The Moment You Start Thinking Like a DM

A small idea becomes something much bigger (and more fun) than you expected.

You started out just wanting to play. Roll some dice. Kill some goblins. Maybe eat some pizza and do a funny voice. That was enough.

But after a while, something shifts.
You see a locked door and think, What if it’s trapped?
You meet a bandit and wonder, What if he’s not actually the villain?
You walk into a dungeon and start imagining what you’d put there if were in charge.

You weren’t trying to be a Dungeon Master, but the thought crept in anyway: What if I made my own adventure?

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For a lot of players, this is where things get interesting. You’re no longer just moving through someone else’s world; you’re picturing your own. You start thinking about story beats, set pieces, the way a good encounter can reveal character or test loyalty. The game starts to unfold behind the scenes in your head, not just on the battle map in front of you.

This is a turning point. Not a requirement. Not a promotion. Just a shift.

Not everyone feels it. Some players are perfectly happy playing forever and never once getting behind a DM screen. That’s fine. But if you’re reading this, you’ve probably already felt the urge to build. You’ve probably already had ideas you couldn’t shake. And those are worth paying attention to. Because when the itch shows up, it’s not going away.

You might be tempted to start big. A whole campaign. A brand-new world. Maybe even a multi-arc epic. But it’s a trap.

The bigger the idea, the harder it is to finish. And if you’re just starting, that’s a problem. Huge campaigns seem exciting until you realize you’ve written three complete kingdoms and not a single usable session.

The truth is, most early worldbuilding is just you writing for yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that! But that’s for a different email.

Start small. Start with a one-shot. One night. One story. A few hours of focused play. A single location, a clear objective, and enough flexibility to let your players mess things up in creative ways.

Designing a one-shot isn’t just easier—it’s smarter. It teaches you how to structure an adventure without overwhelming you. It gives you a chance to see what actually works at the table instead of just what sounded cool in your head. Most importantly, it ends. You can finish it, learn from it, and try again.

And if it flops? No big deal. You’re not committing to six months. Just a session or two.

Where you begin depends on how your mind works.

Some people start with the villain. A necromancer trying to recover a cursed relic. A cruel noble forcing townsfolk into dangerous mining work. A fey creature stealing children’s laughter. From there, you build outward. What’s their goal? Who’s getting hurt? What’s at stake? Who cares?

Others begin with the setting. Maybe it’s a cursed lighthouse that shines even though it’s been abandoned for decades. It could be a buried temple whose doors open once every hundred years. The location becomes the anchor for the story.

Some start with a mystery or a strange event: A farmer’s livestock are suddenly missing their skeletons. A river flows backward for three nights in a row. Everyone in town is having the same dream. These little hooks are often enough to carry the whole adventure.

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You don’t have to get fancy. In fact, don’t. The more complicated your plot, the more likely it is to stall.

Here’s a basic structure that works:

• Hook – Something strange or urgent that demands attention

• Investigation – Let players ask questions, explore, and gather clues

• Conflict – Encounters, moral choices, traps, or tense conversations

• Climax – A final moment where the players’ actions shape the outcome

• Resolution – Something changes, for better or worse

That’s it. That’s your first one-shot.

You’re not writing for Critical Role. You’re not creating the next Curse of Strahd. You’re just building something fun enough that your players walk away saying, “Hey, that was actually kinda cool.”

And then maybe you build another. And another. And somewhere in there, you realize the truth: You’re not just playing the game anymore; you’re creating it.

You're still a player. You're still having fun. But now you're also the storyteller.