You people take everything I say so f$&%ing literally. Two weeks ago, for example, when I was talking about campaign plotting, I said something like “it literally doesn’t matter at all how many plot points your campaign plan entails. Not even a little tiny bit. It’s a stupid thing to argue about. Use however many plot points you want. I don’t give a single, solitary f$&% and neither should you.” And man, did you all take that seriously. Because, later in that same article, I offered to write about the differences between three-point, four-point, and five-point plots and why you’d use one over another. And then a bunch of you were like, “but Angry, you said it doesn’t matter at all how many plot points you use. Why would we even need an article talking about it?”

Well, excuuuuuuuse me, princess. When I said it literally doesn’t matter at all how many plot points your story has, I meant that it doesn’t matter right now because that’s not what I’m talking about. But it will matter the minute I want to talk about it. And until then, I don’t want to hear a bunch of moronic debates in my comment section about which particular number of plot-points is best.

You really should know how to read between the lines by now. Yeah, I say things are literally, completely, axiomatically, and unarguably true all the f$&%ing time. And sometimes, I really mean it. But other times, I don’t. Other times, I mean it’s only true right now. And later it won’t be. And usually, I let you know when it isn’t. Unless I don’t.

I don’t know. Look, maybe just assume everything I say is true until I say something to contradict myself. Then, assume the second thing I said was the true thing and the first one was only mostly true. Unless the first thing is truer. In that case, assume the first thing is the true thing and the second one is the mostly true weird exception.

But that’s neither here nor there. Because I’m going to explain in this article—which is about Four-Point Plots and when and why they’re the best choice—I’m going to explain now that it’s actually not the number of plot points that matters. It’s what those plot points represent. The number’s just an accident.

So, not only was what I said true at the time and true from a certain perspective, it was—and remains—technically true. And technically true is the best kind of true. At least, it is if you’re an a$&hole like me. Because technically true means never admitting you were wrong. Even when you were. Which I wasn’t.

Building a Structure

Today’s topic dujour of the day is plot structure. Specifically, a specific kind of structure I mentioned in a previous article about plotting campaigns. In that article, I mentioned a few different plot structures. I mentioned the good ole workhorse, the Three-Act Structure, the blogger darling Five-Room Dungeon, and the exotic jewel of the East, the Kishotenketsu Structure. And that one is the one I’m going to detail today.

So, structure. When it comes to narrative elements, structure and plot are kissing cousins. Which is legal in a lot more states than you’d think. And most of them aren’t in the south, it turns out. Fun fact. Not that I’m encouraging anything here. I’m just saying plot and structure are closely related. Which is why I keep saying “plot structure” instead of just “structure.”

Now, keep in mind that these are narrative elements. They’re parts of the story that emerges from playing a role-playing game. They’re not the story by themselves. Which is why it’s pants-on-head stupid for people to piss and moan about GMs “writing stories without the players’ input” whenever the topic of plotting comes up. The story is the sum total of all the game’s narrative elements. Primarily plot, setting, characters, themes, and tone. Plot’s just one part of that whole mess. In a book or movie, the plot’s just the list of all the events that happen throughout the story. In an RPG, there’s actually two plots. There’s the series of events the GM or adventure writer figures are probably going to happen and therefore plans out in advance. And there’s the series of events that actually happened once the players started f$&%ing around in the story.

But there’s more to plot than just a list of happenings and goings-on. And one of those mores is structure. Structure describes the overall shape of the plot. It takes more than interesting events, you see, to make a good plot. Those events have to fit together in interesting ways.

Imagine you’re wandering around a construction site for some reason. And you see three masons masoning near a pile of bricks. You ask the first mason what he’s doing and he says, “I’m laying bricks, what the f$&% does it look like I’m doing?” Undaunted by his attitude, you ask the second mason what he’s up to, and he says, “I’m building a f$&%ing wall here.” Not having had your fill of swearing, you ask the third mason what he’s up to, and the third mason says, “actually, friend, I’m building a church. Thanks for asking.”

