What If I Were a God?

 

I've been thinking about what I would do if I could become a god. Not the religious kind necessarily, but a being with infinite power, capable of creating worlds and doing pretty much whatever I wanted. I think I would do it, at least for starters. It sounds like a lot of fun to be able to create entire universes, make up the rules that govern them, and populate them with all kinds of creatures. I could create worlds inspired by my favorite fantasy settings, or come up with something completely new. There would be no limit to what I could try, and I would have all the time in the world to do it.

Although, now that I think about it, how would a being with infinite intelligence think? We can imagine being smarter than we are now, knowing more things, and understanding things that we currently don't understand, but how do you imagine a mind that knows everything? Wouldn't that make the whole concept of learning and discovering things rather pointless? I find the idea of infinite intelligence difficult to wrap my head around because I can only imagine it from my own limited perspective. Maybe a god would think in ways that I cannot even begin to understand, or maybe the whole idea is just impossible to make sense of from a human point of view.

Anyway, assuming I could become a god and still retain my current personality, I think I would enjoy creating worlds more like a gardener than someone who simply snaps his fingers and has everything done instantly. I would plant the seeds, establish the conditions for life, and then watch what happens. I wouldn't necessarily want to control every little detail because that would defeat the purpose of creating something in the first place. If I already knew exactly what was going to happen and could control every aspect of it, where would the fun be? I would rather let things develop and see what kind of surprises come out of it.

And then there is the possibility of actually entering one of those worlds and living there as a mortal. I could constrain myself to a human body, live an entire lifetime, make friends, fall in love, learn things, and experience the world without constantly thinking about being a god. Then, when I died, I would return to my godhood with all my memories intact. I could do this over and over again, living different lives in different worlds, perhaps as a warrior in one, a merchant in another, or just an ordinary person who spends his days drawing or taking walks. Who knows? I might even decide to live as a mundane person for a few thousand years. After all, if I had eternity available to me, there would be no reason to rush.

Of course, there is a problem with this idea. If I knew I was a god, would I really be able to enjoy living as a mortal? Would I constantly be aware that everything around me was something I had created? Maybe I would have to suppress my memories while living those lives, or perhaps I would have to find a way to make myself genuinely believe that I was just another person in that world. I don't know how that would work, but it sounds like an interesting problem to have. And if I could recover my memories when I died, I could experience both sides of existence without permanently giving up either one.

Would I Want to Live Forever?

Despite all this talk about godhood and immortality, I don't actually fear death. The idea of eventually ceasing to exist doesn't bother me particularly much. I am alive now, and I can enjoy my life, do things I like, and spend time with the people I care about. One day that will end, but I don't see why that means something is wrong. I don't need to exist forever for my life to have been worth living.

I would certainly like to have more time to explore things. There are so many things I would like to learn, draw, create, and experience that I will never have enough time to do everything. Immortality would solve that problem, at least in theory. But it would depend on the conditions. If I could live forever and do whatever I wanted, I would probably take that deal. If I had to sacrifice my freedom or spend eternity serving someone else's purposes, then no, thank you. I would rather remain mortal.

I suppose the problem is that immortality by itself doesn't guarantee a good life. You could live forever and be miserable, or you could live for a relatively short time and be perfectly happy. Having more time gives you more opportunities, but it doesn't automatically make those opportunities worthwhile. And if you cannot change your mind or decide to do something different, then an eternity could become a rather unpleasant experience.

Can You Be Happy If Someone Else Chooses Your Desires?

There is another interesting problem with the idea of happiness. Suppose someone had the power to change your desires so that you would be happy doing whatever they wanted you to do. If they wanted you to serve them forever, they could change your mind so that you genuinely enjoyed serving them. You would never feel trapped because you would never want to leave. You would be happy because your desires would perfectly align with your circumstances.

Would that be a good life?

From the point of view of the person experiencing it, perhaps it would be. If you were happy all the time, what would be the problem? The problem is that you would no longer be in control of what makes you happy. Someone else would have decided what you want, and you would have no way of knowing whether you would have wanted those things if you had been left alone.

Of course, our desires are already influenced by all kinds of things. Our experiences, our upbringing, our biology, and the circumstances in which we live all affect what we want. I don't think there is a completely independent self that develops its desires in a vacuum. But there is still a difference between being influenced by the world and having someone deliberately change your desires to make you easier to control.

I don't think happiness has only one correct form. Different creatures could have completely different ideas of what makes a good life. Someone might be happy dedicating their existence to a god or a cause, while someone else might find the same existence unbearable. Some people want power and independence, others prefer having a clear role to fulfill. I don't think either one is necessarily wrong. If your desires align with your circumstances, you might find a kind of peace that another person could never understand.

The problem, at least for me, is that I would want the freedom to change my mind. Even if I were happy with my life, I wouldn't want to lose the ability to question it or decide that I wanted something else. I don't want someone to make me happy by turning me into a person who no longer wants anything different. I would rather have the freedom to make my own choices, even if some of those choices make me unhappy.

The Problem With Having a Purpose

I sometimes envy people who seem to have a clear purpose in life. They know what they want, they know what they need to do to get it, and they just do it. They don't spend hours wondering whether they should be doing something else or whether their efforts are worthwhile. Their purpose seems to be so deeply ingrained in them that they don't have to think about it anymore.

I wish I could be like that sometimes. I have responsibilities, particularly when it comes to making money, but my mind often drifts toward fantasy, dreams, and creative ideas that don't necessarily help me with those responsibilities. Sometimes I get interested in something and spend hours thinking about it, only to realize that I haven't done the things I actually needed to do. Other times, I simply don't feel like doing anything at all. Then I start worrying that I'm wasting my time.

It would be nice to have a purpose so deeply ingrained in me that I would just do what needs to be done without having to fight myself over it. No procrastination, no second-guessing, no wondering whether I should be doing something else. Just do it and get on with my life. I can understand why someone who has dedicated their entire existence to a particular purpose might find peace in that. They don't have to deal with the same kind of uncertainty because they already know what they are supposed to do.

But would I really want that? What if my purpose stopped making me happy? What if I discovered something else that I wanted to do? What if the circumstances of my life changed and my purpose was no longer appropriate? A being that cannot question its purpose might be very efficient, but that doesn't necessarily mean it has a better life. It might simply be incapable of imagining another one.

I think there is a difference between having a purpose and being a slave to it. A purpose can give you direction and help you decide what to do with your time, but I wouldn't want it to become something I could never question. I don't want to spend my entire existence fulfilling an obligation simply because I have been conditioned to do so. I would rather have a direction I can follow while still being able to change my mind when I feel the need to.

And, of course, there is the practical problem that you still need to earn money and take care of your responsibilities regardless of whether you feel particularly inspired to do so. I can't just spend all my time dreaming about fantasy worlds and expect the bills to pay themselves. But I also don't think every minute of my life needs to be productive or contribute to some grand ambition. Sometimes I just want to enjoy myself, and I don't think that needs to be justified by anything else.

