Continuing on from last week, at the end of which session the party had reached the doorway to the dungeon through which I meant to have them crawl, the middle-schoolers’ characters proceeded inward. Following the pre-written materials I have been using (with some small emendations to get around some of the metagaming I’d noticed brewing), the party soon found themselves confronting unfamiliar situations, the players trying to figure out how to get their characters to do what needed doing to move ahead in confidence. They were not as successful in that as might have been, rather comically getting in each other’s way out of concern about what lay ahead and a desire to “do something cool.” But it was progress, nonetheless.

One of the things that dungeon-crawls traditionally do is present players and their character with puzzles to solve. This is true in video games, as the various Legend of Zelda games attest. It’s true in Dungeons & Dragons, as well, with many of the titular dungeons being maze-like in their presentation even before traps that must be avoided and doors that require cunning and insight to open are put on offer. Puzzle- and problem-solving such as working against such devices require are themselves often articulated as major educational goals; the TEKS standards for grade 6 make much of such things, for example. Dungeon-crawling, then, is inherently an educational exercise, so I didn’t have to do much to bring in the overtly educational this time…but one thing that I have done, both this session and previously, is start to use more complex and richer vocabulary, sending the players to the dictionary for information about what the words mean. (The game meets in a library. Using its resources suggests itself as another valid educational end.) Between the two, I think I have the explicitly educational covered decently enough.

Honestly, so much echoes my own experience. I might have noted here before, and I have certainly noted elsewhere before, that a good part of what drew me into my formal study was the media to which I had been exposed and in which I was conversant as I moved from high school to college and from undergraduate to graduate study. I took Old English early in my master’s program because I was frustrated at the end of my undergraduate work by being almost able to read and make sense of it, for example, and I had that sense of familiarity in part because I had been the particular type of nerd that I was then. (I’m not quite the same taste, now, but whiskey has a richer flavor twenty-five years after being put into the barrel, so that’s to be expected.) I learned words because I saw them used and did not know what they meant, so I looked them up. (Having the spellings helped; a dictionary’s not as handy when the spelling’s uncertain, something that was long a point of vexation for me with my parents.) I don’t think that any of the kids at my table will be English majors or go out for the professoriate, but I do think they benefit not only from the exposure to new vocabulary, but also from doing the work of finding what it means for themselves.

It’s something that will serve them long after we have parted ways.

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To continue from last week, the group of middle-school-aged kids for whom I’m running a Dungeons & Dragons game at my local library left off between rounds of an ongoing fight, being in the process of rescuing a child about to be sacrificed by cultists for some clearly nefarious end. They seemed initially to have taken the discussion of ponerology to heart, which gratified, and play proceeded from that point to go…sideways. Some of that is to be expected in any TTRPG, of course; things move in ways not expected. Some of it, however, is going to require some redirection and resetting; the group as a whole is aware of it, so when next week’s session begins, I do not think it will be a surprise that things will start as they will have to start.

For the overtly educational portion of the session, I brought in an idea I’ve meant to talk about for a while: the tension between plot- and character-focused narrative. To gloss, in the former, the story is largely about outside events and reactions, while in the latter, the story is largely about internal events and how they shape the outside world. I don’t think any narrative is exclusively one or the other, although each is primarily one or the other; that is, there is always some outside event prompting response, and there is always some internality on display, although there will definitely be an emphasis of one over the other.

Within the setting of a TTRPG, the narrative will actually straddle such line as exists between the two fairly evenly. Because the story being told is a collaborative one, with the audience being the group doing the storytelling, the overall presentation is plot-driven. The collective creating audience will respond to the outside events presented to them. Each collaborator, however, will have access to the internality of the character they portray, so for each audience member, the narrative will be emphatically character driven.

This is, of course, a very surface-level treatment; more has been said about the topic, as I am already aware, Mackay having treated it, as well as Gary Alan Fine, and I know there have been other works about it that I do not have on my shelves from long ago. (One of my regrets from the attempted academic life is that I was not more honest with myself and so did not pursue such ludic concerns; I needed the formal “legit” grounding I got, but I really ought to have leaned more into my “side” interests. That the latter have stuck with me even absent institutional affiliation is telling.) But, while the kids at my table are bright, they’ve got other concerns–and so, admittedly, do I, among which are a great many other scholarly somedays.

