Allocation Challenge
Guided narratives are driven by challenges—the puzzles or obstacles that the protagonist must overcome. There are sixteen canonical challenges. The first is allocation. Allocation challenges require a character to manage limited resources. For instance:
Utilize the resources of an expert in a field relevant to resolving a problem.
In the gothic mystery “Eclipsed Manor”, an investigator is called upon to remove the curse over a mysterious manor. It is tempting to say the challenge is opening the puzzle box, which the investigator says is his forte. However, that solution is said rather than shown. What is demonstrated, albeit subtly, is Lady Blackwood calling upon the inspector’s expertise at the right moment.
Eclipsed Manor
Aldridge, 1887
Manor’s Gate
Even on a day with a blue sky, Lady Evelyn Blackwood’s estate, like her bloodline, lies shrouded in sorrow and shadow.
No one should have to live beneath a cloud that denies the sun to warm its copper roof. That’s part of the eclipse curse.
Yet the sprawling mansion reveals its own truth in gothic spires, rising from its four corners to pierce the heavens with earth.
Watching this silent and unmoving match, I thrust my fists into my pockets, feeling the wafer of parchment crinkle as I slowly remove it.
An invitation from Lady Blackwood, the manor’s reclusive owner.
We’ve known each other since we were kids, running through the woods back when my father tended her father’s estate.
The cursive words on the invitation are a cryptic plea asking that I come before the eclipse. Asking—yet the urgency reads less like reacquaintance than summons.
You’re here as a friend, Inspector. Open the gate—approach the manor.
I am greeted with a creak as familiar as a wheezing uncle.
The door, ajar, suggests that someone left it open, but no one around that I can see.
Grand Foyer
A cavernous space, a place of marble floors and high ceilings adorned with cobwebs and dust.
The chandelier hangs precariously, its crystal holding onto the last rays of a fading sun and forgotten memories.
A portrait of Lady Evelyn looms above the fireplace. Her eyes follow my every move. A plaque beneath it reads 1872. That date seems significant, but I can’t place why.
Explore the hall.
It’s lined with closed doors that stretch into a fog of darkness. I’ll explore the hall later, if at all. What has caught my eye is the staircase.
The grand staircase spirals upward, its wood steps worn with age. I ascend the stairs to the complaint of each step bearing my weight. Each creak is a reminder of the manor’s secrets—and brutality of age.
Upper Corridor
At the top, lit by flickering candle sconces, a corridor bears a rogue gallery of stern-faced ancestors who cast judgment long after their mortal internment.
At the end of the corridor, a door opens to allow faint light to spill out.
Follow the light.
Library
The threadbare carpet muffles my footsteps. The walls are lined with dusty tomes, manuscripts, and scrolls. An oak desk sits in the center, cluttered with papers and quills.
A single candle burns on the desk, casting flickers across the room, casting them upon Lady Evelyn at the window, her silhouette framed by the eclipsing sun.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, in a voice that seeks reassurance.
“You know the legend …,” her shoulders slumping as if under a great weight. “What you don’t know, and I need you to do, is find an artifact hidden in the manor. The curse is tied to an ancestor’s locket that holds the key to the curse and breaks it.”
She tells me traps protect the locket to keep it from those who would misuse it, then hands me a folded parchment, same as the invitation, though marked and frayed.
“This will guide you there, Inspector, and I hardly need to remind you of the danger or the fate of those who’ve tried before.”
The sketch of the manor is intricately drawn, with notes scrawled in the margins that suggest hidden passages and mechanisms. The locket’s location is an X in the manor’s basement.
The portrait—ask about 1872.
I turn to leave, but pause to ask about the significance of 1872. Lady Evelyn’s eyes widen slightly.
“The year my great-grandmother, Eliza, disappeared. She was the first victim of the curse. Her disappearance marked the beginning of our torment.”
Head to the basement.
The door is hidden behind a tapestry in the foyer, its hinges are rusted with age, like so much about this place.
It opens to a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The air fills my nostrils with the scent of damp earth and mildew.
Basement
At the bottom, the space stretches into a labyrinth of stone walls and low ceilings.
Follow the map to the hidden passage.
The map suggests it’s behind this stack of crates. Heavy and ancient, their wood splinters under my grip. Rather than lift, I push them to one side.
There, a narrow passageway with stone bricks leads to a small chamber. The air is cooler here, and the chill seeps into my bones.
The walls are lined with … what? I’m not sure, so thick is the dust.
