The Elder Nerds

Why is it that the narrative for adventures is almost invariably the same? Or at least, the narrative for adventurers?

An oddball collection of strangers meet at an Inn and travel together inseparably until they either complete a quest or die together in a horrific encounter. The greatest variance occurs if periodically one dies and is near-instantly replaced in an incredible coincidence! Bob’s dead, but look, we just found Bob’s brother Rob in the closet, a prisoner of that thing that just killed Bob!

Why are we writing plays in which the main cast come on stage at the beginning and stay until the end, and in which the whole story revolves only around them?

Yes, it’s true that the nature of RPGs is that you’re collaboratively creating a story together. And yes, it’s true that the nature of the game is that the PCs are these central characters. But is this rule that “one player = one character, throughout” really set in stone? If that character dies, we see no issue with replacing them with a new character, so that player can continue to participate, but why must entrances be instant, and exits near-always fatal?

Recently I learned the story of a friend playing in another Curse of Strahd campaign (i.e. not the one I’m running) whose character, Perrin, had become so thoroughly “broken”, mentally, that he had him simply… walk away. The story goes: the group had fled and left one of their kin behind to die at the hands of werewolves. Later, this character reappeared before them, not in fact dead, but now afflicted with lycanthropy instead. They were forced to kill their former-friend, and then Perrin walked away into the night. The player decided that his character, having put their former-friend to death, buckled under the burden of guilt from killing the transformed companion, along with the burden of guilt at having let him get captured in the first place, and it was enough to cause a mental break. His character walked away. He spoke with the DM about writing up a new replacement and having that character introduced somehow in a future session. He offered the PC to the DM to possibly bring back as a villain in the future.

I thought it was brilliant!

It’s certainly not something most players consider and it’s not something most DMs work to facilitate. But if the latter is because of the former, maybe we should.

Now I’m not about to suggest that PCs should be coming with new character sheets every session. Rather, I merely suggest that perhaps every character arc need not end in death (or, more rarely, some form of corruption). What if a particular character started with the group to answer the Duchess’ call of clearing out the Goblin cave, and now, at level 3, having returned to town successful, feels satisfied and chooses to go join the guard, while perhaps the group enlists a new Cleric if they wish to follow-up on the treasure map they found in the chieftain’s lair? Maybe that cleric is someone they actually met during their adventure so far, like the blacksmith in the village whom they took a shine to.

How Do We Go About This?

I think in order to facilitate the idea of exits and entrances, there are two big things the DM needs to do:

First, ensure the players understand it as an option. The parameters should be made clear to the PCs: How does an exit occur? How does an entry occur? Is there likely to be a sizeable gap in time between the two? Players are unlikely to want to swap out characters if it means missing or not participating in gaming sessions. That’s why Bob’s brother Rob was miraculously in that very next closet. We can have more graceful entrances for replacement characters, but that requires planning, and that planning requires collaboration with the players.

And collaboration is a key word here: you must be willing to relinquish some small measure of control over the overall story, to accept the players as having some agency in its telling and not merely confined to choosing the actions and reactions of a single character in the narrative, before you can move forward with this in a meaningful way. You have to be able to discuss with a player privately the particular character arc they intend for their character, take that into consideration in order to help by working the story in that direction, and then, if and when a player feels that character’s role in the grand scheme of things is coming to an end, to be willing to work with them on planning an exit and how and when their next character enters.

—- Minor Spoilers for Curse of Strahd – skip this paragraph —-

Taking Curse of Strahd as an example (given I’m currently running it), it’s an excellent opportunity for these things. One of the players of my group was going to be unlikely to make the first few sessions. I met with him privately over a cup of tea and discussed with him the character of Ireena Kolyana, where she comes into the story, her role within it, and how and when the PCs are likely to meet her. The group played through Death House without that player present, and when they were finishing up and reaching the village, I had this additional player come to the next session where they would meet her and later agree to help her. If, when they reached Krezk, the player was satisfied with the pool as the conclusion of her character arc, we could have retired her and he would instead take up the mantle of some other NPC either already introduced or soon to be introduced. Maybe the Priest from the Church in Vallaki would see this turn of events as divine providence and realize he must leave his chapel behind to help the players? The player chose to continue with Ireena, as it happens, and is still with the group now. When another player died, but the group was hoping to have her resurrected in the next session, I took the player aside to discuss possibly having them take on Kasimir, who was on the verge of joining their story line (they’d already met, and would soon be heading to the Amber Temple together). As it turned out, they chose to stick with their current character when they were able to be raised from the dead in the following session. In both cases, the players chose to stick with their current characters, but my point is that there were options, that those options were within the context of the story line and not strangers in closets, and that those options were made clear to the players.

—- Spoiler Ends Here —-

They must understand it’s an option and what your process is in order to use it.

Second, unless you want that next walk on to be “Rob, brother of Bob”, hailing from the next closet/cell/inn they find, you have to litter the story with some interesting NPCs, some of whom might hint at an interest or stake in what the players are doing.

