How to Plan a Quest

After nearly 300 articles, I've realized that I've never given a full article to developing quests. I've written plenty about entire campaigns, including ideas you can use and methods to create campaigns based on player suggestions, and I've written about methods for planning moments in-game, but we've never delved into quests in particular. Campaigns are overarching and ideally include several connected quests--it's those quests that get us from point A to point B that have gone ignored. Well, it's time to rectify that; here's how to plan a quest, the most basic step for any GM. 

First off, what exactly is a quest? Quests are goals for the player characters that require some kind of effort to complete. Generally, quests have beginnings (the introduction of the quest where the players are given the opportunity or burden of doing something), middles (some manner of action or decision-making that eventually completes the quest), and endings (a resolution in which the players are given a fitting outcome for their effort--this is usually but not always a reward of some type). At its most basic level, the quest is what makes a tabletop game a tabletop game. When we play TTRPGs, we spend most of our time and energy working on quests (including personal quests). 

What makes a fun quest, or a memorable one, or a quest we'll want to tell people about? As always, this differs from person to person, but as a general rule, good quests keep the players in mind. As GMs, we want our quests to have beginnings that catch the interest of our players; we want middles that are engaging and exciting; we want endings that resolve the story of the quest and give the player characters what they deserve. Let's go through the steps of planning a quest with the players in mind. 

A quest can be developed from any point in the equation--you can start with a beginning or an ending or a middle or even just a loose idea. Personally, I tend to operate best starting with a loose idea and filling in the details from there, so my examples in this guide will follow that pattern, but know that you can start wherever you're inspired to start from. For the sake of this guide, we'll use as an example this loose idea: the player characters need to transport a religious figure from one city to another safely despite dangerous roads and threats against the religious figure. 

Since the idea already gives us a good idea of what the middle of the quest will be, let's start there. It's helpful to think about all the things that the player characters need to do in order to complete the quest. They'll need to get contracted in the first place, make contact with the religious figure, leave the settlement they're in, safely travel to the destination settlement (with lots of opportunities for ambushes, wild animal attacks, conversations with the religious figure and their entourage, and other excitement), and get the religious figure to where they want to go. 

We can then further choose details to fill in this outline: the head of the religious figure's church personally requested that this quest be carried out in order to spread the religious figure's specific style of wisdom; the religious figure's teachings are divisive and have kept other adventuring parties from agreeing to do the quest; the religious figure is treating a lackey poorly when the party arrives to meet them; the party receives judgmental looks from the townsfolk as they leave the settlement; there is an ambush by religious extremists on the road; the religious figure continues to treat their associates poorly as the journey continues; and some of the religious figure's entourage deserts once they arrive at the destination settlement. These details add complications and colorful elements to a basic outline that will increase the players' enjoyment of the quest as they play it. That's the main goal during the middle of a quest: giving the story ups and downs and details so that it's memorable and interesting.

We started with the loose idea of moving a religious figure from one city to another, and in two simple steps, we already have a fairly solid questline. You may be saying to yourself, "That sounds like pretty much everything. If the middle covers so much, why break the introduction and resolution into two more parts?" This is a good point, and the answer is that introductions and resolutions are especially delicate to handle. Let's get into those and how to handle these more intricate elements of quests. 

The beginning of a quest is delicate because you need to pique the interest of the player characters and the players so that they agree to take on the quest in the first place. This is a tabletop game, after all--you could be doing literally anything, so signing on to a quest means ignoring everything else, and that might take some convincing. There are a few tactics which are tried and true in this regard. A noteworthy payment often gets interest high, though I would argue that a big reward can ring a bit hollow on its own. You might offer advancement in a larger questline if you have one to work with, or try to come up with something that directly appeals to a player or player character (perhaps something related to a player's individual interests, or information on a lost loved one or a lead on a missing heirloom for a player character). You can also make the apparent difficulty of the quest a factor--a big payment for a seemingly easy job is a draw from players and player characters, while a small payment for a seemingly difficult job would give many players and player characters pause. Finding the hook that fits your quest best takes some thought. 

