Categories
story worldbuilding

chapter one

Souls and Dancing Lights

TO UNDERSTAND HOW I came to be in such a terrible place, I have to explain the places that came before; or more accurately, place. I, like many folk, grew up in the shadow of my parent’s respective calling. Our home was the only smithery in the village, and my parents were its only smiths. My father did most of the forging and metalworking, and my mother did most of the finishing – an arrangement that suited their hands, and gave me a good understanding of the whole craft. I lived and quite literally breathed their work, with what space in our house that was dedicated to the normal functions of home constantly stinking of charcoal, salt and bone. I’m sure that many a listener would chastise me for thinking I had it hard; true enough there was always food on the table, there was always coin for clothes and trinkets, and there was a roof over my head for first seventeen years of my life. Perhaps a grander story would have had me living hand to mouth in the awnings of manors in the Pelenine Hills, stealing loaves of bread and slices of pie from open windows, stealing the hearts of courtiers and making my way up the social ladder.

But that would not be my story. I was a blacksmith’s boy, born as Raemir, son of Riva and Craemon, on course to be a smith until the day I could no longer swing a hammer, whereupon I would pass it onto my children, and the children after them. As I am now, it feels like oblivion, for lack of a better word, to inherit a calling and life from your parents, and to simply bear that life until you pass it onto the next. At the time however, it simply felt like that was the way things were. You cannot understand that you are trapped in a prison if those walls and bars are all that you know of the world, and all I knew of the world was the village of Sael.


The name of the village was hotly disputed in many a tavern-held ‘discussion’. The prevailing theory was that it got its name from a friendly giant man called Saelmann, who would lift fallen trees off the road for passing caravans. The second most popular, was that it came from an explorer called Masarael the Rambler, who discovered the region and mapped it all out. The size of Saelman, the fairness of Masarael, both vary between retellings and quantity of drink. In some, more sober discussions, Masarael was given a tidy sum by a local small-king to find a source of wood grand enough for a carving. However, when the ale was flowing, she would became the most beautiful soul in the forest, who sung to the trees to grow them tall and hard with nothing but her clarion voice. The main detail that varied with Saelmann, was just his size. I recall a time in the Shaded Grove, the closest tavern to our home, and one that my father attended regularly.

“Listen Craemon, ‘e had to be that tall, because otherwise he couldn’t have thrown the cart!” My father and I were sat at a small table with a man who I had not spoken to before, but one he seemed familiar with. His voice was thin and rasping, as though his throat was a quarter of the size it actually was, and he had a tongue thick with drink. “Thrown the cart..?” In contrast, my father’s voice was deep and leathery; I came to the notion that one’s voice thins out with use, and he used his sparingly. “Aye, thrown. So the story goes.” The rasping man took in a deep breath, signalling the start of the performance. “Some slick, bucklebooted coinspinner tried to buy ole Saelmann’s arm. He came to him on the darkest day in Winter, with a whole chest of jewels and trinkets. Wanted Saelmann to smash any other trader following the road, such that only the his goods would pass”. He took a long gulp of his flagon, and slammed it back down on the table to add dramatic flair to his story. “But ole Saelmann was cunning and sound, he knew right from wrong! He took the coinspinner’s offer, but gave more in return. ‘For our new friendship, I can provide you a way to get to the nearest village faster than a sprinting buck, would you like to have it?’ asked ole Saelmann.”

It was obvious to me what was coming, but the rest of the tavern-dwellers had quieted in anticipation, like it was a well known song, coming to a head. The rasping man narrowed his eyes and straightened his back. “‘Cos ole Saelmann was a keen judge, he knew the spinner’s character was thin as the coin he craved; a faster pace meant more time to peddle, an offer he could not resist. The snake asked ole Saelmann to show him the way immediately. He came down with his arm, big as two score logs bound together, and scooped up the peddler with his cart. As though he were throwin’ a pebble, ole Saelmann hefted it all into the sky, and watched as it arced down a full four thousand paces yonder, just as he said, in the nearest village”. A small cheer erupted from the tavern, accompanied by the stamping of feet. The rasping man sat back in his chair, and folded his arms in satisfaction. “Course, ole Saelmann went over to that village, chest between his fingers, and shared the riches with them for the trouble of crashin’ a cart into their square. From there, word spread to them coinspinners – not all things in this world can be bought, and fate might kill them for tryin'”. He bookended the story with another large gulp of his flagon, to a background of laughing and jeering.

“So then where’s Saelmann now?” I blurted, shattering the post-story euphoria. The flagon came down to the table, more softly than before. I fully expected him to yell “Do you think you are smart? Do you think you have found a hole in my story, you stupid boy!“. But his features softened, and he chuckled a woeful, crackling laugh. “That’s a story for another time, little one, I fear your ‘pa doesn’t ‘ave the stomach for more”. While the story’s veracity was in question, that observation was not. My father was not an expressive man, but in this moment, he was looking at me in the corner of his eye much in the same way that one regarded a clawfly – disgust. The night wrapped up there; we said our goodbyes and made our back way home. It was six minutes into the walk, after we had cleared the main street of the village, when my dad dragged me off the path and beat me. It was not the first time, nor even the last, but one I will never forget.


I will need to explain something of magic. The first time I saw it, not the crowdshow sleight of hand that I witnessed countless times at market, but Sträm’s honest truth magic, was when I was ten years of age. It was not described as such at the time, for even the most crazed or brazen of folk would not do so publicly, but in retrospect it could not have been anything else. There was a woman who would come to our village once a season, always in the first three days of the first month. A group of us would wait by the main road at near to dusk, each of the three days, until she arrived to our jubilation. She dressed as plainly as one could, with the only identifying item being a silver buckled leather satchel that she had slung over one shoulder. Otherwise, you could mistake her for any of the folk by her clothing. Her hair was a stark auburn colour, which she tied into a ponytail at the back. It swung with the regularity of a pendulum, and many children would use it to keep time for a sort of procession.

We would all walk down to the nearest clearing, performing this strange ceremonial dance, following our beloved lady until she had cause to stop. When she did, she would always turn to us and ask the same question. “Does anyone have anything to share today?” We would immediately respond by pressing forwards, holding aloft various trinkets and pieces, waiting for her to select one. When she did, she would ask us to explain how we had come by it, sparing absolutely no detail or effort. One time, I was lucky enough to be chosen. It was a small figurine, no more than a finger in height, smithed of metal fragments I found from around our forge. It was undeniably amateur – the combination of materials and lack of time had led to an uneven melt, which had in turn, warped the figurine as it cooled. Nonetheless, she asked me to recount the process by which I made it.

