The System as a Reflection of Mindset; a D&D 5E vs. OSR experiment
Picture this: You’re a Game Master standing at the crossroads of two radically different gaming philosophies, like some kind of RPG Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. On one side, you’ve got a D&D 5E campaign where the players are armed to the teeth with abilities, feats, and a spell list that reads like a catalogue of “problem-solvers for every occasion.” It’s a game where every character is a Swiss Army knife of magical and martial prowess, designed to take on the world with the confidence that comes from knowing you’ve got a backup plan, a backup for that backup plan, and then a resurrection spell just in case everything goes sideways.
On the other side, you’re running an OSR campaign using Lamentations of the Flame Princess, where the players are less “heroes” and more “people who happened to survive long enough to tell the tale.” Here, the world is harsh, unforgiving, and just waiting for you to slip up so it can chew you up and spit you out. In this game, your character’s stat block is a flimsy thing, more a suggestion of what they might be capable of than a guarantee. The true challenge isn’t what your character can do, but how you, the player, navigate a world that couldn’t care less about your hit points or your inventory of 10-foot poles (not that a 5E party would have those anyway) Indeed, we’re doing a 5E vs. OSR thing here — oh joy! No one’s did that one before. Stick around though, I think my experiment came to some fun insights.
Different Systems, Different Stories
So, there I was, 1 year ago, knee-deep in the quagmire of prepping two campaigns—one running on the slick rail(road) of D&D 5E, and the other trudging through the unpredictable wilderness of OSR-style play. It wasn’t just about rolling dice or moving minis; it was an experiment in contrasting philosophies of what a roleplaying game could—and maybe should—be. The 5E campaign I ran for almost a full year, while the OSR campaign took half that. Let’s take a look at both of them.
The 5E Reality: Confidence (or Overconfidence) is Key
Let’s start with The Labyrinth of Lament. This campaign was as much an homage to the silly gothic horror of Castlevania as it was a satire of every over-the-top (mega)dungeon crawl trope you can imagine. We’re talking about a world where the spike pits spawn even more spike pits, were the undead bake absurdities like The Relic of Manhattan, a legendary NY-style slice of pizza coveted by The Phantom of the Labyrinth to free himself from his opera house prison (he’s a master vampire with arithmophobia, ah ah ahhh).
In 5E, players are used to a neo-trad campaign with the idea that their characters are the protagonists of an epic story. They’re the heroes, and heroes don’t just die because they made a bad decision—they die heroically, and probably only if there’s a resurrection spell waiting in the wings. So, when my players entered Gygax’s classic Tomb of Horrors (with little to no alterations) as the last depth of the megadungeon, they did so with the swagger of a seasoned adventurer who’s seen it all. “It’s just another dungeon,” they thought, “We’ve got this.”
Except they didn’t. Because Tomb of Horrors doesn’t care how many spells you’ve got memorized or how high your AC is. It’s the kind of place where the rules of the game are bent, twisted, and used against you in ways that D&D 5E players are rarely prepared for; Tomb of Horrors served as an excellent litmus test. They walked in, confident in their abilities, and within the hour, they were nursing wounds to their pride more than their characters. The traps weren’t just obstacles to be disarmed—they were puzzles designed to make you question the very logic of how you approach problem-solving in the game. And that’s where 5E’s confidence can sometimes morph into overconfidence. The system encourages a kind of bravery, but in a dungeon like the Tomb of Horrors, bravery without caution is just another word for foolishness. Granted, part of their failure is on me as most of the campaign was following 5E tenants, which did not prepare them for an old-school experience. But part of the experiment was throwing 5E-brainwashed players in an old-school experience.
Two players died in as many sessions (thank you, sphere of annihilation and chapel of evil), while the other two surviving members were broken by the gold and silver mists.
A good time was had for all.
The OSR Reality: Survival by Cunning, Not with Stats
Then there’s Tales of the Jade Peaks I ran with LotFP. This campaign was less about power and pizza and more about survival through understanding the nature and society of this world; less about what your character can do and more about what you, as a player, can think up in the heat of the moment. This open-world campaign was steeped in Southeast Asian folklore, with samurai and shōgun, ancient spirits, and inspiring mantras. It wasn’t just about surviving the monsters you engaged—it was about surviving the world itself.
They made allies in court, convinced samurai lords to aid their dungeon-raids, and faced the unforgiving world in ways that made me proud — and I didn’t even have to do much to get them this far. The rules and mechanics of LotFP forced them into the dirt and they came out stronger for it.