In the example of transporting the religious figure, I would opt for a combination of hook factors. For starters, it's going to be clear from the start that this religious figure is divisive if not outright unpleasant, and that means that some narrative weight will be bringing the players dramatic tension. To make up for that, I would offer a fairly sizable reward for completing the quest. To that end, I would promise a fair amount of funds as well as some manner of magical item. At the same time, I always try to keep individual players in mind as I GM, and I know that my usual group of players would all enjoy a chance to engage with religious hypocrites, so the nastiness of the religious figure can be turned into a positive rather than a negative. Obviously, this wouldn't work for every party, but I'll also say that I came up with the loose outline for this example quest based on what my usual players would enjoy. That said, we now have the promise of payment down. If we add some other details--the higher-up religious leader seeming to want to be temporarily rid of the religious figure the party is transporting, a promise that the destination settlement actually wants the religious figure there, and an assurance that the roads are clear and safe (making it an easier job, even though that won't really be true)--then we've got a pretty clear picture of how to start this quest. 

With the beginning planned, the ending is generally shaped already. We know what the quest's reward is supposed to be, and we know what happens when the religious figure arrives at the destination settlement--many of the religious figure's people desert, and the temple in the destination city pays in gold and a magic item. But this is not a very satisfying ending, and that's where the delicate nature of resolutions come in; in fact, this is why I say "resolution" rather than "ending." We need to give the players and player characters some kind of closure on this quest, and treasure is never closure. To give real closure, we'll need to factor in details that come up during the quest--how the player characters interact with the religious figure and what the players want the outcome of it all to be. But those elements of closure will need to be improvised when the time comes; we can't be sure of what will happen until it happens. However, we can make some educated guesses and plan accordingly. 

In the example of the religious figure, the ending will really hinge on the world surrounding the religious figure. The players will want to know what happens to the religious figure and with the people around them. As I noted above, the religious figure will be characterized as fairly unpleasant, and players love to see "bad" people get some kind of comeuppance, so we'll want to have some kind of downfall moment for the religious figure. Perhaps they learn that their leader (who paid to send them to the destination settlement) secretly disdains them, which would crush their spirit. A similar outcome might result from being abandoned by some or all of their entourage on arrival at the destination city. We might even employ a crafty move as the GM and have these crushing moments lead the religious figure to ask the party for validation, giving the player characters the opportunity to voice their disapproval. But the point is not just to punish the religious figure; we also want to suggest that they have a reckoning moment because of it. Maybe the religious figure becomes humble and starts their religious study over anew, and maybe they only have the seeds of doubt in themselves planted (this is an especially good option in a larger campaign where the religious figure can reappear later with real change). But in either case, the party has had some role in creating change in the direction they think is best, and that is more closure than treasure will ever be. 

Planning a quest is easy. Planning a quest that reaches your players on a fundamental level is a lot harder. That's why I stress the importance of trying to create quests with the players and player characters in mind. Once you're comfortable doing so, you can start to plan differently. I like to plan quests broadly with only minimal details (like you find in the guide above) and fill in new details as the party reaches that point in the story. This allows me to use momentum and callbacks from previous quests to enrich planned but unlaunched quests. A perfect example arose during my most recent campaign:

In my Of Gods and Dragons campaign, I took three experienced D&D players, gave them level 12 characters, and threw them into conflict with a mass of dragons and deities with no real indication of what the campaign as a whole was meant to look like; they only knew that they were to speak with Boccob, chief deity, and resolve a problem that affected all of existence. (I mention that these were advanced players because this kind of campaign premise would be a chaotic mess for beginner or even intermediate roleplayers--I was careful in administering such an ambitious idea.) Pretty quickly, the party aligned themselves with the charismatic outsider silver dragon, whose main argument was that balance should be restored because free will was impaired without it. The party decided that there was power in numbers, and they set about gathering the metallic dragons to create an alliance to restore free will, which of course proved more complicated than originally planned. 

How does this align with how I plan quests? Well, I wanted a freeform campaign with the feeling of a sandbox. I didn't determine that there was a proper order for anything, and any given god or dragon could hypothetically have been ignored, and the party still could have resolved the problem with Boccob. What I did instead was come up with a loose quest for each dragon and deity based on their personality and situation, and completing that quest would mean having that figure as an ally in the overall campaign. 

