Warped Beyond Intuition

Like myriad unfortunates before me, I find myself compelled to jam the square peg of Mothership's loosely sketched economy into the round hole of a persistent campaign played by bean-counting nerds. And there's one particular thing that, like many before me, I got stubbornly snagged on: Warp cores are really, really expensive. So expensive that the vast majority of work in published materials, often including a job that comprises an entire module, won't even cover a one-way trip from the next system over. (I've touched on this before!)

Now, if you go to Reddit or Discord to search for other people's thoughts about this, you're likely to encounter the observation that, in A Pound of Flesh, there's a Warp Core Vault on Prospero's Dream where it's possible to score cores for a mere 50kcr a pop (APOF p. 43). Most people seem to dismiss this as an unreconciled holdover from 0e; warp cores used to be cheaper, and now they're prohibitively expensive to make interstellar travel an enormous undertaking and emphasize how small and economically powerless the PCs are in the big scheme of things.

But what if neither the 50kcr price on the Dream nor the 1mcr cost in the base 1e rules is “wrong,” and they don't need to be reconciled? I've been warming to the idea that they simply represent extreme possibilities: If you're at a major, densely populated economic hub (e.g., the Dream) that either produces warp cores or is a major transshipment point where a lot of commercial ship traffic (some with warp cores as cargo) passes through; there's a substantial gray or black market at that location; and you have strong connections to whatever group controls access to the cores (perhaps they owe you favors, even), you can score warp cores for as little as 50kcr a pop—maybe even less.

On the other hand, if you're at the only inhabited station in some bumfuck system at the ass end of the Rim, where the few hundreds, or few dozen, permanent residents keep a few warp cores on hand to sell to ships passing through, but have no local access to more, and you're a stranger whom none of the locals know from Adam, you pay full freight. Maybe more, if you seem desperate, or if they're down to the very last of their inventory (or both).

We could cook up a table for prices, something like (and probably derived from) the trade tables in the Stars Without Number supplement Suns of Gold—roll 2d10, “subtract X for each of the following conditions” and “add Y for each of the following conditions,” get a percentile modifier to apply to a base price somewhere in the vicinity of 200kcr or 250kcr—and if I ever published a campaign setting or something that really needed to formalize this, I probably would. For the campaign I'm now running, though, I feel pretty comfortable just spitballing.

* * * 

What does need to be defined more carefully, of course, is what happens when players do the obvious, smart thing and jump at the first chance to hoard warp cores. The low-end price is still far too spendy for starting characters, and even many sessions down the road, modestly successful owner–operators are never more than a few months away from crushing debt and will probably think twice before dumping six-figure sums into speculative stockpiles…but after thinking twice, they'll probably do it. Hell, they'll probably want to look for profit-turning opportunities the next time they meet another crew at some backwater station where cores cost a fortune. So I want some kind of soft cap on how many cores they can just shove into the reactor component.

The description of warp cores in the 1e rules leaves a lot to the imagination, but it does emphasize that cores are dangerously radioactive, and of course we know that hyperspace travel is weird and scary. Warp cores should have a touch of the weird and scary about them too—maybe they come from hyperspace, somehow. Maybe they contain malign hyperspace energies. Maybe they're made of condensed hyperspace ghosts! Who knows. In any event, if you put too many of them in the same place, bad things happen.

When you jump, roll d10 + the number of extra cores the ship is carrying:

1–10: The jump proceeds as normal (or at least as normal as a hyperspace jump ever is).

11: The ship sustains minor damage. Roll once on the Maintenance Issues table (SBT p. 39); reroll Major Repairs.

12: Upon awakening from cryo, the crew are afflicted with persistent disturbing hallucinations (sanity save every day for 1d5 days).

13: The jump consumes one of the stored cores.

14: The ship sustains major damage. Roll twice on the Maintenance Issues table. If your first roll results in Major Repairs, do not make a second roll.

15: The jump consumes two of the stored cores.

16+: Warp core containment failure. As radiation leak from Maintenance Issues table, and the damaged core must be ejected unused. 

