Okay, grab your d20s and your strategy decks – but maybe swap the grim dark for glitter and unexpected sandwich requests. Here’s a short blog post for you.
Alright, let’s be honest. In the world of consulting, we love terms like “Operational Excellence,” “Commercial Excellence”… and yes, at Eraneos, we’re really digging into “Public Excellence.” It sounds important, strategic, maybe involving complex diagrams and very serious meetings.
But lately, my deepest insights into this concept haven’t come from a boardroom. They’ve come from a public library space, surrounded by sugar-fueled small humans wielding imaginary swords and asking if they can befriend the grumpy goblins instead of fighting them. Yes, I’ve been running sessions of Quest (a wonderfully accessible D&D-like game) for kids. And it’s fundamentally altered my perspective on where real ‘excellence’ comes from.
My initial approach to DMing (that’s Dungeon Mastering, the person running the game) was, frankly, a bit like my old consulting style: prep, prep, prep. I’d map out dungeons, craft intricate plots, design cunning traps, and write lengthy backstories for non-player characters (NPCs). I was the architect, the storyteller, the… well, the sole source of all the cool stuff that was supposed to happen. My players would simply react to my brilliant world. Right?
Enter the children.
Their glorious, unadulterated, logic-bending, rule-questioning, utterly unpredictable imaginations.
My carefully planned encounter with the self-proclaimed king monkey called Bonkie instantly derailed because one player wanted to throw a pie at his face, and with a wonderful roll of 20 on a D20 (a 20-sided die), he one-shotted Bonkie and went about his way. My complex puzzle involving underpants on statues got demolished because one found a secret trapdoor thus bypassing all the riddles and hoops I was about to make the players jump through. And my players couldn’t get that the answer to the germaphobic doctor’s question (‘what are you supposed to do after playing but before sitting down for dinner?’) was ‘washing hands’. I’ll let that last one sink in for a bit.
Trying to stick rigidly to my prep became not just difficult, but actively less fun. The real magic happened when I started letting go. When I stopped trying to force my story and started asking: “Okay, you want to give the grumpy troll a sandwich? What kind of sandwich is it? And how does the troll react?”
Suddenly, the world expanded. The sandwich-loving troll became a recurring quest-giver. King Bonkie returned asking for more delicious pie. The underpants-statues… well they didn’t return but whatever.
Here’s the kicker, and my single good example: I had planned a simple “retrieve the lost item” quest from a goblin cave. I had maps, traps, combat encounters. The kids, however, spent twenty minutes debating the ethical implications of stealing from goblins and then decided the real quest was to find out why the goblins were grumpy and if they needed hugs. This led to a hilarious, unplanned social encounter where they learned the goblins were just lonely and misunderstood. The ‘lost item’ turned out to be a treasured, slightly-gnawed teddy bear, and the session ended with a multi-species tea party.
Now, how does this connect to Public Excellence? Simple. We can meticulously plan, analyze, and strategize in our organizational silos, attempting to create the perfect ‘solution’ from a few expert minds. That’s the heavy prep. Or, we can set the scene – define the challenge, the desired outcome, the ethical boundaries – and then activate the incredible, diverse, unpredictable creativity within the system itself.
Public Excellence, like a truly great Quest session, isn’t just about the guide having all the answers. It’s about the guide (or the leader, or the framework) enabling everyone at the table (the citizens, the stakeholders, the teams) to contribute their unique, often wild, ideas. You just have to activate them.
When you successfully engage a group, when you make it safe and exciting for everyone to pitch in their “Can I pie Bonkie?” ideas, the resulting creativity isn’t additive. It’s exponential. It spirals outwards, connecting disparate ideas in ways no single person could have planned, leading to solutions and outcomes far richer and more robust than any top-down design.
So, my DM style has changed. Less puppeteer, more enthusiastic facilitator. Less “Here’s the story,” more “What do you do next?” And I’m convinced this collaborative, unpredictable, exponentially creative approach is the real magic behind achieving true excellence, whether you’re facing down imaginary dragons or tackling real-world public challenges. Now, who’s bringing the candied bananas?