Over the DM's Shoulder

Saturday, November 22, 2025

Of Gods and Dragons Finale + Epilogue

There was no proper "last time" for this session. In lengthy epilogues, Brokk, Aurora, and Lethanin worked in their own ways to improve the world and build a legacy. Brokk spread wellbeing, built up Ringsdale, and became a steward of life and death as a Cleric of Nerull. Aurora took in apprentices, spread health through her alchemy company, and built relationships that inspired and held together the dragons. Lethanin created opportunities for art to flourish, improved the city of Torga, and maintained the mystique of the dragons. This is a massive simplification--these three characters changed Evanoch in almost every way while inviting the other dragons and the world around them to do the same. It was only after a full century of their fighting to make the world a better place that fate brought them forcefully together again. 

Niela was responsible for bringing everyone together. A group of concerned citizens had approached her in her position as Councilwoman of Mishara who was publicly known as a dragon; they wanted to know precisely what the agenda of the dragons was. To them, the dragons seemed benevolent and consistently reliable and even heroic, but no one had ever questioned what the dragons meant to do. They wanted assurances, and so Niela called everyone together for the purpose of naming a purpose. It was agreed that the next day, they would all convene at Niela and Brokk's observatory home and have a potluck dinner, a small party to celebrate their gains over the last century and communicate what they stood for. 

The party convened the following evening. Aurora and Lethanin arrived to find Brokk and Niela feverishly hosting all the dragons but Xavier, and they slipped into the party easily. While the dragons had very occasionally come together for emergencies over the last hundred years, and communication between dragons was common, the gathering still felt of some special importance that they didn't ordinarily feel when meeting. It was partly the genuineness of the celebration and partly the lightness of the task at hand, but everyone was quite as ease. 

Xavier arrived. Their face was anxious, unsure of how they would be perceived at their first full dragon meeting. But Aurora rushed them and wrapped them in a hug, and all the dragons Xavier had financed cried out in joy to see them, and the rest offered warm smiles and welcomes them in. All the dragons ate and drank--Lethanin doted over people eating his fish cakes and roasted mushrooms while eavesdropping on conversations to offer a witty remark and skitter away, Aurora brought out elaborate puzzle boxes for Sempra and Viren and laid out on the serving table a grand display of chateau briand and brussels sprouts, and Brokk anxiously swept from person trying to be a warm host while frequently slipping away to help Niela. 

Aurora found Hriskin alone at a window, staring sadly out into the night sky. Aurora approached Hriskin and thanked her for her part in Aurora's choice to become a Paladin. Aurora had had struggles and doubts about her life before meeting the dragons, she had enjoyed being a Paladin, even with only her Paladin powers to help her. Hriskin noted that she could see Aurora's continuing uncertainty and reminded her that a Paladin's powers come from a promise, and a promise is about future behavior, not the past; so long as she did right in the future, that was all that could be asked. They shared a hug, and Hriskin admitted that it was the anniversary of her late husband's death, hence her sadness, but Aurora had reminded her of the point of it all--to keep fighting. 

Meanwhile, Lethanin and Aurix talked about the technological measure and manipulation of sound. The conversation was very chaotic, as Aurix was entirely discussing technology and Lethanin was entirely discussing sound, and it grew more chaotic still when Wing caught ear of their conversation and began entirely discussing how to invent something which would create the effects Aurix was describing. At the same time, Brokk and Jarvia chatted a bit before Brokk went to check on Niela again, prompting her to ask if he wanted to switch jobs and take care of cooking while she hosted. Brokk eagerly agreed to do so, and he headed into the kitchen while Niela went out to greet the guests. Aurora went into the kitchen to check on a side dish and began a game of elf-orc chess with Brokk, and they played between steps on their dishes. 

It was then that Niela called everyone together. It was time, she said, to open the discussion about their purpose that night. It was a simple task. What did they want? How did they mean to get it? What could people expect? At the very least, what rules do the dragons live by?

There was a brief moment's silence before Brokk spoke. "To help," he said simply. The dragons were for a moment again silent. Brokk had summed it up, and no one disagreed. But after a time, Aurora said, "Whatever you do to the least of these, you do unto yourself." She spoke passionately and at length the need for dragons to be courageous in the face of corruption and responsible in the care they are obligated to take. Xavier said they meant to help people, mostly through "making life easier." Niela smiled slightly and said she meant to make a gentler world with more opportunity. Rupert held out a full wine glass as though in a toast and cried, "To be a shelter in the storm," before throwing back the glass to applause. The last few dragons stewed in silence for a while before Lethanin said people can be worried about dragon power, but they also know to be worried about government power, and Lethanin knew from working in government that it was awful--to him, giving others the opportunity to do good and let them be self-sufficient is the best thing. Hriskin said her goal was to protect those in need and spread mercy. 

At the mention of mercy, Aurora was struck. She was surrounded by the most powerful people in the world who had shaped it at their will. They had destroyed Pelor's Mercy because they felt it appropriate. Was that too much power? She began to spiral, and the others tried to reason with her. Brokk argued that minimizing collateral was often the point in the situations that they handled as dragons--questions of what's best are common and made without massive doubt regularly, and this should be no different. Aurora's mind went further into the darkness. Rupert stood and placed a hand on Aurora's shoulder. "Thank you for making me turn my life around and do good." Xavier stood and placed a hand on Aurora's other shoulder. "Thank you for saving me." Hriskin was already on her way to stand behind Aurora. "Thank you for giving me my life back." Aurora seemed more aware, less despondent, and the dragons pushed further. Brokk rattled off the achievements of the dragons--the cities transformed, the lives saved and changed, the dangers long forgotten. Niela reminded everyone that the dragons are trusted--her election had proven that, and she believed every person they helped made a difference. She was, as Councilwoman, making an effort to show that everyone will be cared for. Jarvia chimed in her, stating that her addition would be making the world a better place regardless of identity. All eyes turned to Wing, who looked quietly down at her hands. "To make a better world for the future," she said quietly. 

Before anyone could question Wing's change in demeanor, Brokk, Aurora, and Lethanin were suddenly teleported away to Boccob's realm, standing right before the massive deity. Plucked from their peaceful dinner with friends and returned to the being who had made them feel as though all of existence was meaningless, they were both defeated and enraged. Aurora cast a spell to strengthen Brokk, who pounded futilely away at Boccob's toe with his staggering might while Lethanin just chuckle resignedly and shook his head, casting the same strengthening spell on his drink. Overcome, Brokk smashed at Boccob's toe for fifteen minutes before giving up and asking what they were there for. Boccob began by acknowledging their right to be upset and then let them know they would be moving into a museum where they could be cared for and, if they allowed it, observed. Aurora cursed Boccob out fiercely and at length, and Brokk and Lethanin voiced sharp disappointment in Boccob; none answered the deity's question and requested to be returned to the party. Boccob apologized again and granted them this. Back at the observatory, where Boccob had returned the group at the same time they'd taken them, Niela quickly ascertained that something was amiss was Brokk and asked what was the matter; Brokk revealed to the group that Boccob had summoned them and would be moving them to a museum. The dragons were shocked and amused to hear that Brokk had attacked Boccob.

A moment later, Wing began to softly cry. When questioned, she said the time had come for a difficult conversation. She had she had seen a century of the dragons improving the world. They had fought hard and created new ideas and led the way into a better future--and all the while, she had quietly run her guild meetings. The truth, Wing said, is that she'd lost her passion for heroics a long time ago. With her children avenged by Thomas's death, she mostly wanted to live a quiet life. And that meant the loss of potential that a more active dragon could add. She wanted to retire from dragonhood, turning her title over to someone new and letting herself live a simple life and one day return to her children. 

Brokk was immediately entirely supportive. He believed that Wing knew herself best and that what she was saying made sense; she had his blessing, and he would miss her presence every day (she teased him that she had a few hundred years of bugging him left). Aurora was effusively affectionate, talking about Wing's role in the events of a century before and how warmly she felt about the bronze dragon and thanking Wing for her help. The other dragons offered thanks and warm wishes, telling stories of Wing's cleverness, willingness to help, and kindness. 

Wing said she'd come prepared with a candidate which the dragons would vote on to join them; she'd done her best to find an unobjectionable and valuable opportunity. As Wing summoned the candidate, Brokk assured her that they had full faith in Wing's ability to pick someone. Wing's spell completed, and before them stood a humble halfling woman in long white robes with long light brown hair. She smiled and greeted everyone, introducing herself as Daisy. Wing said that Daisy would never sing her own praises, but she had taken down a corrupt healthcare system in Vestry, opened free clinics across the world, and negotiated an end to several possible conflicts. The dragons, upon seeing how perfect a candidate Daisy was (and knowing that Daisy is my player character from my last campaign as a player), gave Daisy something of a hard time, playing on the fact that she didn't fully know they were all dragons or why she was there. Eventually, Brokk called the room to focus and let Daisy ask questions; she quickly ascertained that they were dragons and they meant to offer her dragonhood, something she had further questions about (what was their goal? their rules? what powers are granted?). In the end, Daisy asked for time to think about what she'd learned, which the group happily granted, returning to the party.

Brokk noticed that Xavier, the fellow halfling of the group, had taken to questioning Daisy about halfling customs and neighborhoods, so Brokk led Xavier away from her towards another group to spare Daisy. Daisy was simply watching the dragons with a cautious gaze. Meanwhile, Niela got Jarvia and sent her to Daisy, sitting down across from her. The two sat and talked very quietly for several minutes, Daisy growing calmer with each sentence. Eventually, the two rose, both smiling, and headed to the fireplace, where Aurora was tending the hearth. Lethanin, meanwhile, magicallly floated around the room launching comments and quips at conversations in passing. 

