"Better a usurper than a herald of the end."

From a speech delivered by Prince Eselné Tlakotáni in the Hall of Unfurled Banners of the Palace of War, Béy Sü (10 Fésru 2360 A.S.)

 “You are here because you wish to know my intentions. You wish to know why I have marched legions into Béy Sü and shattered the sanctity of the Choosing. I will tell you why.

My glorious father, Hirkáne, the Stone Upon Which the Universe Rested, is dead. By tradition, once he is entombed in the vaults beneath Avanthár, the Rite of Choosing a new emperor begins. But how can we pretend that rite still matters, when one of the candidates for the throne is not a prince, but the puppet of a god who should never be named? I talk not of Sárku but the One Other, a pariah god whose worship was rightly banned in Tsolyánu millennia ago. In the face of so great a threat, I will not allow the Choosing to take place. I will not permit anything that might give the One Other a foothold in Tsolyánu.

Many of you will say I subvert tradition. But if Dhich’uné ascends the Petal Throne, it is not just the Choosing that will be ended. All will end – and the One Other will sit upon the Petal Throne forever, wearing the mask of Dhich’uné.

So no: I will not let him ascend. Not while I draw breath.

By now, many of you will have heard whispers about a bargain, an ancient pact, a blood price my line has paid since the reign of my father’s fathers. You will have heard that the sacrifice of the defeated princes sustains the Empire and that, without it, it will crumble.”

I spit on that bargain.

If the Tlakotáni made a pact with the One Other, then shame on them. I will not honor it. I will not feed it more sons and daughters so it can grow fat upon the bones of princes.

An Empire built upon such a foundation is unworthy of the loyalty of any man. I’d rather the Empire fall than survive through allegiance to such a foul god.

This is not mere ambition. This is necessity. I do not seek the Petal Throne simply for power. I seek it to close the door before that thing walks through it and calls itself emperor.

And if that means I am damned by the priests, if the high clans curse me and tradition recoils at my name – so be it.

Better a usurper than a herald of the end.

My sister, Ma’ín, stands with me now. She has finally cast off her veils of ambiguity and spoken plain. She chooses the Empire, not its undoing. And you, noble lords and high priests, must know: this decision was not lightly made. The blood that flows through our veins is also a burden we carry.

But not all blood speaks with clarity. Mridóbu, the master of scrolls and subtle poisons, hides behind his ledgers and his robes, huddled in Avanthár with his bureaucrats, pretending neutrality is wisdom. He opposes me – not openly, not yet – but he stands against my actions because I am loud, because I am honest, because I leave no room for a clever escape.

As for the others, I cannot yet say. I hope they will stand with me. I intend to make my case to them, but I will act regardless of what they choose, because I see no other option.

I now make my choice plain. I have made it with sword drawn, with banners raised, with no room for doubt. The Choosing is broken – because it was already broken, shattered by Dhich’uné’s foul designs. I have no patience for masked horrors or ancient ghosts who whisper from their tombs.

I now claim the Petal Throne – not just for glory, not to wear a high diadem, not to live in luxury. I claim it to end this nightmare before it begins.

And if you call me traitor, then call me traitor. If you call me usurper, then so be it. Let history debate what name to carve on my tomb.

But let no one say I stood idle while the Empire died.”

Campaign Updates: The End is Nigh

Our Dragonbane playtest lasted one session longer than what we'd originally expected, so we will resume Dolmenwood next week rather than this. I'll have more to say about Dragonbane and my impressions of it soon.

Barrett's Raiders

The characters began their investigations into the missing supplies at Fort Lee by dividing into smaller groups, each focusing on a different part of the base. Vadim Konosev (under the identity of Waldemar, a Polish doctor whose English is limited) offered his medical services in the Displaced Civilian Assistance Zone (DCAZ) set up outside its fences. Accompanying him was Michael, the undercover CIA agent, who played the part of Aleksander, another Pole, acting as Waldemar's "interpreter." His real purpose was to gather information about what was happening in the refugee camp, both with regards to the missing supplies and whether the civilians were being in any way mistreated by the military.

