questions to ask yourself when making encounters

Encounters are the soul of many RPGs. They’re the meat and potatoes of several rulesets, the undeniable focus of systems like D&D5e and Pathfinder. Take a look at most fantasy rulebooks, and chances are their cover is depicting some sort of encounter. Dungeons, graveyards, city streets, outer planes. The sky (and beyond) is the limit, so why do you make boring encounters? Oh come on now, don’t pull that face; we’ve all done it. Define a room that’s about 30ft squared, add a couple of doors, maybe a pillar here and there, throw some appropriately statted enemies in and you’ve got an encounter, right? Wrong. What you have defined, is the RPG equivalent of the Street Fighter IV training stage. It is a waste. It won’t be featuring on the cover of your favourite roleplaying game’s rulebook. Here’s some questions to ask yourself for each encounter to try and avoid recreating that training stage.

How is the space of the encounter represented mechanically?

So, picture in your mind that 30ft squared room again. Let’s say it’s a room in a castle, and the players are making their way to some fiendish baron to sort them out. The room was a guard’s dining area, and so the floor is littered with cutlery, food and plates from when the players burst in. How do we reflect this fact in the encounter? Do we just give the players an opening description, give them the room as I just described it, tell them there’s six guards in there with weapons drawn and tell them to roll initiative? Perhaps, but in all likelihood they’ll have forgotten where they are by the end of the second round. If you’re playing in person, using more generic tiles/terrain, more likely it’ll be by the end of the first round. If we want the image to stick in our player’s heads, we have to give them mechanical reasons for that. So the question then becomes, how can we better represent this space in the rules of the game? Well, we might say that certain regions are difficult terrain — surfaces coated in slop and gruel might represent a challenge to traverse, so characters might have to spend twice as long to ensure they don’t fall over. That’s a start, but quite a few things are difficult terrain, and I find that just slowing people down isn’t terribly enjoyable. How about a 5-10% chance of them falling over when they run across a square that’s covered in food? So they roll a D20, and on a 1 or a 2, they fall prone. That might be a bit slapstick for your tastes, but as long as that chance is manageable (aka, they can move around the squares covered in slop, or can jump to avoid it), it should be grand.

How about a couple of the guards at the back have drawn crossbows, and kicked over a table to give themselves cover? When they do this, they scatter more of the food/slop onto the ground, and cause more difficulty in crossing the room. In doing this, we tell the players that they’re also able to do that (there’s nothing special about the guards ability to kick over tables), but we’re also mechanically reminding them of where the encounter is taking place. Naturally, these are factors that we’ll need to take into account when talking about the difficulty of the encounter (two crossbow wielding guards in a well-defended position is going to be a higher difficulty than them standing point blank). How about as a last addition, we add a bubbling cauldron of stew in the middle of the room, that was in the process of being ladled out when the players burst in. A smart player might see this as an opportunity to throw or shove a guard into it, and we might say that the cauldron causes 1d6 or 2d6 fire damage from when they fall into the scolding fluid.

This might all seem a bit simple, but in the process of doing this, we’ve created an encounter that is firmly tied to its location. There are mechanical elements at play that are attached to unique circumstances of the space, and we reward players for keeping a narrative picture in their head. The idea of setup and payoff is one that appears throughout fiction, and one that we can apply here. We setup the bubbling cauldron by describing it when they enter the room — taking care not to lampshade its existence too strongly, otherwise it becomes more of a DM instruction than a player revelation. An engaged and imaginative player then correctly positions that part of the description as a mechanical opportunity. That player might then take actions to enable themselves to use that opportunity as it has been given, maybe they run for the pot, maybe they grab hold of the nearest guard and start making their way over to it. We achieve payoff when the player takes the appropriate action, in this case throwing/shoving the guard into the cauldron, and we give them a mechanical benefit (2d6 fire damage) for doing so. Everyone wins in this scenario, apart from the guard. The player is happy, because they now feel like they’re playing in a complex world where opportunities are available to them beyond purely swinging a sword, and they’ve done something cool. The DM is happy because a player has paid attention to the world and the space, and has utilized a tool that we made available to them.

