Over the DM's Shoulder

Saturday, October 11, 2025

Of Gods and Dragons: Lethanin Epilogue

In the campaign, Lethanin was often a hard-to-read wildcard who cut to the real issue at hand; his directness made things clear to the dragons, and his sense of humor kept tense situations light. His mastery of music and his connection to the Song enabled him to almost single-handedly restore structure to the universe. His creative approach to things kept the group's efforts moving in new directions, even when those directions didn't lead anywhere. His custom class, the Musician of the Spheres, was specially designed to give Lethanin's player the same freedom of creativity of their character, all related through the music that made Lethanin himself. As the sound dragon, Lethanin is one of the most powerful people in the world. 

In the epilogues, I give the players time in four separate times: immediately following the campaign, one year later, ten years later, and fifty years later, leading up to one hundred years later. Below is a summary of Lethanin's actions in these time periods: 

After the Campaign:

Lethanin followed the campaign by heading to Vestry to check in on his parents. Dodira was distant but calm, and Larson made a few clumsy attempts to connect with Lethanin about music. Lethanin was dissatisfied with his relationship with them, but he decided to meet them where they were for now. The following day, he headed to Torga and met with Tasselman again. Tasselman, once he realized Lethanin was there, described evidence for the claims he'd made before about the world being a sphere and about a common ancestor to all Evanoch's people: shadow measurements, when calculated over time and distance, reveal that the world must be spherical. Lethanin suggested contacting an astronomer to help confirm his existing work; when Tasselman asked if Lethanin knew any astronomers, Lethanin arranged for Niela to pay Tasselman in a visit in a few months. As far as Tasselman's theory of evolution went, he cited the existence of subterranean races much like those on its surface, claiming that these groups had to be related given their appearances and geographical regions. Tasselman complained of a lack of credible sources, and Lethanin suggested using very old songs and poems as evidence. Tasselman was skeptical, but asked for a few months to search documents for information. 

With little to do while he waited, Lethanin explored Torga, looking for a place to set down roots. After searching for islands beyond Torga, Lethanin found a small rocky island with tall, jagged spires of stone. He stole a book on magical techniques, studied it, and went to his island to experiment with shaping stone. After a few unsatisfying attempts, Lethanin got his bearings, and he set to gradually building a wizard's tower into the craggy spires, where it would not be visible from Torga and was well away from shipping lanes. Brick by shaped brick, Lethanin worked on his tower for those months he waited. Just as the meeting with Tasselman and Niela neared, Lethanin's tower reached a functional state, and he fully moved in. 

The day arrived. Lethanin invited Niela to his tower, and the two happily discussed the finer points of building a lair--they bonded over constructing elaborate, intimidating buildings where they would be left alone. They teleported to Tasselman, who was happy to see them and to meet Niela. Niela listened to Tasselman's theories on a spherical planet and a common ancestor; she said she too had come to the conclusion that Izar, their planet, was spherical, and she offered a variety of reasons to agree based in her career as an astronomer. But on the matter of a common ancestor, she had no evidence for Tasselman's theory and ultimately found it hard to do something about (unlike correcting a scientific misconception in her field). When Tasselman described elves and orcs as siblings on the genetic tree, Lethanin cracked a joke about that being the case with Gruumsh and Corellon Larethian, prompting disbelief from Tasselman that Lethanin would know such a thing. Niela received a message calling her away, and she excused herself. Tasselman mentioned a few repeated references to "the Song," which captured Lethanin's attention. Tasselman's passages from an ancient text depict the Song as a philosophy and way of life, that people used to sing the Song together acting as one note each, that the Song would disappear during "the Apostasy" and then appear again, and that the gods had made the Song go away in the first place. Lethanin was intrigued, especially by the notion that whole groups of people were in touch with the Song. Considering all of this, Lethanin reasoned that the texts were describing a lack of faith that drove people apart, and that pre-people--people before the races emerged--had been divided by the gods. Without more to go on, Tasselman suggested Lethanin contact the gods if he was familiar with them, and Lethanin suggested Tasselman start performing research on dragons. 

For the first year, Lethanin attended to these goals with consistency. He would expand and refine his tower, which became a dazzling, intimidating tower filled with beautiful, exotic, and artistic things, including an entire floor of the tower dedicated to musical instruments. He would explore Evanoch, meeting people, finding new ideas, getting to know the cities and towns and the issues they faced. He would check in with Tasselman on ongoing research projects, making suggestions and forming new ideas. He incorporated other activities, too, like spreading positive stories about dragons. In his travels across Evanoch, he saw that the other dragons were doggedly pursuing good, and inspired by them, Lethanin began a career of trickster vigilantism, foiling robberies, assaults, and bandits across the continent. He also became a shadowy patron of the arts, donating money to musicians and other artists with distinctive creative voices. Dragonhood became a focus too--Lethanin spread even more stories of his and the other dragons' good deeds and even read cheap novels about dragons to pick up cool and intimidating moves to use on criminals. In this way, Lethanin spent the year gradually building up a home and outlets that reflected his new status as a dragon. 

One Year After: 

At the turn of one year, Lethanin was becoming interested in the idea of cultural exchange. He set out to spread culture on his own. He would approach budding artists, act as a drinking buddy interested in the arts, and try to sell them on reading something written by a person from another culture who just happened to be affiliated with Lethanin through his patronage efforts. After some failed practice, Lethanin began finding success in introducing artists to other cultures. With effort and experimentation, Lethanin grew more organized in these efforts and more sensitive to what ideas would resonate with other cultures. This led to increased success with the project, even leading to an established elven poet promoting the works of an orcish poet, something unimaginable in many cases. Lethanin's efforts with creatives also included encouraging them to correspond with artists they like, leading to a burst of conversations between artists of all types. Another notable success story was the promotion of social acceptance by a Daltoner author, something that surprised even Lethanin. His work with musicians in particular changed the musicians' lives, as funding allowed them to promote themselves, leading to bigger and more guaranteed shows, further leading to more fans for the musicians. Lethanin's patronage and cultural exchange programs accomplished a lot, and his secrecy about his involvement meant no one knew he had affected so much. 

Lethanin's vigilante efforts began after a while to feel like no progress was ever made, as they were always more muggers, highwaymen, and bandits. To combat this, Lethanin took the money reclaimed from conquered criminals as well as what he earned in taverns (as he still regularly played music across Evanoch) and began donating it to the towns most affected. Where bandit raids were bad, Lethanin would pay to have walls built. In towns with high crime, he would pay the salaries for more guards. He would adapt his solution to the problem, hoping that his help would prevent more problems in the future. This civil defense project was also performed with an emphasis on anonymity, so the many mid-sized cities and towns where these problems were popping up would not know that Lethanin had also helped the next town over, and the next. During these donation appointments, Lethanin would encourage leaders to consider putting aside rivalries with other cities and instead develop trade. Over the years, this led to a building-up of these cities, with many of them able to sustain Lethanin's changes without his financial support. 

As a dragon, Lethanin reveled like no other dragon. He conducted near-nightly flights across Evanoch to know that people knew he was out there. His vigilantism career always took place in his dragon form, which led to a strange reputation; in appearance, Lethanin is visually hard to process, and so stories began to circulate across the countryside that a strange, unperceivable being in the shape of a dragon was wreaking havoc on the wicked. Many looked on Lethanin as a folk hero, even if they knew him only in an abstract way. This reputation brought out other dragons, especially Hriskin and Aurix, who added to their passionate fights for good an effort to maintain a sort of public persona as well, leading to legends about the gold and brass dragons too. Lethanin continued spreading tales of dragons far and wide, and over time, the public came more and more to see dragons as protectors rather than unknowns or threats. But it was not all about the public eye for Lethanin--he would congratulate and celebrate with other dragons after they'd scored a victory. Outside of Curagon, the realm of the green dragon, Evanines almost uniformly regarded dragons as even gentle to those who are good. One night, after a few too many glasses of wine, Lethanin reached out to the green dragon, who was standoffish and ultimately cut the conversation short; Lethanin resolved to try contacting him again given years of time. 

Lethanin kept going back home to Vestry, trying to connect with his parents. He would visit every few months or on gnomish holidays; it was slow going, but Lethanin was pleased that they had seemed to pass the barrier that had been between them. Lethanin's mother, Dodira, drunkenly confessed one night three years after the campaign that she resented Lethanin for not following her "good advice" about a practical career. Lethanin replied that one gnome's trash was another's treasure. Dodira, exhausted, said she was done fighting. She was tired of holding it against Lethanin, and she was going to let it go. Lethanin confessed that he never meant to disappoint her. Dodira spoke about her life unhappily, saying it had no passion left. Lethanin questioned her about her passions, which she said had come to include jewelry-making. After a few weeks of secret work, Lethanin allowed his mother to teleport into his tower, where he had constructed an elaborate jewlery-making station which spanned nearly a whole floor. Dodira was overcome with gratitude. Lethanin created a permanent portal which his mother could use to come her, secretly installing a feature which alerts him to her presence in his tower. Dodira visited frequently, and more and more, her visits included longer conversations with Lethanin. After four years of jewelry-making and bonding with Lethanin, Dodira confessed that she wanted to quit her stable job in nursing to sell her large collection of jewelry. Lethanin offered his help in this, which she accepted. She did quit her job and open a stall selling her wares, and she achieved moderate success--enough to be comfortable--not as much as she'd made before, but she was happier. 

Lethanin's father, Larson told his son that they clearly had no interests in common, so he wanted to discuss something they were both only mildly interested in; he wanted a relationship and wanted to try something new. At his suggestion, they began discussing philosophy, a topic that Lethanin kept interesting with fringe theories from Tasselman and which Larson was more than willing to follow some crazy lines of logic. By the time five years had passed since the campaign, Larson and Lethanin had developed a real friendship. Lethanin, though, wanted a father more than a friend, and Larson also had a habit of apologizing for not knowing how to be a father. Lethanin chose not to poke at the situation, especially since it had never been better, but he privately brainstormed ways to awaken fatherhood in Larson. Eight years after the campaign, Lethanin invited Larson to his tower, asking questions about how to engineer a few new additions he had in mind. Larson began to authoritatively provide answers, and suddenly having a sense of command over Lethanin jarred something in Larson. When next Lethanin visited his parents for dinner, something that now occurred every week rather than once every few months, Larson greeted Lethanin as a father greeting a son for the first time. Lethanin, now close with his mother and father, allowed himself to enjoy this, and the whole family, seen together in Vestry often, developed a reputation as the strange gnomes who are deeply close and don't follow convention, a reputation Lethanin prized. 

