Common Magic System Pros and Cons: Elemental Magic

Last post I wrote about the top ten ways to make me put your book back on the shelf. Or hit the back button—but that’s a whole other issue. Now we’re going to talk about common systems of magic and how they work or don’t work depending on how you use them.

First up is elemental magic, one of the most commonly used systems in fantasy, and also one of the most “simple”. It’s just throwing around the four five classical elements, right? Or three or seven, but the most common form uses five: Fire, Water, Wind, Earth, Spirit. I’ve listed them in order of perceived “coolosity” for when “cool” just doesn’t cut it which I define as “a scale running from ‘common amongst protagonists’ to ‘what kind of lame power is heart anyway?’”

You can’t deny fire is the coolest. Balefire, Balrogs, Firestorm, red-haired golden-eyed, fire-wielding necromancers… I’m sure I could name examples all night long and well past noon. And, of course, being its arch nemesis, water gets plenty of stage time as well. Frothing foaming river stallions, weather-magic, majestic water-falls and sacred ponds, rivers, and lakes. Wind gets in on the fun as well. At least, until you put a bullet through the mage. But since when has earth magic played the central role in a story? Why are people so afraid of earthquakes and mudslides? Maybe you get a few walking trees, or land-bonded kings, but fire is just that much flashier, I guess.

So, pros:

1. Simple concept, easy to divide up and you can have the Five Man Band if you throw in a little “Spirit”.
2. Easy conflict: Earth vs. Wind Fire vs. Water.
3. Lots of Earth systems to draw inspiration from: Greek, Chinese, Arabic
4. Combine elemental powers to get any damn effect you want. I’m looking at you, Mr. Jordan. Well, I would if he wasn’t RIP. I guess that means I’m looking at you, Mr. Sanderson. Not that you can help it much, but I need someone to point at.
5. See Con # 1: Fertile ground for clever twists. Think about it.

Cons:

1. How the hell do you put a price tag on it? Fatigue? Magical energy? Sympathy? Who knows.
2. Gets cliché, and fast. If I see one more fire/water mage battle, I might have to gouge my eyes out.
3. Never has even distribution between elements.
4. Sexism: WoT again.
5. Lame symbolism. Frisky fire mages are so last decade. And fiery fire mages. And fierce fire mages. And “cool-headed” water mages. And “flighty” wind elementals. And stolid earth mages—well, you know there would be if anyone actually used earth mages. (Don’t lie to yourself.) Mix it up people.

Please, somebody, come up with a fresh treatment. Use the Chinese system more. It’s better than another round of fire beats water beats fire beats everything else. And, last minute thought: alchemy is out. Just as cliché as straight elemental magic.

So, in the spirit of Limyaael, ways to make readers Atsiko like your elemental magic:

1. Give some other elements besides fire and water the spot-light. Earth could be even more devastating against armies than fire. Wind could defend your coast kamikaze style. Or, you could do that thing that wind mages never think to do: suffocate the bastards.
2. Give your system more than the old foursome. Wood and metal are both elements from the Chinese version of the system. I’d think rock and ice and sand could be culturally important to many peoples. Widen your scope. Be creative.
3. But not “spirit”. Just don’t. How the heck is that even an “element”? Is the physical world made up of it? Not usually. Does it have a specific arena in which to work? No, it’s an excuse for whatever the hell the author wants. Set some limits and stick to ‘em, dang it.
4. Integrate your system into the world. You know, this would be a great way to have a creative cost. Mess with the wind to make for fair-weather sailing? Hurricane nails important port town down the coast. Burn the enemy army up, well fine, but the forest they were hiding in is on fire. Or have a grassfire. Those are always fun. This isn’t hard, guys—it’s fun.
5. Give me more deals between mages and elementals. Not Final Fantasy pacts, but a fair trade off. Maybe they want pretty flowers, or protection for their little pond. Or just a very-likely-to-be-called-in-at-a-crappy-time-for-the-hero favor. But make it some sort of price, not a freebie because your hero is so awesome.
6. Find an appropriate cost. Sorry Tamora Pierce. Blood is interesting, but it doesn’t count as appropriate. (To be fair, her system isn’t strictly elemental.) Loved Pat Rothfuss’s method, though I think he could have at least thrown in some brain damage.
7. Last one for now: Throw in some cool associations or symbolism. The Sun represents Fire. Bor-ing. And planets don’t count either. I’ve always fancied flowers, or a musical instrument as an interesting association. Or maybe bone or blood or tears. Sort of like the Humours, but less body-fluidy. A little.

Okay, I’m done complaining. I really love elemental magic, if it’s a new portrayal. Shoot, I write a lot of stories with some form of it. But I’m tired of the same old same old. You don’t even really have to original—just be creative. And be sure to give me credit for the idea check yourself against what’s been written. Maybe it isn’t completely original—or maybe it is—but if it’s uncommon, it can still give your story a fresh feel.