I Like Being Me

After all this speculation about becoming a god, living forever, and creating universes, I think the conclusion is rather simple. I like being me. I don't particularly need to become something else, and I don't feel that I need to escape my mortality. I am curious about what it would be like to have infinite power, but curiosity doesn't mean that I am dissatisfied with the life I have now.

I like being able to think about these things, imagine impossible scenarios, and wonder what would happen if the rules were different. I like the freedom to spend a day doing what I want, even if what I want to do isn't particularly productive. I like creating things, exploring ideas, and having the possibility of changing my mind. And although I sometimes worry about wasting time or not doing enough, I don't think the solution is to turn myself into a machine that works toward a single objective without questioning it.

I also don't think my way of looking at life needs to be the right way for everyone. Someone else might want to live forever, dedicate themselves to a cause, or spend eternity serving a god they love. If that makes them happy, who am I to tell them they are wrong? I just know that I wouldn't want that kind of existence for myself if it meant giving up my freedom.

I don't need to believe that my life has some grand cosmic purpose. I don't need to live forever, and I don't need to accomplish something extraordinary before I die. I can simply enjoy the time I have, take care of the things that matter to me, and do my best to live a life that I find worthwhile. Sometimes I will be productive, sometimes I will be distracted, and sometimes I will probably spend too much time thinking about things that will never happen.

And that's fine. Well, mostly fine. I still have bills to pay.

But I don't think I need to solve the mystery of existence before I can enjoy being alive. I don't need to become a god to appreciate the world, and I don't need to discover a purpose that answers every question before I can get on with living.

If I could create an entire universe, I would probably do it. I would plant my seeds, watch them grow, and see what happened. Maybe I would eventually get bored with being a god and decide to live as an ordinary person for a few thousand years. Maybe I would discover something completely unexpected. I can't know what I would want if I had that kind of power, because I can't predict how such an existence would change me.

For now, though, I am content with being what I am. I don't fear the fact that I will eventually cease to exist, and I don't feel the need to turn my life into something eternal to make it worthwhile. I have a limited amount of time, and I would rather be free to decide what to do with it than spend forever fulfilling a purpose I can never question.

And if I ever get the chance to create a universe, I hope I remember to leave room for surprises. After all, what's the point of creating a world if you already know everything that is going to happen in it?

Born to die - TTRPGs and the Endless Graveyard of Prep

I remember seeing this mistake more often with newer GMs.

The party finally corners the villain after hours—or sometimes months—of build-up. They win the fight fairly, everyone at the table is excited, and it feels like the perfect moment for the heroes to finally defeat the villain.

Then the GM panics.

Suddenly the villain teleports away. Maybe they reveal a second form. Maybe reinforcements arrive out of nowhere. Maybe an NPC appears to save them. And to be clear, none of those things are inherently bad. A villain escaping can be exciting. A second form can be memorable. A twist can make a fight even better.

The problem is when those things happen because the GM simply cannot accept that their favorite creation lost.

Players can usually feel the difference between an exciting twist and a desperate escape hatch.

When you run tabletop games, you spend a lot of time creating things that exist to be challenged, bypassed, ignored, defeated, or sometimes completely destroyed by the players.

That includes villains, monsters, dungeon rooms, secret lore, NPCs, alternate endings, and entire encounters players may never even see.

That’s normal.

I spend a lot of time creating things for my own games. I’ve written villains for sandbox campaigns, designed monsters, created encounters, and written backstories players may never learn. Sometimes I go deeper into a monster’s backstory than I need to simply because I enjoy the process.

But I create all of that knowing it may not survive contact with the players.

Sometimes players defeat something faster than expected. Sometimes they ignore an NPC you thought would matter. Sometimes they completely bypass sections of an adventure.

I’ve been running official adventure paths for a long while now, and more than once my players have found ways to skip entire sections of a dungeon. I didn’t get upset about it because their decisions made complete sense. In some cases I looked at their solution and thought, "Honestly, I would’ve skipped that too."

That’s when you adapt.

A lot of prep quietly dies behind the scenes of a campaign. Players rarely see the unused encounters, alternate story paths, abandoned dungeon rooms, rewritten villains, and backup plans that never become relevant.

That work is not wasted.

It helps you build a richer experience, and many of those ideas can always be reused later.

I recycle things constantly. Monsters, maps, villains, encounters—everything eventually finds a new home somewhere else.

The real issue happens when a GM forgets who the story is actually about.

Your villain is not the protagonist.

The players are.

Most of the time, when players finally defeat a major villain, they want that victory to feel complete. You can usually feel when the table wants that final moment. If you force an escape because you want your villain to survive, you may be protecting your own idea at the expense of the players’ enjoyment.

Good GMing often comes down to reading the room. Sometimes a villain escaping creates excitement. Sometimes it would completely ruin the moment. Knowing the difference matters.

I’ve also seen the opposite approach go very badly. I remember one GM who tried to heavily railroad a campaign because they wanted to recreate a movie they liked. It felt less like playing a game and more like participating in someone else’s script.

That approach rarely works because players are not there to admire your story from a distance. They’re there to actively shape it.

Being a GM requires a strange kind of creativity. You spend hours creating villains, monsters, maps, encounters, lore, and entire sections of adventures that may never fully unfold the way you imagined. Players may skip content, outsmart encounters, ignore NPCs, or completely surprise you.

And that’s fine.

That’s part of the craft.

Your prep is not sacred.

Your villain is not the protagonist.

And your best ideas are never truly wasted because they can always return in another campaign, another story, or another form.

Create boldly. Detach gracefully. Prioritize player fulfillment over your attachment to your creations.

Training Your Imagination Through Role-Playing Games

 

I’ve always believed imagination is something everyone is born with. Like a muscle, it can grow stronger with practice, or fade away if you stop using it. For me, role-playing games have been one of the best ways to keep that “imagination muscle” flexing.

When I first started playing tabletop RPGs, I didn’t think of them as a tool for creativity. I just thought they were fun. But over time, I noticed something interesting: the more I played, the more ideas I had.

These days I work as a Dungeon Master for hire, which means I run games for people regularly. One thing I’ve noticed is that during sessions, my brain starts producing ideas faster than I can use them. A small moment, a quirky player decision, an improvised scene, even a line of dialogue,  can spark three or four new ideas for future adventures. Creativity feels like a row of dominoes: one idea falls, knocking over another, then another, and suddenly there’s a whole web of possibilities.

Before I started running games regularly, my imagination was quieter. Now there’s always something “brewing” in my head. It’s a nice problem to have.

The First Imagination Exercise: Creating a Character

Role-playing games ask you to be creative right from the start. When someone sits down to make their first character, even the shyest players are forced to imagine a person who doesn’t exist. Name, appearance, personality, maybe a background or a goal—suddenly you’re inventing someone and thinking about how they would act in situations that don’t exist yet.