And that’s the difference between event, structure, and plot. In this analogy, the church is the plot. Or maybe the church is the story because it takes more than walls, floors, and roof to make a building a church. So maybe there’s a mason between the second and third one, and he says, “I’m erecting a f$&%ing building.” He’s the one who represents the plot. And the fourth mason… I’m not making things clearer here, am I?

My point is that the events that make up a plot are like bricks. You can arrange them in a lot of different ways, but that won’t get you a building. The arrangement—how you lay the bricks—determines whether or not you get a pile of bricks or an erection. Thus, structure.

In my last article, the one about plotting, I told you how to get yourself a big honking pile of bricks. As many as you’d need. Today, I’m going to tell you how to arrange those bricks. And, more specifically, I’m going to tell you about a particularly useful basic floorplan you can follow. A Four-Point Structure that’s kinda sorta based on Korean story traditions. Except not.

Okay Zoomer

Before I describe this whole kishotenketsu thing—which is pronounced precisely the way it’s spelled in Japanese—I need to remind you about that fractal, zooming bulls$&% I talked about in the last article. Because key-show-tank-cat-sue is a linear plot structure. It describes how a story gets from a beginning to an end. But, as a GM, you’re going to be using it in a kind of cyclical, fractical way. And you’re going to be using it in an open-ended game where the players—bless their stupid souls—can do whatever they want. Even if it means f$&%ing up a plot structure.

Remember how I said you can plan an entire campaign around three plot points? Or four or five or umpteen? Like:

First, the heroes build a reputation as local heroes while occasionally dealing with an evil cult. Then, they recognize the cult as a dangerous force and start to investigate and oppose it. Finally, they thwart the cult’s big-a$&, world-ending plan and destroy it forever.

Then I said you can take any one of those points and break them down into three more plot points? Like:

To build their reputations, first, the heroes deal with some goblin raiders on the edge of town. Then, they rescue the lord’s daughter from evil cultists. Finally, the heroes help the king defeat an army of goblins that’s been whipped into a frenzy by evil cultists.

And I said you could keep going. Keep drilling down—or up—to plot campaigns, story arcs, adventures, scenes, and encounters, and so on?

So, when you’re reading about all this Kikitetsuo stuff, you’ve got to remember that each microcosmic structure is going to pass through the same phase. It’s cyclical. On the large scale, the campaign’s got a beginning, a middle, and an end. On the small scale, every adventure’s got a beginning, middle, and end. And on the tiny scale, every encounter’s got a beginning, middle, and an end too. But each encounter in the beginning part of an adventure is still mostly about the beginning of the adventure’s narrative. And the adventures at the beginning of a campaign are mostly about the beginning of the campaign, even as the adventures themselves pass into their own middles and endings.

Look, that’ll be clearer later. I promise.

It’s also important to remember that these structures are great for describing non-interactive, unfun stories like books and movies. And they’re great for planning interactive plots. But the plots might not actually move so cleanly from phase to phase once the players have their say. They might skip some beginning stuff, for example, to do some middle stuff, and then go back to some beginning stuff. That’s just what happens sometimes. Nothing you can do about it. But it’s still good to plan for it. Because even if the game only mostly—or even sorta—follows the plan, the underlying structure will still make for a better narrative experience.

Clarifications clarified, let’s explain us some Korean poetry with the help of the Super Mario Brothers.

Mario Maker 3DS World

Long ago, in the ancient world of 2012, there lived this video game designer named Koichi Hayashida. And he gave a GDC talk about the scenario-design philosophy he’d employed as director of Super Mario 3D Land for the Nintendo Gameboy 3DS. He made a big deal about this traditional narrative structure called kishotenketsu. And after that, the video game design community could not stop f$&%ing talking about that s$&%. And it even made the rounds in the tabletop role-playing gaming blogosphere. For wrong and stupid reasons.

