The 5E Megadungeon: Death, Magic, and Cats

Last week: Running a Megadungeon Campaign in D&D 5E

Last week we covered darkvision and laid out the factors that make 5E insufficiently lethal for typical megadungeon play. Now lets discuss some solutions.

Tailor monsters to make them punch harder, but also die faster. Tweaking monster stats is categorically easier than getting PCs to buy into house rules that lower their own character’s powers. In addressing a common complaint with 5E that combat tends to drag on, I’ve found it helps a lot to make monsters hit harder, but be less tough. With some relatively modest adjustments, it is easy to cut an eight-round slogfest down to a tight three-round nailbiter. Monsters leave a bigger dent in PC HP totals, but PCs also have the satisfaction of taking them down before the battle gets boring. 

Cap leveling up somewhere between levels 8 and 12. D&D 5E is tuned around the first two to three tiers of play. The second tier ends at level 8 and the third ends at level 12. The game is fun in the fourth and fifth tiers, but parts of it break down, and it is certainly not suited to megadungeon play. I ran several hundred sessions of 5E in a game that went from level 1 to beyond level 20, and while that campaign worked for location-based play at low levels (including quite a bit of time in the Caverns of Thracia), it was essentially obligated to transition to scene-based play at high levels.

A megadungeon campaign really needs to stay location-focused for its duration, and the easiest way to make that happen is to agree at the outset to cap the PCs’ level. You can choose where you want to cap the level based on which dungeon-bypassing powers you really want to limit. A series of posts from the early days of my blog attempts to catalog which 5E powers bypass dungeon obstacles at various tiers.

This will take some buy-in from the PCs, but make the case that it is required to run a cool megadungeon in 5E. Capping progress doesn’t even require an explicitly old-school perspective. The idea of “E6” D&D (which caps progression at level 6) came out of the crunchy 3.5 D&D world all on its own. And maxed out PCs can become powerful figures in the local area, engaging in domain-level play. If the players still aren’t convinced, a megadungeon campaign isn’t right for them anyway.

Limit where the PCs can rest. The average modern-style party will gravitate toward a simple gameplan: Fully unload on any antagonists they encounter, then pass out on the spot for eight hours. There's some variance based on group composition – a minority of classes in 2014 5E are optimized around short rests – but most 5E groups will have a majority of long-rest-oriented PCs like wizards and paladins who want a solid eight hours of sleep so they can once again go supernova on the next monster that looks at them funny.

You are going to have to disabuse them of the idea that it is OK to rest in the dungeon. For a lot of players, it’s going to take some convincing.

Out of character, tell the players that resting in the dungeon or the surrounding wilderness is highly dangerous. Have NPCs reiterate this in-character. Ultimately, the PCs will attempt it anyway, and you should adjudicate consequences firmly, demonstrating how hard it is to get a good long rest in the dungeon. Of course, if the players take clever precautions to secure a long rest in the dungeon, reward them.

Finally, if you don’t think this will be enough to motivate your players, discuss a house rule at session zero that long rests are simply impossible inside the dungeon. I’m trying to be conservative with the house rules here, but this one may be worth it. 

Leverage time and antagonists against long rests. If resting in the dungeon isn’t practical, most PCs versed in modern-style play will pragmatically come up with an obvious fallback solution; retreat quickly to safety after every combat encounter. This is not really a bad thing; smart OSR PCs will keep avenues of retreat open as well. 

But retreating after every fight will slow the game to a crawl. Fortunately, both old school games (strict time records and faction play) and story games (clocks and fronts) offer some tools to incentivize modern and trad players to play differently. 

Establish antagonist NPCs and factions early, and then telegraph to the players how they are advancing their agendas every time the PCs take a long rest. It may help to present the PCs with antagonists right from session zero. A good example is the conceit used in Electric Bastionland and other games; have the party start with a shared debt they have to pay off. It could be one of the powerful factions in the town, or in the dungeon itself. The important thing is that the debt-holding faction both has a reason to be  antagonistic toward the PCs and methods for creating time pressure. 

Magic is ridiculously abundant to the point where you solve most of the normal OSR challenges with cantrips that half the party have.

I agree with this in a general sense. Cantrips are one of my least favorite parts of 5E, and they trivialize many parts of the game that old-school play emphasizes. 

