Collaborative storytelling and canon fluidity in The Adventure Zone podcast

Context, Comparison, and Terminology

‘All those times I said “cars,” I meant “wagons”’

The Adventure Zone belongs to an era of significant growth for the podcast medium and shares many similarities with what seems to have become one of its dominant structures. In 2016, Berry noted that podcasts had ‘developed aesthetics […] notably different to linear radio’ (p. 666) and was ‘moving into a period of credibility, stability and maturity’ (p. 668). In their assessment of non-fiction true crime podcasts – such as Serial – Dowling and Miller argue that podcasts are ‘part of an explosion of immersive storytelling’ (2019: 169), to which ‘personal and subjective approaches’ are ‘integral’ (p. 180). Serial is a podcast that ‘harness[ed] the distinctive narrative potentials of its own media form’ (Hancock and McMurty, 2018: 83) and is often credited as bringing the medium into the mainstream (pp. 81–82; Berry, 2015: 171), highlighting it as an ‘alternative platform for […] storytellers’ (p. 176). Despite the focus on journalistic non-fiction storytelling, these assessments can equally apply to The Adventure Zone’s fiction storytelling. After all, it is difficult to conceive an approach that is more ‘personal and subjective’ than a family playing a game together. In addition, the serialised nature of podcasts allowing a ‘never-ending story’ (Hancock and McMurty, 2018: 87) with ‘up-to-the-minute delivery of extra material, divergence and update’ (p. 86) is something the McElroys clearly take advantage of. The Adventure Zone’s story unfolds gradually; its episodes are not recorded in bulk or far in advance, allowing the narrative a chance to breathe and naturally dictate its own length. This is evident in the fact that Griffin’s attempt to predict the episode count of any particular story arc is often proven inaccurate; the most notorious instance of which is when Griffin initially predicted that The Stolen Century – a seven chapter arc – would be only ‘a couple of episodes’ long (The Adventure Zone, 2017a). This also grants the podcast considerable flexibility when it comes to reacting to audience feedback. The medium’s permanency – which ‘allow[s] listeners to follow more complex plots’, a clear advantage over the ‘ephemeral and fleeting’ nature of broadcast radio (Hancock and McMurty, 2018: 90) – is the reason The Adventure Zone is able to tell a continuous, accumulative story populated with a reserve of reoccurring characters. Another strength of The Adventure Zone is its intimacy, an often-discussed aspect of the medium (Hancock and McMurty, 2018: 89; Heshmat et al., 2018: 73). The listener’s personal connection with podcasts – established by their conversational tone and the common use of earphones (Berry, 2016: 666; Yeates, 2020: 226) – is heightened by the McElroys’ strong familial bond and their tendency to address the listener directly; the most blatant example of which is found in the advertisement breaks, where Griffin’s introduction almost always begins with ‘Hey everybody, this is Griffin McElroy, your Dungeon Master [and] your best friend’. While Serial seems to have been crucial in establishing a ‘dominant […] podcast identity’ (Hancock and McMurty, 2017: 6), The Adventure Zone’s mirroring of its storytelling techniques lends further credibility to the position that there was an ‘inevitability’ to this ‘structure and style’ (Hancock and McMurty, 2018: 84). They may appear to sit on opposite ends of the fiction/non-fiction divide but both podcasts almost simultaneously uncovered the medium’s strength for storytelling: serialised, unscripted stories whose style is dictated by the audio-only format and direction is informed by ongoing discovery.

