Here Be Monsters: What the Unknown Can Teach Us

The “fog of war” refers to the uncertainty and confusion that may occur during conflict or complex decision-making when key information is hidden or incomplete. It captures how limited visibility, both literal or metaphorical, impacts perception, strategy, and human behavior.

The term originates from Carl von Clausewitz, a 19th-century Prussian military theorist, who wrote in On War (1832) that war is shaped by “the fog of greater or lesser uncertainty.” Commanders rarely have perfect knowledge; decisions must be made despite this haze.

Over time, the concept has evolved beyond the military. In video games, “fog of war” became a gameplay mechanic where areas of the map remain hidden until explored, symbolizing discovery and risk. In storytelling and leadership, it’s a metaphor for navigating the unknown: acting with courage and curiosity even when the full picture isn’t yet clear.

The first time I encountered the “fog of war” wasn’t in a strategy briefing or a wargame, it was in Exodus: Ultima III on my family’s Apple IIe. I’d picked this game up on sale at a local game shop, and it quickly became my first real lesson in exploration.

Released in 1983, Exodus: Ultima III was one of the first role-playing games to blend open-world exploration with tactical combat. Players led a party across continents, into towns, and through labyrinthine dungeons, each step revealing new terrain that had been hidden until discovered. It wasn’t just about fighting monsters; it was about charting the unknown, uncovering the world piece by piece, and learning through curiosity and courage lessons that still apply far beyond the screen.

In the game, the main world map is partially visible, with its outer edges appearing as black squares. The dungeons and towns also remain cloaked in shadow until you ventured into them. Each move revealed a little more of the world, rewarding curiosity and punishing carelessness. Monsters could appear from the blackened corners at any time. 

This game was primitive by today’s standards, but the lesson stuck: you don’t truly know a place until you’ve walked through it. I spent hours exploring this world until I lit up every darkened corner. 

That’s still how I think of travel—and maybe life. The map might look clear, but the meaningful parts reveal themselves only when you step forward.

Filmmaker Billy Wilder’s famous screenwriting advice, “Give the audience two and two, and let them make four,” which refers to the power of implied storytelling. Instead of spelling everything out with explicit detail in a script, a writer should trust the audience’s intelligence to connect the dots. Pixar’s Andrew Stanton echoes the same philosophy of “work for your meal.” When viewers actively participate in solving the puzzle, they feel more invested and satisfied. 

That’s the same principle as the fog of war: don’t reveal everything. Let discovery be part of the engagement. Whether in film, songs, or games, mystery keeps us playing. Subtext, the unspoken motives, the double meanings, the invisible forces driving a character, are what turn scenes into puzzles we get to solve.

The joy of a puzzle lies in its missing pieces. If you opened a puzzle box and found the puzzle already assembled, you wouldn’t celebrate, you’d sigh. The fog invites us to piece things together, to think, to feel the story rather than simply consume it.

Long before video games, mapmakers filled the edges of the known world with images of sea serpents and krakens. These creatures were more than decoration—they were warnings. 

“Here be monsters,” the maps whispered, a phrase that originated from ancient maps to denote unexplored and dangerous regions.

They represented the unknown, the fears of what lay beyond familiar shores. Sailors might have mistaken whales or oarfish for beasts, but the effect was the same: curiosity became danger; exploration became transgression.

Over time, as navigation improved, the monsters vanished. Accuracy replaced imagination. But maybe something was lost in that trade. Monsters weren’t just cautionary, they were creative. They made mystery visible.

And perhaps that’s what our modern “fog of war” is still about. It reminds us that there are parts of every journey—every project, every story, every relationship—that can’t be known until we step into them. Monsters exist at the edges not to stop us, but to challenge us to move forward.

Exploration, creativity, and growth all begin in the unknown. Whether it’s the blacked-out map of Exodus Ultima III, the unspoken motives of a character in a film, or the sea serpents lurking on the edge of a Renaissance map, the “fog of war” is an invitation.

To explore.
To wonder.
To step forward even when we can’t see the whole path.

Because the truth is, the map only becomes clear once we start moving.