Bookwriting

On September 12, fifty-five days ago, I began writing a series of posts that amounted to an entry-level university course, with 39 posts consistent with 13 weeks of education and three classes per week.  This "200-level" D&D course discussed player behaviour, game preparation, personal development and worldbuilding.  The total of all 39 posts amounts to 63,000 words.

This is book-length... and so, it's my intention now to return to the material privately and rework it for this purpose.  I'm considering the title, "Foundations of Dungeon Mastery 201."  Though that isn't finalised; it's a bit puffy.  I don't want to call it "RPG 201," which is fine for a blog tag but unfortunately not a book.

The concept lends itself to other books in the same vein.  I'm considering another series of posts, Session Management 301, which would be entirely about running the actual game in real time.  I've designed what the 39 posts would cover, and yeah, it's very esoteric stuff.  The goal would be to write what's never been written; specifically, to address direct things that players say, that DMs ought to say, using examples like a laboratory in order to deconstruct what it is to speak, answer questions and engage with game material moment-by-moment.

Before then, I'm going to beginning a series of posts within the next few days, in which I intend to write out, fully, my concept for the book I've never been able to finish, Finding D&D in the Dark.  I intend to provide the posts on The Higher Path, while giving nibbles here.

The book, Using ChatGPT to Write Fiction, is now available on Lulu.

Conclusion, Post 39

We've come a long way through the complexities and challenges of dungeon mastering, moving from the foundational aspects of handling player behaviour and managing the social dynamics of the table, through self-improvement as a DM, to finally addressing the deeper elements of worldbuilding. Each layer we've examined has shown that running a D&D campaign isn't a set of techniques or shortcuts, but a disciplined approach that demands both introspection and practical growth.

Early on, we identified the importance of reading player behaviour: seeing the game as more than a set of mechanics and learning to recognise how bad elements of the game's design contribute to interpersonal tensions, motivations and anxieties that the players bring with them. From the pre-game socialising to the need to made adjustments mid-campaign, this awareness is essential. It's what allows a dungeon master to foster an environment where people don't just insert their individualism but engage in a shared experience with real emotional stakes. Through this lens, the game becomes a framework that players can rely on, where trust and camaraderie build naturally over time.

Self-improvement is a vital part of that progression. The DM's growth is defined by a willingness to learn and discover, to try new things, to face difficulties and to question the approach that frameworks like the rules and traditional adventure building prescribe. The DM is invited to constantly refine, to learn what works for the group at hand, and to appreciate how flexibility in oneself and others contributes towards making a good game. "Improvement" isn't about doing things "right" but about gaining the clarity and consistency necessary to facilitate a game that players want to come back to, session after session.

Continued on The Higher Path

Proficiency & Expertise

These worldbuilding elements aid in the creation of a structured approach, but the manner in which competent dungeon masters still often resembles a pre-written module. Though working within a self-created world, the actual events tend towards predetermined structures and expected outcomes, because this is what the DM knows. Breaking free from this perspective is by no means simple; the rigidity of the module is reassuring, as having the players upon a guided path narrows the creative decisions they're likely to make. Though we become more invested in the outcome as we become competent, and more willing to afford players greater agency, we shouldn't be surprised to find we'll yet return, again and again, to the scaffolded narrative of a module.

This is a question of the trust we have in our abilities. Most competent DMs haven't yet learned how to think beyond surface definitions for the game's rules and setting, nor how to really understand why things function as they do — how, for example, a river affects regional alliances or how cultural tensions persist even without a clear, rational origin.

For a long time, we must give ourselves considerable allowances on this point. Wanting the world to feel more natural and open does not mean that we can snap our fingers and suddenly see past the surface definitions of things. Grasping why things function as they do takes time and insight. Trusting ourselves to choose the right encounter at the right moment, or to roll comfortably with the party's choices even when those create problems with regards to the campaign's flow, takes time. Building the ability to create organic, moment-to-moment responses and to trust our flexibility requires experience.

Continued on The Higher Path

History

Of all the elements that contribute to a campaign's worthiness, the setting's history is perhaps the most elusive and least straightforward in terms of its value. Many dungeon masters attempt to create a history that meticulously contextualizes every town, landmark and social structure, only to find themselves overwhelmed by the impracticality of such an approach. Others, seeking simplicity, offer an "illusion" of history — fragmented, localized pieces introduced as players encounter specific peoples or places. Yet this fragmented history often reduces itself to a series of adventure prompts that lack continuity; these isolated snippets are easily discarded or forgotten, as they have no lasting significance within the campaign.

An attempt to convey history in broad strokes may reduce the workload, but ultimately, it often serves only as anecdotal support for the setting's geography, culture, governance or economy. While history may offer a nice aesthetic flavour, these other subjects, already discussed, stand fine on their own without history's window dressing. This isn't enough of a reason for history to be placed alongside these others; it must justify its presence in our efforts by providing a distinct, separate purpose for being... otherwise, we are wasting our time giving history any attention at all.

