Languages and Frictionless Design
This is partially inspired by ’s excellent article on using language as a problem to be solved, the dauntless ’s article on how languages imply setting, and Nova's (of & Playful Void fame) article on internal conflicts in OSR play.
All are wonderful resources that should be read first in order to get what’s going on here.
“The primary goal of internal conflict is to complicate decision-making, not to provide opportunities for drama. The big dramatic moments will come when the internal conflict is resolved.”
Nova, Playful Void
This line has stuck with me since Nova published her article on internal conflicts in early 2023. I don’t think it’s limited to internal conflicts, either. When someone lambasts encumbrance or resource management as boring bookkeeping, this is the line I think of.
The game—from the GM's seat—is entirely based on complicating decision-making. Player agency comes from the players' ability to choose how they want to progress, but the knowledge needed to self-determine that implies that there are multiple choices of equal or similar risk and reward.
Do we take the mountain pass to avoid the passing army but risk exposure to the elements and whatever lurks in the mountain peaks? Or do we go the long way around, assuming we’ll be able to forage and remain fleet-footed enough to avoid detection? We can’t carry everything we want to out of a dungeon; we have to decide what to leave behind, how they could come back to reclaim it, how long that process will take, what must be taken back to town whole vs what can be broken down before transport, etc.
These decisions must be made alongside their complications. Additionally, all SHOULD have impact (see Arnold’s post on Impact here and the ICI doctrine by Chris McDowell here) on the game as it progresses.
This decision-making structure—where tradeoffs are foregrounded and no option is strictly optimal—forms the backbone of emergent play, where players navigate the consequences of A or B over time, often with incomplete or uncertain information.
If you play OSR games, or games connected by the same family tree (such as those in the NSR camp that attempt to move the hobby forward or Free Kriegsspiel that harkens back to a more ephemeral, older time) you’ll likely agree that emergent play is the goal. Dungeon turns, Wilderness turns, resource management, encumbrance, Gold-to-XP, and many other mechanics reflect this.
Language should be no different.
Language complicates decision-making in two primary ways:
Introducing friction in acquiring information
Embedding choices within cultural or social systems that the players may not fully understand
For example, a character might gain access to an ancient scroll that offers insight into a powerful ritual. The script is written in a language known only to a local priesthood that views outsiders with suspicion. The players must now decide: do they attempt to infiltrate the group, befriend them, hire a translator, or attempt to brute-force the language through magical or deductive means? Each route comes with distinct costs, timelines, and potential consequences.
Just as inventory management externalizes internal values (greed vs. prudence, caution vs. speed), language externalizes a character's relationship to knowledge, culture, and identity. And, more importantly, the decision to speak or learn a language is not neutral—it implies respect, assimilation, espionage, defiance, or reverence.
This mirrors Nova's values-based internal conflicts: duty to kin versus obligation to an ideal, desire for belonging versus fear of betrayal.
So why don’t we see this more often?
Honestly? Because people don’t really want to think about it.
The most egregious sin in contemporary game design, in my opinion, is the incessant prioritization of emphasizing play's fluidity and… ugh… minimization of friction. Not every game is intended to be entirely simulationist, but I do feel the minimization of friction tends to go too far in too many areas simultaneously.
The widespread adoption of a universal “Common” tongue in fantasy TTRPGs (most notably in Dungeons & Dragons) reflects this: it ensures that communication is never a significant obstacle, thereby removing language as a potential source of conflict or complexity at all. When you then do the same for light and darkness, stealth, exploration, and dungeon procedures… what are you left with?
To me, language is one of the more egregious of these types of changes. The absence of precise mechanics for handling uncertainty reinforces its marginalization. Most games provide no procedures for interpreting unfamiliar languages, no progress clocks for language learning, and no modifiers for partial comprehension or dialect mismatch (if regional dialects exist in the first place!).
There is a persistent belief that language, like encumbrance or tracking time, is “bookkeeping.” This mischaracterization results in fictional worlds not designed to reward or challenge language decisions. If there are no political, cultural, or epistemic consequences for what a character can or cannot say, read, or understand, then language never matters—mechanically or narratively.
Systems that do not model language’s connection to social structure, religious practice, or historical trauma effectively preclude it from becoming a meaningful axis of play.
In other words, as I’ve stated elsewhere, players only do what rewards them.
Design problems are solved by splitting them into smaller chunks and seeing what can be solved. Then you can see where to combine solutions, cut excess, and streamline.
For the design problem of effective and meaningful languages, we can break it down as follows:
Language isn’t effective at conveying social structures, religious practice, historical trauma, etc. We want this because we want a game that rewards players for joining factions, enmeshing themselves in the setting, and learning more about the world they inhabit.