At first, most people keep it simple: “I’ll be a warrior” or “a rogue.” But even that small step is already imagination in action. Psychologists like J. P. Guilford identified divergent thinking, the ability to generate multiple possibilities from a single idea, as a core component of creative thought. Role-playing games naturally train this ability because every choice can go in a hundred directions. Instead of asking, “what’s the right answer?” you’re asking, “what would my character do?”

Improvisation and the Unexpected

Another thing that makes RPGs unique is improvisation. You can plan all you want as a DM, but players will always surprise you. No plan survives contact with players.

For example, in one campaign, my group decided to capture a giantess and turn her into the star of a gladiatorial arena. They gave her an artistic stage name, built her persona, and suddenly my carefully prepared story didn’t matter. The arena became part of the world: the players would go on quests, fight monsters during their adventures, and when they defeated them, they offered them a choice, "die or join the show". Soon the arena was full of bombastic gladiators with personalities that rivaled real-life wrestling characters. Improvising along with the players turned that part of the campaign into one of the most memorable experiences I’ve ever had.

Breaking Creative Barriers

Role-playing also helps people overcome creative blocks. Many adults say they’re “not creative,” but in my experience, it’s usually social barriers: fear of looking silly, fear of embarrassment, fear of sharing ideas. RPGs remove some of that pressure. Because it’s a game, you can relax and just play.

I remember a friend who was shy at first. Speaking in character felt awkward to them. But after a few sessions, something clicked. They started leaning into the role, improvising dialogue, and expressing their character fully. Eventually, they became so comfortable with performing that they pursued a career in theatre.

Even developmental psychologist Lev Vygotsky pointed out that imaginative play allows people to experiment with behaviors and identities in a safe space. While he studied children, the principle works surprisingly well for adults playing tabletop games.

Creativity Beyond the Table

The creativity RPGs spark doesn’t stop at the table. Players draw their characters, commission artists, write journals, or even write books inspired by the campaigns they’ve played. Some create miniatures, maps, or music. I’ve even seen people turn games into cookbooks, build themed rooms like dungeons or taverns in their homes, or cosplay their characters. Once imagination starts moving, it tends to keep going.

Solo vs Group Imagination

Playing solo is a different experience. When I roll dice alone, characters sometimes take actions I didn’t plan. The story surprises me, almost like meditation for my imagination. Dice and random events push the story in directions I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise.

Group play is more like bouncing a ball of ideas between people. One player suggests something, another builds on it, and the story grows collaboratively. Both approaches train imagination, but in slightly different ways. Solo is introspective; group is interactive.

Why Adults Need This?

Children naturally play pretend. Adults usually stop. Social pressure tells us imaginative play is “childish,” and many of us bury that part of ourselves.

Fortunately, that’s changing. Shows like Stranger Things and The Big Bang Theory, along with actual-play shows like Critical Role, have helped normalize role-playing for adults. It’s no longer something only nerdy kids do in basements, it’s a socially accepted, highly creative activity.

Simple Ways to Train Your Imagination Through Role-Playing

Over the years, I’ve noticed that some habits make role-playing especially effective for training creativity:

1. Create characters with small details: Clothing, speech, fears, quirks. One or two details can make a character feel alive.

2. Describe your actions: Don’t just say “I attack.” Describe how your character attacks: cautiously, dramatically, recklessly. This trains your ability to imagine scenes vividly.

3. Keep a notebook of ideas: A line of dialogue, a funny player decision, or a surprising encounter can spark ideas for future adventures, drawings, or stories.

4. Let improvisation happen: Don’t overthink it. Some of the best ideas come from reacting in the moment.

5. Expand the game beyond the table: Draw your characters, write journals, build maps, craft miniatures, or imagine scenes that never happened. The more ways you engage, the more your imagination grows.

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For me, role-playing games aren’t just entertainment—they’re a way to keep imagination alive. The more you play, the more ideas appear. One spark leads to another, like dominoes falling in all directions. And once that process starts, it’s hard to stop. Which is probably a good thing.

The Last City 2 - Why Factions Make a Sandbox Come Alive

When I first started designing The Last City, I knew I wanted a sandbox where the story would move on its own. I didn’t want to push players from quest to quest or pretend their choices mattered when they didn’t. The idea was to create a world that kept breathing even when the players were somewhere else — and that’s where the factions came in.

I thought having friends and foes would help move the game and create conflict. Conflict is what moves a story, and in this case, it’s what moves the game. Factions make the world react. They give the players a reason to act and give the city a pulse even when the group is focused elsewhere. When factions clash, they create quests, diplomacy, shifting alliances, and unexpected opportunities. A city at war with itself doesn’t wait for heroes to decide what happens next — it happens on its own.

It’s not that you can’t run a campaign without factions, but in a sandbox like this one, they make everything more interesting. They create opportunities for tension, alliances, and consequences. Instead of having a single villain or goal, the players walk into a living ecosystem of groups with their own agendas, and every choice sends ripples through the rest of the setting.

For me, a faction isn’t just a group or ideology — it’s a piece of personality, morality, and chaos that helps the world evolve. A good faction has strong motivations, visible impact, and room for moral shades. Sometimes, I even adjust a faction’s morals based on how the party interacts with them. If the players seem to like them or share their values, that faction might lean toward being an ally. If not, maybe their darker side starts showing. Even something as simple as what species or classes are in the party can influence how a faction behaves.

For example, there’s a faction of cannibals composed of trolls, orcs, and ogres. If the party includes a half-orc or tends to sympathize with that culture, I might present them not as evil monsters who eat everyone, but as ritualistic cannibals — noble warriors who consume their fallen comrades to carry their spirits forward. Still dangerous, but in a way that feels honorable and even wholesome within their worldview. It all depends on how the players engage with them.

Another important thing is that the factions don’t revolve around the players all the time. They fight each other, make peace, or destroy one another as time passes in-game. When the players return to a part of the city, things might already have changed. Maybe a faction was wiped out while they were exploring somewhere else. Maybe a new alliance formed. This gives the world a sense of movement that doesn’t depend entirely on player action — and that’s crucial for a sandbox to feel real.

The most important part of factions is consequence. Not all consequences are bad; some are beneficial. If the players make friends with one faction, they might gain allies, resources, or protection. But by choosing those friends, they’re also choosing their enemies. That automatically gives structure to the campaign — freedom with direction. Players can go wherever they want, but the relationships they form shape what “freedom” really looks like.

I’ve seen this in action many times. In two campaigns, the players allied with the Ratfolk — once through diplomacy, and once because two PCs were Ratfolk themselves. But in another campaign, the Ratfolk became enemies, almost monstrous in the players’ eyes. In one run, they befriended a woman who abandoned her old faction after meeting them. In another, they allied with a faction of constructs to fight a stronger power — while in a later version, a different group wiped those same constructs out. The same starting point led to completely different stories. That’s the kind of variety you can only get when factions matter.

And yes, sometimes players completely surprise me — though at this point, I wouldn’t be shocked if they somehow managed to turn the big bad evil villain into a friend. The trick is, when one menace becomes an ally, another rises to take its place. That keeps the balance and tension alive.

