The journey across a harsh, unforgiving desert forms the narrative and mechanical backbone of the plodder-searching minigame. Designed to evoke themes of survival, cooperation, and discovery, the game combines physical constraints with decision-making under pressure, weaving a tight experience for a small group of players. At its core, this game is a resource management and deduction-based mini-adventure, with each day in-game representing a microcosm of planning, risk-taking, cooperation, and movement through the desert landscape.
The environment plays a central role. A featureless expanse of heat and sand would be uninteresting by itself, so the desert grid is constructed to simulate a real sense of spatial challenge and natural danger. The players begin their journey on a 30-by-30 grid representing the vast terrain. This grid is the playing field on which all decisions take place. It contains both hidden objectives and open obstacles, representing the uncertainty of searching for a specific destination in a wide landscape.
To create structure within the grid and guide player decisions, a central 20-by-20 area is designated as the only possible location for the plodder hive. While players are not told this directly, it gives you, as the facilitator, a way to control pacing and prevent players from spending time on irrelevant edge tiles. This “false openness” increases the apparent scale of the desert while still keeping the goal within reasonable reach. The outermost edge of the grid is effectively barren, adding to the illusion of an expansive world while still gently herding players inward through subtle design.
The hive itself is determined randomly at the start of the game. A roll of two twenty-sided dice sets the X and Y coordinates of the hive within the middle 20-by-20 zone. Should the result fall on an obstructed square—such as a boulder, canyon, or other impassable landmark—the hive location is shifted to an adjacent passable tile. You determine all this silently at setup, with the hive’s exact location kept secret from the players throughout the game until it is finally uncovered through excavation. This simple layer of hidden information supports the game’s mystery and exploration aspects.
At the beginning of the game, players choose a starting location. They are allowed to pick any square on the edge of the grid. This initial decision offers an early form of agency, and it also gives them the illusion of choice in what is, by design, a relatively limited area. Wherever they choose to begin, the journey will require efficient management of resources, strategic decisions, and team coordination. The group starts together, and movement happens collectively rather than individually—helping enforce the cooperative aspect and simplifying game flow.
The terrain of the grid should not be uniform. You are encouraged to add visual or thematic variation by including large rocks, ravines, dried riverbeds, clusters of dead trees, dunes, or other natural features. These can be indicated visually on your grid using simple marks or shading. Functionally, they serve to block or complicate movement. A party may be forced to detour around a series of boulders or avoid moving through deep sand, thus increasing the resource cost of reaching certain areas. These obstacles do not only serve to increase challenge—they also force the party to engage with the game world spatially and think critically about their routes.
Additionally, including landmarks serves an important gameplay function. They provide reference points to help players orient themselves as they move. These points are useful when directional clues are given at the end of each round. Instead of having purely abstract cardinal directions, you can say, for instance, “The hive lies northeast of the jagged canyon,” or “The hive is within 10 squares of the sun-bleached ruins.” This gives players more spatial understanding and makes the game feel more like a real expedition than a series of grid-based calculations. Landmarks add immersion, narrative flavor, and strategic utility all at once.
The desert, while dangerous, is not static. Time passes in the form of daily rounds. Each day is structured into three distinct phases: Foraging, Searching, and Survival. These phases encapsulate the rhythm of life in a desert: the scramble for supplies, the hard push toward the destination, and the nightly evaluation of whether the group can continue. This cycle forms the pacing mechanism of the game. Players are aware that every round costs them precious time and resources, and they must use each phase wisely to get closer to the hive without pushing their luck too far.
The Forage phase is intentionally hectic. Players have a fixed 30-second window to select resource tokens from a common dish. These represent the materials that might be scavenged from the desert in a short window—water from condensation, broken branches for firewood, lost artifacts buried in the sand, even dangerous encounters like scorpion bites. Each player has an inventory with four slots, and some items take up more space than others. This tight inventory constraint means that players must quickly make value judgments about which resources are worth keeping. The time pressure ensures they don’t have the luxury to overanalyze, simulating the stress of making choices in a survival scenario.
