Let's Gel

One of the most contrived and ridiculous D&D monsters of all-time is the Gelatinous Cube. A nearly-invisible mass of slime that just happens to be exactly the same size and volume as those ridiculous 10' x 10' dungeon corridors.

Those opening sentences do not reflect my own opinions. They are the edited and condensed views of quite a few op-ed pieces I've seen on this wondrous Internet of ours.

This is another example of, in my opinion, the disservice done to our beloved hobby by overwrought rulebooks that strive to tell players exactly how their game should be played. Yes - that's my opinion. Filling up an entire page with exposition that explains just how to include a monster, along with the actions said monster should probably take in combat - well, at what point can we just dispense with the DM?

While I acknowledge that many players want or even need all these rules and guidelines, it does make for more bloated and expensive rulebooks, bigger learning curves, drawn-out and rules-heavy gaming sessions, and tons of wasted space. Do we need an entire (5E) page for the Piercer? Do the (5E) monster illustrations really need to fill half a page? I've found that a lot of players and DMs prefer not to use something that they don't like or understand in the rulebooks. And, of course, the premise of the game actively encourages this. I've even met some folks that do without the classic dungeon environment entirely because it's just too silly to them. That's fair.

And I'm not insisting that the older editions are "better" than the new editions. 
Just so we're clear.

For myself, I prefer to actually treat what I read or see in a D&D book as guidelines - all of it. By way of example, let's take the Gelatinous Cube. This is a classic D&D monster. How do I know? It appears in the first release of the game in 1974/1975, and in every core monster book from 1E thru 5E. Still, people make sarcastic comments about the thing. How does it even kill people? How slow or dumb do you have to be to get caught by one? Well - that depends on the DM.

First - the 'Cube is not a hunter. It's a scavenger. It isn't chasing you down. The 'Cube is almost invisible in its natural state. This means that a lot of its prey comes to the 'Cube. You're strolling (or fleeing) down a corridor and - SPLOOP! And, that's just in default mode. If the DM really wants to 'Cube a PC, there are plenty of ways. Dead-end corridor - and a 'Cube glops its way into the other end, blocking your only escape route. You fall into a 10' x 10' x 10' pit...and...heeeeeeeere comes a 'Cube - just the right size to *PLOP*. Let's not even bother with slides or teleporters. It's like dissolving adventurers in a barrel full of acid.

What follows is MY version of the Gelatinous Cube for MY setting. Your turgidity may vary.

The Gelatinous Cube is an amorphous mass of transparent protoplasm. Being amorphous, it can change shape without much effort at all. When the 'Cube is 10' x 10' x 10', it is typically filling the empty available space around it. Otherwise, the creature can be a sphere, a pyramid, a torus, a giant puddle, a shapeless mass - or just about any other simple form that suits its immediate needs or environs. Somewhere near the center of the gelatinous form is a kind of "cognitive center" or "brain."

But, the Gelatinous Cube is non-intelligent. That is true - but the Slithering Tracker isn't.

The 2E entry - since it has a nice illustration.

Oh, look - another transparent, paralyzing monster made of jelly. But, this one is smaller, faster, and smarter. Still, my mind likes to connect and share things. Sometimes, the whole can be more interesting (and deadly) than the sum of its parts.

Consider the Slithering Tracker as the "brains" of the Gelatinous Cube. However, the 'Tracker is often out and about - hunting. During these times, the 'Cube is its usual mindless, scavenging self. On the rare occasion that the 'Tracker is part of the 'Cube, the 'Cube is treated as a smarter monster - but the 'Tracker is usually easier to see because it has recently fed on blood. The Gelatinous Cube becomes a two-part monster with an increased threat potential.

Were I inclined to accept text and illustrations at face value, the setting of Avremier probably wouldn't even exist - and I sure wouldn't be creating these fun monster variants. Maybe most players aren't used to DMs that innovate. I can understand that. It's not necessary for an enjoyable game. But, the attraction of D&D for myself is the spaces between the rules, stats, and pictures. That's what I strive to fill.