As it played out, speaking to each of the metallic dragons fell into a sort of pattern. Each of the metallic dragons had some problem that kept them divided and therefore weaker--the gold dragon was very polarized in thinking and had a hard time working together, the bronze dragon was too wrapped up in ordinary life to pay attention to larger affairs, the copper dragon had only had powers for a few days and was reeling from the sudden life change, and the silver dragon was so focused on being an outsider that she was afraid to even try working with the others. This basically meant that the party had to play therapist to the metallic dragons, trying to coax cooperation out of wildly powerful beings who were mired in their own affairs. So when the party finally got to the brass dragon, they were expecting another therapy session. 

To be honest, another therapy session was what I had planned. The brass dragon was debilitated by a depression that had lasted centuries. I thought it would be interesting to have the player characters figure out what was depressing her and help her to climb out of that pit. But as the session drew near, I started to realized that the quests were starting to feel very similar and that a depressive episode that lasted for hundreds of years (on an exceptionally resilient person, too) didn't make sense in the way that the other metallic dragons' isolations made sense. I did what made sense: I called an audible. 

I kept the basics the same. The brass dragon had been depressed for more than two centuries. The reason for it was losing her husband, who did not share her immortality as a dragon. But there was no amount of talking her through her grief that would help. To make that work, I decided that something else was at play--a curse. None other than the blue dragon, a devilish charmer with sadistic tendencies, had placed the curse on the brass dragon as the initial depression had been setting in centuries ago, and it had gone unnoticed for all that time. I had the brass dragon throw out a few suspicious remarks about a strange man clad in a blue suit who had appeared all that time ago, which set the party to investigating, and soon, they were on the trail of lifting the curse and setting the brass dragon back to her proper self. This change spiced up the campaign, kept the feel of the quests consistent while adding something new, and reminded the players that it wasn't all just therapy--there were chromatic dragons out there plotting the downfall of everything the party and their allies held dear. That is to say, I got to keep my loose quest idea, adjust some details to better serve that moment in the campaign, and gain some forward momentum at a critical time. To accomplish this, I kept my quest formula (meet the dragon, figure out what they need to overcome, and help them, gaining resolution and an ally), making small changes to increase detail and engagement in the process.

The quest is perhaps the most basic unit of a tabletop game. Someone requests help, the party helps, and there's resolution. A campaign is not a quest--it's several or even many quests put together. I think that for a long time, I had lost sight of quests in favor of campaigns; that's probably why there are so many campaign-related resources on this site, and I'm only now after a decade writing about quests. But quests are vital. A house built of broken lumber is hardly a house, and a campaign made of uninspiring and tedious quests is a poor excuse for a campaign. So when you plan for your games, try to keep the basics in mind: plan broadly at first, consider details that will appeal to the party and the players, and aim for resolution beyond treasure. From there, you can start to expand your skills to add twists and turns in the story that even you could not have seen coming when the quests and campaign were just ideas. But always remember that quests should be fun--that is, after all, the point of gaming.

That's all for now. Coming soon: a pirate D&D one-shot, how to modify D&D for a western setting, and a detective D&D one-shot. Until next time, happy gaming!

The 10 Most Important Lessons I've Learned as a Veteran GM

I've been running tabletop games for over half my life at this point--more than 17 years as of the writing of this article. And as any GM does, I have learned a lot from my experiences. If you're not learning from each session, I suggest spending more time in- and out-of-game reflecting on those experiences--it's the doorway to growth in the art. Of course, there is a shortcut: learning those lessons from people who know. That's why I thought that after over 200 articles on this site, it was worth investigating what I've most importantly learned as a GM. So here is a list of ten of the most important lessons I've learned as a GM in my time with gaming (in no particular order). 

1. Follow every idea for a while--you never know what you'll find. 

In a standard TTRPG experience, there are loads of crazy, half-formed ideas that get suggested, debated, and often enacted. Similarly, wild suggestions about what might be going on in the world get made frequently. It's tempting as a GM to try to work around these distractions--they're getting in the way of your story, right? 

