I hope you like treasure! Because treasure’s the topic du jour of, like, the next three f$&%ing weeks. This article’s the first of a two-part thing about treasure. And in between the two parts, there’s going to be an interquel part about handling some basic GMing s$&% that you have to understand to do treasure right.

So, this article’s about how I handle treasure in D&D. And the follow-up’s about how you should handle treasure in D&D. I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t you do what I do? Well, you should. But you probably can’t. Because I’m me. And I’m a sexy gaming genius. And you’re… you’re you. Point is, keep your goals realistic. Don’t try to be me. Just be a slightly more me version of you.

That aside, here’s the deal. I wrote that QDD thing. And in my QDD, I scattered some art objects as D&D stupidly calls them. Valuable trinkets for the party to find and sell for cash. I used the D&D treasure tables and then ignored the results and made up my own. Because those treasure tables, while being totally functional, are total crap.

And then the feedback happened. F&$%ing feedback.

Some of it was just nice, simple questions. “How do you decide how much treasure to stock your dungeon with? How much should it be worth? How do you handled the in-game discovery and sale of that treasure?” S$&% like that. Some of it was less nice. Some of it was people telling me I was stupid and wrong. That I was wasting table time handling treasure the stupid, wrong way. And lots of people told me how they streamline the whole treasure thing in really stupid, wrong ways. Which I’ll come back to.

Point is, I have no choice but to expand “I’m not stupid and wrong; you’re stupid and wrong” into a 5000-word article. And, if I end up some extra word count, to answer the polite, reasonable questions. But the priority is proving screaming morons wrong. Because this is the Internet and that’s how you win.

When I started to outline that whole, “I’m the rubber, you’re the glue” article, I realized it was just going to make a lot of you sad. Because you’d all want some actionable way to handle treasure in your game. And my actionable advice is basically, “just handle treasure in D&D for 35 years until it becomes second nature and then you don’t need rules.” This is what my approach sort of comes down to but not really. It’s systematic. But the system’s all in my head and I tweak it and change it and override it and ignore it constantly.

Now, some of you can handle that “understand what you’re trying to accomplish and make it happen in the moment” thing. Which I call actually running a f$&%ing game. But most of you like your crunchy mechanical systems. And since my approach is systematic, I can turn it into a mechanical system. Mostly. Provided you understand how to work with — and override — the system.

And that’s how, “no I’m not, you are” turned into three articles about treasure mechanics and it’ll take the entire month of December to get through.

Silver and Gold and Silver-and-Gold-Equivalents

I’m talking about treasure today. And f$&% but I’ve got a lot to say. Settle in for a long one. And a follow-up. And an interquel. I already explained why I’m taking three articles on this s$&% in the Long, Rambling Introduction™. If you want the why’s and wherefores, it’s up there.

Just know that this article’s about how I handle treasure at my game table. It’s half extended-and-annotated example and half explanation as to why I’m right to do s$&% the way I do. The follow-up’s about how you should handle treasure because I don’t think you’ll like my half-a$&ed, hand-wavey, make-it-up-as-I-go approach. And the interquel’s about an action adjudication concept that’ll help bridge the gap between the systematic best-you-can-reasonably-do approach of the latter with the more freeform what-Angry-actually-does of the former.

Now I’ve explained the same thing twice so you don’t have to read 750 words of rambling bulls$&%. You’re welcome.

Anyway, treasure. When I say treasure, I don’t mean magical items. I don’t mean useful equipment. I mean treasure. Coins. And s$&% that can be traded for coins. Cash and cash-equivalents as I used to say when I had a real, non-pretend-elf-related job. Silver and gold, gems and art objects, trade goods and s$%& like that.

Today, I’m going to tell you how I dole that s$&% out. How I stock my adventures with valuable crap. What happens when the players find it. And what the players do with it. And I’m going to tell you why I do it that way. The right way.

Clear? Good.

Part 1: How I Roll… Treasure

I’m going to start with an extended example with annotations, notes, and digs at my players. You know, my standard approach to illustrating s$%&. Basically, show you the Full Angry Treasure Experience.

Two notes, though. First, this is idealized. It assumes I actually plan s$&% in advance. Which I don’t. Not always. Sometimes, treasure comes right out of my a$& and onto the table. But it still works the same. And sometimes, my players don’t do things the way I wish they would. Because they’re players, bless their f$&%ing hearts. And they have minds of their own. At least until I finish the device.

