I guess we finally know what happened all those centuries ago. Someone must have said, “We should start a new campaign!” Then lots were drawn. Dice were rolled. Somebody volunteered.

This is the plight of the forever-GM. The poor bastard who sits at the head of the table session after session, week after week, rolling up new challenges for his friends to fight and slay.

Few of us start out this way. We’re players first, drawn to the promise of the self-insert fantasy slapped on the cover of every Choose Your Own Adventure book: “YOU CAN BE THE HERO OF YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!” And for a time it is good. We learn the rules, write a bit of character backstory, overcome a bandit camp or two, and get invested in the narrative. The group is solid. The table is firing on all cylinders. Everyone is bound for The Land of Adventure! But then it happens.

“Hey guys,” says the current GM. “I’m burned out. I can’t come up with what happens next. And with work / school / insert-responsibility-here taking all my time, I’ve got to pause the campaign.”

And of course that’s fair. Mental health is a thing. Burnout is a thing. You tell your GM how much fun you had, and that you understand the need for a break, and that you’ll be ready to pick up your dice and RP again whenever the next session happens. But that short break stretches. The temporary pause turns into two months. Someone thinks to ask, “Are we ever going to game again?” And the former GM says those fateful words, “I’d be down to play, but I can’t really handle running right now.”

This is what happened to me once upon a time. I was tired of all my campaigns ending. Tired of putting in effort and getting invested, only to watch the narrative fade away and die.

“I’ll do it,” says the brave volunteer. “I’ll take up the mantle. Each week I’ll obsess over my campaign notes, overthink our group’s interpersonal dynamics, and send out save-the-date reminders. I’ll paint minis and buy a battle mat and carve out 4-hour chunks of my weekend. And I’ll make sure the campaign goes right up until the very end!”

Poor chump. Naive fool! Your world too will end. The architecture of your universe will crumble and fall around you. Just as the random encounter tables collapse, and the dice towers topple, and as the sun at the center of your cosmology cracks and pours across the campaign setting like a runny egg, you too will make a desperate ploy. You will open your campaign binder, pass it to a promising young gamer, and ask if they’ll volunteer.

This is how liches are made. We are wizened and withered. All-powerful figures plotting in the solitude of our moldering halls, scheming of the ways we will finally outsmart some ragtag band of heroes. We cling to the spark of magic that keeps the old bones animate, but we feel the fire dying. The only choice is pass our blasphemous magics to the next power-mad mage willing to trade a hero’s fate for a villain’s.

So good luck making your choice, Fighter! The world ends if  you refuse. No pressure or anything.

What do you say, gamers? Do I draw too bleak a picture of a GM’s genesis? Or does the lich version of the forever-GM strike a chord? Does your group have a stable and orderly way of moving from one campaign the the next, or is it all about running yourself into burnout and then hoping someone else takes over? Tell us your tales of GM succession and new campaigns sprung from the old down in the comments!

 

 

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