Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening everyone. Thank you for coming back. Grab yourself a drink and a snack, come sit by the hearth. Please, stay awhile and listen.

Living in the “middle of nowhere” within Massachusetts, or anywhere for that matter, is a unique experience. I, for a while, lived my early adult years with my parents in a house on the outskirts of my hometown of Middleboro. This “middle of nowhere” was the more woodsy area bordering the highway, which you could hear and see from the small overpass bridge I lived by. Every spring and summer had its symphony of insects and birds, autumn accompanied by the woodwind rustle of leaf litter, and eerie silence in winter, all interrupted by the occasional rushing pass of a vehicle. The wooded boonies of Middleboro are full of wonder if you know where to look, and served as an inspiration of its own.

I developed this little “habit.” I’d leave home to walk to work early, I was quite lucky to be within walking distance. I’d intentionally take my time, walking not at a snail’s pace, but certainly not at a running pace either. I would look around, admiring just about everything I could see, hear, and smell. The blue of the sky on a nearly cloudless day, the emerald greens of leaves, the smell of bonfire smoke and petrichor when it rains, the patter of raindrops on pavement and the song of birds.

This is a little habit I’ve been doing since childhood. My grandparents (may they rest in peace) had a decent sized backyard to their house. By no means was it humongous, but big enough for an above ground pool, a playset, swings. They even had a back porch to enjoy. I could go on and on about those precious memories of mine for ages, a time of innocence before depression.

Even now, living away from my parents in upstate New York, I still do my little habit. I’m fortunate to live near a local park that has a conservatory I can visit, my first time being when I attended a local spring festival. Additionally, I have a little covered porch on the second floor of the duplex I live in. On my 31st birthday, on June 22 and a day before my second article would go out, I sat on my porch and partook in my little activity. I was actively working on this very article, wanting to include an example of how I do this silly little habit of mine, which I’ve saved for the end.

I still actively engage my senses just about anytime I leave the house and work. From walking around during a local spring festival to a simple ride to work. Not all at once, but I take the time to note details, not in writing but adding to my memory. Why? Well, that comes from a passage from the Book of Atrus, part of the Myst Reader collection by Rand Miller, Robyn Miller and David Wingrove.

“Studying the halted caravan, the boy noted the changes since they had last passed by. They had nineteen camels now—two more than last time. This and other, smaller signs—new necklaces on several of the camels, small items of jewelry on the wrists and about the necks of the men, the heavier lading of the camels—revealed that trade was good right now. Not only that, but the ease of the men spoke volumes. As they haggled with his grandmother, the boy noted how they laughed, revealing small, discolored teeth. Teeth that, perhaps, evidenced an addiction to the sweet things they sold.

He watched, taking it all in, knowing that his grandmother would ask him later.

What did you see, Atrus?”

It’s that question, the “what did you see” that for one reason or another sticks with me. Before and following that passage, we’re treated to what young Atrus saw, and while not ornately detailed, it’s the line of thinking, observation and continuous notation that attracts my attention.

Considering this is the same Atrus that creates the world, or rather known as the Age, of Myst using the mystical Art used by the D’Ni culture, which is done via writing precisely-structured equations of words. Each equation has underlying concepts that serve as a foundation, and contradictions will destabilize the Age.

It sounds like a bunch of world building to me. What is world building but details?

The Five Senses

Having the ability to create worlds is not just restricted to writing, but is a cornerstone for anyone who wants to try homebrew campaigning. There is a need of utmost importance to give your players something to work with, to connect them not just through the plot you’re telling and they’re helping shape.

It’s also probably one of the more difficult things to do as a new DM.

As a writer, this is one of my areas of expertise. A long history of trying to write books translates really well to tabletop games. 

I feel that the best kind of details are ones that are drawn from memories, even if it is for brief fleeting moments. I use details to evoke memories, and with memory comes emotion. I want my players to feel a sense of wonder, just as I do when I take the time to engage in my little habit.

Activity Time

When you have an opportunity, go outside. Head to your backyard with a snack, a nearby park, or take a simple stroll around the block. Do this activity someplace safe. Let me walk you through what to do.

Sit down if you can, or pause your stroll and look at the world around you. Look closer, we are not just simply cataloguing objects, but experiencing with the senses. I’m not asking you to go lick a tree to see what it tastes like, no no.

Look at the leaves in the trees, see their individual shapes. The vibrancy of green or red or yellow. Follow the branches, snow laden or not, to the trunk of the tree. The texture of the bark, the width of the tree. Look at the blades of grass, cut or tall, green or sun baked yellow. Stones with moss or worn smooth over time.

Listen to the world around you. The hum of insects, the bright song of birds, the rush of a nearby car. The silence of snowfall, the pitter-patter of rain. The laughter of children playing in the park. The roar of an airplane’s engines somewhere high above your head.

Feel the tickle of grass on your skin. The coarse texture of stone and sand. The grain of wood or the smooth metal of a picnic table. The countless thousands of threads that make up your clothes. The wind as it teases your hair.

Smell the floral bouquet of flowers. The petrichor of rainfall. The earthy smell of turned dirt. The cleanliness of snow. The snack you brought with you, does it smell sweet or bready or savory?

Take a bite of your snack and a sip of your drink, one at a time. What flavors do you taste? The sweetness, bitterness, or sourness. The spicy, warming heat of something savory. The herbal taste of teas, sweetened to beat the summer heat. The flavors of soda, fruity or sweet. The crisp taste of clean water, cool and refreshing. 

