Paths diverged (the future of D&D)

A few years back, I wrote about my long-term vision for D&D in this post. As I reimmerse myself in the game after some time away, and after having spent many, many hours reflecting on settings, homebrew vs. published worlds, and previous campaigns prior to launching with Phelan, Khadhras, and Ged, I finally feel a true framework for my future DM endeavors beginning to unfold.

For months (even years), I’ve been at odds with the ideas of building out my own world vs. giving up the massive investments I’ve made (and continue to make) in Forgotten Realms (and, to a lesser extent, Ravenloft). Though it’s early, I’ve started to bridge these opposing forces in the High Forest campaign, while also stirring the longevity cauldron by forging a path with Jason to further Zeb’s legacy. I don’t want these efforts to be mutually exclusive, nor do I want either of them to prevent me from executing on other D&D initiatives that I’ve placed on the backburner for so long.

In short, just because I’m actively working on a particular D&D project doesn’t mean that other campaigns should retire, will retire, aren’t “canon” within the space I run, or won’t be allowed to come to fruition. This isn’t a complex idea, but it’s something I’ve had difficulty believing and coming to terms with. Kicking off the latest 1:1 track with Zeb* has been an essential catalyst: our content is too good, too deep, too historied to not continue on with for as long as we want it to go. But neither should the greatness of Zeb’s story preclude other arcs from being played, nor other worlds from being developed for the long term.

The missing piece that I’ve talked about for years is a gritty, in-person AD&D game in the spirit of “halflings vs. ogres” (maybe even using Basic Fantasy!) that pulls hard on the simulationist strings. This would almost certainly not be in Realms, and when the time is right for such a game to begin, I’m not going to defer it because it would spell the end for Zeb, Phelan, Khadhras, or Ged... because it won’t.

Rather, what I see myself doing is having a few separate, ongoing DM tracks. They may not all move quickly, and each may wax and wane based on real-world happenings and where I’m most keen to invest at a given time. We’re all adults with families, jobs, and responsibilities, after all. In truth, I’ve already started down this road, but I think it’s important to disclaim it going forward, lest any players start to feel that their current campaign is in its death throes or that there won’t be additional opportunities to get involved in games I decide to run.

This post is little more than an introspective exercise for me to look back on later. When I think about D&D games that have been running for 40 years, the work of Erikson/Esslemont, Alexis Smolensk, and others, the value in history, consistency, richness, and depth is abundantly clear, and something I want to continue to strive for over time. It won’t be achieved by throwing away my last 20 years of DMing and starting from scratch, nor by failing to forge new paths into new endeavors and even new worlds for fear of losing all that's come before. The key is for it all to be interconnected in some way, even if subtle—as this is what will enable the web of time and space within and between campaigns to expand as the years go on.

* By the way, I know I wrote in the “Longevity” post that “If a PC dies based on dice rolls, I’m not going to intervene.” And, to be fair, I didn’t. The TPK happened and we moved on, started a new campaign arc with different characters. The party and campaign as we knew them were no more. In a high fantasy setting, though, with gods, magic, and other preternatural forces directly involved, I don’t feel in the wrong for having left a door open for Jason (or Sean, though he elected to close it). Zeb’s “rebirth” has come at great personal cost (both story and mechanical) and allows us to continue chronicling an epic character in an organic and nondisruptive way. Know that I didn’t take this decision lightly, and nothing short of the monumental set of circumstances surrounding these events would have allowed it to occur. If anyone believes otherwise, feel free to throw your current character in front of a raging orc horde and see what happens. :) 

Should we talk about the weather?

I wrote this post before we played the last session. Seems a shame not to publish it, even though things took an unexpected turn.

This is an awesome book. I recently dug out my copy to help preparing for sessions again:

AD&D Wilderness Survival Guide

While technically a 1e resource, much of the content in the WSG is edition-agnostic... not to mention that many of the bits that aren’t, like encumbrance, are direct predecessors to out-of-the-box rules in 2e. All in all, the WSG provides tons mechanical depth to the perils and nuances of overland adventuring. This is the stuff that turns drab, handwavy periods of travel into immersive, challenging, and memorable game experiences.

