SALT Raised the Bar. Players Have to Meet It.
Nobody who knows larp designers should be surprised that not only do we love attending other peoples experiences, but also that when we are done with the event we can’t help but have our designer brains analyze everything. This past weekend I participated in an event called S.A.L.T. by Dilli Dalli Games. First of all, being able to escape from corporate America for a weekend to embrace being a member of a pirate crew is something every creative that works in mundane corporate america needs as a form of refreshment for the soul. So if you do have the opportunity, I do recommend going to an event ran by the people over at Dilli Dalli Games.
Second of all, S.A.L.T. got a lot right.
The first thing SALT got right was space. Roughly one hundred players occupied a site that was a smaller portion of the camp instead of spreading across acres and acres. It was small enough that the pirate encampment never felt empty. Tents pressed against common areas. Crews crossed paths on their way to the next problem. Conversations spilled from one camp into another. Wherever you looked, someone was bargaining, plotting, drinking, fighting, or preparing for what came next. It felt less like a collection of player camps and more like a place.
That distinction matters. Many live action games secure large sites and then allow their populations to spread across them. The result may be geographically impressive, but it often leaves the game feeling smaller. Players disappear into private spaces. Encounters become scheduled rather than inevitable. The world exists, but it does not always feel alive. SALT created density, and density created motion.
The game reinforced that motion through its crew structure. Players were divided into pirate crews of roughly ten people, with each crew Captain being someone who was akin to a guide who remained part of the fiction while also serving the best intent of the event as a whole. These guides were not standing outside the experience and pointing players toward content. They were playing alongside their crews, helping maintain momentum, encouraging people to lift one another, and keeping each crew’s space rooted in the world. That structure solved several problems without making the solutions visible.
New players had a point of connection. Quieter players had someone watching for opportunities to bring them in. Camps had an internal reason to remain active and in character. When energy began to drift, someone was present to redirect it before the lull became the mood. The result was steady engagement across the weekend. SALT worked as a self contained adventure, but it also felt like the kind of recurring vignette people could return to because the structure supported immediate belonging. You did not simply attend the pirate game. You joined a crew.
Combat followed the same philosophy. The goal was not to determine who had mastered the most efficient mechanical interaction. The goal was to create the sensation of a grand adventure. Fights were broad, theatrical, and cinematic. Monsters were meant to be feared and players were asked to lean into this during game on. Grenades landed with the sound of actual explosions. Players were encouraged to react visibly, retreat when it served the scene, and treat danger as something more meaningful than a collection of rules. The event trusted its players with other choices as well. Adults could drink when they were not participating in combat as long as they did not return to adventure after having drinks. Pyrotechnics were used to give scenes weight but done with safety. Performers could make bold physical choices because the culture of the game prioritized judgment over restriction.
None of those elements would have worked on their own. They worked because SALT had the right people.
That was perhaps the event’s greatest strength. It is also the point at which this style of game is most vulnerable.
During one scene, about a dozen players were responding to monsters as the game had asked them to. They showed fear. They hesitated. They gave the creatures power by treating them as threats rather than targets waiting to be cleared from the field. Then one player walked through the scene and berated them for behaving like “simpering cowards.” Within the fiction, that player may have believed they were making a bold character choice. At the table of shared creation, however, something else happened. The players supporting the intended tone were in-character mocked for supporting it. One person attempted to look stronger by making everyone who was lifting the scene look weak. That is not merely a disagreement between characters. It is a failure to recognize what the other players are building.
A similar micro interruption occurred during a fight when a player broke character to warn a very experienced monster performer, positioned 10-15 feet away from combat and crawling forward before standing, that fighting from the ground might result in being struck in the head. The performer was not in immediate danger. They were engaged in a controlled piece of theatrical play and would have stood before entering the fight. The warning may have come from sincere concern, but concern without context can become its own form of disruption. The fear and the immersion in the scene stopped for just a second so a LARP gray beard could lean forward to say, “Well, actually.” Safety matters. It always matters. But safety culture should help people make informed choices, not train them to abandon judgment whenever they see something unfamiliar. At an event with pyrotechnics, wilderness travel, alcohol in designated spaces, and large cinematic battles, the meaningful question is not whether an action contains any theoretical risk. The question is whether the risk is understood, appropriate, and responsibly managed. Interrupting a scene to police an experienced performer who is not in danger does not automatically make the game safer. It may only make the game experience smaller for the people who actually want to be in character.
These moments were very rare. The overwhelming majority of SALT’s players understood the assignment, supported one another, and leaned into the world. That is why the exceptions were so visible. In an environment where players were giving so much to be in the scene, and on a game built on collective commitment, the half dozen players moving in the opposite direction can pull attention away from the work of everyone else.
SALT demonstrated what live action play can become when organizers raise the bar. The staff created a dense environment, built social structures that sustained participation, trusted adults to behave like adults, and designed combat around spectacle rather than victory. They gave players the tools to create memories that will outlast the details of any individual plot.
The next responsibility belongs to us as players.
Players must learn that participation is not only about expressing a character or being seen as “the most experienced player there”. It is also about reading the scene, understanding the event’s intent, and making choices that give other people more to work with. Being the bravest character in the camp means little if the cost is making everyone else’s fear look foolish and disincentivizing your fellow players from showing that the world setting can be scary. Performative caution when there is no actual threat means little in the reality of the situation and doesn’t prevent actual threats.
Instead of chastising the people who are role-playing the fear, approach the group and say something akin to “we are not alone, together we can survive this.” Do not reduce the scene’s fear and instead rally the troops. If you want to be antagonistic as a character, you can just point out that they have one another and should not break against the threats.
If you are an experienced larper with a gray beard tucked into your belt, instead of dropping the scene because someone 10 feet away is role-playing being a monster… give them combat space for a second or two until the scene is safe to engage. In a theatrical combat experience where the visuals are more important than winning and you are supposed to “play it big” do the easiest thing in the world to ensure safety by just role-playing for a second and not attacking.
Games like SALT can be remarkable because they trust their communities to complete the design. The runners build the ship. The staff set its course. But once the weekend begins, every player has a hand on the wheel.
As players we have to try to be good enough to deserve the voyage for the sake of one another.
