Fully committed to coming up with the perfect plan, you start thinking through the various possible outcomes of your predicament.

You could burn the oil, but then you will be smoked out and probably killed.

Going for the sword would probably just attract the attention of the monster.

That means that your only hope are the razor-sharp stalagmites hanging from the ceiling...

WAIT! Those are stalactites, not stalagmites. Stalagmites are the ones that come from the ground, and stalactites come from the ceiling. Or is it the other way around? Does it even matter?! You silently curse the tendency you have always had to carelessly interchange geological terms.

Meanwhile, you have been so deep in thought that you failed to notice that you have already been swallowed whole by the Balrog, whose stomach acids have already begun disintegrating your lower half.

You're dead.