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Let’s cut to the chase: How do you solve the giant problem in Storm King’s Thunder?

(Pun intended.)

DESTROY THE THREAT

The most direct approach would be to simply smash the giants so that none of the giant factions pose a threat.

This can be crudely achieved by going from one giant lair to the next and stabbing giants in the face until there are no more giants, but I think there are both aesthetic and practical problems with this. The short version is that it’s difficult to really take the giant threat seriously if it can be trivially solved by five people acting alone.

This is something a lot of narratives — particularly “chosen one” narratives — get wrong. To understand why, consider two examples that get it right: Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings. Luke, Han, Leia, Chewbacca, and the droids can all be absolutely essential to the rebel victory, but if the Death Star was just blown up by the Millennium Falcon flying solo (pun intended), the stakes would immediately collapse. The same would be true if there were no armies in Middle Earth and Frodo and Sam could just walk up to Mt. Doom unaided and defeat Sauron. In both cases, the heroes are larger than life because they are the essential lynchpins in a much larger effort.

So if the PCs want to pull this off, they’ll need to start forming alliance(s) to make it happen.

PATH OF CONQUEST

The giants are the biggest problem (puns all over the place today), but the root of the problem is the Ordning, and clever PCs can flip this problem around and turn the Ordning into the solution by selecting one of the giant factions and helping them come out on top in the Ordning-Yet-to-Come.

Probably the most straightforward path here is “ally with a giant faction, then help them fight all the other giant clans into submission.” Any clan which has the strength to subjugate the other clans will naturally become Annam’s default pick for the new Ordning.

If you want to push this concept into the campaign, you can easily do so by waiting until the PCs have scored one or two big successes — e.g., crushing one of the giant factions — and then have one of the other giant factions approach them with the idea of forming an alliance. Even better, have two different clans approach them simultaneously, giving the players the opportunity to choose which faction they want to align with. (They could easily end up choosing a third, completely different faction. Or, of course, rejecting the concept entirely and choosing a different path.)

Following this path is a big deal: The choice becomes a crucible in which the characters not only express their most heartfelt beliefs, but shape the future of the Forgotten Realms in a truly fundamental way.

A variant of this idea would be to choose a giant not-of-the-clans and champion them as a new King of the Giants. Harshnag, for example, would be an obvious choice (see Part 3C), but one could easily imagine the players embracing another candidate, such as Zephyros (SKT, p. 33).

Along these same lines, the PCs might champion a clan while also deciding that the current leadership of the clan is kind of shit. (Most of the leaders presented in the book, after all, are villainous jerks.) So stage one of this plan might be removing the troublesome leader and replacing them with someone more amenable to the agenda of the PCs and/or their allies (by staging a formal duel, assassination, or some other surreptitious means).

A DRACONIC CRUSADE

Military campaigns of domination and subjugation, however, are not necessarily the only way a giant clan could have skarra shine upon them.

The reason Annam broke the Ordning is because the giants have allowed the dragons — the ancient enemies of giant-kind — to grow strong. Tiamat, the evil dragon goddess, stirs in her prison, and during the events of the A Tyranny of Dragons campaign she almost managed to escape without the giants doing anything to stop it.

So an alternative path to the Ordning-Yet-to-Come would be to ally with one of the giant clans and help them lead a Draconic Crusade. Such a clan would mark themselves as ready to lead the giants into a new era.

The sequence from Storm King’s Thunder in which Iymrith is hunted down in her lair could obviously serve as a seed here, but there are a number of other dragons detailed in the campaign book as well that we can develop.

A super-ambitious approach here would be to also remix A Tyranny of Dragons and run it simultaneously with Storm King’s Thunder: Annam isn’t angry because the giants were lackadaisical about Tiamat’s threatened return; he’s angry because it’s happening right now. Finding ways to seed the activities of the Cult of the Dragon into Storm King’s Thunder is certainly non-trivial, but probably not overwhelmingly so if you’re using node-based campaign design.