Of chests — and floors — and ceiling-attacks

We often eat with our eyes first. That adage seems to apply to RPG monsters as well. Sometimes, no matter how deadly or inspiring a monster entry is - that all-important illustration can make-or-break even the most ancient of dragons or the most influential of demon lords. Some monsters have even been defined by their illustrations through the years. The mimic can change its shape to look like just about any dungeon feature or furnishing. But, those early illustrations of belligerent  treasure chests have fixed that image into just about everyone's minds.

After browsing enough poorly-researched "Worst/Dumbest Monsters in D&D" articles, I feel confident in this presumption. I've even seen blogs where the question is posed: "how does a mimic move?" The premise is that a killer treasure chest just doesn't have any obvious means of locomotion.

Personally, I've never had a party encounter a mimic in the form of a treasure chest. A wardrobe, sarcophagus, door, or gargoyle statue - yes. Even though it is specifically detailed in the Monster Manual entry, the mimic is still seen today as a "mouthy treasure chest monster." Though, to be honest, I do love the imagery of it. Still, I tend to lay the blame for this on the 2nd Edition Monstrous Manual.

One thing that turned me off from 2E was the tendency to explain and define everything. For me, all this accomplished was an increased word count and decreased interest. Suddenly, every monster entry had to fill at least an entire page. Personally, I don't feel that giant sea urchins deserve an entire page - barely a mention, actually.

Anyway, it seems to be the imagery that counts. Text is entirely negotiable. The mimic attacks with a lashing pseudopod. It doesn't even bite. Still, this is the current vision of the mimic - the tongue must be the pseudopod.

Again - I do like the imagery. I just sense some disconnect between the later editions of the game that expend so much effort in detailing every aspect of the adventure, only to have so much fall through the cracks. People who ask how a mimic moves don't seem to be paying much attention. Maybe the word, "amorphous" is too obscure for the casual reader. But, now, in 5th Edition - the mimic does have a bite attack! An acidic bite attack! The toothy maw became so popular that the game itself adapted.

Through the years, I've noticed that certain types of monster will get a bad rap. Some players seem to have issues with "surprise monsters." Those creatures that blend in with the dungeon and let you just walk into their hidden clutches. Kinda makes you feel dumb sometimes. Seems unfair. Never mind that this happens in nature all the time. These monsters just get under their skin and simply aren't realistic. You know - like the rest of the typical realistic D&D world. The idea of creatures specifically evolved to thrive in a ludicrous habitat like a typical dungeon is simply untenable, for some reason.

Monsters like the mimic. The lurker above. The trapper. Hey - I can see the point. These are very specific adaptations. Though, I mostly see the logic hand-waved to the machinations of mad wizards that create wacky monsters for fun and profit. That's never been my thing. For my own setting, I've made the mimic, lurker above, and trapper one-and-the-same monster. Yep. The mimic can look like anything of stone or wood. A chest, a ceiling, a floor. It has adhesive. It is amorphous. Seriously - why bother with three separate entries for the same kind of tricky, camouflaged, shapeshifting, ambush monster?

Along the same lines, come back next time for a little chat about the nifty relationship (in my setting) between the gelatinous cube and the slithering tracker.

Consider This - Slaying the Big Bad.

An epic adventure or campaign often culminates in a massive battle between the heroes and the main villain of the story. Fun and satisfying. Straightforward and expected.

What happens when someone kills a demigod, demon prince, or arch-devil? Permanently.

Well, some points to consider might be along the lines of:

• Power vacuum needing to be filled. Possibly by a powerful lieutenant or rival.
• An imbalance in the cosmic order. Perhaps this entity truly embodied one or more traits that are now no longer represented in the universe. You've destroyed the Demon Prince of Evil Sawhorses and now evil sawhorses are disappearing from Creation itself. Is this a good thing? Or, even worse, you killed the Demigod of Low Interest Rates.
• From bad to worse. Bet you didn't know that arch-devil you took out was the guardian of the Gate of Inescapable Horror - keeper of the lock that kept a nameless world-devouring monster from entering our dimension. Now that the guardian of the Gate is gone... 
  

