Today’s feature is for Queezle. She asked me to write it, so I’m writing it.

Who the f$&% is Queezle and why does she get to tell me what to write?

Well, Queezle’s a member of the Angry Supporter Discord Community. And she’s pretty great. In fact, if you’re part of the community — and you should be; it’s great and without supporters, this website dies — if you’re a part of the community, you know the first reason why Queezle gets an article. Because she’s Queezle.

Second, Queezle managed to impress me. Which ain’t an easy thing to do. I mean, I’ve got pretty low expectations in general. It doesn’t take much to surprise me. But to actually impress me? I’ve got pretty high standards there. So when Queezle said, “maybe you should write an article about using time, weather, seasons, and lunar cycles to ground the players in the world,” I was like “holy mother of f$&%, someone actually gets it.

The third reason’s that I had nothing better to write. Any port in a storm, right?

Anyway, weather and seasons and lunar cycles and s$&%.

Beneath an Angry Sky

At my table, I keep very careful track of time. I always know what day it is, what time it is, and how long s$&% takes to happen. In my game world, I mean. And I’ve got a detailed calendar. So, I can tell you that the party in my game returned to Frostwind from the Shadowpine Forest on 20 Summerswax, 648 Z.E. during the Afternoon Bell.

I can also tell you the sky was clear and the weather was mild. And since it was summer in the foothills of the Skysunder Mountains in the northern Sunderlands, that means about 60 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and 50 degrees at night. That’s because I keep careful track of the weather.

And I can also tell you that when night fell and the moons rose, Azura — the silver moon — would be in her waning gibbous phase while Krisma — the red moon — would be in her first quarter phase.

And I can tell you that, the next day, the party had about sixteen hours of good daylight to work with.

All that s$&% — the time, the date, the weather, the season, the lunar cycles — I’m going to call all that s$&% The Sky. As in, “I keep careful track of The Sky in my game world.” Why call it that? Because all that s$&%, taken together, tells me what the characters see — and hear and feel and perceive — whenever they’re outside. Whenever they’re under The Sky.

I have very complex, detailed rules for keeping track of The Angryverse Sky.

Or do I…

Why The Sky Matters

Pretend for a second that I didn’t end that last section by implying I actually don’t have complex, detailed Sky-Tracking rules. Let’s pretend I do.

Actually, it doesn’t matter how detailed and complex my Sky-Tracking rules are. Clearly, I’m keeping track of something, even if I’m not wasting 30 minutes of every game day making die rolls and cross-indexing s$&% on tables and charts. I always know the right answer when a player asks the time or the weather or whatever. And the answer always makes sense given the season and the location and what happened the day before. Weather and moons and daylight can’t just change from day to day at random.

Not counting the one weird moon that does act at random. That’s an intentional choice. And it isn’t completely random.

The point is, blizzards don’t hit in midsummer. And you can’t have eight hours of daylight one day and sixteen the next. Not without some kind of explanation. Like a control weather spell. Or a sparkly doorway that teleported the party to a different hemisphere. Or a moon that may actually be the remains of an ancient, forgotten goddess of chaos and destruction worshipped by primordial dragons.

You know, s$&% like that. It’s fantasy; those are valid explanations.

However simple my rules for determining the Sky’s status, there’s still some complexity that comes just from keeping track of that Sky s$&% from in-game day to in-game day. Even if it’s just notes on paper, which it usually is. So why do it?

Well, most GMs will give you one of two good reasons to do this Sky-Tracking s$&% in TTRPGs, depending on what they think’s important. Gamey GMs will tell you it adds an extra element of mechanical challenge and unpredictability to the game. When it’s raining, it’s hard to see and hear. In high winds, arrows don’t go straight. In low temperatures, unprotected characters freeze to death. Yadda yadda yadda.

Narrative GMs will tell you that The Sky affects the tone of the game. Good weather at the start of a journey adds a sense of optimism, hope, and adventure. Bad weather is an ominous warning. Tendrils of mist drifting through a dangerous forest make it feel ghostly. Spooky. The Sky is the narrative, flavor-text equivalent of a color filter over the game’s scenes.

And both GMs are right. Sky-Tracking enhances both the RP and the G parts of the acronym. But to me, that s$&%’s just gravy. Those aren’t the reasons why I care about The Sky. The weather really doesn’t have much of a mechanical impact on my game, not that my players have ever noticed. Oh, sure, there’s been times when the overnight temperature drop f$&%ed their characters or when a bad wind or rainstorm made combat tricky. But, outside of extreme situations like that, The Sky doesn’t really bother my players.

