Lately, my Saturday afternoons at the local library have become the third pillar of a massive, interconnected experiment. Between my long-standing online group, my new 4- to 5-hour library marathons, and an experimental in-person home game, I’ve found myself managing a singular, concurrent timeline. In my mind, it isn't three different games; it is one massive world where the left hand constantly feels what the right hand is doing. This approach transforms the act of Dungeon Mastering from simple storytelling into a form of world-building archaeology, where the players aren't just following a plot—they are the tectonic plates shifting the very geography of the setting. But it's a lot of work too.
Whispers Across the Divide
The most immediate benefit of this Living World model is the sheer level of player investment it generates. There is a sense of permanence when Group A hears of the heroic sacrifice of a PC in Group B, or when Group A is on the same train attacked by robbers that Group C was battling. This creates a dynamic evolution where the world moves on its own, independent of any single party's narrative arc. As a DM, I find my setting prep is actually streamlined; I don't need to reinvent the wheel for every group. Instead, I build one robust location (the dwarven town of Hammersmith, inspired by the Saugus Ironworks) and simply update it based on the most recent session's fallout.Perhaps the best part is the natural legend building that occurs. When the library players hear rumors in a tavern about the epic exploits of my veteran home group, the world stops feeling like a series of stat blocks and starts feeling like history in the making. The higher level players in my online game sacrificed themselves to save the corrupt elven nation of Gleannta; many of the lower-level PCs fled to Hammersmith (the setting of the library game) to avoid the ensuing civil war. The fact one of those higher-level PCs was a dwarf cleric has (Erna Kis) made a contentious figure in the dwarven hierarchy, with some adherents arguing for her to become canonized as a saint.
The Gravity of Persistence
This choice to run games persistently in my head is not without risk. The workload is intense, often teetering on the edge of burnout because the demand for meticulous note-taking and calendar tracking is non-negotiable. If I lose track of time, the immersion shatters.There is also the delicate issue of player agency to consider. If my online group moves faster and manages to thwart a major villain’s master plan, the library group might find their anticipated confrontation has evaporated before they even arrived. In the case of two of my in-person groups, I ran a daring expeirment: I had both groups on the same train (the dwarf created, steam-driven Iron Dragon) with Group A (dealing with a standoff in the back of the train while the second group (Group C) battled it out with train robbers in the front. This required me to keep everything straight in my head, while at the same time hoping Group A didn't "break the timeline" by causing a paradox with Group C (that, realistically, only I would know happened). More on that later.
Managing these power imbalances and ensuring that one high-level team doesn't accidentally break the immersion for the others requires a constant, watchful eye. Without careful management, this approach risks the various separate games feeling like a distant newscast; they never actually see the consequences. Otherwise, what's the point?
Taming the Multiverse
To keep this massive machine running smoothly, I’ve had to adopt some strict logistical habits. The most vital tool in my kit is a centralized calendar that keeps everyone aligned, even when one group spends three sessions on a single day while another skips through weeks of travel.I’ve also found that geographic separation is my best friend; by starting different groups in distant corners of the world, I can prevent immediate, messy overlaps while still allowing news to travel between them (the train robbery being the exception). I lean heavily on milestone leveling to keep the power scales from tipping too far in one direction and utilize downtime as a mechanical reset to realign the timelines.
Above all, I’ve learned to be flexible with retconning. At the end of the day, the goal is for everyone to have a seat at the table and a stake in the story, even if I have to occasionally massage the timeline to keep the fun front and center.
Is the Work Worth the Reward?
In the end, running a concurrent world is a massive commitment, but the payoff is a campaign that feels more real than any standalone adventure ever could. Watching the library players (Groupa A) react to the legendary status of my online group (Group B) creates a community connection that transcends the individual table. It’s a lot of work, but seeing the world breathe through the actions of so many different hands makes every hour of prep worth it.Your Turn: How do you manage your concurrent campaign worlds?