Second, I’ll mention rolling dice and making checks in vague terms. That’s because I adjudicate s$&% as it happens. I’ll give you some actual mechanical advice in the follow-up. This is more an overview of the play experience. And remember that term. It’ll be important later.

Where Treasure Comes From

The treasure life cycle starts with me building an adventure and putting some treasure in it. Simple, right? Well, it is. You already saw how that s$&% works in my QDD article. Because that’s pretty much how I always handle it. Everything I do in my home game is quick and dirty. Because quick and dirty is good enough.

I use the s$&% in my edition’s core rules as guidelines. For instance, in D&D 5E, there’s generally about 200 gp to 300 gp worth of coinage scattered around the average adventure and about 100 gp to 400 gp worth of gems and art objects and other crap like that. That’s what the tables on DMG 137 reveal with a casual inspection. And a casual inspection is, what kids? That’s right. Good enough!

Doling out treasure’s fun. It’s where GMs get to be creative. To enjoy making s$%& up. And I take advantage of that. I start with a budget — 250 gp to 750 gp for the dungeon above — and break it down into coins, gems, art objects, trade goods, and other valuables. How? Well, there’s a lot of factors. Because, again, this s$&%’s about creatively expressing your world.

For instance, with coinage, the amount and denomination of coins depends on where that s$&%’s coming from. Or being found. If some quest giver’s paying the PCs, the coins are gold and silver and copper. Coins of the realm. Likewise, if the PCs are looting bandits or raiders, they’re going to find the same kinds of coins. Mostly copper and silver. In ancient ruins, they’ll turn up beaten and stamped electrum coins. If they’re exploring a dwarven redoubt or some ancient draconian ruin, they’ll find platinum. Or even more exotic metals.

Likewise, the valuable trinkets in bandit camps? They’re trade goods or small, inexpensive tchotchkes. Cheap jewelry, common gems, wooden or bone knickknacks, that kind of s$&%. Occasionally, if the bandits made a big score, they might have something better. They might have silver trade bars, a payment from some noble to another. Or they might have robbed a high-ranking priest and stole his platinum and emerald holy symbol. S$&% like that.

Point is, I put some f$&%ing thought into this. I try to fill adventures with the sorts of treasures those adventures should be filled with. I don’t just put three 25 gp arts in the adventure and roll them randomly so the party finds an embroidered silk handkerchief in the Fallen Draconian Fortress at Az’Akah or some s$&% like that.

For the sake of the ongoing example, let’s say some villagers hire the party to go deal with some bandits who’ve been robbing merchants and traders. They’re camped out in the courtyard of a long-abandoned and ruined abbey that was built in the Age of Empires.

Yes. I call it that. Microsoft didn’t invent the concept of naming historical ages or the concept of empires, thank you.

In their supply tent, apart from their mostly worthless supplies and half-consumed foodstuffs, I plant the following:

• Three jars of common spices worth 10 gp each
• A bone statuette of a knight taken off some peddlar worth 30 gp
• A crate of iron ingots worth 50 gp
• A padlocked wooden chest containing 70 cp, 20 sp, and a small garnet worth 30 gp

In the hidden vault beneath the ruins the PCs might discover, they’ll find:

• 150 electrum coins in a moldering old sack
• A ceremonial silver cup with 150 gp
• A moonstone worth 50 gp

That’s roughly 415 gp worth of treasure. A good haul. Especially when combined with the 30 gp worth of mixed silver and copper coins the villagers have scrounged to pay the Magnificent Four for dealing with Calvera and his bandits.

And thus a treasure hoard is born!

Looting and Pillaging

Along come our heroes. They scrape out a scant victory because I run some tough-a$& bandits. Bloodied and beaten, they loot the camp. How does that go? Something like this:

In the bandit’s supply camp, apart from a few sacks of foodstuff halfway to spoiling and mundane camp supplies, you find three earthenware jars. Each is the size of your two fists, stoppered, and sealed with wax. Merchants’ marks have been etched into the bottom of each. You also find a six inch tall statuette or icon. It looks like aged bone. Maybe ivory. It depicts an armored knight, a greatsword clutched before it point down. There’s no markings or identifying features. Finally, there’s a small, iron-banded wooden chest. About a half-foot long, four inches high and deep. An iron padlock secures the hasp. What do you do?