Lethanin made an effort to stay connected to the other dragons as well. He discovered that Rupert, who was grateful for Lethanin's words on the mountain when they'd found him, had begun life over as a caretaker for the needy in Finiel and beyond. Lethanin met with Wing, who seemed somewhat disillusioned but who was consistently doing social good in Vestry. Jarvia, emboldened by the support of the other dragons, had blossomed and was far more active as a dragon than she'd been in centuries. Hriskin was charging forward on the front to make up for lost time, and she'd become a public figure in Finiel in a disguise as someone new. Aurix was developing big plans for the dragons and used the reputation of good that Lethanin had cultivated to promote more good works and intimidate wrongdoers. Niela, now a mother of two, had embraced motherhood and grown into a warm, animated woman who was working hard in Mishara to improve things during an unstable political climate. Brokk was working hard with other dragons to make them their best and attending to unfinished business, plus enjoying life as a dad. Aurora had built an alchemy empire with her mother and was working on a primer on dragonhood for new dragons--she meant to interview Lethanin for his section of the book. 

Lethanin got to enjoy showing off his tower and boasting about the success of his cultural exchange project when they weren't speaking for the primer. Lethanin's answers to Aurora's questions were somewhat surprising to Aurora--Lethanin was willing to admit that dragonhood's power enabled them to do good, but he was unwilling to say it obligated them to be good. Aurora pressed Lethanin on this, and Lethanin described an abstract responsibility to the things that make him him--his identity as a strange dragon, the importance of bringing the truth to light, trying to figure out what it all means, allowing people to be themselves like the dragons had decided everything on. Lethanin was not obligated to people; he was obligated to what defined him personally. At this point, Lethanin began to question what responsibility really is. 

And through it all, Lethanin always came back to Tasselman's research. After two years, Tasselman reported that dragons were now commonly accepted as fact by most all people; this fact was interesting to Tasselman because the pre-people he had theorized had described dragons as a fact of life. This had long been considered myth, but Tasselman said that it explained everything. After three years, Tasselman presented an ancient text claiming the existence of 25-40 dragons at one time, but the same source says that within a decade, only 10 dragons remained--Tasselman attributed this to some mass extinction event. After five years, Tasselman presented an occult compendium, part hymnal of Magoth, king of the underworld, part archive of obsure information. Lethanin was shocked to realize that the compendium had scarily accurate information about dragons, including that dragonhood is something a person can have and that it can move from person to person. Lethanin acted skeptical of all this to keep some secrecy about dragonhood. Lethanin also found a passage that claimed invulnerability was not an original part of life for dragons, and that the change had involved gods (Tasselman said Vecna and Nerull were likely culprits). Later that night, Lethanin played a hymn to Magoth out of curiosity; when Magoth and asked what bargain Lethanin desired; Magoth noticed the instruments, and assuming the hymn had been what it was, he left, directing Lethanin to not do that again. Lethanin showed Aurix the book, then stuck it on a shelf and left it alone. Eight years after the campaign, Tasselman described the now-frequent incidence of children produced from unions that would not have borne them previously, for instance a halfing-half-elf child. Tasselman argues that the Song made everyone united, and then the Apostasy was losing the Song and being divided, and now the world is coming back together with the Song. Lethanin observed these children in the world too and took to standing up for them when they faced discrimination. And ten years after the campaign, Tasselman had new explanations for everything. He said that the Song went away, people split up, they evolved according to their environments, and they became the groups we know today. Tasselman said that the barrier between the mundane realm and the gods' realm was set in place during the Apostasty, and that free will would only exist when the gods were banished at the end of the Apostasy (aka the events of the campaign). With a much clearer picture but still no definite answers, Lethanin and Tasselman agreed to keep looking. 

Ten Years After:

This period was marked at the beginning by a pulling back from Lethanin--he deliberately became more reclusive, spending time in his tower and flying over the ocean to dissuade sailors from paying much attention to his island. He felt that many of his goals had been accomplished, and he wanted to simply be comfortable. But as he tried to enjoy a quieter life, he received a powerful magic message from someone asking for an audience. He granted it, and a strange humanoid figure appeared before him. The stranger said their name was Vick. Vick identified themself as a god and explained that the divine realm had become unstable with the barrier fully replaced. The gods, Vick said, were going crazy and becoming destructive. Vick compared existence to a rudderless ship in which the crew was poking holes in the hull. Vick said that their intention with Lethanin was to have Lethanin explain all of this to someone else, someone who wouldn't be amenable to hearing from a god. Before they left, Vick asked Lethanin to play the Song, which Lethanin did. His playing was at first tentative, having not played the Song in over a decade, but quickly, Lethanin fell into the performance, invoking rain clouds over the tower--they were tempestuous at times and turned into a long, droning fade out. Vick was moved to tears, uttered a solemn thank you, and left without further word. Curious, Lethanin decided to determine the identity of Vick. After some cursory research, it became clear that Vick was Vecna, the evil deity of secrets and hidden knowledge. Concerned, Lethanin reached out to Aurix, Brokk, and Niela to let them know what had happened, and they agreed to spread the word and stay watchful. 

A few uneventful years later, a few of Lethanin's projects ran into trouble. His civil defense project became stagnant, with money being routed to projects without significant oversight; at the same time, without Lethanin directly choosing artists for the cultural exchange program, the quality of art being promoted dropped off, resulting in diminishing returns. Lethanin was at first frustrated by this, enjoying a quiet life and distracted by thoughts of Vecna, but he ultimately decided to set to solving problems. First, he set to identifying new sources of crime and anonymously reporting them to guards across Evanoch. He also noticed that some cities were being funded in a way that didn't maximize the output for his money, so Lethanin readjusted spending, resulting in more cities receiving more effective help. Meanwhile, Lethanin set out for cultural centers like museums and religious sites in order to spread word of his artists and their work. It was during a mission like this that Lethanin began to hear word that prayers were being directly answered in grand fashion. This came a while after meeting with Vecna, and Lethanin took this to mean that the gods in fact were active and intentional, which led him to doubt Vecna. Amused by the reports that Corellon Larethian and Moradin, presumed male for most of history, had feminine voices, Lethanin took in the reports but kept his impressions to himself. 

The issue of answered prayers was complicated. At first, it seemed almost a fad--people were amazed by the phenomenon and would pray for simple, meaningless things just to confirm that it really did work. Religious officials of course took this as sacrilege, urging people to treat prayers properly and respectfully. But this did not change the course of people's actions, who soon accepted prayer's efficacy as fact and began to tinker with ways to take advantage of it. People learned that praying for money resulted in relatively little in the way of coin, but praying for a god's favored weapon and using that for intimidation and violence was much more effective. Crime rose due to this, and Lethanin was unsure of what to do about beyond focusing on the civil defense project. Lethanin spoke to people about this and found that some people found the pure mathematics of what they could gain from prayer too simple to ignore. Stuck without an idea of how to handle this, Lethanin called a meeting of the dragons. 

The meeting was attended by all ten dragons, including Xavier, the green dragon, who seemed much more open to discussion than the last time Lethanin had tried speaking to them. Lethanin introduced the problem: people are abusing effective prayer. Immediately, Aurora had ideas--she outlined the possible ways to interpret the issue, offering proactive and reactive solutions to each one. Wing lamented the idea that people were morally failing the situation, which deeply upset Aurix, who disliked considering that people are not inherently good. Lethanin redirected the conversation, asking for solutions rather than explanations or mourning. Niela delicately reminded Lethanin of the situation with Vecna, inquiring whether the prayer issue had come to light before, after, or during Vecna's appearance--Lethanin acknowledged that it was shortly after. Xavier inferred from this that the gods had become aware of Vecna's actions and that they were deliberately counteracting them, suggesting that the gods were directly responding to Vecna's appearance. Hriskin suggested contacting the gods directly via prayer to see what they were thinking--the gods granting weapons indiscriminately could be targeted directly to address the problem. Niela suggested speaking to a trusted god first, and Brokk asserted that Gruumsh was the most trustworthy god they knew of. The dragons agreed, and Brokk prayed to Gruumsh, soon relaying that Gruumsh had said that the barrier had prevented the gods from seeing the effects of granting their prayers--they hadn't known the situation and would stop immediately since it was actually making things worse. Brokk and Lethanin commiserated about having gods who were so essentially humanoid that they did not feel like elevated gods. 

The conversation turned to Vecna. Niela explained that she believed Vecna had been trying to get access to the Song in order to destroy the barrier between the gods' realm and the mundane world, which had always been their goal. Lethanin asked the dragons how to handle this delicate situation, and he received a variety of advice that went in every direction. Brokk said that he couldn't imagine being in Lethanin's situation and wouldn't presume to tell him what to do. Aurora argued that stretching the next conversation with Vecna in order to obtain as much information as possible would be the most strategic option. Aurix was very concerned about the safety of Lethanin, arguing that Lethanin should not agree to meet again at all. Wing pointed out that it would be difficult to entirely disengage from Vecna without communication, saying it would be best to be direct and decline any further meetings. Hriskin agreed, saying that being straightforward was the simplest, best, and most courteous thing to do. Xavier indicated that they had no meaningful experience with gods at all and had nothing substantial to add. Rupert enthusiastically asked to place some contingency-dependent scrying spells on Lethanin's tower so that he could remotely observe the meeting; Lethanin tentatively agreed. Niela suggested that Vecna's explanations, apparent enjoyment of Lethanin, and emotional response to the Song was probably all an act but theoretically could be true, so she told Lethanin to be incredibly cautious since he may have a god's fragile ego in his hands. Content that all voices had been heard, the meeting was adjourned. 

