A roleplaying game, at its heart, lies at an interstice between game and conversation: In a conversation, we informally take turns sharing information. In a game, we formally take turns using the mechanics of the game. Roleplaying games dance freely between these two turn-taking dynamics, and in that dance the GM and the players are partners.

One of the ways I find this analogy useful is thinking in terms of action and reaction: The GM takes an action, and the players react to it on their turn. But then, of course, the GM takes their turn and, playing the world, reacts to what the PCs have done.

Often this conversational handoff is unprompted: The GM talks, the players talk, the GM talks again, and so on in a seamless back-and-forth.

In some cases, however, this will be prompted. Probably the most typical example is the GM, after presenting events in the world, saying something like, “So what are y’all doing?”

There can be a lot of different reasons for using a specific prompt, but it usually boils down to clarity in the handoff (“I’m done talking, so now it’s your turn,” in a fashion somewhat akin to saying “I’m done” at the end of your turn in a board game) or an effort to refocus the table (“let’s stop talking about which flavor of Cheetos is the best and get back to fighting the bilious zombies”). It’s kind of like saying “over” when you’re using a walkie-talkie.

Open prompts like this are almost always the purview of the GM, but more specific prompts from the players aren’t exactly uncommon. For example, while roleplaying their PCs chatting about recent events around the campfire, one of the players might turn to the GM and ask, “Do I know anything about King Roderick?”

GMs can also use a targeted prompt. Instead of prompting the table as a whole, the GM instead prompts a specific player: “What is Emily doing?”

Targeted prompts will formally arise from initiative counts or similar priority mechanics. (“Emily, it’s your turn.”) Even without formal mechanics, however, they can also commonly occur as a process of elimination: Everyone else has declared their action, and so, “While that’s happening, what is Emily doing?”

A specialized technique is the inner monologue prompt. This is a targeted prompt in which the GM asks a player to share and describe the inner life of their character.

• “Emily, how does the music in the tavern make you feel?”
• “What does Alfarr think of the minister’s proposal?”
• “Roscrucia, is this is the first dragon you’ve seen since the death of your parents? How does that make you feel?”

This technique doesn’t work well for all players and, personally, I only find it appropriate for certain campaigns. But when it does work, it can have amazing results!

If we were all Hollywood screenwriters we would have both the time and the talent to expertly reveal our characters’ inner lives through expertly crafted dialogue. But we aren’t and we don’t, so the best way to bring those character dynamics into the light may be to just cut directly to the point. It can also be a way of crystallizing and making strong emotional choices that might otherwise remain undefined and unrealized.

As noted, for some players this technique will be disruptive to their creative process and their relationship to their character. That should be respected. But one reaction that can be useful to push through is a feeling that this is “fake” or “artificial.” This is true, but, frankly, if it was good enough for Shakespeare, it’s good enough for us.

We do not, of course, have to whip out a soliloquy in blank verse. But the basic function of laying bare the character’s thoughts for the audience remains dramatically valid and emotionally powerful.

In this case, of course, the audience is our fellow players.

Thanks to Seven Wonders Productions on my Youtube channel for suggesting this topic.

Tomas: Okay, I’m going to search the room.

GM: Give me a Search check.

Tomas: (rolls dice) Aw, shoot. I rolled a 4, which only gives me an 8 on the check.

GM: You spend a couple minutes tossing the room, but you don’t find anything.

Maria: Oh! I want to check, too!

Steve: Me, too!

Samantha: I got a 17!

This is dogpiling the check. It’s not always a bad thing, but when it crops up during play it often just feels… wrong somehow. Are the players pulling a fast one? I mean, it just makes sense that Maria and Steve and Samantha could help search the room. So why can it be so frustrating when this happens?

There are actually three different problems here, and it’s probably useful to split them apart and look at each one separately.

First, there’s a metagaming issue. If Tomas rolled a 30 on their Search check and the GM says “you didn’t find anything,” Maria (and Steve and Samantha) don’t pipe up to say, “I’ll try, too!” It’s only when the thief muffs his roll and fails to find something that the rest of the party uses that metagame knowledge to have someone else make the check.