Michael slipped away from the medical tent to wander among the refugees. Soon thereafter, he noticed that he was being followed by a lone MP, who kept his distance but was nevertheless tailing him. The soldier's uniform identified him as "Booth" and his rank was private. He did his best to lose him as he moved among the tents of the camp, eventually succeeding. However, he Private Booth eventually reappeared at the medical tent, poked his head in, and, upon seeing that Michael had returned, left and resumed his patrols.

For his part, Vadim saw little evidence of mistreatment or malnutrition among the civilians he treated. Most were decently fed, though there were some cases of bruises that looked like they might have come from rifle butts. He also saw signs of physical altercations, probably between civilians who had disagreements with one another. Overall, though, DCAZ seemed to be well run, clean, and relatively peaceful. It wasn't ideal, but it also wasn't nearly as bad as he had expected, given the tensions surrounding USMEA in the wake of the Richmond action several weeks prior.

Sgt. Hiram "Dutch" Everts is the unit's mechanic and designated scrounger. He also made his way to DCAZ (or the "petting zoo," as some of Fort Lee's soldiers derisively called it), looking for evidence of a black market or thefts from the base. While he found some evidence, it wasn't much. Like Vadim and Michael, his impressions of DCAZ were of a place filled with scared, anxious people but who were reasonably well treated – not quite what he was expecting.

Dutch also spent some time listening to Elijah Traynor's sermons, in which he railed against USMEA. Intrigued, Dutch talked to him a bit to get a sense of who he was and his perspective on things. Traynor reminded him a bit of his own father, a minister back in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He told Lt. Col. Orlowski that he didn't think he was dangerous or up to anything sinister. Like everyone else, Traynor was probably just frightened and found some peace of mind through his faith. Orlowski wasn't so sure and wondered openly whether he might have some connection to New America, whose new leader is known only as the Preacher.

Lt. Cody paid a visit on the personnel office of Fort Lee, trying to learn more about the staff of the base, particularly anyone who might be deemed a "troublemaker" or might have connections to locals. He and the duty sergeant bonded a bit over the absurdity of an old NCO like Cody getting a field promotion to officer, which led to some frank conversations about the situation at Fort Lee. Things are tense, because the soldiers are now expected to be ambassadors of USMEA's good intentions but with insufficient support and poor guidance. Cody commiserated for a while and then reported back what he learned to Orlowski and Major Hunter.

House of Worms

Grujúng and Chiyé were ushered into the presence of General Kéttukal at the Palace of the Realm. He received them warmly and quickly explained that Prince Eselné would soon explain his intentions to the temples and high clans of Béy Sü. However, he hoped he might receive some assurances from Kirktá that he and his companions that they would do nothing to aid Dhich'uné in his mad bid to become an eternal emperor. This was no great burden to the characters, as they had no intentions of seeing Dhich'uné ascend the Petal Throne. Kéttukal was pleased, as he knew Dhich'uné had made some sort of offer to Kirktá. Even so, Kéttukal explained that Béy Sü would remain locked down. Movement within the city would remain restricted and Kirktá would most definitely not be allowed to speak with anyone at the Temple of Belkhánu.

Upon their return to the Golden Bough clanhouse, Grujúng and Chiyé revealed what they had learned. Nebússa took Kéttukal's words to mean that Eselné intended to seize the Petal Throne by force – not unheard of in the long history of Tsolyánu but also something that had not been done in centuries. Kirktá, meanwhile, expressed a desire to meet with the priests of the One Other within the Temple of Belkhánu so that he might learn more about the knowledge locked behind a mind bar since he was a younger man. This alarmed the other characters, who decided Kirktá should never be left alone. Likewise, an excellent ruby eye should always be at the ready to freeze him in time and space should he do anything that might throw Béy Sü into even more chaos.