However, it is necessary to re-evaluate the appropriateness of the term ‘podcast fiction’ when discussing The Adventure Zone. It was not entirely accurate to suggest in the previous paragraph that it sits firmly on one side of the ‘fiction/non-fiction divide’. While categorising The Adventure Zone purely as non-fiction would be wilfully misleading, the presence of real-world elements disqualifies it from being pure fiction either. After all, the collaborative conversations between the McElroys – which will be explored in the succeeding section – are not fictional. The Adventure Zone’s fusion of both fictional and non-fictional elements suggests that the rigid ‘divide’ should perhaps instead be imagined as a fluid spectrum. Another term that requires defining is the other half of ‘podcast fiction’: podcast. Coined in 2004, ‘podcast’ is a portmanteau of the words ‘iPod’ and ‘broadcast’ (Bottomley, 2015: 166). While podcasts have clearly outgrown their association with the now-outdated MP3 player, there is still some debate over their definition. This article refers to podcasts simply as a medium, a definition Bottomley is personally wary of but nevertheless acknowledges ‘has become commonplace in both academic and industry discourse’ (p. 168). As is true of any medium, podcasts encompass a wide array of genres and formats. The Adventure Zone does not represent the typical podcast nor is it a standard for which they should all strive for; it is one possible format among many. The Adventure Zone utilises some of the strengths of the medium, highlighting the storytelling potential of podcasts in general. Other podcasts have undoubtedly unearthed different strengths and many podcasts are not concerned with storytelling whatsoever. Similarities to The Adventure Zone’s format can be found outside of the podcast medium, such as in the non-fiction film category ‘performative documentary’. In contrast to the ‘observational documentary’, performative documentaries highlight the ‘often hidden aspect of performance’ (Bruzzi, 2000: 153), acknowledging the ‘construction and artificiality’ (p. 154) of the medium. Put succinctly, performative documentaries ‘accentuate, not mask, the means of production’ (p. 155). There appears to be no such movement in the field of fiction. The ‘means of production’ for fiction films is typically relegated to paratext. While the camera is obscured as much as possible in the text itself, the production process is highlighted in bonus features such as ‘making of’ documentaries or blooper reels. Similarly, when a novel is published, it does not include the words that the author chose to remove; the editing process is rendered invisible to the reader. The Adventure Zone, however, demonstrates that ‘performative fiction’ is possible. Its listeners are exposed to the collaborative process of storytelling; its equivalent of behind-the-scenes documentation is textual rather than paratextual. The Adventure Zone does not obscure its own means of production; as with performative documentaries, it highlights them. While this comparison is useful in situating The Adventure Zone on the fiction/non-fiction spectrum, it is appropriate to adopt the more conceptionally ambiguous term ‘podcast storytelling’ for the purpose of this article.

Collaborative Storytelling

‘It’s not a trick, it’s narrative development’

