The Misadventures of Hareng Rouge

I remain emotionally unsuited to playing Dungeon Crawl Classics and other Crawl Classics games. Which is why I keep playing them.

Dungeon Crawl Classics places chaos, randomness and chance at the centre of its Old School ethos. Stuff happens. It comes at you pretty fast. Stay awake.

I’ve observed three different play styles, each with a different relationship to risk, rules mastery, planning, failure, success, agency and emotional investment. Different tempos. Different relationships to danger, failure and competence. Not wrong. Different.

My emotional struggle is holding on to that “different, not wrong” mantra in a way that makes my time at the table enjoyable while also making me an enjoyable companion at the table. I may be emotionally unsuited to that as well.

The three archetypes I keep seeing are the Staff Officer, the Operator and the Barnstormer.

The Staff Officer transforms chaos into manageable risk. Operators thrive on fast adaptation under pressure. Barnstormers engage with chaos through exuberance rather than control.

These archetypes are snapshots of behaviour. Players will flex between styles depending on trust, relationships, the needs of the table and how invested they are in a character or outcome. Particularly with Crawl Classics you can’t ignore that the chaos is going to get you. You have to be the player that is needed at the table tonight.

Staff Officer

Staff Officers — or Chaos Managers — turn chaos into manageable risk through contingency planning. They focus on resource tracking and acquisition, making sure they always have redundant options: a second weapon, a second route, a second plan.

This combines with a ruthless focus on the mission.

Does this door need to be opened for us to succeed? If not, why are we opening it now?

There is a deep engagement with logistics and positioning.

The rules are tools for shaping outcomes. Those outcomes may not be predictable, but the Staff Officer is betting the enemy will manage unpredictability less effectively than they will. If they lose a few henchmen in the process but secure the objective, that is acceptable.

When things are under control, the Staff Officer is detached. The joy comes from setting up the joke and watching the aftermath of the punchline, not necessarily from delivering the gag.

When things are not under control, the emotional response is seething resentment and a childish desire to sulk while letting other people’s characters die “if that’s what they want.”

That might just be me.

How does that show up at the table? Staff Officers carry absurd quantities of equipment. They constantly work out how to escape situations before entering them. Plans are layered. Tools are catalogued. Resources are preserved between encounters, between sessions and between campaign arcs.

And notes.

Detailed notes.

The logistical and situational memory of the troupe.

Plan. Plan. Plan.

Special Operator

The Special Operator — or Player-Skill Improvisor — brings fast tactical reading to play.

They are system literate. They know what their character can do and the mechanics that support it. In systems that lean into “Rulings, Not Rules,” they are adept at negotiating with the Judge.

The Operator is betting that the enemy will improvise more slowly and less effectively than they will.

They know how much trouble they are in. More importantly, they know when to look for the exit and when to push for victory.

They understand the rules and trust themselves to apply those rules to unexpected situations before those situations spiral out of control.

Calm, but highly fluid.

At the table, the Special Operator turns spell mishaps into opportunities, uses the environment dynamically and exploits emergent fiction with a strong intuitive understanding of the probabilities in play.

Tempo. Tempo. Tempo.

Barnstormer

The Barnstormer — or Joyful Chaos Monkey — engages with systemic chaos exuberantly rather than trying to control it.

They have low attachment to outcomes.

What makes them a “good player” is not achieving a specific objective. They win by having a good time.

They embrace catastrophe with comedic resilience. If Rudyard Kipling were watching, he’d approve.

We’ll see what happens. We’ll roll some dice. We’ll laugh about it now and laugh about it again later.

They are joyfully reckless.

At the table: doomed charges, low tolerance for discussion, radical acceptance of random outcomes and a willingness to treat catastrophe as a successful story.

This can appear unserious. It isn’t. It is simply a different relationship to consequence.

The Barnstormer is free from the idea that winning makes them a better person. Winning means engaging successfully with the fun, not necessarily with the fictional objective.

Ho ho ho.

And I struggle to deal with that.

Where They Clash — Old School Style

The three styles diverge across several facets of play.

Staff Officers reduce uncertainty. They think strategically, favour contingency and make careful investments.

Improvisers exploit uncertainty. They think tactically, favour adaptability and take confident, skilful action.

Barnstormers celebrate uncertainty. They think experientially, favour momentum and practise cheerful, gleeful acceptance of outcomes.

Insofar as the Old School Renaissance still exists, all three styles are profoundly Old School.

They accept that the world is dangerous, uncaring and not balanced around the player characters. If players want success, they must earn it — through planning, adaptation or acceptance.

The thing I need to accept is that the Barnstormers are not playing the game wrong.

They are playing their game better than I am playing mine.