Finding D&D - 7

Not wanting to spend away the party's adventuring time with more description, having established the setting I hurry through a back-and-forth where the farmer is ready to slaughter one of his pigs, provided he receives compensation. Einrugg's equipment includes an iron wedge and tongs, worth more to the farmer than coins, While Olivia suggests surrendering Lisandro's backpack, as what he has will fit into Galatea's tote. After further negotiation, the party surrenders a pipe, four iron spikes and a pair of leather gloves, which a roll tells me fits the farmer's hands. The pig is slaughtered and put on a spit.

One pig won't go far among the party and 56 children, but it's a mouthful for each; the party learns that Qitai is just seven miles away, perhaps too far for the children to travel, but not for half the party should they choose to go on their own. It's agreed that Zhan should go — he knows the road better than any of them, having trod on it more than once, and Einrugg too, as he has the party's formerly best charisma, now superseded by Zhan's. As the sun passes the zenith both head off, with neither player noting that they automatically trust one another, both being party members, though they met only that morning. I've had parties and played in games where these meetings need to be role-played and deeply examined, but on the whole it merely wastes game time and arrives at the same conclusion as skipping over it all. I consider it a good sign that Jason forgoes the temptation, as it helps me understand what sort of player he'll be.

Galatea laments that the trained hunter, Zhan, isn't around to scare up more meat; Olivia suggests that Lisandro's owl should be able to find game, if it's nearby, and sure enough the die indicates this is true. Together, leaving Piotr with the children, these two hike in the direction of the goats that Pacheco has seen; another die is rolled to see how long this takes and it happens that the goats are luckily moving towards the two. Once they are spotted, hundreds of yards away, Olivia has Lisandro tell Galatea to sweep round while the mage shelters in a small crevice; seeing through the owl's eyes, Lisandro and Galatea drive the goats towards the mage. The die says this works and when the first goat comes in range, Lisandro drops it with a magic missile. "No hunting skills needed," Olivia says proudly, though the characters must rely on the pig farmer, name still unknown because it isn't necessary, to skin and clean the animal.

Continued on The Higher Path

Finding D&D - 6

Tamara was behind her time as the next session began, so that there were dice and papers laid out before she got her coat zipped up. "Have fun killing everything," she said, receiving grunts of assent and promises that nothing would be left alive. I wrested myself from the table to walk her to the door for a last kiss; we had a private moment to ourselves in the front hall, so I asked her if she was doing okay. She'd was to see the doctor on Tuesday, to learn if our efforts to maintain her diet had succeeded in staving off any further damage to her kidneys; neither her nor I wanted to hear that after Tuesday, she'd have to start dialysis.

She said she was bearing up and not much else; she didn't want to think or talk about it, though I knew she needed support. This had become the routine every four months for the last year. The doctor would tell her everything was fine and there again would be a grace period, until she'd see the doctor again.

We hugged and I closed the door. As ever, she was off to look after her grandson, so my daughter and her husband could have a night out.

I shook it off and put on my game face, returning to the living room. I had five players tonight; the fifth was Jason, Susan's friend. On meeting, he'd seemed well enough, a bit stiff — which was reasonable, given that he was in a strange house surrounded by four strange people. The other players greeted him positively, saying they were glad to have them there, for which I was grateful.

I'd been a noob at a game table, though not for a long time, and remembered the cold, disinterested feeling that a lot of them gave, like a company of soldiers meeting a green recruit in a war zone. The expectation that I wouldn't come more than one session was palpable... and usually self-perpetuating, as I would feel no desire whatsoever to become familiar with such unfriendly, standoffish people. I was proud that my party weren't like this — though of course, this wasn't my doing. They were simply the sort of people I wished to have around me.

Continued on The Higher Path

Zen and D&D

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Persig, is a semi-autobiographical description of a trip taken between Minnesota and Montana.  Using the motorcycle itself and the trip vs. the author's perspectives upon artistic and intuitive philosophy, the book draws a distinction between the analytical vs. the romantic worldview.  The trip itself is romantic; the author reconnects with his son, he is travelling to Bozeman where he previously lived and taught at university (and had a breakdown).  Keeping the motorcycle in working order, the forced experience of travelling on a motorcycle and dealing with the real world, these force values of logic, precision and understanding of how systems work.

I was told to read this book by many of my friends when I was in high school, as well as several older persons with whom I had a continuous, intellectual relationship.  They felt the book would give my 17 and 18 year old self insights that they felt I needed... but when they would describe the nature of the book to me, in my mind it fell into the category that included The Teachings of Don Juan by Carlos Castenada, which I considered a load of self-reflective junk thinking (and still do) and Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf, which predates the same themes as Catcher in the Rye and which I consider to be Hesse's worst book.  I did not, as a young man, consider the world to be "superficial" and "unfulfilling."  I considered the problem to be those rigorous systems interposed between me and the world, namely school and family, which fought me at every turn as I struggled to free myself, embrace and fall in love with the world.  Thankfully, I succeeded.

I don't think Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a good book.  I think it has the idea of being a good book, but the author's ultimate attempts to reflect Phaedrus from Socrates wallows in neo-romantic counter-culturalism, exactly the culture that I intellectually grew up in with the late 70s and which I rejected out of hand because I felt it was going — accurately — absolutely nowhere.  As masturbation always does.

But, about seven years ago, with little else to do, I finally read the book; I did not find a regret that I hadn't read it at 18.  If I had, I would have infuriated my friends by refusing to find in it anything of value.  What I did find at the age of 53, however, was a framework for positioning two worlds within a narrative, which struck me as brilliantly intuitive for something that, publishing his book in 1974, Persig wouldn't know about.

Dungeons and Dragons is usually viewed as a separation from reality, just as we normally do with most forms of media intended to entertain us.  Less than an art film or an art book, like Zen et al..., D&D is not seen as particularly expressive of anything.  It's for "fun."  Just as most movies are, particularly those of the stripe that feature a lot of noise and arm swinging.  There is a fixed sentiment in the minds of most players that D&D is escapist, and that it ought to be, and that in fact any attempt to veer away from that escapism is viewed as ruining the game and further, making it some version of either squick or player abusive.

I have long argued that any performance-based activity is, necessarily, not only creative but ultimately informative.  Though we may resist the idea that D&D is making us better as people through teaching us how to manage others, even our friends, or work collaboratively together, or gain insight into history, physics and, most of all, ethics (my gawd, no!), the truth is that we are affected by our game play.  Granted, for those who are encouraged or empowered in some campaigns to act out, abuse others, self-aggrandise or otherwise behave like poopy-heads, the effect isn't necessarily positive.  Comparing D&D to film, we might rank such game experiences on a par with abusive forms of pornography or episodes of the Angry Video Game Nerd.  Nonetheless, the argument made here is that we're affected positively or negatively, but that we're affected.  To pretend otherwise is to turn a blind eye to one's motives.