I believe I’ve said this before, but the ability to interact in complex ways with a game environment is one of the stand-out features of tabletop play, that videogames have not even come close to touching. By thinking about how our encounter spaces impact the game mechanically, we not only ensure that our players must keep the image of that space in their head during play, but we give them opportunities to exploit that space to their ends. It also gives the DM opportunities to demonstrate intelligent behaviours from their adversaries. If the players aren’t making use of that bubbling cauldron of slop, what’s to say a guard doesn’t try and throw one of the players into it?

What are the stakes?

There are a few RPG systems that ask you to setup the stakes for any roll that you do. In a nutshell, what is the price of failure here? What do the players stand to lose, and what do they stand to gain? However, this is not purely a question that we need to answer for the outcomes of rolls — I think this is a question that we should be asking for each of our encounters. In a lot of cases, the stakes are going to be ‘the lives of the players’. The expectation from our players is normally going to be that if they “fail” an encounter, their characters will be slain or captured. This is normally enforced by the system that we’re playing, but it is distinctly boring to have that be the only thing on the line. What am I talking about here? Let’s set up a room:

Now deep in the bowels of Baron Unspeakable's horrid abode, you open an iron door to an active and bustling foundry. Iron chains hang from the ceiling, while large buckets of molten metal are carried aloft by churning machinery. A collection of soot-stained metalworkers carrying forge tools work on orange-hot bars, while clanking conveyor belts haul scrap into a scorching furnace below. As you enter, several of them pick up these half-finished weapons, and wield them with grim intent.   

So far, so good. We’ve got an interesting environment, with plenty of opportunity for peril, and plenty of opportunity for complex interactions. Maybe the players manage to divert one of those buckets to dump its contents over a metalworker? Maybe one of the metalworkers attempts the same, and the players have to make a save to avoid being horribly scorched? However, the stakes are still the same as last time: their lives. Let’s add a sentence or two that will completely change the energy of this encounter…

A glint catches your eye from one of the conveyor belts at the back of the room. It looks like a large, radiant metal sword has been thrown in amongst the scrap metal, and is slowly making its way into the furnace.

Ho ho, oh boy. Most players will fall into one of two camps here: one camp will treat that sword like it’s an additional bonus — if the chance to get it arises, then they’ll take it, otherwise no sweat. The other camp will attempt to get that sword no matter what, even if it possibly imperils the entire party. The lesson here is that there are things that matter to players beyond just life and death scenarios, they just have to be established properly. A world in which the players are up to their armpits in fantastically powerful magical swords won’t be the best atmosphere for the scenario above, but one where loot has been somewhat scarce, and the party is absolutely jonesing for a power boost? They’ll kill themselves going for it. Again, this is a case of setups and payoffs. We setup the scene by describing how this incredibly dangerous environment (a foundry full of sharp weapons and hazards) holds a potential reward for them. We introduce tension by demonstrating how this potential reward is in jeopardy (the fall into the furnace), and how the player party will have to act quickly to acquire an additional reward for completing the encounter. The payoff is where they either get the sword, or watch as it falls into the foundry and is destroyed. Now we have multiple layers of failure state, beyond the ones given to us by player death — some players who manage to survive the encounter, but lose the sword, will consider that a failure. Perhaps they begin to think about how they can stop the sword from falling into the foundry by using their toolkits, and the environment around them.

The idea here is to think about how we can affect the party in ways that isn’t simply reducing their health. Taking away their items is normally a sure-fire way to piss someone off, but destroying potential loot is far more acceptable to most. If the players are particularly attached to an NPC, what happens when that NPC is put into a dangerous situation and they have to choose between their own safety, and that of the NPCs? What about a location they like? They’re fighting in a house where the walls are on fire, and they have to choose between extinguishing the flames and causing damage as normal. Your mileage will vary on these things, and you might have players that are extremely unhappy with a location they’ve spent time and effort on being burned to the ground. I think the DM’s role here is to find interesting ways to add stakes to encounters that go above and beyond ‘fight or die’. Videogames typically have that and only that, but we can do better.