If this is your concern, you can address it by simply making these types of checks secretly: Since the players don’t know the check result, they can’t metagame it.

This won’t necessarily stop the dogpiling, though. The uncertainty about how well Tomas did can actually motivate the players to always dogpile the check. Other types of action checks may also make it more immediately obvious if Tomas failed or succeeded (e.g., he either picked the lock and can open the door or he didn’t) and have the other PCs queuing up to try, which isn’t metagaming but still dogpiling.

Which leads us to the second problem, which is a pacing issue. Is it really interesting to have everyone sit there sequentially rolling the check? What a huge drag! Let’s wrap it up and move it along! (This is particularly true if there really isn’t anything for them to find in the room and Tomas’ check result is irrelevant.)

You can often bypass this issue by calling for all of the PCs to make a check at the same time.

GM: You’re ushered into a grand ballroom. On the wall hangs a huge, heraldic banner of a red stag rearing on a checkered field of blue and white.

Samantha: Do I recognize the heraldry?

GM: Everyone give me an Intelligence (History) check.

In fact, you should often be anticipating this type of check: All of the characters can see the heraldic banner and they either recognize it or they don’t; it’s not something requiring active study, so you should be immediately asking everyone to make the check. (We call these reactive checks.)

Even if it’s a non-reactive check (like searching a room) and the player is the one proposing the action, you can still try to get ahead of the dogpile: “Is anyone helping Tomas search the room?”

But the third problem is a balance issue.

Let’s say that a particular check has a 70% chance of success for the first character, but a 50% chance of success for the other four PCs. This probably falls into the range of checks that’s both interesting and relevant to resolve. But if the check is dogpiled (with all of the PCs rolling and only one needing to succeed), that 70% chance of success suddenly becomes a 96% chance of success, at which point you have to ask yourself why you’re even rolling the check in the first place.

Compound probability adds up quick, and this is particularly true in systems where the range of the die roll is larger than the skill bonuses: The shift in the average die result over multiple rolls rapidly makes skill almost completely irrelevant. (For example, a DC 15 check where most skill bonuses are +1 to +5 and you’re rolling a d20. The successful check is more likely to come from whichever player rolls the highest number on the d20 than it is to come from the PC with the highest skill rating.)

DOGPILING vs. GROUP ACTIONS

Dogpiling a failed check isn’t the same thing as a group action (where multiple characters are working together). Many games already include effective mechanics for resolving group actions. In D&D 5th Edition, for example, you have group checks (everyone rolls and the group succeeds if at least half the checks are successful) and the Help action (the character with the best check modifier makes the check with advantage if there are other characters helping them).

For more on resolving group actions in any system, check out Part 14 of The Art of Rulings.

FAILURE MUST BE MEANINGFUL

Somewhat ironically, the solution to dogpiling largely goes back to the first principles for framing a check: If you’re rolling the dice, then failure should be interesting, meaningful, or both.

So whenever a PC makes a check, there should be a penalty or consequence for failure.

But yet another reason that dogpiling can feel frustrating is that it can trivially bypass what initially seemed like a meaningful consequence. For example, failing to pick a lock on a door is meaningful because it means the PCs need to find another way to get through the door.

Of course, this also reveals that dogpiling is, in many ways, indistinguishable from one PC repeatedly rerolling the same check.

We could start by reviewing the three techniques described in Failure for the Beginning GM:

No Retries. This obviously solves the dogpiling problem by definition. Whoever made the initial check represented the group’s best effort, and no subsequent checks will change that outcome — e.g., we have established that this door cannot pick and you’ll have to find a different way of getting in.

If your group is used to using narrative resolution, this may be all that you need. But frequently it will just leave people scratching their heads, “Why can’t Samantha search the room after Tomas or at the same time as Tomas?”