This probably needs some tweaking and playtesting—the step up from faintly dangerous nuisance results on 10 and 11 to economically disastrous ones on 12+ is pretty steep, and the ~50% risk of needing Major Repairs on a 13 is a pretty harsh disincentive to ever carry more than four cores at a time—but it'll do for a start. (How do freighters move large quantities of warp cores for wholesale purposes? Special containment fields, of course. Very expensive, very bulky, can only be fitted on enormous supertanker-like ships far beyond the PCs' means.)

Proof of Life

 

I've been doing some backpacking too. Here's Mt. Baker!

 

Back in March, the Reddit account I was using to share these blog posts got banished to the shadow realm after I posted something about the No ICE in Minnesota bundle on itch. Nobody at Reddit ever responded to my appeals or explained exactly why I'd been shadowbanned. But all my posts (and all my many comments, the dumb and the brilliant alike) have been forevermore invisible and unsearchable.

And, annoyingly, I got super discouraged by this! Even at my most active, the posts here that I didn't share anywhere else got maybe 70 or 80 views; the ones that got a good response on Reddit got hundreds, sometimes thousands. When I started the blog, I was sick of social media, sick of the grind of holding people's attention and the Skinner-box fugue state of scrolling. I'm gonna blog, I said! I'm just gonna put my thoughts out into the world a couple times a month and hope that people find them, and I'll be content with that. But, oops, I was not content with that. I went to Reddit to get people's eyes on my posts, and it totally worked and was very satisfying, and then a big dumb bully of a corporation took it away from me and I got all bummed out about it and spent months sulking and not posting. How embarrassing!

Anyway, I live. I breathe. I'm still doing lots of fun game stuff (and reading, and writing, and watching lots of Tony Leung movies, and cooking my way through all of Hetty Lui McKinnon's recipes, and so on and so forth). I've been running a Black Sword Hack game, sporadically, for my old Stars Without Number group (you truly don't appreciate the pandemic-spawned miracle of a game that meets nearly every week for almost five years until it's gone) and Tales of Argosa and Mothership in person with some local friends. I've even been playing D&D 5e again! (But not GMing, thank God.) Gonna post some Mothership stuff, and some Cairn stuff, and probably some Black Sword Hack stuff, and some book reviews, and undoubtedly some political screeds, and I will be happy to have 70 to 80 people stumble across them and read them, goddamnit. (But maybe I'll be more active on Bluesky too. Who knows.)

Bookpost #5

Yes, it's (past) that time again. And again, we're just going to skip over the stuff I don't have anything positive to say about. Being catty and trashing other people's work may be fun, but it's not nice. Life is short. We're all trying our best.

* * * 

Tokyo Ueno Station (Miri Yu)

Beautiful and oddly lively, for all that it's a profoundly sad novel about a dead homeless guy and the crushing weight of class and caste in Japanese society. I find it really interesting how much contemporary(-ish) Japanese art, like the films of Juzo Itami and Satoshi Kon, prominently features, or even (as in this novel and Kon's Tokyo Godfathers) focuses directly on the homeless, a population that, by official measures, scarcely exists in the country.

HHhH (Laurent Binet)

A fascinating blend of gripping true story and dizzying metafiction account of trying to write a gripping true story. Not as confident as Binet's Civilizations, which I read first, and less enjoyable overall, but the lack of confidence is part of the point, and how much are you supposed to enjoy learning about the rise of the Nazis and how they strangled the life out of Europe, even if a few of them do get theirs in the end?

Severance (Ling Ma)

For all that this was prescient about what a disastrous pandemic originating from China would look like (Ma predicted the ubiquity of KN95 masks and remote work, among other things, well before COVID arrived), I think it's been unfairly pigeonholed as “a pandemic novel,” when it's really much more about The Way We Life Now. The real pandemic was capitalism! (But seriously, a beautiful, provocative, hilariously funny novel, one of the best I've read in recent years.)

