Roleplaying games as sandwiches

While enjoying my latest meal delivered by my favorite bakery-and-sandwiches place, I was struck by the idea of comparing role-playing game systems to sandwiches. (Yes, I was very hungry!)

The bread is the game mechanics of the RPG; it's what holds the rest in place and lets you get a solid grip on the game in order to consume it. Sometimes it's bland and serviceable, while other times it provides a satisfying flavor or crunch all on its own. Some bread is good and solid, and holds the whole sandwich together neatly. But the more things you stuff into the sandwich, the greater the chance of it falling apart and making a mess before you can finish it. However, there are some sandwiches--and games--that taste so good that when they get messy, you just pick up the pieces and keep going because you don't want to miss any of the good stuff. (I'm tempted to say that a universal system is like a wrap, because it can hold whatever you want it to--within reason. And making your rules too dense and arcane to be comprehensible is like using bread that's too thick or hard to bite and chew.)

The protein is the core activity of the game; it's the part that defines the whole (e.g., a peanut butter sandwich, a hamburger; dungeon crawling, spycraft). Naturally, some games are meatier and more fulfilling than others, and some have more variety within their core activities.

All of the other ingredients are the elements that combine to give the game its unique flavor. Some are common to most games withinn a given genre or subgenre (such as the tropes that many fantasy RPGs inherited from D&D). You could think of these as the most popular condiments. Others are rarely seen outside of a handful of games. Maybe they only work well with a few other specific ingredients, maybe they require a bigger investment to acquire, prepare, and consume, or maybe they're very much an acquired taste. Some ingredients may be considered strictly optional, either by design or by common practice (hold the pickles; ignore the critical fumbles rules).

The overall size of the sandwich indicates how much effort it takes to prepare for and/or consume the game. A slim, simple game may be great when you don't have a lot of time to prep or play, or just want to savor one or two favorite ingredients by themselves. A larger, more complex game will have more parts, which will take more time to assemble, to discover how the various flavors interact, and to chew your way through the whole thing. (And if your game is the equivalent of a dagwood sandwich, you'd better have a LOT of time on your hands--not to mention a good memory and plenty of napkins!)

There are some sandwich aficionados who insist on a strict structure for how to assemble all the ingredients, and sneer at what they consider less perfect creations. Similarly, some gamers will loudly criticize a game for not meeting their own biased expectations. But just because you don't like how a sandwich is made, that doesn't necessarily mean that it's an awful sandwich, or that other people won't like it (or even love it). It's just not to your taste. If there is something you don't like about a sandwich, feel free to change it, or put together something entirely new. Some changes may be off-putting to others, which could make it harder to find people willing to sample your latest experiment--or you might get very lucky and hit upon the next hot trend.

Bon appetit!