Session 17C: Shilukar’s New Friends

The illusion might not have fooled Shilukar if he had been in his right mind, but at this point he was far from it due to the debilitating spells Ranthir had cast upon him. The elf waved his wand in the direction of the illusion (which, of course, had no effect) and banked sharply to the right – flying away from Dominic and Tee.

When characters suffer ability score damage, it’s an awesome opportunity to lean into a roleplaying challenge. This is particularly true of damage to the mental ability scores, which will directly affect the character’s personality and decision-making.

You can see that in this session, where Shilukar’s dwindling Intelligence score not only resulted in increasingly muddled decision-making, but also a growing sense of panic as Shilukar felt his mind slipping away from him: In a fantastical equivalent to HAL-9000, you have a character getting more and more desperate to solve a problem as it becomes more and more impossible for them to figure out how to do so.

Existential horror as a combat tactic.

But that’s just one option. Back in Session 15, we saw that ability score damage can also be played for comedic effect:

Tor, in his befuddled state, was becoming completely entranced by the Ghostly Minstrel’s performance. He began to dance and then to sing along – vigorously and loudly.

Tee, seeing what was happening, excused herself from Mand Scheben and pushed her way through the crowd to Tor’s side. “Tor! Tor!” She finally managed to get his attention. “Calm down! Look, I don’t really think you should be doing that right now.” She looked meaningfully at Tor’s acid-burned and blood-stained clothes.

Tor seemed to think about his seriously for a few moments… and then diligently began stripping off his clothes. Cheers went up from various people around the room.

“No!” Tee grabbed at him, but Tor was intent on getting his clothes off now. Looking around, Tee spotted Agnarr and urgently waved him over. Between the two of them, they were able to get Tor back up to their rooms and settled down.

If you’re feeling uncertain about how to play a modified ability score, consider querying your character by way of the game mechanics: Make an Intelligence test to see if your character is capable of thinking their way through a problem at the moment. Make a Wisdom test to see if they’re able to inhibit their impulse to take off their clothes. Make a Charisma test to see how short-tempered they are.

Note that these same principles apply to physical ability scores, with modifications to those scores being reflected in both action selection and description. Getting hammered by a 10 point loss of Strength must feel as if your body has just been brutalized by a chemotherapy treatment. Think about how a loss of Constitution would leave your character gasping for breath and struggling to wheeze out words. Describe your characters clumsily fumbling with a formal tea service or tripping over the furniture as a result of their reduced Dexterity score.

Keep in mind both the absolute rating of the ability score AND the relative change: Someone who has been knocked down to Intelligence 10 from Intelligence 18 isn’t suddenly a dithering idiot (they have a perfectly average intellect), but from their perspective it’s as if the entire world has been wrapped in gauze. (Although if the loss is permanent, it’s likely that they’ll eventually adapt to their new acuity.)

These moments also offer us an opportunity to reflect on how ability scores define our characters and what their normal ability scores really mean, although this begins to transition us into a broader discussion how we can roleplay characters with abilities – particularly mental abilities – vastly different from our own (which is, perhaps, a topic for another time).

There’s also a flipside to this: What do magic items and buffs that increase your ability scores do to your character?

Just as there should be a change in your character’s behavior if they’re blasted from Wisdom 10 to Wisdom 5, so, too, should reading a tome of clear thought that boosts your Wisdom from 10 to 15. Think about how your character’s perception of the world changes; think about how the decisions they make (and choose not to make) will change; think about how their personality will shift as a result.

Note, too, that I think there are differences between short-term buffs (which are shocks to the system, but fade relatively rapidly) and long-term alterations (which will become integrated into the character’s personality).

And while tomes are one thing, there’s actually something really fascinating about a worn magic item that permanently alters your state of consciousness (i.e., modifies your mental abilities). As you spend more and more time wearing such an item, the existence you know with that item will increasingly become your perception of self. What happens to you when you take off the item? Or have it taken from you?

There’s a transhumanist quality here, as if Vernor Vinge’s True Names would be a good source text for this: Like the character for whom part of their personality and thought process now exists in the networked computing devices, so too does the wizard with a tiara of intelligence +4 have an important part of their mind – of themselves! – tied to that item. Are they even the same person without that item? If they lose that item and they replace it with a talisman of intelligence +4, will that restore who they were? Or will they become someone else? Are all +4 boosts the same? Can you just swap out parts of your brain? Or does granting the Ship of Theseus sentience transform the paradox?

