A few months back, photographer J.R. Blackwell took these shots in anticipation of my upcoming book tour. I highly recommend J.R., who was a pleasure to work with.
You can click on them to download the high-res versions.
A few months back, photographer J.R. Blackwell took these shots in anticipation of my upcoming book tour. I highly recommend J.R., who was a pleasure to work with.
You can click on them to download the high-res versions.
Larp is a young art form, and for most of its life, it’s been part of a largely oral tradition. This makes some sense–larp is ethereal, existing only in a particular time and place–and it’s hard to hang on to a ghost except through stories and memory. Today I want to talk about how larp’s oral tradition shapes larp culture and the emerging written tradition might change that.*
In folklore, and oral tradition is one where information and cultural practices are transferred from one generation to another via speech. As a young art form, larp is just at the cusp of being two or so generations old, and as it gets older, more and more of the traditions are being written down. So I’d like to dispense with the generational requirement and say that the oral tradition in larp consists of all the wonderful tips and tricks on exotic larp mechanics and on how to play, design, and run games that are trapped in the heads of the current generation of larp elders, and have not yet been written down.
I think larp is undergoing a shift where it is moving from a substantially oral tradition to a written tradition. But, Lizzie, you say, there are lots of books about roleplaying. Sure, many larps in the US have always had extensive rulebooks, but, say, the Vampire: The Masquerade sourcebook tells me nothing about what happened at your event last weekend and how you employed these guidelines to create a scintillating story. The rulebook is the tool, but the oral tradition is what enables people to use that tool to create art.
In recent years in the Nordic countries and elsewhere, larp documentation has come into vogue. For example, the hugely influential 2010 coffee table book Nordic Larp (now available for free download) included photos and essays of a few dozen games from Nordic larp’s 15-year history. The recent Larps from the Factory collected instructions on how to make a few dozen short larps from the Norwegian scenes in Oslo and Trondheim, as well as collecting some information on the cultural context of these games. In the last two years, no fewer than four books have been published, each documenting a single run of a weekend larp, including the Mad About the Boy book from the US run of the all-women game, the Kapo book on the prison larp, the Just a Little Lovin’ book about the Danish run of a larp about the summer AIDS came to New York City and the White War book about soldiers deployed to a culturally different locale (all free downloads).
And yet, for all this writing, for all the rulebooks, documentation books, and theory books, there is plenty of practical information that has not been written down. For example, you will not find instructions on how to run a Norwegian improvised ritual workshop or an Ars Amandi (technique for using arm-touching to represent emotional and physical intimacy) workshop in print. There is not much written information on how to design short, tight one-shot larps; only incomplete lists of game mechanics exist; many larpwrights do not write down instructions for their games, rendering it difficult to know what has been tried; and there has been precious little written about some vital components of larp-organizing, such as dealing with problem players, how to be inclusive, and how to push scenes as an organizer to make them more satisfactory for everyone.
Some of these textual silences are simply the product of a tradition still in its infancy–folks haven’t gotten around to writing them down yet–and some of these silences are strategic.
Keeping certain information oral is a way of controlling access to the information. A few weeks ago I met an Australian game designer who liked to create intense, real-life narratives. She does not make scripts for her games, she told me, because they can produce powerful experiences for the players. She feels responsible for her creation and doesn’t feel comfortable putting it in just anyone’s hands. This means that if you want to run her games, you have to meet her, which gives her a chance to check you out and make sure you’re OK.
Oral traditions produce a chain of custody for certain types of knowledge. If I want to run a ritual workshop and benefit from the expertise of seasoned veterans, then I have to find a knowledgeable person and personally ask them for the knowledge. And they, in turn, can decide whether I am worthy and capable of both producing the workshop and respecting the tradition. It also means that I get the knowledge from the source on a personal level and can ask follow-ups and for advice. In contrast, when learning from a written document, one has only the text, which can be open to misinterpretation, and certainly can’t field your questions afterward.
Oral traditions control and confine the reach of a piece of knowledge, and this raises some interesting questions. In cultures that pride themselves on egalitarianism, is it moral or just that I as an individual get to decide what the masses can handle and what they can’t? If I create something mindblowing, should I drop that on an unsuspecting public or create a community that will view it in the right context? It probably depends on whether the technique in question is more like atomic energy–useful but hard to control and catastrophic in the right circumstances–or fire–a basic need that is relatively easy to control the bulk of the time.
In Eric Havelock’s The Muse Learns to Write, he talks about what happened when the Greeks moved from an oral culture to a written culture–one of the rare examples of a culture adopting writing naturally, rather than having it thrust upon them. You can see the process happen through Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Socrates was not literate, Plato could write but wasn’t a literate native, and Aristotle grew up in a world with the technology of writing. Similarly, their theory goes from concrete to abstract. Socrates asks famous people questions about concepts that seem concrete but are actually complex and slipper, concepts like “justice.” His student Plato knows how to write but still uses oral formats–stories and dialogues–to get his philosophical points across. He develops a more abstract theory of forms–the idea that all apples are apples because they access the form of the ideal apple–the platonic form. Then you get to Plato’s student Aristotle, and suddenly we aren’t talking about forms, but about abstract concepts like being and matter.
Similarly, in larp, we’ve started out writing down rules systems and play experiences, which seem concrete to me. Now we’re in a great age of naming subtle things about the roleplay experience from bleed (the mixing of player and character emotions) to steering (being nice to that new kid by the punch table even though your characters have no reason to talk) and other theories. I’d say these are useful abstractions because they give larpers vocabulary to talk about game nuance. There is also a lot of academic theory about larp that is impenetrable to the layman. And obviously we didn’t have that until people started studying larp and writing about it.
“Gather round, children, and listen to me tell the story of how I journeyed to the brink of Mount Doom to throw the one ring into the lava flow. It was back in ’73, and you have to understand that I was feeling a little peckish on my first day in the field…”
When a tradition is oral, you have to experience it in whatever way the teller chooses. Maybe that involves a long, rambling start that provides lots of contextual information. Maybe that involves learning about the simplest things first, and only then learning about the complex things, if the speaker thinks that best. Oral traditions can provide a lot of deep context.
When a tradition is written, the audience has control of how they experience the narratives. You think my blog post is boring, so you skimmed to the end. I open up the instructional book on writing larps, and I skip from how to craft a compelling adventure narrative past the psychological safety section, and straight to the part that tells me how to recreate the Stanford Prison Experiment. As a reader, I can skip around important contextual information and the beginner’s exercises.
Written traditions also let you bypass the informative, but often very dull step of trial and error; instead of trying seven ways to make a mechanic for violence work, I can stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before me. But this knowledge comes at the expense of a deeper contextual understanding of the work, and at the risk that I am simply blindly repeating what is known to work because it’s always been that way.
Writing down a tradition changes how the audience experiences it. I think the pan-Nordic scene is at an interesting place in its development, as the first wave of larpwrights tries to figure out how to transmit its deep knowledge to the next generation through such ventures as the larpwriter summer school. It’s coming up with pedagogical frameworks and a curriculum to teach the next generation how to do what it does, without having to suffer through 15-20 years of experimentation. And that requires codifying some of the concepts around larp design and putting that deep experiential knowledge into words, with all the consequences that entails.
* Disclaimer: Today I tread into the land of folklore studies, but I’m not a folklorist nor well-read in the field. I did bounce some ideas off of my father-in-law, who is a professor of an African oral tradition and who has taught folklore and told me about some of the common dilemmas, which appear in this post but chances are good that I’m not using language as precisely as a real folklorist would, and/or that I’m repeating ideas that are old-hat to folklorists. Your mileage may vary.
This post is underwritten by my thoroughly wonderful Patrons. If you enjoyed it, consider joining the conflagration of awesome people supporting my blog over on Patreon.
Whether I’m writing or designing a game, for me, to create is to look critically at my own work. Different ways of looking yield different effects in the finished product; when a thing looks good through many critical lenses, then I know it will hold up as a piece of art.
Last week, I talked about one such lens–the idea of premises. This week, I am going to talk about perhaps the most powerful tool in the writer’s arsenal: the inside-outside story.
I learned about the inside-outside story from writer and legendary writing teacher Pamela Painter, who said, in an interview with Superstition Review she picked up the concept from writer and teacher Ron Carlson. For writers and game designers of all stripes, I heartily recommend the book What If? by Pamela Painter and Anne Bernays. And I write this with some apologies to Painter, as my copy of her book is somewhere in storage, so I don’t have her words at my fingertips, just my memory of them.
The inside story is the internal struggle that the characters undergo. The outside story is typically the plot or action that takes place.
You can use the concept of inside stories and outside stories to talk about many narratives–the inside story is the transformation of a character or characters, while the outside story constitutes the actions that happen.