A technique I’ve been experimenting with in D&D to “soften” the concept of No Retries is a gradated group check. Basically, it interprets the dogpile as a retroactive group check. The group check requires half of the people attempting the check to succeed, so the second character to make the check has a chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. But if the second character also fails the check, now they’ve dug a hole and it would take two more successful checks for the group to work their way back to success.

The effective application of this technique can be a little limited, but I’ve found it can be a great mental model for social scenes: Tomas has clearly screwed up the negotiations with the vizier. Can Samantha step in and smooth things over? If not, then it will be quite difficult to salvage the situation.

Failing Forward. This preempts the problem because the first character to attempt the check can’t fail, they can only suffer a consequence — Tomas finds the hidden jewel, but triggers a trap; he picks the lock, but his lockpicks break; etc. Since the initial attempt didn’t fail, there’s never a reason for the other PCs to dogpile.

Progress Clock. When all else fails, start or tap a failure clock. The flexibility of this option is great, making it easy to default to when all else fails.

To sum up: Once the dogpile starts, you’ve just got to start looking for additional consequences. Not in a punitive way, just in a, “Okay, you’re spending a lot of time on this lock… what does that mean in the context of the wider world?” way.

DO YOU DARE TO DOGPILE?

With that being said, you also don’t want to discourage the second-best skill rating in the group from flaunting their stuff occasionally. So you may also want to think about how each additional success on a check could provide a benefit:

• A gather information check where each successful check gives a different piece of information, but a failure results in the bad guys becoming aware that the PCs are asking questions.
• A check to craft a magic item where each successful check adds a unique feature to the item, but each failure results in a curse.

This may require a more complicated framing of the check, but it carries the benefits of extra successes needing to be weighed against the increased risk of failure for each additional participant and forcing the group to make a strategic decision.

Whether you’re talking about Jaroo Ashtaff, the Level 7 Druid, from AD&D, a Goblin Wizard 14 from 3^rd Edition, or a 5^th Edition Archmage, the trickiest bit of creating an NPC spellcaster is filling in their spell list.

For example, let’s take a closer look at the 5E Archmage’s spellcasting capability:

Cantrips (5, at will):

1^st Level (4 slots):

2^nd Level (3 slots):

3^rd Level (3 slots):

4^th Level (3 slots):

5^th Level (3 slots):

6^th Level (1 slot):

7^th Level (1 slot):

8^th Level (1 slot):

9^th Level (1 slot):

Now, obviously, in this case we can actually use the default spells provided in the Archmage stat block. But wouldn’t it get a little boring — in a game teeming with hundreds or thousands of amazing spell options — for every Archmage to cast the exact same set of spells?

And so here we are, picking out twenty-five spells one by one.

It’s laborious.

And particularly daunting if you’re creating a spellcaster on the fly in the middle of a session: The PCs zigged in an unexpected direction or zagged by unexpectedly picking a fight. Quick! Pick a dozen (or two dozen!) spells in the time it takes the players to roll initiative!

THE BLANK TEMPLATE

If you take a second peek at the blank Archmage template above, you’ll see the technique I use when this situation comes up at the table.

(Which, of course, it inevitably does.)

Rather than listing the spellcaster’s spells, I just list their daily capacity.

Then I’ll grab a copy of the Player’s Handbook (or its local equivalent; similar techniques work in a wide variety of games) and flip it open to the appropriate spell list.

When it comes time for the NPC spellcaster to cast a spell, I’ll simply choose whatever spell feels appropriate and add it to the previously blank template. Over time, the template fills in.

The drawback to this technique is that it requires a bit more system mastery, since you’ve just multiplied their spell selection each round from a list with a handful spells on it to literally every spell in the book. But it’s not like you need to actually memorize every spell in the book: with just a little familiarity, you can rely on the spells you’re familiar with, grab anything else that looks particularly cool or appropriate as the need arises, and slowly expand your repertoire.

Plus your Player’s Handbook is already flipped open to the right page, so thumbing over to the description of a spell you’re not completely familiar with should be fairly easy.

CONSTRAINING CHOICE

Another effect of this technique, obviously, is that if you play it for maximum mechanical advantage your spellcasters are significantly more powerful than they were before! After all, “they” get to pick any spell they want at the very moment they need it! That’s not fair!