Something to note with any of these “ally with the giants” options for the campaign finale is that they will almost certainly represent a seismic thematic shift in giant society: The new Ordning will have been established on a principle of cooperation between the giants and the “little folk.” As a divine mandate from heaven, this will sink deep into the culture and politics of giant-kind, with ramifications that will be felt for years, decades, and even millennia. This might include stuff like:

• Giant pilgrims coming to the communities of humans, elves, dwarves, and others to help and learn the lessons of the little folk.
• A political alliance between giants and the Lords’ Alliance, perhaps representing a joint effort to wipe out the Cult of the Dragon. (Either initiating a Draconic Crusade, if it hasn’t already begun, or continuing it, perhaps even pursuing the Cult into the East.)
• The founding of a New Ostoria ruled jointly by both giants and little folk.

Tip: You might want to use an epilogue structure for your campaign finale, allowing you to emphasize these long-term effects of the PCs’ actions.

LEAD THE FUTURE

Along similar thematic lines, rather than having the PCs choose their horse for the Ordning race, you could instead have one or more of them saddle up as the new King of the Giants.

There are a few ways you could seed this option into the campaign:

• Giants who are defeated (or who see their leader defeated) by the PCs might bend the knee.
• Outriders of a clan whose citadel the PCs have wiped out might seek them out.
• Giant scholars like Zephyros and/or Countess Mulara (SKT, p. 113) might seek out the PCs to chronicle their deeds, creating — perhaps alongside Harshnag — the beginnings of a giant retinue and counsellors.
• Rogues, exiles, and other lone giants who have become separated from giant society — either before or because of the breaking of the Ordning — might seek the PCs out, either to get revenge on their former clans, in an effort to save their people, or for any other reason that makes sense given the PCs’ agendas and actions.

Old school D&D had the concept of high-level characters simply “attracting followers” due to their renown, and this would follow a similar logic (and tie in nicely with the broader concepts of forming alliances): The PCs are building a rep for themselves, and like Robin Hood or Spartacus or Guan Yu, they can gather a retinue of NPCs inspired by their deeds.

This path can then be escalated with divine connotations, for example:

• Giant pilgrims and/or warrior bands seek out the PCs, claiming to have followed “the beacon of Annam” and to see them “illuminated by the light of Annam.”
• The chosen PC(s) begin receiving cryptic visions from Annam.

This is likely all happening while the PCs are simultaneously pursuing a Path of Conquest, a Draconic Crusade, or both.

In any case, all of these threads can ultimately culminate with the PC(s) actually being anointed by Annam as the new leader of the giants during the forging of a new Ordning. This could happen during a communion with the Eye of the All-Father. (In fact, the PCs being responsible for rediscovering the lost oracle of Ostoria could play a significant role in the divine path.) One could imagine a ceremony in which representatives from all of the giant clans come to the Eye — summoned by decree, drawn by Annam’s will, or brought in captivity — and are present for Annam’s manifestation on the mortal plane.

If any of the PCs are a half-giant or goliath (or something of similar flavor), they would be a natural fit for this, but even that isn’t necessary. It wouldn’t be the first time Annam disowned the giants and spurned their failures. His primary goal remains the restoration of Ostoria as a perfect society on the mortal plane, and the destruction of the dragons who have so often sought (or achieved) Ostoria’s destruction. If he comes to believe that scions of the little folk are the most capable of achieving those goals — helping to fuel a rebirth of giant cultures which have become stagnant and moribund — then a radical transformation of giant society isn’t out of the question.

Perhaps such character(s) might become known as Divine Regents, leading the giants until such time as the Promised King comes at last. (A prophecy which may not be fulfilled until centuries from now.) Or perhaps Annam might give them the divine gift of giantdom, creating a new caste of giants.

Go to Part 5C: Running the Final Act

During my last Twitch stream, we were taking a peek at Keeper Tips, a pocket book of collected wisdom published by Chaosium for the 40^th Anniversary of Call of Cthulhu and featuring snippets of useful advice curated from a couple dozen creators. One of the tips we looked at was:

The pineapple on the sideboard. Only put into a scene, session, or scenario what you want your players to investigate. If you put a pineapple on a sideboard in a room they enter, they will investigate it.