When making a story, the inside story and the outside story should be related. In the above examples you can note that it is through fighting Voldemort that Harry Potter discovers who he is. Lizzie Bennet is able to fall in love with Mr. Darcy only because she overcomes her prejudice. It is the extramarital affair that brings about both Anna Karenina’s sexual awakening and her suicide.
It is also possible to create a work in which the inside and outside stories correspond more closely, which creates an aesthetically satisfying thematic unity. Pamela Painter calls this an inside/outside story. For example, in Chip Cheek’s short short “Hickey,” the protagonist tortures herself by thinking about torturing the boy who has a crush on her. The inside/outside story is present in some of the most classical literature and short stories. For example, in the Odyssey, Odysseus’ search for self (inside story) corresponds to his search for a way home (outside story).
Oh boy. I see the concept of inside and outside stories every time I sit down to play a game. The concepts of inside and outside stories seem endemic to the format. As a player in a roleplaying game, my character necessarily has her own inside story, which happens inside my head. The outside story is what happens between me and other characters and the framework of the game.
As organizers and game designers it is possible to shape both a character’s inside story as well as the outside story of the experience, and I think it can provide a useful way of talking about game design.
As always, I’m more acquainted with larp and freeform games than tabletop, so while this may be more broadly applicable to roleplaying games, I can only speak from my own experience.Your mileage may vary.
One cool thing about inside stories is that every player in your larp will have one, so the inside story is very inclusive of participants. When some Nordic game designers wrote in the Dogma ’99 manifesto, “There shall be no main plot,” preferring instead plot for all characters, I feel they were effectively making an aesthetic move toward designing inside stories. Only five people can solve a given puzzle at a time, and only ten can go to the secret meeting, but 100 people can fall in love or betray each other, etc. during the course of a game.
The inside story represents a democratization of the larp plot. And with the emphasis on inclusion in Nordic larp and freeform, I think it is no accident that so many of these games turn inward.
This is not to say that traditional games don’t have an inside story–they absolutely do. But often, framing this inside story is left up to player choice. When I’m thrown into an indie game or story game, quite often it’s the game master who frames the situation and leaves it up to me to react. Of course the plot of the game influences my internal state, but it’s up to me to string those reactions together into a meaningful whole. Sometimes I’m able to, and sometimes it just feels like a picaresque–a string of experiences united not by theme, but because I’m the one doing them.
It is possible to dictate inside stories to players and still leave them some choice. I am reminded of the game In Fair Verona by Jesper Bruun and Tue Beck Saarie, about life in the Little Italy ghetto in Manhattan in the 1920s. The core mechanic of this game was tango dancing–that is how the characters along this street expressed themselves, and the theme of the game was love.
During the workshop, we each received a character dilemma. Mine was something like, “always thinks she’s right and can be preachy.” Tue and Jesper told us that if we overcame this dilemma during the larp we would find love. If we did not overcome this dilemma, we would not find love. At the beginning of the game we were to take a dance with the person with whom we had a negative relationship, and this would catapult us into our character dilemma.
In practice, this was a very effective way of giving us each the same plot with different sensibilities. This story is something writers call a “last chance to change” story. Either our characters would take the last chance, or they wouldn’t. How we handled the dilemma was up to us, our dancing, and the conversations we had along the way.
It’s also possible to have a scenario in which players experience different inside stories around the same themes. The larp Play the Cards by Tyra Larsdatter Grasmo, Frida Sofie Jansen and Trine Lise Lindahl (with Katrin Førde) revolves around themes of status within a close-knit high school. Characters are assigned playing cards–each suit represents a different high school clique, and the value of the card represents a character’s standing in that clique. The head of each group can change the cards of its members at will, rendering the painful status jockeying of high school visible and transparent.
In Play the Cards, the pre-written characters are quite different, but the mechanics of the game support status play and the high school setting supports anxiety around that status play. That tight thematic focus creates strong inside stories, though the story of the clique queen who gets dethroned may be quite different from that of the low-status player who ends the game as the head of a clique.
There are many, many more ways to manage the inside stories of players.
In roleplaying, the outside story often takes the format of traditional plot. There is a dragon we must kill, a bomb to diffuse, a robbery to botch, and so on. This outside story is usually in the hands of the organizer or game master, though sometimes it is also in the hands of the game designer. It can provide adventure and entertainment.
While I like adventure and entertainment quite well for their own sakes, I’m really impressed by games that reach beyond toward thematic resonance and enlightenment.
A well-constructed outside story can enhance an inside story, or help the players form a coherent experience of their own. One way to create a resonant story is to work backwards. If I’m sending the players on a quest to kill a dragon, is there a way to help them experience a metaphorical quest for self as well? If this is a game about the era of McCarthyism, what kind of internal story might have resonance with the themes of inquisition and rooting out the non-conformists? What kind of mechanics or situations would really bring these themes out?
We can talk about inside stories and outside stories in gaming, but I also wanted to point out that there are some wonderful classic games that accomplish the challenge of lining up inside and outside stories.
One such game is Emily Care Boss’s The Remodel, which is about four women who have just had major midlife changes, such as marriage, losing a business shared with a friend, meeting a daughter put up for adoption 20 years ago, and divorce from an abuser. The woman who is recently divorced is remodeling her house, and the other characters in the game have pledged to help her. Game play switches between scenes in which these women remodel their lives and scenes in which they remodel that house, creating resonance between inside and outside stories. In my run, at least, this thematic unity created a powerful sense of kinship among the characters, and to a certain extent, the players, during the game. We were all accessing the same core story through our individual plot lines.
Another take on the inside/outside story duality comes from classic jeepform game Doubt by Tobias Wrigstad and Fredrik Axelzon. Doubt is about Tom and Julia, two actors in a relationship together. Presently, they are performing together in a play about a marriage on the rocks; they are playing Peter and Nicole on stage. During the course of the game, Tom and Julia will be tempted to cheat, revealing larger issues within their relationship. To make things more confusing, two players portray Tom and Julia, and two portray Peter and Nicole (as played by Tom and Julia on stage).
Doubt is a clever game because it functions like a mirror facing another mirror–the relationships reflect one another on numerous levels. On one level, we might consider the inside story to be Tom and Julia’s crumbling relationship, and the outside story to be Peter and Nicole’s crumbling relationship performed on stage, and those two are in unity. On another level, we might consider the inside story to be the internal doubt that the characters in both couples feel, which mirrors external doubts about their relationships. The relationships of Tom and Julia mirror those of Peter and Nicole. The doubt the characters feel mirror the problems inherent in the relationship.
So those are two methods of creating an inside/outside story with a roleplaying game. In The Remodel, the players all have the same inside story couched with different outside stories, and united thematically by the framing story in which they remodel a house. In Doubt, the inside story is given to two characters, and the outside story is given to two other characters (though on another level, all characters have the same inside story), and the game depends to a certain extent on the two sets of players watching each other to understand the mirroring.
Making the external and internal struggles match each other creates powerfully resonant aesthetic experience.
Metatechniques can be used as a portal between inside and outside stories to enhance play.
Metatechniques are ways of breaking the flow of narrative to heighten the drama. They are also a way of letting players communicate information about their characters to one another without letting their characters in on the drama.
For example, monologuing metatechniques allow a character to open a window into their internal thoughts. Different games have different ways of initiating monologues–sometimes the players control the tool and sometimes the organizers do.
Let’s say the character of Sally is at a dull dinner party and is asked to monologue and she says something like, “Those two look so happy with their children. It makes me feel inadequate because I’m not able to have children.” The players of this game all hear her, but presumably the characters themselves are unaware of Sally’s infertility. Now the other players have the opportunity to help Sally’s inside story along by repeatedly bringing up the topic of kids or referring to this in some other way. By necessity, the character of Sally will now have to deal with her fears, which forces her inside story to develop.
Another example is the metatechnique of bird-in-ear, used in some small freeform games. Bird-in-ear allows the game master or another player to whisper internal thoughts into a character’s head during a scene without stopping play. When I use this as a game master, I use it pretty much exclusively because I can see an inside story developing during a scene that the players might not be catching because they are busy being in scene. By underscoring that theme in their ears, one can help players develop this internal conflict.
I think the concept of inside stories and outside stories is useful for game designers and organizers who want to create thematic resonance in their games. And I think it’s an interesting lens for looking at stuff like plot, metatechniques, and mechanics. I’ve undoubtedly only scratched the surface of its applications here, so I invite you to come up with more uses and analysis. Feel free to post ideas in the comments.
This post is underwritten by my thoroughly wonderful Patrons. If you enjoyed it, consider joining the conflagration of awesome people supporting my blog over on Patreon.
For me, a good game is tight and lean. It’s tight in that it tells me a particular story and wants me to have a particular experience. It’s lean because there is nothing extraneous–all of the game mechanics, the workshop, etc.–aims at heightening that core experience. In other words, the game has a strong premise and does what it takes to realize that premise during play.