A while later, Lethanin once again heard from Vecna, asking for another meeting. This time, Lethanin acknowledged that he knew Vick was Vecna, which caused Vecna to smile very aggressively. Vecna directly asked for another rendition of the Song, this time with a friend accompanying them. Lethanin questioned Vecna about this friend, who Vecna said was Davil Lowenport, the leader of the highly successful band The Door to the Other Door. Lethanin demanded to know in what way Vecna wasn't taking advantage of him; Vecna described a revelation that they'd had after the rift had been sealed. Vecna said that they would explain the real history of existence if Lethanin would let them. Lethanin agreed, and Vecna began to explain. 

Vecna said that Boccob created the gods' realm, then some of the gods, and then the gods began to reproduce. Vecna said that they were the child of Nerull and Corellon Larethian, and that for all of their life, they had been locked in a war with the other gods. But having their plans to destroy the barrier and come to Izar (the planet where Evanoch lies) totally foiled had forced a perspective change. Vecna argued that they had come to realize that endless, fruitless fighting was worth nothing--they had wanted to get ahead of the other gods somehow, but they had realized that they were a god and had everything they could want and could enjoy being comfortable, which they believed Lethanin could understand. Vecna said they had changed and were being honest. They really did like Lethanin and counted him a kindred spirit, the performance of the Song had truly moved them, and they simply wanted to share the Song with someone else who could appreciate it. Vecna noted that Lethanin seemed uncomfortable and offered magical relaxation, which Lethanin rejected. Lethanin responded by explaining his own situation and the many reasons to be cautious of Vecna, saying that comfort and power are a compromise that one must strike. Ultimately, Lethanin was wary of anyone having access to the Song--that much power is not something to trust a person with. Vecna countered that Lethanin seemed quite comfortable having sole access to the Song, which Lethanin did not quite have an answer for. Vecna further argued that the Song, in the hands of Lowenport, would be played for thousands of adoring fans across the world, and Lethanin knew that it had come time to say no once and for all. Lethanin spoke directly: "I don’t think it’s something that should be out there. If you’re really not up to some shady shit, you’ll understand that." Vecna simmered for a moment and then shot flames from their hands--but the flames were not hot, nor did they burn Lethanin's tower, which helped Lethanin to realized that the Vecna before him was an image, and Vecna could not exert real power here. Lethanin, pleased with himself, pointed out that Vecna had been up to something, and Vecna disappeared in frustration and shame. In a message, Lethanin explained the situation to Niela, who advised continuing to keep an eye out for divine happenings, but she was very glad that Lethanin was safe and quite intrigued that a god could only project an image with the barrier in place rather than a real appearance. Moving foward, Lethanin developed a complex system of magical alarms that could detect any form of life and any form of divine magic.

29 years after the events of the campaign, Xavier reached out to Lethanin, inviting him to Xavier's estate outside Curagon. Lethanin arrived and was whisked inside to the immaculate home where Xavier was already making tea. Xavier apologized for their previous rude message and properly introduced themself, explaining that Aurora's visit had convinced them to take a more active and good role in the world. As part of that, they had established social services in Curagon and financed Brokk to do the same in Ringsdale--they wanted to know if Lethanin would be willing to do the same in some other city. After some conversation, they agreed that Torga would be a good place to start, both because the city was still struggling after great change and because the city was essentially Lethanin's home base.

Back in Torga, Lethanin set plans into motion. He went to Tasselman and asked the academic to consider founding a public school. Tasselman was initially anxious about being a part of the same academic community that had rejected him and his outlandish theories, but he quickly realized that he could create a school that would encourage his kind of thinking and accept all students and ideas. Meanwhile, Lethanin invested in infrastructure. Public health was already at an all-time high because of the cheaply available, high-quality health potions from a Mortar and Pestle, Aurora's company with her mother, so Lethanin focused on urban renewal and improving public spaces by reconstructing houses, improving roads, updating the docks, and establishing more green spaces throughout town. Changes were gradual, but slowly, Torga became a better place, particularly for Torga's middle and lower classes, who had been largely ignored by the other improvements the city had seen. Lethanin also fought poverty with systems and donations and even developed an arts education program using artists from the cultural exchange program. It was through this effort that Lethanin heard from a dissident Daltoner artist about Harriet and Priscilla Hanson, two Daltoner women who ran an underground support system for dissident Daltoners, and Lethanin chose to keep this information on hand until he could do something special with it. 

All the while, Lethanin kept up contact with his family. As he became more reclusive after the successes in building relationships with his parents, he continued to pay visits, but increasingly wrote letters to stay in touch. His mother continued to visit the tower in order to work in her jewelry workshop, and Lethanin would often pop in to say hello. In the 48th year after the campaign, Lethanin visited his mother on such a day, and she asked to speak to him for a moment. She voiced satisfaction at building a stronger relationship and conceded she would never truly understand him (nor would he fully understand her), but that she was proud of what they had done. It was with the knowledge that she could be a better mom, that Lethanin's father could be a better dad, and with the rekindled relationship between Lethanin's parents that his mother and father had made a decision, and Lethanin would soon be a big brother. This prompted Lethanin to short-circuit a bit, unsure of what to say, how to process the information, or how to regard the spirit of what his mother had said. He eventually wished his mother well and tried to come to peace with this big change in his family. 

Fifty Years After:

Lethanin was around to watch his younger brother, who his parents named Boblanin (Bobby for short). Larson and Dodira bragged about Bobby constantly--his prodigy and sweetness in particular--and Lethanin at first tried to keep Bobby in check so that the boy didn't get overly cocky. But Lethanin found that Bobby did not want to upstage him so much as participate with him, such as when they would play together. This changed Lethanin's perspective, who now no longer babied or challenged Bobby, instead inviting him to be silly, like in the construction of a house-wide pillow fort in Larson and Dodira's house. The special spark that Bobby showed prompted Lethanin to sneakily determine whether Bobby was naturally magical (he wasn't), and Lethanin made continued efforts to give Bobby the peer relationship he needed rather than the inferior one he got from others. 

58 years after the events of the campaign, Lethanin was given a coded message by a member of his cultural exchange program who could not decipher it. Lethanin worked on the message and eventually discovered that it was a call for help from the two Daltoner women he had heard about who smuggled dissidents out of New Dalton--Harriet and Priscilla Hanson--requesting help getting a group of high urgency fugitives out of the city. Lethanin called a dragon meeting to deal with the issue. Aurora began by stating her inability to help Daltoners and excused herself from further discussion. Several other dragons indicated their assent to this, reasoning that it was unclear how the mission would impact the bigger picture. In the end, no one voiced support, and the meeting fell to catching up. One by one, the dragons disappeared until only Lethanin and Hriskin remained; she said she didn't want to shake things up in the meeting, but she wanted to help Lethanin. They decided to send a letter arranging a meeting (more comfortable for the Hansons than Hriskin's suggested face-to-face meeting to start), agreeing to meet up in an abandoned part of town. 

The meeting came, and Harriet and Priscilla asked for help smuggling 14 reformed Daltoners of former positions of power out of New Dalton, suggesting nearby Ringsdale as a first step in the journey. When Lethanin explained the potential of using portals for the journey, Harriet asked for Finiel as a landing point instead since Daltoners could blend in with the Faninites there and there was already considerable infrastructure for refugees in the form of Rupert's shelters. Though Hriskin seemed uncomfortable about something about the deal, she remained quiet as Harriet and Priscilla guided them from the abandoned parts of the city, through the suburbs, into the wealthy quarter of town, into a fine double mansion, through twisting hallways, into a cellar, and into a second hidden cellar, where the 14 dissidents waited. "Here's who wants to help you," said Priscilla to the dissidents, sparking excitement from the group. Hriskin seemed even more uncomfortable now, and she whispered to Lethanin that these were the people who had caused the problems in New Dalton to begin with--could they be sure they weren't setting authoritarian monsters loose on the rest of the continent? To this end, Lethanin began to question the dissidents. One young man spoke fervently of the anguish he felt knowing the pain he had caused--he said his old imagining of endless punishment for sin was nothing compared to the guilt of knowing he had harmed so many of those in his community. Several others spoke in similar terms, and Hriskin and Lethanin felt assuaged that the dissidents at least seemed sincere. 

Focusing on the practical, Lethanin asked the dissidents what came next for them. Some said they meant to live simple lives with common trades they could depend on and do something valuable with--many discussed smithing and crafting. Others said they wanted to enter public service to make up for their misdeeds, trying to make right for others what they had failed to understand before. Still others hadn't thought that far ahead--they were simply focusing on escaping the violent Daltoner regime alive. Lethanin opened a portal to Finiel's outskirts not far from one of Rupert's homes for the needy and played a swelling, hopeful song on the fiddle to usher in the next stage of the dissidents' lives. Once they had passed through, Harriet offered payment, which Lethanin declined. He kept an eye on the dissidents in the months that followed. As they had said, many of the group took up simple trades--many of them woodworking and weaving like the Faninites they now counted as neighbors--while others got involved in Finiel's changing government. Three did not find new homes right away. One eventually found his way into chopping wood in a small village outside Finiel; another returned to New Dalton to agitate for change; a third struck Lethanin as a different type of problem. He had noticed one woman among the otherwise all-male group of dissidents, and she had seemed more reserved, more defeated than the rest. She did not fall into a job. One night, Lethanin craftily joined her at a bar and checked in. She introduced herself as Deb and thanked Lethanin for her freedom. Lethanin asked what her story was; she explained that she had been a survivor of abuse at the hands of Dalton Church of Pelor officials, and her inclusion in the dissident group was a way to save her from the Church. Lethanin asked her what came next--after a very long pause, Deb said law school. Lethanin invited her to study at Tasselman's university, and Deb enthusiastically agreed, a glint in her eye. She set off for Torga and soon began her studies there, where she excelled quickly. 

