Codependency

The following sequence rose from events played between February 25 and 26, 2009.

In my last masterclass, I addressed the matter of players having to make up their minds how to interact with the campaign setting, and how the DM will be typically pressed to make this interaction happen for the players.  In short, the players want to adventure; and will wait for the DM to create the adventure for the players to run in, because this is easiest for the players.  Opposed to this, however, is the experience and opportunity that arises when the players do for themselves, even if doing for themselves is the harder option.  Good play calls for all the participants to dig in and work together to make things happen ... not when the DM provides for all the others, who then become hopelessly dependent on that DM.  Dependency is never a good thing.

This post is meant to address the contrary point of view, and how "doing for the players without waiting for the players" is easiest for the DM too.  In many ways, by creating the adventure from whole cloth, so that players know what is expected of them, makes everything easier for the DM as well.  Which is why DMs do it.  Nothing makes a D&D running go well like having the players be dependent upon our story, our plot twists and our moment-to-moment whims.

It will not be popular to say, but many of the substantial problems that arise in having ONE PERSON control all that is said and done at a game table for a bunch of people who are dependent upon that person's intentions to create, or not create, the adventure that is going to be run, arise from the same issues that we connect with codependency.  Role-playing is addictive; and while it is not a drug, I will rush to point out that the link explicitly states that codependency relationships can also arise from gambling, which is also a game, and the dysfunction that arises out of family relationships ~ which, incidentally, psychology invented role-playing in order to combat.

Which is to say that role-playing itself is not a bad thing.  It can be healthy, if approached in a healthy manner.  It is that healthy manner that promotes role-playing as a therapy.  We stress how every participant must learn to be responsible for themselves, and in their contribution to the general welfare of the relationship.  But when we say that the DM is responsible for everyone having fun at the table, ie., for the emotional state of other people; or that the DM is responsible to always say "yes" to player efforts at problem solving, ie., supporting and enabling the ability of another person to feel successful and validated; we are drifting dangerously into codependency.

When the DM knows who the players are going to talk to, and why, and what's going to be said, because that is the way the adventure goes, this removes everything else, the "unexpected," from the equation.  This shrinks the problem of managing the players' motivations and probable actions to a framework that most DMs can handle.  It is especially necessary for new DMs, who are hardly able to handle even this much interaction ... which is why "story-telling" DMing is presented as the best, more rational way to play.  Because it is easiest.

This is not the hall the players would see; it's a town hall from Passau,
a like town to the one the players were in, built in the 14th century.
Impressive, no?  Imagine how it was to the medieval eye.

Let's take an example from the campaign we left at the end of the last post, Who is Responsible.  The players have learned that to become guards protecting a merchant's wagon train, they must be bonded by the merchant's guild.  To be bonded, they must find a merchant to stand up for them.  And because they don't know any merchants, two players, Tiberius and Joseph, have decided to go where the merchants are: the merchant's guild.

And just like that, I'm in a trap.

The onus is on me to create a merchant's guild from my imagination, to present as a scene for the player to see.  This is easier in an online play-by-comment game blog, but even so, it requires that I, as DM, have a clear idea in my head of what a merchant guildhouse is, how big it is, who goes there, how it is laid out, what the people inside do and how to describe it.  On the spur of the moment, that's a lot of info to have in my pocket, particularly if I'm at a table face-to-face with the players, and I haven't guessed yet that the players want to go there.

Moreover, I've got to pick up the ball at once and decide, how are the denizens of the guild hall going to treat the character once Tiberius and Joseph are inside?  What words are they going to say?  Am I ready to create a speech at the drop of a hat?  Can I even picture a believable merchant, who will present to the players in a way that will sustain the game's play, that will keep the momentum, that will have the capacity to be either friendly or properly resistant to the players' actions?  I don't have pre-made playbook already set up, where this merchant already knows the pertinent facts about where the players need to be in order to find the Macguffin that will reveal the villain in act three of my prescribed adventure.  This is just a merchant.  He or she is going about their day, doing merchant things, talking to merchant people, having no idea that he or she is about to be approached by total strangers, who want something.

This situation alone is enough to give a lot of DMs who might think, "I'm going to run a sandbox," the sweats.  Chances are, if they haven't done their research, if they haven't invested themselves in the history that underlies a fantasy setting, or a sci-fi setting, or any setting that might include a merchant, their representation isn't going to be very credible.  And that lack of credit may inspire the displeasure of the player, who is apt to blame the DM, and not the merchant, if something doesn't work out in the player's favor.  And well the DM knows it.  So now there's a sense of being judged, that we can heap on the pile of all the things that we're worrying about in the split second a player says,

Tiberius: Tiberius will ask Helmunt [the bartender] the location of the guild hall and start there.

[There it is again: the compulsion of players to role-play in the third person; ah well]

When this happens, I draw on my readings, on my experiences and on any images I can find for inspiration.  I think, "What does this need to be?"  A guildhall is wealthy; ostentation is a drug for the wealthy, the conspicuousness of consumption, that says, "Look at how successful we are, we built this."  That is my starting point.  From there I must address the other part of the DM's trap: I have no idea what the players are going to do, or say.

If I can, I want to describe the guildhall in a way that will control that unknown.  The hall needs to be threatening; it needs to drip power; it needs to be full of people who the player will be justly afraid to cross.  All that needs to be in my description as well.

DM: You step into the Market Hall, to find a great space, some sixty feet long and thirty feet wide. There are many stalls set up, selling salt, beer, snuff, wine, carved wooden toys, parchment, glasswares and brass instruments, all the luxury goods made in Dachau. A twin line of pillars, surmounted by great arches holding up the twenty-foot ceiling, stand between the tables and frames supporting various goods which are hung on display. Straw has been scattered over the floor, as here and there goats, pigs and chickens roam freely between the tables along with both the patrons and artisans. These are not the merchants of the guild; the main floor is opened each Sunday for those craftsmen and peddlers who work in shops in the hills surrounding the town, who must have a protected place to sell their valuables.

At each end of the hall are a flight of stairs, without railings, which follow the end walls up into the ceiling. At the bottom of each lounge three guards, while one stands ostensibly at attention.

Good enough.  The products are all typical of Bavaria.  The pillars, frames and architecture is somewhat baroque, but close enough to wow the player.  The straw, the chickens, the presence of the market inside the guild, tells of a lot of people and that this is not a private place.  The players should feel okay with being here.  There are a lot of outsiders here.

And as long as I've got the players in the building, there's no reason not to drop a few perfectly innocent plot hooks, just the thing that would actually be posted in such a building in the period the players are adventuring in:

DM: On the pillar nearest to the door where you enter is a notice board. On it is nailed a piece of parchment which reads, “The town Brux herewith announces that a price guarantee will be granted for beef at 3,231 gold pieces per ton. This guarantee is valid for a delivery that arrives no later than the first day of June.”