The point being that almost anything noteworthy or unusual that you describe in the game world will almost certainly attract the players’ attention, and if they can’t figure out why this thing exists or what it does — often because it is, in fact, just a pineapple — it will only fuel their curiosity. Beware of trivialities metamorphosizing into voracious timesinks that can swallow a session whole!

But I noted that there was, in fact, a practical purpose to which these pineapples could be put:

What if you wanted the players to get distracted?

For example, imagine that the PCs have suddenly veered right and driven off the edge of your prep. You could, of course, call for a break or end the session early, but another option would be to put a pineapple on the nearest sideboard. As the players descend upon the pineapple, vociferously debating with each other about its true meaning and purpose, you’re suddenly free behind your screen to rapidly sketch out a new dungeon level; pull together the stat blocks for a flock of Triad mooks; google blueprints for a mansion; throw together a quick ‘n dirty social event; or whatever else the occasion might call for.

Chat immediately dubbed this technique “pineappling.”

Iconoplast: Dude. I think this GM is pineappling us!

Kevin: No way, man! This has gotta be a clue!

You could even keep a small stockpile of such enigmas in your notes, ready to be deployed whenever an unexpected scene needs to be filled. (101 Curious Items could, in fact, serve such a purpose.)

OPPORTUNISTIC PINEAPPLING

Of course, as the original tip suggests, there’ll likely be plenty of pineapples in your campaign that appear out of nowhere. You’d think you’d need to put the pineapple some place conspicuous, but you can just as easily put it in a fruit bowl or store it in a pantry, and you’ll still inevitably hear a player say something like, “A pineapple is a tropical fruit and out of season! What is it doing here?” or even, “Why would you put a pineapple in a fruit bowl?”

“Because it’s fruit…?” you’ll think to yourself, but it’s too late. The obsession has begun.

And the broader tip here is to take advantage of these moments. Whether the PCs are puzzling over pineapples or debating strategy amongst themselves, learn to identify these periods of grace and shift your attention away from what the players are doing so that you can focus on other tasks:

• Review your notes.
• Check your adversary roster.
• Clear away the stat blocks and minis from the last combat.
• Put your paperwork and rulebooks back in order.
• Pre-roll some random encounters, including non-focal encounters.
• Look at your campaign status document.

Take chaos and restore it to a state of order.

But when your work is done — or if you have no such maintenance to perform — it will be time to get the players to put the pineapple down. At this point, there’s a key question to ask:

Are the players having fun with their pineapple?

If so, then more often than not, it’s fine to just let them have their fun. If possible, default to yes and see if you can find some way to give the players some small reward for their efforts. (Even if it’s just a laugh at themselves as they realize the absurdity of dissecting a pineapple.) For example… why do the Thorndikes have a pineapple in their fruit bowl out of season? Could it have been given to them as a gift by the Tharsian merchants who are trying to buy the jade lion? Maybe!

When fun threatens to become frustration — or if you can see the eyes of the non-obsessed players at the table beginning to glaze over despite their comrade’s enthusiasm — it’s time to bring things to a close. Broadly speaking, you’re looking to either provide a distraction from or a definitive conclusion to the pineapple peering.

Distractions, for example, could include:

• The PCs hear some bad guys in the hallway outside the pantry.
• If the PCs have split up, cut to the other half of the group. When you cut back, use a leading prompt to push players away from the pineapple: “Okay, let’s go back to Iconoplast. Now that you’re done examining the pineapple, what are you doing next?”
• Ask an uninvolved player what their character is doing while the pineapple is being studied. Resolve that, and then, once again, use a leading question to push the pineapple PC into a new activity.