I disagree. Following the trails of these little distractions are often why some players enjoy the game. The kind of bizarre shenanigans that arise in a common tabletop game don't come up in most other games, and some people come seeking that. At least get a sense of what your players enjoy before curtailing this kind of thing. 

In a campaign I ran that focused on these kinds of strange antics, I struggled at first to know when to keep things focused and when to let the players run wild. I quickly found that their style of play was best suited to me setting up a situation before they would try to take advantage of it. Most of our playtime revolved--much to my players' enjoyment--around these moments, and I wouldn't have been able to offer them that without allowing every idea to be explored as much as the players wanted. It's what TTRPG memories are made of. 

2. Treat the game as an emotionally safe space for your players (unless explicitly agreed upon). 

Playing a tabletop game, even without focusing on roleplaying and immersion, can be a vulnerable experience. I know that when I'm deep in character, the imagined violence around my character gives me a strong reaction by proxy. And even if you're not pretending to be someone else entirely, you're looking for a fun experience. For lots of different reasons, most of the people who come to tabletops are looking for a positive experience (even if there's tension involved). 

Nevertheless, there are GMs who tell stories of deep and disturbing trauma. I won't deny that exploring those themes in an imagined space like TTRPGs makes them more accessible, but I would counter that it's also not everyone's definition of fun. I've tried running really dark campaigns before, and my players balked and really engaging with it. It just made them uncomfortable. I realized then that I had been trying to make our collective game about a vision of art only I had, even though my dedicated audience (my players) were not on board. It made me start to put together the idea that game time is better safe--though that's doesn't mean boring. 

A safe space at the table merely means that you're not going to spring anything upsetting on your players. If I get the urge to add very serious or dark material to a campaign, I ask the permission of my players to do so before I develop anything. Asking questions like that have kept me from running into potential conflicts between players and from putting them in a position where their little free time devoted to fun turns into something else entirely. I also include under this lesson that there should be genuine positivity and respect between players--anything shy of that prevents the game from being enjoyable. 

3. Knowing the rules well and being a good GM are not the same thing. 

When I started my first D&D games as a fledgling DM--we played 3.5 back then, as it was the newest edition--I had basically memorized the rulebook. I would impress my gaming friends by asking for a topic in the Players Handbook and give them the correct page number to reference that topic. As a DM, no rules question fazed me, and the rulebook would sit quietly and untouched on the table every session. I was a terrible DM. My players quickly learned that if they dallied from whatever task my NPCs had assigned them, meteors would begin to swarm them or dangerous gods would appear to push the party on. I out-of-game demanded lots of behaviors of my party. It was miserable (at least compared to what I can do now). 

As I continued to DM, I began to gain experience and perspective. I gathered many of the lessons in this list. 4th edition came, and I stuck to 3.5 for a handful of reasons. 5E came, and I jumped aboard. I had to unlearn almost every rule in the Players Handbook and relearn new rules that were just similar enough to the old ones to be confusing. I still accidentally transpose 3.5 rules into 5E games. And none of that really changes the game experience for my players. They don't seem to care if I say something and correct myself a moment later. But following the lessons on this list does make a difference. They know the difference--even if they can't articulate it--between an engaging, dynamic story that allows for collaboration and a story that is set in stone before they ever encounter it. Rules familiarity won't fix that. 

I'm still on a quest to better learn the rules of 5E. They're not useless, but if not being entirely familiar with a rule means you need to look it up, that's not a big problem. Not knowing how to respond meaningfully to your players? That's a big problem, and the rules can't help with it. I know lots of GMs who focus so much on the rulebooks that everything else takes a backseat, and as I said in the second lesson, not everyone plays for that reason. Rules are meant to create a strategic experience, not define the way a story is told, so be more attentive to the game's experience than its rules. 

4. Homebrew for yourself first and your players second. 

I'm very passionate about homebrew, as the thirty (at the time of this writing) articles on this site about my homebrew setting and the twelve (again at the time of this writing) one-shots in custom systems on this site might attest. The thing is, though, I set out initially with something of the wrong idea about how to worldbuild. I thought that I was looking for ways to give my players the exact experience they were looking for. And while that's close to true of many other elements of gaming, it's not the case with worldbuilding and other homebrew material. If you build for your players, you'll always be either guessing at what they want or interrogating them about their tastes and trying to approximate that. Neither is a fun addition to a game. Instead, homebrew basically entirely for yourself. 