Above that is a second notice, which reads, “The town of Dachau seeks a company of soldiers who will perform duties in the defense of those good families that dwell within. There is need for no less than thirty men, well-equipped, led by a learned gentleman of quality standing. The weekly pay shall be 347 gold pieces.”

And above that, a third notice, which reads, “The Lord Mayor’s election is to take place on the 24 May 1650. The following citizens have been nominated to date: The competent Lord Mayor Martin Folkes. The competent Councillor Erich Kinski. The competent Patrician Eduard Johannsen. The experienced Patrician Eberhardt Hornung.”

And then, just for fun,

At the very bottom of these notices is a small wooden carved sign which reads, “Especially recommended today in the guild hall, Chicken pate with a good plum puree.”

Ah, this was such a long time ago.  I had forgotten.  I'll explain.

These are actually four adventure hooks.  For the first three, I had no definite plan regarding how the experience might go; it would be up to the players how to get a ton of beef to the mining town of Brux, which would be in the modern day Czech Republic, a good many miles from the players in Dachau.  The soldier job was going to be insanely dangerous, certainly worth 347 g.p., but to be honest I hadn't decided what "dangerous" would be, exactly ~ I had faith I'd come up with something by the time the players passed the interview process.  The third was trickier ... it required the players play politics, volunteering to help whatever name on the list they chose.

As it happened, later in the campaign, Eberhardt Hornung became the benefactor of the party.  Ultimately, Delfig the bard and Andrej the cleric, who still ran in the campaign until I closed it in 2017, went to fetch Hornung's sweetheart from Switzerland.  They raided the castle where they fought the kobalds in an earlier masterclass, to help Hornung.  It was Hornung that took over the city of Munster at one point, when the players had a brief urban adventure there.  But here, he was just a name I pulled up.  I expanded on the name later, when I needed a noble to contact the party.

The party never realized, the part that I'd forgotten until now, was that the Chicken Pate with plum puree waited to be eaten by everyone, purchaser and merchant alike. And that sitting at a wooden bench, in the eating hall, they were bound to be seated across from some friendly, common merchant, who might like the cut of their jib, and offer to stand up for them, if the players presented themselves well.  It was right there, for the taking ... but Tiberius, charged with going to the guild hall, wasn't hungry.

Tiberius: Tiberius tries to walk nonchalantly past the guards and up the stairs.

DM: The standing guard nods pleasantly at you as you pass.

Uh oh.  This is straight pattern recognition. When a player starts using words like "nonchalant," a DM has to be like a firefighter that smells smoke.  Tiberius has a plan.  And whatever it is, it is bound to be a very bad idea ... and because I am not investing the residents of the guildhall with my knowledge of player characters, and because there is absolutely no reason why Tiberius can't walk to the second floor (it's not restricted), I have to let it go.  The best I can do is emphasize, STANDING guard at the front of my sentence, in the hopes that Tiberius will realize, oh, right, if I screw up here, that guard will beat my brains in.

But ... no, that's not what the players think.  Because, particularly in this case, these players are not very familiar with "making their own adventure."  They don't realize that just as I have to think through how to build a guild hall in their imagination, and that I need to put a smile on the guard's face, and the word "standing" in front of the noun predicate, the player needs to think it through what they plan to do.  And experience says, for a player not used to having agency, thinking at the beginning is a rare gift.

Josef [after some uncertainty]: I'll hang back - try to engage the guards in conversation. Assuming they're amenable: [he asks the guard] "I hope to ask a question. My patron is seeking to hire guards for a journey he and I must make to Ingolstadt.  Would you know of any armsmen, such as yourself, that might be available?"

Again, poor Josef.  I try to encourage players to think how this sentence would go if Josef were to walk up to a group of four police officers at the local Starbucks and say these exact same words, replacing "guard" with "cop," "Ingolstadt" with any town name forty miles from where you are, and "armsmen" with "gun carriers," how do they think that would go?

It is what I said before; the players haven't that much actual experience talking with real people in the actual world.  They have never, ever, had to ask anything from a real guard in an actual bank plaza, except perhaps, "Where is the bathroom?"  The absurdity of this sort of question, to these sort of people, is the result of that lack of personal experience.

And because of this, most DMs are ready to let it go.  I have to believe that most DMs are probably in the ballpark of, "Well, what's wrong with what the player said?"  Most DMs haven't had the real experience of dealing with actual guards, either.  The problem is, however, that I have.  And although I'm not trying for a world that's a simulation of anything, I do want the guards to act in a manner differently from not guards, in a way that makes them intimidating and frightening, so that players ~ when they see guards ~ feel a legitimate reason to experience that "under the eye" feeling that we all have when there are four cops at a Starbucks seated at the next table over.  It is not the moment to talk about how we've got to get some pills before getting to Marta's party.

For Josef, however, rather than choose to intimidate him, I decided to go with a joke:

DM: “Not us, sir,” says the first guard.

“Ingolstadt,” says the second, “That whore’s town? I wouldn’t go there if—”

The third guard interrupts: “I’m from Ingolstadt,” he mutters meanly.

“Ah, from,” says the second guard emphatically. “And why is that?”

“You know why.”

“I just want to hear you say it.”

This is very '40s Hollywood.  A couple minutes more and the guards are fighting each other.  The joke is as old as Plautus (look him up).   The joke falls flat on the player, who proceeds to play it straight for the rest of the discourse ~ which I'll leave off, because it's not part of my agenda today.  Perhaps another day I can talk about the earnestness of players and why it makes poor role-play.  Let's go back to Tiberius, who is going upstairs.  I give him this description of the second floor.

DM: The second floor has been prepared for a banquet. There are six tables, each with fourteen settings, tablecloths, pewter candlesticks, porcelain plates, copper cutlery and ceramic cups. Dinner has not yet been served, but about a dozen gentlemen and an equal number ladies are standing in the open area between the table and the left wall, gossiping. Before you can move any further forward, a shorter, well-fed man standing next to a tall, small-topped table holding only a book places a gentle hand on your shoulder. He has been looking at your fairly acceptable but road-dusted attire and asks, “Kind sir, you come from which city?”

 
This is the dining hall.  I'm giving a second chance at the chicken pate with plum puree.  I am practically waving my hands furiously and screaming.  I'm doing everything except setting up a flashing neon-light ~ but Tiberius, like Josef, is playing it straight and missing the point.  Because, like Josef, the player has no idea what sort of people would be seated at such a dining hall.  Being a member of the 21st century, things like this are by invite only ~ the vaguest whisper that this might be available to anyone, because it was actually advertised on the ground floor, is utterly alien to his preconception.