How does this encounter differ from the one before or after?

In my mind, there’s two sorts of bad encounter. There’s the kind of encounter where the players feel frustrated by what they’re experiencing. A classic example of this is most invisible enemy encounters in D&D5e — a heady mix of fairly abysmal rules when it comes to invisibility, and a feeling of “throwing shit at a wall and seeing what sticks” with regard to defeating it. There are ways of avoiding this, but some of the worst encounters I’ve ever run have used invisibility enemies, and I’d never do one without being very sure that what I’ve included makes it much less painless. The second type of bad encounter is the pedestrian encounter — an encounter that is extremely forgettable, that is only included for the sake of having one. Well, we’ve been playing for a few hours this session and we’ve yet to have a swordfight, so we’re going to have one. I’ll throw in some generic, level-appropriate enemies, we’ll bring out a 20×20 ft. space, and the next hour will be spent rolling combat dice. Now, there are some campaign settings where this sort of encounter feels unavoidable. If you’re playing a sandbox-style one, you’re probably going to have random encounter tables, and you’ll probably want regular encounters for travel. This is mostly because, as the DM, a sandbox-style experience is going to be player driven — you’re not going to be able to say, we’ll have an encounter on X mountain because you’re not going to know if they’re going to that mountain. What you ARE able to say, is “if they go to a mountain, we can have this kind of encounter”.

I’m digressing here. My hot take here is that there is nothing more damaging to a RPG session than a pedestrian encounter. When you’re in the more freeform modes of play (exploration, downtime) that D&D5e and Pathfinder offer you, there’s a chance for players to jump in when they so desire. A DM in these situations can (and should) be shunting the spotlight around to keep everyone engaged and active. When you’re enslaved to the turn order however, a player knows that when their turn has passed, it’s going to be a while before they get to act again. Their brain drifts onto other things, maybe they look at their phone. The turn comes back to them: “sorry what was the last thing that happened?”. They have to spend time looking at the game state and then taking their turn, during which the other players are possibly undergoing the same process. This sucks for everyone at the table. So the question becomes “what makes an encounter pedestrian?”. Apart from ignoring the points above that we’ve already covered, I’d say that the fastest way of doing it is by having the same sort of encounter play out again. Imagine in our dining room scenario, the party moves on through the next doorway, and they’re in another room with four or five guards. How is this meaningfully different from the previous encounter? We have to think of ways to keep it different, and if we can’t think of a way, then it’s better to not have an encounter at all. If you can’t think of a way to make an entire castle’s worth of encounters interesting, then don’t have an entire castle’s worth.

If the concern is that you’re playing an XP-based system, and you need the players to be a certain level for some content, then you can always use other mechanisms of granting XP. Pathfinder 2e enables the DM to grant arbitrary XP based on ‘accomplishments’, which are vague enough in scope that you can give them for basically anything. Again, I would rather give my players 120XP for absolutely nonsense reasons, rather than have them play an encounter for the sake of giving them that XP. So, we have to find a way of keeping each encounter fresh, and distinct from the encounters adjacent to it. In our case, perhaps after the Dining Room is a corridor through to some sort of alchemical laboratory? Perhaps this room has been enchanted with some haywire magic, and each round causes the room to flip the characters from floor to ceiling? Maybe it’s a room that suppresses fire, or even amplifies it, adding +1d6 damage? The ability to customise monsters, monster composition in encounters, and the encounter space gives us enormous scope to come up with various distinct kinds — the main limitation is going to be your ability to come up with them. Again, if you’re slow to design encounters, this isn’t a reason to create several that are very similar. It’s a reason to take more time between sessions for prep, it’s a reason to find alternative mechanisms to grant players the rewards you wanted to give them through encounters. If you’re playing a combat-based RPG, you’re going to want your players to remember your encounters, otherwise they’re not going to remember a large percentage of the game.