In essence, you should be planting the seeds that might grow into future PCs. Doing so successfully will require creativity and balance: you’re trying to create characters interesting enough that a player might later say “I’d like to play that NPC if I might”, and yet you don’t want to paint them into a corner: Be careful about giving NPCs fixed classes and levels. That gruff wolf-hunter who helped them out at one point: Was he a ranger? A sniper-rogue? An archery-build fighter? Maybe he was a druid, just trying to keep the wolf population in harmony?

Strive for a balance where just enough information about the NPC is provided to allow a player to have a starting point to flesh out a backstory, an excuse is provided to allow that NPC to conceivably join the group at some future point in the story, and yet enough flexibility remains for the player to build them into the character they want next. If that wolf-hunter was actually Rogue 1/Warlock 5 and concealing his Warlock nature, it could still fit.

This won’t always be possible, of course, or at least not without effort. The priest from the local temple is a priest, after all. If he were to suddenly be a rogue, it would require a fair bit of finagling to make it make sense. (A rogue who worships a trickster god masquerading as a priest of another faith and keeping all the collections?)

Maybe splitting the party isn’t a precursor to ambush and death. Maybe it’s a split in the story line where, pressed for time, the group has to break up for a session or two. The others can some and watch, or play NPCs, or run monsters, or if it’s scheduled when those few can’t make it anyway, everything works out. Maybe the character of the player on vacation stayed back at the inn, but with a little play-by-Email, maybe when the group returns to fetch them, they find out about an interesting little side adventure.

With enough seeds scattered, and if both DM and players are interested and willing to take care to maintain those little fronds, the overall story can grow in interesting and different ways outside the traditional narratives, by allowing more lives to enter and exit.

Before I even begin, let me first say I’m using the word “dungeon” very loosely here. By “dungeon”, I could mean an actual dungeon, a cave complex, a set of ruins, a patch of jungle or forest or desert, or even an isolated village. The basic premise is simply a self-contained location, intended to be explored (likely cautiously) by the PCs, as a series of encounters (many of those likely violent).

The way I think of “dungeons” is that they fall into two categories: dynamic and static, and while there are exceptions to every rule, the general rule is that the two do not mix well. They are each governed by their own special set of rules to maintain their internal logic, and internal logic is key here: immersion is about maintaining pace and the suspense-of-disbelief. Anything that makes a player pause to think “but how…” is counter to good gameplay. Dungeons come with their own sets of implied rules, and they have to adhere to them, lest “but how…”.

Dynamic Dungeons

Back in first edition of Dungeons and Dragons, modules were little more than a map combined with a collection of rooms and their contents.  As much as we all like to remember “the old days” with the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, the fact is that when you go back and review these dusty old modules, you’ll likely come away disappointed when you realize two crucial things:  first, just how “bare bones” the information is contained therein, and second, how little logic is contained when you take a step back and consider the overall picture.  One could kick open a door and find a fight with some orcs, and then kick open another door and find a larger chamber with a fearsome dragon.  How did the dragon get in there? It’s sheer size would make it impossible.  What is the relationship between the orcs and the dragon?  If they are friendly, why didn’t they retreat to its protection, and if not, why do they live RIGHT NEXT DOOR? These are the sorts of questions modern players ask, while we – back in our youthful, unsophisticated bliss of earlier editions many moons ago – perhaps did not ask.  Keep on the Borderlands has every type of humanoid imaginable living in caves with entrances a mere stone’s throw apart, yet little explanation as to why the trolls (e.g.) haven’t simply eaten all the goblins already.

The first module I remember being really impressed by in this regard was a dungeon in The Rod of Seven Parts in second edition.  There was an orc lair guarded by a chained-up Ettin, and then farther below, other forces.  Their lair contained a kitchen and bathroom, explained how and when the smoke vented out the top of the hill (a possible point of entry or exit for a creature small enough), what they hunted, and so on.  It detailed the day/night cycle and resident locations.  It was the first time I read a module that approached the process of detailing a dungeon not merely as a collection of contents, but as a living, breathing ecosystem.

For me, it was an awakening that would guide every future dungeon I would write or run.

I believe that in order for a dungeon to be memorable, it has to be immersive, and to be immersive, it has to feel like a believable ecosystem.  It’s not simply a container that houses a scattering of unrelated monsters resulting in unrelated combat events.  It is an ecosystem into which the players likely intrude, and it reacts and attempts to reestablish homeostasis when they do.  If the players retreat and rest, the inhabitants move around and shore up defences.  As the players invade, opponents retreat and call for assistance from their brethren, or attempt to lure the group into traps.

The Sunless Citadel is an excellent example in this regard: it houses multiple types of enemies, includes non-combative youth and elders. It contains opposing factions and takes an otherwise mundane crawl into something more memorable by weaving a story into that collection of rooms and those opposing factions. It can play out as a simple hack-n-slash crawl, or as something far more complex, but either way the players will be left with a sense of having invaded someone’s home.