I described how I crawled the floor for hours, looking for flakes of metal that were left behind, how I put them into a crucible and heated them until they formed what looked like a liquid. How I then took that heavy crucible and decanted it into a stone mold of the figure that I had chiseled out before, and so on. I declined to mention the burn I received on a finger through a hole in the gloves, but I cradled it unconsciously. “It’s meant to be Aldin” I mumbled, and gestured in his direction. She turned the figurine end over end, before looking at me with earnest brown eyes and asking: “It’s wonderful Raemir, are you sure you want me to have it?” I nodded at her, and stood a pace back for what came next. She cupped the figurine in her hands, brought it close, and then held them open in front of her. In place of the figurine, now stood a thrushling, made of pure orange light. It hopped from finger to finger, before taking to the air over our heads, circling and tumbling, until it ended as a dull ember that fell into the grass. The whole moment lasted a mote longer than the time between two breaths.

We erupted into cries of appreciation. Even I, who had toiled for hours on something that had been destroyed so immediately, found myself cheering like a dullard watching cups and balls. Perhaps the spectacle itself was not what drew such joy, but just that it could happen at all. That even in sod’s end Sael, whose most renowned quality was a risible origin tale, we would be bestowed with such a display of Passion. At the very least, it was enough to make you forget about the days work ahead. Enough to make you forget the welts and bruises. It continued until I was fourteen, a year where we waited, clutching at our homemade toys and trinkets for three dusks and one more, waiting for our lady. She never came, and that was the end of that.


I fully believe that, had fate not deemed otherwise, I could have told my life story with fourteen words on a gravestone. “Here lies Raemir, born in Sael, died in Sael, with some smithing work between”. There were however, two things that conspired to adjust the course of my life in altogether more interesting and terrible ways. Firstly, I was blessed with a trio of friends; we were of similar age and standing, each born with a unique disposition that meshed to form bonds strong as any iron. I knew them from when I learned to walk, and our friendship only grew from there. First was Aldin, whose gentleness of manner was contrasted by his sharp features and strength of arm. He worked with his father in the lumbermill – the wood of the forest around us was too tough to be cut by folk lacking brawn, and so it induced it. He stood a full two heads taller than the rest of us, and was lean with corded muscle. He was our knight. On several occasions where I should have had my teeth kicked in for my trouble, Aldin was there. This having been said, he would keep his hair razor-cut short, so we said that the mill used his head to sand down rough edges, in lieu of any other use for it. He took it in good spirits, as he took everything.

Then there was Illia. She was a farmhand, and would not be whole without straw in her dark hair, or a stone in her hand. She spent most of her days driving carts to market, or cattle to new grazing lands. For Illia, time was the most valuable commodity she had, and her mind was like a knife that cut out anything that wasted it. When selling their produce, if she told you that it was ten slivers for a bag of oats, it was ten slivers for a bag of oats; a lesson that customers learned swiftly. She hoarded her time because she needed it to dream. Numbered too few were the Summer evenings where we would sit on a fence and listen to Illia speak of things that weren’t real. Not the tavern-fodder from earlier, stories that were wrung out like a wet cloth by the time it reached your ear. She spoke of worlds utterly unlike our own.

Last of the three was Renee, who was bonded to me by virtue of our first letter. I told her that the silver tongue she possessed was our smith’s first creation, a joke that she pretended to be insulted by, but privately revelled in. She was the daughter of our village’s physician, who was a woman of such habit and consistency that people would tell the time by the opening of her clinic. I think Renee did everything in her power to be different; she refused to inherit the manner of her mother, even if she did get her intellect. On walks, she would excitedly gesture at plants, enumerating their medicinal uses or poisonous capabilities. When one of us fell ill, or suffered a scrape, she would concoct some poultice or mixture to solve it. When I would run from my home with bruises, it was her gentle care that tended to them.

What of me? What did I bring to this group of people, of matching value to their contributions? They knew me for my hands, trained as they were, and they helped where they could. I fixed Aldin’s saw when its teeth were blunted and bent, I forged new fastenings for Illia’s cart when the previous ones were rusted and loose. I smithed doctor’s tools of silver for Renee, as she said they faired better with people. I did not understand why, but I was simply happy to help her. While I did these things, I never felt used for my hands – it simply felt like something I could do, and I did it for free. This fact would get me into considerable trouble with my father, who punished me whenever he discovered that metal had gone missing from the forge. But the bruises mattered not, for I loved my friends as though we were of the same blood. There were no barriers between our hearts, no walls between our minds. If I could not share a thought with them, then it could not well live within my own head either.

My fondest memory of our time together was when I was fifteen, in the opening of autumn. We had been walking back from the river, surrounded by the oranges and yellows of fading nature, when Renee had become enraptured by something growing on the side of a tree branch about ten paces up. This, despite a fact that she repeated several times while running around the trunk, looking for handholds. “I’m telling you, Folded Redbur shouldn’t be growing anywhere outside of a damp cave, and not this far north either! It’s just not possible!” She stopped underneath it and stared directly upwards. Illia cut in. “So it isn’t. It’s something else and you’ve got it muddled. It doesn’t even look like a mushroom to me”. Renee spun round with wild eyes and blurted “it’s not any regular mushroom! It’s a special one, you can use it for dyeing or facepaint!” She began to pace around the roots again. “Fetches a pretty coin too, ‘cos it doesn’t leave you numbed like Bloodroot does”

“It could fetch a handful of bars, it wouldn’t make it any lower down,” I said, my arms folded. “maybe we can knock it down with something.” I searched around for a rock of suitable size and picked it up. “No!” she yelled, and quickly grabbed my wrist. “Raemir, son of Craemon and Riva, this is not a problem to be smashed flat like a kink in one of your metals.” She plucked the stone from my hand, and tossed it into a bush. “This is a problem to be solved with guile, now hoist me squirelings!” She immediately began to climb onto my shoulders, using Aldin’s head for balance. Despite our squirming and many complaints, she found purchase on the lowest branch and pulled herself up. We stood back as she analysed her next move. Illia pointed to a branch slightly higher up on her right, “you’ll want to jump to that one, there’s a path all the way to it from there”, and thumbed a stone over in her hand. Renee took an exaggerated actor’s bow, stood tall and leapt. She caught the branch at chest height, but immediately lost her grip and fell into a heap below.

Renee had dropped hardly any distance at all, but we sped over to her all the same. She was lying, face up, surrounded by leaves and detritus knocked loose by her acrobatics. The silence was broken by Illia: “I told you that you had to jump to it, not at it”, she said turning her stone. Renee remained still. “Yes, well I do remember a great deal about the jumping part! Sorry to say, but the grabbing part was shockingly under-detailed”. A moment passed and then we all burst into laughter, and we made our way back to the village with smiles on our faces. The next day, Aldin brought a ladder from the lumbermill, and clambered up to the ‘rare mushroom’. It turned out to be a red rag that had been caught by the wind, and we laughed even harder than before. We were utter fools, but fools are in good company.