A summons to the Hall of Unfurled Banners within the Palace of War came. Prince Eselné hosted representatives of all the temples as well as the high clans of the city. While he extended his invitation to the other princes, only Kirktá (and Ma'ín, who had already publicly sided with him) showed up. Eselné then spoke loudly and boldly of his plans. He explained that, because Dhich'uné intended to manipulate the Kólumjàlim to his own ends, the only safe approach was to suspend the proceedings entirely. There would be no Choosing of the Emperor and Eselné would himself claim the Petal Throne for himself. Every temple, every clan, every heir would need to decide now whether they were with him or not – but if they were not, Eselné would take that to mean they were with Dhich'uné and act accordingly.

Eselné explained that Mridóbu opposed him, albeit not yet openly. Because Eselné was breaking with tradition, he could not support his actions. This did not seem to worry Eselné, who indicated he would soon deal with Mridóbu as he would Dhich'uné and anyone else who stood between him and the Petal Throne. He then dismissed the assembled priests and clans so that he could speak directly with Kirktá and the characters. He asked them to join with him in defeating not only Dhich'uné but ending the foul pact that the Tlakotáni may have made centuries ago with the One Other. “An Empire built upon such a foundation is unworthy of the loyalty of any man. I’d rather the Empire fall than survive through allegiance to such a foul god.”

Though unsure of whether his chosen path was a wise one, the characters nevertheless agreed to aid him – at least publicly. They decided amongst themselves that, if events change, so too might their actions. For now, though, they were siding with Eselné. He was gladdened by this and promised them that "Soon, we will do things that no one has done in Tsolyánu in centuries," starting with the razing of the Temple of Belkhánu for its hiding a cult of the One Other within its walls. He offered Grujúng command of a cohort of the First Legion to participate in this. After that, Eselné explained, he and his allies would be taking the battle directly to Dhich'uné – a fight to the finish.

It was at this point that Nebússa realized something Eselné did not. Dhich'uné's plans depended on their being a Kólumejàlim, a ritualized contest between Tlakotáni heirs. Eselné may be ending the usual practice of this, but could not the battle to come in the streets of Béy Sü also be considered a Kólumejàlim of sorts as well? Was this still not a contest between heirs, even if the overt form differed from the usual one? Might this coming battle still serve Dhich'uné? Once Eselné recognized the truth of this, he sighed heavily, "The Worm Prince manages to wriggle out of every trap laid for him! No matter what we do, he has prepared for it!"

Letting Someone Else Do Our Imagining

One of the most curious contradictions at the heart of our shared hobby is the tension between creativity and consumption, a topic I've wrestled with many times over the course of this blog’s history. From its very inception, the RPG hobby has encouraged its participants to be creators – of rules, settings, monsters, adventures, and more. Indeed, the earliest editions of Dungeons & Dragons often go out of their way to emphasize this. In OD&D, for example, Gygax and Arneson famously invited referees to take what’s offered and build upon it, adapt it, and, where necessary, discard it. "Decide how you would like it to be," they write, "and then make it just that way!"

This sentiment, perhaps more than any other, is the heart of what we now call "old school" gaming. The referee is not just a consumer or a facilitator of rules, but a world-builder. The rules are scaffolding, not scripture. The game is yours: take what you want and leave the rest, as a wise old man once said.

And yet, not long after those exhortations to freewheeling invention, TSR and other publishers began selling roleplayers pre-made rulesets, adventures, and settings. The Keep on the Borderlands, Tegel Manor, Apple Lane, Buffalo Castle, and more, each is a vision conjured by someone else, lovingly detailed and made ready for us to explore. These modules are often excellent and many of them loom large in our collective memory. They are, paradoxically, personal experiences so many of us share in common, as I discussed here not that long ago. So many of us have cut our teeth on the same classic adventures or flipped through the same dog-eared setting material. There’s thus a strong communal identity wrapped up in those shared artifacts. They’re what unite us across decades and continents. Ask an old school gamer about Bargle or Strahd or Acererak and you're likely to get a grin of recognition and quite possibly a story or two.

