Retrospective: Shadowdale

Since I alluded in yesterday’s post to a shift in how TSR approached the Forgotten Realms, it seems worthwhile to examine the point at which that shift became unmistakable: Shadowdale, the 1989 AD&D module by Ed Greenwood. The first of three linked adventures intended to usher the setting into Second Edition, Shadowdale also served to advance the “Time of Troubles” metaplot through which TSR fundamentally reshaped the Realms. Lest anyone think otherwise, let state at the outset that, as an adventure, Shadowdale is deeply flawed. As a historical artifact, however, it is far more compelling, marking a decisive change in how the Forgotten Realms was framed and understood, both by TSR and its audience.

In many respects, Shadowdale is not really an adventure module at all, at least not in the sense that term had traditionally been understood. Rather than presenting a locale to be explored or a problem to be solved, Shadowdale instead serves primarily as a vehicle for presenting unfolding setting events over which the player characters have no control. Certainly, the characters are present during moments of great importance, like the fall of the gods to Toril or the assault on Shadowdale by the Zhentarim, but their role is largely one of observation. Outcomes are predetermined, major NPCs dominate the action, and the larger flow of events proceeds regardless of player choice. The module reads less like an invitation to adventure than as a dramatization of a story someone else has already decided.

This represents a sharp departure from earlier presentations of the Forgotten Realms. In the version of the Realms seen in Greenwood’s many Dragon articles, the 1987 campaign set, and its early supplements, the Realms functioned as a richly detailed backdrop rather than an unfolding narrative. History was largely static, providing a deep reservoir of implications, ruins, and grudges for Dungeon Masters to draw upon. Even powerful NPCs, such as the much-derided Elminster, were framed less as protagonists than as fixtures of the setting. They were figures with their own agendas, but not the only drivers of action within the setting. There was still plenty of scope for the player characters to leave their marks on the world.

Shadowdale signals a shift away from that understanding. With the Time of Troubles, the Realms acquired a timeline with canonical turning points and inevitable outcomes. The fall and return of the gods is more than a bit of background; it's a story to be told and told in a particular way. The module establishes that such events will happen whether or not the players intervene, as well as that future products will assume they have happened exactly as written. In doing so, it subtly but decisively shifts ownership of the setting away from DMs and players and toward the publisher.

This is not simply a matter of railroading, though Shadowdale certainly does that. The deeper issue is one of priority. The module is designed to support novels, sourcebooks, and future adventures rather than to stand on its own as a flexible piece of play material to inspire. The prominence of NPCs makes sense in this context, because they are central to TSR's narrative of the Realms, but their dominance leaves little room for the player characters to matter in any meaningful way. At best, the PCs can assist, but, more often, they will simply, as I said above, observe.

I believe it would be deeply unfair to lay all of this at Ed Greenwood's feet. In retrospect, Shadowdale reads less like an expression of his original conception of the Forgotten Realms than like a compromise between that earlier vision and TSR’s late-80s priorities. Greenwood’s affection for his NPCs and his fondness for intricate lore were always present, but earlier Realms material generally kept these elements in the background. Here, under the pressure to launch Second Edition with a bang and to synchronize the setting with an ever-expanding range of novels, those tendencies are brought to the fore. The result is a Realms that feels less like a setting to be explored and more like a story to be witnessed.

Shadowdale and its sequels offer little opportunity for meaningful choice, improvisation, or emergent play. Encounters are often structured to showcase NPC competence rather than to test player ingenuity. Deviating from the expected course of events is not merely difficult but implicitly discouraged, as doing so threatens the integrity of the metaplot the module exists to establish. This is admittedly not new territory. TSR had been down this path already with Dragonlance, but here it feels even more jarring, at least to me, perhaps because Krynn only ever existed as a vehicle for storytelling whereas the Forgotten Realms was intended as something more open.

For all these shortcomings and more, Shadowdale is nevertheless important. Its influence was profound and long-lasting. It set the template for how the Forgotten Realms would be handled throughout much of the Second Edition era. For players and DMs who enjoyed that approach, the module represented an exciting moment of transformation. For others, especially those of us who valued the older conception of the Realms as a flexible sandbox, it marks the beginning of an estrangement that would only deepen in the years to come.

Seen in retrospect, Shadowdale is, therefore, best understood as a turning point rather than as a mediocre adventure. It is the moment when the Forgotten Realms decisively stopped being merely a place where adventures happened and became, instead, a stage for stories to be told. Whether that change constitutes progress or decline is ultimately a matter of taste. What is beyond dispute is that, after Shadowdale, the Realms would never quite be the same again.

Retrospective: Mark of Amber

Because I’m focusing this month’s posts on the life, works, and legacy of Clark Ashton Smith, I’ve been trying to find roleplaying game products to discuss in my weekly Retrospective series that connect, even tangentially, to him. I’ve been surprised by how difficult this has proven, a fact that’s probably worthy of a post of its own. Still, while pondering the question, I was reminded that fourteen years after the publication of Castle Amber for the Moldvay/Cook/Marsh edition of Dungeons & Dragons, TSR released a follow-up adventure, albeit a rather unusual one.

Released in 1995, Mark of Amber is a strange product, at once a sequel to 1981’s module X2, an experiment in multimedia presentation, and part of a broader effort by TSR to retrofit its “Known World” setting for use with Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. Consequently, this boxed adventure offers a revealing snapshot of TSR in its final years, as it looked backward for inspiration while simultaneously trying out new gimmicks in the hope of reinvigorating sales.

In the abstract, the core idea behind Mark of Amber is a solid one, namely, a return to the old-school weirdness of Castle Amber and expand upon it in interesting ways. Unfortunately, the published adventure is very much a product of its time, the mid-1990s, and all that entails. The tension between the original module’s unrepentant eccentricity and the narrative design impulses then in vogue results in a product that feels caught between two worlds, neither fish nor fowl.

It’s important to remember that, while Castle Amber has many virtues as an adventure, subtlety was never one of them. Tom Moldvay trapped the characters inside a haunted manor populated by eccentrics modeled on figures from Clark Ashton Smith’s fiction. Once ensnared, the PCs were expected to poke around the castle, encountering all manner of bizarre and often dangerous oddities. Castle Amber was thus a classic funhouse dungeon that, despite its literary inspirations, made no great pretensions about itself. It was simply a module where curiosity was its own reward – and frequently its own punishment.

Mark of Amber presents itself as a sequel, taking place decades after the events of X2. The d’Ambreville family still looms large, but the tone has shifted considerably. Gone is the open-ended exploration of a cursed mansion. In its place is a more structured mystery involving murders, secret identities, and dreamlike visions tied to the immortal Étienne d’Ambreville. This shift, I think, reflects a broader change in adventure design. Where Castle Amber invited players to wander, experiment, and uncover strangeness at their own pace, Mark of Amber asks them to follow a plot. Events are paced. Clues are arranged. The Dungeon Master is given a clear narrative spine to maintain.

This approach is by no means unique to Mark of Amber and isn’t even necessarily a flaw. Mystery scenarios, for example, often benefit from structure. Still, it does highlight just how different TSR’s adventure design priorities had become by the mid-1990s. If Castle Amber feels like a haunted museum for the characters to explore freely, Mark of Amber feels more like a guided tour. There are still plenty of strange sights to see and unhinged NPCs to interact with, but the route to them is far more constrained.

