“Uh-huh,” Nina said, nibbling on her cheesy fiesta potatoes. “I’ll have to check but I don’t think we have the budget for world travel.”
“Well, it worked for Julia Roberts,” I said. “And look how popular Eat Pray Love was.”
“Elizabeth Gilbert was the author. Julia played her in the movie.”
“Whatever. Who do you think would play me in the movie about my quest to discover what drives Dungeon Masters? Wait. I could. I was a theater major, after all.”
She offered me a potato, which is her nice way of saying no.
“You could come, too,” I told her. “In fact, you have to. It’s mandatory.”
“Sure,” Nina said. “Ask your boss. It’s her budget.”
“Hmm,” said Laura, offering me some of her volcano burrito. Clearly those two had lunch together. Probably to discuss my book tour. “So that’s two around-the-world all-expense-paid trips you’re asking for?”
“Not all expenses paid. I wouldn’t expect Wizards to pay for things like souvenirs and anything over two glasses of wine per meal. Or the new wardrobe I’ll have to buy to ensure I’m dressed appropriately for the 194 countries I’ll be visiting.”
“That’s very generous of you,” she said. “And who would do your job while you’re out there gallivanting?”
“Not gallivanting,” I said. “This is important work. So important that it would be my job and therefore I’d be doing it so no need to replace me. There. Problem solved.”
“Months?”
“Maybe weeks? Several?”
“Maybe you could rein it in a bit,” she suggested. “Like go hang out downtown. I’ll cover your parking.”
Disappointed I’ll miss out on a trip to Palau, I start my knowledge quest a little closer to home. Like from my desk. This office is teeming with Dungeon Masters. Probably more than the entire population of Palau. I think of the most renowned DMs in the building and write their names in my new secret research notebook. (Weirdly, they are all named “Chris.”) Next week I will study these Dungeon Masters. I will watch them with rapt attention. I will analyze their every move, exchange, and gesture and discover what it is that makes them masterful. And then … I will become like them. Nope. That doesn’t sound creepy at all.
THE PASSION OF THE CHRIS
Monday morning, I approach work with a renewed sense of vigor. I’m excited to get Project Dungeon Master off the ground and start winning some arguments! About midday, Laura realizes we’re doublebooked for meetings that afternoon and would have to tagteam.
“Do you have a preference for which meeting you go to?” she asked.
Technically, one is for a project I’m deeply involved in, but the other one is helmed by Chris Tulach. This is a great opportunity to study the ways and means of this guy. Plus in a meeting no one will think it’s weird if I’m taking notes. Even if my notebook is covered with hand-drawn cupcakes.
“I’ll go to the meeting about Game Days,” I told her.
She crinkled her forehead. “Are you sure? You’re probably needed more in the conventions meeting.”
“Oh, you can just fill me in,” I said. “Besides, it’s important for me to be well-rounded, right? What if you got hit by a bus tomorrow and had to be in traction for a year?”
“Umm … right. Good point, I guess. Way to be a team player.”
In Chris Tulach’s meeting I noticed his presentation style. He stands up. He writes on the white board. He moves with a frenetic energy common to kittens and toddlers. But I notice everyone in this meeting is iPhone free and rapt with attention. Why? He’s passionate. And he knows his subject.
So who are the elite masters I chose to study? Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the Master Class of Dungeoneering.
CHRIS PERKINS, DUNGEON MASTER TO THE STARS:
In addition to being our superstar Dungeon Master, Mr. Perkins is an exceptionally nice guy, with freakishly good handwriting. I think it’s what the Century Gothic font is modeled after. He has DMed for such luminaries as Wil Wheaton, the guys from Penny Arcade, Dan Milano and the Robot Chicken crew, R. A. Salvatore, Ed Greenwood, and the writer of the IT Crowd, Graham Linehan. Just to name a few. When people line up to watch these games live, they’re not just there to see Wil Wheaton’s character bite it. They want to see the authority behind the screen. There’s a reason they call them Masters.
