The Female Power Fantasy

Here's a post that's outside of my usual fare. I've had this one in reserve for awhile, and I'm no longer ahead on posts. This is not directly board game related, but here we are. 

I'm fairly sure that anyone who has seen a Marvel movie has a pretty fair idea what a male power fantasy is. The handy-dandy thing about the MCU is that we even get different flavors of male power fantasies in the same movie, cf. The Avengers. There's the super strong and indestructible version of the male power fantasy, the super smart and rich version, and the otherworldly superpowers version. Or a combination of the above, as seen in later movies. (I'm taking for granted that every version of the male power fantasy is fit and handsome.) These characters seem different on the surface, except for all being ridiculously handsome, but they largely have the same goals and ambitions. At its heart, the male power fantasy is about dominance over antagonists and achievement of ambition. You can also throw in protection of those weaker than the protagonist, but that only applies to certain heroic MPFs. Power fantasies can, after all, also take the form of villain characters. 

This makes sense, because power fantasies are about having/gaining power. But they are also about how characters use power. And often MPFs are about gender stereotypes, or at least archetypes. For the male side that means strength, charisma, and success. But what do female power fantasies look like?

I did not have a lot of success googling 'female power fantasy.' The few forums that discuss such a thing are filled with people denying that there is a difference beyond gender of the character. In other words, female power fantasies are just male power fantasies that have been gender swapped. I'd like to put forward a different idea. 

I was two years into developing Deadly Dowagers before I finally realized why women enjoyed playing it as much as they did. But looking back on all the playtests I had, I came to the conclusion that the theme of the game was appealing in a way I didn't design it to be: it was a power fantasy. And not one that relied on strength or intelligence or charisma. Instead, the female power fantasy of Deadly Dowagers is that of self-determination. Characters are given control over when to start and end relationships and how they spend their money. That doesn't sound like much, but take a look at domestic violence statistics and you start to realize that women aren't looking for dominance so much as the ability to make their own decisions free of consequence or interference. Of course, in story-telling, we often see traits taken to illogical extreme for effect. As a result, one of the most enduring FPFs is the American musical Chicago, a story of women getting away with murder. Outside of murderesses, female power fantasies tend to look more like Rey Skywalker or Carol Danvers—heroes who look like MPFs on the surface but who are driven by a desire for self-determination over the male expectations imposed on them. (Incidentally, I think that trait has made these characters misunderstood by their respective fandoms. It doesn't help that, yes, the writing involved could have been better.) 

I think it's probably an indictment of our society that when we imagine the kinds of women who achieve total self-determination that the only ones we can think of are magical, indestructible space-women and criminals. But from these existing FPFs we can glean a few lessons. One is that FPFs require resonance with the real experience of women. Not every female super hero is a female power fantasy. Some really are just gender-swapped MPFs. (And there's not really anything inherently wrong with that, except some lack of depth and resonance.) Female power fantasies must be grounded in the experience of what it means to be coded female. 

Another thing we can learn about female power fantasies is that a lot of the resonance comes from subtext. Regardless of what you think about Captain Marvel as a movie, it is undeniable that women resonated with the final confrontation in a way that men didn't, because women understood a lot of what wasn't said in that scene. This is a point in favor of diverse story-tellers, because resonant subtext all but requires lived experience. 

Lastly, in order to be a FPF, it must be important to the story that the main character is a woman. As in, if you changed her gender the story would lose resonance and not make as much sense. And here we finally can tie back into board games. There are very few board games with female playable characters that have both good representation and a story that requires female characters. Board games are still largely telling stories from the same perspective they always have, but sometimes we change the art up a little. (My joke is that everyone knows that spaceship crews are required by galactic law to have exactly one female crew member.) I have perused some lists on BGG and by my count the number of games that meet my added criteria of women being necessary to the story is in the single digits. On this blog I have alternately called for more specificity and more abstraction. To quote Jason Perez, I want more stories, not fewer. I'm not saying that gender (or any other aspect) should be integral to every future game theme, but that sometimes it should be. 

Now take everything I said and apply it to other marginalized groups. We can tell complex stories via game design. They look different from traditional narratives, but that just means they require more care. 

If we want to grow the hobby, we need more resonant stories from diverse groups of people. If we want thematic representation, we need characters that are more than just re-skins. If we want better stories, we need to be aware of resonance and subtext. 

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays.