Where is the motion?

This one might seem a bit esoteric at face value, but bear with me here. I think the difference between a good encounter and a great encounter is a source of motion. Again, one of the worst experiences you can have in a combat-focused RPG is the sense that you’re all stood around a monster swinging your wiffle-bats at it, and chipping away at a health bar. This is again, MMO videogame shite. We can do better. Let’s take a look at the D&D Monster Manual

Dungeons & Dragons Core Rulebook: Monster Manual, WTCA92180000, standard:  Wizards of the Coast, Wizards of the Coast: Toys & Games
I love everything about this image.

Apart from the fact that this is extremely good art, the art is absolutely packed to the gills with motion. The beholder is literally bearing down on them, occupying almost all of the space. We see the dwarf, tilting his body away possibly to strike, or possibly in fear. We see a fighter (?) throwing their hand up, having either delivered a blow, or readying a mighty swing. This image is absolutely PACKED with motion, even in the environment.

Now with more red arrows.

This is what we want our encounters to be. Fluid. Dynamic. Changeable. If we have slow enemies, we never want them to feel static or statue-like, we want them to feel inexorable. If we have fast enemies, we want them to demonstrate that: have them move around, jump over obstacles, scrabble over walls. If something has climb, make it climb. It something has burrow, make it burrow. If something’s a swarm, give it something to swarm over or out of. If your players are walking into a room, and there’s just a whole pile of spiders sat in the middle of it, that’s some distinctly MMO nonsense. Have them enter the room, weapons raised, then realise in horror that the shadows in the corners are actually countless piles of the bastards. Now, D&D5e has mechanics that make this fluid motion more difficult (because of the prevalence of opportunity attacks), but you should still do it. Have the enemies eat opportunity damage sometimes, because it’s worth it to maintain that feeling of energy and momentum to the encounter. If your enemies are moving, your melee players are moving. If your ranged players don’t have a reason to move, give them a goddamned reason to move. My favourite style of motion for this is the ‘slowly collapsing room’, where you have sections of a room slowly fall down, meaning that the players have to pay attention to the space, but also spend valuable time moving or getting uncomfortably close to the enemies. If players aren’t having to make difficult decisions when it comes to not moving, or moving and possibly putting themselves in danger, then you’re missing a trick.

In our dining room example, the source of motion is going to come from the tumbling piles of food and the characters falling over. We want that encounter to turn into something resembling Glastonbury, where slop covered swordsman fight in the remains of a shepherd’s pie. We want our guards to be tripping, shoving, attempting to throw them into cauldrons. In our foundry/smelting room example, our motion is going to come from the machinery — the buckets of molten metal, the conveyor belts, etc. We want our players to be evaluating if where they’re standing right now is the best place, and we probably don’t want that to be more than one turn in a row. We want buckets of molten metal falling from the chains, spreading hazardous surfaces across the floor. We want characters getting nailbitingly close to the edges that could send them into the roiling fire below. I watched a critique from a well-known Youtuber who said that they couldn’t understand why anyone would ever not use the three action variant of magic missile in Pathfinder 2e (where moving costs an action, so the caster is electing to stand still). This is a person who is playing encounters that largely involve people standing still, throwing hands and magic at each other. If you don’t have a reason why anyone would ever want to cast a lower power version of a spell to have the ability to move, I have three words for you. Slowly. Falling. Ceiling. I can count those reasons in D6s of bludgeoning damage.

If you’re sat there, thinking to yourself “but I want to set an encounter in a forest, and I don’t know where that sort of motion is going to occur”, then I think you’re putting the cart before the horse. Speaking of which.

Am I putting setting/worldbuilding before gameplay?

