Combat Descriptions

I'm not big on combat. As a roleplay-heavy GM, I think that combat is better handled by video games than by TRPGs. But even roleplay-heavy campaigns will eventually have combat. My mystery campaign is four sessions deep and still hasn't seen any combat, but it will inevitably happen. And you want your combat to be exciting whether it's the crux of your campaign or not. There are some easy steps you can take to spice up combat, and I'll explain them here. 

The first thing to do with combat is to bulk up your descriptions of what's happening. The dice tell you whether a player succeeds or fails their intended action, but you can do much more as GM. Give every combat action some description to make it leave a mark, even for nonremarkable rolls. 

We can break this up into distinct categories. We have low rolls (2-6), mid-low rolls (7-11), mid-high rolls (12-16), and high rolls (17-21). (I don't include critical success and critical failures--you can read about how to handle those here.) Each of these four categories should be described in particular ways. Let's start with low rolls.

On a low roll, the character fails by a considerable amount. Don't just say that the character misses--add something. "Your axe swings through the air towards the enemy, but they shift in place and your axe goes bouncing across the ground." This gives the player a concrete sense of how and why they missed, and it characterizes the enemy as the sort to step out of the way of a strike. Or you might decide that the player caused their own failure: "You swing with all your might at the enemy, but you try to swing too hard, and your blow lands just shy of hitting them." The important thing is that the low roll is reflected in the way they fail. 

Similarly, a mid-low roll should tap into how and why the character misses. But this time, they're not out-and-out failing. I like to describe misses like these in terms of armor class: "Your longsword arcs through the air and strikes the enemy directly in the chestplate, your sword doing no damage as it bounces harmlessly from their armor." Now the player isn't just missing, but they are still failing to do damage. This is a great characterizing device for combatants, who go from shapeless enemies to hulking, armored foes. You might also take into consideration how the enemy fights. "They parry your blow with the flick of a wrist, and your energy is routed off to the side," or "They raise their sizable shield to absorb the brunt of the blow, your mace skittered off and away from them." The key here is describing a near-hit in a way that highlights the player's near-success in a dramatic way. 

A mid-high roll is the most challenging to describe because it could be a success or a failure, so you need to ride the line between the two. Let's say the player rolls a 12 and the foe's armor class is a 14. We can go the same route as with a mid-low roll and describe a near-miss; we could also describe the way the enemy is especially skillful in avoiding the blow, narrowly dodging a certain attack. Or let's say that the player rolls a 16 and the enemy's armor class is a 14. Now we can describe a borderline success. There's plenty of room for drama here: "You bring your dagger down on the enemy, and they begin to step away from the attack, but you redirect your strike and catch them between cracks in their armor." We want the players to sense that they narrowly succeeded, so our description should match. Finally, let's address an exact hit: the player rolls a 14 and the enemy's armor class is 14. "You smash your quarterstaff down on the enemy's head just as they begin to dodge away, and they seem surprised that you struck them. They seem a bit dazed from the blow." We're emphasizing how close the attack was, so even the enemy is shocked that things played out as they did. Any of these descriptions works well if they're deployed strategically. 

Then there are high rolls. Most of the time, a high roll will hit, but a high armor class may prevent that. In those cases, you want to embrace the spirit of the mid-low roll but in a powered-up fashion. "You expertly turn and slash at the enemy on your left with your rapier. Your attack arcs precisely toward the enemy, who only at the last second turns to absorb the blow with his armor. Your arm twitches as you strike, and so does the neck of the enemy." Reward your player's high roll with description that makes them competent, but abide by the roll. But most of the time you have a high roll, it will be a success. Make these successes exciting, though not quite on the scale of a critical success. "You bring your warhammer down onto the waiting shield of your foe. No amount of positioning can allow him to avoid damage. He crumples under the blow and has to regain his footing." The strike from the player is noteworthy, so we make our description noteworthy. But again, we leave a gap between the effect of a high roll and that of a critical success. 

All of the examples I've offered so far are for melee combat. Ranged combat works similarly, but it can be harder to spice up. Here's my advice: treat them the same way you do with melee rolls and be aware of the environment. Here's why--when you miss with a projectile, the projectile has to go somewhere. Guide it to a target when your player misses, and it will be more dramatic. 

Low rolls for projectiles are simple. "Your arrow flies a few feet wide of your target, burying itself in a wooden support beam just to the right of your enemy." One mechanic I use for help with this is simply rolling a d8 when a character misses a projectile attack. Number the squares surrounding the target on the map and roll--the projectile hits the numbered square you rolled. This may mean that the character hits a different enemy, an ally, or an object. What matters is that you describe the effect of it missing. "Your arrow buries itself in the shield of the enemy next to your target," or "Your arrow plunges into the back of your ally, and they yelp in pain and surprise," or "Just missing its mark, your arrow sinks into the dank earth in the dungeon's wall, the shaft quivering as it strikes." These are all much better than "You miss" and moving on. 

Mid-low rolls for ranged attacks can follow the same pattern as melee attacks. Projectiles can deflect off of armor, be dodged at the last moment, or even be snatched out of the air by substantially dexterous foes. Anything you come up with that delivers the sense that a projectile is on track to hit but is somehow stymied will work. Using the d8 surroundings roll, you can have the arrow strike any target in a dramatic fashion. 

Mid-high rolls are again a challenge, but they also introduce the tool we'll use for high rolls: specific places on an enemy. A mid-high roll that misses should follow the rolls of a mid-low roll, but a mid-high roll that succeeds should hit an enemy in a limited way. Here's where anatomy gets involved. Someone who hits an enemy by rolling exactly their armor class isn't going to land a crossbow bolt directly in the eye of the enemy. That's a lot of damage for a close success. So instead have the projectile strike a non-vital area. "Your bolt flies through the air and lands in the thigh of the enemy, and his hand shoots to the area reflexively," or "The enemy raises an arm to rain down a blow on your ally, but your bolt catches him in the wrist before he can bring it down. He calls out in shock." Give the players some indication of the real damage down by the attack as though it's more than simply rolling dice. 

High rolls are the realm of the most exciting results. With a high roll that strikes, you can get creative. "The stone from your sling rockets across the room and strikes the enemy in the hand holding their weapon, causing them to drop it." It's a shakeup on the combat floor, but it's not as powerful as a critical success. We might go instead for raw damage: "Your arrow pierces the cheek of the enemy, tearing skin away and exposing their teeth on the side of their face." Now the enemy is seriously in pain and will fight harder or be willing to surrender, whatever serves your needs best as GM. You might instead go for a dramatic near-miss: "Your crossbow bolt glances off the hanging chandelier and lands in the chest of the enemy, blood spurting out from the fresh wound. He snaps the arrow off and continues to fight." This characterizes the enemy as frenzied and intimidating, and the strike against him does damage but does not incapacitate the enemy like a critical success would. 

This has all been about describing attacks, but you can characterize damage as well. The key with this is to consider how effective a blow is given the enemy's total hit points. Here's a rough guideline for describing damage:

1-15% total damage - A solid attack that does basic damage - "You cut a groove into the side of your enemy."

16-25% total damage - A strong attack that does considerable damage - "You cut a chunk of flesh from your enemy with deadly precision." 

26-40% total damage - A powerful attack that does serious damage - "You bury your blade in the side of your enemy."

