Nine companions. One world-ending quest. An alarming number of swords. Absolutely no agreement about who is in charge.

As The Fellowship of the Ring approaches its 25th film anniversary this December, I keep thinking about the Council of Elrond as the most ambitious session zero ever held.

Everyone arrives with lore. Several people have inherited problems. One attendee has already tried to destroy the quest item with an axe.

The DM has barely finished explaining the premise.

And somehow, this collection of incompatible priorities becomes one of fantasy’s most beloved adventuring parties. Which is reassuring, because your D&D group has also spent forty minutes discussing a mountain pass and reached the conclusion that someone should ask a bird.

Spoiler note: familiar events from The Fellowship of the Ring follow.

Everybody has mistaken a different person for the leader

Ask who leads the Fellowship and you can start a perfectly respectable argument.

Gandalf has the experience, the information, and the hat. Aragorn has wilderness competence and the unmistakable air of someone whose character sheet contains a secret. Boromir has military credentials and several strong opinions about the objective.

Frodo is carrying the thing they all came to discuss.

Meanwhile, Sam is doing the essential work of making sure the person carrying the thing remains capable of carrying the thing.

This is a remarkably accurate D&D party.

The player who speaks first gets mistaken for the leader. The player who remembers the clues actually knows what is happening. The player with the highest Charisma gets pushed toward every conversation, including ones they were trying very hard to avoid.

Then the quiet player says, “Wasn’t that bridge broken when we arrived?”

Everyone stops walking.

Leadership has changed hands.

Aragorn has a destiny and still has to do the walking

A secret royal bloodline is excellent backstory material. It becomes less charming when the rest of the table is expected to spend six months providing supportive reactions.

Aragorn works within the Fellowship because his importance doesn’t exempt him from being useful.

There are tracks to read. Dangerous places to cross. People who need protecting. Having a claim to a throne does not carry the luggage.

For your next D&D character, borrow that part.

Be the lost heir, the prophesied champion, or the surviving member of an ancient order. Then volunteer for watch duty. Learn someone else’s goal. Ask a question whose answer isn’t about your tragic childhood.

Your fellow players can become invested in your destiny after they discover you are pleasant to travel with.

We explored similarly inconvenient loyalties in our ACOTAR-inspired D&D adventure: a grand identity gets much more interesting when it comes with obligations to actual people.

Also, please tell the DM about the secret royal bloodline before the coronation scene you have apparently been planning alone.

Frodo is essential without winning the damage contest

The person at the center of an adventure doesn’t have to be the person who can hit hardest.

Frodo’s importance comes from the burden he accepts and what carrying it demands of him. The Fellowship’s more visibly impressive abilities matter because they help him keep going.

That is useful inspiration for a table where somebody has begun comparing damage totals as though the campaign offers quarterly bonuses.

Give different characters different ways to matter. One knows the language carved above the door. One recognizes the frightened guard. One remembers the promise everyone else was ready to forget.

And when the biggest threat appears, the fighter can still have a lovely time being very good with a sword.

A party feels richer when everybody can point to something that would have gone badly without them.

Preferably something more substantial than “I was holding the spare rope.”

Although, depending on the campaign, that may be a leadership position.

Sam has quietly become the department of keeping everyone alive

Every group has someone who remembers the supplies, checks on the quiet player, and notices that the person insisting they are fine is visibly falling apart.

They rarely get a dramatic introduction.

They do get asked whether anybody packed food.

Sam makes the practical care behind an epic journey impossible to ignore. Friendship involves carrying things, making meals, and continuing to show up after the inspiring speech has worn off.

At the table, that can mean a character sharing their last healing potion. It can also mean a player helping someone understand a spell without taking over their turn.

Both make the adventure better.

Just remember that the dependable person deserves support too. If one player always handles the inventory, scheduling, rules questions, and emotional repairs, perhaps the rest of the Fellowship could locate a pencil.

