My journey into the world of RPGs began in 1995, a year that remains vivid in my memory thanks to a simple box: First Quest. A friend brought the game to school, and the fascination was immediate. I clearly remember the dice with different shapes, the character sheets adorned with iconic illustrations from TSR’s golden age, and the beauty of the miniatures. I spent a considerable amount of time just leafing through the creature booklet, absorbing the art and ideas it contained. That day we didn’t even play, we just talked about that new world. My school’s art class, which was held in the opposite shift, offered a few hours of free time that quickly turned into my first weekly RPG session. In that inaugural adventure, my character of choice was the dwarf Delvar.

From that day on, RPGs never left my life. Almost simultaneously with D&D, books like Vampire: The Masquerade and Werewolf: The Apocalypse were popping up all over school, but two titles in particular would become central to my life: Spellfire and GURPS. Spellfire, a collectible card game that used the same illustrations as First Quest, was love at first sight, although today I admit that the game itself wasn’t the best.

My godmother, very attentive to this opportunity to encourage reading, gifted me my first RPG book: Tagmar. For those who don’t know, this is the first RPG published that is genuinely Brazilian. I confess it was a very good result for a complete novice. I had never dedicated myself so much to reading anything as I did to that book. I wasn’t, in fact, a literary type, and my mother, an experienced educator, could hardly believe what she was seeing when she witnessed my sudden and intense interest in reading.

Around the same time as Tagmar, my cousin acquired the AD&D published by Abril, and as soon as he mastered the system, we started a weekly game at his grandmother’s house. We alternated sessions between AD&D and Tagmar adventures. In those days, the act of being the game master was highly sought after, as creating challenges and plots for the other players was perhaps the highlight of the RPG experience. We started the game with four members, and later the group consolidated into three. Meanwhile, I had bought GURPS (Generic Universal RolePlaying System) and decided that it handled RPG dynamics better than Tagmar. I soon acquired the GURPS Horror supplement, and we played some memorable adventures set in Victorian England.

My passion for RPGs only grew from there, and GURPS solidified itself as my favorite system, becoming a gateway for many players. It’s both funny and deeply satisfying to know that many people who play RPGs today say I was the one who introduced them to the hobby. My cousin, who was into AD&D and already demonstrated excellent English skills, decided it was time to move on to the Third Edition (3E) of D&D. I can’t pinpoint the exact year of its release, but our experience with that version was brief. It was during high school; my cousin was studying for college entrance exams, and I would enter that phase of intense study two years later.

The Digital Gap and Return

With the pressures of academic life and high school, I went through a long hiatus without playing RPGs. However, the flame of longing remained burning in my heart. The return to the hobby came much later, when technology finally allowed me to play remotely, using a virtual platform that simulated a game table and dice rolling. The possibilities seemed endless: physical distance was no longer a barrier, and access to new systems was unrestricted.

With this renewed energy, I embarked on a journey of rediscovery. I played virtually every edition of D&D, returned to GURPS, explored Savage Worlds, tried Fate, and a dozen other titles. My goal was clear: to choose one of them to run a long campaign again, like in the old days at my grandmother’s house.

Unfortunately, during this process, I realized that the game no longer made me as happy as it once did. A strange feeling hung over the sessions; something seemed to have changed, and I feared that the problem was maturity, that the game itself had become inherently dull over the years. The fascination with the dice and tokens was still there, but the vitality of the experience seemed to have diminished.

With so much experience accumulated in a short period, I began to suspect that my frustration didn’t stem from a lack of maturity, but rather from a disconnect: I hadn’t yet found a system that fully fulfilled me in the role of Game Master. That’s how the audacious idea of ​​creating my own system was born.

The Birth of “Goblin Cave”

Since the initial idea was an experiment, a rules laboratory that I particularly appreciated in other systems, I decided to name the creation in homage to, and at the same time in humble contrast to, the greatest name of all time. I called it Goblin’s Cave. The name was an exercise in humility and simplicity: it wasn’t a dungeon, it was a cave, something modest; and it wasn’t the dreaded dragons, but goblins, the lowest in the “food chain” of medieval fantasy.

The process was intense. The system went through many versions, even being completely rebuilt several times. With each refinement, there was new learning about what made a rule functional or enjoyable. For several years, I played adventures with this original system, and some of them even came to life as podcasts.