But the problem is really limited to a small subset of cantrips. The biggest use-case of cantrips is essentially providing a DPS floor for full spellcasters in combat. I don’t enjoy this design decision, but it fits with how modern play handles combat, and we don’t need to change combat much to empower the megadungeon experience.

The genuinely concerning cantrips are the ones that trivialize challenges outside of combat. If I was running a megadungeon in 5E, I would modify or rule out a few cantrips:

• Light and Dancing Lights would be the obvious ones to ban or nerf by “promoting” them to first level, per the discussion of visibility and darkvision in the previous post.
• Mage Hand should probably receive the same treatment, given how useful it is for manipulating traps and doors without risking oneself. It may still be worth the spell slot even if “nerfed” to first level. If a player is interested in the Arcane Trickster archtype (a rogue subclass), you may need to negotiate with them how to interpret this adjustment, as Mage Hand is baked into that archetype’s core powers.
• Guidance is not causing a problem for a megadungeon specifically, but it is bad game design, so I would probably ban it if I was cutting other spells anyway. 
• Minor Illusion is a consideration, although strictly adjudicating it can denude it of its worst applications. 

The rest of the cantrips in the 5E.2014 PHB are not really disruptive to megadungeon play. Non-cantrip spells are a resource expenditure question, and are essentially covered by the time pressure tools discussed above. Yes, having access to Fly or Dimension Door can subvert some dungeon challenges; but these are precious spell slots if we cap the PC's level somewhere between 8 and 12. 

Yes, a 5E group is going to move through the megadungeon more quickly and suffer fewer casualties than an equivalent old-school group. But they're not going to trivialize a well-run megadungeon. 

Cat People???

Running a Megadungeon Campaign in D&D 5E

A post on the 3d6 Down the Line Discord expressed skepticism that the Arden Vul megadungeon could be run in D&D 5E. 

And I get it. D&D 5E would not be my first choice for a megadungeon either. 

But I have run a lot of 5E with an OSR mindset, and I believe I could run a megadungeon in 5E with (relatively) modest house rules and campaign assumptions, if for some reason I decided to do so.

All points below are in the context of the 2014 5E rules. I do not own the new 5E books, but understand they do not deviate far from the 2014 rules, so I expect this approach would broadly work there as well. I also anticipate that most of the same ideas would apply to the 5E-compatible systems that have come out since 5E was released into the Creative Commons.

Below are the four issues that the post identified, addressed in turn.

Everybody Has Darkvision

I agree that darkvision is over-prescribed in 5E, and that darkvision can undermine old-school exploration by removing the question of visibility. But a serious part of the problem is that a lot of players and DMs don’t even follow 5E’s rules as written, and assume that darkvision is a more potent ability than it actually is.

D&D 5E’s rules allow creatures with darkvision to see in darkness as if it were dim light. That means disadvantage on Wisdom (perception) checks and an inability to see colors. Darkvision is better than nothing, but it is no substitute for a proper light source, particularly when checking for traps or keeping an eye out for secrets and treasure. I also remind players that whenever they are within the area of a source of light – whether from an ally, the environment, or an NPC or monster – that light prevents the use of their darkvision until they move out of the light. When I explain all of this to 5E players, they often choose to use light, even if they don’t “need” to, treating darkvision as more of a plan B, or an option for stealthing apart from the group.

Monsters face the same limitation. Whether an intelligent monster decides to rely on darkvision or use light typically reflects its level of confidence in its place in the dungeon hierarchy. Those confident in their control of the space use light. Those fearful of discovery favor the darkness.

Of course, an intelligent monster with 120’ darkvision will rely on the darkness more often than a creature possessing typical 60' darkvision, because it expects that it will have an edge. Creatures with tremorsense, blindsight, and similar abilities actually can functionally “see” in darkness as well as they can in light, so they do work in the way that many players think darkvision works. Creatures with those senses actually will completely skip light, for the most part. This makes them significantly scarier opponents in their native environment than creatures with mere darkvision.

If I was going to go further in houseruling this issue, I would take darkvision away from elves, and leave it to just the gnomes, dwarves, and tieflings. But even without altering the ancestry rules, darkvision can be brought into check simply by following the rules as written strictly.

It’s Impossible to Die in 5E

Let’s start with two easy caveats. First, simply removing 5E’s playculture presumption of level-appropriate encounters solves part of this problem. Even the most optimally constructed low-level 5E characters are not going to last long if they arrive at Arden Vul and beeline for the lair of Craastonistorex, the old and powerful green dragon. Once the players realize that difficulty is dictated by where they go and what they do – not what is appropriate for their current level – they will act more prudently.