To the extent that Mark of Amber is remembered today at all, I suspect it’s largely because of its inclusion of an audio CD. TSR intended it to be played during the session, with specific tracks keyed to certain locations and encounters. The disc contains ambient soundscapes, musical stings, and even narrated segments designed to heighten immersion. This wasn’t the first time TSR had experimented with audio accompaniments, but it was, so far as I can recall, the only time I encountered it myself.

As ludicrous as this might seem now, in 1995 it was actually a somewhat ambitious idea. Tabletop RPGs were still overwhelmingly analog experiences. I doubt every group even had a CD player available at the table and, even when they did, cueing tracks mid-session would almost certainly disrupt play. As a result, the CD was probably more trouble than it was worth. For me, it stands as a perfect emblem of TSR’s late-era mindset: occasionally bold and genuinely experimental, but often out of step with how most people actually played their games.

An equally interesting aspect of Mark of Amber is its place within the evolution of the setting that would come to be known as Mystara. In its earliest conception, the Known World belonged firmly to the Basic/Expert line. AD&D already had its own distinct stable of settings, like Greyhawk, the Forgotten Realms, and Krynn, each with different assumptions about character power and campaign focus. Nevertheless, beginning in 1994, TSR began adapting Mystara for AD&D and Mark of Amber is part of that effort.

How well this translation worked overall, I can’t really say, since I didn’t purchase any of the other AD&D Mystara products. Even so, I sense a certain contradiction here. Mystara was built as a sandbox setting, with clear geography and room for emergent play, while many AD&D adventures of that time emphasized plotted narratives. Mark of Amber embodies this mismatch, taking place in a setting born in the freewheeling era of the early 1980s now pressed into service for a much more scripted style of play.

All of this leaves Mark of Amber as an uneven adventure. It boasts strong atmosphere, memorable NPCs, and an ambitious presentation, but it’s probably best remembered today for what it reveals about the state of TSR and, by extension, Dungeons & Dragons, just a few years before the company was acquired by Wizards of the Coast.

Bringing this back to Clark Ashton Smith for a moment, Mark of Amber is a curious artifact. Its connection to CAS is almost entirely inherited rather than organic, filtered through Castle Amber rather than drawing directly from the source. Where Moldvay’s original module gleefully embraced the weirdness and excess of Smith’s fiction, Mark of Amber seems to me to approach that inheritance with a more cautious, narratively controlled hand.

In that sense, the adventure neatly encapsulates TSR’s situation in 1995. It looks backward to a beloved classic, tries to dress it up with new technology, and then situates it within a setting undergoing corporate redefinition. The result is neither a pure revival nor a bold reinvention, but something in between. It's a respectful sequel that never quite recaptures the anarchic spirit that made its predecessor memorable.

Castle Amber remains, in my opinion, a monument to Golden Age D&D’s joyful strangeness. Mark of Amber, by contrast, stands as a reminder of how much the game (and its publishers) had changed. For better or worse, it shows us what happens when old school weirdness is filtered through the sensibilities of the 1990s, becoming more polished, more controlled, and ultimately less surprising.

REPOST: Retrospective: Dwellers of the Forbidden City

Despite the fact that David Cook's 1981 adventure, Dwellers of the Forbidden City, is one of my favorite D&D modules of all time, if not my actual favorite, I've never done a retrospective post on it. I did use the module previously as the centerpiece for my early ruminations of location-based adventures, but I don't think that post did the module full justice. Today's post is thus a partial attempt to make up for that fact.

Though parts of what would become Dwellers of the Forbidden City were used in the official AD&D tournament at Origins 1980, module I1 doesn't include a scoring sheet and referees are halfheartedly encouraged to design their own if they choose to use it in a tournament fashion. The module also conspicuously lacks the tournament "vibe" of other early modules, lacking both a precise, straightforward goal or a high density of combat/trap encounters intended to test the mettle of the players, instead opting for a more open-ended, exploratory style. In that respect, I1 might be an exemplar of the "Electrum Age" that marked a shift in the style and content of adventures from the earlier Golden Age, a shift some cheer and others decry.

Ostensibly, Dwellers of the Forbidden City is about the characters, in the employ of merchant leaders, seeking to put an end to raids on caravans passing through a remote jungle locale. However, once pointed in the right direction, the characters soon discover that there's more going on in the jungle than mere caravan raids, as they stumble across the mysterious Forbidden City, a lost city that recalls Robert E. Howard's Conan yarns – no surprise given David Cook has admitted that the City was inspired by "Red Nails." Though getting to the Forbidden City is an adventure in itself, with multiple means to enter it and lots of potential allies and enemies along the way, it is within the City (a version of whose map is reproduced below) that the real adventure begins.

As can see from the map, the Forbidden City is large and located within a canyon and thus isolated from the rest of the jungle. It is a world unto itself, one that operates according to the whims of its inhabitants, chief of whom are the yuan-ti snake men, who make their debut appearance in this module. In my younger days, I used this module innumerable times with several different groups of people, including some I barely knew. What's interesting is how similar the experience was right up until the point where the characters enter the Forbidden City. From that point on, nearly every group did something different, with quite a few completely forgetting their original mission and focusing instead on exploring the Forbidden City and its strange inhabitants.

Dwellers of the Forbidden City is only 28 pages long, so it's necessarily brief when it comes to describing its titular locale. Yet, that never bothered me. Indeed, I think it's probably one of the great strengths of the module and the reason I was able to use it so often: it was easy to make and remake the City to suit my present needs, whatever they were. My personal preference for modules these days are ones that fire my imagination; they give me the bare bones details I need to get started but they don't weigh me down with extraneous details that either get in the way or easily forget in the heat of play. Far from needing, in the words of James Wyatt, "more detail, more fleshed-out quests, and another hundred pages or so," module I1 is almost exactly the right length. Anything more than what it includes would, I think, have lessened its spartan appeal for me.

Re-reading Dwellers of the Forbidden City in preparation for this post brought back a lot of memories, all happy ones. I could recount many tales of adventures past, but those in the Forbidden City are among the most vibrant nearly 30 years after the fact. I remember well when Morgan Just and his stalwart companions braved this place, doing battle with the yuan-ti, the tasloi, and the bullywugs united under King Groak. I remember too my expansions of the City, using the adventure seeds Cook includes at the end – the under-city warrens filled with ghouls and demons, the vampire orchid-men, the Black Brotherhood, and time travel to the days when the City was at its decadent height. This was a module I literally played to pieces; my original copy of the booklet fell apart from so much use and its maps were smudged and stained from similar service. With the possible exception of The Isle of Dread – another David Cook module – I'm hard pressed to think of a module that more powerfully engaged my imagination and showed me what a powerful game D&D could be.

The Articles of Dragon: "Aesirhamar"

Over the years I've written this blog, I don't think I've devoted much space to the adventures that have appeared in the pages of Dragon. I'm not quite sure why that is. In retrospect, it seems to me that this would be an obvious source of commentary, particularly as I often made use of these scenarios in whole or in part. Perhaps one day I'll go back and correct this omission in a more systematic way. Today, though, I want to focus on a single specific Dragon magazine adventure that I think is genuinely worthy of attention – for a couple of reasons.