Tiberius: Tiberius looks at the shorter man in the eye and answers with a smile and a friendly tone.  "I've recently travelled through from Munich, though I have stayed in this fair town for several weeks. My name is Tiberius. What is your name?"

Amid socializing, Tiberius will ask the following questions: "What is this banquet for?"; and "What is your occupation?"; and "Who are the other people here?"

DM: “This is the Guild’s Hall Dinner. I am the concierge of the dinner. It is restricted to members of the Dachau merchant's guild and to visiting guild members who visit here from other towns. Are you a merchant, sir?”

Note the player's sentence structure: I have questions, I'm getting these out of the way.  I'm making no connections that the well-fed man holding a book and approaching him is a concierge, because as DM, I haven't said, "The concierge approaches you."  Without the signifier, the player can't recognize him.  There's no uniform, because the year is 1650 and even the army doesn't wear uniforms yet.  The questions are heavy handed and, frankly, rude.  Once again, imagine walking up to a stranger and demanding to know, "What is your occupation?"  Or, "Who are these other people?"  The player, because of a lack of experience, hasn't tuned into that.  He is just trying to play the game.

How patient NPCs are in the game is up to the DM.  Do we overlook the rudeness?  Do we call the guards?  What is appropriate here?  How much leeway do we want to allow the player, recognizing that each time the player acts a certain way, without consequences, sends the message, "This is the appropriate way to act."  It is, again, a DM's trap.

Come down hard on the player, have the guard toss him into an alley, and we're bound to convince the player that rich people are all assholes and maybe they'd learn something if I light the building on fire.  Conciliate the player and expect to have a player stand in front of a king one day with, "What up, yer Highness?  Ja fuck the Queen today?"

As a DM, you establish the boundaries of propriety every time you and the player talk.  If the player takes things too earnestly, like Josef, it can be hard to break down that seriousness, but you have to try: either by setting up a joke, as I did, or saying to the player, "Hey, that was a joke; relax, try to have fun ... and maybe you'd better not start your role-playing in a merchant's guild by lying to the guards there."  [which he does; follow the link]

My approach to Tiberius was to try and set him up with a table at the Guild's Hall Dinner.  Note the language: "... restricted to members of the Dachau merchant's guild and to visiting guild members who visit here ..."

Here's the big moment.  One lie, and you get to sit at a table and talk to merchants.  "Yes," you say, and you're in.  This is the 17th century.  There are ten thousand towns in Europe.  You could be a member of the merchant's guild from any of them.  Who would know?  Do we suppose the concierge, in this time, knows every merchant guild member in Europe, or has them written in his book?

Ah, but Tiberius has a plan.  And here it is:

Tiberius: Tiberius gives a furtive glance around the room to see if anyone is watching. Then, he moves his hands in marked, fixed patterns, saying arcane words, aimed at the concierge.

Tiberius casts Charm Person, targeting the concierge.

This whole post could be about the way player characters perceive the way spells work.  And the way a culture would have to work in order to manage spell use, if it were possible to cast charm person on anyone, as easily as lighting them up with a flash light.  I'd have to have fifty bowmen in a gallery, watching the floor, eyes peeled like Hawkeye, waiting for the tiniest "marked, fixed pattern," so that the spellcaster could be gutted on the floor with ten or twenty arrows in a burst, in case the spell being cast was fireball, disintegrate, conjure earth elemental or fifty other spells of mass destruction.

Effectively, in a spell-present culture, Tiberius effectively walked into a guild hall, pulled open his coat and revealed that he had strapped fifty pounds of TNT to his torso.  At least, as far as anyone might know, before the spell was actually cast.

Arguably, this made sense to the player.  Spells are there to be used; and a DM ought to appreciate that he was using his character's abilities to solve a problem.  He wasn't trying to charm a merchant; he just wanted to charm the concierge so that he could get close to a merchant.  He had no malevolent intentions ~ probably ~ he most likely thought this was a good way to get a seat at the table.

But if the world is occupied by the use of magic; and if magic is common enough that an ordinary player character, whose been lately warming a bench at the local pub with his butt for the last two months, can have magic at his disposal, we ought to assume that he's not that unusual.  And that any concierge has come up through the ranks, and knows how dangerous magic is, and how to stop it.

Magic requires concentration.  This means the magic-user must concentrate to cast the spell; this concentration cannot be broken.  I know that 5th Edition, like other editions, has circumvented this; but I really think that is pretty silly.  Magic can work exactly like a suicide-bomber; and given the presence of resurrection, where all you need is a knuckle-bone, why not send a suicide bomber to take out a competing guild?  Great for your bottom line.

So the concierge puts a hand on Tiberius' shoulder, gives a light push, breaks the mage's concentration, and that's it.  One ruined spell.  Oh, "ruined spell" is a phrase we used to use in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons.  Back in the day.

Well, forget the rule change.  The basic premise is no different if Tiberius decided to walk the concierge into a private back room and kill him there.  The point is that the player didn't know how to handle their own agency.  Because they'd had no practice at it.  The DM had always set up the adventures for him.  This was probably his first time having to solve a problem himself.  We can't blame him for trying to fix a washing machine with a sledge hammer.

Following the scene, Tiberius tried to talk his way out ... like a suicide bomber who pulled the cord on the dynamite, had it no go off, then tried to talk his way out of it.  He was arrested and sent to jail and I got him out on a technicality.  Not long after, he quit the campaign.

Codependency.  The experience was embarrassing for the player.  And it could not be followed with learning anything, for in the player's mind the problem was the rule about spell concentration.  In any story-driven adventure scenario, the charm person spell would have been intended by the DM, counted on, so that the concierge could give important exposition, that the players would then follow to the next part of the story.  The idea that the concierge was just there, to help the providing of a dinner to merchants who were just there, was an utterly alien concept.

I created the scene in order to play to the players' intention to investigate an existing building; and since it was a unique building, I peppered it with hooks ... that were missed, because the neon sign wasn't flashing brightly enough.  Most DMs, I know, who run story games, will simply say, "You have to lie to the concierge, then talk to the merchant in the green coat ..."  And everything will just work out.

It's easier.

But challenge and success aren't about what's easier.  Easier is a crutch; as in, it is easier to get through this day with a quart of vodka.  It is easier if I take these two pills before I start my shift.  It is easier to keep taking the pills than to stop taking them.  It is easier to pretend we're having fun, if it means I don't have to make a real decision and possibly think too much.  It's easier if the DM tells me where to go, and what to do, and what I need.

And it is much, much easier if the players will just go where we tell them, and do what they're supposed to do, and need what we're giving them.

The TPK that should Have Been

The following sequence arose from events associated with the Campaign Senex, played in succession from February 17 to 24, 2017.