Meanwhile, while there have been times I’ve used The Sky to set the tone of a given adventure, there’s also been plenty of times when I just let the dice decide what’s coming out of the sky. If I cared about setting the right tone, I wouldn’t leave this s$&% up to random chance, would I?

No, the reason I give any kind of crap about The Sky — and why you should too — is because it’s an easy way to ground the players in the world. Yes, ironically, the Sky grounds the players.

By the way, if you read the Long, Rambling Introduction™, you might think I stole that wording from Queezle in the Angry Supporter Discord Community. Well, I didn’t. Queezle was just smart enough to surmise the reason I care about the Sky. Or she guessed really well.

Grounding Your Players for Their Own Good

So, what does grounding mean? It means lots of things. It depends on whether you’re asking a parent or an electrician or a life coach. In this case, you’re asking me. And despite evidence to the contrary, I don’t do life advice. So grounding, in this context, means one precise thing. And nothing else.

One of your most important jobs as a GM is to never, ever let the players forget that they’re not just playing a game. They’re not just moving tokens on a map and killing monsters and looting treasure. Your job is to makes sure the players never, ever forget that they’re interacting with an actual world.

For want of a better word, that’s grounding. It’s keeping the players from floating off into the abstract space of game mechanics and resource management. It’s stopping them from forgetting that there’s a world full of characters and that it’s worth thinking about. And caring about. So, the choice to heal an NPC or not isn’t just about the cost of a spell slot and the potential payment, but also about whether you should let an innocent human continue to suffer when you can stop it.

Grounding is one of those things that’s either so easy and intuitive that you don’t even know you’re doing it or it’s so complicated and bizarre that you just can’t get it right. It’s also one of those things GMs blame on their players way too much. If you’ve ever complained that your players just don’t care about the world or that they’re just a bunch of pillaging murderhobos, I’ve got bad news. That’s on you. You don’t get grounding. You are the one who is wrong.

The reason grounding is so unintuitive is that it’s one of those holistic, emergent things. It’s something that grows out of all the things you do. And it grows mostly out of s$&% that has zero apparent impact on the game. I mean, I told you above that my Sky rarely affects the game’s narrative or mechanics. In the moment-to-moment gameplay, it does nothing. But it’s one of those little things that, when done constantly and habitually, gradually grounds the players in the world.

The world — the real world that we all live in — the world has a f$&%ing sky. And that sky affects you. Sometimes it’s got a conscious effect, sometimes unconscious. Sometimes the effect is subliminal, and sometimes it’s wholly liminal. But you’re always aware of it and it’s always affecting you.

Think about how the rain or snow affects your drive to work. Or school. Or your walk. Think about how miserable, gray weather makes it harder to get out of bed. Think about those times when you’ve noticed the sun or moon and thought something like, “wow, that’s a nice sunset” or “the moon looks amazing” or “it’s starting to get dark early; it’ll be winter soon.”

Living under a sky is part of the human experience. It’s part of living in the world. So if you want your players to think of their characters as people in a world and not as avatars on a chessboard, reminding them there’s a sky — constantly — is a great habit to get into.

That’s it. It’s that simple. That’s why the Angryverse has a Sky. Yeah, I get some other benefits — like tone and mechanical challenge — but I could live without those. And I don’t use them too often. The Angryverse has a sky because worlds have skies and the Angryverse is a world.

And that’s why my actual rules don’t matter. And why I barely have any. That said, I do have some elegant time-keeping rules I plan to share. Because I finally cracked the Davinci Code of diegetic in-game timekeeping. But that’s another story for another day.

In the Beginning, Angry Created the Heavens and the Aerth

So, the Sky? How do you make a Sky? And what do you do with it?

Mechanically speaking, I don’t hang too much in my Sky. And you don’t have to either. A Sky doesn’t have to do anything. It’s just got to be there. So all you need is a way to keep track of it. Find a way to keep track of the time and the date and the weather so you can work them into your narrative fluff text. You can add lacy frills and bells and whistles — like moons and daylight and seasonal variation — but they ain’t necessary. The only necessary part of all this s$&% is that you can describe what it’s like being outside in your world. And that you actually do describe it.