Factions don’t make my prep easier, but they make the world more open. This isn’t the Lazy DM’s Guide — it’s the Freest Sandbox Possible guide. Factions don’t exist to save me work; they exist to give meaning to the players’ work. Still, you don’t need pages of lore to make it happen. As long as you know who the leaders are, what they want, and what they’re willing to do to get it, the rest can be improvised. The leaders reflect the morals and motivations of their faction, and that’s enough to keep the game moving.

Every time I run The Last City, the map ends up looking different. When the players ally with the Ratfolk, they become friendly neighbors who protect one flank of the district. If they choose the constructs, they gain an advantage over the enchanters. It’s all connected, and it feels natural — cause and effect rather than plot.

That’s the beauty of it. The setting feels different every time, which keeps it fresh even for me as the GM. I get to explore sides of NPCs that were ignored or killed in other runs, and that makes the world feel larger than any single campaign.

If I had to summarize my philosophy, I’d say this: factions are potential friends or foes that shape the course of the story and the feeling of the game. They’re the colors on the palette, and the players are the ones painting the picture. My job is just to set up the palette and watch what masterpiece — or disaster — they create.

Why Your Brain Loves Make-Believe

In a previous article, I talked about why roleplaying can feel like art therapy. This time, I want to lift the hood and explain what’s actually happening in your brain when you pretend to be a wizard.

Because the truth is simple and fascinating: when you roleplay, your brain doesn’t just observe the story—it joins it. It reacts as if the things happening at the table are happening to you. And this isn’t poetic exaggeration. It’s measurable. It’s neurological. It’s real.

Some of the most memorable experiences I’ve had as a Game Master are the emotional ones. When everyone at the table bursts into laughter at the same time, the moment doesn’t feel like something happening only in the fiction. It feels shared and real. The same thing happens in sad moments. When a character the group loves dies, the mood in the room shifts. People fall quiet, lean back, or sigh in a way that isn’t performative. It’s not simply acting; the emotion is genuine.

That happens because, neurologically, imagined emotions aren’t fully separate from real ones. One key player in this process is what’s known as the mirror neuron system. Mirror neurons are cells in the brain that fire both when we perform an action and when we see someone else perform it. They’re also involved when we imagine actions or emotions. When someone laughs, winces, or expresses sadness, these neurons respond as if we were experiencing the feeling ourselves. In a tabletop game, the group’s emotional reactions reinforce each other through this system, making the emotions feel authentic and shared.

Imagination itself is powered by a network of brain regions called the default mode network. This network activates when we daydream, remember past experiences, imagine future events, or construct fictional scenarios. It’s not just “thinking about” a story from the outside. It runs a mental simulation. Brain imaging studies show that imagining a situation recruits many of the same regions that are active during real-life experiences. When your character walks into danger, your brain engages the same systems it would use to anticipate and react to real danger. The fictional and the emotional overlap in the neural architecture itself.

Another important part of this process involves the limbic system—the emotional core of the brain. This system, which includes structures like the amygdala and hippocampus, responds to emotional significance, not to whether something is technically “real.” When something important happens in the story, whether it’s a loss or a big victory, the limbic system reacts. It can trigger changes in heart rate, muscle tension, and emotional arousal. It also helps encode the event in memory. This is why people can vividly recall critical moments in a campaign years later. Those memories aren’t superficial; they’re stored through the same mechanisms the brain uses for real experiences.

This is one of the major differences between watching a story and living it. Films and books can create strong emotions too, but they’re usually experienced passively. In a tabletop game, players participate in shaping the story. Their decisions matter. The brain tends to encode participatory events more deeply than passive ones. Because players help build the story, it becomes personal. And when that story is shared with others, the resulting emotional reactions create a sense of collective experience. The brain remembers those sessions not as simple entertainment, but as shared events.

Imagination also serves as a form of cognitive exercise. Engaging in shared storytelling activates multiple systems at once: memory recall, future simulation, perspective-taking, language, and emotional processing. Research on creative cognition shows that imagination strengthens neural flexibility and connectivity, helping people think more adaptively and empathetically. These processes involve interactions between the default mode network, the executive control network, and the salience network—systems responsible for imagination, decision-making, and emotional significance. When you play, your brain is doing complex, coordinated work. It’s not “just pretending.”

This matters because roleplaying games are often dismissed as escapism, as if escaping were something trivial. But the brain doesn’t treat them that way. When you sit around a table with friends and imagine together, multiple systems in your brain are engaged: mirror neurons fire in response to others, the default mode network simulates the story, the limbic system processes the emotion, and other networks manage decision-making and attention.

What results is not just a game but a meaningful neurological event: a shared, imagined experience that the brain processes as emotionally real. This is why the laughter feels genuine, why the silence after a character’s death feels heavy, and why old campaigns linger in memory. Imagination isn’t a lesser form of reality. It’s one of the oldest and most powerful ways the human brain makes sense of the world.

The Characters We Fell in Love With

 

You don’t always expect it. Sometimes you just make a character for fun — maybe you picked the class because it sounded cool or because your group needed a rogue. You wrote a short backstory, gave them a weird voice or a quirk, maybe made a joke about their name. And then somehow, after a few sessions… they stuck. They lived. They became more than numbers and gear. And you realize: you kind of love this character.

It’s happened to me more than once. I’ve made so many characters over the years that I’ve lost count — some were hilarious disasters, some never got off the ground, and some felt like pure magic. Like a halfling assassin who was cheerful, bubbly, and incredibly deadly. That contrast — evil and happy-go-lucky — just worked. I didn’t know if she’d last long, but I always felt that sooner or later, her luck would run out. It was like her destiny was to end badly. And yet she kept going. The more I played, the more I wanted to see what she’d do next.

She was originally created for a game inspired by the book series War of the Spider Queen — a dark, twisty world that got me thinking about what a party of evil characters might look like. Not a carbon copy of the books, but our own cast. And mine was the cheerful killer. Evil, yes — but fun. Naive. Playful. And I was hooked.

And it’s not just her. I’ve had a super lawful halfling paladin named Nakia, part of a game where our characters were loosely inspired by cellphone brands. I’ve played a Drow wizard who escaped the Underdark and became a naturalist, completely fascinated by magical beasts of the surface world, while still being hunted by Lolth’s priesthood. Each of them had their own charm, their own spark. And none of them ended up exactly how I imagined.

Sometimes I start with a concept, but once I begin playing, the character starts changing. Evolving. Sometimes the dice guide that change, sometimes it's just a moment of inspiration, or something unexpected another player says. When you play in a group, your PC doesn’t exist in a vacuum — they bounce off the others, reflect them, push them, get changed by them. And if the campaign lasts long enough, you can look back and see how they grew.

That’s one of the best parts: the character surprises you. They become more alive than you intended.