On Setting

In previous posts, I have outlined ways of looking at plot and character in board game design. This post is all about setting. Remember that in board game parlance, theme encompasses both subject (characters performing actions, more or less) and setting (the context for the actions). 

Setting is often expressed solely through art, which makes it very easy to change during development or for later editions. However, I want to look at some ways to think about how setting can be expressed more deeply in a game. The following are the concepts that I lump under the category of setting that can be represented in a game design: geographic location, laws of physics, passage of time, history of location, local laws and politics, cultural mores, emotional atmosphere of narrative, genre tropes outside of plot, and any other forms of context that inform the narrative. 

First, let's take a look at how components are typically used to express theme. Boards are large and static as far as components go, which is why they are effective to represent locations. The action of the game is done on top of the board, within the location. Tiles are a go-to for locations that are undergoing drastic change during the course of the game (or variable locations). Cards and tokens are often used to represent people and items— things that can move/be moved around a location. Dice are generally abstract, which makes them well-suited to representing non-physical elements such as actions. This isn't prescriptive; feel free to explore other thematic uses for components. Consideration for how components can express the characteristics of what they represent is important in a well-knitted theme, however. Using components to reinforce the rules of the world grounds the game in its setting. Using components in ways that are unintuitive can unmoor a game from its setting.

Setting can be expressed in a simulationist way, a stylized way, or an associated way. (This is similar to how I break down types of thematic actions.) Elements of setting can be presented as simulations through using the game rules to provide similar boundaries and affordances found in their real world counterparts. For example, moving vehicle pawns down a road drawn on a board would be simulationist. One form of stylized presentation is hierarchic scaling, which presents more important information in a larger format. In our example, roads that are more frequently travelled would be drawn to be larger. Another form of stylized presentation is fantasy (i.e. not reality). A fantastical way of presenting roads would be to ignore distances in favor of portals that move pawns instantly from one point to another. Obviously, some game mechanics will have that type of instantaneous movement even if the setting is a realistic one. This is a case where understanding how theme can be expressed helps you make decisions in what your rules represent. If a theme is realistic but all the mechanics lean more into stylized representation, then the game will feel more abstract and disconnected from the theme. If you include one or two simulationist mechanics, the theme will feel more grounded in reality. Lastly, associated mechanics are ones that are merely labeled thematically, but are totally abstracted. Tracks are a common associated mechanic. 

Which style of mechanism you use depends on what you want your rules/mechanics to convey. (Conversely, how you theme your already existing mechanics depends on what you want to convey.) Rules can convey physics— movement, speed, gravity, etc— via simulationist mechanics. Rules can convey societal values via simulationist or stylized mechanics. Historical laws can be represented by simulationist mechanics, but social mores could be evoked through mechanics that provide the same emotional feeling as living in the society depicted. Societal values can be conveyed through how open or restrictive the rules are, whether the game is cooperative or competitive, which resources are the most expensive, and what goals the game presents to the players. 

Rules can act as a cinematographer, framing the experience, building and releasing tension, and providing a structure for the story of the game. Rules can also be expediters, providing quick check points then getting out of the way of the narrative. Most thematic games have some of both. Knowing what your rules convey and what they can convey helps you guide your design to a more thematic experience. 

Integrating the setting of your game into the mechanics is harder than integrating plot and character. There is a lot more nuance and artistry involved. Real world settings require research and often cultural consultants. (NB: Fictional themes may also require cultural consultants.) In real or fictional themes, setting done well will add texture and depth of experience. Relying on art and flavor text for setting ignores a number of tools that can add richness to your theme. 

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays.

Central Thematic Metaphors

In the (next to) last post, I mentioned visual metaphors within component design. Strong metaphors in game design can bring a theme to life. Metaphors do not need to be visually expressed, but metaphors with a visual component add richness and verisimilitude to the gameplay experience. 

I focus my early design process around a central thematic metaphor. Each design has only one central metaphor, but that metaphor develops and becomes more complex as the game develops. A central thematic metaphor is the non-negotiable part of a game design for me. I can change every last mechanism, but as long as they express the same core idea and feeling then I am still making the same game I set out to make. A central thematic metaphor is similar but distinct from the concept of designing for the intended experience. You can do both at once, however. 'Intended experience' is what we want our players to feel while playing. A central metaphor is a more cognitive expression of an idea that ties strongly to an object or activity. For example, my set collection, opera writing game (working title: Operetta) intends for players to feel the frustration and pressure of trying to get a song just right, with the focus on the emotions matching the theme. The central metaphor is gathering ideas to build a draft of a libretto. The metaphor focuses on the actions and components of gameplay and the intended experience focuses on emotions. I am more likely to change my intended experience than my central metaphor as the game develops, because, for me, the metaphor is where the game lives. 