Second, at very low levels, the problem isn’t really that pronounced anyway. Low-level PCs in 5E are much tougher than B/X or OSE characters, but they can still go down after just a few hits. The death saves system usually gives them a few chances to survive, but a deadly dungeon can kill many PCs outright through massive damage from falls and traps. In combat, monsters can also opportunistically focus on downed characters and quickly finish them off. Remember that any source of damage to a character on death's door equals a failed death save. Lowly goblins or kobolds become much scarier when they drag a downed PC away into the darkness, rather than “fighting fair” and engaging the PCs who are still standing.

But beyond those two caveats, I acknowledge the issue OP raises. At about level 5, 5E PCs get a lot stronger, and they don’t slow down from there. PCs in 5E at middle to high levels create a series of interrelated issues for DMs who want to run a megadungeon game that cares about exploration, time, and resources. I believe there are at least four interrelated issues that cause problems here:

• 5E PCs have massive amounts of HP
• 5E PCs have a lot of resources to replenish HP
• Both play culture and player powers make it unlikely that PCs will get lost, captured, or otherwise separated from safe locations where they can rest and recover 
• Modern play culture presumes little or no time pressure, so choosing to rest does not come with an inherent cost

A few different adjudication techniques and house rules can solve a lot of these problems. We'll cover those next week.

Next week: Death, Magic, and Cats

Pantheon Prompts: Questions for Fantasy Deities

Deities are too dull in too many RPGs. We can do better by randomizing inputs, but sometimes we need to study use other solutions. 

Browse these two Wikipedia entries: Janus, the ancient Roman god and a typical RPG fantasy god, like Azuth from the Forgotten Realms. They are radically different. And I mean beyond the obvious difference, in the sense that one article is summarizing mythology while the other was created as gameable content. The differences prompt a number of questions that can make fantasy deities more interesting.

What are the deity’s spheres of influence, and which of those have nothing to do with dungeons? At least half of a deity’s spheres of influence or domains should have no direct connection to adventuring. A good worldbuilding tool is to consider how much the supernatural and divine is applied to mundane, real-world problems, as I discussed when writing about trade magic.

What is named in this deity’s honor? The real world is flush with honorary words. Months, days of the week, cities, and people are easy ones, but the influence can be less direct. Think about how morphine comes from Morpheus, or how the atlas is literally named after Atlas.

What rituals do their followers observe? This is a big one that TTRPGs tend to ignore. But rituals are central to religions both historical and contemporary, and it is a missed opportunity to leave them out of worldbuilding.

What are the aesthetics and purposes of their temples? Places of worship should not be abstracted or generic. Structures and civilizations are integral to the worship of the gods. The god of lightning’s shrine is atop the tallest tower in the city, covered in a tangle of conductive copper aerials. The god of disease’s temple is within a decommissioned sewage treatment plant. You get the idea.

In what secret places are they worshipped? Public worship and cult worship should tell us something about both the religion in question and the society surrounding it. Remember that cults are a function of how society understands that religion, not just an internal moral quality associated with the deity itself.

What are their relationships with other gods? I don’t mean the usual “the life god and the death god hate each other” RPG stuff. That’s fine, for what it is, but it is not going to make these deities seem alive. Classical pantheons often featured siblings, spouses, and children among the gods. The Greek and Norse pantheons keep reappearing in new fiction because those remain compelling relationships, even as more complex (but also abstracted) fantasy pantheons blur into the background. 

What is their priesthood like? Do they even have one? If yes, are the practitioners locals? Do they choose to become priests when they reach adulthood, or were they raised expecting this to be their purpose? Are they assigned by some distant authority, or elevated by the local community? You don’t have to answer every question, but answering at least a few will make them much more real.

Where does the deity reside? Again, think through this. “The fire god lives on the fire plane” is intuitive, and we don’t want to subvert expectations just for the sake of doing it. But “the fire god lives in the Slagmouth, the fourth incarnation in this world of the ever-erupting world-heart, born astride the corpse of the titan Jokulos, who legends say claimed the first burning fire from deep within the earth…” OK, that’s a little purple, but the players are probably awake and looking at you with curious/worried expressions, right?

