The spirit of Old School Renaissance is, at its core, a return to simplicity, creativity, and the ability to improvise. It’s a philosophy that prioritizes substance over form, tools over scripts. No exercise encapsulates this mindset better than the challenge of creating a complete, playable adventure module on a single page. This isn’t merely a design trick or an artificial constraint; it’s a rigorous discipline that forces the creator to distill the adventure down to its purest, most functional elements. Writing a one-page module is a focused masterclass, teaching us that what’s left out is just as important as what’s included. The end result isn’t a sketch, but a masterpiece of efficiency, an elegant set of tools that empowers the Game Master to run a dynamic and memorable session with nothing more than a sheet of paper and an understanding of the game’s fundamental principles.

The power of a one-page module lies in its immediacy. It eliminates the barrier of excessive preparation, allowing a Game Master, even with limited time, to have an adventure ready to run. In a world where modern modules can extend to hundreds of pages of intricate lore and complex plots, the one-page approach serves as a revitalizing antidote. It recognizes that the true magic of RPGs lies not in the designer’s prescribed words, but in the live interaction at the table, in the players’ decisions, and in the Game Master’s interpretations. This format places the responsibility for the narrative where it belongs: in the hands of the people who are playing. The module is not a novel to be followed to the letter, but a robust skeleton upon which the meat of the campaign will be built in the heat of the moment.

The Philosophy of the Essential: Less is More

Before putting pen to paper, it’s crucial to internalize the design philosophy underpinning this endeavor. The guiding principle is tabletop utility. Every word, every line, every element of the module should serve a direct functional purpose during the game. If information isn’t likely to be needed by the Game Master during a typical session, it should be mercilessly cut. This means eliminating lengthy paragraphs of backstory, irrelevant NPC biographies, and flowery descriptions of environments. Instead, the focus should be on what players can interact with, what they can find, and what they can do. The module is a toolkit, not a tourist guide.

This approach demands radical trust in the Game Master. The designer doesn’t need to foresee every eventuality or provide all the answers. The goal is to provide the building blocks—locations, characters, threats, and treasures—and trust that the Game Master will use them to build the adventure in real time, adapting to the unpredictable actions of the players. This trust is liberating. It allows the module to be incredibly dense in playable content without being overwhelming. Visual aesthetics are also an integral part of this philosophy. A clear layout, with a well-defined information hierarchy and the strategic use of white space, is as important as the text itself. The page should be easy and quick to read, allowing the Game Master to find the information they need with a simple glance.

The Four Pillars: Location, Threat, Treasure, and Secrets

Every OSR module, regardless of its size, rests on four fundamental pillars: the Location, the Threat, the Treasure, and the Secrets. In a one-page module, these pillars are not mere sections; they are the central organizational structure. The Location is the stage, the physical environment where the adventure unfolds. The Threat is the conflict, the active force opposing the players. The Treasure is the reward, the material incentive for the risk. And the Secrets are the depth, the layers of mystery and meaning that transform a simple foray into a memorable story. The art of compressing an adventure onto a page is the art of distilling each of these pillars into their most potent form.

The location should be immediately understandable and easy to navigate. For a one-page module, this almost always means a single, self-contained location: a small dungeon, an abandoned tower, a monster lair, or a desecrated sanctuary. The map is the centerpiece. It should be simple, clear, and designed to be read at a glance. A point-of-interest style, where each room or area is represented by a simple, numbered symbol, is ideal. Avoid winding, complex corridors; opt for a logical layout with a limited number of areas—five to twelve is a perfect range. Each number on the map corresponds to a concise entry in the text. The description of each location should be one or two sentences at most, focusing on three things: what is immediately visible, a potential hazard or interactive feature, and a clue or point of interest that might lead to something else. For example, instead of writing a paragraph about the history of a chapel, write: “1. Chapel in Ruins. A demonic idol has replaced the altar. Dried blood stains the floor. A sacred symbol is hidden behind a loose brick (Save vs. Poison to remove without being stung by a scorpion).” This gives the Game Master everything they need to describe the room and react to the players’ actions.

The Threat is the heart of the conflict. In such a compact module, the threat must be focused and thematic. It could be a single powerful creature with its minions, a small but cohesive faction, or an environmental curse. The key is that the threat has an active presence on the site. It doesn’t passively wait in the final room; it patrols, hunts, performs rituals, or expands its territory. Include a short random encounter table—perhaps only four entries—that reflects this threat. For the boss or main threat, provide an ultra-compact statistic. In OSR-based systems, this could be as simple as:  “The Corruptor, A Pale Shape (AC 14, MV 12, HD 6, AT 1 claws (1d8 + level drain), ML 9).  Level Drain:  Victim makes a Save vs. Death or loses 1 level/round.  Weakness:  Direct sunlight causes 1d6 damage/round.” This small text box contains all the necessary information for a climactic fight, including a unique mechanic and an exploitable weakness, without taking up unnecessary space.

Treasure is the fuel that powers progression in OSR. In a one-page module, treasure should be more than just gold coins; it should be interesting, thematic, and sometimes problematic. Instead of listing long loot tables, place specific treasures in specific locations on the map. A treasure should tell a story. The cultist’s chest doesn’t just contain gems; it contains “50 gp, a cat’s eye necklace (100 gp) that seems to follow whoever looks at it, and a blood-signed infernal contract that compels the bearer to commit murder.” This not only provides wealth but also creates new adventure hooks. Magic items, if included, should be strange and have unusual drawbacks or functionalities. A one-page module is the perfect place to introduce a sword that speaks to the dead but requires blood sacrifices, or a shield that can block magic but is afraid of the dark. These items generate much more gameplay than a simple numerical bonus.

Ultimately, secrets are what elevate the adventure from a simple monster slaying spree to a truly memorable experience. A secret is a piece of information that changes the players’ perception of the location or threat. Perhaps the cult leader isn’t a villain, but a desperate man trying to save his daughter from a curse. Perhaps the dungeon isn’t a building, but the petrified body of a minor god. Perhaps the treasure isn’t gold, but a dragon egg about to hatch. Secrets should be scattered throughout the location, in the form of diaries, murals on walls, or in the conversations of subdued NPCs. They provide the depth that makes players think and engage with the world beyond combat. In a one-page module, two or three interconnected secrets are enough to create a web of intrigue.

Step by Step: Building the Adventure

Let’s now apply these principles to a step-by-step creation process. Imagine we are creating a module called “The Well of Whispering Bones”.

Step 1: The Central Concept.  Begin with a single, high-concept sentence. Example: “A sacred well, corrupted by a bony shaman, now curses the land around it. The bones of the dead whisper secrets of betrayal.” This immediately gives us the Location (the well), the Threat (the bony shaman), a potential Treasure (whatever lies at the bottom of the well), and a Secret (the betrayal).

Step 2: The Map.  Draw a simple map. The Well is the central point. Around it, we have: 1. Entrance to the Stone Circle; 2. Followers’ Camp; 3. Bone Altar; 4. The Whispering Well; 5. Underground Chamber (accessible only through the well). The map is circular and simple, with perhaps five areas. This is more than enough.

Step 3: Populate the Locations.  Now, write an entry for each number on the map.

1. Entrance to the Circle of Stones:  Leaning runic stones. Runes warn: “Here lies truth, and truth corrupts.” Any undead entering the circle must make a Will save or be paralyzed by fear.
2. Followers’ Camp:  Three starving cultists (HD 1) are cooking a rat. They know that the Bone Shaman (Urgok) betrayed their tribe’s chief to obtain the power of the well. They are afraid and can be bribed with food.
3. Altar of Bones:  Human and animal bones arranged in a circular pattern. A skull in the center whispers the same word repeatedly: “Treachery…”. If destroyed, it releases a Vengeful Spirit (HD 3) that attacks the nearest being.
4. The Whispering Well:  A deep, dry well. Whispers rise from it, revealing the darkest thoughts of those who hear them. Descending requires a rope and a Climbing check. The bottom leads to area 5.
5. Underground Chamber:  Urgok, the Bony Shaman (AC 15, HD 4, AT 1 Bone Staff (1d6) or Necrotic Ray (2d6, Save vs. Death for half damage)), is performing a ritual over a black water source. The treasure—an amber amulet (500 gp) that binds the soul of the true boss—is beside him. If Urgok is killed, the whispers cease.

Step 4: Define the Threat.  We have already defined Urgok. Now, we create a small encounter table for the outdoors (areas 1-3): 1. A wandering skeleton (HD 1); 2. The three cultists on patrol; 3. A swarm of necrophagous insects (1d4 damage/round); 4. A ghostly vision of Urgok’s treachery.

Step 5: Sowing the Treasures and Secrets.  The main treasure is the amber amulet. But the true secret lies in the whispers and the story of betrayal. A cultist’s diary in the camp (area 2) may contain the truth: the true leader, Grumbar, did not die in battle, but was poisoned by Urgok, and his soul is trapped in the amulet. If the amulet is destroyed, Grumbar’s soul is freed, blessing the players and healing the land. This gives the players a moral choice and a way to resolve the adventure without necessarily killing Urgok—perhaps they could negotiate with him or free Grumbar to confront him.

Step 6: Review and Layout.  Now, bring all these pieces together on a single page. Use a large, clear title. Place the map in a corner, clean and legible. List the numbered areas in a column. Include monster statistics in compact boxes. Use bold for keywords like  Urgok  or  Amber Amulet  for quick reference. The final text should be concise and direct, taking up less than a page when drafted, so it can be neatly formatted and styled attractively.

Execution at the Table

The beauty of such a compact module is its flexibility. A Game Master can pick up “The Well of Whispering Bones” and run it in a three-hour session without any prior preparation. During the game, the Game Master isn’t reading long blocks of text; they’re using the concise notes as a springboard for their own description. Secrets are revealed organically. If the players ignore the cultists, the secret of betrayal might be discovered through the whispers in the well or the skull on the altar. The Game Master is free to improvise, knowing that the core structure is solid but not rigid.

This format is also perfect for sandbox campaigns. A one-page module is a point of interest easily inserted into a larger map. “The Well of Whispering Bones” could be just one of many locations players hear about in the local village. Its short length means the Game Master can have a dozen of these modules ready, allowing the campaign to unfold in a truly player-driven way.

In conclusion, the art of writing a one-page OSR module is much more than an exercise in minimalism. It’s an affirmation of the core values ​​of OSR: creativity over storytelling, tools over scripts, and the Game Master’s agency over the designer’s authority. It forces us to identify and refine what is truly essential to an RPG adventure—an interesting location, a credible threat, a tempting reward, and a mystery worth unraveling. By mastering this form, designers and Game Masters not only create incredibly accessible and usable content, but also rediscover the pure, unadulterated core of what makes a role-playing game work. On a single page, we can capture a world of possibilities.

The heart of the Old School Renaissance (OSR) movement has always been the sword, the torch, and the cracked clay of a dark dungeon. But its soul, what truly pulsates beneath the shell of data and tables, is a voracious hunger for possibilities. After years of dominance by the “Vanciano” magic system of Dungeons & Dragons , many players and creators within the OSR began to feel that the flame of magical wonder had become a bottled-up flame, cataloged on shelves. It was then that many eyes turned to a distant beacon, coming from another tradition: the fluid, creative, and almost academic magic of Ars Magica . This article examines the origins of this restlessness, the philosophy behind the search, and, above all, the many bold, and sometimes frustrated, attempts by the OSR community to transplant the soul of Ars Magica magic into their minimalist systems.

Magic as a Mechanism and Magic as a Language

To understand the appeal of adaptation, it is first necessary to understand the conceptual chasm that separates the two systems. The first, and most familiar, is the “Vancian” magic system from the early editions of D&D. Named after the author Jack Vance, whose novels The Dying Earth inspired it, this system treats magic as a limited and almost physical resource. The wizard must study his spellbooks every morning and memorize a specific number of spells, which occupy “magic slots” in his mind. When cast, the magic literally dissipates from the caster’s memory, like an arrow fired from a mental quiver. To cast the same spell again, it is necessary to have memorized it multiple times or go through a new period of study.

In this paradigm, magic is powerful and, in theory, dangerous, but the spellcaster’s main limitation is accounting and logistics: how many spells of each level can he “carry” per day? The practical consequence is that the wizard becomes a bag of pre-selected tools. Creativity arises in choosing which tools to take on the adventure, not in their flexible application in the heat of the moment. It is a system that, despite its tactical charm, imprisons a spellcaster’s potential in a rigid list of predefined effects.

In contrast, the magic system in Ars Magica is less a crossbow-shooting mechanic and more a grammar for constructing a language. Its core is the famous “Verb/Noun” system, formalized as the 15 Arts: 5 Techniques (the verbs) combined with 10 Forms (the nouns). The Techniques define the magical action; they are: Creo (Create), Intellego (Perceive), Muto (Transform), Perdo (Destroy), and Rego (Control). The Forms define the target of the magic: Animal , Auram (Air), Aquam (Water), Corpus (Body), Herbam (Plant), Ignem (Fire), Imaginem (Image), Mentem (Mind), Terram (Earth), and Vim (Power).

