TEXT: Written by WILLIAM H. STODDARD
  Edited by NIKOLA VRTIS
  Illustrated by PAUL DALY, JEAN ELIZABETH MARTIN,  
  DAN SMITH, and NIKOLA VRTIS
  Additional Material by JOHN M. FORD, KENNETH HITE, and STEVE JACKSON
  Reviewers: Frederick Brackin, Roger Burton West, Douglas H. Cole, Peter V. Dell’Orto, S.A. Fisher,  
  Andrew Hackard, Vicky “Molokh” Kolenko, Phil Masters, Christopher R. Rice, Emily Smirle
  GURPS, Pyramid, Warehouse 23, the pyramid logo, Adaptations, and the names of all products published  
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  GURPS Adaptations is copyright © 2016 by Steve Jackson Games Incorporated. All rights reserved. 
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  STEVE JACKSON GAMES
  Stock #37-0153 
  Version 1.0 – August 2016
  ®
  GURPS System Design z STEVE JACKSON
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  IntroductIon  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 3
  Recommended Books . . . . . . . . . 3
  About the Author . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
  About GURPS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
  Based on . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
  Multiple Sources  
  and Mashups . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
  1 . HIgH concept  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 6
  Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
  starting Point . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
  Prequels and Sequels . . . . . . . . . . 6
  Filling the Gaps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
  Displacements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
  Alternate Universes . . . . . . . . . . . 7
  Retelling the Original Story. . . . . . 7
  Reinventions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
  Premise. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
  One Impossible Thing. . . . . . . . . . 8
  Mundane Premises. . . . . . . . . . . . 8
  Fantastic Premises. . . . . . . . . . . . 8
  genre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
  Why Genre Matters . . . . . . . . . . . 9
  What Defines a Genre . . . . . . . . . 9
  Common Genres . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
  mood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
  theme. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
  The Central Idea. . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
  A Theme Is Not a Thesis . . . . . . . 11
  From Idea to Action. . . . . . . . . . 12
  Inventing a New Theme. . . . . . . 12
  Variations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
  the Players . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
  Interest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
  Familiarity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
  Adaptations of  
  Roleplaying Games . . . . . . . . 13
  Trust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
  2 . places .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 14
  descriBing the World . . . . . . . 14
  The Source Material . . . . . . . . . 14
  Further Research . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
  Inventing New Material. . . . . . . 16
  environments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
  Planets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
  The Retro Solar System. . . . . . . . 17
  Terrains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
  Technologies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
  Populations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
  Cultures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
  War and Politics. . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
  Supernatural Forces . . . . . . . . . 20
  locations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
  Cities and Communities . . . . . . 20
  Buildings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
  The Emerald City . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
  Vehicles as Locations . . . . . . . . . 22
  Wild Places. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
  Destructive Environments. . . . . 23
  setting and drama . . . . . . . . . . 23
  Parameters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
  Functions of Environments. . . . 24
  The Pathetic Fallacy . . . . . . . . . . 24
  Functions of Locations . . . . . . . 25
  Indirect Exposition . . . . . . . . . . . 25
  3 . people .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 27
  roles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
  Major Characters . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
  Guest Stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
  Supporting Characters. . . . . . . . 27
  Extras . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
  defining major characters. . . 29
  Attributes and Talents . . . . . . . . 29
  Skills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
  Combat Skills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
  Social Backgrounds . . . . . . . . . . 31
  Martial-Arts Styles. . . . . . . . . . . . 31
  Visible Qualities . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
  Motivation and Personality . . . . 33
  Perks and Quirks . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
  Esoteric Arts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
  Special Abilities and  
  Power Modifiers . . . . . . . . . . 34
  Racial Traits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
  Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
  sPecifications for  
  original characters . . . . . 38
  Point Value. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
  Excluded Options  
  for Characters. . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
  Unusual Background . . . . . . . . . 38
  Required Traits . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
  Division of Labor . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
  Templates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
  Expanding the Original Cast. . . . 39
  4 . tHIngs .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 40
  narrative function . . . . . . . . . 40
  Gear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
  Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
  Personalizers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
  Valuables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
  Transcendents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
  MacGuffins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
  Physical form . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
  Clothing and Armor. . . . . . . . . . 41
  Personal Gear. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
  Furnishings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
  Vehicles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
  Structures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
  Objects as Characters . . . . . . . . . 43
  Other Machines . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
  Life Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
  availaBility. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
  Tech Level and  
  Variant Technology. . . . . . . . 44
  Legality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
  Wealth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
  Presupposed Items. . . . . . . . . . . 45
  Fantastic Items. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
  5 . actIon  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 46
  agency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
  Outward Action . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
  Inward Action. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
  action and the World . . . . . . . 46
  Possible Actions . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
  Appropriate Actions. . . . . . . . . . 47
  Thematic Actions . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
  Motivated Actions . . . . . . . . . . . 47
  Conflicting Actions. . . . . . . . . . . 47
  Horror and Tragedy. . . . . . . . . . . 48
  Consequences of Actions . . . . . . 49
  modes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
  Cinematic Modes . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
  Realistic Modes . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
  narratives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
  The Unities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
  Episodic Campaigns . . . . . . . . . 50
  Story-Arc Campaigns. . . . . . . . . 50
  Developmental Campaigns . . . . 50
  Revelatory Campaigns. . . . . . . . 51
  PreParing the Payoff . . . . . . . . 51
  Slice-of-Life Campaigns . . . . . . . 51
  Index .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 52
   
  Contents 
  2
  Contents
  . . . a probable 
  impossibility is to be 
  preferred to a thing 
  improbable and yet 
  possible.
  – Aristotle, 
  Poetics
  
  One of the big attractions of roleplaying games is explor-
  ing the worlds of our favorite books or movies. The Cthulhu 
  Mythos, The Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, and many other pub-
  lished works have licensed game rules – sometimes multiple 
  sets. But maybe you’d rather use GURPS than another system. 
  Or maybe you like a fictional world no one has thought of 
  making into a game, or one whose author or publisher won’t 
  license it. One of the major uses of GURPS is running cam-
  paigns in such worlds. And one of the big topics for GURPS 
  questions is how to do it right!
  GURPS writers have addressed this topic in the Basic 
  Set (especially pp. B486-522) and in supplements, especially 
  genre-focused supplements such as GURPS Fantasy, GURPS 
  Horror, GURPS Space, and GURPS Zombies. This material is 
  helpful and is highly recommended. 
  But many questions about adapt-
  ing fictional sources are broader 
  than a single genre. It’s time for a 
  systematic, full-length discussion – 
  GURPS Adaptations.
  In gaming, “adaptation” doesn’t 
  mean quite the same thing as in lit-
  erary, graphic, or cinematic media. 
  Rather than a retelling of the orig-
  inal story, new stories emerge from campaigns: sequels, pre-
  quels, alternative versions, or more radical transformations 
  (see Reinventions, p. 7). This supplement’s focus is on trans-
  lating the original setting and characters, but if you want to  
  reenvision a favorite work, you’ll find suggestions on how  
  to do so.
  When you’re planning a campaign based on a work of fic-
  tion or drama, GURPS Adaptations is your “how to” guide. 
  Pick your favorite novel, graphic novel, movie, television 
  series, or other inspiration – and get started!
  ReCommended Books
  The only books that are required for use with GURPS 
  Adaptations are the GURPS Basic Set. For adaptations of 
  works in specific genres, the GM may find appropriate source-
  books useful, such as GURPS Fantasy, GURPS Horror, 
  GURPS Mysteries, GURPS Psionic Campaigns, GURPS 
  Space, or GURPS Supers. Any book with game mechanics 
  can be useful for the right source material – GURPS Power-
  Ups 2: Perks and GURPS Power-Ups 6: Quirks in particular 
  are good with almost any source.
  ABout the AuthoR
  William H. Stoddard and his wife life in San Diego, 
  California, with two cats and more books than they have time 
  to count. He has been running GURPS campaigns for over 
  20 years, starting with GURPS Uplift. He has run many cam-
  paigns based on fictional or dramatic sources, about half of 
  them using his own adaptations of the source material.
   
  IntRoduCtIon 
  3
  IntRoduCtIon
  ABout GURPS
  Steve Jackson Games is committed to full support 
  of GURPS players. Our address is SJ Games, P.O. Box 
  18957, Austin, TX 78760. Please include a self-addressed, 
  stamped envelope (SASE) any time you write us! We 
  can also be reached by e-mail: info@sjgames.com. 
  Resources include:
  New supplements and adventures. GURPS continues to 
  grow – see what’s new at gurps.sjgames.com.
  Warehouse 23. Our online store offers GURPS adven-
  tures, play aids, and support in PDF form . . . digital cop-
  ies of our books, plus exclusive material available only on 
  Warehouse 23! Just head over to warehouse23.com.
  Pyramid (pyramid.sjgames.com). Our monthly PDF 
  magazine includes new rules and articles for GURPS, sys-
  temless locations, adventures, and much more. Look for 
  each themed issue from Warehouse 23!
  Internet. Visit us on the World Wide Web at  
  sjgames.com for errata, updates, Q&A, and much 
  more. To discuss GURPS with our staff and your fel-
  low gamers, visit our forums at forums.sjgames.com. 
  The web page for GURPS Adaptations can be found at  
  gurps.sjgames.com/adaptations.
  Bibliographies. Many of our books have extensive bib-
  liographies, and we’re putting them online – with links to 
  let you buy the resources that interest you! Go to each 
  book’s web page and look for the “Bibliography” link.
  Errata. Everyone makes mistakes, including us – but 
  we do our best to fix our errors. Up-to-date errata pages 
  for all GURPS releases, including this book, are available 
  on our website – see above.
  Rules and statistics in this book are specifically for the 
  GURPS Basic Set, Fourth Edition. Page references that 
  begin with B refer to that book, not this one.
  Of all fictions, the marvelous journey is  
  the one formula that is never exhausted.
  – Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism
  
   
  IntRoduCtIon 
  4
  BAsed on . . .
  To illustrate its concepts and methods, GURPS 
  Adaptations offers examples of working with published 
  sources. Necessarily, these are older books that are in the 
  public domain. However, all of them are still read, all have 
  been adapted into other media, and all have been sources of 
  inspiration for later works that imitate or transform them. 
  Each title is followed by a short form that will be used to 
  refer to it later in this supplement.
  The Odyssey [Odysseia] (Odys.)
  An epic poem by Homer, thought to have been composed 
  before 700 B.C. It tells how a Greek hero came back from Troy, 
  after spending 10 years lost at sea, and finally reclaimed his 
  wife and his kingdom from a crowd of ambitious suitors. The 
  first part provides a model for quest stories, particularly tales 
  set at sea; it could also be read as science fiction, with each 
  island (like a recently discovered planet in Star Trek) holding 
  a new monster or exotic culture. The second part is a story of 
  seeking revenge through covert methods.
  Recommended version: The Odyssey, translated by Robert 
  Fagles (Penguin Classics, 1999).
  Adaptation: The Odyssey (television miniseries, 1997), writ-
  ten and directed by Andrei Konchalovsky.
  Works inspired: Nostoi, an ancient Greek epic, now lost, 
  about other heroes coming home from Troy; The True History, 
  by Lucian of Samosata (second century A.D.), a satire of 
  Homer, the oldest surviving story of space travel; The Odyssey: 
  A Modern Sequel, by Nikos Kazantzakis (1938), an epic poem 
  about Odysseus’s departure from his homeland and his later 
  adventures; Homer’s Daughter, by Robert Graves (1955), a 
  witty novel about a Sicilian princess who writes the Odyssey, 
  puts herself into it as a character, and passes it off as Homer’s 
  work; “Tales of Brave Ulysses” (1967), a hard-rock song by 
  Eric Clapton and Martin Sharp; Island in the Sea of Time 
  and its sequels (1998, 1999, 2000), a series of novels by S.M. 
  Stirling where modern Americans displaced in time encounter 
  an ancient Greek warrior named Odikweos; O Brother, Where 
  Art Thou? (2000), a film by Joel Coen about three escaped con-
  victs in rural Mississippi in 1937.
  Water Margin [Shui Hu Zhuan] (WM)
  A classic Chinese novel attributed to Shi Nai’an (1296-
  1372) that tells the story of the 108 Stars of Destiny, a band 
  of outlaws struggling against corrupt officials. It’s loosely 
  based on folktales of the historical outlaw Song 
  Jiang (active around 1121, in the Song Dynasty). 
  It’s one of the oldest known sources of the mar-
  tial-arts tropes of wuxia films and recent novel-
  ists such as Jin Yong. It could also be a model for 
  a supers campaign, as many of its heroes have 
  super-human abilities.
  Recommended version: The Marshes of Mount 
  Liang, translated by John Dent-Young and Alex 
  Dent-Young (Chinese University Press, 1994-2002). 
  There are many Chinese and Japanese adaptations.
  Works inspired: Golden Lotus (Jin Ping Mei), 
  by Lanling Xiaoxiao Sheng (1610), an erotic novel 
  that takes off from an incident in Water Margin; 
  Suikoden, created by Yoshitaka Murayama (1995-
  2008), a series of martial-arts-themed video games. 
  Many film and television versions have been cre-
  ated in Hong Kong and Japan. In a larger sense, 
  the entire genres of wuxia and chambara films take 
  off from it!
  Pride and Prejudice (P&P)
  A novel of manners by Jane Austen, first published 1813, 
  which has become a classic British love story for its portrayal 
  of initial conflict turning into romantic attraction. It’s a model 
  for lively roleplaying with relatively little “adventure,” but a 
  good deal of comedy – though one of its subplots involves 
  investigation, after the heroine’s younger sister elopes with a 
  soldier who has no intention of marrying her, and has to be 
  tracked down.
  Adaptations: Pride and Prejudice (1940), a film by Robert 
  Z. Leonard with a screenplay co-authored by Aldous Huxley; 
  Pride and Prejudice (1995), a BBC television series by Simon 
  Langton; Pride and Prejudice (2005), a film by Joe Wright.
  Works inspired: Bride and Prejudice (2004), a film by 
  Gurinder Chadha set in modern India and Britain, with many 
  Bollywood influences – and amazingly faithful to the original; 
  Lost in Austen (2008), a four-part British television series by 
  Dan Zeff, in which a 21st-century young woman changes places 
  with the heroine of Pride and Prejudice, derails the plot, and 
  takes desperate measures to salvage the original happy ending; 
  “Pride and Prometheus,” by John Kessel (2008), a science-fic-
  tion story where one of the heroine’s younger sisters meets 
  both Victor Frankenstein and his creature; Pride and Prejudice 
  and Zombies, by Seth Grahame-Smith (2009), a mash-up of 
  Austen’s story with zombie horror; Death Comes to Pemberley, 
  by P.D. James (2011), a mystery novel in which Elizabeth and 
  Darcy investigate a murder of which her younger sister’s hus-
  band is accused.
  When we met in  
  Dr. Seward’s study two  
  hours after dinner, which 
  had been at six o’clock,  
  we unconsciously formed  
  a sort of board or committee.
  – Bram Stoker, Dracula
  