One assumes that those with sight prefer a positive effect.  Which, logically, provokes a discussion and interpretation of how this is done... which brings us back to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Both sides of Persig's book — the technological and the romantic — evolve essentially from the same deeper truth — that the actions we take are based in our desire to obtain things, whether material or not.  We seek peace, we seek stability, we seek a better car, we seek a chance to visit a distant land... a process that is rooted in our biological need to sustain ourselves and survive.  If I do it now, sitting at this computer, or some other place, churning out food in a restaurant for clientele, the gifts I use for solving problems and meeting obstacles do not change when I am playing a game of D&D.  I am still me, seeking, acting in accordance with my ethical framework and striving to overcome.  D&D is not an escape from life... it is life in a different form.

Conversely, arguably, life itself is D&D.  My fighter character and an NPC decide to have a baby; I and my partner decide to have a baby.  My fighter has to find his way out of a dungeon; I have to find a job.  My fighter has decided to journey 500 miles to get the thing he wants.  I want to drive 500 miles to get to a D&D game.

There is no difference.  Out here, in the "real" world, the difficulties are more complex, the NPCs more difficult to predict, the choices more varied, the consequences of my actions more concerned and ultimately more final, but the principles by which I think my way through these difficulties are the same as I display when I'm playing.

This is the purpose of my novel.  It is auto-biographical, though I lie where I want to make the story work.  It is a philosophical investigation of life, but primarily in relating how the strategies employed here also apply there.  It does discuss my manner of DMing; but in exactly the same way, it describes my manner of being a friend and a co-partner with my other half.  

It's funny.  When I posted the first 6,000 words into ChatGPT and asked the program, "What is the book trying to say?" I nailed the answer right off.  I suppose, because it's not hung up on literary rhetoric.

Incidentally, "Zen" refers to a state of mindfulness and awareness, such as we might have about ourselves when we are in the world, thinking about how a D&D character might handle this problem, and while we are playing D&D, thinking about how a real world person might do so.

Finding D&D - 5

As we sit, the timing of our next session occurs to me. "Are we good with two weeks today?" I ask. "That's the Friday before Thanksgiving." This all taking place in Canada, the crops come off the fields earlier in this great northern land, so naturally Thanksgiving comes in October.

"We're good," says John. "Monday, we drive to Red Deer to have turkey with Olivia's parents; usually get back around midnight. But we have no plans for Friday."

"Me either," shrugs Rick. He has no family nearby, I know; his people live in Ontario and he has little contact with them.

I ask him, "Has anyone invited you to Thanksgiving? Tamara and I are having the kids and grandkids around; if you want —"

"No, I'll pass. I might have to go out of town anyway... this winter I'll be out of town a lot. I landed that position I wanted, troubleshooting at oil and gas stations up north. It's solid work, but it means weeks away at a time. I'm not sure when I start, but it's supposed to be around Thanksgiving."

"Oh," I say. "Are you going to be back for games?"

Continued on The Higher Path

Finding D&D - 4

I look at the time and see it’s getting on to 10 o’clock. I feel a bit weary but ready to continue; the feeling I get round the table is that it's not a good time to call a break — so I finish the coffee I've ignored for the last hour and press on.

Olivia tells me that they're ready to start against the pass and the others agree. John puts Piotr at the front. Consenting, I briefly describe the rugged, barrenness of the mountains... the long, streaked cliffs, dark with traces of ochre and rust; the rock jutting out at abrupt angles; the path growing steeper and the appearance of snow and ice upon the stony surfaces around them. I remind the party of how I had described the mountains as "rugged" when they first came over them, and how little description I had given then. "It was no bother for you, alone, to come down the narrow paths from above; it didn't bother you that the sheer stone walls pressed close around you, except that you feared some beast would attack you."

"I remember," says John.

"It's different now, with the children. Their hands are cold, their footing unsure. They have to use their hands, and the rock surfaces are cold and sharp. Within the first hour, two have received cuts on their palms from climbing."

"Do I have my cure spells from last night?" asks Rick.

I begin to say 'Yes,' but John cuts me off.

"Don't use them even if you've got them. We've got a ways to go; someone's going to fall or something; we'll need healing then. In the meantime, getting cut and bruised will have to be something they just endure." The others agree. I assure Rick that Einrugg has his spells. Susan reminds me to keep going.

Continued on The Higher Path

Finding D&D - 3

John returns from the bathroom and looks around, saying, “The girls are on the deck.” I nod and he takes his seat. “Remind me again; how many children are there?”
“56,” Rick answers, before I can.

“That’s right.”

John sighs. “I wish there were more of us.” I understand that he would like there to be more adults to look after them.

Olivia and Susan, having seen that John’s back, come in, leaving the door open. The sun has set and the eastern sky is deepening from steely blue to azure.

Susan’s eyes are a little red. I make a guess about things she might have said to Olivia, but I don’t ask. I don’t worry. Susan’s seen dark times and she’s made of nails. As she sits down, she starts right in, as though nothing’s happened. “If the haruchai are coming after us, they won’t come from above—they’ll come from below. Right?”

“Yes,” I say. That would make sense.

“And what about beasts up on the pass? Should we expect anything?”

“Probably not. I’d have to roll for that.”

Susan glances at the others. “Since we have five unconscious kids, I suggest we split into two groups. Einrugg and Lisandro stay down here with most of the younger kids, and Chen to help keep them in order. Lisandro can keep watch with her owl. Piotr and I will go up in three trips, carrying the unconscious ones, setting up a camp about a thousand feet below the top.”

“It’ll be freezing up there,” says Rick. Then, to me, he asks, “What’s the altitude, roughly?”

“Well... you can't be sure, but based on the look of the mountains, the plateau you’re on, the part of the world you’re in… you’d estimate the pass is about 8,500 ft.”

Continued on The Higher Path

Finding D&D - 2

Recent events are fresh in my mind. The previous session, they'd climbed down to explore the haruchai lamasery they'd discovered the running before. They'd killed a guard, afterwards finding there were at least thirty monks ... and that they’d imprisoned more than fifty human children. The party could see them inside a large, rhomboid temple, sleeping on a tiled floor, shoulder-to-shoulder. With some difficulty, they slipped inside through a narrow skylight and quietly smothered two other haruchai guards. Piotr had swiftly put down one more monk with a neatly managed back-stab.

"You've successfully led the children away from the lamasery," I explain, "but you don't know if you're being pursued. The oldest children are leading you to Qitai. There are 57 children altogether, aged 4 to 14. Five of the children are unconscious. By now, you've had time to try to learn why they're unconscious, but you have no idea."

"Five?" asks Olivia. "I thought you said three."

