That Is Not A Real Person, It’s A Stuntman

Over the course of a few days you contemplated what metatype you’d play, what archetype, what build, what history. You thought about his purpose in the game, his personality, and his goals. You were creating a living, breathing runner, instead of filling out some stats on a character sheet. At least, you thought you were.

There he was, Razorback, a brooding troll street samurai (brooding? a troll?) with a katana and enough chrome to set off every metal detector in Seattle. He had all of the makings of a fully fleshed-out character, complete with a one-page description of all things non-statistical. You picked out a specific set of dice just for him (because really, he deserves it), and you found the fan-made character sheet that best suits his style.

Yep. This sammy is ready to slice. This runner is ready to run. This living character is ready to come to life.

And bring him to life you do. You’ve fought gangers, organleggers, a bound spirit, and even a corp black-ops team. You’ve roleplayed his inner conflict about staying loyal to the fixer who pulled him off the street, while wanting to leave it all behind. You’ve chased down the secrets of who wiped his memory and why. Yes, this runner has come to life.

Aaaaaand then you completely crush the realism of your character when you charge across an open parking garage at four corp security guards with assault rifles, thirty meters away, sure you’ll reach them and carve them up katana-style, only to get chewed up by two full-auto bursts before you’re halfway there. Now you’re bleeding out on the concrete.

At that moment you took a fully visioned, real person and turned him into some stats on paper.

Sure, he’s a badass, and he does badass things. But why would you think you could sprint across open concrete at four rifles and not get killed? Because you stopped thinking about how a real person would handle those guards, and started crunching numbers instead. “Let’s see, my Body’s huge, my armor’s solid, I’ve got wired reflexes, I’ll soak it. I’ll be fine.”

Here’s the thing. Your character sheet isn’t afraid of bullets. Your runner should be. Somebody actually standing in that garage, hearing those rifles, would be scared out of his mind, chrome or no chrome. He’d stay behind the pillar. He’d wait for the mage to drop a stun ball, or for the decker to kill the lights. He’d flank. He’d do anything except run straight down the middle like a target at a carnival.

So sometimes you need to take a step back and ask yourself, “Mechanically, I should be able to pull this off, but would a real person even try it? Am I playing the runner, or playing the numbers?”

All right, Razorback wasn’t your character; he was mine. You didn’t try to pull off a stupid stunt because you thought the numbers added up; I did. You didn’t stop playing a real person in favor of a stuntman; that was me.

When he went down, sure it was funny-haha, “brrrrrrrt, and down he goes!” My fellow gamers still bring it up every once in a while, and they get a laugh. All I get is the memory of betraying my character’s character. Had I stopped to think, “How would Razorback really handle four rifles?” instead of going number-strong into the fight, I would have stayed in character, in the game, as a real person, and not stats on a piece of paper. I was a stuntman.

So, I challenge you not to make the same mistake I did. Get into your runner’s shoes and stay there. Be scared when he’d be scared. Make decisions like you’re actually standing in that garage, not sitting behind your character sheet. I think you’ll find that playing the role, instead of playing the game, is a lot more rewarding. And you’ll live longer, chummer.