Some of the rules dealing with things like being under- or overdressed in extreme temperatures, though useful, are only occasionally relevant, but the weather system presented in the WSG is pretty much always of benefit. Without going into detail on how exactly it works, here’s a look at the weather forecast I used it to predetermine for session #45. This is based on both the general climate (the Frozenfar is considered subarctic), terrain (hills surrounding the mine, forest surrounding Fireshear itself), and time of year (late summer into early fall):

• Day 1: 50 degrees Fahrenheit (high) to 30 degrees Fahrenheit (low); no wind or precipitation. Even during the ninth month of the year, we’re hitting a point below freezing at night. This is something the miners didn’t have to deal with in midsummer; the party, however, finds itself in a situation where at least one campfire is needed, heightening the chances of being noticed from afar (though it’s pretty likely that any local denizens already know they’re here).
• Day 2: 60º F high, 40º F low; no wind and trace levels of rain. With the brief cold spell passing, a more comfortable temperature sets in, though overnight campfires are still desirable for optimal sleep. Small amounts of rain are at worst a nuisance, barely worth mentioning.
• Day 3: 65º F high, 45º F low; light breeze and slightly more rainfall. On the third day, the temperature rises a bit more, but this is offset by more substantial rain with wind. Characters may be less than comfortable if traveling back to Fireshear, or inclined to take shelter within the cave if still working at the mine.
• Day 4: 60º F high, 40º F low; moderate wind. Temperatures remain reasonably comfortable, but the wind is enough to disrupt missile fire at anything but close range (i.e., penalties to attack rolls will be assessed, based on distance).
• Day 5: 35º F high, 15º F low; heavy winds and moderate precipitation... that means SNOW! The first snowfall of the season occurs on an uncharacteristically cold day. Such are the risks of adventuring in the Frozenfar, even at the onset of autumn. If the party is travelling this day, they’ll need to find ways to stay warm and protected from the elements.
• Day 6: 50º F high, 30º F low; moderate rain. The flash snowstorm abates as temperatures rise back toward the seasonal norm. Flurries turn to rain, creating slippery and treacherous travelling conditions in the hills outside Fireshear. Hopefully the party is safely back home by this point.

This is as far out as I calculated the weather for this session, but it’s easy to see how, depending on timing, the party’s return journey to Fireshear could be impacted. Precipitation is also of particular importance as it relates to the ecosystem of the mountain cave: rainwater flows into the base of the chasm from outside, replacing the stagnant water and washing away rot.

While I’ve always taken weather into account throughout the campaign, the party’s arrival in the Frozenfar escalated the need to track it more closely. The PCs did ride through a snowstorm between Griffon’s Nest and Longsaddle, but that was during the dead of winter, further south. Hopefully this provides some insight on what they can expect in the weeks to come...

Planning under duress

Today, Sean and I talked about how the party's preparations should be managed during the next session. In situations like these, it's easy for the group to deliberate logistics until the night is almost over by the time everyone is ready to act. For tomorrow, I'd like to try something different:

• I'll start a timer when the session formally begins. Every ten minutes of real time will constitute a full game day of planning.
• After each ten-minute period, a night will pass in Dagger's Deep, along with any advancements in the surrounds.
• The timer will pause during any events not initiated by the PCs and other breaks.

While the above might seem heavy-handed, it should definitely keep the pace of the game moving. It's also worth considering that, during the course of an actual day in the game world, there likely are many matters to which the PCs must attend. Even locating and arranging a simple conversation with a specific third party (Pol Rallinoth, for example) may take the better part of an hour, if not more. At any point in the day, Audric may be tending the Mystran/Malaran shrine while Zeb is ensuring the safety of a departing hunter while Zargon is searching for damsels to impregnate. In short, that ten minutes of three players talking at the game table may take their actual characters substantially longer in the campaign world.

The above approach should put pressure on the party to make decisions quickly without forcing a hard stop. The players still retain agency to continue refining their plans as long as desired, albeit with heightened tension that something may interrupt them before they're ready.

In any case, I'd like to go ahead and try this out for a night. We can always reevaluate if a similar situation arises in the future. Anyone have thoughts or concerns?

Mirabarran fire arrows

This week, as the players deliberated how to deal with the undead minions inside the cave blocked by the bonfire they'd constructed, I had to determine in my own mind what steps the mining company would take to combat the situation. After all, while from a DMing perspective it was important to give the PCs first crack at solving the problem, the score of individuals present beyond the party itself would still have to bear this burden in the party's absence, or failure.

The most pragmatic solution I could come up with was the use of fire arrows by the soldiers to fell the creatures from the cavern floor. This approach required the NPCs to either know or suspect that natural fire would still harm the undead, even though they'd already proved immune to “normal” weapons. I felt this was reasonable enough, particularly with the arrowheads also being doused in holy water.