The Searching phase shifts into strategic mode. Now that the players have whatever resources they found, they must plan how to use them. Every action—from moving across the grid, to excavating a tile, to initiating a trade—costs water, the most essential resource. This phase emphasizes deliberate decision-making and cooperation. Because resources are tight and roles are asymmetric, no single player is likely to have all they need. Trades become essential. Sharing firewood, offloading scorpion-tainted inventories, or swapping excess treasure for survival resources all become crucial parts of the game’s cooperative mechanic.
Players may also draw event cards during this phase. These events simulate the unpredictable nature of the desert: sudden sandstorms, dangerous predators, hidden caches of treasure, or signs of the plodders. Some events are beneficial, others harmful, but all must be resolved immediately. This randomness injects risk and excitement into the round and keeps players on their toes. They must always be prepared for the possibility that their plans will be derailed by the environment.
Once the players have finished their actions for the day, the Survival phase arrives. This is where the true test of resource planning becomes apparent. Each player must consume one water token or become dehydrated. A dehydrated player cannot participate in the Searching phase of the following round. This simulates the toll the desert takes on those who fail to keep hydrated and encourages players to maintain backup supplies or make difficult choices—such as sacrificing movement or excavation opportunities to stay alive.
In addition, the party must collectively consume one firewood token or face a restless night. The penalty for a restless night is a reduction in inventory capacity for all players, simulating the wear and tear of exhaustion and poor rest. This rule adds another layer of cooperation. If one player carries firewood but another hoards too many other items, they may need to negotiate a trade or discard something to ensure the group can rest. The constant balancing act between personal gain and group survival strengthens the cooperative dynamic and adds emotional weight to each decision.
Following the resolution of survival needs, the players receive a clue. They must choose between a distance clue and a directional clue. This reinforces the theme of collective learning. By discussing what they experienced, what terrain they covered, and what events they encountered, the group pools their knowledge to better understand where the hive might be. The clue system is vital to driving progress toward the goal. Without it, the players would be lost in a 30×30 grid with no meaningful way to find the hive except through blind luck. With it, they can begin to triangulate and plan.
The choice of clue type each day is strategic. A directional clue narrows down the sector in which the hive may lie, while a distance clue gives a radius. Combined over multiple days, the players can overlay this information to create a shrinking area of probability. For example, if on Day 3 the players are told the hive lies to the northeast, and on Day 4 they are within 10 tiles, they can begin to map that information and predict likely tiles for excavation. This interaction between data and deduction is one of the game’s strongest cognitive elements, giving the players a true sense of discovery.
The grid system, the daily rounds, the environmental storytelling, the clue mechanism, and the survival structure are all designed to convey the feel of a long, dangerous expedition across a shifting desert. While the mechanics are simplified for a quick minigame format, the emergent narrative becomes deep and compelling through repetition and pattern. The days are finite, and each carries the risk of making a bad decision that sets the party back. This creates tension, urgency, and emotional investment in reaching the goal.
Because the hive could be anywhere in the 20×20 area, and players begin on the border, the average number of days to reach the goal is a function of the efficiency of clue use, movement, and survival. The game should be designed so that, with cooperative play and smart decisions, players can succeed within 5 to 7 rounds. However, if they make mistakes, suffer from repeated events, or dehydrate multiple times, the risk of never reaching the hive increases. This inherent tension creates stakes and makes victory feel earned.
As the journey unfolds, the desert changes the players. Their characters become burdened, weathered, worn by the sun, but also sharper, more aware, more connected to one another. The minigame, though abstracted, evokes the arc of struggle and reward that defines any great journey story. Whether they reach the plodder hive or not, the players will have traveled together across the sands, made tough choices, and survived.
