The Infinite (Actually) Possibilities of Grant Howitt's RP6

 Ever since I learned about Grant Howitt’s one-page TTRPGs from the actual-play podcast Dungeons and Daddies (about which I have many future blog posts up my sleeve), my friends and I have been obsessed.

The Witch is Dead, a game about familiars avenging their murdered master, was my best friend’s first experience GMing and resulted in a hilarious high-speed carriage chase with the witch hunter (who was also a sandwich hunter in the nearby sandwich-making village’s annual ingredient scavenger hunt). Goat Crashers, a D6-only game about goats sneaking into a human party, was my family’s introduction to TTRPGs. I rolled for a random setting, and my brother’s goat ended up eating quite literally everything in a Cthulhu-worshipping, bioweapon bootlegging Jay Gatsby’s house, including the anthrax tanks he was selling under the table.

Howitt has countless amazing RPGs, and I highly recommend them, even the ones I haven’t tried myself—and I do want to try them all. However, when browsing his itch.io for games to run while I’m home for winter break, his latest RPG, aptly named RP6, caught my eye.

In the past, my friends and I have tried creating our own fully homebrew role-playing systems, but we’ve always ended up pulling rules from larger systems we run in our primary campaigns, like Dungeons & Dragons and Call of Cthulhu. We usually default to rolling D20s and loosely basing all combat on D&D, despite most of the players (myself included) disliking the slow pace of D&D combat.

With RP6, I think Howitt has created the perfect D6-only one-shot system. Before sitting down to write this post, I spent quite a while thinking through all the possibilities presented by Howitt’s example genres and rules alone, as well as what my players might choose. Almost any open-ended TTRPG has endless replay value, but RP6 has no preset setting or magic system; you and your players can create something wildly different from every previous game, every time. I can genuinely imagine RP6 being the only system I use to run one-shots with my friends.

However, some players do want more to work with, especially first-time players. With my family, for example, I initially tried running a D&D one-shot, but they were overwhelmed by all the options and the planning required before the game could actually start. Since they’d never played any TTRPGs before, though, I wouldn’t use RP6 as a starting point, either; the open-endedness of collective worldbuilding bound only by genre would likely overwhelm them, too. Howitt’s more structured RPGs ended up being perfect for them, and now that they have more experience, I’m considering running an RP6 game with them, too.

Initially, I had gripes with the dice rolling mechanic. A 6 being the only way to succeed without consequences felt too difficult. However, after reading some of Howitt’s examples of ways to “persuade the GM” for positive modifiers and rolling some dice while thinking through possible situations, I realized this mechanic is actually pretty well-balanced, as long as it’s used fairly.

For example, if a player rolled a 4 to redirect a spaceship but explained that their character is the ship’s pilot, as GM, I would definitely accept and give them +1 to their roll. However, if they explained that their character piloted a ship once somewhere in their backstory, never mentioned before that their character knows how to pilot a ship, and are clearly just making it up on the spot to succeed… I probably wouldn’t give it to them (unless they looked really pitiful and bribed me with a cookie or something).

My only suggestion—yes, literally just one—would be to give players whose result is above 6 more than just a clean success; it should go better than they had even hoped. For example, if the player is the pilot (+1) and rolled a 6 to redirect the spaceship, they are lucky enough to fly even better than usual, maybe even diverting the enemy ship hot on their trail into a debris field while the players escape scot-free.

For the optional rule about injuries, I’d also suggest adding GM persuasion: Maybe the player’s character is shot and the GM rolls a 6, meaning the player would be out of the game, but the player reminds the GM their player is a prepper who’s constantly wearing a bulletproof vest, or maybe their character has yet to confess their love to an NPC and is really convincing about their right to stay alive until they can accomplish that goal. Of course, the GM and players could workshop this idea with specific modifiers for their own game.

I haven’t actually run an RP6 game yet, but I’m absolutely thrilled by all its possibilities. Maybe my friends and I could pick up our failed homebrew Twilight parody RPG again, or maybe I’ll suggest a genre and a couple of rule ideas to my family as a starting point to give them more structure. Whatever I start with, I plan to write an update post after winter break with how it went and any other suggestions for other GMs/players!

Farming Sim Games and the Necessity of Marriage

Farming life simulator games are among today’s most popular cozy games, following the success of Stardew Valley, an expansive indie farming game inspired by Nintendo’s long-running Story of Seasons series. It prompted not only Stardew Valley’s creation, but also many of its mechanics: farming, mining, fishing, foraging, and, of course, marriage.

Romance has become a key feature of farming sims, with many indie developers using their games’ attractive, eligible characters as a selling point. However, romantic storylines and marriage options aren’t just bonus content to draw in players; they are often central to the gameplay itself.

