Combat is ubiquitous in tabletop roleplaying games. A little bit because the modern RPG evolved out of wargames; a little more because combat is mainstay genre element in the pulp fiction and procedurals that underlie most RPGs; but mostly because simulated combat is fun!

As a GM, therefore, a lot of your time will be spent running and describing combat scenes. To do that successfully, you’ll first need to visualize the battlefield. Only when you can truly see what’s happening will you be able to evoke it for your players.

ON THE BATTLEMAP

Part of this, of course, is keeping your vision of the battle clear and consistent. If the continuity of the game world is constantly morphing without rhyme or reason, it will undermine everything you’re trying to accomplish.

One way to objectively achieve this consistency is through the use of a battlemap, particularly in combination with rules that are designed to take advantage of the battlemap’s precision. When everyone at the table can clearly see the map of the battlefield and where everyone is located on that map, it’s trivial for everyone to stay on the same page.

When using a battlemap, however, it’s also easy to suffer from grid rigidity: Your mental picture of the battle gets locked into the physical, unmoving miniatures on the battlemap. This results in static, boring descriptions of combat in which the goblin is standing in their 5-foot-square and the barbarian is standing in their 5-foot-square and the two of them stand there, swinging swords back and forth.

To escape from grid rigidity in your descriptions, the first thing to realize is that characters are not simply standing in the middle of their square. Part of the abstraction of the grid is that you are SOMEWHERE inside the square, but we don’t know where. There’s even times when you’re “actually” in a neighboring square (because, for example, you’re punching someone in the face who’s “in” that square).

A miniature’s grid position on the battlemap is best understood as an approximation of the character’s location. You can almost think of it as a quantum superposition, where the character’s specific location and action only becomes certain when it is “measured” by description.

Once you’ve internalized this reality that the map is not the territory, you’ll be freed up to describe dynamic, active interactions on the battlefield. For example, let’s consider our goblin and barbarian once again:

If we imagine these characters standing in the middle of their squares and exchanging blows, we might say something like, “Athargeon lifts his two-handled blade high above his head and swings it down! The goblin tries to squirm out of the way, but isn’t quick enough. It’s gutted from shoulder to nave.”

And that’s cool enough. Nothing wrong with it.

But if we can escape grid rigidity, then we’re freed to introduce descriptions like this: “Athargeon dashes forward. His two-handed blade plunges through the goblin’s belly, driving it back into the bookshelf behind it. A shelf shatters and crystal balls fall from the ruin, splintering to pieces on the stone floor. The goblin scrabbles at the blade pinioning it to the wall, knocking more books to the ground, before giving a final bloody gasp.”

The mechanical resolution here is the same in both cases (Athargeon rolls a successful hit and deals enough damage to kill the goblin), but note in the latter description how the characters are now dynamically moving through the space and interacting with the environment.

Athargeon can’t drive the goblin back and the goblin can’t smash into the bookcase if they’re both stuck in the middle of their squares with their feet figuratively glued to the floor.

THEATRE OF THE MIND

If you’re not using a battlemap, of course, then grid rigidity isn’t a problem. But without the reference of the battlemap, you’ll need to keep track of the entire battlefield and everyone on it in your head.

With a little practice, this isn’t too difficult to achieve if you’re only dealing with a handful of combatants. It’s also possible to “cheat” a little by doodling a little sketch for yourself (and/or your players) to help keep things straight.

But as the number of combatants grows, this will become more and more difficult. You’ll start making mistakes, confusing your players and leading to a frustrating and unsatisfying experience. The other problem I have is that the more of my brain is tied up trying to keep the continuity straight, the less focus and creativity I can give to providing vivid descriptions of the fight! Ironically, the more epic a confrontation becomes in terms of scale, the more pedestrian its execution threatens to be as we all get tied up in the logistics of what’s happening.

What I’ve found useful is to think in terms of melees and battle lines.

A conceptual melee basically takes a group of combatants and says, “You’re all fighting with each other.” Anyone in a melee is assumed to be able to attack anyone else in that melee as the chaotic swirl of combat brings characters within reach of each other.