Session 17A: Shilukar’s Lair

The features revealed as their hoods fell back were those of goblins – but goblins possessed of sickly gray skin. More disturbingly, the eyes and mouths of each goblin had been sewn shut with thick, black string. Despite this, all of them moved with sure, fluid motions.

In the Shadow of the Spire is actually the fifth campaign I’ve run in my Western Lands setting. I believe I’ve actually previously discussed that Ptolus first appeared at my gaming table 5+ years earlier when a group passed through the city and noted its distinctive Spire as they passed from the Southern Sea back towards Deepfall Pass in the west.

One of the players in that campaign, Dave, was Agnarr’s creator. Two other players had also previously played in Western Lands campaigns.

One of the cool things I think you can do when running multiple campaigns in the same setting (whether concurrently or over time) is to have crossovers between those campaigns. And also to have deep, long-term mysteries that are intrinsic to the setting and which are only slowly revealed

A good example of this sort of thing, from Monte Cook’s original Ptolus campaign, is the revelation that the entire world of Praemal is actually a planar prison for demons. Everyone else is just stuck there by accident, and the demons are constantly trying to dissolve the bonds of the prison and escape. That’s the kind of thing which can be quietly true for any number of campaigns – with various enigmas suggesting the truth only for the final revelation to really blow people’s minds.

(This particular set of metaphysics, it should be noted, isn’t true of the Western Lands, which is one of the reasons why my version of Ptolus diverges from Monte Cook’s, and does so rather severely in some key areas.)

Of course, this sort of thing doesn’t require tapping into the fundamental metaphysics of the entire campaign world. Sometimes it might be, “Hey, you know Good King George? The guy who’s been the beneficent monarch ruling over the kingdom for the last three campaigns? Turns out he’s actually a mind-controlled puppet and the whole kingdom is being run by the drow. And he has been his entire life.”

It’s also fun to have references to the PCs from the other campaigns and/or the things that they did. Those enduring legacies across years of play can really invest players into the setting, knowing that their actions will resonate not just in the campaign itself, but across campaigns. That perhaps players who they have never even met will be affected by what they’ve done today.

(The most ambitious example of this I’ve ever attempted was when the players in one campaign met the future versions of their PCs from the other campaign. Have I told that story?)

On the other hand, sometimes these crossovers are just, “Hey! Remember that cool character/monster/location from the last campaign?!”

Dave, for example, recognized the name Ritharius from that previous campaign. The revelation of Ritharius’ actions later in the campaign would have carried a little extra oomph because of that, I think. (And when Dave left the campaign I made a point of building Ritharius into Tor’s background to reposition that oomph.)

These creepy goblins are a little bit of both.

They first appeared in one of the earliest scenarios I ever ran for 3^rd Edition, a remix of The Sunless Citadel in which the lower levels of the scenario had been transformed into a much more horrific venue. In both cases, the nature of these goblins points towards the much deeper truth that [SPOILERS REDACTED] and also that [SECURITY CLEARANCE REQUIRED]. But mostly they would have just been a cool cameo that players from that campaign would recognize.

Unfortunately, the player who would have recognized the goblins left the campaign before they showed up. C’est la vie.

This does highlight, however, that this technique can be of arguably limited value because there is a limited audience capable of appreciating the full context of these crossovers and callbacks. I would argue, however, that when done properly these things still have value even when no one is necessarily there to directly appreciate them.

Consider, for example, the success J.R.R. Tolkien had in using the then-unpublished Silmarillion to create mythological depth in The Lord of the Rings. Queen Berúthiel’s cats (a reference in Lord of the Rings which, infamously unlike many of Tolkien’s other “historical” allusions, was created off-the-cuff as he was writing) are also a thing, of course, but there is, I believe, both a qualitative and practical difference between such off-the-cuff improvisations and a fully-integrated body of lore.

The problem, of course, is that creating fully-integrated bodies of lore is a time-consuming process. And as cool as it can be a player digs into something and discovers that there is, in fact, a vast ocean of lore to explored there, the odds of wasted prep are quite high. Campaigns you’ve previously run, however, are inherently “fully-integrated bodies of lore”, and thus this can work both ways: Stuff you’re calling back to is “free prep” for the current campaign (you’ve already prepped it). And, on the flip-side, designing material that’s intended to be useful for campaign after campaign after campaign can be very high value prep indeed.

