A Poe-Inspired TTRPG?
(Blame The Alan Parsons Project)
The other day, headphones on and lights dimmed, I was immersed in Tales of Mystery and Imagination by The Alan Parsons Project. Then, quietly, an idea took shape.
I was a huge fan of The Project in my twenties, when I finally discovered that the soundtrack of LadyHawke (one of my favorite movies) was composed by Andrew Powell and engineered by Alan Parsons. In fact LadyHawke OST is an unofficial Project work! Think of that day when I finally put my hands on Tales and the tapping of The Raven echoed in my headphone. I almost fell off my chair! Occasionally I do listen to The Project discography again and Tales is on the top of my list.
But this time was different; something in the music unraveled a new thread.
Not a mechanic, nor a setting—just a feeling. A gradual descent, thick with dread, velvet textures, and unreliable memories. One of those moods that firmly grips your imagination and refuses to release it.
And then a thought emerged clearly: what would a tabletop RPG inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's works look like? Not merely an adventure cloaked in gothic horror clichés, but a game structure deeply intertwined with themes of guilt, decay, identity, and delusion.
What would it mean to play through a story where the real mystery lies in what you remember?
The Seed
Poe’s narratives carry a particular allure:
The protagonist is often the narrator—and the least reliable voice at that.
Death isn’t merely an event; it's atmosphere, reflection, symbolism.
Places themselves become characters: collapsing houses, flooded crypts, cities rotting from the inside out.
Stories rarely conclude with triumph; more often, they leave behind only silence or a shiver.
These elements hold immense promise for roleplaying, yet they remain curiously untapped. Most horror games emphasize external threats: monsters, survival, cosmic horror. Poe’s terror is internal, psychological, and deeply intimate.
With this in mind, I began to sketch something.
Just Two People
I'm picturing a duet game—just two players.
One, the Protagonist, slowly unraveling beneath the weight of something unspeakable.
The other, the Narrator, might represent memory, a ghost, a conscience, or perhaps something entirely different.
The narrative would unfold in distinct acts—each a stage of descent. The Protagonist seeks to confront or escape the truth, while the Narrator constructs scenes from fragmented memories, occasionally contradicting what came before.
Each act would include:
A Memory Fragment: a prompt introducing a critical detail (a room, a figure, a phrase).
A rising tension measured in stats like Guilt or Dread.
A Toll—something sacrificed in order to continue onward.
Perhaps once per game, a decisive intervention called The Raven—an irrevocable confession.
Nothing here is set in stone, though. I'm merely following the idea, seeing where it leads.
The City That Remembers
The setting might be a deteriorating port city along Poe’s imagined Eastern Seaboard.
Fog-bound, opium-stained, and unsettlingly familiar.
Each alleyway bears a forgotten name. Each window seems to stare back at you.
This city would be more dreamscape than map, less about geography, more about emotional architecture.
Imagine:
Grand mansions with sealed-off wings.
Rumors of hidden rooms beneath libraries.
Guest lists that include the deceased.
Streets that simply weren't there yesterday.
So... Is This a Game?
Not yet.
At this point, it's only an atmosphere I wish to linger within.
A few rough sketches,
potential names floating around (though none quite fit),
and a suspicion that the ending is already written, the game merely a slow walk toward it.
If I continue, it will form slowly—built from structure rather than narrative. Rules-light, designed to encourage poetic storytelling, contradictions, and dark symmetry.
But perhaps it’s enough to simply wonder:
What might it feel like to tell a story where your memories deceive you?
Where you become both victim and witness?
Where the truth emerges only once it’s far too late to matter?
I don’t know yet, but I think I'd like to find out.
Roberto