Searching phase: deduction, cooperation, and resource allocation
Once the chaos of the Foraging phase has ended and players have gathered their resources, the game enters its strategic core—the Searching phase. This portion represents the party’s focused efforts to travel across the desert, face the unknown, and uncover the hidden location of the plodder hive. Here, players take turns making decisions that directly affect progress toward the objective. Every action costs resources, particularly water, and every decision has consequences not just for the individual, but for the group as a whole. This phase is where the survival game transforms into a test of cooperation, planning, and calculated risk.
Each player takes their turn one at a time, beginning by drawing an Event card. These cards inject unpredictability and thematic richness into the day’s proceedings. An Event card might describe a blinding sandstorm, the discovery of an old explorer’s journal, or the remnants of a ruined outpost. Some events grant immediate rewards—extra water, treasure, or clues. Others impose penalties—loss of inventory, scorpion bites, or forced movement in a random direction. No matter what the card brings, it must be resolved before any further actions can be taken by that player.
The Event card serves several functions. Mechanically, it introduces randomness that ensures no two turns are ever the same. Narratively, it helps keep the setting alive by tying the mechanics to vivid storytelling. And strategically, it influences the player’s resource planning. If a player was hoping to spend their water excavating or moving, but the Event card causes them to lose resources or gain a scorpion token, they must immediately reassess their priorities. This forces flexibility and short-term adaptation, keeping players engaged and thoughtful.
Once the Event card has been resolved, the player can allocate resources. Water is the key currency during this phase. It is spent to move the party, excavate a tile, draw an additional Event card, or initiate a trade with another player. Each action costs exactly one water token, and there are no free moves. This creates constant pressure on the party to balance exploration and survival. If they move too quickly, they risk running out of water and weakening themselves. If they are too cautious, they may never reach the hive in time.
Movement is one of the most frequent actions in this phase. A single water token allows the party to move one tile in any cardinal or intercardinal direction. The entire group moves together—there is no concept of individual movement in this game. This decision reinforces the cooperative structure. If one player wants to move east, but another wants to head north, they must negotiate and decide together. This fosters communication and shared planning. It also forces compromise, as no one player can dominate the exploration. Every move must be a consensus.
As the party moves, they are allowed to keep track of which tiles they’ve visited. You can encourage this by providing a map or grid the players can mark on. This serves two purposes. First, it helps players avoid wasting actions by revisiting the same tile. Second, it builds a sense of geographical awareness. As players get directional or distance clues at the end of each round, they can refer to their map and begin narrowing down likely locations for the hive. The grid, once blank and overwhelming, gradually becomes a record of their journey, showing where they’ve searched, what terrain they’ve crossed, and how close they might be to the goal.
The most critical action a player can take is to excavate. This represents the party spending time and energy to dig into a tile and determine if the hive is buried beneath. Excavation costs one water token, and the result is immediate—you, as the DM, tell the players whether or not they have found the hive. If they do, the game ends in victory. If not, the search continues. Because excavation is relatively inexpensive, players are tempted to excavate often. However, with a 20×20 hidden zone and limited resources, random excavation is rarely efficient. Strategic excavation, guided by clues and consensus, is essential.
To support this, the game offers two types of clues at the end of each round: directional and distance-based. These clues are the reward for surviving another day in the desert. Directional clues tell players the general compass direction they need to travel in to get closer to the hive. Distance clues tell them how far they are, using increments of five. For example, if the party is within 15 tiles of the hive, they’ll receive that information. Over multiple rounds, this allows players to triangulate and form a rough map of where they should dig. The clues are deliberately vague but highly useful when combined with proper recordkeeping.
Some Event cards also provide special hints, signs of plodder activity, or secondary clues. These cards might say something like, “You find enormous footprints heading southeast,” or “You hear distant rumbling that seems to come from the west.” While not mechanically binding, these narrative hints can offer extra help—or mislead, depending on how you want to flavor your game. These moments create opportunities for creative thinking. Players may debate whether a clue is literal or symbolic, or whether it ties to a previous event. This kind of discussion keeps the group mentally engaged beyond just moving and digging.
