The Five Stages of Character Death (A Tragedy in Five Acts)

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Roll a New Character

Having spent forty years treading the boards performing various Shakespearean deaths—poisonings, stabbings, the occasional bear attack¹—I thought myself quite familiar with theatrical mortality. Then I started playing D&D.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for the existential devastation of losing Bartholomew Thunderfoot III, my level 6 Dwarf Cleric, to a gelatinous cube in a random hallway encounter.

Act I: Denial

“That can’t be right.”

This is where you begin. The dice have fallen. The DM has pronounced those fateful words: “You fail your third death save.”

But surely there’s been some mistake?

“Wait, don’t I have inspiration?”

You don’t.

“Can’t someone use their Lay on Hands?”

They’re unconscious.

“Doesn’t my Ring of… something… do… anything?”

It does not.

“Can I retcon my entire last turn?”

No, Geoffrey, you cannot.

The table grows uncomfortable. The DM shifts in their seat. Your friends avoid eye contact. This is happening. This is actually happening.

Act II: Anger

“THIS IS COMPLETE BOLLOCKS!”

Now the reality sets in, and with it, righteous fury.

The DM is clearly out to get you. This encounter was obviously designed to kill your character specifically. That gelatinous cube was targeting you, wasn’t it? It has a personal vendetta.

You’ve been playing this character for six months. You had backstory. You had goals. You had a whole romantic subplot with the bartender in Waterdeep that was just starting to develop!

And now what? All of that character development, all those carefully written personality traits, all those emotional moments—gone. Consumed by sentient jelly.

Your party tries to console you. You bite their heads off.² This is your grief. Let you have it.

Act III: Bargaining

“What if…?”

Ah, the negotiation phase. This is where creativity truly blossoms, usually in ways that violate several laws of physics and game balance.

“What if my character’s soul is trapped and we can do a quest to resurrect them?”

Possible, but expensive.

“What if they’re not actually dead, just mostly dead?”

That’s not a thing.

“What if my character had a secret twin brother?”

No.

“What if—hear me out—what if my new character is the old character but from an alternate dimension where they didn’t die?”

Absolutely not.

“What if—”

Geoffrey. Geoffrey, stop. Just stop.

Act IV: Depression

[Stares silently at empty character sheet]

This is the quiet phase. The acceptance that Bartholomew isn’t coming back. That all those magic items are going to be divided up amongst the party like vultures picking over a corpse. That someone else will be carrying your +1 Warhammer now.

You think about all the things you’ll never do with that character:

Never complete that personal quest
Never use that cool ability you were saving for just the right moment
Never see how that backstory element would have played out

You contemplate not playing anymore. Maybe D&D isn’t for you. Maybe you should take up bridge. Or competitive cheese rolling. Something with lower stakes.

Act V: Acceptance (Sort Of)

“Right then, new character.”

You’ve been through the wringer. You’ve felt things you didn’t know were possible about imaginary people. You’ve questioned the nature of attachment itself.

And now, finally, you’re ready to move forward.

You create a new character. Probably one of these:

The Exact Same Character With A Different Name - “This is Martholomew Thunderfoot III, Bartholomew’s cousin. He’s also a Dwarf Cleric. What a coincidence!”
The Complete Opposite - “My last character was too invested in the story. This one is a murder hobo who cares about nothing and no one.” [Lasts two sessions before you get emotionally invested again]
The Overly Cautious One - “I’m playing a character who never takes risks, always stays in the back, and carries seventeen healing potions at all times.”
The Gimmick - “Okay, so he’s a talking sword that possessed a mannequin. No, hear me out—“

The Wisdom Part (Required by Editorial)

Here’s what I’ve learned from losing seventeen characters³:

Character death hurts because it means something.

If you didn’t care, it wouldn’t matter. The fact that losing your PC feels like genuine loss means you’ve succeeded at this ridiculous hobby. You created a fictional person who felt real enough to mourn.

That’s not embarrassing. That’s the whole point.

Also, gelatinous cubes are bloody terrifying and should be respected.

A Memorial Service

To all the fallen characters:

Bartholomew Thunderfoot III (Level 6, Gelatinous Cube)
Elfangor the Wise (Level 2, Goblin with a Crossbow)
Dame Margaret Proudfoot (Level 11, Fell off a Bridge)
Kevin (Level 1, Session 0 didn’t go well)

They rolled with disadvantage so we could roll with advantage.

Roll well, friends. And never, never split the party.

—Arthur

Need new dice to christen your new character? Try our 3D Dice Roller — at least these ones can’t actually kill you.

“Exit, pursued by a bear” is not just a stage direction; it’s a lifestyle. ↩
Metaphorically. Probably. ↩
Yes, seventeen. I have a problem. We’ve established this. ↩