“…And the only way to prove to yourself that you have power is to use it.”
– Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower
We tend to think of power in very active terms: a commander issues orders to their troops, a ruler demands prostration as a show of fealty, a jury imposes punitive fines on an offender. The same trend runs through our games: a Bard uses their persuasive talents to gain entry to the castle, the Wizard hurls a Fireball spell to obliterate the goblin defenses, a great dragon bares its teeth as promise of impending ruin, the bandit leader extorts ransom “tribute” from a village with a promise not to attack.
Each of these examples shows one party imposing its will on another. The root and nature of that imposition may vary - Fireball does a lot of damage, dragons are physically dominant, the State is regarded as legitimate. The common thread through them all is that a person (natural or corporate) does a thing and something complies. These are “active” demonstrations of power because they require intention and activity.
“It’s all mirror, mirror on the wall because beauty is power the same way money is power the same way a gun is power.”
– Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
A lifetime ago, in another life, I sat in a college classroom and discussed a taxonomy of the Bases of Power as they related to communication. Don’t worry, I’m not going to replay any of that conversation here, and I’m not going to rehash or explain (much of) the linked entry. That model is almost entirely based on an intent to influence, largely fails to incorporate unintended consequences, and makes some gallingly outdated cultural assertions. “Every experience carries its lesson” and “a broken clock is right twice a day,” so we can still get some use from a model with some cracks in it, “that’s how the light get in” after all.
We’ve seen a few ways that the exercise of power can be active and that it is an implement of the agency - the independent decision-making capacity of an individual - of a power-holder. Justin Alexander’s recent Mother May I? post demonstrates some additional layers of nuance to the dynamics of power when it comes to RPGs at-table.
In that post, Alexander contrasts player behavior in- and out-of-combat in D&D. In-combat, he notes that players act with certainty, declaring their character activities with the certainty of knowing there is a formal structure underpinning those activities. Out-of-combat, he suggests, often looks more like a negotiation with the GM: a player suggests some course of action, some clarifying discussion may happen, and the GM makes a determination of how (and whether) it proceeds.
“Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it.”
– Gilbert Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday
There are several interactions with different powers happening in Alexander’s discussion, so let’s take a deeper look. I’ll admit there’s a non-insignificant part of me that’s refraining from making this a vector-math diagram in service of an extended “ethical calculus” joke.
D&D combat proceeds without a whole lot of discussion or discretion (for the most part). This is because the rules of the game are (generally) clear about that a player-character can do certain things and how those are resolved. The combat rules make a constitutional order, a Magna Carta of sorts, enumerating players’ powers and narrowly defining procedures for the exercise of those powers. In combat, the GM’s powers are more tightly constrained than out-of-combat: the GM doesn’t have latitude to change a monster’s HP, can’t re-define how an attack hits, can’t unilaterally implement “popcorn” Initiative or seize the scene.
“Nothing is more dangerous than fearful people with a fresh taste of power.”
– N.K. Jemisin, The Awakened Kingdom
Outside of combat, the GM has a lot more discretion and, lacking any definite rule, can devise some system to bind (and, hopefully, scaffold) the decisions of the other players. As Alexander illustrates, the GM can make up from whole cloth a tavern-management scheme in response to a player request to manage a tavern.
A good GM will use this authorial power in service of the spirit of the other players’ sense of fun, encouraging their engagement. A bad GM might play favorites, thumbing the scale against Randy’s “distracting” schemes or building an “impenetrable moat” around Sam’s self-indulgences. It might be difficult to tell the difference between these two patterns. The difference might not be apparent for some time, until the disparate examples really start to pile up.
“Empowerment does not always wait for wisdom.”
– N.K. Jemisin, The Awakened Kingdom
We start to see another dimension of power peeking around the edges. These exercises of GM power are not particularly agentic - they don’t have much to do with the independent authority of the GM.
Our “good GM” uses their authorial power to set a consistent baseline standard; they find novel player rights in the game’s constitution and cede control of that element. If those findings are enjoyable and appreciated, they are unlikely to be challenged by the other players.
On the other hand, a GM that prioritizes personal standing and favor-seeking may pit the other players against each other in a game of sycophantic grandstanding. They have little interest in codifying player benefit, they’re focused on self-gratification.
“Riches … don’t consist in having things, but in not having to do something you don’t want to do. … Riches is being able to thumb your nose.”
– Josephine Tey, Brat Farrar
These exercises of power are still quite active in that the power-holder is making decisions and enacting policies that support some objectives. The difference is that the impetus is external: other players are asking for things and - absent any sort of control - the response is dependent upon the whims and disposition of the GM.
It does not take many stimulus-reward cycles for players to form a model of power-pleasing behavior. Once formed, that model is likely to be exploited for gain and revised when it disappoints. It’s an easy bet that the player who notices “I get Heroic Inspiration when I do X” is going to do a lot more X to fish for Heroic Inspiration than normal.
It also doesn’t take very long for this pattern to coalesce into one of “keep the GM happy”, even absent explicit, consistent reinforcement responses from the GM. Sometimes this is attributable to that GM’s reinforcement responses, certainly. people have no choice but to bring themselves to the game, and their baggage comes with them.
I’ve been framing a lot of this in terms of, as French & Raven would put it, Coercive and Reward power. Sometimes, though, the attention and respect of a player alone is enough to influence another player’s behavior - this is “Referent” power and, yeah, we have to talk about it.
“Responsibility ain’t no valuable thing to have, necessarily.”
– Larry McMurtry, Leaving Cheyenne
The thing to know about Referent power is that it can be - and often is - both external and passive, it doesn’t really even need to involve the power-holder (the “referent”) at all. Taylor Swift will almost certainly never notice your friendship bracelet, Bernie Sanders doesn’t care if you wear mittens just like his, and Craig Robinson does not want you taking pictures of him dining in a restaurant (it’s rude, intrusive, and boorish) but he will appreciate if you call him by his name (and not a TV character he played over a decade ago).
Taken all together, a strong Referent power can contribute to insidious situations, at and away from the table. This is made worse because the things someone does to ingratiate toward the referent will look like independent, personal choices, even when they’re mis-aligned with that person’s actual interests and personal objectives.
People want to align themselves and be seen as aligned with their referent’s identity, preferences, and priorities. It’s not even entirely about appeasing or attracting the attention of the referent, it is often just enough that other people associate the two entities with each other.
For example, I’m a fan of Jeff Cannata’s work as DM on the actual play series The Dungeon Run, and I incorporate elements of his style in my play. Likewise with Brent Ozar, who I regard as an excellent technology communicator and reference extensively in my professional work. I work in themes and patterns from the Cory Doctorow’s writing (fiction and non-fiction) to my narratives. I don’t consciously entertain any notion that these people ever hear of me, see my work, or even like me if we met! But if someone likened my performance to theirs, it would be gratifying.
The GM role is one that is invested with a fair amount of power, but nothing has to be as grim or precarious as I may have made it out to be. It’s important that we talk and listen with each other, but those acts require us to exercise another skill that probably hasn’t gotten much guidance or development: we have to consciously separate our identity from our activity, for just a little while, to examine and consider how other people experience those. This isn’t “obliteration of self” or anything so extreme. All I’m suggesting is that we (myself, especially) need to find, create, and foster shared spaces where we can be open and vulnerable with one another, safely, for the sake of being honest with one another.
: people have no choice but to bring themselves to the game, and their baggage comes with them.