By combining a verb with a Latin noun, the theory allows a magus to create virtually any imaginable effect. To cast a simple fireball, a mage could use Creo Ignem (Create Fire) to generate the flame from nothing, Rego Ignem (Control Fire) to hurl an existing flame, or even Perdo Ignem (Destroy Fire) to create a region of extreme cold. Magic in Ars Magica is not a shopping list; it’s a real-time problem-solving tool. If the player can articulate the desired effect in terms of a Technique and a Form, the system provides (albeit complex) guidelines to assess how difficult it would be to achieve that feat.

Why does the philosophy of Ars Magica resonate with OSR?

At first glance, comparing Ars Magica , a system often described as heavy and complex, to the “rulings not rules” philosophy of OSR seems counterintuitive. However, the relevance of the idea lies in a deeper aspect than simply counting the pages of the rulebook. The OSR philosophy, which emphasizes the Game Master’s decisions rather than fixed rules and the player’s skill over the character’s abilities, sees rules as tools on the table, not as a prison.

The magic system in Ars Magica , by its very flexible nature, inherently relies on a human arbiter to function. There is no rule for “freezing the blood in an opponent’s bones.” Instead, the system provides a framework: Perdo Corpus (Destroy Body) for a lethal effect, or Rego Corpus (Control Body) for paralysis. The final difficulty, casting time, and any situational modifiers are decided by the Game Master, based on their understanding of the story and the logic of the world. This is the essence of “rulings not rules”: the rule provides a foundation, but the final decision rests with the Game Master to maintain the flow of the narrative and the sense of challenge.

Furthermore, Ars Magica rewards the kind of creative and non-linear thinking that OSR so highly values. In a standard OSR game, a wizard might use a spell like Web to trap a troll. In a game with magic inspired by Ars Magica , the same wizard might have the idea of ​​using Muto Terram (Transform Earth) to weaken the ground beneath the troll’s feet or Intellego Animal (Perceive Animal) to discover that it is afraid of fire, and then use Creo Ignem to create a bonfire. The possibilities explode exponentially, getting closer to the feeling of being a “true” sorcerer trying to manipulate the laws of reality than a machine operator of effects. The structure of verbs and nouns serves as a “scaffold” for improvisation, preventing magic from becoming a succession of “I do magic!”, but at the same time, it doesn’t rigidly confine the action to a list of pre-approved options.

The Attempts, the Challenges, and the Hybrid Solutions

The story of the merging of these two philosophies is, above all, a story of trial and error and ingenious compromises. From the outset, the community recognized that simply transplanting the complete rules of Ars Magica into a retroclone would not be a simple task, mainly due to the differences in time progression and resources. However, over the years, three main approaches have crystallized.

The first approach is that of direct structural adaptation. In this line of thought, creators attempt to maintain the core of Techniques and Forms, but reconstruct the mathematics of charges and penalties to fit the d20 systems of OSR. An emblematic example is ” Ye Olde Magick Hacke “. In this system, the author creates a General Skill for “Ars” (representing hermetic knowledge), with all the Techniques of Ars Magica as sub-skills, and another skill for “Morph”, with all the Forms as sub-skills. To cast a spell, the player would roll their skill in the relevant Technique plus the associated attribute, with the difficulty dictated by the Form and the complexity of the effect. Another interesting example arose in discussions about the Godbound system , an OSR game where the characters are demigods. One user proposed a “Heroic Talent” that transformed the character into a wizard in the style of Ars Magica , using a roll system Técnica + Forma + dado(like 1d10) against a difficulty dictated by the Game Master, with a fatigue accumulation system to limit the conjurer’s power, preventing them from becoming an omnipotent god.

The second approach, perhaps the most fruitful and popular, is the creation of “free” systems inspired by the philosophy of Ars Magica , but radically simplified. The premise here is to capture the feeling of free magic, but abandoning the complexity of the effect level tables of Ars Magica . One of the most cited examples is Giovanni’s “Freeform Magic System for OSR Games”. Instead of complex formulas that take into account damage, area, range, and duration, this system proposes only two questions that the Game Master must answer to assess the difficulty of an improvised spell: “What danger is this spell trying to solve?” and “How direct and complete is the solution desired by the mage?”. Another notable example is the optional class “The Conjuror”, mentioned on RPGGeek. Instead of spell slots, the Conjurer combines “Aspects and Processes” on the fly to create an effect. The creator states that the class is about improvisation, where the player must be creative and the Game Master must be able to make quick and fair decisions about the outcome.

Finally, the third approach involves the use of complete “hacks” or lesser-known retroclones that have already attempted to solve the problem. “The Conjuror” is one such product, available in stores like DriveThruFiction. It proposes a class that, instead of fixed spells, receives words that it can combine to create its spells. Another product, called “Eclipse: The Codex Persona Shareware”, offers a complex magic system that the author claims is “derived from Ars Magica ”, but with its own set of nouns and verbs, and a mana system to power the spells.

The Legacy of a Near-Conquest

So why don’t we see a massive proliferation of OSR systems using Ars Magica magic as a standard? The answer lies in the very nature of the challenge. The Ars Magica system doesn’t exist in isolation; it’s intertwined with a specific gameplay rhythm (study and research stations), with a system of experimental magic and the creation of new spells in the laboratory, and with an experience point system that rewards academic activity as much as adventuring. Trying to “weld” magic into an OSR system without taking these factors into account can result in an unbalanced mage or a system that doesn’t integrate well with the structure of a dungeon.

There is also the question of simplicity. Many successful OSR solutions for free magic, such as those mentioned, are extremely elegant, but can be so minimalist that the structure of verbs and nouns becomes almost superfluous, reduced to an improvised difficulty table. On the other hand, attempts to maintain the richness of Ars Magica ‘s 15 verbs and nouns with its 5 Techniques and 10 Forms quickly bloat the rulebook, going against the ethos of lightweight and portable OSR systems.

Ultimately, the OSR community’s quest for the magic of Ars Magica is less about commercial success and more about an ongoing creative dialogue between two great philosophies of RPG design. The legacy of this quest is not a single system that reigns supreme, but a rich collection of small experiments, forum hacks, and optional classes for those willing to break the mold of the wizard with his grimoire and ask his Dungeon Master: “What if I tried to create ice in the dragon’s heart?”. This question, and the willingness to find an answer through a flexible system, is perhaps the greatest victory of the OSR movement. And it clearly echoes the voices in the laboratories of the Order of Hermes.

There is something profoundly wrong with the way many RPG players approach combat these days. Sit at the table, describe an imposing creature emerging from the entrance of a cave, and watch. Almost invariably, the players’ hands reach for the dice. Swords are drawn. Damage spells are prepared. There is a silent expectation, an unwritten contract between the game master and the players: if it’s there, it’s because we can kill it.

This expectation didn’t arise out of nowhere. It’s the result of decades of evolution in RPG design, a journey that began in the early days of the hobby and has brought us to the current paradigm of “balancing.” To understand how to present unbalanced but fair encounters—the backbone of the OSR (Old School Renaissance) style—we first need to understand how we got here.

The Age of Common Sense

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, when the original D&D and AD&D 1st edition reigned supreme, the concept of “balancing” as we know it today simply didn’t exist. TSR’s adventure modules featured dungeons with levels that varied drastically in difficulty. At level 1, you might face some skeletons. At level 2, well, maybe a minotaur. At level 3, a vampire. If you went down to level 4 too early, your character would die. Simple as that.

The structure was simpler, yes, but not for lack of sophistication—it was a matter of philosophy. Gygax and Arneson weren’t designing a “balanced game.” They were designing a world . And worlds don’t care about the level of their characters. A cave that has housed a dragon for three hundred years isn’t suddenly going to change its inhabitants just because a group of level 3 adventurers decided to explore it.

In that era, the game master had a fundamental responsibility: to communicate the danger. The clues were there. The peasant in the nearby village spoke of the mountain’s “breath of death.” Charred bones adorned the cave entrance. The module’s very name— The Mad Mage’s Dungeon —already suggested that things beyond the characters’ comprehension inhabited those corridors. The game master arbitrated, the players decided, and the consequences were merciless but predictable.

The Birth of the Challenge Level

Everything changed with the arrival of D&D 3rd edition in 2000. Wizards of the Coast, then recently acquired by Hasbro, had a clear mission: to professionalize and systematize the game. Part of this effort came in the form of the Challenge Rating (CR) system, a brilliant tool in theory, problematic in practice.

The idea was noble. The design team, led by Monte Cook, Jonathan Tweet, and Skip Williams, wanted to give game masters a reliable tool for gauging a creature’s potential difficulty. A monster with a CR of 5 would, in theory, represent an appropriate challenge for a group of level 5 characters. The game master could then build encounters with the confidence that they were neither underestimating nor overestimating their players.

For a time, it served as a support. Novice game masters had a crutch, an anchor to begin understanding the power dynamics in the game. But something insidious began to happen over the years with the arrival of 3.5, then the 4th edition (which took balancing to almost pathological levels of surgical precision), and finally the 5th edition.

The level of challenge has gone from being a supporting factor to becoming a rule .

The Rambo Generation

The change was cultural before it was mechanical. At some point along the way, players began to expect that every combat presented by the game master would be winnable through direct confrontation. More than that: they began to consider any deviation from this expectation unfair .

I know the scene by heart. The group finds an ancient dragon sleeping atop its treasure. Instead of retreating, planning, negotiating, or even considering alternatives, the players advance. Combat begins. The dragon uses its breath weapon. Half the group dies in the first round. The surviving player turns to the game master and, with legitimate indignation, asks: “Why did you set up an unbalanced combat?”

Do you see the inversion? The assumption embedded in the question is that every conflict presented is a battle designed to be won . This player isn’t role-playing an adventurer in a dangerous world. They’re playing a video game where enemies scale with their level, where difficulty areas are clearly marked, where the mere fact that an encounter exists means it’s been calibrated for the player’s progress.

I call this generation “Rambo” for a reason. Rambo, after all, faces entire armies alone and wins. Not because the world is realistic, but because the genre demands it. These are players who have learned—through osmosis, through years of exposure to balanced systems, through campaigns where the game master never dared to present anything that couldn’t be resolved through brute force—that combat is the standard and always viable solution.

If you’re an OSR game master migrating from more modern systems or receiving players accustomed to this philosophy, be prepared: there will be a clash of expectations. Your players will blindly rush towards danger. They will believe that if you described an opponent, they were calculated so that the team has a chance to win through brawling. They will feel betrayed when this doesn’t happen.

Your challenge, as a game master, will be twofold: first, to teach them a new way to play. Second, to ensure that their unbalanced encounters are, nevertheless, fair .

And that’s where foreshadowing comes in.

Foreshadowing

“How can a challenge be fair if it might even be insurmountable?” That’s the central question, and the answer lies in a narrative technique as old as the art of storytelling itself: foreshadowing .

Foreshadowing is the art of planting subtle or direct clues that anticipate future events in the narrative. In film, it’s that seemingly irrelevant shot of a dagger over the fireplace, which will reappear in the climax of the third act. In literature, it’s the loose phrase about the “cruel fate” that awaits the hero. In OSR RPGs, it’s the difference between a group that dies burned by the dragon and a group that, armed with information, chooses a different approach—or decides that that cave, today, is not worth the risk.

The game master already knows there’s an ancient red dragon in the cave. He knows the group of four level 5 characters doesn’t stand a chance in a direct confrontation. The question that determines whether the encounter will be fair or unfair is simple: did they receive clues that it was there?

Let’s work with a practical and detailed example.

The Case of the Red Dragon

Situation: The group responds to a desperate call from the village of Carvão Queimado, a small community of miners and goat herders nestled at the foot of the Serra dos Ventos mountain range. The message sent by a messenger is succinct and alarming: “The destroyer has come. Village in ruins. We need warriors. Bring help. Bring everything.”

When the characters arrive, they find exactly what the message suggested: Burnt Coal no longer exists. Where there were once stone huts and thatched roofs, now there are smoking craters and molten glass. The smell of burnt flesh. Sepulchral silence, except for the crackling of some still-burning wood.

A small group of survivors is camped at a safe distance, next to the herd of goats that miraculously escaped. It is led by Hargrave, a middle-aged woman with a face marked by soot and tears. She recounts what she saw—not much, really. The attack happened at dusk, while most of the adults were in the fields in the hills to the south. Those who remained in the village died. The elderly, children, the sick who couldn’t work. Dead. Charred. Extinguished.

“I was in the field,” Hargrave says, his voice trembling. “I saw it… that thing coming down from the sky. It was big. Red as embers. And the heat… the heat arrived before it did. Trees caught fire two hundred paces away just from its approach. When it opened its mouth, the whole sky turned to fire.”

She points east, toward the mountain range. “The thing went that way. We have the trail—carcasses of forest animals, all burned, and blood. Lots of blood. It killed while fleeing, for pleasure. You can follow the smell of burning and the buzzing of flies.”

And then Hargrave drops the crucial piece of information, almost as an aside: “The Marquis sent help. A week ago, before the attack, when we were still just scared, not knowing what was killing our cattle. He sent twenty soldiers. Shining plate armor, horses, broadswords. Elite troops, he said. The best men in the east. They went up the mountain to hunt the beast.”

Pause. She swallows hard.

“They never came back.”