How to Build an Ecosystem

Creating an ecosystem doesn’t mean things have to be simple and boring.  The forest doesn’t contain only mice and owls and nothing else.  It contains a whole variety of wildlife in a complex, dependent structure.  A Kobold warren shouldn’t contain only Kobolds but its other contents should make sense within the context of it being a Kobold warren.

In order to build a dungeon as an ecosystem, I start out by selecting its primary inhabitant(s).  If there’s more than one, I need to be able to justify their co-existence and explain the nature of their relationship.  Then I build out from there, exploring the lives of these creatures and possibly adding additional creatures in response to the needs of this ecosystem, in way becomes an iterative, recursive process, as I explain to myself how they all fit together.

Take as an example that Kobold Warren.  They’re the primary inhabitants.

I ask myself questions about how they live:

• What do they eat?
• What do they drink?
• Where do they sleep?
• Where do they go to the bathroom?
• Do they have children?

(If you’re familiar with Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, it’s a great place to start.)

For a Kobold Warren, the answers to these questions will lead to the inclusion of a kitchen, dining room, some sort of primitive barracks, and the oft-forgotten toilet. There should probably be a nursery of non-combative youth/hatchlings.

For creatures that are sentient, there may be a few more questions as well:

• How do they make their shelter safe?
• What do they use for construction materials, tools, or storage?
• Do they clothe and armor themselves?
• Do they have a currency? Do they read and write?

Perhaps these Kobolds have taken over an abandoned Dwarvish mine, fashioning some weapons from bronze that they smelt and cast with their rudimentary knowledge of such things.  They’ll need a room for that.  Maybe they mostly use flint weapons.  Perhaps ceramic.  Hide armors can come from something that they breed and/or hunt.

Kobolds are known for traps and poisons. Where do they get all the poisons they use?  These ones milk snakes.  Simple, primitive.  Add snakes to the list of inhabitants.  Perhaps there’s a room where the snakes are kept.  Perhaps outside the warrens the PCs could happen upon a “snake-collecting” expedition of kobolds with baskets, a foreshadowing of the snakes and poisons that will follow when they attempt to invade.

• Air?  (If they’re cooking their food with fires, where does the smoke go?)

Answering these questions causes one to reflect on “a day in the life”, and conceptually you begin to see the Kobolds as a functional system with inputs and outputs.  Then, a short step farther back to see how it functions – that it functions – in the long term (Economics?  Persistent food sources?) should round things out into something sensible and alive.

And as other creatures become a part of the picture, it becomes a recursive process: where do the snakes reside/come from, and what do the snakes eat?

Before long I have a tribe of Kobolds who venture from their abandoned mine to scour the desert outside collecting snakes, desert rats (to feed the snakes), cactus fruit, and water.  They use riding lizards that they’ve domesticated because having chosen a fixed location, they need to range a little farther now to collect the things they need (desert life is harsh!)  Perhaps this is why they’ve recently drawn the attention of the town that sent the PCs to find them.  They mostly range at night, of course, because of the heat of the day.  These lizards also serve as guards and as sources of food and hide armor.  They collect and milk small venomous snakes using small ceramic pots which they make in a primitive pit-kiln, along with their ceramic arrow heads and ceramic blades for weapons.  They collect what firewood they can, and their fiercest champions are gifted the handful of bronze weapons they’ve fashioned from leftover ores they found, as they’re not particularly inclined to mine the maze-like veins themselves, being far less industrious than the long lost tribe of Dwarves that founded the place.  The caves include the entry area (well guarded with alternating patrols on day/night cycles or perhaps on rotating 8 hour shifts), kitchen, pantry, dining hall, barracks, living space, pottery room, nursery, toilet room, throne room, chieftain’s quarters (he doesn’t sleep with the rabble!), and armory.  If invaders make it past their first line of defence, they can always release the Dwarven zombies – last remnants of the mine’s former inhabitants – which they keep contained in a locked pen near the entrance, ever vigilant and never need be fed.  The hallucinogenic spores they collect from the Myconids in the back caves deeper in are received in exchange for bringing the fungus-men various bits of offal. These spores provide great entertainment and their agreement is a way to dispose of their waste, but the spores also make for some interesting poison effects when used by their most skilled shaman, who hurl tiny pots of concoctions to create small but potent gas clouds.  The caves are rat-infested, which the Kobolds don’t discourage, regarding them largely as pets and a secondary source of food, as well as a great way to keep their snakes and riding-lizards fed.  These vermin carry Sewer Plague because of the squalid conditions, but the Kobolds and rats themselves have long ago grown immune over the course of generations.

Now it’s not just a “dungeon”. It’s not simply a cave with some rooms and Kobolds. It is a living, breathing ecosystem, and it is immersive. We know what the Kobolds are coming with. We know what they’re carrying and wearing and how they made or acquired it. We even know what happens when the PCs stop for a rest and drink the water: sewer plague is the price of being an interloper.

