We Need Less Adventure Scenarios
I know, but hear me out.
Temple of the Frog was the first published adventure scenario in 1975, written by Dave Arneson. It would be expanded upon and published as its own standalone adventure a decade later, but originally it was only a 20 page supplement for the Blackmoor setting. The first standalone adventure was Palace of the Vampire Queen in 1976. Pete and Judy Kerestan published it through Wee Warriors, making it also the first third-party adventure that was not formally licensed by TSR (though they nevertheless arranged to distribute its early printings, and continued until 1977).
TSR didn’t publish their own adventure until 1978, when Gary Gygax wrote G1: Steading of the Hill Giant Chief. Between 1975 and 1978, a conservative estimate of 13 adventures were published, some by third-party publications, like Wee Warriors and Judges Guild (which were licensed), and some for Tunnels & Trolls, a D&D competitor published by Flying Buffalo. It is safe to say that the legacy of the published adventure goes as far back as the game itself, as does the tradition of third-party publishing.
That first scenario, Temple of the Frog, is somehow both verbose and terse. There are lengthy introductory sections and sprawling background text, yet room descriptions are inconsistent in level of detail. Some offer only a line or two describing a space’s function, while others devote a hefty paragraph to itemizing the exact number of inhabitants and their belongings. Otherwise, the layout is spartan; a single column, white space, and a smattering of diagrams, maps, and the occasional spot illustration.
When Gygax enters the picture with Steading of the Hill Giant Chief, the vernacular remains much the same, but the presentation grows more sophisticated. Room descriptions are condensed into digestible lists, text is arranged in two columns, and clear labels and tables make information easier to reference. Some passages remain impenetrable, while others leave too much unsaid, but the adventure has become something more than bare text on a white page. The interplay of art, layout, and keyed descriptions would become part of D&D’s DNA from that point forward.
In the case of G1 and other early adventures, it’s difficult to say whether this evolution in format actually made them easier to run or just easier to conceptualize. It’s hard to read Gary’s adventures, in particular, without sensing that part of his intent was to equip you with a collection of imaginary action figures and accessories to play with however you pleased—even if that meant making Stretch Armstrong marry G.I. Joe. Sometimes, however, what he was equipping you with was a litany of mundane items, long accounting of coinage and percentile chances, and unavoidable death traps.
Over the years, adventure design would become exponentially more refined. In some ways, that modular spirit persisted, becoming a hallmark of emergent storytelling, albeit increasingly filtered through a simulationist sensibility. The funhouse goes out of vogue, and Stretch Armstrong can no longer marry G.I. Joe, because why would they even be in the same dungeon? The ecology of this place doesn’t make any sense!
In the traditional gaming market, adventure scenarios have become exercises in graphic design as much as writing, if not more so. Text swirls around artwork that bleeds into the white space beneath blazing headers, all printed on faux-distressed paper. The prose itself is more natural than it was in Gary Gygax’s day, and information is distributed more thoughtfully across the page, but the function of the text has scarcely evolved beyond the instructional. Two columns and a table where appropriate. The expectation remains that you’ll read between 60 and 200 pages, commit the material to memory, and then regurgitate it at the table, making generous revisions of your own. That is, if it doesn’t simply adorn their bookshelves as a collectible, or home decor.
In the OSR/NSR scene, some publishers, like Free League, adopt the visual language of traditional gaming, compounding the two styles. Even when they eschew elaborate graphics, they often pursue a hyper-technical approach to the flow of text. Adventures are condensed into a finite number of pages, with just enough artwork to break up the monotony, while every element of the written presentation must be precisely calibrated. There is an almost fanatical enterprise for maximum minimalism, while simultaneously questing for the platonic ideal of efficiency.
Adventure scenarios are, at their core, technical documents intending to guide you through a specified and, to some degree, restrictive scenario that the writer conceived would be fun. Both of these styles are, despite my satirical emphasis, perfectly fine and good when used effectively and in moderation. They each can be extremely functional for gamemasters of a certain type, who respond well to the form provided, and who are willing and able to work within the provided framework.
But there are other kinds of gamemasters!
According to most online surveys, including one recently conducted by Sly Flourish, anywhere from half to a majority of gamemasters prefer homebrewing their adventures, with an even larger number opting for a mix of homebrew and published material. Anecdotally, I rarely speak with someone who says they run adventures strictly by the book, though such GMs certainly exist. I suspect most GMs would say they substantially modify the adventures they run to better suit their personal styles, table cultures, and campaigns. What I hear most often, even from prominent adventure reviewers, is that they read adventures primarily for inspiration. Even adventures they never intend to run can provide plenty of creative fuel for their own homebrew content.
So why do we continue to exclusively present adventures as turnkey scenarios meant to be played as written, when GMs who use them that way seem to be in the minority? The best OSR adventures seem to recognize this, and are often designed to be as open-ended as possible, allowing the scenario to be approached from nearly any angle. But if the material is ultimately going to be stripped down to its chassis and reconstructed to suit a particular table, why present it in that form in the first place? And why impose such an extreme level of technicality on the presentation?
As far back as adventure scenarios and third-party publishers go, so too does the homespun, do-it-yourself spirit of TTRPGs. D&D began as a game that a 23-year-old college student created for his friends in his parents’ basement. Yet the hobby now seems increasingly dominated by a demand for ultra-professionalism. Discussions of book layout, crowdfunding, and production values often overshadow the inventive if somewhat sloppy things we scribbled and colored with crayons for our friends.
I wonder if the numbers for GMs who prefer homebrew might not be higher, if not for this emphasis on highly polished, professionally produced adventures discouraging GMs who lack the time, resources, or experience to prepare material to the same standard. Faced with that unattainable expectation, they may come to see buying someone else’s adventure as the only realistic path to an easy, enjoyable Friday night.
Wouldn’t it be better to give these GMs the tools and inspiration to create adventures of their own, while still giving them ready-to-run, low-prep material to work with? After all, if the goal of a well-made adventure is to make it easy to run at the table, then the easiest adventure to run—the one that requires no special keying or preparation for the person running it to understand—is the one you make for yourself.
What I propose is a kind of supplement that I’m calling an adventure basis. Not a scenario, built around a pressing threat or active mystery that must be defeated or solved before the adventure is complete, and not an extensive setting that requires cramming before tomorrow’s game. Rather, a collection of inspirational nuggets. The sort of material a GM might otherwise scour books, movies, and television to find, gathered in one place and ready to bring to the table, effortlessly gameable.
A few distinct NPCs, a strange curse, a fascinating weather event, an awesome item, all under the umbrella of a novel conceit for a fantastical world, or just an interesting location that comes not fully-populated, but with recommendations on how to populate it and with what. Each piece would be designed to stand on its own and ready to be mixed and matched, with little to memorize and plenty of fruitful voids for the GM to fill with their own imagination. Remove the instructions, and just provide the Legos.
I don’t think that we should stop writing fine-tuned adventure scenarios, or elaborate campaign settings. Those are as quintessential to TTRPGs as dice and pizza, and a lot of players and GMs get a kick out of them. But I do think we should make less of them, and more of something else that serves everyone else just as much.