One of the things that most of us like about TTRPGs is our ability to leave the real world behind. We can examine strange worlds, imagine having incredible powers, fight off monsters that we would be powerless against, and otherwise do the impossible.

The other thing is that we can experience things that would be utterly terrifying and horrible in a safe environment. In that regard, a game session is not unlike riding a roller coaster. There is an illusion of danger, but it still has the safety valves on.

But sometimes the fears and dangers are close enough to the real world that they can hit the fears and anxieties not just of the player characters, but the players themselves. This is especially the case when the dangers they face aren’t just fantastical ones, but brush up against real-world horrors. After all, bad guys in games do some horrible things, and a Goblin threatening to eat a child can really hit the buttons of a player who has a history of child abuse.

Recently, in Episode 39 of Something… Something… Dragons, we ran into just such a case, where something happening in-game pushed the buttons of one of the players and they made use of the X-Card to say “No, stop, I can’t handle this.”

We’ll get to the specifics of the X-Card below, but what I really want to talk about is the fact that we had an X-Card, and why, and why it was set-up ahead of time.

As a GM (or Storyteller, or Referee, or whatever term your particular game uses), you have a phenomenal amount of power over your players’ imaginations. After all, you control not just the world that their characters are in, but also their perceptions of that world. You control the narrative and essentially everything that isn’t left up to the roll of the dice (and even that you have some say over). Your players willingly give up that control, based on trusting you. Because by default, the only control they have otherwise is to say “No,” and walk away from the game, which ends the fun for everyone.

But there should be a step before that where they can say not just “Yes, and…” or “No,” but have an ability to say “Yes, but….” And where they can tell you when you’re getting close to their limits without pushing past them.

The specific tool you use is going to be based on what is right for your table, but the important thing is getting these tools in place *ahead of time*. And the reason is that it both makes sure that you aren’t violating their boundaries and limits, and that it gives them the trust in you that you won’t. If they can trust that they’re safe at the table, they’re much more likely to give themselves over to the scene and the moment. And giving them the safety valve builds the trust that may well ensure that you never need to use it.

The important other half of that equation, of course, is to respect the tool. If you have discussed limits and boundaries and then violate them, or ignore the use of one of these tools, your players won’t trust you. And they shouldn’t.

Before looking at any of the specific tools, there are some practices that I think belong as a part of any game.

Pre-Game Talk / Session Zero

Before you start a campaign, a Session Zero is a good plan. This makes sure that everyone is on the same page and is trying to play the same game. It can include everything from what method of character creation, to which House Rules will be in place, to a shared background that the characters should have, but it can (and should) also discuss the tone of the game. If you’re playing a superhero game and one person expects Golden Age heroism, one player expect 60’s-style “Camp,” one-player is expecting 90’s-era angst, and one person expects a cosmic space adventure, someone is going to be unhappy.

Similarly, if you plan to explore mental illness or domestic violence through the campaign, this should be talked about ahead of time. So, figure out what everyone at the table wants and is looking for ahead of time, and you can make sure that you’re all on-board. For instance, I knew in Something… Something… Dragons that it was going to be horror-focused, so I made sure that the players were going to be ok with a certain degree of suspense and psychological horror. We had requests to avoid excessive gore, so we’ve done that. And we’ve had players express varying interest in romance and physical displays of affection.

Post-Game Debriefs

Now, I don’t think these *have* to happen every session – or at least they don’t have to be more than just saying “Everyone having a good time still?” But there should always be the ability to have them. And the debriefs can involve the whole table, or be one-on-one between player and GM. But it’s definitely worth suggesting them after an intense session (like we had at the end of Season One and the death of Thalia.)

So, with that in mind, here are a few of our favorite tools.

X-Card

The X-Card is one of the simplest tools, and one that can be easily implemented. It’s nothing more than a card with a large “X” on it placed where everyone can reach it. If anyone (including the GM) is uncomfortable with how a scene is going? They can just touch it, and the other people at the table are expected to change the scene (either fade-to-dark and skip the scene, or change what is happening). The person who activates the card is not expected to explain their reasons, but they may explain what exactly is being “X-ed” out. Maybe they don’t need the scene to stop, maybe they just need a particular description to be skipped over.

It also doesn’t have to be about something that they find disturbing. If most of the people are engaged in a serious role-playing scene, and one person is cracking wise about an episode of TV, someone might want to X out the silliness at the table.

The X-Card was developed by John Stavropoulos.

Lines and Veils

Lines and Veils is more of a “Session Zero/Debrief” tool than one that will come up in game. Instead, it’s a system of establishing boundaries for the story, and are usually defined by each player individually and then shared with the GM before the start of the game (or revised between sessions).

The distinction between Lines and Veils is that lines are a hard border for things that will be excluded from the game with no questions asked. This could include any specific topic and taboo, but common lines are child murder, rape or sexual violence, racial discrimination, but depending on your group, could even include more neutral topics like in-character romances. Veils are more “soft borders” where it’s not that the person objects to the content existing in the game, they just don’t want it to be explicit. If a player has – for instance – drug use as a veil, it’s totally fine to establish that the crime boss deals drugs, but you wouldn’t show an addict strung out waiting for their next hit. A very common veil would come to physical intimacy, where you would fade to black after an initial kiss and then pick up with the characters the next morning.