Another critical component of the Searching phase is trading. Players often have asymmetrical inventories due to the chaos of the Forage phase. One player may have all the water, while another is burdened with scorpion tokens. One player may carry too much treasure, while another lacks firewood. A trade costs one water to initiate, but once that cost is paid, the two players involved may exchange any number of items. This cost ensures that trading is a meaningful decision. It cannot be done freely, and it must be weighed against other possible uses of water.
Trades are where much of the interpersonal dynamics of the game come alive. Players must communicate clearly, make offers, and sometimes sacrifice their own gain for the group’s benefit. For example, if the party has no firewood, and only one player found any, they may need to trade it to someone else who has more inventory space. Or perhaps one player found treasure and would rather exchange it for water to ensure they survive the next round. These interactions add emotional stakes. The group must decide what is fair, what is necessary, and who can afford to give something up. It also introduces trust into the system. Players who hoard resources may survive a little longer, but they risk group failure. Players who share and cooperate ensure everyone remains active and useful.
Each player also brings a unique ability tied to their character. These powers are designed to reflect personality, roleplay preferences, or thematic traits, and they provide each player with a special way to influence the game. The Hulk can carry firewood more easily, making them an ideal supply carrier. The Mage can reduce the water cost of one action each day, giving the group more efficiency. The Treasure Hunter can hold an extra treasure item, making them better suited for maximizing loot while others focus on survival. These powers enhance individuality while still encouraging cooperation. No single power is enough to guarantee success, but used together, they give the group a better chance.
Event cards may occasionally interfere with or augment these abilities. A card might temporarily negate someone’s power due to injury, or enhance it due to a lucky find. You can also introduce rare cards that allow players to copy another’s ability for a day or swap roles. These small surprises shake up the normal strategy and encourage players to experiment with new approaches. While the core loop of move, excavate, trade, and survive remains the same, these occasional twists help maintain freshness.
The importance of the Searching phase is that it transforms limited, chaotic resources into coordinated progress. It’s where the players decide, together, how to turn their luck, skills, and supplies into forward momentum. It’s also the phase that most clearly tracks player intention. A successful Searching phase means the group made smart choices, adapted to randomness, and kept each other alive. A failed one reveals the opposite—miscommunication, poor planning, and an inability to react to the game’s challenges.
As the game progresses through multiple days, the Searching phase becomes more intense. Resources are dwindling. Scorpion tokens begin to clog inventories. The number of available clues is growing, but the number of viable excavation targets remains high. Each turn becomes more critical. Players begin to feel the weight of each move. Should they push forward to explore new ground? Or stay in place and try to survive? Do they spend water to dig in a likely spot, or conserve it for a potential emergency?
You, as the DM, should observe these conversations. Watch how players interact. Pay attention to their guesses about the hive’s location, their reasoning behind movement decisions, and how they handle setbacks. This insight lets you tailor future clues, adjust tone, and react to player engagement levels. If the group is doing well and progressing fast, you may wish to introduce more difficult events or complications. If they are struggling, consider allowing more helpful events or granting a slightly more generous clue.
Ultimately, the Searching phase is the game’s beating heart. It’s where resources meet strategy, where cooperation becomes essential, and where the party’s journey across the desert takes shape. Every action matters. Every token counts. And every decision could bring them one step closer—or one step further—from the hidden hive of the plodders.
Survival mechanics, penalties, and group resilience
As the sun sets on another brutal day in the desert, the players must turn inward. The final part of the day’s cycle is not about exploration, decision-making, or even discovery. It is about endurance. The Survival phase grounds the rest of the game in reality. While the Foraging and Searching phases offer action, opportunity, and forward momentum, the Survival phase reminds the party that their journey takes a toll. Water runs dry. Nights grow cold. Weakness sets in. This is not a phase for progression, but for preservation.
