's great tragedy, or did it crush them into a shell of their former self? That sort of thing.

An important backstory consideration is the origin of the character's powers. Generally falling somewhere between background and history, one's origin details where their super-abilities come from. An origin is often just an after-effect of one's tale, while occasionally their origin has an effect on a character's very personality, or possibly even marks them as an enemy of society!

Both background and history can greatly contribute to the depth of a character, informing their persona as well as their choices. This may be done whether or not one or both of these are determined in advance. If making up backstory for one or more characters on the spot, or over time as a campaign progresses, the player behind said characters can better shape them to fit the current narrative.

Judges can use backstory to powerful effect when the players encounter multiple characters sharing the same background and/or history. If all of the non-player characters have similar backstories, the Judge has another great short-hand, since he or she only has to choose how each person deviates from that basic template when determining how they will interact with the player characters.

Party Cohesion

... or How Well Characters Play Together

Save for a few, rare exceptions, stories involve the interaction between two or more characters. Sometimes these characters get along and sometimes they don't, and this interplay may entirely drive the plot or simply flavor it some. But whether it's one person struggling against their environment or a sextet of friends bickering about nothing much, conflict is a feature of virtually every tale.

A role-playing game is no exception to this general rule. The whole point of this exercise, this adventure if you will, is that the player characters will overcome some problem or other through conflict. Their resolution to the problem at hand can take a variety of forms, whether the players' ultimate course of action comes in the form of careful negotiation or physical violence.

Where this can become a problem is when player characters come into direct conflict with each other. While players may be accustomed to using non-player characters as punching bags, and player character on player character violence may very well be normal in some scenarios, it can often lead to bad feelings if players are especially attached to their in-game avatars.

This is not to say that conflict between player characters should be banned, of course. But the simple truth is that a role-playing game isn't intended as a competitive endeavor, and squabbles between player characters need to stay between the players' characters. Such characters coming into conflict should only come about as dictated by their backgrounds, personalities, and interactions.

Assuming a group of players wishes to sidestep easily avoidable conflicts between player characters, there are a few things they can do to preclude such occurrences as much as is reasonably possible. The first of these is to generate player characters who are team players. A band consisting entirely of sullen loners probably isn't going to have an easy time finding a reason to stick together.

The second thing players can do is create all their characters together, that way any potential conflicts can be averted even before one or more problematic characters are finalized in their players' minds. This also helps players in more immediately obvious ways as well, since they can plan their characters' strengths and weaknesses around those of their fellow adventurers.

Finally, perhaps the greatest way to guarantee cohesion amongst a party of adventurers is to complete a prequel adventure. This serves as an introduction of sorts to the characters, one which may even detail how they initially band together. With the Judge's approval, some character hiccups may be corrected after this 'session zero', reflecting what is often referred to as 'early installment weirdness.'

Memorable Characters

... or Attempting Indelibility

Most of the time, generating player characters is relatively simple. Some folks roll the dice or spend points to come up with something functional in the game, then fill in the blanks with personality, backstory, and all that jazz. Others go the opposite route, conceiving a character then following that up with the determination of ability scores, talents, and other assorted benchmarks.

The creation of most non-player characters is even easier to resolve, as Judges may assign whatever qualities they desire to whatever characters they choose. Furthermore, the level of detail they are required to invest in non-player characters varies based on how important they are to the plot in both the short and long term, especially when developing memorable characters for players to interact with.

When assembling faceless crowds, a lot of these decisions can be made for the group as a whole. Whether contemplating a gang of costumed minions or a herd of voracious dinosaurs, the behavior of a group's constituents will generally be consistent until interrupted by circumstance. Only then will the Judge have to begin making choices about individual members of such a collective of characters.

Minor, yet named individuals will typically require a bit more effort before fielding them in the CASE. Sure, some Judges prefer to wing it to the bitter end, but NPCs of this caliber should have at least a small amount of thought put into them before they enter play. This need not include comprehensive backgrounds or personality profiles, but broad strokes knowledge of each definitely couldn't hurt.

Primary non-player characters ought to be thought out enough that their mechanical benchmarks, personality, and backstory are all determined beforehand. After all, the plot will typically turn on their actions (or inaction, as the case may be), so their choices should be informed by who and what they are. Otherwise, players may have a hard time caring about them - and fail to understand why they should.

Despite everything that can be put to paper about a character that players will interact with, there's always a question as to whether or not they'll even connect with said players. This primarily depends on how their actions are portrayed by the Judge, not to mention how they go about their business. And yet, whether or not a character resonates with players is almost completely up to random chance.

But one way to help to tip the scales in this regard, ultimately making for more memorable encounters, is to give certain characters unique qualities through impromptu (and likely improvised) characterization. Maybe one of those faceless goons showcased comical cowardice, a ravenous dinosaur was enthusiastically clumsy, or the arch-villain possesses mannerisms that no other character utilizes.

On The Nature of Adventure

Once a group of Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine players determine wherever and whenever it is they will be doing whatever it is they intend to do, and have finished generating whoever is necessary to populate the intended story, play can finally commence. In other words, it now falls upon the Judge to craft an adventure for their fellow players, from start to finish!

Plotting Adventures

... or What Are You All Doing?

So yeah, what are you all doing? Maybe the player characters have a mystery to solve, or a strange location to explore. Perhaps they need to secure funding for something, or must locate a special requirement for an invention or ceremony. Alternately, the protagonists might want to rescue a kidnapping victim, or protect someone or something from criminals intent on stealing or breaking them.

That's it. That's your plot.

As the Judge, it's your job to plant an adventure with this seed, growing a sentence-long plot nugget (or whatever random notion you had) into an entire story. While pondering this process, let us consider an adventure seed in the form of a strange, mutagenic spore that the player characters hear may exist in an even stranger, remote mountain enclave.

Over the course of planning (or improvising) an adventure, Judges should consider a beginning, a middle, and an end to the players' current endeavor. The beginning is a prologue of sorts, setting the stage for the story at hand, in both its content and its flavor. An adventure's first act, it essentially provides the motivation required to get players off the couch and on the job.

This can come about in any number of ways. In relation to our hidden mountain fungus plot, perhaps a friend or contact has been altered, and this supposed mutagen could be a potential cure. Maybe a contact warned the player characters about the looming threat that fungus' cultivators poses. Alternately, this rumored fungus in this rumored kingdom could be a great boon for Science!