Ke$hatentcenty is a kind of narrative structure that started in Korea in the year 700 or something like that. It spread to China and then ended up in Japan. And while the name changed a bunch of times, the idea stayed basically the same. Basically, it described a plot that passed through four distinct phases, parts, or acts. The ki, the sho, the ten, and the ketsu. But let’s call them the introduction, the development, the twist, and the conclusion. Because that’s what those words sort-of mean, ignoring weird Japanese abbreviating and ideographing and all the translating from Korean to Chinese to Japanese. And because I’m not Japanese.

Basically, Hayashida’s trick goes like this. He starts by inventing a gimmick for a Mario level. Say, a neat kind of swinging platform or a new enemy type. Then, he designs a level around that gimmick. And the level goes a little something like this. First, the level presents the gimmick in a safe way so the player can see what it’s about. The platform’s hanging over stable ground. The enemy’s approaching from the edge of the screen, alone, and the player can easily avoid it.

Next, the level gives the player a chance to develop their skills with the gimmick. It presents a few simple challenges. Like the swinging platform’s still over safe ground, but now you have to use it to get over a wall or you can’t proceed. And then, maybe, you have to use the swinging platform to get over a deadly lava pit. And then, maybe, you have to time your jump between two swinging platforms. Whatever.

Once the player’s comfortable with the gimmick, now the level does something to complicate s$&%. Something to really test the player. A series of swinging platforms over a lava pit with gouts of flame spewing up to f$&% up the player’s jumps. Or the lava rises and falls, swallowing up the platforms periodically. Stuff like that.

Finally, the player gets to the end of the level and gets one last chance to show off their skills. Three swinging platforms that let the player reach the tippy-top of the goal flag for bonus points or an extra life. Or a boss version of the enemy the player has to fight to escape the level. That’s the conclusion.

Simple, right? But it turns out that’s a great way to design a game with a lot of little throwaway gimmicks. Like level-based platform games. That four-step approach is a great way to teach players a skill. And it’s so effective that later levels can bring back gimmicks from earlier levels without having to retrain players. Which means one level’s gimmick can provide another level’s twist. If the player already learned all about fighting Lantern Boogers in World 1-3, then the Lantern Boogers can patrol the gauntlet of Wibble-Wobble Platforms in World 2-2’s twist.

Kinkotattooparlor and Conflict

Now, the thing that got lots of people—especially stupid TTRPG bloggers—really excited about this s$&% back in the day was that this narrative style doesn’t require a central conflict. See, in the West, the most common plot structure is the Three-Act Structure. And the good ole, familiar 3A is all about conflict. It turns on the resolution of a single conflict in the climax of the story. You can’t build three proper acts without a central conflict.

Now, that’s totally fine. There’s nothing wrong with that. But the Ginkobiloba style doesn’t actually turn on a single, central conflict. It can have one, sure. It can end with a big confrontation or a boss fight. But it can also have a bunch of small conflicts peppered throughout. It can even have no conflict at all.

Storygamey whackjobs in both the TTRPG and video game communities lost their f$&%ing minds over that. See, even though they claim to love stories, lots of storygamey whackjobs actually hate traditional narratives. Because they’re actually a bunch of elitist hipster deconstructionists who think anything that has worked for thousands of years and is literally hardwired into the human psyche must be bad. Makes perfect sense.

Anyway, those idiots started writing all sorts of articles about how Cashewtoblerone was synonymous with conflict-free. And how that was the big draw. Well, it wasn’t and it wasn’t. But they wanted it to be. Especially because they had a narrow understanding of conflict and equated conflict with combat.

So, while it’s true that you can build a Cassowarytitmouse story without a central conflict, that doesn’t mean you have to. Nor does it mean you should build a game without any conflict. Games need conflict. A game without conflict isn’t a game. But that’s a whole other article. And one I’m pretty sure I already f&$%ing wrote.

Enter: the Architect

Now, Hayashida’s GDC talk and the follow-up Gamasutra Article are interesting enough, but the most useful discussion of this whole Four-Point Structure thing that I’ve ever seen comes from Adam Millard. The Architect of Games. You should totally check out his Youtube channel about video game design.

