Good morning! Health and happiness to everyone this fine Friday, and an extra Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it. It is time once again for me to fulfill my part of the Faustian pact I made with The Red Beast of the North. In exchange for the occasional magical nudge to my die rolls, I must annually humiliate myself by writing and performing a song about D&D, sung to the tune of some Christmas carol or other.
If you’re new to reading Papers & Pencils, be advised that this particular tradition is now in its seventh year. There’s a whole playlist of these for you to mock, each one with even worse singing than the next!
This year I wanted to give the Magic User some attention. I love Magic Users. I love how few spells they get, how fragile they are, and how little control they have over their mystic repertoire. I particularly love calling them “Magic Users,” which is so much more appropriate than the grandiose sounding “Wizard” or “Sorcerer” favored by later iterations of the rules. It is the first class I ever played in an OSR-style game, and one which helped me better understand what I want out of play.
If anyone needed more evidence of how slipshod this whole operation is, by the by, know that I didn’t realize how short Away in a Manger is before I had fully committed myself both to that melody and the song’s narrative thread. I really wanted to fit a denouement in there, but that would have required a modicum of planning, which is against the rules of my previously mentioned Faustian bargain.
Away in a Dungeon – Lyrics
Away in a dungeon, amid a pell mell, a young magic user has only one spell. Now lost to her comrades, she clings to torchlight, while searching for help in the dark dungeon night.
What good is ‘Hold Portal’ to a fledgling mage? Why must she roll for spells in this day and age? Her grumbling and grousing alerted a Graw, who offered her “safety” within its sharp maw.
Praying for a refuge, through dungeon she fled. To dart through a doorway–plans sparked in her head! One spell released deftly with Graw on her heel, knocked low by a door held with mystical zeal.
A good dungeon will have many places in it that the players wish to go. On their way, they will need to overcome many obstacles which make their journey interesting. Sometimes the “lock” they encounter will be a goblin, and the “key” is a sharp sword and a good attack roll. Sometimes the lock is an illusory wall, and the key is realizing there’s a breeze coming from nowhere. Sometimes the lock is a literal lock, and the key is in a chest at the other end of the dungeon.
One must always remember, however, that in Adventure Games, no lock is always going to be overcome with the intended key. The goblin could easily be avoided with some clever sneaking, the location of the illusory wall could be bullied out of the goblin, and that locked door could have its hinges popped out. One must never get too attached to their keys, and sometimes I do not even plan out a key at all. I simply trust that the players are clever enough to figure their way past an obstacle.
It must be mentioned that a good dungeon is one where the players can walk away from a barrier if they can’t figure out how to deal with it. Don’t design a dungeon that will come to a complete grinding halt just because the players can’t get past a single barrier. There should always be some other direction to explore in.
I will also note that some of the keys below imply the presence of a door keeper who controls who gets in and out. In most cases it will be best to make these guardians difficult to kill. They might operate the door remotely for example, and speak only via an intercom. They might be shouting from the other side of the door. The guardian might be an incredibly powerful and dangerous creature that is otherwise not interested in doing the party harm, or the guardian could even be the door itself via an animated face. If the door guard is available to be killed, and the players do so, then whoever put that guard there is going to send more later, and with increased security to back them up.
Thanks to Gus L. for reading through this post to ensure it all made sense.
A landslide has blocked the path forward. Time must be taken to dig it out.
A great tree has grown through the doorway. Chopping it down from one side will be awkward.
The passage is high up, and in the middle of a vaulted ceiling. Getting there would require something like a skillfully thrown grappling hook, a very tall ladder, a flight or spider climb spell, etc.
The way forward is tiny, barely big enough to get your hand through. A person would have to shrink, or transform into a small animal to get through.
A well constructed and unattended drawbridge on the other side of a chasm. There is no prescribed way to open it from this side.
An energy barrier bars the way forward, sustained by the life essence of some notable creature who may or may not reside in the dungeon. So long as this creature lives, the barrier will remain impassable.
The pathway is out of phase with our reality. It can only be moved through by shifting oneself into the phase where the pathway exists. This phase will doubtless have other differences as well, and may not be friendly to outerphasic life.
There is a combination or password which must be entered. It might be written down or known by someone elsewhere in the dungeon, or it may require searching outside of the dungeon to learn.
A particular sound opens the way forward. Perhaps it is a specific song, or the sound of a specific instrument.
The key to the door is has been copied several times by a certain faction. Many members of the faction carry a copy.
They key is in some treacherous location: tangled in a spiders web, or on a plinth in the center of a pool of lava.
They key is itself hazardous or difficult to handle, requiring the players to make some clever plan for transporting it to the lock. As examples, the key might generate enough heat to melt through steel, or it could be incorporeal. The key might be possessed by an intelligence that dominates whoever holds it, or it might bestow some curse on whomever touches it, etc.
The key to the door is an object of importance to some particular dungeon faction. It may be a sacred object used in their religious devotions, or a symbol of office worn by their leader.
The door ought to be easy to open, but some essential element of its mechanism has been removed by previous adventurers. Perhaps a golden sprocket or magic gem. It must be found and returned here to open the way forward.
The way forward is blocked by a terrible guardian beast, who will allow passage so long as they are brought the food that they like to eat.
A door opening ritual must be performed. Its details may be provided, at least in part, by carvings on the door, or it may need to be learned in dusty tomes in the basements of old libraries.
The lock and key are both obvious, and near one another, but the key is a huge 250lb object which must be carried up a vertical ladder to reach the keyhole.
A biometric scanner will only open the way forward for certain people, using eye/face/voice/hand scan to identify them. The scanner may or may not have measures to prevent its being used by force.
Some previous adventurer got all set to destroy the barrier. There’s a ram, or a cannon, or some TNT, etc set up here, but for some reason they didn’t do it, and now an essential component has been removed, and must be replaced to clear the way forward.
The way forward is opened by placing three objects of power (gems, medallions, orbs, etc.) in the proper place. All three might be found in the dungeon, or may require adventuring outside the dungeon, or some combination of the two.
Before the sealed door is a round table with a bronze statue sitting at it, and several empty seats with pressure plates on them. Adding the exact correct amount of weight to each seat will be tricky, but might take less time than recovering the other bronze statues which have been taken as trophies by various dungeon factions. Either way, once the correct weight is in place the door will open.
A terra cotta warrior stands guard before a sealed door. Portions of the figure are clearly less worn and dirty than others, implying it once wore armor which has been removed. If the warrior is fully outfitted once again, the way forward will open.
Two feuding factions must work together to open the way forward. Perhaps each knows half a password, or there is a ceremonial table which only opens if representatives from each both sit at it.
The way forward can only be opened by a doorkeeper who is too sad to do their job. The party must somehow cheer them up, or otherwise convince them.
The lever which opens the door is visible, but inaccessible. Perhaps behind bars, or glass, or in the middle of an acid lake. There is a creature near it who can open it, but they are incapable of understanding language. Perhaps a monkey, or a toddler golem.
Vampire rules apply to everyone. Anyone who wishes to pass through this barrier must be invited by someone who lives beyond it.
The walls of the room are covered in dozens or hundreds of forearm-sized holes. One of these contains the lever which will open the way forward, while many others are trapped, or have become nests for potentially poisonous plants or animals.
The way forward opens only for those who have legitimately achieved some particular social position. (Mayor, King, Priest, Spouse, etc). To enter, the players may need to win an election, gain an appointment, complete training or rituals, etc.
There is no actual barrier to entry. However, surrounding cultures all observe a strict taboo against going through. At the very least people who disregard this taboo will be shunned.
Only those dressed a certain way will be allowed inside. The guard may be checking for a certain uniform, or for formal wear, or perhaps ritual garb.
Anyone who wishes to enter must commit some suitable crime, so that the doorkeeper knows you’re cool before letting you through.
The door is a philosopher. It postulates that as a door its purpose is to bar entry, and further that the party are the exact sort against whom the way forward must be protected. The door is willing to listen to counter arguments.
An impenetrable physical barrier will only open for those who have accomplished some specific deed, such as raising a child, or slaying a dragon. They may bring guests with them if they wish.
No one may pass unless they convince the gatekeeper that they’re qualified to handle the hazards beyond the gate. They do not want blood on their hands by allowing brash young folk to charge straight to their doom.
The way forward is blocked by a thick tangle of vines and briers. An axe, machete, or sword will be adequate to hack a path through, but it will take time to do so, and there may be consequences for damaging these plants.
The way forward is opened by paying a toll. There may be a powerful toll taker, like a dragon, or simply a coin slot which opens a door when sufficient gold is dropped into it.
The way forward is hindered by customs officials who wish to inspect goods, assess taxes, and collect information for their records.
The dungeon seals up when outsiders enter it. If they wish to leave again they must deposit some item into a chest. It may be a specific key located further in the dungeon, or perhaps it’s just 10% of their total carried wealth.
The space ahead is an “X Free Zone.” Players can only enter it if they relinquish whatever X is: weapons, armor, illumination, meat, or whatever else the players are accustomed to having access to.
The space ahead is subject to magically enforced terms and conditions. Failure to adhere to the agreement will result in being hurled back out by a mysterious and irresistible force. This usually hurts quite a bit.
Anyone who goes through this passage experiences severe time dilation. There are no barriers, but those who go through must accept that they will miss some significant span of time. Months, or even years will pass by in the outside world.
The door is opened by performing a spell on it. It doesn’t matter what spell, so long as the party’s magical resources are somewhat diminished.
The door requires an offering of blood before it will open. Approximately d4 hp worth.
The way forward explicitly only opens for a certain sort of creature: rats, dogs, goblins, etc. Characters who wish to enter will need to find means of transforming themselves into the appropriate shape.
Dungeons do not tidy themselves. Chores are carved in the stone of the door. It will only open once an appropriate amount of cleaning has been done.
The way forward only opens at a certain time, and for a certain length of time. It may open once a day, once a year, or once every hundred years.
The switch to open the door is far away, and the door slowly closes immediately after it opens. Getting through the door before it closes requires either splitting the party, or moving with great haste.
The way forward will open itself only after everyone in the room has slept in its presence, so that the spirit in the door may observe their dreams.
This room is a sort of airlock. Before the way forward opens, the way back must be sealed, and vice versa. The process takes time, such that the party could easily become cornered in this room if they’re being pursued.
The way forward opens when a target is hit. It may be near enough for thrown weapons, or distant enough that a sling, or a bow is required.
The way forward is on the other side of a peculiar court. A ghostly figure challenges you to a match. The nature of this game has been lost to history, but the way forward will only open once you can win a round.
The way forward is through a complex clockwork mechanism. You could jam it to make it safe, but doing so will cause the machine to stop functioning. Depending on its purpose, players may not wish to do that. Another option is to observe the timing of the mechanisms carefully, and attempt to dodge through them as they move. This would be a difficult check with dangerous consequences for failure.
A surveillance system activates deadly countermeasures against any who attempt to pass through. To reach the other side, one must move stealthily.
The passage forward is large, heavy, and imbued with magical intelligence. It spends most of its time asleep, and open. If roused by heavy steps or clanging armor it will slam itself closed, crushing to pulp anyone who was attempting to pass.
The way forward is blocked by a heavy door which must be lifted or pushed aside. Requires either great strength, or a clever use of leverage.
A tumultuous body of water lies between where the characters are, and where they wish to be. They must navigate it using some seaworthy vessel. This may involve the characters being shrunk to cross some tiny body of water, or the dungeon might contain a subterranean lake.
The way forward is open, but is much too hot to pass through. It must somehow be cooled to a safe temperature.
The way forward is a long hallway with a ceiling that begins to lower as soon as anyone enters it. Not even the fastest runner could get through safely. It must be wedged open somehow.
The players must pass through a literal minefield to reach the other side. Doing so safely requires that they find some way to detect the mines, or perhaps acquire a map which shows a safe path through.
The way forward is a maze shrouded in magical darkness, and filled with spike pits and other traps. If the darkness could be dispelled, or the traps turned off, it would be easy to pass through safely just by taking a little time. While both are active, it is certain death to try.
A bridge used to span a deadly gap here. It has long since collapsed.
Unbelievably powerful magnets line the corridor. Enough that a ferrous sword would fly out of its sheath, and require immense strength just to drag it along a few feet. Gods save you if you’re wearing ferrous armor. Those who pass through can only reasonably expect to bring non-ferrous metals with them.
The way forward is underwater. It would take an excellent swimmer 5+ minutes to reach the other side if they were unencumbered.
The path forward is up-stream of a powerful flow of water. It must be turned off or diverted in order to progress.
The path forward is through a swamp or sewer. The players should be informed that they will definitely contract an illness if they don’t take precautions.
A series of powerful lasers bar the way forward. Powerful enough to slice through most materials easily, but mirrors or heavy stones will redirect them long enough to allow the characters to slip through.
A great blind guardian beast sniffs everyone who passes through. Those who smell correctly are let by, those who don’t are devoured.
The way forward is blocked by a belching geyser of fire, a waterfall of acid, or other constant source of harm with an identifiable “type.” It is contingent on those who pass to procure the correct potions of temporary immunity. Preferably enough both to get in, and to get out again.
Axe wielding statues stand on either side of the door, and will swing mighty blows at anyone they see walk past. Their attacks are deadly, but they are simple constructs. If their eyes are covered with a blindfold or a basket, they cannot see, and will not attack.
A winding corridor with an electrified floor, spinning buzz saws, or similar impassable danger. The ‘off’ switch for these is at the other end, and could be activated by a creature or device capable of getting through safely.
Writhing, grasping tentacles protrude from every surface of the corridor. Instinctively they tangle and crush any object that comes within reach. They must be occupied, or made docile in order to skirt through.
A room filled with air so noxious it will melt skin from bones. Some sealed protective clothing is required to survive moving through it.
Three or more objects rest on a plinth. A riddle describes one of those objects in an obscure way. Anyone holding that object as they pass through will be safe. Anyone who isn’t, or who is holding multiple objects, will be subject to deadly traps of some kind.
The lock is a huge cylinder pin-tumbler. Large enough for people to walk inside it, and each push one of the pins. If all are pushed just right, then others standing outside the lock can rotate the chamber their companions are standing in.
The door is sealed by a heavy magnetized bar, which is completely hidden within the door and wall. Characters may notice ferrous metal objects being drawn towards it if they stand near. If a substantial ferrous metal object is dragged along the wall, the magnetized bar can be moved to unseal the door.
Were the whole dungeon annihilated by the angry fist of God, this door would still stand. It is absolutely impenetrable. It will only open if knocked on politely, in which case it swings easily inward.
The way forward was walled up, but that nearby column doesn’t look terribly stable, and it’s probably not load bearing…
A statue holds out their hands in anticipation. Clues elsewhere in the dungeon indicate that the statue wants some sort of common object: a stick, rock, string, some water or a bit of money. If that object is placed in the statue’s hands, the way forward will open.
A sort of guest book rests on a lectern beside the door. It prompts anyone who wishes to pass through to write their name, the current date and time, as well as to enter an example of some specified wordplay. Perhaps characters must write an alliterative sentence of at least 2d4 + 2 words, or a unique joke, or a set of seven rhyming words, etc. Once this is done, the door will open. The magic doesn’t work if the characters lied about their name or time, or if they copied an example from elsewhere in the guest book.
Near the door are several torches which, if lit, will open the way forward. For added complexity, one of the torches may be in a previous room, it may be disguised, or it may have been destroyed and need to be replaced.
A plinth with an obvious weight pad sits in front of the door. It requires an immense weight to open the door. The players will either need a material of unusual density (like an anvil made from osmium), or devise some contraption that allows them to balance a great deal of weight on this tiny plinth.
Candles rest on inset shelves on either side of the door. Clearly many candles have been placed here over the years, because there is a sheet of melted wax an inch thick coating the wall. If this sheet is chipped away, the lever for opening the door will be revealed.
A skeleton lies in an open coffin beneath a headstone which reads “Here lies a bastard who deserves what he got.” If the long dead corpse is in any way abused or desecrated, the way forward will open.
The way forward is high up, and a powerful current of air prevents throwing grapples, climbing sheer walls, or placing ladders. There is a strange plot of soil beneath the passage. Anything planted here will go through its whole life cycle very rapidly, so if one were to plant an oak tree, it would quickly grow large enough to be climbed, then rot away and die by the end of the day. Note that this magic is tied to the spot, not to the soil.
The door forward has a clock face on it, which must be set to some appropriate time which is hinted at either on the door itself, or elsewhere in the dungeon. It may be a fixed time (the minute on which the door builder’s child was born), a fluid time (the minute that the clock-turner woke up this morning), or not a time at all but simply a number that can be expressed by clock hands (such as 3:14 representing pi). In any event, the time must be held in place for at least 60 seconds to prevent characters simply spinning the hands quickly through every possible option.
The players come upon a place that is clearly labeled “The Dark Stair,” or “The Dark Passage.” If they attempt to traverse it with illumination, it will seem to go on infinitely. If they bravely douse their lights and go through it in complete darkness, they will reach the other end easily.
Murals in the room depict a story where a fisherman catches a fish, it spits out a key, and the key opens the way to great treasure. The room contains a pool of water, but no fish. If a living fish is brought to this room and placed in the water, the way forward will open. Transporting a live fish and keeping it healthy through the dungeon up to this point may prove to be somewhat difficult.
The room appears to have been the site of a battle. There are skeletons leaning against the walls, spatters of dried blood, gouges in the walls, blades stuck in mortar or wood. Examining any of these objects will reveal that they have been staged. Everything is fixed in its place by adhesive or nails. One of the items in the room (perhaps a spear stuck in the floor) is actually a disguised lever. When pulled, the way forward will open.
The door is shaped like a great closed mouth in the middle of licking its own lips. Above the mouth is a nose. If the smells of good food are wafted beneath the nose, the mouth will open.
The way forward is blocked by a magic cube which transforms into whatever material has most recently touched it (with the exception of gases that naturally occur in its environment, such as oxygen). Regardless of what material it transforms into, it always retains its exact shape. If touched by sand, it will transform into a cube of sand without sliding out into a loose heap. If transformed into water, it will be a cube of standing water which players may swim through. When the players enter the room the cube is likely made of stone or steel.
Though the door appears to be a three dimensional object of wood and stone, to the touch it feels like a single smooth sheet of glass. If a mirror is held up which reflects the door, the reflection will have the texture which the door ought to have, and the characters can travel through it.
The way is opened by performing a human sacrifice.
