On Roots
On Dungeons
"...they saw a vast roof far above their heads upheld by many mighty pillars hewn of stone. Before them and on either side stretched a huge empty hall; its black walls, polished and smooth as glass, flashed and glittered. Three other entrances they saw, dark black arches: one straight before them eastwards, and one on either side."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
The dungeon crawl, an exploration of an underground labyrinth filled with monsters, traps, and treasure, is the classic D&D adventure. It was my introduction to D&D, and remains what many people think of first when they think of the game. The Elcea campaign has had adventures of every sort; above ground, in the air, at sea, in buildings and towns, even on other worlds. Over and over again, though, I find myself returning to the dungeon as I plan my adventures. I have designed and gamed through hundreds of dungeon levels in dozens of dungeons, and it has not grown old for me, or to the players, as far as I can tell. In this essay I propose to delve into dungeons in general, and in particular; what makes a good dungeon, my philosophy of dungeon design, and some of my favorite dungeons from over the years.
The word "dungeon" is, of course, part of the name of the game. What Gary Gygax's inspirations were when it came to making that a core part of the game, I'm not sure. I'm not aware of any fictional basis for a huge, underground maze in the source material that inspired him, except, of course, for the Mines of Moria from The Lord of the Rings. Whatever the inspiration, it works brilliantly for the game: it is finite, while offering multiple decision points for the players at (literally) every turn. It makes using traps and secrets a snap for the DM, while offering all sorts of possibilities for things that go bump in the darkness. Dungeons lie away from the eyes that fill the world above, and they can hide all sorts of secrets and mysteries.
I can vividly remember my first dungeon crawl. It was, even by the standards of the day, a badly designed dungeon; the DM had basically a winding corridor with a few doors, and behind each were hobgoblins. In every room. The only variation was exactly how many there were and what kind of treasure they had. Yet I was enthralled, and couldn't wait to see what lay around the next corner. This feeling has never entirely left me as a player.
I couldn't wait to build my own dungeon, and to do it in a way that fulfilled the promise I had glimpsed as a player. It would be filled with fearsome monsters, terrifying traps, and cunning puzzles, all standing between the players and the treasure they sought. I followed this idea as I drew my first dungeon level, which was the first level of the Karnak dungeon, and I have pretty much followed this blueprint in every dungeon level I have designed since.
I have written elsewhere about how my construction of dungeons has become more "realistic" over the years; I no longer place monsters haphazardly, but pay attention to the ecology of the dungeon, for example. Other things have changed too, such as how doors work. I have to admit I kind of miss the old days when it comes to doors. The conventions then were simple: all doors were locked to adventurers, but would open freely to admit monsters, even monsters that could not manipulate any kind of knob or handle. Once opened, they would swing closed and lock again immediately unless held open by a character or by a spike. This led to the fast-charging "open and spike" style of dungeon exploring, in which characters would burst into a room first and ask questions later. Lethal, but fun. Nowadays if a door is locked it has either not been opened in years, or there is someone nearby (maybe inside!) who has locked it. Monsters have to deal with doors the same way that adventurers do. It's all much more detailed and interesting and realistic, but still, I sometimes feel a pang for those less sophisticated but very energetic days of dungeon delving.
All of the dozens of dungeons that have been explored in the campaign, early or late, have one thing in common; I have designed all of them myself. Designing a dungeon is a lengthy process; the only thing that takes more time and effort is designing a city or large town. The first step in the process is for me to get an idea of who originally built the place, and why. It might have been built beneath a castle or keep; in this case it will be fairly compact, and house things like barracks, armories, prisons, and storerooms. For the sake of security, the dungeon will not wander outside the footprint of the structure above, though it may go down a ways. As I draw a dungeon like this I keep in mind what purpose the rooms I'm drawing would have served, while keeping an eye on what they might be used for now. Sometimes I will jot a word or two on the map to remind me later of what I was thinking about while I drew it. If I don't do this, and it's a few days before I write the description, I am sometimes left staring at a really unusual configuration of rooms and wondering what the hell I did that for.
