The beautiful thing about tabletop roleplaying games (TTRPGs) is that the adventure you’re on doesn’t have preprogrammed coding like a video game. That means, if the GM/Steward is doing their job right, you have the free choice to take the story wherever your mind can conceptualize. That’s where understanding improv skills really comes in handy!
I realized this fact once at a paid D&D retreat I attended as a player. Rather than simply rolling for violent attacks, I came up with more creative ways to solve problems, and I collected every random item I could with the intent of using it in ways that my Dungeon Master didn’t necessarily intend. (I was like Carrot Top the prop comedian in a gnome bard’s body.) At the end of that weekend, I was invited to come back and lead games because I “already played like a DM.” The next year when I returned as a DM, I remembered how fun it was to get invested in the narrative, and I encouraged my players to help me shape the events. The results were phenomenal!
If TTRPGs are the engines that drive great stories, then improv is the spark that keeps the engine running. Improv teaches us how to listen, to adapt and to build something together. These are the same exact muscles that SEL (social-emotional learning) wants us to strengthen! Learning to improvise better makes us better at TTRPGs, better at social-emotional regulation, and better at life in general. I’d like to dive into just how we can exercise those improvisational muscles. Let’s pull back the curtain and look at four core rules of improv.
Yes, and…
“Yes, and…” is probably the most cited rule of improv.
If you’ve done any kind of improv game or class, there’s a really good chance you’ve heard that oft-uttered phrase. Yesterday, I was in an improv class (led by the masterful Jeanmarie Collins), and building on one another’s storytelling was certainly a recurring theme. It means that when you’re in a scene with another actor, you always build onto what they’ve established is true in the scene, never detracting from that truth. If you’re a player or Steward in a TTRPG, and the others know that you’ll build on their ideas, that also builds their confidence. More confident players beget more honest decisions. Enacting the “Yes, and” rule of improv builds more trust and creativity at your gaming table.
When players are expected to build on the story that another player or Steward has established, it teaches flexibility. Though my character might plan to insult the guard’s mother and lure him away from the castle, another character’s decision to flatter the guard might prompt me to hold off on the insults. With “Yes, and…” I can realize that the flattery is working and offer my own words of affirmation to the conversation. In that sense, “Yes, and…” encourages shared ownership of the story among active players. (The trick is to coax everyone at the table to become active players, but that’s a strategy I’ll address later in this post.)
If my SEL focus is to promote empathy, teamwork and a growth mindset, all three of these goals can be reached through the “Yes, and…” principle.
Make Your Partner Look Good
Another improv rule that translates well into the TTRPG setting is “Make your partner look good.” It’s important to communicate upfront that this game is not about establishing winners and losers among the players. If it’s going to be fun, it’s got to be collaborative. The story gets stronger whenever we support one another.
I once played a few sessions with a fellow player who targeted my character every time we sat down at the table. “It’s what my character would do,” was his excuse, since his character was no-nonsense while mine was more all-nonsense/all-the-time. Needless to say, I left that group after recognizing the pattern, and I never looked back. “What his character would do” not only sent me looking for a different table, it very quickly ensured that no one else from that group wanted to play with him anymore either.
The problem with such infighting is that it breaks the aforementioned improv rule. If we focus our attention on antagonizing fellow adventurers, we’ve got far less space to advance the narrative. Instead, if your goal is to make those in your party look good, it avoids Steward railroading (pushing the players forcefully into a specific narrative direction). There’s really no need for railroading if you’re working together and the story advances forward.
If you’re trying to make the other players look good, you’re also less likely to hog the spotlight. Following this principle makes you more socially aware and prone to collaboration–both of which aid in your social-emotional growth.
Listen Like Your Life Depends on It
Another improv rule is to “Listen like your life depends on it.” Why do you think that’s important? Because the story is an organic being, unfurling in real time while you play. If you’re planning a clever quip while another player is still talking, you’re missing out on important elements that are now core to understanding the story.