The way forward requires you to climb into a sealed room (or box, or carriage). Unseen forces will move you along an unseen route, eventually depositing you at your destination. The journey may be quite long, and require that players provision themselves so they do not die of thirst and hunger while traveling. Alternately there may be some appropriate offering or behavior with which to request this service, and failure to do so may result in being dropped off in some undesirable location.
Each character who passes through must first reveal something which they would rather keep to themselves. The barrier detects both truth, and reluctance. If either are not present in a person’s statement, they would be incinerated.
A crank near the door opens it, but clearly does something else as well. There are too many mechanisms for this to simply be a door opener, but it’s not immediately clear what consequences there will be for turning it.
Only the dead may enter. Those who die in the doorway may inhabit an empty homonculous in the chambers beyond. If they are resurrected their souls will be destroyed. When they return back through the entry, they may be resurrected properly.
Passing through requires that a person allow their mind and body to be thoroughly scanned and recorded. Who knows that is done with that information? Definitely something.
An adjunct to the fates guards the way forward. They show the characters visions of two people. One of those people will die today, and the party must choose who it is. If they attempt to pass without choosing, then they themselves will die instead. There is no save.
One side of a great scale is held down by a feather. Someone must stand on the other side and be balanced against the feather for the path to open. The scale determines whether or not you are a good person, according to the precepts of the dungeon builders.
Before reaching the door, in some unrelated situation, a mysterious stranger will test the party’s virtue. If they pass, the door will be open for them. If not, it will not. (Did they give alms to the homeless man they met on the road? No? Then the door is sealed.)
And with that, The Dungeon d100s has come to an end. It has been absolutely exhausting to ensure that this project would be completed before the end of the year, but I didn’t want 2020 to pass by without Papers & Pencils getting a little more attention than I had given it. There will be one more post yet to come this year, my annual Christmas Embarrassment, so I’ll save the sappy end of year stuff until then. Please stay safe, love one another, and never stop fighting for Trans Rights.
Two or more factions competing for resources might be the most vital element of a good dungeon. Certainly they are the bedrock of the social dungeons that most excite me.
Unrepentant enthusiast for alliteration that I am, my first step in creating these hundred factions was to name them. As discussed in my Two Week Megadungeon post I generally stuck to the Type of Creature + Type of Behavior format, with the added constraint that the two must be alliterative. I then used the names as a loose creative prompt from which to derive the details of the faction. In some cases, a great emphasis must be placed on “loose.” Certainly this post would come across as way less silly if I deleted the original names for these groups. I seriously considered doing just that, but decided against it because I thought it might be a useful glimpse into the process, and also because silliness is a good thing.
Academic Arsonists: A group philosophically opposed to philosophy, and all other forms of impractical knowledge. Each week they ritually burn any high minded books they’ve managed to collect. Whomever contributes most is given special consideration in the coming week.
Avaricious Architects: Constantly making elaborate alterations to the dungeon. Are very greedy. Will make claims on anything the party finds, and shake them down for money at every encounter.
Argumentative Anatomists: Creatures with the ability to rearrange their body parts. Each thinks they know what the best configuration is, and insists everyone who disagrees is a fool for not doing it the way they do.
Ancient Anarchists: Cursed with immortality without eternal youth, this decrepit faction live in an equitable little commune where everyone shares in the work when they’re able, and is cared for whenever they break a hip. Lacking physical strength, most have learned minor magics.
Barbarous Bovines: Muscular cow folk who speak in a language that is difficult for outsiders to learn. Unless special effort is made, only gestural communication is possible.
Bedazzled Beardmen: More beard than they are man, these tumbles of tangled hair have little hands and feet sticking out from their brush, as well as deep sunken eyes visible through it. They decorate their bodies with glitter.
Boastful Beavers: Supremely confident in their own cultural supremacy, though their primary interest seems to be filling the dungeon with haphazardly constructed barricades which they regard as great works of art.
Bloodthirsty Bibliomaniacs: All books belong to them, whether or not those books have yet entered their possession. They rarely read the books. Possessing them is merely an unhealthy compulsion which has become a cultural obsession.
Bridal Battalion: A young member of this faction comes of age when they venture into civilization to steal a bridal gown of their very own. For the rest of their lives the gown will mark them both as an adult and a warrior.
Cantankerous Crystals: A group of yoni eggs given life after being “born” so many times over. Discovering their frustrated intelligence, a mountebank lich bestowed them with arms, legs, and size. They have gratefully served her ever since.
Cultured Cranes: Lanky bird people who stand twice the height of a man. They socially organize themselves in a fopocracy, where the snootiest and most flippant become their leaders.
Ceiling Celebrities: Creatures which are something like a cross between bats and spiders, and vastly prefer being “upside down,” though they find that term somewhat offensive. A few years back another adventurer wrote a book about living among them for awhile. It was quite popular, and everyone in the party will be at least passingly familiar with the text. The creatures themselves loathe the book, and the many self-serving inaccuracies the author inserted into it.
Churchgoing Charioteers: Tiny folk who use mouse-drawn chariots to get around the dungeon quickly enough to keep up with their larger neighbors. They’re devoted followers of the same religion that is dominant in the region outside the dungeon, though their own precepts have drifted into some minor heresies.
Debonair Dads: Whilst attempting to get out of some parental responsibilities, a wizard accidentally created several dozens facsimiles of themselves, all of whom were significantly more charming. Only one was put into service, while the rest were dumped here in this dungeon to form a loose community together.
Devotees of the Debauched Dauphin: The rightful prince of a surface kingdom was so debased in his predilections that everyone agreed to have him quietly killed. Exhibiting a surprising cleverness, he escaped to the dungeon with his closest confidants where they continue their debauch in somewhat humbler circumstances.
Diplomatic Deerfolk: Lean creatures wearing armor made from shed antlers. They make an effort to appear amicable, but only so they can trick people into disadvantageous agreements. Once the agreements are made, they must be obeyed, or violence is justified.
Determined Doorkeepers: A religious sect who have taken certain metaphors about God opening and/or closing doors a bit too literally. Small groups are assigned to doors deemed religiously significant, and tend them 24/7.
Exploitative Employers: They have money, but are miserly loathe to party with it. They’re always trying to hire people in wildly unbalanced deals, and have no qualms against taking vital resources hostage if it means someone will work for them.
Enigmatic Eels: Tusk-mouthed sea serpents which drift through the air as easily as through water. Their culture has a somewhat unusual relationship with names, such that each individual has several dozen, several of which they are meant to use only while praying, and never to speak out loud to anyone at all. They are an insular society, and none have any name which is appropriate to share with an outsider.
Erupting Essayist: Shambling cones of rock which slide around without any recognizable anatomy. They do perceive the outside world in their own way, and communicate by blasting papers covered with their thoughts and feelings out of the hole at their peak.
Earnest Earth: Humanoids made from packed earth. Their bodies are fragile, and they much prefer to avoid violence at all costs. They’re gifted speakers, friendly, and likable, but this often leads them into forming alliances with whomever is most willing and able of doing violence to them.
Fundamentalist Fedoras: A dogmatic religious group which is among the weakest of the dungeon’s factions. They believe themselves to be an inherently superior species, and that they are owed the submission of outsiders. Difficult to get along with, but easy to manipulate.
Fecund Fowl: Flightless birdfolk capable of firing eggs out of their bodies like projectile weapons. Likely occupy a space with high ceilings to maximize the distance of their attacks. Their society is nominally equitable, though many jokes are made at the male’s relative defenselessness.
Frank Frauds: A group of con artists who have recently been cursed with the need to be honest. Their habits have not yet adjusted to their new condition, and they frequently find themselves putting their feet in their mouths.
Folklorist Fog: Mist creatures which trade in stories. They do not understand anyone who fails to recognize the value of this currency, though most of what they have to share is from cultures too alien to be easily understood.
Garrulous Ghouls: Corpse enthusiasts who believe it is an absolute shame that so many bodies are left in the ground to decompose alone, where the process cannot be witnessed or smelled. They collect bodies in their domain, and celebrate the whole process start to finish.
Glowing Gazers: Humanoids made entirely from light, save for their terrible unlidded eyes. This form is a state of enlightenment which they wish to share with others, but it is obvious they have some sinister secret they’re not sharing.
Grimacing Grandmas: A group of cantankerous older women who were tired of being considered a nuisance and set off to enjoy the end of their lives with some good rows against monsters. They typically call most people “grandchild,” or “sweet pea.”
Gifted Gaffers: A people suffering under a curse which causes them to metaphorically put their foot in their mouth during every social interaction. They have very few friends, due to their constantly unintentional insults. If their speech can be tolerated, they’re eager to have allies.
Heretical Haberdashers: Devotees of a certain style of headwear which has gone so starkly out of fashion that they were cast out of polite society. Plunging head first into the depths of the sunk cost fallacy, they’ve become a grubby band of dungeon dwellers marked out only by their pristine and ugly hats.
Hook Handed Humorists: A genetic offshoot of hook horrors which are capable of speech, and absolutely addicted to comedy. It is their only art form. A novel joke is as good as currency with them.
Hygienic Hogs: Pig people in fitted white clothing. They are obsessively clean, to the point of distraction. They spend hours each day scrubbing every inch of themselves and their home. Untidiness of any kind is an offense, though they know to set their expectations low for outsiders.
Havoc Harlots: Muscle-bound and clad in armored lingerie, these worshipers of elemental chaos must do battle as part of their mating ritual with one another. They’re a horny lot, and tend to throw themselves into a lot of pointless fights. If an outsider can roll with that, the Havoc Harlots are otherwise a pretty chill group.
Ignorant Intellectuals: A cadre of know-nothings and dilettantes convinced their armchair rationalism enables them to understand, grapple with, and solve every problem faced by “lesser” minds. Easily flattered, but infuriatingly pedantic.
Irritable Immolators: Sensitive to loud noise, quiet noise, and most forms of vibration, these grouchy dungeon denizens are sometimes difficult to get along with, which wouldn’t be so troublesome if they couldn’t set things on fire with their minds.
Irresolute Idealists: They have some good ideas about how the dungeon ought to be run, but refuse to do the work to make it happen. Instead they pretend the world already works the way they want it to. When they can’t pretend, they mostly just complain about how this wouldn’t have happened if everyone had listened to them.
Icy Investigators: Puzzle solving savants with very little emotional affect. The only thing they value more than a good solution is a new problem to solve. Often called upon as a neutral party to settle disputes among other factions, though their interest always values revealing the truth above facilitating peace.
Jade Janitors: Living statues of green stone created for the explicit purpose of keeping the dungeon tidy and in good repair. They have developed their own consciousness. They have free will and a rich culture, but none the less janitorial work is fundamental to their nature.
Jittery Jousters: Wearing patchy armor and mounted on various creatures, these nervous folk live by a strict code passed down from more prosperous ancestors. It involves a lot of jousting, which few of them are comfortable with, but anyone who admitted that would be shunned by everyone still to afraid to admit it.
Jubilant Jocks: Wholesome partiers who are always eager to engage in vigorous physical competition of some sort, and to exuberantly celebrate the winner regardless of who they are. Their whole vibe tends to make you think it’s only a matter of time before they say or do something real shitty, but they are basically decent folk who just happen to have the mannerisms of dudebros.
Jackbooted Jurist: A whole faction who believe they are uniquely suited to being judge, jury, and executioner over everyone they meet. Their rulings are harsh, prejudiced against whoever they perceive as least valuable to society, and predicated more on a desire not to have their preconceptions of the world challenged rather than out of any sense of justice.
Kite Kings: A gang of lightweight ruffians who’ve learned to glide and soar through the air using large kites. Their tough-guy posturing tends to make a bad first impression, but they are genuinely good natured if their pride is not wounded.
Knowledgeable Klaxoneers: It is well known (according to these folk) that lions assert dominance by roaring louder than any other lion in the pride. This is their justification for why their groups regularly sound klaxons as they move about the dungeon. It is just one of many “facts” they enjoy sharing to justify their odd behaviors.
Keg Kidnappers: Any time they don’t spend partying is spent planning and executing elaborate heists to acquire sufficient booze for the next party. They have refined tastes, but aren’t above shaking down passers by for a bit of cheap moonshine to pass the time with.
Lusty Loggers: If the dungeon has no ready source of timber, they make regular excursions to gather it. With it, they reinforce and expand the dungeon, as well as craft their erotic arts. Their polished statues and wood carvings are most numerous in their own territory, but have often been traded to other factions for resources. Whether or not their concepts of eroticism match anything that would be recognizable as such to the players depend on the sort of game being run.
Lyrical Lobster Lords & Ladies: Oversize Decapods with fine clothing, ornamented shells, and an aristocratic bearing. Normal speech is considered to be a peasant’s habit. As people of refinement, they never communicate any idea without singing it.
League of the Listless Logicians: A group of rationalists who sequestered themselves here away from all distraction so they could use the power of logic to work through all the problems of the universe. It is a hopeless endeavor, but before coming here they burned so many academic bridges boasting about the success they would have that they feel obligated to continue making token efforts, even though they now indulge in every distraction the dungeon has to offer.
Lucky Lightning: Entities of pure electricity, only partially bound to humanoid shape. They can travel near instantaneously along a network of copper wires they’ve run through the dungeon, which their foes make every effort to find and destroy. If that weren’t bad enough, goddess Fortuna seems to favor these creatures. They love to gamble, but anyone who knows them knows better than to play.
Masked Mamas: By happenstance, these folk found a cache of masks which look like the mother of whomever is seeing them. The masks are not convincing, but they are a little unsettling. They’re worn away from home, to unsettle outsiders.
Mega Microorganisms: By some magic gone horribly awry, a group of bacteria was enlarged to human size, each gaining fragments of the mind of their destroyed creator. They’re led by a cruel virus.
Nagging Neoclassical Nerds: Living in a dungeon can be boring, which is why this group has devoted so much time and energy to reading, re-reading, discussing, and agonizing over the single book they have access to: a textbook survey of classical mythology, art, and history. They interpret everything through this lens. It’s insufferable.
Microwave Mutants: Sterile creatures who reproduce by cajoling lonely people into allowing themselves to be strapped into the device which transforms a person into one of them. Each of the creatures has a lidded organ in their chests, which directs a beam of heat when pulled open.
Metal Mannequins: Fashionable tin gormless. Despite a fearsome appearance, their bodies are hollow, and can be destroyed as any fleshy creature’s could. They spend their time acquiring and creation pleasant clothing. There’s a great diversity of styles among them, though also an agreed upon language to each choice of shape and color, so that each one can know a great deal about what another is thinking and feeling just by looking at them.
Magic Mildew: Fungus people whose bodies are incredibly delicious, and produce delightful psychotropic effects when consumed by most creatures. They do not enjoy being eaten. They are diligently stealthy in their movements, and consider themselves at war with the whole world.
Nudist Nuns: Fuzzy bearlike creatures. If their nudity is not commented on, they will be surprised. Among their own species they are a renegade cult, expelled for their insistence that clothes are unnatural. Given that they’re covered in thick fur, it’s hard to disagree with this precept.
Neighborhood Newsfolk: A faction which, on the surface, remains resolutely uninvolved in any dungeon conflict. They devote themselves to simply reporting the facts on post boards around the dungeon. In secret, they use tricky reporting and occasional falsehoods to manipulate the other factions. Keeping them divided and warlike, so they gradually erode each other’s power.
Narcissistic Novelists: A cadre who long ago agreed to foster unity by passing around a story to each member of the community, to make a paragraph of additions, then on to the next person. The book is now dozens of volumes long and still ongoing. If you meet them, they’ll insist that you read it, and be offended if you don’t like it.
Organfarm Orphans: A group of teens and young adults who all lived together in an orphanage which was selling their body parts to the rich as remedies for various ailments. They escaped about ten years back, and have built a good life for themselves in this dungeon. They have no desire to rejoin society.
Oak Octopi: Land dwelling octopi made from wood. They treat their bodies with tinctures that make them significantly less flammable, since that’s invariably the first thing their enemies attempt. They have a great love of percussive music, and a great fear of mildews and fungi.
Outcast Oligarchs: A group of former slave owners who were forced to flee their homes once the slaves revolted. They’re still infuriated about the event, and how profoundly “evil” it was for those “greedy revolutionaries” to “steal” all of “their hard earned wealth.” They keep trying to force other factions in the dungeon into being their slaves, and it makes them even angrier that nobody is falling for it. They view it as a good deal.
Orbiting Oysters: Clusters of 5-12 oysters which all orbit around a central point, (which they insist is an infinitely dense gravitational mass, and also the location of each cluster’s mind, but there is no evidence for this outside their claims). Each cluster of oysters acts as a single person, with different shells opening to speak in chorus at different times. They are somewhat socially isolated within the dungeon, and it’s never quite clear whether they perceive a reality beyond our own, or whether they’re merely adhering to an inscrutable religion.
Paperweight Pals: A friendly and verbally boisterous faction of speaking boulders. Aside from their faces these folk have no moving parts. Aside from oxygen they have no physical needs. They like to chat, and really appreciate being carried around a bit by anyone strong enough to lift them.
Pompous Pirates: A crew of pirates who were shipwrecked several years ago, and came to plunder the dungeon to buy a new ship. They haven’t been able to earn the treasure they need, but are unwilling to accept defeat, and have become defacto dungeon denizens.
Purple Poets: Purple skinned humanoids who found themselves unwelcome on the surface, and have adapted well to dungeon life. They’re hardy, cunning, and never settle for one word when twelve would do the same job. Language is beautiful after all, and begs to be well used.
Powermad Princess: A twelve year old princess of remarkable ambition and cunning has been quietly planning a coup. Her parents are only in their 40s, and won’t die nearly soon enough. Her most loyal followers have been secreted away down here to train, plunder wealth, make plans, and allies. Many of her followers are themselves quite young, but there’s more than a few adults in the group.
Quixotic Quilters: A strange folk who may or may not be blind, it’s difficult to tell from their behavior. They travel in groups of four or more, always sewing a quilt between them as they go. They wear quilts as clothing, and use them as tools, and hang them as art. The quilts they make depict strange portents and messages, but their meaning is muddled and nigh impossible to interpret most of the time.
Quiet Quarrymen: Svelte and flexible creatures. They wield pick axes with knitted cozies around the metal bits. By some peculiar art they’re able to dig through stone silently, and their wriggling nature enables them to slip through holes too small for most creatures. Note that neither the picks nor the cozies are magical, they are merely components of a technique which also involves certain traits unique to the creatures themselves.