Before doing this, we must understand what history is. From our viewpoint after the passage of many technological changes, we tend to see history as cause-and-effect, as something that got us from there, four centuries ago, to now. But this is not the viewpoint that a medievalist fantasy character has. A farmer of upon the Loire in the time of the Merovingians is indistinguishable from one at the time of the Romans, once again separated by four centuries. Ordinary Chinese fisherfolk cast their nets over the same water, in the same way, for more than a dozen centuries. Likewise, a Hindu knelt upon the same steps, to the same gods, in the same way, for that time also, casting the same shadow upon the same stones. The pattern of a prayer carpet on the saddle of a Bedouin in the 15th century could be found on any prayer carpet of his people in the time of Fatima. The world did change, but marginally. Wars, when fought, were waged between the elite. Borders, when they changed, mattered only to a tiny part of the populace. For most, the world was the world, decade after decade, as we aged and died in the same clothes as our parents and their parents before them.

Continued on The Higher Path

Materialism & Trade

As with other aspects of the developed setting, trade and available resources play a significant role in defining the campaign's character and tone. Depending upon the civilisation we desire, a world's economy might be so backward as to make bartering the primary form of exchange, or it may be highly advanced, allowing for widespread excavation and cultivation of the world's resources, all of which must be transported and then processed in vast water-and-wind driven boroughs. How these things work in our setting defines what player characters can purchase and how much; it defines how much wealth presently exists in the form of property, warehoused goods and trafficked materials in motion. We must choose whether the players are almost certainly rich compared to their lesser, rustic peers or mere flotsam drifting in a sea of incomprehensible affluence. The scale between these two extremes represents how much labour we'll have to give to the setting we desire, as well as the players' sense of agency and place.

The first problem is always the equipment the players are free to purchase, specifically what kind and how much. In a setting with limited resource access, the players are incentivized to strategize, negotiate and make alliances with key figures who control local supplies. A good sword might be precious if the world lacks metal; players might have to make do with lesser tools much of the time, with a fighter being decimated by a weapon's breaking. On the other hand, in an advanced economy where resources are abundant, a player may buy twenty swords, each with special characteristics; some dungeon masters allow the purchase of magical items, so that players who want to become more powerful need not strive and strain to increase their personal power. This of course depends on the individual; personally, my feeling is that players should suffer for every gain, that nothing of real worth should ever be gotten easily and that loss is something that should be keenly felt, if anything the players buy is to have any value for them. This fosters the players' sense of investment in their characters and the world, making their victories feel earned and meaningful.

Nonetheless, we must always consider equipment to be at the forefront of the player's engagement with the world. Treasure loses its lustre if there is nothing to purchase after a few sessions of hard adventuring. Material wealth helps define the character for the player, who must be free to purchase garments, tools, special foods and all kinds of desirable things ranging from a puppy to the emblazing of a character's heraldry upon a suit of armour. Often, the more mundane the better; a player can become easily and irrationally attached to a simple clay mug, merely because it was purchased when that character started out in the campaign. When, later, the mug is crushed under a dragon's foot, the player might feel that more keenly than the loss of a magical sword, though the latter is obviously more useful. It doesn't matter that the mug is imaginary; everything about the game is. As such, when looking over an equipment list, players are apt to think about what they want to own for its own sake, as well as what they need for mere game purposes.

Continued on The Higher Path

Political Authority

With the standard adventure format, authority figures are often reduced to roles that either enable or obstruct the party's intentions. "Good" authorities are those who summon the party to undertake quests that serve the realm’s welfare, while "bad" authorities are those endangering it, whom the party must thwart to prevent disaster. Both characterisations are shallow, functioning as simple devices to drive the party in a certain direction; they have no motivations or complexities of their own. They have no other foreseeable purpose in the campaign. Little consideration is given to the actual duties these figures fulfil, from the monarch of the realm down to the humblest guard — all of whom, in fact, form the backbone of society's organized, rational governance.

This becomes a problem when the players themselves reach a stage where governance is something they have an interest in assuming. Up until then, however, no premise in the campaign has existed to explain what these figures do as functional agents, or how, exactly, a set of player characters become such persons. All we've seen are archetypes serving as narrative props... but in a living, sustainable campaign, what we need are multifaceted individuals who can become pivotal allies, mentors and equals with real, deeply personal stakes in the day-to-day stability of their society.

We must revise our perception of authorities within the campaign, recognising that they need not be eternally cast as that which we must defy. A land, a people, a collection of towns and villages, require people to manage and organise the vast and difficult demands of maintenance, defence, legality and order... and discard the juvenile notion that such people are inherently evil, selfish and vain. For the most part, they're not; they're simply persons who have risen in the hierarchy according to a mix of capability or inherited responsibility, doing the best they can, bearing up against impossible difficulties, without the resources necessary to automatically succeed in their thankless responsibilities.