Static Dungeons

Dynamic dungeons are living ecosystems, but what about those lost ruins that are not inhabited by living, breathing things, but instead are locked away from the world, snapshots in time from a forgotten age?

These are the static dungeons, and unlike the dynamic dungeon crawl, these places are intended as a series of time capsules. In these dungeons, the various bits do not necessarily interact. They can remain hidden away from the rest of the world, timelessly, because they do not require such interaction.

Static dungeons should therefore include only those things capable of existing for extended periods without fear of starvation, dehydration, or rot. These should be primarily populated with undead, constructs, and traps, particularly in their deepest parts. Anything living should more likely be nearer the entrance, on the premise that it comes and goes to the outside world, and merely lairs there in safety without venturing forth into the perilous depths. Also near the entrance, it makes sense for the PCs to encounter a few (inanimate) skeletons amid already-sprung traps: a warning of what’s to come. Perhaps the early rooms are already looted. The real loot surely comes only after the traps and inhabitants that haven’t been bested already.

Provided things aren’t airtight, one good exception to this exploratory timeline into the past is vermin. Tiny creatures that come in swarms can fit through tiny openings, so it’s very conceivable that insects, or maybe even rats, could come from world outside world to feast on the decaying flesh of whatever remains below.

This question of airtight is also important in another sense. The question of airflow also impacts moisture, and whether the area is dry or damp should impact descriptions of the conditions they find. Is everything rotting and covered in fungus? Or is everything desiccated and covered in cobwebs? This is something that could vary, if there is a reasonable explanation for these divisions: the Shriekers and Lacedons from the underground lake area are separate from the dusty old Mummy crypt by a pair of large, wax-sealed, air-tight stone doors. (Perhaps to keep in the poison gas?) But if you want to maintain the immersion, these separations must be explainable, not a random Hodge-podge. Examine the final map: there shouldn’t be a secret door to the sealed area, unless that’s got a wax seal too.

And in a broad sense, as the group delves deeper, the things they find get deader as well as deadlier.

SPOILER ALERT: EXTREME SPOILERS FOR CURSE OF STRAHD

The Amber Temple of Curse of Strahd has both good and bad examples of this at work. The barbarians near the entrance who use it as shelter but have never ventured inside? This works. Two pairs of untouched doors lie between them and the dangers inside, and their story is that they’re afraid to ever enter.

Vilnius works, but only to a point. The premise of his being there was to be that he escaped Neferon and went into hiding after Jakarion died. That means he must have arrived roughly at Day “PC-Arrival minus 1”. If the PCs keep taking long rests within sight of the entrance, his story grows more and more preposterous. Given how deadly Neferon is, that Vilnius was let live is already a stretch to begin with. If the PCs are taking their time exploring the place, a good DM would be well-advised to perhaps have him appear and make a run for the entrance.

The Barovian Witches downstairs do not work! Why would Neferon tolerate them? Why are they there in the first place? The same is probably true of the Death Slaad. Neferon, given his nature and as a sort of landlord of the place – this makes sense within the context that he’s long-lived (assuming Yugoloths live thousands of years). It’s a prize. It’s a feather in his cap. He’s an Arcanaloth and this place is a massive collection of the Arcane, and he’s claimed it for himself. But why is a Death Slaad simply chilling out in a side room, waiting for…. waiting for what? For my run, I’ve transformed the Death Slaad into an escaped Vestige, still bound by magics to remain near the room with the broken sarcophagus it escaped from (to Neferon’s amusement) and I’ve changed the Barovian Witches into an Allip and Will-O-Wisps. [Note: I believe I read that last bit suggested on a Reddit thread. If I can find it again I’ll give credit and link it here.]

The Castle Ravenloft of Curse of Strahd – almost comically – stands as both a tremendous exception and tremendous example to what I’ve laid about above. In the Castle, one can expect to encounter living souls – those in the employ of Strahd – as well as the undead – also in the employ of Strahd. Given Strahd’s nature this seems at first blush to make sense. But the moment the PCs are given an inch of room to breath, they may quickly realize it stretches the boundaries of disbelief: I will be completely unsurprised when one of my players jokes about how it must be perilous working there, such as being an accountant and having to move about the building with all the mindless Shadows lurking in the hallways. Vampire Spawn makes sense. Even Wights possess an intelligence that means they could follow Strahd’s instructions. But how are the Shadows kept at bay?

And from back in the 4th Edition adventure path, I still want to know how that Centaur Ravager got to the 2nd floor of Sarshan’s tower, Mr Cordell.

Over the years since the publishing of 1st Edition D&D up to present, the way in which adventures are written and play out has changed considerably. There has been a general shift from “on the rails” storytelling, where the players are compelled from one story point to the next, to a “sandbox” style of play, where they are instead led by breadcrumb trail from one story point to the next, sometimes in an order of their own choosing, by doling out tidbits of information. The fashion in which these tidbits are doled out has also changed a little.