If the party’s smart and efficient, the answer is:

Arwydd collects the three jars, the statuette, and the small chest and throws them all in a sack. “We can tally and divide this later,” she says. “Let’s keep moving in case there are more bandits straggling around.”

And then, this exchange generally follows:

Me: So you’re just tossing those three clay jars loose in a sack with a heavy chest and a statuette?
Bob: I’ll pull out my winter blanket and give it to Arwydd. “Here, wrap the jars in that so they don’t get smashed.
Alice: Sounds good. I stash everything.
Me: Okay, note that you have three merchant’s jars weighing 3 pounds each, the bandit’s chest which weighs 10 pounds, and the knight statuette which weighs 2 pounds.

Of course, the party might try to get that chest open right away. Just to see if there’s a useful item inside.

Me: Okay, Carol, roll a Dexterity check and add your proficiency bonus for your thieves’ tools. Sorry. That’s not going to do. The iron padlock seems beyond Cassia’s abilities. It must be rusted inside from exposure or something.
Bob: I’ve got a prybar. Can I just snap the hasp off the chest?
Me: Give me a Strength check with advantage. Okay, that does it. The hasp rips free from the wood, ruining the chest but revealing the contents. It’s filled with coins. Mostly copper and silver. Several dozen at least. Maybe a hundred at most. Atop the coins is a small, uncut gem. Roughly multifaceted, translucent. It’s the size of a finger joint and it’s the deep red color of wine.

Then, the party ties a rope around the broken chest to keep it closed and throws it into the sack.

---

A Brief Interlude Wherein Reality Intrudes on My Beautiful Example

The example above is actually what I wish would happen. What actually happens at my table usually goes something like this:

Me: In the bandit’s supply tent, you find three earthenware jars. Each is the size of your two fists. They’re stopped and sealed with wax and have merchants’ marks on the bottom. You also…
Carol: Cassia grabs the jars. Can she identify the marks?
Me: [Rolling Dice] You examine them carefully, but lacking the proper proficiency, they don’t mean anything to you. The party also finds…
Dave: I have Arcana! Let me see the jars. I take them. Do I recognize the marks?
Alice: Arwydd’s also proficient in Arcana. I assist Dameer.
Me: Assist? How the hell do you assist someone looking at some marks and trying to remember where they’ve seen them before.
Alice: I whisper help in his ear?
Me: You know what? Fine. They’re simple marks used by the spicer’s guild. Which Dameer recognizes because of his proficiency with Cooking Utensils. They’re the marks for salt, saffron, and cinnamon respectively. Common spic…
Dave: Can I appraise them?
Bob: Bathar is a Guild Artisan. Does that give me a bonus? Let me appraise them.
Carol: While they’re fighting over the jars, is there anything else of value here? Is it just those crappy spice jars?
Me: Cassia spies a locked wooden ch…
Carol: I pick the lock. 22!
Me: Wha… I? Okay. The small wooden chest is full of coins. Mostly copper and silver. A few doz…
Carol: I divide them up!
Me: You carefully count out and divide up several dozen, possibly a hundred coins of at least two different denominations? Right here and now?
Carol: Sure. Why not?
Bob: How many coins did you say I get?
Alice: If those jars are just ordinary spices, I’ll look around for more valuables…
Me: Too late! While you’re counting coins and tossing jars around, a tremendous roar of fury explodes. Descending like a comet, wreathed in fire, a red dragon dives at the party. No doubt attracted by the treasure you all found. You fail your savings throw and die. And the treasure is melted to slag.
Carol: …why does that happen every time we find treasure?

To be clear, I don’t mind the players inspecting their treasure as soon as they find it. That’s fine. There’s always the possibility of useful or magical s$&% mixed in there. But they always do it like that. It’s utter chaos. If they’d just work with me — as you’ll see — I’d get us through all that s$&% in one-third the time and make sure everyone gets a chance to examine everything without having to guess which proficiencies who has and s$&% like that.

Anyway… back to the story…

---

So, the party found the bandit treasure. They did a quick, cursory inspection to see if there was anything immediately useful and then threw it all in a sack. Because…

You never count your money;
When you’re delving in the dungeon;
There’ll be time enough for countin’;
When the adventurin’s done.

Note that, when the party actually and explicitly declared a f$&%ing action to gather up the treasure and stow it — and told me who stowed it where and how — I told them how to record it. Why? Because I’ve got a list of my own. And I need to make sure that s$&% matches up.