The Adventure Zone presents significant potential for the podcast medium, such as the creative possibilities of improvisational, collaborative storytelling. Unlike with most fiction, the question of who the author of The Adventure Zone is cannot be met with a simple and satisfying answer. Griffin’s status as the Dungeon Master certainly cements him as the individual with the most creative control over the text; he determines the actions of every non-playable character as he guides the three players through his ever-expanding story. However, Justin, Travis and Clint’s characters are entirely beyond Griffin’s control; he is not their author. How they communicate with his own characters and confront his challenges cannot be accurately anticipated and instead arise naturally through collaboration. This often-chaotic spontaneity is a major strength of The Adventure Zone’s. It is a form of creative writing that resists traditional classification. It neither resembles the writing of literature nor screen; it is dynamic and improvisational, not static or predetermined. The Adventure Zone’s creative process is best imagined as four authors sharing a single pen. Griffin may prepare the bulk of the text prior to recording, but he must always leave blank the portion of the proverbial paper that would otherwise describe the actions of the story’s three protagonists: Taako, Magnus and Merle. It is as if Justin, Travis and Clint are poised over Griffin’s shoulder, prepared to snatch the pen away at any moment. This forces Griffin himself into an improvisational role, as he must constantly adjust his plans to fit the undetermined decisions of his players. Yeates (2020) discusses particular instances in which the players make decisions ‘resulting in major changes to Griffin’s planned story’ (p. 230). To varying degrees, any time Justin, Travis or Clint speaks they are asserting their individual control over the text; they are forever leaping into the fictional world and carving out their own paths through its narrative. As a form of storytelling, it shares more in common with comedy improv practices than anything else. Smith’s (2019) article on comedy improv podcast culture – despite focusing primarily on Comedy Bang! Bang! (2009–present) – can be applied to The Adventure Zone to illuminate the McElroy’s collaborative creative process. Smith identifies ‘high degrees of casualness and informality’ (2019: 174), ‘self-reflexiv[ity]’ (p. 175), and a heightened ‘enrichment of character’ (p. 178) to be the unique characteristics of comedy improv podcast practices, in comparison to the genre’s theatrical origins. Each of these qualities can be found in The Adventure Zone in abundance. If the recurrence of improv characters in Comedy Bang! Bang! ’s interview-structured podcast can generate enough accumulative detail to result in highly fleshed out characters (p. 178), for example, then surely The Adventure Zone’s 69-episode, 82-hours storyline must be said to have reached an unprecedented depth for improvised characters. This accumulation of backstory and refinement of personality is most visible in Justin’s character, Taako, who began life as little more than a name chosen as an impulsive joke. Taako survives Justin’s initial and short-lived ‘character choice’ in episode 5 to make him ‘an idiot’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015b) and grows into a well-rounded character capable of emotional depth. This contrast to Taako’s creation is clear when compared to his iconic outburst in episode 23; his rant begins by stating that ‘not everything has to be a joke’ and progresses to shouting ‘I have emotions! […] I have a beating heart! I’m multidimensional! I’m a fully realised creation!’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015m). Moments such as these, and indeed Taako’s character as a whole, are given life through The Adventure Zone’s improvisational, collaborative mode of storytelling.

Considering the medium’s audio-only format, it is worth closely examining the role and significance of voices in The Adventure Zone. Teorey (2011) describes traditional radio characters as ‘men made of words’ (p. 361) with ‘disembodied but engaging voices’ (p. 358). Despite the evolution of podcasts, this comparison between the new medium and the old will always remain true: voices are central. The collaborative aspect of The Adventure Zone is clear when it comes to character voices, as it is common for the McElroys to provide each other with feedback and suggestions. This is an example of the self-reflexivity common to comedy improv podcasts, in which ‘performers […] break character’ (Smith, 2019: 174) to ‘refer to the improv craft underpinning a given performance’ (p. 175). The most explicit example of this can be found at the end of episode 16, in which – after Justin’s suggestion that ‘it would be a really good use of [their] time to develop some character voices’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015j) – the McElroys workshop voices together. This is largely due to Justin’s ongoing frustration with Travis and Clint for not consistently using distinct voices when speaking in-character, which often blurs the line between player and character. Clarifications such as ‘This is Travis, not Magnus’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015i) are not uncommon. Another common occurrence is for Griffin to say something along the lines of ‘he looks down at you, and he…comes up with a voice for himself very quickly’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015g) when introducing a new character. This introduction of Jenkins in episode 12 illustrates The Adventure Zone’s collaborative and playful construction of voice. Jenkins’ odd, pompous voice – which Griffin initially interrupts to ask himself ‘what is this?’ before further experimenting and concluding ‘there it is’ – becomes the scene’s focal point. Travis, imitating Jenkins, promptly declares ‘I instantly regret this voice’. Of note is Jenkins’ tendency to respond to the mockery, even though it appears to be done by the players rather than the characters; he states that he is ‘doing [his] best’, questions whether Justin is making fun of his voice, and exclaims ‘God damn it, can I talk?’ due to their interruptions. Later in the same episode, Griffin forgets how to do the voice and is prompted by the others, who mock its similarities to Droopy, the monotonous dog from the classic animated shorts by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios. Jenkins responds to this by saying ‘the three of you are being very cruel to me’. After lengthy laughter, Griffin declares that their laughter is ‘not out-of-character’ and that ‘everything [they’ve] done in the past two minutes has been to [Jenkins’] face’, to which Justin is delighted to conclude that this means in-fiction Jenkins was having an ‘incredible mental breakdown’ because he ‘couldn’t remember what his own voice sounded like’. This tendency for reality to impact on The Adventure Zone’s fiction is relentless. For instance, Griffin being sick during the recording of episode 28 unavoidably affects how he performs each character voice; Griffin pre-emptively provides an explanation for this, stating that ‘in fiction, everybody in the Bureau of Balance is going to be sick’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015o). Similarly, when Justin’s throat is too sore in episode 35 (The Adventure Zone, 2016a) to perform Taako’s iconic high voice, he instead speaks in a smooth, purposefully deep voice that even seems to transform Taako’s personality. As ‘men made of words’, it is only natural that the reshaping of those words should also reshape the man.