For example, a fight might break down into a “big melee in the middle of the room” between the fighter, the paladin, and a half dozen goblins, while the wizard and cleric are holding back outside the melee. But you might also have a fight with multiple melees: There’s a cluster of characters fighting at the top of the stairs and another cluster of characters fighting at the bottom of the stairs while the rogue, who isn’t in a melee, is swinging on the chandelier.

The point, obviously, is to conceptually simplify how many variables we’re keeping track of. We don’t need to keep track of exactly where the fighter, the paladin, and the half dozen goblins are in relation to each other; we just need to know where they ALL are in relation to the rest of the fight.

A melee should not, however, be used as an excuse for your descriptions of the fight to become muddy or generic. This can be an easy trap to fall into, but just as abstracting the goblin’s position to being “in that 5-foot-square” shouldn’t preclude us from describing him getting slammed into the bookcase, so abstracting the goblin’s position as being “in that melee” shouldn’t preclude vivid, specific description.

In fact, the flexibility of the conceptual melee can actually free both you and your players to greater heights of creativity in the actions you take and how you describe them.

There are limitations to the utility of the melee, however: situations in which the abstraction of the melee is either not useful or confusing. The solution, of course, is to simply not use melees in those situations.

(It feels like it should be more complicated than that, but it isn’t: Just Don’t Do It.)

One common case where melees aren’t useful is the formation of a battle line. In my experience, this most commonly happens in the tight quarters of a dungeon: In order to protect the squishy spellcasters, the melee-types form a line across the dungeon corridor to block the bad guys. If the party is large enough, you may see the formation of a second line with reach weapons.

Meanwhile, on the other side, the bad guys usually outnumber the good guys, so they’ll funnel in, forming an opposing line.

What I generally find useful at this point is to simply write out the line from left to right:

Athargeon           Edvinas                Nazli

Goblin 1               Orc                        Goblin 2

Jotting this down only takes a couple of seconds and can be done as the players declare their intention to form the line. Generally characters can attack anyone directly in front of them, or immediately to their left or right. (So in the above battle lines, for example, Athargeon could attack Goblin 1 or the Orc, while Edvinas could attack anyone in the opposing line.)

What you may realize is that you’ve effectively created a tiny two-by-three grid, just like the one you would see on a battlemap. In order to respect the tactical intention of the characters (to form a defensive line), this shouldn’t be handled as a conceptual melee. The relative positions of these characters should be locked in, just like they would be on a grid.

There will now be a temptation to really lock into the imagery of these two static lines exchanging blows back and forth. And there can be a lot of good material to work with in that.

But you’ll also want to be aware that this can easily loop back once more to grid rigidity: Bring the environment into your description. Let people take dynamic actions within the line. Explore the verticality of the line. Have the line ebb and flow. You can even threaten the integrity of the line, with enemies threatening to overwhelm or break through it.

PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE

All of this, of course, ultimately boils down to what the characters are actually doing during the battle. It’s easy enough to say that there should be a cool finishing move when a PC kills an NPC or that you should incorporate the environment into your descriptions, but it’s ultimately up to you to look at the barbarian, the sword, the goblin, and the bookcase, and then put those together into something awesome.

And that’s more art than science.

But it IS something that can be practiced.

The most straightforward way to practice, of course, is to simply run more combats: Schedule more sessions and play, play, play, play.

But you can also practice between sessions. One exercise I’ve found useful is to watch a really great fight film — John Wick or 300 or Fellowship of the Ring or Police Story — and simply narrate the action as it happens on the screen, as if you were describing it your gaming group.

This exercise will build your repertoire of fight moves, develop the vocabulary you have for describing a fight, and even teach you a little bit about the effective pacing of fight sequences (although the pacing of an RPG fight will usually be distinctly different from that of a film).

You’ll be able to take those skills and use them to fuel your visualization of the battlefield.

Creative Commons Icons: Goblin by Linector, Barbarian by Delapouite.

Cartography by Dyson Logos.

