The Book of Dungeons - A weak to strong litRPG epic

The Southern California sunrise bathed my suite in an amber glow. Bright mornings weren’t part of my routine in New Jersey, as the neighbor’s house blocked my aunt’s small windows. The suite’s jarring brilliance wasn’t the only reason I got up early. Though still on East Coast Time, I awoke ravenous and wanted to begin the most important event of my life, The Great RPG Contest.

Shielding my eyes, I noticed a mountain range I hadn’t seen the day before. The view counted as another first, and seeing something from such a distance struck me as unusual. I never realized how the scarcity of trees increased how far people could see in a desert.

This room would be my home for the next few days, so Crimson wanted me to be comfortable. Vestiges from the building’s assisted living era appeared in my oversized bathroom. Its broad door allowed for wheelchairs. The shower featured a bench and stainless steel grab bars where the towel racks should be. The arrangement meant the towels hung out of reach from the shower stall, and I shivered as I traipsed across the tile floor to dry off. Bright mornings and goosebumps were no way for any self-respecting teenager to start their day. After cleaning up, I unwrapped and donned my second jumpsuit.

The cafeteria buzzed with activity. As the largest room in the building, its occupancy surprised me. Were the contestants here more jetlagged East Coasters, or did everyone on the West Coast get up early?

A sign by the kitchen doors announced the cafeteria would reopen for dinner, leaving the only available food to be coffee, juice, and Jell-O.

I grabbed a few servings of Jell-O and coffee and went to a carpeted lounge. The side rooms looked more comfortable than the noisy cafeteria.

Breakfast at my aunt’s house dulled my mornings. With no one to talk to, entertainment involved studying a cereal box I’d read a dozen times before. Though famished, I felt well-rested and in the mood for company. Instead of sulking at an empty table, I forced myself to be social and looked for an unoccupied seat near a conversation.

I approached a pair of girls chatting in lounge chairs and asked if a nearby lounge chair belonged to someone. They invited me to take it. A guy on the other side of the coffee table nodded but said nothing. He seemed content to listen to the conversation while sipping juice.

The girls acted perky enough to appear on a reality show. The target-rich environment made me wonder if they found me attractive. Was I in their league? I had grown accustomed to such a small circle of oddballs that the thought hadn’t occurred to me I could pass myself off as a regular person.

I sat down. “Did you guys notice mountains this morning? I’m surprised I didn’t see them last night.”

One girl widened her eyes. “I know! Someone must have increased the draw-distance setting and—maybe we’re in the virtual world right now!”

We giggled uncomfortably at the idea.

The guy drinking juice interrupted. “It’s called the marine layer. Moisture from the ocean turns the sky to haze, blocking our view of the mountains. We call it the May Gray and the June Gloom because it also hides the sun this time of year.”

The other girl raised an eyebrow. “It blocks out the sun?”

“Well, not exactly. It’s still bright outside, but the sky is white. But the light is so diffused no one casts a shadow. It’ll burn off by noon.”

We grunted at his factoids. His explanation cleared up the mystery but derailed the vibe. Still, nervous smiles and exaggerated enthusiasm smoothed over the awkwardness. It felt like the first day of school when everyone seemed determined to make friends.

Breaking the silence, I told them about my Jersey roots. People asked if I snuck into casinos and gambled whenever I mentioned Atlantic City. I did, but didn’t enjoy fitting a stereotype.

The first girl introduced herself. “My name is Shelly, and I’m from Wisconsin. I’m taking computer science in the fall.”

The other girl rolled her eyes. “I wish I could program. I’m Brit, and I’m from Jupiter, Florida. I’m not sure about my major yet.

After acquainting ourselves, we turned our attention to the guy who explained Southern California’s cloud cover. He introduced himself as Jude.

Shelly prodded him for more information. “And you’re from LA?”

Jude shook his head. “Nah. I’m from Pasadena.”

I could have pointed out that Pasadena counted as part of LA, but decided against it. Jude probably made the distinction based on local pride, so I let the matter rest.

My paranoid side speculated that Jude’s poker face pursued some abstract psychological strategy. But playing cards so close to the chest struck me as a little premature. I took the contest seriously but wouldn’t let it get in the way of talking to girls. After all, if this promotion show flopped, they might not even release it.

Shouts from the hall interrupted us. Contestants had already gathered around the console games. Even though we’d cleaned up for the cameras, gamers were going to game.

We grinned at the commotion.

I had geeky friends, so I recognized the competitiveness. My mother gave up raising me before I reached puberty, and since then, I’ve lived with my aunt. As a misfit, everyone in school considered me a geek—myself included.

Outcasts like me liked games because they acted as training wheels for the ego, making social interaction accessible. Games didn’t intimidate me because rules more or less guided the person-to-person interaction. They narrowed conversations to low-impact, non-confrontational topics. Games were safe. No one would make fun of your weight or point out that you weren’t wearing the right clothes. No one would ask why your mother dumped you off on your aunt.

Brit and Jude left after the staff began preparing for the keynote address.

Shelly and I stayed put and talked. We lost track of the morning hours the way one typically misspends weekend hours at home. Refilled coffee cups marked time’s passage, and I enjoyed chatting with her. Shelly’s infectious, unguarded enthusiasm only took a turn after mentioning a boyfriend back home in Wisconsin. The news deflated me, even though she lived a thousand miles away.

She and I watched the staff rearrange the cafeteria chairs for the keynote address. When they finished, people grabbed the closest seats. Anyone unengaged in conversation—or trying to get out of one—took their seat early. As the noise in the cafeteria grew, we joined the fray. I counted over 64 chairs and deduced that Crimson had alternates in case people tapped out before things began.

