IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 11B: Garden of the Sickstone Elementals

The arrow flew straight and true, striking one of the goblins in the back of the head. The pure force of Tee’s draw smashed the arrow through the creature’s skull, so that the tip of it emerged out of its eye.

If you’ve been reading these campaign journals for awhile, one of the things you might have noticed is that Tee frequently shoots enemies through the eye.

Is this some sort of special feat? Or does the player just like making called shots?

No. It’s nothing mechanical. It’s just how I ended up describing some of her kill shots. This started all the way back in the prelude sessions:

After defeating them (Tee skewering one through the eye and Agnarr cleaving them both in twain)…

But another of the reptilians walked in and started squawking: Tee drove an arrow through his eye, pinioning him to the rock, and Agnarr followed through with a devastating decapitation.

This wasn’t something that I had planned for. It’s one of a hundred different things I said in describing the early combat scenes of the campaign, but this is the one that resonated with us: Bam. Tee shoots something through the eye and it brings us joy and laughter.

It’s a running gag. They’re small things, but I think they really help to tie a campaign together. They’re a great example of the things which can help elevate a long-form campaign above episodic one-shot play.

Honestly, though, I don’t think you can plan for these. Or, if you can, they still won’t be nearly as effective or satisfying as those developed organically through play.

But you do have to be aware of them. You have to pay attention, spot the moments when these running gags have the opportunity to emerge, and then make the effort to cultivate and reinforce them over time.

You have to read the room.

These gags can be almost anything. The first time I ran Eternal Lies, for example, it was the character who managed – through pure luck and circumstance – to never be present when the supernatural elements manifested during the first half dozen or more sessions of the campaign. Once the player called this out, it became a consistent light-hearted moment whenever the rest of the group would begin rambling about what they had just experienced.

As these examples hopefully demonstrate, running gags don’t need to be huge, overblown, mood-killing things. Nor should they be overly frequent, as they will quickly kill the gag and sap the joy from it. But used with moderation and care, they become shared joy, a sense of community, and a lovely contrapuntal beat.

PLAYING WITH THE GAG

Here’s a couple of other things you can do with running gags, although they require great care and surety in their use.

Breaking the Gag. There may come a point when it’s most effective to end a running gag. In my Eternal Lies campaign, the character eventually did witness the supernatural firsthand. The player, rather cleverly I thought, chose to let the gag persist a little longer, but now the tone of the gag had changed: It was no longer a humorous Sculley-esque tolerance for the lovable crazy people she was associating with; it was a desperate and increasingly willful denial that she was using to cling to her sanity.

Eventually the time came for the gag to end completely. When the horrors which surrounded them had so completely and deniably impinged themselves upon the character that she had no choice but to break and accept what was happening to her.

And this really demonstrates the power of a good running gag: That final break – that final, mad acceptance of the supernatural – was made more powerful by the tradition which had proceeded it.

The trick with breaking a running gag, of course, is that you want to make sure that you’re not doing so cheaply or frivolously: The payoff you’re getting needs to more than outweigh all the future good that the gag could bring. (Or it needs to be so utterly necessary and demanded by circumstance as to be undeniable.)

Sharing the Gag. After they’ve been well established, some running gags that “belong” to a particular character can benefit from another character “guest-starring” in them. For example, once everyone firmly associates shooting people in the eye with Tee, it can reduce a table to tears of laughter when the normally bumbling Dominic suddenly does so almost by accident.

Here care must be used because you can end up watering the gag down. Tee shooting people in the eye has become a strong character trope in the campaign; if everybody starts shooting people in the eye, the gag loses its distinctive character (pun intended).

This is not, of course, to say that running gags can’t belong communally to the whole group. Some do. But others don’t. You need to make sure you understand what makes the gag work (and what makes it rewarding) so that you can cultivate it properly. Otherwise it’s like over-watering a cactus.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 11A: Into the Caverns of the Ooze Lord

At the same moment, two of the greenish, ooze-like creatures dropped from the ceiling of the chamber and landed in front of the passage. They were not as large as the creature they had just defeated, but between the two of them the entire width and much of the height of the tunnel was filled.