This is the foundation of a shared culture – a canon, if you like, not of texts but of experiences. That canon was shaped not just by our own tables, but also by the creative work of others. TSR, Judges Guild, Chaosium, Flying Buffalo, FGU, each added to this rich stew with their own distinctive flavors. Griffin Mountain, City State of the Invincible Overlord, Death Test, Chivalry & Sorcery Sourcebook were all, in their own unique ways, invitations to play in someone else’s dream.

There lies a conundrum. For a hobby so rooted in individual creativity, if you look at its history, you’ll also notice a surprising dependence on the creations of others. We lionize the do-it-yourself ethos even as we buy a megadungeon, back yet another retro-clone project, or download a map someone else has made. We celebrate the idea that each campaign is unique, spun from the mind of a referee and shaped by the unpredictable actions of players – and yet we often start those very same campaigns in someone else’s sandbox. I know this all too well, because I’ve done it myself and indeed am doing so right now. None of my regular campaigns, including my long-running House of Worms campaign, takes place in a setting entirely born of my own imagination.

Is this a contradiction? Perhaps, but, at the same time, it’s also part of the strange alchemy that makes RPGs what they are. When we pick up someone else’s adventure, we’re not wholly surrendering our imaginations. I prefer to think we’re collaborating, whether with a professional designer from the days of yore or with a fellow hobbyist today. A good adventure module isn’t a finished "story," but rather a map, a toolkit, and even a provocation. We bring it to life. We personalize it. We fill in the gaps. Sometimes we’ll even discard half (or more!) of it. The best pre-made materials aren’t necessarily constraints on our creativity but catalysts for them.

Still, I often find myself pondering this seeming contradiction, in part because I’ve played a role, if only a small one, in the commercialization of the hobby. Over the decades, I’ve written and published my own works, contributed to the larger hobby, and of course, I’ve bought more than my fair share of games, modules, and other products, as my regular Retrospective posts can attest. So, I’ve benefited from this strange system, but I’m also wary of what it might cost us in the long run. Are we, little by little, outsourcing our imagination? Are we becoming too quick to look for a pre-packaged solution when we could come up with our own? Or are we, as we always have, simply standing on the shoulders of others to better see the worlds we want to build? I don’t know. There’s no easy answer.

That, too, might be the essence of the hobby. Roleplaying games are not a single thing; they’re an invitation, a process, a shared illusion that depends on both invention and inheritance. The game asks us to imagine, but it also invites us to share. And sometimes – just sometimes – sharing might mean letting someone else do a little of the imagining for us.

Retrospective: Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game

Between early exposure to televised coverage of NASA launches and constant reruns of Star Trek, it was almost inevitable that I would become a science fiction fan. It helped, too, that my father’s only sister, who was barely twenty years my senior, shared that passion and actively encouraged my fascination with all things related to space travel, robots, and laser guns. So, when George Lucas’s space opera Star Wars premiered in the late spring of 1977, my aunt and I wasted no time in seeing it. Like countless other children of my generation, the experience marked a turning point in the development of my imagination.

As I’ve written elsewhere, Star Wars dominated the mental landscape of my childhood from 1977 to 1979, a reign challenged only by my discovery of Dungeons & Dragons and, through it, the wider world of roleplaying games. Even so, my enthusiasm for Star Wars didn’t vanish. I vividly remember the thrill I felt at the first rumors of "Star Wars II" (the film’s actual title wouldn’t be revealed until late 1979, as I recall). While D&D redirected some of my imaginative energy, it never fully replaced my love for Lucas’s galaxy. That said, there’s no denying that the fervor of my early affection dimmed somewhat in the face of newer, competing obsessions.

