Ron Edwards (part 2): Being “hurt” is not the point

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Here is the second and last part of the interview to Ron Edwards.

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Lines and veils were a milestone in the RPG history, but nowadays there’s an immense number of formal ‘safety tools,’ from the more specific to the more generic.

“For all I know, some of those are perfectly valid,” affirms Ron, “The one I will object to is the X-Card, which I consider crude, ineffective and misdirected.”

By the way, Edwards doesn’t use the term ‘safety tools’: it’s linked to some trends of the hobby culture he doesn’t like. “One beautiful thing that you might remember from that conversation with Keenan Kibrick is that, when people realize what line and veils are, they actually play outside the range they might have started with. That’s why I like calling them ‘danger tools,’ sometimes, just to reverse the terminology.” (This is a semi-humorous comment: it’s not a technical term nor any sort of formal vocabulary.)

About awareness

People advocating for formal ‘safety tools’ usually report that such tools create awareness: they inform everyone at the table that, for instance, they can stop the game, or say ‘no’ to a certain content. Things that, afterwards, are often done, very interestingly, without using the formal tool anymore. This was told to me multiple times about the X-Card, for example: its presence is a vehicle for creating the right mindset, then, when needed, people speak up and discuss without really touching the card.

This last statement matches, to a certain degree, with Ron’s observations: he too asked, sometimes, to people adopting the X-Card if it was actually used in play, and the answer was: “that’s funny, no.”

“The idea was: we need something like the X-Card on the table because it puts everybody on their best behavior,” he continues “I don’t really buy that. I don’t think people are capable of functioning in that fashion. I trust people because I do things with them and we see how it goes. I don’t give credit to a line of text or a piece of paper which claims that it makes the game safer: anybody can say it.”

About the fear of interrupting other’s fun

Another thing that I’ve heard many times is that ‘safety tools’ remove hesitations or fears that make people refrain from speaking up. We often remain silent because of “peer pressure” or because we don’t want to “break immersion” or “ruin other people’s fun.” Conversely, when the discussion about content editing is ‘camouflaged’ behind ritual keywords and game procedures, people have the sensation that it’s still part of the game, so it’s not interrupting the activity.

“Inside roleplaying culture, we created an artificial distinction between ‘in’ and ‘out’ of character, which is extremely crude and inaccurate,” Ron observes.

He recalls what he said before: the medium of roleplay is listening and reincorporating, it’s not the record of what was spoken. Some people, he says, feel like they’re the editors of everything that gets spoken at all times. There’s this feeling that if somebody says something in the wrong moment, they’re going to ruin the “final cut” that we’re producing. If we see roleplay like this, then “yes, it’s a fragile medium.” But it doesn’t need to be like this: we’re not on air and we can openly talk about what we’re doing. We can comment, we can edit, and nothing bad happens.

About emergency handling

Another common claim is that ‘safety tools’ can handle stressful or harmful situations in the best way, because they are designed for that. To explain this concept to me, some people used an analogy with security protocols in case of earthquake or fire. During the emergency we can’t rely on common sense: there’s a too high risk of mistakes. Instead, we design a protocol in advance, and during the emergency we strictly follow the protocol to minimize the risk.

“I agree about that,” Ron says, “but why does this standardized procedure have to be very similar to striking someone in the face? That’s what the X-Card basically is. I mean, a known procedure is a right thing, but can’t we have a good one?”

Actually, his view emphasizes a shared vocabulary, much more than rigid procedures. “There’s a reason why somebody, at the tables I play at, will say ‘line’ or ‘veil’: it’s a very clear statement, an understood one. That’s a great idea: let’s have some means by which we can communicate in play. Then we can go on from there and see how we do.”

Also, Ron sees no reason to equate the basic process of play with an incipient emergency. Here he is talking about a far less difficult or dangerous event than an “emergency.” If we observe emergencies during play, then we should probably not play together with these people.

About Luxton and tunnels

A quite special case, among the most famous ‘safety tools,’ is the so-called Luxton technique. I was interested in examples on how it really works, but I couldn’t find any. Its description by P. H. Lee involves orienting the future content of the game in a specific direction: basically, the person who is having trouble is given full control over the development of that part of the fiction.

Ron is strongly against this. He also observes that Lee’s statements are not supported by any concrete experience of play, and cannot be taken seriously.

Instead, he expresses appreciation for the Tunnel procedure in Stonewall 1969 by Stefano Burchi. He has seen it during play, even though he doesn’t recall the details to respect people’s privacy. “There was no manipulation of the outcome, the content of play was not edited. It was actually about how we manage talking to each other. There’s a focus on the person who is having an emotional response, so that they continue to experience the troubling content, knowing that they can get through it.”

It’s not (only) what you think

And now, the best part of the conversation.

Usually, when talking about these safety techniques, “it seems that the priority involved is to keep people from being hurt. You may notice that I never said that,” Ron says.

Sounds shocking? Wait for the rest.

“That’s very much the distortion that was immediately put on top of the entire thing.” The idea that roleplaying is an inherently dangerous activity, so, first of all, “we have to find a way to make sure we don’t damage those people (notice that’s always them, others: very patronizing).”

Another cultural problem is the assumption that there will be “bad actors” at the table: toxic people, who are going to hurt others on purpose. Thus, we need tools by which the rest of us can make sure that those people don’t hurt too badly. But, Ron asks, “would you go into any social, leisure activity with people that you presume being like that?”

