How Tabletop Role-Playing Games got me Through 2020

I miss making up stories onstage. Sure, like the rest of the global improv community in 2020, I now do shows via video chat, but the gigs I am part of usually feature montages of disparate scenes. We often explore the same universe, but we are rarely telling one tale.

While it may be a while before I’m doing narrative improv in person again, I have found a medium that sates my need to devise adventures with friends: tabletop role-playing games.

Much like the improvised quests I devise with The Parentheticals, games like Dungeons & Dragons are focused on collectively creating a story that follow the same characters throughout. Everyone involved becomes emotionally invested in the party’s journey. You wince at their pain and punch the air when they are victorious. It is exhilarating.

I cannot wait to get back onstage, but until it is safe to do so, I am very content with participating in what are essentially private performances. Each campaign is a story shared with only five to eight people. Some groups livestream their game or turn sessions into podcasts, but part of the appeal for me is that no one else can fully appreciate the world in our heads.

To explain what happened during these sessions is akin to telling someone your dream. The significance of events is lost of them. You cannot adequately convey how exciting it is to defeat a fictitious foe. In-jokes are never going to be as funny when explained to someone.

Given the improv background of my fellow players, there is a giddy silly energy to proceedings whenever we play. There are lots of comedy bits and tangents. Introducing an audience however could make us self-conscious. The Observer Effect would kick in.

These sessions have helped me become far more comfortable telling a joke for one person than trying to please an entire room. I still miss the thrill of whipping up a crowd, instinctively feeling when to ride a laugh, but I think I may emerge from this time at home as a less needy performer. I don’t want to be a SUPERSTAR. I am satisfied just making my pals laugh.

That said, I do enjoy how RPGs allow me to do some acting without the rigmarole of pursuing it as a career. The roles I give myself are never ones I would be up for in auditions. No one would look at my boyish chubby cheeks and floppy fringe, then cast me as a po-faced bureaucrat nearing retirement (which is exactly the part I created for a Monster of the Week campaign). You can play characters outside of your age, gender identity, and, if you want, species. As these games take place inside your mind, the only limit is your imagination.

Playing the same person each week makes me feel like I am part of a long-running serialized drama. I have the luxury of being able to settle into a role. Just as in an improv scene, I can gradually feel out which choices instinctively seem wrong. I can adapt and drop quirks until I have a rounded character whose choices are completely different to mine. Brendan thinks running into danger would be a terrible idea. My grumpy monster hunter however…

Admittedly, at times, the line between myself and my creations can be blurred. For instance, in one campaign, I am playing a boy saddened that circumstances beyond his control mean it is not safe for him to go home and see his family. Mostly though, it is a joy to turn up each week and know whatever happens will be fun.

After all, the most obvious benefit of playing these games in these times is escapism. For a few hours, we have a chance to temporarily forget the ongoing numerous crises and instead focus on something fantastical. Don’t think about rent – we have an orc to slay.

I will now stress, for the sake of my parents, that I do also think about how to pay rent.

Right now, in the real world, we are not encouraged to travel. In our imagined adventures however, we can go all over the map, traverse many lands. We ride horses, sail boats, and trek across fields. We hunt vampires and haggle for potions. We can actually hang out in a pub! And all from the comfort of our respective homes.

Holding these sessions virtually is so convenient. Playing together in the Before Times required coordinating half a dozen schedules to find the one Saturday afternoon a month in which we can all travel to the same house. Now we play weekly.

It is a delight to “meet up” so often. Before the lockdown in March, I was already part of one campaign. I now play in three. In this year alone, I have played seventy sessions of TTRPGs. To put that into perspective, in 2019, I played a total of twelve.

The games are such a great way to bond. They are the happy medium between a free-flowing jokey chat of a check-in with mates and the structured fun of a quiz (although both of these have been part of my lockdown too). I finish each week with two consecutive nights of games and always leave them wanting more.

When we can go to each other's houses again, all the campaigns I am in will continue and most, if not all, will stay online due to people living in different cities. Tabletop role-playing games are a major part of my schedule now and I like it that way. They form part of a balanced diet of hobbies alongside improv and making podcasts.