63 years after the campaign, Lethanin's cultural exchange program resulted in its biggest success yet--Evanoch's first true bestseller. Author Laura Bernard, a Faninite woman whose novel The Continent's Best tells a story of political intrigue with progressive heroes overcoming conservative villains in a classic folk style, achieved both popular and critical success with her work. Noticeably, the themes of Bernard's novel had sparked conversations across Evanoch about political representation, with some smaller towns even overthrowing their governments in the name of more progressive politics. Laura asked Lethanin for help, and he made his way to her villa in Finiel to talk things out. She explained that she felt pressure to match the magnitude of her first success--"Have you ever done something big and didn't know what to do next?" she asked. Lethanin, trying to not betray how well he knew the feeling, replied, "Well, what I have found . . . there's always something to do. Somebody always needs something. Forget about the book for a minute. What's on your mind?" Laura explained with some stress that she felt responsible for the changes in government--"If I can put a thought in people's heads--that's a lot of responsibility to carry." Lethanin tried to avoid displaying his identification with this too, and he rambled for a minute before saying, "Show the truth. Other people will decide what to do with it." In the end, Lethanin and Laura agreed that power is best used when it first shakes things up and then is used well to keep the course correct. Laura thanked Lethanin for his help and set to work on her next novel, which discussed themes of power and responsibility and which surpassed The Continent's Best in sales. 

In the 68th year after the campaign, amidst the swirling political landscape of the time, Torga's governor retired. This kicked off an election cycle which was worrying to Lethanin. Torga's policians are organized into parties largely centered on cultural values. With increasing numbers of Daltoner immigrants arriving, the highly conservative Daltoner party (the Fieldsburg party) was leading in the polls, with the mostly conservative dwarven party (the Feldskar party) in second and the progressive orcish party (the Trass party) in last. Concerned, Lethanin approached the orcish party with intentions to help and learned that they just couldn't get their full message out given the volume and fervor and emotional appeals of the Daltoners, not to mention the misinformation being spread by them. Lethanin donated funding to the orcish party, but he also instructed Tasselman to expand the university to include a new Public Relations department whose first task would be helping promote the orcish party. This was to be done, Lethanin said, with a good image for the orcish party and with satire to undercut the Daltoners. In the days that followed, the university went into full focus, spreading word of the orcish party's platform with posters and ridiculing the totalitarian approach of the Daltoners. The election came, and the Daltoner party took up the lowest slot in the rankings, while the dwarves remained in the middle, and the orcish party triumphed. Their candidate, Lort Rekk, took office and set to work institutionalizing a number of public services, and Lethanin met privately with Rekk to instruct him to "not fuck it up." 

70 years after the campaign, Bobby graduated from gnomish basic academy and achieved a record high score on the Gnomish Overall Literacy Determination (GOLD), immediately pledged himself to a medical program at the most prestigious medical university in Evanoch, and got himself an apartment. He invited Lethanin over to see the place and catch up. Lethanin noticed on entering the apartment that the entire living room was dedicated to housing a beautiful drum set. Lethanin immediately challenged Bobby to play together, and Bobby began by laying down a beat which was a simply halfling-style rock beat. Lethanin produced an electrified lute and played aggressively, with wailing solos and screaming notes. Lethanin noticed that Bobby was deliberately playing supportively for Lethanin to be the featured player, so Lethanin pulled back and played supportively. This prompted Bobby to begin a syncopated rhythm with one hand playing halfling rock and the other playing orcish drum style--just as his solo reached a crescendo, a drumstick broke, causing Bobby to burst into laughter and Lethanin to swear about the botched groove. Bobby thanked Lethanin for playing together, and Lethanin extended an invitation to always come and stay at the tower with its massive music room. Bobby promised he would and noted that he felt so much pressure to be exceptional and just wanted to be normal sometimes. Lethanin said it seemed Bobby was better adjusted than Lethanin had been at his age, and Bobby added that Mom and Dad had often said it was easier raising Bobby because they'd already messed everything up with Lethanin. This got a long, stunned silence from Lethanin, but the two enjoyed the rest of an evening relaxing. 

In the 72nd year, Niela contacted Lethanin to let him know she was running for a new council position in the reformed Misharan government. Lethanin donated money to the campaign and set the university's PR department into motion on Niela's platform. It was the PR department that suggested selling Niela as "Vuthiejir," a large part of the reason that so many write-in votes for "Vuthiejir" were cast. Lethanin advised Niela to always listen to smart people, which Niela promised to do. 

74 years after the campaign, Tasselman asked for assistance expanding the university to include a religious studies program. Initially, Lethanin did not understand why Tasselman couldn't do this alone--Tasselman was, after all, in total control of the university. But Tasselman explained that his plan included full access to all known material on all gods, which had upset many of the existing staff, some of whom were threatening to resign over the issue. Lethanin went to the university's campus and met with the teachers' union, the head of which--Nelly Millen, a half-elven professor of ancient literature--was the informal spokesperson for those opposed the expansion. Nelly argued that collecting and offering necromantic texts in the name of academic completeness was reckless and foolhardy, a gateway to evil, but Tasselman was firmly of the opinion that a religious studies program without these texts would be incomplete. Nelly countered by asking if a "complete" university was worth the safety of the city. Lethanin offered a compromise--keep the texts, but control access to them. Unwilling to compromise, Nelly and several of the teachers resigned, stating a desire to move to a different city to escape the threat of undead. Before they could leave, Lethanin offered Nelly the equivalent of Tasselman's position at a new university in a city of her choosing where she could determine the currucula. Nelly considered and accepted the offer, heading to Ringsdale to start the city's first university. In the years that followed, Tasselman's university kept tight control of the precious documents and prevented any emergencies, and Nelly's university brought advanced academics to Ringsdale, which new industrial sciences emerged. 

In the 81st year after the campaign, Lethanin was making lunch in his tower when he heard an alarm indicating that someone was in proximity of his tower. He looked out a window in the direction of the alarm and spotted a young half-elven woman in a rowboat approaching the shore of his island. Lethanin went down to the beach and waited for her to land. She greeted him, introduced herself as Quinta, and explained that she was a sorcerer looking for guidance and dragons, which she'd heard rumor of in the area. Lethanin did not say anything except to offer her a cup of tea, which she accepted. Inside, Lethanin made tea and shared lunch and answered some of Quinta's questions. He learned that Quinta had the powers as a sorcerer to get by and occasionally help people, but she wanted more power so she could do more than get by and actually help people. She had moved around a lot as a kid because her father couldn't keep a job, and she had taken care of the two of them. She had worked a lot of jobs but hated to do so--doing the same tasks endlessly drove her crazy. She pointedly asked what Lethanin knew about dragons, and Lethanin gave a vague, noncommittal answer. She more pointedly asked where Lethanin's food came from, where his boat was, how he got to and from the mainland, whether he was uncomfortable with a visitor or her questions, and finally, if he would "make me a dragon like you." Lethanin asked Quinta to sweep the tower while he went to his study, and she agreed, enthusiastically gathering dust in a pile. 

Away from Quinta, Lethanin called for help from the dragons, asking for the presence of Aurix and Niela, as well as anyone else who could come--Aurora, Brokk, and Jarvia joined them. Lethanin explained the situation as best he could (with great skepticism), and dragons agreed that simply talking to Quinta would be for the best. The six dragons descended the tower to Quinta, and they began to ask her questions. Jarvia took a gentle tone and asked simple question. She learned that Quinta was 21 years old, that she had never been in a fight, that she believed being a dragon made you heroic. The dragons stood for a moment in this information, and Jarvia stood back. Niela stepped forward, speaking like a mother to Quinta. "Let's try again in ten years," she said. "For now, we'll send you on your way with help." Quinta was dejected, but Aurora whispered something to her that perked her up significantly. Quinta apologized for bothering Lethanin, and Lethanin urged her not to worry about it. Aurora gave Quinta a considerable bag of coins, Niela and Aurix cast blessings on her, Jarvia and Aurora spoke hopeful words, and Lethanin promised Quinta an education if she wanted one. Quinta boarded her rowboat and set back out on the waves towards Torga, and Lethanin transformed into a dragon and flew over the seas over his tower. 

87 years after the campaign, Lethanin attended the wedding of his younger brother Bobby to Keski, a fellow research doctor at the university. Together, they developed the world's first anti-depressant, called Pexedrine. Later that year, when their first child was born, they named her Pexedrine in honor of their work together, calling their daughter Pexi for short. Lethanin was asked to be Pexi's godfather, a request that flummoxed him deeply. Bobby tried to comfort Lethanin that it really just meant watching Pexi sometimes and being more or less present in her life as he'd been in Bobby's. Lethanin enthusiastically agreed, and he watched as Bobby spent more time at home with Keski and Pexi, more time playing music, and less time laboring at work, which seemed to make Bobby happier. Lethanin was always present, bringing gifts of tiny musical intstruments for Pexi and spending time with Bobby whenever able. 

It was during one such visit that Lethanin and Bobby ended up drinking together late into the night. Bobby admitted that he'd always wanted to be like Lethanin, to define himself and not be held back by expectations or obligations. "That's why I fucked off to an island," replied Lethanin. He added that not knowing what to do with responsibility was always a challenge, though he obscured what responsibilities he meant exactly. Bobby countered that responsibility is the easy part--you do the most good you can, and that's the whole deal. Lethanin told a story about his recent dealings, vaguely describing running the universities, the cultural exchange, the civic programs, his financial empire, and the obvious implication was that Lethanin was relating on the grounds of his many responsibilities. Bobby, who had always let mentions like this go, finally asked: "What do you do for a living?" Lethanin slyly invited Bobby on an adventure, and Bobby accepted. Lethanin opened a portal to his tower, which Bobby walked through, mystified. Lethanin warned Bobby that things were about to get weird, to which Bobby replied, "I trust you, big brother." Lethanin transformed into the sound dragons and put on an aerial acrobatic display before landing in a dramatic pose. "I knew you were up to something fucked up," said Bobby, "but I couldn't have known it was this." They laughed together a moment, and Lethanin seemed to withdraw a bit, but Bobby said firmly, "Nothing has changed. I just can't believe Mom and Dad think I'm the overachiever." Lethanin returned them to Bobby's home, and they drank into the night. 