When that happens, the game starts spilling out of the game. I start writing stories, drawing scenes, imagining their life beyond the campaign. I use them in solo games, or sneak them into my world as NPCs when I GM. It’s like having a playlist you never get tired of — they keep giving. Sometimes they become a kind of creative fuel. Not just for playing, but for everything else.

And honestly, I consider doing all that other stuff — drawing, writing, thinking about them — just another way of playing. Especially in solo games. In fact, sometimes I’ll use the same character in solo and group games, or recycle them as important NPCs when I GM. That character becomes part of my toolbox. A familiar spark I can bring out again.

That doesn’t mean I feel emotionally attached in a sentimental way. I don’t cry over them or see them as friends. But I do enjoy them. I feel protective of them, the way I feel protective of any story or thing I’ve created. They become mine in a way that’s hard to explain — like a favorite brush or character sketch or theme song.

Yes, theme song! That’s something else I’ve seen people do — and it’s honestly one of the coolest ways to bring your character to life. Pick a song that fits their mood, their goals, their vibe. Or go further and compose something original. It’s another form of expression, another way to explore who they are.

I also read somewhere about doing an interview with your character — like, literally pretending to be a journalist and asking them deep, personal questions. It's not my idea, but it stuck with me. It’s a fun exercise, and it can really help you figure out how your character thinks, talks, and reacts.

Then there’s the visual side. Some people cosplay their characters. Others commission artists to bring them to life. You can print custom miniatures, or even go big and make a full-on statuette. I’ve seen people invest in all kinds of physical mementos, and it’s always touching — like honoring a story that meant something.

One of my favorite stories I came across was about a guy who found his dad’s old character sheet in a box of dusty D&D stuff. Turns out, he’d been named after that character. That’s how deep this stuff can go. I even read about someone who named their publishing company after one of their old PCs. I love that.

Here’s the truth: not every character you make will be a masterpiece. That’s fine. You need the throwaway ones, the failed ones, the weird experiments. Because somewhere in that process, you’ll hit gold. You’ll find one that clicks. And that’s why I always encourage people — especially new players — to keep making characters. Go weird, go big, go too dramatic. Play with archetypes. Break them. Make five different tieflings until one of them sings.

Characters aren’t just vessels for stats. They’re mirrors, windows, and sometimes little pieces of ourselves exaggerated and let loose. We can be brave through them, or reckless, or curious. We can test emotions we don’t always get to explore in everyday life. And when we fall in love with them — not just because they’re cool, but because they feel real — it reminds us why we love stories in the first place.

It’s a great experience. I recommend it 100%.

And if you’re just starting? Don’t worry if your first character doesn’t land. Keep creating. Keep trying things. Try giving them theme songs. Try writing interviews. Draw them, or commission someone to. Write them poems or dumb journal entries. Let yourself explore. Let yourself play.

Because all this? It’s creativity. And whether you’re shy or bold, serious or silly, this kind of play does something good to your brain. It boosts creativity. It builds confidence. It lets you create something that’s yours — fully yours — and share it if you want.

Just keep going until you find the one that hits you right in the creative core — the one that makes you laugh, or draw, or stay up at night thinking about their next move.

That’s your spark.

That’s the character you fell in love with.

If you’ve got a character you love — or you’ve just started making one you’re curious about — I’d love to hear about it. Share your stories, your drawings, your playlists, whatever you’ve made. Leave a comment, send me a message, or tag me if you’ve posted it elsewhere.

And if you haven’t tried this yet… what are you waiting for? Make a character. Let them surprise you. Then make another.

You never know which one you’ll fall in love with.

We Live Many Lives: TTRPGs, The Inner Light, and That One Time I Was a Lich King

 

There’s this Star Trek: The Next Generation episode called The Inner Light. Even if you’re not a Trekkie, hear me out.

Captain Picard gets zapped by a mysterious space probe (as one does), passes out for a few minutes, and wakes up living someone else’s life on a peaceful planet. New name, new wife, new everything. He spends decades there—grows old, learns to play the flute, raises a family. And then, poof. Back to the Enterprise. The planet’s gone. The people are gone. The whole thing was a memory implant—this extinct civilization’s way of being remembered.

But here’s the thing: it changed him.

That episode came to mind the other day, and I couldn’t stop thinking—maybe we’re all having little Inner Light moments when we play TTRPGs.

---

The Lives We Roll Into

I’ve played a lot of characters. Some were dumb. Some were funny. Some were powerful. Some were disasters. And a few… a few left a mark.

No, they’re not “real.” I get that. They don’t go to work or eat cereal. But the emotions? Those were real. The tension when the rogue had to betray the party to save her sister. The joy when the warlock finally broke her pact and lived. The heartbreak when the paladin died alone, still believing.

Emotions are the only thing that really anchor us to life. Otherwise it’s just scenes flying by.

So when I say I’ve lived many lives, I mean it. Not in a “past life” kind of way—but through dice, stories, drawing characters, and creating worlds. I’ve walked in shoes that weren’t mine. I’ve felt things I wouldn’t have in my normal, relatively quiet life (which involves zero dragons, by the way).

---

Why It Sticks

The randomness is part of the magic. In a novel, you control the outcome. In a TTRPG? The dice laugh at your plans. Characters start one way and end up somewhere completely different. They grow. They change. Sometimes they surprise you.

And even if I don’t go full method-actor immersion while playing, those characters linger. I think about them later. I write stories about them. I draw them. I reuse them. Sometimes they show up in other campaigns. Or as NPCs. Or as weird little ghosts in my stories. They’re not gone—they just evolved.

And they remind me of the people I played with. Friends who aren’t in my life anymore. Late-night laughs. Emotional moments. Pizza on the character sheet. All that stays.

---

What Is a Life, Anyway?

A life is a collection of memories and feelings. That’s it.

So if I experienced something with depth—grief, joy, regret—even if it was inside a made-up world, isn’t that a kind of life?

I’m not trying to get all philosophical, but I am saying this: creating makes us live more. Some folks say reading does that, and sure, it does. But creating is more intimate. It’s more personal. It gets under your skin. You’re not just imagining someone’s life—you’re being them, just for a while.

Even if everything around us is fake—a matrix, a dream, a brain in a jar—the emotions still count.

---

Why I Keep Coming Back

I don’t know why everyone plays TTRPGs. Some people love the strategy. Some love the math. Some just want to hit stuff with a sword. That’s cool.

But me? I come back because it lets me feel things I wouldn’t normally get to feel. It’s a way to explore ideas, emotions, and lives I’d never touch otherwise. A safe way to live other lives. To go on journeys that challenge me, or surprise me, or just make me laugh.

And the best part? When a campaign ends, you don’t lose that life. You carry it with you. Like Picard and his flute. A little piece of a world that doesn’t exist anymore… but changed you anyway.

So yeah. Maybe none of this is real. But it feels real. And that’s enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write about that time I ran a game where the big bad evil lich got teleported to our world—straight into Comicon—by the party of heroes.