Before allowing such a course, however, I wanted to make sure that it was actually feasible, and get an idea of how well it was likely to work. I ended up finding and reading the following four posts from a blog explicitly dedicated to warbow archery:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

This was pretty interesting, so thought I'd share. In the end, the fact that it was a short-range situation and the arrows would be shot through an actual raging fire gave me confidence that it should work, provided a reasonable amount of time to ready the ammunition beforehand. I also reduced the ROF (rate of fire) for these arrows to one/round, given the effort needed to ignite them, which felt similar to loading a bolt into a crossbow.

Read this!

This was a great read, especially in light of the dragon, and now, Audric getting energy drained. It summarizes well how I feel as DM (though not at all how you guys behave as players, thankfully!).

Into the unknown?

I don't usually provide this much of a window into my DMing black box, but I was reading through old content and remembered something from early on. Below is a snippet of my “crib notes” from session #2:

The night they return, the village is ablaze; Malar cultists have pillaged everything. A wolf-beast stalks about the fires, destroying everything it crosses.

• Malar cultists (4): THAC0 19; AC 16 (hide); HD 1+1 (hp 11, 10, 6, 5); #AT 3/2 (spiked flail); Dmg 1d6+1, armed with flaming torches

• Korvich (Malar Clr3, NE, many scars, Zeb’s mentor): THAC0 18, AC 16 (hide); HD 3 (17 hp); #AT 1 (cudgel); Dmg 1d6+1
• Spells: cause light wounds, cure light wounds (2), command, invisibility to animals, charm person or mammal, hold person

• Carcerus, “The Black Devil” (wolfwere, CE): THAC0 15, AC 3; HD 5+1 (20 hp); #AT 2 (bite, wpn); Dmg 2d6, 1d8+1 (axe +1); iron or +1 weapons to hit; MV 15, MR 10%, XP 2,000; Int 16; 1 round to transform

Smoke envelops the party. If Zeb admits his allegiance, Tussugar and the woodsman turn on him. The smoke clears, revealing the ashen husks of cottages, whose remains smell only faintly of fire. In physical terms, a year or more has passed.

The sound of large forms shuffling around them awaken the party’s senses. The remaining cultists flee into the night.

A lone trail stretches to the east. In all other directions, the hills are forlorn.

Of particular note is the final sentence, “A lone trail stretches to the east. In all other directions, the hills are forlorn.” At this point, I still had an idea of potentially taking the campaign into Ravenloft, and the end of this session was going to be where that happened. As mentioned recently, despite wanting to keep this an open-ended campaign at most junctures, there have been points where I've executed a linear path to achieve a specific atmosphere. It's not been the easiest line to walk, though I think the results have overall been positive.

In the end, Ravenloft was obviously eschewed for staying in Forgotten Realms, while still incorporating Gothic elements for a “not quite traditional D&D” feel. But, prior to that decision, I'd drawn up an alternate path to follow the razing of Shadfeld, wherein the PCs would still meet a bound prisoner along the trail east, but in a much different context, one that would embark the party on a path into the Demiplane of Dread. I don't really want to get into more details than that, but it was something I'd not thought about for a year and felt like sharing...

(By the way, Sean is the one to thank for me not taking the campaign that direction. I knew Jason wanted Ravenloft, but I was fairly sure Sean didn't, and I was unwilling to go down a path that one player may really have not enjoyed.)

The art of preparing to run a session

As a disclaimer, this post is as much for my own future reference as it is for anyone who might be reading (but don't let that stop you...).

Sean and I talk about this topic quite a bit, particularly since he's still relatively new to DMing. How to prepare for a D&D session is something you learn and refine through practice and experience over years of running campaigns. There's no magic formula, and what works for one person may not work for anybody else. It's like studying for an exam in that everyone's brain processes and retains information differently, so you have to figure out through experimentation what works best for you. That said, while there aren't any empirical rules, I can still share and document my approach.

Two axes: geographical and temporal

As the prospective DM, whether you're kicking off the inaugural session of a new campaign or continuing to run a party with many notches in its belt, the idea of being accountable to an entire fantasy world can feel extremely daunting. Where do you begin? Do you start by fleshing out local governments, agencies, or dungeons that exist across the countryside, or notable NPCs throughout the region? If you're running a homebrew world, the climb can seem particularly steep, but even in an established setting with a wealth of published material like Forgotten Realms, you may feel like the game world holds you to an impossible standard. (In that case, the first thing to realize is that using a published world should never hurt you more than it helps, and if that's happening you may do well to reconsider your choice. Further musings on that here.)

To the question of where to begin your prep work, my unequivocal answer is "here and now." The first thing I need to do when faced with a massive decision tree is prune away as many branches as possible to get to what I care about. No one realistically has time to detail every last person, building, and statistic in a game world, so focus on those that carry the most imminent importance. To wit: I don't need to know what will happen in the party's current location six months from now; I also don't need to know what will happen a hundred miles away tomorrow.