My calendar is full. I suppose it’s a good thing; I’ve always got something to look forward to doing.

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The materials presented to my group of gaming middle-schoolers last week were a response to emergent situations I hoped to redirect and deflect before they could become problems. (I am still somewhat taken aback by one player’s stated expectations of being in opposition to me as the DM; I’m put in mind of comments from The Munchkin’s Guide to Power Gaming, which has long had a spot on my bookshelves.) This week, I returned to more or less the kind of thing that I had intended to discuss with them, one of the central questions that I had included in my pitch for the program back in 2024: what is the nature of evil?

That nature, as might well be thought, has been extensively studied and theorized about. There is, in fact, a whole discipline of inquiry about it: ponerology. (I admit that part of the reason I brought it up under that name to the middle schoolers in the context of being overtly educational is because it’s a fun word to say, especially for my overly online Millennial self recalling pwning n00bs). It can be used as a loose rubric in many kinds of humanistic analysis; while it has most notable factored into theology and political science, it can be applied in a great many other contexts, as well. Dungeons & Dragons addresses such topics fairly explicitly with its alignment system (that has shifted across more than five decades of production and play), so it does invite use as a means of exploring ponerological topics.

The situation in which the players’ characters found themselves at the beginning of the week’s session was something of a blunt presentation of the topic. They began the session where they left off the previous: fighting child-sacrificing cultists. Killing helpless children scans as a Bad Thing for most people (that there are exceptions is unfortunately clear). So is the obvious plot movement that suggests itself: the children being killed are themselves Bad Things. (Indeed, this is something that has been at the core of many Dungeons & Dragons games, that members of particular species are necessarily and inherently evil. While there are species that are representations of philosophical concepts, manifestations of other realities, applying such a rubric to physical beings is…problematic at best. Recent efforts to move the game’s official materials away from such framing have met with resistance from many players and groups. It’s not a happy thing.) I decided not to take that approach, in part because most of those at the table are still new to gaming, and I do think there is some value in presenting tropes straight on for such audiences–again, overt education is a thing in the program. I also have other plans for developing the story further, and it serves my purposes to have a clear framing for my antagonists in enacting those plans.

As I continue on in this program, I find myself reminded of earlier comments I made about how useful TTRPG materials could well be as technical writing course materials. I think I could well do more with such things at this point in my life, even so far removed from the classroom as I have become (and correctly). I perhaps flatter myself that someone might find that kind of thing useful to have me do for them; I’d certainly like to give it a try sometime…among all of the somedays already waiting for me.

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Following on last week’s activites, I returned to my local library to once again preside over a session of Dungeons & Dragons for a group of middle-school-aged children. When the game had left off last week, there was a fight over a fish brewing within the party, which made for an interesting place to break off for the evening; cliffhangers work to prompt ongoing engagement, after all. When actual play resumed, that fight got addressed; afterwards, the narrative resumed pretty much as expected. Gamers are gamers, after all, and kids are kids–and middle schoolers are still very much kids.

Owing to the need to be more explicitly educational, however, I did not resume play immediately on starting the session. Instead, I addressed a narrative and ludological concern: metagaming. That I would need to do so was prompted by one of the players making a comment in the previous session about trying to read my mind…by pulling out a copy of the source text I was (and still am) using for the current narrative arc. It was clear to me from the remark and the action that the player is trying somehow to “win” the game. I’ve been guilty of doing such things, myself, so I can certainly understand the impulse. While there is some sense to some kinds of metagaming (there’s no way not to do it, to some extent; that there is a game going on is always clear within it, and the tension between the real and the game drives some of the humor that invariably creeps into play), I do find myself somewhat concerned to confront it.

As I play, and as I worked to clarify to the players way back at the beginning of the program, TTRPGs should generally be collaborative endeavors. That is, those at the table should work together to tell a story that is about all of them. The kind of metagaming that seemed to me to be brewing moves more towards things being competitive, with one player trying to make the game about their one character rather than about the group. Some of this will happen naturally, of course, dice being what they are, but there seems to me to be a difference between an organic emergence of such a thing and the calculated contrivance towards the same–and the former is, in my mind, better.