The essence of this phase is simple: the party must maintain their basic needs in order to continue functioning. At the end of each round—after all players have taken their turns and all actions are resolved—the group stops to consume resources. If they fail to meet the minimum requirements for survival, consequences follow immediately. These consequences do not just punish careless planning; they simulate the slow unraveling of a group worn down by the desert.
The first requirement is water. Every player must spend one water token to avoid dehydration. Water represents more than hydration—it stands in for rest, energy, and morale. Without it, players cannot recover from the day’s exertion, and their characters begin to falter. If a player cannot pay this water cost, they become dehydrated. A dehydrated player cannot participate in the Searching phase during the next round. This restriction simulates the player being too weak or ill to contribute meaningfully to the day’s efforts.
The dehydrated condition creates immediate tension. When even one player is sidelined, the team’s efficiency drops. The number of possible excavations, trades, and movements is reduced. More pressure falls on the remaining players to carry the team forward. This forces the group to think long-term. It is not enough to survive the current day—they must plan to have water tomorrow, and the next day, or risk falling into a downward spiral. This is especially critical in a three-player game, where losing one player means losing a full third of the team’s potential.
The second requirement is firewood. The party, collectively, must spend one firewood token to simulate making a campfire. The desert may be blistering by day, but it becomes bitterly cold at night. A fire keeps the group warm, allows them to rest properly, and offers some degree of safety. If no firewood token is available, the players endure what the game terms a “restless night.”
The mechanical impact of a restless night is subtle but meaningful: each player’s inventory capacity is reduced by one for the following day. This reflects the physical and psychological toll of an uncomfortable night. They are fatigued, distracted, and less capable of carrying supplies. Firewood, which takes up two inventory slots, may not be glamorous, but it is critical. A team that overlooks this basic necessity will suffer gradual penalties that compound over time.
The inventory reduction may seem minor at first, but the effects are cumulative. Imagine a player who started with four inventory slots. After a restless night, they now have only three. If they become dehydrated and draw a scorpion token in the next round, their ability to carry useful items may become virtually nonexistent. This situation makes each slot valuable and turns every inventory decision into a strategic dilemma. What do you carry when you can only carry two things? What do you leave behind? How do you trade or support others with such limited capacity?
The resource drain in the Survival phase reinforces the cyclical nature of the game. Every day, the party must spend valuable water and firewood, knowing that they will have to find or trade for more tomorrow. No amount of planning can completely avoid this cost. It acts as a constant timer, subtly pushing the players toward progress. They cannot afford to stay in one area too long. They cannot afford to waste moves. Every day spent idling is another day closer to exhaustion.
This pressure encourages forward movement. Players are more likely to press ahead toward suspected hive locations, take risks with low supplies, or perform trades they might otherwise avoid. The desert is not just empty space—it’s an active force working against them. The longer they wander, the more they lose. The more they lose, the harder it becomes to recover.
The importance of cooperation becomes clearer during this phase. If each player hoards their own water and firewood, the group will eventually break down. Efficient teams recognize who needs help and offer it freely. Perhaps one player has taken multiple scorpion tokens and needs water to function. Another may be carrying the party’s only firewood, and must be protected from dehydration. These decisions create emotional investment. The players are no longer just solving a puzzle; they are managing the wellbeing of a team.
One of the more subtle but powerful mechanics in this phase is the discussion surrounding clues. Once the water and firewood costs are paid—or their absence resolved—the party is rewarded for surviving another day. This reward takes the form of a clue: either a directional indicator or a distance measurement to the plodder hive. This small mechanic transforms the grim tone of the Survival phase into a moment of hope.
Clues are critical to winning the game, and receiving one is a form of narrative progression. It represents the group putting their heads together after another hard day, reflecting on where they’ve been and what they’ve seen. This reflection isn’t just thematic; it also empowers the players to make smarter decisions in future rounds. The more days they survive, the more clues they collect, and the closer they come to triangulating the hive’s exact location.
