Lessons from Hades: How a Roguelike Can Reshape Your Tabletop Game

Supergiant’s Hades is a fantastic game. It is fluid, stylish, and emotionally resonant. But beyond its excellent gameplay and mythic storytelling, it offers something subtler: some lessons that are transferable from this video game to our tabletop roleplaying games. We’re thinking not just in terms of mechanics, but in how we build worlds, pace stories, and invite players into cycles of growth.

At its heart, Hades is about repetition. You die, you return, you try again. Each run is a mechanical loop which builds into a larger narrative spiral. Characters remember you. The world shifts. Relationships deepen. And slowly, failure becomes a form of progress. For tabletop designers and GMs, this is fertile ground. What if our campaigns embraced that same rhythm? What if our stories weren’t linear arcs, but recursive journeys where meaning accumulates over time?

Let’s explore five lessons from Hades that can perhaps enhance your RPG sessions.

Lesson 1: Repetition as Revelation

In most tabletop games, repetition is something we avoid. We chase novelty: new locations, new monsters, new plot twists. But Hades shows us that repetition, when handled with care, can be a powerful narrative tool.

Each time Zagreus returns to the House of Hades, the world feels familiar, but not static. Characters comment on his progress. New dialogue unlocks. Emotional threads are tugged, then left to simmer. The repetition isn’t boring; it’s comforting. It’s a rhythm that invites reflection.

At your table, this can be transformative. Imagine a recurring location, such as a guild hall, a family estate, a haunted ruin, that players revisit throughout the campaign. Each return could reveal something new: a changed NPC attitude, a subtle environmental shift, a memory triggered by a familiar scent. These aren’t plot twists, they’re emotional echoes. They make the world feel lived-in.

You can also apply this to structure. Let players fail forward. Let them revisit challenges with new tools, allies, or insights. A failed negotiation might lead to a second chance months later, with the stakes subtly shifted. A dungeon cleared once might be repopulated with new threats, but also new meaning. Repetition becomes a way to measure growth, not just grind.

Lesson 2: Combat as Character Expression

In Hades, every weapon is a personality. The Twin Fists are brash and relentless. The Bow is patient and precise. The Spear is disciplined, the Shield defiant. And when you layer on Boons from the gods, your build becomes a reflection of your mood, your strategy, your identity. Yes, this is yet another post talking about the concept of identity.

Settle down.

Tabletop combat often leans tactical, but it can be expressive as well. Encourage players to flavour their actions. A fighter’s cleave might be a brutal roar or a graceful arc. A wizard’s fireball might be a precise surgical strike or a chaotic burst of emotion. These aren’t just descriptions; they’re character beats.

You can also design encounters that reward style. Give players choices that reflect their values: do they save the innocent or chase the villain? Do they fight with honour or with desperation? Let the battlefield be a stage for storytelling, not just strategy. I worry that all too often, the exploration/interaction and combat parts of a session are treated as two distinct processes. where that really should not be the case. It’s all character expression. It’s all storytelling.

And don’t forget evolution! Just as Zagreus unlocks new aspects of his weapons, let players discover new facets of their abilities. A rogue might learn a ritual that turns their shadowstep into a memory dive. A cleric might channel divine power through grief, not faith. These shifts don’t need to be mechanical; they can be narrative, emotional, symbolic.

Lesson 3: Relationships That Persist

One of Hades’ quiet triumphs is its social architecture. The House of Hades isn’t just a hub; it’s a living, breathing network of relationships. Characters remember Zagreus. They react to his victories, his failures, his choices. Over time, bonds form, fray, and evolve. Even antagonists like Meg and Thanatos aren’t static. They’re emotionally textured, shaped by shared history and repeated encounters.

In tabletop games, we often treat NPCs as quest-givers or obstacles. But what if they were co-authors of the story? What if they changed, not just in response to plot, but in response to the players themselves? I’m sure many GMs do this already. I’m sure many don’t.

You can build this by tracking emotional arcs. Use simple tools: relationship clocks, evolving tags, or even just a running note of how an NPC feels about the party. Did they save a sibling? Betray a faction? Fail to show up when it mattered? Let those choices echo. Let NPCs grow weary, hopeful, bitter, or inspired.

And don’t underestimate the power of return. When players revisit a character they met ten sessions ago, and that character remembers them, perhaps comments on their changed armour, their new scars, their shifting reputation, it creates a moment of magic. It says: this world is alive. You matter here.

Lesson 4: Aesthetic as Immersion

Hades is drenched in style. Its art style is as communicative as it is beautiful. The character portraits feel like mythological tarot cards, each one radiating personality. The environments shift with tone: Tartarus is claustrophobic, Asphodel chaotic, Elysium eerily pristine. And the soundtrack? It’s a heartbeat. It drives the action, underscores the emotion, and lingers in quiet moments.

On the tabletop, we don’t have visuals or soundtracks built in, but we do have language. Description is our brush. Tone is our palette. And when used with intention, they can transform a scene from functional to unforgettable.

Think about how you describe a room. Is it “a stone chamber with a locked door”? Or is it “a chamber that smells of damp parchment and regret, its door pulsing with quiet menace”? One tells you what’s there. The other tells you how it feels. Vibe matters more than detail. We’ve been over this. Twice.

You can also curate atmosphere with music (as we’ve discussed before), lighting, props, or even pacing. A slow reveal, a whispered clue, a moment of silence before the dice roll; these are aesthetic choices. They shape immersion. They make the game feel less like a system and more like a story.

And just like in Hades, your aesthetic doesn’t need to be maximalist. It just needs to be intentional. Let your world feel like it has a mood, a rhythm, a soul.

Lesson 5: Failure as Forward Motion

Perhaps the most radical lesson Hades offers is this: failure is not the opposite of progress; it’s the engine of it. Every time Zagreus dies, he doesn’t just reset. He returns with knowledge, with new tools, with a deeper understanding of the world and his place in it. Punishing failure is a wasted opportunity. Nah, this game reframes failure as part of the journey.

In tabletop games, we often treat failure as a dead end. A missed roll means nothing happens. A botched plan means the session stalls. But what if we treated failure as a narrative pivot, not a penalty?

Let failed rolls introduce complications, not cancellations. A rogue fails to pick a lock? Maybe they trigger a memory, or a ghostly voice whispers through the keyhole. A bard flubs a performance? Maybe the crowd turns hostile, but one listener is intrigued. These are all story seeds.

You can also build systems that reward persistence. Let players learn from defeat. Maybe they gain insight into an enemy’s tactics after a loss. Maybe they forge a bond with an NPC who helped them recover. Like Zagreus, they return changed; not just in stats, but in story.

Failure, handled with care, can be the most human part of the game. It’s where vulnerability lives. It’s where growth begins. Anyone who has faced and overcome any challenge in life – and I imagine that’s most of us – can tell you this.

Last Word: Designing for the Return

Hades is a game about coming back. Again and again. Not because you have to, but because you want to. Because each return brings you closer to something: mastery, connection, understanding.

That’s the energy we can bring to our tabletop games. Design worlds that welcome return. Build relationships that evolve. Let repetition reveal, let combat express, let failure teach. When we do, we create campaigns that feel less like a straight line and more like a spiral, always circling back, but never quite the same.

And maybe, just maybe, we remind our players that the story isn’t about winning. It’s about becoming. About trying again. About finding meaning in the run.