Really, the Sky’s just a bit of scene-setting. That’s all. When the PCs wake up in their inn rooms, the sunlight or the sound of rain comes filtering through the shutters. When the PCs step outside, thick fog swirls around them. And the rain turns their trek down a dirt road into a muddy slog while the wind rustles the underbrush or whatever.

That’s it. Seriously. Everything you need to know about managing your world’s Sky. Know the weather and the time of day and the time of year and work that s$&% into every scene-setting narration. Done and done.

But because I knew three paragraphs that amount to, “just bulls$&% your way through it” wouldn’t make any of you happy — least of all you, Queezle — here are Angry’s Top Five Sky-Tracking Tips for Grounding Players.

Tip 1: Don’t Create Anything You Have to Explain (More than Once)

When creating your world’s calendar or its celestial mechanics, keep it simple. Make it intuitive. Make sure everything’s inferable from context alone. And if there’s something that can’t be inferred from context, make sure it’s so simple that you only need to explain it once.

The Angryverse calendar is simple. There are twelve months with 28 days each. Why? Because that’s basically how the real calendar works. Or how it would work if God had tweaked the orbit of the moon a little better.

Each season runs precisely three months. Spring, for example, comprises Springswax, Springstide, and Springsebb. That’s super f$&%ing simple. Most people grok what’s going on there. A few need to be told that wax means grow and ebb means recede or go away, but even if they forget that s$%&, they still know the season if I give them the date.

The Angryverse has two moons: Azura the Silver Moon and Krisma the Red Moon. And that’s what I call them. I never say “Azura,” I say, “Azura the Silver Moon” or just “the Silver Moon.” Players don’t have to remember their names. And every time I say “the Silver Moon rises” instead of just “the moon rises,” the players’ brains go, “oh right, there’s two of them.”

Incidentally, I chose silver — actually silvery-blue — and red because silver is pretty and heavenly and red’s the color of blood and fire and danger. So, yeah, there’s a good moon and an evil moon.

Why are there two moons? That’s to remind the players that, yeah, there’s a Sky, but it’s a fantastical Sky. It’s not our Sky. And it’s good to slot something into your Sky to inject a hint of fantasy. A ring or a second moon or weird seasons that last for years. But keep it simple. Intuitive. F$&%ing Eberron has a ring in the sky and twelve f$&%ing moons. Twelve. And that’s why most Eberron GMs totally forget to describe the night sky and why most players have no idea what it looks like. It’s hard to casually describe a glowing ring and some subset of twelve moons every time the players go out at night.

Remember, the point of this Sky s$&% is to have stuff you can easily and casually slip into your scene-setting narration. So design your Sky so it’s fit for purpose.

Tip 2: Never Shut Up About Your Damned Sky

As a GM, repetition’s your best friend. The best way to ensure your players notice something is to repeat it over and over and over. Make sure you’re repetitive. Repeat yourself. Repetition is your friend.

Now that I’ve shot the obligatory low-hanging fruit from the branch…

Remember, in life, the Sky is your constant companion. You’re always aware of it, even when you’re not consciously aware of it. And your players’ characters need to be similarly aware of the fantasy Sky over their imaginary heads.

When I start each session, I remind the players of the date. The first time in a session the characters end up under the sky, I describe the weather and the daylight and all that s$&%. Whenever the players are under an open sky — or near a window or under a roof through which they can hear the wind and rain — I mention something about the Sky in every bit of scene-setting fluff text and transition. If it’s foggy, I make sure every outdoor scene is covered in fog. If it’s midday, I describe the sun overhead and note whether it’s bright and warm or barely penetrating thick clouds. If it’s raining, I remind the players that their characters are in the rain. And at night, I always talk about the moons.

Does that sound annoying? Well, it’s not. The players barely notice that s$&%. That’s why I do it. Players barely notice anything you say. The only way to get anything down their ear-holes and into their brains is to say it a dozen f$&%ing times.

So, be repetitive. Repetition is your friend. Repeatedly remind the players there’s a Sky. Repetition is your friend.

Tip 3: Mechanics Don’t Matter

Barring bouts of extreme weather or specific challenges I want to include in my campaign or adventure — which is rare — I don’t think much about how the Sky affects the game mechanically. And neither should you. Sure, if it’s foggy, I might apply a little +1 or +2 bonus or penalty to Stealth or Perception checks or whatever, but that’s about the extent of it. And I’m pretty inconsistent with that s$&%.

