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: Table Wounds
Slaughtergarde sang this week. One of those rare sessions where the tension tightened at just the right angles, the dice fell like stage lighting, and the players walked away saying the magic words: “You really seemed prepared.” Of course I was. I had monsters dressed in velvet and poisoned wine chilling in the narrative icebox. The party walked into the royal court of Droaam to petition the hag Sora Katra, and I made sure every corner of that hell-hall begged for disaster.
They dueled a War Troll while the nobility snacked on meat still twitching. Investigated a cursed feast mid-bite. Got help from a gnome spymaster who probably knows their blood types. Then, the cursed relic bomb, the real teeth of the night, was ticking somewhere in the dark like a forgotten sin. It all culminated in a riddle match with a hag whose smile might’ve been carved from bone. I didn’t push it. I let the story move like it wanted to. And it worked. Sometimes the best prep is knowing where to let go.
Elemental Evil wandered. But in a good way. I baited the hook with something grim, unmarked graves and bad vibes, and the players just... skipped it. Fine. That’s the game. Instead, they befriended sky knights and bagged a manticore with style. When Rivergard Keep came up, they were already planning to go. The quest slid over their path like oil. No force. Just friction. When you do it right, it feels like their story, but it’s your gravity holding the bones together.
Frostmaiden faltered. Let’s be honest about it. I fumbled the atmosphere at the Black Cabin. It should’ve chilled their bones, but I barely cracked the windows. The combat at Jarlmoot? Just dice-on-dice violence. No second layer. No heartbeat under the noise. The puzzle they had to solve? No pressure. Should’ve had a clock ticking. Should’ve had the dread breathing down their necks. Next time, I’ll lace it tighter.
Some nights, you orchestrate nightmares. Other nights, you leave the door open and forget to lock it. The good news? The players always come back. They want to see what you’ll do when you fix the mask. When the story turns sharp again.
Proficiency Bonus: Twin Knives of Character
If your character can’t be broken, bent, or seduced, then they’re not worth writing down. Every great hero, every unforgettable bastard at the table is carved from two opposing truths: what they’ll die for, and what might quietly damn them.
Define your Virtue first; the ideal, belief, or person your character would walk into fire for. It’s the anchor in the storm. The line they won’t cross. The thing that, when threatened, makes them loud, reckless, and real. When a GM invokes your Virtue in play, you’ll feel it. The room quiets. The story suddenly sharpens. You’re no longer rolling dice, you’re answering a question the world just asked you.
Then write down the Vice; the shadow of the Virtue. The crack in the armor. The craving, the fear, the secret that keeps them awake when everyone else has found sleep. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s a past sin they keep trying to rewrite. But when it shows up, the story tilts. The table notices. Maybe they laugh. Maybe they stare. Maybe they offer to help or sharpen a knife. Either way, they won’t forget.
Shared difficulty binds people. Characters too. When your knight falls silent during a sermon, or your rogue walks past the beggar without speaking, the world tilts just a little. Let that weight show. Let every word they say carry a little of the Virtue they fight for or the Vice they keep hidden.
This isn’t just flavor text. It’s fuel. Define these things sharply. Share them strategically. Then let them bleed into everything.
Master of Worlds: Hunting Perfection
Everyone wants the story that haunts the table. That one session where everything caught fire, where the dice hit just right, the music swelled, and the rogue whispered a line that made the paladin cry. But legendary moments aren’t luck. They’re war wounds.
You have to take shot after shot, burn through bad scenes and awkward pacing, walk the razor edge between control and chaos. Trust your gut. Even when it trembles. Especially then. Some of your best work will come when the plan falls apart and all that’s left is instinct and storytelling muscle memory.
Gather everything. Read like a thief. Watch like a GM. Steal from the edges of forgotten genres, tear lore out of indie systems, write down every good line from a comic book, and twist it into something yours. Read Save the Cat. Study beats. Not to chain yourself, but to load your toolkit with structures you can break when the time is right. The game isn’t about perfectly planned plots. It’s about knowing where to punch the pacing so it gasps.
Manipulate tension like a scene composer. Let your sessions breathe just long enough to fool the players into safety, then drop the blade. Rising, falling, crashing back up again. That’s how you stretch their emotional capacity. You don’t just want engagement. You want investment. You want to see them stare at the table after a moment of silence and whisper, “...holy shit.”
And yes, you’ll fail. You’ll botch the pacing, telegraph the twist, or spend four hours chasing a subplot that never mattered. Good. That’s blood in the mortar. That’s the trench work you have to do if you ever want to stand at the edge of a session that actually becomes myth.
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 community anywhere.
Roll a d4, or don’t, and take them all.
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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.
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