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Exposition.
BARBARIAN VS. HOBBIT: Robert E. Howard, J.R.R. Tolkien and the fantasy gaming genre
When we think about the fantasy genre, whether in a gaming context or otherwise, our thoughts usually are filtered through J.R.R. Tolkien's remarkable, genre-defining vision. The Lord of the Rings has shaped the entire fantasy genre, and people's notions of it ever since Tolkien's work took root in the collective consciousness - even before Peter Jackson’s film epic faithfully (for the most part; true believers may disagree) adapting Tolkien's work for the masses.
But is Tolkien's work really a very good template to build games, game settings and role-playing game themes around?
Fat Aragorn vs. Flying Head: the early editions of Lord of the Rings don't really emphasize them as heroic fantasy.
In this essay I will offer a personal view - a case, if you will - for Robert E. Howard and how to consider his somewhat overlooked impact on the fantasy genre. His impact, especially, when we consider fantasy-themed games.
A full disclosure at first, to confess my shameful lack of expertize in the topic discussed. Firstly, I've never quite finished reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. And secondly, while I have read Howard's work, it has been quite a while since I really read his prose. I am more familiar with adaptations of Howard's work which, again, have often been faithful to the source.
So I am a rube, a layman, an armchair literary scholar here. But I have done some research, contemplation and introspection and my claim is as follows:
When thinking about running a role-playing game set in the fantasy genre, the players or designers planning the game, should look at Howard's work just as much as they look at Tolkien's, for inspiration.
Tell me this does not look like a two-bit D&D scenario from the early 80s.
What does it mean, then, if Tolkien's work sets the template for your fantasy game or story? The reason I am addressing the issue is the fact I consider different campaign templates and found the one I really rather dislike. The template which I, as a player, must accept and work around to find my enjoyment in the game. And it is the template of the Quest to Stop the End of the World.
I will write in detail, later, about why a role-playing campaign where the stake is the end of the world is, at its heart, boring. But if one would use Tolkien as an inspiration for a game framework, one would default to a story of a group of unlikely heroes going after some quest, to stop some evil power from rising and laying this fantasy world to waste.
But how many games you would actually want to play are about this? Consider Frodo, the ostensible main character of Lord of the Rings. He is, basically, a hapless peasant (or a rural landowner, if we look at the subtle ways Tolkien establishes Shire as a class society), guided by greater and more experienced heroes to be a TOOL to resolve this threatening end-of-the-world scenario. Do Frodo and his vertically-challenged chums really have much of a say in the story? They may have doubts, yes, but we know from the very start of the narrative what is at stake here. And if Frodo does not comply, the world is LOST. What choice does he ever have, really?
(As an aside, an old webcomic called DM of the Rings takes the piss out of this set-up marvellously, imagining Lord of the Rings as a role-playing game with the Tolkienesque GM forcing the protesting players on one path and drowning them in detailed backstory. The author, Shamus Young, uses screencaps of Jackson's adaptions to create a "fumetti" which is actually pretty funny at its best.)
I'd rather play Mechwarrior, too.
Would you like to play as Frodo? I would not. I would have little agency over the game world, only the most trivial decisions to make while playing this hapless midget farmer from Nowhere-Ville, Middle-Earth, who is thrust on this quest while the endgame would be decided for me without even asking me: get the Magic Ring to the Magic Volcano, or the world is lost.
If you are given that "choice", what are you going to do? This is not really an interesting motivation for any character. But yet, so many - so very, very many! - fantasy stories, in games or otherwise, begin with the same premise. The premise being "do this one thing or it's the END OF THE WORLD". It's perhaps alluring for a game master or a game writer, planning their game, to set the stakes high to motivate the players to action.
But this is not terribly interesting, is it? You do a thing which you are told to do at the very start of the story, or it's the end of the world and everything you'll do in the story has been, basically, for nothing.
Let us then consider, in contrast, Conan the Barbarian, Robert E. Howard's most famous creation. Conan is the ultimate opportunist. An occasional mercenary, an adventurer motivated by his desire for battle and gold - and occasionally just motivated by his base desires for simple pleasure.
Conan is the character almost anyone making a character for a fantasy setting makes first, if they don't know anything more than to make an "adventurer". The archetype which Conan represents is present at the very first role-playing games ever made.
I SUPPOSE one can make an argument about Conan as a power fantasy as well.
Never in Howard's stories are the stakes more than local. There may be an evil magical bastard plotting away in the stories, but their plots, if successful, will ruin the city or land Conan is at. Never do they explicitly threaten to destroy EVERYTHING. Usually Conan is seduced to do an intervention by the fact there is money to be had, or perhaps some attractive wench will offer her graces if Conan chooses to battle whatever evil scumbag is scheming away where he is. If he were to walk away? The world would still continue to spin, sun would rise from the east and set to the west, even if one of the many Hyborian kingdoms would implode due to magical bastardry. Conan has no predetermined destiny and no overarching quest to tie his story together, even if there are emerging themes in Conan stories which give them their distinctive flavour.
(As an aside about attractive wenches: Howard was something of a stick-in-the-mud man of his time and occasionally wrote rather poor depictions of women in his stories, but he did also have female agency in these stories as well. On a couple of occasions, Conan would meet women that were his equals which, and if we consider the fact Howard wrote in the 1920s, is somewhat impressive and a trait which endears him to me somewhat.)
Not that I'd call any Conan story exactly a feminist masterpiece either.
Conan does not fight metaphysical dangers, and he always has - seemingly, at least - a choice to intervene or not.
This? This is the very essence of a role-playing game adventure, and a dynamic game setting. There are dangers and evil about, but protagonist is motivated by other, more relatable things than the generic catch-all of "doing good". And every time the protagonist has - seemingly, at least - a choice whether to risk his life or not.
And trust me when I say that I don't claim that Frodo is absent doubt or conflict as a protagonist. No, a lot of space in Lord of the Rings is dedicated to Frodo's (and, by extension, Samwise's) very personal struggle. This is, at its best, thrilling stuff where the underdog heroes must fight their own doubts and fears as well as magical beasts. But in the narrative, they don't do much else, do they? Lord of the Rings is the story of a singular quest. Even while Tolkien is prone to digressions and prosaic flights of fancy, the story is the quest. And the quest is, ultimately, the story.
If we look at the very first Dungeons & Dragons books published, you will find a list of influences written down in the appendixes. What is very curious here, is that Tolkien is not mentioned AT ALL. This is odd because Gary Gygax, the man often associated to being the mastermind behind D&D, and his co-writers seemingly stole everything but the kitchen sink from Tolkien. In the very first iterations of the game you'll find orcs, hobbits (halflings), treants and elves and a multitude of other elements taken DIRECTLY from Tolkien's seminal work. Of course we must remember that when D&D was first published, Tolkien was still very much alive. One can speculate that Gygax and company did not want to draw the attention of Tolkien, being Americans ever fearful of being sued. But the fact remains that the very essence of D&Ds setting was heavily influenced by Tolkien, up to the point of plagiarism.
