Cornered

Our next step is to question whether or not combat is an inevitable part of D&D. Traditionally, it has been, as players in various circumstances carry weapons and wear armour for a reason, and not for show. However, with later badly structured combat systems in place, there are many DMs who eschew combat, preferring to focus on other aspects of gameplay, because the mechanics of combat can be sluggish, dragging down the pace of the game and making it boring for both the players and the dungeon master.

It seems obvious, given the failure of the official community to rationally address this problem, that we must address it ourselves. Some advocate that we should twist ourselves into pretzels, adopting time-saving strategies meant to compress moments in combat down to their bare minimum, strategising the way that die modifiers are added up in advance, or demanding players respond with their actions near-instantaneously, to compensate for the rules being radically diverse and complex.

A better answer, it would seem, would be to adopt a top-down approach to fixing the problem. If an automobile becomes so complex that the driver must adopt so many strategies to cope with it that it ends in back problems and a headache at the end of a three hour drive, the solution is not to find a better position in which to sit in order to drive the car. The solution is to sell the damn thing and buy one that drives more easily. In a way, this describes the choice taken by many DMs, who do feel that if the combat system doesn't perform well, get rid of it. But while I suggest getting a better system, they prefer to get rid of the system entirely and replace it by resolving conflicts through social interactions, clever solutions or careful navigation of the world's dangers... treating combat in the game like the addage, "whomsoever throws the first punch loses the argument."

D&D is not a social dispute, however; it's a game, not a moral high ground promoting the idea that violence is the last resort. Violence in D&D is an intentional aspect of the game, with an expansive rule set intended to moderate it, reward for it and frankly encourage it. Combat isn't a fallback or a failure of diplomacy, it's a key part of the adventuring experience.

The real challenge, then, isn't in avoiding combat, but in making combat work. This demands that it be interesting, fluid, easy to play and integral to the players' actions. Our first step is to accept that yes, we have the right to rethink those parts of the combat system that we don't want to be part of our game, going forward. There's a common belief, especially among some DMs, that the rules as written (RAW) are sacrosanct, that to change them is somehow betraying the integrity of the game. But it’s essential that we challenge this notion, because the rules are just tools created by ordinary designers — people who may not have anticipated every style of play, and who certainly aren't sitting next to us as we try to use the contraption they've designed.

The functionality of D&D must continually be questioned if we are to understand our control and mastery of the game, though the experience that we require. We need our game, including the combat system, to be effective and as easy to manage as possible, given that so many aspects of having to control the players, the narrative and the overall demands of the game are already very, very complex. Like anything else that needs to be designed, it's our privilege to look at a part of the game and think, "How can this be done better." In this manner, human beings have improved everything, from flint axes to rocket ships. Our privilege in this process is absolute. It is our game. No designer or official representative of the game takes precedence over our will or that of our players. We have to run this thing; it's our right to fix it, just like we would anything that we buy and which we must use every day, to meet our standard. Empowerment is key here: we are in control, our judgment about what works and what doesn't is valid, and thus we should go about slashing and burning parts of the system as we see fit. Damn those who are not at our table who think otherwise.

But where to start? We must, after all, identify those parts of the combat system that are dragging down the experience and see why. First, let's consider elements of complexity that are bogging down the game's flow. This includes issues such as the initiative system and its aggravating turn order, which must be rescheduled with every round. This process creates dead time where players lose focus and become disengaged, while the changing order creates a confusion about whose turn it is. Why not just establish a set order based upon, say, dexterity, or intelligence, and have it stay that way in perpetuity. Then Oliver knows he always follows Janine, who always follows Dave, so that the person who follows Oliver knows precisely how much time there's left before it time to declare his or her own actions.

We can minimise spellcasting complexity, and at the same time undercut how powerful the spells are by limiting their scope and effectiveness. Force players to find some other way to innovate than by allowing them to invent forty ways each spell might be made useful in some odd and unique situation, which only creates a long-lasting dialogue around, "What if I do this, or that, or this other thing, or possibly this..." and so on endlessly, as the non-spellcasters sit around and wait, wait, wait.

Excessive adjustments to die rolls create enormous problems with combat flow, with nearly every throw being modified in some odd way; deciding which way to modify a throw, additionally, creates a decision paralysis that frequently holds up the game, while the need to be accurate about the totalling of modifiers does also. This constant math in the middle of what should be a fast-paced, exciting part of the game reduces the process to an ugly mathematical problem that, in reality, adds very, very little to the emotional benefit the characters gain. By simply eliminating dozens of adjustments that applies to most players, this has the effect of reducing the number of modifiers without actually changing the power levels of the combatants in respect to one another. And without the time spent on players who make a fetish of stacking modifiers, they, too, have to apply themselves to other solutions in order to improve their combat effectiveness.

We could also consider issues having to do with hit point tracking, specifically the escalation of numbers for damage and hit points. The reason for this shift appears to have been an attempt by game designers to create a more epic and powerful feel for the combat, especially at higher levels. Imaginably, when characters deal out numbers like 40 damage, this is supposed to be significant. Similarly, having creatures with hundreds of hit points also feel more "epic" when a party is facing something massive, like a dragon. The increase in hit points also allows for longer, more drawn-out fights, which can work for some playstyles but ends up bogging down the game for many.

How is it actually a better design to do 40 damage against a creature with 200 hit points than it was to do 5 damage against something with 25 hit points? The experience of the players is the same. The higher numbers adds mental arithmetic and make combat feel longer without increasing the tactical complexity, with a psychological impact that is short-lived, and negligible in any case. Human beings quickly adapt to the change, making the higher numbers appear meaninglessly elevated, while sacrificing the immediacy of combat resolution. When the numbers were smaller, the effect of an attack could be seen at once; with the DM having to constantly adjust totals in the hundreds, it creates a drag on the game.

This said, fixing this problem is an enormous undertaking. It would require a DM to go through a dozen books, page by page, and personally scale down the numbers, which is a time-consuming and complex process. And since all official materials promote these same inflated numbers, every time a new purchase is made, it means more of the same painstaking work... followed by the necessity of teaching one's players to re-adopt numbers that make sense, but which aren't in line with their memories and habits. The problem, then, is virtually insolvable for anyone without a mad sense of righting things, which does not describe the typical dungeon master. In a fashion, then, everyone is forced to deal with this same absolutely unnecessary change to the rules, more or less with our being made into the company's bitch. We are more or less helpless in having to manage the new game's bloated numbers, even when we recognise that they're bloated for no good reason.

This is the reason why many DMs simply accept the system and try to bend themselves to it, rather than fix the system. The car in this case has been deliberately built to be undrivable... and to some degree, the car has cornered the market so that all the cars we might want to buy are undrivable. The way out of this mess and mayhem is long and tedious and without an easy end in sight... but anyone who styles themself as a dungeon master who intends to still be doing this in ten years time must recognise the necessity of addressing these issues as something that CAN'T BE FIXED EASILY. Rationally, it is better to return to an earlier game version of D&D, prior to these changes being made, and add things that we like from later editions. Then, rather than a long period spent tearing down, we are renovating and building up instead, taking a game with less troubles to start with and building it into a game with some later characteristics, but not necessarily all of them.

As stated already, the goal here is empowerment. As a DM, we shall always do better when the game is what we want it to be. This, obviously, isn't simple, and there's no getting around that. There are few drivers who decide that the best way to get the car they want is to build one themself in their garage, over the space of years... but here I am advocating exactly this mentality if what's wanted is a smooth, practical, immersive game. IF car companies the world over were dedicated to making undrivable cars, then more drivers WOULD be making their own car in their own basement — this would become, unquestionably, a world-wide phenomenon, until the car makers changed their ways and adopted a more sensible product. This author did not invent this problem; it merely exists, of it's own accord, and the solution is not one that can be gotten around in some other way.

Exploring

Putting estimation behind us, we may progress into the realm of planning, which I'll define as building the framework that enables the entire game to function during play. In ancient times, when I wrote How to Run, I tried to address this by encouraging the DM to conceive of the world in terms of entities (such as factions, powers and major entities) and geographical structure... but I've since abandoned that approach for something that I hope may be more easily grasped and therefore applied.

To begin with, the setting must have earth-like features, whether or not it is a fantasy, simply because it's going to be occupied by creatures that human beings can conceive of. We may therefore dispense with thinking in terms of geography and whatever, assuming for the present that yes, those things exist, but they're not fundamental to the way we build the setting. We need to think instead about providing those aspects of the setting that are, again, essential for supporting the game's content. This isn't about creating new idea, per se, as it is about deciding which elements are important for the game to work.

We might stipulate the following core assumptions about what the players will want to do in game play. They're going to explore their surroundings, seeking out new places. They're going to engage in combat or conflict when confronted by threats. They'll have to solve problems that arise, whether these are decisions that have to be made, social dynamics that need to be navigated or conundrums that require cogitation to solve. Another fundamental pattern is no doubt going to be the accumulation of wealth, power, objects and what not. And they'll likely pursue personal goals as they're motivated to do so.