Another dungeon might be an old mine, bored into a mountainside. A dungeon like this will have large central areas and numerous tunnels wandering deep into the mountain, following the veins of ore. It might intersect with natural caverns. Yet another might be a hidden underground stronghold, designed to keep and safeguard a sacred artifact or some other sort of valuable. This sort of place will be designed to confuse intruders, and contain many guardrooms and traps. The layout might be deliberately misleading, and contain provision for monsters and other guardians.
All sorts of other blueprints exist. Whatever the reason, I keep it in mind as I draw. Usually I will draw a level, then fill in the room descriptions, and then go on to the next level. Sometimes I will draw two or three levels before I do any descriptions. I am guided as I make the lines on the paper not only by the decisions I have made about the nature of the place, but also by some internal sense of aesthetics. I may not even vaguely know what a level will look like when I begin, but by the time I'm done the result seems inevitable. If it feels wrong somehow the parts that bother me are erased and redrawn until I'm satisfied. Occasionally I toss the whole thing as hopeless and start over.
This is something that has not changed in 24 years. If I look at maps I drew back then, and look at maps I'm drawing today, only the yellowing of the old graph paper tells me the difference. At the same time, I have somehow managed to avoid repeating myself or falling into predictable patterns. At least, I hope I am not flattering myself in that regard, but if the players who have seen dozens of my dungeon floors are able to guess at what the rest of a new level looks like just by seeing part of it, then I can't tell. As I design I am still able to come up with twists and wrinkles in floor plans that I haven't thought of before, or to come up with riffs on traditional layouts that confound the player's expectations and keep them guessing.
One thing that has changed a lot over the years is the descriptions I write for the rooms and areas I have drawn. My very early dungeons usually had one, sometimes two, lines of description per room. This has steadily increased over the years. The early dungeons that the California group ran through usually had at least a paragraph of description, and this has continued to increase. It isn't unusual these days for a room to have a full page or more of text describing it. This has occurred because, first of all, as I have grown more experienced I can more quickly and easily think of interesting things to put in rooms and chambers. I have also discovered that the more information I can come up with beforehand, the less creating I have to do on the fly, and that frees up more of my attention for the adventure and the characters themselves.
As an example, consider the following two examples, typed directly from my notes. The first is from the Karnak dungeon:
1. 7 orcs 4-6-7-8-3-5-6 500 sps, 600 gps, potion of extra-healing
The next example is from a rather similar room in the Stunted Forest dungeon (aka the Ossana dungeon), as written last year:
4. Bugbear Buddies. This rm. is the lair of a trio of bugbears, who have been here for several months. They have some gear, inc. a small pile of hand axes, javelins, and spears, and beds made out of dirty blankets and sacks stuffed w/ straw. They have a fair amount of acquired treasure, hidden in a large jar w/ a layer of rocks atop. The creatures are alert and hard to catch unawares, and they will try to stalk and ambush any adventurers they detect.
Treasure: 133 sp, 60 cp, coral necklace (170 sp), electrum jar lid w/ owl engraving (25 sp); silver rabbit charm on short length of silver chain (15 sp)
Bugbears: AC 5; HD 3+1; HP 11, 15, 16; Sz. L; D/A weap. +2
These are both "simple" rooms; a straightforward encounter with some treasure involved. The difference in the treasure will not have escaped notice, I'm sure. Adjusted for the fact that Swords & Scrolls are on the silver standard, in the first encounter there is 650 gp and a magic potion for 7 hit dice worth of monsters, and in the encounter written 23 years later there is 349 gp worth of stuff for 9 hit dice worth of monsters, and no magic item. Notice also that all of the wealth in the first hoard is in coin, while over half the value of the second hoard is in miscellaneous items.
Here is another example, taken from the same two dungeons. The rooms are very, very similar. From the Karnak dungeon:
25. River running slowly, 20' wide. On far side chest has washed ashore. Guarded by giant octopus (19 hp), AC 7. Chest contains 1000 cp, 1000 gp, 11 magic arrows +1
And from the Stunted Forest dungeon:
1. Emerald Beach. This cavern has green-flecked walls and a floor covered with greenish sand. A river runs through it, coming in through a broken grate and ending up in a 15' deep pool w/a small outlet on the NE at the bottom. Some blind cave fish can be seen in the water. In the pool is a gnoll skeleton, partly covered with sand, w/a rusty axe, mail, and the barely-visible corner of a rusty iron strongbox poking up from the sand.