I’m glad that the player in question is actually reading. I’m glad, too, that the player in question is trying to think around things. Both of those are good actions to undertake, and I could stand to see more people doing both of them. And it is the case that the player in question, being one of the more experienced at the table (mine was not the first game in which that player participated, as was the case for several others at my library table), will necessarily know more about how the game works as a game and cannot reasonably be expected not to know it. (Indeed, I’m looking at said player as a candidate to run future games, one of the goals towards which I and the program generally are working.) But I am concerned about the player–and, to be fair, others, if for different reasons–making the game about themself rather than about the group…and I admit to concern about being caught out railroading my players, which is not a good thing to do.

What I’m doing, moving forward, is making a few changes to the text I’d originally thought to use; sticky notes are my friend in this. Some of the material was designed to be dice-determined; I rolled for that previously, making notes of results. I have adjusted a few points of narrative, as well, and redone progression through the major puzzle that presents itself in the published text. The player will still have something of a leg up on the others, which is okay, but the ability to simply read ahead and know all of what is coming…that has been removed, now, which should make the playing field just a little bit more level. The others at the table deserve their chances to shine, after all…which is a useful reminder for more people than just them.

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I‘ve mentioned, most recently at about this time last week, that I’m running a Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) game for middle schoolers at my local public library–for pay. The game is progressing well enough; the third 90-minute session was yesterday, with six players in attendance. The party continued along the path I’d laid before them, making headway towards their assigned objective (some social structures within the game have emerged from play and improvisation, which makes some things easier than others). Fun seemed to have been had all around, so I count it as a good evening of play.

One of the things that I’ve used to keep the party moving while allowing them both agency and a means to work around failure is something I’ve taken from my experience participating in play-by-post forum games, something about which I’ve written before (for example, the piece referenced here, as well as this piece, referenced here). That thing is employing levels of overall success based on racking up a certain amount of individual success before incurring a certain amount of individual failure.

To explain a bit: in D&D and many other tabletop role-playing games (TTRPGs), tasks that characters face are often adjudicated by a single roll of dice. In D&D rules current to this writing, the player whose character must face a task with an uncertain outcome rolls one twenty-sided die and adds (or subtracts!) modifiers, comparing the result to a set difficulty, a minimum number that must be arrived at for the character to get the task done. In other games I’ve played, things generally work similarly; the player rolls once for the character’s attempt at a task, success or failure results, and the story moves on.

The method has the advantages of being simple and quick. The die roll is what it is, the result is what it is, and consequences can flow from it with relatively little interruption of the narrative flow around which the game centers. It has the disadvantage, however, of being more or less entirely up to chance; players can build characters to stack modifiers and roll scads of dice, but there are times when the dice simply fail to deliver a success, and staking a whole story on one such shot can leave players feeling unsatisfied. In some cases, those administering the games will “fudge” numbers a bit, altering things where the other players cannot see so that they succeed at pivotal tasks, but in such cases, one might well ask what the point was of rolling dice.

The issue, for me and for more than a few others I’ve known, is that some things admit of reattempts, and some things are better represented as progressions than one-off events. In such cases, what I and some of my acquaintances and friends do is set up tasks for players that ask them to make a series of rolls in which they have to accumulate a certain number of successes before incurring a certain number of failures, say three successes before three failures. (Threes work well for reasons that others expound upon at great length across quite a few years.) Getting that done allows a superior overall outcome, while failing before succeeding still allows progression, if with some additional challenges thrown in. And it mitigates the feeling of frustration that comes from one thing going against a character, even when it flatly doesn’t make sense that that character would falter at the test in question.

Admittedly, such a setup necessarily takes longer than the traditional one-off model; there are more die rolls involved, and more things to do take longer than fewer things to do when the same number of people address them. Too, there are some tasks that probably should be one-off events: much of the combat in which characters engage in games hinges on single actions, and rightly so. But for a number of tasks, spreading out success helps to mitigate failure in ways that help keep players engaged (checking out after one failed roll is sometimes an issue, and not only for less experienced players; it happens to most or all of us), and it is something that allows for more players to be engaged in keeping things moving along, since more die rolls necessarily offer more opportunities for each player to roll, to have their character contribute to the overall success of the party in which they find themselves.

