You’re running a scenario. The PCs have a fistful of leads telling them where they’re supposed to go next. (If you’re using node-based scenario design, they might have a fistful of clues pointing them towards multiple places they could choose to go next.) But instead of doing that, they head off in a completely different direction.

And there’s nothing there.

Maybe they’ve made a mistake. Maybe they’ve made a brilliant leap of deduction which turns out not to be so brilliant after all. Maybe they have good reason to look for more information in the local library or the newspaper morgue or the records of the local school district, but there’s nothing to be found there.

It’s a dead end.

And dead ends like this can be quite problematic because, once they have the bit in their teeth, players can be relentless: Convinced that there must be something there, they will try every angle they can think of to find the thing that doesn’t exist. In fact, I’ve seen any number of groups convince themselves that the fact they can’t find anything is proof that they must be on the right track!

Not only can this self-inflicted quagmire chew up huge quantities of time at the table to little effect, but once the players have invested all of this mental effort into unraveling an illusory puzzle, their ultimate “failure” can be a demoralizing blow to the entire session. The effort can also blot out the group’s collective memory of all the other leads they had before the wild goose chase began, completely derailing the scenario.

Fortunately, there are some simple techniques for quickly working past this challenge.

IS IT REALLY A DEAD END?

First things first: Is it really a dead end?

Just because they’re doing something you didn’t explicitly prep, that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. In fact, the principle of permissive clue-finding means that you should actually assume that there is something to be found there.

So, start by checking yourself. Is it really a dead end, or is it just a path you didn’t know was there?

Maybe the players thought of some aspect of the scenario that you didn’t while you were prepping it. (That can be very exciting!) And even if something is a wild goose chase, there can be interesting things to be found there even if they don’t immediately tie into the scenario the PCs are currently engaged with.

(This is also why I’ll tend to give my players more rope in exploring these “dead ends” during campaigns than I will during one-shots: The consequences of doing something completely unexpected can develop in really interesting ways in the long-term play of the campaign, but don’t really have time to go anywhere in a one-shot, and are therefore usually better pruned. Also, if the scenario runs long because you had a really cool roleplaying interaction with Old Ma Ferguson that everyone enjoyed — even though she has nothing to do with the current scenario — it’s fine to hang out the To Be Continued shingle in a campaign and wrap things up in the next session, which is, once again, not an option in a one-shot.)

If it’s not really a dead end, then you should obviously roll with it and see where it takes you. If you don’t feel confident in your ability to improvise the unexpected curveball, that’s okay: Call for a ten minute break and spend the time throwing together some quick prep notes.

Although you don’t need to announce the reason for the break, it’s generally okay for the players to know that they’ve gone diving off the edge of your prep. Most players, in fact, love it. The fact you’re rolling with it shows that you creatively trust them, and they will return that trust. It also deepens the sense of the game world as a “real” place that the players are free to explore however they choose to, and that’s exciting.

FRAME PAST IT

But what if it really is a dead end? There’s nothing interesting where the PCs are heading and, therefore, nothing to be gained by playing through those events.

Well, if there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there.

At its root, this is a problem of pacing. And, therefore, we’re going to turn to The Art of Pacing for our solution. In short, you’re going to frame hard into abstract time, quickly sum up the nothing that they find, and then move on.

For example:

• “You spend the afternoon asking around the Docks for anyone who’s seen Jessica, but you can’t find anyone who saw her down here.”
• “You roll up on Jefferson Sienna, haul him down the precinct, and grill him for four hours. But you come up dry: He doesn’t know anything.”
• “You drive over to Mayfair to see if the library has the book you’re looking for, but their selection of occult books is pretty sparse.”

The most straightforward, all-purpose version of this is to simply tell the players, “You’re barking up the wrong tree. This isn’t the solution, there’s nothing to be found here, and the scenario is in a different direction.” But this direct approach is usually a bad idea: You know all that stuff I said about how much the players love knowing the game world exists beyond the boundaries of your prep and that they’re truly free to do anything and go anywhere? Well, this is basically the opposite of that. Even if you don’t strictly mean it that way, the players are going to interpret this as, “You can only go where you’re allowed to go.”

The distinction between “this isn’t the right way, try something else” and “you did it and didn’t find anything, now what?” might seem rather small. But in my experience the difference in actual play is very large.

