directive, immersive
Guided narrative is an innovative storytelling approach that blends traditional narrative elements with interactive fiction.
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Ascent has two parts: a collection of guided narratives and an introduction to the format. Guided narratives mix the gritty depth of old-school narratives with the interactivity of modern fiction. The full title has 42 chapters, including 24 guided short stories.
Allocation
Guided narratives are driven by challenges—the puzzles or obstacles that the protagonist must overcome. There are sixteen canonical challenges. The first is allocation. Allocation challenges require a character to manage limited resources. For instance:
Utilize the resources of an expert in a field relevant to resolving a problem.
In the gothic mystery “Eclipsed Manor”, an investigator is called upon to remove the curse over a mysterious manor. It is tempting to say the challenge is opening the puzzle box, which the investigator says is his forte. However, that solution is said rather than shown. What is demonstrated, albeit subtly, is Lady Blackwood calling upon the inspector’s expertise at the right moment.
* * *
Eclipsed Manor
Aldridge, 1887
Manor’s Gate
Even on a day with a blue sky, Lady Evelyn Blackwood’s estate, like her bloodline, lies shrouded in sorrow and shadow.
No one should have to live beneath a cloud that denies the sun to warm its copper roof. That’s part of the eclipse curse.
Yet the sprawling mansion reveals its own truth in gothic spires, rising from its four corners to pierce the heavens with earth.
Watching this silent and unmoving match, I thrust my fists into my pockets, feeling the wafer of parchment crinkle as I slowly remove it.
An invitation from Lady Blackwood, the manor’s reclusive owner.
We’ve known each other since we were kids, running through the woods back when my father tended her father’s estate.
The cursive words on the invitation are a cryptic plea asking that I come before the eclipse. Asking—yet the urgency reads less like reacquaintance than summons.
You’re here as a friend, Inspector. Open the gate—approach the manor.
I am greeted with a creak as familiar as a wheezing uncle.
The door, ajar, suggests that someone left it open, but no one around that I can see.
Grand Foyer
A cavernous space, a place of marble floors and high ceilings adorned with cobwebs and dust.
The chandelier hangs precariously, its crystal holding onto the last rays of a fading sun and forgotten memories.
A portrait of Lady Evelyn looms above the fireplace. Her eyes follow my every move. A plaque beneath it reads 1872. That date seems significant, but I can’t place why.
Explore the hall.
It’s lined with closed doors that stretch into a fog of darkness. I’ll explore the hall later, if at all. What has caught my eye is the staircase.
The grand staircase spirals upward, its wood steps worn with age. I ascend the stairs to the complaint of each step bearing my weight. Each creak is a reminder of the manor’s secrets—and brutality of age.
Upper Corridor
At the top, lit by flickering candle sconces, a corridor bears a rogue gallery of stern-faced ancestors who cast judgment long after their mortal internment.
At the end of the corridor, a door opens to allow faint light to spill out.
Follow the light.
Library
The threadbare carpet muffles my footsteps. The walls are lined with dusty tomes, manuscripts, and scrolls. An oak desk sits in the center, cluttered with papers and quills.
A single candle burns on the desk, casting flickers across the room, casting them upon Lady Evelyn at the window, her silhouette framed by the eclipsing sun.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, in a voice that seeks reassurance.
“You know the legend …,” her shoulders slumping as if under a great weight. “What you don’t know, and I need you to do, is find an artifact hidden in the manor. The curse is tied to an ancestor’s locket that holds the key to the curse and breaks it.”
She tells me traps protect the locket to keep it from those who would misuse it, then hands me a folded parchment, same as the invitation, though marked and frayed.
“This will guide you there, Inspector, and I hardly need to remind you of the danger or the fate of those who’ve tried before.”
The sketch of the manor is intricately drawn, with notes scrawled in the margins that suggest hidden passages and mechanisms. The locket’s location is an X in the manor’s basement.
The portrait—ask about 1872.
I turn to leave, but pause to ask about the significance of 1872. Lady Evelyn’s eyes widen slightly.
“The year my great-grandmother, Eliza, disappeared. She was the first victim of the curse. Her disappearance marked the beginning of our torment.”
Head to the basement.
The door is hidden behind a tapestry in the foyer, its hinges are rusted with age, like so much about this place.