Twenty elite soldiers. Full armor. A week-long search. No return. No bodies. No sign of battle except for a few footprints that fade uphill.

This is the first sign. The game master didn’t say, “You’ll die if you go into combat.” The game master showed it. Twenty trained soldiers, with equipment superior to anything the characters could have at level 5, went and didn’t return. If the group is even slightly sensible—and this is the central point of OSR—they will stop. Think. Plan. Investigate. They won’t simply march up the mountain with their swords drawn.

But confident groups, optimistic groups, groups trained in video games, go. “Ah, we are heroes,” they say. “We have magic. We are protagonists.” And they ignore the warning.

The Second Warning: The Entrance to the Lair

Let’s suppose that the group, despite the warning, decides to pursue the beast. The game master won’t stop them—OSR isn’t about the game master “protecting” the players from themselves. It’s about arbitrating consequences. The group follows the trail of destruction and climbs the mountain.

After several hours of walking through an increasingly silent forest (where are the birds? Where are the squirrels? Why hasn’t any animal been seen in the last few kilometers?), they arrive at the entrance to a gorge that leads to a colossal cave. The entrance is twenty meters high. The surrounding stone walls are blackened, smooth, almost vitrified by intense heat.

And then they see the bones.

These aren’t the bones of ordinary animals—deer or bears or wolves. Large skeletons. Very large. An ogre skull, still with its rusty helmet stuck in one of its horns. Troll vertebrae, recognizable by their unusual thickness. Ribs that belong to something the size of a hill giant. All the bones are charred, fractured, as if they had been chewed and then spat out.

Whatever is living in this cave has made ogres and trolls its regular food. It’s picking its teeth with the bones of creatures that, individually, would already be a daunting challenge for the group. That’s the second red flag.

Still, the players can choose to enter. The game master describes the interior of the cave: the suffocating heat that intensifies with each step, the walls that glow with a faint blush, as if the stone itself were incandescent. The smell of sulfur and molten metal. The sound of something large breathing—a slow, rhythmic breath that makes the ground tremble slightly.

And then, in the dim light at the back of the cave, a form. Red scales reflecting the light of the distant magma. A wing that extends. Part of a tail that moves sleepily.

Red dragon.

The players can attack now. They can try their luck. And if they do, they will probably die. Not because of the master’s malice, not because of “injustice,” but by their own choice. They received warnings. Multiple warnings. They ignored them all.

But — and here’s the beauty of well-applied foreshadowing — they can also do something different.

The Alternative Solution: The Real Challenge

If the players decide that a direct approach is suicidal (and rightly so), they can retreat and investigate further. What brought the dragon here? Red dragons don’t usually leave their mountains without a powerful reason. Something is wrong.

With a bit of exploration of the surrounding area (and perhaps some successful Survival or Investigation rolls for the more systematic), the characters notice something strange. The mountain to the north—the highest in the range—is covered in snow. Fresh snow. In the middle of summer. In a region where, in no living memory, has there ever been snow.

If they investigate this anomaly, they will find an abandoned tower on the icy peak. The tower belonged to a powerful wizard named Valdris, who died approximately a year ago in a laboratory accident—or so the rumors say. Inside the still-functioning tower, the characters discover a complex magical artifact: a crystal sphere pulsating with icy energy, surrounded by damaged control runes.

Examining the wizard’s records (a half-burned diary left on a workbench), the characters learn the truth. Valdris hated dragons. His original tower was on a nearby mountain, but a red dragon—the same one from the cave—dwelt in the magma caverns deep within, and Valdris lived in fear of an attack. He spent years developing an artifact capable of altering the local climate, creating an eternal blizzard that would force any warm-blooded creature to abandon the region.

It worked. The dragon left. But the device was never deactivated, and with Valdris dead, the snow continues to fall—now threatening to bury not only the mountain, but the entire valley below.

Meanwhile, the dragon found a new home: the cave in Burnt Coal.

The characters now have a choice. Facing the dragon is almost certainly death. But they can return to the tower, study the artifact, and figure out how to deactivate it. Perhaps they need to break the containment runes. Perhaps they need to carefully remove the crystal sphere (Dexterity roll or an appropriate spell). Perhaps they need a specific magical object that is… well, elsewhere in the tower, guarded by ice golems that Valdris left behind.

When the snow stops and normal weather returns, the dragon—a territorial creature par excellence—returns to its old lair in the snowy mountains. The threat to Burnt Coal is over. The characters earn the gratitude of the survivors, perhaps even a reward. They solved the problem. They won. Without ever having exchanged a single blow with the dragon.

This is an unbalanced, but fair, encounter. Unbalanced because, in direct combat, the group doesn’t stand a chance. Fair because all the clues were there from the beginning, waiting to be read by anyone willing to pay attention.

Game Master’s Tools: How to Build Your Own Fair and Unbalanced Encounters

The story of the red dragon is a model. But how can you, as a game master, apply these principles in your own sessions? Here are the practical tools of the trade.

The Three-Land Rule

In any situation where there is an unbalanced danger, offer at least three clues of increasing difficulty before the characters reach the point of no return.

• A distant clue: Rumors in the village, tavern stories, survivor accounts. “Twenty soldiers never returned.”
• A clue nearby: Physical evidence along the way. Bones of powerful creatures. Signs of destruction. Traces of struggle that show the disparity in power.
• Immediate clue: Something at the very entrance of the danger. The unbearable heat. The sound of breathing. The partial vision of the threat in its surroundings.

If the players ignore all three, the consequence is entirely theirs.

Escape as a Valid Option

Teach your players that fleeing is always an option. And more: that fleeing well is a skill as important as attacking well.

Have clear rules for escape in your system. In classic D&D, fleeing an encounter usually requires the characters to reach a passage or door that the monster cannot pass through. In modern OSR, many systems have rules for “escape checks” where players risk one last attack or one last defense before retreating.

And, crucially, don’t penalize escape . Game masters who have monsters relentlessly pursue characters through three rooms, or who impose narrative punishments (“you escape, but you lose the experience and the village is destroyed”) are teaching the wrong lesson. Escape should be a moral victory. Living to fight another day is often the best option.

Breaking the Video Game Paradigm

The most difficult obstacle you will face as an OSR game master isn’t mechanical—it’s cultural. Your players have been trained for years, decades perhaps, to think of RPGs as a cooperative video game with dice. And in video games, with very rare exceptions, every enemy that appears on the screen can be defeated. Areas have “recommended levels.” Bosses have attack patterns that can be learned. If you die, the game gives you a checkpoint.

RPGs are not video games.

One of the fundamental principles of OSR is that the world doesn’t care about you. It doesn’t scale. It doesn’t adapt. It simply is . Dangers are scattered throughout the world in varying degrees of difficulty, often completely beyond the characters’ capabilities. It’s up to the players —not the characters, the players —to know how to choose their battles, retreat when necessary, plan when possible, and negotiate when intelligent.

The game master, in turn, has only one job: to arbitrate the consequences of the players’ choices in a consistent and fair manner.

This means:

• Don’t hide the seriousness of the danger. Offer clues. Lots of clues. Redundant clues. Clues that scream out at you.
• Don’t save the players from themselves. If they ignore all the clues and move forward, let the consequences come.
• Don’t punish caution. If they retreat, investigate, plan, reward them with information, opportunities, victories that don’t require combat.
• Don’t predefine solutions. The wizard with the ice artifact is one solution. Your players can think of others—use diplomacy with the dragon, find an even better location for it to move to, trick it into falling into a ravine. If it’s creative and plausible, let it work.

Rescuing the Soul of RPGs

The OSR movement didn’t emerge by chance. It is, in large part, a reaction to what mainstream RPGs have become: a game of invincible heroes facing perfectly calibrated challenges, where death is rare and combat is the answer to almost everything. Many players who started in this environment never experienced the genuine tension of a dungeon where the next corner might bring something that simply cannot be overcome . They never felt the joy of solving a problem without drawing a sword. They never learned that sometimes the best victory is the one that happens without a single attack roll.

This needs to change.

As game masters, we have a responsibility to rescue that lost soul of RPGs. Not because “things were better in the old days”—nostalgia is a terrible advisor. But because the OSR style offers something the balancing paradigm has lost: real agency, real consequences, choices that matter. When players know they might face something deadly, every decision takes on weight. Every corner is a question. Every combat is a risk assessment, not a die roll.

The technique of foreshadowing is your most powerful tool in this mission. It allows you to populate your world with dragons, liches, minor gods, and cosmic horrors—all completely unbalanced for the characters’ current level—without it feeling unfair. The clues are there. The alternatives are there. If the players choose the path of death, let it be by their own choice, not out of ignorance.

The next time you prepare a session, ask yourself: Is there something here that my players can’t win directly? If so, how will I let them know? What clues will I plant? What alternatives exist? What happens if they ignore everything and advance anyway?

Answer these questions honestly, apply foreshadowing generously, and then release your players into the world. They might surprise you. They might do something brilliant that you didn’t foresee. They might also die trying a stupid approach.

And that’s okay. Because in OSR, unlike video games, the story isn’t about winning. It’s about the choices you make along the way — and living (or not) with the consequences.

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Inspired by u/ShadowdarkJogador’s post on Reddit:

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The Ghost of Skill

You’re standing there, behind the game master’s screen. The group’s rogue—a slender, easy-smiling type—declares he’s going to scale the castle wall during the storm. The stone is slippery, the rope sways, and the guards could appear at any moment. You, who grew up playing D&D 5e or perhaps WFRP, make the automatic move: “Okay, make an Acrobatics check .”

The player looks at the card. Looks at you. Looks at the card again.

“Where is Acrobatics?”

Silence. Someone murmurs, “Shadowdark doesn’t have skills.” Another sighs, “Then how do we know if the character is good at climbing?”

Silent panic sets in. Is this game broken? Did the authors forget to include the most important part of the character sheet? How can a fantasy RPG survive without a list of 18 skills with bonuses ranging from +2 to +17?

The answer, like almost everything in Shadowdark , is surprisingly simple: he doesn’t need them .

This article explores that claim. We’ll delve into probability tables, the game’s design philosophy, and—most importantly—the idea that Shadowdark does have abilities, but they’re hidden in plain sight, in a binary system so elegant it seems like magic. Grab your dice, light a torch (which will last exactly one hour of actual gameplay, because that’s how Shadowdark is), and let’s begin.

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The “Skillless” Philosophy of Shadowdark

First and foremost, we need to understand what Shadowdark is doing when it decides not to print a skill table. It’s not design laziness. It’s not a poorly made “retroclone.” It’s a deliberate philosophical choice.

The core of the resolution

In Shadowdark , any attribute test follows this simple formula:

1d20 + ability modifier (between -4 and +4) vs. Difficulty (DC)

The CDs are few and straightforward:

• CD 9 – Easy. An average character has about a 60% chance (with modifier 0).
• CD 12 – Normal. The standard difficulty for reasonable actions.
• CD 15 – Difficult. Tasks that require luck or special skill.
• CD 18 – Very Difficult. Almost heroic.

There are no proficiency bonuses. There are no “half-level” skill points. There are no numerical advantages that increase with levels. The highest bonus a character can have in any attribute is +4 (and that’s only after several level increases).

Compare this to D&D 5e, where a level 10 character can have +9 Perception (proficiency bonus + ability score), and a level 20 character can reach +11 or more. The result is that, in D&D, the difficulties inflate to keep up: a DC 25 is “almost impossible” for a beginner, but “reasonable” for an expert. The d20 die ceases to matter – the bonus is so large that the player only fails if they roll a 1 or 2.

In Shadowdark , this never happens. Even the most focused character (Strength +4) still has a 50% chance of failing a Difficult test (DC 15). The die never loses its voice. Luck is never completely tamed. And that’s beautiful.

The mathematics behind philosophy

Table 1 – Normal Roll (one die)

A.D	-2	-1	0	1	2	3	4
9	50%	55%	60%	65%	70%	75%	80%
12	35%	40%	45%	50%	55%	60%	65%
15	20%	25%	30%	35%	40%	45%	50%
18	5%	10%	15%	20%	25%	30%	35%

Notice how each modifier point changes the chance by 5 percentage points (except in extreme cases). This is linear, predictable, and easy to internalize. A character with -2 Wisdom shouldn’t really try to track prey – they only have a 35% chance on a Normal check (DC 12). A character with +2 Dexterity, however, is a competent acrobat: 55% on a Difficult check (DC 15).

What these tables tell us, narratively, is that an attribute modifier is not just a number. It is the only indicator of competence. And since modifiers are limited, the difference between a beginner (-1) and an expert (+3) is only 20 percentage points in most ranges. The game says: you can be good, but never so good that you ignore the risk.

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Does Shadowdark have abilities?

Here we arrive at the heart of your idea, the part that will make readers’ eyes light up.

“Shadowdark has no abilities” is a true statement if you’re thinking of D&D 5e or WFRP. But it’s a misleading statement. Because Shadowdark does have an ability system. It’s just not in a pretty table. It’s hidden in plain sight, in a format so simple that almost no one notices: Advantage .

Level 0 and Level 1 Skills

Let’s call things by their name. In Shadowdark , every action that requires an ability check is, in fact, a Level 0 Ability . You have no training whatsoever in it. You roll a d20 and hope for the best.