(I suspect the difference is partly diegetic: One is a statement about the game world, the other is a directive from the GM to the players. But I think it’s also because the formulation of “you did it” still inherently values the players’ contribution: I didn’t tell you that you couldn’t do the thing you wanted to do; I was open to trying it, you did it, and it just didn’t pan out. It’s a fine line to walk, but an important one.)

The key here, once again, is to quickly sum up the totality of their intended course of action, rapidly resolve it, and then prompt them for the next action: “What do you do next?”

A good transition here can be, “What are you trying to do here?”

This pops the players out of action-by-action declarations and prompts them to sum up the totality of their intention. You then take their statement, rephrase it as a description of them doing exactly that, and then move on.

Player: Okay, I’m going to drive over to Mayfair.

GM: What are you planning to do?

Player: I want to check out the library there, see if they have a copy of My Name is Dirk A that hasn’t been stolen yet.

GM: Okay, you drive over to the Mayfair library to see if they have a copy of the book. But their selection of occult books is pretty sparse. It doesn’t look like they ever had a copy for circulation. It’s about 6 p.m. by the time you pull out. The sun’s getting low. Now what?

It’s a little like judo: You just take what they give you and redirect it straight back at them.

ADVANCED TECHNIQUES

Where appropriate, further empower the players’ intention by calling for an appropriate skill check: Streetwise to ask questions around the Docks. Detective to interrogate Jefferson Sienna. Library Use to scour the stacks at Mayfair Library.

The check can’t succeed, obviously, since you already know that there’s nothing to find here: Jessica wasn’t at the Docks. Jefferson Sienna isn’t involved in this. Mayfair Library doesn’t own the book.

Calling for the check, however, is part and parcel of allowing the player to truly pursue the action they want to pursue and resolving it truthfully within the context of the game world, while also letting the player know that this is what you’re doing.

If the group is currently split up, you can also “disguise” the simple judo of this interaction by cutting away once they’ve declared their intention and then cutting back for the resolution.

GM: Bruce, you find Jefferson Sienna smoking outside of his club. What are you planning to do here, exactly?

Player: I want to haul him down to the precinct and grill him about the missing diamonds.

GM: Great. Give me a Detective check. Tammy, what are you doing?

[run stuff with Tammy for a bit]

GM: Okay, Bruce, you spent the afternoon grilling Jefferson Sienna in Interrogation Room #1. What did you get on your Detective check?

Player: 18.

GM: Hmm. Okay. Unfortunately, you come up dry: He really doesn’t know anything. What are you doing after you cut him loose?

SCENES THAT DRIVE INTO A DEAD END

Sometimes it’s not the whole scene that’s a dead end (whether you planned it ahead of time or not): Jefferson Sienna wasn’t involved in the heist, but he’s heard word on the street that Joe O’Connell was the one fencing the diamonds. That’s an important clue!

… but then the PCs just keep asking questions. They’re convinced Sienna must know something else, or they’re just paranoid that they’ll miss some essential clue if they don’t squeeze blood from this stone. The scene has turned into a dead end.

Now what?

First, you can give yourself permission to just do a sharp cut: If the scene is over, the scene is over. Frame up the next scene and move on.

However, if the PCs are actively engaged with the scene and trying to accomplish something (even if it’s impossible because, for example, Sienna doesn’t actually know anything else), this can end up being very disruptive and feel very frustrating for the players.

You can soften the blow using some of the techniques we discussed above. (For example, you might cut to a different PC during a lull in the interrogation and then cut back to the PCs who were doing the interrogation while framing them into a new scene. You can also just ask, “What’s your goal here?” And when they say something like, “I want to make sure we know everything Sienna has to tell us,” you can judo straight off of that to wrap up the scene.) But we can also borrow a technique that Kenneth Hite uses for investigative games:

When the characters have gained all the information they’re going to get from a scene, hold up a sign that says “SCENE OVER” or “DONE” or something like that. The statement cues the players to let them know that there’s no reward to be gained by continuing to question the prisoner or ransack the apartment or whatever, while using a sign is less intrusive on the natural flow of the scene (so if there’s something they still want to accomplish of a non-investigative nature, the scene can continue without the GM unduly harshing the vibe).

