DISCUSSING
In the Shadow of the Spire – Session 47B: Children of Mrathrach

Mahdoth rotated towards them. “I’m going to release you now.”

And he did.

The artificial high of ebullient friendship fled from them, but not the memory of what they had experienced.

Mahdoth asked for their assistance in mounting a defense against whatever was coming. “Since I seem to find myself rather short-handed this evening.”

Games like D&D, Numenera, and Shadowrun have bestiaries filled with strange critters. The best of these will be filled with clever and creative lore that will inspire countless adventures and help you bring the creatures to vivid life at the gaming table. But what’s also important is that each creature is a little dollop of mechanical novelty.

It’s one of the ways in which fantastical games can be easier to run than games set strictly in the real world: Once you’ve introduced those fantastical elements, it becomes a lot easier to mechanically distinguish opponents — for a dragon to be different from a beholder which is different from a rust monster which is different than a black pudding. And that mechanical distinction, in turns, helps to keep combat-oriented play varied and fresh.

For this very reason, of course, these bestiaries are primarily designed to give GMs opponents that they can funnel into combat encounters: Take monster. Plug into combat system. Out pops 15 to 45 minutes of fun.

But here’s the secret: The same dollop of mechanical novelty that makes a creature a unique opponent can also mix things up and provide a breath of fresh air for the players. All you need to do is give the PCs an opportunity to fight with monsters at their side, whether that’s

• taming exotic pets,
• recruiting fantastical hirelings,
• forming a temporary alliance with a beholder, or
• having one of the PCs magically transformed into a harpy.

Not every monster, of course, will be appropriate or effective as a constant companion or permanent fixture in the party. (At least, not in every campaign.) But for a single fight or short-term alliance? You can have success with literally any monster, as long as the circumstances are right.

When a monster has joined the party, one option to consider is letting one of the players actually run the monster. (At least during fight scenes, if not otherwise.) It’s another nice twist and really mixes things up for the players. It can also be used to let players who PCs aren’t in the current fight scene still participate.

To make this work smoothly, thought, you need to make sure that the monster’s stat block is (a) in a format you can easily hand over (i.e., a separate sheet or paper or digital handout) and (b) organized in a way that will make the creature easy to pick up and start playing immediately. (It’s surprising how many games feature stat blocks that are opaque and difficult to use. If you’re planning to do this, you may need to, for example, prep a cheat sheet for the monster’s spells or abilities so that the player won’t need to look them up, possibly in books they don’t own.)

Ultimately, variety is the spice of life. And the best way to keep things fresh is often to shuffle these monstrous wonders along so that they don’t become commonplace or standard operating procedure.

The best part, though, is that once your players start thinking of the “monsters” of your campaign setting as a recruitable resource, you won’t have to set up these situations. You’ll just have to follow your players’ lead.

Campaign Journal: Session 47C – Running the Campaign: Inserting Bangs
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

SESSION 47B: CHILDREN OF MRATHRACH

December 26th, 2009
The 25th Day of Kadal in the 790th Year of the Seyrunian Dynasty

Mahdoth rotated towards them. “I’m going to release you now.”

And he did.

The artificial high of ebullient friendship fled from them, but not the memory of what they had experienced.

Mahdoth asked for their assistance in mounting a defense against whatever was coming. “Since I seem to find myself rather short-handed this evening.”

They readily agreed. Elestra was still extremely paranoid (trying to figure out some way that Urak could think he had been suborned while Mahdoth was actually still calling the shots), but the others were quick to point out that he had released Agnarr, Tee, Tor, and Ranthir… even though he didn’t need to do that.

It turned out that the unused door Tee had spotted at the far end of the western cells actually led to the caverns. Mahdoth explained that an expansion of the asylum had broken into a section of the natural caverns beneath Ptolus. The caverns had never been properly explored, but when they became a perpetual source of random dangers, Mahdoth simply had them sealed off.

Mahdoth proposed that he would wait for the cultists upstairs while they kept a watch on the door down here. They thought that was a grand idea (particularly Elestra), and their only concern was the lack of any means of proper communication. To solve this problem, Ranthir went upstairs with Mahdoth to cast an alarm spell that Mahdoth could enter if he needed their help. Conversely, if they needed Mahdoth’s help it would be trivial for Elestra to send her homunculus up through the floor to fetch him.

Before they parted, Mahdoth grabbed the amulet that Urak had worn and gave it to Ranthir. It would allow him to punch through the suppression field with his spells.