In the game I’m running at the library–which I’ve taken to calling Hanlon for ease of reference–the kids at my table found their characters in pursuit of a thief who went out into the countryside surrounding the characters’ home village. In some games, in many, there would have been a single roll or set of rolls: one to track the thief, one to pursue at speed, one to apprehend the thief. And that would work well were it time to wrap up a story arc, to conclude an episode…and if the thief escaping had no other effects on the story. None of that is the case in Hanlon, however, and so I opted to arrange matters to require a series of cycles of rolls. The characters who are best in the party at each stage–tracking, pursuit, apprehension, and foraging along the way–each get the chance to try their hand at things, contested by the thief whom they pursue. Their increasing numbers of successes bring them closer to the thief; their increasing numbers of failures leave them farther behind. If they fail enough times, they will find themselves obliged to retrace their steps, but they can still pursue the thief, if not as ably. And they can decide along the way what they do and how they do it, giving them more agency, giving the players more familiarity with the rules in which they are playing, and giving me more time with the materials I drafted to lead the players and their characters through.

There will be things for them to do that are one-and-done events. I know what’s waiting for the players’ characters, and I know what they’re capable of doing. But I also have a pretty good idea what it is the players’ characters can do, and I know well that the players, themselves, will think of things that never occurred to me…which is part of the fun I get to have running games.

It’s nice to enjoy the job.

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At around this time last week, I noted the start of my work as a contract programs teacher at my local library, running a Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) game for a group of middle-school-aged students. As reported, the first session went pretty well, so I spent some time in the following days developing materials for the next session, scheduled to take place yesterday afternoon into early evening as this reaches the internet. I’d planned on bringing in one more player, signed up for the program but absent on the day of the first meeting, and I’d planned on moving the whole group ahead from the introductory session into the main plot, and so I wrote with all that in mind.

One of the things I did, because I am often helped by doing so, was to sketch out a map of the local area. I am well aware that my pen-hand leaves a lot to be desired, and I am more than a little out of practice as a cartographer; it had been a while since I’d put together materials for a tabletop game, after all. But it was helpful for me, nonetheless, to begin to gesture towards a wider world into which Hanlon Village falls, to have a visual idea of what area is dependent on Hanlon and what Hanlon, in turn, depends upon. And it was helpful for me to have some idea of where shenanigans could take place, as well; hills and woods offer many opportunities for that kind of thing, and having some variety, some options, is a good thing.

I’ll admit to being influenced in what might be called map-making by the maps present in a lot of fantasy novels, mostly following the Tolkienian tradition; Lord of the Rings does it, but then, so do the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant and its successor series, the Wheel of Time novels, the Song of Ice and Fire novels that have managed to make it into the world, and (near and dear to my heart) Robin Hobb’s works. I’m also marked by having grown up in the Texas Hill Country; there have been times I have directly taken from maps of towns and cities in my part of the world to make towns and cities in other worlds, entirely, although I did not directly do so for Hanlon (although there were definitely local features in my mind as I did my sketch.) I’ve also benefited from reading Karen Wynn Fonstad’s works of fantasy cartography, although I’m not in any way claiming the talent or expertise she deployed. I do think it’s important to acknowledge my influences, though, even if I do not live up to their inspiration.

I’ll note, too, that I deliberately did not “fill in all the blanks,” that I left things open and did so on purpose. While I do tend to plan a lot for the games I run, I also know from experience playing and running games that the narrative does not always go as planned. There always needs to be room for players to take their stories in their own direction, and if there is a direction to go, there has to be something in that direction for them to uncover. Admittedly, there is a fair bit of manipulation that can go on; an opponent who had been hiding in a tree or behind a rock can be concealed in tall grass or in a shallow depression. But even aside from that, if the intended plot would move players east and they go west, it’s good to have a west for them to explore–and taking notes can make what is extemporized (again, I make a lot of use of Mackay’s The Fantasy Role-playing Game) more permanent, giving players some agency in creating the world in which their characters exist.

