DISCUSSING
In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 43D: Escapades of the Ogre

Agnarr called Seeaeti off the ogre so that it could successfully regenerate. They wanted to question it.

But when it woke up, it was the one asking the questions. “Who are you?”

They naturally refused to answer. But although they tried to question it, threaten it, intimidate it, and scare it, the ogre just kept on asking questions. “Who sent you? What do you want?” And so forth.

But they resolutely refused to answer.

“Ah,” the ogre said at last. “I see I will learn nothing here.”

And it turned to gas… and then the gas itself vanished.

I think there can be a tendency for NPCs to be passive and reactive in conversations.

There are any number of reasons for this: The PCs are, obviously, positioned as protagonists. As GMs we’re juggling a lot of different elements, and it can be easier to juggle everything if it’s relatively stable (and, therefore, possessed of a certain passivity). Plus, at least for me, GMing is often reaction — the PCs do something and then we play to find out what happens. It can be easy for a conversation to slip into the same pattern, with the PCs setting the (only) agenda and the NPCs simply reacting to their efforts.

Unfortunately, a one-sided conversation is pretty boring. This inclination can also lead is into some bad habits, with NPCs who are either pushovers or complete intransigents who just senselessly say, “No!” to everything the PCs suggest.

Sometimes, of course, we key specific information to an NPC and their function is to deliver that information to the PCs: “Yes, I saw Sally down by the lake last night.” That has the advantage of giving the conversation some narrative substance, but it’s ultimately still pretty passive and placid.

To truly bring an NPC conversation to life, you need to ask one simple question:

What does this NPC want?

What is this NPC’s goal? What is the thing they’re trying to achieve? Why?

And perhaps most importantly:

How is this conversation going to help them get it?

What do they need the PCs do? What information do they want from the PCs? What do they need the PCs to believe? What do they need to hear the PCs say? What do they need to hide from the PCs?

This is the NPC’s agenda. You want to keep it simple, short, and actionable. And then you want to play it hard, with the NPC employing all kinds of tactics and conversational gambits to get what they want.

In this session, we see a particularly strong example of this with an ogre whose overwhelming motivation is figuring out who the PCs are, where they come from, and what their interest in the Banewarrens is. He also wants to make sure that the PCs don’t find out anything about his own organization or their intentions.

Since the PCs want the exact opposite, this puts them into a strong antithesis and the entire scene can boil out from there.

Importantly, however, this kind of open antithesis isn’t necessary to generate an interesting thing. The NPC just needs to want something different than the PCs, even if it’s only subtly different.

It’s also important to remember that, when antithesis does exist, that doesn’t mean it should never be surmountable. Yes, it’s dramatic when the Jedi Council refuses Qui-Gon Jinn’s request to train Anakin Skywalker. But it’s also a classic moment when Robin Hood convinces Friar Tuck to join his Merry Men.

In other cases the solution will be for the PCs to figure out how both their interests and the NPCs’ interests can be mutually achieved. That’s a puzzle for the players to ponder!

And, of course, achieving any of this will require first figuring out what the NPC actually wants! Some characters will politely (or not so politely) announce the intentions of course, but others will be quite sly about it.

Sometimes the conversation won’t be about overcoming or fulfilling the NPCs’ agenda at all! Nevertheless, the presence of the agenda — and the NPCs’ desire to fulfill it — will fill the scene with life.

In summary, for each meaningful NPC in a conversation, think about what the NPC’s conversational agenda is. Ideally, you should be able to state this in one clear sentence.

And then pursue it with all the strength you can muster!

Campaign Journal: Session 43E – Running the Campaign: Prepping Porphyry House
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

SESSION 43D: ESCAPADES OF THE OGRE

October 25th, 2009
The 23rd Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

SEEKING THE FLAYER

Ranthir had a wand which allowed him to weave magical alarms. Moving systematically through the Banewarrens they laid down alarms at every major intersection, slowly cordoning off the complex. Ranthir also laid a glamer upon his eyes allowing him to see the hidden and the invisible, while Tee kept her sharp elven nose alert for any tell-tale scents.

They eventually reached the room with the massive iron cauldron. Activating her boots of levitation, Tee carried Ranthir up to look into the cauldron… and they spotted the flayer laying at the cauldron’s bottom.

But even in that instant, the flayer reached out into their minds and whispered, “Pass on. You see me not.”

