Imric’s Emporium didn’t start as a business idea.
It started as a series of small moments at the table — the kind you only really notice when you play regularly. Reaching for something that almost works. Improvising a solution. Making do. Thinking, there has to be a better way to do this.
Playing tabletop games has a habit of sharpening that feeling. When you’re invested in a campaign, when the characters and the story matter, the tools around the table start to matter too. Not because they need to be flashy, but because they need to be right. Practical. Reliable. Something that supports the flow of play rather than interrupting it.
That’s where this all began.
I started making things for myself first. Boxes to keep things organised. Small props to make moments feel more tangible. Tools to track information without breaking immersion. Nothing ambitious — just objects that solved a problem I’d noticed during play.
Imric was always there in the background of those decisions. Not as a character I was pretending to be, but as a reminder of the kind of play I enjoyed: prepared, thoughtful, and quietly intentional. If something felt clumsy or overdesigned, it didn’t last. If it made the game smoother, clearer, or more satisfying, it stayed.
Over time, people started asking about the things I’d made. Could I make another one? Could I tweak it slightly? Could they try it at their table? That was the point where I realised I wasn’t just solving my own problems anymore — I was brushing up against shared ones.
Imric’s Emporium exists because of that overlap.
It’s a place for objects that grow out of real play and real use. Things that feel like they belong at the table, not because they’re themed or dramatic, but because they’re useful. Because they’ve been tested in the quiet moments between turns, or during the long stretches of a campaign where good tools matter more than spectacle.
The Emporium isn’t a finished catalogue. It’s an ongoing workshop.
Some ideas work. Some don’t. Some change completely once they’ve seen a few sessions of use. That’s part of the process — and part of the enjoyment. Playing inspires making, and making feeds back into play.
If I wasn’t still playing, still noticing those small points of friction and possibility, this place wouldn’t exist. And as long as I am, it probably will. That’s really all there is to it!
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