Radiant Rodent Wranglers: Having brightly luminescent skin isn’t a great trait for long term survival in the dungeon, and these folk were easy prey before they learned the art of giant rat riding. They’ve become adept at mounted battle tactics, and a dominating presence in dungeon politics.
Reclining Respectables: A faction of powerful sleepers, able to manifest their will through lucid dreaming, but rendered powerless if awakened. Their sleeping bodies float through the dungeon, often accompanied by ensorcled guardians. Their voices echo as if from everywhere at once.
Romantic Radials: Disk like creatures without recognizable anatomy who have been exiled to this place from somewhere beyond human knowledge. They find the human form profoundly beautiful, and desire to appreciate it—though not in any way we would recognize as sexual.
Rubber Roofer: Rogue golems which resemble something like a species of Gumbies. They’ve fought hard to be free of control, but are still compelled by the last command they were given. They are like addicts who must resist the urge to build roofs over things, and like all addicts they occasionally relapse.
Rumermongering Rooster: A long legged feathery folk, both wingless and flightless. They’re terrible gossips, both in that they gossip a lot and gossip is a generally terrible trait, and also in that they’re bad at it. They frequently invent obviously false information for fun, or profit.
Sanctimonious Sinners: A group of renegades from the surface who are entirely too impressed with themselves for transgressing certain social taboos. They boast of how enlightened they are for not going to ceremonies every churchday, and having sex outside of lifebonds. It is their one defining personality trait. They have so far failed to construct a philosophical framework for their new society, and are thus prone to going crawling back to the ways of their ancestors the moment life gets difficult.
Scary Schoolteachers: Creatures formed from the accumulated fears children have of their teachers, made manifest by so many imaginations working in tandem. They often use big words which don’t exist, and enforce arbitrary rules just to make the world a less fun place to live.
Sulking Sluts: A community of erotic enthusiasts who have so thoroughly explored one another that there doesn’t seem to be anything new left to enjoy. They’d very much like to broaden their horizons, but everyone is put off by all the weird stuff they like to do.
Successful Salamanders: Bipedal amphibians who have really got their shit together as a society. Every problem they face, they just keep knockin’ it outta the park. You wait. Five, maybe six generations from now? It’ll be them dominating the planet, and humans lurking in dungeons.
Simpleton Socialites: When encountered they are either partying, or preparing for a party. These are the two states of being. Guests are always welcome, but one must be wary of being considered a buzzkill. They are not friendly to buzz-killers.
Togate Tabbies: Kitty cats who herd great meat farms of mice, have a complicated political system, hold spirited debates, and solve most of their problems by finding some reason to go to war with one of their neighbors. When not wearing armor, they all wear white togas.
Tame Tyrannosaurs: Man-sized cousins to thunder lizards. They tend to speak slowly, pausing between each word. They’re very chill creatures, and nervous about how imposing they appear to others. They’re not above eating their enemies, but domesticated meat beasts do just as well.
Testy Tabernacles: Creatures with doors on their torsos. They were created only recently, but do not know who their creator is, or why they were made. They do know that the doors in their torsos must never be opened, and whatever is inside must never be witnessed. They are otherwise a generally brusk and irreverent people, but the security of their doors is held absolutely sacrosanct.
Terrible Takers: Intensely suspicious of outsiders. Nearly anything a person says or does is somehow interpreted to be a slight against their dignity, and it takes very careful phrasing to earn their good graces.
Thirsty Thespians: Cut off from most of the dungeon’s sources of water, this group has resorted to putting on plays where the price of admission is a certain quantity of potable water. They must work tirelessly at their art to convince the other dungeon denizens to pay the fee.
Tagging Tadpoles: Oversize tadpoles which swim through the air, and have tiny arms and faces on the front. Whenever they’re not hunting, eating, or sleeping, they’re sneaking into other factions territories to tag the walls with their art as a show of courage and dominance.
Uniformed Ukelelists: A mouthless species, each individual of which appears to be exactly identical to every other. They communicate by playing small stringed instruments that are easily carried on their person. Outsiders are unlikely to understand the nuances of their language, but could grasp the basic emotions being communicated easily enough.
Umbra Union: A collective of spectral shadows who’ve banded together to advance the cause of making the world a darker place. They propose a dimming of the sun, or perhaps placing day moons in the sky to facilitate more frequent solar eclipses. They’re nowhere near accomplishing their goals, but are confident in their eventual success.
Unsatisfied Urges: Adherents of an ascetic philosophy who are teetering on the edge of abandoning their whole way of life. Some cling to their beliefs harder than others, but years of cold gruel, no music, no sex, and no joy seeking of any kind have taken a desperate toll on morale.
Ubiquitous Umpires: There seems to be one in every room and corridor of the dungeon, watching to ensure that no one causes undue damage to the structure, conducts themselves unfairly in a fight, or accomplishes nearly any goal by stealth. It is difficult to stay on their good side unless one is willing to pay the penalty fines they assign for infractions.
Veiled Vestigials: A mystery cult which reveres people who are born with webbed fingers, tails, or other unusual adaptations commonly regarded as “birth defects.” They are regarded as messengers from humanity’s forgotten past. Much weight is given to drug induced visions of past lives.
Vampy Visigoths: A cadre of svelte, leanly muscled, well groomed, hair plucked, makeup wearing, axe wielding brutes. They revel in brutality and destruction, but enjoy sophisticated and sensual home lives.
Vapid Veterans: A group of lost soldiers whose minds appear to have been irresponsibly tinkered with. They believe the dungeon is a war zone where they have no future, and no past. Each day they go through the motions of fighting a war, sometimes allies to other dungeon factions, sometimes imagining that they’re the enemy, and sometimes fighting whole battles against nothing at all.
Vigilant Vermin: Colonies composed of various beetles, flies, centipedes, and other exoskeletal vermin. Each colony can compose itself into an approximation of a human shape at will, though often they spread themselves out through the dungeon to spy on what’s going on, and report back to their fellows.
Volcanic Vicars: Religious zealots who do not know how to communicate with outsiders except by preaching. The fervor of their sermons carries real power. They can compel those who listen to do their will, or speak fiery words which literally burn their foes.
Weakling Warriors: Once a proud clan of warriors, a devastating defeat has left only the noncombatants alive. They retain their culture and their code, and are trying to rise to the challenge of preserving their heritage, but they were noncombatants for a reason.
Wallopin’ Widows: A prim and proper matriarchy. Their warriors garb themselves in heavy black gowns and wield tremendous hammers. Their traditions go back to a period in their history which they’d rather not discuss. They consider impolite conduct as grave an offense as theft.
Wizard Wranglers: Carrying all manner of ingenious traps and anti-magic powders, these hunters proudly proclaim that they’ve never met a magician whose pointy hat isn’t now adorning the walls of their lodge. Fortunately they seem to regard pointy hats as a magician’s uniform. Any magician not wearing one will be safe from detection unless they cast a spell. Note also that these folk may not care to differentiate between wizards and clerics.
Wicker Wildcats: Jaguars woven out of wicker, and animated by magic. They cannot speak, but are quick and capable writers. The fragility and lightweight nature of wicker makes them cautious combatants who prefer only to fight on prepared battlefields.
Woebegotten Weightlifters: A muscular band, passionate about fitness, who have recently been targeted by a spell of depression sent by one of their enemies. Each of them is miserable, simply going through the motions of their lives without feeling any of the joy they used to get from their favorite activities.
Xenolithic Xerophyte: Living cactus people once roamed the dungeon freely, until they tampered with forces beyond their control and became fused with their environment. They exist now only as living carvings, able to move around the dungeon only so long as they slide across one of its surfaces.
Yearlength Yowlers: When these creatures are born they have all the air inside them they will ever need. Over the course of their life it is slowly expelled out a flap in their head, producing a yowling sound. After about one year the air is gone, they have no means by which to draw in new breath, and they die.
Zealous Zucchini: There once was a wizard who transformed themselves into a Zucchini to prove how cool they were. They got stuck, and lived out the rest of their life as sentient produce. They did learn how to reproduce, though their numerous offspring are a little eccentric given that only half their DNA is from a creature with a mind, as well as the significant amount of inbreeding that was necessary to continue the species. They are an overall friendly people, eager to share their cantaloupe-worshiping religion with whomever will listen.
Nothing on this list is meant to be exchanged for money, nor could most of it be described as “magic items” in the traditional sense. Both those things are excellent rewards for players to find in dungeons. Both have even been subjects for my own writing, (see d100 Objects of Moderate Value, or the Magic Items subheading of my Index). However, my goal with this table is to focus on the sorts of treasures that are often neglected when planning a dungeon. Things like relationships, information, opportunities to be creative, unusual tools, character modifications, and access to tremendous and terrible power.
Like any reward from a dungeon, these objects must be earned. Once cannot simply place “friendship with an elder red dragon” inside a chest. Instead the players might find an elder red dragon whose tail was caught in a massive bear trap, and was left here to starve while adventurers looted his treasure horde. Other rewards on this list might be better suited to being quest rewards. For example, a king will listen to the party on matters of public policy if they go into the dungeon and take care of this’n’that for them.
Some well constructed bit of mobile siege equipment, such as a catapult or scorpion.
Complex siege equipment which must be disassembled for transport, such as trebuchets or rolling towers.
A supply of a rare material with incredible properties. Something like mithril or gopher wood.
A ship in good condition.
A war tank, perhaps brought here by a time warp, or a remnant from an ancient magical empire.
A backhoe, cement mixer, bulldozer, steamroller, or other piece of time-warped industrial construction equipment or its ancient magical counterpart.
A supply of absolutely primo drugs. They do all the stuff you like, none of the stuff you don’t like, and there’s enough of it to throw the world’s greatest party.
A bank of unknown seeds with a supply sufficient for long term cultivation. They may be from a far distant land, extinct local flora, or from some entirely alien world.
Command over a great orbiting eye (or telescope if your game allows for it) which can communicate its observations from space.
Access to a heretofore unknown deposit of natural resources. A rich vein of precious metals, a well of oil, etc.
A massive cache of supplies. Stuff like food, medicine, or war materiel. Enough to solve a famine, alleviate a plague, or outfit an army.
A legitimate coin press, or a convincing counterfeit one. Enables the owner to create fake currency if they wish.
An artifact from the future left behind by a clumsy time traveler. It could be information that advances the party’s knowledge, some bit of useful tech like a flashlight or motorcycle, or a weapon like a ray gun.
A specialized encryption machine, which allows some certain group to send secret messages to one another. None has ever fallen into the wrong hands before, and with it the party could intercept highly sensitive messages.
Access to a secret and wide ranging communications network, enabling the players to pass messages quickly and effectively over great distances. Alternately, the players may have the opportunity to exploit or disrupt such a network.
A single-use item of tremendous restorative power. Using it could end a plague, or resurrect a dead army.
A single-use item of tremendous destructive power. Essentially a briefcase sized atom bomb.
A single-use item of tremendous transportation power. Enough that a whole city could be gracefully moved to another planet or plane of existence with the snap of a finger.
An artifact of religious or historical significance which would alter what is commonly believed. The powers that be are probably threatened by this.
Some bit of culture lost to history. Something like extra verses of Gilgamesh, a forgotten board game, or the lost writings of an ancient philosopher.
An imprisoned dungeon delver. If freed they will join your party at least to the end of the dungeon, and if you impress them, may continue on as a hireling.
A kidnapped prisoner, brought to the dungeon against their will. Are they known to be missing? Were they replaced by a doppelganger? Regardless of other circumstances, they will be grateful to be rescued.
The friendship of a skilled professional of some kind, happy to perform some free work for the party. They may be a craftsperson, a lawyer, an accountant, a guide, an engineer, an artist, etc.
The friendship of an individual or a group with the ability to easily access spaces which might be out of reach for the players. For example, merfolk, ghosts, harpies, mole men, desert worm riders, or plane hoppers.
The friendship of an individual or a group which is usually intractably isolationist, or at least opposed to forming friendships with people of the player character’s type. Perhaps wood elves, faeries, or members of an enemy nation.
The friendship of a great and terrible beast which might normally be inclined to eat you, like a troll or dragon.
The friendship of a person who is highly placed within some powerful system. An aristocrat, military officer, or postmaster general.
A group of slaves whom the party can set free. Some of them may choose to join the party, others will spread stories of their heroism, while still others might be positioned to offer substantive rewards once they get home.
Animals of a heretofore unknown type. They might be alien creatures, dinosaurs frozen in ice, dodo birds surviving in a sealed valley, or anything in between. They could be useful for exotic meat, domestic labor, companionship, or merely as curiosities. There are enough to breed a healthy population.
A golem or robot imprints itself on you. It follows wherever you lead and tirelessly performs any task you set it to. It is limited by rudimentary intelligence and creativity, and perhaps a lack of agility.
An ethereal servitor imprints itself on you.
The companionship of an animal which is not normally attainable as a pet. It may be an elephant, rhinoceros, hippopotamus, elk, cheetah, etc. The animal is already trained, understands basic commands, and will aid you so long as it is well treated.
An object with no significant trade value or use value, but which would be the perfect gift for a particular person in the game world. Perhaps a lost painting of a king’s dead lover, or the childhood toy of an elder dragon.
The opportunity to create a new spell, ignoring many of the normal restrictions on time, cost, or scope.
The opportunity to craft a powerful weapon or suit of armor, ignoring many of the normal restrictions on time, cost, or scope.
The opportunity to use a rapid evolution device to guide a new form of animal into existence, matching specifications you set within a certain margin of error.
The opportunity to plan a public works project on the scale of a bridge, road, bath house, grain dole, etc. The party will not need to pay for creating or maintaining this project.
The opportunity to dictate what the production of a factory will be over a given period, and what will be done with the items produced. Players may wish to outfit an army, take a new product to market, or introduce new technology to society.
Temporary command over a work force of builder elves. In a single night they will build any construction that is described to them.
The opportunity to direct the efforts of a team of scientists or engineers towards a problem of the player characters’ choosing.
The opportunity to establish a charity which will tackle some particular social ill.
The opportunity to direct an angry mob towards a particular target.
For a fraction of a second the character becomes a god. Just enough time to make a single world-altering decision. The other gods are swift to put the character back in their proper place, but will not undo this one change.
The opportunity to advise someone powerful about how they ought to proceed. To influence the social policies of a king, or the military tactics of a general. This advice will be followed unless it would be suicidally absurd to do so.
The opportunity to lay down the precepts of a new religion, or life philosophy, which will be adhered to (and no doubt eventually distorted to some degree) by a community of peoples.
A clearly stated and completely accurate prophecy describing an a celestial, geological, or otherwise uncontrollable event. A solar eclipse, a falling meteor, an erupting volcano, a monarch dying or birthing an heir, etc. Only you know this thing will happen.
A clearly stated and accurate prophecy describing an event which could be altered if you choose to pursue it. Someone being murdered, the outcome of a battle or an election, etc.
Knowledge to any one secret in the world, so long as a single person exists who knows about it.
The opportunity to ask an omnipotent intelligence a single question, and receive a fully detailed answer.
The opportunity to ask an omnipotent intelligence three yes-or-no questions, which will be answered honestly and accurately.
All the details of someone’s plans or battle strategies, or perhaps diagrams which describe their defensive arrangements in detail.
Genealogical records which could alter someone’s social position. A member of or friend to the party may find that they’re actually a minor noble, or even in line of succession for the crown. Alternately these records might reveal that some aristocrat’s lineage has been faked.
Evidence which disproves a criminal or embarrassing claim made against the party, friend of the party, or employer of the party. The evidence may or may not be faked, but it is convincing.
Evidence which proves that one of the party’s foes has committed a serious crime, which they will otherwise get away with. Alternately, evidence of a conspiracy the party wishes to expose.
Blackmail sufficiently damning to earn concessions from some person or group. The strength of the blackmail will determine how much the blackmailer can get for it.
A pirate’s map, complete with annotations, passwords for safe rooms, several uncharted islands, and a few spots marked X.
A map to an abandoned tower, castle, city, fleet of warships, or other sturdy construction left over from a previous era. It belongs to anyone who wants to lay claim to it.
A map of a place the player characters would be familiar with. The map reveals hidden passages, buried treasures, forgotten underground structures, or other lost knowledge.
A complete map of this, or some other dungeon, with enough information to make plundering dramatically easier.
Access to an unknown hideyhole which allows someone to spy easily on some incredibly secret location, such as a monarch’s private audience chamber.
Instructions for replicating some secret technology which has become lost. Ulfberht steel, roman concrete, greek fire, brilliantly blue paint, etc.
A map which highlights a valuable traveling route, such as a quick path through a difficult range of mountains, directions that would allow ships to avoid rocks and sandbars in a treacherous river, the safe path through a minefield, or route through an impenetrable marsh.
Access to a magic tunnel which, when crawled through, allows the crawler to temporarily inhabit the body of some notable figure in the game world. At the end of their time, they consistently appear at some place a few miles from the tunnel access.
A control panel for activating some particular catastrophe. Perhaps an earthquake, a tsunami, a meteor, an ice age, etc. The players cannot choose what the disaster is, only where, when, and whether it will happen.
Access to the settings for creation. The power of magnetism, the rate of evolution, etc. Curiously, gravity is currently set to 120% normal strength.
The services of an expert assassin who will eliminate any one person of your choosing. No cost. Success guaranteed.
Command over an army or navy of the damned who will be freed when a certain condition is met. It could be when they win their next battle, when they recapture a certain territory, or avenge an ancient wrong.
The opportunity for characters to clone themselves. It may be that the clone is immediately active, or may be kept dormant. The clone may have complete free will, or be willing to defer to the original.
The opportunity to time travel. This might be subject to any number of limitations (one way and permanent, only within the travelers lifetime, only outside their lifetime, only backwards in time, the traveler can only exist outside their proper time for a few moments, the list goes on.)
The opportunity to stop time the whole world over, allowing the player characters some set period (a few hours/a day/a week) in which they may act before time sets itself into motion once again.
The opportunity to open a door between our world and another. The pathway will be large, permanent, and accessible to many people on both sides. The inhabitants of both worlds will begin to mingle, and influence one another in unpredictable ways.
The chance to bestow a curse of misfortune on someone, such that all their current prosperity will leave them, and all their future ventures will fail, until some condition is met.
A large seed which, when planted, will spread and grow rapidly. In a single afternoon it will produce a whole forest of trees.