“Yes I do!” Tee cried. And shot him.

The flayer lashed out with a mind blast, causing Tee to fall into the cauldron and Ranthir to land on the floor beside it.

Nasira hit the bottom of the cauldron with a spell that would heat the metal to dangerously hot temperatures. Unfortunately, the immense size of the cauldron delayed the effect to some extent.

Agnarr threw a rope over the top of the cauldron and braced it, allowing Tor to rapidly climb up to the cauldron’s lip… where he was promptly hit with a mind blast and fell backwards off the cauldron, striking his head on the floor as he fell into epileptic twitches.

Agnarr carefully backed up and then ran for the cauldron, leaping up to catch the rim and then hauling himself up. The flayer tried to hit him with another mind blast, but he shook it off and jumped down into the cauldron. Once there, he saw that, although Tee was beginning to burn from the heat of the metal (and the soles of his own feet were sore from it), the flayer was calmly floating three inches above the metal’s surface.

“Flying bastard!” Agnarr roared. “Flying squid bastard!”

In a few short, slashing blows from his sword he sliced the flayer up – its purplish-red blood spattering to boil upon the ever-heating metal. In the end, it was reduced to a pool of coagulate gore… which predictably soaked up into the back of Tee’s shirt before Agnarr finally picked her up and hauled her out of the cauldron.

ESCAPADES OF THE OGRE

With the flayer safely dead, they returned to the outer chamber where Elestra and Kalerecent were keeping an eye on Seeaeti and the mauled-but-still-regenerating ogre.

“Are we sure the flayer’s dead?” Elestra asked.

“Pretty sure,” Tor said.

“But is it regenerating like this one?”

Agnarr grunted. “Tee, turn around.”

Tee did.

“Okay, you see those squid guts all over her? It’s dead.”

Tee rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Agnarr.”

Agnarr called Seeaeti off the ogre so that it could successfully regenerate. They wanted to question it.

But when it woke up, it was the one asking the questions. “Who are you?”

They naturally refused to answer. But although they tried to question it, threaten it, intimidate it, and scare it, the ogre just kept on asking questions. “Who sent you? What do you want?” And so forth.

But they resolutely refused to answer.

“Ah,” the ogre said at last. “I see I will learn nothing here.”

And it turned into a gas… and then the gas itself vanished.

Nasira uttered a holy oath, banishing the invisibility effect. But this only resulted in causing the gas to reappear. Agnarr and Tor ran forward to attack it –  and they may have even caused some damage to it as their swords ripped through it in arcs of fire and electricity (although, on the other hand, perhaps it was only wishful thinking on their part) – but then a magical darkness popped into existence.

There was mass confusion: Tor became convinced that he had the ogre cornered (although it turned out he was only cutting away at empty air). Tee raced to block the entrance to the Banewarrens, but more darkness popped up. Then one of the alarm spells Ranthir had laid went off and they all rushed to the spot to find… nothing at all. A few moments late another alarm went off back in the antechamber and they realized that they had been completely outmaneuvered. Although they pursued him down the tunnel, the ogre had disappeared.

MORNING MISSIVES

In the morning Ranthir tracked down two scrolls detailing the creation of missive tokens. One he used to create a new missive token for Kalerecent to make sure the Banewarrens remained secure; the other he would study so that he could create them at will in the future.

The morning newssheets reported that, prior to the Midtown kidnapping, children had been disappearing from the Warrens for weeks… but no one had been reporting on it. (It was just the Warrens, after all.)

The more sensational headlines, however, reported three more killings on the Columned Row in Oldtown. Like the priest the night before, the victims had had their heads ripped open.

“Did we do that?” Elestra asked.

“No. I’m pretty sure—Wait, when did it happen? No, that wasn’t us.”

The murderer was being referred to as the “Columned Row Killer”.

Not long after, Shim reported to them. Physical scouting around Porphyry House had found no other entrances. He had tried to track down the architect responsible for the building, but nobody knew who had designed or built the place.

He was able to tell them that Porphyry House had first opened 12 months earlier (in Kadal 789). It had replaced a smaller, less prestigious brothel that had previously been built on the same site. There were rumors that, since that time, Porphyry House had been trying to force other brothels out of business in an effort to corner the market. The place was particularly famed for reputedly being able to instantly cater to the most specific (and perverted) needs of its clients. Shim had also learned that a major orgy was to be held at the House on the 18^th of Noctural.