 

Magical No-Nos

Well, last post I talked about what it takes to create a believable magic system. There’s not much more to talk about in terms of basic magic theory. And I don’t have the materials on hand for the field work right now. So for now, we’ll just look at a few of the Do’s and Don’ts of magic. All those little things that authors do to drive the reader nuts, whether it’s avoiding good plotting with magic, or making their mage a Mary Sue (or Marty Stu, but let’s just pretend “Mary Sue” is a neuter gender noun for now.) So, in this post, the top ten ways to make your mage hero a Sickeningly Speshul Snowflake:

1. Making them the most powerful mage ever. This is boring. If they’re the best, where’s there competition? Maybe a few authors go as far as to make one of the bad guys the second most powerful mage ever. And maybe the gap isn’t even wide. But we still know the hero won’t lose. Unless the bad guys gang up on him, but that’s unfair and makes them bad sports. Because intelligence is evil. It’s okay not to be the best. Might even be better. Means you have to work and grow as a character and not coast through the conflict like you’re riding a greased watermelon.
2. Making them the least powerful mage ever. Often leads to angst and whining and bullying of the pathetic MC. Look authors, we don’t want them to be the best ever, but why in the world would we want them to be the worst? A little adversity is good, but when everyone and their pet goat is beating on the hero, it gets old pretty fast. Just because not everyone is for you doesn’t mean everyone is against you.
3. Making your mage a magical genius. (Somewhat related to #1.) Maybe they’re a newbie now, but they learn fast. Pretty soon, they’ll be taunting the teachers and beating the bullies and out-scoring the nerds on their Theory of Magic Exams. Patrick Rothfuss, I’m looking at you. Maybe the teacher’s are dicks. Maybe your mage is a master already. But leave the schoolboy fantasies for your Hermione slash fic. Always getting your own way is the number one characteristic of a Mary Sue, and having them play the most difficult song in the world while missing a string isn’t exactly making you look unbiased either.
4. Making your mage the only one of her kind. Very popular in elemental magic systems, where everyone else had one element—two at most—and the hero has four… or five. Why doesn’t anyone ever have three? Or else they’re the only one who can use the fifth secret element. There are plenty more examples of this type of author favoritism. Fantasy may be escapist, but that’s supposed to be for the reader, not the author.
5. Making your hero the only mage in the world. You’d think I wouldn’t have to go there, but I do. Some authors just don’t get this. There’s a limit to how speshul your snowflake can be before the book hits the wall. A very tight one.
6. Making your hero immune to the rules. Somewhat related to #4. If there’s a rule that says one person can only use one element, giving your hero two—or four!—is bad. It’s a very blatant attempt to make your hero “speshul.” There’s a frickin’ book written about them, for heaven’s sake. How much more special do you need them to be? ‘Nother issue: if your hero needs to cheat to succeed, then maybe they’re not as heroic as you’re making them out to be. Which leads right into the next issue:
7. Making your hero all about the magic. People are heroes because of who they are, not what they can do. If you keep piling on the power, people might begin to wonder what you’re compensating the hero for.
8. Making your mage an auto-didact. Yes, it’s possible to learn something on your own. I taught myself piano. But you will not be as good at it as someone who has had nine years of lessons from a master. And neither should your hero. I know at least eight people who are better piano players than I am. All of whom live within twenty minutes of me. One reason that those with formal training are likely to be better is that they have learned from a comprehensive curriculum. Blah-blah curriculum blah stifling—whatever. Having a good basis in theory means you know what works and why, and that lets you extrapolate to other uses. Also, it’s a lot harder to get unstuck if you don’t have someone to bounce ideas off of. In an age when there aren’t any internet forums or Wikipedia articles, this is even more relevant.
9. Magic by birth. Yes, ancient lines are cool, but just because you’re born with more than others have it doesn’t mean you’re better than they are. It’s a lot more impressive when the hero struggles for their power than if it’s handed to them on a golden platter.
10. Making your hero an intuitive mage. Yet another reason Eragon is stupid. Randomly spitting out exactly the right ancient word you’ve never heard before to deal with a dangerous situation? Not at all unreasonable, right? Right. Sure, there are a few excuses, if magic responds to strong emotion (we’ll talk about that one next time), or if magic is like learning to skip—a physical skill gained through experimentation or practice. But learning another language on the spot? I don’t think so.

There are a lot of these sort of lists on the web, I’ll admit. But, unfortunately, there’s always room for another. People need a good reminder now and then. Besides too much theory burns out the brain. Next time, I think we’ll look at the most common systems of magic and their pros and cons.

 

How to Create a Believable Magic System

So, for the last two posts, I took a break from discussing magic to lay some basic groundwork on how stories function. To sum up:

Stories are kept interesting through conflict and suspense. These are created through tension.  Suspense is built through external “story” tension, and conflict is built through internal “character” tension.

If you haven’t read those posts, I suggest you do. But if you understand what I just said, you’re good to go.

How do you create a believable magic system?

