Sensory Challenges
Sensory challenges require a character to perceive information to find patterns. Visual puzzles are often based on finding a solution. They manipulate optical elements to achieve a specific goal: rearrange tiles into a picture image, navigate a maze, match by colour and shape. But challenges can extend to all the senses.
In a dark labyrinth, clap your hands and listen to the echoes, guiding you to the exit.
> Clap your hands and listen to the echoes.
The darkness is suffocating. I clap my hands, the sound ricocheting off unseen walls. The echoes return swiftly, a whisper of confinement. “The echoes are close,” I note, the narrow corridor pressing in on me.
> Continue using echoes to guide your path.
I move forward, each clap a question, each echo an answer. “This way sounds more open,” I think. The longer echoes promise freedom.
The sound changes, a sense of space. “I hear an opening,” I say aloud, keeping my own company.
Sample wines to identify the one with a distinct flavour whose lot number is the code to the safe.
> Taste the wines to identify the oak flavour.
The cellar is a library, each bottle a story waiting to be told. I sample the wines, a sip my tongue. “Which has the oak flavour?” I ponder the taste of a puzzle to be solved.
The oak reveals itself. “This one,” I say, the distinct flavour unmistakable. The bottle is a key, and its lot number is a secret code. “Lot 47,” I note.
Feel subtle vibrations that indicate the direction of movement of machinery below.
> Feel for vibrations on the floor.
I place my palms on the cold surface, letting the subtle tremors speak their native language. “Which way is the machinery moving?” I orient my feet to the door, which I know to be south, and wait. A sensation in my right hand, then in my left—east to west. The vibrations are a compass in the dark.
In a corporate office, follow the faint smell of cigarette smoke to a hidden break room where confidential conversations can be overheard.
> Identify the source of the cigarette smoke.
The office is a maze of ambition and deceit. I sniff the air, the faint smell of cigarette smoke a trail to follow. “Where is that coming from?” I wonder, threading the labyrinth. “Stronger this way.”
The scent leads me to a closed door, the break room. I hear them talking. Confidential conversations are a treasure trove of information.
The alt-history “Revolution Afoot” rests on a sensation: the protagonist’s tactile discovery of a letter. The letter is doubly disguised in wordplay and as a diary entry, but the narrative stands on the letter underfoot.
This tactile focus enhances the reader’s immersive experience and adds emotional and sensory depth to the story. The protagonist gathers mementos—father’s pocket watch, mother’s locket. The act of holding these items provides a tactile connection to the past and a personal stake in the revolution.
Revolution Afoot
Williamsburg, Virginia, 1781
Peyton Randolph House
Our revolution failed. The streets of Williamsburg are dusted with the residue of broken dreams. Redcoats patrol, their boots striking the ground with the confidence of victors.
I lived through the defeat, burying my father’s dreams with him. Today, I found something he left behind—a fragment of hope. I knew he would leave it, but not where.
Walking barefoot across the floor, I felt a slight difference in the pride of my father’s study, an heirloom rug before the fireplace. And under it, a letter, untouched since the fall. The seal bore the secret mark of Thomas Jefferson, an old friend and a leader believed captured.
Read the letter carefully.
It reads as a diary entry as if to confound an unwanted finder. But I know my father and how he weaves words. To let the friendly monarch flutter in—is an inn, Raleigh Tavern, and the butterfly is an ally. My hands tremble as I fold the page. The fight is not over.
Head to the inn.
I gather a few mementos—my father’s pocket watch and my mother’s locket. Each was a token, a silent vow to see their dream of freedom fulfilled. I slip the letter into my pocket, drap a shawl over my shoulders, and leave the only home I had ever known
Raleigh Tavern
The inn is a hub of hush, people masking their true intentions under the guise of indifference. I scan the room, looking for Jefferson’s agent.
Approach the agent.
An older man in the garb of a merchant catches my attention. His eyes hold a spark of recognition as they meet mine. He motions me to a quiet corner.
