Why Running Cities in D&D Is Harder Than You Think

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So, we were playing my Eberron campaign, and the party was chasing down a McGuffin: the Cauldron of Chaos. Their lead pointed them to the Great Crag, a city in Droaam, where a medusa spy had stashed the artifact. The group traveled by airship, and when they arrived, I did what I always do—I painted the picture. I described the crumbling ruins of an ancient goblin civilization, the bustle of monstrous citizens, the troops patrolling the streets, and, of course, the great gladiatorial arena at the city’s heart.

Here’s the thing: I wasn’t improvising aimlessly. I had a plan. I’d laid out breadcrumbs for them to follow—clear leads that would point them toward the spymaster who held information about the cauldron. All they had to do was pick up the trail. But the city itself became a distraction, especially that arena. My players decided maybe the best way forward was to fight in the games, win their way up through the ranks, and earn the favor of a disgraced warlord who might, just maybe, point them toward the artifact.

And that’s how we spent an entire session circling possibilities. Arena plans, alternate leads, speculation on how to navigate Droaam’s politics. Lots of talk, very little action. Now, don’t get me wrong—my players still seemed to be having fun. But from my side of the screen, it felt like the session had devolved into a quagmire. No progress toward the main goal. No momentum. Just… talking.

So afterward, I started thinking: what went wrong? What could I have done differently?

Lesson #1: Sometimes description is too good.

I like to make my world immersive. But when you describe something in detail, players assume it’s important. The arena was meant to be background flavor, but the detail signaled “plot hook” to my group. One way to avoid this is to tone down descriptions of unimportant elements. The tradeoff, of course, is that your world feels less alive.

Lesson #2: Too much prep—or even good improvisation—can backfire.

I hadn’t actually prepared the Great Crag in detail. I was improvising most of it. But because I’m comfortable improvising, it sounded like I’d planned a ton. To the players, that meant the city must be important, worth digging into. In hindsight, I should’ve limited myself to just three meaningful NPCs and three meaningful locations. Enough to make the city functional, but not enough to tempt them into endless diversions.

Lesson #3: Sometimes you need to be more direct.

I usually avoid pushing my players. I prefer to give them freedom, agency, and let them chart their own course. But in this case, I could have been more explicit: “The Great Crag is full of people and spies. If you want to track the cauldron, this is a good place to ask questions and follow leads.” That would have hinted strongly at the intent without robbing them of choice.

A Note About Shopping

And finally, let’s talk about shopping. Fortunately, my group didn’t go there. But in a big city, shopping can become the nail in the coffin of pacing. My method is simple: tell the players that anything common or below a certain value can be bought straight out of the book. Give them ten minutes to record purchases, then move on. No need to roleplay a hundred haggling sessions with random merchants.

Now, here’s the kicker: maybe none of this was actually a problem. My players laughed, debated, and engaged with the world. Maybe what felt like a slog to me was actually a great session for them. Maybe I was overthinking. That’s another lesson—sometimes the game is going fine, and it’s just the DM in their own head.

Running cities in D&D is messy. They’re vibrant, full of options, and easy distractions. But if you’re mindful about your descriptions, prep, and pacing, you can keep your players from getting bogged down while still giving them the thrill of exploring a living world.