By the way, I’m totally f$%&ing done with the argument about how it sucks to keep notes and do bookkeeping and track things like single, simple numbers; short, three-word phrases; and hit points between sessions. If you can’t handle that s$&%, you’re in the wrong hobby. Yes, I’m gatekeeping. Consider yourself gatekept. The gate is closed. Get lost.

Anyway…

Assume the party goes through the same rigamarole in the abbey basement and they find themselves a moldering sack of electrum coins, at least a hundred and probably more and a polished, ovoid gemstone of opaque, milky white color and a double-handled silver goblet inscribed with a three-pointed star that Arwydd immediately recognizes as an ancient symbol of a particular deity.

Taking Stock

When the party has some time — maybe right after they find it, maybe after they leave the dungeon and they’re back at camp, maybe when they’re back at town — they sit down as a group and sort through their treasure pile. Examine s$&%. Evaluate it. Count it out.

Put as pedantically as possible, taking stock of the treasure is a time-consuming, group action. Someone says, “okay, let’s sort through this treasure.” And then they do. Together.

The example party? They could have taken stock of the treasure right after they looted the bandit camp. That would have been fine. No complaints. They agree to sit still for ten minutes or twenty minutes or whatever and go over the treasure pile. But let’s say they didn’t. Because, frankly, once they’ve discounted the possibility of useful equipment and magical items mixed in, there’s literally no margin in tallying up the treasure before you’re done exploring the dungeon.

So, the party’s back at camp and they decide to sort the treasure…

Alice: Arwydd opens up the treasure sack and starts piling up the items for everyone to see. “First, we’ve got these merchant jars…”
Me: [Interrupting] Clay jars with stoppers. Sealed with wax. As big as your two fists. With merchants’ marks on the bottom. [Secret Die Roll] Dameer has proficiency with Cooking Utensils and recognizes them as spicer’s guild marks. Salt, saffron, and cinnamon. Common spices. Each is probably worth 5 to 15 gold marks in any town market.
Alice: [Updates her Notes] Next, we have this statuette of a knight.
Me: Which on close examination is definitely aged bone, not ivory. The knight figure is about six inches tall. Fully armored. With a greatsword point down in front of him. His face is visored. And there are no identifying marks or symbols. [Secret Die Roll] You have no idea how much this might be worth. Bone is a common material and the workmanship is hard to judge.

And so on down the list.

• An uncut garnet. Small, and obviously flawed. A good quality garnet, cut and polished, can fetch between one and two hundred gold, but you’d be surprised to get half as much for this specimen.
• The polished moonstone is finer, but moonstone is not as valuable. It’s probably worth half a hundred gold or thereabouts.
• Based on the metal and the workmanship alone, the silver cup’s worth at least a hundred gold. Probably more.

For each object, I consider the characters’ proficiencies and make appropriate checks in secret. Or I just decide, flat out, whether they know something or they don’t. I’m wishy-washy. I’m vague. I’m obfuscating. I never give a precise value. I give ranges. Or I say things in weird ways. I mean, who says “half a hundred gold or thereabouts”?! I do. That’s who. I also say, “look, a good gem would be worth this much, but your gem sucks.” And I say, “based on the material or the workmanship…” and trail off, implying that other s$&% might factor in as well.

If the players fail a check or the item’s really obscure or no one has the right proficiencies for my taste, I’ll say, flat out, “you’ve got no idea what this is or what its worth to who.” Or, if they fail bad, I’ll lie. Which is why I roll in secret. Like, maybe I say this:

The small, red gem? It’s uncut and it has obvious flaws. But it looks like a ruby! Cut, polished rubies fetch at least a thousand gold. Even if this specimen’s only worth a quarter of that, it’s worth a fortune.

After the party assays all the art objects and gems and other crap, they count up the coins.

The bandits had 68 copper pennies and 24 silver marks in that chest. All coins of the realm. And there’s 146 beaten electrum coins bearing the marks of the old Zethinian Empire.

You might notice something funny here. When I designed the adventure, I placed 70 cp, 20 sp, and 150 ep. But the numbers are a lot fuzzier now. They’re not even. They never are. I never use even numbers. Because even numbers feel fake.

Also I never actually know what s$&%’s worth — precisely worth — until the party counts it or sells it. When I wrote “150 ep in a moldering sack,” I mean “somewhere around 150 ep, more or less.” I only found out how many actual coins there were when the party counted them. I didn’t roll a die or anything. I just spit out a random number near what I wrote down.