There are many moments when I think I am a very poor DM; when I weaken and do not follow my own precepts, even as I am vigorously flogging those precepts on my blog.  This is just such a time, an occasion where I set up a scene I should not have set up, then bailed the party out of the mess they helped created.  I should not have done that, either.

The scene began when the party entered an abandoned village in Turkey, Pazarli only to meet a single old man who warned them that there was no safe place to stay in the village.  This was the old man's exact words: "Safe? No. Nowhere safe."  He then went on to warn them that there were Turkish Janissaries just beyond the ridge.

This was the error my part.  It was not much of an adventure.  I wanted to get the players into a fight, preferably in the trees outside the village of Pazarli, that could presumably be kept up for a while.  I hoped the players would take the hint and choose to camp in the bushes.  Then, they could run into a small patrol on its way to search the village (they were perpetually searching for this same old man, who I had designated as a wererat), fight them, get some treasure, then wend their way out of the area meeting, occasionally, other soldiers.

If they made friends with the wererat, I supposed, they could find him a helpful ally and scout; but if they did not warm up to him, they could go it alone.  This was my expectation.

Unfortunately, the party was also told there were patrols in the hills. So they took the phrase, "nowhere safe" to mean that they might as well stay in the town as out in the trees.  Moreover, they were tired, they were near to suffering from a long journey (which, too, was part of my plan), and they adopted a helpful, protective demeanor towards the wererat.  This, despite the wererat/grandfather telling them the village had been repeatedly searched, with dogs ~ without, I thought it obvious, finding the old man. Perhaps the party realized this, but it made no difference to their offers to protect the old man nor their decision to settle in the town for the night.

So now the party was exposed, not hidden.  The town was going to fill up with soldiers.  Instead of meeting one patrol in the woods, the party was going to be infested with them.  Sigh.  I sent them conflicting messages and they did not adequately parse their situation. I made it worse by suggesting that the village was not searched every night.

Here I made my second error: I assigned the place the party would rest for the night without drawing a map.  I should have drawn a map.  The party had said they wanted "a single hut."  Anxious to make them feel safe, I put them in a building "recessed back from the main road" ... with a "courtyard outside the residence, a courtyard surrounded by two other buildings with a narrow 8 foot wide lane leading from the road."

Two things.  On my part, I had totally forgotten the party had a horse.  There had been a long recess between games and I simply forgot.  So this was not a good place for them.  The horse was an albatross, that made it difficult for them to sneak out ... which is what I was counting on them to do.  And here is why:

Because I had already intended to have the Turks search the town!  In my head, I had decided on this event when I expected the party to recess to the trees and not stay in the village.  I had to retain that commitment!  I feel very strongly that a good DM, having invented a scenario, must stay true to that scenario, no matter what the party decides to do.  I had settled in my mind that the village was going to be searched that night ... so that was absolutely what was going to happen.

Of course I could have changed that in my mind, and no one would have ever been the wiser. That's one of the deepest, darkest issues with being a DM.  Are you prepared to be true to your first intentions?  OR will you change those intentions willy-nilly, over and over, as the party makes up their mind to do something different. It is a matter of principle.  If you are a DM, and you feel your world can change upon your whim, you will soon be changing it constantly, without rhyme or reason, or consistency, every time the party surprises you.

I don't feel my would can, or should, change because the players make a given decision, whether or not it is one I predict.  BUT ... and I write this with shame ... I did forsake my principles later on, as the reader will see.  And I regret it strongly.  I hope I am never stupid enough to do it again.

I did not forsake my intention at this point, however.  I did have the village searched.  But hold off on that a moment.

I said there was a second thing, apart from my forgetting the party's horse.  The party never questioned the location I chose for them.  They didn't ask for a map, they didn't question the courtyard, they just accepted it.  Okay.  That happens.  I should have made a map and I did feel partly responsible for putting them in a dead end.  On the right is the map I should have given them.

So, there were communications issues ... and as the scene continued, knowing what I knew, I began to be concerned that I was overstepping my bounds.  This concern settled in to affect my choices as DM, as to how to present the situation for the party.  I did not want to trap the party in the courtyard, like the last scene of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  I wanted there to still be a chance that they could get out alive ~ and towards that end, I began looking for a means to save them.

I should not have been doing that as a DM.  I had warned them, using several phrases that should have raised hackles.  I had introduced them to a mysterious old man who had somehow slipped through previous searches.  The party had chosen to stay in the village, which was an error on their part, and had blithely allowed me to choose their bedstead, when they should have demanded to have more knowledge of their situation.  I did not feel, however, that I had been completely up front with them.  And so I gave them warning of what was coming; the party heard sounds coming from the location of the four yellow patches on the map shown, and the monk, Sofia, went to investigate:

DM: Sofia finds herself at the corner of the lane out onto the street, only to be a little unnerved by the realization that she is about one hex from the guard that begins talking to someone just as she stops. In the starlight, she is likely near-invisible.

"This is the fourth time we've come back looking for this old bastard. I don't think he exists. Every time we surround the town with patrols and what? Nothing. Except that someone chances upon some beast and gets himself ripped apart or winds up running a sword through a compatriot. And now this night; the new moon was only three days ago. Gives me the creeps."

A voice answers, "How long are we here?"

"Til dawn at least. They want to go through the buildings one by one this time ~ the devil knows when that starts. We could miss breakfast."

Sofia thinks she can hear, very far off, the voices of others, perhaps two or three persons, perhaps two or three groups.

The stealth rules indicate that if you can get this close without being detected, you can retreat as well.

To clarify, I tried to make it clear that these were soldiers, that they were not looking for the party, that there had been four attempts to find the old man, making a veiled reference to a "beast" ~ which might have caused a player to connect the dots ~ that the soldiers were bored and that, I hoped the party would understand, probably four pushovers.

Upon rejoining the party, the monk retells the story:

Sofia: "Soldiers, looking for the old man we met today. They apparently have the village surrounded and are preparing to search it, hut by hut. They mentioned being attacked by beasts."

Letting that sink in.

"If we stay put, we will be found but may seem as innocent travelers. If we try to sneak away, we might escape but would appear less innocent if found out."

Letting it sink in further.

"I mistrust large groups of jumpy, armed men. I vote we sneak away now, while we have the darkness with us and they seem to be getting themselves into order."

Letting it sink in even further.

Look what's happening here.  First of all, the player is deliberately ramping the narrative.  It isn't "some beast" like I said, it's "beasts."  The four lazy, bored, grousing soldiers that were overheard were somehow transformed into "jumpy, armed men."  I was pretty confused by that.  Since when are D&D player characters afraid of "armed" men?