UPSTAIRS WITH MAHDOTH

The minutes ticked past with tense expectation. They were drawing near the midnight hour—

Mahdoth floated through the door, carrying with him a statue depicting one of the goat-headed demons they had met in Pythoness House. They quickly realized that this was the only remnant of the battle that had been fought upstairs.

Mahdoth quickly related what had happened: When the knock came at the upper door, the beholder had opened it to discover the demon, two ratbrutes, and a dozen or so ratlings amassed outside. Leveling one of his eyestalks, he had instantly turned the demon into a statue. In the same moment, he had put one of the ratbrutes to sleep and disintegrated the other.

At the sight, the other ratlings had panicked and fled. He killed the ratbrute, plucked from its body a letter, and then dusted it. Then he grabbed the demon-statue and brought it downstairs.

Tor, upon hearing the story, bowed his head. “I apologize. We had absolutely no business trying to come in here and kill you.

“Yes,” Mahdoth said. “Quite.”

ILLADRAS’ PROMISSORY NOTE

Salcabot—

Your information regarding Silion’s last communion with the Black Voice is, indeed, most valuable. And your mercenary spirit in exploiting it is most commendable in the eyes of Wuntad.

To ensure that no disruption of this most important trade is to be suffered due to the recent and shameful disgraces of the Blooded Knife, Nalfarassik shall accompany you. He shall command the respect of the Children of Mrathrach.

But fear not. I witness the will of Wuntad, and this note shall serve as promissory to such effect, that if your information proves true and the trade continues unabated due to your efforts, we of the Tolling Bell shall support your claims to leadership among the Brothers of the Blooded Knife.

                                                                                Illadras

As Tee finished reading the letter aloud, they took some private joy in learning that the Blooded Knife had been shamed. Then they turned their attention to the second fight that they knew was fast approaching the far side of the locked door before them.

Mahdoth offered them a final briefing: The cells in this block were laced with antimagic. Three of them were currently occupied. None of them should be disturbed.

“What about that passage?” Tee asked, pointing at the narrow way she had noticed before.

“Don’t go down there.”

THE CHILDREN OF MRATHRACH

A chaotic and seemingly senseless knock came at the door.

The spellcasters turned Tee invisible. Ranthir conjured an illusion of the demon answering the door, carefully choreographing it to match Mahdoth’s telekinetic opening of the same.

In the cavern beyond the door they saw a procession of serpent people. Eight of them bore four crates, four more stood guard upon them, and leading them was a larger creature of red eyes and black scales.

The black-scaled serpent hissed something in a sibilant tongue that none of them could understand. Everyone froze for a moment (except for Tee, who slipped quietly through the door).

When the demon failed to respond, it was clear that the serpents were becoming suspicious. Ranthir, realizing that the jig was already up, dropped a fireball into the midst of the serpent’s procession. Tee, who had worked her way into their midst, hit the deck and was narrowly missed by the flames rushing over her head. The serpent people around her, however, were not so lucky. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.

The black-scaled serpent turned to flee, but Mahdoth floated into view and blasted it repeatedly with a coruscating array of beams – the last of which caused it to explode in a fine mist of blood as it collapsed at the far end of the cavern.

As Mahdoth’s rays dropped away, Tor dashed through the door and finished off the rest of the serpent people still trying to reel away from the charcoaled remains of their brethren. Tee had scarcely had a chance to regain her feet and the fight was already over.

Amid the bodies they found a scroll of black parchment. Strange, twisted characters were written upon it in silver ink. Elestra reached out through the ancient knowledge held quiescent within the Spirit of the City and translated the script. And then she cried out in dismay.

BLACK PARCHMENT

Know that the barren serpent savages of the Teeth are not unknown unto the Children of Mrathrach.

Know that we will not deign to meet their kin.

Know that they are no kin to us.

Know that we disdain their foulness.

Know that we scorn the questioning of this “Wulvera” as to such a purpose.

Know that we act only by action of the Voice of All Chaos.

Know that the blood of the slave races must be paid.

Know that we do not forget our labor.

Know that we do not forget the great labor to be done.

The four crates, for better or for worse, remained largely undamaged by Ranthir’s fireball. At Tee’s direction, Agnarr began wrenching them open:

The first contained some sort of strange, semi-organic foam – as if some terrible living entity had grown to fill the box like a swollen tumor.

The second had a suit of plate armor that was heavily insulated with a silvery fabric. The exterior of the armor was filigreed with copper and a number of iron antennae – some large and some small – jutted out from it at odd, almost disturbing angles; jagging this way and that in a chaotic fashion.

