Setting the Tone

In the playtesting of a game I'm working on, I've run into issues with new players, and even GMs, not clicking with its intended "tone." I understand that ultimately, it should be the mechanics of the game that drive how players feel while playing it, but I also know that up front group buy-in can go a long way towards the success of a session. Specifically, I had one playtest where players took what I thought were mechanics that pointed to tension and introspection, and used them to create slapstick comedy and, as a result, they ended up not really enjoying it. Another GM said that they had a hard time locating the "genre" of the game.

I have two separate, but related questions for you all, then.

1. What are the best examples of early rulebook tone-setting that you've come across, especially when introducing players to a game that isn't based in heroic fantasy? (I know art and layout can do a lot of heavy lifting here, but I also think the text of a game should be able to stand on its own.)

2. Since getting that playtest feedback, I've added this short piece that I wrote as an introduction to my game - it's the first page and a half of the rulebook. After reading it, what would be your expectation of the game you are about to read/play?

---

Another step.

Hanna clung to the rock face, the ledge she balanced on was barely wide enough for one foot at a time.

Don’t look down. Another step.

Equally, she clung to her package, a bundle of letters sent at no small expense across an uncrossable wasteland. She needed every coin she was owed upon delivery. If she fell or the package fell, it was the same. Dead either way.

One step at a time. Breathe. Hug the wall.

The cliff had seemed like the safest way forward. No stone bears, wyrms, or any of the other beasts that hated her and the rest of humanity left for what it had done to the world. For the magic they’d taken from it. No, up here there was just a narrow ledge, a rock wall, the wind and a drop.

Steady now.

Mercifully, the ledge widened enough for Hanna to steady herself and shake off the adrenaline of the moment, but only before a new dread kicked in. Around the next bend, the ledge disappeared. It was a dead end. There was no way forward. Her map had shown it leading to the end of the mountain pass, but Hanna knew it was foolish to trust a map out here. Things change in the Wastes. The land, the animals, people, memories. Nothing stays itself for long. Everything has a cost.

Breathe. Think. Climb.

She looked up at the pockmarked slab that loomed above her. It was the only way. The wind picked up, whipping her cloak violently, pulling at her neck. She undid the clasp and let go of the cloak. She couldn’t afford any distractions from what she was about to do. The cloak twisted, flapped and fell into the canyon below, reminding her of the kite her father once taught her to fly. He had always been a hard man to please, but she had told a joke that day that made him laugh. She could feel his hands, holding her hands, holding the kite’s spool. His chin resting on the top of her head.

Climb.

She focused. She looked for the first handhold, cupped it with her fingers and began her ascent. The first few holds were awkward, but she began to get into a steady rhythm. Reach, grab, pull, step. Repeat.

You can do this.

At the top, she could rest. She could plan a new route. There would be another way. She could feel her father’s hands, holding her hands, holding the rock. As she climbed higher, the hand and foot holds began to grow more sparse. She had to reach further and pull harder. Her forearms began to burn and she could feel her fingers losing strength.

Another step.

Hanna was almost at the top when her exhaustion truly began to set in. Her legs burned and her eyes welled. This couldn’t be it for her. Not yet. Looking up through the tears, a figure appeared looking down at her, over the edge of the apex. She tried to call out, but her voice was lost in the overwhelming wind. Was it her father? It both couldn’t be and had to be. He reached down, over the edge, extending his hand out to her. With her last ounce of strength, she reached up, meeting his hand and clasping it tightly. She couldn’t make out his expression, was it a smile or a grimace? She hung there, dangling over the edge of an abyss with only the memory of her father holding her to the world. She felt his grip loosen. He had let go of her once, would he do it again? He had always been a hard man to please. She told a joke and paused, waiting for his reaction. He laughed and his grip tightened, enough for Hanna to pull herself up over the edge. She collapsed into a heap, exhausted and relieved. From here, she could set up camp, rest the night and plan. Tomorrow would be the next leg of her journey.

Another step.