What beliefs about this deity are contested? This is a big one. TTRPG rulebooks give players the impression that every god is a known quantity to everyone in that world, with their purpose and ethos conveniently compressed in table format. Even in a world where gods are demonstrably real, there would still be a great deal of ambiguity and disagreement about a particular god’s priorities, desires, and goals. Most fantasy worlds presume that deities still must communicate their liturgy through priests, and even spellcasting clerics only have the broadest and loosest ways to divine the divine’s will, at least at low levels. As I’ve said before, D&D’s cleric spell list actually does a great job of illustrating how cleric’s very gradually get more and more insight into their deity as they level up, from a crude thumbs up / thumbs down for Augury, all the way up through the ability to Gate to the deity’s plane of existence and ask them questions directly. This ambiguity about divine intent should be expressed in the books and come through in-session more often. 

What is the etymology of their name? Not every game needs this, but it can be fun. Consistent use of language is going to show that a lot of thought went into the worldbuilding. You don’t need to create an entire constructed language or etymological tree. Use shortcuts, like using Latin-derived words for all the lawful religions, and German-derived words for all the chaotic religions.  

Rolling for Shoes and Quantum Gaming

I greatly enjoy "quantum" game mechanics. In this context, all that means is some aspect of the game that would typically be predefined is left undefined until its definition is specifically required by the events of the game. Various games use quantum mechanics without naming them, but one of my favorite articulations is this one by Luka Rejec. 

In a pinch, I would probably use Roll For Shoes by Ben Wray, or freeD6 down the line by Liche’s Libram for a quantum chassis. I particularly like the idea that basically anything can be a character skill (allowing for quantum character construction and a negotiated understanding of the game scenario), but that the randomness of the dice ensures that characters have choices and risk/reward calculations; they can’t just add skills indiscriminately, or they’ll end up with low ones that the GM can force them to test. These games also require nomic negotiation between the players to decide how to interrupt unclear overlaps and edge cases.

I do want to try running Roll For Shoes as-is, but I have also put some thought into a slight variation on it that makes it less of a d6 die pool system and lets it tack closer to D&D abilities and d20 resolution. All you need are 3d6 and 2d20, as well as a way to take notes. So you can run this game entirely from your phone, if needed. The game requires at least one GM and at least one player, although it could be played solo with an "oracle" replacing the GM.

The procedure is as follows:

1. The group chooses a genre. The GM should be at least as familiar with the genre as the player or players are. 
2. Choose a goal. It should be very general, but within the confines of the genre. Don’t think too much about who the characters are yet. A goal could be “defeat the evil overlord” or “win the reality TV show” or “steal the huge diamond from the gallery.”
3. Each player chooses a very minimal character concept. This should be as bare-bones as possible. It could be an occupation, a background, or something else. Basically a one-sentence premise, just enough to explain why this person is present in the opening scene.
4. The GM begins the game. Play starts with an opening scene, usually something that will bring the characters together (if there is more than one) and either establish how they know each other or allow them to meet for the first time.
5. When a PC has to do something uncertain, they roll 3d6. This becomes their permanent ability stat (or skill, or whatever term you prefer) for that action.
6. Whenever a player needs to test that stat (including immediately after that first 3d6 roll), they roll d20. A result equal to or lower than their stat is a success. The GM may give them advantage or disadvantage on the roll.
7. If a player rolls something really low on 3d6, they can choose not to test it and can try to approach the situation in a different way. But the result of that 3d6 roll stays on their character sheet.
8. Failed d20 rolls create new antagonists, hazards, obstacles, complications, or other threats. This could be anything in the story that the GM can use to trip up the players. The GM writes it down, along with the number that the player rolled that resulted in the failure. So if the player has an Argue stat of 13, and then rolls a 16 on a test when trying to convince the studio boss to greenlight their movie, the GM notes “Studio Boss: 16.” 
9. Whenever a number associated with a threat is rolled by anyone, that threat can reappear. It doesn’t matter if a different player rolls the number, or if the PC whose failure led to the creation of the threat is present or not, or even if the roll in this instance was a success (because it is rolling against a higher stat). If the GM thinks it makes sense for the threat to appear, it can happen.
10. The story ends whenever everyone thinks it has reached a natural ending. Or…
11. Alternately, the story can end when the game reaches a predetermined number of one or more of the following criteria:
1. Successes. X successful checks against stats are enough to complete the goal.
2. Failures. X failed rolls on stats are enough for the goal to fail.
3. Threats. X threats created are enough to ensure the PCs will fail to complete the goal.
4. Stats. Each character can have only X stats, maximum. Once they’ve reached this maximum, their next failure will knock them out of the story in some fashion or another. If all the PCs are knocked out, they fail to complete the goal.