And why, when the whole party could read my description of the soldiers, did the monk feel the need to pace the retelling with this "letting it sink in" rhetoric?  Except to amp the tension.  Okay, that's fine with me.  I like lots of tension.  But in the middle of it, there is this strange wondering if the players might not walk out as innocents.  Huh?  The old man has clearly told them that, because of rebellions, a young, 14 year old girl was executed, the country was up in arms.  It was a war zone.  But again, even as they were getting the danger they were in, they were still looking for a way not to consider themselves in danger.

This is a really difficult situation to run.  I had expected the party to realize they were in trouble, mount up, knock down the four pushover soldiers and make a run for it.  Instead, I got ...

Sofia:"Do you think the old man could be a druid or a mage?"

Enrico: "Or a werewolf," young Enrico croaks, eyes wide in the darkness.

Kismet: "Or just a wily old fart that learned not to be stupid enough to sleep in town. If you think there's a way we can pack up and sneak out with our stuff without being spotted we should."

So the "beast" suggestion wasn't missed ~ there was enough there for the party to put it together.  And there was some understanding of the threat level ... with one player saying they ought to sneak away.  Which was fine ... except there was a massive disconnect here.

Though I had said courtyard several times, and described the route the monk had to go to spy on the soldiers, the party believed they were in a single house with lots of exits.  At the time of the conversation above, the party still had not seen a map of their situation.  Which was totally, absolutely, my fault.  And an error I had still not realized I was making.

But by then, we had discovered one of the party had a horse.  Whereupon I launched into a long description of the group of buildings and the courtyard ... which made no sense to the players ... which I didn't realize ... until the monk explained that she had failed to grasp that the only entrance was the one the guards occupied.

Now here is the point of this post.  The party was steadily getting themselves deeper and deeper into trouble, and I was certainly helping by not being a very good DM here.  What was needed was a serious retcon.  Instead, I tried to sort out the situation by giving more information: that the guards out front were not janissaries (effectively saying, please go kill them and run away) ... and this suggestion was seized upon by the party.  The fighter offered to mount his horse, charge out into the street and fight them head on.

Hell, I should have just let him do that.  It would have solved my problems and we would have gotten out of the situation.  Sort of.

Thing was, only one member of the party had a horse.  And it was night.  And Turkish streets are not made for charging horses.  They look like this:

Great place for a horse to break its leg, being ridden at night, with no moon (which was established) by a stranger who has never been in the place before.  And unfortunately, frustratingly, I felt the need to point this out.  Not to mention that a charging horse was going to bring the entire force of Turks down on the party's neck.

That led to hemming and hawing, more discussion of sneaking out, or fighting ... and no consensus.  Finally, we all admitted a map was needed and I made one (the one shown above in this post).

The party must have been very frustrated with me at this point.  I was frustrated with them.  They asked if they could put on their armor.  I consented to it.  I was trying to make amends.

But damn!  I should not have let them put on armor.  Why, oh why, is it that parties just cannot get it into their heads that armor is a huge pain in the neck and that sometimes, every once in a while, they really are going to have to fight without it.  Or leave it behind!  I don't know how many times I have had a party ask to have time stop so that they can put on their turtle shells.

With a search, how rational is it that the situation described above, four bored guards at the top of the courtyard, would still be the situation after taking five minutes to put on armor?  Or pick up gear?  Or generally get ready for a fight?  Why is there no clear comprehension of striking when the iron is hot?

Truth is, I should have stopped feeling, right there, that I was in the wrong.  I had created the context for them to be in extreme danger.  There were guards all around them. They knew it was a war zone.  Despite the disconnect with the geography, they were willing to accept my version once I presented a map.  Yet still they treated the situation casually, as players often do, when they don't happen to have their armor on.

So they talk about armor, and about one of them having their armor on, since they were on watch ~ which really is scraping the bottom of the barrel, but which I accepted at the time (still trying to appease the party) but which is actually quite ridiculous.  How are you supposed to be on watch when every move you make causes the noise of metal grinding on metal?  Armed guards only makes sense when there are a lot of them and they don't mind being found, because they're deliberately standing in the open.  Stealth guards don't wear armor.

And so, five minutes later, after getting packed up and the armor is put on ...

Sofia: ... indicates she will be sneaking down the alley leading to the courtyard, toward the soldiers and waves her companions forward to follow her. She uses stealth, this time equipped with weapons, and moves forward.

Enrico: Enrico is slow and in full armor so presumably he will be easy to hear... especially if leading the horse. How about Kismet and Enrico (with the horse) lead the way and Sofia trails behind? We will be heard and the intruders will come to investigate. Then Sofia can join the fight as a surprise.

Sofia: Or if we're going to do that, how about Sofia stands still and you guys start making a racket?

So as it dawns on the party that putting on armor makes them considerably less stealthy, and as they continue to believe the guards have been standing there since being viewed now ages ago, I'm wringing my hands as a DM because I believe I have created this situation and that it is all my fault.

And it isn't.  Yes, I have made errors.  I have mis-communicated things.  I blew making a clear, direct description of the geography.  And in ways I have dug myself in deeper by letting the situation continue rather than properly ret-conning the thing.

But whatever I have done, once the party decides that, instead of sneaking forward and killing four pushover guards quickly, then possibly making an escape, they should make a racket, I should have considered myself exonerated.  And they did make a racket:

Enrico: Enrico leaves the horse in the courtyard and advances to 0509. He bangs his flail +1 against his shield.

 I remember my jaw dropped.  After frittering away time discussing sneaking out, after long communications about using stealth; after the scene had been set and discussed ... I should have just gone ahead and killed everyone.  The moment was worthy of a Total Party Kill and I should have given it to them.

Instead, feeling guilt, I rescued them.  I had the wererat show up with an army of rats, giving the party a back door and then ultimately restoring the horse to the player.  Damn.  What was I thinking?  I was thinking that it was all my fault, and that I needed to make amends.

I wonder a lot of things about the scene.  Was Enrico deliberately trying to sabotage the situation and, effectively, the game?  Was he trying to create a TPK?  Was Sofia?  Or were they just tired of feeling like unfair situations were being created for them.  I was certainly setting up all sorts of side adventures like this, throughout the campaign.  On the whole, I've found my players liked this sort of thing: battles, a chance to earn experience, a chance to fight an enemy, get into something deeper, possibly find other rebels from the area and lead a charge against the local Turkish governor ... but not this particular party.  Perhaps I went to the well once too often for them.  I don't know.

I ended the campaign just a few months later, for good.  The participation was so lackluster, so distrustful, that I stopped feeling like I could set up situations at all.

Not all the DMing I've done has been good DMing.  I've made mistakes.  Often, the problem is not knowing where the mistakes are.  I've produced this account in the hopes that it will raise some questions in the reader, ring a few bells in the reader's own game situations (which may have produced similar irrational responses, or feelings of needing to appease a party for mistakes made) and act as an identifier that I don't know all the answers, that I'm still learning, like anyone else.