I think it’s worthwhile to take a step back and view a campaign arc from the perspective of the dissemination, collection, examination, and dissection of information by the players.

Typically:

1. The campaign guide/DM’s notes contain information about the story, typically including a background of things prior to the commencement of the current collaborative story-writing and a rough outline of how things are likely to play out.
2. The campaign guide or DM’s notes contain information detailing which bits of information various sources have, and how the PCs might acquire it.  In an “on the rails” adventure, it’s usually laid out in a fairly straight forward way where clues are near-impossible to miss, and PCs are directed through the story by some combination of NPCs telling them what to do or where to go and/or finding written information that leads them to the same conclusions.  In a “sandbox” adventure, an array of clues, again typically in the form of NPC knowledge and/or written materials found, provides enough information for the PCs to deduce the places they need to be and things they need to do in order to be successful.
3. Through exploration and role-playing, the PCs collect information, examine and dissect it, frequently making deductions that bolster that collected information  along with any additional spontaneous tidbits from the DM, and thereby, in collaboration with the DM, construct the story and move it to some sort of conclusion.

Before we go any further, if you’ve not already ready The Three Clue Rule by The Alexandrian, you absolutely must. I cannot agree more. What I have to say is meant to expound on this.

Where Information Originates

Information used by the PCs originates from a number of sources, some obvious, some less so.  In the modules of old, most information required by the PCs almost invariably came to them one of two very obvious ways:

• An important NPC told them exactly the information they needed; or
• They discovered a document (map, letter, journal) that told them exactly the information they needed.

In both cases, the NPC or written information was placed directly in their path so they couldn’t help but trip over it.

These methods, while effective, are both what I would call a “push” system.  Information is “pushed” from the DM to the players.  It requires little to no work by the PCs.

For a game to be more immersive, especially in more modern adventures that tend to be more “sandbox”, information can and should be more “pull”: determine which NPCs have the required information, and based on their motives, when and why they might part with it, or in the case of written information, where it might be located.

Then, by a sprinkling of clues, the PCs are afforded opportunities to uncover the information:  chasing down clues (at least three!) of who might know, finding and questioning them, agreeing to some small task in exchange for the information or otherwise persuading them, and so on.  In the case of written information, it could be figuring out whose library or wizard tower might contain the required old maps or documents, and finding a way in, maybe even a burglary side-quest.

When you take a step back, you can see that what you have now is those same two sources of information, but with push or pull options for each:

• An NPC has the information and:
  • offers it freely without prompting (push), or
  • is willing to provide it when asked or convinced (pull); or
• A document of some sort contains the information and:
  • the PCs stumble across it (push), or
  • learn of its existence and work to find it (pull).

It is important to understand what these options represent:

“Push” means less choice for the players. It creates less sense of agency, and less sense of immersion and investment. They feel like they are being told what to do. This is not necessarily a bad thing; for novice players, without being provided some sense of direction, they often flounder. They sometimes require the obvious being put before them.

“Pull” means more choice for the players, with a greater sense of agency, investment, and immersion, but takes some of the story-telling power out of the hands of the DM and places it with the PCs. This means the DM has to be more flexible in adapting to PC decision – right, wrong, or completely unpredictable. This tends to work better with experienced players, who may tend to resent the “on the rails” approach, who embrace the idea that their choices have consequence and want those choices to have meaning.

Most groups are probably some combination of player types and preferences, and so too will most adventures be some combination of pushes and pulls.

Beyond pushing and pulling, there is also a third source of information: the PCs themselves deduce it.  The PCs extrapolate some larger piece of important information based on inferences and other pieces of information they already have.  Effectively, it’s assembled from other, smaller bits.  This can lead to further immersion and adventuring, and can be used to promote collaboration within the group, particularly if different players are privy to different pieces of the puzzle, empowering (or forcing) them to work together to assemble the bits.

Perhaps that map they acquired is incomplete, or doesn’t fit with some other piece of information they were told.  Maybe it indicates a void space, but doesn’t indicate a secret door anywhere.

Depending on how easy or difficult this information should be to deduce, some combination of push or pull clues can leads the PCs to that assembly:  Did an NPC tell them “yeah, I heard they have a map of the old tower ruins at the library, but Mongo the Marvellous always said there was something wrong with it”?  Or perhaps you simply offer a player an Intelligence check to “notice” (have you point out) the void space?

Maybe the rogue acquired the map, but it was the bard who overheard someone describe it as “incomplete”.  Now the two pore over it together to see what they can find.

Through a combination of pushing, pulling, and assembling clues, you can determine just how lengthy (time-consuming), immersive, and easy or difficult it is for the PCs to move forward.

Is yours an adventure that requires much exploration, role-playing conversations with NPCs, and side-questing in order to find ways to the next goal, or do the PCs tend to quickly and easily find the information they require with little to no effort, focusing more game time instead on the more combative elements?