It opens to a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The air fills my nostrils with the scent of damp earth and mildew.
Basement
At the bottom, the space stretches into a labyrinth of stone walls and low ceilings.
Follow the map to the hidden passage.
The map suggests it’s behind this stack of crates. Heavy and ancient, their wood splinters under my grip. Rather than lift, I push them to one side.
There, a narrow passageway with stone bricks leads to a small chamber. The air is cooler here, and the chill seeps into my bones.
The walls are lined with … what? I’m not sure, so thick is the dust.
Inspect the chest in the center of the chamber.
On a pedestal rests a chest whose surface is carved with intricate symbols. A keyhole is set into the front, but the key is nowhere within the chamber.
The note suggests the key is within a puzzle box on one of the shelves cluttered with dusty relics. Each is a piece of the manor’s history.
Look around for the puzzle box.
I find the box on the top shelf. Its surface has panels that slide to open a compartment. She called me for this, knowing that puzzles are my strength.
The panels slide. The box opens with a satisfying click, revealing a key that neatly fits the lock. Nestled within the velvet-lined interior is the locket. Its silver surface is covered in a filigree of symbols.
Open the locket.
As I lift it from the chest, the darkness seems to deepen, and I can feel a faint warmth from within.
The clasp opens, and inside is etched a message in elegant script.
To break the curse, the locket placed, heart of the manor, peak of eclipse. Only then, does darkness lift.
Return to the foyer, and quickly.
The heart of the manor—the grand foyer. The eclipse must be nearly complete.
The manor seems to come alive as I rush through its corridors, the shadows writhing as if trying to stop me. Or perhaps heady gases from below play with my senses.
Grand Foyer
The chandelier casts an eerie pattern on the walls. On the floor, it illuminates a design etched in the center of the room—circular lines glowing faintly.
Place the locket in the center of the design.
When I do, the lines glow brighter. There is a whir within the locket. Then, a beam of light slays the shadows, leaving behind a metallic odour.
The eclipse wanes.
Light returns.
Lady Evelyn enters the foyer, her voice filled with gratitude and relief. “The curse is broken; my family is free.”
After so long, it is over so quickly.
Gathering my thoughts and the thanks of Lady Evelyn, I step out into the fresh air, where the sun, once again, warms the rooftop.
* * *
Other examples of allocation challenges follow.
Distribute limited food supplies among a group to ensure everyone’s survival until help arrives.
The wind howls through the broken windows as we huddle in the corner of the old warehouse, the remnants of our lives scattered around us like forgotten dreams. Weeks ago, the city went dark, leaving us with nothing but all-day dusk and gnawing hunger.
> Find out who was last to eat.
I look at the faces around me, each etched with desperation. “Alright, listen up,” I say, my voice rough from days of shouting into the void. “It comes down to who needs the most food to stay strong.”
Maggie, the youngest, eyes wide and hollow, speaks first. “I haven’t eaten in two days.” Her voice is barely audible over the wind. Next to her, Carson nods, his frail body trembling. “I can manage with less for now,” his voice a raspy echo of better days.
> Hand out portions according to need.
There are eight mouths to feed with pitiful food supplies. Cobs of cattle corn from the field last night. Stale bread. Cans of beans we found here, in the warehouse. The apples are plentiful but barely edible. It’s all we have.
I divide it into portions. “Bad news: this has to last until the wind dies down. Good news: corn and beans make a protein.” I like to think that brought a smile or two, but it’s difficult to tell when dusk yields to dark in our new reality.
Buy the farm when the price is lowered, leaving enough cash for its operation.
The noonday sun casts no shadows over the cracked earth. I stand at the edge of the farm, a patchwork of dreams—some that have come true, and maybe today. The seller, a grizzled old man with eyes like chipped flint, waits for me to speak.
> Explain about operational cost.
“I need a lower price,” my voice steady, but my heart pounding. “The place needs work, and I need room to keep it running.”
He squints at me, weighing my words like sacks of grain. “Alright,” he says, drawing it into a single syllable. “I’ll lower it 5%.”
> Hold out for less.
I stare at him, not blinking.
“Fine, then. Ten, final.”
I nod. “Deal,” I say, shaking his calloused hand. The farm is mine, but the work is just beginning.
