When you read, in a setting or in an adventure, about a forest, what do you picture? In your head?
Is it something like this?
Green, pleasant . . . generic?
I know. Me too. It’s really damn hard not to. Fantasy forests are benign, commonplace. Set dressing without the dressing. Somehow, they’ve become so well-used and ill-described that an open, sun-drenched plain feels like it has more narrative potential.
But forests are interesting. In a former life hella had occasion to spend quite a bit of time—tromping through, sleeping under, getting lost as fuck in—in forests.
Sometimes they look like this.
So what’s the difference? It isn’t just what we’re imagining—although, we are playing a game where all the action takes place in the imagination—but the actual implications are fully different. Before we were in a nice sunlit wood, not really hampered by anything: sure, there are hiding spots the bad guys can use, but nothing is really hindered or hidden. Here, we have to worry about elevation, taking the high ground; we have to worry about scree shifting underfoot; we have to worry about temperature or thunderstorms.
Above all, it just feels different. It’s a forest. But it’s not bog-standard elves-in-the-leaves sameness.
Or maybe your forest doesn’t look like that. Maybe it looks like:
The only elves in this forest are the tatterdemalion sneakthieves of my setting.
Or what about here?
The point being, when you think forests, don’t think gentle green foliage and shafts of sunshine and rabbits hopping about and sparrows flitting around. There’s so many forests—adventure in a different one.