This may sound surprising, especially if you're a regular reader on this site. But I do mean it. When you homebrew for your players, you give them what you think they want. In the case of the example above, where I was first starting out as a GM, I gave my players what I thought they wanted: a classic D&D experience. I didn't change anything about the game, but I did add details to it to make it more vibrant, and to a degree, more mine. My initial worldbuilding foundation for my homebrew setting demonstrates this well. Very little changes a common notion of elves or orcs or fantasy life. But as I grew as a GM, I started to make my gameworld more distinct, more my own. Each of the other homebrew guides on this site are examples of this--they take big strides away from the average imagining of a fantasy world, even while staying within the genre. 

Imagine how you would deliver a worldbuilding detail that you believed in, then imagine how you would deliver a similar detail that you didn't. I imagine that you felt yourself selling one much more. This matters. When you're GMing a game and you have an opportunity to characterize your world, how you describe it will affect how the players feel about it. If it's a cool idea that you had and decided to implement, it will come off differently from an idea that you grudgingly adopted from a player suggestion. Of course, the perfect solution is making their suggestion your own while still respecting the player's inspiration, but your motivation should be first to create something you're proud of. And on the topic of tempering player desires into the gameworld . . .

5. You absolutely can and should modify your homebrew materials to give your players what they want. 

So you've created that awesome homebrew world according to your specifications, and now your players want something that doesn't fit. Maybe it's that they want a specific character race that doesn't work in your world (been there). Perhaps you have a player who insists on a backstory that won't fit your setting (done that). Or your homebrew material diverges from a common piece of game lore, and now your player's backstory is based on something you changed (had that happen, too). My solution is best explained via metaphor about computers. 

I keep my homebrew world in a special place in my mind. I mean, I do treasure it, but what I'm saying is that I think of it in a kind of vacuum. That's it's base state. When a campaign fits well within that world, I think of it as being edits to my base gameworld. Most of the campaigns I've run are like this--they fit into and respond to my homebrew setting, so they're canon in my game world. My first real campaign ended with a city destroying itself and starting over as a democracy rather than a kingdom, so that's the new reality of my homebrew setting. People who have played in my world in subsequent campaigns have heard stories of it. But sometimes, things don't fit together right. So those things take place on an alternate saved file of my gameworld. I can keep it exactly how I want it--consistent and canonical--and still make changes to offer my players what they want. 

Maybe this is a thing I'm just particular about, but I suspect that many other GMs have a similar feeling. I've run campaigns where players who said they were up to serious roleplaying turned out to be more inclined to silly shenanigans, and I got really frustrated. I had placed one such campaign in charge of a major piece of my world's history, and they ditched it at the first possible moment in favor of antics. So I made the campaign take place in its own vacuum, and I can preserve that moment in my world's history for another group or my own writing. And in terms of changing things for your players, go wild. I once created custom classes for each player so that they could each feel more in-control of their character and the gaming experience. The only limit to what you give them for character creation should be your own boundaries--how much time will you happily dedicate to homebrewing for them? 

6. Don't perma-kill a player character without discussing it with the player first. 

This is a sweeping rule, but it's an important one. It's also controversial in the gaming community, but I stand by it. It's possible through creativity and fudging rolls to never permanently kill off a player character. But it's not only possible--it's truly advisable. Years ago, when I was running the Eastweald campaign, Carric's player came to me after a session. He said that he had grown tired of Carric. We had had different hopes for where the character would go, and he wanted to start over. He said he wanted to kill off Carric. I considered things for a moment, and I asked him to give me a few sessions. I felt that Carric had grown complacent in his morality (a big deal as a paladin), so I offered him some evil powers. He accepted. Carric's player was engaged again, quietly orchestrating an attempted overthrow of the rest of the party. His player later thanked me (multiple times, actually) for convincing him to continue. I tell this story to make the point that even when a player does think they want their character dead, there are still superior alternatives. 