By the mid-1980s, that dimming had become a common experience. Star Wars itself seemed to be fading into the past. In 1987, the franchise appeared adrift. Four years had passed since Return of the Jedi had concluded the original trilogy and no new movies were on the horizon. For many fans, the galaxy far, far away was becoming a relic of childhood. The Kenner toy line was winding down, Marvel’s comic book series had ended, and while fan interest endured, it was increasingly nostalgic in character. There were occasional whispers of more to come, but nothing concrete. To be a Star Wars fan in the late ’80s was to dwell in the long shadow of what had been, clinging to worn VHS tapes, dog-eared storybooks, and well-loved action figures.

Meanwhile, the tabletop roleplaying game hobby was entering a new phase. TSR’s Dungeons & Dragons still loomed large, but the landscape was shifting. A host of new games had appeared, offering players fresh ways to explore favorite genres. Yet the RPG industry had not yet figured out how to handle licensed properties particularly well. With a few notable exceptions, like Star Trek or Marvel Super Heroes, most licensed RPGs of the era felt to me like clumsy grafts, existing more as marketing tie-ins than true adaptations. Then, in 1987, West End Games released Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game, designed by Greg Costikyan.

What West End delivered was more than just a faithful adaptation of a beloved movie trilogy: it was a revelatory act of worldbuilding. The game employed a streamlined D6 system, originally developed for Ghostbusters, that emphasized speed, flexibility, and cinematic flair over rules complexity. It was a system that matched the tone and pacing of Star Wars perfectly. Characters weren’t defined by a tangle of subsystems but by evocative archetypes: the Brash Pilot, the Young Senatorial, the Quixotic Jedi. Combat was fast and improvisational, encouraging swashbuckling heroics rather than tactical micromanagement. It felt, in a word, right.

But the real genius of the Star Wars RPG wasn’t its rules; it was its tone and presentation. The game didn’t merely borrow the setting of Star Wars; it inhabited it. The rulebook and its indispensable companion, The Star Wars Sourcebook, were filled with film stills, in-universe schematics, detailed planetary entries, and short snippets of fiction. These books didn’t feel like products about the galaxy far, far away; they felt like artifacts from within it. For fans starved for new material, the RPG was a lifeline, offering a way not just to revisit Star Wars, but almost to live in it.

It’s hard to overstate the influence these books would go on to have. Much of what we now take for granted about the Star Wars universe, like species names, background details about the Empire and the Rebellion, classifications of ships and vehicles, and descriptions of distant planets, originated not in the films, but in the pages of these RPG books. Lucasfilm itself came to rely on West End’s material. When Timothy Zahn was hired to write Heir to the Empire in 1991, he was handed a stack of WEG books to use as reference. In many ways, West End Games defined the Star Wars expanded universe before it officially existed.

Within the RPG hobby, Star Wars: The Roleplaying Game was also a harbinger of things to come. Unlike many earlier games, it emphasized genre emulation and collaborative adventure over simulationist detail. Its influence can be seen in the rise of narrative-focused design philosophies that would emerge in the late 1990s and early 2000s. It welcomed new players with familiar characters and easy-to-grasp mechanics, helping to expand the hobby beyond its traditional fantasy roots and making it more accessible to newcomers.

As I mentioned earlier, there were other successful licensed RPGs during this period, each with its own merits. But, in my opinion, none matched the totality of West End’s vision. The Star Wars RPG wasn’t just a game; it was a doorway into a living, breathing world, one that players could explore, shape, and make their own. Today, with Star Wars a global media brand, it’s worth remembering the quiet, crucial role this game played. It expanded the setting beyond what we saw on screen. It kept the flame alive during a fallow period. And it reminded us all that, with a few friends, a handful of dice, and the right kind of scenario, we too could journey to that galaxy far, far away.

"Babylon is falling ... and it's falling fast."

An excerpt from a sermon preached by Elijah Traynor at the Displaced Civilians Assistance Zone (DCAZ) outside Fort Lee, Virginia on December 6, 2000:

They call it "order," what them boys in the base are building. Steel walls, crisp uniforms, rifles at the ready, but it ain’t order they’re offering. It’s fear dressed up like law – a scarecrow stitched from scraps of the old world, strung up on bayonets, and fed with lies.