The first step is to decide on your goals for the magic. Ask yourself these basic questions:

1. Does it create suspense? Perhaps the Dark Lord has the power to turn all the seasons to winter, and your characters are on the verge of starvation. Or maybe he can’t. But you as the writer must know which.
2. Does it create conflict? You know vampires? And all the angst that fantasy has decided comes with being one? That’s magic-derived internal conflict. But magical conflict isn’t only about whether Louis wants to drink blood or not. How would you feel if you couldn’t give your daughter a proper burial because that bitch Carnival had sucked her dry? Or what if the dragons are taking back their country dammit, and themselves take whoever is getting in their way.
3. Does it resolve suspense or conflict? For example, are your characters allowed to escape a situation by using magic? This is fireball country, people. Brutes or brains? Or both? Lavan Firestorm burned up an entire invading army that seemed destined to overrun Valdemar. And Dirk Proven saved the world by figuring out when the next eclipse would occur—and lying about it.
4. Does it create a sense of wonder? Who wasn’t impressed by the Nazgul, or Shelob? But I bet you don’t know where they came from, or how their power works. Good thing it didn’t matter. Now, Lackey’s ley-lines were fun, and you might even have wanted to be able to use them, but were they mysterious and awe-inspiring? No. Just a way to move along the plot. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But is it what you—as an author—want?
5. What themes will your magic express or explore? Yes, themes. I know you had enough of analyzing literature in high school. Or not. But whichever it was, this is still something you need to think about. Maybe you’re a panster, and you only know the themes after you’ve written the book. But they’re there all along, and it can be much simpler to follow them if you know what they are in the first place. Maybe you’re an environmentalist. Would you prefer a story about ghosts or trees that would rather not be cut down? What about the pollution of sacred sites? Ursula K. Leguin tackles this with the story of how one of the great cities used the Lips of Paor as a garbage dump. I bet they were really willing to help when our friend the Mender needed his powers temporarily removed.

Now that we’ve gone over choosing goals, maybe we should talk about how to achieve them. There are several things you need to do to make your magic meet your goals:

1. Know what your magic is and what it can do. Yes, flying is cool, but if your character is a water mage, there’s not much they can do about it. Making them a wind mage is not the solution, folks. The solution is to make compromises. Your character needs to part the sea in chapter 4? Then they can’t fly over the Mountains of a Million Trolls in chapter eight. If your character can do anything, we aren’t going to have much of a story.
2. Know what your magic is and what it costs. Maybe you can part seas and fly. But it’ll cost you your first-born child. And you’ve already got one. Maybe you know the character will pay for this later. But the reader has a much shorter attention span. The more you can do, the more—and sooner—it should cost you. Physically or mentally, it doesn’t matter. As long as it’s permanent at some point. You can trade the cost as many times as you want, as long as you don’t trade it out of existence.
3. Make it hard to learn. If your hero can learn the equivalent of a bible’s worth of spells in four weeks, why isn’t everyone and their pet hydra killing bandits and enjoying the magical equivalent of total climate control? If they are, then why does a prophecy about a fire-flingin’ half-elf princess so incredible to them? You’ve got to work out all the consequences. After that, it’s okay to indulge in some judicious ignorance.

Those are the basics, guys. There are way too any ways to create magic systems for me to fill out every little nook and cranny of magic-making theory. Later, I’m going to do some in-depth critiques of various magic systems, pointing out all the places things went right, and all the places they went wrong. And maybe I’ll even make up a magic system just for the Chimney, to really show you how the process looks. Field-work is fun, but “show don’t tell” is a real pain. Why do you think we writers don’t do it?

 

The Other Side of Tension: Conflict

Last time, I discussed tension in relation to the interaction between the writer and the reader.  Basically, tension exists between what the reader thinks will happen and what the writer knows will happen.

But there’s another kind of tension, and it’s one that many people may be more familiar with.  We’ll call the first kind of tension “external” tension.  In this post, we’ll be discussing “internal” tension.

Internal tension is tension that exists entirely within the book.  It is the difference between one in-world world model and another.  If a character’s vision of the world is different than the world’s vision of itself, the character cannot predict how the world will react to their actions.  Similarly, if the character’s idea of how a man should act is different than his love interest’s, he can’t predict how she will react.  Remember how I said readers hated not knowing what will happen?  Well, it’s the same deal for characters.  Because readers and characters are both people (or they should be, but I’ll save the discussion on cardboard characters for another day).  And people don’t like uncertainty.  It makes them nervous and it makes them feel helpless, because they don’t know what to do to get their desired outcome. 

If you will remember, I made the claim last post that tension is the basis of conflict.  To be more specific, internal tension is the basis of conflict.  One character sees something one way, the other another.  Well, that’s fine, right?  But when people see that thing a certain way, they try to make it fit their vision.  They make things conform to their expectations.  If it doesn’t fit, it’s got to go, or be ignored, but whatever 

The problem is, we have two (or more) different views here.  One person’s uncertainty is another person’s comfort.  Now we have an issue.  The hero wants the king on the throne and not one penny more than 20% taxes.  The villain wants himself on the throne, and not one penny less than 90% taxes.  And they’re both ready to fit the world to their vision.  (The main reason the bad guys needs those high taxes if he wins, to pay off all the debt.)Which means one of them won’t get what they want.  They’re gonna have to fight it out.  Now we’ve got conflict.

And this goes for any type of conflict, really.  Want internal conflict?  The love interest likes bad boys.  The hero is a mama’s boy.  To wear a bike helmet or not to wear a bike helmet?  That is the question.  Still internal tension, but now we have one person having a choice, instead of two people having a fight.  Sure there’s no bangs and zooms and magic swords (or are there?), but we’ve still got that tension.  And the reader (and the character) wants to see it resolved.