Central thematic metaphors are mechanically expressed. A strong metaphor permeates the design process and filters into the mechanics, even if the original metaphoric concept was more 'curb appeal'-based. In the example above, the verbs 'gather' and 'build' guide the types of mechanics I need in my game: card/resource collection and some sort of crafting/deployment. Negotiation or other high-interaction mechanisms would pull the experience away from what should be an individual endeavor—having and synthesizing ideas. Central metaphors are useful when determining how pieces move, rhythm of play, amount of player interaction, and complexity and difficulty of gameplay. 

I contend it is easier to make a metaphor central to gameplay than an emotion. Action verbs and concrete objects (like a manuscript) are easier to generate ideas around. The emotion of an intended experience acts more as a guidepost as the game develops. I can check the latest version of my game against how I intend it to feel using playtester feedback. However, it is possible for me to make the game more in line with the intended experience while also making it less thematic. The central thematic metaphor helps keep the theme present as the game develops. If the game really needed changes that took it away from the theme, I would look at changing the theme in order to maintain a strong metaphor. I don't do this in my own designs, however. If I can't get mechanics to work with the metaphor I have, I generally shelve the design. 

My interest in thematic metaphors is largely why my games' themes so far have followed my interests and hobbies. It's easier to ground your theme in a metaphor if you are pretty familiar with the theme already. Otherwise, research is your best friend. Research themes you might want to make a game about. Look for an aspect of the theme that suggests some element of gameplay. From there, distill out a central thematic metaphor and intended player experience. That's essentially a design vision, and if you write it down you have a design vision statement. 

I know that's not how many, if not most, designers approach starting a design. But if you want to design a thematic game, I suggest giving central thematic metaphors a chance. 

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays.

On Rulebooks

This post is about rulebooks (or manuals, if you prefer) for purposes other than final publication. In other words, if you are done playtesting and planning on self-publishing, then your rulebook will need additional, vital elements that I may not mention about here or in my linked template. However, if you are doing blind unguided playtesting, rulebook playtesting (more on this later), submitting to a contest, or submitting to a publisher, then I have some thoughts for you to consider. 

First and foremost, and this goes for all rulebooks, ever, including future printings of published games, put an icon glossary in your rulebook. List every symbol and what it means. Lists of components are de rigueur, but I rarely play games that tell me what the symbols mean. I judged 25 games for Cardboard Edison's contest this year, and none of the games had an icon glossary. Even if you think your icons are obvious, list what they mean. Dragging icons into a word document is not hard. If you have no other images in your rulebooks, still have the icons. (Keywords are consider icons for the purposes of this discussion.)

Prioritize being professional and usable over being clever. This dictum could apply to every aspect of the process, but here it means that your rulebook should be a rulebook. It should look and flow and be usable like a rulebook. If you try to make it look like something other than a rulebook, you will most likely compromise the usability. For instance, if your rulebook is laid out like a novel or a cookbook or an Ikea manual, your players/readers may have a harder time looking up rules questions. Do not make the rulebook a friction point in your game. Additionally, your writing should be clear and free of excess adjectives. Don't use the words fun, unique, or exciting in your rules. Don't use your rules to describe how you hope the players should feel. Don't put fluff in the rules, except as icon/component/action names. Fluff should only be added in after the rulebook is deemed usable and should not detract from usability. (If you are a UI/graphic designer professional, go nuts. You should already know where the boundaries are.)

Use an A/B mindset when writing rules. An A/B mindset just means to think "if A then X, if B then Y." A lot of rulebooks, even of published games, either are incomplete or feel incomplete because they fail to mention contingencies. Every time you write a rule also include a contingency rule for the opposite case scenario. If the rule is "draw a card," make sure that you include a rule for if there are no more cards to draw. Maybe the deck can't run out in a game, in which case you don't need the contingency rule. I see this most often in pass/fail rules. Designers will include what happens if you succeed in an action but not what happens if you fail. Leaving out these rules leads to players guessing what to do in a game. That's bad. We want to eliminate players guessing about rules. I consider a lack of contingencies mentioned in a rulebook to be an incomplete ruleset. Incomplete rules communicate incomplete mechanics. (This is especially bad when submitting to publishers or contests.) Writing a rulebook can also help you clarify how your mechanics work, in case you didn't have rules for certain things. So, pay attention to contingencies. 