Day of the Storm

The following sequence arose from events associated with the online Campaign Senex, played February 11, 2013.

When the sequence starts, the party is aboard the Petrel, a ship under the authority of Captain Ramona Salvador, whom the players had already discovered was a no-nonsense, somewhat criminally minded woman, and definitely a pirate, who yet owed the party a debt and therefore ~ it was rightly believed as it turned out ~ could be trusted. As the ship moved along the Dalmatian Coast on the Adriatic Sea, they ran into a storm:

The captain's mood in improved somewhat as the wind improves from the early afternoon through Friday evening, with a gentle wind that blows the ship down along the coast of Cres Isle and into the open Adriatic. This wind dies during the evening, until the ship is merely edging outwards upon the current ... but with the morning comes the worst.

A terrifying blizzard strikes the ship an hour before dawn, bringing with it frosty temperatures that immediately freezes all the guidelines and the deck, making even walking a dangerous activity. There's little time to string the necessary safety measures, and the party is rallied - at sword point if necessary - to help in battening and managing the ship. Ahmet's chicken cages are tossed about - but manage not to break - and the whole ship is put into a wild flight as the captain fights to keep her ship from flying into the Adriatic. Steadily, almost miraculously, she drives her crew to maintain the desired course.

At one point, Ahmet finds himself commissioned to hammer the knots in ropes to break them apart. Burnt by the screaming winds, soaked to the skin, he endures as one of boatswain vilifies him for not swinging hard or fast enough ... whereupon Madam appears, shouts an order at the boatswain that he fails to understand, and she strikes him so hard that it lays him on the deck. Ahmet cannot understand what either of them are saying, but the officer leaps to his feet, appears contrite, and flies at once towards the bow.

Step by step, throughout the day, the storm diminishes, while the ship makes good time; the coastline reappears (its been there all along, but couldn't be seen) and the crew describes it as Dugi Otok. They've come through fine, wasted no knots and the ship has come through with little damage.

By evening, though the rain continues, at the point marked by the yellow star, the wind has died again, as it shifts to the northwest ... whereupon a strong breeze sends you quickly along. Dugi Otok falls out of sight and the sea steadies into clear - if unpleasantly wet - sailing.

And, as before, comments not indented indicate my commentary on the game. There are a few things that I meant to establish with the above description, first and foremost the discipline on board the ship.  The storm was randomly rolled, according to the system I was using at that time; but in the light of the storm, I used it to create a sequence of events to send the message to the party what shipboard life was like.  Ahmet, for example, is a "passenger," but on board a ship in a storm, passengers work.  At one point, the boatswain, or bo'sun, is struck by the Captain and accepts it dutifully. My second goal, given the storm, was to emphasize the Captain's skill at managing a crisis.  I wrote the scene to be as much a depiction of danger as I could.  I was going for scary, discomfort, the possibility of death, or the ship breaking up ... which I hoped the players might worry about as they read through it. I never knew, as when the description ended, no one said a word about their emotional reaction.  I wish I could say I've gotten used to this.  It's better at a game table; I can see the faces of the players as I push the routine.  On the other hand, if this had been a live game, I wouldn't have a record of it, and we wouldn't be deconstructing it now. There are four players running: Lukas, a mage; Maximillian, a druid; Andrej, a cleric; and Ahmet, a fighter.  They discuss several things after the storm ends, but I want to focus on what Maximillian does, from his first comment on the post. Mareo, who gets a mention, is a hireling, and of no importance here:

Maximillian: During the storm I willingly assisted wherever needed, probably with the horses, and made certain Mareo did as well. Now, in the calm of the evening, I'll share my ale with whoever is not already asleep or on duty (I think I have about 30 pints, can't remember exactly), before crawling off to bed myself.

As a DM, I'm always watching for moments of action or behaviour that I can build an adventure around, or even an important scene.  Max gave me one here.  I seized on it immediately. Now, my DM's instincts tell me to play this close to the chest, just as I did with the party, revealing what it is about the passage without overt explanation ... but since we're trying to deconstruct DMing, I'll walk through my thought process as it came to me. Grog, or any form of spirits, is a BIG problem aboard ship.  Much of shipboard life is pretty slow and repetitive; but it is also very dangerous.  A bad step and a sailor can slip over the side so silently, particularly at night, that they won't be noticed until long after they're missing.  The heavy ropes that are used can grab at a body part, snatching it and crushing a limb, snapping a hand off at the wrist; or loose rope can get free and whip out fast enough to kill a man.  So in spite of the boredom, the crew must be diligent, constantly diligent, to avoid error.  Grog can be both a compelling Mistress against the boredom and a dangerous companion when one is supposed to focus on one's job. No one knows this better than the Captain, who understands what the state of the crew must be for every inch of the journey.  There is a time to drink and a time to be sober, and it is the Captain that decides.  Still, given an opportunity, a crew will drink, if they get the chance, because they don't believe in the danger; a crew member very often will imbibe, no matter how rigorous the ship's order or how hard are its punishments. Of course, Maximillian isn't thinking about any of this.  He's grateful they got through the storm, he wants to reward the crew, he knows grog is just the thing for it ... and he happened to have grog with him.  In other words, he's thinking like a passenger.

DM: Maximillian, Several of the men take advantage of your offer of ale, pleased as punch for the opportunity to sip a sud or two.

So, as I've explained before, I see a movie instantly forming in my head.  How will the Captain learn about this?  What will be the Captain's reaction?  Surely, it won't take long for the source of the drink to become known; a crewman will admit it.  Probably, a drunk crewman.  Hm.  Suppose we have a crewman who is made drunk somewhat easily?  Someone with a medical condition, who is great fun and a buffoon in port, but whom everyone knows to keep away from the grog when at sea.  Everyone, obviously, except a random passenger. Now, I said the Captain was somewhat criminal.  And this is a pirate ship, and the party knows it's a pirate ship.  So what would a Pirate Captain do? I saw it playing out the way a gangster would handle it:

DM: After going to sleep, however, you find yourself roughly seized in your sleep by two large men. You have no idea what their intention is.