The third contained several items – two pairs of manacles made of intricately etched brass attached to a similarly-etched oblong device by a long, rubbery cord; a cocoon-like container of silvery-black metal containing six small, oblong spheres of similar metal; and a large iron collar with five oblong nodules extruding from it in equidistant points along its circumference.

The fourth held sixteen canopic-like jars containing some sort of thick fluid; twelve fluted vials containing a thick, pinkish liquid; and four three-pronged syringes containing a bluish-silver liquid.

The contents were almost certainly chaositech and uniformly disturbing, and it was only at Tee’s great insistence that Agnarr peeled back the semi-organic foam in the first crate to reveal its true contents: A two-foot-long brain trailing a pair of long, spindly, tentacle-like arms ending in complex, grasping clamps. Once freed from the foam, the brain slowly floated up into the air before it was vigorously shoved back into its crate by the barbarian.

Tee turned from watching Agnarr trying to wrestle the brain back into its crate. To Mahdoth she said, “We know where we can dispose of these items safely.”

“Fine,” Mahdoth said. “Take them. I intend to seal this door and use better discretion in finding new help.”

He escorted them back up the stairs. “Two final points,” he said. “First, lock the door behind you. Second… if you are to cross paths with the Pactlords, be wary. They are larger and more dangerous than they appear. And now, good night. Apparently I must arise early to single-handedly attend to all the affairs of this asylum.”

“Well, if you’re in the market for new assistants…” Tee offered.

“The pay is 5 gold a week.”

“Or perhaps not.”

Running the Campaign: Fighting With Monsters – Campaign Journal: Session 47C
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index

To understand the concept of “Mother, May I?” in RPG design, start by looking at the D&D combat system: This system is based on a complete game structure with predefined actions sorted into an initiative system. The players don’t have to ask the DM if they can attack with their sword or even how the attack with the sword will be resolved — that’s all baked into the system.

Compare that to, say, a PC running a tavern. The player says something like, “I want to get some new types of ale on tap to attract new customers.” Everything about that interaction requires the DM to make rulings: How do they find new types of ale? What types? Does this actually let them attract new customers? How many? What effect do these customers have on their business? The player is effectively going to the DM, hat in hand, and asking them to let them do the thing they want to do.

If we wanted to eliminate Mother, May I?, there are a couple ways we could do that:

1. Try to bake everything into the rules so that every interaction works like combat (with predefined actions, etc.).
2. Create a storytelling game instead, codifying a distribution of narrative control so that a player can, for example, declare the existence of certain brands of ale.

Once broken down like this, we can really begin interrogating the idea that Mother, May I? is an inherently bad thing. Storytelling games are great fun, but they’re not the totality of narrative tabletop games. And the first option is actually impossible without stringently limiting the scope of the game. What makes an RPG special (and distinct from board games like Descent or Gloomhaven) is, in fact, the player’s ability to have their character do anything they can imagine, and it’s the GM’s ability to make flexible and responsive rulings that make that possible.

On the other hand, it can still be valuable to think about the effect that Mother, May I? can have on play. Because, in my experience, players do have a predilection towards structure.

For example, consider running away from a fight. One of the reasons players tend not to do that is because it means exiting a structure of play (combat) where they feel like they have control over their actions and, therefore, the outcome, instead entering a Mother, May I? mode of play in which they’re basically just asking the GM to make a ruling that they won’t be killed.

By contrast, the original 1974 edition of D&D had an explicit Escape/Pursuit structure you can use to resolve fleeing from combat. When I tell players this system exists (and how it works), suddenly they start running away from fights. I put these same players back into a D&D 3E or 5E game and the running away disappears again.

So even though Mother, May I? is the secret sauce that makes it possible for a player to do literally anything they can imagine, it turns out that, paradoxically, selectively adding structure in the right places can actually expand the scope of play.

Even more importantly, it turns out, in my experience, that flexible structures designed to empower GM rulings rather than trying to box the GM completely out of the process are usually the best, reducing unnecessary crunch while simultaneously creating richer play driven by player creativity.

THE GM’S ROLE

If you’re a GM, though, what can you learn from the principles of Mother, May I?