First, good sir or ma’am: ARE YOU A GAME MASTER OR AREN’T YOU?

Just… don’t do that. Ask yourself, “Does it make sense for them to have this spell?” And, if it doesn’t, don’t use it. If you don’t think you can answer that question truthfully, then flip a coin or roll a die when in doubt.

If you want a different form of constraint, consider defining a spell “theme” for the NPC caster: Maybe they’re a fire mage or a defense specialist or a summoner. Limit their spell selections to this theme: In addition to making the encounter more flavorful, it will place a reasonable limit on you unlimited spell selection and maybe even push you out of your comfort zone, encouraging you to experiment with new spells you haven’t gotten comfortable with yet.

Another constraint might be eliminating 25% or even 50% of their spell slots. For example, we might take our Archmage template and do this:

Cantrips (5, at will):

1^st Level (4 slots): X

2^nd Level (3 slots): X X

3^rd Level (3 slots): X

4^th Level (3 slots): X X

5^th Level (3 slots): X

6^th Level (1 slot):

7^th Level (1 slot): X

8^th Level (1 slot):

9^th Level (1 slot): X

With each X representing a spell they’ve already used today or, alternatively, a spell they’ve prepared that isn’t relevant to the current encounter (depending on edition and spellcasting class). This limited capacity counteracts, to at least some extent, the greater flexibility of their spell selection. Plus, it probably just makes sense more often than not: The NPC was probably just going about their day, casting their spells the way they normally do. It’s actually pretty unrealistic when every NPC spellcaster shows up with their full daily allotment of casting ready to drop on a single encounter.

SAVE YOUR SPELL LISTS

Whether you’re prepping spell lists in your adventure notes or jotting them down desperately in the middle of the session, save the list. Give it a label like “Fire Mage” or “Death By Lightning.” Copy it into a repository or drop it into a file folder.

Over time you’ll build up a valuable trove of spell lists. Eventually, you won’t be left scrambling when the players zig-zag: You’ll be able to grab the most appropriate list, give it a couple of twists, and run with it.

There are a lot of GMing skills that transfer seamlessly between systems. But as you move out from whatever your first RPG was and begin exploring other games, it’s useful to remember that this is not universally true. Games are mechanically different from each other, and what works in one system — whether you’re talking about prepping scenarios or running at the table — can fail spectacularly in another. Perhaps even worse is when it doesn’t fail spectacularly, but just quietly degrades the experience. It can be surprisingly difficult to notice when a habit which is “obviously” the way something is done is actually wrecking your game.

A subtle example of this is how you call for a skill check.

Some RPGs, of course, don’t even have skill checks. If you’re used to running systems with skill checks, that’s a big ol’ tip-off that you’ll need to run skill checks differently in this game.

But RPGs that have skills can be broadly broken down into two categories: those with discrete skills and those with overlapping skills.

In a system with discrete skills, each task will clearly fall into the purview of a single skill. This means that the GM can call for a specific check: “Give me Knowledge: Science.”

In a system with overlapping skills, on the other hand, there might be multiple skills that could apply to the current task. For example, a PC might be able to use Knowledge: Science, but they might also be able to use Quantum Mechanics, Stellar Lore, or even Organic Chemistry (depending on exactly what strange phenomenon they’re attempting to analyze).

If a GM familiar with discrete skill systems calls for specific skill checks in a system with overlapping skills, it will either create a much muddier interaction or even end up needlessly neutering PC abilities (if, for example, no one realizes they should actually be making a Stellar Lore check because that’s the skill they actually have). In a system with overlapping skills, what the GM should generally be doing is describing what the skill check is for and then letting the players identify what skill they can use for it.

GM: I need a skill check to identify a weird space rock that’s glowing with some kind of bioluminescence.

Player 1: Can I use Stellar Lore?

GM: Sounds good.

Player 2: Bioluminescence? Could I use Organic Chemistry?

GM: That works.

