Why TTRPG System Doesn't Matter

Part 1 of a three-part article series...

Picture this: deep in some bizarre, subterranean complex dreamt up for a game of Into the Odd, the adventurers face not a slavering beast, but a chasm guarded by a melancholic, clockwork golem demanding a “truly novel sensation” before granting passage. Dice are consulted, character sheets scanned… but wait. One player remembers the slightly sticky jar of marmalade in their inventory. Another points out the surprisingly sturdy, if rickety, folding chairs they insisted on bringing. A few minutes of gleeful plotting later, the golem is presented with the unique, slightly undignified sensation of being delicately smeared with citrus preserve via a precariously balanced chair-catapult. It whirs thoughtfully, nods its brass head, and steps aside. No combat roll needed, no specific skill check perfectly applied – just pure, unadulterated player ingenuity and a splash of absurdity.

This little scene, like countless others unfolding around gaming tables worldwide, highlights a truth often lost in the enthusiastic debates about which tabletop roleplaying game system reigns supreme. We collect rulebooks, argue the merits of d20s versus dice pools, and meticulously craft character builds. Yet, while these systems provide the scaffolding for our adventures, the specific ruleset being used often takes a backseat to far more fundamental elements that truly define the magic of the TTRPG experience. The argument isn’t that systems are pointless, but rather that their importance can be significantly eclipsed by the human factors driving the game: the story being told, the people telling it, the bonds between them, and the very reason they gathered to play in the first place.

First and foremost, for many groups, the story and the characters living within it are king. When the primary goal is collaborative narrative creation, the rules can feel less like helpful guidelines and more like slightly annoying backseat drivers. Does it really matter if the precise difficulty class for leaping the burning chasm is 15 or 17, when succeeding dramatically propels the story forward in a way everyone finds exciting? The famous “rule of cool” or “rule of drama” often takes precedence. Similarly, if the group finds its deepest joy in truly inhabiting their characters – adopting voices, exploring intricate relationships, navigating thorny ethical dilemmas through dialogue – the mechanics for hitting an orc with an axe might fade into the background. The emotional resonance of a scene, the witty banter, the gut-wrenching betrayal – these moments rarely hinge on a specific subsystem but bloom from the players’ immersion and roleplaying commitment.

Tied closely to this is the undeniable impact of the actual humans at the table. Let’s be honest, a truly gifted Game Master is something of a magician. They can take a clunky, outdated, or even objectively mediocre system and weave gold. With skillful narration, clever pacing, intuitive rulings, and a focus on player fun, they can conjure atmosphere and excitement that transcends the printed rules. They adapt, improvise, and focus on the experience, rendering the system’s specific flaws or strengths less critical. Conversely, even the most elegant, award-winning system can fall flat with a GM who is unprepared or uninspired. The players, too, are powerhouses. Engaged, creative, and proactive players are the engine of any good game. They latch onto plot hooks, invent unexpected solutions (like our marmalade artists), build on each other’s ideas, and invest emotionally in the world. Their energy and enthusiasm can elevate even the simplest framework, proving that sometimes, player buy-in matters more than intricate mechanics.

Beyond individual contributions lies the crucial, often invisible, foundation of group dynamics and the social contract. You can have the “perfect” system for a gritty sci-fi horror game, but if half the group wants slapstick comedy and the other half is busy arguing about who gets the last slice of pizza, the rules aren’t going to save you. The chemistry, trust, communication, and shared understanding of what everyone wants from the game are paramount. A group that respects each other, communicates openly about expectations, and genuinely enjoys each other’s company can navigate the quirks of almost any system and have a blast doing it. They build their own “invisible rulebook” of table etiquette and shared goals. Conversely, friction, mismatched desires, or a lack of trust can poison the well, making even the most beloved system feel like a chore.

Furthermore, many groups intentionally minimize the system’s role through their chosen playstyle or modifications. The rise of rules-lite and freeform gaming demonstrates a clear desire in some quarters to push mechanics firmly into the background, prioritizing pure imagination and conversational storytelling. Why spend ten minutes calculating grapple modifiers when a quick description and a nod from the GM will do? Then there’s the grand tradition of house-ruling. Many groups tweak, bolt-on, and outright change rules until the system they’re playing barely resembles its off-the-shelf version. At that point, did the original system choice really matter that much, or has the group simply crafted its own bespoke experience using the published book as little more than a friendly suggestion or a starting point? For some, the rulebook provides initial character ideas or a basic conflict resolution method, but the actual gameplay quickly evolves into territory the system never envisioned, guided by GM fiat and player creativity.

Finally, the context and specific purpose of the game can render system fidelity largely irrelevant. If you’re introducing brand-new players to the hobby, the best system might simply be the easiest one to explain in five minutes, regardless of its long-term depth. Accessibility trumps elegant design when the goal is just to get people rolling dice and having fun quickly. Similarly, if the TTRPG is being used for non-traditional goals – perhaps as a therapeutic tool, an educational simulation, a team-building exercise, or a pure improvisational comedy night – the intricate combat subsystems or detailed magic rules of many popular games become entirely superfluous, perhaps even counter-productive. The system needs to serve the goal, and sometimes that means being barely present at all.

Now, let’s be fair. This isn’t to say systems never matter. Of course they do! A well-designed system can brilliantly evoke a specific genre’s feel, provide satisfying tactical challenges, ensure a sense of fairness and structure, and offer fun mechanical interactions that many players adore. The satisfying crunch of complex character optimization or the tension of a finely tuned horror mechanic are legitimate sources of enjoyment. The argument here is one of emphasis and priority.

In the grand tapestry of a roleplaying session, the threads of the system are interwoven with the richer, brighter threads of human connection, imagination, and shared intention. While the system provides the loom, it’s the people involved – their stories, their interactions, their collective energy, and their reasons for being there – that truly create the masterpiece. So, the next time you’re prepping for a game, remember the rules, yes, but don’t forget the marmalade. Sometimes, the most important elements aren’t found in the book at all.