Robert E. Howard is, however, mentioned as the very first influence in those early D&D books - the number one on a long list. Gygax also lists Howard as a personal inspiration when discussing D&D. Now, we must remember that Gary Gygax grew up reading dog-eared pulp magazines given to him by his father. The VERY SAME trashy, disposable pulp magazines which provided Howard his meager salary when he threw himself into writing. So: the creator of the role-playing genre grew up reading about Conan the Barbarian. And while he was involved in publishing the very first role-playing game in the 70's, Lord of the Rings was fairly new, being a book published in the 60's. Gygax and his colleagues might have stolen from Tolkien, but for Gygax it was Howard that SHAPED him as a child. It is both easy and difficult to imagine Gygax's childhood and youth in the 1960s. For a younger reader it might be difficult to imagine a time when fantasy fiction was so very scarce and not at all as mainstream as it is now, in the 2010s. But even a child of 1980s, a time when fantastical fiction was still very much at the margins of culture, can relate to the fantastic feeling of discovery Gygax must have had when diving into those pulp stories, the stories old even then.
I do like to visualize, when I write this, young Gygax under his blanket, reading trashy pulp magazines already falling apart, illuminating yellowed pages with his flashlight. And how the ideas would take root in this impressionable child's mind, driving him later to indulge in more elaborate flights of fancy and to help create a whole gaming genre.
Ironically, there was a supplement published to D&D in 1984 that was set directly into Hyboria, the fantasy land of Howard's Conan and it was not very well-received. One critic did not feel Conan was a good template for a D&D scenario at all, due to the lack of magic and exciting monsters:
"Conan and D&D go together like peanut butter and tuna fish—it can be done, but you can bet there's going to be a funny taste." -Rick Swan, from his review in The Space Gamer
We can only suppose he never read the appendixes of those old D&D editions.
If we consider Howard and Tolkien, and put their lives on a timeline, one can notice a startling fact. When Howard was born, Tolkien was already 14 years old. And by the time Howard died, Tolkien had not published (or perhaps even written) any fiction. So the entire life and literary work of the man who is said to have created the so-called "sword and sorcery" genre begun and was over by the time Tolkien, a middle-aged man then, begun his own literary career. Both men shaped fantasy fiction but while Tolkien persisted and took his time with his epics, Howard burnt out brightly, and quickly.
There is only one reference to Tolkien ever even having known who Howard was. We must remember here that they were separated by both time, geography, culture and by the fact Howard become a well-known writer only posthumously. L. Sprague de Camp, the occasionally-criticized author of a study on Howard, met Tolkien once and in conversation, Tolkien mentions having read a story by Howard and, to quote, "rather liked it".
And that, perhaps, everything that links these two authors. The two persons that shaped what we consider "fantasy" nowadays may have worked in complete isolation relative to each other. The amalgam we nowadays see as the fantasy genre was not created in the same cultural context, but separately, and its modern version may well be amalgamation which was created in games, via Gygax and the like.
They were very different creatures, these two landmark creators. Howard is, in retrospect, a very much of a tragic character - for reasons I will get to later in this article. Bullied as a "sissy boy" in his youth, it is seen that he retreated into heroic tales of manly men of action in his prose. But this, I feel, is an oversimplification. Howard came from a time when in America, mostly untouched by the horror of the Great War, still considered war and fighting a manly and elevating pursuit. The fantasy of the superior fighting man was very much in the national psyche (look at president Teddy Roosevelt and his pre-Great War worldview, if you doubt me), and to this psyche Howard catered, with his stories of violent and righteous men. And he was not likely your stereotypical skinny nerd, either. Howard was a boxer - a very popular national sport at the time when he was young - and by looking at some of the photos of him, he looks more like a thug than a poet. I may be he was attempting to physically be what he wrote about.
"Top of the world, ma."
Tolkien, however, was very much a fighting man - in a way, the kind Howard may have dreamt of being himself. He was, however, a somewhat reluctant soldier, bullied himself in 1915 when he was not on the front while his countrymen were. Tolkien was dragged to the trenches of the Great War with some reluctance, and he came out even more of a pacifist he was when he hesitantly enlisted. Some of the horror that Tolkien saw during his time in the trenches as an officer, throwing young men into the insatiable machine of death that the First World War, has been claimed of having seeped into the story of Lord of the Rings. A writer more poetic than I once drew these parallels and said, to paraphrase, that in both Lord of the Rings and the Great War, heroes set off to fight a battle that will leave them changed beyond repair. Metaphorically, we can see Frodo as a war veteran at the end to the story, sailing off from his homeland because he has become too changed, corrupted even, to have a normal life anymore.
Let us pause here, and consider. Tolkien wrote a bittersweet but ultimately optimistic story about perseverance of the "little people" against adversity. And he likely sent a number of men, the real life "little people", to their deaths. He may have killed people himself. He nearly died of disease in a hell made by men, for men, provided by then-modern murder technology. (This technology, we must note here, which was very much fantastical at the time it was introduced.) Howard glorified battle and manly tests of strength and willpower. And his closest brushes with violence were the bullying he suffered, the likely violent environment of Texas in the early 20th century, and punches thrown and received in the boxing ring.
It is said there are no atheists in the foxholes. But it can also be said that there are none that believe in the glory of battle in the ranks of those intimately involved in a modern war.
But I have no intention of painting Howard as a villain here. He was, very much, a man of his time, and his pulp fiction spoke to the audience of the age. Unlike Europe, America was not traumatized by the Great War and the myth of the war as an adventure prevailed still. (And it may still prevail, as America as a nation has never had to persevere through industrialized mass murder as Europe has; which Europe has done more than once.) To this audience, Howard offered many thrills with his subtly simple but elegant prose. Compared to Tolkien Howard was also the less educated one, self-taught in history but no professor like Tolkien. Some have described the American author as a "Texas yahoo" which may or may not be fair. Contrast him to the Very English Gentleman Tolkien was and you again can see two men of very different worlds.
A Very English Gentleman is never pictured absent his trusty pipe.
Howard however, despite the horror Tolkien saw and participated in, remains the more tragic of these two figures. To generalize, Tolkien led a happy life. He married the love of his life, led a successful and content academic career and died an old man, likely at peace. Tolkien was an orphan and a war veteran, but he persevered, late in his life blooming into a wonderful fiction writer. Howard's life was overshadowed by an uncaring father, and a mother he was, according to some interpretations, almost Norman-Bates-esquely attached to. He never saw respect for his literary efforts when he lived (apart from other writers working in the pulp genre) and he never married, even though he had one long courtship that seems to have mellowed the bitter Howard greatly. When his mother died, Howard left this world soon after with the barrel of a gun in his mouth as a man aged 30.
On a lighter note, Tolkien and Howard were both, as we would see them now, just incredible NERDS. Men devoted to detail - or perhaps OBSESSION - over the fiction they threw themselves into.
To go back to our gaming reference, Tolkien is your archetypical over-planning game master. After all, he wrote an ENTIRE MADE-UP LANGUAGE for Lord of the Rings, based on his research - perhaps even before he wrote his books. He fussed over the details of his fantasy world to the extent that books detailing his background work were published long after he had died.
Howard can be seen as the negative nerd stereotype: a loner living with his mother, with seemingly poor interpersonal skills. But this is, again, perhaps a misinterpretation or at least an oversimplification. Howard was said to have enjoyed listening to stories told by others up to the point it was his favourite pastime. He may have been introverted, but he had a keen interest in people, spoken history and, it was told, an encyclopedic knowledge of history onto which he based his fiction. He was a person that was ATTRACTED to go out and seek out other people and hear their tales, even if he may have been the quiet sort. Also, while Howard may seem to be a pulp writer that got paid by the word, his fantasy fiction was based on his research into the myths and ancient history he so keenly studied. It may have been that Howard's fantasy worlds were as elaborately planned as Tolkien's, but he never let it show, unlike Tolkien, whose apocrypha is available to read for all, in the form Silmarillion and the like.