To sum up, conflict is when resolving one character’s tension prevents the other character’s tension from being resolved.  It doesn’t end until both are resolved.  Often by killing one character (in fantasy, since this is a blog about spec fic), and other times through character growth.  Which is a lot harder to pull off well.

Next post, we’ll apply some of these ideas to magic systems.

 

Tension; Or, How Stories Work (And a Little on Suspense)

I know that, last time, I promised I would explain consistency in magic systems. And I will.

But before we get to that, we need to understand why consistency is important. And to understand that, we need to understand how a story works. This post is applicable to almost any post about writing that you will find on my blog. This may be the single most important post you will ever read on the art of writing a good story—in any genre. I’m not trying to say I’m the only person who knows how stories work, or how to a write a good story. But I have yet to read anything that actually breaks down the concept, in simple terms, of reader-writer interaction.  And reader-writer interaction is the foundation of story-telling.

Reader-writer interaction is the basis of tension. And tension is the basis of a good story. You can have a story without tension, but it will be boring. You will hear from a lot of people that conflict is the basis of a story. That is false. Tension is the basis of conflict, and—being more basic—it is thus more important to a good story than conflict. There can be conflict without tension. And again, it will be boring. Now refer back to the first sentence in this paragraph. You should now understand why reader-writer interaction is the basis of good story-telling.

So, you are probably wondering what I mean by reader-writer interaction, and you are also wondering how it works. It’s pretty simple. Tension is built on the reader’s understanding of the way the world works. The reader knows (or thinks they know) what can and can’t happen, and thus they know whether the characters are in a tough spot—or not. Their understanding of the world is based on their knowledge of the real world, genre conventions and tropes, and what the author tells them. These three legs support their world model. What does the reader model have to do with how stories work? Stories are made up of “scenes (and sequels)” Each scene is like a miniature story. To understand how a story works, we need to know how scenes work. So, what is a “scene” how do scenes work?

A scene is a sub-section of the story consisting of a set of closely related and chronologically sequential events. It is the writer’s input into the reader’s world model.

Scenes work like this:

The reader starts with a model of the real world. They then modify it to fit the genre of the story—and thus, the scene. Since this scene is the beginning of a larger story, they may further modify it to fit what they learned about the story from a) the back cover blurb and b) the little excerpt that often comes after the glowing recommendations from other (popular) authors. This is called a “primary (world) model”. The reader then proceeds through these steps:

1. The reader loads their primary model.
2. The story provides the first scene. The reader reads this scene and then runs it through their world model to determine the most likely outcomes. At the beginning, the reader’s model is likely to be rather generic. They don’t know enough about the story yet to generate a specific, complex and realistic model. (This modeling occurs in real time, re-modeling every time the reader learns/discovers something new.)
3. The reader looks at all possible outcomes. If the writer is good, there are a few, prominent outcomes that over-shadow all the rest. If they are really good, there is one of these that is not only the most likely, but also the most horrible. Alternatively, there may be a small group of bad outcomes.

Tension is created in the third step, as the reader begins to question the inevitability of these horrible outcomes: Is this what will really happen? Can the characters avoid this? If so, how? The more horrible the outcomes are—and the less chance the characters have of avoiding it—the greater the tension. If there is no tension, the reader has no reason to care about the scene, and thus no reason to care about the story. This is bad.

But wait, you may be thinking… what happens next?

Next, the writer must resolve the tension. How do they do that?

This goes back to the idea of the world model. A writer will have a complete world model, where the reader only has a partial model. In order to resolve the tension, the writer must apply this model to the scene. Unlike the reader, they know exactly which outcome will occur, and why. They just apply their complete model, and the outcome is obvious.

Sounds easy, right? Wrong. To keep the reader interested in the story, the writer must maintain suspension of disbelief. It doesn’t matter whether they choose to surprise the reader, or conform to their expectations. (The first resolves tension by saving the heroes from the undesirable outcome; the second by getting the pain over with. Both are powerful methods and do much to shape the course and feel of the story.) The reader must not be allowed to question the inevitability of the writer’s chosen outcome. They must eventually accept it as the right one.

1. Writers achieve this goal by completing three basic tasks: They must make sure their complete world model allows for the outcome.
2. They must make sure the reader’s primary model allows for the outcome, but doesn’t exclude others. 
3.  They must retroactively exclude other possible outcomes with as little conflict with the reader’s primary model as possible.

At the end of a scene, the reader has formed a slightly different model of the world, a secondary world model. The goal of a story is to slowly guide the reader’s model towards becoming consistent with the writer’s model by repeating the above process so that the two are identical at the end. Not every scene has to bring the reader closer, but there must be an average shift towards the writer’s model. That’s why the writer’s model must be consistent with itself, or they’ll never bring the reader into the fold. (But that’s next post.)

To sum up: Tension is created by differences between the reader’s model of the story world and the writer’s model of the story world. These differences are not a matter of fundamental differences, but of the reader’s model not being as complete. The goal of the story is to slowly complete the reader’s model in a way that does not push them out of the story.  (This post also touches on “suspense” quite a bit, even though I don’t call it that.  But I’m going to do a post on using suspense later, so I didn’t want to spoil it.)