While collaboration between the McElroys is at the heart of The Adventure Zone, there are other factors which leave a considerable impression upon the text, such as the conventions of the game itself. Dungeons & Dungeons is comprised of a hefty set of rules – proficiencies and limitations of each class and race, abilities such as the specific spells available at different levels and so on – which impact the storytelling capabilities of The Adventure Zone. The dice are the most obvious and alluring example of this. An element of chance standing between the success and failure of any given action is an engaging and unique way to tell a story. Most dice rolls of this nature are performed with a ‘D20’, a twenty-sided die. Each check has a threshold that the player must roll above to be successful, with modifiers such as their character’s ‘charisma’, ‘intellect’ or ‘strength’ adding to or subtracting from the result. Rolling a one is deemed a ‘critical miss’ and is a failure no matter the modifiers. Non-playable characters are similarly subject to dice rolls, such as at the end of Murder on the Rockport Limited’s final battle in episode 15. A dramatic moment is transformed into a comedic one when the villainous Jenkins rolls a two. As a result, he is promptly thrown out of the train, fails his ‘dexterity saving throw’ roll (The Adventure Zone, 2015i) and dies. Even the very structure of every conflict is determined by the dice, as the first step is always to ‘roll initiative’; initiative establishes the order in which each character involved in the fight is able to attack. The dice clearly possess the ability to influence the flow of the narrative and divert its path; it is yet another unpredictable aspect that the McElroys must collaborate with and respond creatively to. The clearest example of its impact is seen in Taako’s Umbra Staff. The Umbra Staff is a magical umbrella that the party discovers in episode 5 and becomes Taako’s most iconic weapon. However, Merle is the character who initially attempts to pick it up; he rolls against it in an ‘intellect contest’ and fails, resulting in him being ‘flung backwards by a wave of force’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015b). Taako grabs it next and succeeds in his roll. This seemingly inconsequential moment – which is dictated by the dice – is woven into a larger narrative that culminates in the dramatic return of Taako’s twin sister, Lup, late in the series. In episode 67, the beginning of the finale, Taako snaps the Umbra Staff and Lup – who it is revealed was trapped within it since the start – finally emerges. Griffin proceeds to give a detailed description about what happened to Lup, revisiting key moments of the series from her perspective. This includes the pivotal moment she was discovered by Taako, Merle and Magnus in episode 5, when she ‘felt Merle’s grasp on the handle of the umbrella’ and decided ‘no, that wouldn’t do […] she needed Taako’ (The Adventure Zone, 2017b). So, Clint and Justin’s respective failed and successful dice rolls in an episode that was released in 2015 becomes a prominent plot point 62 episodes later in 2017. By raising the question of how different the narrative would be if Merle had succeeded in picking up the Umbra Staff, this instance highlights the collaborative significance of the dice in The Adventure Zone.