41-70% total damage - A mighty attack that substantially wounds the enemy - "You slice the armor of your enemy open and create a wide gash that runs the length of their torso."

71-100% total damage - A devastating attack the handicaps the enemy - "You swing hard and lop off the weapon-wielding arm of your foe"/"You swing hard and behead your foe."

It is entirely possible to do lethal damage to a foe without rolling a critical success, but it is far more exciting to have scaling effects of results than to rule that a heavy blow isn't spectacular just because your attack roll wasn't perfect. That's why I recommend scaling attacks to this same guideline with the enemy taking ever greater strikes from the party. For instance, the enemy takes 12% damage on their first round of being attacked, then another 10%, and another 12% in the third round. You could describe these attacks as all being solid with basic damage, or you could total the damage done and give the third attack an effect from the 26-40% range to reflect the compiled damage of the combat. This is up to you as GM--you may decide that you want your players to be fighting in more of a realistic combat setting, so sticking to damage per blow could work better. But for most players, scaling their damage to both damage done by an attack and total damage over the combat will spice things up and make each attack more special. 

I've been describing around the physical damage done to enemies but haven't yet addressed the ways that you can use damage descriptors to enhance combat. Essentially, you want to match the level of carnage to the combat's results, but still make it possible for the combat to continue. I'll use the same scale as before and provide examples of bodily harm that are appropriate for each level. 

1-15% total damage - No lost limbs or other handicaps. Enough damage to have a mild effect. - Bruising someone's face, opening a gash in their side, arrow to the leg.

16-25% total damage - Mild handicaps like a round spent clutching a wound or calling for help. - Bashing someone's limb, cutting out a chunk of flesh, arrow to the arm. 

26-40% total damage - Moderate handicaps like being forced to heal or getting into a defensive position. - Bludgeoning someone's head, slicing off a finger, arrow to the chest.

41-70% total damage - Substantial handicaps like using a magic item or going berserk. - Smashing someone's bones, cutting a deep gash in someone's torso, arrow to the neck. 

71-100% total damage - Severe handicaps like calling on a more powerful ally or sacrificing oneself. - Clobbering someone's skull, burying a blade in someone, arrow to the head. 

These are just guidelines--if a player wants to aim an attack at a specific part of their enemy's body, let them at the cost of accuracy (-2 to hit for a torso shot, -4 to hit for a disarming attack, -6 to hit for a headshot, for instance). And if they do want to target a body part, find a way to make the damage they do fit. If they target the head but do low damage, make the strike hit their jaw; higher damage hits the forehead. The trick is to make everything feel as though the numbers reflect the drama. 

I've suggested before letting the players decide the result of a critical roll. You can do the same with damage. While all the resources listed above allow you to take the descriptions into your hands, it is possible to let the players describe their attacks in more detail. It will get them more invested in the process of combat and allow you to focus on the other details you're keeping track of. Here are some guidelines on using player suggested combat rolls. 

When it comes to the "to hit" roll, ask your players to describe how it hits/misses. At first, they'll be a little uncertain, so offer some examples of how they can contribute. You could assign them this article so they have an idea of what you're looking for, or you could just explain that you want them to decide how to describe hits and misses. They'll look to dramatize the combat in a way that you as GM don't have the ability to easily do; they're on one side of the combat, where you're supposed to be an impartial referee, so they'll have a particular sense of what would be dramatic for the party. Let them describe as they choose, and correct things only when the rules of the game are on the line, or when your story may fall apart. 

It's the same process for damage rolls, but your players will be much more actively participating in this part of the equation. They want to decide how much they hurt their foes--it's the end result and goal of combat, so they definitely want to be involved. Use the guidelines above to moderate what is and isn't appropriate. If you need to correct something, keep its spirit but change the relevant parts. A few examples:

Players will generally take the damage too far much more than they won't take it far enough. Not far enough is easy. Let's say a player deals 15 damage to an enemy who has 45 health total (33% of total health done by the attack). The player, unsure of how strong the enemy is, goes too soft: "I hit the goblin in the leg with my arrow." But they've done a lot of damage, and we need to bump it up. Rather than moving the arrow, we add a detail: "You do hit the goblin in the leg, and the shaft buries itself directly in his femoral artery. Blood is spurting out of the wound, and he winces as splinters of wood shift in his thigh." Now the attack is more in the realm of where it should be, and the player's suggestion has been honored. 

Players taking it too far is much more common. Let's say a player deals 10 damage to an enemy with 40 total health, and they say, "I slash with my sword and slice the arm off of the gnoll." But only 25% total damage doesn't lend itself to such a dramatic effect. So we keep the spirit of it but tweak it: "You slash with your sword and slice deeply into the area where the arm connects to the torso. It hangs on by threads, but the gnoll doesn't let go of his flail or back down." This is only a mild correction, so while it doesn't do exactly as the player directed, it still reflects what they wanted to accomplish. Let's consider another example. 

A player deals 20 damage to an enemy with 40 health (50% total damage). The player, recognizing that this is a big hit, says, "I use my spear to run the zombie through, the spear tip coming out the other side with organs dangling from the blade." This is good description and detail, but the enemy is still at half health, and being so dismantled doesn't reflect his state of repair. So we can tone it down a bit and allow the player's suggestion to still come through: "You run your spear through the zombie, the blade emerging from its back as you push. A dead liver dangles from the spear tip. The zombie wrenches itself backward, removing itself from the spear and depositing its crude organs back into its body." This is a little bit of tug-of-war; the player wants to destroy the zombie, but it hasn't been dealt enough damage, so the zombie recovers from this potentially lethal attack to fight again. It doesn't betray our player's suggestion--just reorients it so we can keep fighting. 

Finally, there's the matter of fatalities. When a player kills an enemy, there should be some marker of drama. Even if the player only deals 1 damage to an enemy to kill it, you want it to be a dramatic strike. You can describe these killing blows in fun ways even if the damage is low. Here's how: ask yourself if the damage done by the player is above or below their average damage. If the damage is above their average, even if it's less than 15% total health of the enemy, make it a heavy, damaging blow. "Your sword lodges firmly into the torso of the vampire, rending his top half from his bottom half." Or "You swing your mace into the skull of the werewolf, crushing it completely." With either of these descriptions, get creative. Add bloody details, consider whether nearby enemies would be frightened after the solid hit, describe the player's weapon being momentarily stuck in the enemy--anything that makes the moment more unique. That's what we're striving for: unique moments in combat, which is often very much the same as other combat. 

If the strike is less than the player's normal damage, it would ring insincere to make their final blow so powerful. But you still want the moment to be interesting and reward the player who killed the enemy. So go with something that does a little bit of damage but also finishes the job. "You cut a long slice into the side of the kobold, who readies himself to swing once again at you, but passes out from blood loss as he begins to attack." Or "The displacer beast lashes out to attack you, but you swing your axe into its outstretched tendril, severing it from its body. It goes into shock and passes out." You want something that will communicate that the player just barely did enough damage to the enemy, which can be just as dramatic and fun as walloping that enemy. The key is in the description. Remember to always consider the context and give as much detail as possible without slowing combat down. Generally, two sentences about each attack are enough to characterize things and create tension for the players. 

