The tavern keeper I couldn't be: How running a restaurant made me a better Dungeon Master

The most important room I ever designed wasn't made of stone and timber, but of a shared imagination. It was a fantasy tavern: the Crooked Chimney, where the ale was cheap and the quests were plentiful. As my friends’ laughter filled my living room, I realized I was finally running the welcoming space I’d always wanted. I had tried to build it once before, with a real roof and real chairs, but had failed completely. It was that failure as a small town restaurateur that taught me how to become a good Dungeon Master.

My journey into hospitality wasn’t born from a dream of cuisine, but from a need for reinvention. After a sudden job loss, a common story in a shifting economy, I retreated from the digital marketing world to a family plot in my rural home. The idea was simple, almost romantic: turn a portion of the land into a restaurant. It would be a community hub, a place of connection. I put my savings and my hope into it, building not just a menu but a vision of a space where everyone had a seat.

The reality was a merciless teacher. I quickly learned that a restaurateur is not a chef first, but a listener, an adapter, and a host. The skill I used most was not cooking, but a form of active, anticipatory attention. I had to listen to what was not said. The regular who was quieter than usual, the shift in mood when a certain group entered, the specific silence that meant a dish had missed the mark. 

I was managing an ecosystem of human needs, where a forgotten extra napkin or a mistimed refill could tip the balance of a great evening. I had to adapt on the fly, substituting ingredients when supplies failed, shifting seating plans for unexpected crowds, and constantly tweaking operations based on what the previous week had taught me.