How to Be a Hero in an RPG

Since becoming the proud parent of an rpg (and faced with the usual paternity-suit sticker shock), I, Dmitri Gheorgheni, have made certain observations about the behaviour of my fellow Researchers in cyberreality which might – I say might – possibly have some nodding resemblance, a soupcon, perhaps, to the problems some of us face in what I have learned to call RL. (Although I question the accuracy of the term – how do you know you’re not a brain in a vat, Professor Putnam?)


Although the cast of the Beta rpg are, with one exception, brave and stalwart individuals who grasp the nettle of fate with unflinching fingers and look at this increasingly tenuous metaphor with undimmed but tear-stained eye2, they do sometimes tend to make things difficult for themselves. Hence this entry containing what I hope will be useful advice for not only surviving, but also enjoying one’s sojourn in the land of make-believe.

An aside. The exception to the heroic norm around the starship Mariposa is of course that wimp Jamie Douglass, whose whining and whinging is beginning to get on my nerves. So your planet blew up – get over it. So, before your planet blew up, the IRA blew you into the galaxy – so deal already. So you get blamed for everything from systems failures to fleabites in the senior officers’ mess hall – suck it up, Binky. Gird up your loins like a man, er, Gael, and show them what a tom is made of. End of rant.

Rules for Being a Hero

Don’t try to be one. Try to be a villain – then be pleasantly surprised when your fellow-players find you far more likeable than you intended to be. Don’t let them see this – sulk convincingly when they tell you you’re cute when you sneer. Be inconsiderate – this gives the others an excuse to soliloquise on the subject of how unfair the universe is (see below).

Don’t expect the universe to rewrite itself in conformity with you backstory. So you came from a planet where it was normal to go around with a three-foot meerschaum in your mouth, and now there are ‘No Smoking’ signs everywhere? Great – your search for a way to outsmart the fire alarm will make riveting reading.

Whinge loudly, early and often. Complain about the food, the bad décor, and the Captain’s incessantly piercing voice over the tannoy. Go on and on about the pain in your left diodes. Emote like Hamlet. And expect and encourage your shipmates to do the same. Nobody appreciates stoicism – it’s boring and hard to pull off convincigly.

Do not believe that you have a monopoly on a personality trait or shtick. If you have a fascinating tattoo from the planet Tattooine, somebody else will want one, too. So compare notes on how much it hurt to get it.

Be ready to be made a fool of. Mockery builds character(s). And it’s fun to be laughed at onscreen.

Finally, a word to all you masochists out there – if you must be wounded in the line of duty, a decent sense of self-preservation dictates that you should be wounded non-fatally and above all picturesquely. A picturesque wound is one which will permit you to go about your duties bravely, while garnering sympathy from all and sundry – a shoulder wound is quite nice, or a leg wound which requires a natty walking stick for a few episodes. Putting yourself near death’s door will land you in sickbay, where most of the action does not take place, due to the universal hatred all players seem to feel for the chief medical officer, in spite of attempts to make him sympathetic by giving him a thousand-watt smile. In short – picturesque wound=limelight and sympathy, lifethreatening wound=isolation, boredom and green jelly with dinner.

So practice your whingeing and stoical eye-rolling, and watch for soliloquy opportunities. Before you know it, your fanbase will extend to double digits, even!