I, personally, have a weak preference for systems with discrete skills. I like the clean clarity of “give me Skill X,” and it also makes it easier to call for skill checks without first telling the player exactly what the check is for.

But there are definitely advantages to overlapped skill systems. Such systems tend to be used in games with a lot more detail in their skill systems (e.g. GURPS, which has skills for Biology, Chemistry, Naturalist, Paleontology, and Physiology), allowing players a lot more control in describing and distinguishing their characters. Such systems also require players to think about HOW their character is going to approach a particular task or problem, and they can also encourage players to think fiction-first (and discourage GMs from preemptively describing a mechanical solution).

You can also, as seen in our example above, easily end up in situations with people rolling different skills for the same task: Five different people all making the same skill check just skews the probability of success. But successes with different skills can be used to provide different insights into the problem.

The drawback, of course, is that negotiating/identifying which skill(s) to use can be awkward of belabored. There’s not a One True Answer™ here, just different techniques that have different strengths and weaknesses. Understanding those strengths and weaknesses, however, will let you steer towards the strengths and minimize the weaknesses of whatever system you’re currently using.

THE SPECTRUM

Of course, in practice, many RPGs won’t fit perfectly into either the “discrete” or “overlapped” categories. Even systems with heavily discrete skills will likely still have some situations that fall into a gray area. Other systems may have mostly discrete skills, but then a few skill areas with a lot of overlap.

D&D 5^th Edition is an example of this: Most of the skills in the game are very discrete, with the exception of Athletics and Acrobatics, where the distinctions of which physical activities fall into which box can get really hazy. (This is particularly true if you use the, frankly superior in every way and it should be the standard rule, method of allowing skills to be used with multiple ability scores.) And D&D 5^th Edition also has tool proficiencies, which largely operate as a secondary skill system with a ton of vague overlap.

It can be useful to identify these specific features of a skill system and resolve skills appropriately: For example, I tend to call for specific skill checks when running D&D 5^th Edition, except when it comes to Athletics and Acrobatics where I’ll generally say something like, “Give me an Athletics or Acrobatics check,” acknowledging the huge overlap between those skills. And I’ll also say things like, “Give me any appropriate tool proficiency for trying to repair the broken device.”

PLAYER-DEFINED SKILLS

Many RPGs, like Numenera or Dresden Files, have begun using player-defined skills: Rather than having a specific skill list that players choose from, players are free to make up any skill that feels appropriate to them. Such systems encourage fiction-first character creation, and can also create wonderfully evocative character sheets: Lore of the Northern Hills, Greatest Avadrakai Flyer in Parloun, Savage Brawler, etc.

Depending on your predilections, you may find it useful to compile a list of the skills your players have created for their PCs, which you can then often use as a discrete skill list.

On the other hand, I often find it convenient to just treat these systems as being massively overlapped, always calling for skill checks by describing the task and letting players propose which cool skill they’ve created could best apply.

SKILL TREE SYSTEMS

Some RPGs feature skill trees, allowing for characters to purchase both broad skills and then hyper-specialize. For example, a skill like Science might have sub-skills below it on the tree like:

• Physics
• Biology
• Chemistry
• Astronomy
• Quantum Mechanics

And so forth. It’s not unusual for a skill tree system to feature multiple levels, so Chemistry, on the list above, might have additional specialties like Organic Chemistry, Biochemistry, Geochemistry, etc.

Skill tree systems, by their very nature, are overlapped skill systems. (Physics, Biology, etc. all overlap with Science.) But when correctly designed and used they can offer a lot of the advantages of an overlapped skill system, while also smoothing some of the potential awkwardness of calling for skill checks.

For example, a GM can call for a top-level skill check — e.g., “Give me a Science check” — and players can then, with focus, ask if their specific specialty applies. (“Can I use Biology?” “Yes.”)

Alternatively, the GM can call for a more specific skill — e.g., “Give me a Quantum Mechanics check” — and the player can immediately know that they can default to their general Science skill.

