Seven games with your friends, one story beat at a time: on the bus, on a break, before bed.
Fantasy · Rocketpunk · Superheroes · Pirates · Sengoku · Occult horror · Deathgame show
"You heard it too, then. Third night running."
Seven complete games
Pick a game to open its world below.
Every table you host picks its game up front — same friends, same account, same one-beat-at-a-time rhythm. Each world has its own rules, its own dice, its own look.
The full 5e rules: twelve classes to level twenty, spellbooks, tactical battles, and honest d20s.
Light the lantern ›
A megacorp owns the solar system; you fly for the resistance. Percentile dice, no magic.
Take the contract ›
The city's greatest hero died ten years ago. You're the generation pulling on masks.
Answer the call ›
Every flag owes the hangman a debt. Fistfuls of d6s, and a sea that punishes greed.
Sign the Articles ›
A hundred warlords, one empty throne, and your honor wagered on every roll of the d10s.
Raise your banner ›
A port city keeps a second ledger of what it owes the dark. Two d12s, and a dread that only climbs.
Open the register ›
The world ended an hour ago and one door is left. Clear each floor before it collapses. The cameras are rolling, but you have bigger problems.
Go live ›The first world
The classic table, complete: twelve classes to level twenty, full spellbooks, a bestiary of 220+ monsters, and the whole familiar fifth-edition-style progression — feats, subclasses, downtime, magic items — enforced by an engine that never fudges.
A second world at the same table
2495. A megacorp owns every rock from Mercury to the Belt, and your crew flies for the resistance — now with a ship of your own under your boots. Same friends, same table, a different century — percentile dice, six careers, splice heroes, and physics with teeth. No magic. No faster-than-light. No aliens. No mercy.
"Burn window is four minutes. Strap in, or stay bought."
A third world at the same table
Aurelia has had heroes for ninety years and grief for ten. Since Everbright fell, the sanctioned team is understaffed, the masterminds have learned the city's rhythms — and you're the generation pulling on masks. Four-color superheroes: twelve archetypes, dice that land in color bands, and a city where the hot-dog vendor has a name.
"Cape's crooked, kid. And the bus is still on the bridge. Go — I'll hold your change."
A fourth world at the same table
Every flag on the Halter Sea owes the rope a debt, and yours is no different. Golden-age piracy with the varnish stripped: fistfuls of d6s, six berths, a ship that takes wounds like a crewmate — and a sea that charges for every risk you take. Push your luck and the Toll comes due: the storyteller spends your bad luck back as storms, reversals, and old enemies.
"The wind's free, love. Everything else in this port is invoiced."
A fifth world at the same table
A hundred banners, one throne, and honor that keeps score. Sengoku Japan at the lantern's edge: roll handfuls of d10s and keep the best, walk one of six paths, settle duels in three formal breaths — and set, at your own table, whether the ghosts are grief, folklore, or real and hungry.
"Sit. Every war this province ever had was played out on this board. I watched most of them."
A sixth world at the same table
Gravenhithe, 1926 — a port city that keeps a second ledger of what it owes the dark. Two d12s fall on every roll: the pale lamp is your act, and skill moves it; the black gulf is the world's attention, and nothing you do ever moves it. Dread climbs as you learn what's true — and the strongest tools cost a piece of your calm that never comes back.
"The register is never wrong, madam. That is precisely what troubles me."
A seventh world at the same table
The world ended an hour ago. One door is left, and it leads down. You are a crawler: find the stairs before the floor collapses, keep each other alive, and open what you earned in the safe room. Somewhere, the galaxy is watching. You have bigger problems.
"Crawlers! This floor closes in nine moves. Die somewhere well lit."
How it plays
No scheduling. No four-hour block. The Game Master writes a story beat; each of you answers whenever you can — a sentence is enough. The dice are rolled on the server the moment you act, the rules are enforced by an engine, and the story moves even when someone sleeps in.
A real Game Master's voice — scenes, villains with faces, secrets that pay off chapters later. Your choices steer it; nobody reads from a script.
Every world runs on real character sheets and dice that can cut — d20s in the dungeon, percentile dice in the void and over the city — all rolled on the server, math shown, nobody fudging.
Text someone a link and they're at your table in a minute — no account needed to sit down and watch. Take the empty chair whenever you're ready.
The stair ends in standing water, and the dark beyond it does not behave like dark. d20 · 19 vs 15
Behind the screen
Been summoned?
Enter the table code from your invitation — you can take a chair and watch before you ever make a character.
"Your dice, your sheet, and your rolls are untouchable. The Game Master steers the world — never the math."
The house rules of every Tavern Break table. Stories are written with AI assistance and can be reported from any page.Pull up a chair. The tale waits until you're ready.