Roger E. Moore's "Aesirhamar" appeared in issue #90 (October 1984) and is a companion piece to "Plane Facts on Gladsheim" from the same issue. I'd actually go farther and say that "Aesirhamar" is just as important as the article it accompanies, because it shows how the information in the article is supposed to be used in play. I think that's important in this case. As I stated in my earlier post, "Plane Facts on Gladsheim" is rather dull, focusing primarily on the way that the normal rules of AD&D must be modified to account for the home of the Norse gods. The result is, in my opinion, quite tedious rather than exciting, which is why I never regarded "Plane Facts on Gladsheim" as highly as I did Moore's "The Astral Plane."

With the addition of "Aesirhamar," though, Moore's approach in the accompanying article makes more sense. Now that the Dungeon Master has a scenario set on Gladsheim, he has the opportunity to make use of all those rules changes and exceptions that Moore has laid out. Rather than being abstract ideas, they're very important, tied to an adventure in which high-level characters journey to Jotunheim and must contend not only with its hostile inhabitants but also with the way magic and other abilities are warped by the very nature of this Outer Plane. 

Like a lot of older AD&D adventures, "Aesirhamar" doesn't really have a plot. Instead, it presents a situation and several locales connected to that situation through which the characters journey. In brief, the characters are summoned by some of the Aesir of the Norse pantheon to locate and stop an evil dwarf who is in league with the giant Hargnar Left-Hand. The dwarf is in possession of a mighty magical weapon, the titular Aesirhamar, which was forged in order to kill the gods in revenge of Thor's killing of Hargnar's brothers. It's a pretty straightforward situation, one that's easy to understand and appropriately Norse in its focus.

For the most part, the adventure consists of a series of keyed encounters in Jotunheim while the characters travel there in search of the hammer. Given the nature of the place, these encounters are quite challenging – there are lots of giants here, as well as associated creatures, like trolls – and each one of them will likely test the mettle of the characters. Moore doesn't include any maps of these encounters. Instead, the DM is left to his own devices, tailoring them to his own tastes. This approach was pretty typical of the era in which "Aesirhamar" was published and I don't mean that as a criticism. There was an understanding in those days that the referee could easily whip up his own maps if they were needed.

Of course, the real meat of the adventure is not these encounters per se, challenging though they are, but the overall context in which they occur. The characters are acting as agents of the Norse gods, charged with defeating (or at least neutralizing) a threat to their rule. That's a pretty compelling adventure hook and one I remember being quite effective in my own campaign. One of the player characters, Morgan Just, was an admirer (though not worshiper) of Thor and considered it a great honor to have been chosen to aid him against the giants, whom he already hated. His fellow player characters, though, were a lot more venal, and saw the recovery of Aesirhamar as an opportunity to gain, if not the upper hand, at least some mighty rewards for the gods. Needless to say, this difference of opinion led to some interesting conflicts that helped spur on subsequent adventures.

Ultimately, that's why I have an affection for "Aesirhamar" – it provided me with what I needed to kick off some fun, Norse-inspired AD&D mayhem. It also provided an opportunity for me to make use of "Plane Facts on Gladsheim," which was a plus. In combination, that was enough. Whether that makes "Aesirhamar" good in some objective sense, I can't say. For my friends and I, that was enough.

Retrospective: Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes

When TSR released Star Frontiers in 1982, I imagine the company intended it to be the “science fiction Dungeons & Dragons” in the sense of being very broad in its scope and inspirations. To that end, the original boxed set presented a fairly straightforward system that emphasized accessibility and pulpy space opera-style adventures. Traveller it was not, nor, do I think, it was intended to be. TSR supported the game with the excellent Knight Hawks boxed set, as well as a handful of adventures, the best remembered of which are probably the Volturnus trilogy, a series of modules that functioned much like the The Keep on the Borderlands for D&D – an extended introduction to both the game and its setting.

By 1984, however, TSR seemed unsure of what to do with Star Frontiers. The game had never been as profitable for them as had D&D and the company was already turning its attention to licensed properties like Marvel Super Heroes and The Adventures of Indiana Jones, both released that same year. Star Frontiers would limp along for a few more years – even getting a pair of licensed modules of its own – but its line of support soon started to shrink. Into this environment appeared Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes, the first part of the "Beyond the Frontier" trilogy.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, considering that it was written by Ken Rolston, Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes is an excellent adventure. The player characters are part of the crew of the titular Eleanor Moraes, a small scout ship operating on the fringes of the Frontier. Their mission is to chart an uninhabited world designated Mahg Mar for potential colonization by the United Planetary Federation. While the characters are away from the ship conducting a planetary survey, the first officer seizes control in an unexplained mutiny, leaving the vessel in his control. Now out of contact with the Eleanor Moraes and thrown on their own resources, the characters must make their way back to the ship to discover what has happened.

From that point onward, the module shifts into a hybrid of a survival scenario and an open-ended exploration one. The characters must find food and shelter, contend with hostile alien fauna, scavenge and repair damaged technology, and even contend with robots reprogrammed by the mutineer to attack them, before eventually devising a way to retake the Eleanor Moraes. Because the mutiny occurs "offscreen," so to speak, the characters have no chance to prevent it, but once it has happened, they enjoy a great deal of freedom of action. The referee is given tools for handling wilderness travel, encounters with alien creatures, and the steady progress of the mutineer's own plans, creating a situation where time and resource management matter just as much as combat prowess.

What distinguishes Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes from previous Star Frontiers modules is its tone. Where the Volturnus trilogy presented the pulpy and highly implausible world of Volturnus, this module feels closer to a science fiction survival tale, like Robert Heinlein's Tunnel in the Sky. It asks players not simply to blast their way out of trouble but to endure, improvise, and outthink their obstacles with only limited means at their disposal. It's a great set-up for an adventure in my opinion, which is why I've long held it in pretty high regard.

This approach was something of a throwback to an earlier era. D&D modules of that time were increasingly plot-driven, often built around a central antagonist. While Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes does have one unavoidable story element (the mutiny) it thereafter opens into something much more freeform and sandbox-like. Its survival elements invite genuine creativity, since the characters’ success depends on how they use the limited tools and knowledge available to them. Couple that with a ticking clock – the characters must reach and regain control of the ship before the mutineer attempts to leave the planet without them – and you've got a remarkably engaging scenario.

As I noted at the start of this Retrospective, this module is the first in a new trilogy of adventures, suggesting that, despite whatever confusion TSR had about the game's place within its stable, it was still willing to commit some resources to it. Indeed, the next two modules in the series point toward Big Events in the setting about whose ultimate outcome I was genuinely curious. Unfortunately, nothing lasting came of it, as TSR overhauled the entire game and then completely abandoned it.

This context gives Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes a bittersweet quality in hindsight. It demonstrates that Star Frontiers could have become a much more serious contender in its competition with other well-established SF RPGs had TSR pursued a more diverse range of scenarios instead. Its mixture of betrayal, survival, and wilderness exploration is genuinely engaging in my opinion and, from what I have gathered online, many referees have repurposed it for other systems precisely because the situation it describes is so adaptable.