There are a number of rules exchanges available through fora. Many contests also function as rules feedback on rulebooks alone. I think that 'playtesting' your rulebook is a quick way to get mechanics feedback without having to set up formal playtests. I would suggest approaching rules exchanges for mechanics feedback, not just rules clarity/copyediting. I am sure every designer is capable of giving feedback on a game without playing it. 

If you are just playtesting your rulebook, you can get away with imperfect formatting and a certain amount of incompleteness. If you are submitting to a publisher, your rulebook should be worded in a way that could be published as is, with enough icons, diagrams, and images included as necessary for the publisher to play without you there to explain. Treat contests like they are publishers in your level of professionalism expressed in the materials you submit. 

If you need a template to get you started on rules, I am a big fan of Pencil First's rulebooks, or you can use my template and change it to suit your needs. 

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays. 

Prototype UI

Early prototypes are supposed to be for hammering out the mechanics, and UI comes later, right? Not in my experience. I have never had a playtester of any design or gaming experience who could look wholly past UI to give feedback exclusively about mechanisms. On the other hand, I don't think you need to be a UI/UX professional in order to make a game prototype. But I do have some thoughts on how we can all address UI in prototypes the appropriate amount for games that will change every time they are played for at least a year. Obviously, this is a process. It takes time to integrate the necessary UI into prototypes. But it is important to be working toward a clear, usable prototype from the beginning of the process. 

The most important step in increasing player usability is to reduce visual chaos in your prototype. Pretty much every other piece of advice I have goes back to this. Declutter the play space and integrate visual organization, so that players know where to look. Of course that is easier said than done, so let's look at some concrete ways of achieving that. 

Streamline components. Yes, improving UI involves game design. It's surprising how much of the design process is changing rules to help players' experiences, as opposed to helping balance the mechanics. Streamlining components is not new advice, but it usually is presented as a cost reduction strategy. Here, the total number of components matters less than how they are laid out on the table. Fewer types of components, grouping like things together, and providing some sort of visual hierarchy are all strategies to reduce the visual chaos of a game. Potential cost reduction is just an added bonus. 

Visual organization of the layout of the game is a difficult design task for those of us who are not professional graphic designers. Thematic organization is one way to make your game stand out and help players interface with the rules. How can we impose thematic organization on our designs? There are a couple ways of thinking about this problem. My approach is to start my designs by feeling out what shapes or items need to be represented visually in the game. What is the most important visual metaphor within the theme? Some visual metaphors in my designs have been elevation/topography, a bustling open air market, and a manuscript. As is the nature of metaphors, these concepts are boiled down to very simple component expressions. I am usually trying to evoke the feeling of the metaphor; I am not trying to design a simulation. However, these metaphors provide shape to my layout, thematic anchoring to my rules, and a guide to the hook of my game. 

But if that's a little too much of a liberal arts approach to game design, here's a different way to approach thematic organization: eliminate as many rectangles as possible. Get away from the spreadsheet look as early as you can. Don't just change all the rectangles to circles, search for thematically appropriate shapes. If you can integrate affordances while you're at it, that's also a good idea. However, that treads on graphic design ground and I'm trying to keep this simple. Some rectangles will be unavoidable. Cards, boards, and dice don't need to be reinvented. Cubes, on the other hand, are usually easy to replace with tokens or standees. Layout within boards or cards is another excellent place to avoid rectangles. Even just a few objects with organic shapes gives the eye somewhere to rest that is not grid-like. Tie these shapes in with theme, but make sure that these elements facilitate gameplay rather than getting in the way. 

Use icons as memory aids. A card should tell the player how it works. Too few icons can be as much of a problem as too many. Keywords are essentially alphanumeric icons. Use just as many as you need to make the rules as clear as possible. Player aids are important for reference, but icons should be easily identified as what they represent. Sometimes that means thematic icons; sometimes it means more typical board game action or component-style icons. Icons act as visual and strategic anchors for the player by telling them what information is important. 