Continued on The Higher Path

Culture

Culture is a wide scale concept that describes the customs, artworks, social institutions and evidence of a society's achievements — as well as the assembly of laws and expectations that define acceptable behaviour among a given people. Designing such from scratch would be an act of folly. We are products of our own culture; everything we do and say reacts to the culture we were raised in, not to mention the culture to which we're trying to adapt. Should we attempt to write a narrative that steps outside this norm, we might succeed because we control every action and every statement that the characters within take and say... but to expect players to collaborate on such a venture, given the restraints of their culture, is both unrealistic and a recipe for disaster.

Therefore our goal is not to design a culture, but to perceive how the culture of our game setting must function so that the players can engage with it intuitively. We must start by understanding how the setting has to reflect the players' core beliefs and values. These values aren't arbitrary — they have been imposed upon the actual human beings playing. Their fundamental truths about survival, morality and success, if discounted, will produce conflict and resistance, no matter how earnestly we want them to adhere to what the culture of our game setting stands for. We must discard any notion that the campaign stands apart in this regard, merely because it is fictional; the instincts of the players are what they are; if we as dungeon masters wish to have any understanding of player psychology, this immutable fact must be accepted.

This should be explained to the players... not in terms of what the players believe, but rather in what the non-players of our setting consider to be cultural norms. We should tell the players that persons of industry and property, outside of criminals and those with political power, are reliable, loyal and honourable, because it would not occur to them to be otherwise. We should explain that we're giving our word on this, because we want the players to perceive accurately the world they visit... that an ordinary grocer, farmer, teamster, boat pilot or even a soldier's word can be taken as an utterly authentic representation of what that person believes, in their heart.

Continued on The Higher Path

Geography

 An open, player-driven world requires a geography that goes beyond a simple map of the setting. There has long been debate about whether to create a large-scale map, which can be expanded over time, or a small-scale map representing an entire continent, with detailed sections added as needed. However, these choices place too much emphasis on the map itself, overlooking the larger challenge of building a consistent, reliable geography that shapes the world the players are meant to inhabit. A coherent geography is a setting where physical features — like mountains, rivers, cities, and climates — are arranged and considered in how they affect cultures, trade, politics and daily life, in a manner that feels natural and interconnected.

For example, a mountain source provides water an minerals, supporting mining towns; these represent resilient cultures who are used to isolation and are protective of their goods. Where the river reaches the plains, its water enables agriculture, creating prosperous farming towns whose culture was likely founded by migrants long ago; more friendly, these centres are interconnected by roads and seasonal festivals. Further along, the towns along the river course grow fat and rich upon trade, with historically rooted rivalries over control of river access. The port city at the mouth of the river is filled with foreigners, a considerably greater diversity of trade and evidence of past cultures stretching back a thousand years.

In fact, the nature of each settlement is predetermined by the existence of the river, which predates any form of culture. The river's size, course and surrounding soils are determined by the topography; if the land it traverses is mostly hard rock with sparse trees, few would settle there. If the river's slope is too shallow, it might form fetid swamps or braid into multiple channels. In a frigid climate, the river would freeze over with a shortened growing season affecting the agricultural potential. In hotter climates, the river could wind through deserts or dense jungles. Each adjustment in topography, vegetation, wind patterns or hydrology creates a distinct type of river and in turn a unique culture, trade system and history.

Continued on The Higher Path

Letting Go of the Wheel

Our break with D&D's standard format arises as we become jaded with isolated adventures, which progressively provide less satisfaction year after year. For most participants, there seems nowhere to go except to continue the pattern. Like any other table game, it's assumed that this is all the game is, and that it would be no more rational to perceive a "higher" form of D&D than for Settlers of Catan or Battleship. A more comprehensive "campaign," in which adventures take place as a continual process of a larger narrative arc, would assume some kind of setting in which the players would be free to move about freely, obtaining a certain agency for themselves that would let them explore which adventure they'd like to play... and more to the point, if they'd like to investigate alternate forms of engagement with the game setting. Such forms would include interactions, investigations and the building or defence of things to which the characters were free to commit themselves.

This shifting of the players' relationship with the setting, however, calls for the dungeon master's comprehensive understanding of a game setting that traditional adventure building fails to offer. To allow the players to move about, there must be an established geography. For the players to feel secure and capable of interacting with the setting's people, there must be a clearly defined culture which the players can predict, so they can trust the word of non-player characters. There must be a political structure that permits freedom of movement and offers a believable reward system for players who aspire to power over the setting. Items of course must be available for purchase, but some rationale must also exist for where these things come from, how they are processed and sold, where they are available and how wealth is distributed. There must be some sort of deeper history filled with past grievances, the movements of people and standing treaties that explains where this setting has come from, and where it is going. All of these things are necessary for us to provide a real sense of place and time, which the players must have if they're going to reliably act and make decisions within this milieu.