Honestly, there are lots of possibilities. But, there have been moments in my own campaign where I wanted more immediate, or intimate, results.

You dealt the final blow to the demigodlike villain of the campaign! What are you gonna do next?! Wait - let's not get ahead of ourselves. Are we treating the Dark Lord of Glitter and Fingernail Clippings as just another fallen foe? Sure - we could do that. But, that's not really my style.

Let's address that particular phrase: "...dealt the final blow..." The DM is free to spread the love around, but the character that laid the villain low should receive the best/worst of what is to come. Where does all the power held by the demigod/demonlord/hellduke go? For my money, most of it will go back to the source - or go nowhere at all. Depends on the circumstances and direction of the campaign. But, some of it will go to the slayer - who will probably never be the same again.

• What was the slain foe known for? Being a powerful warrior? A crafty tactician? A domineering presence? Increase one or more ability scores of the villain's slayer accordingly. To the PC that dealt Asmodeus the killing blow, raise that guy's Charisma - at the very least.
• While you're at it - add some HD to the character. Give them a permanent HP boost.
• It won't all be good. Make the PC toss a saving throw die. Failure indicates an alignment shift toward that of the slain villain's. Eventually, the hero's physical appearance could start to change as well.
• Transfer one or more powers from the villain to the PC. Not necessarily under the character's full control, but definitely something distinctive and disturbing.
• With all this power, it is definitely reasonable to increase the PC's lifespan.
• Give the PC dreams or flashes of "divine inspiration." Harbingers of changes to come. Glimpses of the true workings of reality. Premonitions of danger from divine rivals.
• Did the slain entity have followers or worshipers? Will any of that devotion transfer to the slayer of their deity? Or, will they seek to punish the PC that took away the object of their devotion?

If the campaign is to continue beyond the death of the big bad, it might be fun to have the hero of the hour be the catalyst through which evil continues. The PC might be able to harness the power for good. The PC might fall to a rival. The PC may succumb to evil. The PC could somehow destroy the dark energies within - thus eliminating the threat for all time. In any case, the player gets a truly epic struggle to play. It also gives all the players something to think about as they strive to be the hero that puts down the next great evil.

Consequences. Do we play them?

OCD&D

Having studied or tried every edition of D&D (including Pathfinder), I find myself exhausted by the later super-crunchy rule sets. For me, at least, they stifle creativity and dampen enthusiasm.

So many different ways to tell a player what their character can and cannot do at any given time during a game. Personally, I don't want to be browsing my character sheet in search of my next action in the middle of an encounter. I also don't want to be planning my brand-new 1st level character's entire career out to 20th level while I'm wading through skills and feats.

My anxiety and OCD really don't like those systems. D&D was a dream come true for me. A game of creativity. An area where I could shine. At least, that was how it would be at first.

I'm told (in no uncertain terms) that the countless class options, race options, skills, feats, and advantages allow for more creativity and individuality. It is possible I will never truly agree with this. I feel all of that simply offers more and more tiny pigeonholes in which to stuff a character. I guess I just don't need to be told every single little thing my character can and should be able to do. It's probably because I have always been a DM far more than a player. I'm used to a minimum level of trust in my ability to make decisions and come up with solutions to problems.

My wife did not grow up playing D&D - despite spending her childhood not terribly far from Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. By the time she met me and got dragged into playing the game, we were using the D20 System of rules. She learned D&D by possibly the most unnecessarily complex means necessary. It turned her off a bit to running characters that used magic - as that was a rules-heavy option with a lot of choices to be made. Still, she created characters and ran them in my campaigns. She only really learned the rules that applied to her own character. I honestly couldn't blame her for that. The Player's Handbook is essentially a colorful textbook with more pages than strictly necessary. During the game, my wife would come up with practical solutions to in-game problems. It warmed my heart to see her play the game.