When these players faced the Tomb of Horrors, it was a completely different story. They didn’t stride in with confidence—they crept in, every step a calculated risk. These players had been conditioned by the OSR mindset, which treats every encounter as potentially lethal, every treasure as potentially cursed, and every decision as something that could spell the end of your character’s life. In the OSR world, you don’t just check for traps—you assume everything is a trap until proven otherwise.
So when they faced the same deadly challenges as the 5E group, they approached them with the kind of caution you’d expect from someone trying to defuse a bomb with a toothpick. They poked, they prodded, they debated for what felt like hours about whether to open a door or just go home and declare the dungeon a no-go zone. And it worked. They survived not because they had the stats to tank the damage, but because they had the smarts to avoid it in the first place. They used every trick in the book—pitons in doors, chalk marks on walls, and a healthy dose of “you go first” mr. Retainer when something looked particularly nasty.
The Experiment Through The Three Doors Puzzle:
When the two different groups stood in front of the entrance to the Tomb of Horror they had a puzzle to get through first. In this puzzle, the players are faced with three doors: one Pink, one Black, and one Golden. Each door has a cryptic statement or hint beside it, meant to guide—or mislead—the players in their choice. Two of these doors lead to lethal traps (rocks and flamethrowers), while one door hides a valuable treasure + the real entrance of the dungeon. The puzzle lies in interpreting the clues correctly to find the safe path.
The doors and their clues:
Pink Door: Covered in cobwebs, this door carries the clue, "The treasure isn't here."
Black Door: Black and covered in illegible runes. The clue beside this door states, "The treasure is behind the Golden door."
Golden Door: A bright, warm light radiates from this door. The clue here reads, "The treasure isn't here."
Puzzle breakdown:
If the statement on the Pink Door is true ("The treasure isn't here"), then the treasure cannot be behind the Pink Door.
If the statement on the Black Door is true ("The treasure is behind the Golden door"), then the treasure must be behind the Golden Door. However, this would make the Golden Door's statement ("The treasure isn't here") false, creating a contradiction.
If the statement on the Golden Door is true ("The treasure isn't here"), then the treasure cannot be behind the Golden Door. Given that the Pink Door claims the treasure isn't behind it, this would also have to be false.
Solution:
Given the contradictions between the clues, the players must deduce that the Pink Door's statement ("The treasure isn't here") is false, meaning the treasure is behind the Pink Door. The statements on the Black and Golden doors are meant to mislead or confuse the players.
In-session experience:
When I introduced this puzzle, the contrast between my 5E and OSR players was striking. My 5E players, eager and impulsive, quickly chose the first door they felt confident about—the Golden one—and suffered the deadly consequences, burning themselves to the bone in a lethal trap. On the other hand, my OSR players took their time, debating the implications of each clue, weighing their options for about an hour before finally choosing the Pink Door—the only correct choice—demonstrating a careful, methodical approach to problem-solving that ultimately saved their skin.
Philosophies of Play: What Kind of Game Are You Playing?
So what does this all mean? It’s simple: the system you play isn’t just a set of rules—it’s a philosophy, a way of engaging with the world and the story you’re telling. D&D 5E is built around the idea that the players are heroes destined for greatness. It gives them the tools to be bold, to take risks, and to trust that the game will provide a way out, even when things get tough. It’s a system that encourages creativity within a framework of safety—because even if you fail, the game often gives you a way to bounce back.
OSR games, by contrast, are built around the idea that the world is bigger, tougher, and less forgiving than the characters inhabiting it. They force players to think not just about what their characters can do, but about what they can do with the limited resources available. There’s no safety net, no assurance that the next room won’t be your last. And that makes every victory, every treasure haul, every successful escape, feel earned in a way that’s hard to replicate in a more forgiving system.
Conclusion: What Kind of Campaign Do You Want to Run?
In the end, it’s not about which system is better. It’s about what kind of experience you want to run, and what story you want to tell. Do you want your players to be the hero who charges headfirst into danger, trusting their character build proficiency and their luck? Or do you want them to be survivors who weigh every decision, knowing that one wrong move could spell the end? A game with beers or a game with sweat (and probably beers as well).
Both approaches have their merits, and both can lead to incredible stories. But as these campaigns taught me, the system you choose shapes not just the game, but the mindset of everyone at the table. So next time you’re prepping for a campaign, ask yourself: What kind of game do I want to run? And more importantly, what kind of story do I want my players to tell?