Without carpeting, voices in the cafeteria carried, and I picked out random jokes and observations. My fellow players challenged one another over obscure pop culture references, confirming their competitiveness. People argued about the lore and debated game balancing.

As the facility’s staff pulled down the window shades, the dimming light became a tacit announcement that things had begun. The discussion quieted while we waited for the show to begin.

Grownups in casual clothes and business suits sat in reserved seating along the sides of the audience. Their badges differed from ours. Because of their age and familiarity with one another, I guessed they served as executives, developers, or event organizers.

Their seats blocked a row of Octagon banners lining the wall. The signs seemed half-hearted, like leftovers of bygone trade conventions. With nothing else to look at, I studied Octagon’s advertisements.

A young woman with a business haircut and a Crimson Software t-shirt addressed the assembly with an embarrassed smile. She raised her voice, and people shushed one another to help quiet the room.

“I am so sorry! Can everyone hear me?”

Everyone looked around to see if anyone had objections. A loud male voice boomed from the back. “You’re good!”

A wave of chuckles followed his bellow—our willingness to laugh at anything attested to the cheerful atmosphere. A comedian might call us a good crowd.

The speaker gave a thumbs-up sign. “Welcome to Crimson Software’s Battle Royale!” She wiggled her shoulders in celebration, and the room erupted in cheering and applause.

Shelly and I joined in the revelry. It allowed us to shake off nervousness and blow off steam. Everyone fed on the energy, including the suits sitting along the sidelines, who politely clapped and smiled.

When it quieted, the speaker renewed her address. “My name is Josie. I’ll be running this circus until we set up the contest, which is running late in Crimson’s typical tradition.”

Another rustle of laughter filled the room.

“While we’re looking into the sound problems, let me take this time to thank our strategic partners, Octagon Semiconductors, for making this playtest possible. I apologize for the microphone. Hopefully, the screens work.” When Josie gave a comical, wide-eyed look of worry, a row of screens dropped from the ceiling.

A few people applauded, but the claps died after failing to reach critical mass.

Josie grimaced when the videos played without sound.

The screens displayed a silent, in-game cinematic of The Book of Dungeons. It showed the gameplay of fantasy characters fighting, crafting, running, and dancing. The company released the video a year ago, but sharing the experience without sound wasn’t disappointing. The world looked like a 3d animated movie, cartoonish and too colorful to be lifelike.

Crimson gave no hints about its monsters—an omission that led to terabytes of speculation in opinion columns and public forums. This cinematic sequence finished with a medieval tome whose cover featured the scrollwork logo of The Book of Dungeons.

After the video, discussions ensued until the microphone echoed to life. The audience cheered with an impudence that struck me as a little immature.

Josie grinned and thanked everyone for being patient. “Has anyone seen that before?”

Not realizing her rhetorical inflection, a few audience members voiced answers, making for cringe-worthy awkwardness.

Our host pulled out a piece of paper. “Well, let’s cover a few things the public doesn’t know.”

Some people made drawn-out “oooh” sounds, while others shushed them.

Josie gathered her thoughts. “Very little of what you saw involved animation, sculpting, or texturing. Algorithms create nearly everything in The Book of Dungeons. Crimson’s new engine procedurally generates its creatures, spells, dungeons, and exterior zones. Artists and designers don’t create things from scratch, but sometimes they tweak them with content editors.”

She waited while we digested the news. “We haven’t shown you the monsters you’ll face because we don’t know what monsters you’ll face.” She held up a finger and corrected herself. “Granted, we offer standard tropes like dragons, goblins, and undead, but we don’t know how they’ll affect the world. Names, personalities, geographic features, flora, and fauna use heuristics.”

Shelly noticed the confusion on my face and whispered. “Heuristic means it’s procedural—computers make them. She means algorithms drive content in some games—and humans don’t script them.”

Josie continued. “… and determined by random seeds. Generations of AI live and die before players enter the game. Has anyone heard of evolutionary programming? You know, when computer programs code themselves?”

The crowd quieted, but Shelly excitedly bounced up and down in her seat.

“We use it, but in our case, it’s not evolutionary code—it’s evolutionary content. Each generation gets more complex until we end up with a world layered in history and flavor.”

Josie held up a cautioning finger and recited from her notes. “The game doesn’t offer true randomization. Our worlds feature pre-industrial settings. Each has a magic system, but it changes from seed to seed. The game doesn’t get into the atomic or molecular levels of detail, only what’s observable. I think the smallest unit is a drop of liquid or a grain of sand. Air comes from invisible—” she searched for a word. “—air units and has state changes like temperature and pressure. They can carry moisture for rain, and creatures need air units to breathe.

“You’ll fight with archetypical weapons, such as swords and arrows. But BODedit—that’s what we call our internal tool—BODedit lets artists and designers create and contribute. Algorithms handle the boring stuff like blades of grass, so our devs focus on tweaking deities, creating fancy spells, and customizing quests. In truth, it’s hard for designers to keep up with the game engine’s complexity. Human-scripted entities feel a little flat sometimes. Our programmers love our AI, which is more realistic than anything the designers script.”

When someone held up their hand, Josie stopped them. “Before we get to questions, I’m not a developer or a game designer. I do PR and community outreach. I’ve played The Book of Dungeons, but I forget what happens until I see the video. It’s like when someone reminds you of your old school days. The more time you spend thinking about classmates and events, the more you remember. Our playback videos work the same way. They jar your memory.”

The same hand shot up.

Josie held up a finger to ward off interruptions, then lowered it. “We might as well have questions. This is the first time we’ve openly discussed the game. We might as well see what’s on everybody’s mind.” After looking to the sidelines for objections, she redirected her attention to the raised hand. “What’s your question?”