On the subject of player aids, try to reduce reading as much as possible. Player aids that are too long are almost more frustrating than not having a player aid. Again, too much information makes a game feel cluttered. Give players what they most need in as few words as possible. If the information is on the cards or on the board, you can leave it off the player aid. What I most need when playing a game is enough information to play a turn (usually in the form of turn order) and what my end goal is.

Add visual interest. One trick that I use to help break of the visual blah-ness of a prototype is through the use of flood fills. If I'm trying to not use too much ink, however, I stick to borders. Different colors on cards or areas of a board can help players pick out information faster than monochrome icons. We see color first. I also add in placeholder art fairly early in the process. Art can help convey the general atmosphere of a game to players. Bright cartoon art conveys a different message than dark, grotesque art. Visual interest is admittedly more important later in the process. But I want to know early on if I can make a game look interesting. Because visual interest sells games. And making interesting looking games is a skill that can be honed. Plus, flood fills and clip art don't take any more time to add to cards than icons do. 

Sometimes, in order to get better quality feedback on playtests we have to develop the UI before we're done with the mechanics. Fortunately, spending time on UI is time well spent. In addition to removing distractions that keep players from engaging with the core of our games, we are able to develop the themes, hooks, and curb appeal of our designs. 

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays.

Self-centered Design

Every designer has tendencies that they should be aware of. I think of it as my own bad taste in design, but you could think of it as not considering your audience or going against certain expectations in the hobby. I frame it as bad taste because, like in other aspects of life, I am capable of enjoying something even if it is generally considered to be poor quality. 

In game design, my own bad taste primarily manifests as an enjoyment of tedium. I let a game go on too long. I don't have very interesting choices early on in my designs. Dramatic moments are something I stumble into if I am lucky. My interest is usually in shaping the rhythm of the game and in making the tedious parts the least tedious they can be. But sometimes often that is at the expense of the things that gamers want in games, the things that make games 'good'. I'll die on the hill that balance is a late stage design consideration, but I am trying to be better about incorporating interesting choices sooner in my design process. 

Speaking of balance, some designers rely too heavily on spreadsheets and math rather than their target audience. I put mathematical balance in the bad taste category. Few gamers will care that a game's math is perfect, but many designers are enamored with perfectly balanced spreadsheets. I occasionally will work out some of the math of a game to make sure that higher level actions are actually better than lower level ones. But otherwise my math typically consists of making sure I have enough cards for the intended player count. (Which I am notoriously bad at. Which explains my stance on math in games.) My feelings on math aside, game balance matters less than the perception of balance. Spending too much time in spreadsheets likely does more for your ego than it does for the game. (On the other hand, if it's a part of your process, go for it. As long as you know that spreadsheets cannot replace playtesting.) 

Returning to tedium, many designers seem to struggle with game length. Based on my own experience, I would say that part of the struggle is because designers enjoy their own games, sometimes to a fault. The longer a game lasts, the more opportunity to hit certain beats and develop certain strategies. Unfortunately, only someone who is as familiar with the game as the designer is going to appreciate what the long version of the game offers. Most players won't be able to see that nuance and won't appreciate the time it takes to get there. Most of the time, what the longer game adds is not worth the loss of momentum that happens as a game stretches out. 

Another familiarity problem is one I dub the "videogame dev" mentality. In videogames, development continues long after a game has launched. Games regularly transform from simple affairs in early access to sprawling, elaborate worlds. The problem for board game designers is when something similar happens during the design process. Rather than simplifying and streamlining the design over time, the design becomes more expansive, usually at the expense of the intended player experience. Sometimes this is in response to playtester feedback; often the designer is trying to keep the game from getting boring (to themself). Usually, content can be stripped out to be added in later as expansions. 

Lastly, some designers will design games that are fun for them at the expense of the players. Games that punish players or trick them into making bad decisions can make designers feel clever. These sorts of design choices are rarely fun for players, however. This tendency can show up in small ways, like red herrings that only trip up first time players. If you have options in your game that are always (as opposed to conditionally) bad, label them as such. 

Traits such as these often get listed as "new designer mistakes" but I think that miscasts the problem. I struggle in some way with most of these (not the math one), even though I know they aren't good design tools. I also see all of these creep into published games by established designers. So let's stop telling new designers these problems are due to lack of experience. These tendencies come from designers designing for themselves, as opposed to their target audience. These tendencies don't evaporate when you get published because you are still you. I am still me, with all my bad taste and laziness when it comes to the process. The trick is recognizing the tendencies in yourself so that you can address them before your game hits the shelves. 