Canon Fluidity

‘Let’s take the listeners backstage’

Popular culture references – a staple of the McElroys’ comedy (Fine, 2019: 134) – significantly blur the line between what is and is not canon. Put plainly, canon is the collection of facts that can be said to be true of a fictional world. The Adventure Zone’s canon consists of the ‘central narrative […] as recorded in the podcast episodes’, encompassing ‘any details of the characters and plot’ (Yeates, 2020: 234) that emerge during a session. The McElroys are cognizant of their construction of canon and often playfully refer to it. Of the 69 main story instalments of the Balance campaign, 20 different episodes feature the word ‘canon’ – and iterations of it, such as ‘non-canonical’ – in discussion. The McElroys also freely discuss ‘retconning’ moments of The Adventure Zone; retcon is an abbreviation of the term ‘retroactive continuity’ and is the act of contradicting and altering a fact previously established in the narrative. For instance, in the first story arc – Here There Be Gerblins – Griffin declares ‘oh shit I need to retcon’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015a) because he forgot to describe an important component of the scene earlier. Similarly, in episode 11 he calls out ‘retcon alert! Retcon alert! Griffin forgot something!’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015f). This fluidity in the canon is sometimes used as an advantage for the players; in episode 25, Travis asks to change an action of Magnus’ and Griffin responds ‘yeah, sure, we’ll retcon that’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015n). It is also evident in the change in characters’ personalities, such as Taako’s previously mentioned initial stupidity. A more directly discussed instance is seen in episode 9, when – while the players are levelling up their characters – Clint elects to change Merle’s god from Morthammor Duin to Pan to align his character with a nature-based set of spells. Griffin tells Clint that he ‘expect[s him] to roleplay a little bit earthier’ and be ‘crunchier with [his] vibe’ as a result, but ultimately agrees to allow this ‘crunchy retcon on Merle’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015e). Evidently, The Adventure Zone’s canon is flexible, but its popular culture references remain difficult to fully reconcile. Yeates (2020) identifies the McElroys’ persistent science fiction and video game references as a shared language used to communicate with their niche audience (p. 228). Indeed, the McElroys’ references – which incorporate a wide array of media, including Fresh Prince of Belair (1990–1996), Mary Poppins (1964) and the Mad Max (1979) franchise – are often used as a form of shorthand to aid the listener in efficiently visualising the text. On the other hand, the tendency for the characters themselves to make popular culture references serves a different function. It is natural for the listener to disregard these popular culture references as not being truly canon. Instances such as the characters arguing over whether ‘the kids from Mighty Ducks [could] take on the Monstars [from Space Jam]’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015l) in hockey or Taako singing a song by The Proclaimers (The Adventure Zone, 2015d) are easy enough to categorise as jokes made by the McElroys, rather than actually taking place in the fictional world. However, this distinction is never clear cut. For example, when the party are surrounded by noise-sensitive poisonous mushrooms, Merle begins to sing ‘Let It Go’ from the animated film Frozen (2013) and as a direct result takes damage (The Adventure Zone, 2014). While it might be tempting to disregard Merle’s popular culture reference as a non-canonical joke from Clint, the damage he receives in-fiction indisputably integrates it into the canon. Moments such as these severely destabilise the fourth wall.