I’ve seen their kind before. Men who think a badge and a mandate makes them righteous. Men who'd sooner shoot than stoop. Tell me, what Gospel do they preach at Fort Lee? The Book of Logistics? The Gospel of Supply Chain Management? You can’t heal the soul with MREs and marching orders.

They burned Richmond to save it. That’s what they said, right? Rooted out the rot. But I ask you: who sowed the seed of that rot? It wasn’t just the ones who put on the New America flag. No, it was the whole rotten orchard – the lobbyists, the generals, the technocrats, and every last priest of Progress who bowed to Mammon and called it "freedom."

I ain’t blind. I know what New America is. A wolf dressed like a shepherd – all fire and thunder, no grace. Only folks who’ve never cracked open a Bible could mistake that kind of bloodlust for righteousness.

Babylon is falling, brothers and sisters, and it's falling fast.

Some of these folks here, they’ve put their hope in the men behind those walls. Others, well, they whisper different names. But me? I don’t put my hope in men. I’ve read the Book. I know what comes next.

Don’t trust too easily, brothers and sisters. The Beast don’t always wear horns.

"Trespassers! This is my home."

For all my current misgivings about the 1983 AD&D module, Ravenloft, I don't actually dislike it and indeed have many fond memories associated with it. I was reminded of this when I saw this ad from issue #78 of Dragon (October 1983). Whatever you think about Ravenloft and its influence over the subsequent history of D&D, there's no denying that this is an effective advertisement. It piqued my interest when I first saw it and, even now, decades later, it grabs my attention. 

REPOST: The Articles of Dragon: "And now, the Psionicist"

Psionics in AD&D is a strangely contentious topic and not just because the rules presented for it in the Players Handbook leave a lot to be desired. For many gamers, psionics belong to the realm of science fiction and are thus inappropriate to a fantasy game like Dungeons & Dragons. I can understand that point of view, but it's not one I share, since D&D is a "fantasy" game in the broadest sense, which is why it can readily incorporate "science fiction" elements without difficulty. That said, I never used psionics much back in my AD&D days nor have I attempted to add it to my Dwimmermount campaign. The reason for this has nothing to do with maintaining the "purity" of my fantasy worlds so much as the fact that, as written, the rules for psionics are a mess.

This unsuitability of the psionics rules was widely acknowledged by nearly every gamer I knew back in the day. Consequently, many of us greeted issue #78 of Dragon (October 1983) with some pleasure, as it was largely devoted to psionics and its problems. Of the articles in that issue my hands-down favorite was "And now, the psionicist" by Arthur Collins. Collins was one of those authors, like Roger E. Moore and Ed Greenwood, whose stuff was always good. He wasn't as prolific as Moore or Greenwood, but he never failed to impress me. Indeed, if I were to be completely honest, I think Arthur Collins was my favorite old school Dragon writer and "And now, the psionicist" reveals part of why I think so.

The article takes the then-bold step of introducing a new character class -- the psionicist of the title -- as a way to make the psionics rules both workable and enjoyable. More than that, though, Collins also does something even more remarkable: he makes the AD&D psionics rules intelligible. He does this through his explanation of the psionicist's class abilities, such as its acquisition of attack and defense modes and psionic disciplines. It's a small thing, really, but it had a profound effect on me as a younger person. For the first time, I began to feel as if I understood how psionics was supposed to work. Likewise, the notion of making psionics the purview of a unique class rather than an add-on to existing classes was a revelation to me. It made so much sense that I couldn't believe no one had thought of it before. (Someone had, of course -- Steve Marsh -- but their version of psionics never made it into OD&D as written).

