Every table has the session zero conversation. Most tables have it once, verbally, at the end of an evening when everybody is tired, and then discover in month four that two people remember it differently. This is two A4 pages that stop that happening.
The first page is the game. Concept is the pitch in the words you would use to invite somebody. Aim is what the table is here for, and — more usefully — what it is not here for. Tone is the register: how seriously, how fast, how funny. Those three come from the CATS method, whose fourth letter is safety, and safety gets the whole second page rather than a line.
Under them sit the tone dials — violence, body horror, romance, humour, failure and whatever else your game touches — with a line each saying how far it goes, and the house rules and rulings you have already agreed. At the foot is the part every campaign actually dies of: the day, the frequency, the length, and what happens to the character of somebody who cannot come.
The second page names the safety tools you are actually using — the X-Card, a pause anyone may call, a check-in at the end — and then gives lines and veils a box each. A line is a subject that never appears in this game. A veil is one that exists in the world but happens off the page. Keeping them apart is the whole point of the vocabulary, and a form with one box for both quietly loses the distinction.
Under that, a row per player: their name, their character, what they want out of the game and what they would rather meet less of. Then how the party already knows each other, what the table agreed about phones and punctuality, and how somebody says afterwards that something landed badly. The list is meant to be reopened — print it, fill it in, and bring it out again in month four.
System neutral, A4 at 300 DPI as a PNG or a PDF, and a fillable PDF with a form field over every box — including a blank copy to print for a table that would rather write than type. The evening that follows is a Session Planner.