You can adapt this pretty easily to other types of scenes, too. You’re basically signaling that the essential question the scene was framed around has, in fact, been answered, and you’re inviting the players to collaborate with you to quickly bring the scene to a satisfactory conclusion and wrap things up.

Then you can all drive out of the dead end together.

DISCUSSING
In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 24D: The Second Hound of Ghul

Everyone fell silent. Impossibly, the shadows seemed to deepen. And then, out of the darkness, the second hound of Ghul appeared: It was a bony, undead thing. At its shoulder, it stood nearly twice as tall as Agnarr. Four interlocking, razor-sharp sabered fangs punctuated a jaw of jagged teeth. Its claws were nearly as large. Its bones were thick and at the end of a long, sinuous tail was a bulbous ball of bone twice the size of a grown man’s skull.

“By the gods…” Elestra murmured.

In this session we see the dawn of one my favorite RPG in-jokes of all time, as Tithenmamiwen tells the illiterate Agnarr that “C-A-T” is the elvish word for “faithful companion,” leading the barbarian to name his new pet dog Seeaeti. I think every long-running campaign develops these shibboleths that are only meaningful to the players, and this one has been part of our group for thirteen years now. (And will probably remain so until we’re all dust in our graves.)

Speaking of Seeaeti, if you’ve been following In the Shadow of the Spire you know that getting a dog has been a major goal for Agnarr as a character. I’ve previously talked about how other milestones in this quest including important character crucibles that permanently reshaped the course of Agnarr’s life (and the entire campaign).

When I was designing the Laboratory of the Beast and included the dog-soon-to-be-known-as-Seeaeti, I did suspect that this particular hound might become Agnarr’s. In fact, would I have included the slumbering dog if Agnarr hadn’t been looking for a dog? Maybe not (leaning towards probably not).

(At the table, though, there was a moment when I thought Tee was going to kill the dog before Agnarr even had a chance to see it. Given my previous comment about a thirteen year shibboleth, it’s really weird to think about that alternate reality.)

Later in the session, the group runs into an undead dog and Ranthir uses a spell to enslave it. For awhile there, it actually looked like this dog would also become a permanent addition to the group, but (as you can see here) it ended up getting destroyed instead.

Ranthir, of course, did not have a long-standing goal to get a dog and the ghulworg skeleton wasn’t something that I had anticipated becoming a “hireling.” So you can kind of see both sides of the coin here: Elements that we bring into the narrative because they’re long-standing goals of the players/their characters and elements that emerge out of the narrative.

We saw a third sign of this coin (thus irreparably rupturing our metaphor) earlier in this session, when Tee reached out to the Dreaming Apothecary and arranged to purchase a magical item that she particularly wanted. (With the twist that rather than just getting the magical lockpicks she wanted, the Dreaming Apothecary delivering a cool lockpicking ring.)

A few years ago there was a big folderol about magic item wish lists. I’m not actually sure what specifically prompted this advice fad, but it seems to have faded away a bit, along with the controversy that surrounded it.

Basically, the advice was that players should prep a wish list of the magic items (and other stuff) that they wanted for their characters and give it to their DM so that the DM could then incorporate that stuff into the campaign.

The controversy arose become many felt that this pierced the veil and ruined immersion, “Oh! I’ve always wanted a +1 flaming ghost touch dire maul! It’s so wonderful that we just coincidentally found it in this pile of treasure!” It also reeked of a sense of privilege and laziness: “Here’s my shopping list, Ms. Dungeon Master, please have it delivered to me as soon as possible!”

Personally, I think the controversy mostly misses the point.

First, one simple has to acknowledge that many people are playing in linear and/or railroaded campaigns. I can talk endlessly about why that’s a bad idea and that there are better ways to run your campaign, but unfortunately that’s still not true for a lot of people. Probably most people. And when a GM runs a linear/railroaded campaign, one of the many problems they create for themselves is a massive responsibility for everything that happens in the game: Since the players don’t have any meaningful control over what happens, the GM needs to ensure that every challenge is correctly balanced; that everyone has the appropriate spotlight time; and on and on and on and on.

Within that broken paradigm, for better or for worse, the magic item wish list provides the players with a method for communicating their desires as players, and it’s also useful to the GM who has, unfortunately, made themselves completely responsible for everything that goes into the game (particularly if they’re not using random methods for stocking treasure). It’s good for everybody involved. It’s good advice.