The map was not the only thing I did, of course, and could not be for me to do a decent job running the game. If I was going to send them off chasing something or other, I had to figure out who was doing the sending and what that something or other is…as well as where it ended up being. That much, at least, the map made easier; I had my idea, if one that player actions influenced somewhat. And in my earlier notes, I’d jotted down some ideas about what the something would be: a horn, passed down across generations. As to how it got from where it should be to where it was…I can’t give everything away, you know, at least not all at once.

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Among the many things of which I have made no secret is my long time playing, running, and studying tabletop roleplaying games (TTRPGs). I’ve got a whole tag about them for this webspace, for example, and the subject has popped up in other writing I’ve done, such as the piece linked here. It should be clear at this point, with my having been involved TTRPGs for more than twenty-five years, that I’m fond of them, and it makes sense that, being thus fond, I would want to share with others and bring more people into the hobby. If nothing else, doing so means I have more people to play with, and more people to play with makes it more likely there will continue to be games to play. I delight in the prospect and the (admittedly small shred of) hope for the future it represents.

To do a little bit more to advance the cause, as it were, I’ve recently taken up a contract position with my local library. (I even put it on the resume, here.) Given who I am, that I would work for a library should not be a surprise. (Indeed, when I was job-searching, I even put in for a full-time clerking job at another library. It didn’t work out, clearly, but it was one of the few applications I put in that didn’t provoke the “Why would you want this job?” response I got an awful lot.) But that that job is explicitly to run a D&D game for middle-school-age kids might be a bit of one, even if it is entirely welcome. (On my part, it very much is. There are at least a few others who welcome it, clearly, since other kids than mine are enrolled.)

There are details I cannot share, of course. I am still learning names, for one, and even when I learn them, since minors are involved, I’m not going to include that in my reports. Even my own daughter, whose name I do have some right to make free with, gets elided; there’re reasons I refer to her as Ms. 8 in my public writings. And, because it is possible that my players will actually look at my writing here (I should be so lucky as to have the readership!), I’ll not go into details about future plans, even though I have them. But I can, and almost certainly will, report on what happens in the game and with my players, doing so partly to cement my own memories of things, and partly in the hope that what I do will prove useful for others, whether as an example of what to do or as one of what to avoid.

The first session of what is, at least initially, a limited run began with a sort of Session Zero. For those unfamiliar, Session Zero is a preliminary meeting of a gaming group in which comments about basic assumptions to be observed at the table are discussed. Conduct among participants, general expectations about the game, and character formation are common topics, and those got addressed (at least in passing; there’s more that can be said and more will almost certainly need to be said as matters progress); I also gave a bit of a working definition of TTRPGs (for which I borrow from Mackay’s The Fantasy Role-playing Game, which has informed my previous work).

The Session Zero stuff done and time remaining in the planned session–the library can only offer so much space for so long at a time, after all–the players began to enjoy events at the Childsend Festival of Hanlon Village, a manor town in the fief of the imaginatively-named Lord Hanlon. I used Curio Solus’s “Festival Activities” from GM Binder, with a few quick edits for age-appropriateness, finding the games easily accessible to the several new-to-the-game players and manipulable by the few with experience, as well as a way for all of us to start to get a feel for how the system works and how the characters work. The players chose a few carnival games to play, enjoying each and doing well with them, and how they relate each to the others began to emerge before time ran out on the session.

The kids seemed to enjoy themselves, and I was pleased to be able to run an in-person game again. It’d been a while, and while I’m aware of myself as being rusty, I’m also aware of the rust as already starting to break off. Another session is planned for this coming Thursday, and I already know there will be a couple of events to come…which I need to sketch out. It’s a kind of writing I’ve done at length before, albeit in different systems than that in which I’m running a game now (the 2024 version of Dungeons & Dragons, largely for reasons of accessibility); I imagine I’ll find my way clear to doing it, and to giving the kids a good game to play.

I am, of course, open to ideas. If you have them, I’d love to hear them–and if you’d like to get mine a little bit quicker, drop me a line!

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