These simple assertions drastically reduce the complexity of the problem. I'm not running a campaign where the long-term outcome is already determined, so events unrelated to the party's current time frame or location are of little concern to my next several hours of DMing. This doesn't mean that I completely eschew what may be happening in other areas, but that I need only have a vague notion of those details, and shouldn't make them the focus of my attention since they're unlikely to impact the party over the short term. Having the PCs overhear in a crowded taproom that trolls have begun encroaching on the north border and nearby villages are petitioning for aid is likely to be enough. It's conceivable that the party could take interest in this hook, so I definitely need to be able to convey anything else the local citizenry might know, in addition to accommodating an initiative by the party to set out for the border. That said, I shouldn't prioritize fleshing out this region unless I fully expect the players to take the lead and arrive at the destination. More likely, I'll end up doing this planning several sessions down the road, if ever.

Rather than dive into rabbit holes that may consume hours of planning that I won't use, I want to concern myself most with happenings around the party in an immediate sense, geographically and temporally. If the session is set to open in a town, castle, or dungeon, I need to be well-versed in the ecology of the site: what individuals or populations reside there, how they interact, what sustains/motivates them, and any pressing urgencies to which they're attending. Ecology feels like a greatly undervalued concept in preparing a game; often, too much focus is given to drawing up specific scenes or encounters envisioned in the mind of the DM. While there are instances where this is useful or appropriate, if I truly understand the ecology of the actors in the game world, I should be reasonably well-equipped to adjudicate any situation that arises during the session, even if I need to ad-lib a few names or stop to roll an NPC's hit points or ability scores. If there are individuals for which I suspect these numbers will be needed, I'll roll them up ahead of time.

The further you look down the party's intended path, the fewer details you need to know. If the PCs are embarking on a journey that leads them through a series of towns and villages, I should know the ecology of each settlement at least at a macro level, but I definitely need to more thoroughly immerse myself in the locations the party will spend time in first. Any substantial event, encounter, or distraction has the possibility, based on decisions by the players and whims of the dice, to sidetrack or significantly delay the party's course. I might put a great deal of work into readying myself to run the first village along the road, but the further out I look, the hazier my view becomes. While I might be able to make a confident assumption that the party will arrive in the first village and take part in its dealings, my confidence wanes considerably with each subsequent hop along the journey. The foggier my take on the party's future, the fewer specifics I prepare. This approach serves me in multiple ways: first, I avoid putting time and effort into preparation that has a higher chance of not being needed, and second, because I haven't invested this effort, I feel less compelled, consciously or otherwise, to force the PCs down a path I prepared, giving them more freedom of choice and control over their destiny. When it comes to actually running the game, I want to be the unbiased referee, not the puppet master pulling the strings. Had I spent hours writing up details on the north border region with the trolls, I'd be more likely to artificially steer to party toward taking the hook, when they may not have any real interest in pursuing.

Predetermined vs. triggered events

In addition to interactions between people and locations, I make sure to plan through any predetermined events that I've "scheduled" to occur irrespective of the party's actions. Ideally, these events have been logically derived from the ecology of the area. For example, if I know that orcs are plotting an assault against a local village, I should determine, before the session begins, when the attack will occur, how many orcs are invading, what the attackers' entry points and strategy will be, and so forth. The date and time can be chosen outright or be assigned a degree of variance (e.g., 1d4 nights after the next full moon, when the orc chieftain gathers his forces on the mountainside). Wherever the PCs happen to be at this time, the raid will be executed, unless they do something in the interim to subvert the orcs. Preparing for events and allowing them to play out regardless of the party's actions helps create realism in the campaign world. Not everything needs to specifically revolve around the characters, even though I might only plan in detail the events in their vicinity.

On the opposite end of the spectrum are "triggered" events, which are common in published modules, especially in manipulative settings like Ravenloft. Triggered events should be used sparingly in any game that doesn't want to predestine the characters' path; examples are akin to "The innkeeper is kidnapped the night after the PCs investigate the cemetery," or "Whenever the PCs walk past the town constable, they overhear him negotiating the assassination of the mayor." These types of events can be exciting, but they also make assumptions about how the characters must act in order to fulfill the DM's narrative. This approach to running a game isn't strictly right or wrong, but comes with strings attached that steer the campaign toward an outcome largely not determined by the players, and this isn't something that's desirable for every group.