You can use these guidelines to describe enemy attacks as well. When an enemy attacks a player character, describe the damage in the same way with the percentage of damage table above. This will plant some serious damage on your players, which will not only dramatize combat even more, but also emphasize the role of healing. "You have 21 points of damage," is one way to communicate how badly a player character is hurt, but saying instead, "You have a bloody wound on your left leg, a mangled right arm, and an arrow stuck in your shoulder" is far more dramatic, realistic, and enjoyable. It will make players want to heal and deal with damage as more than numbers on a page. 

In a future post, I'll explain how to manage the momentum of an encounter which you can improvise as you go. Until then, these tips on keeping combat interesting will help you to get your players more invested in combat. Until next time, have fun gaming!

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Document Creation: A Book on Creation Myths

In previous posts, I've shown you how to create documents for a tabletop roleplaying setting. I'm adding this more in-depth post because you can get much more involved with the process if you want to. In a session I recently played with my mystery campaign folks, the players ended up at a bookstore, and Beor was interested in finding a book on dwarven creation myths. It was a halfling-centric shop, so there were no books dedicated specifically to dwarven history, but I decided that the was in fact a book in which a halfling author compared each race's respective creation myths. This felt to me to be a good compromise given the situation. And once Beor had paid for the book, I told his player, "If you want, I'll actually write that book." He was very into it. So I'll be showing how to draft something like this.

(If creating a book sounds too intimidating--and I promise, it isn't--you can also create notes for in-game documents as though your player character wrote them themselves.)

The first thing to do is create an outline. We know that we need each race's creation myth so we can compare them, and we also need to have meaningful points of comparison. So there first draft of our outline should start from what is common to all creation myths. Let's start there. 

Whatever the creation myths share, the points of commonality should be noteworthy but still allow for variance. Let's say that each creation myth has about five beats, and we want to make two or three of those beats somewhat similar. We want to have some things be common to all creation myths and have a few things common between specific examples. So let's start by writing a base creation myth to work from. 

In the beginning was the earth. Then humanoids appeared, with reasons causing their physical differences. Then the humanoids developed civilization, which spread between the races. 

It's not much, but it's enough of a start. We have room to determine how and why humanoids appears, what the reasons for physical differences are, and how civilization was built and moved. But we want something more specific to tie the stories together. 

Humanoids lived in chaos until the formation of civilization. Their physical differences caused troubles. Civilization acted as a uniting force. 

These details will allow us further differentiation while providing more context for each race's creation myth and uniting them at certain points. Since we're still only drafting, we don't want too much detail. That comes in the next step: writing each myth. 

We need a total of 7 creation myths for this book. There are ones for each race (elves, dwarves, halflings, gnomes, orcs) and two for humans since my homebrew setting has two distinct bloodlines for humans (Faninite and Daltoner, neither of whom had arrived on the main continent until fairly recent history). Each myth needs something unique about it. So we'll use inspiration from our feelings about each race. As a GM, you likely have opinions about what each race is like--use that to influence your information about them. I'm starting with halflings since the book is from a halfling perspective:

In the beginning was the earth. Winds blew and formed the earth into little piles. The piles grew and grew in ever-stranger shapes until they formed into the shape of humanoids. The differences in soils between each homeland was enough that the soil formed into slightly different shapes. These soil bodies stood for hundreds of years until finally it rained. The water combined with the soil and awakened the bodies. For hundreds of years more, the soil bodies moved around, unspeaking. Finally, a great wind blew and filled the bodies with breath. Awakened, the humanoids began to build civilization, using their work together to benefit all people. The halflings tried to bring the secrets of civilization to the elves, but the taller humanoids did not believe the halflings could discover something of such value. Neither would the dwarves nor the orcs accept the gift of civilization. But with the helpful gnomes, the halflings spread the awareness of working together across the world. Eventually, the world took the form as we know it. 

This will work for now; we're going to expand this a bit more so that it can be analyzed more closely. But first, let's work on the elven creation myth:

In the beginning was the earth. The gods were fighting and did not speak to each other, so they became lonely. They took elements of the earth and created immortal beings in their own likenesses. From the trees came elves, from stone came dwarves, from metal came gnomes, from air came halflings, and from fire came orcs. These new beings walked the earth, clashing with the other races. For a thousand years, the races warred over territory and resources. Eventually the gods had to step in again. They took away the immortality of the beings. War became more costly and devastating. The races called an end to wars and pledged to cooperate to build something for everyone. The elves led the cause toward civilization. Today, each culture adds its best to the collection of humanity. 

The elven story departs from the halfling story in that the cause of life is different, and the nature of life is different, but they still follow a basic pattern of life coming from nothing. The elves and halflings disagree about who created civilization, which is a natural difference we might expect. But the basic story beats are the same: nothing, humanoids, civilization invented, civilization spread. Let's tackle the dwarves:

In the beginning was the earth. Animals ruled the world. Moradin, god of the dwarves, believed that there was something greater than animal life, so he took a bull and changed it to make the first dwarf. Seeing what Moradin had done, the other gods set to work turning animals into humanoids. Deer became elves, foxes became gnomes, bears became orcs, and sparrows became halflings. The gods became stuck in a cold war, building armies of their humanoids in case another god tried to control the earth. Before long, there was thousands of humanoids across the continent. But the humanoids were wretched and behaved still as animals. So Moradin called a meeting with the other gods, and they agreed to create a joint effort to improve the lives of all humanoids. This was called civilization, and it caused the races to set aside their differences and work together. 

Now we have some real differentiation. The dwarves have different origins than either the halfling or elves, and civilization has gone from an invention of the humanoids to a gift from the gods. We're picking up some steam now. Let's do the orcs:

In the beginning was the earth. There was a tribe of humanoids who lived in the center of the continent, and before long, there were disagreements about how to live. So the tribe split into several tribes, and each went a different way across the continent. Each tribe farmed the unique plants and animals of their new regions, and the diets they ate changed their bodies. The harsh diet of what would become orcs turned their bodies big, strong, and resistant. The lush diet of what would become halflings turned them into small, lithe beings. So followed the other races. But as humanoids spread further across the world, the races reencountered each other and once again had disagreements. By sharing their food supplies, the humanoids became ever more like each other. They eventually formed into one people, all focused on the survival and benefit of everyone. Such was the birth of civilization and life as we know it.

The orcs believe that all people come from the same stock. This is actually a reference to my podcasted campaign years ago, where one scholar theorized that all humanoids shared a genetic ancestor. I intended this theory to be correct, so I thought it would be fun to have one of the races get pretty close to this theory. We still have a few creation myths to write, though, so here is the gnomes':

In the beginning was the earth. The gods reigned on the earth and created ever-more complicated machines to satisfy their needs. But the gods created so many machines that they could not operate all of them, so they created assistants. These assistants were formed of earth and the gods' spirits, and they were made to function well given the machine they were meant to operate. Gnomes were made to service small machines with delicate parts, while the orcs were made to lift great machines. Each race had its specialty. Humanoids went on working for the gods for thousands of years, until finally, the gods grew tired of their lives on the earth. They resolved to move to the heavens with their machines but leave the humanoids behind. Without machines to operate, the humanoids dealt different with the loss. Gnomes built new machines, while elves returned their focus to nature. With the help of the gnomes' machines and the cooperation of all the races, the humanoids built civilization and began anew without the gods. 