First, it’s always useful to remember that when players propose an action, they are almost always doing so because, if the action is successful, they think the outcome will be fun. So it’s almost always a good idea to Default to Yes:

With that being said, the players are not always right about this. And players also want the thrill of risk and the sweet taste of victory. Plus, the consequences of failure are interesting and vital to a well-rounded and entertaining experience. So don’t fall into the trap of always saying yes. Your judgment is of vital importance at the gaming table.

More advanced GMs can also keep an eye out for complex actions, particularly those that have become or might become a common part of play. When these situations arise, rather thank just making a one-off ruling (e.g., “make a check at Challenging difficulty”), think about how you could instead create a structure that could consistently handle these situations. Even better if you can make the structure player-facing, so that they can make meaningful decisions within the structure.

Remember that these structures don’t have to be terribly complex, and it’s more than all right if they’re a little loose and flexible. For example, consider our earlier example of the PCs running a tavern. A simple structure might look something like this:

• Rate the business in terms of its weekly income.
• Create additional tiers of income (both above and below the current income) – e.g., 10 gp, 25 gp, 50 gp, 100 gp, 250 gp, 500 gp, etc.
• Players who make an investment or improvement to the business can make a skill check to advance the income tier.

When trying to figure out a structure like this, there are a couple of useful rules of thumb:

• Can the players use this structure to proactively take action? (e.g., creating a cool new feature of the tavern to spend investment cash or trying to track down new types of ale to feature on tap)
• Can you hang scenario hooks off of it? (e.g., the PCs learn that the lost recipe for dwarven moon mead might be found within the ruins of Khunbaral).

If one or both of these are true, then your structure will have the capacity to spark creativity and integrate itself into the wider experience of play. (As opposed to mindless dice-rolling in a disconnected minigame.)

Not all such structures need to be player-known, but, as noted above, it’s often the case that making a structure player-known can be the quickest way to get players to engage with it and begin exploring its possibilities.

Over time, you may find one of these structures becoming an increasingly central or frequent part of play. If so, you’ll likely want to add additional details or features in response to what’s happening at the table. Or you might find flaws or shortcomings that need to be fixed. For example, maybe each tier becomes a progress clock instead of a single skill check. Or we could add the concept of a crisis (competition, larceny, natural disaster, recession, supplier shortages, etc.) that could either impose a one-time cost or even reduce the income tier of the business.

Although not as strong as The Sunless Citadel or The Forge of Fury, The Standing Stone mixes a strong premise with some daring design decisions to produce a solid module.

Review Originally Published May 21st, 2001

When it comes to 3rd Edition modules, Wizards of the Coast has established a strong track record with modules such as The Sunless Citadel and The Forge of Fury — each of which, in my opinion, is destined to become a classic. So the only question in my mind when I sat down to read John D. Rateliff’s The Standing Stone, a module for 7th level characters, is whether or not it could stand up to its remarkable predecessors.

The short answer is: No, it couldn’t.

On the plus side, even Mark McGwire can’t hit it out of the park every time. That doesn’t mean you won’t take his singles when they come.

PLOT

Warning: This review will contain spoilers for The Standing Stone. Players who may find themselves playing in this adventure should not read beyond this point.

A tiefling sorceror named Dyson has unlocked the ancient druidic magic inscribed upon the stone circles which surround the small town of Ossington. (For those of you familiar with the real world stone circles of England, Ossington is essentially Avebury with the stone circles and the avenue in slightly better condition.) These magics have allowed him to form an alliance with extraplanar forces of evil, and conceive a plan in which the animals of the forest can be transformed into humanoid form – a powerful staging force for a demonic invasion into our world.

Over the past few months, Dyson has killed almost all of the original villagers and replaced them with his faux humans and halflings. His actions have not gone entirely unnoticed, however: He has angered the local wild elves, and he has been forced to slay a visiting paladin who began to suspect the truth. In response, he crippled the wild elves by inviting them to a parley and then treacherously betraying their leaders. The body of the paladin he has dumped in a tarn at the foot of another local monument: Red Horse Hill (based on the ancient mound-building traditions of Native Americans).

Dyson’s murderous actions have taken their toll: The paladin has risen as a member of the undead, and ruthlessly hunts down any faux humans who wander beyond the protection of the ancient stone circles. The remaining wild elves, in turn, ambush any who escape the horseman. As a result, the villagers have been unable to plant their fields or tend their crops – and now, having exhausted most of their larders, they are slowly starving.