In some design circles, there is a tremendous amount of focus and energy expended on making encounters mechanically interesting and/or mechanically novel. While I generally agree that a game (and thus encounters) should be both mechanically interesting and varied, I also think that there’s currently way too much emphasis being placed on this.

In my experience, you don’t need special snowflake mechanics in order to have memorable encounters. Of course, this doesn’t mean that mechanical interest isn’t important. Those who go to the other extreme and act as if mechanical design, mechanical effects, and mechanical interaction aren’t significant in the design and experience of combat encounters (and other gameplay elements) are blinding themselves and needlessly crippling their toolkit as a GM.

NOVELTY STAT BLOCKS

There are several ways to generate mechanical interest. For the moment, let’s limit our discussion to mechanical novelty in stat blocks – i.e., studding the stat blocks of your adversaries with unique abilities.

This is a particular area where it seems to have become fashionable to expend way too much effort on creating these unique, special snowflake stat blocks in the name of creating “memorable” encounters. There are 4^th Edition modules, for example, where seemingly every single encounter features an orc with a different suite of special abilities.

Not only do I think this is unnecessary, I think it can actually backfire: One of the things which creates mechanical interest is mastering a mechanical interface and then learning how to interact with it. Chess doesn’t become more interesting if you only play it once and then throw it away to play a different game; it becomes less interesting because you never learn its tactical and strategic depths. Similarly, when every single orc is a special snowflake with a package of 2-3 unique abilities that aren’t shared by any other orc, you never get the satisfaction of learning about what an orc can do and then applying that knowledge.

A constant, never-ending stream of novelty doesn’t make for a richer experience. It flattens the experience.

This is why video games generally feature a suite of adversaries who each possess a unique set of traits, and over the course of the game you learn how to defeat those adversaries and become better and better at doing so. That mastery is a source of interest and a source of pleasure.

(Of course, conversely, most video games will also feature bosses or other encounters that feature special mechanics or unique abilities. I’m not saying you should never have something a little special; I’m just saying that when everything is “special”, nothing is.)

My general approach to stat blocks is basically the exact opposite of this novelty-driven excess: Not only do I get a lot of mileage out of standard goblin stat blocks, I’ll also frequently grab a goblin stat block and use it to model stuff that isn’t even a goblin.

The other big benefit, of course, is that this is so much easier. So there’s also an aspect of smart prep here: Is all the effort you’re expending to make every single stat block unique really paying off commensurately in actual play? For a multitude of reasons, I don’t think so.

SYMBIOTIC TACTICS

The other two goblins passed into the slime creatures and… stopped there. Their swords lashed out from within the protective coating of the slime, further harrying Agnarr.

Perhaps the primary reason I don’t think so, is that there are so many ways of creating novelty (including mechanical novelty) in encounters without slaving over your stat blocks. One way of achieving this is through the use of symbiotic tactics.

Basically, symbiotic tactics are what happens when you build an encounter with two different creatures and, in their combination, get something unique that neither has in isolation. The current sessions includes an extreme example of that in the form of the ooze-possessed goblins who can fight from inside the green slimes (and are, thus, shielded from harm).

Symbiotic tactics, however, don’t need to always be so extreme in order to be effective in shaking things up. A particularly common form of symbiotic tactics, for example, are mounted opponents: Wolf-riding goblins are a distinctly different encounter than either goblins by themselves or wolves by themselves.

Symbiotic tactics also often appear in other media. For example—

—the fastball special from X-Men comics.

Unfortunately, to truly enjoy symbiotic tactics it’s not enough to simply design an encounter with multiple creature types. If you design an encounter with ogres and dragons and then the ogres simply fight separately from each other, it’s not necessarily a bad encounter, but it’s not employing symbiotic tactics. In order to have symbiotic tactics the goblins have to walk into the slime creatures.

(So to speak.)

Like many GMing skills, this is something that you can practice. Grab your favorite bestiaries, flip them open to two random pages, and then think about how those two creatures could cooperate to do something neither could do on their own.