Short Letter, Long Farewell (Peter Handke)

A weird, endlessly digressive little novel that I didn't tremendously enjoy as I was reading it, but that has stuck with me more than I expected it to. Handke had a way of conjuring up powerfully vivid little scenes and communicating the disjointed, discursive thinking of his oddball narrator (which is to say, probably, himself) such that you can really get into the head of a guy you have very little reason to relate to.

Plague Ship, Ordeal in Otherwhere, and Garan the Eternal (Andre Norton)

Found these last summer in the same used-books section where I snapped up Moorcock's Runestaff books—same yellow and yellowing little old 1970s paperbacks (somebody in Hot Springs, Montana, was plugged into exactly the same influences as Gygax and company). I'd never read any Norton, one of the most prolific SFF authors of the 20th century and, right alongside Moorcock, one of the chief influences on D&D (and thus on pretty much all genre media of the past 50 years). I grabbed one from the '50s, one from the '60s, and one that was started in the '40s and finished in the '70s, and they're all delightfully representative of their time periods, going from the hypermasculine star-trader heroics of Plague Ship (which is basically just a short Traveller campaign) to the psychedelic quasi-feminist zaniness of Ordeal in Otherwhere and then Garan lurching from baroque Sky Captain silliness in his postwar debut to apocalyptic drear (and also trippy past-lives Eternal Champion stuff) in the Nixon-era conclusion. Definitely going to be on the lookout for more Norton in my used-books beachcombing.

Creative Surgery (Clelia Farris)

I was put onto Farris by Lavie Tidhar, who included her story “The Substance of Ideas” in Best of World SF: Volume 2. For better and worse, I think he chose well — that story, which is included in this collection, remains my favorite. They're mostly great, though (I also liked “Gabola” and “Secret Enemy” quite a bit), and every single one has something arrestingly memorable going on.

Fire to Fire (Mark Doty)

Another book, albeit an almost entirely different one, where my point of entry (in this case, “Messiah: Christmas Portions”) remains my favorite of the author's work, but I'm not the least bit disappointed. Many beautiful poems here; Doty is an observer of the minutiae of life, particularly urban life, with few equals. Love “Chanteuse,” and not just because it's about, and so vividly evokes, Boston.

Broken Stars (ed. Ken Liu)

Another one that I found my way to via Tidhar's Best of World SF series, and as much as anything I've tracked down following the spoor of one of those stories, this reinforces my belief that all the best, most interesting stuff happening in SFF is happening outside the United States, if not outside the Anglosphere entirely (although, in fairness, a couple of these were originally written in English). “Moonlight,” “The Snow of Jinyang,” and “The First Emperor's Games” are all fun little confections, playing with genre tropes or mashing up short fiction with other media (“Moonlight” is by Cixin Liu; I was not a fan of The Three-Body Problem, but I think his style is very well suited to this sort of wry short fiction). The best of the book, and one of the most affecting, thought-provoking stories I've read in a long time, is “What Has Passed Shall in Kinder Light Appeal,” which like many (most?) of the works in this collection concerns travel through time and our perception thereof.

Delicious in Dungeon, Vols. 1–4 (Ryoko Kui)

Super fun stuff, can't wait to read more. Incredibly good about taking a lot of what's weird and irrational about D&D and digging into it, spinning out rationales for it and deriving all kinds of fun little plots from it. The whole dungeon ecosystem is a great idea, but all the individual parts of it are particularly wonderful fuel for game writing.

The Living Mountain (Nan Shepherd)

Strange and beautiful. Some of the best work I've ever read not so much about nature but about being in nature, being embodied in the natural environment—the sensory experience, and not just the sights and sounds (although she has keen and unusual observations about how the mountain atmosphere plays tricks on the eyes) but the touch and taste of it too, the sensations of walking barefoot, napping under the sky, drinking spring water straight from the creek. Also a good reminder that you might write something truly great and not be able to find a publisher for it, not be able to find an audience for it, and that doesn't diminish its greatness. Shepherd had the pleasure of seeing it published (and become beloved and influential) late in life, after it'd sat in a desk drawer for 30 years. Not all artists are so lucky!