Thanking Shim for what he had found, they focused their attention on forming a plan of action. They briefly revisited the idea of trying to break in through the sewers, but ended up rejecting it because they would need clairvoyance spells to pinpoint where to dig and they suspected such spells might trigger alarms within Porphyry House.

Instead they decided to use their stone-shaping spells to simply tunnel in through a side wall.

Running the Campaign: NPC Conversation Agendas – Campaign Journal: Session 43E
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

Mouser: Okay. Let’s get out of here. I open the door.

GM: When the Gray Mouser opens the door, where’s everyone standing?

Pippin: Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!

Merlin: As far away as possible!

Conan: Rogue go boom!

On the Alexandrian Discord, CorpCord asked, “How do you avoid revealing that a decision is important by framing it, when the characters wouldn’t know?” In other words, there are lots and lots of little, incidental things that our characters do in the game world — e.g., choosing exactly where to stand in a room; picking which tie to wear; deciding whether to drink the white or red wine — that we don’t typically call out or interrogate at the gaming table.

But if a situation arises where that information suddenly becomes vital — e.g., the trapped door is about to explode— the fact that the GM is suddenly asking for it makes it difficult or impossible for the players to make the choice as if they were their characters: Their characters don’t know that their choice of wine is vital (because it’s poisoned), but the player does. And that metagame knowledge will either influence their decision, affect their immersion in the scene, or both.

Let’s consider a few other examples:

• They’re walking down a hall and a trap goes off… what was the marching order?
• The pressure plate for the trap is in the middle of the hall… so are the PCs walking there or are they hugging the walls?
• They’re all back at Suzie’s “safe” house when someone throws a pipe bomb through the window… who was in the living room at that moment?
• The businessman they’re meeting is a close friend of Adlai Stevenson… so is the PC wearing their I Like Ike button?

When dealing with a situation like this we can start by asking ourselves how much benefit of the doubt we should give the players. (For example, is it reasonable to assume that the group is always cautiously backing off whenever the rogue is opening a suspicious door?) This is actually a subset of figuring out the threshold for player expertise triggering character expertise, as described in The Art of Rulings.

The answer here is situational. (Do we assume PCs are as cautious opening a door at the local tavern as they are opening a door in the dungeon?) But it’s also about achieving desired gameplay. I generally recommend leaning towards giving the players the benefit of the doubt (because capricious or unfair “Gotchas!” usually aren’t fun), but if we just assume that the PCs are always doing the optimal action — they always check the chests for traps; they would have obviously hired an NPC security team to keep watch outside their safe house; their character would clearly know to make polite inquiries about the political allegiance of the businessman — then the game starts playing itself, and that isn’t fun, either.

In other words, you need player expertise to activate character expertise. Which means, sometimes, you have to ask the question and tip your hand.

So what can we do about this? Let’s break it down.

First, specific declarations by the players should, obviously, always be respected. For example, if someone said they’re standing in the hall keeping a lookout for goblins, then they’re in the hall. None of the techniques below will cause them to suddenly be standing by the door when the explosion goes off (unless, of course, they make another declaration changing their location).

Next, if there’s a particular type of information that you’re constantly finding yourself wanting, you should set up a standard operating procedure with the players to provide it. Marching order in a dungeon is a good example of this, whether it’s determining who gets hit by a trap or where people are standing when the group is ambushed.

In some cases, you might have multiple SOPs and the players can indicate which one they’re currently using. For example, in an urban campaign what you’re wearing might be frequently important, so the group might be in Adventuring Gear or High Social — and, in each case, everyone at the table will know what outfit each PC is wearing.

If you don’t have an SOP, then one technique is to lay down a false trail. In other words, don’t ask the players where their characters are standing ONLY when the rogue is about to open a trapped door. Instead, occasionally ask them for “incidental” details like that when there’s no risk. This obfuscates the metagame knowledge being imparted by the question.

You can also strategically use this technique to build up a bunch of false tension… and then releasing it with a feeling of relief when nothing happens. (If you’re wondering why you’d want to do this, check out how horror movies us this technique.) Even better, this can also result in the players getting lulled into a false sense of security. (“Justin’s just trying to scare us again. You’re not fooling me this—” BOOM!)