In the 92nd year, a bardic competition was assembled to celebrate the unity of Evanoch. Jarvia let Lethanin know about this competition and asked for help coming up with what to play. Out of all the centuries of practicing on so many different instruments in so many different styles, what was the perfect song? Lethanin came to her estate for tea, and they discussed music, the competition, and what to play. Ultimately, Lethanin said he would simply play what felt right at the moment, and he suggested Jarvia do the same. Jarvia was slow to accept this, so Lethanin teleported them to a tavern he recalled from his travels and pushed Jarvia on stage, directing her to play the first thing that came to mind. After a moment, Jarvia began to play a slow, mournful song that Lethanin recognized--it was the song Jarvia had played for Aurora outside the estate--but as it sped up and became more hopeful, it had the rollicking energy of a tavern song. The crowd went wild. Lethanin joined Jarvia on stage, and they played a chaotic and varied show that kept the energy of the crowd in mind. They retired to their respective homes to mull things over before the competition. 

Lethanin spent a week in a cycle. He would focus on one idea, exploring every dimension of it, then feel restricted and choose to think of nothing before finding a new idea and fixating on it in turn. The day of the competition finally arrived, and Lethanin had no choice but to play what felt right at the time. He and Jarvia arrived at a large natural amphitheater in the Asherinisem Plains where thousands of fans and a hundred bards waited. Lethanin was told he would be the 91st performer, and Jarvia would be the 43rd. The competition began, the performers' eyes flitting between the massive crowd and the judges' table. 

Most performers were of average talent, more looking for exposure than a chance at winning. The stage was home to folk songs, tavern songs, and the occasional original composition in the style of some classic. The 22nd performer stood out, a halfling with one arm, two prosthetic arms, and a double-necked lute which he played energetically and in a novel style. More average performers came, and then it was Jarvia's turn to perform. She looked at the thousands in the crowd and began a punky rendition of her song "Manifesto," an energetic song about political and individual rights. The judges obviously hated her grating performance, but it was obvious her message had reached thousands of fans. More average performers came before the 64th performer, an orcish woman who used magic to loop her own singing and harmonize with herself on a twist on orcish traditional chant-singing. There were more average performers, and at the 77th mark, a trio of gnomes played gadget instruments and sang a song about a dismal future where machines control everything. A few more average performers came and went, and it was Lethanin's turn. He played the fiddle, beginning with a simple folk tune that became more freeform and strange and reached a peak before descending, and without realizing it, Lethanin found himself playing a simplified version of the Song. He noticed thousands of people swaying hypnotically in time with his playing, was alarmed at the slip, and transitioned into a gentle ending that recalled the folky beginning. The crowd was electric. The remaining performers resigned their places in line, unwilling to follow Lethanin, and Lethanin was asked his name by the judges, who unanimously declared him the winner. He provided his real name and was swept away by Jarvia to a somewhere calmer--her backyard, where they sat and unwinded with wine. Jarvia said it was official--Lethanin was the most talented bard in the land. He accepted this only reluctantly and after complaint. Jarvia said for her part, having the judges hate her song was exactly what she hoped for--she didn't want authority's approval, but the common people's. Lethanin worried that he had changed in some way, that being known would make him something different; Jarvia reassured him that he was still the same Lethanin. He thanked he for the adventure and wandered off into the night. 

Meanwhile, young Pexi was growing into an individual. She clung to Lethanin often and was inseparable from her tiny instruments, even though she had quite outgrown them at this point. It was during a visit when Lethanin was watching and playing with Pexi that she grew uncharacteristically serious. "Will you teach me to be a bard?" she asked. Lethanin reserved judgment and asked her to play with him. She played a lyre with considerable technical skill and solid improvisation--potentially a developing prodigy with some training. Lethanin praised Pexi to Bobby, saying the girl was doing well and had promise. Bobby explained that the family was taking the bard idea slow--Mom and Dad were tense about another bard in the family, and Pexi was only seven with plenty of time to make that choice. Lethanin countered by offering family band time--Lethanin, Bobby, and Pexi could all play together as a family activity without the pressure of bardic training. This became a reality quickly, and each member of the trio learned new musical ideas from one another as they played together. It was after one of these band practices that Pexi asked Lethanin another serious question: "How are you supposed to live when you're different from what society expects from you?" Lethanin reflected long on this question, ultimately saying that you have to do what you feel is both you and right; Pexi countered that this was what kept getting her into trouble. Lethanin laughed and explained that if you get into trouble for the right reasons, trouble isn't all that bad--just keep trying to learn how to know when it's worth getting into trouble. Pexi was grateful and clung to Lethanin as ever, and Lethanin saw a new sense of purpose in his niece as she grew. 

In the 97th year after the campaign, Lethanin was walking through Torga on a shopping run when he heard someone whistling. It was a stark, strange experience for Lethanin--he knew he knew the tune, but he couldn't place how or from where. As the tune continued, it reached a shifted scale of five notes that he instantly placed--the Song. Someone was whistling the Song. Lethanin was stunned. He could not believe that a random person would know it and just casually whistle it in a public square. Without giving himself away as looking for its source, he located the whistler and observed them. It was a young human boy, no more than ten. "Where you know that song from?" called Lethanin. The boy shrugged. He just knew it--had always known it, had heard it as a baby and thought he'd made it up since no one else seemed to know it. "Do you know it?" asked the boy. "I've heard it," replied Lethanin. The boy asked for what Lethanin knew about the tune, some guidance in understanding this song that enchanted him. Lethanin wished him luck in finding it and went about his shopping, the boy resuming whistling as he walked away. 

Friday, October 10, 2025

A Profile on the Island of Ramsey

Years ago, faced a problem familiar to many: I had no players. But that's prime time to start working on the next campaign, so I started trying to hatch some bold new idea. I eventually realized I wanted to do D&D in a Western setting, and that led to the immediate problem that I didn't have anywhere in Evanoch that would do to host it. So I hatched a new continent, one where a Wild West aesthetic could live and invite a new kind of adventure. I set to work. 

It was to be a desert island, the sandy earth underfoot replicating that of classic Western setting. People would get from place to place by horse, which already worked for D&D. Standard weapons would be replaced by bows and crossbows, my adaptation of gunslingers (hand crossbows would be common). The storylines would be Western-themed, and the towns would be the true star. Each one would have a distinct personality, which I thought would lend itself to curious adventurers. 

It took a year to get the foundations set and the first two towns made. I was distracted, and I was careful, and I was in no rush. I worked away, getting everything just right. I made charts detailing the professions and home locations and personalities of each townsperson as well as a web of their relationships with other townsfolk. I was going way in detail. 

Too much in detail. I was lost in the sauce. I found players and had only a partial map to play with. I hatched a half-brained story, we played for two sessions, and breakups destroyed the group. This Western setting, which I had named Ramsey, went on hold. 

Perhaps two years passed. I returned to Ramsey with new urgency--I had a large group of players intrigued by the setting. I completed the other ten towns in the space of a few months. They had less detail--blessedly, no relationship charts--but the maps were complete, and I understand the character of the places. 

The campaign was, ultimately, a let-down. My party was a group of antics players who destroyed or insulted everything they interacted with, getting them kicked out of all but one town they visited. I didn't get to experience Ramsey this time, either. Maybe one day. But for now, I can give you a guided tour of what that campaign might look like.

Why Choice Matters: or, How to Stop Railroading

One fascinating thing about tabletop games is that each session holds an entirely unique experience for each player, and yet certainly trends tend to appear in games all over the place. One such phenomenon is railroading, a much-detested habit of forcing the players (usually through narrative means) to follow a set path that they want rather than pursuing what the player characters would want, not unlike the way a railcar follows a set path and doesn't deviate from it. More than any other bad GM habit, railroading is held as one of the worst things you can do--players tend to hate it. So why is railroading so horrible to experience as a player? 

It takes away your ability to choose, which is part of the draw of the game. Without choice, it's impossible to create your own fun or have stakes in the story or decide how to use your abilities. If the players can't make choices for themselves about these things, are they really playing? 

Ah, but you've heard these arguments before. They're the obvious retort to railroading, and while they're broadly convincing, they don't target the heart of what causes railroading. Railroading is born of a belief that the GM's story is the most important thing, and therefore, it's worth sacrificing a little player agency to make sure that story is experienced to full effect. And that's the idea that I want to contest with something different from the usual argument. 

Let's talk about a video game called Spec Ops: The Line. I wrote and spoke at panels about this game frequently during my collegiate career because it does something very interesting narratively speaking. It plays with player guilt. In an early level, for instance, this third-person modern war shooter allows the player to control a small airship which fires deadly white phosphorous attacks on enemy soldiers below. Just beyond the battlefield is a small building marked by an infrared camera as full of soldiers, and the level progresses when the player destroys the building, killing the people within. But as the player leaves the area, they find that the building was full of civilians, including women and children, who they are responsible for killing. This likely leads the player of the game to feel guilt as the main character does. 

The first time I played Spec Ops: The Line, I remember the feeling of guilt that I had. I had been so excited to drop that white phosphorous, a chemical weapon. I had seen all those blips on the infrared camera and gotten excited for so many kills. I even thought about whether I would get an achievement for so many kills at once. That high, that aggression, brought low by the realization that I'd gotten excited to commit a massive war crime--it was very affecting. It made me rethink my relationship with shooter video games. 

Railroaders: you want your story to be at its best. But if your players are disengaged, you're telling that story to yourself. If you want them to enjoy the story as much as possible, they need to have stakes in the story, and that means some control. In the example from Spec Ops, the player is given the tools and the situation and left to do the rest themselves. The result is a fair amount of ownership over the action, which leads to a strong feeling when the story responds to that action. You can have that if you grant your players some agency to affect things. 

It's also worth noting that some players (myself largely included) who only enjoy the game with some agency. I'm the kind of player who writes considerable backstories for my players, who roleplays heavily, and who likes to see the consequences of my characters' actions. None of that is possible without some meaningful choice being granted to the players. 

But more to the point, choice is required for narrative buy-in. Your story is nothing but a long list of words to your players if they're on the sidelines. They want to be heroes! They want to have fun! They want to engage with your world! Let them. 

So you have seen the light. How do you bring yourself to share your delicate, perfect world with your clumsy players? The truth is, they're going to make a mess. They're going to stick a wrench in the cogs of your canon machine. They're not going to recognize that some important NPC matters and isn't some random NPC and harass or kill them. All kinds of things are going to go wrong. Accept that. 

