C. writes:

Someone on Twitter posted a meme suggesting that players can’t do anything creative in D&D because the DM won’t allow it. What’s your reaction?

Okay, so the hypothetical GM in this meme is clearly a bad GM. Anyone who has had anything remotely resembling a positive experience playing an RPG can look at that dialogue and know instantly in their gut that there’s something deeply wrong about it.

The more interesting question, I think, is exactly why this GM is bad. Where did they go wrong? And what should they have done?

Player: Can I say “Hello” to the barmaid?

DM: No, that’s not a rule.

If you think a PC can’t do anything unless there’s an explicit rule allowing you to do it, then you have misunderstood the core identity of an RPG and also misapprehended the primary function of the GM, whose mechanical role at the table is at least 90% making rulings about stuff not explicitly covered by the rules.

That’s the first place they went wrong.

The second place is the most prima facie: Their first reaction to player creativity is shutting it down. If all you’re interested in are players interacting through rigid mechanical structures, play a boardgame or a wargame. RPGs literally exist for the sole purpose of NOT doing that. There’s a reason that Default to Yes is a fundamental principle of effective GMing.

And it’s not like this is some kind of big secret. The 5^th Edition Player’s Handbook explicitly tells the DM that this is what they should be doing:

IMPROVISING AN ACTION

Your character can do things not covered by the actions in this [Combat] chapter, such as breaking down doors, intimidating enemies, sensing weaknesses in magical defenses, or calling for a parley with a foe. The only limits to the actions you can attempt are your imagination and your character’s ability scores…

When you describe an action not detailed elsewhere in the rules, the DM tells you whether that action is possible and what kind of roll you need to make, if any, to determine success or failure.

(PHB, p. 193)

And, in addition to ability score checks, 5E gives the GM some very powerful tools for making rulings. Despite this, I am continually amazed at the number of people running the game who ignore:

1. Group checks (PHB, p. 175)
2. Contests in Combat (PHB, p. 195)
3. Improvised advantage/disadvantage (PHB, p. 173)
4. Improvised damage (DMG, p. 249)

With these tools in hand, let’s take a quick look at how our hypothetical GM could have easily resolved these proposed actions.

SHOVING BOOKCASES

Let’s start with the easiest one:

Player: Ok, so what if I try to knock over that bookcase over there, trapping the bandit underneath?

This is pretty obviously a contest in combat. It’s going to be some kind of Strength check for pushing over the bookcase (probably Athletics) opposed by some sort of Dexterity check by the bandit (probably Acrobatics or a Dexterity saving throw).

What effect would this have if successful? Well, the bandit would obviously be knocked prone and I’d probably rule that they need to succeed on some kind of Strength check to shove the bookcase off before they could get up.

Alternatively, if the PC was going to try to actively hold them down (perhaps standing on the bookcase), I might instead resolve the whole thing as a grappling attempt with the bookcase granting advantage on the check.

LIGHTING SWORDS ON FIRE

Player: Can I light my sword on fire?

This one is a bit trickier, but that’s mostly because we don’t have enough information. So I’d start by asking them exactly how they were planning to “light their sword on fire.”

For the sake of argument, let’s say that the player has some oil and they want to douse their sword with it and then light it on fire with their torch.

Our ruling will again boil down to resolution and effect.

I don’t think any kind of check is actually required here. So, in terms of resolution, the pertinent question is really: How long does it take? Well, this is an object interaction: Dousing the sword is one interaction. Lighting it is another. Your first object interaction on your turn is free; your second costs an action.

And then what’s the effect of lighting the sword on fire? Well, this seems to boil down to two questions:

• How long does it burn for?
• How much damage does it do?

In terms of duration, I’d say 1d6 rounds. Maybe you’d say 1d4 or 1d8 rounds. But it’s not like a sword is really designed to hold a lot of oil, right?

And how much damage does it do? Well, we could look at the Improvising Damage table (DMG, p. 249) and figure that this is pretty similar to “burned by coals,” in which case it would deal 1d10 fire damage. On the other hand, we might consider the fire to be equivalent to an improvised weapon, which would suggest 1d4 fire damage. Something in that range feels reasonable.

For more on burning oil, check out Running the Campaign: On the Efficacy of Burning Oil.

STABBING PEOPLE IN THE EYE

Player: Can I aim for the weak parts of the monster? Like stabbing it in the eye?

Adjudicating this one requires some subtlety. The player is requesting a called shot here, and I discuss these in more detail (and give a framework for resolving them) in Untested 5^th Edition: Called Shots, but here’s the short version.

First, if their primary goal is to “stab them where it will do the most damage,” then we have a mechanic for resolving that: It’s the attack roll. Literally any time you make an attack in D&D, you’re trying to hit your target in a vulnerable spot and deal the most damage possible.