I know that the shorter I make the description, the more worrisome the situation will be for Max.  He does know he's on a pirate ship ~ and that he's the only one in the party without a personal history between himself and the Captain.  The Captain's debt is owed to Maximillian's companions, so he is naturally a little bit more leary than the others.  Too, Max is a lower level than the fighter, mage and cleric.  And like the movie in my head suggested, he immediately assumed this was a random attempt to kill him by two strangers.  At no time, as I expected, did he connect this event with what I had said in the sentence immediately before explaining that he was jumped below decks. Interesting, isn't it?  If you look at the original campaign post, you'll see I wrote the two quotes above in one comment:

And even though Max had time to see the words written on the page, he still didn't make the connection.  As a DM, you've got to trust in this.  You don't have to engage in elaborate cover ups to deflect from your intentions.  In fact, the less elaborate the cover-up, the less additional stuff you put in to separate the two ideas, the less likely the player will be to catch on.  If you misdirect too much, this will create suspicions: "Why is the DM trying so hard?"  Players will catch on, because they're human and they're instinctive about anything that looks out of order. 'Course, it doesn't hurt that I called myself "dumb" in the same post.  Wasn't intentional; but that probably did help sell the notion that I was guileless here in presenting the description.  I wasn't, however.  I had many dark evil plans in my head. So, Max responded as expected:

Maximillian: I'll let out a yell like a startled donkey, and struggle as best I can. If the men are on either side of me, I will do my best to get to one side or the other, trying to move directly towards the man on that side. If they are both on one side, I will pull away from them.

DM: Roll a d20.

Maximillian: d20: 13.

DM: You manage to clip one of the individual's on the jaw (roll a d4 minus 3 plus strength bonus to damage to determine damage done). They are neither of them stunned, even if you roll maximum (though it's potential experience).

Maximillian also manages to squirm out of the way, so that the one with fists as big as the druid's head misses a punch and slams his hand into one of the solid posts by your hammock. The other, however, jabs his fist hard into Maximillian's ribs, causing three damage. Roll the d4-3 for damage and then let me know your next action.

My goal here is to play it straight, let Max think what he wants to think.  He has no idea these two men were ordered by the Captain to come collect him, just as a gangster would send a couple of boys around to your house to pick you up, if you annoyed him.  There are some "big" clues I'm giving; these are absurdly big fellows, with big fists, who are too big to be threatened by a little pipsqueak like Max ... and they're not using weapons.  Moreover, they haven't tried to silence Max, either. Max knows he's probably going to lose, but in true D&D fashion, he's not going down without a fight ...

Maximillian: Not stunned, hp: 17. My next action is still dependent on their positions, as I'm trying to get free of the hammock and put it between me and the one with the big fists. I'm fine with moving towards the other one if that's what it takes to do so.

DM: Reading that as trying to free yourself from grappling, Maximillian, please roll a d20.

Maximillian: d20: 18.

DM: Maximillian manages to squirm out of his hammock, drop to the floor and get to where his back is against the bulkhead.  He can see now the two men. They're both huge. You've seen them before over the past few days - they seem to spend a lot of time near the Captain.

"Slippery fellow, isn't he?" says one, rubbing his sore hand.

"Yeah," says the other flatly. He draws out a belaying pin from his belt. "But the Captain said bring 'im, and she said bring 'im bruised. And I ain't convinced yet he's bruised enough."

They move around the bunk and Maximillian will need to roll initiative. A d6 please.

Now, I've got to say, Max is doing a pretty good job here.  I described the scene at the start as two guys grabbing him; he's managed to free himself from one with a poke on the jaw and above he rolls well and gets free from the other one.  He's using the scene around him to preserve himself; there's a good sense of space and investment in his character and situation.  So the scene has been fun. As such, I felt it was a good time to tip my hand.  I have the two guys banter light-heartedly; they're clearly not angry.  And one says outright that the Captain sent them.  But as I'm DMing, I have to keep on two hats: the one where I am role-playing the two sailors, and one where I am handling the technical side of the game.  I ask Max for an initiative roll ... but at the same time, I fully expect he's going to realize, "Oh, this isn't what I thought it was; maybe I should find out what the Captain wants ..." Max doesn't, though.  Instead he rolls initiative:

Maximillian: d6: 3.

Which leaves me no choice.  I've got to play my end as DM.  I know what the Captain wants, but these two guys have their orders.  I want to say, "Max buddy, just take a few bruises and give in."  Instead, I have to roll initiative.

DM:  The boys are going to roll a 4. They advance towards Maximillian, pins in hand - and a voice behind them says, "That's enough."

It's the boatswain, and he says, "Jacobo, he's bruised enough. Take him to the Captain and let's get on with this."

The men move to seize Maximillian.

Yes, then I realized there was a cheap trope I could use to get out of beating the druid into the deck.  Have a bigger authority show up and stop it. We've seen this in a thousand TV shows ~ but it works. So there's some catching up with the rest of the party, I let them get involved a bit, Maximillian gives in and the party gives him a few concerning comments.  The fighter, Ahmet, has put it together I think, as he says,

Ahmet: "Your heathenish love of drink has caused this," Ahmet mutters at Maximillian.

But that's all he says.  And after a few more words, including that the player behind Maximillian announces his real life engagement, we pick up the scene again:

DM: Maximillian finds himself brought to the Captain's cabin - which is, after all, only twenty feet away - and the party in tow, the door not closed to hide what is going on. All will see the first and second mates, along with the ship's steward, standing side by side - not looking at all comfortable. There's a man who's back is turned to the party, standing in the center of the cabin, and the Captain appears to be have been interrupted while redressing him.

She looks at Maximillian and says to her men, "Bring him here!" in a very forthright manner.

Maximillian is pushed forward, to stand beside the other man.

"Do you know this man?" The captain asks Maximillian, pointing at the other.

Maximillian does. He was one of the men eager to have some of Maximillian's ale, earlier. At the moment, the man looks a bit drunk ... however, none took more than a few swallows of Maximillian's ale.

Maximillian: "Good ... evening, Madam Captain. I have made his acquaintance as a member of your crew."

Lukas: Lukas cringes slightly at Maximillian's flippant greeting and response.

Lukas is quite right in his observation.  At this point, I'm wondering myself if Maximillian has caught on.  But I have a whole dialogue set up in my head, and so far he's done nothing to derail it.  Of course, the opportunity is there; Max could say something clever, or reasonable, or intuitive ... but for that, he's going to have to think faster than he apparently is. I'm doing my best as DM to give him clues.  The Captain is angry but polite.  She's forthright, not furious.  It's the crewman that pushes him forward; the Captain doesn't ask for this.  She has been dressing down a member of the crew.  It's not obvious, but the dressing down is for drinking.  The man is described as "a bit drunk."  If you look "a bit drunk" in the Captain's presence, you ARE drunk.  It seems probable that Max hasn't put this together, however.  That might be for a number of reasons:  the life experience of the player, a lack of personal experiences with military practice (even criminal military practice), which demands a certain structural hierarchy. The man was eager to have some of Maximillian's ale.  Am I at fault because I didn't role-play this earlier?  Absolutely not.  What would you expect to have the crewmen be?  Not eager?  And I did say the men were "pleased as punch," which was Maximillian's intention.  There's no reason in the world that he, his character, would have singled out a single person as notably more eager than any other, unless I, as DM, made it obvious as hell by drawing attention to it. This is a difficult tightrope to walk.  You can't put a neon sign on every part of the campaign without flatly ruining the mystery ~ and drawing excessive attention to anything as DM, the Immortal GOD of the universe (at least as far as being the only voice that describes it) is sure to kill it. As DM, you've got to say as little as possible, less than a little if necessary, to promote a sense that the world is a big, stressful place, full of uncertain conflict.  I needed to downplay the giving of the drink, so that I could up-play later why it was a very bad, bad thing to do. That said, part of my plan was that no bad thing could happen to Max.  Yes, I was blind-siding him a bit, and yes the Captain was pissed, and yes it all looked very threatening ... but unless Max did something truly stupid, like grab a weapon of some kind and try to fight the Captain, he was safe.  At worst, he'd get a talking to, a little public shaming.  Practically the right of the Captain to do that: it is what every figure in power does, without hesitation.  Max, however, made it a little easier.  It became clear that he felt wronged, though technically he was responsible for doing something stupid (handing out grog) ... which took awhile to beat into him.