But, in my opinion, the magic item wish list has utility even beyond that linear/railroaded paradigm. It’s really just a specific subset of the wider concept of players clearly communicating what their goals (and the goals of their characters) are. That expression can be done diegetically, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it being directly communicated in the metagame (via a character’s background, a frank discussion, a wish list, or whatever). And although I’ve seen some who feel that it’s not “realistic” for a fantasy hero to say, “I really need some magic lockpicks!” I just don’t see it that way. They live in a world filled with magic and they use that magic in their daily lives to accomplish their goals. It’s no different than me trying to figure out what tripod I need for my teleprompter.

Here’s the key thing, though: The perception is that the magic item wish list makes the players passive; that by expressing their desire to the GM, it automatically follows that they’re just going to sit back and wait for the GM to deliver what they want without making any effort on their own part.

In my experience, this isn’t really the case. With a “wish list” in hand, there are still three core techniques for how it can be fulfilled:

• The players can take initiative. (Tee ordering her magic lockpicks. Or Agnarr’s earlier efforts in the campaign to find a stray dog.)
• The GM can seed their goals into their adventure prep. (Putting a sleeping dog into Ghul’s Labyrinth, which the PCs are exploring for reasons that have nothing to do with the dog.)
• The GM can seed the opportunity to achieve their goals into the campaign world. (For example, by having them hear a rumor in a local tavern that the legendary +1 flaming ghost touch dire maul of Leeandra the Nether Brute might lie within the Tomb of Sagrathea.)

Understanding what the goals of your players and their characters are will allow you to use the full plethora of these techniques to enrich the campaign. Achieving that understanding can come in a number of different ways, whether it’s a wish list, a character background, session post mortems, or diegetically framed campfire chats.

NEXT:
Campaign Journal: Session 25A – Running the Campaign: TBD
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

SESSION 24D: THE SECOND HOUND OF GHUL

June 21st, 2008
The 12th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

A few minutes later, the dog was following Agnarr and the others down the hall towards the far side of the first level. (After a brief discussion they had decided to break through the crudely blockaded hallway they had discovered near the fountain decorated with the statues of three strange-looking hounds, and thus finish their explorations of this upper level.) Agnarr was busily trying out different names for his new dog.

With a wry grin and a wink at Ranthir, Tee said, “What about an elvish name?”

“I’d like that!” Agnarr said.

“Well, C-A-T is the elvish word for ‘faithful companion’.”

And Agnarr promptly named his dog Seeaeti.

The blockade was formed from large chunks of rock, furniture, shelving, and the like. It had all been stacked in a great, jumbled heap – completely blocking the corridor and clearly designed to either keep something out… or keep it in.

Looking at it again, a fresh debate arose about whether this was a good idea. But, ultimately, their desire to completely explore every nook and cranny of the complex decided the issue for them.

It took Agnarr and Tor, working together, the better part of an hour to clear a crawlspace. After considering its narrow expanse – and thinking back to the disastrous rope-induced bottleneck in Morbion’s oozy lair – they spent another hour widening it so that two of them could go through it together (which would hopefully speed any necessary retreat).

Tee was the first one to crawl through. As she emerged into the hall beyond, she suddenly became very aware of the dim light pouring through the narrow opening behind her… and the dark, impenetrable shadows that lay beyond its reach.

Agnarr squeezed through behind her, and his flaming sword extended the light’s reach, but Tee was already moving down a side corridor that lay almost immediately to her left. (She wanted to make sure that any side chambers had been cleared before they pushed down the length of the main hall.)

The corridor emptied into a small, empty room. Another narrow hallway left this room and paralleled the main hall that she had left behind. There were tiny pieces of debris scattered thickly across the floor.

Tee stooped low. Tor was coming up the hall behind her now, and by the light of the torch that he carried she realized that she was looking at fragments of furniture and other fixtures… all smashed almost to the point where they had become indistinguishable.

She straightened suddenly and whirled, looking down the length of the second hall: Something had moved down there, just at the limit of her elven sight and heading towards the main corridor. Something large.