Second, when making combat rulings like this, something you should double check is whether or not there’s a reason that the PC wouldn’t do it every single time.

• Our bookcase ruling passes this test, because you can only do it when there’s a bookcase.
• Lighting your sword in fire for some extra damage is nice, but you have to pay for the oil (in both gold and encumbrance), plus our ruling included an action cost to get the sword lit in the first place.

But “I stab ‘em in the eye for more damage” fails this test because there’s no reason you wouldn’t just say that every time you make an attack.

With all that being said, however, if the player has some other goal in mind than just dealing damage – e.g., they want to temporarily blind the monster — then there are ways to handle that (and you can check out the article linked above for more details on that).

DESCRIBING YOUR ATTACKS

Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

In fact, letting players describe their successes is a great technique that can be developed in a lot of different ways. You may find it profitable to set it as the expected outcome at your table, or you may find it most appropriate when applied as a spice for significant moments (e.g., “Describe how you finish off this bandit!”)

You can even take this a step further by decoupling 0 hit points from death and instead, when that threshold is met, prompting the player to tell you what the defeat of the NPC means. Do they

• Kill them?
• Take them prisoner?
• Knock them unconscious?
• Send them fleeing for their lives?

But at this point we’re probably drifting a bit off-topic. What are your favorite examples of players getting creative at the table, and how did you resolve them?

Go to Ask the Alexandrian #10

One of the more fundamental divides in tabletop roleplaying is between those who have a gaming group and those who are going to play a game.

It seems subtle, but it’s actually huge.

If I have a group, we all need to find something we can enjoy together. That’s true whether it’s an RPG or a book club.

But if I say, “I’m running a game about dragonslayers, who’s interested?” that’s different.

“I have dracophobia! I don’t want to play a game with dragons!”

Great! Maybe the next game will work for you!

This isn’t some radical notion.

If I say, “Hey, let’s all go see a movie next week,” we need to agree on a film we all enjoy.

If I say, “I’m going to see Encanto, anybody want to come?” then you just don’t come if that’s not a movie you’re interested in.

Each event has a different premise. And when it comes to books, for example, people have no difficulty understanding the difference between book club selections and personal selections.

In tabletop roleplaying games, on the other hand, there’s a good portion of the fanbase who only reads books in book club and many of them simply assume that it’s the only way to read books. So they interpret a statement of “this is the book I’m reading” to mean “I’m going to kick you out of the book club if you don’t read it with me.”

You’ll frequently see people online, for example, replying to statements like “this is the game I’m running” as a “red flag” revealing that the GM is some sort of tin-pot dictator forcing their players into misery.

Those who aren’t in a movie club, on the other hand, are baffled by a claim that it’s some sort of ethical failing to arrange a group outing to see a specific film.

(The Geek Social Fallacies may also play a role here.)

THE LOCAL POOL

For context, rather than having a gaming group, what I have is a local pool of a few dozen people that I will pitch specific games to: These might be roleplaying and storytelling games (like Blades in the Dark, Ars Magica, or Brindlewood Bay). They might also be board games (like Captain Sonor or Gloomhaven).

Those interested in that game join. Those who aren’t, don’t.

I’ve built this pool primarily through my open tables, which make it a lot easier not only to introduce new players to RPGs for the first time, but also to invite existing players into my circle. (One of the many reasons I suggest that, if you want to increase the amount of gaming you do, having an open table in your pocket is an essential tool.)

I also have a couple of specific social groups active at the moment that stick together between campaigns or who got together as a group first and then figured out what game to play next. For those groups, of course, we find the game that everyone wants to play.

Returning to board games for a moment:

Sometimes we’re getting together to play Captain Sonor.

Sometimes we’re getting together to play with Peter and Hannah.

These are different premises.

They’re both okay.

Go to Table of Contents

Doing a deep pull from the archives today. Back in 2008, when the 4th Edition of Dungeons & Dragons came out, I did a remix of Keep on the Shadowfell, the quickstart adventure that was used to launch the new edition.

One of the things I did was expand the Kobold Lair. You can see my original map of the new version of the lair here:

John Leftwich has now created an impressive set of battlemaps which can be used with virtual tabletops or printed out for your home gaming table. You can click the images below to grab full-res images.

LIGHT

NO LIGHT

Back to Shadowfell Remix

DISCUSSING
In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 30D: A Plague of Wraiths

“Tee!”

Turning around at the sound of Dominic’s cry, Tee spotted a lamia-shaped wraith and a minotaur-shaped wraith hovering nearby – held at bay only by the divine energy that Dominic was still channeling through his holy symbol. Tee started to move into a firing position, but as she did the wraiths slipped around the far corner and disappeared into the room with the iron cauldron.