At this point, Niela was alerted to someone in the vicinity of a dragon stone. She quickly conveyed to the group that a swamp in the south of Evanoch had a dragon stone which someone was approaching. Brokk deferred to Xavier, as it was more or less the green dragon's territory, but Xavier said the group's decision would be their decision. The group debated methods of dealing with the figure, and Aurix eventually suggested just bringing him somewhere else and questioning him. This prompted some argument, but eventually, Brokk took action and opened a portal to the swamp and stepped through.

Brokk appeared just behind a man dressed in tattered rags, not enough clothes for the cold weather. He struggled along, his feet sinking deeply into the muck with each step, colossal effort to keep going. Brokk glanced behind them and saw miles of tracked muck. He made a sound, and the man before him clumsily spun to face him. Brokk asked his purpose there, and the man, who said him name was Amund, said he had read a book that said control over life and death lay in the stone, and his daughter had died, and he had to bring her back. The two spoke for a while before Brokk guided Amund back to Talon Gorge, half a continent away, to the man's daughter's grave. It was modest but made with love, though the headstone was flimsy and planted wrong, and when Brokk tried to gauge her lifeline, he found it to be a perfect circle--she had died in her proper time. Brokk cast Suggestion, explained the system of lifelines and that hers was complete, and commanded Amund to forgive himself and carry his daughter Bridget with him. Amund was still troubled, but he said he could now try to carry on, even if he felt awful for feeling that way. He asked for privacy, and Brokk returned to the observatory. 

While Brokk was gone, Jarvia invited Lethanin to play a duet together. Lethanin led with a muted but growing and hopeful melody on the violin, which Jarvia matched with a squirmy but constant drum line. Lethanin pushed on with a playful yet inspirational melody and magically dimming the lights in the room, and Jarvia shifted her sporadic beat to a more mathematical and structured one, sparks flying from her drum strikes. Finally, Lethanin headed into the end of the song with a massive crescendo, bringing the lights back on full force at once, with Jarvia playing faster and faster and then suddenly stopping with Lethanin's playing. The dragons cheered just as Brokk returned. 

Brokk explained that Amund had wanted to bring his dead daughter back to life, but that she had died at the right time, and nothing could really be done. Brokk had persuaded Amund to move on, but had otherwise left the man to pick up the pieces. Some of the dragons voiced concern over this--they should help Amund, argued Hriskin and Rupert and Wing and Aurora. Brokk suggested a new headstone, and the others suggested ways to help Amund and his family recover. 

Brokk suggested that he, Lethanin, Aurora, Niela, and Wing show Daisy the telescope. The group came along, and Niela showed off a few constellations before Brokk got to his real business. He had seen a cautiousness in the way Daisy looked them--had she seen trouble? Daisy chuckled at the fact it was obvious on her and admitted that she'd been a criminal for the first few decades of her life. Jarvia had seen it on her too and spoken to her about it. She was ashamed of what she'd done, and it was the reason she had become a Cleric of Ehlonna and done so much good--she wanted to try to make up for her mistakes. The group asked her, point blank, if she wanted to join the dragons. Hesitantly, Daisy cited fears of corruption, which were cut off by all five dragons present. "Join the club," said Lethanin, a reminder that all of them had grappled with their power. Brokk told Daisy that if it was an issue, they would interview Daisy's wife Candace as another dragon so that they would be together forever, his hand gripping Niela's. This overjoyed Daisy, but before she could say anything, Niela rushed them back to the main house with an announcement.

New Dalton had properly fallen, she said. The people of New Dalton who remained had issued a declaration of independence from the government and were establishing small townships within city limits that ran themselves. The news sparked celebration from all, and it seemed that the last bastion of hatred and fascism in Evanoch had basically fallen. On the wave of good news, Daisy was asked once more if she wanted to become a dragon. She consented, asking to be made the white dragon in honor of her holy colors with her wife Candace becoming the plant dragon as an alchemist. After some consideration, all was agreed to, and Daisy became the new white dragon to replace Wing. 

And that's where the campaign ends. We began with three kidnappings: Thomas took Brokk, Aurora, and Lethanin in a desperate gamble to seize power from the gods. We end with something very different: the maintenance of a new order the party created. The bulk of this campaign was bringing together disunited dragons and eliminating those who could never cooperate. The epilogues were about leveraging that power to make the world a better place and establishing the new order. It is fitting that the finale be the maintenance of that order, the ushering out of the old and in of the new to keep the dragons effective. I never thought going into this campaign that it would end with my party's characters being the caretakers of my world. 

I will say very little out of game about this session. It was simple to prepare for: a list of things for the dragons to discuss and quickly act on. We actually only got to about five of eight of my ideas but had to eliminate some for time. It had been about six months between sessions where we were all together (three months of epilogues, three months of scheduling issues), and we were a little rusty, so I did try to throw some things at each player that is more of less their specialty. And most of all, I threw Daisy at the group because I wanted them to have a counterpoint to Amund: Daisy is unsure is she wants power but is unambiguously good, Amund is sure he wants power but is ambiguous in his morality. I expected them to mess with Daisy a bit and tease me as a DM. They begged her to become a dragon, and they went out of their way to include her wife in that, and I find that incredibly sweet. I love my players. 

I have become somewhat famous (or infamous, perhaps) for my end-of-campaign epilogues. I take every character who mattered at all and spell out what happens to them after the campaign. See also my epilogue for my Mystery Campaign for how this would normally work. But of course, this is not a normal campaign, and a normal epilogue won't work. The gods and dragons who make up the bulk of this story will likely still be doing their things in another hundred or three hundred or eight hundred years. As such, I'm not spelling out an ending for them. I'm describing the next chapters of their lives and their legacies. That said, let's do the epilogue for Of Gods and Dragons. 

The City of Talon Gorge: The council continued good governance, aided by Jarvia's input about freedoms and rights as well as Aurora's health potions. As the world around it flourished, the largely trade city of Talon Gorge flourished with it. The city became a bastion of comfortable, affordable living where anyone could be themselves. Its council, one of the oldest existing councils, becomes a model for governments adopting new council organizations.

ABC the Fae: ABC watched over Aurora, tickled by the Fae dragon's chaotic approach to good. She watched too for the next wild hero who might carry the sparking light of the Fae. She did not pick one right away, content with Aurora's conduct, and besides--a Fae can be picky.

Rhodes, aka Fharlanghn: The road never ends for him. The party's time on the roads was but a few short steps in the scheme of things, and most of all, he is just glad you all got where you were going. After all, you walked the right path. 

Lenix, formerly Xelin, the refugee from Brokk's backstory: Lenix took up with captain Xurk's crew and became a trusted member of the team before replacing Xurk when the orc grew too old for the seas. For well over fifty year, Lenix has saved refugees from bad situations and spread his poetry at ports across the world. 

Lethanin's Cultural Exchange program: The frequency of encountering multicultural art across Evanoch makes more people willing to engage with it over time, and soon even traditionalist cultures are teaching the arts of other cultures widely. Eventually, a journalist tries to learn who began this program, but they report that they couldn't find anyone who knew anything.

Wing: Wing transmutes her dragonhood back into the stone and resumes her normal life with a new gusto. She sets out to create new opportunities for unheard of inventors to enter their community and begins a funding project for inventions that could create public good. This kicks off a long period in which Vestry inventors are competing to help the public as much as possible, leading to advances that spread across Evanoch. Wing spends her final years talking to and advising her dragon friends, creating a legacy at the inventor's guild, and volunteering with children. 

The Refugees of Pelor's Mercy: After being helped to Vestry, many stayed and brought a willingness to work hard for their community to the city. Others moved on, some to smaller cities nearby, and others to Talon Gorge and Ringsdale, to start over where things were not so full. These people carried with them a new lease on life, having believed they would live out their days laboring for an evil regime and die at the hands of their guards. These people became community organizers, healers, volunteers in the fields of their expertise. They never forgot what the dragons did for them.

The City of Finiel: Finiel had always been stratified--the very wealthy patronized the very poor artists and refugees who made up the city. Rupert created a support system that allowed these artists and refugees to live decent lives, which allowed them to thrive. As Evanoch prospered as a whole, and the arts became a focus, Finiel became an ever-more crucial city in the global conversation.

The Linilles, the pro-elf group from Brokk's epilogue: After being shamed and destroyed by Brokk and the cultural progress of Evanoch at large and Mishara in particular, the Linille family returned to politics with a different intention. Ylin Linille, a now-accomplished astronomer, donated a large amount of money to the creation of the Linille Foundation, a public education program meant to encourage cooperation and acceptance. 

Obad-Hai: Obad-Hai exists in the balance of neutrality, and helping the party get to Boccob shattered that neutrality. Obad-Hai has become ever more insular, rarely speaking to other gods and becoming hyper-fixated on the maintenance of Evanoch. Nature across Evanoch flourishes as a result, bringing record crop yields as well as safe weather conditions. Meteorologists, puzzled, cannot explain the perfect conditions.

Aurora's Adventuring Parties (Rita et al): Those who are taken in as adventuring allies by Aurora and witness her terrifying might or dragonhood either spend several jobs paranoid they're being had or chalk it all up to bad alcohol. 

Aurix: Aurix is initially crestfallen that Wing is retiring and withdraws for a few weeks, but ultimately comes out of hiding and spends more time than usual with Wing and the other dragons. In particular, Aurix tries to spend time with Daisy to see if Aurix can be friends with his friend's replacement. They find they have a shared passion for principled good and a shared policy on never dabbling in wrong, and Aurix is soon back to his old self, only more cheerful and social than ever. 