I'm keeping this in my back pocket in case I need a quick, improvised RPG. If I have an opportunity to try this, I will report back.

Using Boring Meetings to Design Dungeons

The modern world is filled with a certain number of boring, pointless meetings. Maybe the meeting itself is pointless. Or maybe you are simply an ancillary attendee who should have been left off the invitation. For whatever reason, you are stuck here until the meeting ends. With nothing else to keep it busy, your mind wanders back to the dungeon. 

Every time a new participant in the boring meeting talks, try to write down the first remotely interesting word you hear them say that is either a noun, an adjective, or a verb. If they’re talking fast, you might only catch one or two of those words. That’s OK. These are loose guidelines, not strict rules. Keep writing down words until you have at least one verb, one noun, and one adjective. Cluster these in groups until you have a handful of them.

Nouns Are Rooms

Each noun defines the purpose or status of a room in the dungeon that you are creating. Sometimes this will be very literal, like the word “store” suggesting a storehouse. Other times the room you create will only have the vaguest trace of the origin word. Some words will not work at all, but try doing some free association before you give up on a noun that doesn’t have any dungeon energy. You may find it takes you to some unexpected places.

Adjectives Are Contents

Adjectives elaborate on what is in the room. This can take many forms, but the following are good places to start.

Aesthetics: What does the room look like? Smell like? Sound like? 

Purpose: The noun may imply what the room is for, but an adjective that pushes back against that implication may suggest a change in purpose. Integral to many classic dungeons is the idea that a room’s purpose has changed over time.

Occupants: Adjectives can strongly suggest who or what uses a room or has been there recently.

Verbs Are Current Events 

Verbs can suggest monsters, NPCs, and other dungeon activity. They can also suggest hazards, environmental effects, and weather. The random encounters table is a good place to start thinking about verbs. What is happening right now? What happened recently? What will happen soon? If the room is not an empty room, the verb may be the best clue toward what a monster is doing, how a trap threatens interlopers, or how a trick or special feature presents itself to the explorer.

An Example: The Questioning Device

I listened and wrote down the noun "question," the adjective "technological," and the verb "counting."

“Question” could mean many things, from a scrying pool to a riddle. I will make our “question” room an interrogation room. This is a pretty literal interpretation and gives us a grounded place to start.

“Technological” could go in a few directions. The torture machine from The Princess Bride, for example. Perhaps there is a techno-magical machine in this space. Whatever its original purpose, the current dungeon occupants use it to interrogate prisoners.

“Counting” is a great verb because it suggests both subject and object – someone is counting and someone or something is being counted. Perhaps one of a number of prisoners has escaped? A headcount is happening, or has just happened, and the captors have discovered that someone ins missing. They are now using the Questioning Device to try to force the remaining prisoners to tell them where the escapee went.

And so we have a fully formed room. 

Pay Attention, Class

Am I suggesting you be lazy? Rude? Disrespectful to the organizer of your boring meeting? Well, yes and no.

Yes, it is true that I am suggesting you slack off a bit. But I did preface it by saying I was talking about meetings that were unimportant, unnecessary, or overly broad in terms of invitees.

And for what it’s worth, I think this game is a way of genuinely paying attention. The worst sort of inattention is the full-on daydream, where you are thinking about a dungeon that has nothing to do with the meeting. At least in this model, you are paying a minimum level of attention in order to catch those prompt words. Your brain may subconsciously catch more detail than you expect, just because you have given it an ulterior (and more interesting) reason to care.

Asking for Directions in an RPG

"Five Turns Sixwards of Five’ is a pretty simple instruction for someone around Saint Five; just turn ‘Sixwards’ (people nearby will probably have a good general idea of which direction ‘Five’ is), and then take five major turns in that direction." 

This from a post regarding Patrick Stuart's upcoming book, Queen Mab's Palace. I’m looking forward to reading it, as his Deep Carbon Observatory was one of the very first OSR products I ever read, and Patrick’s work continues to be appointment reading.