Some actual examples I just generated:

• Dyrads + Ogres. A dryad is typically limited by their tree dependency, but this dryad is worshipped by a cult of ogres who carry their tree in a holy receptacle. The dryad is thus more mobile than usual, and will entrap opponents on the edge of their at will entangle ability so that the ogres can stand safely 10 feet away and use their reach to pound on them.
• Ankheg + Homunculus. An ankheg’s homunculus will fly above the surface, acting as a spotter for ankheg’s moving undetectably below the surface of the earth. (Yes, this does beg the question of how an ankheg ends up with a homunculus. Probably an interesting story there.)
• Harpy + Bebilith. The harpy uses their captivating song to keep victims passive while the bebilith snares them in their web.

What you end up may or may not be an encounter which even makes any sense. The point here isn’t necessarily to generate usable ideas. You’re flexing a muscle, and developing your sense of how creatures with disparate abilities can work together in interesting and creative ways.

In the process, you may start finding familiar themes: For example, after the three above I generated a Red Slaad + Ettercap. That can be another “stun ‘em, then web ‘em” combination like the Harpy + Bebilith.

Those types of discoveries are useful because you’ll begin building up a toolkit of such common tactical combinations that you can improvise with during play. But for the purposes of the exercise, try to pushing past the repeats and finding something unique. For example, the ettercaps might use their webs to stick the red salads to the ceiling. When the PCs enter the cavern, the ettercaps slice their webs and the red salads drop down all around them in an unexpected ambush.

Similarly, remember that you’re not necessarily trying to get their mechanical abilities to interact with each other in a purely mechanical way. It’s OK if that gives you an interesting idea, but it’s also limiting. Think outside the mechanical box and look at how these creatures might actually interact with each other. If that takes you back towards the mechanics, great! If it doesn’t, also great!

The final note I’ll make here is that this is not something I typically spend a lot of time (or any time) prepping before play. When you’re first exploring symbiotic tactics, it may be something that you do want or need to include your prep notes. But as you gain experience (as you exercise the muscle), you’ll likely find that you can dynamically figure out how different creatures can interact with and mutually benefit each other on the battlefield during actual play. You’ll be able to just focus on designing general situations (“there are ooze-possessed goblins and slime creatures in this area”) and then discover the rest of it during play. (Which will also have the benefit of allowing your encounters to dynamically respond to the actions of your PCs without losing depth or interest.)

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 10D: Clan of the Torn Ear

I suspect that there will be a number of posts in this series that end up being basically variations on, “Look how cool prepping situations instead of plots is!”

But that’s because it’s really frickin’ cool.

Let’s talk a little about how this scenario came into existence, because it’s a confluence of several different factors that went into building the In the Shadow of the Spire campaign.

First, of course, was a desire to run a campaign in Ptolus, which I’ve discussed before. Among the raw material Monte Cook designed for Ptolus were a half dozen scenarios in the Ptolus supplement designed to kick-off a Ptolus campaign.

One of these was “The Trouble With Goblins”, which you can more or less see play out in Session 5 of the campaign: Goblins emerge from the catacombs beneath the city and take up residence in an abandoned house in the Rivergate District. In the scenario as written, the players can trace the goblins back to Ghul’s Labyrinth, but there’s nothing to find down there: “The passages literally go as far as you want them to – and as far as the adventurers are willing to take them. They wind through ancient chambers empty except for more and more zombie encounters. There is no treasure to find.” The intention is that the zombies will eventually drive the PCs back to the surface (through boredom if nothing else).

I’ve never been comfortable with “there’s an endless array of empty corridors down there, so eventually you turn back” set-ups because, basically, I’ve never figured out how to run them successfully (by which I mean, in a way which is satisfying for both me and the players). So I decided to take a different approach: The goblins came from somewhere, and they could be tracked back there.

I decided that the “somewhere” in this case would be an impassable bluesteel door. (This would allow me to introduce one of the major features of Ghul’s Labyrinth.) Rather than just placing a bluesteel door, though, I created the mini-scenario The Complex of Zombies: The idea was that the PCs would be “rewarded” for tracking the goblins with a little horror scenario, find the bluesteel door, and be able to satisfactorily conclude this line of investigation.