These are the base things that we need to plan for. Let's just take the first. For the players to explore their surroundings in an ordinary D&D game, certain fundamental aspects must be invented. The players will need a civilised area, such as a town, village or city, and probably more than one. Here, they can interact with peaceful, helpful non-player characters, gather information, rest and exchange for resources. Such places provide a location in which to ground themselves, a place that can be familiar, with other services and opportunities for them to be safe and pursue both commerce and relationships.

Surrounding these areas must be a wilderness or untamed area, no matter how small, to provide the essential space for players to freely adventure. This wilderness serves as a contrast to the ordered, socially structured world. Here, the players are free to move their character pieces on the gaming board without worrying about the constraints of civil law, social etiquette or status. It is a space where their choices and abilities are tested against raw, primal forces — whether that’s the threat of monsters, harsh environmental conditions, or ancient forgotten powers. The wilderness offers the chance for players to push boundaries, explore forbidden or dangerous areas, and engage in the more violent aspects of the game.

We want places of significance... locations that hold meaning or purpose within the game, both in civilised and uncivilised places. This can be some oddly beneficial facility that the players must travel some distance to reach, that gives them some special bonus or knowledge that can't be gained anywhere else. It is more obviously a dungeon. These locations aren’t just notable because they are where players fight monsters or gather loot, but because they create lasting impressions. A place of significance should alter the players' understanding of the setting; such locations serve us best when they reframe how the players think and feel about the game itself.

When possible, there's an opportunity in such locales to get into the players' heads, creating real emotional engagement and disruption — whetting their appetites for things they don't even know they want: revelations about themselves or their allies, unexpected morale dilemmas or thrills that draw them deeper into the game on a personal level. This kind of engineering isn't easy to understand, and it needs to be addressed in greater depth... for the present, for those who haven't yet seen how to do this, it's best for the present just to comprehend that the concept is out there, waiting to be plumbed.

Within the realm of the more easily understood, we should consider the basic formulas underlying the setting's infrastructure. Roads and routes for travel is just the surface. Understanding how goods are grown and brought to market, how resources are collected and then manufactured into goods, whether or not we want to pursue an economy, are details that give purpose to the workers and managers throughout the society. From there we need to understand the political framework of the world, not in terms of diplomacy or national conflict, but how authority is divided, providing the players with insight as to how the rungs of the world's power ladder can be climbed.

These tools tell us where the players can find things, and how the various facilities of the game world, from inns to castles, need to be placed and scattered throughout the setting. Much of this can be as simple as finding some basic works describing the historical period that more or less defines where the players live and what they see. From there, comprehending the function and nature of the supernatural system that underlies the game world, if there is one, helps in providing an explanation for all sorts of weird and unexpected patterns that affect our player character's day-to-day.

Some may find such "homework" boring; others may feel obligated or encouraged to pursue deeper and deeper concepts, a path that is encouraged by asking the right questions. Begin with what the thing is, then move onto how it became that way. From there, determine why it ultimately changed before our present day arrived. If it didn't change, try to understand why it didn't. When encountering an odd world, search for what it is on wikipedia or more modern chat programs. Keep at it. Knowledge accumulates slowly. As Churchill said about the accumulation of munitions, the first year you get nothing; the second year, very little; the third, a trickle... and the fourth year, a flood. The same ideal must be applied for anyone who wishes to familiarise themselves with the function of an ENTIRE WORLD. For a long, long time, it seems like a frustrating, wasted effort, and certainly nothing that can be usefully applied to a game like dungeons and dragons. And then one day, when one least expects, the knowledge changes everything about the way we run as dungeon masters.

This, then, is the basic scaffold of the setting: safe places, dangerous places and routes between them. In most parts of the world, these should blend together. Initially, it's easy to imagine a town that sits upon the threshold of a wilderness. For personal experience, we comprehend naturally that there are streets of an urban centre that are safe to walk along, and others that should not be ventured into, especially at night. Anyone who has stayed overnight at a seedy hotel recognises there's good reason to hesitate before knocking on some stranger's door, or even speaking to persons in the halls. No place is entirely safe; likewise, there should always be places in the wilderness, even in the heart of a dungeon, that are justifiably "safe," even if magic is needed to make them so.

This blending of elements makes the world feel more organic, less compartmentalised... and therefore, more immersive. This creates an environment that keeps the players on their toes. A fusion of elements reinforces the setting as a volatile, active place, like a set of chemical reactions on the verge of occurring, perhaps set to explode when this slow moving green stream actually reaches that small blue pool. Knowing what happens increases the intensity with which we'll watch the event unfold — it is this precise design that we want to incorporate into the fabric of things going on around the players as they gawk about. This designing of tension into the setting is as important as any other element we want to incorporate... which is accomplished by understanding that things around the player are not standing still. Like the dangerous stream moving towards the safe pool, the setting is in motion.

Essentialisms

Before beginning today's post, I want to inform readers that the Authentic Wiki will go offline on September 30th, as the company handling the server is relocating. A temporary server is meant to take over during the transition, but this won't happen until October 2nd, two days later. There is a chance of complications with the carrier, but I've been told that the company is expected to be fully operational by October 4th. If the wiki is not restored on October 2nd, which is a Wednesday, rest assured it should be back up by Friday, October 4th.

I hope this doesn't disrupt anyone’s D&D game or spoil any plans. To reiterate, the server will go down on Monday and, if everything proceeds smoothly, should be up again by Wednesday, October 2nd.

Today's post is about balancing our preparatory workload against what's essential for the players and the actual session. This requires a reasonable, practical estimation on our part of how much time we have, and how important it is that the party's needs are given priority. This is not to say that we must work on the upcoming session, but rather, we will be better prepared for that session, and therefore more proactive as dungeon masters, if that session is given a sufficient amount of preparation.

The key word in the above is "essential"... the less we judge to be essential, the less preparation we have to give them, and the more time it allows for the rest of our campaign design and other preparation. Some basic framework is desirable here; "essential" is an abstract concept, one that will differ for every DM, every party and every edition or genre of role-playing game. To start, we should judge these last two, edition and genre, by what kind of time we have and how realistic these rule systems are where it comes to soaking up our time with pre-game prep. Many DM's deliberately choose simpler game models for this reason... by changing the player's expectations, by using a work like "basic" to describe the form of dungeons and dragons that we're playing, we reduce the hurdles we ourselves need to climb. Even the words said to a player, "Well this is only basic after all," is a way of deactivating a player's demands that we put more work into our campaign.

Naturally, this sort of obfuscation is undesirable. Yes, it's used, and even malevolently in some cases... but it's better if we choose, instead, to adapt ourselves and our time to the edition or genre we've chosen, as a point of honesty between ourselves and our players. We want to do right by them. We want to measure up to a standard that we set for ourselves that impresses them. We don't want to play a basic game merely to justify our laziness.

At the same time, there aren't a lot of doctors or lawyers who are building campaigns and running D&D games. For those of us who are committed to 70 hour a week jobs hundreds of miles from civilisation, hell, if there's time to run, screw the prep. I write this as a fellow with a cushy homelife, whose child has grown, who can go to bed when he pleases and only sets the alarm a few times a month; I can afford to get lost in worldbuilding and fascinating details that may see no value during an actual session for several years, if ever. There is, recognisably, a scale between these two extremes; it's up to the reader to locate where they fall upon it.

Up front, engage with the situation immediately in front of the player: threats to their existence, the actual physical halls they're going to be moving through, or detailed clues that need to be physically drawn or written out — so we don't mess up. This kind of information lets the players navigate their environment; realistically, we need to put just enough environment in front of them so they don't run out of it before the end of the session. If they run out the minute the session ends... we've done an excellent job of estimating.

Repeated sessions with the same group, and with the same game structure and style, increases the skill we have at estimating how much detail is needed. Changing the game from week to week, or restarting the campaign, makes this a challenge, as different genres changes the parameters of what's being estimated. An additional player to the campaign also does this... as does a player who fails to come to the session. In fact, this is the most trying of this preparatory difficulty: realistically, we need to prepare not just for the party we expect to show up, but for the party that DOES show up.

Are we prepared, for example, if we expected five players and only two appear? We should think about this ahead of time, giving thought to what would could do if this should happen. Consider... it may feel like three people not showing up for a session is evidence that the session is dying. On the other hand, having only two players brings a golden opportunity, if we're prepared for it. These two players get more of our time, they get a larger share of the treasure, we can go faster with two and potentially, the session can be distinctly designed for them.

This does rely on our knowing which two it's going to be. To some degree, we can probably guess; alternately, we can imagine the creation of five mini-adventures, with details for each player, and then mash up any two of them into something we can present at will should it be needed.

The golden opportunity comes from our being able to really gain the interest and trust of these two players, as a measure of what we can do for them. This helps "sell" our game, if not to the other three players, potentially to still others who are impressed by our more reliable clients and the stories about our game that we tell. What we do not want to do with the two players is say, "Well, if most of us didn't show up, what'ya say if we just call the game tonight?" We should be prepared for NOT having to do this.

For those of us who have played a lot of games on the fly, but don't see this as the end goal of DMing, there's much to learn in discovering what kind of preparation works best in adapting the session to be run upon a change in circumstances. Sessions sometimes take unexpected turns; players decide to take different actions, and this must also be prepared for.