Let me deliver unto you one last steaming hot take. Every encounter should be designed in terms of what is fun and interesting first, and in terms of your world/setting/campaign material second. What do I mean by this? Well, if you’re intending to set your campaign in a gigantic desert, and you don’t have enough ways of mechanically making that desert fun and engaging when it comes to encounters, then you shouldn’t set it in a desert! If your approach to designing the baron’s castle is thinking in terms of which a castle should historically have to be accurate, then working out how to make that fun and interesting afterwards, you’re going to end up with a boring session/campaign. I don’t particularly care if it “makes sense” that a castle would have three consecutive rooms of guards before anything of value, or if the alchemist’s stuff really should be in a different building — we want to make something that is fun and engaging first, then create narrative reasons to allow for that. Maybe the alchemist is best buds with the Baron? Maybe there’s very few guards because it’s a bank holiday, and they’re all down at Ed’s Easy Diner. Does this mean that there’s probably going to be plot-holes or nitpicks that people can make? Absolutely. I’d rather have a campaign that people can nitpick holes in, but ultimately still thoroughly enjoyed, over a campaign that never got off the ground because there was a complete lack of engagement.

If you think it’s fun to have an encounter with flying enemies inside the castle, then design that encounter and figure out a way of fitting it in. Note that I’m not saying you should have an absolute wacko-universe where gargantuan dragons come flying out of cupboards, what I’m saying is that your first intent should be to create an engaging encounter. I’ll forgive a cupboard dragon if the fight afterwards is the greatest goddamn thing I’ve ever played. You’ve got to find a way of making your desert campaign ‘pop’ when it comes to mechanics and gameplay — if you can’t, then it doesn’t matter how good your desert lore and worldbuilding is, it’ll die before the start of the fourth session. I don’t play your worldbuilding, I don’t play your maps or your homebrew languages; I play the game as it stands before me. Give me a thousand cupboard dragons over one day trawling a mechanically dull and unengaging desert.

I got a bit rambly towards the end there, but there you go. Some questions to ask yourself.

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Review: Pathfinder 2e (part one)

I am an eternal DM, so it’s worth bearing in mind that this whole thing is going to be coming from the perspective of someone who hasn’t played this as a player. I’ve run PF2e from levels one to five, with three campaigns in a mix of in person and online. I tend to go through campaigns like I go through milk so it’s more like 1.5 or 1.75 campaigns in terms of length. Another important caveat, I’m talking about my experience with the system from only the first five levels. If it completely falls apart when the players reach level six, I don’t know about that. I tend to enjoy systems at the low levels anyway, and there’s a few people that point out things like D&D5e aren’t really meant to be played at level 15+ anyway. Last caveat, I usually don’t play prewrittens, and I haven’t done so here – if the prewritten campaigns are bad (and I’ve not seen glowing reviews), I couldn’t tell you. I have looked over Age of Ashes a bit just to get a feel for what Paizo intended. With all of that out of the way, let’s begin.

As I’m not an engagement seeking parasite, I’ll give you a summary immediately. I’ll then talk about what the system is, strengths and weaknesses, and some closing thoughts.


Pathfinder 2e offers a more playable experience than the first edition, and more mechanically sound gameplay compared to Dungeons and Dragons 5e, but finds itself sat on the fence between two worlds of crunch and fluff. If you’re looking for a fantasy combat-focused RPG with a bit more to it than D&D5e, but were intimidated by older systems, then it’s worth giving PF2e a go. The core rulebook can be an absolute nightmare to use, due to its size and complexity. In addition, it’s an open question as to whether it’ll enjoy a long life, as later content from Paizo has been a bit questionable. As for the DM experience, no major headaches there, with the Gamemasters Guide (GMG) filling in a lot of the gaps left from the core rulebook. NPC generation is handled particularly well with a slew of tables for doing it quickly and easily. There’s some great additional rules included in the GMG, alongside some poor ones.

I’ll likely keep playing it, but it’s going to be a divisive system for most, just because of its positioning between PF1e and D&D5e.