Two years ago, AM:tAoG put out a video called The Four Fundamental Quests. Ostensibly, it’s about quest design in computer role-playing games. He talks about games like Divinity and Guild Wars and World of Warcraft and even Runescape. You should totally watch it. There’s a lot of great s$&% in there about why quests exist in video games and even why adventures exist in D&D. But just a little bit about D&D. D&D ain’t his thing.

Millard notes that there’s basically four kinds of quests in CRPGs. Four things you can do: go to a place, get a thing, interact with a thing, or kill a thing. But even though that’s what the video claims it’s about, what it’s actually about is plot structure.

I mean, hell, the premise is just wrong anyway. Everyone knows there’s seven fundamental quests in CRPGs, not four. So it’s a good thing his point isn’t really about how many kinds of quests there are, but how those quests are strung together to build narratives in games.

And the thing he notes the strongest is that lots of different game genres seem to fall back on this sort of four-part structure. CRPGs, for example, and platformer games like Mario. And, most notably, strategy games like Civilization and Starcraft. In fact, those games are often called 4X games after the four phases of gameplay most of them entail. Those are: eXplore, eXpand, eXploit, and eXterminate. First, you scout out the map, then you establish a foothold, then you exploit the land’s resources to build yourself up, and finally, you crush your enemies.

In other words, you go somewhere, collect something, interact with something, and then kill something. Or you discover a game element, develop basic skills with it, master it, and then prove your mastery. Introduction. Development. Twist. Conclusion.

Exploiting the Four-Point Structure

That’s the background. The theory. But let’s talk practicalities. How do you translate this s$&% into tabletop role-playing game plots? And why would you want to?

Let’s start with the why. Because there’s lots of different plot structures competing for your GMing attention. Why the Four-Point, 4X, Wubbalubbadubdub style? What’s it good for? And what’s it not good for?

It turns out that the Four-Point Structure is actually good for open-ended stories. Especially those that emphasize growth and self-directed exploration. If there’s a solid central conflict or goal—typical adventure-quest style D&D play—the Four-Point Structure can work, but it’s not at its best. If things are a little more relaxed and less focused, though, the Four-Point Structure can really shine. If you can say what your campaign is about in one sentence and that sentence is a thing the players have to do, you probably don’t want a Four-Point Structure. But if you’d describe your characters as explorers instead of heroes, the Four-Point Structure is probably what you want.

That said, the Four-Point Structure has a couple of big issues you have to be aware of. The first is that Four-Point Plots are a bit lazier and a bit less focused than Three-Act Plots. They take their time. They meander around. If you want to run a Four-Point Plot, you’re going to be in it for the long haul. Second, Four-Point Plots are necessarily very player-driven. And some players just don’t know how to drive their own adventures. In fact, lots of western RPG players—raised on a steady diet of Three-Acts-and-a-Climax—tend to get a little lost without a central conflict to steer toward. Hell, even the presence of a central conflict doesn’t help some players get through a Four-Point Plot.

On top of that, most modern, western RPGs—especially adventure-quest games like D&D—aren’t built around Four-Point Plot structures. They have Three-Act traditions built right into their core. This means Four-Point Plots tend to catch players by surprise and they tend to be harder to properly build. And that’s just another reason why D&D can make all the f$&%ing noise it wants about exploration as a pillar of gameplay. Noise don’t make a thing true.

The solution, by the way, is simple enough. A Four-Point Campaign with Three-Act Adventures. But that’s a whole other article. And there’s at least one article that’s got to come before it. So, break out your tap shoes and your DDR mats, kids.

As to how to use a Four-Point Structure. Well, obviously there’s a little more to it than making sure all your plot itineraries have four stops. You have to make the right stops. You need the right four walls. The right kinds of plot points have to come at the right times.

The Devil in the Plot Details

So, there’s more to this Four-Point Plot, 4X, Yaddahyaddahyaddah thing than just coming up with a list of four plot points. You need the right four plot points on each list. But you’ll notice that what’s right is a little vague. In this article alone, I’ve called the four phases the introduction, development, twist, and resolution. And I’ve called them going somewhere, collecting something, interacting with something, and killing something. And I’ve called them eXploring, eXpanding, eXploiting, and eXterminting. And all those things ain’t exactly synonyms. And I’ve also been talking about them in video game terms. Once you get outside the Reboot world and sit at an actual, open-ended gaming table, things get a little different.

