Ever use cut scenes in your game? Thought it might be interesting to set a scene or mood.
No, not really. As a general rule, in an RPG you shouldn't cut to a scene displaying information that the characters couldn't actually have, because the players are participants in the scene rather than observers. Likewise, you should never narrate text that involves the players performing any actions that they haven't actually explicitly proposed to do. Cut scenes, as they occur in movies or video games, generally do one or the other.
I do however sometimes read extensive prepared text in order to set a scene or describe a complex environment.
The longest stretches of prepared text within a campaign are always stories within a story handling when the PC's ask an NPC to explain something.
The closet I ever come to a cut scene is the introductory text for the campaign, which has to take the form of in media res cut scene because the players have no existing setting to respond to. For example, the existing campaign began with these words:
It’s is the third hour of the day on the 12th day of the second month. The morning sun shines thin but clear in the chilly winter air. In the harbor district of Amalteen the life of the city is fully underway. It is Wallsday, and many skilled craftsman have shuttered their shops, but the commerce of the harbor continues unabated. Shouting above the barking dogs and screeching sea gulls, the fish mongers hawk their wares. Several ships have come into port on the morning tide. The stevedores turn capstans to power the cargo cranes while singing out there work songs. A wrinkled and grey headed hill giant sings loudly and off key as he works along side. All this is occasionally drowned out by the bellowing of mastodons dragging their carts and sleds. On one of the quays, a particularly vicious looking crew of buccaneers is beginning to disembark. Goblins, Orine, and tattooed humans from barbarian lands spill out on to the dock, drawing wary looks from the well-dressed merchants there to receive cargo and news from foreign lands. It takes no skilled observer to see that the ship is in the service of the Queen of Irendi, as all the officers are tall, red-headed, and green eyed concheeri, some of which may have noble titles to go along with their true names in their homeland. One particular barbarian, a particularly tall and ruddy skinned Mokoeen stands out from the rest, as even his fellow crewmates seem to fear him and give him a slight berth as he stands at the base of the gangplank taking in the city.
Along side the harbor street, in the shade of an old olive tree that is one of the few remaining along the docks is a cafe were those without pressing business take leisurely late morning repast. A glowing iron stove gives a little heat to the few customers taking in the sun, and talking over their the remains of their morning meal. Among the more usual merchants and ships captains, a few customers stand out in their unusualness. The most eyecatching is a willowy languid elf even more androgenous than is usual for their fair race, and beguiling in appearance like a dangerously feral fey. Nearby two fair-haired and white-skinned northerners are having some heavy discussion that is punctuated by occasional laughter. One is a nondescript sailor but the other's garb marks him to be a cleric of the sun goddess Showna, whose worship is known and approved of but still somewhat strange in these parts. Not so that of the god who the armored pilgrim guard sitting at the table nearby. The clasp of his travel stained cloak and the prominent mark on his tabard marks him a servant of Aravar, the god of Death, patron of Sailors and of this fair city. On this shoulder is still the boutonniere of a pilgrim, which shows he has not long been in the city. Just sitting down to a table by himself is a man in the embroidered tunic and white cloak that might mark him a lay brother of Aymara. His short beard is well trimmed, but his cloak is strangely slovenly for a servant of the goddess of beauty and purity. Faded stains mar its whiteness, and it has been several times rudely patched like a gleeman's cloak. He seems rather like a player from a poor theater playing a lay brother of Aymara. He orders a glass of wine and begins to peruse the packet of letters he carries.