It's supposed that when performing improvisation, the actor wholly relies on whatever phrases or limitations the audience throws out. What's not generally understood is that the audience is limited to only a few things — usually character, setting and situation. This leaves out a vast number of possibilities, such as what profession my "improved" character has, whether or not my improved character is married, how old I am, do I have a wooden leg ... and hundreds of other details that I can "improv" time and again before different audiences, who don't realise that I've pre-invented months ago what additional details these "off-story" additions can bring to the apparently amazing off-the-top-of-my-head performance.

Like an actor, a DM should have numerous pre-invented moments and "off-story" details that can be applied to unexpected player actions in a powerful, though apparently off-handed way. This kind of thing can stun a party, who can't understand how it's possible that we "roll with the punches" so easily. It is easy when we predict the punch and choreograph the roll weeks, months or years before the session. There are such scenes that I've run with my own players that are no different than something I ran in the 1990s or 80s with other players.

This illusion of seamless improvisation is nothing more than the stockpiling of enough ideas, details and scenarios to provide an "inventory" we can draw on for this particular moment. If necessary, we can slip off to the bathroom and think though half a dozen, so that one's at hand in our minds the moment we sit down again. Getting ourselves a cup of coffee is another good sort of "time wasting" that feels completely normal but gives us time to dredge up our memories.

So much for underestimating the players needs; what about overestimating them? Here I don't mean creating three sessions in advance, when the third session's presumptions may all be useless by the time the players get there. Instead, let's consider info-dumping, where a DM tries to insert more detail into the session than is really necessary. The players don't need the villages history or how the architecture has evolved over the last five centuries, or even the name of the local burgher or lord... and we don't need to know every single NPCs character, rolled out in hour after hour of wasted time, as well as our having chosen a name for each. The players don't care. "The bartender" is perfectly fine until the players specifically ask for a name, whereupon we can call him whatever name first pops into our head. I knew a DM who simply identified every bartender as "Fred," every apothecary as "Liam" and every guard as "Sam," which made it quite clear that he did not care about names and preferred we spend less time on trying to engage NPCs in dialogue and more time actually getting on with things. The humour of shouting out "Sam" at a strange guard and having him turn and say, "Yes, what do you want?" soon passed away and the game went on without that detail really mattering.

"Essential" really means exactly that. What do we need to create in order to make the game run smoothly? What details can't be made up in an instant in our heads (like the hit points of something) and really require some serious brain sweat (like, for example, would this ton of wheat bring if it were bought here and dragged fifty miles by the party to another town). Anything that can be invented in a finger snap is unlikely to get in the way of the game's smoothness. But not having anything written down about what a complex magic item does, or why the players should invest their time and effort to stop a war, is going to gum up the works pretty bad. Thus, we spend time preparing difficult things; easy things don't need preparation. In fact, it takes more time to find a number of hit points written down on a sheet of paper than to invent a number at once. Remember, the number doesn't actually matter; so long as its in and around the average number a typical monster of that type would have, we're fine.

Pacing matters more than details do... but if we can maintain both, our game is better for it. Remember, again and again, if we prepare nothing, the game still works. It still "plays" fine. Preparation isn't critical... it's merely beneficial. Cake with icing makes a nice treat. It's better if the icing is pretty, with flowers and a sweet phrase, but no one's going to turn down cake because it's not pretty. When we approach preparation, then, we should do it for what we want to ADD, not as something the game's going to fail without. This removes the pressure, reminds us to pay attention to what we want to add, and concentrate on the fact that we're improving our game, not "rescuing" it from failure.

Spoons

About four times I've tried to write this post today, unable to... hm... get up the nerve.

Yesterday's gift truly threw me for a loop.  Starting in reading it has been, well, um, humbling.  And I've struggled to identify some benchmark I could turn to as a way to grasp this unusual, rather overwhelming kindness.  It's disrupted my thinking so that both yesterday and today, I've been at a loss to produce anything creative.  I've been working around the house, applying myself to physical labour, getting things that should have been put to rights months ago, because my head is in a whirl.

This morning a worthy connection came to mind; it's from the 1955 John Ford film, Mister Roberts.  If you don't know the film, it's difficult to explain exactly how this scene comes about.  Essentially, for decency rendered as an officer, for sacrifices given and for actions taken, specifically tossing a palm tree overboard, the crew decides on their own volition to demonstrate their gratitude to Mr. Roberts.  See the film, if you can.  It's a damn sight better than any other film except for Marty, which deservedly won best picture... and the two of them are close.

This is how the book that was given makes me feel.  If you want to see my face; or hear my voice; and know how hard it's hit me... watch the link.

I'll never watch this film the same way.

So, in lieu of something else, I'm going to take a moment to talk about spoon theory.  This is a metaphor proposed by Christine Miserandino, "describing the amount of physical or mental energy a person has available for daily activities and tasks.  Miserandino applies it to chronic illness and it's logically designed for that, but after a conversation yesterday with my daughter, who brought this to my attention, I think it accurately describes the reality of creative endeavours and our capacity to invent.  In my daughter's case, where I'll begin, it relates to the time she has, as she progresses through the creation of her family unit.  She is, at present, pregnant with her second child.

As she tells it, every day is limited by the needs of her husband, the disabled cousin that lives with them, her not-quite 4 y.o. son (birthday September 28th) and certain medical difficulties arising with the pregnancy.  She has become, in the last four years, increasingly tired of those younger, childless, marriage-less, free spirited persons of her own age who, as my daughter explains, are ready to "take her spoons" in the way of time and favours given, but they don't give very many spoons back, for reasons that obviously don't have to do with the time they have.  I think many of us here can relate to this.  It's not that we don't like our friends.  It's not that we don't want to be there for our friends... is that our friends, particularly those without sincere responsibilities, don't seem to understand that we only have a set number of spoons available to us each day.  And that, when we give a spoon to someone else, because they need us to come help them move, or because they haven't got their rent this month, our sacrificing a spoon means there's something we can't have now for ourselves.

Which is perfectly fine... if now and then, someone comes and helps us clean our house, or move our junk, or clean our carpets, or look after our children, surrendering their spoons so we can use ours for those things we usually don't have time for.

This, however, affects me less than her.  I am only looking after a grandson now and then, and we're grateful that he's collected just as we're running out of the spoons we need to watch him.  Most of the time, I have plenty of spoons when I wake up each morning.  I can spend them on my responsibilities and the things that I enjoy, most of the time.  My issue is a creative scarcity, not a physical one.

Quite a lot of the time, I wake up in the morning without a single creative spoon to my name.  I want creative spoons.  I just don't happen to have any.  I cleaned my carpets last Wednesday with my daughter and when Thursday came around, the one spoon I had was used for the blog post I wrote that day.  I felt it was a good use.  I would have needed two or three spoons to do any serious writing, I didn't have them.  In fact, I haven't had them all week, because realistically, I just don't have the body I had when I was 35.  When I was 35, I didn't have the brain I had now.

Which means, more or less, when I was 35, I had no spoons because I was stupid, and today I have no spoons because I'm tired.

But, I take a rest, I accumulate spoons, and I try to use them as best I can.

Yesterday, by surprise, Osterman, Maddox, Becker and Joslyn sent me a whole freaking bucket of spoons.  I am hip deep in spoons.  I'm just trying to process it.

So, when I feel down; when I have doubts; when I'm not motivated... I know exactly where to go to get myself the spoon I need.  Fellas... thank you.  You cannot guess what it has meant to me.

Uh...

My friends, my good people.  I am touched.

These four have sent me a book in support of work and myself.  I've had only time to read the forward; and that has been enough to put me on the verge of tears.  And let me say, after much pain in my life, it hurts to cry.  That never comes without having to climb over some very big hurdles.

It'll take me some time to read this... but bless you all.  Thank you.  You've really put your fingers on my heart.

Prepping for Sessh

Setting aside the accumulation of knowledge, or research, let's discuss instead how much preparation is necessary for a session, and what sorts of preparation ought we to do? Things we want to think about include the events or conflicts that are likely to arise with the next session; what obstacles, like a dungeon or the aforementioned bandits, are they about to encounter? How "new" is the region that the players are entering? Do we have maps for it? Do we know what's living there, or anything about it's physical dangers? Are we set up to run the combats that might happen, including hit points, number of combatants and an understanding of the spells or advanced powers the enemy has at their disposal?

We need to estimate how much knowledge of the setting, it's encounters and the rules that are going to apply that we need, before actually running the session. We want to avoid giving too much attention to areas that the players might bypass; there's nothing more annoying than spending a week designing a dungeon level the players never enter. On the other hand, if we prepare too little, that's going to mean more reactive running on our part, where the goal here is to be proactive.

Let's be completely honest. We're never going to get this exactly right. Player actions are inherently unpredictable, while successfully judging their interests and habits requires considerable game experience and an upteen number of sessions spent with the same players, to get a real handle on their proclivities. Early attempts at estimation will produce predictable failed results, which we shouldn't take too much to heart. For example, a quick conversation with an NPC that we think is going to run for five minutes ends up running for 30, preventing our getting to the critical part of the dungeon with tonight's session. Or the reverse happens, where a battle we thought would take an hour is wrapped up and done in 15 minutes, through the player's innovations or plain good luck. Suddenly, we have 45 minutes we're not prepared to run, at the end of the session, when we're mentally burned out from running the game.