Not exactly "points of light"

Finally, trimming decision tree branches and preparing in less detail the further out you go is similar to, but not the same as, the idea of "points of light" (formalized as a setting concept in D&D 4e), which asserts that there exists a collection of known, civilized areas and that everything in between is mostly uncharted or "dark." While the planning approach I've outlined tends to evoke the feel that the party's immediate surroundings are a "point of light" amid the darkness, this is only necessarily true in terms of your own planning as DM. The regions and timelines outside your short-term scope of interest may be extremely well defined in source material or to the inhabitants of the game world. It's only that you, the DM, don't need to concern yourself with details beyond what's relevant to the party given its present course.

I think I'll end here for now, as this post is lengthening and mostly a result of stream of consciousness writing. Happy to read anyone's comments.

An example of player agency vs. DM narrative

Recently, Sean and I were talking about the difficulty of starting new campaigns, in light of his session #1 kicking off in a little over a week. Do you begin with a mundane assignment for the PCs? A plot-driven story arc that forces the party down a specific path to "introduce" them to the setting? How much narration is OK? How much predestination should be tolerated?

I've self-debated these many times, and learned from past experience on several occasions. We discussed a hook where the PCs begin the campaign as captives in an arbitrary dungeon cell, without their equipment. Is this a reasonable thing to do to a party?

My answer is that most scenarios, including this one, are fine to incorporate into your game, if executed properly. Specifically, the DM should ensure that the party retains a meaningful degree of control over the session's outcome. The PCs should be participants and protagonists, not audience and onlookers to the DM's prologue. To elaborate, I described two ways that a DM might have the PCs-as-prisoners scenario play out.

In the first variation, the PCs awaken in a cell, clothed but lacking any weapons, armor, spellbooks, or equipment. They pass a day in confinement, devoid of opportunities to escape, but learning (from guards, other prisoners, etc.) of their surroundings, why they were captured, perhaps the identity of the mastermind who rules the dungeon: critical information that can be used later in the campaign. Shortly thereafter, a band of rescuers breaks into the cells, leads the PCs to their plundered wares, and shows them the way out. The party battles off a guard or two, but the instruction and heavy lifting are provided by the rescuers.

For the second variation, the PCs awaken in the same situation as the first. Early on, however, they're presented with a potential means of escape: a key slipped to them by a thief in an adjacent cell. The players deliberate on how to proceed; the more time that passes in the cell, the more information they garner from their surrounds. The session revolves around the party crafting and executing an escape plan, recovering their equipment, and making it out alive.

In variation #1, the DM likely ends up doing most of the talking throughout the session - mainly, telling the players what happens as the PCs tag along for the ride. In the second variation, however, the players control the pace, for their planning requires questioning the DM about the subtle details of the cell area, mannerisms of the guards, and demeanor of the other captives. They might spend time (even days) learning about the daily routines within the prison, when mealtimes and watch rotations occur, to figure out the optimal circumstances for breaking free. Do they try to get anyone else out with them? What about the thief who gave them the key?

At the end of variation #1, the players have bore witness to a grand escape, and feel relieved; at the end of variation #2, the players have orchestrated the escape itself, and feel accomplished.

In both variations, the DM starts with the same hook and progresses the campaign from the same point A to point B, but the player experience between the two varies greatly. As a player, I'd find myself disengaged at being an object of the DM's narrative in variation #1, whereas variation #2 would give me a sense of purpose from the beginning (despite the initial forced capture) and a substantial measure of fulfillment (not to mention camaraderie with the other players) upon executing a successful breakout. Variation #1 would leave me doubting whether I'd want to play in the DM's game again; variation #2 would leave me itching to find out what evil plans the party might foil next.

It all boils down to player agency, and enabling the players in your campaign to actually be players in your campaign, as opposed to merely observers. This is largely the stigma behind "railroading" in RPGs: it's not the presence of plot lines or story arcs that causes issues for most players, but the feeling that they, the players, were only invited to the table to consume the DM's narrative.

At the end of the day, AD&D characters are created to play the part of heroes. Let them.

I really don't want to know (DM transparency in D&D)

Quick story: Last night I played in a session of Sean's 5th Edition D&D game, which he documents here. During the game, our group encountered a wraith, which with some powerful dice rolls struck my character to unconsciousness from nearly full hit points in a single attack. In fact, my character was one failed save away from being effectively slain.

This wasn't my least favorite part of the session. It actually didn't bother me at all. I was happy with the decisions I'd made for Nefresil to that point, both from tactical and role-playing standpoints. Untimely things happen in D&D. When making choices, it's important to weigh the odds and understand the impacts of randomness and dice. As a player, you control what you can control and learn to live with the results. If that means your character dies a hero, so be it.