I realize, of course, that this is only one style of game, but it’s the kind that sings to me. Having a premise is not part of some unified theory of game design–but it can be extremely useful when designing a game.
Although I’m relatively new to game design–my second American freeform game is due out this year–I’ve edited a bunch, played a bunch, and I have longtime experience with other forms of narrative, such as short stories, novels, etc. What I haven’t done is read a bunch of game design theory, and I think it’s pretty likely that someone else has written about this before. I’m not meaning to crib anyone’s ideas, so feel free to post think pieces or other sources in the comments.
For me, the experience of designing a game goes hand in hand with finding a premise.
Premise is a term I’ve borrowed from some of the theory around novel writing; it’s the core of your story. It is what your game is trying to get at. It is the universal human truth embedded in your story. A premise is what your game is about, and you should be able to state it in a sentence or two without referencing the setting or plot.
Strong premises are usually couched in universal terms–they are a way of describing how your game taps into the shared experience of being human. They are part of what makes your game accessible to a wide audience. I might not be able to relate to being a mutant with superpowers, but anyone can relate to themes of loneliness and isolation. In the words of my journalism prof Samuel Freedman, great art boils down experience to the periodic table of human emotion. Premises express which periodic elements you are striving for in a game.
Therefore, premises usually explain what your players will experience. If the premise of my game is “pride leads to downfall,” then as a game designer I need to find a way to generate those emotions in the players using the tools of structure, character descriptions, setting, and mechanics.
I think “premise” is a slippery concept, so I wanted to give some examples to help explain what I mean.
Of course, the premise of a work will depend a bit on your point of view, and what you see as essential to the narrative–I can imagine disagreement with many of the premises above. But you get the idea of what a premise is.
You’ll also note that there are nearly infinite stories that could be told about each of the premises. Jason Morningstar’s Fiasco particularly proves this point. In Fiasco, players select a setting–it could be a film noir setting, a setting more like Fargo, an 80s wedding, or a rock band on tour, and then build their session within the constraints of the structure of the game. Though these different settings produce different individual sessions, the core of the game, that concept of exploring failure, remains a through-thread. The premise is robust, and it’s the individual trappings–the setting, plot, and characters–that make each instance of the game unique.
Premises help you get to universal human truths, and through setting and characterization, you make those truths particular and concrete.
For me, the process of designing a game is the process of finding the premise–refining the premise also means which elements should be added to or pared from the narrative.
Let me explain with an example. About a year ago, I had the idea of making a game about an artists’ colony. In the US, artists’ colonies are retreats where artists go for a number of weeks to focus exclusively on their work, and often result–like many other closed institutional societies–in a social fishbowl. I wanted to replicate the colony experience in a few hours for some larpers, and maybe get people inspired to work on their own artistic projects.
My first draft of this game was heaving on the bells and whistles, each mimicking a different aspect of the colony experience. The game had 7 identical periods! People were switching characters all the time! There was self-directed meditation! And people drew from stacks of cards to create characters.
Though the play storm went great, the first play test was a failure. I had reproduced the feeling of a colony with some success, but the game had no shape and often felt tedious to the players; I had a long way to go in concentrating the reality of colony life into an experience that would be interesting to play for a few hours. The game’s lack of focused premise was part of the problem–in larp, as in literature, it’s necessary to concentrate real life, and usually, to weed out the boring parts. I was generically reproducing colony life rather than working with one particular aspect or dynamic, which is probably all it’s possible to tackle in a four-hour game.
So I asked myself, “what interests me most about this setting?” as a way of zooming in on a premise. I decided that the most interesting part of the colony experience to me was the juxtaposition between working on intensely personal writing during the day, and then switching into cocktail-party mode at night. I suspected this juxtaposition had forged fast bonds between me and other colony artists.
And that became my premise: Switching between reliving a trauma and cocktail-party sociability bonds people.
With that in mind, I looked at my over-complicated game design and stripped away the mechanics that made no sense–the character-switching, for example, which mimicked the way people were entering and leaving the colony all the time, but didn’t support the core experience I wanted to produce.
The most recent play test of the stripped down and refined game, at Intercon in March, went much more smoothly, and I will publish the game, called In Residency, later this summer.
You can also use a premise to add elements to the game. If this is a game about uncertainty driving unpleasant choices, then I better find a way to make the characters feel that uncertainty, and I better give them some unpleasant choices to make.
All of which is to say that I rarely begin with a fully-formed premise–though some game designers might!–rather, through the process of designing I discover what my premise is, and that in turn tells me what to add, what to keep and what to cut from the game.
So for me, to find the premise is very much to design the game.
Once you have identified the premise of your game, it’s important to ensure that all players can access that premise through their characters. If this game is about magic, and five of the six players get to use magic, the sixth one is going to feel cheated, left out, and pissed.
This does not mean that every player has to have the same experience. Premises are flexible, and it is possible to engage with them on many different levels. If the premise of the game is “absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I could give group A absolute power and let group B bear the consequences of the ensuing corruption. Both groups would be engaging with the premise through different angles. But what I wouldn’t want to do would be to make a group C off in the corner that wasn’t affected by the dynamic between A and B.
Sometimes, you can evoke the presence of something through its absence–and this is totally OK so long as you do it intentionally and not by accident, and it’s OK if it works for the narrative, and for the players who portray that character. For example, if this is a game about nine friends falling in love, and one is left out, that might be OK–perhaps that character ends up as a sounding board for the others, which heightens the theme for most of the players, and gives the unloveable character a longing for love that will never come. The absence of love then becomes a presence in the game that serves to mirror and reflect the core premise, adding an additional dimension to the overarching narrative.
I think premises work best when you’re going for a strongly narrative design, as opposed to a sandbox design. In a narrative design, the designer drives the arc of the story with the tools available, but in sandbox design, the designer gives the players the tools for fun, and lets them use those tools to create their own narrative.
As a player, I have a tough time with sandbox design* for two reasons–I end up with decision paralysis (should I do this? or this? what am I supposed to be doing? oh god! everyone is having fun and I’m left out because I’m doing it wrong), and because I like knowing where the arc of the story is going. In a sandbox game, you often have to create that narrative for yourself.
So in sandbox design, I think it is largely up to the players to create their own premises, while the designer decides what tools to place within the environment. So I’m not sure whether asking premise-based questions would help much with this sort of design.
What are the stakes?
How would you make me care about this game if I wasn’t interested in the setting? What’s the universal human story here?
What one element of this situation are you MOST interested in?
What elements of the game are working best? How can you focus the game on them more strongly? What sort of experience are those elements creating?
What do you want your players to be saying about your game after it’s over? What’s the take away?
If you’re interested in reading more about novelistic premises–and I think there is some ground worth plumbing here, you might check out Six Ways to Define the Premise of a Story, which details methods for inventing and describing premises. Per the comments, Lajos Egri’s The Art of Dramatic Writing also contains some wonderful stuff.
*This is not to say that sandbox design is not cool and wonderful and worth exploring, even for me, just that it’s not my favorite because I have a hard time making my own fun in game settings.
This post is underwritten by my delightful Patrons. If you enjoyed it, consider joining the conflagration of awesome people supporting my blog over on Patreon.
While there’s a pretty hefty bibliography at the end of Pandora’s DNA, as well as complete sourcing in the notes, that is not the full bibliography–we didn’t have space for it in the book–so I wanted to include a comprehensive list here.
Click for a free download of all thirty glorious pages of the Pandora’s DNA bibliography.
One of the most frequent questions I get from event organizers is: “My event is full of white dudes. How do I get more (people of color/women/TLGBT folks) to show up?
When I give my standard answer, the organizer in question often complains, “but that sounds like a lot of work.” And it’s true. There is no way around this, kids. It’s hard to change social structures, so fostering inclusivity in gaming is a lot of work.
As game designer and community organizer Mark Diaz Truman told me, “I think the hardest part for dominant groups to grapple with is the fact that homogenous groups tend to stay homogenous. If your core organizing team is white and male, then it’s likely your player base is white and male, and it’s likely to stay that way.” Other people have written more eloquently than I about how such systems perpetuate themselves, so I won’t look at that here.
Just remember: this is among the most meaningful work out there. And taking the first steps is often easier than you’d think. I’m drawing strategies in this post from several places, including:
In the long run, diversifying your event has two basic parts: getting people from diverse groups to show up once to check you out, and then retaining them as community members.
Inclusion is sometimes explained as a chicken-or-the-egg kind of issue. Having women present at your event broadcasts to other women that the space is safe/comfortable/interesting for them, and can get you more women participants–in other words, the best way to have more women is to already have more women. This can leave organizers feeling hopeless.
