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When you first hear about a social deduction tabletop RPG centered on death, words like “dramatic” and “tragic” naturally spring to mind. But “rebellious” or “punk”? Not so much. Yet, every time I run a game with this system, the story inevitably transforms into a pulse-pounding showdown between the players and a powerful force mirroring the real-world elite. Why do these anti-establishment undercurrents keep bubbling up, turning the table into a battleground for revolution?

An empire unleashes emotionless golden soldiers in a synchronized hivemind to assault against the last underwater city. A dragon becomes the embodiment of cutthroat capitalist greed. Travelers discover they’re nothing more than pawns in a greedy overlord’s twisted plan to reshape the world. And if I had a peso for every Cry of Freedom session where players conjure a desperate scenario: humanity clinging to life aboard a massive flying vessel, ruled by oligarchs the adventurers must topple, I’d treat myself to a meal.

Is it the scenario itself fueling this fire? Cry of Freedom casts players as rebels revolting against tyranny. Wrath of the Tikbalang immerses them in a rural Filipino town; ground zero for corruption and religious manipulation. One of Us Survives follows the dystopian blueprint: a society plagued by sensationalized death games, where victims are exploited and distracted. Maybe, just maybe, these tales are stitched together with punk threads, granting players the ultimate power fantasy: standing up to the system, fighting back when real life seldom offers such a chance. Though even in stories that don’t scream “rebellion,” those themes sneak in. Take Shadow of the Dragon: despite its pro-establishment leanings (hero NPCs include the king and his son, united against a monstrous threat) players still project their own grievances onto the dragon’s sinister cult. Sometimes, Terrathrax, the dragon, morphs into an allegory for oppressive systems they despise. In Embers of War, players stepping into the boots of soldiers can’t help but comment on the cruelty of war, seeing it as a game played by the elite with the lives of the innocent and underprivileged. These ideas aren’t spelled out in the rulebooks, but born from the players themselves.

So why does rebellion pulse through these adventures? For starters, it’s baked into the DNA of RPGs and adventure stories everywhere. The hero always faces mounting challenges, growing from humble beginnings into a world-shaking force. It’s a cliché in JRPGs: the protagonist goes from rescuing cats to battling gods. Even a popular title like “Dungeons and Dragons” suggests facing down titanic threats. No wonder One of Us Will Die regularly thrusts players into conflict with oppressive regimes or tyrants. The fantasy of being small and striking down the mighty is irresistible.

There’s also a unique twist to One of Us Will Die: create-a-villain. Most scenarios invite players to build their own antagonist, answering world-building questions that shape the story’s landscape. When asked about the villain, players inevitably channel their frustrations, conjuring foes they wish they could conquer in real life: corrupt leaders, untouchable criminals, faceless tyrants. It’s pure power fantasy, a chance for those who feel insignificant to engineer epic battles against overwhelming odds. The villain becomes the dragon, the tyrant, the monster, the perfect symbol of the established order.

That’s what makes this game truly special. Every scenario’s world-building step holds up a mirror, reflecting back the players’ fears, hatreds, and deepest desires for change.

Digging deeper, One of Us Will Die’s roots reach into the heart of Filipino tabletop RPG culture. While this game can be enjoyed globally, its origin story is grounded in the Philippines: a nation forged through continual struggle against oppression. History lessons in Filipino schools are tales of revolution, packed with heroes who defied the odds and, almost every single time, paid with their lives. The national anthem isn’t a pledge to a flag or a state, but a declaration to defend freedom even to the death. Translated, Lupang Hinirang proclaims: “Should the freedom of this land ever be threatened by oppressors, we are happy to die to defend it.” These powerful words echo through every school day, sporting event, and public show, a hand over the heart: a vow to fight on.

So, when a Filipino player is tasked with creating a story where a hero is destined to perish, the answer is often, “It is a time of oppression, and we are fighting it.” Not for riches, ambition, or self-discovery, but for freedom. The ultimate sacrifice is made so that future generations may know liberation. It’s an answer they were all raised to give.

Of course, this rebellious spirit resonates far beyond the Philippines. This is just one designer’s small and limited window into a universal urge to resist.

There’s another powerful thread woven into the fabric of this game: the inevitability of death. One of the characters will die, and odds are, it’ll be yours. Each player (except for the traitor, but that’s a tale for another time) enters the game knowing their character’s journey will end in a corpse. The adventure asks: faced with the certainty of death, what will you do? Like real life, death is a guarantee. Death is the great equalizer, reminding us that existence is fleeting, filled with meaning only if we seize it. It’s absurd, yes, but that absurdity makes every moment a struggle against the void.

Absurdity is the deepest oppression there is. We all wrestle with it throughout life: growing up unsure of our purpose, feeling we’ve accomplished nothing, or recognizing our time is almost up. These thoughts can trap us, leave us feeling powerless against the relentless march of time and the looming end. Opressed.

Albert Camus said, “The only way to deal with the unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” This game embraces that philosophy. When told their characters won’t survive, players still fight, live, and strive for meaning. They create unforgettable moments, slay dragons, overthrow tyrants, save innocents—and in the face of oblivion, they savor their last breaths as if they’re legendary, even when meaning must be forged from nothing. Because when we die, only one part of us survives us, our story. It’s what has players fighting to tell the tale of their character’s epic myth.

Everyone has heard it once. That inner voice, the tyrant in our minds that insists there’s no point, that we’re too small, insignificant. That our existence is meaningless. It’s a cruel jailer, forging invisible chains that discourages us from accomplishing anything.

In One of Us Will Die, there’s only one answer to this internal oppressor: total and absolute rebellion. “I choose to exist. And even when my story ends, I will have existed, and nothing and no one can ever take that away.”

And that’s as punk rock as it gets.

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