That said, if a player tried to use the Sky to gain an advantage, I’d definitely reward that s$&%.

Player: You said there are fast-moving clouds that keep blotting out the moon, right?
GM: Yeah.
Player: Okay, so I’ll wait until a cloud covers the moon and then sneak across the hall.
GM: Noice! Take advantage on the Stealth check for that s&%$!

Beyond that? Unless I have a very specific, very good reason to give a mechanical f$&% about the weather, I don’t.

That extends to determining the weather. I know there are all sorts of tables and charts you can use to determine your world’s exact weather and ways to break down windspeed and precipitation categories and track their mechanical effects, but f$&% that s$&%. It’s a waste of your GMing time.

To determine the weather for the game day, I either use the tables from the D&D 3.5 DMG — without referring to the mechanical notes — or I use this simple, one-page weather generator posted on the Winds of Chaos blog for use in Warhammer Fantasy Roleplaying Game campaigns.

Or I just, you know, make it up.

To keep track of the weather, I use a simple three-phrase description comprising temperature, cloud cover and precipitation, and wind. For example…

Mild, partly cloudy, breezy
Warm, foggy, calm
Frigid, heavy snow, high wind

That’s it.

Tip 4: Use The Right Sky for the Right Job… Sparingly

The Sky’s there just to be there. Just to keep the players grounded. But that’s not all the Sky can do, right? As I mentioned, the Sky can provide extra gamey challenges or help set a narrative tone. Well, that’s s$&%’s like spice. Or gravy. It’s a great way to add a little flavor, but only when used in moderation.

My current AOWG — called On Winter’s Edge — is set in a northern clime, as you might guess from the name. As such, I do keep more careful track of the temperature than I otherwise would. And I use the cold weather survival rules from my system du jour. Especially at night. Consequently, my temperature notations actually look like this…

Mild (60°F/50°F), Clear, Breezy

But even so, the temperature and survival thing only matters once in a very rare while. And if I want to add an extra degree of challenge to an adventure — get it?! — I purposely pick appropriate weather and apply it with a little more mechanical rigor.

Likewise, if I really want to drive home a particular emotional tone in an adventure, I’ll pick the right Sky for the job. But not all the time. If every adventure has tonally appropriate weather, s$&% starts to look contrived…

Player: Oh crap, he said it’s foggy. Everyone break out the holy water; I’ll be ready to turn undead.

My point is this: if you want to do something specific with the Sky — once in a while — do it. Set the Sky accordingly and impose it on your game. Otherwise, just randomly set the Sky and leave it at that.

Tip 5: Trust Your Gut

To be fair, this final tip is more of general GMing advice than a Sky-specific tip. But it is very useful when you’re managing your Sky and I needed a fifth tip for the list. Angry’s Top Four Sky-Tracking Tips just doesn’t read the same.

The Sky’s about grounding the players in the world. It will rarely directly impact your game. And usually, it’ll impact the game because you made a deliberate choice to let it. How do you know when to make that choice? How do you know when to punctuate the Sky’s existence with little mechanical adjustments? How do you strike a balance between the intuitive and the fantastic?

You trust your gut. Go with what feels right. Usually, it’ll work. Sometimes it won’t, but it won’t matter much when it doesn’t so it’s all good.

That said, there are ways to train your gut to get this s$&% right. And you’re already doing the first one. You’re reading this article. So now you know the Sky’s important, but only insofar as it exists. It doesn’t matter what the Sky does; just that it’s there. So you don’t have to worry much about getting it wrong.

Second, find a way to ensure that you always know what’s going on in the Sky. Come up with a way to keep track of the time, the date, and the weather. If you’ve got other s$&% to track — like lunar cycles — track those too. Make sure they’re visible at all times. To you, the GM. You’ve got to infuse every bit of scene-setting narration with a mention of the Sky, so the Sky’s current mood must be in your line of sight at all times.

Third, if something starts to leak out of your mouth — or your brain — don’t stop it. If your mouth suddenly blurts out that it’s foggy or cold or that there’s a surprise solar eclipse, go with it. Your brain — or your mouth — knows something you don’t. It detected a pattern in your game or the narrative tone or something that would absolutely benefit from some fog or extreme cold or the terrifying disappearance of the sun.

Games are, after all, experiential and emotional things. Most of the time, your conscious, rational brain’s going to f$&% all that up. So don’t let it interrupt you from making a good call.