Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan of Nietzsche, Hegel, Schopenhauer; the very funky Buddha has a place on my emotional hearth just as well, but recent events (or event–as in it lasted for a few months) have given me new a perspective on the old moral spectrum. Let me clear: I now see the value of Dungeons and Dragons as a viable moral philosophy.
For the benefit of all those concerned, this is not an essay–this is pure disposition. And for the benefit of all involved, I shall ask you, gentle reader, to understand the terms Lawful Neutral and Chaotic Neutral. Scriptmonk of Uncelebrity over at Blogspot has published a very nifty list for those disposed to lists ( 1) that wonderfully chops the concept down to browsable size. Lawful Neutral folk, as our blogger comments, “are not concerned as much with Good or Evil, but with Right and Wrong. They believe a strong society requires strong rules.” Jake Gittes and Ripley are given as prime examples (1). In contrast, Chaotic Neutral folk get their thrills by seeing “ themselves as rebels or outsiders,” and “are motivated only by self-interest” (1).
To wit, Chaotic Neutrals see life as one big oyster plucked from the ocean solely for their benefit. They may find this oyster at a friend’s house, they may find this oyster on the shelf of a loved one, but for all involved, it is best to understand the oyster as their personal possession. Life put that morsel there just for them, not you. The Chaotic Neutral crowd (as my limited personal experience reminds me) view themselves as sole beneficiaries of life. They are special, above systems, and rules just do not apply to their celebrity status. For example, Homer Simpson (as Scriptmonk has noted) marks that donut on your table as his, not yours; he will eat that donut and ask for more without blushing. In stark contrast, a Lawful Neutral character like Ripley (from Alien…again…thanks Scriptmonk) will gladly share that donut with Homer, if and only if there is a damned good reason for Homer to ask for more (after he has had his seconds, thirds, fourths); however, Ripley (due to her notion of universal norms, laws, concerns), will valiantly protect that aforementioned snack if she believes Homer is acting irrationally, out of a sense of egoism, an inflated sense of self. Ripley feels that society needs rules, even if the singular rule in question is in rough-draft status (rules keep people and their desires in check for the good of the status quo).
Place yourself in a carefully managed mission to The Temple of Elemental Evil. Alongside you is a jovial bard. The bard knows all the latest jokes, songs, ditties about the undead. Aforementioned bard keeps the party laughing, even Stauor, the group’s grim paladin, cracks a smile when the bard plays “A kobold in the woodpile” at every campsite. The party is three days from the nearest tavern, but the time has flown by. However, you–pretend you are the ubiquitous ranger–notice the prized pig knuckle sandwiches Inga packed up for the party–she’s a tavern wench–are slowly vanishing. Now you could blame a Level 20 drow rogue. Yes, they are far from the nearest cavern, but what with the freedom movement, Lloth is not as loath to let the occasional drow rogue skip cavern. But then it dawns on you. Falzer–the bard’s name–has kept the late watch every single night as you and the party snooze like a field of igneous rocks. The next morning, you realize Falzer has pork breath. What the Shadow Lord?
You carefully position yourself next to Falzer at the next brook. You frown because he is peeing into the brook without a word, without a warning, without a care. Downstream Stauor is prone, sipping the stream, commenting how “unusually delicious” the water seems. That breaks your peace. You look at Falzar, and Falzar fiddles with his pantaloon’s, nodding, grinning at you.
“What the Shadow Lord, Falzar? Stauor is going to crack your skull if he finds out he likes your pee!”
“What?” Falzar says, looking downstream, noting the pickle he is in. “But I had to go. Go really bad!”
“You are in a party, Falz. You need to ask the party leader where the official toilet shall be.”
“Every time we stop?” Falz complains.
“Yes,” you say, disbelief washing over you. “And that goes for the pig knuckles too.”
“What?” Falz says, brows wrinkling. “But I have equal rights to those knuckles. I was hungry.”
“You ate three already,” you say, acid coating your words, “Stauor has had zero….not one!”
“Oh,” Falz says, “so I’m the chaotic evil one here? It’s all my fault this party is lame!” Tears well in Falz’s eyes.
“You did basically pee in Stauor’s mouth; you pigged out on the knuckles without so much as asking.” You notice you are now yelling.
“But, I was hungry,” Falz weeps, wishing he had never signed up in the first place.
There is no recourse, no moral argument, no ethical case for Falz to think about because–wait for it–Falz is the center of his universe. Falz may argue the basics like hunger, nature’s call, self-importance of his charisma, but the bard is essentially building an amoral case, a case centered on Self. However, since Falz does not speak “lawful,” Falz will undoubtedly create poems and songs about “lawful good, die hard soldiers,” rant on in melody how rangers and paladins are jealous, selfish rule wonks (that’s called a sweeping generalization), who are unable to see that the world is a really a cream-stuffed buffet.
Chaotic Neutral stomachs brighten the party (both types), but when formality is the expectation, rules the norm, decorum the rubric, that same jokster of wit will find himself (or herself) in dire straights with the lawfully inclined world. Retreat will be the only legal recourse because casting Fascinate at every campfire will quickly tilt that bard down the path of evil, a path that ends with self-inflation, a callous inflation of the all important, all consuming Self.
Footnotes:
1. http://uncelebrity.blogspot.com/2011/11/9-character-alignments.html
