Here are a few tropes we’ve learned to handle with care, and how we’ve found ways to make them breathe again.

1. The Brooding Lone Wolf

We all love characters like Logan or Trevor Belmont, but we often forget one thing: in their stories, nobody actually likes being around them. In a team-based game like D&D, being the person who refuses to talk or join the group isn’t just “moody”—it’s a hurdle for everyone else.

• What we try instead: We’ve found that “Quiet and Loyal” works much better than “Brooding and Aloof.” Instead of a personality stepped in trauma, try playing a strong survivor who chooses the party because of their past, not in spite of it. Maybe they aren’t great at social cues, but they want to get better, and they’ve chosen these specific people to help them do it.
• The Fix: If you’re already playing the loner, have a “lightbulb moment.” Have your character realize they’re tired of being cold and choose to trust the party—even if it’s just one other person at first.

2. The Chosen One

It’s tempting to be the “Last of a Kind” or the “Prophesied Savior.” But we have to remember: the whole party is the protagonist, not just one of us.

• What we try instead: We love the idea of the “Subverted Prophecy.” Maybe your character grew up in a cult believing they were special, only to reach adulthood and realize it was all a scam. Or, even better: The prophecy already came true. You did the big thing, you saved the day… and now you’re level 1 and have to figure out what to do with the rest of your life.
• The Fix: Let your character realize the “destiny” was a lie or a mistranslation. Maybe you aren’t the Chosen One—but your neighbor or your future child is—and now your job is simply to survive long enough to see them succeed. Be the Neville Longbottom of the group; the one who puts in the work because it’s right, not because a scroll said so.

3. The Tragic Orphan

The “dead parents” trope is the oldest one in the book. While it’s easy, it actually robs the GM of great NPCs. Living parents can write letters, show up at inconvenient times, or be a source of immense pride (or embarrassment).

• What we try instead: Keep them alive, but distant. Maybe you just haven’t called home in a while since the adventuring started. If you’re worried about your GM using them as “hostage bait,” just talk to them! A good GM can use your family for more than just tragedy. Sometimes the best moment is returning home to find your parents already handled the thugs themselves. “Who do you think taught you to swing that sword, kid?”
• The Fix: Focus on Peter Parker and Aunt May, not Bruce Wayne and the roses in the alley. If the parents are already gone, focus on the Found Family. Who raised you? A kind neighbor? A crotchety mentor? Treat them with the same weight you would a parent. If not that, maybe it’s time for the characters to realize that the party they’re in has replaced their family, and they are starting to heal.

4. The Revenge Obsession

“The [Monsters] burned my village/hurt my family” is the default setting for many backstories. While it works for a Vengeance Paladin, it can get repetitive.

• What we try instead: Flip the script from Revenge to Protection. Instead of hunting what’s lost, be obsessed with protecting what’s left. It’s also fun to play the “paranoid protector”—the person who is convinced the local Orcs are up to no good, even when the Orcs are being perfectly lovely neighbors.
• The Fix: Let your character grow. Have them forced to work with one of the “hated” monsters and realize that their hatred was a heavier burden than the original trauma. (And a side note from our tables: we keep things fun by avoiding “tacky” tropes like sexual violence; there are much more creative ways to build a villain.)

5. The One-Note Zealot

We’ve all seen the character whose Deity or Patron is their entire personality. While faith is a great motivator, nobody wants to be preached at for four hours every Saturday night.

• What we try instead: Treat the religion as a starting point, not the finish line. Allow your character to find “wiggle room” in the texts as they see how the real world works.
• The Fix: Look at characters like Michael Carpenter from The Dresden Files. He’s a man of immense faith, but he leads by example, not by lecturing. He’s quiet, patient, and reliable. Be the person the party wants to turn to when things get dark, rather than the person they’re trying to avoid at the campfire.

Breaking the Mold: The “Healthy Home” Hero

If we really want to challenge ourselves, we can try something that is surprisingly rare at the gaming table: The Supported Hero. Imagine a character whose parents are moderately successful—not “throne-room wealthy,” but comfortable. They’ve always been loved, they’ve always been supported, and they have a standing invitation to Sunday dinner. Why do they adventure? Because they want to.