 

Respecting the Writer: Making Shit Up

I’m sure many fantasy writers have heard their genre described by readers and other authors as “making shit up.” As in, “I could write fantasy. It’s just making shit up.” I can’t answer for the reactions of every fantasy writer who’s heard this, but I know it always pissed me off. Making shit up? Well, yeah, that’s what *fiction* writers do… all of them. But this strange idea is only applied to those of us who write fantasy. Or sci-fi depending, but that’s a whole other post.

To be fair, a lot of beginning fantasy writers think this, too. I’ve seen it everywhere. On several of the many writing forums on the web, in a few blogs that shall go nameless, over on the NaNo boards. Some of these people are honestly ignorant. They just don’t realize the kind of work that goes into creating a believable fantasy world. Others are lazy. They feel they can get away with making shit up, because who is there to catch them? The readers, sure, but the Fantasy Fabulation PoliceTM aren’t going to show up at their house and beat some work ethic into them.

And then, finally, there are the people who are on the “make it up as you go” side of the world-building debate. I mean them no disrespect. They’ve chosen a method and they feel it works for them. Whether or not someone has the chops for this sort of writing is a debate I’d rather not get into (again). Heaven forbid someone make subjective statements about someone else’s behavior. On the Interwebz? Shouldn’t happen.

But hey, I have no trouble admitting there have been many great books written like this. Not how I do it, but then, I haven’t sold tens of thousands of copies of over twenty different novels. I’m not going into the mechanics of world-building on the fly. I may be a punster when I write, but I have files and files of world-building material on paper, on disk, and in my head.

The point I haven’t gotten to here is that world-building on the fly is not the same as “making shit up”. I could make up a world in 30 seconds, and nine times out of ten, the reader would have thrown that book against the wall in half the time. People think getting a real-world city/religion/philosophy/branch of science right through research is tough. And it is. One mistake, and that community is all over you. But when you fuck up in world-building, the number of people who can–and will, believe me–get on your ass is exponentially greater.

Readers like a story to make sense. Why? Because then they know how to react to it. Awesome Fantasy Character #1482 is crushed by a fifty tone granite tomato(hey, this is fantasy): *atsiko weeps*. Two pages later, the author resurrects this character. *Atsiko screams and throws the book out the window.* Well, the window was closed, and I have to pay $200 for a new one. Now I’m doubly pissed off. If I had known how easy it was to bring characters back to life, I would not have cried. I would have winced, maybe. ‘Cause the Goddess knows getting squished by a fifty ton granite tomato hurts like hell. But if it doesn’t kill the person, why should the author trick me into wasting my emotional energy? Guess what would happen the next time someone died? Atsiko would flip through the lame-ass death speech (because they all are), confident that the character would return by the next chapter. If I didn’t already need a new window.

I’ve talked in other posts about how the reader doesn’t like being played with. It’s annoying, it’s frustrating, and if we are really engaged in the story, it can be emotionally draining. For the same reason you don’t make a book all action, you don’t constantly fuck around with the reader’s emotions. We also don’t like it if the author is an idiot. Ground glass is not poison people—it’s beach sand.

Now, to relate this back to our original topic:

1. Readers like to have a general idea of how much of ourselves we should invest in a given part of the story. That’s not to say we don’t like surprises. A predictable book is a boring book. But if anything is possible, nothing is interesting.** And a boring book is also boring.

2. Readers like to have a general idea of how easy it will be to solve a problem. That is, if the hero is surrounded by a thousand ravening orcs, the reader would like to know how much effort it will take to defeat them—or if the hero is just screwed. All the tension is gone if you take the cheap way out. So, what’s the way to accomplish these goals? How can you give the reader an idea that they know what is going on? By making sense. If you make shit up, it usually doesn’t make much sense. “Crap, I’ve written my hero into a corner. Wait, I’ve got it! If you say ‘bambino’, they esplode!” An extreme example, I’ll admit. Let’s try something more sensible. “My hero’s dropped his sword! And he’s not wearing armor. What’ll I do?!” Hint: don’t have him catch the sword. This looks cool until I put the book down to get a glass of milk. Then the fridge logic kicks in, and I remember that a sword is a wedge. What do wedges do? They wedge things apart. Like hands. Not to mention that, um… you know… this: gravity + human strength > human strength. Duh, author.

Sure, fantasy writers make things up. But they also do this thing called “being consistent”, which is a lot harder for most people to grasp. It’s not any less work to make stuff up than to use real stuff. It may even be harder. You don’t have to suspend disbelief for a story set in New York. But in Random Fantasy Kingdom #127?

Yes, readers, fantasy has to make sense, too—just its own kind of sense.

So, to sum up: Make sense, not shit. And have a little more respect for fantasy authors.

More on “Respecting the Reader” later.