The middle of an adventure is everything the players do that isn't covered by the beginning or the end. Depending on the length of one's story, this may consist of one encounter or one thousand, and generally serves to steer events from their current state towards the finish. Of course, if the players are sufficiently waylaid, their actions may ultimately have a lesser effect on the overall plot.

Continuing to ponder those sample beginnings to our sample plot, this notion can progress in several ways. The heroes needing the spores for medical purposes might face opposition from the enemies of their altered friend. Those worried about the spores' threat may face down their cruel cultist cultivators. Those seeking these spores for research purposes may face industrial or alchemical competition for them.

Once they have completed enough of the requisite steps along the way, for good or for ill, players have finally come to the end of their current adventure. Hopefully our heroes have proven victorious in the end, but failure is always an option. Either way, the climax of each adventure should be consequential. If part of a larger campaign, this adventure should also move the needle on that at least a little.

Back to those fungus-laden plot examples, perhaps it is discovered that the spores serve no medicinal purpose, but clues leading to a more reliable solution are found. Surviving a vengeful band of subterranean warriors, our cult-battling heroes destroy their stores of spores. Those scientists seeking the spores find them, and learn that they could potentially be a special catalyst in numerous inventions!

Ultimately, what the ending of a given story means depends on whether or not it lies within a grander narrative. If this was issue thirty-five of the Galileian Dispatch, we may follow up this adventure with the further tales of our two-fisted science journalists next time. If this was a one-trick tale, on the other hand, players will move on to new characters and stories in their next session!

Subplotting Adventures

... or What Is Everyone Else Doing?

When showcasing an adventure for a group of their fellow players, a Judge needs to know more than just what the player characters are doing. They should definitely understand what those that immediately interact with the player characters are up to as well. Further, it behooves Judges to be aware, at least on a small level, what any pertinent characters of theirs have up their sleeves any given time.

On a macro level, Judges can use this principle to determine the actions of large groups of characters. Knowing their plot intimately, they are aware what characters need to be where and when, assuming that level of plotting was attempted, which is another great way to bring one's story to life. When players jump ahead in the plot, after all, it always pays to be ready for that.

No, this doesn't mean that Judges need to track the movement and actions of every character in the continuity their imagination has populated. That's more than a little bit of overkill! However, they should have a broad notion of what characters vital to their story are up to at any given time, because this is a great way to involve them in subplots with the players' characters.

When picturing subplots in your head, think of serial dramas. There's the basic story, you know, what the main characters are getting up to during that episode. Then there are other scenes, those that detail what additional characters less relevant to the current story are doing. Sometimes, these just bolster the primary storyline, but other times they tee up events in a future episode.

These are subplots.

In a role-playing game, subplots are things going on with folks adjacent to the player characters. Their characters' contacts, their rivals, their family, their fan club, and so on. Each protagonist will have a story, and elements of that story should occasionally collide with the Judge's narrative. That's where the whole 'collaborative storytelling' aspect of role-playing comes from.

Judges are encouraged to invoke at least one of these each session, if reasonably possible, related to at least one player. Maybe a player character is following up with an expedition they hired to find, say, mutagenic spores. Perhaps their siblings have fallen under the influence of mysterious forces, and matters are coming to a head between the protagonist and their family's new 'friends'.

It's quite possible that none of the player characters will 'bite' on these subplots as they manifest, and that's fine. These subplots might just bubble along whether or not the players manage to trip over them, which gives Judges the opportunity to break them out some other day, possibly using one or more as the seeds of their own adventures. This helps to foster the illusion, at the very least, of a living, breathing world.

This allows Judges to present a continuing narrative. Sure, there may be an overarching mission the players are up to, but sometimes it's hard to see the forest for the trees when you're in the middle of an epic. Elements like subplots allow Judges to indirectly weave events from different sessions together, letting various subplot elements work to fill in the seeming holes plaguing one's plot.

Additionally, using subplots in this manner is a great way to sock it to players who accept character points for one or more levels in, say, the dependent or enemy quirks. Sure, many players have such characters in their life, but not all of them who do are in it for the character point bonus. And for those who are, well, this is where they pay for that additional power in the game.

Adventure Duration

... or How Long A Given Story Lasts

Once the Judge has decided what kind of story they wish to tell, they must determine how long that story will take to unfold in the form of an adventure. The duration of adventures are typically measured by session length, a session being the amount of time it takes for people to gather, sit down together at the table, and run through an evening (or afternoon, or whatever) of play.

Depending on how grand a tale the Judge has in mind, it may unfold over one play session or several. A story that can be completed in one sitting is often called a one-shot, and can be likened to a movie in scope. The characters and setting are introduced, the plot unfolds from beginning to end, and then everything should be tied up with a bow once the dust has settled, for good or ill.

The overwhelming advantage of a one-shot adventure is that players can experiment with new characters and genres without committing to either. Even better, one-shots generally require less work for everyone involved, as only the plot elements required for the adventure to function need to be worked out in advance. Furthermore, if one or more player characters are lost, there's no harm done.

On the other hand, a story which will unfold over several play sessions is usually considered a campaign. Whether it takes place over two nights of play or two hundred, a campaign should include the exact same components that a one-shot would. The benefit of additional time allows the tale to breathe, however, providing an opportunity to explore the Judge's story in much greater detail.

Furthermore, players can more fully develop their characters as a campaign unfolds, watching them grow and change over time while they progress through the Judge's scenarios. This character development can dovetail with the Judge's efforts to tell their stories, in fact, their narrative growth influencing a campaign's progress in a fashion that makes each gaming session a truly unique experience.

Of course, a group need not rigidly adhere to such absolutes, mixing and matching as they see fit. A more flexible structure for a campaign would be to rig it up as an anthology series. The setting remains the same, but player characters are swapped out from one episode to another. Unless some of those characters survive the adventure that is, which may allow them to guest star another day!

Alternately, players might mix and match their campaigns, playing several at once but switching stories every session. Then again, they may play out a limited series of sessions detailing a completely different adventure, mostly as an extended break from their primary campaign. Or they may break up a continuing narrative using these techniques as occasional secondary plots that may bubble back up to the primary.

CASE groups can use these alternate techniques either to bolster an existing campaign or as a fresh breath of narrative air. Perhaps one's campaign hit a good mid-point or has become a bit heavy, and everyone might enjoy a one-shot tale before resuming their main story. Or perhaps those ostensible one-shots grow into a secondary campaign, because everyone liked the characters and/or story inherent to them.

As always, go with what's the most fun at your table.