This creation myth is a little further away from typical creation myth fare, but I love how the gnomes (in general and in particular in my homebrew setting) are so practically-minded, so I wanted to honor their focus on machines in their myth. Now for the humans, imperialistic Daltoners first:

In the beginning was the earth. The island from which humans sprang was a desolate, challenging place. No life could be sustained there in great number, but the gods had different plans. They placed a village of humans on the rock and kept hard storms coming to prepare the humans for the worst. Great Pelor, the sun god, demanded sacrifices to sustain the village. The humans sacrificed their food, their loved ones, and their homes depending on what Pelor asked. But it was not enough. And so the humans created civilization to better serve Pelor. Together, they were able to satisfy the sacrifices needed by the god and make a meager living on the island. 

I have written in my setting notes that Daltoners are religiously governed and that they do not shy away from violence, so this sacrifice story fits their mythology well. It's also worth noting that because the Daltoners arose on an island without non-human, their creation myth doesn't involve other races. This will allow us to analyze the myth in more detail later on. But for now, the final creation myth--the peaceful Faninites: 

In the beginning was the earth. The earth was massive, but it had small places, places like the island of Fanin. The island was home to one of the greatest forests on earth. For centuries, the trees released seeds and spores which spawned new trees. But one year, the gods smiled upon Fanin and blessed it with the same life they had spread across the earth in years past. Instead of seeds and spores, the trees released human life. The humans who were born of the trees were the first generation of humans, combinations of all the traits of the races that came before. The humans set to work making life for themselves away from the rest of the earth, and they soon realized that their efforts combined were greater than their individual efforts. So they celebrated with a great feast, the first reward of their cooperation, and so was born civilization again, miles from where it had been first discovered by the other races. That humans did so on their own was a sign from the gods that they were just as valued as anyone else. 

Here, the Faninites are actually aware of other races despite not being in contact with them until only a few thousand years ago. My backstory for this is that the Faninites arrived by boat on Evanoch and immediately assimilated into the Evanine way of life. Thus, this background is honored by the creation myth and gives a certain humility to the Faninites. 

Now we have each of our creation myths in brief form, and we have three steps to go: (1) expand these creation myths into more complete stories to analyze, (2) analyze these stories, and (3) do any necessary editing to get this thing into a proper shape. But now we want the creation myths to be addressed as the author of the book would, not as we've written them already. So it's time to add some details and flair to accomplish steps 1 and 2 as we go. Back to the halfling myth, along with the author's additions:

When we consider the halfling creation myth, it is immediately apparent that a reverence of nature and a sense of specialness associated with being a halfling. Consider this translation of a set of stories about how halflings believe the world came to be as we know it: 

In the beginning was the earth. The earth was bare except for dirt and winds. The winds blew and formed the earth into little piles. At the direction of the wind, the piles grew and grew in ever-stranger shapes until they formed into the shape of humanoids. The differences in soils between each homeland was enough that the soil formed into different shapes. These soil bodies stood for hundreds of years until finally, for the first time, it rained. The water combined with the soil and awakened the bodies. For hundreds of years more, the soil bodies moved around, unspeaking. These bodies had no needs nor the ability to serve any needs. Finally, a great wind blew and filled the bodies with breath. Fully awakened, the halflings began to build civilization, using their work together to benefit all people. The halflings tried to bring the secrets of civilization to the elves, but the taller humanoids did not believe the halflings could discover something of such value. Neither would the dwarves nor the orcs accept the gift of civilization. But with the helpful gnomes, who were also small of stature but strong of heart, the halflings spread the awareness of working together across the world. Eventually, the world took the form as we know it, with people cooperating to sustain us all. 

We see from this story that halflings do not attribute their creation to the gods as many cultures do. Rather, they believe that nature is a self-fulfilling mechanism which creates and sustains. It also casts the halflings as heroes among humanoids for creating civilization. Unlike any other creation myth, the halflings give credit to another race for help in forming the world. And this creation myth ends on the note of the world as we know it, suggesting that the myth was formed at least in part after tribes had progressed to larger settlements. Halflings, then, celebrate the move from nature to civilization as the moment we became more than nature. 

You can see in the short paragraph before and the paragraph after the creation myth that the analysis consists mostly of describing what makes the myth unique. This is information that I gathered/generated while writing the other myths, so having outlined all the myths before analyzing them really pays off. In the second section, we can get into commonalities, but for now, we want to be summarizing the myth as it stands alone. Then the elves again, now with author additions:

The elves' creation myth, in contrast, is related more to the actions of the gods. There is still a respect paid to nature via the way that each race was formed. Pay close attention to the use of civilization to resolve war:

In the beginning was the earth. The gods, who had been alive for thousands of year, were fighting and no longer spoke to each other, so they became lonely. They took elements of the earth and created immortal beings in their own likenesses, each trying to outdo the others. From the trees came elves, from stone came dwarves, from metal came gnomes, from air came halflings, and from fire came orcs. These new beings walked the earth, clashing with the other races because they each meant to serve their gods. For a thousand years, the races warred over territory and resources. Eventually the gods had to step in again. They took away the immortality of the beings. As a result, war became more costly and devastating. In a grand conference, the races called an end to wars and pledged to cooperate to build something for everyone. The elves led the cause toward civilization, developing new ways to work together. Today, each culture adds its best to the collection of humanity. 

We see here that the elves believe war and clashes to be central to the humanoid condition. The humanoids and gods again and again must interfere with the worst impulses of humanity. To include this in a creation myth means that elves implicitly understand the struggle between living things and have resolved this struggle by forming a cooperative civilization. Unlike the halflings, they do not see civilization as a way to work towards our best but rather as a means to subvert our worst actions. The ending about each culture adding its best is a new addition, a manner of post script offered by the perspective of modern scholars. 

Here we have the author guiding the conversation about creation myths in a way that moves the reader through a series of ideas. This will get increasingly difficult to manage as we deal with more and more creation myths, but we'll stay grounded by keeping the author's perspective on things front and center. Let's return to the dwarves:

Dwarves, on the other hand, have a more colorful approach to the differences between races--not a product of the gods, and not something related to the way life naturally occurs on earth, but a space between the two. 

In the beginning was the earth. Animals ruled the world. Moradin, god of the dwarves, believed that there was something greater than animal life, so he took a bull and changed it to make the first dwarf. Seeing what Moradin had done, the other gods set to work turning animals into humanoids. At the hands of the gods, deer became elves, foxes became gnomes, bears became orcs, and sparrows became halflings. The gods became stuck in a cold war, building armies of their humanoids in case another god tried to control the earth. Before long, there were thousands of humanoids across the continent, each trying to serve the gods who had made them. But the humanoids were wretched and behaved still as animals. So Moradin called a meeting with the other gods, and they agreed to create a joint effort to improve the lives of all humanoids. This was called civilization, and it caused the races to set aside their differences and work together. 

Like the halflings, dwarves believe we come from natural parts of the world, but like the elves, they believe that the gods guided those formations. The animal lineages of each race express what is believed to be unique about each race in a similar fashion to the halflings, but from recognizable forms of life instead of raw earth. And in the dwarves' rendition, civilization is a gift from the gods, not something developed by the humanoids. These differences tell us that dwarves view order and cooperation as something beyond the realm of humanoid possibilities. These differences make the dwarven creation myth more focused on history than a traditional story of life-giving. 