**I’d like to thank Limyaael for making my point for me.

 

Magics’ Price

Or, On More Principles Tricks of Good Fantasy and How Authors Screw Up The Third Principle of Good Magic

 

Now, those of you in the know have probably noticed there was something missing in my previous post on balanced magic. That’s right, the most abused principle of good magic systems: The Principle of Appropriate Cost. Oh, and its corollary The Principle of Suitable Sacrifice.*

The most widely used excuse for poorly balanced magic systems is the “cost” of magic. Cost can be physical energy, physical backlash (as in Lackey’s brilliant cost of… headaches?**), life essence(whatever that is), actual years off of life, powered by nebulous energy which may or may not be renewable or unending, blood, human and animal sacrifice, deals with spirits or demons, and many others. After “limits”, cost is the most badly abused balancer in fantasy. Why? Because a lot of costs don’t really “cost” anything. Maybe, if the author is feeling really reasonable, cost can limit the duration or strength of magic, but it’s still transient. The mage is back after some bed rest and a good meal, ready to go at it again. Or they just snag the nearest ley-line.

Another form of abuse is one that violates my First Law of Delayed Gratification, which most simply translates to “the sooner, the better”. Sure, years off your life sounds bad, but it’s a long way into the future. For example, how many teenagers do you know who would sacrifice ten years of life in the future for the chance to fly or throw fireballs now? Or get whatever wish they want most met? How many adults like that do you know? Probably enough to understand my point. Just like a newly married couple handing over their first-born child. “That’s okay. We don’t want kids.” Right… Readers like costs now, or at least costs that they know about. Writers, don’t wait too long to bring on the pain. Or we will bring on the wall.

There are all sorts of great costs that magic could have, but authors afraid to really hurt their characters will not use them. Happily-ever-after is fine, but have them earn it. There’s no conflict in an obvious decision, authors. Characters should suffer, have regrets, feel guilty, make tough choices. And while we’re at it, no fake costs. No fair bringing a character back to life after they’ve sacrificed it to drive the magic. No, Ms. Lackey, not even once. Or as a ghost. Paid costs should stay paid–unless the magic is undone in return… and it matters that it is.

Another thing that is commonly ignored is external costs. That is, the cost to other people of the character using their magic. Call up an earth quake to trap the villains in a rockslide? What about the village a mile down the road? Is it still standing after? Magic nuke that destroys the enemy? What about the innocents caught in its path? Burn down the vineyard the enemy is hiding in? How is the owner going to pay his taxes? Everything has consequences, and those consequences have consequences. Drain this node and the one down the road, and how will the next village’s magic dam stop the flood? But now we’re leaking into logical effects. More on those later.

Summation: Make your costs cost—permanently.

 

*As in, headaches don’t make fire.  And sacrificing squirrels doesn’t defeat the Dark Lord.  Now, the hero(ine)’s Love Interest… that could do it.

**I love Lackey, really. Not the best fantasy I’ve ever read, sure, but I was using light sarcasm; I don’t bite.  And she gets it right, sometimes.  Lavan Firestorm, anyone?

 

Next post: On Setting Limits and Why Breaking Them is Bad. Bad. Bad!

 

The Inverse Law of Utility and Understanding

(and many other First Laws Principles of Good Fantasy)

One thing I mentioned in my previous post but did not expand upon was my “Inverse Law of Utility and Understanding.” That is:  “A character’s ability to solve a conflict with magic is inversely proportional to how well the character understands said magic.”  (I’m looking at you, Eragon!)  Basically, the more you know, the more you fuck up. 

 

It’s the corollary to Atsiko’s First Law of Magic. Which reads: “An author’s ability to solve a conflict with magic is inversely proportional to how well the reader understands said magic.” Because I am egotistical like that… and meta.  Basically, this Law says that the more a reader understands your magic system, the less you can get away with the less useful it will be in solving conflicts(, because you will be working within more limits).  Instead, you will have to rely on your characters’ actual heroic traits.*  In a paradoxical turn of events, my law and Mr. Sanderson’s are equally and simultaneously true.  I think mine is more useful from a plotting standpoint, while Mr. Sanderson’s is more useful from a construction standpoint.  Keep his in mind when you make your magic, and keep mine in mind when you use it.

 

What makes Atsiko’s Law relevant in fantasy is the Sliding Scale of Magic vs. Science.  (Some of you may have guessed already that I’ve spent too much time on TV Tropes lately.  I blame it on NaNoWriMo.)  Basically, the more you explain a magic system, the more of a pain in the ass it is to actually do something “magical” with it, or do anything at all, really.  (Science is not omnipotent.)  For authors who want their reader to experience a sense of wonder in their stories, this is a rather undesirable trait. 

 

It can also lead to “necessary” info-dumping–and plot holes.  The plot holes arise when an author wants to do something freakin’ awesome previously forbidden.  But here’s a little secret.  Readers will forgive anything as long as it fucks something up later.  They love that.  Let’s call it delayed consequences gratification.  Just don’t wait too long, or the book will already have hit the wall.**

 

Which leads us to our next writerly trick: the invisible rule.

 

That’s right.  Hidden rules.  Because hidden rules rule.  One of the best ways to create a mysterious and yet satisfying plot-buster magic system is to have rules and not tell anybody.  Seems counterintuitive, right?  If we don’t know the rules, how will they know you have them?  Doesn’t matter.  See, in the real world, we learn the rules by observing and formulation hypothesis.  We then apply these as laws until something disproves them.  You can do this in fantasy, too.  Of course, it’s much harder.  You have to avoid really big flashy stuff until the necessary rules have been introduced–but still meet the criteria for Retroactive Consistency we established in the last post.  For skilled plotters only.  But see Atsiko’s First Law.