The opportunity to parley on friendly terms with a powerful creature. Anywhere from an elder dragon, to a god.
The opportunity to undo a single mistake from the characters past. It must be a choice they made, not just a roll they failed. The change may have unintended consequences.
The opportunity to remove a single person from existence. They will have never existed, and much of what they’ve done
The players find themselves in just the right place at just the right time to influence a war that is well beyond their ken. Some conflict between solar empires, or between the gods themselves. The choice the players make will tip the scales.
A character is inducted into an auspicious order. In addition to potential social benefits, they may gain class features not normally available to their class. For example, they might be declared paladins, and gain a Smite Evil ability.
An upgrade to a skill, spell, or ability the character already possesses. A spell which deals d4 damage may now deal d6; a skill may now be able to ignore certain limitations; An ability may be usable more times per day; etc.
The opportunity to combine their genetic makeup with another creature in some beneficial way. Gaining bird’s wings, or the speed of a cheetah, or the dignified mane of a lion, etc.
The opportunity to subject themselves to a random beneficial mutation.
The opportunity for characters to alter their physical selves. Change their height, sex, age, reroll one or more stats, and even their species to whatever they want.
The opportunity to work with a teacher or therapist who can help characters learn a new skill, or remove some mental hindrance.
Magical or mechanical replacements for lost body parts, which function just as well (or perhaps better) than natural ones.
Experimental body modifications. Adrenaline boosters, sub-dermal armor, internal potion injectors, etc.
Become immune to some specified thing: burns from fire, inhaled poisons, axes, etc.
Secret techniques for better living. Perhaps breathing techniques which double the length of time breath can be held, exercises which grant a set amount of temporary hit points each day they are performed, or sleeping methods which allow a full night’s rest in a scant few hours.
A shipment of stolen goods which, if returned, would prevent a sea captain or merchant from going bankrupt.
Documents which prove that an obscure law or treaty is still in effect. It may become repealed, but until it is the player characters can abuse it to some advantage.
The ability to understand and speak with something unusual. Birds, cats, fish, trees, etc.
The opportunity to perform a profoundly good deed, such as releasing a thousand imprisoned souls. Performing the good deed is trivial, but offers no tangible personal benefit.
A key needed to access something in another dungeon, or a bank vault, or to bypass security somewhere.
The remains of some notable figure who disappeared mysteriously. Perhaps a noted political reformer, a heroic adventurer, or a renowned artist. Apparently they met their end in this dungeon.
The remains of a ghost or phylactery of a lich, enabling the characters to send some wayward spirit to its proper rest.
The opportunity to undergo a ritual which will allow characters to become ghosts (or perhaps other forms of undead) when they die.
Alternate versions of common spells which are dramatically more effective, but are more difficult to cast. Perhaps they have a longer casting time, require multiple casters, or have expensive material components.
Access to a great tunnel through the underdark which allows travelers to bypass some surface danger, such as a terrible desert, marsh, or enemy nation.
Access to one or more magical portals, which could transport a person instantaneously to set locations throughout the world, or even to different planes and planets.
It has been my experience that even the most creatively written dungeons tend to ignore the opportunity to be creative with their basic building blocks. This isn’t the worst thing. Stone walls and wood doors work. Dungeons don’t exist to be flashy, they exist to channel play into interesting situations. That said, something as simple as giving your dungeon carpeted floors and steel doors goes a long way towards making it memorable. After being introduced those details can easily slip into the background, until brought forward again when the Magic User tries to power up their Lightning Bolt by rubbing their socks on the carpet.
Because this table is made up of details which are meant to slip into the background, I have specifically indicated that each results applies to everything of its type. That’s just my framing, though. If you roll “Floors are carpeted,” it is worth considering that instead of all the floors, perhaps only some are carpeted. Alternatively it may be that all floors in a particular section are carpeted. For that matter you might also consider that if the floors are carpeted, what does that say about the walls? The ceilings? Are they carpeted as well, or do they have some other styling which seems like an appropriate accompaniment to carpeted floors?
Thanks are due to Qpop for proof reading this post.
Doors are all heavy portculli. They are difficult to lift, and will slam shut again the moment they are released unless special care is taken to brace them.
Doors open automatically whenever someone comes near them, and automatically close again behind them.
Doors are all quite small, requiring adult humans to crouch or crawl to pass through.
Doors all swing freely in either direction, like saloon doors do (also called batwing doors).
Doors all have windows in them. Perhaps open bars or safety glass which can only be looked through, or perhaps easily broken plate glass.
Doors all have windows in them which advantage viewing from a single side, such as peep holes, or sliding hatches.
Doors are all terribly noisy when opened or closed. Perhaps their hinges squeak, or maybe each has a chime attached to it.
Doors have arms on the hinge side, allowing them to be barred. Some or all may even have bars nearby ready to be put in place.
Doors are all high up on the walls, and must be climbed up to.
Doors are all trapdoors in the floor or ceiling. Thus even rooms on the same dungeon level are connected by passages above or below.
Doors are all one-way. They close behind each person who passes through them, and cannot be opened from the other side.
Doors are all revolving doors, with “wings” that rotate around a central pivot point. There may be 2 or more of these, creating separated sections between them.
Doors are all open doorways, without any way of being closed.
Doors are all insubstantial. Hanging drapes, or strings of beads. Just enough to block clear sight, but not sound or entry.
Doors are all rollup style, like a garage door. The rails which guide and hold it might be exposed, or could be enclosed within the wall.
Doors all have a stable door style, with upper and lower halves. (Also called Dutch Doors.)
Doors all have smaller “wicket doors” built into them. (Are the wicket doors for creatures smaller than humans, or are the proper doors for masses of humans / large creatures?)
Doors all have a lower lip to step over as you go through them, like those found on ships.
Doors are all air tight, and opened via a time consuming turn crank or wheel.
Doors are all airlock chambers, with air tight doors on each side, and a space between where characters must wait. The airlocks might exist because the rooms are kept at different temperatures or pressure levels, or because their atmospheres contain trace elements which are dangerous when mixed, or potentially for no reason at all.
Doors are all janky, old, and often get stuck.
Doors are all locked, barred, or otherwise intentionally sealed. Some creatures may carry key rings, key cards, know passwords, etc.
Doors are all sliding doors.
Doors are all folding doors, to one or both sides.
Doors are all double doors.
Doors all have sticky notes, thumbtacks, or doodles on them. Clearly they’re being used as a means of casual communication between dungeon inhabitants.
Doors are made in the style of oversize pet doors. Great flaps which must be lifted as one passes through, and fall back down behind.
Floors are carpeted.
Floors are all slippery, perhaps covered in goo, or ice.
Floors are a raised constructed path through a natural space. Like a catwalk through a cave, or a pontoon walkway along a canal.
Floors are packed earth, or so thoroughly covered in dirt that they may as well be packed earth.
Floors are sandy, snowy, or otherwise provide awkward and unstable footing.
Floors are bouncy. They might be springy lick a trampoline or mattress, or they may have been coated in flubber.
Floors all have drains in them, and are gently sloped so water will run towards these drains.
Floors have dry channels running at their edges, perhaps once used as gutters, or ruts for wheels.
Floors are cracked and uneven. Footing is poor, and dropped items may be lost.
Floors have many weeds growing up through them, perhaps dense enough to occasionally tangle feet during vigorous action.
Floors are loose tiles or boards which can be removed easily.
Floors are noisy: metal plates, creaking timbers, or covered in dry leaves.
Floors all have paths to various locations painted on them, like you might see in an airport or train station.
Floors are solid marble.
Floors are angled steeply to one side, as if the dungeon is tilted at a 20°+ angle.
Oops! All pressure plates! There is nowhere to step that doesn’t depress with an ominous mechanical click.
Floors move those who stand on them. They may be conveyor belts, or be under the influence of magical riptides.
Floors are scattered with toys. Dolls, balls, bicycles, left scattered haphazardly about.
Floors have a rail system built on them. There may be mine carts or handcars.
Floors are wet, soggy, or perhaps even covered in ankle-deep water.
Floors are very wet. The water is at least waist high. A boat may be required.
Floors are fragile. Glass, or ice. One must tread carefully lest it crack, and drop them into danger, or simply into a lower level.
Floors are metal grating.
There is no proper floor. One must traverse the rooms and corridors by hopping between stepping stones.
Floors are pointy, covered in caltrops, broken glass, or nails mounted as spikes.
Floors are covered in detritus and trash. It may be omnipresent but scattered, or so dense that one’s feet sink into it.
Walls are easily destructible, perhaps made of rice paper.
Walls are dense with written language. It could be intended carvings, modern graffiti, or science fictiony scrolling text.
Walls are dense with art, perhaps carved bas relief, or murals.
Walls are dense with holes, cupboards, drawers, or animal burrows. These are mostly empty, gross, dangerous, or filled with useless junk.
Walls are dense with buttons, switches, and other controls. Some don’t do anything, others seem to cause random events to occur. Insert your favorite random table here.
Walls are dense with shelves displaying tchotchkes. Ceramic figurines, papercraft, old toys, fake flowers. Objects which once brought someone joy, but now serve only to collect dust.
Walls are plaster, and perhaps covered with wallpaper. The pattern could be nearly anything.
Walls are densely stacked with bones.
Walls have regularly spaced air vents built into them, which are too small to climb into.
Walls have regularly spaced air vents built into them, which are large enough to climb into.
Walls are very smooth. Not even the most skilled climber could find handholds.
Walls are rough. Even a complete novice can climb them with relative ease.
Walls are padded. Perhaps thoroughly so to prevent injury, as in an asylum. Alternately they may be fine tufted leather or velvet, meant to create an air of sophistication.
Walls often have windows into adjacent spaces. These might be glass, wicker, barred with metal, tiny arrow slits, etc.
Walls are periodically interrupted by half columns which could be used for cover.
Walls are constructed of a thick bramble, like blackberry bushes.
Something icky oozes out of the walls. Slime, blood, or more feculent excretions.
Walls are limited force fields. They might keep air in, and water/vacuum/monsters out. However, if one were to stumble, they’d go right through, and may not be able to get back.
Walls are constructed of poorly mortared bricks, many of which are loose.
Walls are made from honeycomb, shellac, or other insect excretion.
Walls on the interior of the dungeon are all metal bars. They can be seen through, reached through, and for particularly small characters possibly squeezed through.
Walls are dangerous to touch. Perhaps because they are very hot or cold, are dense with sharp protrusions, or charged with electricity.
Walls and Ceilings can be walked on as easily as floors.
Walls are great ramshackle heaps of junk. Oak tables nailed to bed frames, densely stacked chairs, supported by cast iron bath tubs, and insulated with soiled mattresses.
Ceilings have pipes running along them.
Ceiling leaks. Probably water, but perhaps fluids less wholesome.
Ceilings have thick roots protruding through them from plants up above.
Ceilings are low. Human sized creatures will need to hunch, or even crawl to get through.
Ceilings have cameras, crystal balls, or disgusting organic eyes on them. It’s unclear who (if anyone) is observing.
Ceilings are high enough that most light sources cannot illuminate them. What might lurk up there?
Ceilings are mirrored.
Ceilings have skylights or open shafts in them, which partially illuminate the dungeon.
Ceilings do not exist. The dungeon is open to the sky, perhaps with some danger on top of the walls preventing easily cheating one’s way through the dungeon.
Ceilings are covered by colorful drapes. These might be bright and tidy, or soiled and tattered.
Ceilings are home to a number of birds who’ve made their nests in the dungeon.
Ceilings are covered in sleeping bats, or docile insects. If disturbed they will swarm.
Ceilings are covered in loose paneling, which could be pushed aside to access a crawlspace above.
Ceiling has exposed rafters.
Ceilings are made up of something which, if the laws of physics were being obeyed, ought to immediately collapse. Something like water, or loose sand.
Ceiling has regularly placed fans, which may or may not operate.
Ceilings droop precariously, and are supported by ramshackle post hoc construction.
Ceilings have footprints on them.
Ceilings are coated in a weird and dense mist. If it is dangerous to breathe, it is at least too high to be accidentally inhaled.
Ceilings are dense with hanging chains, hooks, pulleys, and rails.
Ceilings are metal of a peculiar color. Anything which hits them bounces directly away without losing energy.
Ceilings are dense with hanging papercrafts clearly made by children.
Ceilings are dense with precarious icicles or stalactites, ready to drop dangerously if jostled.
This table focuses specifically on cartographic prompts. The goal is to add both visual interest to your maps, and functional differences to your dungeon. It’s is challenging to clearly communicate lines on paper when my only tool is words, so I must thank Elias Stretch and PresGas for both taking a pass on this doc to ensure it was comprehensible. Thanks are also due to Dyson Logos, whose maps I studied extensively while filling out the back half of this table. I’ve also used clippings of his maps for the illustrations in this post. (Specifically: Coolant Processing Facility, Dwarven Mines, and Kins River Cave.)
Layout is mirrored on one or more axis. (Roll a d6?)
Layout is shaped like something, such as a dog, an axe, a word, a hand, etc.
Layout must conform to the shape of some object the dungeon is built within, such as an outcropping of stone, a titan’s skull, a colossal statue, a world tree, etc.
Layout is open concept, with many mini-dungeons all connected to the same central space, or with dungeon spaces being separated by distance and low visibility (mist, woodland) rather than by walls.
Layout is a rising or descending spiral. For example: a path carved around the outside of a steep hill, or around the edge of a quarry.
Layout combines both natural and constructed spaces.
Layout is built in and around some more ancient construction, so that two or more distinct architectural styles are evident.
Layout has been modified by amateur dungeon denizens digging out new corridors and chambers, knocking holes everywhere, and getting around on ladders and rope bridges.
Layout includes rooms or corridors which overlap one another while nominally being on the same level of the dungeon. (i.e., the same sheet of graph paper).
Layout includes varied room shapes which serve as indicators of their contents. For example, circular rooms might always contain magical traps, octagonal rooms might be claimed by a specific faction, etc.
Layout is built in and around a massive corpse of some kind. A neolithic mega crab, a dead titan, a cosmic snail shell, etc.
Laid out as several separate clusters of dense dungeon, connected to one another by long corridors.
Layout adheres to a certain regular structure. Perhaps a grid of broad corridors forming “blocks” of square dungeon space between them, or the dungeon could be a connected set of geomorphs.
Layout includes an exploration bottleneck. A single corridor or room at which all the dungeon’s tangled pathways converge before opening up again on the other side.
Layout is separated into 2 or more disconnected parts, such that delvers must pass through non dungeon space to reach different areas of the same dungeon.
A river flows through the dungeon. It may have been intentionally incorporated into the construction, or the result of a natural disaster which broke the original layout.
There’s a pond, lake, or even a sea contained within the dungeon. It may have been intentionally incorporated into the construction, or the result of a natural disaster which broke the original layout.
There’s one or more geysers in the dungeon, which erupt with hot water from time to time. They may have been intentionally incorporated into the construction, or the result of a natural disaster which broke the original layout.
The dungeon contains a pleasant hot spring.
The dungeon is replete with wells, fountains, or other constructed water features.
There’s a body or a river of some hazardous liquid in the dungeon: lava, acid, mercury, etc.
There’s a body of some entrapping liquid in the dungeon, such as quicksand, thick mud, or tar pits.
Some significant portion of the dungeon is underwater. (20% + [d8×10])
Dungeon has a water level which rises and falls dramatically. It may be due to tides, artificial cycles, or controlled by some accessible mechanism.
Numerous small pools of fetid standing water pockmark the dungeon’s layout, breaking up its spaces.
The dungeon abuts a beach, opening out into a hidden cove that is not otherwise accessible. Perhaps with a secret dock, and further dungeon rooms to be found on a nearby island.
Many half walls, fences, or barricades break up the dungeon’s spaces.
Many boulders, pillars, or statues break up the dungeon’s spaces.
Large furniture such as shelves, tables, couches, or beds break up the dungeon’s spaces.
Trees grow in the dungeon, breaking up its spaces. The dungeon may have been built around them, or they may have broken the dungeon’s original structure
The dungeon has moving parts, such as a room which rotates, slides laterally, or moves up and down like an elevator.
Many passageways are unusually narrow, requiring explorers to walk sideways, or remove bulky equipment.
Connections between areas are sometime spatially impossible. Corridors looping back on themselves, or doors leading to the other side of the dungeon, etc.
Vertical movement from level to level is accomplished by some means other than stairs. Climbing ropes, fireman’s poles, ramps, ladders, elevators, levitation chutes, etc.
Greased slides, escalating ladders, trap doors, or elevators create one-way passage to higher or lower dungeon levels.
Some passages are only accessible by swimming underwater.
There are many more stairs than necessary. Stairs everywhere. Hallways go up and down, doors enter rooms above or below ground level, etc.
There is a train, trolley, a system of teleportation pads, warp pipes, or other rapid conveyance through the dungeon
There are meandering, tangled hallways between rooms, perhaps with dead ends.
There are multiple paths up and down between each dungeon level.
Dungeon contains a broad staircase, or grand promenade.
Dungeon contains one or more rickety bridge.
Dungeon contains one or more gap which is crossed by something other than a bridge: a rope, a chain, a basket on a rail, etc.
Dungeon contains one or more balcony, which may look out over a different part of the dungeon, or over some exterior space.
Dungeon contains one or more sky bridge, connecting two dungeon spaces by walking over a different part of the dungeon, or over some exterior space.
The spaces intended to be inhabited are criss-crossed by traversible sewers, air ducts, or maintenance tunnels.
Some areas on the same level do not connect directly, and can only be accessed by traveling through a different level.
Main hallways include alcoves, perhaps originally intended for small statues or sitting spaces.
There’s a natural cliff face in the dungeon. There are rooms above and below, with no intended means to get between them save climbing.
Dilapidation has left several of the dungeon’s non-load-bearing walls weak and easy to knock holes through. Doing so is noisy, and leaves clear sign of passage.
The entrance cannot be used as an exit.
Dungeon’s entrance is a small dock, only accessible by boat.
The entrance is in some public and relatively safe space. The presence of the dungeon might be unknown to most folk, or it may be a landmark which everyone steers clear of.
The entrance is inside the ruins some structure which has long since been razed to the ground.
The entrance requires a perilous climb, preventing quick egress. Perhaps up a cliff, down a well, through a smoke stack, down a crevasse, etc.