But when a class, origin, background, or circumstance created by the GM grants you Advantage on that check, you’ve just gained a Level 1 Ability . That’s it. It’s binary. There are no 20 levels of proficiency, no “half bonus,” no “expertise.” You’re either untrained (normal roll) or trained (roll with Advantage).

This is elegant for two reasons:

1. No spreadsheet required. The player doesn’t need to add skill points at each level. They only need to know: “Is my character good at this? Yes? Then advantage. No? Then normal.”
2. Advantage has a huge and consistent mathematical impact. Let’s look at Table 2 (Advantage) in comparison with Table 1.

Table 2 – Rolling with Advantage (best of two dice)

A.D	-2	-1	0	1	2	3	4
9	75%	80%	84%	88%	91%	94%	96%
12	58%	64%	70%	75%	80%	84%	88%
15	36%	44%	51%	58%	64%	70%	75%
18	10%	19%	28%	36%	44%	51%	58%

Now compare this to a normal roll. Take a Hard roll (DC 15) with a modifier of 0.

• Normal: 30%
• With Advantage: 51%

A jump of 21 percentage points – equivalent to gaining +4 to the modifier! In other words, the Advantage transforms an average character into a specialist, and a specialist (modifier +3) into a near-guaranteed one (70% on DC 15).

If this isn’t “being trained in a skill,” what is?

Where are the “skills” written on the character sheet?

The Shadowdark book doesn’t use the word “skill,” but it explicitly lists situations where the character rolls with Advantage:

• Rogues have Advantage on Stealth checks.
• Warriors may have Advantage on Strength checks for athletic feats (depending on their Origin).
• Dwarves have Advantage on checks to perceive stone traps or secret passages in stone structures.
• Origins such as “Charlatan” grant Advantage on Deception checks.

The GM can also grant Advantage for a good idea, preparation, or creative use of equipment. For example: “You want to use a crowbar to pry open the door? Okay, Strength check with Advantage.”

What’s happening here, under the hood, is a contextual and narrative skill system . You don’t need a line like “Thief’s Tools +7”. You just need to know that your rogue is stealthy because he has Advantage on Stealth. And what if tomorrow he wants to learn to negotiate? The GM can allow training – and note on the character sheet: “Advantage on Persuasion checks”. Done. A new skill, created in two seconds, without tables or math.

The original Reddit post that inspired this article already pointed in that direction, even if implicitly:

“And if the GM allows you to train in new skills, a simple line: ‘You are trained in Chicanery and Buffoonery, gain advantage on checks related to that’ is all that is needed.”

Exactly. The author of the post realized that the solution is already there, waiting. Shadowdark doesn’t need skills in the traditional sense because it already solves this with Advantage. And, more importantly, this solution is cleaner , faster , and easier to remember than any list of 20 skills with different bonuses.

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How Modifiers Tell a Story

Now that we understand that Advantage = Level 1 Skill, let’s go back to the tables to see how the attribute modifiers themselves (without Advantage) already tell a story.

The character with -2: the born unlucky one.

An attribute of -2 is something like “well below average”. But look at Table 1: for an Easy task (DC 9), it still has a 50% chance. That is, even the worst character has a reasonable chance of getting something simple right if they are not under pressure.

Now, a Normal task (DC 12): 35%. That’s low, but not hopeless. It’s the kind of chance that makes the player think: “Should I try or ask someone else for help?”

On Hard difficulty (CD 15): 20% – one in five. The player should avoid this. If forced to attempt it, they should have an Advantage (which raises it to 36% – still risky, but possible).

The character with a 0: the average one.

Modifier 0 represents an average human being. On DC 9 (easy), they have a 60% chance – comfortable, but not guaranteed. On DC 12 (normal), it drops to 45% – practically a coin toss. On DC 15 (hard), it’s 30% – a low chance, but not impossible.

That’s realistic. An average adult can jump a 1-meter ditch (DC 9) most of the time. But jumping a 3-meter ditch with a backpack (DC 15) is something they’ll only manage with luck or training.

The character with +2: the competent one.

Now we’re talking about someone with an above-average attribute. On DC 9: 70% – very reliable. On DC 12: 55% – better than a coin, but can still fail. On DC 15: 40% – almost half the time. This character can risk difficult tasks with some confidence.

The character with +4: the specialist

The maximum a human can achieve in Shadowdark (without magic). On DC 9: 80% – rarely fails. On DC 12: 65% – two out of three. On DC 15: 50% – exactly one coin. This is wonderful: even the strongest hero in the world only has a 50% chance of performing a difficult feat (unlocking a complex lock, convincing a suspicious guard, climbing a smooth wall). The die remains the ultimate arbiter.

The lesson here is that small modifiers create a very clear spectrum of competence . You look at a character and know, in seconds, what they are good or bad at. You don’t need 18 skills to describe that – the attribute already does the heavy lifting. The Advantage (Level 1 ability) then comes in to give that extra something that transforms the competent into an expert.

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The Power of Specialization

Let’s delve into Shadowdark ‘s most brilliant mechanic : Advantage as a design tool.

Advantage is better than +2

Many players coming from D&D 5e underestimate Advantage. After all, in D&D, Advantage is common and the average bonus is +3.35. But in Shadowdark , where modifiers are small, Advantage has an enormous impact.

See the difference between a test with a normal +2 modifier and a test with a 0+ modifier. Advantage:

• CD 12 normal with +2: 55%
• CD 12 with 0+ Advantage: 70%

An Advantage is better than having a +2 attribute. This means that a “trained” character (Advantage), even with a mediocre attribute, is more competent than an “untrained” character with a high attribute. This is exactly what a skill system should do: a rogue trained in Stealth (Advantage) with 0 Dexterity is more stealthy than an untrained barbarian with +2 Dexterity.

But let’s go further. Compare the “maximum expert” (normal modifier +4) with an “average trained” (modifier 0 + Advantage) on DC 15:

• +4 normal: 50%
• 0 + Advantage: 51%

They are equivalent! A character with training (Advantage) and a medium attribute has the same chance as a character with a maximum attribute and no training. This is perfect balance.

The elegance of an empty list.

Another point that the Reddit post touches on, but doesn’t fully develop, is how the absence of a fixed list of skills liberates both the game master and the players.

In D&D, if a player wants to do something that isn’t on the skill list (say, “card cheating” or “knowledge of swamp herbs”), the DM needs to improvise a solution – usually by asking for a pure attribute check. In Shadowdark , this is the standard. There’s no “missing skill” because there are no skills. Everything is resolved by the base attribute, and the player can claim Advantage if they can justify why their character is especially good at it.

This encourages emergent storytelling . The player doesn’t look at a list and choose “Intimidation.” He describes: “My warrior places his hand on the pommel of his sword, leans slowly, and whispers to the merchant: ‘The last person who tricked me is buried two kilometers from here. In three pieces.'” The GM then decides: this is a Charisma check, and you have Advantage because your Origin is “Soldier” and you’ve done this before. Done. The ability was born from the roleplaying, not the character sheet.

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How Handicap and Darkness Shape Behavior

If Advantage is the reward for good planning and training, Disadvantage is the whip. And Shadowdark uses Disadvantage masterfully, especially in its most famous mechanic: Darkness .

The table of doom

Table 3 – Rolling with Disadvantage (worst of two dice)

A.D	-2	-1	0	1	2	3	4
9	25%	30%	36%	42%	49%	56%	64%
12	12%	16%	20%	25%	30%	36%	42%
15	4%	6%	9%	12%	16%	20%	25%
18	0%	1%	2%	4%	6%	9%	12%

Compare with Table 1 (normal). A Normal test (DC 12) with a +2 modifier drops from 55% to 30% under Disadvantage. A Hard test (DC 15) with a +2 modifier drops from 40% to 16%. This is brutal.

Now remember: in Shadowdark , if you’re in an area without light (and don’t have night vision or a lit torch), you roll with Disadvantage on all checks that rely on sight. This includes attacking, noticing traps, finding secret doors, reading maps, almost everything.

What does the Disadvantage communicate to the player?

The system is screaming: you don’t want to be here . Return to the light. Grab a torch. Light a fire. Use a light spell. Or accept that you will fail most of the time.

The original Reddit post captured this perfectly:

“Easy tasks become a little more difficult, but still very possible. Normal tasks become much more difficult and create an incentive for the player NOT to be in that position. And anything Difficult/Impossible becomes so improbable that it will take 100 lucky stone coins to accomplish.”

This is the essence of restriction design . Instead of saying “you can’t do that because rule 342 forbids it,” the game says “you can try, but look at this table – do you really want to?”. And the player, who isn’t stupid, backs down, lights a torch, and only then tries.

Torch management as a non-written skill.

In Shadowdark , torches last for 1 hour of actual gameplay. The game master times it. When a torch goes out, if the group doesn’t have another one ready, everyone is left in darkness → General disadvantage. This creates real resource pressure. Players need to manage light as if it were a vital resource – because it is.

That’s a “skill” too, but it’s not on the character sheet. It’s a player skill : knowing when to light a torch, when to run back to the light, when to spend a magical resource to create light. Shadowdark puts the responsibility in the hands of those at the table, not on the role.

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The Elegance of Simplicity

Let’s return to the initial scene. The rogue wants to climb the wall. He has no Acrobatics skill, no climbing bonus. What to do?

The GM calls for a Dexterity check, DC 12 (normal). The rogue has +1 Dexterity, so a 50% chance. The player, however, says: “I threw a rope with a hook up there, remember? And I’m wearing leather gloves with resin.” The GM smiles. “Okay, you have Advantage.” The chance increases to 75%. The die is rolled.

The scene is resolved in 20 seconds. No tables, no doubts, no “but am I proficient in Athletics?”. Just fiction, the attribute, and the Advantage.

Shadowdark doesn’t have a list of abilities. But it has something better: an elegant, invisible binary ability system. Every action is a Level 0 ability. The Advantage turns it into a Level 1. It’s simple to the point of being almost Zen-like.

The Reddit post that inspired this article stated: “Shadowdark has no abilities, Shadowdark doesn’t need abilities.” I’ll go further: Shadowdark does have abilities, but they’re so well integrated that you don’t even notice them.

The next time you find yourself missing a skill list, ask yourself: do you really need it, or are you just used to the noise? Light a torch, look at the Advantage table, and watch the magic happen.

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When skipping ahead is necessary, when detailing is better – and how to balance the two.

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The dilemma every long-running campaign game master knows.

Three years of real-world gameplay. A story that, within the game world, has already spanned several years. The characters are no longer wandering adventurers – they are political figures, city leaders, business managers, people with fame and personal goals that go beyond simply “killing the monster of the day.”

The game master, who painstakingly built this campaign, begins planning the next cycle. The demonic invasion has been defeated. The city needs rebuilding. The soldiers need training. The projects need management. And, honestly, nobody wants to spend three sessions describing how each plank was put in place.

The solution seems obvious: punctual timeskips . Advance two weeks, resolve the reconstruction with a skill roll and a generic description, and move on to the next adventure.

But then a player raises their hand. “I don’t like timeskips. It breaks the rhythm. Why don’t we turn the reconstruction into missions? Why don’t we go after giants who can help raise the walls? Why don’t we make this a complete adventure?”

The game master hesitates. He understands the argument – ​​the post-climax is important, the consequences must be felt. But he also imagines the scene: an entire session where one player goes looking for competitors for a coliseum, while the other three just stare at the ceiling. Where’s the value in that?

This true story – posted on r/rpg_brasil – summarizes a dilemma that spans RPG systems, styles, and decades. Long campaigns inevitably run into the problem of dead time that isn’t really dead : periods of calm, management, training, and rebuilding. And the burning question is: skip them or go into detail?

The answer, like almost everything in RPGs, is “it depends.” But, more importantly: there is an elegant middle ground that respects both the game master who wants pace and the player who wants depth. This article is a map to find it.

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Why time becomes a problem (and how other systems have tried to solve it)

The heart of the conflict lies in the clash of two time scales that every RPG needs to manage:

• Micro scale : the six-second combat, the tense five-minute dialogue, the trap that triggers in the blink of an eye. It’s the RPG’s natural playground – everything is interesting there, everything is played out in real time.
• Macro scale : the weeks of travel, the months of training, the years of building a kingdom. This is where the game often stumbles, because nobody wants to narrate 30 days of carpentry.

The game master’s desire is legitimate: to skip the boring part and get to the next point of tension. But the player’s fear is also legitimate: a poorly executed time skip can make the world seem empty, as if the characters had pressed “pause” while the story waited for them.

Several systems have already attempted partial solutions:

D&D 5e (Xanathar’s Guide) offers individual Downtime activities: training, carousing, crafting, research. Each activity is resolved with one or two rolls and a note on the character sheet. The problem? They are essentially solitary – there is no interaction between the characters during the period, and the result rarely generates new adventure hooks.

Pathfinder has robust kingdom-building systems and random downtime events, but they are resource-intensive. They require a “side table” of administration that can be as time-consuming as a normal adventure. For many groups, it becomes work.

