When the Numbers Begin to Reign
I have said that in my type of play, the abuser reveals themselves.
What do I mean?
I mean a system that does not hide behind some notion of balance.
A system without math that smooths the edge of a knife.
A system without that knife-shield for abusers to hide behind.
Because in this kind of play—where the world mirrors power, and where power is allowed to mean something—power-gaming is not forbidden.
It is celebrated.
But abusers are cast out.
You want to be the fae queen? Be her. Ruler of a whole realm, mistress of a thousand thralls.
You want to be a demon? Be one. World-eater. Grand unmaker. Still hungry for the name your ex-lover keeps.
You want to be a midwife? One who saved a mother from dying, who now bakes cakes, and knows the names of a hundred herbs?
Yes. All of this.
The giant and the quiet.
But here is the turn.
Here is the souring of the milk.
Where it is power at the cost of others.
“My character would never—” / “That is not possible”
They say it with finality. As a wall.
And not a walled palace, with the door slightly ajar —something to lean on and press into—but a smooth, polished shield.
Not "here’s why," not "here’s how," not "entangle with me and I’ll show you."
No acceptance of a "Why?" a "How?"
Just: no.
They retreat from friction. They perform the characters interiority as an epiphany. But it is not epiphanic discover: it is an interiority and reasoning only exists to deflect. Defer. Protect. Escape from being permeable to the other characters, the world, change.
As a player— "I know my character best."
As the world—"That's not how this world works." "That's not how this system works" (and I have heard this more often than the other. It seems to be dogma)
And that's the end.
You feel it. We all feel it. When the interiority is a shield, not an invitation.
Take what is eaten. Stuff it down the throat.
I fucking gag.
“I kill, kill, kill.”
The world becomes their testing ground. Their hammer. A blood-polished mirror.
Not with curiosity. Not like a child poking at boundaries to learn. But with calculation. Hunger.
"How can I push this world (or character of a fellow player) until it breaks?"
"How can i use my character to justify that breaking"
"How can I prep so that I still win, no matter the answer?"
"And how can i make that winning justified so I am not outed outside of the play world."
They lean in—not to be changed—but to change everything else.
To enact their control.
And suffer no retort.
Making sure nothing sticks, like some teflon-coated being
I would advise you to find something to dent that teflon.
I need to teach myself how to scratch it better.
The Queen of All Realms
This is when someone builds toward singular reign.
The fae queen who none oppose. Who all love. Who cannot be questioned. Whose power is absolute. Who is loved but never entangled. Who commands but is never commanded.
And for some, it’s just a phase. A longing that the table can hold, gently, like a frightened bird. And that is okay, beautiful even.
For some, it's an exploration. One with a felt endpoint, a time to experience and then relinquish, or a delicious pyhrric setup. Those types tend to talk and work with others to make it so.
It is love, just a different one.
But sometimes?
Sometimes it’s why they play.
You know this player. I’ve known this player.
And I—fawning, scared, conflict-avoidant—who will bend backwards for anyone, who will cry after sessions because someone needed too much from me—
Even I say have taught myself to say no.
I end the game. I say it out loud:
“This game won’t survive this kind of play.
Let’s not even play board games.”
They get upset. They say I’m overreacting.
Nah, It's slow torture versus a precise knife stab, in self defense.
In a manner most danish, it's then at the fault of me to ruin the mood or vibe.
"Janteloven"
But my mood was long ruined.
I don't want to fit into an abusers rubric.
And I want not their company.
I ain’t no service-sub.
Not for tyrants.
And I have no qualms ruining their mood.
And I thank the system for revealing it.
Because when there are no guardrails, no checklists, no blocky structures—
You see them.
They must show themselves.
Because there is no math to hide in.
That Bias I Must Name
This is written from feeling. From scar. From care.
I know some people love power. I know that many people seek control as safety.
I love them as friends:
Not all expressions of mastery are abuse.
Not all power begets itself.
That power, that control is an intoxication I want them to be able to imbibe and share in.
Some players just want to feel strong.
Some are quiet and unsure, and power gives them voice.
Some overstep by accident, and pull back when shown how.
I loved playing Godbound with my friends.
That is not what I speak of here.
What I speak of—are those who will not loosen the grip.
Who refuse to entangle.
Rather strangle.
Who use story not as communion, but as crown.
The self-knighted CEO of the Universe.
This is not all power-gamers.
This is not all tactical thinkers.
To the contrary.
But there are some who would rather lord than connect.
Who want the status quo (the one thing, system or place, the weapon they know so well), untouched And pristine, so they can sit atop it, and reign through it.
Where they know and like the right and wrong
And can divide, decide where others fall.
The False Safety of Numbers
Some think mechanical balance protects the game. Prevents abuse.
But believe me:
Those who want control
Will find the numbers that let them reign.
They will angle the math like missiles.
Use the limits as ladders.
Exploit every notch in the grid, or feat tied to a feat.
Balance is not a shield from harm.
It is often a blanket they pull over you before they strike.
And so:
I want to play in systems that disallow reign.
That allow those without words to still express their feelings—with a single word on their sheet:
or
And those with mastery of language to write poems—
And wield them with care.
I want room for quiet midwives and unmaking demons.
For power that’s touched, not wielded.
For love. For compersion. For rupture.
For people who say, “Help me find what this means.”
And for the table to say, “Let’s find it together.”
The Hardest Part
When a midwife and a fae queen sit at the same table—one tender, one expansive—it will not always work.
But i have seen it many times now
that they can ask each other how.
If they can ask each other why.
If they can say, "This is what I want — what is yours?"
Then the play will hold them both.
Because they stretched out their hands towards one another.
This is not a system without boundaries.
It is a system where boundaries are built from trust, not templates.
It is de-sign. A shrine without walls.
No sense. No sense.
Because this is play—not game.
And it cannot be ruled.
Only shared
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