One of the earliest Story of Seasons games, Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life, originally released in 2003, follows the player character from humble beginnings as a single farmer to his eventual son’s adulthood (and, yes, the player character and his son can only be male in the original version of this game; an entirely separate “girl version” of the game, Harvest Moon: Another Wonderful Life, was released the following year). In order to have that son and for the game to progress, the player has to get married. If you don’t propose to one of the eligible female characters by the end of the first in-game year, the one you have the best relationship with proposes to you. If you reject her, it’s an immediate game over.

Similarly, in Harvest Moon: Seeds of Memories, many “memories” (necessary for full completion of the game) require getting married and having kids.

Other Story of Seasons games aren’t so limiting, but marriage is still a core aspect of the gameplay, and players are incentivized to pursue it. Befriending an eligible character can lead to them becoming romantically interested in you, and you might feel urged to put a ring on it before another NPC does, since romantic rivals exist in several games throughout this series. Marriage offers in-game advantages like anniversary gifts and new dialogue/events.

Even now, with countless Stardew Valley-inspired games that allow new options like non-male player characters and queer romantic relationships, this emphasis on marriage as a game mechanic is still heavily felt in the farming sim space. In Sun Haven, players can receive unique and considerably powerful armor and weapons from the characters they date and marry. In Littlewood, dating and marriage earn you additional Dewdrops, the game’s primary currency.

Even in Stardew Valley itself, spouses offer the gameplay advantage of giving the player gifts and helping with labor on the farm. However, Stardew Valley also has something that, to my knowledge, no other well-known farming sim does: a non-romantic equivalent.

In addition to the six bachelors and six bachelorettes the player can choose to pursue, there is also the option to befriend Krobus, the shadow person vendor who lives in the sewers below town. Being a monster, unlike the twelve human options, Krobus comes from a presumably aromantic culture (since living together platonically—and not out of necessity—is canonically commonplace for shadow people) and isn’t available to marry, but you can ask him to live with you as a platonic roommate.

While Krobus can’t help out with chores around the farm due to his species’ aversion to the sun, he still offers most of the practical advantages of a spouse: giving the player gifts and a Stardrop, changing the furniture, and even caring for the player’s children from any previous marriages. He has unique dialogue just like any spouse, too, meaning any player who chooses to play the game entirely without romance isn’t missing out on a vital part of the experience or at any kind of technical disadvantage.

Krobus may show his affection through hugs instead of kisses and smiley faces instead of hearts, but choosing to live with him is never discouraged or made less valuable than marriage; it’s simply a different option.

Cozy games, a genre I’d say has a largely queer playerbase, and farming sims in particular have increasingly embraced queer players and relationships in recent years. Most games, including even recent Story of Seasons titles, allow players to marry any eligible NPC regardless of gender, and Fields of Mistria has a long list of pronoun options for player characters. However, there is little consideration given to aromantic players, and even less representation of aromantic characters, since all single adult characters are considered romanceable in most farming sims (although Stardew Valley is notably not one of them).

People often assume that queer inclusivity necessitates romance, but it can also be about a lack of romance. I think the inclusion of Krobus in Stardew Valley is a positive step toward aromantic inclusivity (and for anyone who might not be interested in in-game marriage, or even people who just enjoy Krobus as a character—myself included), and I wish more games inspired by Stardew Valley had taken inspiration from Krobus, too.

Besides, he’s just pretty cool.

"Easy Access Fandom": The Presumptive Worldbuilding of POV TikTok

In the decade since Vine (R.I.P.), the short-form vertical video has expanded from a vessel for comedy sketches and lip-sync performances to the de facto form of online content and communication. Whether we like it or not, platforms like TikTok and Instagram are where culture happens now: memes and controversies that pervade other websites, independent musicians who later find chart success, social and political movements that affect the real world.

With so many new ways and tools to make video content in this relatively new form, it’s no wonder new video genres have come out of TikTok, too. “-core” genres like Corecore and Hopecore come to mind: video collages interpreting unrelated clips, images, and songs through unifying emotional/social themes, similar to the usually more text-based but also contemporary (originating on Tumblr) art of web weaving, which I hope to cover in a future post.

One prominent genre (with many, many, many subgenres) is what I’ll refer to broadly as “POV TikTok.” The term “POV,” short for “point of view,” started out meaning just that—through using the camera as a character, the viewer becomes a part of the video’s scenario, with the camera view representing the viewer’s perspective as protagonist. A caption from a second-person point of view provides context. For example, this video, captioned “POV: You have siblings,” is filmed from the protagonist’s point of view, encouraging the viewers to imagine themselves in the protagonist’s shoes.