"Two have lapsed into unconsciousness since you left the temple, but they did so in the first few hours. It's been 15 hours now, and no others have lost consciousness." The party has to carry the eldest two girls and the boy; the older children can help with the unconscious others. The remaining children are walking, but the party has to stop regularly because it's brutally hot and the children aren’t made for the difficult terrain. It's late in the afternoon now.

I describe their surroundings, using my notes. "The dusty desert floor is covered with patches of three-foot scrub. You can see two miles to the south there are some rocky hills; and in the far distance, you can see mountains so high that snow rests on their peaks. The children tell you that you have to go through a gap in those peaks to get to Qitai, the day after tomorrow.”

"We hurry the children along as best we can," says John.

"I send my owl out to view the country ahead," adds Olivia, speaking for her mage Lisandro. This is Pacheco, a familiar, who can venture outwards as far as a mile away and still allow Lisandro to see through its eyes.

"The way ahead is clear," I say. "The sun moves closer and closer to the horizon as you make the best time that you can."

The day wanes. Finally, the group stops, and I explain that because of the latitude, it will be an hour before full darkness settles in. We talk about the difficulties of managing so many children, nearly all of whom need some kind of help. I give out some of their names for the party to refer to, as they've had to rely upon the older ones in most cases.

John says, "While we're stopped, we try everything we can to wake up the unconscious children. We try dousing them with water, we use spells to lower or raise their body temperature, or see if they react to cantrips." The party starts comparing their magic, trying various means to affect the sleepers to see if anything works. It doesn't.

I explain, "Chen, the oldest boy, tells you that each of the sleeping children were taken away from the group for a while, then brought back. All of them fell asleep soon after being returned. Naran, one of the girls, adds that some of the children that were taken never came back." The party considers this.

"So two of these children were returned just before we rescued them?" asks Susan.

"Apparently," I answer.

After more discussion, the party sorts out how they'll spend the night. Lisandro plans to stay up as long as he can, concentrating the owl's forays in the direction of the lamasery. John suggests that if the haruchai aren't seen before midnight, it probably means they've stopped for the night too. Galatea and Einrugg bed the children between the boulders and the crevices of the outcropping, which the party has chosen for its defensive nature. Then, following Olivia's advice, Rick's Einrugg walks out a few hundred yards from the camp and casts a light spell on a bush. After this, Lisandro's owl concentrates on watching the bush, sure that any following haruchai would head there first. But no haruchai are seen all night.

Susan wants names for the children and I start churning out random names generated from the internet, not giving years for how old they are but rating them as pubescent, pre-pubescent, young and very young, so there are four groups. I use a 4-sided die for this. Painstakingly, but without wasting much game time, Susan starts assigning older children to younger children for the next day's march. I bring up food and this is distributed in full rations for their charges and half-rations for the party. I'm asked, and I estimate that the pass is about 3,500 ft. above them.

"Are the children going to be able to cross it?" asks Olivia.

"It's going to be dangerous," I say.

I roll a die and tell the party that come the morning, there are three children missing. The others don't know where they are. This creates a stir among the players. Voices rising, they assign Einrugg to look after the children. Lisandro's owl is sent off to search in a wide circle. Galatea heads down through the rocks towards a dry wash they passed the day before, while Piotr searches among the higher rocks.
Within minutes, Pacheco the owl finds Altan and Mei in a little crevice, invisible from the ground; they’re quite safe, doing naught but picking flowers. Unfortunately, the girl Mnkeh, who's just five, is nowhere to be seen. I roll a six-sided die to see how long it takes to find her, doing it until I roll a '1.' I mentally tell myself that if I get a ‘1’ within four rolls, Mnkeh is safe. It takes six rolls for me to roll a ‘1.’

As the die hits the table each time, in full view—I don't play with a gaming screen—the players look on with confusion and concern. When I stop, with a ‘1’ showing, the room is silent. "Galatea hears a scream to her left," I say. Galatea launches herself in that direction, and as she reaches the top of the dry wash bank, she sees that Mnkeh is being threatened by a wolf. The little girl is trying to wedge herself into a crack along the far bank. It's not big enough for her.

"I scream, trying to get the wolf's attention," yelps Susan, who then has Galatea leap down the bank. It's ten feet, onto soft loam, and she makes her dexterity check and ends on her feet. The wolf and Mnkeh, I say, are 40 feet away.

Galatea throws her hammer, Susan snatching her d20 from the table. She misses.

I roll a twenty-sided die in full view of the party. It comes up a '17.' A clear hit. The wolf attacks Mnkeh and kills the girl. The shock rolls through the party. Galatea rights herself, drawing her scimitar. Facing off against the wolf, she wins initiative. She swings, hits, and causes 2 damage. The wolf emits a howl and flees. Pacheco sees it and flies along after it. John asks if Piotr can see the owl or the wolf; if it's anywhere near him. I shake my head. I say, "no." The despondency in the party is palpable. The wolf runs and runs, eventually going beyond where Pacheco can watch it.

Galatea lifts the child and takes her back to camp. The party's mood is gloomy, but they try to shake it off. There's some discussion, and they agree there's no way to carry the body back with them. They sacrifice a blanket for a shroud, wrapping Mnkeh in it; Einrugg and Galatea find a place where there's soft loam and bury the body together. The cleric performs a small ceremony. They build a cairn of a dozen rocks, sure they can find this place again with Pancheco's help.

Continued on The Higher Path

Finding D&D - 1

I stretch. My D&D books are laid out on the dining room table. It’s almost evening on Saturday as I slide the vacuum cleaner into its closet, the last step in making the apartment clean. The windows are open and the fans are running. Late September and yet it’s going to be a muggy night for the game. I head for the kitchen where I stretch again before pouring cold coffee into my cup. This goes in the microwave; I punch a minute-forty and wait, running my plans for tonight’s game in my head.

I sit at the table, making notes. The coffee’s good and hot. I think over an idea I have for one of the NPC children, unsure if it’s right, wrong ... or maybe going too far. The scenario might hit Susan a little hard in the gut. Dramatic, though. Believable too.

My thoughts are interrupted by the buzzer. I know it’s Rick before I touch the intercom. It’s Rick, and he’s early. I let him in.

I leave my apartment and go to the stairs, seeing his hand move along the railing down below me. I say, "Hello," and he apologises as he climbs. He's always early and he always apologises. When he's almost at the top, I ask if he wants some lemonade.

"Yes, please," he says, and I turn away and go in my apartment, which is right by the stairs; he follows me inside, taking off his shoes by the door. By the time he catches up to me, I'm pouring his glass full. "I need this," he says. "But I've got to go back downstairs. My truck isn't doing so well in this weather. I need to do some work on it. You don't mind?"

I tell him I don't. I tell him to take the lemonade with him and he declines, finishing the glass in two gulps. Then together, we head out; I pause to lock the door while he starts down. I follow him down the three flights to the street.