The party must decide which type of clue they want. A directional clue gives them the general direction they need to move—north, northeast, west, and so on. This is best early in the game when they are far from the hive and need broad guidance. A distance clue tells them how close they are to the hive, in increments of five grid spaces. This becomes more useful later in the game, when they have narrowed the location down to a few possibilities.
The choice between clue types creates a moment of strategic discussion. What kind of information is most useful at this stage? Are they confident in their direction but unsure of distance? Have they already received a few directional clues and now need to narrow down the search area? This decision, small though it may seem, brings the group together and reinforces the idea that survival and discovery go hand in hand.
Some clues may be ambiguous or lead to misinterpretation. This is intentional. Part of the joy of the game is watching players argue over what a clue means. Is “within 15 tiles” close enough to start excavating? Does “southeast” mean they should travel in a straight diagonal, or skirt an obstacle first? These discussions are where the game’s story comes alive. Players are no longer reacting to random cards—they are piecing together a mystery using the information earned through survival.
In this way, the Survival phase becomes the hinge between the chaos of the day and the clarity of long-term planning. It slows the pace of the game and demands attention not just to what was gained, but what was lost. It encourages reflection, cooperation, and strategy. It is the phase that turns individual choices into shared consequences.
Another element to consider is the narrative and roleplaying opportunity within this phase. Players may choose to describe how their characters are dealing with the stress. Perhaps the Hulk is stoic and silent, the Mage spends the night studying maps or stars, and the Treasure Hunter broods over what artifacts they’ve had to leave behind. These small moments of character can be encouraged subtly by the DM. A prompt such as “How does your character feel after this day?” can turn the Survival phase into a place of introspection and storytelling.
The effects of the Survival phase carry over from one day to the next. A player who becomes dehydrated today will miss tomorrow’s Searching phase. A player who sleeps through a restless night will have a reduced inventory tomorrow. These penalties stack and snowball. If left unchecked, they can push a team into a death spiral. This is by design. It is not meant to be punishing, but clarifying: success comes not from having the best luck, but from managing risk across multiple rounds.
A well-run Survival phase becomes a powerful gameplay loop. It caps each round with gravity, creates tension through scarcity, and reinforces the interdependence of the players. It also serves as a timer that drives the game forward. With each round, the group gets closer to running out of water, or losing more functionality. This soft timer is more organic and less intrusive than a hard turn limit, yet it achieves the same purpose—preventing stagnation and encouraging bold choices.
As the game reaches its later stages, the Survival phase becomes increasingly dramatic. Resources are low. Inventories are full. More players are dehydrated. Firewood is scarce. Every round is a gamble: can they survive one more night and get one more clue? Is it worth excavating now, or should they move again? Should someone sacrifice themselves for the team by giving up water or taking a scorpion token?
These are the moments where the game transcends its mechanics. The decisions stop being purely about optimization and start becoming emotional. Players may begin to roleplay their desperation, fear, or determination. They may make reckless or noble sacrifices. They may form tighter bonds. The desert has tested them, and their struggle becomes a story worth telling.
The Survival phase is not just a resource sink. It is the soul of the game’s emotional arc. It is where players confront the consequences of their choices, reflect on their journey, and come together in the face of mounting pressure. It is the moment where survival becomes more than just keeping score it becomes the reason the game matters.
Clues, victory, and the narrative payoff of discovery
The journey through the desert, with all its trials, scarcity, and setbacks, builds toward a singular goal: the excavation of the plodder hive. That moment, when the party finally uncovers the ancient, half-buried mound of sand that conceals the giant beetle sanctuary, is more than just a win condition—it’s the culmination of the group’s perseverance, decision-making, and teamwork. But the route to that moment is a gradual one, paved with clues. These hints, earned through survival, form the subtle latticework that underpins the game’s exploration and deduction elements. Understanding how to use these clues, when to take risks, and what the victory represents makes this final phase of the game both mechanical and deeply narrative.