The Vanished Birds (Simon Jimenez)

Didn't love the story or setting, but still found a lot to like. Strong, well drawn characters, some arresting imagery, good writing throughout. The first shift of perspective is extremely powerful, a wonderfully lived-in illustration of the effects of time dilation, of what it's like to live, travel, and love in an interstellar society. The second shift in perspective, and the subsequent elaboration of one character's backstory, is much weaker, and the novel never finds it way back to the heights of the first two chapters.

Radical Warrior: August Willich's Journey from German Revolutionary to Union General (David Dixon)

It's not perfect (like almost everything published these days, it could've really used more and better editing) but I am not going to look a gift horse in the mouth when the universe hands me a full-length biography of my favorite, and heretofore criminally obscure, Civil War general. The full story of Willich's life is even more delightful than what I knew from Wikipedia and anecdotal scraps from other histories. A truly modern man, two centuries ahead of his life, and deeply flawed in ways that only make him more relatable to me. It is crazy what posters dudes like Willich, Marx, and Engels were. People joke about like, “Oh, imagine if they'd had Twitter!” but no, I don't think that would've actually changed much. They were tweeting at each other in the broadsheets and in handbills, and exactly the same dumbass ways leftist bros snipe at each other online today, right down to accusing each other of being both gay and cucked. It's magnificent. And also, for all that he was a temperamental egotist with a death wish, for as much as he enjoyed the sound of his own voice and was a political naïf, Willich was truly heroic. Not just a brilliant, and appallingly physically courageous, military officer, but a courageous thinker, a courageous ally to oppressed and marginalized people (particularly Black Americans), and somebody who sought—for all that he enjoyed fame, acclaim, and the perks of leadership—not to command but to empower others, to give them the tools to defend and perfect a people's republic.

The Smell of Burnt Toast

 

As you will know if you've been following this blog religiously, I tend to take a jaundiced view of videogames these days. Not all of my friends are so jaded, though, and thanks to their influence, I occasionally get roped into some zeitgeisty new hotness. A little ARC Raiders here, a little Clair Obscur there. I'm glad to have had a chance to try them out, and at least equally glad not to have wasted too much time, or my own money, on them. But every now and then, something really seizes my attention. Like today. Today, I got to play Crimson Desert.

I keep seeing people describe this game's story as “bland,” “boring,” or “forgettable.” I do not know what kind of brainrot these people have been exposing themselves to that Crimson Desert strikes them as being on the bad side of normality. It is terrible, to be clear, but “forgettable” is the last thing I'd call it. Others have called it “convoluted,” “incoherent,” or “nonsensical,” which are all closer to the mark, but I think those adjectives, sapped by overuse of some of their power, also fail to do it justice. Crimson Desert might have the worst story I have ever seen in a game, and it also might have the worst storytelling I've ever seen in a game. It is fucked up in ways that have permanently rewired my brain.

* * * 

The game is actually in pretty good shape, technically, for a new release. No game-breaking bugs, nothing that impedes progress, hardly any minor visual glitches, even. It's a rat's nest of insanely bad design choices in every possible area, from the user interface to the control scheme to the inventory system, but it all seems to be working as designed. Not bad for a big-budget game at launch.

And the life-changing badness of the story sneaks up on you. It all starts the way I've seen people write about it, with some generic but incongruous elements slapped together in a way that's a bit discordant but mostly just tiresome. First there's an attack by (one presumes) the main bad guy on the good guys' camp, and our protagonist gets repeatedly stabbed, his throat is slit, and he's thrown in a river. Seems like he ought to be dead! But instead (or maybe as a consequence?) he goes to techno-heaven and learns the first of many abilities that have been shamelessly cribbed from other, better games. There are no NPCs in techno-heaven. There are no explanations. Is it real? Is it a dream? Does it matter? Eventually, our hero returns from whence he went and washes ashore, uninjured.

His name is Cliff, by the way. They spell it “Kliff,” but…come on. It's Cliff. He has a friend named Duane. This is in a world with orcs (with names like Oongka) and ogres and wizards. There's some guy called Jian (Chinese?). The realm we're all in is called Pywel (Welsh?). Zero effort whatsoever to make things coherent or give any of the proper nouns legible relationships to one another. It's great. The whole thing seems haphazard, slapped together, just an excuse for a beautiful open world to roam around in. Fine.