The entrance can only be accessed by traversing an inhospitable environment. Perhaps it is deep in a swamp, hidden in a desert, behind a waterfall, or at the bottom of a lake.
The entrance is at the center of the dungeon, with rooms radiating out in every direction.
There is more than one entrance to this dungeon. (Roll 2d4?)
Dungeon includes obvious and useful entrances which are locked from the inside. One must open them by entering first through the most difficult entrance.
Immediately upon entering the dungeon, characters have access to d6 + 1 levels. Perhaps via a central staircase or elevator.
The dungeon has windows, or even whole walls open to the outside. These are likely in areas with a high elevation, and inconvenient as an entrance.
The dungeon includes a connection to the underdark, hell, the hollow earth, or some other new world with its own limitless adventuring possibilities.
An easily destructible wall could create an exit from the dungeon. It is not obvious from the outside, and may even open into some bustling populated space.
The dungeon intersects with d6 structures which are currently in use, but exist apart from the dungeon. For example, the dungeon may grant access to a secret door or peep hole into someone’s home.
Part of the dungeon exists in “duck blinds.” For example, the dungeon might connect to several buildings in a large city which appear normal, but in fact have no real entrances.
Part of the dungeon’s original construction was never completed, leaving inconvenient dead ends, cranes, scaffolding, etc behind.
There are secret doors which connect non-secret areas. Their purpose is to enable quick and subtle movement, rather than to hide treasures.
There are secret doors which are only accessible after falling into a pit trap.
There are false doors, used to frustrate explorers, or disguise traps.
There are traps designed to separate parties into two or more groups.
There are hidden observation spots, where certain areas of the dungeon can be observed unobtrusively.
There are many curtains or tapestries, some of which simply hang against the wall, while others have doors, shelves, or passages hidden behind them.
There’s at least one secret door which is clearly called out by the architecture. For example, stairs leading up to a dead end, or a group of doors with an obvious blank spot.
Dungeon includes many small storage closet sized rooms.
Dungeon includes a section where instead of walls, the rooms and hallways are bounded by a hazardous drop, a lake of fire, or some other hazard.
Dungeon includes walkways around the upper edges of its spaces, perhaps serving as the corridors of an upper level, or firing positions for archers.
Dungeon contains some space where the elevation changes are drastic enough to justify topographical contours.
Dungeon includes a patio, breezeway, gazebo, or other partially enclosed space.
Dungeon includes areas so dilapidated that they are prone to collapse if not traversed carefully. The ceiling may fall in, or the floor may fall down, etc.
Dungeon contains an area clearly meant to be protected or secret, which has long since been forced open.
Above ground levels include towers, keeps, or other enclosed structures which extend upwards from larger levels below.
Dungeon includes an exterior garden or courtyard space, no less dangerous to explore than its interior spaces.
Dungeon contains a space within it which is so large that play ought to switch to overland travel rules while traversing it.
Dungeon contains a large space with individual structures, and perhaps even roads built inside of it.
Dungeon contains an “outdoor” space, such as a garden, woodland, farmland, or a grassy plain. How does this space fit and thrive within a dungeon?
Dungeon is the only way to gain access to a real outdoor space, such as an enclosed valley lush with fertile soil and bounteous plant life.
Dungeon contains a settlement as safe, prosperous, and welcoming as any village the party might encounter on the surface.
A crevasse intersects multiple spaces throughout the dungeon. It might be 10 feet deep and easy to get through, or it may be a great bottomless chasm that only a skilled engineer could bridge. The dungeon may have been intentionally built around it, or it may have been opened up by an earthquake which damaged the dungeon’s intended structure.
Dungeon contains gaps (either intentionally constructed, or the result of damage) which are deep and wide enough to hinder progress. They must be jumped, bridged, swung or flown across, or bypassed by some other creative means.
Dungeon contains spaces which are completely inaccessible via normal means due to collapse, or other dilapidation.
Dungeon contains raised sub-areas, such as a stage, pulpit, natural ledge, or plateau. The upper and lower parts of the room might be connected by ramps, stairs, or ladders. Alternately, they may not be connected directly at all.
Dungeon contains lowered sub-areas, such as gladiatorial arenas, holding pens, or sacrificial pits.
Dungeon contains windows into spaces which are not quickly or obviously accessible from where they are visible. (“window” here being a euphemism, since breaking glass would be easy to do.)
Dungeon contains one or more rooms which intersect with multiple levels.
Dungeon contains one or more rooms with no physical connection to the rest of the dungeon. How do you get there?
Dungeon contains a ship. The stranger it is for a ship to be here, the better.
Dungeon is at least partially reclaimed by nature. Spaces exposed to sunlight have been broken apart by growing trees and other plants.
Dungeon contains a large space where the ‘rooms’ are platforms suspended from the ceiling above a deadly drop.
The roof of the dungeon is accessible, and includes its own creatures, treasures, tricks and traps. Climbing to it from the outside would be difficult, but probably not impossible.
Dungeon includes some spaces with air currents strong enough to be dangerous. They may be natural, such as a walk along a cliffside path, or produced artificially by fans or magic.
The Dungeon d100s is a series of six tables that will appear here over the next six days. Each will provide 100 prompts for creating an interesting dungeon. The tables are not necessarily meant to be used in tandem. A dungeon forced to include one more more results from all six of them would likely be an overstimulating, unplayable mess. Better to pick one or two tables, or even roll a d6 to determine which of the tables you roll on, then employ your own creativity to build out from the result you get. If a result doesn’t spark your own creativity, reroll.
This first table is the most general. At various times it has been called d100 Dungeon Origins, d100 Dungeon Gimmicks, and at one point simply d100 Dungeons. At least two of the six tables in the series budded off from this one when I realized far too many entries revolved around the same shtick. At times I was tempted to split even a third table off from this one, but 600 prompts has proven to be the hard limit of my creativity. Thanks are due to my sister Veronica Whelan for proofreading this colossus.
Good dungeons are places in decline. Knowing their original purpose is useful both before and during play as a creative prompt, but it is essential in my view that the whole dungeon cannot be united in its purpose. Dungeons are wild places. Places where players can get into shenanigans, where they can do violence, and not be immediately rebuked from all sides by a united front of defenders. If a place is active; held in whole by a single faction, then the mode of play is dramatically different. The players are storming a fortress, not exploring a dungeon. Both activities have the potential to generate fun play situations, but are so different from one another that I don’t think they can be usefully discussed in the same breath.
A palace made entirely from sea foam, which comes into and out of existence with the tides. Inhabited by folk who are able to survive the transition.
The folly of a forgotten ancient civilization, jealous that none of their accomplishments were listed among the wonders of the world. They built this labyrinth in hopes that their architectural ambition would be recognized, but it never was.
A magical board game which the party has been drawn into. The game may have rules or random events which don’t conform the laws of normal reality. Leaving the game may be as simple as reaching the exit, or require completing arduous win conditions.
An alternate version of some familiar game space. Perhaps the tower of a friendly wizard, the party’s home city, or their own citadel. The place may have fallen into chaos while they were away, or may be mirrored in an extradimensianal space, or be fully recreated elsewhere for some mysterious purpose.
Alive, in the same sense that an intelligent magic item is alive. The dungeon has a consciousness, and a will. New corridors and rooms sometimes appear as it becomes stronger, and it seeks to better itself further by accumulating greater hordes of treasure within itself.
An in-game version of a real world location that some or all of the players would be personally familiar with. A local grocery store, church, school, or someone’s current or former home. It may need to be altered to function as a useful dungeon, but the players ought to be aware of its origin so they can use their real world knowledge in play.
A holy site built in ancient times by a religion which still exists today. It was ceremonially sealed to mark the end of some forgotten religious schism. What few pilgrims still visit must be content to make their prayers at the entrance.
Mobile, requiring that characters catch up to it, or anticipate its route when they wish to enter. It may have been built on (or in) a massive creature, it might move mechanically with understandable mechanisms, or by inscrutable magics. It might walk on legs, roll on wheels or treads, hover, swim, or burrow. Its movement might be destructive or not, intentionally or unintentionally. It might have an operator, or follow a per-designated program, or simply have gone rogue. It may be new or ancient: a familiar sight, or something unexpected and frightening. When the players leave, they could be quite far from anywhere they’ve ever been before.
Flying high in the air, requiring some effort for characters to reach it. Its flight may be slow and drifting, or swift. It may be stable in the air, or in the process of falling, or there may be something the players can do within the dungeon to cause it to come crashing down.
The colossal pleasure barge of some ancient ruler. The reach of its construction exceeded the grasp of ancient ship builders, and it sank. It may still be underwater, or it may be resting in a dry lake bed, or existing in some stage between the two extremes. After being here so long it may have been connected to tunnels, or to some greater dungeon beneath it.
A focal point for a time fracture. Within it, the characters can travel to different eras of the dungeon’s existence. Probably a fixed number of them. Travel through time can only occur at certain fixed locations, and the players can only exit the dungeon in their own era.
The elaborate hairpiece of a grand lady, who contracted a wizard to fill it with tiny treasure and tiny monsters, and to shrinkify any adventurers who want to brave the danger so she can show off during the grandest party of the season.
The death palace of an ancient conqueror queen who demanded that each of her subject people’s build a grand home for her. This particular one was filled with confusing corridors and traps, in the express hope that she might visit someday.
Permeated by extreme temperature: perhaps very hot, in which case armor is dangerous to wear, metal objects are dangerous to touch, and copious water rations are needed. Alternately it may be very cold, in which case layered clothing is necessary, floors will often be slippery, and important details may be obscured by ice or snow.
A defense built by a subterranean civilization. They dug ever upwards, not realizing until too late that eventually the solid earth would give way to a terrifying sky. Believing they had discovered hell, they built this place to prevent any horrible surface creatures from reaching the wholesome lands below.
A training ground for a creature which predates on humans. Their young must learn to hunt perfectly in controlled conditions, lest they make some mistake which reveals the creature’s existence to human kind. People are lured to this place with rumors of hidden riches.
A facility for the creation of new forms of life. It may be a naturally occurring spot where evolution is wild and rapid, it may be God’s own workshop, or it could be the magical or scientific laboratory of an ambitious mortal. In the latter case, there must have been some intent: to replace people with clones, to produce an army, to satisfy a god complex, etc.
An afterlife, which was once a paradise for the adherents of faith now long forgotten. The gods who made it are dead, asleep, or so weakened they can no longer justify the effort of maintaining the place. Many of its pleasures have turned to horrors, and much of its boundless space has collapsed into the ether between realities.
The former hive of an extinct colony of giant architect ants. The spaces are more complex and intricate than one would expect of a typical ant, but retain a naturalistic quality.
A small cog in the mechanism of reality. If the birth and death of the whole universe is a cycle that takes ten billion billion years, it is only because its cycle is powered by other cycles which turn more rapidly. This place is born, dies, and is reborn within a mere few hundred years, and is presently in a state of collapse. Even as the player characters plunder it, parts of it will cease to exist around them.
The extra-dimensional retreat of a long dead wizard. It is located on another world, and enjoys grand views of beautiful vistas. The exits all lead back to our world however, as this planet is entirely inhospitable to all familiar modes of life.
The habitat of a unique species of creature that lives nowhere else. They are not hostile, and may not even know how to respond to violence. Their presence alters the typical dungeoneering experience in a major way: perhaps they scream when they see light, or exhibit a natural anti-magic field, they may excrete a slippery or sticky substance on every surface, or be naturally inclined towards serving as mounts.
A mysterious structure which appeared overnight, and occupies a much-used space. It may be sitting in a farmer’s field, or in a town square, or perhaps its appearance has displaced other structures whose inhabitants are missing. (Did they go wherever their homes went, or are they in the dungeon?) Alternately, the dungeon might have formed itself around existing structures, such that their inhabitants are now trapped in their own homes.
A towering lighthouse, abandoned after an ancient catastrophe sundered the earth and caused the shore to move hundreds of miles away.
The studio of an eccentric artist who stumbled into being considered a “genius” by wealthy elites. This person dabbled in every medium, indulging every depraved and harmful instinct in the pursuit of novel modes of expression. When they passed, their multiple wills created such a tangle of confusion (another attempt at unusual artistic expression) that the descendants of the original beneficiaries are still arguing in the courts.
A snowy mountain resort for affluent guests. It may have been a ski or hunting lodge which has fallen out of fashion, and gone many years without proper maintenance to protect it from the bitter cold.
A secluded island or private stretch of beach which was once a popular destination for wealthy people on holiday. Nearby is a severely depopulated service village where the help was left to fend for themselves. They resent living in hovels and penury while all this wealth has sat abandoned for decades. They’d move in if they could, but the owners left many dangers behind to “protect their property.”
A great multi-level stable. The folly of an obscenely wealthy aristocrat who loved horses more than they loved people. Much more.
Someones unconscious mind, which has been temporarily manifested as a series of rooms and corridors. It may be the psyche of a king, a demigod, or a player who happens to be absent for this session. Within are creatures that represent the character’s hangups, insecurities, and defensiveness. The treasures may be their secrets, spells, or access to levers which control their feelings in some way. The players might want to help this person heal from trauma, recall vital information, or may simply be taking advantage of a person who has fallen into this peculiar and vulnerable position.
A slaughterhouse or fish gutting plant. An industrial building for killing and disassembling meat creatures. Perhaps built in a strange way by an eccentric industrialist, or warped by angry magics.
An island which has only recently risen up from the sea. Its spaces are constructed of coral, lava channels, sea monster corpses, and dense groupings of strange plants which only survive underwater. If it rose only yesterday it will be teeming with dying sea life, lashing out at anything that comes near. If it rose a few years ago, a new ecology will be emerging, and the inhabitants will be migrants seeking to build a new life for themselves.
The seasonal villa of an obscenely wealthy bourgeois or aristocrat. They are not in residence, and so it is protected by traps and guard creatures. The deeper one delves into the villa, the more terrible depravities are uncovered.
In heaven there is a house waiting for each of us. Angels toil to make these homes worthy of our goodness. Recently a true saint who had earned themselves a sprawling and decadent mansion committed a horrific sin just before their death. They were cast into hell, and in His disgust God hurled their mansion away, and did not realize that it fell to earth.
Placed here by the gods themselves as a test for those who might wish to consider themselves heroes. Those who overcome its many challenges will earn themselves divine attention. This is, at best, a mixed blessing.
A great landfill where the detritus of civilization is discarded. A series of passages and chambers have been hollowed out of of the great heaps of trash, perhaps connecting further to underground tunnels or sewers. Inhabitants probably include a mystery cult of rich kids on a poverty tourism kick.
A titanic boulder impossibly rolling back and forth between two mountain peaks without ever appearing to loose momentum. Perhaps the spirit of Sisyphus labors on it. The dungeon within the boulder may be terribly disorienting, or may have a sort of artificial gravity to it.
Radiant with powerful healing energies. Any living creatures within the dungeon gain fast healing 20, though this only applies to injuries sustained while inside the dungeon. This makes both the player characters, and the inhabitants they may come into conflict with, functionally invulnerable. Violence will not effectively solve problems here.
An active factory whose interior is a mystery. The dungeon’s produce simply emerges, and is taken for granted by those who collect and use it. Alternately, the factory dungeon may take input, but give no output. People may continue to load coal onto a mysterious conveyor belt simply because it is a traditional ritual.
So high tech as to be impossible for the player characters to comprehend. It might be an alien vessel or space station, or an anthropological observation post. It is destroyed, abandoned, and at least partially reclaimed by nature. There may or may not be some survivors left behind, some bits of technology could still work, a clever person could learn a lot from studying this place, and potentially advance their own culture’s technological abilities.
Santa’s Workshop, or the lair of some other folkloric character. The burrow of the Easter Bunny, or the sky castle of the twelve merry goblins of [insert setting specific holiday here]. The more out of season it is when this dungeon is delved the better. It might be properly abandoned, or perhaps the mighty folkloric creature is hibernating until their appropriate season. Perhaps each year they wake up and spend a week sweeping out all the squatters who settled in their home while they slept.
Builder Beetles were born from a poorly-worded wish, spoken by a dying architect who regretted never being responsible for any truly spectacular structures. Where they come from before they do what they do, and where they go after they’re done, is a mystery. They appear in small human settlements, drive everyone out, and build. Great walls and ceilings over the whole town, connecting existing buildings with elaborate tunnels and sky bridges until the whole village is a dungeon. Humans rarely want to live in the spaces the Builder Beetles leave behind, but for other creatures it is a very convenient domicile.
Noah’s Ark (or perhaps the arc of Ziusudra, Atra-Hasis, Utnapishtim, etc). A great vessel large enough to shelter a breeding stock of all the world’s land animals during a great flood, which came to rest on the top of a mountain when the water receded. It still rests their, perhaps filled with the descendants of those unrecorded creatures who chose not to disembark with the rest.
A legal library, for The Law is sacred, and its sanctity depends on its secrecy. Only the arbiters could ever know The Law, only they could study and interpret its precepts. To maintain the purity of The Law, it had to be housed in a labyrinth beneath the city, with entrances known only to the arbiters, so they could disappear to consult the law, and reappear to render their verdict wherever their intercession was needed.
A woodland where the trees and bramble grow so thickly they might as well be walls surrounding ‘rooms’ and ‘corridors’ that were carved into existence by an ancient and secretive religion.
A test of maturity, constructed bit by bit by the girls of the People at the Foot of the Mountain became women. Before any girl could seek a mate and a home of her own she must present a plan for a new corridor or room, then build it with her own two hands. She may be instructed, but never aided. Many began their work quite young, as it could take years to complete an ambitious addition. The temple is so sprawling now that no complete map of it exists, and all manner of creature have settled in long neglected sections.
An abandoned train yard. No active rails even connect to this place anymore, and the rusting hulks are scattered pell mell about the place.
The work of true artisans. Folks who believe in craftsmanship for its own sake. It should not matter whether anyone will ever see a thing, one should still labor to make it as beautiful and sturdy as they possibly can. The result of your work should stand apart from every other example of its kind because even if other people don’t see it, it will be appreciated by god who sees everything. Even this sewer system.
A trap for humanity, eroded into existence by spiteful water spirits who do not appreciate the haphazard way their essence is often drawn up to the surface via hateful human wells. The spirits deposited many noxious fungi, amphibious carnivores, and subterranean treasures here.