Without this physical and moral context, players will continue to treat the setting like a game, an abstract object with which they won't allow themselves to engage. They will distrust every shred of evidence, assuming it exists, like in a one-off adventure, to expressly affect their actions. They won't commit to a project, expecting that for the sake of adventure that it'll be taken away from them at the DM's whim. They won't listen or invest in the political or historical framework for this same reason — perceiving that it's a ruse, a sham, intended to misdirect them and threaten. We may be interested in running such a world, but if our players don't understand it or aren't ready for it, then our efforts will be in vain.


Continued on The Higher Path

Basic Reliable Habits

Running a session as an advanced beginner, we steadily amass a collection of procedures in which we begin to rely upon practiced responses; examples of these procedures include managing a combat, relaying a description of the player's surroundings for hour after hour without becoming tired, using exchanges with NPCs to relay exposition, awarding treasure, giving advice to players on game rules and so on. Massimiliano Cappuccio (Dreyfus is Right: Knowledge-That Limits Your Skill, 2023), describes our acquisition of these as "pre-reflective dispositions," in which we're predisposed "to intelligently perceive, interpret, decide and act in familiar 'ways or modes,' when facing familiar situations or tasks." With time, about 200 to 500 hours of in-session dungeon mastering, these procedures become ingrained, allowing us to handing these tasks reflexively, without needing to analyse each step. These emerge as automatic processing (Sweller); in essence, NPC-to-player speaking becomes so commonplace in our thoughts that we're able to engage in it without concern.

These, Cappuccio explains, enable us "to complete a task, produce some transformative effects, solicit certain reactions in the bystanders, or preserve an existing condition" as basic reliable habits, making us ready to cope with unfamiliar scenarios with a developed heightened awareness and preference for certain types of actions, cues or information relevant to the arisen problem. In essence, these form a toolkit that simplifies our decision-making, lifting us towards competency, even if we're unaware that this is what's going on.

As before, rather than explain what competency is, we're better off discussing how we get there. Basic reliable habits are merely a first step; they represent a break from what Cappuccio calls "instrumental" actions, which consist in bringing about a desired outcome regardless of the means employed to do it. To use Cappuccio's example, if I'm filling out governmental or medical forms, I'm supplying answers which have no skilful component, as the answers simply exist.

Continued on The Higher Path

How a 16th Century Explorer's Sailing Ship Works

Here is an unquestionably valuable source for anyone wishing to get into waterborne adventures:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pYqXrFx6S8&t=1306s

Advanced Beginners

Steadily, as we've described, as a dungeon master we acquire familiarity with the metrics of D&D and shifts towards automatic processing when running the game. Within the adjusted canonical frames that we acquire, we come to a place where we better understand what the players are apt to do when presented with a description, a situation or a combat. We're better prepared regarding the rules we know, and have a better idea of where to seek for rules we don't know. We grow comfortable with the expectation that we'll be sitting in the DM's chair within a few hours, as evidence of our growing confidence. This assumes, of course, that we've been resilient in our efforts to maintain a group of players and to live up to their expectations.

We have arrived at a stage where we are an "advanced beginner." Some chafe at this appellation. There exists an assumption that once an individual becomes able to run a game with confidence, this stipulates that we have attained "master" status, as we are a dungeon or a game master. We've discussed this already, and the pitfalls that arise from it, but now we may elaborate further on this phenomenon. Being consistent in player engagement, and gaining the ability to run more easily, with less hiccups or rule-checking, does give a sense of mastery. We better understand player tendencies now, we can offer more nuanced responses when queried, our ability to craft a narrative is measurably improved and it would seem the players are engaged with the game we're running. All this would seem that we've arrived, and that we're certainly not a "beginner," even an advanced one.

Yet, while these accomplishments signal improvement, they don't necessarily signify mastery. Feeling certainty in our grasp of the game, we may settle into a style that works but lacks depth, especially in situations that deviate from familiar scenarios. In fact, we may use our adaptive understanding to gently manoeuvre the players away from everything and anything that's unfamiliar, simply because we wish to remain in our comfort zone. Understanding the power we possess, we can easily slip into habits of fudging dice or carefully rescinding the dangers that certain monsters possess — for example, having the monster hesitate or wait to use it's primary power, until it no longer can. And as we disincline to seek new challenges, largely because the players don't seem to mind, we drift into a comfortable, self-imposed stagnation that lasts until the arrival of some new disruptive player or a change in the lives of our players, who suddenly seem to have less interest in our game.

Continued on The Higher Path