Middle-earth is in danger. Sam should still get an evening off.

Gandalf has information and a deeply inconvenient calendar

Gandalf is the person everyone looks toward when something ancient and horrible starts making noises.

Unfortunately, his availability is inconsistent.

If your campaign has a powerful mentor, this is worth thinking about. An experienced guide can give the party context and confidence. Eventually, the characters need room to make decisions without waiting for someone wiser to approve them.

Perhaps the mentor is occupied elsewhere. Perhaps their knowledge ends at a particular border. Perhaps this problem requires a relationship or skill only the party possesses.

Leave useful information behind. Let the characters build on what they learned.

Then allow them to choose a route you wouldn’t have chosen.

This is difficult for a DM who has prepared a beautiful map. It is also how you find out whether the players have started caring about the journey.

You will know they care when they spend twenty minutes debating a shortcut and then ask whether they can buy a boat.

Boromir is what happens when a character has a different campaign pitch

Boromir arrives with a problem that feels immediate and personal. His people are under threat. He sees power that might help them.

That makes his place in the Fellowship compelling—and dangerous.

A character whose priorities conflict with the group can create wonderful drama. But the players need a shared understanding of what they are playing.

There is a substantial difference between “my character will struggle with temptation” and “I have secretly decided to sabotage everyone’s evening.”

Discuss the limits before the dramatic moment. Can characters steal from one another? Can they leave? Can an argument become a fight? Does everyone want that kind of story?

Your character can believe the party has made a terrible decision while you, the player, help make the scene enjoyable.

For a less emotionally fraught example of expectations colliding, see our Warcraft crossover post. It turns out a shared destination does not guarantee a shared understanding of what everyone is supposed to do.

Boromir would have opinions about the raid strategy.

Several. At volume.

Legolas and Gimli don’t need matching personalities

You can cooperate with someone before you understand them. You can grow to trust someone whose first impression was, to put it generously, unpromising.

That gives a D&D party somewhere to go.

Start with a disagreement that can evolve: different traditions, competing methods, or mistaken assumptions. Give the characters chances to see each other act generously or demonstrate competence.

Keep the friction specific enough to change.

“My character hates yours and always will” leaves everyone very little to work with. “My character thinks your plan is reckless” gives you a scene when the plan succeeds—and an even better one when you return to help after it fails.

Over time, an argument can become a running joke. A running joke can become affection.

Eventually, you notice they have started saving seats for one another.

Nobody needs to announce the friendship. The table has already seen it happen.

Merry and Pippin have questions about your carefully prepared encounter

Some players arrive with tactical plans. Others touch the suspicious object before you finish describing it.

You can probably name both people in your group.

The wonderful thing about less imposing companions is that curiosity, loyalty, and apparently small decisions can carry weight alongside martial skill. Let the player who asks an unexpected question discover something useful.

That doesn’t mean every impulsive choice needs a reward. Consequences are part of the fun.

But a campaign gets very narrow if the only respected contribution is the safest, most efficient move.

Leave room for the person who talks to the overlooked servant, investigates the kitchen, or remembers the strange song from three sessions ago.

You may have prepared a heroic charge.

They may have found the laundry entrance.

History can decide which looked more dignified.

A fellowship is built one shared decision at a time

Twenty-five years later, the Fellowship remains an excellent reminder that a memorable party can contain competing ambitions, wildly different levels of experience, and several people who would never have chosen one another as travel companions.

They still have to decide what they will do for each other.

For your next campaign, try asking every player two questions: Who here do you already trust? And what could another character do to earn your loyalty?

Then give those answers somewhere to matter.

Let someone take the lead because they know the terrain. Let someone else handle the negotiation. When the plan falls apart, leave room for the least expected person to make the decision everyone follows.

The group may never settle on a permanent leader.

They might settle on something more useful: knowing who will come back when someone is missing.

And who has the food.

Actually, check the food first. You are about to walk an unreasonable distance.