The Dungeon Dispatch #11
A Terrible Funhouse, No Scene Without Blood, No Player Without Fire.
My name is Merritt. I run stories that don’t care what system you’re using; only whether you’re willing to bleed a little. With 20+ years in the narrative trenches of TTRPGs, I’ve guided players through myth, madness, and the kind of moments that leave real scars.
These are my thoughts for the week: observations, lessons, and provocations from the edge of the table. Read them like omens. Use them like weapons.
Behind the Screen
Tuesday: Tomb of Horrors. The original meat grinder, dusted off and reloaded for a one-shot full of throwaway characters and glorious, nihilistic fun. There’s a special joy in watching players remember that dungeons can be cruel. They got comfy, fat on modern safety rails and story arcs. I handed them a few torches and said, “You're probably going to die. Let’s see how much fun it is.”
That’s the funhouse dungeon joy: it doesn’t matter what your character can do, it’s how you play. Bluffing your way past a statue, testing the floor tiles with someone else’s rogue, making peace with annihilation. Tomb of Horrors doesn’t care about your feats or your build. It wants to know how clever you are right before the ceiling comes down.
Wednesday: Session One of Elemental Evil. The opening act. That slow, creaking drawbridge of a session where the world is set, the hooks are cast, and nobody’s quite sure which version of their character they’re going to end up being. It was solid. A little blood, but plenty of setup. I tossed out plot threads like bones in a cave: “There’s something strange near that rock. That knightly order is hanging bandits again. Someone’s gone missing.” They just need to pick a direction. I'll be there, sharpening the consequences.
Session one is rarely fireworks. It’s the stretch before the sprint, the long inhale. Players aren’t gods yet. They’re sketches of people who might become myths. My job is to light enough fires around them that they eventually have to start running. And when they do, I’ll be waiting with more matches.
Proficiency Bonus: How to Be a Player Worth Remembering
You want to be a good player? Start by giving a damn.
Engage with the world. Read the prep. Ask questions like you're about to rob the place. The GM doesn’t need applause, but we do need resonance. When you lean in, when you bring your own fire to the table, it tells the GM: This story matters to you, too.
And once you’re in, don’t sit still. Push buttons. Flip levers. Swing from the rafters and knock the chandelier down on your way out. Tell the GM what your character does, not what they’re trying to roll. “I flip the table and dive behind it as the crossbow bolt thunks into the wood” is ten times more useful than “I roll for cover.” Fiction → Action → Fiction. Anything else is just dice math with better lighting.
Tether yourself to the world. Not just with a tragic backstory duct-taped to some forgotten hamlet, but with motivation. With intent. Align your vibe with the setting, the tone, the stakes. The worst kind of player is one who shows up with a completely different genre in their pocket. We’re doing mythic dread and elemental chaos, and you’ve brought a slapstick gnome who sells hot dogs to demons? Read the damn briefing.
Then, make a character the GM can root for. Or at least respect. Unlikable characters die alone in the snow. Characters who fight for something, who want something, who make bold moves knowing they might fall? Those are the ones who bend the world. The world reacts to motion. If you’re waiting for the plot to knock on your door, don’t be surprised when it burns your house down instead.
The best players don’t just survive the game.
They break it open and eat the pieces.
Master of Worlds: In Your Face Scenes Only
When you're prepping, and let’s not pretend we aren’t always prepping, every encounter you plan needs to do two things: it needs to serve the story, and it needs to grab the players by the throat. Plot, theme, tone; yes, absolutely. But if the scene doesn't force the party to choose, it's dead air. This is a storytelling engine powered by pressure, not passive description.
Every scene should demand something. Now or later? Personal or professional? Safe or right? These are the questions you should be hammering into every beat. Players should look at their setup and feel it, asking themselves, “What are you willing to give up to get what you want?” If you’re not asking that, you’re just reciting flavor text and pretending it’s a game.
Urgency. Meaning. Purpose. If a scene doesn’t have at least two of those running hot under the hood, cut it or set it on fire. Better yet, rewrite it to hurt more. The world should react like it’s a living thing. Your NPCs shouldn’t just be in the way, they should make the party doubt, hesitate, rage, and choose wrong. The best sessions don’t leave the players asking, “What happened?” They leave them asking, “What the hell do we do now?”
And when they ignore the story hooks you dropped in plain sight, good. Let them. That’s when the teeth come out. They walk past your beautiful narrative gift like it’s trash? Cool. They’ll remember that choice in three sessions, when it comes back wearing armor and a crown. The world always moves. The only question is whether they keep up or get trampled under it.
Stop building scenic tours. Start building traps. Make them choose. Make them sweat. Then make them live with it.
Roll for Engagement
The world doesn’t get better on its own. Communities, like campaigns, only come alive when players show up and cast something other than Silence.
If you’ve ever laughed at a bad goblin pun, cried during a roleplay scene, or built a backstory longer than your résumé... I want you here. And I want you to help me build the best TTRPG haven in Colorado Springs.
Roll a d4, or don’t, and take them all.
1. Leave a comment. Feedback is my favorite loot drop. Say hi. Say “you’re wrong.” Say something cursed. Just say something.
2. Share the map. Send people to Rebel Raven Gaming Company. Lure them in. You know who they are. That one guy. That one chaotic friend.
3. Spread the Scroll. Subscribe. Share the newsletter. Invite others into our circle of myth and snacks.
4. Vote on next week’s topic. Power is an illusion, but also a duty. Tell me the moment your table still talks about, the scar that became legend, in the comments.
You are not just a reader; you are part of the inner circle. Now, act like it.