The white light of the full moon falls into thick, low tufts of fog, smelling faintly but unpleasantly familiar. Trees, old and twisted, seem to move their branches slowly, and the wind howls a slow melody to their ghastly dance. The cold becomes increasingly intrusive as the night progresses. Suddenly, a cry pierces the darkness—perhaps the frenzied howl of a hungry throat, perhaps the final agony of a victim.

Fear is one of the strongest human emotions. It bypasses the higher layers of our consciousness, calling upon instincts from an age when we became prey every night, and willy-nilly, it pulls us deep into the story, blurring the line between player and character. But how do we evoke fear in players?

First, we must consider which kind of fear we are actually striving for. It certainly isn’t about straightforward fear—the kind found in bad American horror movies: he has a knife, a crazed look on his face, and lunges forward while the girl screams… Rather, it is about atmospheric, creeping dread.

I wouldn’t be afraid to use the word horror (or dread), because “fear” is something almost too concrete. Horror is that appropriately formless and intangible thing which, precisely because of its properties, is far worse than ordinary fear. It is something that cannot be confronted—you cannot fight an opponent who doesn’t actually exist.

And in a similar way, “gaming fear” should behave—above all, it should not be an obvious danger; players shouldn’t say to themselves, “Oh my god, a Ringwraith is after us, what are we going to do?” The enemy should be a dark, threatening silhouette of unclear shapes on a giant horse, radiating strangeness and “otherness.”

In this regard, I consider the beginning of The Lord of the Rings to be perfect. Who is that dark rider who is “looking for Baggins”? No one knows, and that makes it all the more impressive. Let’s think about which distinct elements stand out to us here.

The first and very important one is Otherness. Evil must not be understandable; evil must remain unknown; it must remain something “else.” Its motives and its paths must be unpredictable and sudden; it must walk hidden trails. We don’t know what the rider wants from Frodo (though we can guess)—that makes his presence all the more striking. Furthermore, the rider is clearly different—he is large in a world of small folk, he is black in a Shire full of color, he is a rider where it is customary to go on foot. He doesn’t fit in; he stands out.

Closely related to this is the next point—an absence of information. Characters (and players) must know as little as possible; every detail, every fact allows them to grasp the enemy a bit better—therefore, they must be deprived of such an opportunity. One option is to reveal (almost) nothing to the characters except what they find out for themselves. This is the situation of the hobbits at the beginning of their journey—they know nothing, and there is no one within reach who can tell them more. The second option is providing unclear, hazy information. The hobbits meet Strider, who clearly knows much more—but he speaks in an “Aragorn-Gandalf” style; he doesn’t reveal, he only hints, describes, and gives a sense of where the truth lies, but he won’t reveal the truth itself. Sometimes, the right piece of vague information is better than total uncertainty—it becomes something for the players’ imagination to catch onto and develop further, fueling their fear with unclear premonitions.

It is also possible to give players contradictory, strange, and nonsensical information, mutually exclusive and (even in some small but perceptible way) contradicting what they knew from before. This can happen when studying various sources or talking to someone who has inaccurate information (or perhaps intentionally changed something?). The important thing is that no piece of information should be a pure lie or a pure truth—everything should be appropriately mixed. Lies hidden among truths so they look credible; truth in the middle of lies so its credibility is doubtful; wrong conclusions derived from facts the players know to be true, and so on. Lead the players with small, indirect hints to believe something, and then sweep it off the table with a single blow—preferably in a dramatic situation or at a moment when it is already too late.

Example: Players set out for a vampire's castle during the day while he sleeps, because otherwise he is too powerful for them. In an exhausting battle, they deal with his ordinary minions, then, tired and wounded, they reach his coffin. They check that it is indeed still daylight, then open the lid. And the vampire opens his eyes, smiles at them with an unpleasant, knowing smile, and sits up.

The appropriate use of suggestions is also vital. Don’t say the rider is unpleasant and terrifying—no, “there was a kind of chill coming off him, if you take my meaning.” Don’t say he is something other than human—but let him “sniff loudly” while searching for a trail at the moment he is being observed. Appropriate naming belongs here as well—if you give your enemies a good enough name, it will do a lot of the work for you. Various keywords fit—”Riders” (speed, combined with the horse, a threatening height and battle strength), “The Nine” (there are so many of them coming for us), etc. Tolkien was a master of this—just remember all those names: Isengard, The Silent Watchers, Ringwraiths, The Lord of the Rings…

I probably don’t even need to remind you of the importance of contrast—always set the enemy in contrast with something so they stand out better—against the cheerful Shire, the wise wizard… Closely related is the loss of any certainty or feelings of safety. Evil isn’t “somewhere out there”—evil comes to your doorstep, knocks on the door, kicks it in, and drags you from under the covers. Places you always considered safe are not—your home, your favorite pub, the Shire, friends, family—evil can appear everywhere. Leave the players alone long enough to gain a false sense of security—and then strip them of it as cruelly as possible.

Subvert the archetypes that players associate with innocence or harmlessness—why shouldn’t a small child, a young girl, a hunched old woman, or a timid doe fleeing through the woods hide some secret—or at least be marked by evil as its victim, as a way for evil to signal: “I am here.” The enemy must never be far away—when the characters are walking through a beautiful, sun-drenched autumn forest in a joyful mood and start singing, suddenly, in the places they passed a moment ago, a dark figure appears…

The magic lies in mixing the terrifying concoction in the right way while remaining unpredictable. Players must not be afraid all the time; on the contrary—they should regularly relax, perhaps even laugh. And at such a moment, evil strikes again—or perhaps it doesn’t. Sometimes evil hides in terrifying places, sometimes it is the first thing the characters encounter upon their return. Sometimes it attacks from all sides, but other times, like the calm before the storm, it leaves only vague hints. And above all, evil escalates—with every step, it surpasses itself—it is getting closer and closer…

Much remains that is needed to evoke horror—from players who understand what is expected of them and are capable of being afraid, to appropriate room lighting. The path to masterfully handling fear is long, but with the advice you’ve received, you will surely set off in the right direction.

© 2001, 2004 Pieta