Rick, short for Richard, opens the hood and tells me he's inspecting his radiator hoses for leaks, explaining that there's a sweet antifreeze odour he can smell. I nod politely, knowing nothing about cars or trucks. I don’t own a car, don’t drive, don’t know one thing about engine maintenance. But I listen and let him talk, because most times I’m talking and he’s listening. He putters and I drink my coffee, and in a minute or two, predictably, he’s talking about his cleric, Einrugg.
Einrugg has recently reached 6th level and Rick is excited. Some five sessions ago I suggested that maybe Einrugg should start a church, and the idea has just now gotten into Rick's head. He wants to know how much responsibility a church would be, and what's the upside.

I tell him that once the church is built, so long as Einrugg gives a sermon there one week in four—and finds some subordinate priest to carry the congregation on other weeks—Einrugg can count on a stipend from the collection plate whenever he arrives in town. “It’s a steady income and makes you a part of the local community," I say. “You become an important person, you get some status, and if you invest your money in the area, you'll make friends. When you give a sermon, you tell the congregation about your adventuring and you make those stories into parables.”

"How do I do that?" he asks; already, I'm talking over his head.

“Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to actually make up stories. You tell me that your cleric makes a parable, and it just happens. And when the congregation hears what Einrugg has to say, you become a hero. People talk about you. They spread your fame through the kingdom. You get invited to the best events and parties, get to know the king, and everybody respects you. At least, eventually. You still have to run the character through situations before you get there ... but that’s the idea.”

Rick looks thoughtful. "I guess." His hand, feeling along the radiator hose, stops. "There you are, you little devil."

"The leak?"

"Yes. And I don't think I can do anything about it yet.” He moves his hand close to the engine. “Yeah, I’ve got to let the engine cool down completely. I think I've got a patch kit; then I'll need to depressurise the system and drain the coolant. After that, I'll disconnect the hose clamps, remove the damaged hose, and install a new one. Finally, I'll refill the coolant and bleed the system to remove any air pockets."

He's over my head. "Tonight?"
"No, tomorrow." He pauses. “Can I build my church in the center of a big city?”

“Uh, no,” I answer. “Other clerics have thought about that already. Like hundreds of years ago. You have to build your church where there isn’t one.”

"Oh."

“It’s okay. You’re upgrading some out-of-the-way village. You’re doing the local residents a favour. And it’s a smaller pond to start with. No competitors. Plus, the local lord might offer you a piece of land for free. Well, with taxes. But then, you get taxes from the residents on your land, so it works out. That’s another revenue source. And if the lord’s family likes you, they might become members of your congregation. They might ask you to baptise one of their children. Or invite you to a banquet.”

“Hm,” says Rick, cleaning his hands with a cloth. “Sounds easy.”

"Well ..." I start.

I have to be careful. It's a fine line for a dungeon master. Players like things to be easy. But no matter what the payoff ends up being, the bigger the return – the graver the risk. It’s how I’ve been running the game since the beginning – nothing is ever “easy.” I won’t hand Rick's Einrugg the keys to the kingdom without a crisis or two, not for just showing up once a week and having his character give a sermon. Sure, yeah, I’m selling him the upside. I want him to commit to something beyond hacking his way through the game world. I’m deliberately keeping the downside to myself because that’s how selling works. I’m putting a big fat hook in front of Rick’s mouth. I want him to swallow it. Then I can play him to the shore, kicking and fighting while he can’t get the hook out of his mouth, because as a DM that’s how I set up an adventure.

See, I can’t use my authority to force Rick to do anything. And if he does do something and doesn’t like it, I won't use my authority to make him keep going; some dungeon masters maybe, but not me. Still, if there’s something in the adventure that Rick wants, so bad he can’t make himself let it go, then I’ve got him. I can make his game experience a horror show, so long as in the end, if he keeps at it, he gets that thing he wants.

Take the example of his maybe-someday church. Einrugg builds the church, makes friends and gains status ... everything seems great. I let him settle in, give him every reason to believe things are fine. I won't take it away from him. But then a zealot arrives, accusing Einrugg of blasphemy for adventuring most of the time. Next, the lord's son disappears on Einrugg's land, forcing Rick to find the boy alive or face the lord's wrath. There's also a troublesome burial ground that needs clearing and a religious superior demanding answers about heresy at the worst possible time.

These aren't "gotcha" moments, but typical challenges for a cleric running a religious centre in a D&D world. Each adventure is a dilemma, a setback, a catastrophe—but each offers Rick a chance to overcome the trouble and succeed, though he has to dig in and try. Seriously, I genuinely want Einrugg to get his church and status, because it allows me to create profoundly different setups with rich, satisfying, and complex features. If I achieve that, everyone wins and the game becomes better.

My answer to Rick goes, “I wouldn’t say it’s going to be easy.”

Rick has played with me for a few years and knows what that means. His expression is that of trying to decide if I'm bluffing or holding a winning hand. I let him figure it out on his own, keeping my face relaxed, emotionless, revealing nothing. I’m a good poker player.

Susan’s car appears up at the corner. She’s unusually early, too. It’s just twenty after six. We watch as she parks her bruised, long-suffering Mazda 3. Rick turns to his truck and I walk over to greet Susan as she gets out. She gives me a hug. With the door open, she bends over, gathers her character sheets and dice bag from the passenger seat, and hands me a four-pack of two-litre pop bottles to carry for her.

We walk back to Rick's truck, and, holding her stuff, she gives Rick a hug also. We talk a bit about the weather. Susan asks Rick if his truck is okay, Rick talks about his truck and I feel the weight of the pop in my arms. “I’ll take this upstairs,” I say.

"Wait, I'll come with," she says.

Rick thinks the patch kit's in his truck, mixed in with the usual mess of pliers, wire cutters, outlets, switches, circuit breakers, cable ties, connector boxes, dirt, sawdust, and discarded packaging. He starts to look for it. Coffee cup in one hand, pop in the other, Susan alongside, we step up to the apartment’s front door. I set down the pop to fish out my keys, and together we perform a little dance to get us inside with our loads. We climb the stairs. Susan asks after my partner Tamara."

She's started a new art class," I explain, adding that she specifically chose a Friday night so she'd be out of the house for the game. Once upon a time, Tamara used to play. She decided it was too much stress, so she quit. Susan expresses her regret. We get to the top of the stairs, and while I get us into the apartment, I ask about her son Daniel.

"At his grandparents," Susan says. Within the relative cool of the apartment, we go to the large table set up for gameplay in the living room, and Susan picks her usual seat. She talks about Daniel for a while, bringing me up to date. Her son’s unhappy about his teeth coming in. I pour some of her pop into a glass full of ice and bring it to her; I want some of it, but I've promised my doctor, no more dark soft drinks. I drain my coffee cup and make myself a lemonade.