   
  IntRoduCtIon 
  5
  Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea 
  [Vingt mille lieues sous les mers] (20KL)
  A novel by Jules Verne, first published 1870, the best known 
  of his voyages extraordinaires (“amazing journeys”), which 
  were major sources of science fiction. It starts 
  out as a story of scientific investigation of a 
  mysterious sea monster, focused on three 
  adventurers with varied talents. The “mon-
  ster” turns out to be a submarine, a classic 
  “marvelous invention,” and becomes the 
  continuing stage for a vehicle-based story of 
  exploration – one deliberately modeled on 
  the nautical adventures of Odysseus.
  Recommended version: 20,000 Leagues 
  Under the Sea, translated by Walter James 
  Miller and Frederick Paul Walter (Naval 
  Institute Press, 1993) with annotations.
  Adaptation: 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea 
  (1954), a film directed by Richard Fleischer 
  that has become one of the major sources 
  for steampunk.
  Works inspired: Nadia: The Secret of Blue 
  Water (1990-1991), a 39-episode anime 
  series directed by Hideaki Anno, in which 
  two children join forces with Captain Nemo 
  to struggle against a hidden conspiracy; The 
  League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, by Alan 
  Moore and Kevin O’Neill (2003), a graphic 
  novel in which Captain Nemo belongs to a 
  secret British team of proto-supers.
  Dracula (Drac.)
  A Gothic novel by Bram Stoker, first pub-
  lished 1897, which gave the vampire mythos its standard 
  form in 20th-century literature and film. Similarly to 20,000 
  Leagues Under the Sea, it brings together a small group with 
  varied backgrounds to investigate and combat a mysterious 
  threat. It’s notable for its heroes’ reliance on innovative sci-
  ence, from blood transfusions to hypnotism. They also engage 
  in unofficial covert ops, from housebreaking in London to 
  guerrilla warfare in the Balkans.
  Adaptations: Dracula (1931), a film directed by Tod 
  Browning, with Bela Lugosi as Dracula; Horror of Dracula 
  (1958), directed by Terence Fisher, the first film with 
  Christopher Lee as Dracula; Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), a 
  film directed by Francis Ford Coppola, with Gary Oldman as 
  Dracula, emphasizing the vampire’s historical background.
  Works inspired: Nosferatu (1922), a German silent film 
  directed by F.W. Murnau that made its vampire, Count Orlok, 
  a figure of death and corruption with no romantic aspects; 
  Tomb of Dracula, a Marvel Comics series mainly scripted by 
  Marv Wolfman (1972-1979); Anno Dracula, by Kim Newman 
  (1992), an alternate history in which Count Dracula becomes 
  the ruler of the United Kingdom; Hellsing (1997-2008), a 
  manga series by Kouta Hirano in which a reformed Dracula is 
  an ally of the Van Helsing family; “Buffy vs. Dracula” (2000), 
  an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that brings Count 
  Dracula to Sunnydale; The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen 
  (see Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, above), where 
  the team leader is Mina Harker, one of Dracula’s foes;  
  The Dracula Dossier Director’s Handbook and the accompa-
  nying Dracula Unredacted (2015), a campaign framework 
  by Kenneth Hite and Gareth Ryder-Hanrahan, based on the 
  premise that Stoker’s novel is a cover story for a secret history.
  The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (WWOz)
  A children’s fantasy novel by L. Frank Baum, first pub-
  lished 1900, which became the leading American fairy tale. 
  The basic plot is a quest, with the same goal as the Odyssey: to 
  return home. Much of the story is a travelogue fantasy where 
  the heroes pass through strange locations and encounter 
  peculiar creatures. It’s an early example of a story set in an 
  invented world.
  Adaptations: The Wizard of Oz (1939), a film directed by 
  Victor Fleming, notable for its gimmick of changing from 
  black and white for scenes set in Kansas to color for scenes 
  set in Oz; The Wiz, a Broadway musical by William F. Brown 
  and Charlie Smalls (1975) that reinterprets the story in terms 
  of African-American culture, later adapted into a film (1978) 
  directed by Sidney Lumet.
  Works inspired: 13 sequels by Baum, from The Marvelous 
  Land of Oz (1904) to Glinda of Oz (1914, after his death), which 
  further explore Oz and other magical realms (plus many more 
  sequels by Ruth Plumly Thompson and others); “Tin Man” 
  (1974), a pop song by America; Robert A. Heinlein’s science 
  fiction novel The Number of the Beast (1986), in which inter-
  universal travel allows a visit to Oz; Wicked: The Life and Times 
  of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire (1996), 
  an “alternate universe” prequel; Tin Man (2007), a television 
  miniseries by Nick Willing that reinterprets Oz in science-fic-
  tional terms.
  multIple souRCes  
  And mAshups
  What if you want to combine two or more source works in a sin-
  gle campaign – a crossover or mashup? This is common in fan fiction, 
  but not limited to it; Alan Moore’s League of Extraordinary Gentlemen 
  brought together multiple characters from Victorian fiction (see Based 
  on . . . , pp. 4-5). Far earlier, the tale of the Argonauts brought together 
  100 heroes of Greek legends, including Atalanta, Castor and Pollux, 
  Heracles, Laertes (Odysseus’ father), Orpheus, and Theseus – the total 
  cast was as big as that of Water Margin! For a sustained campaign, as 
  opposed to a one-shot or guest appearance, look for common elements 
  that match up closely.
  An extreme case of mashups is the “kitchen sink” campaign, which 
  takes material from any source in an entire genre. This approach goes 
  back to the very start of roleplaying games! The original Dungeons and 
  Dragons books took elements from The Lord of the Rings; sword and sor-
  cery by authors such as Howard and Moorcock; more recent fantasy by 
  Anderson, Leiber, and Vance; and other sources ranging from classical 
  mythology to “creature feature” movies.
  Example (Drac./P&P): What if Dracula had shown up in England 
  decades earlier, and picked one of the Bennet sisters as his prey – and 
  George Wickham as his Renfield?
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  6
  Movie scriptwriters talk about high concept, a quick sum-
  mary of what a movie is about and what’s going to bring in an 
  audience. That summary is also a mission statement for the 
  writers, a starting point for their creative work.
  When planning a roleplaying game, you need the same 
  things – a statement of what kind of campaign you plan to 
  run, and what you’re going to promise your players (see The 
  Players, pp. 12-13). For a game based on a source, thinking 
  about that source in terms of high concept can help identify 
  the key elements your campaign needs to capture.
  For the story-title abbreviations used in the examples, see 
  Based on . . . , pp. 4-5.
  stARtIng poInt
  You and your players are going to create new stories that 
  grow out of your source. Several different strategies exist for 
  coming up with ideas for such stories.
  pRequels And sequels
  One of the oldest strategies goes back to storytellers in 
  marketplaces: asking What happened next? Many stories have 
  room for a sequel. The original author may face continuing 
  demand for sequels to a popular work; Baum tried to end the 
  Oz series with The Emerald City of Oz, as Conan Doyle did 
  the Sherlock Holmes stories with “The Final Problem” – and 
  both failed!
  A sequel could begin the very day after the end of the 
  original work, asking literally, “what happened next?”  
  ChApteR one
  hIgh ConCept
  glossARy
  agency: The ability of characters to make things happen 
  in an imagined world; also, the ability of players to 
  affect the course of events in a game.
  alternate universe: A retelling of an existing story with a 
  key event happening differently.
  atmosphere: Features of the physical environment that 
  help to create a mood.
  attribute: (1) In GURPS, one of a character’s four basic 
  traits. (2) In painting, a distinctive possession or 
  object by which a specific person such as a saint can 
  be recognized.
  austerity: The degree to which characters’ actions have 
  consequences, either physical or legal.
  fan fiction: Stories about characters or settings from 
  works of fiction or drama, not written by the original 
  creator or as authorized continuations; now primarily 
  published online.
  indirect exposition: The portrayal of an imagined setting 
  through the implications of a story’s events, especially 
  minor events.
  MacGuffin: An object whose only role in a story is to be 
  pursued or fought over, and whose specific qualities 
  are irrelevant. Also McGuffin or maguffin.
  mimetic fiction: Stories focusing on common life expe-
  riences in familial and organizational settings, and 
  without fantastic elements. Also called literary realism 
  or realistic fiction.
  mundane: A setting, character, or story without weird or 
  fantastic elements.
  pathetic fallacy: The practice of having natural condi-
  tions change to reflect a character’s emotions or the 
  emotional implications of a storyline.
  protagonist: The main character of a narrative or drama; 
  the character who makes the key decisions and whose 
  fate the story focuses on.
  recognition: A key discovery or insight that changes a 
  protagonist’s understanding of the dramatic situation 
  and leads to a climactic confrontation.
  sandbox: A style of roleplaying that emphasizes exploring 
  a world without a continuing or developing plot.
  thaumatocracy: A society governed by people with mag-
  ical powers or skills. For other common types of gov-
  ernments, see pp. B509-510.
  theme: A recurring idea expressed in different ways in a 
  narrative or drama.
  trope: A typical element in some form of narrative or 
  drama.
  unreliable narrator: A viewpoint character who repeat-
  edly misunderstands events and situations.
  verisimilitude: The ability of an imaginative work to give 
  a convincing impression of reality.
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  7
  Other sequels start, in effect, “the next time something inter-
  esting happened.” Or a sequel could begin a generation or 
  more later, telling about descendants of the original heroes.
  Recent works have developed the idea of a prequel, a work 
  that tells about the younger life of a hero, his ancestors,  
  or the earlier history of a setting. Prequels need to end up 
  someplace consistent with the start of the original work – 
  which can be tricky for the GM, who has several co-authors 
  with their own ideas!
  Example (Odys.): During the original story, Odysseus’ son 
  Telemachus comes to manhood – and gains the favor of his 
  father’s patron Athena. He and a group of companions could 
  be sent on a quest of their own, as the subject of a campaign.
  FIllIng the gAps
  Many sources have stories with time gaps, or multiple 
  stories separated in time, like the Oz series as a whole. It’s 
  possible to fit adventures into the gaps, as “untold tales” 
  about the original heroes. If the source defines a detailed 
  timeline, each untold adventure may need to be assigned 
  to a specific point on it, before some events and after oth-
  ers. If time sequence is vague, it may be enough to say, 
  “This is an untold story.”
  dIsplACements
  Another way to tell narratives that don’t conflict with 
  the source is to focus on different main characters: 
  minor characters from the source who get promoted to 
  stars of their own stories, or original characters made 
  up for the campaign.
  A campaign can be set in a location that exists in the 
  source material, but is only briefly visited in the original 
  story, or even simply mentioned. Any such place could 
  have its own cast of characters.
  Another option is to stay in the main location, but 
  promote minor characters to leading roles. These can be 
  either named individual characters, or characters who 
  simply belong to groups.
  Example (WM): With 108 main heroes, Water Margin 
  can’t tell all their stories in detail. A campaign could 
  focus on the exploits of less fully described heroes. These 
  could be fitted into gaps in time, especially in the first 
  half of the novel, before the heroes come to terms with 
  the imperial authorities.
  AlteRnAte unIveRses
  Alternate histories take off from the real world,  
  choosing some one key event, making it turn out differently, 
  and tracing the consequences. (For many examples based on 
  the history and myths of our world, see the GURPS Infinite 
  Worlds series.) The same method can be applied to key events 
  in fictional settings. Any of this supplement’s source works 
  could have ended some other way. Fan-fiction writers, who do 
  this a lot, talk about “alternate universes.”
  The key to creating an alternate universe is finding a 
  point in the story, or in the previous events it implies, where 
  things could have taken a contrasting path – but still created 
  a situation with the potential for exciting experiences. It’s 
  also possible to change situations more radically, creating 
  a disastrous outcome to the original story – one where the 
  heroes need to take up different strategies, or where differ-
  ent heroes need to step forward.
  Example (Drac.): Dracula doesn’t return in time to save 
  Jonathan Harker from the three vampiric women in his cas-
  tle. Lacking access to the legal records of his property acqui-
  sitions, Lucy Westenra’s avengers are delayed in taking action 
  against him, letting him establish himself as a master of 
  England’s underworld. This leads to a mystery campaign in 
  which the original characters may appear as player characters 
  or as Contacts with valuable information.
  ReInventIons
  Instead of creating a new story in the original setting, it’s 
  possible to do the reverse: move to an entirely different setting 
  while preserving the essential situation (as West Side Story did 
  with Romeo and Juliet). Roleplaying campaigns often trans-
  form realism into fantasy, but the opposite strategy is also 
  workable (see Premise, pp. 8-9). Likewise, consider changing 
  to a different type of fantastic element – fairy tales to horror, 
  or historical fantasy to science fiction.
  RetellIng  
  the oRIgInAl stoRy
  All of the suggested starting points are for new stories 
  based on the source – telling a different story in the same 
  world, or moving the story to a different world and seeing 
  what happens. But what about playing out the original story 
  in the same setting? A novel can be adapted into a movie, a 
  television series, or a graphic novel; why can’t any of these 
  be adapted into a campaign?
  There are real difficulties in doing this; in fact, they’ve 
  been the subject of more than one humorous story. Novel-
  ists have joked for a long time about characters with minds 
  of their own, who won’t do what the plot requires, but player 
  characters really do have minds of their own – because each 
  has a different creator. The GM can try to manipulate the 
  players into staying on track, but that takes away the free-
  dom that’s one of the big pleasures of roleplaying.
  Of course, many adaptations do change the original 
  story, sometimes drastically; the film version of Oz is a 
  dream, not a real place, for example. If everyone is willing 
  to accept the game as a new story based on the source, a 
  campaign may work.
  If the players really want to re-create the original story, 
  optional rules for letting them shape the narrative can 
  help; see, for example, Buying Success and Player Guidance 
  (p. B347) and the expanded discussions in GURPS Power-
  Ups 5: Impulse Buys. The rules for Destiny Points in 
  Impulse Buys can help pay for this, with the original 
  story defining destinies for its characters. For example, if 
  Odysseus misses Polyphemus’ eye, he can buy a success 
  and live to reach Ithaca, instead of getting torn apart.
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  8
  Another style of reinvention is parody, imitation of a source 
  with changes that make it funny or absurd. The key to such 
  reworking is often incongruity, a mismatch between the bor-
  rowed material and the newly introduced characters or set-
  ting. (Though incongruity doesn’t always produce parody: The 
  Hobbit starts out with a clash between the respectable Bilbo 
  Baggins and the Viking-like dwarves, but Tolkien makes their 
  adventures a serious and exciting story – and by the end, nei-
  ther is ridiculous to the other.)
  If a proposed campaign reinvents its source, the play-
  ers needed to know this before they agree to participate!  
  Players who were anticipating heroic Chinese outlawry, for 
  example, may not accept a remote galactic empire as a set-
  ting, however similar the themes and incidents.
  Example (20KL): Instead of a professor of oceanography, 
  his valet, and a harpooner, the Nautilus picks up a band of 
  British schoolchildren (and their dog!).
  Example (WM): In a future Galactic Empire, an official’s 
  injudicious instructions to a computer lead to the creation 
  of 108 enhanced posthumans, who band together as heroic 
  space pirates.
  pRemIse
  Every story is founded on a premise, something the audi-
  ence has to assume for its events to be possible. For example, 
  the premise of Water Margin is that 108 spirits are born in 
  human form and grow up to be heroic outlaws. This is the 
  basis for their amazing fighting skills, for the superhuman 
  powers many of them show, and for the affinity that draws 
  them together.
  Further stories in the same fictional world share its original 
  premise, but they may have subsidiary premises, new assump-
  tions they take off from. Usually these have less wide-ranging 
  implications than the original story – they extend or modify 
  its premise rather than adopting an entirely new premise, as 
  when Baum’s The Marvelous Land of Oz introduced Princess 
  Ozma as Oz’s long-lost rightful ruler. A game based on a fic-
  tional source usually needs this kind of subsidiary premise. 
  Choosing a suitable premise helps to define the campaign’s 
  starting point.
  mundAne pRemIses
  Some premises don’t change the nature of the fictional 
  world. Rather, they add detail to it. Pride and Prejudice, for 
  example, starts out with five sisters of divergent personalities 
  and abilities, whose modest fortunes make it both difficult 
  and necessary for them to find husbands. No one’s view of 
  the world would be transformed by believing in this situa-
  tion; it’s of interest because it creates the possibility of drama 
  or comedy.
  Stories of this type are often called “realistic” – but GURPS 
  contrasts realistic with cinematic (pp. B488-489), which isn’t 
  the same distinction. For clarity, this supplement calls them 
  mundane (as in Mundane Background, p. B144).
  Campaigns based on a mundane premise usually suggest 
  mundane subsidiary premises – for example, about the career 
  developments, later lives, or children of the protagonists. But 
  it’s not impossible to shift to a fantastic key.
  Example (P&P): Lydia Wickham has not been welcome 
  at Pemberley. But she arrives without warning and appeals 
  to her sister, Elizabeth Darcy, for help: Her husband George 
  is being pressured about his latest gambling debts, not to 
  repay them, but to connive at some serious 
  crime. Lydia is afraid he’ll get caught; 
  Elizabeth can see the danger of his 
  being blackmailed into worse crimes. 
  Can she and her husband thwart the 
  scheme – and should they save Wick-
  ham, once again, in the process?
  Example (P&P): Georgiana Darcy 
  has more than musical gifts; for several 
  years, she has been hearing the voices of 
  ghosts. On a visit to her aunt, Lady Cath-
  erine de Bourgh, she realizes that her 
  cousin Anne has fallen under supernat-
  ural influence. Can her brother and his 
  new wife help her uncover the mystery?
  FAntAstIC 
  pRemIses
  Campaigns set in fantastic worlds are 
  founded on fantastic premises – that is, on 
  assumptions that the world is different from what most peo-
  ple believe in some important way. The Odyssey assumes that 
  its hero has the favor of the goddess Athena, and more broadly 
  that the Greek pantheon is real. Dracula, 20,000 Leagues Under 
  the Sea, Water Margin, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz make 
  other fantastic assumptions.
  one ImpossIBle thIng
  H.G. Wells described his science-fiction stories as making one impossible 
  assumption and working out what it implied. This is what GURPS Space, 
  pp. 29-30, calls the “one miracle” approach to science fiction. In this book’s 
  terms, that “one miracle” is the premise of a fantastic story.
  There’s nothing wrong with a story, or a campaign, having more than 
  one miracle. But it’s a good idea to be cautious about adding an entirely new 
  fantastic premise. The players were probably attracted by the premise of the 
  original source, and want to explore it. A different premise may not appeal 
  to them; and in any case, it’s not what the campaign promised them, and it 
  takes time and attention away from the original premise.
  Philosophers talk of Occam’s razor, the principle that the simplest explana-
  tion that actually works is the best. Storytellers and campaign designers can 
  think in terms of Wells’ razor: The fewer and simpler premises a story has, the 
  more easily the audience will accept it.
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  9
  The subsidiary premise for a campaign based on one of 
  these works can be either fantastic or mundane. A further 
  development of the original fantastic premise can inspire 
  a new campaign. Alternatively, a campaign can explore the 
  mundane implications of the original fantastic premise.
  Example (Drac.): Less than a year after their final encoun-
  ter with Count Dracula, Jonathan and Mina Harker had twin 
  children – a son, Quincy, and a daughter, Lucy. 
  Now in their teens, both have developed unusual 
  qualities that set them apart from other peo-
  ple – and have started wondering why. Are they 
  adopted? Under a family curse? Bastards of some 
  noble family? Their investigations open the door 
  to family secrets perhaps better left hidden.
  Example (Drac.): Lord Godalming’s adventures in the Bal-
  kans while avenging his fiancée’s death confirmed his inter-
  est in foreign affairs. As a member of the House of Lords, he 
  became involved in foreign intelligence. After two decades, 
  he’s the head of the Balkan section, dealing with bureaucratic 
  infighting, the plots of Serbian nationalists, and hints of more 
  sinister forces that he would rather have forgotten.
  genRe
  The difference between fantastic and mundane premises 
  is part of genre. The word “genre” means “kind.” A genre in 
  literature or film is a group of works that are seen as similar 
  and that appeal to similar audiences. Many roleplaying games 
  are inspired by a specific genre; GURPS, as a universal game, 
  has sourcebooks for various genres, such as GURPS Fantasy, 
  GURPS Horror, GURPS Mysteries, GURPS Space, GURPS 
  Supers, and GURPS Zombies.
  Why genRe mAtteRs
  Talking about genre may be interesting to theorists and 
  critics. But what does it do for the GM and players?
  To the GM
  Fictional works typical of a campaign’s genre give you a 
  model for your own work. If you know that fairy stories classi-
  cally have the participants interacting with anthropomorphic 
  animals and supernatural and inscrutable magical beings, you 
  can set up your fairy-tale campaign to include these elements. 
  Or you can intentionally go against that, and instead of the 
  happily nonlinear whimsy found in children’s stories, you 
  might play to the brutal morality tales of the original fairy 
  stories – working against the usual expectations of the genre, 
  as a way of surprising your players.
  One of the GM’s roles is to define the reward structure of 
  the campaign. Primarily, this means awarding bonus points 
  (pp. B498-499) – so characters who perform genre-appropri-
  ate actions could earn an extra point for that session, whereas 
  those who violate genre would forgo it. Some genres also pro-
  vide special ways to spend points, such as the training mon-
  tages of martial-arts stories (see GURPS Social Engineering: 
  Back to School). In a campaign where character points or des-
  tiny points can be spent on successes (see Retelling the Original 
  Story, p. 7), the GM can restrict this to actions that fit the genre.
  To the Players
  For the players, genre is a basis for predicting what 
  they’re going to like. If you’ve read or watched dozens of hor-
  ror stories, or romances, you can reasonably anticipate that 
  you’ll enjoy another one. The GM who says that a campaign 
  is in a particular genre is promising you that particular sort  
  of experience.
  Because roleplaying games are a social activity, the atti-
  tudes of the other players can also affect your own pleasure. 
  If the other players have signed up for a game in a particular 
  genre, you can reasonably hope they’ll share your enjoyment 
  of it. And since they’ll help create the story, you’re better off if 
  they make the kinds of choices that you like, which the genre 
  helps identify. Conversely, genre defines what other players 
  are entitled to expect of you – actions and characters that fit 
  the assumptions of the genre.
  WhAt deFInes A genRe
  Each genre has its own characteristic types of content and 
  ways of telling stories.
  Conventions
  The conventions of a genre are its particular ways of tell-
  ing a story, and the things that storytellers assume in order 
  to relate the tale. It’s a convention of epic poetry, for exam-
  ple, that characters speak in verse – and that no one sees any-
  thing strange in everyone speaking in verse. Long impromptu 
  speeches with perfect scansion don’t need special explana-
  tions; they’re just a device for telling the story.
  Another type of conventions takes the form of limits on 
  what can happen in a story. For example, classic four-color 
  supers don’t kill criminals – not because they’re incapable of 
  it, but because deadly force was considered unsuitable for 
  the readers.
  Tropes
  Tropes originally referred mainly to ways of using language 
  in telling a story, such as similes (“he was as brave as a lion”) 
  or metaphors (“she was a lioness”). In discussing stories, they 
  now often refer to typical story elements: robots or spaceships 
  in science fiction, assassins or encrypted messages in thrill-
  ers, or aristocratic people with mysterious pasts in romance. 
  (The website TV Tropes provides many examples.) Much of 
  Chapters 2-4 in this supplement is about identifying story ele-
  ments and defining them in game terms.
  If you buy the premise, you buy the bit.
  – Robert A. Heinlein, Expanded Universe
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  10
  Common genRes
  A number of genres appear frequently in roleplaying games.
  Action/adventure is about carrying out tasks that involve 
  physical danger, typically in mundane settings. Some versions 
  of the swashbuckling genre can be included.
  Alternate history (or uchronia) involves stories, usually 
  but not always mundane, set in worlds where historic events 
  happened differently. A common convention is to trace the 
  change to a specific point of divergence.
  Fantasy is inspired by myths, legends, or fairy tales, and 
  generally includes magic or the supernatural; a campaign 
  based on the Odyssey would usually be fantasy. Fantasy often 
  is set in invented countries or worlds where magic is perva-
  sive, as in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
  Hardboiled fiction and noir films entail some forms of 
  mystery, but aren’t limited to it; they also include crime 
  drama, stories of political corruption, and “mean streets”  
  urban fiction, in a grimmer and more cynical analog of 
  mimetic fiction. The scenes of official corruption and abuse 
  in Water Margin are often in this spirit.
  Horror portrays people, creatures, or places that inspire 
  fear, which its characters have to endure and overcome. Hor-
  ror often has science fiction or fantasy premises, but they don’t 
  define it – it can be better if the source of the threat is myste-
  rious or incomprehensible. Dracula is an example of horror.
  Humor (or comedy) can be a mood in almost any genre 
  (Mood, p. 11), but it can also be a genre in its own right. Char-
  acteristic of pure humor is avoidance of grave consequences – 
  because neither life nor fortune is at risk, or because the 
  heroes are saved by coincidence, or because they’re immune 
  to lasting harm (as with the cartoon figures of Toon). Humor 
  often takes off from unlikely or impossible situations, which 
  the audience accepts not because of some 
  elaborate rationale but because they’re 
  funny. There are strong elements of humor 
  in Pride and Prejudice, notably in Lizzie’s 
  confrontations with Darcy and with Lady 
  Charlotte.
  Martial arts (such as chambara or wuxia) 
  was originally a Chinese genre; it’s basi-
  cally action/adventure, but with borderline 
  fantastic elements based on Buddhist or 
  Taoist beliefs. This is most familiar in film, 
  but Water Margin, a novel, contains almost 
  every element of the genre.
  Mimetic fiction (also called realistic fic-
  tion) is about relationships and social con-
  flicts, often familial, organizational, or 
  political; fantastic elements are excluded, 
  and action/adventure is often kept in 
  the background. Pride and Prejudice has 
  strong elements of mimetic fiction.
  Mystery starts out with a murder or other 
  crime, and focuses on a detective who has 
  to identify the criminal, whether by bril-
  liant deduction, systematic investigation, 
  or stubbornness and physical toughness. 
  Dracula has some elements of mystery.
  Romance is about love and courtship, 
  and most often about couples who are 
  attracted to each other, but can’t or won’t 
  get together, often because of differences of social back-
  ground. In roleplaying games, it’s more often a subplot than 
  the main story. Pride and Prejudice is one of the major sources 
  for romance, though it’s often comedic and even ironic.
  Science fiction takes off from a speculative scientific or 
  technological idea to describe an invention, creature, or 
  alien world that its characters encounter. Current science 
  fiction mostly relies on indirect exposition – portraying a 
  future society through characters who take its differences 
  for granted. Science fiction often takes place in outer space. 
  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is a prototype for science fic-
  tion, set beneath the seas rather than in space; much of the 
  Odyssey can be read as an ancient analogue of science fic-
  tion, based on the science of navigation.
  Slipstream and related genres such as bizarro and new 
  weird introduce fantastic or horrific elements into mundane 
  genres – without attempting elaborate worldbuilding, unlike 
  fantasy or science fiction. The goal is more to deconstruct the 
  usual vision of the world than to offer a different one.
  Superheroic fiction features people with superhuman pow-
  ers or extraordinary skills, engaged in ongoing struggles of 
  (usually) clearly defined good and evil. It has a whole series 
  of standard tropes, including dual identities, code names, and 
  colorful costumes.
  Thrillers are stories that emphasize tension and suspense, 
  often focused on maintaining a deception while pursuing a 
  goal. Stories about espionage, especially realistic treatments 
  of it, are a classic example; crime, private vengeance, and psy-
  chological dramas are other common themes. Physical action 
  may be involved, but it’s not the most important element. The 
  swashbuckling genre is a precursor; its Spanish name, capa y 
  espada, is the source of “cloak and dagger.” The events after 
  Odysseus’ return to Ithaca are a classic thriller plot.
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  11
  mood
  Different stories aim at producing different emotional 
  effects. Classic literary theory opposed tragedy, which pro-
  duced pity and terror, to comedy, which provoked laughter. 
  (There’s an old saying that a tragedy ends where the hero is 
  dead, and a comedy when he’s married.) The overall emo-
  tional quality of a work is its mood or atmosphere.
  Horror, as a genre, is primarily defined by mood: terror, 
  horror, or shock. But other genres have typical moods as 
  well: excitement in action/adventure, supers, thrillers, and 
  wuxia; amusement or hilarity in comedy; romantic attrac-
  tion in romance; “sense of wonder” in fantasy, science fiction,  
  and supers.
  Mood takes on extra importance in roleplaying games, 
  because the players are co-creators of the story. If the 
  campaign inspires the right mood, the players will tend to 
  come up with actions for their characters that fit the genre 
  and situation. Players who aren’t prepared to enter into 
  the appropriate mood can wreck almost any campaign.  
  The GM can help a campaign along by encouraging a suit-
  able mood, through such methods as pacing, scene setting, 
  dialogue, and perceived rewards and risks.
  Example (WWOz): Baum intentionally toned down the 
  horror and cruelty of Grimm’s Fairy Tales and the stories of 
  Charles Perrault; for example, when the Wicked Witch of the 
  West takes Dorothy prisoner, she doesn’t fatten her up for 
  eating, but makes her do chores! Baum wrote that his story 
  “aspires to being a modernized fairy tale, in which the won-
  derment and joy are retained and the heartaches and night-
  mares are left out.”
  theme
  Theme is the key to developing a campaign. It’s what brings 
  all of the preceding aspects of the source material together. 
  But it’s also one of the more elusive ideas in literary criticism. 
  Theme is what a story is about, but in a very specific way.
  the CentRAl IdeA
  What is the Odyssey about? “It’s about a man named 
  Odysseus” – but Odysseus is a character. Aristotle wrote 
  that it was a mistake to write a Heracleid that told the whole 
  story of Heracles’s life, from Zeus’ affair with Alcmene, his 
  mother, to his death and ascension to Olympus, because 
  one character could be involved in many different sto-
  ries in his life. “It’s about how Odysseus sets out to come 
  home from Troy; visits some islands along the way; is 
  captured on one by the Cyclops Polyphemus, blinds him, 
  and escapes, provoking Polyphemus to call on his father 
  Poseidon, who curses Odysseus to wander at sea for 10 
  more years” – and at this point we’ve only covered half 
  of the epic! A summary of the plot isn’t the same as the 
  theme; most importantly, it doesn’t explain why all those 
  incidents belong in the same story.
  In the fourth word of the Odyssey, Homer calls Odysseus 
  polytropos, a word with several meanings: passively, 
  “much-turned, much-traveled”; actively, “shifty, versatile”; 
  abstractly, “changeful, complicated.” All of these apply to 
  Odysseus, “the man of twists and turns” (in Fagles’ phras-
  ing). The story and all its incidents illustrate polytropia in 
  various ways, as he’s carried into new places, gets into trou-
  ble, and uses his cunning mind and many skills to get out – 
  the same traits that help him when he returns to Ithaca and 
  finds his house occupied by Penelope’s suitors. This is the 
  theme of the Odyssey, the underlying idea all its episodes 
  relate to.
  The other sources also have themes:
  • Characters in Water Margin are constantly saying, 
  “Within the four seas all men are brothers,” and the story 
  is about a specific idea of brotherhood: the brotherhood of 
  outlaws who settle differences by open fighting, as contrasted 
  to the corruption of officials.
  • Pride and Prejudice is about the moral element in choos-
  ing a husband or wife, and the contrasting moral qualities 
  shown by its various characters in making this choice.
  A theme Is  
  not A thesIs
  “Theme” is sometimes thought of as a statement or 
  assertion that a work makes; for example, “Within the four 
  seas all men are brothers,” in Water Margin. Many stories 
  do make such a statement. They may even have a moral, a 
  lesson to be learned from them, as in Aesop’s fables.
  But not all stories make statements! There’s a name 
  for those that do – roman à these, “thesis novel” – but this 
  is a specific type of tale; there are other types. Pride and 
  Prejudice begins with a famous explicit statement, “It is a 
  truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in pos-
  session of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife” – but 
  the story is an ironic commentary on that statement, not 
  an argument for it. And in any case, the thesis or moral 
  isn’t the main thing that readers or viewers are looking 
  for. Audiences look for exciting incidents, ingenious plots, 
  emotional involvement with characters, psychological 
  insight, imaginative worldbuilding, or all of these – and 
  writers who have a message need to “instruct by pleasing.” 
  This is even truer for roleplaying games, whose players are 
  there for fun, not to be taught lessons.
  A thesis or moral is a statement; a theme is a topic.  
  A story can explore a topic from many different angles, 
  and make many different statements about it; the same is 
  true for a campaign.
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  12
  • 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is about the sea itself 
  and about human relationships to it – in particular, Captain 
  Nemo’s self-chosen exile and outlawry at sea.
  • Dracula is about redemption: of Jonathan Harker from 
  captivity in Transylvania, of Renfield from his worship of 
  Dracula, of Lucy Westenra and Mina Harker from vam-
  piric infection, and in the end of Dracula himself from his  
  own undeath.
  • The Wonderful Wizard of Oz contrasts civilization with 
  wildness and magic. The Good Witch of the North asks 
  Dorothy, “Is Kansas a civilized country?” and tells her that 
  Oz, not being civilized, has witches and wizards – though the 
  wizard turns out to be a civilized man using his technological 
  skills to pretend to wizardry.
  FRom IdeA to ACtIon
  Fiction and drama aren’t about ideas for their own sake (see 
  A Theme Is Not a Thesis, p. 11). They’re about ideas embodied 
  in actions and in the characters who engage in those actions. 
  The incidents of a story need to reflect its key ideas.
  This is vital in a roleplaying campaign. Theme is a prin-
  ciple of selection. The GM needs the campaign to focus on 
  some particular type of actions. The player characters need 
  to be people who would pursue actions of that sort, and the 
  situations need to give them motives and resources to do so.  
  A campaign about supers isn’t likely to send its heroes to 
  slaughter monsters in a dungeon; a dungeon-fantasy cam-
  paign won’t require its adventurers to put on flashy costumes 
  and battle the Assassins’ Guild. Or, if either of these happens, 
  it needs careful effort to have it make sense in a campaign 
  that’s about something else.
  The GM has a spectrum of possibilities for dealing with 
  theme. At one end is pure theme setting – declaring at the 
  outset that the campaign will be about a specific goal or a 
  specific type of activity, and that the protagonists must have 
  suitable abilities and motives. At the other is pure theme seek-
  ing – giving the players a town, a world, or a galactic empire; 
  asking them to agree on what brings their characters together; 
  and trying out different situations to see what captures their 
  interest. Most campaigns will develop in the middle ground 
  between these two options.
  InventIng A neW theme
  Many campaigns expand the original theme of the source 
  further. But this isn’t required! There are ways of asking new 
  questions about a source: focusing on a specific aspect of its 
  theme, taking up a related or more gen-
  eral theme, or looking at a place or sit-
  uation that was only briefly mentioned 
  and making it the main focus.
  Example (20KL): Verne hints that 
  Captain Nemo is an exiled prince, 
  embittered by his native country’s incor-
  poration into a colonial empire. What 
  if he went from exile to active war on 
  the land powers, seeking liberation for 
  European colonies or vengeance for his 
  own wrongs? An explicitly politically 
  themed campaign could have either 
  British or American naval officers, 
  oceanographers, and engineers fighting 
  to keep the seas open, or younger allies 
  of Nemo seeking an end to imperialism.
  vARIAtIons
  A theme works best if it’s expressed in a variety of situa-
  tions – in game terms, the campaign isn’t the same scenario 
  over and over! It’s a good idea, when starting to develop a 
  campaign, to note possible scenario concepts that relate to its 
  theme. This can be a resource when you have to come up with 
  situations for play sessions. It can also be a good way to test 
  a possible theme before you commit to it – if you can’t come 
  up with a list of possible stories, your theme may not be rich 
  enough to support a campaign.
  Example (Odys.): Odysseus’ cleverness is tested first in his 
  voyages to many islands and seacoasts, in which he encoun-
  ters monsters such as Scylla and Charybdis, sorcerers such as 
  Circe, and exotic human cultures such as the lotus eaters; and 
  then by his return home to reclaim his house from his wife’s 
  suitors. And Penelope is shown as clever in her own right, in 
  putting off the suitors’ demand that she choose a husband.
  the plAyeRs
  One of the oldest maxims for writers and orators is to 
  start by considering the audience: their needs, their inter-
  ests, and their attitudes. Players are more than an audience – 
  they’re co-creators who shape the story that emerges from 
  the game, rather than its passive spectators. But that makes 
  it all the more vital to ask what they need and want from a 
  campaign. All the other things this chapter discusses are for 
  the sake of attracting and holding players. If you have no 
  players, you aren’t a GM!
  And story, thank God, after  
  a certain point becomes irreducible, 
  mysterious, impervious to analysis.
  – Stephen King,  
  Danse Macabre
  
   
  hIgh ConCept 
  13
  The players also need to hold each other’s interest. Part 
  of being a good player is portraying someone in a way that 
  brings that character to life for the other players. Another part 
  is showing appreciation for good performance – not least by 
  paying attention to it. One of the vital roles 
  of the GM is to encourage players to enter-
  tain each other, but players shouldn’t wait 
  to be encouraged!
  InteRest
  The most basic need, in any campaign, 
  is the players’ interest. A game requires 
  people to want to play – and to keep on 
  wanting to play. All the different aspects 
  of high concept are things you can offer 
  players to gain their initial interest. The 
  remaining chapters of this supplement, 
  especially Chapter 5, discuss ways of 
  keeping it.
  FAmIlIARIty
  In running a campaign with a source, 
  it’s a big help to have players familiar with 
  the source! Knowledgeable players easily 
  fall into the spirit of the original. Players 
  who understand the original only from 
  GM handouts and verbal explanations 
  are very likely to change it into something 
  different, often unknowingly.
  Familiarity includes knowledge of settings, characters, 
  and technology and artifacts, as discussed in Chapters 2-4. 
  But what’s even more important is knowing the style of the 
  original – what kinds of things people do, how they talk, and 
  what kind of mood the story conveys (Mood, p. 11). Players 
  who know this can make up new elements that fit the source, 
  just as the original creator did, and can help out each other’s 
  sense of what’s fitting.
  What if you have players who don’t know the fictional 
  world – but are interested and curious enough to try a cam-
  paign set in it? Ideally, you’d like them to read the book, or 
  watch the movie or a season of the television show. But mak-
  ing big demands on their time, before they get to play, may 
  kill the campaign before it starts. If there’s a film or television 
  version (original or adapted) that can be watched in a couple 
  of hours, as part of a setup session, that may work better than 
  a reading list; for one thing, the group participation may keep 
  them interested. It can also be helpful to hand out a few pages 
  of key facts about the source – especially those that can be 
  used to help design characters!
  tRust
  The real payoff of all these concerns is player trust. In run-
  ning a campaign, making up new material is unavoidable. If 
  the players object to that material, finding it incongruous, 
  their involvement is damaged, even if every bit of it has a 
  precedent in the original. It’s even worse if the players don’t 
  say anything, but just silently disengage. A GM who’s built up 
  credit for knowing the source, and caring about it, is better off 
  than one who can justify every detail – and regularly has to!
  You can do several things if you want that sort of credit.
  • You have to actually know the source, and care about 
  it. You can’t fake this by reading online summaries or quick 
  cramming. Base your campaign on a work that you person-
  ally love.
  • When you make a substantial change, plan for and let the 
  players know before they decide to play.
  • When you get something wrong – and getting some-
  thing wrong is almost inevitable – admit the mistake if the 
  players call you on it. With any luck, they’ll accept that the 
  universe is a little different, so that the campaign can go on. 
  (This also applies to players getting something wrong. It’s a 
  game, not a final examination. If a player interprets some-
  thing from the source differently than you would, it’s better 
  to find a way to make this work than to force them into your 
  own interpretation.)
  Again, players also need each other’s trust. This doesn’t 
  mean the characters have to cooperate. Players may well act 
  out scenes of opposition and conflict – but cooperate in mak-
  ing those scenes as dramatic as possible!
  AdAptAtIons  
  oF RoleplAyIng gAmes
  Published roleplaying games aren’t fiction or drama; they’re toolkits and 
  sourcebooks for creating improvised fiction or drama. The game doesn’t 
  impose a specific plot – or, usually, a specific theme. Converting a game to a 
  different rules system means adapting the source material – in this supple-
  ment’s terms, the places, people, and things.
  Obviously, these are going to have game statistics in the original game. 
  But it’s best not to try to translate those statistics directly into GURPS (or 
  any other new rules system). Most rules systems have fussy technical points 
  that don’t go over easily into other systems! The other game may use the 
  same name for a different concept, or vice versa – for example, it may say 
  “Subterfuge” instead of “Acting” for the ability to maintain a false identity.
  Focus on the “story” aspects of the source material, and find ways to 
  express them in GURPS terms. In particular, try to preserve relative ranks; 
  the stronger opponent, or the weapon with longer range, shouldn’t become 
  inferior just from a change of rules, even if the exact value is different. This 
  is much the same process as working with source material from novels or 
  movies, and much of this supplement’s advice applies to it.
  Here I am noble; I am boyar;  
  the common people know me,  
  and I am master. But a stranger  
  in a strange land, he is no one;  
  men know him not – and to know 
  not is to care not for. I am content 
  if I am like the rest.
  – Bram Stoker, Dracula
  
   
  plACes 
  14
  The first step in designing a campaign is often 
  place: the creation of a setting for the campaign’s 
  events. This chapter starts out by looking at places; 
  the next two chapters discuss people and things.
  desCRIBIng the WoRld
  A place can be an entire world or even a universe – a large 
  realm with its own natural laws. Both Odysseus and Captain 
  Nemo are seafarers, but Odysseus’s world is one of angry gods, 
  their monstrous offspring, and cunning sorcerers; Captain 
  Nemo’s is the scientifically knowable world of oceanography. 
  The two offer very different possible encounters.
  A world is also a place that can be traveled through – possi-
  bly as long as 20,000 leagues or 10 years. All this supplement’s 
  source works include journeys; even Pride and Prejudice has 
  Lydia Bennet eloping to London, and Fitzwilliam Darcy help-
  ing fetch her back! Consulting a map of the larger area (or 
  drawing one, for an invented world without a map) can help 
  define possible journeys and destinations. The action will take 
  place in specific locations (pp. 20-23), but those locations exist 
  within the larger world.
  the souRCe mAteRIAl
  Unless told otherwise, the players will expect the game 
  world to be consistent with the setting as the author envi-
  sioned it. It’s possible to change a setting deliberately from the 
  original version! But this is much likelier to turn out well if you 
  know the original version and depart from it only intentionally.
  The Original Work
  Naturally, the most important source is the fictional work 
  itself. The reliability of other sources can be judged by how 
  consistent they are with this.
  One set of questions to be answered focuses on the spatial 
  layout of the world.
  • What’s the scale of the story; that is, how big a realm do 
  the characters move in? See Scale (p. 23) and Travel (p. 24).
  • Does the setting have spatial coordinates? Many stories 
  are set in the real world and can rely on latitude and longitude, 
  as shown on maps (or, in outer-space campaigns, on astro-
  nomical coordinates). Some invented settings have them, too.
  • Is there a central place? Even if the source isn’t specific 
  about directions, it may define locations as close to or remote 
  from an important site.
  • Works without a central place can still have an itinerary, 
  a set of locations visited and sometimes of travel times. Going 
  through a work and compiling a list of locations can provide a 
  starting point for making sense of its spatial layout.
  • Some works have double settings – often a wild place 
  (pp. 22-23) and a more civilized one. These may be virtually 
  two separate worlds, each of which has to be mapped out in 
  its own right.
  Beyond physical layout, what is the essential nature of the 
  setting? Does the will of a god or a pantheon of gods shape 
  it? Does it allow one or many forms of magic? Do some of 
  its human inhabitants have access to advanced technology or 
  superhuman powers? Are some of its inhabitants aliens, mon-
  sters, or talking animals?
  If its natural laws are the same as ours, how dissimilar are 
  its history and geography? Did some key historical event turn 
  out differently? Is its entire map different, or does it have an 
  extra continent or island, country or city, or simply a few extra 
  houses and families? How variant are its technology, its eco-
  nomics, and its laws and customs?
  Example (WWOz): Oz has definite directions – Dorothy’s 
  first encounter is with the Wicked Witch of the East – and 
  a central place, the Emerald City. Dorothy’s quest defines an 
  itinerary. The scale isn’t precisely defined, but Oz seems to be 
  a small nation: its principal city has just over 50,000 people 
  (The Emerald City, p. 21), and it takes Dorothy only six days 
  to travel there from the Munchkin country. The country as 
  a whole is a wild place as contrasted to civilized Kansas, and 
  one where magical things happen regularly. Oz is an imagi-
  nary place not to be found on real maps.
  Continuations and Adaptations
  A well-known, popular work may acquire continuations, 
  by its original author or new creators. L. Frank Baum wrote 
  a total of 14 Oz books, which add dozens of new places and 
  groups within Oz, as well as several neighboring magical 
  realms, and give more details of its history and customs – not 
  always consistent! The eighth book, Tik-Tok of Oz, provides 
  two maps, one of Oz alone and one including other countries. 
  Material from sequels of this kind is often consistent with the 
  main source. Sequels by other authors may not be; how well 
  they fit is a judgment call.
  ChApteR tWo
  plACes
  
   
  plACes 
  15
  Another source of optional material is adaptations into 
  other media. Many classic works of literature have been made 
  into cinematic or graphic works, for example – more or less 
  faithfully. (More recently, successful films or television shows 
  may have novelizations.) As new interpretations of the source 
  material, these can be disregarded if they conflict with the 
  original; however, they may help bring the setting to life, 
  especially if they portray it visually. Or the adaptation may 
  be the starting point – a campaign might be based on The 
  Wizard of Oz (the movie) rather than The Wonderful Wizard 
  of Oz (the book).
  Secondary Sources
  Secondary sources are books and other material about a 
  work, usually by people other than the creator. For stories 
  set in an invented world, it may be possible to find atlases or 
  guides that describe the world in detail. Stories set in the real 
  world may have setting guides – or, for older, more legendary 
  works such as the Odyssey, speculative works that attempt to 
  identify the real world setting. Many classic works have anno-
  tated editions, which combine the work itself and the research 
  in one book. You have to use your own judgment as to how far 
  to trust such material – but good secondary works can fill in 
  details that would require a lot of data gathering, or organize 
  the information in a more systematic form.
  Another kind of secondary source is a roleplaying game 
  based on the source material. Even if you aren’t planning to 
  use the specific game system – you’re probably going to use 
  GURPS, if you’re reading this supplement! – any game devel-
  oper has to put in a lot of work organizing the information in 
  a source and figuring out its implications.
  FuRtheR ReseARCh
  If your source is set in the real world, you aren’t limited 
  to what the author tells you about the environs. Factual 
  information can be found on almost any real-world setting, 
  in books or online. When Bram Stoker writes that Dracula 
  rented a house in London, for example, it’s fair to use his-
  torical and geographical information about London in devel-
  oping your Dracula-based campaign. Of course, if the source 
  contradicts the real-world information, you’re free to assume 
  that the author has set the story in a slightly different world. 
  Alternatively, you can say that the author got things wrong, 
  or if there’s a narrator, that he was lying to protect himself or 
  others, or was deceiving himself about the real situation (the 
  unreliable narrator trope).
  History
  When did the story’s events happen? Many works set in the 
  real world take place in the author’s own time. Others are set 
  in the past and can be dated by historical events or figures. 
  However, events of the remote past, such as the Trojan War, 
  may have uncertain dates, and it may even be doubtful if they 
  actually happened; if you use historical sources, you’ll have to 
  decide which date to rely on.
  After establishing the date, look over a historical timeline 
  and find out what was going on in the world, or the part of 
  it where the source is set. It may be worth reading historical 
  books: a history of the country or of a major event in it (such 
  as the Napoleonic Wars); a history of daily life, to get details of 
  the setting right; and possibly a specialized history – for exam-
  ple, of war, exploration, or business and commerce. If other 
  fictional works are available for the period, they can help gain 
  a sense of how people lived and talked.
  Geography and Astronomy
  Where a story happened is as important as when. For a 
  source set in the present, online maps are a good starting 
  place; a map and a short article on the country will provide 
  basic information – Wikipedia articles are normally reliable 
  for this. Historical fiction or drama, or classics created in the 
  past, takes more work! A good historical atlas can be a starting 
  point. For detailed information, it may be worth investing in a 
  reproduction of an older map.
  In campaigns based on ancient epics and legends, actual 
  places may be debatable. Most scholars agree about the loca-
  tion of Troy, but the islands Odysseus visited on his way 
  home – if they actually existed! – are still being guessed at. In 
  running a campaign inspired by such a source, you can pick 
  a theory that makes sense to you, or leave locations vague, as 
  Homer did.
  Science-fiction-styled campaigns may be set on planets 
  orbiting other stars. Some authors put their planets and solar 
  systems in remote parts of the galaxy, or in galaxies far, far 
  away. Others place them relatively close to Earth, making it 
  possible to consult star charts and catalogs. Older science fic-
  tion was often set in our own solar system – but the past 50 
  years have brought enough discoveries about the other planets 
  to make the classic works no longer plausible; if your setting is 
  the traditional “ancient dying Mars,” you may need to rely on 
  earlier writers such as Percival Lowell or Garrett Serviss (see 
  The Retro Solar System, p. 17). Recent discoveries of extrasolar 
  planets are doing the same to modern science fiction, as we 
  learn which stars actually have planets and what other plane-
  tary systems are like.
  Technology
  Technology can be included in history (or archaeology). 
  But it’s worth considering on its own, because it makes a big 
  difference to what your campaign’s heroes are capable of.
  Histories of technology can tell you when various devices 
  were invented. Books and online sources are available for top-
  ics of special interest, such as vehicles or weapons; many of 
  these are particularly handy for gamers as well! Reproductions 
  of old catalogs can help identify available gear in TL5-7 set-
  tings (and give an idea of the price level). For earlier historic 
  or prehistoric periods, archaeological books and museum 
  exhibits may provide illustrations and even some statistics.  
  More general histories of technology can help you understand 
  how technology shaped past societies. This information will 
  often be more specific than GURPS TLs – but if the cam-
  paign’s not about technological change, using gear from the 
  same TL may be accurate enough.
  Science
  If you’re starting from a work of science fiction, you may 
  want to read about the scientific ideas that went into it. It’s 
  useful to know what conditions are really like beneath the sea 
  or on other planets; for that, look for a good popularization. 
  