However, even with a system designed specifically for me, the enjoyment of the game didn’t even come close to the old pleasure of storytelling. The feeling that “something had changed” persisted. Things seemed excessively mechanical; often, I felt like I was working, applying rules and checking calculations, instead of actually playing and spontaneously building the narrative with the group. The hope of recreating the joy of the old days remained frustrated.

In an attempt to recapture that nostalgic pleasure, I concluded that the blame for the frustration lay with the online environment. I meticulously prepared the adventures, using a vast repertoire of digital battle maps, tokens for characters and creatures, and every possible visual resource. But since that pleasure wasn’t there, I decided the solution was a face-to-face game.

I organized a weekend campaign, investing in printing maps, miniatures, and character sheets. We played for about three months, but the enjoyment was, curiously, the same as online. A sense of duty or work hung over the sessions. I began to resign myself to it, accepting the melancholy idea that perhaps I was getting too old to play RPGs, and that the magic of youth had dissipated.

Slowly, I started to put RPGs aside. I quit the podcast and stopped playing, focusing my energies on music, another hobby I’ve always cultivated. It was at this moment of near-giving up, at the end of 2018, if I’m not mistaken, on Christmas Eve, that everything changed. I was listening to the Café com Dungeon podcast, episode #188, when Balbi and none other than Diogo Nogueira were debating what OSR (Old School Renaissance) was.

It hit me like a missile. It was like having a blindfold removed and suddenly being able to see the same landscapes with a clarity I hadn’t had before. The debate about the old design philosophy, the emphasis on the Dungeon Master’s arbitration, and the rejection of the mathematical complexity of modern editions instantly clicked with my frustration. It was like going down Alice’s Rabbit Hole. The more I delved into it, through more podcasts, books, forums, and documents, the more I realized there was an entire community that felt exactly like me: most of the people who got to experience RPGs before Wizards of the Coast bought TSR and pushed the commoditized ruleset model. I wasn’t too old; it was the philosophy of the game that had changed.

Learning with OSR

Now, dear reader, I want to introduce this movement that has revolutionized my perspective: the OSR (Old School Renaissance). Not that this movement is the sole solution to absolute happiness for RPG Masters who feel like me, but we can certainly learn a lot from the reflections it proposes.

The first thing we need to understand is that OSR is a movement, and movement means exactly that: action, evolution, and debate! Many times I’ve seen people debating and trying to form a closed and monolithic concept of what it is; I’ve also seen people writing that OSR had to die. Nonsense! The attempt to confine it to strict rules misses the main point of its existence: questioning.

If we draw a parallel with another social movement, for example, the feminist movement, we can better understand OSR. Feminism arises from women who perceive themselves in an unequal society, where women have fewer rights than men. This is the movement’s motto, which seeks to mitigate this inequality. Now, the way to achieve this goal, the approaches, the theories, and the tactics—there you will find the most diverse perspectives and an intense debate about them. In OSR, the movement’s motto is that feeling of spontaneous pleasure we felt when playing RPGs, which has been lost over the years, suffocated by mechanical complexity and commercialization.

The approaches to recapturing this feeling are diverse, and the debate will be endless. What we need is not to define a definitive framework of “what is the best way to play RPGs for an Old School experience,” but rather to understand the reflections that arise as the movement matures. There are countless design and game philosophy aspects that can help you, the Game Master who is feeling a little uninspired, reconnect with your inner Game Master.

Just as this search for the OSR debate managed to open my mind and realize some of what was missing from my game, I hope it can help you understand what might be missing from yours. Initially, we contextualized the Dungeons & Dragons releases to understand how things evolved and what their motivations were (mechanics vs. commercial aspects). The main lesson is that you don’t need to play with the rules that sell the most, but rather with the ones that are most suitable for your enjoyment.

Limiting Rules

I believe the first thing that revealed where I was going wrong was precisely the use of limiting rules. I learned to play RPGs intuitively, at a time when we didn’t have live RPG sessions to learn by observing others. And this is a crucial point: when I returned to the hobby, live RPG sessions began to become popular, coinciding with the time of D&D Next, which was the playtest of the Fifth Edition. These broadcasts generally showed groups applying mechanical systems (whether D&D 3.x, 4E, Pathfinder, and especially Next) in an objective way, almost like a computer. The streaming culture, combined with the scope of already detailed rules, ended up forming a new culture, a new way of playing RPGs, where mechanical precision took precedence over narrative fluidity.