 

Now we can address the two major ways in which you can create the illusion of balance through construction, without hemming yourself in with restrictive rules.  This is where you keep in mind Sanderson’s First Law and what you want your magic to do.  Here are your two main tools:

 

1. The Principle of Limited Application—the magic is not applicable to any situation, and can only meet a few, clearly-defined needs.  Robin Hobb’s magic in Soldier Son has limited applicability.  It cannot throw fireballs, or summon lightning, and while it appears quite flexible, it almost always approaches conflict indirectly.  No stand-offs here.  The “Great Ones” must find other ways to achieve their goals.  Allows for a greater sense of mystery.

 

2. The Principle of Limited Effect—the magic can apply to a broad range of situations, but there is a limit to how much power can be thrown at the problem.  Lackey’s magic system in Velgarth has limited effectiveness.  Some mages are more powerful than others, and even though you can do pretty much anything with it, if your lightning doesn’t pierce the opponents shields, you aren’t going to damage him.  Allows for a greater sense of tension.

 

Now, many authors use a combination of mysterious and scientific magic in their stories.  The more mysterious the magic is, the more the Principle of Limited Application is used to keep magic in check.  The magic is a step on the road to solving the conflict, but it requires the character to use other skills and assets to ultimately solve the problem.  Scientific systems can get away with a broader application, but they tend to rely more on the Principle of Limited Effect.  Yes, the character can throw a fireball, but you’re not going to obliterate the foe in one go.  Both of these Principles deal with solving the conflict, but the means to the end are quite different, and a reader can be happy or unhappy with both types of magic.

 

But there’s another writerly trick that allows you to have mystery and avoid deus ex machina.  The goal here is to create the illusion of logical progression, by adding an extra assumption just before the fact; ie, trick the reader into believing you foreshadowed this all along.  Word-games work great, as Tolkien proved.  “I am no man.”  (Any tropers out there have probably figured out I fall somewhere on the right of this, in regards to my view of “clever” fantasy authors.)

 

 

 

*Atsiko’s First Law of Protagonists:  “Magic does not make you a hero!  Or, magic does not make you Speshul, Snowflake–good character does.”

 

**Atsiko’s First Law of Delayed Gratification:  “The less gratification is delayed, the more gratifying it is.”

 

 

Next post:  On More Principles Tricks of Good Fantasy, or How Authors Screw Up The Third Principle of Good Magic

 

Meeting Your Goals for Magic

Meeting Your Goals for Magic

Last time I talked about the purpose of magic in fantasy. I covered wonder/coolness, conflict, and solutions. Now I am going to talk about how magic can be used to meet these goals.

There are two basic types of magic common in fantasy. The “scientific magic system”, and the way Tolkien did it. The latter has fallen into disuse as a pure system, but there are bastard systems significantly influenced by it. First, let’s talk Tolkienian:

Magic that is left mysterious gets top score in one specific category: awe and wonder. We are naturally more impressed by things we don’t understand. Lightning; auroras; that girl down the hall who can play anything on the piano. (Not that I have any particular experience with that last, nope I do not.) Just wow. Well, it’s the same with magic. The less we understand about how it works, the more we are amazed by it. After all, you know stage magicians are fakes, but that doesn’t make the disappearing space shuttle any less awesome, does it? It’s not about the effect; it’s about the cleverness behind it.

Mysterious magic also allows the author to create conflict. Ha! You thought Mr. Protagonist was safe, did you? Too bad you didn’t know that “every magical action has an equal and opposite disproportionately large magical reaction”. Surprise! This is Atsiko’s Third Law of Magic. And it’s also purpose number two. So far, so good.

But the problem with un-explained magic arises when an author uses it to address a story conflict without. As readers, we don’t mind the first kind of surprise. It’s not piling on the pain that we have a problem with, it’s snapping your fingers and making it vanish… as opposed to, you know, actually making the characters work for their victories. This can result in us readers feeling cheated. The author ratcheted up the tension and threw this character into a difficult spot. We didn’t know how the character was going to get out of it. Great, we love that. We want to discover how the character gets out of it. But if the answer is just to throw magic at the problem—magic you didn’t tell us about, or even hint that the character could apply to this situation—that big balloon of tension and suspense is immediately deflated. It wasn’t the character that solved the problem, it was the author. This is called “deus ex machina”, a Greek term which means “the author is a lazy ass”.

The excitement that comes from stage magic in our world revolves around the magician doing something they shouldn’t be able to do, even though we know there’s a logical reason behind it. It’s supposed to make no sense. The fun is in making sense of it. But in fantasy, where real world rules don’t always apply, we don’t know there’s a logical reason behind it, and we won’t be able to make logical sense out of it—unless the author helps us. There’s more likely an arbitrary reason behind it, anyway: author fiat. Using fantasy magic doesn’t require an author to be clever–only autocratic.  But it helps if they are.