So, let me see if I can help you suss out what each phase is really about so you can build your plot itineraries accordingly.

Arriving or Getting the Lay of the Land

When you’re designing a TTRPG plot, it’s not really useful to think about the first phase as an introduction or eXploration phase. Nor is it useful to assume adventures in this phase are always about going somewhere. The first phase goes a little beyond the traditional story hook that starts a standard quest. That’s why I call this phase the Arrival Phase. It’s when the adventures Get the Lay of the Land.

The first phase of the story is where the explorers get to form their first impressions of whatever the campaign or plot arc or adventure or scene or encounter is all about. They show up, see what there is to see, and take in the big picture. At the campaign level, this is where the characters meet up for the first time and get to know the setting. At the adventure level, this is where the characters see what’s going on, who’s who, and what’s where.

This is the phase wherein the explorers reach the new town and walk down the main street. They get a sense of the flavor of the place, they spot some interesting landmarks, and they see what useful services are around. They might interact with NPCs, but it’s mostly chitchat or local flavor sprinkled with a few vague rumors.

This is the phase wherein the explorers see the ruined keep and wander around the exterior. They size up the place, noting the big wall and the main gate and hole in the back wall and the central tower. And they notice the stream running out of the hillside below the keep too.

This is the phase wherein the explorers open the door and see the slavering fangor beast hunkered down in the corner. It’s the phase where the GM describes the abomination and calls for knowledge checks and tells the players what they know about the thing.

This phase is mostly passive. That’s the key. The players make minor decisions and get cursory information. Mostly automatically. They’re not so much exploring as noting things that might be worth exploring later.

When you’re looking at a whole campaign, though, remember that each chapter and adventure and scene and encounter is going to have its own set of four points. And that can make things seem more active. When the players are in a campaign’s Lay of the Land phase, they can take on several—even a dozen—adventures. And those adventures will involve them taking an active hand in things. But the adventures themselves will mostly be about establishing who’s who and what’s where. And the players will probably be passively bouncing from adventure to adventure. During this phase, the explorers might end up traveling between the different towns and villages in a kingdom, doing odd jobs that come across their path while they get to know the map. Or, if it’s an urban intrigue campaign, they might take on a bunch of small jobs for various factions and setting bigwigs. And they’ll probably end up opposing other factions. And each of those jobs might take them to a different neighborhood or point of interest in the city. Or give them to chance to meet a specific contact.

Putting Down Roots or Seeking Opportunities

After the players have Arrived and Gotten the Lay of the Land, they can start poking and prodding a little more actively. The reason I don’t like calling that first phase eXploration is that, in a Four-Point TTRPG plot, this phase is really when the players start to explore. All those little landmarks they spotted while they wandered around in the first phase? All the people? All the little story elements? This is when the players start to check them out. Actively.

The reason this phase is associated with collecting things is that it’s here where the players start to gather resources. Usually information. But also contacts, money, equipment, supplies, and other useful s$&% too. Sure, they’ll do this throughout the whole adventure or campaign or whatever, but this is really the phase that’s about gathering the raw materials of adventure. And the most important resource of all is opportunities.

In this phase, the explorers visit some of the locations they spotted when they first arrived in town. They visit the market and the smithy and the inn and the temple. They meet the merchants and smiths and priests. They find out who does what and who they can count on for what. They start to figure out who’s got problems to solve. They figure out who their likely friends are and who their enemies are. And they start building relationships and getting attached.

In this phase, the explorers scout the keep and assess its defenses. They check out the main gate and see how the guards are armed and armored. They note the token guard presence holding the gap in the rear wall. And they find that the stream flows out of a cave that runs into the hillside right beneath the keep. At night, they see the lights in the highest window of the central tower and guess that’s where the brigand’s leader is hanging out.