Heather and Tricia, Aurora's mother and her partner: Heather constantly describes herself as living the perfect life. She built a successful business, found a family, saw her business become massive and help countless people, and have the time to enjoy early retirement. She and Tricia set a goal to visit every town of over a hundred people before they die (drunkenly at first, then seriously after sobering up) and pursued the task in earnest, treating travel as a profession and offering input on the business whenever needed. Above all, she made time whenever Aurora asked (or when Heather suspected Aurora needed time but wasn't asking), and she made being a mom her every first choice. 

Ollie, aka Olidammara: Ollie saw the rift sealed and investigated a few other last-ditch efforts to throw a wrench in the works. Finding none, she set to speaking with the other gods about possibilities, but found that each and every god was furious with her for making and botching first contact, and all with no agenda. This prompted a massive supernatural debate that ended with Ollie more or less ostracized from the god community, and her only goal is gaining an ally. 

Councilman Tru'usk: On his 129th birthday, Councilman Tru'usk dies midsentence at a council meeting. Before the meeting is adjourned, the day is declared Tru'usk Day. His house is transformed into a museum, and it is discovered in the process that he has three separate hidden spaces and a massive chest of adventuring gear hidden away. 

The City of Underhar: After a century of Aurora's efforts with her friend David, Underhar has made progress, changing election laws and starting to lean away from aristocracy. The stubbornly insular city continues to resist influences that would make the city more progressive until eventually Underhar's government crumbles and is replaced by a council, and slow progress is able to be made even if an opposing party of traditionalists remain.

Larson, Lethanin's father: Larson suffers something of a late midlife crisis and goes on a long solo adventure into the depths of the Liggen Forest. When he returns, he is grizzled, famished, and exhausted, but there is a light in his eyes. He retires from bed while recovering and devotes all of his time to spending as much time with his wife, his sons, and his granddaughter as they will let him. His affection is at first clumsy, but he grows into it.

Xavier: Xavier decides that the best thing they can do in their position is figured out a new way to make money that isn't exploitative so that it can be poured into more social programs. They came up with the idea of a city-wide lottery where a percentage is kept by the organizer, organized a weekly drawing, and began saving the money. Finally, after asking for volunteers, Xavier sent Hriskin to Kruush to establish as much of a system as they wanted and Daisy and Candace to New Dalton to work with the new government (in disguise, of course). Xavier never seemed to run out of steam.

The Complete Works of Montgomery Ward: This very cool not silly place became the most popular tavern of all time ever in any tabletop game ever because it's cool and not silly. Thank you.

Cori, aka Corellon Larethian: The elven goddess saw that the rift had been sealed and knew that a new age had begun. She, with her partner and allies, had quietly delivered mortals to Boccob, and that demonstrated that she (and her partner and allies) had power over the other deities. Cori chose to rest, as there was no reason to use her power yet.

Tra, Brokk's grandson: As Tra grew, the seriousness that marked him as a child was tempered; when he paid attention to you, he was serious, but he was otherwise joyful and playful. He did well in school but said he enjoyed spiritual and mundane matters more--the walk to find a good offering, and the smell of the smoke when it's burned. Brokk found that even as a young man, Tra was a pillar in his community, alsways known as someone who will offer help without question.

The City of Curagon: Only Xavier could have made an organized solution work in a city that despises organization, but it did work. Curagon becomes the best place to recover from illness, the best place to experience true nature, and the best place to see real community, and outcroppings around the city pop up as the first real immigration to "the halfling city" properly begins. Curagon, at the center of the continent on a universally connected map, thrives in trade, and the city prospers as it never has.

Grigor, the stable lad: After enough sad-looking boys bought mare piss and later came back as happy-looking girls, Grigor started a mare piss stand selling "Sad Boy Happy Girl Juice."

Rupert: After finding his footing as a caretaker for the needy, Rupert was finally jarred loose of his hyper-focus on his system of Finiel shelters. After long turning Xavier down for help, Rupert came to the halfling with an ambitious plan to place a comprehensive shelter in every city in Evanoch, New Dalton included. Xavier happily agreed, and Rupert openly flew as a dragon from shelter construction site to shelter construction site, reminding the public that he was working on the project. It was a massive success, and want became a rare thing in Evanoch's biggest cities.

Tasselman, the academic who proposed the world was round, and Nelly, the academic opposed to having necromancy taught in school: After establishing an alternative academy, Tasselman pursued the outer reaches of knowledge, compiling the largest collection of information on the planes, the fabric of reality, forbidden deities, and forbidden arts. Meanwhile, Nelly fastidiously created a complete and comprehensive approach to established knowledge which became the standard model for many new academies. Together, Lethanin's schools contained essentially all obtainable knowledge.

Yondalla: Denied by the party before meeting Boccob and denied by Aurora when choosing a patron, Yondalla retreats to lick her wounds and reconsider. By all accounts, what the dragons have done is good, and her opposition to it before she fully understood troubles her. She ultimately decides to be slow to action to reevaluate some of her fellow deities. 

Sempra, Brokk's sister Tanarukk: For a long time, she persists in her life by the seaside in her cottage. It is all she needs, she says. She begin suddenly to pay visits to Brokk, to take long walks. She is hopeful, has ideas about the future. A week later, she is found dead in her bed. She had tripped and broken a bone, it seemed, and was nearly a thousand years old, but had managed to drag herself to rest. Her face was peaceful, and on the table in the room she was found in was a small sheet of paper that said "I love them. And I forgive them." 

The City of Ringsdale: Formerly a rugged industrial city, Brokk and Xavier's efforts have turned it into a livable place for anyone. The newly installed council of Ringsdale makes use of the fact they have a progressive supermajority and pass a number of resolutions to make Ringsdale far less stratified by income and create new public works projects, and these carry the city well into the future. (In a hundred years, the idea that Ringsdale was first peopled by factories will be ridiculous.)

Phil, Aurora's competitor who spread word of poison: Phil was ashamed by what he learned from Aurora--he hadn't meant to hurt anyone so much as have a chance. But it was clear that he had failed, so he packed up his family and moved to Ringsdale to enlist in the new vocational program and try his hand at something he was less prone to make a mistake with.

Vick, aka Vecna: Lethanin stymied Vecna's efforts to learn the Song, and Vecna turned right back to planning. Vecna was in fact planning on launching an offensive on the barrier around when the dragon party happened, but they couldn't make it happen. Vecna's new goal is to find some valuable and persuadable young person to work with.

Dodira, Lethanin's mother: For a long time, Dodira is more concerned with baby Bobby and then baby Pexi than she is with Lethanin. When they do have their times together, they both make effort and acknowledge implicitly that it's done somewhat blindly--that they will never really be on the same page. Dodira become an old woman gracefully and with acceptance, and this eases the rough edges of their relationship.

Mishara: Culturally free of the narcissism that restrained it and politically free from a government that restrained it, Mishara blossoms. With councilpeople like Niela, who are committed, intelligent, and practical, a great deal of social ills are cured in a short matter of time. At first, change is hard given the long lifetimes and memories of elves, but the obvious benefits of the new policies speak for themselves.

Viren and Prue, Brokk's son and daughter-in-law: Having risen to the top of the historical research and spiritual fields before retiring for time with his family, Viren stirred once again and began the practice of traditional craft, largely armorsmithing and especially toolmaking. Unsurprisingly, he rose to the top of this craft too. In his winter years, he would present Brokk with a duplicate of his old battleaxe but with the blade blunted. "For the Peacebringer," Viren said. Prue always chased the success of her husband, finding it in a law career that helped define humanoid rights.

Hriskin: Hriskin made herself a vessel of good. If Xavier had money and a plan and needed someone to make it all happen? Hriskin was there. If someone heard a stray rumor about something to look into? Hriskin was there. If a dragon, friend, or stranger needed something? She was there? In time, she learned to step back and care for herself again, but she always heard the call to do more, no matter how many times she had done right that day.

David, Aurora's friend: David had overseen nearly one hundred years fighting for civil rights in Underhar. He requested, upon the change in voting rights success, one week's vacation before returning to begin the next project: a change in leadership. That was accomplished in the space of a decade, and David's team continues to fight, sometimes for property rights for the poor and sometimes for the freedom of temples to exist freely. Inspired by Aurora, he fights on.

Craig, the mind-controlled man in Chance in Aurora's epilogue: After coming to his senses, he checked himself in at a free clinic, complaining of hallucinations and delusions. It was a few weeks before new of the mind control devices reached Craig, much to his relief. He moved to a small island where he was the only person.

Wee Jas: The Queen Witch took her victory back home and, after a winning bacchanalia, began work on protections for the barrier (for the inevitable assaults from other deities). After great consideration, she concluded that what had happened was a freak occurrence that she couldn't learn anything from. Then, she declared another bacchanalia to mark the occasion.

Harriet and Priscilla, the Daltoner refugee smugglers Lethanin worked with: Working with Lethanin and Lethanin-approved people changed their business model entirely. They went from offering uncomfortable passage hidden in a cart for hours to a nearby town to offering effortless passage walking a few steps on foot to anywhere in the glamorous presence of a dragon. With Lethanin's help, their small operation became a trusted way to get to safety for many.

The City of Kruush: The only major city to truly resist industrialization looks much the same as it did after the finale as it looked after the campaign as it looked before. There are more places to get help instead of asking your neighbors. No one has moved in with something that disrespected the way of life here. It's Kruush as it always was, but life is easier and safer and a little more connected, and that is the dream that orcs have always dreamed.