To help you accept it, let's think about the point of all this. We're playing tabletop games. The goal is not to create the most perfect or interesting or classic or unique world. The goal is to allow the players to have fun. And they can't have fun on rails. That would be a sightseeing tour. 

Let me tell you about a GM I know. To this GM, their world is sacrosanct. Every historical NPC is precious to them, every homebrew city a sanctuary, every world event a meaningful action. I have played in this GM's world. It is a sightseeing tour of their favorite places and NPCs. I didn't realize I was being railroaded at first since it was done well, but it was railroading. We were escorted from NPC with worldbuilding information to NPC with worldbuilding information with occasional roleplaying opportunities between. I had a good time, but outside the scope of the story. The story was something that ended up not really involving my character, and I just did my own thing until the campaign wrapped up. 

If you, like this GM, decide that your world is special like this, you will only ever try to "protect" it from your players. But if you commit to giving more than a sightseeing tour and give your players some control (for the small price--or truly, benefit--of seeing them actually impact the world), you can get them invested. 

I do get it. I once spent the better part of a year meticulously designing, mapping, and populating a small desert continent. It was to be a Wild West setting, a style I've always loved. I had varied and interesting towns that matched the Old West aesthetic (a puritanical religious town, a saloon-heavy town, a frontier fortress) and unique twists on the classics (a treetop town in the forest, an academy on a small island, an underground city of criminals). I had even personally named every member of several towns, chosen their professions, drawn maps of their homes, plotted who they knew and cared about--this continent was my baby. I gave it to a group of hijinks players. They were banned from basically every town they went to after causing massive destruction and ruckus. It was painful. Why open yourself up to that?

To answer that point, one more example: I got to play some cool alternative tabletop games during college with a friend who was a very talented GM. For about a year, he ran a campaign of Geist, a game where you play someone who basically died but was brought back by a ghost who is tethered to them, granting them some supernatural abilities. My character was an old man who'd created magnetic skates and was trying to sell them to young punks. Our GM was slow to introduce a main storyline for us--it was only after our group solidified and formally affiliated together that we got a whiff of what the story would be. So up to that was a lot of roleplaying and exploration, which we loved. By the time the main story kicked in, we were so invested in the world and our home in it that we felt very connected to it. 

You don't need to play out 8 months of game sessions getting people settled the way my GM did, but ultimately, you do need to give your players time to bite into the world, or else it's just set dressing. The sightseeing tour I went on with the railroading GM had many exciting and interesting places, but we never spent enough time in any of them to feel like they were real to us or we mattered there. I try to develop a sense of place each time we visit a location to deepen the description and detail of places the group visits frequently. 

So if you've accepted that it's time to stop railroading and let your players have free reign of your world, I have you covered. For railroading basics, read about 
To address more fundamental issues, read about
But to be honest, the hard part is done. Accepting that it's time to give more control to players is the worst of it. It's hard to admit that you should change. But you're ready, and the path forward is filled with joys big and small. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: a profile on the island of Ramsey, a guide to the planes, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!


Wednesday, October 8, 2025

How to "Win" a Tabletop Game

Tabletop games are probably the most complicated games that exist. Anything that the people playing can imagine is accepted reality, the existing rules are complex and can grow more complex, and the way a story can become anything at all is unmatched in other media. So with all these moving parts and details, how does one go about what we do with games--try to win? How do you win a game like D&D or Call of Cthulhu or Geist? Is it possible? It depends on how you approach the question. This guide aims to approach winning a tabletop game from multiple directions to offer different answers so that you can decide what winning looks like to you. 

The most direct answer is resolving the main quest. In many campaigns, the player characters really only exist to pursue the main quest, and resolving that quest is more or less the endpoint of most campaigns. So an argument could be made that "winning" is completing the main quest. 

But there's always another quest. Classically, early D&D players carried characters over multiple campaigns, and if that's possible, it feels paltry to say completing one quest is victory. Besides, as I've noted elsewhere, completing the campaign is your character at the height of their power--leaving them there is unfulfilling at best. So while this philosophy has advantages like the concreteness of having a finished quest, there's always going to be another adventure, and that can leave some players wanting. 

There's achieving some arbitrary level of power or notoriety with your character. I recall that my second character was a gnomish wizard who schemed and stole and did all manner of things a high schooler would do in an evil campaign, and I really just wanted him to be so powerful no one could touch him. And my DM figured that out from how I played (bless him) and let me just build this character up. 

There's diminishing returns there too. Eventually, my gnomish wizard was tricking Inevitables out of death sentences and building massive keeps and decimating militias. And it was fun for a while. But then there was no challenge. My wizard had the whole world in the palm of his hand, but that meant he wanted for nothing. He wasn't fun anymore. The campaign died off, as I imagine many do when the challenge disappears. 

You could use character development as a benchmark. If you're roleplaying especially, bringing your character to a certain point narratively--forgiving themselves for some past mistake, making up for a past misdeed, growing in some emotional way--can be a rewarding way to mark what "winning" looks like. 

This approach is great, but it cuts you off from the party. Once your character arc is complete, you're pretty detached from the rest of the story in some cases, and since your focus is on your character, you can miss out on main plot and other character moments. If you can keep it all in mind at the same time, it can work, but it's a delicate line to tread, and not everyone pulls it off well. 

You could say that "winning" is when everyone at the table gets what they want. That way, everyone is satisfied, right? The combat-focused player saved the day with their new weapon, the roleplayer got to dramatically transform their character, and the antics player nailed a joke that will be a part of the group's vocabulary for life. Everyone's happy.

But is the GM happy? Did the story get served? Did each character get a just ending? It turns out it's more complicated than just everybody getting an individual win condition fulfilled. In fact, individual win conditions mean that people can get left out, and that can be an awful experience. 

So how do you actually "win" a tabletop game? Is it even possible?

In a sense, yes. But also no. 

Let's tackle no first. You can't win a tabletop game in any way that matters. The game world is bigger than you, and you will never have complete control over it. You will always have new challenges. There will never be a lasting era of victory without something mucking things up. This is just the way things are. So winning is only fleeting if you make it about truly controlling a situation. You cannot win a tabletop game anymore more than you can move the entire world's sand one grain at a time--any effort at it will never amount to anything. 

But also in a sense, yes. Any of the philsophies above will grant you a feeling of victory. But as I've argued, there are drawbacks to these. They are incomplete, counterproductive, or inefficient paths to satisfaction. A simpler philosophy works better, though: 

Did you have fun? 

The entire point of tabletop games is to have fun. Full stop. That's the point. It's why we play. It's why GMs create homebrew material--because it's fun. It's why players meticulously design their characters--because it's fun. It's why players craft combat characters and wade into battle--because it's fun. 

So, did you have fun? If you did, you won. You played a game where anything can happen, and the thing that happened (out of all possible outcomes) was fun for you to experience. That sounds like winning. The object of the game was to have fun, and you did, so you win. 

This is so simple that I resisted it when I first realized it. I didn't want to believe that I could determine the success of a game experience, from campaign down to session, based on whether I had fun. But I started listening to that philosophy as I kept playing. I realized I'd been writing campaigns for others without my interests. I'd been running a campaign I didn't enjoy. I wasn't having fun with any of it. I changed things in my writing, dropped the bad campaign, and resolved to make fun my metric. 

Since then, I've run my favorite campaign I've ever done, Of Gods and Dragons, which has been nothing but fun. Setting fun at the center of your campaign is the easiest way to give your players a good time, and if you're a player, choosing fun as your win condition is the best thing you can do for yourself and for those in your group. 

So, insofar as its possible to "win" a tabletop game, the method is simply to commit to having fun. If it's not fun, you're in a bad group and need to find a better one. If it is fun, you've gotten out of the game what you hoped for. It can be that simple if you let it. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: how to stop railroadinga profile on the island of Ramsey, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!


Tuesday, October 7, 2025

How to Work Well with Other Players

Beginner players in the world of tabletop games have a lot to learn. There's the rules of the system (which changes between games), their individual character's abilities, the plot being spun by the GM, the in-jokes the party has been crafting, the combination of group and personal goals to consider, and more. It's easy for decisions in the moment to overlook something, be it a minor detail, a glaring issue, or something more subtle. In my experience, one of the first things that drops off in tabletop games is good teamwork. This guide will give you some pointers on how to maintain (or create) a good working relationship with other player characters, something that's vital to having a good time playing. 

The first step is awareness of goals. What does the overall party want? What do individual players want? How can we see player actions as driven by what they want? Where do desires by players overlap or conflict? Answering these questions will give you a good sense of what direction you're headed in. It will also give you the ability to anticipate things better. The next level of this is figuring out what the players want from the game, which will also help guide our understanding of things.

Storytime: Once, I was running a campaign, and I had a player who was playing a paladin. But the player tired of being ceaselessly good and decided that the most compelling thing to do was have him turn evil. Actually, the player wanted to kill the character off and start over, and I insisted we find a way to make the paladin interesting. So we did an evil turn which was preceded by playing the character as increasingly disillusioned and hopeless. The player's intention was to have an epic, exciting turn in his character's story, and that overrode what the character wanted, and since the other players weren't factoring in their fellow player's goals, they were taken totally off guard. It was exciting, but the clues were there had the other players been looking. 

Once you recognize the motivations in your game, it's time to decide which ones you want to focus your energy on assisting. Your personal goals will almost certainly make this list, and the main story should be represented as well; deciding how and where to help your allies is another element of this process. This can be a simple or complex process. If you agree with the goal and the person with the goal is a friend and ally, the decision is simple. What if you disagree with the goal but want to offer an olive branch to the person who holds the goal? What if someone you detest wants to help with a goal of yours? All of these factors can grow complicated, so keeping our base desires (which goals we will prioritize) in mind matters a lot so we can avoid getting distracted. 