Looking back four decades later, Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes stands out for offering players a wide-open field for ingenuity and problem-solving. In doing so, it bridges two eras of TSR design – the freewheeling sandbox of the early days and the more scripted scenarios of the Silver Age. For anyone interested in science fiction roleplaying of the early 1980s or simply in how TSR approached a genre outside of fantasy, Mutiny on the Eleanor Moraes is a fascinating artifact. It's also a glimpse of the potential Star Frontiers possessed had it received stronger and more consistent support from the company.

Hyperborea's Lovecraftian Adventures

As The Shadow over August draws to a close, I keep catching myself thinking about the posts I never got around to writing. That seems to be the curse of writers everywhere. It’s all too easy to dwell on the missed opportunities instead of celebrating the pieces that did make it to the page. One post in particular keeps nagging at me: an exploration of RPG adventures that wear their Lovecraftian influence on their sleeve, whether through mood, themes, or outright horrors. Since time is short and a full treatment is no longer possible, I’ll settle for the next best thing: highlighting three terrific Hyperborea modules that practically drip with Lovecraftian atmosphere, strange terrors, and otherworldly monsters.

Rats in the Walls: Sharing its title with one of Lovecraft’s most famous tales, this collection offers three short adventures for levels 1–2. Each works perfectly as the start of a new Hyperborea campaign, though the standout is the namesake scenario: helping a desperate Khromarium tavernkeeper rid his alehouse of an unsettling infestation of otherworldly rats. The set also includes "The Lamia’s Heart," a tense caper centered on the attempted theft of a legendary gem from a wealthy merchant’s mansion, and "The Brazen Bull," a foray into a crumbling temple of Thaumagorga, Daemon Lord, where a sinister new power is beginning to stir.

The Mystery at Port Greely: This level 4–6 adventure doesn’t just echo Lovecraft’s The Shadow over Innsmouth: it embraces the same eerie vibe while spinning it into its own dark tale. The player characters arrive in the coastal town of Port Greely to investigate the unexplained disappearance of envoys from Khromarium’s Fishmongers’ Guild. Needless to say, what's happening here isn't very pleasant – a fact made all the more apparent when they meet the locals, whose fish-like appearance points to the horrible truth. The more the characters dig, the clearer it becomes that something profoundly inhuman is lurking in Port Greely.

The Sea-Wolf's Daughter: At 60 pages, this level 7–9 adventure is the biggest of the three and the most unabashedly “weird science-fantasy” of the lot. On the surface, it’s about the abduction of a Viking jarl’s daughter by a notorious pirate. But beneath that pulpy premise lies a heady mix of Lovecraftian horror and science-fantasy: nightgaunts, elder things, alien technologies, and the looming weight of cosmic dread. Imagine Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and Jack Kirby locked in a fever-dream collaboration, and you’ll have something of the adventure's flavor. It’s a great showcase of what makes Hyperborea such a distinctive game and one that I have long admired.

Of course, what unites all three of these fine modules is their author, Jeff Talanian, the creator of Hyperborea and a tireless promoter of pulp fantasy. I recently put a few questions to Jeff about Hyperborea and its ties to HPL and he kindly offered some responses, all of which will appear in an interview to be published later today. I hope you'll enjoy his answers as much as I've enjoyed Jeff's adventures.

Retrospective: The Gauntlet

Released in 1984, module UK4, The Gauntlet concludes the two-part series begun in The Sentinel. Like much of TSR UK’s output, it blends folklore, moral nuance, and grounded fantasy with a strong sense of pacing and player choice. Written by Graeme Morris, The Gauntlet stands out for its attempt to transform the traditional gameplay of Dungeons & Dragons into something more focused on infiltration, diplomacy, and layered conflict than on brute-force dungeon crawling. By and large, it's successful.

At the heart of the adventure is the conflict between two ancient magical gloves: the Sentinel and the Gauntlet. Both were created long ago during a struggle for control over the Keep of Adlerweg, a key fortress in the contested region. The evil Gauntlet was forged to destroy the keep, prompting its defenders to create the Sentinel in opposition. Over time, both artifacts were lost and forgotten.

Recently, the Gauntlet has resurfaced, discovered by an ogrillon – the Fiend Folio strikes again! – who becomes enslaved to its malevolent will. Under its influence, he has taken control of Adlerweg and begun building a base of power. As part of a larger plan, the Gauntlet seeks to transfer itself to a more powerful wielder and has kidnapped the daughter of a local fire giant to that end.

The player characters enter the adventure as the bearers of the Sentinel, obtained either in the previous module (or through an alternate means in the event The Sentinel was not played). Drawn to Adlerweg to oppose the growing evil, the characters begin their journey with a detour to a village recently destroyed by gnolls. Though unconnected to the main storyline, the encounter emphasizes the region’s growing instability. A wounded gnoll chieftain offers incomplete and possibly misleading information about events at the keep.

However, the core of the module is the infiltration of the keep itself. A frontal assault is nigh impossible, but the Sentinel reveals a forgotten passage inside, now inhabited by giant ants and laced with traps. This portion of the module is open-ended and rewards stealth, planning, and creativity. The upper levels are occupied by gnolls, an ogre, and the aforementioned ogrillon. Morris provides strong guidance on enemy behavior and the keep’s defenses, making this portion of the scenario quite compelling. It's a nice change of pace from the usual dungeon delving.

Eventually, the keep is besieged, not by the Gauntlet’s forces, but by the furious fire giant and his army, seeking vengeance for his kidnapped daughter. The ogrillon, meanwhile, has hidden himself and the Gauntlet within a magical prison. The players must organize the keep’s defenses, rally any surviving allies, and survive the assault long enough to broker an uneasy peace. Though the attackers number nearly 200, this isn’t a battle meant to be won through force of arms. Instead, it’s a test of timing, survival, and negotiation. The climax involves penetrating the magical prison to confront the ogrillon and release the fire giant’s daughter. It's good stuff, especially for a module written in 1984.

The module's illustrations, once again by Peter Young, are not very good. They're slightly better than those in The Sentinel, but still amateurish in my opinion. Paul Ruiz's maps, however, are attractive and quite usable. Because of its layered structure and multiple factions, the adventure demands a confident and experienced DM, capable of managing them all. This isn’t a flaw so much as a barrier to entry. Like many of TSR UK's modules, The Gauntlet favors subtlety over spectacle. It possesses a quiet confidence and clarity of vision that sets it apart. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's probably the best TSR UK adventure and a fine example of how AD&D can support narrative depth without sacrificing challenge or player freedom.

Retrospective: The Sentinel

Published in 1983, module UK2, The Sentinel, is the first part of a two-module series written by Graeme Morris for Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. Along with its sequel, which I’ll discuss in this space next week, it stands out as a distinctive offering in TSR’s early ’80s catalog. That’s due in large part to its origin in TSR UK, the British branch of the company, which operated with a surprising degree of independence and a sensibility very much its own.

TSR UK’s adventures have always provoked strong reactions. In my view, they’re a mixed bag, but a fascinating one. Where American modules of the time tended to emphasize dungeon-crawling and large-scale combat, the UK efforts often followed a more eccentric path. They leaned toward investigation over exploration, diplomacy over combat, and mood over spectacle. Instead of clearing rooms of monsters, players were expected to unravel plots, decipher motives, and navigate social situations. This approach didn’t always succeed, but even when it faltered, it offered something offbeat and refreshingly different from the norm.