Describing Adventures

... or the Judge's First Duty

So you've come up with a plot, assuming you're not just winging it, and you have generated all the characters that you feel you could be bothered to. All that remains is to wrangle up a bunch of people with which to sit down for a session of the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine, and you can bring your thrilling adventure to life with them!

Whether you're engaging in a one-and-done adventure or a component segment of a larger tale, you have to start somewhere. Judges can set the stage for every scene in every adventure they wish to shepherd by simply describing the current situation for the players. This is the first duty of a game's Judge to their fellow players, that of codifying the scenario in which the game will occur.

Players won't know how to reasonably interact with the Judge's story until they have some understanding of the world around them. When the Judge wishes to pass along information they feel is important enough to determine in advance, there are two basic means through which they can do so, and Judges may rely upon whichever of the two comes more easily for them.

The first of these is a prepared text block, encapsulating everything a Judge feels important enough to convey in a concise, well, block of text. By literally writing out everything they need players to know upon the beginning of a given scene, Judges can read it aloud to ensure every word is delivered as intended. The following is an example of a text block:

"Having averted their gaze skyward as long as they could tolerate the soul-crushing gray haze, Enrique ultimately returned their view to their quarry, the silicone supermodels of Generation 666. Forced to watch the diet-chrome sociopaths curbstomp their quarry while waiting for the signal to open up on them with their nailgun, Enrique found they were more than ready to perforate them all when it finally came."

Of all the tools a Judge has to conduct a game session, creative expression is possibly the most important. Sure, a short-hand description of a situation or environ can be used in a pinch, especially when everyone present is genre savvy. But the details a Judge reveals with even a sentence of flavorful text almost always trumps "the surprisingly pretty cyborg gangsters are criming across the street."

That's not to say a Judge needs to prepare a wall of text to read at people. There's nothing quite so immersion-breaking as one pausing for a short speech before resuming play, after all. But a quick and concise blurb like the cutscene above, or perhaps something as short as a single sentence the Judge can memorize immediately before reading it aloud, can make really effective use of this technique.

If you get good enough at this, you can project the illusion of spontaneity, even with a text block!

Instead of preparing a block of text to read, however, Judges can dole out information pertinent to a scene that was prepared in advance as the actions of players permit. After setting the stage in broad strokes, for example, maybe the Judge lets one player know something based on their detailed detective work, and another acquires further data based on, say, simply being in the right place at the right time.

Here's an example of a more dynamic exchange, made possible as the various other players' characters arrive on the scene:

"How many of the glamborgs are there?"
"There's six of them, four of which are merely standing around, looking impressed with themselves."

"Which chucklehead looks like they're in charge?"
"The ugly one of the bunch, the one with the lantern chin and the slightly torn skinthetics over his eyebrow, is the curbstomper. The distressingly gorgeous woman, the one revealing no chrome at all, is simply leaning against the wall, watching."

"Is there anything special about the neighborhood?"
"Not particularly. It's an old Serious-Doh block from the '90s, like every other dirt poor block around it, printed on the New Bedrock they poured after the ice caps melted. Mostly a mix of that gritty, extruded concrete simulant with bits of plastic hammered on after the fact. The bar the Generation 666 goons are hanging out in front of does belong to their rivals, though."

This is just a simulated example of how such exchanges might occur between the Judge and the players behind the protagonist characters. It's provided because they're such a powerful way to draw players into the narrative the Judge has in mind, as they bring at least some of the tiny details a Judge has concocted to the fore. That and it helps to keep the players guessing as to what is and is not important.

While dynamically dispensing vital pertinent and/or background information via descriptive text can be incredibly immersive, it doesn't work all that well if your fellow players don't ask the right questions. When herding cats is easier than helping a particular group of players find a hint, no matter how obvious it is, perhaps waiting for them to do so isn't necessarily a winning bet.

On the other hand, as is often the case with such things, perhaps a happy medium can be achieved. One technique can be used for critical stage-setting, while the other can be used to handle the finer details of a narrative. Judges are encouraged to dispense information using both methods despite their personal preferences, if only to learn how to make such tools work better for them over time.

Animating Adventures

... or the Judge's Second Duty

A role-playing game isn't a role-playing game if everyone gaming doesn't have at least one role to play. And if you like bringing the actions of different personas to life, you're in luck as a Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine Judge, because the game requires you to play the role of everyone in existence - everyone save for the protagonists helmed by the other players, that is.

This is a demanding portion of a Judge's tasks, and is in fact their second duty to their fellow players, acting out the role of every non-player character as they appear. Whether they be minor supporting cast members, the protagonists' most deadly foes, or merely random people walking by other players on the street, non-player characters are the Judge's characters - and responsibility.

Role-playing a character is exactly the same for Judges as it is for other players. The key to slipping into the persona of a character and acting out their fate is having as much information about them as is possible. Ideally, before a non-player character appears in the story, the Judge will know something about them that lets him or her properly relay their behavior to everyone present.

This isn't always the case, though. Sometimes players will literally bumble into random passersby, or otherwise find their lives entwined with someone whose specific existence the Judge didn't anticipate, and a bit of improvisation will necessarily ensue. And that's fine! This only sets you back one or two steps from the usual baseline of players' interactions with NPCs.

Whether or not the Judge has any reference regarding the personality and backstory of an NPC, they can generally handle these characters' interactions with the players' characters in the same way. Namely, with them interpreting the current situation from their relatively unique perspective to determine their disposition. That's it. Any other NPC information that is lacking can be determined on the fly.

Assuming that's even necessary, anyway. Characters you'll never see again probably don't need much, if any, development. Once those hostages are saved, they melt into the crowd. Those people standing in line before a player character at the rest area food truck likely aren't going to reappear. Folks of this stripe can be made distinctive, to be sure, but they don't need a lot of work.

For folks that do reappear, it behooves the Judge to track their interactions with players, the better to keep them consistent from one appearance to another. You know, the same process described while generating characters in the previous chapter. This avoids issues where someone's behavior or persona seem askew from one appearance to another, and makes one's narrative more internally consistent.

When relaying a non-player character's words and deeds, the other consideration is a Judge's preferred style. Some Judges enjoy pantomiming the behavior of the character(s) whose role they're currently playing, while others instead describe it in exacting detail. Similarly, many have fun adopting exaggerated accents and mannerisms when their NPCs are speaking, and others relay dialogue more like a novel would.