In the first episode of The Mandalorian, the titular character parks his ship and heads off on an adventure. In the second episode, he returns to find his ship being stripped for parts by opportunistic jawas. This prompts an incredible action/chase scene, followed by an adventure hook which results in some startling revelations.

While keeping in mind the Principle of Using Linear Mediums as RPG Examples, let’s assume that this isn’t just an example of the GM having a cool idea and making it happen. (Nothing wrong with that, obviously.) If we wanted stuff like this in our games, what could we do to make that happen?

Non-focal random encounters.

Random encounters, of course, can be used to achieve several different effects. But one of the ways they can be used is as a procedural content generator, providing a creative prompt to the GM for an interstitial event. Because the “camera” of our game session is virtually always focused on the PCs, we tend to think of the events generated by the random encounter tables as intersecting the path of the party; it’s something that happens randomly in the place where the PCs happen to be.

But it doesn’t have to be!

You can just as easily use procedural content generators to model events happening off-screen.

For example, if the PCs leave mounts and/or henchmen at the entrance of a dungeon while they go delving within, I’ll simply make random encounter checks for the group left behind. A notable example of this occurred when I ran The Sunless Citadel as part of my first D&D 3^rd Edition campaign. The PCs left their mounts up on the surface while they went down into the citadel, I rolled regular random encounter checks, and when they returned they found the horses still there calmly munching grass… surrounded by a dozen scorched goblin corpses.

What the hell had happened?!

Ultimately, what I’m suggesting here is pretty simple:

Roll random encounters for locations/people that aren’t the PCs.

That’s it. That’s the tip.

You can probably usefully generalize this by identifying what the PCs care about and then rolling encounters for those things. This might include people, places, organizations, etc. The rate and nature of these encounters will depend on what and where these things are. The henchmen at the dungeon entrance are easy because you can just roll on the dungeon’s random encounter table (perhaps at a reduced rate if efforts have been made to conceal their camp). But what about the PCs’ favorite tavern? Or their emotionally troubled ward? Or their political patron?

In the most generic version of this, however, you can just create the list of Important Things in the Campaign and then roll encounter checks for everything on the list as part of your session prep. If an encounter is indicated, that simply means that this element of the campaign world has seen some sort of interesting development: What is it? And, importantly, how will the PCs learn of it?

This can be a really easy way to keep a big, complicated campaign world in motion without needing to constantly grapple with the almost impossible enormity of the whole thing. It can also just be a good way of reminding the players that the campaign world does, in fact, continue to exist even when they’re not looking at it.

In the Matryoshka Search Technique, I described a method for resolving search checks that keeps players actively engaged with the actions of their characters so that they feel ownership of what their characters discover. You may want to read that post before reading this one, but the short version is:

• On a successful search check, instead of immediately discovering the point of interest, the character discovers an indicator pointing them in the direction of the target of the search.
• This requires the player to draw a conclusion and then act on that conclusion.

For example, instead of saying, “You find a hidden switch on the frame of the painting that opens a secret door,” you would instead say, “You notice that the frame of the painting is quite dusty, except for one spot in the lower right corner.”

Because it is the player’s declared action (“I examine that corner of the painting” and then “I push on the raised portion of the heron engraving”) that result in the switch being discovered and the secret door being opened – rather than the dice roll – the player is empowered and it feels as if THEY were the one who found it. (Because it was.)

I refer to this as a matryoshka technique because it’s like a Russian nesting doll: Instead of showing the players the innermost doll, you instead hand them the full stack and let them open each one.

But it’s not the only matryoshka technique.

If you’re running a hexcrawl, for example, you can use a matryoshka technique even within a single hex.

For example, even if you’re using an extremely simplistic hexcrawl structure in which the PCs automatically encounter the keyed content of each hex when they enter the hex, you can – instead of having them just run directly into it – give them an indicator.

So instead of saying, “You see a goblin village,” you describe the goblin tracks they stumble across. Or describe a plume of smoke on the horizon.

Do they follow the tracks? And, if they do, are they successful?