A definitive conclusion, on the other hand, can be achieved by:

• Opportunistically identifying a skill check and then framing the outcome of the check to clearly declare that there’s nothing to be done with the pineapple. (e.g., “After several minutes of intense scrutiny, you conclude that this is, in fact, an ordinary pineapple and nothing more. What do you want to do now?”)
• Asserting a cost and seeing if they’re willing to pay it. “You’ve spent several minutes talking about this pineapple. How long are you planning to continue examining it?” If they’ve become sufficiently obsessed to pay the cost, that’s fine, just make sure you actually apply the cost. (For example, start making random monster checks. Make sure the dice are ominously loud as you roll them.)
• As mentioned before, opportunistically give them some small reward (“This is clearly a Tharsian pineapple; it couldn’t have come from any of the local farms”) and then immediately prompt them for a new action. “Okay, now what are you going to do?”

Each of these, you’ll note, features a strong pivot and prompt asking the players for what they do next. Stubborn players may nevertheless stick with the pineapple, but most will take the hint — often subconsciously doing so without ever realizing the hint was given (“What do you want to do now?” is, after all, a question they hear all the time at the table) — and move on.

When it comes to that stubborn player, however, the ultimate solution is to break the fourth wall and simply declare out of character — as the game master speaking directly to the players — that they have found everything there is to find and there is nothing more to be achieved here.

You can soften the blow by giving them some final bit of information for their efforts (again, that opportunistic reward) while saying, “And that’s all, folks!” Alternatively, you can often achieve a similar effect by asking them, after definitively establishing that they’ve learned everything they can/need to, if there’s anything else they want to do before the scene ends. (This is a little bit of psychological judo, since it puts them in the driver’s seat.)

What you want to make sure you avoid, however, is having the pineapple turn into a grenade. (Pun intended.) The most important thing here is to make sure that you’re not judging them or mocking them for their interest in the pineapple.

After all, pineapples are fun!

Go to Table of Contents

Storm King’s Thunder begins with the shattering of the Ordning by Annam. The giants, freed from their bonds by the destruction of their society and driven by a desire to claim lordship in the Ordning-yet-to-come, are suddenly more active — and more violent — than they’ve been in generations. Giant attacks run rampant across the Sword Coast and Savage Frontier.

The PCs get sucked into this morass and the question of the hour is: How can we stop it?

Logically, therefore, Storm King’s Thunder should conclude with the PCs resolving the crisis. Their actions should stop the giant attacks and restore the peace.

Oddly, however, as we discussed in Part 2B, this is not how Storm King’s Thunder ends. The book instead wraps up with the PCs rescuing Hekaton (he didn’t disappear until after the Ordning was broken) and then helping him slay the wyrm Iymrith (whose schemes also didn’t begin until after the Ordning was broken).

To complete our remix of Storm King’s Thunder, therefore, we need to conjure forth the missing ending.

THE ORDNING

In the real world, the divine right of kings was the belief that a king’s right to rule was granted by God. In practice, it was fairly circular logic: Everything in the world is the way it is due to God’s plan. Therefore, the fact that I’m in charge means that it’s God’s plan that I should be in charge. And because it’s God’s plan that I should be in charge, no one has a right to question my authority.

I’m in charge because I’m in charge. QED.

(“Hey! What about free will?” “I said no questions!”)

But what if you lived in a world where the gods were real? And you could just call them up and ask, “Who do you think should be in charge?” In fact, maybe your god is more than happy to tell you who’s in charge.

That’s the Ordning.

Annam, the god whom almost all giants worship, has decreed a divine hierarchy for giant society for more than 30,000 years. This hierarchy applied not only between the giant races (so that the cloud giants, for example, had dominion over the hill giants, but were subservient to the storm giants), but also to each individual giant.

The giants sometimes speak of this as skarra, the light of Annam:

• The light of Annam is upon him.
• Her skarra is brighter than mine.
• May the light of Annam shine on you.
• She burns with fiery skarra.

Annam’s light was a guide, a spotlight, a purpose, a blessing, and so much more.

And then the lights went out.

The result was the sort of total societal collapse you often find in failed states. Touchstones from the real world might include the dissolution of the USSR, the rise of ISIS, Rome after the assassination of Caesar, or the Communist Revolution in China.

