"The planning process is important, but the plan is not."

Apparently Control Is The Real Fantasy

I learned that the hard way after watching lovingly storyboarded sessions implode in the opening act. The first time I tossed my notes like confetti, I expected panic and got oxygen. The table did not fall apart – it woke up. Players filled the vacuum with ideas I never would have risked, and suddenly the adventure felt earned instead of delivered. That was the day I stopped treating my prep like scripture and started treating it like kindling.

Control is the real fantasy we keep buying. In L&D and at the table, we kid ourselves that a flawless plan guarantees a flawless experience. It does not – it only guarantees your attention is glued to the script while the room quietly suffocates. When I released the death grip, the energy returned, because engagement thrives on agency, not on perfect reveals.

Your Plan Is A Suitcase, Not A Script

Prep loads your head – not your rails. I pack encounters, NPC motives, locations, textures, and a few wildcard mechanics the way I pack clothes for a trip. I do not assume I will wear every shirt, and I do not mourn the sandals I never needed. The point is being ready for the weather you get, not the weather report you printed last week. That readiness keeps me fast, calm, and pleasantly dangerous.

The suitcase metaphor exposes a quiet lie in corporate training too. We cram decks with every slide we own and call it thoroughness, then force learners to wear each outfit in order like it is compliance theater. Meanwhile the moment in front of us is begging for a different layer. Pack broadly, travel light, and dress the day.

Stop Directing – Start Facilitating

Play to find out what happens. You are not Spielberg, and your table is not a movie set with compliant extras. I write one dramatic question for the session and let everything orbit that gravity well. My job is to stage friction, surface consequences, and spotlight choices, not to puppet the ending. When I do that, the story stops being mine and starts being ours, which is the only story that sticks.

And when the wheels wobble, say the quiet part out loud. I ask the players what they think happens next, or which thread deserves heat, or what they want to see resolved. I have literally said, I need help – and then watched the table become my co-designers. New GMs are told to be infallible, but perfection is the fastest way to become unplayable.

TLDR – Yes, This Is The Good Part

• Treat prep like packing – useful, not prophetic.
• Write the dramatic question, not the scene-by-scene.
• Play to find out what happens – stop puppeteering outcomes.
• Say it out loud: I need help. Then let players co-author.
• If your table is bored, your plan is the problem, not the people.

Proof It Works, In Two Minutes

If you want to watch the mindset in action, here is a quick hit that shows how planning without worshipping the plan actually looks at the table. It is a reminder that we are facilitators first and dramatists second, and the audience is not passive. Bring your suitcase, ditch the rails, and let the room breathe. Then enjoy the ride you could not have storyboarded if you tried.