As previously discussed, however, things didn’t quite work out like that: The PCs managed to do something incredibly clever and get the bluesteel door open.

Although I ended up adding a whole new scenario on the opposite side of the bluesteel door, I now had a situation where the PCs would logically be able to track the goblins back to their “home”… wherever and whatever that was.

The goblin shook his head. “He was not of our clan. He was traitor. Come. Look.” Holding the runty goblin’s corpse by the head like a rag doll, he bent it forward to present the neck.

Puzzled, Tee came closer. On the back of the goblin’s neck she saw four small tendrils of greenish ooze – they were still wriggling and writhing.

The other major factor was that, before the campaign began, I had done a survey of about 40-50 issues of Dungeon Magazine looking for interesting scenarios that would be appropriate for Ptolus. One of the scenarios I had really liked but ultimately ended up not finding a place for was “Caverns of the Ooze Lord” by Campbell Pentney in Dungeon #132. Now I pulled it back out.

The original module features a small village that’s been infested by mind-controlling ooze parasites, and the PCs are able to track the problem back to a local cave complex. I said to myself: What if the infested “village” is actually a clan of goblins? And the goblins had come to Greyson House because they were fleeing the ooze?

THE SITUATION

So I basically ripped out the entire front half of Pentney’s module, heavily modified the caverns in the back half to fit the new back story, and inserted a freshly designed set of goblin caverns. I summarized the situation and background like this:

• 40 years ago an earthquake struck this area. It opened the fissure leading to the Laboratory of the Beast (Adventure 003B); collapsed the tunnels which once led in that direction; and also opened the fissure leading to the Temple of Juiblex.
  • Juiblex the Shapeless is one of the Galchutt.
• The connection to the Temple of Juiblex contaminated the caverns and disrupted the local balance, leading to the emergence of sickstone. The goblins were eventually forced to abandon the sickstone caverns.
• An expedition was mounted to the Laboratory of the Beast, but it ran into the adamantium guulvorg skeleton, suffered heavy casualties, and retreated. The complex, along with the legendary “surface world”, was forbidden to the tribe by their leaders.
• 2 years ago the warcaster Morbion journeyed into the sickstone caverns. He found the Temple of Juiblex and was corrupted.
• 3 months ago, the goblins became aware that something was wrong: Goblins were disappearing. Eventually they figured out the “oozed ones” were controlling some of them and kidnapping or killing others. Their efforts to combat this threat have failed.
• 2 months ago, a small group of goblins fled through the Laboratory of the Beast and reached Greyson House.
• Currently Ursaal and the duskblades, along with 8 of the lesser warriors and one of the greater warriors, have been corrupted by Morbion.

(Tangentially, I knew that the Galchutt referenced here would play a major role in Act II of the campaign. I find that when designing unanticipated interstitial material in a campaign it’s useful – and also logical! – to find opportunity to reincorporate and foreshadow other elements from the campaign. You can see a similar methodology in the Obelisk of Axum and Severn Valley scenarios that I added to the Eternal Lies campaign as a result of actual play.)

EMERGENT EVENTS

In designing this scenario, my assumption was that the PCs would actually fight their way through the goblins – slowly gathering environmental clues about the presence of the “oozed ones” – and then fight their way through the ooze caverns. Kind of a standard “kill all the goblins” dungeoncrawl that would slowly morph into a horror scenario.

But as you can see in this week’s journal entry, that’s not what happened: The PCs ended up negotiating with the goblins and the entire scenario literally turned on a dime and became something completely different. And that’s what makes prepping situations so cool: Not only do you have the joy of being constantly surprised by what happens at the gaming table, but something like two hundred words of situational prep can suddenly blossom into entire sessions of compelling play.

The character of Itarek is one example of this: Found nowhere in my prep notes, he emerged logically out of the adversary roster I had created for the scenario, and (as you’ll see) quickly became one of the most unforgettable supporting cast members in the campaign.