As a side note here, both of these writers of a bygone age are people I could see myself inviting for dinner. Consider Tolkien: the scholar and likely a kind, attentive, soft-spoken man. And consider Howard, while prone to introversion, a keen listener and man knowing many obscure facts - especially facts learnt word-to-mouth about his homeland Texas. Most of these facts are likely lost to history as Howard, sadly, never lived long enough to put to paper all he learnt while listening to his countrymen. I could imagine them being lovely company in this fantasy dinner party scenario. Contrast them to H. P. Lovecraft, another great influence to fantasy fiction and gaming who - despite his undeniable skill in worldbuilding and prose - seems more like simply an insufferable cretin of a human being.
“One more mention of biologically inferior races and it’s no dessert for you.”
As YET another side note, Howard and Lovecraft led very much parallel lives, writing to same magazines and even corresponding much with each other, with Howard expressing his admiration to Lovecraft at certain points. But whereas Howard seems to have grown as a person throughout his life, Lovecraft remained a racist and a bigot to the grave: his life paints perhaps even more of a miserable picture than Howard's. However it may be, both of these pulp-era writers left their undeniable mark in western popular culture, and both remain giant influences in the gaming genre to this day; Lovecraft nowadays more recognized than Howard, due to more heirs-to-the-throne in the sword and sorcery genre, than compared to Lovecraft's cosmic-horror genre with which he remains synonymous with.
Fantasy genre seems forever engaged in a dialogue with the past. For Tolkien, this was a dialogue with myths like Beowulf and other folklore. For Howard, it was dialogue with actual history and the myths of ancient lost (and mostly fictional) civilizations as presented by Helena Blavatsky and other obscurists popular during Howard's time.
To those writers that followed them, the fantasy genre is a dialogue as much with their predecessors than it is with history and myth. Modern fantasy master George R. R. Martin may be seen as a revisionist, but his prose is deeply influenced by Tolkien, as is his meticulous world-building. Even though Martin's story has shocking violence rooted in his historical inspiration - lending from the War of the Roses and other past events - the story in the Song of Ice and Fire is very much a tale of magic, prophecy, fate and the end of the world. Other contemporaries like Joe Abercrombie, while (arguably) less masterful in his prose, attacks Tolkien more head-on, with the magical destinies in his stories proving to be lies at best or at their worst, containing unknowable horror best left unearthed.
And what of the fantasy genre in gaming? It remains ever overshadowed by Gygax and his contemporaries, with Dungeons & Dragons remaining, after over 40 years after its publication, the defining and still most popular work in the genre. Most fantasy games, be they board games, role-playing games or computer games, are in dialogue with the framework set up by Gygax, by the way of Howard and Tolkien.
In my opinion, if there is one thing we can learn from Howard, the often overlooked and unintended father of the sword and sorcery genre (whatever it really means - a 100 years on the jury appears to still be out), it is the power of brevity.
Tolkien had all the time in the world to create his fantasy epic. As a struggling pulp fiction writer, Howard had none: if he did not come up with a new story that particular week, he would starve. He had to put out prose or he would be forced to beg for food to live.
And it has been said that Howard had a unique talent to paint a great picture with only a few words. This? This is a wonderful talent to have as a game master; a wonderful experience to have as a player. Instead of spending time to set the scene, a master storyteller like Howard will offer the most basic details in such a way that it inspires all that hear to explore further. Tolkien may be the father of world-building in the fantasy genre as we see it today, but Howard was a writer that left you wanting for more - and left you to fill in the blanks, very much like a good GM running a role-playing game would. In his brevity he created a framework I can see young Gygax - again, under his blanket as a child - wanting to know more and throw himself more deeply into this fantasy world, to the point he had to make one up himself to sate his curiosity.
I dare say any game master working in the fantasy genre could learn from Howard, this supposed father of the sword and sorcery genre. Tolkien's stories are of burden and responsibility while Howard's tales offer fantasies of freedom and adventure. The latter, in my mind, provides a more alluring thematic set-up for a game.
In the one Dungeons & Dragons campaign I ran as dungeon master I used - perhaps morbidly - the words of Howard's suicide note as an incantation to activate a doomsday weapon the player characters had. In the note found in Howard's typewriter after he died, he quoted a poem by Viola Garvin (a woman, again, we must note, for a man sometimes accused of misogyny). The quote reads as follows:
"All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre; The feast is over and the lamps expire."
Run Long: Finding Inspiration as the Game Master
Don't be afraid to end your campaign when you feel it's done - even if it is far sooner than you originally planned.
If we go back to the race horse analogy, a campaign may sometimes become lame - and so, the pastures call. Or if we use another analogy I am fond of, think of your campaign like a television series. Envision game sessions like episodes, with twists and turns and the occasional cliffhanger. A series of session form a "season", and all your seasons together the entirety of your "series."
When I break down a campaign into these seasons, I try to find some element within the game framework to tie the season together. For Black Crusade it was each "pact" the players forged - in the rules, a pact is a long-term plan with with a scope and set of goals - what also set the scope of one season. In my current King Arthur Pendragon campaign, it's each pseudo-historical era in the game, from King Uther to the Anarchy period after his death and to the rise of the Boy King, and so forth. The exact length of the seasons vary, but the end of each season offers a chance to shake things up, or even decide to end the whole game.
When planning this, think of yourself perhaps as a television producer. After each season, you take note whether your show was popular, and what were elements that worked this season and which did not, and take this into consideration when planning your next season. Maybe emphasize a certain element, maybe use less of something else. You may have your "cast" change: after every season I try to convey to my players that this is a natural jumping-off point. If they want to stop playing, there's no shame in it and now is the good time to step back - and perhaps come back later if they like. And here you can also try and get new players to your roster, to be introduced as new characters when the next season of your game begins.
It can also be a good chance to announce that the show has been cancelled.
No shame in this, either. Some horses go lame, some television shows get the axe. Whatever your favourite analogy may be, there is little sense in keep running a game that you or your players don't find that interesting anymore.
We here at the photo editorial of the Superheated Room have been tasked to illustrate the article with stock photos. Here, the papers symbolize ideas worth letting go. The bucket symbolizes constraints the GM sets to their own creativity.
I've done this at least once, after some deliberation and with somewhat a heavy heart. My 2300AD campaign I ran in 2014 was around 10 sessions long when I cancelled it. I did have an advantage, with the game going on a break anyway, as I moved to another country for half a year. So I had half a year to consider whether to continue this game, and I did chat with my players whether they wanted to go back to this particular setting. Some did, some others didn't. But perhaps it was the half-a-year break that made me consider whether to go on or not, and with this relatively long time I had, I could see that running this particular game had become more stressful that I liked, and I didn't have a roadmap with which to make it enjoyable for myself anymore.
I luckily had the foresight to plan ahead so that when the last session of this first (and only) 10-session season was over, most ongoing conflicts in the game had been resolved, and the players were given in-game information of how much they had accomplished, and what sort of impact they had had in game world. (As noted before, their impact on the world was celebrated here, in the very last session.) So letting this story go was, in that retrospect, easy.