Take these observations you make and hold them in your heart and mind. When you go to set the next scene in your book or game, pull from these memories. I’m not asking you, hyperbolically or not, to write twenty-five pages on the specific color of green. Make yourself feel like you are there in person. Practice this activity as often or as little as you’d like. Take these sensory details and apply them to your writings, campaign or novel.

May I share with you an example of what I mean?

A Test of Scene

I recently ran my sister through a test of scene setting in preparation for an upcoming adventure I will be putting my players through.

Now, for some context, I am co-DMing a game set within the Elder Scrolls universe, set some time after the events of Skyrim. We started in the province of High Rock, and when I take over for the next major arc, we are headed to Hammerfell, starting with the city of Sentinel. There’s much to do in a major city, business and pleasure alike, and I wanted to bring that to the table without any elaborate images or dynamic terrain.

This is the scene I ran.

“The Theater of Silk, one of the many jewels of Sentinel, is located in the Artist Quarter, renowned for its architectural beauty and its magical transformation as day turns to night. Located near the Forebearer’s Forge, the massive open-air amphitheater is constructed from polished white sandstone and crowned by an equally massive suspended canopy of gossamer silks, dyed in shady indigos, desert-rose pinks, and earthy ochres. The fabrics are anchored to tall, slender pillars, billowing perpetually thanks to the coastal breeze.

Being underneath the silks under the daylight brings a welcomed refuge from the harsh Sentinel sunlight while casting an array of color and shadow upon the ground. Children can be seen darting through and playing in the casted colors, mindful of the other groups gathered under the shade. Along the upper edge of the amphitheater seating, in between the pillars, are a variety of stalls, a mix of both food and wares. The mouthwatering allure of flame-grilled meats overlaps with earthy clay, luscious floral bouquets, and chemical tang of dye vats. A variety of working artisans sit along the walkways between the tiered sections of seating. Small looms transform hundreds of threads into fabric. Pottery wheels can be heard clacking as bowls and vases are shaped. Some artisans sit hunched over their work, dutifully using hand tools to shape wood and stone into works of art. Small crowds gather, transfixed by art in motion. The sounds surprisingly don’t clash, a harmonious humming lull, allowing any daytime performers to still be heard and seen.

Regardless of this being the first visit to Sentinel, or yet another trip taken with family, everyone has heard retellings of the Theater of Silk’s transformation. As sun sets, dusk and twilight casting its wondrous gradient into the skies of Tamriel, enchanted seaglass lanterns light, nestled and strung along the canopy and seating, creating their own constellations. Regardless of class, all are welcomed to witness performances, the evening shows being charged surprisingly modest. Where the vendor stalls were in the daylight are replaced with privatized booths for the upper class, silk screens granting privacy.”

I’ve since added more to the description, but if I reveal more, I’d be spoiling things for my players.

When I asked her of her thoughts, I clarified that I was looking to see if the description painted a detailed picture in her mind.

“It feels like I’m actually there.”

So I asked her to tell me what she was experiencing when she pictured the scene in her mind, without just rehashing what I said. After all, if she was able to see the details I neglected to mention, then I know I am on the right track. To me, her response is fascinating.

“The air is salty in smell, refreshing with a touch of earth as pottery turns. The sounds of children playing harmonizes with the sounds of artisans at work, the clacking of looms, the clink of coins, a slight murmur between merchants. The wind ruffling and snapping the silks of the theater canopy. Then the sun sets, warm colors turning to cool, the blue of the sea glass lanterns looking brilliant.”

It’s not a massive description of additional detail, but that’s not what I was looking for. I wanted to know what she was experiencing. Now, unfortunately, this isn’t something that works for everyone. It’s not an issue, absolutely not, but the details you provide still help regardless.

What Did I See?

I have never set my goal to be the creation of a literary masterpiece, even with my detailed observations of the world around me. Instead, by attempting to ground myself in the reality of the moment, I use those details to improve my writing. If you don’t wish to take my word for it, please take this final, unedited look at my habit in practice, and maybe give it a try for yourself.

June 22nd, 2026- The Morning of Celeste’s 31st birthday

Rain droplets sound different as they make contact with different surfaces. The steady rainfall meeting pavement a soft pat-pat-pat. I follow the sounds I like first, my eyes taking in the sight. Puddles dot the sidewalks and roads, even from a distance I can imagine a plip as droplets meet the surface, breaking that surface tension. The first puddle is wider, hugging where the sidewalk and street meet, a car parked at its left end. Most raindrops cause a round ripple, little waves that grow in size until they intersect with other waves. Sometimes the waves continue forward together, like linking unseen hands and moving towards the future. Sometimes the waves clash, both stopping eachother from progressing forward, only to be overtaken by the impact of another droplet.

The next nearby puddle tells a slightly different story. Smaller in size, not reaching the tire in front of it. Occasionally, a small bubble forms from the impact of perhaps a larger drop. The smallest of the bubbles float on the surface, barely rocking as waves pass by quickly, sticking around for seconds that feel like minutes. The slightly larger bubbles pop as quickly as they formed, sending additional ripples out that quickly overtake others. 

My eyes follow from the background to the foreground closer to me and higher up. A tree, its leaves almost like ferns growing from the thinnest of branches. The ominous cry of a mourning dove breaks the steady silence of a near trance before cars begin yet another ceaseless wave of passing by. I only pause my fixated gaze to type, to see where the sea of characters lies as I take a few long, lazy morning hours doing nothing but sit on my porch and enjoy the world around me, sharing my little habit with my audience, smiling all the while.

Until next we meet, goodnight, sleep tight, I will see you again soon.