During a recent D&D game I got to play in (it’s the wrap-up of another campaign that some of my friends used to play in years ago that needed another player to round things out as they try to bring it to an end this year), things went a little off the rails. I’ll claim some responsibility in starting the process since I decided to act in a situation that the other players didn’t seem inclined to and wound up preventing a bad guy from magically escaping. Sure, this meant that we got to show the entire city that they were being ruled by a terrifying Adult Red Dragon, but that also meant that we were stuck in a room with an angry Adult Red Dragon and a ton of bystanders who had no hope of surviving an attack from him. It was rough, seeing half of those people die as the party of intrepid adventurers tried to intervene against some of the named and known unsavory NPCs at the ball we were all attending, but we forced a dragon (the leader and ally of the aforementioned NPCs) to reveal himself and set up an interesting situation that we’d need to flee. Only, when it came time to run, the battle immediately turned sideways. This sudden shift was only made possible by a series of moments that, individually, seemed largely unremarkable, but ultimately ended with one of our group knocking the dragon unconscious before a Contingency spell zipped him away from us. Which, needless to say, really knocked the plot and session plans (current and future) asunder. I wound up talking to the DM afterwards (he is one of my dearest friends and a brother to me, along with being my longest-running tabletop game player), about how these kinds of things happen, the choices we make as GMs, and how to live with what happens after the fact (we wound up branching pretty far in our conversation, as we often do, since he’s also been around pretty much every time something similar happened to me).
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The Luckiest Man In The World
“I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
Zach rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky alright, but don’t let it go to your head, Mister Two-Times-Lottery-Winner.”
“I mean it, though. Look at that parking spot!” Eli gestured at the distance between his car and the steps leading up to his accountant’s firm.
“I not only won the lottery twice,” Eli paused to make sure no one was listening as they walked past, “but I didn’t win until I’d learned enough sense to not blow it all immediately. Plus! I always find good parking, I’ve never had anything stolen despite how often I forget to lock my doors, and that I’ve never tripped, choked, or gotten sick. There’s no explanation for it other than sheer luck.”
Eli grabbed the railing running up the center of the stone stairs and gestured at the building. “Plus, I happened to make friends with the right accountant while I was this building’s janitor, so I’ve got no worries about embezzlement.”
“Yeah, fine.” Zach said from a couple steps behind Eli. “Who cares?”
“I do. It doesn’t make se-” Eli, looking back at Zach, tripped on the next stair and fell forward, barely catching himself before he face-planted onto the marble.
As Zach opened his mouth to laugh, there was a sharp crack followed less than a moment later by an air-shattering boom. Abandoning propriety, the two of them scrambled up the steps, through the doors, and into the shadowy depths of the firm’s lobby.
As the two of them sat on the ground, panting, while the accounting firm’s security staff scurried around to find the source of the bullet that had nearly killed Eli, Eli laughed until he was gasping.
“Okay, I won’t argue.” Zach said, fighting the panic. “But you can’t say you’ve never tripped anymore.”
Together, We All Grow As Storytellers
I’ve been running Dungeons and Dragons games for over a decade now. Twelve years, this summer. For the last six years, I’ve been running Sunday evening games for a group that has changed many times, with the exception of two players. These two people, friends I’ve known to some degree about as long as I’ve been running Dungeons and Dragons, have been an endless source of amusement and fun for me as a dungeon master. From tragic beginnings, moments of hilarity, grave failures, and a general willingness to go wherever I lead them, I don’t think I could ask for more from any players of mine.
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