The House That Del Built

The Secret of SET

The game of SET holds numerous untold secrets for learning how to create satisfying groups of threes in long form improv shows. If you don’t own it, you should buy it right now. You can also download it as an app for your smartphone. Do it. Now. I’ll wait…

Okay, now let me explain why it’s the greatest game for teaching the Rule of Threes…ever. See, in SET, you create a “set” with three cards. Each card has four attributes: color (red, green, or purple), shape (oval, diamond, or squiggle), number of shapes (one, two, or three), and filling (solid, empty, or striped). A set is a group of three cards for which each attribute is either exactly the same across all three cards, or exactly different. The attributes, incidentally (or, really, not incidentally, but necessarily) are independent of each other. That means you have to evaluate the “setness” of your group of three cards for each attribute separately. Do all the cards have the same color? If not, they all have to be different colors. Are they all the same shape? If not, they have to represent all three shapes across the three cards. And so on with each variable. Here’s a link to the rules that will help you practice: http://www.setgame.com/set/rules_set.htm

The amazing thing about SET is, yes, its simplicity and yet its complexity; its ease of learning to play and yet the challenge it presents every time you do so; but, first and foremost (at least for our purposes, but, I would argue, this is the attribute that makes the game ultimately a pleasure to play) is this: SET gives us the pleasure of searching for, and finding, a range of aesthetically pleasing patterns. In fact, SET might represent the range of aesthetically pleasing patterns. One might argue that there should be only three variables per set of three cards—I’m not a game-maker, though, so I’m going to assume that the four variables represent some transcendent level of pattern that my feeble mind doesn’t understand. I’m still working on that one.

At any rate, the range of sets one can create is incredible. There’s only one of each card, so you can’t make a set of three identical cards, but you could create a set of all purple, solid squiggles, ranging in number from one to three. That set would look relatively homogenous, especially because color seems to be a dominant visual characteristic of the cards (again, I think I need a degree in cognitive psychology to fully understand that). But equally a set would be one red, solid squiggle; two green, empty diamonds; and three purple, striped ovals. Both are aesthetically pleasing, although you’ll find that when you play the game, people tend to gravitate to the kinds of sets they like more (and, as anyone who’s played in a rehearsal of mine (yes, I make people play this in rehearsal) will tell you, the kinds of sets you like can even tell you something about the kind of player you are—not in a bad way, just in an honest way).

The thing is, you don’t get any more points for a “complex” set (one with all but one different variable) than you do for what looks like a “simpler” set (one with all the same variables except one). They’re all “sets”. They’re all valued the same, and they all please our brains.

So, what about improv? Long form improv? Harolds? Well, your mind might have already made some of the connections as I’ve described the game. Three cards; three beats. Attributes being the same or different between cards the way scenes morph through the beats of the show. SET is just the card game equivalent of a Harold, with the variability of human nature removed.

Let’s take the easiest way to progress through a scene through the three beats of a Harold—the narrative. You know, there’s a scene in the first beat that ends on a laugh line that’s also somewhat of a cliffhanger in the plot of that narrative—two guys are searching for treasure on an island, let’s say. In the second beat, you do one of those “same scene, ten minutes (or one day, or two weeks, or three years) later.” The two guys are now trapped on the island, and there’s no treasure (curse you, Captain Redbeard!) It’s easy to follow and it makes sense. And probably (following the rule of three), you’ll follow that narrative in the third beat, too (some x amount later in time now—maybe those characters are old and have turned their island into a tourist spot). In that scenario, everything but time is constant: the characters, the lives in which they find themselves, their relationships, etc. It’s a set with only one changing attribute. And it’s easy to see, and perfectly satisfying. 

But what about a first beat scene that follows the type of relationship dynamic established (“relationship dynamic” is the name I use to refer to what some people know as “game”, and I can get into why I like to call it the former rather than the latter later, but, in practice, they’ll be the same thing)? So there’s a father and son and the father is trying to assert control over the son but the son wants to grow up and leave the house. Let’s say you keep that relationship dynamic, but change the characters, the time, the details, everything. In beat two it’s a patron of the arts and a piano virtuoso who’s sick of creating sonatas for this guy all the time and wants to branch out on his own. “If you leave, you won’t get a dime from me!” shouts to patron. It’s funny, because it’s echoing the dynamic from the first scene (maybe that was even a line out of the first scene itself). The players get it; the audience gets it. This is the kind of set where all but one variable is changed (no father and son, completely different time period, music rather than college), but I promise you it’s just as recognizable as the first, and absolutely satisfying.