I prefer to think of it as a snowball model. It might take some time to find those first people of color participants and to make them feel welcome, but the math works exponentially. It might take years to go from zero to two, but then once you establish yourself as an inclusive space, it’s easier to go from two to five and it takes less time.
Some tips on how to get people from marginalized groups to show up to your event at least once.
I cannot emphasize this enough. If you want queer people/people of color/women to show up to your events, you have to invite them. In general, the more personal the invitation, the better.
Initially, I had trouble getting players for the all-women larp Mad About the Boy. Many women I knew didn’t feel comfortable volunteering themselves for the game–even larpers with 15 years of experience were worried about ruining the game for other players. All it took was emailing or speaking with individual women and saying, “I’d love to have you at this event, I think you’d do a wonderful job, and I’d value your presence there.” This generated around a third of the player base.
There are other ways to invite people. You can also put the word out on the street that a particular group is very welcome to the event. Make it a public statement if you like. Partner with diverse groups if you can–for example, if you’re interested in being more inclusive toward queer people, you might consider partnering with a local advocacy group, or promoting your events to them.
Aside from the obvious–people can’t show up to events they don’t know about, invitations telegraph a bunch of motives on behalf of the organizers.
Issuing a statement that you are committed to diversity, working with an advocacy group, putting the word out on the street–regardless of whether they bring in participants—these strategies telegraph that this space is striving to be a safe space. That makes it more welcoming.
I also think of invitations in terms of taking social space. Folks from dominant view points–white, straight, male, or cis–are used to taking up social space and holding the floor, volunteering themselves for leadership roles, etc. Our culture expects it. Women, for example, often get socially punished for the same attitudes on many levels.
The reason individual emails worked to get more players for Mad About the Boy was that instead of forcing these wonderful people to take space, I offered it to them. An invitation is, at core, an offering of space. It reassures people that their presence is not merely tolerated, but actively desired.
Personal invitations through email or coffees, etc. work best because at the same time, no one wants to be invited simply because they fit some sociopolitical category, but because their special personal qualities have been recognized. I don’t want, for example, Avonelle to come to my events because she is a woman–I want here there because she has a wonderful sense of how to include other people, is a committed roleplayer who will prep her character well, and because I like her.
Larps, gaming conventions, and academic conferences can cost a pretty penny between travel, lodging, and event admission. Offering funds can make a huge difference in getting people from marginalized groups to attend your event for several reasons. For starters, if I’m not confident I’ll have fun at your larp, I may be more reluctant to invest my money in showing up once–remove that burden and I’ll be willing to try it and see if I like it.
Secondly, in the US at least, there’s some convergence between issues of race and class thanks, in part, to issues of structural inequality (pay disparities, etc). Relieving some of the financial burden on participants is a corrective measure.
Thirdly, as game critic, designer and activist Mattie Brice pointed out in her talk at Different Games, there is a disproportionate burden on prominent folks from marginalized groups. Let’s say there are five women of color who are prominent in the video game design community. Those women will be asked to speak a lot by various communities. Such speaking gigs can be fun and good for one’s career, of course, but travel and lodging are also expensive and can quickly deplete a tight budget.
Part of the solution, of course, to try to work so that instead of five prominent women of color there are 5,000, but in the meantime, if you want one of the five prominent trans game designers to attend or speak at your event, offering them room and board, or at least free admission to the event helps.
Such a policy communicates to your potential audience that you care about their well-being, and that you are striving to make a community that functions better than the rest of the world we live in. The question about “safe space” is always “safe for whom?” If you want to make it safe for people of color, then you want to make it an unsafe space for racists.
If you want people to come back to your events again and again, it has to be more than simply a policy, though. There should be a mechanism detailing what happens if someone breaks the rules, and you should follow it if something unfortunate happens.
The second half of building a diverse community is, of course, retaining all the wonderful people you’ve persuaded to show up to your events.
It’s not enough to have a diverse participant base. That diversity should be reflected at every stage of the organizational structure. Basically, we all have subconscious biases, and it’s easy to prefer people who are similar to oneself without thinking about it, which is part of why, for example, the white dude culture of brogrammers in Silicon Valley tends to perpetuate itself. If you want to include people from marginalized groups, then you’ll want their input at an organizational level.
Having women on your organizing staff can make someone like me look at your game and say, “this is a community that seems like it values the input of women.” That might make me more likely to show up. It also gives me options of who to talk to if someone does something creepy to me at your event. I might feel more comfortable talking to a lady (or maybe not! It depends!).
Having a diverse set of life experience on your game designing committee also increases the breadth of life experience you have to draw on when creating the next episode of that awesome campaign larp. It means you have a better chance of catching that veiled racist comment on page 8 of the game book. It means an expanded network that likely includes more lesbians than you’ve met in your life, and someone with skin in the game who will invite them to your event. It means a richer experience for your players, and a more eye opening experience for your organizing committee.
That said, the rainbow utopia doesn’t just imagine itself into existence like the Greek goddess Gaia. It’s easy to agree when everyone shares the same viewpoint, so introducing diversity to your organizing committee can mean revising what it means to lead. As game designer and community organizer Mark Diaz Truman put it, “Of course, this brings up conflicts, right? When you welcome POC [people of color], women, queer organizers, they are going to disagree with you! So there has to be a real commitment to that inclusion at the highest level and real relationships built with in-person or video chat meetings that create a holding environment for the conflict that’s going to come.”
In other words: work hard to strengthen personal relationships, and work hard at developing constructive ways to manage conflict among the team.
Related is the idea of mentoring and grooming people to move up the ranks. No one walks in off the street and says they’re ready to run a larp or write their own freeform scenario. There are many intermediate steps–running small parts of an event first, for example, offering ways to get experience guided by a more masterful hand–co-GMing and co-writing opportunities, for example, or introductory lectures on how to get the basics down.
Invitation is also a powerful tool. Simply saying the words, “I think you’d be great at game mastering/writing/organizing” to someone from a marginalized group can be absolutely magical. Again–this has to do with offering space to people, rather than fostering a culture in which they are expected to take it.
If you’re casting all the women of color as barbarian princesses, that’s a problem. If you’re only asking women to speak about romance in gaming, that’s a problem. If all relationships in your game are heteronormative relationships and the game is not, itself, about heteronormativity, that’s a problem.
Designing against various -ism tropes (racism, sexism, ableism, etc.) is a way bigger topic than I can cover here. But if you’re interested in a few strategies for avoiding racism in game design, I have a post.
It’s pretty obvious, but bears repeating: if you’re nice to people, they’ll be more likely to come back. This goes for any new participant. Introduce them around, make them feel comfortable, explain the basics about the event to situate them, and be socially inclusive.
One thing I’ve seen work at a variety of cons is a set of informal or explicit social rules. These include things like standing in a horseshoe shape instead of a circle, or always having an open chair in a group that is sitting, to indicate that new people are welcome to join; written rules barring certain oppressive language; rules about always letting a speaker complete their thought before jumping in with a new anecdote, etc.
If you’re running a big event, consider having a lounge for people from marginalized groups where they can go to take a break if they’re being harassed. I realize this sounds like “separate but equal” to a lot of people, but I’ve heard lots of positive feedback about rooms like these used at conventions. Likewise, having a quiet room for overstimulated introverts–or anyone else who needs to get away from the lights and constant background noise, can also be nice.
Think about access for all of your participants. Something as simple as putting an “all gender” bathroom sign on one of the loos can go a long way toward including people from every point along the gender spectrum. Structural inclusivity also includes things like wheelchair ramps.
According to Elsa Sjunneson-Henry‘s talk about accessibility in larp at Living Games, if you have players who are disabled in a way that might be relevant to your event, ask them what you can do to increase their comfort and how they’d like you to handle things. Sometimes, people don’t want to disclose their disability to a large group, and so obviously don’t do that. On the other hand, it can make sense for a player who is, say, sight impaired and easily startled by people coming up behind them, to choose to tell the group to not do that thing. Don’t assume–ask.
Have additional strategies for inclusion? Post them in the comments.
This post is underwritten by my delightful Patrons. If you enjoyed it, consider joining the conflagration of awesome people supporting my blog over on Patreon.
Someday, I want to write and run a three-day, one-shot larp. You know, the sort of thing with 30-60 pre-written characters, a workshop, a debrief, and a venue that looks just like the game world is supposed to look (360º illusion). A larp that happens in real time, and either offers breathtaking adventure, or makes the participants cry so hard that we can collect their tears in vats to be distilled for later cocktails. (The GM Martini: one part gin, three parts distilled players’ tears, stir to combine with dry ice, drink out of a goblet made from a unicorn’s tusk.)
If only I had a specific idea for a larp. While I wait around for inspiration to strike, I decided to do some legwork figuring out how an individual or group goes about organizing such a thing.