And, honestly, I find these callbacks and crossovers entertaining and rewarding in their own right on a purely personal level, even if no one else at the table is ever aware of it. In that sense, I am like the watchmaker who carefully filigrees the gear of a pocket watch which the owner will never be able to see: There is a pride and a pleasure in seeing the pieces of a job well done slide into place.

Session 16D: Zavere’s Need

Rastor ran his claw gently down the length of the blade, as if caressing a lover. “The markings here upon the blade are not merely gold, but taurum – the true gold, mined from the Mountains of the East. And there is a thin core of it in the heart of the hilt. The enchantment worked upon this blade sings from the taurum, and its name is nainsyr.”

The subject of whether or not PCs should be allowed to buy magic items is a contentious one. It is felt by many that magic items are That Which Must Be Quested For. They believe that “magic item marts” and the like rob magic items of their majesty, and they consider it absurd that Excalibur might be bartered at some corner store.

Maybe so.

But I’ll note that the buying and selling of magic items has been part of D&D since before it was D&D: The stories of actual play from Arneson’s Blackmoor all suggest a robust magic market, and a number of major powers controlled laboratories and workshops that would crank out magical items for sale (and use!) on a weekly basis.

And as I mentioned in The Local Magic Market, positing a setting where wandering mercenaries go delving into dungeons in order to pull out vast hordes of wealth which frequently include magical treasures, having those wandering mercenaries sell those treasures for gold coins, and then concluding that there’s no way to buy magic items seems unreasonable.

(Although, as I noted at the time, a campaign in which the PCs truly are the only sellers of magic items would be an interesting one, albeit wholly different from a typical D&D campaign.)

In practice, I’ve also found that being able to buy a magic item doesn’t inherently detract from its mystique. Oddly many of the people lamenting the ability to buy magic items are also those who promote minimal backgrounds at character creation because the only thing that matters is what actually happens at the table. In quite a similar fashion, the place where you picked up your +2 sword is only the tiniest fraction of the tales you’ll forge with it. (If it is, in fact, destined to become a memorable and unforgettable treasure.)

At the word, blue lightning sprang from the hilt and ran along the length of the blade – crackling with a vicious smell of ozone. Under her breath Tee murmured, “Let there be lightning.”

You can see an example of this beginning in this week’s campaign journal: The sword Nainsyr goes on to become one of the most recognizable touchstones in the campaign, and its deeds are many and renowned. Perhaps even more remarkable, this specific incident – the shopkeeper pulling out the sword and saying its command word – seems to live quite vividly in the memories of the players who were there. (Most likely because the sword becomes so important.)

Obviously this all happened because I’d put a ton of loving preparation into this sword and was just waiting for an opportunity to give it to the PCs, right?

Well… not really.

Here’s how it went down in play:

• The PCs said, “Tor, you need to get a better sword.” Tor said, “You’re right.”
• They walked across Delver’s Square to Rastor’s weapon shop and said, “Do you have any magic swords?”
• They wanted something better than a basic +1 sword. (If I recall correctly, they’d already looted several of those.)
• I rolled a random magic sword, improvised some cool details about its appearance, and checked my modest lexicon of Elvish words for a command word.
• I delivered these details in character as Rastor.

I then reached for my dice to roll up the next random sword because I had been planning to give the PCs two or three different options to choose from, but never got that far because Tor had already fallen in love with the sword.

This particular incident was one of the anecdotes from actual play I offered in Putting the “Magic” in Magic Items, which I recommend checking out if you’re interested in a discussion about making the magic items in your campaign special… whether you’re buying them from a litorian named Rastor or not.

Session 16C: Black Centurions

And then it sublimated away into the black cloud of acid. Agnarr stumbled back. He tried to whirl to face the last remaining centurion. But the pain was too much. His legs failed him. He fell heavily to the floor and, as he lost consciousness, there was only one thought in his mind:

He had failed.

Twice during the course of Session 16 – and in relatively quick succession – the PCs ended up in very bad positions during a fight. Positions which, if things had gone a little differently, could have very easily ended up with all of them dead.