In this phase, the explorers—and the fangor beast—roll for initiative and jockey for position. The fangor beast makes its first attack and the players take note of how hard it hits and what kind of damage it does. They make some attacks of their own and start to get a sense of the creature’s armor class and maybe which saving throws it’s particularly good or bad at.

In this phase, the explorers stop bouncing around the kingdom. They return to one settlement or another where they did some work and follow up with the NPCs there. Or maybe they strike out into the surrounding countryside because something about the terrain caught their interest and they want to explore it some more. They get to know the people of the town, learn about a few job opportunities or spot interesting adventure sites, and they gear up for bigger adventures.

In this phase, the explorers are starting to understand who the major players in the city are and what they’re about. Now, they start to deepen that understanding. They seek jobs for specific factions and interact with more of their members. Maybe they establish some preferences for certain factions. Or enmities. And they get to know what each faction’s got to offer. Which ones pay the best? Which ones offer their members the best perks? Which ones offer the most chance for advancement? And which ones are the most dangerous to cross?

Getting in Deep or Seizing Opportunities

This is the phase where everything changes. And where s$&% gets real. Consequently, it tends to be the most varied of the four phases. On the player side, this is the phase where they start to exploit the opportunities they spotted in the previous phase. Which usually means overcoming serious challenges and making hard choices. It’s the phase where things start to have serious consequences. And it’s the phase where there’s really no turning back. If the players succeed, they’ll grow significantly. They’ll become a lot more powerful. If they fail, though…

Well, this is the phase where twists, reversals, revelations, and setbacks really live. This is the phase where the players can suffer serious losses. And where they deal with the consequences of the mistakes they’ve made. Complications and nuances appear. And maybe they force the players to rethink some of their earlier choices. Or commit fully.

In this phase, the players should also have to work for their rewards. And I don’t just mean they should overcome some challenges and win some fights. There’s a reason this phase is called the eXploit phase in the 4X model and the interacting phase in the CCRPG model. That’s because it expects the players to demonstrate some actual understanding of the game world. To put things together. To push and pull. To use what they’ve learned and gathered.

In this phase, the heroes cement their relationships with the townsfolk. Which probably means taking on dangerous jobs no one else can do. Or taking sides in rivalries and disputes. Or doing morally questionable things. Or putting their reputations at stake. If they drive the gelatinous owlbear out of the cave where the healing moss grows, the alchemist will keep them supplied with potions forever. If they steal the magical orb from the temple without getting caught, they can access the Vault of the Ancients and seize the Sword of Ultimate Awesomeness, but if they get caught, they’ll be pariahs. If they help the blacksmith win the mayoral election, all the shopkeepers in town will give them discounts for life. But if the smith loses the election to the greedy moneylender, he’ll tax the adventurers out of their own armor for spite.

In this phase, the explorers decide how they’re going to enter the keep and make their assault. Maybe they sneak past the guards on the main gate and then climb the central tower to take the leader unawares. If they get caught, though, they’ll have to face the entire garrison. Maybe they’ll attack the guards at the breach in the back wall. If they end the fight quickly, they can get inside the walls before the alarm’s raised. But if they don’t, there’s no way they can fight through that chokepoint and they’ll probably be pursued into the wilderness if they run. Or they can explore the labyrinth of flooded tunnels in the hillside, hoping to find a way to come up inside the walls. But, if they get lost or ambushed by some terrible underground beast, the tunnels will become their burial caves.

In this phase, the heroes have to recover from the first round. They’ve learned the fangor beast hits a lot harder than they expected. The fighter’s near death. The rogue scurries behind a column and hides, setting himself up for a sneak attack later. The wizard throws some spells to distract the beast, covering the rogue’s escape and giving the cleric a chance to heal the fighter. Then he readies a spell to lower the beast’s defenses so the party can hit back.