Such large-scale larps require more than one person, or two, or even three at the helm–and as the number of organizers goes up, the way they interact with one another becomes increasingly important.
As I polled organizers in the US and Nordica via social media, it became apparent that the folks I know have developed three core ways of larp organization. (Are there more ways to do it? I’m sure there are.)
Many US campaign larps use this model. Essentially, there’s a single main organizer steering the ship, who is at the top of a pyramid of different committees. It’s a model where one person functions as the decider, and it’s the job of the committees–plot committee, character committee, etc. to do much of the creative work on their own, and the job of the lead organizer to shape those processes, and make sure everything is consistent.
I see no reason why you couldn’t use this model to create a one-shot larp as well.
Advantages: The buck very clearly stops with the lead organizer–there is one person shepherding the process and that provides some consistency. Personal responsibility is clearly delineated, and there is a clear mechanism for breaking ties. If Billy wants it one way and Sharon wants it the other way, the lead organizer decides.
Disadvantages: Can create a power structure that is overly complicated. Is susceptible to lead organizers who try to be dictators. May mean that staff members don’t feel creatively invested in the final product leading to volunteer attrition. Can also be hard to manage upward, reigning in the truly unreasonable ideas of the higher ups–it’s possible the lead organizer’s ideas won’t be challenged and examined as they should be. Also means that there is only one person of whom the highest level of logistical and creative burden is asked–it’s possible for the lead organizer to get overwhelmed.
Louise has a great idea so she invites about five or six people to join her in creating a larp. These five or six people agree that they are all equal in stature when it comes to the project, and they create the setting and characters collaboratively.
Closer to the running of the event, individuals take on particular responsibilities in terms of logistics, writing, publicity, etc. The team recruits other volunteers as needed close to the larp — for example, a team of people to run the kitchen, a group to build the fort on the hill, etc.
Advantages: Everyone has been in on the larp from the beginning, so there is creative investment on the part of the organizing team. Everyone gets some creative satisfaction from the work. The creative process is full of collaboration, which means ideas are improved by group challenging.
Disadvantages: If your organizing team has six people on it and does almost everything together, scheduling becomes complicated–it’s harder to find a time for six people to coordinate to meet. Also, when everyone is responsible, in some ways, no one person is responsible–maybe the team is so inclusive that the artistic vision gets a bit muddled (yes! We can have spaceships AND dragons!). Occasionally stuff falls through the cracks, or the un-fun stuff endemic to planning any event falls on one person’s shoulders, fostering resentment.
I’m familiar with the concepts of pigs and chickens from the Norwegian larpers I know. The concept comes from an old joke about a pig and a chicken starting a bed and breakfast together. The pig asks the chicken, “what shall we serve for breakfast?” and the chicken says, “eggs and bacon.” The pig isn’t as cool with that, because it means he has to sacrifice, while the chicken only has to give what is convenient.
The pigs and chickens model combines the structure of the hierarchical model with the team spirit of the committee model.
In larp organizing, a “pig” is a person who will do whatever it takes and pick up whatever falls through the cracks in order to get it done. The “chicken” is someone who is given a discrete job to complete, but is not expected to offer more beyond that.
On this model, you usually have two to three pigs doing most of the heavy lifting and two to ten chickens who have their own jobs. For example, the three pigs come up with a direction for the larp, and then one of them takes on the job of meeting with the two chickens who will do most of the character writing. The chickens still get to be creatively invested, but the pigs steer the ship collaboratively and make sure that there is food at dinner time.
As the larp approaches, the pigs divide different responsibilities among themselves, and coordinate different sets of chickens.
Advantages: Lean organizational structure makes it easier to change directions and meet up regularly. Having more than one person collaborating on the pig committee means that ideas are challenged and reigned in, but that artistic vision is still coherent and narrow. Also means that chickens can be creatively involved while not having the larp take over their lives for ten months. One or more pigs meets periodically with different sets of chickens. If the three pigs meet with the two logistic chickens, that’s a few meetings of five people, rather than a jillion meetings with five or ten.
Disadvantages: Um…if the pigs can’t agree, that’s a problem? I suppose there is also the risk that some of the chickens might not feel as creatively engaged as they would on say, the large committee model. Update per the comments: Sometimes the chickens think they are pigs and deserve more say in a project than their participation warrants. Essentially, this is a problem with expectation-setting about involvement, and it can lead to hard feelings.
Aside from the organizational structure, when planning a larp there are a few other things to keep in mind.
It may seem convenient to separate the team responsible for logistics from the people doing, say, character creation. But this can lead to problems down the road when the people writing the plot decide that the game won’t work without two tons of gravel, without knowing that this is impossible given the site and budget of the game.
Also, when folks working logistics are included in the vision meetings, the set and scenography and other logistics may end up supporting the vision of the game that much more. For example, in The White War, a Danish larp about an imaginary version of the Iraq war that focused on the interactions between soldiers and locals, the organizing team decided that the soldiers would hand out all the food, transforming mealtimes into a cornerstone of game play between the two groups, according to organizer Søren Lyng Ebbehøj. That might not have happened if the logistics team hadn’t been a part of the creative process.
Similarly, logistics are incredibly important to making a game run. If the bathrooms don’t work, the food is nonexistent, and everyone is cold during the whole larp, the game will not be a success (unless cold, hungry irate players is what you’re going for). Attending to these details isn’t sexy, but it’s way necessary to literally everything else that happens during the game. Love your logistics people and give them the opportunity to be creative.
On the other hand…it can be more efficient, time-wise, to separate the groups. But you will need to have at least one person to be the bridge between the two.
Whatever you do, you want to start out by getting your team on the same page. As Norwegian designer Magnar Grønvik Müller put it, “My experience is that with any volunteer project, if the organizers don’t agree on the vision, goals and audience, you’re off for a bumpy ride. Start defining those, and look at them when disputes arise.”
It’s important to have some balance on your team–pick people with a diversity of strengths and working styles. And don’t forget that organizing a game is supposed to be fun. Here’s how Norwegian designer Eirik Fatland put it:
“ It’s a creative collaboration. Who would you write a novel with? Who would you trust to design the covers? In whoose company would you prefer to be when you die?
There are also intra-person dynamics to consider. Balance perfectionists with “just get it done already!” folks. Introverts and extraverts. Make sure you have at least one collaborator who smiles a lot. Remember to feed people. Talk about ideas and vision until everyone is capable of generating new ideas that fit into the whole and are readily accepted by the group.
It’s volunteer work. Accept fluff, and factor in off-topic chatting as a natural part of planning meetings. If people aren’t having a good time working on the larp, it’s not gonna work out. Check with your co-organizers before you recruit someone new.”
Finnish designer Juhana Pettersson suggests that your best friends are not necessarily the best people to team with.
“As a very practical note, when thinking about who should be in the team, I recommend a thoroughly unsentimental approach. People who believe in the vision, do their jobs, are efficient and get along well. Recruiting friends and other larp buddies for social reasons means more pointless work later in the process.”
Swedish designer Anna Westerling suggests being bold and asking the people you want to work with:
“I hade waited for the longest for an organizing crew to fall in my lap and it just didn’t. So I started thinking, and listing (my university notes are full of these lists), who I wanted to work with and what I wanted them todo. Then I took them out for coffee and asked them, and most people said yes. That is how I got to know Anders Hultman. I wanted the greatest person I know of to do economy, and he was that. Then he turned out to do very much more in the project, but I didn’t know that at the time. My point is, don’t be shy. Ask the ones you want. Have coffee. I can also confess that when I begun I had another organization plan that didn’t really work out later, but then we just updated it. So you might not get it right in your plans, but make sure to have plans. “
Whether you outsource some of these responsibilities to one person, or spread the responsibilities across several, here are some things that will need doing. I’m pretty sure that this list is nowhere close to complete, but it also depends on how you divvy up the stuff needed during a larp, and of course, on how grand scale your larp is.
A larp on a grand scale will need lots of people doing logistics, scenography, etc. A small game might only require one or two people handling these tasks. A lot depends, of course, on how you have designed your game.
Eirik Fatland puts it like this:
“The bottom line, I guess, is: there is no pattern. Each time has been different, and each larp concept has presented different skill needs. Five roles always need to be covered, though: Treasurer, Designer/Writer, Producer, PR, and Communications/Correspondence. For small larps, they can all be one person. The big question is more about how much capacity (time) you need. If people are unemployed artists, you need fewer. If they are juggling work, family and larp, you need more.Once you write individual characters, you need lots of creative capactiy. If your vision is heavy on aesthetics, production and scenography blend. I was about to write that no more than three people should have a final say on concept, but then I remembered that at Moirai and the Blinded Eye we were 6 and that was OK, but it still is a good thumbnail rule.”
Oversees all practical aspects of the production, from budget and venue to insurance, food and props. Someone who can juggle a lot of balls in the air at the same time.