Blades in the Dark (and its derivatives Forged in the Dark) has, in my opinion, the most elegant approach. The game structures each “mission” (score) followed by a fixed Downtime phase : rewards, stress reduction, Downtime actions (a maximum of two per character), and finally, an Entanglement roll that introduces a complication based on the group’s fame (Heat). The result is that the time between missions is procedural, fast, and full of consequences . The world doesn’t pause – it reacts.

OSR in general tends towards pure narrative montage: “You spend three weeks training and drinking in the tavern. Roll 1d6 to see what happened.” It’s simple, but it can be too shallow for players who want to feel the weight of time.

None of these systems are perfect for every game. But they all teach something: the passage of time doesn’t have to be a monolith . You can choose different levels of granularity depending on the stage of the campaign.

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The two warring schools of thought (and why they’re both right)

Before proposing hybrid solutions, let’s honestly look at both sides of the table.

The immersionist’s trench: “never skip anything”

The player who resists the timeskip usually has good reasons. For him:

• Each day lived generates attachment. Skipping the rebuilding phase is like watching a movie that cuts from the wounded hero to him already healed, without showing the scarring. Recovery, fatigue, small daily victories and defeats – all of this builds character.
• The post-climax is where the emotional fallout resides. Defeating the lich is thrilling, but burying fallen allies, dealing with refugees, negotiating with factions that took advantage of the chaos – that’s real drama .
• “Administrative” tasks can become adventure hooks. Rebuilding the city attracts looters. Searching for competitors for a coliseum reveals a conspiracy between the guilds. Training soldiers can expose an enemy infiltrator.

The risk, of course, is that the game will drown in minutiae. Entire sessions where one player monopolizes attention while the others wait. The campaign stretches on for months without advancing the main plot. And the overwhelmed game master begins to avoid “administration” sessions – which leads to the other extreme.

The pragmatist’s trench: “skip anything that isn’t an adventure”

The master who bets on the timeskip also has solid arguments:

• Not everything is interesting in gameplay. Building a coliseum involves bureaucracy, negotiation, and waiting. None of that is as fun as rolling initiative. Solving things with a Charisma roll and a results table is more honest.
• Timeskipping preserves the pace. You finish an arc, advance the timeline by one minute of narration, and begin the next. Players who dislike long pauses will be satisfied because the action never dies.
• It allows for real-time control. A campaign that lasts three years of actual gameplay needs timeskips. You can’t detail every single day. If you try, the story will never reach the next major event.

The risk, however, is that the world will seem artificial. The characters spend three months training, but nothing happened during that time? No faction made a move? No old enemy took advantage of the calm? The player who complains about the timeskip feels exactly that: a sense that the world paused, waiting for the heroes to return.

Both sides have a point. The solution is not to choose one, but to build a bridge .

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The practical hybrid: procedural downtime with active consequences.

The central idea that works at every table I’ve witnessed is this: treat downtime as a mini-game with clear rules, not as a narrative void . It has a beginning, middle, and end. It produces tangible results. And, most importantly, it doesn’t stop the world .

Let’s detail the components.

The downtime phase in stages

Inspired by Blades in the Dark, but adapted to any system, you can structure the post-mission period in four steps:

1. Rewards and progression : XP, items, reputation, money. That’s quick – a note on the character sheet.
2. Individual Activities : Each player chooses two to three activities from a standard list (train, work, build, research, recruit, party). Each activity is resolved with an attribute roll and produces an immediate result (XP gain, money, an item, a clue).
3. Downtime events : After the activities, scroll through a table to see if anything unexpected happened during the period. It could be something small (an acquaintance showed up in town) or something big (a natural disaster).
4. Faction Clocks : Finally, update the secret (or open) progress of the factions. This shows that the world hasn’t stopped.

Each of these steps, when well designed, takes a maximum of 20 minutes in total for a group of 4-5 players.

The clock of factions: the world doesn’t pause.

This point directly addresses the criticism from the immersion-focused player. Create a list of relevant factions for the campaign – it could be three, it could be six. At the end of each downtime period (which could be a week, a month, a season), roll 1d6 for each faction:

Rolling	Result
1-2	Nothing significant. The faction is either on hiatus or dealing with internal issues.
3-4	Slow progress. The faction is making some progress with its plans (make a mental note).
5-6	Significant progress. The faction takes a concrete step – conquers territory, recruits an ally, discovers a secret.

If you want more granularity, use 1d10 or 1d20. The important thing is that, when the characters emerge from the timeskip, the game master can say: “While you were rebuilding the city, the thieves’ guild expanded its control over the eastern district. And there are rumors that the defeated necromancer left behind a disciple.” The player who complained about the timeskip now sees that time has truly passed .

Downtime event tables (ready to use)

You don’t need to invent everything. Use or adapt these common tables from OSR and Pathfinder games. Roll 1d20 at the end of each downtime period (or whenever a character does something noteworthy).

d20	Event
1	A natural disaster strikes the region: flood, earthquake, fire.
2	An old enemy has survived or left an heir swearing revenge.
3	An ally asks for help with a minor problem (this could become a future hook).
4	A secret about an important NPC is discovered (the game master decides).
5	A merchant offers a tempting but risky deal.
6	One of the characters gains an unexpected reputation (good or bad).
7	An opportunity for quick profits appears (but it could be a scam).
8	An ancient magical object is being auctioned off in the city.
9	A festival or public event is taking place – good opportunities for social gatherings.
10	A character makes a new ally (roll randomly among NPCs in the city).
11	One of the characters’ ventures suffers a setback (theft, fire, lawsuit).
12	Information about the next adventure leaks prematurely.
13	A pet or mount mysteriously disappears.
14	A character receives a letter from a family member or former contact.
15	A small prophecy or omen is observed (it may be false).
16	A rival appears in town and challenges one of the characters (socially or in combat).
17	A character discovers a clue about their past or personal goal.
18	A minor magical item is found accidentally (in some rubble, at the market).
19	A character gains one level of exhaustion from overwork (if applicable).
20	Something extraordinarily good or bad happens – the master decides.

These tables solve two problems at once: they add narrative texture to downtime and create future hooks without turning each event into a full session.

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Personal goals as the heart of downtime

Let’s return to the original post. The game master mentions that each character has their own hobbies and businesses – one wants to build a coliseum, another to manage a business, a third to train soldiers. This is the richest raw material for a well-done downtime.

Resolution in a circle: short, shared scenes

The worst thing that can happen during a downtime is for a player to describe, alone, for forty minutes, how they searched for competitors for the coliseum while the other three watch. The best thing is to turn that into a short cutscene wheel .

Here’s how it works: in a session dedicated to downtime (or in the first thirty minutes of a regular session), go from player to player. Each one describes a scene representative of their period – a maximum of five minutes. The scene should include:

• What is the character trying to do?
• A relevant attribute roll (the GM sets the DC).
• The immediate result of the scrolling.

Examples:

• Warrior training recruits : “I spend my mornings in the fort’s courtyard. I want to teach the soldiers how to maintain formation against larger enemies.” Strength or Charisma roll, DC 12. Success: The soldiers gain +1 morale in the next battle. Failure: Two recruits are injured and training is delayed.
• A rogue running an illegal business : “I’m going to the back alleys to see how the smuggling is going. I want to make sure no informant from the guard has infiltrated.” Dexterity or Cunning roll, DC 14. Success: the business yields 50 extra coins. Failure: a henchman is arrested, and the rogue has to pay the bail.
• Wizard researching in the library : “I spend my nights in the guild archives. I want to find clues about the next artifact.” Intelligence roll, DC 13. Success: discovers a concrete clue. Failure: triggers a magical alarm and attracts unwanted attention.

The other players watch each scene, but the time is short enough that it doesn’t get boring. And often, the scenes generate comments, jokes, or collaborative ideas – “while you’re in the library, my rogue might be trying to steal a book too”.

Hourglass for long-term goals

For large projects – such as building a coliseum, founding a guild, or training an army – use a progress clock , borrowed from Blades in the Dark. Draw a circle divided into 4, 6, 8, or 12 segments. During each downtime period, the player can spend an action to fill one or more segments, depending on the success of a roll:

• Critical failure: no segment.
• Normal failure: 1 segment (but something goes wrong).
• Normal success: 1 segment.
• Critical success: 2 segments.

When the clock is full, the project is complete. Between the segments, the master introduces small complications that maintain interest.

Example of the Colosseum:

• 6-segment clock.
• First downtime: player rolls Charisma to “negotiate with the mayor for the land”. Success: 1 segment. The mayor demands that a tax collection be done first (small optional mission).
• Second downtime: rolling to “recruit architects”. Critical success: 2 segments. The architects bring an innovative project, but it costs twice as much.
• Third downtime: rolls to “find competitors”. Failure: 1 segment, but one of the competitors is a fugitive criminal – if discovered, the event may be canceled.
• Fourth downtime: final scroll to “finish construction”. Success: clock full. The coliseum is ready.

The player who wanted a “mission instead of a timeskip” got mini-events and decisions at each stage. The game master who wanted speed only needed to spend a few rolls and notes, not entire sessions.

When does an individual activity warrant a full session?

The answer is: rarely . An activity deserves to become a full session if, and only if:

1. It actively involves all the characters (or at least most of them).
2. It presents a real risk of failure with dramatic consequences.
3. It advances the main plot or an important personal arc.

Example: searching for competitors for the coliseum doesn’t warrant a session. But if, during the search, the group discovers that one of the competitors is a former enemy general in disguise, and this leads to a sabotage plot involving the entire group – now that’s an adventure.

The golden rule: if the activity can be resolved by a single character with one or two rolls, don’t turn the session around . If it forces the entire group to act together, consider turning it around.

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The role of the teacher: five questions to calibrate the focus.

Many game masters feel anxious when deciding what to detail and what to skip. A simple tool is to ask yourself five questions before each downtime period:

1. Is this routine or exceptional? Training soldiers every week is routine – deal with it quickly. Training for a one-off tournament against the enemy champion is exceptional – it deserves an extended scene.
2. Does this involve risk? Building a wall is low risk – simple roll. Negotiating with a hostile faction is high risk – it can turn into a detailed social scene.
3. Does this matter to the main plot? If so, allow more time. If not, resolve it in one sentence.
4. Will all the players enjoy watching? If the activity is so specific that only one player participates, keep it short. If it sparks general interest (for example, a public trial where everyone needs to testify), it can lead to a collective scene.
5. How much real-time time do I want to spend on this? That’s the most practical question. If the session is already long, timeskip. If the group is energetic, focus on details.

There’s no magic formula, but this mental filter helps to avoid both the tedium of excessive detail and the emptiness of a lazy timeskip.

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Two real-life cases (inspired by a Reddit post)

To illustrate how to apply all of this, let’s reconstruct the two main conflicts mentioned by the master.

Case 1: The reconstruction of the city after the demonic invasion.

Context: The heroes defeated the demonic army, but the city is in ruins. The game master wants to skip the reconstruction. A player wants to turn this into a quest: to find friendly giants to help raise the walls.

Hybrid solution:

• Create a rebuild clock with 8 segments. Each segment represents one week of work.
• Each player contributes one downtime activity per week (they can do different things each week, but the group decides together how many weeks it will take).
• Use the event table every two weeks (roll 1d20). This keeps the period alive.
• The player’s idea of ​​”hunting giants” isn’t ignored. Turn it into an optional short mission : if the group wants, they can interrupt downtime to go after the giants. If they succeed, they gain a bonus of +2 automatically filled segments and advantage on subsequent reconstruction rolls.
• At the end of the clock, the city is rebuilt – and the unfolding of events has generated at least two future hooks (e.g., an ancient tunnel has been discovered, a rival guild wants to collect a toll).

Result: the game master didn’t spend three sessions describing masonry. The player earned their “mission” in the form of an optional detour. And the world didn’t freeze over.

Case 2: The organization of the Colosseum

Context: A character wants to build a coliseum and organize competitions. The game master dreads an hour-long session where the player spends their time searching for competitors while everyone else yawns.

Hybrid solution:

• 4-segment clock for “event organization”.
• During each downtime, the player spends one action to advance the clock. Rolls are resolved in 2 minutes each.
• The other players simultaneously perform their own downtime activities (training, researching, etc.) in short scenes.
• When the clock fills up, the event happens. That’s when it can turn into a mini-adventure if the group wants to participate in the competitions. But if the group isn’t interested, resolve it with an audience roll and a paragraph of narration.

The player who wanted a “mission” got their share – they could roleplay to find competitors, negotiate with suppliers, and deal with unforeseen events. But all in minutes, not hours. And the rest of the group wasn’t left out.

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Conclusion: Time is a resource, not an enemy.

Long campaigns are wonderful because they allow characters to experience change. They build legacies, see the impact of their actions, grow old, gain and lose allies. But this arc of years within the game cannot be treated as a straight line where each day has the same importance.

The secret isn’t choosing between “never skipping” and “skipping everything.” The secret is adjusting the granularity according to what’s at stake.

• Days of travel without events: skip them.
• Weeks of routine training: solve with a scroll and a paragraph.
• Months of building something grand: use clocks and downtime events.
• The rare moment when a character decides to do something risky and solitary: give them a short scene, but not a whole runtime episode.
• And when the whole group wants to experience a crucial week of political negotiations, tournament competitions, or the opening of the Colosseum: then, make it a complete adventure.