Perma-death is not fun as a player. I remember watching as my first two characters in D&D were tragically killed. My first was raised sessions later by the party, but the campaign ended there. The second was abandoned by the evil party. This instilled in me the beginnings of this lesson. It's not fun to get killed in tabletop games unless there's a mechanic that means continuing after a character's death. Just being out of the game is a forceful way for the fun to end. GMs who swear by unfudged die rolls in the name of fairness are missing the point. Players generally don't want to die, and killing off their characters is a huge change to the potential fun of the game. 

That's why I recommend talking to players. If you have a plot mechanism that requires a player to do, approach them and discuss it. I think it fair to give them the option to mull the decision over, of course first providing details on the new character to be created unless the player is leaving the group. Ask the player for their input on how the killing scene should go--this is their final moment, and they deserve a say (even if you don't listen since you have something better planned). I will reiterate, though, unless there's an out-of-game reason that you're killing a character, there are better ways to go about it. Magic exists in D&D and a variety of other games--you can always change the character rather than kill them. 

7. Every campaign deserves a little silliness. 

I went through a period as a GM where I was very committed to the idea that because tabletop games are capable of incredible art, then necessarily everyone must agree with me, and I set out to create very serious campaigns that demanded utter commitment to roleplaying and included dramatic scenes meant to surprise. It was good material, but hard to use. Even the most serious tabletop gamers don't want constant drama. Remember that tabletop games are just that--games. They're meant to be fun! And one fun thing that tabletop games seem to be made for is just being silly. 

I tend to get overly focused on my goals, and that carries over to tabletop games. When I'm building towards some moment--a plot twist, a big secret, a craftily-worded detail--I get tunnel vision. I will, sometimes whole scenes in advance, start pushing things along narratively to get to the moment. Sometimes I'm aware of it, but it's still hard to resist. And the times that I've slowed down and stopped pressing forward have proved instrumental. It always seems that as soon as I let off the story's reins, the party fixates on something and starts being really silly. They're course correcting. I made things a little too focused and serious to be fun, so they seek up something silly and light. And as I said with the first entry on this list, you want to allow that silliness to take hold. 

The thing that kept me from embracing the silliness initially was that I saw it as detracting from the other things we did in a session. But that's not the case. The silliness can and should be a part of every game in some way, and if it isn't there, then the GM might be suppressing it. Besides, most any tabletop player can tell you that the most beloved NPC are the silliest ones. The humor of tabletop games is truly important to players, and they latch on to reliable sources of that silliness. So don't steer away from it--embrace silliness in your campaign. 

8. Know what your dealbreakers are as a GM, and don't compromise. 

It's important as a GM to be like a flexible tree--you should bend to meet your players but never break from straining too far. I've been strained too far as a GM before. Years ago, I was running a campaign, and I carefully assembled a group of players. I'm particular about party building and group dynamics--I was cautious and exacting in crafting the party in question, and I was thrilled to see how everyone got along. But there was a hitch: one of the people I invited decided to invite someone I had never met to permanently join us. That person proved to be a challenge--they were sometimes hostile and made most of the rest of the group uncomfortable. My instincts at the time told me to ignore my own discomfort and try to be accepting. I regret that. As the campaign stretched on, we all accepted that game nights would be accompanied by awkward questions and aimless rants. It wasn't good, basically. 

What I learned then was that I have a dealbreaker: my party composition is very important to me, and it also affects my players. I should have simply said on the first session, "I'm sorry, but it matters to me a lot that I decide how the game runs. Maybe after we've gotten to know each other, we can talk about adding you later." Instead, I didn't recognize that I had a dealbreaker, and I compromised. People who were in that group still tell stories about how strange our group had become, and I also feel responsible. Had I been more direct about my own boundaries, the issue probably never would have happened. 

Dealbreakers like this can take any form. I know GMs who are especially particular about how players roll their dice. I know GMs who must have absolute secrecy about their planning and won't discuss the game with their players outside of play time. I know GMs who have incredibly strong opinions about things that 99% of players don't really think about. Whatever your dealbreaker is, don't think of it as a weakness. It may be frustrating to have, but remember: this is about fun, and that means your fun, too. Don't make choices in the name of the game that go against your fun or comfort. 