As Finnish designer Juhana Pettersson put it, “A good logistics person is magic, and can make the difference between a good game and a KP mistakes presentation [a public presentation of the mistakes you've made as a larp organizer].”
If it’s a big production, you’ll want someone to keep the books. In addition, you might want someone dedicated to getting grant money or fixing the insurance. Someone competent you can really rely on in a pinch.
Do you know people who like building stuff or who know how to sew the costumes you’ve promised participants? I hope so. Depending on how much set and scenography you’ve got going, you might need several people, or one foreman and a crew of builders, as it were, to get the larp set up. Does the game involve technology? You might need people to rig lights, run the fake Facebook, etc.
This person will need to interface with the producer about stuff like venue.
Whether you’re planning to feed your participants, or providing somewhere for them to cook their own food, if this is a several-day venture, you’ll need someone to manage the kitchen, make sure it’s clean, and that dinner, if any, is prepped on time.
Are the sleeping spaces OK? Do people need wood for the fireplaces in these cold tiny cabins? Are there extra blankets somewhere so no one freezes? Is there toilet paper in the bathrooms? Do you need latrines shipped in?
This encompasses a lot, but depending on the game, you might need people to form the game world, write characters, design the mechanics of the game, whether that means skill lists or metatechniques, think about how the space is designed to promote game interaction, forge the workshops, etc.
You might need a designer who is separate from the people writing character sheets, for example.
One or more people should be responsible for getting the website up and running, writing copy for it, and communicating regularly with participants. This can also include being responsible for overseeing the people who will document the larp, if you have them.
Does someone need to be sitting in the off-game room in case a player needs to talk? If it’s a complex game, it can be wise to make one person responsible for ensuring that everyone else eats at least one meal and sleeps at least two hours per night.
Kåre Murmann Kjær, “Design for Work Minimization” and Anna Westerling, “Producing a Nice Evening,” both from Playground Worlds, Solmukohta 2008. (Free download!)
Angles I missed? Got different ideas for organizing a game like this? Know of other organizing combos that worked? More articles suitable for further reading? Leave them in the comments.
In the Nordic countries, buying food or drink gives me the vapors. Once I bought a cup of coffee from a bar in Copenhagen and tried to tip the server. She stared blankly at the extra kroner on the counter, and my Danish friend, who has also travelled in the US stared too. “Is that supposed to be a tip?” he whispered to me while her back was turned. “We don’t do that here.” And then he handed my coin back to me.
At restaurants, not tipping causes me an almost physical pain.
As weird as it is for me not to tip, it’s apparently way weirder for people from the Nordic countries to come to the US and be expected to do so. After reading my last piece, on a few things I learned from travelling in the Nordic countries, a few Finnish acquaintances asked for a guide to tipping.
So here it is. Bear in mind that this is just how I do it—I’m sure the gods of etiquette are probably looking down on me from somewhere with disapproving frowns.
There’s a much lower minimum wage for food workers than there is for everyone else. It’s like $2 or $3 per hour because the presumption is that food workers will be getting tipped.
If you don’t tip wait staff, it can be a serious problem for them. It means they make less in an hour than they would begging on the street.
Part of the idea behind making tipping such a major part of a person’s income is the idea that it incentivizes staff to provide good service.
Is it a messed up system? Sure. But let’s remember that tipping has a long and storied history and I believe it was the waiters’ unions back like eighty years ago that agitated for a lower minimum wage in food service professions so they could keep their tips. I researched it once for a story I wrote on tipping.
Here’s a list of the most common people you tip:
Tipping restaurant workers and hair stylist is mandatory. On a fare over $5, so is tipping taxi drivers. If I’m really hurting for money, I tip the others less regularly, though I know I’m being a bit rude–if I could afford to tip more, I would.
I never realized, but you don’t tip at all restaurants. Basically, if you’re getting table service, with a server who comes to your table, or if you’re at a bar, you tip.
You don’t have to tip at places like coffee shops or delis, where you order your food at the counter and then take it somewhere. You can tip at some of these places—look for the telltale tip jar in front of the register, but it’s not expected or required. I usually tip at my local coffee joints, for example, because I buy a cup of coffee and sit there a long time, and I’m around enough that the servers recognize me. Usually, I tip a dollar, but sometimes I’ll just tip the change that comes back from my coffee.
Some corporate eateries forbid their employees from taking tips. So if you don’t see a tip jar, don’t try to tip.
I mean, it’s legal tender so you can, but really, you shouldn’t. Tip in whole dollar amounts when possible, to prevent folks from having to make change—a cabbie is going to round up your fare to the nearest dollar anyway, so add an extra dollar on a small fare and call it even.
There are some exceptions when you can include coins in your tip—if you get change at the local coffee shop for a small tip on your small purchase and put it in the jar (which is nice, but not required anyway), or if you get your change back from your server and want to leave the change in addition to whatever dollars you are leaving.
If you must tip in cash and you discover you’re out of money except you have three dollars in quarters in your pocket, leave the three dollars in quarters.
In general, unless you’re at a coffee shop or something (and even then) I think it’s chintzy to leave less than a dollar.
The easiest way to calculate a restaurant tip is to move the decimal point over and multiply by two. If my bill is $18.36, in my head, I’d say, “OK. So the tip should be $1.80 times two, which is about $3.60.” And then I’d round up to the nearest dollar and call it $22. I think that would be a decent tip on that bill. On the other hand, 15 percent is the minimum and 18 percent is standard, so it’d be over-tipping a little to make the math easy for me.
The minimum tip on $18.36 would be $1.80 plus half that–$0.90, to make $2.70, and my final bill about $21.
Since in many states the tax amounts to about 10% of the bill, I know folks who simply double the tax to get an appropriate tip amount. But remember: when you tip, you tip on the smaller total of food and drink, not on the total amount of the bill, which includes tax. I mean, you can tip on the total bill, but strictly speaking, that’s just making the tip bigger.
If you put your bill on credit card, you can tip an exact amount without having to worry about the coin thing. But it is nicer for your servers, if you can, to pay the bill on credit but then tip in cash.
I’m a little vague on exactly why this is, but I think it has to do with a) giving the IRS a paper trail so servers have to report 100% of their income and b) problems in some venues with folks who own the joint skimming tips or maybe the tip gets lessened due to credit card fees or something?
At the end of the night, your server also “tips out” to other people on the staff. This means your server gives some of their tips to the busboys and the bartender who made your cocktails. So if you stiff your server, you might be forcing them to stiff other staff members.
Restaurant tipping is unique in that you are mostly writing a number on a bill, or leaving change on a table for tip and bill, etc. Most other sorts of tipping involve handing money directly over to the person giving you a service.
It’s sort of messed up that many of us feel awkward about this, right? I mean, the bellhop wants the money and maybe needs it, and a little social awkwardness is going to prevent us from giving it to him or her? Are your feelings of personal awkwardness seriously more important than helping the person who washes your hair make his or her rent?
You don’t have to be coy or hide the cash in the middle of your palm or anything. I’m terrible at tipping bellhops, but when I remember to, I try to stash some dollars in my bra ahead of time so I can discreetly grab the bills to give away. Just hand them over and say, “thank you,” while looking them in the eye and nodding. Chances are good that the bellhop might be leaving slowly to give you a chance to do this, though they wouldn’t want to be perceived as waiting around for a tip either, and often do not expect one.
You tip hotel maids by leaving some money in the room on your pillow or side table with a note saying “thank you.” It’s best to tip every day, rather than when you leave, as different folks may service your room on different days. I’m terrible at remembering this, but it is the sort of think you’re supposed to do.
You tip the people who wash your hair at a hair salon afterward, by walking back there and doing it in person. You tip your stylist by handing that person cash after you’ve paid at the desk. Sometimes there are tipping envelopes at the desk you can use instead.
You don’t tip the owner of a salon, or you tip them less because they take a profit from the wages of everyone who works at a salon, so they are considered to be “covered.”
With taxi drivers, you calculate the tip before you hand them the cash, and then in change you just ask for what you want back. So if my cab fare is $5, I’ll decide to tip the minimum of $1 and then when I hand the cabbie a ten, I’ll say, “just give me four back.”
Tipping a lot can mean different things. It can mean a person is being showy with their wealth by giving extravagant tips. A tip of $20 on a small cocktail bill is a statement. If done visibly, it says, “I’m rich and I want you to know it.” If done discreetly it means, “I am lucky enough to have money and I want to help you out.” As in the anonymous woman who left a $15,000 tip for three waitresses she overheard talking about their student loans.
Similarly, tipping a lot at a restaurant sometimes means that your friends have worked as wait staff in the past and know how much a tip can mean. I have friends who tip 25% because they remember what it was like. Waiting tables is a tough, tough job.