The original poster isn’t wrong in wanting timeskips. The player isn’t wrong in wanting depth. What’s lacking isn’t agreement, but structure – a framework of social rules and mechanics that transforms the passage of time into something the whole group plays together, even when they’re doing separate things.

Ultimately, the question isn’t “to skip or not to skip?”. The question is: “What are we losing if we skip? What are we gaining if we go into detail?” And the answer, session by session, will define the pace of your campaign.

Because in RPGs, time is a resource like any other: you spend it where it matters, speed things up where it doesn’t, and never let the players feel like it was wasted.

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This article was inspired by the discussion in the post “How to deal with long time lapses in a campaign?” on r/rpg_brasil. The solutions presented combine elements from Blades in the Dark, Pathfinder, OSR, and homegrown practices from groups that faced the same dilemma.

In the world of RPGs, few movements are as surrounded by principles repeated ad nauseam as the Old School Renaissance (OSR). Phrases like “combat is a state of failure,” “combat as war, not as sport,” and “the mage is not useless because he can throw daggers” are recited in forums, blogs, and videos as if they were commandments from an unwritten manual. But do these statements reflect the reality of the game table? Or are they idealizations born from the so-called “blogification” of OSR?

At the end of 2025, a Reddit user – u/Doomblade666 – asked exactly that question on the subreddit r/osr. In a post titled “How does the community really play their OSR rpgs,” he asked members to describe their actual practices, moving beyond common sense. The responses, more than fifty detailed comments, reveal a much richer, more diverse, and sometimes contradictory landscape than the slogans suggest.

This article analyzes the content of that topic, drawing lessons on how the OSR community actually plays – and, more importantly, how it critically reflects on its own dogmas. The source is primary: the voices of active game masters and players, not theorists or digital influencers. In the end, we will see that OSR is less a set of fixed rules and more an adaptable attitude, where each group builds its own version of what it means to “play the old-school way.”

How do we analyze the discussion?

The original post received dozens of responses, many of them long and detailed. The author of the question also compiled basic statistics from the initial responses, which I have included here. For this analysis, I conducted a qualitative reading of the most upvoted and most substantive comments, identifying recurring themes, points of disagreement, and concrete examples of play styles.

This is not a scientific study with a representative sample, but rather a valuable snapshot of the active Reddit community – composed mostly of experienced GMs, many with decades of practice. The richness of the accounts allows us, at the very least, to question the universality of OSR clichés.

Clichés under scrutiny

Let’s start with the four statements that the post’s author listed as “frequently repeated,” comparing them with accounts from the community.

“Combat is a state of failure”

This is perhaps the most controversial phrase in the entire thread. The consensus that emerges is clear: it’s an exaggeration . User VendettaUF234, one of the most upvoted, summarizes: “I think combat as a state of failure is an exaggeration, in my opinion. It’s dangerous, but also fun.” Another member, Enough-Run-1535, recalls his experience in the 80s/90s: “My players would start fights with anything and everything, like fearless elementary and high school kids do.”

The nuance appears in several comments. What many mean by “state of failure” is actually “fair combat without preparation is a state of failure .” User c0ncrete-n0thing explains: “The world won’t offer you challenges appropriate to your level […] Rushing in with your sword in every encounter is a choice, but it will kill you sooner or later.” User OriginalJazzFlavor is even more direct: “Fair combat is a state of failure. Two sides rolling initiative without the players having done anything to balance the scales in their favor.”

The vast majority of respondents reported having 1 to 3 combat encounters per session , and several said that combat is a fun and anticipated part of the game. A comment by alphonseharry summarizes: “But, as you said in your last paragraph, combat as war is not ‘without combat’, but just how I tip the scales to gain an advantage in combat.”

Therefore, the original statement is false if taken literally, but true in its more subtle intention : combat without advantage is too risky. In practice, OSR tables do fight – but they fight intelligently, or at least they try to.

“Combat as war, not as sport”

This statement is much more widely accepted. It doesn’t deny combat; it merely defines its nature. User Past_Plankton_4906 criticizes YouTubers who “make it seem like low levels, where you don’t fight unless you have to, are not only fun, but the ONLY way to play.” However, even he doesn’t reject the principle that combat should be treated with tactical seriousness.

Several respondents gave examples of how they apply this: ambushes, use of terrain, recruitment of temporary allies, escape when things get tough. User ThatDemiGuy described a session where the group “turns a conversation into an ambush” by retreating, observing the enemy, and returning with a plan.

The essence of “combat as war” is the rejection of sport combat – the kind where two sides line up in an open field and exchange blows to the death, with “balanced” encounters. In real OSR, players seek any advantage, no matter how dirty. And so do the monsters.

“The magic user is not useless, because he can throw daggers.”

This statement was almost unanimously ridiculed. Not because mages are useless, but because the argument is shallow. The usefulness of a low-level mage comes from several fronts:

• Impact Spells : Sleep is cited by dozens as the great equalizer at level 1. One user joked: “wizards are a sleep grenade you throw once a day”.
• Uses outside of combat : detect magic, read ancient languages, negotiate with intelligent creatures, solve arcane puzzles.
• Threat perception : intelligent monsters may fear a mage even if he is weak, opening up opportunities for bluffing.
• Indirect support : holding a torch, carrying treasure, activating magical devices.

The author of the post himself noted that, in games where the initial spell is random, a wizard who rolls Read Magic is really reduced to throwing daggers. Therefore, many game masters use alternative rules: wizards start with a basic spellbook, or use systems like Shadowdark (roll to cast, no fixed spell slots) or DCC (chaotic and powerful magic).

The lesson here is that the cliché attempts to defend a real design flaw (level 1 mages being too fragile) with a weak argument. The community, in practice, resolves this with rule adjustments – not with speeches.

“Old school is about resource management and exploration.”

This was the most widely accepted statement – ​​but with important caveats. Exploration is central: megadungeons, hexcrawls, mapping, route decisions. User skalchemisto summarizes: “Exploration is incredibly important; it’s the main point.”

Regarding resource management, there is variation. Many track torches, rations, arrows, coin weight, and even dungeon turn time. Others find the accounting tedious and simplify things. One user, Victor3R, said: “Equipment, gold, and inventory slots are important. But I find rations less interesting. Outside of deep dives and several days in the unknown, it’s a lot of accounting and wasted rubber for little return.”

Another interesting point: resource management isn’t just individual. User clickrush notes that “resource management in OSR is largely shared or can be shared (like gold, rations, arrows), as opposed to being just individual resources (like spell slots or N/day abilities), which encourages group planning and interaction.”

Therefore, the statement is true in spirit, but flexible in execution . Each table decides the level of detail that is enjoyable for them.

Real diversity: numbers, systems, and styles.

One of the biggest takeaways from the post is that there is no single “OSR way .” The author’s compilation revealed:

• Most cited systems : OSE, Shadowdark, Dolmenwood, DCC, Worlds Without Number, B/X, AD&D 1e, Mausritter, Cairn, Troika.
• Group size : average of 3 to 7 players (with variations from 2 to 12).
• Preferred classes : Warrior and Mage are very common; Cleric and Thief also appear. Many groups use helpers or reserve characters.
• Frequency of combat : 0 to 5 per session, with most between 1 and 3.

Some groups play “pure” OSE with all the procedures; others mix rules from different systems. One user, Droselmeyer, reported running Shadow of the Weird Wizard (a non-OSR system) with OSR principles – no fixed classes, but with inventory management, random encounters, and gold for XP. This shows that OSR is more of an arbitration style than a set of rules.

Another relevant piece of data: the majority of respondents are game masters (GMs) , not players. The author of the post noted this in the statistics: “It seems that many of you are game masters and fewer are players.” This may bias the responses towards a more “idealized” view of the game, but it also means that the accounts come from those who have practical experience in running games.

A critique of “blogification” – theoretical OSR vs. real OSR

Several comments raised an important point: many OSR slogans don’t come from the practice of trading desks in the 80s/90s, but rather from blogs and YouTube channels that emerged later. User BusinessOil867 is emphatic:

“Combat is a state of failure” is basically removing the “old school” from “OSR” and shows that at least some parts of OSR are reading too many blogs and watching too many YouTube channels and not rolling enough dice. […] Old School D&D wasn’t (for the most part) a story-driven game […] It was about exploring the space between location-based adventures. Once you got there, the fun was in killing the monsters. Not in talking to them.

User Enough-Run-1535 corroborates: “If there’s one thing, growing up in the ’80s and ’90s, my friends and gamers treated OSR combat more like a war game than a state of failure.”

This disconnect between the theory propagated online and historical (and current) practice is crucial. “Blogging” has created a purist and exaggerated version of OSR, which intimidates newcomers and ignores the diversity of styles that has always existed. The author of the post himself seems to have realized this when asking whether the common claims are true “or if they come from an idealization”.

The upside is that the community on Reddit is doing a healthy job of self-criticism . It not only rejects clichés but also offers detailed alternatives.

What really matters

With the clichés removed, what are the truly central elements for most OSR tables, according to the post?

Exploration as a driving force

Almost all respondents placed exploration (of dungeons, wastelands, cities) as the heart of the game. User Teid described an unforgettable session where “1 player orchestrated a massive, logistics-driven operation to extract 20 rare statues from a floor […] The only combat was with a Wyvern that the druid held in place.” Exploration, not combat, generated the fun.

Real-world consequences and living worlds

Random encounters, reaction rolls, and tables of wandering monsters make the world feel independent of the PCs. One user, 1001Smites, describes how he pre-rolls all the session’s random encounters – distance, creature activity, reaction, surprise – so that the world reacts consistently. This generates emergent situations, such as cultists who are initially hostile and can become allies depending on the roll.

Player skill above the token.

Several comments reinforce the idea that “the answer isn’t in your character sheet”—but with the nuance that the items and spells on the sheet are tools , not automatic solutions. User rrizzlybear explains: “Your character sheet isn’t a list of solutions your character can use, it’s a list of things you, the player, must protect.”

In practice, this means that a creative player can use a simple crowbar in ways that no skill could cover. A wizard without spells can still pour oil on the ground and set it on fire. The cliché is true in essence, but it’s misinterpreted when used to justify omissions in the rules.

Lethality, but not gratuitousness.

Character death is common, but most game masters signal the danger. User grumblyoldman says: “My players may die, but it won’t be because I didn’t signal the danger to them.” Lethality is a consequence, not a goal. And when a character dies, the solutions are varied: a new character at the same level, one level below, or promotion of a helper.

What does the community disagree on? Internal tensions

Not everything is agreed upon. The post reveals some interesting divisions:

• Combat procedures : some use phased combat (B/X style), others find it confusing and prefer action systems. Victor3R abandoned phases because “spellcasters never want to cast spells because they are so afraid that their few meaningful actions will be interrupted.”
• Severity of resource management : while many count every torch, others find it boring and ignore it. There’s no shame in that – each table finds its own level.
• XP for gold vs. XP for combat : most use XP for gold, but some game masters give XP for significant combat.

This diversity is healthy. It shows that OSR is not a cult with a single set of rules, but rather an umbrella of approaches that share some families of systems and a general attitude.

OSR as an attitude, not as dogma.

What can we learn from this post and its responses? Three main lessons:

First lesson: OSR clichés are useful shortcuts, not universal truths. “Combat is a state of failure” serves as a warning against overconfidence, but in practice, tables fight – a lot. “A mage is not useless” is true, but for far more interesting reasons than “throwing daggers.” The secret is to use slogans as starting points for reflection, not as ironclad rules.

Second lesson: diversity is the true hallmark of OSR. There are as many “OSRs” as there are tables. Some play pure OSE with torch counting; others use Shadowdark with flexible magic rules; still others adapt OSR principles to non-OSR systems. The important thing is that each group finds the balance between challenge, exploration, and fun – without worrying about meeting external expectations.

Third lesson: the OSR community is maturing and self-criticizing. The fact that the original post received dozens of detailed and reflective responses – many of them criticizing the movement’s own dogmas – shows that OSR is not an echo of influencers. It is a living community that plays, tests, and adapts. Which leads us to the most important point:

OSR is not a set of rules. It’s an attitude. It’s the willingness to let the game world react naturally to the players’ actions, to not balance encounters, to value creativity over dice rolls. It’s the acceptance that characters can die and that this doesn’t ruin the story – on the contrary, it creates memorable stories.

For the beginning game master, the advice from the veterans in the post is clear: ignore the clichés and start playing . Use a simple system (Basic Fantasy, OSE, Shadowdark), put the players in a dungeon, roll random encounters, and see what happens. Over time, your own style will emerge – and it will be just as legitimate as any described in this article.

As user alphonseharry said: “There is no universal answer to these questions. Each group has different interpretations.” And that, perhaps, is the greatest wisdom that OSR has to offer. OSR is not a dogma, it is a movement, a movement that “moves,” evolves. It is more like a philosophy.

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References: The content analyzed is available in the archive of the post “How does the community really play their OSR rpgs” on the subreddit r/osr, published in 2025. Usernames and citations have been preserved for accuracy, but the opinions are those of their respective authors.

The OSR (Old School Renaissance) movement was born from a desire to recapture the essence of early RPGs: games where player creativity mattered more than character sheet statistics, where the world was dangerous and unpredictable, and where the game master was a fair arbiter, not a linear storyteller.