You can further throw them off the trail by using these declarations to, instead of assessing danger, paint the scene. For example, you can ask everyone where they’re at or what they’re doing in the safe house and then use that information to give a little description of what everyone is doing. This can help to draw the players into the reality of the game world (by getting them to actually form a specific picture of what their character is doing)… while also setting them up for those moments when the same or similar question is determining where they’re at when the pipe bomb goes off.

Another effective technique is to vary the right answer when asking these hand-tipping questions. Instead of a trapped door exploding and hurting everyone close by, for example, it might be a situation where everyone taking shelter suddenly finds themselves stuck outside the room by a force field. Or maybe when the rogue touches the weird, glowing blue sphere, everyone within ten feet gets blessed.

Building this type of variation into your scenario design means that, even if the players are triggered by the metagame knowledge that you’re asking the question, they’ll still need to think about what their answer will be. (Instead of just automatically running as far away as they can.)

Basically, all of this is aimed at allowing their character to be competently aware of the heightened stakes of a situation, while not necessarily giving them the equivalent of a spidey-sense that unerringly warns them of incoming danger. False alarms, mixed signals, reversed expectations, and the like can all help.

Along similar lines, you can disguise the question by getting the incidental information you need as part of a different question. For example:

GM: The door is locked.

Conan: I’m going to kick it open!

GM: Is anyone helping Conan force open the door?

This is a mechanically significant question (since it will give Conan a bonus on their Open Door check), but you’re also sneakily establishing who’s at the door. (And, using benefit of the doubt, you could then infer that anyone not helping is standing far enough back not to get hit by the trap.)

Another effective disguise can be hiding the question in a little throwaway add-on to a different question. For example, as you’re getting ready to transition to the PCs’ meeting with Paul Dubois:

GM: Okay, you finish feeding the corpse into the wood chipper and then dump the chunks into the tank. You’re covered in blood, but the sharks will take care of the body.

Suzie: Well… I probably shouldn’t walk around town looking like this. I’ll head back to the safe house and get changed.

GM: Give me a Stealth check to see if you can cross town without anyone noticing your appearance.

Suzie: 12.

GM: Great. You make it back to the safe house without incident. After stripping off your blood-soaked track suit, what’s your new outfit?

Here the question of, “What are you wearing?” (i.e., will you mention your favorite I Like Ike pin?) seems to just naturally emerge from the chain of events. You could even reinforce this by waiting for Suzie to describe her outfit, and then saying something like, “Okay, it takes about an hour to get cleaned up, but then Suzie walks out the front door in her beautiful blue dress…” (By using the information to paint the scene, you’ve also provided an explanation for why you collected that information.)

Finally, you can enhance all of these techniques by anticipating the decision. For example, if you know that the door out of the room is trapped, don’t wait until someone goes over to the door to figure out where everyone is standing. Instead, ask the question early. The players might get suspicious… but then nothing immediately happens, so they’ll assume you were just trying to spook them. Or you take that information and use it to re-establish the scene, so they just dismiss it as part of the natural flow of the scene. But then, having established the scene (“so while Conan is poking at the pile of rags, Merlin is studying the orrery”), you now know exactly where everyone is and will continue to be unless they explicitly declare that they’re moving.

Now, when the rogue over and starts checking out the door, you don’t need to ask the question again, and the players are never tipped off.

Thanks to CorpCord for asking the question that inspired this tip.

A classic walks among us once more: It is time to visit the legendary City State of the Invincible Overlord, a hoary relic left from the younger days of roleplaying.

Review Originally Published February 12th, 2001

Once upon a time, there was a company known as the Judges Guild. In their day they released more than one hundred “generic fantasy” (nudge, nudge; wink, wink) supplements. The quality of these supplements – easily some of the best material produced to that date – earned the Guild a reputation of excellence. But then the Guild went away and – although nostalgia granted it a place in the collective memory of gamedom – its products faded into the mists of time.

Undoubtedly the Guild’s most famous product, and the one which still holds renown twenty years later, was City State of the Invincible Overlord. This incredible volume described its titular subject with exacting detail: Every street and nearly every building is given a description, a cast of characters, and set of events – minimalist in each instance, perhaps, but monstrous in totality. Add to this the dungeon complexes of the Overlord’s castle, the Orcs of the Purple Claw, and the nearby Thunderhold (a dwarven citadel) and you have a product which was capable of acting as the epic cornerstone of many a campaign.