Do they head towards the plume of smoke? Or avoid it?

Instead of stumbling directly onto an ancient pyramid, the PCs spot a patch of ancient road almost completely swallowed up by the jungle.

Are they able to figure out which direction the road originally ran? Do they divert to see where it went?

And, like any matryoshka technique, this doesn’t have to be just one level deep. It can be nested to several levels.

It can also be interesting if they get two different indicators at the same time. For example, they see a plume of smoke to the west, but the goblin tracks are heading north.

(With a robust structure for running wilderness exploration, multiple indicators like this can be spontaneously generated. For example, you might have both the keyed location in a hex they just entered and the random encounter you just rolled.)

The goal of the technique is to draw players more deeply into the game world and empower them to actually explore the game world (instead of letting the dice do it for them). Not just because it will make them feel cool (although it will), but because it positions them to make meaningful choices. And that’s exciting for everyone at the table, because the consequences of those choices will transform the campaign.

FURTHER READING
Matryoshka Hexes

How does an encounter begin?

It’s easy to fall into a simple formula: The encounter begins at line of sight (“you see an orc”) and immediately launches into an initiative check (“the orc tries to kill you”). There are usually minor variations on the line of sight (the orc opens the door, you open the door, the orc comes around the corner, etc.) and also the possibility of an ambush (you see the orc, but the orc doesn’t see you; or vice versa), but the formula remains pretty straightforward.

One way to break away from this formula is to vary the creature’s reaction to the encounter: Instead of leaping into combat, they might be friendly or attempt to negotiate or beg for help. In 5E Hexcrawl, I discuss how a mechanical reaction check can be used to prompt these disparate agendas.

I also talk about this a bit in the Art of Pacing, and also look at how shifting the bang – the moment at the beginning of a scene which forces the PCs to make one or more meaningful choices – can significantly shift the nature of the encounter:

Does the scene start when the ogre jumps out and snarls in their face? Or does it start when they’re still approaching its chamber and they can hear the crunching of bones? Or when they see a goblin strung up on a rack with its intestines hanging around its ankles… and then the deep thudding of heavy footsteps fills the corridor behind them as the ogre returns for its meal?

You can see how each of those creates a different encounter, and in most of them the scene starts before the ogre enters the PCs’ line of sight.

RANDOM ENCOUNTER DISTANCE

Another mechanical prompt that can help break the “line of sight” habit is a random encounter distance. This is a mechanic which dates back to the earliest days of D&D, but has faded away in more recent editions. But it can be a useful one in an game.

In the original 1974 edition of D&D, an encounter would begin at 2d4 x10 feet (or 1d3 x 10 feet if surprised). Many OSR retro-clones modify this to 2d6 x 10 feet.

This simple mechanic is largely all you need, neatly prompting you to think about how encounters begin in unusual and unexpected ways:

• If the distance generated is longer than line of sight, this suggests the encounter begins before the PCs can see the creatures (and vice versa), most likely because they can be heard (or their light seen around a corner).
• If the distance is closer than line of sight, what could explain the close proximity? (This is how you get moments like xenomorphs climbing through the ceiling panels.)
• In the case of wandering encounters, the result may also indicate the direction of approach: If one entrance to the room is 80 feet away and the other entrance is 20 feet away, and then you roll a random encounter distance of 20 feet… well, you can be pretty sure which entrance they’re using.

There may, of course, be times when common sense and the particular circumstances of the current situation will need to override the simplicity of this mechanic (but that’s why the GM exists in the first place).

CALCULATED ENCOUNTER DISTANCE

There’s another mechanical approach to this technique which was secretly hidden in 3^rd Edition D&D.

See, in 3^rd Edition there was a -1 penalty to perception-type tests per 10 feet. This meant that if you succeeded on a perception-type test, you could directly calculate the distance at which you detected the encounter by multiplying the margin of success by 10 feet.