In the real world, there are rules and the world never deviates from them, even if we don’t know what they are. The system runs itself, and it can’t cop out when things aren’t going its way. But in a fantasy world, the author runs the system, and they can cheat whenever they want. In order for us to suspend disbelief as readers, we have to be convinced that the author is following her own rules, and the best way to do this is to establish them early, and have everything follow them. If the author wants to do something the current rules don’t allow, they must set up the proper conditions beforehand. Either they explain the new rule and how it fits into the old system before using it, or we feel like they pulled a fast one.

And thus we come to the “scientific” magic system. What it lacks in awe and wonder, it makes up for in suspension of disbelief. It does this by mimicking a facet of real-world “science”: logical consistency. In the case of magic, I will refer to this as the Principle of Non-Retroactive Consistency. That is: “no new rule may invalidate an old solution, or (and this is the important one) invalidate an old conflict. That’s the secret of maintaining suspension of disbelief in us readers. If a new power could have been used to greater effect during a previous conflict and was not, then it is clear to us that the either the author withheld this rule to create more tension, or else has now found themselves in a corner that they are too lazy to think through or incapable of getting out of using their old rules. In the first case, they artificially created tension and suspense to make a scene more exciting. This is not nice. It tricks readers, and we do not like that. In the second case, they artificially extricated the hero from an unwinnable situation so that the story could continue. This is not nice. It’s a way to avoid good plotting, and we do not like that, either. One way or the other our suspension of disbelief is broken. Bad author! No royalties for you! Word of mouth shall bury your book. (And that could ruin your career. As an author, you don’t get to make that sort of mistake—not if you want to keep writing under your current name, anyway.)

So what system is best for you? We have established that magic can be divided into two categories. Here’s a condensed description of both:

1. Magical— This form of magic is usually not practiced by the heroes. The author does not explain its rules, except in very general terms, and its pros and cons are not revealed. Most useful for providing a sense of wonder and awe. It is not used to get a character out of a tough spot. Rather, it is more likely to create conflict than resolve it. Or else it balances solution with creation. The real solution comes from the characters’ other strengths. Like courage, or compassion. You know, the things that make them a hero.

2. Scientific— This magic is generally explained in detail. The rules especially are known, and it has a clearly defined set of limits and costs. Most useful for direct application to plot conflicts, and is most often wielded by one or more of the protagonists and their allies. It can be used to create and resolve conflict, because it does not deceive the reader with a false sense of tension. But it is not awe-inspiring. Usually. magic systems can fall anywhere in between these two extremes, and a balance is generally best for what most authors want to accomplish. It’s like distributing stat points. You’ve got to make compromises. You can’t be both a powerful wizard and a powerful warrior… Or can you? (See below.)

Next time, I will examine in detail how magic can be used to create and/or resolve conflict. That entry will be slightly more snarky, however. Many authors have screwed this part up. Beware: Names will be Named.

Secret bonus snark: Remember that Law I mentioned in the last post? As a special bonus, I will explain it–and a few other nifty gewgaws.

 

The Other Side of the Issue

All issues have at least two sides.  Now that people are reading, I think it is time to present the other side of the argument (found here) in a fair and un-biased light.

The article I linked to discusses the shift from TV sf several decades ago, and TV sf today.  One of its main points is that there is now a lot more focus on human relationships in tv sf–as opposed to action, adventure and fancy technobabble.  This is somewhat true.  However, there has never been a strong focus on hard sf in television.  Instead of good ol’ boy space westerns, we have now shifted to “gritty, realistic, human-centered” space opera.  It really puts the “opera” into “space opera” folks. 

BSG has often been criticized as beng just a soap opera in space.  But then, old guard TV sf was just westerns in space, so the idea that female influence on the genre has lead to the end of hard sf on television is a bit misguided.  There has been a decrease in the space western, but the hard sf was barely there in the first place.  And truthfully, BSG had a very large male audience, so one cannot argue that men (and boys) don’t watch tv sf anymore.

The other cotention was that young men will not have the inspiration to go into the scientific fields that they once got from TV sf.  I’d like to propose that sci-fi readers are in fact more likely to enter the hard sciences, and so this point doesn’t hold much water.  Following my proposition also invalidates the Minsky quote, which–to be fair–the author  of the article never claimed was in response to television sf.  But he very quickly went on to apply it thusly, and so he gets very few points for his “honesty”.

Overall, I agree there has been a shift in tv sf.  No denying that.  But I don’t agree that tv sf was ever really a quality influence on young men, as the Spearhead article claims.  Just read the angsty rant by Benedict that they endorsed so bluntly.  No offense to you Trekkies (or Trekkers, whatever) out there.  I loved Star Trek, and Star Wars, and the original Battlestar Galactica as much as anyone.  But I’m not going to stand here and claim it is in any way equivalent to high-brow literature–or television.

I am not interested in addressing the claims and/or evidence of sexism or differences between men and women.  It is an interesting subject, yes.  But I do not believe such a conversation will be productive right now, nor is it in line with the focus of my blog.  I picked up on this because it dealt with a shift in a genre I care very much about, and because it’s always good to have a reasoned discussion on themes in literature.  I am not interested in enabling the exchange of tirades and trolling between two sides I find unlikely to reach an agreement or compromise at the current time.

 

The earlier post may be found here.