A rhetorical question: of course not, I answer; I’d never play with such a terrible person. Ron agrees. And he adds: if the social context is such that “you’re worried to make yourself vulnerable to these people… you know, maybe you should stop going to conventions at all. I would understand: I don’t trust a lot of the people there either.”

Interesting risks and aesthetic concerns

He is talking about making ourselves vulnerable, after all. Is it a way to recognize that this is, somehow, a risky activity?

“There’s always a bit of a risk,” Ron recognizes peacefully, “same as any other social leisure activity.” These risks “are real in many ways, but they’re not like this: that playing hurts people, and we all have to be especially safe or else that’ll happen.” As he said before, we should abandon the presumption that we are sitting among bullies or other bad people, and that we are handling a fragile activity that needs constant cleanup and correction. Given that, there are still certain risks, and methods to deal with them are welcome.

“Actually, I do think that there are interesting risks,” Ron says: we might want to go into territory that we find productively problematic, which much art does. Then, we should be doing it in some fashion, so it doesn’t just become crap. “So, yeah, there are tools to do that.”

“There is a state of vulnerability, for having invested in the fiction so far, and then finding it going places that you don’t actually want.” Of course, it’s normal for the story to take unpredictable paths: it’s an RPG, fiction is emergent, this is wonderful. The problem Ron is describing, here, is realizing that certain thematic or aesthetic aspects are not working for us, to the point that we can’t continue enjoying the activity.

“Let me emphasize that I’m not just talking about ‘being hurt’: I’m talking about any reasons,” he underlines. “To focus on the traumatic aspect is missing the range of what I’m talking about. I’m not saying the trauma issue is absent, I’m saying it’s only one of many things that we should consider.” For example, we might find something inappropriate simply because it’s gross, stupid or too edgy, or because it would make our fiction ridiculous, adolescent. “I think it makes a lot of sense to keep the discussion at the level of aesthetics, because, you see, we’re no longer talking about the rules.”

I find this to be a brilliant point. As players we have freedom to choose among the infinite things that the game rules allow us to do, and this naturally comes with a responsibility. Of course, there will be better and worse choices, in terms of the aesthetic judgement of the table: some will increase our enjoyment, some will decrease it, even drastically, for whatever reason. It doesn’t mean that the solution is to introduce new rules, trying to make the second kind of choices forbidden.

There are also other problems, Ron continues, that we don’t have a good vocabulary to describe.

“In any bank of fiction in development, there are immutable things and mutable things. People can be very abusive by changing things, about a character, that another person would have thought were immutable.” And, yes, this can hurt. Along with other, more basic forms of offense: we don’t have to forget about these, we can just see them as part of something wider and more complex.

Clarifying, not correcting

Now the question is: how can we deal with all this in a functional way? Let’s see how Edwards’ tables do it.

“I think that, because it’s a dynamic phenomenon in play, we should be gentle with one another about finding these things. I’ve seen people in play say: ‘are you sure?’, or ‘I’m not so sure,’ or ‘I don’t really like this.’ Without it being a silencing statement, such as: ‘you’re a bad person, you broke the law, I’m now hurt and bleeding, shut up!’ – which is what the X-Card is.”

“There are assessments and conversations that, rather than being corrective, are clarifying,” Ron explains. ‘Corrective’ means that someone has the fault of breaking things and now we have to fix them: it’s a confrontational approach. While ‘clarifying’ means that we get to understand each other and then we continue, knowing that we are getting better at this.

“So, yes, there are lines and veils, but let’s find them, let’s learn from one another. Don’t forget: it’s not about winning an Oscar. What we are doing is going to evaporate, when we’re done.” So, if we don’t do well this time, it’s okay: maybe we’ll talk about it after the session, or maybe we’ll reflect upon it by ourselves… and the next time will be better. “If you play music,” Ron continues, with one of his most famous analogies, “you know that you’re going to have ups and downs.”

Crossing a cyberpunk line

In a Savage Worlds game with cyberpunk setting, where Ron was a player, not too long ago, the Game Master had planned a railroaded event: a woman NPC was supposed to show up on a motorcycle, shoot the person that the PCs were bodyguarding, and then run away. “Well, he was playing with the wrong table,” Ron says. Players were very assertive, asking for an initiative roll and a chance to act. In the end, they defeated and killed the woman. Which was a bit of a shock for the GM, who made up this NPC he liked… “but, you know, this happens.”

Then, one of the players said that the dead NPC had a pretty nice jacket. Another one commented: “She’s wearing leather pants too.”

“It was table talk, nobody was talking about actually taking anything from her body,” Ron explains. But “the sense of a sickening drop that I experienced at that moment… it just grossed me out.” What that player said is, he thinks, a clear example of “going over a line.”

What happened, then? Well, the interesting part is that nobody said anything. “Thinking back, all of us flinched, I remember.” Everyone was silent. Some sort of nonverbal communication, we might say. It was enough: that thing never happened again.

“We didn’t have a great, big ‘alright, everybody, we need a serious talk’ kind of thing. But that didn’t happen again. I don’t really know by which social mechanism, but that’s okay, right?” Ron continues. “The more I think about it, the more I’m going to speculate that the person who had spoken reflected, by themselves.”

He concludes: “There’s no perfect formula: when this happens, do that. But there’s room to be a little gentle about it. We don’t need a big confrontation, or a big ‘encounter group’ kind of thing. There’s room depending on the people.”

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