Gathering the others they followed the wraiths into the cauldron room. The two larger wraiths were lurking in the shadows here, along with two smaller ones.

Elestra cursed. “It got all of them? We have to kill them all over again?”

Here’s a thing that I don’t think happens nearly as often as it should in a D&D game.

PCs have a habit of leaving big piles of dead bodies in their wake.

You know who loves big piles of dead bodies?

Necromancers.

(Also strange necromantic miasmas, unfathomable alien spirits from beyond our plane of reality looking for a body to inhabit, toxic chemical spills, experimental zombie viruses, etc. etc. etc.)

The point is that if you’ve got a setting where undead are common + the PCs are constantly killing people, it just makes sense that they’re going to see some familiar faces when the shambling hordes show up.

This isn’t just a great seed for restocking your dungeons or dynamically keeping your sandbox in motion: It personalizes what would otherwise be generic undead encounters, while also getting the players to think about the long-term consequences of their actions. (Do we really want to be leaving all these corpses lying around?)

Once you’re thinking in these terms, of course, it’s not much of a leap to realize that this doesn’t have to be limited to slain enemies. Dead friends and allies are an equally fertile field. (Or, since we’re talking about undead, I suppose it might be whatever the opposite of a fertile field is?) This trope — of a one-time friend or family member returning as an undead monster — is actually quite common in horror films, so it’s surprising we don’t see it more frequently at the game table.

(I suspect this is because published adventures generally have to either eschew this sort of thing or take considerable effort to contrive the outcome: The can’t just say “…and then Lord Harlech comes back from the dead!” because they don’t know whether or not Lord Harlech has died in your campaign. But at your own table, of course, you don’t have to worry about infinite possibilities: You know who ranks among the dead. But I digress.)

Regardless, this technique is a great way to ratchet up the stakes and emotional investment of the players in the bad guy.

There is no greater enemy than one who was once a friend.

Campaign Journal: Session 31A – Running the Campaign: When Players Reincorporate
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

SESSION 30D: A PLAGUE OF WRAITHS

September 20th, 2008
The 17th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

Sir Gemmell’s letter only affirmed what Tor had already been planning: In order to keep with his image of loyalty to the Order and to Rehobath he needed to attend his training that day as planned. On the morrow he would meet with Sir Kabel and find out the rest of the story.

But by the time he had saddled Blue and begun riding north into the Temple District, Tor began to be plagued with doubt. What if the letter purporting to be from Sir Kabel was a trap of some sort? Surely he wouldn’t have been so foolish as to sign his own name? Why had the two letters arrived at nearly the same time?

Without having reached any sort of firm conclusion, Tor arrived at the Godskeep. He was escorted to the office which had once belonged to Sir Kabel… and were now occupied by Sir Gemmell.

“Master Tor, I’m honored to meet you.”

Tor thanked him and exchanged pleasantries, but Sir Gemmell was quick to his business. “I know that you were squired by Sir Kabel. I don’t know what his intentions were. But you’re a companion of the Chosen of Vehthyl and so I know that you must be faithful to the Church and to the Nine Gods. Know, then, that Kabel has betrayed both the Novarch and the Gods. His treacherous plots have resulted in the death of many of our brothers.”

“All I have ever wanted is to be a knight,” Tor said truthfully.

“Yes. And with Kabel’s treachery it is more important than ever that your training be completed as quickly as possible,” Sir Gemmell said. “It’s very likely that you will be contacted by Kabel. If that happens, you should alert us as quickly as possible. As long as he remains at large, we’re all in danger.”

“You think I might be harmed?” Tor asked blithely.

“Not as long as he thinks that he has some use to you. But after that? Who can say.”

Tor was given over to Sir Lagenn – a knight of the Order that he had not previously met – for his training. Sir Lagenn was burly and heavy-set, with a shaved head and a vicious, purple scar running from his left temple down to his jaw. Despite his brutish temperament, Sir Lagenn proved to be a competent and able teacher.

But as he trained, Tor’s thoughts were distracted by the two letters he had received. By the time Sir Lagenn called a halt to their exertions he had reached his conclusion: The letter from “Sir K” must be a fake. His loyalty was being test by Sir Gemmell.

Tor returned to Sir Gemmell’s office and gave the letter to him.

After reading it through, Sir Gemmell looked up at him. “Why didn’t you give this to me before?”

“To speak truthfully,” Tor said. “I felt torn in my loyalty between the Order and someone who had quickly become a mentor to me.”

“Well, your loyalty in this matter will no longer be tested. We shall attend to things from here. And do not seek any contact with Sir Kabel.”

“Of course,” Tor said.

Sir Gemmell looked back at the letter. “Why would he ask for the Chosen of Vehthyl?”