Aurora's artworks: Aurora's art, left on street corners with simple arrangements, spawn a copycat. Someone, somewhere, is leaving paintings the same way. It's generally in the northwest, but then another style of painting pops up in the southwest. It's all deeply personal, confessional, painful sometimes like Aurora's. It's everywhere, and it's all beautiful. 

Magoth: Magoth was spurned by Brokk and toyed with by Lethanin. He disavowed himself of the happenings of the surface for a century. He went into a chamber of pure flame and screamed in a thousand different tongues. He then entered what cosmic historians will later call the "great not doing anything for a while" period.

The Pear Pit: After Hannah's passing, ownership of the bar was simply willed "to Drumchapel." In the coming weeks, the people of town took on responsibilities, some cleaning, some loading barrels, some serving. Before long, it was a fully functional tavern that kept the bookcases and reading spaces. In time, patio spaces and a firepit were added outside to accommodate the growth of Drumchapel, and it was the undeniable center of town.

Gruumsh: Gruumsh's return to the god's realm was an arrival of a champ. Nearly every god was listening to every conversation they were having with Brokk, Lethanin, and Aurora--they knew that it was ultimately Gruumsh who won them over. Of all the gods, Gruumsh could claim domain over people, and he had counseled for the restriction of his own power. It was the assuming of a throne, and one taken mercifully. 

Devin, Aurora's apprentice: Devin continued with their idea to use magic to develop self-sustaining systems to help people--magically powered mills, well pumps, and more. Devin's main struggle was getting their products in front of people. Aurora made a connection, and Xavier financed Devin's work, allowing the apprentice to help thousands of people with their efforts.

The City of Vestry: Vestry, before the dragon council, was the glittering gem of the world scientifically and politically. After the dragon council, Vestry was no long special amongst cities as it had been. Efforts were made to fix that. Poverty was virtually eliminated. Food surplus was achieved enough to to allow for new trade. Within decades, Vestry was once again at the forefront of progress, even if it now had competition.

Andi, Aurora's apprentice: Andi continued with her abstract approach to adventuring. She made use of glyphs in creative ways to solve problems, collect treasure, defeat monsters, and save captives. Eventually, she saved the right person and became something of a celebrity mercenary who could single-handedly save a noble from a dungeon. She used this to great success, donating her payment after covering expenses.

Daisy: Daisy took to being a dragon as though meant to. She kept managing and working at the free clinics and moonlighted as a negotiator, but she was off adventuring whenever she could. She forged strong relationships with the other dragons, especially Hriskin (whose merciful approach was shared), Xavier (whose dissident halfling past was shared), and Niela (whose practicality and warmth were shared). Daisy and her wife Candace (the newly inducted Plant dragon) adventure together, bringing gentle justice to people.

Moira, aka Moradin: Content that Brokk and the others were at the reins of the world, Moradin turned her eyes to her people. For so many years, they had lost their way, thinking her a strict bearded man when she was a gentle-hearted woman. She tried again to reach them, breathing life into her community. The dwarves remembered the spirit of the old ways. They embraced change and brought new government, and Moira was pleased.

Zamira, Captain of the Edmund Fitzgerald: Zamira sailed on, a few legal shipping vessels and a few privateer ships. Business, especially with the Mortar and Pestle shipments on board, was good. For once, things were simple--Zamira just had to keep the crews going, and the money would come in. One check-in with Aurora, Zamira asked what it was all about. "Good," replied Aurora. The next morning, Zamira offered a ship to have the dragons command at their will, maintained by her. This ship was dubbed "Dragon of the Sea." Zamira spent the rest of her days captaining ships.

Jarvia: No longer afraid to assert herself in the public space of Talon Gorge, Jarvia took on a new life. She performed in taverns and on street corners. She talked politics in coffee houses and sometimes had to be asked to keep her voice down. She attended city council meetings religiously. She had come to consider herself a guardian of her community, but not through tooth and claw. She was using her eyes and ears and make sure they had what they needed, and no one was more vigilant than Jarvia.

Davenport, the man causing a scene in the Pear Pit: After being set right by Brokk, Davenport reformed. He set out to prove himself as a member of town, lending a hand here and being polite there. He was one of the key figures at the new Pear Pit, willing to work for a while to help others. Though given many opportunities to show a sour face, Davenport never did, either inspired by or terrified or Brokk.

The City of Torga: With the help of Lethanin and Xavier, Torga became a more livable place. There were comfortable public spaces, affordable food and housing, and public support for representative government, which would come to pass shortly after the finale's events. While Torga lacked the glamor of other cities, it had the most prestigious learning centers in the world, it was the shipping center of the world, and it had one of the best qualities of life in the known world. Torga has not given up on going further, but they are also proud of the achievement of getting this far.

Sempra, Brokk's daughter and Helena, her partner: Sempra and Helena refused to settle down. To them, a name on a road sign was a place to make better. The tail of her youth and her middle years--over a century--were spent this way. Sempra and Helena became professionals--what was wrong with a town? What was the best solution? How do we make that happen? And where's the next town? In their late years, they slowed, then finally retired--Helena did puzzles, and Sempra read cheesy romance novels.

Ehlonna: The goddess of protection of the forest took in Aurora, trusting her to do good in her name. What Ehlonna found was the most puzzling thing--a startlingly mortal person turned solidly immortal whose heart knew better than her mind that love was all that mattered. For many years, Ehlonna watched Aurora closely, trying to predict the unpredictable. In time, she came to trust Aurora, and that trust has yet to be misplaced.

The City of New Dalton: Much has been said about the destruction of New Dalton, the smoke that still rises from it. Comparatively less has been said about how those fires are for cooking food. People still live there, and in the revolution, the soldiers do not side with the government. The old order is ousted, a new council established of those who fought to help New Daltoners, and the process of rebuilding is begun. New Dalton is in rubble, but New Daltoners see that as easy access to bricks.

Boblanin (Bobby) and Pexedrine (Pexi), Lethanin's brother and niece: Boblanin explained his new life plan to Lethanin--make enough money to be comfortable with his "serious" career while having an artist's life in his free time, playing drums as often as he is able. Bobby manages to get into a band called "Hexagon Paradise" while succeeds after a while, and he ends up able to quit and focus on the band. Pexi accompanies her father and Lethanin as much as possible for this, trying to learn about becoming a bard. At 19, Pexi is inducted into a bard's college in Finiel and graduates as a "multi-instrumentalist," going on to have an incredible career as a magical soloist. 

Estyl, the woman who wrote to Brokk about Nastoran: Estyl went to Mishara guards for some help with what Brokk had admitted to but found wartime law was different. She returned to her home and stewed before drinking six draughts of sleeping potion. She was found with no note eight days later.

Boccob: True to his word, Boccob conveys Izar to a museum, where it is installed. He cautions that the people of the world are eager to avoid being spoken to and suggests just leaving them alone. Boccob ultimately decided that he allowed the feeling that he is less talented than his mother and felt inadequate to prevent him from doing more for Izar. He broods over this feeling but neglects to do anything meaningful about it, and it bothers him for the rest of his life. 

Drumchapel: To the people of Drumchapel before immigration started, the city did not so much change as grow. The docks grew longer, and the houses stretched further, and the Pear Pit was busier, but it hadn't lost its small town charm. People still walked in the pear groves and breathed the sea air like they always did, and when Brokk found himself back there again, it was always strange that a world that had changed so much still had a place like Drumchapel that was always the same. 

Niela: Niela turning her life to good and parenting changed everything about her. She was, at her children and grandchildren's bidding, at every major and minor occasion with them (almost always with Brokk, too). She became less the watcher of life and more the sentinel of it--through government, she was making Mishara better, through her actions as a dragon, she was making Evanoch better, and through her actions as a parent, she was making their lives better. Where before, Niela had been alone, she now shared everything she loved. She had been set free, and it was clear from her eyes (to Brokk, anyway) that Niela was grateful every day for the change.

Lethanin: Lethanin never allowed himself to be the stuff of legends. To the masses, he was the strange gnome who one time played a strange song. To the people he worked through, he was a shifting, mysterious figure who refused to be anything at all. To his family, he was sometimes smoke and mirrors, nothing substantial until suddenly he was for a moment. To the dragons, he was the one who made it all work even if none of them understand how or how. Lethanin defied definition because he simply didn't want to be defined. That never changed. He never became the face of the dragons or a world famous musician. Instead, Lethanin became the person who saw a moment of despair and had, in fact, been there all along with exactly what was needed. And so when the dragons were confounded, Lethanin would step in. Whenever something defied definition, so too did Lethanin, and he would decide it. 
Lethanin established small institutions, often counter-culture in nature--coffee houses, art shops, music venues. He fostered community in these places, introduced conversations about what's good and how to do it. Torga's culture took a sharp turn. Everywhere, there were rebellious people being aggressive good and kind. It caught on elsewhere once it was established in Torga. It wasn't an organizational preaching good--it was people doing good. The Sound Dragon's legacy is still in formation, people only knowing vague rumors.

Brokk: Brokk never set out to be a legend. He came to the dragons as a man who was simply along for the ride who wanted to do it right, and he never deviated from that. No matter how much responsibility he had or what the stakes were, Brokk kept focused on what was right. He was, to most people, just a friendly person who had helped them (or not even that much sometimes). To those who knew him, he was a towering figure who always seemed to know right and was willing to fight for it. Brokk was unconcerned with what people thought of him because he knew that his actions were the only thing that really mattered. 
Brokk had found a life that worked for him, and he stuck with it. Part of his time was spent tending life and death, part of his time with with his family, and part was spent tending to dragon issues. This was adjusted here and there, especially as his family continued to grow. Great-great-great-great grandchildren would be a part of Brokk and Niela's lives, getting to become the mythical ancestors who never age (and never run out of treats). Brokk maintained a presence in Ringsdale to keep it going in the right direction and built a shrine to Nerull in a quiet location for private observances. The Red Dragon's legacy today is a respectful fear--people know not to cross the Red Dragon, but they also know they can call on the dragon for help.