It’s important to understand that this change was an organic and gradual process. I only realized I was playing differently when I started reflecting on OSR. I remember playing and, at various times, a player would try to do something creative in combat. Since the mechanics didn’t accommodate their disruptive action, we would say: “You can do that, but it will only be ‘flavor’,” meaning it will only be something superficial that won’t affect the numerical result of the roll. This is extremely frustrating for those who think of creative solutions; it discourages different ideas.

If you’re playing D&D 3E or 4E, you have several “little powers” to use on your turn, but otherwise, the turn simply becomes “I attack!”. My own system, although simpler than the 3rd and 4th editions of D&D, still relied on this rigid model, and combat became extremely monotonous. Therefore, the first tip for you to be happy is precisely to use a system that allows anything, and that you, as the Dungeon Master, can easily adapt and create a rule on the spot to resolve that unusual play. In other words, a system that prioritizes arbitration over a strict rules system. Just with this change, which returns creative freedom to the player and intuitive authority to the Dungeon Master, you will already be much happier.

I’m not saying you need to play an OSR system or anything like that. That’s not it. It’s quite possible to adapt your Fifth Edition (5E) of D&D to a much more permissive system. Because it’s a relatively lean system, 5E allows for this flexibility. It’s no coincidence that some current OSR systems incorporate some of the core design of the Fifth Edition, which favors simplicity.

To illustrate what I’m saying: let’s suppose that one of your players, during a fight in a tavern, decides to jump from the stair railing onto one of the opponents. He says he’s going to jump holding the tip of his sword towards this opponent, hoping to cause much greater damage in the attack. A traditional narrator, stuck in the rulebook, would open the manual and look for a rule that would resolve this move. In the absence of a specific rule, he would treat the movement as a simple attack, where the whole idea would only work cosmetically (“flavor”). But you, my little Padawan, after internalizing this philosophy, will never do that again, because you would be missing the best part of RPGs.

The first thing to do here is this: the player expects to gain an advantage with this attack, right? So now it’s time to define a disadvantage in case of failure. You, as the narrator, who already has mastery of the core system, even without knowing the supplementary rules, will propose a roll. The player needs to test the character’s dexterity to make the move. You suggest an Acrobatics test. Now it’s time to define a difficulty, and you know that 15 is a medium difficulty. It’s not that hard to land this move. So, 15 could be a good value. You propose this challenge to the player, and say the following: “If you succeed on the Acrobatics test, you hit the attack and deal double damage. But if you fail, you take normal damage yourself due to the fall, and the opponent gains Advantage on their next attack.” This is called arbitration, and it’s one of the most fun and tense parts of RPGs. Now we have a different roll, never tested before, and everyone at the table will be crossing their fingers that the player succeeds.

The player can and should also participate in the debate about which move would be most interesting or what would be the fairest reward/punishment to resolve the action; in fact, all players can contribute. This elevates the team from mere rule operators to creators, to game designers. And this logic, if the dear reader who follows me takes a moment to reflect, replaces much of what we call Talents, Special Attacks, Extra Attacks, etc., which fill up the character sheets. It’s all a matter of negotiating, arbitrating, and daring.

Small Rules, Big Arbitrations

Following the previous logic, a system based on the d20, which doesn’t have Feats, Special Attacks, and other perks that we gain as we level up, starts to get interesting, doesn’t it? It creates a design space that you, the Game Master, fill in real time with the group’s creativity.

Imagine your group has already internalized the issue of arbitrating bold plays. Now, as you level up, or evolve, you start giving bonuses to these types of plays. A player who has already successfully performed a certain action will have less difficulty landing that acrobatic move, or will start dealing more damage, considering the previous example. The sky’s the limit. By acting this way, each character’s “Talents” won’t come from the meta-game you play alone at home, thinking about combos or optimizing character sheets, but will emerge there, in the heat of group play, and will be unique and totally organic to that narrative.

This character-building approach opens up space to blend rules and narrative. Imagine a player really wants to get good at something, so why not seek out a teacher? This creates adventure hooks. Or imagine a wizard gains a free power, something like a Shocking Touch. He acquires this ability during a group raid in a dungeon, either by touching a cursed statue or finding a magic ring. The idea of ​​arbitration can also be applied here: this ring could consume Hit Points (HP) with each use, or perhaps it would fail and hit the wizard himself with a 1 in 6 chance. Going back to the idea of ​​a teacher, he would charge a high price, but would teach this power without side effects. This would align with the old idea of ​​converting gold into XP from older editions, rewarding exploration and social interaction instead of just combat.