A few years after the Judges Guild disappeared, the City State supposedly returned in a boxed set released by Mayfair. This product was a travesty – robbing the City State of its former breadth of detail, while simultaneously failing to grant it any significant depth. It was obviously one of those horrid examples of someone trying to “save” a product which they don’t understand, and which never needed “saving” in the first place.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, a few months ago when I discovered that the Judges Guild had returned. No, not a “new Judges Guild.” Not someone who’s bought the name, nor someone who’s trying to copy the concept, but the founder himself and a crew dedicated to “bringing back Judges Guild the way it was – but better”. (As the Judges Guild website says.)

And their first product? What else besides a re-release of the revised version of their classic City State, complete with two B&W poster maps and everything which made the original a classic.

For $10.

Yup, you read that right: One of the classic products of gaming is back, and they’re only asking ten bucks for it. Ten measly bucks.

If you haven’t already left to go buy your copy yet, then it’s obvious you’re going to need a hard sell – which sounds like a cue for the conclusion of this review:

CONCLUSION

City State of the Invincible Overlord is a hoary relic left from the younger days of roleplaying… but there’s a reason it’s regarded as a classic: There’s more fodder here for the imaginative DM than the more polished products of today could hope to squeeze into twice as many pages.

Of course, let’s not pretend that the polished products of today don’t come with a lot more depth, development, and useful bits, too. They do. So, there’s a lot of fix-up you’re going to need to do – and a lot of development which is left to your own personal whim and taste: But at $10, City State is still a veritable steal.

City State is a firm foundation. And what you choose to build on it is all part of the fun.

Style: 3
Substance: 4

Grade: B+

Title: City State of the Invincible Overlord (Revised)
Authors: Bob Bledsaw and Bill Own
Company: Judges Guild
Line: Judges Guild
Price: $10.00
ISBN: n/a
Production Code: JG1999-0062
Pages: 86

I’d been hearing about the City State of the Invincible Overlord almost from the moment I joined the hobby, but I’d never even seen a copy. When I saw a copy of the Mayfair boxed set in the used section of my local game store, I instantly snatched up a copy… only to be bitterly disappointed to discover that it wasn’t the “real deal,” so to speak.

So, in 2001, this wasn’t quite the Holy Grail of Gaming for me. But it was certainly a Grail. So, yeah, when I heard that Judges Guild was back and selling the original City State of the Invincible Overlord for $10, I literally could not order a copy fast enough. It remains one of my most cherished gaming books.

If you’d like to see some tangible details about the book, its history, and its contents, check out Thinking About Urbancrawls: City States of the Judges Guild.

For an explanation of where these reviews came from and why you can no longer find them at RPGNet, click here.

DISCUSSING
In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 43C: Battle of the Banewarrens

They had pushed the lamia back into the generator chamber itself, but discovered that the darkness extended even here.

Tor, hanging close to the lamia in an effort to keep her under control, was taking a terrible beating. He called out for help. Nasira, still standing outside the area of magical darkness, shook her head. “I don’t want to go in there.”

But she plunged in anyway. They needed her, after all.

The exact details of how you need to handle magical darkness — particularly the mechanical details — will depend on exactly how it’s defined in your RPG of choice. For the purposes of this discussion, let’s assume that magical darkness

• fills a specific three-dimensional area; and
• nullifies and blocks all light within the area.

So no light source within the area will illuminate and you also can’t see light (or anything else) on the far side of an area of magical darkness. (As opposed to normal darkness, in which you could see a distant light even if you couldn’t see some of the intervening space due to a lack of illumination.)

In real life, if you had to fight or maneuver in a sealed room without any light you would effectively be blind. If you were swinging a sword, you would just be swinging it wildly, perhaps guided a little by sound or physical feedback (e.g., your sword hitting the wall or furniture or even your target).

At the game table, though, this is difficult to emulate. If a character blindly gropes in front of them with their hand, how should we determine what they feel? If they swing their sword, how do we figure out if they actually hit anything?

KNOWLEDGE OF THE SPACE

The first thing to consider is whether the character knows what’s in the darkness.