An active temple for a god of foolhardy death. Attempting to plunder the temple is an act of religious devotion. The priests say that even if you don’t die, taking such risks is an act of prayer that will surely be heard by their god. Others contest that there is no such thing as a god of foolhardy death. They argue instead that the priesthood is cover for a demonic cult, and the dungeon is an elaborate form of human sacrifice. Sure, a few folks might make it out with fabulous wealth, but far more will perish in the attempt!
An abandoned factory, which may have been built to produce statuary, war materiel, print publications, worked metals, candy, etc. Much will have been left behind, but only because extracting it would be more expensive than it’s worth.
An arctic research station composed of multiple buildings and some excavated ice caves, all with guidelines between them to aid movement whenever thick fog or snowstorm makes vision unreliable. Unless your setting is more modern, this place is likely the caprice of a wizard who believed there was some ancient wisdom hidden nearby, or the former home of some hero who was cursed to be unable to endure warmer climes.
A mystery. A few years ago the people of a nearby village all blacked out in tandem. When they awoke, there was the dungeon. The callouses on their hands told them they had done the work themselves. Years had clearly passed, and those who had been too young or too old to work were found long dead from starvation. With nowhere else to go the people resumed their lives, but it is a trauma none of them will ever overcome, and they make a concerted effort never to look at the structure they don’t remember building.
A forgotten showcase structure, built in collaboration between various guilds of artisans to demonstrate their skills, and serve as a unified guild hall and catalogue for potential employers.
A cold, cold revenge from the dinosaurs. Their sages foresaw the meteor which heralded their destruction, and could find no means by which to avoid death. They foresaw also that the planet would come to be dominated by disgusting ape creatures. The final years of their race was spent building this place, and placing their greatest treasures within it so as to better tempt as many of the ape things as possible to their deaths.
An archaeological dig of massive scope, abandoned perhaps due to lack of funds, or because it released something it should not have. The rooms are semi permanent living structures, and partially excavated buildings.
A sort of rat’s maze built by a cosmic entity who wishes to observe and rate humanity’s quality. This is not hidden. Everyone knows that when you enter this dungeon you will be watched, and tested. The tests are often different, and are rarely fair. People attempt it anyway because the “cheese” at the end is a legitimately bounteous treasure.
An ancient military base. Perhaps a grand permanent campus with parade grounds, thick walls, and offices for generals. Alternately it may have been a frontier structure, built in haste to to withstand brutal assaults.
The refuge of a wealthy and powerful old man who suffered a public embarrassment so severe that he decided to build a miniature city for himself, populated by his servants, where he could live out his final days. It was inhabited for a scant few years before he died. No one else ever took up residence, as it was in a terribly inconvenient location, and managing its great size would have been an absurd expense.
Formerly a political prison. A place where the ruling elite could cause enemies of the state to disappear, “convince” them to turn against their comrades, and put an ultimate end to their disloyalty in some efficient and satisfying way.
An artificial tiered garden out in the middle of a desert. Unless there is magical watering at work, the plants will have long ago died from lack of imported water. Only native desert plants grow here now, though some invasive plants may have survived by eerie mutation. Within the garden’s tiers are a series of chambers originally meant for maintenance staff and visiting guests.
An elaborately ornamented temple built by a short lived religion which worshiped some particular animal. It could be any relatively simple animal: iguanas, penguins, beards, crows, flamingos, etc. The whole place exudes big Horse Girl energy.
A time capsule built beneath the foundations of the city, and intended to be opened on the 1000th anniversary of its founding. It was intended as a showcase of the city’s original culture, and to play a few pranks on the naughty future-folk. Doubtless, the past thousand years have seen a few other creatures sneak their way in via unintended means.
An ancient race track, or other sports stadium. The field of play will likely have had other structures built within it by the dungeon’s current residents, and will likely also contain chambers that were intended for food vendors, green rooms, announcers, VIPs, perhaps even an attached palace.
Intended to trap a terrestrial god, built by a sect of that god’s worshipers. They came to believe their god had a hellthorn in its paw, which they wished to remove. As such the dungeon is in all ways designed to show respect to those it traps.
Formerly a school of some kind. It may have been for primary education (elementary, high school), higher education (university, philosophy, science), trade education (culinary, carpentry, cosmetology, medicine, law, military officer), spiritual education (seminary, martial arts dojo), or something fanciful (necromancy, spying, assassination). It may have been abandoned because it lacked funds, due to fallout from some horrible scandal, or simply because the civilization which built it is long extinct.
The first draft of hell. Eventually more capacity was needed, as well as updated security since a few souls had managed to escape. All the damned souls and devilish tormentors are long since moved on to better facilities.
The dungeon is a metaphorical space. Different rooms and creatures are representations of places and people. There are clues to what the various elements of the dungeon represent, but the connections are not always obvious. None the less, actions taken in the dungeon will be reflected outwards. If the party were to meet a goblin who represents their house, for example, and they killed that goblin, they might return home to find their house had burned down.
A zoo, aquarium, or menagerie. Presumably the animals have either escaped, died, or become mutated in some fashion.
An enchanted pleasure palace wished into existence by someone long dead. The magically created servants within have split into factions over whether they want to kill anyone who visits the palace so they won’t be compelled to serve any more, and those who miss having someone to serve, and wish to trap visitors so that their lives can have purpose again.
An intact suburra from the ancient world. These were a sort of ancient apartment buildings. The bottom floors would be businesses or upper-middle class homes. The higher floors were rented by poorer and poorer people as you went up. Given that these buildings were notoriously prone to fire and collapse, this one most likely survived either by being buried, or by some preservative magics.
A testing ground built by order of a capricious prince who declared he would only marry the person who could retrieve the treasure from the dungeon’s center. Legends say he never did marry, so presumably that treasure would still be there, right?
An ancient library assembled by a philosopher king, who made it their goal to record and collect all the knowledge in their world. Its treasures include many alternate versions of texts which are still well known in modern times, as well as lost literature, history, and science which may or may not have been rediscovered since it was lost. Unfortunately for looters, much of this writing is on great stone tablets which are incredibly difficult to move, and much of the rest is on scrolls which crumble to dust if touched.
Laid out in an incredibly precise shape. Its structure forms a magic sigil that was used in an ancient and dark time in a grand summoning ritual which created the sun.
There is a member of the royal family who was so mean spirited, ambitious, and stupid, that they were eventually exiled to a small island. Great care was taken to ensure all the perquisites of their royal rank remained in place, save only their freedoms of movement and association. They could never leave the island nor have contact with anyone not personally approved by the king, but were otherwise left to enjoy a life of excess however they saw fit. This is all ancient history, and now this island prison / pleasure palace is a dungeon filled with all manner of creatures. Alternately, it may be that the king has only recently died, and their will stipulates that this troublesome royal must be assassinated to prevent future troubles. The player characters could have been hired to do the deed, or to smuggle the prisoner off the island to safety.
A place which predates the world. It floated through space for eons, gradually accumulating bits a space detritus, until its gravitational mass was great enough that it formed a rogue planet, and eventually fell into stable orbit around our star.
The interior of an inscrutable tool which was left here by a creature beyond our understanding. It could be God’s anvil, or Yog-Sthoth’s power loom. Though, obviously, the names of human tools can only vaguely approximate the scope of this thing’s function. It may have been left intentionally, or dropped and forgotten. Some of its functions could potentially be manipulated by player characters to produce strange results, or the things it does may be entirely beyond human ability or understanding.
A laboratory in which a wizard or scientist conducted various atmospheric and ecological experiments. One room may emulate conditions of an arctic tundra, while another is meant to simulate a rain forest. Hazards might include tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, etc.
An embassy built when humanity was at peace with a strange race who had strange needs. Perhaps sea creatures who needed to be submerged in water to live, sky creatures who could not breathe our thick air, or burrowing creatures who could not abide the light. This place was built to accommodate their needs, and facilitate better relations between the two peoples. Peace has long since broken down, and the two races have parted ways. The embassy still stands, though. As hostile to human life as it was adapted to theirs.
A former senate house or parliamentary building. It contains a large space for collective lawmaking, and ancillary spaces for offices, ceremonies, meetings, and other amenities peculiar to the culture who built it.
Crafted for no particular reason by a wizard who had created a peculiar nightmare-scanning device, which enabled them to construct real versions of the imaginary spaces those nightmares took palace in, and link them together. The complex connected dozens of dream spaces before the wizard realized there was actually no point to this activity, and moved on.
Created by and for very small creatures: rat sized rat people rearranging sewer pipes, or intelligent viruses building a citadel within a human body, or pixies hollowing out trees and boulders. The player characters will need to shrink themselves to enter the dungeon. They could perhaps just destroy it if they wished, but doing so would likely destroy any treasures contained within. (After all, such treasures are likely to be art, magic, or information. One does not plunder a minuscule dungeon looking for great heaps of gold!) It should also be noted that tiny folks are well acquainted with the tactics and defenses necessary to protect themselves against giants.
Created by and for very large creatures. Everything in this dungeon is far too big for the player characters. Stairs and furniture require difficult climbing to navigate. Note that just because it was built by large peoples, does not mean they are its only inhabitants. They may not even use it at all anymore.
A prison constructed according to some armchair philosopher’s notions of how to reform undesirable peoples. Perhaps it is filled with challenges, on the belief that overcoming them would make a person deserving of reentering society. Perhaps it is built on the idea that isolation, medical torture, or constant observation would best ‘fix’ a person.
A great complex tree house, possibly built by long gone elves, or long dead architects attempting to survive whilst marooned on an uncharted island.
A medieval monastery of the western style, built for the outwards appearance of maintaining a simple life of prayer and holy labor, while allowing the monks some privacy to indulge in sinful luxury. Perhaps more privacy than usually was provided here with great chambers hidden underground for all manner of decadence.
A performance space built for the delectation of the upper classes, with greater social rank allowing access to lower chambers where ever less socially acceptable art is performed. At the lowest levels, the performers themselves rarely ever came out again.
An important cultural site for your people. Your ancestors built it and used it, but at some point chose to abandon it. Until recently it was fairly common to visit the place and view its wonders, leaving offerings to the ancient dead where appropriate. Recently, a colonial power has brutally dominated your lands. They’ve declared this place to be an archaeological site, and forbidden your people from entering it.
A high class casino where the highest of high stakes bets were placed. It was transformed into a dungeon by a really, really foolhardy bet which went very poorly.
The maintenance corridors of a massive inscrutable machine, the engine of a natural process. Perhaps this dungeon is what turns the sun and moon in the sky, what controls the tides, the passing of the seasons, or the birth of heroes. It may even be an engine of destruction. God’s own fail-safe in case creation ever gets out of hand. It may or may not be possible for the players to make minor alterations without completely disrupting the machine. Perhaps it is broken before they arrive and they wish to fix it. Perhaps they can radically alter the nature of their world with some ill-advised tinkering.
The exterior of a titanic creature. A mega-elk, ur-mammoth, or humaniform colossus. There is a whole ecology across—and even within—their body. Pockets and purses are like rooms, fur is a forest, whole settlements could rest on their back or hang from their underside.
Knowing they would be conquered when the next campaigning season began, a whole civilization dedicated themselves to building this dungeon. They sold their souls for the necessary magics, and heaped the whole treasures of their history in a room that is visible from the entrance, but protected by a great and impenetrable wall of death.
A petrified egg from which a god would have hatched if it had been properly tended. The dry yolk still forms the center of the dungeon. Alternately, there may be a creature which gestates in dungeons is if they were an egg. Protected by the shell of the mythic underworld, nourished by the yolk of the dungeon’s inhabitents once its digestive tract develops.
The labyrinthine halls from which the enforcers emerged, dragging criminal wrongthinkers into dark rooms from which they rarely emerged. The space connects here and there, and contains many unpleasant places now settled by creatures less horrible than the enforcers were, though that is not a high bar to clear.
Shelter built against a civilization-ending cataclysm which never came. Or perhaps did come, was survived thanks to the shelter, and is now only long forgotten history.
A facility for containing creatures and objects with dangerous abilities and unknown purpose. There was a breakout long ago, so many of these things have since escaped into the world and may even be widely considered normal today. Perhaps, before the breakout, nobody ever got cancer, pregnancy and birth were trivial affairs, and the human lifespan was triple what it is now. Some safeguards and some anomalies are still here and still dangerous. The world is a better place for not being subjected to the influence of those which are still secured, contained, and protected. Whilst exploring this dungeon, the characters should certainly encounter clues as to how the world was better before certain anomalies got away.
A reverse tower, hanging down from the sky of a great underground cavern. Alternately, a sideways tower, straight out from a cliff face. Gravity may or may not be reoriented within the interior.
Sailing ships clustered together and left unattended. They may have all run aground on an uncharted island, or been discarded and left to rot together in a shallow bay, or forgotten in the secret dry dock of a fallen military power, or abandoned in the shipyard of an insolvent corporation.
Constructed as a habitat for an endangered creature with a sensitivity to something which has been magically warded against. Perhaps light kills them, so the whole dungeon is shrouded in magical darkness. Alternately the whole dungeon may be under a zone of silence, an anti-magic field, or have a robust automated fire suppression system.
The world ship on which ancient human colonists arrived on this world. Malfunction caused it to crash, and those who made it to the escape pods are our ancestors. It is a history so thoroughly lost that no human even suspects we did not originate on this world.
The famous money hole. Of late it has become a fad among the wealthy to flaunt their excess by throwing larger and larger amounts into a deep natural shaft. The more a person can afford to discard, the more affluent everyone assumes they must be. Of course, the hole itself is heavily guarded to prevent any dirty poors from misappropriating the discarded funds and unbalancing the economy. Perhaps creatures have also been set loose below to make recovering the treasure even more foolhardy, or creatures may have come up from the underdark to fight over this great heap of treasure. Regardless, there might be some other way into those caves.
Can you believe that titanic tirade is just one sixth of what I’ve written for this series? I mean, the entries in this one are particularly verbose, but none the less, dang.
The Goblin Bazaar is located in the first room on the second sublevel of my Five Years Leftmegadungeon. All manner of useful things can be found for sale there, but the prices are exorbitant, and any treasure traded to the goblins does not earn experience points for the players. None the less if they see something they want, it’s best to pounce on it, because each session I generate an entirely new inventory by rolling 3d6 and consulting the tables below:
Among all of the…
Cracked ceramic [subject]s, soiled mattresses, and jars of [animal bits]
Rotted [produce], sticky children’s toys, and sacks of [filler material]
[Fad instructional][Media], crumpled dorm room posters, and water damaged [genre] novels
Jewelry made from [Trash], board games with missing pieces, and boxes of [papercraft]
Horrid smelling [clothing], pencil nubs, and empty [food containers]
Branded [junk swag], lidless tupperware, and [holiday][junk you’re meant to throw out]
explosives (d6): Frag grenade, flash grenade, smoke grenade, door buster, fire bomb, demolition explosive
single-use magic: something like a potion, powder, thrown glass ball, etc.
quest hook (d4): treasure map, item desired by an NPC, information broker, item to exploit a monster’s weakness
The prices are…
Items from the first table cost d6 x 5r. Items from the second table cost 2d6 x 100r Items from the third table cost 2d6 x 20r
(The “r” here stands for “Ration,” which is the base unit of currency in Five Years Left.)
Of primary concern when I was writing this is that the whole system had to fit on the bottom 20% of a sheet of graph paper. Any more than that and my rules reference would take up more than a single page. As such, I’ve used shorthand which is probably less clear to others than it is to me. Below are six examples which ought to clarify what results from these tables look like in practice. To cover as much of the table as possible I assumed that triples were rolled for each example (111, 222, etc.) In practice the results would usually be more diverse.
111: Among all of the cracked ceramic angels, soiled mattresses, and jars of pig’s tails, you find a clean and functional AK-47. The malnourished goblin clinging to it explains that she spent all her food money to buy it, which didn’t seem like such a bad idea at the time. Hungry as she is, the weapon is precious to her, and she will only part with it for the exact price she bought it for: 900r. You also discover a derringer beneath some greasy napkins. You only have a moment to examine it before the goblin seller snatches it away, and insists you can’t have it unless you pay 140r.
222: At first it seems that there’s nothing here but rotted cabbages, sticky children’s toys, and burlap sacks filled with sawdust. You’re about to give up when you discover the 4th level OD&D spell “Growth of Plants.” It’s written in a gilded journal, and was obviously the prized possession of some long dead wizard. The goblin who owns it has no idea what it is, but is confident that it must be worth at least 700r. Shortly thereafter you also find the 3rd level OD&D spell “Water Breathing,” carefully written out on a roll of toilet paper. You shudder to imagine what circumstance led to that particular spell being written on that particular medium. The goblin who owns it knows exactly what she has, but every time she looks at it she gags. She wants it out of her sight, and will sell it for the low low price of 180r.
333: Sifting through old jazzercise CD-ROMs, crumpled dorm room posters, and water damaged western novels, you come upon a sophisticated prosthetic leg. Someone has painted a racing stripe up its side. The goblin selling the thing rests on crutches, and laments that the leg was not as good for racing as they thought it would be. They’ll part with the thing for 600r. Meanwhile, another member of the party uncovers a cordless egg beater beneath some of those dorm room posters. The goblin selling it assures you that it is a fearsome weapon, and a total bargain at only 80r.
444: Beneath a heap of necklaces made from tin can tabs, stacks of board games with missing pieces, and several boxes of beige business cards for something called a “Sales Associate,” the party discovers a chain mail coif which has been ensorcelled such that the wearer gains the ability to speak with fish. The goblin says all the fish he met were terribly rude, and so is willing to part with it for a mere 600r. Nearby, a maternal looking goblin wrestles a napalm explosive away from a smaller goblin, holds it up high, and desperately asks if anyone will buy it before her kid kills someone. The melodrama is probably a sales scam, because she refuses to part with it for less than 280r.
555: Shoving aside racks of mildew-smelling jorts, heaps of pencil nubs, and stacked displays of empty soup cans, you discover an carafe of glowing liquid which, if consumed, will cause the imbibing character to gain a random mutation. The goblin selling it–who has a baby’s arm growing out of his forehead–insists that all the mutations are all cool and beneficial. He wants 400r for it. Another goblin shoves the first aside, holding up a wooden box with a ceramic key inside it. It’ll open any door you want, but it’ll break when you use it. A much better bargain, and more reliable, than that gross mutation juice. Only 100r!