   
  plACes 
  16
  You may also want to know what scientists believed about the 
  world when the story was written. Maybe, in the world of your 
  campaign, those beliefs are true.
  For a quick look into a source’s scientific assumptions, 
  online articles often provide enough information. But if you 
  prefer go into depth, you may want to read about the history 
  of scientific ideas. You may learn about related scientific con-
  cepts that you can incorporate into your campaign. It also 
  may be possible to track down the historic works that inspired 
  the authors of the source. For example, Verne says that one 
  of Captain Nemo’s books is Matthew Fontaine Maury’s The 
  Physical Geography of the 
  Sea, which was a historically 
  important work in oceanog-
  raphy, and an influence on 
  Verne’s ideas about it.
  Legends
  The other big source of 
  fantastic elements in a world 
  is myths, legends, and fairy tales. Various of the sources this 
  supplement discusses draw on Greek mythology, Chinese sto-
  ries about Taoist sages and martial-arts masters, Balkan leg-
  ends of vampires, and classic fairy tales – though all of their 
  authors gave the material their own spin!
  Guides are available to the supernatural and mystical 
  beliefs of many different cultures. It’s worthwhile reading col-
  lections of actual legends or tales, to get the flavor of a culture’s 
  storytelling and to spot things to borrow. Of course, you’ll have 
  to decide how much of this legendry is real in your campaign.
  InventIng neW mAteRIAl
  If a source is set in an invented world, you can’t rely on 
  real-world research to learn more about the setting. But no 
  one author can imagine a world in as much detail as the real 
  world! You have room to make up parts of the setting that the 
  source doesn’t describe. On a smaller scale, you can do this for 
  stories set in the real world.
  Players can contribute to this process. When they create 
  characters, invite them to come up with backgrounds – the 
  place they were born, the school or workplace that trained 
  them, the place they live now – and add those to the fic-
  tional world. You may need to guide them, or veto unsuitable 
  choices, but if possible, running with their ideas is best – it 
  will add to the world and encourage them to buy into it.
  Filling In
  Any setting from a city up to a galaxy is too big to map 
  out or describe in detail. The source will leave gaps between 
  described locations, which you can fill in. You also have the 
  option of portraying an established location within a world in 
  more detail.
  Example (Odys.): A key turning point in Odysseus’ journey is 
  his being shipwrecked off the coast of Scheria; coming ashore, 
  he is befriended by Princess Nausicaa, whose father gives him 
  passage home to Ithaca. The people of Scheria, the Phaea-
  cians, are technologically 
  advanced, with self-steering 
  ships that travel as fast as 
  a falcon flies. A campaign 
  based in Scheria could map 
  out the palace and the sur-
  rounding city in much more 
  detail than Homer provided.
  Building Out
  The other direction to take is outward from what the source 
  material portrays. If the setting is the real world, read about 
  other regions or countries and figure out how they interact. 
  If it’s a created world, decide what’s in the blank areas on the 
  map, or what’s over its edge.
  Transforming
  In both the preceding options, the established setting is 
  left unchanged. But you aren’t required to do that! There are 
  several different ways to create a new setting from the source 
  material: You can set a story in the past or future of a legend-
  ary or created world, when things were inevitably different. 
  You can change a key event in a setting’s history and figure out 
  how the world would be different – an alternative history or an 
  alternative fictional timeline. You can translate the entire story 
  to a different milieu, giving its key elements appropriate new 
  forms. You can even use the exact same setting, but with key 
  characters and events having a different meaning.
  Variants on all of these strategies have been used in the 
  inspired works listed in Based On . . . (pp. 4-5).
  Example (P&P): A campaign could be designed around the 
  problems of a Roman paterfamilias with five daughters to find 
  husbands for; Roman equites (“knights”) are roughly compa-
  rable in social position to English gentry.
  envIRonments
  Once you have all this information, you have to translate 
  it into game terms. GURPS offers a wide range of tools for 
  describing an imagined world, particularly in the Basic Set 
  (pp. B505-522) and in GURPS Space.
  plAnets
  If your source is science fiction, it may be set on another 
  planet or on multiple other planets. GURPS Space (pp. 73-98, 
  100-133) provides detailed rules for designing a planet, 
  starting with basics like the size and age of the star and the 
  planet’s orbital radius. But to fit a description to your source 
  material, you’ll have to work backward for some of them. For 
  an Earthlike world (in GURPS Space terms, an Ocean or 
  Garden world), use the following.
  Stellar characteristics: If the star is one that really exists, 
  you can look up its mass, radius, temperature, luminosity, 
  and age online. If not, you’ll very likely be told its color – a 
  red sun or a blue-white one in the sky helps set the scene.  
  Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in 
  Kansas anymore.
  – Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz
  
   
  plACes 
  17
  Each color goes with a particular spectral type: red with M, 
  orange with K, yellow with G, white with F, blue-white with A, 
  and blue with B and O – but blue stars are rare and short-lived 
  and not likely to have planets with advanced life. Subgiants, 
  giants, and supergiants are also short-lived; it’s best to assume 
  a main sequence star. Choose a suitable stellar mass on the 
  Stellar Evolution Table (GURPS Space, p. 103), assign an 
  appropriate age, and determine the star’s other characteris-
  tics, especially its luminosity, L.
  Orbital radius: Find the square root of the star’s luminosity; 
  this is the orbital radius in AU for an Earthlike planet. Apply 
  a multiplier between 0.75 and 1.33 to obtain the orbital radius 
  R for a hotter or colder climate. For later reference, calculate 
  the blackbody temperature in kelvins as:
  B = 278 ¥ (fourth root of L) / (square root of R).
  Planetary diameter: If the planet’s surface gravity isn’t 
  stated, assign a surface gravity S as a multiple of Earth’s, 
  between 0.5 and 1.5G. The planetary diameter D as a multi-
  ple of Earth’s can be from S / 0.8 for a low-density planet to 
  S / 1.2 for a high-density one; multiply by 7,930 miles to get 
  the diameter in miles. Adjust this for planetary temperature 
  by multiplying by square root of (B / 278); hotter planets need 
  higher gravity to retain an Earthlike atmosphere.
  Atmospheric pressure: Calculate B / (S ¥ D). If this is 241 to 
  1,080, the planet is Standard; if 121 to 240, it’s Large. Atmo-
  spheric pressure P is equal to S for a typical Standard planet, 
  or to 5 ¥ S for a typical Large planet; this can be reduced 
  or increased up to 50% for a comparatively thin or dense 
  atmosphere.
  Surface temperature: The planet’s surface temperature can 
  be estimated from blackbody temperature B, absorption fac-
  tor A, and atmospheric mass M; see the World Climate Table 
  (GURPS Space, p. 83). The value of A can be found from 
  hydrographic coverage: 0.95 for 20% or less, 0.92 for 21% 
  to 50%, 0.88 for 51% to 90%, and 0.84 for 91% or more (see 
  Terrains, p. 18). The value of M is P / S for a standard planet, or 
  0.2 ¥ P / S for a large planet. For any Ocean or Garden world, 
  surface temperature T in kelvins can be calculated (assuming 
  a greenhouse factor of 0.16) as:
  T = A ¥ (1 + 0.16 ¥ M) ¥ B.
  the RetRo solAR system
  The rules in GURPS Space are based on recent obser-
  vations of other solar systems, and on current theories of 
  planetary formation. But a lot of classic science fiction 
  derives from older astronomical theories – for example, 
  the tidal theory of James Jeans, which had a near collision 
  with another star pulling matter out of the sun that later 
  condensed into planets, with those farther from the sun 
  becoming solid earlier. Percival Lowell’s ancient, dying 
  Mars inspired science fiction from Wells’ The War of the 
  Worlds and Burroughs’ A Princess of Mars to Lewis’ Out 
  of the Silent Planet and Heinlein’s Red Planet. Both Mars 
  and Venus were long expected to be much more like Earth 
  than they are. Similarly, some classic science fiction put 
  habitable planets around stars with familiar names like 
  Rigel or Vega, without worrying about stellar lifespans.
  To fit this older astronomy, some adjustments can be 
  made to the standard design process in GURPS Space.
  Placing first planets (Step 21, pp. 107-108): In creating 
  a solar system, either change eccentric and epistellar gas 
  giants to conventional gas giants, or assume that all solar 
  systems have gas giants.
  World types (Step 25, pp. 113-114): Classify Small 
  worlds with blackbody temperature 191-390K as Garden 
  or Ocean, and hotter ones as Chthonian. Classify Standard 
  and Large worlds with blackbody temperature 241-440K 
  as Garden or Ocean, and hotter ones as Chthonian. In 
  deciding if a planet is Garden or Ocean, roll 3d and make 
  it a Garden world on a 9 or more, without regard for stellar 
  age or mass. There are no Greenhouse worlds.
  Atmosphere (Step 3, pp. 81-82): Tiny worlds are still air-
  less, as are Chthonian and Hadean worlds. Atmospheric 
  pressure P for other Small, Standard, and Large worlds 
  isn’t affected by planetary size; however, it depends on 
  planetary age: 0.5 ¥ S for old planets, S for intermediate 
  ones such as Earth, and 2 ¥ S for young ones, adjusted 
  up or down by up to 50%. Calculate M as P / S for any 
  planetary size.
  Hydrographics (Step 4, p. 114): Assign Small Ocean and 
  Garden worlds a liquid coverage of 1d+2 ¥ 10%. If a world 
  is old (like Mars), divide its hydrographic coverage by 2 if 
  Large, by 5 if Standard, or by 10 if Small.
  Climate (Step 5, pp. 83-84): Cloud-covered worlds such 
  as Venus still have absorption factor A of 0.77, regardless 
  of hydrographics. The greenhouse factor G is 0.16 for any 
  Ocean or Garden world.
  Geologic Activity (Step 31, pp. 119-121): The GM has 
  the option of disregarding tectonic activity, which was not 
  part of the older view of the solar system. Mountain build-
  ing varies with planetary age: Young worlds have young, 
  high mountains; old ones have old, weathered ranges or 
  continental shields.
  Example: Mars
  Orbital radius: 1.52 AU.
  Blackbody temperature: 225K.
  Surface gravity: 0.376G.
  Planetary diameter: 0.53 (4,213 miles).
  Atmospheric pressure: 0.34 (Very Thin).
  Atmospheric composition: Oxygen/nitrogen, high oxy-
  gen (treat as Thin).
  Hydrographic percentage: 4%.
  Surface temperature: 245K (Very Cold; -18°F).
  As an ancient, dying planet, Mars has low atmospheric 
  pressure, and its seas have long since dried up. Its atmo-
  spheric oxygen is artificially elevated by ancient chemical- 
  engineering facilities, and scant water at the poles is  
  distributed in summer by its famed canals. The few moun-
  tain ranges are eroded down to modest highlands.
  
   
  plACes 
  18
  teRRAIns
  The definition of Survival (pp. B223-224) lists both land and 
  water terrain types, but most campaigns take place mainly on 
  land. Different environments have different typical vegetation 
  and present residents and travelers with different challenges. 
  In science fiction, a planet’s main terrain (perhaps its only 
  terrain, in cinematic science fiction!) determines its hydro-
  graphic percentage (see Planets, pp. 16-17): Desert goes with 
  0-20%, Plains with 21-50%, Jungle or Woodland with 51-90%, 
  and Island/Beach or Swampland with 91-100%. (Arctic plan-
  ets are distinguished by large orbital radius and low tempera-
  ture rather than hydrographics.)
  GURPS recognizes eight standard land terrain types. It can 
  be worth defining new types if the relevant Survival skills would 
  require facing different challenges, such as the radiation and 
  mutated wildlife of a science-fictional Radioactive Wasteland 
  (see the GURPS After the End series), or the sparse life, dark-
  ness, and occasional toxic atmospheres of Underground set-
  tings (see GURPS Underground Adventures).
  Arctic settings are described as cold, with bitterly harsh 
  winters, though they aren’t normally frozen year-round. On 
  Earth, days are extremely long in summer (ranging up to 
  “midnight sun”) and extremely short in winter. Vegetation is 
  low and sparse, with few or no trees.
  Desert terrain is also barren, but it’s hot and dry, at least in 
  summer and by day; it can be bitterly cold at night. Vegetation 
  is drought-adapted, either dry and spiny, or with thick leaves 
  or body that retain water (as with cacti and succulents) – and 
  some deserts have little or no vegetation. Descriptions empha-
  size the sparseness of life and the long distance between water 
  sources. See for example the deserts that surround Oz.
  Island/Beach settings are most easily identified by being 
  reached from the sea, or close to it. For example, most of the 
  Odyssey is set on various islands, and 20,000 Leagues Under 
  the Sea features several island visits. Islands are likely to have 
  unusual plants and animals, and in stories, they may have 
  monsters, magical features, or societies with strange customs.
  Jungle settings are tree-covered, often so densely that the 
  sky is hidden. Their climates are tropical, and for at least part 
  of the year, they have heavy rainfall. They provide cover for 
  a lot of wildlife, often dangerous. If the story features heat, 
  humidity, and strange noises and smells, it’s probably a jun-
  gle. None of the source works actually has this type of cli-
  mate, but the forest the Cowardly Lion is invited to rule in The 
  Wonderful Wizard of Oz, with its many tigers and other wild 
  beasts, otherwise fits the archetype well.
  Mountain settings emphasize height and the need to climb; 
  they can occur in the midst of most other types of terrain. The 
  lower levels usually match the surrounding climate, but the 
  levels get colder with altitude, and the peaks are often similar 
  to Arctic terrain – they may even have glaciers (see Destructive 
  Environments, p. 23). If they have human inhabitants, their 
  communities are often fortified, because their height makes 
  them easy to defend; both the outlaw settlement in Water 
  Margin and Dracula’s castle are set in mountainous terrain.
  Plains on present-day Earth are usually flat and often some-
  what dry, but not barren like deserts. They get enough rain to 
  be covered with vegetation, but have few trees. Most of their 
  plant life is grasses that spring up quickly in the rainy sea-
  son, and die back in the dry one. Look for descriptions of vast 
  open fields and herds of grazing animals. Militarily, they’re 
  at the opposite pole from mountains, having few defensible 
  sites, but ready mobility; cavalry often dominate their mili-
  tary. Kansas is a plains area, as are parts of Oz, including the 
  poppy fields where Dorothy, Toto, and the Cowardly Lion are 
  nearly trapped.
  Swampland has interspersed land and water, but without 
  rapidly flowing streams or exposure to ocean waves. Water 
  Margin offers an example – the marshes that surround the 
  outlaw base on Mount Liang. (Arctic terrain often becomes 
  swampy in summer, because the surface snow melts, but the 
  soil a few feet down stays frozen and can’t absorb the water.) 
  Swamps appear in stories mostly as obstacles, with bad foot-
  ing, quicksand, biting insects, and other hazards. Crossing 
  them by boat is safer, but finding a way through meandering 
  channels can take a long time.
  Woodlands are the other tree-covered terrain. They come 
  in several varieties: Mediterranean scrub forest, with dry sum-
  mers and rainy winters; deciduous forest, with trees that grow 
  from spring to autumn and shed their leaves in winter; and 
  boreal forest, with evergreen trees that tolerate heavy snow 
  (mountains also have evergreen belts just below their barren 
  peaks). Look for scenes of people walking under trees, such 
  as the woodlands surrounding Pemberley (p. 22) in Pride and 
  Prejudice, or the forest where Dorothy meets the Tin Woodman 
  and the Cowardly Lion in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
  teChnologIes
  Stories set in the real world can be assigned the TL of the 
  era and country where they were written, or that of their set-
  ting, for historical fiction. This is also largely true for histori-
  cal fantasy, as magic doesn’t usually count as part of TL. For 
  science fiction or alternate history, there are several ways to 
  assign a TL (see also Tech Level and Variant Technology, p. 44).
  • If the general patterns are similar, but one or two tech-
  nologies are missing, delayed, or advanced, go by the typical 
  TL, and by the kind of society it permits. Don’t focus on a 
  single signature technology such as bronze or steam engines; 
  look at the overall pattern.
  • If the society reached an advanced stage without the char-
  acteristic inventions of that age – for example, a steampunk 
  world with analytical engines rather than electronic comput-
  ers – use a divergent TL, such as TL(5+2) rather than TL7.
  • If the society took a radically different path from the 
  beginning, such as the classic science-fiction idea of a civi-
  lization based on biotechnology and bioscience, define it as 
  TL(0+1), TL(0+2), etc.
  • If a key invention is superscience, add a ^ to the TL.
  The hand-mill gives you  
  society with the feudal lord;  
  the steam-mill, society with  
  the industrial capitalist.
  – Karl Marx,  
  The Poverty of 
  Philosophy
  
   
  plACes 
  19
  • If the entire technology is impossible to define by analo-
  gies to Earth’s history, call it TL^ without assigning numbers.
  By these guidelines, the Odyssey is TL1, but the brutal 
  Cyclopes are TL0, and the Phaeacians, with their incredibly 
  fast, self-steering ships, are TL1^. Water Margin is TL3. Pride 
  and Prejudice is TL5, as is 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, though 
  Captain Nemo’s inventions are TL(5+1). Dracula is TL6, and so 
  is Kansas in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz; Oz itself is probably 
  TL4, letting the young O.Z. Diggs establish himself as a wizard 
  with technological tricks.
  populAtIons
  The standard GURPS rules (pp. B517-518) provide search 
  modifiers based on the population of villages, towns, or cit-
  ies (Cities and Communities, pp. 20-21). But for describing a 
  world, it’s useful to think in terms of population density, or 
  how many inhabitants there are per square mile, averaged 
  over a large area. Population density can be used to define 
  search modifiers over a diffuse or decentralized area.
  Few sources give actual populations and areas for their 
  worlds, and still fewer give densities. With historical settings, 
  it’s often possible to look up censuses or population estimates 
  (History, p. 15). If not, or in fictional settings, densities can 
  be estimated from the general description of the area, which 
  can be compared with Earth’s average density in various eras; 
  with different countries on present-day Earth, from Mongolia 
  (the sparsest) to Monaco (the densest); or with various types 
  of present-day landscapes. See the Population Density Table 
  (below) for suggested values.
  CultuRes
  Characters in GURPS are natives of a particular culture, 
  though they may be familiar with others; their adventures 
  may include encounters with people who have other customs. 
  Societies have worldviews and ways of life that reflect the 
  influence of particular cultures. GURPS defines these broadly, 
  so that they cover large areas of the world. The list of histori-
  cal and current cultures presented in GURPS Infinite Worlds 
  includes 23 areas: Andean, Bactrian, Celtic, Chinese, Egyp-
  tian, Hellenic, Hittite, Indic, Indus Valley, Iranic, Islamic, 
  Japanese, Malay, Meso-American, Mesopotamian, Minoan, 
  Mississippian, Norse, Orthodox, Roman, Steppe, West Afri-
  can, and Western. A present-day setting would have Chinese, 
  Indic, Islamic (Near Eastern and North African), Japanese, 
  Malay, Orthodox, West African, and Western – though the 
  Bantu cultures have spread from West Africa as far as South 
  Africa and could be called “Sub-Saharan.” This list is confined 
  to societies that developed such features as agriculture, cities, 
  literacy, or trade networks; tribal societies such as the Inuit or 
  the Polynesians have their own cultures – if they haven’t been 
  overwhelmed by colonialism. Most narratives that take place 
  in the real world can be assigned to one of these. The Odys-
  sey is set in Hellenic culture, Water Margin in Chinese, and 
  the other source works in Western – though Count Dracula’s 
  native land is close to Islamic and Orthodox societies and has 
  been influenced by them.
  Invented societies in classic literary works often share the 
  cultures of their creators: the people of Oz speak English and 
  have customs understandable to an American girl, making 
  them Western, however exotic the details. Recent genre fan-
  tasy and science fiction is often set in invented worlds with 
  their own distinctive customs and features, such as the var-
  ious cultures of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Barsoom or J.R.R. 
  Tolkien’s Middle-Earth (other than the essentially English cul-
  ture of the Shire).
  In describing invented worlds, don’t assume that every race 
  or every language matches a different culture. What GURPS 
  calls a “culture” goes with a Cultural Familiarity that negates 
  penalties to many skill rolls (see p. B23 for a list). People who 
  would logically face those penalties belong to a different cul-
  ture. If the source mostly ignores cultural differences, it can 
  be assumed that everyone has the same culture, even if realis-
  tically they wouldn’t; if it emphasizes them, start looking for 
  those who find other characters confusing.
  How many cultures should a world have? The cinematic 
  advantage Cultural Adaptability costs 10 points; it’s not worth 
  taking unless there are more than 10 cultures. But few source 
  works have, or need, as many as that – a modern-day globe-
  trotting campaign can cover nearly every nation with eight. 
  Unless social diversity is part of a story’s theme, a handful of 
  cultures should be sufficient, and many sources need only one.
  As discussed in GURPS Social Engineering, each cam-
  paign has a reference society. This is usually the location where 
  the story mainly happens. However, if adventurers travel 
  through many different societies, it’s convenient to treat their 
  native place as the reference society. Each reference society 
  has a culture and a language, which should be identified. It 
  also has specific forms of Status, Rank, and/or Wealth; Social 
  Regard and Social Stigma; and various other social traits 
  (Social Backgrounds, pp. 31-32). These don’t necessarily apply 
  to travelers from other societies. Their own social traits may 
  carry over unmodified in the society they’re visiting; they may 
  be recognized as socially “high” or “low,” but not to a specific 
  degree; or their original social position may mean nothing.
  Population Density Table
   
  Density 
  Search Modifier 
  Planetary Era 
  Country 
  Landscape
   
  <0.64 
  -4 
  Preagricultural 
  – 
  Barren
   
  0.64-6.4 
  -3 
  Late Neolithic 
  Mongolia 
  Wilderness
   
  6.5-64 
  -2 
  Ancient/medieval 
  Saudi Arabia 
  Slash and burn
   
  65-319 
  -1 
  Current Earth 
  United States 
  Ranchland
   
  320-639 
  0 
  Hyperurban future 
  China 
  Farmland
   
  640-3,199 
  +1 
  – 
  Netherlands 
  Suburban
   
  3,200-6,399 
  +2 
  – 
  Vatican City 
  U.S. cities
   
  6,400-32,000 
  +3 
  – 
  Singapore 
  European cities
   
  >32,000 
  +4 
  – 
  Monaco 
  Asian cities
  
   
  plACes 
  20
  WAR And polItICs
  A basic question about the political background of a source 
  is how big its typical units (polities) are. This varies with TL: 
  TL0 worlds tend to be tribal, with chieftains and “big men” 
  in wealthy areas, but no states. TL1-3 worlds have city-states, 
  consisting of single cities (see Cities and Communities, below) 
  and their hinterlands; powerful city-states may become 
  imperial capitals, like Babylon, Rome, or Baghdad. TL4-9 
  worlds have nation-states, which contain cities as municipal-
  ities. Future worlds at TL10+ are often envisioned as plane-
  tary empires, federations, or republics, possibly belonging to  
  multiplanet polities.
  The next step is to identify society and government types 
  (pp. B509-510; see Cities and Communities for a few second-
  ary categories). For example, Odysseus’ native island, Ithaca, 
  is a dictatorship; the Chinese Empire in Water Margin is a dic-
  tatorship/meritocracy (civil service examinations are a major 
  source of class mobility); England in Pride and Prejudice and 
  Dracula is nominally a dictatorship with feudal aspects, but 
  functionally a representative democracy; Oz has no unified 
  government, but the Emerald City is a dictatorship/thaumato-
  cracy. Society/government types can be identified from history 
  for stories set in the real world. Stories with invented settings 
  usually give some information on political organization – but 
  don’t rely on the official label; the real power may lie elsewhere!
  Ordinary citizens’ encounters with government largely 
  reflect the Control Rating (pp. B506-507); this may be modi-
  fied by the Corruption rating (defined in GURPS City Stats). 
  Scenes involving law enforcement are primary evidence on 
  this; characters’ assumptions about their rights and duties are 
  indirect evidence. For example, Ithaca is CR3 with Corruption 
  -2 before Odysseus comes home (but had Corruption 0 under 
  Odysseus’ rule); the Chinese Empire is CR5 with Corruption 
  -4. England in Elizabeth Bennet’s time is CR3 with Corruption 
  -2, but by Mina Harker’s has become CR2 with Corruption 0. 
  The high seas in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea are CR1 with 
  Corruption 0. The Emerald City is CR3 with Corruption 0.
  GURPS City Stats gives a formula for computing a city’s 
  Military Resources. In an empire, this can be applied to 
  the capital city; in a national or planetary state, a similar 
  calculation can be based on the total population. In a war 
  story, use GURPS Mass Combat to define combat elements,  
  and use the Military Resources statistic to decide how many 
  of them are in service. In some tales, individual heroes or 
  their adversaries may control combat elements.
  supeRnAtuRAl FoRCes
  Many sources in fantastic genres include supernatural 
  forces and abilities – of the five works with fantastic elements 
  this supplement examines, only 20,000 Leagues Under the 
  Sea lacks any form of the supernatural. These forces may be 
  humanly controllable through magical arts (see Magic and Its 
  Variants, p. 34). But the world may also contain supernatural 
  powers that transcend human command.
  Since these aren’t part of the natural world, their behav-
  ior isn’t constrained by natural laws. Their forms, abilities, or 
  manifestations can’t be equated with those of entities that are 
  part of nature. Often they’re beyond human understanding 
  and control.
  Supernatural forces aren’t necessarily all of the same kind. 
  There may be several sorts of mysterious powers. There may 
  even be powers that are mysterious to the other powers.
  To gain a sense of how such powers behave, and what 
  can be expected of them, rely on the narrative, on the stories 
  that are told about them, and on your sense of what kinds of 
  stories fit them. The supernatural can take several forms in  
  a narrative:
  • It can be a person such as Athena or Poseidon – but 
  usually one without a full character sheet, like some Patrons  
  and Enemies.
  • It can be a trait bestowed by a supernatural power, such 
  as Blessed, Destiny, Divine Curse, or Weirdness Magnet; or an 
  ability to manifest aspects of the supernatural, such as Chan-
  neling, Medium, or Oracle. Either of these can be represented 
  as a suitable advantage or disadvantage.
  • It can be a location where supernatural manifestations 
  are more likely, such as a place of very high mana (p. B235) or 
  sanctity (discussed in GURPS Fantasy).
  • It can be a single event, favorable or unfavorable, 
  that someone experiences: a dream, a vision, a haunting, a 
  miracle, or the like. Such events are often sent as signs of 
  something that’s about to happen or that a character needs  
  to do.
  • It can be a physical object with supernatural properties, 
  either inherent (as with the herb moly in the Odyssey that pro-
  tects against magic) or granted to it (such as the consecrated 
  host that repels vampires in Dracula; see Transcendents, 
  p. 41). Such objects often can be built as gadgets (pp. B116-
  117), usually with a power modifier reflecting their source, 
  such as Divine or Magical (see GURPS Powers).
  loCAtIons
  Rather than an entire 
  world, a place can be a 
  location within a world. 
  Locations are settings 
  for specific encounters 
  or scenes, or stages in 
  a journey. The islands 
  Odysseus visits and the 
  houses where Elizabeth 
  Bennet is a guest are 
  locations. Each is included in a larger world 
  and subject to its natural laws.
  CItIes And 
  CommunItIes
  Much of the action in many campaigns 
  will take place in settled sites, from  
  isolated farms up to huge metropolises.  
  
   
  plACes 
  21
  The bigger cities actually contain multiple smaller 
  locations, sometimes in vast numbers. It makes sense, 
  though, to treat them as single places if they can be 
  traveled across in an hour or so, using transportation 
  available at their TL, or if they can be the site of a battle 
  or siege.
  To describe a city from a story in game mechani-
  cal terms, use the system in GURPS City Stats. Most 
  of its statistics are specifically intended to define fea-
  tures of a community that affect games set in it, from its 
  appearance to the severity of its law enforcement. For 
  an example of city stats, see The Emerald City.
  A historical city’s population can be researched; a 
  fictional one’s may be stated, or can be estimated from 
  information on populations of real cities at a compara-
  ble TL. At TL1-4, a population of 50,000-99,999 would 
  be a major city; the capitals of many kingdoms are in 
  this size range. A few cities are larger, and at any one 
  time, the entire world may have one or two cities with a 
  million inhabitants. At TL5, populations increase, and 
  many more people move to cities. By TL8, there are 
  several hundred cities with a million or more, and 30 
  “megacities” with over 10 million. Science fiction por-
  trays even more urbanized worlds, up to planet-cover-
  ing cities with a trillion inhabitants!
  Appearance and Defense Bonus can be judged from 
  a city’s description. For government type, Control Rat-
  ing, Corruption, and Military Resources, the experi-
  ences of people who visit it or live in it are a guide.
  Settlements can be classed as city-states (politically 
  independent, with control of the nearby countryside); 
  colonies (founded by people from another city or coun-
  try and partly under its control); free cities (included in 
  a larger political unit, but with partial Legal Immunity 
  inside its own boundaries); municipalities (included in a 
  large political unit, and subject to its laws, but self-gov-
  erning); or subjugated (conquered cities and other set-
  tlements without self-government or legal rights). This 
  will usually be clear from the source.
  For purposes of Area Knowledge rolls, most commu-
  nities can be defined as either a Village, Town, or City; very 
  small settlements, or smaller areas within a community, can 
  be defined as a Neighborhood.
  BuIldIngs
  Smaller than settlements (usually) are buildings: artificial 
  structures where people live and work. High-TL science-fic-
  tion settings may have arcologies, single edifices equivalent to 
  a town or even a city. Rooms inside buildings provide settings 
  for many scenes. In some campaigns, a structure can become 
  something like another character, based on its appearance 
  and atmosphere. In some worlds, a building may have spir-
  its – guardians such as lares and penates, brownies who sneak 
  in at night to help with housework, or ghosts of people who 
  died in it.
  A residential construction should be suited to the Status of 
  its inhabitants. Works of fiction will often give some idea of 
  how people of high and low Status live.
  The GM can use some general rules for depicting struc-
  tures. Such descriptions can be used in drawing floor 
  plans of important places. (For underground construction, 
  see GURPS Underground Adventures, pp. 13-14.)
  Size
  Building areas depend on the size of the building, using the 
  following guidelines.
   
  Floor Area 
  Examples
   (square feet)
   
  10 
  Outhouse, shed, shrine, tent
   
  50 
  Hut, pavilion
   
  200 
  Cottage, market stall, office
   
  1,000 
  Apartment, small house, tower keep
   
  5,000 
  Commercial space, large house, 
   
   
   meeting area, small industrial 
   
   
   structure, square castle, warehouse
   
  20,000 
  Enclosed commercial space (mall), 
   
   
   fortified site, large industrial 
   
   
   structure, lodgings, mansion, school
   
  100,000 
  Hospital, huge industrial structure
   Over 100,000 
  Major commercial structure
  the emeRAld CIty
  Population: 57,318 (Search +2)
  Physical and Magical Environment
  Terrain: Plains
  Appearance: Beautiful (+3) 
  Hygiene: 0
  Normal Mana (No Enchantment)
  Culture and Economy
  Language: English 
  Literacy: Native
  TL: 4
  Wealth: Wealthy (¥5) 
  Status: -1 to 6
  Political Environment
  Government: Dictatorship, Thaumatocracy, City-State
  CR: 3 (Corruption 0)
  Military Resources: $1.1M 
  Defense Bonus: +8
  Notes
  These statistics represent the Emerald City under the Wiz-
  ard’s rule. Though it’s classed as a thaumatocracy, the Wizard 
  has no actual magical abilities, relying on trickery to keep his 
  subjects happy and his enemies at a distance. For example, 
  the city’s appearance is only Beautiful, but having its inhab-
  itants wear green spectacles makes it seem Very Beautiful 
  (+4). The Wizard maintains a small army, but puts most of 
  his revenues into entertainments and public works, including 
  sanitation; if his reputation as a mighty sorcerer fails him, 
  he counts on the city’s high walls to deter attack. Treat it as 
  having Reputation +3 (Protected by a mighty sorcerer; Land 
  of Oz; All the time).
  Later, under Ozma’s rule, the city becomes genuinely 
  magical and even wealthier and more beautiful – in fact, a 
  virtual utopia.
  
   
  plACes 
  22
  Possible heights of buildings depend on TL. Before the 
  powered elevator (late TL5), heights over five stories were rare, 
  because of the requirement for climbing stairs. Before steel- 
  framed buildings (TL6), buildings taller than 10 stories were 
  unsafe (-1 HT per two added stories or fraction thereof). For 
  heights, use the following guidelines.
   
