Pushing Myself as a DM

There is a specific kind of nervous energy that settles in your stomach about twenty minutes before you all sit around the table. It’s a mixture of excitement, stage fright, and the lingering fear that they might decide to ignore your meticulously prepared plot hook in favour of befriending a random sentient turnip.

For a long time, I played it safe. I was the king of the pre-written module. I loved the glossy pages of official adventure paths; they provided a sturdy safety net. If a session went off the rails, I could point to the book and think, “Well, the text said the dragon attacks now.” But recently, I’ve realised that while safety is comfortable, it’s also a bit of a stagnant pond. I wanted a river. I wanted to see what would happen if I stepped off the map and started drawing my own.

I’ve come to learn a fundamental truth about tabletop gaming, and life in general: growth occurs in the uncomfortable.

Leaving the Pre-Written Nest

The transition to a fully homebrew campaign wasn't just about writing my own lore; it was about reclaiming my agency as a storyteller. Relying on modules is like paint-by-numbers—you get a lovely result, but you aren’t necessarily learning how to mix the colours yourself.

By tossing the modules aside, I’ve forced myself to engage with the "why" of my world. Why is this cult here? Why does the geography dictate the trade routes? It’s been a daunting leap, but it’s allowed me to weave a narrative that is bespoke to my players' chaotic whims.

Stealing from the Greats (Digitally)

One of the most liberating realisations I had was that "homebrew" doesn't mean "created in a vacuum." I’ve started looking at my favourite video games not just as entertainment, but as a masterclass in mechanics.

Take The Legend of Zelda, for instance. Nintendo is the master of the "gimmick" boss—and I mean that in the best way possible. I recently introduced a boss encounter that moved away from the standard "hit it until the numbers stop" slog. Instead, I designed a sentient tree with bark held in place by grasping vines. The players had to use radiant damage to stun it, revealing a glowing core.

The Rule of the Weak Spot: Once that core was exposed, every hit became an automatic critical.

Watching the players' faces shift from "Oh, we're just rolling dice" to "We need to coordinate a tactical strike to trigger the weak spot" was a revelation. It added a layer of kinetic energy that I’d never quite achieved with standard monster stat blocks.

The Art of the Narrative Pivot

To truly push myself, I’ve committed to a "variety is the spice of death" approach to session design. I used to find a rhythm and stick to it, but now I’m intentionally oscillating between wildly different styles of play:

• The Deep Dive Roleplay: Sessions with little to zero combat, where the only weapons a well-phrased question and a well-timed zinger of a retort.

• The Classic Crawl: Returning to the roots with trap-laden corridors and resource management that makes every spell slot and resource feel precious.

• The Set-Piece Spectacle: Most recently, I ran a prison break. Fibbing their way past the guards, sneaking off to steal equipment and an endless supply of low level guards.

  
  

The prison break, in particular, was terrifying to prep. There was a risk that one of the players would not be available for the session, and I was essentially encouraging the players to split the part and do tasks simultaneously. That led to my first ever attempt at back and forth gameplay, the camera cutting from one pair of characters to another. I also found that the players rescued a random NPC I had placed as a prisoner in one of the jail cells with the sole intention of just trying to make it look like the prison did not exist solely for one prisoner.

Why Bother with the Stress?

You might ask why I’m bothering to increase my prep time and stress levels. The answer is simple: the table feels more alive. When I’m not flipping through a book to find a pre-written NPC response, I’m more present. I’m listening to the players more closely because I have to—their input is the fuel for the world I’m building in real-time.

Building a homebrew world is a bit like learning to ride a bike while someone is throwing rocks at you (those "rocks" being the players' unpredictable 20-sided dice). It’s messy, you’ll definitely graze your knees, and you’ll occasionally forget the name of the tavern you just created two minutes ago.

But when a mechanic you’ve adapted from a video game clicks, or when a prison break ends with a frantic, narrow escape that everyone is shouting about in the group chat the next day, the discomfort vanishes. It’s replaced by the pure, unadulterated joy of collective storytelling.

So, if you’re a GM who has been clinging to the safety of the "official" books, I encourage you to stray off the path. Make a mistake. Design a boss that’s a bit too weird. Trust your instincts. The growth is waiting for you just beyond the edge of the map.