The Overlap Between the Table and the Classroom

03 Apr, 2026

Introduction

Note: For the sake of anonymity, I will be using the Dolmenwood name generation tables to replace actual student names.

If it wasn't obvious from the everything about me, I am a teacher - specifically an English teacher. Currently, teaching is my vocation and centre of my universe, flourishing into multiple facets of my life. It is an absolute blast! The most startling symbiosis, however, has been my role as class teacher and tabletop adjudicator. To me, the key part of being an effective educational practitioner is facilitating a safe, positive environment for all in the room; isn't that the linchpin of so many campaigns?

Background

Playing OSR games in an open-table server has highlighted the importance of nurturing a positive gaming environment. Online play has its own issues. The ping difference leading to accidental interruptions, missing social cues with faceless play, and the concentration drop-off from virtual interaction all contribute to less-than-fun games. Harkening back to the dark ages (Covid), it is no wonder that people doubly reach for the familiarity of virtual interaction whilst struggling to engage meaningfully with it. Playing open-table games means playing with strangers. It can be scary! Moreover, open-table games can open players up to struggles with managing expectations and play since you do not have the pre-established relationships to utilise in interaction.

In the classroom, fostering relationships is a foundational building block towards meaningful practice. Realistically, the definitions of caesura, enjambment, or stanza are not going to stick if you have one rapscallion in the back of the class disrupting you every step of the way. Consider Jappser, one of my rabid year sevens, who struggles with impulsivity and choice-behaviour. His cohort is a mixed-ability set, so he is working alongside learners who are gliding through lessons whilst he is grinding. Jappser is a known - and often disliked - figure amongst my colleagues for his shouting out and lack of engagement. What he needs from me as a practitioner is both starkly different and remarkably similar to his peers. In said contrast, consider Pansy. She is an incredibly able student, who I can reliably approach if I want a good, thoughtful answer whilst cold-calling (that being the sometimes nerve-wracking method of questioning wherein I pick a student who doesn't have their hand up). I feel comfortable leaving her to her own devices when setting people off on independent tasks, but have I been overly so? Whilst Jappser needs extensive levels of patience, scaffolding and - frankly - occasional silliness from me, does his core needs differ so greatly from Pansy's? Most importantly, what's the link to the TTRPG experience?

I currently run an online Dolmenwood game for a group with varying OSR experience. One of my players is what I would have deemed a Blorbo Player™: a 5e player who focuses near solely on RP and the survival of their character. On the other end of the scale, my partner (who gets hives if he doesn't get a game a week) has played and ran a triple-figures-amount-of-hours worth of TTRPGs of all kinds. My preconception was that I would have no concerns in looking after his experience. This was incorrect.

My partner and I have a strong relationship, and I feel confident that as partners we can discuss whatever we need to do so. As player and adjudicator, however, I dropped the ball. My assumption that he would be fine and flourish in this game based on previous knowledge was not entirely correct. My Blorbo Player™ has been far more prepared for the lethality of the system than I accounted for, whereas my veteran player notably struggled with the new environment of players unprepared for the features of OSR not seen within 5e-esque systems. On both sides of the coin, there has been embedded misconception because I did not adhere to the same routines of getting to know and developing relationships with my players that I did my kids. Here I thought that I would have a Jappser and Pansy situation, and yet I was proven wrong. So, what did I do for my learners that I can take into my role as tabletop adjudicator?

The Academic Bit

Firstly, I fell back on the arguably most essential aspect of my classroom practice: presence. The ability to own one's space and control it is foundational to effective behaviour management. Moreover, it allows me to engage in the relational warmth and empathy I pride myself on without giving up control of the room to the Jappsers of educational settings. I've attuned this for both ends of the spectrum from knowing when Jappser needs a proximity check or when Pansy needs to be reminded that challenge is still possible for those who find things easy. Surprisingly, this translates well to the table. My assumption that my partner would be fine led me to slip into the kind of passivity I would never permit in the classroom. When I noticed this and changed my pace - ensuring I was checking in, clarifying expectations, and modelling calm enthusiasm - the game environment stabilised. This parallel is more than anecdotal; emotional contagion is a crucial aspect of teaching ¹². The adjudicator's emotional tone sets the campaign's emotional tone. An uncertain referee creates uncertain players, just as an anxious teacher creates anxious learners. With my Dolmenwood players, returning to deliberate warmth, curiosity, and encouragement did exactly what it does in school: it increased confidence, lowered anxiety, and made risk-taking feel safe.

