A pride‑soaked night I can still smell

Pull up a stool, lad. Let me tell ya about the night a steel‑shod hero strutted into my back room game like he owned the place. Big helm, bigger mouth. Wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t share the map, wouldn’t let the scout speak. “I’ve got this,” he kept sayin’, like the rest of us were coasters under his mug.

By me beard, the fool rushed a chokepoint, tripped the alarm, and dragged six guards back like stray cats on a butcher’s hook. The rogue’s plan? Ignored. The cleric’s caution? Steamrolled. We survived, aye—but it felt less like an adventure and more like hauling a stubborn anvil uphill.

Pride’s a tricky rot. Smells like confidence, tastes like leadership, but leave it in the cask too long and it sours the whole brew.

Have a seat, leave the ego at the door

If your table’s feelin’ top‑heavy with bravado, pull up a chair at my place. I keep the ale cold and the advice blunt. Learn what we’re about here: About Mike’s Tavern, and browse the house rules for decent table manners: Tavern Etiquette.

What pride looks like at a game table (and how to cure it)

Here’s the shape of the beast, plain as a chipped tankard:

Spotlight hoggin’. Pride loves a stage. It talks over quiet folk, turns every scene into a monologue, and calls it “driving the story.” If that stirs your coals, send ’em this: Not Every Scene Needs a Monologue, Lad. It’ll teach a braggart the fine art of passing the torch.
Overconfidence dressed as courage. Pride thinks hit points are proof of destiny. That’s how you get “I charge in alone” followed by “why didn’t anyone back me up?” For GMs staring down a table like that, I brewed a strong draught here: When the Loudest Player Starts Running the Table. It’s a primer on reclaimin’ flow without startin’ a bar fight.
Advice that’s orders in a false mustache. Pride says “just trying to help,” then hands out commands like drink tokens. The cure? Structure. Clarify who speaks when, and why. If your expectations were set and still got trampled, here’s how to patch the holes: When Session Zero Didn’t Save You.
Comparing, competing, crowing. Pride keeps score no one asked for: biggest damage, most kills, slickest speech. Bah. The table’s a team, not a throwing contest. If someone’s shrinking under the big shadows, give ’em this lantern: The Quiet Player’s Guide to Getting Noticed. It shows how to claim space without stealing it.

Now, before any thin‑bearded, milk‑drinkin’, pebble‑countin’ glory‑hound takes offense—easy there. I’m railing at the habit, not the soul wearin’ it. Pride ain’t evil by itself; it’s like hot steel: useful until you swing it wild and scorch the whole forge. Sorry, got carried away.

Mike’s quick fixes for pride at the table

Name the vibe, not the villain. Say what you’re seeing—“we’re losing quieter voices”—instead o’ “you’re a blowhard.”
Share the map. Ask each player what they want out of the next scene. Put it on the table like snacks. Pride hates shared platters; make it share anyway.
Rotate the spoon. Caller, face‑talker, room‑checker—pass those roles like a serving ladle. Everyone stirs the stew.
Timebox the speeches. Give the bard a minuteglass. When the sand’s out, so is the monologue. Back to the party.
Reward assist, not just ace. Applause for the setup, not only the strike. You want less peacocking? Cheer the pass more than the dunk.
Make failure a lesson, not a lynching. Humility grows fastest when it’s safe to plant it. Let consequences bite, but narrate the win in the learning.

What humility actually looks like (so you can spot it)

It asks a question before offering a plan.
It redirects praise: “The rogue set me up.”
It notices who hasn’t spoken and invites ’em in.
It admits “I was wrong” without flinching.
It swaps “my story” for “our scene.”

Humility’s not meekness; it’s muscle with manners. It turns five mismatched folk into a party. It keeps the ale flowing, the dice honest, and the night worth toasting.

Ready to knock pride off its perch?

Bring your table’s trouble to the bar—quiet players, loud players, and that one walking trumpet who thinks initiative order is a suggestion. I’ll pour straight talk and a plan that fits your crowd. Tap the keg when you’re ready: Contact Mike’s Tavern.