I love having these games in my diary. They have kept me sane. They made sure I’m still exercising my storytelling muscles. They gave me something to look forward to. In other words, they are exactly what I needed to help me cope with my time at home.

The Games that Got me Through 2020

Dungeons and Dragons (various authors. Currently published by Wizards of the Coast)

I am playing two campaigns. One is taken from a book (Curse of Strahd. I’m a big fan of this as I love all things spooky). The other is an incredibly inventive homebrew adventure devised by my sister.

Monster of the Week (original guidebook is by Michael Sands)

Your group is a team of monster hunters trying to figure out which supernatural threat is causing chaos this week. Basically, it’s your chance to roleplay as Buffy and the Scoobies/Mulder and Scully/Sam and Dean.

Goat Crashers (one-shot by Grant Howitt)

A one-page game in which you are all goats trying to fit in at a party.

Five Things to Know about Improv: what I have learnt from half a decade of making stuff up

I have now been an improviser for five years. In that half decade, I have taken shows to festivals, co-hosted one of London’s longest-running jams, and played so many talking animals that I am probably owed a visit from Doctor Doolittle. I have now seen countless hours of people making stuff up in pub theatres across the capital (and done a fair bit of it myself).

However, the intangible nature of the form means you always have more to learn. You are never a finished product. I have gained a little insight into the art though. Here are five important things I have learnt about improv.

Improv can make you a better communicator

Which, ironically, I was apparently unable to adequately get across in a job interview. Asked at a talent pool full of potential employers to give a two-minute presentation on something I was passionate about, I chose to explain why improvisation has helped me become a better speaker. Why I am now a more patient, less competitive conversationalist. How I focus on the topic being discussed instead of waiting to butt in with my own. That the discipline encourages you to discover the joys of collaboration.

Evidently, I made my hobby sound too engaging. The people who heard my talk told me it seemed whatever role offered me would be a consolation prize, second best to improv. One inquisitor said they used to enjoy painting but gave it up to pursue their office job. Which, to me, as a tragic summary of adulthood, cannot be topped.

I had explicitly stated in my opening paragraph of the speech I did not want a career in the art form.

Of course, even if I had wanted to make stuff up full-time, I could not because...

Improv is not a career

The most successful in-demand teachers and performers still hold down their nine to fives. Most people I know who perform at Edinburgh Fringe are freelancers or jobbing actors. I can count on one hand the number of London troupes big enough to tour.

The best way to make money in this field is teaching classes or doing running corporate workshops. It is extremely unlikely you are doing that daily, let alone making enough money from it.

Besides, if you take up your hobby as your career, what on earth will you do to relax?

Improv can easily become your entire life

Improv is moreish because you get instant affirmation, encouragement to make jokes, and an excuse to mess around with friends. It feels good to be with this community, so naturally you chase that high by doing more things with those people.

This can result in improvisers being the main people in your social circle. Even if your schedule is not dominated by rehearsals and shows, you will probably hang out with your fellow players as your go-to buddies. Although you are not technically performing while out and about, you may still be ‘on’, doing bits, and falling into shoptalk.

Improv should not become your entire life

If you do improv exclusively, then you’ll end up hating it, abandoning it, and having nothing to fall back on. Eat chocolate cake daily and you’ll soon grow sick of it. You need everything in moderation. To use Sarah Silverman’s maxim, make it a treat.

I am “lucky” in that the conclusion of my first improv course coincided with me getting a job which limited the amount of evenings I was free to pursue the form. This has meant I avoided overdoing it. Which I one hundred percent would have done for precisely the reasons I detailed in the section above.

I did come close to burning out though.

Once classes were done, my group kept meeting weekly to make stuff up. Soon we formed a team. Finding a format to work on gave our rehearsals focus. Then we developed a second idea which required its own evening to practice.

This meant we were doing a total of six hours of improv across two consecutive nights.

It was too much. The second session always suffered as we were exhausted.