Imagine a room in your house that’s been shrouded in magical darkness. You might even have experienced something akin to this if the power has gone out in a windowless room or on a moonless night. You would have an advantage navigating through this space even in utter darkness because you’ve seen it before. You know the rough dimensions of the room and where the furniture is and where the exits are.

But if the same thing happened to you in a room you’ve never seen before, you’d be much more likely to bark your shins on the coffee table.

This is also going to be true for a character in an RPG: Standing in a room and having darkness cast on you after you’ve already observed your surroundings is fundamentally different than, for example, opening a door in a dungeon and being confronted by a face full of darkness with no idea what lies beyond it/within it.

So this is the first paradigm to grasp in running magical darkness: Moving blindly through a known space is different than blindly exploring an unknown space.

Let’s start by assuming that the PC knows the space, but can’t see it:

1. They’re still going to be using their sense of touch to try to orient (i.e., putting their hand out to find a piece of furniture they know is “around here somewhere”).
2. They’re probably going to be moving more slowly/cautiously.
3. There’s still a risk that they’ll make a mistake and “get lost” – ending up in the wrong place, tripping over something, etc.

To achieve the first point, you’ll want to adopt a strong POV narration. As GMs, it’s not unusual for our descriptions to be in the third person, describing rooms in holistic, general terms of what the whole group collectively sees. This inclination can leave you baffled when you try to describe the blind character’s perceptions, for they will largely not have a holistic view of the room — they will often be perceiving only sound, perhaps some details of the surface they’re walking on (texture, angle, etc.), and the one thing that their outstretched hand is touching. You can (and should!) employ the Three of Five (sans sight, of course), but frame the description intimately for each PC as they take action:

You step towards where you remember the door being. After a couple of steps, you feel the crunch of the broken eggshells under your feet. Your hand touches the back of the rocking chair, and you can run you fingers along that, reaching out with your other hand until it finds the back of the door.

Darkness turns us all into islands. Even if the PCs are all in the same room, it will likely feel much more like they’ve split up and are all exploring different areas at the same time. (Although clever PCs may counteract that to some extent by, for example, linking arms so that they don’t become separated.)

In terms of movement, I generally find it useful to have a mechanical model for both caution and disorientation. It’s also useful if the player can choose to trade-off between the two — e.g., they can try to move faster, but the risk of running into stuff goes up; or they can move even more cautiously and reduce their potential hazard.

A simple example would be, when blind:

• You must make a Perception check. On a failure, you suffer a disorientation complication due to being unable to see. (This is at the GM’s discretion — e.g., you become disoriented and go in the wrong direction. Or you stumble over something and have to make a Tumble check or fall prone.)
• You move at half speed. If you choose to move at full speed instead, you must make a Tumble check or fall prone and your Perception check to avoid a disorientation complication is made at a penalty.
• You can move with extra caution at one-quarter speed, in which case you gain advantage on your Perception check to avoid disorientation.

This is, again, just one example. You could also imagine:

• When PCs are moving blind, the GM rolls 1d6. On a roll of 1 or 2, they suffer a disorientation complication. On a roll of 6 they must make a save vs. Paralysis or fall prone.
• PCs moving with caution at half-speed through darkness only suffer a disorientation complication on a roll of 1.

But, as you can see, this general paradigm can be adapted for use across many different mechanical systems. (And can usually incorporate what the system’s normal mechanics for blindness — vis-à-vis penalties on Perception/Spot Hidden/whatever rolls — may be.)

UNKNOWN SPACES

When a character is entering a darkened area they haven’t seen before, it becomes more difficult because the player can’t describe their intentions in terms of the known space. (They can’t, for example, say, “I’m going to head over towards the couch,” or, “I’m going to try to find the door on the far side of the room,” because, obviously, they don’t know the couch or the door exist.)

There a couple ways to handle this.

First, there’s groping by square. This works best if you’re using something like a Chessex battlemap where you can literally draw the room one space at a time. The player essentially moves their character one space at a time, revealing the space as they go. If they encounter an obstacle, you can call for perception-type tests and acrobatics-type tests to avoid complications tripping over stuff, making loud noises, and/or suffering damage (depending on the situation).