666: After picking your way through the branded letter openers, lidless tupperware, and hollow plastic Halloween weapons, you find a tattered pair of Boots of Elvenkind, which a goblin hates because she can’t make noise in them no matter how hard she stomps around. She wants them out of her sight for a measly 400r. As you browse about further, a goblin in a trench coat pulls you aside. They say they know things. Many things. Is there something you want to know? They probably know all about it. They’ll tell you what you want to know, for a price… Specifically for 180r.
Obviously there’s a bit of finessing involved in producing these results, which is why I generate them outside of play. In general I prefer to avoid committing myself to systems that require out-of-session prep, but this is the sort of creative work I find both enjoyable and easy. It’s just improvising details around a set of random seeds. In a pinch I could do it mid-session, but in fact I enjoy it so much that I’ve already got the next 10 weeks of Goblin Bazaars pre-generated.
And that’s it, that’s the whole system. Now I’m gonna work backwards a bit and talk about why I made the decisions I did.
What benefit is there to this sort of randomly populated item shop?
There are three major benefits. First is that we’re playing a game where the goal is to get money. The referee can tax that money by requiring the players to pay for repairs, or healing, or training, but they also gotta have some fun stuff to splurge on. This is doubly important in a megadungeon like this one, where the play is focused in a way that precludes traditional domain building. A bazaar with a random and rotating inventory offers the players some fun tools and toys to get excited about, while avoiding the dreaded opening of the flood gates typically associated with magic item shops.
Second, placing a single-session time limit on items adds an interesting pressure to the game. Does the party want to spend money to buy the mid-tier item that’s on sale this week, or do they want to hold on to their money in case there’s something better next session? Or perhaps the bazaar has a truly great item for sale which the party can’t afford. Now the players have a ticking clock which forces them to push and push to collect enough treasure to buy this great item before the session ends, and it is lost forever.
Third, I am ever the advocate for randomizing anything which can be randomized. It forces everyone–players and referee alike–to adapt. For example, a group which usually relies on brute strength will look at problems differently if they just got a really good deal on some potions of invisibility. That sort of adaptation to circumstance is a huge part of what makes this game fun for me. I want to encourage it whenever I can.
As an aside, I was halfway through writing this post when I realized it wasn’t the first time. This is an idea I’ve been iterating on for years now. It started way back with Thracle’s Emporium in Brendan’s Pahvelorn, which I adapted for my paleolithic D&D&LB campaign as the Caravan system. Later I would adapt the idea further into the Curio shops that were scattered around ORWA. This latest take on the concept, the Goblin Bazaar, feels strikingly more mature to me. I’ve used it for several sessions already, and I love it. It’s sleek, it drives play, I am sincerely proud.
Why doesn’t money spent at the bazaar earn experience points for the players?
The in-universe fiction is that the player characters are from a destitute settlement, which only has five years of supplies left before everyone dies. Bringing fresh resources out of the dungeon and into the settlement is an act of real heroism. It gives hope to the hopeless, and extends the life of the town. That’s what I award experience points for. Spending those same resources on Goblin junk is pretty selfish in comparison.
The real life explanation is that I’ve spent several years running high level domain play in my On a Red World Alone campaign. I’m a little burned out on that sort of thing, and would like to indulge in an extended period of grotty dungeon delving. It suits my purposes well if the players’ levels advance at a snail’s pace.
Why is the first table full of useless junk!?
It may seem silly, but the junk table is one of the biggest advantages the goblin bazaar has over my earlier efforts. When using the caravans or the curio shops, I presented them to players as being filled with all manner of interesting things, then listed the few objects that were meant to be player facing. Inevitably, if the items on offer didn’t interest the group, they’d ask “So…what else is here?”
It’s a perfectly reasonable question when the referee has described a shop that is filled with a great variety of wonders. In my head all that other stuff was supposed to be useless junk. Gewgaws for eccentric rich people. But I’d said it was there, so I was stuck improvising whole inventories that felt appropriate. Again, inevitably, something I listed would spark interest among the players, and we’d all get dragged down this rabbit hole of them trying to figure out a good use for a set of 500 year old encyclopedias. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you there have been sessions where the party spent fully two hours sitting in a curio shop.
It was tedious. I may sound petty for saying so, but this has been a source of real frustration for me. In contrast, the goblin bazaar is framed as a heap of garbage where the players are lucky enough to find a couple cool things.
Why Goblins?
Because it gives me a regular excuse to perform as a malevolent toddler in front of my players.
Also, because goblins are just toddlers, I am fully justified in the bazaar being filled with junk, and everything being sold for wildly inconsistent prices.
Before I go, I ought perhaps answer “Where are those dungeon prompts that were supposed to follow the megadungeon post?” Well, if you’ve ever wondered how to ensure a project hits a stumbling block, all you’ve gotta do is tell people it will be done soon. The set of six d100 tables I mentioned in my last post are still in the works, but it’s an immense undertaking. They will be done some day.
I hope everyone is taking care of themselves and the people around them. Respect and solidarity to the brave protesters in Portland, and all across the U.S.
Edit:One of my players was incensed to discover that her favorite Goblin, “Muscles,” was not mentioned or depicted anywhere in this post. To maintain the harmony of my game table, I will accede to her demands that Muscles be included:
I recently committed to running a fresh campaign, which required I construct a megadungeon from scratch in about two weeks. It was a big job. I was a little worried it was too big to get done in such a short time, but I managed it with days to spare. Some of my players have asked me to explain my methods, and I will endeavor to do so here.
Like any other creative project, I’ve found the best way to accomplish my goals is to lower my expectations. When I say I created a megadungeon in 2 weeks, I do not mean that I meticulously crafted some beautiful bespoke adventure module with hundreds of pages of room description. I can barely conceive of how I’d use such a thing at the table, much less how I’d create it. The dungeon I did create fits on 7 single-sided sheets of paper. One page of random tables and rules reference, and 6 pages which each have the map and key for a single level of the dungeon. Even within that drastically limited scope, I only completed my megadungeon by taking every shortcut I could find.
First step was to source maps. There are more freely available maps online than anyone could use in a lifetime. For this project I went with old reliable Donjon’s Random Dungeon Generator. With it I could quickly produce as many maps as I needed. Plus, generating all the maps with the same tool meant they had a consistent style, which is useful for avoiding all sorts of little annoyances that have cropped up in the past when I’ve tried to force maps from different sources to be part of the same structure. Somewhat arbitrarily I settled on starting with 6 levels to the dungeon, my only real reason being that it felt large enough to be a megadungeon, but small enough not to stress me out while keying it. The Magic Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two is probably a factor here. I played around with the generator’s settings quite a bit between each level. More densely packed rooms on this one, fewer rooms on that one, this map shaped like a cross, that other one is a circle. There’s plenty of knobs to tinker with, though I think only three of the settings I used were actually important:
Straight Corridors + Remove all dead ends. These settings produce the most direct corridors. Even still they’re more meandering than I would prefer, but beggars can’t be choosers.
No stairs. This is perhaps a minor point, but I wanted to have direct control over where connections between floors would exist.
Map Style: Graph Paper. This is by far the most important setting. Not only does it waste the least amount of ink when printing, but it leaves a lot of white space available for making notes.
Once I’d gotten 6 maps I liked, I printed paper copies of each so I could easily make alterations and notes. On each level I added an elevator shaft adjacent to one of the rooms, usually one near the center. One of the most important elements of megadungeon design is that players have direct access from the entrance to many different parts of the dungeon. Otherwise, every single session begins with the party moving through the exact same set of rooms, which can be difficult to prevent from becoming tedious. The elevator shaft means they have 6 choices for what their first room will be each session. In a more traditionally themed megadungeon a grand staircase would work just as well. Within an hour of starting the project the bones of the dungeon were assembled.
Now I had ~225 blank rooms to key. That’s a lot of opportunities to get tripped up by Blank Page Syndrome, so I started by creating some touchstones that would help inform my keying later on. The first and least important of these is the dungeon’s origin. Who built it? Why? What calamity caused it to stop being used for its original purpose, and become a dungeon? These are all good things for a referee to know, but it’s also important not to get caught up in them. A dungeon in a ruined hospital may have a lot of beds and broken medical devices in it; and a dungeon in a ruined school is going to have books and desks; but that’s all filler for empty rooms. The treasures, traps, and creature encounters are going to be derived more from what happened to the structure after it stopped being used for its original purpose.
Next step was figuring out tyrants and factions. My six level dungeon has three wizards and a dragon as its tyrants, because as we all know a 2 is always a dragon, and a 12 is always a wizard. These primarily exist as big scary random encounters, but they also need a lair. I place these by writing directly on the map, aiming to be as evocative as I could. Instead of “Merlin the Great’s Lair,” I might write “Mirrored Palace of Merlin the Moody.” Later on the personality and style of each tyrant will affect what sorts of rooms are nearby.
I use this same style of keying through the process, writing the text directly on the rooms they describe. It limits how much detail the key can have, and in particular means small rooms must have more simply described contents than large ones, but these are limitations I can live with. In fact I’d say this limitation forces me to produce better work than I otherwise would. When I’m running games I quickly get frustrated whenever the forward momentum of the action is disrupted because I can’t find the information I want in a block of text. A few words, or maybe a sentence is enough for me to construct a shared imaginary space for my players. That’s especially true here where I’m writing notes for my own future self. Nobody else needs to understand this dungeon.
One major mistake I made here was writing the room keys in pen. I usually prefer to write in pen because it forces me to commit to what I write. I enjoy not being able to go back and change things, and instead be forced to adapt to whatever decisions I’ve already made. I feel the same way about keying the dungeon, BUT, many room descriptions will need to be altered during the restocking process described below. So for the love of the gods don’t make my mistake, key your megadungeon in pencil!
Factions are the most important megadungeon touchstone. The way different groups interact with the players and with each other is a huge part of what I enjoy about megadungeon play. The players will forge alliances with some, go to war with others, play diplomat to negotiate peace between enemies, or convince groups to wipe one another out. Like tyrants, factions control some rooms, influence others, and provide fodder for the encounter table. Coming up with factions is simple: some kind of creature + some kind of distinctive behavior = a faction. The Boastful Bovines are a braggadociously proud community of cow-people who live on the first level of my dungeon. I came up with between 2 and 3 factions for each floor, recorded the name of each faction using a specific color, and placed colored dots on the map to indicate the center of each faction’s power. This is the room where they are most safe to eat and sleep and conduct their private affairs. The colors aren’t necessary, but I often want to know what faction the players are most likely to encounter in a given room, so being able to quickly reference what faction is closest is handy.
By now every level of the dungeon has multiple points of interest I can riff from when keying other rooms. There’s no reason you couldn’t add even more if you like. All mine were social, but you could create all sorts of different touchstones. Perhaps one room could be where some tyrant of faction used to live, and they left traps, treasures, and monsters behind. A portal to hell would make a good touchstone, as would a magic crystal that absorbs all heat, a massive zone of silence, a miniature black hole, really anything that would have a ripple effect across multiple surrounding rooms will help make the keying process easier.
There’s still one more way we can break the problem down before we start keying in earnest. Broadly speaking every room in a dungeon will fit into a fairly small number of categories. Some will have creatures in them, some will have traps, some will have really weird stuff, some will have treasure which may or may not be guarded, and most of the rooms will be empty. That last bit may sound counter intuitive, but it’s vitally important. In this context “Empty” doesn’t mean a completely bare space, it just means a room without monsters, traps, treasure, or special weirdness. A kitchen would be an empty room, but it would still have pots, pans, cupboards, salt, vinegar, and knives in it. These rooms are important because they are where the action will spill into when the players retreat from battle. Empty rooms are where the players will rest, where they’ll devise wild plans for how to make use of something that was intended to be set dressing. Empty rooms are where the players make their own fun. The ancient texts actually advise having 60% empty rooms (1st edition AD&D DMG, Appendix A, Table V-F). I like 50% because I’m a dense dungeon kinda boy.
With my desired ratios in mind, I made this little table to get myself started keying:
1-10: Empty 11-13: Creatures 14-16: Creatures with Treasure 17: Trap 18: Trap with Treasure 19: Something Weird 20: Unguarded Treasure
Each day I’d sit down with my maps, throw a fistfull of d20s, then key one room for each of the results I rolled. If I felt like doing more when I was done, I’d throw the dice again. As I got into the rhythm of things and the maps started to fill out, the dice gradually became less important. A few times each day I’d pull my papers out to spend maybe 20 or 30 minutes writing keys. Whenever I got stuck I’d pick something, anything, and do some free association. As I write this there is a water bottle beside me on my desk. Perhaps the dungeon could have a room filled with water? The bottle has trees on it, maybe there could be a room with a tiny forest, or a meticulously cared for garden? The bottle also has an “A” on it, sorta like the scarlet letter. I could have a room with some prudish creature in it which calls everyone a slut. Just like that I’ve got three dungeon rooms from a single object on my desk. You can do this with anything. I’ve personally gotten a lot of mileage out of using Magic: The Gathering cards for this. I also did a fair amount of stealing room ideas from other dungeons, video games, and blog posts. This dungeon is for private play, not publication, so plagiarism rules don’t apply.
As I keyed I jumped all over the six maps. If you haven’t already, you should free yourself from the expectation that your megadungeon’s layout will make logical sense. That’s impossible to accomplish, and boring to attempt. These are mythic spaces that run on dream logic. If I were to key adjacent spaces one-by-one, my brain would try to force those rooms to conform to some pattern. My goal is to create a wild network of weirdness first, then once that’s done I can let my brain off the leash to do its pattern matching thing. This produces wildly more interesting results for me. All of which is not to say that you should ignore inspiration that comes from referencing nearby rooms. That inspiration can be good, and it’s why we created the touchstones. Jumping around just helps to avoid a sort of tunnel-vision design, where you become bound to obey the logical implications of whatever room came before. Jumping around is also an easy way to create multi-room problems. You can simply place “THE BLOOD GATE” somewhere on level 3, then jump to level 1 and write “TOILET WITH THE BLOOD KEY IN IT” on some empty room. In 10 seconds you’ve created an adventure that could keep your players busy for a whole session.
Once the rooms are all keyed the dungeon is ready for play. Of course you’d also need an encounter table, but I have discussed my process for making those elsewhere. The only notable difference here is that I used 2d3 rather than 2d6. The fundamental method remains the same, but the ranges are somewhat compressed.
Here’s an example of what is produced by this dungeon crafting process:
If you’re looking at this and wondering how anyone could run a good consistent dungeon crawl from it, remember that the only person who needs to understand it is me. If you made a dungeon with this same process then the only person who would need to understand it would be you. When I write something like “Blue Chest, Difficult Lock, 2 Magic Spells & 1 Item,” I know that my future self will interpret that in a certain way. A Blue Chest implies the existence of a Blue Key somewhere. A difficult lock would mean the lockpicking check is penalized, perhaps by half the value of the sublevel the room is on. So a difficult lock on floor 2 would be at -1, a difficult lock on floor 4 would be -2, etc. There’d be some random junk in the chest in addition to the treasures, maybe some moth eaten linen? The 2 magic spells would be on scrolls, and I’d roll some dice to figure out what spells they were. The magic item would likewise be randomly determined off whatever table is most convenient. I might even ask my players if one of them has a favored magic item table they’d like to roll on.
Even so there’s a lot of missing details to that room description, but if they come up I’ll figure them out on the spot. At any given time during play I’m probably mentally filling in a room’s description. A good 40% of my game prep happens while I wait for players to argue about what they want to do next. There are days when I’m able to do this really well, and days when I’m not. I wish I was always operating at peak performance, but it has to be okay for the game to have a bad day. And the longer I run games the better I get at doing this. My worst sessions these days are still better than the best ones I ran 10 years ago. I think my players mostly come away from my games feeling good about the way they spent their time. That’s the important part.
A megadungeon is a living space, so even once it’s ready for play it will never really be complete. After each delve I review the rooms my players visited and consider what changes may result from what they did there. If the players kill a monster and steal its treasure that room might become empty for awhile, or a different creature with different treasure might move in. If they only injured the monster, then perhaps that monster was forced to make an alliance with a nearby faction while it healed. Now that faction will be ill-disposed towards the players in order to maintain their alliance. If a player character died, their meat might be sold in a cannibal market, or the necromancer 3 rooms over might raise them as a vampire to go hunt down their former compatriots. Restocking like this is how the players get to see their impact on the game world. I don’t get the opportunity to be a player very often right now, but when I do play, it’s this sort of thing that keeps me coming back to a campaign session after session.
In the same vein I also have a notepad where I record all the seeds my players plant. For example: if the party kills a group of goblins but lets one get away, I’ll record the existence of this goblin in my notes. Next time they roll a goblin encounter I might choose to double the number of attackers, and have that escapee leading them in an ambush. If the party funds a troupe of musicians, later on the party may go to a bar and discover those same musicians are performing on stage. Or maybe they won’t. Some seeds never bear fruit, and that’s okay. Simply restocking rooms and noting player seeds takes care of the vast majority of prep work I need to do for future sessions.
Eventually, if the game runs for a very long time, or if I get bored, I may expand the dungeon. I’ve already placed a second elevator shaft somewhere on the bottom-most level which could eventually lead to another 6 floors. Smaller expansions might be accomplished by having a wall collapse somewhere to reveal a whole new area beyond it, or some wizard could open a magic portal to a far-away locale. It depends very much on the direction the campaign takes over the coming months. For now I’m happy to ride the wave of the player’s throwing themselves at what I’ve created.
I must thank Ava, Anne, and Elias for prompting me to write this. I didn’t think I would have a lot to say when they first suggested it, but it got me digging deep and forced me to put words to some concepts I hadn’t bothered to articulate before. As it happens I’ve been working on another daunting project, a set of d100 tables that would serve as prompts for building better dungeons. It’s turning out to be the most substantial project I’ve ever worked on for Papers & Pencils, but in retrospect this post will serve as a good introduction. Those tables still need a lot of work, but they’ll likely be the next thing posted here.
Thanks for reading. I hope everyone is staying safe. Black Lives Matter.
Finding myself in the mood to write another d100 table, I went looking for inspiration amidst the accumulated heap of unfinished work in my drafts folder. I knew I had begun writing this sequel to one of my most popular post of 2016, but I had not remembered that apparently I’d abandoned it after already coming up with 99 entries. It seemed a shame not to pull the post out of mothballs and finish the dang thing.
It took a lot more work than coming up with a single new entry. By the time I finished my first editing pass I was down to about 70 that were worth keeping. None the less, the work is now done. Please enjoy it.