Another story: I got to play a con artist build I'd been dreaming about for years. Our DM put us on a sprawling, epic adventure that spanned a continent and multiple dimensions. There were endless fascinating details to latch onto, many of which inspired new goals in our group. We tended to these in the way that D&D players do--"yes, we just slayed a den of vampires, and now I'm eating 40 soft pretzels and watching a boxing match--leave me alone." In the end, our schedules fell apart. There were seven of us trying to coordinate together, and it got to be too much. Our DM gave us a written epilogue wrapping up the campaign and seeing our characters off into the sunset. We all felt similarly: there was more we wanted to do. We never saw the end of the story ourselves. We'd spent sessions frolicking and puzzling and chatting, and the actual story had eluded us. I think if we had kept in mind that real life time was an issue and been more diligent, we would have lived out that story, and while I'm not claiming you shouldn't goof around or explore, I do think that there's a balance to keep. 

Then it's time to coordinate. You know the goal, and you know who's cooperating with you, so you have to figure out who's doing what. Fortunately, tabletop games clearly spell out who has the best chance of success at a task via your skills--you can compare the skill rank of say, Survival, on two different character sheets and see which one is higher. Much of tabletop games involves getting a sense of who is good at what; it becomes intuitive, as having the most skilled person do something is classic and fairly obvious strategy. For more abstract challenges, though, teamwork is usually the solution: brainstorming solutions to problems, collectively convincing someone of something, and outright doing tasks in tandem are all common strategies in tabletop games. What matters most here is that you're strategizing consciously, not acting on impulse.

Storytime part three: In Of Gods and Dragons, my most recent campaign, I tried to pose all abstract problems to my party. I had designed the campaign to be about roleplaying and emotional experiences, and that meant using their wits and creativity to solve problems, not to mention diplomacy. You could see that it was pushing the players to their limits at times--everything was complicated and messy and directionless, and they had to sort it all out. But they persevered. They cooperated. They thought creatively. And when all was said and done, they had amassed enough power to steamroll over every other challenge in their way. But this was only possible because of cooperation. I have never seen a group so focused on the same goals; it was truly magnificent, and I hope to see that again as a GM some day. 

And then it's time to act. This is the easiest part to consider. You declare an action, you roll dice, your GM tells you the result. But! Then it's back to the drawing board. It's time to plan again. 

You may be saying to yourself, but this is all simple enough and can be done without thinking too hard about it. Perhaps. But I have been playing tabletop games for a long time. There are a number of things that happen in practically every party at every table with every game. Panicked decision-making is one of them. Unclear, poorly thought-out, conflicting plans are the bane of every group of tabletop protagonists' existences, and any player or GM who would claim otherwise is unaware of the chaos they live in. 

Storytime one last time, and of a very different nature. I grew up hating myself. I thought that there was nothing positive about me to be said, that people rightfully hated me, and that I deserved the bad things that happened to me. I tried therapies and antidepressants and religions and all kinds of stuff. I was still miserable. Then in my mid-20s, a therapist recommended a book. It was called Self-Compassion by Dr. Kristin Neff. It basically argued that if you are mindful--if you can be aware of what you are thinking while you are thinking it--that you can change your thoughts. You can make them gentler and kinder. You can teach yourself to love yourself. It sounded far-fetched like all self-help books, but I saw no reason to not give it a chance. 

It wasn't immediate. Mindfulness is hard and gradual and only as effective as you let it be. But I got into the swing of things and started shifting to gentler thoughts. I learned to like things about myself, then to hope for good things for myself, and finally to actually loving myself. It hadn't been far-fetched. It was neuroscience, and it worked for me. Mindfulness works on whatever you set it to--any change you want to make, even just in attention, is possible. It is, without hyperbole, a total gamechanger in terms of how you exist in the world. 

So what I'm addressing here isn't frivolous or too simple to discuss. If we can use a tiny dose of mindfulness--just a little constant check-in in your mind that asks some basic questions--we can make much better decisions in-game. These are questions like, "How does what we're doing right now relate to our goals? What other paths might we take to get there? How might we simplify our plans? How are my allies in the party and the NPCs we're working with interested in our plans?" These are simple, yes, but they are critical thought questions that keep us from getting caught up in crazy plans or overlooking important things. 

But finally, beyond understanding and contributing to plans well, there is one last key to working well with other players: friendliness. I don't mean your character should embrace a caricature of polite behavior or some kind of chipper demeanor. I meant that you, the player, outside of the game, should be friendly with a player when you work with them. It's a big thing to offer assistance in tabletop games, and a spirit of kindness goes a long way in terms of making that assistance into a meaningful moment in the campaign. We are all here to have fun, so try to embrace the cooperative in-game spirit with the same energy out of game. 

This will guide you in most things. When new situations arise, trust your intuition. Most of all, remember that this is a narrative game. Failure is just as interesting as success, and often more interesting. Don't be afraid to ask for help and guidance if you're nervous. And just have fun--that's the point. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: how to stop railroadinga profile on the island of Ramsey, and how to "win" tabletop games. Until next time, happy gaming!


Monday, October 6, 2025

Changes Made to My Homebrew Setting by Players (and Why It Should Be that Way)

I've been arguing for some time that player actions should have meaningful consequences. Doing something in-game and having no meaningful consequence feels hollow and flimsy, like a cardboard cutout of a real adventure. That's why I've dedicated so much of my DMing career to providing meaningful consequences to player actions. Recently, I realized just how much of my world has changed, with no small part of that coming from my most recent campaign, Of Gods and Dragons. And the thought struck me that it may be worth considering all these changes at once to see the world at large and how (and perhaps why) these changes have happened. To do this, I'm going to review the five campaigns that have taken place in Evanoch since I started DMing in the setting more than fifteen years ago. 

Campaign One: Talon Gorge

I set out to run a "twists and turns" kind of story about assassination contracts leading up the royal family, but the party didn't trust the questgiver and turned on them, resulting in a party split that led to a civil war. This meant the fall of the last monarchy in Evanoch, already a remarkable moment in the world, but the conspirator who had planned the whole thing escaped (with a player character at that). To date, I've never brought back the conspirator for more shenanigans, but it's nice to know she's out there. As a result of the fall of the monarchy, a democratic council was appointed which focused more on the needs of citizens than the old regime had. 

At the time, this felt like a pretty appropriate consequence. They saw the city through the civil war, they helped install democratic leadership, they ensured that the new leaders would be more progressive--there was no reason to not grant them a newly prosperous city. I stand by this. The whole crux of the campaign had been the safety of the city and its leadership, and the party fought long and hard to achieve that (the part of the party that remained loyal to the city, anyway). Meanwhile, the rogue agents who opposed the city did succeed in killing the king and dismantling some of the royal government, and that led to the compromise that the monarchy fell but a new progressive government replaced it. So within the context of the campaign, the consequence was fitting--the party saved Talon Gorge, and so Talon Gorge thrived in its new identity. 

This was the first campaign I ran in Evanoch. I had no idea the scope of running years of campaigns would mean. Looking back, Talon Gorge's reinvention as a progressive democratic city changed the balance pretty meaningfully. I had created an array of cities that represented different extremes and variations of all manner of details including government. Talon Gorge was the last monarchy, a conservative holdout amongst the major cities of the world. Talon Gorge swinging from most repressive to essentially the most progressive was a big impact. The balance shifted. Evanoch leaned toward a more progressive future and away from a traditionalist past, and I learned at this point that you can establish a world as a playground, but that means surrendering that playground to be changed by the players. 

What I would soon realize was that the point of the playground was the players having fun in it. It was not about creating a perfect world and a perfect story, but giving the players a stage to tell their perfect story. Acknowledging this, I decided to move forward by striving to create situations for players but not guide them and to encourage them to change the world. 

Campaign Two: Listen Check

I set my sights on something so ambitious that it's a wonder I didn't fail miserably. For my second ever for real D&D campaign, I elected to run a live broadcast D&D game as a radio show and podcast. It was called Listen Check, a pun on 3.5's skill name, and it was my baby. I chose special music every episode for each character, wrote over a hundred pages of in-game documents, illustrated an in-game children's book, wrote the opening seven chapters of an in-game novel, and more hyper-commitment to the art. And oh yeah, the party brought about a change in political leadership and killed a god. 

This was something of a mistake. An unintentional outcome, anyway. I'd meticulously made a table of random events and quest hooks that were specific to the gameworld and meant to be explore as non-hierarchical--they're all equal quests. But the first one the party encountered involved a quest from a god, which they took to be the main quest, and I had to develop a campaign about the god. I never intended it to work out that way, but I'd say it went well enough. However, the tunnel vision of creating a campaign around fighting a god got the best of me, and I didn't realize that the end of the line was killing that god. I introduced a dragon character to help the party, and my dragon lore was born. Soon, the god was slain, and I had a rift in time and space as well as the implied existence of more dragons (one of the party assumed a dragon mantle as a reward for his role in defeating the god). I more or less left this untouched as a hook for later stories (and ended up using it for my most recent campaign).

With the ambition that had led me there--a sprawling campaign with new-to-me methods that used a new technology to tell a story over years--the ending was ambitious too. Using a homebrew magic system, one player character stripped the god of its immortality, setting a dangerous precedent of how powerful the magic system was. I would offer it again to future players anyway, always turned down until my most recent campaign. But now the consequence was killing a god and becoming a dragon--taking immortality and gaining it. I recognized that I was flying very close to the sun so to speak, and I realized something conceptual about campaigns. 

All campaigns either take place within a narrative vacuum or within a larger context. If the problem that the party is solving as the main campaign only exists within the world in order to be solved, that's a sign of a narrative vacuum. If the DM started with a story idea and created set dressing around it to place it in the world, that's possibly a narrative vacuum. This isn't a bad thing, but a vacuum generally limits how many consequences will reach the larger world beyond the campaign immediately. Talon Gorge began as a vacuum--kill these people, get this reward, for instance, and I designed the city so that the campaign could take place. But it became a broader thing--"how do the people in town feel about political leadership?" is not a direct consequence of "kill these people and get paid." Listen Check began as and stubbornly remained within a larger context. It was a true sandbox that the players treated as something bigger than individual quests. So I noted where things had succeeded and scaled back. 