Back in the corner of the kitchen, I call an office; I spread out a battlefield of numbers and budget, every cent accounted for. Seeds, equipment, labour.
That’s when I smell it before I hear it. The sweet sound of rain. That much I can have for free.
Manage limited petrol canisters to power a generator and escape an area.
“We have just enough,” I conclude, the weight of the tight margin settling between my shoulders. The others look at me with a mix of hope and fear. They trust me to get us out of here, and I have to trust the petrol canisters sitting in the corner.
> Reserve the generator for essentials.
“We can’t waste a drop. Charge the radio, power the lights for night watch, keeping the water purifier running.”
Jerl flips the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. It’s more symbolic than savings, but I have to chuckle at the well-intended gesture.
Inventory
Inventory challenges require a character to use information or items collected. For example:
• Collect a key from under a loose floorboard to unlock a hidden drawer in
• Combine a magnifying glass and cardboard tube for a makeshift telescope to read a distant sign.
• Use vinegar and baking soda to make a cleaning solution to reveal hidden text on a stained map.
• Gather the materials needed to develop an old, undeveloped film roll containing a crucial clue.
In the urban noir “Midnight Match,” a late-night walk in post-war New York leads to the discovery of a boxing match. The protagonist stops at a pawn shop to ask about it and finds the door propped open with a brick, which he takes when leaving. After winning a bet at the fight, the protagonist hefts the brick to dissuade a would-be mugger.
Inventory includes information or informed skills, such as an apprenticeship, an online course, or reading the instructions. Perhaps the protagonist reads a sensational article on the use of peroxide and fertilizer while waiting in chairs for the dentist and seeks revenge. Or, attending a seminar, overhears a way to use the AI in home speakers to commandeer a drone.
* * *
Midnight Match
New Arcadia, 1947
Sixth Street
The city’s concrete is indistinguishable from the gray sky, the kind of sky that promises rain but never delivers.
I walk down Sixth Street, past the old cinema with missing letters, wondering whether missing letters isn’t a requirement.
A stray dog follows me for a block, leaving me to ponder what piqued its interest in the first place. In this city, we chase shadows with secrets only the broken can hear.
An alley branches off to the port side, and a worn-down diner stands starboard. Whatever else the diner offers, its flickering neon sign promises it is cold.
Enter the diner.
The door jingles, the kind of bells one hears at holidays and tires of even then. Inside, the air is thick with grease and regret.
A waitress with tired eyes pours stale coffee. I take a seat at the counter, the vinyl stool sticky against my jeans.
A newspaper sits abandoned next to me, its pages yellowed with age. The headline read: “Missing: Hope in the Heart of the City.” I scoff and glance around at the slim pickings of patrons.
The diner’s clock stopped at 3:15, much like everything else here.
Ask the waitress about the alley.
“Hey,” I call, and the waitress looks up as if that might be on her nametag. “That alley next door, anything interesting about it?”
She shrugs a movement that says more than words. “Depends on your definition of interesting.”
Cryptic.
I toss a crumpled bill on the counter, the tip she’ll see after I leave, and walk out.
Head down …
The Alley
To say the alley’s entrance yawns like a hungry mouth is a literal interpretation of the graffiti. I step inside, the shadows swallowing me whole.
Halfway through, I see this flyer taped to a lamppost. Underground Boxing Match, Midnight, 112 Roark Street.
I tear off the flyer, losing its edges to the tape, and keep walking. The alley narrows as the shadowy spectators of boxes and trash bags press upon the path.
Follow the alley to its end.
At the alley’s end, a dented metal door with “Pawn Shop” lettered in what appears to be pink nail polish. It’s propped open with an unchipped brick, and I figure there’s a message there.
Pawn Shop
The pawn shop is a museum of the lost and the forgotten. A tall, thin man in a threadbare suit stands behind the counter, his eyes sharp and assessing.
Old records, clocks, and dreams line dusty shelves like eccentric still-life.
Talk to the pawn shop owner.
“Looking for something?” The owner’s voice is sandpaper on steel.
I pull out the flyer. “What can you tell me about this?”
He glances at it and nods slowly. “Roark Street isn’t far from here …”
His ellipsis hangs in the air. “Just keep your head down—they don’t take well to strangers.”
Leave the pawn shop and head to Roark Street.