Susan is thirty-one. She runs a 5th level fighter, Galatea. She, and her character, joined our game about two years ago; mine is the first D&D campaign she’s ever been in. She has a natural talent and doesn’t have any of the quibbles that long-time savvy players possess. Susan has been to three gaming conventions since starting my game and she loves them. This is a new world for her, and unlike the other players, she has no childhood memories of gaming to draw on.

"How do you feel about a new player?" she asks from out of nowhere. "There's a fellow I work with; his name's Jason. He says he's been playing 5th edition off and on for years, but he's grown dissatisfied with it. He wants a game with an older rule book."

I'm distrustful. I don't let on, thinking to myself, if he's been playing "off and on," how committed to my game is he going to be? If he's used to 5e, how's he going to feel about my game? But I adopt an interested expression and let her continue.

Jason, I learn, has never played in any "old school" format. Susan tells me he started playing seventeen years ago, in 3rd edition, which he really enjoyed, though he told Susan there was too much die rolling. She asks me what I think that means and I try to explain it.

I explain about feats, and about modifiers, and about how the game tried to solve unclear parts of the earlier versions by assigning die rolls to them, which slows down the game and involves a lot of in-head calculations. "It's a one-size-fits-all problem with the rules," I say. "In the end, no matter what you're rolling for, the process becomes more important than the reasons behind rolling the dice in the first place. And since the consequences for failure are negligible, well, generally... after a while, you just don't care why you're rolling."

Susan doesn't really understand, and shrugs. "Jason's heard about your game and he wants to try it," she says. I learn that he's a year younger than she is. I’m very suspicious now. I'm very suspicious now. On the one hand, I relish the opportunity to show someone how my game works. On the other, nearly everything she says spells bad news. I ask if Jason’s been told that I run AD&D with more than a thousand house rules. I have so many house rules that I have to keep an online wiki just so my players can look through them in and out of gameplay. Susan says that he’s seen the wiki. She doesn’t convince me that he likes it, but she tries. I sigh and say, “So long as he gets it. Sure. Bring him around to the next running.”

She thanks me and I berate myself for causing myself trouble, again. I drink my lemonade, watch Susan unpack her character, and formulate in my mind how to explain my world to a fifth edition player. Susan uses a big folder for her character sheet because she takes lots of notes. She keeps printouts of things she's found on the web, some from my wiki. She likes to come 15 minutes before a game to manage all this, but today her parents had her drop Daniel off early so they could take him out to dinner.

The door buzzes. It's Olivia. She takes a little time to climb the stairs, then comes in the door like it's her own house. She shouts “Hello” while taking off her shoes.

"Where's John?" asks Susan.

"Downstairs, talking to Rick," Olivia answers. She comes around the corner and rolls her eyes. "About cars." She's older than everyone here, except me; she's 35. She has long blonde hair that she ties in a knot atop her head with a leather cord, which matches the leather combat jacket she made herself, as Olivia's a cosplayer. She's married to John.

"Want some pop?" I ask.

"Of course," Olivia answers. She sets a clear plastic storage case on the table, about an inch thick, and opens it. She pulls out papers and scoops out the dice rolling around in the case. I go to the kitchen and pour some pop into a glass, while Olivia asks Susan about Daniel. They talk about the boy and I set the glass next to Olivia. Since everyone's here, I get myself started by opening my laptop and plugging it in. I don't use pencils and paper.

Last month, Olivia and John announced that they’re going to have a child of their own, so there’s lots for the women to talk about, while all three of us get ready. Susan remembers before she had Daniel and they talk about prenatal care, balancing work with early motherhood, sleepless nights … they brainstorm about a future playdate. My own daughter was born 26 years ago and I have nothing whatsoever to say on any of this, as I know when to shut up.

John and Olivia have been married for ten years. John's been playing with me since long before that, but Olivia only started coming along about seven years ago. It was she who introduced Susan to my campaign, when it was agreed to retire the old game and start everyone at 1st level. That’s why no one's above 6th level. We only play every three weeks, and I run a whole other campaign with different people. I don't mind that this one happens less often.
Olivia has a 5th level mage, Lisandro. She lives and dies for spell use and is something of a classic girl-bear when it comes to her playing style. In real life, she’s a teacher, the sort I rarely got in school. Let’s just say she never insists that everyone "just get along." She respects conflict, loves Shakespeare, and at the same time thinks it's boneheaded to teach it to high school students. She breaks rules. We get on fairly well.

Slowly, the subject gets around to D&D, with Olivia asking me about spells. Both Lisandro and Galatea are close to leveling up—they might tonight—and Olivia is eager to acquire another 3rd level spell for her character. I make suggestions and she trusts that I have her best interests in mind. I do. As with Einrugg, I want Lisandro to survive and do well. The way I see DMing, my agenda only includes making this as hard and as complicated as I can, without deliberately stopping anyone from progressing and getting stronger.

The buzzer rings again. Susan sees I'm busy and gets up, goes to the intercom, pressing the door open. This time, it's both Rick and John. Rick has finished with his truck and wants to use the bathroom; I tell him there's a bar of heavy-duty soap in a pail under the sink. John waves a greeting and asks if there's coffee. "I finished it," I say, and he says he'll make more. Casually, he rifles through my kitchen as though it's his, knowing where the coffee and grinder are. My place is his place.

I’ve known John for 16 years, since he was a 17-year-old kid. He met me when I was managing a coffee shop, working fourteen hours a day. He came around two or three days a week, mostly when it was quiet, and we'd play chess over the counter. Back then, he was in his second year of university, majoring in journalism. We’d talk about writing, politics, history ... and eventually D&D. I'd already been playing nearly twenty years. I didn't have a game then. I was on hiatus. John had never played. Yet we could still talk about it.

I began running a game about a year later. John was front and centre at my table and has been ever since. He met Olivia eleven years ago and he convinced her to join, not me. I can smell the coffee brewing as he appears, taking his seat between Olivia and the last empty chair. He unfolds his character sheet and flattens it out. This is his whole character, Piotr. The rest he keeps in his head.

Piotr is just the latest in a long list of thieves. And for John, it’s all about the backstabbing. Yes, he'll go that extra bit to get a nice piece of gear if one's there. Now and then he comes up with a cunning plan, the sort that works most of the time. He's a genius as a strategic thinker, but he holds back because he doesn't want to run other people's characters. None of those are, however, what he really likes. For John, the game is that moment before dropping the die, when he's all set up to put his sword between the enemy's armour plates … and then having that die come up right. He just loves it. And he will move heaven and earth to set the moment up.

I don’t judge.

Rick comes out of the bathroom and says hello; he's carrying a familiar red backpack, which he sets on his chair for opening. John pours his dice into a pool on the table about six inches wide and starts sorting them as though he's picking out the best seeds for planting. Rick sets a folder on the table, adding a box for his dice. Every die he owns is either orange or yellow; he adds a white eraser, two pencils, and a pencil sharpener.