What defaulting to a less specific skill means will often be defined by the mechanics of the system (e.g., it’s made at a penalty), but that also serves as a convenient transition to…

PENUMBRAL SKILLS

In addition to gray areas where a particular task could be covered equally well by two or more skills, and therefore you could make the check with either, you can also end up with a situation where a secondary skill could apply, but clearly not as well as whatever the primary skill(s) for the check would be.

In other words, a task that exists in the penumbra of a particular skill. For example:

Player 2: Bioluminescence? Could I use Organic Chemistry?

GM: It’s not exactly your area of expertise, but I’ll allow it.

You can, of course, rarely go wrong by defaulting to yes in these situations. But it may also be appropriate to allow the check, but only with:

• A penalty (“make your Organic Chemistry check at -25%”),
• Disadvantage (or similar mechanic if your system offers it), or
• Limited results (a success with Organic Chemistry just won’t reveal everything a Stellar Lore check can about this weird asteroid)

In the case of offering limited results, you don’t necessarily need to tell the player that this is the case. If your system offers something like a critical or exceptional success, it might also be appropriate to use those outcomes to boost the limited result back to a normal result for our hypothetical organic chemist.

We resolve actions in RPGs by making checks, right? I’m not actually a master swordsman, but I can use my attack bonus to slay dragons. And I’m not actually a master thief, but I can use my Pick Locks skill to open a door. So even though I’m not as smart as my wizard with Intelligence 20, I should be able to make an Intelligence check to solve a riddle, right?

But, if so, why does that feel so unsatisfying?

Broadly speaking, it’s for the same reason that we don’t “solve” crosswords where the answers have already been penciled in.

We can also think of this in terms of the Czege Principle:

When one person is the author of both the character’s adversity and its resolution, play isn’t fun.

In the case of a riddle or puzzle, the resolution is, of course, figuring out the answer. If the interaction at the table is:

GM: Like the sun in a snowstorm, I must be broken before I can be used. What am I? Give me an Intelligence check.

Player: 18.

GM: The answer is, “An egg.”

The player has been excluded from participating. (And this largely remains true even if we muddy up the middle step a bit by, for example, requiring the player to say, “I’ll make an Intelligence check.”)

In The Art of Rulings, I propose three thresholds for making a ruling:

1. Passive observation is automatically triggered.
2. Player expertise activates character expertise.
3. Player expertise can trump character expertise.

If you apply this metric to riddle-solving, you generally end up in a similar place: Player expertise activating character expertise means that “the characters don’t play themselves.” The players have to make some meaningful input in order to activate their character’s expertise (e.g. deciding to search a chest for traps in order to activate their character’s mechanical Search check), and in the case of a riddle or puzzle the only meaningful input is figuring out the solution. (Which, of course, obviates the need for the check.)

To put this a different way: The only meaningful part of solving a riddle is the LAST step. So if you reduce the solution to a mechanical check, you have taken all meaning away from the player.

Engage the players through their characters. If you’re ONLY engaging the characters, then the players are no longer playing the game.

BUT I WANT TO CHECK!

But let’s say that you (or your players) WANT to make the Intelligence check. This is generally due to one of two reasons:

First, the PCs are stuck and they need a solution to the riddle or puzzle in order to proceed.

Second, the players wants to play a character who is smarter than they are. Just like some players want to play a character who can win a heavyweight title bout (even though they absolutely cannot do that in real life), you’ll have players who want to solve riddles and puzzles that would be impossible for them in real life.

Fortunately, there are some techniques you can use without making riddles and puzzles meaningless.

NON-ESSENTIAL RIDDLES

The first thing you can do is make the riddle non-essential.

For example, consider the riddle of Moria’s door in The Fellowship of the Rings.

‘What does the writing say?’ asked Frodo, who was trying to decipher the inscription on the arch. ‘I thought I knew the elf-letters but I cannot read these.’

`The words are in the elven-tongue of the West of Middle-earth in the Elder Days,’ answered Gandalf. ‘But they do not say anything of importance to us. They say only: The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. And underneath small and faint is written: I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.’

