Thoughts on Introductory Game Fiction vs game Tie-In Fiction

You can set the tone for an RPG, from an entire game system to a single adventure, with bits of short fiction. The purpose of this fiction isn’t really the same as fiction that exists only for its own sake. You need to introduce a world and show some of the ways it can be used, as much as entertain with prose.

That’s subtle different from game tie-in fiction. God tie-in fiction does work entirely on its own, and may even take liberties with what game rules could handle in order to present a story set in the same world as a game. It’s a balancing act, but the best tie-in fiction tends to be a good story first, and a faithful representation of a game later. (And this is fair – lots of games made as tie-in to fiction are imperfect representations of those fictional worlds. When you change the format, you accept some alteration in the details.)

For example, I’ve been experimenting with what fiction set in the Really Wild West would look like. I’ve done short introduction fiction for some of the RWW pieces, but am thinking I might take a different approach if I wanted to do my own tie-in fiction.

I haven’t had time to write a complete Really Wild West long-form story, but I have written the first scene of one.

THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE RUSTY

The air was dense with smoke and ash, burning Skaff’s throat as he sucked desperately through the bandanna held to his mouth. His eyes watered but he dared not shut them,  glaring deep into the smoke as he ran. The clouds of thick gray ash and cinders were painful, burning his cheeks and hands, but it was infinitely preferable to the oily black vapor that would surely be crawling through the town’s streets by now. Choking, even burning, was a less fearful fate than the horrors he had seen visited on those who had been exposed even briefly to the black gas.

A loud roar, part steam horn and part animal howl, bellowed through town. Even over the screaming of panicked citizens he could not see through the conflagration, the roar was clear and chilling. He felt the need to run from that sound as quickly as possible, but it seemed to come from all directions at once. As its echoes faded, a similar sound rang in the distance. He was unsure how far away the source of the more remote roar could be—a mile?—less?—but he knew it was not far enough. The distant roar seemed to come primarily from the east and so he turned west, the direction only discernible because the low setting sun made one section of smoke glow more than the rest.

A woman crashed into him, running in blind panic, and clawed at his coat. She was tall and thin, with the fine features and sharp ears of an elf, but her face showed none of the serenity Skaff associated with the European clade. Before he could react to her at all, though he knew not if he hoped to aid the woman or shove her away, the elven interloper cried out and dashed out of sight into the smoke. She left a wet sensation on Skaff’s shirt, which he briefly hoped was water, perhaps a result of the woman trying to protect herself from the flames. But the strong smell of iron, wafting up even through smoke and bandana, told him the truth. He was covered in another person’s blood, soaked through her clothing to thoroughly that one impact had splashed it on him. It was a sure sign black gas was nearby. That woman, though running, was already dead. She just had the worst parts of experiencing her end yet to come.

Skaff tried to angle his retreat to move both westward, and away from the direction he thought the unfortunate blood-cover woman had come from. He could no longer see clearly from his left eye, and the stinging in his right forced him to close it even as he desperately fought to keep looking for deadly vapors. Shapes in the ash were vague, and he could only guess at their clades. A human, one of the insectile chivvin, the jerky motions of an automaton. A figure that was a centaur, or a mounted rider, thundered past. Suddenly, in a flash of crimson light and wave of heat, the horselike figure burst into flames, turning to charcoal before it could even fall to the ground.

And then, the dull glow of dusk was blocked from above.

The shape concealing the sun was vast, looming far above him. Even through the smoke its basic form was obvious, three long legs stretching up from the ground supporting a huge disk which writhed with undulating tentacles. Screams echoed down from the top of the shape, and Skaff stopped dead in his tracks. Hot drops of red fell on his face, like hellish rain, and he could taste that they were blood. One of the massive tripod legs lifted and swung forward, smashing some unseen building of brick and glass in the process. A stone struck Skaff, driving him to the dusty street, and the sky further darkened as the leg fell toward him.

Skaff woke screaming.

All around him it was dark, and for a long panicked moment he didn’t know where he was. Instinctively he scrambled backwards, fighting some wet shape that enwrapped him, tangling him and holding him tightly. Then he was falling. He thought he was falling from a great height, but he dropped just a short distance onto a hard, cold floor.

It was the chill air, as he dragged it into his aching throat, that made him realize he wasn’t in the smoke anymore. He wasn’t in that town. The tripod hadn’t crushed him, by the narrowest margin.

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About okcstephens

Owen K.C. Stephens Owen Kirker Clifford Stephens is the Starfinder Design Lead for Paizo Publishing, the Freeport and Pathfinder RPG developer for Green Ronin, a developer for Rite Publishing, and the publisher and lead genius of Rogue Genius Games. Owen has written game material for numerous other companies, including Wizards of the Coast, Kobold Press, White Wolf, Steve Jackson Games and Upper Deck. He also consults, freelances, and in the off season, sleeps.

Posted on November 25, 2019, in Diesel Pulp, Microsetting, Short Fiction and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. “When you change the format, you accept some alteration in the details.)”. I don’t know that I agree with this statement. I’ve bought tie in novels for D&D, Eberron, Buck Rogers, Pathfinder and others. The best and most enjoyable of them are always the ones that exemplify the game world or it’s mechanics in some way. I’ve read every novel set in Eberron. There’s one trilogy which focuses on the pulp aspect and it’s delightful. There’s a second, written by the creator, which is pure noir and completely uses the game world, and it’s painful and beautiful. There’s a third where I can name feats, class levels, and spell prep if the various characters, and it was amazing. There’s a fourth which doesn’t make a lick of sense in Eberron or the 3E mechanics Eberron was designed for, and it’s a terrible, nonsensical trilogy which feels at best like bad fan fic. If you’re writing TIE IN fiction, then shouldn’t there be an expectation that the world’s flavor(s) and/or mechanics be used by the writer? Granted, you can’t use every theme of a world in every story, a tale about Werewolves in Ustalev should likely be different than one set in Cheliax, but if you’re not going to use the flavor or mechanics at all, why are you writing Tie In fiction. As soon as I read things in novels that are nonsensical for the world/mechanics of the system, I start to lose interest. You can still write a good story, but why is it “set” in the game world if it really isn’t?

    • Accepting SOME alteration in the details isn’t the same as throwing out everything.
      For example, if a tie-in novel does things that COULD be done, conceptually, within a game world but that there are no current rules to handle, I think that’s fine.
      The needs of a novel and the needs of a game are often different, and you want to do the best for each.
      But, yes, you also want to do something that feels like it belongs in the world that’s being expanded on, or at least could.

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