Aurora: Aurora delighted in becoming a legend. She could see what reality was and what it wasn't and how to make one the other, and she could do it with a whim's effort. And yet somehow, her great strength was never her magical ability. It was her ability to unlock something in people, to bring out greatness in them. Aurora never tired of talking about why we must do our very best, she never gave up on anyone or anything, and she always did what she said she would. The legacy Aurora created for herself will be long remembered as benevolent.
Aurora will not tire. The adventures will continue. The work across Evanoch will continue. The time with Jarvia and family will continue. Aurora remembers on some level what it is to live an empty life, and she is unwilling to less than enjoy her full life. After years of progress, Aurora calls all the dragons together for a summit. At the summit, it's admitted that major cities--the Big Ten in the global conversation--have fundamentally no serious problems. Poverty and homelessness barely exist. Crime has been falling for decades. The big cities are a good place to live. Someone asks what they do, and without hesitation, Aurora raises a hand. "Well, the smaller cities need help." Brokk smiles. "My daughter's been working on that!" The group begins discussing plans, a way to bring easy, prosperous life to even more people. Evanoch is in good hands.

Monday, November 17, 2025

What Does Perfect GMing Look Like?

When I finish GMing a session, I get a really buzzy energy and lots of self-doubt. When I game with close friends who I trust, I will often reach out and ask for feedback. "Did this moment seem forced?" "Was I harsh with such-and-such other player?" "How did you as a player experience this moment?" It's motivated partly out of doubt--I feel unsure of whether my performance was what I wanted it to be--and partly out of a bigger drive: the drive to be perfect. 

Many experts including psychologists and sociologists as well as astute observers have often claimed that the pursuit of perfect is unhealthy. Let's cut this off early: pursuing perfection as a realistic goal is in fact unhealthy. It will drive you crazy and make your performance worse. Let's consider something more realistic and less unhealthy: considering how to improve so that we get better (also known as approaching perfection). So in this article, when I talk about considering what would be perfect, we have to start from the foundation that I mean intellectually analyzing a hypothetical ideal to learn from it without trying to be perfect. 

So what does perfect GMing look like? Two distinct truths become evident immediately. One is that we all have different opinions on what would be ideal. Someone could be the most talented combat GM in the world and still be non-ideal for hardcore roleplayers (and vice versa). But at the same time, a lot of the opinions we would hear would have a lot of overlap--there would be certain things that most (if not virtually all) people would generally agree upon. 

I have aligned three sets of three general nebulae around which most players experience their games, and working to improve at these collected nine skills can help any GM in their pursuit of improvement. The first set of three skills are simple to consider: they are the game's past, present, and future. I'm talking about worldbuilding, improvisation, and planning, respectively. Then, the second set is about the kind of direction and information the GM gives in-game: clarity of description, characterization of NPCs, and allowance of freedom for a player to define their character. Lastly, any GM should be at least partially well-versed in all three playstyles common to tabletop games: strategy and combat, antics and silliness, and storytelling and roleplaying. Let's get into each individually. 

Worldbuilding is the past, the stuff that makes the world what it was leading up to this moment. Any seasoned GM can tell you that any part of your world can radically change at a moment's notice if a player affects it, and that basically makes all worldbuilding a description of the past, the world before the players. Worldbuilding doesn't have to take some typical progression of overall map to politics guides to social customs, either. I highly recommend just writing about the things you find fun and interesting (after all, the point is to have fun). I wrote guides to tattoo art and popular literature before I actually described what cultural values define my homebrew groups because I love tattoos and reading, and they were much easier to write and pick up momentum with than an all-encompassing definition of humanity. I think that people forget that there are not key details you have to describe as a GM to do it well. You can offer a really colorful, specific description of something that doesn't really matter to the game, and it will still stand out as good worldbuilding, a memorable moment, and something impressive about your creativity. I had a player who's played with me for years who was stunned when I had a unique funeral ritual on hand when it came up in-game--I'm weirdly obsessed with death and hang out in cemeteries, so it was fun for me to write the funeral details. That's what your worldbuilding should be--you making your world more colorful and interesting while having fun doing it. 

Then comes the present: improvisation. Improv is a skill that people spend their lives working at, but we don't need to become a renowned improviser so much as have the vital spirit of improv alive while GMing. Improv is fundamentally based on a simple idea called "yes, and": whatever is said in the scene must be accepted as true (yes), and there must be a back-and-forth where every time someone speaks, they are adding to the scene or at least moving it along (and). Some GMs have a more "no, but" style, which is to say, "You the player cannot reach as far as you said you want to, but I can offer you this compromise." That's fine too; I prefer to give the players as much agency as possible, so I try to avoid "no, buts" unless I have to, but it's really to your taste. What matters is that you can recognize what the players are doing and respond directly to it. This means no ignoring what the players want, do, or say because it isn't aligned with your story or worldbuilding. It also means trying to stay one step ahead of your players, who are also trying to get one step ahead of you. The biggest skill in improv is to keep going no matter what. Things will get wild and potentially out of control--this is a TTRPG we're talking about, after all. You have to see the madness, accept it, and add your own direction. (This is not to say you can't challenge your players, which you should do. The acceptance of what the players say does not mean agreeing with it or letting it work if it wouldn't. The acceptance of what the players say is about recognizing that they are telling you how they want to have fun, and you should listen before you respond.)

Finally, the future: planning. Planning is a radically different beast depending on the game you're playing. I ran a mystery campaign that required some more planning than I typically do (which is not very much, admittedly, but still--a mystery is a pretty tightly-wound story). I also ran a very silly antics campaign that not only did I never prepare for, but which I always got inebriated before GMing to increase how dumb everything became. Over the years, I've realized that planning is not a monolith. How you plan for one session is not true of every other session, and knowing how much to plan and in what way is the hardest skill involved here. I have some generalizations to offer. Combat campaigns need prep. Calibrating encounters, devising interesting strategic situations, generating enemies that are interesting--these are things that take time and effort. I personally don't enjoy these kinds of prep, and I'll openly admit that when I try to improvise combat, it usually doesn't feel as vivid as some other GMs' combat. It's something that I need to work on. Antics campaigns don't need much prep, usually just a premise to get the group started. I once had an antics group spend two full hours reenacting the movie Shrek because I asked them to stage a community theater play. If you're running a stoytelling or roleplaying campaign, I'm going to suggest using the form of notes I use these days for those games, a sort of profile on the major NPCs who will factor into the campaign and what they want and why. It's relatively spare, but since I wanted an organically evolving campaign led by the players, all I really had to do was have a good idea of the NPCs, and everything else came naturally. I will say that outright planning sessions for storytelling is one of the biggest mistakes you can make as a GM. It ends in railroading or worse every time. It will burn out your players, who you will be dragging along on a story only you will be connected to. Don't do it. Plan the people meticulously, but let the players decide what the story is.

This leads us to the description triad, starting with clarity. I place this first because it is absolutely crucial. When a GM speaks, everything they say becomes reality, and what is not defined is filled in by the imaginations of your players. This often means that at a table of a GM and four players, there are five different imaginings of the same image or place or action. I've had moments as both as player and a GM where vagueness, non-specificity, or misspeaking caused a serious and sometimes lasting misunderstanding about things. In the real world, if I say something incorrectly, you can see in reality what my mistake is, and we can fix the misunderstanding easily. But everything in the entirety of existence is in the GM's head, so they have to work extra hard to be clear. I suggest visualizing what you're describing it and going about 3 times more into detail than you think you do. The worst that happens is that you provide a very clear description of something at the cost of a few extra moments; the worst that can happen if you give only a few broad strokes is that the players are lost without any idea what you're talking about. It's easy to get caught up and try to move quickly, but it's worth taking the time and effort to slow down and really say what you mean to say. 

The second in the description triad is characterization. Whether you realize it or not, sentient characters (usually humanoid and vocal but not always) are the heart and soul of the story. Yes, an epic tale might cover a massive conflict that involves thousands, but the actual stakes of the story is the safety of the people. Yes, a story might involve colossal governing bodies, but the impact is on the people in those groups and who the groups affect. And having a bland, faceless NPC be the object of pain for the sake of the story is hollow and meaningless. To get the players to care about how the story goes, you have to get them to care about the people in the story (including negative caring, also known as hatred). Give every NPC something unique or strange or distinctive. They're allowed to be similar to each other and even share traits or backgrounds, but adding details to a character is generally what makes them feel real. There are some highlights for developing NPCs and groups of NPCs to refer to, but the basics boil down to trying to make NPCs more interesting by giving them more to say than whatever advances the plot. This is where my advice to develop NPCs but not storylines above can doubly help: good characterization assists in both realms. 

The final note in description is freedom. Players of tabletop games have been sat down and told what tabletop games are: they are a way to imagine literally anything together and make choices that affect this shared reality. To see this, to see absolute creative freedom before them, and be restricted by GM choices--it's a horrible disappointment at best and a reason to leave tabletop games forever at worst. If players are not free to act as they like, there is little reason for them to be there at all. It is vital, and I do mean it is necessary to the success of your game, that you grant meaningful freedom when appropriate. This does not have to be given in a radical way. Sometimes freedom looks like letting the players do non-story-related things without interruption. Sometimes freedom is letting your players get away with a crazy idea. Sometimes freedom is simply stepping back as the GM and trying to figure out what your players want so that you can help them get it. But whatever form it takes, freedom must exist in a tabletop game.