That’s my thought, exactly.
The door creaks pushed out, and I take the brick, hefting it as I exit, letting it slam shut. The city’s noise engulfs me again.
Roark Street
Roark Street is a labyrinth of despair, each corner echoing the next. Streetlights flicker, casting shadows in a city that already has a surplus.
As I approach 112 Roark, the thump of fists meeting flesh reaches my ears. A door to a basement club is ajar, muted cheers spilling out.
Boxing Club
The air is thick with sweat and aggression. Men circle in a makeshift ring, their faces a weave of scars and hope. Here, two fighters dance the brutal ballet of survival.
I push through the crowd to the front, the brick in hand helping clear the path.
Place a bet.
“Bet on the one with the red gloves,” says a voice in my ear. I turn to find a man with an eye patch, his grin more unsettling than reassuring.
Red Gloves fights like he has nothing to lose, which I did if he did. When Blue Gloves finally falls, taking wagers with him, it isn’t just to the mat but to life’s relentless grind.
Leave the club.
I collect my modest winnings in bills that feel cold and stink of blood.
Roark Street
Outside, the night air is a bitter reprieve. “Dangerous place for winnings to walk,” comes the voice of a cliché in torn denim, pulling on a glove and making a fist.
“Good thing I have insurance,” I say to Cliché, hefting the brick.
Sixth Street
Walking back, I toss a bill into a hat of appreciation for the saxophone. The alleyways and flickering signs speak a language only the broken understand.
The Helm
Dynamics challenges require a character to respond to change based on previous actions. For instance, plants grow or wither based on how the protagonist cared for them, in turn affecting which paths are accessible.
Characters respond differently when revisiting a room with new or lost inventory.
In the swashbuckler, “The Helm,” characters and the environment react differently based on the protagonist’s inventory.
• Although initially uncooperative, the prisoner and the cook become more amenable and offer clues once the protagonist finds and dons the captain’s tricorn.
• Initially, the parrot is noisy and uncooperative, making it difficult for the protagonist to think. The parrot falls asleep when given pistachio nuts acquired from the cook. This allows the protagonist to take the key from around the bird’s neck to unlock the bosun’s quarters and advance the story.
* * *
The Helm
Port Eldoro, 1715
On the Pier
I stand beside the Ocean Raider. The captain, led away by the Royal Navy, shouts a message. Wait, … is he singing?
🎼 Our galleon carries success, a treasure chest of gold. Alas, I give this last request, so do as you are told.
The Royal Navy slung a rope, dragging my ship in tow. Do not let them keep her in dock. Escape this curs’d foe.
Break loose the bond upon the bow. Set sail for pirate realm. They will give me to Davy Jones, but you I give the helm.
The ship has two decks, upper and lower.
Take the ladder down to the …
Lower Deck
It’s worse than a rat’s nest in a storm down here. There are things you can’t take with you, so there’s no use describing them, raising false hopes.
Portside, there’s the bosun’s quarters. Starboard, the brig. A foul odour all around.
Check the brig.
Dark, damp, and smells like regret. Inside is a shoeless mutineer known to swim like a frog. He’s snoring softly like he hasn’t a gangplank worry in the world.
“You there, swabby,” he wakes with a startle, “fetch me some food.”
Ignore him; check the galley.
The galley’s blocked by a cook who’s as wide as he is tall.
“Hold it, mate. Whass’a password?”
Password? I have no clue. I improvise a rude gesture. He flicks a meaty finger against my forehead, and the lights dim. I wake up on the …
Upper Deck
Groggy and disoriented, the captain’s last words echo in my mind. This ship is my responsibility now. Failure isn’t an option.
Ropes, sails, and riggings litter the deck. A barrel sits beside the rope ladder. A bird squawks in the distance.
Inspect the barrel.
It is a pickle barrel of oak staves held by iron hoops. A worn tricorn rests on top. The tricorn, a three-cornered hat with a skull-and-crossbones patch inside, fits like it was made for me.
Climb the rope ladder.
The crow’s nest, a rickety barrel at the top of the mast, has barely enough room to stand. The flag slaps me in the face and nearly sends me over.
Grab the flag to stop it from flapping.
It is a classic Jolly Roger, with a skull and crossbones. Someone scribbled a drink name on it—the captain’s handiwork. He must have been out of his mind with grogg.