But I still had a heavy heart, as this particular campaign had some of my best innovations I have had as a GM applied into it, and, at its best, had a great sense of progress and accomplishment for me. A sense which at least some of the players seemed to share. And 2300AD is, as a setting, one of my absolute favourite fictional worlds in the gaming genre. I may write about these innovations I mentioned and about this wonderful sci-fi-setting at length at some future point, but now I will only summarize: the campaign had some the absolutely most memorable moments I've ever had as a GM, but as a whole, it just didn't have legs anymore.
So I let it go, and moved to something else. And I did this knowingly: the game ended, instead of just disappearing like many games do. In this way, I enjoyed a small measure of catharsis, and could let go of the lingering thoughts about returning to the game: the could-haves and should-haves.
But how, then, can you keep this from happening?
To return to the original point, to keep a campaign going for a long period of time needed to wrestle these mammoth games to the finish line, it must be interesting to YOU, the GM, to make it interesting to the players.
Again, there is no easy one thing here you can do keep yourself interested. And some GMs may not even consider this, as - and I, again, generalize here - the GM is the most INVOLVED of all the players. During your typical session, the GM is always interacting and engaged in the game, whereas some players may be left with nothing to contribute at a given time. The GM must listen to the players at all times, respond to their input and offer input in return. And during this intense interaction, the GM may not realize two things: that some of his players aren't very engaged in the story, and that the GM themselves may not actually be enjoying this very much at all.
Introspection like this can be very difficult due to the immersive nature of the GM experience. And the discourse here, in our gaming genre, doesn't traditionally consider this much. In the common discourse the GM is seen as many things, from an all-powerful antagonistic figure to a facilitator of the players' game experience. One discourse emphasises the GM's perceived "power" to make "rocks fall" wherein "everyone dies". Another discusses their "duty" wherein the long-suffering GM must put up with his "crazy" players "ruining his plots." These are gross generalizations here, I know, and based on genre-specific humour, again based on stereotypes.
But this is a game, and it is not so often consider that for all the duty and power the GM has, they are doing this because it gives them some measure of DELIGHT. As a GM, I must be a raconteur, a human calculator and a lawyer all at once and I would not do it, if I wasn't just ENTHRALLED by the experience; if I was not captivated by it.
The box is your campaign. The hat is joy you must find in running it. The man in the box is under your bed, listening as you sleep.
And I usually am. Running a fine campaign and seeing my players have fun is very rewarding. It is, I dare say, one of the best things in the world.
But this exhilaration of running a game must be found, lest your campaign become stale and boring. And this is where this comes so subjective, so reliant to each GM and their experience, that I cannot discuss it in detail. I can, frankly, hardly discuss it at all.
I can, however, say this: in a similar way you try and engage your players with the things they enjoy, you must try and discover the thing which gives you, the GM, a great measure of JOY, and keep that thing in the game, to keep the game intriguing for you.
I'll offer two things, one specific, one generic, of things that have given me joy as a GM, and have kept me running these very long campaigns to their respective ends.
The specific thing here takes us back to Rogue Trader and, yes, HUGE SPACESHIPS. I love those things. I really, really do. In Rogue Trader, the players' ship is both a character and a setting in its own right. The players put together their ship at character creation and for the most part, the ship serves as both their vehicle but also their home. This gives the space combat system in the game interesting stakes, as every time the PCs risk a space battle, they take their base or operations - their home! - to wage war, and possibly have pieces of it blown off.
And I was very fond of the mechanical system of space war in Rogue Trader. Planning encounters and testing the players' wits in besting the challenges I had planned for them was one of the things I enjoyed the most in running this game.
As I mentioned before, I ran Rogue Trader twice to two different groups. The majority of the other group shared my enthusiasm for the space combat system. They would tweak with their ship, plan tactics and maneuvers (up to the point they had NAMES for some the maneuvers they performed!) and had assigned roles to their characters during these engagements. This was ideal for me, as one the aspects of the game that kept me so enthralled by the campaign was also shared by the players. We had a lot of space war going on and we loved it.
The other group, however, just HATED this system. Every time I rolled out the battle map and my little starship tokens there was an audible groan around the table. Cell phones would come out as they'd check Face-Tweeter or Insta-Scope or whatever people do on the Internet these days. They were more attracted to the other game elements; they liked the campaign, but were bored by the game-within-a-game ship-to-ship combat which, to them, was just a chore. So naturally I didn't do this very often: I couldn't really enjoy applying this system I liked very much, because I was the only one really involved in it. So it was resigned to the background of the campaign. Luckily, there were many other things going on in the campaign to keep me engaged.
So do consider the game you are running, the systems and themes offered and pick those that appeal to you as a GM. Test them out with your players, and if the response is positive, work to include more of these enjoyable things into your game.
As for the more generic things to keep yourself as the GM involved - well: this is another occasion for introspection. There are no easy answers here that work for all but you can try and think back to your previous game sessions and attempt remember what it was there that had you most involved and, most of all, ATTENTIVE to what your players were doing? What was the moment you were at the edge of your seat, trying to keep your poker face, listening with great interest what the players and their characters would do next? Find that element and foster it the best you can.
Speaking generically, for me the element of SURPRISE has for long been the most sought-after thing in the games I run. Whenever something I never foresaw emerges from the in-game story I am just FASCINATED. In those moments it feels the campaign has taken a life of its own, and it challenges me to respond, to think of how the game world will react to this new exciting element introduced. The surprise may be a player character's unexpected decision, or something as simple as an unlikely die roll resulting in something novel and unforeseen. Be what it may, but I try and embrace these moments when I encounter them and weave them into the larger story in the game the best I can.
"Emergent stories" or "emergent storytelling" are terms often bandied about to describe this process of the collaborative narrative presenting unplanned developments. And I am a devout spokesman for this emergence: I try and never be afraid to just throw all the plans I have in the trash to facilitate unplanned but still meaty, interesting developments.
The goggles are emergence. The corn is ... your super-ego? We give up.
One of the methods I use to foster the element of surprise is the application of a "metagame" framework that feeds from and into the live role-playing campaign. Usually this means having a game that is played online in the same game world the player characters inhabit, with these two games interacting in meaningful ways. I will, I believe, write about applying an online game to enrichen the role-playing experience and to create an unpredictable, interactive experience. I will not write about it now, however. But I will say that after realizing how much I enjoyed being surprised, I created several different game frameworks that all but ASSURED that I was going to be surprised game session after game session.
When I run a game, I try to create what you could call a feedback loop between my two games, offline and online: a loop that all but enforces emergent stories. In many ways I have moved from being a GM that plans games to a GM that facilitates and fosters player interaction. I suppose that is why I often return to the TV producer analogy: I consider myself more like a "producer" of my games than the "star" or the "narrator" or the "writer" of them.
As an aside, this is CERTAINLY not an approach that always works for me, or is guaranteed to work for everyone. But it is much easier than it sounds, and it will continue to be a framework I will likely at least consider whenever I start a new game. And I do this because I know I love to be surprised, and this will ensure I will be surprised time and time again.
A commenter that read my previous article made a very good point related to the theme we are discussing here: they wrote that a PLAYER may also consider these things, and try and figure out what keeps their GM interested. And when this thing is discovered, the players can try and engage the GM by seeking out and indulging these game elements which they know will inspire the person running the game. It is a very thoughtful argument which perhaps not that many consider! Indeed, what is a better guarantee for a good game experience than to have a GM that gets to indulge in the things they love?