DM: "And did you give him strong drink?" demands the Captain.

Maximillian: "Madam, I provided for this sailor the same as I provided to the other off-duty sailors, what meager ale I had to share. I cannot take responsibility for his current state."

Andrej: "That is to say, I'm sure the small amount Maximillian gave was not enough to result in such a stupor."

I expect the cleric, Andrej, to jump in and defend his party member.  But it is clear that neither has grasped yet what a serious problem grog can be aboard a 17th century seagoing vessel.  Note that Maximillian does not even call Captain Salvador, "Captain."  He calls her, "Madam."  That's a strong sign that he just isn't getting it. I could have had the Captain go at the cleric, or berate Maximillian for his error, but I've seen a lot of military movies, so I knew just how to handle this scene from a dramatic perspective.

DM: "Steward!" says the Captain. "Who here is responsible for allocating the rations allowed the sailors aboard this ship?"

The Steward: "I am, Captain!"

The Captain: "And who approves those rations?"

"You do, Captain!"

The Captain looks at Maximillian. "And are you aware that this man -" she points at the apparently inebriated sailor standing beside the druid; "- suffers from a condition where the slightest amount of alcohol renders him DRUNK?"

Lukas: Bites his lip stifling a comment.

Maximillian: "No, Captain."

DM: Still to Maximillian: "Did you clear it with the Steward before adding to this man's rations?"

Maximillian: "No Captain."

DM: "Did you clear it with ME?"

Maximillian: "No, Captain.  Did he?"

It's a great scene.  It would play out well in a film.  The Captain is beating the hell out of Maximillian ... and what can the player do, really?  She runs the ship, the room is full of pirates, the party depends on the ship to get to their destination and the fact is, SHE is in control here.  She must be obeyed.

But Max can plainly feel the pressure.  Playing this on the blog, a half hour passes between each of his answers.  And the last plainly has a back-talking statement in it ... which, frankly, I still don't understand.

What happened, however, was that the player behind Max jumped into a discussion about rules for arbitrating conflicts between player characters and NPCs ... which was clearly a compulsive derailment of the tension of the scene.  Even as we go over it now, the reader can feel the tension.  If you, as player, were on this particular carpet, you'd goddamn feel it.  If you have military experience, you probably HAVE been pulled up on a carpet like this.

Not all "role-play" is stupid, silly joking.  Actual hard-core role-play can be downright unpleasant, stressful ... and uniquely memorable.  Speaking for my own campaigns, I don't always get players who appreciate this approach: but I am a lover not just of humor, but of drama too.  Drama is where the rubber of my role-playing sessions, such as the one described here, meet the road.

So, after pulling Max back from his derailing discussion of rules, frankly telling him that he's stepping out of character because of the tension, I get back to it, picking up the Captain's words (I had her ignore his last statement, because it didn't make sense]:

DM: "If you want to take on the privileges of being Captain and bestowing on my crew whatever you like, you can experience the other part of it too. Bos'n - take seaman Praest to the bottom hold and chain him. He can have two dozen lashes in the morning. And have Mr. Boii sit with him overnight and make sure he's comfortable."

To the druid she'll say, "I'll make sure you get a good look in the morning. Now get out!"

Maximillian Boii [his full name] is more or less being let off the hook.  A night in the brig as a companion to a man, named Praest, whom Max has just helped consign to a tortuous whipping, could be an opportunity to role-play a lot of different things: contrition, a promise to preserve the victim, a decision to seek revenge against the Captain if the man dies, or perhaps to bring news to the man's family of his fate.  Most of all, just to make the man's hours before the whipping more cheerful and decent. Instead, the response is this:

Maximillian: As we're being lead away, I express my displeasure to the sailor. "A fine way to repay a kindness, wretch."

That's very small of him.  And so I let Max have it right in the eye:

DM: The Bos'n, who's leading you down to the bottom of the ship, remarks, "This man's about to take a whipping for you, because you never took account of where you are and what it takes to manage a ship. You think we came through the last storm by luck and a prayer? The Captain's discipline brought us through it, and you saunter along the decks as though these men are your personal gamesmen to play with. They're HER men, you supercilious fool ... and when you watch this one die on the rack tomorrow, you might give a thought to what your thoughtless temptation has lost this ship!"

The Boatswain is not cheerful about what's about to happen.  In truth, the Captain probably isn't cheerful about it either.  She isn't doing it out of malice or anger; if she's angry at anything, it's that this situation is out of her control.  She has to punish the man, and she has to make it hurt, to send the message that when she gives an order, it means something. I have to hand it to Maximillian, however.  He came right back with an excellent poem, and a message about the effectiveness of the sequence we've just examined.

Maximillian: 

"Bourne to Praest was ale

To wet his lips with thanks.

Wretched Praest grew pale

No thought for steadfast ranks.

Blind to fate he mustn't be

Knowing blows she bring'st he.

Bear his burdens now must we

When his temptations snared me."

I applaud you, Alexis. That sequence was exactly what should have happened. I've read enough sea-stories that I really should have seen it coming, but I was completely taken off guard, and that really built tension as I went through the stages of incomprehension to indignation to resignation. At first I thought this was a mugging, and I was going to be dumped overboard.

I don't put this forward as evidence of my DMness.  I want the reader to understand has this formula is accomplished.  You watch a lot of movies, read a lot of books, put together why characters are motivated to do this or that.  You see the world through the eyes of the various people: through the sailor who just wants a drink, through the two men sent to arrest a passenger by an angry Captain, through a boatswain who loves his Captain but sees where all this is going and hates it and through a Captain whose hands are tied ... and you pull these characters together to create a situation that doesn't actually harm the player character, but does provide insight, opportunity for growth, an experience of excitement and emotion, and overall a game that can be both predicted ["I should have seen it coming] and nearly completely impossible to understand ["I thought this was a mugging."]