Enter the PCs, who are duped by Dyson into believing all the wrong things: After all, there is a ghost hunting down “innocent” villagers, right? And there are a group of wild elves whose atrocities (in the form of dead bodies with elven arrows in them) are well documented. Dyson will do his best to get the PCs to rid him of his enemies, while simultaneously continuing his demonic work. If all else fails, he will attempt to distract them with tales of yet another local fixture: The Great Barrow, where an ancient warlord rests with his undead protectors.

STRENGTHS

I have to admit that, right from the start, The Standing Stone struck a positive note for me: For several months now, I have been wanting to develop an adventure in which the PCs are duped by evil villagers into going after the good guys. And here it is. It’s a good twist on a familiar concept, and forms a solid foundation for an adventure.

Another nice feature here is Rateliff’s mixture of a variety of elements in building his adventure: Demonic pacts, ancient druidic magics, stone circles, burial mounds, lost souls, elven vengeance, even a tinge of The Island of Dr. Moreau thrown in for good measure. Nor does Rateliff overlook the importance of providing a nice selection of adventure hooks for getting the PCs involved in this dynamic scenario and environment.

Although largely an overland adventure, The Standing Stone also features a minor dungeon: The Great Barrow, in which the Warlord Shainath lives on as a member of the undead. Rateliff makes a rather daring choice by rendering this as, essentially, a random dungeon environment. While I was initially skeptical, I was astonished to discover just how well this works. Rateliff succeeds at manipulating a minimal amount of text into a very rewarding dungeon-delving experience. Where other author’s might have ended up compromising the complexity of the Barrow in deference to the space limitations of the module, Rateliff rises to the occasion.

WEAKNESSES

In reading The Standing Stone I am left with the indelible suspicion that it has been seriously compromised by its editors. For example, several pieces of background information are noticeably absent, despite the fact that they are implicitly alluded to elsewhere in the text. Although the result is not crippling to the adventure, its structure appears to be significantly weakened. (Of course, my supposition here may be incorrect. Whatever the case, however, there are things which should be here which aren’t – and that weakens the adventure.)

The boxed text is another weakness here. Quite frankly, it’s horrid. Besides being, in general, a textbook example of poor writing, it actively undermines some of the module’s best qualities by treating objects of ancient mystery and magic with a stunning colloquialism.

There are also some gaps in plausibility to be found here. For example, the conceit that an entire forest has been depopulated by Dyson creating 80 or so faux humans and halflings borders on the absurd. (Perhaps we are meant to assume that a multitude of animals must die for every one success?)

The module also suffers from the simple reality that it’s far too deadly for the 7th level characters it is supposedly designed for. And Rateliff (or his editors) should really know better, considering that the lowest Encounter Level he assigns in the course of the entire adventure is EL 9. My “favorite” bit is when he actually assumes that four 7th level characters can take out four NPC villains ranging from 8th to 16th level, when those NPC villains are accompanied by more than 30 angry villagers.

The worst fault to be found here, however, comes from the module’s conclusion: Although, technically, a mystery in which the PCs are supposed to figure out what Dyson is up to, there is really no way for them to solve that mystery until after the adventure is completed (by reading through Dyson’s notes). This type of thing drives me nuts. You shouldn’t have to wait until after you’ve beaten the bad guy to know why you were trying to beat him in the first place.

CONCLUSION

The Standing Stone is a solid adventure, built on some really great concepts and developed within a locale with an intriguing history and magic about it. Despite its structural weaknesses, I found it to be a more than worthy addition to a D&D campaign – and easily salvageable from its unfortunate weaknesses. If this is the worst that WotC can produce, then I remain confident that they’ll continue seeing my hard-earned cash for years to come.

Style: 4
Substance: 3

Authors: John D. Rateliff
Company: Wizards of the Coast
Line: Dungeons & Dragons
Price: $9.95
ISBN: 0-7869-1838-1
Production Code: WTC11838
Pages: 32

Hey. Past-Justin. Quick question: Do you think the hill with a horse carved into its side might be inspired by the Uffington White Horse, from the same cultural heritage as the druidic stone circles? And which was clearly the inspiration for the cartographer’s illustration in the book?

“Nope. Definitely Native American mounds.”

Sigh.

This is mostly interesting as a reflection on how every reader (including you!) brings their own POV to what they read. I had visited Avebury. I had visited the works of the Native American “Mound Builders.” I had not visited the Uffington White Horse. (I think I would have at least been aware of it in 2001, but perhaps not.) If past-me had visited the Nazca lines in Peru, perhaps I would have instead confidently assumed they were our shared point of reference.