Back on deck, a petunia now sits where the tricorn used to be. Hatches lead to the lower deck and cargo hold.
Open the hatch to the …
Cargo Hold
More like a dungeon. Cannonballs stacked up, a lime rolling around. Lime, a lifesaver at sea, puckers the lips and protects from scurvy. I stow it under my tricorn.
What little light there is down here leads to the bosun’s quarters, which are blocked by a solid, locked door. There is a faint scent of fruit.
I can squeeze my way to the brig or galley faster than retracing my steps.
Go back via the brig.
The sailor’s awake now, eying my tricorn. “Please, sir, stop that squawk. The parrot sounds powerful hungry.”
Not sure what else to do, I hand him the lime. He nods gratefully, almost a bow. Strange behaviour for a sailor, but I pocket the thought for later.
Return to the galley.
“Hold it, mate. Whass’a password?”
Tempting fate, I press the hat down on my head and repeat the same rude gesture.
“Why, if it weren’t for the tricorn …” he mutters, standing aside.
“Slog of grog,” I say to this monolith of a man. He hands me a mug of spiced wine and a handful of pistachio nuts, then goes about his business.
Nuts under the tricorn for safekeeping, I head to my new quarters above, at the stern. Stern means the back, for you land-lubbers. A parrot’s squawking its head off there.
Back of the Ship—er, Stern
The door’s open—odd since the captain keeps a chest inside. The chest is metal and locked tight. It’s hard to think with all the squawking.
Deal with the parrot.
🦜 The parrot, perched on a rail, has a skeleton key on a lanyard around its neck. I have the mug of spiced wine, but that might not work. The bird’s hungry, not thirsty.
Give it the nuts.
Pistachios have a calming effect, and the bird, now fed, falls asleep. I take the skeleton key and head to the bosun’s quarters, expecting the treasure chest behind the sturdy, locked door.
Bosun’s Quarters
The key fits, and the door swings open. Messy, even for a pirate. Smells like the shoeless sailor and that lime. What it doesn’t have is a treasure chest.
I return to the …
Captain’s Quarters
The chest is a long metal case, not the shape I’d expect. It opens with the skeleton key. Inside are a leather pouch, machete, and map rolled like a scroll.
Take the map, or maybe the pouch.
Let’s see. The map is a sketch of the spice islands. It might lead to treasure, but the captain hinted there’s treasure on board.
The leather bag is full of doubloons, but not enough to buy freedom if the soldiers return while we’re still in port.
Very well, captain, take the machete.
The machete is arm’s length and razor sharp. It could put out an eye—not a bad look on a pirate, but tricky judging distance. Especially how far those soldiers are in the distance.
With the Royal Navy closing in, I swing harder than ever, severing the tow rope. The soldiers shout in frustration as we break free.
“Aargh,” I raise the machete to the sky as the Ocean Raider slips out toward open waters.
* * *
Dynamics extends to adaptation. Sometimes, this involves new situations by choice, such as taking on the culture of another country, learning the language, and embracing local customs. Other times, it involves adapting to unexpected situations, such as a disabling sports injury, learning to work remotely, dealing with social disconnection, and having to rely on a relative who would really rather be elsewhere.
In addition to inventory, characters may react differently to questions based on new information or on previous conversations.
> Find her in the diner.
The streets are rain-slick, reflecting the neon sign that buzzes like a bad memory. I enter the diner and find her at the booth, staring out the window like she’s waiting for something that’ll never come.
I slide into the seat across. “You mentioned the library on the phone,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Tell me more about it.”
She looks at me, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble. “You were paying attention,” she says, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
I shrug. “I have my moments.”
She leans back, fingers tracing the edge of her coffee cup. “The old library,” she begins, her voice softening. “It’s more than a building. It’s where the past and present collide, where secrets are kept and sometimes revealed.”
> Encourage her to say more.
I nod, remembering that part on the phone. “And …?”
She glanced around the diner. “And there are books, old books. Some legends. Some true—and dangerous.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. “Dangerous, how?”
“Names, dates, events that could change everything.”
> You’ll need to know more.
“Why are you telling me this?”
The rain starts again, tapping against the window like a reminder that time is running out. “Because I like that you listen … and I can’t do it alone.”