The important point here is this: when the system is elegant and simple, you have room to create during the game. And that, my friend, is the most incredible thing about RPGs; it’s where the real fun lies and where the magic of your first games truly happened.

Cultural Resistance

It’s crucial to recognize that the transition to this more open and arbitrary game philosophy won’t be instantaneous, especially if your current group is deeply entrenched in modern RPG habits. Most players who grew up with the more recent editions, notably D&D 3.x onwards, tend to directly correlate their action possibilities with the number of Feats, special abilities, and trinkets that fill their character sheet. For them, the character sheet is the map of their capabilities. At this point, your role expands from Game Master to mentor, requiring open-mindedness and a careful transition process, as players will essentially need to relearn how to play, shifting the focus from character sheet optimization to creativity in the moment.

The gentlest approach to initiating this change is to emulate the feel and familiarity of the old system, such as the Fifth Edition of D&D, within a more permissive rules framework. This permissive system can be a hacked version you’ve created yourself, simplifying 5E, or adopting an alternative system that already embraces this philosophy of minimalist rules and high arbitration. For a Dungeon Master who values ​​improvisation and seeks the elegance of simple design, the OSR community offers great options, such as “Breu,” which I consider particularly elegant, “Old Dragon 2,” “The Black Hack 2e,” or “Shadowdark.” However, simply simplifying your 5E, removing Feats (already optional) and the like, is already a giant step in this direction, leaving the character sheet more “dry and bland,” which ironically makes it a blank space for creativity.

To illustrate the transition process, we can take the example of emulating a classic class or ability. Consider the Barbarian’s Rage. Instead of a complex ability with limited uses per rest, you and your player can debate its representation in a simpler system. Rage is a combat frenzy that sacrifices rationality for devastating force. A possible arbitration would be: “When in a Rage, the Barbarian deals double damage dice, but is always attacked with Advantage, as he is neglecting his own defense.” This is just a micro-example, a didactic starting point. The real goal is not to fill the character sheet with these “pre-game abilities,” but rather to encourage the player to create these capabilities during the game, without pre-established limits. As the character evolves, this ability can be renegotiated and improved, either mitigating the imposed penalty or increasing its effectiveness, always as a result of a dynamic and contextualized agreement.

During the sessions, your job will be to actively encourage players to go beyond the character sheet, especially in combat, where most of the rules are concentrated. Players should feel free to propose an axe swing to hit multiple enemies, perform a sweep, attempt to take down a massive opponent, use objects in the environment to their advantage, or go for an all-out attack sacrificing defense. The golden rule is the negotiation of risk and reward: the greater the expected gain, the more difficult the roll should be, or the greater the risk of loss in case of failure. Character development will not come from a list of Talents, but from reducing the difficulty of their most frequent daring rolls, or decreasing the risk associated with them. This approach intrinsically rewards creativity, generating truly unique characters. Their special moves are not chosen in a metagame vacuum unrelated to the narrative, but emerge organically, contextualized, and making perfect sense within the character’s history and actions within the adventure. And while we’ve limited ourselves to combat examples, it’s crucial to remember that this philosophy transcends the battlefield, applying to all interactions and challenges that the game world can offer.

I Will Persuade the King

Another scourge of modern RPG culture, and a source of equally intense frustration, is the tendency to prioritize rules over narrative plausibility. The example of the Bard resolving a complex political conflict with the King through a Persuasion check is almost a caricature, but it illustrates the reality where we simply test a skill and, if the dice smile, the result is accepted without any narrative or logical basis. If the roll was successful, then the improbable happened, right? The answer is a categorical “No!”

This failure to connect mechanics to diegesis has led many within the OSR movement to adopt a game model where skills simply don’t exist. The logic is that, by eliminating them, the game wouldn’t be reduced to “pressing buttons” on the character sheet, and the player would be forced to rely on description and creativity, since, often, the player doesn’t even bother to argue convincingly before asking for a test.

Personally, I consider this approach of banning skills somewhat extremist, perhaps biased in a defense of the original D&D design, as we discussed earlier. I don’t believe the problem lies in the skill test or even the attribute test itself, but rather in how these tests are conducted and valued. GURPS, a system entirely based on skills, has offered this solution since 1986.