They're talking among themselves now but I've stopped listening. I'm getting my game face on. I look down the checklist for tonight's running, a collection of facts about a desert town on the edge of desolate mountains, called Qitai. Though isolated, an overland trade route through Qitai brings travellers from distant lands in both the east and the west. I open a map on my desktop, the screen duplicated on a second monitor everyone else can see. They fall into a discussion about the map, though they already know where they are and remember what's happening.

John kisses Olivia before fetching his coffee. Rick drops his bag on the floor and gets comfortable in his chair. Susan asks how far they are, right now, from Qitai, and I tell her, "Two days." Rick asks if anyone needs to be healed. They start counting up how much food they have. I flip through a few more files, not minding that the players can see what I'm looking at. I open a notebook next to my computer and read.

I rise to refill my lemonade and Susan says, "I'm down nine hit points. I thought you used your healing last session."

"I did," says Rick. "I've still got a potion."

I hear Olivia saying, "Don't waste it," as I'm opening the fridge. I stop listening, knowing I've got to concentrate. Pouring from the pitcher, I heave a breath and steady myself. A couple more minutes left. Nothing to do but be in the headspace. I sip my drink, not hurrying back to my chair. I feel the coolness of the glass in my hand, the hum of the refrigerator. For no reason, I take a walk up the hall to my study, just to be alone a minute or two.

I come back to the table and sit down. I listen but I don't speak. I lean back, watching the players ... and after a minute or two, they turn silent. I don't have to tell them I'm ready to start. They know.

Bookwriting

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion, Post 39

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Proficiency & Expertise

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

History

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Materialism & Trade

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Political Authority

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Culture

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Geography

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Letting Go of the Wheel

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

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

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


Continued on The Higher Path

Basic Reliable Habits

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

How a 16th Century Explorer's Sailing Ship Works

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

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

Advanced Beginners

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

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

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

Continued on The Higher Path

Novice vs. Advanced Beginner

Posted this on my patreon, but what the heck.  It's an add-on.

I've been writing about the difference between a novice DM and an advanced beginner. I thought it might be interesting to present a short script between a novice DM and a player, to give an idea of the DM's uncertainty and fragmented approach.

DM: [flipping through notes] "Uh, okay, so... you’re in this room. It’s, um, dark. There’s, like, a... stone floor and some... barrels, maybe? And... a door on the other side.”

Player: “Alright, cool. I go check out the barrels.”

DM: [pauses, looking uncertain] “Oh, okay. Uh, the barrels... they look... wooden. Old, I think. Not sure what's inside. Do you... do you want to open one?”

Player: “Yeah, sure. I open the nearest one.”

DM: [fumbles through notes] “Uh, okay... let me check... I think... yeah, alright. You open it, and... I guess it’s empty? Or maybe it’s... dusty? Yeah, let’s say it’s... dusty.”

Player: “Okay. Well... I’ll check the door.”

DM: “The door? Right. Okay, so... it’s, uh, wood. Old, too. Um, I think... maybe you can try to open it?”

Player: “I’ll try the handle.”

DM: [relieved] “Alright, yeah. It opens... I think it opens... into another room.”

This might be overdone, but the goal here is to capture the DM's uncertainty, hesitation and lack of cohesion, to express the disjointed, step-by-step experience of the player. Each element feels isolated and the DM is clearly struggling to keep up with the flow.

Let's try the same scene using an advanced beginner DM:

DM: [confidently setting the scene] “Alright, you step into a dimly lit stone room. The floor is rough and scattered with old, wooden barrels along the walls. Across the room, there’s a heavy wooden door with iron bands—looks like it hasn’t been opened in years.”

Player: “I go over to the barrels to check them out.”

DM: “Sure. As you get closer, you notice a layer of dust on them. Most of them are sealed, but one is slightly cracked open, and you can see some kind of dried-out residue inside. It doesn’t look like anyone’s touched these in ages.”

Player: “Interesting. Alright, I’ll go check out the door.”

DM: [without hesitation] “You make your way to the door. The handle’s rusted, and it feels heavy in your hand, but you manage to turn it with a bit of effort. The door creaks open, and beyond it, you can see another room... shadows flickering along the walls.”

Not only does the DM more fluidly communicate the scene, but the overall moves faster, giving the player a stronger sense of the setting. The description flows, the player sees the space more easily and the scene feels more immersive.

Join my $3 Patreon tier to see why this is so. For DMs who are interested, gain insight on what to look for in yourself should you wish to improve your style.

Automatic Processing

 It falls upon us at this point to quantify the improvement of the novice to the second stage in Dreyfus's stage analysis, that of the "advanced beginner." We should note that the advancement spoken of here fails to denote either expertise of even competence... the adjustment is only from "novice" to "beginner." Therefore, we must assume a set of moderate but recognisable changes taking place between what a novice observe while playing the game and what a beginner's advancement allows. To explain that, we must explain how a novice sees the game. Understand here that the pattern of thinking described here is what defines the novice, NOT the amount of time the novice has spent playing. A particularly insightful DM who succeeds well out of the gate may, through other skill-sets and professional knowledge, intuitively leap past the novice stage and directly into that of the beginner. It's how the individual sees the game that defines a novice. This reinforces the idea that improvement is a matter of perspective and understanding, not just experience.

The novice's perception is rooted in the observation of "surface features". Largely due to the novelty of the novice dungeon master's perspective and the density of expectations that are thrust upon the position, novices rarely have enough time to do more than see elements of the game as distinct, isolated components, taking them at face value, in terms of their most visible and immediate details. Character abilities are mere numbers, as are hit points, while monster stats exist for the purpose of engaging in combat and little else. Surface descriptions are purely representational, therefore carrying a stigma of two-dimensionality. The approach to the game is much like a checklist to be followed without deviation, particularly in the case of a purchased game module, which is followed as written. It's not so much that the novice finds it difficult to see how these elements interact, it's more that the novice sees no particular reason to think that they do. Many elements of the game — like the description of a spell — are fragmented and challenging even to interpret, much less actually apply to the game, since the phrasing and assumptions used in the writing demand a complete grasp of many mechanics that take time to accumulate.

For example, when the novice reads about armour class, it's understood as a number, a stat to beat on a die roll: if the player rolls high enough, they "succeed" in hitting, and if they don't, they "fail." While there might be an understanding of the metric's importance regarding what's happening within the game's setting, the novice is still struggling to equate one to the other while managing the immediate complexities and unfamiliarity of the combat system.

Continued on The Higher Path

Measurable Improvement

This example of the novice highlights an inaccuracy in the designation, "dungeon master." As Danielle Osterman notes in the book, 2d6 Taoists, (Dungeon Apprentices: How Players become Dungeon Masters), the word "master" cannot apply to many who run the game, because the word implies a level of expertise or control that fails to match that of the person. This misnomer carries into the common alterative, "game master," or GM, which does not reconcile the problem as the wrong word is changed in the title.