At the end of each in-game day, assuming the party has met the basic survival requirements, they are rewarded with a clue. The party chooses between a directional clue or a distance-based clue. This simple choice is more strategic than it first appears. Directional clues give the players a compass bearing toward the hive—north, northeast, west, and so on. Distance clues tell them how many tiles away they are from the hive, always rounded to the nearest multiple of five. Each clue builds on the last, gradually helping the players narrow down the possible locations where the plodders might be found.
This clue system lies at the heart of the game’s slow-burn mystery. Unlike random tile flipping or brute-force excavation, the players are expected to use these clues to methodically triangulate the hive’s location. One round, they may be told they are “within 20 tiles.” The next, after moving a few spaces northeast, they may hear they are now “within 15 tiles.” This difference, though only numerical, gives the players critical data. They now know that the hive is in a direction consistent with that movement. If they later receive a directional clue stating “east,” they can begin cross-referencing. These moments, where understanding starts to coalesce, are some of the most satisfying in the game.
To get the most out of the clue system, players are encouraged to keep a record of their movements and the associated clues. This makes the use of a physical map or drawn grid almost essential. With every tile visited and each clue added, the grid becomes a kind of living puzzle. The party marks where they’ve searched, where they’ve received specific clues, and where potential hotspots may lie. A cluster of tiles within a known range, sitting in a suggested direction, quickly becomes a high-priority zone for excavation. This is how the game pushes players toward discovery through logic rather than chance.
Clues also give narrative feedback. They imply that the group is becoming more attuned to their environment, more observant of the signs the desert offers. Perhaps they’ve seen shifting sands, strange markings, or distant movement on the horizon. These moments—though not mechanically detailed—offer the DM an opportunity to flavor the journey. A distance clue doesn’t just have to be numbers; it can be wrapped in description. For example, instead of simply saying “You are within 10 tiles,” you might say, “As the heat haze fades in the late evening light, you think you spot the faint silhouette of a mound in the distance. It can’t be more than 10 tiles from here.”
These narrative clues do more than enrich the world; they anchor the players emotionally to the journey. It becomes less about numbers and more about moments. The players begin to feel like explorers, not just survivors. Every hint of proximity adds tension, every whispered direction reshapes the group’s map and their assumptions. When used well, the clue system turns a 30×30 grid into a living, breathing desert full of mystery.
Eventually, after days of hard travel, careful deduction, and survival, the group will attempt an excavation on a tile that meets all their criteria. The final excavation is often a mix of confidence and anxiety. Have they truly triangulated the correct location? Did they misread a clue? Did they overestimate or underestimate distance based on movement direction? These questions make that moment—when you as the DM tell them “You dig through the sand… and you hear the distant sound of chitinous movement beneath the surface”—one of the most satisfying experiences in the game.
The moment of discovery should be treated with significance. It’s not just another action. The players have invested time, attention, and risk into uncovering the hive. Give them the payoff. Describe the shifting sands, the sun catching the glint of buried shell, the slow reveal of a subterranean tunnel with signs of massive insect activity. Perhaps they hear a distant droning sound, or feel a subtle tremor underfoot. This is the victory moment, and it should feel like a reward not just for success, but for persistence.
Mechanically, as soon as the hive is discovered through excavation, the game ends. This abrupt finish mirrors the sharp transition from struggle to success. One moment, the party is managing scorpion bites and dwindling firewood. The next, they are standing at the entrance to a living treasure trove of plodders, their quarry found at last. There is no need for additional rounds or wrap-up mechanics. The desert, once harsh and unyielding, has finally given up its secret.