However, on TikTok, and particularly in videos I’d describe as part of the POV TikTok genre, “POV” has broadened to be a signifier of contextualizing text explaining the video’s scenario, without the viewer necessarily being a part of that scenario.

Not every video that uses “POV” in this way is a part of POV TikTok, though. As of now, the top videos in #pov are personal stories and comedy sketches using a mix of first-person and second-person language. Here, “POV” simply tells the viewer that the caption explains what is happening in the video. In the vast majority of cases, “POV” could be deleted from the caption entirely, and it would still make sense. For example, this video uses second-person language, but the friend to whom it refers is visible in frame. The video isn’t actually filmed from their point of view; the camera (and, by extension, the viewer) isn’t a character at all.

What I’m referring to when I talk about “POV TikTok” is a different case entirely. Unlike the examples above, POV TikTok videos aren’t set in our world. They aren’t relatable comedy sketches or inspirational anecdotes; they’re short works of speculative fiction, often set in vaguely science fantasy settings.

These settings, though, are rarely given any exposition. Viewers can only glean context about the characters’ world through captions that hover above the protagonist—who is not the viewer, but the video’s creator and only actor. This protagonist speaks directly to the camera and interacts with it as not just a character, but as every character, leading the viewer to assume the roles of every other person in this universe. These characters’ dialogue is often written on-screen (and sometimes narrated by the video’s creator), as if the viewer is saying it, and the protagonist reacts accordingly.

This video, to me, is a fascinating case study of this genre’s staples and presumed canon. As the viewer, we are immediately dropped into a world in which people can only say a certain number of words each year. As explained by the other characters (which, if you’ll remember, are all… us?) throughout the video, each person is able to say a different number of words each year. That’s all the exposition we get.

It’s never made clear how this rule is enforced: Are people physically unable to speak after reaching their word limit, or is it possible but illegal? What about nonverbal communication? Regardless of if the word limit is biological or legal, wouldn’t the people of this world have all learned sign language or at least carry around notepads and pens? Is the word limit entirely random each year, or does someone/something else determine it?

What I find even more interesting, though, is the presence of the on-screen captions in these worlds. Presumably the characters’ captioned speech isn’t visible or literal, but what about the caption showing the protagonist’s word limit? The protagonist is aware of his own word limit, since he clearly knows he really has more than one word, but it seems like he can also see the word limit as something physical in his world. In the very first scene, he’s crossing his fingers and looking up at the text, hoping for a lucky draw.

However, the other characters can’t see his word limit. He tells them (us) that he only has one word (and seemingly does so every year, maybe as an excuse to stay silent, although it isn’t explained), and the other characters believe him. Still, in something akin to dramatic irony, we as the viewers can see the word limit, despite it being invisible to the characters with whom we share a perspective. We aren’t seeing from the protagonist’s point of view, but we aren’t exactly seeing from the other characters’ point of view, either.

None of this matters in the world of POV TikTok, though. These rules are consistent through almost every video in the genre, and they’re instantly self-explanatory—increasingly so with each video you encounter. Without a second of exposition (about the world, not the characters’ personal lives), viewers are able to jump into the story right away. It is, I think, the most immediate form of speculative fiction.

I’ve found myself baffled by a few POV TikTok videos before when doomscrolling late at night, but my fascination with POV TikTok as a genre really began with this episode of the Sad Boyz podcast, in which they react to POV TikTok parodies by creator @nickel_c. When discussing POV TikTok, podcast cohost Jordan Adika uses a term that has stuck with me since I first heard it: “easy access fandom.”

Viewers are able to immediately understand and immerse themselves in the worlds of these videos, and that means they’re also able to immediately join fan discussions in the comment section. After less than a minute of watch time, they can discuss unnamed characters and speculate about the next video, which might come out later that same day. Unlike with other fandoms, they don’t need to worry about avoiding spoilers or memorizing facts before interacting with more seasoned fans. Viewers can access both the source material and fan communities easily, quickly, and freely.

Most fandoms, on the other hand, take anywhere from hours to years to catch up with. Even after knowing everything there is to know about the source material, fans might not know everything there is to know about the fandom itself. Easy access fandoms, like those that form around POV TikTok videos/creators, on the other hand, require no prior knowledge; everything about the world at large is either explained in the video or irrelevant to the smaller-scale story.

Currently, most of these POV TikTok stories are about romance, drama, and the occasional dystopia: genres that appeal to the teenage audience to whom these videos are targeted. I wonder, though, what else could be represented through this format. I’d love to see (or even personally explore) more of how captions interact with these worlds and what this interpretation of “POV” could mean for storytelling, both in and out of short-form videos.