Aldin and Illia would end on the same charred earth that I met my own, victims of their own strength of body and soul. Renee was fortunate enough to be spared the levy, spared the fire that the rest of us would suffer in, spared by the same knowledge that had eased our pains and miseries for years before. She was the second thing that would change the course of my life forever.


I was sixteen when I was first exposed to the way of the world outside Sael. It was a bitterly cold Middlewinter, with a wind so biting that it would take a finger if you let it. I was sat in the forge, forging a piece of iron that was to become a pulley handle for the village well: the old one had become thin and rusted, and ended up buckling in the cold. Despite these conditions outside, the forgehouse was always unpleasantly hot, and I worked bare chested with sweat and smoke sticking to my skin. There was a knock at the door. Not the rapid, cheerful knock of a friend visiting, but the slow, solemn knock of awful tidings. My father answered the door, and ushered in a man swaddled with furs and thick leathers. He stood a good head above my father, with short cut brown hair and a jaw like a shelf. At his hip was sheathed a large blade with a large engraved crossguard, topped with a decorated silver pommel, upon which his hand rested. I could have made a hundred of these iron handles and not gotten half the coin needed to pay for that sword, which meant that he had to be a small-king’s man.

My mother had warned me of such people. The folk around here might have a knife on their person, for a knife was useful. You could cut meat, whittle wood and defend yourself in a pinch if you were jumped by thieves at night. The common axe, held by the woodcutters, was a tool that our village was basically built upon. Their edges were sharp, yes, but they had to be to get through the hard bark of our trees. Even a spear, the weapon of choice for our village militia when needed, could be used for mundane purposes. On several occasions I can recall a wild boar running amok on the main road, requiring someone to corner and stick it. You would not use a sword to cut a tree, slice meat, or fell a boar. A sword was for killing folk.

After some quick conversation between them, I was ushered out with a glare from my father, and the door to the smithery was shut. I knew better than to eavesdrop; I had earned my fair share from doing so previously, so I went up the stairs to our home and sat there until the talking was done. I do not know what was discussed, and I don’t think my mother did either, but life was very different from that point on. We no longer spared metal or time on mundane work – five days hence we got a wagonload of steel ingots, enough to give everyone in the village a set of tools that would last them decades, but they never even saw a nail of it. Now we made weapons: spearheads, arrowheads, axeheads and swords. Each marked with a fire hardened stamp that had been given to us by the small-kingsman, one that left a four pointed star. I had seen it once or twice before on some of the oldest tools in the village, but I would learn this was the symbol of our country, a place that I had never really known.

For the next three seasons, we made nothing but weapons. The wagonloads of ingots would come in, and we would return them brimming with edged steel. Many times we had to turn away folk who came to us in dire need of replacement tools – once turning away a woodcutter who was willing to pay two strips for a new axe head. That’s twice what they’d normally pay, for which they could have gotten a fine pair of shoes from any city cobbler, or several nights in a warm feather bed. Swiftly the mood of the village turned against my family, culminating one night in the Shaded Grove when my father and I were ambushed. “For Sträm’s sound Craemon, have you lost your wits?” bellowed Morgen, who was Illia’s dad, a man of sun-kissed skin and firm features. I respected him greatly, much for the same reasons that he was currently challenging my father for: he was honestly spoken, same as Illia.

“We’re pulling briar out with gloves now, because my scythe got chipped and snapped two sennachts ago! Fourteen days without it now when it wouldn’t take you more than a day to sort, but you won’t do it for love nor coin!” My father did not even deign to look up from his cup. “Now you won’t even speak to me, let alone fix anything! Me. A man you’ve known for over four score seasons! I tried going up to the crossing and even the smith there didn’t give me the time of day” Morgen was flushed red with anger, but then took a long breath and settled. “Craemon, tell us what’s happening” Morgen begged, eyes now filled with concern. My father put down his cup, and shifted to look him in the eye. I thought he was a cruel man, but he had a heart, and in this instance he was wearing it on his sleeves. “Got a visit from a man who bore the mark of the small-king. Gave us an imperative, said we were to make royal orders and nothing else till the metal stopped coming. Pays me well for it too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shining golden coin, a sovereign. If Morgen toiled in his fields with his farmhands, living like a pious man on nothing but bread and water for four seasons, he still wouldn’t have seen one for his trouble.

The room had fallen silent. Someone unfamiliar with folk might have thought that my father was bragging, that he had meant to show off the immense wealth that he had come into, even among people living in increasingly dire circumstances. But from his face, and from the faces around the room, you could tell this was not so. That coin was a ball and chain, a brand that said you belonged to our small-king, and as long as you held it, you were in his shadow, and that of his men. It was serfdom condensed into physical form, delivered at distance. The last cruelty was that none of the folk here had the slivers, strips or bars to break a sovereign – so you couldn’t even buy anything with it. Not here. Not for ten thousand paces around.

Morgen rested a hand on my father’s shoulder, and the room remained quiet until it had emptied. A more worldwise person would have understood the consequences of these things. Royal imperatives compelling local folk to make weapons and tools of war makes for a clear portent now. But I was still a boy, and the village of Sael was all I knew.

Categories
story worldbuilding

prologue

THERE ARE FEW PLACES more grim, or more detestable than a battlefield in Summer. While the storytellers and musicians spin florid descriptions, telling eager audiences of how fates were made and glories won on their hallowed ground, the reality is filth, pain, and misery. This battlefield was no better, and in many respects, far worse. The once grassy, soft turf had been torn by footfall and catastrophe, no longer the home of many an insect and beast, it now played host to the bodies of some six thousand dead folk. Each of them dressed to their own design, wearing their own unique icons of faith or fealty, but brought into singular confederation by the manner of their end. Such is the irony of a battlefield, that two people who by fate or circumstance stood on opposing sides, would now find themselves connected and alike in the most important of ways. I had, however, found myself excluded from this arrangement, for the time being. My purview was to be dying, but not quite dead, body pierced and broken by shrapnel, flesh burned near to the bone, and suffering miseries so fierce that I could not even bring myself to announce them.

The central feature of this ground was a glassy, ashen circle – through which one could stride a hundred paces without reaching the other side. This region, in turn, found itself separated into three concentric rings. The outermost was where shrapnel and sheer force had ended most lives, mounds of corpses bent in unnatural configurations, and pockmarked with rubble and debris. The next ring was a smoking ruin; the heat had instantly torched most of the dry grass, and the folk who stood on it. Where there had previously been the greens and yellows of Summer, there was now the grey and black of ash and charcoal. It was between this ring and the last that I now lay, spared the immediate incineration that many of my compatriots experienced, but granted a slow and miserable end in its place. The innermost circle was a bowl of glass. Within this boundary, there was nothing that even approximated life, just shapes and materials whose being there was defined entirely by Geometry and Chemistry.