Secondly, I drew on my understanding of scaffolding, especially the bottom-up modes that underpin accessibility in my lessons. In the classroom, I cannot assume shared knowledge; students build understanding through guided construction rather than being handed the whole edifice of meaning. My mistake in the Dolmenwood game was assuming that “system mastery” transferred perfectly across contexts, which was the same mistake I made with Pansy. I had inadvertently expected players to internalise the groove of OSR procedures without a scaffold, ignorant of the dangers of imposing top-down cognitive structures without prior conceptual grounding ³. Returning to bottom-up play (showing risk, modelling thinking aloud, breaking down procedures) allowed all players to build genuine competence rather than feign it.

Where this becomes truly interesting is when we consider identity formation, particularly through the lens of the Ideal Self study ⁴. Although the research concerns adolescents and their relationships with parental ideals, its framework illuminates something powerful about both students and tabletop players: people construct aspirational versions of themselves through interaction, modelling, and perceived expectations. In the study, adolescents adopt parental ideals only when two processes are present: perceptual accuracy (correctly understanding what is expected) and acceptance (embracing those expectations as meaningful). Only then does assimilation occur wherein the adolescent’s ideal self overlaps with what is modelled for them. The study’s “telephone game” metaphor for how ideals shift through perception and acceptance maps neatly onto tabletop play. The adjudicator forms a clear picture of the game’s tone, stakes, and desired playstyle, but by the time that vision travels through players’ assumptions, experiences, and emotional states, it can mutate into something unrecognisable if relational groundwork is not maintained. Miscommunicated tone in a tabletop campaign is simply mis-scaffolded learning by another name. This mirrors both pedagogical practice and tabletop design far more closely than one might expect.

In the classroom, students constantly negotiate who they hope to become. My presence, warmth, scaffolding, questioning, and emotional regulation all act as the “parental ideals” analogue, messages students perceive and choose whether to internalise. If I want Jappser to develop into a more patient learner, or Pansy into someone who embraces challenge rather than coasts, I must ensure my modelling is accurately perceived and meaningfully accepted. Inclusion, behaviour management, and formative assessment work only when students understand and value what is being communicated.

At the tabletop, players also engage in aspirational identity work. Character play is, in many ways, a rehearsal of the ideal self. A cautious player wanting to “be brave” creates a daring thief; a quiet child experiments with assertiveness through a bold knight. But, just as in the ideal-self study, players only grow into this aspirational self when the adjudicator provides clear expectations, understandable modelling, and a warm environment, and when players accept the tone and aims of the game. My veteran player struggled not because of system mechanics alone, but because he could not accurately read the implicit expectations of the amateur table environment. My Blorbo Player™ succeeded because she did: she knew how to adopt the aspirational role that OSR lethality demands. I had failed to provide consistent “ideals for the child”, or - in this case - ideals for the campaign.

Lastly, I considered inclusion. In school, I know that an inclusive environment is the precondition for any student’s success ⁵⁶. A student like Jappser and a student like Pansy require different supports, but neither can thrive without a caring, attuned adult. In tabletop, the same is true. The veteran player was not “fine” simply because he had experience; that assumption repeats the exact exclusionary patterns we warn against in education. Inclusion means meeting each learner, or player, where they are, not where you assume they are. So, what is the overlap between the tabletop and the classroom? Conclusion

It is the understanding that both spaces are, fundamentally, environments where people try on identities, seek emotional safety, and learn through guided interaction. Both require active presence, relational warmth, responsive scaffolding, and clear communication. Both demand that we honour the aspirational selves of those we teach or guide. And in both, mistakes (misplays, misconceptions, misreads) are opportunities for growth, not failures.

In the end, the most striking realisation is that teaching and tabletop adjudication are not just parallel skill sets but mutually enriching practices. My classroom makes me a better referee and my games make me a more imaginative, empathetic teacher. The overlap is not incidental; it is structural. Whether wielding a whiteboard pen or a random encounter Selkie, my task is the same: to create a world where everyone at the table feels safe enough to learn, brave enough to try, and supported enough to grow into whoever they hope to become.

If you couldn't tell I was an English teacher before, perhaps the whimsical, academic rambling above has cemented it for you.

References