The Freedom of Having Less: OSR Lessons from Brandonsford

 It might sound counterintuitive, but the fewer powers, skills, and features your character sheet has, the more freedom you actually have as a player. In crunchier systems like D&D 5e or Pathfinder, when players are faced with a situation, the first thing they do is look at their sheet and "press the buttons" they have available. They look for the magical power that solves the puzzle. They only engage in activities where they have proficiency. And often, the same player ends up doing all the talking just because they have a +8 Charisma.

It ends up feeling more like a board game, where each player has their set moves and just repeats them.

In contrast, in simpler—and often deadlier—systems, solutions aren't found on the sheet. They're found in player ingenuity and interaction with the environment.
You’ll often hear advice in 5e videos about making combat more interesting by encouraging players to interact with the terrain—kick over tables, shove crates, use elevation. But realistically, if you're playing a paladin whose sword is on fire, who shoots radiant beams and frightens enemies with their voice, why would you waste your turn kicking a table or setting a trap? The system doesn’t incentivize it.

But if you're playing something like Shadowdark or Old School Essentials, your character is barely more than a peasant. That table might be your only barricade. Throwing oil and lighting it on fire could be the only thing between you and death.

I saw this concept come to life when I ran The Black Wyrm of Brandonsford, an excellent adventure by Chance Dudinack.

Spoilers ahead!

We were using Dolmenwood, a system very close to OSE. The party consisted of a wizard, a cleric, and two fighters. The adventurers arrived at a village besieged by what locals called a black dragon, trapping everyone inside. The nearby woods, now unpatrolled, were also under siege by a demon goblin-king who began raiding anyone who dared to venture out.

At level 1, the players knew they had no chance against a real dragon. But after talking to survivors, including a one-armed hunter named George—who had lost his job after losing his right arm—they realized it wasn’t exactly a dragon. It was more like a giant lizard that spat acid. It couldn’t fly, wasn’t intelligent, but had incredibly thick skin, likely resistant to mundane attacks. George, now unemployed, sold his bow to the players for a few coins and joined as their guide—finally finding new purpose in life.

The players then followed a local legend about the town’s founder, a knight who’d once slain dragons. His tomb lay nearby, and they believed his magical sword could hurt the beast. After a cautious expedition (and a quick retreat), they retrieved the weapon.

Still, they needed more. They visited a reclusive shaman who told them about a group of fauns living in the woods. These fauns brewed a wine so potent it could stun the creature. After some charming and seductive dancing, the fauns handed over an amphora of the magical wine.

Rumors also led them to a dwarven mining outpost up north. There, they found the ruins—dissolved by acid—and a gemstone that held the soul of one of the miners. The spirit revealed a terrible truth: the black wyrm was his own brother, cursed into a monstrous form by his own greed after slaughtering his kin to keep a powerful treasure.

Following the trail of destruction, they found its lair. Knowing the creature was driven by greed, they devised a trap: dig a pit, cover it with foliage, and lure it with treasure. Thanks to wielding the founder’s sword, they had high standing with the townsfolk, who helped them dig the trap and donated gold for bait.

A rousing speech earned the support of a few guards willing to fight alongside them. Once the trap was set, they laid a trail of coins (courtesy of the rogue) leading into the pit. The beast fell in completely. Immobilized, it was force-fed the wine and then attacked by the party and their allies. The wyrm still managed to unleash acid, killing a fighter and several guards, but eventually—victory.

This would never have happened in a 5e game.
Most likely, the players would’ve just gone off to grind XP by killing lesser monsters until they were strong enough to face the dragon directly. But here, knowing they were underpowered, they had to tip the scales using every tool at their disposal. They gathered ingredients, sought lore, formed a detailed plan, and used the terrain and creativity to win a fight that would’ve otherwise killed them in two rounds.

None of my players had ever played a system with characters this stripped down—and most of them loved it. They felt genuine satisfaction from building a plan and seeing it succeed not because of some ability on their sheet, but because they thought it through.
In systems like these, even simple magic items become valuable. A +1 sword that glows feels huge when your character has no special powers. Consumables matter more. Mundane items—rope, caltrops, crowbars—suddenly feel essential.

And that’s really the point: when your character isn’t a superhero, mundane gear matters.
Why would you carry a 10-foot pole, a hammer, or a bag of caltrops that deals 1d4 damage if you’re basically a Marvel character? But in a grittier, more grounded system, these things become lifelines. A rope might save your life. A hammer might help breach a tomb. Caltrops might buy you a turn to escape. The simplicity of your sheet gives weight to your equipment—and meaning to every decision.

Sure, nuking a dungeon with Fireball feels great. But you know what’s better? PLayers outsmarting it with nothing but a coil of rope, a dead rat, and a fake name. I’m not looking for spells that solve everything—I’m after cursed keys, half-burned maps, and a bottle of something unlabelled that might be acid… or holy water. I want the players leaning in, whispering, “Wait, what if we…?”

Give me improvised solutions over optimized builds any day. Spells are fine—but give me tension, risk, and the thrill of watching a desperate plan barely come together. That’s where the game lives.