You can also tip more than 20% if the service was phenomenal, or if you felt people went above and beyond the call of duty to help you.
Tipping less than 15% is a slap in the face. If the service was really surly and exceptionally slow, maybe you tip 10%. Leaving exact change means you are either a mean high school student, or your server set your hair on fire and peed into the food.
If the food is terrible and you leave a small tip, you’re punishing the server, not the kitchen.
If you’re displeased, you can apparently leave two pennies on top of a stack of bills to register your displeasure.
Updates. Some special conditions have risen up on a few social media fora. Here’s the skinny.
When you’re 6 or more people at a restaurant, sometimes the venue will add in a mandatory service charge or gratuity. This arrives as a line item on your bill, and it’s typically 15-18% of the total. Basically, they just do the math for you in case your party gets too rowdy or the bill is split 9 ways and you might otherwise come up short. If you are unhappy with the service and think the servers deserve less, you can, of course, talk to a manager and get that charge reduced.
If there is a gratuity included in the bill, then you do not have to tip on top of that. The tip is included.
If servers bring you free food or drink, like if you’re at some reception with an open bar that you stand in line for, it’s customary to tip the servers $1-2 per drink. Or if you’re at a restaurant, to tip on what the price of the meal would have been if you’d paid full price. I.e. if your friend in the kitchen sends you an extra lobster, you tip the server 15-20% of whatever you think that lobster would have cost.
Got more questions about tipping? Post them in the comments and I’ll do my best.
Like this post? Want to support my ability to blog? Consider making a small donation to my Patreon.
I’ve travelled to Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Finland over the past few years, and I’ve learned a couple things along the way. I’ll share them with you here, but be warned: I spent most of my time in Norway and Denmark, so I’m probably overgeneralizing based on that experience.
I tend to go in the winter or the “spring” (read: winter), and usually find it’s hard to get my bearings. Aside from the wicked jet lag, this far north the light only ever shines at an angle that suggests 10 am or 2pm, and the beautiful dawn and twilight last hours, so I feel like I’m in magical twilight unicorn elf land while I’m there. And who could sleep in magical twilight unicorn elf land?
Here’s some of the stuff I think it might be useful to know when traveling there.
The US is a competitive culture full of individuals trying to stand out. Nordica is full of communitarian cultures with non-obvious rules for engagement and this weird law of Jante thing that explains a lot if you know where to look for it.
Basically, the law of Jante comes is a concept created by a Dano-Norwegian author for a novel published about 80 years ago. It’s essentially the idea that the mowers cut down the tallest poppy. You might be cool, but you’re not better than us; you’re nothing special; you’re not smarter, etc etc. It’s the dark side of communitarian culture, and it only manifests occasionally, like when you’re stepping out of line.
But mostly, the communitarian nature of these cultures manifests itself positively—people move their stuff so baby-strollers can get on the bus, everyone has free healthcare from the government, and of course there is public money available to small arts groups because that’s the thing that makes a nice society.
When I hang out with friends in the US, we take turns telling anecdotes and interrupt and talk over one another all the time—depending on how extroverted a social group may be, interrupting can be the only way to get a word in edgewise.
In Nordica, interrupting is considered quite rude. Instead of focusing around anecdote swapping, in the circles I’ve travelled in, there’s much more of a collaborative conversational element, with talking across the table, and fewer long periods of one person talking.
In the US, where I live on the East coast at least, the pause in conversation is something to be feared. If it lasts more than about fifteen seconds, that qualifies as an emergency. You better jump in there with something, anything—even a super-boring anecdote about how much you just love rubber bands (even if you don’t love rubber bands)—to spare the group from silence.
In Nordica, pauses in conversation are normal, because people like to think before they talk. I understand that in Finland, even longer pauses are considered normal.
These two conversational styles can easily collide with dire consequences. There is a pause in conversation. The American jumps in to save everyone from it. The Nordicans think it’s weird that there’s this long dull story suddenly happening. None of the Nordicans interrupt because interrupting is rude. The American continues with the story, afraid to stop, lest there should be another long silence.
Several of my countrymen and I have shared a laugh over that terrifying moment when you look up to see four Nordic people staring at you, and you realize you’ve been talking for like ten minutes straight because you’ve never actually been able to finish a thought in casual conversation before, and you don’t know how to end a story, unless someone interrupts you.
Also: You’ll creep people out if you talk about religion before you know them pretty well.
Depending on where you are in the states, it can be normal to say hi to random passers-by, share a smile, or at least make eye contact. Maybe you make friends with the lady behind you in line for the airplane. Or tell another lady that her outfit is way cute right before getting off at your stop on the subway. Or stop someone who looks confused and ask if they need directions.
Not in Nordica, my friend.
In many (all?) of the Nordic countries there is this concept of “privacy in public,” which means that on the street you have the right to not interact with random strangers—it’s considered impolite to get up in someone’s business, even if the intention is friendly.
“How’s it going?” or “How are you?” are standard greetings in the US. Everyone responds with “fine,” unless you’re dealing with a close friend or it’s an emergency.
In Nordica, those questions are serious questions. So Americans can come across as fake, since we don’t really want serious answers.
In a full bar in Nordica, even when music is playing, you can still hear yourself talk. This is because, unlike Americans, Nordicans don’t shout all the time. Pro tip: be aware of the volume of your voice when abroad.
Oh, also, it’s more socially acceptable to be drunk in public in Nordica. It is in the US in certain circumstances, but we’re often supposed to feel bad about it later and call around apologizing to people. There’s like a special zone of autonomy dedicated to drunkenness in Nordica. And according to a Dane I met, it’s also considered impolite to make fun of drunk people being drunk. So that’s different.
In Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, the commonly used word for both “please” and “thank you” is tak or takk or tack. There are other words, I understand, that you can use if you’re dining with the queen or Neil Gaiman or something and need an extra-emphatic way of saying this stuff, but in general the magic words aren’t used as much when Nordicans speak in English, perhaps due to this issue with translation.
I heard a rumor that there is no word for “please” or “thank you” in Finnish (though Google translate reveals “thank you” to be “kitos”), but I had a Finn tell me once that you can make requests politely by phrasing them so that the recipient won’t have to answer no and disappoint you. If you want to find out whether this bus goes to the airport, a Finn once told me, you don’t say, “does this bus go to the airport?” because the driver might have to disappoint you. Instead say, “this bus doesn’t go to the airport, does it?” So that the driver’s “no” is a positive thing, surprising you with “no! it does go to the airport!”
Likewise, I’m told that it’s considered polite in Finland not to waste the time of others, so instead of opening with some small talk before you ask for a favor, one simply asks for the favor as quickly as possible. “Can I borrow your car?”
In practice, since these magic words aren’t as big in Nordica as they are in the US, this means that Nordic requests made in English can sound a bit rude “Get on the bus,” or “Get on the bus, thank you,” rather than, “please get on the bus,” or “if you wouldn’t mind, it’s time to get on the bus now please.” It’s not actual rudeness—it’s just linguistic difference, so take it with a grain of salt.
The infrastructure of my brain is only set up to handle a maximum of two parties, so I find the Nordic countries bedazzling with their wide array. The “conservative” parties often seem a bit to the left of Ralph Nader, and people will tell you with no shame that they are “Marxist,” and not in the literary criticism sense of the word, but actual Marxists, because apparently that is a political affiliation that still exists in the formal sense of the word.
Immigration seems to be a big issue in most of these countries, probably because there is a strong social safety net to protect and some issues of racism.
And just for reference, in the evil Nordic socialist utopias our politicians are so fond of pointing to, BY LAW people get a minimum of four to five weeks of paid vacation each year, paid parental leave that can last more than a year, substantial unemployment benefits, and free healthcare. Oh, also it’s free to go to college and in Denmark, for example, the government also gives you around $1,000 per month while you are in school for expenses. Yeah. It sounds just…horrible.
And fun fact: As countries, Norway and Finland are younger than the US. Norway became its own state in 1905, and Finland in 1917.
Mostly the same, but also different.
In New York, if I get on the subway with all my luggage, I try to sit near the door and let it sprawl out a bit. If someone else with lots of crap gets on the train, tough titty. In Oslo or Copenhagen, if my baggage starts out in the part of the bus dedicated to baby carriages, I must thoughtfully stow it in an alternate location so that it will not inconvenience other passengers. There is strong social pressure to do this. And of course you would, because you’re a good person and not a barbarian, right?
Watch those bike lanes—especially in Denmark and Sweden. They look like just an extra-wide part of the sidewalk, smooth and unoccupied, and ready for your foot traffic. Then the light changes and THE BIKERS WILL MOW YOU DOWN. Be safe: Stay away from the death trap.
People do it at cross walks when the walk signal is right, and not really at other times. Not like most American cities I’ve visited.