The Sentinel is a low-level adventure for characters of levels 2–5, centered around the recovery of a magical artifact, the titular Sentinel, a sentient glove created to oppose its darker counterpart, the Gauntlet. The action unfolds around the village of Kusnir, nominally part of the World of Greyhawk, though it feels pretty generic to me. What begins as an investigation into a series of disturbances blamed on a skulk gradually reveals a more complex situation involving half-orcs, xvarts, and a ruined villa that hides a long-buried secret. Eventually, the player characters track down the skulk, who unexpectedly hands over the Sentinel and sets the stage for the events of the module's sequel, The Gauntlet (which I'll discuss in this space next week).

The inclusion of monsters from the Fiend Folio, like the aforementioned skulk and xvarts, deserves comment. TSR UK often seemed eager to showcase that volume’s more obscure entries, and The Sentinel is no exception. Whether these monsters enhance or detract from the module depends on taste, I suppose. For my part, I find many of the Fiend Folio humanoids underwhelming and nothing about the way they're used here really changes my mind. They serve their purpose, but they could easily have been swapped for more familiar creatures without much loss. Of course, your mileage may vary.

Even so, the module has its charms. Chief among them is the Sentinel itself, the magical glove that gives the module its title. Far from a simple item, it acts as a character in its own right, one with an agenda and a role to play in guiding the player characters. This combination of grounded, even mundane rural fantasy with sudden flashes of the mythic or uncanny was a hallmark of TSR UK’s best work. It’s a tricky balance, but when it works, as it sometimes does here, it gives the adventure a distinctive tone that distinguishes it from its contemporary American counterparts.

The larger, underlying plot of the module only emerges through observation, deduction, and careful play. There's a sense that the players are uncovering something hidden rather than being dragged from one set-piece to the next, even though there are several times when UK2 verges on becoming a railroad. Many of the module's encounters hint at something older, deeper, and just a little uncanny. The overall effect borders on folk horror of the kind where the land remembers and the past never quite stays buried. I like that.

Of course, The Sentinel is only half the story. Its sequel, The Gauntlet, continues and ultimately resolves the conflict introduced here. That’s perhaps The Sentinel’s biggest shortcoming as a standalone module: it presents an intriguing premise but offers little in the way of resolution. Earlier AD&D module series, like Against the Giants or the Slavelords series, generally made more of an effort to make each installment satisfying on its own. The Sentinel, by contrast, feels deliberately unfinished, a prolog more than a full scenario. I'll have more to say about this in next week's Retrospective post.

Worthy of mention is the module's presentation. The artwork, by Peter Young, is not particularly strong. The cover and interior art are weirdly stylized and, in my opinion, amateurish. It may not be literally he worst art to ever appear in a Dungeons & Dragons product, but it's a strong contender. By contrast, the cartography by Paul Ruiz is clean, readable, and highly functional. I’ve praised Ruiz’s maps before and those in The Sentinel are up to his usually standard. His maps are among my favorite things in the TSR UK modules.

Looking back on The Sentinel now, I find myself appreciating it more for what it tries to be than for what it actually is. It’s a thoughtful module that respects the intelligence of its players and the subtlety of its world. Compared to more "traditional" approaches to adventure design at the time, The Sentinel hinted at something different – not quite "story"-driven but certainly more consciously aware of a narrative or plot. That has its advantages and disadvantages, of course, which is why I don't like it unreservedly. Instead, I look on it as an experiment with mixed results, especially when taken on its own rather than as the first part of a two-part scenario.

Best Introductory Scenario(s)

Let’s keep this short and sweet: what do you think is the best introductory scenario ever written for a roleplaying game and why?

At the end of last month, I posed a similar question focused on Call of Cthulhu. This time, I’m widening the scope to include any RPG published from 1974 to the present. I already have a few favorites of my own, which I’ll be sharing in some upcoming posts, so I won’t give away my picks just yet.

What I am eager to hear are your choices, especially the reasons behind them. As I’ll explain later, it’s the why that really interests me. What makes a scenario a great introduction to a game or even the hobby as a whole? What stuck with you? What worked for your group?

Retrospective: Hall of the Fire Giant King

Like its predecessors, Steading of the Hill Giant Chief and The Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl, Hall of the Fire Giant King (AD&D module G3) casts the player characters in the role of elite agents tasked with stopping a wave of giant-led attacks against civilized lands. At first glance, G3 seems to follow the familiar pattern established by the earlier modules: a dangerous foray into the stronghold of a powerful giant chieftain, bristling with guards, traps, and treasure. However, Hall of the Fire Giant King subtly but significantly shifts the tone and scope of the series. In the volcanic fortress of King Snurre Ironbelly, the stakes begin to change. The fire giants are stronger, more disciplined, and clearly part of a larger, more organized force. Most crucially, they are not acting alone. Hidden deep within their halls are strange and powerful allies – the drow.

The appearance of the drow, mysterious and only briefly described here, marks a pivotal moment not just in the G-series but in the history of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons itself. This is their first true introduction into the game, beyond a cursory reference in the Monster Manual, and it opens the door to something far more expansive. In retrospect, the drow are the most significant legacy of this module and G3 is the seed from which they (and the subterranean realm from which they come) would grow. The drow would, of course, go on to take center stage in the celebrated D-series (Descent into the Depths of the Earth, Shrine of the Kuo-Toa, and Vault of the Drow) and in Queen of the Demonweb Pits. While those later adventures are better known and more ambitious, it is here, in Hall of the Fire Giant King, that the broader arc first begins to unfold. Gary Gygax’s decision to place these enigmatic figures behind the scenes of the giants’ uprising was a masterstroke, one that quietly expanded the narrative scope of what a D&D adventure could be.

In terms of presentation, Hall of the Fire Giant King also reflects the transitional state of adventure design in 1978. Like its predecessors, it was originally created for tournament play, which explains both its high level of difficulty and its emphasis on tactical combat. There is little in the way of exposition or character development. The fire giants certainly have motivations, but Gygax rarely dwells on them. Instead, they exist primarily as obstacles to be overcome. Much of the module consists of populated chambers, heavily guarded halls, and defensible choke points, all spaces presented for intense, deadly conflict. Success demands planning, coordination, and no small amount of caution. This is adventure design in its raw, uncompromising form, rewarding player skill and punishing incaution.

Yet even within this sparse and utilitarian framework, there are hints of something more. Secret doors lead to hidden levels. Mysterious altars and magical portals suggest the influence of otherworldly forces. Cryptic symbols and strange alliances point to deeper mysteries. Gygax may not linger on these details, but their presence invites speculation and discovery, encouraging referees to build upon them. In this way, G3 foreshadows the more expansive and narrative-driven modules to come, not only the D-series, but later experiments in long-form storytelling such as Dragonlance in the 1980s and the “adventure path” format popularized by Dungeon magazine in the early 2000s. Hall of the Fire Giant King doesn't tell a story in that modern sense, but it gestures toward one and that gesture proved enormously influential.

From the vantage point of the present, G3 may seem narrower in scope or rougher in execution than the adventures it leads into. I actually think that's part of its importance. As both the climax of the "Against the Giants" trilogy and the prelude to the D-series, it bridges two different modes of adventure design: the brutal, self-contained dungeon crawl and the broader, interconnected campaign. Without Hall of the Fire Giant King, the drow might never have become one of the game’s signature antagonists. More broadly, the ambition and structure of later adventures might have taken a very different form without this model to follow.