Likewise, my notes say that the ceremonial silver chalice is worth 150 gp. But that’s an estimate. When the PCs actually sell, it might be worth 135 or 140 or 165. Generally, merchants do pay in even numbers. That doesn’t feel fake.

There’s actually an important accounting concept here that all GMs and artists and crowdfunded internet content creators desperately need to understand. But it’s boring so I won’t waste time explaining it. No one likes accounting. Not even accountants.

While we’re going over the treasure list, I’m also making sure our notes match. See, I have my own list of treasure the party found. Along with the estimated value of each item. And I’ve got to make sure I have the same items the party does. If they’re missing something, I can ask about it. If I’m missing something, I can check my adventure notes. That way, when they actually try to sell s$&%, I can match their items with mine.

That said, our lists aren’t identical. My list identifies each item and gives me enough information to match them up with items on the player list. It also reminds me of details I need to remember so the item looks the same every time they examine it. Because I make up most of the item descriptions on the fly. The players’ list, meanwhile, probably has all sorts of useless details. And more than a few misspellings as well. And the players’ are probably keeping track of their own appraisals.

I don’t bother writing down what the players think the items are worth. I don’t give a f$&% what they think items are worth. They’re worth what they’re worth.

Here’s some of the stuff I’d have on my list:

• Knight statuette, aged bone, generic, 30 gp
• Garnet (not ruby), small, uncut, flawed, 30 gp
• Silver cup, engraved with symbol of the goddess Zathena, 150 gp

And here’s how the players might list the same items:

• Knight statue made of bone ???
• Crappy ruby 250 gp maybe!!!
• Silver cup with symbol of Zufeena or some god, 100 to 200 gp

Eventually, the party breaks camp and heads back to town.

Liquidating Your Assets Off

Selling non-cash treasure in my game is super easy. If you do it the super easy, barely inconvenient way. That is, one character takes all the treasure the party wants to sell and spends one day of downtime in town wandering from market to shop to collector to peddler to auction house getting the best price for every item. It looks like this:

Carol: Cassia’s going to spend the day selling all this loot.
Me: Okay. What does she have to sell?
Carol: Three jars of spices — salt, saffron, and cinnamon — a statuette of a knight made of bone, a flawed little ruby, a moonstone, and an engraved silver chalice.
Me: Cassia starts are the Dragon’s Gate Market and on Spice Street and Gold Row which adjoin it. She’s offered 7 gold crowns for the cinnamon, 9 for the saffron, and 12 gold crowns for the salt. There’s little interest in the bone statuette, but a curio dealer offers 30 gold crowns for it. The ruby doesn’t seem to fetch much of a price at all. One poor jeweler well off the main avenue grudgingly offers 25 gp for it. The moo…
Carol: 25 gp? For a ruby? It should be worth ten times that.
Me: [Switching into an NPC Accent Seemlessly] Ten times that? Pah! That’s no ruby. Just a garnet. And a piss-poor one at that. 25 crowns is a gift and you’d best take it.
Carol: Crap. Is this guy scamming Cassia?
Me: [Making a Big Show of Rolling Some Dice] … no. He seems genuine. And the other jewelers weren’t interested in your ruby. So he’s probably telling the truth.
Carol: Fine. 25 gp.
Me: He buys the moonstone for 65 gold. And a silversmith up the street offers you 145 gold crowns for the silver chalice.

Now, Cassia could accept all that and divvy up the gold and call it a day. But Cassia’s never been one to pass up a chance for more gold. And Carol’s been at Angry’s table long enough to know a few things. So she decides to push her luck.

Carol: About that statuette. Can I haggle over it? Try to drive the price up a bit?
Me: Sure. If you want to drive a hard bargain, Cassia can make a Charisma (Persuasion) check. She won’t get a lot more. If she asks a ridiculous price, the curio dealer will just laugh her out of the shop. But if the check goes poorly, she’ll end up having to accept a lower price from the curio dealer or another merchant. Or just keep the statuette. The curio dealer’s already offering the best price she’s found.
Carol: Okay. That’s fine. I’ll push my… wait. Can I scam the merchant?

As I said, Carol’s been around the block with Angry. She knows how this game works.

