For a time the party discusses the danger the lion offers, establishing beyond a doubt that no, the children cannot all fit within the tiny farmhouse. They learn that as the sun sets, the sky is going to be clear... but that there'll be no moon. Starlight, I tell them, won't be helpful in reacting to the lion's speed. It's just enough light to make the shadows seem alive, but not enough to provide comfort. If possible, the lion will rush the smallest target exposed target it can, which need not be more than a foot or two from the farmhouse. The players are tense; their helplessness shows in their frustration.
Then Jason asks me, "Can we set a trap?"
It is a player's sort of question, as though he is asking for permission from me to innovate as a player. I answer, "Yes, of course," but inwardly I marvel at the resistance players have towards making proactive, definite statements about their will to actions. This hesitancy is so hard-bred into many, so that even after years of play they continue to ask permission like this. Fear of overstepping the DM's authority, worrying about making mistakes... even the lingering perception that the DM holds all the answers. Some players will always frame their ideas as questions, seeking validation before acting.
I have heard tales of DMs who elicit this hesitancy themselves — who are unable to assert authority, or have the answers, and that they fall into seeking permission when running. When players sense this, they step into the vacuum and take control. They push boundaries, test limits and try to manipulate the game world to their advantage. This reaction is understandable; it's not an effort to break the DM, nor to ruin the game, but rather for the players to simply get what they can. It puts the would-be DM in a hazardous position, trying to give the players what they want while scrambling to assert any authority as individual personalities and expectations cause the delicate campaign to come apart.
Continued on The Higher Path
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