  Stories 
  Example
   
  1 
  One-story
   
  2 
  Two-story
   
  5 
  Multistory
   
  10 
  Ancient high-rise
   
  20 
  Modern high-rise
   
  50 
  Skyscraper
   
  100 
  Burj Khalifa, Empire State Building, 
   
   
   Shanghai World Financial Center
  Statistics
  Building statistics can be estimated according to HP and 
  DR of Structures (pp. B558-559). Use the figures for ratios 
  of weight to square footage there for buildings with a single 
  floor. For two or more floors, divide the total square footage 
  by the number of floors; estimate the weight of the ground 
  floor, and add one-third of this weight for each upper level 
  with the same area.
  In addition, a building can be defined as having traits that 
  reflect its design.
  Quality is suitability for a particular function or activity, 
  giving bonuses or penalties to the relevant skill. These can 
  be defined in terms of various physical features. For a resi-
  dence, bonuses or penalties to Housekeeping can be explained 
  by good layout or insulation; for a medical office, bonuses or 
  penalties to Surgery could be explained by good lighting. Most 
  buildings rank as basic equipment for their intended function 
  (Equipment Modifiers, p. B345) and as improvised equipment 
  for other functions (-2 to skill). Badly maintained or cheaply 
  made buildings count as improvised equipment for any func-
  tion. Exceptional buildings may be considered as good or fine 
  equipment (+1 or +2 to skill).
  Attractiveness is the appearance of a building, including its 
  location and landscaping; it grants the same modifiers as for a 
  character. (Beautiful, Very Beautiful, or Transcendent build-
  ings should be treated as Impressive.) The effect is similar to 
  that of styling for gear (see GURPS Low-Tech, p. 14).
  Example: Pemberley
  Pemberley is Fitzwilliam Darcy’s home in Pride and 
  Prejudice. It’s a mansion on a substantial estate, in a natural 
  setting amid light woodlands. It stands three stories tall, with 
  dimensions of 160’ ¥ 125’, giving each floor an area of 20,000 
  square feet. Its construction is of stone; thus, the ground floor 
  has a weight of 3,000 tons, increased to 5,000 by the upper 
  floors. This means it has DR 6, 1,700 HP, and HT 13, reflect-
  ing its excellent construction and good repair. The structure 
  is Attractive (+1 to reactions) and architecturally of good 
  quality. This affects several skills: overall layout provides +1 
  to Housekeeping for cleaning, a well-laid-out kitchen gives 
  +1 to Cooking for preparing elaborate dishes, good acous-
  tics in the ballroom furnish +1 to Musical Instrument and 
  Singing, and good lighting and sight lines in picture gal-
  leries offer +1 to Connoisseur (Visual Arts).
  This description is based on Chatsworth House, often 
  suggested as the original inspiration for Pemberley, and 
  Lyme Park, where the Pemberley scenes in the 1995 pro-
  duction of Pride and Prejudice were filmed. Both of these 
  are extremely large buildings, but Pemberley is given a 
  smaller floor area, because Austen doesn’t describe it as 
  extraordinarily large. However, she has Elizabeth admire 
  its appearance, and reflect that had she accepted Darcy’s 
  proposal, she might have been its mistress, which sup-
  ports making it Attractive – but probably not Beautiful, as 
  it seems not to be widely famed. Given Darcy’s wealth, it 
  seems plausible to treat it as the equivalent of good-qual-
  ity equipment for various household functions.
  WIld plACes
  In many fictional sources, cities and other settlements are 
  contrasted with wild places where adventures are likely and 
  self-reliance is necessary. Commonly, these are terrains such 
  as deserts, jungles, mountains, or woodlands with few inhab-
  itants (see Terrains, p. 18). The sea itself is often an ultimate 
  wild place; in science fiction, space may be another. But coun-
  tries with human inhabitants may be “wild.” The Wonderful 
  Wizard of Oz contrasts the land of Oz with the “civilized coun-
  try” of Kansas, and Dracula’s native Transylvania is opposed 
  to modern England – to which Dracula tries to bring his 
  archaic, predatory habits.
  Wild places commonly require Survival rolls suited to 
  their particular terrain; see GURPS Low-Tech Companion 
  3: Daily Life and Economics, pp. 4-8, for rules for forag-
  ing, and GURPS Low-Tech, p. 35, for fire-starting methods. 
  (GURPS After the End 2: The New World, GURPS Dungeon  
  Fantasy 16: Wilderness Adventures, and Pyramid #3/90: 
  After the End offer additional suggestions for surviving in 
  wild places.) Usually, there are no roads; travel requires 
  hiking (p. B351), riding (pp. B459-460), or suitable vehicles, 
  as well as Navigation rolls to avoid getting lost. Travelers 
  can encounter dangerous animals, from giant octopuses 
  to tiger/bear hybrids (see Kalidahs, p. 44). Dangerous 
  flora is also possible, whether gigantic and predatory, or 
  simply equipped with thorns or poisonous secretions.  
  vehICles As loCAtIons
  A vehicle that’s large enough for several people to live 
  in can provide a mobile base for a campaign. A larger vehi-
  cle than that, with multiple interior spaces, is functionally 
  equivalent to a building. A huge vehicle such as an aircraft 
  carrier or a starship can be compared to a skyscraper or 
  other huge building. Scenes can be set in multiple locations 
  within the body of the vehicle, or (rarely) on its exterior sur-
  faces, or in places it visits, such as seaports or planets.
  Example: The Nautilus is 70 meters long (230’) and dis-
  places 1,500 cubic meters when submerged (52,900 cubic 
  feet). Given its elongated shape (nearly a 10:1 ratio), it can 
  be estimated as having SM +10. The interior of the Nautilus 
  has a volume comparable to a high-rise.
  
   
  plACes 
  23
  In “wild” human countries – or at sea or in space – they may 
  encounter people who live outside the law.
  destRuCtIve envIRonments
  Some environments are more extreme than wildernesses, 
  with conditions that will quickly kill an unprotected human 
  being. Surviving them requires protective gear – or, in some 
  cases, specially designed vehicles. See Equipment Modifiers 
  (p. B345) for going to such places without specialized gear! 
  The glaciated regions of the Arctic or Antarctic, mountain 
  peaks with very thin air (less than 0.5 atmospheres, found 
  above 20,000’), and extremely hot underground locations such 
  as deep mines are examples. Underwater, the vacuum of outer 
  space, and planets with atmospheric composition, pressure, 
  or temperature radically different from Earth’s also count. 
  (See Hazards, pp. B428-437, for game effects of such environ-
  ments.) In a fantasy or horror story, magically lethal environ-
  ments may exist, such as the Deadly Desert that separates Oz 
  from the rest of the world.
  Temporary hazards are also possible: natural disasters 
  such as floods, forest fires, or volcanic eruptions; humanly 
  created conditions such as toxic gases or intense radiation; or 
  in fantasy worlds, outbreaks of wild magic or plagues of mon-
  sters or demons. High-tech battlefields are another example, 
  one deliberately created to inflict harm on an enemy.
  settIng And dRAmA
  Worlds and locations can be fun to create for their own 
  sake; many people spend happy hours drawing maps of imag-
  inary cities, countries, or worlds. But in a roleplaying game, 
  they’re eventually going to be put to work in enabling adven-
  tures and dramatic situations.
  pARAmeteRs
  Campaign worlds usually exist in larger universes – but 
  most of the universe doesn’t come into the action of the cam-
  paign. The world is the part of the universe that affects the 
  protagonists, and that they can affect. How big a world does 
  the campaign have?
  Scale
  Scale is how big the campaign world is. That is, how much 
  of the world do you have to know about, to account for the 
  things the PCs might act on or be affected by? What are they 
  likely to have in their mental map of their surroundings?
  The world of a modern-day campaign can be as large as 
  the entire Earth. Any location the PCs go has a latitude and 
  longitude. They can learn about places and people on every 
  continent, and perhaps come to the attention of or commu-
  nicate with those the group encounters. In a science-fictional 
  future, the entire solar system or even planets of many differ-
  ent stars may form part of the “world.” In comparison, the 
  Odyssey takes it for granted that everyone speaks Greek, and 
  Water Margin that everyone (even the Tartar invaders) speaks 
  Chinese, without getting into detail on regional dialects or 
  languages; their “worlds” are single countries, plus imaginary 
  realms surrounding them. And it’s possible to run a campaign 
  in an even smaller space – a single building or underground 
  complex, for example.
  In terms of the area classes for Area Knowledge (p. B177), a 
  dungeon is effectively a neighborhood. A single-country world 
  is the size of a small or large nation. A science-fictional cam-
  paign may be set in an interplanetary state or even a galaxy.
  Focus
  Focus is how much of the campaign world features in 
  important events. Does the narrative range widely, or do 
  nearly all the scenes take place in a handful of locations? 
  Most of this supplement’s source works involve long jour-
  neys and have scenes in many places. Pride and Prejudice, 
  however, takes place in three English counties – Derbyshire, 
  Hertfordshire, and Kent (though events in two others are 
  described in letters) – most of it in five large houses. The 
  Odyssey changes focus radically, the first half ranging all over 
  the Mediterranean, but the second narrowing to the island of 
  Ithaca and then to Odysseus’ house, after he returns there.
  A campaign with a tight focus can easily be made dramati-
  cally intense. The heroes are in one place and confronted with 
  one situation (see Settings for Conflict, p. 26), whose resolution 
  is crucial to their fates; they have to achieve it with their own 
  abilities and the resources they have at hand. Such intensity 
  isn’t as easy with a broad focus, where after each encounter 
  the heroes can go somewhere else. The payoff there is pan-
  orama: a wide-ranging view of the setting.
  Consider, for example, the difference between a siege and a 
  guerrilla campaign. In either, the geography, populations, and 
  military resources of two entire countries shape the situation. 
  However, a guerrilla campaign can range all over one of those 
  countries, whereas a siege brings two sets of forces together 
  in one fixed location. The two call for different emphases in 
  worldbuilding: short notes on as many locations as possible vs. 
  as much information as possible on just one or two locations.
  
   
  plACes 
  24
  FunCtIons oF envIRonments
  The setting of a campaign serves a variety of functions.
  Scenery
  Aristotle lists spectacle as an element of drama. Roleplaying 
  games have a limited ability to present actual images of their 
  settings. But striking scenes can be described – landscapes, 
  cityscapes, and weather, for example. This can create a sense 
  of a larger space where the events of the game take place – that 
  is, it can add to the sense of scale (p. 23).
  Scenery also can create a sense of atmosphere (see Mood, 
  p. 11). As the word suggests, this is often done with weather: 
  dense clouds for drama, sunlight for understanding or hap-
  piness, rain for sorrow, fog for mystery, and so on. Likewise, 
  different terrains (p. 18) have their own sorts of weather that 
  can help define the mood of a campaign.
  Travel
  Campaigns often include journeys, whether as short as 
  from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire, or as long as the Nautilus’ 
  20,000 leagues. If the setting is the real world, placing loca-
  tions on a map will make it possible to determine distances 
  between them. Travel routes can be identified, as can the haz-
  ards of taking different routes. If the setting is an invented 
  world, a map can be sketched from whatever descriptions of it 
  are given, and hazards and obstacles can be placed on it.
  Challenge and Conflict
  A campaign world can be a source of challenges, when 
  the protagonists struggle against it (see Conflicting Actions, 
  pp. 47-48, for major types of struggles). Character vs. nature 
  is the obvious example. But character vs. society can pit a 
  small group of heroes against the world; and in a fantasy 
  or supernatural horror campaign, so can character vs. fate. 
  What’s crucial is to identify what it is about the world that 
  the adventurers want to change – or are forced to try to 
  change by a desperate situation.
  A world’s “natural laws” also determine what means some-
  one can use to pursue a conflict. In a world that has magic, 
  mystical countermeasures may be available, such as the 
  wondrous herb moly that protects Odysseus against Circe’s 
  enchantments, or the kiss of the Good Witch of the North that 
  deters the Winged Monkeys from harming Dorothy.
  Knowability
  A world is a place that can be known. Some world-knowl-
  edge is essential to any story or drama; without the ability 
  to anticipate likely consequences of their characters’ actions, 
  players can’t have agency (p. 46). Understanding at this level 
  isn’t a matter of special skills. It’s partly represented by rolls 
  vs. IQ, which represents the general knowledge that adults 
  have. Much of it, though, shouldn’t even require IQ rolls; it’s 
  the job of the GM to convey a sense of what the world is like, 
  through exposition scenes that familiarize the players with the 
  setting (see Indirect Exposition, p. 25) – and Common Sense is 
  available for players who have trouble picking this up.
  In some genres, investigation is the focus of the story, and 
  skills related to it will see a lot of use: scientific skills such as 
  Biology, Geology, Meteorology (all affected by planet type; see 
  p. B180 and GURPS Space), and Astronomy in science fiction; 
  social science skills such as Anthropology for tribal societies 
  and folk customs, or Sociology for complex organi-
  zations; Criminology and Forensics for mysteries; 
  Intelligence Analysis for thrillers and some war 
  stories. In an exotic world, some challenges may 
  require rolls against Weird Science. The GM can 
  plan for how various sorts of knowledge can be use-
  ful in solving problems, so that rolls against knowl-
  edge-granting skills have a payoff. Ideally, the 
  audience – the players – should see such applica-
  tions for themselves, rather than being led to them.
  A more intense version of this focus is the 
  story that leads up to a recognition (see Revelatory 
  Campaigns, p. 51): the discovery of something that 
  changes the players’ whole understanding of the 
  campaign and the world – or shows them some-
  thing incomprehensible.
  Example (WWOz): Interplanetary courier pilot Dorothy 
  Arashi is caught in a spacewarp and comes to a landing on the 
  Earthlike planet Ozu, ruled by a psionically gifted aristocracy. 
  Learning to understand the new world requires rolls against 
  Sociology (to comprehend the social and political system) 
  and Psychology (to interpret the peculiar mental states some 
  inhabitants enter into) – skills that, unfortunately, she has at 
  their IQ-6 defaults!
  Demonstration of Premises
  Some worlds are created specifically to explore “what if” 
  ideas. Rather than just taking the premise (see pp. 8-9) as the 
  springboard for a campaign, they build an entire world on it, 
  exploring all of its implications. Alternate history is a classic 
  expression of this impulse; speculation also inspires stories set 
  in imagined societies with different moral assumptions, per-
  haps on distant planets, and even stories that assume different 
  laws of nature.
  Working things out in this way is often a private extra plea-
  sure for the GM; it’s easy to go beyond anything the players 
  will need to know. But some player groups will get involved in 
  the fictional world, trying to figure out how their characters fit 
  into it, and asking “What happens if I do this?” Players of this 
  sort can become co-creators of game settings, or co-explorers 
  of borrowed worlds, by forcing the GM to consider unantici-
  pated questions. (See Inventing New Material, p. 16, for more 
  on this.)
  The Pathetic Fallacy
  In romantic literature, the natural environment often changes 
  to reflect a character’s emotions. If he’s angry, the winds howl 
  and blow things around; if he’s disappointed in love, rain falls like 
  tears. Literary critics call this the pathetic fallacy (from the Greek 
  word pathos, meaning something that appeals to the emotions). 
  It can easily be overdone – but poets did it because it was effec-
  tive! In a game session, where there usually isn’t a single central 
  character, natural events can reflect the emotional nuances of a 
  storyline, such as dark clouds when a battle against a dangerous 
  foe is impending.
  
   
  plACes 
  25
  Commentary and Parody
  Some fictional worlds comment on other fictional worlds, 
  or on the real world, especially in stories from countries with-
  out freedom of expression. A story set in a remote land, on 
  another planet, or in an imaginary world can make political 
  points without exposing the author to censorship or arrest. 
  A campaign based on a fictional source can use its setting to 
  comment on the real world. Or it can remark on the source 
  itself: resolving its inconsistencies, suggesting that something 
  else was really going on, questioning its premises, or showing 
  how they lead to absurdities.
  Example (WM): Readers of Water Margin over the ages 
  could enjoy its heroes’ many confrontations with corrupt offi-
  cials, without suggesting that their own officials suffered from 
  any lack of integrity.
  Sandboxes
  Some campaigns don’t focus on a plot, situation, or mis-
  sion, or on character interaction, but on the world. The char-
  acters take on definition, and discover goals to pursue, in the 
  course of exploring the world. These are commonly called 
  sandbox campaigns.
  The world for a sandbox campaign needs to be as fully 
  developed as possible. It can’t be a bare stage dominated by 
  the PCs; nor can the GM do a complete job on the specific 
  locations for a planned quest or conflict, and leave the rest 
  vague. An effective sandbox campaign needs many different 
  directions to travel and goals to seek.
  It’s not easy to run a sandbox campaign in a world taken 
  from a fictional source; most sources develop only the parts 
  of the world that directly support their plotlines. Sandbox 
  campaigns usually require inventing new material (see p. 16). 
  Sources whose settings are places in the real world, on the 
  other hand, have nearly unlimited information available to 
  support sandbox campaigns.
  FunCtIons oF loCAtIons
  The specific locations where scenes occur have additional 
  purposes.
  Milestones
  In classic quest stories, locations are markers of how far 
  the hero has traveled, and stopping places along the way. 
  If this is their primary function, they don’t need elaborate 
  descriptions; the hero will encounter them as single points, 
  rather than exploring them as complex regions. The sys-
  tem in GURPS City Stats is designed to provide this level 
  of information. (Quest stories may also put their heroes in 
  trivial locations on side trips to perform secondary tasks, or 
  because they’ve lost their way.)
  Example (WWOz): Dorothy’s journey to the Emerald City 
  takes her through a series of locations and encounters: a 
  forest where she meets the Tin Woodman and the Cowardly 
  Lion; two ditches they have to cross, at the second of which 
  they’re attacked by monsters called Kalidahs (p. 44); a river 
  they cross on a raft; and a field of poppies that put several 
  of them to sleep.
  Bases
  A journey needs a starting point as well as a goal. Most 
  adventurers have a base, a place to keep their larger equip-
  ment, their mounts or vehicles, and their facilities for caring 
  for these. They may also live there, especially if hostile terri-
  tory surrounds it. If a base is in a city, the city itself can serve 
  as a kind of larger base, giving access to a variety of equipment 
  and services.
  In a quest campaign, the base is merely a starting point. It 
  may even be eliminated, leaving the hero with only what he 
  can carry. In other cases, the hero can go on repeated short 
  journeys and come back for rest and resupply.
  IndIReCt exposItIon
  Science fiction partly grew out of utopian fiction, one 
  of whose conventions was the hero’s guided tour of the 
  utopian society, with lectures on how it worked – which 
  actually made some sense in a setting based on con-
  scious adherence to a moral ideal. Early science fiction 
  moved these visions from “nowhere” to the “nowhen” of 
  the future. In the late 1930s, John W. Campbell began 
  insisting that writers for Astounding Science Fiction use 
  a different technique, now called “indirect exposition”: 
  showing people in future societies with different customs 
  that they took for granted. The older methods largely went 
  out of style in fantastic fiction, acquiring labels like “idiot 
  lecture” and “infodump.”
  Players in roleplaying games can be asked to read short 
  descriptions of a setting before they create their charac-
  ters; they’re co-creators of the campaign, and the campaign 
  notes amount to the “series bible.” But once play begins, 
  indirect exposition is normally more plausible – most 
  people don’t go around giving long explanations of how 
  things work – and more dramatically effective, as it allows 
  the protagonists to take action rather than turning them 
  into a passive audience. The trick is to figure out things 
  that it makes sense for NPCs to do because the world is 
  a certain way, have them do those things, and leave the 
  players to figure out why those actions make sense. None-
  theless, if players come out and ask how things work, or 
  what their characters would know, they aren’t likely to 
  object to a short infodump. Don’t carry indirect exposition 
  so far that it makes roleplaying impossible!
  What if your source uses indirect exposition? This 
  makes coming up with a description of the setting more 
  work. The author doesn’t walk you through the setting, 
  noting the points of interest. To find out about it, watch 
  the events the narrative shows, and ask what has to be 
  true for them to happen. In a campaign, those assump-
  tions become the premises.
  
   
  plACes 
  26
  Adventurers on a long journey may establish a forward 
  base, close to their real goal. Or a large vehicle can serve as a 
  mobile base (see Vehicles as Locations, p. 22), as the Nautilus 
  does for Captain Nemo (in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea).
  Personal Domains
  Some locations – especially residences – are not simply 
  utilitarian; they carry the stamp of their owner’s personality. 
  This kind of description can help bring an NPC to life – espe-
  cially an important one such as a Patron or Enemy. To come 
  up with something suitable, look at the occupant’s Status; his 
  particular interests, as evidenced by his skills; and personality 
  traits that affect how he spends money or cares for his pos-
  sessions. For an example, see Captain Nemo’s cabins in the 
  Nautilus (Furnishings, p. 42).
  Settings for Conflict
  One of the crucial functions of locations in roleplay-
  ing games is as settings for conflict (see Conflicting Actions, 
  pp. 47-48).
  Arenas
  Conflict often means physical fights or other tests of phys-
  ical abilities, such as athletic contests. An arena is a location 
  where combat takes place. This can be a specially designed 
  space for an athletic contest, or any location where a serious 
  fight breaks out, from a barroom to a battlefield.
  In playing out a fight, it’s important to take account of all 
  the different ways its location and time affect the outcome. A 
  list of such modifiers appears on pp. B547-549 for one-on-one 
  conflicts; movement point costs (p. B387) are also relevant. 
  For full-scale battles, see GURPS Mass Combat. How to Be 
  a GURPS GM, pp. 29-30, offers other insights into how envi-
  ronment affects combat.
  Example (Odys.): Odysseus carefully sets up the space for 
  his battle with the suitors. The banquet hall is a long room, 
  big enough to hold archery contests. Odysseus seats himself at 
  one end, with his bow and a quiver of arrows, far enough away 
  so the suitors can’t close with him too quickly. He arranges to 
  have the other doors barred, so no one can get behind him. 
  Then he sends his allies to fetch spears and shields before he 
  runs out of arrows. When the suitors acquire spears of their 
  own, the doorway he stands in provides him with partial shel-
  ter against their throws.
  Crucibles
  Conflict in a game can be mental as well as physical; an 
  intellectual challenge such as a debate or riddle contest, a 
  social one such as an attempt to influence a group of peo-
  ple against a rival, or a raw emotional one such as a quarrel 
  between friends or lovers can all be dramatic. Such conflicts 
  can arise anywhere, but they’re most intense in a situation 
  where neither person involved is free to just walk out – a 
  courtroom scene, a debate over policy or strategy, a group 
  therapy session, an interrogation, or simply a clash between 
  two people who are emotionally involved with each other, as 
  in Darcy’s first proposal to Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice.
  GURPS Social Engineering contains rules for compet-
  ing Influence rolls and for speaking to crowds, including the 
  effects of acoustics.
  Tests
  The location itself may be what the hero has to overcome. 
  A physical place can present adventurers with a variety of dif-
  ferent challenges.
  Hazards
  Some locations are dangerous in themselves; they 
  introduce cliffs to be scaled or rivers to be forded or 
  swum. This requires rolls vs. skills such as Climbing 
  (p. B349), Jumping (p. B352), or Swimming (pp. B354-
  355) – or vs. Perception or an appropriate Survival spe-
  cialty to spot hazards such as crevasses or quicksand. 
  Buildings (pp. 21-22) and cities (pp. 20-21) may offer 
  similar challenges, especially those that are designed to 
  repel or trap intruders. Odysseus swimming for the shore of 
  Scheria after Poseidon destroys his raft, and Jonathan Hark-
  er’s perilous climb down the outer wall of Dracula’s castle, are 
  examples of how such perils can fit into a larger story.
  Ordeals
  A location may be a cause of pain, fear, or exhaustion, 
  through either physical or mental stress. Many natural envi-
  ronments can inflict fatigue (p. B426), starvation or dehy-
  dration (p. B426), difficulty breathing (pp. B436-437), or 
  environmental stress (Terrains, p. 18). Exposure to danger can 
  also require Fright Checks (pp. B360-361). These experiences 
  call for tests of HT or Will.
  Puzzles
  Some locations raise questions that need answers (see 
  Revelatory Campaigns, p. 51). A classic example is exploring 
  ancient ruins, seeking a concealed passage or the location of 
  a lost treasure, typically with rolls vs. Architecture. Searching 
  for clues at a crime scene calls for Criminology, and analyzing 
  them relies on Forensics. A Naturalist roll could interpret the 
  habits of an unknown animal. Any such inquiry calls for rolls 
  against some knowledge-based skill.
  To make these scenes work, figure out, first, what’s really 
  going on; second, how it’s being concealed; and third, what 
  clues are available to the hidden truth. A scene can fail either 
  if the visible events come across as simply arbitrary, or if the 
  hidden truth is too quickly or fully revealed, taking away the 
  mystery. Maintaining the right level of suspense is something 
  of a tightrope for the GM.
  Places of mystery are a major element in fantastic cam-
  paigns. They’re often supernatural, but they may be man-
  ifestations of superhuman intelligences or alien creatures. 
  But mundane campaigns can have secretive facilities where 
  unexplained things happen, run (for example) by an intelli-
  gence agency, a criminal conspiracy, or a wealthy and pow-
  erful person.
  Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,
  though doom shall come and dark conquer.
  – J.R.R. Tolkien, The Homecoming of 
  Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son
  
   
  people 
  27
  Once you’ve defined the setting, you have the background 
  for a story or a campaign. But the foreground is mostly 
  occupied by people – the characters. To tell new stories in a 
  fictional world, you need a clear picture of the established 
  characters, and you need to be able 
  to create new characters. Character 
  traits provide a language for express-
  ing a character concept.
  Roles
  The characters in the source material play a variety of roles, 
  from its heroes to unnamed minor characters who speak a 
  couple of lines and vanish. Identifying these roles can help 
  you judge how much detail to go into in translating them into 
  game terms, from a full character sheet to no more than a 
  name and a line or two of statistics. You can also use them 
  as models for creating new characters who play 
  comparable roles (Specifications for Original 
  Characters, pp. 38-39).
  mAjoR ChARACteRs
  The major characters in a work are the 
  ones the story is about – the protagonists. The 
  reader or viewer identifies with them, much 
  as players identify with their characters. The 
  outcome of the story is seen in terms of its 
  impact on them (see Consequences of Actions, 
  p. 49). They perform key actions and make 
  key decisions that bring the outcome about. 
  The events are often shown from their point 
  of view. In all these ways, they’re similar to 
  PCs, and many campaigns will turn them into 
  PCs or model new PCs on them.
  For practical reasons, tabletop roleplaying games usually 
  share the “protagonist” role among several characters – but 
  within limits: games with only one or two PCs, or with 10 or 
  more, are unusual. Works of fiction and drama are more vari-
  able. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz has one protagonist, Dorothy 
  Gale, and the Odyssey and Pride and Prejudice each have two. 
  In contrast, all 108 Stars of Destiny could be counted as pro-
  tagonists in Water Margin. Don’t assume that every story is 
  about a small band of adventurers!
  Too many main characters aren’t much of a problem for set-
  ting up a campaign, whether the players re-create characters 
  from the source or make up new ones. A smaller group could 
  habitually work together for many reasons – as the larger 
  group’s leaders, as a specialized force, or because of friend-
  ship or common background. When the campaign needs an 
  expanded cast, new people can be brought in as additional 
  protagonists, or supporting characters can be moved into the 
  spotlight. The original protagonists can either become “first 
  among equals” or be moved into the background, with the 
  focus on their allies. In a campaign set far away, or in the past 
  or future (see Starting Point, pp. 6-8), those original protago-
  nists may never appear.
  suppoRtIng ChARACteRs
  Supporting characters appear in a story because of their 
  relationships to the main characters. They have names and 
  personalities, but they’re portrayed in less depth. They don’t 
  usually make key decisions, though there are exceptions, espe-
  cially for adversaries; if they make decisions, whatever inter-
  nal debate they go through isn’t the focus of the narrative. 
  Most supporting characters can be defined, in GURPS terms, 
  as Allies, Dependents, Enemies, or Patrons. In some cases, a 
  source’s supporting characters can be promoted to PCs (see 
  Major Characters, above).
  Many sources have characters who show in one scene or 
  chapter and never again – but who still have names, person-
  alities, and motives. Their roles usually can be compared 
  with those of Allies, Dependents, Enemies, or Patrons.  
  ChApteR thRee
  people
  guest stARs
  Rather than appearing in his own story, or his own setting, a fic-
  tional character can put in an appearance in an entirely different one. 
  He may be the central NPC in a scenario, as a Patron or Enemy; he can 
  equally well be a minor encounter, as a source of aid or a bit of color. 
  If the players are familiar with a fictional character, they may enjoy 
  having him introduced under a different name and figuring out for 
  themselves who he is.
  Example (WWOz): In a post-Civil War steampunk campaign, a party 
  of adventurers encounters a traveling circus, one of whose attractions is 
  a balloonist named O.Z. Diggs.
  Consider the roles that people play in the source works.
  
   
  people 
  28
  Some of them can be included in character creation as 
  Favors, but the GM can also just bring them onto the scene 
  as needed or convenient.
  Patrons
  To identify Patrons, look for characters who are more 
  powerful than the protagonists and provide them with sub-
  stantial help, but don’t take the same risks or go along on 
  their adventures (see Allies, below). A relationship with a 
  Patron may impose a Duty: “I give you this magic sword; use 
  it to kill dragons.”
  Example (WM): The Emperor becomes a Patron of the 108 
  Stars of Destiny. As such, he has Special Abilities (extensive 
  social or political power); however, powerful ministers who 
  resent and oppose them hinder the heroes’ access to him, 
  which can be represented as a variant of Minimal Interven-
  tion. Their relationship with him imposes a Duty of fighting 
  rebels against imperial authority.
  Enemies
  Different sorts of characters can be identified as 
  different sorts of Enemies. The characters it’s most 
  natural to class as Enemies are Hunters: those who 
  intend to kill the hero or inflict lasting harm on him.
  Rivals are characters who seek to get the better of the 
  heroes, but not to inflict lasting harm. Those who limit the 
  heroes’ freedom of action can also be treated as rivals.
  Watchers monitor the heroes’ actions, but without attack-
  ing or restraining them. Note that it’s possible for the same 
  character to be a Patron (see above) and a Watcher.
  Example (20KL): Captain Nemo has no wish to harm Pro-
  fessor Arronax; he admires the professor’s work and comes to 
  value his friendship. But he keeps Arronax and his compan-
  ions prisoner on board the Nautilus. This level of opposition 
  to their desires makes him effectively a Rival.
  Example (P&P): Lady Catherine de Bourgh has provided 
  Elizabeth Bennet’s cousin, the Reverend William Collins, with 
  a position as a clergyman, but she also feels free to come into 
  his house and criticize his domestic arrangements. She can be 
  treated as both a Patron and a Watcher.
  Allies
  Allies, like Patrons, are sources of help to the main char-
  acters – but they don’t stay behind when the heroes go on 
  journeys or face difficulties or enemies; they’re right there 
  beside them. There’s not always a clear line between main 
  characters and Allies. It’s mainly a question of who gets the 
  spotlight. Allies tend to be less powerful, or to have narrower 
  abilities, so they don’t become the heroes of the story. Allies’ 
  personalities are less fully developed, and they mostly inter-
  act with the primary heroes, rather than with each other or 
  other secondary characters.
  An Ally cannot also be a Patron, but he might be a Rival or 
  perhaps a Watcher. Even a Hunter can become a temporary 
  Ally in an emergency!
  Example (Odys.): Odysseus’ son Telemachus is the view-
  point character in the first three books of the Odyssey, and 
  he plays a leading role in Odysseus’ confrontation with 
  Penelope’s suitors; he can plausibly be considered a second 
  main character. Eumaeus the swineherd and Philoteus the 
  cowherd also fight at Odysseus’ side, but neither talks much 
  with anyone but Odysseus himself, and they readily follow his 
  orders, which makes them more like Allies.
  Dependents
  Dependents also go along on the heroes’ journeys and are 
  with them in perilous situations. However, they need help 
  rather than offer it. One-time dependents are sometimes called 
  “supplicants”: characters whose role is to ask for or need aid. 
  It’s possible for the same person to be both an Ally and a 
  Dependent at different times, but anyone powerful enough to 
  be a Patron can’t also be a Dependent.
  Example (WWOz): In Dorothy’s travels in Oz, her dog 
  Toto is always with her. He seems to be a pure Dependent; 
  he doesn’t give her help or protection, whereas she’s ready to 
  stand up to the Cowardly Lion to keep him safe.
  extRAs
  Many sources have people who play even less significant 
  roles and don’t need complete descriptions. This applies  
  to characters who are named only as members of groups, to  
  single characters who are left unnamed, and sometimes  
  to named characters who have only a single scene.
  Characters of this sort can be portrayed in several ways. A 
  single, full game write-up could be created to use with all the 
  members of a group, based on their average traits. A character 
  who’s going to be engaged in combat can be provided with 
  only combat-relevant attributes and skills. An informant can 
  be defined as a Contact or simply have a single skill or other 
  key trait listed. Or the GM can just improvise such minor 
  characters when they appear. In a campaign, some extras can 
  be promoted to supporting or even major characters.
  Example (P&P): When Elizabeth Bennet’s aunt and uncle 
  take her to Pemberley, Darcy’s estate, Mrs. Reynolds, his 
  housekeeper, shows the house to them. More important, she 
  praises Darcy’s good character – and is never on the scene 
  again. If she had to perform a task, the relevant skill would 
  usually be Housekeeping, or perhaps Administration to super-
  vise the household staff. (In a “belowstairs” campaign set at 
  Pemberley, focused on the servants, she could become a major 
  character or even a powerful Patron!)
  Example (Drac.): R.M. Renfield, a patient at Dr. Seward’s 
  lunatic asylum, is a source of information about Dracula; he 
  could be treated as a Contact with Hidden Lore (Vampires). 
  This isn’t the result of study, but of his delusions opening him 
  to Dracula’s influence – apparently partly by supernatural 
  means, as he seems to feel that influence even before actually 
  facing the vampire. He doesn’t so much answer the heroes’ 
  questions as give things away in his ravings. Between his mad-
  ness and his near worship of Dracula, he’s Unreliable, proba-
  bly with effective skill 10.
  Mongo only pawn in game of life.
  – Mongo, in Blazing Saddles
  