Still, the narrative doesn’t have to end there. After the discovery, you can offer a brief epilogue. Do the players return triumphantly with the plodders? Do they remain in the desert to establish a new outpost or beetle ranch? Do they uncover additional mysteries within the hive? This is a perfect opportunity for player reflection. What did they learn about each other? What sacrifices were made? How did their characters change? These questions transform the end of the game into the beginning of a new chapter in their shared story.
One important feature of this game design is that it avoids win/lose binaries in the traditional sense. While it’s true that failing to find the hive before the party becomes too depleted can result in an effective loss, the game is more concerned with process than outcome. Even if the players never uncover the hive, their decisions, teamwork, and resource management still form a complete narrative. They may look back and realize where they went wrong, how a single clue was misinterpreted, or how survival slowly became impossible. These are not failures—they are endings.
This open-endedness also means the game scales well for replayability. The hive can be placed anywhere within the central grid, offering a virtually endless variety of search routes and clue combinations. You can alter the distribution of tokens in the foraging phase, modify the event cards to change the tone (more mystical, more hostile, more absurd), or introduce new characters with different abilities. These tweaks mean the game never needs to be the same twice, yet always retains its core themes of survival, exploration, and discovery.
Victory, in this game, is not measured solely by uncovering the hive. It’s measured by how the players communicate. It’s measured by the way they share limited resources, how they adapt to adversity, and how they combine logic with intuition to solve the desert’s puzzle. This kind of cooperative success carries more emotional weight than traditional competitive wins. Players leave the table not just with a story of what they did, but with a sense of how they did it together.
For the DM, the key to making the victory feel earned is balance. The clues should be helpful but not obvious. The events should offer both risk and reward. The token distribution should ensure scarcity without hopelessness. As long as players feel that their choices matter and that their setbacks are manageable, the discovery of the hive will always feel like a triumph. The journey becomes a kind of ritual—wake, forage, explore, survive, and reflect—and the discovery of the plodders is the spiritual conclusion to that ritual.
The themes come full circle here. The theme of survival, established in the constant need for water and warmth, is resolved in the realization that the group has not only endured but found something rare. The theme of journey, echoed in the movement across the vast, hostile grid, culminates in a location reached not by chance, but by purpose. And the theme of searching is fulfilled not with luck, but with accumulated wisdom.
One of the strengths of this design is that it does not frontload the game with complexity. Instead, it allows complexity to emerge naturally. At first, players are simply grabbing tokens and reacting to events. By the midpoint, they are managing multiple inventories, triangulating clues, and discussing strategy. By the end, they are making difficult, morally charged decisions about how to allocate dwindling resources. This organic complexity means that victory is never cheap. It’s always earned.
And when the plodder hive is finally uncovered, it represents more than just success in a game. It represents the players’ ability to work together, think critically, and endure hardship. It represents a shared journey that they, as characters and as people, undertook together. That sense of shared achievement is what transforms the final excavation into a moment of true payoff.
This conclusion should be framed as a reward, not just for their survival, but for their patience, their communication, and their belief in the goal. Whether you describe the hive as a shimmering cavern of beetle chitin beneath the dunes, or a swarming mass of gentle giants preparing for migration, the tone should be one of awe. The party has not just found something—they have become something. Survivors. Explorers. Teammates.
In the end, the discovery of the plodder hive doesn’t mark the end of the story—it marks the transition from searching to knowing, from surviving to thriving. It closes the chapter on struggle and opens a new one on purpose. The desert may have been vast
Final Thoughts
The true power of this game lies not just in uncovering the plodder hive, but in the journey itself—the struggle against the unforgiving desert, the delicate dance of resource management, and the bonds forged between players through shared hardship. It’s a game about resilience, cooperation, and discovery, where every decision matters and every moment counts. Whether the party triumphs or falls short, the story they create together is the real victory—a testament to human (or heroic) spirit in the face of overwhelming odds.
In the end, it’s not just about finding the hive. It’s about becoming a team that survived the desert, learned its secrets, and grew stronger for it. And that, perhaps, is the most valuable treasure of all.