For example, if an ogre rolled a Hide check of 15 and you rolled a Spot check of 24, then you’d have a margin of success of 9 and would detect the ogre at 90 feet. If, conversely, you rolled a Hide check of 18 and the ogre rolled a Spot check of 20, the ogre would be able to detect you at 20 feet. (Which, of course, means you would detect the ogre before the ogre detected you. The larger margin of success sets the encounter distance.)

You can follow this same basic guideline in 5^th Edition D&D and many other RPGs. And, once again, if the result is farther than the current line of sight, you’ll know that the opposition must have been detected in some other way (heard them talking, spotted in a reflective surface, etc.).

WILDERNESS ENCOUNTER DISTANCES

It should be noted that both the OD&D and 3^rd Edition mechanics don’t really work in the wilderness, which is why they included encounter distance tables for wilderness encounters, customizing encounter distances based on terrain type.

These tables were eliminated from the 5E core rulebooks (except, oddly, for underwater encounters), although they apparently appear on some of the official 5E Dungeon Master screens.

You can also find a continuation of these tables in Hexcrawl Tool: Spot Distances as seen here:

Thanks to the Alexandrites on my Discord and Twitch chat, who prompted and encouraged this tip.

Go to Part 1

THE FALLACY OF THE PERFECT CRIME

Something that can really trip you up when trying to create clues is the fallacy of the perfect crime.

For example, let’s say the PCs find an incriminating note that gives them a vital clue.

… but wait. Why would the conspiracy let the PCs find the note? Why wouldn’t they destroy it?!

Well, in some cases it’s carelessness. In others, they’re holding onto incriminating evidence that can give them leverage over their fellow conspirators. Sometimes they’re planning to destroy it, but they just haven’t yet. Sometimes the note has information they need for a job, so they hold onto them until the job is done. Maybe they have a sentimental attachment to the note because it was written by their dead wife. And so forth.

Alternatively, maybe they DID destroy the note and that’s the evidence that the PCs find. Sometimes this is structurally cosmetic (the only information to be gleaned is that the information has been destroyed). Sometimes this can be a consequence of the players’ actions, like in my Dragon Heist campaign where they knocked politely on someone’s door and then waited for them to open it while, inside, the bad guy was shuffling all their papers into the fire. (One of the nice things about the Three Clue Rule is that you can destroy clues with a clear conscience when it’s appropriate.) But often the PCs will be able to pull a clue out of the destruction (they burned the note, but this one enigmatic scrap remains!).

Of course, this logic also extends beyond incriminating notes.

Wouldn’t it make sense for the murderer to wear gloves or wipe away their fingerprints? (Maybe they did and the clue is something else. Or they tried, but missed a partial. Or they’re dumb. Or they panicked. Or they wanted to, but got interrupted.)

Wouldn’t they have disabled the cameras? (Maybe they didn’t spot the camera. Maybe they did hack the cameras and deleted the footage, but left traces from their hack that can be traced instead. And so forth.)

The perfect crime (or conspiracy), of course, would have flawless operational security and leave no evidence. But that’s not how it usually plays out in reality, and doesn’t really make for a great scenario in any case.

As GMs designing scenarios, I think we’re particularly susceptible to the fallacy of the perfect crime: Obviously if the bad guy knew they were leaving a clue, they would destroy it. You just thought of how the criminal could have left a clue, so obviously the criminal would have realized that, too!

What you actually want to do is the opposite: If you’re thinking about the crime and can’t find a clue that gives the PCs the information you need to give them… well, what extra mistake did the criminal make that will let you give them that information?

VARIED CLUES

As you’re designing clues for your scenario, you’ll want to make sure to include a wide variety of them. This is partly about creating a more engaging investigation. (If the PCs are just doing the same thing over and over and over again, that’s just less interesting than an adventure where they’re doing a lot of different things. And a puzzle isn’t really puzzling if the solution is always the same thing.) But it’s also structurally important: If all the clues are fundamentally similar, then it’s not just that the players are doing the same thing over and over again; it’s that the players MUST do that thing. And if they don’t think to do it, then they’ll miss ALL the clues.