"And now, the psionicist" is fairly typical of Collins's work. Rather than wholly rewrite AD&D, he instead clarifies and expands upon the rules as written, in the process making the original rules both understandable and stronger. It's a talent all the best Dragon writers had in those days, but Collins, in my opinion, made it into a high art. Moreso than any other writer, he showed me that, strangely organized and presented as it was, AD&D's rules weren't wholly arbitrary; indeed, they often made sense if you actually took the time to look at them objectively and think about the logic behind them. The proper attitude when encountering a rule that seems "broken" is to step back and consider it carefully before deciding to excise it from the game. That's an attitude that has stuck with me after all these years and one I continue to recommend to others.

Traveller Distinctives: The Patron

One of the fascinating aspects of early RPGs is how they slowly formalized the logic of play. Dungeons & Dragons may have established the basic parameters of what a roleplaying game was, but it often left many questions unanswered. Why do the characters delve into dungeons? Who sends them? The answers were left to the referee. The occasional NPC might offer a mission or contract, but these were incidental, tools of the moment rather than a foundation of play.

Traveller, meanwhile, took a different approach. While it certainly didn’t invent the concept of the patron – an NPC who hires the characters to perform a job – it brought that arrangement front and center. Patrons weren’t just another option; they were core to how the game was expected to be played. The “Patrons” section of Book 3: Worlds and Adventures includes a table of potential patrons designed precisely to facilitate adventure hooks through employment. The Traveller Book is even more explicit in its discussion of patrons:

The key to adventures in Traveller is the patron. When a band of adventurers meets an appropriate patron, they have a person who can give them direction in their activities, and who can reward them for success. The patron is the single most important non-player character possible.

I don't think the game could be clearer. Patrons aren't just a suggestion; their appearance in a campaign is a procedural expectation. Traveller assumes that characters, once generated and set loose in the universe, will look for patrons in starports, bars, or back alleys, seeking work. The encounter charts in the rules were tools to support this play style, providing both inspiration and structure.

The 1980 supplement 76 Patrons reinforces the centrality of the patron. Rather than present long-form adventures as Traveller had done elsewhere, it offers 76 short patron encounters for the referee to slot into his own campaign. Each comes with 2–6 possibilities, ranging from the mundane to the sinister.

The group is contacted by a newly married couple, who decline to give their names, but have reason to believe that their respective parents are not pleased with their union. They will pay Cr3000 to each member of a group who will escort them safely to a planet beyond their parents' sphere of influence.

Are the newlyweds telling the truth? Why do their parents disapprove? What happens when the characters decide to help them? The beauty of the format 76 Patrons introduces is its open-endedness. A patron encounter is not a fully fleshed-out scenario but rather a situation, a prompt that acts as a springboard for play, driven by player choice and referee improvisation. It’s a wonderful model that encourages episodic, player-directed campaigns, compatible with a wide range of activities: bodyguard duty, espionage, smuggling, salvage, courier missions, outright crime – you name it.

What’s more, this system makes sense within the larger science fictional context depicted in Traveller. The player characters are often former military personnel, merchants, or scouts, recently discharged from service with a pension, a few skills, and perhaps a ship with a mortgage. They’re not heroes out to save the world, but freelancers trying to keep the lights on. This framework gives Traveller a tone distinct from that of D&D. It's less about fighting adversaries in dangerous locales and more about negotiating contracts, weighing risks, and navigating a morally gray universe. The use of patrons supports a looser, sandbox-style approach to campaign structure, encouraging referees to present opportunities for players to involve their characters in a wide variety of interstellar hijinks.

Today, it's easy to recognize the importance of patrons in Traveller, because the idea of an NPC giving out jobs seems commonplace. But in 1977, just three years after the release of OD&D, few games emphasized this as a default mode of play. Traveller systematized the role of the patron and, in doing so, offered another way to structure an adventure, one rooted in negotiation, opportunity, and choice rather than exploration alone. That quiet shift in procedure helped lay the groundwork for decades of mission-based, open-ended roleplaying. I don't think it's any coincidence that, having played Traveller for so long, my default campaign frame includes lots of patrons to present opportunities to the player characters. The House of Worms campaign, for example, makes heavy use of patrons to this day. In my experience, it's a robust and flexible foundation that fosters engagement, supports improvisation, and sustains long-term play across almost any genre.