Roleplaying Is Basically Art Therapy in Disguise

Art therapy teaches us something simple but powerful: creating helps. Drawing, painting, writing—whatever the medium, it lets you express things you might not know how to say out loud. It helps you understand your feelings, reduce stress, and work through your thoughts. You don’t have to be a professional or even "good at it"—you just have to do it.

Now, look at roleplaying games.

You create a character—not just rolling stats, but imagining who they are, where they come from, what they want, what they regret. Sometimes you pour in little pieces of yourself without realizing it. Sometimes you build someone completely different from you—someone you want to understand or become. That process alone already touches on identity, self-reflection, even healing.

Then you build a world. It might be a creepy dungeon, a haunted kingdom, or a peaceful forest where mushrooms talk—but that’s storytelling. That’s symbolism. You’re creating a place where ideas and feelings live. It’s not always conscious, but it reflects you. Sometimes you design the kind of world you wish existed. Other times, you explore your fears or frustrations through fictional conflict.

Improvising scenes, acting out dialogue, reacting emotionally in character—that’s expression. Real expression. You’re trying out different responses, different personas. You can be brave, angry, heartbroken, charming... and it’s safe, because it’s a game. But your brain doesn’t fully treat it like fiction. It learns from those emotional experiences. It processes them.

And it’s not just at the table. You might draw your character. Write their journal. Build props. Paint miniatures. Make a playlist or theme song. Create handouts or maps. That’s artistic output. That’s craft. That’s you turning imagination into something real, something visible. And every little act of creating—even scribbles or nonsense ideas—is still working your emotional and cognitive muscles.

It’s a whole ecosystem of art. Of creativity. Of personal exploration.

Psychology even has names for this stuff:

Narrative Identity: We understand ourselves through story. When we create characters, backstories, and arcs, we’re playing with identity—ours and others’.

Flow State: That feeling when you’re so into drawing or writing or running a scene that time disappears? That’s flow. It’s good for your brain. It lowers stress and increases focus and happiness.

Constructive Imagination: Pretending isn’t “just playing”—it’s how we explore possibilities. We can mentally rehearse real feelings and test reactions in a fictional setting.

Creative Self-Efficacy: Believing you can create makes you want to create more. Every little success, every drawing finished, scene played, or idea shared builds confidence and emotional resilience.

All of this is what art therapy aims for. But a lot of us have already been doing it, just... with dice and dragons.

Roleplaying games give us the tools to imagine, create, and express in ways that are playful and profound. They’re collaborative, emotional, artistic experiences that can have real benefits—whether you're aware of it or not.

So if you’ve ever felt better after a session, or discovered something about yourself through a character, or calmed down just by painting minis or drawing your wizard... now you know why.

Roleplaying is art therapy in disguise.

You don’t need permission to benefit from it. You just need to keep playing.

From Solo Roleplay to Storytelling: How Red Noir Quest Turned Into Something More

 

It started with a solo game.

I wanted to try an evil adventuring party—not something super grim or edgy, more like something dark but fun. A little twisted, but with some charm too. So I created the characters, and then, like always, I drew them. I'm constantly drawing characters and coming up with story ideas. That’s just how my brain works, I guess. But as I started playing through the opening scenes, I began to feel like there was more here. Something worth keeping. Something I might want to turn into a proper story.

That’s how Red Noir Quest began.

 

Drawing has always been my thing. It helps me relax. It’s like entering a flow state, like reaching into a dream. But it’s not always about starting with a drawing. Sometimes it begins with a scene idea or a bit of dialogue. Sometimes with a map. Writing, drawing, solo games—they all talk to each other. I bounce between them all the time, and they feed each other.

 

What I love about solo roleplay is the freedom. There’s no pressure to please anyone else, so I can explore whatever I want. Weird emotions, bad decisions, morally gray stuff—things I might not throw into a group game right away. I can be honest with the story because it’s just me. And sometimes it gets pretty intense, ha.

Eventually, Red Noir Quest started to feel like something I wanted to share. So I began cutting the extra dark stuff and reshaping it. I kept the tone playful but gave it weight. I created a map, wrote up the world, the kingdom, the queen, even details that didn’t end up in the final story—but they helped me understand the world better.

And I didn’t stop playing either. I kept running little solo scenes just to get to know the characters better. That’s something I always recommend: roleplaying your characters—especially in solo—helps a lot with their development. You discover new things about them as you go. You add stuff. You take things away. They evolve naturally as you play.

That’s pretty much my creative process. First, I just let everything pour out. No filter. If it feels good, I go with it. Then, if it seems like it has potential, I take time to polish it and turn it into something I can show the world. But the fun part is always the beginning—that moment when an idea just wants out.

I also take inspiration from my solo games into my group campaigns. NPCs, plots, whole encounters sometimes come from solo stuff I played around with. It’s like a testing ground. A sketchbook with dice.

What I’m trying to say is: if you enjoy creating, but feel stuck, or you think you're “not that creative”—don’t worry about that. Just make stuff. Open your notes app and write down a weird idea. Draw something silly. Play a random scene in your head or on paper and see what happens. The first version doesn’t have to be great. It just needs to exist. You can clean it up later.

And if nothing’s coming out? Take a break. Go for a walk. Doodle. Take a nap—seriously. I get vivid dreams and sometimes they hand me ideas I never would've come up with on my own. Resting helps more than forcing it.

Red Noir Quest didn’t start as a book. It started with curiosity. With play. With sketches. And that’s how most good things start, honestly—not with a big goal, but just doing the thing you enjoy.

So draw. Write. Play. Let it be messy. Let it be weird. Let it be yours.

You never know what it’ll become.

Check out Red Noir Quest – A story born from solo roleplaying, full of mystery, charm, and dark fun. Illustrated with original art and written from the heart.

 

 

Playing Isn't Immature: How Hobbies Keep You Grounded

Why Hobbies Like Playing Games and Collecting Toys Are Not Immature for Adults

I'm writing this article because I recently read a post about how this generation is labeled as immature for collecting toys, playing video games, and watching anime. Honestly, this notion frustrates me. Why are we still stuck in the outdated belief that enjoying hobbies somehow makes you less mature? It’s time to set the record straight: playing games, collecting toys, and enjoying creative outlets like anime and tabletop RPGs is not only normal but beneficial. Let me explain why we, as adults, should confidently embrace these hobbies.

The Benefits of Hobbies: Joy, Relaxation, and Stress Relief

Hobbies can bring immense joy and relaxation, and adults are no exception to this. Engaging in activities like gaming or collecting toys offers a break from the grind of daily responsibilities. It's absurd to think that you have to give up what you love just because of your age. Whether it’s sitting down to play a video game after work or adding to your action figure collection, these moments of enjoyment are part of what makes life fulfilling.

Hobbies serve as mental escapes, giving individuals the chance to recharge and relieve stress. When life gets overwhelming, these outlets can be a form of self-care. There’s nothing immature about taking time to enjoy yourself in healthy, fulfilling ways.

