by Todd Laing

October 24th, 2003

All of us have trod the evil side of gaming at least once – experimenting with the darker side of our characters in the quest for gold, power, and fame. Who among us can deny the thrill of controlling a horde of moldering flesh, the delectable taint of a cursed item, or the sheer rapture when a maniacal plot takes hold? Likely very few. By their collective nature gamers are experimenters, trying on new personalities much as ‘normal’ people try on new articles of clothing. We window shop until we see something that steals our attention, forcing us to try it on. We don that personality, checking the fit, the color, and whether it clashes with the morals of our spouses or parents too badly. If it is acceptable, we wear it awhile and flaunt it for all to see.

But were does this take us? Charles Darwin theorized that all things exist because nature selected that trait as being beneficial—or at least not detrimental to the existence of a species. The same can be claimed for the gaming community . . . evil has a purpose. The most obvious use is to propel the forces of good (read: PCs) to disrupt the evil intensions of malefactors (read: NPCs). It is a formula older than the written word. In fact, most aspects of our daily lives entail the conflict and resolution of one thing against another.

In a game, the struggle of good versus evil is the basic motive behind most player decisions. If given a choice between confronting a baker who is having a bad day and the mighty necromancer inhabiting the local graveyard, the necromancer wins hands down. Why? Well, the instruments of good are meaningless without the activity of evil. Without the depredations of the foul zombie lord, the heroes are somehow less noble, less complete. The converse is also true. Evil without the interference of good-minded interlopers is somehow less detestable, less malign. Good and evil need each other to define their existence and give purpose.

This conflict is enjoyed and celebrated at thousands of gaming tables every weekend. However, it is the unusual applications of evil that are often overlooked and deserve more attention. One such application is also the fondest memory I possess from DMing, when through inspired evil I initiated the slow disintegration of the party’s paladin into a raging maniac. I used no magic items. No curses. I did not even nudge him along the dark path. It was a trip is took on his own . . . all I did was show him the way.

In the beginning, he was a paladin like any other. Stemming from noble stock he was respected and venerated, but also slightly arrogant and aloof. The centerpiece of the party, he was the essence of their glory and the director of their adventuring careers. Then, on the chill November morning the door to the dark path was irreversibly opened. It seemed so innocent at first, almost sweet and tender. After a particular grueling encounter in which he almost perished, the paladin simply stated that he wanted to go home to see his parents. Being the de facto authority of the party, they acquiesced and the journey began.

Now of course, I had no idea what his parents were like, or the nature of their relationship with their son – so I did what good DMs everywhere do, I punted. I conducted myself under one presumption: Lawful Good is as an extreme alignment as Chaotic Evil. While CE is certainly the least desirable alignment for your neighbor to have, LG bears a similar taint and can make life miserable for nonconformists. Thus ideologically positioned, I began to construct the paladin’s parents.

Stalwart adherents to the Neutral view of life, they viewed their son as a wayward soul, misbegotten and misguided. He was a follower of drastic ideals he felt justified imposing on others. For them there was no distinction between this radicalism and the savagery of madness. Unbeknownst to the paladin, so shamed were his parents over the current state of their son that they took pains to strip their lives of evidence of his existence. Upon his arrival at their manor, their reception was distant and disturbingly devoid of warmth.

Needless to say, the paladin was very confused, uncertain why his supposedly loving parents were separating themselves from their heroic progeny. They confessed their feelings to him in a tense meeting he insisted on. To the disgust of the paladin, he also learned that his old chambers had been given to his cousin, Humphrey . . . a fledgling necromancer. Enflamed, he demanded to know how they could do such a thing. After all, Humphrey was a minion of death and a blemish to the solid family name. How could they prefer to support his cousin’s lifestyle while disparaging his own?

This simple beginning, this simple conflict, tore the soul from the paladin. The damage was slow in coming, taking place over a dozen more levels and a series of interconnecting adventures with Humphrey as the plot device. At first, the existence of the necromancer was an irritant to the paladin and a disdainful amusement to the party. A squat, toad-like individual, Humphrey was the object of derision and ridicule for the party for his lisping speech and patently bizarre mannerisms. He was the ‘evil that could do no wrong,’ a curious bone tossed out to titillate the players.

That viewpoint changed as Humphrey began to mature as good NPCs do. Spurred by their disdain, the budding necromancer made his irritating presence felt at every turn. He paraded his superior position within the family and took pains to slander the paladin whenever possible. His impact increased in pace with the animosity felt for him. When the paladin could no longer conceal his hate, I put Humphrey into action. With a dose of poisonous perfume he slew everyone in the paladin’s favorite inn and fled to pursue a life of true evil.

Oh, how the paladin felt justified. Expecting to be returned to the bosom of his parents, he was shut out completely. It was, after all, his endless badgering that led to this fate. The paladin and the actions of his friends brought about the fell fate of many. Cast out of his family, the paladin swore to hunt his cousin unto death. From this point on, the paladin acted solely on emotion and not reason. Shucking aside all attempts by his compatriots to blunt his anger, the paladin descended into madness.

The adventures intensified with Humphrey ever the center of the paladin’s obsession. If he expected that Humphrey was involved in some uncovered plot, I altered it to make it so. I fed his expectations until the necromancer was seen behind every tree, boulder, and cloud. The paladin wanted Humphrey to be the cause of all evil . . . and I obliged. I fed fuel to the fires of hate and offered the paladin opportunities to thwart his foe. The cost, of course, was his belief and faith.

The struggle was as one ripped from the pages of a Greek tragedy. Consumed by hatred, the paladin vacated his holy vows in order to hunt his cousin in a manner inclined to victory. Now as brutal and base as the necromancer he had created, the ex-paladin confronted Humphrey in the party’s last session. The battle was long, but in the end the once-paladin fell with a whimper to his cousin’s fell magic. Stripped of his dignity, morality, ethics, and birthright, the character passed from life and into oblivion, the abject example of vanity and the evil it wrought.

The lesson was clear to all at the gaming table. Evil is housed in many forms and in a multitude of guises. But the most insidious is the one brought to the table with the players. Bias and prejudice are the weakness of all of us, and that is reflected in the characters we play. Realizing this, I simply allowed the paladin to guide himself to his fate. He needed a great evil to battle to justify his presence and I gave it to him. He wanted power to thwart that evil and I gave it to him. He longed for the titanic battle to seal his legacy and I gave it to him. And though the outcome was not expected, its rewards were great. Everyone had fun. A memorable campaign was executed and completed. The players got everything they wished for, though not in the fashion they imagined. And my friends and I have stories to share for years to come.

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