Improvement

Before diving into the nuances of better Dungeon Mastering, let’s first explore the points raised in the previous post, specifically where we as players can genuinely improve our gameplay as people. This may seem pedantic and painfully obvious, but I don't intend to coat it with the usual mawkish optimism that many writers adopt, in part because I don't think this sort of thing convinces anyone. Suggesting that people could behave more politely or generously is a terrible strategy for promoting change. Rude, selfish people are what they are. But, since we shouldn't actually kill them, we'll try this.

The larger point is this: approaching other players and the DM politely when we want to do something, waiting our turn, being patient for an answer and not cutting off others but instead saying, "Oh no, it’s fine, I can wait," would go a long way toward reducing the chaos of nine people trying to talk at once. Simply understanding that, during combat, everyone has their turn, and that it’s important to stay quiet while others explain their intentions—or not rolling our eyes because someone is taking 30 seconds to do what we think could be done in 20—might just help the average player realise that everyone at the table is as important as they are. I recognise how ridiculous it is to have to say this, but anyone who’s played in several campaigns knows how easily these basic courtesies are forgotten.

It should be common sense, but it isn't. What is respect, after all? It’s appreciating that the game is a collaborative effort, where no one person's voice is more important than any other, and conceding that the DM needs to be heard clearly, with a volume level that allows for concentration. It’s deciding, for the sake of those around the table, that we should be fully present in this game, not offhandedly discussing the movie we saw last night, or who broke up with whom yesterday, or the concert tickets we bought that afternoon and how much we're looking forward to the concert, which won't take place until next January... or, in particular, how this moment is so similar to a like moment in a Deadpool movie. These things may be interesting in their own right, but they don’t belong in this time frame and they don’t need mentioning. Derailing the game with random tangents is an act of personal need or compulsion—a loud declaration that says, "I know you're all immersed right now, but I'm not, and I just thought of this moment from an Indiana Jones movie released 35 years ago, and I can't wait to share it."

To respect other people is to consider what's going on in their minds at the moment. We're all listening to what the DM is describing, except you. We're eager to learn what’s hidden inside the tomb we just opened — except you. We're genuinely excited to fight this battle because we actually find combat thrilling. It’s nice that you don’t feel the same, but this is what’s happening right now. So maybe, just maybe, for the sake of the rest of us, you could shut the fuck up and get on board with the moment.

Calling out this behaviour is with drama. To do so is an act of shaming, and the person being shamed is unlikely to respond positively. Yet, not calling it out allows the derailing compulsion to spread, infecting not only the other players but often the DM as well. I've run many a game where the burden of constantly refreshing the party’s memories—again and again—about where they are and what they’re supposed to be doing becomes so heavy that I simply join in with the rest. Thus, campaign begins to drift, time slips away, and now it's 9 o'clock. So there isn't time for the rooms we hoped would be gotten to this session.

This problem can’t be handled like a game of whack-a-mole, calling out derailments one by one, as that only amplifies the shame everyone feels and does not solve the issue. The proper solution is to stop the session entirely, explain that D&D wasn’t meant to be played in this scattered, disruptive way, and make it clear that if the behaviour continues, there are only two possible outcomes. The first is to close the entire campaign down—a solution no one wants. The second, more direct option is to identify the most consistent ringleaders of derailments and remove them, allowing the remainder to focus on the game, ostensibly because they genuinely want to play.

Unfortunately, the first solution—this being for EVERYONE to stop derailing the game, regardless of who they are, so we can ALL continue playing, is never seriously considered. The reader might note, reading the paragraph above, that I seemed to offer only two solutions.

And so, lest we forget, the crisis arises because a certain type refuses to respect others. It's therefore predictable that this type, rather than adjusting their behaviour, now sets in with a guillotine built of fingerpointing, deciding whom needs to go. To solve this, a DM has to care more about the game than any individual player, and has to be right about which ones actually need to be shown the door. I can confirm, this can be done, because I've done it. But it requires that we're ready to use the guillotine as well, to make our point.

However, "respect" isn't just about being polite in the moment. It's also about managing our behaviour and how we approach the game. Earlier, I suggested the game could be more "fun" for players if they were less obstructive, expectant or demanding. Players who come to the table with rigid ideals and preconceptions have placed their focus largely upon what's in it for them, rather than the collective experience of persons playing a game together.

A demanding player is not only someone who wants something — after all, every player there no doubt wants something. The difference is that the demanding player insists on getting it as soon as possible, often because they believe it will make their game experience better or because they think they've already earned it, and they don't wish to wait any more. This impatience and sense of entitlement causes the player to become so fixated on getting that one specific thing that they lose sight of the experience of playing. They can't engage with the excitement unfolding around them, because they're obsessed with having their desire fulfilled now. The rest of the table is waiting too, thinking, "If we can all be patient, why can’t you?" This impatience not only creates tension but also cheats everyone of just having a good time. Once that demand is satisfied, the thrill is fleeting, and they quickly shift to the next thing they feel entitled to. The fun they thought they’d have from getting what they wanted doesn’t last because they’ve conditioned themselves to chase after specific gratifications rather than enjoy the game’s broader experience.

An expectant player approaches the game with the quiet assumption that things are going to unfold in a way that suits their personal vision of how the game should go. They're not as forceful and demanding about what they want, but if their expectations aren't met, they can't, or won't, accept that they were wrong. Sometimes, they'll express this disappointment... but quite often, such players may be so passive that they silently churn their disappointment inside, becoming both disengaged and certain that the campaign, or in fact the entire structure of the game, has somehow failed them. While they're waiting for the game to meet their expectations, they're not having fun because we haven't reached the zenith yet; and when the game fails their expectations, they can't have fun because, well, it's not the game they thought it was. The preconception they have about games can be so crippling that they drift from campaign to campaign, edition to edition, genre to genre, like ghostly Dutchman trying to reach a home that's long since changed past all recognition.

An obstructive player is one who slows everything down — not out of malice, but because they can’t help but get in the way of the game’s momentum. They constantly second-guess decisions, question the DM’s rulings or nitpick details that derail the flow of the session. The rules-lawyer falls into this category, but that's just a very small part of the species. Such players need to analyse everything, they distrust everything, they overthink everything... and they are always certain that somehow, in all the decisions they have to make, there must be a magic decision that exists as the perfect solution.

Obstructive players often think they're being reasonable, that they're just making sure it's done "right"... but this ends up throwing roadblocks in front of everyone's experience, including their own. They’re too focused on maintaining control over small details, they can’t just let the game flow. They can't accept failure easily. It's not that they blame others, it's that, by blaming themselves, they over-compensate by being more careful, more deliberative... and therefore more obstructive.

We might argue that these players are circling the drain where D&D is concerned. They’ve moved past the point of redemption, beyond any argument or attempt at a cure. For some, it can take a long, long time to fully circle that drain before they finally quit and slip down the hole, taking their frustrations and obstructive habits with them. It’s not always immediate, but eventually, their inability to let go, adapt, or engage with the game as it’s meant to be played catches up with them. And while the game goes on without them, they’re left behind, forever disparaging the game that let them down.

Well, I'm out of time today. We'll continue soon.