The Three Clue Rule is built on redundancy, but clues which are overly similar to each other only provide a superficial redundancy. It’s kind of like monoclonal agriculture: When all the bananas are clones of each other, they’re all susceptible to the same pests and can be universally wiped out by a single disease. Just so with monoclonal clues, which can all fail simultaneously.

For example, if the PCs need to find out that Tony is hiding out at the Silver Rodeo, you might say:

• They can ask Tony’s girlfriend, Susan.
• They can ask Tony’s partner, Silvester.
• They can ask Tony’s mother, Sara.

Those are three different clues. But if the players, for whatever reason, don’t ask the people in Tony’s life where Tony is hiding out — because they don’t want to risk tipping him off, because they erroneously conclude that Tony wouldn’t have told anyone where he was going, or just because they don’t think of doing it — then that one failure will wipe out all of those clues.

Now, the principle of permissive clue-finding means that shouldn’t necessarily get rid of these “redundant” clues. But for structural purposes, they can be grouped together and only “count” as a single clue for the purposes of the Three Clue Rule.

When you’re looking to make varied clues, using clues with different forms is good. But the most important thing is that the clues should be found in different ways – different skills, different insights into how a crime scene should be investigated, and so forth.

As a final note, remember that the problem of monoclonal clues is limited to the clues pointing to a single revelation. It’s fine to design a scenario with lots and lots and lots of clues coming from talking to people, as long as those clues are spread out across a bunch of different revelations (each of which has varied clues of different types also pointing to them).

MULTI-PART CLUES

A common error that I see GMs make when playing around with the Three Clue Rule for the first time is to mistake the Three Clue Rule for a kind of logic puzzle:

• This clue indicates that the killer was wearing a green sweater.
• This clue indicates that the killer was taller than six feet.
• This clue indicates that the killer had gray hair.

If you combine those clues, you know that the only person with gray hair who was taller than six feet and also wearing a green sweater was Peter! So Peter killed Tony’s wife!

These clues can work if each uniquely points at Peter: He was the only one in the green sweater, the only one taller than six feet, and the only one with gray hair.

But if you need all three pieces of information – to eliminate the other people with green sweaters or gray hair or whatever – then this falls apart. Because you NEED all three pieces of information, that means that each piece of information (green sweater, six feet, gray hair) is actually a separate conclusion.

This doesn’t mean that you can’t design mysteries like this, though! Once you recognize that these are three separate conclusions, you can simply follow the Three Clue Rule: Have three clues pointing to the green sweater, three clues pointing to the killer’s height, and three clues indicating the killer had gray hair.

This technique can add a satisfying dimensionality to your mystery scenarios, giving the players a clear sense that their investigations are building towards some central revelation. It can be particularly effective for the Big Truth(s) in X-Files-type campaigns or identifying the location where the big conclusion of the campaign is going to take place. You can see an example of this in my Eternal Lies Remix.

FORMS OF CLUES

Let’s wrap things up by looking at the specific forms that clues can take. This won’t be a complete or encyclopedic coverage of the topic, largely because the cool thing about clues is that they can be virtually infinite in their form and variety, but hopefully I can provide a few ideas.

First, there are some broad categories of form that clues can fall into:

• Physical Artifacts
• Glyphs/data
• Bio-Signature
• Interrogation
• Surveillance

These, too, are not comprehensive. And the boundaries between them aren’t exactly razor-sharp.

Here’s a list of specific examples drawn from scenarios I’ve designed:

• Correspondence (letters, e-mail, etc.)
• Diaries
• Ephemera from a location (matchbooks, theatrical posters, tickets, etc.)
• Official reports
• Tracks
• Surveillance (of a person or location)
• Tailing someone
• Business cards
• Fingerprints
• DNA
• Blood type (including fantastical types like “Vulcan”)
• Graffiti
• Financial records
• Tattoos
• Canvassing
• Video/audio recordings
• Mystic visions/strange dreams
• Shipping information (tracking, postmarks, return addresses, etc.)
• Books (including inscription and marginalia)
• Bureaucratic records/background checks