Some players, whether they serve as the Judge or not, have difficulty with this. And that isn't an issue, because not everyone is an aspiring writer or actor. This is ultimately what Popularity ACTIONs are all about. Provided for instances where players aren't able to simulate unnaturally smart or suave personas effortlessly, this kind of ACTION allows Judges to resolve NPC interactions with percentile dice.

Whether or not a Popularity ACTION can be attempted is up to the Judge as events unfold, but players can always request one. Judges are advised to invoke a Popularity ACTION when players not just interact with NPCs, but ask something of them or otherwise attempt to alter their behavior. Of course, the necessity for a Popularity ACTION, like many other ACTIONs, may become moot as events unfold.

Judging Adventures

... or the Judge's Third Duty

For the most part, making rulings over the course of play is relatively straightforward. Everything a Judge should need to decide his or her rulings, hopefully, is readily available. It's generally up to the Judge to carefully consider a situation, determine the difficulty of an ACTION, apply any bonuses or penalties that may be relevant, and let the dice settle the matter for everyone involved.

While most ACTIONs can be handled in the usual fashion, players often disagree with, or at the very least strongly question, the rulings of their Judge. Alternately, said players may simply feel that the Judge should handle something somewhat differently. Situations such as these are where a Judge's third duty, that of serving as a referee when required while the game is afoot, truly comes into play.

When players argue their case before the Judge, he or she should at least take their argument as seriously as it is made. What this means is that if players are trying to buffalo the Judge, the Judge need not lend their arguments much weight. But either way, Judges should objectively consider what they believe versus what the players do, and ultimately make a calling as to which is best.

Once a Judge makes a ruling, though, that's it. Judges are called the Judge because Judging is their job. This makes them, by definition, the final authority where a given ruling is concerned, at least at that moment. Should they insist on pressing the issue, however, players can try to sway their Judge after the current session ends, perhaps doing so with further arguments.

The reason players are required to let a calling stand, or at least shelve it for later, is so that play doesn't come to a complete stop over disagreements. Everyone present is present to enjoy themselves, not quibble about matters large and small at the expense of said enjoyment. Besides, sitting on an issue for a bit often helps players look at it with clearer vision.

This is ideally enough to handle most situations at a table revolving around a disputed Judgement, what with the assumption that players of the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine play well with others at least some of the time. Should this prove not to be the case in a particular CASE group, however, more drastic steps may need to be taken; friendships aren't worth arguments over a game.

All of that being said, how a Judge Judges depends largely on their own, personal style. Judging in an adversarial fashion, against one's fellow players, was simply how it was done back in the day. It isn't 1975, though, and many modern players aren't into that style of gaming. No judgment on how one Judges, here, simply explaining that all Judges are different, and often vastly so.

Whether a Judge focuses on the letter of the rules over the course of play or merely their spirit, regardless of if their delivery carries a more literal or more narrative flavor, each Judge will likely handle a given session in their own way. And that's both fine and to be expected, because this is a collection of suggestions on Judging the Game, not commandments. For the most part.

But remember: sometimes things just don't work out. Perhaps a Judge's style or choice of content rubs one or more players the wrong way. Maybe what the rest of the table is enjoying really isn't doing it for the Judge. There might be a personality conflict between a normal player and the Judge - or heck, just between two regular players. Some game groups need to change to survive in the face of such strife.

When players still wish to enjoy role-playing games despite these issues, one or two of them might form or join a different group. Maybe the Judge could step down, or perhaps players could rotate the role, each narrating a tale from a shared universe - or literally a different campaign each time. Whatever works to resolve conflicts at a table as amicably as is possible is usually preferred.

The critical thing is to never take these matters personally, regardless of whether or not the Judge is the focus of a gaming group's dysfunction. Everyone has their own tastes, and if shuffling things up helps more people involved indulge in them, so much the better. In the end, why bother wasting your time playing a game if it's more trouble than it's worth?

Adventurers' Problem Powers

... or Timey Wimey Stuff

While everything that happens in the CASE can be relatively simple to sort out, the sad truth is that there are several abilities in the game that are more than a little tricky to Judge. These are mostly powers that alter the very nature of the universe around a character - or pull them out of it entirely. And of those that Judges tend to hate the most, precognition almost always makes the list.

The ability to peer into the future, precognition is an utter nightmare for Judges unprepared for its literally game-changing ability. While the description of precognition tries to iron out some of these kinks, the truth is that players knowing what the future holds is especially difficult for Judges to parse, particularly when they don't (read: they haven't planned that far ahead).

The Judge shouldn't actively stymie the use of this power, though. Precognition is an expensive ability, after all, and players take it because they want to use it, even if forced to do so with some limitations already built in to the power. But while you shouldn't tamp precogs down, necessarily, you don't have to take it easy on them. After all, the future's trajectory is constantly being influenced by external events.

Aside from the usual shenanigans, what with fate constantly being in a state of flux, precogs have to contend with the existence of time travel. Constantly splitting unexpected new timeline branches off of one's own by their incessant meddling with cause and effect, time travelers do a real number on precogs, making things happen when they shouldn't, or stopping things from happening that would've.

How much this affects someone with precognition depends entirely on how all of their powers work. Do they allow the precog to perceive the timeline as a whole, aware of when temporal meddlers slip a link into the normal chain of events? Or are they just as blind to artificial changes in reality as the rest of us, and equally subject to the causal whims of errant temporal itinerants?

Speaking of branching timelines, while characters with precognition tend to push theirs in a certain direction, and time travelers tend to cause exponentially more timeline branches than everyone else, dimensional travelers pollute fate even worse! Once someone tangles their causality up with that of another timeline's, both universes tend to travel along a similar trajectory for a time.

This subjects precogs to strange results, as if looking at the future from left of now, or time travelers landing in newly adjacent variant histories (or futures). This is where all that blather about higher dimensions from a few chapters back comes in. if Judges can bend their head around the notion of three temporal dimensions, the nature of these problems can be tackled. You know, somewhat.

All of these abilities, ultimately, have a similar problem to those used to warp reality. Namely, they work regardless of whoever is in their area of effect, and folks cannot withstand them unless they bear specific resistances to the power in question - or warping attacks. Sure, transient folds in the fabric of space just steer characters in the chosen direction, but reality warps can get a lot, lot worse.

Perhaps the hardest abilities to handle fairly, reality control powers are a favorite of players - until they're used against them, of course. Abilities such as these require a light touch, because their insane power can change the very course of a campaign. The worse of these include abilities like wrest, that can potentially upend all of a Judge's work with a simple die roll.