Think of it like the Indiana Jones or Clark Kent model. Clark Kent isn’t a hero because his life is a tragedy; he’s a hero because his parents raised him with a sense of responsibility. He uses his abilities because it’s the right thing to do, not because he’s running from a ghost.

When we play a character who has a happy home to return to, every dungeon crawl feels more dangerous. We aren’t just fighting for gold; we’re fighting to make sure we actually make it back to that Sunday dinner. It gives the GM some fun NPCs to play—and a reason for the party to actually care if we make it out alive.

Be good, or be good at it. You got the juice.
-Bob

In my thirty years behind the screen, I’ve learned that a group of players isn’t a “party” just because they’re sitting at the same table. Whether I’m running a high-stakes heist or a casual dungeon crawl, the success of the game usually depends on how quickly we can move from being a collection of individuals to a cohesive unit.

When a group fails to reach that unity, I’ve seen it first-hand: sessions devolve into arguments, team-killing, or—worst of all—players leaving the table entirely due to interpersonal strife.

Then, a few years ago, I had to take one of those annoying classes at work. You know the ones—where they want everyone to become a better leader by basically being exactly the same? I started daydreaming while the speaker was talking and realized that forming a TTRPG party is just like forming a team in a business. Bruce Tuckman’s work on “Forming, Storming, Norming, and Performing” applies to both the boardroom and the dungeon.

1. Forming?  More like Bore-ming!?

This is the “tavern phase.” Whether I’m introducing characters via a job board or a collaborative backstory, this initial period is often the most frustrating for me because everyone is on their best behavior.

In the Forming stage, I’ve noticed that meaningful progress is rare. Players are “stretching their legs”—showing off quirks and embellishing concepts—but they are terrified to contradict one another. They don’t want to stand out or cause a stir yet. I’ve learned that I need to get my groups out of this phase as quickly as possible. As a player, I try to establish my role early and steer us toward the mission. As a GM, I’ve started throwing a tough decision or a physical conflict at them early on; I’ve found that a little pressure is the best way to force them into the next, more honest phase.

2. Storming: Where the Sparks Fly

I’ll be honest: the Storming phase is dangerous. Most of the “horror stories” I’ve experienced with games falling apart happen right here. This is where different playstyles, character quirks, and real-world personalities finally start to rub against each other.  I can easily remember three different games where the Storming phase included in the words “Roll Initiative” and ended with me never returning to that table (either those players or that DM).  

I’ve had to learn not to fear the Storming phase, but to respect it. This is where the party works out who they actually are. Am I a priest who refuses to heal? Am I a warrior who isn’t actually a tank? I’ve found that if I don’t let these arguments happen, the roles are never established. As a GM, I try to let this play out naturally now. I make sure everyone’s voice is heard, but I stay ready to step in if the “character conflict” starts feeling like “player conflict.”

3. Norming: The Groove

Most of the games I run spend their life in the Norming phase. I remember a conversation with the Chapter Coordinator for the Mule City O.G.R.E.s, where he described this perfectly as a “moment of cohesion.”

In this stage, I see my players finally ironing out their differences. They start to settle into their roles and resolve conflicts without things boiling over. When I recognize that my table has hit the Norming stage, I know it’s time to strike while the iron is hot. This is when I start introducing the more complex puzzles and deeper narrative beats—I’m looking for that nudge to get them to the final stage.

4. Performing: The Sweet Spot

Performing is why I still do this after three decades. This is the stage where the party really shines. They are solving puzzles, working together, and finding creative solutions I never would have expected.  This is when they really start to collaborate, and I have to crank up the CR if I’m going to keep up. 

Nothing is more fun for me than watching a “Performing” party at work. As a player, I’ve learned to recognize this high-efficiency state and use it to push through adventures faster. As a GM, when I see my players are in this zone, I take the “kid gloves” off. I give them the trickier monsters and the moral dilemmas, because I know they have the synergy to handle it.

The Cycle Never Ends

I’ve realized that any time I add a new player or someone changes characters, this entire process starts over. We go back to Forming and work our way up again. By understanding Bruce Tuckman’s stages, I’ve stopped viewing table conflict as a “failure” and started seeing it as a necessary part of the process.

Be good, or be good at it. You’ve got the juice.