I was probably also being influenced by my personal predilection for cultural mash-ups as a source for inspiration for fantastical settings. It was more exciting to imagine Native American mound builder traditions and druidic stone circles both being sources of inspiration, rather than just a straightforward copy-paste druidic theme.

In any case, my suspicion that the later D&D Adventure Path modules were being compromised by the limited page count — either due to the designer cutting corners to make stuff fit or editors slashing the text after the fact — only grew to a certainty as the series continued. The scope of high-level adventures tends to expand, and in D&D 3E even the size of the stat blocks would grow significantly and consume more and more space at higher levels. Where this was somewhat worrisome in The Standing Stone, it would become a serious issue for the subsequent installments.

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 47A: The Master of Two Servants

Tee babbled something about a letter and the shipment that Wuntad was delivering to Mahdoth. “And since Wuntad is a bad man, we just assumed that you must be—“

“Who the devil is Wuntad?”

“You don’t know who he is?” Tee, in her charmed state, was honestly befuddled. But those in their right wits were beginning to figure it out.

“Let me see this letter,” Mahdoth demanded.

Tee dug it out of her bag of holding. Mahdoth grabbed it with his telekinetic eyestalk and perused it with half a dozen eyes at once.

“Where is that traitorous halfling?”

When the PCs intercepted plans indicating that Mahdoth’s Asylum was being used to smuggle goods for the chaos cultists, they jumped to a conclusion: Mahdoth must be involved!

The assumption was reinforced by what seemed to be corroborating evidence: Mahdoth had been rude and secretive when they met him previously. More importantly, he was wearing a Pactlords’ ring, and they knew that the Pactlords were bad guys. This, in turn, caused even more conclusions to come spilling out: If Mahdoth was one of the Pactlords and he was helping the chaos cultists, then there must be a connection between the Pactlords and the chaos cultists. Maybe that double agent of the Pactlords they’d found embedded among the chaos cultists of the Old City hadn’t been a double agent after all; or maybe she’d just been scouting out the cultists for a potential alliance!

As we’ve now seen, none of this is actually true: The smuggling at Mahdoth’s was being coordinated by his corrupt staff members and has nothing to do with Mahdoth being a former member of the Pactlords. (Mahdoth is actually completely reformed and no longer has any contact with the Pactlords.)

When the PCs went haring off along this false trail, I remember being gobsmacked. It had not occurred to me that they would jump to the conclusion that Mahdoth was responsible, nor double and triple down on a course of action that would see them going toe-to-toe with a beholder.

(When I talk about not needing to prep red herrings for adventures, this is what I’m talking about.)

I also kept expecting them to course correct. (For example, by questioning Zairic or some of the other cultists involved.) In fact, the players had almost talked themselves out of precipitous action by the end of Session 46, but by the time we’d reconvened for Session 47, they’d worked their way back to, “Mahdoth must die!”

At no point, however, did I feel the need to correct the players in their mistake or somehow “fix” what was going on. This is because nothing was broken.

As long as the PCs are moving forward and with purpose, it doesn’t matter if they’re doing so due to a misapprehension: I had prepped a situation (in which chaos cultists pick up shipments of chaositech from Children of Mrathrach at Mahdoth’s Asylum) and the PCs’ actions were driving them to engage more and more deeply with that situation. Was that engagement different than I’d expected? Sure, and if I’d prepped a plot that might have been a problem.

THE REVERSAL

When running a situation-based scenario, in fact, these kinds of false assumptions are often desirable. They provide a completely organic, but dramatically satisfying reversal when the truth comes out.

A reversal, you see, is that moment when everything you think you know about a story is suddenly turned on its head: The private detective has been framed by the dame who hired him. The “CIA agent” who recruited the PCs was actually working for the bad guys. You thought you came to assassinate a beholder, but it turns out you’re actually here to help the beholder layoff some troublesome staff members.

There are techniques you can use to prep reversals, but they can be tricky to pull off in a satisfying way. Even when you do pull it off, the players will know you pulled a fast one on them, even if they appreciate the moment. But when the players know that they duped themselves? When they completely own the false assumptions?

That’s pure gold.

That’s a dramatic beat that lands and lands hard.

Or, alternatively, if the PCs finish the scenario without ever figuring out their mistake, it will likely generate all kinds of delightful complications and blowback for them to deal with later: Imagine if they had killed Mahodth and left the asylum completely unsupervised! What might the consequences have been?

Campaign Journal: Session 47B – Running the Campaign: Fighting With Monsters
In the Shadow of the Spire: Index