Inspect the chest in the center of the chamber.
On a pedestal rests a chest whose surface is carved with intricate symbols. A keyhole is set into the front, but the key is nowhere within the chamber.
The note suggests the key is within a puzzle box on one of the shelves cluttered with dusty relics. Each is a piece of the manor’s history.
Look around for the puzzle box.
I find the box on the top shelf. Its surface has panels that slide to open a compartment. She called me for this, knowing that puzzles are my strength.
The panels slide. The box opens with a satisfying click, revealing a key that neatly fits the lock. Nestled within the velvet-lined interior is the locket. Its silver surface is covered in a filigree of symbols.
Open the locket.
As I lift it from the chest, the darkness seems to deepen, and I can feel a faint warmth from within.
The clasp opens, and inside is etched a message in elegant script.
To break the curse, the locket placed, heart of the manor, peak of eclipse. Only then, does darkness lift.
Return to the foyer, and quickly.
The heart of the manor—the grand foyer. The eclipse must be nearly complete.
The manor seems to come alive as I rush through its corridors, the shadows writhing as if trying to stop me. Or perhaps heady gases from below play with my senses.
Grand Foyer
The chandelier casts an eerie pattern on the walls. On the floor, it illuminates a design etched in the center of the room—circular lines glowing faintly.
Place the locket in the center of the design.
When I do, the lines glow brighter. There is a whir within the locket. Then, a beam of light slays the shadows, leaving behind a metallic odour.
The eclipse wanes.
Light returns.
Lady Evelyn enters the foyer, her voice filled with gratitude and relief. “The curse is broken; my family is free.”
After so long, it is over so quickly.
Gathering my thoughts and the thanks of Lady Evelyn, I step out into the fresh air, where the sun, once again, warms the rooftop.
Snippets
Other examples of allocation challenges follow.
Distribute limited food supplies among a group to ensure everyone’s survival until help arrives.
The wind howls through the broken windows as we huddle in the corner of the old warehouse, the remnants of our lives scattered around us like forgotten dreams. Weeks ago, the city went dark, leaving us with nothing but all-day dusk and gnawing hunger.
> Find out who was last to eat.
I look at the faces around me, each etched with desperation. “Alright, listen up,” I say, my voice rough from days of shouting into the void. “It comes down to who needs the most food to stay strong.”
Maggie, the youngest, eyes wide and hollow, speaks first. “I haven’t eaten in two days.” Her voice is barely audible over the wind. Next to her, Carson nods, his frail body trembling. “I can manage with less for now,” his voice a raspy echo of better days.
> Hand out portions according to need.
There are eight mouths to feed with pitiful food supplies. Cobs of cattle corn from the field last night. Stale bread. Cans of beans we found here, in the warehouse. The apples are plentiful but barely edible. It’s all we have.
I divide it into portions. “Bad news: this has to last until the wind dies down. Good news: corn and beans make a protein.” I like to think that brought a smile or two, but it’s difficult to tell when dusk yields to dark in our new reality.
Buy the farm when the price is lowered, leaving enough cash for its operation.
The noonday sun casts no shadows over the cracked earth. I stand at the edge of the farm, a patchwork of dreams—some that have come true, and maybe today. The seller, a grizzled old man with eyes like chipped flint, waits for me to speak.
> Explain about operational cost.
“I need a lower price,” my voice steady, but my heart pounding. “The place needs work, and I need room to keep it running.”
He squints at me, weighing my words like sacks of grain. “Alright,” he says, drawing it into a single syllable. “I’ll lower it 5%.”
> Hold out for less.
I stare at him, not blinking.
“Fine, then. Ten, final.”
I nod. “Deal,” I say, shaking his calloused hand. The farm is mine, but the work is just beginning.
Back in the corner of the kitchen, I call an office; I spread out a battlefield of numbers and budget, every cent accounted for. Seeds, equipment, labour.
That’s when I smell it before I hear it. The sweet sound of rain. That much I can have for free.
Manage limited petrol canisters to power a generator and escape an area.
“We have just enough,” I conclude, the weight of the tight margin settling between my shoulders. The others look at me with a mix of hope and fear. They trust me to get us out of here, and I have to trust the petrol canisters sitting in the corner.
> Reserve the generator for essentials.
“We can’t waste a drop. Charge the radio, power the lights for night watch, keeping the water purifier running.”
Jerl flips the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. It’s more symbolic than savings, but I have to chuckle at the well-intended gesture.