The folk that stood there were no longer represented by forms, but by their absence. Where they stood, there were now only shadows. They had been made into dust, and that dust had been scattered to the winds. In those moments, it was they who I envied the most: those whose lives had ended like an oil flask hitting the floor – a moment of great sound, and then silence. That was another feature of this battlefield, or lacking I suppose. Again, a detail missed by the bards, for whom a man being ended was a climax of a story, with the time after quietly offered as a chance for the audience to collect themselves. I knew this was not so. The deaths earned of a battle fought with iron and wood were loud, long and terrible. The sounds of a soldier who had been run through, formed of prayer or cries, growing quieter but never silent until the last breath. But this battlefield was silent, bar one man.


Perhaps my hearing had been taken from me, and I was instead in a chorus of dying folk. I could feel the blood dribbling from my ears, and was for a moment grateful that it was one fewer sense to have assaulted. If there were the sounds of death and dying, it seemed a small charity that I should be spared them. My right arm was capable of some degree of motion, but was excruciating to try, so I stopped. My left arm, which I thought I might be lying on, was completely numb beyond a burrowing pain at the shoulder. At best I had dislocated it, as I had done pulling a cart four years prior and at worst, it was no longer connected at all. The difference seemed purely academic, who cared whether a dying man’s arm was attached or not? The edges of my vision had begun to fade, but there was one sound that kept bringing me back to consciousness. It was the screaming of a man, a screaming of such intensity and sorrow that it had rowsed me from the brink of oblivion.

I would later be told the nature of that scream. It was the sound made by a man who had lost everything, everything he held so dear and close, but had drawn from it such fire, hatred and death, that the land would bear its mark for a thousand seasons hence.

Categories
review ttrpgs

Review: Pathfinder 2e (part two)

Now that we’ve got an understanding of why Pathfinder exists, it’s time for me to get into the system and talk about what I think works, and what I think doesn’t work. Let’s be positive and start with strengths.

Ten Up Ten Down

Bet you thought I was going to talk about the action economy didn’t you? It’s coming, but one of my favourite features of the system is how criticals work. Let’s start with an example of play.

Ko'Rosh the Obliterator, a level 17 Fighter wielding a sword and shield is locked in deadly combat with three kobolds. It's Ko'Rosh's turn, and they elect to strike at the nearest kobold. They roll a natural 20, a critical hit. This automatically hits, and doubles the damage of Ko'Rosh's blow, sending the kobold into the afterlife with a brutal slash. They use their second action to perform another strike, and they roll a 18 on the d20. When combined with their formidable attack bonuses, the value exceeds the kobold's AC by 10 or more, which upgrades the strike to a critical hit; another kobold sent straight to kobold hell. For their last action, Ko'Rosh raises their shield, adding +2 to their AC.

The remaining kobold decides to thrust their spear at Ko'Rosh with all their strength, and also rolls a natural 20. However, Ko'Rosh is adorned with the mightiest plate armour in all of Heimeletar, wielding the biggest shield in all the land. This puts Ko'Rosh's AC at over 10 above the kobold's attack, even with the natural 20. While the kobold does get the hit, it is downgraded to a regular success as a result, doing meagre damage.

I’ve used the simplest example here of strikes in combat, but this system of +10 or -10 upgrading and downgrading dice results is an excellent addition for a few reasons.

  • Rules that interact with criticals are no longer mostly wasted space, as we can expect them to occur much more frequently than the normal 5% on a d20. (PF2e makes extensive use of this, more on that later)
  • Players now have a degree of control over criticals – using AC modifying effects, they can cause them to happen more or less frequently.
  • Results like 19 on the dice are no longer an “aw that was almost a natural 20, but now it’s just another result”. Extremely high rolls of the dice are rewarded (and the inverse is also true).
  • Large level differences are exemplified – if you’re a living god, then no matter how hard they try, a kobold cannot crit you (but can hit you, a rule normally played out by ‘confirming criticals’ in older systems).

This is a very low weight mechanic (in terms of explanation and literal text), that punches far above its weight in terms of impact and excellence. I enjoy it so much that I would even be tempted to homebrew it into systems that don’t have it, provided that their critical rules aren’t completely outrageous. Point 2 in the list above is something that I think is very important to stress. I have an ongoing memory from a game of Shadowrun Fifth Edition, wherein a player managed to sneak behind a security guard that was manning some camera screens. They drew their pistol, without being noticed, and shot them in the back of the head. However, because they didn’t roll critical damage, they only did about half the guard’s health; oof. However, in the Pathfinder 2e world, we’re increasing the chance of critical damage as well – so enemies that are flat footed (from being unaware, for instance) are also more likely to eat a fat crit. Neat!

Another element of this, which is a positive or negative depending on your viewpoint, is that Pathfinder 2e can also feel much more lethal than D&D 5e. Damage numbers have remained mostly comparable, with d6s/d8s plus bonuses remaining common, but the amount of crits flying around has increased considerably. This can make encounter design a bit more challenging, as an enemy that was intended to be a minor speedbump might turn into a critting machine. Of course, the inverse is true, with players occasionally mowing their way through enemies that you may have expected to last longer. I tend to be more of a “watch the world burn” sort of DM, so the fact that combat can occasionally be incredibly swift and brutal is perfectly fine with me. A common complaint of these systems is that encounters can feel gruelling and slow – for levels 1-5 at the very least, I can say I have not found this to be the case for Pathfinder 2e.

Action Economy

Alright, let’s talk about it. This is the most commonly lauded part of Pathfinder 2e, if you’re looking for a reason to try PF2e, this is probably it. There is a scourge that afflicts RPG systems, a scourge by the name of action types. If we look at Pathfinder 1st Edition, we have six kinds of action…

  • Standard
  • Move
  • Full-round
  • Swift
  • Immediate
  • Free

I tend to believe that if you have keywords that are so close that they’re nearly synonyms, you shouldn’t use them. Could you tell me the difference between an Immediate action and a Swift action, without knowing anything about PF1e? The PFSRD page for the action economy in first edition is an absolute atrocity. So what about D&D 5e?

  • Actions
  • Reactions
  • Bonus Actions
  • Free Actions
  • Movement

While these will be more familiar to most than the Pathfinder 1e terminology, we still have some ambiguity with what exactly a bonus action entails. I’m sure this won’t be a problem for someone who’s a career D&D 5e player, who doesn’t play anything else, but for someone who swaps systems frequently, this can become incredibly tedious; especially when those systems will often use the same terms for different mechanics, or the same mechanic with different terms. So what do we have in Pathfinder 2e?

  • Actions (Costing 1-3 Actions)
  • Free Actions
  • Reactions

Full disclosure, the rulebook specifies a fourth type called “Activity”, which is the term they use for things that cost more than one action to do; but I find that categorisation actually makes the rules more confusing. The reality: you have three actions, and one reaction by default. The vast majority of things are in the 1-2 action cost range. Let’s have an example of play.

Ko'Rosh the Obliterator is locked in combat with four town guard, having successfully stolen three kegs of ale from a local tavern. Ko'Rosh moves to the nearest guard, clocks them in the face with a mighty punch, and then raises their shield expecting retaliation.