Any experienced player has been there. I know all of mine have. We spend hours—maybe days—crafting the perfect history for our character, giving them a fun voice, tragic motivation, and a list of quirks that would make a novelist jealous. Only to realize you’re the only one that gave the effort. Then there’s the inverse, you spend almost no time on backstory and wind up being the only one at the table who doesn’t get special attention. What makes a good backstory? And when do you pull out all the stops, versus reigning it in.

The “Amnesia” Blank Check

Let’s address the elephant in the room right away. Some players think the “Amnesia” trope is a clever way to stay mysterious, to introduce a low-effort character that the Game Master can’t possibly “mess with” because there’s no meat there to chew. Generally, this is a sign of either a totally uncreative player (the truth hurts) or one that’s had some really bad game masters in the past. I’ve been that uncreative player, and I’ve been the one burned by bad GMs. It’s a defensive crouch, but it’s one that ultimately starves your character of a soul. And as a game master, it’s just frustrating.

The trope is a trope for a reason, and there’s nothing wrong with a character that doesn’t remember where they’re from (with good reason). But I’ve found two paths to making it a fun experience for everyone, while rebuilding some trust between the game master and the player:

Reveal their backstory through the game – when a character doesn’t give me anything to work with, or just says they have amnesia, I fill in the gaps for them. As the game progresses (usually during downtime) I’ll hint at their “objectionable” past. Maybe they get letters from a half-ogre wife and children they’d abandoned when they “lost their memory” or some of the villain’s henchmen seem to recognize them, even calling them by a name they don’t remember (Total Recall style!). If they don’t give me a character history, they’ve given me a blank check to write one for them. And that might just make their life very complicated.

Know what they don’t remember – If there’s a compelling reason for the character to have amnesia, run with it. But that just means that the character doesn’t know their backstory. That doesn’t mean they can’t provide it to the game master. If I have to run with a character who’s forgotten his past, I’ll generally write it up and provide to the DM what happened, why, and why the poor guy’s forgotten. That takes the pressure off them to write something, but also gives them the option to pull in some of the details (as above). If it’s got to be done, this is my preferred method as both player and game master.

A note on this though: I try hard not to be this player, and unless you have a special bond with the game master, I’d suggest you also try to avoid it. While I sometimes enjoy the challenge of finding the missing pieces of the puzzle, this takes time and effort that I often don’t want to bother with, especially if I’m running a pre-written campaign.

Fit the need!

Recently, I played a character named Gryff in a Red Hand of Doom module. I loved Gryff. He was high-energy (exactly my opposite), had a distinct voice, and a backstory that felt like a masterpiece. But a few sessions in, I felt a knot in my stomach. The game wasn’t about the impending war or the party’s struggle anymore; it had become “The Gryff Show.” My “compelling” backstory and big personality were sucking the air out of the room for the game master and the other players.

My sincere apologies to my Game Master, Anony Mouse, who had to navigate my ego while trying to run a literal war.

I wasn’t just playing a character; I was accidentally stealing the spotlight from the rest of the table. As I review my notes now, it’s a wake-up call that I need to balance my story to the expectations. Not every sheet needs to be a novel.

Through my mistakes with Gryff and years behind the DM screen, I’ve decided to work with the game master well ahead of time if I’m going to provide them with a backstory for a character I’m working up. They should be providing you with a player packet, or at least some early information on what the game’s going to be, but I like to reach out with a rough outline of my ideas before I proceed. Here are some things on my checklist:

• Check if a big backstory is even needed. Not every hero needs a manifesto before session one. Sometimes, just a general backstory with where they’re from, who they know, and why they’re interested in the adventure is all I need.
• Match the story to the level. If I’m starting at level 1, I have to remind myself that I’m not a legendary dragon-slayer yet. My history should reflect a “nobody” starting a journey, not a veteran who has already peaked. Likewise, if we’re starting with experienced characters (level 5+) playing a farm boy from a desert planet is probably going to seem off.
• Start the conversation early. I’ve learned that a “surprise” backstory is just a headache for the GM. I get my notes to them as early as possible so they can weave my life into the world, rather than me trying to bolt a new plot onto their existing one. But also, I never expect a game master to actually incorporate or even reference my backstory. It’s a tool for me to know how to play, not an obligation for the game master to accomodate.
• Make them “Real.” I try to give my characters a dream, a family, or a debt. Real people have ties to the world. If I don’t give my character a reason to care about the setting, why should the party care about me?
• Don’t outshine the star. Gryff taught me a valuable lesson in this regard. I have to really be careful to make sure what I’m writing isn’t stealing the spotlight from what the game master has planned. They’re not under any obligation to even acknowledge my story, much less read it. So I can’t expect it to overshadow their game.