Me: What did you have in mind?
Carol: Can I claim the statuette depicts some important but obscure historical figure so it seems more valuable?
Me: You’ll still have to keep your price reasonable. No more than a hundred gold. It’s still just a bone statuette.
Carol: Sure. I’ll try it.
Me: Okay. Make a Charisma (Deception) check. And take advantage because Cassia’s got proficiency with History too. That’ll help.
Carol: Awesome! 18!
Me: Thinking quickly, Cassia recalls the name of a knightly house of some renown that fell decades ago. You remind the merchant of Sir Pevington the Penniless’ and some of his exploits. He seems skeptical, but you weave some accurate historical details into the story and he clearly doesn’t want to admit you might know more than him, so…
Carol: Cassia says, “It’s okay if you don’t recognize him. Most people don’t much about history. I just assumed you were a person of learning given your trade.”
Me: That cinches it. His intelligence questioned, he sneers, “Of course I know of the Pevingtons and their exploits. It’s just not a very good piece. Pretty worn. Barely resembles him. Still… I’ll give you 75 crowns for it. And not one copper more. Take it or don’t.
Carol: Cassia accepts the offer. Now… about the silver cup…

Obviously, Carol’s on a roll. And this crap’s the only reason the other players trust their rogue to sell the treasure unsupervised.

Carol: There’s some religious symbol on that cup, right?
Me: A three-pointed star is etched into the cup’s surface. Arwydd identified it as an ancient symbol of the goddess Zethena. But you don’t know one god from another. You’ll have to take her word for it.
Carol: Is there a temple to Zafrena in this town?
Me: You ask a passer-by. There’s a sizable temple on Devout Hill and smaller shrines…
Carol: The big one’s perfect. I head there. I bet they’ll take the cup. I won’t sell it to them, exactly. I’ll say I want to return it but mention that my allies and I went through a lot of trouble to get it and we need to resupply for our next expedition. Which might turn up more valuable relics to donate.
Me: In a small chamber off the temple’s domed atrium, the temple relic keeper’s pinched face softens slightly with a smile. She’s happy to accept the relic — grateful even — but can only offer your party 50 gold crowns. However, the temple may be able to help in other ways. Blessings, healing, perhaps potions…
Carol: I tell her I’ll return with a companion who also serves the gods to discuss the temple’s services. Then I’ll go find Arwydd. Maybe she can get something useful out of this…

And with that, the treasure cycle is complete and the treasure returns to the sky from which it came, ready to fall and fertilize some other adventure. Unless I’m getting this s$&% confused with some other cycle.

That Sounds Awful/Awesome

I know what you GMs out there are thinking. “Holy crap! That sounds awful. What a long, boring chore. A complete waste of table time. I mean, in the end, this is just about giving characters money to spend. Which is worthless in D&D anyway. Why go through all those hoops?”

I know you’re thinking that because I read your e-mails. Yep, that’s the feedback I got. Well, the polite version.

Now, first, this is where I remind you that when something’s all typed out and read out, it sounds like a bigger deal than it is. Evaluating treasure? That just takes a few minutes at the table. Ten minutes tops. And the players do it once or twice an adventure at most. When they have a break. Selling the loot? Fifteen minutes of town time between adventures. And it’s not like resolving this s$&%’s complicated. It’s still all just ability checks.

Oh sure, when the players get clever — when they decide to push their luck haggling or scamming or when they figure they can get a better price if they visit a specific NPC they’ve dealt with before — then it can get arduous. I mean, then you’ve got to deal with the players interacting with the world and coming up with clever ideas to adjudicate. And who needs that kind of bulls$&% in a TTRPG? I mean, holy crap. Did you see where I had to seamlessly switch midstream from narrating a resolution to portraying an NPC? And where Carol had to, you know, read the NPC and figure out how to deal with him as a person! What a f$&%ing chore! Who needs that kind of bulls$&% in a roleplaying game? Am I right?

Now, I realize all I’m saying is, “it’s doesn’t waste that much time and it’s not that bad at the table.” But that’s not an argument in favor of my approach, is it? To justify wasting any time, there’s got to be a payoff.

Well, there is. It just involves something you can’t see in the mechanics. Which is precisely why I spent so much time on the extended example. Because, here’s the thing. If you’re a GM, all you can see is the work involved. But if you’re a player and you read that whole example, I know what you’re thinking too. You’re thinking, “holy crap, that sounds awesome! I want to be in that game!” Hell, some of you smart GMs are thinking, “holy crap, that sounds awesome! I want to run that game!”