But there is a main quest, and if you follow that main quest, the sense that things have merely been kludged together lazily begins to give way to something more uncanny. More unsettling. A couple hours in, you realize that you're playing out a waking fever dream, and that your actual flesh-and-blood brain is overheating. The following is an actual sequence of steps in the game's main quest.

* * * 

You jump off some sky islands, which are 1) one of the very most shameless of Crimson Desert's many, many deeply shameless borrowings from the last couple of Zelda games and 2) called “the Abyss” for no reason I can even begin to imagine. You land back near the starting town where much of the quest line has taken place thus far. You are prompted to go to a watchtower nearby. Nobody actually gives you the quest; no NPC has even mentioned the watchtower. You just know: It's time to go there. The holy spirit, or the insistence of the 10-year-old Zelda-loving DM running this most unholy railroad of a D&D campaign, compels you.

As you approach the tower, you hear NPCs yelling about bandits. Seems some bandits have captured the watchtower! You'd better fight them. You do, which is pretty fun, to be honest—trampling them with your horse, hacking at them with a one-handed axe—and the instant the last one falls, the screen fades to black. You've been teleported off your horse to the base of the tower; all the dead bandits have vanished (their gear has helpfully been whisked away to a chest in your quarters, from which you can extract loot, but which you cannot actually manually add anything to; you can only store things in your personal inventory). Up come several of the game's never-ending blizzard of tutorial screens explaining one minigame or arcane sub-mechanic (claiming territory! fishing! investing in the stock market! arbitrage!) after another. You close them out. Your quest now is “Go to the top of the tower.” Do you smell burning? Is something burning?

To get inside, there's a sort of puzzle where the solution is basically, “Hey, you played Zelda, right? You know how this works.” (If you hadn't played Zelda, you'd probably have no fucking clue what's going on. You have played Zelda, for better or worse.) You go inside. There are some extremely half-assed traps, easy to bypass, trivial to evade even if you do trigger them. Did a human being design this? Like, in the game, are we meant to believe that an NPC put these traps here, on purpose? What kind of a watchtower is this anyway, with only one door and no windows? Is any of this real? Is it meant to be? Did a human being design this? Like, was this made by AI, in the real world? Is any of this real?

You hike to the top. There are three traps, and maybe five stories to the tower. Or maybe fifty. It all looks the same, and it's taken you so long. You're feeling a little dizzy. There's nothing at the top except loot. Better get to looting! Halfway through picking up coins and books and random flatware—everything is labeled ??? until you pick it up, and I do mean everything, from grasshoppers to cheese—you accidentally pick up a weird helmet. Your quest now is “Put on the weird helmet.”

You put on the weird helmet. There's a hologram of a wizard who made this helmet to record memories or something. He says something about you being the chosen one, maybe? Or maybe that was somebody else. Who can remember? It's all hallucinatory, and it's hard to hear him over the ringing in your ears. Your quest now is “Talk to the child.” What? Who? Where? Why? (At least you know when. Right now!)

You go back down the stairs and out the tower's front door. There's a kid on the wall. Ah, you do recognize her. For a moment, things snap back into place. The ringing recedes. Back in town, you helped her rescue her cat from a rooftop. Also, she's probably not actually a kid, because that earlier part of the quest line involved an old beggar who turned out to be off-brand Merlin and a noblewoman who turned out to be…a talking bird? Like, a seagull, but magical? Gandalf, but a lady, and a seagull? Don't think too hard about it; you'll only hurt yourself. Follow the cat, the kid says. That's your quest now.

You follow the cat. It takes like an hour. The cat goes halfway up a mountain, and it's not that fast, and it gets stuck in a stream and on a rock along the way. Time unspools. Your eyes lose focus. You shake yourself. How long were you out like that?