   
  people 
  29
  Organizations
  Another option is to treat minor characters as members of 
  organizations. Individual members of the organization’s per-
  sonnel will interact with the major characters, but they won’t 
  have character sheets at all – their capabilities and priorities 
  are those of the organization. GURPS Boardroom and Curia 
  can be used to write up organizational statistics. Tech level, 
  number of members, organizational wealth, and other traits 
  usually can be judged from the source. For combat forces, the 
  definitions of elements in GURPS Mass Combat can be relied 
  on instead.
  Example (20KL): The Nautilus (pp. 42-43) has a crew of 
  20 with combat skills-12, Diving Suit-18, Mechanic (Subma-
  rine)-15, and Submariner-21, plus High TL +1 and Zeroed. 
  As an organization, they’re Filthy Rich (not Multimillionaire, 
  despite Captain Nemo’s huge fortune, because they don’t use 
  cash to acquire resources), giving a startup cost of $48 mil-
  lion (not including the value of the Nautilus!). They’re worth 
  15 points as a Patron (with Special Abilities) and -20 points 
  as Enemies. Organizational Types (Boardroom and Curia, 
  pp. 11-13) include Aid (to revolutionary groups), Fraternal, 
  Research, Secret, and Voluntary. Loyalty is Very Good.
  deFInIng mAjoR ChARACteRs
  When you’ve identified the major characters, you’ll want 
  to think about how to describe them in GURPS terms. This 
  doesn’t have to mean doing full character sheets; unless 
  they’re going to play an active role in the campaign, they don’t 
  need complete GURPS statistics. But working out a descrip-
  tion can help you decide what sort of protagonists your cam-
  paign will have.
  For any trait with multiple levels – attributes, skills, and 
  many advantages and disadvantages – a good approach is to 
  identify the major character who’s at the high end; give his 
  traits suitable values; and then fit other characters in between 
  his values and average values. Major characters rarely have 
  below-average traits, unless they’re there to make a specific 
  dramatic point.
  AttRIButes And tAlents
  Attributes and secondary characteristics should be 
  approached differently in epic or cinematic campaigns and in 
  realistic campaigns (see Modes, p. 49). In a cinematic cam-
  paign, attributes (and Will and Per) can go as high as 20, and 
  perhaps a point or two higher for a truly extraordinary hero. 
  For real-world-style campaigns, an attribute of 17 would give 
  most Average skills a default of 12, or “good enough to get a 
  job” (see Choosing Your Skill Levels, p. B172); hardly any real-
  istic human beings are so broadly competent. A good range in 
  campaigns with realistic sources is 9-14. See p. 9 of GURPS 
  Template Toolkit 1: Characters for detailed guidelines for 
  both realistic and cinematic sources.
  Exceptionally gifted people in realistic campaigns have 
  narrower ranges of high ability – precisely the sort of thing 
  that Talents are designed to represent (pp. B89-91 and GURPS 
  Power-Ups 3: Talents). Characters in cinematic campaigns 
  may have both Talent and high attributes – as can larger-than-
  life characters in realistic ones.
  Examples: Georgiana Darcy (P&P) has Musical Ability. 
  Ned Land (20KL) has Seafarer – note that it includes Thrown 
  Weapon (Harpoon)! Odysseus (Odys.) has Smooth Operator 
  (see p. 37). Oz the Great and Terrible (WWOz) has Clown – 
  odd though the name sounds, the skill list is a close fit to the 
  tricks he uses!
  Strength
  Strength is something of a special case. It doesn’t affect 
  skills, and it can be used in performing physical feats such 
  as lifting heavy objects. It can have a value 
  higher than 20. High ST scores can sometimes 
  be estimated from stated multiples of human 
  strength, comparisons with animals (“as strong 
  as a horse”), or descriptions of physical feats. For 
  people without superhuman attributes, GURPS 
  Template Toolkit 1: Characters suggests a range 
  from 8 to 18 for ST.
  It’s also possible to have limited aspects of 
  high strength. A racial template can include Arm 
  ST, Lifting ST, or Striking ST; the perk Special 
  Training can allow a human character to acquire 
  one of them. The cinematic skill Power Blow lets 
  a martial artist double or even triple his ST by 
  concentrating. The perk Strongbow allows a skilled archer to 
  draw a heavier bow than his ST would normally permit.
  Examples: Ned Land (20KL) is a skilled harpooner and is 
  described as exceptionally large and strong; he could have 
  ST 12-13. Odysseus (Odys.) uses a bow other Greek warriors 
  can’t even string; he has ST 15, with +2 from the Strongbow 
  perk and his Bow skill. Wu Song (“Pilgrim,” WM) at one point 
  in the story lifts a stone weighing 400-500 catties (533-677 
  lbs.), throws it above his head, and catches it; ST 20 would 
  give him BL 80 lbs., which would let him lift 640 lbs. and 
  throw it 1.6 yards (see p. B355). Professor Van Helsing (Drac.) 
  says that Dracula is as strong as 20 men; since an average 
  man’s BL is 20 lbs., Dracula’s would be 400 lbs., which would 
  give him ST 45 – but van Helsing may be overestimating, as 
  there’s a scene where Renfield, a normal human, physically 
  restrains Dracula briefly.
  All the world’s a stage,
  And all the men and women merely players;
  They have their exits and their entrances,
  And one man in his time plays many 
  parts. . . .
  – William Shakespeare, As You Like It
  
   
  people 
  30
  skIlls
  Major characters usually get the chance to demonstrate 
  multiple proficiencies. Some have a huge range of expertise. 
  Others may have one or two main skills that largely define 
  them. A close reading or watching of the source can identify 
  the tasks its protagonists accomplish, and provide a basis for 
  judging their approximate skill. It’s also necessary, though, 
  to think about competencies that aren’t explicitly described, 
  but that are essential to support those that are, or make sense 
  given a character’s background.
  As a rough guideline, someone who does an activity as a 
  hobby is likely to have skill 10, give or take a point; for exam-
  ple, Lizzie Bennet (P&P) has Musical Instrument (Large 
  Keyboard)-11, because she plays the pianoforte but doesn’t 
  practice assiduously (see p. 35). A skill that defines an occupa-
  tion or role can generally be set at 12, or 14 for high-risk activi-
  ties. Professor Arronax’s valet Conseil (20KL) has Savoir-Faire 
  (Servant)-12; Ned Land (also 20KL), a harpooner – a danger-
  ous trade – has Thrown Harpoon-14. Highly regarded experts 
  can be set at skill 16 or higher; for example, Abraham van Hel-
  sing (Drac.) is an expert medical practitioner, with Diagno-
  sis-16 and Physician-16. History’s greatest experts in a field, or 
  cinematic geniuses, can be given ratings of 20+; for example, 
  Captain Nemo (20KL) qualifies for Engineer (Electrical)-21 
  for the high-powered batteries and other electrical apparatus 
  on board the Nautilus. Again, see GURPS Template Toolkit 1: 
  Characters, pp. 12-13, for more detailed guidelines.
  A high skill level can be achieved several ways! One prac-
  titioner may simply have a large number of points in the one 
  skill; this makes him a narrowly focused professional or gives 
  him an innate high aptitude for that one endeavor (like a chess 
  prodigy). Another may have one or more levels of Talent; this 
  gives him broader competence in a range of related areas such 
  as musical, social, or technological skills. Still another may 
  have a high attribute – making him equally gifted at IQ-based 
  skills in abstract knowledge, social interaction, and tool use, 
  or at DX-based skills in body movement, combat, and vehicle 
  handling. Which is the best fit doesn’t depend on ability in a 
  single skill, but on a character’s spectrum of skills.
  ComBAt skIlls
  In most campaigns, participants repeatedly face the test of 
  combat. If the fighting abilities on the character sheet don’t 
  match what the person does in the source material, the mis-
  match will show up at dramatic moments, and it’s likely to 
  have serious consequences.
  GURPS Mass Combat classifies troops into four broad 
  levels of capability: Inferior (minimal training and little 
  or no combat experience), Average (actual combat experi-
  ence), Good (prolonged combat experience or highly realistic 
  training), or Elite (picked troops with exceptional abilities). 
  People with realistic abilities usually can be assigned to one of 
  these levels. Numerical equivalents could be 9-11 in the best 
  combat skill for Inferior fighters, 11-13 for Average, 13-15 for 
  Good, and 15-17 for Elite. (The effective skill, taking equip-
  ment and organizational support into account, can be higher; 
  GURPS Boardroom and Curia recommends Contact skill 
  levels of 12, 15, 18, and 21.) Similar judgments can be made 
  about duelists, brawlers, and other less formal combatants.
  Epic or cinematic adventurers often are comparable to 
  Elite forces, or even better. It’s often possible to find descrip-
  tions of their notable feats and work out how good they 
  have to be to bring them off. Supporting characters, such as 
  companions and adversaries, can be scaled down from the 
  main characters: With skill two levels lower, an adversary 
  will probably lose but presents a respectable challenge; skill 
  four levels lower gives very little chance, and a foe with skill  
  six levels lower will win only by sheer luck.
  Characters based on source material generally don’t need 
  to have techniques. Even so, an explicitly described combat 
  move or other feat may match up with a technique, which 
  should then be included in the write-up. It’s both good charac-
  ter design and good storytelling to limit characters to a hand-
  ful of techniques, usually to one for each major skill, which 
  can act as a signature move.
  What skills should a combatant have? For armed combat, 
  look through weapon tables for the nearest equivalent to a 
  character’s weapon of choice, and take the skill it falls under. 
  Unarmed combat is more of a judgment call.
  Striking: If the hero uses only his fists, give him Boxing, 
  especially if he favors evasive footwork and defensive attacks. 
  Brawling goes with crude ferocity, including biting, eye-goug-
  ing, and slams, and with the use of blackjacks or brass knuck-
  les. Exotic hand strikes and fancy kicks such as back kicks and 
  jump kicks are the mark of Karate. Characters who rarely fight 
  probably lack all these skills and rely on DX.
  Grappling: Fighters who throw their opponents, particu-
  larly after deflecting their attacks, are using Judo. Those who 
  slam or shove them, in combination with grappling them, are 
  using Sumo Wrestling. Wrestling relies on basic 
  grapples, but applies them in takedowns and 
  pins (p. B370); it’s also commonly combined 
  with the use of melee weapons, which is rare 
  for the other two skills. Again, characters who 
  rarely grapple with anyone probably rely on DX.
  Example (Odys.): After returning from his 
  voyages, Odysseus visits his house, disguised as 
  a beggar – but he’s threatened with a beating by 
  Iros, a younger man who regards the house as 
  his territory. The two men end up fighting for 
  the entertainment of Penelope’s suitors. One of the options 
  Odysseus considers is killing Iros with one punch!
  Odysseus is a strong man (p. 37), but not the equal of 
  Heracles or even Ajax; his basic thrust damage can’t be high 
  enough to kill. Power Blow could double his effective ST, 
  but he’d have to raise his skill extraordinarily high to count 
  on using it without prolonged concentration – and he never 
  raises his strength in that way in other scenes (for example, in 
  his wrestling with Ajax in the Iliad). However, there’s a third 
  option: damage from a blow to the skull is ¥4, which could be 
  enough to kill.
  Martial arts knowledge was esoteric knowledge 
  and was preserved as such. The skills and knowledge 
  involved were both part of a tradition . . . 
  – Peter Lorge, Chinese Martial Arts:  
  From Antiquity to the Twenty-First Century
  
   
  people 
  31
  The attack penalty for the skull is -7;  
  Boxing-18 would let Odysseus hit on an 11 or  
  less, which could be raised as high as 14  
  or less with Evaluate (which he might be doing 
  while he decides how to attack!). With ST 15, 
  he inflicts 1d crushing damage with a punch, 
  raised to 1d+2 by his Boxing skill; spending 1 
  FP on a mighty blow (p. B357) increases this 
  to 1d+4, or 5-10. The skull reduces this to 3-8, 
  which is quadrupled to 12-32; assuming Iros 
  has 10 HP, he’ll have to roll vs. HT to survive 
  an average blow.
  soCIAl BACkgRounds
  The starting point for someone’s social 
  background is to identify his native society 
  (and its culture and language). This may be 
  the reference society (see p. 29) of the story, or 
  a different one. Odysseus is a native of Greece; 
  Song Jiang and his companions, of the 
  Chinese Empire; and Elizabeth Bennet and 
  Fitzwilliam Darcy, of the United Kingdom. 
  In contrast, Dorothy Gale is an outsider in 
  Oz, and her social position in Kansas means 
  nothing there; the same is true for Dracula 
  in the United Kingdom – though not for 
  the American Quincey Morris or the Dutch 
  Abraham van Helsing; both are treated with 
  respect suited to their (modest) Status.
  Status
  Status is generally the easiest thing to 
  identify about people in stories. In an indus-
  trialized society, or in a town or city in any 
  society, ordinary people are usually Status -1 
  to 1; in a preindustrial society where farm-
  ers are bound to the land by law or custom, 
  they’re Status -2 to 0. Any society may have 
  people with higher Status gained by Rank, 
  Wealth, or public office. In an aristocratic 
  society, some people may be born to high 
  Status, as gentry (Status 2-3), nobility (Status 
  4-6), or rulers (Status 6-8).
  Example (Drac.): Dracula claims the title 
  of count. This is an intermediate level of 
  nobility, higher than baron but lower than 
  duke, making him probably Status 5.
  Wealth
  Wealth often isn’t spelled out in sources. 
  If not, assume the level of Wealth that can 
  support a character’s Status or its cost of liv-
  ing. For example, Dracula’s Status 5 goes 
  with Multimillionaire 1; Odysseus’ Status 6 
  (see p. 37) with Multimillionaire 2.
  Mimetic fiction may give actual numerical amounts. 
  It’s not usually easy to translate these into GURPS $ – for 
  some well-documented eras it may be possible to track 
  down estimates of cost of living or purchasing power, but 
  this can demand serious library research. But what can 
  be done is to look at ratios between different amounts, 
  and choose wealth levels that have comparable ratios.  
  mARtIAl-ARts styles
  Some sources describe their characters using forms of combat that 
  involve multiple skills, or even being trained or training others. For 
  example, in Water Margin, Wang Jin, an instructor in the Chinese army 
  driven into exile by the corrupt official Gao Qiu, teaches Shi Jin (“Nine 
  Tattooed Dragons”), one of the 108 Stars of Destiny, the full range of 
  combat skills used by the army (see below). Such source-material pas-
  sages can be the basis for a martial-arts style.
  A style should include the skills required to use any named weap-
  ons – though identifying which weapons are actually meant can take 
  some research! Unarmed-combat skills can be chosen based on the 
  kinds of moves that are described; include Acrobatics, Riding, or other 
  skills if adherents are shown using them. To choose techniques, look 
  first for narrative about signature moves; if any technique would be 
  especially useful in the described style of combat, consider including 
  it. Decide whether the style is realistic or cinematic, and if cinematic, 
  add suitable skills and techniques. To complete the style, choose perks 
  that fit its skills and weapons, and think about suitable optional traits.
  Chinese Imperial Military Combat
  14 points
  Water Margin lists 18 weapons that a martial-arts instructor in the 
  Chinese Imperial army is required to know how to use. The specific 
  list varies based on version and translation; a typical list consists of 
  bolas, bow, broadsword, buckler, crossbow, flail, guisarme (identified 
  in GURPS Low-Tech as a dueling bill), ge (use stats for a halberd, but 
  it has no point at the end and does no thrust damage), hammer (this 
  appears to be a melon head hammer, a form of round mace often used 
  in pairs, rather than a European warhammer), hatchet, lance, mace, 
  pike, quarterstaff, rake, trident, two-handed sword, and ji (identified in 
  GURPS Martial Arts as a type of halberd). Several included skills cover 
  more than one weapon: Axe/Mace covers mace and hatchet; Polearm 
  encompasses ge, rake, and ji; Spear includes pike and trident; Staff is for 
  the quarterstaff and can be used with the pike.
  Skills: Axe/Mace; Bolas; Bow; Broadsword; Crossbow; Lance; 
  Polearm; Riding (Horse); Shield (Buckler); Spear; Staff; Two-Handed 
  Flail; Two-Handed Sword.
  Techniques: Cavalry Training; Feint; Hands-Free Riding; Hook; 
  Retain Weapon; Sweep.
  Cinematic Skills: Kiai; Power Blow.
  Cinematic Techniques: Dual-Weapon Attack; Dual-Weapon Defense.
  Perks: Exotic Weapon Training (Trident); Form Mastery (Spear); Off-
  Hand Weapon Training; Quick-Sheathe; Strongbow.
  Optional Traits
  Advantages: Combat Reflexes; Fit or Very Fit.
  Disadvantages: Code of Honor (Soldier’s); Duty; Obsession (Perfect 
  my martial art).
  Skills: Brawling; Expert Skill (Hoplology); Fast-Draw (Arrow, Sword, 
  Two-Handed Sword); Savoir-Faire (Military); Teaching.
  
   
  people 
  32
  In doing this, be careful not to mix up monthly or annual 
  incomes; the total investments that produce those incomes (in 
  the form of Independent Income); and starting wealth, which 
  represents a different, often smaller amount of disposable 
  funds and personal possessions.
  Example (P&P): The Bennets have 5,000 pounds of invested 
  funds, which will be divided among their five daughters when 
  Mr. Bennet dies, bringing each daughter 50 pounds a year; 
  this implies a 5% rate of return (which was fairly typical 
  for the era). Mr. Darcy, however, has 10,000 pounds a year; 
  assuming the same 5% rate, his investments would be worth 
  around 200,000 pounds.
  During Mr. Bennet’s lifetime, he has the right to live at the 
  Longbourn estate; this raises his family’s standard of living. 
  We might guess that it doubles their worth, giving them 500 
  pounds a year, or 1/20 of Mr. Darcy’s income. This would 
  fit their being Wealthy (and Status 2) and Mr. Darcy’s being 
  Filthy Rich (and Status 4).
  In GURPS terms, then, Darcy has starting wealth of 
  $500,000. Monthly pay for his Wealth level would be $80,000 
  to $160,000; Independent Income 20 would give him $100,000 
  a month, or $1,200,000 a year. In GURPS terms, one pound 
  is $120, and his total fortune is $24,000,000, far more than 
  his starting wealth – but he isn’t going to turn it into cash (see 
  Independent Income, p. B26).
  Rank
  Rank can be based on the size of a command, following the 
  guidelines in GURPS Social Engineering: 5 at Rank 1, 20 at 
  Rank 2, 100 at Rank 3, and ¥100 for each three added levels. The 
  rules for variant costs of Rank in GURPS Social Engineering 
  may be useful in describing nonstandard organizations.
  Example (WM): The outlaws of Mount Liang have hierar-
  chical titles and a chain of command, typical resources, and 
  special assets (cinematic skills and chi powers), but have nei-
  ther dominance or uniqueness, nor legitimacy, so their Out-
  law Rank is worth 3 points/level. After gaining an imperial 
  pardon and being sent against the Tartars, they have Military 
  Rank worth 6 points/level. The novel gives them a fighting 
  force of some 100,000 men, a suitable command for Rank 8, 
  giving Song Jiang Outlaw Rank 8 for 24 points and then Mili-
  tary Rank 8 for 48 points.
  Other Traits
  Other social traits, such as Social Regard and Social 
  Stigma, can be assigned following their definitions in the 
  Basic Set and clarifications in GURPS Social Engineering.
  Examples: Witches and wizards in Oz seem to have Social 
  Regard (Feared) – the Wizard is “Oz, the Great and Terrible” 
  (WWOz). During their time as heroic outlaws, the 108 Stars of 
  Destiny have Social Stigma (Criminal Record) (WM). Dracula 
  has both Social Regard (Feared) and Social Stigma (Monster) 
  in his native land (Drac.).
  vIsIBle quAlItIes
  Social interaction is also affected by outward appearance – 
  and this usually can be judged from a source. Visual media 
  present images of their characters; writers typically give 
  descriptions to draw readers into a story. If the author doesn’t 
  explicitly describe a character’s appearance, it often can be 
  judged by other people’s reactions.
  Realistically, most people range from Attractive to Unat-
  tractive – but in stage plays, films, television shows, comics, 
  and animation, a kind of improved realism prevails in which 
  the range is from Attractive to Average. Following this lead in 
  defining characters in GURPS terms isn’t likely to offend the 
  players’ sense of realism. Outright cinematic campaigns often 
  have heroes who are Handsome or Beautiful, and ordinary 
  people who are Attractive. Nonetheless, a realistic campaign 
  based on a movie might give Average or even Unattractive 
  looks to characters played by quite appealing actors when that 
  seems suitable based on how others react.
  Authors are less likely to describe the quality of a char-
  acter’s voice. Both Voice and Disturbing Voice are extreme 
  traits, with larger point values and providing bigger bonuses 
  or penalties, akin to Ugly or Handsome. It’s best to give char-
  acters these traits only if a source makes a point of how their 
  voices sound.
  
   
  people 
  33
  Example (Odys.): Odysseus’ journey back to Ithaca is 
  delayed by a year as the lover of Circe and then by seven years 
  on Ogygia, the island of Calypso – two goddesses to whom 
  most mortal men would have no appeal. It would be reason-
  able to make him Handsome.
  motIvAtIon And peRsonAlIty
  The essence of a character is his psychology – both his out-
  ward behavior, as others perceive it, and his drives and inten-
  tions, as he experiences and expresses them. Internal mental 
  traits fall into two main groups: active and reactive.
  Active traits express a person’s agency (see p. 46) through 
  moral choices, and especially through standards that he lives 
  by. In GURPS terms, these can be represented by self-imposed 
  mental disadvantages (p. B121).
  Examples: Most of the 108 Stars of Destiny (WM), belong-
  ing to the “fraternity of the lakes and rivers,” have Code of 
  Honor (Pirate’s), though some of them have Code of Honor 
  (Soldier’s), and their leader, Song Jiang, clearly has Code of 
  Honor (Confucian). Captain Nemo (20KL) has Fanaticism; he 
  also has taken a Vow never to set foot on land (for game pur-
  poses, this is Minor, comparable to vegetarianism). Dorothy’s 
  adventures (WWOz) could be taken as a model of Honesty – 
  even though Oz is “not a civilized country,” she behaves as if 
  she were in Kansas, asking openly for help and helping others 
  when she can.
  Reactive traits, tendencies to feel certain emotions or per-
  form certain actions without choosing them, are mainly repre-
  sented by traits with self-control rolls (pp. B120-121). (Honesty 
  is a special case; it has a self-control roll, but it’s also self- 
  imposed.) Bear in mind that these are extreme traits! Resisting 
  on a 15 or less fits a normal person with a definite susceptibil-
  ity to some form of behavior: he can restrain himself if giving 
  in to his impulses would be against his interests or conflict 
  with his self-imposed mental disadvantages, but he’ll always 
  notice the temptation, and if it’s strong (a risk of death for 
  Cowardice, or a Handsome/Beautiful person of suitable sex 
  for Lecherousness), he’s likely to give in. Resistance on a 12 
  or less, or worse, indicates definite impulse control problems! 
  For many people, quirk-level versions (see Perks and Quirks, 
  below) are more suitable.
  Example (WM): Li Kui (“Iron Ox”) repeatedly pleads to go 
  along on secret missions, vowing to be discreet, but eventu-
  ally, he picks a fight and makes a spectacle of himself. This 
  could be portrayed as Bad Temper (9).
  Various other disadvantages without self-control numbers 
  represent internal mental traits as well. Again, any full-blown 
  version (as opposed to a quirk) is an extreme trait.
  Example (Drac.): Renfield’s belief that he can gain immor-
  tality by eating other living beings is a Severe Delusion. It gets 
  him locked up in an asylum, and others react to him with fear 
  or pity because of it.
  Finally, some traits show up mainly 
  in outward behavior: Bestial, Clueless, 
  Laziness, No Sense of Humor, Odious 
  Personal Habit, Stubbornness, and Work-
  aholic. Judge these by described behavior, 
  rather than verbal statements or internal 
  mental processes. (Bully could be listed 
  here, but it also has a self-control roll.)
  Examples: Renfield’s eating flies and 
  spiders could be counted as an Odious 
  Personal Habit in addition to his Delu-
  sion. Ned Land’s unwillingness to give up seeking escape 
  from the Nautilus (20KL) could plausibly be taken as a dis-
  play of Stubbornness.
  peRks And quIRks
  Minor character traits can be represented as perks 
  (pp. B100-101) and quirks (pp. B162-165). Despite their low 
  point value, these are invaluable in capturing what’s dis-
  tinctive about a fictional character! In action/adventure 
  genres – particularly martial arts and swashbuckling – Style 
  Familiarity perks may be common, and it can be useful to 
  work out the details of the associated styles (see Martial-Arts 
  Styles, p. 31).
  Examples: Wu Song (WM) has the perk Drunken Fighting. 
  Darcy (P&P) is almost the archetype of the quirk Proud. Drac-
  ula (Drac.) has the perk Good with Wolves.
  GURPS Power-Ups 2: Perks and GURPS Power-Ups 6: 
  Quirks define a large number of perks and quirks, many cus-
  tomizable to fit a particular character. But the GM should feel 
  free to create new ones to fit minor peculiarities of published 
  characters. For example, the Tin Woodman (p. 36) has the fol-
  lowing minor exotic quirk.
  Affected by Rust: A quirk-level variant of Fragile – if you get 
  wet, your body surfaces oxidize. At the end of any day spent 
  exposed to moisture, roll against HT+4, or against HT under 
  extreme conditions such as torrential rain. On a failure, your 
  joints stiffen (giving -2 to DX and -1 to Basic Speed) until they 
  are oiled and moved back and forth. On a critical failure, or 
  if your joints are currently stiffened and you fail again, you 
  are paralyzed (p. B429) until oiled! If part of you is splashed 
  or soaked, make an additional roll vs. HT to avoid localized 
  effects on that body part.
  esoteRIC ARts
  Characters in some of the fantastic genres can learn to do 
  things that aren’t possible in the real world. Finding the right 
  way to represent these abilities in GURPS can be a challenge! 
  Realistic skills can achieve specific results in specific ways, 
  which are subject to reality testing, but magic, for example, 
  has been envisioned in many different ways. Making GURPS 
  rules fit something that a particular storyteller has invented 
  demands ingenuity.
  Miles is likely to attempt to take over any situation  
  in which he is involved . . . (If he doesn’t at least try to sort 
  everything out himself, then he’s not being played right.)
  – Vorkosigan Saga Supplement  
  and Roleplaying Game
  
   
  people 
  34
  Cinematic Skills
  What GURPS calls cinematic skills are actually low-end 
  supernatural abilities – but they aren’t called “magic.” The 
  best-known examples are the chi-based feats of martial-arts 
  legends and films, which have advantages such as Trained by a 
  Master as a prerequisite – meaning that the student is enlight-
  ened enough to transcend normal human limits. GURPS 
  Thaumatology: Chinese Elemental Powers discusses apply-
  ing chi to several non-combat-oriented skills.
  The skills of Enthrallment and Musical Influence aren’t 
  classified as cinematic, but they definitely aren’t realistic, and 
  they have advantages as prerequisites. They can represent 
  the ability to influence hearers’ minds with which legends of 
  many cultures credit bards.
  Weird science is another essentially cinematic ability: sci-
  ence as practiced in movies, pulp novels, and comic books (see 
  GURPS Powers: The Weird). The Weird Science skill allows 
  coming up with radical new inventions, possibly including 
  superscience inventions such as Captain Nemo’s various elec-
  trical devices.
  Example (WM): Shi Qian (“The Flea”) is amazingly good at 
  bypassing obstacles with acrobatic movement, and might be 
  given Flying Leap, Light Walk, or Lizard Climb.
  Magic and Its Variants
  The ability to use magic is common in myths, legends, 
  and older fiction and in fantasy stories inspired by them; the 
  Odyssey, Water Margin, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz all 
  have characters with magical abilities. The question is which 
  of the various approaches in GURPS best represents a source’s 
  version of magic. Any fictional version of magic is going to 
  require customization of GURPS magic, but the closer the ini-
  tial fit, the less work will be necessary.
  The starting point for this process is identifying the way 
  that magic functions in the narrative of the source. (Bear 
  in mind that a source may have multiple forms of magic – 
  or even a large number of specific magical capabilities that 
  aren’t systematized.)
  Some mages interact with personified magical forces: gods, 
  spirits, demons, and the like. They may be able to call such 
  beings to take on visible form, often through summoning spells 
  (as in the Necromantic college in mana-based magic) or spirit 
  rituals (in Path and Book magic – see GURPS Thaumatology, 
  pp. 159-162). They might perceive beings that are invisibly 
  present, using Medium or a suitable Detect; or they could have 
  the ability to enter the spirit world, perhaps using a spirit rit-
  ual. They may even have lastingly present familiars as Allies. 
  Whatever magic they work involves bargaining with the pow-
  ers that grant it, often with the aid of Spirit Empathy to allow 
  the use of Influence skills.
  Some mages work through procedures, often called “spells” 
  or “rituals.” Older sources often envision elaborate, time-con-
  suming procedures, similar to Path and Book magic; more 
  recent works, such as the Harry Potter novels, and including 
  many stories inspired by fantasy gaming, have spells that can 
  be cast in seconds, like mana-based magic. Sources don’t nec-
  essarily go into detail about how their procedures are worked 
  out, but some suggest fixed routines that have to be memo-
  rized or looked up (Book magic and mana-based magic are 
  good fits to these, as well as GURPS Thaumatology: Sorcery). 
  Other sources treat magic as a tool that can be applied to 
  many different tasks (a good fit to symbol magic – see GURPS 
  Thaumatology, pp. 168-177; see GURPS Thaumatology: 
  Ritual Path Magic for another take on rituals).
  Many mages work with magical objects or substances. 
  For example, magic in the Odyssey often involves herbs and 
  potions – not only Circe’s use of a potion to change men into 
  swine, but also Helen’s use of herbs (learned in Egypt) to make 
  Telemachus forget his grief for Odysseus. Such arts could be 
  described in GURPS as Herb Lore or Alchemy. For more 
  options for either bringing out the hidden powers of natural 
  things, or imbuing them with new powers, see the discussion 
  of material magic in GURPS Thaumatology, pp. 95-120; 
  Alchemical Elixirs in GURPS Thaumatology: Ritual Path 
  Magic; “The Material Difference” in Pyramid #3/66: The 
  Laws of Magic; or “Dungeon Brewmasters” in Pyramid #3/82: 
  Magical Creations.
  Mages may follow magical or spiritual disciplines that 
  release hidden abilities of their adherents, or grant them new 
  ones from external sources (see Special Abilities and Power 
  Modifiers, below). GURPS Thaumatology, pp. 196-214, offers 
  guidance on “magic as powers”; GURPS Powers: Divine 
  Favor, GURPS Thaumatology: Chinese Elemental Powers, 
  and GURPS Thaumatology: Sorcery are detailed worked 
  examples that may suit specific campaigns. Abilities gained 
  in this way often have an additional power modifier from a 
  requirement for Disciplines of Faith or a suitable Vow (see 
  GURPS Powers, pp. 22-23).
  speCIAl ABIlItIes And  
  poWeR modIFIeRs
  Not just “magic as powers,” but many other forms of spe-
  cial powers appear in various sources. Examples include the 
  abilities of the Greek gods (Odys.), of many of the 108 Stars 
  of Destiny (WM), and of Dracula and his brides (Drac.). These 
  capabilities transcend normal human abilities and have spe-
  cial rules, given at length in GURPS Powers.
  The abilities that make up a power share a power modifier 
  (GURPS Powers, pp. 20-29), which expresses their source and 
  typically includes various factors that can limit their users in 
  ways not inherent in the underlying advantages. For exam-
  ple, the Psionic modifier (-10%) reflects the existence of anti-
  psi advantages (Neutralize and Static) and of technological 
  devices that can block or shut down psi (discussed in GURPS 
  Psi-Tech). Modifiers can always be altered to fit a source!  
  For example, in some settings, anti-psi technology may be 
  impossible; in others, developing and maintaining psionic 
  abilities may require regular meditative exercises equivalent 
  to Disciplines of Faith (Mysticism).
  The Flea was someone accustomed  
  to flying over walls and floating on 
  rooftops; leaping barriers and crossing 
  city defenses was nothing to him.
  – Shi Nai’an, Water Margin
  