There are other powers that can be especially taxing on Judges, but most of the issues they cause aren't liable to wreck all of our reality - maybe just a part of it. Sure, things like ultimate power and power absorption and learned invulnerability are a pill, but that's what brings players to the game. Adventuring is cool, but adventuring with flashy, world-breaking powers is even cooler!

When Adventures Go Awry

... or Players Gonna Player

So you went to all the trouble to craft a special story for your players to indulge in, or at least part of one, and everything falls apart before you know what hit you. Maybe one or more players couldn't make it in, or perhaps the players' characters collectively fell out of your story's guardrails, and are rapidly being drawn into a plot hole singularity. You know, players.

If you're a Judge who loves improvising, this probably isn't too big a problem. I mean sure, the players ditched your story (or at least their characters did), which kind of sucks. But if you don't like making things up on the fly, whether because your plot is incredibly tight or you just can't be bothered to spontaneously generate people, places, and things during a given session, it can be!

There are several means of mitigating such occurrences. In the event that players drift off course from your story du jour, how loose or how tight you plot requires specific details to be will mainly determine how difficult it can be to get them back on course. Did they drift into the wrong bar looking for clues? If it's vague enough, your intended bar encounter can unfold in almost any edifice.

Plotting in this manner assists Judges in working around some of their players' choices. And that's not to diminish player agency, so much as helping Judges do their best to keep their current story moving forward - even if just a little bit. Maybe they had chosen The Octopede as the bar where the action would occur, but if the bar itself isn't vital to the plot, you've got several options at hand.

Maybe whatever bar the players check out will be the right one, instead. Or they might need to investigate x amount of such establishments, or x type of establishments, or whatever, until they succeed. Or something else entirely. Since they're winging it, Judges can pick and choose how they resolve such narrative hiccups as they see fit, possibly making this plot detour more memorable than it could've been.

On the other hand, should a player (or a player character) vital to the Judge's intended story for a session prove to be unavailable, this is an entirely different problem. Sure, Judges could just focus the ire of the plot on another player character, instead, but if there are any long-term narrative ramifications from said plot intended for the missing player/character, that simply won't do.

Thus, it's time for the Judge to go with plan b: a different adventure entirely. For those Judges who prefer to plan these things out, it behooves them to build plot structures with modular segments. This way, if you have to run two sessions of a larger tale out of sequence, problem solved. Assuming that said Judge has prepared enough of at least one of those alternate story segments to run it, instead.

If improvisation is the name of the game, dangling subplots are a great way to get the proverbial ball rolling. Since things didn't go according to plan, fast forward any of those slow-boiling subplots you've been subjecting your players to, and turn it into the impetus for the current session's festivities, instead. And if you can blend these improvised bits in seamlessly, players won't even know there was an issue.

Another alternative is an intermission. This also involves crafting a 'spare' adventure for your players to enjoy, using different characters and perhaps even a different setting. One-shot adventures are great to fill in space when this sort of calamity befalls one's gaming night. Or, even better, another player can step up and Judge such a one-shot while the current Judge takes a break.

Overall, your best bet when assuming the role of Judge is to be flexible. No matter how hard you try, things won't always go as you plan, and as the Judge you need to be ready to account for that. Whether that involves making things up as you go, or building enough contingency plans to make a caped crusader proud, you're sure to find a way to absorb all the chaos players can throw at you!

Just Adventure

... or What Are You Waiting For?

Having read all of this, you might think Judging is hard. If you've never experienced role-playing games before, much less Judged one for others, it may at first seem like everything you need to do and know to run a session of the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine from start to finish is encyclopedic. And it can be, if you let it. But here's the most important advice for Judging the Game:

Don't worry about all that.

Take it from someone who has performed extensive research into the very origins of human society. People have been telling each other tall tales since well before anything we would consider recorded history. Sure, the invention of writing systems by the people of Sumer greatly amplified this tendency, but for as long as people have been able to communicate, they've regaled each other with stories.

Telling stories is in your bones. Telling stories is in everyone's bones. If you feel like you've got one to share and are ready to do so, you might have what it takes to Judge the CASE. Mind you, your story won't take the form of a static work of art like a book or a film, since you're ultimately not writing it by yourself. More appropriately, as Judge, consider yourself the plotter of the evening's tale.

A session of the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine is comprised of a basic premise, as presented by the Judge, and a collection of protagonists armed with their own agency. Each of these protagonists tug the premise in differing directions from second to second, and their efforts (along with some random chance) ideally combine to forge a fun narrative that everyone present has a hand in.

And yes, you need to do this and know that and blah blah blah. So? Simply lean on the parts of Judging you feel you're good at while you develop those that you (and perhaps others) feel could use some improvement. That's just how you grow as a Judge. Even I, who am dispensing advice on Judging to others here, did not start out as a good Judge. Quite the opposite, really.

If you still despair over past or future Judging prowess, you're in luck. Before your next Judging attempt, you have the option to guest star in (or at least sit in on) another group's game. This allows the opportunity to witness how others play referee, whether it is the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine or some other role-playing game, to help determine which Judging techniques you do and do not like.

Unfortunately, this isn't always a viable option. In this wondrous future timeline we occupy, however, one can view thousands and thousands of gaming sessions from start to finish, all from the convenience of their networked, handheld supercomputers. Simply visit your user-generated video content provider of choice, and they should have all the reference material you'll ever need.

Should you instead wish to study the art of Judging at a more leisurely pace, read what other games have to say about the subject. Oh sure, they usually have their own names for this position, but it's the same basic job no matter what kooky title a given game gives their referee, and each game has something to say about Judging. Even better, you can find a lot of those works available for free!

Finally, if plumbing the depths of old game books is too much rabbit hole for your liking, you can instead seek out some of the innumerable books and/or guides about Judging. It never hurts to gain multiple perspectives on something before trying it yourself. And besides, one or more of these deep dives will most assuredly cover certain aspects of Judging the Game far, far better than I'm willing to or capable of.

In the end, take heart in the fact that no matter how it goes, every time you Judge a game you'll learn how to do it even better next time - or at least what not to do. That's how it went for me, the clown who started Judging by literally dropping a giant radioactive dinosaur onto the bar where the protagonists, who could not physically become inebriated, were having a drinking contest.

And if I could recover after that disastrophe, Judging should be no problem for you!

On The Consequences of Action, Adventure, and Excitement

As players navigate the narrative paths presented to them by their Judge, their characters' actions, or lack therein, act to shape that narrative. The words and deeds that players' characters choose to inflict on the people, places, and things in their path all have repercussions, both large and small. These repercussions are the consequences of action, adventure, and excitement.