Credibility

Sometimes NPCs lie.  Sometimes, they tell the truth but are simply mistaken.  Insight checks might help determine if someone is willfully lying or being deceptive, but they won’t help with NPCs who are trying to help but just don’t know the precise truth themselves.

Be very cautious with giving the PCs misinformation: a single piece of misinformation can easily be latched onto in a way that will require multiple pieces of good information to the contrary to make the PCs realize its inaccuracy. It is hard to get the PCs to drop a “pull” gone wrong, harder to convince them to drop a “push” gone wrong, and damn near impossible to have them drop a deduction they made after they’ve patted themselves on the backs for being so clever.

How Information Flows

Another idea worth exploring is that regardless of where information theoretically originates, how it flows into the group can also be an opportunity for immersion and collaboration.  Taking a few examples:

• All PCs are present when one questions an NPC about something.  The NPC response is spoken aloud by the DM in front of all the players.  This makes sense: the DM is roleplaying the NPC, who is speaking that information aloud in front of all the PCs.
• One or more (but not all) the PCs are present when one questions an NPC about something.  The NPC response is spoken aloud by the DM in front of all the players (often on the basis that they’re going to simply repeat it to their companions later).  However, this means the PCs not present get an unfiltered version (rather than through the explanation of their companions) and get an opportunity to decide for themselves if they find the information credible.  Consider:  Would it be better (though trickier and more time-consuming) to separate the players and allow the information to be retold?
• A single PC makes a check to determine if their character might know something.  Often, the DM asks the PC to make a skill check on the spot, and on the success (or based on the measure of success), speaks an answer aloud in front of all the players.  Again, this means the entire group is getting the same “perfect” version of the answer.  While it’s the most time-efficient way for the players to get the information, it also a great opportunity for more immersive, collaborative play wasted.  Consider:  Would it be better to provide that information to that one player separately and allow them to tell it to the group?

While splitting the group (or especially a lone individual) for the passage of information may seem more tedious and time-consuming, there are simple measures to be taken that can enable it with a minimum of effort.  For instance, a very common knowledge check at the game table is usually for the purpose of “monster knowledge”:  on hearing of werewolves bothering the village, invariably a PC will ask to make a Nature, History, or Arcana check to see “what do I know about werewolves?”  As a DM knowing in advance that this is likely to occur, have printed cards (multiple types for different DCs or different types of checks, perhaps) on hand to give a player succeeding on a check.  Have them read the card and hand it back without reading it aloud, forcing them to paraphrase what they’ve read to the others in their own words (if they wish).  This allows for the same information to come to the group in the form of a conversation within the group.  I create cards by single-side printing things made with this RPG Card Generator.

This can also be done for other, larger and pertinent pieces of information for items not requiring checks.  For example, one of my PCs is an ardent worshiper of a certain god, and I know that in the following session the PCs are expect to reach a town containing a church of said god, dedicated to a particular saint of that faith.  Before that session arrived, I wrote an Email to that player detailing a little information about that saint within her faith, and encouraging her to embellish the saint’s story a little.  When the session arrived a few days later and the PCs reached the church, that player was then able to interject with the relevant piece of history.  In this way, the PCs still received the same information they would have from me, but it was now a role-playing opportunity for this player to proudly espouse their character’s religious faith, rather than the group simply hearing the information from the DM.

Exploring a city? Cards detailing guilds, shops, or factions. The possibilities are endless. If the cards are collectible – i.e. retained by the players – they won’t be as easily forgotten. “Wait! The Cult of Shesh-Bazo?! Aren’t they the ones who… hang on, we have a card around here somewhere about them…”

Putting it all Together

In putting together a campaign, it’s worth taking a step back to examine the information that will lead the PCs to construct the story moving through each required element, be it “on the rails” in a particular order, or in one of their own choosing in a “sandbox”.  Either way, take a step back and ask:

• What are the “must know” pieces of information?  What are the supporting or additional bits?
• Of these, which should be obvious (pushed) and which should the group have to work for?  (pulled or assembled)
• For the pushed elements, who or how will they be provided?  How can I ensure they can’t possibly miss these vital items?
• For the pulled or assembled elements, what clues (LOTS OF!) will be provided to enable them to discover or deduce the information?
• For any information expected to come from within the group, through either “they’d definitely know” or “they can reasonably determine with skill checks”, are some of these elements things that could be prepped in advance and revealed through players to encourage further collaboration and roleplay?