   
  people 
  35
  The big question about special abilities in most sources 
  is their magnitude. On one hand, how do they compare with 
  normal human capabilities? On the other, how do they com-
  pare with each other? GURPS Supers rates combat abilities 
  as I-scale (equivalent to a big animal), D-scale (equivalent 
  to a tank), C-scale (equivalent to a battleship), or M-scale 
  (even more potent); similar ratings can be used for abilities 
  in sources – though before the twentieth century, hardly any 
  fictional beings exceeded I-scale. Relative power levels are 
  trickier, especially with supers. Supers tend to become more 
  powerful over time, they’re more powerful as protagonists 
  than as guest stars, and (lately) they may have different power 
  levels in comics vs. in films and television. Usually, it’s possi-
  ble to identify the highest level of any given ability in a setting; 
  below that, who ranks whom is a judgment call – and the GM 
  needs to be ready to make it.
  Psionic abilities (described on pp. B254-257 and in multi-
  ple supplements) have been added to various classic science 
  fiction, superhero adventures, and anime (and discussed in 
  GURPS Psionic Powers). The concept of “psi” wasn’t defined 
  till the 1940s, but it derives from earlier research on psychic 
  abilities and hypnotism, as seen for example in Dracula.
  RACIAl tRAIts
  Some sources include beings that aren’t human and have 
  abilities human beings don’t have – or lack abilities that human 
  beings do have! Portraying such characters requires creating 
  racial templates that define their racial traits (pp. B450-454). 
  Despite the word “racial,” such templates aren’t limited to bio-
  logical species; they can be created for classes of supernatural 
  entities or for models of constructed beings. Optionally, they 
  can be defined for certain kinds of nonsapient entities, such as 
  animals (in place of creature statistics; see Life Forms, p. 44) 
  or vehicles (pp. 42-43). Racial templates could be provided 
  for such beings as Cyclopes in the Odyssey or the Winged 
  Monkeys in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
  A racial template is a laborsaving device. It’s efficient to 
  work out traits shared by a whole group of characters and use 
  that as a baseline, and it saves space on character sheets to 
  write “Winged Monkey” and a point value rather than “Extra 
  Arm,” “Flight (Winged),” “Odious Personal Habit (Prankster),” 
  and so on. But even with those who are the only member of 
  their race to appear in a story, such as the Cowardly Lion in 
  The Wonderful Wizard of Oz – or who are one of a kind, such as 
  the Scarecrow – it can be useful to distinguish inherent traits 
  of their “kind” from individually acquired traits. This infor-
  mation helps someone who wants to play a similar character 
  or when the GM would like to add more such beings later in 
  the campaign. Note that, if someone is magically transformed 
  (as Odysseus’ men were turned into pigs by Circe), he gains a 
  new racial template, but he keeps his original acquired indi-
  vidual traits, even if he can’t use them in his new form.
  Racial templates are different from powers! A power is the 
  ability to do something; it has a power modifier, which usually 
  includes ways of shutting it down. For example, a fire power 
  would grant the ability to create, control, or use fire in various 
  ways; if it had the Magical power modifier, then anti-magic 
  powers or spells, or entering a no-mana zone, could temporar-
  ily shut off that ability. In contrast, a racial template defines 
  you as being something, and has no power modifier. Being a 
  dragon isn’t a power; it’s what a dragon is – if an anti-power 
  could shut it down it would make dragons suddenly vanish. 
  A dragon might have a talent for wielding fire, or for flying, 
  but it can’t have a talent for “being a dragon.” A dragon’s fiery 
  breath could be a magical power, which an anti-magic spell 
  could shut off, but it could also be an inherent part of the 
  draconic nature.
  exAmples
  The following characters from various source works illus-
  trate many of this chapter’s recommendations.
  Elizabeth Bennet (“Lizzie”)
  75 points
  Lizzie Bennet is the second of five sisters, and very much 
  her father’s daughter. She shares his love of reading, which 
  has helped her express herself clearly and at times forcefully. 
  She’s physically active, thinking nothing of a three-mile 
  walk, and has an eye for landscape. Like most of her sisters, 
  she’s attractive, but not beautiful, though she has striking, 
  perceptive eyes. As an unmarried daughter, she lives with 
  her parents, sharing in their lifestyle; she has $500 (20% 
  of her starting wealth) available for personal possessions  
  and expenses.
  ST 9 [-10]; DX 10 [0]; IQ 12 [40]; HT 11 [10].
  Damage 1d-2/1d-1; BL 16 lbs.; HP 9 [0]; Will 12 [0]; Per 12 [0]; 
  FP 11 [0].
  Basic Speed 5.25 [0]; Basic Move 5 [0]; Dodge 8.
  5’6”; 110 lbs.
  Social Background
  TL: 5 [0].
  CF: Western [0].
  Languages: English (Native) [0].
  Advantages
  Attractive [4]; Fit [5]; Resistant to Influence Skills (+3) [5]; 
  Status 2 [5]*; Wealthy [20].
  Perks: Classic Features (Fine eyes); Friend (Charlotte 
  Lucas). [2]
  Disadvantages
  Code of Honor (Gentlewoman’s) [-10]; Pacifism (Reluctant 
  Killer) [-5]; Sense of Duty (Family) [-5]; Social Stigma (Sec-
  ond-Class Citizen) [-5].
  Quirks: Close to her father; Determined; Quick to judge. [-3]
  Skills
  Area Knowledge (Meryton) (E) IQ [1]-12; Artist (Callig-
  raphy) (H) IQ-1 [2]-11; Connoisseur (Landscape) (A) IQ-1 
  [1]-11; Dancing (A) DX+1 [4]-11; Games (Whist) (E) IQ [1]-12; 
  Hiking (A) HT-1 [1]-10; Literature (H) IQ-1 [2]-11; Musical 
  Instrument (Large Keyboard) (H) IQ-1 [2]-11; Naturalist 
  (H) IQ-2 [1]-10; Public Speaking (Informal Debate) (E) IQ+1 
  [2]-13; Riding (Horse) (A) DX-1 [1]-9; Savoir-Faire (High 
  Society) (E) IQ+1 [2]-13; Sewing (E) DX [1]-10; Writing (A) 
  IQ-1 [1]-11.
  * Includes +1 from Wealthy.
  
   
  people 
  36
  Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman
  300 points
  Nick Chopper was the son of a woodcutter in the Munchkin 
  country, who inherited his father’s trade, and he worked 
  to save money to marry a Munchkin servant girl. The girl’s 
  employer connived with the Wicked Witch of the East to put 
  a curse on his axe, which successively cut off his limbs and 
  then his head, and finally cut his body in two. A friendly tin-
  smith replaced each part with a metal prosthetic. These were 
  highly durable but subject to rusting when wet. Dorothy Gale 
  found him rusted into immobility in the woods and helped 
  him by fetching and using his oil-
  can. Believing that having no heart 
  made him unable to love, the Tin 
  Woodman (as he was now called) 
  decided to join Dorothy’s trip to 
  see the Wizard of Oz, hoping to 
  acquire a replacement heart.
  This represents Nick Chopper 
  just after Dorothy finds him. At 
  this point, he has little wealth, liv-
  ing in a hut with few possessions 
  other than his axe and his oil-can.
  ST 13 [30]; DX 12 [40]; IQ 10 [0]; 
  HT 14 [40].
  Damage 1d/2d-1; BL 34 lbs.; HP 13 
  [0]; Will 12 [10]; Per 10 [0]; FP 
  N/A .
  Basic Speed 6.50 [0]; Basic Move 6 
  [0]; Dodge 9.
  5’11”; 190 lbs.
  Social Background
  TL: 4 [0].
  CF: Western [0].
  Languages: English (Native) [0].
  Advantages
  Damage Resistance 6 (Can’t 
  Wear Armor, -40%) [18]; Doesn’t 
  Breathe [20]; Doesn’t Eat or Drink 
  [10]; Doesn’t Sleep [20]; Immu-
  nity to Metabolic Hazards [30]; 
  Immunity to Pain [30]; Injury Tol-
  erance (Homogenous, No Blood) 
  [45]; Signature Gear (Good-quality felling axe) [1]; Unfaze-
  able [15]; Unkillable 1 [50]; Unusual Background (Has Gad-
  geteer friend) [15].
  Perks: Equipment Bond (Felling axe); Striking Surface; 
  Weapon Bond (Felling axe). [3]
  Disadvantages
  Delusion (Believes himself incapable of feeling) [-5]; No 
  Sense of Smell/Taste [-5]; Numb [-20]; Pacifism (Self-Defense 
  Only) [-15]; Status -1 [-5]; Struggling [-10]; Unhealing (Total) 
  [-30]; Vow (Avoid harm to sentient creatures) [-10].
  Quirks: Affected by Rust (p. 33); Disadvantage Embellish-
  ment (Pacifism, Moved to tears if he causes harm); Distinctive 
  Features (Made of tin); Responsive; Sexless. [-5]
  Features and Taboo Traits: Neither has nor spends FP.
  Skills
  Area Knowledge (Munchkin Country) (E) IQ [1]-10; Art-
  ist (Woodworking) (H) IQ-2 [1]-8; Carpentry (E) IQ+1 [2]-11; 
  Mechanic/TL4 (Carts & Wagons) (A) IQ [2]-10; Professional 
  Skill (Forester) (A) IQ+4 [16]-14; Survival (Woodlands) (A) Per 
  [2]-10; Two-Handed Axe/Mace (A) DX+1 [4]-13.
  Hu Sanniang (“Steelbright”)
  370 points
  Hu Sanniang is one of the spirits who were reborn as the 
  108 Stars of Destiny. Her preferred fighting style uses two 
  swords nearly as long as she 
  is, from which she gets her 
  nickname – in full trans-
  lation, “Ten Feet of Blue.” 
  She started out as a foe 
  of Mount Liang, during a 
  clash between the outlaws 
  and the Zhu family, one of 
  whose sons was betrothed 
  to her; the lecherous Wang 
  Ying (“Shorty”) accepted 
  her challenge to a duel, and 
  she defeated him and took 
  him prisoner. After several 
  more fights, she pursued 
  Song Jiang, who led her into 
  an ambush and made her a 
  prisoner. Her fiancé died 
  in further combat, so Song 
  Jiang gave her to Wang 
  Ying as a wife and made her 
  an officer in his cavalry. She 
  played both roles honorably 
  for the rest of her life.
  Hu’s swords are often 
  described as “sabers”; this 
  is a common Western label 
  for the dao. However, the 
  dao in GURPS Martial Arts 
  is classed as a broadsword, 
  making it much shorter 
  than 5’. Treating them as 
  oversized 
  weapons 
  with 
  SM +1 (GURPS Low-Tech 
  Companion 2: Weapons 
  and Warriors, pp. 20-21) gives them ¥1.3 reach; if they start 
  out at 46”, near the upper limit for broadswords (p. B208), this 
  gets them to exactly 5’. This is comparable to a bastard sword, 
  so they can be given reach 1, 2. Their other stats then are dam-
  age sw+3 cut/thr+1 imp; parry 0U; cost $1,575; weight 11.25 
  lbs., rounded to 11 lbs.; and required ST 16.5, rounded to 17. 
  Two levels of the Huge Weapons (ST) perk let her wield them 
  with ST 15, which becomes her ST, despite her small stature 
  (a classic wuxia trope!).
  ST 15 [50]; DX 15 [100]; IQ 11 [20]; HT 11 [10].
  Damage 1d+1/2d+1; BL 45 lbs.; HP 15 [0]; Will 13 [10]; Per 11 
  [0]; FP 11 [0].
  Basic Speed 6.50 [0]; Basic Move 6 [0]; Dodge 10*.
  5’4”; 120 lbs.
  
   
  people 
  37
  Social Background
  TL: 3 [0].
  CF: Chinese [0].
  Languages: Chinese (Native) [0].
  Advantages
  Charisma 1 [5]; Combat Reflexes [15]; Daredevil [15]; Des-
  tiny (Death in the service of the Emperor) [10]; Reawakened 
  [10]; Resistant to Influence Skills (+3) [5]; Signature Gear (Pair 
  of fine dao) [26]; Status 3 [10]†; Very Fit [15]; Very Wealthy 
  [30]; Weapon Master (Sword) [20].
  Perks: Flourish; Huge Weapons (SM); Huge Weapons 2 
  (ST); Off-Hand Training (Broadsword); Weapon Bond (Dao); 
  Weapon Bond (Dao). [7]
  Disadvantages
  Code of Honor (Confucian) [-10]; Impulsiveness (12) [-10]; 
  Sense of Duty (108 Stars of Destiny) [-5]; Social Stigma (Sec-
  ond-Class Citizen) [-5]; Vow (Marriage to Wang Ying) [-5].
  Quirks: Admiration (Song Jiang); Pacifism (Prefers to cap-
  ture foes rather than kill them); Proud. [-3]
  Skills
  Artist (Calligraphy) IQ [4]-11; Broadsword (A) DX+2 [8]-17; 
  Expert Skill (Military Science) (H) IQ-1 [2]-10; Fast-Draw 
  (Sword) (E) DX+1 [1]-16*; Judo (H) DX-2 [1]-13; Jumping (E) 
  DX [1]-15; Lasso (A) DX [2]-15; Leadership (A) IQ+1 [2]-12‡; 
  Parry Missile Weapons (H) DX+1 [8]-16; Poetry (A) IQ [2]-11; 
  Riding (Horse) (A) DX+1 [4]-16; Savoir-Faire (High Society) 
  (E) IQ [1]-11; Tactics (H) IQ-1 [2]-10.
  Techniques: Dual-Weapon Attack (Broadsword) (H) Broad-
  sword [5]-17; Hands-Free Riding (H) Riding (Horse) [4]-16; 
  Quick Mount (A) Riding (Horse) [3]-16.
  * Includes +1 from Combat Reflexes.
  † Includes +1 from Very Wealthy.
  ‡ Includes +1 from Charisma 1.
  Odysseus
  675 points
  Odysseus is the king of Ithaca, a remote Greek island, and 
  is a skilled and exceptionally strong warrior; in an archery 
  contest, no other man can even string his favorite bow. More 
  important, though, is his quick mind, which enables him to 
  deal with almost any task that comes his way, from building a 
  boat to begging for a meal. Above all, he’s a master of deceits 
  and stratagems; even Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war, 
  finds him impressive and has long been his Patron.
  Odysseus has Multimillionaire 2, with starting wealth of 
  $5,000,000, and he invested one-fifth of that in his Trojan ven-
  ture, mostly on a fleet of a dozen light galleys (see below) – but 
  lost it all to Poseidon’s anger on his return voyage. At the start 
  of the Odyssey, he’s a prisoner on a remote island, ruled by the 
  goddess Calypso, who hopes to persuade him to marry her 
  and accept the gift of immortality.
  Unlike standard light galleys, Odysseus’ ships had no 
  Transport capability. In its place, they had weapons and 
  shields for their crews, who could disembark and fight as 
  Medium Infantry. Normally he would have had to pay the 
  cost of raising 50-60 elements of land forces, but these were 
  sons of wealthy households on Ithaca, coming along out of 
  loyalty and the hope of loot, and are treated as levies, with no 
  cost to raise them.
  ST 15 [50]; DX 14 [80]; IQ 16 [120]; HT 14 [40].
  Damage 1d+1/2d+1; BL 45 lbs.; HP 15 [0]; Will 16 [0]; Per 16 
  [0]; FP 14 [0].
  Basic Speed 7.00 [0]; Basic Move 7 [0]; Dodge 11*.
  6’2”; 225 lbs.
  Social Background
  TL: 1 [0].
  CF: Hellenic [0].
  Languages: Classical Greek (Native/None) [-3].
  Advantages
  Combat Reflexes [15]; Fit [5]; Handsome [12]; Hard to Kill 1 
  [2]; Heroic Archer [20]; Multimillionaire 2 [100]; Patron (Ath-
  ena; Highly Accessible, +50%; Minimal Intervention, -50%; 
  Special Abilities, +100%; 12 or less) [120]; Smooth Operator 1 
  [15]; Social Chameleon [5]; Status 6 [15]†.
  Perks: Naval Training; Strongbow; Style Familiarity 
  (Heroic Spear Fighting); Weapon Bond (Composite Bow). [4]
  Disadvantages
  Code of Honor (Gentleman’s) [-10]; Curious (12) [-5]; 
  Weirdness Magnet [-15].
  Quirks: Compulsive Lying (Conceals his true identity at first 
  meeting); Easily Influenced (Desirous); Obsession (Returning 
  to Ithaca); Proud. [-4]
  Skills
  Acting (A) IQ+2 [4]-18‡; Artist (Woodworking) (H) IQ-2 
  [1]-14; Boating (Sailboat) (A) DX [2]-14; Bow (A) DX+4 [16]-18; 
  Boxing (A) DX+4 [16]-18; Carousing (E) HT+2 [1]-15‡; Con-
  noisseur (Literature) (A) IQ-1 [1]-15; Dancing (A) DX-1 [1]-13; 
  Diplomacy (H) IQ [2]-16‡; Disguise (A) IQ-1 [1]-15; Farming 
  (A) IQ-1 [1]-15; Fast-Draw (Arrow) (E) DX+2 [2]-16*; Fast-
  Talk (A) IQ+1 [2]-17‡; Leadership (A) IQ+1 [2]-17‡; Navigation 
  (Sea) (A) IQ-1 [1]-15; Observation (A) Per-1 [1]-15; Psychol-
  ogy (H) IQ [4]-16; Public Speaking (A) IQ+1 [2]-17‡; Religious 
  Ritual (Greek polytheistic) (H) IQ-2 [1]-14; Savoir-Faire (High 
  Society) (E) IQ+2 [2]-18‡; Seamanship (E) IQ [1]-16; Shield 
  (E) DX+2 [4]-16; Shiphandling (H) IQ [4]-16; Shortsword (A) 
  DX-1 [1]-13; Spear (A) DX [2]-14; Stealth (A) DX-1 [1]-13; 
  Strategy (H) IQ [4]-16; Survival (Island/Beach) (A) Per-1 
  [1]-15; Survival (Woodlands) (A) Per-1 [1]-15; Swimming (E) 
  HT+1 [2]-13; Tactics (H) IQ-1 [2]-15; Thrown Weapon (Spear) 
  (E) DX+1 [2]-15; Thrown Weapon Sport (Disc) (E) DX [1]-14; 
  Wrestling (A) DX+5 [20]-19.
  * Includes +1 from Combat Reflexes.
  † Includes +3 from Multimillionaire 2.
  ‡ Includes +1 from Smooth Operator 1.
  O brave new world, that hath 
  such people in it!
  – William Shakespeare,  
  The Tempest
  
   
  people 
  38
  speCIFICAtIons FoR  
  oRIgInAl ChARACteRs
  What if the original characters aren’t going to be the pro-
  tagonists of the campaign? (See Starting Point, pp. 6-8.) The 
  newly created characters will need to fit the source material 
  and the setting. Part of setting up a gaming adaptation of a 
  work is providing the players with guidelines for creating 
  suitable characters. Doing GURPS treatments of established 
  characters (as discussed in the preceding section) provides a 
  basis for those guidelines.
  poInt vAlue
  To start with, how many character points should the PCs 
  have? Pick out a group of people from the published work 
  whose roles in the overall story are roughly comparable, and 
  draw up character sheets for them, giving them whatever traits 
  make sense. Then add up the point costs. For example, write up 
  the five younger heroes from Dracula; the Scarecrow, the Tin 
  Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion from The Wonderful Wizard 
  of Oz; – or, for a lower-powered campaign, the Guardian of the 
  Gates, the Soldier with the Green Whiskers, and the girl who 
  waits on Dorothy in the Wizard’s palace (named Jellia Jamb in 
  later books). The range of point scores should suggest a base-
  line, which can be adjusted up or down to suit the premise of 
  the campaign (see pp. 8-9).
  What if the characters you select have wildly different point 
  values? After all, writers don’t start out by drawing up charac-
  ter sheets for their heroes! There are three basic options:
  • List the characters by point value, from lowest to higher, 
  and pick one of the characters in the middle as your baseline, 
  adjusted up or down to a convenient round number.
  • Take one of the higher-point characters as a baseline, 
  and give the less powerful characters traits that reflect nar-
  rative advantages, to explain how they can keep up with their 
  more powerful companions: Daredevil, Destiny, Hard to Kill, 
  Higher Purpose, Luck, Pitiable, or Serendipity.
  exCluded optIons FoR ChARACteRs
  One of the important things to do in planning a 
  campaign is to decide what traits protagonists are not 
  allowed to have. Limits may be either hard (absolute) or 
  soft (subject to exceptions if there’s a really good narra-
  tive justification).
  • Attributes should have an upper limit for unmodi-
  fied human beings; see Attributes and Talents (p. 29). For 
  realistic nonhuman creatures, ST limits should be pro-
  portional to the longest dimension for a creature’s SM  
  (see p. B19).
  • Upper and lower limits may be set on social traits 
  such as Status and Wealth. In realistic campaigns, 
  characters who spend time together should usually fall 
  into a narrow range of Status.
  • Mental disadvantages that make effective coopera-
  tion and trust impossible, or that make it impossible to 
  function in a society, may be disallowed.
  • Cinematic skills and advantages that give access to 
  them, such as Trained by a Master, may be unavailable.
  • Special abilities such as magic or psionics may be 
  prohibited.
  • Exotic and supernatural advantages and disadvan-
  tages should be unobtainable in a mundane campaign. In 
  a fantastic campaign, specific advantages and disadvan-
  tages may be banned if they don’t fit the premise.
  unusuAl BACkgRound
  Some traits don’t fit at all in the setting of a story 
  (see Excluded Options for Characters, above). But other 
  traits, though unlikely, aren’t impossible. To include 
  them, while keeping them rare, the GM can require an 
  Unusual Background.
  Unusual Background typically reflects, not an active 
  ability, but a passive state. For example, the active ability 
  to create new devices in the course of play could be repre-
  sented as Gadgeteer, but simply owning such a device – as 
  an earlier invention, an inheritance, a gift, or a purchase – 
  would be Unusual Background (see p. B477).
  On one hand, the point cost of Unusual Background 
  represents the rarity of a particular trait in a setting, fol-
  lowing the general assumption that traits that cost more 
  are less common. On the other, it reflects the advantage 
  gained from having traits that most people can’t have and 
  probably aren’t prepared to deal with – and may not even 
  believe in.
  The point cost of Unusual Background typically ranges 
  from 5 points for a modestly unusual trait, such as access 
  to cutting-edge technology (p. B345), to 50 points for 
  extremely rare traits, such as being a demigod or belong-
  ing to the world’s only super-team.
  Writers don’t start out by drawing 
  up character sheets for their heroes.
  
   
  people 
  39
  • Forget the whole issue of point value. Instead, ask 
  players to propose character concepts, and let them build 
  any character whose concept fits the source material and 
  the campaign, and who meets the other guidelines.
  RequIRed tRAIts
  Player characters may be required to have certain 
  traits: high enough attributes to survive their adventures; 
  wealth enough to fund them; training in certain manda-
  tory skills; or possession of a disadvantage such as Code of 
  Honor, Pacifism, or Sense of Duty. If people in the source 
  material all have certain traits, that argues for requiring 
  those traits for newly created player characters.
  Example (WM): The 108 Stars of Destiny are mas-
  ters of the martial arts; all of them should have at least  
  one of Heroic Archer, Trained by a Master, or Weapon 
  Master. (In fact there are scenes of characters training 
  other characters – see Expanding the Original Cast.) 
  Their origin as spirits can be represented by making 
  them all Reawakened.
  Example (WWOz): The Wizard’s help to Dorothy’s 
  companions takes the form of tricking them into believing 
  in themselves. They all have Delusions about their own 
  lack of wisdom, love, and courage. Helping Dorothy isn’t 
  so easy for him, because her problem isn’t a Delusion (she 
  really is a long way from Kansas!).
  dIvIsIon oF lABoR
  In many campaigns, it’s desirable for participants to 
  have niches, types of activity that they do really well and 
  that other people can’t take over from them. This idea 
  is something of a formula in genre-based series such 
  as GURPS Dungeon Fantasy and GURPS Monster 
  Hunters. Fictional sources don’t usually adhere so strictly 
  to a formula, but groups of characters often play distinct 
  roles. The real point of niches is their ability to contribute 
  in different ways to the pursuit of a goal; an examination 
  of the source can suggest what those ways are.
  Not all stories have to have niches. Characters with 
  much the same general abilities can be distinguished by 
  background or personality. In this kind of campaign, it’s 
  important to provide a little “downtime” where charac-
  ters’ personalities can emerge.
  Example (Drac.): Professor van Helsing contributes schol-
  arly and arcane knowledge; John Seward, medical skills; 
  Arthur Godalming, wealth and social influence; Quincey Mor-
  ris is a man of action; and Jonathan Harker provides legal 
  knowledge. Mina Harker not only has a telepathic link with 
  Dracula but is the real leader of the group – things start going 
  wrong when she’s excluded from the men’s discussions and 
  only begin going right when she takes charge.
  templAtes
  It can be useful to draw up templates for character creation. 
  If belonging to a nonhuman race is an option, a racial template 
  is definitely needed (Racial Traits, p. 35). If a source portrays a 
  society with definite roles, occupational templates can ensure 
  that characters fit their roles (see GURPS Template Toolkit 1: 
  Characters for guidance in depth).
  Campaigns set in more differentiated societies, such 
  as Europe and North America in the 19th century, have 
  far more occupations. But it’s possible to group them into 
  broader types, each represented by a template. Some such 
  list can be a worthwhile project for a GM whose players 
  need help with finding their way through character creation. 
  The templates can also offer built in niche protection, if  
  that’s wanted.
  Example (Odys.): The Odyssey portrays nobles (both men 
  and women), bards, sorceresses (see Magic and Its Variants, 
  p. 34), domestic servants, and herdsmen. These and perhaps a 
  few other occupational roles could cover the likely character 
  types in a campaign based on Greek heroic tales.
  expAndIng  
  the oRIgInAl CAst
  A campaign can have a mixed cast – some or all of  
  the heroes of the source work, plus some newly introduced 
  heroes. This is a natural development in a “what happened 
  next” campaign (Prequels and Sequels, pp. 6-7). It can also 
  be the basis for an alternate universe campaign (p. 7) where 
  some additional people have joined the team – though care 
  has to be taken that the added people don’t put the original 
  heroes in the shade! In either case, the question is how to 
  make the new people fit into a group that was created with-
  out them.
  The obvious option is to find a useful role that no one in 
  the original group is playing. In 20,000 Leagues Under the 
  Sea, for example, we have Professor Arronax, the scientist; 
  Conseil, his servant, with his trick of having memorized 
  the classifications of all marine animals; and Ned Land, 
  the man of action – but no ship’s engineer to figure out the 
  Nautilus’ design.
  Another possibility is to have a new character in the 
  same niche as an existing one, if it’s a niche where multiple 
  occupants can be useful. The old and new characters may 
  be rivals, friendly or otherwise. They may also be the best of 
  friends, like the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger (intro-
  duced in Ozma of Oz, Baum’s third Oz novel).
  A new character can be a romantic interest for an exist-
  ing one. This happens near the end of Water Margin, when 
  Zhang Qing (“Hotshot”) dreams of teaching a young woman 
  the art of throwing stones with infallible accuracy – and 
  then meets the actual lady, Qiu Qiongying (“Jade Arrow-
  tip”), who leaves a rebel army to fight beside him and later 
  marry him.
  This illustrates another possibility: having a former 
  adversary turn into an ally, out of sympathy or necessity. 
  Suppose, for example, that Elizabeth Bennet’s sister Lydia, 
  a few years after her marriage to George Wickham, discov-
  ered that he was involved in some dishonest scheme and 
  had gotten in over his head, and turned to her older sisters 
  and their husbands for help (as discussed under Mundane 
  Premises, p. 8)?
  
   
  thIngs 
  40
  Literary critics don’t have a standard name for inanimate 
  objects, though they often play an important role in narra-
  tive and drama. The mighty bow of Odysseus that lesser men 
  can’t string or draw, the Nautilus that Captain Nemo com-
  mands, and the silver shoes (changed to ruby slippers in the 
  movie) that Dorothy Gale takes from the body of the Wicked 
  Witch of the East are vital story elements. Such things are 
  more recognized in theater and film (as props) and in art crit-
  icism (where they’re called attributes). They’ve been vital to 
  roleplaying games from the beginning. GURPS calls many 
  of them equipment (pp. B264-289) or technology and artifacts 
  (pp. B462-485).
  nARRAtIve FunCtIon
  One important way to classify artifacts is by narrative 
  function, the role they play in a storyline or scenario.
  geAR
  Gear is what char-
  acters use to perform 
  tasks. In most sources, 
  people have the supplies 
  and equipment they need to use their skills. Character design 
  can include purchasing gear suited to the listed skills, or 
  belonging to an organization that can provide what’s needed 
  (see GURPS Boardroom and Curia). Performing a task with 
  improvised equipment can display unusual skill; good- or 
  fine-quality or technologically innovative equipment can indi-
  cate access to unusual resources. In either case, equipment 
  modifiers (p. B345) should apply. The logic also can be turned 
  around: A fictional character who owns a piece of equipment 
  will normally have the skill for using it. A catalog of available 
  gear can be based on what the source describes, and more 
  generally on the setting’s TL (see Technologies, pp. 18-19).
  Missing or unavailable equipment can give rise to dramatic 
  situations. Heroes may need to improvise gear from available 
  resources, scrounge for cheap gear, or persuade other peo-
  ple to give them what they need. Both Odysseus (Odys.) and 
  Dorothy Gale (WWOz) have to deal with such issues.
  Example (Odys.): Odysseus owns a composite bow, made 
  partly of horn and sinew. He has ST 15 – but his Strongbow 
  perk and Bow-18 skill let him draw a bow with ST 17, and he’s 
  wealthy enough to pay $3,600 (4¥ list price) for a fine bow. 
  This gives him 1/2D 384, Max 480, and Damage 1d+5 imp, 
  with other statistics unchanged. He doesn’t actually carry his 
  bow with him on his voyages, but when he gets back to Ithaca, 
  it’s there waiting for him.
  evIdenCe
  In an investigative scenario or campaign, objects and infor-
  mation can be evidence of some secret or mystery. The source 
  may describe particular types of clues, which make certain 
  skills important both for spotting essential details (often with 
  a Per-based skill) and for making sense of them (often with 
  an IQ-based skill). The GM can pick other objects to use in 
  roles similar to ones found in the source work. 
  The major characters may use their own investigative 
  skills, turn to an Ally or Contact for help, or even undertake 
  a search for someone with suitable expertise (discussed in 
  GURPS Social Engineering) to get information. For exam-
  ple, John Seward calls in his old teacher Abraham Van Helsing 
  to diagnose Lucy Westenra’s mysterious anemia (Drac.).
  Evidence in a scenario can be planned out in advance – but 
  it’s not a good idea to make the whole story depend on find-
  ing and understanding one clue; what if the investigators can’t 
  make sense of it, or can’t find it in the first place? A successful 
  roll against any investigative skill should give some kind of 
  hint at what’s going on, if there’s any sensible way for it to 
  do so – even if the GM didn’t plan for the use of that par-
  ticular skill. Understanding how the game world works (see 
  Describing the World, pp. 14-16) can help in coming up with 
  suitable clues.
  peRsonAlIzeRs
  The heroes of stories often have distinctive, recogniz-
  able possessions, like the pictorial attributes of saints that 
  symbolize their martyrdoms. Such objects may be perfectly 
  standard gear in the setting; for example, many of the 108 
  Stars of Destiny (WM) have favorite weapons, and Quincey 
  Morris (Drac.) carries a Bowie knife (written up on pp. 197 
  and 200 of GURPS High-Tech as a “survival knife”). Or they 
  can be high quality, like Odysseus’ bow (see Gear, above) or 
  Hu Sanniang’s 5’ swords (see p. 36). GURPS defines such 
  personalizers as Signature Gear. Their owners may also have 
  Weapon Bond or Equipment Bond as a perk (see GURPS 
  Power-Ups 2: Perks).
  Especially in fantastic stories, the heroes or their enemies 
  may have the ability to create one-of-a-kind gear by methods 
  such as invention, gadgeteering, or enchanting (see Fantastic 
  Items, p. 45). Anything of this sort is a personalizer.
  ChApteR FouR
  thIngs
  
   
  thIngs 
  41
  Example (WWOz): Nick Chopper, the Tin Woodman, is 
  never seen without his axe (p. 36). Since he’s a woodcutter, 
  this is best described as a felling axe (GURPS High-Tech, 
  p. 24). This costs $100; since Oz is TL4, one point of Signa-
  ture Gear is worth $1,000, more than enough to pay $500 
  for a good-quality axe that gives +1 to Carpentry and Pro-
  fessional Skill (Forester). Consider it improvised equipment 
  for Artist (Woodworking). Chopper wields it two-handed, so 
  in combat, it can be treated as a lighter great axe, inflicting 
  sw+2 cutting damage.
  vAluABles
  Other objects are important as embodiments of wealth – 
  gems, gold and silver coins, banknotes, or marketable goods in 
  general. Such things may be described in detail (see Decorated 
  Equipment, pp. 37-38, and Jewelry, pp. 38-39, in GURPS Low-
  Tech), but often they’re generic heaps of precious metal or 
  bundles of dollar bills. Their only required statistic is a value 
  in GURPS $.
  In a realistic story, valuables are a medium of 
  exchange; they’re used to buy or rent useful objects 
  or hire employees. In a cinematic one, such practical 
  issues are often swept aside. Valuables serve more as 
  a store of value – in fact, as treasure, like the gold, sil-
  ver, and silk that appear repeatedly in Water Margin.
  tRAnsCendents
  Finally, some objects embody extraordinary pow-
  ers or higher realms. Their primary narrative func-
  tion is to convey a sense of awe or amazement – or, 
  sometimes, of terror. Secondarily, they may play a role in the 
  storyline, as omens, threats, or the goals of quests, for exam-
  ple. They may even be usable by the heroes, as sources of spe-
  cial powers, or as protection against them, as Odysseus uses 
  the magical herb moly given to him by Hermes (Odys.).
  It’s hard for an object to continue inspiring wonder, 
  though, if the PCs rely on it all the time to solve problems. 
  Limiting an object’s use can protect its transcendence. Maybe 
  it’s only available once, or a few times; maybe it can be made 
  active but not fully controlled; maybe its use is stressful, peril-
  ous, or even corrupting.
  Example (Drac.): Consecrated communion wafers are dis-
  tributed daily in the Mass, but their effects on vampires in 
  Dracula are visible manifestations of divine power. When 
  Van Helsing first uses them, he emphasizes having obtained 
  special permission – this amounts to having a Contact with 
  supernatural talents. (By the end of the novel, though, he’s 
  keeping vampires off by drawing circles with powdered 
  wafers. Authors aren’t immune to turning rare wonders into 
  convenient machinery!)
  physICAl FoRm
  In game-mechanical terms, equipment serves various func-
  tions and takes forms suited to these functions.
  ClothIng And ARmoR
  Unless they’ve washed up naked after a shipwreck, like 
  Odysseus on the shore of Scheria, a story’s characters will be 
  wearing something. A film, television show, or graphic novel 
  will provide visual images. A novel or epic often describes 
  garments and grooming; if the descriptions are incomplete, 
  a history of costume can provide illustrations. The price 
  of garments can be estimated from the wearer’s Status 
  (Clothing, p. B266).
  Armor and protective gear, as described in the source, fre-
  quently can be matched up with equipment in GURPS Low-
  Tech, GURPS High-Tech, or GURPS Ultra-Tech. If the source 
  describes it as having superior qualities, give it higher DR, 
  lighter weight, or other advantages. If specific dimensions, 
  weights, or capabilities are mentioned, match the weight and 
  appearance as closely as possible.
  Example (20KL): The diving suits in 20,000 Leagues Under 
  the Sea are essentially TL5 closed-dress rigs (GURPS High-
  Tech, p. 73), but with the external compressor and air hose 
  removed: 175 lbs., $2,500. In their place is a large tank (GURPS 
  High-Tech, p. 74) of advanced TL(5+1) design that holds air 
  for 10 hours: 35 lbs., $600. (This is better than realistic TL8 
  air tanks.) Armor added to the chest allows full duration unaf-
  fected by local pressure; this can be treated as medium bronze 
  segmented plate (GURPS Low-Tech, p. 111) giving +4 DR: 18 
  lbs., $2,700. The total suit has DR 6 for hit locations 3-5, 9- 
  10, and 17-18; provides air for 10 hours, assuming mild exer-
  tion (pp. B351-352); and confers Immunity to Eye and Nose 
  Irritants, No Sense of Smell/Taste, and Tunnel Vision. Total: 
  $5,800, 228 lbs.
  peRsonAl geAR
  The simplest way to identify personal gear is from descrip-
  tions of characters carrying or using it. This applies particu-
  larly to weapons. Some research may be needed to identify the 
  obscure ones – such as the guisarme and the voulge in the list 
  of military weapons in Water Margin.
  A character sheet typically lists things the source’s author 
  didn’t bother to write about, or the director to show – but 
  that may become relevant in dealing with typical chal-
  lenges. Anyone who travels can be expected to have per-
  sonal basics, and likely a share of group basics (see p. B288).  
  MacGuffins
  Alfred Hitchcock popularized the word MacGuffin (some-
  times McGuffin or maguffin) for objects whose only role in a 
  story is to be pursued or fought over – such as the Maltese 
  Falcon in the movie by that title. What the object actually is 
  and does is unimportant. The heroes can’t make use of it, or 
  sell it and send the proceeds; in the end, it will be taken away 
  from them.
  