Not only that, but one format did not play to our strengths. We always came in demotivated. We were struggling to master something we would never make work. Not realising the problem was that the structure did not serve us well, we instead ended up questioning whether we were actually any good at improv.

We eventually dropped that show in favour of the one that we were all psyched about. That is what saved us and the only reason why we are still going today. That love for our work has kept us going and yet…

Improv does not have to be for forever

When my team first formed, there were fourteen of us. Over the years, as is to be expected, people started to move on. Some left the community. Some left the country.

One person dropped out because the classes were a chance to learn something new, to get out of the house. They enjoyed the mucking around. They were not particularly interested in being a group that gigs.

Everyone finds their own point at which to stop.

Our group continued. We worked on a format, tried out a few drafts. We found one that works. For some, ticking that box and solving that problem was a satisfying way to end their tenure. They could walk away with pride. Ditto those who were part of our one hundredth ever gig.

I have not stopped.

It has been five years since I joined the community. It has also been almost five years since I started at my day job. I am attempting to find a nine to five so I can find a better work-life-improv balance, but until then, pretending to be a talking animal is a small part of my week. Maybe it is better that way. Perhaps in the future I will give it up entirely and pursue some other area of creativity. But, for now though, I will keep on painting.

'A whole load of fun': my tribute to DDG

Thanks to my endless bout of weekly plugs on social media, it is pretty easy to discover I co-host Duck Duck Goose. What is less public knowledge is I keep an extensive diary. To mark my one year anniversary of getting involved with London’s finest improv jam, I’ve scoured said records to collate this tribute to the only thing I ever want to do on Monday.

On Monday 13th April 2015, I went to my first ever DDG. I had an inauspicious start...…

I go the wrong way out of the tube and then, when I do get the right direction, I wonder if Google is trying to kill me as it leads down dark tunnels to what looks like a collection of wooden huts. One of these is the venue.

However my reaction to the show is anything but.

Such a great event. I’m definitely going back to return as often as I can.

This response is not a one-off. Indeed, judging from my entries, I use the word ‘fun’ more often than Jimmy Fallon.

‘Duck Duck Goose is a whole load of fun’ 

‘It's a very fun show’

‘So many fun friends in tonight’

‘[I had] Two great scenes. Lots of fun had’

‘Such a fun night’ 

My limited range of descriptions also include ‘ace’, ‘brilliant’, ‘incredible’, ‘great’, and ‘good’.

Exactly four months after making my debut there, this happened.

Vic and Mark invite me to officially be part of the DDG team… as I’m such a hard-core regular (ironically, I’ll miss next week’s sesh for [Kit]’s graduation)

I’ve been co-hosting and jamming with DDG ever since. It’s such a blast. Every show has something good.

‘The show is notable though for us surprising Liam… with a birthday card depicting bananas AFTER IT HAD BEEN HIS TEAM’S PROMPT. That is some Derren Brown shit right there. Or someone in the audience had signed said card. Whatever’

‘The room is packed... people had to sit on tables and the sofas either side of the room’ 

 ‘In a later group scene, I blurted out in a response to a mention of 'wigs', 'is that W-H-I-G or W-I-G?'. Mark then tagged all but me out so he could say how much he appreciated that joke'

Sure, not every moment has been amazing…

‘In the jam I only get in two scenes, one of which I used clumsy exposition setup “sorry Dorian Grey, I left my tent in your attic, could I go get it?”’

‘In the jam I came on in response to a call for a kid and, panicking, did a Mickey Mouse voice’

‘We’re all tired by the time we get to the stage which probably explains why some of the scenes didn’t go anywhere or were written off as the result of drugs or us being products of someone’s imagination. Oh well, at least I got to play a duck and a wrestler called The Bridge’

And onstage I can have doubts…

[Anand] says I’m very quick-witted and energetic which is nice to hear because when I’m onstage time seems slow and it seems ages since you said anything and if you do say something was it any good etc etc

Plus the occasional unwise impulse…

My one word prompt with Stef[f] is ‘delicate’. I immediately collapse to the floor, a move I regret as the back of my head hurts for a while after.