Listening intently to both the players and the Steward helps the scene feel alive as it unfurls, because the words being uttered are literally shaping the world. No one wants their session to feel like you’re following a designated script. Listening and then building off of the evolving story helps avoid that pitfall.
Active listening is key to social-emotional learning, as is emotional attunement. Both of these qualities take on the utmost importance when you listen like your life depends on it. It’s important for Stewards to remember active listening as well and ensure that everyone is equally heard. When less vocal players trust that you’re listening to their occasional input, they’re much more likely to get more engaged in future conversations.
There Are No Mistakes, Only Gifts
One thing I like to remind my players is that I’m not looking for them to make the “right” decision. My gaming table, just like life, presents a near-infinite amount of potentially right decisions. Consequently, there are just as many near-infinite “wrong” decisions that player characters, and the players in real life, can still survive.
Teach your players that their objective isn’t to look cool or flawless at every gaming session. Such characters catalyze boring stories. When players are taught to play through low rolls or unintended consequences, they learn to regulate their emotions. When you as the Steward see that your original narrative plan is now impossible, model that emotional regulation yourself. When players see that you are willing to roll with the punches as a session leader, they’ll be more likely to try the same thing as players.
One thing that I absolutely love about the Ealdsmyth gaming system is that it turns d20 rolls into potential added fun for the players. Most TTRPGs traditionally consider a roll of 20 as a “critical success,” prompting either double damage or some other epic occurrence. Conversely, if a player rolls a one, it’s a “critical failure,” and the GM punishes the player (usually by making them take damage). Ealdsmyth takes that tradition further and allows the player to narrate what happens next if they roll a 20 or a 1. If they roll a 20, they get to describe how epically their character did that thing. If they roll a 1, they can describe how badly they messed it up.
Allowing the player to “self-punish” turns a traditionally bad occurrence into a fun opportunity to take the reins, lightening the overall tone. The character’s mistake of doing an action poorly turns into a gift for the player controlling them.
Turning mistakes into gifts is powerful for social-emotional growth, building player resilience, teaching the vital skill of reappraising situations, and building overall confidence.
Putting It All Together
There are several easy ways you can incorporate these improv rules into your TTRPG session. First, try starting your next session by saying something like, “Today, we’re here to make each other look incredible.”
If your table’s struggling with an imbalance in who’s driving the narrative (with the same player always vocalizing the plan and that one person losing investment as they get talked over), try a 5-to-10-minute improv game before starting the next session. Tell the group that you’re going to tell a quick story together, but that each person can only use ONE word when it’s their turn. Go around the circle clockwise and build a story word-by-word. (This exercise also works well if your players struggle with paying attention to other people’s contributions.)
If your players still don’t get that they can literally help shape the world you’re creating, designate one player to co-narrate the environmental details with you. Say “Today, I’m going to need [quiet or timid player] to help me flesh out the world. Each time we enter a new space, I need her to describe what we see in this space.”
Planned Improvisation
I’m a high-school theatre teacher by day, but I promise you don’t need a theatre degree to infuse intentional improv at your TTRPG table. I’ve seen GMs instill all four of these improv rules without realizing it, and it made their games unforgettable for all the right reasons. Just stay curious, stay kind, and keep rolling. Remember the four improv rules, and you will see an uptick in player investment!
Here’s a printable version of my first SEL lesson for you to try with your players.
If you find value in what I’m saying, consider contributing to my Patreon, giving you dibs on future improv-based mini-modules or SEL reflection activities. It also gives me the means and the bandwidth to continue creating SEL-informed TTRPG content.
Struggling to remember the four core rules? Print out this “Improv Reminder Card” designed for quick reference during TTRPG sessions.
How about this quirky one-shot challenge? It’s a quick adventure module that forces collaborative storytelling with shifting control over the narrative.
What other struggles are holding you back from your best TTRPG session yet? Share with me in the comments section, and I’d be happy to address them in an upcoming blog post.