Back at the crawlspace, Seeaeti began to growl – his hackles rising even higher and his long neck bunching tautly. Elestra, just pulling herself through the barricade, hissed at Agnarr to keep the dog quiet. But all of Agnarr’s focus had followed the hound’s. His grip tightened on the hilt of his longsword as his gaze attempted to pierce the shadowy depths of the corridor.

Tee, meanwhile, had motioned Tor to silence and headed back down the side passage towards the others. But she had barely opened her mouth to whisper what she had seen than her head whipped around: A heavy, tapping, clacking noise had echoed ever-so-softly and ever-so-distinctly down the hall.

Everyone fell silent. Impossibly, the shadows seemed to deepen. And then, out of the darkness, the second hound of Ghul appeared: It was a bony, undead thing. At its shoulder, it stood nearly twice as tall as Agnarr. Four interlocking, razor-sharp sabered fangs punctuated a jaw of jagged teeth. Its claws were nearly as large. Its bones were thick and at the end of a long, sinuous tail was a bulbous ball of bone twice the size of a grown man’s skull.

“By the gods…” Elestra murmured, utterly taken aback.

With a roar, Agnarr charged. But the hound’s tail lashed out and the bulb of bone smashed into his side, hurling him into the wall. With a groan, Agnarr slid to a crouch on the floor, trying to find his bearings.

Tee and Tor came running around the corner, skidding to a halt at the sight of the skeletal hound. Elestra fumbled for her crossbow. But the creature was drawing closer to Agnarr now; its maw gaping wide; its fangs reaching out for the throat of the staggering barbarian—

“STOP!”

They all turned to look at Ranthir – perched halfway through the crawlspace with one hand stretched out towards the skeletal hound… which had now frozen in mid-stride. There was a moment of perfect silence, and then Ranthir lowered his hand and scrambled the rest of the way out of the crawlspace.

While the others watched with some mixture of amazement, confusion, and bemusement, Ranthir walked down the length of the hall and stopped near the creature, examining it closely. “Hmm… Interesting!”

“What did you do?” Elestra asked.

“Hmm?” Ranthir turned to look at them. “Oh! Well, it’s a rather simple necromantic creation. It’s mindless… or nearly so, at any rate. So I simply took control of its ley lacings and—”

“What is it?”

“It’s the skeleton of a ghulworg. Or, at least, I think it is. They have long been thought to be either extinct or legendary. They were either related to the worgs, created from worgs, or the ancestors of modern worgs… the lineage is rather confused. If this creature were still living, the blood in its veins would be boiling hot – protecting it from fire and making it immune to cold. It is even said that the blood could scald attackers who were foolish enough to attack it. But if you look here–” Ranthir gestured lightly and the ghulworg skeleton snapped its jaws shut and lowered its head to him. “You can see that it’s bones have been laced with adamantine. That could only have been done after death.”

RAMPAGING THROUGH THE LABYRINTH

“We should kill it now!” Elestra said.

“Wait a minute,” Tee said with a thoughtful look. “Let’s not be hasty. How long can you keep this thing under control, Ranthir?”

“At least a day,” Ranthir said. “And I could always prepare the same spell again tomorrow.”

“So you could keep it under your control indefinitely?”

Ranthir nodded.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Dominic said, eyeing the ghulworg warily.

They thought it was a great idea.

Just down the hall there was a door that even Agnarr’s stout shoulder couldn’t open. They had the ghulworg smash it open. Inside they discovered nearly a half dozen orc corpses and the half-rotted remains of a barricade.

“They must have locked themselves in here to escape the ghulworg,” Agnarr said, moving between the skeletal remains with his sword drawn.

When the undead orcs began to rise up from the floor a few moments later, they beat a hasty retreat and sent the ghulworg in to smash them to sepulchral dust.

Around the corner they found a large room filled with a shallow pool of blackish, brackish liquid. After a brief examination, Ranthir determined the liquid was the diluted remains of necromantic fluid. Although the pool still radiated with the faint traces of necromantic energy – and would have once been a powerful tool for creating undead – it was now no more than a curiosity.

There was a side-chamber overlooking the pool which proved of little interest, but everyone’s attention was immediately arrested when Tee discovered a secret passage leading away from the pool room.

The ghulworg was barely able to squeeze into the passage, but with Tee and Ranthir leading the way it followed loyally behind.