Another issue is that players will have notions we couldn't possibly have considered — after having carefully arranged a meeting with a merchant, who's going to fill the party in on what they need to know, they unexpectedly attack the merchant instead, seizing his wares and coin. Unfortunately, we have no details about the merchant or his guards, how much coin he has or how to handle the rest of the adventure now that the merchant is dead and the information the party needed with him. Now, we have no idea what the party is going to do, and neither do they... and while we scramble to think about how to transmit this critical information to the party in some other way, they're suddenly realising they forgot just why they'd set up the meeting in the first place. This sounds unlikely, but it's exactly the sort of thing that parties tend to do, much to the frustration of many a dungeon master.

Our best strategy is to have in mind — often no more than a thought with no realised work done — a contingency plan of just what to do if the players do something immortally stupid. Just as a photographer might bring an extra camera to a shoot, when there's no expectation of ever using it, we're always sure to have someone else in mind in the game who ALSO knows what the merchant knows. In the meantime, we might conceive of a "mini-adventure" that can pop up to fill the empty space in a running, that's been created for just such an occasion. An example could be a random ambush by some kind of local wildlife, which may not carry much significance for the players, but it will waste an hour of their time, which is fair considering they've just wasted at least an hour of ours. And while they're fighting this out, or talking about it, we can slip out for a cup of coffee to think of something to do that comes after.

Another example could be to interject some natural event, which the players wouldn't expect: a sudden flooding of a river, explained by suggesting there was a very heavy rainstorm the night before, and now this is happening; or a rockslide randomly occurs, forcing a few characters to make checks to avoid getting pulverised. Even if such things only last five minutes of a running, it can give us time to think... though the downside is that these ideas, while thought out ahead of time, are essentially reactive to the players actions. We didn't plan to do such things and now that we have, our game has been made unbalanced by them.

With time, the stronger answer to these unexpected moments is to, well, expect them. This may seem counterintuitive, but remaining constantly attuned to everything that's happening at the game table, over time, builds a repertoire of patterns that reach beyond our cerebral capacity to recognise them when they're happening. We are, in fact, humans, with human limitations. But, this does not keep us from "noticing" things unconsciously.

For example, we may not see it, but the player on our right always begins playing with his dice just before doing something outlandish. We don't consciously notice this; he most likely doesn't either. Nonetheless, as it happens consistently, the moment he starts playing with his dice, we're subconsciously triggered by it and without realising it, we feel a compulsion to turn on the player and doubly assert the importance of this moment. The player, without anyone noticing, stops playing with his dice... and the game goes on without the disruption that might have occurred... even though no one consciously tried to prevent it.

This sounds crazy; but it is, in fact, something that those in police and fire services are taught to expect, as well as those in the military. There are courses that teach these persons working in these dangerous professions now to develop this heightened sensitivity, called "situational awareness." It's the simple, instinctive feeling that something is "off"... and with additional time spent as a dungeon master, handling random, highly emotionalised game play, we too can take advantage of it.

But it takes time... and until some years pass, we have to do our best to shape the game's details, within reason, trusting that we will get better at it. Much of the resistance to this kind of preparation comes, first, from the fact that it isn't as interesting as actually running the game. Planning excitement can be, for some, very frustrating and even boring. But the more difficult hurdle to overcome is the feeling that it's just not worth doing... especially if it's boring. For a long time, it doesn't seem to do any good, and it's easy for us to be convinced that we're just wasting our time.

Many DMs embrace this belief and never adjust themselves to anything except running on the fly. They then pollute dialogues and discussions about being a dungeon master with arguments from their untrained and uncommitted point of view, urging others to be just as lazy and just as ignorant as they are, as though this is the best strategy. Once again, we've discussed at various points that yes, the game can be played with this mindset; D&D allows that. But this "advice" isn't; it's simply excuse making, along the lines of saying, "I didn't work at it, and if you do, it makes me look bad." Well, that can't be helped. It's easy to make some DMs look bad when they are bad.

Labour of Love

Moving on, let us consider "potential outcomes," which were also referenced here, when first talking about research.

When anticipating the games needs, we are actively considering the situations, challenges and mechanics that are likely to arise in an upcoming session, just as we said in the last post. These are based on the narrative arc that has been building over time, as well as tendencies we've noticed among the players. We are, in effect, while running the game, "researching" the players' behaviour and proclivities just as though we were Jane Goodall observing a tribe of apes. Most of the time, the inter-party discussions will tell us plainly what their plans are, but there are other things we may also observe from the questions players ask or those things they are plainly interested in.

For example, imagine the players are discussing how to handle the upcoming encounter with a bandit leader, debating on how they're going to sneak into his camp and dispatch him without the other bandits knowing. While focused on this immediate challenge, their conversation starts to meander. One player remarks on how glad she's going to be when the bandit is gone, and they can get back to a dungeon of some kind, which meets with approval from others. Meanwhile, another speaks about the so-called gratitude of the local lord for whom they're working, when he disappointed them the last time. This discontent is reflected in the comments of the other players, who then get back to the matter at hand.

Here, we've been given two things to play with. First, that the players would more likely prefer that this adventure right now be a dungeon, rather than having to wait for the next adventure, and the other, that the lord isn't much liked, though the party is beholden to him.

Our "anticipation" of the party's needs at this point is pretty much a question of our being able to read the writing on the wall. First, obviously, THIS adventure right now needs a dungeon... so, in the blink of an eye, we transform the bandit leader's tent into a dungeon entrance, which surprises the party and gives them what they want, without having to wait. This can be easily slid into our present arc, as the "dungeon" doesn't need to be more than a few rooms, which will nevertheless please the players until they can hie themelves off to a bigger dungeon later.

Second, let's get rid of the local lord. When the players get back, they find the lord is dead, either stabbed or he choked to death on a chicken bone. The lord's replacement turns out to be much more generous and grateful, which brings the party an unexpected boon when what they expected were scraps. Small, easy adjustments to the campaign world are easy to do, fundamentally do not change the narrative arc in play, while practically acting as wish fulfillment for the party. Of course, it works only because the players think this was our plan all along, and did not happen because of some off-handed remark that, probably, they won't remember making.

Adjustments like these are practical, subtle and effective in making the game feel more tailored to the players without breaking immersion or derailing their agency. Very often, small adjustments like these feel natural, while enhancing engagement in a world that unexpectedly "goes right" for the party from time to time. At the same time, we avoid making the mistake of artificially hand-holding the players, which makes them feel as if they're not really playing, but instead having everything handed to them.

Apart from such obvious flags, however, what about those less overt clues we may gather from the players interests, which have nothing to do with ongoing game play? This takes more effort on our part. What players casually talk about --their personal preferences, certain interests they have in game subjects, questions about the setting's background, an affection they show for a non-player character they've met, even questions about how magic actually functions in our game world or how it is that gaining experience levels "fits" with the physical, non-meta nature of the character's perspective.

Say a player expresses curiosity about how magic works in the world and we explain it. Of course, this requires we need an explanation, but let's take this as a given, for the present. It may not seem so, but this is an opportunity for us to further engage the player in the setting without that engagement being part of the narrative arc. The question demonstrates that the player cares about such things... and because this is so, we take some of our own time, away from the game session, and think, "How else might magic work in our game, outside the mechanics we expressed?" Maybe we start thinking about different schools of thought within the setting, where certain scholars or mages theorise alternative sources or methods for generating magic—something not covered in the rulebooks but which could exist in our world’s background.

This may take some skull sweat, but it improves our own thinking about such things and sets us up to infuse a different vibe into the game's world. For example, we could imagine a theory where magic isn’t the creation of forces through intellect (if this is how magic works in our setting) and that it might ALSO be tapping into a purely external force. Once we have this idea, we could think about how to introduce it naturally into the events of the narrative; suppose the player, this same player who earlier asked about magic, meets an NPC who embodies this alternative theory; perhaps, he or she is a reclusive scholar or mage from some isolated obscure school of thaumaturgy, who engages the player's character in a meaningful conversation about the nature of magic.

This NPC doesn’t challenge the game’s mechanics but offers a new perspective, discussing their research or beliefs with the curious player, maybe even proposing that magic works differently in certain parts of the world. The discussion could inspire the player to seek more knowledge or pursue a side quest to explore these ideas further. By doing this, we’ve taken the player’s curiosity, turned it into a thought-out aspect of the game... and fed it back into the narrative in a way that both enhances their experience and respects the integrity of the game’s system.

It was, in fact, the player who "invented" the idea, by asking the question, that sparked our imagination, that led to the alternative, that was then supplied to the player who may, or may not, find this engaging. The chances are good, if we judged the player correctedly when the subject was first brought up... that he or she really did care about how magic worked, and wasn't just asking flippantly.

This requires certain attitudes and perspectives from the dungeon master. We must be proactive enough to recognise that when a player asks a question, its not "just a question"... it's evidence that the mind of the player is being engaged with our campaign. Further, it demands that we don't embrace "one answer" to anything we say to a player regarding our campaign. We always assume, instead, that there are "exceptions to the rule," regarding how the world works and what things might exist in it. Finally, we must have a mindset that wants to pursue these exceptions outside the game, because we ourselves are fascinated by our own game's structure, function and behaviour. Without these factors in ourselves, there's really no way we can take advantage of these opportunities.