Now, if we remember that every legitimate set is worth the same, we won’t judge one set as better or worse than another. But, we can acknowledge that when we line up multiple sets next to each other, three sets of the first kind (only one changed variable) all together may start looking, well, a bit static. Or safe. Or, well, obvious. And that’s okay sometimes. Sometimes we do a Harold where all three scenes in all three beats are straight narratives (with a little interaction in the third beat). But to think that this is what a Harold is meant to be is to deny the range of equally satisfying sets out there, and to assume that our audience isn’t clever enough to recognize them (they are). 

At the same time, showing off your virtuosity by following some small kernel of every first beat scene into a barely connected second beat scene (an “all but one variable changed” set) is going to create a Harold that could feel like it’s shooting around in space. We need all kinds of sets to make a pleasing Harold (or really, any long form show that does any sort of folding back on itself), and it’s up to the show to dictate which kinds of sets we need on a given night. 

And that’s the real trick— to be open to the show, to the strongest elements of those first beat scenes. What wants to be repeated? What wants to be chucked out the window never to return? Was there a seriously compelling character in the first scene of the first beat? Bring him back, for God’s sake. Sure, it’s obvious, but it may be what the show (and the audience) wants. Were the two characters in that first scene a little “blah”, but their relationship dynamic recognizable and interesting? Ditch the characters, keep the dynamic. 

Sometimes we forget that we, as the cast, are in charge of the show. We feel like we’re forced into moves by what has come before in the show. But really that’s all just data at the beginning. Remember the Rule of Threes. The first card can be anything from the deck—that’s freedom. And one red, solid diamond (for example) could be followed by one red, solid squiggle as well as it could be followed by two red, striped diamonds or two purple, empty squiggles. Of course, there’s only one card that could follow each of those second cards to make a set (can you name which card in each case?)*, but that’s why position two is all about power, and position three is all about responsibility. Because in the same way that the options are wide-open at the top of the show, in the second beat, we use our power to tighten the show in on itself and allow compelling themes, characters, and relationship dynamics to emerge so that we can ultimately act with responsibility through the third beat and the end of the show.

So while at the beginning you can just choose to begin with any card, by the end you’re looking for specific cards to complete your set. Sure, you could just pull some card out of thin air for that third card just because you think it’s pretty (or in the case of improv, funny), but that’s not a set. You can’t say, “Well, I know we didn’t follow this guy’s narrative at all, and the audience and likely the performers have completely forgotten about him, and he wasn’t really a great character to start with, but damn it, I wanna do him again, so I’m going to!” I mean, you can, but that’s selfish, and there are few things worse than a selfish improviser. One of the beautiful things about the Harold is how the choices become more and more clear—and yes, more and more focused and even “limited”—as the piece goes on. Something you thought might carry through to the third beat doesn’t, and it’s your job—no, your responsibility—to let it go and respect the direction the show has taken—to give the show what it wants, not what you want from it.

Next time you’re rehearsing (or even in a show, if it doesn’t trip you up too much), ask yourself what the attributes of that first scene are, and which are worth pursuing and which are not. And how you can initiate a second beat scene that will carry those attributes into it (establishing clear second beat scenes could—and probably will—be a whole different post). You’ll start to find that each scene, while connected, has different attributes worth pursuing, and you might end up with one narrative thread, one relationship dynamic thread, and one thread where every scene takes place in a Build-A-Bear workshop, because, um, well, that would probably be hilarious (and touching). Each scene represents a different set, but they’re all valid, all pleasing, and all come together to create a coherent show if they are linked through a common theme established in the opening. 

Now, for real, go download that app. You can thank me later.

Next: How to establish a theme for your show, and why you should bother.

* one red, solid oval; three red, empty diamonds; three green, striped ovals (respectively)

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