`What does it mean by speak, friend, and enter?’ asked Merry.

‘That is plain enough,’ said Gimli. `If you are a friend, speak the password, and the doors will open, and you can enter.’

‘Yes,’ said Gandalf, ‘these doors are probably governed by words. Some dwarf-gates will open only at special times, or for particular persons; and some have locks and keys that are still needed when all necessary times and words are known. These doors have no key. In the days of Durin they were not secret. They usually stood open and doorwards sat here. But if they were shut, any who knew the opening word could speak it and pass in. At least so it is recorded, is it not, Gimli?’

‘It is,’ said the dwarf. `But what the word was is not remembered. Narvi and his craft and all his kindred have vanished from the earth.’

‘But do not you know the word, Gandalf?’ asked Boromir in surprise.

`No!’ said the wizard.

In order to open the door, they have to figure out the password! There’s only one solution!

… but that’s not the only way to open the door, is it? Particularly if it was a D&D group:

• They could break it down.
• They could trick the lake monster into breaking it for them.
• They could prepare and cast a knock spell.

It’s also not the only way into Moria. They could, for example, try to climb the mountain and enter through one of the windows or ventilation shafts.

Plus, they technically don’t need to get into Moria at all:

• They could go back and try to cross Caradhras again.
• They could go south through the Gap of Rohan.
• They could abandon their overland journey entirely, retreat to a western port, and sail to Gondor.

This is similar to the Three Clue Rule: If there are multiple paths to the goal, then a puzzle the players can’t figure out rendering one of them inaccessible is not a critical problem. So if the only reason you were making the check was because you felt compelled to force an answer on the players, making sure that the riddle or puzzle isn’t a single point of failure for the scenario (and being open to player suggestions for how they might route around it) sidesteps the problem.

ROLLING FOR CLUES

Speaking of the Three Clue Rule, let’s put a spin on our earlier example of unsatisfying play and consider a different type of puzzle:

GM: Lord Arthur D’armount has been murdered! Give me an Intelligence check.

Player: 18

GM: Bob did it.

That’s clearly absurd, right?

But nevertheless, a murder investigation scenario will almost always feature players using their character’s skills to search for clues and identify the ash as coming from a Trichinopoly cigar in a moment of Holmesian brilliance. Why does that work?

The difference is that these checks (or other mechanics) are delivering clues. It’s still the players who use those clues and take the rewarding final step of figuring out what they mean.

And when someone playing a super-genius character like Sherlock Holmes or Reed Richards or Wile E. Coyote wants to make an IQ check to solve a riddle, we can do the same thing: Instead of giving them the solution, we give them a clue.

When we’re talking about a murder mystery, this distinction between clue and conclusion can feel fairly obvious. If we’re talking about Myst-like puzzles or Gollum-style riddle battles, on the other hand, it can be a little harder to figure out clues that aren’t just the solution.

This is often more art than science and will be heavily dependent on the specific riddle or puzzle, but a trick I frequently find useful is to break the riddle or puzzle apart conceptually and then give clues that only make one part of the riddle or puzzle more explicit. For example, let’s look at the simple riddle we used at the beginning of this essay:

Like the sun in a snowstorm, I must be broken before I can be used.

We could look at the first part of the riddle (“like a sun in a snowstorm”) and say, “You’re pretty sure the ‘sun’ and ‘snowstorm’ are referring to colors.”

Something else we can learn from mysteries is that you can also deliver clues to riddles or puzzles diegetically. Like Henry Jones, Sr.’s journal in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, the PCs can piece together lore and rumor, and perhaps investigate the area around the puzzle, for hints to the puzzle’s solution. If there are a bunch of large stone pillars, each etched with a strange rune, for example:

• Researching the runes in a library might be useful in identifying which runes are related to each other.
• Searching around the pillars might discover scrape marks on the floor, indicating that they’ve been moved around.
• A giant-slayer’s journal might describe the relevant rules of Brobdingnagian chess.

And some of these, of course, might also be things that a successful Arcana or Giant Lore check would recall.