Oops, the cat's moving again. Up on the mountain is a magical ruin that's the 185th thing you've seen in the past two hours (four hours? six?) that was shamelessly lifted from Tears of the Kingdom. You watch a hologram do magic to a holographic door, which teaches you a magic spell that lets you do magic to a real door. You go inside the magical ruin. You learn another magic spell by watching a hologram. A different one? The same one? It's all running together, but it doesn't matter. None of this is real, you promise yourself.

You are presented with a puzzle that, perversely, is solved with neither of these new magic spells but one you learned three magic spells ago, back in the Sky Islands, excuse me, the Abyss. Your quest is, once again, “Talk to the child.” What the fuck? How'd the child get here? What happened to the cat? Was there ever a cat? Was the cat the child all along?

You go outside. Oh. It's not that child from before. It's a new magical child. The kid blathers at you about destiny or the balance or something. Your ears are ringing again. Blood trickles from your nose. Wipe it away. A wave of dizziness buffets you. Fight it down. You can't really understand what the kid is going on about. You can't concentrate. But you can stay on your feet. Your head swims. Stay on your feet. Your quest—that's simple enough. That you can understand. “Go back to town.” You can do it.

You go back to town. Some guy wants to fight you. Sure, you say. You say yes to everything. There literally aren't any dialogue options in this game. You simply do whatever the 10-year-old DM railroading you through life and death and unlife thinks would be cool next. Every step of every quest is just “Make the next thing happen,” or “Go to where the next thing is going to happen to you.” You have no choice. You kick the guy's ass. Oops, he has a second health bar. You kick the guy's ass. He compliments you a bunch. You respond with great humility. You are always extremely humble. You have no choice. Your quest now is “Speak with the man who seems to have something to say.”

That's actually from the game. I mean, all of this has really been from the game, but I've been paraphrasing the quest text, mostly. This one is verbatim. That's what this next step of the main quest is: “Speak with the man who seems to have something to say.”

You experience a massive cerebral hemorrhage.

The Importance of Being Earnest

Valeria made a great observation in her recent review of Daggerheart:

TTRPGs have utterly failed to communicate how lighthearted this hobby is to outsiders. When I tell my coworkers that I play D&D, most of them are imagining […] a Lord of the Rings LARP mediated by complicated math. Therefore, most new converts to the hobby - intimidated by the serious game they imagine D&D to be - try to pull the game in a direction more comfortable to them. They play clowns and humanoid bears to protect themselves with a layer of detached irony. 

But the real irony is that this is the most popular way to engage with the game! The most beloved D&D stories are all absurd bits! So the same cycle keeps playing out at table after table. New players enter the hobby expecting D&D to be the butt of their jokes, realize everyone else is also doing bits, then become so emotionally invested in the joy the bits brought them that the game acquires genuine narrative weight.

This got me thinking about my own experiences—not so much my own early ones as a player (deadly earnest, I'm afraid; please pretend to be shocked) but the several times now I've seen other folks sit down at the table for the first time, and in particular my experiences with first-time GMs. I've thought about related questions a fair bit (like, what's a good first system for brand-new players, and what sort of adventures should I, as the GM, send them on?) but I'd never thought directly about what Valeria articulated. It struck a chord, obviously, and it helped me clarify something that's been bugging me lately.

I've been reading through a ton of Mothership stuff. As is tradition, I've gone way deeper than the group (which has for the time being moved on to Tales of Argosa anyway) ever needed. It's just fun! It's a great scene, there's a ton of creativity out there, there's a ton of diversity to what people are writing, and there's loads I'm looking forward to running. But there is a thread running through a lot of third-party Mothership material that I find a bit irksome: a tendency to get jarringly silly. Goofy names, obvious references to popular media, zany gags, all manner of unserious stuff that takes me out of the immersive space I'm building in my imagination.

The part that has bugged me, to be clear, is my own stuffy reaction. Am I a spoilsport? A killjoy? As we established above, TTRPGs are silly, and writing silly stuff is fun. Who am I to scoff at somebody else's silly fun? The sort of dork who approached his early experiences with D&D 3.5e and 4e in deadly earnest, of course. What suits me definitely isn't for everybody! And yet…

* * * 

This week, I also serendipitously happened across a video gently poking fun at director Robert Eggers for how disappointed he is by his much-lauded feature debut, The Witch, and how relentlessly negative he is about it on the film's commentary track. Punctiliousness about historical accuracy matters to Eggers to a degree that seems borderline pathological even to the sympathetic video creator.