From this, and from the description of the novice's shortcomings in the previous post, we can see that experience and ability are qualities that develop gradually through knowledge, learning and practice. The novice may nominally possess the authority of the DM, and the title, but this does not in itself ascribe that he or she has earned this position. Many have not. Many perceive that the mere act of adopting the title is sufficient — and as such tend not to accumulate expertise over time, through an inability to admit wrongdoing. Still others assume that the division between "novice" and "not-a-novice" is something that can be expressed in black-and-white terms, believing that having run the game for a few years, they're now an "expert," though there remains an entirely subjective measure.

Still others argue there can only BE subjective measures — that the game is so complex and, more importantly, personal, that distinctions of "good" and "bad" can be explained away by arguing, "I simply run differently," or "My priorities are different." These are convenient appellations, by necessity poorly defined and of course dismissive of any possibility that the speaker might yet have something to learn.

Continued on The Higher Path

Novices

Acting as a dungeon master is not something that we learn to do in a structured environment. As we've said, there are no instructors, no formal education for players who decide to run their own games — and certainly not for those who, lacking a model to go buy, purchase the books hoping that these works will provide enough insight to let an individual take control. Those who leap into DMing must nearly always do so out of passion and desire, for there is no one to hold their hand. As a result, those who succeed define a "trial by fire" model, often adopting an attitude the dungeon mastering OUGHT to be learned this way, and that those who would seek to learn it otherwise would not, in the end, make good DMs.

This point of pride among those who succeed damages the game's value. As an initiation, it's quite useless if ensuring that "good" can be applied to the result — that appellation is largely ascribed by the individuals themselves, NOT because it's accurate, but because there are so few around that can dispute it. The reason why there are so few DMs is this very reason — because there is no instructor to provide knowledge or guidance; because there is no standard by which a novice can readied for any part of the game. The rules, disastrous hodgepodge that they are, fail to provide the structure that "quality" requires. The would-be DM has no step-by-step path to follow, and therefore no way to judge well between the options of behaviour, speech, explanation or management of the players that potentially exist.

The manner in which self-created DMs crown themselves as "good" is accomplished with, at best, the external validation of the players, who must needs be sycophantic... since the players need to appease the DM, lest the DM quit running and thus leave the players without a game to play. This creates an unearned assuredness in DMs who survive their "trial by fire," who desperately cling to such appeasements, since any objective measure, from some observer NOT dependent upon the game, does not exist. The result is a mutual-admiration dynamic, where the players preen DMs for the sake of the game, and DMs preen themselves out of the desperate belief that all their preparation and session efforts have not been done in vain.


Continued on The Higher Path

Camaraderie

 Before every session, there's typically a natural, unstructured conversation where players and dungeon masters chat about the game. These informal discussions include a wide range of subjects, as participants find in this an opportunity to share recent events in their lives, be social and otherwise unload stress through the support group that a game-group provides. These moments are socially important, contributing to the process of setting aside the real world prior to immersing ourselves in an imaginary endeavour. By sharing personal experiences, we bond as a game group, which connects us together so that should some form of anxiety or resistance between participants arise during the game, the camaraderie established at the beginning sustains the group's desire to maintain our social circle.

This is important in fostering the same resilience and flexibility seein in children's friendships. Just as children can fight passionately and remain friends, the pre-game socialising helps players engage deeply, sometimes even fight or disagree, without jeapardising their relationships within the party or the game itself. By creating a supportive space, the interaction is more than a filler before the game starts; it helps in their ability to view in-game disputes as affairs within the game's play, and not as personal attacks upon one another.

However, this relies upon participants who have developed conflict resolution skills as children, through proper play and trust-building experiences. A dungeon master faced with such a person as an adult is liable to encounter an unnatural amount of defensiveness, aggression or avoidance from the participant. Such adults, struggling with unresolved childhood issues, may potentially view any conflict as a personal attack rather than as an opportunity for growth; this can result in game disruptions and campaign-ending incidents where one or more participants permanently withdraw from the campaign, through what appears to be a very minor slight or misunderstanding.

Continued on The Higher Path

Workbench

 Nearly all persons who have read to this point have spent many hours either playing or running... and no doubt, their engagement with the game has encouraged them to seek out things to read and perhaps to study, for their personal edification. Most have received some guidance from other dungeon masters; through formal education, they've experienced the process of learning. Many can see, easily, how education in one field can be directly applied to role-playing games. Yet while absorbing a collection of resources, and seeking out direction from others, there's yet another strategy we haven't employed, a thing we can do on our own, apart from running a campaign.

A fitting metaphor for this could be called a workbench. This is a place where craftsfolk and hobbyists tinker with materials and tools in an unpressured, exploratory way. Unlike preparing for a game, this isn't about building something specific to a purpose, but about familiarising ourselves the tools, experimenting with elements of the game and playing with ideas. It's a place for trial and error, where the actual game rules receive application to things we make for ourselves, that might fail, or might end in adding vitality to our campaign.

There are examples that nearly every long-term DM fiddles with at some point, usually without achieving our goal. Nonetheless, what's important here isn't success, but familiarity, which contributes to our deeper engagement with the game itself. In bumping up against the game's limitations, however we might strive to put a harness on things to make them work for us, we yet create a profound connection between ourselves and the game, which filters into every other game-related action we take.

Continued on The Higher Path

Book Jacket

For those willing to give it, I'm interested in criticism regarding the text layout of the book shown, BEFORE I use it. I cannot and do not wish to change the image, it fits excellently with the content, but I would like to know anything anyone would like to tell me about spacing. Obviously, the title is fixed.

Go ahead and be harsh, I have no feelings to hurt. I won't necessarily take your advice.  Give me a good slapping around.

Instructors

The process of teaching, whether as formal as a classroom or as personable as a parent teaching a child, begins with a desire to instill confidence into the student... not only with the material at hand, but with the very idea of learning. If I teach my daughter the principles of chess, yes of course I wish her to grasp the movements of the pieces and the general idea of the game — but more importantly, I wish her to feel bold and trust in her ability to make moves without fear of losing. When we are taught our letters in school, we benefit greatly from tactile and hands-on learning, tracing the letters in sand or the air, even molding the letters out of playdough... because as we physically engage with the letters, we become more sure of ourselves when speaking the name of each letter and the sound it makes.

If we don't put the acquisition of confidence at the forefront of our teaching effort, then we risk creating students who may understand the material, but will become hesitant before repeating what they've learned. We must also take care not to cause students to second-guess themselves, or avoid taking the risk of speaking up in class — which, in my early 1970s education, was barely a concern to teachers who considered our "learning" the material as more important than our "relationship" with it. Thus we were educated "at" rather than "with"... and my fellow students, as a result, did not put up their hands nor give their opinions, for fear that they'd be humiliated in front of their peers for not "understanding" the material exactly as the teachers thought we should.