In the “GURPS” universe, persuasion is treated as a tangible and meticulous art. Success is not delegated to a blind roll, but to a careful narrative construction by the player. The system requires them to articulate their arguments concretely, describing the approach, the logic used, the pressure points, and the possible rewards offered to the target. It is then up to you, the Game Master, to act as the arbiter of the game’s plausibility, calibrating the difficulty of the test based on this foundation. An irrefutable and perfectly logical appeal can yield a generous bonus (+5 or more), while a request that contradicts the values ​​or threatens the target’s safety can impose a severe penalty (-5 or worse). It is only at this moment that the character’s real skill in Persuasion comes into play, representing their ability to execute the strategy conceived by the player with eloquence, timing, and charisma. Thus, “GURPS” demands intelligence and creativity from the player, transforming a social test into a duel of rhetoric and cunning, where a good argument is as crucial as a high modifier on the character sheet.

A system that completely eliminates skills and attribute tests can, paradoxically, level the playing field illogically, making persuasion equally difficult for a clever and articulate Rogue and a stupid Barbarian, since the outcome would depend solely on the player’s descriptive performance. GURPS solves this much more elegantly, weighting the difficulty of the roll based on the quality of the player’s argument. This challenges the player to think creatively, but still honors and considers the character sheet. Therefore, the choice of your approach should be guided by the goal of eliminating the mechanical, robotic use of skills, as in a computer game.

To guide your players to prioritize creativity over character sheets, an effective method is to establish that only the Game Master calls for skill (or attribute) checks. By doing so, you force them to rely on narrative for any action. The player will no longer say, “I check Persuasion.” They will have to say, “I argue with the King that the alliance with the Neighboring Baron will bring new resources and that the Princess’s marriage is a small price to pay for peace on the border.” You then use skills only when you don’t want to be arbitrary in a decision, that is, when you want chance, not your judgment, to determine the outcome of the action. This transforms the check into a narrative tool, not a shortcut solution.

My character will be Rambo.

Now, answer me with complete honesty: how many times have you seen a group of characters run away from a challenge simply because they recognized its danger? If your experience with RPGs began after the year 2000, it’s very likely that your answer is “never”.

The turn of the millennium marked a turning point where video games began to influence analog RPGs more than the other way around. One of the non-negotiable premises of video games is that every challenge must ultimately be surmountable for the player to progress in the game. Unfortunately, this mentality, which only makes sense in video games, has become deeply ingrained in tabletop RPGs. The Third Edition of D&D, by popularizing the concept of Challenge Rating, offered a calculation tool for the Game Master to apply supposedly “balanced” combat. Although it was a guideline and not a strict rule, the culture became so ingrained that a Game Master who dared to deviate from this balance was seen as unfair. Thus, the idea was created in the players’ subconscious that if the Game Master placed a challenge ahead, it is, by definition, surmountable. The result: a generation of Rambo-like players who attack before thinking.

The truth, from a more rational and plausible perspective, is that a group of adventurers should face challenges of varying difficulty, and this is a fundamental aspect for enjoyment and decision-making. When players know that the next encounter could be their last, they are compelled to think twice, seek information, and plan carefully. The point here is not simply to make the game more deadly, but rather to ensure that the perceived risk is real. Otherwise, the experience is like riding a bicycle with training wheels, where falling is impossible.

At this point, you, as the Game Master, need to rethink how you present challenges, replacing the certainty of direct confrontation with the need for investigation and subterfuge. Let’s suppose your players need to face a powerful Wizard who lives in an isolated tower, an enemy infinitely stronger than them, and whose victory is only possible by obtaining a specific item that neutralizes his powers. The group’s initial impulse will be to march directly to the tower. This is where your subtle, yet impactful, intervention should come into play.

Along the way, the players pass through a destroyed village, evidence of the Wizard’s destructive power. When asked for directions to the tower, a terrified local might mention that a troop of twenty well-equipped soldiers headed in that direction four weeks ago, promising to return on their way back, but never did. You didn’t need to say that the Wizard was too powerful for them; you simply provided a factual clue that he overwhelmed twenty elite soldiers. This is enough information for the players to understand that direct confrontation will result in death, forcing them to shift their focus to finding the necessary trump card, investigating and understanding the enemy before challenging him.