The giants are a society now riven with strife. Paramilitary organizations struggle for power and/or survival, while the common folk desperately protection after aeons of having it assured. In fact, it’s not one conflict, but many different conflicts, all spilling out and affecting the other races and nations of Faerun.

Go to Part 5B: Solutions

A patron asked me to explain what I mean when I say “nonsense railroad.” (Which is something I occasionally do in reviews and online discussions.)

Let’s start by laying some groundwork.

First, in The Railroading Manifesto I defined “railroading” in an RPG as:

Railroads happen when the GM negates a player’s choice in order to enforce a preconceived outcome.

Technically, therefore, railroading can only happen at the actual game table. In practice, though, we’ll talk about “prepping a railroad” or “railroaded adventures,” by which we mean scenarios which require the PCs to make very specific choices, therefore forcing the GM to railroad the players into those choices to avoid having the scenario fall apart.

Tangentially, this is a pretty basic tip: Don’t prep what the PCs will do, because (a) that requires precognition and (b) deciding what the PCs are going to do is the players’ responsibility. Instead, prep interesting and provocative situations that create rich opportunities for the PCs to make decisions and give you, as the GM, the toys you need to actively play the world in response to those decisions.

But I digress.

Second, if you do want to design and run a railroad — (please don’t!) — then the secret to making it work even some of the time, as I describe in How a Railroad Works, is to make sure that every choice is obvious and appealing: You need the players to know what they need to do and you need them to want to do it.

A nonsense railroad is basically what you get when a railroaded adventure doesn’t do that. Instead, the actions mandated by the nonsense railroad are hidden, capricious, unlikely, and/or idiotic.

For example, imagine that the PCs are playing Triads locked in a gang war with another organized crime outfit. Then imagine an adventure in which, unprompted:

• The players have to decide that they should make peace with the rival gang at an arbitrary point in the gang war.
• The players have to propose that peace talks take place at the rival gang lord’s mansion.
• During dinner at their rivals’ mansion, one of the PCs needs to sneak away and break into the rival gang lord’s office.
• Once in the office, they need to take the time to search through all the file cabinets.
• This will not give them any information about the gang lord’s business affairs, but they will find one scrap of paper that says “something weird is happening at one of our warehouses at the docks.”
• They need to immediately leave the dinner and go down to the warehouse in order to interrupt the voodoo ritual being performed there.

And, again: All of this needs to happen unprompted. None of them are given a reason to be done, many of them are completely illogical, and quite a few are actually the opposite of motivated — they’re actively inimical to the PCs’ agenda.

This is not, bizarrely, an exaggerated example. I’ve seen much worse than this on countless occasions, including professionally published adventures. Strangely common varieties include:

• “I’ve mentioned some random object, why aren’t you stealing it?”
• “You’ve got rock solid evidence that So-and-So is guilty of the crime you’re investigating, but please don’t do anything with that evidence because the adventure will immediately break.”
• “I think we can all safely assume that the PCs will leave the pocket-sized object they’ve been sworn to protect unguarded in their hotel room while they go shopping. There’s absolutely no chance that they’ll take it with them or leave one of the PCs behind to keep an eye on it.”

And so forth.

If you’re familiar with the old computer adventure games, then you’ve likely encountered this same type of tortured logic in a different guise.

In short, a nonsense railroad is an adventure where the PCs are required to perform a predetermined sequence of specific actions, which they will certainly NOT take of their own volition because the actions make no sense, and — when they’re clumsily and overtly forced to take those actions — they will feel stupid doing so.

(Because, again, they make no sense.)

Railroads are bad and nonsense railroads are their nadir. They are overtly hostile to the players and, when published, an act of sabotage aimed at the unwitting GM.

On New Year’s Day 2023, many a brave soul embarked on an ambitious enterprise: To design one dungeon room each day, every day, for a full year!

On New Year’s Eve 2023, Dungeon Masterpiece decided to do the whole thing in ONE DAY!

Baron de Ropp invited a bunch of conspirators and collaborators to join him throughout the day, plowing through level after level of the megadungeon.

I was one of these collaborators, and you can see me join up at 4 hours and 47 minutes.