Shifting Societal Perceptions: Hobbies Aren’t Just for Kids Anymore

Let’s get this clear: societal views are changing. The old stereotype that hobbies like gaming or collecting are for kids is being challenged more and more. There are entire industries now catering to adult hobbyists, whether that’s complex board games, advanced action figure collections, or even video games designed for mature audiences. The market recognizes that adults enjoy these hobbies, and so should society at large. It’s time to let go of the assumption that hobbies are childish.

The Role of Nostalgia: Reliving Positive Childhood Experiences

One of the reasons adults return to childhood hobbies is nostalgia. There’s real value in reconnecting with the activities that brought you joy growing up. Collecting toys, revisiting classic video games, or participating in familiar hobbies can evoke positive memories and provide emotional comfort during stressful times.

Personally, I feel more atemporal—I don’t share that strong sense of nostalgia that drives many others. However, I fully understand its appeal. Many people find comfort in revisiting these hobbies, whether it’s watching old anime or replaying a favorite game from childhood. This connection to the past helps many manage stress, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Cognitive and Social Benefits: Not Just Fun, But Growth

Hobbies like gaming and collecting toys aren’t just about having fun—they can also contribute to cognitive and social development. For instance, playing video games can enhance problem-solving skills, hand-eye coordination, and strategic thinking.

And let’s not forget about tabletop RPGs (TTRPGs) like Dungeons & Dragons. These games are incredible for encouraging creativity, collaborative storytelling, and critical thinking. Players are constantly solving puzzles, managing complex narratives, and engaging in meaningful social interactions. These activities foster skills that go far beyond the game itself, making them a valuable part of personal growth.

Collecting toys or engaging in a complex game isn’t just about passing time. It’s about fostering curiosity, learning new things, and developing patience and focus. Whether you're playing an online game or organizing a collection, these hobbies require thought and engagement that are undeniably beneficial.

The Mental Health Impact: Hobbies as Stress Relievers

Hobbies are one of the best tools we have for managing stress and improving mental health. Engaging in something you love—whether it’s a game, a collection, or even a tabletop RPG session—helps release the tension of everyday life. The positive effects of immersing yourself in a world, whether virtual or imagined, cannot be understated.

A fantastic example of how gaming can support mental health, even into later years, is the Silver Snipers, an eSports team of senior players from Sweden, with some members well into their 80s. These incredible gamers show that not only is gaming for everyone, but it can also be a key to staying mentally sharp and socially connected as you age. Through their shared passion for gaming, the Silver Snipers have built a supportive community and combat feelings of isolation, while keeping their minds active and engaged. It's a great reminder that hobbies like gaming can be a powerful tool for maintaining mental well-being, no matter your age.

The Immaturity Stereotype: What Do Naysayers Think is "Mature"?

Here’s where my frustration comes in: I find it ridiculous that people still call hobbies like gaming or collecting toys "immature." What, exactly, do they think makes someone mature? Is it spending your weekends drinking or reading business magazines all day? Come on. True maturity isn't defined by your hobbies; it’s defined by how you handle your responsibilities.

Paying your bills, taking care of your loved ones, managing your life—that’s maturity. If you’re taking care of your duties, there’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t indulge in your hobbies. If playing games or collecting brings you joy, who has the right to judge? We need to stop pretending that growing up means abandoning the things we love. It’s about balance, not restricting ourselves based on outdated societal expectations.

The Example for Future Generations

Embracing our hobbies also sets an excellent example for future generations. By continuing to pursue activities like gaming or collecting, we’re showing younger generations that it’s okay to enjoy what they love, no matter their age. Creativity, fun, and play should never be outgrown, and children benefit from seeing adults who understand the importance of balance in life.

It’s important to show kids that hobbies are not something they need to abandon to be “mature.” Instead, they should learn that finding joy in life’s passions is essential to long-term happiness and mental well-being.

Conclusion: Follow Your Hobbies—They Matter

At the end of the day, hobbies like gaming, collecting toys, and watching anime are not immature. They are outlets for creativity, stress relief, and personal growth. In a world that demands constant seriousness and responsibility, these hobbies provide a necessary balance. So if you’re someone who loves video games, toys, or TTRPGs, embrace it unapologetically.

We should all encourage one another to pursue what makes us happy—because life’s too short to worry about outdated notions of maturity. Play your games, build your collections, and enjoy your hobbies with pride.

Why GMs and Solo Players Should Try Other Systems

It’s no secret that Dungeons & Dragons 5e has become the face of tabletop role-playing games for many people, especially those who started in the last decade. 5e is known for being beginner-friendly and straightforward, which is why it has captured such a large audience. But with that comes a certain level of attachment. For many, it’s not just the game they play—it’s the game that introduced them to the entire hobby. This creates a kind of “team D&D” mentality, where anything outside of 5e can feel off-brand, intimidating, or just not worth the effort.

But here’s the thing: for GMs and especially solo players, trying out different systems can have a massive impact on how you approach not only your games in general but even your D&D sessions. Now, I’m not saying you have to abandon 5e—far from it! In fact, broadening your horizons can help you appreciate 5e more while also bringing fresh ideas and perspectives to the table.
One of the reasons people resist trying other systems is that learning D&D might have felt like a huge effort in itself. Once you’ve gotten comfortable with something, why venture into the unknown? I get that. But the truth is, exploring new systems isn’t just about learning new rules—it’s about discovering different ways to handle the same aspects of role-playing games. This can be incredibly beneficial for GMs, who are always looking for new ideas, and for solo players, who love tinkering with systems to find their perfect fit.

Personally, I’ve found that rules-light systems work better for my solo play sessions. They give me the flexibility to focus more on narrative and immersion rather than juggling complex mechanics. But that’s just me. Some people prefer the other end of the spectrum, and that’s what makes solo role-playing so great—you can experiment until you find what works for you. Systems like World of Darkness, Cypher, and Dungeon World have all influenced how I think about storytelling, even though I still love to DM 5e or Pathfinder for others.

The benefits of trying other systems are clear. First, you’ll see that there’s more than one way to tackle the same elements of a game. Every system has its own take on mechanics like combat, skill checks, and role-playing, and exploring those can give you new insights into what works best for your group—or just for you. Second, trying different systems lets you compare. What works for your style of play? What doesn’t? And for solo gamers, this comparison is even more vital because you’re constantly fine-tuning your experience.

Finally, when you have a palette of different systems under your belt, you can start painting your own picture. You might not design an entirely new game, but you’ll definitely find yourself incorporating new ideas into your sessions, whether that’s in role-playing, world-building, or story development. Even if you prefer to run D&D 5e rules as written, you’ll find that trying other systems can influence your approach in subtle but powerful ways.

In the end, there’s no pressure to try dozens of new systems just for the sake of it. But for those who enjoy diving deeper into the world of role-playing games, there’s a lot to be gained by broadening your horizons. It can be as simple as reading a new rulebook or as immersive as diving headfirst into a different game. Either way, it’s all about expanding your understanding and making your games—whether they’re D&D or something else—that much better. And for solo players, the benefits are even more apparent.