The Consent Flower

The Consent or Support Flower is designed around letting players communicate their current emotional barometer about a scene in a subtle, non-verbal way. On the table, there are three cards – one green, one yellow, and one red. As conceptualized, these were created with flowers on them, or the cards were designed to look like petals, but the colors are the important part.

The person activating the card will make eye contact with the person they are communicating with and tap one of the three cards.

• Green: This card means “go ahead,” and possibly even “go further.” It’s a way of explicitly giving consent without verbally doing so.
• Yellow: This card means “caution, but proceed.” It indicates that the scene as it is currently going is acceptable, and can continue at its current intensity, but should not be intensified. A good example of this might be when a player with arachnophobia is dealing with the party investigating the lair of a giant spider, as their way of saying “Your current descriptions are a little creepy, but they’re still in my comfort level. Don’t go any further.”
• Red: Red means “stop.” The current scene is outside of their comfort level and should be pulled back immediately, and the intensity lowered or the scene ended.

In all cases, of course, no explanation is owed beyond that which the person activating the card feels the need to provide.

Tayler Stokes created the Consent Flower.

These are only a few of the options available, and we’re not here to say which ones you should or shouldn’t use. That’s going to be something for each table to decide for themselves, and you may decide you don’t need any of them aside from a good Session Zero. You may decide you need to use several of the different tools. And that’s fine.

You’ll probably realize that a lot of the concepts from these different tools aren’t that unique or original in and of themselves. You will no doubt recognize these concepts from other places in your life. But hey, we’re gamers. We tend to like having rules and guidelines, even if we do end up wanting to break them. Also, to be frank, a lot of gamers have some social awkwardness, so having a system in place to communicate comfort can be a big boost above and beyond just expecting everyone to be able to read each other.

What is important is that everyone at the table be comfortable and feel safe and supported. That environment will allow everyone to enjoy the game more, and can even make it easier to push into difficult topics and themes having established where everyone’s boundaries are and knowing what is and isn’t off the table instead of blindly guessing.

It’s about communication and conversation. Which, after all, is the basis for good storytelling. Good gaming, everyone!

It finally happened. The Big Bad got a critical hit near the end of a climactic encounter. You rolled a Natural “1” on your Death Save. There was no last minute reprieve for your heroic last stand. And now? Now your character is dead.

For many of us, the character isn’t just a bunch of numbers on a sheet of paper (or electrons in a virtual tabletop). This was a character we had become invested in. We had hopes for their future. We had plans for what they would do next. We knew their backstory, from their childhood friends to their first fumbling steps into becoming a hero. And now, this story is over – in all likelihood, not in a way that we intended.

There are certainly people who will scoff at the deep feelings that many of us (or the players at our tables) might be feeling at this moment. Certainly those who are newer to gaming may think “Well, just write ‘Jr.’ at the end of the character’s name and bring in their kid,” or compare it to a video game. After all, when Link dies, you can just go back to the last time you saved, right? And certainly in many game settings, death can almost be a revolving door, with methods of bringing a character back from the dead.

But it’s not always possible. And feelings can be hurt. There’s going to be shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression… in other words, all of the same stages of grief we feel in the real world when someone we love is lost.

This. Is. Ok.

When you’re emotionally invested in a character, it’s normal to grieve the end of their story. It is a loss, and it can be a painful one. Even if the character had a “good death,” that doesn’t change that we can be sad about never getting to play them again.

So, what should you do in these moments? My suggestion is to treat the same way (although to a lesser extent) as you would for any other grief. Allow yourself to have these feelings. Seek out other people who have a connection to this character that you can share stories and anecdotes with. And if you need to cry a little? Go ahead and do that.

Role-playing games are a social activity, and are about forging the connections and relationships around the table through the medium of shared storytelling and gameplay. If you’re doing it right, you should feel something when a major character dies.

I also advocate after-care. As a GM, I think it is important to check in with your players regularly. In general, this can just be about checking how people feel about the tone of the story, or any house rules that are happening, or events that are regularly happening (or regularly not happening). But after a major event in the future of the campaign – and a player character death certainly qualifies – it’s perfectly acceptable to just bring the table together and ask “How is everyone doing?”

In Something… Something… Dragons, we did just that at the end of The Haunting of Harrowstone. I would have wanted to do that anyway, just because it was a turning point in the campaign, but it became doubly important because of events that transpired during the final session. Now, we were doing it for an audience, but even if we hadn’t, it would have been worth doing just for the check-in with my players.

But my biggest advice after a player character death is the same advice I give to people who are mourning the loss of a real person. Grieve, and allow yourself to grieve. But afterwards, continue to live. The old character is gone, and that is sad. But there are more stories to be told, and the friendships that were created around the table can continue. Pull out that backup character and start building your excitement for the next set of stories that can be created. As the Vision put it “A thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts.” Every character’s story will eventually end, so enjoy the stories while they’re available to you – around the gaming table and away from it.