The party comes to an ancient rope bridge spanning a bottomless chasm. They start to carefully cross the bridge. From the far side, a rust monster comes into view. Smelling the tasty metal worn and carried by the party - the rust monster starts across the bridge. Panic ensues.

My wife is running a fighting character that happens to be wearing non-metallic armor and wielding non-metallic weapons. She rushes forward and grapples with the rust monster, lifts it up, and carries it to the far end of the bridge - where she dumps a pile of disposable metal items like iron spikes and extra daggers for the creature to eat. Thus distracted, the monster allows the rest of the group to pass.
No, she didn't have Animal Handling. She didn't have some kind of specialized wrestling feat. She just saw the problem and came up with a logical solution. And it worked. Had she stopped to consult her character sheet, things would probably have gone very differently - but not necessarily in a good way. There was nothing on her character sheet to prompt the very simple reaction that she employed to such good measure. Certainly not the Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom-inspired plan the rest of the party had been about to settle upon. Rust monsters have no hands with which to grip - how could this possibly fail?

I'm not a cranky grognard lamenting the destruction of my beloved game. I'll play your fancy, newfangled fantasy games. I've run my campaign using 3.0, 3.5, and 3.75 edition rules. For the most part, it went well. I don't begrudge players their preferred editions of the game - though I have had plenty of forward-thinking gamers tell me how wrong I am for preferring older editions. I just don't agree that D20 is the best. And, I definitely feel it tends to stifle creativity by defining everything in terms of modifiers and challenge levels. I didn't get excited about D&D for the math - I'm in it for the adventure. I'm also not one to cut a rope to spite my face.

Bloggery of a Semi-Retired Publishing Madman

Early this year (2019), I voluntarily left the workplace to stay at home to do stuff.
The idea was to support my wife in developing her own business so she could follow me out of the daily grind and work from home. I'd be taking care of the cats and the household. Running errands. Doing chores. Preparing meals. Oh - and run my own home publishing business.
Then, I kind of imploded.
It was a gigantic life change. People thought I was genuinely retired - so they thought to help me occupy all my newfound free time by helping them with stuff.
Also, things happened. Money became really tight - then, too tight.

No, this is not meant to be a self-serving sob story. This is a response to recent queries - and, possibly, a cautionary tale for those who might follow after.

Suddenly, I had so much more time - right? Right. Suddenly, our four cats realized they had someone to tend to their every whim 24-7. Cats are aloof? Perhaps. Our cats are needy and demanding as human toddlers - and twice as destructive.

My able assistant - Miranda.

So much more time. Time for a never-ending avalanche of chores. So much needing to be cleaned, organized, trashed, fixed, and maintained. This was my first tour as a househusband. I was not good at it. I'm still not - but I am a little less-awful. Oh - my business. I almost forgot!

That moment where you know all the stuff you don't really know. Sure, I'd self-published a half-dozen Avremier booklets. That was eeeeeeeasy. Publishing for mass consumption - that is HARD (for me). Learning new software. Learning new techniques. Doing things like an actual professional. The horror. The sheer, brain-shuddering horror of it all. My anxiety screamed. My OCD choked. My depression - well...never mind that for now.

Yeah, I was writing. I was even drawing - in fits and starts...mostly fits. I couldn't focus on one project for much longer than a day at a time. I was trying to justify the hours spent working on my own projects. I wasn't selling them yet. There was no money coming in from my efforts. I was falling behind. I was letting my wife and feline dependents down. I was failing. All of this was being constantly shouted into my brain by my anxiety. Kicking my OCD into maximum overdrive as I struggled frantically to fix EVERYthing. As for my depression - well...you probably don't wanna know.

Now - July. More than half a year into this exercise. Things might be stabilizing. I never  assume. Anxiety won't let me. Not unless finances look genuinely solid to me. I've got ducks lined up. I've got projects languishing in a state of near-completion. I've got personal deadlines to meet. I've got stuff to publish. Otherwise, I need to admit defeat and hit the eject button.

I don't wanna hit the eject button.