One of the most repeated maxims in OSR is “rulings, not rules” —the GM’s decisions, not pre-written rules for each situation. When a player wants to break down a door, the GM doesn’t look for a “Lockpicking” skill on the character sheet; they ask how the character does it, set a chance (usually with a die), and resolve it. When a player wants to deceive a guard, they roleplay the lie, and the GM decides if it works based on what was said.

This philosophy values ​​player agency and narrative fluidity.

However, there is one area of ​​the game that has stubbornly remained attached to fixed lists and pre-labeled buttons: magic .

The wizard looks at their character sheet and sees a list of spells with specific names, ranges, durations, and predefined effects. Magic Missiles deals 1d4+1 damage, point. Fireball explodes in an area, point. Invisibility lasts until you attack, point.

The mage player doesn’t ask “what can I do with my magic?” – he asks “which of these five buttons should I press now?”

This is the opposite of what OSR advocates for any other action in the game.

And here’s the paradox: Vancian magic (named after Jack Vance, author of Tales of the Dying Earth ) is itself extremely old school . The first edition of Dungeons & Dragons used it. Gygax and Arneson were directly inspired by Vance. Therefore, fixed-list magic has historical pedigree.

But OSR has evolved. After decades of debate, reflection, and experimentation with alternative systems (such as Maze Rats , Knave , Into the Odd , Mörk Borg , and many others), the community realized that Vancian magic, while classic, often stifles creativity instead of stimulating it.

The result? Many OSR tables have adopted free-form magic systems, where the player describes the desired effect and the game master judges the difficulty. Shadowdark , which is already a marvel of simplicity and elegance, deserves this type of adaptation.

That is what we present in this article.

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In-depth critique of Vancian magic

Before proposing our solution, let’s examine in detail the problems of Vancian magic in an OSR context.

The problem of the fixed list

A spell list is, by nature, a creative limitation. The player can only do what is written. If they want to use Lift Object to raise a lever at a distance, great. But what if they want to use the same spell to create a makeshift bridge with loose planks? The text doesn’t provide for that. The game master needs to decide whether to “allow” it – and the player feels like they are asking for permission, not using their ability creatively.

Real-life example (reported in forums): A level 2 wizard wanted to use Frost Ray to freeze the surface of a river and allow the group to cross. The game master said, “No, the spell only causes damage.” The player argued, “But it’s ice, it should freeze water.” 10-minute discussion. The narrative flow was broken.

The problem of “memory spaces” (slots)

The daily spell slot system (you can cast so many level 1 spells, so many level 2 spells, etc.) turns magic into a tactical management resource , not an expression of arcane power. The mage thinks of “spending” their spells like ammunition. This is suitable for a wargame, but not for a narrative RPG.

Furthermore, it creates the infamous situation of “resting after each battle to recover magic.” The game’s pacing suffers.

The problem of predictability

A Vancian spell is completely predictable. Fireball always deals 6d6 damage in a 6m area. The player knows exactly what will happen. There is no risk beyond failing the target’s saving throw. There are no consequences for the caster.

Where does magic stand as something strange and dangerous ? Tolkien described magic as something that “breaks reality,” not as a reliable tool. In the tradition of fairy tales, casting a spell can go wrong in unpredictable ways.

The problem of forced specialization

In Vancian magic, all wizards on the same list have access to the same spells (with slight variations by school in some editions). There is no incentive for one wizard to be a “master of illusions” and another a “master of fire,” unless the game master forbids certain spells. The system does not reward niches.

The final paradox

The ironic thing is that many of the OSR creators themselves have already acknowledged these problems. Systems like Into the Odd (and its offspring Electric Bastionland ) have completely abolished spell lists, replacing them with “arcana”—strange items with unique but non-repeatable effects. Mörk Borg has a chaotic spell table that can go terribly wrong. Maze Rats uses daily random generation.

Shadowdark, in its original form, already took a step in that direction with its table of magical accidents (when you fail a spell). But it still maintains the fixed list structure.

Our system is the next step.

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Philosophical foundations: Tolkien and the grammar of adjectives

J.R.R. Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy-Stories” is one of the most profound reflections ever written on the nature of magic in fantasy. Tolkien wasn’t writing a role-playing game manual, but his ideas are extraordinarily applicable.

In a famous passage, he says:

“When we can take the green from the grass, the blue from the sky, and the red from the blood, we already possess the power of an enchanter.”

The central idea is that true magic is not a list of effects, but the ability to draw abstract qualities from the world and then recombine them in new ways. In linguistic terms, the invention of the adjective was the first and most powerful enchantment.

If you can extract the concept of “green” from grass, then you can apply it to something that isn’t naturally green – painting a horse green, making a goblin’s skin green, or even (in a more metaphorical sense) making a person “green with envy.”

Magic, therefore, is a grammar , not a dictionary. The magician has words (adjectives, nouns, verbs) and combines them into sentences. Each incantation is a new sentence.

Our system of Forms is an attempt to translate this idea to Shadowdark. Each Form (Elemental, Vital, Mental, etc.) is like a semantic field – a set of related words. Within this field, the player can form any sentence that makes sense, and the game master judges how difficult it is to pronounce that sentence at that moment.

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What can we learn from other free systems?

Before designing our solution, it’s worth studying how other OSR systems handle free magic.

Maze Rats (Ben Milton)

Maze Rats uses a daily random spell generation system . The wizard rolls on tables to match an Adjective and a Noun (e.g., “Summon Beast,” “Acidify Weapon,” “Horrifying Speed”). The spell name is the only guide; the game master and player roleplay together what it does. The spell is forgotten after use (cast once, done).

What we learned : Randomness fosters creativity. You never know what you’ll have tomorrow. The “forget after use” system eliminates the slot problem.

Limitation : There is no specialization. A level 5 mage is as random as a level 1 one. Additionally, some generated names may be confusing.

Knave 2e (Ben Milton)

Knave 2e includes 100 predefined spells (with fixed effects), but also offers a Maze Rats-style random spell generator as an option. The key difference is that anyone can learn spells (there is no wizard class). The only limitation is your inventory: you need to physically carry your spellbook.

What we learned : The idea that magic can be accessible to everyone, not just one class, is interesting. Our system maintains the Wizard/Cleric distinction, but allows feats to grant Forms to other classes.

The Electrum Archive (Emiel Boven)

In this system, magic is powered by Ancient Ink , a scarce resource that must be inhaled. Spells are randomly generated by tables ( d88), combining verb, object, and adjective. The risk is the consumption of the resource.

What we learned : Replacing slots with a physical resource (ink, mana, etc.) creates an interesting economic tension. Our system uses attribute penalty as the “cost” of failure, but we could adapt it (see variants).

Mage: The Ascension (White Wolf)

Although not OSR, Mage has one of the most sophisticated free magic systems ever created. Nine Spheres (Forces, Mind, Life, etc.) define what you can do. Each effect is improvised. The risk is Paradox – reality “biting back” for violating the laws of physics in front of witnesses.

What we learned : Paradox is one of the most elegant mechanics for limiting a mage’s power without resorting to spell slots. Our Intelligence/Charisma penalty is a simplified form of Paradox.

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Our system: magic by Forms for Shadowdark

Now, we present our complete proposal.

General principles

• No daily spell slots . The caster can attempt as many spells as they want. The limit is the risk of failure.
• Base roll : 1d20 + modificador do atributo chave(after penalties).
• CD defined by the master according to the reference table (section 7). Base CD is 8, increases in intervals of 2.
• Proficiencies : The spellcaster is trained in a limited number of Forms. Without proficiency, they roll with disadvantage.
• Spellbook : A list of specific spells the spellcaster has mastered. Casting the exact spell from the spellbook grants advantage.
• Rituals : Casting calmly (minutes/hours) negates penalties for lack of proficiency.
• Failure : The difference between the roll and the DC temporarily reduces the key attribute. If the modifier reaches -3 or less, unable to cast spells.

Key attributes

Class	Attribute for magic	Penalty affects…
Wizard	Intelligence	Int modifier
Cleric	Charisma	Car modifier

Why Charisma for Clergy? Faith is not just theological knowledge (Wisdom) – it is willpower, the ability to inspire, the power of divine persuasion. Charisma represents the strength of devotion. Furthermore, it clearly distinguishes magicians (intellectuals) from clergy (charismatic).

Proficiencies

Level 1 – Mage : Proficient in two Forms of your choice (from Elemental, Vital, Mental, Illusory, Essential, or Profane). Clerical is not initially permitted for mages (unless the GM allows a special narrative arc).

Level 1 – Cleric : Automatically proficient in Clerical . Does not gain any other forms initially. Can learn other Forms through feats.

Proficiency advancement : Talents enable:

• Increase your proficiency in a Form you already possess: +1 to spell rolls in that Form (maximum +3). This bonus stacks with your ability modifier.
• Learning a new Form (becoming proficient in it).

Roll without proficiency : Disadvantage (roll two d20s, take the worst). This represents the difficulty of manipulating strange energies without training.

Grimoire – the power of study

A grimoire is a physical book (or prayer scroll, for clerics) where the conjurer records specific spells that he has studied in detail. A spell in the grimoire is not just a name – it is a precise description of its range, damage, duration, area, components, etc.

Rules :

• Starting point : 3 spells in the spellbook. Each spell must belong to a Form in which the caster is proficient.
• Gain per level : +1 spell in the spellbook.
• Conjure from the spellbook : When the player declares that they will reproduce the described effect exactly (without variations), they roll with advantage (two d20s, take the higher one).
• Without the spellbook : If the spellcaster has lost or does not have access to the spellbook, they cannot cast these spells with advantage. They can try to improvise (normal roll, no advantage).

Example of an entry in the grimoire (magician):

Sulphur Flames (Elemental, DC 14): Projects a burst of flame that deals 2d6 damage to a creature within short range (up to 10m) and sets it ablaze, dealing an additional 1d4 damage at the start of each of its turns until extinguished (action to extinguish).

Example of an entry in the grimoire (cleric):

Traveler’s Blessing (Clerical, DC 10): An ally within short range gains a +1 bonus on Dexterity and AC checks for 1 hour.

Cost to add spells to the spellbook : In addition to the spells gained per level, the spellcaster can learn new spells during the game. Requires 1 week of study and 100 gp per DC/2 (rounded up). Ex: DC 14 costs 7 * 100? Better to simplify: 100 gp per DC point above 8? No. Let’s simplify: 100 gp per DC level (DC 10 = 100 gp, DC 14 = 400 gp, etc.). The DM can adjust.

Rituals – the power of calm

When there is time and safety, the conjurer can perform a ritual instead of instantaneous conjuration.

Time required (base):

• CD 8-10: 1 minute
• CD 12: 10 minutes
• CD 14: 1 hour
• CD 16: 4 hours
• CD 18+: 1 day (8 hours of work, breaks)

Benefit:

Cancels the penalty for lack of proficiency . Even without proficiency, the roll is normal (without disadvantage).

Limitations :

• It cannot be used in combat or under stress (chasing, free fall, etc.).
• If interrupted (by attack, sudden noise, etc.), it counts as a failure with the same CD as the original CD, and suffers the normal penalty.
• It requires a quiet space and usually consumable physical components (candles, incense, chalk, etc.).

Example : A wizard with no proficiency in Unholy wants to summon a spirit for interrogation (DC 16). He spends 4 hours drawing circles, burning herbs, and reciting names. He rolls normally (no disadvantage) and can still request a DC reduction if he spends 8 hours. If he fails, the Int penalty will only be 2 instead of 4 (if the DM uses the optional rule).

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The Seven Forms in Detail

Each Form has a thematic scope, clear limitations, and examples of effects per CD level.

Elemental

Domain : Inorganic matter, energy, natural phenomena. Fire, ice, electricity, earth, air, water, gravity, light, sound, heat.

You cannot : Directly affect living beings (except through fire/ice, which burn/freeze – this is allowed, but you cannot heal or control a living being). You cannot create matter from nothing (only manipulate existing matter).

Examples by CD :

CD	Effect
8	Light a candle, create a spark, heat soup, make a gentle breeze.
10	Pushing open a door with a burst of wind, lifting 1kg of earth, creating smoke.
12	Blaze 2d6 damage to a target, freeze 1m² of water, push creature with wind (Strength check).
14	Levitate person for 1 minute, create air shield (+1 AC), heat metal to a red-hot state.
16	Fireball with a 2m radius, 3d6 damage; lightning bolt that paralyzes for 1 round; create a local earthquake (3m area, knocks down).
18	Portal to another location (range 1km), ice storm area 10m, flight time 10 min.
20+	To create a mountain, to open a fissure to the center of the earth, to stop the wind in a region.

Vital

Domain : Living beings – plants, animals, fungi, humans. Healing, disease, aging, growth, metamorphosis, plant control.

It cannot : Affect inanimate matter (except through plants growing through it). It cannot create life from nothing (only accelerate growth or regeneration). It cannot control minds (that is Mental).