Halfway down the passage, they found the broken remains of a black centurion hanging from its rack of machinery. The centurion didn’t stir at Tee’s approach, but they all had dark memories of their last encounter with these constructs. Just to be safe, they used the ghulworg to batter it to pieces.

The far end of the passage ended in what appeared to be the back side of another secret door… but Tee wasn’t able to figure out any way of opening it. With a shrug, she had Ranthir bring the ghulworg forward and smash through it.

The door opened into the chamber where, a couple weeks earlier, they had discovered a chamber rigged with dozens of arrows that fired automatically. They had been somewhat puzzled to discover that the arrows would strike everything in the chamber except the person who had triggered the trap, but now Tee was able to unravel the mystery: One of the arrows was designed to hang loosely out of the wall and pulling that arrow would have opened the secret door. She theorized that the trap must have been built as an escape route: Someone fleeing down the hallway could trigger the trap, kill their most immediate pursuers, and then escape through the secret door.

“Does anyone else find it disturbing that someone felt there was a serious chance they might need to run away?” Tor asked.

“Given what I’ve seen, I want to run away,” Elestra said.

Ranthir had the ghulworg squeeze his way out into the hallway and the rest of them circled up to discuss their next option. They briefly considered the idea of taking the ghulworg down to the lower level and using it to smash open the sealed vault. (“And then we could take it and smash open the Hammersong Vaults!” Elestra joked.) But they eventually decided it was too risky… the ghulworg might be destroyed by the lightning rods!

Instead they returned to the construct laboratories on the second level and used the ghulworg to haul up the heavy loot they had been forced to leave behind – the adamantine-edged Drill of the Banewarrens; the workshop tools; and the construct elements.

They stacked all of this material just inside the bluesteel door leading back to the bloodwight complex. (If nothing else, Tee was more comfortable with the idea of having hired laborers potentially lugging it up to the surface from there, rather than trying to lead them deeper into the dangerous and unpredictable complex.)

Although the ghulworg had made moving the material possible, all of them had taken part in the labor one way or another and now they were beginning to feel their exhaustion. They discussed returning to the surface, but Elestra thought she might have a better option: Turning to the nearest wall she sung softly under her voice, calling on the Spirit of the City to open one of the hidden ways to her.

The bricks of the wall turned upon themselves and twisted back to form an open arch. Beyond the arch there lay a circular chamber of worn stone, furnished with a variety of couches and chairs in the center of the room and curtain-veiled beds around its circumference.

NEXT:
Running the Campaign: Magic Item Wish Lists – Campaign Journal: Session 25A
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

Magical Kitties Save the Day is the new roleplaying game from Atlas Games. The first edition was created by Matthew J. Hanson and published as a PDF-only release on DriveThruRPG. Michelle Nephew, one of the co-owners of Atlas, encountered the game at a local game convention, immediately bought a copy, and began running a multi-year campaign for her kids. It was an incredibly fun game, and back in 2018 we realized that Atlas was perfectly positioned to bring the game to a much larger audience.

Michelle, Matthew, and I began work on the game’s second edition, which would be designed for print and worldwide distribution.

But I wanted to do more than just print a copy of the game as it already existed: Not only had we all learned a lot from running and playing the game, we also had the opportunity to create a truly unique game for all-ages that would not only introduce roleplaying games to new players, but also teach new players how to become game masters for the first time.

I’ll probably talk more about those features at a future date. For today, I’d like to take a peek at the Magical Powers in Magical Kitties.

See, in Magical Kitties Save the Day you play a magical kitty. Every magical kitty has a human. And every human has a Problem. You need to use your Magical Powers to solve those Problems and save the day. (The trick, though, is that kitties and humans all live in hometowns which also have Problems — things like vampires, time-traveling dinosaurs, and alien invasions. These hometown Problems make human Problems worse, so if you want to help your human solve their Problems, you’ll need to solve their hometown Problems, too.)

The first edition of Magical Kitties Save the Day featured eighteen Magical Powers for the kitties. For the second edition, I wanted to expand this to thirty-six powers.

Why thirty-six?

This was primarily determined by two of our design goals:

First, I wanted a fast method of character creation, which meant a default method featuring random generation. (I talk more about why this is important in On the Importance of Character Creation, but the short version is that nothing hooks a new player like actually creating their character; it gets them thinking about all the cool things they’re going to do with their magical kitty. But for this to work well with new players, character generation should be quick, fun, and comprehensible.)