This leads us to the final triad, that of style. I want to note here that working at any of these is helpful, and there is no real game which is entirely one style or another. So as I go over these styles, I want you to be thinking about how these complement each other as opposed to work against each other. 

One style of GMing focus is combat. Many tabletop games exist where the whole emphasis is combat, and many others are combat-focused uses of broader games. The big picture with these games is that combat is meant to be frequent, strategic, and epic. Set pieces are common here, and the stories told usually frame the combat around a quest of some sort. While I'm no expert at GMing in this style myself (I have a lot to learn about the care and precision of it compared to my freewheeling style), I can recognize these as the strengths of the combat style. The core skill here is using creativity applied to pragmatic problems (how do I make this fight balanced and interesting? how can I create an exciting second phase of the fight? how can the geography impact things?), and mastering the combat style of GMing requires a great deal of consideration of the players' abilities and what they would find exciting. 

Another style of GMing focus is hijinks. The players and the GM are not sitting down to take a storyline seriously or master combat so much as they are there to joke around and hang out with their friends. That description is by no means judgmental--the point of tabletop games is to have fun, and an antics game makes a play directly for that fun. Crazy NPCs, inane plans, wild cause and effect--all of the really unpredictable side of tabletop games is most present here. Generally speaking, the GM's job is to play it seriously to the players' shenanigans; the GM doesn't shut down the antics so much as challenge the players to make things even more ridiculous. Mastering the hijinks style means knowing when to match the ridiculousness of your players and when to challenge them with an obstacle that makes them do something even wilder. 

The last style of GMing is storytelling/roleplaying. I have been unabashed about stating my regard for the roleplaying style of tabletop games, and I won't go back on that here now. I do truly believe that this style accomplishes something unique in the world; video games simulate combat exceedingly well, improv comedy exists for laughing with your friends, but what else is like experiencing a shared story in your mind by proxy? Roleplaying styles are generally marked by a focus on a story that the GM and the players tell together. Generally speaking, a roleplaying GM is at their best when they are using well-developed NPCs to interact with the players, who are fundamentally pushing the story along with their actions. That means being good with characterization and freedom from the above triad, and it also means (in my experience) being comfortable not having 100% control of the entire game experience (since some of that has been given to players). 

We can align some of these skills in the triads to understand them more fully. Let's take a look:


Despite the appearance, this is not an alignment chart joke. Rather, we've set our three triads horizontally, and vertically, we have the most related ideas. This is to say that worldbuilding is the first step in running a session (triad 1) and is similar to characterization (worldbuilding applied to characters) and the roleplaying/storytelling style (which I prepare for with worldbuilding and characterization). Or hijinks, which is in triad 3 with the other styles, while being grouped with freedom (which is often most radical in hijinks games) and improvisation (the most important skill with a hijinks game). Or clarity, which is triad 2 with the other overarching ideals our description must look towards and the last row, with combat and planning, the two most pragmatic approaches to running a game, not to mention all three being integral in some campaigns. 

So what does perfect GMing look like? Is it a fulfillment of all nine ideals? Is it mastering the skills required to succeed? Is it crafting a campaign so unflawed that it can't go wrong? No, none of that. Remember up at the top--we're not pursuing perfection. We are simply recognizing that these nine ideals are important parts of tabletop games which we can all benefit from. Because again, these things are relative. If a combat GM presented me with a perfectly clear and perfectly planned session, would I have fun? Not really. I don't enjoy conflict, I crave radical freedom, and it's just not my style. But they could be, in theory, perfect as a GM. Only I didn't have fun, and fun is the point. 

What I'm driving at, reader, is this: your skills as a GM are not some objective measure. You can't take a test and be scored on your performance. What makes you successful or not is whether you, in the moment, can help your players have fun. I think that the nine ideals I outlined can get just about anybody the right ideas to get going in the right direction. With persistence and time, you can become excellent at any of these skills, and you will be able to use that to be a great GM to someone at your table. Hey, maybe your practice has paid off, and you found the right player, and you're the perfect GM for them. 

That would make it all worth it, wouldn't it?

That's all for now. Coming soon: a pirate D&D one-shot, a guide to the planes, and imagining the future of tabletop games. Until next time, happy gaming!


Thursday, November 6, 2025

How to Not Get Weighed Down by Worldbuilding

Worldbuilding is fun, valuable, and rewarding. Plain and simple, time we spend worldbuilding is time we spend enriching our worlds and making them more real for our players. However, like most all things, this is a spectrum. There are diminishing returns to worldbuilding. To avoid the pitfalls of pushing worldbuilding too much, let's explore the ways it can let us down. 

Let's think about this logically. Worldbuilding is a spectrum with a shapeless void on one end and a perfectly detailed world on the other. Obviously, we want something closer to the detailed world. But do we want the most perfectly detailed world possible? Practically speaking, it would take years of intensive work to come anywhere close to that, and there does come a point where knowing each NPC's favorite food lacks much of a point. So where is the line? How do we get the perfect balance of worldbuilding to narrative freedom so that we're neither too rigid nor too flexible? 

I've done a lot of worldbuilding. As of the writing of this article, there are 59 articles on homebrew setting details from big picture (homebrew rules for magic, gods, and dragons) to very small details (pet culture, home décor, and tattoo art). Were all of these necessary? Absolutely not. I did not need to, for instance, design city flags for all of the major cities in my homebrew setting. These have yet to enter or enrich gameplay, and so they were just an academic experiment, a creative act meant to connect with my world. And that's really the trick--worldbuilding is a way to connect to the world and better understand it, not something that's meant to define the players' experience. 

A while back, I played in a campaign that I overall enjoyed. There was this one thing that got in the way of full enjoyment, though, and that was that I always felt like we were on a tour (often guided) of my GM's worldbuilding. His favorite characters, NPCs he'd written stories about for years, were additional party members or vital allies and foes. Our adventures took us across the land, checking out all manner of homebrew locations. It was all very memorable, but I didn't feel like our party was the star of the show. I felt like we were witnesses to a story being told by forces bigger than us. It was not what I would describe as completely fulfilling. 

I think that GM let worldbuilding get in the way. I think he spent, as I did, dozens of hours worldbuilding and creating characters and preparing stories, and he got swept up and forgot that we--the party--were supposed to decide the story, that we were the stars of the show. In reality, his NPCs should have been interesting supporting characters. His locations should have been scenes for us to define. But everything was already written when we got there, so it was hard to feel empowered as characters. 

The thing is, this is a good GM. His characters, player character and NPC, are interesting and real. His settings are classic fantasy with a brutal twist that's always fun. His storylines put complex questions of good and evil at the feet of the players. It's just this one thing that got in the way for me, and I think the mindset that gripped my GM is a common thing. 

The truth is, our job as GMs is not to paint a perfect picture. We could, if we really wanted to, spend five minutes lovingly describing a stretch of hallway every time a party passes through one. We could paint a novel-style portrait of the merchant who will never be interacted with again. These obviously don't help us, though, and they don't help the player. 

I have a simple rule: if a bit of worldbuilding naturally comes up, I'll go into it. I've written about burial methods before, and when someone was to be buried in one of the epilogues of my most recent campaign, I referred to that information and had the burial proceed appropriately. In the same campaign, the player characters hopped across different cities and cultures, and I was able to describe changing geography and architecture styles. In epilogues of a recent campaign, each player bought street food in the city they'd chosen as their home base, and I could give them distinctive experiences. 

But the thing is, I didn't provide burial methods information at every turn. The geography and architecture of each location was provided as it was relevant (in small bursts as the location is explored), not in one long, nonstop lecture about the appearance of a city. I explained what street food was available when players sought out lunch while exploring their cities, not the second the entered the city. I offered worldbuilding details as necessary, and never more. The star of the show is my players, not my worldbuilding. 

And it's not like I'm not proud of my worldbuilding! My guides to clan groups and other organizations revolutionized how I think about my homebrew groups. My guide to clothing forever changed how I imagine my world looking. My guide to parenting style informed how individual people think about family, about authority, and about themselves. My guide to the solar system looked beyond Evanoch and even Izar, the planet it is on, to situation all of this in a larger context. My guide to lasting feelings about a continent-wide war fought over freedom of magic use is full of interesting and useful information that also invites new stories being told. But I cannot start out a campaign by having an NPC run up to the party and shout, "There's some interesting organizations to look into, and clothing styles can tell you a lot about a person, and everybody raises their kids differently here, and the solar system is vast and plentiful, and there was a recent war that people are still pretty upset about. Welcome to Evanoch!" That would be bad for a number of reasons. But if over the course of an entire campaign, they met a few interesting groups and got some interesting examples of fashion and had some conversations about parenting and learned about a distant planet and spoke with a veteran of that war, that gives the impression of a full, rich, living world. 

It's almost counter-intuitive. To give the impression of a rich world, you don't want to lead with all of your worldbuilding. You could, but then there would be no story, no combat, no time to characterize the player characters, and no room to relax or be silly. It would be all worldbuilding, all the time. So obviously, we need more of a balance. Some room for story and combat and characterization and silliness. But how much? The answer is also counter-intuitive: it's response, not action. 