Old torch sconces rust on the walls, and two flambeaux flank the grit-covered stairs leading up to a stout door, just ajar.
In the stream, covered by grit and 80% invisible, is a giant crayfish. It will attack creatures entering the water. The strongbox holds an assortment of loot.
Treasure: silver necklace w/moonstone pendant (100 sp), carved ivory ring (pixies - 55 sp), 75 sp, 7 gp, 20 cp
Huge Crayfish: AC 5, HD 2+2, HP 15, D/A 1-8, 1-8, Sz. M
Okay, let's get it out of the way; the monsters have very similar stats, yet the octopus guards 1100 gp and 11 +1 arrows, while the crayfish guards a whopping 302 gp. Go ahead and complain, and then let's move on to the interesting differences.
There are, of course, all sorts of details in the second room, most of which have little effect on game play. The rusty sconces, the grit on the stairs, the greenish sand, and the blind cave fish all are there as "dungeon dressing". I have come to place a lot more importance on these details than I used to, mostly because I've come to believe that players value them. The map may be drawn in front of them on graph paper, but it is in their minds that they see it; D&D is theater of the mind, after all, and these details help them to picture the tunnels and halls more vividly, which involves them more deeply in the game. There is a more sinister reason, as well; I discovered early on that if I only included significant details, the players quickly learned that everything I mentioned was significant. If there are a lot of details, though, and only a handful have any real meaning, the players are unable to immediately key in on the important ones. They have to sift, explore, and deduce things on their own.
There are some other things worth noting. In the first room, the chest has "washed ashore"; do chests filled with gold coin wash ashore? This is dubious. In the second room, though, there is an explanation for the strongbox being in the water; the gnoll was obviously carrying it. How the gnoll ended up the water really isn't important. Several possible explanations will suggest themselves to the players (he was fleeing something and fell, he was attacked and knocked in, etc.), and they won't have any trouble believing it could happen. Moreover, the presence of the gnoll's skeleton will suggest to alert players that there might be something in the water worth investigating, even if their characters don't spot the strongbox. The gnoll might have had valuables, for instance, or he might have been trying to reach some.
I also include a very brief description of what the crayfish will do, whereas the octopus is on its own. The crayfish will attack creatures entering the water. This is minimal information that nonetheless tells me what I need to know. It will attack those entering the water, but ignore those standing beside it. It will attack a single character, or a large group. Some of my room descriptions contain fairly elaborate narrations of just what the creatures will do depending on the circumstances. Whether simple or detailed, these explanations let me play the game without having to spend a lot of time trying to decide what the monsters will do.
There is another difference between the two sets of rooms: the rooms written later have titles, and the earlier rooms do not. This makes no difference to game play at all, but I mention it because it amuses me. I started adding labels to rooms maybe three or four years into the campaign. The labels help me quickly find the room I want among pages and pages of description, which is a useful thing. I also have a lot of fun with them. The examples above are simply descriptive, but many of them are terrible puns that I do for my own amusement. These are all from the Stunted Forest dungeon: "In Search of Cave Fischer", "Ogre-All Command", "Ghoul Friends", "Bane Fire of the Vanities", and "Shamen Chanted Evening". Fun stuff, eh?
I spend a lot of time just gazing at the graph paper as I fill in room descriptions, trying to decide what to put there. Even if I know that a certain room was once a storeroom, for example, that doesn't tell me what it is now. In making these decisions I try to keep playability in mind. While it doesn't make sense that two large carnivores would lair in adjacent rooms, too many rooms without anything but dust and rubble will bore players very quickly. Fortunately, there are a lot of things besides monsters that can add interest to a room. Traps are always good; if the find traps spell is getting me down, there are always unstable ceilings, pockets of methane gas, and such to add a little pizzazz. The room might contain a secret vault or door, or there could be ancient carvings or artwork that might provide a clue to something. Some rooms, of course, should be empty. The trick is to keep the players from always knowing at a glance which rooms really are empty, and which contain hidden goodies or threats.