We're just going to have a good lie-down and re-think this whole illustration business.
I will, however, maintain my previous argument that the game master is a servant - a butler, as I wrote before - to the game experience, but the good Ladies and Lords playing the game will certainly be better served if their Manservant or Lady's Maid is inspired to provide the very best gaming experience.
To summarize: a long-running role-playing campaign must be a thing of JOY for all that participate. If this joy is shared by the game master and the players both, you can, indeed, run long.
I feel this is relevant to the themes I discuss here.
A Wolf Had Not Been Seen at Salem for Thirty Years (1909), Howard Pyle
Run Long: Keeping Your Campaign Interesting For the Players
A lot of role-playing campaigns just fizzle out into obscurity.
This may be due to the lack of players, the lack of organization, the lack of free time or the lack of interest. For whatever reason it may be, as I mentioned previously, unlike while reading a book or seeing a stage play, in role-playing games you rarely get to see the ending. You just one day, without deciding this or knowing this at the time, play your last session. The next time you return to the hobby, you'll be playing something else, and the characters and plots you had before are retired to obscurity. And also as I mentioned previously, getting THERE, to the finale, to the point where you get to say goodbye, is an absolutely worthwhile experience.
Not many games really consider this at all when the game books describe campaigns and running them. By default, for many games, there is no default ending in sight. By default, many games presume they are played until they just ... aren't.
I generalize here, of course. A lot of games sort of imply a mechanical endgame. For example, a Dungeons & Dragons game has a maximum level of experience for an individual character after which you really don't gain experience or levels anymore, implying that the game ends there, at "max level". Black Crusade, the Fantasy Flight Warhammer RPG, for all its numerous faults, has a clever mechanic wherein the character gains "infamy" and "corruption" both during the game. And when you have 100 points of corruption, you check your infamy: if your character is infamous enough, they ascend into demi-godhood. Too low, and they are turned into goo and die. So your character has a very real in-game clock that tells you when the bells toll and when the character's time is up.
A lovely little pick-up-and-play RPG called Fiasco is all about the ending, and building up to it. It invites you to do the impossible, to consider your character a disposable asset in the service of the story and its ending. But then again, Fiasco is designed to be over in four hours' time, the same characters that meet their humiliating end when it's done, never to be seen again. (As an aside, it's also BRILLIANT. I think anyone who is into RPGs should give it at least one go. It certainly opened my eyes to numerous new possibilities in this gaming genre of ours.)
Fiasco: Born to lose, live to lose even more.
Do take everything I write with a grain of salt here. I have played and ran a handful of long campaigns, but I haven't really tried that many individual games or systems. I don't really have very much of a BREADTH of experience in role-playing games. Many games and their potential remain a mystery to me. Burning Wheel? Made a character once and that's it. World of Darkness? Dabbled, but not really, truly played. GURPS? I know it's a thing that exists, looming on the shelf of my Local Friendly Game Store like a monolith of a bygone era.
But I perhaps can, however, compensate with some DEPTH of experience. I've taken every game I've played in the past five years as a racehorse. And I have that race horse run, until it's too old and tired, and then you put it to pasture. I have rarely returned to a particular game once I am done, after a 50-session monster of a campaign. Rogue Trader, another Warhammer 40 000 game, is the only one I've used twice for a setting and system for a campaign. (I will confess my childish love for huge spaceships being a factor here, and a rare game does huge spaceships as well as Rogue Trader does; none do it better.) When I resign from a game I have finished, I very rarely come back to it. The endings I spoke of are also endings in a very meta sense, for me at least: once done, the whole GAME is done. I'll go and look for something new.
Not pictured: HUGE SHIPS.
But can you blame me? After four dozen sessions, the game has to be just AMAZING to have something worthwhile to explore remaining.
You must understand that I find little inspiration in repetition of themes, settings and systems. I do know some people play Dungeons & Dragons all their lives, and I don't judge them, but after running it once myself, to the agreed finish line, I don't see myself returning to the system or the theme as game master. It'd be like having Lord of the Rings II: The Other Ring They Forgot About And Also Sauron is Back or something.
But to return to my original point, when you start a campaign, you should also decide that it will have an ending. I'll return to this point in a later article where I discuss endings and how to both decide and run them, but this time I want to write about how to get there: the journey towards that fabled end of your campaign.
I covered the mundane logistics of running a long campaign in my last post. If you overcome this hurdle, you have now two new beasts to slay: you have to keep the game interesting for your players, and for yourself. We discuss the former in detail now, and the latter in a later article.
Off the bat I will confess that I have lost players mid-campaign more than once. People show up regularly, and then just don't. I don't really always know why. It may be a thing in their lives that prevented them from joining the game, or it may be they just lost interest in the game. Be it for any reason, I don't judge them - I judge myself. I failed to give them an experience that was worthwhile to leave their duties and visit week after week.Going back to the point I made in an earlier post about having a "roster" of players, here this works to your advantage in a different way. If you have a lot of players signed up, losing one is, while it is a tragedy, manageable. If your game depends on everyone coming every time to play, your campaign is vulnerable to become just one of those campaigns that end as most campaigns end: with a whimper, but never with a bang.
Keeping this is mind, your campaign should not be reliant on having That One Character present for every session. And this is good! No matter how magical a sorcerer or potent the prophecy given to the character as a child, no character should be the "star" of your game. They may have dynamics where one player is the "leader" of the group, but your campaign should - and MUST - allow the absences of these characters and their players.
This includes even the permanent absences of characters. If someone drops out of your game, you have the responsibility to see the game to the end with those that choose to remain.
And how to entice people to stick around? I must confess there is no easy, specific answer to this. But there is an easy, generic answer to this:
Give the players things in the campaign that are interesting to them, and hint that more is to come. And then, arrange at some point, more of these things your players enjoy.
This means keeping your ear to the ground. Your campaign will have many different sorts of elements, be they combat or interaction with non-player characters, mechanical challenges or politicking, humour or tragedy. If your players - or one player - reacts to this in a positive way, and you see them engaged, plan to have more of that.
Some game masters I know discuss this openly with players, asking these questions, wishing for feedback. What would you want to see from the game? What in the game so far has been interesting to you? This is all fine! Being open about this is fine, and will give you insight to what elements work in your game, and which don't. It may - and I write MAY - seem also like pandering. Some players may approach a campaign as a series of challenges to overcome and asking them directly what sort of challenges they'd want to see may - again, may - remove some of the magic of the experience. Your job as a GM, after all, is to entertain your players but it is also to surprise them.
But even without asking, you can observe, and see which elements have the players bored and which have them excited. Some players react to different elements differently, and if you are a good listener, you can see which player is fond of which aspect of the game. Take note, and suggest similar interaction to this player's character in the future.
Some may be attracted to the mechanical aspects of the game, as we are often invited. The next level will give this or that awesome bonus; if they have that much gold, they can get that magic item they've been saving for. This aspect is what many games do very well: offer, within the rules framework, incentives to keep playing. This is the Thing for some players and that is FINE. To keep this type of player engaged, discuss the rules with them and see where they want to go, building their character. And once you know, you can offer hooks in the story, perhaps making them choose: go after the Magic Sword of Awesome hidden in the Mountain of Mystery, while knowing that the Bastard Army Invasion of Goodland will continue and push forward while they are looking for this item.