Pacing

... or Gratification Variabilities

The rate at which an adventure proceeds through its various encounters and story beats, its pacing is typically dependent on the sub/genre it takes place in, not to mention its Judge's general style. Judges do have one powerful tool to manipulate the seeming pace with which things happen, though, and that is by modifying how and when they apply the rewards players accrue over the course of play.

One method of doing this involves tallying up all the deeds of each player character, and divvying out any Karma awards, Popularity alterations, and the like at the end of the current session. Accomplishing this allows a thorough overview of everyone's behavior and results, and can not only serve as a summary of the night, but help folks see how they might proceed from there.

A benefit of dispensing rewards in this fashion is that it tends to encourage players to expend more effort on character advancement. With large lump sums available all at once, some characters' goals can appear much more attainable over time. Simultaneously, it may force players to carefully meter their Karma usage during play, knowing they won't have any more until the end of the current session.

This reward style does require a considerable amount of record keeping. Judges using this method of reward disbursement will need to write down all the changes in each player characters' variable abilities as they occur, lest they lose track of anything important. If you're forgetful, after all, players will most definitely call you out on it. They know when they're not getting the booty they deserve!

The other big issue with this delayed gratification is that it conflicts with how penalties are distributed, which is almost always brutally immediate. If players receive Karma, Popularity, and other increases immediately after earning them, those losses of the same don't always sting so badly. And besides, that leaves a lot less for the Judge to recall at the end of the session.

The primary benefit of dispensing rewards in this fashion is that it encourages players to exploit their Karma and other resources as soon as they are acquired. This creates a continuous flow of Karma, back and forth, as players fling the stuff out in their attempts to earn yet more. Without careful planning, though, players may spend all of their Karma before they can dedicate any to advancement.

A disadvantage for Judges using this method of reward distribution is that it provokes even more mayhem than usual, what with the wild swings of probability coming from so much Karma expenditure. This can act to disrupt their carefully laid plans, if they don't account for some of the possibilities inherent to so much Karma usage. On the other hand, many Judges thrive in the midst of such chaos.

It is important to note that each Judge's proverbial mileage may vary from what is described above, because each gaming group is unique, often developing its own informal rules, customs, and so on. Thus, it is highly recommended that Judges experiment with each to determine what best works with their own style, and ultimately that of the table they're playing with.

Advancement

... or We Already Used The No Free Lunch Thing Elsewhere, Sorry

The rules for character advancement are clear for everyone. No matter how they gained their impressive capabilities, each character can be improved upon in a consistent fashion, for the most part. But what happens when something upends the careful balance Judges attempt to maintain over their game? What happens when players gain new abilities without paying Karma for them?

A lot of the time when this happens, it comes in the form of a problem that solves itself. A revolver only has so many bullets, that strange pill mixed up by a loopy alchemist only affects a body for so long, that sort of thing. Judges often give perks like this out to spice up a session, or to give players a tool or to (potentially) shortcut some of an adventure's slog if desired.

When players acquire a capability that is more permanent in scope, though, this can create a conundrum for their Judge. Players many not find it fair when some of them have to pay for new powers with earned Karma, when others can just somehow swipe new abilities instead. And that's a valid argument, because balance is difficult enough for Judges to maintain without unintended handouts.

If the Judge decides players can't keep abilities they don't pay for with advancement Karma (aside from the invention process, which often shortcuts this), they will eventually fade one way or another. Things will just happen, like that device one player 'confiscated' from a villain overloads, or a strange power granted after a similarly strange accident will slowly fade from the player's body.

Inversely, Judges may not like the pace of advancement in their game. Such Judges may partially or entirely ignore this recommendation, and that's okay. This could be a case of them not caring about abilities acquired after play, them not being all that interested in maintaining a semblance of balance, or even them just feeling that the process of character advancement is too slow.

A different, more powerful method to control the rate with which players can advance is to tinker with its cost. The Karma costs for buying or improving abilities, powers, and anything else are consistent throughout the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine, only differing a bit based on one's origin of power. By tipping the scales one way or another, Judges can accelerate or constrain advancement.

Another tool to manage long-term character growth, Judges can impose penalties on the advancement of ability scores or powers that are the focus of a player's efforts at improvement. Perhaps the cost doubles after the first CS, triples after the second, or something similar. Alternately, a 'cresting' fee can be imposed each time a player character increases something from one rank to another, if desired.

When it gets down to it, character advancement tends to go hand in hand with a campaign's pacing. One can readily be used to manipulate the other, though the former's effect tends to impact a campaign overall, instead of just a given session. This is why it behooves the Judge to ponder how they want their players to grow before the climax of current adventure (or series of such).

Health

... or Hopefully You Still Have It

There's no doubt that an adventurer's Health is always at risk. These are people for whom getting punched in the face is often part of their job description, after all. That's why healing rates are detailed for players who regularly take a beating. Sure, those bruises and scratches will linger for days, if not weeks, but at least the Health point loss behind them will usually evaporate long before then.

Ideally for the players' characters, their healing rates are great enough that, after a day or so, any minor injuries received over the course of their adventures should be patched up - cosmetic traces notwithstanding. However, events don't always work out as the players would like, and their characters occasionally have to resume their efforts before completely recovering from their last.

This is another tool Judges can use to foster a mood, should they wish to. By forcing players to keep their characters running at top speed, unable to patch themselves up, they can instill a sense of urgency to their efforts. Higher stakes are implied as well, because full team defeats are much more likely under such circumstances, which can be particularly harrowing if one's foes are out for blood.

Inversely, some Judges may prefer to minimize such instances, whether because they dislike them or because they intend to really wring some juice out of that trick another day. This can be accomplished by allowing player characters a rest period after each encounter, spending a minute doing little of import or difficulty in order to immediately recover their Endurance rank in lost Health points, if applicable.

This often has the effect of impelling player characters further into action, since they need not wait around quite so much to heal from their many injuries. While this may remove any dramatic tension from terribly injured heroes struggling against the odds, it lends itself to a much more lively session. Or you know, at the very least, a heaping helping of character on character violence.

A third method of handling the replacement of lost Health points is to simply give player characters back all of theirs after each encounter, barring any grievous injuries. The greatest advantage of this is that nobody has to keep track of their Health; should everyone make it out of a fight in one piece, they'll be fine in time for their next bout of cartoon carnage.