It's a sore spot with some DMs who suppose that preparing for the game is something we do, and that once we're "done," we move onto the next thing. In reality, the stronger approach is just to accept that no part of the world is ever really done. By adopting an open-mind towards every part of the game, especially those that interest the players, we shift and adapt and grow ourselves, so that the game we are running ten years from now bears little similarity to the one our present-day players engage with. This is a good thing. D&D is not staid or fixed; it is a living, breathing, evolving organism, which will either die if we do not feed it, or it will grab and carry us along in its clutches, while we cheerfully let it take us to wherever it wants.

Of course, this means the task is never ending... and that to some degree, we're always scrambling to ready ourselves for the next session. For this reason, and no other, a DM must fall "in love"... or else it is just work, work, work all the time.

Rules Larnin'

Just as with the setting, understanding the rules enables the DM to be proactive during gameplay. Briefly, for clarity's sake, when we talk about "the rules," we refer to the system that governs the mechanics of the game — how combat works, how spells are cast, how abilities function and how success or failure is determined through dice rolls. The rules serve as the foundation that keeps the game consistent and fair, providing structure for everything that happens within the world.

To "understand" the rules means to internalise this system to the point where the DM does not need to constantly reference rulebooks or second-guess decisions. This requires not only familiarity with the basics, but a deeper knowledge but a deeper knowledge of why each rule exists, what it attempts to accomplish within the game, how the rule binds the players' actions, and — most importantly — how players are likely to push back against that rule, and why.

Each rule affects the manner in which the player's "game piece," the character, is allowed to "move on the board." D&D being such a complicated game, there can be a hundred ways that this is possible, most of them dependent on other factors outside the player; managing these alternatives, not only for multiple players but also for NPCs, monsters and various ways in which the setting itself can infringe upon the game pieces, creates a tremendously flexible system that, at the same time, is next to impossible to manage without a solid grasp of all the mechanics in play.

As familiarity with the rules accumulates, the we become better equipped to make swift, confident decisions, without having to do so arbitrarily. Arbitrary rulings are merely evidence of not knowing the rule, or not knowing where to find it through minimal familiarity with the rules. Additionally, when a DM chooses to make an arbitrary ruling, regardless of what justifications he or she has, this is in fact a demonstration that this particular DM has little to know understanding of why the rule even exists, much less why it ought to be imposed in a particular way. As we have discussed, D&D can function as a game this way; it can even thrive, given a certain type of player... with the result that it devolves into an inconsistent mess where reliance on the DM's judgment becomes so imposed that the players are denied any real agency.

We must be careful not to equate "the system works," as arbitrary DMs will argue, and "the system is ideal," which is a whole other matter. A dependency upon arbitrary rulings passes the agency of the game from the players, who operate the game pieces, to the DM, who has no game piece, as this obstensibly facilitates the game's function. As agency moves away from the players and into the DM's sphere, the game becomes but a shadow of what it could be. It must be said, however, that once the agency has accumulated in the DM's hands, the number of "moves" the pieces can make declines drastically, making the game both less flexible and considerably easier for the DM to manage.

Let's commend the DM that has decided to embrace the rules, desiring to ensure the game is fair and consistent in the way the rules intended. Making this momentous effort is evidence of a person of substance... while failing at the effort, sometimes for literally years, is a path that every "qualified" DM had to walk at some point. This is not an easy rule set, nor should we pretend it is. No one, whomever it might be, can honestly protest that it's "easy." On the contrary, it's easy to resort to making snap, arbitrary decisions instead, to keep things moving... and in the beginning, we're going to do that. It does not matter that we're perfect in every moment, or that we don't take a desperate action now and then, for our sanity. The complexity of these rules demands that we must. What matters is that we maintain the vision of one day becoming able to run the game on the level that it's meant to be run... and to recognise, when they happen, those little moments that assure us that yes, in fact, we're getting there.

Therefore, yes, the DM should occasionally make the players wait while the game is paused, to admit that we want, in this moment, to get the rules right. We can be open about this. We can say to the players, "This is the part of this game that matters to ME; I do appreciate that we're all champing at the bit to get at the orcs, but this, just right now, is a part of my learning process as a DM, so give me three extra minutes and we can move forward."

In every situation like this, being direct and open about what we're going through is a way to build camaraderie between the players and ourselves. It reminds them that we are not just a utility for their use, we are a person, one who is trying our honest best to give them the best game we can. We should trust that our players will respect and appreciate this dedication on our part... it takes a fairly selfish person to condemn effort and capability on principle. Then, once the moment is past, and the ruling is clear, the very fact that it was highlighted increases the probability that everyone will remember that ruling going forward, not just us.

This transparency about the learning process should relieve much of the pressure on a new DM. Admitting that we need to pause for clarity or check a rule removes the unrealistic expectation we place upon ourselves that we must know everything, all the time. This allows us to run a more friendly, thoughtful and fair game, especially as the players understand that "fair" is our priority... rather than, say, efficiency or obstinacy, which is the mark of many a DM's approach. To improve as dungeon masters, we must do so without fear of being judged, by ourselves most of all. In turn, with each of these pauses, a positive, friendly game group will enjoy learning themselves about the complexities of running the game.

In practical terms, don't attempt to learn all the rules at once. We should try to familiarise ourselves with one subset at a time, potentially setting up "learning sessions" with one other player to play out mock combats or discussing the ins and outs of a particular rule. "Nitpicking" forums can be held at random in the minutes before starting a game or at it's end, reading out a random rule from the books and asking the players to express what they like or don't like about the rule. These don't just have to occur pre-game, either. Bringing up such things while driving with friends, or at a bar, or between classes, encourages a sense of everyone having a part in learning the rules... which is a rising tide that potentially raises all boats.

Importantly, all such strategies contribute to the DM's proactive approach to the game, where we already know the rule before it's invoked, where we even expect the rule to be invoked, because we know precisely what monsters the party is about the meet, or what setting they're about to enter. With time and patience, this "knowing ahead of the game" itself becomes the impetus for knowing where to crack the books on the day of, which then really does permit us to look like we "know it all," when it fact we know it took a long, long time to get here.

Proactive Settings

We've established, early in this series, the D&D at it's core will function regardless of the skill set of the players and the dungeon master.  This simplicity allows anyone to play, which is an odd, yet valuable part of the game's structure.

This does not, however, preclude the dungeon master's potential for taking a functional game and vastly improving it through a specific, practical approach.  Desirably, the DM should not be "reactive," with regards to the game's play, responding to player actions or in-game events without prior planning or forethought.  There is tremendous value in anticipating the players' actions and preparing accordingly, thus structuring the game so that it can be guided more smoothly.  This latter approach ensures a more organised, immersive experience, simply because it permits better handling of unexpected elements.

"Preparation" encompasses everything that a dungeon master essays to do outside of actual game play.  This includes gathering necessary information about the setting, understanding the rules, studying the game's structure, evaluating versions of the game, pursuing the rules of other games, drawing maps, making tables, sketching out notes, planning adventures, pre-rolling characters... and lots and lots of just plain inventing stuff out of thin air.

Within the context of preparation — as we must approach this enormous subject patiently — lies the broad scope of research, which is distinct from other forms of preparation.  Research is the organised process of gathering and studying relevant materials to ensure the dungeon master has a solid foundation of knowledge for the game. This means, an understanding of the game's setting, rules and potential outcomes the players are going to share. These three categories are comprehensive, covering the core areas that a DM must research, if he or she is going to properly research the game.

It may be imagined that there's a fourth category, such as drawing maps or creating characters... but rightly, these fall under the heading of creative preparation rather than research.

Let’s begin with the Setting. While it might be tempting to dive into how the setting is created, or how best to explain it to players or even to explore its role in immersion or world consistency, our focus remains on how the setting enables the dungeon master to be more proactive, as established in this chapter's outset. Before we can explore that, however, it is crucial to have a firm, comprehensive understanding of the setting — specifically its people, cultures, key figures, geography, history and other intricate details. This understanding allows us to grasp how these elements shape the daily lives of the inhabitants, how they motivate conflicts and how they can both challenge and restrict the players' characters as they move through the world.

This understanding allows us as DMs to anticipate what ought to be going on, not with respect to the players, but regarding everyone else, in a manner that prepares us for when the players wade in.  The setting is not merely a backdrop, but a living, breathing organism, which reacts when poked, tickled or fiddled with.  Imagine it as a gigantic single-celled amoeba, with the players moving around inside it's membrane like viruses.  Most of the time, the players can do this and be ignored... but should they infect some part of the amoeba that can fight back, suddenly they are surrounded by an unknown number of dangerous cells, bent on making right the players' interventions. Knowing the setting gives us insight into knowing which "part" of the world is likely to react when the players interfere.