What & Why

Pathfinder Second Edition is a d20 based, combat-focused, character-based roleplaying game with an interesting pedigree which I will get into later. The system primarily supports fighting monsters, acquiring treasure, and exploring dungeons, but not without a good portion of rules for doing other activities like earning gold from working, crafting items, and other actions that the system groups into “downtime”. The journey that the system wants to portray is a story of your characters becoming more powerful as they achieve great deeds and victories, with the scope of problems faced growing alongside them. Is this a system that to tell a tale of subterfuge, diplomacy and investigation? No. There is an extensive skill system (more on that later), but all of this is very much geared towards moving adventurers to dungeons – not having those skills be the bread and butter of the game.

Your average session of PF2e will look something like this (if you’re not playing a sandbox game). The player characters are exposed to/provided a hook which angles them towards some greater unknown or mystery. They might engage with people from settlements to learn more, or perform their downtime actions – but this is primarily done to improve the player’s ability to adventure, or learn where they might do so. After acquiring the requisite information or preparation, they then go to the location, and are challenged with a dungeon; it might not literally be a dungeon, but it will be somewhere with traps, monsters, NPCs and treasure. If they succeed, they are awarded with treasure, XP (if not using the milestone system) and perhaps further information that points them in the direction of another dungeon. Repeat.

While this might sound like a negative description, it really is the core gameplay loop that the system wants you to perform as the DM. I’m actually a big fan of simple loops like the above, so any negativity is coming from my nascent crassness. Worth mentioning that the loop above, is also the core gameplay loop of D&D 5e (despite how many homebrewed settlement management systems might try to tell you otherwise). This is a tried and tested gameplay loop, and I think it’s stood the test of time. Dungeon -> Downtime -> Improvement -> Dungeon.

So why does Pathfinder Second Edition exist? To answer that question, we really have to look at why the Pathfinder series exists at all. If you’re looking for the precise history, the wikipedia article will give you that in detail, but I can give you the abridged version. Paizo, the company that makes Pathfinder, started out as a publisher of D&D 3rd Edition magazines in 2002. This continued until 2007, when Wizards of the Coast (the new publishers of D&D at that time), decided to end that contract. Later that year, WoTC would announce D&D 4th Edition, published under a more restrictive game license (too much to talk about here, but check out the OGL and GSL pages). The latter would come to foreshadow the kind of company that WoTC would become, and the former made a lot of people very angry, and was widely regarded as a bad move.

To continue the “spirit” of the D&D Revised 3rd Edition (D&D 3.5 as people call it), Paizo decided to create their own backwards-compatible system under the OGL called Pathfinder, which kept large chunks of the D&D 3.5 ruleset, but also had a variety of changes. While this might seem utterly unbelievable to someone more new to the RPG scene, Pathfinder was the most popular system for a considerable amount of time, holding the top spot in terms of sales until the release of D&D 5th Edition. Now, that factoid might be a bit deceptive, as I wouldn’t be surprised if the RPG scene had grown ten-fold in the last three years, but I think we can quite comfortably say that Pathfinder has played a significant role in RPG history, and would have been a system that a lot of older RPG players engaged with. So what sort of system was Pathfinder 1st Edition then?

Pathfinder 1e’s Grapple Rules. Oh yes.

If we’re being generous, I’d use the term involved. It’s interesting that, the history of D&D looks something like a bell curve in terms of complexity, with the earliest editions and 5e being relatively simplistic, and the middle editions the most complex. Pathfinder 1e inherited that complexity. This is not a pick-up-and-play RPG, this is not an RPG that you suggest to your parents over Christmas. This is an RPG that required time, effort, and sometimes software intervention to run properly. Note, I’m not saying that the rules are good or bad; I have some extremely fond memories of PF1e campaigns – what I’m saying, is that there was a gigantic barrier to entry. In combination with all the additional content, sourcebooks, I’m quite confident in saying that I couldn’t make a PF1e character now without access to something like Hero Lab, and I played the system for a good couple of years.

So what’s my point here?

