Dungeon Memory is a memory engine for long games. Paste what happened at the table. Ask it anything, months later, and get an answer with the sessions it came from.
The thing nobody talks about
Session 14. Someone asks who the merchant's brother was, and whether he was at the fire. You have forty pages of notes, a Discord scrollback, and a clear memory of writing it down somewhere. The table waits four minutes, and then you make something up.
Every long campaign dies of this a little at a time. Not from bad ideas — from forgetting the good ones.
I
Typed notes, a photo of your handwriting, or a voice recording of the drive home. It reads all three, in English, Italian, Spanish, French and German — and it keeps invented names exactly as you wrote them.
It links the new night to the people it already knows.
II
Nothing touches your world until you approve it. You get a diff — new people, links to people it already knows, events, changes of state — and you tick what is true. It also tells you when the session contradicts something you wrote before.
III
Plain questions, plain answers — and every claim carries the session it came from, so you can check it in one tap. If a fact is not in your sessions, it says so instead of inventing one.
Every line carries where it came from — or admits it does not know.
The number you do not have to watch
Nothing in this engine counts your sessions — there is no quota to run down and no wall to hit. The past folds into itself as it recedes: a question is answered from a context of fixed size, so it costs the same on a long campaign as on a young one, and the newest night takes the same seconds to read as the first one did.
What we can put a number on is the thing that actually breaks a memory: age. Not how much a tool holds — how old a fact can get before it quietly loses it. So we ran one campaign to two hundred sessions, four years of weekly play, and then asked it about its first night.
Two hundred sessions, 991 events, and reading a night still took the same twelve seconds it took on the first one. It did lose something: one fact from session nine — a line someone found in their own handwriting — was still in the archive but did not surface. We would rather tell you that than round it away. The other question it “missed” asked what was unresolved at the end, and after four years the end had moved. Measured on our own campaign, not a public beta: we will say so plainly if wider use shows something different.
And the people you play with
When you save a session there is one switch: share this session with the table. Your players get the recap and the timeline for the sessions you opened — on their phone, at the table, without asking you.
And nothing else. The entries you keep to yourself stay yours; so do your plot threads, your notes and the raw text you pasted. Open a session by mistake and one click closes it again.
Three promises, kept by leaving things out
It is built and it works — what it needs now is enough people to make it worth running properly: the servers, the transcription, and the year of support that a tool like this has to promise before anyone can trust their campaign to it.