In this phase, the explorers have established themselves in Dunroamin. They’ve explored the countryside, built up their supplies and gear, and they’ve learned about a few major opportunities. The Lord’s offering a bounty to anyone who can clear the hippogriffs from the ruined tower. The local stablemaster—who used to be an adventurer before he took an arrow to the knee—will pay handsomely for hippogriff eggs, meanwhile, so he can rear and train the beasts for the king’s knights. Or they’ve gotten the linguist to decode the map to the Lizard Lord’s Tomb. They can enter it if they can get the mysterious Collector to part with the Tablet of Gurzinfeld, but he won’t let it go cheaply. They’ll have to find something he really wants. Or get some serious leverage.

In this phase, the explorers have figured out that the Order of the Golden Chimera’s forge master means to leave and pledge his services to the Crimson Guard. They can reveal his treachery and earn renown with the Golden Chimera, but the Crimson Guard can make their lives miserable. They also know the high Matriarch of the Jade Ring is attending a secret meeting. One most of her own followers don’t even know about. Consequently, she’ll be lightly guarded. If the party can take her down, the Jade Ring will descend into chaos. That’ll give them the perfect opportunity to strike. Or to install their own Matriarch.

The Final Challenge or The Big Score

You can’t really call this phase a conclusion or resolution because that’s just too damned passive. Every story ends. That’s something that happens. Whatever the players do, an ending’s coming. Even if that ending just leapfrogs into a new beginning because of the cyclical, fractical nature of campaign and adventure plotting.

If you’ve been paying attention—and you sure as s$&% better be paying attention—you might have noticed there’s a sort of increasing sense of agency as the Four-Point Plot goes on. The heroes start out wandering around, drinking things in. Then they poke and prod and establish themselves. And then they capitalize on big opportunities and build themselves up. And that’s why I warned you that these Four-Point Plots aren’t for passive players. And that’s also why this phase ain’t just a conclusion.

Calling it an eXtermination phase or suggesting it’s about killing something? That implies a lot of violence. And, hell, it’s not exactly unfair to imply violence is going to happen in a TTRPG. Most RPGs are, like, 95% violence. But maybe the word eXecution is better. As in the eXecution of the big plan.

Because that’s what this phase is really about. It’s the Final Test. It’s the Big Win. It’s the Be-All-and-End-All.

In this phase, the explorers have built themselves up. They’re heroes. And the king himself has offered them a job. A purple dragon’s nesting in an old stronghold on the frontier and its making trouble for the outlying villages. If the explorers slay the dragon, the stronghold’s theirs. Along with the requisite titles and incomes.

In this phase, the heroes have breached the central tower of the ruined keep. During their assault, they learned the brigand leader’s actually an eldritch knight. He can put up a big fight, but he’s also outnumbered and likely to try to make an escape. Having interrogated one of his lieutenants, the heroes know there’s a secret passage out of the tower. The gnomish black powder the explorers found in the old storeroom can collapse the tunnel and cut off his escape. Then it’s down to a knock-down-drag-out fight to take the brigand leader down.

In this phase, the fighter’s on his feet again. The cleric’s by his side and he’s blessed him with acid resistance to counteract the fangorn beast’s corrosive saliva. The fighter’s thrown off his shield, switched to a two-handed grip, and he’s ready to attack. He’s also got every damage boost he knows how to get. The cleric’s going to aid the attack, to make sure the fighter hits. The wizard’s ready to paralyze the beast for one round. And the rogue’s ready to dash in and sneak attack. It all comes down to this round.

In this phase, the Jade Ring’s been sidelined by internal fighting. The Order of the Golden Chimera’s lost its best smith and two dozen others to the Crimson Guard. The City Council is meeting in a month to install a new Exarch and there’s only two serious candidates in the running left. If the heroes can ensure the vote goes for General Graeme, he’ll certainly name one of them as the new General of the Crimson Guard in his place. The others will have their pick of positions of power, titles, or honors. And, of course, the city will benefit from the order and safety Exarch Graeme will instill. It’ll be a shining beacon of civilization.

And then it’ll be time to make new characters and start eXploring and eXploiting a whole other corner of the world. Like the Mushroom Kingdom or Kara-Tur.