In the end, I feel Hall of the Fire Giant King is best appreciated not just as the finale of the G-series but as a threshold. It marks a turning point where the possibilities of adventure design began to expand, where dungeon crawls started evolving into epics. With its hidden depths, emergent story, and quiet worldbuilding, Gygax showed that even a tournament module could hint at vast, subterranean empires and the demon-goddess who ruled them. Its influence is subtle but foundational and its legacy lives on in the continuity it helped establish across TSR’s early adventures and the ambitions it inspired in generations of designers to follow.

Retrospective: The Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl

In the early days of this blog, I wrote a Retrospective post about Against the Giants, the 1981 compilation module that first introduced me to Gary Gygax’s famed G-series. That post focused less on the individual modules themselves than on my memories of discovering, playing, and refereeing them. There’s nothing wrong with that – Grognardia has always been as much about reminiscence as analysis – but it did mean that the constituent adventures never quite received the attention I think they deserve.

That’s why, in February 2023, I set out to remedy this oversight by writing a series of posts dedicated to each module in turn. I managed to complete only the first installment before the effort fell by the wayside, for reasons I can no longer recall. With this post, I hope to resume that series and finally give The Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl an individual consideration it merits, followed by Hall of the Fire Giant King next week.

First published in 1978, module G2, Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl, occupies the middle position in Gygax's Giants Trilogy, itself the lead-in to the even more celebrated D-series. Consequently, G2 has long been overshadowed by both its position within its own series and the looming presence of what follows. Taken on its own terms as a discrete module rather than simply as a bridge between modules G1 and G3, G2 deserves more recognition than it typically receives. It is, if nothing else, a terrific expression of Gygaxian adventure design, offering a tightly focused, environmentally distinctive, and surprisingly open-ended scenario for high-level (9th–10th) play.

The module’s premise is simple: following the defeat of the hill giants in the previous scenario, the player characters are tasked with continuing the investigation into the source of recent giant-led raids. Their next destination is the icy domain of the frost giants, located high in a forbidding mountain range. What they find there is an immense rift in a glacial plateau, honeycombed with caves and tunnels, and populated by the violent and hierarchical society of the frost giants.

From the outset, Glacial Rift sets itself apart with its setting. The rift is not merely another dungeon, but a semi-natural, hostile environment that actively contributes to the module’s sense of danger. The cold is not just flavor text; it informs the monsters encountered (remorhaz, winter wolves, yetis), the terrain, and the general tone of the place. There’s a starkness to the rift that evokes the unforgiving nature of the mythic North, a realm of elemental cruelty, barbaric strength, and ancient, unknowable powers. There's also something almost mythic in the Jarl’s domain: a vision of primitive kingship, drawn more from Norse sagas than from the usual pulp fantasy tropes, where authority is measured by might and the feasting hall rings with the howls of dire wolves.

Structurally, G2 is more interesting than it first appears. The rift is split into two levels: the upper level consisting of cave-like lairs and animal dens and the lower level home to the giants’ halls, guard posts, and meeting places. Unlike many early modules, G2 is decidedly not linear. Its design encourages infiltration, observation, and guerrilla tactics as much as direct confrontation. A cautious party could spend several sessions simply gathering intelligence, probing defenses, and slowly unraveling the nature of the giants’ organization. Conversely, a reckless party might find itself quickly overwhelmed. It’s a sandbox in miniature, where the players’ tactics genuinely matter. 

Like its predecessor, Gygax naturalism is on full display here. The frost giants are not simply bags of hit points awaiting extermination. They're part of a brutal but functioning society, with guards, servants, prisoners, and even non-combatants. Gygax includes giantesses, young giants, and slaves, all of which contribute to the sense of this being a "real" place that operates according to a certain logic. This forces players (and referees) to make choices. Do the characters kill everything they encounter? Do they parley? Do they seek allies among the captives? For a module that, when it's remembered at all, is remembered simply as “the one where you fight frost giants,” G2 contains a surprising amount of nuance.

Gygax’s authorial idiosyncrasies are on full display throughout the module. His monster choices, like the remorhaz or the white pudding, show a willingness to embrace the weird and unexpected. His treasure hoards are filled with oddities, while his trap placement is often arbitrary but memorable. His prose, full of abrupt capitalizations and florid phrasing, imparts even the most banal descriptions with contagious energy. Glacial Rift is thus unmistakably his work: unapologetically high-level, at times unfair, even cruel, but always imaginative.

That said, the module is not without its flaws. The maps, presumably drawn by Dave Sutherland (there are no credits), can be difficult to read, especially given the three-dimensionality implied by the rift’s vertical layout. Navigation can become a chore unless the referee is particularly adept at spatial description, which I must confess I struggle with. Some encounters do feel a bit like filler – yet another cave, yet another pair of frost giants – and the rationale for the party’s presence here (to follow up on the events of G1) does feel thinner than that of either of its brother modules.

Even so, The Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl more than stands on its own as an effective and engaging high-level adventure. Its strength lies in its atmosphere, its open structure, and its presentation of a society of intelligent monsters bound by codes of strength and tradition. While Steading of the Hill Giant Chief is more immediately accessible and Hall of the Fire Giant King arguably more refined, I think Glacial Rift does something unique in presenting a wilderness-like dungeon. I think it's understandable that it's not often celebrated, but I nevertheless think it would be a mistake to overlook it, as it's a fine example of Gygaxian adventure design that rewards careful and clever play.

Call of Cthulhu Advice

I was recently asked for some advice from a younger Call of Cthulhu Keeper who wishes to introduce the game to newcomers to both the game and Lovecraft: what adventure would I recommend as a good introduction to it? That's when I realized that I haven't played Call of Cthulhu in more than a decade, unless you count Delta Green, which I don't. Consequently, I don't have any good answers to this question. However, I suspect many of my readers might. 

So, if you were going to introduce new players to Call of Cthulhu, what adventure would you use? Bonus points if the scenario can be reasonably completed in two 4-hour sessions or less. It can be for any edition of the game or any publisher. Just don't say "The Haunting," because, much as I like it, I don't think it's all that representative of what Call of Cthulhu is about.

Thanks!

Modules as Touchstones

As a follow-up to yesterday's post about "off shelf" campaign settings, I thought I'd write a bit about a related topic: pre-packaged adventures, often called "modules." Old school RPG lore has it that, at the dawn of the hobby, few people, certainly not the fine folks at TSR Hobbies, thought there'd be any market for pre-packaged adventures. Then as now, referees took pride in crafting their own adventures. Just as worldbuilding is one of the great joys of roleplaying games, so too is the process of developing a scenario tailored to one’s own vision and tastes. Given that, why would anyone turn to a pre-packaged adventure module? Why run The Keep on the Borderlands, Masks of Nyarlathotep, or The Traveller Adventure when one could simply create something original?

The greatest virtue of pre-packaged adventures is the shared experience they foster across the hobby. To put it simply: a great module is a touchstone. It links players and referees across tables, generations, and even continents. There is something remarkable in the fact that so many roleplayers, across decades, have ventured into the Caves of Chaos, uncovered the secrets of Saltmarsh, or braved the alien horrors of the Barrier Peaks. These modules have become part of the collective consciousness of the hobby, a language that players can speak regardless of where or when they first sat down at the table. The mere mention of certain locations, villains, or twists within these adventures can evoke instant recognition, stirring memories of triumph, disaster, and everything in between.

