The Scanlans of Tabletop: How Do Jesters Strum Their Way Into Our Hearts?
But Doctor, I am Palagicci. I’ve also dipped a few levels into fighter, I really needed the armour proficiency.
We’ve all seen it happen. The group jokester rocks up with a character like Slap-Happy Jack, a Firbolg raised by clowns. All their gags and jests get a few laughs and they secure their role as comic relief. Much to the DM’s chagrin they bring a drop of parody to the world, sticking out like a clown-red thumb. They get the party kicked out of noble courts, seduce their way past guards, and brandish innuendo like a magic weapon.
Yet after five, ten, twenty sessions, a transformation takes place. Cocooned in the silk of drama, the jokester slips on a banana peel of sincerity and slides their way head-first into the players’ hearts. How the heck does this happen? Bildo Bigfeet has no right to make anyone cry, yet the longer a campaign goes on, the more inevitable this metamorphosis becomes.
Scanlan Shorthalt is a classic example (spoilers for Campaign 1 of Critical Role inbound). Played by Sam Riegel, who started his D&D journey by stating “I’ll be the worst character,” this pervy prankster is stacked to the brim with innuendo and sleaze. Every spell he casts invokes a genre-bending pop culture reference and yet, when he lashes out at Vox Machina after a harrowing death at the hands of the Chroma Conclave, nobody’s laughing at the sad clown act.
The prankster never goes away entirely. However given room to breathe, these jester-idiots inevitably sprout a new dimension or three.
It is sometimes said that comedy and tragedy are two sides of the same coin. We see it in our shared stories all the time, where a comedic show will ambush us with a rare moment of authenticity. It’s even become a target for parody; in series 4 of 2010’s Mitchel and Web look, the ‘sad comedy finale’ is directly lamp-shaded, then repeated in a later sketch exploring the tragic degradation of a senile Sherlock Holmes. Despite a heavy helping of self-awareness, it’s still a tear-jerker.
Conversely, the super-serious character will often become a source of comedy. In both instances, I believe it’s down to the fact that no-one can hold one pose forever. Tabletop campaigns are unique in their length. In a scripted show you might have some dramatic contrast: the sad clown might reveal their sorrow, the severe soldier might crack a joke. But these are constructed moments, lab-brewed to elicit an emotional response. In tabletop these moments are accidental, they happen because these characters are inhabited, rather than written.
When we step into a character’s shoes, and we stay in them for hours on end, we’ll eventually show off a full range of emotion. Sir Bigfeet cannot crack jokes forever. Eventually he’ll be stirred to sincerity by his player’s investment in the game. This isn’t a failure of his player’s roleplaying skills, but rather it’s something beautiful about the roleplay itself. The clown shows sincerity. They have blossomed into a human being, with all the baggage that entails – including inconsistency. We reinvent ourselves every day, and Bigfeet is no different.
Why are these dramatic turns so effective? I think it’s down to contrast. Wisdom from unexpected places, sorrows that puncture a smile, jokes told by a stone wall; these things break our pattern recognition, and when we sense a break, our brains latch on. No-one’s going to remember Bildo’s fifteenth scatological pun, but they’ll remember when he sacrificed himself to save the town of Crestheart. They’ll remember his last smile before the giant’s sword fell.
Roleplay also speaks to something in us. While it’s not exactly healthy to treat your D&D game like group therapy, we do sometimes imprint onto the imaginary people in our heads. After all, they’re just like us – we’ve all cracked jokes to deal with hardships, or broken under constant pressure. We all wear masks. To work, with our friends and family. To finally take that mask off and be sincere?
That’s a power fantasy, just as valid as plunging a sword into an ancient dragon, saving a city from an undying god, or holding onto your last wish for a dying friend.