My least favorite part of the session was picking through treasure after the combat and being told, without the aid of any spell, that we had found a short sword +1 and a wand of lightning bolts with seven charges remaining.

(I should pause here briefly as I realize I've used the words "least favorite" two times now, and I don't want to give the impression that I don't enjoy playing in this game or that Sean isn't doing a good job as DM. Sean is extremely new to DMing and running from a module, so all this discussion is intended to be instructional and expressive of the way I like to play D&D, nothing more.)

This brings us to the topic of transparency. Not to engage in edition wars per se, but citing the 2e PH description for the spell identify:

The item never reveals its exact attack or damage bonuses, although the fact that it has few or many bonuses can be determined. If it has charges, only a general indication of the number of charges remaining is learned: powerful (81%-100% of the total possible charges), strong (61%-80%), moderate (41%-60%), weak (6%-40%), or faint (five charges or less). The faint result takes precedence, so a fully charged ring of three wishes always appears to be only faintly charged.

Note, specifically, how the AD&D version of the spell stops short of providing the caster with concrete mechanical information about the item. D&D characters don't understand game mechanics, they understand the nature of magical items in abstract terms. Leaving the mechanical details shrouded keeps the players more interested, and less certain. It helps create tension.

Tension, in D&D, is everything.

To Sean's credit, in his game, the short sword came with a tale behind it that our characters were familiar with from lore. The blade was visibly identifiable as one of a pair that was previously wielded by a renowned historical NPC. The two weapons were never known to have been separated, so the fact that we found this one here, in isolation, was exceptional. Whether this flavor was added by Sean or part of the module he's running, it provides an interesting hook that we could potentially become involved with later on. This is good stuff.

Setting that aside, however, we have an issue of transparency. How do our characters know that the short sword is endowed with a +1 bonus? How do we know that the wand casts lightning bolt? How do we know that it has seven charges remaining? Short of casting a spell that yields specifically this information, our characters shouldn't know these things. Being told the mechanical details outright, in addition to breaking believability in the fantasy world, has deprived us, as players, of discovering the properties on our own. Imagine our characters experiencing the horror of unexpectedly running out of wand charges at exactly the wrong time! Because this information was handed to us freely, this can never happen. We need never plan for it. This in turn makes the game less interesting for us overall and reduces our immersion level.

Similarly, as DM, there's a fine line between telling the players what their characters observe and dictating the conclusions that the characters derive from what they observe. It's OK to tell the players "The orc shifts uneasily as you step into the room," but the DM shouldn't go so far as, "You know that the orc will attack you if you advance any further." We do? How could the PCs possibly know this without trying? Players need to be allowed to draw their own conclusions about the information provided to them, and being overly transparent as DM waters down the game for players who want to feel immersed. They're being shortcut through the nuances, which often end up being the most fun and rewarding elements of role-playing and decision-making.

In the end, I don't want the DM to let me in on the truth. I want to uncover the truth for myself by interacting with the fantasy world. Don't tell me things that my character should not rightly know.

It's important to note that the kind of transparency I'm describing here is different from the kind that the DM employs to show that he's playing by the rules and to instill trust around the table. When every DM die roll is hidden behind a screen, it's too easy for the players to feel (rightly or not) that they're being lied to when unlikely things happen. Transparency with dice rolls to remove doubt that the game is being adjudicated fairly is different from transparency with information. The DM at all times needs to be exceedingly delicate with exactly which details are presented to the PCs. Information and spoilers cannot be retracted.

Now, at some point, spell or no spell, a player needs to know, mechanically, that his or her character is wielding a short sword +1. The intent of this post is not to say that a player should never be privy to this information at all, simply that it should not be handed over without in-game justification. I'm generally not going to silently add a +1 modifier to a player's attack rolls for months on end; it's reasonable to assume that, over a short duration of using a magic weapon, the PC will get the gist of it enough that the bonus can be conveyed and written down on the character's record sheet. We just don't want to deprive the player of learning the nature of the weapon on his own.

It's a poorly-kept secret of DMs that we sorely want, at times, to tell the players everything, to let them in on every minute detail that we've been plotting and preparing over the course of a campaign. But a good DM need always remember that the time for revealing this kind of information is after its in-game relevance has unequivocally passed.

And not a moment sooner.

Standing out

What sets D&D apart from any other game is that you, as a player, can do anything, bounded only by the parameters of the campaign world and the limits of your own imagination. RPGs have always been distinct from other games, whether board, card, video, or pen-and-paper in this way; it's the primary reason we choose to play them.