Our author is mixing in individual analysis and comparisons, so we're moving along. On to the orcs:

The creation myth of the orcs posits that all humanoids are genetically the same but have distinct dietary changes that account for the different races. This change makes the orcish creation myth fairly unique. 

In the beginning was the earth. There was a tribe of humanoids who lived in the center of the continent, and they had always lived there. Before long, there were disagreements about how to live. Make war or peace? Grow food or hunt? So the tribe split into several tribes, and each went a different way across the continent according to their beliefs. Each tribe farmed the unique plants and animals of their new regions, and the diets they ate soon changed their bodies. The harsh diet of what would become orcs turned their bodies big, strong, and resistant. The lush diet of what would become halflings turned them into small, lithe beings. So followed the other races, each according to what it consumed and became. But as humanoids spread further across the world, the races reencountered each other and once again had disagreements. By sharing their food supplies, the humanoids became ever more like each other. They eventually formed into one people, all focused on the survival and benefit of everyone. Such was the birth of civilization and life as we know it. 

The implication of this story is that the races were once much more different that they are today, but the more important detail is that we have all sprung up from the same life which was once united. Like the other creation myths, disagreements between the races forms the reason for creating civilization. This means that all life remained tribal for a majority of the time they have existed. In fact, orcs believe humanoid life always existed, meaning that cooperation above a tribal scale is a relatively new phenomenon. Like the halflings and elves, the orcs believe that civilization was created by humanoids, though unlike those other races, the orcs do not place a claim on the invention themselves. 

You might notice that the first short paragraph in these sections is a big idea represented in the creation myth, and that the paragraph that follows the myth does the comparison and detail work. This is generally how academic writing functions, and I'm emulating that in order to make this feel like a real book. On to the gnomes: 

The gnomes' creation myth takes a wide step away from the typical fare of creation myths and places great emphasis on the role of machines in gnomish culture. Consider the social structure implied by this myth: 

In the beginning was the earth. The gods reigned on the earth and had many needs, so they created ever-more complicated machines to satisfy those needs. But the gods created so many machines that they could not operate all of them, so they needed assistants. They formed these assistants of earth and the gods' spirits, and they were made to function well given the machine they were meant to operate. Gnomes were made to service small machines with delicate parts, while the orcs were made to lift great machines. Each race had its specialty, and their bodies were formed accordingly Humanoids went on working for the gods for thousands of years, until finally, the gods grew tired of their lives on the earth. They resolved to move to the heavens with their machines but leave the humanoids behind. Without machines to operate, the humanoids dealt differently with the loss. Gnomes built new machines, while elves returned their focus to nature. The other races each learned to live without machines to give them purpose. With the help of the gnomes' machines and the cooperation of all the races, the humanoids built civilization and began anew without the gods.

At the risk of editorializing, this sounds like a nightmare more than a creation myth. Living in order to service machines is a dark outlook on life. It makes one wonder why the gnomish people are so cheerful. I submit that this story explains the gnomish sense of duty and ingenuity--creating devices like the gods did brings us closer to those gods and to our original purpose. And given the gnomish government's tendency toward social support systems, it is not hard to understand the role of service to others. Like in the dwarves' story, gods take on an important role, but it's worth noting that there are no great relationships between the gods and the people (as there is in the elves' creation myth). Gnomes therefore honor their modern tendencies via their creation myth, divergent as it may be from typical tales like it. 

Now we've got something different. The author is voicing a non-academic opinion. You could argue that this is a bad thing--an academic might not be willing to editorialize. But imagine that you are the author in question, and you come across this gnomish creation myth. It's weird! I deliberately designed it to be weird, in part because I like the idea of gnomes always being a little weird, and in part because I wanted gnomes' cultural values to be expressed by their myth, even if that means it's off a little bit. And it makes sense that the author, especially when viewing these compared myths, would notice and comment. And trust me: the more colorful your commentary in documents like this, the better. You're not giving homework to your players, you're creating something fun for them. It should fit the form of what the player asked for (creation myth comparisons), but it should still appeal to them stylistically. We only have the humans' stories left, so let's dig in:

In the realm of humans, Daltoners were the last to appear on the shores of Evanoch. Accordingly, their myth only accounts for the life on the island they came from. Unlike any other myth, it is fixated on sacrifice.

In the beginning was the earth. The island from which humans sprang was a desolate, challenging place. No life could be sustained there in great number, but the gods had different plans. They placed a village of humans on the rock and kept hard storms coming to prepare the humans for the worst. Great Pelor, the sun god, demanded sacrifices to sustain the village, or else he would not shine his light down to their settlement. The humans sacrificed their food, their loved ones, and their homes depending on what Pelor asked. He always wanted more, but kept providing for them, and so they kept sacrificing.  But it was not enough. And so the humans created civilization to better serve Pelor. Together, they were able to satisfy the sacrifices needed by the god and make a meager living on the island. 

For anyone who has ever read of Daltoner politics, this myth is what will make it make sense. Daltoners believe that they must sacrifice to live, a reality for them due to the harsh conditions on the island of Dalton. Their lack of access to easy living goes back as far as their memories do, and their practice of colonizing the world around them extends from that striving for more when they have so little. Like the halflings, elves, orcs, and gnomes, the Daltoners believe that civilization came from them, that it was their creation. Combining these traits, we see that Daltoners believe as a core concept of their origins that they are driven to create ever-better ways to live or else perish. This dangerous mindset complicates global politics to this day. 

Again, we're editorializing. I have established in my homebrew setting that Daltoners are something of bad guys due to societal beliefs, and they historically had to be repelled by a military coalition during a colonizing attempt in recent history. So a bit of judgment about Daltoners is natural. Finally, we have the Faninites:

Of all the races, the one that accepts the least credit for their creation and development is the Faninite people. In their creation myth, life develops almost as its own mechanism, and Faninites accept their place as figures in a larger, more complicated history. 

In the beginning was the earth. The earth was massive, but it had small places, places like the island of Fanin. The island was home to one of the greatest forests on earth, tall and mighty and unyielding. For centuries, the trees released seeds and spores which spawned new trees. These new trees would grow strong and large as well. But one year, the gods smiled upon Fanin and blessed it with the same life they had spread across the earth in years past--fish, birds, beasts, and even humanoids. Instead of seeds and spores, the trees released human life. The humans who were born of the trees were the first generation of humans, combinations of all the traits of the races that came before. The humans set to work making life for themselves away from the rest of the earth, and they soon realized that their efforts combined were greater than their individual efforts. So they celebrated with a great feast, the first reward of their cooperation, and so was born civilization again, hundreds and thousands of miles from where it had been first discovered by the other races. That humans did so on their own was a sign from the gods that they were just as valued as anyone else. 

Unlike any other creation myth, the Faninite version never establishes the race as the first to do anything. Instead, Faninites are bestowed with the gift of life by the gods, who grant this gift all together. But unlike the elves and dwarves, who also believe life was magically granted to them, the Faninites imagined themselves as existing after the other races. There is no scientific evidence that humans are a newer race than the rest of us, but Faninites began this belief nonetheless. And like the elves, they imagined themselves descended from trees. Many credit the similarity of Faninites and elves on a cultural level with the rise of half-elves after Faninites landed on Evanoch's shores. 

So now I've offered a bit more information supplied by my world-building work, and we have all of the races' creation myths and analysis ready to go. But I want to add a bit more analysis afterwards to get to what commonalities there are between myths. 