Examples :

CD	Effect
8	Cure 1 PV (in others), make a flower bloom, diagnose disease.
10	Heal 1d6, accelerate natural healing (rest yields double), make plants grow 1m.
12	Cure 2d6 or more common diseases, put an animal to sleep (saving throw), create thorns on a branch.
14	Regenerate a lost limb (takes 1 day), cure poisoning, control aggressive plants (e.g., vine clings to you).
16	Heal group in an area (2d6 each), transform arm into tentacle (1d6 damage, grapple), age animal 10 years.
18	Resurrection (whole body, up to 1 day), creating a simple living being (e.g., a rat), temporary immortality (1 round).
20+	Cure death from old age, create a new type of plant, grant life to a construct.

Mental

Domain : Mind, perception, emotions, memories, will. Telepathy, control, sensory illusions (but Illusionary deals with external illusions; Mental deals with internal perception).

Cannot : Directly affect the physical world (except through controlling a being). Cannot create physical objects. Cannot read the minds of the dead (that is Profane or Necromancy).

Examples :

CD	Effect
8	Read superficial emotions (fear, joy), send a 1-syllable word telepathically.
10	Read current thoughts (what the target is thinking right now), cause confusion 1 round.
12	Paralyze a human for 1 round (resistance test), erase memory for 1 minute, put a creature to sleep.
14	Erase 10 minutes of memory, control basic actions (e.g., walking in a straight line), cause temporary blindness/deafness (1 hour).
16	Total control of a person for 10 minutes, rewriting personality (partial, lasting), complete amnesia.
18	Read old memories (years), control multiple people (up to 3), transfer consciousness to an animal.
20+	Erase a person’s existence (no one remembers them), mass control (entire village).

Illusory

Domain : Deception of the senses. Images, sounds, smells, textures. Camouflage, invisibility, mirages.

Cannot : Cause actual damage (unless the target believes so firmly that they are suffering psychosomatic damage – DC 18+). Cannot directly affect the mind (only the senses). Cannot create physical objects.

Examples :

CD	Effect
8	To create a moving shadow, an echo of a voice, the scent of flowers.
10	Illusory copy of yourself that lasts 1 round, camouflage against a creature (advantage on Stealth checks).
12	Invisibility for 1 round, create an image of a small object (key, coin), loud scary sound.
14	Invisibility for 1 minute (breaks if attacked), illusion of a solid wall, fake face (change appearance).
16	Illusion of an entire building (appears like a ruin), invisibility for a group (3 creatures), illusion that blinds (resistance test).
18	Illusion that causes real damage (2d6 psychic), landscape mirage (1 km²), illusory clone that fights (but does not cause real damage).
20+	Entire city illusory, creating false memories implanted via illusion (CD 20).

Essential

Domain : Magic itself. Detection, cancellation, protection, reflection, amplification.

Cannot : Create elemental or vital effects (only manipulate existing magic). Cannot create permanent magic items (only temporary ones).

Examples :

CD	Effect
8	Detect if an object is magical (contact), sense the presence of magic in an area (yes/no).
10	Identify the school/form of an active spell, create a small shield against spells (+1 to saving throws).
12	Cancel an active spell (DC ≤ 12), protect an object from magic (1 hour), detect magic in a 10m area.
14	Reflect a spell back (roll against test), create an anti-magic seal on a door (1 day).
16	Cancel any spell (DC ≤ 16), steal energy from a magic item (destroying it recovers the Int penalty), amplify a spell (+1 DC for another caster).
18	Anti-magic area (3m) for 1 hour, transfer enchantment between objects, create temporary magic item (1 day).
20+	Cancel legendary artifact magic (requires a test), create a wild magic zone (random effects), make someone magically invisible to detection.

Profane

Domain : Death, decay, occultism, souls, curses, summoning of dark entities.

Cannot : Heal (except through life drain). Cannot create light or holy effects. Cannot summon celestial creatures.

Examples :

CD	Effect
8	To make a small object rust, to sense the presence of the dead, to create a black flame (only light, no heat).
10	Stab with power (weapon deals +1d6 damage to living enemies), eye of the skull (see through corpse eyes for 1 minute).
12	Animate a corpse (skeleton or weak zombie) for 1 hour, draining 1d6 vitality (healing mage for 1d4).
14	Curse weapon (deals +1d8 damage to living enemies, prevents healing for 1 round), bad luck (target has disadvantage on saving throws for 10 minutes).
16	Summon a ghoul for 1 day, curse a person (resistance test or suffer 1d6 damage per day until removed), talk to the dead (10 minutes).
18	Minor Pact (summons a minor demon that obeys for 1 service), drain vitality in an area (3d6, divides among nearby living beings).
20+	Summon a greater unholy creature (e.g., wight), curse a bloodline (all descendants), resurrect an intelligent undead (e.g., wight).

Clerical (clergy only)

Domain : Faith, healing, divine protection, exorcism of the undead, blessings, minor miracles.

Cannot : Cause direct damage (except to undead). Cannot heal itself. Cannot summon evil creatures.

Special limitations :

• Sacred symbol : Necessary for any clerical magic. If lost or broken, it cannot be cast.
• Sin : Acting against the principles of divinity imposes a disadvantage on all clerical spells up to contrition.
• No self-healing : The Clerical Form does not heal the cleric itself. For that, it would need Vital (acquired through a talent).

Examples :

CD	Effect
8	Blessing a meal (removes hunger), creating soft light on the sacred symbol, sensing spirits.
10	Heal 1d6 (other), purify water/food, protect against fear (1 hour).
12	Cure 2d6 common disease, Faith Shield (+1 AC for 1 min), detect poison.
14	Heal 3d6 or remove minor curse, make undead flee for 1 round, consecrate circle 3m (undead cannot enter).
16	Revive a dead creature for up to 1 minute (does not work on age/decapitation), dealing 3d6 radiant damage to undead in an area.
18	Full resurrection (whole body, up to 1 day), divine interdiction in a building (evil spirits cannot enter).
20+	Miracle: bringing several dead people back to life, opening a fissure in the earth, curing a plague in a region.

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Mistakes, penalties, and recovery

Failure calculation

After rolling 1d20 + modificador de atributo (após penalidades) + bônus de proficiência (se houver), compare it to the CD set by the game master.

• Success : The spell works as described (or with partial success at the GM’s discretion if the roll exactly matches the DC).
• Error : If the scroll speed is less than the CD , calculate X = CD - rolagem.

Penalty : The key attribute modifier (Int for wizards, Cha for clerics) is reduced by 1 point for X days .

Example: DC 16, roll 12 → X = 4. The modifier drops 4 points for 4 days. If the mage had Int 16 (+3), he will have an effective Int of 12 (+0) for 4 days. After 4 days, he recovers 1 point per day (on the 5th day it returns to +1, etc.).

Multiple failure effect

Penalties are cumulative . If the mage fails again before recovering from the first penalty, add the X points and the days. Ex: first failure X=4, second failure X=2 → total penalty 6 points for 6 days (counting from the second failure).

Incapacitation

If the attribute modifier (after penalties) reaches -3 or less , the character cannot cast any spells (or rituals) until the penalty is reduced to -2 or better.

Example: original modifier +2, suffers a penalty of -5 → drops to -3. Incapable.

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Critical failure table (1 natural)

When the natural roll is 1 (before any modifiers), a critical failure occurs. In addition to the normal attribute penalty (calculated with the very low roll), roll 1d20 on the table below.

d20	Consequence
1	Arcane Implosion : Take 2d6 arcane force damage (ignores armor). All your spellbook slots (prepared spells) are lost until your next long rest.
2-3	Painful Echo : The spell’s effect backfires on you. If it was damage, suffer the damage. If it was control, be affected for 1 round.
4-5	Flame of Chaos : Roll on the Shadowdark magical accident table. If you don’t have one, use: 1-2: 1d6 explosion in a 3m area; 3-4: everyone loses hair and eyebrows; 5-6: unbearable smell of sulfur for 1 hour (disadvantage on Stealth check).
6-7	Mental Drain : The attribute penalty for this flaw is doubled (X becomes 2X).
8-9	Mark of Failure : You cannot use the same form of magic for the rest of the day.
10-11	Unwanted Summon : A lesser spirit or unholy creature (DM’s choice: skeleton, imp, shadow) appears within short range and attacks the caster and their allies.
12-13	Distortion Field : All spell rolls within 10 meters suffer disadvantage for 1d4 rounds (including yours).
14-15	Temporary Oblivion : You lose access to one of your Forms (randomly chosen) until your next long rest.
16-17	Dark Laughter : You become unable to speak (and therefore cast spells) for 1d4 rounds.
18-19	Unstable Sparks : Small magical explosions around you deal 1d4 damage to all adjacent creatures (including allies and yourself).
20	Divine Mercy : Nothing beyond the normal glitch happens. The universe decided to give you a break.

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Talents for Wizard and Cleric

The original Shadowdark talent tables have been adapted for the new system. We’ve kept the roll structure 2d6.

Wizard Talent Table

2d6	Talent
2	Increase Attribute : +2 points to distribute among your attributes (can be Intelligence, Charisma, etc.).
3	New Proficiency : You become proficient in a Form of magic you did not previously possess (Elemental, Vital, Mental, Illusory, Essential, Unholy – Clerical only with GM permission and narrative justification).
4	Expanded Spellbook : You add two spells to your spellbook (instead of one) when you gain this feat. Additionally, in the future, when you gain spells per level, you receive two instead of one.
5	Compact Grimoire : The grimoire occupies half of your inventory space (rounded up). Once per day, you can cast a spell from the grimoire without needing the book (but without any advantage).
6	Arcane Focus : +1 to your melee or ranged attack rolls (as original).
7	Increase Attribute : +1 point to distribute among your attributes.
8	Expert in Rolls : +1 to all talent checks (skills, non-magic attribute tests).
9	Armor Training : You can use leather armor (AC 11) without penalties (as originally intended).
10	Spellcasting Expert : +1 on all spellcasting checks (i.e., +1 on the roll 1d20 + modificadorfor any spell). This bonus stacks with specific proficiency bonuses.
11	Arcane Mind : +2 on Intelligence checks (only for skills and saving throws, not spellcasting).
12	Increase Attribute : +2 points to distribute among your attributes.

Cleric Talent Table (adapted for Charisma)

2d6	Talent
2	Divine Advantage : Once per day, you can gain advantage on a clerical spellcasting roll (your choice after rolling).
3-6	Holy Warrior : +1 to melee or ranged attacks (as original).
7-9	Unwavering Faith : +1 on all clerical spellcasting checks (i.e., +1 on the roll 1d20 + modificador de Carismafor clerical spells).
10-11	Increase Attribute : +2 to one attribute of your choice between Strength or Charisma (Charisma replaces Wisdom as the key attribute).
12	Divine Choice : You can choose any talent from the Wizard talent list (except those that require Intelligence, such as Arcane Mind, unless you also have high Int) or gain +2 points to distribute among your attributes.

Tips for the master

How to judge CDs

Trust your common sense. Use the table as a guide, but remember:

• Narrative effects (without mechanical impact) are CD 8.
• Minor effects (such as opening a lock with telekinesis) have a DC of 10.
• Moderate combat effects (2d6 damage) have a DC of 12-14.
• Effects that change the scenario have a DC of 16+.

When in doubt between two values, choose the higher one . It’s easier for the GM to lower a DC (e.g., “you can try with DC 14, but if you fail…”) than to raise it later.

How to deal with abuse

Creative players may try solutions that seem to “break” the game. Example: “Use mental manipulation to make the king give me the kingdom.” The game master should:

1. Set an appropriately high DC (DC 20+ for prolonged mind control in a powerful figure).
2. Remember that mistakes have serious consequences. Trying to control a king can result in execution.
3. Use the rule that very powerful effects require lengthy rituals (hours or days).

Encouraging creativity

• Reward clever ideas with a reduced DC (e.g., “you use the mirror to reflect sunlight, so the DC of the light spell is 10 instead of 12”).
• Allow partial successes : If the roll equals the DC, the effect works but with a disadvantage (e.g., the fireball hits, but you also get slightly burned).
• Use the critical failure table to create memorable moments. A critical failure can become a side adventure (e.g., the summoned spirit escapes and now haunts the village).

Balancing the game

• Monsters with magic resistance can increase the DC by +2 or +4 for spells that directly affect them.
• Anti-magic areas are an excellent resource for challenging powerful mages.
• Limits on rituals : In emergency situations, rituals are not possible. This prevents mages from always opting for the safest ritual.

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Finally

Vancian magic is a historic piece of RPGs, but OSR has evolved. Today, we seek systems that encourage creativity, emergent narrative, and real risk-taking. Our proposed magic-by-Forms system for Shadowdark does exactly that:

• Total freedom : The player describes what they want, they don’t choose from a list.
• Significant specialization : Proficiency in specific Forms creates unique niches.
• Long-lasting risk : Failures reduce attributes, and critical failures are memorable.
• Simplicity : A CD table, a rolling mechanic, without complex slots.

We tested this system in several sessions and the results were extremely positive. The mages began to think in terms of “what can I do with my magic?” instead of “what magic do I have?”. Critical failures generated moments of tension and humor. The rituals brought a new rhythm to the exploration.

We invite you to try this system at your table. Adapt, adjust, and share your discoveries. Magic should be strange, dangerous, and wonderful – and now, in Shadowdark, it can be all of that.