Tabletop games are built on improvisation: I say one thing to establish a scene/story, and you say something that validates it and adds to it, and I do the same until we've told a little tale or made people laugh or whatever or goal was. In tabletop games, the players say one thing (an action, for instance), and the GM responds (a consequence, an NPC action, etc). Worldbuilding falls under this umbrella. Anything you do or say as the GM constitutes your time adding to the game. If you spend ten minutes describing worldbuilding, you need a balance of time to do other things, or you risk loredumping, the exhausting experience of having your GM give you loads of worldbuilding information with little actual gameplay. (It happens to the best of us, but never stop trying to keep that balance.)

So treat your worldbuilding details as improvisation additions. If a party adds that they are going to a market area, offer some street food as an option. If a party is in a room with a telescope and an eager astronomer, offer them a glimpse of the stars. If a player character opens up about their parents, let the NPC with complicated feelings commiserate with them. But these are responses. The street food vendor being unavoidable is unnecessary, as is the astronomy lesson. The "parents raised me wrong" speech is only something you should do if the player is into it. 

Think of worldbuilding this way: the point is not to put a bunch of interesting things out there to show the players. The point is to have interesting things ready for when (or if) the players go looking for them. To be honest, there are worldbuilding details I developed over a decade ago that have never come up. There are worldbuilding details I should have developed over a decade ago that I only got to recently. It's an imprecise science, truly more of an art. What will be useful to you will vary. If your world is more narrow, you will have an easier time covering every base. If, like me, you have a very broad world in order to capture more possibilities, worldbuilding will be about breadth too (hence my worldbuilding articles here picking a broad topic and exploring it across every group--the best organized way to cover all bases). But the point isn't to describe every detail. The point is to have something interesting ready to go. 

I'll go back to the example of the burial. It was in the epilogue of a character named Brokk, and it was very striking to Brokk and his player. In this moment in the game, Brokk had just become a Cleric of Nerull, a knight of the balance of life and death, and he had chanced upon the dead body of a woman in a halfling burial ground. Brokk struggled to know what to do next--he was new to being a champion of death and had no instructions, and he hesitated to do anything drastic in the middle of a major city. Before he could decide on an action, a few people came in and set to preparing the woman's body for traditional halfling burial: burning. Brokk knew that he couldn't heal this woman, who he sensed had died before her time, if she was burned, so he acted quickly and raised her from the dead. Spooked, the man preparing the burning ritual left in a hurry, and Brokk gently sent the now-conscious woman on her way. 

Readers, I am a good improviser, but I am not a good enough improviser to come up with "burning" as the most distressing thing that could be waiting around the corner for this woman. Brokk and his player were dismayed. It was a powerful moment, and because I had to pause to confirm halflings burn corpses, it felt official and more objective, so the obstacle it imposed was valid like the rules are. And think about it this way: if the goal is to create memorable worldbuilding details, in what other way would the knowledge that halflings burn their dead be more memorable for this player?

The knowledge of halfling burial was imparted at a time that it mattered--when the player cared about it--and that made it a good worldbuilding detail for what we needed. You could have tomes of details about every town in a massive world, and if you read them off, your gamers would be bored to tears. We're not here to hear a dramatic reading of the Silmarillion. We want to be a part of a story and have fun together. Some worldbuilding helps that. Too much chokes it. If you want to not get weighed down by worldbuilding, you have to chose to offer it more sparingly and trust that a detail at the right time does more than twenty details offered freely. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: a pirate D&D one-shot, a guide to the planes, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!


Reflections on Character Deaths

Different tabletop games have different likelihoods of player character death (Call of Cthulhu has a particularly treacherous likelihood) while games which are the "tabletop game version" of a media property (I played the Firefly ttrpg many years ago and found it very, very gentle). But in all games, dying is a big deal. You've made a character, and you presumably care about them and their goals, and you've spent considerable time with them, even if just in creating them. Character deaths are the thing of story and legend for better or for worse. 

I honestly have tried not to think too hard about the character deaths that I've been party to. I understand that it's necessary to have serious consequences for risky actions, and I don't think a deathless game or story would be more compelling than the alternative. I do believe that death should be a part of tabletop games . . . in theory. It's good that the option is there for when it's the right thing. But I think very frequently in the gaming community, character death is used by GMs as a way to tell a "shocking" story (rather than coming up with an idea that would be interesting, just kill somebody). 

Let's say that you are in fact using good wisdom on how to deal with character deaths. It's still going to be one of the defining moments of the campaign, so it needs to be handled gently and with consideration. In order to really fully get at my experiences with death in tabletop games, I'm going to reflect on the characters I've seen who didn't make it to the end of the quest. 

My first GM was a gentle man, a neighbor and father of a school friend who graciously invited me to learn at his table. He became something of a surrogate father to me, and I think he saw me developing as a GM even as I learned to play. My second player character ever was for an evil campaign, a horrifying self-scarring grim reaper-inspired orcish Barbarbian. My teammates mocked her name (Morana, which they said was basically "Moron," which they said she was) and me for having a female character (I would, many years later, come out as a transwoman). During the climactic fight that was to define our opening session, I charged forward to save an ally; the ally retreated, and the rest of the party fled and left my character to be overwhelmed and killed. It was awful. 

What stung the most was the intentionality of it. My party's players wanted to hurt my feelings, so they seized on the situation and maneuvered so that I would die. I never saw it coming. Morana was torn down by enemies (I don't even remember what type at this point), and my DM decided that perhaps this party was not the best home for me. He created a new group--fostering my interest in the game--with one of my best friends where we had our own evil campaign. I played a nasty little gnomish Wizard who terrorized the countryside and always figured out a way to stay on top, and his named was Loki (I was a high schooler, okay?). 

I have so many stories of Loki that it's impossible to know where to start. I mentioned wanting a castle, and my GM presented an expansion on elaborate keeps, and I took one over and began a trade empire. I met a man with a beautiful gold ring; I shook his hand and cast Incinerate (3.5E), plucking the ring from the ashes. My evil deeds spread, and an Inevitable was sicced on me; I tricked it into believing I was dead, survived its "just to be sure" attack, and went on being evil. Loki was everything you could dream of as a first real tabletop game character--he was bound only by my creativity, I was in a friendly, safe space (the GM really made me feel at home), and Loki was the star of the show every time I played--I got to see my little character be truly powerful. 

After high school, I did some scattered GMing; nothing was professional or refined, but it was quick and fun tabletop action. Later, when this scattered fun grew tiresome, I tried more ambitious projects. I set out on an experiment to see if I could get a party to assassinate an entire royal regime (the result: not at all). This party was, as an out-of-game construct, very turbulent. We began as a group of four: my best friend, my brother, my girlfriend, and my roommate. As the game continued--and it lasted nearly two years--we added more people--more friends, friends of other players, etc--and it swelled to eventually eight players by the end. It was, in a few words, entirely chaotic. 

This is especially true when you consider that the story ended up being about the division of the city where it was set splitting in half in a compacted civil war that destroyed the ruling class. The players ended up splitting into loyalists to the throne and anarchists trying to overthrow the city, and the result was something of a compromise: a democratically run council to replace the monarchy. The wrinkle is, with all this conflict built into the game and the long campaign time, there was a practical issue. 

I said in the end eight players finished this campaign. One did not. An original player--the guy who had been my roommate--and I ended up in a difficult situation. We were living together, working together (I was his direct boss), and our social circles all overlapped. We couldn't get away from each other. Eventually, things snapped, and I threw him out of the campaign. It was, I will admit, a childish move. I should have talked things over with him, I shouldn't have let my feelings get the best of me, and I definitely shouldn't do what I did next: I killed his character in a really mean way. Specifically, I said he was run over by a stationary cart, hoping to make a cruel joke at the expense of the character and the player. The party laughed, and every so often people who played in the campaign bring up the death. I feel awful about it, honestly. I was immature, and I turned character death (something heavy and not very funny) into a careless punchline. Looking back, I was an unconfident GM who felt like something shocking would work. To a degree, it did, but I'm happy to not do things like this anymore. 

I had a vision of what I wanted my tabletop games to be like--collaborative stories, though I couldn't have articulated that yet--and I had the skills to develop and improvise open world, so I set off running. I ran an audio actual play podcast and live radio broadcast of D&D in the early 2010s called Listen Check, and while we stretched what was considered possible in the artform at the time, we didn't stray into character death scenarios. They entered on many dangerous scenarios, but there was never a moment that placed them at death's door. I consider that a blessing as a GM since I wouldn't have known how to deal with it. 

I turned my focus on a mad quest that would span three campaigns: how could I grant the most possible control of the game to the players? I made a critically wrong assumption (that the empowerment would come from outside of the game) and set to work. I made a campaign in which each player submitted a storyline specific to their player character, each of which I would tie together. I made a campaign of mishmashed references, bits, settings, and comical NPCs for an antics party based on their insane list of inspirations (one of which involved me watching the National Treasure series for reference). I developed a mystery story using themes and details from player input. Their scrapes with death were unique and taught lessons not specific to death. 

In the first campaign mentioned, the Eastweald campaign (named for the large region of the map I created where the campaign took place). One player, my best friend, in fact, told me towards the very end of the campaign that he was dissatisfied with his character. He felt that the best thing that could happen was for his character, a somewhat disillusioned Paladin, to succumb to the depression and commit suicide. I was opposed to this for a lot of reasons. What I told him was this: we can change your character. The point is to have fun. Don't feel shackled to it. Change him in a way that feels fun. And shockingly to all of us (I think including the player), the Paladin threw himself at Vecna in the final moments of the campaign, only to find Vecna unwilling to defend a former Paladin, and the fallen Paladin was slain by the rest of the party. 