The fourth wall is an intriguing conceit, and its complex relationship with The Adventure Zone in particular is a rich vein worthy of exploration. Yeates (2020) proposes that Balance’s penultimate episode’s reveal that the apparently non-diegetic voice which introduces each episode of The Adventure Zone is actually Junior – a character from within the fictional world itself – is the moment which ‘demolishes the fourth wall, bringing the podcast medium and the listeners into the narrative of the story’ (p. 227). For this to be entirely true, however, the fourth wall would have had to endure the constant assaults upon it over the preceding 67 episodes. Even if a single proverbial brick had somehow remained standing, Taako would surely have pocketed it long before Junior had the chance to reveal anything. This is one of the unique strengths of podcast storytelling that The Adventure Zone demonstrates so powerfully. The episodes present the story and its creation in equal parts; they focus just as much on Griffin, Justin, Travis and Clint as they do on Taako, Magnus, Merle or any other character. The process and the product are entwined. Confronted by this collaborative, improvisational and relentlessly metafictional format, the fourth wall becomes inapplicable to the text and is in desperate need of reimagining. Like many of podcasts’ accomplishments, broadcast radio first paved the way. As the metadrama of pre-television golden age radio previously ‘reconceived [the fourth wall] as permeable, allowing fluid transition across the fiction-reality border’ instead of ‘demolishing’ it (Teorey, 2011: 358), so does The Adventure Zone. These early twentieth century radio programs ‘made their own fictionality a major part of the storytelling’ (p. 357), ‘thrived on postmodern playfulness’, and their performers ‘often lifted the veil of fictionality and invited the audience behind the scenes’ (p. 358). However, these scripted metafictional gags, along with occasional ad-libs and flubs (pp. 358, 369–370), pale in comparison to the experience of listening to the spontaneous exploration of a whole world and its inhabitants. The Adventure Zone does not merely ‘lift’ its ‘veil’, as metadrama radio did before it, but instead offers its audience an unobstructed view ‘behind the scenes’. If The Adventure Zone were a play, the characters would be performing on the stage while the players feverishly wrote the script backstage, with only a curtain separating them. The theatre’s seats would be empty, with the audience instead crowded around the sides of the stage, for a view that equally penetrates both before and behind this curtain. It is a fresh form of fictional storytelling that easily surpasses the capabilities of its twentieth century precursor. At the beginning of episode 20, Griffin says ‘let’s take the listeners backstage’ to which Travis responds, ‘don’t take them backstage, it’s messy!’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015k). While this was merely a preamble to explaining that a significant amount of time had passed since the recording of the previous episode, Griffin and Travis’ statements can apply to the podcast as a whole. The Adventure Zone does take its listeners backstage, and it is messy, but that is what makes it such a singular example of storytelling.

The responsibility of unravelling these inseparable streams – the character from the player; the canonical from the non-canonical; the product from the process – falls onto the shoulders of the listener. This task is made impossible in a number of ways, the chief of which is the characters’ tendency to directly communicate with the McElroys themselves. The construction of voice and use of popular culture references can be powerful catalysts for cross-curtain conversation – instances of the characters and players conversing with one another – but there are many other examples of this fluidity found in the text. It is not uncommon for non-playable characters within The Adventure Zone to react to what are clearly players asking the Dungeon Master out-of-fiction questions. Examples include Magic Brian responding to Clint asking Griffin ‘do we need to roll initiative?’ by saying ‘not unless you plan to strike me!’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015a) or Johann pleading ‘please don’t’ when Travis asks ‘Griffin, would I have to roll to see if I smash his violin?’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015c). These conversations flow both ways, with player-controlled characters sometimes reacting to the Dungeon Master. For instance, following a discussion where Griffin explains how difficult it is to teleport in Dungeons & Dragons, Taako quips ‘and if teleportation magic is hard for wizards to use, it must be impossible for Jenkinses!’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015h). Justin, amidst laughter, brings attention to the in-fiction absurdity of the situation by saying ‘I just said that apropos of nothing. Jenkins must think I’m insane’. Cross-curtain conversations do not always involve the Dungeon Master at all, as seen when Travis’ laughter interrupts an in-fiction conversation and Taako, irritated, pauses to ask ‘can I finish?’ (The Adventure Zone, 2016b). This example is particularly potent as Travis’ character is not present for the scene and so it cannot be reconciled by arguing that Taako was actually reacting to Magnus’ in-fiction laughter. The numerous instances in which The Adventure Zone’s characters refer to the conventions of Dungeons & Dragons, or their existence within a podcast, muddies these waters further. There are times when the characters explicitly refer to their dice rolls or their ‘hit points’. Faced against the formidable Raven, the characters lament that their Dungeon Master will not let them leave (The Adventure Zone, 2015k). In episode 5, after being chastised by Killian for not staying put, Taako defends their actions by saying ‘we didn’t think it would be a good podcast’, to which Clint actually exclaims ‘goodbye fourth wall! (The Adventure Zone, 2015b). The McElroys’ self-awareness of their podcast format can be seen to influence the characters’ in-fiction decisions; in episode 30, Merle is teasing Magnus and Taako for wanting to run away from a fight. Taako says ‘you know that if we all die, there’s no more podcast and we don’t get the money from the […] donations anymore, right?’, to which Merle promptly begins yelling ‘run! Run away! Run away!’ (The Adventure Zone, 2015p). It is impossible to list every example of when the border between the story and its creation – a border which, in more traditional mediums, is firm and undetectable – is transgressed in The Adventure Zone; it is constant. These cross-curtain conversations are an added layer of storytelling which is made possible through the medium of podcasts.

