Why Does Every Fantasy World Have a Tavern?

I’ve spent more than thirty years playing tabletop roleplaying games, and I’ve come to suspect that the most important building in any fantasy kingdom isn’t the castle, the temple, or the royal treasury. It’s the tavern. Apparently, civilization itself depends on having somewhere for heavily armed strangers to drink themselves stupid while waiting for somebody to offer them dangerous employment.

I’ve wandered through fantasy villages with six houses, a blacksmith, and a goat that seems to be causing most of the town’s problems. Somehow, there’s always a tavern, and the damned thing is doing brisk business. Who’s keeping it afloat? Half the population appears to be unemployed adventurers, and the other half spends its evenings picking fights with strangers carrying enough weapons to overthrow the local government.

I love a good fantasy tavern. I’ve created dozens of them myself, and I understand their appeal. Somewhere along the way, though, a perfectly reasonable gathering place became the genre’s universal solution to getting a story started. Whenever the plot needs a shove, there’s apparently a mysterious stranger waiting over a pint, ready to hire complete idiots to retrieve something from a monster-infested ruin.

After approximately ten thousand variations of the same establishment, I’m beginning to wonder whether fantasy writers remember that people can meet somewhere else.

A Long and Respectable Tradition of Drinking

The fantasy tavern didn’t emerge from nowhere. Historical inns and public houses gave travelers somewhere to eat and sleep, but they also connected people who might otherwise have little reason to encounter one another. When news traveled largely by word of mouth, a visitor arriving from another town could be almost as interesting as whatever he came to drink.

That same ability to bring strangers together makes them convenient places to set a story.

J.R.R. Tolkien understood this perfectly. The Prancing Pony in The Fellowship of the Ring provides Frodo and his companions with shelter, introduces Strider, and brings several important threads of the narrative together. The establishment feels like a functioning part of Bree rather than a building constructed specifically to accommodate the plot. And I think that’s an important distinction, because Tolkien’s inn works partly because it belongs to a larger community. People have reasons to visit that don’t involve accepting quests or purchasing mysterious maps.

For writers and game designers, the attraction is obvious. A tavern provides an excuse to bring strangers together without spending half a chapter arranging introductions. The trouble starts when every important conversation seems to require a drink. Apparently, the entire kingdom conducts its business over beer.

The Adventurer Employment Agency

Tabletop roleplaying games helped cement the fantasy tavern’s reputation as an adventurer employment agency. Dungeons & Dragons players have been gathering their characters in inns and taverns for decades, and the practice became familiar enough to turn into a joke of its own.

It’s easy to understand the appeal. As a Game Master, you need an excuse to assemble a collection of characters who might otherwise have absolutely no reason to associate with one another. A tavern offers neutral territory, plausible social interaction, and enough alcohol to explain why a respectable cleric might agree to accompany a murderous rogue into an abandoned crypt.

I’ve used this approach myself, and I understand why it persists. Getting a group of players to agree on anything can be difficult enough without spending the first three hours explaining how everybody happened to meet.

All of which leaves me wondering how these establishments actually stay in business.

Why are there so many unemployed adventurers hanging around these establishments? How does the mysterious stranger know which table contains the people willing to risk their lives for fifty gold pieces? And what kind of liability insurance does a tavern owner carry when armed patrons routinely settle disagreements by setting the furniture on fire? Maybe I’ve just watched Deadwood too many times, but I have trouble believing these sorts of shenaniganizers would survive long enough to reach level three, much less make it through an evening at the Gem Saloon.

Nobody ever seems particularly concerned about the damage. The bartender threatens to throw everyone out, somebody pays for a broken chair, and business continues as usual. Apparently, property destruction is simply another operating expense in the hospitality industry.

Everybody Knows Your Name, Unfortunately

There’s something appealing about the fantasy tavern beyond its usefulness as a narrative device. Where else can a merchant complain about highway bandits while sitting beside a mercenary who might have been one last week? A disguised noble can spend an evening pretending to understand the lives of ordinary people, provided nobody asks him to pay for his own beer. For a little while, the usual social boundaries become considerably less important.

For readers and players, the familiarity provides a comfortable entry point into an unfamiliar world. We might not understand the kingdom’s complicated political structure or the religious significance of its seventeen competing gods, but we understand ordering a drink and listening to somebody complain about the government.

A good tavern can tell us plenty about the surrounding community before anyone opens their mouth. There’s a world of difference between a fashionable inn catering to wealthy merchants and a miserable roadside establishment where the stew has been simmering since the previous administration.

Unfortunately, fantasy sometimes treats these places as interchangeable. I’ve encountered so many grumpy innkeepers presiding over smoky common rooms that I half expect them to belong to the same professional association. Change the sign outside, replace the ale with dwarven stout, and congratulations, you’ve invented another tavern.

At that point, the establishment stops feeling like part of a living world and starts resembling a franchise operation.

Last Call

I’m certainly not suggesting fantasy abandon taverns. The Prancing Pony alone makes a pretty good case for keeping them around, and its appeal has relatively little to do with the availability of affordable lodging.

What I’d like to see is a little more consideration given to why a particular tavern exists and what makes it different from the hundred others we’ve already encountered.

Maybe the characters meet while waiting for a ferry that’s three hours late, or at a funeral where half the mourners have good reasons to dislike the deceased. A crowded market could provide just as many opportunities for trouble as a tavern, without requiring somebody to order another round.

Of course, I’ll probably continue putting taverns in my own adventures. After thirty years, certain habits become difficult to break, and sometimes the most sensible place to find trouble really is a room full of drunk people carrying weapons.

I just wish somebody would explain how the bartender keeps replacing those damned chairs.

---

Photo by Irbaf photo: https://www.pexels.com/photo/rustic-madrid-cafe-with-wooden-stool-and-brew-39529818/

Affiliate disclosure: This article contains affiliate links. If you make a purchase through one of these links, I may earn a commission at no additional cost to you.