When honesty turns ugly in RPGs: how to deal with "difficult" players

 

I defended in a previous post that the mask of the character and the fictional world of the scenario enable the players to be emotionally honest during play. 

But what if the player’s honesty is ugly?

Roleplaying is about imagination. But it’s also about honesty, about letting people bring parts of themselves to the table they might not show anywhere else. That’s one of the great strengths of roleplaying. 

But what happens when someone brings something authentic that’s not just vulnerable or intense, but something cruel, destructive, or relentless?

The Player Who Always Betrayed

More than thirty years ago, we had a player in our group —let’s call him D.—who had a consistent pattern: betrayal. Campaign after campaign, system after system, he would turn on the group. And he always felt he was justified, always righteous, always sure he was in the right.

At first, it was almost funny. In an old D&D campaign, I was playing an elf and he was a dwarf. One day, he decided my elf was arrogant and guilty, just like he sometimes accused me, outside the game, of considering himself superior. Even if I didn’t notice that at the time, I certainly was the kind of guy who easily turns sarcasm on others. and I assumed that others never took those jokes seriously. 

But we were friends. I trusted that guy. And I was always there for him, both in the game and in real life and, a couple of times, in real life and in the game, I really had to go the extra mile to help him out.

Nonetheless, he decided his character hated mine, and that his dwarf would hire a dragon to kill me.

Yes, hire a dragon. He heard rumours one lived nearby, went to find it, and offered gold to have my character assassinated. The dragon listened attentively to his story and then grilled him. That, at least, was poetic.

In another game, some months later, he did it again. This time I suggested he try playing an elf, maybe that would give him the superiority he wanted. Or at least for once getting him out of playing the wounded, oppressed underdog. He agreed. I played a human mage. Together with the elf character of another player and my mage’s hirelings, we were hired to take down a drake in a nearby cave.

When we got close, I suggested a plan. Set a trap, lure the drake in, and ambush it. He called me a coward and called for a frontal all in attack. I said that wouldn’t work. He said he and the other elf would take the treasure for themselves if I wasn’t willing to join them in their frontal attack. I told him that I would not sacrifice myself and my hirelings on such a brainless endeavour. He and the other elf charged in. Got wrecked. I saved them. Patched them up. Killed the drake with spells and  my loyal hirelings, using a variation of my original plan. When dividing the treasure, I gave two shares to myself, one to each hireling, and one to each of the two elves. He was incensed by my “treason”. After much complaining he shut up. But he was silently planning revenge. 

He took that gold and used it to hire criminals to murder me. Or rather, he tried. He flaunted his fortune in the seediest tavern in town and nearly got himself killed. I had followed him while invisible, suspecting something stupid. I called the guards and saved him again.

His reaction? Accused me of being an arrogant human who thinks he is superior to meta-humans. 

Then he spent the rest of the campaign trying to kill me. For the sake of the game, I made up some in-fiction reason why my character would tolerate this.

It became exhausting. I had many chances of letting his character be killed (the Drake, the tavern, and several situations after that). And I always helped him. And the more I helped the angrier and the more offended he got. It was like some sort of vicious circle. But my character didn’t really have it in him to let him be killed. Eventually, we had to stop the campaign. And all the hard work of the game master had to be discarded. 

We kept playing together over the years. One of the games we played the most was Vampire: the Masquerade. I was the storyteller in those games. The same pattern eventually emerged. He would build relationships with other characters; then, first time they did something he didn’t like, he would reason they were prejudiced and exploitative, betray them, and murder them. Once, in a Camarilla campaign, he turned on two fellow PCs who had been utterly loyal to him and joined the Sabbat. Destroyed one by shooting him in the back during a fight. Killed another by sending his new Sabbat pack to hunt him after luring him on trust to an ambush. One player quit the game over it. And in the two following campaigns he did it again. And again.

Why did we keep him in the group? Because we all liked him as a friend. Because he was the first of us to discover RPGs and because he brought RPGs to us. Because he was passionate about RPGs. 

But there was a moment I’ll never forget, not because it was dramatic, but because it was disgusting. In a fantasy game, I was playing a female elven ranger who was mortally wounded in combat. As she was dying, he described to us how his character (a human) touched her inappropriately and licked  her face as she bled out, defenceless.

It wasn’t a scene. It wasn’t in-character tension. He just wanted to shock. I guess he did hate elves… but it was also a way to offend me. 

Even then, I didn’t make a scene. I just asked him not to do that again. 

Maybe some people today would call it a violation or say the table was ‘unsafe.’ I didn’t see it that way. It was our table, our game,. I was offended, but I could take it. I just didn’t want it repeated.

.

What do you do when someone uses  the game not to explore a character, but to act out something personal, and what they act out is ugly?

I’m not talking about “evil characters” or the occasional backstab. I’m talking about patterns.

• Always turning on the group.
  
  
• Always justifying it morally, or narratively, or "it is what my character would do".
  
  
• Always making the story orbit their personal need for dominance, vengeance, or validation.
  
  
• And sometimes—not even hiding that it’s about the player, not the character.
  
  

It stops being interesting. It stops being fiction. It is even worse than sabotage, because you just become his hostage and his victim. 

What I’ve Learned:

1. Patterns Matter More Than One-Offs

Anyone can make a bold, disruptive move in character. That can be great. But when someone always chooses betrayal, always needs to be the centre of drama, always destabilises the game… it’s not about the character anymore.

It’s about the player.

2. Don’t Hide Behind “It’s Just Roleplay”

When players leave the table angry, hurt, or tired, something real is happening. And you’re allowed to name that. Fiction gives permission. But not immunity.

3. Focus on Impact, Not Motive

You don’t need to psychoanalyse. Or judge. Just say: 

“This kind of pattern is making the game harder for the group. Can we talk about it?” 

Avoid blame, but don’t avoid the conversation.

4. You Can Keep the Door Open Without Being a Doormat

I try to stay open. I really do. I ask questions. I don’t block people online. I don’t accuse. I try to make space for honesty and difference, even ideological ones.

But I’ve learned: some people don’t want to play with others. They want to win. Or punish. Or revenge themselves. Or vent.

Once a new player, first session, choses to play a private investigator (because private investigators have guns, I learnt). First chance he gets in play, his character lures a police officer into an alley and shoots him in the head. 

I later learnt of a trauma the player had with being detained and mistreated by a police officer. But that behaviour made the group deeply uncomfortable, and I had to tell him: not at my table.

You can still be the kind of GM or player who leaves the door open. But you don’t have to let someone poison the room every session. It’s okay to say: this isn’t working for the group.

Conclusion

Roleplaying games reveal people. That’s their strength and sometimes, their danger.

You don’t need to judge. You don’t need to diagnose. You don’t even need to get closure.

You just need to protect the table.

Because the story is everyone’s, not just one person’s theatre of resentment. And if it stops being fun, creative, or safe, it’s time to talk.

Leave the door open, but notice what walks through.