The above excerpt reminded me of an interesting question to consider when running RPG sessions; how do people give directions in the fictional world? This is worthwhile to think about both in the sense of NPCs giving PCs literal directions, and in the sense of how the DM describes imagined spaces to the PCs so they can visualize them accurately. So what are some options?

Locally relative. Until recently in human history, most people did not have GPS, compasses, or even detailed maps. Most directions would be given based on a simple view of the sun and some dead reckoning using local landmarks. This is a good baseline assumption for low-tech worlds like most fantasy milieus. Simple questions of elevation and sight lines would greatly affect how well the local area is "known" to inhabitants. 

Map-level view. The opposite is people who primarily have a “map-level” view, rather than an egocentric sense of direction. This is generally better for PCs trying to ask for directions, as the players themselves are to some degree viewing the action “top-down” (literally or figuratively) when trying to get from place to place. So an NPC who can tell them to go west is probably more helpful than one who gives locally relative directions. 

But it can get tricky for the PCs in other circumstances. If a PC deep in a dungeon asks an NPC “which door should I use, the one on the right or the one on the left?” and the answer they get is “the westernmost one,” that PC may wish they had those locally relative directions. 

Intuitive directions. The direction-giver knows how they would get there, using subtle clues from the weather, the disposition of local flora and fauna, or even something like the planet’s magnetic field. But that can’t be relayed in a way the PCs will realistically understand. This is a good way to prompt the PCs to hire a guide who can navigate for them. And to stress that they need to keep that guide alive. 

Different units of measurement. The locals know how far it is to where you want to go, but they don’t use the same units of measurement and don’t know how to convert to units the PCs understand. This can create a bit of a puzzle, where the PCs are rewarded for figuring out something that must have been a challenge for real-world explorers as well.

Different or differently emphasized sensory organs. What happens when a PC uses Speak with Animals to ask a bat about the interior of a cave? The bat knows the cave in great detail, but not in the way a person would know it. Imagine the poor bat trying to explain how echolocation feels to someone who cannot echolocate. 

Weird environment. If PCs are exploring a strange space like the astral sea, and they meet a resident of that place, how does that creature explain how to get where they want to go? Light? Gravity? Something else?

Be Kind to Your Players

It is fun to bake your crazy ideas into your game, but please keep in mind that TTRPGs are a matter of mediating a highly fluid and unstable imagined environment through mostly just... words. Be careful when throwing in advanced concepts like tricky or hard-to-understand directions. Err in favor of the players when they’re struggling with confusion that is more about the distance between player and character than any intentionally crafted game challenge.

The Rival Taxonomies of D&D Magic

D&D’s origins were full of contradictions. The game was defined by strict rules, but open to liberal interpretation. Top-down design versus a strong DIY ethos; high fantasy versus science fantasy; Appendix N versus Hammer horror. It shows up in so many aspects of the game. 

Consider for example how spells are named in D&D. They can be grouped into two broad categories. 

Detect Magic, Locate Object, Comprehend Languages, and similar spell names have a technical nomenclature. The spell names quite literally explain what the spells do, in plain language. This is magic as technology. This is one of the two taxonomies of the game that goes all the way back to the beginning, appearing in the context of magic items as well. 

Now consider names like Hellish Rebuke, Crown of Madness, Eyebite, and almost all of the spells that include proper names, like Tasha's Hideous Laughter. These have a mythic nomenclature. The name still relates to what the spell does, but in a much more evocative, figurative, or culturally mediated way.

Now imagine that these rival naming conventions aren’t just an oddity of the game’s development. What if we infer there is an in-universe reason behind this distinction? Perhaps the technical nomenclature came from magic-as-science aliens, while the mythic nomenclature descended from primordial progenitors at the dawn of the world.

You could even group the spells accordingly and associate them with a new alignment axis, to replace the good-evil axis. Is your character lawful-technical, neutral-technical, chaotic technical, lawful-neutral, true neutral, chaotic neutral, lawful-mythic, neutral-mythic, or chaotic-mythic? Replacing good-evil with a different alignment axis to complement law-chaos can make for a much interesting milieu. 

Want to go even further? You live in a world of rationalist wizards and faithful priests. Wizards get all the technical language spells. Priests get all the mythic ones. That’s right, Regenerate and Remove Curse are technical names. Those are wizard spells now. Burning Hands and Cloudkill go in the other direction. These more embellished or ornate names are now cleric spells.