The Long Game (Part III)

In Parts I and II of this series, I laid out some of the principles and practices that have helped me successfully referee several long-running RPG campaigns. In my experience, flexibility, treating the game world as a living place, and investing in player choices all pay huge dividends. I also touched on my weekly routine: very light prep, frequent reuse of old material, tracking what matters, and finding ways to maintain player engagement between sessions. All of this is system-agnostic and, to some extent, it can be applied to any roleplaying game with the right mindset. However, I’ve found that certain games make this style of play easier. They either assume it from the start or provide rules and mechanics that reinforce the kind of open-ended, collaborative worldbuilding that long campaigns thrive on.

So, to conclude this part of the series – there are a few more related posts coming next week – I want to recommend a handful of RPGs I’ve played that I think are particularly well-suited to supporting enduring, player-driven campaigns.

Dungeons & Dragons

The TSR editions of Dungeons & Dragons, especially AD&D, are built on assumptions that naturally support long-term campaign play. They treat the referee as the final authority, assume player freedom of action, and offer no built-in plot or “story.” Advancement after the first few levels is slow, exploration is richly rewarded, and the game world exists beyond the player characters. These games provide excellent frameworks for the kind of emergent, faction-rich, consequence-driven campaigns that I’ve found work well over the long haul. Though I haven’t played AD&D in years, I still think it has just the right mix of elements to encourage sustained, imaginative play, especially if the referee is comfortable using his own judgment.

D&D Derivatives

While it probably goes without saying, I nevertheless want to be explicit: most RPGs that share a lot of rules or mechanical DNA with early Dungeons & Dragons are likely well-suited to long campaigns. I’m talking about games like Gamma World or Empire of the Petal Throne (obviously), as well as the many retro-clones of D&D. Particularly worth mentioning are Kevin Crawford’s Stars Without Number and related games. These not only preserve the simplicity of older systems but also explicitly support long-form sandbox play with tools for faction management, procedural content, and worldbuilding. In fact, I’d say many of the principles and practices I discussed in the earlier parts of this series really crystallized for me after I first read Stars Without Number all those years ago.

Traveller

The default playstyle of Traveller revolves around sandbox exploration, commerce, patronage, and factional intrigue, all of which are ideal ingredients for long-term campaigns. The original 1977 rules support the growth and development of an enduring campaign through a robust set of procedural tools: world and sector generation, reaction rolls, random encounters, and more. Traveller encourages players to make their own way in the universe, taking risks, building reputations, and developing relationships with factions and NPCs. Since I’ve been playing and thinking about Traveller for decades, I don’t think there’s any doubt it’s had an outsized influence on how I referee RPGs in general. Its assumptions and tools are deeply compatible with the kind of campaign play I find most rewarding.

Pendragon

For something more structured but still open-ended, Pendragon absolutely deserves mention. It’s built around generational play, where sessions span years of in-game time and characters age, retire, or die –only to be replaced by their sons. It assumes from the outset that the campaign will unfold over decades, filled with consequences and a world in motion. Unlike D&D, Pendragon places strong emphasis on character development in moral and psychological terms, not just skills and abilities. Players must contend with passions, virtues, family legacy, and political entanglements. For referees willing to embrace its tone and rhythms, it’s uniquely rewarding, which is why I consider it one of the best roleplaying games ever written.

This is by no means an exhaustive list. The games above are simply those I’ve used successfully in multi-year campaigns, but I’m sure many others could work just as well, especially if the referee and players commit to a shared style of play. In the end, I’d probably argue the “best” system for a long campaign is the one your group enjoys returning to week after week. If your players care about the world and the game gives you the tools to keep that world alive and responsive, then you’ve already got the makings of something lasting.

The Shape of Things to Come