We'd like to believe that things have changed, but the very fact that we continue to test upon the cold, non-interactive nature of the taught material, and not the children's interaction with it, belies that assumption. We are concerned with absorption, not application, because no grade that appears on a report card speaks to the latter. A good teacher tries to make up for this shortcoming by writing on the report card, "Jennie responds positively in class and enjoys the material," but when these words are said to parents who have little understanding of what goes on in a classroom, this recognition of Jennie's confidence and willingness to plunge forward is lost. If "enjoys the material" is matched with an "A," all it well and good... but if it's matched with a "C," because Jennie is interested but has a less than perfect memory, the only thing anyone cares about is the grade.

Continued on The Higher Path.

2d6 Taoists

I'm pleased to share that a group of writers who contributed to the book, 2d6 Taoists... Maxwell Joslyn, editor, Danielle Osterman, Shelby Maddox and Jonathan Becker, are now putting that book up for sale on Lulu. The link is here.

While yes, my name and contributions to the game are part of the work, I think it's more important to acknowledge that these writers have worked diligently and well to create works that deserve recognition in their own right.  Becker's discussion of Dungeons and Dragons as a calling, Maddox's encouragement of a coherent order through the understanding of taxonomy, Joslyn's breakdown of the computer as a driving force behind the future game and Osterman's sociological breakdown of game advice found on youtube are well worth the read... I feel overwhelmed at the prospect of examining their work here, as I don't believe that I can do it the justice that it deserves.

I give it my full endorsement; if my work is worth reading, then so too is the work that these designers and writers have done.  Trust the effort, trust the value it offers; it is a small but meaningful tome that is worth reading more than once.

Best Guess

In building emotional depth into the game's campaign, we are fascinated by the manner in which a single action we take reverberates through the responses and actions of others... and how this escalates conflict. Our first efforts to reproduce this effect are difficult, because we don't fully grasp the layering complexity of how this believably occurs; but after studying film, literature or history, we see constructed or real narratives unfold in a way that feels interconnected, complex and inevitable.

It's an educator's role to help us elucidate narratives in this manner, teaching us what to look for in the development of layered cause-and-effect structures. Hopefully, this helps us understand complex narratives in a way that isn't obvious at first glance. A useful example for this would be the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. For many, this seemed to be a spontaneous occurrence; the protests and public gatherings escalated quickly in the weeks leading up to that November. The media were caught with their pants down, focused largely on the immediate visual spectacle and weren't ready to explain in detail why it was happening. When the first stories emerged that tried to explain it, the influence of Mikhail Gorbachev's reforms received tremendous attention, such that he ended up receiving a Nobel Peace Prize... but this was hype. The Soviet Union was broke; the war in Afghanistan had been a disaster and 30 years of intense cold war spending had emptied the nation's coffers. It could no longer maintain control over its satellite states, and as a result, the power vacuum was sensed by those in East Berlin who, not spontaneously, but because they were no longer being held back, acted as they were now able. The suddenness of the fall was more about the long-suppressed pressures finally finding release rather than an unplanned outburst.

This is, of course, a gross oversimplification; hundreds of factors are at play which, if unraveled, lends insight to what happened. Through the investigation of these factors, particularly under the guidance of someone who may have been there while also deeply involved in the event's political background, can lead us to comprehending more fully what happened. Steadily, we acquire a certainty that things happen for a reason, even the most spontaneous of things. By reverse engineering these things, we gain understanding of how to set up the factors, and where they ought to lead a fictional narrative that we construct for our own purpose.

Continued on the Higher Path

Atmosphere

A common weakness in many dungeon masters is to focus on the immediate needs of their campaign, to find a module that can be quickly adapted before the next session, to produce an NPC's "backstory" in the hopes of producing a quick, short-term motivation for the party, or the ideal of a throw-it-at-them encounter that will distract the players long enough to give enough time to come up with something else. As a result, DMs often rush from instant solution to instant solution, always at the edge of feeling like if they don't come up with something in the last few hours before game time, they're sunk.

This mindset largely emerges from a failure to grasp the influence of artistic design, atmosphere and emotional depth... which in turn reflects the tendency to see these things as "non-applicable" precisely because they don't address the immediate problems of the DM. On the whole, these elements seem like luxuries when the DM's immediate concern is keeping the game running and the players engaged. They are intangible and difficult to quantify. A combat encounter or puzzle has clear, actionable components, whereas "atmosphere" is an elusive quality that defies definition.

This is largely because of the form of education we obtain; in general, our grade school teachers themselves were unable to explain exactly why we were directed to study Shakespearean plays or deconstruct poetry. Art, for most people, feels unproductive, useless and unnecessary; it expends time attempting to duplicate work that plainly others, who have spent more time at it, will always be more proficient than we are. The answer received, in turn, usually consists of a poorly-experienced teacher saying that art is a way of unwinding, relaxing, that it provides an escape and helps us forget about things, momentarily, that are actually important.

Continued on the Higher Path

Education

We come now to the most difficult part of this series, where we have to set aside what "resources" are and how to use them, and take up the unholy, unwanted subject of "education." This disaster of a field, that has induced nearly every conscious person to equate with their frustrating, provably irrelevant school experience. Where, as teenagers, we used to say to our teachers, "Why are we learning this? I'm never going to use it," only to be chastened to warned not to question the importance of school, we can look back now in our late adulthood and say with surety, "I was right. I never did use that crap I was taught."

For this reason, when most of us hear, "education," we equate it at once with the traditional system — hours of rote memorisation, irrelevant topics, boredom, long wasted hours and the absence of practical benefit. This is made worse in that most assume that if there's anything to be gained from education as a DM, it must come from a formally named subject-specific class, "How to be a Dungeon Master 201" — which, in fact, the reason why this collection of posts is called "RPG 201." The title mimics the academic naming convention because if we do not say what a thing is right on the tin, they won't trust what they're buying. This puts me the position of having to lift that boat out from the water and scraping the barnacles off it's bottom.

Education differs from research in that learning from others is part of the process, either because we undertake to teach a subject or learn one. As a student, we do not hold the teacher accountable with every statement made to prove that the knowledge being given is worth knowing. As a teacher, we don't waste the student's time, discarding conventions and assumptions about what education ought to include. The weak point in the education system was not us, the students, and it was not our teachers; it was the vast panoply of interveners who were not in the classroom with us, but yet forced us ALL to obey a ridiculous set of protocols that continue to get in the way of everything. Education can be meaningful when it's focused and practical, and free from unnecessary distractions. This has to be understood first before any good can come of what's written here next.


Continued on the Higher Path