The Coin
letting the world decide
On the Decka single pack of 78 cards, majors and minors mixed, reshuffled at the opening of every scene.part 2 of my skyglider, a coin in the hollow of my palm. Two roads open beneath me, the city or the open sky, and I cannot bring myself to choose. So I toss it, and I watch the world decide in my place: not out of idleness, but because some truths are better received than invented.
◆ The oracle of closed questions
Section titled “◆ The oracle of closed questions”The coin is the simplest of oracles. It answers a closed question, a question with two ends, and it answers only for the world, never for you. It never says I succeed or I fail; it says only the world is this way, or it is otherwise.
The convention is simple: heads, the first pole, the favorable one; tails, the second, the unfavorable one. One question, one toss, one truth. Then you carry on, one truth after another, until you see the real take shape.
Two habits keep it honest. First, always two poles. Two possible worlds, never a yes and an empty space. Second, never the same question twice for the same situation: asking again until you pry loose the yes you were hoping for is no longer consulting an oracle, it is badgering the world.
All the richness lies upstream, in what you ask, not in the coin, which only decides. An answer too smooth, or too curt, is not re-asked: it is probed. You ask why so easily, what it will cost, rather than reaching for something else. And if the Scenethe unit of play: you open it, you play it, you close it.part 3 sags, do not put the coin down for that: start again from what is already there and carry on, question after question, until something catches.
The longest apprenticeship in solo play is not reading the answers; it is asking questions that give something back. For a closed question, the test fits in one sentence.
A good question is one whose two answers both create world, and whose answer changes more than one thing.
Is the café on a great avenue, or at the far end of an alley? passes twice over: both answers give you a café, and each one settles the foot traffic, the noise, who can see me walk in. Is there anyone interesting here? fails twice over: one answer in two gives you nothing, and it is not your character asking it, it is you.
Everything that follows comes from there: how to set a question (the two poles, the single pole), then what to turn it on.
◆ The two poles — let tails live as much as heads
Section titled “◆ The two poles — let tails live as much as heads”This is a rule, not an ornament: the one place in the game where you invent the matter yourself before handing it to chance. You set out two worlds, the coin picks one.
A coin can only say yes or no, but nothing obliges the no to be flat. When a question inspires you, set down the possible first: what you would like to see rise up on heads. Then, if you feel like it, stretch its far opposite for tails, not the dry negation, but a reversal that invents in its turn.
“Is my scepter humming?” On heads, the possible: it hums, intense, magic is close at hand. On tails, the far opposite: it rings hollow, dispossessed, as though emptied of all magic.
The opposite is not “the scepter is not humming”; that gives you nothing. It is a reversal that opens: if it can be emptied, then something was able to empty it. Tails creates as much as heads. And because both truths existed before the toss, you can no longer write toward the one you were hoping for.
None of this is a chore. Sometimes you only want to try a possible and see what falls: toss, then, and read what comes up. But the moment a question weighs, give it its two poles. That is what keeps you from cheating with yourself.
◆ The single pole — for moving fast
Section titled “◆ The single pole — for moving fast”Stretching two worlds takes a moment of invention, and not every question is worth it. Most often you simply ask is there…, you toss, and you read the no as the reverse of the yes.
Often the opposite works itself out. Is the café packed? No: it is empty, and an empty café plays just as well as a full one. Is he alive? Alive or dead, both give you a scene. Is the shop open? No, and a closed door can be questioned in its turn: since when, why, who has the key. The single pole is then only a two-pole contracted: the reverse went without saying, you had no need to write it.
On a detail, do not trouble yourself. Is there a canal running along this street? Is the sky cloudless? A no blocks nothing: the street still exists, and so does the sky. Ask, take what falls, move on. It is free matter.
On what counts, know what the no will cost you. Is there a plant shop in this town? The yes sets you moving; the no leaves you with the work on your hands: where, then? who else sells them? Nothing forbids it, and it is sometimes the right calculation when you want to move fast. But feel the weight coming: on something you need, a single pole can hand you back a question instead of a world. When that happens, return to the two poles: is it on my way, or must I go down and find it in the lower port? Both answers will give you something.
The single pole saves time; it does not excuse you from the rule. The two poles are not there to slow you down, they are there to keep you from writing toward the answer you are hoping for. The shortcut holds for what you do not care about. The moment an answer would suit you, stretch them.
◆ What to ask a coin
Section titled “◆ What to ask a coin”The test is set, and so are the two ways of stretching a question. What remains is what to turn them on: with a coin, two families almost always give something back.
◆ Populate — who is there, and how he is
Section titled “◆ Populate — who is there, and how he is”Does the server come of his own accord, or must he be hailed? Is he jovial, or rushed and curt? Is the Table (the)the surface in front of you: the cards drawn stay in view on it for the length of the scene.parts 2, 7 at the back taken? Two poles each time, and ask without counting: none of this undoes your plans, and all of it folds in within a second. A presence is not always someone: a door bolted from the inside Populate · widen · hook · probethe four families of question: who is there and how he is (coin) · what exists just beyond the frame (card) · what is off (card) · staying with the answer that has already fallen. (parts 1 and 2) as well as a woman in black.
◆ A place, along four axes
Section titled “◆ A place, along four axes”For a place, four axes work everywhere and almost always suffice. Exposure: is it in plain sight, or set apart? Density: crowded, or deserted? Welcome: am I expected here, tolerated here, ignored here? Age: new, or worn by hands? Four answers, and the place exists.
A café. In plain sight, or set apart? On a busy avenue, so I will be seen here. Crowded, or deserted? Almost empty at this hour, so I will be heard here. Am I expected, or ignored? The owner does not look up: so I am nobody here. New, or worn? The tables are marked, the zinc hollowed — so this is a place of regulars, and I am not one of them. Four coins, and I already know how to play the scene.
The deck of a starship. In plain sight, or set apart? Set apart, right at the stern, so nobody comes through. Crowded, or deserted? Three men on watch, so never alone. Am I expected, or ignored? They greet me by rank: so I have a place here, and duties. New, or worn? The consoles are new, the smell of paint still there — so this vessel has no history, and that ought to worry me. The same four questions, another world.
◆ Play your first questions
Section titled “◆ Play your first questions”Take your coin. Before you even know where you are going, put two or three closed questions to the world, and watch it take shape, heads after tails.
Climb down into your character: ask what, in his place, you are burning to know: am I really alone here? When a question weighs, stretch it its two poles before you toss. And do not stop at the answer that fell: ask straight away who, why so easily, what it will cost, and start again one notch further on.