And if you are thinking that, why don’t you drop a comment right now to help prove my point to all the naysayers. Not that I give a f$&% about proving my point. Either people believe me and run better games or they don’t and they keep running suck-a$& games. Doesn’t affect me either way.

This is something I keep harping on. Because it keeps being true. And my readers keep ignoring it. Mechanics. Don’t. F$%&ing. Matter. And you can’t tell anything about a game from reading the mechanics. It’s all about the subjective experience at the table. The feel of play.

Look, you and I both know treasure’s f$&%ing worthless in D&D 5E. Once a player’s bought the best mundane armor they can wear — usually by 3rd level — there’s nothing else for them to spend gold on is there? Lifestyle costs are trivial. Players can’t buy magic items and, even if they could, the shopping list’s hidden away in the DMG along with all the other good s$&% there is to spend money on. Gold is worthless.

So why do players give a s$&% about it? They do. You can’t deny that. Players like finding money. They like tallying it up. Nine out of ten players try to negotiate any price any NPC questgiver offers them. On principle. Doesn’t matter what the quest is or how much they’re offered. Players will always hold out for a little more cash. Don’t the players know how worthless gold is?

Hell, when you’re playing, do you treat gold as worthless? Odds are good you don’t. I know. I’ve run games for bunches of you. When you’re playing, you don’t behave like gold is worthless. Whatever you might know. And that, right there, tells you everything you need to know about the value of the mechanics.

My treasure system? All that s$&% above? First and foremost, it starts with the assumption that treasure’s fun. People like to find treasure. Even if they don’t know why. Even if I don’t know why. I mean, I do. But even if I didn’t, I’d still accept it. And I’d lean into it. Which is what I do. I use a bunch of psychological tricks to make treasure better.

Truth is, though, 90% of the s$&% above? It’s just me following the rules. Most of that s$&%’s explicitly stated or implied in the rules. Or it was explicitly stated in some previous edition and not explicitly removed. It’s not like I invented the idea of gems or the selling thereof. I didn’t invent assaying and appraising. And I didn’t invent fluffing up game events with narration and interaction either.

The only stuff I do that’s not really core — as if that f$&%ing matters — the only s$&% that’s not really core is that s$&% at the end where clever players push their luck and haggle for more at the risk of getting less. Or look for clever places to offload their crap. And frankly, all that’s still at least 75% justified by the game rules if you really read the things.

So what is it about what I do that makes treasure better? It’s down to three things. Simple things, really. And that’s a damned good thing because this is already one long-a$& article.

The Power of Random

Randomness makes s$&% better. I’m not going to go into all the research here. I totally could. But, frankly, I don’t care if you believe me. Skip the “citation needed” comments. If you need a citation, you can Google that s$&%.

It’s a simple, psychological fact that the best rewards are random rewards. Random rewards feel really good. Want to train a living thing — especially a human — to do something? Reward it randomly.

That’s the short version. I mean, there’s different kinds of random and optimum intervals and s$&%, but we’re making games about pretend elves, not a public education system or brainwashing cult. Sorry, that was redundant.

Thing is, though, that randomness is in the eye of the beholder. And the players are playing the beholders in this scenario. It doesn’t matter whether you — the GM — use random treasure tables to place your treasure or not. What matters is there’s a lot of variation in what the players find. Sometimes, they find a cheap-a$& crappy chunk of gemstone. Sometimes they find an expensive silver chalice. That feels random to the players. They never know what they’ll find next.

Of course, there’s patterns. It can’t be totally random or else the illusion of world falls apart. Bone is worth less than ivory which is worth less than dragonbone. Ancient ruins have ancient artifacts. Bandits have trade goods.

Moreover, even within those parameters, the value of a given item of treasure also seems pretty random. It starts with the appraisal. Maybe the players know what the thing’s worth. Maybe they don’t. And even if they do, they get a vague number or a range. Something fuzzy. The actual final selling price is a random number somewhere around the characters’ best guesses. Random on top of random.

The reason the D&D 5E treasure tables suck? There’s no variation. Every adventure has one treasure hoard. And each hoard contains either gems or arts. But never both. Look at the tables. Did you ever notice that? And all the gems and all the arts in any given hoard are all worth precisely, exactly the same amount. Those tables work, but they suck. Because the critical random-seeming variation — the chance to find a jackpot or a zonk every time you open a chest — just ain’t there.