“I will take you to our Queen. She will decide.”

Tee laughed. “You expect us to just walk into the middle of your caves?”

“You were going there anyway. And I give oath of safety.”

The “oath of safety” is a key emergent moment: If Tee hadn’t laughed off Itarek’s initial offer to take them to the queen, he never would have given them an oath of safety (and the subsequent scene would have played out completely differently).

Note, too, the roleplaying with Tor that emerges out of this completely unanticipated sequence of events. In the Shadow of the Spire benefits tremendously from players who are willing to make bold, strong choices.

I’ve said in the past that I think a lot of games suffer because of two unexamined paradigms or meta-rules:

1. The PCs are not allowed to fight each other.
2. PCs are not allowed to split up or leave the group.

The belief is that this prevents friction and disruptive play, but in my experience it actually creates those things. The moments between Tee and Tor that emerged during this session are an example of what can happen when you remove these artificial limitations: Tor being willing to leave the party because of his principles forced the group to resolve the situation in a way which created an even greater bond going forward.

And I firmly believe that interaction was only possible because it was, in fact, a real possibility that Tor would leave forever. (At which point we would have figured out a new character for Tor’s player.)

In much the same way that the enduring relationship between the party and Crashekka and Itarek only exists because it was equally possible that the party could have just stabbed them without ever learning their names.

Prepping situations is so frickin’ cool.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 10C: Back to the Labyrinths

Opening the box of cherry wood they found a manuscript entitled Observations of Alchemical Reductions and the Deductions Thereof by Master Alchemist Tirnet Kal. The book seemed untouched by age, and Ranthir was immediately enthralled – this had once been a well-known alchemical text, but the last copy of it was thought to have been lost several centuries ago.

Treasure is something I left under-utilized in my games for years: Looting X number of gold pieces and maybe some magic items was simply de rigueur. And, honestly, the psychological pleasure of an escalating numerical value (particularly as it counts its way towards the anticipated acquisition which it makes possible) shouldn’t be undervalued.

But as I mentioned in Getting the Players to Care the Golden Rule of Gaming is that players pay attention when you describe treasure. So if the only thing you’re offering to that undivided attention is generic numbers, you are wasting a golden opportunity.

(I may be gilding the lily here with all these gold puns.)

What you want to do is create treasure which contains meaning; which has specific, creative content. The Observations of the Alchemical Reductions and the Deductions Thereof are one example of that. (Saying that there are “rare books” worth X number of gold pieces is more interesting than simply a sack of gold; specifically listing what these books are is more interesting yet.)

At its most basic level, such treasure increases the player’s immersion and interaction with the game world. But you can use this to additional effect:

• As with the Observations, such treasure can reward character skill (or player insight) by making the treasure more valuable than it first appears. This creates an additional layer of arguably more meaningful reward.
• As described in Getting the Players to Care, treasure can be used to package exposition into an attractive and memorable package for the players.

Simply providing intriguing chaff – little bits of random “cool” that have no purpose or intended greater meaning, like Tolkien’s reference to the cats of Queen Berúthiel – are nonetheless valuable because they provide texture to the improvisational texture of the game world. You can never be entirely sure what uses your players will find for items similar to my 101 Curious Items, or how they’ll combine with other elements of the campaign to create memorable events.

But then Ranthir raised the possibility that they might find a way of transporting the entire orrery to the surface and selling it intact.

The orrery that the PCs also discovered in this section of Ghul’s Labyrinth is an example of this: You’ll see a whole sequence of events spill out over the next few campaign journals which I had no way of anticipating when I created the orrery as a form of nifty and evocative treasure.

The orrery also shows how the context you add to treasure can be used to create obstacles and interesting challenges for the PCs to overcome. One of the most basic ways you can do this – as exemplified by the orrery – is to make the treasure weighty, bulky, or otherwise difficult to transport. Successfully getting the treasure home now becomes part of the challenge. (In the case of the orrery, this took the form of Ranthir’s player eventually coming up with the very clever idea of selling the location of the rarity and letting the buyer of that valuable information deal with the difficulties of transporting it.)