   
  thIngs 
  42
  In many settings, all major characters can be assumed to 
  have a standard load of basic gear (Presupposed Items, p. 45). 
  People in a TL5-8 campaign can be given personal accessories 
  (GURPS High-Tech, pp. 31-32); similar lists can be worked 
  out for lower and higher TLs. Characters can be assumed to 
  have equipment for maintaining their primary gear – a whet-
  stone for bladed tools or weapons, or a gun-cleaning kit for 
  firearms, for example. Anyone with a skill can be expected 
  to have tools, reference materials, supplies, and other things 
  needed to practice it – in compact form to carry around, 
  or in more elaborate form for use in a workplace (Other  
  Machines, p. 43).
  FuRnIshIngs
  Furnishings usually aren’t acquired as separate items; 
  they’re treated as part of the standard of living for a given TL, 
  culture, and Status. Their normal effect is to provide evidence 
  of Status. In some cases, furnishings may count as good- or 
  fine-quality equipment for a particular skill; for example, a 
  wealthy person might have a superior kitchen stove or elec-
  tronic sound system. The GM may need to give suggestions 
  for how people of different classes live in a particular setting.
  Similar judgments can be made about the furnishings of a 
  business or other organization, following guidelines in GURPS 
  Boardroom and Curia, p. 5. Schools or other instructional 
  organizations can provide facilities for learning; see GURPS 
  Social Engineering: Back to School, pp. 28-29.
  Wanderers who aren’t required to assign 80% of starting 
  wealth to furnishings and other fixed assets (p. B26) must 
  include any furnishings they own in their list of personal 
  gear – and account for their weight and cost! This doesn’t 
  apply to wanderers who have large vehicles as their resi-
  dences (Vehicles as Locations, p. 22). They can have furnish-
  ings suited to their Wealth and Status, whose specific weight 
  and cost need not be accounted for – though usually they’ll 
  be compact.
  Example (20KL): Captain Nemo has a museum of ocean-
  ographic specimens, a library of 12,000 books in many lan-
  guages (perhaps 1,000 shelf feet, a fine library giving +2 to 
  Research; see GURPS Low-Tech Companion 1: Philosophers 
  and Kings, pp. 33-34), some 30 paintings by artists from 
  Raphael to Delacroix, a number of sculptures, and a pipe 
  organ, but all fitted into about 1,000 square feet. To make 
  room, his personal cabin is small and almost monastic.
  vehICles
  Vehicles are some of the most significant artifacts in sto-
  ries. They provide a means of making journeys (Travel, p. 24). 
  They can transport other possessions. Large ones can be lived 
  in, and even act as mobile settings (Vehicles as Locations, 
  p. 22). The cost of a vehicle, and its styling and furnishings, 
  can make it evidence of the owner’s Status. If he invented it,  
  it can give proof of his genius.
  Vehicles in realistic stories, and some vehicles in fantas-
  tic stories, can often be compared to vehicles included in the 
  Basic Set (pp. B464-465) or various supplements. If there isn’t 
  a close enough match, it may be possible to find information 
  on real-world vehicles that can be used in working out GURPS 
  statistics. For purely imaginary vehicles, especially fantas-
  tic ones, the GM will need to make up statistics – unless the 
  author has done so.
  Example: The Nautilus
  To illustrate how statistics can be worked out for a vehicle, 
  here is the Nautilus. (Terms and notation are as defined in 
  Vehicle Statistics, pp. B462-463.)
  TL: The Nautilus was built around 1860 (TL5), but uses 
  more advanced technology than really existed then: TL(5+1).
  ST/HP: Captain Nemo tells Professor Arronax that the 
  Nautilus weighs 1,356.48 tonnes, which is approximately 
  2,991,000 lbs. or 1,496 tons. As a powered vehicle, it counts as 
  Unliving, giving it ST/HP 576.
  Hnd/SR: The Nautilus is comparable in size to a TL6 tramp 
  steamer (p. B464) and can be given the same statistics: -3/6.
  HT: Most machines have HT 10, but the Nautilus was 
  expensively built to high standards, and operates under condi-
  tions where failure could be catastrophic: HT 12.
  stRuCtuRes
  Structures are normally treated as locations. Habitable 
  dwellings, in particular, can usually be defined as build-
  ings (pp. 21-22). (For underground construction, see 
  GURPS Underground Adventures, pp. 13-14.) Some 
  structures are potentially movable and gain their integrity 
  entirely from internal construction, though they may have 
  a point of attachment; aerostats (hollow structures held 
  aloft by lighter-than-air gases), large rafts, mobile homes, 
  and orbital stations are examples. These can be described 
  as vehicles, with some modifications (see pp. B462-463):
  • Not being able to move under their own power, they 
  have ST 0, and usually Taboo Trait (Fixed ST). If writ-
  ing them up as characters, give them Injury Tolerance 
  (Homogenous) and base their Payload on HP rather than 
  ST (a +0% modifier).
  • Since they don’t move, they have no Hnd. However, 
  they’re usually large enough to have a high SR: a mobile 
  home could have SR 4 (similar to a bus); a small aerostat, 
  SR 3 (similar to a blimp); and a small space station SR 5 
  (similar to a star freighter).
  • Give them Acceleration (Move) of 0, and Top Speed 
  of 0 (no Enhanced Move).
  • Range doesn’t apply, since they don’t move under 
  their own power.
  • An aerostat by definition has Stall 0.
  See GURPS Spaceships 6: Mining and Industrial 
  Spacecraft and “Alternate Spaceships” in Pyramid #3/34: 
  Alternate GURPS for tips on using the GURPS Spaceships 
  rules to design detailed game stats for structures.
  
   
  thIngs 
  43
  Move: The highest speed mentioned for the Nautilus is 50 
  mph, which equates to Move 25. Its Acceleration isn’t defined, 
  but can be estimated. A tramp steamer (p. B464), with Top 
  Speed 6, has acceleration 0.01, or 1/600 of its Top Speed, 
  implying that it can reach Top Speed in 10 minutes (600 sec-
  onds); the Nautilus, at an equivalent TL, seems to function as 
  a high-performance vehicle, so its Acceleration can be set at 
  1/300 of Top Speed, or 0.0833, rounded to 0.08, which lets it 
  reach Top Speed in just over five minutes. A more typical speed 
  is 32 mph (Move 16), a normal cruising speed (p. B463). At 
  this speed, its turning radius is 16/0.08 = 200 yards, about 
  2.6¥ its length (pp. B394-395).
  Loaded Weight (LWt.): 2,990,000 lbs. is 1,495 tons. This 
  increases to 1,654 tons when fully submerged; the differ-
  ence comes from filled water tanks in the outer hull.
  Load: The Nautilus isn’t designed as a cargo vessel. Its 
  carrying capacity might be estimated at 33 tons (the Basic 
  Lift for its ST, equivalent to Payload 10).
  SM: At 70 meters long (77 yards), the Nautilus has SM 
  +10. It’s a fast, narrow craft, so this isn’t increased for 
  box shape.
  Occ.: The largest number of crewmen seen at once is 20; 
  the biography of Captain Nemo included in The Mysterious 
  Island refers to “some twenty of his closest friends.” There 
  is space for at least three passengers.
  DR: According to Captain Nemo, the inner hull is five 
  centimeters thick (2”), and made of steel, which gives it DR 
  112 (see p. B558). The thickness of the outer hull isn’t spec-
  ified, but the weight budget is more than enough to allow it 
  to be equally thick, for total DR 224.
  Range: The “20,000 leagues” or 49,700 miles of the title 
  is completed with only one stop to replace the submarine’s 
  batteries, roughly midway through the voyage. This can be 
  taken as an estimate of its range.
  Cost: The cost of the Nautilus is never specified (but  
  see below).
  Locations (Loc.): The design includes a very small super-
  structure and four windows for observation: 4gs. As a pow-
  ered vehicle, the Nautilus also has vital areas.
  Draft: The diameter of the Nautilus is eight meters (8.75 
  yards). It has 90% of its volume underwater when its tanks are 
  empty; given its cylindrical cross-section, perhaps 20% of its 
  diameter is above water, giving it draft 21’.
  Notes: The Nautilus carries no conventional weapons, but is 
  equipped with a ram. At cruising speed (32 mph or Move 16), 
  it inflicts (576 ¥ 16) / 100 = 92.16d of crushing damage, rounded 
  down to 92d; the ram makes this 92d+92 damage to its target. 
  Collision damage to the Nautilus itself is at -1 per die.
  As a combat element (see GURPS Mass Combat), the 
  Nautilus can be represented as a very fine TL6 subma-
  rine – actually TL(5+1) – of class Nav, T1 with TS 8,000 
  and sea mobility. Its cost to raise is $60,000,000, doubled to 
  $120,000,000 for one level of High TL.
  otheR mAChInes
  Machines are comparable partly to furnishings and partly 
  to vehicles. They have a complex internal structure (making 
  them Unliving rather than Homogenous) and an intended 
  function. They aren’t normally designed for long-term occu-
  pancy, though they may have a seat for an operator. Their 
  functions are too widely variable to be defined by any simple 
  system of rules, but GURPS Low-Tech, GURPS High-Tech, 
  GURPS Ultra-Tech, and GURPS Low-Tech Companion 3: 
  Daily Life and Economics offer examples.
  Heavy weapons, whose operation calls for Artillery or Gun-
  ner rolls, can be classified as machines, from TL1 battering 
  rams and TL2 ballistae to TL7 HEAT rounds and 
  guided missiles (or the science-fictional weapons in 
  GURPS Ultra-Tech). If such weapons turn up in a 
  source, they usually can be approximated by one of 
  the heavy weapons in the various tech supplements.
  The Nautilus
  SUBMARINE/TL (LARGE SUB)
  TL Vehicle
  ST/HP
  Hnd/SR
  HT
  Move
  LWt
  Load
  SM
  Occ.
  DR
  Range
  Cost
  Loc.
  Draft
  Notes
  5+1 Nautilus
  576
  -3/6
  12
  0.08/25
  1,654
  33
  +10
  23
  224
  24,850
  $120M
  4gs
  21’
  [1]
  Notes
  [1] Cost is estimated with GURPS Mass Combat rules. See Notes, below, for details on weapons.
  oBjeCts As ChARACteRs
  There are times when it makes sense to define an inan-
  imate object by giving it a character sheet. This is a stan-
  dard option for vehicles (see Personalizers, pp. 40-41).
  In some fictional worlds, inanimate objects really are 
  characters, in a sense that goes beyond game mechanics: 
  They are sapient, have personalities, are capable of agency 
  (see p. 46), or all three. In fantasy, this could apply to mag-
  ically animated beings (including spontaneously animated 
  ones such as the Scarecrow in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz) 
  or certain enchanted objects (see GURPS Thaumatology, 
  pp. 116-120); in science fiction, typical examples are com-
  puters, AIs, and robots (see GURPS Ultra-Tech, pp. 27-35, 
  for general rules). Such beings should be defined much like 
  human characters; however, they typically are Unliving 
  (fantasy entities such as golems may be Homogenous), and 
  in science fiction, they often have Digital Mind.
  Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.
  – American folk saying
  
   
  thIngs 
  44
  lIFe FoRms
  Animals, and even plants, can sometimes be written up as 
  characters; this is appropriate for animals that can speak, like 
  the Cowardly Lion, and for loyal companions that are treated 
  as Allies or Dependents. But nonsapient life forms typically 
  are given partial statistics. The Basic Set provides guidelines 
  and multiple examples (pp. B455-461). This also applies to 
  most nonsapient monsters.
  Example: Kalidahs
  As the heroes travel to the Emerald City, two Kalidahs 
  attack Dorothy and her companions. These are huge, fierce 
  beasts, larger than the Cowardly Lion, who is “as big as a 
  small horse.” Since horses have SM +1, they are given SM 
  +2, with length four yards, ST 22, and weight 1,300 lbs. Their 
  other attributes average those of grizzly bears and tigers; how-
  ever, their Will is raised and their Per lowered from those of a 
  tiger. They appear to be true animals, without sapience. They 
  are universally feared and hence are classified as “monsters.”
  Kalidah
  Kalidahs are Oz’s most dangerous predators. They have 
  heads like those of tigers and bodies like those of bears. They 
  often go upright, especially to attack with the large, sharp 
  claws on their front feet; when doing so, they are limited to 
  Move 5.
  ST: 22 
  HP: 22 
  Speed: 6.00
  DX: 12 
  Will: 12 
  Move: 9
  IQ: 4 
  Per: 10 
  Weight: 1,300 lbs.
  HT: 12 
  FP: 12 
  SM: +2
  Dodge: 10 
  Parry: 12 
  DR: 2
  Bite (16): 2d+1 cutting. Reach C, 1.
  Talons (16): 2d+1 cutting or impaling. Reach C, 1.
  Traits: Bad Temper (12); Combat Reflexes; Night Vision 
  2; No Fine Manipulators; Semi-Upright; Sharp Teeth; 
  Social Stigma (Monster); Talons; Temperature Tolerance 
  2; Wild Animal.
  Skills: Brawling-16; Survival (Woodlands)-12.
  AvAIlABIlIty
  In running a campaign, there are two big questions about 
  objects: Which ones exist in the setting, and how can PCs gain 
  access to them?
  teCh level And  
  vARIAnt teChnology
  Availability of technology is what GURPS tech levels are 
  based on. What defines a TL isn’t laboratory demonstrations, 
  the experiments of mad scientists, or prototype designs, but 
  devices that have been brought into production. In market 
  economies, most of the technology that defines a TL can be 
  purchased for money – though it may be so expensive that 
  only a national government can afford it!
  Once a setting’s TL has been defined (Technologies, 
  pp. 18-19), it’s usually fair to assume that devices at that TL 
  are available, whether or not the source discusses them. This 
  can be modified to fit a variant TL.
  Some sources bring together characters from different TLs. 
  Giving some people High TL (if the setting is a less advanced 
  country) or Low TL (if it’s the most advanced country in the 
  world) can represent this kind of gap. Low-TL people may be 
  able to use High-TL equipment – if you can fire a crossbow, 
  you can figure out a rifle or a laser – but they’ll have trouble 
  maintaining it, repairing it, obtaining supplies to use with it, 
  and understanding its implications.
  Skills such as Engineer, Computer Programming, and Bio-
  engineering can be used to design and build more advanced 
  equipment, and a gadgeteer can achieve heroic feats along 
  these lines (pp. B473-477). An inventor can get past some  
  of the usual tech-level restrictions on gear.
  Example (Drac.): Much of the struggle against Dracula 
  turns on the use of TL6 technology and organization as a 
  weapon. Dracula has access to the technology, but doesn’t 
  fully understand it. For example, he travels back to Tran-
  sylvania by sailing ship, but his foes go by train and inter- 
  cept him!
  legAlIty
  Certain types of material objects may be technically pos-
  sible but unavailable for legal reasons. This will depend on 
  the society’s Control Rating (CR), as discussed under War and 
  Politics (p. 20). For weapons and some other gear and equip-
  ment, this is defined in terms of Legality Class (p. B507). In 
  fact, what weapons are legally permitted in a setting is one of 
  the main indications of its CR. Of course, outlaws won’t pay 
  any attention to such limitations!
  It was not likely that a private individual could have such a marvel 
  of mechanical engineering at his command. Where and when could  
  he have built it? How could he have kept its construction a secret?
  – Jules Verne, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
  
   
  thIngs 
  45
  Possessions can be restricted for reasons other than their 
  use in combat or intrigue. Many societies have sumptuary 
  laws, which either prohibit owning, wearing, or consuming 
  certain things (for example, Prohibition in the United States) 
  or permit them only to certain social classes (for example, 
  ancient Irish laws that defined how many different colors peo-
  ple of different ranks in society could wear). This reflects the 
  culture of a setting (Cultures, p. 19).
  WeAlth
  The ability to acquire gear is usually constrained by cost. 
  This may be simply a matter of checking the price to buy the 
  equipment (pp. B264-289 and GURPS Low-Tech, GURPS 
  High-Tech, and GURPS Ultra-Tech). But inventing new equip-
  ment also has costs: the inventor must pay for the facilities for 
  his work, and for each prototype that he tests (p. B474).
  In creating a character, this limit is usually applied the 
  other way around. First decide what equipment the character 
  needs, and then determine how much Wealth it will take to 
  buy that equipment, or to invent it, and give the person that 
  much Wealth.
  pResupposed Items
  In some campaigns, it makes sense for the heroes to have 
  possessions and equipment they weren’t required to pay for. 
  The crew of a large vessel, for example, commonly aren’t 
  co-owners and don’t have to pay its cost. Soldiers may have 
  equipment issued by the army they serve in. The same is true 
  in many mundane, nonadventuring jobs: doctors in a hospital 
  or forensic scientists in a police department get supplies and 
  equipment by requisitioning them, not by paying for them out 
  of pocket.
  In general, it’s appropriate for anyone who has a Duty to be 
  provided with the equipment needed to perform it – though 
  this can vary with the cultural background.
  Organizationally Provided Items
  Another way to get possessions without paying for them 
  is to make a special request to a sponsoring organization. 
  GURPS Social Engineering: Pulling Rank provides detailed 
  rules for making such requests. GURPS Boardroom and 
  Curia, p. 16 discusses typical sorts of aid obtainable from 
  organizations of various types.
  FAntAstIC Items
  Some items simply can’t be purchased in a given setting; 
  they have to be acquired from extraordinary sources. Most 
  of these appear in the fantastic genres, and it’s convenient 
  to call them fantastic items generically. However, they could 
  also be “best equipment possible at your TL” (p. B345), which 
  might be provided by a government or comparably power-
  ful organization. Conversely, in a society where magic is 
  commonly practiced (Supernatural Forces, p. 20), making 
  enchanted objects may be a recognized career, and it may be 
  possible to commission magical gear or even buy it from a 
  dealer – in which case such gear is restricted by money and 
  legality in the usual ways.
  What fantastic equipment is available can be determined 
  directly or indirectly. Directly acquired equipment is paid for 
  with character points, based on the advantages it grants. That 
  fact that it’s equipment is represented by giving it gadget lim-
  itations (pp. B116-117). The GM may want to consider giving it 
  a power modifier as well (see p. B254 or GURPS Powers), such 
  as Divine for sacred relics, Magical for mystical objects (in a 
  world where such objects are rare and can’t normally be pur-
  chased), or Superscience for unique creations of gadgeteers 
  (pp. B475-477; see GURPS Powers, p. 107, for a definition of 
  Superscience). The power modifier represents the narrative 
  justification for the object’s availability. Other modifiers may 
  be applied to define the object’s abilities more accurately. If 
  such equipment is rare, its possessors may be required to have 
  an Unusual Background (see p. 38).
  Having a fantastic item grant a one-time benefit can lower 
  its point cost; someone who is designated as the owner of such 
  an item pays 1/5 the normal cost per use. The GM can simply 
  disregard the point costs of items acquired through adven-
  tures, as the benefits they grant are only temporary (discussed 
  under Transcendents, p. 41).
  A common way to gain fantastic items indirectly is to have 
  them granted by a Patron (pp. B72-74; p. 28). This will usually 
  be at least an ultra-powerful individual such as a manifesta-
  tion of a god; it may be a true god. The ability to offer fantastic 
  gear is Special Abilities at the +100% level; if the equipment is 
  provided on a continuing basis, rather than for a single task, 
  mission, or quest, that’s Equipment at the +100% level. If the 
  PC has a Duty to the Patron, the provision of equipment for the 
  performance of that Duty does not require a special modifier.
  Example (WWOz): After Dorothy melts the Wicked Witch 
  of the West, she acquires her magical golden cap, which has 
  the power to summon the Winged Monkeys. Two of them can 
  carry Dorothy (and Toto!), who probably weigh about 60 lbs. 
  The Cowardly Lion is “as big as a small horse,” perhaps 800 
  lbs. (similar to a pony – p. B460), which suggests that about 27 
  Winged Monkeys would be needed to carry him; adding a few 
  more for the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, the total band 
  might be close to 50. They count as Allies with the Minion 
  and Summonable enhancements, and always appear when 
  summoned. Each of the three uses of the golden cap would 
  be worth one-fifth the resulting point cost – if Dorothy had to 
  pay it.
  Artifacts are those odds 
  and ends that look as 
  though they could do  
  a lot more than lie  
  around looking interesting.
  – Alec Worley, Empires 
  of the Imagination
  
   
  ACtIon 
  46
  The topics of the last three chapters – places, people, and 
  things – are the nouns of a story or a campaign. But gram-
  mar needs verbs as well as nouns: words that describe actions. 
  To create a campaign, its places and things, and especially its 
  people, need to be put into action.
  AgenCy
  Agency is the ability to make things happen. Agency is 
  important to roleplaying games in two ways. First, players 
  want to have agency – to make choices that affect the out-
  come of a scene, session, or campaign. They don’t want to 
  just sit there while the GM tells them a story. Second, players 
  normally want their characters to have agency – to be people 
  (or aliens or creatures or robots!) whose actions make a dif-
  ference. Even in a horror game where the world is doomed 
  and people are going mad or losing their humanity, the player 
  characters struggle to fight off madness and despair and to 
  save the world for another day.
  outWARd ACtIon
  The obvious form of action, and the one many games 
  focus on, is external action, doing things that bring about a 
  change in the world – or prevent one. (“The world” includes 
  other people.)
  The ability to perform external actions is represented on 
  a character sheet by physical attributes, Per, and many skills. 
  The things characters have to act on are other characters, 
  technology and artifacts, and settings. The results of these 
  actions include arrival at various places; victory or defeat in 
  struggles with other characters; objects found or created; and 
  wealth, relationships, and social positions. In other words, 
  nearly all the things that define a lot of characters relate to 
  outward action.
  InWARd ACtIon
  Internal action is subtler. It involves performing tasks that 
  change the doer – gaining him insight or knowledge, or shap-
  ing his own character. This can be purely private and solitary. 
  But relationships can change the people involved in them; 
  emotional involvement with another person can be a form of 
  internal action.
  The ability to perform internal actions is represented by 
  Will, IQ, and some skills. These can be used to learn, seek 
  understanding, live by a commitment, or struggle against a 
  psychological weakness – or to resist doing any of these things! 
  The results of making these choices include skills and many 
  mental advantages and disadvantages, particularly self-im-
  posed disadvantages and changes in the self-control number 
  for behavioral disadvantages. Inward action is about making 
  one’s self a certain kind of person.
  Physical training is a borderline case. It changes the attri-
  butes (ST, HT, and sometimes DX) and the skills of the per-
  son undergoing it, which could be considered “internal.” But 
  those traits are used mainly to act on the external world. And 
  effective training often involves doing things similar to out-
  ward action: running to gain HT and become Fit, sparring 
  to learn fighting skills, or using tools to practice craft skills, 
  for example.
  ACtIon And the WoRld
  People act not only on things in a world (themselves among 
  them) but within a world. What kind of world it is determines 
  the nature of those actions, in several ways.
  possIBle ACtIons
  What is it possible to do? This is a question about the world, 
  and especially about its natural laws; it’s an important part of 
  the campaign’s premise (pp. 8-9). In a mundane campaign, 
  it depends on the available technology, on the skills that it’s 
  possible to learn, and on the organizations and resources that 
  can support an enterprise. Fantastic worlds add one or more 
  “miracles”: advanced or superscientific technologies, magic, 
  cinematic skills, or superhuman powers.
  To turn a source into a campaign setting, start by 
  identifying things that it shows to be definitely possi-
  ble – especially activities that are springboards for plots 
  or may provide premises for new stories (Premise, pp. 8-9).  
  ChApteR FIve
  ACtIon
  Conflict is necessary to fiction and 
  drama – and to roleplaying games!
  
   
  ACtIon 
  47
  Just as important, identify things that shouldn’t be possible: 
  actions that have been shown to be impossible, that would 
  clash with the genre (for example, spell casting in hard sci-
  ence fiction), or whose possibility would give characters 
  shortcuts around the complications of the original story; see 
  also Excluded Options for Characters, p. 38.
  AppRopRIAte ACtIons
  The actions in a story have to be appropriate to its nar-
  rative conventions; each fictional setting operates in a way 
  consistent with those conventions. Wuxia heroes can hardly 
  walk down the street without meeting someone skilled in 
  martial arts and getting into a contest of skill (as in early 
  chapters of Water Margin). Four-color supers have similar 
  battles between colorfully costumed heroes and villains, 
  who wield amazing powers but somehow never actually 
  kill anyone. Such typical situations are features of the cam-
  paign’s genre (pp. 9-10).
  Even mimetic fiction has genre conventions (p. 9). These 
  may seem like “just the way things are,” but that’s because pres-
  ent-day audiences take these particular customs for granted.
  In designing a campaign world, keep the genre expecta-
  tions in mind. Either make traits and events that clash with 
  them impossible, or make them difficult to achieve – for exam-
  ple, by requiring an Unusual Background (see p. 38).
  themAtIC ACtIons
  Thematic actions are activities a campaign focuses on 
  (From Idea to Action, p. 12). In designing a campaign, iden-
  tify its key activities by how much time the source spends 
  on them. The players will expect that their characters can 
  do those sorts of things. For example, Water Margin has con-
  stant scenes of armed or unarmed duels; Pride and Prejudice 
  keeps coming back to social position, manners, and court-
  ship. Find rules that give expanded detail and a wider range 
  of options for them than the Basic Set provides; GURPS 
  Martial Arts and GURPS Social Engineering are particu-
  larly useful.
  motIvAted ACtIons
  The campaign setting also provides reasons to act. These 
  can be external rewards and threats; for example, the story 
  of Water Margin is set in motion by the corrupt Gao Qiu’s 
  rise to imperial favor. But they can also be internal motives 
  that fit the cultural background; for example, in Pride and 
  Prejudice, the initial conflict is a result of Darcy’s pride, and 
  its later resolution, of his sense of what his honor as a gen-
  tleman demands.
  In designing a campaign, think about the culture of its 
  characters – both what it recognizes as credible rewards 
  and threats, and what codes of conduct it encourages, rep-
  resented as Code of Honor, Disciplines of Faith, Fanaticism, 
  Sense of Duty, Vows, and similar traits. Internal motives 
  are especially suited to a campaign that emphasizes inward 
  action (p. 46).
  Codes of conduct can be customized to reflect a fictional 
  setting. Odysseus, for example, lives by an ancient Greek 
  concept of honor that makes a guest’s person sacred (the 
  Cyclops demonstrates his savagery by violating this cus-
  tom). Such requirements can often be treated as variants 
  within existing versions of a disadvantage, but it’s perfectly 
  legitimate, and sometimes necessary, to define a new version 
  with a new name. Code of Honor (Xia) from GURPS Martial 
  Arts and Disciplines of Faith (Contemplation) from GURPS 
  Thaumatology: Chinese Elemental Powers, for example, 
  were created for their sourcebooks; these could fit some of the 
  heroes of Water Margin.
  ConFlICtIng ACtIons
  Conflict is necessary to fiction and drama – and to roleplay-
  ing games! We want the heroes to succeed (but see Horror and 
  Tragedy, p. 48), but if there’s no doubt of their success, there’s 
  no tension and little involvement. GURPS represents immedi-
  ate uncertainty of success with success rolls, with Regular and 
  Quick Contests, and often with combat scenes. But it’s more 
  effective if these grow out of a long-term conflict and form 
  part of a continuing struggle. There are several options for 
  such a central conflict.
  
