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Writing with Dice: How to Gamify Your Writing Session

April 22, 2024 | 5 min read

We've all been there — staring at a blank document, not knowing where or how to start. Ideas bounce around in my head all day long, but as soon as I sit down in front of my draft, they just won't come out because I can't decide on one of the many things in my head.

Embrace randomness as a creative partner and you'll find that, with the right approach and attitude, that uncertainty is an opportunity for exciting twists and fresh ideas in your writing.

I want to show you a tool that has helped me find a way out of these blocked situations and also improve as a writer. All you need are three six-sided dice and some paper. (Of course, if you’re on the move and don’t have any dice with you, any dice-rolling app on your phone will work.)

Writing with dice can help you make unexpected choices in your writing process that can take your creativity in new directions.

Remember, you don't have to write the perfect story in your first draft. It's about capturing ideas before they're gone. So let go of perfectionism and enjoy the creative process.

Meet The Oracle

This approach is based on the idea that we can ask an “oracle” our questions to steer our writing in interesting and inspiring directions. Just as our friends or partners sometimes offer to do when bribed with coffee and cake. In this instance, however, the oracle is the dice.

The dice take on the role of the oracle, answering our questions and relieving us of the burden of thinking too long about a decision.

“But what questions should I ask, and what do I gain from a generic yes/no answer?” you may ask.

The short answer is: it depends…

It depends on the context in which you ask the questions.

It could be anything from the genre, basic considerations about how you want to tell the story, the characters involved, or the tropes and ideas you want to incorporate. Maybe even the different storylines and how they develop.

All of this is the context in which we make narrative decisions. In this exercise, it’s what will inspire our questions.

When you want to know where the story might go based on what you already know, ask the oracle. Don’t overthink it. Instead, introduce chance and see what the oracle says. You never know when the story will take you in new directions.

How do I know what the oracle says…?

The general idea is quite simple: you formulate a question that can be answered yes or no, and roll the three six-sided dice. The oracle will answer with the results you see in the table below.

Add up the numbers on the dice and look up the oracle’s answer in the table.

In addition to clear yes/no answers, the Oracle can also give us more nuanced answers: a weakened form (10,11) and an intensified version (3-4, 17-18).

Furthermore, if you have extra context from the story to add to the question, apply the modifiers in the below table to the sum of your dice.

Confusing? Let’s see how it works in writing a scene:

My Question: Is it raining when Isabel leaves the café? (It’s unlikely, it’s a hot day in the story.)

Result: The three dice show: 4, 4, 3 to equal 11. I subtract 1 for “unlikely.” My final answer is 10. (No, but…)

This simple question alone created a better atmosphere in the scene — and it also gave me some ideas for a later scene in which the approaching summer storm influences the rest of the story.

Let's have a look at a longer example: how I use the oracle at the very start of drafting a story.

All I have prepared for this is the dice, my Freewrite, a stack of blank index cards, and a small hourglass.

I use the index cards for lists of things that are relevant to my ideas, sometimes prepared, sometimes made up as I write to let the dice make a decision. One of the lists I created before the first session was a collection of interesting genres that I liked for my next story.

I randomly drew three themes from that list: Victorian, Supernatural, and Soldier.

I already liked this combination, and the first ideas didn’t take long to come. I asked some oracle questions ("Is this set in Victorian times?”, “Is it a haunted house?”, etc.) to help me figure out the basic setting. What I learn is that we are not in Victorian times, but the story takes place in a Victorian villa that is said to be haunted. The villa has been converted into a hotel and has attracted many tourists since the bloody history of the house became known on the internet.

With a few more questions, I learn that the protagonists are guests at the hotel. One of the protagonists has been trying unsuccessfully for years to become famous as an influencer of supernatural phenomena — with little success. He has his best friend with him, who has just finished his studies and has been persuaded to go on a trip. He doesn't believe in ghosts.

That's enough information for me to work with for the setting. I take notes on an index card and ask the oracle where to start. Turns out the two friends have just arrived by train and are making their way through the old town to the villa.

I turn the hourglass and start to write.

The sand runs out as the two protagonists navigate through the hustle and bustle of the town and get lost in the maze of winding streets. The hourglass tells me it's time to interrupt my writing with a random event. I use a combination of oracle questions and spontaneous lists of possibilities that come to mind. Again, I let the dice decide which option to choose.

I find that my protagonists are approached by a merchant and lured into his shop. There, they discover an old object that seems to magically attract them. Cool! The scene has gained a bit more flavor thanks to this visit. I also wonder what the object has to do with anything. I turn the hourglass again and keep writing to find out.

The dance between predictability and spontaneity is fascinating, and I hope this has given you a small, helpful insight into the oracle approach.

My recommendation is to choose an existing project first and use the oracle at specific points in the writing process. The advantage to this is that you will already know more about the context, and it may be easier to make your first lists of ideas or to know when or how to ask the oracle questions.

If you prefer to start from scratch, take a writing prompt of your choice and brainstorm with the oracle to find a starting point for the first scene.

Happy writing!

Ben Westland is a freelance ghostwriter, editor, and author of interactive fiction, bringing a diverse background in computer science, product development, and organizational change. Ben holds a doctoral degree and has authored two scholarly works on knowledge management, as well as various interactive narratives that employ storytelling to enhance organizational training.

Ben is one of the editors of inspiration.garden, an inspirational creativity magazine, and has recently launched storyhaven.online to publish his serial fiction as he explores new narrative forms.

Having lived and researched in Spain and Japan, Ben now draws on his experience to create immersive stories and help others find their creative voice.

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?