Not long ago, I remarked to the referee of a long-running campaign in which I play that he had managed something quite rare: a steady, satisfying equilibrium of reward and need. Our characters receive just enough compensation, whether in money, items, or status, to feel that their efforts are meaningful, but never so much that they grow complacent or aimless. And by "rewards," I don’t just mean money, though it’s worth noting that monetary incentives are too often undervalued in modern games. In the House of Worms campaign, for example, two of the original six characters were initially motivated largely by the pursuit of wealth. It took them years of play to realize that goal, at which point they had acquired new aspirations, grounded in relationships, secrets, and obligations they had accumulated along the way. The quest for gold set them in motion, but it was never the final destination.
In my experience, one of the enduring challenges in roleplaying games is managing the balance between keeping characters "hungry" enough to stay motivated, while ensuring they’re not so deprived that their every action is driven by desperation. This tension is especially pronounced in the early years of a campaign, when characters are still finding their footing. It’s a subtle and vital balancing act that both referees and players must navigate, because it has a profound impact on how compelling, engaging, and even playable a campaign becomes.
Characters who are too impoverished may find their choices narrowed by the constant demands of survival. The campaign risks becoming a slog, where every session is a battle for rations or ammunition and long-term goals fall by the wayside. On the other hand, characters who have everything they need can just as easily lose their drive, making it difficult to justify their continued risk-taking or exploration. The sweet spot lies between these extremes: when characters have just enough to persist, but not enough to be content. That’s where true adventure lives, where ambition, curiosity, and necessity intersect.
This principle applies across genres. In most fantasy roleplaying games, especially those derived from or inspired by Dungeons & Dragons, gold is more than just a measure of wealth or experience. It can also buy better arms and armor, fund magical research, grease the wheels of bureaucracy, or earn the goodwill of influential patrons. In a science fiction setting, similar constraints emerge around currency, but they’re often refracted through different lenses: fuel, maintenance costs, tech upgrades, or the acquisition of rare components may serve as the limiting factors. Even basic necessities like oxygen or can become precious commodities. Meanwhile, in horror and post-apocalyptic games, the same dynamic exists in grimmer form, like clean water, ammunition, medicine, or safe shelter, all of which can stand between the characters and a gruesome end.
While money is often the most obvious and fungible form of reward, it’s far from the only, let alone the most interesting, resource to manage. The principle applies just as strongly to other needs within the game. Equipment, food, information, training, healing, influence, even time – over the years I've used all of these to keep the campaign moving forward. A character might have a full purse but lack access to a mentor who can train him in rare knowledge, prompting a journey to a distant locale. Another might possess a reputation that grants entry into high society but find himself struggling to acquire the materials he needs to craft something important. Still another may enjoy access to advanced technology, but without the knowledge or permissions needed to use it. The gaps between what the characters have and what they want is vital to the health of a campaign. They become reasons to explore, to negotiate, to take risks, and to change. Managing these gaps without frustrating the players is part of the referee’s art and, when done well, it ensures that the world remains dynamic and full of opportunity for adventure.
To the extent that I have any wisdom to offer on this subject, it's drawn from years of trial and error as both a referee and as a player. Much of it strikes me as common sense, but it bears stating because it's easy to overlook in the heat of play or the rush to get a campaign off the ground.
At the start of a campaign, it's usually wise to establish a baseline of scarcity, whether of money, equipment, information, or access to influential allies. This doesn’t mean starving the characters or turning the early game into a joyless slog, but it does mean making them work for the things they need. Even a well-connected patron should not simply hand out powerful items or resources without cost or consequence. Early challenges should reinforce the idea that the world does not revolve around the player characters, at least not yet. Let them earn their status and let them remember how they earned it.
- I've used this to good effect in the House of Worms campaign several times, especially as the characters began involving themselves more fully with the factions of Tsolyáni politics. Their assignment to govern the colony of Linyaró, for example, initially appeared to be a reward – and it was in many ways – but they soon realize that it also tied them down and made them responsible for resolving problems that kept them occupied for years of play.
Scarcity can be more than an economic condition when it's used to reward ingenuity. One of the simpler ways I've found to encourage clever play is to tie success not to brute force or luck, but to creativity. Allow characters to negotiate, trade favors, leverage contacts, or even take calculated risks to meet their needs. If they succeed through resourcefulness, they should be rewarded but within limits. The goal is to give them just enough to keep them moving forward, not so much that their momentum fades.
- When the Barrett's Raiders campaign was still in Poland, for example, the characters often had to trade items from their supplies – ammunition, clothing, fuel, even weapons – to gain the help of neutral or otherwise uncommitted NPCs they encountered. On other occasions, one of these NPCs might have something they wanted and the only way to acquire it was to do them a favor of some sort. This dynamic was a useful "gateway to adventure" that I found very effective (and continue to use).
As the campaign progresses and characters evolve, so should their motivations, as well as the challenges that come with them. For instance, a character who once hoarded coin might later crave legitimacy, land, or even a title. These new desires should be harder to obtain than mere gold, since they involve reputation, trust, or long-term planning. You can’t simply loot a title from a dungeon. If a player is really interested in his character's pursuit of these goals, doing so will shape the direction of the campaign.
- In my Dolmenwood campaign, one of the characters, Clement, began play as a wannabe knight. However, to become a knight, he needed to find someone of sufficient station to accept his service and that proved difficult, because he had a reputation as a bit of a dolt. Not even his own family thinks much of him. The quest to find him a noble patron thus formed a big part of the first few months of the campaign. Even now, after he found a patron, his desire to prove himself worthy of her pushes many sessions forward.
Another way I've found tension within the campaign can be maintained is by introducing new needs as older ones are fulfilled. Characters who have mastered one environment might be cast into another, where their equipment is less useful or where their knowledge insufficient. That moment of displacement, where old advantages no longer apply, is not just a challenge but an opportunity for deeper engagement with the setting. It forces players to reorient themselves and take nothing for granted.
- An important moment in the House of Worms campaign's early years came when the characters found themselves in a region where spells and magic items did not work. In the face of an impending attack by a numerically superior force, they had to find other ways to defend themselves and escape.
Scarcity, used thoughtfully, can also be a tool for worldbuilding. In the aforementioned example, the characters learned for the first time that, on Tékumel, there are some places where the otherplanar energies that power sorcery do not function as they do elsewhere. The next time they encountered a similar situation, they could use their hard-won prior knowledge to address the situation more easily. Among my favorite moments in the House of Worms campaign have been when the characters are confronted with something that confounds what they thought they knew about the world and its rules and have no choice but to improvise.
Another thing I've learned is that, believe it or not, players remember their characters' first major windfall. Beginning characters scrimp and save to upgrade their equipment, so the discovery of a valuable gem or a cache of magical weapons can feel momentous. Veteran characters, by contrast, shrug at another pile of coins, but light up at the chance to retrieve a lost tome of knowledge or to curry favor with an important patron. The trick is aligning the party’s current desires with the rewards their actions give them. When the carrot matches the desires of the character, the player almost always follows. When it doesn't, the hook falls flat.
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