Second, we wanted the game to only use six-sided dice. I’m a big fan of the polyhedrons, but limiting the dice to just one type would (a) allow us to provide dice in the boxed set for a relatively low cost (so we could invest more in other features) and (b) provide a more familiar experience to players in our core target audience six to twelve year-olds.

As a result, during character generation you roll two six-sided dice and read them like percentile dice, generating thirty-six results from 11 to 66, to determine your Magical Power.

Some of you might be balking at this: The core audience is six to twelve year-olds and you want them to understand how to read non-standard percentile dice?

I shared those concerns. But then I did some research. It turns out that educational studies have not only indicated that kids in this age range can mentally comprehend these concepts, but understanding two-digit place value is part of the Common Core math standard for 1^st graders (i.e., six-year-olds).

So if you’re pushing out of the core range and play with four- or five-year-olds, you’ll probably need to help them out a bit. (You might also consider using the optional Kitty Cards, that not only serve as fully illustrated references during play, but allow you to create a new character mostly by just dealing out a hand of cards.) But beyond that, it will be at worst a great learning opportunity.

POWER BALANCE

When it came to actually developing and playtesting the new Magical Powers, however, I found it to be a more unique challenge than I’d anticipated. Because each kitty has a unique Magical Power (before unlocking additional powers as they gain levels), the game inherently lacked some of the balancing elements that often find in other RPGs featuring powers. I couldn’t, for example, make one power Level 1 and another power Level 3 to reflect a difference in their strength or utility as I would in D&D; nor assign them different point values like I’d do in a game like Hero.

This meant that some powers that I initially thought would be really cool ultimately needed to be tossed out because they just couldn’t be given enough oomph to stand on equal ground with other powers in the game. In other cases, limitations needed to be found to pull back a concept that would otherwise be too powerful.

A further complication came in the form of Bonus Features. As a special effort, magical kitties can add a Bonus Feature to their power, making it more potent than usual. As they level up, they can also permanently add these Bonus Features to their powers. It was not only important that the Powers remain balanced with each other as Bonus Features were added, but essential that a Power could have awesome Bonus Features for kitties to unlock. (This meant that some powers that were fine in their basic form didn’t make the cut because there wasn’t a suitable upgrade path for them.)

I developed a couple rules of thumb:

First, no Magical Power could completely overlap another Magical Power. If both powers were being played by different kitties in the same session, I didn’t want one of the kitties to rendered obsolete. Bonus Features could “nibble” a bit on another power’s uniqueness, but the Bonus Features of the other power needed to give it a unique upgrade path.

For example, Super Strength lets a kitty pick up anything weighing as much as a horse or less. With the Bonus Feature of Heavy, Telekinesis can do the same thing (and better since you can lift it from a distance). But the kitty with Super Strength will have Bonus Features allowing them to eventually Pick Up a Whale and, later, Pick Up Anything. Telekinesis can never lift anything larger than a Horse, but has its own unique upgrade path allowing multiple objects to be manipulated simultaneously.

(Most powers don’t even get this close to each other. It’s an extreme example.)

Second, a Magical Power should have an active use: Part of the fun of the game is for players to think up creative and crazy ways that they can use their powers. Players shouldn’t have to passively wait for the GM to cue them.

There are two exceptions to this: Energy Deflection and Force Field. These are both kind of iconic powers that players wanted, but they’re innately passive. To some extent this is OK because adventures tend to bring threats from which protection is desired (so you’re unlikely to end up in a situation where the GM just fails to ever cue up your power). But we also made these work by making sure their Bonus Features unlocked active powers: Thus, Energy Deflection allows you to target things with the deflected energy. And Force Field can be used to create things like invisible bridges.

As you can see, limiting Magical Powers so that they all needed to be in balance with each other came with some sacrifices and some tough design challenges. But the advantage of this approach was a robust, streamlined simplicity: Players don’t need to spend a point budget or juggle powers of different tiers or whatever.

This also allows character creation to easily manage different levels of mastery: A completely new player can rapidly roll up a new kitty in just a couple minutes, but those who familiar with the game can skip the random generation and design just the kitty they want by simply making choices at each step of character creation.