A final point

It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway – a backstory is not a receipt for cool stuff. As a game master, if a character brings me a backstory talking about all the gear and cool magic items they “inherited from their long lost uncle’s roommate”, there’s almost no way I’m going to let them have any of that. I may reject the backstory outright, on those grounds. That may seem harsh, but I wouldn’t expect special treatment for my backstory, and I won’t give it to someone who I feel is taking advantage.

Creating a character is a balancing act. My goal now is to ensure my character explains why I’m joining the adventure, not why the adventure should be about me. I want to be a part of the story, not the obstacle in its way. I’m still learning, and Gryff was a reminder that even veterans can overstep. But that’s the beauty of the game—we adjust, we learn, and we keep rolling.

Be good, or be good at it. You’ve got the juice.

When I was very young, we stopped at a little bookstore my mother had read about somewhere on our way through Ohio—or maybe it was Kentucky. That’s where I found it: West End Games’ Star Wars D6. They had two copies, actually: a boxed introductory set and the second edition hardback. I bought them both.

It was my first exposure to TTRPGs, and I was hooked. Even decades later, if I’m running a game, it’s most likely the D6 system—whether it’s fantasy, modern, or, of course, Star Wars. I’ve even dabbled in Ghostbusters! Sure, I’ve run my fair share of AD&D, Pathfinder, and even a little Deadlands, but my heart has always belonged to West End Games.

But recently, the team and I tried something different. We jumped into a new game—I won’t name the system just yet—but we were all incredibly excited to live in the world of our favorite new book series.

Then, in the middle of the first session, I looked at the players. I saw phones and tablets out, core books being riffled through, and looks of annoyance or confusion on every face. In that moment, I vowed never to try a new system again.

The Comfort of the Rut

I know this struggle isn’t unique, but I really felt it this time. I’ve spent thirty years mastering a system, buying every book I could find (don’t tell The Ginger), and getting into a specific groove. It was only natural for me to want to stay with what I knew, cling to what I loved, especially after such a terrible failure with that new system.

But I realized that my “groove” had become a rut. I was mired down, and frankly, I was getting bored with my own tricks.

I’ve learned that I can’t be afraid to change things up; I just have to be cautious. In my marriage and at the game table, I’ve found that I’ve got to spice things up to keep it interesting. That doesn’t mean I’m throwing my favorite system (or spouse) away, but it does mean I’m trying new things and not being afraid to buy something fresh. (Okay, admittedly, the marriage analogy is falling apart here…)

The point I’m trying to make is that for me, a one-shot in FATE or a side campaign in Savage Worlds is exactly what I need to keep my story fresh and enjoy my favorite hobby in a new way.

What’s in it for us?

Changing systems shouldn’t be a chore, and it shouldn’t be an obligation. The first rule at my table is to make sure my players are having fun. If a new system is doing that, I’m winning. If they’re as mired in the “new” muck as I am, maybe it’s time to go back to the comfort zone and try again later.

That was our experience with the unnamed game above. It was a great system at the wrong time. But when we switched to a short game of Numenera (thanks, The Fez), we all adored it. Low crunch, fast-paced, collaborative play—exactly what we needed to take a break from WEG D6 Fantasy.

When you’re considering a switch, ask yourself:

• What is the goal? Do we want fast-paced chase mechanics and gunslinging?
• What is the crunch level? Are we looking for low-crunch immersion or a heavily collaborative world-building engine?

Finding a system that matches the gameplay often reinvigorates my love for the hobby. As a “Forever DM,” that spark is vital.

Is the juice worth the squeeze?

A new system should be intuitive, or I’m going to abandon it. It should provide a fresh perspective and fun mechanics that make me want to roll the dice. Most of all, it should make me think about encounters differently. If it’s just a new flavor of the same old game (or a worse flavor… like the Sour Apple Skittles of TTRPGs), I’m just going to be thinking about my old system the whole time. That’s not fair to the game or the players.