As a GM there’s going to come a moment when you’re looking at the evolving situation on the table and you’re looking at the stat blocks of the adversaries behind your screen and you’re going to think to yourself, “Oh shit. They might all die here.” Often the players themselves will realize their peril. The tension is going to ratchet up. The stakes riding on every action and every die roll are going to skyrocket. Everyone’s focus is going to tunnel in on survival. On how the day can be won.

And you, as the GM, are going to have to make a choice: Do you take the TPK gamble? Or do you pull back from the moment – fudge your dice rolls, pull your punches, nerf your damage rolls and health totals?

And speaking from years of experience, here’s what I have to say: Take the gamble.

Take the gamble every single time.

Because, in my experience, at least nineteen times out of twenty, the risk you’re seeing on the horizon won’t come to pass: The players will figure out a way to either save the day or escape their certain doom. Often you (and they) will be delighted to discover it’s something you never could have predicted! (We saw that back in Session 13 with the Tale of Itarek, right?)

And even when that twentieth time crops up and the party goes down, you’ll often discover that a total combat loss is not the same thing as a total party kill. That survival is possible without any nerfing or fudging or pulling of punches. (And we saw that in Session 7, right?)

Because the other option is to look at that incredible intensity; that focused passion; that pure adrenaline that’s pumping at the table… and choose to deflate it. To stare down the barrel of the impending TPK and lose your nerve.

And I get it. It’s tough being under that kind of pressure. Round after round grinding away at you. You want to blink. You want to look away. You want a release.

But here’s the deal: These are the moments that make a campaign. The investment that happens in these kinds of moments – when the players are completely engage; when everyone is emotionally involved in what this very next dice roll could bring – is what makes a campaign come alive, and that investment will transition into every other aspect of the campaign. So buckle up and bring it home.

And to be clear, eminent TPKs aren’t the only way to achieve these heightened moments. But when you cheat in these moments – when you drain the tension instead of bringing it to a glorious crescendo of relief – it will have the exact opposite effect: It will poison the well. It will taint every other moment of the campaign.

“But I’ll just lie to the players and they’ll never know!”

Tell yourself whatever you need to, but what I’m telling you right now is that this is a gamble that’s even bigger than the TPK gamble. And it’s not a gamble that I’m willing to take: The payoff is nothing and the loss can be everything. Because once you lose the trust of the table – once your players no longer believe that what’s happening is really happening – it’s almost impossible to regain, and you will lose these rare and precious moments of magic forever.

But… they’ll never know… right?

Oh, it’s quite likely they’ll never say anything. But they’ll know. Anyone who’s spent a decent amount of time on the player’s side of the screen has experienced this truism. You might fool them once. You might fool them twice. But the odds get longer every time and eventually you’re going to lose your gamble. And unlike the TPK gamble, it’s one you only get to lose once.

A FEW PROVISOS, A COUPLE OF QUID PRO QUOS

Sometimes, of course, you take the TPK gamble and… the TPK happens. I’m not trying to pretend otherwise. I’ve had campaigns end that way, and it’s a real punch to the gut. But some of the best stories from my tables are the TPKs. There can be both a grace and a greatness in failure.

With that being said, games where death is irreversible have a much lower threshold of tolerance for this. You can lose five out of six D&D characters and the party will be back up and running 15 minutes later. Heck, you can actually have a TPK in Eclipse Phase and have the whole group back in play 5 minutes later. Take out a Trail of Cthulhu character, on the other hand, and that’s all she wrote.

So, that’s the first proviso: Know where your system’s danger zone is. The risk of irreversible consequences in D&D is different from Eclipse Phase is different from Trail of Cthulhu.

(It should be noted that this is why I prefer systems with a nice meaty barrier between “out of combat” and “totally dead”.)

Here’s the second proviso: If you’ve legitimately screwed up as the GM – you mucked up the rules; you used the wrong stat block; whatever – that’s a whole different kettle of fish. My recommendation here is to just come clean.

“Look, folks, I made a major mistake here and the consequences are looking irreversible. We need to fix it before it gets that far.”

You’re still going to lose that moment; the tension will artificially deflate and that’s going to be an anti-climactic disappointment. But (a) you won’t be taking big gambles at a rigged table and (b) you will keep the trust of the table. And that’s priceless. That trust is what everything else is built on.