The Last City 1 - A really open sand box

I've run this campaign two times and I'm currently running it a third time. My goal from the beginning was to make it as free of a sand box as possible and I'm happy with the results so far.

The premise of this setting is to make it a sandbox where the player's choices shape the story. Each time, it would evolve into a different story and experience. To that end I choose the following characteristics:

- The campaign starts in the last surviving city after a magical apocalypse.
- There are multiple factions some in opposition of each other.
- The PC's are new to the city so they don't know what to expect.

Freedom in character creation
The choice in making it post world destruction, without necessarily saying which world allows characters to pick where they came from—any world or campaign setting—as long as they still follow the character creation rules for the campaign. Since there was a magical apocalypse, having people transported from other realms is no problem, or justifying magical mutations, or other ways the characters can just be different or unique.

I would add that I have a small restriction for the tone of the campaign: No divine casters. Players may choose to play divine casters, but I prefer they don't. Still the general premises work without this restriction.

Freedom to choose
Of course, there has to be a framework for a campaign to work, or else it would be just pure improvisation, which I think is possible but not optimal.

So, freedom to choose what?

Well, any class or species in general as part of character creation. Although, I would advise players to have similar alignments to avoid creating conflict.

Freedom to choose allies and enemies.

The factions that rule the different districts have their motivations, needs, hates, and personalities. So, as a basic premise, there are some that are practically irreconcilable. That means that befriending one will necessarily make you an enemy of one or more other factions. For example, there is a faction known as the cannibal brutes, who are enemies of a faction of enchanters. If you befriend one, the other will most likely become your enemy. There are others with territorial disputes and so on. Other options, like fighting or befriending certain monsters, will also affect how other factions see you.

Freedom of movement
There is complete freedom of movement, but with a caveat. To justify "Difficulty Progression" the starting district, Agarpe, is protected by an aura created by a mysterious character. So, monsters closer to Agarpe are weaker than those farther away. Outside the city, there are only epic-level threats. However, characters can still go wherever they want.

Freedom for the GM to create and adapt
Due to the nature of the catastrophe, everything under the city is magically scrambled, so I can easily add dungeons or almost anything else and wherever you deem necessary.

I’ll dive deeper into the origins of the apocalypse in a future article.

My Tarod Card system for solo roleplaying

Introduction

Welcome to the Tarot Card System for solo role-playing, a unique and immersive way to enhance storytelling and gameplay in your tabletop RPG sessions. This system uses a standard deck of Tarot cards to determine the outcomes of various actions, combat scenarios, and tests. Each character in your party is assigned a specific suit based on their class or type, and a Major Arcana card that represents their core attributes and powers. By drawing cards during gameplay, you can resolve situations with a blend of fate and strategy, creating a dynamic and engaging narrative experience.

The suits—Cups, Staffs, Swords, and Pentacles—correspond to different character roles such as healer, caster, tank, and rogue. The Major Arcana adds an extra layer of depth, with each character’s Major Arcana card providing opportunities for critical successes and unique interactions. Whether you’re facing formidable foes or navigating complex challenges, the Tarot Card System brings an element of mysticism and unpredictability, ensuring that no two sessions are ever the same.

Card Suits and Affiliations

Character Types and Assigned Suits:

Cups: Healer
Staffs: Caster
Swords: Tank or Fighter
Pentacles: Expert or Rogue

Character Examples and Major Arcana Assignments:

Brangus Red, the minotaur tank: The Emperor
Valencia Vertex, the half-demon witch: Justice
Zakk Gibs, the humanoid tiger cleric: The Devil
Wila, the elf rogue: Death

Suit Order:

Card Draw Outcomes

Suit Draws:

Own Suit (Success): Drawing a card of the character’s own suit (e.g., Brangus drawing a Swords card) results in a success.
Next Suit Counterclockwise (Success with Mild Bad Consequence): Drawing a card of the next suit in counterclockwise order results in a success with a mild bad consequence.
Previous Suit Clockwise (Fail with Mild Good Consequence): Drawing a card of the previous suit in clockwise order results in a failure with some mild good consequence.
Opposite Suit (Fail): Drawing a card of the opposite suit results in a failure.
Card numbers determine how good or bad the outcome.

Major Arcana:


Any Major Arcana (Success): Drawing any Major Arcana card results in a success.
Own Major Arcana (Critical Success): Drawing the character’s own Major Arcana results in a critical success related to the character’s Major Arcana power.
Inverse of Own Major Arcana (Super Failure): Drawing the inverse of the character’s own Major Arcana results in a super failure.

Inverse Major Arcana (Fail): Drawing any Major Arcana card in its inverse position results in a failure.

Combat and Tests

Combat and Long Tests:

Characters are considered defeated if they take three attacks or wounds.

If they draw their inverse Major Arcana, it means something horrible has happened, possibly even death.
Combat and significant challenges may involve multiple rounds of card draws, with each round representing an attack or action.

Short Tests and Unimportant Combat:

Short tests or unimportant combat encounters are resolved with a single card draw.
Success or failure is determined based on the card draw according to the rules above.

Extended Tests:

At the DM’s discretion, certain tests may require more than one successful card draw to complete.

Example Combat: Party vs. Ogre (Single Card Draw)

Setup:

Party: Brangus Red (Swords), Valencia Vertex (Staffs), Zakk Gibs (Cups), and Wila (Pentacles).

Each character draws a card to determine their overall impact on the combat.

Draw Results:

Brangus Red: 7 of Swords (Success)
Valencia Vertex: 4 of Pentacles (Fail)
Zakk Gibs: Page of Swords (Fail)
Wila: Ace of Pentacles (Success)

Example combat Narrative:

As the ogre roars and charges at the party, Brangus Red steps forward, his sword gleaming in the dim light. With a powerful swing, he strikes the ogre with precision, leaving a deep, bleeding wound. The ogre staggers back but remains on its feet, enraged and ready to fight.

Valencia Vertex begins to weave her hands, calling upon her arcane powers. However, her concentration falters, and the spell dissipates before it can reach the ogre, leaving her momentarily frustrated and vulnerable.

Zakk Gibs, determined to support his allies, attempts to channel divine energy to weaken the ogre. Unfortunately, his spellcasting is interrupted, and the ogre remains unaffected by his efforts.

Meanwhile, Wila uses the chaos of the battle to her advantage. With agile movements, she slips behind the ogre and targets a vulnerable spot with her dagger. Her strike is true, and the ogre howls in pain as the blade finds its mark.

Despite the failures of Valencia and Zakk, the combined efforts of Brangus and Wila prove to be decisive. The ogre, now severely wounded and weakened, can no longer withstand the onslaught. With one final groan, it collapses to the ground, defeated.

The party stands victorious, having overcome the ogre through a blend of brute strength and cunning. They take a moment to catch their breath and tend to their wounds, ready to continue their journey with a renewed sense of camaraderie and accomplishment.