Players generally love this for their characters, and Judges might even appreciate it for sake of its simplicity. Sure, it may force Judges to focus any tension based on wounds and injuries on immediate concerns in combat, but that's okay. After all, it leaves them room to concentrate on other plotting concerns if they wish to. Which is good, because this greatly speeds up a gaming session's mayhem.

Typically, it behooves a Judge to stick with one of these styles of lost Health replacement, at least over the course of a single campaign. Mixing it up can make it hard for everyone to figure out just how durable their pet adventurers are. If the Judge must reconfigure how Health is regained for whatever reason, he or she should ensure the rest of table is totally clear on their changes.

Karma

... or All About Moral Relativity

In Living and Dying, it is pointed out that the ethos of a character primarily determines how their actions gain or cost them Karma over the course of their adventures. As a character can follow five basic ethos in the game, specifically order, chaos, good, evil, and balance, this occasionally acts to make the dispensation of Karma for player actions something of a juggling act.

The difficulty here is that save for things like keeping up appearances, changes in one's Karma total involve either breaking the law or foiling someone else who is attempting to do so, casting the entire exercise as a contest between order and chaos. As described, this is the basic reward system utilized by the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine, and served the CASE's predecessor well for decades.

Should the Judge prefer to avoid further complications when adjudicating the relative morality of a given character's action(s), that's completely fine. There isn't a lot of interpretation involved with the CASE's basic reward rules; if you support the forces of order, breaking the law will cause you to lose Karma, while if you are chaotic in nature, breaking the law serves to gain you Karma. That's essentially it.

Judges have the option of allowing all five ethos, in the event that they wish to. When doing so, it falls upon the Judge to compare a player character's ethos to that player character's history and behavior when determining how, if at all, their Karma changes. This is because good and evil characters, while aware of the eternal tug between order and chaos, simply have other priorities.

Thus, the Judge has to determine whether or not a given good or evil character's actions properly serve their chosen ethos. This is loads more complicated than adjudicating whether an action serves order or chaos more, primarily since most people have competing views of what is 'good' and what is 'evil'. However, Judges can deploy a bit of philosophical shorthand to accomplish this most of the time.

Regardless of the situation at hand, the Judge simply has to ask whether a Karma-changing action furthers the greater good or not, both in relation to one person or the world at large. For example, say a good character saved a brutal dictator from being assassinated. If she relishes in crimes against humanity, are you really helping by saving her, or just aiding and abetting the suffering of millions? Ah, ethics!

Once a Judge has determined whether or not a good or evil character's actions fit them, he or she can dispense Karma changes in the following manner. Those actions which ultimately match one's ethos gain them the listed amount of Karma, while those that do not cost them a like amount. Further, those actions which occupy a clear gray area halve these changes, depending on which direction they lean.

The final ethos, that of balance, is possibly the hardest for Judges to allow in their games. Those characters who work to further equilibrium in every aspect of their lives, proponents of cosmic balance strive to achieve this state. Many of these individuals turn inward, attempting to make of themselves what the universe requires. Others, on the other hand, turn their attention on the world at large.

Thus, determining whether or not such characters' actions truly serve the balance they seek is an even more subjective effort than adjudicating good or evil. This may sound like a moral easy street for players, perfect for those wishing to emulate mercenaries, spies, or whatever. But the path of balance is fraught with peril, and those who can't uphold its tenets will find themselves with a hard row to hoe.

Judges must perform the same philosophical juggling act with balanced characters as they must with good and evil, save for the ever-shifting sands of their baseline; both they and the world around them are constantly imbalanced in different ways, you know. While balanced characters experience normal Karma gain for actions that bolster balance, they lose twice that for those Judges decide do not.

This is all detailed in Judging the Game because Judges need not indulge in endless arguments over whether or not an action fits a certain philosophical criteria if they don't wish to. Many Judges will simply retain the base reward system, which is centered on crimes and the foiling thereof. If one is simply looking for a quick and dirty game, the three bonus ethos may be more trouble than they're worth.

Similarly, Judges are entirely justified in laying down the law with alternate ethos, in the event that they worry about players endlessly attempting to buffalo them into accepting their rationalization for any number of off-brand actions. The usual recommendations for settling player disagreements can come in handy here, but if concerned Judges should explicitly state their policy on such ethos rulings beforehand.

Overall, these additional ethical structures act to expand character options in the Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine, should players wish to adopt them. At the very least, should all the other characters share one basic philosophy, Judges can introduce others with these 'alien' mores to highlight what makes their beliefs - and those of the characters by contrast - such a big deal.

Resources

... or The Most Vexing Power

In most games, wealth is handled directly. A given character will only have so much currency and/or materials on their person, and any additions or subtractions to such depend on how the player utilizes it - or if it's stolen somehow. The Costumed Adventurer Simulation Engine doesn't bother tracking the explicit wealth of its characters, so much as it gives them a Resources rank to represent such.

Sparing Judges hours of tedious accounting, the Resources ability allows players to handle their accumulated whatever in a more abstract sense. Resources ACTIONs are typically only called for when a character attempts to spend an amount of their hoard with a Resources intensity close to that of their own Resources rank. If a purchase isn't an automatic ACTION, characters may only attempt one per week.

This seems relatively straight-forward, but as is the case with normal economic activity, the abstract financial rules of the CASE meant to simplify this matter for its players can be strained somewhat where vastly wealthy individuals are involved. For one thing, that automatic ACTION on a character with, say, Amazing (50) Resources allows a body to pick up a whole lot of goods without having to expend any Karma.

Strictly speaking, nothing in the rules prevents a character from making hundreds of automatic Resources ACTIONs over the course of a session. Judges may have trouble balancing their sessions against this conundrum, but a bit of perspective helps to deal with it. Sure, the wealthy individual can buy tons of fancy gear off the shelf, but that level of imbalance is nothing compared to, say, ultimate power.

Judges shouldn't actively discourage the use of great wealth. Players typically invest in their Resources rank if they wish to play a wealthy character, either during character generation or via in-game actions once play starts, and they should be allowed to benefit from that. After all, the effort expended to bolster their booty comes at the expense of advancement in other areas.

That being said, wealth is a powerful motivator for crime. Folks who become aware of a character's ludicrous wealth, particularly those who aren't inclined to earn it through their own efforts, are liable to try and acquire it for themselves. This can involve any number of criminal operations targeted at the wealthy individual, particularly if their costumed rivals know where to find them - and their loot.