Suppose we create an example of a village, which as a community might respond in various detail to things the players might do... positively if the players are generously spending their money at the local tavern, suspiciously if the players are asking a lot of questions, forthcoming if the players are already knowing about the nearby haunted monastery, angrily if a player is grabbing too enthusiastically at the serving wench, fearfully if anyone in the party is performing magic, gratefully if there’s a cleric willing to perform a mass, or whatever we might imagine the party could do, prior to the game actually taking place.  By envisioning these responses in advance, the dungeon master is able to smoothly adapt to the players’ actions, seamlessly guiding the story as the village reacts according to these established precepts, and others.

Player choices are, by and large, unpredictable; and much of the time, we will have to invent something to react to something we did not foresee, because this aspect of being a DM never fully goes away. But how much easier it is when something comes along that we did foresee, that we can slip right in without a moment's thought, giving us much-needed breathing room amidst the chaos. Anticipating some things is better than anticipating nothing, while more practice and experience with a given party increases the likelihood of our knowing what to expect.

Where before we had no control over the world's rhythm, preparation of this kind permits us some control... in effect, letting us find purchase on a narrow beam in a windstorm, minimising the chances of our being blown away in the gale. This tiny bit of relief gives greater opportunity to think clearly, which in turn permit the creation of new ideas that can unfold naturally, before other unforeseen challenges once again seize our focus.

Above all, we don't want to fall back into the maelstrom of constant reactive play. By creating pockets of stability, we are able to steer the narrative rather than be constantly washed over by it. This frees us from the exhausting cycle of scrambling to respond, giving us a chance to guide the game with intention and purpose. Then, when we are wallowing, unsure of what happens next, we at least haven't been doing this since first initiating the game... which means we'll be fresher, more active and more able to create on the fly when that moment demands.

In turn, the players recognise the marginal shift in our confidence, our apparent ability to control the chaos... and this gives them greater reason to trust us. As they sense the game world is not spiralling out of control, they become more comfortable exploring it, making bolder choices and investing more in their characters and the game's progress. This mutual trust between the dungeon master and the players builds a stronger, more cohesive experience — which is a bold, necessary step towards meaningful, immersive experiences upon a higher plane.

We are empowered when we're able to gain on the player's actions, instead of falling behind them. We're empowered when we react to expectations instead of surprises. Proactivity is not about control, but about readiness, confidence... and most of all, TIME, that one elusive resource that no DM ever has enough of.

Team Play

Such advice as this depends upon players who are willing to set aside every sense of their personal achievement in favour of the possibilities that multiple persons acting together can achieve. This isn't easy. Players of this out-of-the-ordinary game tend towards attitudes of personal independence, self-sufficiency and the belief that they can thrive without having to rely upon others. Many feel beset for having the sort of personality that wants to play D&D, keeping it hidden from some, elder family members included, still believing the stigma that existed in the 1980s hasn’t disappeared. This creates a certain siege mentality among players, a mindset of defending their personal identity which undermines trust and potentially creates conflict between party members.

Players who are individualists of this sort see acting independently and without the need of cooperation as a right, and therefore disregard the group dynamic.  They see the game's challenges as a personal test of wit and resourcefulness, rather than something that's solved through collective effort.

Humans encounter a similar situation when they are inducted into an army, the ultimate group-based activity, where they learn that acting independently and disregarding the group dynamic quickly leads to chaos.  In an environment where collective action is essential to success, the instinct to "go it alone" is discouraged at every level.  Soldiers are taught to rely upon one another, to trust that their comrades have their back... and to understand that success is rarely the result of a single person's initiative.

Many of the strategies for how players might be better players tend to support the each-as-individuals model. Advice that "we should not tell the other players what to do" goes against human nature, since in most cases of crisis, shared knowledge and the quick thinking of one individual, aware of all the resources at hand, including people who are just standing around, always makes the difference between failure and success. In emergencies or complex situations, someone often has to step forward and make suggestions, not because they want to dominate, but because they see the potential in the collective abilities of those around them. This isn't about controlling others but coordinating action to ensure the best possible outcome.

Human nature, especially in moments of stress, defaults to leadership and collaboration, where individuals contribute based on what they know or have observed. D&D, as a game, mirrors this reality. When a player sees an opportunity or identifies a critical resource, they naturally feel inclined to share it, to guide the group toward a solution. Disregarding this impulse to offer direction can limit the group's efficiency and leave valuable contributions untapped.

Worse, it encourages a "let them die" attitude. The one player with greater experience, knowing that another player is about to do something ill-advised, might choose to remain silent, either on the grounds of, "Well, each player has to decide for themselves," or, "I'm justified in not saying anything because this is a game, and I'm not supposed to give unsolicited advice." This mindset does more harm than good, as it undermines the very concept of a collaborative game and turns potentially valuable moments of group interaction into a test of individual failure.

By withholding insights or suggestions, that experienced player is allowing mistakes to unfold, not for the sake of the group's overall growth, but in adherence to an artificial rule about individual autonomy. It can foster a sense of isolation rather than teamwork, as those who know better are left watching others stumble, rather than stepping in to help guide the party to success. In a game built on collaboration and shared victory, remaining silent under the guise of "letting each player decide for themselves" ultimately weakens the party's cohesion and trust.

If we toss out this mindset and take the position that experience has the responsibility to give advice, a wealth of life-saving strategies emerge. Rigorous pre-determination of player actions, coordinated through discussion and sometimes led by the "smartest player," can prevent many problems before they even arise. For example, if I know that my character is most effective positioned on Jerry's shoulder, like the left outside linebacker next to the left end, then at the start of a fight, I know exactly where I want to be. This isn't guesswork or improvisation—it's based on past experience, on the understanding that my skillset works best from that position.

The ordering of a party in D&D, in this sense, is no different from deciding which person should play which position in a football lineup, with guidance from a "quarterback," who manages the plays.  The participants can all speak with and directly to the DM, expressing their intentions and actions personally, but the positioning and coordination gives some semblance to what they should be doing and when.  In most cases, I see parties trying to create entirely unique strategies in game play on the fly, without person-to-person coordination.  Sometimes this works well... most of the time, it ends in a befuddled mess.

This does not just apply to combat.  We are, as I described before, all moving our pieces in specific ways in order to gain the best advantage.  This advantage is not carried out against the dockhand or the would-be paid assassin we're trying to hire, but in confrontation with the dungeon master.  We should know, as a party, who is best able to ask questions at moments of interaction that are most likely to put the DM off his or her game.  We should know who speaks the smoothest as the party member, regardless of their character's charisma.  And with such information, we should "set up" plays before going and meeting the local burghermeister or alchemist, with agreements that John will smooth him over and Deirdre will pepper him with questions, while the rest of the party writes out their ideas on notes and shoves them at one talking player or the other.

D&D is not chess, it's football.  It's four, six, ten players arranged in position and setting themselves up to "sack" the quarterback.  The absence of this strategic coordination is baffling.  Truly, what usually happens evolves from a belief that D&D ought to be reactive, rather than proactive... and keeping the players off-balance, disunited and often in a state of in-fighting is one way that a second-rate DM can maintain control over the bunch.  Which should not be the DM's prerogative nor the DM's option.

Parties must be encouraged to view their actions in a larger context, which has been the central subject of this and the last two posts.  They have it in their capacity to greatly increase their chances of survival in a fight, as well as effectively strengthen their joint actions, in every part of game play, once they willingly choose to leave their prejudices against group activity at the wayside.

Communication

After the players receive a description of the setting, the next stage in the process is to interpret and decide what needs to be done. In many cases, this part can be skipped because the information is so clear that no further interpretation is necessary.

For example, when the dungeon master describes an open field or an empty hallway, there is often no need for careful analysis — moving forward is the obvious next step. Similarly, a tavern in a village is often seen as a straightforward location. Players immediately understand its function without needing to ask further questions. They assume it’s a place to rest, gather information or perhaps meet a quest-giver. There's no need for deep investigation or interpretation — it’s simply part of the setting that serves a familiar role. If a creature takes a swing at us during combat, there's no need to overthink it; once it's our turn, we know what to do.

But there are situations that seem a little less clear — for instance, the presence of a suspicious-looking statue in a dungeon, or the dead end of an engineered hallway. It's reasonable to wonder why anyone would take the time to carefully dig a hallway to nowhere, then mortar stone tiles along the floor and walls, as though this dead end needed to be improved by a little aesthetic. This bridge across this gorge is awfully convenient. This door has no handle on this side. Hm... that chest is strangely wedged open by a book. Curious that there is this one tree here in a barren wasteland.

The default is to assume the DM hasn't told us all we need to know... and so, we prod the DM for more information, asking, "Do we see anything else?" Now, a proper DM should in fact tell us everything our eyes can see and all our ears can hear, but there has been "advice" that reaches back to the 1970s to the effect that "a DM can't be trusted." Which has merit because, unfortunately, some DM's can't be trusted. And so, in such situations, it is necessary to spend a little time during a game session reviewing the following answers to every question we care to ask: "no, that's everything;" "no, there's nothing moving in the room;" "yes, that's all you can see;" "no, if you could hear or smell anything special, I'd have said so." I say it is necessary because usually, we get the answer, "Oh, right, sorry, yes, there is a chest at the foot of the statue." Or something to that effect. Because DMs can't be trusted.

Still, these follow-up questions do tend to break the game's flow.  Ideally, a good player shouldn't have to ask at every turn, "Is there anything else?" — but this relies on the best communication between the players and the DM, which we'll sadly have to leave until later.