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays.

Exposition and Denouement

While there are a number of ways to introduce your game world to players, I think some methods are both more straightforward than others while also more effective storytelling. In the previous post, I discussed using the introductory lore paragraph in the rulebook as an inciting incident for the narrative of gameplay. In this post, I'll be looking at using setup as exposition and scoring as denouement. (NB: I am assuming that setup includes at minimum a brief rules review.)

But first, why would we want an inciting incident before exposition? When we place the inciting incident in the lore paragraph in the rulebook, it functions similarly to a cinematic cut scene at the beginning of a video game. We get dropped into a dramatic narrative moment, then we pause to learn who we are and what we are doing. In a video game, this might happen in a tutorial level. In board games, often all we have is setup. 

How can setup function as exposition? Setup is when the game world is literally built on the table. You learn who you are, what you are good at, how much you possess. You learn your goals. Take Sheriff of Nottingham for example: The world is a line of carts waiting to get through a city gate. You have limited funds that you can use to bribe the sheriff. You have the goods you are bringing to market. The law prohibits the sale of contraband at the market, but a well-placed bribe could circumvent it. The Sheriff makes money either through bribes or penalties. All this is learned during setup. This is the game world; the player decides how honest they will be at the city gate. The inciting incident, as described in the rulebook, is that Prince John has placed the Sheriff at the gate to inspect all incoming goods. According to the lore paragraph, the merchants are overtaxed and trying to make a living and the Sheriff is greedy. Setup, rules, and gameplay all flow together to create a single story. 

Setup as inciting incident (something I mentioned in the last post) is trickier to pull off. It is harder to include important story moments while learning the rules of the game. Vengeance has an initial draft that functions as the inciting incidents for why the player characters want revenge. Importantly, the exposition of Vengeance is largely "you have seen these types of movies before; you know what to expect." When players have preexisting knowledge of a genre, designers can get away with less explicit exposition. To have inciting incidents in setup, the game should be strongly story driven and some element of setup should be variable. Otherwise, let the lore paragraph do the heavy lifting for you rather than drag out setup for the sake of story beats. The goal of the players will always be to get into the game quickly; don't stand in the way of that goal. 

Not all story-driven moments in setup can be inciting incidents, however. In my game, Deadly Dowagers, players choose a husband before the game starts. Different husbands grant different temporary benefits. However, the inciting incident is not the act of getting married, but the scene in the rulebook where a PC discovers an older woman who can set her on the path to becoming a deadly dowager. Choosing what character you will play or their starting gear is not an inciting incident. Inciting incidents must create motivation for characters to act out the actions of gameplay. 

Gameplay is made up of rising and falling action and turning points. (I've seen it argued that board games are all rising action. I disagree.) Before the game starts we can provide exposition and inciting incidents. What about denouement? (Read about story structure here if you aren't familiar with these terms.) Not all game structures need or can accommodate a denouement. However, games with post-game scoring can have the scoring phase integrated into the theme by treating the scoring phase as denouement. This is where Sheriff of Nottingham breaks down. Nothing in the game world explains why it is important or desirable or profitable to be the king or queen of apples. The bonus points are necessary for the mechanics to feel balanced. We can make inferences about the economy, but the extra steps needed to rationalize a game rule will make the game feel less thematic even if the theme can be justified. (I feel this maxim applies most glaringly to the 'thematic' nature of the drafting in Sushi Go!, whereas Sushi Roll does not require the extra steps of rationalization and thus feels much more like a conveyor belt sushi restaurant.) In the case of Sheriff, additional exposition could have been used to explain why the merchants wanted to sell a lot of one good. 

Regular scoring should tie directly to the players' main goal in the game. Bonus scoring should, where possible, make sense in the overall story. We should have an idea of what happens to a character in the immediate aftermath of the game: they won or lost a contest, they amassed wealth, they lost a war, etc. Board games are stories as snapshots; we won't know much about the lives of characters after a (non-narrative) game is over. But we should known how their position has changed from when the game began and what that might mean to them. 

A game begins at setup and ends when a winner is declared. Designers have opportunities to make their games more thematic simply by including the whole game in the theme. Every game tells a story and I want to see designers become better storytellers.  

ShippBoard Games is a board game design blog that updates most Mondays.