Second, there’s groping by vector. This is generally the way I prefer to handle it. The players will announce an intention about how they’re going to try to move through the darkness — e.g., “I’m going to walk into the room” or “I’m going to put my hand on the wall and try to follow it around” — and you can think of that as a vector pointing through the darkened area. Follow that vector until it hits something — e.g., a couch, the far wall, an ogre mage — and describe the scene accordingly. For example, “Okay, you walk into the room, you hand outstretched. You go about ten feet and then your hand encounters some sort of firm object covered in a velvety fabric.”

Characters can burn up additional movement or perhaps expend an action or bonus action, depending on the system you’re using, to stop and investigate obstacles they encounter.

As they explore the darkness, of course, they’ll be building up a mental picture of where stuff is in the darkened space.

Note: What about getting disoriented and moving in the wrong direction? Practically speaking, this is essentially impossible when groping by square. If you’re groping by vector it’s more achievable as a complication, but will almost always result in horrific confusion for the players. Unless you’re specifically aiming for that, I recommend avoiding it. You can reintroduce getting lost once they’ve established a mental picture of the space and begin declaring intentions like, “Okay, I’m going to go back over to the couch.” (Do they actually get to the couch or end up missing it in the dark?) In other words, as the unknown space transitions to a known space — even if they only know it through their fingertips — you can similarly transition to the known space structure.

PINPOINTING

Another useful mental model for handling blindness is pinpointing sound. For example, a PC hears someone running through a darkened room. Can they figure out where the footsteps are coming from and where they’re going?

To put this another way, when describing what the PCs hear in a darkened area there are, I tend to think of it as being in one of three broad states:

• They can hear it (e.g., you hear something breathing loudly).
• They have a general sense of where it’s coming from (e.g., you hear heavy breathing coming from off to your left).
• They can pinpoint its location (e.g., you hear heavy breathing; someone — or something! — is standing by the bookshelf).

Which state applies will depend on the situation. (For example, if the PCs are in a bathroom and they hear splashing, you don’t have to wonder whether or not they can figure out it’s coming from the full bath they saw before the lights went out.)

If a PC hasn’t already pinpointed where a sound is coming from, they can likely do so through a perception-type test. When implementing this mechanically, I recommend doing so in a way that lets them pinpoint and take an action in the same round (e.g., as a reaction to the sound or as a bonus action in D&D 5^th Edition). It’s possible that different thresholds of success will give a more accurate idea of location — e.g., DC 10 means you hear the heavy breathing; DC 14 means you have a general sense of where it’s coming from; DC 18 means you can pinpoint its location.

If you’re already making perception-type tests for maneuvering through the darkness, you might also use the results from that check to feed auditory information.

IN COMBAT

Now that we have a basic mental model for how to handle characters interacting with and moving through darkened areas, we can add the massive complication of trying to fight people in the darkness.

It’s not unusual, of course, for an RPG to have specific mechanics for fighting in darkness. Sometimes these mechanics are great. Sometimes they’re convoluted messes. Sometimes, like in D&D 5^th Edition, they’re just dumb. (It’s just as easy to shoot someone completely hidden in darkness as it is to shoot someone standing in broad daylight because the advantage and disadvantage cancel out! Derp, derp, derp.)

Broadly speaking, though, there are three things to consider for combat in darkened areas:

1. Movement, which can be handled as per the above.
2. If you want to make an attack, you need to guess where you target is.
3. Your attack will have some sort of penalty or miss chance.

The penalty to your attack will usually be handled by your RPG’s mechanics. (If not, of course, you’ll need to make a ruling on this. Generally, I would suggest a moderate penalty: Needing to guess the target’s location is going to cause a lot of whiffing all by itself.)

If they’re guessing on a battlegrid, this is as simple as the player declaring what space they’re going to target. If someone/something is standing there, you can resolve the attack. (Even if there isn’t, I recommend still having them roll attack as a metagame effect. You can imagine someone potentially wailing away at a coat rack while being utterly convinced they’re locked in mortal combat.)

If they’re guessing in the theater of the mind, the challenge is getting a clear targeting declaration from the player and then figuring out how to translate that into the combat mechanics. Diegetically, you’re going to get (or want to encourage) declarations like:

• “He’s off to my left! I swing my sword at him!” (i.e., a direction)
• “I think she’s standing by the bookshelf! I empty my pistol at her!” (i.e., a landmark)
• “She’s trying to run away! I lay down suppressive fire on the doorway!” (i.e., a specific spot)
• “I can hear splashing, so they must be somewhere down by the water line!”