There are many situations where the amount of interpretation needed is considerable, and cannot be accomplished by the players standing in one place asking questions. Some character must actually do something, whether that is probing ahead, trying the door to see if it will open, tapping the statue with an object to make sure that it's not alive and such like. In such cases, players tend to adopt an attitude of rugged individualism. It occurs to them to ask the DM if they can approach the statue and hit it with a stick, but it does not occur to most players to turn to the rest of the party and say, "I was thinking of taking this stick and hitting the statue with it. Does anyone have an issue with that?"

The default is often to act first and think of the consequences later.  This approach often leads to hasty, ill-considered decision-making, for which everyone in the party pays the price.  Yet this is a situation where a little communication between the party members could go a long way.  By consulting the other players, someone might come up with something better to hit the statue with.  Someone might have a good argument for why not to hit the statue.  The party could reorder themselves to protect the weakest members, before the statue reveals itself to be alive.  There are spells that could be used, possibly out loud statements that could be made, that if the statue were alive, it might have reason to answer.  We don't know what others in the party might be thinking, when we seize a stick and start wailing away.

The DM's role here is to enable.  Not to say, "Have you discussed this with your comrades?"  Most of the time, the other players are confused, not certain themselves what to do, and tend to think when hearing that one of their number is going to take up a stick, say to themselves, "Huh.  Well, I haven't anything better."  The consequences in this moment aren't considered, only the need to resolve the situation.  But when someone in a party takes the time to engage the party (and this cannot be the DM), it connects.  It wakes the others up to the understanding that, "Hey, we're all in this, aren't we?"  It's easy to give one's silent consent, because we won't be held accountable.  But when we're asked to give our out-loud consent... the game is changed.

What's required is for the players to shift from the mentality of "What am I going to do next?" to "What are we going to do next?"  In terms of positive game play, this is a dramatic rethinking of the game's process.  It's usually assumed that this is a bad idea, because gaining a consensus from five other players, or however many there are, can be a nightmare when the other players are unwilling to agree.  But here, I haven't argued that we need a consensus.  What's needed is the presupposition that there might be a better action... not that the whole group is entitled to rule as a disjointed body that no action can occur, because we can't agree on what that is.

Part of that positivity in game play is to embrace the idea that doing something is NOT A BAD THING.  It isn't that hitting the statue, or killing the old man that's spewing all this needless exposition, or even burning down the bar is necessarily bad ... just that, maybe, warn one's fellow players first.  Then, we can say while the confused argument is going on about what to do, "I said I'm going to hit this statue with this stick.  Is anyone going to stop me?  No?  All right then.  Get yourselves ready, because I'm doing this."

Thus, everyone is informed, consent is not necessary, and the game can move on without endlessly deliberating over minor things.

A "cooperative spirit" is not necessarily the same thing as everyone in the party operating in lock-step.  A group cannot operate usefully only when total coherence is achieved; groups consist of people with different ideas acting as individuals... all that's being suggested here is that information is better than acting without warning.  The DM is duty bound to accept our declarations of actions as FACTS that have no occurred; he or she isn't empowered to stop the player from doing what's wanted with the character.  Unfortunately, however, when individual players act like this, the other players don't have the opportunity even to prepare themselves, much less say, "Um, I have a better idea." 

Communication keeps the diversity between players acting on their own functional, and thus effective at managing obstacles in the game.  A lot of different people, trying different things, yet constantly communicating their intentions, makes a powerful and unpredictable force for a DM, who is just one person.  It becomes easier to catch the DM unawares or off-balance, while we're communicating our ideas as a party... and thus spawning other ideas in our party mates that might not have occurred to them.  Acting as an individual is a fine thing.  Five players working together as a party of individuals is something terrific to see.

It's fairly obvious to point out that this communication doesn't work if the other players won't behave flexibly and listen. Even with the best intentions for communication, it won’t have its full effect if other players aren’t willing to hear their mates outline their actions. A positive strategy in handling those moments of interpretation, before taking an action, is a willingness to accommodate new information that's said ... and recognising that if we don't have an idea, we shouldn't take a position that someone else's idea is a bad thing, on principle. We must be open minded; we must accept that the game is about risks, and that it's okay if we hitch our wagon to a loony plan. Sometimes, the best course of action is to go along with the loony plan if it’s the only plan on the table. If that's all we have, hey... why the hell not? These characters really only exist on paper, right? By being flexible, listening to each other, and accepting that sometimes the craziest plan is worth a shot, we can fully embrace the spirit of the game.

Then, there are those moments when no one has a plan; where the players sit around the table asking, "Does anyone have any ideas?" and the silence hangs in the air as the players stare at each other, hoping for inspiration. These are moments of collective uncertainty, and they can easily stall the game if no one steps up. But they’re also opportunities to embrace the unpredictability of the game and lean into the fact that D&D thrives on creativity—even when it feels like there are no clear answers.

In these moments, it's important to recognize that the game doesn’t demand a perfect plan. The beauty of D&D is that sometimes you just have to do something, even if no one is entirely sure what the outcome will be. This is where the willingness to experiment and take risks becomes essential. No one in the party needs to have a master strategy all the time. Instead, it can be about making small moves, trying different approaches and seeing what unfolds. It's often in these moments of uncertainty that some of the most memorable and unexpected moments in the game arise.

No one says that thinking is easy... but if we've allowed ourselves to be roped into this silly game, then it's on us to get ourselves both into trouble and out of it.  What we must do, to promote the best possible game we can play as participants, is to stop relying upon the DM for all the answers, and recognise that we have to undertake each problem ourselves.  The DM will, as per the game's structure, yield more and more information — and treasure and whatnot as well — when we unite as a party and go get it. 

Shared Listening

The game of D&D relies upon the elucidation of the game world by the dungeon master, which prompts the players to interpret that world and then decide how best to exploit the knowledge they've deduced. Beyond the game's function, the process itself — details heard, details interpreted, actions given — relies upon our hearing every detail and having our minds clear enough to process it.

The dialogue benefits as we listen to our fellow players, allowing us to suss out what would be the best action at this time. Our goal, therefore, is to enable this sort of dynamic, where what's important is the immediate, practical aspects of what we're trying to do, and what we're trying to achieve in the long run.

Very well, let's take this first part of the process. The DM is speaking, describing what we see, or, in more complicated circumstances, the whole of the proposed adventure is being laid out in advance. As players, where ought our heads to be?

Well, engaged with the information we're receiving. This isn't a passive response, where the DM speaks and we just listen. Engagement is active. Our focus is mindful, while we think about what we're hearing and interact with the details in real time. One method is to take notes, as this helps assure that the information is there for our reflection later --but we must be very careful to be sure that those notes are, first, accurate, and second, not disrupting our attention so that we lose the greater sense of what's being said. As players, we're under no time constraints. There's nothing to stop us from telling the DM, "Um, just a moment, let me get this down before you go on." Our notes should be brief, to the point; they don't need to be complete, because the DM has all the information we need. If all we write is a note like, "the folding room," this is enough for us to later ask, "what's the folding room again? You told us about the folding room." And then the DM knows what we're speaking about, and can once again fill us in. Obviously, this necessitates our notes be accurate. We shouldn't write down, "the bending chamber," because then the DM won't know what we're talking about.

There's no reason why one player should write down everything; different people have different takes about what's important, so if multiple people write notes, then these can be compared later and things that person A failed to note might still be highlighted by persons B or C. Active engagement is a multi-person activity, not something to be assigned to an official record keeper. Everyone at the table is responsible for knowing everything, all the time.

Understand that time isn't a factor in D&D the way it is in many other games. Players should feel empowered to pause the game to get the necessary information down and confirm their understanding, without feeling rushed. This is part of the mindfulness that enhances the game’s flow. It’s far better to take a moment to ensure clarity than to muddle through uncertainty later. The DM is there as a benefit, not a person who's voice is sacrosanct and must not be interrupted. If we have a reason to interrupt, then we should embrace that.

This is important stuff, here. We should raise our hands and say, "Sorry, could I get that again? The tower is where, exactly?" DM's tend to rush through some details and throw too much light on others, and the players should feel justified in compensating for that. And when the DM is finished describing anything, from a bowl filled with water to the entire history of a kingdom, the players should be empowered to interact with that. If we've been given the framework of an adventure, it's not wrong for us to follow this up with, "Just to be clear, this fellow wants us to go through this forest, avoid that bridge, remember the yellow house is a bad place, so we can find this tower, enter it and find the folding room, then grab this object and come back with it. Have I got all that right?"

A proper DM can then answer, "The yellow house is the one you want, it's the orange house you want to stay away from," so everyone around the table can say, "Oh, right..." and then two people can write down "Stay away from the orange house." That's so that if someone made an earlier note to stay away from the yellow house, and forgot it was written down that way and therefore forgot to change it, the party's existence doesn't depend upon one moment of bad bookkeeping.

We have to remove the pressure of pretending that we've understood everything perfectly, when in fact we're not perfect and should not be held to that standard. By allowing us to confirm the details, the DM empowers us; by taking the step of confirming the details, we empower ourselves. Meanwhile, approaching things in this manner reinforces the shared responsibility of knowing what the task is and what to avoid.