What we notice when considering each of these myths side-by-side is the common form of the myths. Each begins with an earth. In fact, my inclusion of the first line of each myth being the same is not stylistic or driven by any agenda--each myth in spoken and written forms includes some variation of the same sentence, which I have standardized by the halfling utterance, "In the beginning was the earth." I take this to mean that all races understand, and have always understood, that could not come before a place to live. Even the orcish myth that people had simply always lived on the land does not suggest that people made the land or were granted it by the gods. We might assume that this much of the myths is true: first, there was a place, and then there were people. 

There is variance between how we were formed and became different, but each myth posits that something natural caused these differences. Whether it is the halflings' soil differences, the orcs' dietary differences, or the dwarves' version of the gods' forming us from animals, each race keenly understands that there is something unique about each race. This much is not highly scientific--it is easily observable that an orc and a gnome are different in certain ways at least physically speaking, so it is no question that the early races would want to explain this. 

Then there is the cause for founding civilization. Some races pose this as a matter of resolving vital struggles; others discuss it as a way to maximize our collective efforts; still others consider it a gift from the gods on high. But underlying each of these ideas is the notion that something about the world was fundamentally out of balance. Even the Daltoner's version of Pelor is based on keeping survival in balance. No matter the cause, creation myths contain a fundamental problem that civilization solves better than anything else. 

Finally, we have the role of civilization itself. In each myth, it acts as a book end--we started somewhere, and then there was the present moment. But this is a key change from other creation myths. When we study the creation myths of human-like creatures such as kobolds, beholders, or lycanthropes, their creation myths end well before the era of civilization. They simply tell the tale of creation and end with the race existing. But humanoids tell the story differently. They carry it through to the moment that humanoids join hands in common cause. What about Evanoch's history of humanoids is so dependent on civilization as a part of the story? The myths themselves cannot tell us. We must look elsewhere for answers. I suggest philosophy--it may tell us why we view the creation of humanoids as dependent on our working together. 

Now we have essentially everything we need. We just need to string together each step of the process, add an introduction, edit a bit, and we're done. Here's that introduction--just something to give context and prepare the reader for the meat of the book:

Creation myths are the realm in which magic and superstition shape the way we view ourselves. We are each told the stories of our ancestors as we grow up, and the ways that those stories unfold tell us vital things about the world around us. And more than we realize, those stories tell us about ourselves. By comparing the creation myths of each race, we can learn about what makes us different and what we share. 

I plan to send my player this story as a google document, but we could take it a step further and photoshop it into a book with actual pages as I've covered before. But for now, this book is done. We've completed what we set out to do, which was entertain a player with information that isn't strictly speaking part of the story, but which is in the realm of interest of the player. You don't have to do things like this, but your players will appreciate that the world is full and real enough to have digressions away from the main story you're handling. 

Oh, and at only a few pages, this may not seem like much of a book. But for two reasons, I say it's just the right length. (1) You don't want to assign your players to read an actual book-length document. That's way too much work unless you're using documents as a crucial part of the story. Just a few pages like this is more than enough to add some color and not get wrapped up in that instead of GMing. And (2) if you were to photoshop this onto book pages, it would be about 10-20 pages depending on your formatting. I guarantee that if you give your players that much material, they'll get the sense of reading a book. Remember, just like a little taste of a scene feels like a lot due to the way TRPGs work, a little taste of a book feels like a lot. 

On the other hand, if this seems like a whole lot of work to do, it's really not that bad. A quick first draft that you expand and then clean up won't take forever, and you can get a lot out of the experience. Had the subject of the book been closer to the plot material for the mystery, I would have slipped in a handful of tidbits of information related to the story in the book. I might even make it particularly geared toward the interests of the player who requested the book. Documents are broadly useful, and you really can make them work for you. 

Coming soon: how to describe scenes, how to write a fun dungeon, and how to spice up combat, plus the fourth session of the mystery campaign. Stay tuned!

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Critical Rolls: Natural 1s and Natural 20s

Every TRPG player knows about critical successes and failures. Game systems include them to ensure that chance is still chance, and even a talented character can fail while even a skill-less character can succeed. And they take on mythic qualities at the table. Rolling a critical success or failure at the table is cause for animated reactions, and they make any moment noteworthy. But how do you handle them as a GM?

The classic style is to take those moments and describe them in a way that befits that moment. A natural 1 on a stealth check? The character trips into a bookcase, which falls and knocks over other bookcases. A natural 20 on a charisma check? The character is otherworldly cool and collected, convincing anyone of anything. Some GMs even take things a step further and make that moment part of the plot. That natural 1 stealth roll not only alerts the people in the area, but also stymies any efforts to use the books on the fallen bookcases in an organized way. That natural 20 charisma check actually convinces a group of NPCs to follow the character via inspiration. This is a good way to extend these important rolls into something that has a lasting impact on the game. 

But there's another way to play out critical successes and failures. You can increase player involvement by asking the player to describe the extreme result of their roll. Now, the player has the option to determine the extent to which their roll impacts the game. Some GMs will be thinking, but what if the player chooses to spin a story so that their failure isn't really a failure or that their success exceeds the bonus of a critical success? This is a potential issue, one which you can solve by moderating rather than directing their action. But most players, most of the time, will abide by the spirit of a critical roll. There are clear guidelines for how a critical roll is handled, and players tend to stick to within those bounds. Let's look at how it works when the players do what you need them to do, and then how you can redirect a result where the player stretches things. 

First, how players are likely to react. A player rolls a natural 1 on an attack roll. You put it to them: "How does your character fail?" The player might improvise that they miss so badly on the attack that their weapon gets broken or lodged somewhere. They might fall down from the momentum of their missed swing. They might even decide that they actually hit themselves and take a damage roll. These are all solid options. Players understand that critical rolls affect the story in bigger ways than just a missed attack or a powerful strike, and they'll play to it. 

Similarly, successes are a way to add something spicy to the mix. "How does your character succeed?" may be answered in a variety of ways. The player might decide they remove a limb or an eye with their attack, which affects how the enemy will fight for the rest of combat. They might decide that they knock the enemy prone or even temporarily unconscious. They might even decide that the powerful strike demoralizes the opponent, pairing it with an intimidation check to scare off the enemy. Each of these has the potential to be a good option, depending on what your goal as GM is for the combat. 

The key with good player suggestions for critical rolls is that the decision isn't being handed down from the GM--they're getting to decide for themselves what is in-character and meaningful to the party at that moment. It really is the case that the whole party will be more invested in player-created consequences than something you give them as GM. It's a small change, but it makes these moments much more exciting, including for you--the players will come up with things you wouldn't, and now your own surprise is a part of the process. 

But improvisation is rarely perfect. Players may push the limits of what constitutes a critical success or failure. Here's where your discretion as a GM will help you. Ask yourself the question, "Does this change the story by the right amount?" There will be times that a critical roll arises when you really need a story beat to go just right, and there will be times that your players roll in a way that runs counter to what you want them to accomplish in a scene. Think of your role as being either approving a player suggestion (most of the time) or tweaking something slightly to fit the momentum (some of the time). You want to honor player suggestions enough to have it be a general rule that you abide by them--otherwise, the magic will be gone--but with occasional exceptions only when necessary. Be ready to reroute your story to fit these moments unless you truly can't move forward without a change to what a player wants. 

