The Rhythm of Play

How to Play in a World That Frequently Disagrees With Itself

Let’s assume you’ve built a character. You’ve gathered around a table (or a virtual one), snacks are within reach, someone has already made a spreadsheet, and someone else has already tried to seduce a merchant.

Now what?

Well, if the multiverse hasn’t collapsed and the dice aren’t cursed (yet), you’re ready to begin. The game flows in a sort of loop—a rhythm, if you like. It’s less a strict rule and more a reliable shape the story keeps falling back into, like gravity or narrative inevitability.

It goes like this:

Step 1: The Storyteller Describes the Scene

This is the part where your Storyteller—also known as the one holding all the secrets—tells you what’s going on.

You might be in a crumbling temple. A narrow corridor that smells of wet parchment and regret. A kitchen that is... humming, ominously.

They describe the environment, the atmosphere, what’s obvious, and sometimes what isn’t. A door. A pedestal. A rat. An unexpected moon.

It’s their job to set the stage. It’s your job to make it weird.

Step 2: You Decide What to Do

You, the players, describe your characters’ actions. Maybe you knock on the door. Maybe you ask the moon for directions. Maybe you spend twenty minutes trying to open a box that was never locked in the first place. (It happens.)

Players don’t usually take turns outside of combat—so if you want to act, speak up. The Storyteller will make sure everyone gets a moment.

This is the part of the game where choices are made. Dramatic declarations. Terrible ideas. Heroic mistakes.

All equally valid.

Step 3: The Storyteller Reveals What Happens

Your actions cause consequences. That’s the rule.

Sometimes, the outcome is obvious:

“You walk across the room. Nothing explodes. Yet.”

Other times, the Storyteller might ask you to roll a die to find out how things go—especially if success isn’t guaranteed, or the chairs have started moving on their own again.

And then... back to Step 1. Scene. Decision. Result. Repeat. That’s the rhythm.

And Then Sometimes It Gets Complicated

Some moments are relaxed and cinematic. Others require order, like combat or scenes where time matters. In those, the rhythm tightens: everyone takes turns, movement is tracked, dice are rolled, bad plans become permanent.

This doesn’t mean the game changes. Just the tempo. Like shifting from freeform jazz to slightly panicked musical theatre.

A Note on Imagination

Most of the time, the world unfolds in your shared imagination. The Storyteller narrates. You picture it. The room lives in your heads, collectively misremembered but emotionally accurate.

Some groups add music, minis, maps, or digital tools. Others thrive on chaos, loose gestures, and increasingly dramatic hand movements.

All methods are valid. What matters is that you can see the story well enough to care about it.

Exceptions Beat Rules

“Yes, the rules say one thing. But have you met magic? It cheats.”

General rules govern how most of the game works. For example: melee attacks usually use Strength, ranged attacks use Dexterity, and throwing a knife at someone mid-sentence is generally frowned upon.

However, class features, feats, spells, magic items, and monster abilities may explicitly break those general rules. When that happens, the exception wins.

So if your Magical Girl subclass says you can make melee attacks using Charisma, go ahead and swing with sparkle-fuelled sass. It works, even if the general rules say otherwise.

Example of Play: The Rat King's Court

A sample scene showing how rhythm of play unfolds at the table.

Storyteller:
You descend into the cellar expecting rats. You find a throne.

Specifically: a throne of jam crates, soup tins, and a single folded ironing board. Seated atop it is an enormous rat, cloaked in a tea towel and wearing a bent copper crown that might once have been part of a candleholder. Behind him, a pair of guard rats stand upright, their whiskers twitching with barely contained menace. Tiny banners—stolen napkins—hang from broom handles. A pickle jar is being used as a sceptre.

He squints down at you. “State your business with the Crown. Quickly. I am very busy.”

Nefie (Oni Rogue):
Okay. I step forward and say, “We're here from Mama Jori. She says this is still her cellar and you lot are trespassing vermin.” I’m not drawing a weapon, but I am cracking my knuckles.

Storyteller:
One of the guard rats bares its teeth. The other adjusts its tiny sash. The Rat King snorts.

“Whiskers has not been seen for a year. A year. By rights, the Cellar is sovereign territory. You can tell the kitchen tyrant we will not pay tribute in pickled goods. Again.”

Lina (Human Warrior):
Wait, a year? Whiskers only fell ill on Tuesday.

Storyteller:
Time in the Inn doesn’t move the same down here. For them, he’s been gone long enough to form a government.

Miyu (Nekko Sorcerer):
...Oh no. This is going to be diplomacy, isn’t it?

Nefie:
Only if your spells don't work.