“I’m Samuel. Jefferson sent me. We have much to discuss.”
Gauge his trustworthiness
I narrow my eyes, studying Samuel. “How do I know I can trust you?” He reaches into his coat and produces a medallion, the same one my father used to wear—a symbol of the rebellion.
I hand Samuel the letter. His eyes scan the lines, and he nods. “Jefferson and the others are planning a bold move, but we need you to help secure the support of key allies.”
Samuel explains the intricate web of allies and traitors. Our first task is to secure a cache of hidden weapons left by my father in a mill outside town.
Tucker’s Mill
The old mill is abandoned, a sentinel of forgotten struggles. Samuel and I creep inside, the air thick with soot and memories.
Search for the hidden cache.
Not so fast. We need to secure the perimeter first. Samuel and I checked every entrance, ensuring no unwelcome eyes were watching.
Satisfied, we move cautiously, lifting floorboards and prying open crates. My father’s foresight left us a treasure trove of muskets, ammunition, and food supplies.
With the weapons secured, we need to rally the support of influential figures, starting with an old family friend, a loyalist-turned-sympathizer named Margaret Hale.
Hale Estate
The manor is a bastion of grace masking rebellion.
Margaret’s eyes soften as she sees me. “My dear, how can I help our cause?”
Ask for resources—no, ask for information.
“We need supplies and safe passage for our operatives,” I say.
She nods, calling her butler to arrange everything. “For your father’s dream,” she whispers to my ear.
“Do you know anything about British plans?” I ask.
Mrs. Hale retrieves a map from her desk, marked with troop movements and schedules. How she came by this, I dare not ask.
Tucker’s Mill
With newfound strength and allies, Samuel and I return to our makeshift headquarters, the old barn, where the rebellion’s heart beats strong in its shadows
Plan an offensive move.
We gathered around a table cluttered with maps, letters, and makeshift plans. Samuel’s voice is steady. “We strike at dawn, a coordinated effort to take back Williamsburg.”
Lead the front line—or coordinate the rear attack.
Samuel takes his place at the head of the front line, the hopes of a free nation resting in the barrels of our muskets. I manage our forces from the rear, ensuring every move is strategic, every shot counts.
The battle is fierce, a whirlwind of smoke, gunfire, and courage. The British are caught off-guard. As the sun rises, the town falls back into our hands.
The Revolutionary’s Secret is no longer hidden. The spirit of freedom surges through Williamsburg.
As I stand among the rubble and triumph, I know my father’s sacrifice was not in vain. We will reclaim our future, one step at a time.
Visualization
Visualization is a special case of sensation. Sensation is typically direct physical interaction, such as feeling a hidden latch or smelling a familiar cologne. Visualization involves interpretation, such as recognizing symbols, reading maps, and understanding spatial relationships.
Change your viewing angle of a painting to reveal a message only visible from the correct perspective.
> Change your viewing angle of the painting.
The painting is a chaotic swirl of colours, an abstract mess that seems to mock my confusion. But when I move to the far right side, the paint smears shift into something more coherent. Letters emerge from the chaos: H I T X V. “Hit 15? That makes no sense,” I mutter, frustration gnawing at me.
Then I see it—a guard locking the gallery door. High Impulse Thermobaric. Charlie Company’s grim nickname: Hang In There. And 15, 3 o’clock. “Ten minutes,” I whisper, the realization hitting me like a freight train. The countdown has begun.
Rearrange scrambled tiles to form a complete image, unlocking a hidden message.
> Identify the correct arrangement of tiles.
They’re a jumbled mess, each one a fragment of a larger puzzle. I study them, my eyes tracing the edges and patterns. “How does this fit together?” The pieces taunt me with their disarray.
The first piece clicks into place, a small victory in the sea of confusion. “This piece goes here.” The image begins to take shape.
“Ah ha!” I say, the final piece sliding into position.