One of the guards moves in with cudgel in hand and attempts to sock Ko'Rosh in the head. They roll high enough to hit Ko'Rosh, but they block with their shield in response - mitigating the damage.

Moving was an action, striking the guard was an action, and raising their shield was an action for Ko’Rosh. Blocking the hit from the guard with their shield cost a reaction. So not only do we have a system that enables a character like a Fighter to indulge in activities that aren’t just moving forwards and swinging a sword, due to the flexibility of having three actions, but we have clear costs for performing those things. If Ko’Rosh had decided to draw their sword, that would have cost an action, which is fine because we have three to play around with. In D&D 5e, having an action cost for drawing a weapon would be extremely punishing, so you have a bizarre situation where doing so is free in the rules (for the first thing drawn). This means that D&D 5e has a bizarre edge case rule for this, (see stackexchange) which Pathfinder 2e does not need.

This follows onto a lot of other activities beyond just drawing a sword. As PF2e is able to divide your turn into thirds, we can have a much smaller delineation of actions, rather than having actions just be “a part of your move”, which is a very mechanically unsatisfying answer.

Image result for legolas running up falling rocks gif

Movement

I’m having this be a subcomponent of the action economy, but the decision to have movement cost an action is one of the best decisions they made with the system. To ask a philosophical question, what is the purpose of space and movement within an RPG system? There’s lots of simulation-y answers here, but in gameplay terms, we have them because they create interesting choices and situations. By having distance, and by requiring effort to cover distance, we enable characters and classes that aren’t fantastic up-close, but excel at longer range, to exist. Pathfinder 2e has an established cost for moving up to your movement speed – one action. That action is fungible, which is to say, it could have been drawing a sword, making an attack, recalling knowledge on an enemy, opening a door, etc. By doing this, movement and positioning becomes important – being stood in the right place means getting an extra attack next turn, it means being able to draw the two handed battleaxe on your back for the final blow.

If we have the movement cost be non-fungible, ala D&D 5e, we no longer need to make that choice. While there might be circumstances like terrain that change that, my character being here, and my character being 25ft away are identical situations in a world where I can move 25ft for free (broadly speaking). Naturally this consistutes a problem, because a game in which everyone can move for free every round, means that characters which want to fight at longer range can essentially guarantee that. This is where attacks of opportunity come in, to try and dissuade you from taking that free move, because it now has the cost of potentially eating a chunk of damage. So we’ve gone from movement being free, to movement having a variable cost mostly based on a dice roll – a cost that few are willing to pay, so they don’t. The irony of this situation being that a game where movement is free, frequently involves people standing still because they don’t want to trigger attacks of opportunity.

Pathfinder 2e has thrown that out. Attacks of opportunity are very rare among monsters and NPCs, and are the property of a specific set of classes. If you are a Wizard, you are not going to be stabbing someone with a dagger as they move away from you. The cost of movement is (usually) well defined, and the decision to move is one that is (usually) well informed. Example of play time.

Ko'Rosh the Obliterator and his travelling companion, Maralanor of the Big Owl, have attempted to capture a renowned bandit with a hefty price on their head. After several rounds of brutal combat in a warehouse, a broken oil lantern has led to the area that Maralanor is stood on being ablaze, and their quarry making a hasty run for the door. With two actions remaining having drawn their spellbook, Maralanor has a choice: do they move out of the fire and avoid possibly fatal burns, or do they remain in it and attempt to cast Paralyze on their fleeing foe?

In a system where movement is free, the question of “do you move out of the fire” is a pretty simple one, outside of some extremely edge-case scenarios. However, in a world where movement means and costs something, we can create scenarios where that question is much harder to answer. In this instance above, there’s a good argument for Maralanor staying in the fire and casting the spell in a PF2e world. In a D&D5e world, there’s absolutely no reason (in the setup above) that Maralanor wouldn’t use their move action to extricate themselves from the fire, then cast Hold Person with their action. I want to believe that combat RPGs are more than just swinging a sword at a goblin – they’re about making decisions in high intensity scenarios. While there’s a limit on the number of choices that people can reasonably pick from, I think movement is something that people should need to consider carefully before doing it. This is something that Pathfinder 2e has managed to do, and I think it’s a much better system for it.

Shields

I am a shieldman. I love shields, I love the aesthetics of shields, I love the physicality of shields, I love it all. If a game gives me a chance to have a shield, I’ll normally take it. This is why my heart bleeds for the implementation of shields in D&D 5e. What an absolute waste! Here’s the roll20 version.

Yawnsville, Tennessee

Is that it? +2 AC? Look at what they did to my boy. Now to be fair, there’s a feat called Shield Master, which allows you to shove as a bonus action, add that +2 to your dexterity saving throws, and avoid all damage instead of half for effects that’s relevant for; but it’s still not enough. So what have we got for Pathfinder 2e? A lot more.

Different kinds of basic shield? Oh my!

I feel that shields are a great example of where the streamlining of D&D 5e took a little bit too much out. A shield is more than just the AC bonus it provides, and Paizo realised that. So there’s a whole slew of ways that shields have better mechanical depth and more rewarding gameplay – let’s go through some of them.

Shielding as an Active Thing

In Pathfinder 2e, you don’t simply strap a shield to your arm and call it a day – the act of shielding requires an action called Raise a Shield, which grants you the AC bonus until the start of your next turn. While this might seem like a painful requirement at first, it’s worth bearing in mind that in the early levels, you will frequently have actions to spare. As a result of strike actions scaling such that your second strike in a round is at -5, and your third at -10, it’s usually a waste to use actions on them. At later levels, there are feats that either mitigate, or outright remove the need for the action. But, right from the off, shielding is something that is done, not something that just happens – this is a step in the right direction.

Combine this with a level 1 general feat called Shield Block. Shield block is fantastic because it combines the theme of deflection (increasing AC) with the theme of mitigation (damage absorption) that shields have. Instead of the interaction with a shield being purely your opponent needing to get past it, you can now choose to let your shield take some of the pounding. It’s worth mentioning that on the deflection side – AC improvements are valuable in PF2e because not only do they reduce your chance of getting hit, but they reduce your chance of being crit; so characters with low to middling AC still find value in increasing it, even if most enemies will still hit them in a fight. Let’s go to an example of play.

Aremie Riddlesworth, the level 1 paladin is locked in combat with two street thugs, one wielding a pair of daggers, the other wielding a two handed club. She can hear the footsteps of the town guard on their way, so she only needs to hold out for a round despite her wounds. She's up first so she elects to trip one of the street thugs, move backwards 20ft, and raise her shield. By tripping the street thug, she forces it to spend an action standing up (an action that could have been spent attacking) - between standing up and moving after her, the street thug only has one action left for an attack, which misses.