There is no codified method for interpreting unfamiliar languages, partial understanding, or dialectical differences. We want this because we want a game with discovery and meaningful rewards for learning more about the unknown.
Languages are not codified to be learned over time, only chosen at the beginning of play. We want this because we want a game that allows for the progression of a character and for relationships to build over time between the character and potential allies / enemies.
Solving the design problem becomes about creating a system that elegantly eliminates these issues. With that said, here’s a stab in the dark at how one could develop a meaningful mechanic around language:
Languages are not chosen directly at character creation or the beginning of play. They should not be determined by race or species.
Instead, characters that ally themselves with particular organizations or hail from particular regions gain fluency in the languages that best represent the majority of them.
For example, an elven Cleric of Shaliss, the chaotic sea goddess, hails from the coastal city of Y’lyr. She has traveled north from the Dwarvenlands, where she studied magic for a time and is returning to her homeland.
The cleric begins play with four languages: the divine language of Chaos, the mundane language of the sea (as spoken by sea fauna and flora, water elementals, and other water-based creatures), the dialect of elven (sea-elf) found in many port towns and costal cities, and a smattering of common Dwarvish words and phrases—enough to get by.
These languages aren’t explicitly listed prior to character creation. Ideally, they’re a conversation players and GMs have to figure out what makes the most sense. A character could begin play with as many languages as deemed appropriate per their station and affiliations.
The familiarity within those groups and the years attributed towards them determine skill level (Unfamiliar, Familiar, Practiced, Instinctual), where each level confers some bonus to checks.
As languages are used and exposure to them increases, these skills can improve in rank (tied to overall advancement or measured by some other track the GM has in place).
A good place to start for skills is:
-1 for Unfamiliar, +0 for Familiar, +1 for Practiced, +2 for Instinctual.
Our elven Cleric has been a devotee of Shaliss since they were a child. However, she herself isn’t a sea creature. This grants her Practiced understanding of the mundane language of the Sea. It is something she has been taught, but will likely never become Instinctual.
Because the divine language of Chaos isn’t meant to be spoken by mortals, our cleric holds only a Practiced understanding of it. Again, unless she becomes a demigod of some sort, this will likely never become Instinctual.
Being an elf born and raised in Y’lyr, she is Instinctual with the specific sea-elf dialect of elvish. We could probably say that she is at least Practiced in elvish by extension.
Finally, she is Familiar with dwarvish—though not enough to determine whether what she knows is regional or not.
Certain groups will not tolerate unfamiliar or hostile languages in their organizations. The system of disadvantage and advantage can easily represent this; advantage for situations where the language would be appropriate and disadvantage for situations where it wouldn’t be.
The GM can improvise how an NPC would react to a character when deciding whether a linguistic interaction needs advantage / disadvantage.
Y’lyr has gone to war against the southern Dwarves in the recent past. Speaking dwarvish in Y’lyr is a socially transgressive act, almost guaranteed to get you questioned at best and kidnapped for interrogation at worst.
Speaking in dwarvsh here almost always applies disadvantage to the situation.
Chaotic languages strike fear and loathing into those bound by Law, and so they are outlawed in temples and other religious buildings that are made in honor of the Lawful side of the pantheon.
That said, given that most people are neutral in the grand scheme of Law vs Chaos, advantage or disadvantage can be applied as appropriate.
Non-local elves have a hard time understanding the quick and staccato dialect of sea-elvish and tend to think of those who speak it as “lower in station”. That said, people in coastal cities appreciate their own.
Locally, advantage would be appropriate when using this language. Speaking it to high elves, however, may invite ridicule and disadvantage.
Finally, the mundane language of the Sea allows for very minor understanding of sea creatures and their superficial intentions.
Interactions with certain creatures that are unlikely to be hostile from the jump (or exceedingly intelligent creatures) would likely have advantage.
So, why do all of this? Again, to complicate decision-making. If we instead make a high-elf cleric who worships a lawful god of light and is from a small coastal village, that changes things fairly dramatically. Same for a human fighter who worships no gods and is from a metropolitan city.
This problem isn’t one that is particularly difficult to solve. We think of the world from a bottom-up approach and grant things that intrinsically make sense. That doesn’t mean every situation should be solved with a new language. If a wizard is interested in rockhounding, that doesn’t mean we need a language specific to rock collectors.
Then again, a language “spoken” between stones, gems, and the earth itself could be interesting!🟦
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I was just thinking common could be a tongue of diplomacy. Players would have to justify how or why they learned this language and it would allow some commonality without getting rid of the complexity of language. Most people speak the local language and retain the language barrier.
Great article. Makes you think a little.