But apart from quantifiable mechanical rewards, the question of what a player likes becomes more muddied. Not all games support this sort of treasure hunt mechanic in the first place - some systems offer little experience rewards and development, so the question changes from "what the character will become" to more of "what will the character DO with what they are."
A lot of campaigns start with a wonderful sense of novelty, especially when you are exploring a new game system or a setting. There are new mechanics to discover and angles of the setting to explore. And if you have a new group, there is also the novelty of interpersonal dynamics at play: to watch and learn how this player or that player reacts to this particular situation or challenge. I think the novelty wearing off is one of the big reasons why some campaigns peter out. After the initial honeymoon, it may appear that there is no forward momentum there, in the game anymore - be it toward victory or doom - and there is nothing to really look forward to next session.
One of the best compliments I received from a player was when I was running the aforementioned Black Crusade. He told me, half-joking, that after every weekly session, he'd just go home, lie down and, to quote, "obsess" about the game. The campaign was a sandbox affair, so the player could consider both the rich mechanics of the game, and how to advance the character next, and - more importantly - the many plots that were developing in the story and how he would engage them next. To know he would be "obsessing" about what would happen next inspired me to no end.
I always try to maintain a situation in the game where the players never have to consider "what is there left to do next" but "what of these MANY POSSIBLE THINGS we know about are we going to involve ourselves with next". The latter, combined with my attempt (sometimes successful, sometimes not) to have the non-player characters in the players' orbit having little goals and plots of their own to pursue, will continue to offer little hooks for the players to grab.
If there are a lot of metaphorical balls in the air for the players to grab or to juggle, committing oneself to the campaign becomes easier. A lot has been written by writers better than I about improvisation as a GM, or avoiding "railroading" ie. pushing one certain plot the players to be involved with. The whole, "yes, and" thinking of improv applied to role-playing. It's a very valid approach, but I won't address this issue at length here. I do, however, dare say the players must have a certain agency. Their actions should have impact to the campaign. They should face interesting decisions in the story. There should be interesting consequences to these decisions.
And most important of all, the players' decisions should be taken into account by the GM, even if it challenges their vision for the campaign.
"Kill your darlings" is an old saying, and advice for a writer to abandon story elements they are too fond of. I would revise this as "offer your darlings to the slaughter" for game masters.
You absolutely should introduce your favourite things - be they plot developments or characters or settings - in the campaign to your players, but let them ignore, destroy or defile these things. This is their story as much as yours and the NPC you see as a main character in the narrative just may be someone the players HATE with the fire of a thousand suns and want to kill off. And if they so choose, let them! Let them at least try. There may be consequences, but they've made a choice and you should respect that: they have now, after all, interacting with the setting you have created in a very meaningful way. I can't remember how many times an NPC I've seen as terribly important to the plot just die without dignity by the way of a random accident, an unlikely die roll, or a player's whim. And I've LOVED those occasions, forcing me to rethink the story, to see it in a different light.
Conversely, some off-hand improvised inane element in the story can be something that really attracts the players. If this happens, make a note of this - and re-introduce that thing again the campaign. As an example, in one campaign a merchant with a stupid accent made up on the spot was someone who the players were very intrigued by, so I had this NPC show up every now and then to amuse the players.
One trick to keep the players' interest in a campaign is to celebrate what you have already done together, within the framework of the game. What I mean by this is the use of in-game events to address what the player characters have accomplished.
A lot of pre-written campaigns appear to do this, noting at certain points to the GM that if the PCs have come this far, they should likely be known by the general public of the setting. As folk heroes, or villains, or what have you. This, I confess, is an idea I am very, very fond of.
I'll digress here, to offer an anecdote from a game I've run. And I know - I do - that anecdotes from another person's game aren't usually very interesting. Role-playing games are, as mentioned, an intimate, shared experience dependent on the dynamics at play at the table. Recounting your character's adventures in becoming, to paraphrase, the "God-Empress of the Sex Gladiator Arena" aren't really relevant to the outsider. You had to be there, playing, to appreciate the story told.
But I hope this anecdote isn't too self-indulgent. We now go back to Rogue Trader, the 2009 Fantasy Flight Games edition being one of my very favourite games. This would happen several long sessions into the campaign, where the players, playing these conquering, star-faring glory-seekers with a huge ship, had already had many adventures, taking over planets and facing numerous dangers in Warhammer's absurd setting full of magical danger and mass murder.
Also: HUGE SHIPS.
At the start of a new adventure, the player characters are racing to recover a space treasure, and another Rogue Trader (a space pirate with a governmental warrant, if you will; an East India Trading Company in space) is racing them to recover it. The players decide they will infiltrate this other ship, and travel to the treasure with their adversary, in disguise.
What a great idea! I rolled with this happily, and agreed that it would happen. After all, pretending to be press-ganged to a vessel of 50 000 crew members (huge ships, if you recall me mentioning; me being very fond of them) was not going to be very difficult. And it opened a lot of avenues of play, with the PCs now having an option to have different kinds of intrigue, the danger of being discovered and the chance to spy on this other captain's plans - and other interesting options.
And in the story, this guy, this rival space captain, was not really the main antagonist here. The dangers of the adventure were other obstacles, but the players would have this other vessel to create urgency: if they didn't stop him, he could get the treasure before them. And he was, mechanically, just very tragically OUTGUNNED by these player characters and their even bigger ship. His fast little frigate (little in comparison here; remember, huge ships!) was something the PC's massive cruiser would usually have for an appetizer before proper space battle. And this scary ship was coming after the frigate which the characters had infiltrated.
So I had this rival captain know this. He knew that he was up against an enemy that could just blow him out of the space-water. And so, when the PCs were hidden aboard his ship, he'd call the crewmembers of his vessel to attend his address.
In the address, he would offer his view of the player characters and their ship: and he would be just shitting his pants, knowing that he was up against these guys. In his speech to his crew, he'd recount his view of the players' previous adventures, painting them up as these intimidating madmen that burnt whole planets with their terrible warship, survived impossible odds again and again and wrestled with demons and what have you. That his crew should know they were up against these legendary space bastards, and they should be very afraid, and very prepared.
And as he went on and on, the players sitting around the table basically started high-fiving each other. "Yeah", they'd say, "we are just THAT bad-ass, aren't we?".
This particular NPC captain was blown up with his ship and left as footnote in the history of the campaign, but he served a very important purpose: to remind the players that they had completed a lot of adventures even at this point, and that the imaginary world where they sailed their ship REMEMBERED them.
(Another aside, here: contrast, if you will, this with your usual NPC antagonist trope, the one where the enemy fights to the death and laughs when they are slain. It's a trope I often resort to, myself, because it's very easy. What is difficult is to make the bad guys remorseful or afraid when their time is up. Have them be painfully human (or elvish or space-elvish or what have you) when the bell tolls is challenging. It's a reward rarely discussed in this genre, to have the players see that the foe they've cornered realizes his folly before he is done. A GM may not be comfortable to have an NPC bad guy weep for mercy or soil his pants in fear at defeat, but perhaps it should be considered: to humanize that threat at the finish line, at the latest, before they perish. For me, the most unforgettable antagonists I've offered my PCs are those that just COLLAPSE when their plots are foiled, armies taken and they face utter defeat as walking human ruins knowing their time is up. Then, perhaps, the triumphant final duel becomes a mercy killing at the very best.)