However, the second thug moves after her, and has two attacks. The first attack hits, and threatens to knock Aremie unconscious with 7 damage, more than her remaining 5 health. She uses shield block to mitigate the damage. Her steel shield eats five of the damage with hardness, and the remaining damage bleeds through into her health and shield. The second attack from the thug misses due to the -5 (from multiple attacks) and the +2 AC from Aremie's steel shield. The round ends, and four town guard round the corner, making for a much more even fight...

In this instance, Aremie used the shield in two different ways at level 1 – increasing her AC and also mitigating damage. If we wanted a more trite example, she could have used it to Shield Bash (which is a supported weapon in the system, requiring no homebrew).

Shields as Something to be Specialized In

If Aremie was wielding a shield with Shield Spikes, then it would start to do more reasonable damage. If she had the level 6 feat Shield Warden, and there was an ally stood adjacent to her, she could use the shield to block damage to them. If she had the level 1 feat Reactive Shield, and the blow from the thug would have been prevented by the additional shield AC, then she could have raised her shield in reaction rather than as an action. This is a subset of the available feats that we could have, and the complexity increases with levels. This is also not including complexity added by magical shields! This one thing, largely a footnote in D&D5e has been given a new lease on life.

This is not least because the Champion class makes extensive use of shields, and has several class elements that interact directly with them. They’re now an item that is worth looking at in depth, and helps bring a shielding character concept to life.

Downtime

A not-inconsiderable amount of the Core Rulebook is dedicated to a pillar of the game that Paizo has called “Downtime“. Downtime is a tricky thing, because it’s something that a large group of players will simply never interact with. If you’re an adventuring party that goes from dungeon to dungeon, slaying and looting from dusk till dawn, you might never need to use them. However, if you’re running a campaign where the characters have something more akin to a life, then at some point you’re going to run into the question of “what does my character do when they’re not plunging a dagger into the back of a cultist”. I think that the downtime rules provided have given substance to that need, and made clear to the players what their options are. There are a set of downtime actions that are available to everybody (long term rest, retraining, buying and selling goods etc), and then there’s downtime actions that are given to us by the skill system (more on that later). Time for the example of play.

Aremie, having just avoided a unsightly end in the alleyway, retreats to her tavern room to recover for the night. The following morning, she resolves to earn some coin to repair her shield and sleep in a better bed, so she chooses the Earn Income activity for the day. Using her formidable knowledge of Religion, she elects to be an acolyte at the local temple. The DM sets the "task level" of this at level 1, with a DC of 15, as it's an entry level job with little risk of skill required, in a middling part of town. She rolls her religion, and beats the DC. Looking at the Earn Income chart, as she is Trained in religion with a task level of 1, she earns 2sp from the day.

If Aremie desired, she could continue to work the job for the rest of the week, keeping that amount of money - which in 4 more days, would leave her with 1gp to spend. Not a huge amount, but a start.
The Mighty Earn Income Table

As the Earn Income rules are so extensible, they act as a great catch-all for when the players just need a little bit of extra money to do something. Furthermore, because almost anything can be used as part of an Earn Income activity, it means there’s always something to do for a player with spare time on their hands. While some might see this as unnecessary mechanisation, and were happy for this to be decided on the fly by the DM, I am not one of those people. I’ve made good use of this ruleset already, and I consider downtime to be an important part of any adventure. You cannot have hot without cold, and I feel like you need to have some normalcy to make the dungeoneering feel more exciting and meaningful.

If I had a criticism of these rules, it’d be that the craft times for mundane items seem incredibly extreme, with a minimum of four days. They can also be a bit hard to wrap your head around at first, with some players being more happy for the DM to just decide this all for them with hand waving. I consider them a good opportunity for the DM to introduce “clocks“, which I think are a fantastic RPG system. If your players are looking to build something themselves over an amount of time, like a bridge or a house, then the earn income/craft rules give us a great shorthand to achieve that. Set the value of the bridge to some value (500gp for example), and then have them do an Earn Income (Craft) check to determine how long it takes them.

Travel

To be dramatic, I don’t think there’s anything that makes a DM scratch their head more than travel in a combat-y fantasy RPG. It is the white whale of this genre of RPG, a beast that will spawn infinite stack exchange posts with questions like “How do I run overland travel in [system]”. A beast that will birth infinite subsystems and homebrew concoctions, each with a thousand rollable tables, each requiring new forms of mathematics to determine how far the party can walk. A beast that threatens to grind any session to a halt, with the rulebooks hitting the table, and the “lord of the rings travel playlist xxBongRipZxx” running out of songs.

It represents the fly in the ointment. In combat-focused RPGs, encounter-mode is the quantum world, and overland travel is classical physics, with no system describing both of them to a satisfying degree. Until now. Ah, that’s not true, it’s still somewhat painful – however, PF2e gives us a toolset for handling play that primarily involves moving from A to B, which they’ve wrapped up into the pillar of the “Exploration Mode“. The same concepts of movement speed and actions are present here, but a glaze of vagueness has been applied to enable more narrative gameplay. Again, an example of play.

Clamwater Belchkins, Trudy Grobbsnobbler, Price Snaggleport and Roger Vergie are travelling from their local village to the magical city in the hills. With a minimum speed in their party of 25ft, they're capable of travelling 20 miles per day at 2.5 miles an hour (8 hours of travel). At this rate, they expect to arrive at the city in three days, as it is 60 miles away. They set forth, and the DM asks them how they're intending to travel.

Clamwater says that they're going to keep a sharp lookout in case they're ambushed. The DM translates this to the Scout activity, and adds the bonus to their initiative in the event of combat. Trudy says that she's intending to look for traps or items on the ground. The DM equates this to the Search activity, and will roll her Perception in secret if the party stumbles across something. Price says that he's going to be looking for magical auras using Detect Magic, and so the DM will let them know if they stumble across any auras. Roger intends to keep their shield up in case they're ambushed, so the DM goes to the Defend action.

With all of this settled, the travel speed is adjusted as these actions reduce their speed by half. The Magical City in the Hills is now six days away, but they'll be all the more prepared if anything comes up along the way. Which it does.

While this ruleset doesn’t tell us how characters travel over a map (you’ll have to look at the bad hexploration rules for that, more on that later), it does give us a really nice package for the more narrative-y travel sequences. If characters know where they’re going, and you know the route they’re taking, these rules provide an excellent framework to solve that problem. The trickiness arises when those things aren’t the case. The highest level (of abstraction) solution to this problem is for the players to succeed on a Sense Direction check, modified with bonuses from any information they’ve gleamed, with a DC determined by the sort of terrain. However, it doesn’t give you much for what happens when they fail, beyond “they don’t know what direction they’re going”, so there is still a fair bit of DM work to be done here. The “fail forwards” answer to this would be to have failure cost time, which is a potential solution.