Chris is never shy with giving advice. He doles out his secrets with the same sincerity and earnestness Mrs. Gable used to dole out apples on Halloween. (Except no one chucks Chris’s advice into his chrysanthemum bush. Ingrates.) Surely he will teach me to take over the world. Or at least the board of my homeowners association.
He’s clearly put a lot of thought into the topic, and besides it being just rude to not pay attention, he’s got me thinking how much I want to pay attention. I mean, if whatever he’s talking about has got him this jazzed, it’s got to be good, right?
I’m reminded of the stint I worked at a men’s clothing store. Tina, the tweaky manager (who once stole a $400 sale from me and I’m still pissed about it) gave me a tip: Just sound like you know what you’re talking about and they’ll buy it. Not to be stereotypical but let’s just say some guys didn’t know much about fashion. And they didn’t care about it until they had a function—a wedding, a date, a parole hearing—to attend. It wasn’t exactly difficult to outfit them in a grandpa cardigan and pair of relaxed-fit dark indigo jeans and send them on their way. But those bigger ticket items were harder to sell. That’s when we’d have to pull out the big guns—a few choice adjectives like band collar or bouclé or British-style versus Mandarin-style suits. Band-collar shirts are ugly but I sold hundreds of them because my clients were so impressed they had a “name” and they trusted me because I knew it. Fancy name = instant expert.
Is Chris doing something similar here to sell us on his new Game Day program? Why shouldn’t we funnel thousands of dollars into this? He sure sounds like he’s the authority. And if an enthusiastic D&D player like himself is behind it, then surely other D&D players will follow. Yes! Fantastic idea! I’m about to reallocate my entire marketing budget when I’m reminded that:
A. I don’t have authority to do things like that (for good reason, I guess).
B. There’s a long process that needs to take place before we even start talking marketing dollars. No matter. I came away from that meeting with all the information I had hoped to glean from it.
Key Takeaway #1: Kill ’em with enthusiasm, eagerness, and expertise.
THE DEVIL IN THE DETAIL (LIKELY A TROLL, TOO)
Tuesday rolls around. (Get it? A little D&D humor?) And that means it’s time for my D&D group, the Wyld Stallyns, to meet and kick some kobold. Half of the group and Chris Youngs, our DM, are there when I arrive. He’s got his tackle boxes full of minis, magnetic nameplates, wet-dry markers, tokens, and laminated playmat. If only there were tackle boxes to compartmentalize my scattered thoughts, I’d be in business.
“You’re early,” he said, looking at his watch.
“It’s ten after,” I said.
“Uh, yeah. Early.”
Whatever.
Key Takeaway #2: Guilt your audience into submission.
Chris starts with his “Previously on Dungeons & Dragons” spiel. It’s always a welcome recap because a lot has happened to me in the last 168 hours so I can’t possibly be expected to remember what happened to Tabitha. Unfortunately, I keep making the mistake of believing the same is true for Mr. Youngs. But nooooooooooooo! The guy has a memory like an iron vault. Or in this case, the stone sarcophagus the party is trying to open. Again.
We succeed, but of course doing so unleashes the ire of about 900 stirge-like creatures.
“Tabitha uses her shield!” I shouted in response to my little wizard getting attacked.
“No, she doesn’t,” Chris Youngs said. “She used it four rounds ago.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Four rounds? A gnat has a more robust sh
ort-term memory than I do. But understand “four rounds ago” was maybe six weeks ago. We don’t get to play as often as we’d like, thanks to these little things we like to call day jobs.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “You must have Tabitha confused with another tielfing wizard who is about to take enough damage to bloody her. Not me. Nope. This shield is brand spankin’ new. Not a clink on it.”
“Nice try,” he commended. “Take nineteen damage. And put your shield away before you trip on it.”
Now, did Tabitha really use her shield already? I don’t know, but I didn’t argue (much) because I trust that Mr. Youngs has a better head for such inane details than I do, so I go with it.
And that’s where we get:
Key Takeway #3: Dazzle your audience with your keen ability to remember more than they do. Then use it against them.
COMMAND PERFORMANCE. AND ATTENTION. RESPECT, TOO.