To summarize: when the campaign has been going on for a while, you've already accomplished a lot together. You should create a sense of continuity of things accomplished and things waiting to be accomplished. And you should CELEBRATE this, in-story if nowhere else, to further create a sense that the campaign lives or dies with the players.
And when so engaged, they are more inclined to see it to the end, to see how it dies, when its time is finally up.
Run Long: Facilitating RPGs for Adults
Tabletop role-playing games can be an outlet for creativity, flights of fantasy and deeply personal, immersive experiences. But they can also be an absolute pain to get even to the stage where you get to play the game.
In a first part - which may, mind you, be the only part - of a series of musings on role-playing games, I offer some of my own personal experience on how to run campaigns. I won't touch the way you plan your games, or which systems to run, no: I will only consider the logistics of how to get a game started - and finished. This is based on personal experience, I must emphasize: I cannot say if the tips I give here work for you. They have worked for me, however.
As an adult, there is one monster more terrifying than a Terrasque and deadlier than a Tyranid Hive Fleet: it's life. Life conspires, with its superior cunning and unlimited resources at its disposal, for you NOT to play.
If, as the game master, you want to organize a role-playing game for adults, you have to engage not only in planning the content of your game, but the impossible, demanding logistics of getting grown-up people sit down together to play. People, with OBJECTIVELY better things to do than your Tolkienesque Elvish questing fantasy nonsense thing, no matter how impeccably planned or prepared.
Mind you, I've done this successfully, and more than once: gotten people to play. Between 2010 and now, I've ran and completed 3 campaigns that have spanned 50 sessions or so and two campaigns in the range of 10 sessions or so. Around twenty different people have been involved in one way or another in the games I have facilitated. We are looking at over 600 hours of game time, and if multiplied by the average number of participants, around 3000 person-hours of playing. I am not counting in here games where I've participated as a player, or my current game in progess, with 20 sessions under its imaginary belt.
"Well harken Mister Metrics-Pants here run his mouth" I hear you saying. Yes, those are just numbers and yes, I am a little proud of that achievent. But it is the pride of a servant; a butler, if you will, having offered the service of making game nights happen for a number of fine Ladies and Sirs. (As a reminder to myself here, I may write about the Game Master as a servant or an entertainer at some point.)
These are also, now that I see them written down, stupid, impossible figures.
What could you achieve with 3000 person-hours if you volunteered for your local Red Cross? If you dedicated them to arts and culture? Writing or painting? Helping elderly people or immigrants? Mastering a new skill?
But if you've read this far, I need make no justifications. You are a person interested in role-playing games and you know why someone would dedicate time to imagining they are a magical dwarf in space, or what have you. You KNOW why this is a valuable experience.
As a young person, a teenager, time is not an issue. This is the time many of those of us that have fallen in love for the gaming hobby started. And it was a period of UNLIMITED, almost, time at your disposal. In fact, when I recall my teenage years, there is a lingering memory of boredom colouring much of it. As a teenager or a child - and I generalize here, of course - you don't really have that much to do.
Can you remember what that was like? Not having anything to do? This absolute privilege is not understood by people when they are young, I think. And it's an experience they long for two decades later. To have nothing to do seems like an impossible fantasy to an adult! Such circumstances can be recreated at retirement, the earliest, if even then.
(As an aside here, I come from a middle-class or so family, with sensible parents, so I suppose I got off easy. I had a lot of time on my hands and very little domestic drama, with the liberty to do whatever. Also, for context, I am pushing 40 as we speak, so I am likely two decades too old for Tumblr.)
So take this contrast: twenty years ago as a kid of 16 I could just ride my bike to a friend's house on any day of the week, and we could put together a game in a moment's notice. Now, I must struggle to reach the tenuous agreement to play with the players beforehand and set a date where nothing actually critical overlaps with the agreed date. And even then something might intervene.
I say critical, and mean it: an adult has responsibilities which, if not seen to, will just collapse their life. A person's children, jobs, spouses, their studies, their homes; actual responsibilities which MUST be seen to. Dreary, scary, terrible adult business, fighting with your childish desire to play.
(Another aside: my native tongue separates between "play" as in games and "play" as in when a child busies themself with their toys. For getting recognition and respect for the hobby this is fine, but speaking of "play" reminds us the fact that many gaming hobbies are indeed a form of regression. As a writer better than I once said, playing a game can be the player's illusion of being a child once more, with days that last forever and your friends and toys to entertain you. I may touch on this subject in a later text.)
So how do you beat this beast, that so tries to prevent you from playing?
I don't have a definite answer, as I write this on a night where I had to cancel a game night due to illness, duties and arrangements of my players. But I can, as promised, offer some advice.
1. THE GROUP
When you start a new role-playing campaign, get a lot of players. And I mean an army of them.
I do know the sweet spot for a role-playing game is the game master and four players. Less than that, and player interaction becomes stifled; more than that, and it's a crowd. And there is a reward of continuity and intimacy of having the exact same players attend every session.
This, however, the thought of having the very same players attend your game session after session is hardly realistic in most cases, when running games for adults.
I have had groups of seven or even eight players in what I call the "roster" of players: the people that have signed up for the campaign after I've pitched it to them. (An aside again, but pitching campaigns may be worth writing about.) But I don't require or demand them all to show up at once for a game night. No: I have a rule that if 3 of the roster make it at a given game night, we play.
In this model, some will come every week. Some may show up every month, some every other week. But no matter: when they come, you try and make it worth their time that they show up. Perhaps give the player that rarely makes it a "special guest star" status, having something interesting for their character to do that very session. Those that show up regularly have the benefit of having that continuity the "guest stars" lack, but you as the game master can work with all of this, interweawing the ongoing plots to those these rarely-seen players can attend this session they show up. In the story, try and give everyone that can attend something interesting, to further chew on between sessions.
This can of course leave with a unique logistical disaster where everyone in your huge roster shows up one given night. Roll with it the best you can, be it a big climactic board-game-like battle or a series of story vignettes. It won't be your best game session, but fade your own person and demands to the background and encourage interaction; act the mediator and offer hooks all can take part in. In the story of the game, a one session-long massive planning session for an endeavour, a political debate or something similar may engage all the players in such a huge group at once.
But speaking again from experience, mostly you'll have three or four players - half your roster - in any given session. We'll get to why this is so next, but a big roster makes it more likely you can play regularily in the first place.
When you put together your roster, be inclusive! Often the temptation is to play with a handful of people you already know, but inviting people you know are interested in the hobby, or players recommended to you by others can be worth your while. I've never taken in a player in I didn't have a recommendation for (ie. "Ask this guy! He's fun to play with.") or I haven't talked with personally. But many people I have known otherwise who have never played a tabletop RPG before have proven enthusiastic and creative players after I've asked them to come along and play - and, of course, after they've expressed interest in the hobby.
So: keep an open mind and a get a lot of players ready to roll.
2. PICK A DATE, A TIME AND A PLACE AND STICK WITH IT
Now this is critical, when running a game for adults.
When you have adults in your group, trying to arrange a time to play is just impossible. People have, as we've mentioned, duties far surpassing in importance than indulging in your game. The process for agreeing a date when all can make is draining and exhausting and, frankly, not worth anyone's time. Imagine doing this for EVERY session! Checking with the players if they have to work overtime on the given day or if their kids need be picked by them that night from the kindergarten or if their house happens to be on fire that evening.
And yes: as the game facilitator, this IS your responsibility. You are the game master - the butler for this experience as I mentioned - and your duty is to see that the game happens.