So how do you adjust a suggestion? Keep the spirit of it, but take it in a slightly more appropriate direction. Let's say a party is just cleaning up some stray enemies before fighting the BBEG, and they roll a natural 1 on an attack. A player suggests that their weapon breaks. But you as GM know that they have no extra weapons and the fight that will follow will need the party at their best. So you keep the spirit of it, but tweak it: their sword splinters down the middle but holds together, unsure of whether another blow will tear it apart. The player still got the result they suggested, but in a way that doesn't destroy the party's chances of success overall. 

Let's consider another critical failure possibility. A character is making an impassioned speech before townsfolk, asking for help with an approaching foe. They roll a natural 1. The player says that the whole town turns on the party, so upset are they with the terrible speech attempt. But this is a pretty dire consequence. The player is in the spirit of a critical failure, but going from possibly being helped to outright attacked is two heavy a swing in the direction of failure. So you keep the spirit of it and tweak it. Two unruly members of the town start agitating to throw the party out of town or even attack them. But the whole town doesn't do so. It's a matter of balance. Alternatively, you can use a suggestion like this to guide your players back to the story; they are engaged in a seriously self-involved side quest, and having the town turn on them gets the party back on track. But mostly, you want to respect the players and their additions. 

Critical successes should follow the same format. Let's say your player is rolling a knowledge check to see what they know about a particular magic spell (an arcana check in 5e). They succeed with a natural 20. Your player decides that they know everything about the spell, including how it affects enemies of the type they're fighting. But for story reasons, you want these enemies to put up a fight, perhaps because they are emissaries of the BBEG. So you can curtail the effect of the critical success. "Your character knows all about the spell, including which types of enemies it affects especially well. You also know that using this spell on this type of enemy is extraordinarily painful, like amplified torture." Now you have complicated the situation, opening it to the players to decide whether they use this vicious attack. Perhaps the players still use the spell, but now with the tempering effect that observers will spread word of the party's ruthlessness. It doesn't make it so that the player's success is abbreviated, but it does add some spice to the mix. 

Perhaps a player overreaches on their described success. A natural 20 roll to hit deals extra damage, but you also open it up to your player: how does this attack transcend a normal attack? The player decides that the attack cuts the enemy directly in half. Glancing at the stats you're tracking, you see that the enemy still has plenty of health, and you want them to continue fighting. So the player doesn't cut the enemy in half in a lethal way; instead, the player cuts off an arm and a leg, forcing the enemy to fight off-balance and hemorrhaging damage as the rounds continue. We could designate an additional d8 of damage for each round of blood loss. But the enemy is still up and fighting. Your player's suggestion is honored, but you still get to keep the fight going. 

These compromises keep the game going in the direction you want while still putting as much power in the hands of the players as possible. It's a very small tweak to gameplay that your players will have fun with. And it costs you essentially nothing. As long as you're willing to shift a wayward player suggestion when it goes out of bounds, you're able to let the players guide the story (which should always be the goal in my opinion) without risking losing control of the moment. So let your players be your guide, and critical rolls will become even more spontaneous and memorable than before. 

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Designing a Campaign from Player Suggestions

Essentially every campaign I have run for the last ten years starts the same way: by asking players for suggestions. My commitment is to build entire campaigns from the starting point of player ideas. I do this because I think it's truer to the player's real role in TRPGs--players really provide the majority of the input that decides how a campaign goes, so I think they should have a voice in how the campaign is shaped. And it's easy enough to do that I think most GMs would benefit from the ways player input forms the foundation of a campaign. 

I'll start with the basic steps for building a campaign this way and then give a few examples, including the mystery campaign I've been chronicling here. The steps are simple, and the examples will show you how far-reaching the results are. 

The first step is questioning your players. Doing this live in real time can be a good way to get all the players to collaborate: when one player suggests something, the others can bounce off those ideas and refine/expand the range you're working with. But some players are not going to have ideas right off the bat. So sending out questionnaires can be helpful--you want your players to have the appropriate time and space to imagine what they really want to do in the game. Of course, the pitfall of this method is that players are unlikely to suggest things that align, and you'll end up with a lot of different ideas. This isn't an unstoppable problem, but it can create issues. (If it does happen, push yourself to come up with unexpected links between the ideas--more about that in the examples.) The best path here is actually a combination of the two. Sit down with your players in a conversational context and establish your big ideas, then have players write down details to expand that main concept separately. You get the best of both worlds that way, and players get two chances to contribute to the story and world.

The kinds of questions you ask are up to you, but I find that certain questions can really spark players' imaginations. Here are my favorites, along with why they're worth asking about:

• Emphasis of the campaign: Are you combat-heavy, story-heavy, a hybrid, a social game, or what? Answers from players on this question can get to the bottom of what kind of game suits everyone's needs as well as push you to combine certain experiences. Any big picture idea of what a player wants is always useful. 
• Genre: Is it going to be tales of valor, a dark mystery, hijinks and nonsense, a disturbing tale of horror, stories of humanity in the face of destruction, or something else entirely? Players have preferences for genre just like they have taste in any other element of a story, and a genre that suits most or all of your players is just as important as getting the format right. Asking for genre can be helpful, but so can asking for specific movies/novels/games as inspiration is more approachable for many players. 
• Style and Challenge: What does the story actually look like? This can be a continuation of genre in that horror stories have a distinct style which is different from heroic deeds, but it can also be defined as the way that your characters interact with the world. Is it a struggle to survive? Are the players going to be powerful compared to the world around them? Some players want to be overwhelmed by the world, and others want to rule over it. Figure out where that balance lies for your players. 
• Story Ideas: What happens in the story? Be open to hooks from players--anything that gets them started and has a bit of intrigue is great. But be wary of players suggesting endings. No one has fun knowing everything from the outset. If your players have ideas for middle- and end-game story points, adopt them in part but keep them guessing. Nevertheless, having player-inspired starting points is a great way to involve everyone (and keep you on your toes).
• Special Rules: What additions can you make to the rules to spice things up? Maybe your campaign has a particular detail that changes the campaign. One example of this that I'll turn to is the chaos storms in the mystery campaign. My players wanted something that kept the gameworld chaotic, so I reintroduced the Wild Surge table I made for Gerald in the other campaign I've documented here as effects of the chaos storms. The 50-foot limit on movement from that campaign is another example of special rules that characterize a campaign. Don't be intimidated by coming up with details like this; it's easy enough to make the changes you want without compromising the system's rules. 