It’s worth mentioning that these travel rules are embedded alongside everything else that PF2e considers ‘exploration‘. There is a lot to unpack here, and I do wonder if it would have been better for there to be a specific ‘Travel’ trait, but I also see the argument for keeping it bundled together. Exploration encompasses literally everything that isn’t combat, or specifically defined in the downtime section, so you’ll see rules for travelling over great distances knocking against rules for identifying magic. As I said, a lot to unpack, but I think that the travel rules are a boon for the system in the main.

Strengths Summary

I like to believe that I’m someone who straddles the crunch – fluff axis. I enjoyed playing Pathfinder 1e, and I enjoyed playing Monster of the Week. This is to say, I’m not someone wedded to the idea of having rules exist for every possible interaction or decision in a roleplaying game if the players and DM have a good framework to arrive at a sensible solution. In Monster of the Week, you don’t need to have specific rules to handle a character kicking someone, versus punching them. The game provides you with an abstraction (Kick Some Ass) which handles both those scenarios perfectly well for the type of game that MotW is, and the experience it wants to provide. Conversely, Pathfinder 1e and 2e are tactical combat games first. Encounters are a puzzle to be solved, and the players have everything on their character sheet available as a solution. As such, we want a certain level of definition and mechanisation, to allow the players to meaningfully work within those options, and solve a given problem. If I tried to summarise it in a one or two sentences, Monster of the Week gives you mechanics and rules to act as abstractions for what you (the player and the DM) want to happen narratively. Pathfinder (mainly) gives you mechanics and rules to act as tools to achieve what you want to happen narratively.

As an example, in Monster of the Week, you describe narratively how you’re going to punch the clown in the face, which we translate to the Kick Some Ass action and roll appropriately. In Pathfinder, you punching the clown in the face narratively is given by you using the mechanisms that the system provides (striding 15ft to the clown, using the strike action with fists to hit them). While these two scenarios could be altered to reflect the opposing view, I think the intention of the two systems is the key (rules as an enabler vs rules as a descriptor).

I don’t see crunch as an inherently negative thing. If the rules serve the sort of story and experience that the system wants to provide, then it’s grand. For some, having a well codified ruleset for governing many interactions makes the experience of DMing easier, because they don’t need to come up with options on the fly. Almost all of the strengths I have listed above are areas where I think having better codification has pushed Pathfinder 2e ahead of other fantasy RPGs. With more mechanical depth to shields, common questions like “can I hit them with the shield” now have a mechanical answer. With more mechanical depth to travel, questions like “how can I look out for traps while travelling through this forest” can now be answered within the language of the rules. These enable players to have expectations for how these decisions play out, which enables planning, and payoff. If a player gets an amazing result on an Earn Income roll, they don’t have to rely so heavily on the DM making a call in their favour: the rules provide that.

Similarly, with the ten up ten down system, we now have a mechanical framework to reward players for rolling close to but not quite criticals, rather than DMs having to fiat something for when players roll a 19 on a Performance check. For some, this is unnecessary legwork, and they’d be happier with dictating it as the DM. For me, I enjoy not having to think about those things in a fantasy combat RPG, because it gives me more time to think about what actually matters (encounter design, magic items, etc). This does however, make for a fat rulebook and an unappealing first impression. This is not a system I would DM as my first outing, or my second, but we’ll get onto that.

While this isn’t an all encompassing list of everything I like about the system, I think it covers a good portion of what I enjoy. If I wanted this post to be a million miles long, I’d also cover how I think the monster generation tables are excellent, and how the rune system for weapons is pretty good when you get your head around it. Next post will be about what I think the system is really weak at, and then considering it all in totality, so stay tuned.

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review ttrpgs

Review: Pathfinder 2e (part one)

I am an eternal DM, so it’s worth bearing in mind that this whole thing is going to be coming from the perspective of someone who hasn’t played this as a player. I’ve run PF2e from levels one to five, with three campaigns in a mix of in person and online. I tend to go through campaigns like I go through milk so it’s more like 1.5 or 1.75 campaigns in terms of length. Another important caveat, I’m talking about my experience with the system from only the first five levels. If it completely falls apart when the players reach level six, I don’t know about that. I tend to enjoy systems at the low levels anyway, and there’s a few people that point out things like D&D5e aren’t really meant to be played at level 15+ anyway. Last caveat, I usually don’t play prewrittens, and I haven’t done so here – if the prewritten campaigns are bad (and I’ve not seen glowing reviews), I couldn’t tell you. I have looked over Age of Ashes a bit just to get a feel for what Paizo intended. With all of that out of the way, let’s begin.

As I’m not an engagement seeking parasite, I’ll give you a summary immediately. I’ll then talk about what the system is, strengths and weaknesses, and some closing thoughts.

Summary

Pathfinder 2e offers a more playable experience than the first edition, and more mechanically sound gameplay compared to Dungeons and Dragons 5e, but finds itself sat on the fence between two worlds of crunch and fluff. If you’re looking for a fantasy combat-focused RPG with a bit more to it than D&D5e, but were intimidated by older systems, then it’s worth giving PF2e a go. The core rulebook can be an absolute nightmare to use, due to its size and complexity. In addition, it’s an open question as to whether it’ll enjoy a long life, as later content from Paizo has been a bit questionable. As for the DM experience, no major headaches there, with the Gamemasters Guide (GMG) filling in a lot of the gaps left from the core rulebook. NPC generation is handled particularly well with a slew of tables for doing it quickly and easily. There’s some great additional rules included in the GMG, alongside some poor ones.

I’ll likely keep playing it, but it’s going to be a divisive system for most, just because of its positioning between PF1e and D&D5e.

What & Why

Pathfinder Second Edition is a d20 based, combat-focused, character-based roleplaying game with an interesting pedigree which I will get into later. The system primarily supports fighting monsters, acquiring treasure, and exploring dungeons, but not without a good portion of rules for doing other activities like earning gold from working, crafting items, and other actions that the system groups into “downtime”. The journey that the system wants to portray is a story of your characters becoming more powerful as they achieve great deeds and victories, with the scope of problems faced growing alongside them. Is this a system that to tell a tale of subterfuge, diplomacy and investigation? No. There is an extensive skill system (more on that later), but all of this is very much geared towards moving adventurers to dungeons – not having those skills be the bread and butter of the game.

Your average session of PF2e will look something like this (if you’re not playing a sandbox game). The player characters are exposed to/provided a hook which angles them towards some greater unknown or mystery. They might engage with people from settlements to learn more, or perform their downtime actions – but this is primarily done to improve the player’s ability to adventure, or learn where they might do so. After acquiring the requisite information or preparation, they then go to the location, and are challenged with a dungeon; it might not literally be a dungeon, but it will be somewhere with traps, monsters, NPCs and treasure. If they succeed, they are awarded with treasure, XP (if not using the milestone system) and perhaps further information that points them in the direction of another dungeon. Repeat.