For my part, I'm an admirer of Eggers, love The Witch, and am all for pathological devotion to historical accuracy in film. For me, The Witch stands in stark contrast to one of the recent films I've been most out of step with critics and other cinema dorks about, The Brutalist. I hated the latter for any number of reasons, but among the things that most immediately upset me, and then just continually galled me throughout its voluminous running time, was the film's sloppy disregard for historical accuracy. Any movie whose Holocaust-survivor protagonist emerges from Buchenwald with eight-pack abs has burned up all of my goodwill right from the jump, but this one also featured a slew of anachronistic dialogue and had very obviously been filmed in Central Europe (I correctly guessed Hungary during the intermission and have witnesses who can corroborate that!) despite being set in Pennsylvania. I used to live in Germany and spent some time in Poland and Hungary. I recognized the architecture, the trees, even the damn dirt. It quickly destroyed whatever ability to be immersed I had left after the abs.

In an interview clipped in that video above, my man Eggers says, “I didn't obsess over Puritan buttons just because I like buttons. I didn't obsess over the saw marks in the floorboards because I like saw marks. […] It's in the purpose of telling the story. It's about immersing you in the world. If you can't be actually transported to the 17th century, then you can't actually be transported into the mindset of these English Puritan Calvinist settlers, and if you can't do that, then you can't believe in the witch, and the whole movie just doesn't work. […] The more you let things slide, the more the whole thing doesn't work.” Now, it's certainly possible that you can set the bar too high; errors that are only in frame for a fraction of a second, things that only a subject-matter expert or a world-class pedant would recognize, it's probably fine to let them slide. (There are a couple King Hu movies set during the Song dynasty, which ended in 1279, where people have dried maize hanging in their homes despite the fact that maize didn't exist in China until after 1492; this only bothers me a little bit and has not diminished my adoration for Hu or his work.)

The thing is, though, that although nobody will ever notice any of the work that went into raising the bar higher than it needed to be, everybody's going to notice all of the work you didn't put in if you don't set it high enough. The bar depends on the audience, and it depends on the subject matter, but it's always there.

The immersiveness and tone of any roleplaying game depend on a lot of factors, and of course the overall composition of the group is an important one, but nothing is more important than the example the GM sets. Let's carve it in stone right here: My First Law of GMing is that the players will always take the game less seriously than the GM does. This is almost always true on a one-on-one basis (i.e., each individual player in your game will take it no more seriously than you do; nobody wants to out-nerd the boss nerd), but it is always true in the aggregate. I have never been in a game where the average player seriousness (or earnestness, or “buy-in”) was greater than the GM's, and I am 100% confident I never will be—at least not for long. If it ever happens for even a couple sessions in a row, the game probably falls apart.

As a filmmaker, if you're trying to immerse your audience, you want to err on the side of being too punctilious. As a GM, you're definitely trying to immerse your players, so you want to err on the side of being embarrassingly earnest. You can always tone it down! It's a lot easier to relax and let your players inject some silliness into the proceedings (which, again, they're almost always going to do) than it is to tighten things back up. Like a jury tainted by impermissible evidence even after it's been officially stricken from the record, players are probably going to stay in the silliest headspace they've been in even if you enjoin them with “Come on, guys, take this a little more seriously!” Start earnest and let things find their level. Be the straight man to the players' comedians.

By that same token, if you're writing TTRPG material intended for GMs to use, obviously they don't have to run it exactly as you write it and are welcome to revise it to make it more immersive, serious, earnest, or anything else for their table…but you might as well err on the side of earnestness, because it's a lot easier to make things more silly than less. Give your reader all the tools they need to play the most earnest, serious, humorless version of your material possible. They, and especially their players, will have no trouble finding humor at the table.