You Can’t Rely on Players Forgetting Important Information

I Dungeon Master a group of players of mixed experience, with the bulk of them being very experienced, having played through 1st and 2nd edition Dungeons and Dragons, walked away during 3rd/3.5 (myself included) and having returned for 4th, Next, and now 5th edition.  The collective player-knowledge of the group is enormous, and the tendency to meta-game, even if they’re trying not to, is high.  By now, they’ve fought damn near everything in their lengthy gaming careers, much of it multiple times across different editions.  And while some creatures have changed a bit from one edition to the next, and periodically something new is introduced, the more iconic monsters have certainly not changed much.  While, for the sake of role-playing, they usually do their best to role-play ‘not knowing’ the particular strengths or weaknesses of any given opponent, the reality is that relying on them to forget is a poor practice.

At the same time, such experienced players also have a great deal of nostalgia about the games of old, wistfully recounting tales of ‘that one time when…’ and ‘that other time when…’  As a group, we work hard at recapturing ‘the good old days’ of those exciting games of our youth.

These two things are not unrelated.  A large part of “the good old days” being “good” was the trepidation, the challenge, the surprise, the exhilaration that all stem from the ignorance of being new players and facing the unknown.  The first time the players ever meet the shock of Rot Grubs infesting one of the group, a sword bouncing harmlessly off the hide of a Werewolf, or a Vampire appearing out of nowhere to start chomping down on a neck, it creates a memorable character experience because of the associated emotional player experience.  Not simply as characters, but as players they are surprised, confused, and so on.  Your first roller-coaster ride is far more memorably than your 20th: because it included a sense of wonder. In the distant past, these players experienced an emotional – not merely intellectual – experience, and that is the basis for that nostalgic memory:  they remember the surprise, the challenge, the shock, the awe, the confusion, the eureka moment, and finally the triumph.  They don’t usually recall the mathematical calculations and die rolls.

I’m not going to spiral into a lengthy discussion of human memories and how they are formed, but a foray into some entry level Psych courses and/or instructional theory will tell you that emotions play a big role in the formation of memory, more so than the specificity of logic and facts.  This is why “relying on them to forget” as a strategy for modern adventures is destined to fail:  they can role-play the notion that their characters do not know, but no matter how well-intentioned they are or how good a job they do, what they can’t do is experience the genuine surprise, frustration, or confusion for them as novice players, because they’re not.

That’s the reason for the ultimate failure. It’s not a question of how good they are at pretending, provided they’re still pretending. Sincerity: the hardest thing to fake.

So the question then becomes: How can we give them genuine surprise, frustration, confusion, and so on, as players?

For that, they’ll need your help:  you need to treat them like novices again.

Stop Naming Names

The first and simplest thing is that we need to break from the habit of the short-cut: naming names.  It’s easy to say “twelve zombies shamble toward you” without taking the description any further because we are, in fact, lazily relying on the players to know what we mean when we say “zombie”.  In fact, in the case of “zombie” specifically, even novice players have likely (given their tastes led them to D&D) seen “zombies” depicted in various movies, TV shows, and so on.  Once we’ve said “zombie”, they instinctively – try as they may to not do so if they’re experienced players role-playing ignorance – recall a list of assumptions about how these creatures will behave, their offensive and defensive capabilities, particular vulnerabilities, and so on.  And this will happen for anything you put a name to and with which they’re already at least somewhat familiar. (“Er.. those mummy’s wrappings look very dry, don’t they?  Should we… try… fire?”)  After all, most D&D monsters are not original creations, but taken from folklore, Greek myths, and popular novels of our youths.  And as DMs, the temptation is often to populate our adventures with those things most familiar (to ourselves), because they’re the things we feel most comfortable describing (or because we don’t have to).  The more we recycle the things familiar to ourselves, the more we employ things familiar to the players.  To get them out of their comfort zone, we have to step out of ours a bit.

So first, stop taking the short-cut.

It’s not a “zombie”, it’s a “fetid, shambling corpse”.  It’s not a “ghoul”, it’s another shambling corpse, but this one moves faster and smells really bad.  It’s not a “ghast”, it’s another of those fast-moving, bad-smelling ones, and only when it’s too close and too late do they realize this one smells SO bad, in fact, it makes people nauseated.

It’s a skeleton.  It has a sword.  Is it a “skeleton-skeleton”?  A wight?  A revenant?  A lich carrying his family heirloom though he’s not that keen on swinging the thing?

Not naming is only the first step, of course.  This moves them from “Oh, yeah, I know that” to “Hey, what’s that?  Oh, yeah, ok, I know that.” 

There’s much farther to go.

Lying/Not Lying

They kicked open the door and saw a swarm of animate half-rotted corpses looking back at them.  This time, you actually called them “zombies”, going back to that lazy short-cut.  Why?  Because that’s how they saw them.  It’s not your word.  It’s the word they use.  In a previous encounter in which you described them being attacked by “slow-moving, shambling corpses”, they took to referring to them as “zombies”. They chose that word. Initiative hasn’t been rolled yet.  When the count comes around and it’s time for those corpses to act, it turns out that ghouls move much faster than “zombies” usually do.  Only when you start describing the “zombies” as rushing forward does the group realize “oh, these aren’t zombies, these are ghouls!”

You lied!