9. Focus on the people--otherwise, it's just writing. 

I mentioned above that I've penned a pretty ludicrous amount about my homebrew setting. I've also got probably six fully prepared campaigns at the ready. And from the player perspective, I have more character ideas than I have games for them. Maybe it sounds impressive, but I don't know that it is. Without other people around to play with each of these things, it's not much. It's a lot of nice writing, but it's no game. That's why, when I GM and play tabletop games, I try to make it as much about the people as possible. Without them, I'd just be writing another adventure that might not ever see the light of day. 

By "focus on the people," what I mean is that your preparation for sessions as a GM should most have to do with your players. I've written before about how to create challenges specific to your players, which is a big part of what I'm talking about. But it's also more than that. When I GM, I pay special attention to the reactions my players have. The things that make them laugh, the things that get them excited--I take note of these things. I have one player in a group I run who gets really excited when he can bring his silly character backstory into the game, so I try to include plenty of moments where he can add details about his earlier life. I have another player in a different group who loves to act bizarrely and get reactions from his party, so I try to regularly drop strange items around his character to fuel his shenanigans. This kind of GMing simply allows the players to get what they want from the game. 

Focusing on the people also means being aware of people's emotional reactions. Knowing whether a player is relaxed, tense, irritated, distracted, upset, giddy, or something else matters a lot, and it should affect how you GM. I remember years ago running Listen Check, an early D&D podcast, I had been building up to a dramatic confrontation between the party and a murderous, possessed monk who threatened and harmed them for sessions. In the torment that led to the climax, I was pretty wrapped up in the moment, but I noticed that one of my players looked genuinely upset--not just concerned in-game. I checked the other players. They were similarly on-edge. I decided to back off a bit and switch scenes to a player who wasn't with the conflict. When we returned, I offered a few subtle hints to bring the scene to a close faster. It was important to recognize that my players needed a break from the tension, so as much as I was pleased to be able to generate that kind of feeling, I also acknowledged that it's not pleasant to feel for very long. In all ways, focus on the people. 

10. Never decide the direction of the story without your players.

Although this list has been in no particular order, this last lesson is probably the most vital. I think that the ending of a campaign is, of course, one of the most important parts of the game. It's tempting to plan it exhaustively so that every detail goes off perfectly. You want to send your players off right, right? Well, sending them off right might mean different things. To me, the best definition of sending your players off right means giving them as close to complete control over the ending as possible. This is often our goal: to give them complete agency over the game. This is especially true of the ending. I can anticipate that some GMs are protesting--"But the players won't tie everything up neatly!" You're right--of course they won't. But that doesn't mean you don't get a neatly tied-up story. My solution is simple: let the players control the final session, which you follow up with an epilogue that ties everything up. (I did this with the mystery campaign's finale, for your reference.) Then you get player agency and a nice, satisfying ending at the same time. 

I know it's tempting. You could just script a couple of events for the ending, and it would all be so smooth . . . Except there's only two ways GM plans go: either the players ignore it right away, or they follow it up to the end and derail at the last second. That means that your ending plans either don't apply or they force the players into something that they didn't choose. Neither option is good. Go into your final session the same way you went into your early and middle session: just see what happens with minimal guidance. And this is true even of the rest of the campaign. I ran a campaign early in my GMing career where I devised 20 devious assassination contracts for my players. They killed one target, kidnapped another, and then turned on the questgiver. If I hadn't been able to follow my players instead of guiding them, the whole campaign would have been lost. 

So don't push the players' story. Remember that it's their story as much as it is yours, arguably moreso theirs. There are generally more players than GMs in a game, so they already have a greater share of the game that you. And while you may have more power, that doesn't necessarily mean that the players will be happiest if you fully use it. The longer I've been a GM, the more I have recognized that my players are happiest when they're operating on only minimal input from me. They want to explore the world and create stories and experience something fun, and adding more order to the story they're interacting with rarely fixed the problem. Don't decide for the players--forging a path through the world is literally what they are there for. And to go even a step further, I'd advise giving the players as much power as you reasonably can--their investment will be worth it. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: parenting by D&D culture in my homebrew setting, a guide to my homebrew Underdark, and how I connect with my characters. Until next time, happy gaming!