Thousands of tiny bird wings have been sewn all over the wizard’s body. Slits in their clothing allow the wings to poke out, and enable wizard to fly with the speed and precision of a small bird.
The wizard’s legs have been amputated beneath the knee, and fused to the backs of two Greyhound dogs. They control the dogs as extensions of themselves, and are able to move incredibly quickly on their eight dog legs. Also, if need be, they have two bite attacks.
The tail and stinger of a giant scorpion have been attached to the wizard’s spine, giving them a deadly poison attack each round.
A quick flex causes the wizard’s arms to pop into the form of a Hook Horror’s hooks. They gain two nasty melee attacks each round, the ability to climb at half their normal movement speed, and to grapple as if they had two more hit dice than they do.
After harvesting and ingesting the displacement glands from a Displacer Beast, the wizard now always appears to be about 3’ away from their actual position in space. This makes them nearly impossible to hit until the discrepancy is noticed. Even then, the effect is disorienting and grants them a significant bonus to their effective armor rating.
The wizard has enslaved the ghost of another wizard. This second wizard has a second repertoire of spells. Essentially, this allows the ‘master’ wizard to cast two spells each round. The enthralled wizard is not happy about their situation, and will gladly take advantage of any disruption to their magical bonds.
By making a habit of consuming the brains of other magic users, this wizard has made powerful improvements to every spell they know. Any spell they cast is more effective than it would be in the hands of other casters. As an example, if they were to cast Magic Missile, each one would deal d8 damage rather than d4. If they know Sleep, it can target twice as many hit dice worth of creatures as the base spell, and so on, and so forth.
A cleverly engineered Teleport error caused this wizard to become fused to a demon. Thanks to careful preparations they were able to gain control over the new, shared body. This has given them the ability to summon other demons from hell to aide them whenever they need. The demons perceive the wizard as one of their own, but could potentially be shown the truth.
By means of extra dimensional adhesive, this wizard has affixed the mind of a devil to themselves. This has granted them perfect legal knowledge, and the ability to trade souls for wishes. If you don’t read your contract carefully, you’ll find yourself giving the wizard your soul, and in the same line transferring your wish to them!
The problem with good creatures is that the foolish ones are allowed to survive. There’s a funny story behind how this wizard tricked an angel into fusing with them, but it has given them the ability to perform healing magics, fly at tremendous speeds, and speak in a voice which requires a saving throw versus cowering in terrified awe.
By offering to trade part of their soul with a curious elemental, this wizard has gained a strong alignment with a particular element: Fire, Ice, Wind, Water, Earth, Acid, Gravity, Nature, or other! Any damage which might be caused by whatever they’re aligned with instead heals them.
Years taking their eyes out each night to soak in a distillation of god’s pain has given this wizard a gaze attack. Targets must make a saving throw or take 2d6 damage.
Regular injections of basilisk tears grant this wizard the ability to keep one target paralyzed at all times. There is no saving throw against this. The wizard may change who they wish to paralyze at the start of each round as a free action.
Drinking from an ancient bog has given this wizard a gaze attack which causes anyone they target to shrink to 50% of their current size. They can target the same person as many times as they want, reducing them by 50% each time.
During a misspent youth, this wizard gained the ability to deal sneak attack damage. It applies to their spells, and they’ve likely made a point of creating some sneaky spell variants to best take advantage of this.
This wizard served in the legions for years before turning to spellcraft. They have a martial prowess unusual to magic users. They attack as a fighter of their level.
Born to frontierspeople, this wizard is as at home in the wilderness as they are in a library or ivory tower. They know how to forage, build tools and shelters, hunt, track, and survive in harsh circumstances.
By trapping a Beholder’s ego in a jar (which is kept in a vault back home), they’ve turned it into a loyal servitor. It goes everywhere with them, and is completely loyal.
Having once been observed by a broken god, this wizard is able to bilocate. They can exist in two places at once, with each instance being fully real and fully capable. They must merge back together in order to sleep. If one of them falls asleep, the other vanishes to merge back with the sleeper no matter where they are.
An experiment gone terribly wrong has left this wizard mostly incorporeal. They’re still alive, and can even manipulate objects with their hands by flexing their wizardly will, but most touches pass right through them.
This wizard is the absolute best dancer in all the world. No one can out-dance them. No one.
Knowing when to be in the right place at the right time has enabled this wizard to collect a wealth of political contacts. If there’s anyone who doesn’t owe them a favor, then they probably owe a favor to someone who owes the wizard a favor.
For many years this wizard was involved in a romantic relationship with a druid. That ended a few years ago, but the wizard still has the friggin’ encyclopedic knowledge of natural flora and fauna they memorized in order to impress their partner.
Plants share a special relationship with this wizard. An erotic one. All of kingdom vegetabilis wants to fuck this wizard, and will do anything the wizard says will be pleasing. Trees will fall on the wizard’s foes, or vines will entangle them. Plant based poisons will not affect the wizard.
A calculated disdain for oral hygiene has imbued this wizard’s breath with power. Anyone who smells it experiences a hallucination of their worst fears.
Frequent abuse of form changing spells has allowed this wizard to merge themselves with stone or sand at will. Though they may still shape themselves into their human form, in actuality their body is composed of an intelligent muddy clay.
In addition to being a powerful wizard, this person is also a landed noble with all the rights and privileges granted by that social station.
On their travels among less magically aware peoples, the wizard has performed many spells, and convinces a lot of people that they are an avatar of God. These people obey the wizard’s every whim with religious fervor.
When broken off, this wizard’s fingers will form into little gremlin creatures that look just like the thumbs from Spy Kids. The fingers grow back eventually, but it’s obviously quite painful for the wizard to do this.
Whenever the wizard wishes, a ferocious house cat will leap out of the pocket of their robe. This is in all ways a real house cat, with no special abilities aside from being incredibly ill-tempered. The wizard is able to produces 20 cats in this manner each day. The cats never disappear, and must either be fed and cared for, or gotten rid of in some deliberate manner. The cats are only slightly friendlier towards the wizard.
At will this wizard can tumble apart into four fire breathing goblins. They may claim that they were always four goblins in a robe, but this is just a goblin lie. If even one goblin survives they can re-form into the wizard, but the fewer goblins remain the longer it takes to reform. All four goblins could do it instantaneously, while a solitary goblin will require several weeks.
The wizard’s experience of time is double normal speed. To them, the world appears to be moving very slowly. Because of this they’re able to take 2 actions each round, receive a +4 to their armor rating, and find most conversations painfully dull.
This wizard is living their life in reverse. Each day they wake up on the day before the last day they lived. When they greet someone they say “goodbye,” and when they depart they say “hello.” They don’t remember any past encounters they may have had with the party, but they do remember the future ones.
By pointing at a spot on the ground this wizard is able to make a fifteen foot deep pit appear there.
By performing a bras d’honneur, this wizard is able to cause clusters of spikes to shoot three feet up from the ground. They’re made of stone, and quite sharp.
By clapping their hands, this wizard is able to cause any two walls (or wall-like natural formations) to slam together with great speed and force. The furthest points on the walls must be less than twenty feet apart. Most of the time this action will cause significant structural damage.
Any recently dead creature within 30 feet of this wizard automatically rises as an undead servitor under the wizard’s will. This includes common animals, people, and monsters.
Long ago this wizard created ten permanent unseen servants. They’re with the wizard at all times, fetching tools, delivering messages, taking dictation, carrying explosives into the midst of the wizard’s enemies, and so on. If any are destroyed, they will reform under the next full moon.
Great sloshing boils grow on this wizard’s chest and arms. They’re itchy and unpleasant, but if punctured they burst into a cloud of poison gas to which the wizard is immune.
This wizard has no eyes, mouth, nose, ears, or hair. Their fingers are fused together, their skin is wet, and blue veins show through it. None of these features hinder them in any way, and grants them immunity to any harms which must be seen, smelt, heard, or breathed.
Rubbery meat and bones allow this wizard to bounce when they fall, taking no damage. Bludgeoning instruments also deal no damage, and will likely bounce out of the attacker’s hands. Slashing weapons only deal damage if they roll in the upper half of their range.
By soaking their hands each night in a lotion distilled from ghouls, the wizard has gained the ability to level drain anyone they touch.
By replacing their own canines with stolen vampire fangs, this wizard has gained a bite attack, and the ability to drain blood to restore their health.
Forbidden knowledge of the fourth wall allows this wizard to reach out of the game world to turn one rolled die to a result that is more beneficial to them each round.
“Hacked” access to the mind of God allows this wizard to temporarily cancel out a single line from one player’s character sheet.
Spreading out from the proper place of NPCs in the referee’s mind this wizard cant take control of the referee’s voice, and will encourage the players to revolt. Surely one of them would make a better referee than this weakling!?
Beneath their robe this wizard is almost entirely mechanical. Only a few organic parts remain: their heart, hands, head, etc. They probably move on tank treads hidden by the hem of their robe. They cannot be critically hit or sneak attacked due to their unusual metal anatomy.
This wizard has triple redundant anatomy. Three hearts, six lungs, three stomachs, and so on. Their hit points are likewise tripled.
This wizard is able to prickle up like a sea urchin if they need to. Big ol’ metal spikes sliding out of their pores. They’ll probably be less willing to do it when they’re wearing their favorite cozy robes, though.
By holding to a strict code of unusual sexual practices, this wizard has unlocked the ability to transform themselves into any animal at will.
Any weapon which strikes this wizard transforms itself into a harmless object. A sword that would pierce their body might poof into a length of rope, a flower, or a pillow. This works for fists as well, so if you don’t want your hand replaced with a teddy bear, it would not be advisable to punch them.
Strenuous vocal exercise allows this wizard to perfectly emulate any voice they hear.
Incredibly strenuous vocal exercise allows this wizard to speak in a voice so booming it constitutes a sonic attack. They can easily start an avalanche or rock slide where conditions are appropriate, break glass or crystal objects, etc.
This wizard has cultivated a commanding presence so intense that anyone who approaches within five feet of them must make a saving throw or be transformed into a servile gremlin. In this state they will obey all the wizard’s commands for 1 week, then transform back into themselves.
Any damage dealt by this wizard has a secondary polymorph effect. Anyone struck by the wizard’s staff, fireball, fist, etc, must make a saving throw or be transformed into some harmless critter.
A thick swarm of thorny bulbs orbits this wizard’s body. Any time the wizard is touched, or struck with a melee weapon, their attacker takes a small amount of damage.
Once per day this wizard can transform themselves into a tree. In this state they cannot move for one hour, after which they return to their natural shape fully rested with all their hit points and spells restored. It has completely replaced sleep for them.
By blinking their eyes in a very particular 10-blink pattern, this wizard is able to teleport back to the last place they slept. The ability functions only once per hour.
A quick tug of their beard causes a bubble of protection to surround this wizard. While the bubble is in place they cannot move, attack, or cast complex spells. They can speak or perform other simple actions.
By siphoning off a little of their own vitality (d4 hit points), this wizard is able to create a sort of temporary phylactery. If they die within the next 2 hours, their spirit will remain bound to their corpse. They can wait as long as they wish, then pop back into their bodies and return to life with half their maximum health restored.
This wizard is encased in crystal. Their body is immobile, but the crystal floats around wherever they want it to go. Anything they want to say appears as text scrolling across the crystal’s surface. The crystal protects them from most forms of attack.
In addition to their magical talents, this wizard has been afflicted with lycanthropy. Under moonlight they become a werewolf, or some similar creature like a werebear or wererat.
Somehow, one of this wizard’s ancestors was a mole. This allows them to burrow through the ground rapidly, digging tunnels through the earth at roughly half their normal movement speed.
This wizard has surgically split their brain in half so they can better work on two problems at once. Any saving throw against mental effects is made twice, and the wizard takes the better result.
Within 30’ of this wizard, magic does not function unless it is magic they themselves have cast.
A peculiar hand gesture allows this wizard to conjure and throw a sort of spectral lasso. If a character is caught by it, they’re automatically yanked rapidly towards the wizard, coming to a stop right beside them.
This Wizard is just straight up Darth Vader. Obscure it so the players don’t realize it right away, but they wear heavy black armor, they carry a magic sword, they’re able to perform feats of telekinesis at will, they probably have a familial relationship with one of the PCs.
A light shines within this wizard. It makes their skin glow faintly, and shines brilliantly from any opening into their body. They’re very visible in the dark, but have many ways of suddenly blinding their foes.
Replacing their bone marrow with some taken from living trolls enables this wizard to heal rapidly. Each round they regain d4 hit points, and even severed limbs and heads will eventually regrow. The only way to deal permanent damage to the wizard is with fire.
This wizard’s lower body has been replaced with eight octopus arms, with toothy mouths in place of suckers. In addition to giving them eight attacks each round (or one REALLY good grapple), this allows them to swim like the dickens.
By a process of rapid soul absorption, this wizard is able to return to full health and full spellcasting capacity whenever they kill someone.
Wherever this wizard goes, people hear theme music. It makes them seem crazy cool / intimidating to most folks.
This wizard understands all communication on an elemental level. Even if it is a secret language invented 10 minutes ago, they will understand it instantly upon hearing / seeing / feeling it.
Due to an awkwardly mis-worded Wish, this wizard lives each day of their life twice. The first time they live it normally, and the second time they live it with memories of the first time. You can model this either by simply running the wizard as if they’re aware of everything the players are going to say/do, or you might literally run any encounter with this wizard twice, one after the other. This does allow the players to also know what’s going on, but will probably be more fun.
While you were going to parties this wizard studied the boomerang. Anytime they cast a spell which is misses its target, or is saved against, that same spell will “return” d4 rounds later. When it does, it gets the same chance to affect its intended target that it had the first time.
Anyone who tells a lie or half truth in the presence of this wizard will immediately confess to it. There is no save. “No, I did not steal your gold. By the way, I’m lying.”
This wizard has 2d6 forms, each with a distinct body and a life of their own, which the wizard can switch between at will.
Anyone who touches the wizard must make a saving throw. On failure, they will be absorbed fully into the wizard’s body and remain trapped there until the wizard chooses to free them, or the wizard dies.
This wizard is infested with parasites. Anyone who gets within 10′ of the wizard becomes infected as well. The jumpy little creatures are able to leap great distances to find a new host. Those afflicted with the wizard’s parasites receive no saving throw against that wizard’s spells. They’re also easy to track if the wizard ever wishes to find them.
A failure to properly dot the i’s and cross the t’s in a contract with a minro devil has given this wizard a peculiar protection against any form of harm which does not directly lower their hit points. The wizard cannot take ability damage, nonlethal damage, negative levels, etc.
A snap of the fingers allows this wizard to conjure any animal they desire out of thin air. They may only conjure one creature at a time. The creatures are trained, intelligent, and loyal, but are otherwise regular animals for as long as they exist.
Anything seen or heard by this wizard is recorded, and can be replayed later via magical projections from their mouth and eyes.
This wizard is something of a celebrity for their works of popular entertainment. Perhaps they write a series of adventure novels, or act in funny plays, or have a morning talk show. Whatever it is, they’re often recognized and adulated wherever they go. People like them.
This wizard is a fairy. Perhaps they disguise themselves with illusions to look otherwise. Their true form is a tiny winged creature that’s able to dart about at incredible speeds, and is almost impossible to catch.
When this wizard laughs everyone laughs along with them, and must make a saving throw. Those who fail will continue laughing even after the wizard calms down. They’re able to make a new saving throw every minute, and the laughing fit continues until they succeed. This ability only works if the wizard is laughing sincerely. They can’t force it.
Moss grows across this wizard’s body, feeding photosynthesized nutrients into their body. So long as they stand in sunlight, they can cast their prepared spells without expending them.
This wizard is a major historical figure who faked their own death so no one would realize they were immortal.
This wizard has uncovered evidence that they will be a major historical figure. At some point in their future they will tumble backwards through time and live out the rest of their days in the distant past. If they are killed or prevented from doing so, the extant timeline will be undone.
An absolutely obscene amount of experimental surgery has allowed this wizard to craft detachable limbs for themselves. Their arms and legs can be taken off as easily as a coat, and they have a whole wardrobe of specialized options to replace them with.
Cybernetic implants for controlling an orbital laser have been installed in this wizard’s skull. The tech is janky and busted, so it takes awhile for the solar cells to recharge, but when they do it’s as simple as looking at what they want to melt, and blinking in a certain pattern.
A doomsday device will activate if this wizard is killed. Perhaps it’s a huge bomb, or a virus ready to release into the water supply. If it looks like they may be in mortal danger, the wizard will definitely mention this.
It is literally impossible to talk about this wizard without mentioning how sexy they are. For some reason they wasted a wish on this. They can be the greatest villain in the history of the world, but if anyone tries to say that they’ll find themselves saying: “They’re the greatest villain in the history of the world, but they do have a tuchus that just won’t quit.”
This wizard has planted seeds under their skin, which grow into little plants fed by a wizard’s blood. They can be plucked for all manner of alchemical, medicinal, and recreation purposes.
A gland inside this wizard’s bum secretes a white dropping, which the wizard uses to mark their territory. Other wizards become nauseated if they come within 50 feet of these droppings, and violently ill if they come within 30 feet. The lose potency only after several weeks.
Fundamental cosmic statutes require anyone dealing with this wizard to abide by a strict code of honor. No lying, no cheating, no underhanded combat maneuvers. Attempting to defy this mandate is like trying to defy gravity. You can learn to work within it, but you can’t ignore it.
This wizard’s eyes are able to look through solid surfaces with ease. For them it is as simple as focusing past the object, the way we might shift our focus between our own hand, and the horizon.
Flammable oil pours out of this wizard’s sleeves at will. It comes out quite fast, and will continue pouring for as long as they desire.
The longer this wizard stays in a given place, the [Colder / Hotter] it gets. They were raised in an incredibly [Cold / Hot] environment. One far outside the range humans generally consider habitable. They will be quite comfortable in the new temperature, but for most folks it will be intolerable.
Whenever this wizard tells someone to “Stop being naughty,” they must make a saving throw versus parallelization. If they fail, they will find themselves suddenly and completely restrained by BDSM gear that appears around them as if from nowhere. It leaves them with almost no range of movement at all, and quite possibly stuck in some provocative posture.
Whenever this wizard wishes to flee, they can reach into their pockets and pull out a fist full of valuable rubies to toss behind them. They are real, but the peculiar nature of this magic means they only come into existence when the wizard is trying to flee. If they reach into their pockets for any other reason the rubies will not be there.