In the gender utopia that is Nordica, sometimes the loos are not segregated by gender. After the first or second time using them, this really isn’t as weird as you might otherwise think. So get over it. Oh: also everyone calls them toilets.
Do you have one of those new-fangled chip credit cards? It’s useful, as it’s standard in most of Nordica. Sometimes different shops will have trouble with the plain magnetic ones that are standard in the US. Especially if you don’t have a pin number on your credit card. (Sidenote: who has a pin number on their credit card?)
Also: if your pin number has more than four digits, you might not be able to get any cash out of an ATM.
I hope you like fish, because in various forms, it’s in a way lot of food. I also hope you like creamy sauces and cured pork products. Vegetarianism and veganism also seem to be popular, but I’m neither of those things, so I don’t know how hard it is to get along.
I love cured fishes and root vegetables and toast, so I get along pretty well. Breakfast is usually a yogurty thing or eggs or some sort of sandwich configuration—open-faced with brown bread and cheese or coldcuts. Yes, they insist on having lunch for breakfast in many places.
Sweden is unique in that “lunch” usually connotes something hot (or so I’ve been told), while in, say Norway, it often means another open-faced sandwich.
Aquavit (um. Strong liquor?) and snaps (aquavit marinated with herbs) will put hair on your chest, and they go great with fish.
Here’s some of the more interesting stuff I’ve eaten in Nordica:
Denmark: Some really delicious smoked mackerel with soft-scrambled eggs on toast…er…dense brown rye bread that has been toasted. (“Toast” means a lighter bread that has been heated). Shrimp on toast with mayo and lemon and chives. Open-faced sandwiches with fried fish or tiny rock shrimp on them.
Norway: Lutefisk, a type of cod that is fermented in lye and then rehydrated and cooked until it’s sort of gelatinous. On its own, it was mostly texture, and not-so-much flavor, but that was cool because you’re supposed to eat it with all these sides—sugar syrup, bacon bits swimming in oil, boiled potatoes and creamy mustard sauce, mashed dried peas cooked with bacon, grainy mustard, and this bizzare brown cheese that has the texture of fudge and the taste of carmel and goat. Texture + sugar + fat + mustard = delcious.
Sweden: Different sorts of pasta with an assortment of things that I wouldn’t think to throw together into a single dish, like mozzarella balls and sautéed beef and butter and marinara sauce, or sautéed reindeer in a creamy wine sauce. Surprisingly delicious, but not what I’d expected.
Finland: I think I ate at the Chinese buffet in Finland, so I’m looking forward to trying something for-real Finnish next time. In the meantime, let’s talk salmiakki, a salty licorice candy that is quite the surprise to an American palate. It kind of grows on you over time, but in the meantime, I had fun bringing a box home and pranking my American friends at dinner parties. The faces they made were PRICELESS.
I have the sense that so far North, fresh vegetables in winter haven’t been a traditional part of the local food culture. In particular, I’ve noticed they are not big on salads. They might be on the menu, but they are often not the best thing to order. Also, while Mexican, (or let’s be honest, Tex-Mex) is often a safe bet at random restaurants in the US, I’d avoid it here, where it’s often a pale bland imitation. Hot sauce does not seem to be in popular circulation—I didn’t see it very often at restaurants, etc.—so if you love the zip and pep, pack your own.
You’ll get hooked on all of the delicious, nutritious brown-breads they have in Nordica. American bread, frankly, is a flabby, over-sweetened travesty. It’s hard to go back to it when you get home.
In the US “booze” =any kind of alcohol. In Nordica “booze”=hard liquor.
Different Nordic countries have different drinking cultures. Americans who drink with Norwegians, for example, have to cry all night into a single beer because if you buy two, it’d bankrupt you.
In Denmark, going to be “early” as part of a night out is something like 1 am. You can probably get a Dane to teach you to open beer with lighters, tables, folded newspaper, and even other beers.
In Sweden, someone fed me some lovely local snaps from their hometown, flavored with elderflowers or something, but there are quite a lot of varieties to try.
Finland seems to be about the vodka, though I once went to a Finnish party where we first slurped some fizzy Cool Aid tasting powder beforehand, and then shook the vodka around in our mouths.
Everything costs more. Norway is basically an oil magnate, and it is the most expensive of all the countries. I hope you want a single beer enough to pay $10 for it in a bar. Denmark, I believe, has the cheapest beer, I’d estimate something like $6-7. It’s wise to make some duty-free purchases when you land.
At cafes, though, you can usually get a refill of coffee for cheap, or occasionally free, so use that to your advantage. Also, sushi seemed to be a bit cheaper than other fare I saw while over there—maybe since it’s also got that fish action.
Still, be prepared for sticker shock.
Over the past four years, I’ve travelled throughout the Nordic countries of Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Finland (though mostly the first two) and I’m honored to call a few locals friends. I like Nordica. Candy involve lots of weird licorice, local specialty food is often…um…fish-filled, and everyone knows how to ski.
And you guys: Nordicans say the cutest things. In English.
I’ve collected a few of my favorite Nordic idioms below:
When someone is praised to heaven, or just in a good mood, that person might say they are feeling “quite high.” In Nordenglish, that means feeling like you’re on top of the world and that everything is going your way—and that’s a reasonable interpretation. In American English, it means you’re drunk, stoned, or just dropped two tabs of acid—or that you feel like you just did those things, so you’re a bit out of it or giddy.
For people from my generation, you get high off of drugs. For people from my parents’ generation, you can also get high off alcohol. So depending on whether a Nordican is feeling great and has just had a couple beers, they might sound twenty years older than their obvious age to my US ears.
When it’s time to celebrate, you get bubbles, or bottles of bubbles—fizzy wine. I find the word both descriptive and cute—it conjures images of subsisting on sea foam, like Aphrodite.
In the US, we tend to bastardize the word “Champagne” to mean all sparkling wines, regardless of whether they come from the Champagne region of France, though “Cava” is gaining in popularity too. But drinking bubbles?! I like that much better. Makes me feel like a mermaid.
Here’s what I think is “cozy”: tucking a blanket around a sleeping child or zipping said child into some sort of snowsuit onesie. “Cozy” is not a word I generally apply to adults, locations, social situations, or really anything that doesn’t involve a person under a blanket or in a onesie.
Here’s what Nordicans think is “cozy”: quiet evenings at home with friends, two people in a corner, dim cafes with jazz playing in the background, candle-lit dinners, and other intimate social interactions and spaces. Tons and tons of stuff suddenly becomes “cozy” in Nordica. I think it’s because some of the Nordic countries have concepts along these lines that don’t translate well into English, like the Danish (?) hyggelig or the Norwegian koselig, which means something not fully translatable—sort of the warmness of being inside with people you like, I think, but then I don’t fully grasp these concepts. In English, it all comes out “cozy.”
When I go to a gaming convention, I’d say that I’d say that I’m “at Dreamation” or “at Gen Con.” But the Nordicans say they’re “on Fastaval” or “on Knutepunkt.”
I feel that this phrasing really expresses the state of being in a temporarily different world. Being “on Fastaval” is sort of like being on vacation—it gives permission to change your whole state of mind.
Want to eat fermented fish preserved in lye and rehydrated? Sure! I’m on Knutepunkt now. Will I be responding to emails? No! I’m on Fastaval. And when I’m on Fastaval, I stay up until 6 am.
In the US, we have children. It’s a state of being, and a state of possession—you have children, and then they loiter in your house for 18-25 years. In Nordica, instead you get children. There’s a certain spontaneity to the verb “get,” that I can’t exactly put my finger on. Like, “we went to the store for cereal, but instead we got children!” or, “I got drunk and then I got a
tattoo children.” It also emphasizes the…er….process of getting.
It’s probably because “toilet” is a cognate in several Nordic languages, but hearing someone ask for the “toilet” instead of the “bathroom,” the “restroom,” the “loo,” etc., always gives me the vapors a little bit. “Toilet” gets the point across but always sounds vulgar to my puritanical American ears. I mean, when you gotta go, you gotta go, and we all gotta go sometimes, but I don’t need to know which particular appliance someone is intending to use in there. Give me the fig leaf of pretending that you’re really in there to check your phone, or you know…”makeup”:
Norway is “s**t expensive,” and so-and-so got “s**t drunk” last weekend. If we wanted to swear about these things in the states, we’d use a different word. Norway is “f***ing expensive” and so-and-so got “s**t faced” or “f**king drunk” last weekend.
Is using expletives cute? Well, using them in this way always reminds me of how I used to curse on the playground. (Sorry, mom.) So I find it charming in its own way.
(Caveat: I’ve travelled to Nordica a bunch, but obviously I haven’t personally introduced myself to all 20 million people who live there and done a peer-reviewed study of their personal idioms.)
Like my writing? Want to help make sure I have time to blog here for your amusement? Consider Patreonizing me.