   
  ACtIon 
  48
  Character vs. Fate/God
  A struggle against a supernatural force. This may take the 
  form of trying to overcome a curse or taint, such as vampir-
  ism. Struggles to evade a prophecy also belong here. A charac-
  ter vs. monster story belongs here if an offended god sent the 
  monster. Example: the Odyssey.
  In designing a campaign world, look at the supernatural 
  versions of Enemy, and at supernaturally themed disadvan-
  tages that such a being might inflict: Destiny, Divine Curse, 
  Phantom Voices, Unluckiness, Unnatural Features, or even 
  Weirdness Magnet.
  Conflict with gods doesn’t usually take the form of combat; 
  the odds are hopelessly against any mortal who attempts it.  
  A hero might defeat a monster or a divine servitor such as the 
  angel that wrestles with Jacob in Genesis 32:22-32. A tragic 
  hero may inspire awe by contending against an impossibly 
  superior foe.
  Character vs. Character
  A struggle between two characters or groups of char-
  acters: this is the most common form of action/adventure 
  story, but also includes capers, mysteries, and romances. It 
  can include character vs. machine or character vs. monster 
  if the machine or monster is sapient. Examples: Pride and 
  Prejudice; 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea; Dracula; the climac-
  tic struggle in the Odyssey.
  In designing a campaign world, treat such conflicts as 
  involving an Enemy or a series of short-term adversaries. 
  These can be Watchers or Rivals rather than Hunters. This 
  type of conflict often turns into physical combat; see Combat 
  Skills (pp. 30-31) for guidelines on skill levels for opponents.
  Character vs. Nature
  A struggle against the impersonal forces of the natural 
  world. This is another classic form of action/adventure story. 
  The type of conflicting action includes castaways striving to 
  survive, disaster and post-apocalyptic stories, and hunting 
  stories. Character vs. monster belongs here if the monster is 
  nonsapient. Examples: Incidents in The Wonderful Wizard of 
  Oz and the Odyssey; much of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
  In designing a campaign world, focus on environmental 
  hazards (Wild Places, pp. 22-23; Destructive Environments, 
  p. 23); dangerous events such as storms, floods, or fires; and 
  predatory or aggressive life forms, including outright mon-
  sters (Life Forms, p. 44). Dealing with dangerous living crea-
  tures can often involve physical combat.
  Character vs. Self
  A mainly internal conflict, where people try to overcome 
  their own weaknesses or choose between two possible selves. 
  This is important in GURPS, in the form both of self-imposed 
  “virtuous” disadvantages (p. B121) and of disadvantages with 
  self-control rolls (pp. B120-B121). If it’s going to be brought 
  into the foreground, players should be asked to portray the 
  struggle – for example, by revealing actions or 
  by characters debating with themselves. The 
  GM can encourage this by awarding charac-
  ter points for well-played scenes. Examples: 
  In Pride and Prejudice, when Darcy confesses 
  his love for Elizabeth. In Dracula, after Mina 
  has been infected with vampirism.
  Character vs. self is the least likely form 
  of conflict to give rise to physical combat. 
  However, a protagonist may need to strug-
  gle against himself to find the will to fight – 
  or to hold back from excessive violence. A 
  close emotional relationship with a foe can 
  also make inner conflict a hindrance in a 
  fight; for example, the foe’s margin of vic-
  tory in an Influence roll can act as a penalty 
  to an attack roll.
  Character vs. Society
  A variant on character vs. character, in 
  which the protagonists struggle not against 
  individual opponents, but against organi-
  zations or an entire culture. Some versions 
  assume a good society whose values have 
  been corrupted; others reject even these fundamental values. 
  “Victims of society” stories about prisoners, fugitives, subju-
  gated or exploited people, or inhabitants of dystopia fit here. 
  Can have very large casts of characters; can include character 
  vs. machine if the machine is under human control. Example: 
  Water Margin.
  In designing a game world, look at the social background 
  (Cultures, p. 19; War and Politics, p. 20). Organizations that act 
  on behalf of the society or its rulers can be described using 
  GURPS Boardroom and Curia. The central characters can be 
  given Enemy (normally organizational rather than individual), 
  Secret, or Social Stigma of some appropriate form.
  In realistic campaigns, character vs. society doesn’t usually 
  take the form of physical combat; numbers and organization 
  favor society too heavily. Winning out against society depends 
  partly on personal integrity, and partly on influence and orga-
  nizational skills (see GURPS Social Engineering). Cinematic 
  campaigns can give small bands of heroes the ability to win 
  fights against vastly superior numbers, through amazing skill 
  or heroic endurance.
  hoRRoR And tRAgedy
  We like our heroes to succeed – but there are genres and modes where 
  they don’t. Tragic heroes suffer terribly and often die; characters in hor-
  ror, if they survive, often lose bodily integrity, sanity, or friends and loved 
  ones, and gain haunting memories.
  What makes this sort of story enjoyable? Part of the pleasure is sheer 
  intensity of feeling; the audience empathizes with the characters’ suf-
  fering or fear, but at the same time has it framed within a narrative or 
  drama, so that it moves but doesn’t overwhelm them. Part of it is also 
  that there is an element of success. The tragic hero is destroyed, not by 
  random accidents or external enemies, but by his own choices, particu-
  larly his insistence on preserving his own character. The hero of a horror 
  story struggles to endure and continue to act even in the face of terror. 
  These genres are to inward action what action/adventure and thrillers 
  are to outward action.
  Dracula is one of the classics of horror. Captain Nemo, the adversary 
  in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, is a nearly perfect tragic hero, with his 
  brilliance, self-imposed exile, and desperate loneliness.
  
   
  ACtIon 
  49
  ConsequenCes oF ACtIons
  When the dice come out, it’s the fact that actions have 
  consequences that makes the roll dramatic. When players 
  pick up the dice, they’re saying that their characters care 
  enough about the possible good consequences to be willing 
  to risk the possible bad consequences. Combat is the proto-
  type for this, which is why it’s so central to most campaigns – 
  but it’s not the only example. Characters can take physical or 
  emotional risks in many ways. Ideally, every roll of the dice 
  should carry some real risk with it.
  On one hand, the source material’s “natural 
  laws” define what these consequences are, and 
  what risks the heroes are taking. On the other, 
  the consequences of in-game actions can include 
  departures from the source material: they can 
  supply takeoff points for new storylines, perma-
  nently change or even kill major characters, or 
  even transform the entire setting (for example, 
  in a revelatory campaign; see p. 51). It’s best 
  for the GM to think through these possible out-
  comes ahead of time!
  modes
  Mode is the way a campaign presents its content. This is a 
  separate question from what the content is. In terms of content, 
  the mundane contrasts with the fantastic (Premises, pp. 8-9); 
  in terms of mode, the realistic contrasts with the cinematic.
  Mode is one of the features of a source that make a big 
  impression on its audience. Players who enjoyed a cinematic 
  book or movie will expect to play their characters in a cin-
  ematic style, and to have the game world and play style let 
  this work; being held back by realistic details will spoil their 
  fun. Players who enjoy figuring out those details will feel 
  cheated if handwaving works as well as careful preparation. 
  Although it’s possible to switch modes, players need to know 
  about it before the campaign starts. So identifying a source’s 
  mode is vital.
  CInemAtIC modes
  What GURPS calls “cinematic,” earlier ages might have 
  called epic or theatrical. Epics have large-scale narratives 
  that carry the reader along, a focus on individual heroes, and 
  broad characterization with straightforward motives. Theater 
  provides visual spectacle and striking dialogue. Cinema adds 
  visual storytelling devices such as montage, panorama, and 
  crosscutting, and a sense of movement.
  Cinematic works can be recognized in a number of ways. 
  Their characters tend to be archetypes or stereotypes, with 
  straightforward motives and without psychological complex-
  ity (though they can have inner conflicts); major characters 
  are driven by ideals or passions. Dialogue is passionate, elo-
  quent, or witty; characters whose players aren’t so eloquent 
  may get lots of rolls vs. Public Speaking or Influence skills! 
  Battles are decided by outcomes of heroes fighting one on 
  one; crowds of lesser foes are only temporary obstacles. The 
  drive of the narrative to reach a climax carries the story 
  along, usually to an unambiguous defeat or victory. Game 
  rules such as wildcard skills, cinematic mechanics, and in 
  particular spending points to buy success (p. B347) help to 
  attain this.
  The Odyssey is largely cinematic, with a larger-than-life 
  hero undergoing a series of adventures – and, even more 
  important, with the goddess Athena providing advice and help 
  with minor obstacles, so that the story isn’t slowed down. Water 
  Margin is even more so, with even the largest battles being 
  fought as one-on-one duels of opposing leaders. The Wonderful 
  Wizard of Oz is mainly cinematic, though the Wizard’s reliance 
  on technology and fast-talk is a touch of realism.
  ReAlIstIC modes
  Realism in GURPS is largely a matter of verisimilitude, a 
  flow of events that gives a convincing impression of reality. 
  This approach became common with the emergence of novels 
  as a literary form. An important part of realism is austerity, the 
  degree to which actions have consequences in the campaign 
  world and the difficulty of avoiding those consequences. The 
  standard GURPS rules provide moderate realism; it’s possi-
  ble to go further to gritty realism, using rules that emphasize 
  obstacles and consequences.
  Realistic characters are shown as human, complex, and 
  flawed; their motives reflect their social relationships or emo-
  tional conflicts. Dialogue tends to be down to earth, without 
  elaborate speeches. Good tactics in a fight can take advantage 
  of the combat environment, but battles may come down to 
  numbers and endurance; the GM should consider adopting 
  rules for things like bleeding or damage to weapons. Rather 
  than slowing down the story, practical details and planning 
  are a big part of what the story is about.
  Pride and Prejudice is at the realistic end of the spectrum; 
  its most theatrical touch is the articulate dialogue of its main 
  characters. Dracula has a strong element of realism in its 
  heroes’ use of scientific inquiry, business organization, and 
  technology; Dracula himself is the most cinematic figure 
  in the novel – which doesn’t work to his advantage! 20,000 
  Leagues Under the Sea is on the borderline: Nemo himself 
  is a larger-than-life figure, but the novel’s heroes are not; 
  and while Verne gives Nemo’s inventions verisimilitude with 
  exact engineering measurements, their capabilities are not 
  extrapolated from real technology, but dictated by the needs 
  of the story – in effect, they’re a cinematic rendering of the 
  idea of realism.
  It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll.
  I am the master of my fate,
  I am the captain of my soul.
  – William Ernest Henley, “Invictus”
  
   
  ACtIon 
  50
  nARRAtIves
  Roleplaying games are played by narrating the characters’ 
  actions and delivering their dialogue. Every game naturally 
  creates an ongoing story. But there are different ways to orga-
  nize a story. Campaigns with sources will often follow the 
  same narrative form as their source – but they don’t have to; 
  switching narrative form can help create a fresh starting place 
  in a familiar setting (see Premise, pp. 8-9).
  epIsodIC CAmpAIgns
  Some sources, and some campaigns, are divided into self- 
  contained episodes. This was common for television shows 
  and comic books of the 1950s and 1960s. Before that, it was 
  found in picaresque novels (from Spanish picaro, “rogue”), 
  which followed an adventurer through a series of uncon-
  nected exploits.
  An episodic campaign needs a new situation, challenge, or 
  adversary every session or two. Enemies usually won’t reap-
  pear after their defeat, though exceptions can be made for 
  those who leave a big impression. World-building concerns 
  take a back seat: It might be improbable that there are that 
  many criminal masterminds, monsters, or superpowered 
  villains in the setting, but somehow, they’ll keep turning up. 
  The player characters become more capable as they earn 
  character points, but they won’t have long-term projects. 
  Fundamentally, everything in this sort of campaign should 
  remain the same.
  stoRy-ARC CAmpAIgns
  Many recent television series have adopted story 
  arcs, often lasting a season; similar arcs appear in 
  comic books. In an arc, each episode has its own 
  short-term plot, but it also contributes to an ongo-
  ing story that builds up to a larger resolution. In 
  series about heroic adventurers, an arc often has 
  a “Big Bad” whose schemes develop in the back-
  ground of some episodes, and who create subor-
  dinate threats in others, but who isn’t defeated till 
  the very end.
  The focus of a story-arc campaign is a primary 
  villain to be defeated, or a big problem to be solved. 
  The heroes often start out not clearly knowing 
  what they’re up against. As the campaign contin-
  ues, they get more evidence, face more problems, 
  and acquire more resources. At the same time, they 
  have to resolve a series of smaller problems, some 
  tied to the major issue and others not. They can 
  pursue long-term goals – so long as their projects 
  pay off at the end of the arc; after that, they typi-
  cally go back to their starting point, though often 
  much more capable.
  Example (Odys.): The Odyssey breaks into two 
  story arcs. The better known tells of Odysseus’ voy-
  age home from Troy; the opposition he faces in this 
  is the curse of Poseidon. After he gets home, a new 
  story arc begins, in which he has to take control of 
  his palace back from his wife Penelope’s suitors.
  developmentAl 
  CAmpAIgns
  Novels and single films often have a continuing 
  development of the plot and characters from chap-
  ter to chapter, without episodes or story arcs. The external 
  situation changes because of the main characters’ actions; 
  meanwhile, their knowledge of it grows. In many stories, they 
  themselves are changed by involvement in it – often by grow-
  ing, as Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy grow in Pride 
  and Prejudice. However, tragedy can show originally great 
  people brought low by their own actions, as with Captain 
  Nemo is 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
  A developmental campaign won’t bring the action to a stop 
  at the end of sessions or episodes; the narrative flow continues 
  from meet-up to meet-up. It can be useful to end sessions at 
  moments of high dramatic tension.
  the unItIes
  French playwrights in the 17th century talked about the uni-
  ties of place, time, and action, appealing to the authority of Aris-
  totle. In fact, Aristotle was only concerned with unity of action; 
  he briefly mentioned unity of time as a rule some dramatists 
  followed, and said nothing about unity of place.
  Unity of place meant that a story or drama had a single loca-
  tion (see pp. 20-23). This can be good in some stories, giving a 
  tighter focus – for example, country-house mysteries or haunt-
  ed-house stories – but it isn’t necessary for a long story, or a 
  series of episodes. Many roleplaying games observe a variant of 
  unity of place in keeping the party together – but splitting up the 
  group can create dramatic tension. However, this should be done 
  cautiously, as keeping track of parallel series of events and keep-
  ing players interested when their characters are offstage can 
  be challenging.
  Unity of time meant that a story should all take place in a 
  single day. Any number of effective stories break that rule! In a 
  less restrictive variant, a story can be required to take place in 
  a single continuous span of time, with backstory being brought 
  in by having its events remembered or narrated, as Odysseus 
  tells the story of his disastrous voyage home while a guest of 
  the Phaeacian royal family. Jumping forward in time between 
  sessions is the game analog of unity of time.
  Unity of action involves having a connected series of events. 
  They should all reflect the same theme (From Idea to Action, 
  p. 12) and be part of the same central conflict (Conflicting 
  Actions, pp. 47-48). Each action’s success or failure should affect 
  a larger struggle. Scenes unrelated to this will come across as 
  distractions and are best kept short – and when the outcome is 
  decided, the story is over; you’ll need to come up with a new one, 
  even if it stars the same people.
  
   
  ACtIon 
  51
  This type of structure is best for campaigns with internal 
  action (p. 46). If external adversaries appear, they’re likely to 
  be continuing figures, rather than a series of short-term foes; 
  the personal relationship between protagonists and antag-
  onists may be an important focus. Campaigns may also be 
  about exploring a country or a world, carrying out a large-
  scale project, or working to preserve or change something.
  RevelAtoRy CAmpAIgns
  Some novels and films lead up to a climactic scene where 
  the central characters learn something of deep significance. 
  In classical drama, this was called recognition: a critical dis-
  covery or insight, such as learning one’s own or another per-
  son’s true identity. This is akin to the end of a mystery, where 
  the detective reveals the identity of the murderer – but to the 
  detective, this is his job or his vocation, and he’ll go on in the 
  next story to investigate another crime, not much changed 
  from what he was. Recognition in tragedy changes (and often 
  destroys) the hero’s whole life or self-image. In horror, rec-
  ognition of a monster, or insight into Things Man Was Not 
  Meant To Know, may drive the protagonist mad. But recog-
  nition can also occur in adventure stories, where it confronts 
  the hero with a crucial choice, and even in comedies, where it 
  brings about the happy ending.
  This kind of campaign needs an ultimate secret for the 
  player characters to uncover. Discovery of the secret brings 
  the campaign to a natural endpoint, by removing its goal or 
  making individual people unable to act, as in the loss of san-
  ity in cosmic horror (see GURPS Horror, pp. 142-146). Or it 
  can change the genre of the campaign to one that takes the 
  revelation as a premise, as in post-apocalyptic campaigns. It’s 
  best to make the players aware of the prospect of either sort 
  of outcome; it can come as a total surprise to their characters, 
  but players who don’t expect to be surprised may be unhappy.
  Example (WWOz): The Wonderful Wizard of Oz has a reve-
  latory ending, when Dorothy learns that the silver shoes that 
  she took from the body of the Wicked Witch of the East had 
  always had the power to return her to Kansas – just as her 
  three friends had always had intelligence, love, and courage. 
  After that, Dorothy is back home in Kansas and her adventure 
  is over.
  pRepARIng the pAyoFF
  The classic description of plot divides it into exposition (the 
  introduction of the central characters and of the problem), 
  complication (a series of efforts to solve the problem that leave 
  it unsolved and in fact increase the tension), climax (the point 
  of highest tension, at which the problem is resolved), and 
  denouement (the interval after the climax where the effects 
  on the characters and setting become evident). Roleplaying 
  games often have a similar sequence (but see Slice-of-Life 
  Campaigns, below). However, depending on narrative struc-
  ture, the main climaxes may come at the ends of single ses-
  sions, story arcs, or entire campaigns.
  Most readers or viewers – or players – invest emotion 
  in a story: they care what happens to its characters. The  
  climax brings this involvement to its greatest intensity, 
  in a sequence of actions where both sides in the central 
  conflict are at their fullest strength. The denouement 
  shows the point of rest that follows. In a complex plot, this 
  includes accounting for minor characters and subsidiary 
  conflicts, so that the loose ends are tied up. Together these 
  are the payoff of the story. After they’re over, the audience 
  should have no residual feelings of “what about this?”
  A GURPS campaign has the advantage that players 
  generally care about their characters, right from the first 
  scene. But the GM can’t know in advance what those 
  characters will care about, or how they’ll get to the big 
  confrontation or test. A campaign has several co-authors 
  with ideas of their own! The GM needs to define the cen-
  tral conflict and the person or situation that acts as the 
  opposition; plant hints that lead the protagonists to it; 
  and suggest motives for going into the arena.
  Some elements are worth remembering in setting up 
  a climactic scene:
  • All of the player characters have to be present and 
  involved. Nothing is more disappointing to a player than 
  having to sit and watch while others in the group have the big 
  dramatic confrontation.
  • If possible, a positive outcome should depend on every-
  one using more than one ability or making more than one 
  choice.
  • Despite the dramatic significance of dice (Consequences 
  of Actions, p. 49), the outcome of the climactic struggle 
  shouldn’t depend on a single throw of the dice.
  • If someone performs an intentionally self-sacrificial 
  action, and dies or is irreversibly harmed, don’t undercut it 
  dramatically by undoing the consequences.
  slICe-oF-lIFe CAmpAIgns
  Some genres and forms have stories that neither end in a 
  climax, nor are divided into episodes with smaller climaxes. 
  Examples include television soap operas and “slice of life” 
  comics. This is an option for roleplaying games as well.
  Slice-of-life campaigns still need to provide the same sat-
  isfactions as other campaigns. They just do it in a series of 
  small payoffs, rather than one big payoff. Dramatic confron-
  tations may involve one character or part of the total cast. 
  Revelatory scenes can give significant information without 
  changing everything. Problems can be solved, and jobs com-
  pleted, while others are still being worked on. This kind of 
  ongoing story often has less intensity, but it gives the plea-
  sure of getting to know a cast of characters, in a gaming 
  style that puts characterization above action.
  Slice-of-life storylines can work well in sandbox cam-
  paigns (p. 25). Discovering new features of a richly detailed 
  world can provide the small payoffs that slice-of-life cam-
  paigns rely on.
  
  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (20KL), 
  characters, 12, 28-30, 33, 39; conflicts, 
  48; Control Rating, 20; culture, 19; 
  equipment, 41, 42; examples using, 8, 
  12, 28-30, 33, 41, 42-43; genre, 10; mode, 
  49; Nautilus, 22, 29, 42-43; overview, 
  5; premises, 8; settings, 18, 20, 26; tech 
  level, 19; terrains, 18; theme, 12; tragedy, 
  48, 50.
  Action/adventure genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Actions, agency, 6, 46; appropriate, 47; 
  based on theme, 12; conflicting, 47-48; 
  consequences of, 49; horror, 48; inward, 
  46; modes, 49; motivated, 47; outward, 
  46; possible, 46-47; thematic, 47; tragedy, 
  48; verisimilitude, 6, 49; see also Conflict.
  Adventures, see Action, Campaigns, 
  Characters, High Concept, Setting.
  Aerostats, 42.
  Agency, 6, 46; see also Actions, Conflict.
  Allies advantage, 27, 28, 34, 44; example, 45.
  Alternate history genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Alternate universes, definition, 6; usage, 7, 
  39.
  Artifacts, armor, 41; as characters, 43; as 
  evidence, 40; availability, 44-45; clothing, 
  41; cost, 45; fantastic, 45; furnishings, 
  42; gear, 40; legality, 44-45; life forms, 
  44; MacGuffins, 6, 41; machines, 43; 
  narrative function, 40-41; personal gear, 
  41-42; personalizers, 40; potentially 
  movable structures, 42; presupposed, 
  45; structures, 21-22, 42; tech level, 44; 
  technologies, 18-19, 44; transcendents, 
  41; valuables, 41; see also Technology, 
  Vehicles.
  Attributes, 6, 40; see also Artifacts, 
  Characters.
  Austerity, 6, 49.
  Bennet, Elizabeth (“Lizzie”), 28, 30, 31; 
  source work, 4; stats, 35; usage ideas,  
  8, 39.
  Bizarro genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Campaigns, austerity, 6, 49; climactic scenes, 
  51; developmental, 50-51; episodic, 
  50; indirect exposition, 25; modes, 49; 
  narratives, 50-51; payoff, 51; recognition, 
  6, 24, 51; revelatory, 51; slice-of-life, 
  51; story-arc, 50; story unities, 50; see 
  Actions, Characters, High Concept, 
  Players, Setting.
  Chambara genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Character conflict types, vs. character, 48; 
  vs. fate/god, 47-48; vs. nature, 48; vs. self, 
  48; vs. society, 48.
  Characters, attributes, 6, 29; cinematic skills, 
  34; combat skills, 30-31; esoteric arts, 
  33-34; examples, 35-37; excluded options, 
  38; expanding the original cast, 39; 
  extras, 28-29; guest stars, 27; life forms, 
  44; magic, 34; major, 6, 27; martial-arts 
  styles, 31; motivation, 33; niches, 39; 
  objects as, 43; organization membership, 
  29, 45; original, 38-39; perks, 33; 
  personality, 33; point value, 38-39; power 
  modifiers, 34-35; quirks, 33; protagonist, 
  6, 27; racial traits, 35; required traits, 39; 
  skills, 30-31; social backgrounds, 31-32; 
  special abilities, 34-35; supporting, 27-28; 
  Talents, 29; templates, 39; unity of action, 
  50; unity of place, 50; unity of time, 50; 
  visible qualities, 32-33; see also Actions, 
  Players.
  Chinese Imperial Military Combat style, 31.
  Chopper, Nick, 36; axe, 41.
  Comedy genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Conflict, mental, 26; setting and, 23, 24, 26; 
  types of, 47-48; see also Actions.
  Control Rating (CR), 20, 44.
  Cultural Familiarity advantage, 19.
  Dependents disadvantage, 27, 28, 44.
  Diving suits, 41.
  Dracula (Drac.), characters, 9, 28, 29, 30, 31, 
  32, 33, 34, 39, 40; conflicts, 48; Control 
  Rating, 20; culture, 19, 31; equipment, 
  20, 40, 41, 44; examples using, 5, 7, 9, 28, 
  29, 31-33, 39, 41, 44; genres, 10; mode, 
  49; overview, 5; premises, 8; setting, 18, 
  20, 31; special abilities, 20, 34, 35; tech 
  level, 19, 44; terrains, 18; theme, 12; wild 
  places, 22.
  Emerald City, 21.
  Enemies disadvantage, 20, 27, 28.
  Equipment, see Artifacts, Technology, 
  Vehicles.
  Fan fiction, 5, 7; definition, 6; see also 
  Campaigns, High Concept.
  Fantasy genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Favor advantage, 28.
  Gear, see Artifacts, Technology, Vehicles.
  Glossary, 6.
  GURPS, 3, 6, 8, 15, 18, 19, 27, 32-34, 40, 
  44, 48, 49; After the End, 18, After the 
  End 2: The New World, 22; Basic Set, 
  16, 42, 44, 47; Boardroom and Curia, 
  29, 30, 40, 42, 45, 48; City Stats, 20, 21, 
  25; Dungeon Fantasy, 39; Dungeon 
  Fantasy 16: Wilderness Adventures,  
  22; Fantasy, 3, 9, 20; High-Tech,  
  40-42, 43, 45; Horror, 3, 9, 51; How to 
  Be a GURPS GM, 26; Infinite Worlds, 
  7, 19; Low-Tech, 22, 31, 41, 43, 45; 
  Low-Tech Companion 1: Philosophers 
  and Kings, 42; Low-Tech Companion 
  2: Weapons and Warriors, 36; Low-
  Tech Companion 3: Daily Life and 
  Economics, 22, 43; Martial Arts, 31, 
  36, 47; Mass Combat, 20, 26, 29, 30, 
  43; Monster Hunters, 39; Mysteries, 
  3, 9; Power-Ups 2: Perks, 3, 33, 40; 
  Power-Ups 3: Talents, 29; Power-
  Ups 5: Impulse Buys, 7; Power-Ups 
  6: Quirks, 3, 33; Powers, 20, 34, 45; 
  Powers: Divine Favor, 34; Powers: 
  The Weird, 34; Psi-Tech, 34; Psionic 
  Campaigns, 3; Psionic Powers, 35; 
  Social Engineering, 19, 26, 32, 40, 47, 
  48; Social Engineering: Back to School, 
  9, 42; Social Engineering: Pulling 
  Rank, 45; Space, 3, 8, 9, 16, 17, 24; 
  Spaceships, 42; Spaceships 6: Mining 
  and Industrial Spacecraft, 42; Supers, 
  3, 9, 35; Template Toolkit 1: Characters, 
  29, 30, 39; Thaumatology, 34, 43; 
  Thaumatology: Chinese Elemental 
  Powers, 34, 47; Thaumatology: Ritual 
  Path Magic, 34; Thaumatology: 
  Sorcery, 34; Ultra-Tech, 41, 43, 45; 
  Underground Adventures, 18, 21, 42; 
  Zombies, 3, 9; see also Pyramid.
   
  Index 
  52
  Index
  The fighting Homer describes – duels 
  between chieftains who ride up to the battle line 
  in chariots, dismount, and exchange speeches, 
  sometimes quite long ones, before engaging 
  man-to-man with spear and shield – is clearly 
  a creation of the epic muse rather than a 
  representation of actual battle conditions.
  – Robert Fagles, Introduction to the Iliad
  
   
  Index 
  53
  Hardboiled fiction genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  High concept, alternate universes, 6, 7, 39; 
  central idea, 11-12; common genres, 10; 
  definition, 6; displacements, 7; genre 
  conventions, 9; genre types, 10; mashups, 
  5; mood, 11; multiple sources, 5; one 
  impossible thing, 8; players and, 12-13; 
  premise, 8; prequels, 6-7; reinventions, 
  7-8; retelling the story, 7; sequels, 6-7; 
  source works, 4-5; starting point, 6-8; 
  theme, 6, 11-12; tropes, 9; untold tales, 7; 
  see also Campaigns.
  Horror genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Hu Sanniang, 36-37.
  Humor genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Indirect exposition, definition, 6; usage, 10, 
  24, 25; see also Setting.
  Kalidahs, 44.
  MacGuffins, 6, 41.
  Mars, 17.
  Martial arts genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Mimetic fiction genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Mimetic fiction, 6, 10.
  Mundane, 6; actions, 46; genres, 10; 
  premises, 8; traits in, 38.
  Mystery genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Narratives, see Campaigns, High Concept.
  Nautilus, 22, 29, 42-43.
  New weird genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Noir film genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Objects, see Artifacts.
  Odysseia, see Odyssey.
  Odysseus, 11, 12, 16, 24, 26, 29-31, 33, 47; 
  companions, 28; equipment, 40, 41; 
  source work, 4; stats, 37.
  Odyssey (Odys.), characters, 7, 12, 28-31, 
  33, 37, 39; conflicts, 48; Control Rating, 
  20; culture, 19, 31; equipment, 20, 34, 
  40; examples using, 7, 12, 16, 26, 28-31, 
  33, 37, 39, 40, 50; genres, 10; magic, 
  34; mode, 49; overview, 4; premises, 
  8; protagonists, 27; setting, 18, 20, 23; 
  special abilities, 20, 34; tech level, 19; 
  terrains, 18; theme, 11.
  Pathetic fallacy, 6, 24; see also Setting.
  Patrons advantage, 20, 27, 28.
  Pemberley, 22.
  Players, genre expectations, 9; interest, 13; 
  source familiarity, 13; trust, 13; see also 
  Characters.
  Power modifiers, 34-35; objects and, 20, 45.
  Pride and Prejudice (P&P), actions, 47; 
  characters, 8, 28, 29, 32, 33, 35; conflicts, 
  26, 48; Control Rating, 20; culture, 19, 
  31; examples using, 5, 8, 22, 28, 29, 32, 
  33, 35; genres, 10; mode, 49; overview, 4; 
  Pemberley, 22; premises, 8; protagonists, 
  27; setting, 14, 18, 20, 23, 31; tech level, 
  19; theme, 11; thematic actions, 47; 
  terrains, 18; see also Bennet.
  Protagonist, 6; see also Characters.
  Pyramid #3/34: Alternate GURPS, 42; #3/66: 
  The Laws of Magic, 34; #3/82: Magical 
  Creations, 34; #3/90: After the End, 22; 
  see also GURPS.
  Rank advantage, 32.
  Realistic fiction genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Recognition, 6, 24, 51.
  Recommended books, 3.
  Reference society, 19, 31.
  Roleplaying games, adapting, 13.
  Romance genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Sandbox, 6, 25, 51; see also Setting.
  Science fiction genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Setting, 14-26; arenas, 26; atmosphere, 
  6; bases, 25-26; buildings, 21-22, 42; 
  challenge and conflict, 24; cities, 20-21; 
  commentary, 25; communities, 20-21; 
  conflict and, 23, 24, 26; crucibles, 26; 
  cultures, 19; demonstration of premises, 
  24; describing, 14-16; destructive 
  environments, 23; drama and, 23-26; 
  environments, 16-20, 24-25; example 
  buildings, 22; example city, 21; focus, 
  23; hazards, 26; indirect exposition, 25; 
  information sources, 14-16; inventing 
  new material, 16; knowability, 24; 
  locations, 20-23, 25-26, 42; milestones, 
  25; ordeals, 26; parody, 25; pathetic 
  fallacy, 6, 24; personal domains, 26; 
  planets, 16; politics, 20; populations, 
  19; puzzles, 26; retro solar system, 17; 
  sandbox, 6, 25, 51; scale, 23; scenery, 
  24; sources of information, 14-16; 
  supernatural forces, 20; terrains, 18; tests, 
  26; travel, 24; war, 20; wild places, 22-23.
  Shui Hu Zhuan, see Water Margin.
  Signature Gear advantage, 40.
  Slipstream genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Social Regard advantage, 33.
  Social Stigma disadvantage, 33.
  Social traits, cultures, 19; characters, 31-32, 
  38.
  Solar system, planets, 16-17; retro, 17.
  Source works, 4-5, see also specific works.
  Status trait, 31.
  Steelbright, 36-37.
  Stories, see High Concept.
  Strength (ST) attribute, 29.
  Superheroic fiction genre, 10; see also High 
  Concept.
  Supernatural forces, 20; struggle against, 48.
  Survival skill, 18.
  Table, population density, 19.
  Tech level (TL) 18-19, 44.
  Technologies, 18-19, 44; research about, 15; 
  see also Artifacts, Vehicles.
  Thaumatocracy, 6; Emerald City, 21.
  Theme, 6, 11-12; unity of action and, 50; see 
  also High Concept, Campaigns.
  Thriller genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Tin Woodman, 36; axe, 41.
  Trope, 6, 9; see also High Concept, 
  Campaigns.
  Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,  
  see 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
  Uchronia genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Unities, in stories, 50.
  Unreliable narrator, 6, 15.
  Unusual Background advantage, 38, 45,  
  47.
  Vehicles, 42-43; as locations, 22, 26; 
  example, 42-43; see also Artifacts.
  Verisimilitude, 6, 49.
  Vingt mille lieues sous les mers, see 20,000 
  Leagues Under the Sea.
  Water Margin (WM), actions, 47; characters, 
  7, 25, 28, 29, 31-34, 36-37, 39, 43; 
  conflicts, 48; Control Rating, 20; culture, 
  19, 31; equipment, 31, 41; examples 
  using, 7, 8, 25, 28, 29, 32-34, 36-37, 
  39; genres, 10; language, 23; magic, 34; 
  martial-arts style, 31; mode, 49; overview, 
  4; premises, 8; protagonists, 27; setting, 
  18, 20, 23, 31; special abilities, 34; tech 
  level, 19; terrains, 18; theme, 12; wild 
  places, 22.
  Wealth trait, 31-32, 38, 45.
  Weapon Bond perk, 40.
  Equipment Bond perk, 40.
  Winged Monkeys, 45.
  Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The (WWOz), 
  characters, 25, 28, 29, 32, 33, 35, 36, 
  39, 41, 44, 45, 51; Control Rating, 20; 
  culture, 19, 31; equipment, 41, 45, 51; 
  examples using, 14, 24, 24, 27-29, 32, 
  33, 36, 39, 41, 44, 45; Kalidahs, 44; 
  mood, 11; overview, 5; setting, 18, 20, 31; 
  premises, 8; protagonists, 27; tech level, 
  19; terrains, 18; theme, 12; wild places, 
  22; Winged Monkeys, 45.
  Wuxia genre, 10; see also High Concept.
  Oh, I can’t think about this 
  now! I’ll go crazy if I do! I’ll think 
  about it tomorrow . . . After all . . . 
  tomorrow is another day!
  – Scarlett O’Hara,  
  in Gone with the Wind
  
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