This is what I've done: I pick one weekday (for the game I run now, Monday) and a time (now 5 pm to 9 pm) and I've told everyone that we will play, EVERY week on a Monday at my place, from five to nine. If you can make it, great! If not, you are welcome to join us next week. You can always poll the players on which day would USUALLY be best for them and then agree on it. But pick a day, and stick with it. Nail it to the church door like Martin Luther.
This is where you big roster comes into play [sic].
Not everyone will make it every week on the day you pick, but some will. With those that can make it, you play with. You may set a certain condition to this - for me it is the minimum of 3 players and the game master attending for us to play.
And once it settles in their heads that Monday (or whatever) is game night, they can slowly start working their schedules to match, given that they like your campaign. They'll know weeks or months in advance that if they clear their schedule on that special day, they will get to play.
As an aside, imagine that: Monday, the very WORST day of a working person's week, now having the quality of being a game night! For me, Monday is now something to look forward to. An impossible thought, but here we are. Weekdays are, I think, better game nights than weekends. Weekends are, after all, time dedicated to being together with families and winding down from a working week and your game night would eat from that, were it on a weekend. A weekday game is just something at the tail end of your usual day at the office and thus, I think, more easy to agree to.
As for place, I recommend your own house as a general principle. First and foremost this gives you a chance to prepare the game a day or so in advance, with your props and things, and gives you the chance to act the host. We'll return to that point later.
An aside, once more: I forced Monday down my players' throats as game night, because I live in a fairly small flat with my spouse, and Monday is the day of her choir practice. Tabletop role-playing games require a certain privacy because, if we're being honest, a game session looks like a collective mental breakdown to the casual observer. It's an intimate, shared experience that is very, very difficult to share with those that haven't played. (Have you tried to watch a video of people playing an RPG? Yeah.) I watched the D&D episode of Community with my spouse the other night, and she asked me, curious "Is it like that, when you play?" and I had to go, "... yeah. It kind of is." It's ... fairly accurate, after all. So you need, for your place, some privacy for when you play; as little distractions as possible. Unless your family plays as well! I've little experience in that, as I don't force my hobbies to my already-suffering spouse.
3. GAME TIME IS GAME TIME
When you set the time and place to play, and people come, then you play.
As implied before, this is valuable time: time your players have taken from their duties, their families, their scarce free time for other hobbies.
Don't waste it on bullshit.
As soon as you can, PLAY. Put your GM face on and start. Even if someone's late, you start to play. As soon as the appointed hour arrives, get to the meat of the experience. Brief those that come in late the best you can and draw them into the story, but keep the game rolling and start as early as you can.
You, as I have mentioned and will mention again, don't have much time.
Of course I understand many people play with good friends and want to catch up or chat or what have you, but you are on a clock here - and you all have agree to play this given hour. As the GM, you must be prepared to get things rolling at the very start of the session: set the scene, introduce the themes of this session, remind what is at stake this time and then make the most of the limited time you have - the time your players have given YOU. You have the responsibility of offering them an experience, and the clock is ticking. Stopping to leaf through a rulebook is just UNACCEPTABLE here. Do your homework before you waste this precious time that is gifted to you by your players.
Unlike the teenagers with unlimited time, you have your allotted time: I limit my sessions to four hours. You cannot spend your precious time in arguing over a take-out order or checking your notes and rulebooks. If you must, improvise. Pull it our of your arse if you have to, but keep the momentum going. There must be a push forward here, a sense of progress, otherwise it is the waste of this very, very precious resource: time. Not just your time, but the time of three or four or six people that have put down EVERYTHING ELSE to be entertained by you.
Their children are without their mother: the mother is here and is watching you try to find the rules for ... flanking, or whatever obscure bullshit you don't know by heart, for ten minutes. NOT ACCEPTABLE.
I know I may sound harsh. I do.
But consider ten minutes used by you to check up a rule. And then multiply this by the amount of players you have invited to play. If you have 5 players? You just wasted AN HOUR of collective time because you were not prepared. This is time you bargained for, and now you are wasting it.
And I have my weaknesses. I need a breather during the session, to collect my thoughts, and being a filthy nicotine addict, I will excuse myself for a cig one or two times during the session. But even then I will try to give my players something to chew over while I am gone: a critical decision - army deployment! their plan for the big heist! I need an answer in 5 minutes! - to debate while I indulge in my vices.
But you are not that teenager with unlimited time anymore. You need to give your players an experience which will leave them wanting to join you next week.
A German player I once had in my group told me something like this: "You guys have been playing for an hour by the time my old group would still be arguing about what pizza to order!" From a German, pardon the stereotyping, I take that as compliment.
And if you want to, as mentioned, catch up and chat with friends? Reserve time afterwards for a pint at your corner pub or whatever for an after-game discussion, but reserve game time for playing the game.
It's what everyone's come for, after all.
4. BE A GOOD HOST
I am presuming here that people will come to your house to play your campaign. And as noted above, I think this is preferrable - it gives you time to plan and prepare, and the welcome the players around your hearth to be your guests.
And they are your guests, and your responsibility. You need them to feel welcome and comfortable and as inconvenienced as possible.
The basic needs for a game should be observed: a table to play around, the props needed; the dice, the miniatures (if you use them), the pens and the papers.
But you can also be extravagant! Food and drink are easy to arrange - and needed. In four hours of playing people will need refreshments, as even many game books will note, insisting on "snacks".
And if you want to be extravagant, you need not settle for crisps and candy. Cooking is, unlike many would tell you, really, really easy. Making a soup to feed six people is deceptively simple to make - just throw in bunch of stuff into a pot and wait. Likewise, a stew or a chili or a casserole are easy to make - even for a clueless chef like I - for half a dozen people for a pittance in money. And you can outsource: tell the players you'll make soup and they are welcome to bring bread and cheese (or wine, if you’re the sort that drinks while you play).
This helps you conserve that precious time as well: all the time spent on people preparing or ordering their individual junk food is now gone. And you can even tie it into the story - tell them the party has a feast while pausing on their travels while you serve whatever you've prepared in your kitchen! This organized break also offers an organic breather in the otherwise intense four-hour session.
Make the players feel like not cogs in your storytelling machine but respected guests in your house - as they are! - and those struggles to find the time to attend the game become easier.
5. IN CONCLUSION
Now then: if you've suffered my rambling for this long, let me ask you a question:
Have you ever finished a role-playing game campaign?
You may have, but the fact - for me at least - remains that most campaigns I've started as a player or the GM, are left unfinished. And occasionally I return to those stories in my mind, and wonder what could have happened, and what sort of stories were left unresolved. What happened to the characters?
Those few campaigns I have brought to the finish line have been in my adult age, struggling with all the challenges detailed above, and using the methods above to solve them. And the feeling of having wrapped up the story is just SUBLIME. It's a catharsis.
I may write about how and when to finish a campaign later, but I will note this: it takes perseverance and determination to get to that mythical finish line. With the above tips, I hope that you can do the same, and feel that absolute release that is to say goodbye to a good campaign, to good characters; to a good story.
I have done so half a dozen times and those have been the best god-damned role-playing experiences in my life; damned be whatever my teenage self with unlimited time attempted.
For it took an adult to plan how to finish one of these things.
SEX CRIMINALS #1, 4th Printing Cover.
It belongs in a museum.
When I’m asked to play Carcassonne.