Every D&D game I've ever run or played in has been a learning experience for me as a DM, and often, it's the latter that tends to be the most eye-opening. DMing is a fantastic way to gain comfort with the mechanics and managing the logistics of a complex, fantasy RPG. But it's the rare occasions where I get to step in and be a player that I'm truly enlightened to what elements I like and dislike in a game, whether it's the style, the setting, the edition, or anything in between. Those experiences are taken back and folded into everything I do as a DM going forward.

Most recently, it was the chance to play in Jason's play-by-post that showed me the real potential of a sandbox style game. I've always liked the prospect of a player-driven campaign, but have never been great at stopping myself from weaving elaborate narrative plots with pre-staged and scripted climaxes. And once you make the effort to come up with and start running through the scenes in your head, you develop a bias toward ensuring that they materialize at the table. While some players really like being a pawn in the DM's story, what Jason's game taught me was how much I, as a player, didn't.

In the play-by-post, my character Raith's future wasn't going to get pulled out from under me or dangled along by a string. The other players and I were in control, and this was of paramount importance to my emotional investment in the setting, which soared from the moment we started and for the duration of the time we played. This is the fundamental experience I want to deliver to my players.

To this point, I've done a good amount of stringing along, and have done so openly, to give the players a chance to meld and familiarize themselves with the game world. Now that this has been accomplished, however, and the PCs have found a measure of local notoriety defending a small fiefdom, I'm dropping the tethers and allowing the campaign to unfold as the PCs see fit. The options before them are endless.

More importantly, the choices are theirs.

At the risk of tainting the notion described in the opening paragraph of this post that the players can do anything, I'm going to enumerate a handful of the possible paths before them now. This is most definitely not to persuade or to suggest that these are the only courses they might follow, but rather to give the group a taste of its freedom. The characters could...

• delve into the Witherwood to battle gnolls and see what else they might find;
• stay hither and fortify Brithem and its surroundings;
• research the curious map given to Wren by an ex-shipmate;
• go after the bandits that robbed them along the road;
• travel to the city of Longsaddle and seek out the renowned wizard family that resides there;
• return to Luskan and become pirates;
• venture further north to Mirabar or Icewind Dale;
• set out for some faraway, famous location like the great library of Candlekeep

How do I prepare for such an array of possibilities? That's better a subject left for another post - after I figure out how to do it. It's a natural thing as DM, I think, to strive to control the direction of the party. To railroad; to set short- and long-term campaign goals, rather than let the characters define these for themselves. Relinquishing that control makes the DM's job both easier and more difficult at the same time. Easier in that plots need not be preconceived nor interwoven; harder in that there's much more pressure to exhaustively detail the landscape of the campaign world and how its regions, settlements, and populations subsist and interact.

D&DSM

Ravenloft is the sadomasochism of D&D. In Ravenloft, the DM teases, torments, and defiles the party not only to cause anguish but ultimately for the players' enjoyment. Ravenloft is a ticket that grants the DM free reign to wrest control from the characters at all times; to tear them away to new domains at the crack of a whip; to lead them along by a carrot that remains ever out of reach. Ravenloft is a diabolical, deceitful, and magnificent campaign setting. But it's also an excuse, and a crutch.

They didn't even need to tie him up...

That's the main reason in the end that I elected to stay away from Ravenloft, as much as its allure still calls to me at times. I wanted to give the players something they could truly make their own, without the mists always encroaching and threatening to intervene. There's a far greater challenge and much more to experience this time around.

Let's have at it.

XP: The ends justify what makes you stronger

I’ve always taken an “ends justify the means” approach to awarding experience in D&D. It doesn’t matter if the frost giant whittled the PCs to within an inch of their lives, or if the mage sneezed and a boulder fell and crushed its head before combat ever began. The result arrived at was the same; who am I to judge the party’s methods?

It can get a little silly, when you think about it. In the case where the mage sneezed, the fighter might literally have been standing around doing nothing and reaped a sizable XP award for it. Or maybe he was about to do something stupid, like leave his weapons and armor behind and try to tickle the giant’s ear with a feather. It doesn’t matter. The ends justify the means. The party defeated the giant, so the characters gain and split evenly the XP for doing so.

I don’t think it’s fair, as DM, to cast judgment on these situations. They’re too subjective. The party’s tactics might have put them in position to beat the giant with nary a sword drawn to begin with. In this case, the party could be considered more successful than that which beat the giant while suffering grievous wounds over the course of many rounds - does the battered party deserve more XP, or less? (I guess it depends what you think experience should represent, in your game. More on this later.)