A useful mental model for parsing these declarations it to classify them as:

• specific spot
• small area
• large area
• wild shot (e.g., “I shoot the darkness!”)

Think about how you might mechanically adjudicate these to make them distinct and meaningful. That might be a random determination if they actually hit the right spot; a miss chance check; or simply a penalty to their attack roll. For example:

• Specific Spot: If there’s a target there, resolve the attack normally, with modifiers for being blind.
• Small Area: 5 in 6 chance they picked right.
• Large Area: 2 in 6 chance they picked right.
• Wild Shot: 1 in 6 chance they picked right.

Again, this is just one possible way of adjudicating the underlying mental model of the ruling.

When shooting blindly into an area, you may also want to model the risk of hitting the wrong target. For example, if there are three potential targets (enemy and ally alike) in the area a PC has said they’re wildly swinging their sword through, then you might pick one randomly before checking to see if they hit anything at all.

Note: You can also use the techniques for declaring targets in the theater of the mind when using a battlemap. There may be times when a player’s understanding of the situation is just better suited to “I swing sword wildly off to my left” or “I shoot towards the grand piano” are better fits than “I pick that specific square.”

NPCs

Of course, to do any of this you will need to keep track of where the NPCs are located.

If you’re running the encounter in the theater of the mind, then you can just handle this the way you always do. You just won’t give the players access to information that the PCs don’t have.

If you’re using a battlemap, on the other hand, then darkened areas pose a unique difficulty (unless you’re using some sort of VTT option that can handle line of sight automatically). What I typically do is just transition darkened areas into theater of the mind tracking. You might instead prefer to sketch out a small map of the darkened area behind the GM screen and keep track of the NPC combatants on that.

The truth is that, no matter which approach you take, there will likely be some metagame knowledge for the players to contend with. (For example, when you tell Arathorn’s player that they can feel a door with their outstretched, groping hands, Lady Emily’s player will also become aware of that even if her character doesn’t yet.) If you’ve got a group who can handle that kind of metagame knowledge maturely, things will be a lot easier. If not, then you may need to figure out what information needs to be communicated secretly (which tends to create a lot of extra headaches and confusion).

Note: Keep in mind there’s a gray area here. Can we assume, for example, that Arathorn calls out the door’s location to his companions even if he doesn’t explicitly say that? Frequently. And if Lady Emily is attacked by goblins, it’s not unreasonable for other players to act as if their players heard the attack and her screams of pain even if, again, that’s never explicitly stated.

Another factor to consider is roleplaying blinded NPCs. Unlike the players, as the GM you have an omniscient knowledge of the battlefield. This makes it essentially impossible for you to truly make blind guesses for where the NPCs will be targeting their attacks.

The key, though, is really in the word “roleplaying.” When deciding what a particular NPC will do, you really want to imagine yourself in their shoes: What do they know? What are they thinking? What emotions are they feeling? What decision might they make as a result?

When in doubt, use perception-type tests to figure out if they’ve got a PCs’ location narrowed down to a pinpoint, small area, or large area. Or just flip a coin to see if they make a mistake.

IN SUMMARY

This has been a lengthy discussion. It may feel like it’s too complicated or overwhelming. The truth, though, is that if you make this a practice point and maybe run a few training scenarios featuring darkness, then you’ll quickly come to grips with it.

The key thing to grok is that there are a handful of useful mental models for making these rulings.

How PCs move through the dark.

• They declare movement by either a known landmark or groping (by square or vector).
• They likely move with a reduced speed.
• There is a risk of a complication (falling, making noise, suffering injury, etc.).

How PCs perceive information in the dark.

• Emphasize touch and sound with a strong POV narration.
• For sounds, characters can hear it, have the sense of a general location, or pinpoint its location.

How the PCs declare a target in the dark.

• They can declare their target by specific area, small area, large area, or wild shot.
• There may be a risk of hitting the wrong target.

You will also need to keep track of where characters are located.

Once you master these mental models, you’ll find it fairly easy to use them to make rulings in almost any RPG you choose to run. The specific mechanics, of course, will vary and have an impact on how things actually work in play, but the model will give consistent guidance and help you provide a high-quality experience at the table.

Campaign Journal: Session 43D – Running the Campaign: NPC Conversation Agendas
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index