At any rate, I slowly fill in the level, room by room, carefully placing monsters, clues, treasure, and traps. Some dungeons require that I keep careful track of just what I have placed where, building to some overall theme; a recent example of this would be the Garland of Roses dungeon, where certain tasks or items were necessary in order for the group to proceed to the next challenge. I can think of once or twice when I have, for example, placed a door that needs a special item in order to open, and then forgotten to place the item. This is embarrassing.
I always feel a great sense of satisfaction when a level is completed. Blank graph paper and notebook paper have been turned into a detailed dungeon, something that feels to me as though it has substance and form. Sometimes this is done less than an hour before play starts. Sometimes it is done weeks or months in advance. When that happens, I often forget the details of what I have done, and in such cases I have almost as much fun exploring the dungeon as the players do.
I have, of course, certain favorites among the many dungeons I have built. I will finish this essay by looking at a few of my favorites from years past:
Ebar Krowden: This is undoubtedly my favorite. Its size and back story allows for almost anything I can think of to be possible somewhere in its corridors. It's traps are even changed and repaired on a regular basis (by the Caretaker). It grows more difficult the deeper one goes, so its levels can be explored by any group from about 5th level on up.
A lot of the most famous dungeon places in the campaign were located there: the wish pool, the Eel of Fortune, Joe's 9th-level bar and grill, the Oracle of Quorndt, and Fuusa of the F'reck were all there, as were the White Plague, the Lurking Lump, and the Well of Solles. Some of the levels are absolutely huge, and they go down, and down, and down. It is dungeon-delving in its purest, most unfettered form.
Castle Mhelgos: This was an enormous castle which grew more difficult as one ascended its floors. As there was no dead space, each floor contained nearly a hundred rooms and chambers, about four times more than the average dungeon level. It was one of the most ambitious places I've ever done, and the rooms were a nice mix of monsters, puzzles, and traps. I think it is remembered fondly by the players, as well as by myself.
The Dungeon of the Five Stars: This was the best "puzzle dungeon" that I ever did. The key chamber was near the entrance, but it required five magical stars, acquiring each of which was really an adventure in itself. For some reason the theme really fired my imagination, and the puzzles were especially intricate and interesting.
The Crystal Bridge: This was the most complex dungeon design I ever attempted; I had to create side views as well as top-down maps just to keep all the connections straight, and the whole place was really one three-dimensional network of interwoven levels and connections. It is the only dungeon where a party actually got lost without any tricks, despite keeping detailed maps. It also had a memorable finish, with a bridge over a gulf of magical flame and one of the very few occasions where a group actually came face-to-face with a deity (well, a good deity, anyway).
The Museum of Galamord: This was another above-ground dungeon, featuring a museum of strange and curious (and dangerous) items and creatures that a powerful mage had collected. The unusual theme worked very well, and I was always rather proud of this one. The finish was memorable too, with an entire hall of powerful monsters, all held in stasis, animating at once and attacking the group and each other in a mad free-for-all.
The Cold Tower: A dungeon of icy cold, it included several memorable set pieces, including the ultimate bobsled run and the "Give the Ruby!" monster. I had a lot of fun running this one; I was able to use a lot of unusual monsters and traps, and there were very few slow spots.
Dungeon of the Silver Staff - Iron Door: This dungeon was an extra-planar construct, designed as a training ground. This background allowed me to cut loose from logical requirements and design simply from a perspective of adventure. The result was a lot of fun for me and for the players; there are a couple of sequel dungeons, and I look forward to gaming them someday.
This list could go on; the Dungeon of the Cat People, the Altar and Temple of the Old Ones, Ben-Bazal, the Crystal Keep (as opposed to the Crystal Bridge), and many others stand out in my memory. I would enjoy hearing from players about what some of their favorites have been, and why.
This concludes part one of this essay. In the second part, coming soon to an Elcean website near you, I will publish one of my dungeon levels and its notes, and dissect what I was thinking at the time, and why I designed each room the way I did. Until then, happy dungeon delving!
Do you have any comments, questions, or responses to this article? Send them in! I'd like to hear them, and if there are enough interesting ones I'll add them to this page.
Ideas and contributions to future editions of "Mere Chronicles" are also being accepted.
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