
Call of Cthulhu has no classes. Nobody plays a fighter or a wizard: you play an antiquarian, a journalist, a doctor or a drifter, and it is the occupation that settles what your investigator can do once the case turns ugly.
Here are those occupations gathered in one place, described for what they actually change at the table. What an occupation decides, the signature profiles of the game, skills and their points, Credit Rating, and how to pick yours.
An occupation fixes three things: the list of eight skills your investigator is trained in, the pool of points spread among them, and the Credit Rating range that sets their standard of living. Nothing else. No hit die, no powers, no feature unlocking as you level up, because the game has no levels at all.
The consequence is freeing: an occupation never makes an action impossible. Anyone can try to pick a lock, fire a revolver or translate a Latin text, just at a lower percentage. Your occupation says what your investigator is good at, never what they are allowed to attempt.

They recognise an object, know its worth and guess where it came from. Their own library answers half the questions in a scenario.
They tail people, ask the questions nobody dares ask and legally carry a gun. The occupation that starts the most scenes.
A press card opens a police station, a morgue and a newspaper archive. They also have a professional reason to poke everywhere.
A speciality, colleagues to consult and access to restricted collections. This is the profile that translates the text nobody else can read.
They stabilise the wounded on the spot and read an autopsy report correctly. Their presence changes how violent scenes end.
They already know symbols and rituals, which speeds the case up. Every point of Cthulhu Mythos lowers their maximum Sanity by the same amount.
Library Use solves more puzzles than any weapon. Without it, half the clues in a scenario stay on a shelf.
They treat their companions' bouts of madness between scenes. The only occupation that gives Sanity back during play.
A badge opens crime scenes and case files, but also comes with a chain of command. They cannot vanish for three days without explaining themselves.
Plenty of money, no schedule, and therefore no reason to turn down a trip. A high Credit Rating solves problems no skill can.
Locks, fast talk and contacts in the circles the police avoid. They get in where the others politely ask for an appointment.
No home and no boss, so they follow the case anywhere, any time. Nobody notices them, which is sometimes the party's best skill.

The maths takes two lines. Occupation skill points come from your characteristics, most often EDU multiplied by four, sometimes a mix that fits the job: EDU and DEX for a burglar, EDU and APP for a dilettante. Those points can only be spent on the eight skills listed for the occupation.
Then comes a second pool, equal to INT multiplied by two, spent freely on any skill at all: hobbies, old habits, everything learned outside the job. That pool is what keeps two doctors at the same table from feeling identical. One skill stays off-limits during creation, Cthulhu Mythos, which is never bought and always paid for another way.
Every occupation comes with a Credit Rating range, and the points invested in it come out of the same pool as the skills. A wealthy investigator is therefore less skilled than a broke one from the same occupation: the system makes you pay for your comfort, quite literally.
The scale runs from 0 for the penniless to 99 for limitless wealth, with poor between 1 and 9, ordinary between 10 and 49, comfortable between 50 and 89, and properly rich above 90. In play that number decides the cash on hand, the standard of living, the hotel room you can afford and whether the officer at the door decides to believe you.
The 1920s and the present day do not offer the same jobs. An airline pilot or a programmer does not exist in every campaign.
A table with no Library Use hits a wall in half the scenarios. If nobody takes it, someone should spend a few points on it.
Healing, driving, shooting, persuading, searching: five needs for five investigators. Splitting the roles avoids scenes where nobody can act.
Credit Rating decides the hotel, the train ticket and which doors open. A party with no money at all stays stuck in its own town.
No occupation protects you from a bullet or a ghoul. The boxer dies as fast as the librarian, they just feel invincible for longer.
The book lets you build an occupation from eight skills of your choice. A pilot antiquarian or a smuggling nurse takes five minutes to make.
An occupation is played through a sheet: eight percentage skills, a half and a fifth to recalculate constantly, a Credit Rating that rises and falls, a Sanity score that keeps eroding. On paper all of it turns into crossed out numbers at the exact moment the scene called for silence.
Tomeus brings the sheets, the dice roller, the handouts and the music into one window. Every player keeps their skills in front of them, the Keeper sees the whole table, and nobody installs anything.
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No. The game has neither classes nor levels: you pick an occupation, which grants eight skills to develop and a Credit Rating range. Every other skill stays available, simply at a lower percentage, and progression comes from the skills you actually use in play rather than from level thresholds.
The core rulebook details around twenty, from the antiquarian to the drifter, plenty to build any party of investigators. The Investigator Handbook lists over a hundred, including very specific profiles. And if none of them fit, the rules explain how to build your own by picking eight skills that match the job.
The journalist or the private investigator, because both have an obvious reason to ask questions and to be wherever the story is happening. The professor and the antiquarian suit players who want to play knowledge, the doctor suits anyone who wants to be useful when things go wrong. Avoid the purely combat-oriented profile: in Call of Cthulhu, shooting the problem is rarely the answer.