At other times, an impossible combat may present itself randomly. In these cases, it is vital that escape is always a viable option, which does not mean it is without consequences. When forced to flee from a superior enemy, the group may have to abandon valuable belongings to prioritize mobility, or even be subjected to Dexterity tests. A failure may result in physical damage due to accidents along the way or from being momentarily overtaken by the creature. This approach unequivocally establishes that leaving a safe zone in search of rewards implies a real risk. If it is necessary to educate your group about the dignity and wisdom of escape, include an NPC who uses this resource at a critical moment, demonstrating that escape can be the honorable alternative to death, allowing one to live to fight on a more opportune day.

Adventure or Itinerary

Pre-made RPG adventures have undergone a significant structural transformation over the decades, reflecting a shift in design philosophy and audience profile. Originally, in the 1980s and 1990s, they more closely resembled “sandboxes” or locations to be explored. The focus was on meticulous exploration, resource management, and overcoming deadly challenges. The story was an emergent element, arising from the players’ decisions within an open and often unpredictable environment, with the Game Master acting as a neutral judge of the rules.

In contrast, modern adventure games have adopted a structure much closer to a narrative script, prioritizing a cinematic and cohesive experience. They are conceived as epic stories to be lived, with a well-defined beginning, middle, and end, where character development and a pre-determined plot are central. Player freedom generally exists within specific scenes, but the overall path of the campaign is guided to ensure that the key plot points are reached, with the Game Master acting as a director who adapts the narrative.

This transition to a more scripted format was driven by several factors. Today’s audience, often influenced by narrative video games and TV series, tends to seek emotional arcs and satisfying conclusions. Furthermore, adventures with a linear structure are often more accessible to novice game masters, as they offer greater support and reduce the need for experience, functioning as a more commercial and easily consumable product.

The evolution of the game systems themselves, such as D&D 5e, has also solidified this trend. The rules have been simplified and the focus has shifted from vulnerable characters to powerful heroes, shaping scenarios where combat is part of the drama, but rarely a fatal obstacle that would interrupt the narrative. Everything in the design is thought to be connected to the central theme, creating a coherence that was less of a priority in the classic modules.

At first glance, the idea of ​​conceiving an adventure with a perfectly outlined narrative, and then inviting the characters to act within its prescribed story, might seem appealing. However, the reality of RPGs is almost the opposite: a narrator who clings to a fixed script expends considerable energy forcing the characters to return to the pre-programmed plot. This task, besides being exhausting, makes the game predictable, especially for you, the Game Master, who already knows all the twists and turns. And nobody wants a predictable game, because the fun lies precisely in the surprise and chaos.

To truly enjoy being a Game Master, you first need to prepare your adventure in a more relaxed way, embracing the need to improvise. And improvise a lot! Your starting point should be the projection of a central conflict, which is the challenge that will be proposed to the group. In addition, keep a series of generic enemies and dangers on hand that can be quickly drawn and used during exploration and diversion.

Let’s focus on the central conflict. For a hypothetical adventure, imagine a nobleman is offering a handsome reward to whoever discovers and captures the murderer of his son, who was found stabbed in the castle’s basement. Your preparation, as the Game Master, should focus on establishing the foundations of the truth: Who committed the murder? What was the murder weapon and where was it disposed of? Were there any witnesses? How exactly did it all happen? Once these few basic questions are answered, your role is to present the challenge and then simply let the game flow. As the players explore and articulate their actions, you will offer answers based on that core set of truths you have designed.

Let’s suppose the group already suspects a certain individual, but doesn’t have definitive proof. A player has the idea to inspect the suspect’s closet to check if any of their clothes are stained with blood. You, as the Game Master, haven’t thought about this detail of the crime scene. How to proceed, then? This is where I encourage you to embrace chaos and use chance as a creative tool. Quickly consider the probability of this having happened. If you conclude that there’s a 40% chance the murderer was careless enough not to wash a blood-stained garment before putting it away, then you roll a d10 and, if the result is 4 or less, the stained clothing exists.

This logic allows you to use the players’ rhetoric, creativity, and curiosity to build the plot in real time, respecting the answers to those previously established questions. Always use chance (from the dice) to validate the existence of details you didn’t foresee. This will make your adventures extremely dynamic and fun, including for you, the Game Master, as you will be playing something that becomes completely unpredictable, watching the group solve the challenge in a way you could never have imagined.