“I don’t know,” Tor said.

“Should Dominic’s trust in the Novarch be doubted?”

“I would never question it,” Tor said truthfully. (There was no question about it: Dominic didn’t trust him.)

A PLAGUE OF WRAITHS

Tee, meanwhile, had returned to the Banewarrens.

While fighting the wraiths the night before, Kalerecent had suffered a wound. At first he had thought it a small and inconsequential thing, but it wasn’t healing properly. In fact, it proved to be beyond the healing skills of both Kalerecent and Dominic combined. As a result, Kalerecent was forced to leave the Banewarrens to seek more powerful healing from the Church.

This proved fortunate, however, when Tor arrived before Kalerecent returned – giving them a chance to converse privately.

“I need to tell you what’s happened,” Tor said.

“Should we sit down again?” Elestra asked.

Tor nodded emphatically and then began his tale.

“And you’re sure the letter from Kabel was a fake?” Tee asked.

“It had to be,” Tor said.

Before they could discuss it further, Dominic heard Kalerecent returning down the tunnel and silently signaled the others.

With Kalerecent back on guard duty and Tor returned they were free to go back to the Banewarrens and continue their explorations.

But Tee had only barely emerged into the first chamber of the Banewarrens when she spotted two purplish wraiths trying to get past the warded door they had shut the night before. One of the wraiths might have been the one they had encountered before, but the other was larger… and shaped like the half-leonid lamia they had slain the day before.

Tee crept back to where Dominic was waiting and told him what she’d seen.

“That’s bullshit!”

“I know,” Tee agreed.

Tee led them back into the chamber. Dominic was considerably less stealthy than Tee had been and the wraiths heard his approach. But it didn’t matter: Raising the cross of Athor, he banished them into nothingness.

Tee went over to the warded door and locked it securely (which proved difficult to do without a key).

“Tee!”

Turning around at the sound of Dominic’s cry, Tee spotted a lamia-shaped wraith and a minotaur-shaped wraith hovering nearby – held at bay only by the divine energy that Dominic was still channeling through his holy symbol. Tee started to move into a firing position, but as she did the wraiths slipped around the far corner and disappeared into the room with the iron cauldron.

Gathering the others they followed the wraiths into the cauldron room. The two larger wraiths were lurking in the shadows here, along with two smaller ones.

Elestra cursed. “It got all of them? We have to kill them all over again?”

Agnarr took the lead and Ranthir took the opportunity to demonstrate how he had used his arcane arts to duplicate Dominic’s feat of divine infusion: He enlarged Agnarr to twice his normal height and girth.

Elestra and Tor worked the corners, keeping the wraiths from circling around Agnarr’s massive shoulders. But most of the damage was actually coming from Tee’s dragon pistol: Agnarr’s blade passed through the wraiths again and again, but frustratingly couldn’t seem to find any purchase in their semi-ethereal forms.

With the battle largely stalemated into one of stark attrition, Tor eventually got daring. Pushing his way past Tee he plunged through one of the wraiths, ripping it apart on the tip of his electrified blade. From there he raced behind the minotaur-shaped wraith, providing enough of a distraction – and a few wounding blows – for Agnarr to finally finish it off.

With the larger wraiths dispatched, the two smaller ones were quickly driven back up the stairs on the far side of the room and overwhelmed. But even as they were finishing off these smaller wraiths, four more of the goblin-spawned wraiths drifted up from behind them. In fact, they were nearly taken by surprise – only Dominic’s wary eyes saved them.

Ranthir hurried up the stairs and away from the wraiths, while everyone else headed down the stairs to face them. But the wraiths – perhaps sensing weakness – passed directly through the walls and emerged to assault Ranthir. Their spectral limbs plunged through him, and Ranthir felt the living breath and warmth of vitality fleeing from his limbs.

Tor dashed back up the stairs and, half shoving Ranthir out of the way, interposed himself between the staggered mage and the wraiths. But in the process, he, too was struck by their soul-icing touch.

Their tactical control of the situation was rapidly deteriorating. They had been flanked, separated, and badly wounded. But Dominic, having barely ducked away from the wraiths’ assault himself, raised his holy symbol again and called upon the power of his faith.

The wraiths fled. As they turned away, Tor destroyed one of them and Agnarr cut down another.

Two of the wraiths escaped and they cursed their luck, knowing that they would almost certainly be troubled by them again.

But perhaps it was for the best. Several of them could still feel the cold, cloying miasma of the wraiths sapping their strength and vitality. Knowing that, as with Kalerecent, only a more powerful channeling of divine energy could alleviate the pall, they resolved to abandon their current explorations and return to the surface.

Running the Campaign: The Undead Sequel  – Campaign Journal: Session 31A
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index