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ZARIEL’S SPARK

The last of our four memory dives comes at the moment when the Archduchess of Avernus touches the Sword of Zariel. As we’ve now established, Zariel placed a small shard of her soul into the Sword of Zariel before giving it Yael. This spark of Zariel’s former self is what provides Zariel with a chance for redemption.

Here’s how that plays out:

• The Archduchess and the PCs are drawn into a memory dive.
• The events of Zariel’s Fall (see above) play out once more.
• But this time, the “Zariel” of the past has the appearance of the Archduchess of Avernus. She’s living out her own memory of what happened.
• The PCs are also present in the scene (although only Zariel can see or hear them).

The key here is that the spark within the Sword basically gives Zariel a chance to relive this pivotal moment and (most importantly!) make a different choice when the ultimate moment arrives.

If Zariel rejects Asmodeus’ offer, that obviously doesn’t actually change the past. This is a memory dive, not time travel. But it is her chance for redemption: The vision ends, the PCs return to the real world to find that no time has passed, but Zariel’s devilish form melts away as she is returned to her angelic form (see Descent Into Avernus, p. 148).

INFLUENCING ZARIEL: The PCs can attempt to influence Zariel’s choice. They might counter Asmodeus’s arguments, remind Zariel of events from her own past, or perhaps even make an emotional appeal (which could be particularly effective coming from Lulu).

Resolve this as a special group check, calling for skill or ability checks at DC 15. Give them advantage on this check if they invoke something they’ve learned about Zariel’s past. If at least half of the group makes a successful check (even if not everyone in the group makes a check), then they succeed: Zariel makes a different choice and is redeemed.

On a failure, they still grant advantage to Zariel’s Wisdom save (see below).

BEARING SILENT WITNESS: If the PCs don’t intervene or fail the group check, then Zariel makes a DC 22 Wisdom save. On a success, she makes a different choice and is redeemed. On a failure, she rejects redemption and destroys the Sword (along with the spark of goodness within it).

ON THE MATTER OF REDEMPTION

This is a semi-controversial point in Descent Into Avernus: Zariel has spent centuries as a devil, doing countless evil acts on a scope probably beyond mortal comprehension (of her own free will!), and now she just waves her hand and is redeemed?! What the hell?!

(If you’ll pardon the pun.)

You can see similar arguments around Darth Vader’s redemption in Return of the Jedi.

What seems to trip people up here is the idea that redemption means Zariel or Vader should be automatically forgiven for the things they did or should be immune from facing consequences for those actions. There are ethical structures in which this is true, but it’s not intrinsically linked to the act of redemption itself.

Redemption isn’t about how other people treat you or should treat you. It’s about your fundamental identity and the type of person you are (which will determine the actions you will take in the future). You can choose to be a better person starting RIGHT NOW, but ultimately no one else needs to change their behavior because of that until your actions give them cause to do so.

In Christianity, for example, the only person who “needs” to do anything differently because you’re redeemed is God. Who is, notably, omniscient and can, therefore, “see” redemption without the need for action.

(The meaning of the word “redemption” is actually based on the Christian God’s omniscience: Only He can redeem your sin – i.e., declare it a debt no longer owed — because only He can see your “ledger.”)

This same thing applies to the Star Wars universe: Force magic allows you to “see” a person’s fundamental identity and the fact that Anakin is able to manifest as a Force Ghost is evidence of how he was “aligned” as a person, regardless of the actions he had taken previously (and which would have demonstrated that prior personal alignment).

And we see the same thing in the metaphysics of Descent Into Avernus: Zariel is a supernatural being and if the fundamental alignment of the cosmos recognizes her as an angel… well, it means she has, in fact, fundamentally changed. She has rejected sin and found redemption.

In the real world, we could similarly hypothesize the ability to have this knowledge: Like, if we could take 100% accurate brain scans and were able to analyze a person’s “code” to see what type of person they were, we’d be able to know whether or not someone had truly become redeemed — had fundamentally changed and become the type of person who does good things.

Once we have that technology, the ethics of crime and punishment will need to change (but will almost certainly take decades or centuries to adjust). But until we have that technology (if we ever do), then it’s just a fantasy that can be fun to think about.

Go to Part 6D-L: Questioning the Hellriders