Personalizing this sort of treasure can also be effective. In another D&D campaign, there was a player whose character spent the first ten or so levels stripping dungeons and enemy lairs of interesting pieces of furniture, art, and other accoutrements in order to furnish the fortress-temple he wanted to one day build for his elemental goddess. You can be sure that these features received extra care and attention from me for the duration of that campaign.

Doing so revealed a large room filed with cages of wrought iron. Tee saw that there were age-yellowed skeletons lying in dusty heaps within several of them.

You can also make the creatures the PCs fight a form of treasure in themselves. Pelts, furs, and other animal products have possessed great value throughout history. In the case of this particular session, the creatures were long dead, but there’s no reason the PCs can’t harvest from their own kills.

In setting this up, however, you want to be careful: If you make a particular animal’s carcass too valuable, you will curtail your ability to use that creature ubiquitously.

This can also become an interesting way of complicating combat: You may not be able to fricassee the golden wombat with a fireball if you want to be able to sell its fur, which will limit the tactics you can effectively use while fighting them. (The old school rules for subduing dragons have a similar dynamic.)

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE

Session 10B: Retreat to the Surface

Ranthir began marking their path back to the entrance with chalk marks. He also took out pen, ink, and parchment and began drawing an ornate, beautiful, and highly detailed map of their explorations.

Any character, regardless of medium, can be interpreted as a collection of specific traits: They’re brave. Tall. Conflicted. In love. Impatient. Educated. Handsome. Et cetera.

It’s also not particularly revelatory that, in a roleplaying game, the traits of a character will often by mechanically defined: It’s not just that a character is “smart”, that intelligence is given a number and the effects of that intelligence will manifest through the mechanics of the game.

(Of course not all of the traits of an RPG character will be mechanically defined. And even those that are will often – or should often – manifest themselves in non-mechanical ways: Being “smart”, for example, should have impacts on many actions that are not resolved through mechanics.)

It’s perhaps most typical for a character’s mechanical traits to be designed: The player wants Ranthir to be smart, so they assign a high score to Ranthir’s intelligence. They want Ranthir to be trained in the arcane arts, so they assign skill points to his Spellcraft skill.

By contrast, what I often find interesting are the traits which unexpectedly emerge from the mechanics.

For example, Ranthir’s player thought it would be appropriate for the character to be skilled in calligraphy, so he put some points into Craft (calligraphy). When Ranthir began mapping a dungeon during play and the player decided to make a Craft (calligraphy) check to see how attractive the resulting map was, what was unanticipated was the high die roll would cause the other characters to remark on the map. And, more importantly, that high check resulted in Ranthir’s beautiful maps (and his peculiar obsession with the accuracy of those maps) becoming a recurring theme of the campaign and a memorable trait of the character.

Dominic, meanwhile, was wandering the city and trying to get his bearings. (But, for some reason, he kept finding himself back at Delver’s Square…)

Of course, success is not the only way such traits can emerge. Dominic’s poor sense of direction, for example, was not something that was specifically designed. In terms of mechanical definition, in fact, the character wasn’t particularly stupid or anything. But a pattern of poor rolls on very specific types of checks (across multiple skills, actually) caused this element of the character to emerge, at which point the player (and the rest of the group) took it and ran with it.

This would notably lead, at one point, to a skill check where Dominic succeeded and knew which way they needed to go… except none of the other characters believed him, because of his notoriously poor sense of direction.

Obviously any trait can be improvised into existence as one explores their character through play. But I think these emergent traits – aspects of the character which would not exist without the mechanical impulse – are a particularly fascinating part of what happens at the table during a roleplaying game. They’re a great example of the sense of discovery which is one of the primary attractions of the medium for me. They’re also exemplary of the fact that the division that some see between the mechanical component of an RPG and the creative component of an RPG doesn’t really exist: When used correctly, mechanics are an improv seed. They’re the equivalent of an audience member yelling out a random word and pushing you in directions you could never have anticipated or prepared for.