Watch Your Tone

Finally, the system has to match the tone. If the table is feeling light and silly, it’s not the time for post-apocalyptic horror. If they want gritty and rugged, I lean into noir. The system should complement the story, not conflict with it.

At the end of the day, if you find yourself in a rut, change things up. The worst that can happen is you admit it was a bad idea and go back to what you’re good at.

Be good, or be good at it. You’ve got the juice.

Prologue: Shadows over Oakenvale

The foundations of the world have begun to rot. Deep in the forgotten, dark places of both this world and the next, an infernal machine churns, siphoning souls to a forgotten threat and stressing the fragile systems that keep us all safe…

The King’s Madness and the Wizard’s Walls

Centuries ago, King Linias, the “King of Madness,” turned his coronation into a bloodbath. When a seer from the magical city of Asmin told a fortune he did not want to hear, is “Purge” drove the magical races to the fringes of the world, leaving a scar on history that would take centuries to heal. Decades later, the new “Umvirate” has overthrown the Mad King’s power-mad successor and peace is timidly taking hold on the continent once more. Oakenvale was supposed to be a bridge to that peace—the first frontier town where humans and non-humans lived side-by-side, a sleepy little fishing village on which much rides.

But Oakenvale was built on a secret. The Asmin Lighthouses that dot the landscape aren’t just beacons for would-be students of magic; they are magical anchors designed to keep the boundary between life and death sealed tight, their shimmering green light strengenthing the wall between our world and the afterlife, and keeping the terrors of The Labyrinth at bay.

The Architect of the Void

For decades, the town flourished, never knowing that a tiefling warlock named Evandarr Piebald was busy playing god under their very noses. With the aid of a soul-hungry imp named Zax, Piebald tapped into a power that the world had been ordered to forget: Aldion the Forgotten, the celestial guardian left to rot at the Wall of the Faithless, protecting the world from the forgotten gods who scratch at the wall’s gate from the Outside.

It took years for Piebald and Zax to build the Soul Siphon, based on a simple, horrific calculation: steal 10% of the souls destined for the afterlife and feed them to Aldion to fuel his ascension, and make the world remember him. But magic of that scale always comes with a catch. And the Soul Siphon leaks.

For fifty years, the Siphon has been humming beneath the world, anchored in four hidden places. One of those anchors sits directly beneath the floorboards of the Oakenvale Academy, filling the boundary between this world and the next with lost, frantic souls that have spilled from the gaps in the machine’s workings… slowly overwhelming the green glow of Asmin’s beacons.

The Apprentice’s Ambition

Encouraged by fifty years of apparent success, Piebald has upgraded from an Imp familiar to an Ogre Demon, and left Zax frustrated without a soul to call his own. Enter Simon Darle. Born to a family of legendary wizards but gifted with none of their “touch,” Simon turned to the shadows to find his worth, and prove to his father he could still be powerful without a shiny education. Guided by Zax—who has been promised his soul in return—Simon began gathering the ingredients for the ultimate shortcut: the path to becoming a Lich.

Simon didn’t want to destroy Oakenvale; he just wanted a distraction. A few bags of holding stuffed with skeletal remains, meant to cause a localized panic, and give him a chance to slip into the museum to steal a unicorn horn. It was a small, selfish plan, and nobody was supposed to get hurt.

The Breaking Point

He didn’t account for the Siphon.

Fifty years of “leaked” souls had reached a critical mass. It was on faire day when the Asmin Lighthouse—the only thing holding back the pressure of fifty thousand displaced spirits—finally buckled and the lens shattered. When it did, it didn’t just cause an explosion. It created a disaster.

Those lost souls sprung from the siphon’s hidden mechanisms desperate for any vessel to call home. Some went to graveyards, or found dead or weakened animals in the forests and rivers. Others became screaming wraiths or soulful banshee haunting the landscape.. but some lucky few found bags of skeletons stashed around Oakenvale’s streets. A harmless distraction for Simon’s simple plan. They flooded into the bags, fighting for the carefully prepared bones within them. They turned a petty distraction into an unstoppable tide of the restless dead.