The biggest accomplishment of D&D 5e is accessibility. The system is filled with things that rely on DM fiat (which is easier than having hard-cast rules), simplifications, and greater homogeneity. The corners have been rounded off, and the system is far more approachable as a result. It is not a coincidence that D&D 5e is nearly a household name after this change, and while it’s impossible to concretely prove that it was accessibility that drove popularity, there’s a strong argument for it. Pathfinder 1st Edition on the other hand, sat on a throne of splatbooks, founded on a ruleset that was over a decade old. With a core fanbase that loved the system, if you weren’t already playing it, or you didn’t know someone who was playing it, you weren’t likely to start.

When looked at through the historical lens, Pathfinder Second Edition starts to make sense. A chance to blow out the cobwebs of an aging foundation, to sand off some of the sharp corners that were making the system hard to approach, and also a chance to sell some new rulebooks I suppose. However, Paizo sat in a very difficult and risky position. If they made too many changes to the system, they risked alienating a core fanbase that had stuck with their products for years, whom had (partially) moved over due to a dislike of D&D’s direction. However, if they threw a coat of paint over the first edition, they risked simply splitting their existing base between the two systems, with no influx of new blood to keep the machine going; a wasted endeavour. If you’ve ever googled or looked into PF2e, you probably already know the direction Paizo took.

PF2e is not backwards compatible, meaning that Paizo have left behind nearly two decades worth of material, which was an incredibly brave decision. If I was being extremely reductionist here, I’d say something along the lines of “Paizo thought that the direction WoTC took was the correct one” when it came to simplification and accessibility. I think there’s a lot of nuance that gets left behind with that take, not least that Pathfinder Second Edition is still a more complex game than D&D 5e. However, the sentiment of that sentence smells correct to me – the second edition exists to solve the problem that an aged, monolithic first edition could not; ease of play. I can only imagine that there were dozens of things that Paizo wanted to do with Pathfinder, but weren’t able to because they felt shackled to backwards compatibility. If there wasn’t, I doubt they would have made 2e at all.

While a lot of the above is my reading between the lines somewhat, a great picture of why Pathfinder Second Edition exists is an interview with the lead game designer at Paizo, Jason Bulmahn.

QueueTimes interview with Jason

At 8:55, Jason says the following:

It’s more art than science. First Edition was science, this [Second Edition] is more art.

Pathfinder 2E Interview – Jason Bulmahn – The Creator of Pathfinder

Now, full disclosure, they’re talking about monster design, but I feel like it represents a big motivation for the system, and for TTRPG system design direction in general. Systems are more willing to rely on the DM as a source of reality, in place of a fully codified ruleset. Sentences like “the DM may award a…” have become more and more commonplace. PF2e is very much a product of that environment.

This has, again, positioned Pathfinder Second Edition in a very strange place. It is much less rules heavy than the first edition, but is a fair bit heavier than D&D 5e, and there’s a real risk that this is a game that was made for…nobody. Veterans of the Pathfinder series stick with first edition for the mechanical depth and control, people more familiar with D&D 5e stick with it as they find the depth of Second Edition intimidating. Is this the case? I’ve got a bit of anecdotal evidence that this is happening on some level, but I think the ultimate arbiter will be sales figures and engagement moving forwards. As this is a review, I’ll give you my personal perspective: I think Second Edition offers an experience that First Edition and D&D5e do not, and consequently, I don’t necessarily see it as a replacement. I’ll talk about this later in part two, but there’s nuance to the system that is worth exploring, with elements that Paizo clearly thought they couldn’t do in the first outing of the system.

Something I find quite interesting is that another RPG released by Paizo called Starfinder, “Pathfinder in space”, is meant to be mechanically closer to 1st Edition than second. If I was being cynical, I’d see this as Paizo somewhat hedging their bets by offering Starfinder as an alternative to jaded 1e veterans. I don’t think this is the case, but it’s food for thought. It’s far more likely that some of the mechanical changes that were mid-development for PF2e, made their way into Starfinder, and were field-tested there.

Anyway, I hope this short post has gone somewhere towards answering the “why” of “why does Second Edition exist”. Next time, I’m going to be talking over what I like about the system, what I dislike, and what I’ll give it in terms of a grade.

Catch you next time.