On Wednesday, Chris Lindsay operates like a well-tuned cuckoo clock. Around 10:00 a.m. I see him hunched over his desk, pencil poised over index cards, elbow deep in miniatures. Then he turns his chair 180 degrees and stares out the window for a good seven to ten minutes.
“Working hard?” I asked. I can tell a lot about our lunchtime D&D Encounters game by how Mr. Lindsay responds to this question.
“Oooooh yeah,” he said, rubbing his pencil furiously between his palms. “Very hard.…” And then he smiled.
It’s the smile that says it all. The you’re-going-to-squirm-and-I’m-going-to-love-it smile.
Maybe it’s because the six-inch wall between us offers me a vantage point to see how much work he actually puts into our games, maybe it’s because I’m always starving at noon, or maybe it’s because I’m really afraid of him, but I’m never late for our lunchtime game. Regardless, we only have an hour to play, so we speed through the encounter to make the most of every minute.
First thing I notice, now that I’m paying attention, is that Chris sits on the long side of the table. He does this every game. This strikes me as odd for two reasons.
CHRIS YOUNGS, TUESDAY AFTERNOON DUNGEON MASTER TO THE WYLD STALLYNS:
Mr. Youngs has been playing D&D since he was five. He got into it sort of how I got into hockey—his brother and friends needed a fourth to round out the party. Little did they know the student would soon surpass the teachers and Chris would be writing his own campaigns and running the group through them. He’s a social, creative guy, which lends itself to being a good DM, but there’s got to be more than that. I mean, I’m social. I’m sometimes creative. I mean, check out those little cupcakes I drew all over my super secret research notebook. That counts, right?
Oh, and did I mention Mr. Youngs smells divine? Like rosemary and mint? Yes, in fact, I have. Many times.
CHRIS LINDSAY, WEDNESDAY D&D ENCOUNTERS DUNGEON MASTER:
Mr. Lindsay joined the D&D Brand team after spending years in Wizards’ Game Support division. Obviously he knows what he’s talking about if he can handle all those calls and e-mails that come in asking some of the most obtuse rules questions in D&D history. He sits next to me with nothing but a six-inch cube wall between us. Not only is he a PowerPoint guru, but also he’s our litmus test when it comes to “is this too nerdy?” It seldom is, if you’re wondering. Again, knowing the rules and the boundaries of nerdiness is one thing. How to keep your players coming back for more in a D&D is another.
CHRIS TULACH, TOURNAMENT ORGANIZER EXTRAORDINAIRE:
I swear, Mr. Tulach was put on this Earth to work for Dungeons … Dragons. Sometimes in meetings when I hear him talking about a play program he’s working on or an in-store event he planned, or the lemon cookies he baked for his home game campaign, I try to imagine what in my life is equal to D&D in his life. Chubby Hubby ice cream? Beer? The Real Housewives? No, I’d get sick of all of them eventually. I have yet to find it but I’ll let you know when I do. I could learn a lot from him, no doubt, if I could only get him to sit still long enough to study him. Hmm … I think … studying the notes in my secret research notebook.
Exceptional Dungeon Master trait #1: Must be named Chris.
It’s like kids named Troy and Brock are destined to be professional football players and girls named Bambi have to … well, just don’t name your kid Bambi. Perhaps the Chrises of the world have been pred estined to become great Dungeon Masters. Answer the call, young Chrises! Young scholars like myself are looking to you for guidance. Let my crash course in Chris-like behavior begin.
1. Those “leading the meeting” usually sit at the head.
2. With his screen, minis, index cards, adventure book, and lunch, he is taking up an inordinate amount of space. So much so that none of us can sit on that side of the table. Rather, the five of us are sort of forced to sit across from him, crammed next to each other, like we’re eager campers waiting for our counselor to tell us a scary story. I’m constantly elbowing Liz every time I shove a Brussels sprout in my mouth and can feel the vibration in my chair whenever Bertrand’s cell phone alerts him to a new e-mail. The last two players to arrive have to sit so far from the playmat you have to ask your buddy to move your character six squares.