While this might sound like a negative description, it really is the core gameplay loop that the system wants you to perform as the DM. I’m actually a big fan of simple loops like the above, so any negativity is coming from my nascent crassness. Worth mentioning that the loop above, is also the core gameplay loop of D&D 5e (despite how many homebrewed settlement management systems might try to tell you otherwise). This is a tried and tested gameplay loop, and I think it’s stood the test of time. Dungeon -> Downtime -> Improvement -> Dungeon.

So why does Pathfinder Second Edition exist? To answer that question, we really have to look at why the Pathfinder series exists at all. If you’re looking for the precise history, the wikipedia article will give you that in detail, but I can give you the abridged version. Paizo, the company that makes Pathfinder, started out as a publisher of D&D 3rd Edition magazines in 2002. This continued until 2007, when Wizards of the Coast (the new publishers of D&D at that time), decided to end that contract. Later that year, WoTC would announce D&D 4th Edition, published under a more restrictive game license (too much to talk about here, but check out the OGL and GSL pages). The latter would come to foreshadow the kind of company that WoTC would become, and the former made a lot of people very angry, and was widely regarded as a bad move.

To continue the “spirit” of the D&D Revised 3rd Edition (D&D 3.5 as people call it), Paizo decided to create their own backwards-compatible system under the OGL called Pathfinder, which kept large chunks of the D&D 3.5 ruleset, but also had a variety of changes. While this might seem utterly unbelievable to someone more new to the RPG scene, Pathfinder was the most popular system for a considerable amount of time, holding the top spot in terms of sales until the release of D&D 5th Edition. Now, that factoid might be a bit deceptive, as I wouldn’t be surprised if the RPG scene had grown ten-fold in the last three years, but I think we can quite comfortably say that Pathfinder has played a significant role in RPG history, and would have been a system that a lot of older RPG players engaged with. So what sort of system was Pathfinder 1st Edition then?

Pathfinder 1e’s Grapple Rules. Oh yes.

If we’re being generous, I’d use the term involved. It’s interesting that, the history of D&D looks something like a bell curve in terms of complexity, with the earliest editions and 5e being relatively simplistic, and the middle editions the most complex. Pathfinder 1e inherited that complexity. This is not a pick-up-and-play RPG, this is not an RPG that you suggest to your parents over Christmas. This is an RPG that required time, effort, and sometimes software intervention to run properly. Note, I’m not saying that the rules are good or bad; I have some extremely fond memories of PF1e campaigns – what I’m saying, is that there was a gigantic barrier to entry. In combination with all the additional content, sourcebooks, I’m quite confident in saying that I couldn’t make a PF1e character now without access to something like Hero Lab, and I played the system for a good couple of years.

So what’s my point here?

The biggest accomplishment of D&D 5e is accessibility. The system is filled with things that rely on DM fiat (which is easier than having hard-cast rules), simplifications, and greater homogeneity. The corners have been rounded off, and the system is far more approachable as a result. It is not a coincidence that D&D 5e is nearly a household name after this change, and while it’s impossible to concretely prove that it was accessibility that drove popularity, there’s a strong argument for it. Pathfinder 1st Edition on the other hand, sat on a throne of splatbooks, founded on a ruleset that was over a decade old. With a core fanbase that loved the system, if you weren’t already playing it, or you didn’t know someone who was playing it, you weren’t likely to start.

When looked at through the historical lens, Pathfinder Second Edition starts to make sense. A chance to blow out the cobwebs of an aging foundation, to sand off some of the sharp corners that were making the system hard to approach, and also a chance to sell some new rulebooks I suppose. However, Paizo sat in a very difficult and risky position. If they made too many changes to the system, they risked alienating a core fanbase that had stuck with their products for years, whom had (partially) moved over due to a dislike of D&D’s direction. However, if they threw a coat of paint over the first edition, they risked simply splitting their existing base between the two systems, with no influx of new blood to keep the machine going; a wasted endeavour. If you’ve ever googled or looked into PF2e, you probably already know the direction Paizo took.

PF2e is not backwards compatible, meaning that Paizo have left behind nearly two decades worth of material, which was an incredibly brave decision. If I was being extremely reductionist here, I’d say something along the lines of “Paizo thought that the direction WoTC took was the correct one” when it came to simplification and accessibility. I think there’s a lot of nuance that gets left behind with that take, not least that Pathfinder Second Edition is still a more complex game than D&D 5e. However, the sentiment of that sentence smells correct to me – the second edition exists to solve the problem that an aged, monolithic first edition could not; ease of play. I can only imagine that there were dozens of things that Paizo wanted to do with Pathfinder, but weren’t able to because they felt shackled to backwards compatibility. If there wasn’t, I doubt they would have made 2e at all.

While a lot of the above is my reading between the lines somewhat, a great picture of why Pathfinder Second Edition exists is an interview with the lead game designer at Paizo, Jason Bulmahn.

QueueTimes interview with Jason

At 8:55, Jason says the following:

It’s more art than science. First Edition was science, this [Second Edition] is more art.

Pathfinder 2E Interview – Jason Bulmahn – The Creator of Pathfinder

Now, full disclosure, they’re talking about monster design, but I feel like it represents a big motivation for the system, and for TTRPG system design direction in general. Systems are more willing to rely on the DM as a source of reality, in place of a fully codified ruleset. Sentences like “the DM may award a…” have become more and more commonplace. PF2e is very much a product of that environment.

This has, again, positioned Pathfinder Second Edition in a very strange place. It is much less rules heavy than the first edition, but is a fair bit heavier than D&D 5e, and there’s a real risk that this is a game that was made for…nobody. Veterans of the Pathfinder series stick with first edition for the mechanical depth and control, people more familiar with D&D 5e stick with it as they find the depth of Second Edition intimidating. Is this the case? I’ve got a bit of anecdotal evidence that this is happening on some level, but I think the ultimate arbiter will be sales figures and engagement moving forwards. As this is a review, I’ll give you my personal perspective: I think Second Edition offers an experience that First Edition and D&D5e do not, and consequently, I don’t necessarily see it as a replacement. I’ll talk about this later in part two, but there’s nuance to the system that is worth exploring, with elements that Paizo clearly thought they couldn’t do in the first outing of the system.

Something I find quite interesting is that another RPG released by Paizo called Starfinder, “Pathfinder in space”, is meant to be mechanically closer to 1st Edition than second. If I was being cynical, I’d see this as Paizo somewhat hedging their bets by offering Starfinder as an alternative to jaded 1e veterans. I don’t think this is the case, but it’s food for thought. It’s far more likely that some of the mechanical changes that were mid-development for PF2e, made their way into Starfinder, and were field-tested there.

Anyway, I hope this short post has gone somewhere towards answering the “why” of “why does Second Edition exist”. Next time, I’m going to be talking over what I like about the system, what I dislike, and what I’ll give it in terms of a grade.

Catch you next time.