This shared literacy is no small thing. Roleplaying is, by its nature, ephemeral. Each campaign a unique blend of personalities, decisions, and improvisations. Unlike a novel or a film, no two games unfold in exactly the same way. And yet, within that variability, a published module provides a thread of continuity. When two players who have never met before can swap stories about their first run-in with Bargle from the solo adventure in the 1984 D&D Basic Set or how they barely escaped Strahd’s castle, they are engaging in something akin to an oral tradition, passing down tales from table to table, from one generation of gamers to the next. Modules provide the foundation for that tradition, ensuring that, even as campaigns come and go, some stories remain universal touchstones.

This is especially valuable in an era where the roleplaying hobby has expanded dramatically. The old days, where most gaming circles were small and isolated, have given way to online communities and virtual tabletop play. The existence of widely recognized modules gives newcomers a way to connect with veterans. They provide common ground in this expanding landscape. Even for those of us who prefer homebrew adventures, having a few classic modules under one’s belt is a kind of shared literacy that allows one to participate in a conversation that stretches back to the origins of the hobby itself. In a way, running a module is a way of stepping into history, reliving and reshaping the same challenges that earlier players have faced.

Beyond simply fostering camaraderie, shared adventures also provide an entry point for new players. A new referee faced with the daunting prospect of designing a whole scenario from scratch can take comfort in the fact that many have run The Village of Hommlet before him. A new player can look up discussions of Tomb of Horrors and know that he is stepping into something larger than his game – a tradition of play that stretches back decades. Even when a module is adapted, altered, or expanded, it still serves as a bridge between individual tables and the broader history of roleplaying. There is something powerful in knowing that, even as each group makes the adventure their own, they are still participating in the same grand tradition of play.

Consider the sheer number of classic modules that have shaped the way we think about adventure design. The open-ended nature of Keep on the Borderlands, the intricate mysteries of Masks of Nyarlathotep, the faction play of The Enemy Within, each of these has not just provided individual groups with hours of entertainment but has influenced the way the hobby itself has evolved. When someone describes a scenario as "like Keep on the Borderlands but in space" or "like Tomb of Horrors but with political intrigue," they are drawing on a shared vocabulary that allows roleplayers to communicate complex ideas in a few words. In a way, these modules form the grammar of the game, the foundation upon which new ideas are built and communicated.

None of this is to say that referees should rely exclusively on published modules. There is something deeply satisfying about crafting one’s own adventures, tailoring them to the specific interests of a group, and introducing them into a campaign. But, as I said about pre-existing settings, the use of adventure modules is not a lesser choice. It is, rather, an acknowledgment of the rich history and communal nature of the hobby, an embrace of the shared stories that have shaped roleplaying for decades.

There's something deeply satisfying about the shared language adventure modules provide. They can tie your table into the larger tapestry of roleplaying history. They allow players across time and space to say, "Ah, you got your soul sucked by Acererak too?" and know, in that moment, that they are part of something greater. The modules may differ, the details may change, but the experience – the shared adventure – remains. I think that's something worthy of celebration.

Gaming with Allen Hammack

I played in several RPG sessions while at Gamehole Con this year. Though I enjoyed them all – and will eventually discuss each in turn – the one I most immediately want to talk about is The Ghost Tower of Inverness, refereed by its original author, Allen Hammack. The AD&D module was published in 1980, having been used before that as a tournament scenario for Winter Con VIII in late 1979. Like many tournament scenarios, this one is rather contrived in its set-up and features a funhouse dungeon filled with all manner of puzzles, trick, and traps. 

For the purposes of this post, I don't have a lot to say about the scenario itself, since it's old and probably quite well-known to most readers of this blog. Instead, what most interests me and that I think is most worthy of attention is the way Mr Hammack ran it at the table during the con. Bear in mind that Hammack was employed by TSR Hobbies between 1978 and 1982, where he worked as a writer, designer, and editor, primarily on the AD&D. I mention this to provide some context to what follows.

The module is designed for five pre-generated characters, all human – a fighter, a cleric, a magic-user, a thief, and a monk. I played the cleric, Zinethar the Wise, who was 9th level and, oddly, had slightly more hit points than the fighter. The module assumes that all the characters with the exception of the monk are condemned criminals who are offered the opportunity to escape imprisonment by undertaking a dangerous mission for the Duke of Urnst (in the World of Greyhawk), namely, the recovery of the Soul Gem from the titular Ghost Tower. I knew none of the other four players prior to play, so we had to learn to work together to succeed.

Mr Hammack is an older gentleman. I have no idea his actual age, but I suspect he's probably in his late 60s or early 70s at least. Despite this, his mind is very sharp, especially when it comes to the AD&D rules. More than once during the four hours we were at his table, a player asked a question about how, say, a spell functioned. Before someone could find the appropriate page in the Players Handbook, Hammack recalled the relevant information – and correctly. After a while, we learned to trust his memory over our ability to flip pages quickly. I bring all this up, because it supports my long-held contention that hobbies like roleplaying are good for the health of your brain. 

Given how well he remembered the rules of AD&D, another question that came up was how strict Mr Hammack would be in applying them. He chuckled and said that he was generally quite flexible about doing so, with a couple of exceptions. Going back to spells, Hammack explained that he is often loose with spell durations but he was more rigid about areas of effect. Likewise, he noted that he was loose with encumbrance, unless he felt a player was trying to take advantage of a situation. He then told a terrific story about how he and other AD&D players of his acquaintance would use 3×5 index cards for character sheets, with stats being written on the front and equipment on the back. Anything you could fit on the back of an index card – in legible writing – would probably not bring encumbrance penalties into effect. 

Mr Hammack's overall approach to rules was governed by common sense. He clearly knew the rules and was prepared to apply them when he felt it necessary or appropriate, but he never felt bound by them. Indeed, he could be talked out of applying them by a good argument from a player, as he was on at least one occasion. At the same time, Hammack was also quite clear that his decision was final. Once he'd made a decision and considered any input from the players, there was no further arguing of the point. That he was fair and judicious probably explains why no one argued with his final decisions – that we were all middle-aged men, not children probably helped, too. I found the whole experience quite refreshing, to be honest.

I should note that, despite his extensive knowledge of AD&D rules, Mr Hammack was not above introducing house rules into play. For example, there were many occasions when he asked us to roll under a character's ability score to determine if our characters succeeded at some action or other. Likewise, he made use of a simple critical hit/fumble mechanic that's definitely not something Gary Gygax would ever have approved of. The mechanic worked fine in play and even contributed to a number of fun moments, which was exactly what we all hoped for.

In sum, I had a great time at Allen Hammack's table. He was a charming, knowledgeable, and imaginative Dungeon Master and he made me appreciate how good a module The Ghost Tower of Inverness actually is. I consider myself very lucky to have played with him at Gamehole Con this year.

Retrospective: Ballots & Bullets

Since Boot Hill has unexpectedly caught my interest this month, I thought it might be interesting to take a look at one of its better adventure modules, Ballots & Bullets. Written by David James Ritchie – whose name I most strongly associate with the second edition of Gamma World, as well as some of the Blackmoor modules for D&D – this "special campaign module" first appeared in 1982, just as TSR was transitioning between one era in its history and another. That makes Ballots & Bullets notable on multiple levels and, therefore, a worthy subject of examination.