And speaking of the treasure lottery? Some folks are natural risk-takers. They like to gamble. That’s why my players have the chance to push their luck. They can accept a nice, safe best price for every object without any die rolls at all. Or they can try to haggle the price up or down. Or run a scam. Or whatever. Whatever cunning plans and crazy capers they come up with — or don’t because, note, I don’t make my players play out the actually haggling because that’s impossible and stupid — whatever plans they come up with it, it’s all down to a let-it-ride-for-double-or-nothing sort of die roll.

You can take the 50 gold crowns the merchant’s offering, or… you can take a spin on the big wheel for a chance to win even more!

So that’s the first factor. Randomness and variation. And the chance to push your luck and take a gamble.

The Power of Delayed Gratification

The second factor’s not one most people find fun. But it’s one that, nonetheless, makes things extremely satisfying. That’s the feeling of having to wait. Delayed gratification. The mystery box.

When you find 1,284 gold pieces in a chest, you know exactly what you’ve got. 1,284 gold pieces. Not a copper more or less. But when you find a gem or an art? Well, you know you’ve got something valuable. But you don’t know how valuable. That’s why we wrap presents. Anticipation amplifies revelation.

My system takes the money and puts it in an unmarked box and then giftwraps it. Players find s$&% that could be worth anything. Then they examine it and they get some vague idea of what it might be worth. And only when they finally sell it off do they know what they actually have.

Hell, that’s why I won’t even let the characters count large piles of coins unless they waste some in-game time — and risk an encounter or complication — to do it. Find a handful of coins? Fine. It’s basically a gift card with the value printed on it. But a chest full of coins? That might as well be a lottery scratcher.

The whole thing’s a psychological one-two punch of randomness and mystery that makes treasure satisfying to find. Even if it’s a little bit of a chore. I’m not saying every step of the process is a laugh-riot. The steps aren’t fun by themselves. Wrapping a present is a chore. Unwrapping is kind of silly. But that s$&% doesn’t matter because it’s the whole experience of getting a surprise that’s what you remember.

But that’s not all…

The Power of Detail

Fun fact: Dungeons & Dragons is actually a roleplaying game.

Who knew, right?!

What makes an RPG an RPG? Well, partly it’s that there’s a persistent, consistent imaginary world that seems to exist outside the play experience. The world reacts to the player characters, but it doesn’t just exist to interact with them. It has a history. The people in it have lives of their own. It’s all an illusion, sure, but it’s an important one. Because it tricks people into caring about the pretend world and the pretend elves in it like they were real.

When the treasure’s placed with thought and care so the players find the sort of s$&% they should find in the places where they find it; when the bandits have the sort of s$&% bandits would steal; when the ruins of ancient civilizations are filled with ancient coinage; all that crap increases the all-important sense of world that makes the players care. When the players have to cart all that s$&% back to town and hawk it at a dozen different market stalls and shops, the inconvenience is part of living in the world.

Moreover, when the players can increase their take by selling things to the right people or at the right places, that encourages them to interact with the world. To think about their treasure and the people selling it not as game mechanics, but real objects and people with motives and preferences. It rewards the players who take the time to make contacts and connections.

That said…

The Minimum is Enough

You can take all this crap too far. And how far to take it and how much to streamline it? That’s part art and part experiential practice. Streamline it too far — like some of my correspondents do and like the designers at WotC with their s$&% treasure tables did — streamline it too far, and you’re streamlining the world right out of the game. You’re turning the world into a game mechanic and nothing more. But make it too much of a chore and no one will want to do it either.

The minimum is this: scatter a half-dozen or so valuable objects of varying worth around your dungeons with some care and forethought. When the players get back to town, let them sell off the treasures in one downtime action. Use the power of narration to bring all that s$&% to life.

But if you want to go the extra mile, add in fuzzy appraisals and fuzzy final values to bump up the apparent randomness and add an extra gratification delay. Don’t let your players evaluate their treasure too much without spending some in-game downtime on it. Let the players push their luck and gamble on the value of the treasures they sell. And reward the players who think about the treasures as real objects and the NPCs as real people and use that knowledge to get more value from every object.

You can do that s$&% like I do. You can pull it out your a$& at the game table every week like a real Game Master. Or, if you need some training wheels from old Uncle Angry, come back in two weeks.

And if you still disagree with how I handle treasure, well, I’m rubber and you’re glue…

Boing, fwip!