It’s important, when issuing XP for a defeated enemy, to consider whether the party members were actually at risk (or at least, whether they believed themselves to be at risk). But that also can extend beyond the actual confrontation to the events leading up to it. If the PCs slew a band of orcs by firing arrows from atop a cliff that made them nearly impossible to hit, I’d still award the party full XP so long as the situation could have reasonably unfolded differently. For example, if the party had chosen to take the mountain pass instead of the low road, that decision led to the advantage of higher ground, and consequently the ease of their victory. The same course might have made an encounter with a wyvern that much more treacherous.

That is to say, even though the party in this example was not at immediate risk while firing upon the orcs, they were still at general risk in their surroundings, and gained experience from decision-making that led to a successful end result. This is definitely not a combat-centric way of looking at XP.

A key aspect of this approach is that it suggests XP not be awarded for unsuccessful endeavors by the PCs, regardless of good tactics or how much bad luck might have contributed to their failure. Should the party that battled the giant ferociously for many rounds before fleeing really be awarded nothing? It’s a hard question to answer, but my game allows for just that, since the party, despite its efforts, wasn’t able to figure out a way to best its foe.

For better or for worse, the ends justify the means.

“Story” Awards

This is where my subjectivity does come into play. I commonly issue “story awards” when in-game milestones are achieved, though this is a bit of a misnomer. It implies that the party is running through a narrative, and that the group has ventured far enough down a specific path to complete some premeditated story arc that I’d conceived. That’s not really what I mean to represent.

“Story awards” in my campaign would be better named “adventuring awards” or “execution awards”; they serve to reward the party for impacting the game world in a meaningful (and intentional) way. The two recent sessions involving black dragons from the Witherwood are a good example. In session #4, when the first dragon was slain, I issued a massive bonus award of 4,000 XP. I called this a “story award,” but what it represents is the impact the PCs had on the fiefdom of Brithem. The party, through its actions during the session, turned a situation in which the entire castle and its farms could potentially have been lost, into one where only a single Brithem soldier was killed before the dragons were turned away. The 4,000 XP story award was a measure of the characters’ impact on Brithem and its inhabitants.

Conversely, in session #5, the party struggled to find an answer when the second dragon returned and began assaulting the outlying farms. Though the PCs ultimately prevailed and saved the bulk of the fiefdom, their presence was less impactful overall, since many lives and resources were lost. I subjectively decided that this session warranted a much smaller group award of 1,000 XP. (Another reason for this is that I didn’t feel the characters would have “learned” as much from this second encounter as they would have from the first. The actual planning and combat was more of a known territory to them at this point.)

It’s also noteworthy that the reason these awards exist in my game at all is that the campaign is generally not combat-and-treasure-focused enough to give out XP strictly “by the book” and expect the party to advance at a reasonable rate. Given the infrequency with which we play, it still requires many months of real time for low-level PCs to gain a level. The “story awards” help supplement both the nature and real-life pacing of the campaign. For me, this system works well, even though it leaves a large amount of the party’s advancement up to my discretion.

What Doesn’t Kill You...

The reason for writing all the above, is that I recently read Alexis Smolensk’s alternate XP system, which rewards party members for dealing, taking, and witnessing damage when involved in combat, regardless of the encounter outcome. The justification for this is that all of these represent learning experiences for the characters. I personally find this a fascinating approach to XP, and think it makes a great deal of logical sense.

For my campaign, I’m not sure our sessions are combat-heavy enough on a consistent basis to effectively apply Alexis’ system (although the multiplier could always be raised to help compensate). It also comes saddled with additional in-game bookkeeping (on my part) and questions where it pertains to certain types of spells. But I love that it incentivizes players to take risks and work together, and provides a good framework for accelerating the advancement of lower-level characters that enter the party due to a new player or the death of a previous character. I somewhat dislike that it fails to award tactics that lead to a greater degree of success by the party, though that could be supplemented by the story awards described above. It’s something to think about trying as the game goes on.

Learning vs. Success

The fundamental difference between these two systems is that the traditional views experience as a measure of achievement, while Alexis’ views it as a measure of learning. Alexis’ system also encourages the players to take more risks, where the traditional rewards tactics that avoid excessive risk. I worry that Alexis’ system creates a dynamic where the players are faced with conflicting goals: take the bloodier path and gain more XP, or employ superior tactics and ensure everyone comes out alive. It definitely isn’t a system I’d move to without significant buy-in from the group.

A final and important point of note is that neither Alexis’ nor traditional systems award XP to characters that get put to sleep and robbed in the middle of the night...