“Pot of bright paint.”
“Wire bent into the shape of a moth.”
“Dried five-leaf clover, carefully folded.”
-possible starting items in Isaac Williams’ Mausrítter, where everyone plays as a mouse

                I think one of my favorite things about storytelling games (often called roleplaying games, but I prefer “storytelling”) is that little quirked smile of an invitation. Imagine this is you. Imagine, in Mausrítter, that you’re a four-inch tall mouse on the way back from the mushroom forest you help tend, and carrying a pot of bright paint. Why a pot of bright paint? That’s a good question. Why indeed?
                Imagine this is us. A game focuses on a little group, and we each make up a character with stories unfolding between us. If you’re Mangolia, the paint-carrying mushroom minder, maybe I’m Shale, a hedge witch with a scrap of wire bent into the shape of a moth. Maybe we grew up along the same creek. And I wonder who Shale is. What moth the wire is modeled on. Whether I like moths, or am afraid of them, or if I’m entranced by their dusty wings. I wonder who Magnolia is. How your mushrooms are doing. And why you have that paint. Were you making signs for the mushroom forest? Or repairing your house for winter? A storytelling game is a playful chance to remember, re-imagine,  and recommit to who we are together. To wonder why in the world our friend is carrying a dried five-leaf clover. To delight in all these you sees and mushroom forests and wes.