It is a considerable challenge to take The Adventure Zone – a dynamic, audio-only, collaborative, improvisational, deeply metafictional form of storytelling – and transform it into a graphic novel. This static, physical format is almost antithetical to podcasts; graphic novels are exclusively visual and entirely predetermined. There is typically a long process of scripting, storyboarding, pencilling, inking, colouring and lettering before the product is finished. In other words, it requires much more time and thought than podcast storytelling does; it is not comparable to turning on a microphone and recording a session of Dungeons & Dragons. Despite this, at the time of writing, The Adventure Zone’s first two story arcs – Here There Be Gerblins and Murder on the Rockport Limited – have been reconceived as graphic novels and published in 2018 and 2019, respectively. The project has clearly been a success, as both have achieved the status of #1 New York Bestsellers. However, much of what makes The Adventure Zone such a unique form of storytelling is inescapably sacrificed for the adaptation. Teorey’s (2011) assessment that the audio-only format of traditional ‘radio narratives’ meant that ‘the settings, characters and plots only existed inside the listener’s minds and emotions, [so] aspects of the narrative were unique to each listener’ (p. 358) is paralleled in a study on podcast listeners. One of Heshmat et al.’s participants highlights a benefit of the audio-only format, which the article summarises by stating that ‘like a book, [the participant] could fill the details beyond the voice’ (2018: 72) with their own imagination. This is a strength of The Adventure Zone’s. The McElroys encourage listeners to interpret the characters however they wish (Yeates, 2020: 234), which has allowed vibrant and diverse fan-made art to flourish. The graphic novel adaptation unfortunately cannot live in this visually ambiguous space; the McElroys and artist Carey Pietsch are forced to limit each character to a single physical appearance. The greatest loss, however, is The Adventure Zone’s improvisational metafiction. In various interviews, the McElroys and Pietsch discuss the difficulties of maintaining this aspect for the adaptations. Griffin acknowledges that The Adventure Zone’s jokes ‘often don’t make any sense for an in-character person to say’; Clint describes the ‘meta-relationship’ between the McElroys as being an ‘intrinsic element’ (Menegaz, 2019) and that, in general, they ‘never wanted to remove the meta-aspect […] or the real-world references’ because ‘that sense of anarchy is very important’ (Cahill, 2019). The solution they arrived at is to write Griffin into the narrative of the graphic novels, maintaining his position of Dungeon Master and serving as a ‘bridge to the outside world, a way to literally step outside the panel borders’ (Menegaz, 2019). Justin, Travis and Clint have no such presence. According to Travis, they considered ‘cutting away from The Adventure Zone to the ‘real world’, but realised it would undercut the stakes and the stories [they] were telling’ (Menegaz, 2019). The podcast’s inclusion of both the ‘real world’ players and the fictional characters does not interfere with its story; it enhances it. This is due to its improvisational construction and audio-only format. In the podcast, characters and players are on level ground. They both exist entirely as voices and overlap in a myriad of ways. In the graphic novel – an exclusively visual format – one must inevitably be nestled within the other. If the adaptations were to include the players, it would have to – as Travis says – ‘cut away’ to them. Even the graphic novel’s Griffin exists ‘outside the panel borders’; no such borders exist in the original text. The podcast is unrestrained.