While the Headmaster raves in a basement filled with the echoes of the Void, and Simon stands in the square with a torn pant leg and a lie on his lips, the latest graduates of Oakenvale Academy are on their way to the faire…

Stay tuned for this story and more. Check out our YouTube channel for narrations of this story, and those that are on the way from Thirdwalling.

And as always, be good, or be good at it. You got the juice.

-Bob

Our goal right now is consistency. We want to have several months of content queued up before we hit “publish” on our regular schedule. We know consistency is the key to trust, and we’re committed to earning back your follow on the blog and your subscription on YouTube.

Here is what our 2026 looks like in broad strokes:

Our Content Schedule

Once we launch, we are aiming for one blog post and one long-form video (7+ minutes) every week. I’ve taken quite a bit of my annual leave from the day job this month just to learn the ropes of video editing and animation. We’re also planning at least one Short each week to keep you updated on what’s live and what’s coming next.

Behind the Screen

We have some exciting deep dives planned for our GM Perspectives series. I’ve already finished videos on party cohesion and switching systems, and I’m currently neck-deep in a six-part series on writing your own campaign (featuring the development of our new setting, Safe & Sound). We’re also in the early drafting stages for a series on “World Building” from the ground up.

On the Grid

For the players, we have a few articles ready to go on crafting better backstories and getting the most out of your character’s “juice.” I’m also teaching myself basic animation to bring some of our favorite table stories to life. We have two big projects in mind: a highlight reel of our five-year Everrun: Legacy campaign, and a new session recap series voiced by myself and a new face (and old friend) here at Thirdwalling.

’Round the Table

We’re adding a Q&A segment where we pull the toughest questions from online TTRPG forums and answer them together with special guests. We’ll be heading back into those threads to share our insights, hopefully helping out the wider community one question at a time.

Beyond 2026

I’m already eyeing the convention schedule for next year to fill out our Off the Wall travel segments. Long-term, we’re looking to add a full-time artist and musician to the team to really do justice to these stories.

More importantly, we’re looking at publishing. We want to bring you professional supplements, including a Savage Worlds guide for hunting monsters in 1950s Tennessee, and eventually a D&D setting based on the Everrun world.

Baby Steps to Giant Leaps

We’re going to see what works in 2026 to decide what 2027 looks like. For now, expect some short teasers and quick updates as we build our queue. We all have day jobs and adult responsibilities, but Thirdwalling is our passion project, and we’re taking the “baby steps” necessary to make sure this house has a solid foundation.

If any of this sounds like your kind of game, give us a follow here and on YouTube. We’ve got some cool content coming very soon.

Until then, be good or be good at it. You’ve got the juice.

— Bob

Okay, yes – it’s AI artwork for the most part. The aspect ratio is wonky and we’re still working out the kinks, but in the spirit of ‘learning by doing,’ I decided to just jump in. I’ll keep learning and the images will get better, but for now, it’s a humble start to us having some real fun together.

Be good, or be good at it!

If you look back through the archives here, you’ll see the scars of a DIY-obsessed Game Master. Something like 30% of my content was either me making something out of cardboard or posting pictures of a game table covered in home-made miniatures. I loved every tactile, messy minute of it.

But things change.

Sadly, our old game store has closed, but I’m proud to say we’ve kept the game alive – on the Virtual Table Top (VTT). While I miss the smell of the shop, this shift has allowed us to invite new friends to the board and expand our reach in ways I didn’t think possible. Because of that, it’s time for a bit of a rebrand.

Don’t worry—I’m not deleting the history. Those old posts on making your own tiles are staying right here in the Legacy archives. They’re the foundation of how I learned to build games.

But from here on out, we’re looking forward. We’re exploring how to keep that “round the table” feel while using the best tech 2026 has to offer. The glue gun is officially retired; it’s time to see what we can build with pixels.

Be good, or be good at it. You got the juice.

– Bob

The good news? The recovery roll was a success.

I’ve spent that time away gathering some new ideas, a dedicated crew of fellow Thirdwallers, and a clearer vision for what Thirdwalling should be. We’re moving beyond just “another blog” to focus on breaking down the barriers between players and systems.

I would ask you to be patient for just a bit longer while we clear the rubble and set the grid. If you can hang in there, I promise we might actually have some fun soon.

Stay tuned—the juice is worth the squeeze.

Be good, or be good at it. You got the juice.

– Bob