At any time, it works well if any player turns to the others and asks the direct question, "Is there anyone here who doesn't know what we're doing, and why?" This expresses two deeply needful messages. One, that we care about what our fellows think, that we want to make sure that no one is left behind; and it unites us in defining a single purpose that we all share. This strongly counteracts the individual perspective, creating an active, communal feel to the party, which is then there to sustain the party in times of trouble, when we really do have to depend on each other. It also creates a general feeling that no one's going to be judged if they missed something, while encouraging a desire to "check in" with others on what's happening.

The next step is to discuss how deliberation is carried out between the party, as the information we've acquired is interpreted and resolved. I'll cover this with tomorrow's post.

Role-playing (oh gawd, again)

Addendum to the last post.  It was argued, reasonably, by a reader that I should define the difference between the role-playing I was speaking of, which I described as "performative," and the alternative, the "basic roleplaying," that is normally undertaken through game play, with the players "taking the role" of the characters.  I agree, this distinction has to be made.  But...

When the players make decisions based on their abilities and in-game circumstances, the issue at hand is navigating the game world, solving problems and interacting with the non-player character element.  For example, my character has a discussion with the dockhand to determine when the ship we were after left; I'm obtaining information.  But I'm not "playing a role" when I ask the "dockhand" about this.  I'm asking the DM directly in the framework of the game, and it is the DM that answers.  No role is being played, except within the understanding that the "character" is on the dock, not actual me, and the "dockhand" is speaking, not the actual DM.

Now, this appears to fit into the actor framework, in that if I'm playing Leonid in the Cherry Orchard, I'm still Alexis, I'm not Leonid, though I'm speaking words that Leonid says, to other actors who are playing Trofimov and Anya.  But note, in doing this, I'm performing.  This is performative role-playing.

I'm fully capable of saying to the DM, in gaming, "My character asks the dockhand when the ship left," and the DM is fully capable of answering, "The dockhand says the ship left an hour ago."  We're not performing our characters, we're not "assuming" the roles of our characters, we're not "storytelling," we're discussing what our characters do in the same manner that we would move pieces on the board of a game, though there is no board.

If I say, "My knight takes your bishop," this is not role-playing.  There is no language difference between this and saying, "My fighter attacks that orc."  We're moving pieces on a board.

We are not assuming the role of a character in any deep, immersive way.  This doesn't keep us, as humans gathered around a table, from being immersed in a game, any more than the manner in which chess is played ceases to be immersive because the players aren't actually down on the board being physically threatened by the opponent's queen.  We're quite able to be fully immersed in a game without it having an attachment to the character.  Likewise, our capacity for being inventive, imaginative or innovative is not stymied because we treat the character as a game piece, either.  All sorts of game players of all sorts of games are fully capable of being inventive and so on without this requirement.  D&D is NOT more immersive than chess or scrabble or poker... it just happens to be immersive in a different way that appeals to a different sort of person.

This is an extremely common bit of propaganda about D&D, which was fabricated early on to propitiate the game as "earthshaking" and "unique."  There is no solid evidence that deep immersion in D&D requires a kind of performative attachment to the character — and, in fact, I believe that the vast balance of D&D players would rather there wasn't, and that this trope would just die.  Immersion results from decisions being made and challenges being navigated, not from assuming a personality.

Yet we continue to be saddled with this definition of "role-playing" where we are, in fact, moving pieces on a board, because... wait for it...

A bunch of college-students without any experience in game design or game marketing, and without any foresight regarding how really destructive choosing the wrong appellation would be after a fifty-year haul, chose the psychological buzz word that seemed closest in reflecting something they themselves couldn't explain to someone who had never actually participated in D&D.  "Role-playing" stuck because it seemed like the best fit at the time, and it has been exacerbated because the human tendency is to create a bunch of bullshit conflab interpretive language to justify things that don't make sense, rather than just accepting that, hm, maybe that was the wrong word for the thing and now its too late to fucking fix it.

"Car" is an awful name for an automobile, as the word is a shortening of "carriage," which sort of seems accurate but is in fact not descriptive of what a car does. "Television" is a grossly inaccurate name for what a "tele-vision" does, but we're stuck with it. "Role-playing" falls into the same category, not because it’s particularly accurate, but because it was a convenient grab-ass word for something that no one could properly define at the time. And it sort of sounded cool, especially in a 1974 world where pop-psychology and treatment-based role-playing were all the rage.  Thank gawd the boobs that invented the game didn't call it primal screaming.

And so, I was wrong not to make this clear in the previous post.  I have a tendency, far too often, to assume that everyone else understands what I just explained pedantically, but that's really not a reasonable presupposition on my part.

Toxicity

Our goal as D&D participants is to root out the issues discussed in the last post.  These behaviours can manifest in anyone; they don't have to be full blown to get in our way and spoil our fun and that of others.  To avoid this, we should be mindful when we're feeling annoyed that we're not getting all the attention we think we ought to be getting, or when a situation doesn't turn out as we expected.  If we're aware that we're "waiting for our turn," or that not receiving gratification for something is getting under our skin, we need to look at those feelings and understand they have no place in the game.

There are some that just can't do this... they're bringing a personality to the table that habitually identifies every moment as, "When do I get mine."  It should be obvious that D&D consists of a group of people who have agreed to come together socially in order to participate in a shared experience, one in which they interact with each other to solve problems and achieve goals in a somewhat unusual yet intriguing environment.  ANY self-directed thought or action will, in this framework, produce a discontinuity, like a dancer in a troupe that cannot stop improvising.  We don't all have to think alike; we don't have to be "in sync"; but we do have to give ground to others and divide the time between all the participants, letting the game unfold as everyone contributes.

It is for this reason that two of the most cherished practices of latter-day D&D are so toxic in the game's play.  These things have arisen specifically to encourage players to become more engaged while the session is ongoing, but the design has stressed the individuality of this engagement, rather than the overall group dynamic.  In any shared activity, overt distinctiveness or excessive displays of personality are discordant to the whole picture... and unfortunately, the measure of engagement with these toxic insertions into the game is defined by how excessive the individual tries to be.  These practices are the creation of "backstories" and the increased instigation of "role-play."

While intended to intensify involvement, these practices do more harm than good.  It is not enough for the player to have a backstory, this backstory must be placed on display as often as possible, during game play, to justify it's presence.  Yet, because it is John's backstory, created for John, and not Janine's or Jared or Julian's backstory, the value of the backstory is that it specifically steers the game towards John's needs, John's history and John's motives.  In most cases, the individual with the strongest personality, who is the most creative in the group, tends towards the bending of the party's shared experience around the art of this one backstory, and not that of everyone... however unintentional this may be with regards to the one player.

Role-playing, the act of speaking as though one is one's character, thus lending that character a composed, designed personality, introduces an even more overt kind of theatricality into D&D.  The purpose for the player participating in this has his or her focus upon the "performative" element of the character, the desire to achieve a sort of accuracy or believability... but, like with backstories, this performance does not capture the group's dynamic, but that of the individual.  The role-playing performer is concerned primarily with how they are perceived, rather than focusing on others.  The goal is to impress, to entertain, rather than taking part in the shared experience, while the subsequent result is to wear down the collective enjoyment of those participants who do not equally sharae this performative aspect of the game.

Performative role-playing is inherently lacking in authenticity because it prioritises external validation — what others think of the performance — above that of in-the-moment decision-making within the context of the game.  Rather than thinking of what the party needs to do, or how to overcome the next difficulty, the player is waiting for the next opportunity to perform, often bending the game's narrative to suit the character's personal arc.  This is merely another way of derailing the campaign, particularly if the player feels compelled to launch into long speeches, seize the spotlight with regards to non-player characters or introduce quirks in speaking or vocabulary use that become increasingly annoying after several sessions, this accumulating hours of having the same character traits pressed upon one's attention.

While now associated part-and-parcel with D&D, these practices do not have a function that is necessary to the game itself.  At it's core, D&D is about players responding to the DM's description of the setting, making decisions and navigating challenges based on the rules. The game’s mechanics — rolling dice, making tactical choices, solving problems — are what drive play. None of these mechanics require a player to perform their character’s personality or reference an elaborate backstory. The real function of the game is in how the players interact with the world presented by the DM, not in how convincingly they can act out their character’s traits or weave their backstory into the narrative.

The practices of heavy role-playing and backstory development are, at their core, merely bad habits that have been grafted onto D&D by outside influences. These elements were never intrinsic to the functional play of the game but have been embraced because they appeal to players who, whether knowingly or not, are inclined to make themselves the centre of attention. They have succeeded because a great many of the participants of game's participants are of this ilk, and because the push-back has been affected by beliefs regarding inclusiveness and the enshrinement of individuality at the expense of good manners and respect for others. The strongest voices in present day D&D are those of performative actors, who's intent is to highlight the game's dramatic qualities, and a company that recognises pragmatically that products are sold to individuals and not groups. This has left the policing of D&D to one DM surrounded by a party that most likely has at least two self-directed individuals within it, outnumbering the DM and thus discouraging any possible stand on the matter.  As most DMs have trouble getting and keeping players, the incentive is to accept things as they are and try to manage the best we can.