“There. No, there. Back one. To the left. Right. No, not right—correct. Now one to the left. Good! Wait, what do you mean I can’t hit them both with my burst from right there?”
I used to think this was nothing more than poor meeting etiquette, but now I’m not so sure. The whole camp counselor formation might have some value. I don’t ever plead blackout and ask what happened during the last session. I seldom try to use my daily powers twice in one encounter (I mean, I do try but I’m well aware that I’ve already used them). The game moves at a steady clip because everyone greets their turn with swift tactical action and moves on. There is very little table talk in Mr. Lindsay’s game. While we may joke around outside of the game and tease each other like a brother and sister, our relationship is very student/sensei in the game. Weird!
Key Takeaway #4: Force your subject’s focus and respect by manipulating your surroundings.
As I pondered this, I heard my name. Or rather my character’s name.
“What’s Stormin’ Norman doing?”
“What? Oh, um, you know. Just chillin’. Looking at … stuff.”
“Well, while he’s chillin’ and looking at stuff he feels something skitter across his boot.”
“Oh, no. Ew. Um, guys, something just skittered across my boot!”
And just like that I’m back in the game without even knowing I was out. Mr. Lindsay winked at me and I realized whatever it was that skittered could have crossed anyone’s threshold. Employing the age-old school teacher tactic of calling on someone who appears not to be paying attention, I am bound and determined to be mindful of every facet of the forty-eight minutes we have left in our game.
Key Takeaway #5: Demand attention by calling on those drifting off.
THE IMAGINARIUM OF DOCTOR PERKINS
I always found Chris Perkins’s voice to be soothing and calm. In fact, it’s so much so that I had to quit listening to the Penny Arcade podcasts he DMed for in my car because not only did I nearly fall asleep at red lights, I gave up chewing gum, impulse buying at the grocery store, and developed a sudden urge to quack like a duck whenever I smell jasmine and honeysuckle. Still not sure why.
Once I saw him walking to a meeting carrying a laptop. Only I didn’t see the laptop, just the cord that trailed behind him, and I thought, It’s true. He is a computer. Although I haven’t had the pleasure of sitting in on one of his games, there’s enough footage out there showing him in action.
So what if he knows more about D&D than probably any resource, human or otherwise, out there? Who cares if he’s a prolific writer who pens his adventures from scratch? Pay no attention to the fact that he has elaborate three-dimensional set pieces built to his specs. There’s got to be something in here an average Josephine like me can use.
The first thing is obvious: commitment. Mr. Perkins i
s nothing if not dedicated to providing his players with the utmost in entertainment. And maybe it’s walking into an arena filled with 1,200 fans eager to watch your character tromp through the landscape Master Dungeon Master has provided for you, or maybe it’s because these podcasts usually involve people who work in highly creative fields, but I can’t help wonder if just being in Mr. Perkins’s aura puts your imagination into overdrive.
Key Takeaway #6: Instill Inspiration with Your Indisputable Infatuation
When I worked as a receptionist for an insurance company in high school, Betty, the office manager, told me that I should always answer the phone with a smile on my face. Betty was clearly nuts as this was way before the days of Skype. Perhaps those little kerchiefs she wore around her neck were cutting off some much-needed oxygen.
“Why would I do that, Betty?” I asked. I was in high school after all and therefore a pro at patronizing my idiotic elders.
“So they can hear the happy in your voice,” she said, through the stiffest, most practiced smile I ever saw. Oddly, she didn’t sound happy when she said this.
It does work. (Sorry, Betty) and I swear Mr. Perkins must practice this sort of thing when he DMs. Only his smile is genuine, because even with his lips sewn together you could still hear how much he enjoys his place behind the screen. And because of that his players and (in his case) the audience enjoy it, too. There is truth to the old adage “kill ’em with kindness.” Especially when you’re a Dungeon Master.
Mr. Perkins also does something clever, and that’s interweaving a story arc that’s unique to each character. Way to keep them interested. It’s like wiggling a big fat magical sword in their faces.
Key Takeaway #7: Appeal to their selfish sides and let them know they have something at stake, too.
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons Page 10