You don't have to limit your questions for players to these questions, but they are a great start. Once you've gathered the input you need, it's time to start crafting your campaign. I'll illustrate using a campaign I ran a few years ago: 

• Emphasis of the campaign: My players were interested in a largely silly campaign, somewhere that they could joke around and be heroic without much of a grind. 
• Genre: The players didn't have many ideas about this. Once I noticed they weren't offering anything in this vein, I offered a suggestion. Running off the hijinks-type adventure, I offered a particular setting I had worked on previously but not really gotten to use--an island where D&D tropes meet the Old West. Gunfighters were replaced by quickdraw crossbow-wielders, horses were common in traversing the desert landscape, and there was a load of Wild West terminology. The players agreed that this would be suitable for hijinks but didn't seem into the Old West setting as a serious backdrop, so I used the changes to the D&D aesthetic but kept things light. 
• Style and Challenge: My players were interested in being big bad heroes, so I made a note to keep challenges light and allow them to be as much the deciders of the campaign as possible. I don't think any of the members of the party so much as fell unconscious during the whole campaign, and they seemed to like it that way. 
• Story Ideas: My players were especially reticent to suggest anything for story ideas. One player asked for the inclusion of vampires, which caused another to ask for werewolves. As a result, I wrote notes on a war between vampires and werewolves, and indeed the players encountered many people involved in this conflict. I made the vampires pretty uniformly evil (they had wanted unambiguous heroics, after all) and the werewolves misunderstood victims of fate (which led to the party finding an enclave of hermit-like werewolves who had learned to control their lycanthropy). These additions were fun, but I was curious still if the players had any suggestions for an overarching plot in addition to the lycanthrope stuff. Meekly, one player suggested as inspiration the movie National Treasure starring Nicolas Cage. (Cage is a fascination among much of the party, so it was a natural suggestion.) Everyone seemed on-board with this, so I set to work watching the movie and its sequel to compile a list of notes. From this list came the plot: a treasure hunter (basically me doing a Nic Cage impression) wanted to track down an ancient artifact via a list of clues on hidden artifacts across the desert island. Yes, I literally did turn National Treasure into a campaign, and my players loved it. Each appearance by the Cage stand-in killed, every clue sparked the whole party's curiosity, and every reference to the movies was appreciated. Had I walked into the first session having already decided on the wacky adventure based on National Treasure, I'm sure it would have been well-received. But my players had chosen it, and the payoff was that much greater. 
• Special Rules: Because all but two of my players (in a group of six) were new to D&D (and those two experienced with the game had only played one-shots), I had a lot of teaching to do in order to get the game going. We didn't need any special rules to spice things up. 

This was a relatively simple campaign to prepare for. I dumped the players in the gameworld and quickly introduced the Cage stand-in, who told them about the artifacts. I provided clues when the party wanted to track down the artifacts and distractions whenever they wanted those (which was very, very often--we played for about two years in order to progress through three artifacts to get to the ending). The distractions were composed of lycanthrope tidbits (their suggestion), ridiculous shenanigans (their preference), and in-jokes from the movies (their suggestion). You can see that everything I presented the players with was directly from the brainstorming session where they had suggested things. One nice side effect of this was that if the players ever did get too far away from the main storyline (which, again, was very, very often), all I had to do was keep some element of their suggestions involved, and they would be able to link their experience to their requests as players. It took very little effort on my part--I prepared a few potential directions for each session as well as a small handful of clues for the artifacts, and all I really had to do aside from that was improvise hijinks for the party to get into and out of.  And the end result was a campaign that accurately reflected everything the party wanted from the experience. 

Let's consider another example for a custom campaign: the mystery campaign I've been sharing. 

• Emphasis of the campaign: I like to run games with very little combat--as I've said before, lots of systems can handle combat, but only TRPGs can handle complex storytelling and roleplay. So I asked my players if they were okay with a low-combat game, and they agreed. Multiple players were interested in a mystery game, which lends itself to roleplay and storytelling, so the lack of combat was not out-of-place. 
• Genre: My players requested a mystery which would range from down-to-earth storytelling to high fantasy tales with lots of magic. They specifically asked for dragons and societal changes based on the magic involved. I've kept the magic to a dull roar so far, but it will be coming more to the forefront as sessions develop. There will be a dragon. And the societal changes would be reflected by another suggestion made by a player: a city divided into lower and upper classes. This is where I was inspired to create a city with the Above and the Below. The whole city of Yamseth is defined by its class structure, all related to the magic chaos storms that affect the city. 
• Style and Challenge: The players wanted a difficult mystery rather than one they could solve in a session or two, so I created the system of clues that lead from the corpse of Hildy to something much larger (something that involves a dragon). The players wanted to be powerful in their own rights, so I started them at level 8, which is enough to be as powerful as Legolas but not be able to just exert their will on the gameworld. This calibration--which level to start players--can be tricky, but I generally give my players a choice between levels 1 and 10; rate the difficulty you want on a scale of 1 to 10 and you're ready to go. 8 fits this story because they're heroic but not overpowered. 
• Story Ideas: One of my players suggested a recurring storm which ravages the city. I adapted this into a chaos storm for three reasons. (1) Chaos would be more fun and interesting that a mundane storm, (2) this group previously used the Wild Surge table I expanded for Gerald's use in the Eastweald campaign and loved it, so it was easy to adapt, and (3) the chaos storm satisfies a storyline I wanted to include. So from the suggestion of a storm, we were able to improve the game in three ways. 
• Special Rules: In addition to the Wild Surge table, as I have mentioned, I wanted to players to be stuck with each other. So Portia cast the 50-foot spell on them, not allowing them to be truly separate from one another. This functions to make the players cooperate and keep solo activities to a minimum. I also introduced the secret-keeping mechanic and Dirk St. Patrick, both of which put pressure on players to keep their secrets close to the chest. You'll notice that where the National Treasure campaign needed no special rules, this group has three. This is partially because I'm dealing with more practiced roleplayers, as well as more practiced players of D&D in general, and partially because the mystery format calls for a few tweaks to the system. D&D is not built for mysteries--that's normally the realm of Call of Cthulhu or similar games. But I liked the idea of using a system the players were already familiar with and which doesn't tax sanity or anything like that, so we stuck with D&D, thus necessitating the tweaks. 

So far, these measures have been largely successful. Three sessions in, there has been no combat but instead a steady stream of clues and complications. The mystery is slowly unfolding, and the players are doing everything they can to stay ahead of the clues. The intrigue from the divided city affects every moment and decision. The difficulty of checks and surviving is balanced given what the players wanted. The Wild Surge table, repurposed as the Chaos Storm, has increased the randomness of the campaign and created a portrait of how the poor really live. And the party is learning to work as a team, even though the three characters couldn't be more different from one another. It's still in progress but very much a success. And all I had to do was ask my players questions and then listen to their answers. 

If you're liking the idea of trying this with your players but you're daunted by the undertaking, don't worry. When one of my players asked for a one-shot based on movie musical Cats (2019), I was pretty certain I would mess it up. But I put in the effort to create a game that would give the players the experience they wanted. I added in-jokes about the movie (for instance, the jokes about Mister Mistofelees being the obvious Jellicle Choice were adapted from that player's insistence that the movie had gone wrong by picking Grizabella instead). I got into the weirdness of the movie (the changing sizes of items was a fun detail to use and subvert with Vlad). I tried to make something that would entertain my friends. And even though I'm a terrible singer, and even though the one-shot is kind off a hot mess, we had fun. You'll be surprised by how much more your players will get into a session if they can tell you're doing it for them. Plus, you'll grow as a GM--nothing will improve your skills faster than trying to create something specific for your players. It's well worth the challenge. 

So get to work with your players and make something special. You'll have more fun than you realize. Next time, notes on session three of the mystery campaign, the session wherein the players were so self-directed that they didn't even touch the clues. I'll address what to do with sessions like these and how to stay afloat when you're improvising entire scenes instead of following your outline. 

Coming soon: how to deal with critical rolls, how to create in-game documents, and how to design a dungeon. Until next time, happy gaming!

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