Like most TSR modules of its era, this one consists of a 32-page staple-bound booklet wrapped inside a cardstock cover. The inside of that cover contains a map of Promise City, Arizona in the year 1882. The map is designed to be used in conjunction with the foldout map included in the Boot Hill boxed set, which forms the central "hub" of Promise City. There are over 200 locales on the combined map and each is described in at least a couple of sentences in the module's booklet. 

Though he's not mentioned in the credits, Jim Holloway provides all the art for Ballots & Bullets, including its front and back covers. Though there aren't as many individual pieces in this module as there might be in most TSR modules of the era, what art there is plays to Holloway's strengths as an illustrator of dubious, unscrupulous, and faintly ridiculous roughnecks. In many ways, Holloway is the perfect artist to depict the Old West, especially as depicted in a roleplaying game. I feel compelled to point out that many of the characters in Holloway's pieces are based on TSR employees at the time, including Holloway himself. I suspect that's also true of rustler Mongo Bailly, who features on the module's back cover, but, if so, I'm not sure which staffer he's based upon. If anyone knows his identity, I'd be grateful.

Making off with the ballot box ...

Slightly more than half of the module – 18 pages – consists of the "Guide to Promise City" and "The People of Promise City." I alluded to the former earlier: it describes every locale on the map, from the Great Western Boarding House and Cafe to the County Assay Office to the Silverbell Mining Company and more. Some locales are detailed more extensively than others, but all provide information not just on the locale itself but also on the NPCs found there. "The People of Promise City" is an alphabetical listing of nearly all 250+ people who live there, along with their Boot Hill game statistics. Also listed is each person's associated faction within the town, how committed he is to that faction, and whether or not he is a registered voter (or candidate).

These factions are important and play a part in "The Election Campaign," which provides the backbone of the module. Promise City is preparing to hold its first election after its town charter was approved by the Territorial Governor of Arizona. The election is three months in the future and two factions face off against each other in the upcoming contest. The first is the Law and Order Faction, supported by merchants and land owners, who want an end to the lawlessness of Promise City. The second is the Cowboy faction, supported by miners and prospectors, who believe the Law and Order faction is just a front for Big Business. The player characters enter Promise City just as things are heating up.

The characters can become involved in a variety of ways, supporting – or undermining – one of the factions for their own purposes. There are discussions and guidelines for handling canvassing the town, putting up campaign posters, running rallies, heckling the opposition, and outright bribery, not to mention spreading rumors and hiring goons to intimidate the voters. The characters can likewise make use of newspapers, churches, and endorsements to advance their chosen cause. At the end of it, there's voting day itself, for which the module also provides rules to adjudicate. Whichever faction wins will impact the subsequent development of Promise City and the fortunes of its inhabitants.

I have never made use of this module, so I can't rightly say how well its contents work in play. I can only say that I found the scenario presented and the information provided to support it quite compelling. In some ways, it reminded me of Trouble Brewing for Gangbusters, a favorite module of mine from my youth and one I used extensively. Despite some surface level similarities, Ballots & Bullets is less a description of Promise City – though it is that – and more of an outline for an entire campaign set during a major event within the city. It's also a great example of the kind of thing that, according to the game's introduction, you're supposed to do with Boot Hill. I found it very compelling and wished I had the time and players to give it a proper whirl.

It's been a long time since I've read a module that made me feel that way. Make of that what you will.

Would you trust this man with the future of Promise City?

Retrospective: Sabre River

Despite my generally negative feelings toward Frank Mentzer's 1983–1986 revision of the Dungeons & Dragons rules, I have a special place in my heart for the Companion Rules. Indeed, I still consider it one of the best things ever produced for any edition of D&D, largely because it made a serious attempt to provide answers to the question of just what characters do when they reach the lofty heights of level 15 and beyond. While the Companion Rules themselves were only partially successful in this regard, TSR also intended to provide additional ideas and guidance for campaigns at this level of play in the form of the CM-series of adventure modules, of which there were ultimately nine.

Of course, as I mentioned in my Retrospective post about one of the modules in this series, this intention wasn't as easy to fulfill as TSR might have wished. Nearly all of the CM modules were flawed in one way or another, especially when it comes to providing a model for campaigns in which many, if not all, of the player characters have risen to rule their own domains. Despite that, many of them nevertheless include clever ideas and interesting concepts that could, if reworked, be useful to the harried Dungeon Master of a Companion-level campaign.

Take, for example, Sabre River, co-written by Douglas Niles and Bruce Nesmith and released in 1984. The module begins with the following:

Have all of your characters settled down and started dominions? Have you wondered if they'll ever get the chance to fight their way through an old-fashioned dungeon again? Yes, they will! 

The premise of Sabre River is that a group of four to six characters of levels 18–22 must venture into the Tower of Terror, a dungeon within a volcano, in order to deal with a curse that's been laid upon the land. The land in question is the domain of either an NPC ruler or – preferably – that of one of the player characters. In this respect at least, Sabre River is already an improvement over its immediate predecessor, Death's Ride, which more or less rejected the very idea that a player character's domain should be subjected to the undead invasion depicted in that module. 

The idea of a dungeon capable of challenging a party of 18th–22nd-level characters is intriguing. In the D&D circles with which I was familiar at the time, it was generally assumed that, as a character achieved double-digit levels, he would find his challenges in domain rulership and all that that entailed, like mass combats, power politics, and faction play. I suspect that explain why I so rarely saw anyone continue to play a D&D character at such exalted levels: the implied style of play wasn't very appealing to most players and indeed seemed to be a break from what Dungeons & Dragons was assumed to be about. What most players of my acquaintance wanted instead was more of the same, albeit at a great degree of challenge and, in principle, that's what Sabre River provided.

The Tower of Terror is indeed challenging. It's populated by powerful and deadly monsters, like a red dragon, elementals of various types, a beholder, and swarms or flocks of lesser creatures. There's also a commensurate level of treasure, some of it truly staggering, like a roomful of gold ingots worth 800,000gp in total. That only makes sense, of course, since high-level characters need huge amounts of experience points to advance and treasure is the surest source of such XP. Still, I was quite shocked to see these numbers as I re-read the module. For me, these astronomical sums have long been an impediment to my enjoyment of a D&D campaign of this level. Others may feel differently, of course.

Sabre River's challenges also include a handful of tricks, traps, and unusual tactical situations intended to test the players' skills in combat. There's also the central mystery of the curse, how it can be lifted, and what the characters must do to achieve that. It's all very serviceable but far from outstanding – certainly nothing on par with adventures like White Plume Mountain or The Ghost Tower of Inverness when it comes to imagination (and frustration). Mostly, Sabre River is about everything being BIG, from monsters (and their hit point totals) to treasures, which is a little disappointing, especially because I know that Doug Niles is a good designer who's penned some enjoyable stuff over the years.

Sabre River is not a terrible module; it simply doesn't stand out as anything special. Its worst sin, in my opinion, is that it doesn't deviate too much from the mediocre track record of the CM-series, almost none of which take full advantage of the new opportunities and vistas that the Companion Rules opened up to player characters of levels 15 to 25. A shame!