Such is the life of a billionaire playboy or playgirl, always warding off burglars when they should be out bashing their heads in, instead. Though rich characters should bear this risk in mind, Judges shouldn't exploit it constantly. One of the major draws of acting out the lives of characters in the CASE is to enjoy that larger than life feeling, not simply playing out a life of someone guarding their own loot.

Perhaps the easiest way to handle Resources is to just treat it like any other ability score or power a character has. It's part of them, but not everything that makes them who they are. That wealth is just one facet of a character the Judge can hook bits of story to here and there, along with everything else that's noteworthy about them. It's less stressful that way.

Popularity

... or the Fickle Admiration of the Unwashed Masses

As is the case with Health and Karma, Popularity tends to vary wildly for characters over even short periods of time, regardless of any resources expended to increase it either during character generation or after play begins. Regardless of where one's Popularity begins, it can be immediately modified based on a character's actions - as long as said actions have at least one witness that can report them to others.

For the most part, Popularity gains come in one point increments, while reductions in this ability score are... much more harsh.

Characters can work outside of combat situations to improve their Popularity. Whether part of a public relations blitz or simply a wish to help others, getting out there and doing good deeds can bolster one's reputation with the public. An act of charity can bolster one's Popularity score by one point, as can rescuing one or more individuals, or wielding one's powers in manner that benefits society somehow.

More esoteric means of bolstering one's Popularity involves making regular public appearances, whether in person, on the radio, in cinema, on the television, all over the Internet, or... something in this vein. Character with public-facing personas can do publicity stunts, actors can appear in movies, bands can do live performances, and so on. An entire week of such effort is required for a Popularity boost.

Generally, the only other way to increase one's Popularity for the adventuring crowd involves defeating one's rivals in the costumed space. Actually gaining repute for fighting criminals requires facing foes one can reasonably lose to. The television news rarely covers that alien super-soldier trouncing bank robbers, as often as it happens, but definitely tunes in when she's taking on an alien invasion alone.

As is the case with other Popularity increases, defeating a potent foe raises one's Popularity by one. However, several mitigating circumstances can act to further boost the increase such a defeat imparts. For one thing, obviously disrupting that opponent's plans adds a point to the Popularity yield, while saving a town/city/county/state/country/planet also adds a point to the player's score.

A character defeated by criminals, whether or not they are a competent threat, lowers one's Popularity score by five. This defeat need not come in the form of a physical trouncing, mind you. Being outwitted by common thugs is arguably even more humiliating than simply being beat up by them, but one's Popularity will suffer the same no matter how bruised that defeat leaves our protagonist and their ego.

Similarly, characters who get on the bad side of the media are often subject to baseless attacks from them. Maybe it's a tabloid publisher with an unhealthy axe to grind against an adventurer, or perhaps some supposed influencer online is is attacking a character because he or she threatens their cushy job. A concerted media attack also reduces one's Popularity score by five points.

Those characters who aren't considered outlaws will suffer a fifty percent reduction in their Popularity if accused of committing one or more crimes. If convicted of any serious crime, characters then lose the rest of their Popularity. On the other hand, though brutalized in the media for their trouble, characters exonerated from false or mistaken accusations recover half of the Popularity they lost.

Naturally, scofflaws typically use the inverse of these actions to bolster their (usually negative) Popularity scores. Being arrested and/or convicted of crimes also chops up their Popularity stores, however, because this causes criminals to lose whatever street credibility they've managed to wring out of the terrified populace to date. On the other hand, escaping incarceration recovers half of this loss for criminals.

This all assumes the frequent appearance of characters, such as those controlled by the other players. The Judge may simply determine on the fly what a guest star's Popularity is at any given moment, because they're typically doing things that don't involve the ostensible protagonists of one's tale. Mind you, players repeatedly defeating them should be accounted for in such instances.

All of the above assumes that a character is in the public eye, at least a little bit. If characters are incommunicado for a full week at a time, they will lose one point of Popularity, unless mitigating circumstances keep them in the public consciousness despite their paltry efforts. This can happen if the character appears in the media somehow despite being absent, sparing them some effort at least.

Contacts

... or Maintaining Friendships

Contacts are like other traits a character has, the process for acquiring one either during character generation or later on being spelled out wherever their possessors are generated. At the same time, contacts are a unique part of a character in that they consist of one or more other characters entirely. And since they aren't controlled like an NPC companion, special consideration of contacts is necessary.

As is the case with Popularity, the status of a contact can change wildly over the course of an adventure - or even a single session. Maybe they've become embroiled in one subplot or another, or perhaps they've been pushed just a bit too far by their contactee. In other words, spending character points or Karma to pick up a contact is no guarantee that they'll remain one's contact over time.

Maintaining the good graces of a contact is relatively easy, assuming a player doesn't abuse them. As the idea of a contact is that they are sources of help, one would hope player characters would know better, and most of the time they do. But you know how it is. Mistakes are made, comments are misinterpreted, and/or trust is violated in some manner. But is this enough to actually lose a contact?

That all depends on a player character's previous interactions with a contact. While contacts are typically treated as friendly for the purposes of NPC reactions, those having a strained relationship with a player character can be downgraded by the Judge. This allows them to track what terms the two parties currently exist at, which is particularly important if a Judge doesn't keep copious notes.

Whether a contact's status erodes over time or is lost all at once, then, depends on both the severity of the latest offense against a contact and their overall history with their contactee. Either way, once a contact is lost, they're lost along with whatever resources (or Resources, for that matter) went into their cultivation. Unless, of course, the player behind that character wants their contact back.

Restoring a lost contact typically requires the player behind the character who lost said contact to make amends with them, if at all possible. Failing that, perhaps a new working relationship can be established between the two parties. Or, if nothing else works, perhaps the player can perform a great service for their contact, proving themselves to the individual(s) in question in some other manner.

As stated in the rules, restoring a contact requires an expenditure of Karma equal to that of buying an entirely new one. Players often let burned bridges lie for precisely this reason; buying a new contact generally invovles less effort than restoring one which is lost. Should parting ways with a lost contact prove untenable for one or more player characters, though, a new contact may simply not do.

Should a player go out of their way to restore a contact, Judges are encouraged to give them a break. Perhaps they can reduce or even waive the customary fee for restoring that contact if their contactee roleplays the attempt especially well. Or, at the very least, the contact is sufficiently mollified by whatever harebrained scheme the player attempted to mend the relationship between the two.

You know, similar to how inventors get discounts for simply getting out of the house and putting their backs into the job.

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