No, actually you didn’t.  Not really.  As a DM, you describe to the players what their characters see, from the perspective of those characters.  They’ve met “zombies” before – their word – but if they haven’t yet fought “ghouls”, then from a character perspective there’s no visual indicator these are anything but more of those same “zombies” they fought in the past. You described what they saw in their own terms.

Essentially, by “lying”, you’re working toward creating a scenario in which the players can no longer trust their “player senses”, but have to instead learn to trust their “character senses”. By viewing things instead through that character lens and considering what that character does or doesn’t know, they then behave accordingly.  This is role-playing, and what they’re supposed to be doing anyway, and it’s moving them one step closer to experiencing the game with that same level of exploration and ignorance that their nostalgic memories long for. Without ignorance, there can’t be wonder.

Sometimes, a creature is completely unrecognizable simply because of a different description and your refusal to use its proper name.  One of my players – playing an Earth Wu-Jen monk, ironically – once punched a Cockatrice and turned himself to stone because the players thought they knew what a “cockatrice” was, but didn’t recognize it from being told “a bizarre-looking turkey with a scaly, serpent-like tail”.  They’d never seen or heard a decent depiction of one.  (They thought of it as simply “a chicken that turns things to stone”, I think.) Most of us have not actually read Homer’s Odyssey, but rather only seen works adapted from it. Likewise, how many have actually read Bram Stoker, or does their knowledge of vampires stem more from Anne Rice or the Blade films? Consider the original Gorgon of Greek legend versus the Gorgon of Dungeons and Dragons.

But even with the shortcut removed, the temptation to snap back into “oh wait, I recognize it now” is a powerful habit, and while the refusal to give the common goes a long way, breaking this habit is no small task.  Typically, you’re buying yourself the first round or two of combat before they fall into their old ways. “Ah, ‘slow corpses’… Sacred Flame it is!” They’re not quite approaching it with fresh eyes, so it needs to go a step farther.

Original, But Not Original

Suppose your players know the difference between Yellow Mold and Brown Mold.  Ok, then it’s Red Mold.  Fire: safe?  That was easy.  The sort of “ultimate answer” to all this would obviously be to completely write your very own custom Monster Manual, with all new, original creatures, based entirely on a lore of your own devising.  But that would take a lot of work.  Fortunately, that’s not necessary. There are numerable resources at your fingertips.

First, the Dungeon Masters Guide (pages 273-274) speaks to very simple ways to remake or enhance existing monsters.

All you’re trying to do, all you need to do for this last step, is to make things unrecognizable a little longer, long enough to prevent the formation of a battle plan based on prior player knowledge, but based instead on what they’re witnessing in the moment.  They need to not recognize what they’re facing, feel the confusion, experience the frustration and surprise, have the exhilaration of the not-knowing, and then immerse themselves in the experience and react to what they’re seeing, not what they remember.  If, after that fact, they were to realize that the gang of “chill fiends” was just ghouls re-skinned as halfling-size skeletons with all the same statistics as ghouls, it’s too late: the experience, and its accompanying emotional-impact, has happened.

That might seem illogical, but that’s ok:  we’re talking about forming memories, and specifically the role that emotion plays in it.  The logic of hindsight does not undo already-formed memories.  The experience – and how you felt about at that time – has already been recorded.  The realization that comes later is just an addendum or footnote. That they know later ‘what you did’ does not undo their experience; if it did, we wouldn’t have any of these nostalgic stories to begin with.

Obviously, the more work you are willing and able to put in, the more genuinely original the experience, the more memorable it will be.

Getting Truly Original

For the Big Bad Evil Guy and/or their lieutenants, that’s where you’ll probably want to put in that extra bit of effort.  I modify or invent monsters all the time.  Rearranging even small elements while retaining the same numeric values can reshape it into something unknown while incurring no worries about maintaining encounter balance.  While D&D has borrowed much of its inspiration from North American and European folklore and Greek myths, there remain whole worlds of unexplored lore out there waiting to be tapped.  I recently put together an encounter with a a creature modeled on the Ijiraq of Inuit lore and placed it just outside The Amber Temple in my Curse of Strahd campaign.

If you’re not comfortable writing monsters from scratch, or making widespread changes to existing stat blocks, there are also plenty of homebrew monsters to be found, such as in 3rd party publications like The Tome of Beasts.   I’m a fan of The Witcher video games,  and most of my players are unfamiliar with Slavic folklore.  Over on Reddit, I found a thread linking to a compilation of homebrew versions of Witcher monsters.  They’d look for a Lich’s phylactery or a Vampire’s coffin, sure, but how will they deal with a Nightwraith, and how will they put her to rest permanently?  Again, in my Curse of Strahd campaign, I employed a little side-adventure where I adopted The Tempter of the D&D Adventure League and made Lady Fidatov a Nightwraith instead of a Banshee (in turn making the hedge maze a much more difficult experience). Will my players return to the estate to find her haunting it once again?