But when an event provides me with one of my favourite photos ever taken of me...

'All I know is I ended the scene cradled in Tai's arms as I napped'
Photo credit: Amar Chundavadra.

A team Christmas dinner can be described (in a manner which could very much apply for DDG shows in general) like thus...

‘One of the most enjoyable days of my life. The atmosphere is so relaxed… It’s such a warm loving safe environment. It feels like a proper family gathering’

And terrific line-ups leave me ecstatic enough to write stuff like this:

‘The two acts are totally different and totally brilliant’

‘There were two rounds of twoprov with no dud scenes between them’

‘Every scene in Duck Duck Goose is incredible’

It’s easy to see why I’ve stuck around. I love you, team! Here’s to the years to come.

Sketches VS Improv

Whilst discussing improv with my Granddad, he asked me a question I’d never considered before  - what is there to stop people writing up your scenes and passing them off as their own material?

Well, obviously there’s nothing (short of hiring a bouncer to frisk people for pens), but in response to this surprising query, I surprised myself with my answer.

‘Nobody would want to do that because sketches and improv scenes are very slightly different.’

Up until then, I had not considered nor articulated that point. I agree with it though.

Sure, on a surface level, the two seem to have a similar shape and use the same devices - recurring characters, catchphrases and callbacks. Only playing one idea at a time – but they’re different beasts.

The most glaring contrast clearly is how they’re formed. In improv, you organically discover something fun together. With sketches, it’s just you versus a blank page. Is it any wonder then that I’ve barely scribed any skits since committing my nights to improv? And I’m on the committee of the London Comedy Writers. I should be inspired to churn out pieces weekly!

But no. I can’t go back to scripts now. The creative process of improv is far more joyful. It produces exciting one-off ‘you had to be there’ moments every single time you go onstage. The audience gives you more leeway than they would with prewritten material because they know that you don’t know what you’re doing.

Which brings me onto a further distinction: audience expectations. Recently an improv coach called me out for being witty at the top of a scene. That’s my old sketch instincts kicking in – I’m used to aiming for that first laugh as soon as possible. You walk on with a joke at the top of a sketch and the audience love it because they’re expecting three minutes of wall to wall gags. You’ve given them what they want.

This doesn’t necessarily work with improv. As said coach pointed out, if you start with a witty line, someone has to follow it up with a wittier one in order to build momentum. A joke contest then ensues and any chance of a story or character developing dies. The audience is amused but you’ve robbed yourself and them of a more interesting scene that actually had no obligation to be funny. Improv can be straight scenes or impressions or games. There is no one tone or style.

And so to my third distinction: pacing. Sketches often race to get their premise out hence why they frequently start with exposition-heavy dialogue that nails their situation like ‘the delegates are late, ambassador’, ‘we need a new name for Cheetos’, and, famously, ‘ello, I’d like to register a complaint’.

Improv players, however, have the luxury of time. They can start scenes by making eye contact, silently sizing each other up, and assessing whether anything about their partner’s body language or position on stage suggests what type of dynamic or situation to play. They cannot rush to their premise until they have found and agreed upon it. Their first line doesn’t have to be funny or informative (although obviously if it’s the latter, that’s brilliant– specificity and context is reassuring. Once an audience gets the setup, they will follow you anywhere). It just has to be the first ball over the net in a tennis rally that gets the game going. Improv can be a far more relaxed affair.

And it’s this aspect that would get lost in the write up of a spontaneous skit. Yes, tightening scenes would make them more concise, get to key details earlier, but cutting to the chase would be far less fun for both performer and observer. For everyone involved, the Eureka Moment is exhilarating, the relief intense. The unintentional delayed gratification is what makes improv special. Sketches can withhold key details – on the radio you can reveal within the punchline that both characters were squirrels – but they do so on purpose because they knows when to play a trump card. Improvisers aren’t even sure they’ll have a card. That mystery is what keeps their form fresh and interesting and makes it ultimately more thrilling than sketch.

My Granddad’s other question was whether I get paid for gigs. Uh, pass.