Campaign Three: The Eastweald

Except that years passed, and I forgot the lesson of ambition. I wanted to follow what I believed was at the heart of tabletop roleplaying joy--having agency. I even asked my players to suggest concepts for the campaign itself, a process I've outlined. The result was hard to work with. I had hoped to get aesthetic notes, story fragments that could be chained together or used as mid-level quests; I got a main quest idea from every player. The ambition returned and struck, perhaps lethally. I insisted I would string four main quest-level ideas into one big story. I did my best. My players say it was a success. I remain dissatisfied, wishing more of it had come together in the final sessions. But in the end, each storyline was concluded: a terrorist strike had been made against New Dalton, goliaths had arrived on Evanoch, a plague had been cured, and a traitorous deal with Vecna was made. 

I'm sure my displeasure comes through here, and I think on reflection that it just felt like while I took big swings, these were all vacuum stories. I made the Eastweald, a large stretch of forest with a gorgeous map to give the player characters a sandbox, but to tend to the stories, they spend most of their time in a few bigger cities. The storylines individually were interested, but connecting them was hard because none was related to the larger world. The Eastweald had all this potential to be a huge success, but I think that I might have been a little shy of offering huge consequences. After Listen Check, killing a god and becoming a dragon was a very high threshold of consequence, and I had a player dealing with a god, and I had another player planning state violence, and another introducing a new species to my homebrew setting--the possible consequences were massive. I uncharacteristically did not provide an epilogue because I didn't really want to push further consequences of the campaign into the canon history of my world. I regret that. I wish I had done a lot differently. At the very least, I'm glad I got to run something better with the same group later on to vindicate myself. 

In terms of consequences, this one remains pretty minimized. It has small ripple effects--Vecna, the god dealt with in this campaign, was largely characterized for me during the god's conversations. I treat the goliaths taking up residence in my homebrew Underdark as canon and plan to handle any future excursions to the Underdark with a full account of this campaign. I treat Woodhearth, the largest city in the Eastweald, as more important than its relatively small size would merit given the important crossroads it lies on (and sentimentality). But by and large, I gave vacuum stories and minimized consequences, and that's both why there are few marks left on the world and why I regret not doing better. 

I do want to acknowledge here again, though--my players said it was a grand time. They got personalized main quests! They got multi-genre adventure! There were backstabbings! There were bombs! There were antics and dramatic moments and big fights! It was everything D&D is meant to be. But I had done radio theater for three years, telling a cohesive and beautiful and frightening and infuriating and intoxicating tale that pushed the boundaries of every format it used--I wanted more. The question now was how to bring the aspiration I had to reality despite challenges. Humbled, I went on. 

Campaign Four: The Mystery Campaign

I took nothing for granted. Every step in a process that felt natural had to be analyzed--anything could be a bad habit. Too much narrative suggestion before--edit the suggestions more. The requests involved a mystery premise, the appearance of a dragon, a class divide, chaos, and other details. I hatched a plan for a murder mystery that involved a class struggle and chaos storms powered by a tortured chaos dragon. The players investigated. They formed relationships. They improved the city. They incited a rebellion. They ended the chaos storms. They solved the mystery. It was a careful process--nothing makes you more careful as a DM than any given piece of information spoiling the whole session or more, and I often had to adjust to strange and curious player actions (like starting a real band as a cover to talk to someone)--but it all paid off. The mystery campaign was satisfying to me to DM, it was a favorite for the players involved, and I would say that it fulfilled the artistic drive in me to do something special. I'll tell you: D&D is not designed for mystery storytelling, but I'm happy with how it came out. (To the readers shouting "Then play CoC/TTRPG of your choice!"--my players wanted D&D mystery, and I felt up to the challenge.)

The consequences of this campaign are not unlike those in Talon Gorge--peace and prosperity are granted, the evildoers are driven out, and all is well. But the scale here is different. The Mystery Campaign took place in the small mountain town of Yamseth. Talon Gorge was a leviathan, a powerhouse of a city; Yamseth was a town made specifically for the campaign. That does regrettably mean this is a vacuum narrative--because my players wanted the chaos storms, which do not exist in any city I had already established, I had to make something for them anyway. That just necessarily meant that what happened in Yamseth would cause less ripples, and given how far outside the canon I was working (putting a non-canon dragon in the campaign for the chaos storms because it was requested), I didn't entirely mind keeping the Mystery Campaign as kind of a contained story. 

I haven't used this campaign much in terms of consequences to the larger world since it's fairly limited in scope--by far the most limited of any campaign I've run. Talon Gorge was about the overthrow of the last kingdom; Listen Check was about standing up to a god; the Eastweald was about a thousand massive things; the Mystery Campaign was about three people solving a murder. The Mystery Campaign is about this little story that has no real impact outside of Yamseth, and in a way, I think I was driven to do that by ambition too. I think I wanted to see if I could tell a small story--when so many D&D stories are so big--and still satisfy my players. I'm really proud that I did. This campaign made me unafraid to really play with the small moments, which would ironically help me in my next campaign. 

The thing that strikes me now about the Mystery Campaign is that it took me out of my element. I am a mushy emotional feelings roleplayer, and I tell stories about the way people feel--and I can feel all that out in the moment. On top of that, I'm an improviser. I've been improvising in one way or another for most of my life. I can't do any of that in a mystery campaign. I have to mind the script, the details, the plot. I have to make sure the expression of feelings matches the plan. It's tight and rigid and careful, and I'm a fast and loose DM. So it was a big challenge, and I always recommend doing creative work that's hard--it stretches you, and you learn what you're missing when you engage with it. 

Campaign Five: Of Gods and Dragons

Okay, this one is aaaaaaaaaalmost done, but basically wrapped up enough to discuss. I did my time being careful with the Mystery Campaign; it's time to be ambitious again. That hole in divine reality from Listen Check? We're bringing that back. All the implied dragons? Now major characters. So are the gods. The highest level I'd ever had players get to before this campaign was 12. This campaign started at level 12. I gave a powergamer access to the glyphs that made a god mortal. I let a player introduce Tanarukk into my homebrew setting. Custom classes for everyone! Utter chaos, and all because I have the final say: all the NPCs they had to deal with with gods and dragons, levels 30-80. Besides, they can only really progress by leaning into my strength--mushy emotional feelings roleplaying! This is in part in jest, but I did genuinely set out to build a campaign where roleplaying had to be the way forward, and this allowed me to connect so many dots I had been itching to connect for a long time. In the end, the party brought together all willing dragons, restored reality to stability, eliminated threatening dragons, and dealt a blow against oppression. That's where the epilogues begin. Over one hundred years, all three player characters use their powers, resources, and alliance to make the world a better place. This includes changing the governments of several major cities (Mishara, Finiel, Underhar, Torga, Ringsdale) to democratic councils as well as instituting public services including free food and medical attention (Torga, Curagon, Ringsdale, Mishara, Underhar, Talon Gorge). Other more minor but still notable achievements and justices were obtained, particularly in the realms of public safety, shared culture, and education. 

Obvious takeaway to start--massive and plentiful consequences. At the beginning of my DMing character, I was humbled by the weight of one major city being changed. Here, in the space of the epilogue, practically every major city was transformed into a happier, healthier, safer, more prosperous place. I want to really bear down on this point. Remember at the beginning, when I was discussing Talon Gorge and its shifting government throwing off the balance? At this point, Curagon (anarchists without a government), Kruush (too small to merit a meaningful government), and New Dalton (ideologically opposed to progressive values) are not democratic councils; the other seven all are. More than half the world's major cities have socialized medicine. Taken with the other achievements, this represents a golden age for Evanoch which is unmatched in its history. This is not only a very important consequence, this is a massive shift in the course of humanoid history. A few individuals with benevolent agendas managed to change the world they live in so thoroughly that I can't just run my next campaign in the world that resulted like any other campaign. 

We've spoken of narrative vacuums. Of Gods and Dragons is as much the opposite of a vacuum as can be. Evanoch was a place that had been designed and then refined for over a decade and a half. No place in the campaign aside from backstory homes for player characters, had to be created for the campaign. And the problem doesn't exist outside of or apart from the world--it is all over the world. Of Gods and Dragons feels like, by far, the biggest success I've ever had as a DM. And I think that's because I was ambitious with a plan, because I learned from my mistakes, because I took inspiration from my successes, and because I handed over the reins to my world entirely. It was scary! I backed off giving lots of control to players after Listen Check, and it took me a decade to take that risk again. But I'm glad I did. I gave them control, and they made the world a better place. 

Which presents DM problems. In a world were there is struggle, stories are everywhere. But in a world where everything is perfect, what drives the players on adventure? There are obviously fixes--some great evil rises, corruption rots the peace from within, etc. But that feels cheap. I have this world I had players fixing and helping in small ways for years. I took the people who knew my world most, cared about it the most, and gave them control of the world only to see a golden age fostered. To say it just leaks away dishonors my players. I will need something truly special to really pay my players the respect they deserve. But that is a tomorrow problem. I still have a finale session to lead, and I'm not discounting dramatic happenings. 


So what changes have happened? When I've restricted my players to narrative vacuums, they have dealt cleanly with those problems with gusto. When I've allowed my players to meaningfully impact the world, they have improved it. They ousted corrupt governments across campaigns spanning almost twenty years. The more power they had, the more good they did. When granted epilogues, my parties' characters became benefactors, mentors, protectors. They used wealth to make material improvements for the public. They fought for good. I feel foolish to realize it now. I resisted my players changing my world for years only to see I'd been afraid of them helping the little NPC people I'd made for them. 

I will say, I wouldn't trust every party this way. I wouldn't strive to make every campaign transform your whole world. This is a special case scenario, one I'm only striving at because I'm compelling to try and because I have willing friends. I fully intended to shift to a more conventional D&D story if the experiment failed. It was a gamble, but it worked, and I do think that with most good groups, the same potential for trust and the drive to improve the world exists. Trust your judgment, but be open to considering if you might give your players free rein to take big actions that will affect the world. 

I think at the end of the day, I'd estimate that Evanoch as a whole has been changed more by my players than the average DM would be able to say. I'll acknowledge that Of Gods and Dragons skews things, but city topplings, god and dragon antics, city hopping, terrorist striking, and mystery solving are not neglible contributions from the other campaigns. And now that I've seen how it can go when I trust my players to shape the world, I think my future campaigns will trend in that direction.

That's all for now. Coming soon: how to work well with other players, how to stop railroading, and how to "win" a tabletop game. Until next time, happy gaming!