To have this Paladin kill himself accomplishes nothing narratively or for the character. Having him believe that darkness would enrich him and finding no hand to support him has a similar result--the Paladin dies--but with a more interesting choice and with an end that actually fits someone who would make the choice he made. To be honest, it's clumsy compared to something I might have come up with if I hadn't only found out about the Paladin's intention to defect as it happened, but it worked, and the player who made the Paladin maintains that it was a fitting end he doesn't regret. 

What makes the Paladin's death fitting is that it takes a meaningful action (siding with an evil deity) and provides it with a meaningful reaction (he is left to deal with his betrayal of his teammates alone). Had he committed suicide, there would be no meaningful action or reaction. And keep in mind--the player chose the betrayal. He called out to a trickster deity, asking for help without anything meaningful to offer. It was a desperate plan, and it didn't work, and death was unfortunately the only option I could offer him. 

The National Treasure campaign, as it was sometimes called (along with the Western campaign, the Goofball campaign, and other various nicknames), had no character deaths. I had essentially set up the large Western continent to be a sightseeing tour--a dozen unique and interesting places with story possibilities and colorful characters. The goal was not for them to be in danger so much as free. It didn't go as planned. The Goofballs earned the name every moment of every session (they were, for instance, permanently barred from ever returning to all but one of the towns they visited), but that was the point--they were having fun by being chaotic and wild and full of surprises, and making the world dangerous wouldn't contribute to that. It was a deathless campaign, as well it should have been. 

The mystery campaign was also deathless. To be fair, it was something of an experiment. To begin, we were using D&D (a system mostly focused on combat rules) to investigate a mystery (something that could have been done more easily with something like Call of Cthulhu or another more investigative game). Next, I knew from GMing experience that you can't make one piece of information that's especially hard to find and call that a mystery--there had to be a network of escalating clues that carried them from uninformed to the solution, and I had never done that before. Combat was rare, and we limited antics to a pretty rare frequency--we were really trying to tell a story and roleplay. There were death close calls, there were meaningful NPC deaths, and there were deaths that would change the gameworld, but the trio of player characters survived. 

In the interceding years, I got to try a handful of tabletop games that strayed from the D&D style to different degrees. I played characters in Don't Rest Your Head, Call of Cthulhu, Geist, Exalted, and the Firefly tabletop game, and fortunately for me, all of those characters survived. Not all my party members were so lucky. I saw Don't Rest Your Head allies fall to risks that went bad. I saw a Call of Cthulhu ally killed, it seemed, because she pissed off the GM. I saw a near party-wipe in Exalted when our GM fostered a party split and incentivized a player to snap. For the Don't Rest Your Head players who took one too many risks, I respect it. That's how the game is designed, and we accept those risks when we play. But the other two instances I mentioned--what amounts to GM malfeasance--it's awful. It should be avoided. Remember, the point is to have fun, and this kind of behavior is not fun. 

This brings us up to my most recent work, something I am immensely proud of. I call this campaign Of Gods and Dragons, a name that at once tells you that this will concern the most powerful forces in the setting with a linguistic flair, an indication that this is literary in a sense. And in fact, the party was abducted in the opening moments by an oppressive dragon, then rescued by another dragon, all before being set loose on a gameworld I've spent almost 20 years building. It was, as the mystery campaign was, a roleplaying and storytelling game, which was important given than I gave my players immense power to begin with (level 12 at session one--they easily could have wrought hell on almost any target if they'd chosen to be more chaotic. As it was, they chose to bring kindness. For one hundred years of epilogue, all three player characters improved the world. It is the peak of my GMing career so far.

No player characters died, but characters who were as important as player characters did die. I cast a group of ten characters as dragons, people empowered and made nearly immortal by their dragonhood. Seven survived. One of the three that died fell into an unfortunate scenario, catching the party at a time where she couldn't leave them alone and they couldn't leave her alive. Another was planned, the assassination of the man scheming to bring down the forces of reality in the name of destruction and empowerment. The last was a matter of closing loose ends, taking the last truly evil dragon out of commission so that the world would be, at least at the level of dragons, more good than evil by a greater margin, and so that the world would be safer from his potential threats. These dragons had been the source of conversation and planning for an out of game year, and finally facing them was unavoidable. 

Looking forward, I don't know what to expect when it comes to death in my campaigns. I'm eager to run other systems, and death is not a huge part of every game. I am especially intrigued by running a tabletop game I created in which players explore historically accurate versions of important times and places like 1750s London and 1930s Chicago (not to mention my projection of Washington D.C. in 2050). I don't suspect I'll be encountering a lot of player deaths in my future. 

So this next part isn't really for me. This next part is for GMs who are free with player death. I'll work backwards. Of Gods and Dragons taught me as the GM that death and danger are not necessary for a high stakes game. My various tabletop experiments taught me that when used irresponsibly, player death can ruin an experience. From my experiments as a GM with radical freedom, I learned that a well-earned consequence (including death) can enrich a story, and a poorly-considered consequence (including death) can ruin a player's experience of the story. My time DMing on the radio taught me that the story cannot precede the players and their experience--I often had to be changing game expectations based on radio broadcast, and I let the story and the listeners be more important to me than the players. My civil war campaign taught me to let the players define everything except reality. My clumsy DMing in college taught me to go beyond the cliches. And my time with my first DM, my neighbor and the man who spent weekends making popcorn and hosting movie afternoons in the basement, taught me that deaths are awful. 

Seriously! I spent a lot of time develop Morana. She was this fearless warrior who I wanted to be like, and she was strange but didn't care what people thought (something I was and desperately wanted to do), and she was covered in decorative scarring, not unlike tattoo art, which I was obsessed with (currently, about 50% of my upper body is tattooed). I cared about Morana. I looked forward to playing with her for weeks. I painted a mini for her, something that took endless hours and painstaking care. Watching her get hacked to bits while my supposed friends got away with the treasure was the kind of experience that would have turned a lot of people away from tabletop games. Most people, I would wager, would take that experience and decide the whole thing wasn't for them. 

But I didn't. I was hooked. D&D was a doorway that peeked in on the ideas of storytelling and roleplaying and imaginary play and game design that I couldn't just decide wasn't for me. The fact that my DM saw that and was willing to help me is one of the great kindnesses of my life. I didn't burn out because my character died--but I almost did. It was a bad thing that only happened because my DM's hands were tied--there was no way to fudge that my character survived. A separate campaign for me was the solution he had, and it still strikes me as incredibly generous. Because of my initial interest in tabletop games was strong, because I was given a kind recovery when I was betrayed, and because my interest was then fostered, I recovered. Lots of people aren't so lucky. 

Look, if a character straps explosives on themselves, runs into a goblin den, and detonates it, that character should die. If a character makes a few bad rolls and suddenly die from factors shouldn't really be deadly, that character realistically should not die. The dice and rules might say so, but you're the GM. You are empowered by the game to decide in the end what happens. Don't be afraid to do something. 

Ask yourself a few questions. First, what's best for the character? Does a death here serve a purpose? Has the character achieved everything they were designed to and this death would fulfill them somehow? Does the character still have unfinished business that would be unresolved if the character were to die? Things like relationships with other characters are less important here. 

Another vital question is, what's best for the story? Does this character still have some vital role to fulfill? Are there things later on you can think of that would be complicated or prevented by this character's death? You're not eagerly looking for an excuse to kill the character so much as looking for evidence that the character might benefit from a death; think of it like how juries work--you must be totally convinced that the character must die to kill them, otherwise they are innocent. 

Lastly, what's best for the party? If a character's death is going to have a major impact on the party, it's important to know going in that an issue is going to occur. One example, for instance, is if the party's sole healer would be killed, in which case all manner of complications could occur. Similarly, if the party leader is killed, the trajectory of the party could be massively affected. Or as I've had happen as a player, a crucial party member missing can stop the party from completing part of a quest. Any of these can affect a decision on what to do as far as a player character's fate. 

And finally, ask yourself what the player's experience will be if the character dies. Is this a hardened player who took a risk knowing the consequences, or a new player still learning the ropes of a complicated new game? Is this player being treated poorly at the table in a way that might affect their willingness to keep playing? Will this player keep playing tabletop games if their character dies? You may recoil at the idea of factoring this in, but our goal should be making more happy tabletop game players, not less. 

I made Morana when I was 17. I'm 35 now--that's half my life ago, plus a bit. Morana was, to be honest, a pretty hollow character. She was, like so many characters made by teenagers, meant to be cool without much thought as to roleplaying or anything beyond the lethalness of her scythe. But it still hurts to think of what I lost. Morana played one session before dying, and that meant that months or even years of gaming with her could have taken place. She could have been the character I carried with me in my heart as special, and instead, she was a fallen character who never had a story to tell. Her death hurt, and it could have driven me from the game. 

Instead, I stood my ground. I got some help from a good GM, and I set to playing and learning. Tabletop games slowly became more than a fascination--an obsession, and then a way of life. This website came together. Experimental campaigns happened. Tabletop games were created. My interest in D&D became something so much larger, and all of that could have been lost had I been shaken by Morana's death. There is a timeline in which D&D became "that thing I did in high school," in which I don't return to the stories and dice, in which that world is lost to me. I'm glad it wasn't. 

For a character to die in a tabletop game, you've got to be 100% certain it's their time. Think like a juror: is there no question that this character should die? Or is there reasonable doubt? The stakes are too high to make this decision without caution. This could be a defining moment for the player. Be gentle, be kind, and be reasonable--deaths are remembered, and you want to be remembered well.

That's all for now. Coming soon: how to not get weighed down by worldbuilding, a guide to the planes, and what perfect GMing looks like. Until next time, happy gaming!