Along the Way

At the beginning of a running, my players usually arrive ebullient, arms full of food, folders, backpack, dice bags and so on — much more than they need, I think, because it seems like they're preparing to camp out for several days and not just a Friday evening.  They arrive in groups, as couples or as one heading out to fetch the lone player who has no car.  They unpack their gear, help me move the 120 lb. table from against the wall into the center of the room, sort out the location of their chair, dirty my dishes as they make up their food plates while, all the while, chatting constantly.  They hug me, they ask after me, they haven't heard from me in two weeks (they don't read this blog).  Now there's a 2-year-old running in circles underfoot, whom my partner Tamara will manage as she's decided D&D has become too stressful of late.  In all honestly, I think she better prefers being a grandmother.

Grazing on food takes up much of an hour, as does the plugging of cords, the outlay of dice trays to roll in, connecting to the internet (as access to the wiki is de rigueur), plus discussion of recent movies, global events, the best recent uploads to youtube and so on.  I talk, I rest, I gorge coffee and sugar, I work to get myself "in the mood."  If I don't call the game to start, this warming up period can spin into an hour and a half, two hours, three hours, possibly all night.

The best way to grab their attention is to stand up and say in a DM's voice, "Okay."

That brings silence and complete readiness.  No one has to do a last minute shuffle, push food out of the way, rush to the kitchen for a drink, or anything.  When I say okay, no matter when I say it, they're ready to go.  Just like that.  For all their casualness, they've been ready to start for quite some time.

And where do I start?

I ask the question of the players, "What do you want to do?"

This fits into all we've said thus far.  The game begins with the party's answer to this question.  We may have stopped the last session in the middle of a fight, but the continuation of that fight starts with the players stating their next round's action.  It may be that I don't get an immediate answer, because they party needs to collaborate on the question for a bit.  There are times when I rise, start the game, ask the question ... then go to the kitchen and refill my coffee, because I'm not needed.

For this post, let's suppose that the party has just awoken at the usual inn, this is their first session, and they answer the question, "We'd like to go to a dungeon."

"Excellent," I say.  "I just happen to have a dungeon ready.  Are you ready to leave, or do you still have equipment left to buy?"

This always seems to bring them up short, as they think, "Oh, yeah ... we had better get ready, hadn't we?"  So I provide them an equipment list, then go to the kitchen and get another cup of coffee.

They have questions, I answer.  They buy, they set about calculating their encumbrance, they loan each other money ... then they drift into casual discussions about things and when I see no one's eyes fixed on a screen, I ask, "Are you ready to go?"

A few last things and yes, they're ready to go.  I explain how they know about the dungeon (they grew up in this town where they're starting, so they already know all the rumours any NPC might know), they know what road to take to get sort of in the area, after which I explain they'll have to search.  This all follows some background exposition that several groups have already entered the forested mountain-hills next to the swampy-sandy lakeside, at the end of the trail-cart-track road, and never come back, so if they head out to said road, they ought to be on the right track.  That sounds right to the party, so they head out.

The reader shouldn't think that my description goes, "You leave town ... and you've just found the dungeon entrance."

As a DM, you may think that it's important to get the party to "the good part," but doing that would miss opportunities to deepen and enrich the players' connection with the setting.  My game's generator isn't a one trick pony.

The space between the town and the dungeon creates rhythm, a flow at which controlled time passes, according to how much experience I wish to insert between the players and their goal.  Rhythm in this case has a strong positive/negative polarity that increases as the party gets further and further from the town in pursuit of the dungeon.  While the dungeon is closer, the town's being farther away preys upon the players' sense of safety.  Should it matter that getting back to town in a hurry might decide a character's fate, if something happens, distance is key.

As is difficulty of terrain.  Both vertical upness and flooded downness create immense difficulties to travel, especially should an escape occur in which the party is being pursued by something unknown.  They know that every step forward is also one they'll have to take back; impressing the difficulty of the forward upon them, it builds tension.

Additionally, the harder it is to reach the dungeon, the more concerning and dangerous the dungeon becomes.  Something easy to get to can't possibly have anything really bad in it, or so parties tend to think.  Something really hard to reach is, maybe, and perhaps should be, out of reach.  Make the journey hard enough, and parties will stop and debate, arguing whether or not they want to go on.  This makes terrific gaming.  Not only is there an irrational fear at play, there's also pride and bravery that players ought to have, which is being challenged.  Forcing a balance between the two produces a feeling of adventure that can't be produced by an hour of meaningless flavour text.

During the rhythm of travel, too, there's the possibility of showcasing a part of the world.  Look at what the other people are doing; look at the world's layout in this small part; look at the people on the road and where they're going.  The players can meet persons travelling to some important city that they might want to travel to themselves.  They can see people working fields that someday might be a part of the player's own lands.  Envisioning the world, the players begin to shape a larger picture for their agenda, because it's all here, laid out in front of them.  It's not just a jump to the dungeon.  The world is a real place that the players are moving through.

Plus, there are hooks to cast.  Hey, there's a father walking along with two little girls, all three of them singing together, as they head off to town.  The party doesn't know it, but not long after they get back from the dungeon, they're going to see that same father standing on a scaffold, inches from death, as a town clerk asks if anyone's willing to pay for the father's bond to spare his life.  Oh, and here's a rather elaborate camp along the side of the road, where the tents are marked with a heraldic symbol of a three diamonds and a dagger; upon inquiry, the party is told its a travelling noble, and to "Move along, move along."  The party doesn't know it, but the ring they're going to find in the dungeon was owned by this noble's father, who died in the same dungeon 14 years ago.  And here's a peddler heading to the party's town, asking if the party wants to buy something from his rather sad little cart, where the pastries he has are stale, and the fruit on the overripe side.  The party doesn't know it, but this peddler survived the dungeon the party is about to enter, four years ago ... and after the party gets back to town, he's going to overhear them talking and ask if they encountered the "lizard door."  "What, no!" the party will answer, because there was no lizard door, whereupon the peddler will chuckle and walk away.  Though likely, the party won't let him.

So there we are ... three adventures in the queue, and the party hasn't even reached the dungeon yet.  Throw a couple of red herrings into the mix — a son helping his father fix a cart wheel, a tired woman beating out sheets in a stream bed, across from a dilapidated road house a mile out of town — and we're all set to see the wheels churn in the player's head as they struggle onwards to find that elusive entrance.  

Build this kind of pattern session after session, and you need never worry about the players "finding something to do."  There'll always be some connection they need to make, some person they do a favour for, some choice that seems imminent, just as soon as we get done what we're doing right now.  The realm of characters encircling the party, aiding them in their quests, choosing to stand against them, demanding something from them, sets out dozens of little goal posts that are ready to matter when the party has the time.

At first, you'll struggle thinking of examples like the one's I've just given.  But they'll come to you in time.  None of these are, in fact, time sensitive ... nor even by necessity game critical.  If the girls' father is hung, he's hung; oh well, it's a Medieval world.  If the players never do sell the ring, and thus never know it's a legacy, c'est la vie.  If they don't care about the lizard door, okay.  It isn't going anywhere.  The trick as a DM is to make these things fit into the player's ordinary behaviour, without ever forcing the encounter.  Make each part of the narrative "happen" in its own time, with its own rhythm.  With practice, and patience, a DM can understand why we don't have to throw out the hook until the time is right.  When the players happen to be in the centre of town.  When the player wearing the ring happens into the company of someone who recognises it.  When the players happen to be talking about the dungeon, when they're supposed to be at the bar, or shopping, or hanging outside their inn getting their horses saddled to ride out of town.  And what do you know?  The peddler happens to be right there.